LADY CAROLINE'S TACTICS.
Helmsley Court was generally considered one of the prettiest houses
about Beaminster; a place which was rich in pretty houses, being a
Cathedral town situated in one of the most beautiful southern counties
of England. The village of Helmsley was a picturesque little group of
black and white cottages, with gardens full of old-fashioned flowers
before them and meadows and woods behind. Helmsley Court was on slightly
higher ground than the village, and its windows commanded an extensive
view of lovely country bounded in the distance by a long low range of
blue hills, beyond which, in clear days, it was said, keen eyes could
catch a glimpse of the shining sea. The house itself was a very fine old
building, with a long terrace stretching before its lower windows, and
flower gardens which were the admiration of half the county. It had a
picture gallery and a magnificent hall with polished floor and stained
windows, and all the accessories of an antique and celebrated mansion;
and it had also all the comfort and luxury that modern civilization
could procure.
It was this latter characteristic that made "the Court," as it was
commonly called, so popular. Picturesque old houses are sometimes
draughty and inconvenient, but no such defects were ever allowed to
exist at the Court. Every thing went smoothly: the servants were
perfectly trained: the latest improvements possible were always
introduced: the house was ideally luxurious. There never seemed to be
any jar or discord: no domestic worry was ever allowed to reach the ears
of the mistress of the household, no cares or troubles seemed able to
exist in that serene atmosphere. You could not even say of it that it
was dull. For the master of the Court was a hospitable man, with many
tastes and whims which he liked to indulge by having down from London
the numerous friends whose fancies matched his own, and his wife was a
little bit of a fine lady who had London friends too, as well as
neighbors, whom she liked to entertain. The house was seldom free from
visitors; and it was partly for that very reason that Lady Caroline
Adair, being in her own way a wise woman, had arranged that two or three
years of her daughter's life should be spent at Miss Polehampton's very
select boarding-school at Brighton. It would be a great drawback to
Margaret, she reflected, if her beauty were familiar to all the world
before she came out; and really, when Mr. Adair would insist on inviting
his friends constantly to the house, it was impossible to keep the girl
so mewed up in the schoolroom that she would not be seen and talked of;
and therefore it was better that she should go away for a time. Mr.
Adair did not like the arrangement; he was very fond of Margaret, and
objected to her leaving home; but Lady Caroline was gently inexorable
and got her own way--as she generally did.
She does not look much like the mother of the tall girl whom we saw at
Brighton, as she sits at the head of her breakfast-table in the
daintiest of morning gowns--a marvelous combination of silk, muslin and
lace and pale pink ribbons--with a tiny white dog reposing in her lap.
She is a much smaller woman than Margaret, and darker in complexion: it
is from her, however, that Margaret inherits the large, appealing hazel
eyes, which look at you with an infinite sweetness, while their owner is
perhaps thinking of the _menu_ or her milliner's bill. Lady Caroline's
face is thin and pointed, but her complexion is still clear, and her
soft brown hair is very prettily arranged. As she sits with her back to
the light, with a rose-colored curtain behind her, just tinting her
delicate cheek (for Lady Caroline is always careful of appearance), she
looks quite a young woman still.
It is Mr. Adair whom Margaret most resembles. He is a tall and
exceedingly handsome man, whose hair and moustache and pointed beard
were as golden once as Margaret's soft tresses, but are now toned down
by a little grey. He has the alert blue eyes that generally go with his
fair complexion, and his long limbs are never still for many minutes
together. His daughter's tranquillity seems to have come from her
mother; certainly it cannot be inherited from the restless Reginald
Adair.
The third person present at the breakfast-table--and, for the time
being, the only visitor in the house--is a young man of seven or
eight-and-twenty, tall, dark, and very spare, with a coal-black beard
trimmed to a point, earnest dark eyes, and a remarkably pleasant and
intelligent expression. He is not exactly handsome, but he has a face
that attracts one; it is the face of a man who has quick perceptions,
great kindliness of heart, and a refined and cultured mind. Nobody is
more popular in that county than young Sir Philip Ashley, although his
neighbors grumble sometimes at his absorption in scientific and
philanthropic objects, and think that it would be more creditable to
them if he went out with the hounds a little oftener or were a rather
better shot. For, being shortsighted, he was never particularly fond
either of sport or of games of skill, and his interest had always
centred on intellectual pursuits to a degree that amazed the more
countrified squires of the neighborhood.
The post-bag was brought in while breakfast was proceeding, and two or
three letters were laid before Lady Caroline, who, with a careless word
of apology, opened and read them in turn. She smiled as she put them
down and looked at her husband.
"This is a novel experience," she said. "For the first time in our
lives, Reginald, here is a formal complaint of our Margaret."
Sir Philip looked up somewhat eagerly, and Mr. Adair elevated his
eyebrows, stirred his coffee, and laughed aloud.
