DIAMONDS THAT CUT DIAMONDS.
Helen Vavasour came of a race whose women, if tradition speaks truth,
could always look, at need, on battle or broil without blenching; but it
is probable she would hardly have slept so soundly that night, had she
guessed at what was going on under the stars. She heard nothing of the
preparations; the bustle was confined to those remote regions where a
Servile War might have been carried on without the patricians wotting of
it; the furlongs of passage and corridor in the vast old manoir
swallowed up all ordinary sounds. Pauline would of course have
enlightened her mistress, but Wyverne chanced to "head" her before she
could "make her point." The quick-witted Parisian saw that he meant what
he said, when he begged her not to open her lips on the subject, and
kept silence through the night, though it was pain and grief to her.
That sentimental _soubrette_ kept for Alan the largest share of a simple
hero-worship, and she lay awake for hours listening and quaking, and
interceding perpetually with her favourite Saint for the safeguard of
her favourite Paladin. Judge if she indemnified herself for her
reticence, when she woke Miss Vavasour on the following morning! She had
got a perfect Romance of the Forest ready, wherein Wyverne's exploits
transcended those of Sir Bevis, and the physical proportions of his foes
cast those of Colbrand or Ascapart into the shade.
Making all allowances for her handmaiden's vivid imagination, Helen came
down to breakfast in a great turmoil of curiosity and anxiety. She had
to wait for authentic particulars, till she got fevered with impatience.
The Squire, quite determined on doing _his_ share of the business
thoroughly, had followed the prisoners, already, to the neighbouring
town, where they were to answer their misdeeds before himself and other
magistrates. Helen had no reason to believe that her mother was better
informed than herself, and "my lady's" morning meditations were not
likely to be disturbed; no one else had shown any sign of life so far.
At last, Bertie Grenvil lounged into the breakfast-room. His appearance
was somewhat reassuring; there was not a trace of conflict or even of
weariness on the fair face; indeed, the Cherub was so used to turn night
into day, that late hours and sleeplessness were rather his normal
state. His answers to Helen's string of eager questions were rather
unsatisfactory; much in the style of old Caspar's reminiscences about
Blenheim:
"Why that I cannot tell," quoth he:
"But 'twas a famous victory."
Perhaps there was no real reserve or affectation about it; one's waking
recollections of a midnight fray are apt to be strangely distorted and
vague.
"I've seen Alan, this morning," Bertie remarked at length casually.
"He's wonderfully well, all things considered, and means to show at
luncheon; but I fear they've spoiled his shooting for some time; he
won't be able to use that left arm for a fortnight."
Miss Vavasour's cheek lost its colour instantly, and her hand shook so
that it could hardly set down the cup it held.
"You don't mean that Alan is seriously hurt?" she said. "And they never
told me. I have never even sent to ask after him. It is too cruel." She
rose quickly, and rang the bell, before Grenvil could anticipate her.
"What an idiot I am!" Bertie interjected, actually flushing with a real
self-reproach. "I thought you had heard that Alan had met with two or
three hard blows, or I would not have mentioned it so abruptly. Don't be
frightened; on my honour, they are nothing worse than bruises; he will
tell you so himself in an hour's time."
Helen forced a smile, and recovered her composure immediately. But she
did not seem comfortable till she had sent Pauline to bring a report of
her cousin's state from his own lips. The _soubrette_ had been kept in
equal ignorance with her mistress as to Wyverne's hurts, and when she
came back to repeat his cheerful message, her voice was trembling, and
her bright dark eyes were dim with tears.
The whole party--with the exception of the Squire--met at luncheon; for
Max Vavasour returned in the course of the morning. The latter
congratulated everybody very pleasantly on the success of the night's
expedition; and, it is possible, congratulated himself quite as
sincerely on having been out of the way; at all events, he affected no
regret at having missed his share of peril and glory. Alan Wyverne came
in the last. With the aid of a scientific valet, he had contrived to
dissemble very successfully the traces of the fray; the dark thick hair
swept lower than usual over his brows, and almost concealed the spot
where the first blow had fallen; the second had left no visible mark. He
seemed in the best possible spirits, and his gay, pleasant laugh came as
readily as ever, without an appearance of being forced or constrained;
but his face was very pale, and his left arm hung helplessly in its
sling.
