'LOVE'S A MIGHTY LORD.'
Sir Nugent Bellingham was one of those men who are born and reared
amidst pecuniary difficulties, and whose existence is spent upon the
verge of ruin. Yet it seems a tolerably comfortable kind of life
notwithstanding, and men of Sir Nugent's type hardly realize the
meaning of the word deprivation. Sir Nugent had never known what it
was to be out of debt. The Bellingham estate was mortgaged up to the
hilt when he inherited it. Indeed, to be thus encumbered was the normal
condition of all Bellingham property.
Of course Sir Nugent had from time to time possessed money. He hardly
could have drifted on so long without some amount of specie, even in
such an easy-going world as that patrician sphere in which he revolved.
He had inherited a modest fortune from his mother, with which he had
paid his creditors something handsome on account all round, and made
them his bondslaves for all time to come, since they cherished the
hope of something more in the future. Sir Nugent had received legacies
from an aunt and uncle or two, and these afforded further sops for his
Cerberus, and enabled the baronet's dainty little household to sail
gaily down the stream of time for some years.
When the amelioration of manners brought bankruptcy within the reach of
any gentleman, Sir Nugent Bellingham availed himself of the new code,
and became insolvent in an easy, gentleman-like fashion. And what with
one little help and another, the _bijou_ house in May Fair, where Sir
Nugent lived with his two motherless girls, was always kept up in the
same good style. The same dinners—small and _soigné_—the same lively
receptions after the little dinners. The best music, the newest books,
the choicest hothouse flowers, were always to be found at No. 12,
Cavendish Bow, May Fair. There were only a dozen houses in Cavendish
Bow, and Sir Nugent Bellingham's was at the corner, squeezed into an
angle made by the lofty wall of Lord Loamshire's garden—one of those
dismal, awe-inspiring London gardens, grey and dull and blossomless,
which look like a burial-ground without any graves. Seen from the
street, No. 12 looked a mere doll's house, but the larger rooms were
behind, abutting upon Lord Loamshire's garden. It was an irregular
old house, full of corners, but, furnished after the peculiar tastes
of Miss Bellingham, was one of the most charming houses in London.
No upholsterer had been allowed to work his will—Madge Bellingham
had chosen every item. The chairs and tables, and sofas and cabinets,
were the cheapest that could be had, for they were all of unstained
light woods, made after designs from Miss Bellingham's own pencil. The
cabinets were mere frames for glass doors, behind which appeared the
Bellingham collection of bric-a-brac, upon numerous shelves covered
with dark-green silk. Madge's own clever hands had covered the deal
shelves; and the bronzes, the Venetian glass, the Sèvres, Copenhagen,
Berlin, Vienna, and Dresden porcelains looked all the better for so
simple a setting.
There were no draperies but chintz, the cheapest that could be bought,
but always fresh. The looking-glasses had no frame save a natural
garland of ivy. The floors were beeswaxed only, a Persian carpet here
and there offering accommodation for the luxurious. The one costly
object in the two drawing-rooms, after that bric-a-brac upon which
the Bellingham race had squandered a small fortune, was the piano, a
Broadwood grand, in a case made by a modern workman out of veritable
Louis Seize marqueterie. The old ormolu mountings, goat's head,
festoons, and masques, had been religiously preserved, and the piano
was a triumph of art. It occupied the centre of the back drawing-room,
the largest room in the house, and when Madge Bellingham sat before it,
girl and piano made a cabinet picture of the highest school.
'People know we are out at elbows,' Madge said to her father when they
began housekeeping in Cavendish Row. 'If we have expensive furniture
every one will be sure we haven't paid for it; but if you let me carry
out my ideas, the bills will be so light that you can pay them at once.'
'I can give the fellows something on account, at any rate,' replied Sir
Nugent.
Lady Bellingham's death, which occurred soon after the birth of Viola,
the second daughter, had left Sir Nugent free to lead the life of
a bachelor, for the most part in other people's houses, while his
girls were in his sister's nursery or at school. When they grew to
womanhood—and a very lovely womanhood, for good looks were hereditary
in the Bellingham family—Sir Nugent found it incumbent upon him to
provide them with a home; so he took the house in Cavendish Bow, and
brought home the Bellingham bric-a-bric, which had been left him by
the aforesaid aunts and uncles, and lodged at the Pantechnicon pending
his settlement in life. He began housekeeping at five-and-forty years
of age, and gave his little dinners at home henceforward, instead of
at one or other of his clubs, and cherished high hopes of seeing his
daughters splendidly established by and by.
'I think you have seen enough of what it is to be tormented by a set of
harpies to teach you the value of money, Madge,' said Sir Nugent one
morning, pointing to a small heap of letters which he had just now
opened and dismissed with a glance. The harpies in question were his
creditors, who expressed an unwarrantable eagerness for something more
'on account.'
'With your knowledge of life you are not likely to marry a pauper,'
pursued Sir Nugent, dipping into a Strasburg pie.
