Lady Haredale was naturally gifted with peculiarly even, cheerful
spirits. She had a great capacity for enjoyment, though she had
troubles enough to break down a better woman. She had married at
seventeen a man much older than herself, already in embarrassed
circumstances. Her step-children both disliked her, and had given her
very good cause to dislike them.
She had four nearly portionless girls of her own to marry, and she
herself had endless personal anxieties and worries, springing alike from
want of money and from want of principle. Truly she had often not the
wherewithal to pay for her own and her daughters' dress. She did not
mind being in debt because it was wrong, but she found it very
disagreeable. She belonged to a circle of ladies who played cards, and
for very high stakes. That led to complications. She was a beauty and
had many admirers, with whom she liked to maintain sentimental
relations, and she was just really sentimental enough not always to stop
at the safe point. Very uncomfortable trains of circumstances had
arisen from the indulgence of this taste; and, if she had had no regrets
or difficulties of her own, Lord Haredale's character and pursuits would
have given her plenty. Nor had she outer interests or resources in
herself. She never realised, she seemed scarcely to have heard of all
the various forms of philanthropy which are furthered by so many ladies
of position. She did not care for politics, literature, or art. She
was probably conscious of being much more charming than most of the
women who occupied themselves with these interests; but on the whole it
was rather that she did not know anything about them, than that she set
herself against them. As for religion, she was really hardly conscious
of its claims upon her beyond an occasional attendance at church, and
due consideration for the social rank of a bishop. In such
unconsciousness rather than opposition Lady Haredale was behind and
unlike her age; but the state of mind may still be found, where dense
perceptions and exclusive habits co-exist.
Yet she was always ready for a fresh amusement; she enjoyed gossip of a
piquant and scandalous nature; she greatly enjoyed admiration, and
treading on social white ice. When none of these excitements were at
hand, she liked realistic novels, and comfortable chairs, and good
things to eat and drink. She also liked her little girls, though she
took very little trouble about them; and, though it cannot be denied
that Satan did find some mischief for her idle heart and brain, if not
for her idle hands to do, he did not often manage to lower her spirits
or ruffle her temper. She not only did what she liked--what is less
common, she liked what she did.
But her young daughters did not inherit this cheery serenity. They had
no intelligent teaching, no growing enthusiasms to occupy their minds,
and they were inconceivably ignorant and _bornees_. They were entirely
unprincipled, using the word in a negative sense, and they had not their
mother's steady health. They had knocked about, abroad and at home,
with careless servants, and foreign teachers. They had been to
children's balls, and had been produced in picturesque costumes at
grown-up entertainments; till, lacking their mother's spirit, they were
apt to look on cynically, while she devised fresh schemes of amusement.
"Lady Haredale is so fresh!" Una had once remarked, to the intense
amusement of her partner, at one of those "children's parties," which
are given that grown-up people may admire the children, and amuse
themselves.
These three children, in the afternoon in Easter week on which Amethyst
was expected, had grouped themselves into the bow-window of the
drawing-room, looking with their long hair, black legs, and fashionable
frocks, like a contemporary picture in Punch.
"Dismal place this!" said Una, yawning and looking out at the garden.
"Oh," said Kattern, as the next girl, Katherine, was usually called, "my
lady will have all the old set here soon."
They often called their mother "my lady," after the manner of their
half-brother and sister.
"Yes," said Victoria, the youngest, in a slow, high-toned drawl. "It's
quite six weeks since we've seen Tony. He'll be coming soon, and Frank
Chichester, I dare say. Frank'll give you a chance, Una."
"Frank Chichester! I don't value boys; they have no conversation. You
and Kattern may pull caps for him."
"Tory's too rude," said Kattern. "He never forgave her for saying, when
he asked her to dance, that she must watch him to see how he moved."
"I thought that was _chic_," said Tory; "some men like it, and coax
you."
"He's too young for it," said the experienced Una; "not _my_ style at
all."
"Ah, we know _your_ style--dear Tony."
"Be quiet," interposed Una, angrily, and with scarlet cheeks; "what's my
style to such little chits as you?"
"Little chits indeed!" said Tory. "_You_ might be glad to be a little
chit. You're getting to the awkward age, and you won't have a little
girl's privileges much longer. You'd better look out. And besides, we
shall none of us wear as well as my lady."
"There'll be Amethyst," said Kattern. "If she's so awfully pretty, we
shall be out of the running."
"She's sure to be bread-and-butterish and goody; that won't pay," said
Tory. "Now be quiet, I want to finish my book before she comes."
"What's it about?" asked Kattern.
"She married the wrong man, and the hero wants her to run away with him,
but I suppose the husband will die, so it will all come right!" said
Tory, drawing up her black legs into a comfortable attitude, and burying
herself in her book.
On that morning Amethyst had been taken to London by her aunt; and, by
no means so miserable as she thought she ought to have been, was
delivered over to her father's care.
Matters had settled themselves fairly pleasantly for Miss Haredale. Her
house was let, and an old friend had asked her to go abroad with her for
the summer, so that she was not left to solitude--a greater consolation
just now to Amethyst than to herself. The girl felt the parting; but
eager interest in the new old house, longing for her mother and sisters,
and shy pleasure in her father's notice, overwhelmed the feeling and
pushed it aside for the time. She was delighted when her father took
her to lunch at Verey's, and enjoyed the strawberry ice which he gave
her. She tried to adapt her conversation to what she supposed might be
Lord Haredale's tastes, and asked him if the hunting near Cleverley was
good.
"Fond of riding, eh?" he said. "I haven't been out for years,--never
was much in my line. But your aunt, she was the best horse-woman in the
county. Fellows used to lay bets on what ugly places Annabel Haredale
would go in for next. But she was up to the game, and when she was
expected to show off would ride as if she were following a funeral--make
them open all the gates for her, and then go ahead like a bird and
distance everybody.--You'll do, if you have her hand at a horse's mouth,
and her seat on the saddle."
Amethyst found some difficulty in picturing her aunt flying over the
country like a bird, and answered humbly--
"I never rode anything but Dobbin, the Rectory pony, papa; but he could
take a flat ditch, if it wasn't too wide. I should like hunting."
"Well, we'll see about it next winter. I'll manage to mount you,
perhaps, somehow."
"Oh, papa, I don't want anything that's any trouble. I like everything
that comes handy." She smiled gaily as she spoke, and her sweet
light-hearted look struck her father.
"You take after my lady," he said aloud, and then under his moustaches,
"and, by Jove! you'll cut her out too."
Amethyst's gaiety subsided as they came to the little country station,
and were driving through the lanes to Cleverley Hall. Her heart beat
very fast--it was the intensest moment her young life had known.
"Shy, eh?" said her father good-naturedly, as they reached the Hall.
"Never mind--we take things easy. Visitors in the drawing-room, do you
say?"--to the servant. "Generally are, I think. My lady would have
made a circle of mermen and savages if she had been shipwrecked with
Robinson Crusoe." Amethyst hardly heard; she followed her father into
the long low room, full of misty afternoon sunlight. She did not heed
that several figures rose hurriedly as they entered; she heard a clear
sweet voice say--
"Why here she is! Here's my big girl!" and, full in the dazzle of that
confusing sunlight, she saw her mothers slender figure and smiling face.
As the welcoming arms clasped her, and the smiling lips kissed her,
Amethyst felt as if she had never known what happiness meant before.