"Tell me where is fancy bred,Or in the heart, or in the head?How begot, how nourished?Reply, reply."
"Tell me where is fancy bred,Or in the heart, or in the head?How begot, how nourished?Reply, reply."
"An invitation from Lady Baltimore," says Joyce, looking at the big red crest, and coloring slightly.
"Yes."
"How do you know?" asks she, rather suspiciously.
The young man raises his hands and eyes.
"IswearI had nothing to do with it," says he, "I didn't so much as hint at it. Lady Baltimore spent her time crossing the Channel in declaring to all who were well enough to hear her, that she lived only in the expectation of soon seeing you again."
"Nonsense!" scornfully; "it is only a month ago since I was staying there, just before they went to London. By the bye, what brings them home now? In the very beginning of their season?"
"Idon't know. And it is as well not to inquire perhaps. Baltimore and my cousin, as all the world knows, have not hit it off together. Yet when Isabel married him, we all thought it was quite an ideal marriage, they were so much in love with each other."
"Hot love soon cools," says Miss Kavanagh in a general sort of way.
"I don't believe it," sturdily, "if it's the right sort of love. However, to go back to your letter—which you haven't even deigned to open—youwillaccept the invitation, won't you?"
"I don't know," hesitating.
"Oh! I say,docome! It is only for a week, and even if it does bore you, still, as a Christian, you ought to consider how much, even in that short time, you will be able to add to the happiness of your fellow creatures."
"Flattery means insincerity," says she, tilting her chin, "keep all that sort of thing for your Miss Maliphant; it is thrown away upon me."
"MyMiss Maliphant! Really I must protest against your accrediting me with such a possession. But look here,don'tdisappoint us all; and you won't be dull either, there are lots of people coming. Dicky Brown, for one."
"Oh! will he be there?" brightening visibly.
"Yes," rather gloomily, and perhaps a little sorry that he has said anything about Mr. Browne's possible arrival—though to feel jealousy about that social butterfly is indeed to sound the depths of folly; "you like him?"
"Ilovehim," says Miss Kavanagh promptly and with sufficient enthusiasm to restore hope in the bosom of any man except a lover.
"He is blessed indeed," says he stiffly. "Beyond his deserts I can't help thinking. I really think he is the biggest fool I ever met."
"Oh! not the biggest, surely," says she, so saucily, and with such a reprehensible tendency towards laughter, that he gives way and laughs too, though unwillingly.
"True. I'm a bigger," says he, "but as that isyourfault, you should be the last to taunt me with it."
"Foolish people always talk folly," says she with an assumption of indifference that does not hide her red cheeks. "Well, go on, who is to be at the Court besides Dicky?"
"Lady Swansdown."
"I like her too."
"But not so well as you like Dicky,youlove him according to your own statement."
"Don't be matter-of-fact!" says Miss Kavanagh, giving him a well-deserved snub. "Do you always say exactly what you mean?"
"Always—toyou."
"I daresay you would be more interesting if you didn't," says she, with a little, lovely smile, that quite spoils the harshness of her words. Of her few faults, perhaps the greatest is, that she seldom knows her own mind, where her lovers are concerned, and will blow hot and cold, and merry and sad, and cheerful, and petulant all in one breath as it were. Poor lovers! they have a hard time of it with her as a rule. But youth is often so, and the cold, still years, as they creep on us, with dull common sense and deadly reason in their train, cure us all too soon of our pretty idle follies.
Just now she was bent on rebuffing him, but you see her strength failed her, and she spoiled her effect by the smile she mingled with the rebuff. The smile indeed was so charming that he remembers nothing but it, and so she not only gains nothing, but loses something to the other side.
"Well, I'll try to mend all that," says he, but so lovingly, and with such unaffected tenderness, that she quails beneath his glance. Coquette as undoubtedly Nature has made her, she has still so gentle a soul within her bosom that she shrinks from inflictingactualpain. A pang or two, a passing regret to be forgotten the next hour—or at all events in the next change of scene—she is not above imparting, but when people grow earnest like—like Mr. Dysart for example—they grow troublesome. And she hasn't made up her mind to marry, and there are other people——
"The Clontarfs are to be there too," goes on Dysart, who is a cousin of Lady Baltimore's, and knows all about her arrangements; "and the Brownings, and Norman Beauclerk."
"The—Clontarfs," says Joyce, in a hurried way, that might almost be called confused; to the man who loves her, and who is watching her, it is quite plain that she is not thinking of Lord and Lady Clontarf, who are quite an ordinary couple and devoted to each other, but of that last name spoken—Norman Beauclerk; Lady Baltimore's brother, a man, handsome, agreeable, aristocratic—the man whose attentions to her a month ago had made a little topic for conversation amongst the country people. Dull country people who never go anywhere or see anything beyond their stupid selves, and who are therefore driven to do something or other to avoid suicide or the murdering of each other; gossip unlimited is their safety valve.
"Yes, and Beauclerk," persists Dysart, a touch of despair at his heart; "you and he were good friends when last he was over, eh?"
"I am generally very good friends with everybody; not an altogether desirable character, not a strong one," says she smiling, and still openly parrying the question.
"You liked Beauclerk," says he, a little doggedly perhaps.
