WHY DID IT ANGER HIM?
The drawing-rooms at Lady Godolphin's Folly were teeming with light,
with noise, with company. The Verralls lived in it still. Lady Godolphin
had never given them their dismissal: but they did not spend so much
time in it as formerly. London, or elsewhere, appeared to claim them for
the greater portion of the year. One year they did not come to it at
all. Sometimes only Mrs. Verrall would be sojourning at it; her husband
away: indeed, their residence there was most irregular. Mrs. Verrall was
away at present: it was said at the seaside.
A dinner-party had taken place that day. A gentleman's party. It was not
often that Mr. Verrall gave one: but when he did so, it was thoroughly
well done. George Godolphin did not give better dinners than did Mr.
Verrall. The only promised guest who had failed in his attendance was
Thomas Godolphin. Very rarely indeed did he accept invitations to the
Folly. If there was one man in all the county to whom Mr. Verrall seemed
inclined to pay court, to treat with marked consideration and respect,
that man was Thomas Godolphin. Thomas almost always declined; declined
courteously; in a manner which could not afford the slightest loophole
for offence. He was of quiet habits, not strong in health of late, and
though he had to give dinner-parties himself, and attended some of
George's in the way of business, his friends were nearly all kind enough
to excuse his frequenting theirs in return.
This time, however, Thomas Godolphin had yielded to Mr. Verrall's
pressing entreaties, made in person, and promised to be present. A
promise which was not--as it proved--to be kept. All the rest of the
guests had assembled, and they were only waiting the appearance of Mr.
Godolphin to sit down, when a hasty note arrived from Janet. Mr.
Godolphin had been taken ill in dressing, and was utterly unable to
attend. So they dined without him.
Dinner was over now. And the guests, most of them; had gone to the
drawing-rooms; teeming, I say, with light, with the hum of many
voices--with heat. A few had gone home; a few had taken cigars and were
strolling outside the dining-room windows in the moonlight: some were
taking coffee; and some were flirting with Charlotte Pain.
Mrs. Pain now, you remember. But Charlotte has worn weeds for her
husband since you last saw her, and is free again. About four years
after their marriage, the death of Rodolf Pain appeared in the county
papers. None of the Verralls were at the Folly at the time; but
Charlotte in her widow's dress came to it almost immediately afterwards,
to sob out her sorrow in retirement. Charlotte emerged from her
widowhood gayer than before. She rode more horses, she kept more dogs,
she astonished Prior's Ash with her extraordinary modes of attire, she
was altogether "faster" than ever. Charlotte had never once visited the
neighbourhood during her married life; but she appeared to be inclined
to make up for it now, for she chiefly stayed in it. When the Verralls,
one or both, would be away, Charlotte remained at the Folly, its
mistress. She held her court; she gave entertainments; she visited on
her own score. Rumour went that Mrs. Pain had been left very well off:
and that she shared with Mr. Verrall the expense of the Folly.
Charlotte managed to steer tolerably clear of ill-natured tongues.
Latterly, indeed, people had got to say that Mr. George Godolphin was at
the Folly more than he need be. But, it was certain that George and Mr.
Verrall were upon most intimate terms: and Mr. Verrall had been staying
at the Folly a good deal of late. George of course would have said that
his visits there were paid to Mr. Verrall. Charlotte was popular in the
neighbourhood, rather than otherwise; with the ladies as well as with
the gentlemen.
Resplendent is Charlotte to-night, in a white silk dress with silver
spots upon it. It is a really beautiful dress: but one of a quieter kind
would have been more suited to this occasion. Charlotte had not appeared
at dinner, and there was not the least necessity for embellishing
herself in this manner to receive them in the drawing-room. Charlotte
was one, however, who did as she pleased; in the matter of dress, as in
other things, setting custom and opinion at defiance. Her hair is taken
from her face and wound round and round her head artistically, in
conjunction with a white and silver wreath. White and silver ornaments
are on her neck and arms, and a choice bouquet of white hot-house
flowers serves her to toy with. Just now, however, the bouquet is
discarded, and lies on the table near her elbow, for her elbow is
resting there as she sits. She is coquetting with a white and silver
fan, gently wafting it before her face; her sparkling eyes glancing over
its rim at a gentleman, who stands, coffee-cup in hand, bending down to
her.
It is not George Godolphin. So do not let your imagination run off to
him. For all the world saw, George and Charlotte were as decorous in
behaviour with each other as need be: and where Prior's Ash was picking
up its ill-natured scandal from, Prior's Ash best knew. Others talked
and laughed with Charlotte as much as George did; rode with her, admired
her.
The gentleman, bending down to her now, appears to admire her. A tall,
handsome man of eight-and-thirty years, with clearly-cut features, and
dark luminous eyes. He is the nephew of that Mrs. Averil to whom Maria
and Mrs. Hastings went to pay a visit. He has been away from the
neighbourhood, until recently, for nearly three years; and this is the
first time he has seen Charlotte at Prior's Ash since she was Mrs. Pain.