'No, papa, not with my knowledge of life,' answered Madge, with ever so
slight and upward curl of the firm lip. Miss Bellingham fondly loved
her father, but it is possible that respect may have been somewhat
lessened by her experience of that financial scramble in which his life
was spent.
Two or three evenings before the night which made James Penwyn
acquainted with life behind the scenes of a small provincial theatre,
Sir Nugent Bellingham gave one of his snug little dinners—a dinner of
eight—the guests of choicest brands, like the wines. Lady Cheshunt,
one of the most exalted matrons in the great world, kept the Miss
Bellinghams in countenance. Madge was her pet _protegée_ whose praises
she was never tired of sounding among the chosen ones of the earth.
Mr. Albert Noyce, a distinguished wit and _littérateur_, supplied the
salt of the banquet. He was a small, mild-looking man, with a pretty,
unoffending wife, and dined out perpetually during the London season.
Mr. Shinebar, the famous barrister, made a fourth. Lord George Bulrose,
a West of England man, a _gourmet_, and, in so far as after-dinner
talk went, a mighty hunter, was the fifth; and Sir Nugent and his two
daughters completed the circle.
After dinner there was to be an evening party, and before the small
hours of the morning a great many famous people would have dropped in
at the corner house in Cavendish Row.
The ladies had retired, leaving Sir Nugent and his chosen friends to
talk about law, and horses, and the last new burlesque actress, as they
drew closer in to the dainty round table, where the glass sparkled and
the deep-hued blossoms brightened under the cluster of wax lights in
the central chandelier.
Viola and Lady Cheshunt went upstairs arm-in-arm, the girl nestling
affectionately against the substantial shoulder of the portly matron.
Mrs. Noyce tripped lightly after these two, and Madge followed, alone,
with a grave brow, and that lofty air which so well became Sir Nugent
Bellingham's elder daughter.
Barely were sisters less alike than these two. Viola was a blonde,
complexion alabaster, hair the colour of raw silk—plenteous flaxen
hair, which the girl wound into a crown of pale gold upon the top of
her small head; eyes of turquoise blue; figure a thought too slim, but
the perfection of grace in every movement and attitude; foot and hand
absolutely faultless: altogether a girl to be put under a glass case.
'I should admire the younger Miss Bellingham more if she were a little
less like Sèvres china,' one of the magnates of society had observed.
Madge was a brunette—hair almost black, and with a natural
ripple—complexion a rich olive, eyes darkest hazel—features the true
Bellingham type, clearly cut as a profile on an old Roman medal—figure
tall and commanding, a woman born to rule, one would say, judging by
externals—a woman with the stuff in her to make a general, Sir Nugent
was wont to boast. But although she was of a loftier mould than the
generality of women, there was no hardness about Madge Bellingham. In
love or in anger she was alike strong. For hate she was too noble.
The rooms were deliciously cool, the light somewhat subdued, the
windows open to the warm spring night. There were flowers enough in the
small front drawing-room to make it an indoor garden.
The dowager seated herself upon the most comfortable sofa in this room,
a capacious, square-backed sofa, in a dusky corner, fenced off and
sheltered by a well-filled _jardinière_.
'Come here, Madge,' she cried, with good-natured imperiousness, 'I want
to talk to you.—Viola, child, go and amuse yourself with Mrs. Noyce.
Show her your photograph album, or _parlez chiffons_. I want Madge all
to myself.'
Madge obeyed without a word, and squeezed herself into the corner of
the sofa, which Lady Cheshunt and Lady Cheshunt's dress almost filled.
'How big you are growing, child! there's hardly room enough for you!'
remarked the matron. 'And now tell me the truth, Madge; what is the
matter with you to-night?'
'I don't think there is anything the matter more than usual, Lady
Cheshunt.'
'I know better than that. You were dull and _distrait_ all dinner-time.
True, there was no one to talk to but two married men, and that
old twaddler, Bulrose; but a young lady should be always equally
agreeable—that is one of the fundamental principles of good breeding.'
'If I seemed a little out of spirits you can hardly wonder. Papa's
sadly involved state is enough to make me uneasy.'
'My dear, your papa has been involved ever since my first season—when
my waist was only eighteen inches, and Madame Devy made my gowns. He is
no worse off now than he was then, and he will go on being hopelessly
involved till the end of the chapter. I don't see why you should be
unhappy about it. He will be able to give you and Viola a tolerable
home till you marry and make better homes for yourselves, which it is
actually incumbent upon you to do.'
This was said with a touch of severity. Madge sighed, and the slender
foot in the satin shoe tapped the ground with a nervous, impatient
movement.
'Madge, I hope there is no truth in what I hear about you and Mr.
Penwyn.'
A deep tell-tale glow burned in Miss Bellingham's cheek. She fanned
herself vehemently.
'I cannot imagine what you have heard, Lady Cheshunt.'
'I have heard your name coupled with Mr. Penwyn's—the poor Mr. Penwyn.'
