THE FLOWER OF STERBORNE.
I do not know if any prevision of the fate which was about to befall him
was in Frederick’s mind on that eventful night. He had a few words with
his mother, which were not altogether friendly, ere he went to dress,
for Mrs. Eastwood objected to the private walk and talk with Innocent,
which seemed to her to be done in defiance of her warning and request.
“Ask her what I said to her, if you don’t trust me,” Frederick had said
in high dudgeon, before he went to prepare himself for Mr. Batty’s
entertainment; and this encounter excited him, and gave him a perverse
inclination to enjoy himself with the host whom he felt would be so
highly disapproved of by his family. I don’t think he let his
imagination dwell at all on the fact that there was a third person to be
present, or that this was a woman and a “beauty.” The greatest beauty in
the world being Mr. Batty’s daughter could be of little importance to an
Eastwood. He went his way to Batty’s hotel with his head full of many
thoughts, but totally indifferent to this one. He thought it was
immensely impudent of the fellow to ask him, that it was rather hard
upon himself to be obliged to go, that it would be amusing to see how
fellows of that sort dined and conducted themselves generally, along
with a variety of other reflections equally superficial; but he never
thought of the Flower of Sterborne, nor of the special effect she might
be likely to produce on a young man suddenly presented to her. The hotel
was not one of those seeming humble and quiet establishments, where
princes and millionaires abound; it was more pretentious and less
expensive, but yet dear enough to frighten any moderate soul out of
London. Frederick was shown into a small dining-room, prepared for a
small party. He saw with some relief that there were but three places,
and took his seat very easily and without ceremony in front of the fire,
with the _Times_, which was lying on a table. He scarcely noticed the
door open; when it did open it would no doubt be Batty, who was not shy,
and would soon make his presence known. Frederick read on, without
looking behind him. Until he became suddenly aware of a rustling and
subdued movement, and a slight air moved his paper as if some one had
passed behind him. Startled by this, and somewhat ashamed of his own
easy indifference, he started suddenly to his feet, and turned round. He
never forgot all his life the sight that met his eyes. Standing behind
his chair was (he thought) the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
The arch look with which she had been contemplating his unconcern was
still in her face. She was tall, almost as tall as himself, and ample, a
fully-developed and splendid piece of flesh and blood, not so warm or so
full-blown as Rubens, but something approaching that school of art. She
was of the class of beauty which has come to be distinctive of the
present period, though I cannot tell why. Her hair, I need not say, was
golden; her complexion dazzling. She was like the sun, almost as
brilliant, in her mingling of tints, her snow-white, and rose-red, and
glittering glory of hair. The sight of her was too much for weak vision.
It dazzled and brought water to the eyes of the rash and feeble
beholder. If you could have calmly examined her features, without regard
to that soft glow and glory of colour, and texture, and roundness, and
life, it is possible that you might have found them to be not at all
perfect; but this not one spectator in a hundred had coolness enough to
do. Her eyes were hazel; they ought to have been blue, according to all
rules; but it seemed part of her character, and the wilfulness which was
its chief point, that she should have eyes, which, beautiful as they
were, did not quite “go with” her face. There are many kinds of hazel
eyes; it is the most changeful, the most capricious of colours. I have
seen it turn to gold in a certain pair of orbs I wot of, showing like
light itself in the light. I have seen it melt into the softest liquid
grey; but there is a kind of hazel eye, very bright, very splendid, in
which there is hung a subtle little danger-signal to all mankind. These
are the eyes that have a spark of red in them, flashing out now and
then from the warm, translucent brown, a spark which tells of temper, of
passion, of headstrong will, and impulse. ’Manda Batty had these eyes.
They were lamps of light, and it seemed to the looker-on, if any one
remarked it at all, that this fiery gleam was necessary to give them
character, and keep them from losing their due importance in the
brilliant and sweet glow of colour that surrounded them. This, if it
really was, as I think, an indication of danger, was the only one. At
this moment her face was full of suppressed laughter. She had a finger
lifted to her lip like a statue of Silence, but how unlike a statue of
Silence was she otherwise! or, indeed, a statue of anything; everything
about her was warm and soft, breathing a lavish life. When Frederick
turned round upon her so suddenly the laughter in her face burst forth.
Perhaps it was louder and more uncultivated than if she had been, as
people say, a lady. She threw herself down in a chair, and laughed till
the water sparkled on her pretty eyelashes, and she put her hands to her
waist with such a rendering of “Laughter holding both his sides” as
never entered into any painter’s imagination. “Oh,” she cried, “I shall
die of laughing; come and stop me, come, papa.”
