Oh, Conny! you traitor!
"There, it will be a treat to Conny, and there is nothing to prevent it.
Conny has let the cat out of the bag, as Tom would say. Conny consents,
Joanna may sulk as she pleases."
"I won't sulk, Mrs. Maxwell; I'll go off by myself, and leave you
Constantia, since she wishes it."
"To hear of such a thing! You girls won't allow it. It is very shabby,
Susan, Lilias, Miss Musgrave, that Joanna should not have a little
amusement with the rest."
"I'm sure we won't prevent it, Mrs. Maxwell, we don't stand in the way,"
said Lilias stiffly; "Joanna is free to remain or return as she chooses.
Joanna, you had better stay, or there will be a scene, and the whole
house will hear of it."
"Keep her, Mrs. Maxwell, please," cried Miss Polly mischievously; "my
cousin Joan is so scarce of her countenance, that I want to know how she
can behave in company."
"Very well, I assure you," avouched Mrs. Maxwell zealously; then she
began to remember, and start, and flounder--"only she is so modest.
Joanna, my dear, you cannot be so stupid as to hesitate from a certain
reason?"
"Oh, no. You can send back Sandy, Mrs. Maxwell, since you are so good.
Mamma knows what we will require; or I will write a little note."
Joanna could have borne any encounter rather than a discussion of the
obstacle with Mrs. Maxwell--a discussion which might be gone over again
any day to anybody.
But Joanna was terribly vexed and provoked that she had exposed herself
to this infliction, though she was fain to comfort herself with the
argument that it would make no difference to papa's feelings; and she
trusted that she and Conny would slip into the drawing-room when the
guests were occupied, and subside into corners, and escape attention.
Joanna was established in her recess, nearly confident that she was not
conspicuous, and considerably interested in watching Harry Jardine.
Mrs. Jardine's intentions had been in a great measure fulfilled. The
young Laird of Whitethorn had grown up at his English school and German
university without the cloud which rested on his father's end descending
on his spirit. He was as strong and pleasant and blithe as his father,
with the self-possession which a life amongst strangers, and the
available wallet of a traveller's information, could graft upon his
gentle birth and early manhood. At the same time, there was no deception
about Harry Jardine. While he was gay and good-humoured, he had an air
of vigour and action, and even a dash of temper lurking about his black
curls and bright eyes, which prepared one for hearing that he had not
only hobnobbed with the Göttingen students, but had also won their
prizes, and thrashed them when they aspired to English sports; and had
travelled four nights without sleep, under stress of weather, to reach
Whitethorn on the day he had fixed to his mother. He had brought a
steady character along with him, too; they said that he had been a good
son, and had remembered that his mother was a widow, and had endured
enough grief to last her all her days. Mrs. Jardine, who was not a
flatterer, declared that Harry had not cost her a care which she needed
to grudge. There is enough temptation, and to spare, for men like Harry
Jardine, but it is not in such that early self-indulgence and lamentable
weakness may be feared.
Harry Jardine was the style of man fitted to command the admiration of
Joanna Crawfurd. Contemplative girls love men of experience. Staid girls
love men with a dash--a dash of bravery, self-reliance, or even of
recklessness. Harry Jardine's gladness to be at home; his interest in
everything and everybody; the pleasant tone in which he referred to his
mother; the genuine fun of which he gave a glimpse; the ring of his
laugh, were all set store upon by Joanna with a sober satisfaction.
Harry had not been so agreeable, or felt the world so pleasant, two
hours before. It was impossible to escape memories or to hide wincing;
but he had said to himself that these associations ought to have been
worn threadbare by familiarity, or to have been approached gradually,
and he could not conquer his awkwardness or crush his susceptibility.
But youth is pliable and versatile, and Harry Jardine was determined to
evince no dislike, and make no marked distinction. Very soon the Miss
Crawfurds and their cousin blended with the other young ladies in his
view,--nay, he discovered that he had come across a cousin of theirs
settled abroad, and was qualified to afford them information of his
prospects and pursuits handsomely.
So far Joanna's penalty had been moderate, until, towards the close of
the evening, when most of the young people had gone into the library to
get some refreshments, she found herself left in her corner almost
alone, with Mr. Jardine talking to Mrs. Maxwell within a few yards of
her. This was the occurrence which Joanna had dreaded. "By the pricking
of her thumbs" she was aware of a wicked destiny approaching her. Mr.
Jardine in his conversation glanced towards her, then looked away, and
beat his foot on the carpet, and a twitch passed over the muscles of his
face, and his smile, though he still affected a smile, had lost all its
glow. Joanna dared not look any longer. Mrs. Maxwell was certainly
speaking of her. Perhaps in her rash inconsiderate way she had
volunteered information.
