IN SILK ATTIRE.
The bride and bridegroom did not return to Melbourne until the day
before Christmas--Friday the 24th, which was a warm, and bright, and
proper summer day, but working up for a spell of north winds and bush
fires before the year ran out. They had been wandering happily amongst
the lovely vales and mountains of that sequestered district of Victoria
which has become vaguely known as the "Kelly Country," and finding out
before they left it, to their great satisfaction, that Australia could
show them scenery so variously romantic as to put the charms of the
best hotels into the shade. Even that terrestrial paradise on the ferny
slopes of Upper Macedon was, if not eclipsed, forgotten, in the beauty
of the wilder woodland of the far Upper Murray, which was beyond the
reach of railways. They had also been again to visit the old house by
the sea and Mr. Brion; had dawdled along the familiar shore in twilight
and moonlight; had driven to the caves and eaten lunch once more in the
green dell among the bracken fronds; had visited the graves of that
other pair of married lovers--that Kingscote and Elizabeth of the last
generation--and made arrangements for the perpetual protection from
disturbance and desecration of that sadly sacred spot. And it was only
on receipt of an urgent telegram from Mrs. Duff-Scott, to remind them
that Christmas was approaching, and that she had devised festivities
which were to be more in honour of them than of the season, that they
remembered how long they had been away, and that it had become time to
return to their anxious relatives.
They arrived in Melbourne by the 3.41 train from Ballarat, where
they had broken a long journey the evening before, and found Patty
and Eleanor and the major's servants waiting for them at Spencer
Street. The meeting between the sisters, after their first separation,
was silent, but intensely impressive. On the platform though they
were, they held each other's hands and gazed into each other's eyes,
unconscious of the attention they attracted, unable to find words
to express how much they had missed each other and how glad they
were to be reunited. They drove home together in a state of absolute
happiness; and at home Mrs. Duff-Scott and the major were standing on
their doorstep as the carriage swept up the broad drive to the house,
as full of tender welcomes for the bride as any father or mother could
have been, rejoicing over a recovered child. Elizabeth thought of
the last Christmas Eve which she and her sisters, newly orphaned and
alone in the world, poor in purse and destitute of kith and kin, spent
in that humble little bark-roofed cottage on the solitary cliff; and
she marvelled at the wonderful and dazzling changes that the year had
brought. Only one year out of twenty-nine!--and yet it seemed to have
held the whole history of her life. She was taken into the drawing-room
and put into a downy chair, and fed with bread and butter and tea and
choice morsels of news, while Patty knelt on the floor beside her,
and her husband stood on the hearthrug watching her, with, his air
of quiet but proud proprietorship, as he chatted of their travels to
the major. It was very delightful. She wondered if it were really
herself--Elizabeth King that used to be--whose lines had fallen on
these pleasant places.
While the afternoon tea was in progress, Eleanor fidgetted impatiently
about the room. She was so graceful and undulating in her movements
that her fidgetting was only perceived to be such by those who knew
her ways; but Elizabeth marked her gentle restlessness, in spite of
personal preoccupations.
"Do you want me to go upstairs with you?" she inquired with her kind
eyes, setting down her teacup; and Nelly almost flew to escort her out
of the room. There was to be a large dinner party at Mrs. Duff-Scott's
to-night, to "meet Mr. and Mrs. Yelverton on their return," all
Melbourne having been made acquainted with the romance of their
cousinship and marriage, and the extent of their worldly possessions,
during their absence.
"It is to be so large," said Patty, as her brother-in-law shut the
drawing-room door upon the trio, "that even Mrs. Aarons will be
included in it."
"Mrs. Aarons!" echoed Elizabeth, who knew that the fairy godmother had
repaid that lady's hospitality and attentions with her second-best
bit of sang-de-boeuf crackle and her sole specimen of genuine Rose
du Barry--dear and precious treasures sacrificed to the demands of
conscience which proclaimed Mrs. Aarons wronged and insulted by being
excluded from the Duff-Scott dinner list. "And she is really coming?"
