“ROWENA”--FULL LIFE SIZE.
The astonishing news that had come to Merry Meetings, was soon shared
by the entire village, thanks to Susan’s sister, who filled the
post of messenger and charwoman. The letter was warmly discussed,
in the sanded parlour of The Cause is Altered inn, over the counter
at Hogben’s the grocer, at the rectory, at Dr. Banks’, and also by
the Trevors--the family at the hall--a family to whom the Misses
Gordon were indebted for most of their trivial gaieties. Opinion,
whether in hall or tap-room, was for once unanimous. Of course one
of the Gordons must accept her rich uncle’s offer, and that without
any foolish or unnecessary delay. Although it was a wet afternoon,
Cara and Sophy Trevor, Mrs. Banks, the rector, and Mrs. Kerry,
arrived almost simultaneously at Merry Meetings, and half filled the
drawing-room; which was of moderate size, with a southern aspect, and
deep comfortable window-seats. The furniture was old-fashioned, and
the carpet threadbare, but a few wicker chairs, a couple of Persian
rugs, a quantity of pictures, books, flowers, and needlework, covered
many deficiencies; it was the general sitting-room of the family, and
if not always perfectly tidy, was at any rate delightfully home-like,
vastly different to so many of its name-sakes, which have a fire on
stated days; gaunt, formal apartments, solely devoted to visitors. Mrs.
Gordon’s friends dropped in at all hours, but chiefly at five o’clock,
and the tea and hot cakes, dispensed at Merry Meetings, were considered
unequalled in those parts.
Behold a selection of Mrs. Gordon’s nearest neighbours gathered
eagerly round her hearth, whilst Honor made tea in thin, old shallow
cups.
“We all met at the gate!” explained Cara Trevor, “and have come, as
you see, to call on you in a body, to hear your news with our very own
ears. Is it true, dear lady, that one of the girls is going out to
India immediately?”
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Gordon. “I heard from my sister-in-law this
morning, she and my brother are most anxious to have one of their
nieces on a visit; they give us very short notice--only a fortnight.
Honor, my love, Cara will take another cake.”
“No, no, thank you,” cried Miss Trevor, impatiently. “Pray do go on,
and tell me all about this delightful invitation, Honor. Where is your
uncle; in what part of India?”
“He is at Shirani, a hill station, most of the year. I believe he has
rather a good appointment, something to do with the revenue.”
“I know all about Shirani,” answered Sophy Trevor, with an air of
unusual importance. “We had a cousin quartered there once; it is a
capital place for shooting, dancing, picnics, and tennis-parties--so
different to this dead and alive Hoyle. It really ought to be spelt
without the _y_. I wish some one would ask _me_ to India. I would be
ready to start to-night, with just a couple of basket-trunks and a
dressing-bag. Which of you is going? I suppose you have not thought of
it yet?” but she looked straight at Honor.
“Oh, it is quite settled,” rejoined Fairy, in her clear shrill voice.
“It was decided at once, as there is not a second to spare. You are to
lose _me_,” and she laughed affectedly. She had an extraordinarily loud
laugh for such a little woman.
But there was no responding echo--no, not even a smile; on the
contrary, an expression of blank consternation settled down on every
countenance.
Mrs. Banks was the first to recover the power of speech, as with
a somewhat hysterical giggle, she remarked to the company the
self-evident fact--
“I suppose the Indian mail came in to-day?”
“Yes,” responded Jessie, adding significantly, “and goes out on
Thursday, so we have not sent an answer to Uncle Pelham as yet.”
“He does not know what is in store for him,” murmured Mrs. Kerry to
Mrs. Banks, as she rose and put her tea-cup on a table beside her.
Meanwhile Fairy had produced a number of bundles of patterns of dress
materials, and requested the two Miss Trevors to give an opinion of
their merits. This created a merciful diversion. Most women enjoy
turning over patterns, even patterns for mourning, and in desultory
talk about dressmakers and chiffons, the visit came to a close.
“Did you ever hear such an utterly crazy notion?” cried Mrs. Banks, as
soon as she and the two Miss Trevors were outside the hall door. “I
could scarcely believe my senses.”
