MRS. PALLINSON HAS VIEWS.
At seven o'clock on Sunday evening, as the neighbouring church bells were
just sounding their last peal, Mr. Fenton found himself on the threshold
of Mrs. Branston's house in Cavendish-square. It was rather a gloomy
mansion, pervaded throughout with evidences of its late owner's oriental
career; old Indian cabinets; ponderous chairs of elaborately-carved
ebony, clumsy in form and barbaric in design; curious old china and
lacquered ware of every kind, from gigantic vases to the tiniest cups and
saucers; ivory temples, and gods in silver and clay, crowded the
drawing-rooms and the broad landings on the staircase. The curtains and
chair-covers were of Indian embroidery; the carpets of oriental
manufacture. Everything had a gaudy semi-barbarous aspect.
Mrs. Branston received her guests in the back drawing-room, a smaller and
somewhat snugger apartment than the spacious chamber in front, which was
dimly visible in the light of a single moderator lamp and the red glow of
a fire through the wide-open archway between the two rooms. In the inner
room the lamps were brighter, and the fire burned cheerily; and here Mrs.
Branston had established for herself a comfortable nook in a deep
velvet-cushioned arm-chair, very low and capacious, sheltered luxuriously
from possible draughts by a high seven-leaved Japanese screen. The fair
Adela was a chilly personage, and liked to bask in her easy-chair before
the fire. She looked very pretty this evening, in her dense black dress,
with the airiest pretence of a widow's cap perched on her rich auburn
hair, and a voluminous Indian shawl of vivid scarlet making a drapery
about her shoulders. She was evidently very pleased to see John Saltram,
and gave a cordial welcome to his friend. On the opposite side of the
fire-place there was a tall, rather grim-looking lady, also in mourning,
and with an elaborate headdress of bugles and ornaments of a feathery and
beady nature, which were supposed to be flowers. About her neck this lady
wore numerous rows of jet beads, from which depended crosses and lockets
of the same material: she had jet earrings and jet bracelets; and had
altogether a beaded and bugled appearance, which would have been
eminently fascinating to the untutored taste of a North American Indian.
This lady was Mrs. Pallinson, a widow of limited means, and a distant
relation of Adela Branston's. Left quite alone after her husband's
death, and feeling herself thoroughly helpless, Adela had summoned this
experienced matron to her aid; whereupon Mrs. Pallinson had given up a
small establishment in the far north of London, which she was in the
habit of speaking about on occasions as her humble dwelling, and had
taken up her quarters in Cavendish-square, where she was a power of dread
to the servants.
Gilbert fancied that Mrs. Pallinson was by no means too favourably
disposed towards John Saltram. She had sharp black eyes, very much like
the jet beads with which her person was decorated, and with these she
kept a close watch upon Mrs. Branston and Mr. Saltram when the two were
talking together. Gilbert saw how great an effort it cost her at these
times to keep up the commonplace conversation which he had commenced with
her, and how intently she was trying to listen to the talk upon the other
side of the fire-place.
The dinner was an admirable one, the wines perfection, Mr. Branston
having been a past-master of the art of good living, and having stocked
his cellars with a view to a much longer life than had been granted to
him; the attendance was careful and complete; the dining-room, with its
rather old-fashioned furniture and heavy crimson hangings, a picture of
comfort; and Mrs. Branston a most charming hostess. Even Gilbert was fain
to forget his own troubles and enjoy life a little in that agreeable
society.
The two gentlemen accompanied the ladies back to the drawing-room. There
was a grand piano in the front room, and to this Adela Branston went at
Mr. Saltram's request, and began to play some of Handel's oratorio music,
while he stood beside the piano, talking to her as she played. Mrs.
Pallinson and Gilbert were thus left alone in the back room, and the lady
did her best to improve the occasion by extorting what information she
could from Mr. Fenton about his friend.
"Adela tells me that you and Mr. Saltram are friends of very long
standing, Mr. Fenton," she began, fanning herself slowly with a shining
black fan as she sat opposite Gilbert, awful of aspect in the sombre
splendour of her beads and bugles.
"Yes; we were at Oxford together, and have been fast friends ever since."
"Indeed!--how really delightful! The young men of the present day appear
to me generally so incapable of a sincere friendship. And you and Mr.
