MRS. RENTON’S CALL.
And it was not later than the Wednesday after when Mrs. Renton, moved to
the pitch of heroism by the possible advantages to her boy, and
fortified by a large cupful of arrowroot, with some sherry in it, got
into her carriage and called at Richmont. Mary accompanied her, full of
curiosity and opposition. Mary herself had thought Nelly Rich ‘nice’
when she met her and had no particular call to be interested in her; but
now her feelings were much less amiable. A little sprite of evil
tempting Frank to do what he ought not to do,--this was the idea which
now entered Mary’s mind as to her little neighbour. But, nevertheless,
of course she accompanied her aunt merely to smile and say polite things
to everybody. She could not help it; it was the duty which life exacted
of a well-bred maiden. It was a very fine day, and both the ladies
sallied forth with the hope, common to people who pay morning visits, of
finding that the Riches were out, and that a card would serve all
purposes of civility. ‘They are sure to be out such a beautiful day,’
said Mrs. Renton. ‘I hope you put some cards in my case, Mary; and write
your name on one, my dear, that they may see we have both called, should
like to pay every attention, in case of anything----’ Mary made a
little wry face, but scribbled her name all the same, without any
remark. But when they drew up before the door at Richmont their
delusions were all scattered to the winds. Everybody was in,--Mr. Rich,
Mrs. Rich, Miss Rich; and Mrs. Renton, not without an effort, got out of
her carriage. She was much impressed by the beautiful footmen who stood
about the hall. ‘Poor old Beecham!’ she said in her niece’s ear; ‘it
never was kept up as it ought to be in their time,--poor things!’ and
her heart melted towards the people who had everything in such order.
‘It would be a lesson to Sargent to see that garden,’ she said; ‘only to
see it. Oh, my dear, what money can do!’ So went in, with her mind
prepared to be friendly. Mrs. Rich received her in a considerable
flutter. She was the first county lady of any importance who had done
her so much honour. Finer people than Mrs. Renton, indeed, had come down
from town to the Riches’ parties, and taken the good of all that was
going, and laughed at the hosts for their pains; but no leader of the
county had yet presented herself. Mrs. Renton was, as the maids say,
_passée_, but, nevertheless, her countenance was as good as any one’s
for a beginning. She might have withdrawn from the world, but so much
the mere was the world likely to be impressed by her example. It was the
first ray of the sunshine of local grandeur in which it was the desire
of Mrs. Rich’s heart to bask.
‘This is so kind,--so very kind,’ she said in her flutter. ‘You must let
me send for my daughter. She is in her favourite room, with her pictures
and her books; but she would not miss you for the world. This is the
most comfortable corner, with no draughts. Some tea, Baker; let Miss
Rich know Mrs. Renton is here.’
‘Pray, don’t disturb yourself,’ Mrs. Renton said. ‘I scarcely ever go
out; but it is such a lovely day.’
‘And so kind of you!’ repeated the lady of the house. ‘I had heard so
much of your family,--such nice young men, and everything so charming,
that I confess I have been longing for you to call. And I have the
pleasure of knowing two of your sons, Mrs. Renton,--Mr. Frank, and the
one next to him,--Mr. Laurence, I think,--delightful young men. I hope
Mr. Frank does not really mean to go to India. It would be such a loss
to the neighbourhood. I was telling him he ought to marry an heiress,
and settle down in the county, and make himself comfortable. I told him
I should have you on my side. And such a good son as he seems to
be,--so fond of you. He surely cannot mean to go away.’
‘I am sure,’ said Mrs. Renton, ‘I should be very thankful if any strong
inducement fell in his way to keep him at home.’ And just at this moment
Nelly came in, in a white gown, with her favourite scarlet ribbons. The
dress was not of flimsy materials, but dead, solid white, relieved by
the red; and there was a flush upon her dark, clear cheek, and unusual
brilliancy in her eyes. Frank’s mother stopped short with these words on
her lips, and looked at Nelly. Was she the strong inducement? She was a
little agitated, and the nervousness and excitement made her almost
beautiful. Mary Westbury stared at her too, open-mouthed, thinking,
after all, Frank might have other motives. Nelly came in with a touch of
shyness, very unusual to her. The nearest female relations of one who,
perhaps----. If she had been even more agitated than she was, it would
have been natural enough.