"Ye—es—very well."
"Verymuch! Why can't you behonest!" says he flashing out at her.
"I don't know what you mean," coldly. "If, however, you persist on my looking into it, I—" defiantly—"yes, Idolike Mr. Beauclerk very much."
"Well, I don't know what you see in that fellow."
"Nothing," airily, having now recovered herself, "that's his charm."
"If," gravely, "you gave that as your opinion of Dicky Browne I could believe you."
She laughs.
"Poor Dicky," says she, "what a cruel judgment; and yet you are right;" she has changed her whole manner, and is now evidently bent on restoring him to good humor, and compelling him to forget all about Mr. Beauclerk. "I must give in to you about Dicky. There isn't even the vaguest suggestion of meaning abouthim. I—" with a deliberate friendly glance flung straight into his eyes—"don't often give in to you, do I?"
On this occasion, however, her coquetry—so generally successful—is completely thrown away. Dysart, with his dark eyes fixed uncompromisingly upon hers, makes the next move—an antagonistic one.
"You have a very high opinion of Beauclerk," says he.
"Have I?" laughing uneasily, and refusing to let her rising temper give way. "We all have our opinions on every subject that comes under our notice. You have one on this subject evidently."
"Yes, but it is not a high one," says he unpleasantly.
"After all, what does that matter? I don't pretend to understand you. I will only suggest to you that our opinions are but weak things—mere prejudices—no more."
"I am not prejudiced against Beauclerk, if you mean that," a little hotly.
"I didn't," with a light shrug. "Believe me, you think a great deal more about him than I do."
"Are you sure of that?"
"I am at all events sure of one thing," says she quickly darting at him a frowning glance, "that you have no right to ask me that question."
"I have not indeed," acknowledges he stiffly still, but with so open an apology in his whole air that she forgives him. "Many conflicting thoughts led me astray. I must ask your pardon."
"Why, granted!" says she. "And—I was cross, wasn't I? After all an old friend like you might be allowed a little laxity. There, never mind," holding out her hand. "Let us make it up."
Dysart grasps the little extended hand with avidity, and peace seems restored when Tommy puts an end to all things. To anyone acquainted with children I need hardly remark that he has been listening to the foregoing conversation with all his ears and all his eyes and every bit of his puzzled intelligence.
"Well, go on," says he, giving his aunt a push when the friendly hand-shake has come to an end.
"Go on? Where?" asks she, with apparent unconcern but a deadly foreboding at her breast. She knows her Tommy.
"Yousaidyou were going to make it up with him!" says that hero, regarding her with disapproving eyes.
"Well, I have made it up."
"No, you haven't! When you make it up with me you always kiss me! Why don't you kiss him?"
Consternation on the part of the principal actors. Dysart, strange to say, is the first to recover.
"Why indeed?" says he, giving way all at once to a fatal desire for laughter. This, Miss Kavanagh, being vexed with herself for her late confusion, resents strongly.
"I am sure, Tommy," says she, with a mildness that would not have imposed upon an infant, "that your lesson hour has arrived. Come, say good-bye to Mr. Dysart, and let us begin at once. You know I am going to teach you to-day. Good-bye, Mr. Dysart—if you want to see Barbara, you will find her very probably in the study."
"Don't go like this," says he anxiously. "Or if youwillgo, at least tell me that you will accept Lady Baltimore's invitation."
"I don't know," smiling coldly. "I think not. You see I was there for such alongtime in the beginning of the year, and Barbara always wants me, and one should not be selfish you know."
"One should not indeed!" says he, with slow meaning. "What answer, then, must I give my cousin? You know," in a low tone, "that she is not altogether happy. You can lighten her burden a little. She is fond of you."
"I can lighten Barbara's burden also. Think me the very incarnation of selfishness if you will," says she rather unjustly, "but still, if Barbara says 'don't go,' I shall stay here."
"Mrs. Monkton won't say that."
"Perhaps not," toying idly with a rose, in such a careless fashion as drives him to despair. Brushing it to and fro across her lips she seems to have lost all interest in the question in hand.
"If she says to you 'go,' how then?"
"Why then—I may still remain here."
"Well stay then, of course, if you so desire it!" cries he angrily. "If to make all your worldunhappy is to make you happy, why be so by all means."
"Allmy world! Do you suppose then that it will make Barbara and Freddy unhappy to have my company? What a gallant speech!" says she, with a provoking little laugh and a swift lifting of her eyes to his.
"No, but it will make other people (more thantwicetwo) miserable to be deprived of it."
"Are you one of that quartette?" asks she, so saucily, yet withal so merrily that the hardest-hearted lover might forgive her. A little irresistible laugh breaks from her lips. Rather ruefully he joins in it.
"I don't think I need answer that question," says he. "To you at all events."
"To me of all people rather," says she still laughing, "seeing I am the interested party."
"No, that character belongs to me. You have no interest in it. To me it is life or death—to—you——"
"No, no, you mustn't talk to me like that. You know I forbid you last time we met, and you promised me to be good."
"I promised then the most difficult thing in the world. But never mind me; the principal thing is, your acceptance or rejection of that note. Joyce!" in a low tone, "sayyou will accept it."
