"The wisest of plansA letter upsets,The penny post bansThe wisest of plansTho' woman's tho' man's,And then one regretsThe wisest of plansA letter upsets."
"The wisest of plansA letter upsets,The penny post bansThe wisest of plansTho' woman's tho' man's,And then one regretsThe wisest of plansA letter upsets."
About three weeks after the visit of Archie and his friend, Mrs. Belswin was seated on the fallen trunk of a tree in Thornstream Park, meditating deeply over two letters lying on her lap. Around her the heavy foliage of the trees rustled in the chilly morning air, above her the sun shot golden arrows from the blue sky, and below her feet the lush grass, starred with delicate woodland flowers, sloped gently down to a babbling brook, the brown waters of which rippled noisily over its smooth stones.
But Mrs. Belswin, with a frown on her face, paid no attention to these things, being occupied with disagreeable thoughts, evoked by the letters aforesaid; and after a pause she took up one impatiently, in order to read it for the second time.
"Carissima Mia,
"Why have you not written to me for so long? Every day I say, 'She will send to me a letter,' and every day I find the postman comes not. This is not right conduct to him who adores thee, my Lucrezia, and there is fear in my heart that I may lose thee. I am now singing at the Theatre Folly, in anopera comiquecalled 'Sultana Fatima,' and they pay me well, as they should, seeing I leave the grand Italian Opera for this street music. But that my English is so good, I would not have been the chief tenor here. It is not hard to sing, and I am content since I waste not my time and am near thee. But thou, oh my star adorable, must not stay long from him who hungers for thy smile. When does the illustrious husband come again? for I know that he will drive thee back to me, and we will go at once to my beautiful Italy. Send me a letter and say when thou wilt come to me, or I swear that I will come to thee in the country, in order to behold thee again. Thou hast seen thy child those many months; now I will that thou should'st return. I wait thy answer saying thou wilt return, or I myself will behold thee in thy village. Cara signora, I kiss your hand,
"Thine unhappy
"Stephano."
When she had finished this, Mrs. Belswin let it fall on her lap, with a shrug of her shoulders, and picked up the other letter, which consisted of two lines----
"Pethram returns in three weeks, so unless you want trouble you'd better clear out.--A. D."
"Had I?" said the reader, sneering. "I'm not so sure about that, Mr. Dombrain. I'll leave this place when I choose. So Rupert Pethram is coming home, and I, if I please, can see him. Husband and wife will meet again after twenty years of separation. How dramatic the interview will be! I can well imagine it, and yet I am not sure it will take place. I cannot retain my position as chaperon to Kaituna if he is in the house. I cannot disguise myself, for Kaituna would ask the reason--besides, I'm too impulsive to act a part. If I go I part from my daughter for ever; if I stay, Rupert will certainly recognise me, and then he will force me to leave the house. What a terrible position!--to be driven away after a glimpse of paradise; and yet I can do nothing to help myself--positively nothing."
She stopped short, with a feeling of deep anger at her helplessness, but she did not attempt to disguise the truth from herself--she could do nothing. The law was on the side of her husband, and she could never hope to regain the position she had forfeited by her former folly. 'As to Stephano Ferrari----
"He'll do what he says," she muttered, glancing at the Italian's flowery letter. "If I don't go to him, he will come to me, and, with his hot foreign blood, may create a disturbance. I wouldn't mind for myself, but Kaituna--I must consider Kaituna. If I refuse to go with Stephano, he is quite the sort of man to tell her all, and that would exile me from my daughter more than anything else. Rupert would make me leave the house; Stephano would lose his temper at what he calls my obstinacy--I should not care; but if Kaituna knew that I--her mother--was alive, that I had lost my place in the world and become an outcast, she would scorn me--my own child! Oh, I could not bear that, it would kill me!"
With her face in her hands she rocked to and fro in an agony of grief, and when she recovered herself somewhat, her countenance, haggard and worn, showed how bitterly she felt the position in which she was placed.
"If I could only die! I wish I could! Hell cannot be worse than the life I live now. I am near my child, yet dare not tell her I am her mother; but soon I shall have to go away, and be denied even the poor consolation of being near her. If only I had the courage to kill myself! But there, I have the courage, and would die willingly, were it not for Kaituna. Oh, God! God! I have sinned deeply, but my punishment is very heavy--heavier than I can bear!"
She had risen to her feet, and was walking to and fro in the narrow space of the glade, swinging her arms in a very storm of passionate grief. The mask she had worn for the last few weeks so carefully was now thrown aside, and she abandoned herself to her agony of despair in the most reckless manner. She wept, she cried, she raved, she flung herself on the ground--in fact, she gave herself up wholly to her mood of the moment. Truly the quiet English glade had never seen a stranger sight than that of this savage woman abandoning herself to transports of impotent fury.
"Why am I so helpless?" she cried furiously, lifting up her arms to the blue sky. "If I have sinned, I have been punished. For twenty years I have borne my punishment, but I can do so no longer. She is my child--mine--mine--mine! They cannot take her from me. I am her mother! God gave her to me, and man shall not take her away! I love her better than her cold fiend of a father; she is my life, my soul, my existence! If I leave her I shall die. I will not leave her! I will not leave her! No! no! no!"
She stamped furiously on the ground, gnashing her teeth with rage, and staring at the sky with fierce face and clenched hands; but after a time her fury exhausted itself, and, sitting down on the fallen tree again, she began to weep bitterly.
"My little child! oh, my little child! I can do nothing. I must leave you, and go away alone. Ferrari loves me, but what is his love compared to yours, dear. You have kissed me, you have placed your arms round my neck, you have given my starved heart the love it desired; and now--now I must give up all, and go away--for ever! Oh, cruel! cruel! And I can do nothing!"