It struck Frederick with a shock of surprise and pain when Mr. Batty
came in by another door, also inarticulate with laughter. The idea of
this wonderful creature being Batty’s daughter appalled and struck him
dumb. Not to say that he was very deeply embarrassed by the situation
altogether, by the laughter of the new-comer, and his own
semi-ridiculous attitude--her beauty had struck him at once with one of
those impressions which are not to be shaken off, which count, slight
and superficial as is often the instrument, among the great things of
life. Never before had Frederick been so profoundly moved. He did not
understand the effect, nor what it meant. He ceased to be himself for
the moment, and became the subject of a strange and subtle experiment,
which stamped her reflection upon him. No, he was not himself; he was a
mirror of her, a sensitive plate, upon which that sudden light had
painted her likeness. These may seem fantastic similes, but I know no
other that would convey what I mean. I suppose it was what we, with our
limited powers of expression, call love at first sight. It was certainly
adoration at first sight, which is a different thing.
“Well, Mr. Eastwood, here’s my wild girl making fun of us both,” said
Batty, “without even giving me a chance of introducing you. ’Manda, this
is Mr. Eastwood, as of course you have found out.”
“Don’t say Mr. Eastwood, papa.”
“No, you’re right. Mr. Frederick, that’s what I mean, and a deal nicer a
gentleman,” said the father. “You see, Mr. Frederick, ’Manda has been,
so to speak, brought up with nothing but Eastwoods. All the young ’uns,
from Sir Geoffrey downwards, rode into Sterborne on their ponies to have
their lessons with our old curate, and ’Manda being his prime
favourite, and partly brought up with him----”
“You don’t suppose, papa, that any one but ourselves cares for all these
details. Pray forgive me for laughing at you,” said Miss Amanda, turning
to Frederick, “you were so comfortable and so much at your ease reading
your _Times_. What can gentlemen find in the _Times_ always, morning,
noon, and night? Papa is never done with his paper; first there is one
thing, then another. I suppose you had been reading it all the morning,
Mr. Frederick Eastwood, and the first thing you do is to take it up
here.”
“I did not know there was any one observing me,” said Frederick,
standing confused and humble before her. He who was very lofty and
dignified to his mother and sister, was ready to be abject to Amanda. He
listened to her with absolute reverence, though all that she had to say
was commonplace enough. When he was placed beside her at dinner, and
found himself at liberty to look at her and listen to her undisturbed,
it seemed to Frederick that he had never been so blessed. He took in all
her chatter without losing a word. Miss Batty was in full dress. Those
were the days when English ladies were supposed always to appear with
bare shoulders in the evening, and her beautiful shoulders and arms were
bare. Her dress was blue, with a long train, which was considerably in
her way. If there was anything wanting in her it was this--she moved
about in a manner that did not suit the dignity of her beauty; her
movements were quick, jerky, and without grace; she bustled like a
notable housewife rather than a fine lady. Perhaps if her dress had not
been much too fine for the occasion this would have been less
remarkable, but as it was, Frederick’s dream was disturbed a little when
she jumped up to help herself. “Oh, I can’t sit and wait if I want a bit
of bread till the servant comes,” she cried. Frederick did not like the
words, nor the tone of them, but she was lovelier than ever when she
said them. Thus he did not lose his senses instantly, or suppose that
everything that fell from her lips was divine. But his admiration, or
adoration, mastered all his criticism and swept away his good sense.
What she said might be foolish or flippant, but how she said it was
heavenly. He could not take his eyes from her. He made what effort he
could to keep up the ordinary decorum, and look as if he were capable of
eating, and drinking, and talking, as he had been the day before, but
the effort was very little successful. Miss Amanda saw her victory, and
almost disdained it, it was so easy; and her father saw it, and was
satisfied.
“Now take me to the play,” she said, when dinner was over. “It isn’t
often I am in town, and I mean to enjoy myself. Oh, we may be late, but
it does not matter. If it is only for the after-piece I am determined to
go.”
“Was there ever so imperious a girl?” cried her father. “You ought to
remember, ’Manda, here is Mr. Eastwood. You can’t send away a gentleman
that has but just eaten his dinner.”
“He can come too,” said Amanda. “I like to have two gentlemen. There is
always plenty for two gentlemen to do. Won’t you come, Mr. Frederick
Eastwood? But anyhow I must go,” she continued, turning to her father,
who was almost as abject in his devotion as Frederick was. Had she been
anything short of perfection Frederick would have hesitated much before
he consented to show himself in public with Mr. Batty and his daughter;
indeed, the possibility of such a thing would have driven him frantic.
But now he had no such thoughts. If he hesitated it was but to calculate
what was going on in the theatrical world; what there was worthy to be
seen by her. He was not much of a theatre-goer, but he knew what was
being played, and where. He suggested one or two of what were supposed
to be the best plays; but she put him down quite calmly. She had already
decided that she was going to see one of the sensational pieces of the
day, a drama (I do not know it, I may be doing it injustice) the chief
point in which was the terrific situation of the hero or heroine, who
was bound down on the line of a railway when the train was coming. It
was this lofty representation which she had set her heart on seeing.
