JOEL PILGRIM.
That evening after Tilberry races is the gayest night there has yet
been at the How. There is a dinner party, matrons and maidens wear
their finest dresses, each assuming that one last and newest fashion
which the Princess Metternich, or some one of equal importance, has
made the rage in Paris. Even poor Marion, revived by strong tea and
an hour’s comfortable slumber, puts on her blue and salmon dinner
dress, and feels that she is looking lovely.
Yet, although most of the ladies at the How are tolerably satisfied
with their own appearance, there is none among them who would venture
to deny Sibyl Faunthorpe’s claim to that apple of discord from whose
pips sprang Troja’s fall, and the slaughter of many heroes. She
is paler than usual this evening, but her eyes are bright with a
feverous excitement, and there is more brilliancy in her pallor than
in other women’s carnation.
Mr. Trenchard observes that look of unusual excitement, and sees that
the hand which waves the large white fan trembles a little now and
then. He has heard from some friendly gossips how Sir Wilford and
Sibyl rode on ahead of all the others during the return home, and he
draws his own conclusions from Sibyl’s suppressed agitation and this
fact. The baronet has proposed, he tells himself. Sibyl is to all
intents and purposes mistress of fortune and the How. Mr. Trenchard
rejoices in this consummation as if it took a load off his mind. He
smiles sweetly upon his niece, and once, when he is near her for a
few minutes before they go to dinner, he ventures to hint at his
thoughts.
‘How pretty you are looking, my pet!’ he whispers, ‘but a little
over-excited. You have something to tell me, haven’t you?’
‘Nothing out of the common, dear uncle,’
‘What, not about your ride home? Come, you see a little bird has been
before you.’
‘Little birds are generally more inventive than veracious, uncle.’
And at this point the bachelor appointed to that honour offers
Sibyl his arm, and the procession files off to the dining-room. The
long drawing-room, once a chapel, is at its fullest about an hour
after dinner. Sibyl has just risen from the piano, where she has
played Chopin and Schumann to the delight, real or affected, of her
auditory. Stephen Trenchard stands with his back to the low marble
chimney-piece, surveying the room in which his lovely niece forms so
important a feature, flattering himself with the fancy that this room
will be hers before long, that she will be its acknowledged mistress
as she is now its queen.
He looks round for Sir Wilford, wondering not to see that captive of
love exhibiting his fetters more conspicuously, but Sir Wilford is
standing on the hearth-rug at the other end of the room--there are
two fireplaces in the drawing-room--talking hunting talk with a brace
of rubicund sportsmen who look as if their systems were permeated
with old port.
While Mr. Trenchard is wondering that Sir Wilford should hold
himself thus aloof from the object of his devotion, the butler throws
open a distant door, and announces--
‘Mr. Joel Pilgrim.’
Everybody looks up at the announcement, and at the entrance of the
person to whom the name belongs. The name is strange to all ears
save Mr. Trenchard’s. The person is a stranger to all eyes save Mr.
Trenchard’s and Sibyl’s.
Not a welcome announcement, by any means, judging by the sudden angry
look that darkens Stephen Trenchard’s countenance, spreading over it
an additional shade of sallowness, deepening the bistre beneath his
eyes, hardening the lines about his mouth.
He crosses the room hurriedly, and takes the stranger by the hand.
‘My dear Pilgrim, what brings you here? At so late an hour, too.’
‘I have to apologize for what must naturally appear an intrusion,’
replies Mr. Pilgrim, in a voice which is peculiarly soft and
conciliatory, ‘but the commercial man’s habitual selfishness is my
only excuse--if a vice can be an excuse for a solecism. I wanted to
see you to ask your advice upon an affair of considerable moment.
I went to Redcastle, found you were staying here, and hired a fly
to bring me on. The roads were dark, the horse slow, and the flyman
stupid. Thus I am above an hour later than I need have been, though
in any case I must have been late, as I only reached Redcastle at
seven o’clock.’
‘You might have waited till to-morrow,’ says Mr. Trenchard,
unappeased by this apology.
