It was a chilly spring afternoon and Aunt William was seated by the fire doing wool-work, for she disapproved of the idle habits of the present day and thought that a lady should always have her fingers employed in some way; not, of course, either with cards or cigarettes. She was getting on steadily with the foot-stool she was making; a neat design of a fox's head with a background of green leaves. In the course of her life Aunt William had done many, many miles of wool-work. It was neither embroidery nor tapestry; it was made on canvas with what is known for some mysterious reason as Berlin wool; and was so simple that it used to be called the Idiot Stitch; but the curious elaboration of the design and sort of dignified middle-Victorian futility about it cast a glamour over the whole, and dispelled any association of idiocy from the complete work. A banner screen was now in front of the fire,which Aunt William had worked during a winter at St. Leonards, and which represented enormous squashed roses like purple cauliflowers, with a red-brown background—a shade called, in her youth, Bismarck brown, and for which she always retained a certain weakness.
It was her day, and on Aunt William's day she invariably wore a shot-silk dress, shot with green and violet; the bodice trimmed with bugles, the skirt plain and flowing. Aunt William did not have that straight-fronted look that is such a consolation to our modern women who are getting on in years, but went in decidedly at the waist, her figure being like a neat pincushion. Her voice was deep, her mind of a somewhat manly and decided order, so that the touches of feminine timidity or sentiment taught her in early youth sat oddly enough on her now. In reality she hated wool-work, but did it partly from tradition and partly from a contrary disposition; because other people didn't like it, and even because she didn't like it herself.
Her first visitor was a very old and dear friend of hers whom she particularly disliked and disapproved of, Lady Virginia Harper. Lady Virginia was a very tall, thin, faded blonde, still full of shadowy vitality, who wore a flaxen transformation so obviously artificialthat not the most censorious person by the utmost stretch of malice could assume it was meant to deceive the public. With equal candour she wore a magnificent set of teeth, and a touch of rouge on each cheek-bone. To Aunt William's extreme annoyance Lady Virginia was dressed to-day in a strange medley of the artistic style combined oddly with a rather wild attempt at Parisian smartness. That is to say, in her cloak and furs she looked almost like an outside coloured plate on the cover ofParis Fashions; while when she threw it open one could see that she wore a limpcrêpe de chineEmpire gown of an undecided mauve, with a waist under the arms and puffed sleeves. On her head was a very smart bright blue flower toque, put on entirely wrong, with a loose blue veil hanging at the back. Had anything been required to decide the question of her looking grotesque, I should mention that she wore long mauvesuèdegloves. That settled it. A gold bag dangled from her left wrist, and she carried a little fan of carved ivory. She looked, naturally,—or unnaturally—slightly absurd, but had great distinction and no sort of affectation, while an expression that alternated between amiable enthusiasm and absent-minded depression characterised her shadowy indefinite features.
Aunt William received her with self-control, and she immediately asked for tea.
"Certainly. It is half-past three, and I regard five as tea-time. But as you wish, dear Virginia." Aunt William pulled the bell with manly vigour and ill-tempered hospitality.
"Have you heard thatdivinenew infant harpist? He's perfectly exquisite—a genius. Buttheperson I've come to talk to you about, Mary, is the new singer, Delestin. He's perfectly heavenly! And so good-looking! I've taken him up—quite—and I want you to be kind about him, dear Mary."
"I'll take two tickets for his concert," said Aunt William harshly. "But I won't go to the concert and I won't come and hear him sing."
"Now that's so like you, Mary! He isn'tgivinga concert, and Iwantyou to hear him sing. He's too charming. Such a gentle soft creature, and so highly-strung. The other day after he had sung at my house—it was something of Richard Strauss's, certainly a very enervating song, I must own that—he simply fainted at the piano, and had to be taken away. So, if you give a party, do have him, dear Mary! You will, won't you?"
"Most certainly not! A protégé of yours who faints at the piano wouldn't be at all suitable for one ofmyEvenings, thank you, Virginia."
Lady Virginia did not answer. She evidently had not heard. She never listened and never thought of one subject for more than two seconds at a time. She used a long-handled lorgnette, but usually dropped it before it had reached her eye.
