AN EVENING AT MRS. ORMISTON’S.
THE months of June, July, and August were past. London was supposed to
be empty, but there were still a few people left in town, and amongst
them were Nicolari and his daughter and Mrs. Tregoning and her son.
Theodore Tregoning was not to be persuaded to seek a change whilst
there were still many sick and suffering ones in the district committed
to his care. Mrs. Tregoning had long talked of going to the seaside as
soon as her son could get away, but from week to week her wish had to
be held in abeyance.
There was another lady who was being kept in town against her will,
the mother of Wilfred Ormiston. Mrs. Ormiston imagined that ladyhood
was synonymous with helplessness, and that she showed refined feeling
by refusing ever to go from home without masculine escort. She decided
that it was impossible that she and the one unmarried daughter who
remained with her should go to the seaside unless papa or Wilfred could
accompany them, so, as it happened this year that an unusual pressure
of business would keep Mr. Ormiston senior in town till the late
autumn, and Wilfred was not to be persuaded to leave his friends at
Cheyne Walk, Mrs. Ormiston was obliged to wait for her holiday.
Wilfred was left free to follow his inclinations. His mother had never
been wont to interfere with his wishes. And she was less disposed than
ever to do so now since the fact of his engagement to Ida Nicolari gave
her the greatest satisfaction. Not that Ida was exactly a girl after
her own heart. She frankly owned that for some reasons she would have
preferred that Wilfred’s choice should have fallen on a girl with more
of what she termed “style” and “go,” some one in short after the stamp
of Mrs. Ormiston’s own daughters. She could not altogether understand
Miss Nicolari, but that was of little consequence, since in other
respects the match was “all that could be desired,” a phrase which
meant that Mrs. Ormiston was pleased to think of the fortune which the
sculptor’s daughter would bring her son.
Of late years Nicolari’s work had commanded handsome prices, and since
his mode of living was so simple, it might well be supposed that his
savings would amount to a considerable sum. Moreover, it was known that
Ida had property independent of what her father might leave her. The
Ormistons were as glad that their son should wed wealth as though they
had not been able to provide so easily for his wants. Money-making was
the aim and end of William Ormiston’s life. He could not understand how
any one could have enough money or be indifferent to acquiring more.
Not content with the magnificent income he drew from his business, he
was for ever making new schemes for the employment of capital, with a
view to increasing his gains. He had already begun to plan how Wilfred
might turn his wife’s fortune to the best account, and he congratulated
himself on the thought that Nicolari, being of the dreamy, guileless,
artist temperament, was not likely to make any fuss about settlements.
One evening in September, Mrs. Ormiston, seated in her showily
furnished drawing-room in Sloane Square, was awaiting the arrival of
Wilfred and Ida to join a family party at dinner. After her childish
days were past, Ida had seldom visited the Ormistons, nor had they
seen much more of her since her engagement to Wilfred. She found it
difficult to get on with Wilfred’s family. She had no tastes and
sympathies in common with them, and their innate vulgarity jarred on
her. On the plea of her father’s need of her, she had declined most of
their invitations, but on this occasion she had yielded to Wilfred’s
persuasions that she would spend an evening at his home in order to
meet one of his married sisters, lately returned from abroad.
With Mrs. Ormiston in the drawing-room were her two married daughters
and their husbands, her daughter Emmeline, still single, whom Wilfred
used to twit with being an old maid, her sister Mrs. Collyer, a wealthy
widow, and the widow’s daughter Blanche, a talkative, over-dressed
young lady, full thirty years of age, but anxious to appear younger.
Mrs. Ormiston was a stout, matronly woman, who had been handsome in
her time, after the florid, full-blown type of beauty, and still
considered herself comely enough to adopt the most extreme style of
evening dress. There were few traces of care or thought on her round,
good-humoured face as she sat complacently regarding the gorgeous
expanse of her flowered-satin skirt. She was perfectly honest in her
vulgar-mindedness, and had no idea of hiding her sentiments on any
subject, being quite unaware that there was anything to be ashamed of
in her unveiled worldliness. She was a great talker, though she rarely
said anything that was worth hearing, her mind being wont to dwell on
matters of trivial interest. Just now she was talking about Ida and
Wilfred, for whom the company were waiting.
