FAMILY COUNSELS.
The drawing-room of the house in Toorak where our heroine lived, looked
very cosy and comfortable a few hours later in the ruddy glow of the
firelight. It was a little before the days of domestic high art in
Victoria, and it was by no means the charming apartment that it is now.
There was no dado, no parquetry floor, no tiled hearth, no _etagere_
mantelpiece--nor Persian rugs under foot, nor Limoges plaques and
Benares dishes on the walls, nor Japanese screens and jars, nor
treasures of jade and china, nor anything, in fact, that there ought to
have been.
The pleasant firelight danced upon a whitewashed ceiling, plentifully
adorned with plaster-of-Paris mouldings, and upon whitey-grey walls
sprigged with golden flowers. The floor was completely covered with a
vivid green carpet, also sprinkled with flowers; and the windows were
draped with brilliant damask to match, depending from immense gilt
cornices in festoons looped with cords and tassels. There was a
cut-glass chandelier hanging down in the middle, and there was a
gigantic pier-glass reaching from the marble chimney-piece to the
plaster-of-Paris frieze, with little gold cupids sitting on the top of
it, tying wreaths of gold flowers into a knot. The chairs and couches
shone in slippery satin, with wonderful rosewood convolutions wriggling
out from them, that one could hardly venture to call legs; and there was
a terrible chiffonniere, full of looking-glasses, with a marble top,
reflecting all these splendours over and over again--which was quite
unnecessary.
Nevertheless, though Mrs. Hardy cannot look back upon it without a
shudder, the old room was a pleasant room. She herself came into it on
this occasion, having dressed a little earlier than usual, and was
struck by its air of luxurious warmth and comfort. She saw nothing to
shock her artistic susceptibilities; she liked the twinkle of her glass
drops, and the shine of her spacious mirror, and the deep glow of her
emerald satin and damask--though she would die sooner than own to it
now.
She went leisurely over to the fire, sank down in a low arm-chair, and
put up her feet on the fender to warm, with a distinct impression upon
her mind of congenial surroundings and satisfied aspirations. Long ago
she had been a poor man's wife--the most estimable and devoted of poor
men's wives--doing her own housework, making her own bread and butter,
nursing her own babies, mending her husband's clothes; and in those days
she had beautified her bush hut with cheap paper and chintz, and thought
it prettier than a palace.
Later on she had had a smart brick and stucco cottage, and in it a
drawing-room--her first drawing-room--with a green and scarlet drugget
on the floor, lace curtains over the window, a centre table (with a
basket of wax flowers under a shade in the middle), and a "suite" in
green rep disposed around; and this in its day had seemed to her an
apartment quite too good for common use. Next she had aspired to a
Brussels carpet, and by and bye to a pier-glass and a piano. And so she
had come by degrees to this Toorak splendour, in each stage feeling that
she had reached the summit of her ambition, and vindicated her claim to
the most correct taste.
The same process of evolution and development had taken place in
herself, outwardly and inwardly. She was naturally a kindly, honest,
good-hearted woman, and she was by birth a lady. But year by year nature
having much to struggle with had retired, step by step into the
background of her personality, and she was simply what the education of
society--her society--made her. Practically, fashion and _les
convenances_ were her gods. Those men or women who were not what she
generally termed "well-bred"--who were behind the times in social
matters, who had no place in her great world, nor any capacity for
making one--were not people to be received into her house, or to have
anything to do with. Her demeanour to such unfortunate individuals, when
she did happen to come into contact with them was, to say the least,
chilling.
Yet those who knew her best, declared that if any of these ineligibles
were to fall into great trouble, she would be the first to help and
befriend them if she could; and that if her husband were to lose his
fortune and suddenly plunge her into poverty again, she would set to
work to cook his dinners and mend his clothes with the same cheerful
willingness as of yore.
