MARION IS RAISED TO DISTINCTION.
Sir Wilford, clad in the latest fashion in checks, a rough and fleecy
raiment which his father would have deemed better suited to clothe
his gamekeeper or groom than himself, and mounted on Bull of Bashan,
is a sight to behold this winter afternoon as he trots gaily down
the wide avenue at the How, and emerges therefrom on a bold and open
country. The Bull is a little fresh this afternoon, which, being
interpreted, means that the grooms have been too lazy to take the
superfluous energy out of that amiable animal for the last two days,
whereby the Bull behaves like a quadruped newly introduced to a
strange country, where all sights and sounds, colours and shapes of
objects, lights and shadows, are new to him. He shies ferociously at
every trunk in the long line of elms, and indulges in a serpentine
movement for the length of the avenue. He takes objection to the
colour of the gravel where the road has been mended; and on suddenly
beholding the white gate, which he ought to know as well as his own
manger, recoils on his haunches, and curls himself up into a ball,
and in this shape canters furiously into the road, startling the lazy
waggoner asleep upon his wain, and rousing a flight of rooks from
their afternoon repose by the clatter of his iron shoes. The cawing
of the rooks finishes the Bull altogether, and sends him off like a
maniac, or demoniacally possessed animal; but Sir Wilford having now
got him into the open country is able to ‘take it out of him’ over
a fine stretch of moorland, and brings him back to the high road a
couple of miles further off, a subdued and subjugated beast, willing
to settle into a comfortable trot, which, with an occasional interval
of walking, carries Sir Wilford into Redcastle by afternoon tea-time,
that pleasant hour betwixt day and night, when labour rests, or
should rest, from its cares, and the household music of the kettle
singing on the hob speaks peace to the soul of the weary.
Mr. Trenchard is taking afternoon tea with his two nieces, Sibyl and
Marion, in the firelit drawing-room at Lancaster Lodge, a room which,
like most other rooms, looks its best by that uncertain light, now
gorgeous in the glow of crimson and gold, anon wrapped in shadow.
Marion has been invited to spend the day; the two girls have employed
the short winter afternoon in a review of Sibyl’s last new dresses,
an inspection which has not been conducive to the younger sister’s
peace of mind or good temper.
At the announcement of Sir Wilford Cardonnel however, Marion
brightens a little, and is glad.
‘How lucky he should have called to-day!’ she thinks. ‘Sibyl is
too mean to ask me here on purpose to see him, and now he must be
introduced to me and I can talk about knowing him as well as Sibyl.
What will Maria Harrison say, I wonder, when I tell her that I am
quite intimate with Sir Wilford Cardonnel?’
Marion little knows the mighty honour which fate has reserved for
her--little dreams that by the happy accident of her presence at
Lancaster Lodge this afternoon she is to be raised to a giddy height
of grandeur, from which she will hardly be able to glance downwards
without vertigo.
Sir Wilford is presented to Miss Marion Faunthorpe in due form by
Mr. Trenchard, and the conversation becomes at once general and
sprightly, glancing upon such original topics as the probability of
a hard frost before long, the advantage of the present weather from
a sporting point of view, the health and well-being of the baronet’s
stud, the superlative virtues and capabilities of his latest equine
purchase, the probability of a day’s good racing at Tilberry.
‘You ought to see Tilberry steeplechase,’ says Sir Wilford. ‘Tilberry
Common’s only three miles from the How, you know, and it’s an
uncommonly good day’s sport, gentlemen jocks, and that kind of thing.
I’ve ridden there myself, but I didn’t enter anything this year. You
ought really, you know, Miss Faunthorpe; in point of fact, I came
over here this afternoon on purpose to ask you and Mr. Trenchard to
come and stay with us next week. My sister gave me a letter for you.
She’s dreadfully anxious for you to come, and I think the change of
air would do Mr. Trenchard good. We stand a good bit higher than you
do, you know, and get a sniff off the moors,--remarkably healthy,
that kind of thing, I’m told. Do say yes now, Mr. Trenchard,’ he
urges, handing Sibyl the letter.
‘I’m afraid my dear uncle’s health won’t permit him to leave home,’
answers Sibyl. ‘He has been quite an invalid lately, you know, Sir
Wilford.’
