THE THIRTIETH OF JULY
‘The heir, with roses in his shoes,
That night might village partner choose.’
THE 30th of July was bright and clear, and Phyllis was up early,
gathering flowers, which, with the help of Jane’s nimble fingers, she
made into elegant little bouquets for each of her sisters, and for
Claude.
‘How is this?’ said Mr. Hawkesworth, pretending to look disconsolate, ‘am
I to sing “Fair Phyllida flouts me,” or why is my button-hole left
destitute?’
‘Perhaps that is for you on the side-table,’ said Lily.
‘Oh! no,’ said Phyllis, ‘those are some Provence roses for Miss Weston
and Marianne, because Miss Weston likes those, and they have none at
Broomhill. Redgie is going to take care of them. I will get you a
nosegay, Frank. I did not know you liked it.’
She started up. ‘How prudent, Phyllis,’ said Eleanor, ‘not to have put
on your muslin frock yet.’
‘Oh! I am not going,’ said Phyllis.
‘Not going!’ was the general outcry.
‘No, poor Ada cries so about being left at home with only baby, that I
cannot bear it, and so I promised to stay.’
Away went Phyllis, and Reginald exclaimed, ‘Well, she shall not be served
so. I will go and tell Ada so this instant.’
Off he rushed, and putting in his head at the nursery door, shouted,
‘Ada, I am come to tell you that Phyl is not to be made your black-a-moor
slave! She shall go, that is settled.’
Down he went with equal speed, without waiting for an answer, and arrived
while Eleanor was saying that she thought Ada was provided with amusement
with the baby, her playthings, and books, and that Mr. Devereux had
promised to make her a visit.
‘Anybody ought to stay at home rather than Phyllis,’ said Lily; ‘I think
I had better stay.’
‘No, no, Lily,’ said Jane, ‘you are more wanted than I am; you are really
worth talking to and dancing with; I had much better be at home.’
‘I forgot!’ exclaimed William. ‘Mrs. Weston desired me to say that she
is not going, and she will take care of Ada. Mr. Weston will set her
down at half-past ten, and take up one of us.’
‘I will be that one,’ said Reginald, ‘I have not seen Miss Weston since I
came home. I meant to walk to Broomhill after dinner yesterday, only the
Baron stopped me about that country-dance. Last Christmas I made her
promise to dance with me to-day.’
Lily had hoped to be that one, but she did not oppose Reginald, and
turned to listen to Eleanor, who was saying, ‘Let us clearly understand
how every one is to go, it will save a great deal of confusion. You and
Jane, and Maurice, go in the phaeton, do not you? And who drives you?’
‘William, I believe,’ said Lily. ‘Claude goes earlier, so he rides the
gray. Then there is the chariot for you and Frank, and papa and
Phyllis.’
So it was proposed, but matters turned out otherwise. The phaeton,
which, with a promoted cart-horse, was rather a slow conveyance, was to
set out first, but the whole of the freight was not ready in time. The
ladies were in the hall as soon as it came to the door, but neither of
the gentlemen were forthcoming. Reginald, who was wandering in the hall,
was sent to summon them; but down he came in great wrath. Maurice had
declared that he was not ready, and they must wait for him till he had
tied his neckcloth, which Reginald opined would take three quarters of an
hour, as he was doing it scientifically, and William had said that he was
not going in the gig at all, that he had told Wat Greenwood to drive, and
that Reginald must go instead of Maurice.
In confirmation of the startling fact Wat, who had had a special
invitation from the Marquis, was sitting in the phaeton in his best black
velvet coat. Jane only hoped that Emily would not look out of the
window, or she would certainly go into fits on seeing them arrive with
the old phaeton, the thick-legged cart-horse, and Wat Greenwood for a
driver; and Reginald, after much growling at Maurice, much bawling at
William’s door, and, as Jane said, romping and roaring in all parts of
the house, was forced to be resigned to his fate, and all the way to
Hetherington held a very amusing conversation with his good-natured
friend the keeper.
They were overtaken, nodded to, and passed by the rest of their party.
