CHARLOTTE PAIN'S "TURN-OUT."
A stylish vehicle, high enough for a fire-escape, its green wheels
picked out with gleaming red; was dashing up the streets of Prior's Ash.
A lady was seated in it, driving its pair of blood-horses, whose restive
mettle appeared more fitted for a man's guidance than a woman's. You
need not be told that it was Charlotte Pain; no one else of her sex in
Prior's Ash would have driven such a turn-out. Prior's Ash, rather at a
loss what name to give it, for the like of it had never been seen in
that sober place, christened it "Mrs. Pain's turn-out:" so, if you
grumble at the appellation, you must grumble at them, not at me.
Past the Bank it flew; when, as if a sudden thought appeared to take the
driver, it suddenly whirled round, to the imminent danger of the street
in general, retraced its steps past the Bank, dashed round the corner of
Crosse Street, and drew up at the entrance to Mr. George Godolphin's.
The servant sprang from the seat behind.
"Inquire if Mrs. George Godolphin is within."
Mrs. George Godolphin was within, and Charlotte entered. Across the
hall, up the handsome staircase lined with paintings, to the still more
handsome drawing-room, swept she, conducted by a servant. Margery looked
out at an opposite door, as Charlotte entered that of the drawing-room,
her curious eyes taking in at a glance Charlotte's attire. Charlotte
wore a handsome mauve brocaded skirt, trailing the ground at the very
least half a yard behind her, and a close habit of mauve velvet. A black
hat with a turned-up brim, and a profusion of mauve feathers, adorned
her head, and a little bit of gauze, mauve-coloured also, came half-way
down her face, fitting tightly round the nose and cheeks. At that
period, this style of dress was very uncommon.
Margery retired with a sniff. Had it been any one she approved, any
especial friend of her mistress, she would have invited her into her
mistress's presence, to the little boudoir, where Maria was seated. A
pretty boudoir, tastefully furnished. The bedroom, dressing-room, and
this boudoir communicated with each other. Being who it was, Margery
allowed the drawing-room the honour of receiving the visitor.
Maria sat at a table, her drawing materials before her. Miss Meta,
perched in a high chair, was accommodated with a pencil and paper
opposite. "It's Mrs. Pain in a mask," was Margery's salutation.
Maria laid down her pencil. "Mrs. Pain in a mask!" she echoed.
"It looks like nothing else, ma'am," responded Margery. "_I_ never saw
Christian folks make themselves into such spectacles before. It's to be
hoped she won't go in that guise to call at Ashlydyat: Miss Janet would
be sending for the mad doctor."
Maria smiled. "You never admire Mrs. Pain's style of dress, Margery."
"It's not taking," rejoined Margery. "Honest faces would as soon see
themselves standing out from a brass pan, as with one of them brazen
hats stuck upon them."
Apart from her prejudices against Mrs. Pain--whatever those prejudices
might be--it was evident that Margery did not admire the fashionable
head-gear. Maria moved to the door, and Miss Meta scrambled off her
chair to follow her. "Meta go too, mamma."
Margery caught the child up as if she were snatching her from a fiery
furnace, smothered her in her arms, and whispered unheard-of visions of
immediate cakes and sweetmeats, that were to be had by ascending to the
nursery, and bore her away in triumph. Did she fear there was
contamination for the child in Mrs. Pain's hat?
Maria, not having observed the bit of by-play, proceeded to the presence
of Charlotte. Not a greater contrast had there been between them in
those old days at Broomhead, than there was now. Maria was the same
quiet, essentially lady-like girl as of yore: she looked but a girl
still, in her pretty muslin dress. Charlotte was standing at the window,
watching her restless horses, which the servant was driving about in the
front street, but could scarcely manage. She put back her hand to Maria.
"How are you to-day; Mrs. George Godolphin? Excuse my apparent rudeness:
I am looking at my horses. If the man cannot keep them within bounds, I
must go down myself."
Maria took her place by the side of Charlotte. The horses looked
terrific animals in her eyes, very much inclined to kick the carriage to
pieces and to bolt into the Bank afterwards. "Did _you_ drive them
here?"
