As Isabel had intimated, life at Laburnum Villa was not altogether
hilarious. The environs of London are undeniably pretty, prettier than
those of any other capital in Europe, but there is no shirking the fact
that the Northern suburbs of our great metropolis are somewhat grim and
soul-depressing. Laburnum Villa was in a long street, which resembled
the other streets as one tree resembles another; and you had to
traverse a great many of these streets before you got into the open
country, that is, away from the red-bricked and stucco villas, and
still smaller and uglier houses, which had been run up by the
enterprising jerry-builder.
But Ida would have been glad enough to have gone through this purgatory
to the paradise of country lanes which lay beyond, if she could only
have gone alone; but Mrs. Heron and Isabel never left her alone; they
seemed to consider it their duty to "keep her company," and they could
not understand her desire for the open air, much less her craving for
solitude. Until Ida's arrival, Isabel had never taken a walk for a
walk's sake, and for the life of her she could not comprehend Ida's
love of "trapesing" about the dusty lanes, and over the commons where
there was always a wind, Isabel declared, to blow her hair about. If
she went out, she liked to go up to London, and saunter about the hot
streets, gazing in at the shop windows, or staring enviously at the
"carriage people" as they drove by.
Ida didn't care for London, took very little interest in the shops, and
none whatever in the carriage folks. She was always pining for the
fresh air, the breezy common, the green trees; and on the occasions
when she could persuade Isabel to a country ramble, she walked with
dreamy eyes that saw not the cut-and-dry rusticity of Woodgreen and
Whetstone, but the wild dales and the broad extant of the Cumberland
hills.
She was, indeed, living in the past, and it was the present that seemed
a dream to her. Of course she missed the great house, where she had
ruled as mistress, her horses and her cows and dogs; but what she
missed more than all else was her freedom of motion.
It was the routine, the dull, common routine, of Laburnum Villa which
irked so badly. Neither Mrs. Heron nor Isabel had any resources in
themselves; they had few friends, and they were of the most
commonplace, not to say vulgar type; and a "Tea" at Laburnum Villa
tried Ida almost beyond endurance; for the visitors talked little else
but scandal, and talked it clumsily. Most of Isabel's time was spent in
constructing garments by the aid of paper-patterns which were given
away by some periodical; admirable patterns, which, in skilful hands,
no doubt, produced the most useful results; but Isabel was too stupid
to avail herself of their valuable aid, and must always add something
which rendered the garment _outré_ and vulgar.
Mrs. Heron subscribed to a library, and she and Isabel read the latest
six-shilling novels with avidity, stuffing them under the sofa cushion
at the sound of Mr. Heron's approaching footsteps. They always chose
the worst books, and forgot one as soon as they took up another. Ida
examined one and dropped it with disgust; for it happened to be a
problem novel of the most virulent type, a novel which was selling by
scores of thousands, and one which Isabel had recommended to Ida as
"delicious."
Of all the days, Ida found Sunday the worst; for on that day they went
twice to a little chapel at which Mr. Heron "ministered." It was a tin
chapel, which by its construction and position struck a chill to one's
very bones. Here Mr. Heron ranted and growled to his heart's content;
and Ida learnt from his sanctimonious lips that only a small portion of
mankind, his own sect, to wit, was bound for heaven, and that the rest
of the world was doomed to another place, the horrors of which he
appeared to revel in. As she sat in the uncomfortable pew, Ida often
wondered whether her cousin really believed what he preached, or
whether he was a hypocrite of the first water.
All this was very hard to bear; but a burden still heavier was provided
for her in the conduct of her cousin Joseph. On the evening of her
arrival he had been gracious enough to bestow upon her an admiration of
which she was then unconscious; but his admiration grew, and he began
to pay her what persons of his class call "attentions." He came in much
earlier of an evening than he did before, and he sat beside her, and,
with his small eyes fixed on her pale and downcast face, told her
anecdotes of the office and his fellow-clerks. He was under the
impression that he possessed a voice, and with a certain amount of
artfulness he got her to play his accompaniments, bestowing killing
looks at her as he sang the "Maid of Athens," or "My Pretty June"--with
a false note in every third bar. Sometimes he came home to lunch,
explaining to them that there was nothing doing in the city, and went
with Ida and Isabel on one of their walks. On these occasions he was
got up in a Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers, and enjoyed the
flattering conviction that he looked like a country gentleman. He
addressed his conversation exclusively to Ida, and endeavoured, as he
would have said, to make himself agreeable.
