HOW CHARLEY TOOK IT.
Meantime the long sunny hours, that passed so pleasantly for these
plighted lovers, lagged drearily enough for one young lady at Powyss
Place--Miss Beatrix Stuart.
She had sent for her mother and told her the news. Placid Aunt Chatty
lifted her meek eyebrows and opened her dim eyes as she listened.
"Sir Victor Catheron going to marry our Edith! Dear me! I am sure I
thought it was you, Trixy, all the time. And Edith will be a great
lady after all. Dear me!"
That was all Mrs. Stuart had to say about it. She went back to her
tatting with a serene quietude that exasperated her only daughter
beyond bounds.
"I wonder if an earthquake would upset ma's equanimity!" thought Trix
savagely. "Well, wait until Charley comes! We'll see how he takes it."
Misery loves company. If she was to suffer the pangs of disappointment
herself, it would be some comfort to see Charley suffer also. And Trix
was not a bad-hearted girl either, mind--it was simply human nature.
Charley and the captain had gone off exploring the wonders and
antiquities of Chester. Edith and Sir Victor were nobody knew where.
Lady Helena had a visitor, and was shut up with her. Trix had nothing
but her novel, and what were all the novels in Mudie's library to her
this bitter day?
The long, red spears of the sunset were piercing the green depths of
fern and brake, when the two young men rode home. A servant waylaid Mr.
Stuart and delivered his sister's message. She wanted to see him at
once on important business.
"Important business!" murmured Charley, opening his eyes.
But he went promptly without waiting to change his dress.
"How do, Trix?" he said, sauntering in. "Captain Hammond's compliments,
and how's the ankle?"
He threw himself--no, Charley never threw himself--he slowly extended
his five-feet-eleven of manhood on a sofa, and awaited his sister's
reply.
"Oh, the ankle's just the same--getting better, I suppose," Trix
answered, rather crossly. "I didn't send for you to talk about my
ankle. Much you, or Captain Hammond, or any one else cares whether
I have an ankle at all or not."
"My dear Trix, a young lady's ankle is always a matter of profound
interest and admiration to every well-regulated masculine mind."
"Bah! Charley, you'll never guess what I have to tell!"
"My child, I don't intend to try. I have been sight-seeing all the
afternoon, interviewing cathedrals, and walls, and rows, and places,
until I give you my word you might knock me down with a feather. If
you have anything preying on your mind--and I see you have--out with
it. Suspense is painful."
He closed his eyes, and calmly awaited the news. It came--like a bolt
from a bow.
"Charley, Sir Victor Catheron has proposed to Edith, and Edith has
accepted him!"
Charley opened his eyes, and fixed them upon her--not the faintest
trace of surprise or any other earthly emotion upon his fatigued face.
"Ah--and _that's_ your news! Poor child! After all your efforts, it's
rather hard upon you. But if you expect me to be surprised, you do
your only brother's penetration something less than justice. It has
been an evident case of spoons--apparent to the dullest intellect
from the first. I have long outlived the tender passion myself, but
in others I always regard it with a fatherly--nay--let me say, even
grandfatherly interest. And so they are going to 'live and love
together through many changing years,' as the poet says. Bless you,"
said Charley, lifting his hand over an imaginary pair of lovers at
his feet--"bless you, my children, and be happy!"
And this was all! And she had thought he was in love with Edith
himself! This was all--closing his eyes again as though sinking
sweetly to sleep. It was too much for Trix.
"O Charley!" she burst forth, "you _are_ such a fool!"
Mr. Stuart rose to his feet.
"Overpowered by the involuntary homage of this assembly, I rise to--"
"You're an idiot--there!" went on Trix; "a lazy, stupid idiot! You're
in love with Edith yourself, and you could have had her if you wished,
for she likes you better than Sir Victor, and then Sir Victor might
have proposed to me. But no--you must go dawdling about, prowling, and
prancing, and let her slip through your fingers!"
