FIRST IMPRESSIONS.
Fortunately for his mother's peace of mind, Cyril arrived even before
his cousin descended from her rooms, where her own maid, Zillah, and
Lady Wedderburn's abigail had begun to unpack the huge overland and
portmanteaus, which were filled with Indian marvels in the form of
Delhi needlework and Champac jewellery of miraculous fabric; Dacca
muslins, ivory fans and puzzle-balls; inlaid boxes of ivory and
silver from Bombay, for essences and perfumes; and now, with memory
of the sad and tender kiss of Mary Lennox lingering on his cheek--a
kiss all the sadder and perhaps foreboding, as she had heard of the
arrival of this terrible Indian heiress--he had to welcome and salute
his cousin, to whom he tendered many "apologies for an absence that
was so perfectly unavoidable;" and then came coffee, with a little
repast for the fair traveller, who, though conscious that she was an
object of undisguised interest, and as such, undergoing inspection,
never betrayed the slightest confusion; for the mode of life in
India, and the nearly total want of privacy peculiar to it, together
with the number of persons, faces, places, and scenes she had met on
the long route overland, rendered her perfectly self-possessed,
without, however, the least over-confidence.
Gwendoleyne Wedderburn was more than a pretty girl. Though
colourless--even pale--she was in fact remarkably beautiful, with a
vast quantity of fine dark hair, and very dark hazel eyes, with long
black lashes, which she inherited from her Welsh mother, "Gwendoleyne
Ap-Rhys of Llanchillwydd," as Lady Wedderburn frequently reminded
her. Her hands and feet were beautifully formed; she carried her
head perhaps a little too haughtily; but she was conscious of her own
appearance, and had been petted and treated with extreme deference in
the sunny land she had come from. Her mouth was very perfectly
curved, and when in repose and not smiling--which was seldom--the
upper lip resembled a little Cupid's bow, while the under was like a
tiny cherry.
She formed, Cyril thought (and he was no bad judge), a perfect
picture, as she sat a little apart from all at a small tripod table,
with a little hastily-prepared dinner before her, served on Dresden
china. Her figure, slight and graceful, clad in a crape dress, the
blackness of which contrasted so powerfully with the dazzling
whiteness of her shoulders as they gleamed in the light of the
gaselier which fell in a flood about her. Her dress was cut low
about the neck and bust--Lady Wedderburn thought a little _too_ low,
especially when her black lace shawl fell off. A necklet of jet
beads encircled her delicate and slender throat, and, save it and one
magnificent ring of pearls and diamonds, other ornament she had none
but her beautiful hair, which was dressed to perfection.
"Heavens! if that should be an engagement ring!" thought Lady
Wedderburn, as she glanced nervously at the girl's hand.
Her face was expressive of innocence and sweetness, just suggestive a
little of pride; and every moment she became more and more radiant as
she became more familiar with those about her, and jested and chatted
with her "three newly-found cousins," as she called them. Her manner
and voice were sweet, and the girl was full of pretty ways; thus
every action of her head or hands was graceful.
"Suppose all these three young fellows fall in love with her, my Lady
Wedderburn will be in a nice dilemma then! And what is more likely
to happen in a country house, where people have so little to do, and
are so much thrown together?" thought Sir John Wedderburn, who was
regarding her with a fond and fatherly smile, and seeking to trace
out some memory of his brother, the Willie of other days--the days of
rambling, riding, and bird-nesting in Renton Woods and
Willowdean--but save a phrase or two which escaped her, he found none
for a time.
Lady Wedderburn claimed nearly all the good points of Gwendoleyne, as
inherited from the Wedderburns; but Sir John saw that the girl was
more like what her beautiful Welsh mother had been when first she
came to Willowdean on her happy bridal tour, ere she went to India,
the land of splendid exile; and Cyril, while he hung over her chair,
while he conversed with her and looked into the bright depths of her
dark and liquid eyes, was thinking how different was the lot of this
wealthy and beautiful cousin as contrasted with that of the lonely
girl he had lately quitted, and who at that moment was probably
hanging about her father's sick bed; and he felt that his genuine and
growing admiration of Gwendoleyne's beauty was a species of treason
to Mary Lennox.
Will he always think so? We shall see.
Though the death of her father was a recent event comparatively,
Gwenny was neither sad nor sorrowful now, save when she spoke of him,
and then would her voice become tremulous and her eyes suffuse with
tears, for she was soft and, by nature, impressionable.
Since leaving Madras, she had been nearly six weeks on the route
home, in a splendid Peninsular and Oriental liner, crowded with gay
cabin passengers, officers of the Queen's and East Indian armies,
Civil Service men, &c.--happy fellows, all coming home on leave or to
retire altogether, as the case might be.
She had seen many marvels that were even glories to her Indian eyes,
since she had watched with tears, from the lofty poop of the _Rajah_,
the low, flat, sandy shore of Madras, so long her home, with the
Castle of St. George and all the white minarets and gilded pagodas
sinking into the blue sea, as the vessel steamed out of the roads.