The worst of Lord Clydesdale's enemies--already he had made not a
few--might have been satisfied at the state of the Earl's feelings, as
he sat there, brooding sullenly over the recollection of his own
discomfiture, and watching the _empressment_ which everybody seemed
determined to manifest towards his unconscious rival. Miss Vavasour, as
we have before said, was never "gushing" or demonstrative; but she
considered it the most natural thing in the world that her cousin should
be petted and tended under the circumstances. So she sat by his side,
anticipating and ministering to his wants with the tact and tenderness
that only a woman--and a loving one--can display, utterly ignoring the
savage blue eyes that kept glaring at her from beneath their bushy
brows. Clydesdale muttered curse after curse under his breath, and
drained glass after glass of the strong brown sherry that stood close to
his hand; the rich liquor seemed to be absorbed with no better effect
than a genial rain produces falling on a quicksand.
It was rather remarkable that no one seemed disposed to question _him_
much about last night's adventure. Possibly, Lady Mildred knew something
of the truth--though not all--and had taken Max into confidence; for her
maid might have been seen in close colloquy with one of the keepers,
early in the morning; and it is probable that model of austere and
dignified propriety would not so far have derogated without good cause.
However this might be, her manner towards Alan Wyverne was kind and
affectionate to a degree; when she spoke to Lord Clydesdale, a very
close observer might have detected a certain coldness in the perfect
courtesy. "My lady" was only a woman, after all; and the instincts of
her sex, though tamed and trained, would assert themselves sometimes.
She looked at the Earl as he sat there swelling with sulky
self-importance; ruddy, certainly--perhaps unpleasantly so--but not "of
a cheerful countenance;" then she looked across at Wyverne, just as a
bright, grateful smile lighted up all his wan face, and thanked Helen
for some trifling act of kindness. The contrast was too much for Lady
Mildred; for once, the cold diplomatist yielded to a real frank impulse
and forgot her cunning. When she rose with the others, she crossed over
to where Alan sat, and leant over him, on pretence of settling his
sling, till her lips touched his hair. Even Helen, who was so near, did
not catch the whisper--
"Ah, so many thanks! Who can help loving you--always braver and better
than your word?"
Neither ever alluded to the events of that night again, but they
understood each other perfectly; and to the end of his days, Wyverne
considered his services over-paid. In truth, it was no mean triumph to
have made "my lady," for more than a hundred seconds, thoroughly honest
and sincere.
That day brought a large influx of fresh guests to Dene; but only four
deserve special mention, and perhaps these might be reduced to three.
Grace Beauclerc was Alan's only sister. There was a strong likeness
between them, not only in features, but in character. She had the same
quiet thoroughbred face, that no one ever called beautiful, but every
one felt was intensely loveable; the same slender, graceful proportions;
the same soft, winning manner; the same power of attraction and
retaining the affection of men and women. The resemblance extended still
further--to their fortunes. Grace had not ruined herself,
certainly--with the exception of a few fair speculators of whose daring
The Corner and Capel Court are conscious, they generally leave that
luxury to _us_--but she had gone as near the wind as possible, by
contracting the most imprudent of alliances. How the Beauclercs lived,
was a mystery to their nearest and dearest friends. The crash had not
come at Wyverne Abbey when the marriage took place, and Alan had then
settled L400 a year on his sister; but this, added to the interest of
her own small fortune, and the pay of a clerk of nine years' standing in
the Foreign Office, hardly carried their income beyond the hundreds. A
cipher had represented Algernon Beauclerc's own personal assets long
before he married. Yet they lived apparently in great comfort, went out
everywhere, gave occasionally the nicest entertainments, at home, on a
very tiny scale, that you can conceive; and, it was said, were
wonderfully little in debt. It was a great social problem, in its way,
and one of those that it is not worth while puzzling oneself to solve.
But though Grace's husband had been very extravagant, and was still far
from self-denying, he was weak neither in mind nor principle; he loved
his wife and his children, after his fashion, far too well to involve
himself in any serious scrape; and contrived to utilize his amusements
to a remarkable degree. He was passionately fond of whist, and had
attained an exceptional intelligence in that fascinating game. His plan
was to set aside a certain sum each year to risk on its chances: the
profits went to the account of _menus plaisirs_, in which Grace had more
than her share; if the card-purse was emptied, nothing would induce him
to play again till the time arrived for replenishing it. Algy Beauclerc
hardly knew how to be angry, even with an incorrigibly careless or
stupid partner, and the world in general found it impossible to quarrel
with him. In appearance, he was a curious contrast to his wife--broad
and burly, with a bluff, jovial face, half shrouded in a forest of
blonde beard, and large, light, laughing eyes. Prince Percinet and
Graciosa never got on better together than did that apparently
ill-matched couple. The set in which they lived, though neither vicious
nor reckless, was decidedly fast; looking at Grace's quiet, rather
pensive face, one could not help fancying that she must have felt
sometimes uncomfortably out of her element; but she had a singular power
of adapting herself to circumstances, without being deteriorated
thereby. Presiding over one of those post-operatic _reunions_, where
cigars, and even cigarettes, were not interdicted--or playing with her
children, as she would do for hours of a morning--she always seemed
perfectly and placidly happy.