‘I was too anxious to wait. I hope Sir Wilford Cardonnel and his
family will pardon my impertinence.’
He looks towards Sir Wilford, who has come forward at the
announcement of a guest.
‘Very happy to see any friend of Mr. Trenchard’s,’ says the
good-natured baronet. ‘I’m afraid you have had a cold drive.’
‘It is not particularly warm upon your moors for a man born in
Calcutta.’
‘Have you dined, by the way?’
‘I dined by the way. I stopped in Redcastle just long enough to dine.’
‘You mustn’t go back to-night,’ says Sir Wilford, hospitably. ‘You
can have your chat with your friend Mr. Trenchard in the library, and
then come back to us to finish the evening. I’ll order a room to be
got ready for you.’
‘You are really too good,’ replies Mr. Pilgrim, hesitating, and with
a glance at Mr. Trenchard.
‘But you have no valise,’ interjects Stephen Trenchard, ‘impossible
for you to stay. Come to the library, and I’ll soon settle this
business for you.’
Mr. Pilgrim smiles a subdued smile, murmurs his grateful
acknowledgment of Sir Wilford’s kindness, and bows himself out after
Stephen Trenchard. There is a general sense of relief among the
company when that sleek head and swarthy face are withdrawn from
their midst.
‘What a peculiar-looking person!’ exclaims Mrs. Stormont, who is
sitting near Sibyl.
‘What an unpleasant-looking person!’ responds the outspoken Mrs.
Radnor.
‘Do you know him, Sibyl?’ inquires Mrs. Stormont.
‘I have seen him--once before. He is an Indian friend of my uncle’s.’
‘He has never stayed at Lancaster Lodge, I think,’ hazards Mrs.
Stormont.
‘No, he has never stayed there. He only called one evening on
business.’
‘He must live in the neighbourhood then, I suppose?’
‘I should hardly think so.’
Curiosity has been awakened by this late visitor. There is something
out of the common in his appearance, and Mr. Trenchard’s vexation at
his coming has been tolerably apparent to every one.
Mr. Trenchard and his friend are closeted in the library for about an
hour, then a bell rings, and the stranger is conducted back to his
fly, whose departing wheels are heard in the drawing-room half an
hour after all other guests have gone, and just as the house party
are bidding one another good night. It is a quarter past twelve.
‘I wonder Mr. Trenchard has not let that poor man stay,’ says
Mrs. Stormont; ‘a nasty drive back to Redcastle at this time of
night--such a horrid road after dark,--and those flymen are tipsy
half their time.’
‘Perhaps Mr. Trenchard wouldn’t much care if the man were turned over
into a ditch,’ rejoins Mrs. Radnor. ‘He’s the most unpleasant-looking
person I ever saw. Did you see how those black eyes of his seemed to
take us all in? He’s just my idea of a Thug.’
Mrs. Stormont has no very clear notion of Thugs, but admits that the
stranger’s expression has impressed her unfavourably.
At breakfast the next morning there is general surprise when Mr.
Trenchard announces his intention of returning to Redcastle in the
course of the day. He has had letters from India which demand his
attention--he has some property over there which the Government
talk of buying,--and it will be very advantageous for him if
the transaction comes off. It is a matter which requires prompt
negotiation.
‘I am extremely sorry to curtail such a pleasant visit, especially on
account of these girls,’ he adds.
The Misses Cardonnel express their deep regret, but do not urge
Mr. Trenchard to reconsider his decision. Sir Wilford expresses
his sorrow, but even he does not press his guests to remain, much
to the surprise of the lookers on, who speculate curiously on Mr.
Trenchard’s motive for going, and Sir Wilford’s reason for taking his
sweetheart’s departure so easily.
‘Don’t you see that it’s all settled between them?’ says Mrs. Radnor
to Mrs. Chasubel. ‘He has made her an offer and been accepted, and I
dare say the old man wants to consult his lawyers about settlements.
He’ll give her a fortune on her marriage, no doubt.’
Sibyl is very glad to go, though she feels much more comfortable in
Sir Wilford’s society now that he and she understand each other.
