MRS. LOBYER'S SKELETON.
Christmas-day at Pevenshall was very much like every other day.
There was perhaps a little more eating and drinking than usual in
the servants' hall, where the male portion of the assembly seemed
to consider the inordinate consumption of strong drinks and warm
spiced beverages indispensable to the due celebration of the season.
A friendly rubber and a tankard of mulled port beguiled the cheerful
evening in the housekeeper's room, while the mirth of the occasion
was promoted by the witticisms of a linen-draper's assistant who was
paying his addresses to Miss Evershed's maid, and had come from the
market-town to spend his Christmas evening in the society of his
betrothed. In these inferior regions the monster plum-pudding of the
traditional Christmas appeared in a blaze of spirituous splendour at
the three o'clock dinner, and reappeared in cold substantiality upon
the loaded supper-table. Here there were glistening holly-berries, and
the frail waxen mistletoe, with all the giggling and scuffling provoked
by the magic bough; here, among Mr. Lobyer's well-fed retainers,
jolly King Christmas deigned to show his honest rubicund visage in
all its legendary geniality. But at Mr. Lobyer's dinner-table jolly
King Christmas was a poor creature, represented in one of the later
courses by a turkey that was ignominiously carved by an under butler
upon the great oak sideboard, and which was handed about in small
modicums, to be contemptuously rejected by surfeited diners who had
just been regaled with a course of spring ducklings and early green
peas at half a guinea a spoonful, and introducing himself furtively
at the fag end of the banquet under cover of a small mould of some
black compound, which the attendant offering it explained in a low
voice as "plum-pudding." In Mr. Lobyer's drawing-room it might have
been midsummer; for the fires at each end of the spacious chamber were
hidden by great Parian screens, through which the red blaze shed only
a rosy glow, like the low sunlight in a summer evening sky; and the
atmosphere was odorous with the scent of roses and myrtles, hyacinth
and myosotis, blooming in _jardinières_ of ormolu and buhl, or fading
in tall slender vases of fragile glass. The possessor of a million of
money is the earthly incarnation of Zeus. At his bidding the summer
fruits ripen at Christmas time; for his pleasure the nipping winter
becomes a "time of roses." It is not to be expected, therefore, that
the millionaire should put himself out of the way, because the common
herd choose to be joyful; or that he should embrace dowagers under
a vulgar mistletoe bough, and burn his fingers in the extraction of
indigestible raisins from a dish of blazing spirits.
Nothing in Mr. Lobyer's manner on this particular twenty-fifth of
December betrayed the faintest sympathy with those genial emotions
common to the vulgar at this season of the year. He appeared in the
drawing-room about five minutes before dinner, faultlessly attired in
evening costume, and carrying his familiar--a fawn-coloured pug--in one
of his big strong hands. Cecil found her host leaning against one of
the mantelpieces, in his accustomed attitude, and caressing this brute,
with a moody countenance, when she entered the drawing-room. He did the
honours of the dinner-table in his usually graceful manner; and those
amiable people who were never weary of sounding their host's praises
in his character of a rough diamond, found him peculiarly delightful
this evening; he was so quaint, so original, they said to each other
confidentially, as the millionaire let fall some cynical remark now and
then in the course of the banquet.
He seemed very glad to get back to the fawn-coloured familiar, which
was snoring peacefully, half-buried in a fleecy rug, when the gentlemen
returned to the drawing-room. He lifted the animal by one ear, and
retired with it into the depths of an easy-chair, whence might be heard
occasional growlings and snappings as the evening proceeded.
"I am afraid that grey shirtings were not lively," Florence whispered
to Cecil, as the two ladies were preparing themselves for a duet.
At ten o'clock those splendid creatures, the matched footmen, were
summoned to wheel the _jardinières_ and _étagères_ away from the centre
of the room, while Lady Cecil and a young masculine pianist seated
themselves at the instrument to play quadrilles and waltzes for a
carpet-dance. It was at the same hour that Mr. Lobyer emerged from the
depths of his easy-chair, flung the fawn-coloured animal into a corner,
and walked towards one of the doors.
"Come and have a smoke in the billiard-room, Chapman," he said to one
of his commercial friends, a bald-headed, warm-looking man, of whom
the county people never took the faintest notice. Departing with this
gentleman in his wake, Mr. Lobyer was seen no more among his guests
that evening; and the carpet-dance went merrily; and a million stars
shone brightly over Pevenshall out of a frosty blue sky, while midnight
melted into morning; and the belle of the great drawing-room was
bright, fair-haired, coquettish little Mrs. Lobyer. But the Christmas
night came and went, and the bride of six months had no loving husband
to take her hands in his and say, "God bless you, my darling, on this
night above all nights of the year, and in all the days and nights to
come!"
* * * * *
Sir Nugent Evershed made his appearance before luncheon on the
twenty-sixth of December, with Scribe's comedy in his hand, much to the
astonishment of his Cousin Grace.
"Jeffs must have been very rapid," she said. "He generally keeps me
longer when I send for any thing."
"I didn't depend upon Jeffs," answered the Baronet; "I rode over to
Chiverley after leaving here the night before last, and telegraphed to
the Rue Vivienne. It was as easy to telegraph to Levy as to write to
Jeffs, and I had set my heart on bringing the comedy to-day." He looked
at Mrs. Lobyer rather than his cousin as he said this; but the two
ladies were standing side by side, and a man's eyes may take the wrong
direction unconsciously.
