NEW SCENES AND NEW FRIENDS
Nancy and her chaperone spent a year on the Continent, visiting several capitals, and various scenes familiar to Mrs. De Wolfe. Not a few foreign hostelries knew and respected the dominating personality, and heavy purse, of this hawk-eyed "bird of passage."
Nancy was now twenty. Like a flower she had expanded in the sun of happiness, and developed into a strikingly beautiful girl. The mahogany tint had given place to a matchless complexion: her figure no longer boyish and angular, was slender and graceful, her dress was dainty, and she carried herself admirably. After a long and complete eclipse, Nancy's vitality and vivacity had returned with undiminished vigour: the girl was never tired, idle, bored, or—silent; the mere fact of her presence, seemed to neutralize weariness and depression. Yet the death of her father was a never forgotten grief; he stood apart, as the one impressive, and beloved figure connected with her life in India. Memories of Finchie, the "Corner boys," and the Hicks', had become a little faint; as for the acquaintance of a mere six weeks, she had thrust him entirely out of her mind. At first, like some pernicious and persistent insect, he had returned again and again; but for many months she had been free from this hateful visitation.
Possibly when a young woman determines to evict from her thoughts a disagreeable lodger—such banishment is complete. Nancy had assured a quaking heart, that the ceremony of her marriage might be dismissed to the limbo of a bad dream. It had been carried out solely to comfort and relieve the anxiety of her dying father; but as a binding contract, Finchie had positively declared, that it could be easily annulled.
It was more than two years since Nancy had heard of Captain Mayne, "out of sight, is out of mind," especially as her mind was full to overflowing of new scenes, new interests, and new friends.
During their wanderings, Mrs. De Wolfe had encountered various neighbours, acquaintances, and connections. Her circle was world wide. At the Hôtel National, Lucerne, she came across the Miller family,—who lived within a motor drive of her home in Moonshire.
Truly, it was a strange and startling tale that Lady Miller poured into the ear of her neighbour, when she had carried her off to her own apartment, and could there talk without restraint! It appeared that the four Miss Millers, had combined to break loose, had cast off all obedience, and so to speak, flung the fourth commandment to the winds! Headed by Wilhelmina—the eldest—they revolted against home life, and clamoured to be taken abroad, in order to see something of what they called, "the world." "Wilhelmina," continued Lady Miller, "has an iron will and enormous influence over her father. It took her a whole fortnight to gain her point, at the end Lucas yielded, and, my dear old friend, I know you will pity us, for 'here we are!'"
Yes, Wilhelmina's triumph had been remorseless, and complete!
Glancing round the luxurious bedroom, whose windows commanded a fine view of the lake, Mrs. De Wolfe was not disposed to offer much sympathy to the lachrymose lady.
"Of course I don't approve of the present ordinance," she said: "Parents obey your children, but possibly a little change may be no harm for any of you. Your girls are grown up. Why! Billy must be six and twenty! The twins are a charming couple, and so far, have been born to blush unseen! Millfield Place is rather isolated, and surely you would not wish to have four old maids on your hands,—now would you?"
"I'm no husband-hunter," declared Lady Miller with considerable warmth, "and if girls are to be married, they'll be married."
"Well, that depends on circumstances! I remember an Irish servant who gave, as her reason for leaving an excellent, but dull situation, that 'she was out of the way of Providence.' I think there is the same drawback to Millfield."
Millfield Place was situated in a remote part of Moonshire, and in the days of Charles II., it had been the nucleus of many a robust and rollicking festivity: but time works changes, the Place was now generally referred to, as the "Back of Beyond." It was six miles from the nearest railway station: on the mere outer fringe of County Society, and to many of the rustics in Millfield village, the word "pictures" or "telephone" carried no meaning! Here years had passed swiftly—as they generally do, when spent in an uneventful, and monotonous round.