It was all lost upon Ida, whose head was in the clouds, whose mind was
dwelling on the past; but his mother and sister noticed it, and Mrs.
Heron began to sniff by way of disapproval of his conduct. With a
mother's sharp eyes, Mrs. Heron understood why Joseph had launched out
into new suits and brilliant neckties, why he came home earlier than
was his wont, and why he hung about the pale-faced girl who seemed
unconscious of his presence. Mrs. Heron began to feel, as she would
have expressed it, that she had taken a viper into her bosom. She was
ambitious for her only son, and wanted to see him married to one of the
daughters of a retired city man who had settled in Woodgreen. Ida was
all very well, but she was absolutely penniless and not a good enough
match for so brilliant and promising a young man as Joseph. Mrs. Heron
began to regard her with a certain amount of coldness and suspicion;
but Ida was as unconscious of the change in Mrs. Heron's manner as she
was of the cause of Mr. Joseph's attention; to her he was just an
objectionable young man of quite a new and astonishing type, to whom
she was obliged to listen because he was the son of the man whose bread
she ate.
He had often invited Ida to accompany him and Isabel to a _matinée_,
but Ida always declined. Not only was her father's death too recent to
permit of her going to the theatre, but she shrank from all public
places of amusement. When she had left Herondale it had been with the
one desire to conceal herself, and, if possible, to earn her own
living. Mr. Joseph was very sulky over her refusal, and Isabel informed
her that he had been so ill-tempered at the theatre that she did not
know what to make of him.
One day he came in soon after luncheon, and, when Mrs. Heron had left
the room, informed Ida and Isabel that he had got tickets for a concert
at the Queen's Hall that evening.
"It's a sacred concert," he said, "so that you need have no scruples,
Ida. It's a regular swell affair, and I tell you I had great difficulty
in getting hold of the tickets. It's a charity concert got up by the
big nobs of the Stock Exchange, and there'll be no end of swells there.
I got the tickets because the guv'nor's going into the country to
preach to-night, and while the cat's away we can slip out and enjoy
ourselves; not that he'd object to a sacred concert, I suppose,
especially if he were allowed to hold forth during the intervals," he
added, with a sneer.
"It is very kind of you to ask me," said Ida; "but I think I would
rather stay at home."
"I thought you were fond of music," Joseph remarked, beginning to look
sullen. "We shall go quite quietly, and no one need know anything about
it, for I got tickets for the upper circle and not the stalls on
purpose; and they're in a back row. I thought you'd enjoy this concert,
and if you don't go I shall tear up the tickets."
"Oh, do let us go, Ida!" pleaded Isabel. "A sacred concert isn't as
good as a theatre, but it will be a break in the monotony; besides,
Joseph must have had a lot of trouble to get the tickets, for I read in
the paper that there was a regular rush for them. Don't be selfish,
Ida, and spoil our enjoyment."
"I wish you would go without me," said Ida, with a sigh; but ultimately
she yielded.
Mrs. Heron, of course, knew that they were going, but she was not told
in so many words, that she might deny all knowledge of it if the outing
came to Mr. Heron's ears; and she watched them with a peevish and
suspicious expression on her face as they started for the train. They
went up second-class, and Mr. Joseph, who was in the best of humours,
and wore a new pair of patent-leather boots and a glossy hat, to say
nothing of a dazzling tie, enlivened the journey by whispering
facetious remarks on their fellow-passengers to Ida, who in vain leant
away from him, as far as possible, in her corner of the carriage, and
endeavoured to concentrate her attention on the programme. But though
her eyes were fixed on it and she could not entirely shut out Joseph's
ill-bred jokes, her thoughts were wandering back to a certain afternoon
when she had sat beside the Heron stream and listened to Stafford
planning out their future. He had been telling her something of the
great world of which she knew nothing, but into which he was going to
take her, hand in hand, as it were; he was going to take her to the
theatres and the concerts and the dances of which she had read and
heard, but of which she knew nothing by experience. Now, she was going
to her first concert with Mr. Joseph Heron.