Saltram have been friends all that time? He is a literary man, I
understand. I have not had the pleasure of reading any of his works; but
Adela tells me he is extremely clever."
"He is very clever."
"And steady, I hope. Literary men are so apt to be wild and dissipated;
and Adela has such a high opinion of your friend. I hope he is steady."
"I scarcely know what a lady's notion of steadiness may involve," Gilbert
answered, smiling; "but I daresay when my friend marries he will be
steady enough. I cannot see that literary tastes and dissipated habits
have any natural affinity. I should rather imagine that a man with
resources of that kind would be likely to lead a quieter life than a man
without such resources."
"Do you really think so? I fancied that artists and poets and people of
that kind were altogether a dangerous class. And you think that Mr.
Saltram will be steady when he is married? He is engaged to be married, I
conclude by your manner of saying that."
"I had no idea my words implied anything of the kind. No, _I_ do not
think John Saltram is engaged."
Mrs. Pallinson glanced towards the piano, where the two figures seemed
very close to each other in the dim light of the room. Adela's playing
had been going on in a desultory kind of manner, broken every now and
then by her conversation with John Saltram, and had evidently been
intended to give pleasure only to that one listener.
While she was still playing in this careless fitful way, a servant
announced Mr. Pallinson; and a gentleman entered whom Gilbert had no
difficulty in recognizing as the son of the lady he had been conversing
with. This new-comer was a tall pale-faced young man, with intensely
penetrating black eyes exactly like his mother's, sharp well-cut
features, and an extreme precision of dress and manner. His hands, which
were small and thin, were remarkable for their whiteness, and were
set-off by spotless wristbands, which it was his habit to smooth fondly
with his slim fingers in the intervals of his discourse. Mrs. Pallinson
rose and embraced this gentleman with stately affection.
"My son Theobald--Mr. Fenton," she said. "My son is a medical
practitioner, residing at Maida-hill; and it is a pleasure to him to
spend an occasional evening with his cousin Adela and myself."
"Whenever the exigencies of professional life leave me free to enjoy that
happiness," Mr. Pallinson added in a brisk semi-professional manner.
"Adela has been giving you some music, I see. I heard one of Handel's
choruses as I came upstairs."
He went into the front drawing-room, shook hands with Mrs. Branston, and
established himself with a permanent air beside the piano. Adela did not
seem particularly glad to see him; and John Saltram, who had met him
before in Cavendish-square, received him with supreme indifference.
"I am blessed, as I daresay you perceive, Mr. Fenton, in my only son,"
Mrs. Pallinson said, when the young man had withdrawn to the adjoining
apartment. "It was my misfortune to lose an admirable husband very early
in life; and I have been ever since that loss wholly devoted to my son
Theobald. My care has been amply rewarded by his goodness. He is a most
estimable and talented young man, and has already attained an excellent
position in the medical profession."
"You have reason to be proud of him," Gilbert answered kindly.
"I _am_ proud of him, Mr. Fenton. He is the sole delight and chief object
of my life. His career up to this hour has been all that the fondest
mother could desire. If I can only see him happily and advantageously
married, I shall have nothing left to wish for."
"Indeed!" thought Gilbert. "Then I begin to perceive the reason of Mrs.
Pallinson's anxiety about John Saltram. She wants to secure Mrs.
Branston's handsome fortune for this son of hers. Not much chance of
that, I think, fascinating as the doctor may be. Plain John Saltram
stands to win that prize."
They went into the front drawing-room presently, and heard Mr. Pallinson
play the "Hallelujah Chorus," arranged as a duet, with his cousin. He was a
young man who possessed several accomplishments in a small way--could sing
a little, and play the piano and guitar a little, sketch a little, and was
guilty of occasional effusions in the poetical line which were the palest,
most invertebrate reflections of Owen Meredith. In the Maida-hill and St.
John's-wood districts he was accounted an acquisition for an evening party;
and his dulcet accents and engaging manners had rendered him a favourite
with the young mothers of the neighbourhood, who believed implicitly in Mr.
Pallinson's gray powders when their little ones' digestive organs had been
impaired by injudicious diet, and confided in Mr. Pallinson's
carefully-expressed opinion as the fiat of an inscrutable power.
