SIR HARRY.
There was an air of lassitude, of settled melancholy, and at times of
abstraction, apparent about Eveline, which she could not always
successfully conceal, that did not fail to impress and surprise the
baronet of Hurdell Hall and his sister, and the latter observed her
narrowly when they were together in the drawing-room.
'I have heard that you sing beautifully, Lady Puddicombe,' said she,
opening the piano.
'I used to sing--a little,' replied Eveline.
'Used to sing! Why drop so charming an accomplishment?'
'I have had thoughts of late that make me sad.'
'We must cure you of all that. What style of music do you love most?'
'I love all music that is beautiful.'
'And songs?'
'That are melancholy.'
'Then sing me some favourite thing before the gentlemen join
us--there is a dear, do.'
Thus urged, and fearing to appear ungracious, Eveline seated herself
before the instrument--a grand and very stately one it was, and began
to sing in a voice that became tender, passionate, and beautiful,
touching; even the somewhat arid heart of her listener--by two of the
verses especially:--
'Perchance, if we had never met,
I had been spared this mad regret,
This endless striving to forget,
For ever and for ever!
. . . . . .
Ah me, I cannot bear the pain,
Of never seeing thee again,
I cling to thee with might and main,
For ever and for ever!'
She felt as if she were singing to Evan, who, perhaps, in spirit was
hovering near her; for Eveline was beginning at times to have strange
fancies now. There were tears in her voice as she sang, and there
were tears in her eyes too; but she paused abruptly as the gentlemen
came in from the dining-room, and the eyes of Sir Paget were fixed
inquiringly and reprovingly upon her. Her voice seemed to pass away,
nor could any entreaties of Sir Harry and his sister make her
conclude the song--a well-known one.
'Hah--thereby hangs a tale!' thought the fair Lucretia, as Sir Harry
conducted Eveline back to her chair, and took a seat by her side.
No idle or constitutionally dissipated man can withstand the
temptation of attempting to fascinate a pretty woman, and, if
possible, of eclipsing another man, and to eclipse one like old Sir
Paget would seem no very difficult task; so, while talking quietly
with Eveline on the last play, the last news, or any current subject,
Sir Harry was thinking to himself, while admiring the contour of her
head, her rich brown hair, long eyelashes, and lovely little hands,
'By Jove, if old Pudd would only go off the hooks, anyhow! She can't
care a straw for him, don't you know, with his old bald pate that he
is always jerking forward like a hen when she has laid an egg. She
was in love with some fellow who has gone to Egypt--so Holcroft told
me--been engaged to him perhaps; but her mother was set upon her
marrying old Pudd's coin, and among them all they talked her into it,
no doubt. Poor little girl, I must try to console her.'
Lucretia Hurdell, who at times affected girlish airs, now brought
that piece of drawing-room foolery, her 'Confession Book,' upon the
_tapis_.
'You must positively write me yours, dear Lady Puddicombe,' said she.
'Or permit me to write there for you,' suggested Sir Harry. 'Now to
begin--"Were you ever in love?"'
'The idea of asking a married woman that,' exclaimed Miss Hurdell.
'If so, how often?' continued her brother.
'I would say "never," according to the novelist's idea of it,'
replied Eveline, with an air of annoyance.
'Don't know what that idea is,' said Sir Henry, eyeing her askance
and admiringly.
'I should rather say I have been in love, but never mean to be so
again.'
Eveline shivered as she said this, for while conversing apparently
with Mr. Pyke Poole the cold eyes of Sir Paget were upon her again.
She felt the rashness of her speech. It was offensive to him, and
was not without some point in the mind of Sir Harry.
The cub-hunting was not to begin for a few days yet, and meanwhile
the master of the house followed her about pretty persistently, so
that she had, ere long, a restless feeling about it. When departing
on a riding-party he anticipated Sir Paget by swinging her into the
saddle, adjusting her skirts and reins, leaving Pike Poole to do that
office for Miss Hurdell, to whom, in return for pleasant quarters, he
usually devoted himself, while she, with all her alleged indifference
to matrimony, was not indisposed to receive his attentions.
There was something in the occasional gaze of Sir Harry that puzzled
the innocent Eveline and made her feel restless under it, especially
when he hung over her at the piano, as he constantly did; and now she
played more than she cared for, to avoid conversation and have
freedom to indulge in her own sad thoughts.
'Surely you must be tired of standing there so long, Sir Harry,' she
said once, with surprise.
'Tired of what--listening to you or gazing on you?' he replied,
lowering his voice for her ear alone; 'either were impossible.'
