A DISCOVERY.
There was a great ball at Toorak on the night of the wedding, and like
all the nuptial ceremonies, it went off with great _eclat_.
Mrs. Hardy recovered her serenity very quickly after the bride's
departure, and appeared in the evening, clothed in smiles and sapphire
velvet, looking the proud woman that it was generally conceded she had a
right to be. Lucilla, at home for the first time since her sister
Laura's wedding, and since her accession to the dignities of maternity,
and carrying herself very prettily as a personage of consequence amongst
the unmarried friends of her girlhood, looked extremely well and very
happy, and reflected great honour upon her family in a variety of ways.
Beatrice also was unusually brilliant, not only in her personal
appearance, but in her mode of discharging the duties of the occasion--a
little too much so, indeed, if anything.
Some elderly ladies, and a very few young men, were subsequently heard
to express an opinion that she carried that sharp and satirical manner
of hers to an excess that was unbecoming in a person of her sex and
years, even if she had married money and become a leader of fashion.
A little after midnight, these two young women, the one for the sake of
her baby, and the other on account of her husband, excused themselves
from further attendance on Mrs. Hardy, and drove back to South Yarra,
where the Thornleys were staying, carrying their willing lords along
with them.
When they reached home, where of course they found bright fires ready
for them, the men retired to the smoking-room, Mrs. Reade having laid
upon her brother-in-law the responsibility of keeping his host from
getting "any worse than he was already;" and the ladies went upstairs to
Lucilla's apartment.
Lucilla having only arrived in town the day before, she and her sister
had had no opportunity for what they called a good talk; and now the
baby being found asleep and in his nurse's charge for the night, they
sat down to begin it, having previously got rid of ball-room finery and
made themselves comfortable in their dressing-gowns.
"Does Ned often get--a--like this?" Mrs. Thornley began, with a
compassionate inflection in her soft voice. She knew of course that one
couldn't expect everything, but still she was sorry that her sister's
excellent marriage should have this particular drawback, than which she
could hardly imagine one more unpleasant and embarrassing, and that a
nice fellow like Ned, with a noble pedigree and the sweetest temper in
the world, should take his social pleasures as a shearer would celebrate
pay-day.
Mrs. Reade was thinking, at the same moment, that John was ageing very
fast and getting immensely stout, and that his manner of addressing his
wife, and his bearing towards her generally, was more peremptory and
dictatorial than _she_ would feel inclined to put up with if she were in
Lucilla's place.
"Oh, no," said the little woman, sharply; "it is only on these festive
occasions, when I am not able to look after him properly. And at the
worst he is not very bad. He never gets obstinate and quarrelsome, as
some men do--only vaguely argumentative and subsequently sleepy. I
should think no husband, with so pronounced a tendency that way could be
easier to manage--if one knows how to manage."
"You were always a splendid manager, Beatrice."
"Well, I just hold him well in hand--that's all. I know he can't help
it, to a certain extent, so I don't keep always worrying at him about
it. It is only now and then that I give him a real good talking to--to
prevent his thinking I might grow indifferent, as much as anything."
"He is such a dear, good fellow," said Lucilla, "but for that."
"He is a dear, good fellow, in spite of that," replied Beatrice, who
allowed no one but herself to disparage her husband. "He is better worth
having, with all his faults--and that is about the only one he has--than
most of your brilliant society men. I only hope Mr. Kingston will be as
little trouble to Rachel as Ned has been to me--and half as good and
kind to her."
"Yes, dear. I didn't mean to say that he wasn't the best of
husbands--far from it. Indeed, we may both be thankful for our good luck
in that respect--all of us, I should say. I should think no four girls
in one family are more happily situated than we are."
"I hope so," sighed Mrs. Reade. "I hope we are all as happy as--as we
are well off otherwise."
"Dear little Rachel!" said Mrs. Thornley, musingly. "I don't think there
is any doubt about her being happy. It is quite extraordinary to see how
fond of her Mr. Kingston is--_really_ fond of her, I mean. Did you think
he would ever marry such a young girl, Beatrice? and be so terribly
anxious to do it, too? I didn't. I suppose it was her beauty captivated
him."
"No," said Beatrice; "it was the fact that she didn't want to captivate
him. That has been her charm all along--he has felt that his honour was
concerned in making her, and it has been a difficult task."
"Oh, but I know he thinks a great deal about beauty, and she is really
the prettiest girl in Melbourne, I do think, though she does belong to
us. She did not look so pretty to-day though, as I expected she would.
That dead-white in the morning that brides have to wear does spoil even
the best complexion. I thought hers could stand anything, but it can't
stand that. When she wears it in the evening, now--not dead-white, but
transparent white--she is a perfect picture. At that ball of ours last
year everybody was talking of her. She was in Indian muslin. John said
she was like a wood anemone."
Mrs. Reade was gazing thoughtfully into the fire. The mention of the
ball at Adelonga stirred many troubled thoughts. The real importance of
that event, in its effect upon Rachel, had never been known to Mrs.