Maurice had been reduced to ride the pony, William came with the Westons,
and the chariot load was just as had been before arranged.
Claude came out to meet them at the door, saying, ‘I need not have gone
so early. What do you think has become of the hero of the day? Guess, I
will just give you this hint,
“Though on pleasure he was bent, he had no selfish mind.”’
‘Oh! the Aylmers, I suppose,’ said Lilias.
‘Right, Lily, he heard something at dinner yesterday about a school for
clergymen’s sons, which struck him as likely to suit young Devereux
Aylmer, and off he set at seven o’clock this morning to Raynham, to
breakfast with Mrs. Aylmer, and talk to her about it. Never let me hear
again that he is engrossed with his own affairs!’
‘And why is he in such a hurry?’ asked Lily.
‘’Tis his nature,’ said Claude, ‘besides Travers, who mentioned this
school, goes away to-morrow. My aunt is in a fine fright lest he should
not come back in time. Did not you hear her telling papa so in the
drawing-room?’
‘There he is, riding up to the door,’ said Phyllis, who had joined them
in the hall. Lord Rotherwood stopped for a few moments at the door to
give some directions to the servants, and then came quickly in. ‘Ah,
there you are!—What time is it? It is all right, Claude—Devereux is just
the right age. I asked him a few questions this morning, and he will
stand a capital examination. Ha, Phyl, I am glad to see you.’
‘I wish you many happy returns of the day, Cousin Rotherwood.’
‘Thank you, Phyl, we had better see how we get through one such day
before we wish it to return. Are the rest come?’
He went on into the drawing-room, and hastily informing his mother that
he had sent the carriage to fetch Miss Aylmer and her brothers to the
feast, called Claude to come out on the lawn to look at the preparations.
The bowling-green was to serve as drawing-room, and at one end was
pitched an immense tent where the dinner was to be.
‘I say, Claude,’ said he in his quickest and most confused way, ‘I depend
upon you for one thing. Do not let the Baron be too near me.’
‘The Baron of Beef?’ said Claude.
‘No, the Baron of Beechcroft. If you wish my speech to be _radara
tadara_, put him where I can imagine that he hears me.’
‘Very well,’ said Claude, laughing; ‘have you any other commands?’
‘No—yes, I have though. You know what we settled about the toasts. Hunt
up old Farmer Elderfield as soon as he comes, and do not frighten him.
If you could sit next to him and make him get up at the right time, it
would be best. Tell him I will not let any one propose my health but my
great-grandfather’s tenant. You will manage it best. And tell Frank
Hawkesworth, and Mr. Weston, or some of them, to manage so that the
gentry may not sit together in a herd, two or three together would be
best. Mind, Claude, I depend on you for being attentive to all the
damsels. I cannot be everywhere at once, and I see your great Captain
will be of no use to me.’
Here news was brought that the labourers had begun to arrive, and the
party went to the walnut avenue, where the feast was spread. It was
pleasant to see so many poor families enjoying their excellent dinner;
but perhaps the pleasantest sight was the lord of the feast speaking to
each poor man with all his bright good-natured cordiality. Mr. Mohun was
surprised to see how well he knew them all, considering how short a time
he had been among them, and Lilias found Florence rise in her estimation,
when she perceived that the inside of the Hetherington cottages were not
unknown to her.
‘Do you know, Florence,’ said she, as they walked back to the house
together, ‘I did you great injustice? I never expected you to know or
care about poor people.’
‘No more I did till this winter,’ said Florence; ‘I could not do
anything, you know, before. Indeed, I do not do much now, only
Rotherwood has made me go into the school now and then; and when first we
came, he made it his especial request that whenever a poor woman came to
ask for anything I would go and speak to her. And so I could not help
being interested about those I knew.’
‘How odd it is that we never talked about it,’ said Lily.
‘I never talk of it,’ said Florence, ‘because mamma never likes to hear
of my going into cottages with Rotherwood. Besides, somehow I thought
you did it as a matter of duty, and not of pleasure. Oh! Rotherwood, is
that you?’
