If a tormenting, Jack Hibbert was a faithful, friend. He saw that
Everitt was out of sorts, and he went to the Lascelles with the
intention of doing him a good turn--somehow. His first business was to
get hold of Mrs Marchmont, and ask for an introduction to Miss
Lascelles. She looked at him, and shook her head.
"No," she said. "I see what that means. You have come as an emissary,
and I can't trust your prudence."
It was in vain for Jack to protest that he was not an emissary, and that
his prudence was beyond comprehension; she was certain that his
masculine movements would be too lumbering and aggressive for the
situation, which needed the most delicate advances.
"You would rush impetuously into the breach, and treat it all as a fine
joke; and that would just finish everything quite hopelessly. No; be
good and don't meddle."
"I know I could put things straight," said Jack, ruefully.
"I thought that was in your head," she answered. "Now. I'll tell you
what I'll do. You shall be introduced to Miss Aitcheson, and that will
be almost as good as if I took you to Miss Lascelles, only not so
dangerous."
"You are very kind," he said, brightening up.
"And you must promise to be cautious."
He promised; he was ready to promise everything. But when he was left
face to face with Miss Aitcheson, she was quickly aware what subject was
burning on the tip of his tongue. He dragged in art, artists, and
Everitt, in less than no time.
"The best of fellows!" he said, heartily.
"I suppose a little eccentric?" Bell remarked, looking on the ground.
"He isn't so cut and dried as other people, if that's what you mean,"
Jack replied, with warmth. "If there's a kind thing to be done, or a
helping hand to be held out, he's the man to do it. I wish there were a
few more as eccentric as he." Jack felt as if he had made rather a good
point here. The worst of it was, as he rapidly reflected, that it all
had to be run out so quickly. With a lot of people walking about, they
were liable at any moment to be interrupted; even now he looked with
disgust at a young lady in a creamy white dress, who smiled at Miss
Aitcheson as she passed. He was more disgusted when Bell stopped her.
"We are talking about art and artists," she said, slipping her arm into
the other girl's.
"And we don't want you," Jack said to himself, unmollified by the
answering smile. "However, here goes! So long as Miss Aitcheson hears
and repeats in the right quarter, it doesn't matter who listens."
Aloud, he said, "People who only know Everitt as an artist can't judge
of his kindness of heart. You see, in our line there are a lot of poor
wretches who find it awfully hard to pick up a living. Some are never
good for anything, but there are a few who just want to be set on their
legs, and then they stick there. I'm not sure I wasn't one of them
myself," added Jack, with an ingenuous laugh.
"Did Mr Everitt set you on your legs?" inquired Bell, innocently.
"Yes, he did, and I'm not ashamed to own it," said the young fellow,
manfully. "If I do anything it will be thanks to him." He was so much
taken up with his cause that he did not notice that when Everitt's name
was first mentioned the girl who was standing close to Miss Aitcheson
made a movement to leave them, and was held fast by Bell. Finding
herself a prisoner, she did not again attempt to escape, but stood
silently by, her face almost concealed by the drooping lace of her
parasol.
"There was a man," Jack went on, warming yet more to his subject, "who
got a picture hung at one of last year's exhibitions--it wasn't at all a
bad picture--and sold it. It was his first bit of luck, and almost sent
him off his head; he married, for one thing, on the strength of it.
Well, it wasn't sold, after all."
"Not sold?" repeated Bell, in wonder.
"The purchaser never turned up. That sort of thing does happen now and
then, but it came awfully rough on this poor fellow. You see, it had
kept off other buyers, and then, I expect, he had traded a bit on the
money; and the end of it was, he worked himself into a sort of brain
fever, and was about as bad as could be, and the poor little wife was at
her wits' end, without friends or money or anything. Anybody would have
helped them who'd known, but nobody took the trouble to find out except
Everitt. He got a doctor and a nurse, and I know he went there every
day, and he bought the picture--though, of course, that isn't much good
to _him_."
