There had been great preparations made for Herbert’s reception at the
Hatch. I say Herbert’s--for Reine, though she had been perforce included
in the invitation, was not even considered any more. After the banquet
at Whiteladies the sisters had many consultations on this subject, and
there was indeed very little time to do anything. Sophy had been of
opinion at first that the more gay his short visit could be made the
better Herbert would be pleased, and had contemplated an impromptu
dance, and I don’t know how many other diversions; but Kate was wiser.
It was one good trait in their characters, if there was not very much
else, that they acted for each other with much disinterestedness, seldom
or never entering into personal rivalry. “Not too much the first time,”
said Kate; “let him make acquaintance with us, that is the chief thing.”
“But he mightn’t care for us,” objected Sophy. “Some people have such
bad taste.” This was immediately after the Whiteladies dinner, after the
moonlight walk and the long drive, when they were safe in the sanctuary
of their own rooms. The girls were in their white dressing-gowns, with
their hair about their shoulders, and were taking a light refection of
cakes and chocolate before going to bed.
“If you choose to study him a little, and take a little pains, of course
he will like you,” said Kate. “Any man will fall in love with any woman,
if she takes trouble enough.”
“It is very odd to me,” said Sophy, “that with those opinions you should
not be married, at your age.”
“My dear,” said Kate seriously, “plenty of men have fallen in love with
me, only they have not been the right kind of men. I have been too fond
of fun; and nobody that quite suited has come in my way since I gave up
amusing myself. The Barracks so near is very much in one’s way,” said
Kate, with a sigh. “One gets used to such a lot of them about; and you
can always have your fun, whatever happens; and till you are driven to
it, it seems odd to make a fuss about one. But what _you_ have got to do
is easy enough. He is as innocent as a baby, and as foolish. No woman
ever took the trouble, I should say, to look at him. You have it all in
your own hands. As for Reine, I will look after Reine. She is a
suspicious little thing, but I’ll keep her out of your way.”
“What a bore it is!” said Sophy, with a yawn. “Why should we be obliged
to marry more than the men are. It isn’t fair. Nobody finds fault with
them, though they have dozens of affairs; but we’re drawn over the coals
for nothing, a bit of fun. I’m sure I don’t want to marry Bertie, or any
one. I’d a great deal rather not. So long as one has one’s amusement,
it’s jolly enough.”
“If you could always be as young as you are now,” said Kate oracularly;
“but even you are beginning to be passée, Sophy. It’s the pace, you
know, as the men say--you need not make faces. The moment you are
married you will be a girl again. As for me, I feel a grandmother.”
“You _are_ old,” said Sophy compassionately; “and indeed you ought to go
first.”
“I am just eighteen months older than you are,” said Kate, rousing
herself in self-defence, “and with your light hair, you’ll go off
sooner. Don’t be afraid; as soon as I have got you off my hands I shall
take care of myself. But look here! What you’ve got to do is to study
Herbert a little. Don’t take him up as if he were Jack or Tom. Study
him. There is one thing you never can go wrong in with any of them,”
said this experienced young woman. “Look as if you thought him the
cleverest fellow that ever was; make yourself as great a fool as you can
in comparison. That flatters them above everything. Ask his advice you
know, and that sort of thing. The greatest fool I ever knew,” said Kate,
reflectively, “was Fenwick, the adjutant. I made him wild about me by
that.”
“He would need to be a fool to think you meant it,” said Sophy,
scornfully; “you that have such an opinion of yourself.”
“I had too good an opinion of myself to have anything to say to _him_,
at least; but it’s fun putting them in a state,” said Kate, pleased with
the recollection. This was a sentiment which her sister fully shared,
and they amused themselves with reminiscences of several such dupes ere
they separated. Perhaps even the dupes were scarcely such dupes as these
young ladies thought; but anyhow, they had never been, as Kate said,
“the right sort of men.” Dropmore, etc., were always to the full as
knowing as their pretty adversaries, and were not to be beguiled by any
such specious pretences. And to tell the truth, I am doubtful how far
Kate’s science was genuine. I doubt whether she was unscrupulous enough
and good-tempered enough to carry out her own programme; and Sophy
certainly was too careless, too feather brained, for any such scheme.
She meant to marry Herbert because his recommendations were great, and
because he lay in her way, as it were, and it would be almost a sin not
to put forth a hand to appropriate the gifts of Providence; but if it
had been necessary to “study” him, as her sister enjoined, or to give
great pains to his subjugation, I feel sure that Sophy’s patience and
resolution would have given way. The charm in the enterprise was that it
seemed so easy; Whiteladies was a most desirable object; and Sophy,
longing for fresh woods and pastures new, was rather attracted than
repelled by the likelihood of having to spend the Winters abroad.