‘The Aylmers are come,’ said Lord Rotherwood, drawing her arm into his,
‘and I want you to come and speak to them, Florence and Lily; I can’t
find any one; all the great elders have vanished. You know them of old,
do not you, Lily?’
‘Of old? Yes; but of so old that I do not suppose they will know me.
You must introduce me.’
He hastened them to the drawing-room, where they found Miss Aylmer, a
sensible, lady-like looking person, and two brothers, of about fifteen
and thirteen.
‘Well, Miss Aylmer, I have brought you two old friends; so old, that they
think you have forgotten them—my cousin Lilias, and my sister Florence.’
‘We have not forgotten you, Miss Aylmer,’ said Florence, warmly shaking
hands with her. ‘You seem so entirely to belong to Hetherington that I
scarcely knew the place without you.’
There was something that particularly pleased Lily in the manner in which
Miss Aylmer answered. Florence talked a little while, and then proposed
to adjourn to the supplementary drawing-room—the lawn—where the company
were already assembling.
Florence was soon called off to receive some other guest, and Lilias
spent a considerable time in sitting under a tree talking to Miss Aylmer,
whom she found exceedingly pleasant and agreeable, remembering all that
had happened during their former intercourse, and interested in
everything that was going on. Lily was much amused when her companion
asked her who that gentleman was—‘that tall, thin young man, with dark
hair, whom she had seen once or twice speaking to Lord Rotherwood?’
The tall gentleman advanced, spoke to Miss Aylmer, told Lily that the
world was verging towards the tent, and giving one arm to her and the
other to Miss Aylmer, took that direction. In the meantime Phyllis had
been walking about with her eldest sister, and wondering what had become
of all the others. In process of time she found herself seated on a high
bench in the tent, with a most beautiful pink-and-white sugar temple on
the table before her. She was between Eleanor and Frank. All along one
side of the table was a row of faces which she had never seen before, and
she gazed at them in search of some well-known countenance. At last Mr.
Weston caught her eye, and nodded to her. Next to him she saw Marianne,
then Reginald; on the other side Alethea and William. A little
tranquillised by seeing that every one was not lost, she had courage to
eat some cold chicken, to talk to Frank about the sugar temple, and to
make an inventory in her mind of the smartest bonnets for Ada’s benefit.
She was rather unhappy at not having found out when grace was said before
dinner, and she made Eleanor promise to tell her in time to stand up
after dinner. She could not, however, hear much, though warned in time,
and by this time more at ease and rather enjoying herself than otherwise.
Now Eleanor told her to listen, for Cousin Rotherwood was going to speak.
She listened, but knew not what was said, until Mr. Hawkesworth told her
it was Church and Queen. What Church and Queen had to do with Cousin
Rotherwood’s birthday she could not imagine, and she laid it up in her
mind to ask Claude. The next time she was told to listen she managed to
hear more. By the help of Eleanor’s directions, she found out the
speaker, an aged farmer, in a drab greatcoat, his head bald, excepting a
little silky white hair, which fell over the collar of his coat. It was
Mr. Elderfield, the oldest tenant on the estate, and he was saying in a
slow deliberate tone that he was told he was to propose his lordship’s
health. It was a great honour for the like of him, and his lordship must
excuse him if he did not make a fine speech. All he could say was, that
he had lived eighty-three years on the estate, and held his farm nearly
sixty years; he had seen three marquises of Rotherwood besides his
present lordship, and he had always found them very good landlords. He
hoped and believed his lordship was like his fathers, and he was sure he
could do no better than tread in their steps. He proposed the health of
Lord Rotherwood, and many happy returns of the day to him.
The simplicity and earnestness of the old man’s tones were appreciated by
all, and the tremendous cheer, which almost terrified Phyllis, was a fit
assent to the hearty good wishes of the old farmer.
‘Now comes the trial!’ whispered Claude to Lilias, after he had
vehemently contributed his proportion to the noise. Lilias saw that his
colour had risen, as much as if he had to make a speech himself, and he
earnestly examined the coronet on his fork, while every other eye was
fixed on the Marquis. Eloquence was not to be expected; but, at least,
Lord Rotherwood spoke clearly and distinctly.