Perhaps Harry Jardine had himself made inquiry--the pale girl who kept
in the background, with the little scar--was it--on her temple? Joanna
quivered under the process, and the witness beneath the light brown hair
throbbed painfully. She was glad when Mr. Jardine walked away quickly;
but the next moment he came back and turned directly towards her.
"I have been introduced to your sisters, Miss Crawfurd, and you must
excuse further ceremony from me. Will you allow me to take you into
the next room and get a glass of wine or a biscuit for you? You should
not try fasting at an evening party. Mrs. Maxwell would call it a very
bad example."
He spoke fast, with a laugh, and crimsoned all over. She knew
perfectly well what he was about. He was determined to perform all
that could possibly be required of him. He would put down invidious
comments, disarm gossip, in short cut off the gorgon's head at the
first struggle. They might term it unnatural, overdone, but at least
it would not be to do again; and Harry Jardine's was the temper, that,
if you presented an obstacle to it, it itched the more to grapple with
the obstacle on the spot.
Precisely for the reason that she could not ride away from the party,
after Mrs. Maxwell assailed her with a motive for her conduct, Joanna
could not repel his overture. It was incredibly trying to her. He saw
how differently she was affected from her sisters. He was aware of
another influence. He felt very uncomfortable. Why, the very flesh of
his arm, which she touched lightly enough, crept, when the superstition
of the old ordeal of the bier flashed upon him, as he caught, with a
furtive glance, the tiny brand prickling and burning to fiery
incandescence above the waxen face. Was it a splash of his father's
blood impressed there, till the "solid flesh" would verily "melt"? Was
it his neighbourhood which brought out the ruddy spot, that, like the
scarlet streaks down Lady Macbeth's little hands, would not wash off?
Absurd folly! But he wished he had done with it. He wished old ladies
would confine themselves to their own concerns. He hoped fainting was
not heard of among the girls of the moors--that would be a talk! He
supposed he must say something commonplace and civil; he must task his
brains for that purpose. He coined a remark, and Joanna answered him
quietly and with simplicity. She must have possessed and exercised
great self-command. It struck Harry Jardine. It was a quality he valued
highly, possibly because he felt such difficulty in looking it up on his
own account. All through the few minutes' further conversation and
association between them, it impressed him, conjointly with the odd
recoiling sensations, which he had so rapidly shaken off, where her
sisters were concerned.
Harry had the faults of his kind, not inveterately, for he spoke good
English to women; but as he indulged in his dear island slang to men, he
felt bound to use it to himself. "This poor little woman is thorough
game," he said to himself. "I can see that she is as tender as a little
bird, yet she has shown as much pluck as a six-foot grenadier? She has
not flinched at all. I can do justice to this spirit." He remembered it
all the time when Polly Musgrave was sounding him, and when he did not
choose to give her the slightest satisfaction.
"I saw you with my cousin Joanna, Mr. Jardine; you'll find her in the
Spanish style."
"Not in complexion certainly. Do you mean in name?"
"Oh, no! Do you know so little about the south of Scotland after all?
You had better conceal this piece of ignorance. I am sure you understand
this much--a general acquaintance with the whole habitable globe would
not atone for a deficiency with regard to this one dear little spot of
earth. Joanna is as common a name in the south of Scotland as Dorothy is
in the north of England. Examine the register, and see if you have not
twenty Jardine cousins christened Joanna. I call Joanna in the Spanish
style, because, although she conceals it, and you cannot have found it
out yet, she is a vestige of romantic chivalry. Joanna is a Donna
Quixotina, an unworldly, unearthly sort of girl, with a dream of tilting
with the world and succouring the distressed. I term it a dream,
because, of course, she will never accomplish it, any more than the
knight of La Mancha, and she will be obliged to descend from her stilts
by-and-by. I call Susan in the beautiful style, and Lilias in the good
style, and Conny in the sweet sixteen style."
"Miss Musgrave, I am not versed in ladies' styles, you must teach me;"
and Polly and he looked into each other's eyes, and laughed and felt
they were match for match.
And Joanna had a little regret that Mr. Jardine should, like most men,
be caught with Polly Musgrave; not that Joanna did not admire Polly,
though she was her antithesis, and count her handsome and brilliant in
her way, like any sun-loving dahlia or hollyhock; but Joanna had no
enthusiasm in her admiration of Polly, and she had a little enthusiasm
in her estimation of Harry Jardine.