THE YOUNG AND THE OLD.
There was, however, no lack of excitement when the rest of the family
came in. The girls dazzled with the quick transition from the darkness
outside to the light within, their eyes shining, their lips apart with
breathless curiosity and excitement, and a thrill of interest which
might have satisfied the requirements of any visitor; and after a little
interval their father, pale, and somewhat breathless, too, whose
expectation was not of anything agreeable, but rather of some new
misfortune, of which perhaps his cousin had come to tell him. Edward
Penton did not pause to think that it was very unlikely that Alicia
would thus break in upon his retirement in order to tell him of some
misfortune. The feeling was instinctive in his mind, because of long
acquaintance with defeat and failure, that every new thing must mean
further trouble. He was always ready to encounter that in his depressed
way. He came into the atmosphere which was tinged with the smell of
paraffin, the discomfort of which was habitual to him, added to the
undercurrent of irritation in his mind, and with the feeling that there
was already a crowd of people in the room, where probably no one was
necessary but himself. Alicia Penton had long, long ceased to be an
object of special interest to him; nobody now was of particular interest
to Mr. Penton in that or any sentimental way. The people who were about
him now either belonged to him, in which case they gave him a great deal
of altogether inevitable trouble; or else they did not belong to him,
and were probably more or less antagonistic--wanting things from him,
entertainment, hospitality, subscriptions, something or other which he
did not wish to give. Such were the two classes into which the human
race was divided; but if there was a debatable ground between the two, a
scrap of soil upon which a human foot could be planted. Sir Walter and
his daughter were its possible inhabitants. They belonged to him,
too--in a way; they were antagonistic, too--in a way. Both the other
halves of the world were more or less united in them.
He came forward into the light, which, however, revealed his
knickerbockers and muddy boots more distinctly than his face. “It is a
long time,” he said, “since we have met.”
“Yes, Edward, it is a long time; I have been saying so to your wife. The
girls have grown up since I saw them last; they were little girls then,
and now they are--grown up--”
When emotion reaches a high strain and becomes impassioned the power of
expression is increased, and eloquence comes; but on the lower levels of
feeling, suppressed excitement and commotion of mind often find
utterance in the merest commonplace.
“Yes, they are grown up--the boy, too,” said Mr. Penton, under the same
spell.
She cast a glance upward to where, beyond the lamp, on his mother’s side
of the table, Wat appeared, a lengthy shadow, perhaps the most
uncongenial of all. She made a slight forward inclination of her head in
recognition of his presence, but no more. The girls she had shown a
certain pleasure in. They stood together, with that pretty look of being
but one which a pair of sisters often have, so brightly curious and
excited, scanning her with such eager eyes that it would have been
difficult not to respond to their frank interest. But Mrs. Penton could
not tolerate Wat; his very presence was an offense to her, and the
instinctive way in which he went over to his mother’s side, and stood
there in the gloom looking at the visitor over the shade of the lamp.
She would have none of him, but she turned with relief to the girls.
“I am ashamed to ask the question,” she said, “but which of you is my
godchild? You seem about the same age.”
It was a vexation that it should be the other one--the one who was like
her mother, not the impetuous darker girl whose eyes devoured the great
lady who was her cousin--who replied, “It is I who am Ally. There is
only a year between us. We are more together than any of the others.”
“Ally?” said Mrs. Russell Penton, with a little scorn. “And what is your
name?”
“I am Anne.”
“She should be Anna,” said her mother, “which is far prettier; but she
likes what is shortest best. There are so many of them. None of them
have their full names. Some families make a great stand on that--to give
every one their full name.”
“It is a matter of taste,” said the visitor, coldly.
She was doubly, but most unreasonably, annoyed after her first moment of
interest to find that it was the wrong sister who was her godchild, and
that even she did not bear the name that had been given her. It seemed a
want of respect, not only to herself, but to the family, in which there
had been Alicias for countless years.
“I hope my uncle is well?” said Mr. Penton, after another embarrassed
pause. Sir Walter was not his uncle, but it was a relic of the old days,
when he was a child of the house, that the younger cousin was permitted
to call the elder so. “I heard you were not going away this year.”
“No; the doctors think he may stay at home, as there is every prospect
of a mild winter. Of course, if it became suddenly severe we could take
him away at a moment’s notice.”
“Of course,” Edward Penton said. However severe the weather might become
neither he nor his could be taken away at a moment’s notice. He could
not help feeling conscious of the difference, but with a faint smile
breaking upon his depression. Alicia did not mean it, he was sure, but
it seemed curious that she should put the contrast so very clearly
before him. There was a little whispering going on between the mother
and daughters about the tea. Tea was a substantial meal at the Hook, and
the little ornamental repast at five o’clock was unusual, and made a
little flurry in the household. Mrs. Penton had to give Anne certain
instructions about a little thin bread-and-butter and the cake. She
thought that Edward, who was keeping up the conversation, screened off
these whisperings from his cousin’s notice; but as a matter of fact
Alicia was keenly alive to all that was taking place, and felt a sharper
interest in the anxiety about Martha’s appearance than in anything
Edward was saying. “You still keep the villa at Cannes?” he went on.