‘My friends,’ said he, ‘you must not expect much of a speech from me; I
can only thank you for your kindness, say how glad I am to see you here,
and tell you of my earnest desire that I may not prove myself unworthy to
be compared with my forefathers.’ Here was a pause. Claude’s hand
shook, and Lily saw how anxious he was, but in another moment the Marquis
went on smoothly. ‘Now, I must ask you to drink the health of a
gentleman who has done his utmost to compensate for the loss which we
sustained nine years ago, and to whom I owe any good intentions which I
may bring to the management of this property. I beg leave to propose the
health of my uncle, Mr. Mohun, of Beechcroft.’
Claude was much surprised, for his cousin had never given him a hint of
his intention. It was a moment of great delight to all the young Mohuns
when the cheer rose as loud and hearty as for the young lord himself, and
Phyllis smiled, and wondered, when she saw her papa rise to make answer.
He said that he could not attempt to answer Lord Rotherwood, as he had
not heard what he said, but that he was much gratified by his having
thought of him on this occasion, and by the goodwill which all had
expressed. This was the last speech that was interesting; Lady
Rotherwood’s health and a few more toasts followed, and the party then
left the tent for the lawn, where the cool air was most refreshing, and
the last beams of the evening sun were lighting the tops of the trees.
The dancing was now to begin, and this was the time for Claude to be
useful. He had spent so much time at home, and had accompanied his
father so often in his rides, that he knew every one, and he was inclined
to make every exertion in the cause of his cousin, and on this occasion
seemed to have laid aside his indolence and disinclination to speak to
strangers.
Lady Florence was also indefatigable, darting about, with a wonderful
perception who everybody was, and with whom each would like to dance.
She seized upon little Devereux Aylmer for her own partner before any one
else had time to ask her, and carried him about the lawn, hunting up and
pairing other shy people.
‘Why, Reginald, what are you about? You can manage a country-dance.
Make haste; where is your partner?’
‘I meant to dance with Miss Weston,’ said Reginald, piteously.
‘Miss Weston? Here she is.’
‘That is only Marianne,’ said Reginald.
‘Oh! Miss Weston is dancing with William. Marianne, will you accept my
apologies for this discourteous cousin of mine? I am perfectly
horror-struck. There, Redgie, take her with a good grace; you will never
have a better partner.’
Marianne was only too glad to have Reginald presented to her, ungracious
as he was, but the poor little couple met with numerous disasters. They
neither of them knew the way through a country-dance, and were almost run
over every time they went down the middle; Reginald’s heels were very
inconvenient to his neighbours; so much so, that once Claude thought it
expedient to admonish him, that dancing was not merely an elegant name
for football without a ball. Every now and then some of their friends
gave them a hasty intimation that they were all wrong, but that they knew
already but too well. At last, just when Marianne had turned scarlet
with vexation, and Reginald was growing so desperate that he had thoughts
of running a way, the dance came to an end, and Reginald, with very
scanty politeness to his partner, rushed away to her sister, saying, in
rather a reproachful tone, ‘Miss Weston, you promised to dance with me.’
‘I have not forgotten my promise,’ said Alethea, smiling.
At the same moment Claude hurried up, saying, ‘William, I want a partner
for Miss Wilkins, of the Wold Farm. Miss Wilkins, let me introduce
Captain Mohun.’
‘You see I have made the Captain available,’ said Claude, presently after
meeting Lord Rotherwood, as he speeded across the lawn.
‘Have you? I did not think him fair game,’ said the Marquis. ‘Where is
your heroine, Claude? I have not seen her dancing.’
‘What heroine? What do you mean?’
‘Honest Phyl, of course. Did you think I meant Miss Weston?’
‘With Eleanor, somewhere. Is the next dance a quadrille?’
Lord Rotherwood ran up the bank to the terraced walks, where the
undancing part of the company sat or walked about. Soon he spied Phyllis
standing by Eleanor, looking rather wearied. ‘Phyllis, can you dance a
quadrille?’
