Before Dinner.It was a busy day at Tolcarne, that of the dinner party. The picnic had not been a success. In fact, at one time, when very much bored by the attentions of Vanleigh, Tiny had gazed out to sea at a pretty little yacht gliding by, and longed to be on board—innocent, poor girl! of the fact that Dick Trevor was lying on the deck with a powerful lorgnette, seeing the party distinctly, and plainly making out the captain leaning on the rock by her side.Fin, too, was no wiser—though, for quite a quarter of an hour Frank Pratt was gazing, with knitted brow, through a second lorgnette at the little rocky cove where Sir Felix Landells was pestering her with attentions, and evidently labouring under the impression that unless she partook of lobster salad every five minutes she must feel faint.Aunt Matty was the only really happy person in the party. She had, to the dismay of all, announced her intention of going, feeling sure that the change would benefit Pepine; and the way in which Vanleigh and Landells tried in emulation to gratify her whims was most flattering to her.Not that she was deceived by the attentions, and imagined them extorted by her charms; she knew well enough the visitors’ aims, and was gratified at their discernment.“They know how much depends upon my opinion,” she said to herself; and she smiled graciously upon them both as one carried Pepine down the rocks, the other her shawl, and gave his arm; ending by playfully sending them afterwards to the girls.“Old girl’s warm, I know,” said Vanleigh to himself.“We must keep in with the old nymph, Van,” said Sir Felix to him at the end of the day; just about the same time that Tiny was crying silently in her bedroom; and Fin striding up and down like a small tragedy queen.“He’s a born idiot, Tiny!” she exclaimed; “and what pa can mean by making such a fuss over him, and telling me it’s a proud thing to become a lady of title, I don’t know. Ahem!—Lady Landells—fine, isn’t it? I don’t see that dear ma’s any happier for being Lady Rea.”“Papa seems infatuated with them,” said Tiny, bitterly.“Yes; and when he found that black captain paying you such attention, I saw him smile and rub his hands.”“Oh, don’t Fin!” exclaimed Tiny, shuddering.“I believe he’s a regular Bluebeard. Look at the little blue-black dots all over his chin. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he’s got half a dozen wives in a sort of Madame Tussaud’s Blue Chamber of Horrors, preserved in waxwork.”“Pray don’t be so foolish, Fin.”“Foolish? I don’t call it foolish to talk about our future husbands.”“Fin!” cried her sister.“Well, you see if that isn’t what pa means! I saw Aunt Matty smirking about it and petting the captain; and ma was almost in tears about their goings on.”“Oh, Fin! don’t talk so,” said Tiny, sadly; “I shall never marry.”“Till you say Yes at the altar, and the bevy of beauteous bridesmaids dissolve in tears,” laughed Fin. “I say, though, Tiny, I’m not going to be bought and sold like a heroine of romance. I wouldn’t have that Sir Felix—no, not if he was ten thousand baronets; and if you listen to Bluebeard, Tiny, you are no sister of mine.”“Do you think papa seriously thinks anything of the kind?”“I’m sure of it, dear, and—and—and—oh! Tiny, Tiny—I do feel so very, very miserable!”To the surprise of her sister, she threw herself in her arms, and they indulged in the sweet feminine luxury of a good cry, ending by Fin declaring that she shouldn’t go back to her own room; and more than once, even in sleep, the pillows upon which the two pretty little flushed faces lay, side by side, were wet with tears that stole from beneath their eyelids in their troubled dreams.And now the day of the dinner had arrived, and Lady Rea had had such a furiously red face that Sir Hampton told her she ought to be ashamed of herself, and made the poor little woman, who had been fretting herself to death to do honour to his guests, shed tears of vexation.Next there was a furious ringing of Sir Hampton’s bell, about six o’clock, and a demand whether the house was to smell of cabbage like that.As the odour did not pass away, Sir Hampton sought his lady, who had gone to dress, and again made her shed tears by exclaiming against his mansion being made to smell like a cookshop.“It’s that dreadful prize kitchener, Hampton, dear,” said poor Lady Rea. “The smell comes into the house instead of going up the chimney.”“It’s nothing of the sort—its your stupid servants!” exclaimed the knight, and he bounced off to his room to prepare for the banquet.“I’ve a good mind to make myself ugly as sin, Tiny,” said Fin, pettishly. But she did not, for she looked very piquante in her palest of pale blue diaphanous dresses, while her sister looked very sweet and charming in white.