After luncheon, the party interested in the amateur theatricals
adjourned to the morning-room, where Sir Nugent read the comedy, and
where the arrangement of the characters was decided. Mrs. Lobyer was to
play the heroine, the most bewitching of young widows; and Sir Nugent
was to be the Marquis, poor, and reckless, and proud, but passionately
attached to the bewitching young widow. Miss Grace Evershed consented
to perform a malicious dowager, who made mischief between the
spendthrift Marquis and the bewitching widow; and the rest of the cast
was made up by a county squire, who had finished his education at
Bonn, and spoke the French language as taught by German masters; and
two of Mr. Lobyer's London friends, of the fast and flippant school,
who appeared to be proficient in every modern language, and skilled
in every art except that of keeping out of debt. One of the officers
from Chiverley, who was known to be strong in the Thespian art, was
requested to take a part in the piece, but he declined with a regretful
sigh.
"I shall be in the wilds of Kerry when your performance comes off,"
he said; "our fellows are ordered off to Tralee on the tenth, and the
11th Plungers come into our quarters. I've often growled about the
dreariness of Chiverley, but how I shall envy those fellows,--the queer
old English town, and Pevenshall Place within an hour's ride! Do people
LIVE in such a place as Tralee? I have a sort of idea that we shall be
surrounded by savage natives, and scalped on the night of our arrival.
What luck the 11th have had in India! That young Gordon, whose father
has such mints of money, has won a step within the last few months.
That skirmish at Burradalchoodah made a major of him."
Cecil felt the blood rush to her face for a moment, and then a sick
faintness came over her; and the brightly-furnished room spun round
before her eyes, until it seemed as if she had been sitting amidst
a whirlpool of light and colour. The low-toned voices and the light
laughter clashed upon her ears like the noise of cymbals; but it was
only for a moment. Womanly dignity came to her rescue after the first
brief shock of surprise; and when Grace Evershed appealed to her
presently upon some frivolous question, she was able to answer with
unfaltering tones.
"What is he to me," she thought, "or what can he ever be to me? And why
should I be startled by hearing that he is likely to be within a few
miles of the house in which I am staying?"
And then she began to consider whether her visit at Pevenshall could
not reasonably come to an end very speedily. Florence had asked her
friend to come to her for a long time, and as yet Cecil had been little
more than ten days in Yorkshire; but then, as Mr. O'Boyneville was
unable to leave London, his wife had a very good reason for returning
thither.
While Cecil was thinking of this, the talk was going on round her, and
presently she heard Sir Nugent Evershed talking of Hector Gordon.
"He is a splendid fellow," said the Baronet; "I met him in Germany six
years ago, and we saw a great deal of each other. He is the kind of man
we want in India; the real Napier breed; the man who doesn't know when
he is beaten. I was with him in a revolutionary row at Heidelberg. Gad!
how he fought! The students wanted to chair him after the squabble;
but he wouldn't stand any nonsense of that kind! What a night we made
of it afterwards! There was a mad-brained fellow who fancied himself a
poet, a brace of transcendentalists, and Gordon and I. I remember our
sitting in the balcony of the hotel, drinking Rhine wine and talking
meta-physics long after midnight, when the last twinkling light in the
queer old city had been extinguished and every roof and steeple stood
out clear and sharp in the moonlight. Gordon must be a glorious fellow,
if he hasn't degenerated since then. We used to call him the Scottish
lion in those days. The girls and old women came to their windows to
stare at him as he strode along the miserable pavements, with his long
auburn hair flying loose about his neck. I shall be very glad if he
comes my way this winter; though I'm sorry they're going to send you
fellows to Tralee, Foster."
The Pevenshall party were more interested in the costumes they were to
wear for the comedy than in the merits of Major Gordon; so no more was
said about that gentleman. Sir Nugent was intrusted with the duty of
writing to a London costumier who would provide the masculine attire,
and he further engaged himself to procure a set of coloured lithographs
from which the ladies might choose their dresses. Having accepted these
commissions, he departed: but not before he had received an invitation
to dinner for the following day from Mr. Lobyer, who came into the
morning-room before the party broke up, and who seemed, so far as in
him lay, to be amiably disposed towards his visitors and the world in
general.
Cecil left the drawing-room early that evening, in order to write some
letters in her own apartment. She wrote a long gossiping epistle to her
husband, telling him of the Pevenshall gaieties, the pending amateur
theatricals, any thing and every thing which she thought likely to
interest him, just for the few minutes during which he read her letter.
It was not because the great barrister was busy and could only write
brief scrawls to his wife that she should therefore curtail her letters
to him. She was so earnestly anxious to do her duty--even if duty was
now and then a little tiresome.
"And yet I doubt whether he will be able to take his mind away from
all that horrible law-business, even while he reads my letter," she
thought, as she concluded her missive.
In the course of the letter she had expressed her desire to return to
London.
"I am amongst very pleasant people here, but do not like to stay so
long away from home," she wrote, and she gave a faint sigh as she
wrote the word "home;" "and as you find it impossible to join me here,
I think I had better return to Brunswick Square early next week. You
wished me to have change of air and scene; and any benefit I am likely
to receive from them I have already secured. You know how little I care
for gaiety, and how very comfortable I am with my books and piano. Let
me have a line please, dear Laurence, by return of post, to say I may
come back at the beginning of the week."
