AFTERNOON TEA
"NOW you will sit down, and have some tea," Mrs. Effingham said to
Dorothea. "Yes, here—by Emmeline—Miss Claughton, I mean. My dear, pray
be kind," she whispered distressfully to the latter, bending close to
pick up a fallen antimacassar. Mervyn, starting forward to forestall
her, heard the small petition, and noted Emmeline's irresponsive
gravity. "Too bad of Em!" he told himself, with a little twirl of his
fair moustache, to hide the smile behind it.
Dorothea took the seat indicated, and Emmeline, turning towards her,
made a distantly courteous remark upon the weather.
"Yes, very fine," Dorothea answered. She wore her neat dark brown
costume, the brown hat, with its suggestion of red, suiting well her
rather short and rounded face, and delicate features. The wistful eyes
shone as usual through glasses, the set of which on her little nose,
combined with the forward carriage of her head, gave a peculiar air of
keen attention. There was something about Dorothea altogether out of
the common—singularly free from self-consciousness, markedly quiet,
the gloved hands lying still, with a lady-like absence of fidgets.
She seemed to be neither anxious to push her way, nor susceptible to
Emmeline's chilling manner.
Mervyn found her interesting; partly perhaps out of compassion for the
charming old lady, Mrs. Effingham; partly perhaps from a perverse love
of opposition, inclining him to go the contrary way to his sister;
but partly also from a certain quickness of appreciation. He stood
up politely to hand cake and tea, and when everybody's wants were
supplied, he carelessly took possession of a chair on the other side of
Dorothea.
"I suppose you are an experienced Londoner," came in subdued tones.
"I! O no," Dorothea answered. "I came home a week before Christmas."
"From—?" questioningly.
"School."
"Ah!" He had wondered what her age might be. "Not in town?"
"In Scotland. I have not been in London for years."
"And you like it?"
"I like St. Paul's—if one need not go through it merely as a sight."
Mrs. Effingham, listening to Miss Henniker, cast a grateful glance at
Mervyn; and Emmeline, hearing the murmur of voices, cast a glance also,
not grateful in kind.
The conversation was not at present brilliant.
"Scotland?" Mervyn said musingly. "Edinburgh, perhaps."
"Yes; the outskirts. There is nothing in London like Arthur's Seat."
"Not even the top gallery of St. Paul's?"
"Oh!" Dorothea uttered an indignant monosyllable, then paused.
"Well?" he said, smiling.
"One can't compare the two. And everything is so shut in here. There is
no getting away from the people. Yet—" as if to herself, "I wanted to
come!"
"I suppose the acmé of a school-girl's desires is to have done with
school."
The wistful eyes went straight to his face, dubiously—not occupied with
him, but with her own thoughts. They were pretty eyes, he could see.
"I wonder if one goes through life like that,—always wishing for
something different?"
Mervyn laughed slightly. "Is that your present state of mind?"
"I don't care for London. And I should like—very much—"
A pause.
"You would like—?" he said.
"One or two friends."
"A modest wish, at all events. Most people 'would like' one or two
hundred."
"Would they?"
"Certainly. You are not in the swing of London society yet."
"My father does not care for society. But—one or two hundred friends!"
incredulously.
"A lady commonly values herself by the length of her visiting-list. One
or two hundred are respectable. Four or five hundred are desirable.
Seven or eight hundred are honourable. Don't you see?"
"But how could one ever have time for so many?"
"One has not time. That's the charm of it,—always to be too busy to do
anything or see anybody."
As if in echo, Miss Henniker's tones came across the tea-table,—"I
assure you, if it had been possible—but I have been so desperately
busy,—not a single moment disengaged. Absolutely not one free moment."
Dorothea broke into a soft laugh. She was beginning to feel quite at
ease with this pleasant-mannered Mr. Claughton. Dorothea's laughter was
always low, and the accompanying smile lighted up her whole face into
positive prettiness. Mervyn received another grateful glance from Mrs.
Effingham, while Emmeline sat in absolute silence.
"Don't you see?" he murmured.
"I don't see the charm of such a state of things."
"No? You haven't caught the infection yet. It's a race for
life,—everybody trying to get first. Anything to be popular and
successful. More friends—otherwise, a longer visiting-list—means
popularity, which means success."
"I should like a different aim in life. Would not you?"
There was a movement of indifference. "I! O I do in town as town
does—comment on the follies of my neighbours and run in the same
groove. In London, I pride myself on the number of my acquaintances. At
Craye, I pique myself upon their quality."
"You are trying to make yourself out different from what you really
are, I am sure," Dorothea said, scanning him in her slight, yet earnest
fashion. "People so often do that. I never can understand why."
"So often do what?"
"Try to seem worse than they are. Why should they?"
"It's a weakness of human nature. Yes, I am subject to it, I believe.
Edred is not. If you want to find a thoroughly consistent being, you
must make my brother's acquaintance."
Dorothea did not think she would prefer the other brother to this
one; and she kept silence. The handsome blue eyes, watching, read her
thought, and the fair moustache curled mischievously.
"And if you want an inconsistent moraliser, you must turn to me."
Dorothea could have protested; but Emmeline succeeded at last in
catching Mervyn's eye, and the two arose.
"I shall see you both again some day. Be sure you come to see me when
you are in town," Mrs. Effingham said cordially, when good-byes were
said.
Emmeline bowed slightly to Dorothea as she turned away. Mervyn shook
hands, smiling, as with an old friend.
"That is really a most delightful young man," exclaimed Mrs. Effingham,
when the door was closed. "Did not you think so?"—appealing to both her
companions. "Almost as nice as his brother. And Emmeline Claughton is a
charming girl, really charming,—only not quite in her best mood to-day,
perhaps. Just a little stiff, you know. The way to enjoy Emmeline, is
to have her to oneself. She is a good girl,—really good,—but sometimes
perhaps a trifle too reserved."
"A trifle too proud, I should say," observed Miss Henniker.
"O it is not pride. I assure you it is not pride. Nobody could call
Emmeline Claughton proud. I believe it is a form of shyness. She
does not open out easily, and she wants a great deal of thawing. Her
brothers are much more attractive,—though the one I know best is rather
like her. But not altogether. No, certainly not altogether the same."
[Illustration]