"How sly Mary has been!"
The above exclamation spoken by Lady Adela Grubb in a sort of resentful tone, as she read a letter while sipping her coffee, caused her husband to look up. He sat at the opposite end of the breakfast-table, attractive with its silver and flowers and its beautiful Worcester china.
"Are you speaking of your sister Mary?" he asked. "What has she done?"
Any answer to this question Lady Adela did not condescend to give. Unless the tossing of the letter across the table to him could be called one—and she did it with a gesture of scorn. The letter, a short one, came from Miss Upton, of Court Netherleigh.
"My Dear Adela,
"I have a little business to transact in London tomorrow, and will take luncheon with you at one o'clock, if quite convenient. Tell your husband, with my kind regards, that I hope to see him also—if he can spare an hour from that exacting place of his, Leadenhall Street. So I am to have your sister Mary as a neighbour, after all!
"Your sincere friend,
"Margery Upton."
"Which means, I presume, that Mary is to marry Cleveland," remarked Mr. Grubb, as he read the concluding sentence.
"Stupid thing! I told her, weeks ago, she was flirting with him."
"Nay, not flirting, Adela. Cleveland is not capable of that."
Adela tossed her head. How lovely she looked! fair as the fresh summer morning.
"She was flirting, though. And he would flirt, if he were not too old. Parsons, as a rule, flirt more than laymen. She must be hard up for a husband to take him. He has a houseful of children!"
"I dare say she likes him," said Mr. Grubb.
"Oh, nonsense! One only point can be urged in his favour—that he is a patrician."
"That he is what?" cried Mr. Grubb, who was drinking his coffee at the moment, and did not hear the word.
"A patrician. Not a plebeian."
The offensive stress laid by Adela on the last word, the marked scorn sitting on her lips, brought a flush to her husband's brow. Nothing seemed to afford her so much gratification as to throw out these lance-shafts to Mr. Grubb, on what she was pleased to term his plebeian origin.
"Do you wish for more coffee?" she asked ungraciously.
"No. I have not time for it. I must make the best of my way into the City, if I am to get back to luncheon."
"There is not the least necessity for you to get back," was her slighting remark. "You will not be missed, if you don't come."
"By yourself, no. I am aware of that. But I do not care to be so lacking in common courtesy as to disregard the express wish of Miss Upton."
"She may have expressed it out of mere politeness."
"Miss Upton is not one to express a wish out of mere politeness," replied Mr. Grubb, as he gathered up some papers of his that were by the side of his plate. "Besides, I shall like to see her."
Approaching his wife, who had taken up theMorning Post, he stood over her. "Good-bye, Adela," he said; and bent to kiss her cheek.
"Oh, good-bye," she retorted in curt tones, and jerked her cheek away from his very lips.
He went away with a suppressed sigh. This line of treatment had been dealt out to him by her so long now that he had become inured to it. It was none the less bitter for that.
Adela, dropping the newspaper and picking up a rose from one of the glasses on the breakfast-table, went to the window to see whether it looked very hot, for she wanted to walk to her mother's and hear about Mary's contemplated marriage. She saw her husband cross the square. For some reason he was crossing it on foot, his close carriage slowly following him: on very hot days he rarely used an open one. What a fine, noble-looking man he was! what a face of goodness and beauty was his!—how few could compare with him. At odd moments this would even strike Adela; it struck her now; and a flash of something like pride in him darted into her heart.
Ah! she saw now why he had walked across the square instead of getting into his carriage at the door: her father was advancing towards him. The two met, shook hands, stood for a few moments talking, and then Lord Acorn put his arm within his son-in-law's, and they turned the corner together.
"Papa wants more money of him," thought Adela. "It's rather too bad, I must say. But that Leadenhall Street is just a mine of wealth."
For, now and again, ever since the marriage, Lord Acorn had come with his troubles and embarrassments to Mr. Grubb, who seldom refused to assist him.
As the clock was striking one that day, they sat down to lunch: Miss Upton, who had just arrived, Mr. Grubb, and Lady Adela. Miss Upton never took the meal later if she could help it. Indeed, at home she took it at twelve. Her breakfast hour was eight precisely, and by twelve she was ready for luncheon. Lady Acorn came in as they were sitting down, threw her bonnet on a chair, and sat down with them. Hearing that Miss Upton would be there, she had come, uninvited, to meet her.