Phyllis opened her eyes, and Eleanor desired her to answer.
‘Come, Phyllis, let me see what M. Le Roi has done for you.’
He led her away, wondering greatly, and thinking how very good-natured
Cousin Rotherwood was.
Emily was much surprised to find Phyllis her _vis à vis_. Emily was very
generally known and liked, and had no lack of grand partners, but she
would have liked to dance with the Marquis. When the quadrille was over,
she was glad to put herself in his way, by coming up to take charge of
Phyllis.
‘Well done, Phyl,’ said he; ‘no mistakes. You must have another dance.
Whom shall we find for you?’
‘Oh! Rotherwood,’ said Emily, ‘you cannot think how you gratified us all
with your speech.’
‘Ah! I always set my heart on saying something of the kind; but I wished
I could have dared to add the bride’s health.’
‘The bride!’
‘Do not pretend to have no eyes,’ said Lord Rotherwood, with a
significant glance, which directed Emily’s eyes to the terrace, where Mr.
Mohun and Alethea were walking together in eager conversation.
Emily was ready to sink into the earth. Jane’s surmises, and the
mysterious words of her father, left her no further doubt. At this
moment some one asked her to dance, and scarcely knowing what she did or
said, she walked to her place. Lord Rotherwood now found a partner for
Phyllis, and a farmer’s daughter for himself.
This dance over, Phyllis’s partner did not well know how to dispose of
her, and she grew rather frightened on finding that none of her sisters
were in sight. At last she perceived Reginald standing on the bank, and
made her escape to him.
‘Redgie, did you see who I have been dancing with? Cousin Rotherwood and
Claude’s grand Oxford friend—Mr. Travers.’
‘It is all nonsense,’ said Reginald. ‘Come out of this mob of people.’
‘But where is Eleanor?’
‘Somewhere in the midst. They are all absurd together.’
‘What is the matter, Redgie?’ asked Phyllis, unable to account for this
extraordinary fit of misanthropy.
‘Papa and William both driving me about like a dog,’ said Reginald;
‘first I danced with Miss Weston—then she saw that woman—that Miss
Aylmer—shook hands—talked—and then nothing would serve her but to find
papa. As soon as the Baron sees me he cries out, “Why are not you
dancing, Redgie? We do not want you!” Up and down they walk, ever so
long, and presently papa turns off, and begins talking to Miss Aylmer.
Then, of course, I went back to Miss Weston, but then up comes William,
as savage as one of his Canadian bears; he orders me off too, and so here
I am! I am sure I am not going to ask any one else to dance. Come and
walk with me in peace, Phyl. Do you see them?—Miss Weston and Marianne
under that tulip-tree, and the Captain helping them to ice.’
‘Redgie, did you give Miss Weston her nosegay? Some one put such
beautiful flowers in it, such as I never saw before.’
‘How could I? They sent me off with Lily and Jane. I told William I had
the flowers in charge, and he said he would take care of them. By the
bye, Phyl,’ and Reginald gave a wondrous spring, ‘I have it! I have it!
I have it! If he is not in love with Miss Weston you may call me an ass
for the rest of my life.’
‘I should not like to call you an ass, Redgie,’ said Phyllis.
‘Very likely; but do not make me call you one. Hurrah! Now ask Marianne
if it is not so. Marianne must know. How jolly! I say, Phyl, stay
there, and I will fetch Marianne.’
Away ran Reginald, and presently returned with Marianne, who was very
glad to be invited to join Phyllis. She little knew what an examination
awaited her.
‘Marianne,’ began Phyllis, ‘I’ll tell you what—’
‘No, I will do it right,’ said Reginald; ‘you know nothing about it,
Phyl. Marianne, is not something going on there?’
‘Going on?’ said Marianne, ‘Alethea is speaking to Mrs. Hawkesworth.’
‘Nonsense, I know better, Marianne. I have a suspicion that I could tell
what the Captain was about yesterday when he walked off after dinner.’
‘How very wise you think you look, Reginald!’ said Marianne, laughing
heartily.
‘But tell us; do tell us, Marianne,’ said Phyllis.