Frederick handed her into the cab which was immediately sent for. He sat
by her in it; he breathed in the atmosphere of “Ess. bouquet” which
surrounded her. Now and then he thought, with a glimmer of horror, of
meeting somebody whom he knew; but his mind was only at intervals
sufficiently free to harbour this thought. It was, however, with a
certain fright that he found himself in the stage-box, which it appeared
had been provided beforehand for Miss Amanda’s pleasure. “I prefer a
box,” she said to Frederick, “here one can be comfortable, and papa if
he likes can fall asleep in a comfortable chair; but I can’t understand
a lady making herself happy down there.” She pointed to the stalls,
where Frederick was too happy not to be. There was, of course, somebody
he knew in the second row, who found him out he feared in the dignity of
his box, where Miss Amanda had no idea of hiding herself. “She objected
to her gentlemen,” she said, “taking refuge behind a curtain,” and she
did no such injustice to her own beauty as to conceal it. She dropped
her cloak from her shoulders, and gave the house all the benefit; and
she kept calling Frederick’s attention to one thing and another,
insisting that he should crane his neck round the corner to look at this
or that. Her beauty and her dress and evident willingness to be admired
drew many eyes, and Frederick felt that he had a share in the _succès_
which he could very well have dispensed with. He had experienced a good
many adventures, but very few like this. He had always been very
respectable under the eyes of the world; to be sure, he was quite
respectable now; there was no fault to be found with the party--his
beautiful companion, indeed, was something quite new, and not very much
used to her present position; but there was nothing wrong in that.
Nevertheless Frederick felt that there was something to pay for the
strange confusion of blessedness in which he seemed to have lost
himself. He felt this by intervals, and he kept as much as he could
behind the curtains, behind _her_. She was perfectly willing to occupy
the centre of the box, to rain down influence, to be seen and admired.
“Mr. Eastwood, I wish you would not keep behind me. Do let people see
that I have some one to take care of me. Papa has gone to sleep, of
course,” said the beauty, and she turned round upon Frederick with such
a look that he remembered nothing any more but her loveliness, and the
delight of being near her. She chattered through all the play, and he
listened. She said a great deal that was silly, and some things that
were slightly vulgar, and he noted them, yet was not less subjugated by
a spell which was beyond resistance. I cannot be supposed to understand
this, nor to explain it. In such matters I can only record facts. He was
not under the delusion that she was a lofty, or noble, or refined being,
though she was Batty’s daughter. He presumed that she was Batty’s
daughter heart and soul; made of the same _pâte_, full of the same
thoughts. She was “not a lady,” beautiful, splendid, and well-dressed as
she was; the humble, little snub-nosed girl in the stalls below who
looked up at this vision of loveliness with a girl’s admiration had
something which all the wealth of the Indies could not have given to
Miss Amanda. And Frederick Eastwood saw this quite plainly, yet fell in
love, or in madness, exactly as if he had not seen it. The feeling, such
as it was, was too genuine to make him capable of many words; but he did
his best to amuse her, and he listened to all she said, which was a very
good way of pleasing this young woman.
“I hope you mean to stay in town for some time,” he said, in one of the
pauses of her abundant talk.
“Not very long,” said Miss ’Manda. “Papa likes to live well, and to do
things in the best sort of way; so he spends a deal of money, and that
can’t last long. Our hotel isn’t like Mivart’s, and that sort of thing:
but it is dreadfully dear. We spend as much as--oh, I couldn’t venture
to tell you how much we spend a day. Papa likes to have everything of
the best, and so do I.”
“And so you ought,” said Frederick, adoring. “Pardon me if I am saying
too much.”
“Oh, you are not saying very much, Mr. Eastwood. It is I that am
talking,” said Amanda, “and as for our staying long here, that does not
much matter, for papa wants you to come to Sterborne. He has been
talking of it ever since he came back from Paris. What did you do to him
to make him take such a fancy to you? We don’t think the other
Eastwoods behaved vary nicely to us, and ever since he met with you papa
has been telling me of all your good qualities. You have put a spell
upon him, I think.”
“He is very good, I am sure,” said Frederick, stiffening in spite of
himself.
“Oh, I know,” said Amanda, with a toss of her head. “We are not so fine
as you are, we don’t visit with county people, nor that sort of thing.
But we have plenty of people come to see us who are better off than the
Eastwoods, and better blood, too, so you need not be afraid. Papa has
dealings with the very best. We don’t like to be slighted,” said the
beauty, with a gleam of that red light from her beautiful eyes; “and
when people put on airs, like your cousin has done, it sets papa’s back
up. That was why we went against Sir Geoffrey at the election. But I
hope you will come, Mr. Eastwood; papa took such a fancy to you.”
