CHAPTER XIX.
During the morning of the day on which Lady Handcock is expected to arrive, I feel strangely nervous and unsettled. I don't seem to care so much for any one's good opinion as for hers. If Marmaduke's sister refuses to like me, I shall take it very hardly indeed, and I do not dare to flatter myself that it may be otherwise. Probably she will be cold and haughty and indifferent, like the generality of grand dames, or, worse still, supercilious and filled with a well-bred mockery only half concealed, like Lady Blanche Going.
As she has written to say they will not arrive until five o'clock, I put on my outdoor things after luncheon and wander forth alone in search of good spirits and a frame of mind so altogether radiant as shall help me to conquer fate towards evening. As at four o'clock, however, I retrace my steps, I am by no means certain I have found anything beyond a brilliant color.
I cross the threshold and move towards the staircase with the laudable intention of robing myself for conquest be fore their coming, when to my consternation I am met by Tynon, the butler, with the pleasing intelligence that "Sir James and Lady Handcock and Miss Beatoun" have already arrived.
Have entered my doors with no hostess to receive them or bid them welcome! What will they think? How awkward it has proved, my going for that stupid walk!
I smother a groan, fling my hat at Tynon, and, just as I am, with my hair slightly disarranged, enter the drawing room.
At the upper end stands Marmaduke, laughing and talking gayly to a fair-haired, prettily-dressed woman, who in a lower class of existence, might be termed "buxom." To say she is inclining towards embonpoint will, however, sound less shocking to ears polite. I have heard from my husband that she is about thirty years of age, but in the quick glance I take at her I decide she might be any age under that, she is so white and soft and gay.
"Oh! here she is," says 'Duke, gladly, as I enter.
"I am so sorry!" I murmur, with a rising color, coming quickly forward; "but we did not expect you until five o'clock."
As I advance, so does she, and when we meet she lays two small plump, jewelled hands upon my shoulders.
"It was all my fault," she says, smiling. "When you know me better you will understand that I cannot help being in a hurry. However, you must forgive me this time, as my appearing at this hour is in itself a flattery, proving how impatient I was to see you." Then, regarding me attentively. "Why, what a child!" she cries; "what a baby! and what delicious eyes! Really, Marmaduke, I hardly know whether most to congratulate or—pity you."
She speaks with a curiously pretty accent, putting an emphasis on every third or fourth word that fascinates and pleases the listener.
"Pity!" return I, amazedly, making an unsuccessful effort to elude her firm grasp, while the indignant color flames into my cheeks. "You speak as if—why should you pity him?"
"Because, cannot you fancy what a life you are going to lead him," says her ladyship, with a little arch laugh that wrinkles up her Grecian no. "Child I too have eyes and I can see mischief written in every line of your—ugly little face."
I try to feel angry, but cannot. It is in her power to make every word she utters an undeveloped compliment. I succumb at once and forever, and give myself up to her merry true-hearted influence. Putting my frowns in my pocket, I laugh.
"If you keep on saying these things before 'Duke," I say, "he will find me out, and perhaps in time repent his bargain."
Here I make a little moue at my husband, who is standing rather behind his sister, which he returns with interest "How do you know I have not found you out long ago? It is my belief I married you for my sins. Harriet, I leave her now in your hands; reform her—if you can."
"Go and look after James," says Lady Handcock "He always gets into mischief when left by himself. I want to make friends with Phyllis."
By and by Miss Beatoun comes in, and I get through another introduction.
She is hardly as tall as I am, and wonderfully pretty. No need to disbelieve the report that last season all men raved of her. Her eyes are large and dark and soft, her hair a very, very light brown, though hardly golden, and guiltless of dye. A tiny black mole, somewhat like a Queen Anne's patch, grows close to her left ear.
As I look at her, I decide hastily she is more than pretty—she is attractive. Her whole face is full of light; the very corners of her mouth express unuttered laughter; it is altogether the most /riante, kissable, lovable face conceivable. Her bands and feet are fairy-like in their proportions.