She sat in the warm firelight, toasting her feet, and her brain was busy
with projects. For some weeks past she had been troubled about her young
niece, on account of her too absurd innocence, and her ignorance of
social etiquette in many important details. The girl's manner and
carriage had been particularly easy and graceful, but she had constantly
counteracted the effect of this by a deplorable want of penetration as
to who was who, and of reticence concerning her own history and
experiences, which had been very mortifying to an aunt and _chaperon_
accustomed to better things; and her efforts to teach and train one who
seemed so gentle and pliant had been singularly unfruitful. Rachel was a
sweet child, and she was fond of her, and proud of her beauty;
nevertheless, she had declared to herself and to Beatrice more than
once, that she had never known a human creature so hopelessly dense and
stupid.
To-night, however, she took another view of the case. That rural
freshness had possibly found favour in the eyes of Mr. Kingston, who had
been the ideal son-in-law to so many mothers of so many polished
daughters. She was surprised, but she could understand it. For she knew
that men had all sorts of queer, independent, unaccountable ways of
looking at things--at women in particular; and she had already noticed
that they liked those ridiculous blushes--which to her mind showed a
painful want of culture and self-possession--in which the girl indulged
so freely.
What if she should be able to marry her to Mr. Kingston--who had foiled
the artifices of well-meaning matrons, and resisted the fascinations of
charming maidens exactly suited for him for so many years--after
marrying all her own children so well? That was the theme of her
meditations, and she found it deeply interesting. She longed for the
arrival of Beatrice, who was her eldest daughter and her chief
_confidante_ and adviser, to hear what she had to say about it.
She had been by herself about ten minutes, during which time a servant
had lit up the cut-glass chandelier, when there was a ring at the
door-bell, and Mr. and Mrs. Reade were ushered in. Mrs. Reade was a tiny
little dark woman, with a bright and clever, though by no means pretty,
face, in which no trace of the maternal features was visible.
She was beautifully dressed in palest pink, with crimson roses in her
hair, and delicate lace of great value about her tight skirt and her
narrow shoulders; and her distinguished appearance generally rejoiced
her mother's heart. Behind her towered her enormous husband, in whom
blue blood declined to manifest itself in the customary way. He was an
amiable, slow-witted, honest gentleman, with a large, weak face, rather
coarse and red, particularly towards bedtime, and heavy and awkward
manners; and he was as wax in the hands of the small person who owned
him.
"Ned," she said, looking back at him as she swept across the room, "you
go and find papa, and let mamma and me have a talk until the others come
in."
Ned obediently went--not to find his host, who was probably in the
dressing-room, but to read "The Argus" by the dining-room fire, while
the servants set the table. And the mother and daughter sat down
together to one of the confidential gossips that they loved. Mrs. Reade
began to unfold her little budget of news and scandal, but immediately
laid it by--to be resumed between the acts of the opera presently--while
she listened to Mrs. Hardy's account of the transactions of the
afternoon. It did not take that experienced matron long to explain
herself, and the younger lady was quick to grasp the situation. At first
she was inclined to scoff.
"Oh, we all know Mr. Kingston, mamma. He dangles after every fresh face,
but he never means anything. _He_ will never marry--at any rate, not
until he is too old to flirt any more."
"But, my dear, he is going to build his house."
"I don't believe a word of it," said Mrs. Reade. "He has been going to
build that house ever since I can remember. It is just one of his artful
devices. Whenever he wants to make a girl like him he tells her about
that house--just to set her longing to be the mistress of it. That is
the only use he will ever put it to. You'll see he will tell Rachel all
about it to-night. He will beg her to help him with her exquisite taste,
and so on. Oh, I know his ways. But he means nothing."
"He has already told Rachel," said Mrs. Hardy, laughing. "And, what is
more, he is going to bring the designs to show her, and he says he is
really going to put the work in hand at once."
"If so," said Mrs. Reade, gazing into the fire meditatively, "it looks
as if he had been proposing to settle himself--though I shall not
believe it till I see it. But then he must have made his plans before he
ever saw Rachel. It must be Sarah Brownlow he is thinking of, mamma."
