LORD CALDERWOOD IS THE CAUSE OF INCONVENIENCE.
The preparations for the wedding went on gaily, and whatever inclination to
revolt may have lurked in George Fairfax's breast, he made no sign. Since
his insolent address that night in the corridor he had scarcely spoken to
Clarissa; but he kept a furtive watch upon her notwithstanding, and she
knew it, and sickened under it as under an evil influence. He was
very angry with her--she was fully conscious of that--unjustifiably,
unreasonably angry. More than once, when Mr. Granger was especially
attentive, she had encountered a withering glance from those dark gray
eyes, and she had been weak enough, wicked enough perhaps, to try and make
him perceive that Mr. Granger's attentions were in no way pleasant to her.
She could bear anything better than that he should think her capable of
courting this man's admiration. She told herself sometimes that it would be
an unspeakable relief to her when the marriage was over, and George Fairfax
had gone away from Hale Castle, and out of her life for evermore; and then,
while she was trying to believe this, the thought would come to her of what
her life would be utterly without him, with no hope of ever seeing
him again, with the bitter necessity of remembering him only as Lady
Geraldine's husband. She loved him, and knew that she loved him. To hear
his voice, to be in the same room with him, caused her a bitter kind of
joy, a something that was sweeter than common pleasure, keener than common
pain. His presence, were he ever so silent or angry, gave colour to her
life, and to realise the dull blankness of a life without him seemed
impossible.
While this silent struggle was going on, and the date of the marriage
growing nearer and nearer, Mr. Granger's attentions became daily more
marked. It was impossible even for Clarissa, preoccupied as she was by
those other thoughts, to doubt that he admired her with something more than
common admiration. Miss Granger's evident uneasiness and anger were in
themselves sufficient to give emphasis to this fact. That young lady,
mistress of herself as she was upon most occasions, found the present state
of things too much for her endurance. For the last ten years of her life,
ever since she was a precocious damsel of twelve, brought to a premature
state of cultivation by an expensive forcing apparatus of governesses and
masters, she had been in the habit of assuring herself and her confidantes
that her father would never marry again. She had a very keen sense of the
importance of wealth, and from that tender age, of twelve or so upwards,
she had been fully aware of the diminution her own position would undergo
in the event of a second marriage, and the advent of a son to the house of
Granger. Governesses and maidservants had perhaps impressed this upon her
at some still earlier stage of her existence; but from this time upwards
she had needed nothing to remind her of the fact, and she had watched her
father with an unwearying vigilance.
More than once, strong-minded and practical as he was, she had seen him in
danger. Attractive widows and dashing spinsters had marked him for their
prey, and he had seemed not quite adamant; but the hour of peril had
passed, and the widow or the spinster had gone her way, with all her
munitions of war expended, and Daniel Granger still unscathed. This time it
was very different. Mr. Granger showed an interest in Clarissa which he had
never before exhibited in any member of her sex since he wooed and won the
first Mrs. Granger; and as his marriage had been by no means a romantic
affair, but rather a prudential arrangement made and entered upon by Daniel
Granger the elder, cloth manufacturer of Leeds and Bradford, on the one
part, and Thomas Talloway, cotton-spinner of Manchester, on the other part,
it is doubtful whether Miss Sophy Talloway had ever in her ante-nuptial
days engrossed so much of his attention.
Having no one else at Hale to whom she could venture to unbosom herself,
Miss Granger was fain to make a confidante of her maid, although she did
not, as a general rule, affect familiarity with servants. This maid, who
was a mature damsel of five-and-thirty or upwards, and a most estimable
Church-of-England person, had been with Miss Granger for a great many
years; had curled her hair for her when she wore it in a crop, and even
remembered her in her last edition of pinafores. Some degree of familiarity
therefore might be excused, and the formal Sophia would now and then expand
a little in her intercourse with Warman.
One night, a very little while before Lady Geraldine's wedding-day, the
cautious Warman, while brushing Miss Granger's hair, ventured to suggest
that her mistress looked out of spirits. Had she said that Sophia looked
excessively cross, she would scarcely have been beside the mark.
"Well, Warman," Miss Granger replied, in rather a shrewish tone, "I _am_
out of spirits. I have been very much annoyed this evening by papa's
attentions to--by the designing conduct of a young lady here."
"I think I can guess who the young lady is, miss," Warman answered
shrewdly.
"O, I suppose so," cried Sophia, giving her head an angry jerk which almost
sent the brush out of her abigail's hand; "servants know everything."
"Well, you see, miss, servants have eyes and ears, and they can't very well
help using them. People think we're inquisitive and prying if we venture to
see things going on under our very noses; and so hypocrisy gets to be
almost part of a servant's education, and what people call a good servant
is a smooth-faced creature that pretends to see nothing and to understand
nothing. But my principles won't allow of my stooping to that sort of
thing, Miss Granger, and what I think I say. I know my duty as a servant,
and I know the value of my own immortal soul as a human being."