Nevertheless, her eyes, though unusually soft, betray the coquette; they cannot entirely conceal the mischievous longing for mastery that lurks in their velvet depths.
"Is she not young, Bebe?" asks Lady Handcock, indicating me.
"Very. Much younger even than I dared to hope. Of course"—to me—"we all heard you were quite a girl; yet that did not reassure me, as it can be said of most brides, and as a rule they are a disagreeable lot. But you have forgotten to give yourself airs, and that is so novel and delightful—so many young women will go in for that sort of thing. I feel," says Miss Beatoun, gayly, "I am going to have a delicious autumn, and be very happy."
"I hope so," I answer, earnestly. "Do you know, Lady Handcock, I quite dreaded your coming?—it kept me awake several nights, thinking perhaps you would be cold and difficult, and would not like me; and now I am so relieved—you cannot fancy what a weight is off my mind."
I say this with such evident feeling that they both laugh heartily, and Bebe gives it as her opinion that I am a "regular darling."
"But you must not call me Lady Handcock," corrects my sister-in-law. "My name is Harriet—or Harry, for the most part. I do not want to be made an old woman just yet, though Bebe will tell every one I am her aunt, instead of saying James is her uncle."
"It is the only hold I have over her you see," exclaims Bebe, "and I keep it as a threat. But for knowing I have it in my power to say that, she would be under no control. And with mamma so given to itinerant habits, and Harry being my natural chaperon I have to protect myself as best I may."
----
By dinner hour our party is still further enlarged by Dora, Mark Gore, and Sir George Ashurst, a very fair young man, with an aquiline nose, plump face, and a long white moustache. He at once impresses me with the belief that he is thoroughly good-natured, and altogether incapable of ill temper of any kind. Perhaps, indeed, if he were to smile a little less frequently, and show some symptoms of having an opinion of his own, it would be an improvement. But what will you? One cannot have everything. And he is chatty and agreeable, and I manage to spend my evenings very comfortably in his society.
The next day Captain Jenkins and Mr. Powell, from the Barracks at Chillington, put in an appearance; and a very youthful gentleman, with a calm and cherubic countenance, arrives from London. This latter is in the Hussars, and is full of a modest self-appreciation very much to be admired.
"Well, Chips, so you have come, in spite of all your engagements," says Marmaduke, slapping this fair-haired warrior affectionately upon the shoulder. (His correct name is John Chippinghall Thornton; but his friends and brother officers having elected to call him "Chip," he usually goes by that appellation. Though why I have never been able to fathom, as it would be a too palpable flattery to regard this very erratic young man as a "chip of the old block," his father being a peculiarly mild and inoffensive clergyman, residing in a northern village).
"What did Lady Emily say to your defection, and Maudie Green, and Carrie, and all the rest of your friends?"
"Oh, I say, now," says Master Chips, with an ingenuous blush, "it isn't fair to show me up in this light—is it?—and before Mrs. Carrington, too. She will have no opinion of me if she listens to all you say."
"I am only anxious to hear how you tore yourself away from their fascinations."
"Yes, do tell us, Mr. Thornton," says I. "We are so afraid that you have sacrificed yourself to oblige us."
"Don't you believe a word Marmaduke says, Mrs. Carrington: he is always representing me falsely. I shall be unhappy forever if you won't understand how proud and charmed I was to receive your invitation. Just to show you how he exaggerates, the Carry and Maud he spoke of are my cousins, and that's the same as sisters, you know."
"Only far more dangerous," I return, laughing.
"Well, at all events, they have every one gone off to Germany or country-houses, so they must do without me. I couldn't go trotting after 'em everywhere, you know: do enough of that in the spring to last the year. And, besides, I don't much care for any of that lot now."
"No? Tired of them already? What a desperate Don Juan! Really, Chips, I shudder to think where you will end. And who is the idol of the present hour?—something more exquisite still?"