"Prowling and prancing! Good Heaven, Trix! I ask you soberly, as man
to man, did you ever see me prowl or prance in the whole course of my
life?"
"Bah-h-h!" said Trix, with a perfect shake of scorn in the
interjection. "I've no patience with you! Get out of my room--do!"
Mr. Stuart, senior, was the only one who did _not_ take it quietly.
His bile rose at once.
"Edith! Edith Darrell! Fred Darrell's penniless daughter! Beatrix
Stuart, have you let this young baronet slip through your fingers in
this ridiculous way after all?"
"I never let him slip--he never was in my fingers," retorted Trix,
nearly crying. "It's just my usual luck. I don't want him--he's a
stupid noodle--that's what he is. Edith's better-looking than I am.
Any one can see that with half an eye, and when I was sick on that
horrid ship, she had everything her own way. I did my best--yes I did,
pa--and I think it's a little too hard to be scolded in this way, with
my poor sprained ankle and everything!"
"Well, there, there, child!" exclaimed Mr. Stuart, testily, for he was
fond of Trix; "don't cry. There's as good fish in the sea as ever were
caught. As to being better-looking than you, I don't believe a word of
it. I never liked your dark complected women myself. You're the biggest
and the best-looking young woman of the two, by George!" (Mr. Stuart's
grammar was hardly up to the standard.) "There's this young fellow,
Hammond--his father's a lord--rich, too, if his grandfather _did_ make
it cotton-spinning. Now, why can't you set your cap for _him_? When
the old rooster dies, this young chap will be a lord himself, and
a lord's better than a baronet, by George! Come downstairs, Trixy,
and put on your stunningest gown, and see if you can't hook the
military swell."
Following these pious parental counsels, Miss Trix _did_ assume her
"stunningest" gown, and with the aid of her brother and a crutch,
managed to reach the dining-room. There Lady Helena, pale and
preoccupied, joined them. No allusion was made at dinner to _the_
topic--a visible restraint was upon all.
"Old lady don't half like it," chuckled Stuart _pere_. "And no wonder,
by George! If it was Charley I shouldn't like it myself. I must speak
to Charley after dinner--there's this Lady Gwendoline. He's got to
marry the upper-crust too. Lady Gwendoline Stuart wouldn't sound bad,
by George! I'm glad there's to be a baronet in the family, even if
it isn't Trixy. A cousin's daughter's better than nothing."
So in the first opportunity after dinner Mr. Stuart presented his
congratulations as blandly as possible to the future Lady Catheron. In
the next opportunity he attacked his son on the subject of Lady
Gwendoline.
"Take example by your Cousin Edith, my boy," said Mr. Stuart in a
large voice, standing with his hands under his coat-tails. "That
girl's a credit to her father and family, by George! Look at the
match _she's_ making without a rap to bless herself with. Now you've
a fortune in prospective, young man, that would buy and sell half a
dozen of these beggarly lordlings. You've youth and good looks, and
good manners, or if you haven't you ought to have, and I say you shall
marry a title, by George! There's this Lady Gwendoline--she ain't
rich, but she's an earl's daughter. Now what's to hinder your going
for _her_?"
Charley looked up meekly from the depths of his chair.
"As you like it, governor. In all matters matrimonial I simply
consider myself as non-existent. Only this, I _will_ premise--I am
ready to marry her, but not to court her. As you truthfully observe,
I have youth, good looks, and good manners, but in all things
appertaining to love and courtship, I'm as ignorant as the child
unborn. Matrimony is an ill no man can hope to escape--love-making
_is_. As a prince in my own right, I claim that the wooing shall
be done by deputy. There is her most gracious majesty, she popped
the question to the late lamented Prince Consort. Could Lady
Gwendoline have any more illustrious example to follow? You settle
the preliminaries. Let Lady Gwendoline do the proposing, and you may
lead me any day you please as a lamb to the slaughter."
