MY LADY HERMINIA BARRASDAILE WEAVES WEBS FOR AN UNWARY HE
“Aunt,” cried my lady, tossing Mr. Steele’s _Tatler_ to the other end of
the cushioned settee and yawning prodigiously, “Aunt Lucinda, ’tis high
time I had you married again!”
“What, wench, what?” exclaimed the diminutive Duchess, opening drowsy
eyes. “Married, d’ye say?”
“So soon as possible, dear aunt. I intend to wed you to a——”
“Heavens, Herminia, how harrowing—how hateful——”
“Goodness gracious preserve us, aunt, how can ye?”
“Gemini! What now, child?”
“Smother one with alliterations.”
“Tush, miss,” exclaimed the Duchess, “and you talk such pure folly so
excessively extreme! Marriage, indeed! At my age!”
“Aye, indeed, aunt! ’Tis high time I had thee safe wedded, for, though so
small, thou’rt a monstrous responsibility, my dear soul. So I ha’ found
thee a spouse——”
“La, miss, hush and fie! I protest you make me blush.”
“A monster, aunt!”
“Horrors, child!”
“Who could lift thee in one vast fist, thou dainty atomy ... aye, and big
me in t’other, for that matter! A giant, aunt!”
“Herminia, you rave! What do I want with your monstrous giants?”
“But he is a kindly monster, aunt, a most gentle giant. And he is,
besides, a baronet, a soldier, a gentleman o’ birth and breeding, not
ill-looking, nor old ... not very; brave as a lion, vigorous with health,
strong as Samson.... Doth not all this make thee to be a little in love
with him?”
“Peace, child—cease, miss! You talk like a mad thing.”
“So thou shalt come and look him over for thyself, dearest aunt.”
“I won’t!”
“You will!”
“But I don’t desire to view any monsters, gentle or no.”
“Aye, but then—I do, aunt! And so the matter is finally settled!” said my
lady, with determined nod.
“Goodness aid!” ejaculated the Duchess. “What’s settled, Herminia?”
“We start as soon as possible.”
“Where for?”
“Sussex.”
“I’ll not go!”
“O aunt, thou dearest of small creatures ... thou wilt not, thou canst
not desert thy doating, solitary niece. For, indeed, go I must.”
“Why, Herminia, child? Why, a heaven’s name?”
“To—to fulfil my destiny, aunt.”
“Herminia, be sane! Tell me what you mean by ‘your destiny.’”
“To fill his pipe and light it, aunt. To bring his slippers. To cook
for the pure joy of watching him eat. To perform those humble, lowly,
feminine duties small in themselves yet that, in the sum, make for the
glory of true womanhood and lift her nigh the angels.... Thus it went
somewhat, the rest I ha’ forgot.”
“Pipe?” murmured the bewildered Duchess. “Slippers? Whose?”
“Thy monster’s, aunt.”
“Herminia, my poor child! Thou’rt distraught—’tis the sun to-day——”
“Nay, aunt, ’twas Sir John Dering, weeks ago.”
“Ha!” exclaimed the little Duchess loudly, and sitting up with sudden new
interest. “What of the dear man?”
“‘Dear man,’ indeed!” repeated my lady, clenching white hands and
stamping both feet at once. “What of him? Oh, the devil confound him!”
Here my lady’s deep bosom surged tempestuously, her eyes glowed, her
delicate nostrils dilated; in fine, she manifested all those symptoms of
unruly anger that may be vented only by your very great lady high above
the vulgar herd, on your slatternly virago very far below. All of which
the Duchess, wise in most things pertaining to her own sex, noted with
her keen, shrewd eyes.
“My poor Herminia!” she sighed. “How long have ye been in love with him?”
“Love?” gasped my lady. “In love?.... Listen, aunt; I feel for him such
unutterable deeps of bitter scorn, such unspeakable loathing, such a
world o’ detestation that I yearn to have him truly in love with me.”
“Why, to be sure, child!” nodded the Duchess. “Most feminine, under the
circumstances.”
“Aunt, could I but once see him truly serious! Could I but once shake his
hateful calm, his cold, passionless self-assurance ... oh, then!”
“What then, Herminia?” At this direct question, my lady looked a trifle
blank, whereupon the Duchess answered for her: “Why then, child, you
would make of his passion a mock, to be sure, trample his humble love
under your proud hoofs—I mean feet—laugh his suit to scorn——”
“Can you doubt it, aunt?”
“Never for one moment, my sweet.”
“He should learn at last the deep measure of a woman’s scorn, aunt!”
“Yes, my love. And then?”
“Then, aunt, why ... I should at least be satisfied.”
“I wonder, child!... So here is why you will to Sussex?”
“And to find thee a husband, aunt.”
“Tush for that, thou sly minx! But to watch thee weaving webs for an
unwary he, casting thy spells, luring the poor wretch to distraction and
destruction.... Hum!”
“Then we’ll start at the earliest moment, dear aunt. Let it be thought we
are for your house in Surrey or Kent—or anywhere you will. But once in
Sussex we must forget your rank; you must be a superior inferior person,
aunt, or better—a decayed gentlewoman.”
“Horrors—no, Herminia! I refuse to be anything so infinite abhorrent.
Lud! I should sound like a corpse!”
“Howbeit thou wilt always be my little, loved, clever aunt.”
“But think, Herminia! What will the world say?”
“Everything that is sayable, aunt; but what matter?”
“But where must we live, Herminia?”
“In some small house or cottage suitable to our humble circumstances,
sure.”
“And how are we to find such place? And how if no such place is to be
had, child?”
“Fie, aunt! Remember thou’rt a duchess and can do anything! You have
hosts of servants, mostly idle.’ There is old Hammond, your head courier,
reliable and trustworthy; let this be his duty.... A cottage in or near
Alfriston.... ’Faith, shalt write to him at once!”
So, after due consideration, the Duchess sat down to write forthwith,
while my lady hurried away, busied with a thousand concerns; and
presently to the Duchess came Mrs. Betty in exclamatory excitement:
“O mam, your Grace, and is’t true indeed that we be a-leaving town, my
lady?”
“Yes, Betty. I am taking your lady away to get her married.”
“Married, mem? Lord save us all alive ... my lady—married? O my lady—who
to?”
“To the one man I have seen who may govern her.”
“Oh, gracious goodness me, my lady! And who can ever that be, your
ladyship, pray?”
“One who, I think, may teach her happiness.”
“Yes, your Grace, but O my lady—who?”
“A man, Betty.”
“Yes, my lady, I guessed as much, mem, but——”
“A man she is head over ears in love with already, poor child!”
“My lady—in love, mem! And never told me! O mem! Oh, goodness gracious
alive!... O your Grace—who?”
“Don’t be inquisitive, Mrs. Betty. There, run away, child.”