Mr. Farrel-Austin, for his part, received the young head of his family
with anything but delight. He had been unable, in ordinary civility, to
contradict the invitation his daughters had given, but took care to
express his sentiments on the subject next day very distinctly--had they
cared at all for those sentiments, which I don’t think they did. Their
schemes, of course, were quite out of his range, and were not
communicated to him; nor was he such a self-denying parent as to have
been much consoled for his own loss of the family property by the
possibility of one of his daughters stepping into possession of it. He
thought it an ill-timed exhibition of their usual love of strangers, and
love of company, and growled at them all day long until the time of the
arrival, when he absented himself, to their great satisfaction, though
it was intended as the crowning evidence of his displeasure. “Papa has
been obliged to go out; he is so sorry, but hopes you will excuse him
till dinner,” Kate said, when the girls came to receive their cousins at
the door. “Oh, they won’t mind, I am sure,” said Sophy. “We shall have
them all to ourselves, which will be much jollier.” Herbert’s brow
clouded temporarily, for, though he did not love Mr. Farrel-Austin, he
felt that his absence showed a want of that “proper respect” which was
due to the head of the house. But under the gay influence of the girls
the cloud speedily floated away.
They had gone early, by special prayer, as their stay was to be so
short; and Kate had made the judicious addition of two men from the
barracks to their little luncheon-party. “One for me, and one for
Reine,” she had said to Sophy, “which will leave you a fair field.” The
one whom Kate had chosen for herself was a middle-aged major, with a
small property--a man who had hitherto afforded much “fun” to the party
generally as a butt, but whose serious attentions Miss Farrel-Austin, at
five-and-twenty, did not absolutely discourage. If nothing better came
in the way, he might do, she felt. He had a comfortable income and a
mild temper, and would not object to “fun.” Reine’s share was a foolish
youth, who had not long joined the regiment; but as she was quite
unconscious that he had been selected for her, Reine was happily free
from all sense of being badly treated. He laughed at the jokes which
Kate and Sophy made; and held his tongue otherwise--thus fulfilling all
the duty for which he was told off. After this morning meal, which was
so much gayer and more lively than anything at Whiteladies, the
new-comers were carried off to see the house and the grounds, upon which
many improvements had been made. Sophy was Herbert’s guide, and ran
before him through all the new rooms, showing the new library, the
morning-room, and the other additions. “This is one good of an ugly
modern place,” she said. “You can never alter dear old Whiteladies,
Bertie. If you did we should get up a crusade of all the Austins and all
the antiquarians, and do something to you--kill you, I think; unless
some weak-minded person like myself were to interfere.”
“I shall never put myself in danger,” he said, “though perhaps I am not
such a fanatic about Whiteladies as you others.”
“Don’t!” said Sophy, raising her hand as if to stop his mouth. “If you
say a word more I shall hate you. It is small, to be sure; and if you
should have a very large family when you marry”--she went on, with a
laugh--“but the Austins never have large families; that is one part of
the curse, I suppose your Aunt Augustine would say! but for my part, I
hate large families, and I think it is very grand to have a curse
belonging to us. It is as good as a family ghost. What a pity that the
monk and the nun don’t walk! But there _is_ something in the great
staircase. Did you ever see it? I never lived in Whiteladies, or I
should have tried to see what it was.”
“Did you never live at Whiteladies? I thought when we were children--”
“Never for more than a day. The old ladies hate us. Ask us now, Bertie,
there’s a darling. Well! he will be a darling if he asks us. It is the
most delightful old house in the world, and I want to go.”
“Then I ask you on the spot,” said Herbert. “Am I a darling now? You
know,” he added in a lower tone, as they went on, and separated from the
others, “it was as near as possible being yours. Two years ago no one
supposed I should get better. You must have felt it was your own!”
“Not once,” said Sophy. “Papa’s, perhaps--but what would that have done
for us? Daughters marry and go away--it never would have been ours; and
Mrs. Farrel-Austin won’t have a son. Isn’t it provoking? Oh, she is only
our step-mother, you know--it does not matter what we say. Papa could
beat her; but I am so glad, so glad,” cried Sophy, with aglow of smiles,
“that instead of papa, or that nasty little French boy, Bertie, it is
you, our cousin, whom we are fond of!--I can’t tell you how glad I am.”
“Thanks,” said Herbert, clasping the hand she held out to him, and
holding it. It seemed so natural to him that she should be glad.
“Because,” said Sophy, looking at him with her pretty blue eyes, “we
have been sadly neglected, Kate and I. We have never had any one to
advise us, or tell us what we ought to do. We both came out too young,
and were thrown on the world to do what we pleased. If you see anything
in us you don’t like, Bertie, remember this is the reason. We never had
a brother. Now, you will be as near a brother to us as any one could be.
