A SLUMBERING HOUSEHOLD.
As calm succeeds a storm, so at Llangorren Court on the morning after
the ball there was quietude--up to a certain hour more than common. The
domestics justifying themselves by the extra services of the preceding
night, lie late. Outside is stirring only the gardener with an
assistant, at his usual work, and in the yard a stable help or two
looking after the needs of the horses. The more important functionaries
of this department--coachman and headgroom--still slumber, dreaming of
champagne bottles brought back to the servants' hall three parts full,
with but half-demolished pheasants, and other fragmentary delicacies.
Inside the house, things are on a parallel; there only a scullery and
kitchen maid astir. The higher class servitors availing themselves of
the license allowed, are still abed, and it is ten as butler, cook, and
footman make their appearance, entering on their respective _roles_
yawningly, and with reluctance.
There are two lady's-maids in the establishment--the little French
demoiselle attached to Miss Linton, and an English damsel of more robust
build, whose special duties are to wait upon Miss Wynn. The former lies
late on all days, her mistress not requiring early manipulation; but the
maid, "native and to the manner born," is wont to be up betimes. This
morning is an exception. After such a night of revelry, slumber holds
her enthralled, as in a trance; and she is abed late as any of the
others, sleeping like a dormouse.
As her dormitory window looks out upon the back yard, the stable clock,
a loud striker, at length awakes her--not in time to count the strokes,
but a glance at the dial gives her the hour.
While dressing herself, she is in a flutter, fearing rebuke--not for
having slept so late, but because of having gone to sleep so early. The
dereliction of duty, about which she is so apprehensive, has reference
to a spell of slumber antecedent--taken upon a sofa in her young
mistress's dressing-room. There awaiting Miss Wynn to assist in
disrobing her after the ball, the maid dropped over and forgot
everything--only remembering who she was, and what her duties, when too
late to attend to them. Starting up from the sofa, and glancing at the
mantel timepiece, she saw, with astonishment, its hands pointing to
half-past 4 a.m.!
Reflection following:--
"Miss Gwen must be in bed by this! Wonder why she didn't wake me up?
Rang no bell? Surely I'd have heard it? If she did, and I haven't
answered--well, the dear young lady's just the sort not to make any ado
about it. I suppose she thought I'd gone to my room, and didn't wish to
disturb me? But how could she think that? Besides, she must have passed
through here, and seen me on the sofa!" The dressing-room is an
ante-chamber of Miss Wynn's sleeping apartment. "She mightn't
though,"--the contradiction suggested by the lamp burning low and dim.
"Still, it _is_ strange, her not calling me, nor requiring my
attendance?"
Gathering herself up, the girl stands for a while in cogitation. The
result is a move across the carpeted floor in soft, stealthy step, and
an ear laid close to the keyhole of the bed-chamber door.
"Sound asleep! I can't go in now. Mustn't--I daren't awake her."
Saying which, the negligent attendant slips to her own sleeping room, a
flight higher; and in ten minutes after, is herself once more in the
arms of Morpheus; this time retained in them till released, as already
said, by the tolling of the stable clock.
Conscious of unpardonable remissness, she dresses in careless haste--any
way, to be in time for attendance on her mistress, at morning toilet.
Her first move is to hurry down to the kitchen, get the can of hot
water, and take it up to Miss Wynn's sleeping room. Not to enter, but
tap at the door and leave it.
She does the tapping; and, receiving no response nor summons from
inside, concludes that the young lady is still asleep and not to be
disturbed. It is a standing order of the house, and, pleased to be
precise in its observance--never more than on this morning--she sets
down the painted can, and hurries back to the kitchen, soon after taking
her seat by a breakfast table, unusually well spread, for the time to
forget about her involuntary neglect of duty.
The first of the family proper appearing downstairs is Eleanor Lees;
she, too, much behind her accustomed time. Notwithstanding, she has to
find occupation for nearly an hour before any of the others join her;
and she endeavours to do this by perusing a newspaper which has come by
the morning post.