Mr. Theobald Pallinson himself cherished a very agreeable opinion of his
own merits. Life seemed to him made on purpose that Theobald Pallinson
should flourish and succeed therein. He could hardly have formed any idea
of the world except as an arena for himself. He was not especially given
to metaphysics; but it would not have been very difficult for him to
believe that the entire universe was an emanation from the brain of
Theobald Pallinson--a phenomenal world existing only in his sense of
sight and touch. Happy in this opinion of himself, it is not to be
supposed that the surgeon had any serious doubt of ultimate success with
his cousin. He regarded John Saltram as an interloper, who had gained
ground in Mrs. Branston's favour only by the accident of his own absence
from the stage. The Pallinsons had not been on visiting terms with Adela
during the life of the East Indian merchant, who had not shown himself
favourably disposed to his wife's relations; and by this means Mr.
Saltram had enjoyed advantages which Theobald Pallinson told himself
could not have been his, had he, Theobald, been at hand to engage his
cousin's attention by those superior qualities of mind and person which
must needs have utterly outshone the other. All that Mr. Pallinson wanted
was opportunity; and that being now afforded him, he looked upon the
happy issue of events as a certainty, and already contemplated the house
in Cavendish-square, the Indian jars and cabinets, the ivory chessmen and
filigree-silver rosewater-bottles, the inlaid desks and Japanese screens,
the ponderous plate and rare old wines, with a sense of prospective
proprietorship.
It seemed as if John Saltram had favoured this gentleman's views by his
prolonged absence from the scene, holding himself completely aloof from
Adela Branston at a time when, had he been inclined to press his suit, he
might have followed her up closely. Mrs. Branston had been not a little
wounded by this apparent neglect on the part of one whom she loved better
than anything else in the world; but she was inclined to believe any
thing rather than that John Saltram did not care for her; and she had
contrived to console herself with the idea that his avoidance of her had
been prompted by a delicate consideration for her reputation, and a
respect for the early period of her mourning. To-night, in his society,
she had an air of happiness which became her wonderfully; and Gilbert
Fenton fancied that a man must needs be hard and cold whose heart could
not be won by so bright and gracious a creature.
She spoke more than once, in a half-playful way, of Mr. Saltram's absence
from London; but the deeper feeling underneath the lightness of her
manner was very evident to Gilbert.
"I suppose you will be running away from town again directly," she said,
"without giving any one the faintest notice of your intention. I can't
think what charm it is that you find in country life. I have so often
heard you profess your indifference to shooting, and the ordinary routine
of rustic existence. Perhaps the secret is, that you fear your reputation
as a man of fashion would suffer were you to be seen in London at such a
barbarous season as this."
"I have never rejoiced in a reputation for fashion," Mr. Saltram
answered, with his quiet smile--a smile that gave a wonderful brightness
to his face; "and I think I like London in the autumn better than at any
other time. One has room to move about. I have been in the country of
late because I really do appreciate rural surroundings, and have found
myself able to write better in the perfect quiet of rural life."
"It is rather hard upon your friends that you should devote all your days
to literature."
"And still harder upon the reading public, perhaps. But, my dear Mrs.
Branston, remember, I must write to live."
Adela gave a little impatient sigh. She was thinking how gladly she would
have made this man master of her ample fortune; wondering whether he
would ever claim from her the allegiance she was so ready to give.
Mr. Pallinson did his best to engage his cousin's attention during the
rest of the evening. He brought her her tea-cup, and hovered about her
while she sipped the beverage with that graceful air of suppressed
tenderness which constant practice in the drawing-rooms of Maida-hill had
rendered almost natural to him; but, do what he would, he could not
distract Mrs. Branston's thoughts and looks from John Saltram. It was on
him that her eyes were fixed while the accomplished Theobald was giving
her a lively account of a concert at the Eyre Arms; and it was the
fascination of his presence which made her answer at random to her
cousin's questions about the last volume of the Laureate's, which she had
been lately reading. Even Mr. Pallinson, obtuse as he was apt to be when
called upon to comprehend any fact derogatory to his own self-esteem,
was fain to confess to himself that this evening's efforts were futile,
and that this dark-faced stranger was the favourite for those matrimonial
stakes he had entered himself to run for. He looked at Mr. Saltram with a
critical eye many times in the course of the evening, wondering what
possible merit any sensible woman could perceive in such a man. But then,
as Theobald Pallinson reflected, the misfortune is that so few women are
sensible; and it was gradually becoming evident to him that Michael
Branston's widow was amongst the most foolish of her sex.