We shall be able to go and consult you, and you will help us out of our
scrapes. I did so hope, before you came, that we should be friends; and
now I _think_ we shall,” she said, giving a little pressure to the hand
which still held hers.
Herbert was so much affected by this appeal that it brought the tears to
his eyes.
“I think we shall, indeed,” he said, warmly,--“nay, we are. It would be
a strange fellow indeed who would not be glad to be brother, or anything
else, to a girl like you.”
“Brother, _not_ anything else,” said Sophy, audibly but softly. “Ah,
Bertie! you can’t think how glad I am. As soon as we saw you, Kate and I
could not help feeling what an advantage Reine had over us. To have you
to refer to always--to have you to talk to--instead of the nonsense that
we girls are always chattering to each other.”
“Well,” said Herbert, more and more pleased, “I suppose it is an
advantage; not that I feel myself particularly wise, I am sure. There is
always something occurring which shows one how little one knows.”
“If _you_ feel that, imagine how _we_ must feel,” said Sophy, “who have
never had any education. Oh yes, we have had just the same as other
girls! but not like men--not like you, Bertie. Oh, you need not be
modest. I know you haven’t been at the University to waste your time and
get into debt, like so many we know. But you have done a great deal
better. You have read and you have thought, and Reine has had all the
advantage. I almost hate Reine for being so much better off than we
are.”
“But, really,” cried Herbert, laughing half with pleasure, half with a
sense of the incongruity of the praise, “you give me a great deal more
credit than I deserve. I have never been very much of a student. I don’t
know that I have done much for Reine--except what one can do in the way
of conversation, you know,” he added, after a pause, feeling that after
all it must have been this improving conversation which had made his
sister what she was. It had not occurred to him before, but the moment
it was suggested--yes, of course, that was what it must be.
“Just what I said,” cried Sophy; “and we never had that advantage. So if
you find us frivolous, Bertie--”
“How could I find you frivolous? You are nothing of the sort. I shall
almost think you want me to pay you compliments--to say what I think of
you.”
“I hate compliments,” cried Sophy. “Here we are on the lawn, Bertie, and
here are the others. What do you think of it? We have had such trouble
with the grass--now, I think, it is rather nice. It has been rolled and
watered and mown, and rolled and watered and mown again, almost every
day.”
“It is the best croquet-ground in the county,” said the Major; “and why
shouldn’t we have a game? It is pleasant to be out of doors such a
lovely day.”
This was assented to, and the others went in-doors for their hats; but
Sophy stayed. “I have got rid of any complexion I ever had,” she said.
“I am always out of doors. The sun must have got tired of burning me, I
am so brown already,” and she put up two white, pink-fingered hands to
her white-and-pink cheeks. She was one of those blondes of satin-skin
who are not easily affected by the elements. Herbert laughed, and with
the privilege of cousinship took hold of one of the pink tips of the
fingers, and looked at the hand.
“Is that what you call brown?” he said. “We have just come from the land
of brown beauties, and I ought to know. It is the color of milk with
roses in it,” and the young man, who was not used to paying compliments,
blushed as he made his essay; which was more than Sophy, experienced in
the commodity, felt any occasion to do.
“Milk of roses,” she said, laughing; “that is a thing for the
complexion. I don’t use it, Bertie; I don’t use anything of the kind.
Men are always so dreadfully knowing about young girls’ dodges--” The
word slipped out against her will, for Sophy felt that slang was not
expedient, and she blushed at this slip, though she had not blushed at
the compliment. Herbert did not, however, discriminate. He took the
pretty suffusion to his own account, and laughed at the inadvertent
word. He thought she put it in inverted commas, as a lady should; and
when this is done, a word of slang is piquant now and then as a
quotation. Besides, he was far from being a purist in language. Kate,
however, the unselfish, thoughtful elder sister, sweetly considerate of
the young beauty, brought out Sophy’s hat with her own, and they began
to play. Herbert and Reine were novices, unacquainted (strange as the
confession must sound) with this universally popular game; and Sophy
boldly stepped into the breech, and took them both on her side. “I am
the best player of the lot,” said Sophy calmly. “You know I am. So
Bertie and Reine shall come with me; and beat us if you can!” said the
young champion; and if the reader will believe me, Sophy’s boast came
true. Kate, indeed, made a brave stand; but the Major was middle-aged,
and the young fellow was feeble, and Herbert showed an unsuspected
genius for the game. He was quite pleased himself by his success;
everything, indeed, seemed to conspire to make Herbert feel how clever
he was, how superior he was, what an acquisition was his society; and
during the former part of his life it had not been so. Like one of the
great philosophers of modern times, Herbert felt that those who
appreciated him so deeply must in themselves approach the sublime.
