‘Of course he could. One can get anything by sending to Covent Garden,’ replied her mistress hastily. ‘Pray be quick, Louisa, for I hear that Miss Wynter has come, and is waiting for me.’
Louisa laid the flowers—exquisite double violets, both blue and white, whose delicate perfume had already made itself felt in the warm air of the room—upon a table and obeyed the injunction in silence. Eleanor sat before the glass, with eyes cast down, and feelings in which vague apprehension and uncertainty were predominant. Gilbert Langstroth had been with them a fortnight—surely not a very long time; but in that fortnight he had succeeded in making her feel that he was a power, and a great one, in everything that concerned her brother’s affairs; that if she wished to have any permanent hold upon Otho, she must take Otho’s friend, and that friend’s will and pleasure into account; that only by cutting herself entirely adrift from Otho could she act or plan without reference to Gilbert. That was surely matter enough for consideration; and, in addition to that, she had begun to feel during the last week, that Gilbert had some idea of being a power in her affairs too. She rebelled against this; she revolted against it, but she trembled, and she literally did not know what course to take. The appearance of the violets now only added to her embarrassment.
She was roused by Louisa’s voice.
‘There, ma’am. These always suit you better than anything else, and they go perfectly with this dress. And I think, if you would let me put a small bunch of the violets here, in front of your dress, instead of any more ornaments——’
‘No, certainly not,’ said Eleanor, hastily. ‘I will not wear them.’ Then, seeing a look of surprise at her vehemence, she added, hesitatingly, ‘I will carry them in my hand. I—it would be a pity to spoil the bouquet by taking any out of it; it is so beautifully arranged. Am I ready now? I will go down.’
She went into the drawing-room, framing in her mind some kind of apology for being so late. But on entering the room she found that Magdalen was not alone. Otho was there with her. He was standing on the hearthrug, ready dressed for the evening, with his back against the mantelpiece, and his hands clasped behind him. There was a smile of anything but a genial nature upon his lips, and his eyes were fixed upon Miss Wynter with an expression which struck Eleanor instantly as being unusual, but which she could not quite fathom. Magdalen was reposing in a low chair, with her fan closed in her hands, which were lightly folded one over the other. She was tranquil, calm, unmoved; her marble eyelids a little drooped, and the faintest smile upon her lips. She was looking marvellously handsome, in a black velvet gown, and with scarlet geraniums in her breast and hair.
‘I am[‘I am] sorry to have been so long in coming, Miss Wynter. I really was kept upstairs; but I see Otho has been with you, so you have not been entirely alone.’
‘Perhaps it would have been better if I had,’ responded Magdalen nonchalantly, as she rose to shake hands with Eleanor. ‘Otho and I have been quarrelling, and when he quarrels no one can be more nasty.’
Eleanor smiled slightly, taking it for a jest, and one in rather doubtful taste; but she was enlightened when Otho, with a scowl significant of anything but jesting, said with something like a snarl in his voice—
‘You are right, Magdalen. “Nasty” is the word, and nasty you shall find me, since this is the way you treat me.’