Mrs. Pallinson kept a sharp watch upon Adela throughout the evening,
plunging into the conversation every now and then with a somewhat
dictatorial and infallible air, and generally contriving to drag some
praise of Theobald into her talk: now dilating rapturously upon that
fever case which he had managed so wonderfully the other day, proving his
judgment superior to that of an eminent consulting physician; anon
launching out into laudation of his last poem, which had been set to
music by a young lady in St. John's-wood; and by-and-by informing the
company of her son's artistic talents, and his extraordinary capacity as
a judge of pictures. To these things the surgeon himself listened with a
deprecating air, smoothing his wristbands, and caressing his slim white
hands, while he playfully reproved his parent for her maternal weakness.
Mr. Pallinson held his ground near his cousin's chair till the last
moment, while John Saltram sat apart by one of the tables, listlessly
turning over a volume of engravings, and only looking up at long
intervals to join in the conversation. He had an absent weary look, which
puzzled Gilbert Fenton, who, being only a secondary personage in this
narrow circle, had ample leisure to observe his friend.
The three gentlemen left at the same time, Mr. Pallinson driving away in
a neat miniature brougham, after politely offering to convey his cousin's
guests to their destination. It was a bright starlight night, and Gilbert
walked to the Temple with John Saltram, through the quietest of the
streets leading east-wards. They lit their cigars as they left the
square, and walked for some time in a friendly companionable silence.
When they did speak, their talk was naturally of Adela Branston.
"I thought she was really charming to-night," Gilbert said, "in spite of
that fellow's efforts to absorb her attention. It is pretty easy to see
how the land lies in that direction; and if such a rival were likely to
injure you, you have a very determined one in Mr. Pallinson."
"Yes; the surgeon has evidently fixed his hopes upon poor old Michael
Branston's money. But I don't think he will succeed."
"You will not allow him to do so, I hope?"
"I don't know about that. Then you really admire the little woman,
Gilbert?"
"Very much; as much as I have ever admired any woman except Marian
Nowell."
"Ah, your Marian is a star, single and alone in her brightness, like that
planet up yonder! But Adela Branston is a good little soul, and will make
a charming wife. Gilbert, I wish to heaven you would fall in love with
her!"
Gilbert Fenton stared aghast at his companion, as he tossed the end of
his cigar into the gutter.
"Why, John, you must be mad to say such a thing."
"No, it is by no means a mad notion. I want to see you cured, Gilbert. I
do like you, dear boy, you know, as much as it is possible for a selfish
worthless fellow like me to like any man. I would give a great deal to
see you happy; and I am sure that you might be so as Adela Branston's
husband. I grant you that I am the favourite at present; but she is just
the sort of woman to be won by any man who would really prove himself
worthy of her. Her liking for me is a mere idle fancy, which would soon
die out for want of fuel. You are my superior in every way--younger,
handsomer, better. Why should you not go in for this thing, Gil?"
"Because I have no heart to give any woman, John. And even if I were
free, I would not give my heart to a woman whose affection had to be
diverted from another channel before it could be bestowed upon me. I
can't imagine what has put such a preposterous idea into your head, or
why it is that you shrink from improving your own chances with Mrs.
Branston."
"You must not wonder at anything that I do or say, Gilbert. It is my
nature to do strange things--my destiny to take the wrong turning in
life!"
"When shall I see you again?" Gilbert asked, when they were parting at
the Temple gates.
"I can scarcely tell you that. I must go back to Oxford to-morrow."
"So soon?"
"Yes, my work gets on better down there. I will let you know directly I
return to London."
On this they parted, Gilbert considerably mystified by his friend's
conduct, but not caring to push his questions farther. He had his own
affairs to think of, that one business which absorbed almost the whole of
his thoughts--the business of his search for the man who had robbed him
of his promised wife, this interval, in which he remained inactive,
devoting himself to the duties of his commercial life, was only a pause
in his labours. He was not the less bent upon bringing about a
face-to-face meeting between himself and Marian's husband because of this
brief suspension of his efforts.