When Ida went upstairs for the wash, the need for which Miss Isabel had
so kindly informed her of, she found that her room was clean and fairly
comfortable, though its appearance seemed strange after the huge and
old-fashioned one at the Hall. The furniture was cheap and
unsubstantial, the towels were small and thin; in place of pictures,
aggressively illuminated texts scarred the walls like freshly made
wounds, and the place had a bare, homeless look which made Ida shudder.
The dining-room, when she went down to it, did not impress her any more
favourably; for here, too, the furniture was new and shiny with a
sticky kind of shininess, as if the treacly varnish had not yet dried;
there was not a comfortable chair in the room; the pictures were the
most gruesome ones of Doré's, and there was a text over the
mantel-piece as aggressive and as hideous in colouring as those in her
room. A lukewarm leg of mutton, very underdone, was on the table, the
cloth of which was by no means clean; the dishes, which contained quite
cold vegetables, were cracked and did not match; the bread was of the
commonest kind, that which is called "household;" the knives were badly
cleaned, and the plate was worn off the forks and spoons. It was
considered inelegant to have gas in the dining-room, therefore a cheap
paraffin-lamp was in the centre of the table, and was more liberal of
scent than light. The curtains to the window were of that annoying red
which shrieks down any other colour near it; they made Ida's tired eyes
ache.
While she was trying to eat the slice of gory mutton, Mrs. Heron and
Isabel watched her, as if she were some aboriginal from a wild and
distant country, and they shot glances at each other, uneasy,
half-jealous, half-envious glances, as they noted the beauty of the
face, and the grace of the figure in its black dress, which, plain as
it was, seemed to make theirs still more dowdy and vulgar. In the midst
of this lugubrious account of the annoyances and worries of the
journey, Mr. Heron broke off to ask:
"Where is Joseph? He is late to-night."
"He is kept at the office," replied his mother. "Poor boy! I hope he is
not working too hard; he has been kept nearly every night this week."
Isabel smiled at Ida, for what reason Ida could not guess; and while
she was wondering, there came a knock at the outer door, and presently
Joseph entered.
He was an unprepossessing young man with small eyes and thick lips,
over which it would have been wise of him to wear a big moustache; but
it was the fashion in the city to be clean-shaven, and Mr. Joseph
considered himself the pink of fashion. His clothes fitted him too
tightly, he wore cheap neckties, and ready-made boots, of course, of
patent leather. His dark hair was plastered on the low, retreating
forehead; his face was flushed instead of being, as one would expect,
pale from overwork.
Ida disliked him at the first glance, and disliked him still more at
the second, as she caught his shifty eyes fixed on her with a curious
and half-insolently admiring expression.
He came round and shook hands--his were damp and cold like his
father's--as Mr. Heron introduced them, and in a voice which
unpleasantly matched his face, said that he was glad to see her.
"Tired, Joseph, dear?" murmured his mother, regarding him with a
mixture of pride and commiseration.
"Oh, I'm worn out, that's what I am," he said, as he sank into a chair
and regarded the certainly untempting food with an eye of disfavour.
"Been hard at it all the evening"--he spoke with a Cockney, city
accent, and was rather uncertain about his aspirates--"I work like a
nigger."
"Labour is prayer," remarked his father, as if he were enunciating
something strikingly original. "Nothing is accomplished without toil,
my dear Joseph."
My dear Joseph regarded his father with very much the same expression
he had bestowed upon the mutton.
"And how do you like London, Cousin Ida?" he asked.
He hesitated before the "Cousin Ida," and got it out rather defiantly,
for there was something in the dignity of this pale, refined face which
awed him. It was perhaps the first time in his life Mr. Joseph had sat
at the same table with a lady; for Mr. John Heron had married beneath
him, and for money; and in retiring from the bar, at which he had been
an obvious failure, had sunk down to the society of his wife's class.
"I have seen so little of it," replied Ida. "I have only passed through
London twice, on my way from France to Herondale, and from Herondale
here." Mr. Joseph was duly impressed by the sound of Herondale.
"Oh, you must tell me all about your old home," he said, with an air of
overconfidence to conceal his nervousness; "and we must show you about
London a bit; it's a tidy little place."
He grinned with an air of knowingness, and seemed rather disconcerted
that Ida did not return his smile.
"Shall I give you some water, Ida?" said Mr. Heron. "I regret that I
cannot offer you any wine. We have no intoxicants in the house. We are
all total abstainers, on principle."
The other members of the family looked down uncomfortably, and, to
Ida's surprise, as if they were ashamed.
"Thank you," she said; "I do not care for wine."
"I am afraid there are a great many things you will miss here," said
Mr. Heron. "We are a plain, but I trust, Godfearing family, and we are
content with the interest which springs from the daily round, the
common task. You will find no excitements at Laburnum Villa."
