Sir Paul Raughton's Ascot party had been excellently arranged, every
guest being specially chosen with a view to making an harmonious
whole. Belmont was a charming villa, lying almost on the borders of
the two lovely counties of Berkshire and Surrey, and neither the
beauties of Nature nor Art were wanting. Surrounded by woods in which
other villas nestled, it was shut off from the world, whilst its own
spacious lawns and gardens enclosed it entirely from the notice of
passers-by. It was by no means used only during Ascot week, as both
Ida and her father were in the habit of frequently paying visits to it
in the spring, summer, and autumn; and only in the winter, when the
trees were bare, and the wind swept over the heath and downs, was it
deserted.
On this Ascot week, or to be particular, this Monday of Ascot week,
when the guests were beginning to arrive for the campaign, it was as
bright and pretty a spot as any in England. The lawn was dotted with
two or three little umbrella tents, under which those arrivals, who
were not basking under the shadow of trees, were seated; some of them
talking of what they had done since last they met; some engaged in
speculating over the chances of the various horses entered for the
"Cup," the "Stakes," and the "Vase;" some engaged in idly sipping
their afternoon tea (or their afternoon sherry and bitters, as
the sex might be), and some engaged in the most luxurious of all
pursuits--doing nothing. Yet, although Sir Paul's selection of guests
had been admirable, disappointment had come to him and Ida, for two
who would have been the most welcome, Mr. Cundall and Lord Penlyn, had
written to say they could not come. The former's letter had been very
short, and the explanation given for his refusal was that he was again
preparing to leave England, perhaps for a very long period. And Lord
Penlyn's had been to the effect that some business affairs connected
with his property would prevent him from leaving town during the week.
Moreover, it was dated from a fashionable hotel in the West End, and
not from Occleve House.
"What the deuce can the boy be doing?" the Baronet asked himself, as
he read the letter over once or twice before showing it to his
daughter. They were seated at breakfast when it came, and none of the
guests having arrived, they were entirely by themselves. "What the
deuce can he be doing?" he repeated. "Ascot week of most weeks in the
year, is the one in which a man likes to get out of town, yet instead
of coming here he goes and stews himself up in a beastly hotel! And
Cundall, too! Why can't the man stop at home like a Christian, instead
of going and grilling in the Tropics? He can't want to make any more
money, surely!" After which reflections he handed both the letters
over to Ida. When she read them she was sorely troubled, for she could
not help imagining that there was something more than strange in the
fact that the man who was engaged to her, and the man who had proposed
to her only a few nights ago, should both have abstained from coming
to spend the week with them. At first, she wondered if they could have
met and quarrelled--but then she reflected that that was not possible!
Surely Mr. Cundall would not have told Gervase that he had proposed to
her and been refused. Men, she thought, did not talk about their love
affairs to one another; certainly the rejected one would not confide
in the accepted. Still, she was very troubled! Troubled because the
man she loved, and whom she had not seen for three days--and it seemed
an eternity!--would not be there to pass that happy week with her; and
troubled also because the man whom she did not love, but whom she
liked and pitied so, was evidently sore at heart. "He was going away
again, perhaps for a very long period," he had said, yet, on the night
of Lady Chesterton's ball, he had told her that he would go no more
away. It must be, she knew, that her rejection of him was once more
driving him to be a wanderer on the earth, and, womanlike, she could
not but feel sorry for him. She knew as well as Rosalind that men,
though they died, did not die for love; but still they must suffer for
their unrequited love. That he would suffer, the look in his face and
the tone of his voice on that night showed very plainly; his letter to
her father and his forthcoming departure told her that the suffering
had begun.