Rocking herself to and fro, she wept quietly for a time; then, drying her tears, put the letters in her pocket and rose to go.
"I must not give way like this," she said to herself as she left the glade. "It will do no good. I must see how I can manage to retain my position. Rupert, Stephano, Dombrain--they are all against me. Three against one, but I'll try my hardest to conquer them. It's a woman's wit against men's brutality; but I'll fight--I'll fight and win. If I win, I gain all. If I lose--oh, God! if I lose!--I surrender everything."
The morning was very chilly, in spite of its being summer, and Mrs. Belswin, having all the love for warmth inherent in those born in the tropics, shivered at the cold east wind, but feeling too upset to return direct to the house and face Kaituna's inquiring gaze, made up her mind to take a brisk walk. She wore a heavy sealskin mantle, and thrusting her hands into the deep pockets, walked quickly against the wind, thinking deeply over her position.
It was truly a terrible dilemma in which she now found herself. Exiled from her daughter for so many years, and all through her own fault, yet she had been quite unable to stifle the natural instinct in her heart. It may be that the desire to be near her daughter constantly was all the stronger because she knew it was out of the question, and the enforced suppression of her love in her own breast had given the pleasure of living with Kaituna, even as a servant, a peculiar charm of its own. It will doubtless be argued by some people that a woman who could give up her child for the sake of a lover, could not have had much maternal instinct; but then it must be recollected that Mrs. Belswin had then acted on the impulse of a moment in doing so, and had regretted her folly ever since. When she thought of all she had lost for one moment of folly it made her mad with rage, and she would have sacrificed anything to regain her forfeited position.
Thanks to her knowledge of how matters stood, and her own dexterity, she had been enabled to gain her ends for at least some months, but now her husband was coming home again she knew that she would have to seek refuge in flight. She was a bold woman, a determined woman, and all her life's happiness was at stake, yet she knew it was perfectly useless to appeal to her husband for pity or help. By her own act she had forfeited her right to approach him, and the act had brought its own bitter punishment, by robbing her of the delight of gratifying her strong maternal instinct. Like a tiger who desires more blood when he has once tasted it, Mrs. Belswin had just experienced sufficient delight in being near her child to make her passionately regret having to depart. Plan after plan she thought of and rejected as useless, because she saw quite plainly that she could do nothing against the position held by her husband. Law, society, morality were all against her, and she could only stand afar off weeping bitterly as she surveyed the paradise from which she had banished herself.
"Oh, I could kill Rupert! I could kill him," she thought madly, "but that would do no good. If I thought it would I should not hesitate. I dare not tell Kaituna the truth, because she would shrink from me. Rupert, once he knows I am here will not let me remain. If I sold my soul it would be useless. I can do nothing except bear my punishment till I die."
Suddenly an idea came into her head. Suppose Rupert Pethram were to die before he came to Thornstream. In that case she would still retain her position, and be happy for the rest of her life. But then there was no chance of him dying--a healthy, strong man. And unless something happened he would return to Thornstream and turn her out on the world.
"If the ship would only go down! If God would only unchain the winds of heaven and dash the ship to pieces on the rocks."
Mrs. Belswin, as it will be seen, was not a religious woman when she thought thus, and was willing to sacrifice dozens of human lives in order to get rid of her enemy. It was simply Balzac's mandarin over again, and Mrs. Belswin, with her savage disregard of human life, would have sacrificed all the mandarins in China, yea, China itself, if by so doing she could have retained her position undisturbed.
However, there was but small possibility of either mandarin or ship perishing to please her, so she began to wonder in her own mind how she could get rid of Pethram before he could arrive at Thornstream. Ah, if Stephano Ferrari----
Stephano Ferrari! The idea came to her like an inspiration, and she hurriedly thought out a plan. Ferrari loved her, he would do anything to get her to marry him. Well, she would do so provided he got rid of Pethram and secured her position with her daughter. Murder! no, not murder, but suppose Pethram disappeared? Then----
Her brain was in a whirl, her throat was dry with excitement, and she leaned against a fence for a few minutes to keep herself from falling, for the earth seemed spinning round her and the sky red as blood before her eyes. With an effort she pulled herself together and looked around.
"Mrs. Belk's cottage," she said, with a gasp of relief! "I'll go in and rest."
"The marble statue of an antique godMay win our admiration for a time,Seeing it lacks not any outward grace,But stands a type of flesh idealised.Yet as we gaze in silent wonderment,We weary of the irresponsive stone,Because the cold perfection wants a soul."
"The marble statue of an antique godMay win our admiration for a time,Seeing it lacks not any outward grace,But stands a type of flesh idealised.Yet as we gaze in silent wonderment,We weary of the irresponsive stone,Because the cold perfection wants a soul."
It was without doubt a charming cottage--such as one reads of in a fairy tale. Clay walls, thatched roof, wide diamond-paned casements, and twisted chimney, with all the violent colours subdued to a pleasant neutral tint by the sun and rain, while ivy, rose-trees and wistaria clambered over all, enclosing it in a network of greenery.
And the garden--oh, it was a most delightful garden; not too neat, but all the handiwork of man softened by the gentle touch of nature. Tall hollyhocks, odorous stocks, crimson-tipped daisies, flaunting dahlias, and staring sunflowers grew together in riotous sweetness, breaking bounds here and there as they nodded over the low white fence and bent across the narrow path leading up to the rose-wreathed trellis of the porch. There was an apple-tree, too, on one side--a gnarled, moss-tufted apple-tree, already snowy with white blossoms, and on the other a low-branched cherry-tree, looking like a frosted twelfth cake. Pigeons fluttered around the eaves of the cottage, fowls strutted among the flowers, and over all blazed the hot sun of summer from the cloud-dappled sky. It was really charming in its rustic picturesqueness, and Mrs. Belswin, pausing at the gate, looked regretfully at this vision of bucolic ease so far removed from her own feverish existence.
