"Kurz ist der Schmerz und ewig ist die Freude."
Captain Winstanley said no more about Lord Mallow; but Violet had to
listen to much plaintive bemoaning from her mother, who could not
understand how any well-brought-up young woman could refuse an Irish
peer with a fine estate, and the delights of a _trousseau_ made by the
renowned Theodore. Upon this latter detail Mrs. Winstanley dwelt at
more length than upon that minor circumstance in a marriage--the
bridegroom.
"It would have been such a pleasure to me to plan your _trousseau_,
darling," she said; "such an occupation for my mind in these wretched
winter afternoons when there is no possibility of driving or making
calls. I should have attended to everything myself. Theodore's general
way is to make a list of what she thinks necessary, allowing her
customer to correct it; but I should not have been satisfied with that,
even from Theodore, though I admit that her taste is perfect. And then,
you know, she is hand in glove with Worth, and that alone is a liberal
education, as somebody says somewhere about something. No, dear, I
would have done it all myself. I know the exact shades that suit your
complexion, the dashes of colour that contrast with and light up your
hair, the style that sets off your figure. Your _trousseau_ should be
talked about in society, and even described in the fashion magazines.
And then Lord Mallow is really so very nice--and has such a charming
baritone--what more can you want?"
"Only to love him, mamma dearest, which I do not, and never shall. That
frank loud voice of his does not stir a fibre of my heart. I like him
extremely, and so I do Mr. Scobel, and Bates the groom. Lord Mallow is
no more to me than either of those. Indeed, Bates is much nearer and
dearer, for he loved my father."
"My dear Violet, you have the most republican ideas. Imagine anyone
putting Bates on a level with Lord Mallow!"
"I don't, mamma. I only say he is more to me than Lord Mallow could
ever be."
"Your travelling-dress," murmured Mrs. Winstanley, her mind still
dwelling on the _trousseau;_ "that affords more scope for taste than
the wedding-gown. Velvet suits your style, but is too heavy for your
age. A soft clinging cashmere, now, one of those delicious neutral
tints that have been so fashionable lately, over an underskirt of a
warmer colour in _poult de soie_, a picturesque costume that would
faintly recall Lely's portraits at Hampton Court."
"Dear mamma, what is the use of talking about dresses I am never going
to require? Not for all the finery that Theodore ever made would I
marry Lord Mallow, or anybody else. I am happy enough with you, and my
horse, and my dog, and all the dear old things, animal and vegetable,
that belong to this dear old place. I shall never leave you, or the
Forest. Can you not be content to know this and let me alone?"
"You are a very wilful girl, Violet, and ridiculously blind to your own
interests," remarked Mrs. Winstanley, throwing herself back in her
chair with a fretful look, "and you put me in an absurd position. The
duchess quite congratulated me about your brilliant prospects, when we
were chatting together on New Year's Eve. Anybody could see how devoted
Lord Mallow was, she said, and what a splendid match it would be for
you."
"Let the Duchess marry her own daughter, and leave me alone," cried
Vixen scornfully.
This was the kind of thing she had to endure continually during the
chill winter months that followed Lord Mallow's departure. Even her old
friends the Scobels worried her about the Irish peer, and lamented her
inability to perceive his merits. It was known throughout her
particular circle that she had been idiotic enough to refuse Lord
Mallow. Mrs. Winstanley had whispered the fact to all her friends,
under the seal of strictest secrecy. Of all Vixen's acquaintance,
Roderick Vawdrey was the only one who said no word to her about Lord
Mallow; but he was much kinder to her after the Irishman's departure
than he had shown himself during his visit.
Spring put on her green mantle; and when the woods were starred with
primroses, and the banks lovely with heaven-hued dog-violets, everyone
of any pretension to importance in the social scale began to flee from
the Forest as from a loathsome place. Lord Ellangowan's train of vans
and waggons set out for the railway-station with their load of chests
and baskets. Julius Caesar's baggage was as nothing to the Saratoga
trunks and bonnet-boxes of Lady Ellangowan. The departure of the
Israelites from Egypt was hardly a mightier business than this
emigration of the Ellangowan household. The Duke and Duchess, and Lady
Mabel Ashbourne, left for the Queen Anne house at Kensington, whereat
the fashionable London papers broke out in paragraphs of rejoicing, and
the local journals bewailed the extinction of their sun.
The London season had begun, and only the nobodies stayed in the Forest
to watch the rosy sunsets glow and fade behind the yellow oaks; to see
the purple of the beech-boughs change mysteriously to brightest green;
and the bluebells burst into blossom in the untrodden glades and
bottoms. Captain Winstanley found a small house in Mayfair, which he
hired for six weeks, at a rent which he pronounced exorbitant. He
sacrificed his own ideas of prudence to the gratification of his wife;
who had made up her mind that she had scarcely the right to exist until
she had been presented to her sovereign in her new name. But when Mrs.
Winstanley ventured to suggest the Duchess of Dovedale, as her sponsor
on this solemn occasion, her husband sternly tabooed the notion.
"My aunt, Lady Susan Winstanley, is the proper person to present you,"
he said authoritatively.
"But is she really your aunt, Conrad? You never mentioned her before we
were married?"
"She is my father's third cousin by marriage; but we have always called
her Aunt. She is the widow of Major-General Winstanley, who
distinguished himself in the last war with Tippoo Saïb, and had a place
at Court in the reign of William the Fourth."
"She must be dreadfully old and dowdy," sighed Mrs. Winstanley, whose
only historical idea of the Sailor King's reign was as a period of
short waists and beaver bonnets.
"She is not a chicken, and she does not spend eight hundred a year on
her dressmaker," retorted the Captain. "But she is a very worthy woman,
and highly respected by her friends. Why should you ask a favour of the
Duchess of Dovedale?"