Marion is bitterly disappointed at this abrupt termination to her
visit, and is inclined to grumble about the money wasted on those
lovely dresses, till she reflects that the money was not hers, and
that it is something to have secured the dresses. There will be some
pleasure in disporting herself before Maria Harrison in that brown
silk costume. So the sisters go upstairs and pack, aided, or in some
measure hindered, by Miss Cardonnel’s maid, whose services that young
lady politely offers for the occasion. Mrs. Perker is rewarded for
her civilities, morning cups of tea and other small attentions, and
before luncheon all is ready for departure. Mr. Trenchard has sent
a groom to Redcastle to order his carriage to fetch him at three
o’clock. Sir Wilford is absent from the luncheon table for the first
time since the coming of his guests. Phœbe and Lavinia are unusually
cheerful; indeed, Sibyl fancies that there is a general accession
of cheerfulness among the feminine portion of the community. The
gentlemen, on the other hand, deplore Miss Faunthorpe’s departure
with a flattering vehemence. They declare that a star is about to
vanish from their sky, and a good deal more to the same effect. Even
Mr. Chasubel has admired Sibyl, and has told people in confidence
that she is the image of a Madonna by Guido in the Vatican, a nice
way of telling people that he has been in Rome, and is an art critic
in his way. Fred Stormont sits next to Marion and bewails his loss.
‘We ought to have gone out riding together ever so many times more,’
he says. ‘I should have made you a first-rate horsewoman,’ an
assertion that savours of rashness when it is remembered that Mr.
Stormont has not yet succeeded in making himself a capable horseman.
At three o’clock Mr. Trenchard’s carriage is at the door, the
portmanteaus are in, the servants fed, and all things ready. Just at
this last moment Sir Wilford appears, looking very much like his own
gamekeeper, in velveteen coat, cords, and leather gaiters, and with
his gun in his hand.
‘I hope you’ll all excuse me for forgetting the luncheon-bell,’ he
says to the company generally, most of whom have come out into the
hall to say good-bye to Mr. Trenchard and his nieces. ‘The birds were
very wild, and Glenny and I forgot the progress of the enemy. I made
quite a rush home to say good-bye to Mr. Trenchard.’
‘It will not be a long parting, I hope,’ replies Stephen Trenchard.
‘You must come and dine with us directly you are free.’
‘I shall be charmed. Good-bye, Miss Faunthorpe.’
Sibyl and Sir Wilford shake hands, at least thirty pair of eyes
watching the operation. They shake hands in a formal and orthodox
manner, and no one can detect so much as a secret pressure--love’s
Masonic grip. He leads her to the carriage, and when she is seated,
and the coachman has gathered up the reins, he leans over for the
last word, and one last pressure of the little hand he had hoped to
make his own.
‘Trust me,’ he says. ‘You have almost broken my heart, but you may
trust me.’
Mr. Trenchard is silent and gloomy throughout the homeward drive.
Sibyl, although glad to be separated from Sir Wilford, looks forward
despondently to the solitude and monotony of her life at Lancaster
Lodge after the gaiety and variety of the last few days. At the How
she has not had leisure for sad thoughts! no time for self-reproach,
regret, and all the illness that attends her selfish course. She has
been the centre of an admiring circle, her vanity gratified to the
uttermost, and life has seemed one round of pleasure.
Marion is loquacious as usual, and rattles on with her criticisms
upon the How and its visitors, from Mrs. Radnor’s exaggerated
aquiline nose, which always blushed after luncheon, ‘as if it was
ashamed of belonging to any one who drank so much sherry,’ says
Marion, to the Miss Vernons’ high-heeled boots, ‘in which I know they
suffer agonies,’ adds Marion.
Neither Stephen Trenchard nor Sibyl responds to these remarks, but
the babble runs on intermittingly till they come to the lower end of
the town, and to uncle Robert’s green garden gate.
Jenny, the omnipresent, rushes out at the sound of the carriage
wheels, her hair flying in the wind, and receives her sister with
a volley of ‘goodness graciouses,’ and ‘sure to goodnesses,’
and numerous embraces which are like the gambadoes of an infant
hippopotamus, or the friskings of a friendly sea-lion.