"If I had been a village girl I might have been a good woman," she thought, walking up to the porch; "but I daresay I should have tired of this innocent sweetness and gone up to the evil life of London, as all village beauties have done."
On knocking at the door it was opened shortly by a tiny woman, old, shrivelled, and evil-looking enough to have been the witch of the cottage. Not that Mrs. Belk was ill-looking; on the contrary, she must have been pretty when young, for she still retained a sufficiency of beauty to warrant a second glance; but there was a restless look in her dark eyes, a settled sneer on her thin lips, and a generally discontented expression on her face which repelled the onlooker. Mrs. Belswin had an intuitive capability of reading faces, and the first glance she threw on this little figure with the withered face put her at once on her guard. On her guard against a cottager! Mrs. Belswin would have laughed at the idea. Still, the fact remains that Mrs. Belk bore her character in her face, and Mrs. Belswin at once put herself on her guard against Mrs. Belk. Hardly probable that these two women would meet again. The cottager could never have it in her power to harm the lady; but in spite of the absurdity of the situation, Mrs. Belswin, with that inherent suspicion created by a long life of duplicity and watchfulness, did not think it beneath her dignity to pick and choose her words while talking to this humble woman, in case chance should turn her into a possible enemy.
"I beg your pardon," she said slowly; "but I am very tired, and would like to rest."
"There's a public a little way on, ma'am," replied Mrs. Belk, respectfully, by no means inclined to entertain a stranger.
"I prefer to rest here," said Mrs. Belswin, coolly. "You know me, I daresay--Miss Pethram's companion."
"Mrs. Belsin?" said the old woman, doubtfully.
"Let the lady come in, mother," remarked the slow soft voice of a man inside the cottage. "Don't you see she looks tired?"
Whereupon Mrs. Belk with manifest reluctance moved to one side, and Miss Pethram's companion entered the room to find herself face to face with the handsomest man she had ever seen. He offered her a chair in silence, and she sat down thankfully, while Mrs. Belk closed the door, and the rustic Apollo stood leaning against the table looking at their visitor.
Handsome! yes; splendidly handsome this man, in a massive Herculean fashion. One who would be called a magnificent animal; for there was no intellect in the fresh-coloured face, no intelligence in the bright blue eyes, and his whole figure had but beauty and symmetry after the fashion of a brute. He was very tall--over six feet--with long limbs, a great breadth of chest, and a small, well-shaped head covered with crisp locks of curly golden hair. His skin was browned by the sun, he had a well-shaped nose, sleepy blue eyes, and his mouth and chin were hidden by a magnificent golden beard which swept his chest. Nature had lavished her gift of physical beauty on this man, but the casket contained no jewel, for the soul which would have lent light to the eyes, expression to the mouth, and noble bearing to the body, was absent, and Samson Belk was simply a fine animal whom one would admire like a soulless picture, but tire of in a few moments. Mrs. Belswin's first thought was, "What a handsome man!" her second, "What a brute he would be to the woman who loved him!"
They were a curious couple, the little withered mother and the tall handsome son, dissimilar enough in appearance to negative the relationship except for the expression of the face; for there, in the countenance of the man, appeared the same expression that pervaded the face of the woman. The eyes were not so restless, because they had rather a sleepy expression, the sneer on the lips was hidden by the drooping moustache, and the general look was more of ill-humour than discontent: but in spite of the physical difference between them, no one could have helped noticing, by the worst traits of the woman appearing in the man, that this splendid specimen of humanity was the offspring of this dwarfish feminine personality.
"You are Sir Rupert's head bailiff, are you not?" said Mrs. Belswin, when she had sufficiently admired her host.
"Yes, madam, I have that honour."
He spoke in a slow sleepy voice, eminently attractive, and suited to his appearance; a voice which, in its languor and oily softness, had an accent of refinement and culture. Yet this man was a simple rustic, a bailiff, one of the peasant class. It was most perplexing; and Mrs. Belswin, clever woman of the world as she was, felt herself puzzled. She was a woman and inquisitive, so she set herself to work to solve this problem by a series of artful questions.
"Have you been a bailiff here long?"
"About four years, madam. I was bailiff to Sir Robert, and when Sir Rupert came into the title he kindly kept me on."
"I should think you were fitted for better things."
Belk gazed at her in a slow, bovine fashion, and a spark of admiration flashed into his sleepy eyes as he looked at this stately woman who spoke in such a friendly manner.
"It's very kind of you to say so, madam, but I have no one to say a good word for me."
"Ah! the rich never say a good word for the poor, my lady," said Mrs. Belk, with fawning deprecation. "If looks go for anything, my Samson ought to live in a palace. He's the finest wrestler in all the county, and the best shot, and the most daring rider----"
"And the poorest man," finished Samson, with a coarse laugh, which betrayed his real nature. "Aye, aye, mother, if I'd money to play the swell, I'd cut a dash with the best of these fine, lily-handed gents."
"What would you do?" asked Mrs. Belswin, curious to find out how different this man's soul was to his body.
"Do!" echoed the giant, folding his arms; "why, madam, I'd keep a fine stable, and race my horses at the Derby. I'd marry a lady, and have a fine house with servants, and the finest of wine to drink and food to eat--that's what I'd do."
"A very modest ambition, truly," said Mrs. Belswin, with a scarcely concealed sneer. "I presume you would not cultivate your brains."
