GLADIOLUS COTTAGE.
MR. SELWYN went through a certain stage of perplexity in Lady Halcot's
presence, as to the immediate cause of his summons to Riversmouth.
Usually her plan was to plunge headlong into business, allowing scant
space for polite greetings beforehand. Now, for once, she seemed
disinclined to speak plainly, and showed an unwonted disposition to
"beat about the bush." Some minor questions were brought up, relative
to the management of her property, but these were questions which might
have been quite as easily discussed by post. Mr. Selwyn was perfectly
well aware that they had not yet come to the point. He began to doubt
whether after all he would get away by the early afternoon train, which
he had set down in his mental plan.
"You have Miss Withers still with you," he remarked, when a pause
occurred in the conversation.
"Yes, I have," responded Lady Halcot. "With me, and likely to remain.
She is an invaluable person. I can rely entirely upon her memory, and
my own plays me false occasionally. I suppose I must expect as much at
my age."
"You are to be congratulated, Lady Halcot, if it never played you false
until now."
"I do not say that, but my memory has been remarkably good. Time
was when I could read a stanza once through which I had never seen
before,—not a short one, either,—and repeat it afterwards without a
mistake. I cannot do so now."
"And Miss Withers' memory serves to fill up gaps?"
"Precisely so." She looked at him keenly. "You do not like Miss
Withers."
The lawyer made a slight deprecating bow. "Pardon me! Miss Withers and
I can boast but the barest possible e acquaintance with one another.
You appear to find her well suited to her post."
"She is exactly that—quiet and ladylike, always helpful, and never in
the way. I wish Mr. Withers were her equal."
"Your secretary?"
"He calls himself so. I allow him to hinder me in my work for two or
three hours every day, by way of giving satisfaction to Miss Withers.
She foretells that the hindering is soon to develop into helping. I
have my doubts, but I am willing to give him a fair trial."
"Miss Withers is a near relative of Mr. Withers?" the lawyer said
inquiringly.
"His aunt. He has two sisters, I believe, but no parents living.
Miss Withers seems to have acted a motherly part to the three. Very
praiseworthy, of course. Mr. Selwyn—"
Now it was coming! The lawyer looked expectant.
"Who was that charming girl upon the cliff yesterday—speaking to you? I
was not aware that you had friends in the place."
"She 'is' a charming girl—a London acquaintance, down here for two
days. We met accidentally on the shore," Mr. Selwyn said slowly, his
mind taking a rapid survey of the situation.
"I was struck with her appearance. A clever girl, I should imagine."
"Yes—in many respects, no doubt, and she certainly has marked artistic
talent."
Lady Halcot's withered face brightened with a look of interest.
"Talent?" she repeated. "Not genius?"
"Perhaps I should rather have said genius,—but really I do not know. I
imagine that she has power to originate, though at present she chiefly
copies. It is uphill work, and she is the eldest of a large family."
"What is her father?"
"A clerk, Lady Halcot."
"In your office?"
"No,—in a house of business. I have only seen him once. He is much
occupied, and has very poor health. I do not know what would become of
them all if he broke down."
"Then they are poor. What is their name?"
"They are poor unquestionably. If this young lady succeeds by and by—"
"As an artist!" Lady Halcot shook her head. "How old is the girl?"
"Not twenty yet, I believe."
"She may get butter to her bread by picture-making ten years hence,—and
possibly a competence twenty years later. That is all you can hope from
even first-rate talent. Possibly a competence."
"Some do better."
"Some have genius. Has she it, or not? That is the question. You do
not know,—no, but I could soon judge. How long does she remain? Only
till the day after to-morrow? And of course she has no pictures here.
I might be able to give her a helping hand, if there is genuine power.
I never lend my aid to passing off mediocrity for genius. We must
consider what to do. Meanwhile,—if you think it would be acceptable,—I
have no objection to sending a five-pound note to the parents."
Mr. Selwyn decided on his line of action. "I think, your ladyship, that
it would unquestionably be acceptable if sent direct from yourself,
with a few kind words accompanying."
"Very well. The name and address, if you please."
She passed a slip of paper and a pen. Mr. Selwyn wrote slowly and
handed it back.
"James Halcombe, Esq."
Lady Halcot read so far aloud, stopped, and lifted her black eyes to
Mr. Selwyn's face. Inwardly he was just a little nervous. Gwendoline
Halcombe interested him, and he was anxious to do his best for her; but
naturally he did not wish to offend his wealthy client.
"James Halcombe," repeated Lady Halcot.
"Gwendoline Halcombe's mother, and James Halcombe's wife, 'was' Eleanor
Halcot."
The old lady's start was irrepressible, and her hand shook, but she
said in a stern and unfaltering voice, "Then Eleanor Halcombe is dead?"
"No—she is living. I meant 'was' only in the sense of before her
marriage."