"Nobody else can drive them," replied Charlotte with a laugh. "I should
like to seduce Kate behind them some day when she is at Prior's Ash: she
would be in a fit with fright before we were home again."
"How can you risk your own life, Mrs. Pain?"
"My life! that is a good joke," said Charlotte. "If I could not manage
the horses, I should not drive them. Did you notice the one I was riding
yesterday, when you met me with your husband--a party of us together?"
"Not particularly," replied Maria. "It was just at the turn of the road,
you know. I think I looked chiefly at George."
"You ought to have noticed my horse. You must see him another time. He
is the most splendid animal; down from London only the previous day. I
rode him yesterday for the first time."
"I should not detect any of his beauties; I scarcely know one horse from
another," acknowledged Maria.
"Ah! You are not particularly observant," returned Charlotte in
good-humoured sarcasm. "The horse was a present to me. He cost a hundred
and thirty guineas. Those animals below are getting quieter now."
She withdrew from the window, sitting down on a sofa. Maria took a seat
near her. "We had been to see Mrs. Averil yesterday when we met you,"
observed Maria. "She is still a great sufferer."
"So Lord Averil told me," answered Charlotte. "He dined at the Folly
yesterday."
"Did he? George did not mention that Lord Averil was of the party. Did
you dine with them?"
"Not I," answered Charlotte. "It was bore enough to have them in the
drawing-room afterwards. Only a few of them came in. As to your husband,
I never set eyes upon him at all."
"He came home early. I think his head ached. He----"
"Oh, he did come home, then!" interrupted Charlotte.
Maria looked surprised. "Of course he came home. Why should he not?"
"How should I know why?" was Charlotte's answer. "This house has the
bother of it to-night, I hear. It _is_ nothing but a bother, a
gentleman's dinner-party!"
"It is a sort of business party to-night, I believe," observed Maria.
"Verrall is coming. He told me so. Do you know how Mr. Godolphin is?"
"He seems as well as usual. He has come to-day, and I saw him for a
minute. George told me that he did not appear at dinner yesterday.
Margery----"
A commotion in the street. Charlotte flew to one of the windows, opened
it, and stretched herself out. But she could not see the carriage, which
was then in Crosse Street. A mob was collecting and shouting.
"I suppose I had better go. That stupid man never can keep horses in
good humour, if they have any spirit. Good-bye, Mrs. George Godolphin."
She ran down to the hall door, giving no time for a servant to show her
out. Maria proceeded to her boudoir, which looked into Crosse Street, to
see whether anything was the matter.
Something might have been, but that George Godolphin, hearing the
outcry, had flown out to the aid of the servant. The man, in his
fear--he was a timid man with horses, and it was a wonder Charlotte kept
him--had got _out_ of the carriage. George leaped into it, took the
reins and the whip, and succeeded in restoring the horses to what
Charlotte called good humour. Maria's heart beat when she saw her
husband there: she, like the man, was timid. George, however, alighted
unharmed, and stood talking with Charlotte. He was without his hat. Then
he handed Charlotte in, and stood looking up and talking to her again,
the seat being about a mile above his head. Charlotte, at any rate, had
no fear; she nodded a final adieu to George, and drove away at a fast
pace, George gazing after her.
Intimate as George Godolphin was with Charlotte Pain, no such thought as
that of attributing it to a wrong motive ever occurred to Maria. She had
been jealous of Charlotte Pain in the old days, when she was Maria
Hastings, dreading that George might choose her for his wife: but with
their marriage all such feeling ceased. Maria was an English gentlewoman
in the best sense of the term; of a refined, retiring nature, simple and
modest of speech, innocent of heart: to associate harm now with her
husband and Charlotte, was a thing next to impossible for her to glance
at. Unbiased by others, she would never be likely to glance at it. She
did not like Charlotte: where tastes and qualities are as opposed as
they were in her and Charlotte Pain, mutual preference is not easy; but,
to suspect any greater cause for dislike, was foreign to Maria's nature.