"I've had enough schooling," growled Belk, stroking his beard. "Mother made me learn things, and a fine time I had of it."
"You were never a good boy, Samson," said his mother, shaking her head with a look of pride which belied her words. "Handsome is as handsome does--that's what I always tells him, my lady."
"If it were handsome does as handsome is, your son would be a clever man," replied Mrs. Belswin, rising to go.
Neither Mrs. Belk nor Samson were clever enough to understand this remark, but after a time a faint idea of what she meant dawned on the obtuse intellect of the giant, and he smiled approvingly.
"Won't you have a glass of milk, my lady?" asked Mrs. Belk, dropping a curtsey.
"No, thank you!"
"May I have the honour of showing you the nearest way through the wood, madam?" said Belk, hat in hand, resuming his polite manner, and languid mode of speaking.
"No, thank you, I know my way," answered Mrs. Belswin, coolly; "many thanks for your courtesy--good-day."
When she had vanished, Samson Belk stood for some minutes in a brown study, then, recovering himself with a huge sigh, ordered his mother to bring him a mug of beer.
"Eh, she's a fine madam that," he said, as he drank the ale; "got a spice of the devil in her too. I wish I could marry her."
"That wouldn't do much good," said his mother contemptuously, "she's only a companion. Now if you married Miss Pethram, you'd have all this place, and be master here."
"Not much chance of that," growled Belk, putting on his hat; "she's in love with that friend of parson's."
"A whipper-snapper."
"Aye, that he is. I could smash him with one hand; not any great shakes with money either, as I've heard tell. What'll Sir Rupert say to his courting?"
"Well, I heard at the great house this morning, that Sir Rupert was on his way home."
Belk scowled and shook his broad shoulders in an uneasy manner. He did not like Sir Rupert, who was a severe master, and therefore was not at all pleased to hear that his term of liberty would soon be over.
"I hope accounts are all right, Samson," said his mother anxiously. "Let Sir Rupert see you've been a good servant, lad."
"I'm good enough for the wage I get," growled Belk, sulkily; "if Sir Rupert meddles with me, he'll get the worst of it; I'll stand no man's handling, d----n me if I do."
He thrust his hands into his pockets and strolled off defiantly.
"Where are you going, lad?" asked his mother, as he paused at the gate.
"To 'The Badger,'" retorted Mr. Belk, curtly, and hurriedly retreated so as to escape his parent's expostulations.
"The lad's always there," said Mrs. Belk to herself as she closed the door; "he's after no good I reckon. Eh, if I could only get some money, I'd march him off to America, where he could live like a gentleman. But there's no chance of that while rich folk have the handling of the money."
Meanwhile, Mrs. Belswin was walking rapidly back to the house, thinking over the curious couple she had just left.
"Not a bit like the ordinary people," she thought. "The mother's not to be trusted except as concerns the son, and the son--well, he's discontented with his lot. I wonder if Rupert finds him a good servant. He must, or he wouldn't keep him on. But if Mr. Samson Belk tries any games on with his master, I think he'll get the worst of it."
"Good-day, Mrs. Belswin."
It was Gelthrip, the curate, who saluted her, a lank lean man, with a hatchet face, lantern-jawed, and clean shaven, not by any means what the world would term handsome. Dressed in black he looked like a crow, and his hoarse voice--for he suffered from clergyman's soar throat--was not unlike the cawing of those dreary birds. He was a gossip, and very inquisitive. He supported a sick sister, and professed High Church principles, and it was lucky that he should have vowed himself to celibacy, for certainly no woman would have taken him as her husband. He had long bony hands, and cracked his knuckles in order to punctuate his sentences, and he talked without ceasing, mixing up religion, gossip, literature, music, art, and science in one heterogeneous mass of chatter.
Having drawn the cork of his eloquence by saying Good-day, and touching his low-crowned hat, Mr. Gelthrip cracked his knuckles cheerfully, and poured forth a flood of aimless nonsense.
"Good-day! ah, yes, it is a charming day, is it not. The blue of the sky, with the lark singing so delightfully. You know Shelley's poem do you not--Yes--Turner might paint that scene. Puts me in mind of his Vale of Health, and this place by the way, is very healthy--plenty of oxygen in the air for weak lungs. Ah--ah, my heart swells with goodness towards the Creator of all things as I drink in the air. I think I saw you coming out of Belk's cottage, Mrs. Belswin!"
"Yes! I went in there to rest for a few minutes."
"A great contrast, mother and son, Mrs. Belswin. The Witch of Endor and Apollo, the Far Darter. Yes! but a touching instance of parental affection, for she is devoted to her son. A devotion of which I regret to say he's not worthy, Mrs. Belswin, not worthy, my dear lady. He never comes to church. Passes his time in public-houses, and at wrestling matches, and horse-races. A most godless young man."
"But surely Sir Rupert objects to this conduct?"
"He does not know, Mrs. Belswin. Belk, in a rough fashion, is crafty, very crafty, but when the baronet returns I have no doubt he will hear from others of the behaviour of this misguided young man. I deem it my duty," continued Mr. Gelthrip, inflating his chest, "to inform Sir Rupert of his servant's misdeeds."
"I don't think I would do that," said Mrs. Belswin, drily. "Sir Rupert does not care about his private business being meddled with."
"Ah, you know Sir Rupert then?"
Mrs. Belswin bit her lip in vexation, for she saw that she had made a mistake, and at once hastened to put herself right in the eyes of this tale-bearer.
"No! of course not. I only speak from hearsay."
"Sir Rupert," said the curate in a dogmatic fashion, "does not, I believe, care about the church, therefore, as you say, he may resent my interference, but I would not be doing my duty as a clergyman if I did not warn him of the dissipated ways of his bailiff."