If he had been addressing a barmaid he could scarcely have made a
more pointed remark; but so full was Eveline of thoughts too deep for
words--thoughts of the untimely fate of one who loved her so
dearly--to whose fate or past existence she dared not refer, and for
whom she dared not wear even a black ribbon--that she did not
perceive the admiration she was exciting in the breast of Sir Harry
and in the quiet purity of her own heart that such sentiments as his
could exist, never occurred to her.
He ventured on one occasion to say something very pointed about the
beauty of her hands as she idled over the piano keys.
'As there are other ladies in the room, I cannot compliment you on
your discrimination, Sir Harry,' she replied, coldly. 'But what do
you mean by saying such things to me?' she added.
She began at last to perceive that there was a meaning in his voice.
She felt offended, and wished the cub-hunting would begin, that the
visit of herself and Sir Paget to Hurdell Hall might come the sooner
to an end.
'If I could only achieve a good long and quiet walk and talk with
her,' grumbled Sir Harry to himself; 'but in this cursed place we are
always interrupted--can't attempt to make my innings or be with her
alone. Lucretia, Poole, or some one else always turns up, and
she--herself--never gives a fellow the chance wanted.'
Though innately wicked in heart and rejoicing that the poor girl had
made--or been compelled by others to make--an ill-assorted marriage,
something of pity for her began to mingle with his nefarious ideas
and hopes, and that pity was as much akin to love as his _blasé_ soul
could feel.
'It is a regular case of Beauty and the Beast, this marriage of old
Pudd's,' thought he.
Finding her promenading on the terrace alone one evening overlooking
the pool where the swans swam among the snow-white water-lilies, he
hastened to join her.
'I don't think you have seen our conservatories,' he said. 'Permit
me to show you them.'
'Thanks, I do so love flowers.'
They entered the long glazed avenues of potted plants and rich
exotics, where rustic sofas with luxurious cushions were placed under
the feathery foliage of acacias, and after idling a little, admiring
flowers that were of great beauty and the perfection of professional
gardening, Sir Harry brought her a tiny bouquet of beautiful and
sweetly-scented violets, which, thoughtlessly, she placed in the
bosom of her dress.
His eyes gleamed as he saw her do this. He said,
'So charmed to see the place assigned to my gift.'
'Why?'
'When I know what the flower imports in the language of flowers.'
'What does the violet import?' asked Eveline, shortly.
'Is it possible you do not know?'
'I do not.'
'It means eternal love and constancy.'
'Indeed,' responded Eveline, with a tone of indifference. She felt
inclined to detach the bouquet from her dress, and restore it to the
giver or deposit it on one of the iron shelves, but as that might
have implied that she understood too much, she simply quitted the
conservatory and went once more upon the terrace.
'The air is chilly here after the hot atmosphere of the
conservatories,' said Sir Harry, greatly encouraged by the acceptance
of his flowers; 'and that Shetland shawl is only an apology for a
wrap over your head, though you look charming in it--permit me,' he
added, as he drew it closer round her.
Their eyes met as he did so, and she read an expression in his
downward gaze that made her pale cheek crimson, and then grow pale
again; and to avoid anything more she re-entered the house.
'It is because I am married to an old man that he dares to treat me
thus, and so thinks little of me,' she began to reflect--'an old man
whose eyes are ever full of angry reproach about poor Evan, who never
wronged him, even in thought. Oh, how hateful, how loathsome my life
is! If luxurious it is duplicity, all!'
She actually began to think she would go away somewhere--where her
father and husband would never find her--change her name and be a
governess or something of that kind. The idea of suicide or anything
so dreadful, in all her sorrow, bitterness, and humiliation of
spirit, never occurred to her for a moment. She only hoped that God
would direct her, pardon her for these rebellious feelings against
fate, and let her live her own way and then die.
Why did she not run away before her absurd marriage? she thought now,
and before her young life was so utterly wrecked by it? But she
forgot how, under the motherly care and authority of Lady Aberfeldie,
she had always been in a certain constraint and awe, and how her own
sudden jealousy of Evan Cameron had helped to bring that catastrophe
about.
But this growing admiration on the part of Sir Harry Hurdell was a
new experience in life to her.
She was justly incensed by it, and knew that he was presuming upon
her youth, her husband's age, and the too apparent aspect of an
ill-assorted marriage. Their visit must be cut short at all risks;
but what excuse was she to make to Sir Paget; for, with her knowledge
of his jealousy of one who was dead, how was she to enlighten him on
the subject of Sir Harry, whose manner proved to her somewhat
obnoxious.
The truth was that he was so much in the use and wont of having
'sherry-glass flirtations' at railway buffets, and so forth, that he
was quite incapable of showing his admiration or regard in a subtle
or pleasing, respectful or cavalier way, and even his own grooms
might have been better hands at it than he, the lord of that grand
old ancestral home.