‘All the more reason he should have change of air--brace him up, you
know. Capital thing for invalids, moorland air. And if Miss Mary
Ann----’
‘Marion,’ interjects that young lady. Not even by Sir Wilford
Cardonnel will she submit to be called Mary Ann.
‘If Miss Miriam----’
‘Marion.’
‘I beg your pardon, I’m shaw. If Miss Marion will come I shall be
delighted, and I’m sure my sister will be quite awfully glad.’
Marion blushes crimson with delight at such an invitation.
‘You’re too kind,’ she gasps. ‘I positively doat upon races.’
‘I shouldn’t have thought your passion for them had had time to reach
such a height,’ says Sibyl, sneeringly, ‘since you never were at a
race in your life before last year’s summer meeting.’
She is provoked at Marion’s eagerness to accept an invitation, the
acceptance of which can only bring embarrassment upon her, Sibyl.
‘That means you’ll come,’ exclaims Sir Wilford, answering Marion,
‘and, of course, if you say yes, Miss Faunthorpe can’t say no.
Sisters always think alike--two cherries on one stalk, like Juno’s
swans, together and inseparable, you know; and now we only want Mr.
Trenchard’s acquiescence.’
‘I should be a churl to refuse so hospitable an invitation, and to
deprive these girls of so much pleasure,’ replies Stephen Trenchard.
‘Bravo!’ cries Sir Wilford; ‘then it’s all settled. You’ll come next
Saturday?’
‘I don’t think I could be ready by Saturday,’ murmurs Marion, with
an awful fear upon the subject of her wardrobe, which will need
herculean labours of cutting and contriving, and some expenditure of
cash, before it can be fit for the halls of Cardonnel.
‘Pray, dear uncle, do not think of us,’ says Sibyl, ‘I don’t at all
care about races, and, much as I appreciate Miss Cardonnel’s kind
invitation, I really would rather not accept it, for fear the fatigue
and the excitement should be too much for you.’
‘Nasty thing,’ thinks Marion, ‘she refuses just because I’m invited.’
‘Artful puss,’ thinks Stephen, ‘she keeps him on by holding him off.’
‘Don’t be afraid about your uncle, Miss Faunthorpe,’ says Sir
Wilford, ‘we shall be awfully careful of him.’
‘I’m not quite so decrepid as my niece thinks me,’ says Mr.
Trenchard, ‘and I shall quite enjoy a few days at the How.’
‘That’s glorious,’ cries Sir Wilford. ‘On Saturday, then. You’ll
drive over in time for luncheon? Be sure you bring your habit, Miss
Faunthorpe. I’ve a chestnut mare that will suit you to perfection.
And I can mount you too, Miss Marion, if you like riding?’
‘I positively adore it,’ gushes Marion. ‘Sibyl and I used to take it
in turns to ride uncle Robert’s pony when we were little things. I
was so sorry when the pony grew too small for us.’
Sir Wilford, having settled this important question, and drunk three
cups of tea, chiefly for the pleasure of having his cup and saucer
handed him by Sibyl, departs, leaving the elder sister heavy-hearted,
the younger in a state of wild excitement, which her natural awe of
Stephen Trenchard can hardly subdue.
‘What am I to do about my things, Sibyl?’ she whispers, as the two
girls sit side by side on a sofa by the fire.
‘What things?’
‘My dresses, jackets, gloves, hats, boots, everything. I’ve hardly a
rag that’s fit to wear at the How.’
‘Then you oughtn’t to have accepted the invitation. You might have
seen that you were only asked because you happened to be here, and
Sir Wilford could not very well leave you out.’
‘How unkind of you to say that!’
‘It’s preposterous to accept an invitation when you have no clothes
fit to be worn at the house you’re asked to visit. You ought to have
refused.’
‘Ought I? That’s very nice and sisterly of you, I’m sure. Very much
like twin cherries and Juno’s fiddlesticks. Just the only chance I
ever had of enjoying myself and seeing life,--going into society,
in fact, and a chance that would give me quite a new position in
Redcastle, bring those horrid Stormonts and that disgusting Mrs.
Groshen to their senses; and you expect me to refuse it. It’s
positively unnatural of you, Sibyl.’ And Marion relieves her bursting
heart with a gush of tears.
‘Why, what’s the matter, girl?’ cries Stephen Trenchard, starting
from that placid slumber into which the fire-glow and the subdued
murmur of the girls’ voices have beguiled him. ‘You don’t come here
to cry, I hope, Marion. If we make you unhappy you’d better stay
away.’