"Do you think it is kind to deprive the young man of his situation?"
"In this case, Mrs. Belswin, I do. He is dissipated and neglects his business. He has the handling of money, and, seeing he is always betting on races, he may be tempted to--well, you know what I mean."
"I know this, sir," said Mrs. Belswin, with great spirit, "that you are about to act a most unworthy part. If this man is as you say, warn him, remonstrate with him, but don't take the bread out of his mouth by getting him dismissed. Charity covers a multitude of sins. That remark is in the Bible, I believe. If so, practise what you preach, and you will be far more respected than if you drive this man to despair by taking away his only means of livelihood. Good morning."
She bowed and walked off, leaving the curate staring after her with open mouth, the stream of his eloquence being for once dried up.
Reflections on the part of Mr. Gelthrip.--"Where has this woman been brought up that she manifests such little reverence for the cloth? A dangerous woman, I am afraid, and not at all suited to be the companion of Miss Pethram. I'm afraid I shall have to warn Sir Rupert about her as well as about Belk. As for Belk! it is my duty--my duty as a clergyman, to open his master's eyes to the deplorable state of this young man. He gambles, bets, plays cards, drinks, all these things entail money, and yet he spends far more than his salary, so I must warn Sir Rupert of his bailiffs real character. Now, Mrs. Belswin--ah!"
There was a good deal of spiteful meaning in the curate's "ah," and there was no doubt that Mrs. Belswin had made a bitter enemy of this well-meaning but meddlesome young man.
Reflections on the part of Mrs. Belswin.--"I've been preaching a sermon to a man whose duty it is to preach one to me. Saul among the prophets this time. I'm not sorry, for I hate those meek young men who make mischief under the pretence of doing good. Why are these clergymen so meddlesome? It's none of his business to enlighten Rupert about Belk. If Belk is dissipated, I know Rupert will find it out quick enough and discharge him. I shouldn't like to be either Rupert or the curate if such a thing does come to pass, for Belk is a most unforgiving man. I can see that in his face. I have made an enemy of this Rev. Meekness. Well, he can't harm me until Rupert comes home, and then--ah well, I'll see."
"If two ladies talk together,Be it fine or rainy weather,Subjects three you'll find they handle--Love, sans diamonds and a carriage,Prospects of a wealthy marriage,Or the latest piece of scandal."
"If two ladies talk together,Be it fine or rainy weather,
Subjects three you'll find they handle--
Love, sans diamonds and a carriage,Prospects of a wealthy marriage,
Or the latest piece of scandal."
What do ladies talk about over five o'clock tea when no male is present? Ah, that is one of the mysteries of Bona Dea, the ritual whereof is known to none of the stronger sex. They doubtless discuss fashions--for no woman, however affecting to despise the pomps and vanities of this world, can contemplate the raiment of another woman without blaming or praising the same, according to taste or price. Very likely they make remarks about their neighbours, and hint, with nods and winks mysteriously suggestive that--well, you know what. Nevertheless, men in their clubs do exactly the same thing, and scandal is by no means monopolized by ladies. However, the question is: What do they talk about?--and as the votaries of the Bona Dea will not tell us, we must be content to accept ambiguous smiles and tightly-closed lips as answer.
On this occasion, however, the subject under discussion was love, and four ladies--two married and two unmarried--were talking together on a very pleasant subject; and the subject was the courting of Tommy Valpy by Toby Clendon.
"I must admit," said Mrs. Valpy, in her usual heavy fashion, "that I was astonished when the young man spoke to me."
"I wasn't," observed Tommy, with a maiden blush.
"Ah," from Mrs. Belswin, "forewarned's forearmed. We all know that."
"I'm very pleased to hear about it," said Kaituna, putting her arm around Tommy's waist "Mr. Clendon is most delightful."
"But not so much so as another person," hinted the engaged young lady, with wicked intuition, whereupon Kaituna grew red, and requested another piece of cake.
"Love is all very well," said Mrs. Belswin, who was a practical person; "but it won't keep the pot boiling. Now about his income."
"Eight hundred a year," declared Tommy, boldly. "We can live on that."
"No doubt; but is the eight hundred a year certain?"
"Well, three hundred is very certain, because it comes from his father; but the remaining five hundred--well, you know," said Miss Valpy, hopefully, "literature pays so well nowadays, and Toby's in the first flight."
"I don't think so much of his literature," observed Mrs. Valpy, stirring her tea. "He may or he may not make the income he says, but the three hundred a year is absolutely certain."
"I hope you'll be happy, dear," said Kaituna, gaily. "I, of course, will be bridesmaid."
Tommy looked at her friend significantly, and then laughed.
"We will be married together," she whispered confidentially.
"I'm afraid not. Mr. Maxwell has said nothing----"
"No? Then he has looked a good deal."
Both girls laughed again, and then Mrs. Valpy began to explain her ideas for Tommy's trousseau, which interested every one.
The bride-elect and her mother were staying for a few days at Thornstream, and on this evening were going over to dine at the Vicarage in company with Kaituna and Mrs. Belswin.
Clendonpèrewas delighted at the choice of his only son, and was giving this dinner in order to welcome his intended daughter-in-law to his family circle of two. Tommy got on very well with the vicar, who liked her vivacity and brilliant manner so much that he was actually weaned from his beloved library, and the black-letter folios saw less of their owner than they had done since the time when they had been purchased.