Fortunately for her the arrivals of the guests, and her duties as
hostess, prevented her from having much time for reflection. The
visitors had come to be amused, and she could not be _distraite_ or
forgetful of their comfort. The gentlemen might look after themselves
and amuse each other, as they could do very well with their sporting
newspapers and Ruff's Guides, their betting-books and their cigars;
but the ladies could not be neglected. So, all through that long
summer day, Ida, whose mind was filled with the picture of two men,
had to put her own thoughts out of sight, and devote herself to the
thoughts of others. She had to listen to the rhapsodies of a young
lady over her presentation at Court, to how our gracious Queen had
smiled kindly on her, and to how the world seemed full of happiness
and joy; she had to listen to the bemoanings of an elderly lady as to
the manner in which her servants behaved, and to sympathise with
another upon the way in which her son was ruining himself with
baccarat and racing. And she had to enter into full particulars as to
all things concerning her forthcoming marriage, to give exact accounts
of the way in which M. Delaruche was preparing her _trousseau_, and of
what alterations were to be made in Occleve House in London, and at
Occleve Chase in the country, for her reception; to hear the married
ladies congratulate her on the match she was making, and the younger
ones gush over the manly perfections of her future husband. But she
had also to tell them all that he would not be there this week, and to
listen to the chorus of astonishment that this statement produced..
"Not here, my dear Ida," the elderly lady, whose servants caused her
so much trouble, said. "Not here. Why, what a strange future husband!
To leave you alone for a whole week, and such a week, too, as the
Ascot one." And the elderly lady--whose husband at that moment was
offering to take four to one in hundreds from Sir Paul that Flip Flap
won his race--shook her head disapprovingly.
"Nothing will induce my son to stay away from Ascot," the mother of
the gambling young man said to herself. "He will be here to-night,
though he is not engaged to Ida." And the poor lady sighed deeply.
"I did so want to see him," the young lady who had just been
presented, remarked. "You know I have never met Lord Penlyn yet, and I
am dying to know him. They say he is _so_ good-looking."
Ida answered them all as well as she could, but she found it hard to
do so. And before she had had more than time to make a few confused
remarks on his being obliged to stop away, on account of business
connected with his property, another unpleasantness occurred.
"I have just heard very bad news, Miss Raughton," a tall gentleman
remarked, who had joined the group of ladies. "Sir Paul tells me that
Cundall isn't coming for the week. I'm particularly upset, for I
wanted him to give me some introductions in Vienna, to which I am just
off, you know."
Again the chorus rose, and again poor Ida had to explain that Mr.
Cundall was preparing to go abroad once more for a long period. And,
as she made the explanation, she could not keep down a tell-tale
blush. Seated in that group was more than one who had once thought
that, if she loved any man, that man was Walter Cundall.
"He doesn't care for horse-racing, I imagine," the ill-used mother
said.
"No more should I," the tall gentleman remarked, "if I had his money.
What fun could a race be to him, when a turf gamble would be like a
drop in the ocean to a man of his tremendous means?"
"And I have never seen _him_ either," the _débutante_ remarked, with a
look that was comically piteous. "Oh, dear! this is something
dreadful! Just think of both Lord Penlyn and Mr. Cundall being
absent."
"Don't you think some of us others can supply their places?" the
gentleman asked. "We will try very hard, you know!"
"Oh, yes! of course," she replied; "but then we know you, and we
don't--at least, I don't--know them. And then you care about racing,
and will be thinking of nothing but the horrid horses."
"I will promise to think about nothing but you," he said, lowering his
voice, "if you will let me."
At dinner, things were more comfortable for Ida. All the visitors knew
now that Penlyn and Cundall were certain absentees, and, having once
discussed this, they found plenty of other things to talk about. Sir
Paul had got all his guests well assorted, even to the melancholy
mother, who took comfort from the words of wisdom that dropped from
the mouth of the gentleman who wanted to back Flip Flap: "Let the boy
have his fling, madam, let him have his fling! There is nothing
sickens a man so much of gambling as an unlimited opportunity of
indulging in it. Give him this, and then, if he loses, pull him up
sharp on his allowance, and he'll be all right. When he finds he has
no more money to squander, he will either play so carefully that he
will begin to win, or he'll throw it up altogether. That is what they
generally do." It seemed, however, from his conversation, that he had
never done that himself.
Miss Norris, the young lady in her first season, was gradually getting
over, or, indeed, had got over, her disappointment, and now seemed
very comfortable with Mr. Fulke, the tall gentleman. He was a man of
the world as well as of society, and knew everybody, and she began to
think that, after all, she could support the absence of Lord Penlyn
and Mr. Cundall.