“Why, Tiny, you look quite poorly,” cried Fin, in alarm. “Pray, don’t look like that, or that wretch Trevor will see that you’ve been fretting. If he prefers little servant-girls to my dear sister, let him have them.”“Fin, dear, you hurt me,” said Tiny, simply; and there was such a tender, reproachful look in her sweet eyes that Fin gave a gulp, and, regardless of her get-up, threw herself on her sister’s breast.“I’m such a thoughtless wretch, Tiny; I won’t say so any more.”“Please, Miss, your par says are you a coming down?” said the maid sent to summon them; and they went down, to find Sir Hampton in so violently stiff a cravat, that the wonder was how it was possible that it could be tied in a bow, and the spectator at last came to the conclusion that it had been starched after it was on.Aunt Matty had, in her Irish poplin, a dress that was fearfully and wonderfully made, and dated back to about a quarter of a century before. It was of the colour of the herb whose perfume it exhaled—lavender; and every time you approached her you began to think of damask—not roses, but table-cloths and household linen, put away in great drawers, in a country house.This is not a wardrobe style of story, but we must stay to mention the costume of Frances, Lady Rea, who came into the room with her cheeks redder than ever, although she had tried cold water, hot water, lavender water, and every cooling liquid she could think of. She was in peony red—a stiff silk of Sir Hampton’s own choice, and she sought his eye, trembling lest he should be displeased; but as he emitted a crackle, produced by his cravat, as he bent his head in satisfactory assent, a bright smile shot across the pleasant face, dimpling it all over, and she exclaimed—“Lor’, my dears, how well you look. There, they may come now as soon as they like.”“Mind your dress, Fanny,” said Aunt Matty, austerely, as she sat minding her own. “Sh!”She held up her fan to command silence, as Sir Hampton cleared his throat, chuckled violently, and spoke—“Er-rum, I think our guests will not find our circle much less attractive than—er-rum!—Ah, here they are!”
It was a busy day at Tolcarne, that of the dinner party. The picnic had not been a success. In fact, at one time, when very much bored by the attentions of Vanleigh, Tiny had gazed out to sea at a pretty little yacht gliding by, and longed to be on board—innocent, poor girl! of the fact that Dick Trevor was lying on the deck with a powerful lorgnette, seeing the party distinctly, and plainly making out the captain leaning on the rock by her side.
Fin, too, was no wiser—though, for quite a quarter of an hour Frank Pratt was gazing, with knitted brow, through a second lorgnette at the little rocky cove where Sir Felix Landells was pestering her with attentions, and evidently labouring under the impression that unless she partook of lobster salad every five minutes she must feel faint.
Aunt Matty was the only really happy person in the party. She had, to the dismay of all, announced her intention of going, feeling sure that the change would benefit Pepine; and the way in which Vanleigh and Landells tried in emulation to gratify her whims was most flattering to her.
Not that she was deceived by the attentions, and imagined them extorted by her charms; she knew well enough the visitors’ aims, and was gratified at their discernment.
“They know how much depends upon my opinion,” she said to herself; and she smiled graciously upon them both as one carried Pepine down the rocks, the other her shawl, and gave his arm; ending by playfully sending them afterwards to the girls.
“Old girl’s warm, I know,” said Vanleigh to himself.
“We must keep in with the old nymph, Van,” said Sir Felix to him at the end of the day; just about the same time that Tiny was crying silently in her bedroom; and Fin striding up and down like a small tragedy queen.
“He’s a born idiot, Tiny!” she exclaimed; “and what pa can mean by making such a fuss over him, and telling me it’s a proud thing to become a lady of title, I don’t know. Ahem!—Lady Landells—fine, isn’t it? I don’t see that dear ma’s any happier for being Lady Rea.”
“Papa seems infatuated with them,” said Tiny, bitterly.
“Yes; and when he found that black captain paying you such attention, I saw him smile and rub his hands.”
“Oh, don’t Fin!” exclaimed Tiny, shuddering.
“I believe he’s a regular Bluebeard. Look at the little blue-black dots all over his chin. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he’s got half a dozen wives in a sort of Madame Tussaud’s Blue Chamber of Horrors, preserved in waxwork.”
“Pray don’t be so foolish, Fin.”
“Foolish? I don’t call it foolish to talk about our future husbands.”
“Fin!” cried her sister.
“Well, you see if that isn’t what pa means! I saw Aunt Matty smirking about it and petting the captain; and ma was almost in tears about their goings on.”
