Two of the best rooms in the house were prepared for the expected guests, and a couple of garret rooms allotted to the two maids who were to accompany the ladies.
On a lovely May afternoon the coach with Madame Isabey and Madame Le Noir was due at Harrowby. Never had the old manor house looked sweeter than on this golden afternoon of late springtime. The great clumps of syringas and snowballs, like giant bouquets on the green lawn, were in splendid leaf and flower, and flooded the blue air with their perfume. The old garden was in the first glory of its blossoming, and the ancient wall at the end, where stood the bench called Angela’s, could scarcely support the odorous beauty of the lilacs, white and purple. The river singing its ceaseless song ran smiling and dimpling to the sea. All was peace outwardly, although peace was riven within the household. Angela was palpitating with excitement at the thought of the strangers’ arrival. She had never seen anyone in her life from a place as far off as New Orleans, except Isabey and Lyddon. The ladies of high degree, who were to arrive, belonged in a way to Isabey, and it was through him that they were invited to take up their domicile at Harrowby. Angela dressed herself carefully in a pale-green muslin left over from last year. There had been no question of new gowns for women that year; an army of men had to be clothed and shod, and for that the women of the South heroically sacrificed their fal-lals.
Mrs. Tremaine, herself, placid and dignified, was secretly a little agitated at the coming advent of these strange new guests. Luckily, Hector being absent, everything went on properly in the department of the dining room, and there were no complications about lost keys, disappearing brandy bottles, and the usual corollary of a butler with magnificent manners, a disinclination for work, and a tendency to steep his soul in the Lethe of forgetfulness. Toward five o’clock, everything being in perfect preparation, Angela went into the garden to pace up and down the long walk and think, to speculate, to dream chiefly of Isabey, for she had not succeeded in putting him out of her mind. As she passed across the lawn she met George Charteris about to return to Greenhill. He went by her with a sort of angry indifference. Angela noticed this without feeling it. She seemed not four years but a whole decade older than George Charteris, and eons seemed to have passed since she was flattered by his boyish admiration.
As she sat on the bench under the lilacs she remembered the old yearning which had been hers, when the lilacs last bloomed, for something to happen. Things were happening so fast that her breath was almost taken away. And then looking toward the house, she saw the old coach rolling up. Hector, by some occult means, had succeeded in getting a nip of applejack, and in consequence Colonel Tremaine sat on the coach box and drove, while Hector, with folded arms, expostulated. There was, however, no room for Colonel Tremaine inside, as it was entirely taken up by the two ladies, their maids, and bandboxes. A cart containing their trunks followed behind.
By the time the cavalcade drew up to the door, Angela, who was fleet of foot, was standing on the steps with Mrs. Tremaine. Colonel Tremaine, springing from the box and bowing profoundly, opened the carriage door and Isabey’s stepmother descended. Madame Isabey was the size and shape of a hogshead. She had once been pretty and nothing could dim the laughing light in her eyes and the brilliance of her smile. She radiated good humor, and when Mrs. Tremaine advanced, embraced, and kissed her on both cheeks, she poured forth a volley of thanks in French, of which Mrs. Tremaine understood not one word. Madame Isabey spoke English tolerably, but in moments of expansion invariably forgot every word of it. Then she seized Angela, whom she called an angel, a darling, and a little birdlet, of whom Philip had written her. If Angela was slightly disappointed in the state and majesty of Madame Isabey, there was no disappointment when Madame Le Noir descended. Her eyes were dark and her complexion olive like Madame Isabey’s, but there the resemblance ceased. Adrienne’s face, delicate, melancholy, beautiful, was of exquisite coloring, although without a touch of rose. Her hair was of midnight blackness, her complexion creamy, and she had the most beautiful teeth imaginable, which showed in a smile faint and illusive that hovered about her thin, red lips. Her figure was perfectly modeled, and her gown, her hat, her gloves, everything betokened an exquisite luxury of simplicity. She spoke English fluently in the most musical of voices. Lyddon, who from the study window, was watching the debarkation, promptly came to the conclusion that no woman with so much personal charm and elegance as Madame Le Noir could possibly have any mind whatever.
A greater contrast to Angela could not be imagined. With that singular sensitiveness about clothes which is born in the normal woman, Angela realized at once that her gown was of last year’s fashion and the brooch and bracelets which she wore, according to the custom of the time, were not suited to her youth and slimness. She and Adrienne glanced at each other and in an instant the attraction of repulsion was established between them, that jealous admiration which is after all the highest tribute one woman can pay another. Not more was Angela overwhelmed with Adrienne’s matchless grace, her air of being the perfect flower of civilization, than was Adrienne impressed by Angela’s nymphlike freshness. Thirty is old for a woman near Capricorn, and Adrienne Le Noir looked all her thirty years. Her beauty had been acquired, as it were, by painstaking and was certainly preserved by it, while here was a creature, with the freshness of the dawn and much of its loveliness, whose beauty was no more a thing of calculation than the wood violets or the wild hyacinths which grew shyly under the yew hedge along the Ladies’ Walk.
Madame Isabey, who waddled into the house, escorted by Colonel Tremaine with elaborate welcomes and many genuflections, was charmed with everything. Finding Mrs. Tremaine did not understand a word of French, Madame Isabey poured forth her thanks in Spanish, which did not mend matters in the least. She grew ecstatic over the dazzling account which Isabey had given of Angela, and Angela, to her own annoyance, blushed deeply at this—a blush which did not escape Adrienne, whose soft black eyes saw everything.
Angela’s ear was not attuned to French, and although she had a really sound knowledge of the language, she was mortified at having to ask for a repetition of what Madame Isabey was saying. She received another pin prick by Adrienne’s speaking to her in English.
After the ladies were shown to their rooms they were invited to rest themselves until supper, which was at eight o’clock. Angela went downstairs and again sought the garden seat. She was followed by Lyddon. “Wonderful old party, Madame Isabey,” he said, throwing his long, lanky figure on the bench. “I perceive, however, that she is amusing and means to be pleased, and the other lady—by Jupiter, I have never seen a woman more beautiful than she!”
Angela started.