“Yes; up to this time it has been a necessity for my father; but I have
not seen him so well for years.”
“I am very glad to hear it,” Mr. Penton said, with a little emphasis. He
had to stand aside as he spoke, for Martha arrived, rather embarrassed,
with her tray, for which there was no habitual place; and the girls had
to clear the books and ornaments off a little table while she waited. He
was used to these domestic embarrassments, and it must be said for him
that he did the best he could to screen them even at the sacrifice of
himself. He drew a chair near to his cousin and sat down, thus doing
what he could to draw her keen attention from these details. “It is long
since I have seen Penton,” he said. “I hear you have made many
improvements.”
“Nothing that you would remark--only additions to the comfort of the
house. It used to be rather cold, you will remember.”
“I don’t think I knew what cold was in those old days,” he said, with a
slight involuntary shiver, for the door had just opened once more to
admit the cake, and a draught came in from the always open hall.
“We have had it now warmed throughout,” said Mrs. Russell Penton, with a
slight momentary smile; “and we are thinking of fitting it up with the
electric light. My husband has a turn for playing with science. It is a
great deal of trouble at first, but very little afterward, I believe:
and very convenient, without any of the drawbacks of lamps or gas.”
She could not but turn her head as she spoke, to the large crystal lamp
upon the table, which filled the room with something more than light.
The tea had been arranged by this time, and poor Mrs. Penton had begun
to pour it out, but not yet was her mind disengaged from the many
anxieties involved--for the tea was poor. She shook her head and made a
little silent appeal to the girls as she poured out the first almost
colorless cup. And then there was a jug of milk, but no cream. This
necessitated another whispering, and the swift dispatch of Ally to fetch
what was wanted. Mrs. Russell Penton looked on at all this, and took in
every detail as if it had been a little scene of a comedy enacted for
her amusement; but there was in the amusement an acrid touch. The smile
was sharp, like Ithuriel’s spear, and cut all those innocent little
cobwebs away.
“I have no doubt you will make it very complete,” Edward Penton said,
with a sigh. There was an assumed proprietorship about all she said,
which was like cutting him off from the succession, that only
possibility which lay in his future. And yet they could not cut him off,
he said, to himself.
“Is this tea for me? How very kind! but I never take it at this hour,”
said Alicia, putting up her gloved hand with a little gesture of
refusal. It smote, if not her heart, yet her conscience, a little to see
the look that passed between the mother and the girls. Had Russell seen
that scene he would assuredly have retired into a corner, and relieved
himself with a whistle, before asking for a cup and eating half the
cake, which was what he would have done regardless of consequences.
Rendered compunctious by this thought, Alicia added, hastily, “You must
bring the girls up to see the house; they ought to know it; and I hope I
may see more of them in the time to come.”
“Their mother, I have no doubt, will be pleased,” said Edward Penton,
vaguely.
“Indeed, you must not think of me,” his wife said; she had not taken
offense. It was not in her mild nature to suppose that any one could
mean to slight or insult her; but she was a little annoyed by the
unnecessary waste of tea. “I am a poor walker, you know, Edward; and
always occupied with the children; but I am sure the girls would like it
very much. It would be very nice for them to make acquaintance--Wat
could walk up with them if you were busy. Especially in the winter,” she
said, with a little conciliatory smile toward the great lady, “I am
always looking out for a little change for the girls.”
“Then we shall consider that as settled,” said Alicia. She rose, in all
the splendor of her velvet and furs, and the whole family rose with her.
A thought ran through their minds--a little astonished shock--a
question, Was it possible that this was all she had come for? It was a
very inadequate conclusion to the excitement and expectation in all
their minds. Mrs. Penton alone did not feel this shock. She did not
think the result inadequate; a renewal of acquaintance, an invitation to
the girls, probably the opening to them of a door into society and the
great world. She came forward with what to her was warmth and
enthusiasm. “It is very kind of you to have called,” she said, “I am
truly grateful, for I make few calls myself, and I can’t wonder if I
fall out of people’s recollection. It is a great thing for a woman like
you to come out of your way to be kind to Edward’s little girls. I am
very grateful to you, and I will never forget it.” Poor Mrs. Penton gave
her rich namesake a warm pressure of the hand, looking at her with her
mild, large-lidded gray eyes, lit up by a smile which transformed her
face. Not a shadow of doubt, not the faintest cloud of consciousness
that Alicia’s motive had been less than angelic, was in her look or in
her thoughts.
Rich Mrs. Penton faltered and shrunk before this look of gratitude. She
knew that, far from deserving it, there had been nothing but contempt in
her thoughts toward this simple woman who had been to her like a bit of
a comedy. She withdrew her hand as quickly as possible from that
grateful clasp.
“You give me credit--that I don’t deserve,” she said. “I--I came to
speak to my cousin on business. It was really a--I won’t call it a
selfish motive, that brought me. But it will give me real pleasure to
see the girls.”