Ida, as she glanced at the family, could not help feeling that they
were indeed plain, but she made haste to say that she did not need any
excitements and that her life had hitherto been devoid of them. They
seemed to think that it was the proper thing to sit round the table
while she was making her pretence of a meal; but when it was finished,
Mr. Joseph stretched himself out in what was erroneously called an
easy-chair, and proceeded to monopolise the conversation.
"Regular busy time in the city," he remarked to his father. "Never saw
such a hum. It's all over this boom in South Africa. They're floating
that new company I was telling you about, and the Stock Exchange is
half wild about it. They say the shares will run to a hundred per cent.
premium before the week's out; and if you've got any money to spare,
guv'nor, I should recommend you to have a little flutter; for it's a
certainty."
Mr. Heron seemed to prick up his ears with an amount of worldly
interest which scarcely harmonised with his saintly character.
"What company is that?" he asked Joseph.
"The company started to work Sir Stephen Orme's," replied Joseph,
thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, and stretching out his legs
still farther so that he could admire his large, patent-leather clad
feet. "It's about the biggest thing on record, and is going to sweep
the market. All the big 'uns are in it, Griffenberg and Wirsch and the
Beltons. They say Sir Stephen has made half a million of money out of
it already, and that he will make a couple of millions before he has
done with it. There was a rumour in the city to-day that he was to get
a peerage; for it's a kind of national affair, you see."
Ida was sitting beyond the radius of the light from the evil-smelling
lamp, so that the others did not perceive the sudden pallor of her
face. It seemed to her a cruel fate that she could not escape, even
here, so many miles away from Herondale, from the reminder of the man
she had loved and lost. The name struck on her heart like a stroke
causing actual physical pain. She sat perfectly still, her hands
clasped tightly in her lap, as the wave of misery swept over her.
"Here is an instance of toil rewarded," said Mr. Heron, promptly
improving the occasion. "The labourer is worthy of his hire; and no
doubt Sir Stephen Orme, by bringing vast tracts under the beneficent
influence of civilisation, merits the approval of his sovereign and a
substantial reward at the hands of his fellow-subjects. Let us trust
that he will use his wealth and high position for the welfare of the
heathen who rage in the land which he has--er--"
"Collared," put in Mr. Joseph, in an undertone and with a grin.
--"Added to the queen's dominions," said Mr. Heron. "I will consider
about the shares. I do not approve of speculation--the pursuit of
Mammon--but as I should use the money for charitable purposes, I may on
this occasion--"
"Better make up your mind pretty soon," remarked Joseph, with a yawn.
"There's a rush for them already."
"Now that the gentlemen have got on to business, my dear, I think we
had better retire to the drawing-room," said Mrs. Heron, with an
attempt at the "grand lady."
They returned to that apartment--Mr. Joseph did not open the door for
them--and Mrs. Heron and Isabel at once started on a series of
questions calculated to elicit all the details of Ida's past life, her
father's death and her present deplorable condition. Women can be much
more merciless than men in this kind of inquisition; and Ida, weary in
mind and body and spirit, suffered acutely under the ordeal. The two
women did not intend to be unkind--they were really sorry for the
homeless orphan; they were prepared to like her; they reluctantly and
grudgingly admired her beauty and her grace, and had a sneaking kind of
awe of her higher social position, of which they were reminded by every
word she spoke, the high-bred accent, and that indescribable air of
delicacy and refinement which indicate good birth; but they were
devoured by curiosity as to her mode of life and her friends, a
curiosity which they were too vulgar, too inconsiderate to restrain. So
poor Ida had to describe the Hall, and the servants, and the way she
managed the farm, and the way in which she rode about Herondale.
They were very much impressed, specially so when she mentioned Lord and
Lady Bannerdale's kind offer, and they exchanged glances as the titles
left Ida's lips "quite as naturally as if they were common names," as
Mrs. Heron afterwards remarked to Isabel.
"I'm afraid you'll find it very dull here, Ida," said Mrs. Heron, with
a sniff. "You won't find any society in Woodgreen; they're nearly all
city people, and there aren't many large houses--this is as large as
most--and John is very strict." She sighed; and it was evident to Ida
that though her cousin John's "religion" might be some amusement to
him, it was rather a bugbear and nuisance to his family. "But we must
get Joseph to take you about; and perhaps you and Isabel might go to a
_matinée_ or two; but John mustn't know anything about it."
Ida made haste to assure them that she did not need any amusement, that
she preferred to be quiet, and that she hoped her cousin Joseph would
not take any trouble on her account. At this point Mr. Heron and his
elegant son came in, a bell was rung, and the two servants came up for
family prayers. Ida noticed that both the maids looked bored and
discontented, and that the "parlour maid," a mere bit of a girl,
appeared to be tired out. Mr. Heron read a portion of Scripture and
offered up a long prayer in a harsh and rasping voice, with the manner
of a judge pronouncing a sentence of seven years; and as the servants
were leaving the room, called them back, and remarked sternly:
"I notice in the housekeeping book that a larger quantity of candles
than usual has been used during the past week, and I fear that there
has been grievous waste of this useful article. Do not let it occur
again."