Florence peeped into her friend's room before retiring for the night,
and Cecil told her of the letter she had been writing.
"I think if Mr. O'Boyneville cannot come down, I must go back to London
next week, dear," she said.
But Florence declared such an arrangement utterly impossible.
"You have come to me, and I mean to keep you," she said. "You come here
for change of scene, and then you talk of running back to that hideous
Bloomsbury after a fortnight, and you even talk of going before our
comedy. It is positively preposterous. Ah, I ought to have insisted on
your taking a part in it. But I shall write to Mr. O'Boyneville myself
if you are rebellious, and ask him to put his veto against your return."
"But, my dear Florence, you must know that I ought not to be so long
away from home."
"I know nothing of the kind. In the last letter you showed me, Mr.
O'Boyneville said he was delighted to think you were enjoying yourself
here, and that he was up to his eyes in business. What can a man who is
up to his eyes in business want with a wife?"
After this there were many discussions upon the same subject, and
Cecil found that it was not at all easy to get away from Pevenshall,
especially as she received a letter from Mr. O'Boyneville begging
her to stay as long as she liked with her friends, and promising to
run down for a day or two and escort her back to town if she stayed
until the beginning of February. So there was nothing for her to do
but to stay; and, after all, what substantial reason was there for
her hurried departure? What was it to her if Hector Gordon came to
Chiverley with his regiment? Was his coming to be a reason for her
running away from the county? It was just possible that the officers of
the coming regiment might be visitors at Pevenshall, as the officers of
the departing regiment had been; but what did it matter to Lady Cecil
O'Boyneville where or when she met her old acquaintance of the little
Hampshire watering-place?
Such was the tenor of Cecil's thoughts when she thought at all of
Major Gordon; but after once having resolved to remain at Pevenshall
until the natural termination of her visit, she tried to banish all
thought of Hector and his possible coming from her mind. She abandoned
herself to the frivolities of Mrs. Lobyer's circle, and found those
frivolities very pleasant in their way. If it was a useless life--and
in a manner sinful by reason of its utter uselessness--it was at least
very agreeable while the freshness of youth lasted; and Cecil had seen
in the person of her aunt, that such frivolities may be tolerably
agreeable to age. But in spite of all the brightness and gaiety of
Mrs. Lobyer's life, Cecil found herself pitying her friend rather than
envying her.
"Surely the day must come when she will be tired of it all," thought
the barrister's wife, when Flo had been delighting every body by her
vivacity. "She has too many pleasures, and too much splendour and
luxury. She seems to me like a feminine Xerxes, and sooner or later
she must grow tired of every mortal enjoyment, and cry out wearily for
some new pleasure. How tired Cleopatra must have been of every thing
upon earth when she drank that melted pearl!--surely only a little
less tired than when she made an end of her life with the asp. And
Solomon--what unutterable weariness there is in every line of that
wonderful book in which he laments the emptiness and barrenness of his
life! I cannot help thinking of these things when I see Flo hurrying
from one amusement to another; from a hunting breakfast at home to a
morning concert at Chiverley; and then for an hour's shopping in which
she spends a small fortune upon things she doesn't want; and then home
to meet fresh visitors at dinner; and then charades, or _tableaux
vivants_, or a carpet-dance. She must grow tired of all this at last;
but before that time this perpetual excitement will have become a
habit, and society will be necessary to her, as it is to my aunt. I
remember that line of Pope's:
'And round and round the ghosts of beauty glide.'
What a picture it conjures up! Who would not prefer a home and home
duties to that perpetual round of pleasures which so soon cease to
please?"
And then Lady Cecil thought of the big dingy house in Bloomsbury, and
wondered whether the serenity and quiet cheerfulness of the ideal
home would ever pervade that dismal mansion. She had hung birds in
the southern windows, and had bought rustic baskets of flowers,
and perfumed caskets and workboxes, for the adornment of the dingy
drawing-rooms; but she had not been able as yet to impart that homelike
aspect to Mr. O'Boyneville's dwelling for which her soul yearned.
The Pevenshall visitors were busy with the preparations for the comedy.
The billiard-room was given up to rehearsals; the billiard-table was
pushed into a dark corner, much to the annoyance of Mr. Lobyer, who
fled in despair to Manchester. There was a rehearsal every day during
the fortnight preceding the eventful evening; for it is astonishing how
much rehearsing one of Scribe's comedies requires when the performers
are pretty girls and elegant young men. The business might have
been managed in less time, perhaps, had there not been considerable
hindrance of one kind and another to the steady progress of the affair.