There was a larger crowd than usual outside Queen's Hall that evening,
for the concert was really an important one for which some of the
greatest singers had been engaged. In addition to Patti, Santley,
Edward Lloyd, and other famous professionals, some distinguished
amateurs were to perform, and royalty, as represented by the
ever-popular and amiable prince, had promised to patronise the affair.
"Quite a swell show, ain't it?" said Joseph, as he pushed his way into
the crowd and looked over his shoulder at the long line of carriages
setting down their occupants. "I'm glad you consented to come; it would
have been a pity if you'd missed it."
"I hope we shall be able to see the prince from our seats!" said
Isabel, whose eyes were more widely open than usual, and her mouth half
agape with excitement. "I'm always stuck in some corner where I can't
see them, when the royal family's present."
They succeeded in making their way into the hall, and after Joseph had
held a dispute with the man who had shown them into their place, and
who had muddled the tickets and their numbers, they settled down, and
Ida looked round.
Though their seats were in the third row, she could see nearly the
whole of the large hall, and she found the sight a novel and impressive
one. Her interest increased as the admirable band played the first
number with the precision and feeling for which the orchestra at the
Queen's Hall is famous. In the interval between the selection and the
song which was to follow, Joseph pointed out some of the celebrities
who were present, and whom he recognised by their portraits in the
illustrated papers.
"Regular swell mob, isn't it?" he said, exultingly; "there isn't a seat
in the house, excepting those three in the stalls, and I suppose
they'll be filled up presently by some swells or other; they always
come late. Aren't you glad you've come?" he added, with a languishing
glance.
Amidst a storm of welcome, Patti came forward to sing, and Ida,
listening with rapture, almost forgot her sorrow as she passed under
the spell of the magic voice which has swayed so many thousands of
hearts. During the cries of encore, and unnoticed by Ida, three
persons, a lady and two gentlemen, entered the stalls, and with a good
deal of obsequiousness, were shown by the officials into the three
vacant seats.
One great singer followed rapidly after another, and Ida, with slightly
flushed face and eyes that were dim with unshed tears--for the
exquisite music thrilled her to the core--leant back, with her hands
tightly clasped in her lap, her thoughts flying back to Herondale and
those summer evenings which, in some strange way, every song recalled.
She was unconscious of her surroundings, even of the objectionable
Joseph, who sat beside her as closely as he could; and she started
slightly as he whispered:
"Those seats are filled up now. I wonder who they are? They look
classy--particularly so."
Ida nodded mechanically, and paid no heed. Presently Joseph, who was
one of those individuals who can never sit still or be silent for long
at a theatre or concert, nudged Ida and said: "Look! there is one of
them standing up! Why, I believe it is--" He borrowed an opera-glass
from the man sitting in front of him and levelled it at the stalls. One
of the new-comers, one of the gentlemen, had risen from his seat, and
with his back to the platform, was scanning the house with a pleasant
smile on his handsome face. "Yes, it is!" exclaimed Joseph, excitedly.
"It's Sir Stephen Orme! Here, take the glasses and look at him! That
gentleman looking round the house, the one standing up with the white
waistcoat, the one that came in with the other two! That's the great
Sir Stephen himself! I saw him once in the city; besides, I've seen his
portraits everywhere. That's the man who has created more excitement on
the Stock Exchange than any man in our time."
Ida took the glasses which he had thrust into her hand and held it to
her eyes; but her hand shook, and for a moment or two she could
distinguish nothing; then, as the mist passed away and her hand grew
steadier, so that she could see Sir Stephen, he bent down and said
something to the lady sitting beside him. She looked round, and Ida saw
distinctly, and for the first time, though fashionable London was
tolerably familiar with it now, the beautiful face of Maude Falconer.
With her heart beating painfully Ida looked at her, noting with a
woman's quickness every detail of the handsome face with its wealth of
bronze-gold hair. A presentiment flashed into her mind and weighed upon
her heart as she looked, a presentiment which was quickly verified, for
the man on the other side of the beautiful woman rose and looked round
the house, and Ida saw that it was Stafford.
Her hand gripped the opera-glass tightly, for it was in danger of
falling. She felt as if she were stifling, the great place, with its
sea of faces and its rings of electric light, swam before her eyes, and
she felt sick and giddy. It seemed to her that Stafford was looking
straight at her, that he could not fail to see her, and she shrank back
as far as the seat would allow, and a sigh that was a gasp for breath
escaped her lips, which had grown almost as white as her face. In
taking the glasses from her, Joseph noticed her pallor.