"Oh! and there's something else I wanted to speak to you about. A sweet girl, a friend of mine (poor thing!), has lost her parents. They were generals or clergymen or something, and she's obliged to do something, so she's going in for hats. So sensible and brave of her! She's taken thesweetestlittle shop just out of Bond Street. Do, dear, go and get some toques there, for my sake. Won't you?"
"Some toques?" repeated Aunt William. "I don't know what you mean. Hats are not things you order by the half-dozen. I have my winter's bonnet, my spring bonnet which I have got already, a sun-hat for travelling in the summer, and so forth."
"I got a beautiful picture-hat from her," said Lady Virginia dreamily. "An enormous black one, with Nattier blue roses in front and white feathers at the back—- only five guineas. But then she makes special prices for me, of course."
"No doubt she does," said Aunt William.
"Of course I can't wear it, my dear," continued Virginia. "I hate to attract attention so, and I look too showy in a picture-hat with my fair hair. But it was a kindness to the girl. Poor girl!"
Aunt William was boiling over.
"Of course you can't wear it. Do you imagine you can wear the hat you've got on now, Virginia?"
"What this? It's only a little flower toque."
"Atourage," said Aunt William, "onlylittle flower toques, as you call them, should be left to younger people. Oh how much nicer you would look, Virginia, in a black or brown silk dress, and a close bonnet with strings, say with a chrysanthemum or two, and a few bugles if you like. It would be so much more suitable."
"Whatisa close bonnet?" asked Lady Virginia, trying to concentrate her thoughts and not in the least offended.
The arrival of Savile at this moment created a diversion. His air of inscrutability and self-restraint was neither more nor less marked than usual; but, to the acute observer, it would have been evident that he was crammed with suppressed and exciting information.
"You remember my nephew, Virginia? My brother James's only son, you know." Aunt William spoke proudly, as if his being an only son were some remarkable merit of his own.
"Not at all," murmured Savile indistinctly.
"Oh, is he really? What a darling! I adore children," said Lady Virginia, benevolently smiling at him. "Andsotall for his age, too!"
"You don't know his age," snapped Aunt William.
"No, I don't; but I can see he's tall—a very fine child. What do you learn at school, darling?"
"Oh, nothing much," said Savile, with patience.
Lady Virginia laughed inconsequently.
"What a clever boy he is! Childrenareso wonderful nowadays! When Delestin was only six he played all Chopin's Valses and Liszt's Rhapsodies by heart. Of course that's some time ago now, but it shows what boyscando."
"By Jove!" said Savile.
"Who's your great friend at school, dear?"
"Oh—I suppose Sweeny's mygreatestpal. He's in the eleven," added Savile explanatorily.
"Oh, yes! I daresay—a very nice boy too. He has a marvellous likeness to you, Mary dear," Lady Virginia said, using the long-handled glass, "especially about the—well—the ears—and forehead. Are you musical, my dear?"
"I like some of it," said Savile, with a sigh.
"You're like James, too," said Lady Virginia, "and I think I see a look of his mother, Mary."
"You never saw her, and you know it," saidAunt William, who always tried in vain to pin Virginia down to facts.
"Yes, but that was merely by chance," said Lady Virginia, getting into her cloak. "Then I shall expect you, Mary, to come and hear Delestin play? Oh, no, I forgot—you said you couldn't. I'm so sorry; but Imustfly.... I've a thousand things to do. You know my busy life! I'm the President of the Young Girls' Typewriting Society, and I have to go and see about it. How we poor women ever get through the season with all the work we do is more than I can ever understand."
Aunt William became much more cordial at the prospect of her friend's departure, and when Virginia had at last fluttered out, after dropping the gold bag and the ivory fan twice, Savile said—
"Do you expectmanymore visitors like that to-day, Aunt William?"
"None like that."
"Well, while you're alone I've got some news to tell you. Sylvia would have come herself, but she's engaged—this afternoon."
"Not engaged to be married, I suppose!" said Aunt William, with a sort of triumphal archness.
"Yes, you've hit it in once. At least, up to a certain point. It'll be all right. But the Governor's a bit nasty—and the fact is, we want youto come and see him, and sort of talk him over, you know."
"Savile! Do you mean it? How charming!... But who's the young man—and what's the objection?"