Mr. Trenchard is not the kind of man to allow his afternoon repose
to be disturbed by a whimpering niece. His young kinsfolk must make
themselves agreeable if they hope to retain his favour.
‘It’s all Sibyl’s unkindness,’ says Marion, swallowing her sobs in
an unpleasantly convulsive manner. ‘She hasn’t a bit of heart, she
never had. When Sir Wilford Cardonnel has invited me and all, she
throws my poverty in my face, and says I must refuse the invitation
on account of my things.’
‘What does the girl mean by things?’
‘I simply reminded Marion that the invitation gives us very short
notice, and that her wardrobe is hardly fit for visiting at the How.’
‘Oh, is that all?’ exclaims Mr. Trenchard. ‘That shan’t stand in
your way, Marion. You can get whatever you want for this visit at
Carmichael’s, and have it put down to Sibyl’s account.’
‘Oh, uncle, you are too good, too generous,’ gasps Marion, forgetting
how often she has inveighed against Mr. Trenchard’s meanness.
‘Don’t make a fuss, please, Marion,’ says Stephen, closing his eyes
again.
Sibyl is gloomy. She would do much to prevent this visit, were
there any way open to her by which it could be prevented. She
feels that to visit at Sir Wilford’s house is a kind of treason
against her husband. True that the baronet is not yet her declared
admirer, but his admiration is not the less obvious, and the town
gossips have already been busy with her name and Sir Wilford’s. How
provoking uncle Trenchard is--and Marion too! She hates them both,
and preserves a sullen manner towards Marion all the evening, a
sullenness which that young lady imputes to jealousy.
‘Perhaps she thinks that Sir Wilford might be fickle enough to admire
me a little,’ muses Marion, elated beyond measure by the prospect
of her visit, and the idea of getting ‘things’ at Carmichael’s. ‘Of
course Sibyl is the beauty, we all know that; but I flatter myself
I have a little more animation than she has, and in the long run,
fascinating manners are more admired than good looks.’
Fortified thus in her self-esteem Marion departs in the highest
spirits, after having made Sibyl promise to go shopping with her next
morning.
Sibyl makes her preparations for the visit with a heavy heart. She
assists Marion kindly enough now that she has resigned herself to
the inevitable. She lends her sister the aid of her counsel, and
considerably chastens Marion’s taste in colours and patterns, a taste
which inclines to the ‘loud’ and ‘fast,’ large checks, big metal
buttons, yachting jackets, and small pork-pie hats. Sibyl takes
care that her sister shall be dressed like a lady, which may be done
cheaply, and not like a fashion plate, the latter involving lavish
expenditure, and often resulting in disappointment. Sibyl selects
hues which harmonize with Marion’s hair and complexion, and not the
last new colour, which the shopman presses upon her, as if novelty
and beauty were convertible terms.
‘I’m afraid you’ll make me an awful dowdy,’ remonstrates Marion,
who is inclined to object to the combination of rich brown and soft
cream-colour, which Sibyl recommends for a walking costume, and this
languid shade of blue, relieved by ruchings, pipings, and flouncings
of palest salmon, which Sibyl declares will make a lovely dinner
dress.
‘See what Miss Eylett will say to my choice,’ says Sibyl.
‘Oh, of course that old Eylett will side with you. She knows how to
flatter a good customer.’
‘Choose for yourself then, Marion, and be happy.’
‘Well, upon my word, I don’t know what to have,’ says Marion,
surveying the counter, and biting the tip of her gloved forefinger to
assist cogitation. ‘There’s that lovely peach. I should like of all
things, and that heavenly maize. Think of it trimmed with black lace.’
‘Charming for a brunette, but odious for a blonde And to trim it
properly you would want at least fifty pounds’ worth of lace.’
‘That apple-green brocade, then, with the lovely rosebuds.’
‘Admirable for a dowager, but quite unsuited to you.’
‘I wonder if uncle Trenchard would mind my having a ruby velvet? I
have always fancied a ruby velvet.’
‘With a diamond tiara, of course. Most appropriate for a country
surgeon’s niece, especially when he’s the parish doctor.’
‘Well, I suppose you’d better choose. I’ll have the blue and salmon,
but it’s a horrid thin silk.’
‘Quite good enough for an evening dress, which will be done for when
its freshness is gone.’