"Her name would look so well in the papers," pleaded Mrs. Winstanley.
"The name of your husband's kinswoman will look much more respectable,"
answered the Captain; and in this, as in most matters, he had his own
way.
Lady Susan Winstanley was brought from her palatial retirement to spend
a fortnight in Mayfair. She was bony, wiggy, and snuffy; wore false
teeth and seedy apparel; but she was well-bred and well-informed, and
Vixen got on with her much better than with the accomplished Captain.
Lady Susan took to Vixen; and these two went out for early walks
together in the adjacent Green Park, and perambulated the
picture-galleries, before Mrs. Winstanley had braced herself up for the
fatigues of a fashionable afternoon.
Sometimes they came across Mr. Vawdrey at a picture-gallery or in the
Park; and at the first of these chance meetings, struck by the obvious
delight with which the two young people greeted each other, Lady Susan
jumped to a conclusion.
"That's your young man, I suppose, my dear," she said bluntly, when
Rorie had left them.
"Oh, Lady Susan!"
"It's a vulgar expression, I know, my dear, but it comes natural to me;
I hear it so often from our housemaids. I fancied that you and that
handsome young fellow must be engaged."
"Oh no. We are only old friends. He is engaged to Lady Mabel
Ashbourne--a very grand match."
"That's a pity," said Lady Susan.
"Why?"
"Well, my dear," answered the old lady hesitatingly, "because when one
hears of a grand match, it generally means that a young man is marrying
for the sake of money, and that young old friend of yours looks too
good to throw himself away like that."
"Oh, but indeed, Lady Susan, it is not so in Rorie's case. He has
plenty of money of his own."
The important day came; and Lady Susan, Mrs. Winstanley, and Violet
packed themselves and their finery into a capacious carriage, and set
off for St. James's. The fair Pamela's costume was an elaborate example
of Theodore's highest art; colours, design, all of the newest--a
delicate harmony of half-tints, an indescribable interblending of
feathers, lace, and flowers. Violet was simply and elegantly dressed by
the same great artist. Lady Susan wore a petticoat and train that must
have been made in the time of Queen Adelaide. Yes, the faded and
unknown hue of the substantial brocade, the skimpiness of the satin,
the quaint devices in piping-cord and feather-stitch--must assuredly
have been coeval with that good woman's famous hat and spencer.
Poor Mrs. Winstanley was horrified when she saw her husband's kinswoman
attired for the ceremony, not a whit less wiggy and snuffy than usual,
and with three lean ostrich feathers starting erect from her back hair,
like the ladies in the proscenium boxes of Skelt's Theatre, whose gaily
painted effigies were so dear to our childhood.
Poor Pamela felt inclined to shed tears. Even her confidence in the
perfection of her own toilet could hardly sustain her against the
horror of being presented by such a scarecrow.
The ceremony went off satisfactorily, in spite of Lady Susan's
antiquated garments. Nobody laughed. Perhaps the _habitués_ of St.
James's were accustomed to scarecrows. Violet's fresh young beauty
attracted some little notice as she waited among the crowd of
_débutantes;_ but, on its being ascertained that she was nobody in
particular, curiosity languished and died.
Mrs. Winstanley wanted to exhibit her court-dress at the opera that
evening, but her husband protested against this display as bad style.
Vixen was only too glad to throw off her finery, the tulle puffings and
festoonings, and floral wreaths and bouquets, which made movement
difficult and sitting down almost impossible.
Those six weeks in town were chiefly devoted to gaiety. Mrs.
Winstanley's Hampshire friends called on her, and followed up their
calls by invitations to dinner, and at the dinners she generally met
people who were on the eve of giving a garden-party, or a concert, or a
dance, and who begged to be allowed to send her a card for that
entertainment, spoken of modestly as a thing of no account. And then
there was a hurried interchange of calls, and Violet found herself
meandering about an unknown croquet-lawn, amongst unknown nobodies,
under a burning sun, looking at other girls, dressed like herself in
dresses à la Theodore, with the last thing in sleeves, and the last cut
in trains, all pretending to be amused by the vapid and languid
observations of the cavalier told off to them, paired like companions
of the chain at Toulon, and almost as joyous.
Violet Tempest attended no less than eight private concerts during
those six weeks, and heard the same new ballad, and the same latest
gavotte in C minor, at everyone of them. She was taken to pianoforte
recitals in fashionable squares and streets, and heard Bach and
Beethoven till her heart ached with pity for the patient labour of the
performers, knowing how poorly she and the majority of mankind
appreciated their efforts. She went to a few dances that were rather
amusing, and waltzed to her heart's content. She rode Arion in the Row,
and horse and rider were admired as perfect after then kind. Once she
met Lord Mallow, riding beside Lady Mabel Ashbourne and the Duke of
Dovedale. His florid cheek paled a little at the sight of her. They
passed each other with a friendly bow, and this was their only meeting.
Lord Mallow left cards at the house in Mayfair a week before the
Winstanleys went back to Hampshire. He had been working hard at his
senatorial duties, and had made some telling speeches upon the Irish
land question. People talked of him as a rising politician; and,
whenever his name appeared in the morning papers, Mrs. Winstanley
uplifted her voice at the breakfast-table, and made her wail about
Violet's folly in refusing such an excellent young man.
"It would have been so nice to be able to talk about my daughter, Lady
Mallow, and Castle Mallow," said Pamela in confidence to her husband.
"No doubt, my dear," he answered coolly; "but when you bring up a young
woman to have her own way in everything, you must take the
consequences."
"It is very ungrateful of Violet," sighed the afflicted mother, "after
the pains I have taken to dress her prettily, ever since she was a
baby. It is a very poor return for my care."