"How early you went out, mamma!" cried Adela, in rather an aggrieved tone. For, when she reached Chenevix House that morning, she found her mother and sisters had already left it: so that she had heard no particulars at all about Lady Mary's proposed wedding, not even whether there was certainly to be one, and Adela had her curiosity upon the subject.
"We went shopping," answered Lady Acorn. "One likes to do that before the heat of the day comes on. Do you know that Mr. Cleveland is going to marry again, Margery?" she added abruptly, looking across the table at Miss Upton.
"Yes, I know it. He came to the Court yesterday morning to tell me of it. I think Mary will make him a good wife."
"She has courage," said Mr. Grubb, with a pleasant laugh. "How many children are there? Ten?"
"No. Eight. And they are of all ages; from seven, up to four-and-twenty," added Miss Upton.
Lady Acorn was nodding her head, in emphatic acquiescence to Mr. Grubb's remark. "I told Mary she had the courage of Job, when the thing first came to my ears. Eight children and a poor country Rector! Young women are ready to marry a broomstick when they get to Mary's age, if the chance falls in their way."
"Had Job so much courage, mamma?" put in Adela.
"Courage or patience, or some such virtue. It is not I that would have taken an old widower with a flock of young ones," continued the countess, in her plain-speaking tartness.
"You will get rid of us all in time, mamma," observed Adela.
"It entails trouble enough," was her mother's ungracious rejoinder. "I am quite done over with heat and fatigue now—going about from one place to another after Mary's things. Gowns and bonnets and slips and mantles, and all the rest of it! Girls are so exacting when they are going to marry: they must have this, and they must have that, and Mary is no exception to the rule. One would think she had picked up a duke."
"It is natural they should be," observed Miss Upton.
"But it's not the less ridiculous," retorted the countess. "One thing I must say—that Tom Cleveland is showing himself in desperate haste to take another wife."
"The haste is for his children's sake," said Miss Upton; "be very sure of that, Betsy. 'I must have some one to control and train them; since my poor wife's death the girls have run wild,' he said to me yesterday, when he told me about Mary, and the tears were almost running down his cheeks."
"It is a great charge," spoke Mr. Grubb. "I mean for Lady Mary."
"It is," acquiesced Miss Upton. "But I hope—I think—she will be found equal to it, and will prove a good stepmother. That she understands the responsibility she is undertaking, and has counted the cost, I am sure of, by what she said in a long letter I received from her this morning."
"It is to be hoped she will have no children of her own," struck in Lady Acorn. "Many a woman makes a good stepmother until her own babies come. After that——"
"After that—what?" asked Miss Upton, for Lady Acorn had stopped abruptly.
"After that, she thinks of her own children and not of the first wife's. And sometimes the poor things get hardly dealt by."
"And when is the wedding-day to be?" asked Adela.
"The day after twelve months shall have elapsed since the death of the first Mrs. Cleveland; or in as short a time subsequent to that day as may be convenient to me and the milliners," laughed Lady Acorn.
"That will make it some time in August, mamma?"
"Yes, in August."
"Adela, you must give them a substantial present—something worth having," said Mr. Grubb to his wife.
"Is Damereau to furnish the wedding-dresses?" questioned Adela, ignoring her husband's remark rather too pointedly, and addressing her mother.
"Damereau!" shrieked the countess. "Not if I know it. We have been to plain Mrs. Wilson. Damereau gets dearer every day. She is all very well for those who have a long purse: mine's a short one."
At the close of the luncheon, Miss Upton said she must take her departure: she had commissions to do. A fly waited for her at the door.
"You should use one of Adela's carriages," said Mr. Grubb, as he took her down to it.
"Ah, thank you; I know you and she would lend it to me with hearty goodwill; but I like, you see, to be independent," was Miss Upton's answer. "I have employed the same fly and the same man for years. When I am coming to London, I write to him previously, and he holds himself at my service for the day."
"Is there anything I can do for you?" asked Mr. Grubb, as he placed her comfortably in the closed fly.
"Nothing. Unless you will get in and ride a little way with me. I am going first to a shop in the Strand. Perhaps you can't spare the time."
"Indeed I can," he answered, stepping in and taking the seat facing her. "The Strand will be all in my way to Leadenhall Street."
They had not seen much of one another, and yet they were intimate, for each liked the other. Mr. Grubb had paid one short visit to Court Netherleigh with his wife; it was in the first year of his marriage, and they stayed three days. Miss Upton called on them sometimes when she came to town, perhaps once or twice a-year; and that was all.