She had seen Aden, with its splintered rocks and arid shore of sand
and ashes, where, according to Mohammedan fable, once the rose-garden
of Irem bloomed; and she had seen the sun's rays shining like the
Scriptural column of fire through the Gate of Tears, as she sailed
past Perim into the Red Sea. Then she spoke of Suez, with its
mosques and bazaars, and the exciting journey through the desert; and
she clasped her pretty hands at the memory of some of the scenes she
had witnessed there: its occasional horrors--camels, even men, lying
dead, partly decayed or wholly skeletons, and half buried in the
shifting sand, with the black vultures hovering over or perching on
them, and for a background to the whole, the Pyramids rising in the
distance, like purple cones against a sky of fire and amber. And
then there was the awful thirst endured there--a thirst that rendered
bitter beer, potass, and sherry, veritable nectar, however homely
they may be deemed elsewhere.
Then came the Mediterranean, where she had encountered one of those
sudden storms peculiar to that sea, when its waves changed from dark
blue to pale green, and from thence to purple and silver, while the
rain descended as if the windows of Heaven had been opened again.
But old Gibraltar, its rock and town, its terraces and batteries, had
filled her with delight, and so did everything else.
By that time, most of her _compagnons du voyage_ were married ladies,
old officers, or invalids--a statement which soothed some of Lady
Wedderburn's fears--and so, chatting merrily, she told of all she had
seen; and, in the energy of her manner, and full of her narrative,
which, somehow, she addressed chiefly to Horace Ramornie--but then he
too had recently come home by the P. and O. route--when she laid,
quite involuntarily, her soft ungloved hand, with its white modelled
fingers, on his arm, the young man felt a thrill run through him,
though he was not "a cousin"--a circumstance on which their mutual
Aunt Wedderburn placed so much weight.
Did this new friend, this lovely girl, possess some magnetic power,
or what was it? for Horace felt himself grow giddy with delight
whenever she touched him.
She heard Cyril's thrilling story of his late terrible adventure,
which was so keenly fresh in his mind and in the minds of all the
household, but while she listened, it seemed to Lady Wedderburn, who
was nervously observant, that her eyes, "whose lids seemed to be
fringed with feathers from a bird's wing rather than with ordinary
lashes, so thick and soft lay their shadows on her cheek," from time
to time sought, not those of Cyril, but of Horace Ramornie.
Gwenny was soon found to be generous to a fault, and, by the suitable
presents she lavished on all sides, she made friends with all. Her
poor papa's magnificent hookah, with its snaky coil of silk and gold,
and its pure amber mouthpiece, she had brought carefully home, with
many other mementos, for her uncle Wedderburn. To Lady Wedderburn
she gave a beautiful diamond ring, and made poor little Miss Flora
M'Caw radiantly happy by a set of gold Champac ornaments, necklace,
rings, and bracelets, that the Begum Sumroo, or even the terrible
Queen of Delhi, might have worn with credit.
Three days saw her perfectly domesticated and at home in her new
abode; but many things there excited her surprise.
"How few servants you have, dear Auntie!" said she one day, "only the
Kitmutgar Asloane--such a droll name he has!--a few bheesties, syces,
and ayahs, a butler, coachman, two valets, and a few women. How on
earth do you contrive to do with so few? We had nearly fifty at our
house in the Choultry, besides six punka-wallahs."
"Fifty! where did you find beds for them all, Gwenny?"
"Oh, they slept on mats, everywhere or anywhere--on the stairs, in
the corridors, on the roof, or in the verandahs, when the rainy
season was over."
"Such arrangements would scarcely suit Willowdean," said her aunt,
laughing.
The fireplaces, the carpeted floors, the total absence of a great
dark punkah swaying noiselessly overhead, all filled her with a
wonder that was almost childish. Horace and Cyril could both speak
with her of India, having served there; the former two years, and the
latter five. Poor Bob knew nothing about it, so, as he was rather
ignored, he fumed a little in secret, and thought to himself, "when
those fellows' leave of absence is up, I shall have it all my own
way--patience till then."
All the ideas of the young heiress were odd for a time, being of
course those of an Indo-Briton. The Indian summer had just ended
when she left Madras, and the Scottish spring had just begun when she
arrived at Willowdean, hence the verdure was not so great as she
might have found it in Devonshire. The fruit and flowers in the
conservatory seemed all strange, puerile, and meagre to her eyes.
Luxury and splendour there appeared but little. There was no state
kept, she thought, at Willowdean; no horde of half-nude native
servants, obsequious to slavery; no camels, with gorgeous housings;
no elephants, bearing gilded howdahs with silken curtains; no dhoolie
or palanquin bearers, singing gaily as they trotted along. She woke
at unearthly hours in the morning, to the astonishment and annoyance
of the butler and house-maids, and wished to have a drive, as if she
were still at the Choultry of Madras; and then, the perpetual clouds,
and more than all the occasional mist from the German Sea--white,
dense, and palpable--filled her with wonder, accustomed as she had
been to the pure and deep blue sky of Hindostan.
