It would be absurd to suppose that Mrs. Shanks and Miss Mildmay had not
heard the entire story of Stella’s escape and all that led up to it, the
foolish venture and the unexpected and too serious punishment. They had
known all about it from the first moment. They had seen her running down
to the beach with her attendants after her, and had heard all about the
boat with the new figure-head which Mr. Tredgold had got a bargain and
had called after his favourite child. And they had said to each other as
soon as they had heard of it, “Mark my words! we shall soon hear of an
accident to that boat.” They had related this fact in all the
drawing-rooms in the neighbourhood with great, but modest, pride when
the accident did take place. But they had shown the greatest interest in
Stella, and made no disagreeable remarks as to the depravity of her
expedition. Nobody had been surprised at this self-denial at first, for
no one had supposed that there was any blame attaching to the young
party, two out of the three of whom had suffered so much for their
imprudence; for Stella’s cold and the shock to her nerves had at first
been raised by a complimentary doctor almost to the same flattering
seriousness as Captain Scott’s pneumonia. Now the event altogether had
begun to sink a little into the mild perspective of distance, as a thing
which was over and done with, though it would always be an exciting
reminiscence to talk of--the night when poor Stella Tredgold had been
carried out to sea by the sudden squall, “just in her white afternoon
frock, poor thing, without a wrap or anything.”
This had been the condition of affairs before Mrs. Seton’s visit. I
cannot tell how it was breathed into the air that the adventure was by
no means such a simple matter, that Stella was somehow dreadfully in
fault, that it would be something against her all her life which she
would have the greatest difficulty in “living down.” Impossible to say
who sowed this cruel seed. Mrs. Seton declared afterwards that she had
spoken to no one, except indeed the landlady of the hotel where Captain
Scott was lying, and his nurse; but that was entirely about Algy, poor
boy. But whoever was the culprit, or by what methods soever the idea was
communicated, certain it is that the views of the little community were
completely changed after that moment. It began to be whispered about in
the little assemblies, over the tea-tables, and over the billiard-tables
(which was worse), that Stella Tredgold’s escapade was a very queer
thing after all. It was nonsense to say that she had never heard of the
existence of the _Stella_ till that day, when it was well known that old
Tredgold bragged about everything he bought, and the lot o’ money, or
the little money he had given for it; for it was equally sweet to him to
get a great bargain or to give the highest price that had ever been
paid. That he should have held his tongue about this one thing, was it
likely? And she was such a daring little thing, fond of scandalising her
neighbours; and she was a little fast, there could be no doubt; at all
events, she had been so ever since she had made the acquaintance of that
Mrs. Seton--that Seton woman, some people said. Before her advent it
only had been high spirits and innocent nonsense, but since then Stella
had been infected with a love of sensation and had learned to like the
attendance of men--any men, it did not matter whom. If the insinuation
was of Mrs. Seton’s making, she was not herself spared in it.
Mrs. Shanks and Miss Mildmay were by no means the last to be infected by
this wave of opinion. They lived close to each other in two little
houses built upon the hill side, with gardens in long narrow strips
which descended in natural terraces to the level of the high road. They
were houses which looked very weedy and damp in the winter time, being
surrounded by verandahs, very useful to soften the summer glow but not
much wanted in October when the wind blew heaps of withered leaves (if
you ventured to call those rays of gold and crimson withered) under the
shelter of their green trellises. There are few things more beautiful
than these same autumn leaves; but a garden is sadly “untidy,” as these
ladies lamented, when covered with them, flying in showers from somebody
else’s trees, and accumulating in heaps in the corners of the verandahs.
“The boy,” who was the drudge of Mrs. Shanks’ establishment, and “the
girl” who filled the same place in Miss Mildmay’s, swept and swept for
ever, but did not succeed in “keeping them down;” and indeed, when these
two ladies stepped outside in the sunny mornings, as often as not a leaf
or two lighted, an undesired ornament upon the frills of Mrs. Shanks’
cap or in the scanty coils of Miss Mildmay’s hair. There was only a low
railing between the two gardens in order not to break the beauty of the
bank with its terraces as seen from below, and over this the neighbours
had many talks as they superintended on either side the work of the boy
and the girl, or the flowering of the dahlias which made a little show
on Mrs. Shanks’ side, or the chrysanthemums on the other. These winterly
flowers were what the gardens were reduced to in October, though there
were a few roses still to be found near the houses, and the gay summer
annuals were still clinging on to life in rags and desperation along the
borders, and a few sturdy red geraniums standing up boldly here and
there.
“Have you heard what they are saying about Stella Tredgold?” said the
one lady to the other one of these mornings. Mrs. Shanks had a hood tied
over her cap, and Miss Mildmay a Shetland shawl covering her grey hair.