What does Charlotte promise herself by thus flirting with him--by laying
out her charms to attract him?--as she is evidently doing. Is she
thinking to make a second marriage? to win him, as she once thought to
win George Godolphin? Scarcely. One gentleman in the vicinity, who had
thrown himself and his fortune at Charlotte's feet--and, neither fortune
nor gentleman could be reckoned despicable--had been rejected with an
assurance that she would never marry again; and she spoke it with an
earnestness that left no doubt of her sincerity. Charlotte liked her own
liberty too well. She was no doubt perfectly aware that every husband
would not feel inclined to accord it to her as entirely as had poor
Rodolf Pain. He--the one with the coffee-cup in hand, talking to her--is
plunging into a sea of blunders. As you may hear, if you listen to what
he is saying.
"Yes, I have come back to find many things changed," he was observing;
"things and people. Time, though but a three years' flight, leaves its
mark behind it, Mrs. Pain. If you will allow me to remark it, I would
say that you are almost the only one whom it has not changed--except for
the better."
"Your lordship has not lost your talent for flattery, I perceive," was
Charlotte's rejoinder.
"Nay, but I speak no flattery; I mean what I say," was the peer's reply,
given in an earnest spirit. He was an admirer of beauty; he admired
Charlotte's: but to flatter was not one of the failings of Lord Averil.
Neither had he any ulterior object in view, save that of passing ten
minutes of the evening agreeably with Charlotte's help, ere he took his
departure. If Charlotte thought he had, she was mistaken. Lord Averil's
affections and hopes were given to one very different from Charlotte
Pain.
"But it must be considerably more than three years since I saw you,"
resumed Lord Averil. "It must be--I should think--nearer seven. You did
not return to Prior's Ash--if I remember rightly--after you left it on
your marriage."
"I did not return to it," replied Charlotte: "but you have seen me since
then, Lord Averil. Ah! your memory is treacherous. Don't you recollect
accosting me in Rotten Row? It was soon after you lost your wife."
Did Charlotte intend that as a shaft? Lord Averil's cheek burnt as he
endeavoured to recall the reminiscence. "I think I remember it," he
slowly said. "It was just before I went abroad. Yes, I do remember it,"
he added, after a pause. "You were riding with a young, fair man.
And--did you not--really I beg your pardon if I am wrong--did you not
introduce him to me as Mr. Pain?"
"It was Mr. Pain," replied Charlotte.
"I hope he is well. He is not here probably? I did not see him at table,
I think."
Charlotte's face--I mean its complexion--was got up in the fashion. But
the crimson that suffused it would have penetrated all the powder and
cosmetics extant, let them have been laid on ever so profusely. She was
really agitated: could not for the time speak. Another moment and she
turned deadly pale. Let us admire her at any rate, for this feeling
shown to her departed husband.
"My husband is dead, Lord Averil."
Lord Averil felt shocked at his blunder. "You must forgive me," he said
in a gentle voice, his tone, his manner, showing the deepest sympathy.
"I had no idea of it. No one has mentioned it to me since my return. The
loss, I infer, cannot be a very recent one?"
In point of fact, Mr. Pain's demise had occurred immediately after the
departure of Lord Averil from England. Charlotte is telling him so. It
could not, she thinks, have been more than a week or two subsequent to
it.
"Then he could not have been ill long," remarked his lordship. "What was
the cause----?"
"Oh pray do not make me recall it!" interrupted Charlotte in a tone of
pain. "He died suddenly: but--it was altogether very distressing.
Distressing to me, and distressing in its attendant circumstances."
An idea flashed over the mind of Lord Averil that the circumstances of
the death must have been peculiar: in short, that Mr. Pain might have
committed suicide. If he was wrong, Charlotte's manner was to blame. It
was from that he gathered the thought. That the subject was a most
unwelcome one, there could be no doubt; she palpably shrank from it.
Murmuring again a few clear words of considerate apology, Lord Averil
changed the conversation, and presently said adieu to Charlotte.
"You surely are not thinking of going yet?" cried Charlotte, retaining
his hand, and recovering all her lightness of manner. "They are setting
out the whist-tables."
"I do not play. I have a visit to pay yet to a sick friend," he added,
glancing at his watch. "I shall still be in time."
"But I do not think your carriage is here," urged Charlotte, who would
fain have detained him.
"I am sure it is not here," was the peer's answer. "I did not order it
to come for me. It is a fine night, and I shall walk to Prior's Ash."
He looked round for Mr. Verrall. He could not see him. In at one room,
in at another, looked he; out upon the terrace, before the dining-room
window, amidst the smokers. But there was no Mr. Verrall: and Lord
Averil, impatient to be gone, finally departed without wishing his host
good night.