"Well," relenting visibly, and now refusing to meet his eyes, "I'll ask Barbara, and if she says I may go I——" pause.
"You will then accept?" eagerly.
"I shall then—think about it."
"You look like an angel," says he, "and you have the heart of a flint."
This remark, that might have presumably annoyed another girl, seems to fill Miss Kavanagh with mirth.
"Am I so bad as that?" cries she, gaily. "Why I shall make amends then. I shall change my evil ways. As a beginning, see here. If Barbara says go to the Court, go I will. Now, stern moralist! where are you?"
"In the seventh heaven," says he, promptly. "Be it a Fool's Paradise or otherwise, I shall take up my abode there for the present. And now you will go and ask Mrs. Monkton?"
"In what a hurry to get rid of me!" says this coquette of all coquettes. "Well, good-bye then——"
"Oh no, don't go."
"To the Court? Was ever man so unreasonable? In one breath 'do' and 'don't'!"
"Was ever woman so tormenting?"
"Tormenting? No, so discerning if you will, or else so——"
"Adorable! You can't find fault withthatat all events."
"And therefore my mission is at an end! Good-bye, again."
"Good-bye." He is holding her hand as though he never means to let her have it again. "That rose," says he, pointing to the flower that had kissed her lips so often. "It is nothing to you, you can pick yourself another, give it to me."
"I can pick you another too, a nice fresh one," says she. "Here," moving towards a glowing bush; "here is a bud worth having."
"Not that one," hastily. "Not one this garden, or any other garden holds, save the one in your hand. It is the only one in the world of roses worth having."
"I hate to give a faded gift," says she, looking at the rose she holds with apparent disfavor.
"Then I shall take it," returns he, with decision. He opens her pretty pink palm, releases the dying rosebud from it and places it triumphantly in his coat.
"You haven't got any manners," says she, but she laughs again as she says it.
"Except bad ones you should add."
"Yes, I forgot that. A point lost. Good-bye now, good-bye indeed."
She waves her hand lightly to him and calling to the children runs towards the house. It seems as if she has carried all the beauty and brightness and sweetness of the day with her.
As Dysart turns back again, the afternoon appears grey and gloomy.
"Look ere thou leap, see ere thou go."
"Look ere thou leap, see ere thou go."
"Well, Barbara, can I go?"
"I don't know"—doubtfully. There is a cloud on Mrs. Monkton's brow, she is staring out of the window instead of into her sister's face, and she is evidently a little distressed or uncertain. "You have been there so lately, and——"
"You want to say something," says the younger sister, seating herself on the sofa, and drawing Mrs. Monkton down beside her. "Why don't you do it?"
"You can't want to go so very much, can you now?" asks the latter, anxiously, almost entreatingly.
"It is I who don't know this time!" says Joyce, with a smile. "And yet——"
"It seems only like yesterday that you came back after spending a month there."
"A yesterday that dates from six weeks ago," a little reproachfully.
"I know. You like being there. It is a very amusing house to be at. I don't blame you in any way. Lord and Lady Baltimore are both charming in their ways, and very kind, and yet——"
"There, don't stop; you are coming to it now, the very heart of the meaning. Go on," authoritatively, and seizing her sister in her arms, "or I'llshakeit out of you."
"It is this then," says Mrs. Monkton slowly. "I don't think it is awisething for you to go there so often."
"Oh Barbara! Owl of Wisdom as thou art, why not?" The girl is laughing, yet a deep flush of color has crept into each cheek.
"Never mind the why not. Perhaps it is unwise to goanywheretoo often; and you must acknowledge that you spent almost the entire spring there."
"Well, I hinted all that to Mr. Dysart."
"Was he here?"
"Yes. He came down from the Court with the note."
"And—who else is to be there?"
"Oh! the Clontarfs, and Dicky Browne, and Lady Swansdown and a great many others."
"Mr. Beauclerk?" she does not look at Joyce as she asks this question.
"Yes."
A little silence follows, broken at last by Joyce.
"MayI go?"
"Do you think it is the best thing for you to do?" says Mrs. Monkton, flushing delicately. "Think, darling! You know—youmustknow, because you have it always before you," flushing even deeper, "that to marry into a family where you are not welcomed with open heart is to know much private discomfiture."
"I know this too," says the girl, petulantly, "that to be married to a man like Freddy, who consults your lightest wish, and is your lover always, is worth the enduring of anything."
"I think that too," says Mrs. Monkton, who has now grown rather pale. "But there is still one more thing to know—that in making such a marriage as we have described, a woman lays out a thorny path for her husband. She separates him from his family, and as all good men have strong home ties, she naturally compels him to feel many a secret pang."
"But he has his compensations. Do you think if Freddy got the chance, he would give you up and go back to his family?"
"No—not that. But to rejoice in that thought is to be selfish. Why should he not have my love and the love of his people too? There is a want somewhere. What I wish to impress upon you, Joyce, is this, that a woman who marries a man against his parents' wishes has much to regret, much to endure."
"I think you are ungrateful," says the girl a little vehemently. "Freddy has made you endure nothing. You are the happiest married woman I know."