"Oh, yes," said Bell, softly. "I think it will be of good to him." And
she looked at Jack very kindly. The young fellow was too much taken up
with his object to notice it.
"He's always doing that sort of thing," he went on. And now, if he had
been a diplomatist, had even possessed the caution which Mrs Marchmont
had urged upon him, he would have paused here, or strengthened his good
impression by another tale of the same description. But unluckily Jack
felt that more was incumbent upon him. He was for a bold assault which
should carry the position by storm; and when might another opportunity
present itself? "People don't know Everitt," he repeated; "he does
out-of-the-way things. Miss Aitcheson,"--suddenly--"I'm afraid he's
offended your friends here awfully."
Unfortunate Jack! The parasol came a little lower down.
"Has he?" coldly from Bell.
But once started, he blundered into deeper mire, in spite of warning
signs.
"It did sound an odd thing to do; but, don't you see, he'd promised to
send somebody, and Mrs Marchmont wasn't to be put off. There wasn't a
bit of real harm, you know, and Everitt did it out of sheer
good-nature."
"Well, it's over and done with," said Bell, with an air of finality;
"and I think it would be best to say no more about it."
"But they've taken it in a way which makes him feel very uncomfortable,"
urged Jack.
Bell lifted her head and looked him full in the face.
"You're a very good friend, Mr Hibbert, but Mr Everitt is sufficiently
a man of the world to have thought of consequences beforehand. Now,
will you kindly go and tell Mrs Marchmont from me that she will find
ices in the drawing-room."
There was no help for it, Jack had to go. And then Bell turned to the
girl by her side.
"You didn't mind, did you, Kitty?" she demanded, with a little anxiety.
"You know, I think you're disposed to be hard upon poor Mr Everitt, and
I wanted you to hear what his friends have to say for him. That's a
very nice boy." Then, as Kitty did not speak, she looked in her face:
"Don't you think so?"
"I dare say," said the other girl, impatiently. "Oh yes, I dare say
he's a very good friend; but oh, Bell, don't you see?"
"What?"
"How dreadful it all is! The idea of this man knowing, and another man
knowing, and all London knowing what he did! I am ashamed when I see
people only looking at me. And just suppose if some one goes and
alludes to it to father!"
"Now, Kitty! All London! Why, this Mr Hibbert works in the same
studio!"
"He shouldn't have told him, all the same."
"I do think you're dreadfully hard. Didn't it touch you to hear of what
he'd done for that poor artist?"
"Not when I thought of what he'd done to me. What have I to do with his
kindness? He may be the kindest man in the world."
"If I had been you," said Bell, "I believe I should have taken it as a
compliment; and I'm quite sure I should have sent him a card for to-day,
and thought no more about it."
"And if you had been I and I had been you," returned Kitty, with spirit,
"I am quite sure that I should have dropped the subject, and have done
my best to help you to forget that such a disagreeable thing had
happened."
"Oh, well," said the other girl, looking at her oddly, "I never knew
until now that I was the more unselfish of the two."
Afterwards, she told Mrs Marchmont what had happened. It will be seen
that by this time Bell had become a partisan of Everitt's, and it will
be guessed that Mrs Marchmont had admitted her into her confidence. It
was, indeed, the wisest thing that she could do, for Bell was a girl who
resented being shut out, and would certainly take an active part on one
side or the other. Perhaps she had a mischievous delight in beholding
Kitty--whom she considered to be a little straight-laced--the victim of
such an adventure; but the romance of it all, and some knowledge of
Everitt's real character, touched a deeper spring of love for her
friend, and she was genuinely anxious to set this unfortunately crooked
beginning straight.
Jack's attempt, she owned, had not done much good.
Was it likely it would?--from Mrs Marchmont.
Well, Bell thought that he spoke out manfully. He said a great deal
about Mr Everitt which certainly made her like him better, and she
thought it must have produced the same effect upon Kitty, if she had not
been unreasonable.