“Oh, Fin! don’t talk so,” said Tiny, sadly; “I shall never marry.”
“Till you say Yes at the altar, and the bevy of beauteous bridesmaids dissolve in tears,” laughed Fin. “I say, though, Tiny, I’m not going to be bought and sold like a heroine of romance. I wouldn’t have that Sir Felix—no, not if he was ten thousand baronets; and if you listen to Bluebeard, Tiny, you are no sister of mine.”
“Do you think papa seriously thinks anything of the kind?”
“I’m sure of it, dear, and—and—and—oh! Tiny, Tiny—I do feel so very, very miserable!”
To the surprise of her sister, she threw herself in her arms, and they indulged in the sweet feminine luxury of a good cry, ending by Fin declaring that she shouldn’t go back to her own room; and more than once, even in sleep, the pillows upon which the two pretty little flushed faces lay, side by side, were wet with tears that stole from beneath their eyelids in their troubled dreams.
And now the day of the dinner had arrived, and Lady Rea had had such a furiously red face that Sir Hampton told her she ought to be ashamed of herself, and made the poor little woman, who had been fretting herself to death to do honour to his guests, shed tears of vexation.
Next there was a furious ringing of Sir Hampton’s bell, about six o’clock, and a demand whether the house was to smell of cabbage like that.
As the odour did not pass away, Sir Hampton sought his lady, who had gone to dress, and again made her shed tears by exclaiming against his mansion being made to smell like a cookshop.
“It’s that dreadful prize kitchener, Hampton, dear,” said poor Lady Rea. “The smell comes into the house instead of going up the chimney.”
“It’s nothing of the sort—its your stupid servants!” exclaimed the knight, and he bounced off to his room to prepare for the banquet.
“I’ve a good mind to make myself ugly as sin, Tiny,” said Fin, pettishly. But she did not, for she looked very piquante in her palest of pale blue diaphanous dresses, while her sister looked very sweet and charming in white.
“Why, Tiny, you look quite poorly,” cried Fin, in alarm. “Pray, don’t look like that, or that wretch Trevor will see that you’ve been fretting. If he prefers little servant-girls to my dear sister, let him have them.”
“Fin, dear, you hurt me,” said Tiny, simply; and there was such a tender, reproachful look in her sweet eyes that Fin gave a gulp, and, regardless of her get-up, threw herself on her sister’s breast.
“I’m such a thoughtless wretch, Tiny; I won’t say so any more.”
“Please, Miss, your par says are you a coming down?” said the maid sent to summon them; and they went down, to find Sir Hampton in so violently stiff a cravat, that the wonder was how it was possible that it could be tied in a bow, and the spectator at last came to the conclusion that it had been starched after it was on.
Aunt Matty had, in her Irish poplin, a dress that was fearfully and wonderfully made, and dated back to about a quarter of a century before. It was of the colour of the herb whose perfume it exhaled—lavender; and every time you approached her you began to think of damask—not roses, but table-cloths and household linen, put away in great drawers, in a country house.
This is not a wardrobe style of story, but we must stay to mention the costume of Frances, Lady Rea, who came into the room with her cheeks redder than ever, although she had tried cold water, hot water, lavender water, and every cooling liquid she could think of. She was in peony red—a stiff silk of Sir Hampton’s own choice, and she sought his eye, trembling lest he should be displeased; but as he emitted a crackle, produced by his cravat, as he bent his head in satisfactory assent, a bright smile shot across the pleasant face, dimpling it all over, and she exclaimed—
“Lor’, my dears, how well you look. There, they may come now as soon as they like.”
“Mind your dress, Fanny,” said Aunt Matty, austerely, as she sat minding her own. “Sh!”
She held up her fan to command silence, as Sir Hampton cleared his throat, chuckled violently, and spoke—
“Er-rum, I think our guests will not find our circle much less attractive than—er-rum!—Ah, here they are!”