Had Maria even received a hint that the fine saddle-horse, boasted of by
Charlotte as worthy of Maria's especial observation, and costing a
hundred and thirty guineas, was a present from her husband, she would
have attached no motive to the gift, but that of kindness; given him no
worse word than a hint at extravagance. Maria could almost as soon have
disbelieved in herself, as have disbelieved in the cardinal virtues of
George Godolphin.
It was the day of one of George's dinner-parties: as Charlotte has
announced for our information. Fourteen were expected to sit down,
inclusive of himself and his brother. Most of them county men; men who
did business with the Bank; Mr. Verrall and Lord Averil being two of
them: but Mr. Verrall did not do business with the Bank, and was not
looked upon as a county man. It was not Maria's custom to appear at all
at these parties; she did not imitate Charlotte Pain in playing the
hostess afterwards in the drawing-room. Sometimes Maria would spend
these evenings out: at Ashlydyat, or at the Rectory: sometimes, as was
her intention on this evening, she would remain in her pretty boudoir,
leaving the house at liberty. She had been busy at her drawing all day,
and had not quitted it to stir abroad.
Mr. George had stirred abroad. Mr. George had taken a late afternoon
ride with Charlotte Pain. He came home barely in time to dress. The Bank
was closed for the day: the clerks had all gone, except one, the old
cashier, Mr. Hurde. He sometimes stayed later than the rest.
"Any private letters for me?" inquired George, hastening into the
office, whip in hand, and devouring the letter-rack with eager eyes,
where the unopened letters were usually placed.
The cashier, a tall man once, but stooping now, with silver spectacles
and white whiskers, stretched up his head to look also. "There's one,
sir," he cried, before George had quite crossed the office.
George made a grab at the letter. It stuck in the rack, and he gave
forth an impatient word. A blank look of disappointment came over his
face, when he saw the direction.
"This is not for me. This is for Mr. Hastings. Who sorted the letters?"
"Mr. Hastings, I believe, sir, as usual."
"What made him put his own letter into the rack?" muttered George to
himself. He went about the office; went into the private room and
searched his own table. No, there was no letter for him. Mr. Hurde
remembered that Mr. George Godolphin had been put out in the morning by
not receiving an expected letter.
George looked at his watch. "There's no time to go to Verrall's," he
thought. "And he would be starting to come here by the time I reached
the Folly."
Up to his own room to dress, which was not a long process. He then
entered his wife's boudoir.
"Drawing still, Maria?"
She looked up with a bright glance. "I have been so industrious! I have
been drawing nearly all day. See! I have nearly finished this."
George stood by the table listlessly, his thoughts preoccupied: not
pleasantly preoccupied, either. Presently he began turning over the old
sketches in Maria's portfolio. Maria left her seat, and stood by her
husband, her arm round his neck. He was now sitting sideways on a chair.
"I put some of these drawings into the portfolio this morning," she
observed. "I found them in a box in the lumber-room. They had not been
disinterred, I do believe, since they came here from the Rectory. Do you
remember that one, George?"
He took up the sketch she pointed to. A few moments, and then
recollection flashed over him. "It is a scene near Broomhead. That is
Bray's cottage."
"How glad I am that you recognise it!" she cried gleefully. "It proves
that I sketched it faithfully. Do you remember the day I did it,
George?"
George could not remember that. "Not particularly," he answered.
"Oh, George! It was the day when I was frightened by that snake--or
whatever it was. You and I and Charlotte Pain were there. We took refuge
in Bray's house."
"Refuge from the snake?" asked George.
Maria laughed. "Lady Godolphin came up, and said I ought to go there and
rest, and take some water. How terribly frightened I was! I can recall
it still. Bray wanted to marry us afterwards," she continued, laughing
more heartily.
"Bray would have married me to both you and Charlotte for a crown
a-piece," said George.
"Were you in earnest when you asked me to let him do it?" she dreamily
inquired, after a pause, her thoughts cast back to the past.
"I dare say I was, Maria. We do foolish things sometimes. Had you said
yes, I should have thought you a silly girl afterwards for your pains."
"Of course you would. Do you see that old Welshwoman in the doorway?"
resumed Maria, pointing to the drawing. "She was a nice old body, in
spite of her pipe. I wonder whether she is still alive? Perhaps Margery
knows. Margery had a letter from her sister this morning."
