I MEET THE HEIRESS--I FIND MYSELF MISTAKEN ON MANY POINTS--A NEW KNOT
IN THE FAMILY COMPLICATIONS
Leo came to the Hall. "His" heiress came to the Towers, but not
"mine." She was to follow shortly.
I could not make out how matters stood between Leo and Polly. When
Damer came, Polly was three times as _brusque_ with him as with any of
us; he himself seemed dreamy, and just as usual.
We went to dine at the Towers. We were rather late. Leo, in right of
his rank, took a dowager of position in to dinner. Our host led me
across the room, and introduced me to "Miss Chislett."
[Illustration: It was only a quiet dinner party, and Miss Chislett had
brought out her needlework.]
She was not the sort of person I expected. It just flashed across me
that I understood something of Polly's remark about Frances Chislett
making her feel "rough." My cousins were ladies in every sense of the
term, but Miss Chislett had a certain perfection of courteous grace
and dignified refinement, in every word, and gesture, and attitude, as
utterly natural to her as the vigorous tread of any barefooted peasant
girl, and which one does meet with (but by no means invariably) among
women of the highest class in England. Her dignity fell short of
haughtiness (which is not high breeding, and is very easy of
assumption); her grace and courtesy were the simple results of
constant and skilful consideration for other people, and of a
self-respect sufficient to dispense with self-consciousness. The
advantage of wealth was evident in the exquisite taste and general
effect of her costume. She was not beautiful, and yet I felt disposed
for an angry argument with my cousins on the subject of her looks. Her
head was nobly shaped, her figure was tall and beautiful, her grey
eyes haunted one. I never took any lady to dinner who gave me so
little trouble. When we had been together for two minutes, I felt as
if I had known her for years.
"Well, what do you think of her?" said Polly, when we met in the
drawing-room. Polly had been taken in by Mr. Clerke, and they had
neither of them paid much attention to what the other was saying.
Maria had said "yes" and "no" alternately to the observations of the
elderly and Honourable Mr. Edward Glynn; but as he was deaf this
mattered the less.
"Was I right?" said Polly.
"No," said I; "she's not a bit strong-minded." Polly laughed.
"I'll say one thing for her," said I; "I don't mind how often I take
her in to dinner. She doesn't expect you to make conversation."
"Why, my dear Regie," said Polly, "you've been talking the whole of
dinner-time!"
Leo had seated himself by the heiress. Poor Polly's eyes kept
wandering towards them, and (I suppose, because I had heard so much
about her) so did mine. It was only a quiet dinner-party, and Miss
Chislett had brought out her needlework, some gossamer lace affair,
and Leo leant over the sofa where she sat, playing with the contents
of her workbox. Polly's eyes and mine were not the only ones turned
towards them. Ours was not the only interest in the future Lady Damer.
Aunt Maria carried Polly off to the piano to "give us a little music,"
and I sat down and stultified myself with an album at the table, and
Frances Chislett chatted with Sir Lionel. They were close by me, and
every word they said was audible. It was the veriest chit-chat, and
Leo's remarks on the little bunch of charms and knicknacks that he
found in the workbox seemed trivial to foolishness. "I'd no idea Damer
was so empty-headed," I thought, and I rather despised Miss Chislett
for smiling at his feeble conversation.
"I often wonder what's the use of farthings," I heard him say as he
turned one over in the bunch of knicknacks. "They won't buy anything
(unless it's a box of matches). They only help tradesmen to cheat when
they're 'selling off.'"
"I beg your pardon," said Miss Chislett, "I have bought most charming
things for a farthing each."
"So have I," said I, turning round on my chair, and joining in the
conversation, which seemed less purposeless after I began to take part
in it. Leo looked at us both with a puzzled air.
"Frying-pans, for instance," said Miss Chislett.
"--and gridirons," said I.
"Plates, knives, and forks," said the heiress.
"--and flat irons," I concluded; playing involuntarily with the blob
of lead which still hung at my watch-chain.
Polly had finished her performance, and was now standing near us. She
understood the allusion, and laughed.
"Do _you_ know what they're talking about?" asked Sir Lionel, going
up to her. I sat down by the heiress.
"Were you ever at Oakford?" she asked, turning her grey eyes on me.
She spoke almost abruptly, and with a touch of imperiousness that
suddenly recalled to me where I had seen those eyes before.
"Certainly," said I, "and at the tinsmith's."
"What were you doing there?" she asked, and after all these years
there was no mistaking the accent and gesture of the little lady of
the grey beaver. Before she had well begun her apology for the
question, I had answered it,
"BUYING A FLAT IRON FOR A FARTHING."
* * * * *
"Well, you've gone it hard to-night, old fellow," said Damer, as we
drove away from the Towers. "You and Miss Chislett will be county talk
for six months to come."
"Nonsense," said I, "we knew each other years ago, and had a good deal
to talk about."
But to Polly, as we parted for the night in the corridor, I said, "My
dear child, to add to all the family complications, I'm head over ears
in love with the future Lady Damer."