“And no wonder,” said Sophy Trevor. “She should not be allowed to go;
but she is so desperately obstinate, that if she has made up her mind
to start, all England will not stop her.”
“My husband shall stop her,” returned Mrs. Banks, emphatically. “He
shall put it on her health, and say that she is too delicate, and that
the climate will kill her!”
“I doubt if even that would keep her at home,” said Cara, who knew
Fairy well. “How wretched Mrs. Gordon looked. Fairy is her idol, and
turns her round her little finger, and I like Fairy the least of the
family--she is so selfish and so vain. Poor Honor is her slave, and
indeed they all give in to her far too much; but if they allow her to
go out to India, they will never see a penny of their rich uncle’s
money. He is expecting a nice, comely, ordinary girl, not a little
monster!”
“Oh, Cara!” protested her sister, in a deeply shocked voice.
“Well, you know she _is_ a monster of selfishness and vanity,” retorted
Cara with unabashed persistence.
The Rev. James Kerry, who was trudging behind with his wife, displayed
an unusually elongated upper lip--sure sign of excessive mental
perturbation.
“Preposterous!” he exclaimed. “That child exercises a most baneful
influence over her parent. I must see Mrs. Gordon alone, and reason her
out of this insane project.”
“And so you will, no doubt, in five minutes,” assented his partner
briskly, “and as soon as you have left, Fairy will reason her back
again. Surely, my dear, you know Mrs. Gordon? The whole matter rests in
Fairy’s hands, and our only hope is that she may change her mind, or
get the influenza, and there is but little chance of either.”
It was now the turn of the Rev. James to expostulate angrily with his
companion.
* * * * *
The next three days were a period of unexampled misery to most of the
inmates at Merry Meetings. Fairy was feverishly gay and feverishly
busy. Though a severe cold kept her at home, she was never separated
from her beloved patterns, no, not even when in bed. Most of her time
was spent in writing to shops, making calculations in pencil, trimming
hats, and searching through fashion-plates. She now had but two topics
of conversation, India and dress. Meanwhile her mother and sisters
looked on, powerless, and in a manner paralyzed by the sturdy will of
this small autocrat. In these days there was considerable traffic to
and fro from Merry Meetings, and an unusual amount of knocks and rings
at Mrs. Gordon’s modest little green hall door. The postman, instead
of bringing one paper and a meagre envelope as of yore, now staggered
under a load of large brown-paper parcels, and an immense variety of
card-board boxes. Telegrams were an every-day arrival, and letters
poured in by the dozen. Fairy’s preparations were advancing steadily,
though her sisters whispered gravely to one another, that “she must not
be allowed to go.” Who was to prevent her? Not her mother, who sat in
her usual armchair, looking harassed and woe-begone, and now and then
heaved heartrending sighs and applied a damp pocket-handkerchief to her
eyes.
Not the rector. He had reasoned with Fairy long and, as he believed,
eloquently; but in vain. He pointed out her mother’s grief, her great
reluctance to part with her favourite child, her own uncertain health,
but he spoke to deaf ears; and Dr. Banks, despite his wife’s proud
boast, fared but little better. He solemnly assured Fairy that she
was not fit to go to India, to undertake the long journey alone; and,
whatever her aunt might say, the climate was only suited to people
with robust constitutions. “Was she robust?” he demanded with asperity.
“He knew best,” she retorted in her pertest manner. “One thing she did
know, she was _going_. Her aunt had especially invited her, and why
should she not have some amusement and see something of the world?
instead of being buried alive at Hoyle. It was not living, it was
mouldering.”
“At any rate she would live longer at Hoyle than in India,” the doctor
angrily assured her. He was furious with this selfish, egotistical
scrap of humanity, who had always secured the best of everything that
fell to the lot of her impoverished family.
“As for amusement,” he continued, “she would not find it very amusing
to be laid up perhaps for weeks. She was a feverish subject, had she
thought of the sicknesses that periodically scourged the East--cholera
and small-pox?” Fairy, who was constitutionally nervous, shuddered
visibly. “Had she thought of long journeys on horse-back, she who
shrieked if the donkey cocked his ears! She was, in his opinion, much
too delicate and too helpless to think of leaving home.”
