"I never did see any use in making pretences. People always see through
them, and then where are you? If I did try to look as if I had
thousands to spare, not a soul would believe me. Nothing answers like
telling the truth."
This beautiful sentiment was uttered by Lady Haredale one bright
afternoon, some few weeks after the arrival of the party from Silverfold
at the house in Eaton Square.
The big drawing-rooms were flooded with all the sunlight that a spring
day in London could supply, perhaps in illustration of Lady Haredale's
contempt of pretences; for their handsome fittings and furniture had
seen many sets of tenants for the season, and were by no means in their
first freshness. But, as Lady Haredale said, "Who cared?--There were
some houses, she believed, where people were asked to come and see the
furniture, but she asked people to come and see herself and her girls--
and they generally came."
Liberally supplied with flowers, and filled with graceful inhabitants,
the effect of the shabby, elegant drawing-room, with its open windows
and fearless daylight, was not amiss.
Indeed, there was a touch of genius in the way Lady Haredale faced the
situation, and, spite of the ineffaceable memories behind her, Amethyst
was sometimes almost bewitched into believing her mother to be the most
ingenuous of women. Lady Haredale often bought trifles for herself or
for her daughters, which took her fancy, and which were always tasteful
and becoming, quite regardless of the cost; but she never bought
anything, or chose anything, to conceal the fact that they had less than
the usual amount to spend on their clothes. She forestalled the
comments of acquaintances by the simplest confession.
"You see," she would sometimes say, with her wide-open eyes and her
sweet smile, "we have scraped every farthing we can get together, and
joined with Miss Haredale's nice little heiress to give our girls a
chance. We think Amethyst is so pretty, that it is quite a duty to make
a great effort. Of course we shall have to pay for it afterwards, or
perhaps we shan't--Dear me!--one _can't_ always, you know. We can no
more afford, properly, to have a London season, than we can fly, but I
can't sacrifice such a beauty as I think my girl is, and I've brought
all her sisters to town, that they may get a little pleasure when they
can. Perhaps we shall never be able to come up again. But here we
are--and _so_ enjoying it. We have to do it all simply, but we don't
mind that the least little bit."
Simplicity is comparative, but it was quite true that Lady Haredale
wasted far less regret than most women would have done, on the defects
of the turn-out in which she drove in the park with her beautiful
daughter.
"What does it matter?" she would say. "My lord has had good horses more
than once, and every one knows that he has always had to sell them."
She did not mind wearing her dresses several times over; she knew that
they always suited her. She appeared to be the least scheming of
mothers, would throw over an invitation, for which many women would have
plotted in vain, for another that seemed to her more amusing. She let
Amethyst dance and talk with whom she would, cared little apparently
where the young beauty was seen, or where she was not seen; and when
Miss Haredale would have anxiously guarded Amethyst's footsteps, chosen
her acquaintances, and guided her smallest actions, as she would have
said "for the best," Lady Haredale observed--
"My dear Anna, you are much more worldly than I am. Let the child
alone. She is getting on well enough. Let her enjoy herself, she looks
much prettier when she is happy. She is getting quite enough talked
about, and written about too in the Society papers. And that is the
great point, you know, in getting her started."
"I should be very sorry," said Miss Haredale, "if anything came of the
attentions of that Italian Prince."
"What, Prince Pontresina?--Very old family. But, for my part, I've
learned prudence, and I should be very well content if she chose Sir
Richard Grattan. No--I _don't_ think Lord Broadstairs would do; he is
nearly as badly off as we are--and a very bad character into the
bargain. Amethyst wouldn't like that."
Miss Haredale sighed, and felt that she would have to swallow a great
deal of old-fashioned prejudice before she could willingly see her niece
marry a man in business, whose father had got a baronetcy through being
mayor on the occasion of a royal visit to his borough; while to see her
given to an old _roue_ nobleman would nearly break her heart. It vexed
her that Amethyst should be allowed to give up an eligible partner
because Una was tired and wanted to go home, and she would much rather
have taken her to a morning concert at a duchesss, than to look at
pictures in an artist's studio, farther west than Miss Haredale had ever
paid a visit in her life, where she saw celebrities, and was seen by
them.