"You were saying something to Adela about giving a present to her sister," began Miss Upton, as they ambled along. "I take it that you were sincere."
"Indeed I was. I should like to give them something that will be useful—regardless of cost," he added, with a smile. "Can you suggest anything?"
"I can. A little open-carriage and pony—if you would like to go as far as that. Mary will want it badly. The old pony-carriage used by Mrs. Cleveland all her married life to get about the straggling parish in, is the most worn, ramshackle thing now you ever saw; it will hardly hold together. And the poor pony is on its last legs."
"They shall have a new one. Thank you for telling me," added Mr. Grubb, with a sunny smile.
"And I dare say you wonder why I can't give them this thing myself," resumed Miss Upton; "but the truth is—don't laugh—I am refurnishing the house, and I don't like to do too much. It would look ostentatious, patronizing, and Cleveland would feel it so in his heart. I had a rare battle with him about the furniture, when I told him what I meant to do; I had already, in fact, given orders for it. 'You cannot bring Lady Mary home to that shabby dining and drawing-room of yours,' I said to him yesterday. 'I fear I can't afford to have them renewed,' he answered me, his face taking a long look. 'Of course you can't,' I said, 'whoever heard of a parson who could; I mean to do it myself.' Well, then we had a fight. Mary had seen the walls and the rooms and knew what they were, he maintained. Upon which I cut short the argument by saying the orders were already given, and the workmen ready to go in. I had seen for a month or two past, you must understand, Francis, how matters were going between him and Mary Chenevix."
Miss Upton broke off with a short laugh. "The idea of my calling you Francis!" she exclaimed. "Will you forgive me?"
"Forgiveyou! Dear Miss Upton, if you only know how pleasant to me the name sounds from your lips!"
"When I think of you it is generally asFrancisGrubb, and so it escaped me. Well, then, you will give them this new pony and carriage?"
"I will. And thank you sincerely for suggesting it."
"Does Adela make you a good wife yet?" cried Miss Upton, fixing her keen eyes upon him. And Francis Grubb, at the abrupt query, grew red to the very roots of his waving hair.
"Is she becoming affectionate to you, as a gracious wife should be?" pursued Miss Margery, for he did not answer.
"I do not complain of my wife; please understand that, Miss Upton."
"Quite right of you not to. But I believe I understand rather more than appears on the surface; have understood for some time past. I gave her a lecture when I was last here. I did, indeed; though you may not suppose it."
He smiled. A poor smile at best. Margery Upton leaned forward and put her hand upon his hand, that lay on his knee.
"There is only one thing for it—patience. Bear quietly. Adela used to be a sweet girl! I think she has a good heart, and what evil spirit has taken possession of her I cannot conceive. I think things will work round in time, even as you could desire them."
"Ay!"
"And, for the present, I say, keep up a good heart—and bear. It is my best advice to you."
He took her hand within both his, and pressed it fervently, making no further reply. And just then the fly pulled up in the Strand.
"I have not asked about your mother," said Miss Upton, as he stood at the door to say farewell after getting out.
"She is pretty well, now."
"And your sister? Does she get over that wretched business of Robert Dalrymple's?"
"Of course—in a degree. Time softens most things. But she will never forget him."
He shook hands finally with Miss Upton; he walked on to his house in Leadenhall Street, his step flagging, his heart weary. Entering his own private room, he found two ladies within it. His mother, who was seated in the most easy chair the room afforded; and his sister. Mrs. Lynn was a tall, dignified, upright woman still: her beautiful grey eyes were just like his own, her refined countenance, sickly now, bore yet its marks of unusual intellect.
"Mother!" he exclaimed, in surprise. "How glad I am to see you!"
"I drove up to the Bank upon a little matter of business, and came on to see you after it was transacted," she explained, as he kissed her. "It is unusual to find you out at this time of day, Francis; but the clerks thought you would be in soon, and I waited. I am glad of the rest; the journey has so tired me."
"Why will you not let me do your matters of business for you, mother?" he tenderly asked, as he busied himself to get a glass of wine for her and some biscuits.
"Because so long as Icando things for myself, I like to do them," she answered, "and my old-fashioned chariot is an easy one: I do not care to become quite the incapable old woman before the necessity for it inevitably sets in. And now, how is it with yourself, Francis? Your brow wore a troubled look as you entered."