So Marion finally accepts Sibyl’s superior judgment. Her purchases
include a pretty gray merino for mornings and walking, a rich brown
silk, the pale blue dinner dress, and a handsome black cloth jacket,
garments which are judiciously bought for something less than thirty
pounds. With these materials the two girls drive straight to Miss
Eylett, who, with much persuasion from Sibyl, is induced to promise
the three dresses for Saturday morning.
‘And now all you have to do is to get Hester to wash and iron your
white muslins,’ says Sibyl, ‘so that you may have some simple dresses
for the quiet evenings. I’ll lend you a sash or two.’
‘Upon my word, Sib, you’re quite a darling. What made you so
disagreeable last night?’
‘I don’t want to go to the How, and I was vexed with you and uncle
Trenchard for snapping at the invitation.’
‘Don’t want to go to the How!’ cries Marion, with as much
astonishment as if Sibyl had said she didn’t wish to go to heaven.
‘Don’t want to go to the How, when it’s the grandest chance you ever
had in your life, and people are beginning to say that you can be
Lady Cardonnel if you like.’
‘People are idiots and busybodies. I don’t want to be Lady Cardonnel,
or Lady anybody else.’
‘Sibyl, don’t be so affected!’ exclaims Marion, disgusted by a
repudiation which she believes thoroughly insincere.
Mr. Trenchard’s carriage deposits Marion at the shabby old house
beyond the minster, and Jenny comes rushing out into the wintry
air--last year’s tartan frock a good deal too short for those
obtrusive legs of hers--to kiss Sibyl, to the disgust of the
coachman, who looks upon this branch of his employer’s family as a
low lot.
‘That’s the worst of living with these here novvo riches,’ he
complains to John the footman. ‘They may climb the ladder of fortune
theirselves, but they leave their relations a-grovellin’ at the
bottom.’
‘What do you mean by novvo riches?’ inquires the simple John.
‘Well, parwennoos, stoopid, if you must ’av the wernackerler.’
Hester and Jenny Faunthorpe have rather a hard time of it for
the rest of this important week, Hester at the wash-tub and the
ironing-board, Jane engaged in darning stockings and sewing on tapes
and buttons, her sister’s wardrobe requiring more small repairs than
are consistent with a notion of order and industry in its owner.
‘Well, you have let your things go to seed, Marion,’ remarks Jane.
‘If it hadn’t been for this visit of yours I should think you must
have dropped to pieces altogether before long.’
‘You’re an impertinent chit,’ exclaims Marion, frowning over a
complicated darn.
‘Well, you might be civil when I’m toiling like a slave for you.’
‘You may help me or leave it alone, just as you please. It’s no
pleasure to be under an obligation to you.’
‘As far as inclination goes, I’d much rather leave it alone,’ replies
the argumentative Jane, ‘but for the credit of the family I shall
do my best to prevent you going into society with your heels coming
through your stockings. But I can’t help saying that I think you’d
find it better for the health of your stockings to darn them before
they come to this;’ and Jenny emphasizes her remark by thrusting her
hand through a yawning chasm in the stocking she is operating upon.
‘Keep your opinions to yourself, and don’t make the holes bigger by
sticking your enormous hand through them,’ says Marion.
‘This is a grateful world,’ murmurs Jane, resignedly.
Dr. Faunthorpe is pleased at the idea of his younger niece’s
pleasure, though the visit to the How will drag a pound or two out of
his scantily furnished purse, pounds already engaged for tax or water
rate, as the case may be, and the subtraction of which will throw
his financial arrangements out of gear for ever so long. But Robert
Faunthorpe is one of those good little men whose mission upon this
earth seems to be to suffer and be patient, if not to suffer and be
strong. Nay, is there not exceeding strength in this quiet patience,
this placid endurance of loss and deprivation, this uncomplaining
surrender of all that the selfish live for? Humboldt wisely says
that if every man is said to have his own destiny in his hands, that
saying must be read to mean, not that he has the power to alter fate,
but rather the power to make the best of bad fortune, and by his
gentle acceptance of ill to transmute evil into good. Deprivations,
small acts of self-abnegation which would have hurt another man,
gave Dr. Faunthorpe a pleasant feeling, a genial sense of warmth and
comfort in the region of the heart, which had the effect of whisky
toddy or any other comfortable stimulant.