"They will write about her and criticise her picture, and besides, it
will be more amusing," said Lady Haredale. "Take Carrie to the
duchess's.--Quite the best thing for her. And as for Una, it's very
pretty to see Amethyst taken up with her."
By the sunshiny afternoon on which we lift the curtain, Lady Haredale's
method, or no method, had had time to work, and Amethyst's name as a
beauty was being rapidly made. She had danced with princes, and been
praised by painters; her help at a coming fancy-fair, where princesses
and actresses held the stalls, had been asked as a special favour, her
presence and her costume was mentioned in accounts of fashionable
gatherings; all was going well, and Lady Haredale, as she said, was
enjoying herself immensely.
Her endorsement of the old proverb that honesty is the best policy,
though illustrated by Amethyst's career, had not, however, been intended
to apply to it.
The party had come in from their various afternoon engagements.
Amethyst, looking bright and fresh, and Carrie Carisbrooke, with much
improved costume and manner, were touching up some flowers at a side
table, while the elder ladies rested and talked before dressing for
dinner.
"You know," said Lady Haredale, "there's not the least use in making
pretences about Charles. Every one knows that he has been quite a
trial. Now he is going to turn over a new leaf, and I think it is quite
my duty to help him, now his debts are paid."
"It's very clever of him to have got his debts paid. I can't think how
he has done it," said a slow, high voice from the end of the long room.
"Tory!" exclaimed Lady Haredale, "what are you doing there?"
"I'm learning a German verb, mother," said Tory, standing up. "Don't
you think that, as _our brother_ is coming home for the first time, Kat
and I might dine down-stairs? We won't speak unless we're spoken to."
"You had much better go up-stairs and finish your lessons," said
Amethyst, who preferred Tory's absence at critical moments.
"Now don't try to suppress us, Amethyst. It isn't worthy of you. It
isn't, indeed," said Tory, holding the end of her long tail of hair, and
arranging the ribbon on it, with an absurdly childish look.
"Well," said Lady Haredale, "as there are only the Grattans and Mr
Carisbrooke coming, I don't see why you should not come in.--But, as I
was saying, we must try to make it pleasant and home-like for Charles.
He has not been all he should have been, but we must forget that."
"Yes, we know all about it, mother, all of us," said Tory,--"except
Carrie."
"Carrie is one of us now," said Lady Haredale, "so we won't make a
stranger of her."
Carrie, who adored Lady Haredale, smiled and coloured as she ran away to
dress for dinner; while Amethyst, as she too went up-stairs, remembered
the conversation they had held at Silverfold, and thought it strange
that Mr Oliver Carisbrooke and Charles Haredale should both make their
first visit on the same day.
Amethyst, like her mother, was "enjoying herself very much." She did
inherit the same liking for life, and for the pleasant things of life,
and, in spite of the occasional pressure of the past and of the future,
it was not wonderful that the present was enchanting to her. A cup,
rare, sweet, and intoxicating, was held to her lips, it was something to
taste so fine a flavour.
She was so full of life, that she would have enjoyed all the elements of
a London season heartily, if she had been but an insignificant figure in
it, and to feel herself to be one of its chief attractions, naturally
enhanced the charm. While the leaves in the Park were still young and
green, the air cool, and all the fine clothes fresh, the end of the
season seemed far away, and the result of it needed not to be
forestalled.
Neither success nor amusement ever made her forget Una, who played a
much more passive part in the great Masque of Pleasure in which they
were all engaged. It was for her, at any rate for the time being, an
outward show. Her real life was elsewhere. This was partly, of course,
because fatigue took off the edge of the pleasure, but quite as much
because nothing really interested her but her emotions. She did not
pass unnoticed even by Amethyst's side, being an uncommon and
interesting creature, with her extreme fragility and delicacy of
appearance, and absolute self-possession and indifference of manner.
