It is obvious that, whatever else he may be, John Talbot is, with the
exception of Mr. Evans, the man of smallest rank in the room, since to
him is assigned the honour of leading Peggy into the dining-room. She
had not at all anticipated it; but had somehow expected fully to see
him, in defiance of precedence, bearing off his Betty. Nor is she by any
means more pleased at, than prepared for, the provision made for her
entertainment. John Talbot, the man whose name she has never heard
except in connection with that of another man's wife! John Talbot, 'the
man whom Lady Betty always takes about with her!' In Heaven's name, why
does not she take him about with her now, and not devolve the onus of
his entertainment upon other innocent and unwilling persons?
With thoughts such as these, that augur but ill for the amusingness of
his dinner, running through her mind, Margaret lays her hand as lightly
as it is possible to do, without absolutely not touching it, upon the
coat-sleeve presented to her, and marches silently by its side into the
dining-room, inwardly resolving to be as laconic, as forbidding, and as
unlike Lady Betty to its owner as politeness towards her hostess will
allow, and to devote as nearly as possible the whole of her conversation
to her neighbour on the other side. Nor does her resolution flinch, even
when that other neighbour reveals himself as Mr. Evans. It is certain
that no duty compels her to take the initiative. Until John Talbot
begins, she may preserve that silence which she would like to maintain
intact, until she rises from the feast to which she has but just sat
down. Doubtlessly he is of the same mind as she; and, maddened by
separation from his idol, irritated against her, who, for even an hour,
has taken that idol's place, he will ask nothing better than to sit mute
in resentful pining for her, from whom Lady Roupell has so inhumanly
parted him. As to his intentions to be mute, she is soon undeceived; for
she has not yet finished unbuttoning her gloves when she finds herself
addressed by him.
'I think I had the pleasure of meeting you here last year?'
Nothing can be more banal than the observation; more serenely civil,
less maddened than the tone in which it is conveyed. He is not going to
leave her in peace then? She is so surprised and annoyed at this
discovery that for a moment she forgets to answer him. It is not until
reminded of her omission by an expectant look on his face that she
recollects to drop a curt 'Yes.'
'I came'--thinking from her manner that the incident has escaped her
memory, and that he will recall it by becoming more circumstantial--'I
came with the Harboroughs.'
Another 'Yes,' still more curt and bald than the last. H'm! not
flattering for him, certainly; but she has obviously not yet overtaken
the reminiscence.
'It was about this time of year.'
'Yes.'
What is the matter with the girl? there is certainly something very odd
about her. He has noticed her but cursorily so far, but now gives her an
attentively examining look. She appears to be perfectly sane, and not in
the least shy. Is that handsome mouth, fresh and well cut, absolutely
incapable of framing any syllable but 'Yes'? He gives himself some
little trouble so to compose his next question that the answer, 'Yes,'
to it shall be impossible.
'Do you happen to recollect whether it was this month or September? Lady
Betty Harborough and I had an argument about it as we came up from the
station.'
_Lady Betty Harborough!_ With what a brazen front he himself has
introduced her! She, Peggy, would as soon have thought of flying in the
air as of mentioning that name which he has just so matter-of-factly
pronounced.
'I am afraid that I do not remember,' she answers frostily.
He looks at her again, in growing wonder. What _does_ ail her? Is it,
after all, a mysterious form of shyness? He knows under how many odd
disguises that strange malady of civilisation hides itself. Despite his
thirty-two years, is not he shy himself sometimes? Poor girl, he can
feel for her!
'Not only did we meet here,' pursues he, with a pleasant friendly smile,
'but Lady Roupell was good enough to take me down to call upon you at
your own house.'
'Yes?'
Well, it is uphill work! If he has to labour at the oar like this from
now until dessert, there will not be much left of him at the end. Well,
never mind! it is all in the day's work; only he will ask Lady Roupell
quietly not to inflict this impossible dummy upon him again.
'We came down upon you in great force, I remember--it was on a
Sunday--Lady Roupell, Freddy, the Bentincks, the Harboroughs.'
He pauses, discouraged, despite himself. She has been leisurely sipping
her soup, and now lays down her spoon, looking straight before her. He
heaves a loud sigh, but not even that induces her to look round at him.
'Lady Roupell often brings people down on Sunday afternoons,' she says,
in an indifferent voice, which implies that it is a quite impossible
feat for her memory to separate the one insignificant Sunday to which he
alludes from all or any others. In point of fact, she remembers it
perfectly, and the recollection of it adds a double chill to her tone.
On that very Sunday afternoon did not this man and his Lady Betty
flagrantly lose themselves for an hour in an orchard six yards square?
Did not Lady Betty, without leave asked or given, eat all the mulberries
that were ripe on Peggy's one tree? Did not she, in rude horse-play
pelting a foolish guardsman with green apples, break a bell-glass that
sheltered the picotee cuttings cherished of Jacob's and of Peggy's
souls?