The four Miss Millers were endowed with an unusual amount of good looks, and intelligence; Wilhelmina, the eldest and heiress, was small, active, clever and outspoken: with a heart that knew no fear, and full of devotion to her sisters. Minna and Brenda (twins) were tall, vivacious and very fair to see. Amy, the youngest, aged twenty, had a wonderful mop of dark red hair, a pair of twinkling sea-green eyes, and uncontrollable spirits; she was still addressed as "Baby!"
For some years, the sisters had contented themselves with tennis, the sewing club, village entertainments, and the rearing of prize poultry; and then Wilhelmina, when her twenty-sixth birthday struck, began seriously to consider the situation. As alone she paced the long terrace, she held a solemn debate with herself, and this was the burden of her meditations: "Here we are embedded in the country, and growing into fossils. We haven't even a motor—because mother loathes them! We never see a soul, except the same old set, the Rector and Mrs. Puddock, Doctor and Mrs. Frost, father's elderly shooting friends; and once in a blue moon, the Hillsides, or Mrs. De Wolfe. Other girls go about, and visit new places, make new acquaintances, and have a good time; and we are young but once! I shall urge the Pater to transport us all to the Continent, for one whole year. If he resists, and won't listen to reason, I shall just tell him, we will leave home; the twins to go on the Stage,—front row,—Baby, to an A B C shop, and I to be a stewardess; I know I should love the sea,—which by the way, I have never seen!"
When Wilhelmina cautiously opened the subject to her mother, that lethargic matron was almost as startled as if a bomb had exploded on the hearth-rug! When she had recovered her senses (momentarily paralysed), with unusual animation, she expressed indignant horror at the mere suggestion of such a move. She pointed out to Billy that she and her sisters were extraordinarily fortunate; they had carriages, maids, saddle-horses; and every possible indulgence; the newest library books, a handsome dress allowance; what more did they want? Besides, how could such a pack of girls go dragging about the Continent! Certainly she would be no party to the crazy undertaking. Of course if they had been boys, it might have been different!
"Yes!" retorted Billy, "boys always get everything they want, and girls go to the wall."
"Well, boys or girls, nothing will induce me to leave my comfortable home," declared Lady Miller. "Paris, Switzerland, Egypt!" slightly raising her voice, "why, Wilhelmina, you must be mad! You know perfectly well, that I've not been even to London, for more than two years."
Lady Miller, a pretty, plaintive, fragile-looking woman, had been a celebrated beauty in her day,—but was now disposed to rest on such laurels, as remained. She relinquished visiting, and entertaining—beyond a small tennis party, or a few neighbours to tea,—pleading the state of her health; which, as it happened, was excellent; but the poor woman suffered from the dire and mortal malady of inertia; which is known to attack victims who live remote, and idle. The disease had grown from bad to worse, and Lady Miller had now abandoned herself to an existence of self-indulgent indolence. She was contented with her comfortable sofa, her embroidery, novels, patience cards, visits from newsmongering matrons,—and on fine days, an inspection of her celebrated rock garden! Wilhelmina had relieved her mother of all housekeeping worries: she managed the school, the village,—and her father.
The younger girls were amusing, chattering creatures: fond of racing through the rooms, banging doors, and bringing in dogs, but remarkably pretty—especially Brenda, who at times, was almost startlingly lovely! Once or twice, Lady Miller had murmured to her husband "that she wished Brenda's rich godmother would invite her to pay her a visit in London,"—and her husband had accorded an indifferent assent—he did not wish to part with any of his girls.
Sir Lucas Miller was an active, fussy, little gentleman of fifty-five, whose time was absorbed by tenants, shooting, the county club, and the Bench! Little did he suspect, how soon the pleasant current of his days was to be diverted. One evening after dinner,—a particularly good dinner,—the bold, adventurous, and cunning Wilhelmina, accompanied him to the smoking-room, and as he enjoyed a Havana, calmly proceeded to lay her plans before him.