"Wonders will never cease," he said. "It is rather refreshing to hear
that our immaculate Margaret has done something naughty. What is it,
Caroline? Is she habitually late for breakfast? A touch of unpunctuality
is the only fault I ever heard of, and that, I believe, she inherits
from me."
"I should be sorry to think that she was immaculate," said Lady
Caroline, calmly, "it has such an uncomfortable sound. But Margaret is
generally, I must say, a very tractable child."
"Do you mean that her schoolmistress does not find her tractable?" said
Mr. Adair, with amusement. "What has she been doing?"
"Nothing very bad. Making friends with a governess-pupil, or something
of, that sort----"
"Just what a generous-hearted girl would be likely to do!" exclaimed Sir
Philip, with a sudden warm lighting of his dark eyes.
Lady Caroline smiled at him. "The schoolmistress thinks this girl an
unsuitable friend for Margaret, and wants me to interfere," she said.
"Pray do nothing of the sort," said Mr. Adair. "I would trust my Pearl's
instinct anywhere. She would never make an unsuitable friend!"
"Margaret has written to me herself," said Lady Caroline. "She seems
unusually excited about the matter. 'Dear mother,' she writes, 'pray
interpose to prevent Miss Polehampton from doing an unjust and
ungenerous thing. She disapproves of my friendship with dear Janetta
Colwyn, simply because Janetta is poor; and she threatens to punish
Janetta--not me--by sending her home in disgrace. Janetta is a
governess-pupil here, and it would be a great trouble to her if she were
sent away. I hope that you would rather take _me_ away than let such an
injustice be done.'"
"My Pearl hits the nail on the head exactly," said Mr. Adair, with
complacency. He rose as he spoke, and began to walk about the room. "She
is quite old enough to come home, Caroline. It is June now, and the term
ends in July. Fetch her home, and invite the little governess too, and
you will soon see whether or no she is the right sort of friend for
Margaret." He laughed in his mellow, genial way, and leaned against the
mantel-piece, stroking his yellow moustache and glancing at his wife.
"I am not sure that that would be advisable," said Lady Caroline, with
her pretty smile. "Janetta Colwyn: Colwyn? Did not Margaret know her
before she went to school? Are there not some Colwyns at Beaminster? The
doctor--yes, I remember him; don't you, Reginald?"
Mr. Adair shook his head, but Sir Philip looked up hastily.
"I know him--a struggling man with a large family. His first wife was
rather well-connected, I believe: at any rate she was related to the
Brands of Brand Hall. He married a second time after her death."
"Do you call that being well-connected, Philip?" said Lady Caroline,
with gentle reproach; while Mr. Adair laughed and whistled, but caught
himself up immediately and apologized.
"I beg pardon--I forgot where I was: the less any of us have to do with
the Brands of Brand Hall the better, Phil."
"I know nothing of them," said Sir Philip, rather gravely.
"Nor anybody else"--hastily--"they never live at home, you know. So this
girl is a connection of theirs?"
"Perhaps not a very suitable friend: Miss Polehampton may be right,"
said Lady Caroline. "I suppose I must go over to Brighton and see
Margaret."
"Bring her back with you," said Mr. Adair, recklessly. "She has had
quite enough of school by this time: she is nearly eighteen, isn't she?"
But Lady Caroline smilingly refused to decide anything until she had
herself interviewed Miss Polehampton. She asked her husband to order the
carriage for her at once, and retired to summon her maid and array
herself for the journey.
"You won't go to-day, will you, Philip?" said Mr. Adair, almost
appealingly. "I shall be all alone, and my wife will not perhaps return
until to-morrow--there's no saying."
"Thank you, I shall be most pleased to stay," answered Sir Philip,
cordially. After a moment's pause, he added, with something very like a
touch of shyness--"I have not seen--your daughter since she was twelve
years old."
"Haven't you?" said Mr. Adair, with ready interest. "You don't say so!
Pretty little girl she was then! Didn't you think so?"
"I thought her the loveliest child I had ever seen in all my life," said
Sir Philip, with curious devoutness of manner.
He saw Lady Caroline just as she was starting for the train, with man
and maid in attendance, and Mr. Adair handing her into the carriage and
gallantly offering to accompany her if she liked. "Not at all
necessary," said Lady Caroline, with an indulgent smile. "I shall be
home to dinner. Take care of my husband, Philip, and don't let him be
dull."
"If they are making Margaret unhappy, be sure you bring her back with
you," were Mr. Adair's last words. Lady Caroline gave him a kind but
inscrutable little smile and nod as she was whirled away. Sir Philip
thought to himself that she looked like a woman who would take her own
course in spite of advice or recommendation from her husband or anybody
else.
He smiled once or twice as the day passed on at her parting injunction
to him not to let her husband be dull. He had known the Adairs for many
years, and had never known Reginald Adair dull under any circumstances.