Never did Francis Grubb give a more genial smile than now. Not even to his mother would he willingly show his care. "It is quite well with me," he laughed; "well and flourishing. Take your wine, mother."
"Your wife?" whispered Mrs. Lynn, in a tone of doubt—of pain. "Is she—more friendly?"
"Oh, we are friendly enough—quite so," he lightly answered, angry with himself for not being able to suppress the flush that rose at the question. "Is that a new dress you have on, Mary? It is marvellously pretty."
"If her child had only lived!" sighed Mrs. Lynn, alluding to Lady Adela.
"Quite new; new on today; and I am very glad you admire it," gaily answered Mary, as she spread out the dress with both hands, and turned herself about on her brother's dull red carpet for inspection. She was as thankful to drown the other subject as he was: she knew, unhappily, more about it than her mother. "I am going out on a visit, so of course I must have some pretty things."
"Going where?"
"To Lawn Cottage, at Netherleigh. Mrs. Dalrymple wants me—she is lonely there. I can only spare her a week, though: it will not do to leave mamma for longer. Alice is at Lady Sarah Hope's, you know, and Selina is in town, the gayest of the gay."
"Rather too gay, I fancy," remarked Mr. Grubb. "Mother," he added, turning from his sister, "I have just left your friend of early life—Miss Upton. She inquired after you."
"Very good of her!" retorted Mrs. Lynn, proudly and stiffly. "I do not care to be spoken to of Margery Upton, as you know, Francis. She—and others—voluntarily severed all connection between us in those early years. It pained me more than you, or any one else, will ever know; but it is over and done with, and I do not willingly recall it, or them, to my memory."
Ah! that separation might have brought keen pain to Mrs. Lynn in early days, but not so cruelly keen as the pain something else was bringing to her son in these later ones. As Francis Grubb, his visitors departed, took his place at his desk, and strove to apply his mind to his business, he found it a difficult task. Twice today had his wife's behaviour to him been remarked upon—by Miss Upton and by his mother. Was it, could it be the fact, that the unhappiness of his home, the miserable relations obtaining between himself and his wife, had become patent to the world? The draught had already been rising to a pretty good height in his cup of bitterness; this would fill it to the brim.
The hum of the busy London world came floating drowsily in through a bedroom window in Berkeley Street, open to the hot and brilliant summer day, and falling, unnoticed, upon the ears of Mrs. Oscar Dalrymple.
"What an idiot I have been!" soliloquized she. "And what a cat that Damereau is!"
The above pretty speech—not at all suitable for pretty lips—was given vent to by Selina on her return from that morning visit to her milliner, when the latter had wholly refused to listen to reason, and both had lost their courtesy.
Her dainty bonnet tossed on the bed, her little black lace mantle on the back of her low dressing-chair, Selina, who had come straight home, swayed herself backwards and forwards in the said chair, as she mentally ran over the items of the keen words just exchanged between herself and madame, and wondered what in the world she was to do.
"If I had only kept my temper!" she thought, in self-reproach. "It was always a fault of mine to be quick and fiery—like poor Robert. Nothing but that made her so angry. What on earth would become of me if she should do as she says—send the account to Oscar?"
Selina started up at the thought. Calmly equable to a rather remarkable degree in general, she was one of the most restless of human beings when she did give way to excitement. Just as Robert had been.
"If he had but lived!" she cried, tears filling her eyes as her thoughts reverted to her brother, "I'd have taken this trouble to him and he would have settled it. Robert was generous!"
But Selina quite forgot to recall the fact that her brother's income, at the best, would not have been larger than her husband's was. Not quite as large, indeed, for Oscar had his own small patrimony of six or seven hundred a-year in addition. Just now she could not be expected to remember common sense.
The Dalrymples had a distant cousin, a merchant, or cotton-broker, or something of the kind, residing in Liverpool, who was supposed to be fabulously rich. He had quarrelled with the family long ago, and was looked upon as no better than an ill-natured, growling bear. An idea had come into Selina's brain lately—what if she wrote to tell him her position and beg a little money from his rich coffers to set her straight? It came to her again now, as she sat there. But, no that ungenial man was known to hold unseemly debt and extravagance of all kinds in especial abhorrence. He would only write her a condemnatory answer; perhaps even re-enclose her begging letter to Oscar! Selina started from the thought, and put away for ever all notion of aid from Benjamin Dalrymple.