Mr. Trenchard gives a sigh of relief when Marion and her boxes have
been deposited; nor is Sibyl sorry to dispense with her sister’s
vivacious society.
‘You will find a visitor at my house, Sibyl,’ says Stephen
Trenchard, as they drive towards the Bar, ‘a visitor whom I expect
you to treat with all consideration, as he is a particular friend of
mine.’
‘Mr. Pilgrim, uncle?’ asks Sibyl, startled.
‘Yes, Mr. Pilgrim. I did not wish him to take advantage of Sir
Wilford’s hospitality, nor did I want him to go back to London
without proper entertainment, so I invited him to spend a week or so
at Lancaster Lodge.’
‘And that was the reason you left the How so soon?’
‘That and other reasons influenced me. There is that property I spoke
about at luncheon.’
‘To be sure; I forgot that.’
‘I hope my leaving so suddenly has not been a disappointment to you,
Sibyl?’
‘Not at all, dear uncle.’
‘And that I have in no way prevented the triumph which I fully
expected you to win. Pray be candid with me, my dear child. Sir
Wilford has proposed to you, and you have accepted him? You ought
to have hastened to tell me of an event which you know must give me
unalloyed pleasure.’
‘My dear uncle, I have nothing to tell. I am as far from being Lady
Cardonnel as ever I was in my life.’
‘I’m very sorry to hear it. What was Sir Wilford talking about when
you rode home from Tilberry together last night? Mr. Stormont told me
that you and he rode ahead of the others.
‘We were talking about the commonest subjects in the world, uncle.
Horses, races, Marion’s adventure on Fixture, and the merits of
Juno--the mare I was riding.’
‘Humph! I fully made up my mind that he had taken that opportunity of
proposing to you.’
‘I am sorry you should feel disappointed, uncle. But I really don’t
understand why you should wish me to marry. It’s not very flattering
to me.’
‘You ought to understand, child. My time is growing short, and I
should like to see you established in a brilliant position before I
go.’
‘My position will be brilliant enough when I am in possession of your
wealth,’ thinks Sibyl, but she acknowledges her uncle’s anxiety for
her welfare with a tender murmur, expressive of the desire that he
should live for ever.
Mr. Pilgrim comes out to the door to receive Mr. Trenchard and his
niece, and for the first time in her life Sibyl touches his hand. It
is curiously soft and flaccid, and gives her an unpleasant sensation,
as if she had touched some strange animal, some member of the stoat
or mole tribe.
‘So glad to see you back!’ he says to Mr. Trenchard, in the blandest
voice. ‘I was afraid the attractions of that fine old country
house----’
‘You ought to know that when I say a thing I abide by it,’ answers
Mr. Trenchard, curtly. ‘Mr. Pilgrim, my niece, Miss Faunthorpe.’
‘If you knew how I have been longing for this opportunity, Miss
Faunthorpe.’
‘Don’t waste time on compliments, Joel; Sibyl will scarcely have time
to change her dress for dinner.’
Sibyl runs upstairs to her room, cheerful with blazing fire and
lighted candles--a very different chamber to return to from that dark
first-floor front of Mrs. Bonny’s, where one had to grope for lucifer
match and candlestick in the winter dusk. Yet so unreasonable a
thing is human nature, that on this January evening Sibyl would
gladly exchange these luxurious surroundings of hers for the one pair
room in Chelsea, could the wheel of time make a backward revolution
and give her back her husband’s confidence and love.
This stranger’s presence has impressed her disagreeably. There is
something in her uncle’s manner to Mr. Pilgrim, and in Mr. Pilgrim’s
manner to her uncle, that inspires distrust. The evening at Lancaster
Lodge is very quiet and dreary after the life and bustle of the How.
Mr. Trenchard and his Indian friend retire to the study after dinner
to talk business, and Sibyl is left alone with her books and piano.
She finds comfort in neither, and perhaps, were Alexis to appear
before her to-night on the same errand that brought him to Redcastle
a few weeks ago, she would exchange all her chances of wealth to
follow his uncertain fortunes.