"What's the matter?" he asked. "Do you feel ill? It's beastly hot.
Would you like to come outside?"
"No, no," she panted, with difficulty. "It is the heat--I am all right
now--I beg of you not to move--not to speak to me."
She fought against the horrible faintness, against the shock which had
overwhelmed her; she bit her lips to force the colour back to them, and
tried to keep her eyes from the tall figure, the handsome face against
which she had so often pressed her own; but she could not; it was as if
they were drawn to it by a kind of fascination. She saw that he looked
pale and haggard, and that the glance with which he swept the house was
a wearied one, in strange contrast to the smiling, complacent, and even
triumphant one of his father.
"Are you all right now?" asked Joseph. "I wish I'd brought a bottle of
smelling-salts. Will you come out and get something to drink--water
--brandy? No? Sure you're all right? Did you see Sir Stephen?
I wonder who the lady is beside him? Some swell or other, I'll
be bound. The other man must be Sir Stephen's son, for he's like him.
He's almost as great a personage as Sir Stephen himself; you see his
name amongst those of people of the highest rank in the fashionable
columns in the newspapers. The lady's got beautiful 'air, hasn't she?"
he went on, after a pause. "Not that I admire that colour myself; I'm
gone on black 'air." He glanced insinuatingly at Ida's.
When the interval expired, Sir Stephen and Stafford resumed their seat,
and, with a sigh of relief, Ida tried to listen to the music; but she
could hear Stafford's voice through it, and was obliged to shut her
eyes that she might not see him. Instinctively, and from Jessie's
description, she knew that the beautiful girl, with the complexion of a
lily and the wealth of bronze-gold hair, was Maude Falconer. Why was
she with Sir Stephen and Stafford? Was it, indeed, true that they were
engaged? Up to the present moment she had cherished a doubt; but now it
seemed impossible to doubt any longer. For how many minutes, hours,
years would she have to sit with those two before her, her heart racked
with the pangs of jealousy, with the memory of happier days, with the
ghastly fact that he had gone from her life forever, and that she was
sitting there a spectator of his faithlessness. Every song seemed to
mock her wretchedness, and she had to battle with the mad desire to
spring to her feet and cry aloud.
In a kind of dream she heard the strains of the national anthem, and
saw Stafford rise with the rest of the audience, and watched him as he
drew the costly cloak round Maude Falconer's white shoulders; in a
dream allowed Joseph to draw her arm through his and lead her down the
crowded staircase into the open air.
"Splendid concert!" he said, triumphantly. "But you look tired, Ida.
We'll have a cab to the station. But let's wait a minute and see the
prince come out."
They stood in the crowd which had formed to stare at his royal
highness; and as luck would have it, Stafford, with Maude Falconer on
his arm, and followed by Sir Stephen, passed in front of them, and so
close that Ida shrank back in terror lest Stafford should see her. Some
of the crowd, some Stock Exchange people probably, recognised Sir
Stephen, and spoke his name aloud, and a cheer arose. He bowed and
smiled and shook his head in a deprecatory way, and Ida saw Stafford's
face darken with a frown, as if he were ashamed of the publicity, as he
hurried Maude Falconer to the carriage. A moment or two after, the
prince appeared, there was an excited and enthusiastic burst of
cheering; and at last Joseph forced his way out of the crowd and found
a cab.
They had some little time to wait for the train, and Joseph, after
vainly pressing some refreshment on Ida, went into the refreshment-room
and got a drink for himself and a cup of coffee for Isabel, while Ida
sank back into a corner of the carriage and waited for them. Joseph
talked during the whole of the journey in an excited fashion, darting
glances every now and then from his small eyes at the white face in the
corner. When they got out at the station, he offered Ida his arm and
she took it half-unconsciously. The path was too narrow to permit of
three to walk abreast, and Joseph sent Isabel on in front; and on some
trivial excuse or another contrived to lag some little distance behind
her. Every now and then he pressed Ida's arm more closely to his side,
looking at her with sidelong and lingering glances, and at last he
said, in a kind of whisper, so that Isabel should not hear:
"I hope you've enjoyed yourself, Ida, and that you're glad you came? I
don't know when I've had such a jolly night, and I hope we may have
many more of them. Of course you know why I'm so happy? It's because
I've got you with me. Life's been a different thing for me since you
came to live with us; but I dessay you've seen that, haven't you?" He
laughed knowingly.
