A WOMAN AVERSE TO MARRIAGE.
The Duke and Duchess of Downsbury had been so long absent from their
home, that on their return they felt the greatest pleasure and keenest
interest in every one whose name they remembered. Lady Estelle had
outgrown her weakness of constitution. For many years it had been quite
uncertain how her illness would terminate. It was not so much a malady
as a wasting of strength, an utter absence of all hope or energy, a
strange languor that attacked both body and mind.
Doctors recommended travel; travel fatigued her; they recommended
change; change wearied her--nothing on earth seemed to have the least
interest for her. Beautiful, high-born, blessed with every advantage
that wealth and rank can give, she was afflicted with that most terrible
of all diseases, hopeless _ennui_. Then, after a time, her physical
health failed her, and it became a question as to whether she would
recover or not. It was the one great trial that her devoted parents had
to bear. They would have given all they had, all they cared for most, to
have seen her happy, bright, light of heart as were others. That was
never to be.
On this morning, early in the month of May, the duchess and her daughter
were alone in the drawing-room of Downsbury Castle; a May morning that
should have rejoiced the heart of a poet--crowned with golden rays of
the sun, musical with the sweet song of birds. Lady Estelle stood at the
window, looking over the trees, a wistful expression in her fine eyes.
She never moved quickly when any thought or idea occurred to her; she
never turned with the rapid movement peculiar to some people. An idea
had evidently occurred to her now, for her face flushed, the white skin
was for some minutes dyed scarlet; she waited until it died away, then
she turned slowly and glanced at the duchess.
"Mamma," she said, "have you heard how the interview between papa and
his agent passed off?"
"Quite satisfactorily, I believe," replied the duchess; "everything is
prosperous. The tenants are all well, and there has been no misfortune
among them."
Lady Estelle crossed the room; there was a beautiful stand of white
hyacinths, and she bent over, caressing the beautiful buds.
"Do you remember the farmer we went to see?" she continued, "What was
his name?--the man with the honest face?"
"Mark Brace?" replied the duchess.
"Yes," said Lady Estelle; "Mark Brace. Do you remember him, and that
simple, gentle wife of his, and the two children, one as brown as a
berry, and the other as fair as a lily, with hair of shining gold?"
"I remember them very well," replied her grace. "Indeed I could never
forget that child; she was the most beautiful little creature I ever
beheld; but she gave promise of being one of the worst."
"Oh, mamma, do not say such a thing!" cried Lady Estelle, with more
animation than was usual with her.
"Why not, my dear?" said the duchess, calmly. "Great beauty and great
wickedness so often go together."
"But it seems such a cruel thing to say of a child--a little child."
"Well, perhaps it does seem rather hard; but then, 'the child gives
promise of the man,' and if ever child was precocious in vanity and
ambition, that child was. You forget her."
"Yes," said Lady Estelle. "It is so long since, I forget her; but you
are generally merciful in your judgments, mamma. It seems strange to
hear you speak harshly of a child."
The duchess made no reply. The subject seemed to have no particular
interest for her, whereas the beautiful point-lace she was making had
great claims on her attention. After a few minutes Lady Estelle
continued:
"I suppose nothing more has been heard of the child; no one has claimed
her, or the story would have reached us. I must confess that I feel some
little curiosity as to what she is like. I should be pleased to see
her."
"If the girl bears out the promise of her youth, she would be worth
seeing," said the duchess.
The entrance of her husband interrupted her, and she said no more.
The Duke of Downsbury looked pleased.
"My dear," he said to his wife, "I am delighted. I have the finest agent
in the country. The accounts and everything else are in the finest
possible order. I am so pleased that I thought of giving a dinner to the
tenants; it could be no annoyance to you, and it would be a nice little
act of attention, after being absent so long."
The duchess quite agreed with the project. It would be a compliment to
them, and a pleasure to herself, she said.
The duke smiled to think what an amiable wife he had.
"To all your tenants, papa?" said Lady Estelle, in her graceful, languid
way.
"Yes, all of them--rich and poor; but then there are no poor."
She smiled.
"I shall see Mark Brace," she said. "I was just telling mamma that I
felt some interest in that child we saw. I should like to know how she
has turned out."
The duke's face lighted up.
"That pretty little girl," he said; "the one over whom there was a
mystery. I had forgotten her, and the story too. I should like to see
her. What wonderful hair she had. I must tell Mark Brace to bring her
over."
"Mark Brace is a sensible man," the duchess hastened to observe; "I am
sure he will understand. She was a vain child then--she will be even
vainer now. No one knows what nonsensical ideas will fill her mind if
she thinks she has been invited here; you might do her a great harm by
such indiscretion. Tell him to bring her over if he likes; but tell him
at the same time, it will be as well for him not to mention it--he is
sensible enough to understand."
"I see--you are quite right, my dear--it shall be just as you say."
