A FRIENDLY VISIT.
Captain Waring had departed for England without ceremony or beat of
drum (leaving his debts behind him), also presumably his cousin, who
had not had the common decency to leave P. P. C. cards--no, not even on
the mess or the club--and who had treated poor Honor Gordon shamefully;
indeed, several matrons agreed that in the good old days such a man
would certainly have been shot or horsewhipped!
How Colonel Sladen had chuckled, surmised, and slandered, had bemoaned
the girl’s lost good looks, and her aunt’s idiotcy to all comers, as he
waited impatiently for his afternoon rubber! Next to his whist, the
relaxation he most thoroughly enjoyed was a _bonâ fide_ ill-natured
gossip, with a sauce in the form of sharp and well-spiced details.
No reliable information respecting Mr. Jervis had as yet been
circulated--for Clarence, on second thoughts, had kept his late
comrade’s plans and whereabouts entirely to himself.
Mrs. Brande knew, and held her tongue. What was the good of talking?
She was much subdued in these days, even in the colour of her raiment.
She rarely went to the club; she dared not face certain questioning
pitiless eyes in the awful verandah; indeed she kept in the background
to an unparalleled degree. Nevertheless she had her plans, and was
prepared to rise phoenix-like from the ashes of her former hopes. She
was actually contemplating a second venture, in the shape of a niece.
She thought Honor wanted cheering up, and a face from home--especially
such a lovely face--would surely have a happy result. But Honor’s
thoughts were secretly fixed upon another countenance, a certain
colourless, handsome face--a face she never expected to see again. Her
mind dwelt with poignant memories on a pair of eyes, dim with wordless
misery, that had looked into her own that hateful June morning.
“We can well afford it, P.,” urged his wife, apropos of her scheme.
“One girl is the same as two--one ayah between them.” She little knew
Fairy.
“Please yourself,” cried Mr. Brande, at last; “but Honor shall always
be my niece, my chief niece, and nothing shall ever put her nose out of
joint with her uncle Pelham.”
“No one wants to! I should like to see any one try that, or with me
either. But what a nose Fairy has! Just modelled to her face like a
wax-work.”
Mrs. Brande talked long and enthusiastically to Honor about her sister.
But Honor was not responsive; her eyes were averted, her answers
unsatisfactory; indeed, she said but little, and looked positively
uncomfortable and distressed. And no doubt she felt a wee bit guilty
because she had prevented the child from coming out before. But that
was very unlike Honor; Mrs. Brande could not understand it.
How she would exult in a niece who was a miracle of loveliness, instead
of being merely a pretty, bright, and popular girl. Not that Honor was
very bright now; she was losing her looks, and Honor’s love affair had
come to such a woeful end. Honor was not the sort of girl to take up
with any one else; and, indeed, she could not wonder. Poor Mark! of all
her boys, he was the one nearest to her heart.
Still she considered that he had carried filial love a great deal
too far, when she had thought over his sacrifice in moments of cool
reflection. It was a shame that Mark, and Honor, and a magnificent
fortune should all be sacrificed to an eccentric old hermit.
Mrs. Brande said little; she was not receiving the support and
encouragement she expected. She placed Fairy’s photograph in poor
Ben’s silver frame in a conspicuous place in the drawing-room, and she
mentally sketched out the rough draft of another letter to Hoyle.
Before this letter took definite shape, Mrs. Langrishe came to call--a
dinner “call”--in full state and her best afternoon toilet. Seating
herself on the sofa, she began to tell Mrs. Brande all about her
dear invalid, exactly as if she were talking to a most sympathetic
listener--instead of to a deadly rival.
“He is such a nice man, and so quiet in a house.”
“For that matter,” retorted Mrs. Brande, “he is quiet enough out of the
house, and everywhere else.”
“And he is so contented and easily amused,” continued Mrs. Langrishe.
“I left him with Lalla reading aloud to him.”
“Do you think that is _quite_ the thing?” inquired Mrs. Brande, with a
dubious sniff.
“Why should she not do it as well as hospital nurses?” demanded her
visitor.
Mrs. Brande reflected on the result of her own nursing. Would this
nursing have the same effect?
“Hospital nurses are generally young, single, and very frequently
pretty,” resumed Mrs. Langrishe. “They read to their patients, and take
tea with them, and no one says a word. All the difference between them
and these girls is, their uniform and their experience; and surely _no_
one ever dreams of making a remark about those excellent, devoted young
women!”