There was one day upon which the arrival of a box of powdered wigs from
London interrupted the course of rehearsal, and ultimately put a stop
to it, for Mrs. Lobyer having run away to try on her wig, the other
ladies followed her example, and then the gentlemen were seized with
a like curiosity as to the effect of powder; and there was a general
trying on of wigs, all of which were pronounced by the wearers to be
hideously ugly and cruelly disappointing; for the effect of a powdered
wig, combined with modern costume, in the chill winter sunlight, is
by no means agreeable. Other rehearsals were interrupted by little
squabbles about stage arrangements: for Sir Nugent Evershed and the
West-end club-men were at variance upon many points; while one of the
latter gentlemen was inclined to give himself airs upon the strength
of having assisted at the getting up of the _School for Scandal_ at
the Countess of Warlinghame's place at Twickenham; and then there was
time lost by reason of feminine gigglings; and particular people were
missing at important moments; and there was a great deal of trying
back, and perpetual disputations as to entrances and exits. But it
was altogether very delightful, and every one seemed to enjoy him or
herself amazingly. Mr. Lobyer, looking into the billiard-room sometimes
in the course of the morning, was wont to make some contemptuous remark
upon the occupation of his wife and her guests, before taking his
flight to Manchester. And so the days went by, until the last rehearsal
took place on the evening prior to the performance, and every body was
pronounced perfect in the words of the airiest and most delightful
of modern dramatists. The dresses had arrived, after the prospective
wearers had endured unspeakable tortures from the fear of their
non-arrival. The stage was erected in the billiard-room, and never was
temporary theatre more complete in its arrangements. Mrs. Lobyer's
spirits rose with the prospect of her triumph; and Mr. Lobyer grew more
disdainfully indifferent to his wife's folly as the important moment
drew near.
The sixteenth of January was to be altogether a very grand day at
Pevenshall. There was to be a hunt-breakfast in the morning, a
dinner-party in the evening; after the dinner the private theatricals;
and after that display of amateur talent a ball, at which the
performers in the comedy were to appear in their stage-dresses. So far
as Mr. Lobyer could be interested in any thing but the money-market, he
was interested in the hunt-breakfast and the dinner, at both of which
entertainments the men of his own set were to muster in full force.
The master of Pevenshall had the chance of pleasure at a very early
period of his existence, and not being gifted with a very large stock
of vivacity, had speedily exhausted the effervescence of his nature.
For the last few years of his life all the force of his mind, all the
energy of his character, had been directed towards the one end and aim
of the successful trader. To make twenty per cent. where other men
were making fifteen; to anticipate the future of the money market; to
foreshadow the influence of coming events, and to enrich himself by
such foresight,--for this Mr. Lobyer spent his days in meditation, and
his sleepless nights in care and anguish. But he was still capable,
in his own stolid way, of taking some kind of pleasure out of the
splendour of his surroundings, the skill of his cook, the perfection
of his wines, and the homage which he received from the minions of
the money-market. He felt a grim satisfaction in the knowledge that
his wife was beautiful, and that other men admired her and envied him
because he was her husband. If he had been an Oriental potentate, he
would have taken to himself a hundred wives--not so much for his own
happiness as in the hope that other potentates who could boast only
fifty wives would envy him the delights of his harem. Not being an
Oriental potentate, he had done the best he could in uniting himself to
the prettiest woman and the most insolent coquette he had encountered.
He had gratified himself, to the annoyance and mortification of other
people. From his childhood he had been fully alive to the advantage of
being the son of a millionaire, of having been in a manner born in the
commercial purple; and the desire of his life had been that all his
belongings should be infinitely superior to the belongings of other
people. If another millionaire had arisen in the county, and had built
for himself a larger place than Pevenshall, Mr. Lobyer would have
commissioned Messrs. Foster to dispose of Pevenshall to the highest
bidder, and would have erected a nobler and bigger mansion than the
palace of the new millionaire. It is just possible that Thomas Lobyer
had some vague consciousness that, considered apart from his money, he
was a paltry and detestable creature; and that he was therefore eager
to make the most of the glamour which splendid surroundings can impart
to the meanest object. Aladdin playing in the streets and by-ways of
the city is only the idle waif and stray of a defunct tailor; but
Aladdin with the command of an orchard whose fruits are rubies and
diamonds--Aladdin the tenant of the enchanted palace, and owner of
the roc's egg,--is altogether another person. One fancies him arrayed
in shining tissues of gold and silver, blazing with jewels, handsome,
dashing, elegant, delightful--or, in one word, SUCCESSFUL; and
the vulgar antecedents of the tailor's son are utterly forgotten.
Mr. Lobyer was neither an exacting nor a tyrannical husband. He had
secured for himself the best thing in wives, as he had the best thing
in horses and modern pictures and dogs. If he held her a little lower
than his short-legged hunter, a little less dear than his fawn-coloured
pug, he at least gave her as much as she had any right to expect from
him. She had married him for his money, and he gave her his money.
She spent as much as she pleased; she amused herself after her own
fashion. If now and then, moved by some short-lived conscientious
scruple, she made an attempt to consult him or to defer to his
pleasure, Mr. Lobyer took good care to show his wife that his pleasure
was in no way concerned in hers, and that to be consulted by her was to
be inexpressibly bored. He let her see very plainly that she was only
a part of his pomp and splendour, and that she had nothing to do but
to dress herself to perfection, and excite the envy of his toadies and
familiars. If he gave her costly jewels, it was in order that she might
be an advertisement of his own wealth and importance; and he scowled
at her if she came down to dinner in some simple girlish dress when he
wanted her to swell his magnificence.
"What the doose made you stick those dam' rosebuds in your hair when
Brownjohn the drysalter was over here?" he asked savagely. "What's
the good of a fellow givin' you five or six thousand pounds worth of
diamonds, if you lock 'em up in your jewel-case, and dress yourself up
in white muslin and blue ribbon, like a boardin' school miss tricked
out for a dancin' lesson. Brownjohn's fat old wife had a breastplate of
diamonds that would have looked as yellow as barleysugar beside your
tiara; and Brownjohn is just the sort of man to notice those things."