Of a very different stamp were the other pair that remain to be noticed.
Not only her intimate friends, and the men with whom she had flirted
more or less seriously--they would have made a fair second-battalion to
any regiment--but the whole of London opened wondering eyes when
handsome, daring Maud Dacres married Mr. Brabazon, a pillar of the Stock
Exchange, five-and-twenty years her senior, after an acquaintance of
seven weeks, begun at Boulogne, where--for reasons cogent, though
temporary--her father was then residing. It was not that she was more
unlikely than another to make a money-match; but every one was surprised
at her selecting that particular millionaire.
Richard Brabazon was not only glaringly under-bred in form, feature,
mind, and manner, but he was popularly considered one of the most
"aggravating" men alive. He had a knack of hitting upon the topic most
disagreeable to his interlocutor or to the company in general, and of
introducing the same at the most inappropriate moment, always in a
smooth, plausible way, which made it more irritating. Even when he
wished to be extraordinary civil, there was an evident affability and
condescension about him that very few could stand. His slow, measured,
mincing way of speaking--pronouncing _a's_ like _e's_--affected one's
ear like the hum of a mosquito; and his plump, smug, smooth-shaven face
was intensely provocative, inspiring people, otherwise calm and pacific,
with a rabid desire to leap up and smite him on the cheek. This laudable
and very general propensity had never yet been gratified; for Richard
Brabazon was far too cunning ever to give a chance away. Many men would
have given large monies for an opportunity of taking overt offence, but
they waited still in vain.
It was a marvel how his wife--high-spirited and quick-tempered to a
fault--contrived to live with him, without occasionally betraying
annoyance or aversion. It is probable that several bitter duels had in
fact taken place; but the antagonists kept their own secret; and it was
a perfect neutrality now, though an armed one. The principle of
non-interference was thoroughly established, and the contiguous powers
did not even take the trouble to watch each other's frontier. Sometimes
the spirit of aggravation would tempt Brabazon to launch a taunt or a
sarcasm in the direction of his wife or her friends; but it was
generally met by an imperial and absolute indifference--at rare
intervals, by a retort, not the less biting because it was so very
quietly put in. He _would_ do it, though he knew he should get the worst
of it, just as Thersites could not refrain from his gibe, though his
shoulders were shaking already in anticipation of the practical retort
of Ajax or Odysseus.
Lady Mildred was good-natured enough never to cross the plans or
pleasures of her friends unless they interfered with hers; indeed, she
would further them as far as was consistent with her own credit and
convenience; but even in her benevolence some malice was mingled. She
was rather glad to give Grenvil an opportunity of following out his
love-dream, especially as she felt certain no harm would come of it;
but, in mentioning to him the expected guests, she had purposely omitted
the Brabazons.
Bertie had been indulging in an ante-prandial siesta, and only came down
the great staircase as the others were filing past in to dinner; he was
in time to see Maud Brabazon sweep by, more insolently beautiful, he
thought, than ever. She just deigned to acknowledge his presence with
the slightest bend of her delicate neck, and the sauciest of smiles.
That wily Cherub could feign innocence right well when it served his
wicked ends; but only one visible sign _really_ remained to testify that
he had once been guileless--perhaps it was a mere accident of
complexion--he had not forgotten how to change colour. Lady Mildred
watched the meeting. She saw Bertie's cheek flush--brightly as a girl's
might do who hears the first love-whisper--and then grow pale almost to
the lips. "My lady" laughed under her breath, in calm appreciative
approbation, just as some scientific patron of the Arena may have
laughed, when the net of the Retiarius glided over the shoulders of the
doomed Secutor.