“Have I heard of anything else?” said the other, shaking her head.
“And I just ask you, Ruth Mildmay,” said Mrs. Shanks, “do you think that
little thing is capable of making up any plan to run off with a couple
of officers? Good gracious, why should she do such a thing? She can have
them as much as she likes at home. That silly old man will never stop
her, but feed them with the best of everything at breakfast, lunch, and
dinner, if they like--and then be astonished if people talk. And as for
Katherine--but I have no patience with Katherine,” the old lady said.
“If it’s only a question what Stella Tredgold is capable of,” answered
Miss Mildmay, “she is capable of making the hair stand up straight on
our heads--and there is nothing she would like better than to do it.”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Shanks, “she would find that hard with me; for I am
nearly bald on the top of my head.”
“And don’t you try something for it?” said the other blandly. Miss
Mildmay was herself anxiously in search of “something” that might still
restore to her, though changed in colour, the abundance of the locks of
her youth.
“I try a cap for it,” said the other, “which covers everything up
nicely. What the eye does not see the heart does not grieve--not like
you, Ruth Mildmay, that have so much hair. Did you feel it standing up
on end when you heard of Stella’s escapade?”
“I formed my opinion of Stella’s escapade long ago,” said Miss Mildmay.
“I thought it mad--simply mad, like so many things she does; but I hoped
nobody would take any notice, and I did not mean to be the first to say
anything.”
“Well, it just shows how innocent I am,” said Mrs. Shanks, “an old
married woman that ought to know better! Why, I never thought any harm
of it at all! I thought they had just pushed off a bit, three young
fools!”
“But why did they push off a bit--that is the question? They might have
looked at the boat; but why should she go out, a girl with two men?”
“Well, two was better than one, surely, Ruth Mildmay! If it had been
one, why, you might have said--but there’s safety in numbers--besides,
one man in a little yacht with a big sail. I hate those things myself,”
said Mrs. Shanks. “I would not put my foot in one of them to save my
life. They are like guns which no one believes are ever loaded till they
go off and kill you before you know.
“I have no objection to yachting, for my part. My. Uncle Sir Ralph was a
great yachtsman. I have often been out with him. The worst of these
girls is that they’ve nobody to give them a little understanding of
things--nobody that knows. Old Tredgold can buy anything for them, but
he can’t tell them how to behave. And even Katherine, you know----”
“Oh, Katherine--I have no patience with Katherine. She lets that little
thing do whatever she pleases.”
“As if any one could control Stella, a spoilt child if ever there was
one! May I ask you, Jane Shanks, what you intend to do?”
“To do?” cried Mrs. Shanks, her face, which was a little red by nature,
paling suddenly. She stopped short in the very act of cutting a dahlia,
a large very double purple one, into which the usual colour of her
cheeks seemed to have gone.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake take care of those earwigs,” cried Miss Mildmay.
“I hate dahlias for that--they are always full of earwigs. When I was a
little child I thought I had got one in my ear. You know the
nursery-maids always say they go into your ear. And the miserable night
I had! I have never forgotten it. There is one on the rails, I declare.”
“Are we talking of earwigs--or of anything more important?” Mrs. Shanks
cried.
“There are not many things more important, I can tell you, if you think
one has got into your ear. They say it creeps into your brain and eats
it up--and all sorts of horrible things. I was talking of going to the
Cliff to see what those girls were about, and what Stella has to say for
herself.”
“To the Cliff!” Mrs. Shanks said.
“Well,” said her neighbour sharply, “did you mean to give them up
without even asking what they had to say for themselves?”
“I--give them up?--I never thought of such a thing. You go so fast, Ruth
Mildmay. It was only yesterday I heard of this talk, which never should
have gone from me. At the worst it’s a thing that might be gossiped
about; but to give them up----”
“You wouldn’t, I suppose,” said Miss Mildmay sternly, “countenance
depravity--if it was proved to be true.”
“If what was proved to be true? What is it they say against her?” Mrs.
Shanks cried.
But this was not so easy to tell, for nobody had said anything except
the fact which everybody knew.
“You know what is said as well as I do,” said Miss Mildmay. “Are you
going? Or do you intend to drop them? That is what I want to know.”
“Has any one dropped them, yet?” her friend asked. There was a tremble
in her hand which held the dahlias. She was probably scattering earwigs
on every side, paying no attention. And her colour had not yet come
back. It was very rarely that a question of this importance came up
between the two neighbours. “Has Lady Jane said anything?” she asked in
tones of awe.
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” cried Miss Mildmay boldly; for, maiden
lady as she was, and poor, she was one of those who did not give in to
Lady Jane. “For my part, I want to hear more about it before I decide
what to do.”