Lalla was not excellent, but she had certainly been most devoted--as
her aunt thankfully acknowledged.
“Well, I don’t know that I should allow Honor to do it,” said Mrs.
Brande, with a meditative air.
“Possibly not. It would, of course, depend upon circumstances.
Now”--laying two fingers playfully on Mrs. Brande’s round arm--“I am
going to be a little bird, and whisper a little secret in your ear.”
Mrs. Brande drew back, as if she thought Mrs. Langrishe was going to be
a little rattlesnake.
“It is not to be given out for a few days, but Lalla and Sir Gloster
are engaged. It is quite settled.”
Sir Gloster had only proposed the previous evening, and had begged
that the fact of the engagement might be kept quiet for a week, until
he had wired home to his all-important mother. She must be told before
any one. Yes, he had succumbed to Lalla’s bright blandishments. He
was a dull, heavy man; he liked to be amused. He would have amusement
all day long when Lalla was his wife. She had a charming voice, and
read aloud well. She brought him all the scraps of news, she was an
admirable mimic, an adroit flatterer, and altogether a charming girl;
and her daily _tête-à-têtes_ were of a most stimulating character,
and he looked forward to them with keen anticipation. She gave him a
capital description of the unmasking of Captain Waring, the sensation
created by the _soi-disant_ poor relation; how every one was certain
that it was going to be a match between him and Miss Gordon; how he had
absconded, and Miss Gordon was left. He had evidently joined his friend
in Bombay--_wise_ young man!
Sir Gloster, who was naturally of a huffy and implacable disposition,
had never recovered the shock to his affections and self-esteem. He
was by no means sorry to hear that in her turn Miss Gordon had been
spurned, and he was resolved to show her how speedily _he_ had been
consoled.
Mrs. Langrishe, when she entered Mrs. Brande’s house, had not intended
to divulge her great news--merely to throw out hints, draw comparisons,
and trample more or less on the fallen and forsaken.
But for once human nature was too strong for her: she would have had a
serious illness if she had not then and there relieved her mind of her
overwhelming achievement.
Mrs. Brande opened her blue eyes to their widest extent; her worst
fears were confirmed.
She however mustered up an artificial smile, and said--
“I am sure you are very pleased,” which was true--“and I am glad indeed
to hear it,” which was not true.
“It is to be kept quiet for a week,” murmured Mrs. Langrishe; “but I am
telling you as an old friend, who I feel _sure_ will be pleased with
the news. Of course, we are all delighted; it is everything we could
wish,” and she drew herself up.
“I should rather think it was!” rejoined Mrs. Brande, tartly; she was
but human after all.
“My brother and all my people will be much gratified--Sir Gloster is
such a dear good fellow, and so well off, and _so_ steady.”
“I hope he won’t be a little _too_ steady for Lalla!”
“Not he; and he delights in all her fun, and singing----”
“And dancing?” suggested Mrs. Brande, significantly.
“It will not be a long engagement,” ignoring this little thrust. “This
is the second week of September; we shall all be going down in another
six weeks. We will have the wedding in about a month.”
It was on the tip of Mrs. Brande’s tongue to say, “Delays are
dangerous,” but she closed her lips.
“Where is Honor?” inquired Mrs. Langrishe, with rare effusion.
“She has gone off down the khud to get ivy for the table. I have a
small dinner this evening.”
“You are always having dinners, you wonderful woman.”
“Well, you see, in Pelham’s _position_, we must entertain, and I make
it a rule to have a dinner once a week.”
“You are quite a providence to the station!” cried her visitor
affectedly. “How pretty those grasses are. I suppose Honor arranged
them? What a useful girl she is!”
“Yes, she takes all trouble off my hands. I don’t know how I shall ever
get on without her.”
“How lucky for you, that there is no chance of her _leaving_ you! My
dear, that was a most unfortunate affair about Mr. Jervis.”
“What do you mean?” inquired Mrs. Brande, whose crest began to rise.
“Oh,” with a disagreeable laugh, “it is what did _he mean_! He paid
Honor the most devoted attention, and the moment he was revealed in his
true colours--he fled. No one knows what has become of him.”
“Pardon me--_we_ do!” returned his champion, with a quiver of her
double chin.
“And--where is he, dear? what is he doing?”
“He is doing a good--a noble action. Putting himself and his wishes
aside for the sake of others,” returned Mrs. Brande in a white heat of
emotion.