"How is this woman to be pacified?" she resumed, her reflections reverting to Madame Damereau. "What a simpleton I was to provoke her! Two or three hundred pounds might do it for the present. Where am I to get them? If she carries out this dreadful threat and appeals to Oscar, what should I do? WhatcouldI do? And all the world would know—— Oh!" she shivered, "I must stop that.Imust get some from him, if I can. I will try at once. Ugh; what a calamity the want of money is!"
She descended the stairs and entered the dining-room, where her husband was. He sat at the table writing letters, and seemed to be in the midst of business accounts.
"Oscar!"
He looked up. "What is it?"
"Oscar," she said, advancing close to him, "can you, please, let me have a little money?"
"No, that I can't, Selina. I am settling up a few payments now, and can only do it by halves. Others I am writing to put off entirely for the present."
He had bent over his writing again, as if the question, being answered, was done with.
"Oscar, I must have it."
"What money do you mean? Some for housekeeping. I can let you have that."
"No, no: for myself. I want—I want—two hundred pounds," she said, jerking it out. She did not dare to say three; her courage failed her.
He put down the pen and turned towards her in displeasure. "Selina, I told you before we came to town that I could not have these calls made upon me, as I had last year. You know how very small our income is, and you know that your extravagance has already crippled it. The allowance I make you is greater than I can afford. I cannot give you more."
"Oh, Oscar, I must have it," she exclaimed in excitement, terrified at the aspect her situation presented to her, for her mind was apt to be imaginative. "Indeed, I must—even at an inconvenience. Only two hundred pounds!"
"To squander away in folly?"
"No. If it were only to squander away, I might do without it; and I cannot do without this."
Mr. Dalrymple looked keenly at her, and she turned from his gaze. "Let me know what you want it for, that I may judge of the necessity you speak of. If it is not convenient to you to tell me, Selina, you must be satisfied with my refusal."
"Well, then," she said, seeing no help for the avowal, "I owe it."
"Owe it! Owe two hundred pounds!You!"
So utter was his astonishment, so blank his dismay, that Selina's heart failed her. If her owing two hundred pounds thus impressed him, what would become of her when he learnt the whole truth!
"And I am pressed for it," she faintly added. "Pleaselet me have it, Oscar."
"What have you gone in debt for?"
"Various things," she answered, not caring to avow particulars. But he looked steadfastly at her, waiting for the truth. "Dress."
"The compact between us was that you should not run into debt," he said, in severe tones; "you promised to make your allowance do. You have behaved ill to me, Selina."
She bent her head, feeling that she had. Oh, feeling it terribly just then.
"Is this all you owe? All?"
"Y—es." But the falsehood, as falsehoods ought to, left a tremor on her lips.
Without speaking another word, he unsealed a paper in which were enclosed some bank-notes, and handed several to her, to the amount of two hundred pounds. "Understand me well, Selina, this must never occur again," he said, in an impressive tone. "These notes had a different and an urgent destination."
"What a goose I was, not to ask for the other hundred!" was her mental comment, as she escaped from the room. "It is not of the least use offering Damereau two hundred: but she might take three. And where am I to get it?"
Where, indeed? Did the reader ever try when in extremity to borrow a hundred pounds, or what not?—and does he remember how very hopeless a cause it seemed when present before him? Just as it appeared now to Selina Dalrymple.
"I wonder whether Alice could lend it to me?" she cried, swaying her foot helplessly as she sat in the low chair. "It's not in the least likely, but I might ask her. Who's this?"
The "Who's this," applied to a footstep on the stairs. It was her husband's. Some tiresome, troublesome old man of their acquaintance had come up from Netherleigh, and Oscar wanted his wife to help entertain him. Remembering the two hundred pounds just procured from Oscar she did not like to refuse, and went down.
They dined, to accommodate this gentleman, at what Selina called an unearthly hour—four o'clock; and it was evening before she could get to Lady Sarah Hope's. Alice, looking ill, was alone in the drawing-room, having begged to be excused going down to dinner. On a table in the back room lay some of Lady Sarah's jewels; valuable gems. Selina privately wished they were hers. She had to take her departure as she came, for Alice could not help her. A curiously mysterious matter connected with these jewels has to be related. It ought to come in here; but it may be better to defer it, not to interfere with the sequence of events connected with this chapter.
