Part 2, Chapter XII.
Lambent Love.
A certain small world, of which Mr Perry-Morton was one of the shining lights, was deeply agitated, moved to its very volcanic centre, and gave vent to spasmodic utterances respecting the approaching marriage of their apostle to Julia, eldest daughter of the Rev. Eli Mallow, Rector of Lawford. There were no less than four paragraphs in as many papers concerning the bride’s parure and trousseau, and the presents she was receiving.
“But I thought it would have excited more notice,” said the Rev. Eli, mildly, after a discussion with the invalid, wherein he had firmly maintained his intention not to invite Cyril and his wife to the wedding.
The papers devoted to art gave a description of the interior of Mr Perry-Morton’s new mansion in Westminster, and dwelt at great length upon the artistic furnishing, and the additions being made of art tapestry, carpets, and curtains manufactured by the well-known firm of Gimpsley and Stough, from the designs of Smiless, A.R.A., and the wealthy bridegroom himself. The golden beetle conventionally treated was the leading motif in all the designs, and a yellow silk of a special orange-golden hue had been prepared for the purpose, the aniline dye being furnished by Judd, Son and Company. The carpets were so designed that on at-home nights the guests would be standing in the midst of gorgeous bugs, as an American friend termed them—beetles whose wings seemed to be moving beneath the feet of those who trod thereon. But the great feature of the salon was the central ottoman, which was a conventional rendering of a bank of flowers supporting golden beetles, amidst which were a few places upon which the so-inclined might rest and fancy the insects were alive.
Columns of chat were written in praise of Perry-Morton and his place, and copies of the papers in which they were, somehow found their way into a great many houses through the length and breadth of the land.
There was only one drawback to the joys of the stained-glass sisters, as they showed their friends through the house, and posed in graceful attitudes all over the carpets and against the hangings, in whose folds they almost wrapped themselves in their sweetly innocent delight—there was only one drawback, and that was, that another season was gliding by, and they were still on the matrimonial house-agents’ books—these two eligible artistic cottages ornées to let.
Stay: there was another drawback. When dear Perry was married they would have to go, for unless dearest Julia pressed them very, very much indeed to continue their residence there, of course they could not stay.
These were busy times for Perry-Morton, who, in addition to the almost herculean labours which he went through in planning and designing, so as to make his home worthy of his goddess, had to beam every evening in Parkleigh Gardens.
This beaming was a very beautiful performance. Some men love with their eyes and look languishing, dart passionate glances, or seem to ask questions or sympathy from the fair one of their worship. Others, more manly and matter-of-fact, love with their tongues, and if clever in the use of this speaking organ, these generally woo and win, for most women love to be conquered by one who is their master in argument and pleading. There are others, again, who do not woo at all, but allow themselves to be fished for, hooked, and—and—what shall we say? There—cooked, for there is no more expressive way of describing their fate.
But Perry-Morton was none of those. He was like the Archduke in the French comic opera, nothing unless he was original; and it was only reasonable to suppose that he would bring his great artistic mind to bear upon so important a part of his life as the choice of an Eve for his modern-antique paradise. He did his wooing, then, in a way of his own, and came nightly to beam upon the object of his worship.
This he did in attitudes of his own designing, while Cynthia felt as if, to use her own words, she should like to stick pins in the man’s back.
For Perry-Morton’s love seemed to emanate from him in a phosphorescent fashion. He became lambent with softly luminous smiles. His plump face shone with a calm ethereal satisfaction, and of all men in the world he seemed most happy.
He did not trouble Julia much, only with his presence. He would lay a finger on the back of her chair, and pose himself like a sculptor’s idea of one of the fat gods in the Greek Pantheon—say Bacchus, before too much grape-juice had begun to interfere with the proper working of his digestive organs. Or before the first wanderings of his very severe attacks of D.T., which must have caused so much consternation and dismay in Olympus’ pleasant groves, and bothered Aesculapius, who applied leeches, because he would not own to his ignorance of the new disease.
He never kissed Julia once, so Cynthia declared. It is open to doubt whether he ever pressed her hand. His was the kiss-the-hem-of-the-lady’s-garment style of love, and he once terribly alarmed Julia by gracefully reclining at her feet, with one arm resting upon a footstool, and gazing blandly in her face.
At other times he seemed to love her from a distance—getting into far-off corners of the room, and gazing from different points of view, standing, sitting, lying on sofas—always gracefully and in the most sculpturesque fashion. In fact, Artingale in great disgust wondered why he did not try standing on his head: but that was absurd.
As the day fixed for the wedding drew near, Perry-Morton was most regular in his visits—most devoted, and his lambent softness seemed to pervade the parental drawing-rooms.
Meanwhile Julia went about like one in a dream. She was less hysterical and timid than she had been for many weeks past, and finding that her lover troubled her so little, she bore his presence patiently, delighting him, as he confided to Cynthia, by her “heavenly calm.”
“I don’t think she’s well,” said Cynthia, shortly.