"Yes, but I have madehimendure a great deal," says Mrs. Monkton in a low tone. She rises, and going to the window, stands there looking out upon the sunny landscape, but seeing nothing.
"Barbara! you are crying," says Joyce, going up to her abruptly, and folding her arms round her.
"It is nothing, dear. Nothing at all, darling. Only—I wish he and his father were friends again. Freddy is too good a man not to regret the estrangement."
"I believe you think Freddy is a little god!" says Joyce laughing.
"O! not alittleone," says Mrs. Monkton, and as Freddy stands six foot one in his socks, they both laugh at this.
"Still you don't answer me," says the girl presently. "You don't say 'you may' or 'you shan't'—which is it to be, Barbara?"
Her tone is distinctly coaxing now, and as she speaks she gives her sister a little squeeze that is plainly meant to press the desired permission out of her.
Still Mrs. Monkton hesitates.
"You see," says she temporizing, "there are so many reasons. The Court," pausing and flushing, "is notquitethe house for so young a girl as you."
"Oh Barbara!"
"You can't misunderstand me," says her sister with agitation. "You know how I like,loveLady Baltimore, and how good Lord Baltimore has been to Freddy. When his father cast him off there was very little left to us for beginning housekeeping with, and when Lord Baltimore gave him his agency—Oh,well! it isn't likely we shall either of us forget to be grateful forthat. If it was only for ourselves I should say nothing, but it is for you, dear; and—this unfortunate affair—this determined hostility that exists between Lord and Lady Baltimore, makes it unpleasant for the guests. You know," nervously, "I hate gossip of any sort, but one must defend one's own."
"But there is nothing unpleasant; one sees nothing. They are charming to each other. I have been staying there and I know."
"Have I not stayed there too? It is impossible Joyce to fight against facts. All the world knows they are not on good terms."
"Well, a great many other people aren't perhaps."
"When they aren't the tone of the house gets lowered. And I have noticed of late that they have people there, who——"
"Who what, Barbara?"
"Oh yes, Iknowthey are all right; they are received everywhere, but are they good companions for a girl of your years? It is not a healthy atmosphere for you. They are rich people who think less of a hundred guineas than you do of five. Is it wise, I ask you again to accustom yourself to their ways?"
"Nonsense, Barbara!" says her sister, looking at her with a growing surprise. "That is not like you. Why should we despise the rich, why should we seek to emulate them? Surely both you and I have too good blood in our veins to give way to such follies." She leans towards Mrs. Monkton, and with a swift gesture, gentle as firm, turns her face to her own.
"Now for the real reason," says she.
Unthinkingly she has brought confusion on herself. Barbara, as though stung to cruel candor, gives her the real reason in a sentence.
"Tell me this," says she, "which do you like best, Mr. Dysart, or Mr. Beauclerk?"
Joyce, taking her arm from round her sister's neck, moves back from her. A deep color has flamed into her cheeks, then died away again. She looks quite calm now.
"What a question," says she.
"Well," feverishly, "answer it."
"Oh, no," says the girl quickly.
"Why not? Why not answer it to me, your chief friend? You think the question indelicate, but why should I shrink from asking a question on which, perhaps, the happiness of your life depends? If—if you have set your heart on Mr. Beauclerk——" She stops, checked by something in Miss Kavanagh's face.
"Well, what then?" asks the latter coldly.
"It will bring you unhappiness. He is Lady Baltimore's brother. She already plans for him. The Beauclerks are poor—he is bound to marry money."
"That is a good deal about Mr. Beauclerk, but what about the other possible suitor whom you suppose I am madly in love with?"
"Don't talk to me like that, Joyce. Do you think I have anything at heart except your interests? As to Mr. Dysart, if you likehim, I confess I should be glad of it. He is only a cousin of the Baltimores, and of such moderate means that they would scarcely object to his marrying a penniless girl."
"You rate me highly," says Joyce, with a sudden rather sharp little laugh. "I am good enough for the cousin—I amnotgood enough for the brother, who may reasonably look higher."
"Not higher," haughtily. "He can only marry a girl of good birth.Youare that, but he, in his position, will look for money, or else his people will look for it for him. Whereas, Mr. Dysart——"
"Yes, you needn't go over it all. Mr. Dysart is about on a level with me, he willneverhave any money, neither shall I." Suddenly she looks round at her sister, her eyes very bright. "Tell me then," says she, "what does it all come to? That I am bound to refuse to marry a man because he has money, and because I have none."
"That is not the argument," says Barbara anxiously.
"I think it is."
"It is not. I advise you strongly not to think of Mr. Beauclerk, yethehas no money to speak of."
"He has more than Freddy."
"But he is a different man from Freddy—with different tastes, different aspirations, different——He's different," emphatically, "ineveryway!"
"To be different from the person one loves is not to be a bad man," says Joyce slowly, her eyes on the ground.
"My dear girl, who has called Mr. Beauclerk a bad man?"
"You don't like him," says Miss Kavanagh, still more slowly, still with thoughtful eyes downcast.
"I like Mr. Dysart better if you mean that."
"No, I don't mean that. And, besides, that is no answer."
"Was there a question?"
"Yes. Why don't you like Mr. Beauclerk?"
"Have I said I didn't like him?"