Nothing further could be done that evening, and Selina went to rest betimes—eleven o'clock—disappointing two or three entertainments that were languishing for her presence: but she had no heart that night.
To rest! It was a mockery of the word, for she had become thoroughly frightened. She passed the night turning and tossing from side to side; and when morning came, and she arose, it was with trembling limbs and a fevered brain.
Her whole anxiety was to make up this money, three hundred pounds; hoping that it would prove a stop-gap for the milliner, and stave off that dreaded threat of application to Oscar. What was to come afterwards, and how in the world further stop-gaps would be supplied, she did not now glance at. That evil seemed a hundred miles off, compared with this one.
A faint idea had been looming through her mind; possibly led to by what she had seen at Lady Sarah Hope's. At the commencement it had neither shape nor form, but by midday it had acquired one, and was entertained. She had heard of such things as pledging jewels: she was sure she had heard that even noble ladies, driven to a pinch, so disposed of them. Mrs. Dalrymple locked her bedroom door, reached out her ornaments, and laid them in a heap on the bed.
She began to estimate their value: what they had cost to buy, as nearly as she could remember and judge, amounted to fully five hundred pounds. They were not paid for, but that was nothing. She supposed she might be able to borrow four hundred upon them: and she decided to do it. Some few, others, had belonged to her mother. Then, if that cormorant of a French marchande de modes refused to be pacified with a small sum, she should have a larger one to offer her. Yes, and get the things for the wedding-breakfast besides.
The relief this determination brought to the superficial mind of Selina Dalrymple, few, never reduced to a similar strait, can picture. It almost removed her weight of care. The task of pledging them would not be a pleasant one, but she must go through with it. The glittering trinkets were still upon the bed when some one knocked at the room-door. It was only her maid, come to say that Miss Alice was below. Selina grew scared and terrified; for a troubled conscience sees shadows where no shadows are, and hers whispered that curious eyes, looking on those ornaments, must divine what she meant to do with them. With a hasty hand she threw a dress upon the bed, and then another on the first, and then a heavy one over all, before unbolting the door. The glittering jewels were hidden now.
Oscar Dalrymple was thinking profoundly as he sat over his after-dinner wine—not that he ever took much—and the street-lamps were lighted, when a figure, looking as little like Mrs. Dalrymple as possible, stole out of the house; stole stealthily, and closed the door stealthily behind her, so that neither master nor servant should hear it. She had ransacked her wardrobe for a plain gown and dark shawl, and her straw bonnet might have served as a model for a Quaker's. She had been out in the afternoon, and marked the place she meant to go to. A renowned establishment in its line, and respectable; even Selina knew that. She hurried along the streets, not unlike a criminal; had she been going to rob the warerooms of their jewels, instead of offering some to add to their hidden store, she could not have felt more guilty. When she reached the place she could not make up her mind to enter: she took a turn or two in front, she glanced in at its door, at the window crowded with goods. She had never been in a pawnbroker's in her life, and her ideas of its customers were vague: comprising gentlewomen in distress, gliding in as she was; tipsy men carrying their watches in their hand; poor objects out of work, in dilapidated shirt-sleeves; and half-starved women with pillows and flat-irons. It looked quiet, inside; so far as she could see there did not appear to be a soul. With a desperate effort of resolution she went in.
She stood at the counter, the chief part of the shop being hidden from her. A dark man came forward.
"What can we do for you, ma'am?"
"Are you the master?" inquired Selina.
"No."
"I wish to see him."
Another presently appeared: a respectable-looking, well-dressed man, of good manners.
"I am in temporary need of a little money, and wish to borrow some upon my jewels," began Mrs. Dalrymple, in a hoarse whisper; and she was really so agitated as scarcely to know what she said.
"Are they of value?" he inquired.
"Some hundreds of pounds. I have them with me."
He requested her to walk into a private room, and placed a chair. She sat down and laid the jewels on the table. He examined them in silence, one after another, not speaking until he had gone through the whole.
"What did you wish to borrow on them?"
"As much as I can," replied Mrs. Dalrymple. "I thought about four hundred pounds."
"Four hundred pounds!" echoed the pawnbroker. "Madam, they are not worth, for this purpose, more than a quarter of the money."
She stared at him in astonishment. "They are real."
"Oh yes. Otherwise, they would not, to us, be worth so many pence."
"Many of them are new within twelve months," urged Selina. "Altogether, they cost more than five hundred pounds."