Savile thought a moment, and remembered her tinge of snobbishness. "He's Sir Bryce Woodville's nephew. Chap who died. I mean, the uncle died. It's Woodville,youknow!"
"Your father's secretary?"
"Yes, and a rattling good chap, too. Sylvia's liked him for ages, and he didn't like to come up to the scratch because he was hard up. Now something's turned up. Old Ridokanaki's written him a letter—wants him to go into his bank. He'll have three thousand a year. It's onlyhabitwith the Governor to pretend to mind. But a few words with you will settle it. I'll tell you more about it later on."
"Iamamazed at the news, Savile. He's a very fine young man, but——"
"He's all right, Aunt William."
"But I thought the Greek gentleman with the unpronounceable name was madly in love with Sylvia himself? I've often talked it over with your father. He and I took opposite views."
"So he was, but he's got some one else now. It's simplygotto come off. Nowwillyou come and see us?"
"Certainly. When?"
"As soon as possible. I wish you'd come now."
"But this is my Day, Savile! How can I go out on myDay?"
"Of course you can. You'll have heaps of other days, but none like this—for Sylvia."
Aunt William hesitated, then her intense romantic curiosity got the upper hand.
"Savile, I'll come back with you now! Do you think James will listen to reason? He never agrees with me. And I don't know yet what to think myself."
"Of course he will. You're a brick, Aunt William. I'll tell you more about it in the cab. It's as right as rain for Sylvia, or you may be pretty certainIshouldn't have allowed it," said Savile.
To get Aunt William to go out on her Day, a thing she had not done for thirty years, was so great a triumph that he had little fear of not getting her to be on the right side. He knew she always made a point of disagreeing with his father on every subject under heaven, so he rubbed in Sir James's opposition, and gradually worked on her sentimental side until she was almost tearfully enthusiastic.
"How shall I behave? Go right in and tell your father he must consent?—or what?"
"Play for safety," said Savile.
Sir James was extremely annoyed with the weather. In his young days, as he remarked with bitterness, spring was spring, and it didn't thunder and snow in April. He was prattling pompously of the sunshine in the past, when a sudden heavy shower of hail, falling rather defiantly in spite of his hints, made him lose his temper. Sir James, looking angrily up at the sky, declared that unless it stopped within half an hour he would write to theTimesabout it.
Whether or not this threat had any real meteorological influence, there is no doubt that the clouds dispersed rather hastily, the sun hurriedly appeared, and the weather promptly prepared to enable Sir James to venture out, which he did with a gracious wave of the hand to the entire horizon, as though willing to say no more about it.
Sylvia had been as anxious for the thermometer to go up as her father himself, for it was several days now since she had seen Woodville alone. And he had been nervously counting the minutes until the moment of freedom, having, to-day, a stronger reason than ever before to desire a quiet talk.
Woodville had expressed some remorse—not much, though considerably more than he felt—for what Sylvia called his conduct during their last interview, and she meant this morning to forgive him.
"I've only come," said Sylvia, sitting opposite him at the writing-table, "because I saw you werereallysorry for ... the other day.Areyou sorry?"
"Awfully."
"That'snot very flattering," said Sylvia.
"I wanted you, too, dreadfully this morning," he said eagerly. "I've got something wonderful to tell you—to show you."
"Anything dreadful?" she asked, turning pale.
He took out a letter.
"Listen! Since the other day I had made up my mind to go away from here. I began to see I couldn't bear it. At least, for a time."
"What!" cried Sylvia, rising to her feet.
"Yes. But you needn't worry. I've changed my mind, darling. And before I tell you any more——"
He leant across the writing-table and kissed her softly, and at some length.
"Now," he said, "read this letter."
"From the Greek fiend! Is he trying to take you away from me again?"
"No, he's not. Read it aloud."
Sylvia read:—
"'Ritz Hotel, Paris."'My dear Woodville,—In the short time since I had the pleasure of seeing you, certain changes have come over my views on many subjects; my future is likely to be entirely different from what I had supposed, and I felt impelled to let you know, before any one else, of the unexpected happiness that is about to dawn for me.'
"'Ritz Hotel, Paris.