"I have seen--what?" asked Ida, trying to rouse herself and to pay
attention to what he was saying.
"I say I suppose you've seen how it is with me, Ida, and why I am an
haltered being? It is you who have done it; it's because I'm right down
in love with you. There, I've said it now! I've been going to say it
for days past; but, somehow, though I dessay you don't mean it, you
seem so cold and standoffish, and quite different to other girls when a
man pays them attention. But I dessay you understand now, and you'll
treat me differently. I'm awfully in love with you, Ida, and I don't
see why we shouldn't be engaged. I'm getting on at the office, and if I
can squeeze some money out of the guv'nor, I shall set up for myself.
Of course, there'll be a pretty how-d'y-do over this at home, for
they're always wanting me to marry money, and unfortunately you've lost
yours. Not that I mind that, mind you. I believe in following the
dictates of your 'eart, and I know what my 'eart says. And now what do
_you_ say, Ida?"
And he pressed her arm and looked into her face with a confident smile.
Ida drew her disengaged hand across her brow and frowned, as if she
were trying to grasp his meaning.
"I--I beg your pardon, Joseph," she said. "I didn't quite understand--I
was thinking of something else. You were asking me--"
He reddened and pushed his thick lips out with an expression of
resentment.
"Well, I like that!" he said, uneasily, but with an attempt at a laugh.
"I've just been proposing to you--asking you to be my wife; and you're
going to, aren't you?"
Ida drew her arm from his, and regarded him with stony amazement. For
the moment she really thought that either he had been drinking too much
spirits at the refreshment-room at the station and that it was an
elaborate joke on his part, or that she had lost her senses and was
imagining a hideously ridiculous speech, too absurd and grotesque for
even Joseph to have uttered. Then she saw by his face that he was sober
and that he had actually proposed to her, and, in a kind of
desperation, she laughed.
He had been going to take her arm again, but his hand fell to his side,
and he looked at her with a mixture of astonishment and indignation,
with such an expression of wounded vanity and resentment, that Ida felt
almost forced to laugh again; but she checked the desire, and said, as
gently and humbly as she could:
"I--I beg your pardon, Joseph. I thought it was a--a joke. I am very
sorry. But though you didn't mean it as a jest, it is, of course,
absurd. I don't think you quite know what you were saying; I am quite
sure you don't mean it--"
"Oh, yes, but I do!" he broke in eagerly, and with a little air of
relief. "I'm in earnest, 'pon my word, I am. I'm awfully in love with
you; and if you'll say yes, I'll stand up to the guv'nor and make it
all square for you."
"But I say 'No,'" said Ida, rather sternly, her lips setting tightly,
her eyes flashing in the darkness, which, fortunately for Joseph, hid
them from his sight. "Please do not speak to me in this way again."
"But look here!" he stammered, his face red, his thick lips twisted in
an ugly fashion, "do you know what you're doing--saying?"
"Yes," she said, more sternly than before. "I think it is you who do
not know what you are saying. You cannot mean to insult me. I beg your
pardon, Joseph. I do not mean to be angry, to hurt your feelings. I
think you mean to pay me a great honour; and I--I thank you; but I
cannot accept it. And please take this as my final answer, and never,
never, speak to me again in this manner."
"Do you mean to say--" he began angrily.
"Not another word, please," said Ida, and she hurried forward so that
they came within hearing of Isabel.
Nothing more was said until they reached Laburnum Villa. Mrs. Heron was
waiting up for them, and was expressing a hope that they had enjoyed
themselves--she had a woollen shawl round her shoulders and spoke in an
injured voice and with the expression of a long-suffering martyr--when
she caught sight of Joseph's angry and sullen face as he flung himself
into a chair and thrust his hands in his pockets, and she stopped short
and looked from him to Ida, and sniffed suspiciously and aggressively.
"Oh, yes," said Joseph, with an ugly sneer and a scowl at Ida as she
was leaving the room, "we have had a very happy time--some of us--a
particularly happy time, I don't think!"