"To buy. But they are not worth much to pledge. The fashion of these ornaments changes with every season: and that, for one thing, diminishes their value."
"What could you lend me on them?"
"One hundred pounds."
"Absurd!" returned Mrs. Dalrymple, her cheeks flushing. "Why, that one set of amethysts alone cost more. I could not let them go for that. One hundred would be of no use to me."
"Madam, it is entirely at your option, and I assure you I do not press it," he answered, with respectful courtesy. "We care little about taking these things in; so many are brought to us now, that our sales are glutted with them."
"You will not be called upon to sell these. I shall redeem them."
The jeweller did not answer. He could have told her that never an article, from a service of gold plate to a pair of boy's boots, was pledged to him yet, but it was quite sure to be redeemed—in intention.
"Are you aware that a great many ladies, even of high degree, now wear false jewellery?" he resumed.
"No, indeed," she returned. "Neither should I believe it."
"Nevertheless, it is so. And the chief reason is the one I have just mentioned: that in the present day the rage for ornaments is so great, and the fashion of them so continually changing, that to be in the fashion, a lady must spend a fortune in ornaments alone. I give you my word, madam, that in the fashionable world a great deal of the jewellery now worn is false; though it may pass, there, unsuspected. And this fact deteriorates from the value of real stones, especially for the purpose of pledging."
He began, as he spoke, to put the articles into their cases again, as if the negotiation were at an end.
"Can you lend me two hundred pounds upon them?" asked Mrs. Dalrymple, after a blank pause.
He shook his head. "I can advance you what I have stated, if you please; not a pound more. And I feel sure you will not be able to obtain more on them anywhere, madam, take them where you will."
"But what am I to do?" returned she, betraying some excitement. Very uselessly: but that room was no stranger to it. The jeweller was firm, and Mrs. Dalrymple gathered up her ornaments, her first feeling of despair lost in anger. She was leaving the room with her parcel when it occurred to her to ask herself, in sober truth, WHAT she was to do—how procure the remainder of the sum necessary to appease Madame Damereau. She turned back, and finally left the shop without her jewels, but with a hundred pounds in her pocket, and her understanding considerably enlightened as to the relative value of a jewel to buy and a jewel to pledge.
Now it happened that, if Mrs. Dalrymple had repented showing her temper to Madame Damereau, that renowned artiste had equally repented showing hers to Mrs. Dalrymple. She feared it might tell against her with her customers, if it came to be known: for she knew how popular Selina was; truth to say, she liked her herself. Madame came to the determination of paying Mrs. Dalrymple a visit, not exactly to apologize, but to soothe away certain words. And to qualify the pressing for some money, which she meant to do (whether she got it or not), she intended to announce that the articles ordered for the wedding festivities would be supplied. "It's only ninety pounds, more or less," thought madame, "and I suppose I shall get the money some time."
She reached Mrs. Dalrymple's in the evening, soon after that lady had departed on her secret expedition to the pawnbroker. Their London lodgings were confined. The dining-room had Mr. Dalrymple in it, so Madame Damereau was shown to the drawing-room, and the maid went hunting about the house for her mistress.
Whilst she was on her useless search, Mr. Dalrymple entered the drawing-room, expecting to find it tenanted by his wife. Instead of that, some strange lady sat there, who rose at his entrance, made him a swimming curtsy, the like of which he had never seen in a ball-room, and threw off some rapid sentences in an unknown tongue.
His perplexed look stopped her. "Ah," she said, changing her language, "Monsieur, I fear, does not speak the French. I have the honour, I believe, of addressing Mr. Dalreemp. I am covered with contrition at intruding at this evening hour, but I know that Mrs. Dalreemp is much out in the day; I thought I might perhaps get speech of her as she was dressing for some soirée."
"Do you wish to see her? Have you seen her?" he asked.
"I wait now to see her," replied madame.
"Another of these milliner people, I suppose," thought Oscar to himself, with not at all a polite word in connection with the supposition. "Selina's mad to have the house beset with them; it's like a swarm of flies. If she comes to town next year may I be shot!"
"Ann! tell your mistress she is wanted," he called out, opening the door.
"I can't find my mistress, sir," said the servant, coming downstairs. "I thought she must be in her own room, but she is not. I am sure she is not gone out, because she said she meant to have a quiet evening at home tonight, and she did not dress."
