Chapter Six.
Traps laid for Rhoda.
“La souveraine habilité consiste à bien connoître le prix des choses.”
La Rochefoucauld.
There was an earnest, wistful, far-away look in Gatty’s eyes, as though some treasure-house had been opened to her, the existence of which she had never previously suspected; but neither she nor Phoebe said a word to each other as they crossed the Park, and went up the wide white steps of the Abbey.
“Where on earth have you been, you gadabouts?” came in Rhoda’s voice from the interior of the hall. “Oh, but I’ve such a jolly piece of news for you! Molly and me heard it from Madam. Guess what it is.”
Rhoda’s grammar was more free and easy than correct at all times; and Phoebe could not help thinking that in that respect, as in others, she had perceptibly deteriorated by contact with Molly.
“I don’t care to hear it, thank you,” said Gatty, rather hastily, walking straight upstairs.
“Oh, don’t you, Mrs Prim?” demanded Rhoda. “Well, it doesn’t concern you much. Now, Phoebe, guess!”
Phoebe felt very little in tune for the sort of amusement usually patronised by Rhoda. But she set herself to gratify that rather exacting young lady.
“I don’t guess things well,” she said. “Is one of your aunts coming?”
“My aunts!” repeated Rhoda, in supreme scorn. “Not if I know it, thank you. I said it was jolly. Why, Phoebe! to guess such a thing as that!”
“Well, I should be pleased enough if mine were coming to see me,” said Phoebe, good-temperedly. “I don’t know what else to guess. Has some one given you a present?”
“Wish they had!” ejaculated Rhoda. “No, I’m sorry to say nobody’s had so much good sense. But there’s somebody—I shall have to tell you sooner or later, you stupid goose, so I may as well do it now—somebody’s coming to Number Four. Mrs Eleanor Darcy, a cousin of my Lord Polesworth—only think!—and (that’s best of all) she’s got a nephew.”
“How is that best of all?” asked Phoebe.
“Mr Marcus Welles—isn’t it a pretty name?—and he will come with her, to settle her in her new house. ‘Why?’ Oh, what a silly Phoebe you are! He has three thousand a year.”
“Then I should think he might take better care of his aunt than let her be an indigent gentlewoman,” said Phoebe, rather warmly.
“As if he would want to be pothered with an old aunt!” cried Rhoda. “But I’ll tell you what (you are so silly, you want telling everything!)—I mean to set my cap at him.”
“Won’t you have some cleaner lace on it first?” suggested Phoebe, with the exceedingly quiet, dry fun which was one of her characteristics.
“You stupid, literal thing!” said Rhoda. “I might as well talk to the cat. Oh, here you come, Molly! Now for tea, if ’tis ready, and then—”
Madam was already at the tea-table, and Baxter was just bringing in the kettle.
“I trust you have had a pleasant walk, my dears,” said she, kindly, as the four girls filed in—Molly first, Phoebe last.
“Middling,” said Molly, taking the initiative as usual. “Robbed seventeen birds’ nests, climbed twenty-four trees, and jumped over a dozen five-barred gates.”
“Oh, did you!” murmured Phoebe, in a shocked tone, too horrified for silence.
Rhoda went into convulsions behind her handkerchief.
“Innocent little darling!” exclaimed Molly; “she thinks we did!”
“You said so,” answered Phoebe, reproachfully.
“You are so smart, my dear Mrs Molly,” said Madam, smilingly. “Did you all walk together?”
“No, I thank you!” responded Molly. “Gatty and the innocent little dear went to a Quakers’ meeting.”
Had Madam taken the assertion literally, she would have been alarmed and horrified indeed; for at that time all Dissenters were considered dangerous characters, and Quakers the worst of all. But, recognising it as one of Molly’s flights of intellect, she smiled placidly, and said no more.
“My dear, I think you will be acquainted with Mrs Eleanor Darcy?” asked Madam, addressing herself to Gatty.
“She has visited my mother, but only once,” answered Gatty.
“Oh, the pootsy-bootsy!” broke in Molly. “Isn’t she a sweet, charming, handsome creature?—the precious dear!”
“I fear she doth not please you, Mrs Molly?” asked Madam, interpreting Molly’s exclamation by the rule of contrary.
“She’s the ugliest old baboon that ever grinned!” was Molly’s complimentary reply.