And Lady Estelle hastened to add:
"You are wise, mamma. I feel some curiosity over her. I have a vague
recollection of a brilliant, beautiful child, who seemed very much out
of place in that quiet farm-house. But it is so long ago."
Looking at his daughter, the duke hardly realized how long it was--she
did not look one year older; perhaps the delicate state of her health
had preserved her face from all marks of time. The calm, high-bred
features were unruffled as ever; there was not one line on the fair
brow, nor round the calm, serene lips; the fair hair was abundant and
shining as ever; the light of the proud, brilliant eyes was undimmed.
Time, indeed, seemed to have stood still for Lady Estelle Hereford. It
might be that she had escaped the wear and tear of emotion, so had had
nothing to mar the calm serenity of her life or her features. She went
back to her post at the window, and stood once more looking out over the
trees. She remained silent, dreamy, abstracted, while the duke and
duchess discussed their affairs, their tenants, friends, and neighbors.
"Estelle," said the duke, at length, "are you going to drive to-day?"
"No, papa, I think not; I do not care to go."
The duke and duchess exchanged glances.
"My dear Estelle," said the duke, gravely, "I wish that you did feel
interested in going out or in anything else. We were in great hopes,
your mother and I, that when you returned you would show a little more
animation, a little more interest in the world around you--more capacity
for enjoyment. Could you not throw off that languor, and be bright,
animated, and happy?"
She smiled, and if that smile concealed any pain, no one knew it.
"I am happy, papa," she said; "but my languor is, I suppose, part of
myself--I should not know how to throw it off. I suppose the right thing
to do when you propose a walk or a drive, on this lovely May morning,
would be to blush--to glow and dimple. I am really sorry that I am so
fashioned by nature as to find anything of the kind impossible."
The duke rose from his seat and went to his daughter. He placed his arm
round the stately figure.
"Do you think that I am scolding you, Estelle?" he said. "I shall never
do that. Nor could I be more proud of you than I am. It is only for your
own sake that I speak to you, and because I long to see you happy. I
should like to see you married, Estelle, and to hold my grandchildren in
my arms before I die."
She started, the calm face grew a shade paler, then she clasped her arms
round his neck.
"I am so happy with you and mamma," she replied, "I do not want any
other love."
The next minute she had quitted the room.
The duchess looked at her husband with a smile.
"It is useless," she said. "Estelle is like no other woman in the world.
I do not think she is capable of love; I do not think the man is born
who could win from her a kindly smile, a warm word, or a loving look.
She loves us; no one else. I have watched her year after year, and feel
sure of it."
"It is strange, too," said the duke, "for the Herefords are not a
cold-hearted race. And do you really think that she will never marry?"
"I feel sure of it. I do not think she will ever like any one well
enough. There is variety in all creation. We must not be surprised to
find it in ladies."
The day fixed for the tenants' dinner came round, and among the others
Mark Brace arrived at the Castle in a state of great glory. There had
been great excitement at Brackenside when the invitation reached there,
and Mark, with considerable difficulty, had mastered it.
"You are to dine at the Castle," said Doris, with that quickness which
seemed to take everything in at one glance. "Then, for once in your
life, you must have a suit of clothes that pretend to fit you. Yours
always look as though you had found them by accident, and had met with
considerable difficulty in the way of putting them on."
Mark laughed, but Patty took up the cudgels for her husband.
"I am sure your father always looks nice, Doris."
"Why, mother, how can you judge?"
"It is not the coat that makes the man," said Patty.
Doris laughed.
"You are all brimful of good sentiments, but you are quite wrong;
broadcloth makes its way where fustian is trampled under foot. I know
all about the genuine stamp, a man's being a man for all that; but it is
great nonsense. You believe me, father, there is much in having good
clothes--the habit makes the monk."
They looked at her in wonder, as they generally did when she talked
above them.
"Have some good clothes," Doris continued. "You have no idea how much
the other tenants will respect you if you are well dressed and show a
good gold chain."
Mark laughed. The cynicism of Doris always amused him.
Here he saw some glimmer of sense in what she said; so Mark went to
Quainton, an adjacent town, and ordered a suit of the finest broadcloth.
Great was the excitement when it came home, and the honest farmer stood
arrayed in all his glory. He looked very delighted, but stiff and
uncomfortable; his arms seemed longer than ever, his hands redder and
more awkward; still he tried to do honor to his new estate by carrying
it off boldly. To his wife he confided that he should not always like
being a gentleman, to be dressed so tightly; and Mark's wife flung her
loving arms round his neck.
"You are a gentleman," she said; "one of nature's very own."
The whole family stood by the gate to see Mark drive off. Doris had
placed a white rose in his buttonhole; his wife and daughter watched him
with pride and exultation in their hearts, while Doris thought to
herself that, after all, even a broadcloth suit could not make what she
called a gentleman.
"I am sure that no one in the room will look so nice as your father,"
said Mrs. Brace, proudly; the glories of the new broadcloth had dazzled
her. Mattie quite agreed with her, while Doris, with a mocking smile,
went away.