"But what does it matter how I am dressed?" Flo would inquire; "Mr.
Brownjohn knows how rich you are."
"Perhaps he does, and perhaps he does not. You don't know those
Manchester fellows; they believe in nothing except what they see; and
Brownjohn knows that I have been struck rather heavily within the last
six months."
Mrs. Lobyer in her own secret soul rejoiced that she was not more
intimately acquainted with the idiosyncrasies of Mr. Brownjohn and
other men of his class. She had a faint idea that to be "struck rather
heavily" meant something unpleasant; but as her husband did not invite
her sympathy, she did not consider herself in anyway bound to be uneasy
because of such unpleasantness. If ever she thought about Mr. Lobyer's
financial position, she thought of him as the owner of wealth so
enormous that no mistaken adventure could exhaust or even diminish it
in any palpable manner.
"I don't know why he worries himself about the money-market," she said
to Cecil. "He couldn't spend any more money than he does if his income
were trebled; but I suppose, after reaching a certain point, a man
takes pleasure in the magnitude of his wealth without any reference to
the use he can make of it. I dare say Mr. Lobyer is tired of being a
millionaire--there are so many millionaires nowadays--and a man must be
a millionaire if he wants to be any thing out of the common."
The sixteenth of January began very pleasantly. The breakfast went
off delightfully. The gentlemen mounted their covert hacks at eleven
o'clock, and rode off to the meet, accompanied by a party of blooming
equestrians, with Miss Evershed for their leader, and followed by a
landau filled with older and less adventurous ladies. These ladies
were only to witness the meet, for there were no Diana Vernons at
Pevenshall. Miss Evershed rode superbly, but professed a supreme
contempt for hunting.
"I believe there was a time when a lady could hunt," she said, when the
subject was discussed at the breakfast-table, "and when she knew whom
she was likely to meet at covert. But that is all changed now, and we
leave the sport to people who seem to enjoy it amazingly, and who can
better afford to shake a valuable hunter once or twice in the season
than we could."
Miss Evershed happened to be looking at her host as she gave utterance
to these remarks, and over that gentleman's swarthy complexion there
came a dusky tinge of crimson as he evaded the young lady's fearless
gaze.
"It would be rather hard if the hunting-field wasn't free to good
riders," he muttered. "I'm sure one meets plenty of bad ones there
every day!"
Neither Mrs. Lobyer nor Lady Cecil were among the ladies who rode to
covert; for Florence wanted to read one particular scene in the comedy
for the last time, and she begged her dear Cecil to stay at home until
the afternoon, when they could drive out together.
"They've made me a new set of harness for the grey ponies," Flo said;
"harness with bells. In frosty weather it quite gives one the idea of
a sledge. If it were not for the hunting people, I should wish it were
frosty. We can go out directly after luncheon, Cecil; and I dare say
we shall meet those hunting people somewhere or other in the course of
our drive. In the mean time I shall go and inflict solitary confinement
upon myself while I read over that long scene with the Marquis. I
wonder whether Sir Nugent will be nervous. I'm sure I shall; and if we
are both nervous, the scene will be a failure."
Mrs. Lobyer retired to her own apartments, and Cecil spent her morning
in writing letters. She had heard no mention of Hector Gordon's name
since the afternoon on which the comedy had been read by Sir Nugent
Evershed; and she had done her uttermost to exclude all thought of him
from her mind. But she knew that on the 10th the Fusiliers had left for
Tralee, and that on the same day the Plungers had taken possession of
Chiverley Barracks. There had been some talk about these Indian heroes
amongst callers at Pevenshall, but no special mention of Major Gordon.
She knew that he was near her; that although it was quite possible
that she might leave Yorkshire without having seen him, it was equally
possible that at any moment he might appear before her--a guest in the
house which sheltered her. She had been so accustomed to think of him
as utterly divided from her--the inhabitant of another world--that the
knowledge of his near neighbourhood affected her with a feeling that
was nearly akin to terror.
"What reason have I to be afraid of him?" she asked herself again
and again; but in spite of all reason she was oppressed by some kind
of fear when she thought of the many chances that might bring Hector
Gordon across her path.
Mrs. Lobyer was in her highest spirits at luncheon. The gentlemen were
all away in the hunting-field except Sir Nugent, who had arrived at
Pevenshall an hour or two after breakfast, and had been supervising
the upholsterer's men as they put the finishing touches to the theatre
and dressing rooms. He was to dine and spend the night in Mr. Lobyer's
mansion. After luncheon he escorted the two ladies to their carriage,
patted and admired the pretty grey ponies, and placed the reins in Mrs.
Lobyer's hands.
"You'll not drive far," he said; "remember that as stage-manager I have
some kind of authority; and I must beg that you don't fatigue yourself.
You have your dinner to go through, you know. It will be nine o'clock
before you leave the dining-room; and our performance must commence at
ten. An hour is a very short time for a Pompadour toilette."
"The dinner is a horrible bore," answered Flo; "those Manchester
friends of Mr. Lobyer's care for nothing but dinners; and Manchester
is paramount in this house. Why can't one put one's housekeeper at
the head of the table on such occasions? I'm sure Mrs. Prowen is a
very ladylike person, and I could lend her some of my diamonds. You
don't know how I hate those wearisome banquets, Sir Nugent, with
the eternal Palestine soup, and turbot, and haunches of mutton, and
sparkling moselle, and crystallised fruit, and forced pineapples, and
wax-candles, and that stifling odour peculiar to all dining-rooms,
which seems like a combination of roast meat and rose-water. But give
the ponies their heads, if you please. How long am I to drive?"