Everything had been most carefully considered: the whole itinerary minutely sketched; reasons for the expedition were confidently advanced, and dilated on, and when at last, Wilhelmina had ceased to speak, she discovered that her communication had left her father speechless! For quite a surprising interval, he remained silent,—Sir Lucas was thinking things over! He liked to see his pretty, lively girls flitting about the house and tennis courts, but it had never once dawned on him, that they craved either change, or other diversions. "Why, they had the Hunt Ball in January,—weather permitting,—the cricket week in July,—also weather permitting!"
In his opinion, they were remarkably well off; and as Billy, his favourite, had carefully unfolded her schemes, he could scarcely believe his own ears.
"Close the house for twelve months! take you all abroad!" he cried at last. "What a monstrous idea. How about the estate, and the shooting?"
"You have an excellent agent, Dad, I've often heard you say so,—and now you may as well give him something to do. You know you're one of the people who keep a dog,—and bark yourself!"
"Rubbish! rubbish! preposterous nonsense!"
"I know you won't mind, dear, if I speak a little plainly. Looking at it from our point of view, do you think you are quite playing the game? You and the Mater have had your good times! You talk of Ascot, Scotland, and Paris; of dances and balls, operas, and races. Now we should like to be in a position, to enjoy the same experiences. We are very ready to be amused: or even employed; but there is not enough work here for the four of us. Are we always to content ourselves with visiting old women, rearing Buff Orpingtons, and finding our chief excitement in scraps of village news! Why, it was only yesterday, that Baby ran the whole way home, to tell us that the Postman's parrot was dead! I can jog along all right, I'm not in my first youth, and I never was pretty; and being the eldest, I can find plenty of occupation, and interest of sorts; but, dear Daddy, do consider the three girls; please think of what I've said," and Wilhelmina patted her parent encouragingly on the shoulder, and walked out of the room.
In the end, after some remarkably stormy scenes, Billy prevailed; for Billy, as her mother complained, "could twist her father round her little finger." Then what Brenda termed, the "great Exodus of the Millers" actually took place, and poor Lady Miller found herself with her husband, four daughters, two maids and a mountain of luggage, carried off to Paris; and from Paris they journeyed to Lucerne.
At Lucerne, to his audible consternation, Sir Lucas was thrust into the too prominent post of chaperon—his wife having declared that her health was not equal to society. Nevertheless, she took a certain amount of comfort in a sofa, her lace work, and patience cards,—although the rock-garden, was far, far away!
At first, Sir Lucas instinctively shrank from following five grown-up women into a dining-room, or restaurant; but most of his party were so handsome as to draw all eyes, and in this fact, he found considerable compensation; also, when he beheld other men doing similar duty, he became more resigned; and by and by actually began to enjoy this amazing, and absolute change! He and his girls played golf on the Sonnenberg, and made excursions, whilst her ladyship and maid, sat in the shade, listening to the band, or ventured on a little shopping, purchasing Swiss embroidery, and Italian tortoise-shell.
In spite of their already large party, the Miller girls good-naturedly invited Nancy to join them. She and Billy became immediate allies, and on the Sonnenberg links, laid the foundation of a lasting friendship.
"We are such a squad of women," she said to Nancy, "but it had to be all, or none; people get used to us, and find we are quite rural, and harmless. I think Mr. Holford, and Major Berners are becoming accustomed to Minna and Brenda, and I'm not the least surprised. At home, we thought little of their good looks! They were just nice, cheery, accomplished, girls. Minna has a lovely voice; but here, they stand out as beauties, and the Pater looks as proud as a peacock with two tails! They are the prettiest girls in Lucerne, bar yourself!"
"Oh, what nonsense!" Nancy protested, but Billy signed to her that she was about to make a drive, and thereby closed the argument!