Thornley, who was led to suppose that the suspension of Mr. Kingston's
engagement in October was solely due to certain laxities on his part,
which the girl would not condone.
Mrs. Hardy's terror lest "people" should get to know that a member of
her family had had any dealings of a compromising nature with such a
person as she considered Mr. Dalrymple to be had been the cause of this
extreme reticence.
A general impression prevailed amongst the guests who had attended the
ball, that the handsome ex-hussar had admired the belle of the evening
to an extent that had roused the wrath of her _fiance_ against him; but
no one, strange to say, had been able to discover more than that.
Mr. Dalrymple himself never had confidantes in these matters; and Mr.
Kingston, when he was enlightened at Christmas, was as little desirous
as Mrs. Hardy that the facts of the case should be published. Beatrice
and Rachel, who alone discussed them freely, did so with the strictest
secresy.
Mrs. Reade had no confidential intercourse with her mother, as of yore,
on the subject of her cousin's welfare. They had jointly resolved, just
before the younger lady set out for her summer visit to Adelonga, that
it would be safer to exclude Lucilla (as a married woman who told her
husband everything) from any participation in the knowledge of the
mischief that Mr. Dalrymple had done, and of Rachel's unfortunate
infatuation for him--which did not seem so very serious at that time;
and since then his name had scarcely been mentioned between them.
Now, however, the anxious little woman, with a load of care that she
was by no means used to weighing on her heart, was impelled to take
advantage of the opportunity offered by Lucilla's reference to that
momentous ball to put a question that had suddenly become to herself,
tormentingly importunate.
"Has anything been heard of that Mr. Dalrymple lately?"
"Oh, yes," said Lucilla; "he is gradually getting better."
"Getting better!" echoed Beatrice, sharply. "Why, what is the matter
with him? Is he ill?"
"Didn't you hear? He had a dreadful accident. He was breaking-in a young
horse that was very wild, and it bucked him off, or did something, and
he fell on his head. It is a wonder he didn't break his neck. No one
saw it happen, for he was away on the plains by himself, and it was only
when he did not come home at night that Mr. Gordon went to look for him.
They were a long time finding him, and he had been there for hours, and
he was quite insensible. There were some wild dogs sniffing at him, as
if he were really dead. Indeed, Mr. Gordon said, if they hadn't found
him when they did, the dingoes would probably have made an end of him.
Was it not dreadful?"
Mrs. Reade was staring at the fire, not displaying that interest in the
narrative that its tragic details demanded, apparently.
"When did it happen?" she asked quietly, without lifting her eyes.
"Oh, some time ago--in December. We did not hear of it until January.
But he is only now able to get out of bed and crawl about, poor fellow.
He was dreadfully hurt. His brain was affected, and the summer weather
in that hot place was so much against him. And, of course, he couldn't
have what he wanted up there, and was too bad to be moved. Mrs. Digby
went there to nurse him--the Hales took the children for her. It was
enough to kill her, so delicate as she is; but she would go. She
idolises him almost. Mr. Digby went with her, and stayed till the worst
was over. And Mr. Gordon was most devoted--he went all the way to
Melbourne to consult the doctors there about him, travelling night and
day."
"Were there no doctors nearer than Melbourne?"
"Yes, of course; they had two. But he wanted the best opinions. He is
Mr. Dalrymple's partner, you know, and they were old friends before they
came out here."
"And did Mr. Dalrymple seem to be any better after he got the Melbourne
prescriptions?"
"No; it was not a case where doctors could do much. He seemed to rally a
little while Mr. Gordon was away, but he had a bad relapse afterwards.
The weather became frightfully hot, and the fever of course got worse.
He was delirious for a whole fortnight, and then he was so low that he
just seemed sinking. However, he must be an amazingly strong man
naturally. He managed to struggle through it, and now he is getting
about, and all danger is over, though Mrs. Digby says he is like a
walking skeleton. I expect she will have brought him home with her by
the time we go back; he will soon get well when she has him in her own
house. I shall go over and see him," added Lucilla, compassionately;
"and I shall ask him to come to Adelonga, as soon as he is strong
enough, and let _me_ nurse him for a few weeks."
Mrs. Reade had before her mind's eye that photograph which her sister
had shown her in Mrs. Digby's house. She saw every lineament of the
powerful, impressive face distinctly--even in a photograph it was not a
face that once looked at, could be forgotten; and she pictured to
herself the changes that months of wasting illness would have made in
it.
A warm rush of indignant pity, mingled with something near akin to
admiration, filled her heart, which was wont to indulge itself in
womanly weaknesses--an impulse to champion and befriend this man of so
kingly a presence, whose sins, whatever they were, were balanced with so
many misfortunes. And yet for a moment she could not help regretting
that his fall from his horse had not broken his neck.
Ned, guiltily creeping into his dressing-room about half an hour later,
never had the fumes of superfluous champagne dispersed from his brain
so quickly. He saw his wife sitting by her own fireside, with her feet
on the fender and her face in her hands, crying--actually crying--like
any common woman.