Well, that dream was over. She felt a little hard—a little bitter. It was no easy matter to gain Alma’s good opinion, but of Philip Orlebar she had managed to become very fond—more so, in fact, than she herself had suspected at the time. And sometimes now a satirical smile would curve her lips as she reflected bitterly that after all he had certainly shown no weakness in choosing to ignore her own gracious advance, and the reflection did not tend in any degree to restore either peace or contentment to herself.
Bearing in mind Alma’s character and general temperament, it need hardly be said that concerning this, the great event of her trip abroad, she let fall neither word nor hint. She would, indeed, sometimes smile bitterly to herself as she pictured her mother’s wrath and disgust did the latter become aware that she had refused the heir to a baronetcy—a poor one certainly, but still a baronetcy. Why, life would thenceforth cease to be worth living. It would be the last straw. And for this, in her heart of hearts, she admitted that, looking at it from a strictly mundane point of view, there was some excuse. The chances matrimonial, to a girl situated as she was, were poor enough, in fact they were mainly confined to the City youths of mediocre lineage and strictly limited incomes, who constituted her sister’s sworn admirers, or a delicate handed and mustachioed curate who had for some time evinced an unmistakable partiality for herself. Still she was nothing if not characteristic. She was not going to sacrifice her clearly-formed judgment upon the altar of expediency. So she strove to dismiss Philip Orlebar from her mind, and to fall back into her old groove with what contentment she might.
That Alma did not “get on well at home” was not surprising—indeed, the wonder would have come in had things been the other way. The problematical amalgamation of oil and water was a trifle more conceivable than the existence of any cordiality or even a good understanding between herself and her mother. For the latter was not a lovable person. To start with, her brain power was of the scantiest order, her mind of the narrowest; it follows, therefore, that she was intensely, aggressively obstinate. And in the art of nagging she was a past mistress. She was one of those women to whom battle is as the air they breathe, and she had a knack of starting a fray gently, insidiously, sorrowfully even, as though marvelling herself that there should ensue any hostilities at all. Her younger daughter, Constance, then just eighteen, was an excellent replica of her in disposition—that is to say, had not a single redeeming point in her character; and, pace the gushing philanthropist, there are such persons. But the girl, with her blue eyes and smooth skin, her golden hair and fresh complexion, was extremely pretty; and in stating this we have said all there is to be said for her; for as a set-off against these advantages she was selfish, wilful, and conceited to the last degree, as, indeed, was only natural, seeing that from her birth upward she had been thoroughly and consistently spoiled.
There were those who wondered whence Alma had inherited her fine character. Those in a position to speak—old General Wyatt for instance—declared that she had inherited all her father’s good qualities and none of her mother’s bad ones, whereas in the case of Constance the positions were exactly reversed.
“Alma, I want you to get on your hat, quick, and come along up the river,” cried Constance, bursting in upon her sister one bright summer afternoon. The latter had sought out the coolest corner of the stuffy little drawing-room, and was busily engaged in the—to her in her then frame of mind—very congenial task of sticking a number of Alpine views into an album. She had a touch of headache, and was not in the most amiable frame of mind herself. In fact the above invitation struck within her no responsive chord, and she said as much.
“Of course!” snapped the younger girl. “Isn’t that always the way! Here one has been indoors the whole day, and directly it gets cool enough to move you say you wont. Just because you know I want to. Well—well. One never can get to the bottom of the selfishness of some people.”
“Speak for yourself, Constance!” returned Alma, quickly but quietly. “Does it never strike you that I may now and then feel tired, or disinclined for exertion. And I certainly feel that way this afternoon.”
But the other’s rejoinder was a shrill, jeering, ringing laugh.
“All very well,” she cried, flinging her sailor hat into the air and catching it. “All very well. But that won’t go down with me. Can’t tear yourself away from those old Swiss photos. I know all about it. By the way, which is the place you met him in?” she jeered, going over to the table and feigning a deep interest in the views which lay ranged upon it ready for sticking in the book. “Which was it? You might as well tell a fellow, instead of being as close as Death itself. Which was it, Alma, and what’s he like? You needn’t keep it all so dark. I won’t let on.”