‘Tell you whet?’
‘Whether William is going to marry Miss Weston,’ said the straightforward
Phyllis. ‘Redgie says so—only tell us. Oh! it would be so nice!’
‘How you blurt it out, Phyl,’ said Reginald. ‘You do not know how those
things are managed. Mind, I found it out all myself. Just say,
Marianne. Am not I right?’
‘I do not know whether I ought to tell,’ said Marianne.
‘Oh! then it is all right,’ said Reginald, ‘and I found it out. Now,
Marianne, there is a good girl, tell us all about it.’
‘You know I could not say “No” when you asked me,’ said Marianne; ‘I
could not help it really; but pray do not tell anybody, or Captain Mohun
will not like it.’
‘Does any one know?’ said Reginald.
‘Only ourselves and Mr. Mohun; and I think Lord Rotherwood guesses, from
something I heard him say to Jane.’
‘To Jane?’ said Reginald. ‘That is provoking; she will think she found
it out all herself, and be so conceited!’
‘You need not be afraid,’ said Marianne, laughing; ‘Jane is on a wrong
scent.’
‘Jane? Oh! I should like to see her out in her reckonings! I should
like to have a laugh against her. What does she think, Marianne?’
‘Oh! I cannot tell you; it is too bad.’
‘Oh! do; do, pray. You may whisper it if it is too bad for Phyllis to
hear.’
‘No, no,’ said Marianne; ‘it is nothing but nonsense. If you hear it,
Phyllis shall too; but mind, you must promise not to say anything to
anybody, or I do not know what will become of me.’
‘Well, we will not,’ said Reginald; ‘boys can always keep secrets, and
I’ll engage for Phyl. Now for it.’
‘She is in a terrible fright lest it should be Mr. Mohun. She got it
into her head last autumn, and all I could say would not persuade her out
of it. Why, she always calls me Aunt Marianne when we are alone. Now,
Reginald, here comes Maurice. Do not say anything, I beg and entreat.
It is my secret, you know. I daresay you will all be told
to-morrow,—indeed, mamma said so,—but pray say nothing about me or Jane.
It was only settled yesterday evening.’
At this moment Maurice came up, with a message that Miss Weston and
Eleanor were going away, and wanted the little girls. They followed him
to the tent, which had been cleared of the tables, and lighted up, in
order that the dancing might continue there. Most of their own party
were collected at the entrance, watching for them. Lilias came up just
as they did, and exclaimed in a tone of disappointment, on finding them
preparing to depart. She had enjoyed herself exceedingly, found plenty
of partners, and was not in the least tired.
‘Why should she not stay?’ said William. ‘Claude has engaged to stay to
the end of everything, and he may as well drive her as ride the gray.’
‘And you, Jenny,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘do you like to stay or go? Alethea
will make room for you in the pony-carriage, or you may go with Eleanor.
‘With Eleanor, if you please,’ said Jane.
‘Already, Jane?’ said Lily. ‘Are you tired?’
Jane drew her aside. ‘Tired of hearing that I was right about what you
would not believe. Did you not hear what he called her? And Rotherwood
has found it out.’
‘It is all gossip and mistake,’ said Lily.
Here Jane was called away by Eleanor, and departed with her; Lilias went
to look for her aunt or Florence, but on the way was asked to dance by
Mr. Carrington.
‘I suppose I may congratulate you,’ said he in one of the pauses in the
quadrille.
Lily thought it best to misunderstand, and answered, ‘Everything has gone
off very well.’
‘Very. Lord Rotherwood will be a popular man; but my congratulations
refer to something nearer home. I think you owe us some thanks for
having brought them into the neighbourhood.’
‘Report is very kind in making arrangements,’ said Lily, with something
of Emily’s haughty courtesy.
‘I hope this is something more than report,’ said her partner.
‘Indeed, I believe not. I think I may safely say that it is at present
quite unfounded,’ said Lily.
Mr. Carrington, much surprised, said no more.