After Dinner.Sir Hampton was right—the visitors had arrived; and almost directly after the ordinary greetings, during which Tiny never raised her eyes, and Fin was so short that Sir Hampton darted an angry glance at her, the dinner was announced. Trevor took in Lady Rea; Vanleigh, Tiny; Landells, Fin; and Pratt, Aunt Matty—Sir Hampton bringing up the rear.The dinner was good, and passed off with no greater mishaps than a slight distribution of the saccharine juices in a dish in the second course down the back of Aunt Matilda’s poplin—Edward being the offender; but the sweetly gracious smile with which the lady bore her affliction was charming, and Fin looked her astonishment at her sister.But the dinner was not a pleasant one, even if good; there was too much, “Thompson, that hock to Sir Felix Landells;” “Thompson, the dry champagne to Captain Vanleigh”—it was hard work to Sir Hampton not to add “of the Guards;” “Thompson, let Mr Trevor taste that Clos-Vougeot;” and it was a relief when the ladies rose.“If he will talk about his cellar, Felix, punish it,” whispered Vanleigh, as they drew closer; but Sir Felix Landells’s thoughts were in the drawing-room, and though Sir Hampton persisted in talking about his cellar—how many dozens of this he had laid down, how many dozens of that; how he had been favoured by getting a few dozens of Sir Magnum O’pus’s port at the sale, and so on ad infinitum—Sir Felix refrained from looking upon the wine when it was red; and as soon as etiquette allowed they joined the ladies in the drawing-room, where Trevor had the mortification of seeing Vanleigh resume his position by Tiny, while Landells loomed over Fin like an aristocratic poplar by a rose-bush.Trevor consoled himself, though, by sitting down by pleasant Lady Rea, while Sir Hampton crackled at Pratt, talked politics to him, and his ideas of Parliament, and Aunt Matty fanned herself, as she treated Pepine to the sensation of lavender poplin as a couch.“What a nice little man your friend is, Mr Trevor,” began Lady Rea; “I declare he’s the nicest, sensiblest man I ever met.”“I’m glad you like him, Lady Rea,” said Trevor, earnestly; “but I want to talk to you.”“There isn’t anything the matter, is there?” said Lady Rea, anxiously.Trevor looked at her for an instant, and saw that in her face which quickened his resolve, already spumed into action by the markedly favoured attentions of Vanleigh to the elder daughter of the house.“Lady Rea,” he said, “I’m in trouble.”“I’m so sorry,” she said, with simple, genuine condolence. “Can I help you?”“Indeed you can,” said Trevor; and he proceeded to tell her what he had discovered respecting Mrs Lloyd’s designs.“Well, I never knew such impudence!” cried Lady Rea, indignantly.“You will sing now to oblige me,” said Vanleigh; but for the time, Tiny declined, and Fin was carried off to the piano by Sir Felix.“Do you know ‘Won’t you tell me why, Robin?’” said Sir Felix, beaming down at the little maiden.“Yes,” said Fin, sharply.“Then do sing it.”“I shall sing ‘Maggie’s Secret’ instead,” said Fin, sending the colour flushing into her sister’s face, as she rattled it out, with tremendous aplomb given to the words—So I tell them they needn’t come wooing to me.Meanwhile, Trevor went on pouring his troubles into Lady Rea’s attentive ears, as Sir Hampton prosed, Aunt Matty dozed with a smile on her countenance, Pepine snoozed in her lap in a satin tent made of his mistress’s fan, and Poor Tiny longed for the hour when she could be alone.“Lady Rea,” said Trevor, at last, “I will not attempt to conceal my feelings—I think you can guess them, when I tell you that my trouble is that your daughter passed me in the wood talking to—questioning the little girl I have mentioned, and I read that in her face which seemed to say that she despised me.”“Then that’s what’s made Tiny so low-spirited for the last few days,” said Lady Rea.“God bless you for that!” said Trevor, in a low, hoarse voice, “you’ve made me very happy. Lady Rea, will you take my part? If I have no opportunity of explaining, will you do it for me? I am very blunt, I know—recollect I am a sailor; so forgive me if I tell you that since I first met Miss Rea, I have scarcely ceased to think about her.”“I’m not cross with you for it,” said Lady Rea, “and I will tell Tiny; but you mustn’t ask me to interfere—I couldn’t think of doing so. There,” she whispered, “go and talk to her yourself.”And she gave the young fellow so pleasant a look, as their eyes met, that he knew that if the matter depended upon her, Tiny Rea would be his wife.But there was no opportunity as yet, for Tiny had been unwillingly led to the piano, vacated by Fin, Sir Felix being buttonholed by Sir Hampton, and Pratt taking his place, and talking to the sharp-tongued little maid in a way that made her exclaim—“How solemn you are!”