“And so should I too,” said Mrs. Shanks, though still with bated breath.
“Oh, Ruth Mildmay, I do not think I could ever have the heart! Such a
little thing, and no mother, and such a father as Mr. Tredgold! I think
it is going to rain this afternoon. I should not mind for once having
the midge if you will share it, and going to call, and see what we can
see.”
“I will share the midge if you like. I have other places where I must
call. I can wait for you outside if you like, or I might even go in with
you, for five minutes,” Miss Mildmay said severely, as if the shortness
of that term justified the impulse. And they drove out accordingly, in
the slumbrous afternoon, when most people were composing themselves
comfortably by the side of their newly-lighted fires, comforting
themselves that, as it had come on to rain, nobody would call, and that
they were quite free either to read a book or to nod over it till
tea-time. It rained softly, persistently, quietly, as the midge drove
along amid a mingled shower of water-drops and falling leaves. The
leaves were like bits of gold, the water-drops sparkled on the glass of
the windows. All was soft, weeping, and downfall, the trees standing
fast through the mild rain, scattering, with a sort of forlorn pleasure
in it, their old glories off them. The midge stumbled along, jolting
over the stones, and the old ladies seated opposite--for it held only
one on each side--nodded their heads at each other, partly because they
could not help it, partly to emphasise their talk. “That little thing!
to have gone wrong at her age! But girls now were not like what they
used to be--they were very different--not the least like what we used to
be in our time.”
“Here is the midge trundling along the drive and the old cats coming to
inquire. They are sure to have heard everything that ever was said in
the world,” cried Stella, “and they are coming to stare at me and find
out if I look as if I felt it. They shall not see me at all, however I
look. I am not going to answer to them for what I do.”
“Certainly not,” said Katherine. “If that is what they have come for,
you had better leave them to me.”
“I don’t know, either,” said Stella, “it rains, and nobody else will
come. They might be fun. I shall say everything I can think of to shock
them, Kate.”
“They deserve it, the old inquisitors,” cried Kate, who was more
indignant than her sister; “but I think I would not, Stella. Don’t do
anything unworthy of yourself, dear, whatever other people may say.”
“Oh! unworthy of myself!--I don’t know what’s worthy of myself--nothing
but nonsense, I believe. I should just like, however, for fun, to see
what the old cats have to say.”
The old cats came in, taking some time to alight from the midge and
shake out their skirts in the hall. They were a little frightened, if
truth must be told. They were not sure of their force against the sharp
little claws sheathed in velvet of the little white cat-princess, on
whom they were going to make an inquisition, whether there was any stain
upon her coat of snow.
“We need not let them see we’ve come for that, or have heard anything,”
Mrs. Shanks whispered in Miss Mildmay’s ear.
“Oh, I shall let them see!” said the fiercer visitor; but nevertheless
she trembled too.
They were taken into the young ladies’ room, which was on the ground
floor, and opened with a large window upon the lawn and its encircling
trees. It was perhaps too much on a level with that lawn for a house
which is lived in in autumn and winter as well as summer, and the large
window occupied almost one entire side of the room. Sometimes it was
almost too bright, but to-day, with the soft persistent rain pouring
down, and showers of leaves coming across the rain from time to time, as
if flying frightened before every puff of air, the effect of the vast
window and of the white and gold furniture was more dismal than bright.
There was a wood fire, not very bright either, but hissing faintly as it
smouldered, which did not add much to the comfort of the room. Katherine
was working at something as usual--probably something of no
importance--but it was natural to her to be occupied, while it was
natural for Stella to do nothing. The visitors instinctively remarked
the fact with the usual approval and disapproval.
“Katherine, how do you do, my dear? We thought we were sure to find you
at home such a day. Isn’t it a wet day? raining cats and dogs; but the
midge is so good for that, one is so sheltered from the weather. Ruth
Mildmay thought it was just the day to find you; Jane Shanks was certain
you would be at home. Ah, Stella, you are here too!” they said both
together.
“Did you think I shouldn’t be here too?” said Stella. “I am always here
too. I wonder why you should be surprised.”
“Oh, indeed, Stella! We know that is not the case by any means. If you
were always with Katherine, it would be very, very much the better for
you. You would get into no scrapes if you kept close to Katherine,” Mrs.
Shanks said.
“Do I get into scrapes?” cried Stella, tossing her young head. “Oh, I
knew there would be some fun when I saw the midge coming along the
drive! Tell me what scrapes I have got into. I hope it is a very bad one
to-day to make your hair stand on end.”
“My dear, you know a great deal better than we can tell you what things
people are saying,” said Miss Mildmay. “I did not mean to blurt it out
the first thing as Jane Shanks has done. It is scarcely civil, I
feel--perhaps you would yourself have been moved to give us some
explanation which would have satisfied our minds--and to Katherine it is
scarcely polite.”
