Mrs. Dawson admired, in a really genuine fashion, the handsome, desolate widower, and he, knowing that he must once more accept the burden of his position, and imagining her to be a sweet, tender-hearted woman, energetic as wise, invited her to be the partner of his sorrows.
The likeness to Joseline had become indistinct and faded, save for the hair-tint (which was duly revived at necessary intervals); but he believed that they would make the best of two sad lives, and face the future sustained by mutual experience, and mutual sympathy. The Countess of Mulgrave, with her carriages, diamonds, town-house, and country-seats, was an entirely different individual to the pretty, pathetic widow his lordship had known in Spain. They were not the same. People talk of children being changed at nurse; it seemed as if Lottie Dawson had been changed at the altar!
She was ambitious, agreeable, and selfish. A luxurious home, crowds of servants, quantities of money, a great name, and a connection, were all delightful in their way, and she was fairly well satisfied with her lot. Certainly Owen was peculiar; she managed him beautifully—yet she stood a little in awe of him, although he had never uttered a sharp word, or denied her any reasonable request. He attended her to functions, he submitted to her friends, he made Tito a generous allowance; and yet somehow they remained strangers.
Of course, they had not identical tastes. A country life, sport, books, and peace, were all he cared for; she enjoyed the racket of town—six engagements of an evening, with races, the opera, Hurlingham wedged in between visiting, charity concerts, and milliners. She had acquired the great art of dress, and was still a pretty woman, with auburn hair, and a brilliant colour, a wonderful faculty of making conversation, a fair amount of tact, and a reputation at bridge.
Her daughter Tito, who was small and dark, with a nez retroussé, found it necessary to live up to her profile, and was as jaunty and impudent as her nose—extravagant in dress and conversation. Tito Dawson had a reputation for being clever, and making the most daring and original remarks.
As a rule, women and girls liked her, and men considered her “good sport.” She had a sharp, amusing tongue, and a capital seat on a horse.
The marquis and his guests were lunching in a glen after a first-rate drive. Long rows of dead grouse were spread in lines near where the beaters were eating their dinner. The guns, twelve in number, reclined under the lee of a rock, discussing cold grouse, cold pie, sandwiches, and cake, when a gillie arrived with the letters. These were those which had come from the south by a second post, and, being the most important of the day, were invariably sent out to the guns, as among Lord Maxwelton’s guests were men high in the political and diplomatic world and the services, to whom the delay of a few hours, meant much in these hurried times. Letters and telegrams were handed about to where their recipients sat lounging or cross-legged, enjoying a pipe or cigar.
“Two for you, Owen,” said his host and brother-in-law, and he handed him a couple of missives in the long, narrow envelopes dedicated to business.
Lord Mulgrave glanced at them indifferently. The post had no surprises or pleasures for him. One was from his farm bailiff, no doubt about wire fencing; the other was from Usher, his man of business. Could anything be more prosaic or commonplace?
An interesting young colonel, his next-hand neighbour—a keen soldier and a keen shot—was immersed in a woman’s letter, written in an enormous hand, with violet ink. As he turned the page, the words “My own darling boy” were as plain as a sign-post. Those who sat must read; but the lady’s “darling” was blissfully unconscious.