“Hush!” said Pratt. “Listen! What a sweet voice!”“Yes, Tiny can sing nicely,” replied Fin.And they listened, as did Trevor, while, in a sweet, low voice, Tiny sang a pathetic old ballad with such pathos that a strangely sweet sense of melancholy crept over Trevor, and he stood gazing at her till the last note had ceased to thrill his nerves, when Vanleigh led her to her seat, and crossed to pay his court to Aunt Matty, awakened by the song.“Now,” whispered Lady Rea, “go and tell her how it was.”In strict obedience to the indiscreet advice, Trevor crossed to where Tiny was seated, offered his arm, and together they strolled into the handsome conservatory.“Miss Rea,” said Trevor, plunging at once in medias res, as Tiny made one or two constrained replies to his remarks, “I have been explaining to Lady Rea what trouble I am in.”“Trouble, Mr Trevor?” said Tiny, coldly.“Yes: how I had ventured to hope that I had won the friendship of two ladies, and with the vanity, or weakness, of a sailor, I trusted that that friendship would ripen into something warmer.”“Mr Trevor,” said Tiny, her voice trembling, “I must request—”“Tiny, dear Tiny,” cried Trevor, passionately, “I may have but a few moments to speak to you. Don’t misjudge me, I have explained all to Lady Rea, and she will tell you. If I am mad and vain in hoping, forgive me—I cannot help it, for I love you dearly; and this that I see—these attentions—these visits—madden me.”“Mr Trevor, pray—pray don’t say more!” exclaimed Tiny, glancing in the direction of the drawing-room.“I must—I cannot help it,” he whispered, passionately. “Tell me my love is without hope, and I will go back to sea and trouble you no more; but give me one little word, tell me if only that we are friends again, and that you will not misjudge me, or think of me as you did the other day in the wood. Tell me—confess this: you thought me wrong?”“I had no right to judge you, Mr Trevor,” said Tiny, in a trembling voice; “but—but my sister—and I—”“Tiny,” whispered Trevor, catching her land in his, “my darling, I could not have a thought that you might not read. Give me one word—one look. Heaven bless you for this.”Young men are so thoughtless, so full of the blind habits of the sand-hiding ostrich at such times, and so wrapped up was Richard Trevor, sailor and natural unspoiled man, in the soft, gentle look directed at him from Tiny’s timid, humid eyes, that, regardless of the fact that they were close to the drawing-room, the chances are that he might have gone farther than kissing the little blue-veined hand he held in his, had not, from behind a clump of camellias, a harsh voice suddenly exclaimed—“Now, then, am I right?”Sir Hampton Rea and Aunt Matty appeared upon the scene.Dear Aunt Matty had had her way, and was satisfied. Quiet as she was, she had her suspicions of Trevor’s earnest talk to Lady Rea; and when Vanleigh drew her attention to the fact that the two imprudent young people had strolled off into the conservatory, by saying, “I suppose Miss Rea finds the room too close?” she gave him a significant look.“Sit down and hold Pepine for me, Captain Vanleigh,” she said, in a low voice, “and I’ll soon put a stop to that.”Vanleigh said something very naughty, sotto voce, and then, as he felt bound to flatter Aunt Matty, he seated himself, and nursed the wretched little dog, while Aunt Matty made her way to Sir Hampton, who was deep in a political speech, to which Sir Felix kept saying “Ya-as” and “Ver’ true,” eyeing Fin the while through his glass.Fin’s sharp eyes detected something wrong, and she tried a flank movement.“Go and tell my sister I want her directly, Mr Pratt,” she said—“in the conservatory.”It was too late; Aunt Matty’s forced march had done it.“Eh! what? Er-rum!” ejaculated Sir Hampton.Then he followed his sister out into the conservatory, where she made the before-mentioned remark, and Sir Hampton, turning port wine colour, caught his daughter by the wrist.“Go to bed this instant!” he exclaimed, reverting in his rage to the punishment inflicted years before. “As to you, sir—”“Excuse me, Sir Hampton,” said Trevor, boldly.