“Not well?” he said, with a pitying smile. “My sweet Cynthia, you cannot read her character as I read it. Do you not see how, for months past, our love has grown, rising like some lotus out from the cool depths of an Eastern lake till it has reached the surface, where it is about to unfold its petals to the glowing sun. Ah, my sweet child, you do not see how I have been forming her character, day by day, hour by hour, till she has reached to this sweet state of blissful repose. Look at her now.”
This conversation was going on in the back drawing-room, on the evening preceding the wedding-day, every one being very tired of the visitors and congratulations, and present-giving, the Rector especially, and he confided to Mrs Mallow the fact that after all he would be very glad to get away back to Lawford and be at peace.
“Yes,” said Cynthia, rather ill-humouredly, for Harry had not been there that evening, “I see her, and she looks very poorly.”
“Poorly? Unwell? Nay,” said Perry-Morton serenely, “merely in a beatific state of repose. Ah, Cynthia, my child, when she is my very own, and Claudine has imparted to her some of the riches of her own wisdom on the question of dress, I shall be a happy man.”
Cynthia seemed to give every nerve in her little body a kind of snatch, but the lover did not perceive it; he only closed his eyes, walked to the half-pillar that supported the arch between the two rooms, leaned his shoulder against it, crossed his legs, gazed at poor listless Julia for a few moments from this point of view, and then turning his half-closed eyes upon Cynthia, beckoned to her softly to come.
“Oh,” whispered the latter to herself, as she drew a long breath between her teeth, “I wish I were going to be married to him to-morrow instead of Julia. How I would bring him to his senses, or knock something into his dreadful head, or—there, I suppose I must go. Julia must be mad.”
“Yes,” she said, as she crossed to where her brother in prospective stood.
“There,” he said; “look now. Could there be a sweeter ideal of perfect repose? Good—good night, dear Cynthia, I am going to steal away without a word to a soul. I would not break in upon her rapturous calm; and the memory of her sweet face, as I see it now, will soothe me during the long watches of the peaceful night. Good night, Cynthia. Ah, you should have changed names. Yonder is Cynthia in all her calm silvery beauty. Good night, sweet sister—good night—good night.”
There was something very moonlike in his looks and ways as he softly stole from the room and out of the house, leaving Cynthia motionless with astonishment.
“I want to know,” she said to herself at last, “whether those two are really going to be married to-morrow, or whether it is only a dream. But there, I wash my hands of it all; I feel to-night as if I hate everybody—papa, mamma, Harry for not killing that horrible jelly-fish of a creature. Oh, he’s dreadful! And Julia, for letting herself be led as she is, when she might have married dear James Magnus, and been happy. No! poor girl, I must not blame her. She felt that she could not love him, and perhaps she is right.”
“Good night, Julia darling; I’m going to bed,” she whispered, and, seating herself by her sister, she clasped her waist, and placed her lips against her cheek.
“To bed? so soon?” said Julia, dreamily.
“Soon! It is past eleven. Will you come and sit with me in my room, or shall I come to you?”
Julia shook her head.
“Not to-night—not to-night,” she said softly; and she clasped her sister in her arms. “Good night, Cynthia dear. Think lovingly of me always when I am gone.”
“Lovingly, Julie, always,” whispered Cynthia; “always, dear sister.”
“Always—whatever comes?” whispered Julia.
“Always, whatever comes. Shall I come and sit with you, Julie; only for an hour?”
“No,” said Julia, firmly, “not to-night. Let us go to our rooms.”
They went out of the drawing-room with their arms round each other’s waists, till they were about to part at Julia’s door, when the final words and appeals that Cynthia was about to speak died away upon her lips, and she ran to her own chamber, sobbing bitterly, while, white as ashes, and trembling in every limb, Julia entered hers.
“Poor, poor Julie!” sobbed Cynthia; and for a good ten minutes she wept, her maid sniffing softly in sympathy till she was dismissed.
“Go away, Minson,” cried Cynthia; “I don’t want you any more.”
“But won’t you try on your dress again, miss?” said the maid in expostulation.
“No, Minson, I only wish it was fresh mourning, I do,” cried the girl, passionately; and the maid withdrew, to meet Julia’s maid on the stairs, and learn that she never knew such a thing before in her life—a young bride, and wouldn’t try on her things.
Cynthia sat thinking for a few minutes, and then a bright look came into her eyes.
“He didn’t come to-night,” she said. “He was cross about Julie. I wonder whether I could see the bright end of a cigar if I looked out over the gardens. Oh, the cunning of some people, to give policemen half-sovereigns not to take them for burglars, and lock them up.”
As she spoke, Cynthia drew up her blind softly, and holding back the curtain, ensconced herself in the corner, so that she could look down into the gardens, her window being towards the park.
It was a soft, dark night, but the light of a lamp made the objects below dimly distinct, and she rubbed the window-pane to gaze out more clearly, saying laughingly to herself—
“I wonder whether Romeo will come!”
Directly after she pressed her face closer to the glass.
“There he is,” she said, with a gleeful little laugh. “No it isn’t, I’m sure. What does it mean? What is he doing there?”