She asked the question in her most charming manner, with that
half-coquettish air of submission which is so delightful when evinced
by a very pretty woman towards a man to whom she has no right to defer.
"An hour and a half at the uttermost," answered the Baronet, looking
at his watch. "I shall be on the look-out for your return; and if
you outstay your leave of absence, I shall exercise my authority as
stage-manager, and condemn you to the most awful penance I can imagine.
You shall play Léonie de Presles without your wig."
"That would be a very small penance; I am sure the wig is hideously
ugly, and that I shall look a perfect object in it."
"And I am sure you think no such thing, Mrs. Lobyer. I know you tried
the effect of the wig last night by candlelight, and were charmed with
it; yes, your blushes convict you; and Lady Cecil knows I am right."
Flo shook her head in coquettish protestation, and drove away; the
bells jingling gaily in the frosty air as she went.
"Isn't he nice, Cecil?" she asked presently.
"Who, dear?"
"Sir Nugent, of course."
"Yes, he is very agreeable. But I think----"
"You think what, Cecil? Pray speak out. I can't bear people to begin
sentences they can't finish."
"Perhaps you'll be offended if I speak frankly."
"Oh dear, no, say just what you like. It is my normal state to be
lectured. People never hesitate to say what they please about me and my
goings on."
"I think, dear, you are a little too much inclined to talk to him in
a manner, or to let him talk to you in a manner that is almost like
flirting. I know how difficult it is to draw the line between what is
and what is not flirting; and I dare say you will think me very absurd,
dear----"
"I don't think you at all absurd. I know that I flirt with Sir Nugent
Evershed."
"Flo!"
"Do you think that I am going to pretend about it, or to dispute as to
the exact shade of my iniquity? I talk to Sir Nugent, and I let him
pay me compliments--of course they are the airiest and most elegant
compliments, like the little epigrammatic speeches in a comedy--and I
sing the songs he recommends me to sing, and I read the books he begs
me to read, and I have allowed him to bring me ferns from the fernery
at Howden Park; and I suppose all that constitutes a flirtation of a
very abominable character. But after all, Cecil, why shouldn't I flirt,
if it amuses me to do so?"
"But, Florence----"
"But, Cecil, who cares about my flirtations? Mr. Lobyer does not; and
I suppose if he is satisfied, other people may let me go my own way.
Mr. Lobyer likes to see Sir Nugent dancing attendance upon me, because
Sir Nugent is one of the best men in the county, and his hanging about
Pevenshall improves Mr. Lobyer's position _auprès de_ Manchester.
I know I am a very worthless creature, Cecil; but I am not utterly
iniquitous; and I try to do my duty to my husband after a fashion. If
I saw that my flirting annoyed him, I would turn district-visitor,
and never open my lips except to talk of charity-schools and new iron
churches."
"But how do you know that Mr. Lobyer is not annoyed? Some men are so
reserved upon such points."
"I know that he is almost always at Manchester; and that when he is at
home he is generally in the billiard or smoking-room. Please, Cecil,
don't say any more about it. There are some things that won't bear
talking of. Tell me how you like the bells; they do give you the idea
of a sledge, don't they?"
Nothing could be more charming than the vivacity of Mrs. Lobyer's
manner as she turned to her friend with this frivolous question; and
yet only a moment before she had been very much in earnest, and the
face half averted from Cecil had been a very sad one.
They drove for some miles along a pleasant country road, and then
turned into a lane.
"I think we had better go home by Gorsemoor," said Flo; "I know you
like that wild bleak open country."
They had emerged from the lane on to the wide hard road which skirted
the broad stretch of common land called Gorsemoor, where Flo espied
a little group of country people clustered at a spot where two roads
crossed, and where there was a little wayside inn.
"You may depend they are waiting for some of the hunting-party,"
exclaimed Mrs. Lobyer. "Look out, Cecil; do you see any signs of pink
in the distance?"
"Yes, I see two or three red coats coming across the common, and a
lady."
"A lady? Yes, it is a lady! Who can it be? I know no lady about here
who hunts. It must be a stranger; shall we stop and indulge our
curiosity, Cecil?"
"If you like."
They had reached the cross roads and the little cluster of country
people by this time; and Flo's ponies, which had been driven at a good
pace by that young lady, were by no means disinclined to draw breath.
The country people within a few paces of the carriage looked at the two
ladies. One old gaffer touched his hat, and a woman dropped a curtsey;
but this was only the ordinary deferential greeting given to unknown
"quality." The lady in the pony carriage was not recognised as the
mistress of Pevenshall Place. Gorse Common was just a little outside
the radius within which the influence of Pevenshall reigned supreme.
The red-coats were riding at a leisurely pace, and their horses gave
evidence of having done a good day's work. Flo had not drawn up her
ponies three minutes when the huntsmen and the lady reached the
cross-roads. There were four hunts-men--two stout middle-aged men,
whose tired horses straggled in the rear, and a young man who rode
abreast with the lady by his side. It was upon this lady that the
little cluster of villagers and the two friends in the pony carriage,
as if by common consent, concentrated their attention. She was a very
handsome lady--of the red-and-white school; very red and very white--in
spite of a little blowsiness incidental to a hard day's hunting; she
had a great deal of hair; and if some of the voluminous tresses, which
had escaped from a chenille net and had fallen loose on her shoulders,
did not quite correspond in shade, it was the fault of her hairdresser.