"How you do preach, Warman! Who wants you to be a hypocrite?" exclaimed
Sophia impatiently. "It's always provoking to hear that one's affairs have
been talked over by a herd of servants, but I suppose it's inevitable. And
pray, what have they been saying about papa?"
"Well, miss, I've heard a good deal of talk of one kind and another. You
see, your papa is looked upon as a great gentleman in the county, and
people will talk about him. There's Norris, Lady Laura's own footman, who's
a good deal in the drawing-room--really a very intelligent-well-brought-up
young man, and, I am happy to say, _not_ a dissenter. Norris takes a good
deal of notice of what's going on, and he has made a good many remarks upon
your par's attention to Miss Lovel. Looking at the position of the parties,
you see, miss, it would be such a curious thing if it was to be brought
round for that young lady to be mistress of Arden Court."
"Good gracious me, Warman!" cried Sophia aghast, "you don't suppose that
papa would marry again?"
"Well, I can't really say, miss. But when a gentleman of your par's age
pays so much attention to a lady young enough to be his daughter, it
generally do end that way."
There was evidently no consolation to be obtained from Warman, nor was that
astute handmaiden to be betrayed into any expression of opinion against
Miss Lovel. It seemed to her more than probable that Clarissa Lovel
might come before long to reign over the household at Arden, and this
all-powerful Sophia sink to a minor position. Strong language of any kind
was therefore likely to be dangerous. Hannah Warman valued her place, which
was a good one, and would perhaps be still better under a more impulsive
and generous mistress. The safest thing therefore was to close the
conversation with one of those pious platitudes which Warman had always at
her command.
"Whatever may happen, miss, we are in the hands of Providence," she said
solemnly; "and let us trust that things will be so regulated as to work for
the good of our immortal souls. No one can go through life without trials,
miss, and perhaps yours may be coming upon you now; but we know that such
chastisements are intended for our benefit."
Sophia Granger had encouraged this kind of talk from the lips of Warman,
and other humble disciples, too often too be able to object to it just
now; but her temper was by no means improved by this conversation, and she
dismissed her maid presently with a very cool good-night.
On the third day before the wedding, George Fairfax's mother arrived at
the Castle, in order to assist in this important event in her son's life.
Clarissa contemplated this lady with a peculiar interest, and was not a
little wounded by the strange coldness with which Mrs. Fairfax greeted her
upon her being introduced by Lady Laura to the new arrival. This coldness
was all the more striking on account of the perfect urbanity of Mrs.
Fairfax's manners in a general way, and a certain winning gentleness which
distinguished her on most occasions. It seemed to Clarissa as if she
recoiled with something like aversion at the sound of her name.
"Miss Lovel of Arden Court, I believe?" she said, looking at Lady Laura.
"Yes; my dear Clarissa is the only daughter of the gentleman who till
lately was owner of Arden Court. It has passed into other hands now."
"I beg your pardon. I did not know there had been any change."
And then Mrs. Fairfax continued her previous conversation with Lady Laura,
as if anxious to have done with the subject of Miss Lovel.
Nor in the three days before the wedding did she take any farther notice of
Clarissa; a neglect the girl felt keenly; all the more so because she was
interested in spite of herself in this pale faded lady of fifty, who still
bore the traces of great beauty and who carried herself with the grace of a
queen. She had that air _du faubourg_ which we hear of in the great ladies
of a departed era in Parisian society,--a serene and tranquil elegance
which never tries to be elegant, a perfect self-possession which never
degenerates into insolence.
In a party so large as that now assembled at Hale, this tacit avoidance
of one person could scarcely be called a rudeness. It might so easily be
accidental. Clarissa felt it nevertheless, and felt somehow that it was not
accidental. Though she could never be anything to George Fairfax, though
all possibility even of friendship was at an end between them, she would
have liked to gain his mother's regard. It was an idle wish perhaps, but
scarcely an unnatural one.
She watched Mrs. Fairfax and Lady Geraldine together. The affection between
those two was very evident. Never did the younger lady appear to greater
advantage than in her intercourse with her future mother-in-law. All pride
and coldness vanished in that society, and Geraldine Challoner became
genial and womanly.
"She has played her cards well," Barbara Fermor said maliciously. "It is
the mother who has brought about this marriage."
If Mrs. Fairfax showed herself coldly disposed towards Clarissa, there was
plenty of warmth on the parts of Ladies Emily and Louisa Challoner, who
arrived at the Castle about the same time, and at once took a fancy to
their sister's _protegee._
"Laura has told us so much about you, Miss Lovel," said Lady Louisa, "and
we mean to be very fond of you, if you will allow us; and, O, please may we
call you Clarissa? It is such a _sweet_ name!"