"She is somewhere about," said Mr. Dalrymple. "Go and look for her."
Madame Damereau had been coming to the rapid conclusion that this was an opportunity she should do injustice to herself to omit using. And as Mr. Dalrymple was about to leave her to herself, she stopped him.
"Sir—pardon me—but now that I have the happiness to see you, I may ask if you will not use your influence with Mrs. Dalreemp to think of my account. She does promise so often, so often, and I get nothing. I have my heavy payments to make, and sometimes I do not know where to find the money: though, if you saw my books, your hairs would bristle, sir, at the sums owing to me."
"You are——?"
"I am Madame Damereau. If Mrs. Dalreemp would but give me a few hundred pounds off her bill, it would be something."
A few hundred pounds! Oscar Dalrymple wondered what she meant. He looked at her for some moments before he spoke.
"What is the amount of my wife's debt to you, madame?"
"Ah, it is—— But I cannot tell it you quite exactly: there are recent items. The last note that went in to her was four thousand three hundred and twenty-two pounds."
He had an impassive face, rarely showing emotion. It had probably not been moved to it half-a-dozen times in the course of his life. But now his lips gradually drew into a straight thin line, and a red spot shone in his cheek.
"WHAT did you say? Do you speak of the account?"
"It was four thousand three hundred and twenty-two pounds," equably answered madame, who was not familiar with his countenance. "And there have been a few trifles since, and her last order this week will come to ninety pounds. If you wish for it exactly, sir," added madame, seizing at an idea of hope, "I will have it sent to you when I go home. Mrs. Dalreemp has the details up to very recently."
"Four thousand pounds!" repeated Mr. Dalrymple, sitting down, in a sort of helpless manner. "When could she have contracted it?"
"Last season, sir, chiefly. A little in the winter she had sent down to her, and she has had things this spring: not so many."
He did not say more, save a mutter which madame could not catch. She understood it to be that he would speak to Mrs. Dalrymple. The maid returned, protesting that her mistress was not in the house and must have changed her mind and gone out; and Madame Damereau, thinking she might have gone out for the evening, and that it was of no use waiting, made her adieu to Mr. Dalrymple, with the remarkable curtsy more than once repeated.
He was sitting there still, in the same position, when his wife appeared. She had entered the house stealthily, as she had left it, had taken off her things, and now came into the room ready for tea, as if she had only been upstairs to wash her hands. Scarcely had she reached the middle of the room, when he rose and laid his hand heavily on her shoulder. His face, as she turned to him in alarm, with its drawn aspect, its mingled pallor and hectic, was so changed that she could hardly recognize it for his.
"Oscar, you terrify me!" she cried out.
"What debts are these that you owe?" he asked, from between his parted lips.
Was the dreaded moment come, then! A low moan escaped her.
"Four thousand and some hundred pounds to Damereau, the milliner! How much more to others?"
"Oh, Oscar, if you look and speak like that, you will kill me."
"I ask how much more?" he repeated, passing by her words as the idle wind. "Tell me the truth, or I shall feel tempted to thrust you from my home, and advertise you."
She wished the carpet would open and let her in; she hid her face. Oscar held her, and repeated the question: "How much?"
"Six thousand pounds—in all—about that. Not more, I think."
He released her then with a jerk. Selina began to cry like a school-girl.
"Are you prepared to go out and work for your living, as I must do?" he panted. "I have nothing to keep you on, and shall not have for years. If they throw me into a debtor's prison tomorrow, I cannot help it."
"Oh," shrieked silly Selina, "a prison! I'd go with you."
"I might have expected something of this when I married into your branch of the family," returned Oscar, who, in good truth, was nearly beside himself. "A mania follows it. Your uncle gambled his means away, and then took his own life; your father hampered himself with his brother's debts, and remained poor; your brother followed in his uncle's wake; and now the mania is upon you!"
"Oh, please, Oscar, please!" pleaded Selina, who had no more depth of feeling than a magpie, while Oscar had plenty of it. "I'll never, never go in debt again."
"You shall never have the chance," he answered. And, there and then, Oscar Dalrymple, summoning his household, gave orders for their removal to the Grange. Selina cried her eyes out at having to quit the season and its attractions summarily.
Thus, as a wreathing cloud suddenly appears in the sky, and as suddenly fades sway, had Mrs. Dalrymple, like a bright vision, appeared to the admiring eyes of the London world, and vanished from it.