Lily did not believe the report sufficiently to be annoyed by it during
the excitement and pleasure of the evening, and at present her principal
vexation was caused by the rapid diminution of the company. She and her
brother were the very last to depart, even Florence had gone to bed, and
Lady Rotherwood, looking exceedingly tired, kissed Lily at the foot of
the stairs, pitied her for going home in an open carriage, and wished her
good-night in a very weary tone.
‘I should think you were the fiftieth lady I have handed across the
hall,’ said Lord Rotherwood, as he gave Lily his arm.
‘But where were the fireworks, Rotherwood?’
‘Countermanded long ago. We have had enough of them. Well, I am sorry
it is over.’
‘I am very glad it is so well over,’ said Claude.
‘Thanks to your exertions, Claude,’ said the Marquis. ‘You acted like a
hero.’
‘Like a dancing dervish you mean,’ said Claude. ‘It will suffice for my
whole life.’
‘I hope you are not quite exhausted.’
‘No, thank you. I have turned over a new leaf.’
‘Talking of new leaves,’ said the Marquis, ‘I always had a presentiment
that Emily’s government would come to a crisis to-day.’
‘Do you think it has?’ said Claude.
‘Trust my word, you will hear great news to-morrow. And that reminds
me—can you come here to-morrow morning? Travers is going—I drive him to
meet the coach at the town, and you were talking of wanting to see the
new windows in the cathedral: it will be a good opportunity. And dine
here afterwards to talk over the adventures.’
‘Thank you—that last I cannot do. The Baron was saying it would be the
first time of having us all together.’
‘Very well, besides the great news. I wish I was going back with you; it
is a tame conclusion, only to go to bed. If I was but to be on the scene
of action to-morrow. Tell the Baron that—no, use your influence to get
me invited to dinner on Saturday—I really want to speak to him.’
‘Very well,’ said Claude, ‘I’ll do my best. Good-night.’
‘Good-night,’ said the Marquis. ‘You have both done wonders. Still, I
wish it was to come over again.’
‘Few people would say so,’ said Lily, as they drove off.
‘Few would say so if they thought so,’ said Claude. ‘I have been quite
admiring the way Rotherwood has gone on—enjoying the fun as if he was
nobody—just as Reginald might, making other people happy, and making no
secret of his satisfaction in it all.’
‘Very free from affectation and nonsense,’ said Lily, ‘as William said of
him last Christmas. You were in a fine fright about his speech, Claude.’
‘More than I ought to have been. I should have known that he is too
simple-minded and straightforward to say anything but just what he ought.
What a nice person that Miss Aylmer is.’
‘Is not she, Claude? I was very glad you had her for a neighbour. Happy
the children who have her for a governess. How sensible and gentle she
seems. The Westons—But oh! Claude, tell me one thing, did you hear—’
‘Well, what?’
‘I am ashamed to say. That preposterous report about papa. Why,
Rotherwood himself seems to believe it, and Mr. Carrington began to
congratulate—’
‘The public has bestowed so many ladies on the Baron, that I wonder it is
not tired,’ said Claude. ‘It is time it should patronise William
instead.’
‘Rotherwood is not the public,’ said Lily, ‘and he is the last person to
say anything impertinent of papa. And I myself heard papa call her
Alethea, which he never used to do. Claude, what do you think?’
After a long pause Claude slowly replied, ‘Think? Why, I think Miss
Weston must be a person of great courage. She begins the world as a
grandmother, to say nothing of her eldest daughter and son being
considerably her seniors.’
‘I do not believe it,’ said Lily. ‘Do you, Claude?’
‘I cannot make up my mind—it is too amazing. My hair is still standing
on end. When it comes down I may be able to tell you something.’
Such were the only answers that Lily could extract from him. He did not
sufficiently disbelieve the report to treat it with scorn, yet he did not
sufficiently credit it to resign himself to such a state of things.
On coming home Lily found Emily and Jane in her room, eagerly discussing
the circumstances which, to their prejudiced eyes, seemed strong
confirmation. While their tongues were in full career the door opened
and Eleanor appeared. She told them it was twelve o’clock, turned Jane
out of the room, and made Emily and Lily promise not to utter another
syllable that night.