Her determination was somewhat shaken by Dr. Banks’ visit, and by a
feverish cold; was it a foretaste of India already? But where filial
duty and fear had failed to move her, vanity stepped in, and secured a
complete surrender!
The spoiled child of the family was sitting alone in the drawing-room
late one afternoon, sewing pleasant anticipations and serious
misgivings, alternately, into a smart silk blouse, when her thoughts
were suddenly scattered by a loud and unfamiliar double knock. She
heard a man’s voice in the hall, and had barely time to throw off
her shawl, and give her hair a touch before the glass, when Susan
announced, “Mr. Oscar Crabbe.” He was a rising artist who had been
staying in the neighbourhood at Christmas, and had made no secret
of his profound admiration for Miss Fairy Gordon, from a purely
professional standpoint.
Oscar Crabbe was a good-looking man, with a pleasant voice, a luxuriant
brown beard, and an off-hand, impetuous manner.
“Pray excuse my calling at this unceremonious hour,” he said as he
advanced with a cold, outstretched hand. “I believe it is long after
five o’clock; but, as I was passing, I thought I would drop in on
chance of finding some one at home. How are your mother and sisters?”
“My mother is lying down with a nervous headache; my sisters are
shopping in Hastings, so you will have to put up with _me_,” said
Fairy, coquettishly.
“And you are the very person I most wish to see,” returned Mr. Crabbe,
drawing his chair closer as he spoke. “I want to ask you to do me
a tremendous favour--I want to paint your portrait for next year’s
academy.”
“My portrait?” she echoed tremulously.
“Yes; I said something to you at Christmas, you may remember.”
“I thought you were joking.”
“No, indeed! I was simply feeling my way; and, if you will honour me
with a few sittings, I shall be deeply grateful. I propose to paint you
as Rowena--full life size. You are an ideal Rowena.”
“And when?”
“Oh, not for some months--not before autumn. But I always take time by
the forelock; and as I was down here at the Trevors” (had Cara Trevor
instigated this visit? History is silent, and the true facts will never
be divulged) “I thought I would seize the opportunity of bespeaking a
model for next season. I will only ask you to sit to me for the head
and hands; the dress and figure I can work at in town. What do you say?”
“Oh, Mr. Crabbe,” clasping her tiny hands rapturously, “I should have
liked it beyond anything in the whole wide world. I am so sorry,
but----”
“But your mother would not approve?”
“Not at all. She would be enchanted; but I am going to India
immediately.”
“To India?” he repeated, after an expressively long pause.
“Yes; my aunt and uncle have invited one of us--it was most
unexpected--and I am going.”
Mr. Crabbe looked grave; then he gave a sort of awkward laugh, and
said--
“Well, Miss Gordon, I enroll myself among the number of friends who
deeply deplore your departure. I am extremely sorry--indeed, I have a
double reason for regret, for I shall never find such a Rowena!”
“And I am extremely sorry too. There will be no one in India who will
want to paint my picture.”
“I am not so sure of that. A young fellow, a friend of mine, went
out there last October globe-trotting. He is the cleverest portrait
painter I know, though he calls himself an amateur and only paints
for amusement, and in interludes of hunting and polo-playing. He has
not to work for his daily bread, like the rest of us; but, if he had
to do so, he would make his fortune if he studied and put his shoulder
to the wheel. He has a genius for catching a true likeness, a natural
attitude, a characteristic expression, and he does it all so easily and
so quickly. A few rapid dashes, and the canvas seems to _live_. It is
a pity he does not take to our profession seriously and study; but his
uncle abhors ‘painting chaps,’ as he calls them; and his uncle, whose
heir he is, is a millionaire.”
“How nice! And what is the name of this fortunate young man?”
“Mark Jervis.”
“I must try and remember. Perhaps I may come across him, and he may
paint my picture; but it will be nothing in comparison to having it
done by _you_ and hung in the Royal Academy.”