Indeed, I fear it is a little mean on my part to take the example of
that great philosopher, as if he were a rare instance; for is not the
most foolish of us of the same opinion? “Call me wise, and I will allow
you to be a judge,” says an old Scotch proverb. Herbert was ready to
think all these kind people very good judges who so magnified and
glorified himself.
In the evening there was a very small dinner-party; again two men to
balance Kate and Reine, but not the same men--persons of greater weight
and standing, with Farrel-Austin himself at the foot of his own table.
Mrs. Farrel-Austin was not well enough to come to dinner, but appeared
in the drawing-room afterward; and when the gentlemen came upstairs,
appropriated Reine. Sophy, who had a pretty little voice, had gone to
the piano, and was singing to Herbert, pausing at the end of every verse
to ask him, “Was it very bad? Tell me what you dislike most, my high
notes or my low notes, or my execution, or what?” while Herbert,
laughing and protesting, gave vehement praise to all. “I don’t dislike
anything. I am delighted with every word; but you must not trust to me,
for indeed I am no judge of music.”
“No judge of music, and yet fresh from Italy!” cried Sophy, with
flattering contempt.
While this was going on Mrs. Farrel-Austin drew Reine close to her sofa.
“I am very glad to see you, my dear,” she said, “and so far as I am
concerned I hope you will come often. You are so quiet and nice; and all
I have seen of your Aunt Susan I like, though I know she does not like
us. But I hope, my dear, you won’t get into the racketing set our girls
are so fond of. I should be very sorry for that; it would be bad for
your brother. I don’t mean to say anything against Kate and Sophy. They
are very lively and very strong, and it suits them, though in some
things I think it is bad for them too. But your brother could never
stand it, my dear; I know what bad health is, and I can see that he is
not strong still.”
“Oh, yes,” said Reine eagerly. “He has been going out in the world a
great deal lately. I was frightened at first; but I assure you he is
quite strong.”
Mrs. Farrel-Austin shook her head. “I know what poor health is,” she
said, “and however strong you may get, you never can stand a racket. I
don’t suppose for a moment that they mean any harm, but still I should
not like anything to happen in this house. People might say--and your
Aunt Susan would be sure to think--It is very nice, I suppose, for young
people; and of course at your age you are capable of a great deal of
racketing; but I must warn you, my dear, it’s ruin for the health.”
“Indeed, I don’t think we have any intention of racketing.”
“Ah, it is not the intention that matters,” said the invalid. “I only
want to warn you, my dear. It is a very racketing set. You should not
let yourself be drawn into it, and quietly, you know, when you have an
opportunity, you might say a word to your brother. I dare say he feels
the paramount value of health. Oh, what should I give now if I had only
been warned when I was young! You cannot play with your health, my dear,
with impunity. Even the girls, though they are so strong, have headaches
and things which they oughtn’t to have at their age. But I hope you will
come here often, you are so nice and quiet--not like the most of those
that come here.”
“What is Mrs. Austin saying to you, Reine?” asked Kate.
“She told me I was nice and quiet,” said Reine, thinking that in honor
she was bound not to divulge the rest; and they both laughed at the
moderate compliment.
“So you are,” said Kate, giving her a little hug. “It is refreshing to
be with any one so tranquil--and I am sure you will do us both good.”
Reine was not impressed by this as Herbert was by Sophy’s pretty
speeches. Perhaps the praise that was given to her was not equally well
chosen. The passionate little semi-French girl (who had been so
ultra-English in Normandy) was scarcely flattered by being called
tranquil, and did not feel that to do Sophy and Kate good by being “nice
and quiet” was a lofty mission. What did a racketing set mean? she
wondered. An involuntary prejudice against the house rose in her mind,
and this opened her eyes to something of Sophy’s tactics. It was rather
hard to sit and look on and see Herbert thus fooled to the top of his
bent. When she went to the piano beside them, Sophy grew more rational;
but still she kept referring to Herbert, consulting him. “Is it like
this they do it in Italy?” she sang, executing “a shake” with more
natural sweetness than science.
“Indeed, I don’t know, but it is beautiful,” said Herbert. “Ask Reine.”
“Oh, Reine is only a girl like myself. She will say what she thinks will
please me. I have far more confidence in a gentleman,” cried Sophy; “and
above all in you, Bertie, who have promised to be a brother to me,” she
said, in a lower tone.
“Did I promise to be a brother?” said poor, foolish Herbert, his heart
beating with vanity and pleasure.
And the evening passed amid these delights.