"Not in so many words, but——Well, why don't you?"
"I don't know," rather lamely.
Miss Kavanagh laughs a little satirically, and Mrs. Monkton, objecting to mirth of that description, takes fire.
"Why do youlikehim?" asks she defiantly.
"I don't know either," returns Joyce, with a rueful smile. "And after all I'm not sure that I like him soverymuch. You evidently imagine me to be head over ears in love with him, yet I, myself, scarcely know whether I like him or not."
"You always look at him so kindly, and you always pull your skirts aside to give him a place by your side."
"I should do that for Tommy."
"Would you? That would betookind," says Tommy's mother, laughing. "It would mean ruin to your skirts in two minutes."
"But, consider the gain. The priceless scraps, of wisdom I should hear, even whilst my clothes were being demolished."
This has been a mere interlude, unintentional on the part of either, and, once over, neither knows how to go on. The questionmustbe settled one way or the other.
"There is one thing," says Mrs. Monkton, at length, "You certainly prefer Mr. Beauclerk to Mr. Dysart."
"Do I? I wish I knew as much about myself as you know about me. And, after all, it is of no consequence whom I like. The real thing is——Come, Barbara, you who know so much can tell me this——"
"Well?" says Mrs. Monkton, seeing she has grown very red, and is evidently hesitating.
"No. This absurd conversation has gone far enough. I was going to ask you to solve a riddle, but——"
"But what?"
"You are too serious about it."
"Nottooserious. It is very important."
"Oh, Barbara, do youknowwhat you are saying?" cries the girl with an angry little stamp, turning to her a face pale and indignant. "You have been telling me in so many words that I am in love with either Mr. Beauclerk or Mr. Dysart. Pray now, for a change, tell me which of them is in love withme."
"Mr. Dysart," says Barbara quietly.
Her sister laughs angrily.
"You think everybody who looks at me is in love with me."
"Noteveryone!"
"Meaning Mr. Beauclerk."
"No," slowly. "I think he likes you, too, but he is a man who will alwaysthink. You know he has come in for that property in Hampshire through his uncle's death, but he got no money with it. It is a large place, impossible to keep up without a large income, and his uncle left every penny away from him. It is in great disrepair, the house especially. I hear it is falling to pieces. Mr. Beauclerk is an ambitious man, he will seek means to rebuild his house."
"Well what of that? It is an interesting bit of history, but how does it concern me? Take that troubled look out of your eyes, Barbara. I assure you Mr. Beauclerk is as little to me as I am to him."
She speaks with such evident sincerity, with such an undeniable belief in the truth of her own words, that Mrs. Monkton, looking at her and reading her soul through her clear eyes, feels a weight lifted from her heart.
"That is all right then," says she simply. She turns as if to go away, but Miss Kavanagh has still a word or two to say.
"I may go to the Court?" says she.
"Yes; I suppose so."
"But you won't be vexed if I go, Barbie?"
"No; not now."
"Well," slipping her arm through hers, with an audible sigh of delight. "That'ssettled."
"Things generallydoget settled the way you want them to be," says Mrs. Monkton, laughing. "Come, what about your frocks, eh?"
From this out they spend a most enjoyable hour or two.
"Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,That leaves look pale, thinking the winter's near."
"Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,That leaves look pale, thinking the winter's near."
The visit to the Court being decided on, Miss Kavanagh undertakes life afresh, with a joyous heart. Lord and Lady Baltimore are the best host and hostess in the world, and a visit to them means unmixed pleasure while it lasts. The Court is, indeed, the pleasantest house in the county, the most desirable in all respects, and the gayest. Yet, strange and sad to add, happiness has found no bed within its walls.
This is the more remarkable in that the marriage of Lord and Lady Baltimore had been an almost idealistic one. They had been very much in love with each other. All the hosts of friends and relations that belonged to either side had been delighted with the engagement. So many imprudent marriages were made, so many disastrous ones; butherewas a marriage where birth and money went together, and left no guardians or parents lamenting. All Belgravia stood still and stared at the young couple with genuine admiration. It wasn't often that love, pure and simple, fell into their midst, and such asatisfactorylove too! None of your erratic darts that struck the wrong breasts, and created confusion for miles round, but a thoroughly proper, respectable winged arrow that pierced the bosoms of those who might safely be congratulated on the reception of it.
They had, indeed, been very much in love with each other. Few people have known such extreme happiness as fell to their lot for two whole years. They were wrapt up in each other, and when the little son came at the end of that time,nothingseemed wanted. They grew so strong in their belief in the immutability of their own relations, one to the other, that when the blow fell that separated them, it proved a very lightning-stroke, dividing soul from body.
Lady Baltimore could be at no time called a beautiful woman. But there is always a charm in her face, a strength, an attractiveness that might well defy the more material charms of a lovelier woman than herself. With a soul as pure as her face, and a mind entirely innocent of the world's evil ways—and the sad and foolish secrets she is compelled to bear upon her tired bosom from century to century—she took with a bitter hardness the revelations of her husband's former life before he married her, related to her by—of course—a devoted friend.