"She really is--though it is her own right to receive, as I
think Mrs. Duff-Scott perfectly remembered when she sent her
invitation--accompanied, of course, by Mr. Aarons."
"And now," said Nelly, looking back, "Patty has got her old wish--she
really _is_ in a position to turn up her nose, at last."
"Oh," said Patty, vehemently, "don't remind me of that wicked, vulgar,
indecent speech! Poor woman, who am I that I should turn up my nose at
her? I am very glad she is coming--I think she ought to have been asked
long ago. Why not? She is just as good as we are, every bit."
Eleanor laughed softly. "Ah, what a difference in one's sentiments does
a large fortune make--doesn't it, Elizabeth? Patty doesn't want to
turn up her nose at Mrs. Aarons, because, don't you see, she knows she
can crush her quite naturally and comfortably by keeping it down. And,
besides, when one has got one's revenge--when one has paid off one's
old score--one doesn't want to be mean and barbarous. Oh," exclaimed
Nelly, rapturously, "I never thought that being rich was so delicious
as it is!"
"I hope it won't spoil you," said Elizabeth.
"I hope it won't spoil _you_," retorted the girl, saucily. "You are in
far greater danger than I am."
By this time they had reached the top of the stairs, and Eleanor, who
had led the way, opened the door, not of Elizabeth's old bedroom, but
of the state guest-chamber of the house; and she motioned the bride
to enter with a low bow. Here was the explanation of that impatience
to get her upstairs. Elizabeth took a few steps over the threshold
and then stood still, while the tears rushed into her eyes. The room
had been elaborately dressed in white lace and white ribbons; the
dressing-table was decorated with white flowers; the bed was covered
with an æsthetic satin quilt, and on the bed was spread out a bridal
robe--white brocade, the bodice frilled with Brussels lace--with white
shoes, white gloves, white silk stockings, white feather fan, white
everything _en suite_.
"This is your dress for to-night," said Patty, coaxing it with soft
hands. "And you will find lots more in the wardrobe. Mrs. Duff-Scott
has been fitting you up while you have been away."
Upon which Nelly threw open the doors of the wardrobe and pulled out
the drawers, and displayed with great pride the piles and layers of new
clothes that the fairy godmother had laboriously gathered together;
the cream, or, to speak more correctly (if less poetically), the
butter, churned from the finest material that the Melbourne shops
could produce, and "made up" by a Collins Street mademoiselle, whose
handiwork was as recognisable to the local initiated as that of Elise
herself. The bride had been allowed no choice in the matter of her own
trousseau, but she did not feel that she had missed anything by that.
She stood and gazed at the beautiful garments, which were all dim and
misty as seen through her tears, with lips and hands trembling, and a
sense of misgiving lest such extravagant indulgence of all a woman's
possible desires should tempt Fate to lay hands prematurely upon her.
Then she went to find her friend--who had had so much enjoyment in the
preparation of her surprise--and did what she could by dumb caresses to
express her inexpressible sentiments.
Then in course of time these upsetting incidents were got over, and
cheerful calmness supervened. As the night drew on, Mrs. Duff-Scott
retired to put on her war paint. Nelly also departed to arrange her
own toilet, which was a matter of considerable importance to her in
these days. The girl who had worn cotton gloves to keep the sun from
her hands, a year ago, had developed a great faculty for taking care of
her beauty and taking pains with her clothes. Patty lingered behind to
wait on Elizabeth. And in the interval before the bridegroom came up,
these two had a little confidential chat. "What have you been doing, my
darling," said the elder sister, "while I have been away?"
"Oh, nothing much," said Patty, rather drearily. "Shopping about your
things most of the time, and getting ready for our voyage. They say
we are to go as far as Italy next month, because January is the best
time for the Red Sea. And they want the law business settled. It is
dreadfully soon, isn't it?" This was not the tone of voice in which
Italy was talked of a year ago.
"And you haven't--seen anybody?"
"No, I haven't seen anybody. Except once--and then he took off his hat
without looking at me."
Elizabeth sighed. She was herself so safe and happy with her beloved
that she could not bear to think of this other pair estranged and
apart, making themselves so miserable.