“I do so long to see her,” said Blanche Collyer, who had not yet made
Ida’s acquaintance. “She is very pretty, is she not, auntie?”
Blanche fancied that “auntie” came charmingly from her lips, as she sat
in a childish attitude on a low ottoman beside Mrs. Ormiston, and she
did not consider the suitability of that diminutive to be applied to
the substantial-looking matron.
“Yes, I suppose she is pretty,” said Mrs. Ormiston, “though that is
a matter of taste. For my part, I like a girl to have some roses in
her cheeks, and I do wish that Ida would not wear her hair in such an
old-fashioned way.”
“But you like the engagement, do you not, sister?” asked Mrs. Collyer,
a little anxiously.
“Oh, yes, we like it,” said Mrs. Ormiston. “It is a good thing for
Will, for old Nicolari has made a nice lot of money by his sculptures,
and of course his daughter will have it all.”
“Then there is money made in that way,” observed Mrs. Taylor, the
daughter who had returned from India. “I thought papa objected to
Wilfred’s being a sculptor because he would not get rich in that
profession?”
“So he did, for Art does not pay well, as a rule,” replied her mother.
“Nicolari made a good thing of it because he got to the top of the
tree. Wilfred would have done better if he had gone into his father’s
business, where he might make more money in one year than he would in
a dozen by messing about with clay. But I am not without hope that he
will see his mistake yet. We look upon his love for sculpture as a fad
that he will give up by-and-by.”
“I wish with all my heart that he would give it up,” said one of her
sons-in-law, who was engaged in the business. “We want Wilfred at the
office. The governor is quite overworked, but he will not hear of
taking another partner.”
“No; because he hopes that Wilfred will yet fill his right place,”
said Mrs. Ormiston, serenely. “Well, well, we shall see. Old Nicolari
is failing fast, and when he is gone, and Wilfred is a married man, it
will be easier to persuade him to take a common-sense view of things.”
“I suppose Wilfred is very fond of her, auntie,” said Blanche,
wondering if her cousin had been drawn to Miss Nicolari by the
attraction of her fortune.
“Oh yes, dear, no doubt of it, and she is devoted to him. Wilfred told
me that Ida used to be quite jealous of Miss Seabrook, when she came
to sit to him for her bust. He used to tease her by admiring Miss
Seabrook. Naughty boy!”
“Miss Seabrook! Has he done her bust?” exclaimed Blanche, eagerly. “Do
tell me about it! She is lovely, is she not?”
“Oh, yes; every one calls her a beauty. You see her photographs in the
shops,” said Mrs. Ormiston.
“You know that she is going to be married?” said Blanche, who prided
herself on acquaintance with every item of news concerning the
fashionable world that the Society papers could furnish.
“No, I did not know it. Who is she going to be married to?” inquired
Mrs. Ormiston, with whom grammar was not a strong point.
“Oh, to some foreign swell—Count Ferowski, or some such name. He is
said to be tremendously rich.”
“Ah, the right match for a banker’s daughter,” said Mrs. Ormiston,
without the least intention of being satirical. “Wilfred had some
notion that she would marry Mr. Tregoning, one of the curates at St.
Angela’s, but I said that could never be; her father would know better
than to let her marry a hungry curate.”
Here Mrs. Ormiston’s choice speech was interrupted by the entrance of
Ida and Wilfred.
Ida was even more colourless though no less beautiful than usual. She
was simply dressed in white, with no ornament save a string of pearls
at her throat, and her quiet style of dress, contrasted with the gayer
attire of the other ladies, made her produce an effect similar to that
of a snowy lily midst flaunting tulips and marigolds.