Mrs. Valpy was also calmly satisfied with her daughter's engagement, as her intended son-in-law was a very delightful young man, and, moreover, had a rich father, the latter fact being the most important in the good lady's eyes. If he dabbled in literature, well, let him do so. It would serve to keep him out of mischief; but as for deriving any solid benefit from novel-writing or play-scribbling, such an idea never entered Mrs. Valpy's head. All she knew was that Toby was a good son, and would make a good husband, besides which he could keep his wife in comfort, so what more could a mother desire? The old lady therefore sat in Kaituna's boudoir, smiling and nodding over her tea, completely satisfied with herself and the world.
"By the way," said Kaituna, when the exhaustive subject of Tommy's trousseau had come to an end, "you know of course, Mrs. Valpy, that my father is on his way home."
"Yes, dear, I heard something about it," replied the old lady lazily. "When do you expect him for certain?"
"In about a fortnight."
"So soon?" said Mrs. Belswin to herself. "In that case I have no time to lose."
"You'll be glad to see Sir Rupert, I suppose?" asked Tommy, turning to the companion.
"Oh, yes, of course! But I'm not sure if I shall be here when he arrives."
"Not here!" ejaculated Kaituna, in dismay. "Oh, Mrs. Belswin!"
"I have to go up to town, my dear," said that lady, very slowly, "in order to see a--a friend of mine."
She hesitated over the last word, knowing in her own heart the errand which was taking her up to town.
"But can't you put off your visit for a time?"
"I'm afraid not."
Kaituna said nothing, but looked reproachfully at her friend, whereupon Mrs. Belswin kissed her with a gay laugh.
"Don't look so scared, my child. I shall only be away for a few days."
"You will like Sir Rupert, I'm sure," said Mrs. Valpy, who had been slowly following out a train of thought. "He is a most delightful man."
"So I have always heard," replied the chaperon coldly.
"Perhaps he'll marry again," said Tommy, idly, more for the sake of saying something than from any idea of Sir Rupert's matrimonial intentions.
"No."
The answer came from Mrs. Belswin, and had escaped her against her will; but on seeing the surprise her sudden ejaculation had created, she explained herself with calm grace.
"Of course I mean that Sir Rupert would surely not think of marrying when he has this dear child to comfort him."
"I don't think papa will ever marry again," said Kaituna, in a low tone. "I wonder at your saying such a thing. He was too fond of my mother to forget her easily."
Mrs. Belswin turned away her head and sneered, for she was too well acquainted with Rupert Pethram's selfish heart to believe that he regretted her in the least. Seeing, however, that the subject was a painful one to Kaituna, and by no means relishing it herself, she hastened to turn the conversation by saying the first thing that came into her head.
"By the way, do you know I have an admirer here?"
"Not the vicar?" cried Tommy, clapping her hands.
"No; I'm not antique enough."
"Then Mr. Gelthrip?"
"Ah, he's too devoted to his sick sister. No! My admirer is that handsome Mr. Belk."
"Papa's bailiff," said Kaituna, smiling. "Well, he is very handsome, but I must confess I don't like his face."
"Nor do I," declared Tommy, boldly. "He's got the same disagreeable countenance as his mother."
"From what I've heard I think he's a very dissipated young man," said Mrs. Valpy, slowly.
"I suppose Mr. Gelthrip told you that," remarked Mrs. Belswin, with curling lip. "So like him. He never opens his mouth except to destroy a reputation."
"I'm afraid Belk has no reputation to destroy," laughed Tommy, jumping up. "But we shall meet the Rev. Gelthrip to-night, and I declare it's time to dress."
The clock chimed the half-hour, and the ladies went away to dress, with the exception of Mrs. Belswin, who remained in her chair absorbed in thought.
"In a fortnight," she muttered to herself slowly. "Ah! I must be prepared for him. I'll try and see him in London, and convince him that I must stay by my child. If he consents, well and good; if he refuses----"
She stopped, drew a long breath, and clenched her hands.
"If he refuses--I'll see Ferrari."
"If you'd be a healthy sinner,Eat with judgment when at dinner,And remember with a shiverMan is governed by his liver;Viands rich and wine in plentySpoil life'sdolce far niente.He who shuns this vital questionSuffers soon from indigestion;The corner-stone of dissipationIs to act with moderation."
"If you'd be a healthy sinner,Eat with judgment when at dinner,And remember with a shiverMan is governed by his liver;Viands rich and wine in plentySpoil life'sdolce far niente.He who shuns this vital questionSuffers soon from indigestion;The corner-stone of dissipationIs to act with moderation."
When the sceptre of the Cæsars passed into the hands of St. Peter and his successors, it carried with it among other fixtures--to use a legal expression--the art of giving a good dinner. The clergy have, therefore, always been famous for their attention to creature comforts, and among the various arts which they rescued from the wreck of the classic world, the art of dining is certainly one of which they were most careful.
In England the fat abbots and portly monks of the past have been transmuted, through the agency of that royal magician, Henry VIII, into the comfortable bishops and delectable vicars of the present; but the change is actually only in the Thirty-nine Articles, and the science of gastronomy still has its wisest savants among the clergy.
It is true that some ascetics, wishing to return to the bosom of the Romish Church, have denied themselves all dainties in favour of lentils and pulse; but, unlike Daniel and his friends, they are no fairer for doing so; yet the general run of curates (provided they are well paid), rectors, vicars, deans, bishops, yea, even archbishops, are worthy successors to the clerical gourmands of the Middle Ages so satirised by Rabelais, and are as careful of their cellars and kitchens as of their churches and parishioners.
Mr. Clendon, dry-as-dust grubber among ancient folios as he was, by no means neglected the substance for the shadow, and satisfied his brain, his stomach, and his palate in equal measure--the former by means of choice editions, the latter by choice viands; but, truth to tell, he to all appearances throve more on the library than on the kitchen.