Both these ladies had passed that fearful turning-point in woman's life,
her thirtieth birthday, and had become only more gushing and enthusiastic
with increasing years. They were very much like Lady Laura, had all her
easy good-nature and liveliness, and were more or less afraid of the
stately Geraldine.
"Do you know, we are quite glad she is going to be married at last," Lady
Emily said in a confidential tone to Clarissa; "for she has kept up a kind
of frigid atmosphere at home that I really believe has helped to frighten
away all our admirers. Men of the present day don't like that sort of
thing. It went out of fashion in England with King Charles I., I think, and
in France with Louis XIV. You know how badly the royal household behaved
coming home from his funeral, laughing and talking and all that: I
believe it arose from their relief at thinking that the king of forms
and ceremonies was dead. We always have our nicest little
parties--kettle-drums, and suppers after the opera, and that sort of
thing--when Geraldine is away; for we can do anything with papa."
The great day came, and the heavens were propitious. A fine clear September
day, with a cool wind and a warm sun; a day upon which the diaphanous
costumes of the bridesmaids might be a shade too airy; but not a stern
or cruel day, to tinge their young noses with a frosty hue, or blow the
crinkles out of their luxuriant hair.
The bridesmaids were the Ladies Emily and Louisa Challoner, the two Miss
Fermors, Miss Granger, and Clarissa--six in all; a moderation which Lady
Laura was inclined to boast of as a kind of Spartan simplicity. They were
all to be dressed alike, in white, with bonnets that seemed composed of
waxen looking white heather and tremulous harebells, and with blue sashes
to match the harebells. The dresses were Lady Laura's inspiration: they
had come to her almost in her sleep, she declared, when she had well-nigh
despaired of realising her vague desires; and Clarissa's costume was, like
the ball-dress, a present from her benefactress.
The nine-o'clock breakfast--a meal that began at nine and rarely ended till
eleven--was hurried over in the most uncomfortable and desultory manner on
this eventful morning. The principals in the great drama did not appear at
all, and Clarissa and Miss Granger were the only two bridesmaids who could
spare half an hour from the cares of the toilet. The rest breakfasted
in the seclusion of their several apartments, with their hair in
crimping-pins. Miss Granger was too perfect a being to crinkle her hair,
or to waste three hours on dressing, even for a wedding. Lady Laura
showed herself among her guests, for a quarter of an hour or so, in a
semi-hysterical flutter; so anxious that everything should go off well,
so fearful that something might happen, she knew not what, to throw the
machinery of her arrangements out of gear.
"I suppose it's only a natural feeling on such an occasion as this," she
said, "but I really do feel as if something were going to happen. Things
have gone on so smoothly up to this morning--no disappointments
from milliners, no stupid mistakes on the part of those railway
people--everything has gone upon velvet; and now it is coming to the crisis
I am quite nervous."
Of course every one declared this was perfectly natural, and recommended
his or her favourite specific--a few drops of sal-volatile--a liqueur-glass
of dry curacoa--red lavender--chlorodyne--and so on; and then Lady Laura
laughed and called herself absurd, and hurried away to array herself in a
pearl-coloured silk, half smothered by puffings of pale pink areophane
and Brussels-lace flounces; a dress that was all pearly gray and rose and
white, like the sky at early morning.
Mr. Armstrong, Mr. Granger, with some military men and country squires,
took their breakfast as calmly as if a wedding were part of the daily
business of life. Miss Granger exhibited a polite indifference about
the great event; Miss Lovel was pale and nervous, not able to give much
attention to Daniel Granger, who had contrived to sit next her that
morning, and talked to her a good deal, with an apparent unconsciousness of
the severe gaze of his daughter, seated exactly opposite to him.
Clarissa was glad to make her toilet an excuse for leaving Mr. Granger; but
once in the sanctuary of her own room, she sat down in an absent manner,
and made no attempt to begin dressing. Fosset, the maid, found her there at
a quarter past ten o'clock--the ceremony was to take place at eleven--and
gave a cry of horror at seeing the toilet uncommenced.
"Good gracious me, miss! what have you been thinking of? Your hair not
begun nor nothing! I've been almost torn to bits with one and another--Miss
Fermor's maid bothering for long hair-pins and narrow black ribbon; and
Jane Roberts--Lady Emily Challoner's maid--who really never has anything
handy, wanting half the things out of my work-box--or I should have been
with you ever so long ago. My Lady would be in a fine way if you were
late."
"I think my hair will do very well as it is, Fosset," Clarissa said
listlessly.
"Lor, no, miss; not in that dowdy style. It don't half show it off."
Clarissa seated herself before the dressing-table with an air of
resignation rather than interest, and the expeditious Fosset began her
work. It was done very speedily--that wealth of hair was so easy to dress;
there was no artful manipulation of long hair-pins and black ribbon needed
to unite borrowed tresses with real ones. The dress was put on, and
Clarissa was invited to look at herself in the cheval-glass.