“Let me speak,” said Aunt Matty, with great dignity. “Hampton, this is neither the time nor the place to have words about the works of the wicked. I warned you, but you would not take heed. Valentina, you are not to go to bed, but to return to the drawing-room as if nothing had happened. Hampton, you must not disturb your other guests—the strangers sojourning in peace within your gates.”At a time like this Aunt Matty was too much for Sir Hampton. She had girded herself as she would have termed it; and when Aunt Matty girded herself her words were like a strong solution of tracts, and she became a sort of moral watering-pot, with which she sprinkled the wicked and quenched their anger. Sir Hampton never so much as said “Er-rum!” at such times, and now seeing the wisdom of her words, he picked two or three flowers, and walked back into the drawing-room with Tiny, the poor girl trying hard to conceal her agitation.Trevor was about to follow, but Aunt Matty stopped him.“Sit down there, young man,” she said, severely.“If you wish to speak to me, certainly,” said Trevor, politely; “but what I have to say must be to Sir Hampton, with all respect to you.”“Sit down there for five minutes, young man, and then you can return.”Trevor fumed—the position was so ridiculous; but he accepted it, glancing the while at his watch, and then fighting hard to preserve his gravity before the stiff figure in whose presence he sat. For, in spite of the annoyance, a feeling of joyous hilarity had come upon the offender against decorum: he knew that Tiny loved him, and doubtless a few words of explanation would be listened to when Sir Hampton was cool, and then all would come right.“I think the five minutes are up, Miss Rea,” said Trevor, rising. “Perhaps you will take my arm, and we can stroll back as if nothing had happened. I will see Sir Hampton in the morning.”Aunt Matty bowed, and then, wearing the aspect of some jointless phenomenon, she stalked by his side back into the drawing-room, where, in spite of the efforts of Lady Rea and Vanleigh, nothing could disperse the gloom that had fallen; and the party broke up with the departure of the gentlemen, who walked home on account of the beauty of the night—Vanleigh talking incessantly, and Trevor quiet, but striving hard to conceal his triumph.“I’ll ease him as much as possible,” Trevor had said to himself, àpropos of Vanleigh.“Poor brute! he little thinks how he’s shelved,” said Vanleigh to Landells.“Little girl’s pos’tively b’witching,” said Landells.“Who, Miss Rea?”“Jove! No—sister. Sharp and bright as lit’ needle.”“Just suit you, there, Flick.”“Ya-as.”“It came to a climax, then, Dick, eh?” said Pratt.“Franky, old boy, I’m the happiest dog under the sun.”These fragments of conversation took place at odd times that night; and the next morning, soon after breakfast, Trevor made an excuse to his friends, and started for Tolcarne.“Gone to get his congé, Flick,” said Vanleigh.“Poor Trevor! Sorry. Not bad ’fler,” said Sir Felix.“Bah! every man for himself. But we shall have to clear out after this. We’ll go and stay at Saint Francis, and when the old boy finds we are there, he’ll ask us up to Tolcarne.”“But seems so shabby to poor Trevor,” said Sir Felix.“Pooh, nonsense! Every man has his crosses in this way. Let’s get out somewhere, though, so as not to be at hand when the poor beggar comes back; he’ll be in a towering fury. I hope he won’t make an ass of himself, and force a quarrel on me.”
Sir Hampton was right—the visitors had arrived; and almost directly after the ordinary greetings, during which Tiny never raised her eyes, and Fin was so short that Sir Hampton darted an angry glance at her, the dinner was announced. Trevor took in Lady Rea; Vanleigh, Tiny; Landells, Fin; and Pratt, Aunt Matty—Sir Hampton bringing up the rear.
The dinner was good, and passed off with no greater mishaps than a slight distribution of the saccharine juices in a dish in the second course down the back of Aunt Matilda’s poplin—Edward being the offender; but the sweetly gracious smile with which the lady bore her affliction was charming, and Fin looked her astonishment at her sister.
But the dinner was not a pleasant one, even if good; there was too much, “Thompson, that hock to Sir Felix Landells;” “Thompson, the dry champagne to Captain Vanleigh”—it was hard work to Sir Hampton not to add “of the Guards;” “Thompson, let Mr Trevor taste that Clos-Vougeot;” and it was a relief when the ladies rose.
“If he will talk about his cellar, Felix, punish it,” whispered Vanleigh, as they drew closer; but Sir Felix Landells’s thoughts were in the drawing-room, and though Sir Hampton persisted in talking about his cellar—how many dozens of this he had laid down, how many dozens of that; how he had been favoured by getting a few dozens of Sir Magnum O’pus’s port at the sale, and so on ad infinitum—Sir Felix refrained from looking upon the wine when it was red; and as soon as etiquette allowed they joined the ladies in the drawing-room, where Trevor had the mortification of seeing Vanleigh resume his position by Tiny, while Landells loomed over Fin like an aristocratic poplar by a rose-bush.