Ignorant of the offensive reminiscences he has stirred up, Mr. Talbot
blunders on:
'I remember you had a tame----'
He stops. He cannot for the life of him recollect what the tame animal
was that he was taken to see. He can only recall that it was some beast
not usually kept as a pet, and that it lived in a house in the
stable-yard. Of course if he pauses she will supply the word, and his
lapse of memory need never be perceived.
But he has reckoned without his host. She has indeed turned her face a
little towards him, and says 'Yes?' expectantly.
It is clear that she has not the least intention of helping him; and is
it, or is it not, his fancy that there is a slight ill-natured tremor
about that corner of her mouth which is nearest him?
'A tame--badger,' suggests he desperately.
But the moment that he has uttered the word he knows that it was not a
badger.
'A tame badger!' repeats she slowly, and again gazing straight before
her; 'yes, what a nice pet!'
She is not shy at all, nor even stupid. She is only rude and
malevolent. But he will not give her the satisfaction of letting her see
that he perceives it.
'Perhaps Lady Roupell will have your permission to bring us down to see
you next Sunday, when I may have an opportunity of stroking my old
friend the badger's' (he smiles, as if he had known all along that it
was not a badger) 'head once again.'
'I do not know what Lady Roupell's plans for next Sunday are,' replies
she snubbingly; and so turns, with a decided movement of head and
shoulder, towards her other neighbour, Mr. Evans, who, however, is not
nearly so grateful for her attentions as he should be.
Mr. Evans has the poor and Peggy Lambton always with him, but he has not
a haunch of fat buck-venison more than three times a year. In everyday
life he is more than willing to give his share of the Vicarage dinner to
such among the sick and afflicted of his flock as can be consoled and
supported by underdone shoulders of mutton and batter-puddings; but on
the rare occasions when the opportunity offers of having his palate
titillated by the delicate cates of the higher civilisation, he had very
much rather be left in peace to enjoy them. He has no fault to find in
this respect with Prue Lambton, to whom, as having taken her in to
dinner, he might be supposed to have some conversational obligations.
Why, then, cannot Peggy, to whom he owes nothing, be equally
considerate? Perhaps Peggy's heart speaks for him. At all events, after
one or two vain shots at the harvest-home and the Workhouse tea, she
desists from the futile effort to lead him into chat; but subtly remains
sitting half turned towards him, as if talking to him, so as to baffle
any further ventures--if, indeed, he have the spirit to make such--on
the part of her other neighbour. Her tongue being idle, she allows her
eyes to travel. It is true that the thick forest of oats and poppies
which waves over the board renders the sight of the table's other side
about as difficult as that of the coast of France; but at least she can
see her fat hostess at the head of the table, and her slim host at the
foot. Freddy Ducane is in his glory--something fair and female on either
hand. On his right Lady Betty, who, being a duke's daughter, takes
precedence of the other smart woman, who was only a miss before she
blossomed into a viscountess; on his left, to ensure himself against the
least risk of having any dull or vacuous moments during his dinner, he
has arranged Prue Lambton--'his little friend Prue.' Beyond the mere
fact of proximity--in itself, of course, a splendid boon--she does not,
so far, seem to be much the gainer by her position.
However, he snatches a moment every now and then to explain to
her--Peggy knows it as well as if she heard his words--how entirely a
matter of irksome duty and hospitality are his whispers to Lady Betty,
his tender comments upon her clothes, and long bunglings with the clasp
of her pearls. And, judging by her red-stained cheeks, her empty plate
(which of us in his day has not been too superbly happy to eat?), and
the trembling smiles that rush out to meet his lame explanations, Prue
believes him. Poor little Prue!
Margaret sighs sadly and impatiently, and looks away--looks away to find
John Talbot's eyes fastened upon her with an expression of such innocent
and genuine curiosity that she asks involuntarily:
'Why do you look at me?'
'I beg your pardon a thousand times!' he answers apologetically. 'I was
only wondering, to be quite sincere--by the bye, do you like people to
be quite sincere?'
'That depends,' replies Peggy cautiously.
'Well, then, I must risk it. I was wondering why on earth you had
thought it worth your while to snub me in the way you have been doing.'
She does not answer, but again looks straight before her.
How very offensive in a woman to look straight before her! She ought to
be quite certain of the perfection of her profile before she presents it
so persistently to you.
Shall he tell her so? That would make her look round pretty quickly.
'I was trying to see whether I could not regard it in the light of a
compliment,' continues he audaciously.
'That would not be easy,' replies she drily.
'It was something that you should have thought me worth wasting your
powder and shot upon,' he answers.
Certainly her profile is anything but perfect; her chin projects too
much. In her old age, if she had a hook nose (which she has not), she
would be a mere nut-cracker.
Shall he tell her that? How many disagreeable things he might tell her!
It puts him into quite a good humour with her to think of them.
'Now, about that badger, for instance,' says he.
But at that, against her will, she laughs outright.
'Dear little beast!' she cries maliciously; 'so playful and
affectionate! such a pet!'
She has laughed. That is something gained, at all events. It is not a
nice friendly laugh. On the contrary, it is a very rude, ill-natured
one: she is obviously a rude, ill-natured girl; but it is a laugh.