The number of guests at dinner, according to some gastronomical worthy, should never be less than the three Graces nor greater than the nine Muses, so Vicar Clendon had taken this sage advice by limiting the friends assembled round his hospitable board to eight people, the sexes being in equal numbers,i.e. four of the one and four of the other.
The host took in Mrs. Valpy. A most admirable arrangement, as both were fond of their victuals, and thought eating preferable to talking, especially when the cook was a good one, as happened in this case.
Mr. Gelthrip escorted Mrs. Belswin. Fire and water! Sweet and sour! Black and white! Two galley slaves chained together against their will could not have been less suited than the clergyman and the companion were to one another. Good-breeding forbade either resenting the juxtaposition, so they had smiles on their faces and rage in their hearts at being thus coupled so unsuitably by their Amphitryon.
The engaged ones, of course, went dining-room-wards together--a good omen of the future, in the eyes of both, hinting that they would thus wander side by side towards the good things of this life.
Archie was squire to Kaituna. Ecstasy! Rapture! Bliss! Ah, how poor a language is English when required to express the joy of two lovers coming together for a whole evening, who have not expected Fate or Cupid or Mother Venus to be so kind.
Out of compliment to the month of roses, Vicar Clendon gave his guests a distinctly pink dinner, which was a novelty, both as regards viands, wines, and artistic arrangements. In the centre of the white tablecloth there was an oval, shaped of moist-looking emerald moss, filled with loose rose-leaves, from the midst of which sprang rich clusters of the flower in red, in white, and in yellow, set off here and there by masses of green leaves. No intrusive epergne to hide the faces of the guests from one another, but a tiny fountain shooting up a silver thread that fell again in diamond spray over the odorous blossoms below--rose-wreaths for the white bosoms of the ladies, rose bouquets with entanglements of delicate maiden-hair fern for the men, and on imitation rose-leaf menus the names of the dishes in purple ink. Viands for the most part rose-tinted by an artistic cook, and as for wines, there was claret deeply red, port amethystine in tint, sparkling burgundy of rosy hues, and from the roof roseate light suffused from a red-shaded lamp. The whole prevailing tint of this unique meal was the rose-red of dawn, and Parson Clendon, smiling benignly from the head of the table, felt that he had achieved a distinct success in the way of originality, a thing to be proud of in this century of used-up ideas.
"The Romans," observed the vicar, discursively, by way of providing a subject of conversation, "the Romans would have enjoyed a meal served up in this fashion."
"You are thinking of Vitellius," asserted Mr. Gelthrip, in a dictatorial manner.
"No, sir! I am thinking of Lucullus. A gourmet, sir, not a gourmand."
Mr. Gelthrip, not being sufficiently learned either in French or gastronomy to appreciate the subtlety of this remark, wisely held his tongue and went on with his soup.
"If we were like the Romans, father, we should be crowned with garlands of roses," said Toby, in order to keep the ball of conversation rolling.
"Instead of which we wear the roses in our buttonholes," added Archie, gaily; "not so graceful, perhaps, but more comfortable."
"Ah, we're not at all classic," observed the host, regretfully; "dining with Lucullus we should have reclined."
"How uncomfortable!" said Tommy, saucily; "as bad as having breakfast in bed."
"Which is where you generally have it," interposed Mrs. Valpy, reprovingly.
"Ah!" said Toby, with a world of meaning in his tone, "I am afraid you have not studied one Dr. Watts----"
"The early to bed man, you mean," cried Mrs. Belswin. "Horrible! I never could see the use of his cut-and-dried little proverbs."
"His poems, madam, are very edifying," remarked Gelthrip, in a clerical manner.
"Very probably; and like most things edifying, very dreary."
She said this so tartly that Clendonpèrewas afraid of the probable rejoinder of his curate, so made the first remark that came into his mind apropos of nothing in particular.
"Our conversation is like that of Praed's vicar, very discursive; we began with the Romans, we end with Dr. Watts."
"I prefer the Romans," declared Archie, sipping his wine.
"Not their dining, surely," observed Kaituna.
"No," whispered Archie, literallysub rosa, for she wore a half-opened bud in her dark hair, "because you would not have been present. The nineteenth century, with all its faults, has one great virtue; it allows us to dine with you."
Kaituna laughed in a pretty confused manner, whereupon Mrs. Belswin flashed her glorious dark eyes sympathetically on the pair, for she was now quite in favour of this, to all appearances, imprudent marriage. Reasons two. First, the young couple loved one another devotedly, which appealed to her womanly and maternal instincts. Second, the match would be objected to by Sir Rupert, which pleased the revengeful part of her nature. With these two excellent reasons she was very satisfied, so smiled kindly on the lovers.
"Burgundy, sir?"
"Thank you, Mrs. Belswin."
That lady bowed cordially to her host and touched the rim of her glass lightly with her lips. It is not now customary for gentlemen to drink healths with the opposite sex at dinner, but 'tis an old-fashioned custom, and therefore found favour with the vicar, lover of all things antique, as he was.
"Drink to me only with thine eyes."
"A most excellent sentiment, Tobias," said his father, with a waggish smile; "but we are not all so happily placed as you, my son."
"Every dog has its day, father."
"True! true! most true. 'Et ego in Arcadia fui.' Eh, Mr. Gelthrip?"
"I am not married, sir," responded that gentleman, stiffly.
"Nor is he likely to be," whispered Archie to his neighbour. "How lucky--for the possible Mrs. Gelthrip."
"I'm not so sure of that," she replied in the same tone; "every Jack has his Jill."
"Even I?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"Oh! you are not certain?"
"How can I be certain? You do not wear your heart on your sleeve."