To divine the hidden meaning of this little speech, which was entirely
apologetic, occupied the attention of the anxious family suddenly pushed
back into eagerness again by the intimation of her real errand. It was
not all for nothing, then! It was not a mere call of civility! Mr.
Penton, who had felt something like relief when she rose, consoled by
the thought that there could not at least be any new misfortune to
intimate to him, fell again into that state of melancholy anticipation
from which he had been roused, while the young ones bounded upward to
the height of expectation. Something was coming--something new! It did
not much matter to them what it was. They looked on with great
excitement while their father conducted his cousin across the hall to
his book-room, as it was called. They were not given to fine names at
Penton Hook. It had been called the library in former days. But it was a
little out at elbows, like the rest of the house--the damp had affected
the bindings, the gilding was tarnished, the russia leather dropping to
pieces, a smell of mustiness and decay, much contended against, yet
indestructible, was in the place. And it was no longer the library, but
only the book-room. The door of the drawing-room being left open, the
family watched with interest indescribable the two figures crossing the
hall. Mrs. Russell Penton, though she had not been there for so many
years, knew her way, which particular interested the girls greatly, and
opened a new vista to them, into the past. Mrs. Penton, for her part,
knew well enough all about Alicia, but she was not jealous. She shivered
slightly as she saw the great lady’s skirt sweep the hall.
“Oh, Anne,” she whispered, “tell Martha to bring a cloth and wipe it. A
velvet dress! You children, with your wet feet, you are enough to break
any one’s heart. What are the mats put there for, I should like to
know?”
“Oh, what do you think of her, mother? Did you like her? Don’t you think
she meant to be kind? Do you think we must go?”
“Certainly you must go,” said Mrs. Penton. “What do I think of her? This
is not the first time I have seen Alicia Penton, that you should ask me
such a question. Yes, yes, you must go. You ought to know that house
better than any house in the country, and it is only right that you
should first go into society there.”
“Do you think Cousin Alicia will ask us to parties? Do you think she
really meant--really, without thinking of anything else--to be kind to
Ally and me?”
“Anne, I am sorry that you should take such notions. What object could
she have but kindness?” said Mrs. Penton, with mild conviction, “for
coming here? It is all very well to talk of business with your father.
Yes, no doubt she has business with your father, or she would not have
said so; but I am very sure she must have suffered from the
estrangement. I always thought she must suffer. Men do not think of
these things, but women do. I feel sure that she has talked her father
over at last, and that we are all to be friends again. Sir Walter is an
old man; he must want to make up differences. What a dreadful thing it
would be to die without making it up!”
“Was there any real quarrel?” said Wat, coming forward with his hands in
his pockets. “She may be kind enough, mother, that fine lady of yours,
but she does not like me.”
“How can she know whether she likes you or not? She doesn’t know you,
Wat.”
“She hates me, all the same. I have never done anything to her that I
know of. I suppose I did wrong to be born.”
“If it were not you it would be some one else,” said Mrs. Penton; “but,
children! oh, don’t talk in this hard way. Think how her brothers died,
and that she has no children. And the house she loves to go away from
her, and nothing to be hers! I do not think I could bear it if it was
me. Make haste, Anne, oh, make haste, and get Martha to wipe up the
hall. And, Horry, you may as well have the thin bread and butter. If I
had only known that Mrs. Russell Penton never took tea--”
About this failure Mrs. Penton was really concerned; it was not only a
waste of the tea and of that nice bread and butter (which Horry enjoyed
exceedingly), but it was a sort of a sham, enacted solely for the
benefit of the visitor, which was objectionable in other points of view
besides that of extravagance. It gave her a sense of humiliation as if
she had been masquerading in order to deceive a stranger who was too
quick of wit to be deceived. But Mrs. Penton neither judged her
namesake, nor was suspicious of her, nor was she even very curious as
the children were, as to the subject of the interview which was going on
in the book-room. She feared nothing from it, nor did she expect
anything. She was not ready to imagine that anything could happen. Sir
Walter might die, of course, and that would make a change; but she had
Mrs. Russell Penton’s word for it that Sir Walter was better than usual;
and in the depth of her experience of that routine of common life which
kept on getting a little worse, but had never been broken by any
surprising incidents, she had little faith in things happening. She felt
even that she would not be surprised for her part if Sir Walter should
never die. He was eighty-five, and he might live to be a hundred. Though
they had not met for years she saw nothing extraordinary in the fact
that Alicia Penton had come to talk over some business matters with her
cousin. It was partly indolence of mind and partly because she had so
much that it was real to occupy her that she had no time for imaginary
cases. And so while the girls hung about the doors in excitement unable
to settle to anything, curious to see their great relation pass out
again, and to watch her getting into her carriage, and pick up any
information that might be attainable about the object of her mission,
Mrs. Penton with a word of rebuke to their curiosity, took Horry
upstairs to the nursery and thence retired to her own room to make her
modest little toilet for the evening. There was no dinner to dress for,
but the mother of the household thought it was a good thing as a rule
and example that she should put on a different gown for tea.