Unfortunately the authority was an undeniable one. It was impossible for Lady Baltimore to refuse to believe. The past, too, she might have condoned; though, believing in her husband as she did, it would always have been bitter to her, but the devoted friend—may all such meet their just reward!—had not stopped there; she had gone a step further, a fatal step; she had told her something that hadnotoccurred since their marriage.
Perhaps the devoted friend believed in her lie, perhaps she did not. Anyway, the mischief was done. Indeed, from the beginning seeds of distrust had been laid, and, buried in so young and unlearned a bosom, had taken a fatal grip.
The more fatal in that there was truth in them. As a fact, Lord Baltimore had been the hero of several ugly passages in his life. His early life, certainly; but a young wife who has begun by thinking him immaculate, would hardly be the one to lay stress uponthat. And when her friend, who had tried unsuccessfully to marry Lord Baltimore and had failed, had in the kindliest spirit,of course, opened her eyes to his misdoings, she had at first passionately refused to listen, thenhadlistened, and after that was ready to listen to anything.
One episode in his past history had been made much of. The sorry heroine of it had been an actress. This was bad enough, but when the disinterested friend went on to say that Lord Baltimore had been seen in her company only so long ago as last week, matters came to a climax. That was a long time ago from to-day, but the shock when it came shattered all the sacred feelings in Lady Baltimore's heart. She grew cold, callous, indifferent. Her mouth, a really beautiful feature, that used to be a picture of serenity and charity personified, hardened. She became austere, cold. Not difficult, so much as unsympathetic. She was still a good hostess, and those who had known herbeforeher misfortune still loved her. But she made no new friends, and she sat down within herself, as it were, and gave herself up to her fate, and would probably have died or grown reckless but for her little son.
And it wasafterthe birth of this beloved child that she had been told thatherhusband had again been seen in company with Madame Istray;thatseemed to add fuel to the fire already kindled. She could not forgive that. It was proof positive of his baseness.
To the young wife it was all a revelation, a horrible one. She had been so stunned by it, that she, accepted it as it stood, and learning that the stories of his lifebeforemarriage were true, had decided that the stories told of his lifeaftermarriage were true also. She was young, and youth is always hard.
To her no doubt remained of his infidelity. She had come of a brave old stock, who, if they could not fight, could at least endure in silence, and knew well the necessity of keeping her name out of the public mouth. She kept herself well in hand, therefore, and betrayed nothing of all she had been feeling. She dismissed her friend with a gentle air, dignified, yet of sufficient haughtiness to let that astute and now decidedly repentant lady know that never again would she enter the doors of the Court, or any other of Lady Baltimore's houses; yet she restrained herself all through so well that, even until the very end came, her own husband never knew how horribly she suffered through her disbelief in him.
He thought her heartless. There was no scandal, no public separation. She said a word or two to him that told him what she had heard, and when he tried to explain the truths of that last libel that had declared him unfaithful to her since her marriage, she had silenced him with so cold, so scornful, so contemptuous a glance and word, that, chilled and angered in his turn, he had left her.
Twice afterwards he had sought to explain matters, but it was useless. She would not listen; the treacherous friend, whom she never betrayed, had done her work well. Lady Baltimore, though she never forgaveher, would not forgive her husband either; she would make no formal attempt at a separation. Before the world she and he lived together, seemingly on the best terms; at all events on quite as good terms as most of their acquaintances; yet all the world knew how it was with them. So long as there are servants, so long will it be impossible to effectually conceal our most sacred secrets.
Her friends, when the Baltimores went to visit them, made arrangements to suit them. It was a pity, everybody said, that such complications should have arisen, and one would not have expected it from Isabel, but then she seemed so cold, that probably a climax like that did not affect her as much as it might another. She was so entirely wrapped up in her boy—some women were like that—a child sufficed them. And as for Lord Baltimore—Cyril—why——Judgment was divided here; the women taking his part, the men hers. The latter finding an attraction hardly to be defined in her pure, calm, rather impenetrable face, that had yet a smile so lovely that it could warm the seemingly cold face into a something that was more effective than mere beauty. It was a wonderful smile, and, in spite of all her troubles, was by no means rare. Lady Baltimore, they all acknowledged, was a delightful guest and hostess.
As for Lord Baltimore, he—well, he would know how to console himself. Society, the crudest organization on earth, laughed to itself about him. He had known how to live before his marriage; now that the marriage had proved a failure, he would still know how to make life bearable.
In this they wronged him.
"Ils n'employent les paroles qué pour déguiser leurs pensées."—Voltaire.
"Ils n'employent les paroles qué pour déguiser leurs pensées."—Voltaire.
Even the most dyspeptic of the guests had acknowledged at breakfast, some hours ago now, that a lovelier day could hardly be imagined. Lady Baltimore, with a smile, had agreed with him. It was, indeed, impossible not to agree with him. The sun was shining high in the heavens, and a soft, velvetty air blew through the open windows right on to the table.
"What shall we do to-day?" Lady Swansdown, one of the guests, had asked, addressing her question to Lord Baltimore, who just then was helping his little son to porridge.
Whatever she liked.
"Thennothing!" says she, in that soft drawl of hers, and that little familiar imploring, glance of hers at her hostess, who sat behind the urn, and glanced back at her ever so kindly.