“Oh, please do not mind being polite to me!” cried Katherine, who was in
a white heat of resentment and indignation, her hands trembling as she
threw down her work. And Stella, that little thing, was completely at
her ease! “If there is anything to be said I take my full share with
Stella, whatever it may be.” And then there was a little pause, for tea
was brought in with a footman’s instinct for the most dramatic moment.
Tea singularly changed the face of affairs. Gossip may be exchanged over
the teacups; but to come fully prepared for mortal combat, and in the
midst of it to be served by your antagonist with a cup of tea, is
terribly embarrassing. Katherine, being excited and innocent, would have
left it there with its fragrance rising fruitlessly in the midst of the
fury melting the assailants’ hearts; but Stella, guilty and clever, saw
her advantage. Before she said anything more she sprang up from her
chair and took the place which was generally Katherine’s before the
little shining table. Mr. Tredgold’s tea was naturally the very best
that could be got for money, and had a fragrance which was delightful;
and there were muffins in a beautiful little covered silver dish, though
October is early in the season for muffins. “I’ll give you some tea
first,” cried the girl, “and then you can come down upon me as much as
you please.”
And it was so nice after the damp drive, after the jolting of the midge,
in the dull and dreary afternoon! It was more than female virtue was
equal to, to refuse that deceiving cup. Miss Mildmay said faintly: “None
for me, please. I am going on to the----” But before she had ended this
assertion she found herself, she knew not how, with a cup in her hand.
“Oh, Stella, my love,” cried Mrs. Shanks, “what tea yours is! And oh,
how much sweeter you look, and how much better it is, instead of putting
yourself in the way of a set of silly young officers, to sit there
smiling at your old friends and pouring out the tea!”
Miss Mildmay gave a little gasp, and made a motion to put down the cup
again, but she was not equal to the effort.
“Oh, it is the officers you object to!” cried Stella. “If it was curates
perhaps you would like them better. I love the officers! they are so
nice and big and silly. To be sure, curates are silly also, but they are
not so easy and nice about it.”
Miss Mildmay’s gasp this time was almost like a choke. “Believe me,” she
said, “it would be much better to keep clear of young men. You girls now
are almost as bad as the American girls, that go about with them
everywhere--worse, indeed, for it is permitted there, and it is not
permitted here.”
“That makes it all the nicer,” cried Stella; “it’s delightful because
it’s wrong. I wonder why the American girls do it when all the fun is
gone out of it!”
“Depend upon it,” said Miss Mildmay, “it’s better to have nothing at all
to do with young men.”
“But then what is to become of the world?” said the culprit gravely.
“Stella!” cried Katherine.
“It is quite true. The world would come to an end--there would be no
more----”
“Stella, Stella!”
“I think you are quite right in what you said, Jane Shanks,” said Miss
Mildmay. “It is a case that can’t be passed over. It is----”
“I never said anything of the sort,” cried Mrs. Shanks, alarmed. “I said
we must know what Stella had to say for herself----”
“And so you shall,” said Stella, with a toss of her saucy head. “I have
as much as ever you like to say for myself. There is nothing I won’t
say. Some more muffin, Mrs. Shanks--one little other piece. It is so
good, and the first of the season. But this is not enough toasted. Look
after the tea, Katherine, while I toast this piece for Miss Mildmay. It
is much nicer when it is toasted for you at a nice clear fire.”
“Not any more for me,” cried Miss Mildmay decisively, putting down her
cup and pushing away her chair.
“You cannot refuse it when I have toasted it expressly for you. It is
just as I know you like it, golden brown and hot! Why, here is another
carriage! Take it, take it, dear Miss Mildmay, before some one else
comes in. Who can be coming, Kate--this wet day?”
They all looked out eagerly, speechless, at the pair of smoking horses
and dark green landau which passed close to the great window in the
rain. Miss Mildmay took the muffin mechanically, scarcely knowing what
she did, and a great consternation fell upon them all. The midge
outside, frightened, drew away clumsily from the door, and the ladies,
both assailed and assailants, gazed into each other’s eyes with a shock
almost too much for speech.
“Oh, heavens,” breathed Mrs. Shanks, “do you see who it is, you
unfortunate children? It is Lady Jane herself--and how are you going to
stand up, you little Stella, before Lady Jane?”
“Let her come,” said Stella defiant, yet with a hot flush on her cheeks.
And, indeed, so it happened. Lady Jane did not pause to shake out her
skirts, which were always short enough for all circumstances. Almost
before the footman, who preceded her with awe, could open the door
decorously, she pushed him aside with her own hand to quicken his
movements, Lady Jane herself marched squarely into the expectant room.