She turned her face upon her visitor with an expression of dreamy
ecstasy. A delicate colour, a brilliant sparkle in her eyes, the
becoming background of a red lamp-shade, which set off her perfect
profile, all combined to heighten the effect of Fairy’s transcendent
beauty; and Oscar Crabbe frankly assured himself that he was then and
there gazing upon the face of the most lovely girl in England. As he
gazed, he lost his head, and stammered out rapturously--
“Oh, if I could only paint you as you are now, my reputation would be
assured; you would make me famous!”
“You mean that you would make _me_ famous,” she returned, dropping her
eyes bashfully. “Do you know that you almost tempt me to abandon India
and remain at home?”
“I wish you would. You are of far too delicate clay for the fierce
tropical sun, and India plays the devil--I mean,” picking himself up,
“it is the grave of beauty. If anything should happen to prevent your
carrying out your trip, will you let me know without fail?”
“You may be certain that I shall.”
“I wonder that one of your sisters----” he began, when the door opened
and admitted the two ladies in question. They were cold, tired,
longing for tea, and offered no serious resistance to Mr. Crabbe’s
immediate departure. He held Fairy’s hand in his for several seconds,
as if reluctant to release it, and he gave it a faint but distinctly
perceptible pressure as he said, “I will not say, ‘Bon voyage,’ but,
‘Au revoir.’ Remember your promise,” and hurried away.
It was noticed by her relations that Fairy was unusually silent all
that evening. She seemed buried in thought, and her pretty white
forehead was actually knit into wrinkles, as she stitched with deft and
rapid fingers. To tell the truth, the young lady was carefully weighing
the pros and cons respecting her Eastern trip. She lay awake for hours
that night, revolving various questions in her busy little brain.
On one hand, she would escape from Hoyle and enjoy a gay and novel
existence. She would be taken to balls and parties, and be the cynosure
of all eyes; she would have plenty of pocket-money, plenty of pretty
dresses, plenty of luxuries--that was one side of the shield. On the
reverse, she mentally saw a hateful journey by sea, an unaccustomed
life and climate, an ever-haunting dread of fever, cholera, snakes;
she would probably have to accustom herself to riding wild ponies,
to being borne along the brinks of frightful precipices; she would
have no one to pet her and hunt up her things, and do her hair and
mend her gloves--yes, she would miss Honor dreadfully. Mr. Crabbe had
assured her that India was the grave of beauty. Supposing she became
a fright! Dr. Banks had hinted at shattered health. No, after all,
she would remain at home; her aunt and uncle would be in England in
a year’s time, she would pay them a nice long visit without risking
either health or looks; then there would be _Rowena_, a lasting and
substantial triumph! She had visions of her picture hanging on the
line in the Royal Academy, and guarded by police in order to keep the
surging mob of admirers at bay, of crowds gazing spell-bound at her
portrait, of notices in the society papers, of photographs in shop
windows, of wide celebrity, and the acknowledgment of her beauty in the
face of all England.
The prospect was intoxicating. Towards dawn she fell asleep, and
enjoyed delightful dreams.
The next morning, ere descending to breakfast, she called her sisters
into her room, and said, in an unusually formal manner--
“Jessie and Honor, I may as well tell you that I have changed my mind,
and given up all idea of going to India, so I thought you ought to know
at once.”
“I am delighted to hear it,” replied Jessie, with unaffected relief.
“But why?” surveying her with questioning eyes. “Why have you so
suddenly altered your plans?”
“I have been lying awake all night, thinking of mother,” was the
mendacious reply. “I see she is fretting dreadfully; it would break
her heart to part with me, and I shall never leave her, or at least,”
correcting herself, “never leave England.”
“It is unfortunate that you did not think of mother a little sooner!”
said Jessie, glancing round the room, which was blocked up with boxes
and parcels containing purchases in the shape of hats and shoes and
jackets, and many articles “on approval.” “I think you are very wise
to stay at home; but it is a pity that you have made such great
preparations. Is it not, Honor?”
“No doubt _you_ think so,” retorted Fairy, sarcastically. “Of course
it seems a pity that none of my pretty new things will fit either of
_you_.”