With indifferent success. It is a Metropolitan daily, having but little
in it to interest her, or indeed any one else; almost barren of news, as
if its columns were blank. Three or four long-winded "leaders," the
impertinent outpourings of irresponsible anonymity; reports of
Parliamentary speeches, four-fifths of them not worth reporting; chatter
of sham statesmen, with their drivellings at public dinners; "Police
intelligence," in which there is half a column devoted to Daniel
Driscoll, of the Seven Dials, how he blackened the eye of Bridget
Sullivan, and bit off Pat Kavanagh's ear, a _crim. con._ or two in all
their prurience of detail; Court intelligence, with its odious plush and
petty paltriness--this is the pabulum of a "London Daily" even the
leading one supplies to its easily satisfied _clientele_ of readers!
Scarce a word of the world's news, scarce a word to tell of its real
life and action--how beats the pulse, or thrills the heart of humanity!
If there be anything in England half a century behind the age, it is its
Metropolitan Press--immeasurably inferior to the Provincial.
No wonder the "companion"--educated lady--with only such a sheet for her
companion, cannot kill time for even so much as an hour. Ten minutes
were enough to dispose of all its contents worth glancing at.
And after glancing at them, Miss Lees drops the bald broadsheet--letting
it fall to the floor to be scratched by the claws of a playful
kitten--about all it is worth.
Having thus settled scores with the newspaper, she hardly knows what
next to do. She has already inspected the superscription of the letters,
to see if there be any for herself. A poor, fortuneless girl, of course
her correspondence is limited, and there is none. Two or three for Miss
Linton, with quite half a dozen for Gwen. Of these last is one in a
handwriting she recognises--knows it to be from Captain Ryecroft, even
without the hotel stamp to aid identification.
"There was a coolness between them last night," remarks Miss Lees to
herself, "if not an actual quarrel; to which, very likely, this letter
has reference. If I were given to making wagers, I'd bet that it tells
of his repentance. So soon, though! It must have been written after he
got back to his hotel, and posted to catch the early delivery." "What!"
she exclaims, taking up another letter, and scanning the superscription.
"One from George Shenstone, too! It, I dare say, is in a different
strain, if that I saw----Ha!" she ejaculates, instinctively turning to
the window, and letting go Mr. Shenstone's epistle, "William! Is it
possible--so early?"
Not only possible, but an accomplished fact. The reverend gentleman is
inside the gates of the park, sauntering on towards the house.
She does not wait for him to ring the bell, or knock; but meets him at
the door, herself opening it. Nothing _outre_ in the act, on a day
succeeding a night, with everything upside down, and the domestic, whose
special duty it is to attend to door-opening, out of the way.
Into the morning-room Mr. Musgrave is conducted, where the table is set
for breakfast. He oft comes for luncheon, and Miss Lees knows he will be
made equally welcome to the earlier meal; all the more to-day, with its
heavier budget of news, and grander details of gossip, which Miss Linton
will be expecting and delighted to revel in. Of course the curate has
been at the ball; but, like "Slippery Sam," erst Bishop of Oxford, not
much in the dancing room. For all, he, too, has noticed certain
peculiarities in the behaviour of Miss Wynn to Captain Ryecroft, with
others having reference to the son of Sir George Shenstone--in short, a
triangular play he but ill understood. Still, he could tell by the
straws, as they blew about, that they were blowing adversely; though
what the upshot, he is yet ignorant, having, as became his cloth,
forsaken the scene of revelry at a respectably early hour.
Nor does he now care to inquire into it, any more than Miss Lees to
respond to such interrogation. Their own affair is sufficient for the
time; and engaging in an amorous duel of the milder type--so different
from the stormy, passionate combat between Gwendoline Wynn and Vivian
Ryecroft--they forget all about these--even their existence--as little
remembering that of George Shenstone.
For a time there are but two individuals in the world of whom either has
a thought--one Eleanor Lees, the other William Musgrave.