Mrs Marchmont, on her part, maintained chat men always bungled that
sort of thing. Their touch was so heavy, they blundered in, and knocked
over right and left. "But it is really dreadfully stupid of Kitty," she
said, "and I shall have to take her in hand myself."
Jack, who had something of the same feeling about his own attempts,
wandered about disconsolately, until he fell in with Miss Aitcheson
again; and, as he stayed by her side for the remainder of the afternoon,
it is to be supposed that she was able to administer consolation. But
she found it impossible to induce him to understand Kitty's view. He
was dreadfully frivolous and inclined to laugh; he got Bell to describe
poor Everitt's shortcomings as a model, and the evident anguish which he
endured, and then the two laughed together in a manner which,
considering the aims which they professed, was, to say the least,
heartless. Mrs Marchmont gave Bell a hint of this when she drove her
away, and Bell resented the imputation.
"It was a jest from beginning to end--in one sense," she said; "and
Kitty's mistake has been in treating it so seriously. If you encourage
her in it, she will take on herself the airs of a tragic heroine."
"Kitty never gave herself airs of any kind," cried her friend
indignantly. "No; I understand her feelings perfectly."
"Shall you give up Mr Everitt?" inquired Bell.
"Give him up--no! But I shall take care that she is smoothed down. I
have got a little plan in my head."
What it was she would not reveal, though the girl did her best to find
out. But that evening Mrs Marchmont informed her husband that she
wished places to be taken at a favourite theatre.
"Five?" he repeated, lifting his eyebrows.
"Well, can't you go yourself?"
"Impossible. I must be at the House."
"Then, four. Charlie Everitt will take care of me; and I shall ask old
General Sinclair besides, and a girl."
She wrote to Everitt, "Keep yourself at liberty for Thursday evening;"
and Kitty, who came to see her that afternoon, heard only of the play
and of General Sinclair. Not that Mrs Marchmont intended to take her
by surprise in such a manner as to allow of no retreat. They would all
dine together beforehand, and Kitty should come half an hour before the
others. Then would her friend gently and diplomatically unfold to her
who was to be of the party, and use all her persuasions to induce her to
meet him, and get over the first awkwardness. Should Kitty be
hopelessly obstinate, there would still be time for her to retire, and
there would be no difficulty in finding some one close at hand to
replace her at short notice. To tell the truth, she did not dare to
entrap Kitty in any closer mesh. She trusted to her own persuasions, to
the girl's dislike to making a fuss, to the chapter of accidents, the
hundred and one things which play unexpected parts. She was a little
nervous, but her spirits rose when she thought how smoothly everything
might run. "If only," she reflected--"if only it all turns out well,
and I can get them together--not just at first, perhaps, but after one
or two acts! There is nothing more effective than a play for putting
people on a pleasant footing." It was only of Kitty's possible
perverseness that she thought. Then on the morning of Thursday she
wrote to Everitt; and, in the fulness of her expectations, perhaps let
drop more of a hint of these intentions than she imagined. To her
amazement he answered her letter in person.
"Are you come to dinner?" she demanded. "You are even earlier than I
expected; but I need not say I am very glad to see you."
"Thank you," said Everitt, gravely; "in fact, however, I am come to say
that I am not coming."
His cousin stared blankly at him.
"Not coming!" she repeated, faintly. "But, Charlie, that is absurd!
You don't know."
"I fancy," he said, "that I do know. Unless I'm much mistaken, I could
read between the lines of your letter. Is Miss Lascelles to be one of
the party?"
"Yes," she said, "she is."
"And does she expect to see me?"
"Not yet. But,"--eagerly--"I was not going to spring a mine upon her."
He listened very carefully while she explained her intentions, and when
she had finished was silent for a few moments. There was that in his
face which caused her misgivings.
"Charlie," she said impressively, "you will not be so odious as to upset
my little arrangements!"
"It seems to me," he said, "that I am doomed to be odious in everything
connected with this affair. It's not a pleasant _role_."
"Well," she said in a vexed tone, "I was prepared to have a little
difficulty with Kitty, but you, I certainly expected to take the good I
had provided for you, and to have been thankful. You must really
understand that there is nothing else that I can do."