With this reply, Mr. Stuart, senior, was forced for the present to be
content and go on his way. Trix, overhearing, looked up with interest:
"_Would_ you marry her, Charley?"
"Certainly, Beatrix; haven't I said so? If a man _must_ marry, as
well a Lady Gwendoline as any one else. As Dundreary says, 'One woman
is as good as another, and a good deal better.'"
"But you've never seen her."
"What difference does that make? I suppose the Prince of Wales never
saw Alexandra until the matter was cut and dry. You see I love to
quote lofty examples. Hammond has described her, and I should say from
his description she is what Barry Cornwall would call 'a golden girl'
in everything except fortune. Hammond speaks of her as though she were
made of precious metals and gems. She has golden hair, alabaster brow,
sapphire eyes, pearly teeth, and ruby nose. Or, stay--perhaps it was
ruby lips and chiselled nose. Chiselled, sounds as though her olfactory
organ was of marble or granite, doesn't it? And she's three-and-thirty
years of age. I found that out for myself from the Peerage. It's
rather an advantage, however, than otherwise, for a man's wife to be
ten or twelve years the elder. You see she combines all the qualities
of wife and mother in one."
And then Charley sauntered away to the whist-table to join his father
and mother and Lady Helena. He had as yet found no opportunity of
speaking to Edith, and at dinner she had studiously avoided meeting
his eye. Captain Hammond took his post beside Miss Stuart's invalid
couch, and made himself agreeable and entertaining to that young lady.
Trixy's eyes gradually brightened, and her color came back; she held
him a willing captive by her side all the evening through. Papa Stuart
from his place at the whist table beamed paternal approval down the
long room.
A silken-hung arch separated this drawing-room from another smaller,
where the piano stood. Except for two waxlights on the piano, this
second drawing-room was in twilight. Edith sat at the piano, Sir
Victor stood beside her. Her hands wandered over the keys in soft,
dreamy melodies; they talked in whispers when they talked at all. The
spell of a silence, more delicious than words, held the young baronet;
he was nearing the speechless phase of the _grande passion_. That
there _is_ a speechless phase, I have been credibly assured again
and again, by parties who have had experience in the matter, and
certainly ought to know.
At half-past ten Lady Helena, pleading headache, rose from the
whist-table, said good-night, and went away to her room. She looked
ill and worn, and strangely anxious. Her nephew, awaking from his
trance of bliss, and seeing her pale face, gave her his arm and
assisted her up the long stairway to her room. Mrs. Stuart, yawning
very much, followed her example. Mr. Stuart went out through the open
French window to smoke a last cigar. Captain Hammond and Trix were
fathoms deep in their conversation. Miss Darrell, in the inner room,
stood alone, her elbow resting on the low marble mantel, her eyes
fixed thoughtfully on the wall before her. The twinkle of the tapers
lighted up the diamond on her hand, glowing like a miniature sun.
"You have been so completely monopolized all evening, Dithy," said a
familiar voice beside her, "that there has been no such thing as
speaking a word to you. Better late than never, though, I hope."
She lifted her eyes to Charley's face, Charley looking as he ever
looked to her, "a man of men," handsome and gallant, as though he were
indeed the prince they called him. He took in his, the hand hanging so
loosely by her side, the hand that wore the ring.
"What a pretty hand you have, Edie, and how well diamonds become it. I
think you were born to wear diamonds, my handsome cousin, and walk in
silk attire. A magnificent ring, truly--an heirloom, no doubt, in the
Catheron family. My dear cousin, Trix has been telling me the news. Is
it necessary to say I congratulate you with all my heart?"
His face, his voice, his pleasant smile held no emotion whatever, save
that of kindly, cousinly regard. His bright gray eyes looked at her
with brotherly frankness, nothing more.