'I only know one Mr. Penwyn.'
'So much the worse for you, my dear. You know the wrong one. There is
a cousin of that young man's who has a fine estate in Cornwall—the
Penwyn estate. You must have heard of that.'
'Yes, I have heard Mr. Penwyn speak of his cousin's property.'
'Of course. Poor penniless young man; very natural that he should talk
of it. Don't suppose that I have no feeling for him. He is next heir
to the property, but no doubt the other young man, James Penwyn's son,
will marry and have a herd of children. I knew James Penwyn, this young
man's father, years ago. There were three brothers—George, the eldest,
who was in the army, and was killed in a skirmish with some wild
Indians in Canada—very sad story; James, who was in the church, and
had a living somewhere near London; and Balfour, in the law, I believe,
whose son you know.'
'Yes,' sighed Madge.
She had heard the family history from Churchill Penwyn, but the dowager
liked to hear herself talk, and did not like to be interrupted.
'Now, if by any chance the present James Penwyn, who is little more
than a lad, were to die unmarried, Churchill Penwyn could come into the
property under his grandfather's will, which left the estate to the
eldest surviving son and his children after him. George died unmarried.
James left an only son. Churchill is therefore heir presumptive. But
it's a very remote contingency, my love, and it would be madness for
you to give it a thought—with your chances.'
Madge shrugged her shoulders despondently.
'I don't think my chances are particularly brilliant, Lady Cheshunt.'
'Nonsense, Madge! Everybody talks of the beautiful Bellinghams. And you
refused a splendid offer only the other day—that Mr. Cardingham, the
great manufacturer.'
'Who had only seen me four times when he had the impudence to ask me to
marry him! He was old and ugly, too.'
'When the end is a good establishment one must not look at the means
too closely. Poor dear Cheshunt was many years my senior, and no
beauty, even in his wig. You must take a more serious view of things,
my dear Madge. It will not do for you and your sister to hang fire. The
handsomer girls are, the more vital it is for them to go off quickly. A
plain little unobtrusive thing may creep through half a dozen seasons
and surprise everybody by making a good match at last. But a beauty
who doesn't marry soon is apt to get talked about. Malicious people
put it down to too much flirtation. And then, my love, consider your
milliner's bills; what will they be at the end of a few seasons?'
'Not very much, Lady Cheshunt. I cut out all my own dresses and Viola's
too, and our maid runs them together. Viola and I help sometimes, when
we can steal an hour from society. I couldn't bear to wear anything
that wasn't paid for.'
'Upon my word you are an exemplary girl, Madge,' exclaimed Lady
Cheshunt, astounded by such Roman virtue. 'What a wife you will make!'
'Yes, I think I might make a tolerable wife, for a poor man.'
'Don't speak of such a thing. You were born for wealth and power. You
are bound to make a great marriage—if not for your own sake, for
Viola's. See what a poor helpless child she is—sadly wanting in moral
stamina. If you had a good establishment she would have a haven of
refuge. But if you were to marry badly what will become of her? She
would never be able to manage your papa.'
Madge sighed again, and this time deeply. Love for her sister was Madge
Bellingham's weakest point. She positively adored the fair fragile
girl who had been given into her childish arms eighteen years ago, on
that bitter day which made her an orphan. There was only four years'
difference between the ages of the sisters, yet Madge's affection was
always maternal in its protecting thoughtfulness. To marry well would
be to secure a home for Viola. Sir Nugent was but a feeble staff to
lean upon.
'I have no objection to marrying well whenever a fair opportunity
arises, Lady Cheshunt,' she said, firmly; 'but I will never marry a man
whom I cannot respect and like.'
'Of course not, my poor pet,' murmured the widow, soothingly; 'but,
fortunately, there are so many men in the world one can like and
respect. It is that foolish sentimental feeling called love which will
only fit one person. In the meantime, Madge, take my advice, and don't
let people talk about you and Mr. Penwyn.'
'I don't know why they should talk about us.'
'Yes, you do, Madge—in your heart of hearts. You know that you have
sat together in corners, and that you have a knack of blushing when
he comes into the room. It won't do, Madge, it won't do. That young
fellow has nothing except what he can earn himself. I know his mother
had a struggle to bring him up, and if he hadn't been an only son could
hardly have brought him up at all. He was a Blue-coat boy, I believe,
or something equally dreadful. It is not to be thought of, Madge.'
'I do not think of it, Lady Cheshunt,' replied Miss Bellingham,
resolutely, 'and I wish you would not worry yourself and me about
imaginary dangers.'
'Your visitors are beginning to come; go and receive them, and leave me
in my corner. Mr. Penwyn is to be here, I've no doubt.'
'I don't know. He knows that Saturday is our night.'
'Mr. Churchill Penwyn!' announced a footman at the door of the larger
room.
'I thought so,' said Lady Cheshunt, 'and the first to arrive, too. That
looks suspicious.'