‘This is my daughter Nelly,’ said Mrs. Rich; ‘my only daughter. She can
tell you more about it than I can. We are to have a little fête for her
on Monday week,--archery and croquet, and that sort of thing, and a
dance in the evening. It would give us all the greatest pleasure if Miss
Westbury would come. Nelly, you must try and persuade Miss Westbury.
Indeed, I assure you, I spoke to Mr. Frank quite seriously,’ Mrs. Rich
added, sinking into a confidential tone, as she changed her seat to one
close to her much-prized visitor. ‘And he is so fond of you. I am sure
he will not go if he can help it. How nice he is! and how popular among
the gentlemen! We were delighted with the chance which kept him here all
Sunday. Sunday in the country is such a nice domestic sort of day. There
is nothing like it for making people acquainted with each other. I was
so glad when I heard the hours pass and no sound of wheels. I think
before he left us that he got really to feel that we were his friends.’
‘He was very grateful to you for your kindness, I am sure,’ said Mrs.
Renton, who, though she could talk herself upon occasions, was fairly
overflooded and carried away by this flowing current of speech.
‘Oh, grateful,--no!; said Mrs. Rich; ‘that word would be quite
misapplied. It is we who should be grateful to him,--a young man
accustomed to the best society,--for putting up with a family party. And
your other son, Mrs. Renton, is delightful too. We met him in town. He
took us to a friend of his, Mr. Suffolk, the painter, where Mr. Rich
bought a most lovely picture. I should ask you to go up to the
music-room and look at it but for the stairs. It is a trial going up so
many stairs. Yes, we have done a great deal to the house. It must be
strange to you, coming to call at a house you once knew so well. But, as
Mr. Rich says, it is not our fault. We gave a very good price for it;
and, if we had not bought it, some one else would. My husband has laid
out a great deal of money upon it. He has excellent taste, everybody
says; and, of course, being well off, he does not need to consider every
penny, as, unfortunately, so many excellent people have to do. You would
be pleased if you saw the music-room,--quite a fine domestic chapel they
tell us. We have hung Mr. Suffolk’s picture there. If you are fond of
pictures----’
‘Oh, thanks! but I am not able to move about and look at things as I
used to be,’ cried Mrs. Renton, in alarm.
‘To be sure,’ said her anxious hostess; ‘I ought to have thought of
that. You will take a cup of tea? It is so refreshing after a long
drive. Your son is quite a painter, I know, and so is my daughter. I
tell her I cannot tell where she has got it, for we neither of us could
draw a line to save our lives, neither her father nor me.’
Thus Mrs. Rich fluttered on, more fluent than ever, probably in
consequence of her agitation. She was anxious to show herself at her
best to her visitor, and the consequence was that Mrs. Renton went away
sadly fatigued, and with a sensation of pity for Frank. ‘I never could
get a word in,’ she said, indignantly, when she found herself safely
ensconced once more in the corner of the carriage. ‘Mary, have you some
eau-de-Cologne? I feel as if I were good for nothing but to go to
sleep.’
‘Then go to sleep, dear godmamma,’ said Mary, soothingly; ‘don’t mind
me; I have plenty to think about, and I am sure you are tired. But Miss
Rich is not so heavy as her mother,’ she added, conscientiously. Her
heart compelled her to do justice to Nelly, but it was against the
grain.
‘I don’t know much about Miss Rich,’ said Mrs. Renton, sighing in her
fatigue. And she closed her eyes, lying back in her corner, and dozed,
or appeared to doze. As for Mary, she had, as she said, a great deal to
think about, and indulged herself accordingly, having perfect leisure.
But Mary’s thoughts had more of a sting in them than her aunt’s. She was
thinking somewhat bitterly of the difference between hope and reality.
How hopeful, how promising had been all those young men, her cousins!
She herself, feeling herself as a woman as old as the eldest, though she
was in fact the same age as the youngest, had thought of them in the
exalted way common to young women. Something better than usual, she had
felt, must fall to their fate. And yet so soon, so suddenly, what a
miserable end had come to her dreams! Ben, for whose express benefit
some unimaginable creature had always been invented in Mary’s thoughts,
had allowed himself to be taken captive by the first beautiful face,
unaccompanied by anything better. He had set a creature on the
supremest pedestal who was not worthy to be his servant, Mary thought.