He was too full of interests, of "fads," some people called them, ever
to be dull. He took Sir Philip round the picture-gallery, round the
stables, to the kennels, to the flower-garden, to his own studio (where
he painted in oils when he had nothing else to do) with never-flagging
energy and animation. Sir Philip's interests lay in different grooves,
but he was quite capable of sympathizing with Mr. Adair's interests,
too. The day passed pleasantly, and seemed rather short for all that the
two men wanted to pack into it; although from time to time Mr. Adair
would say, half-impatiently, "I wonder how Caroline is getting on!" or
"I hope she'll bring Margaret back with her! But I don't expect it, you
know. Carry was always a great one for education and that sort of
thing."
"Is Miss Adair intellectual--too?" asked Sir Philip, with respect.
Mr. Adair broke into a sudden laugh. "Intellectual? Our Daisy?--our
Pearl?" he said. "Wait until you see her, then ask the question if you
like."
"I am afraid I don't quite understand."
"Of course you don't. It is the partiality of a fond father that speaks,
my dear fellow. I only meant that these young, fresh, pretty girls put
such questions out of one's head."
"She must be very pretty then," said Sir Philip, with a smile.
He had seen a great many beautiful women, and told himself that he did
not care for beauty. Fashionable, talkative women were his abomination.
He had no sisters, but he loved his mother very dearly; and upon her he
had founded a very high ideal of womanhood. He had begun to think
vaguely, of late, that he ought to marry: duty demanded it of him, and
Sir Philip was always attentive, if not obedient, to the voice of duty.
But he was not inclined to marry a girl out of the schoolroom, or a girl
who was accustomed to the enervating luxury (as he considered it) of
Helmsley Court: he wanted an energetic, sensible, large-hearted, and
large-minded woman who would be his right hand, his first minister of
state. Sir Philip was fairly wealthy, but by no means enormously so; and
he had other uses for his wealth than the buying of pictures and keeping
up stables and kennels at an alarming expense. If Miss Adair were so
pretty, he mused, it was just as well that she was not at home, for, of
course, it was possible that he might find a lovely face an attraction:
and much as he liked Lady Caroline, he did not want particularly to
marry Lady Caroline's daughter. That she treated him with great
consideration, and that he had once overheard her speak of him as "the
most eligible _parti_ of the neighborhood," had already put him a little
on his guard. Lady Caroline was no vulgar, match-making mother, he knew
that well enough; but she was in some respects a thoroughly worldly
woman, and Philip Ashley was an essentially unworldly man.
As he went upstairs to dress for dinner that evening, he was struck by
the fact that a door stood open that he had never seen opened before: a
door into a pretty, well-lighted, pink and white room, the ideal
apartment for a young girl. The evening was chilly, and rain had begun
to fall, so a bright little fire was burning in the steel grate, and
casting a cheerful glow over white sheepskin rugs and rose-colored
curtains. A maid seemed to be busying herself with some white
material--all gauze and lace it looked--and another servant was, as Sir
Philip passed, entering with a great white vase filled with red roses.
"Do they expect visitors to-night?" thought the young man, who knew
enough of the house to be aware that the room was not one in general
use. "Adair said nothing about it, but perhaps some people are coming
from town."
A budget of letters was brought to him at that moment, and in reading
and answering them he did not note the sound of carriage-wheels on the
drive, nor the bustle of an arrival in the house. Indeed, he left
himself so little time that he had to dress in extraordinary haste, and
went downstairs at last in the conviction that he was unpardonably late.
But apparently he was wrong.
For the drawing-room was tenanted by one figure only--that of a young
lady in evening dress. Neither Lady Caroline nor Mr. Adair had appeared
upon the scene; but on the hearthrug, by the small crackling
fire--which, in deference to the chilliness of an English June evening,
had been lighted--stood a tall, fair, slender girl, with pale
complexion, and soft, loosely-coiled masses of golden hair. She was
dressed in pure white, a soft loose gown of Indian silk, trimmed with
the most delicate lace: it was high to the milk-white throat, but showed
the rounded curves of the finely-moulded arm to the elbow. She wore no
ornaments, but a white rose was fastened into the lace frill of her
dress at her neck. As she turned her face towards the new comer, Sir
Philip suddenly felt himself abashed. It was not that she was so
beautiful--in those first few moments he scarcely thought her beautiful
at all--but that she produced on him an impression of serious, virginal
grace and innocence which was almost disconcerting. Her pure complexion,
her grave, serene eyes, her graceful way of moving as she advanced a
little to receive him stirred him to more than admiration--to something
not unlike awe. She looked young; but it was youth in perfection: there
was some marvelous finish, delicacy, polish, which one does not usually
associate with extreme youth.
"You are Sir Philip Ashley, I think?" she said, offering him her slim
cool hand without embarrassment.
"You do not remember me, perhaps, but I remember you perfectly well, I
am Margaret Adair."