Lady Halcot folded the paper, and slipped it into a drawer, with hands
that trembled still. She was evidently vexed with herself for the
display of weakness.
"You may send the five-pound note for me, if you choose," she said.
"But it must be a strictly anonymous gift. I was not aware that you
knew these people, Mr. Selwyn."
"Mr. Halcombe called on me once to consult me upon a difficulty, and
his daughter has been two or three times since. Also, I have met her in
the Royal Academy and elsewhere. One is naturally drawn to a struggling
young artist."
Lady Halcot offered no reply. The luncheon-bell rang, and she rose
to lead the way out of the room. The express object of Mr. Selwyn's
journey had not yet been broached.
Gwendoline had truly described Gladiolus Cottage as "a mite of a
house." It had one tiny parlour in front with a single window, and a
tinier kitchen on the same level behind, and two bedrooms above, and
two sloping-roofed garrets at the top, one of which was the servant's
domicile, and the other a receptacle for lumber. Of the two best
bedrooms, one was tenanted by Mr. and Mrs. Widrington; the other was
reserved for guests.
Mr. and Mrs. Widrington had no children of their own. One little
baby had come and had vanished, in days long gone by, leaving tender
memories behind it. Mr. Widrington, after fifty or sixty years of
steady work, had made his little competence, and had retired into an
easy life, his chief trouble thenceforward being to know what to do
with himself. He had many a longing for his old city home and old
interests. The sleepy quiet of Riversmouth palled upon him, and the
rumble of carts and omnibuses would have been as music to his city-bred
ears. But the step, once taken, could not easily be reversed, even so
far as a home was concerned, and could not be reversed at all so far as
business was concerned.
Thus, Mr. Widrington found himself in for the somewhat tiresome leisure
of a healthy and objectless old age. Literally and actually objectless.
His leading aim through long years past had been to make enough money
for present needs, and to secure a sufficiency for comfort in declining
years. He had made enough; he had secured the sufficiency; and
declining years were coming upon him gently. What next?
That was the question. Mr. Widrington had no "next." He had attained
to his life-goal, and no loftier goal lay beyond. He was conscious of
this, and he was dissatisfied in the consciousness. Hitherto a pleasant
prospect had always lain ahead, in the shape of this same "comfortable
old age," spurring him on to exertion. He had lost the spur now, and
he missed the stimulus. The happiest old age cannot last for ever, and
Mr. Widrington began to dislike the thought of being an "old man," to
object to the term being used in respect of himself.
For there lay now no pleasant prospect ahead. Mr. Widrington was not
exactly troubled by fears as to his future. He counted himself to have
done his duty, on the whole, towards himself, towards his family,
towards his neighbours; and—towards God? Mr. Widrington did not care
to look very closely into that last question, but he hoped things were
all right, and he hoped to get to heaven somehow, a vague and shadowy
heaven, not particularly attractive to his imagination, only, of
course, desirable.
Thus, Mr. Widrington's hopes, as well as his heaven, were vague. He had
also a vague knowledge of his Bible, which he seldom read, and a vague
belief that Christ had died for men generally. But in all this he found
no real comfort for the future or joy for the present. How should he?
So Mr. Widrington, though to superficial observers seemingly a chatty
and contented old man, was in fact by no means a happy one.
The change of life to Mrs. Widrington was less severe. A stout little
old lady, good-humoured and kind, often ailing as to health, but always
even in spirits, she could be well satisfied with the mild excitements
incidental to "pottering" about the house all the morning, taking a
turn out of doors in the afternoon, knitting and sleeping through the
evening. The comforts of husband and household had been her aim during
nearly half a century, and that aim was before her still. She had not
even a wish for anything beyond this tame level of her existence.
A visit from Honora Dewhurst was a great event in their lives, and the
interest of the event was doubled by the presence of Honora's friend,
Gwendoline Halcombe.
"She 'is' a pretty girl, and there's no denying it," Mr. Widrington
said emphatically, as he and his wife awaited the return of the two
walkers to early tea; a primitive tea of bread and butter and cake,
shrimps, and water-cresses. "She's a downright pretty girl, and
uncommon nice too. Now there's Honor, as good and nice a girl as can
be, and clever too, there's no denying, for her pictures are amazing
good. But nobody ever called Honor pretty. The goodness is all of an
inside sort, and not of an outside—though it shows through, and no
mistake. But this young thing has got both, and there's no doubt she's
greatly favoured. For a pleasant outside is by no means a thing to be
despised."