"I do wish you had a bit more colour in your cheeks to-day, miss," Fosset
said, with rather a vexed air. "Not that I'd recommend you any of their
vinegar rouges, or ineffaceable blooms, or anything of that kind. But I
don't think I ever saw you look so pale. One would think _you_ were going
to be married, instead of Lady Geraldine. _She's_ as cool as a cucumber
this morning, Sarah Thompson told me just now. You can't put _her_ out
easily."
The carriages were driving up to the great door by this time. It was about
twenty minutes to eleven, and in ten minutes more the procession would be
starting. Hale Church was within five minutes' drive of the Castle.
Clarissa went fluttering down to the drawing-room, where she supposed
people would assemble. There was no one there but Mr. Granger, who was
stalking up and down the spacious room, dressed in the newest and stiffest
of coats and waistcoats, and looking as if he were going to assist at a
private hanging. Miss Lovel felt almost inclined to ran away at sight of
him. The man seemed to pursue her somehow; and since that night when
George Fairfax had offered her his mocking congratulations, Mr. Granger's
attentions had been particularly repugnant to her.
She could not draw back, however, without positive rudeness, and it was
only a question of five minutes; so she went in and entered upon an
interesting little conversation about the weather. It was still fine; there
was no appearance of rain; a most auspicious day, really; and so on,--from
Mr. Granger; to which novel remarks Clarissa assented meekly.
"There are people who attach a good deal of significance to that kind
of thing," he said presently. "For my own part, _if_ I were going to be
married to the woman I loved, I should care little how black the sky above
us might be. That sounds rather romantic for me, doesn't it? A man of fifty
has no right to feel like that."
This he said with a half-bitter laugh. Clarissa was spared the trouble of
answering by the entrance of more bridesmaids--Lady Louisa Challoner and
Miss Granger--with three of the military men, who wore hothouse flowers
in their buttonholes, and were altogether arrayed like the lilies of the
field, but who had rather the air of considering this marriage business a
tiresome interruption to partridge-shooting.
"I suppose we are going to start directly," cried Lady Louisa, who was a
fluttering creature of three-and-thirty, always eager to flit from one
scene to another. "If we don't, I really think we shall be late--and there
is some dreadful law, isn't there, to prevent people being married after
eleven o'clock?"
"After twelve," Mr. Granger answered in his matter of fact way. "Lady
Geraldine has ample margin for delay."
"But why not after twelve?" asked Lady Louisa with a childish air; "why not
in the afternoon or evening, if one liked? What can be the use of such a
ridiculous law? One might as well live in Russia."
She fluttered to one of the windows and looked out.
"There are all the carriages. How well the men look! Laura must have
spent a fortune in white ribbon and gloves for them--and the horses, dear
things!"--a woman of Lady Louisa's stamp is generally enthusiastic about
horses, it is such a safe thing--"they look as if they knew it was a
wedding. O, good gracious!"
"What is the matter. Lady Louisa?"
"A man from the railway--with a telegram--yes, I am sure it's a telegram!
Do you know, I have such a horror of telegrams! I always fancy they mean
illness--or death--or something dreadful. Very absurd of me, isn't it? And
I daresay this is only a message about some delayed parcel, or some one who
was to be here and can't come, or something of that kind."
The room was full of idle people by this time. Every one went to the open
window and stared down at the man who had brought the telegram. He had
given his message, and was standing on the broad flight of steps before
the Castle door, waiting for the return of the official who had taken it.
Whether the electric wires had brought the tidings of some great calamity,
or a milliner's apology for a delayed bonnet, was impossible to guess. The
messenger stood there stolid and impenetrable, and there was nothing to be
divined from his aspect.
But presently, while a vague anxiety possessed almost every one present,
there came from the staircase without a sudden cry of woe--a woman's
shriek, long and shrill, ominous as the wail of the banshee. There was a
rush to the door, and the women crowded out in a distracted way. Lady
Laura was fainting in her husband's arms, and George Fairfax was standing
near her reading a telegram.
People had not long to wait for the evil news. Lord Calderwood had been
seized with a paralytic stroke--his third attack--at ten o'clock the
previous night, and had expired at half-past eight that morning. There
could be no wedding that day--nor for many days and weeks to come.
"O, Geraldine, my poor Geraldine, let me go to her!" cried Lady Laura,
disengaging herself from her husband's arms and rushing upstairs. Mr.
Armstrong hurried after her.
"Laura, my sweet girl, don't agitate yourself; consider yourself," he
cried, and followed, with Lady Louisa sobbing and wailing behind him.
Geraldine had not left her room yet. The ill news was to find her on the
threshold, calm and lovely in the splendour of her bridal dress.
* * * * *