"And what about Nelly and Mr. Westmoreland?" she inquired presently.
"Nelly is a baby," said Patty, with lofty scorn, "and Mr. Westmoreland
is a great lout. You have no idea what a spectacle they are making of
themselves."
"What--is it going on again?"
"Yes, it is going on--but not in the old style. Mr. Westmoreland
has fallen in love with her really now--as far as such a brainless
hippopotamus is capable of falling in love, that is to say. I suppose,
the fact of her having a great fortune and high connections makes all
the difference. And she is really uncommonly pretty. It is only in
these last weeks that I have fully understood how much prettier she
is than other girls, and I believe he, to do him justice, has always
understood it in his stupid, coarse way."
"And Nelly?"
"Nelly," said Patty, "has been finding out a great deal lately. She
knows well enough how pretty she is, and she knows what money and all
the other things are worth. She is tasting the sweets of power, and
she likes it--she likes it too much, I think--she will grow into a
bit of a snob, if she doesn't mind. She is 'coming the swell' over
Mr. Westmoreland, to use one of his own choice idioms--not exactly
rudely, because she has such pretty manners, but with the most superb
impertinence, all the same--and practising coquetry as if she had been
beset with abject lovers all her life. She sits upon him and teases him
and aggravates him till he doesn't know how to contain himself. It is
_too_ ridiculous."
"I should have thought he was the last man to let himself be sat upon."
"So should I. But he courts it--he obtrudes his infatuated
servility--he goes and asks her, as it were, to sit upon him. It has
the charm of novelty and difficulty, I suppose. People must get tired
of having their own way always."
"But I can't understand Nelly."
"You soon will. You will see to-night how she goes on, for he is coming
to dinner. She will tantalise him till he will forget where he is, and
lose all sense of decency, and be fit to stamp and roar like a great
buffalo. She says it is 'taking it out of him.' And she will look at
the time so sweet and serene and unconscious--bah! I could box her
ears," concluded Patty.
"And Mrs. Duff-Scott encourages him still, then?"
"No. That is another change. Mrs. Duff-Scott has withdrawn her gracious
favour. She doesn't want him now. She thinks she will make a pair
of duchesses of us when she gets us to London, don't you see? Dear
woman, I'm afraid she will be grievously disappointed, so far as I am
concerned. No, ever since the day you went away--which was the very day
that Mr. Westmoreland began to come back--she has given him the cold
shoulder. You know _what_ a cold shoulder it can be! There is not a man
alive who could stand up against it, except him. But he doesn't care.
He can't, or won't, see that he is not wanted. I suppose it doesn't
occur to him that _he_ can possibly be unwelcome anywhere. He loafs
about the house--he drops on us at Alston and Brown's--he turns up
at the theatre--at the Exhibition--at Mullen's--everywhere. We can't
escape him. Nelly likes it. If a day passes without her seeing him, she
gets quite restless. She is like a horrid schoolboy with a cockroach
on a pin--it is her great amusement in life to see him kicking and
struggling."
"Perhaps she really does care about him, Patty."
"Not she. She is just having her revenge--heartless little monkey!
I believe she will be a duchess, after all, with a miserable old
toothless creature for her husband. It would be no more than she
deserves. Oh, Elizabeth!"--suddenly changing her voice from sharps to
flats--"how _beautiful_ you do look! Nelly may be a duchess, and so
might I, and neither of us would ever beat you for _presence_. I heard
Mrs. Duff-Scott the other day congratulating herself that the prettiest
of her three daughters were still left to dispose of. I don't believe
we are the prettiest, but, if we are, what is mere prettiness compared
with having a head set on like yours and a figure like a Greek statue?"
Elizabeth had been proceeding with her toilet, in order to have
leisure to gossip with her husband when he came up; and now she stood
before her long glass in her bridal dress, which had been composed by
Mrs. Duff-Scott with an unlimited expenditure of taste and care. The
material of it was exceptionally, if not obtrusively, rich--like a
thick, dull, soft silk cloth, covered all over with a running pattern
of flowers severely conventionalised; and it was made as plain as plain
could be, falling straight to her feet in front, and sweeping back in
great heavy folds behind, and fitting like a pliant glove to the curves
of her lovely shape. Only round the bodice, cut neither low nor high,
and round her rather massive elbows, had full ruffles of the lace that
was its sole trimming been allowed; and altogether Mrs. Yelverton's
strong points were brought out by her costume in a marvellously
effective manner.