“What say you, Mrs Gatty?”
“She is certainly not handsome,” answered Gatty, apparently with some reluctance; “but I have heard her well spoken of, as very kind and good.”
“Have you met with Mr Welles, her nephew, my dear?”
Molly had clasped her hands, leaned back, lifted her eyes with an expression of sentimental rapture, and was executing an effective tableau vivant.
“Yes, I have seen him two or three times,” said Gatty.
“Is he a young man of an agreeable turn?” inquired Madam.
“He is very handsome,” replied Gatty, rather doubtfully, as if she hardly knew what to say.
“Pleasant as a companion?” pursued Madam.
“People generally think so, I believe,” answered Gatty, with studied vagueness.
“You dear old concatenation, you’ll get nothing out of my wretch of a sister,” impetuously cried Molly.
“I’ll tell you all about Marcus. He’s the brightest eyes that ever shone, and the sweetest voice that praised your fine eyes, and the most delightful manners! White hands, and a capital leg, and never treads on your corns. Oh, there’s nobody like him. I mean to marry him.”
“Molly!” said Gatty. It was the first time she had offered anything like a reproof to her sister.
“Now, you hold your tongue, Mrs Prude!” responded Molly. “You’re not a bit better than I am.”
Gatty made no reply.
“Don’t you set up to be either a prig or a saint!” continued Molly, angrily. “Betty’s enough. She isn’t a saint; but she’s a prig. If ever you’re either, I’ll lead you a life!”
And there could be little doubt of Molly’s fulfilling her threat.
The next day, Gatty and Molly Delawarr went home. Betty had quite recovered, and was gone to stay with a friend near Bristol; the house had been thoroughly disinfected, and was pronounced free from all danger; and Lady Delawarr thought there was no longer need for the girls to remain away.
“I wonder what will become of me without you, Molly!” said Rhoda, dolefully.
“Oh, you’ll have plenty to do, old Gatepost,” observed Molly, apparently in allusion to Rhoda’s uneventful life. “You’ve got to fall in love with Marcus. I’ll cut you into slices if you do, and make buttered toast of you.”
“Good-bye!” said Rhoda laughing.
“Vale!” responded Molly.
“Good-bye, dear little Phoebe!” was Gatty’s farewell. “I wonder what would have become of me if I had not met you and Mrs Dorothy. For I have asked Him to be my Friend,—you know,—and I think, I think He will.”
“I am sure of it. Good-bye.”
And so Gatty and Molly passed out of the life at White-Ladies.
On returning to the old order of things, Phoebe found Rhoda, as she expected, considerably changed for the worse. What had been a sort of good-humoured condescension was altered into absolute snappishness, and Phoebe was sorely tried. But the influence of Molly, bad as it had been, proved temporary. Rhoda sank by degrees—or shall I say rose?—into her old self, and Phoebe presently had no more to bear than before the visit from Delawarr Court.
About a fortnight after the departure of Gatty and Molly, as Phoebe was sitting at the parlour window with her work, she perceived Mrs Jane Talbot, hooded, cloaked, and pattened,—for the afternoon was damp,—marching up to the side door. The fact was communicated to Madam, who rose and glanced at herself in the chimney-glass, and ringing her little hand-bell, desired Baxter to show Mrs Jane into the parlour.
“Good afternoon, Mrs Jane; ’tis a pleasure I did not look for,” said Madam, as she rose.
“Your servant, Madam,” returned Mrs Jane, who had divested herself of cloak and pattens in the hall.
“Pray be seated, Mrs Jane. And what brings you hither?—for methinks some matter of import will have called you out on so rainy a day as this.”
“Easy to guess,” answered Mrs Jane, taking a seat as requested, and delivering her communication in short, blunt sentences, like small shot. “A whim of Marcella’s. Got a fancy for Port O Port. Sent me to beg a sup of you, Madam. Fancies it will cure her. Fiftieth time she has thought so, of something. All nonsense. Can’t help it.”
“Indeed, my dear Mrs Jane, I am happy to be capable of helping Mrs Marcella to her fancy, and trust it may be of the advantage she thinks.—Phoebe! tell Betty to bid Baxter bring hither a bottle of the best Port O Port—that from the little ark in the further cellar.—And how does Mrs Marcella this afternoon?”