'You can see for yourself,' pursues he, holding out one of the _menus_
for her inspection, 'that we are only at the first _entree_; we shall
have to sit beside each other for a good hour more. Lady Roupell does
not want to talk to me; and your neighbour--I do not know who he is, and
I will not ask you, because I know you would not answer me civilly--but
whoever he is, he will not talk to you. I saw you try to make him, and
he would not; he snubbed you. I was avenged! I was very glad!'
Peggy would much rather not have laughed; but there is something that
seems to her so ludicrous in the fact of her abortive advances to Mr.
Evans having been overheard and triumphed at, that she cannot help
yielding to a brief and stifled mirth at her own expense. And, after
all, what he says is sense. He is a very bad man, and she dislikes him
extremely; but to let him observe to her that the news from Afghanistan
seems warlike; or to remark in return that she has never seen the
root-crops look better, need not in the least detract from the
thoroughness of her ill opinion of him, and may make the ensuing hour a
shade less tedious to herself than would entire silence. So she turns
her candid eyes, severely, serenely blue, for the first time, full upon
him, and says:
'I think you are right; I think we had better talk.'
But of course, at that sudden permission to talk, every possible topic
of conversation flies out of his head. And yet as she remains, with her
two blue eyes sternly fixed upon him, awaiting the question or questions
that she has given him permission to put, he must say something; so he
asks stupidly:
'Who is your neighbour?'
'Our vicar.'
'What is his name?' (How infinitely little he cares what the vicar's
name is; but it gives him time.)
'E V A N S,' replies she, spelling very distinctly and slowly, afraid
that she may be overheard if she pronounce the whole name.
'Oh, thanks; and the lady opposite in mourning is Mrs. E V A N S?'
(spelling too).
'She is Mrs. Evans; but she is not in mourning; she is in her
wedding-gown!' replies Peggy, breaking into a smile.
She never can help smiling at the thought of Mrs. Evans's wedding-dress,
any more than Charles Lamb's Cheshire cats can help laughing when they
think of Cheshire being a County Palatine. She is smiling broadly now.
Well, if her smile come seldom, there is no doubt that it is a very
agreeable one when it does come. What sort of thing could he say that
would be likely to bring it back?
'I did not know that people were ever married in black.'
She shakes her head oracularly.
'No more they are!'
She is smiling still. (What a delightful wide mouth! and what _dents de
jeune chien_!)
'It is made out of an old Geneva gown of his?' suggests Talbot wildly.
Again she shakes her nut-brown head.
'Wrong.'
'I have it!' he cries eagerly. 'I know more about the subject than you
think; it has been dyed.'
The mirth has retired from her mouth, and now lurks in the tail of her
bright eye.
'You did not find that out for yourself,' she says distrustfully; 'some
one told you.'
'Upon my honour, it is my own unassisted discovery,' replies he
solemnly, and then they both laugh.
Finding herself betrayed into such a harmony of light-hearted merriment
with him, Margaret pulls herself up. After all, she must not forget that
there is a medium between the stiff politeness she had planned and this
hail-fellow-well-met-ness into which she finds herself somehow sliding.
Nor does his next sentence, though innocently enough meant, at all
conduce to make her again relax her austerity.
'I should not allow my wife to dye her wedding-gown black.'
His wife! How dare he allude to such a person? He, with his illegal
Betty ogling and double-entendre-ing and posturing opposite! How dare he
allude to marriage at all? He to whom that sacred tie is a derision! She
has frozen up again.
Without having the faintest suspicion of the cause, he is wonderingly
aware of the result. Is it possible that she can object to his
introducing his hypothetical wife into the consideration? She is more
than welcome to retort upon him with her supposititious husband. He will
give her the chance.
'Would you?'
'Would I what?'
'Dye your wedding-gown black?'
She knows that she would not. She knows that she would lay it up in
lavender, and tenderly show the yellowed skirt and outlandish sleeves to
her grandchildren forty years hence. But in the pleasure of
contradicting him, truth is worsted.
'Yes.'
'You would?' in a tone of surprise.
She must repeat her fib.
'Yes.'
'Well, I should not have thought it.'
He would like her to ask him why he would not have thought it; but she
does not oblige him.
'I think it would show a want of sentiment,' pursues he perseveringly.
'Yes?'
Good heavens! If she has not got back again to her monosyllable!
'Do not you?'
'No.'
'I should think it would bring ill-luck, should not you?'
'No.'
'Should not you, really?'
'I do not think that it is worth arguing about,' replies Peggy, roused
and wearied. 'I may dye mine, and you need not dye yours, and we shall
neither of us be any the worse.'
'And yet----' he begins; but she interrupts him.
'After all,' she says, turning once more upon him those two dreadfully
direct blue eyes--'after all, I am not at all sure that it is not a good
emblem of marriage--the white gown that goes through muddy waters, and
comes out black on the other side.'
There is such a weight of meaning and emphasis in her words that he is
silent, and wishes that she had kept to her monosyllables.