So the first night passed away very pleasantly, and Sir Paul
congratulated himself on the prospect of a pleasant week. Of course,
as was natural, a gentleman would occasionally interrupt a
conversation with his neighbour; a conversation on balls and dinners,
and the opera, and the last theatrical production; by leaning across
the table and saying to another gentleman, "I'll take you five to four
in tenners, or ponies, about that;" or, "you can have three hundred to
one hundred it doesn't win, if you like;" and, of course, also, there
would be the production of little silver-bound books afterwards, and
some hasty writing. But on the whole, though, the introduction of the
state of Lady Matilda's legs into the conversation, until it turned
out that she was a mare who was first favourite for the Cup, did
rather dismay some of the fairer portion of the guests, everything was
very nice and comfortable.
It was a hot night, an overpoweringly hot night, and every one was
glad to escape from the dining-room on to the lawn, where the footmen
had brought out lamp-lit tables for the coffee. It seemed to the
guests that there must be a thunderstorm brewing; indeed, towards
London, where there were heavy banks of lurid clouds massed together,
flashes of lightning were occasionally seen, and the thunder heard
rolling. But the gentlemen even derived consolation from this, and
said that a good storm would make the course--which was as hard as a
brick floor--better going, and would lay the dust on the country
roads.
At eleven o'clock the last guest, Mr. Montagu, the sportive son of the
sad lady, arrived, and, as he brought the latest racing information
from town, was eagerly welcomed.
"Yes," he said, after he had kissed his mother and had told her she
needn't bother herself about him, he was all right enough. "Yes! the
favourites are steady. I dropped into the 'Victoria' before coming
over to Waterloo, and took a look at the betting. There you are! And
here's the 'Special.'"
These were eagerly seized on and perused. Lady Matilda's legs, which
had been the cause of anxiety in the racing world for the past week,
seemed to be well enough to give her followers confidence; Mon Roi,
another great horse, was advancing in the betting; Flip Flap was all
right, and Sir Paul felt thankful he had not laid that bet of four
hundred to one hundred in the afternoon; and The Landlord was being
driven back. It took another hour for the gentlemen to get all their
opinions expressed, and then they went to their rooms, the ladies
having long since retired.
"Don't oversleep yourselves, any of you!" Sir Paul Raughton called out
cheerily. "We ought to get the four-in-hands under weigh by half-past
eleven at latest. Breakfast will be ready as soon as the earliest of
you."
Ida went to her room tired with the day's exertions; but her night's
rest was very broken. In the early part, the flashing of the lightning
and the roar of the thunder (the storm having now broken over the
neighbourhood) kept her awake, and when she slept she did so uneasily,
waking often. Once she started up and listened tremblingly, as though
hearing some unaccustomed sound, and even rose and opened her door,
and looked into the passage. "Of what was she afraid?" she asked
herself. The house was full of visitors; it was, of all times, the
least one likely for harm to come. Then she went back to bed and
eventually slept again, though only to dream. Her brain must have
retained what she had read in Walter Cundall's letter that morning,
for she dreamt that he was taking his farewell of her; only it seemed
that they were back again in the conservatory attached to Lady
Chesterton's ball-room. She was seated in the same place as she had
been when he told her of his love; she could hear the dreamy strains
of the very same waltz--nothing was changed, except that it seemed
darker, much darker; and she could do little more than recognise his
form and see his dark, sad eyes fixed on her. Then he bent over her
and kissed her gently on the forehead--more, as it seemed in her
dream, with a brother's than a lover's kiss--and said: "Farewell, for
ever! In this world we two shall never meet again." Then, as he turned
to go, she saw behind him another form with its face shrouded, but
with a figure that seemed wonderfully familiar to her, and, as he
faced it, it sprang upon him. And with a shriek she awoke--awoke to
see the bright sun shining in through her windows, to hear the birds
singing outside, and to notice that the hands of the clock pointed to
nearly eight.
And her first action was to kneel by the side of her bed and to thank
God that it was only a dream.