“I have just been away from the office for a month. I fear I shall not
have leisure again for some time,” said Frederick, feeling that an
invitation from Batty was to be resisted, even when conveyed by such
lovely lips.
“How hideous it must be not to be one’s own master; to have to ask for
‘leave’ like a servant,” cried ’Manda with a laugh; which speech set all
Frederick’s nerves ajar, and almost released him from the syren. He
withdrew into the shade of the curtains, and drew to him all the succour
of his pride.
“Yes, it is a pitiful position,” he said, with an angry laugh; “but I
may comfort myself that a great many people share it with me. Do you
know I am afraid I must leave you. This performance is endless, and
rather dull.”
“Upon my word!” cried Miss Batty, “you are free-spoken, Mr. Frederick.
To tell a lady you are dull when she is doing her best to amuse you!”
“Pardon me, I spoke of the performance.”
“Oh, I don’t care much for the performance,” said Amanda, with a beaming
smile. “I like the lights and the music, and the feeling of being out in
the world. But you wouldn’t go off, and leave me--with papa asleep, and
no one to talk to?”
“I have an engagement--at my club.”
“Oh, if you wish to go away, Mr. Eastwood----” The beauty turned away
pouting, turning her lovely shoulders upon him, and tossing her
beautiful head. Frederick had risen partly in the liveliness of personal
offence, partly with an impulse of prudence, to escape while he might.
But his heart failed him when he saw the averted head, the resentful
movement. Batty dozed peacefully in his chair, interfering with no one.
And something tugged at the unfortunate young man, who stood undecided
whether to fly or to stay. To leave a lovely creature like this, the
most beautiful woman he had ever seen, alone, without any one to amuse
her: to leave the place vacant which a hundred no doubt would give
their ears for! What harm could it do him to stay? It was pleasant to
spend an hour or two by the side of anything so pretty. Come of it--what
could come of it? It was an accidental delight entirely, without
connexion with the rest of his life; an isolated event, without either
origin or issue. Why should not he like others enjoy himself for the
moment? While he was thus hesitating Amanda turned her head round with a
sudden provoking glance. “Oh, have you not gone yet?” she asked.
Frederick felt, as it were, on his knees before her.
“Must I go? have I proved so unworthy of my privilege?” he cried humbly,
taking his seat with deprecating looks. Miss Batty did not wish him to
go, and said so freely, with unflattering plainness of speech.
“I should be left to listen to papa’s snores, which I can hear at home,”
she said. “I always prefer some one to talk to. I daresay, however, I
should not have been left long by myself, for there is Lord Hunterston
down below in those horrid stalls looking up. He is trying to catch my
eye. No; I don’t care to have too many. I shan’t see him as long as you
stay.”
“Then I shall stay for ever,” said Frederick, inspired by that touch of
rivalship. Lord Hunterston, however, did manage to find his way up to
the box, whether by Miss ’Manda’s permission or not, and Frederick grew
stiff and resentful while the other foolish youth paid his homage. Lord
Hunterston pricked him into double eagerness, and sent all the
suggestions of prudence to the winds. Amanda proved herself thoroughly
equal to the occasion. She kept the two young men in hand with perfect
skill, though she allowed herself to be slightly insolent to Frederick,
referring again to the “leave” without which he could not budge. This
time, however, the reference did not make him angry, but only impressed
him with the fact that his admiration was nothing to her, and that every
step of vantage-ground would have to be fought for, and held with the
exercise of all his powers. He felt himself pitted against not Lord
Hunterston only, but all the world. It seemed impossible to imagine that
this syren, who had conquered himself by a glance, should not attract
everybody that had the happiness of approaching her. Terror, jealousy,
and pride, all came in to aid the strongest passion of all, which had
already taken possession of him--terror of losing her, jealousy of
everybody who looked at her, and all the _amour propre_ and
determination to elevate himself over the heads of his rivals that could
lend warmth to a young man’s determination. No prize is fully estimated
until the sense that it will be hotly contested bursts upon the
competitor’s mind. Frederick grew half wild when the time came for him
to leave the theatre. He secured her arm to lead her down-stairs, but
only by dint of having all his wits about him, and taking his rival
unawares. And then he was dismissed at the cab door, with all his nerves
tingling, his heart beating, his whole frame in a ferment. He walked
home all the way, following the path which her vehicle, so ignoble, and
unfit for her to enter, must have taken; he passed under the windows he
supposed to be hers. In short, he did everything that a foolish young
man, mad with sudden excitement, and what is called passion, is expected
to do, and worked himself into a higher and higher strain of excitement,
as with his head full of thoughts of her he made his way home, longing
impatiently for the morning, when he might see her again.