No one ever accused the dinners _en famille_ at Felton of being too
lively; but, that evening, Gerard decides that they yield the palm, in
point of perfect stagnation, to Blessington. There is, indeed, none of
that lynx-eyed watching of the servants, none of that pouncing upon
their minutest derelictions, which makes dining in Sir Thomas's company
so thoroughly uncomfortable a process: no one calls the fat red-faced
butler and the two blue-and-yellow footmen "hounds, louts, fools."
At Blessington, indeed, the servants have things pretty much their own
way; and, accustomed to their master's total and mistress's partial
deafness, have got into a habit of conversing with one another in a
tone of voice considerably above that usually considered seemly in
civilised _ménages_. With one member of the company (Miss Craven)
St. John has entered into a pact to exchange no remarks, good or
bad; a second member (Mr. Blessington) contributes nothing to the
conversation but a series of inarticulate though loud mumblings over
his food--with the exception of a question, addressed to the butler,
as to what the viands upon the table under his sightless eyes consist
of. "'Aricot--Volly Vong--Line of Mutton--Biled Turkey," enumerates
that functionary, glibly, at the top of his voice. From a third member
(Mrs. Blessington) St. John has already heard all that is to be said
on the subject of draughts and sand-bags; and with the fourth member,
conversation always drives as heavily as a loaded waggon dragged up a
perpendicular hill.
The evening is but a prolongation of the dinner, with the additional
disadvantage of there being no eating and drinking to employ the
otherwise unoccupied jaws. "England expects every man to do his duty!"
She expects every man who has the misfortune to be in the position of
an affianced to sit, hours long, idle beside his betrothed--however
ardently his soul may be sighing for a sheet of the _Times_ or a whiff
of Latakia: to hold converse with no other man, woman, or child, if she
be in the room.
Since, at the entrance of the gentlemen, Constance looked up expectant,
and since he has a vague idea that it is part of his share of their
bargain to pay her all outward observance and attention, St. John seats
himself on the sofa beside her. She sits rather forward, upright as
a dart; he leans back, with his arms resting on the sofa behind her.
It is not a caress; but, from a little distance, it has the air of
one. The old gentleman, rendered surprisingly wakeful by the unwonted
incident of the addition of a stranger to his little circle, insists
upon hearing a pungent article on Gladstone and the Irish Church, over
which he has fallen asleep in the morning, re-read to him by his little
white slave.
"I am afraid I can hardly see, Mr. Blessington; there is so little
light!" she has remonstrated, mildly.
"Light!--pooh!" repeats the old gentleman, gaily. "What do young eyes
like yours want with light? They ought to be able to see in the dark,
like cats. You'll be borrowing Mrs. Blessington's spectacles next--eh,
Mrs. Blessington?"
"Mrs. Blessington is asleep, Mr. Blessington."
"Oh! Go on, then, my dear--go on. Let us hear what they have got to say
for these rascally placehunters, who are trying to remove the landmarks
of the Constitution for the sake of getting into office."
Her long damp evening rambles--rambles on which a mother would have
put so decided a veto--have brought back Miss Craven's cold. She has
been hoarse all day; and it is a well-known fact that hoarseness
always becomes worse towards night: a tiresome little tickling cough
interrupts her every moment. Add to which, her attention is completely
distracted from the subject in hand by the involuntary and vain effort
to catch what Mr. Gerard and his love are saying to one another. She
would hardly have been repaid for her trouble had she succeeded.
"Had you a good run to-day?"
"Yes, rather a quick thing."
"Which horse did you ride?"
"The grey--one you have not seen. I bought her in Ireland of Brownrigg;
_he_ required more of a weight-carrier."
"Does she seem likely to prove satisfactory?"
"Very: she has a good turn of speed, jumps capitally, and is very
temperate."
"Was it a large field?"
"Middling."
"Any one you knew?"
"Two or three" (with a yawn).
"You are going out to-morrow again, of course?" with a slight attempt
at a pout, which is not even perceived by the person for whose benefit
it is intended.