At the Grand Hotel, Locarno, Mrs. De Wolfe again encountered neighbours; Lord and Lady Hillside, their son, and daughter; these were not merely neighbours, but connections,—and not only connections, but friends! It turned out, that Lord Hillside and Mrs. Ffinch were brother and sister, and on the strength of her intimacy with a relative, Nancy was welcomed by the family.
Lady Hillside had been an heiress: her fortune had paid off heavy mortgages on the estate, and repaired the dilapidated castle. So flourishing now were the Hillside concerns, that Theodore Lamerton, the heir, a young man in the Guards, was looked upon as a desirable parti. His mother, was a little woman with a yellow, haggard face, in which burned a pair of jet black eyes,—eyes of the reformer and fanatic.
Lady Hillside was feverishly energetic, and full of philanthropic plans: her name was well known on Boards, and Committees, and she cherished a secret passion for being, what is called "Chair." Her interests abroad, were so wide, and so various, that she could spare but little time for her own family;—in fact, she was something of an aristocratic Mrs. Jellaby. Her correspondence was enormous; she kept two secretaries, but rarely looked into her housekeeper's accounts—or answered what might be termed "a domestic letter."
Recently her health had broken down from overwork, and a specialist had ordered her abroad, with strict injunctions, as to absolute rest. Rest was impossible to a woman of her temperament! It was true that she now left correspondence in abeyance, but she was actively engaged in making a wonderful collection of seals and rings,—which enterprise carried her far, and wide.
Lord Hillside, a handsome, bearded individual, a great authority on Egyptology, lived much to himself, and took his walks apart. With his chiselled aquiline features and well-trimmed beard, he might almost have passed for an Egyptian Tetrarch himself. Next to Egyptology—and Rameses the Second, his chief interest in life was his daughter Josephine Speyde, a widow of eight and twenty. "Josie," as she was called, had not inherited the family good looks, but had been endowed with some of her father's brains, and more of her mother's inexhaustible energy,—which in her case, took the form of a tireless pursuit of amusement. In appearance she was thin, and hipless; her complexion was sallow; a pair of magnificent black eyes illuminated a long, but expressive countenance. Such was her art in dress, and deportment, that she actually persuaded her world, that she was as handsome as she was amusing, and otherwise attractive. Married at twenty to a distant cousin, the alliance had proved unfortunate, and as Josie herself confessed, "they had found one another out too soon." She was restless, capricious, and extravagant: Victor Speyde was dissipated, ill-tempered, and jealous.
The relatives put their heads together, and predicted "trouble," but the death of Captain Speyde in a motor accident, relieved their apprehensions, and liberated his wife. As a widow, with an independent income, she returned to live with her parents,—a changed young woman, who had seen the seamy side of life; she rode hard, smoked incessantly, and had the reputation for a keen appetite for adventure, and stories, more or less risky! Mrs. Speyde belonged to a smart Bridge Club, possessed a car, and a latch-key—and claimed all the prerogatives of a self-chaperoning widow,—whilst enjoying as she described, "a really topping time."
Possibly because they were such a complete contrast in appearance and character, Mrs. Speyde took a violent fancy to Nancy Travers, called her by her christian name the second time they met, graciously instructed her in a new style of hairdressing, offered her the name of a very private dressmaker, and imparted amusing information respecting the affairs,—love and otherwise,—of her very dearest friends.
Not the least among Josie's accomplishments, was her art of story-telling; she drew little word-pictures with audacious and dramatic effect, and her voice, if slightly guttural, immediately claimed an audience. Nancy wept and screamed with laughter, as she found herself unexpectedly in the company of Lady Miller,—and all her invalid airs; not to speak of several of the inmates of the Grand Hotel; and Josie's own aunt, Julia Ffinch, was also taken off to the life!
Nancy was dazzled, flattered, and enslaved. Josie Speyde was so clever, so gay, and entertaining: she read aloud scraps of delightful letters,—chiefly from men in foreign parts,—related stirring little episodes in her own past, and more or less opened the girl's grey-blue eyes, to their very widest extent.