"Yes, it was too warm to dream of exertion; would Lady Swansdown like, to remain at home then, and dream away the afternoon in a hammock?"
"Dreams were delightful; but to dreamalone——"
"Oh, no; they would all, or at least most of them, stay with her." It was Lady Baltimore who had said this, after waiting in vain for her husband to speak—to whom, indeed, Lady Swansdown's question had been rather pointedly addressed.
So at home they all had stayed. No one being very keen about doing anything on a day so sultry.
Yet now, when luncheon is at an end, and the day still heavy with heat, the desire for action that lies in every breast takes fire. They are all tired of doing nothing. The Tennis-courts lie invitingly empty, and rackets thrust themselves into notice at every turn; as for the balls, worn out fromennui, they insert themselves under each arched instep, threatening to bring the owners to the ground unless picked up and made use of.
"Who wants a beating?" demands Mr. Browne at last, unable to pretend lassitude any longer. Taking up a racket he brandishes it wildly, presumably to attract attention. This is necessary. As a rule nobody pays any attention to Dicky Browne.
He is a nondescript sort of young man, of the negative order; with no features to speak of, and a capital opinion of himself. Income vague. Age unknown.
"Well! That'soneway of putting it," says Miss Kavanagh, with a little tilt of her pretty chin.
"Is it a riddle?" asks Dysart. "If so I know it. The answer is—Dicky Browne."
"Oh, Ilikethat!" says Mr. Browne unabashed. "See here, I'll give you plus fifteen, and a bisque, and start myself at minus thirty, and beat you in a canter."
"Dear Mr. Browne, consider the day! I believe there are such things as sunstrokes," says Lady Swansdown, in her sweet treble.
"There are. But Dicky's all right," says Lord Baltimore, drawing up a garden chair close to hers, and seating himself upon it. "His head is safe. The sun makes no impression upon granite!"
"Ah,granite! that applies to a heart not a head," says Lady Swansdown, resting her blue eyes on Baltimore's for just a swift second.
It is wonderful, however, what her eyes can do in a second. Baltimore laughs lightly, returns her glance four-fold, and draws his chair a quarter of an inch closer to hers. To move it more than that would have been an impossibility. Lady Swansdown makes a slight movement. With a smile seraphic as an angel's, she pulls her lace skirts a little to one side, as if to prove to Baltimore that he has encroached beyond his privileges upon her domain. "People should notcrushpeople. Andwhydo you want to get so very close to me?" This question lies within the serene eyes she once more raises to his.
She is a lovely woman, blonde, serene, dangerous! In each glance she turns upon the man who happens at any moment to be next to her, lies an entire chapter on the "Whole Art of Flirtation." Were she reduced to penury, and the world a little more advanced in its fashionable ways, she might readily make a small fortune in teaching young ladies "How to Marry Well." No man could resist her pupils, once properly finished by her and turned out to prey upon the stronger sex. "The Complete Angler" would be a title they might filch with perfect honor and call their own.
She is a tall beauty, with soft limbs, graceful as a panther, or a cat. Her eyes are like the skies in summer time, her lips sweet and full. The silken hair that falls in soft masses on her Grecian brow is light as corn in harvest, and she has hands and feet that are absolutely faultless. She has even more than all these—a most convenient husband, who is not only now but apparently always in a position of trust abroad. Verymuchabroad. The Fiji, or the Sandwich Islands for choice. One can't hear from those centres of worldly dissipation in a hurry. And after all, it really doesn't very much matterwherehe is!
There had been a whisper or two in the County about her and Lord Baltimore. Everybody knew the latter had been a little wild since his estrangement with his wife, but nothing to signify very much—nothing that one could lay one's finger on, until Lady Swansdown had come down last year to the Court. Whether Baltimore was in love with her was uncertain, but all were agreed that she was in love with him. Not that she made anesclandreof any sort, butone could see! And still! she was such a friend ofLadyBaltimore's—an old friend. They had been girls together—that was what was so wonderful! And Lady Baltimore made very much of her, and treated her with the kindliest observances, and——But one had often heard of the serpent that one nourished in one's bosom only that it might come to life and sting one! The County grew wise over this complication; and perhaps when Mrs. Monkton had hinted to Joyce of the "odd people" the Baltimores asked to the Court, she had had Lady Swansdown in her mind.
"Whose heart?" asks Baltimore,à proposof her last remark. "Yours?"
It is a leading remark, and something in the way it is uttered strikes unpleasantly on the ears of Dysart. Baltimore is bending over his lovely guest, and looking at her with an admiration too open to be quite respectful. But she betrays no resentment. She smiles back at him indeed in that little slow, seductive way of hers, and makes him an answer in a tone too low for even those nearest to her to hear. It is a sort of challenge, a tacit acknowledgment that they two are alone even in the midst of all these tiresome people.
Baltimore accepts it. Of late he has grown a little reckless. The battling against circumstances has been too much for him. He has gone under. The persistent coldness of his wife, her refusal to hear, or believe in him, has had its effect. A man of a naturally warm and kindly disposition, thrown thus back upon himself, he has now given a loose rein to the carelessness that has been a part of his nature since his mother gave him to the world, and allows himself to swim or go down with the tide that carries his present life upon its bosom.