He had been beguiled and taken in by mere beauty,--not beauty even in
which there was any soul. And Frank was going to marry money! She did
not know about Laurie. Perhaps had she been aware how far he had erred
on the other side, and how his admiration for the soul and heart had led
him away, she might have been still more horror-stricken. The difference
between fact and expectation made her heart sink. Was this all that hope
was good for? was this all that men were good for? to be deceived or to
deceive; to fall victims to a little art and a pair of bright eyes; or
to affect a love which they did not feel? Mary’s heart sank within her,
as she thought it all over. But her thoughts were interrupted by Mrs.
Renton, who stirred uneasily every five minutes and said something to
her.
‘I never saw Beecham look the least like what it does now,’ Mrs. Renton
murmured, and then closed her eyes again. ‘I wonder what they are really
worth,’ she would say next, drowsily, with her eyes shut, ‘when they can
afford to spend so much on setting the house to rights. But the woman is
insupportable,’ Mrs. Renton added, with much energy.
Thus they went home again over Cookesley bridge and across the smiling
country.
‘I am sorry you did not speak to Miss Rich, godmamma,’ said Mary, as
they approached the gate of the Manor; ‘she is very nice, and just as
well bred as other people. I never could have told the difference.’ A
sentiment which, forced as it was from her by pure conscientiousness,
made Mrs. Renton shake her head,--
‘Ah, my dear, I never could have been deceived,’ she said. ‘When I saw
her sitting by you, I said to myself in a moment, How easy it is to see
which is the gentlewoman! But she is not so bad as her mother,--I can
understand that.’
‘She is not bad at all,’ said Mary; ‘and if that is really what is going
to happen,--though I hope not with all my heart----’
‘Why should you hope not? ‘Mrs. Renton cried, sitting bolt upright, and
opening her eyes wide. ‘How unkind of you, Mary! Don’t you see the poor
boy may never have such a chance again? If we had her entirely in our
own hands we might make a difference. I must speak to Frank to begin
from the beginning, keeping her as much as possible away from her own
family. I wonder what the father looks like? The family are so
objectionable,’ said Mrs. Renton, seriously, ‘that such an arrangement
would be indispensable,--at least if he ever hoped to make his way in
society. I don’t think I ever was so tired of any call in my life.’
‘But her family may be fond of her,’ said Mary, ‘all the same.’
‘Fond of her, my dear!’ cried Mrs. Renton, with energy; ‘what does that
matter? You would not have a young man like Frank give up the society of
his equals on account of his wife’s family. It would be absurd. Besides,
it will be the very best thing he could do for her to bring her away
from such an influence; nobody would ever visit her there.’
‘But, dear godmamma,’ said Mary, persisting with the unreasonableness of
youth, ‘if that is the case, would it not be better for Frank to
withdraw from it altogether? For nothing seems to be settled yet, and I
think he might still withdraw.’
Mrs. Renton gave a cry of horror and alarm. ‘I can’t think where you
have got such foolish notions,’ she said. ‘Why should he withdraw? I
tell you I think it is very doubtful if he ever has such a chance again.
Weak as I am, you see what an effort I have made to-day on his behalf. I
am frightened by that woman, but I would do it again rather than
anything should come in his way. I would actually do it again!’ said the
devoted mother; and after such an heroic decision what could any one
say?
As for Mrs. Rich and her daughter, they were quite unconscious of the
feelings which moved Mrs. Renton. When the carriage disappeared down the
avenue Mrs. Rich drew Nelly to her, and gave her a soft, maternal kiss.
‘If you ever have anything to do with that old lady,’ she said, ‘you
will not find her difficult to manage, my dear. I was thinking of that
all the time she was here. “My Nelly will turn you round her little
finger,” I said to myself. She is not one of your hard, fine ladies,
that are as easy to be moved as the living rock.’
‘I don’t see that it matters to me,’ Nelly said, impatiently. ‘Mamma, I
wish you would not go on thinking that every new person we meet----. It
is quite ridiculous. Why should I have anything to do with her? And I
don’t think she would be easy to manage. She gave me a look as I came
in, and lifted her eyebrows while you were speaking,----’
‘She was as sweet as sugar to me,’ said Mrs. Rich, ‘and I hope I can see
through people as fast as any one; and it is you who are ridiculous, my
dear. As if you did not know as well as I do that Frank Renton does not
come here without a reason. He is a young man who knows quite well what
he is about; and, of course, it is he that has sent his mother. That
Miss Westbury did not look half pleased, Nelly. I should not wonder if
she wanted to keep her cousin for herself.’