She recollected, and probably knew more about, the prodigal brother than
Amethyst did, and she shrank nervously from his return. Amethyst had
learned to shrug her shoulders, and "make the best of a bad business."
She encouraged Una, and would not let her dwell on what Tory called "the
family crisis," but she was a little surprised that the two younger ones
also were evidently uncomfortable, and made a point of going down-stairs
under her protection.
Probably they were none of them nearly so uncomfortable as the man who
had lived for years under a cloud, whose reputation was tarnished, not
only in the eyes of innocent girls, but in those of the men of the world
with whom he ought to have associated, whose ways of life had unfitted
him for a family circle, and who knew that he was watched, criticised,
and tolerated.
Charles Haredale had never dined in his father's house since his own
sister Blanche had left home. He hated his step-mother, and, in blaming
her for her share in the family misfortunes, eased himself a little of
his self-blame. He received the kindest welcome from his aunt, who had
once been fond of him, and still regarded him as the "hope" of the
family, still believed that all should be pardoned to the heir.
He was meant to be an easy-going, good-natured man like his father; but
his conduct had passed the bounds which he could justify to himself, his
present situation contained elements difficult to swallow, and a sense
of shame-faced discomfort made him look sulky.
"Here is Amethyst, Charles," said Lady Haredale, in her sweetest tones,
"you have hardly seen her since she was a baby."
"Oh yes, I have," said Charles, "of course I've seen her. Every one's
seen her. Very glad to know her, I'm sure. Great privilege."
Amethyst shook hands, rather glad that this strange brother did not
offer to kiss her, and he nodded shyly at the younger ones.
"Una? No--should never have known her. Oh yes--that's Tory. No
mistake about her."
"You used to give me rides on your back," said Tory, in a tone that made
her sisters inclined to shake her; but just then Carrie came in, trim
and fashionable in blue silk, and was introduced in due form, as Sir
Richard Grattan and his sister were announced.
Sir Richard was a fair, fresh-coloured man of thirty, well-dressed and
well-looking. There was nothing against him in manner, character, or
appearance, and his wealth was so great, that he was worthy spoil--"big
game" for the beauty of the season; while it was an open secret that the
beauty of the season was the prize he meant to win. He had met Amethyst
at a country house in the winter, and, with the inherited energy and
determination that had made his great fortune, took measures to win
what, he was enough in love to know, was not to be had without trouble
and pains. He had won the good will of all her family, and he did not
think the lady discouraging; but he recognised that he must let her have
her great success, and submit to the approach of at any rate apparent
rivals.
The right of intimacy in the house was allowed both to him and to his
sisters, and he took full advantage of it. He now greeted Charles, to
the surprise of the girls, as an old acquaintance, with slightly
patronising friendliness, and Tory, watching with her keen eyes, caught
a look, under the polite response, of savage annoyance.
"We are all here but your uncle, my dear Carrie," said Lady Haredale,
glancing round.
"Perhaps he won't come. Sometimes he doesn't," said Carrie, in her
clear abrupt voice.
But "Mr Oliver Carisbrooke," chimed in with the end of her sentence,
and a small slight man, with a bronzed face and a little grey pointed
beard, came in. There was a little greeting and introducing, and then,
men being scarce, there was a difficulty as to pairing off for dinner.
Lady Haredale laughed, apologised, and went in with her two little
girls. Mr Carisbrooke was given to Miss Haredale, but Amethyst found
herself on his other side, and when she turned away from Sir Richard
Grattan to give him courteously a small share of her attention, making
some trivial remark about the London season, he looked at her keenly for
a moment, and said--
"You find it very delightful?"
Amethyst was suddenly seized with the most curious self-questioning, and
felt as if she wanted to settle with herself, first of all the fact of
her delight, and then the why and the wherefore of it, before she
answered--as of course she did--
"Oh yes, I do indeed."