"I wonder if they don't mean to come back soon. The tea will spoil,"
rather irrelevantly observed Mrs. Widrington, who, dressed in her best
black silk, was seated in her easy-chair, with the invariable knitting
in her plump round hands, and the invariable content on her plump round
face. Mrs. Widrington was better born than her husband, and forty-five
years earlier her family had counted the marriage a serious downward
step for her. Perhaps for a while she had felt it so herself. People
grow used to new levels, however, and Mrs. Widrington was most happily
accustomed to the platform upon which she stood. She looked up to
her husband with dutiful wife-like submission; and if in particular
instances she usually counted her own judgment superior to his, this
was not at all because of any original difference in social position,
but simply because she was a woman, and he was, as she would have said,
"only a man."
"There they come,—just in time," Mr. Widrington said, gently striking
his hands together, as he stood at the window. "Just you look, wifie;
now don't you call that a pretty picture?"
Mrs. Widrington moved to his side obediently. "But it's a dreadful
mess," she said.
The two girls were approaching at a quick pace, laden with spoils from
the seashore. Honora Dewhurst, a strongly-built and upright person,
four or five years Gwendoline's senior, walked steadily as well as
swiftly, looking little to right or left. But Gwendoline, dressed still
in her severe grey suit, seemed to be rippling over with frolicsome
enjoyment, and the sound of her clear laugh came through the open
window, and was matched by the half-dancing step. Honora's hands were
full of stones and shells, and Gwendoline bore a big pile of sea-weeds.
One long ribbon spray had been caught by the breeze and twisted round
her head, and the brilliant cheeks and merry eyes looked out from an
unwonted surrounding.
"She's better for the change already," Mr. Widrington said, and he
opened the door.
"We are not fit for the drawing-room," exclaimed Gwendoline. "Our
boots, Honora!"
"Now you are going to have some tea before ever you take one step
up-stairs," said Mr. Widrington decisively, avoiding his wife's eyes,
lest he should read disapproval. "Just you throw all that rubbish down
in the passage, and take off your cloaks."
Neither would consent to this manner of proceeding. Possibly they
saw the disapproval in another quarter, of which he preferred to be
ignorant. They vanished up-stairs, and speedily reappeared, Gwendoline
still in a glow of enjoyment, Honora quiet and staid, with her plain
strong face, and broad forehead.
"And you like the sea, my dear, eh?" Mr. Widrington said to Gwendoline.
"It is lovely, past words," she said. "If I could just live within
sight and hearing of it, I think I should want nothing else in life."
"It's lively, there's no doubt," said Mr. Widrington. "But it isn't a
cheerful sort of liveliness, by any manner of means. Now you'll think
me odd, maybe, but I'd a deal rather have a 'bus going past the door
every five minutes, than I'd look on the finest sea that ever was,—a
deal rather."
Gwendoline refrained from remark.
"Riversmouth is a pretty little place, and it has got capabilities.
Take some cresses? Yes, do, Miss Halcombe, and lay your butter on
thick, and have a little jam a-top; don't you stint yourself. Yes,
Riversmouth's a pretty place. But, dear me, as long as that poor old
lady is alive, the village will never grow to what it should be. Why,
it might become a first-rate watering-place of the fashionable sort in
no time; just lay down a double line of rail, and put up a station, and
have a good band and an excursion train or two in the week. Now that
'would' be lively-like."
The two girls exchanged amused glances. Honora Dewhurst knew of the
relationship between Gwendoline and Lady Halcot, though the Widringtons
did not.
"My dear, you needn't suppose anything of that sort is likely to be,"
Mrs. Widrington said. "There are ever so many things wanted in the
town, and nobody dares name them to Lady Halcot. She has everything her
own way, and not a man ventures to cross her will. She's regular queen
here, and that's what it is."
"I am afraid some of her subjects are in a rebellious state of mind,"
said Honora. "But as for excursionists, the longer the place can escape
that infliction the better. Here comes a visitor to disturb our meal."
"Mr. Selwyn!" exclaimed Gwendoline.
"A friend of yours, Miss Halcombe?" asked Mr. Widrington.
"Yes—at least, I know him. He is a friend really. He is down from
London for a few hours,—Lady Halcot's lawyer."
"My dear, you take an old man's advice, and you beware of lawyers,"
whispered Mr. Widrington very audibly, as the door-handle turned. "You
take my advice, and be warned. There's always a six-and-eightpenny
charge behind, sure as he takes a step in your behalf. And I may say
it, if anybody may, for I know it to my—"
"Mr. Sellon," announced the bewildered maid-servant, unused to so much
company.
And Mr. Selwyn entered, bowing and apologizing for the interruption,
but might he have a few words with Miss Halcombe?
"To be sure, to be sure, as many as ever you please, sir," Mr.
Widrington said eagerly, forgetting that he addressed a lawyer, and
delighted with a fresh addition to the party. "But we are having our
tea, and tea is a beverage that doesn't improve by keeping beyond a
certain stage,—not beyond a certain stage, sir,—and these young ladies
are hungry. So you just sit down, and take a cup of tea with us, and
then we'll all clear out—eh, wifie?—and leave you two in undisputed
possession of the parlour."