"Not to be named in the same day," says Mr. Thornton, confidingly. "Fact is, she is a sort of connection of your own. Met her last season in town, you know,—- and er"—an eloquent sigh—"I mean Miss Beatoun."
Marmaduke bursts out laughing, and so do I.
"Then, you are all right," says 'Duke. "With your usual luck you have fallen upon your feet. At this instant the same roof covers you and your inamorata."
"No!" cries Chips, eagerly. "You don't mean it? Of course you are only joking. You're not in earnest, now Marmaduke—are you?"
"Seeing is believing," returns Duke. "But if you don't go and dress yourself this very moment you will get no dinner, and lose a good chance of exercising your fascinations upon Miss Beatoun."
Later on he takes her in to dinner and is supremely happy; while Messieurs Jenkins and Powell, who have reached their thirty-third year, look on aghast at the young one's "cheek." They are estimable men, and useful in their own way, but refuse to shine in conversation. I think they like each other; I am quite sure they like Marmaduke, who draws them out in a wonderful manner, and makes them marvel at their own unwonted brilliancy; while Harriet aids and abets him by her gayety.
At my right hand sits Sir James, a tall, distinguished-looking man, with hair of iron-gray and deep-set eyes. He is grave and remarkably silent—such an utter contrast to his laughter-loving wife, of whom he never appears to take the smallest notice. To me it is a matter of amazement how he can so systematically ignore her, as he seldom addresses to her a word or lets his eyes rest upon her for any length of time.
But for Marmaduke's assertion that they adore each other I would be inclined to think them at daggers drawn, or at least indifferent; and it is only now and then when she speaks to him, and I see his eyes light up and smile and soften, that I can accept the gentler idea.
Not to his wife alone, however, is he reserved; all the rest of the world he treats in a similar manner, and I come to the conclusion he abhors talking, and is a man with no settled taste or pursuits. Hearing, indeed, that his one passion is hunting, I broach the subject cautiously, and, feeling certain of making a score, express myself desirous of being informed as to the express nature of the "bull-finch."
"Explanations always fall short," is his reply. "Some day when we are out I will show you one. That will be best."
So my ignorance remains unenlightened, and as he calmly returns to his dinner, I do the same, and abandon all hopes of hearing him converse.
Dora is doing the amiable to Sir George Ashurst. Anything so simple or innocent as Dora in her white dress and coral ribbons could hardly be conceived. I am admiring her myself with all my heart, and wondering how it is she does it; and I fancy Sir Mark Gore is doing the same. Once, as she raises the childish questioning blue eyes to her companion's face, and murmurs some pretty speech in her soft treble, I see Sir Mark smile openly. It is only a momentary merriment, however, as directly afterwards he turns to me, suave and charming as ever.
"How becoming white is to your sister!" he says. "It suits her expression so wonderfully. I don't know how it is, but the word ingenue always comes to me when I look at her."
"She is very pretty," I return, coldly. I have not yet quite decided on the nature of that smile.
"You do her an injustice. Surely she is more than 'pretty'—a word that means so little in these degenerate days. If I were an artist I should like to paint her as 'Moonlight,' with a bunch of lilies in her hands, and just that dress she is now wearing—without the ribbons—and a little stream running at her feet. I have seldom seen so sweet an expression. One could hardly fancy an unkind word coming from those lips, or a hidden motive in her heart."
I think of our "Moonlight's" designs upon Marmaduke and the man who is now so loud in her praise. I think of the many and energetic fracas between her and Billy, and am silent. I don't know why, but I am positive Sir Mark is amused. I color and look up.
"What ages ago it seems since last we met!" says he, promptly.
"Ages? No, months. It was last June we met, I think—and here."
"Oh, that was only the barest glimpse; one could hardly call it a meeting. I was referring to my visit to the Leslies two years ago. You remember that little scene in the High street, at Carston?"
I laughed merrily.
"'I do indeed. But for you the finale would have been too ignominious. I shall always owe you a debt of gratitude for your timely appearance. The saddle turned, I recollect, exactly opposite the Bank, and I had a horrid vision of two or three young men gazing at me in eager expectation from some of the windows."