Mr. Verrall had strolled out into the moonlight, and was in low, earnest
conversation with George Godolphin. They had got as far as that stream
on which you saw George rowing the day of Mrs. Verrall's fête, when he
so nearly caught his death. Standing on the arched wooden bridge, which
crossed it to the mock island, they leaned forward, their arms on the
rails. Mr. Verrall was smoking; George Godolphin appeared to be too ill
at ease to smoke. His brow was knit; his face hot with care. As fast as
he wiped the drops from his brow they gathered there again.
"Don't worry, lad," said Mr. Verrall. "It always has come right, and it
will come right now. Never fear. You will receive news from London
to-morrow; there's little doubt of it."
"But it ought to have come to-day, Verrall."
"It will come to-morrow, safe enough. And--you know that you may always
count upon me."
"I know I may. But look at the awful cost, Verrall."
"Pooh, pooh! What has put you in this mood to-night?"
"I don't know," said George, wiping the damp from his brow. "Not hearing
from town, I think. Verrall!"
"What?"
"Suppose, when I do hear, it should not be favourable? I feel in a fever
when I think of it."
"You took too much of that heating port this evening," said Mr. Verrall.
"I dare say I did," returned George. "A man at ease may let the wine
pass him: but one worried to death is glad of it to drown care."
"Worried to death!" repeated Mr. Verrall in a reproving tone.
"Next door to it. Look there! They have tracked us and are coming in
search."
Two or three dark forms were discerned in the distance, nearer the
Folly. Mr. Verrall passed his arm within George Godolphin's and led him
towards the house.
"I think I'll go home," said George. "I am not company for a dog
to-night."
"Nonsense," said Mr. Verrall. "The tables are ready. I want to give you
your revenge."
For once in his life--and it was a notable exception--George Godolphin
actually resisted the temptation of the "tables;" the chance of
"revenge." He had a heavy trouble upon him; a great fear; perhaps more
than Mr. Verrall knew of. Ay, he had! But who would have suspected it of
gay, careless George, who had been so brilliant at the dinner-table? He
forswore for that one night the attractions of the Folly, including
syren Charlotte, and went straight home.
It was not much past ten when he reached the Bank. Maria was astonished:
the Verrall dinner-parties were generally late affairs. She was sitting
alone, reading. In her glad surprise she ran to him with an exclamation
of welcome.
George pressed her tenderly to him, and his manner was gay and careless
again. Whatever scandal Prior's Ash might choose to talk of George, he
had not yet begun to neglect his wife.
"It was rather humdrum, darling, and I got tired," he said in answer to
her questions. "What have you been doing with yourself? Have you been
alone all the evening?"
"Since mamma left. She went home after tea. George, I want to tell you
something mamma has been talking of; has been suggesting."
George stretched himself on the sofa, as if he were weary. Maria edged
herself on to it, and sat facing him, holding his hand while she talked.
"It was the new carriage that brought the subject up, George. Mamma
introduced it this morning. She says we are living at too great an
expense; that we ought not to spend more than half as much as we do----"
"What?" shouted George, starting up from the sofa as if he had been
electrified.
Maria felt electrified; electrified by the sudden movement, the word,
the tone of anger. Nay, it was not anger alone that it bore, but dismay;
fear--she could hardly tell what sound. "George," she gasped, "what is
the matter?"
"Tell me what it is that Mrs. Hastings has been saying?"
"George, I think you must have mistaken my words," was all that Maria
could reply in the first moment, feeling truly uncomfortable. "Mamma
said this morning that it was a pity we did not live at less expense,
and save money; that it would be desirable for the sake of Meta and any
other children we may have. I said I thought it would be desirable, and
that I would suggest it to you. That was all."
George gazed at Maria searchingly for the space of a minute or two. "Has
Prior's Ash been saying this?"
"Oh no."
"Good. Tell Mrs. Hastings, Maria, that we are capable of managing our
own affairs without interference. I do not desire it, nor will I admit
it."
Maria sat down to the table with her book; the one she had been reading
when George came in. She put up her hands, as if absorbed in reading,
but her tears were falling. She had never had an ill word with her
husband; had never had any symptom of estrangement with him; and she
could not bear this. George lay on the sofa, his lips compressed. Maria
rose, in her loving, affectionate nature, and stood before him.
"George, I am sure mamma never meant to interfere; she would not do such
a thing. What she said arose from anxiety for our interests. I am so
sorry to have offended you," she added, the tears falling fast.
A repentant fit had come over him. He drew his wife's face down on his
own and kissed its tears away. "Forgive me, my dearest; I was wrong to
speak crossly to _you_. A splitting headache has put me out of sorts,
and I was vexed to hear that people were commenting on our private
affairs. Nothing could annoy me half so much."
Maria wondered why. But she fully resolved that it should be the last
time she would hint at such a thing as economy. Of course her husband
knew his own business best.