“As cross as two sticks,” said Mrs Jane.
“She is a great sufferer,” observed Madam, in her kindest manner.
Mrs Jane made no reply, unless her next remark could properly be called one.
“Mrs Darcy came last night.”
“Last night!” answered Madam, in accents of surprise. “Dear! I quite understood she was not to arrive before this evening. You have seen her, Mrs Jane?”
“Seen her! Oh dear, yes; I’ve seen her. We were schoolfellows.”
“Were you, indeed? That I did not know. ’Twill be a pleasure to you, Mrs Jane, to have an old schoolfellow so near.”
“Depends,” said Mrs Jane sententiously.
“No doubt,” answered Madam. “Were you and Mrs Eleanor friends at school, Mrs Jane?”
“No, Madam.”
“Not? Perhaps you were not near enough of an age.”
“Only six months between. No; that wasn’t it. I was a silly scapegrace, and she was a decent, good maid. Too good for me. I haven’t got any better. And she hasn’t got any handsomer.”
“Pray forgive me,” replied Madam, with a smile, “but I cannot think that name applies to you now, Mrs Jane. And was her nephew with Mrs Eleanor; as he engaged?”
“Large as life,” said Mrs Jane.
“And how large is that, in his case?” inquired Madam.
“Asking him or me?” retorted Mrs Jane. “I should say, about as big as a field mouse. He thinks himself big enough to overtop all the elephants in creation. Marcus Welles! Oh, yes, I’ll mark him well,—you trust me.”
It was tolerably evident that Mr Welles had not succeeded in fascinating Mrs Jane, whatever he might do to other people.
“I was told he was extreme handsome?” remarked Madam, in a tone of inquiry.
Mrs Jane’s exclamation in response sounded very like—“Pish!”
“You think not, Mrs Jane?”
“Folks’ eyes are so different, Madam,” answered Mrs Jane. “Chinamen’s beauties wouldn’t go for much in England, I guess. He’s a silly, whimsical, finnicking piece—that’s what he is! Pink velvet coat, laced with silver. Buff breeches. White silk stockings with silver clocks. No cloak. And raining cats and dogs and pitchforks. Reckon Eleanor got all the sense that was going in that family. None left for Mr Mark-me-well. Missed it, anyhow.”
From that day forward, behind his back, Mark-me-well was the only name bestowed by Mrs Jane on the young man in question. To his face she gave him none,—an uncivil proceeding in 1714; but Mrs Jane being allowedly an eccentric character, no one expected her to conform to conventional rules on all occasions.
It would seem that Mr Welles wished to lose no time in paying his court to Madam; for that very evening, as soon as calling-hours began, he put in an appearance at White-Ladies.
Calling-hours and visiting-days were as common then as now; but the hours were not the same. From five to eight o’clock in the evening was the proper time for a visit of ceremony; candles were always lighted, there was a special form of knock, and the guests sat round the room in a prim circle.
Perhaps the “cats, dogs, and pitchforks” alluded to before had spoiled the pink and buff suit which had roused the scorn of Mrs Jane. The colours in which Mr Welles chose to make his début at White-Ladies were violet and white. A violet velvet coat, trimmed with silver lace, was fastened with little silver hasps; white satin breeches led downwards to violet silk stockings with silver clocks, girt below the knee with silver garters. A three-cornered hat, of violet silk and silver lace, was heavily adorned with white plumes, and buttoned up at one side with a diamond. He wore shoes with silver buckles and very high red heels, white-silver fringed gloves, a small muff of violet velvet; and carried in his hand a slender amber-headed cane. Being a London beau of fashion, he was afflicted with a slight limp, and also with intense short-sightedness, which caused him to wear a gold eye-glass, constantly in use—except when alone, on which occasions Mr Welles became suddenly restored to the full use of his faculties.
He certainly was very handsome, and his taste was good. His wig was always suited to his complexion, and he rarely wore more than two colours, of which one was frequently black or white. Mr Welles was highly accomplished and highly fashionable; he played ombre and basset, the spinnet and the violin; he sang and danced well, composed anagrams and acrostics, was a good rider, hunted fearlessly and gamed high, interlarded his conversation with puns, and was a thorough adept at small talk. He was personally acquainted with every actor on the London stage, and by sight with every politician in the Cabinet. His manners were of the new school then just rising—which means, that they were very free and easy, removed from all the minute and often cumbersome ceremonies which had distinguished the old school. He generally rose about noon, dined at three p.m., spent the evening at the opera or theatre, and went to bed towards morning. Add to this, that he collected old china, took much snuff, combed his wig in public, and was unable to write legibly or spell correctly—and a finished portrait is presented of Mr Marcus Welles, and through him of a fashionable London gentleman of his day.