"Yes; and then we met again, and—- Shall I peel one of these for you?"
"Please."
"And I flattered myself you treated me with some degree of graciousness; flattered myself so far that I presumed to send you a little volume of poems I had heard you wish for and which—you returned. That was rather cruel, was it not?"
"I have always felt how rude you must have thought me on that occasion." I reply, blushing hotly. "I did so long to tell you all about it, but could not. It was not my fault, however; I confess I would have kept it if possible: it was papa. He said you should not have sent it, and insisted on its being returned."
"Well, perhaps he was right. Yet it was a very harmless and innocent little volume, after all, containing only the mildest sentiments. (Is that a good one?)"
"(Very good, thank you). It was Tennyson's 'Idyls'—I remember perfectly; and it was filled with the prettiest illustrations. Oh, I was so sorry to part with that neat little book! Do you know I was silly enough to cry the day I posted it back to you?"
Sir Mark regards me earnestly, almost curiously. I am laughing at my own past folly, but he does not even smile in sympathy.
"I am sorry any act of mine should have cost you a tear," he says, slowly, "But why did you not write a line to explain all this to me when sending it?"
"Fancy the iniquity of such a thing! the very suggestion would have brought down untold wrath upon my poor head. To ask permission to write a letter to a gentleman! Oh, horror!"
"And you would not—but, no, of course you would not," says Sir Mark, rather unintelligibly.
And then I glance at Lady Handcock, and she glances at me. Sir Mark rises to open the door, and I smile and nod gayly at him as I cross the threshold and pass into the lighted hall.
----
We are all beginning to know each other well, and to be mutually pleased with each other, when, towards the close of the week, Lady Blanche Going joins our party. She is looking considerably handsomer than when I last saw her in town, and is apparently in good humor with herself and all the rest of the world. How long this comfortable state of affairs may last, however, remains a mystery. She brings with her a horse, a pet-poodle, and a very French maid, who makes herself extremely troublesome, and causes much dissension in the servants' hall.
Sir Mark Gore and her ladyship are evidently old friends, and express a well-bred amount of pleasure on again meeting. Perhaps her ladyship's expressions are by a shade the warmest.
"I had no idea I should meet you here," she winds up, sweetly, when the subject of her satisfaction is exhausted. "Mrs. Carrington, when alluding to her other guests, never mentioned your name."
"No? Mrs. Carrington, how unkind of you to dismiss me so completely from your thoughts! 'Never to mention my name!' It is horrible to picture oneself so totally forgotten."
"You could not surely hope to be always in my thoughts?" I answer, lightly.
Her ladyship flashes a sharp glance at us from her long dark eyes.
"I might not expect it, certainly; but I am not to be blamed if I cannot help hoping for anything so desirable."
"Vain hope!" return I saucily, "and a foolish one besides. Have you never heard that 'familiarity breeds contempt?' and that 'too much of anything is good for nothing?' Were I to keep you perpetually in my mind I might perhaps end by hating you."
"What an appalling idea!" murmurs Lady Blanche, softly, speaking in that peculiar tone of half-suppressed irony I so greatly detest. "Should anything so dreadful ever occur I doubt if Sir Mark would recover it."
"I don't suppose I should," replies Sir Mark, rather bluntly, as it seems to me, without turning his head in her direction.
There is a moment's rather awkward pause, and then her ladyship laughs lightly, and, crossing the room, sits down by Bebe Beatoun.
Her laugh is an unpleasant one, and jars upon me painfully. Her very manner of rising and leaving me alone with Sir Mark has something in it so full of insolent meaning that for the instant I hate her. She makes me feel I have said something foolish—something better left unsaid, though thoroughly unmeant. I color, bite my lip, and, without another word to my companion, who is looking black as night, I go out through the open window.
So for the second time the little thorn enters into my heart and pricks me gently. A seed is sown that bears, me bitter fruit.