"No, I think not; it is five-and-twenty miles, and the trains do not
fit: one gets lazy in one's old age. I suppose I shall agree soon with
Brakespeare, of the --th, who sent seven horses down to Melton last
year; and at the end of the season confessed that he hated hunting, and
that he thought it a very dangerous amusement."
"Really?" answers Constance, who always takes everything _au sérieux_,
opening her great eyes.
"No, not really--most assuredly!" he answers, laughing lazily. "On
the contrary, I am nearer coinciding with the opinion of the Jewish
gentleman, who said it would be a very pleasant world if there were no
_shummers_ and no _shabbaths_."
It is hardly worth Miss Craven's while, you will perceive, to lose her
place twice, and get rated by her old employer, for the sake of hearing
brilliant questions and answers of the above description. Though her
jealous eyes are fixed upon the _Saturday's_ columns, they see, none
the less clearly, those two figures reclined upon the distant sofa.
Once she sees St. John raise himself, and, stooping forward over his
companion, speak with more animation than he has yet used. If she break
the drum of her ear in the attempt, she _must_ catch the drift of that
remark--some delicious tender nothing, no doubt. She succeeds:
"By-the-bye, Conny, how was the lump on your pony's leg when you left
home?"
As another and another article follow the first, Esther's cough becomes
increasingly troublesome: her throat aches with the effort of reading:
her voice at each paragraph waxes huskier and huskier. For several
minutes past Gerard's answers to Miss Blessington's questions have been
growing ever more wildly random; suddenly he leaves the sofa, and comes
over to Mr. Blessington's armchair.
"Will you let _me_ read to you a bit?" he asks, in that loud
unmodulated roar that people unused to the deaf think the only method
of making them hear.
"Eh! what does he say?" inquires the old gentleman, sharply, lifting
his head, and peering blindly up in the direction whence the voice came.
"I asked whether you would let _me_ read to you, for a change, instead
of Miss Craven?"
"No--thanks, no," replies the old man, ungraciously. "Much obliged to
you, but I cannot hear a word you say; you run all your words into one
another."
"Do I? I daresay," rejoins Gerard, good-humouredly; "but have you ever
heard me read? I think not."
"Begging your pardon, I have, though; I heard you read prayers here one
Sunday evening."
"And I am afraid my mode of conducting divine worship has not left
a pleasant impression," says the young man, laughing. "Well, but I
promise to read as slow as ever you choose, and to count four at every
full-stop."
"No--no," cries the old man, obstinately. "Get away with you, my dear
boy! you are interrupting us. No offence, but we are very happy without
you--aren't we, Miss Esther? You attend to your own business; we don't
offer to help you in that--do we--eh, my dear?"
Baffled and vexed, St. John stands silent; and as he so stands, the
young girl lifts her great meek eyes, dumbly grateful, to his. He has
forbidden her to speak to him, but he cannot lay an embargo upon the
gentle messages sent from those sorrowful shining orbs. His own meet
them for an instant; then he turns away with a half-shudder.
"What a churchyard cough that girl has!" says Miss Blessington, fanning
herself gently, as he reseats himself beside her; "it really quite
fidgets one. Of course it is very unjust of one, but I always feel so
_angry_ with a person who goes 'cough, cough, cough' every minute."
"I feel angrier with the person who is the cause of it," answers
Gerard, thoroughly chafed: "it is positive barbarity. You see what
success _I_ met with when I tried to relieve guard. Suppose you offer:
you can always make him hear!"
"I should be delighted," answers Conny, blandly; "only, unfortunately,
this damp weather makes my throat so relaxed" (touching the firm round
pillar with two white slender fingers), "that I really should be
afraid."
"Just try--there's a good girl," urges he, coaxingly; "you can stop in
a minute if you find that it hurts you."
A mulish expression comes into her face; small good would persuasion,
cajolery, threats, or promises do now!
"I am very sorry I cannot oblige you; but as I am to dine out on
Thursday, and one is always expected to sing, I really must nurse my
voice."