The impression made by Mr Welles on the ladies at the Abbey was of varied character. Madam commended him, but with that faint praise which is nearly akin to censure. He was well favoured, she allowed, and seemed to be a man of parts; but in her young days it was considered courteous to lead a lady to a chair before a gentleman seated himself; and it was not considered courteous to omit the Madam in addressing her. Rhoda said very little in her grandmother’s presence, reserving her opinion for Phoebe’s private ear. But as soon as they were alone, the girls stated their ideas explicitly.
“Isn’t he a love of a dear?” cried Rhoda, in ecstasy.
“No, I don’t think he is,” responded Phoebe, in a tone of unmistakable disgust.
“Why, Phoebe! Are you not sensible of the merit of such a man as that?”
“No, I am sure I did not see any,” said Phoebe, as before.
“Oh, Phoebe! Such taste as he has! And his discourse! I never saw so quick a wit. I am sure he is a man of great reach, and a man of figure too. I shall think the time long till I see him again.”
“Dear me! I shan’t!” exclaimed Phoebe. “Taste? Well, I suppose you may dress a doll with taste. His clothes are well enough, only they are too fine for anything but visiting.”
“Well, wasn’t he visiting, you silly Phoebe?”
“And he may be a man of figure—I don’t know; but as to reach! I wonder what you saw in his discourse to admire; it seemed to me all about nothing.”
“Why, that’s just his parts!” said Rhoda. “Any man can talk about something; but to be able to talk in a clever, sprightly way about nothing—that takes a man of reach.”
“Well! he may take his reach out of my reach,” answered Phoebe, in a disgusted tone. “I shall think the time uncommonly short, I can promise you, till I see him again; for I never wish to do it.”
“Phoebe, I do believe you haven’t one bit of discernment!”
But Phoebe held her peace.
Madam called in due form on her new guest at the Maidens’ Lodge, and Mrs Darcy returned the visit next day. She proved to be a short, stout, little woman, with a face which, while undeniably and excessively plain, was so beaming with good humour that it was difficult to remember her uncomeliness after the first coup d’oeil. Mr Welles accompanied her on the return visit. What had induced him to take up his quarters at the Bear, at Tewkesbury, was an enigma to the inhabitants of White-Ladies. Of course he could not live at the Maidens’ Lodge, Madam being rigidly particular with respect to the intrusion of what Betty called “he creeturs” into that enchanted valley, and not tolerating the habitual presence even of a servant of the obnoxious sex. According to the representations of Mr Welles himself, he was fascinated by the converse and character of Madam, and was also completely devoted to his dear Aunt Eleanor. But Mr Welles had not favoured the Bear with very much of his attention before it dawned upon one person at least that neither Madam nor Mrs Eleanor had much to do with his frequent visits to Cressingham. Mrs Dorothy Jennings quickly noticed that Mr Welles was quite clever enough to discover what pleased different persons, and to adapt himself accordingly with surprising facility; and she soon perceived that the attraction was Rhoda, or rather Rhoda’s prospects as the understood heiress of White-Ladies. Mr Welles accommodated himself skilfully to the prejudices of Madam; his manners assumed a graver and more courtly air, his conversation a calm and sensible tone; and Madam at length remarked to her grand-daughters, how very much that young man had improved since his first arrival at Cressingham.
With Rhoda, in the absence of her grandmother, he was an entirely different being. A great deal of apparent interest in herself, and deference to her opinions; a very little skilful flattery, too delicately administered for its hollowness to be perceived; a quick apprehension of what pleased and amused her, and a ready adaptation to her mood of the moment—these were Mr Welles’ tactics with the heiress for whom he was angling. As to Phoebe, he simply let her alone. He soon saw that she was of no account in Rhoda’s eyes, and was not her chosen confidante, but simply the person to whom she talked for want of any other listener. There was not, therefore, in his opinion, any reason why he should trouble himself to propitiate Phoebe.