Trevor consoled himself, though, by sitting down by pleasant Lady Rea, while Sir Hampton crackled at Pratt, talked politics to him, and his ideas of Parliament, and Aunt Matty fanned herself, as she treated Pepine to the sensation of lavender poplin as a couch.
“What a nice little man your friend is, Mr Trevor,” began Lady Rea; “I declare he’s the nicest, sensiblest man I ever met.”
“I’m glad you like him, Lady Rea,” said Trevor, earnestly; “but I want to talk to you.”
“There isn’t anything the matter, is there?” said Lady Rea, anxiously.
Trevor looked at her for an instant, and saw that in her face which quickened his resolve, already spumed into action by the markedly favoured attentions of Vanleigh to the elder daughter of the house.
“Lady Rea,” he said, “I’m in trouble.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said, with simple, genuine condolence. “Can I help you?”
“Indeed you can,” said Trevor; and he proceeded to tell her what he had discovered respecting Mrs Lloyd’s designs.
“Well, I never knew such impudence!” cried Lady Rea, indignantly.
“You will sing now to oblige me,” said Vanleigh; but for the time, Tiny declined, and Fin was carried off to the piano by Sir Felix.
“Do you know ‘Won’t you tell me why, Robin?’” said Sir Felix, beaming down at the little maiden.
“Yes,” said Fin, sharply.
“Then do sing it.”
“I shall sing ‘Maggie’s Secret’ instead,” said Fin, sending the colour flushing into her sister’s face, as she rattled it out, with tremendous aplomb given to the words—
So I tell them they needn’t come wooing to me.
Meanwhile, Trevor went on pouring his troubles into Lady Rea’s attentive ears, as Sir Hampton prosed, Aunt Matty dozed with a smile on her countenance, Pepine snoozed in her lap in a satin tent made of his mistress’s fan, and Poor Tiny longed for the hour when she could be alone.
“Lady Rea,” said Trevor, at last, “I will not attempt to conceal my feelings—I think you can guess them, when I tell you that my trouble is that your daughter passed me in the wood talking to—questioning the little girl I have mentioned, and I read that in her face which seemed to say that she despised me.”
“Then that’s what’s made Tiny so low-spirited for the last few days,” said Lady Rea.
“God bless you for that!” said Trevor, in a low, hoarse voice, “you’ve made me very happy. Lady Rea, will you take my part? If I have no opportunity of explaining, will you do it for me? I am very blunt, I know—recollect I am a sailor; so forgive me if I tell you that since I first met Miss Rea, I have scarcely ceased to think about her.”
“I’m not cross with you for it,” said Lady Rea, “and I will tell Tiny; but you mustn’t ask me to interfere—I couldn’t think of doing so. There,” she whispered, “go and talk to her yourself.”
And she gave the young fellow so pleasant a look, as their eyes met, that he knew that if the matter depended upon her, Tiny Rea would be his wife.
But there was no opportunity as yet, for Tiny had been unwillingly led to the piano, vacated by Fin, Sir Felix being buttonholed by Sir Hampton, and Pratt taking his place, and talking to the sharp-tongued little maid in a way that made her exclaim—
“How solemn you are!”
“Hush!” said Pratt. “Listen! What a sweet voice!”
“Yes, Tiny can sing nicely,” replied Fin.
And they listened, as did Trevor, while, in a sweet, low voice, Tiny sang a pathetic old ballad with such pathos that a strangely sweet sense of melancholy crept over Trevor, and he stood gazing at her till the last note had ceased to thrill his nerves, when Vanleigh led her to her seat, and crossed to pay his court to Aunt Matty, awakened by the song.
“Now,” whispered Lady Rea, “go and tell her how it was.”
In strict obedience to the indiscreet advice, Trevor crossed to where Tiny was seated, offered his arm, and together they strolled into the handsome conservatory.
“Miss Rea,” said Trevor, plunging at once in medias res, as Tiny made one or two constrained replies to his remarks, “I have been explaining to Lady Rea what trouble I am in.”
“Trouble, Mr Trevor?” said Tiny, coldly.
“Yes: how I had ventured to hope that I had won the friendship of two ladies, and with the vanity, or weakness, of a sailor, I trusted that that friendship would ripen into something warmer.”
“Mr Trevor,” said Tiny, her voice trembling, “I must request—”
“Tiny, dear Tiny,” cried Trevor, passionately, “I may have but a few moments to speak to you. Don’t misjudge me, I have explained all to Lady Rea, and she will tell you. If I am mad and vain in hoping, forgive me—I cannot help it, for I love you dearly; and this that I see—these attentions—these visits—madden me.”