She had bold black eyebrows, and a bush of frizzled ringlets plastered
very low upon her forehead; so low, indeed, that there was scarcely
any thing between the eyebrows and the frizzy hair. Her habit fitted
her exquisitely--if possible, just a little too exquisitely--and there
was more braid about it than is compatible with the strictest pureism
in the ethics of costume. She wore a white chimney-pot hat, with a
black veil, and a stand-up collar of the most masculine type, and the
stand-up collar was fastened with one very large diamond--a diamond
which Florence remembered as the fastening of Mr. Lobyer's collar when
he had first attended the Sunday evenings at the Fountains.
The lady was talking very loudly to the gentleman who rode by her side
as they passed the pony carriage, and neither the gentleman nor the
lady appeared to observe the grey ponies or their owner. This was,
perhaps, fortunate, inasmuch as the gentleman was Mr. Lobyer. He was
laughing quite heartily at something his companion was saying, and had
half turned in his saddle to speak to the two men behind.
"Did you hear her?" he cried triumphantly. "Say what you will, she'll
put a topper on it."
In all Cecil's acquaintance with the master of Pevenshall, she had
never heard him laugh so heartily, or give any such evidence of high
spirits. She had just time enough to see what manner of person the
lady was when the two riders had passed and were gone. The stout men
on the tired horses followed. They were two of the Pevenshall visitors
who talked "money-market" with Mr. Lobyer, and one of them espied
Florence. He lifted his hat, and saluted her as he passed, with abject
confusion visible in every line of his countenance. Young ladies
who put "toppers" upon conversation may be very agreeable, but a man
who devotes himself to their society is apt to expose himself to the
chances of rather awkward encounters.
"Doant yon lassie make Tom Lobyer's money spin?" said the gaffer. "Dick
Stanner tould me as young Lobyer bought yon mare in York after t' last
soommer reaces, and gave close upon fower hundred pound for her. And
they say as the bay hoonter she staked at the early part of the winter
cost nigh upon as mooch. I think t' ould gentleman would turn in his
grave if he could know th' dooks and drakes th' yoong'un is making of
his brass."
"Is that lady in the white hat Mrs. Lobyer?" asked a country woman.
"Loard bless ye heart, no, missis--no more than you be. But I'll tell
you what she is. She's Mr. Lobyer's master. Dick Stanner, one of the
grooms at Howden, he tould me all about her. She lives at Manchester,
she does, most of her time. Miss de Raymond they call her; but she
comes over to Chiverley in the hoonting season. She's got a house they
call a willer, outside Manchester, and keeps her brougham. Dick Stanner
had a friend as lived coachman with her, but he said she was such a
wild cat in her tantrums, he wouldn't have stayed in her service for
ten pound a-week. She'd been a regular out and outer up in London, Dick
says, and had helped to ruin as rich a man as young Lobyer. He picked
her up in town, and Dick says he's more afraid of a black look from her
than----"
Florence whipped her ponies sharply, and they started off at a pace
which startled the little group of country people. She had heard quite
enough in those three minutes during which she had listened almost
involuntarily to the gaffer's discourse. Cecil had laid her hand upon
her friend's arm entreatingly when the old man mentioned Mr. Lobyer's
name, but Flo sat quite still with her eyes fixed on the speaker, and
was not to be aroused from the kind of stupor that had seized her at
sight of the bold red-and-white-faced woman riding by her husband's
side.
They drove some distance on their way homeward before either of the
ladies spoke. To Cecil the situation was cruelly painful. Her heart
bled for the frivolous girl who had sold herself for wealth and
splendour, and of whose future she thought with absolute terror.
What was to become of her? So young, so reckless, so much admired;
surrounded by every species of temptation, and exposed to neglect and
outrage from the husband who should have protected her.
"Perhaps they can be separated on account of this horrible woman,"
Cecil thought as she pondered the matter during the silent drive. "If
Mr. Crawford could only know his son-in-law's conduct, I am sure he
would interfere."
And then she determined, whenever a fitting opportunity arose, to
implore Flo to intrust her father with the story of her wrongs. In the
mean time she looked anxiously at the fair young face half averted
from her, and she saw that although Mrs. Lobyer was very pale, her
countenance wore a look of quiet resolution scarcely to be expected
from so frivolous a person.
"You can understand now, Cecil, how little my flirting with Sir Nugent
can matter to Mr. Lobyer," she said, as they passed the gates of
Pevenshall, speaking for the first time since she had stopped to listen
to the country people's talk.
"Did you know any thing about this before to-day, Flo?"
"I did not know any thing about Miss de Raymond, if that is what you
mean; but I have known that my husband does not care about me ever
since we came back to England. I dare say Miss de Raymond is a very
agreeable person; she seemed to be making them laugh very much. Don't
you think her handsome? I do. And I suppose that white hat with the
black veil is the sort of thing you call _chic_."
"Flory, for Heaven's sake, don't talk like that."