“Oh well,” rather disconcerted, “if you and Honor, and above all _Mr.
Brande_, are satisfied, of course there is no more to be said----”
“No,” pointedly. “I hope no more will _be_ said. Have you seen the
photograph of my other niece, Honor’s sister?” making a desperate
effort to rally and change the conversation, and reaching for the
frame, which she solemnly placed in Mrs. Langrishe’s hand.
“What do you think of her?” Here at least she was certain of scoring a
small triumph.
“Think, my dear woman! Why, that she is perfectly lovely.” (It was safe
to praise a girl who was in England.)
“At first she was coming out to me,” her aunt pursued, “but she changed
her mind. Now we are thinking of having her out in November with the
Hadfield’s girl.”
“Indeed,” said Mrs. Langrishe, reflectively, and still nursing the
picture, as it were, on her knee.
She had a wonderful knack of picking up odd bits of news, and her brain
contained useful little scraps of the most promiscuous description.
Her mind was a sort of ragbag, and these scraps often came in
appropriately. She rummaged out a scrap now.
She had recently heard, from a cousin of hers (an artist), of a Mrs.
Gordon, a widow with two daughters, one of them lovely, who was sitting
to him as Rowena--an ideal Rowena--but who was also a dwarf--a sort of
little creature that you might exhibit.
“Does your niece live at Hoyle, and is her name Fairy?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?” rather eagerly.
“I have heard of her, recently, from my cousin, Oscar Crabbe. And why
did she not come out?” looking at her with a queer smile.
“Her health was not very good--and there was some other reason--which I
have not been told.”
“I know the reason, and can tell you, if you like,” said Mrs.
Langrishe, with an air of affectionate confidence.
Here was an unexpected opportunity of planting a dart in her
adversary’s side.
“There is no object in keeping the matter secret, it is just as
foolish as that scheme of young Jervis’s, who was like an ostrich
sticking his head in the sand. By the way, it appears that _that_ is
quite an exploded idea! Every one in Hoyle knows Miss Fairy Gordon’s
appearance--she is extraordinary lovely--but----”
“But not mad? Don’t say she is mad!” protested Mrs. Brande, excitedly.
“No, no; not so bad as that. But,” looking steadily into her listener’s
eyes, she added, “poor little creature, she is a _dwarf_! She never
grew after she was ten, I am told. Yes, it is a dreadful pity,” gazing
into her hostess’s horrified countenance. “Sitting down, she is just
like other people--but when she stands up, she seems to have no legs.”
“A dwarf! No legs! And she thought of coming to me! And I was just
going to write and ask her to start in November,” repeated Mrs. Brande
in gasps.
“Well, my dear, it is a most fortunate circumstance that your letter
has not gone. What could you have done with her? You could never have
taken her out except _after dark_.”
This was a terribly effective thrust. Mrs. Brande was wholly unable to
retaliate, and made no reply.
“A dwarf!” Her mind conjured up a little fat sallow woman, such as she
had once seen outside a show at a fair, and that miserable stunted
native who was carried about Shirani, begging, on the shoulders of a
boy.
And her niece, of whose picture she was so proud, that she had placed
it in a solid silver frame--her lovely niece was like that!
“I wonder Honor never told me,” murmured Mrs. Brande at last.
“And I do not,” was the emphatic rejoinder. “From all accounts,
the mother and sisters have always spoiled the little one, who
believes that she is in no way different to other people, and is too
ridiculously vain. Even if she had been five foot six, I am sure that
you are far happier without her,” concluded Mrs. Langrishe, rising and
squeezing her hostess’s hand as she spoke. And having offered this
small fragment of consolation, she rustled away.
Mrs. Brande, poor woman, had been indeed trampled upon, and crushed
to the very earth. She had been asked to join in her rival’s song of
triumph over Miss Paske’s superb success; she had been condoled with on
her own dear girl’s misfortunes; and she had been informed that she was
aunt to a dwarf!
She sat for some time in a shattered, stupefied condition; then she got
up, and hastily carried off Fairy’s photograph and locked it away in a
box, secure from all eyes, and from even the ayah’s inquisitive brown
fingers.
Honor noticed the absence of her sister’s picture from its usual post
of honour--it was nowhere to be seen--the absence of Fairy’s name in
conversation, the sudden cessation of all interest in Gerty Hadfield’s
movements, and guessed rightly that some one had kindly enlightened her
aunt, and that she was in possession of the _other_ reason now.