Ever since the visit of the Delawarrs, Rhoda had seemed disinclined for another call on Mrs Dorothy Jennings. Now and then she went to see Mrs Clarissa, when the conversation usually turned on the fashions and cognate topics; sometimes she drank tea with Lady Betty, whose discourse was of rather a more sensible character. Rarely, she looked in on Mrs Marcella. Mrs Jane had thoroughly estranged her by persisting in her sarcastic nickname for Rhoda’s chosen hero, and letting off little shafts against him, more smart than nattering. On Mrs Darcy she called perpetually, perhaps with a view to meet him at her house; but all Mr Welles’ alleged devotion to his dear Aunt Eleanor scarcely ever seemed to result in his going to see her at the Maidens’ Lodge. When Rhoda met him, which she very often did, it was either by his calling at the Abbey, or by an accidental rencontre—if accidental it were—in some secluded glade of the Park.
At length, one day, without any warning, a horse cantered up to the side door, and Molly Delawarr’s voice in its loudest tones (and very loud they were) demanded where all those stupid creatures were who ought to be there to take her horse. Then Miss Molly, having been helped off, came marching in, and greeted her friends with a recitative—
“Lucy Locket lost her pocket; ‘Kitty Fisher found it!’”
“My dear Mrs Molly, I am quite rejoiced to see you!”
“No! you aren’t, are you?” facetiously responded Molly. “Rhoda—I vow, child, you’re uglier than ever!—mother wants you for a while. There’s that jade Betty going to come of age, and she means to make the biggest fuss over it ever was heard. She said she would send Wilson over, but I jumped on my tit, and came to tell you myself. You’ll come, won’t you, old hag?”
Rhoda looked at her grandmother.
“My dear, of course you will go!” responded Madam, “since my Lady Delawarr is so good. ’Tis so kind in Mrs Molly to take thus much trouble on herself.”
“Fiddle-de-dee!” ejaculated Molly. “I’m no more kind than she’s good. She wants a fuss, and a lot of folks to make it; and I wanted a ride, and some fun with Rhoda. Where’s the goodness, eh?”
“Shall I take Phoebe?” asked Rhoda, doubtfully.
“You’d better,” returned Molly, before Madam could speak. “You’ll want somebody to curl your love-locks and stitch your fal-lals; and I’m not going to do it—don’t you fancy so. Oh, I say, Rhoda! you may have Marcus Welles, if you want him. There’s another fellow turned up, with a thousand a year more, that will suit me better.”
“Indeed! I thank you!” said Rhoda, with a little toss of her head.
“My dear Mrs Molly, you are so diverting,” smiled Madam.
“You don’t say so!” rejoined that fascinating young person. “You’ll put on your Sunday bombazine, Rhoda. We’re all going to be as fine as fiddlers. As for you”—and Molly’s bold eyes surveyed Phoebe, seeming to take in the whole at a glance—“it won’t matter. You aren’t an heiress, so you can come in rags.”
Phoebe said nothing.
“I don’t think,” went on Molly, in a reflective tone, “that you can make a catch; but you can try. There is the chaplain—horrid old centipede! And there’s old Walford”—Molly never favoured any man with a Mr to his name—“an ugly, spiteful old bear that nobody’ll have: he’s rich enough; and he might look your way if you play your cards well. Any way, you’ll not have much chance else; so you’d better keep your eyes pretty well open. Now, Rhoda, come along, and we’ll have some fun.”
And away went Molly and Rhoda, with a smiling assent from Madam.
What a very repulsive, vulgar disagreeable girl this Molly Delawarr is! True, my gentle reader. And yet—does she do much more than say, in plain language, what a great number of Mollys are not ashamed to think?
Phoebe’s sensations, in view of the coming visit to the Court, were far removed from pleasure. Must she go? She braced up her courage, and ventured to ask.
“If you please, Madam—”
“Well, child?” was the answer, in a sufficiently gracious tone to encourage Phoebe to proceed.
“Must I go with Mrs Rhoda to Delawarr Court, if you please, Madam?”
“Why, of course, child.” Madam’s tone expressed surprise, though not displeasure.
Phoebe swallowed her regret with a sigh, and tried to comfort herself with the thought of meeting Gatty, which was the only bright spot in the darkness. But would Gatty be there?
