“It’s just—gaudy!” said Cornelia to herself, using her favourite superlative with sublime disregard of suitability. She looked across the room to where Elma sat, resting her head against a brocaded blue cushion. One of the half-dozen cases of miniatures hung just behind the chair, and it was impossible not to notice the likeness between the living face and those portrayed on the ivory backgrounds. Actual similarity of feature might not exist, but the delicate colouring, the fine lines of the features, the loosened cloud of hair, made the resemblance striking enough. If some day Elma’s own miniature should be added to the number, it would fully sustain the reputation for the beauty so long enjoyed by the women of the house.
Coming back from the voyage of comparison, Cornelia’s eyes met those of the Squire fixed upon her in a questioning fashion. He averted them instantly, but all his determination could not restrain the mantling blush which dyed his cheek, and she had little doubt that his own thoughts had been a duplicate of her own. Before the silence was broken, however, the door opened, and Mrs Greville entered the room.
Chapter Nine.
It was Mrs Greville’s pleasure to be addressed as “Madame” by the members of her household, and the name had spread until it was now adopted as a sobriquet by the entire neighbourhood. The tradesmen instructed their underlings to pay implicit attention to “Madame’s” orders; the townsfolk discussed “Madame’s” clothes and manner, alternately aggrieved and elated, as she smiled upon them, or stared them haughtily in the face. Her friends adopted it for ease, and Mrs Greville herself was well pleased that it should be so. She would have disdained a cheap title, but it seemed fitting that she should be known by a more distinguished and exclusive designation than the vulgar “Mrs”, which was equally the property of the meanest of her dependants. She was a graceful woman, with a narrow face, aquiline features, and a society smile. She dressed perfectly, in soft satins and brocades; not black, but of rich, subdued colours, softened by fichus of lace, while her wonderfully silky white hair was dressed in the latest and most elaborate fashion. To-day, her dress was of a dull heliotrope, a bunch of Parma violets was fastened in the folds of the fichu at the breast, ruffles of old point d’Alençon lace fell back from her wrists, and as she moved there came the glint of diamonds, discreetly hidden away. Elma recalled her mother’s afternoon costume of black cashmere, with prickly jet edging on the cuffs, and felt several degrees more faint and weary from pure nervous collapse. Cornelia beamed in artistic satisfaction.
“Mother, you know Mrs Ramsden! This is her daughter, and her friend, Miss—er—Briskett. I happened to be behind a hedge just as their cart overturned. It was all the fault of that lunatic, Mrs Moss—what must she do but stick her blessed parrot cage on the side of the road, to frighten stray horses out of their wits! It’s a mercy they were not all killed. Miss Ramsden has had a severe shock.”
“Poor dear! How trying for you!” ejaculated Madame, in gushing tones of sympathy. (What she really said was “Paw dar!” as Cornelia was quick to note; storing up the fact, to produce next time she herself was accused of murdering the English language!) “How quite too senseless of Mrs Moss! She really is an impossible woman—but so clean! One can’t expect brains, can one, in persons of that class? So sweet of you to come up, and let us do what we can to comfort you. It is really our fault, isn’t it? Employers’ liability, you know, and that kind of thing! Is the horse hurt? Your hands are hot, dear, but you look white. Now what is it to be? Tea? Wine? Sal volatile? Tell me just what you think would help you most!”
She held Elma’s hand in her own, and stretched out the other towards Cornelia, thus making both girls feel the warmth of her welcome. Elma smiled her pretty, shy smile, but left it to her friend to reply. She was considerably astonished at the sudden development of anxiety which the answer displayed.
“I guess, if you don’t mind, Miss Ramsden had better lie right-down for a spell. She’s had some brandy, and a cup of tea would be pretty comforting, but it’s rest she needs most of all. It’s a pretty hard strain sitting by, and watching someone else driving straight to glory. When you’ve got something to do, there’s not so much time to think. The spill was bound to come, so it was up to me to choose the softest place!”