VULTURES HABITED AS CHRISTIAN PEW-HOLDERS.
In due time his hansom enters the gates of Broadlawns; at the door he is
met by Mr. Stone.
"Welcome to England and Broadlawns," said the spider to the fly, his
ferret-like eyes scanning his victim eagerly, as if to read whether he
would give him trouble. "We have been expecting you for twenty-four
hours; the ladies have been most anxious. Simon, bring this gentleman's
baggage upstairs, to the east room; and put in an appearance soon,
Babbington-Cole, or the ladies will think you a myth."
"Thank you; as I dressed at Morley's, I shall be with you in a few
moments," responded Cole, in subdued accents, feeling that struggles
would be now of no avail, that he was well in their net; but the house
itself would have depressed him under any circumstances. It was solid,
massive, thick-set gloom; happiness and mirth were far away; the cold,
chill atmosphere of distrust, dislike, deceit and hypocrisy dwelt in its
dark corridors and gloomy apartments. The last gleam of "Home, sweet
home," had fled with the spirit of the second wife of its late master;
she, poor thing, was wont to say, "Broadlawns is like a lovely, smiling
face, with a black, lying heart; its exterior is bright with Nature's
beauteous flowers, its interior a very Hades."
Miss Villiers and Miss Stone rose to greet Mr. Cole on his entering the
gloomy, but handsomely furnished oak drawing-room; his first glance at
the former served to show him that the lady who had wished he might come
to his senses under the feet of her horse and Miss Villiers were one and
the same.
"Jove! that vixen," he thought; "but, thank Heaven, there are two
daughters; the other is my one, for my father says she is the prettiest
girl in all England, and this one, ugh, she makes one's flesh creep."
"My conscience, 'tis that dolt," thought his bride-elect, giving her
hand with her false smile. "We expected you to dinner, but cook has my
orders to get you up something, so come with me to the dining-room," she
added, insinuatingly.
"Don't trouble about me, Miss Villiers, I beg; I had a bit of dinner at
Morley's."
"Muff," thought Miss Villiers, spitefully, "not to have taken his chance
to become acquainted."
"Margaret is, as you are aware, Mr. Babbington-Cole, the Christian name
of my niece (and a beautiful name it is); she will be better pleased if
you drop all formality, and call her so, eh, Margaret."
"Yes, under the circumstances," she answered, with a meaning glance.
"Thank you; I have not seen your sister yet; is she quite well?" he
asked, timidly; for, with a forboding of evil, he unconsciously looked
to the sister as an escape.
"Margaret's fascinations fall flat," thought her uncle, with a malicious
chuckle.
"I don't take; he wants a milk and water miss, but no you don't, young
man; you are _my tool_," thought his bride-elect, setting her teeth.
"My poor step-sister is well--I hope, but we never name her; she is a--a
mistake; however, _she_ is not your one."
"But is she not here?" said Cole, nervously, now really frightened,
"does she not reside with you? My poor father said--" here he utterly
broke down. Accustomed ever to lean on some one, of a clinging, trusting
nature, with a strong spice of feminine gentleness, which caused him to
turn to some woman friend for advice or moral support, so that here, in
the hour of his greatest need, he feels doubly alone, as he gazes around
at the three hard, cruel faces, each with a set purpose and false smile
perceptibly engraven, he is in despair. Miss Villiers especially; will
he ever cease to be haunted by her as she sits in a high Elizabethan
chair, an ebony easel exactly on a line with her face, and partly behind
her, on which is a frightful head of Medusa, the reptiles for hair
looking to him, in his highly nervous state, like the tight, crisp curls
and braids covering the head of his bride-elect, and the lines from
Pitt's "Virgil" recurred to his memory:
"Such fiends to scourge mankind, so fierce, so fell,
Heaven never summoned from the depths of hell."
Mr. Stone broke the momentary silence by saying, in matter-of-fact
tones:
"It is natural, I suppose, to a man of your seemingly nervous
temperament, to be a little upset at not meeting your father; but, in my
opinion, life is too short for sentiment, especially when wasted as in
this case, for your father, according to cablegram sent us, is
improving, and is, I dare swear, kicking his heels about St. Lawrence
Hall, Montreal, waiting impatiently for your return."
"Yes, Uncle Timothy, yours is the practical view of it; sentiment is, or
should be, a monopoly of the poets; self-interest, with pounds,
shillings and pence, are good enough for us."
"Margaret means to convey, Mr. Charles, that you should be thankful to
Providence that you have been spared to come to us; to a land, also,
flowing with milk and honey, ready to your hand and purse," said her
aunt, sanctimoniously adding, "How is religious life in Toronto?"
"Religious life?" he said, half dazed, wholly absorbed in the thought
that he was to be held in bondage by that stony-eyed woman with
snake-like hair--his Medusa.