The servants went out suddenly, and Mrs. Heron suggested, much to Ida's
relief, that Ida would no doubt like to go to bed.
While Ida was brushing her hair and fighting against the natural fit of
depression caused by her introduction to this cheerful household, there
came a knock at the door, and she admitted Mrs. Heron. That lady was in
a soiled dressing-gown, bought at a sale and quite two sizes too large
for her, and with a nervous flush, she took from under this capacious
garment a small decanter of wine.
"I thought you might like a little, my dear," she said, as Ida eyed it
with astonishment. "Of course we are all total abstainers here, but we
keep a little in the house for medicinal purposes, unknown to John; and
it's a great comfort sometimes when you're tired and in low spirits.
Let me give you a glass."
Ida would have liked to have accepted it, and was sorry that her
refusal seemed to disappoint Mrs. Heron, who retired as nervously as
she had entered. A few minutes afterwards, before Ida had got over her
astonishment at the incident, there came another knock at the door, and
Isabel entered in a dressing-gown which was own sister to Mrs. Heron's.
"I thought there might be something you wanted," she said, her bold
eyes wandering over Ida curiously, and then roaming to the contents of
Ida's dressing-bag which glittered and shone on the dressing-table.
"What long hair you have! Do you brush it every night? I don't mine,
not every night; it's too much trouble. Are the tops of all those
things real silver? What a lot of money they must have cost! What a
pretty _peignoir_ you have on: is it real lace? Yes, I see it is. You
have nice things!" with an envious sigh. "Don't you ever have more
colour than you've got now? Or perhaps it's because you're tired. You
must be quite knocked up, when I come to think of it." She dropped her
voice and glanced round cautiously. "Would you like to have a little
brandy-and-water? I've got same in my room--of course the rest don't
know anything about it, father's teetotal mad--but I keep a little for
when I'm tired and down in the mouth; and when I run out I get some
from Joseph's room. Of course, he isn't a total abstainer. I daresay
you guessed that directly you saw him to-night, and weren't taken in by
his 'late at the office' business?"
Ida looked at her in amazement, and Isabel laughed knowingly.
"Joseph goes to the theatre and plays billiards," she said, with
sisterly candour. "He works it very cleverly; he's artful, Joseph is,
and he takes father and mother in nicely; but sometimes I find a
theatre programme in his pocket, and marks of chalk on his coat. Oh, I
don't blame him! The life we lead in this house would make a cat sick.
It's like being on a tread-mill; nothing happens; it's just one dreary
round, with mother always whining and father always preaching. You
heard what he said to the servants to-night? I wonder they stand it. I
should go out of my mind myself if I didn't get a little amusement
going up to the shops and sneaking into a _matinée_ on the sly. I'm
sure I don't know how you'll stand it, after the life you've led. What
do you use for your hair? It's so soft and silky. I wish I had black
hair like yours. Do you put anything on your hands? They're rather
brown; but that's because you've lived in the open air so much, I
suppose. I'll lend you some stuff I use, if you like."
Ida declined the brandy and the infallible preparation for whitening
the hands; and not at all discouraged, Isabel went on:
"Were there any young men at Herondale? You didn't say anything about
them down-stairs, but I thought perhaps you would like to tell me when
we were alone. I suppose there was someone you were sorry to part
from?" she added, with an inviting smile.
Ida repressed a shudder and plied her brush vigorously, so that her
hair hid the scarlet which suffused her face.
"I knew so few of the people," she said. "As I told you down-stairs, my
father and I led the most secluded of lives, and saw scarcely anyone."
Isabel eyed Ida sharply and suspiciously.
"Oh, well, of course, if you don't like to tell me," she said, with a
little toss of her head; "but perhaps it's too soon; when we know each
other better you'll be more open. I'm sure I shall be glad of someone
to tell things to."
She sighed, and looked down with a sentimental air; but Ida did not
rise to the occasion; and with a sigh of disappointment, and a last
look round, so that nothing should escape her, Isabel took her
departure, and Ida was left in peace.
Tired as she was, it was some time before she could get to sleep. The
change in her life had come so suddenly that she felt confused and
bewildered. It had not needed Joseph Heron's mention of Sir Stephen
Orme's name to bring Stafford to her mind; for he was always present
there; and she lay, with wide-open eyes and aching heart, repeating to
herself the letter he had sent her, and wondering why he who, she had
thought, loved her so passionately, had left her. Compared with this
sorrow, and that of her father's death, the smaller miseries of her
present condition counted as naught.