Rhoda and Molly came in to tea arm-in-arm.
“And how has my Lady Delawarr her health, Mrs Molly?” inquired Madam, as she poured out the refreshing fluid.
Molly had allowed no time for inquiries on her first appearance.
“Oh, she’s well enough,” said Molly, carelessly.
“And Mrs Betty is now fully recovered of her distemper?”
“She’s come out of the small-pox, and tumbled into the vapours,” said Molly.
“The vapours” was a most convenient term of that day. It covered everything which had no other name, from a pain in the toe to a pain in the temper, and was very frequently descriptive of the latter ailment. Betty’s condition, therefore, as subject to this malady, excited little regret.
“And how goes it with Mrs Gatty? Is she now my Lady Polesworth?”
“My Lady Fiddlestrings!” responded Molly. “Not she—never will. Old Polesworth wanted a pretty face, and after Gatty’s small-pox, why, you couldn’t—”
“Small-pox!” cried Madam and Rhoda in concert.
“What, didn’t you know?” answered Molly. “To be sure—took it the minute she got home. But that wasn’t all, neither. Old Polesworth told Mum”—which meant Lady Delawarr—“that he might have stood small-pox, but he couldn’t saintship; so Saint Gatty lost her chance, and much she’ll ever see of such another. Dad and Mum were as mad as hornets. Dad said he’d have horsewhipped her if she’d been out of bed. Couldn’t, in bed, you see—wouldn’t have looked well.”
“But, my dear, she could not help taking the small-pox?”
“Maybe not, but she might have helped taking the saint-pox,” said Molly. “I believe she caught it from you,” nodding at Phoebe. “But what vexed Mum most was that the grey goose actually made believe to be pleased when she lost her chance of the tinsel. Trust me, but Mum blew her up—a little! All leather and prunella, you know, of course. Pleased to be an old maid!—just think, what nonsense. She will be an old maid now, sure as eggs are eggs, unless she marries some conventicle preacher. That would be the best end of her, I should think.”
Phoebe sat wondering why Molly paid so poor a compliment to her own denomination as to suppose that the natural gravitation of piety was towards Dissent. But Molly’s volatile nature passed to a different subject the next moment.
“I say, old Roadside, bring a white gown. The Queen’s coming to the Bath, and a lot of folks are trying to make her come on to Berkeley; and if she do, a whole parcel of young gentlewomen are to be there to courtesy to her, and give her a posy, and all that sort of flummery. And Mum says she’ll send us down, if they do it.”
“Who’s to give the posy?” eagerly asked Rhoda.
“Don’t know. Not you. You won’t have a chance, old Fid-fad. No more shan’t I. It’ll be some thing of quality. I’ll tread on her tail, though,—see if I don’t.”
“Whose?” whispered Rhoda; for Molly’s last remark had been confidential. “You don’t mean the Queen?”
“Of course I do,—who better? Her grandmother was a baronet’s daughter; what else am I? I’ll have a snip of her gown, if I can.”
“O Molly!” exclaimed Rhoda in unfeigned horror.
“Why not? I’ve scissors in my pocket.”
“Molly, you never could!”
“Don’t you lay much on those odds, my red currant bush. I can do pretty near anything I’ve a mind—when I have a mind.”
Rhoda was not pleased by Molly’s last vocative, which she took as an uncomplimentary allusion to the faint shade of red in her hair,—a subject on which she was peculiarly sensitive. This bit of confidence had been exchanged out of the hearing of Madam, who had gone to a cabinet at the other end of the long room, but within that of Phoebe, who grew more uncomfortable every moment.
“Well, ’tis getting time to say ta-ta,” said Molly, rising shortly after tea was over. “Where’s that tit of mine?”
“My dear, I will send to fetch your horse round,” said Madam, “Pray, make my compliments to my Lady Delawarr, and tell her that I cannot but be very sensible of her kindness in offering Rhoda so considerable a pleasure.”
Madam was about to add more, but Molly broke in.
“Come now! Can’t carry all that flummery. My horse would fall lame under the weight. I’ll say you did the pretty thing. Ta-ta! See you on Monday, old gentlewoman.” She turned to Rhoda; threw a nod, without words, to Phoebe, and five minutes afterwards was trotting across the Park on her way home to Delawarr Court.