The color that came so seldom, and made her so lovely, rose deep to
Edith's cheeks--this time the flush of anger. Her dark eyes gleamed
scornfully; she drew her hand suddenly and contemptuously away.
"It is not necessary at all, Cousin Charley. Pray don't trouble
yourself--I know how you hate trouble--to turn fine phrases. I don't
want congratulations; I am too happy to need them."
"Yet being the correct thing to do, and knowing what a stickler you
are for _les convenances_, Edith, you will still permit me humbly
to offer them. It is a most suitable match; I congratulate Sir Victor
on his excellent taste and judgment. He is the best fellow alive, and
you--I _will_ say it, though you are my cousin--will be a bride even
a baronet may be proud of. I wish you both, all the happiness so
suitable a match deserves."
Was this sarcasm--was it real? She could not tell, well as she
understood him. His placid face, his serene eyes were as cloudless as
a summer sky. Yes, he meant it, and only the other day he had told her
he loved her. She could have laughed aloud--Charley Stuart's love!
On the instant Sir Victor returned. In his secret heart the baronet
was mortally jealous of Charley. The love that Edith could not give
him, he felt instinctively, had long ago been given to her handsome
cousin. There was latent jealousy in his face now, as he drew near.
"Am I premature, Sir Victor, in offering my congratulations?" Charley
said, with pleasant cordiality; "if so, the fact of Edith's being my
cousin, almost my sister, must excuse it. You are a fortunate man,
baronet. It would be superfluous to wish you joy--you have an overplus
of that article already."
Sir Victor's brow cleared. Charley's frankness, Charley's perfect
good-humor staggered him. Had he then been mistaken after all? He
stretched forth his hand and grasped that of Edith's cousin.
She turned suddenly and walked away, a passion of anger within her,
flashing as she went a look of hatred--yes, absolute hatred--upon
Charley. She had brought it upon herself, she had deserved it all, but
how dared he mock her with his smiles, his good wishes, when he knew,
he _knew_ that her whole heart was in his keeping?
"It shall not be in his keeping long," she said savagely, between her
set teeth. "Ingrate! More unstable than water! And I was fool enough
to cry for him and myself that night at Killarney."
It was half-past eleven when she went up to her room. She had
studiously avoided Charley all the remainder of the evening. She had
demeaned herself to her affianced with a smiling devotion that had
nearly turned his brain. But the smiles and the brightness all faded
away as she said good-night. She toiled wearily up the stairs, pale,
tired, spiritless, half her youth and beauty gone. Farther down the
passage she could hear Charley's mellow voice trolling carelessly a
song:
"Did you ever have a cousin, Tom?
And could that cousin sing?
Sisters we have by the dozen, Tom,
But a cousin's a different thing."
Every one went to bed, and to sleep perhaps, but Sir Victor Catheron.
He was too happy to sleep. He lit a cigar and paced to and fro in the
soft darkness, thinking of the great bliss this day had brought him,
thinking over her every word and smile, thinking that the first of
September would give him his darling forever. He walked beneath her
window of course. She caught a glimpse of him, and with intolerant
impatience extinguished her lights and shrouded herself and her wicked
rebellion in darkness. His eyes strayed from hers to his aunt's,
farther along the same side. Yes, in her room lights still burned.
Lady Helena usually kept early hours, as befitted her years and
infirmities. What did she mean by "burning the midnight oil" to-night.
Was that black lady from London with her still? and in what way was
she mixed up with his aunt? What would they tell him to-morrow? What
secret did his aunt hold? They could tell him nothing that could in
the slightest influence his marriage with Edith, that he knew; but
still he wondered a little what it all could be. At one the lights
were still burning. He was surprised, but he would wait no longer. He
waved his hand towards Miss Darrell's room, this very far gone young
man. "Good-night, my love, my own," he murmured Byronically, and went
to bed to sleep and dream of her. And no warning voice came in those
dreams to tell Sir Victor Catheron it was the last perfectly happy
night he would ever know.