‘Mamma, you are too bad; you are always saying things about people,’
said Nelly. ‘She may have all the Rentons in the world for me. What do I
care for her cousin? And why cannot you let me alone as I am? I am much
happier here than I should be anywhere else. I hate all those silly
young men.’
‘Ah! my dear, I know what nonsense girls talk,’ said Mrs. Rich; ‘but I
hope I know better than to pay any attention. I should be glad to keep
you always at home, Nelly; but I am not a fool, and that can’t be. And
isn’t it better to fix upon somebody that is nice, and will be fond of
you, and will not take you away from us? That has always been my idea
for you. I made up my mind from your cradle, Nelly, that I would choose
some one for you. Many people in our position, as well off as your papa
is, would want a title for their only daughter; but I want somebody to
make you happy, my pet, and that will not be too grand, and take you
away from your father and me.’
‘That you may be sure no man shall ever do,’ said Nelly, returning her
mother’s kiss.
If Mrs. Rich had but heard what the other mother was saying as she drove
home,--‘I will speak to Frank to keep her as much away from her own
family as possible!’ Or if she had been aware of the calculation in
Frank’s mind about the houses which were to be had in the county, and
his decision in favour of Cookesley Lodge as being farther off from
Richmont! Thus the two sets of people went on in their parallel lines,
never coming within sight of each other. After all, it was poor Nelly
for whom the question was most important. She went away across the park
in her white gown, with her pretty waving ribbons, and a sketch-book
under her arm, after this talk with her mother. Nelly had not attained
the highest type of maidenly refinement. She had adopted something of
that exalted code of manners which entitles a young princess to signify
her preference. She was rich and petted, and set upon a pedestal, a kind
of little princess in her way; and she had perhaps permitted Frank to
see that his attentions would be acceptable to her in a more distinct
manner than is quite usual. She was even conscious that she had done so,
but the consciousness did not disturb her much. Communing with herself
vaguely as she sat down under a tree, and arranged her materials for
sketching, Nelly came to some very sensible conclusions about the
matter. Yes; she liked Frank; he was nice, and he was very suitable. Her
eye had singled him out instinctively from the little crowd of Guardsmen
the first time she had seen him. Perhaps he was not clever,--not so
clever as could have been wished; but he was very good-looking, and he
was nice. And then, perhaps, he was younger than she quite liked him to
be; but Nelly told herself philosophically that you could not expect to
have everything. Her own ideal had been different. He had been thirty at
least, a man of experience, with a story and unknown depths in his life;
and he had been a man of splendid intellect, and looked up to by
everybody; and he had been dark, with wonderful eyes, and a face full of
expression. Whereas Frank Renton was fair, with eyes just like other
people’s, very young, and not intellectual at all. But he was
nice,--that was the point to which Nelly’s reflections always came back.
And he was a gentleman of a family very well known in Berks, and would
please papa and mamma by settling near them. And Nelly in her heart
secretly believed, though even in her thoughts she did not express it,
that Frank, though he might please papa and mamma by settling down,
would in the meantime please herself by taking her all over the world.
His ideal of the hunters and the terriers was very different from her
ideal, though the latter was quite as distinct in its way. No doubt a
young couple moving about wherever they pleased, dancing through the
world here and there, over mountains and valleys, stopping where they
liked, rushing about wherever the spirit moved them,--would be a very
different thing from the caravanserai progress through Italy
contemplated by papa and mamma and all their dependants. This was
Nelly’s ideal, very clearly drawn, and most seductive to her mind. Two
people can go anywhere;--a young woman need not mind where she goes, nor
how she travels, so long as her husband is with her. Even Mrs. Severn
had told her stories of the early wanderings of the poor, joyous young
painter-pair, which had filled Nelly’s heart with longing. To be sure
he was no artist; but still his presence would throw everything open to
his young wife, and make every kind of pleasant adventure possible. No
longer would there be necessity for pausing to reflect,--Was this
proper? was it correct to do so and so? ‘You may go anywhere with your
husband,’ was a sentiment that Nelly had been in the way of hearing all
her life.
Thus it will be seen that Nelly Rich was not so much to be pitied as
Mary Westbury thought. This marriage,--if it came to a marriage,--was an
affair involving mingled motives on her part as well as Frank’s. Yet, as
she sat under the tree with her bright face shadowed by the leaves, and
her white dress blazing in the sunshine, she might have been a little
lady of romance, with the flowers all breathing fragrance around her,
and above the tenderest blue of summer skies.