Mrs. Ormiston welcomed her son’s “fiancée” with a heartiness from which
Ida rather shrank, as she did also from the minute inquiries concerning
her father’s health with which Mrs. Ormiston followed up her greeting.
The daughters welcomed Ida with equal effusiveness, and on the entrance
of Mr. Ormiston, a commonplace, shrewd-looking little man, the party
adjourned to the dining-room.
The dinner was a dreary affair to Ida. She sat at the right of Mr.
Ormiston, but he did little to entertain her, since he concentrated his
attention on his dinner with the thoroughness to which his success in
life was mainly due. Nor was Mr. Taylor, her other neighbour, though
he dilated on his experiences in India, much more interesting. Wilfred
was the most lively member of the party. His flow of small talk never
failed, and his jokes, though not of the first quality, kept his female
relatives constantly amused.
Mr. Taylor had ceased to talk to her, and Ida had fallen into a
reverie, from which she was roused by hearing the name of Seabrook. It
fell from the lips of Blanche Collyer, who was talking to Wilfred, by
whom she was seated. Ida looked across at them with sudden interest.
“How strange you should mention her!” Wilfred was saying. “Oddly
enough, Ida and I chanced to see her just now as we came along. We met
a carriage loaded with travelling trunks, and I, glancing in, caught
sight of Miss Seabrook and another lady whom I took to be her mother. I
was surprised to see her in town at this time.”
“Perhaps she has come home to prepare for her wedding,” suggested
Blanche Collyer.
“Very likely, and, now you mention it, I believe I saw a gentleman
on the back seat of the carriage.” As he said this, Wilfred’s eyes
encountered Ida’s. “What do you think, Ida?” he said in a low tone,
leaning across the table. “Blanche says that Miss Seabrook is going to
marry some foreign count; so poor Tregoning is cut out.”
Ida looked surprised and even startled.
“I daresay it is not true,” she said after a moment.
“It is much more likely to be true than the other thing—I mean that she
should marry Tregoning,” returned Wilfred.
Ida made no reply, and Miss Seabrook’s matrimonial prospects gave place
to topics of more general interest. Ida made an effort to join in the
talk that was going on, but all the while she was thinking of those
few words which Wilfred had said to her, and Mr. Taylor observed that
she had no appetite and only trifled with the dainty dishes on which
Mrs. Ormiston prided herself. Ida was not concerned for Miss Seabrook’s
happiness, but she was intensely anxious for one whose happiness she
believed would be wrecked if the news she had heard were true.
She was not to be persuaded to remain long after the drawing-room was
regained. In any case she would have been desirous of returning to her
father as early as possible, but since she had heard Miss Collyer’s
gossip, she had on her own account felt an eager longing to escape from
this uncongenial company to the quietude of her home.
“Do you think it can be true about Miss Seabrook?” she said to Wilfred
as he drove with her to Cheyne Walk.
“Very likely,” he returned indifferently. “She would never think of
Tregoning. She may have amused herself with him, but she could not
marry him. It would be a most unsuitable match.”
“Yes, because he is so much above her,” said Ida, with sudden warmth.
“But, Will, I can’t think she was only amusing herself with him. She
is—” Ida was about to say “too good,” but she checked herself and
substituted the word “religious.” “She is too religious to act in such
a way.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Wilfred. “Religious people are not always
above amusing themselves at the expense of others. But, Ida, I wonder
how long Miss Seabrook will be in town. Do you think she would give me
a sitting? I long to get that bust finished and out of the way.”
“If you like, I will call and ask her,” said Ida.
“Oh, will you? That is good of you, darling.”
“Don’t give me credit for too much goodness,” said Ida, with a smile;
“I have a wish to see Miss Seabrook.”
“Do you want to ask her if she is engaged?” The stopping of the fly
at the sculptor’s door spared Ida the necessity of replying to this
question.