She smiled, and even laughed with provoking playfulness, when Lady
Wedderburn, who was fond of "talking peerage," expatiated on the
historical and somewhat shady traditionary glories of the Welsh race
of Ap-Rhys of Llanchillwydd; on the famous Dafydd-ap-Gwilym-ap-Rhys,
who inherited all the virtues of Howel Dha, whose daughter had been
his great-great-grandmother, and gave him the blood of the
Pendragons. All this sounded odd to Gwenny--very odd--for her papa
had been a man of the world, a thorough man of business, who stuck to
his ledgers and counting-house, always looking forward, setting
little store upon the past, and nothing at all upon a dead ancestry.
Gervase Asloane, the old housekeeper, and other domestics, she
somewhat shocked by using the piano on Sunday, and by yawning, more
than a young lady should, in church--the parochial barn--oh, good
heavens! how unlike it was to the lofty, airy, and white
chunam-coated cathedral of the Bishop of Madras! Then there was no
organ, and, to her ears, the psalm-singing sounded but as a torrent
of dissonant strains.
Her conversation for a time naturally enough ran on memories of the
brilliant land she had left--the Choultry of Madras, with all its
stately palaces, the black and the white towns, and the catamarans
tossing amid the white and foaming surge, which there boils for ever
on the shore; of chowries and mosquito curtains; of punka-wallahs and
tattywetters; of bheesties and peons, and other persons and things
incomprehensible to Lady Wedderburn, who, however, was greatly
delighted that Cyril could talk with her on such mysterious matters,
and understood what she meant. But then, unluckily, Horace Ramornie
knew all about them too, and had been in garrison at Vellore; still
Bob sulked, and when Sir John laughed, voted it all "a dreadful bore."
She was astonished to find that people slept in their beds, and not
merely on them: that blankets and broadcloth were used even in
summer; that the butter was neither poured out like cream nor
thickened with dead flies. The state of the thermometer was a source
of perpetual wonder to her, and she said to Horace--
"Is it as cool always at Willowdean as on the Blue Mountains of
Madras in the wet season?"
But greater surprises were in store for her, when winter came with
its frost and snow, its skaters and curlers on loch and river.
With all her kindness and goodness of heart, Lady Wedderburn, in
pursuit of her secret wish, was singularly injudicious.
Gwenny had come among her relations, an orphan. Horace Ramornie,
though now a soldier, a young lieutenant of the Line, could remember
the time when he, too, came to Willowdean in the days of his early
orphanage, and the lonely hours when he lay in his little bed at
night, seeing, in fancy, his parents' faces amid the darkness, and
longing, with all a childish longing and yearning, "for a touch of
the vanished hand, and the sound of a voice that was still;" and
these recollections made him very tender in his manner to Gwenny,
though Horace had ever a gentle and a winning way with all women, old
as well as young.
"Cousin Horace," said she, on one occasion, "and you have been an
orphan like myself; how strange!"
"Horace is not your cousin, but Cyril is," said Lady Wedderburn, in a
pointed manner, as she passed through the drawing-room into the
conservatory.
Her words conveyed a volume, for Gwenny blushed scarlet, and the
young man grew pale.
"I am not your cousin, Miss Wedderburn--would that I were," said he,
with a low sigh.
"Why, what difference would it make?"
"For then I might--might claim something more than mere friendship."
"Not my cousin?" queried Gwenny, her dark eyes dilating as she spoke.
"Oh, I know that you are not, though Lady Wedderburn is aunt to us
both; but why call me Miss--say Gwenny, as Cyril and Robert do."
"Gwenny then," said Horace, tremulously and softly, for the girl's
wonderful beauty bewildered, while her frank and candid manner
charmed and entranced him; but he felt a secret consciousness that,
before Lady Wedderburn, to call Gwenny by her abbreviated name would
be rather injudicious.
While shrinking from the idea of rivalling his cousin Cyril, and
earning thereby the anger of such benefactors as his uncle and aunt,
Horace Ramornie was in love with all the deep strength of a young
man's first and genuine passion. The girl, as we have said, was
undoubtedly beautiful, and if love will _glorify_ all it looks on, to
his eyes the face and presence of Gwendoleyne became as something
divine, and Horace was intoxicated by her!
Night after night he lay awake for hours, feeding his soul with the
idea of Gwendoleyne; longing for and yet nervously dreading his
recall to the regiment, amid this strange and fresh emotion that had
grown in his heart, and which was alike his torment and delight.
He would sigh deeply and bitterly, clasping his hands in the dark, as
he thought of his cousin Cyril's greater chances of success, his
superior position, his attainments, and many genuine good qualities;
and also of his aunt's too perceptible opposition; and then he would
wring them like a love-sick girl, for Horace was by nature shy,
impressionable, and enthusiastic.
Another was wringing her hands at times in Lonewoodlee, and weeping
the silent tears of sad and bitter misgiving!