Lady Swansdown is lovely and kind. Always with that sense of injury full upon him, that half-concealed but ever-present desire for revenge upon the wife who has so coldly condemned and cast him aside, he flings himself willingly into a flirtation, ready made to his hand, and as dangerous as it seems light.
His life, he tells himself, is hopelessly embittered. The best things in it are denied him; he gives therefore the more heed to the honeyed words of the pretty creature near him, who in truth likes him too well for her own soul's good.
That detested husband of hers, out theresomewhere, the only thought she ever gives him is when she remembers with horror how as a young girl she was sold to him. For years she had believed herself heartless—of all her numerous love affairs not one had really touched her until now, andnowhe is the husband of her oldest friend; of the one woman whom perhaps in all the world she really respects.
At times her heart smites her, and a terrible longing to go away—to die—to make an end of it—takes possession of her at other times. She leans towards Baltimore, her lovely eyes alight, her soft mouth smiling. Her whispered words, her only half-averted glances, all tell their tale. Presently it is clear to everyone that a very fully developed flirtation is well in hand.
Lady Baltimore coming across the grass with a basket in one hand and her little son held fondly by the other, sees and grasps the situation. Baltimore, leaning over Lady Swansdown, the latter lying back in her lounging chair in her usual indolent fashion, swaying her feather fan from side to side, and with white lids lying on the azure eyes.
Seeing it all, Lady Baltimore's mouth hardens, and a contemptuous expression destroys the calm dignity of her face. For the momentonly. Another moment, and it is gone: she has recovered herself. The one sign of emotion she has betrayed is swallowed up by her stern determination to conceal all pain at all costs, and if her fingers tighten somewhat convulsively on those of her boy's, why, who can be the wiser ofthat? No one can see it.
Dysart, however, who is honestly fond of his cousin, has mastered that first swift involuntary contraction of the calm brow, and a sense of indignant anger against Baltimore and his somewhat reckless companion fires his blood. He springs quickly to his feet.
Lady Baltimore, noting the action, though not understanding the motive for it, turns and smiles at him—so controlled a smile that it quiets him at once.
"I am going to the gardens to try and cajole McIntyre out of some roses," says she, in her sweet, slow way, stopping near the first group she reaches on the lawn—the group that contains, amongst others, her husband, and——her friend. She would not willingly have stayed where they were, but she is too proud to pass them by without a word. "Who will come with me? Oh!no," as several rise to join her, laughing, though rather faintly. "It is not compulsory—even though I go alone, I shall feel that I am equal to McIntyre."
Lord Baltimore had started as her first words fell upon his ears. He had been so preoccupied that her light footfalls coming over the grass had not reached him, and her voice, when it fell upon the air, gave him a shock. He half rises from his seat:
"Shall I?" he is beginning, and then stops short, something in her face checking him.
"You!" she conquers herself a second later; all the scorn and contempt is crushed, by sheer force of will, out of look and tone, and she goes on as clearly, and as entirely without emotion, as though she were a mere machine—a thing she has taught herself to be. "Not you," she says gaily, waving him lightly from her. "You are too useful here"—as she says this she gives him the softest if fleetest smile. It is a masterpiece. "You can amuse one here and there, whilst I—I—I want a girl, I think," looking round. "Bertie,"—with a fond, an almost passionate glance at her little son—"always likes one of his sweethearts (and they are many) to accompany him when he takes his walks abroad."
"Like father, like son, I daresay. Ha, ha!" laughs a fatuous youth—a Mr. Courtenay—who lives about five miles from the Court, and has dropped in this afternoon, very unfortunately, it must be confessed, to pay his respects to Lady Baltimore. Fools always hit on the truth!Why, nobody knows, except the heavens above us—but so it is. Young Courtenay, who has heard nothing of the unpleasant relations existing between his host and hostess, and who would be quite incapable of understanding them if hehadheard, now springs a remark upon the assembled five or six people present that almost reduces them to powder.
Dysart casts a murderous glance at him.
"A clever old proverb," says Lady Baltimore lightly. She is apparently the one unconcerned person amongst them. "I always like those old sayings. There is so much truth in them."
She has forced herself to say this; but as the words pass her lips she blanches perceptibly. As if unable to control herself she draws her little son towards her; her arms tighten round him. The boy responds gladly to the embrace, and to those present who know nothing, it seems the simplest thing in the world. The mother,—the child; naturally they would caress each other on each and every occasion. The agony of the mother is unknown to them; the fear that her boy, her treasure, may inherit something of his father, and in his turn prove unfaithful to the heart that trusts him.
It is a very little scene, scarcely worth recording, yet the anguish of a strong heart lies embodied in it.
"If you are going to the gardens, Lady Baltimore, let me go with you," says Miss Maliphant, rising quickly and going toward her. She is a big, loud girl, with money written all over her in capital letters, but Dicky Browne watching her, tells himself she has a good heart. "I shouldloveto go there with you and Bertie."
"Come, then," says Lady Baltimore graciously. She makes a step forward; little Bertie, as though he likes and believes in her, thrusts his small fist into the hand of the Birmingham heiress, and thus united, all three pass out of sight.