"How should I talk? I mean to be wise in my generation, and take life
lightly. If Mr. Lobyer buys four-hundred-guinea mares for Miss de
Raymond, I suppose Sir Nugent Evershed may bring me maiden's hair from
the Howden fernery. I'm afraid you don't understand modern philosophy,
Cecil. I do; and I mean to be profoundly philosophical. There is Sir
Nugent waiting for us on the terrace. Wasn't it fortunate I insisted on
going out without a groom? Though, for the matter of that, I dare say
they know all about Miss de Raymond in the servants' hall."
The Baronet came down the steps to assist the ladies in dismounting,
while a clanging bell rang in the cupola above the stables, and two
eager grooms ran out to receive the vehicle.
"You have been away two hours, Mrs. Lobyer," said Sir Nugent. "Am I to
blame you or Lady Cecil for this disobedience to managerial orders?"
His airy gaiety jarred upon Cecil; but Flo answered him vivaciously in
her clear ringing voice, and looked at him with a bright smile, though
her face was still colourless.
"How pale you are looking!" he said, with some alarm. "The air has been
too cold for you."
"It is rather cold--a dull, damp, penetrating cold," said Flo, with a
piteous little shiver; "and now I am going for my own reasons to take a
siesta, and I shall forbid any body to come near me."
She glanced at Cecil as she spoke, and ran away, as if she would fain
have avoided the possibility of any further discussion. Cecil and Sir
Nugent went into the house together.
"All the theatrical party are possessed by a kind of fever this
afternoon," said the Baronet. "My Cousin Grace has been walking up and
down the terrace muttering to herself like a sibyl, and George Miniver
has been pacing the picture-gallery in a dramatic frenzy. How little
this evening's visitors will appreciate the agonies we have undergone
for their amusement! As for me, I feel a kind of despairing resignation
to the ordeal that awaits me, such as one can fancy a man may feel
the night before his execution. I have been playing billiards all the
afternoon with some officers from Chiverley, in order to get rid of the
time."
"Some officers from Chiverley." The phrase set Cecil's heart beating
at an abnormal pace. The only officers now at Chiverley were the
Plungers. And yet Lady Cecil O'Boyneville had no right to be affected
by any intelligence relating to the Plungers. She thought of poor Flo's
miserable circumstances, and remembered how much happier her own life
was, even in Bloomsbury. It may be a hard thing to have a husband who
gives his best thoughts to the interests of a soap-boiling company; but
it is infinitely harder to have a husband who devotes his leisure to
the society of a Miss de Raymond.
Cecil went to her own pretty sitting-room, where the candles were
lighted and the fire burning brightly. She took a book, and tried to
read until it was time to dress for dinner; but the thought of Flo's
and her own domestic circumstances came between her and the page. She
was glad when the little clock on the chimney-piece struck half-past
six, and there was some excuse for beginning her toilette for the
eight-o'clock dinner. It was about half-past seven when she went down
stairs, dressed for the evening, and looking very elegant and very
girlish in a fresh toilette of white tulle, with wreath and bouquets of
snowdrops--a costume which had been ordered from a French milliner for
this especial evening, in accordance with a suggestion of Mrs. Lobyer's.
The great drawing-room was blazing with light, and bright with
assembled guests, when Cecil entered it--so bright that its first
effect was eminently bewildering, and the newcomer was glad to gain
the sanctuary of a triangular ottoman on which Clara Evershed and the
sentimental widow were talking scandal under a pyramid of exotics.
"We have been amusing ourselves by the study of Mr. Lobyer's friends,"
said Miss Evershed. "What delightful people they are, and what a
privilege it is to meet them! They have begun to talk about American
finance and the drain of gold already. However, we are not entirely
given over to Manchester. The military element is strong among us.
There are three or four of the Plungers, and amongst them that Major
Gordon, who distinguished himself at Burradalchoodah."
The room, bright and confused before, span round before Cecil's eyes
for a moment, a chaos of light and splendour.
"Is Major Gordon here?" she asked.
"Yes. Do you know him? He is over there by the fireplace, talking to
Nugent and Mr. Lobyer. Don't you think him very handsome? I do; much
handsomer than Nugent; grander and more distinguished; not such a dash
of _petit-maître_ about him; but then no civilian is ever quite equal
to a high-bred military man. I suppose the girls here will allow poor
Nugent a _relâche_, and devote their attention to the Major, who is a
widower, and enormously rich, I am told."
"Yes," Cecil answered quietly; "he is very rich; he is my aunt's
nephew, and a kind of distant connection of my own, I suppose."
Miss Evershed's volubility had given Cecil time to recover her
composure, and to read herself one of those little lectures with which
she had been accustomed of late to school herself. What reason had
she to be agitated? What was it to her that chance had brought Hector
Gordon to Pevenshall? Could there be any one in the room more utterly
a stranger to her than he must be for evermore? She remembered this,
and tried to think of her absent husband-brooding over the details of
Snooks _versus_ Tomkins by his lonely hearth, while she affected to
listen to Miss Evershed's vivacious chatter.
Across the crowd she saw the proud head that had bent over her on the
misty sands. They were strangers--such utter strangers now and for
evermore; but even in that lighted room, amidst the odour of exotics,
the buzz and hum of many voices, the breath of the ocean came back to
her, and like a rushing wind from that unforgotten sea returned the
memory of the past, with all its sorrow and passion, its silent anguish
and despair.