"Alas, I fear you are dead in sin, Mr. Charles. You do not even know the
meaning of my words. I have heard that New York is the most wicked city
in America, and you, I fear, frequently go there to participate in the
pleasures of sin. I dread to allow my niece to go out, even as your
wife; it was only the other day I read, copied from one of your
newspapers, that at Tahlequah, which I suppose is near you, that a
Chickasaw Indian was arrested by a deputy United States marshal with
three assistants; the company camped on the prairie, with the exception
of the marshal, who, riding on, reached his goal; waited there until
weary, he rode back, and what did he find? The entire posse with heads
cut off, and the Indian fled. America must be a very Sodom and Gomorrah.
But I see you are not listening to me, Mr. Charles. We have a saintly
young man here, the Rev. Claude Parks, whom I must ask to influence you
to a better frame of mind, with an intense gratitude to Providence for
the favors about to be showered upon you."
Thus did Miss Stone give vent to her feelings to unlistening ears. Fond
of hearing her own voice, it mattered little to her that she received no
replies but to be told impatiently that "he was ill," and to be
compelled to waste the eloquence she seduced herself into believing she
possessed, upon a man with now his hands pressed upon his feverish brow,
now his eyes fixed on vacancy, now upon the entrance as though he would
fain flee, incensed her almost to rage; during the absence of Mr. Stone
and his niece she had determined to improve the occasion, and so read
him no end of lectures. The two absent ones, after a few minutes'
whispered conversation in the library, had crossed the lawn to a neat
cottage where the clergyman in charge of the Bayswater Mission existed
on one hundred and fifty pounds per annum. As they stepped through the
flower beds, which the moon rising in unclouded splendor lit with her
soft white light, Miss Villiers in cold, hard tones, said:
"Yes, you are right; he showed his hand, and of how much he loved me at
first sight, as he asked in that scared way for my sweet sister, but
bah! such maudlin folly in our wasting our precious moments over _his_
feelings in the matter; they are of no more consequence than are the
blades of grass we crush beneath our feet in reaching our goal; let him
laugh who wins, even though the goal be reached by a foul."
"Yes, the sooner we hold the lines the better; he has not spirit enough
to be a runaway horse."
"Let him but try, there is the curb bit and halter."
"Oh, you need not tell me, Margaret, that you will have him well in
hand. Yes, and before that paradise of fools, the honeymoon, is over,"
laughed her uncle sardonically.
"Yes, the grey mare will be the best horse this time; but what a
blessing his father is laid low; it would have been all up, when he saw
how cut up our precious Charles is. I did hope, had they come over
together, they might have been shrewd as their Yankee neighbors, and
gone in with us. Now, if his father should die, we have nothing to fear;
if he lives, we must exercise our wits, that is all. And, now, as to
your little fiction as to the telegram summoning you away at daybreak,
where will you stay?"
"Oh, anywhere, in some quiet cheap boarding-house in East End, London;
perhaps Tom Lang's."
"I suppose it's soft of me, uncle; but I may not have a quiet word with
you again. You must mind, I mean what I say. You must pay aunt one
hundred pounds per annum for her own requirements and beloved mission
work, though what she gives would not buy salt to their porridge, unless
to that of her pet parson himself."
"When you know this, Margaret, why make such an ass of yourself as to
give it her; for, in my opinion, she is hoarding."
"It is in the blood; but you are a monopolist," she said sententiously
as, merely tapping on the door of the cottage, they entered _sans
ceremonie_, meeting the Rev. Claude Parks in the hall, who, shaking
hands with both, said: "I had some calls this evening, but expecting you
in, postponed them. At what hour to-morrow am I to tie the knot?" he
asked smilingly.
"Never put off till to-morrow what can be done to-day, Mr. Parks; you
may take that for your text next Sunday," said Miss Villiers decidedly.
"Nothing like it, Parks," said her uncle in oily tones, rubbing his
hands.
"I shall give you another," said the curate rejoicing in his coming fee.
"'If, when done, 'twere well, 'twere well 'twere done quickly.' Do you
desire me to return with you?"
"Yes," said Miss Villiers, "and at once, if we are to act on our joint
quotations, for it is only two hours until midnight; come, get your
robes of office, and let us be off."
Thus it was that the ways and means did duty, the curate standing much
in awe of Miss Villiers, as well as of Miss Stone; some saying the
latter was his curate, others facetiously protesting that he was hers.
And so she considered him not as the ambassador of Christ, but as a paid
servant of her own, for so does too often the Anglican Church pay its
clergy only sufficient for a dinner of herbs; knowing that man, be he
priest or sinner, being a dining animal, has, at a weak moment, a
craving for the "stalled ox," and if his appetite be too strong for him,
sells himself, like Esau, for a "mess of pottage."
But now to return to Miss Villiers and her uncle, with the Rev. Claude
Parks, as they make their entree to Broadlawns and its oak
drawing-rooms.