Any one interested in such psychological studies--and, to some people, a
really well-managed flirtation is a very interesting and instructive
spectacle--would have been much amused that evening watching the
"passages" of Bertie's love. It was rather a one-sided affair, after
all; for the Cherub was so hard hit as to forget his cunning of fence,
and timidity for once was not in the least assumed. The lady was
thoroughly at her ease, as women ever are who play that perilous game
with their head instead of their heart.
Maud Brabazon was just on the shady side of thirty; but such a pleasant
shade it was! The sunniest year in the lives of her many rivals looked
dull and tame by comparison. She was rather below the middle height, and
rather fuller in her proportions than was consistent with perfection of
form; but no one was ever heard to hint that her figure could have been
improved upon. Large bright brown eyes were matched by soft abundant
hair of a darker shade; a slightly aquiline nose, a delicately chiselled
_mutine_ mouth, and the ripest of peach-complexions, made up a picture
that every one found fascinating, many fatally so.
She was a very queen of coquetry, understanding and practising every one
of its refinements. You always saw the most attractive elements of any
company converging to the spot where she sat, like straws drawn in by an
eddy. Where was the secret of her power? Men who had been led captive at
her chariot-wheels asked themselves that question in after days, when
freedom was partially regained, and got puzzled over it, as one does
over the incidents of a very vivid dream. It was a fair face, certainly,
but there were others more brilliant in their beauty, more winning in
their loveliness. Her frank boldness of speech dazzled you at first with
its natural, careless _verve_--she kept for special occasions the tender
confidential tones that lingered in your ears through many sleepless
night-watches--but several of her beaten rivals had really thrice her
wit and cleverness, and, as conversationalists, could have distanced her
easily. Maud Brabazon seemed to diffuse round her an atmosphere of
temptation. Cold-blooded men, of austere morals and rigid propriety,
felt irresistibly impelled to make love to her on the shortest
acquaintance, not wildly or passionately, but in an airy, light-minded
fashion, which left no remorse, hardly a regret, behind. It was strange
that she had never yet got entangled in any of the toils she wove so
deftly, for the bitterest of friends or foes had never dared to impute
to her any darker crime than consummate coquetry. One who knew her well
when the subject was being discussed, thus expressed himself in the
figurative language of the turf, of which he was a stanch supporter:
"Yes, she can win, when she's in front all the way. Wait till you see
her collared; _they've never made her gallop yet_."
Thereby intimating his opinion that the Subduer was still in the future,
by whom Maud's peace of mind was to be imperilled.
All things considered, it seemed likely that poetical justice was going
to assert itself in the shape of merited retaliation impending over the
Cherub's graceless head; a state of things so perfectly satisfactory
that we may as well leave them there for the present.
Pressing affairs called Lord Clydesdale away from Dene on the following
day. He had probably reasons of his own for cutting his visit short
rather abruptly. He thought that whatever interests he might have at
stake would be advanced fully as well in his absence, for the present.
Somehow or another, before he went, Max Vavasour was made aware of the
wager with Harding Knowles. On the occasion of a great robbery--
When the knowing ones, for once, stand in
With some dark flyer meant at last to win--
and the owners of one or two dangerous horses are put on, a "monkey to
nothing," I believe they go through the form of registering it as a bet;
so we may as well dignify the Earl's compact by that convenient name. It
is more than likely that Clydesdale made the confession himself. He had
little delicacy in such matters when he knew his man; and no Oriental
despot could be more insolent in his cynicism. If he had thought he
could do so safely, he would have offered money to her nearest relation,
to serve him in his pursuit of any woman he might fancy, without the
faintest scruple or shame.
However the revelation was made, Max Vavasour never betrayed to Knowles
his consciousness of the confederacy by word or sign; but he would look
at the latter occasionally with a very peculiar expression in his cold
dark eyes. There was something of curiosity in that look, more of
dislike and contempt. The wily schemer would accept readily the aid of
any instrument, however repulsive, that would serve his purpose; but
they never were stifled for one moment--the instincts of patrician
pride. Harding was no favourite of Lady Mildred's; and her manner
towards him could not be said to be cordial now; but there certainly was
a shade more of courtesy and attention. She suggested now and then that
his name should be added to the dinner-list, which she had never done
before; and honoured him at times with a fair share of her evening's
conversation. There was nothing strange in this. Knowles was evidently a
rising man; and "my lady" made a point of being at least civil to such
people, though she would just as soon have thought of asking a real
Gorilla to her house, as any living celebrity--soldier, priest, lawyer,
or literate--simply because he chanced to be the lion of the day.