"Sarah Brownlow passed him this afternoon, Beatrice, and he hardly
noticed her. While as for Rachel--well, I only wish you had been there
to see the way he looked at her, and the way he said good-bye. My
impression is that he thinks it is time to settle--as indeed it is,
goodness knows--and so has begun with his house; and that he is looking
about for a mistress for it, and that something in Rachel has struck
him. I am certain he is struck with Rachel."
Mrs. Reade gazed into the fire gravely, while she pondered over this
solemn announcement.
"It is possible," she said presently. "It is quite possible. All the men
are saying that she is the prettiest girl in Melbourne just now. An
elderly club man, who has seen much of the world, is very likely to
admire that kind of childish, simple creature. If it should be so," she
continued, musingly, "I wonder how Rachel will take it."
"Rachel," said Mrs. Hardy, with sudden energy, "is not so simple as she
seems. You mark my words, she will be as keen to make a good marriage as
anybody as soon as she gets the chance."
"Do you think so?" her daughter responded, looking up with her bright,
quick eyes. "Now that is not at all my notion of her."
"Nor was it mine at first, but I am getting new lights. It never does to
trust to that demure kind of shy manner. I assure you she made such use
of her opportunities this afternoon as surprised me, who am not easily
surprised. In about ten minutes--I could not have been in Alston's more
than ten minutes--they were on the most frank and friendly terms
possible, and she had given him a rose to wear in his button-hole."
"Nonsense!"
"I assure you, yes. And I know, by the look of him, that he never saw
through it. It is wonderful how even the cleverest men can be taken in
by that _ingenue_ manner. He evidently thought her a sweet and
unsophisticated child. Sweet she is--the most amiable little creature I
ever knew; but she knows what she is about perfectly well."
Mrs. Reade gazed into the fire again with thoughtful eyes; then after a
pause she said:
"I think you don't understand her, mamma. I think she really saw no more
in Mr. Kingston than she would have seen in any poor young man without a
penny."
"No, Beatrice. She talked about his new house, and all the money he was
going to spend on it, in a ridiculous way. She was completely fascinated
by the subject."
"I can't imagine little Rachel scheming to catch a rich husband," the
young lady exclaimed, with a mocking, but pleasant laugh.
"You don't see as much of her as I do, my dear Beatrice," her mother
replied, with dignity. "If you did, you would know that she is as fond
of money and luxury as any hardened woman of the world could be. She
quite fondles the ornaments I have put in her room. She goes into
raptures over the silver and china. A new dress sends her into
ecstacies. She annoys me sometimes--showing people so plainly that she
has never been used to anything nice. However, it will make it easier
for me to settle her than I at first thought it would be. It will be all
plain sailing with Mr. Kingston, you will see."
"Mother," said Mrs. Reade--she only said "mother" when she was very
much in earnest--"let me give you a word of advice. If you want to marry
Rachel to Mr. Kingston--and I hope you will, for it would be a capital
match--don't let her know anything about it; don't do anything to help
it on; don't let her see what is coming--leave them both alone. I think
I know her better than you do, and I have a pretty good idea of Mr.
Kingston; and any sort of interference with either of them would be most
injudicious--most dangerous. I shall see to-night--I'm sure I shall see
in a moment----"
There was a ring at the door-bell, and the stir of an arrival in the
hall, and the little woman did not finish what she wanted to say. She
rose from her chair, and shook out her pink train; and the mother to
whom she had laid down the law rose also, looking very majestic.
"Mr. Kingston," said the servant, throwing the drawing-room door open.
The great man entered with a springing step, bowing elaborately. His
glossy hair (some people said it was a wig, but it was not) was curled
to perfection; his moustaches were waxed to the finest needle-points; he
wore flashing diamond studs on an embroidered shirt front; and there was
a Marshal Neil rose in his button-hole, not very fresh, and too much
blown to be any ornament to a fine gentleman's evening toilet, hanging
its yellow head heavily from a weak and flabby stalk.