"Do I not?"
Kaituna was somewhat taken aback at this direct way of putting it, and, not feeling inclined to reply in the only way in which she could do so, looked round for a mode of escape from the pertinacity of her companion. Help came from the vicar.
"Miss Pethram, I understand your father is coming home again."
"Yes, Mr. Clendon; I am pleased to say he is."
"Ah, no doubt! no doubt! Well, I can tell him you have been in safe hands," responded the vicar, bowing to Mrs. Belswin, who acknowledged the compliment with a somewhat doubtful smile.
"You have never seen Sir Rupert?" asked Toby, politely.
Mrs. Belswin started, drew her handkerchief--a flimsy feminine thing of lace and cambric--across her dry lips, and laughed in an embarrassed fashion as she replied--
"No, I have not seen him; but, of course, Kaituna has told me all about him."
"Ah!" said the vicar, eyeing the rosy bubbles flashing in his glass, "I remember Rupert Pethram very well before he went out to New Zealand. He was a gay, light-hearted boy; but now, alas! tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis."
"I can't fancy my father ever having been gay and light-hearted," cried Kaituna, doubtfully. "Ever since I can remember him he has been so grave and solemn."
"Trouble! trouble!" sighed the vicar; "it changes us all."
Mrs. Belswin, affecting to arrange the wreath at her breast, darted a lightning glance at the old man from under her long lashes.
"I wonder if Rupert told you anything," she thought, rapidly. "Bah! what do I care if he did? This fool can do me no harm. There is only one man I'm afraid of meeting--Rupert Pethram himself. Well, perhaps I shall not need to meet him."
She smiled cruelly as she thought of the harm she proposed to do her unfortunate husband, and listened idly to Mr. Gelthrip, who was holding forth in his usual dogmatic style on the good which a moneyed man like Sir Rupert could do to the parish of Deswarth.
"I hope, Miss Pethram," he said, turning to Kaituna, "that you will urge upon your father the advisability of throwing open the picture gallery at Thornstream to the villagers, in order to encourage a taste for art."
"But they know nothing about art. TheIllustrated London Newsand theGraphicform their idea of pictures."
"They can learn, Mr. Clendon; they can learn," replied the curate, easily. "I should like them to appreciate the old masters."
"Egad, it's a thing I could never do," cried Toby, flippantly. "I much prefer the modern painters."
"You are a Philistine, sir."
"Humph!" said Toby, under his breath, "and this Samson is slaughtering me with the jawbone of an ass."
"Then music," pursued Gelthrip, waxing eloquent; "a little Wagner."
"Very little," said Archie, slily; "all chords and no melody."
"I don't quite understand you," remarked Tommy, addressing Mr. Gelthrip with a demure smile. "You believe in Doctor Watts and Richard Wagner. Isn't it rather difficult to reconcile the two things?"
"Not at all, Miss Valpy. Wagner is understandable by the meanest mind."
"Meaning himself," whispered Archie, with a laugh.
"The fact is," observed Mr. Clendon, with mock solemnity, "that when my worthy friend can get our labourers to descant learnedly on Claude Lorraine, Michael Angelo, and Titian, read and appreciate George Meredith's novels--of whom, Tobias, I have heard you speak--and understand the advanced school of music, of which I myself know nothing, he will have accomplished his life's work."
"It would be a worthy career for a man," said Gelthrip, energetically.
"So I think," remarked Mrs. Belswin, dryly; "but if you make all your labourers so learned, Mr. Gelthrip, I'm afraid they won't do much work. Instead of hedging and ditching, they will take to admiring the sunsets."
"And to analysing the music of the lark."
"Or comparing the latest novelist's description of Nature to the disadvantage of the real thing."
Mr. Gelthrip bore all this sarcasm with equanimity, smiling benignly all the time. He was an enthusiast on the subject, and had a hide impervious to shafts of ridicule, however skilfully launched. His scheme was simple. Sir Rupert had plenty of money, and, judging from his daughter's description, seemed to be philanthropically inclined. Mr. Gelthrip had full power in the parish--as his superior was too much taken up with the middle ages to pay attention to the nineteenth century--so he determined, with the aid of Sir Rupert's money and his own brains, to make Deswarth a model village in the matter of culture and high art. As to religion--well, Mr. Gelthrip was a clergyman, and thought he could mingle religion and high art together so as to make them palatable to his children-of-nature parishioners. Meanwhile his ideas stood in this order: culture, high art, religion. Alas for the possible model parish and the souls of its occupants!
This, however, is talk of futurity; but at present, the ladies, headed by Mrs. Valpy, retired, leaving the four gentlemen to their wine.
"Tobias!" said his father, benevolently--a man must feel benevolent with a glass of '34 port in his hand. "Tobias, to the health of your bride."
"Thank you, father," replied Toby, gratefully, touching his lips with the glass. "Archie! to the future Mrs. Maxwell."
"Ah! Ah!" remarked the old gentleman, smiling. "Has it gone as far as that?"
"Not yet, sir."
Archie was blushing deeply, being an ingenuous youth, and unused to such public compliments.
"I'll bet," whispered Toby, looking at him gravely, "that you'll have something to say to me to-night over a pipe."
"Do you think so?" faltered Archie, toying with his glass.
"I speak," said Clendonfils, "I speak from experience, having proposed and been accepted."
"I can do the first, but what about the second?"
"Faint heart," remarked Toby, judiciously, "never won fair lady."
"Then I'll take your advice this very night," said Archie, desperately.
"I am," remarked Toby, as he lifted his glass, "a prophet in a small way. Old boy, your hand. To the health of our double marriage--and no heeltaps."
Archie finished his glass.