On the other hand, Leila Wynyard was known to be penniless! (for what is a hundred a year?—it scarcely keeps some women in hats) had no surpassing accomplishments to lift her out of the ruck; it was also whispered that she had an independent character, and a sharp tongue!
No one could deny that Miss Wynyard’s air was distinguished. Some men considered her a brilliant conversationalist, and extraordinarily clever—but these are rarely the attributes of the women they marry!
Time sped along, Miss Wynyard had been out for nine seasons, was spoken of in the family as “poor Leila,” and now relegated to the worst spare room, expected to make herself useful, “do the flowers,” write notes, and take over the bores. In short, she was about to step into the position of permanent poor relation, when, to the amazement of the whole connection, Leila married herself off with triumphant success! Alone she did it! Her uncle, Sir Richard Wynyard, owner of the family title and estates, was an old bachelor, who lived in a gloomy town house in Queen’s Gate, but spent most of his time at his club. At uncertain intervals he repaid hospitalities received, and entertained his friends at dinner under his own roof—he scorned the fashionable craze of assembling one’s guests at a restaurant. These banquets were well done—wine, ménu, and attendance being beyond criticism. They would also have been insupportably dull, but for the officiating hostess; and, thanks to Miss Wynyard’s admirable supervision, they were usually an enviable success.
The company were of a respectable age—the host’s contemporaries—old club friends or City folk, with their sedate and comfortable wives. Miss Wynyard introduced an element of youth and vivacity into the gathering, selected flowers for the table decoration, had a word about the savouries and dessert, and, on the evening itself, radiant and well dressed, enjoyed herself prodigiously—for Leila had the flair of the born hostess—a gift that had no opportunity for expanding in the limited space at home.
On one of these occasions, a certain Martin Kesters sat on Miss Wynyard’s right hand—a plain, elderly man, of few words and many thoughts, with rugged features, grizzled whiskers, and a made tie!—a melancholy and reluctant guest who rarely dined abroad, and had martyrised himself to please and appease his old schoolfellow, Dick Wynyard.
The brilliant Leila, who adored playing hostess and giving her talents full scope, drew him out with surprising subtlety, listened to his opinions with flattering deference, put him at his ease and in good humour with himself, and won, so to speak, his heart! She was not aware that Mr. Kesters was a wealthy widower, and mainly responsible for the enormous increase in her uncle’s fortunes; but this would not have made an atom of difference. Her attention would have been precisely the same had he been a penniless curate; she could see that he was overpowered by his partner—a magnificent matron who talked exclusively of royalties—his answers were short and gruff;—evidently he was bored to death and longing to be at home; and she instantly made up her mind to capture his interest and rivet his attention.
Leila was on her mettle that night, and achieved a notable success. How she shone! Even Sir Richard was amazed—he was proud of, and not a little afraid of, his clever niece; as for Mr. Kesters, he watched her furtively, noted her upright grace, her animation, her delightful smile, her art of saying the right thing—and saying it well—her insidious dexterity in leading the conversation into interesting channels, yet never obtruding her own personality. It was not the excellence of the champagne that made every one at the table feel themselves unusually shining and brilliant. No, poor souls! they were but the pale reflection of this luminous star.
Then the girl’s appearance—she was a girl to his fifty-six years—of superb health and vitality. What an inmate for a dull, drab home—what a stimulating companion for a lonely man!
It was a cosy little party of eight, and at a sign from the hostess, three matrons arose and preceded her up to the ghostly drawing-room, there to feel depressingly flat and to sip very superior coffee. After some devastating comments on the British climate and the British domestic, two of the quartette retired, whispering, to a sofa, in order to discuss a cure—leaving Miss Wynyard and Lady Billing tête-à-tête.
“This room is rather a dreadful specimen of Early Victorian,” said Leila, waving an apologetic spoon. “I fought so hard for these loose chintz covers and lamp-shades; but everything else is as it was in grandmamma’s time—there she is, between the windows, in yellow satin and ringlets! The venerable servants who still survive will not hear of a change. Do look at the carpet; it must be fifty years of age. How old things wear!”