Mr. Selwyn was slightly troubled. "The parlour" was evidently the only
parlour, and he did not relish the idea of "turning out" its lawful
inmates, though he would much have preferred a few words alone with
Gwendoline. He sat down, however, and consented to take a cup of tea,
declining substantials. "I dine at half-past seven," he said.
"You will hardly reach home in time for your dinner," suggested
Gwendoline.
"Lady Halcot has persuaded me to remain over the night. I must leave by
the 7.20 train in the morning."
"Mrs. Selwyn will be disappointed."
"I am afraid so. I have just sent her a telegram."
After a few minutes of general conversation, he turned again to
Gwendoline, having decided to forego the private conversation. "I bring
you an invitation, Miss Halcombe. Could you dine at Lady Halcot's this
evening?"
"This evening!" The proposal seemed to take away her breath, and she
turned pale.
"You would dislike it?" asked Mr. Selwyn, while Honora watched her
gravely, and the old people were flustered at the magnitude of the
proposal.
"No—oh, no!—not at all. I am only—surprised," said Gwendoline, hardly
able to speak. She sat quite still for two seconds, putting a strong
restraint upon herself. "I will do exactly what you advise."
"I should recommend you to accept the invitation."
"To-night, at half-past seven?"
"Punctually. Lady Halcot never waits. I think you should arrive ten
minutes earlier."
"But I have no dress, except this."
Mr. Selwyn surveyed the dark tweed, neatly fitting, but almost devoid
of ornament. Heavy trimmings were just then in vogue, and he was dimly
conscious of something unusual.
"It must do, of course," he said. "I suggested that matters might be
so, and Lady Halcot said you could come as you were."
Gwendoline sat lost in thought, and Mr. Selwyn rose, with the air of a
man who has discharged himself of his office.
"Gwen, you had better open the front door for your friend," suggested
Honora, guessing that the two might wish for a few more words; and she
kept her uncle back, and shut the parlour door.
"What does this mean?" asked Gwendoline, laying her hand on the slab,
for she was positively trembling.
"It means simply that Lady Halcot desires to use this opportunity to
form your acquaintance, Miss Halcombe."
"How does she know that I am here?"
"She saw you with me on the cliff this morning, and has since inquired
your name."
"Strange," murmured Gwendoline. "I had a feeling when I came that I
might perhaps see her—might perhaps say a word about—"
"A word about what, if I may ask?"
"My mother, and our circumstances. But I found that it would be
impossible."
"I think you would be wise to count it impossible still," Mr. Selwyn
said with gravity.
"But if an opening came—"
"I think you will, in any case, be wise to avoid a single word which
might leave an impression that you were seeking anything from her.
Pardon my frankness," he said, as the colour rushed again into her
face. "I understand the state of affairs, and your true motive; but she
would not."
"Thank you, I will take care," said Gwendoline in a low voice. "I don't
suppose I should have dared, after all. I am frightened of Lady Halcot."
"Don't be afraid to-night," he said, shaking hands. "She is interested
in art, so you will have one subject in common. The carriage will bring
you home at half-past nine. Lady Halcot keeps early hours—excusable at
seventy-five. Good-bye."
"One word," said Gwendoline hurriedly. "Mr. Selwyn, do you suppose she
means anything by this?—Do you think it hopeful?—Do you think we may
count—for the future—"
"No," Mr. Selwyn said at once. "I should be wrong to encourage hopes.
What may come of it by and by no one can predict. At present I see no
signs whatever of any softening towards your family, though she is
disposed to feel some interest in yourself personally."
Gwendoline sighed. "Thank you—good-bye," she said; and she went back to
the parlour.
"Honor, would it be very rude of me to run away to the shore for half
an hour? I don't want to be nervous and shy at dinner, and a look at
the sea would give me back my balance." Gwendoline spoke beseechingly.
"You silly child," Honor said, smiling. "Yes, go, of course; only come
back in good time. I must find some lace for your throat and wrists."
"You don't mean to say you are a friend of Lady Halcot?" the old people
chimed in, with accents of respect and amazement. "Why, you are quite a
grand young person, my dear. Fancy never saying a word about it!"
Gwendoline laughed and vanished. "Her mother is Lady Halcot's cousin,"
Honora said quietly,—"first cousin once removed, I believe. But it had
better not be talked about in Riversmouth, please, uncle. Lady Halcot
has had nothing to say to Gwen's mother since her marriage with Mr.
Halcombe. I don't know who was most in the right or in the wrong. I
only know that the less said about the matter, the better pleased Lady
Halcot will be—and probably Mrs. Halcombe also."
"Trust a city man to keep a secret, Honor," said Mr. Widrington,
nodding his head energetically.