"I give you my word I'm thankful," said Everitt, with a laugh.
"Then, why are you so provoking? Have you given up the idea?"
"Have I come to my senses? No."
"In that case," she said, "I can't understand."
"Oh yes, you can," he replied. "Just reflect for a moment in what an
uncomfortable position Miss Lascelles would be placed, if I accepted
your kindness. She comes here unsuspecting, and she finds she must
either stay and face what is unfortunately disagreeable to her, or do,
as I am doing, go away and offend a kind friend. I don't feel that I
have the right to force the dilemma upon her."
"It would not offend me if she preferred to go."
"It would disappoint and vex you. When we make benevolent plans, we
hate the people who thwart us. You have been splendidly benevolent."
"Well, I think you are taking to scruples at a particularly inconvenient
moment. And pray, if each of you flies off at a tangent directly the
other is known to be near, how on earth are you ever to meet?"
"Ah," said he, smiling, "but I am not going off at a tangent. Give me
the chance, and see if I don't use it."
"What was this but a chance?"
"There shall be nothing more that she can complain of. Everything must
be absolutely open and above-board. Come, Mary, you know in your heart
of hearts that I am right."
"That," she said, with a laugh, "is more than you can expect a woman to
own. The utmost you will extract is that I may possibly allow that you
are politic. And there is one thing that I shall do."
"What?"
"Ah, that is my affair. Leave me alone."
"I am not sure that you are to be trusted," he said, looking at her, and
shaking his head. But he made no further effort to learn her
intentions, and in a few minutes took his leave.
What Mrs Marchmont meant to do, and did, was to confess to Kitty what
had taken place. The girl became a little pale as she listened.
"I thought I could trust you, Mary," she said at last.
"If you would both trust to me, I should put an end to this foolish
slate of things," retorted her friend.
"There is nothing to end," Kitty answered quietly, though there was a
tremor in her voice.
"One would suppose that Mr Everitt and I had once been acquainted, and
that something had made us fall out! The truth, however, is simply that
we have never known each other, and that circumstances have made it
pleasanter that we should remain unknown."
"That is all very well for you, but you might consider poor Mr Everitt.
He thinks you are hopelessly displeased with him, and naturally that
places him in a most uncomfortable position."
"Then, just because he is disagreeable to me, I am to consent!" cried
the girl impatiently.
Mrs Marchmont rapidly shifted her ground.
"You can't deny," she asserted, "that he behaved with the utmost
delicacy in refusing to come here to-day."
"I don't know what I should have thought of him or of you, if he _had_
been here," replied Kitty.
She carried things, indeed, with so high a hand, that Mrs Marchmont was
quite disconcerted. Her attempt had failed at least as completely as
Jack's, and she began to experience a sensation of defeat to which she
was altogether unaccustomed. It seemed really probable that these two
provoking young persons, in whom, in spite of vexation, she daily took a
deeper interest, would so obstinately persist in nullifying her good
offices as entirely to prevent her from achieving their happiness.
Nothing, it must be owned, could be more tiresome than such conduct.
And yet she could not feel as angry with them as they deserved. She was
even conscious of a little compunction as she noticed the graver lines
on Kitty's sweet face.
And Kitty herself?
She had answered Mrs Marchmont with a becoming spirit, and so far she
looked back upon their talk with satisfaction. But, to tell the truth,
she could not quite forgive herself for thinking so much about the
matter as she had to acknowledge she was thinking, and though she had
professed a lofty indifference to Everitt's conduct, her mind dwelt upon
it with a good deal of approval. Perhaps, in spite of her words, she
was beginning to think less of that unfortunate business with the model,
and to remember Everitt's face in the chapel on Sunday, and the manner
in which he had refused to avail himself of his cousin's proposal,
jack's story made a kindly background for his hero.
After all, and notwithstanding Mrs Marchmont's despair, it is possible
that her arrangement had not been so complete a failure as it appeared
to herself.