"Had she?" carelessly returned George. "I saw there was a letter for her
with the Scotch postmark. Has Bray come to grief yet?"
"I fancy they are always in grief, by the frequent appeals to Margery.
Lady Godolphin is kind to the wife. She tells Margery if it were not for
my lady, she should starve."
An arrival was heard as Maria spoke, and George rang the bell. It was
answered by Maria's maid, but George said he wanted the butler. The man
appeared.
"Has Mr. Verrall come?"
"No, sir. It is Mr. Godolphin."
"When Mr. Verrall comes, show him into the Bank parlour, and call me. I
wish to see him before he goes into the drawing-room."
The man departed with his order. George went into the adjoining bedroom.
A few minutes, and some one else was heard to come in, and run up the
stairs with eager steps. It was followed by an impatient knock at
Maria's door.
It proved to be Isaac Hastings. A fine-looking young man, with a
sensible countenance. "Have they gone in to dinner yet, Maria?" he
hastily cried.
"No. It is not time. No one has come but Mr. Godolphin."
"I did such a stupid trick! I----"
"Is it you, Isaac?" interrupted George, returning to the room. "I could
not think who it was, rushing up."
"I wanted to catch you, sir, before you went in to dinner," replied
Isaac, holding out a letter to George. "It came for you this afternoon,"
he continued, "and I put it, as I thought, into the rack; and one for
myself, which also came, I put into my pocket. Just now I found I had
brought yours away, and left mine."
"Yours is in the rack now," said George. "I wondered what brought it
there."
He took the letter, glanced at its superscription, and retired to the
window to read it. There appeared to be but a very few lines. George
read it twice over, and then lifted his flushed face: flushed, as it
seemed, with pain--with a perplexed, hopeless sort of expression. Maria
could see his face reflected in the glass. She turned to him:
"George, what is it? You have had bad news!"
He crushed the letter in his hand. "Bad news! Nothing of the sort. Why
should you think that? It is a business letter that I ought to have had
yesterday, though, and I am vexed at the delay."
He left the room again. Isaac prepared to depart.
"Will you stay and take tea with me, Isaac?" asked Maria. "I have dined.
I am expecting Rose."
"I am taking tea already," answered Isaac, with a laugh. "I was at
Grace's. We were beginning tea, when I put my hand into my pocket to
take out my letter, and found it was George Godolphin's."
"You were not in haste to read your own letter," returned Maria.
"No. I knew who it was from. There was no hurry. I ran all the way from
Grace's here, and now I must run back again. Good-bye, Maria."
Isaac went away. George was in and out of the room, walking about in a
restless manner. Several arrivals had been heard, and Maria felt sure
that all the guests, or nearly all, must have arrived. "Why don't you go
to them, George?" she asked.
The hour for dinner struck as she spoke, and George left the room. He
did not enter the drawing-room, but went down and spoke to the butler.
"Has Mr. Verrall not come yet?"
"No, sir. Every one else is here."
George retraced his steps and entered the drawing-room. He was gay
George again: handsome George; not a line of perplexity could be traced
on his open brow, not a shade of care in his bright blue eye. He shook
hands with his guests, offering only a half apology, for his tardiness,
and saying that he knew his brother was there to replace him.
Some minutes of busy conversation, and then it flagged: another few
minutes of it, and a second flag. Thomas Godolphin whispered to his
brother. "George, I should not wait. Mr. Verrall cannot be coming."
George went quite red with anger, or some other feeling. "Not be coming?
Of course he is coming? Nothing is likely to detain him."
Thomas said no more. But the waiting---- Well, you all know what it is,
this awkward waiting for dinner. By-and-by the butler looked into the
room. George thought it might be a hint that dinner was spoiling, and he
reluctantly gave orders that it should be served.
A knock at the door--a loud knock--resounding through the house. George
Godolphin's face lighted up. "There he is!" he exclaimed. "But it is too
bad of him to keep us waiting."
There he is _not_, George might have said, could he have seen through
the closed door the applicant standing there. It was only Maria's
evening visitor, pretty Rose Hastings.