There was a sound at this moment in the adjoining room, on hearing
which Patty abruptly departed; and the bride stood listening to her
lord's footsteps, and still looking at herself in the glass. He
entered her room, and she did not turn or raise her eyes, but a soft
smile spread over her face as if a sun had risen and covered her with
sudden light and warmth. She tried to see if the waist of her gown was
wrinkled, or the set of it awry, but it was no use. When he came close
to her and stooped to kiss her white neck, she lost all recollection of
details.
"You want," he said, about ten minutes afterwards, when he had himself
turned her round and round, and fingered the thick brocade and the lace
critically, "you want diamonds with such a stately dress."
"Oh, no," she said; "I won't have any diamonds."
"You _won't_, did you say? This language to _me_, Elizabeth!"
"The diamonds shall go in beer and tobacco, Kingscote."
"My dear, they can't."
"Why not?"
"Because the Yelverton diamonds are heirlooms."
"Oh, dear me! Are there Yelverton diamonds too?"
"There are, I grieve to say. They have been laid up under lock and key
for about forty years, and they must be very old-fashioned. But they
are considered rather fine, and they are yours for the present, and as
you can't make any use of them they may as well fulfil their purpose of
being ornamental. You must wear them by-and-by, you know, when you go
to Court."
"To Court?" reproachfully. "Is that the kind of life we are going to
lead?"
"Just occasionally. We are going to combine things, and our duties to
ourselves and to society. It is not going to be all Buckingham Palace,
nor yet all Whitechapel, but a judicious blending of the two."
"And Yelverton?"
"And Yelverton of course. Yelverton is to be always there--our place of
rest--our base of operations--our workshop--our fortress--our home with
a capital H."
"Oh," she said, "we seem to have the shares of so many poor people
besides our own. It overwhelms me to think of it."
"Don't think of it," he said, as she laid her head on his shoulder, and
he smoothed her fine brown hair with his big palm. "Don't be afraid
that we are destined to be too happy. We shall be handicapped yet."
They did not go down until the carriages had begun to arrive, and then
they descended the wide stairs dawdlingly, she leaning on him, with her
two white-gloved hands clasped round his coat sleeve, and he bending
his tall head towards her--talking still of their own affairs, and
quite indifferent to the sensation they were about to make. When they
entered the dim-coloured drawing-room, which was suffused with a low
murmur of conversation, and by the mild radiance of many wax candles
and coloured lamps, Elizabeth was made to understand by hostess and
guests the exceptional position of Mrs. Yelverton of Yelverton, and
wherein and how enormously it differed from that of Elizabeth King.
But she was not so much taken up with her own state and circumstance
as to forget those two who had been her charge for so many years. She
searched for Nelly first. And Nelly was in the music-room, sitting at
the piano, and looking dazzlingly fair under the gaslight in the white
dress that she had worn at the club ball, and with dark red roses at
her throat and in her yellow hair. She was playing Schubert's A Minor
Sonata ravishingly--for the benefit of Mr. Smith, apparently, who sat,
the recipient of smiles and whispers, beside her, rapt in ecstasies
of appreciation; and she was taking not the slightest notice of Mr.
Westmoreland, who, leaning over the other end of the piano on his
folded arms, was openly sighing his soul into his lady's face. Then
Elizabeth looked for Patty. And Patty she found on that settee within
the alcove at the opposite end of the big room--also in her white ball
dress, and also looking charming--engaged in what appeared to be an
interesting and animated dialogue with the voluble Mrs. Aarons.
The young matron sighed as she contrasted her own blessed lot with
theirs--with Nelly's, ignorant of what love was, and with Patty's,
knowing it, and yet having no comfort in the knowing. She did not know
which to pity most.