"'My dear Woodville,—In the short time since I had the pleasure of seeing you, certain changes have come over my views on many subjects; my future is likely to be entirely different from what I had supposed, and I felt impelled to let you know, before any one else, of the unexpected happiness that is about to dawn for me.'
"Oh, Frank, how long-winded and flowery!"
"Never mind that. It's his style always when he's sentimental. Do go on reading."
Sylvia went on. "'I was greatly disappointed at first to know you were unwilling to go to Athens. Perhaps, however, it is better as it is. Briefly, I have found in laville lumièrewhat I had longed for and despaired of—a reciprocal affection—that of a young and innocent girl—'"
"Sylvia, don't waste time. Go on!"
"'My heart'"—Sylvia continued to read—"'is filled with joy; but I will not take up all my letter to you with ecstatic rhapsodies; norwill I indulge myself by referring to her beauty, her charm, her Madonna-like face and sylph-like form. Her extraordinary affection for me (I speak with all humility)—tempered as it naturally was by the modesty of her age (she is barely seventeen)—was, I think, what first drew me towards her. We are to be married in May. You know that the sorrow of my life was that I had never been loved for myself. I have been called a successful man, but in my own heart I know that this is the only real success I have ever had during fifty-five years. It is certainly a great pleasure to think, as I do, that I shall be able to give my Gabrielle all (humanly speaking) that she can desire....'"
"Will you stop laughing? Youmustget through the preliminaries, Sylvia!"
"It seems all preliminaries," murmured Sylvia.
"'But, in my happiness, your troubles are not forgotten: and I hope now to be able to remove them in all essentials."'First, let me ask you to remember me to Miss Sylvia, and to tell her that with the deepest respect I now formally relinquish all hopes of her hand.'
"'But, in my happiness, your troubles are not forgotten: and I hope now to be able to remove them in all essentials.
"'First, let me ask you to remember me to Miss Sylvia, and to tell her that with the deepest respect I now formally relinquish all hopes of her hand.'
"Very kind of him! He seems to claim some merit for not wanting to marry us both," Sylvia cried.
"'No doubt you remember my telling you of a post, similar to that which I proposed for you in the bank at Athens, and that might be vacant soon, in London. Since, to please my bride, (who is devoted to her mother), I intend to make my home in Paris, I have made arrangements for you to take that post now, if you will."'Shortly after this epistle a formal note will reach you, explaining all details. You will, I am sure, not refuse me the great pleasure of smoothing a little your path, under the present circumstances—since it is a very dear wish of mine to see you and Miss Sylvia happy."'I foresee no obstacles now to your wishes. Explain to Sir James that I intend to be your best friend, and shall be able, no doubt, to be of great assistance to you if you adopt this career."'At some future date I hope to present to you Mademoiselle de Beaugarde—and looking forward to your reply, I remain,"'My dear Woodville,"'Yours, with a thousand good wishes,"'G. Ridokanaki."'P.S.—I should have written at greater length, but I am expecting Madame Beaugarde and her daughter, as I am to escort them to see some pictures. You will, therefore, grant meyour indulgence for the bold, almost abrupt way in which I have conveyed to you my news. You will make excuses for the happy lover! She has an oval face, with a peach-like complexion. Her eyes resemble sapphires: her teeth are like pearls. Let me hear from you soon.'"
"'No doubt you remember my telling you of a post, similar to that which I proposed for you in the bank at Athens, and that might be vacant soon, in London. Since, to please my bride, (who is devoted to her mother), I intend to make my home in Paris, I have made arrangements for you to take that post now, if you will.
"'Shortly after this epistle a formal note will reach you, explaining all details. You will, I am sure, not refuse me the great pleasure of smoothing a little your path, under the present circumstances—since it is a very dear wish of mine to see you and Miss Sylvia happy.
"'I foresee no obstacles now to your wishes. Explain to Sir James that I intend to be your best friend, and shall be able, no doubt, to be of great assistance to you if you adopt this career.
"'At some future date I hope to present to you Mademoiselle de Beaugarde—and looking forward to your reply, I remain,
"'My dear Woodville,
"'Yours, with a thousand good wishes,
"'G. Ridokanaki.
"'P.S.—I should have written at greater length, but I am expecting Madame Beaugarde and her daughter, as I am to escort them to see some pictures. You will, therefore, grant meyour indulgence for the bold, almost abrupt way in which I have conveyed to you my news. You will make excuses for the happy lover! She has an oval face, with a peach-like complexion. Her eyes resemble sapphires: her teeth are like pearls. Let me hear from you soon.'"
"Now, isn't he a wonderful chap?" asked Woodville. "And the best fellow in the world. I always liked him. How gifted he is! He describes people in detail, and by the yard, without giving one the very slightest idea of their appearance. He has a real genius for platitudes."
"And what an original description! Peach cheeks and sapphire eyes! Fruit and jewellery! But I daresay she's a dear, and I forgive him now. And Frank,doyou realise what this means—to us?"
"I've been realising it since the first post this morning, Sylvia."
"You'll accept it?"
"Naturally. Everything is right, as you said it would be. We'll tell Sir James to-day."
"Look here, darling Frank, let me ring up a messenger to send a wire atonceto accept, so that nothing can come between us!"
"Not just yet," said Woodville.
Savile's only comment when they told him was, "Just like that rotter to prefer anotheralien!" and he immediately wrote brief notes to Chetwode and Jasmyn Vere.
Sir James heard the news with real surprise and conventional indignation, principally because it was his practice to receive news in that way.
He refused his consent, sent Sylvia to her room, and turning round on Savile declared that the whole thing was caused by the disgraceful idleness of that boy, who ought to be at school. Such long holidays were not heard of in his younger days, and did the greatest harm mentally and physically to the boys and all their relatives.
The arrival of Aunt William diverted the storm. Sir James became far more angry with her for defending the young people than with them for requiring defence.
When she had left, he said that perhaps he would take it into consideration in a couple of years, if Woodville left the house at once, and they neither met nor corresponded in the interval.
At dinner he began to chaff them a little, and said Sylvia always got her own way with him.
After dinner, when he was smoking in the library, the desire to say "Take her, you dog, and be happy," or words to that effect, was too strong for him. He sent for Woodville, consented enthusiastically, and from that moment began to believe that with farseeing thoughtfulness he had planned her marriage from the very beginning. And he began to look forward to the list of political and other celebrities that would appear in the papers the day after the wedding.
Of course it was to be a long engagement and a quiet wedding; but entirely through the eager impetuosity of Sir James, they were married in six weeks, and every one said that in general splendour and gorgeousness it surpassed even the wedding of Sir James's elder daughter. Savile's attitude as best man was of such extraordinary correctness that it was the feature of the ceremony, and even distracted public attention from the bride and bridegroom.
THE END
Transcriber's noteThe following changes have been made to the text:Page 9: "expert in hand-writing" changed to "expert inhandwriting".Page 12: "I bar him rather" changed to "Ibearhim rather".Page 58: "goodlooking young man" changed to "good-lookingyoung man".Page 96: "Wont you make" changed to "Won'tyou make".Page 111: "St.James's" changed to "St. James's".Page 155: "blue-green Empire teagown" changed to "blue-green Empiretea-gown".Page 159: ""Bertie Wilton?" axclaimed" changed to ""Bertie Wilton?"exclaimed".Page 173: "Saville their only confidant" changed to "Saviletheir only confidant".Page 218: "in tears and a teagown" changed to "in tears and atea-gown".Page 228: "you going to do today" changed to "you going to doto-day".Page 243: "sooth-sayer is a marvel" changed to "soothsayeris a marvel".
The following changes have been made to the text:
Page 9: "expert in hand-writing" changed to "expert inhandwriting".
Page 12: "I bar him rather" changed to "Ibearhim rather".
Page 58: "goodlooking young man" changed to "good-lookingyoung man".
Page 96: "Wont you make" changed to "Won'tyou make".
Page 111: "St.James's" changed to "St. James's".
Page 155: "blue-green Empire teagown" changed to "blue-green Empiretea-gown".
Page 159: ""Bertie Wilton?" axclaimed" changed to ""Bertie Wilton?"exclaimed".
Page 173: "Saville their only confidant" changed to "Saviletheir only confidant".
Page 218: "in tears and a teagown" changed to "in tears and atea-gown".
Page 228: "you going to do today" changed to "you going to doto-day".
Page 243: "sooth-sayer is a marvel" changed to "soothsayeris a marvel".