“Mr Trevor, pray—pray don’t say more!” exclaimed Tiny, glancing in the direction of the drawing-room.
“I must—I cannot help it,” he whispered, passionately. “Tell me my love is without hope, and I will go back to sea and trouble you no more; but give me one little word, tell me if only that we are friends again, and that you will not misjudge me, or think of me as you did the other day in the wood. Tell me—confess this: you thought me wrong?”
“I had no right to judge you, Mr Trevor,” said Tiny, in a trembling voice; “but—but my sister—and I—”
“Tiny,” whispered Trevor, catching her land in his, “my darling, I could not have a thought that you might not read. Give me one word—one look. Heaven bless you for this.”
Young men are so thoughtless, so full of the blind habits of the sand-hiding ostrich at such times, and so wrapped up was Richard Trevor, sailor and natural unspoiled man, in the soft, gentle look directed at him from Tiny’s timid, humid eyes, that, regardless of the fact that they were close to the drawing-room, the chances are that he might have gone farther than kissing the little blue-veined hand he held in his, had not, from behind a clump of camellias, a harsh voice suddenly exclaimed—
“Now, then, am I right?”
Sir Hampton Rea and Aunt Matty appeared upon the scene.
Dear Aunt Matty had had her way, and was satisfied. Quiet as she was, she had her suspicions of Trevor’s earnest talk to Lady Rea; and when Vanleigh drew her attention to the fact that the two imprudent young people had strolled off into the conservatory, by saying, “I suppose Miss Rea finds the room too close?” she gave him a significant look.
“Sit down and hold Pepine for me, Captain Vanleigh,” she said, in a low voice, “and I’ll soon put a stop to that.”
Vanleigh said something very naughty, sotto voce, and then, as he felt bound to flatter Aunt Matty, he seated himself, and nursed the wretched little dog, while Aunt Matty made her way to Sir Hampton, who was deep in a political speech, to which Sir Felix kept saying “Ya-as” and “Ver’ true,” eyeing Fin the while through his glass.
Fin’s sharp eyes detected something wrong, and she tried a flank movement.
“Go and tell my sister I want her directly, Mr Pratt,” she said—“in the conservatory.”
It was too late; Aunt Matty’s forced march had done it.
“Eh! what? Er-rum!” ejaculated Sir Hampton.
Then he followed his sister out into the conservatory, where she made the before-mentioned remark, and Sir Hampton, turning port wine colour, caught his daughter by the wrist.
“Go to bed this instant!” he exclaimed, reverting in his rage to the punishment inflicted years before. “As to you, sir—”
“Excuse me, Sir Hampton,” said Trevor, boldly.
“Let me speak,” said Aunt Matty, with great dignity. “Hampton, this is neither the time nor the place to have words about the works of the wicked. I warned you, but you would not take heed. Valentina, you are not to go to bed, but to return to the drawing-room as if nothing had happened. Hampton, you must not disturb your other guests—the strangers sojourning in peace within your gates.”
At a time like this Aunt Matty was too much for Sir Hampton. She had girded herself as she would have termed it; and when Aunt Matty girded herself her words were like a strong solution of tracts, and she became a sort of moral watering-pot, with which she sprinkled the wicked and quenched their anger. Sir Hampton never so much as said “Er-rum!” at such times, and now seeing the wisdom of her words, he picked two or three flowers, and walked back into the drawing-room with Tiny, the poor girl trying hard to conceal her agitation.
Trevor was about to follow, but Aunt Matty stopped him.
“Sit down there, young man,” she said, severely.
“If you wish to speak to me, certainly,” said Trevor, politely; “but what I have to say must be to Sir Hampton, with all respect to you.”
“Sit down there for five minutes, young man, and then you can return.”
Trevor fumed—the position was so ridiculous; but he accepted it, glancing the while at his watch, and then fighting hard to preserve his gravity before the stiff figure in whose presence he sat. For, in spite of the annoyance, a feeling of joyous hilarity had come upon the offender against decorum: he knew that Tiny loved him, and doubtless a few words of explanation would be listened to when Sir Hampton was cool, and then all would come right.
“I think the five minutes are up, Miss Rea,” said Trevor, rising. “Perhaps you will take my arm, and we can stroll back as if nothing had happened. I will see Sir Hampton in the morning.”
Aunt Matty bowed, and then, wearing the aspect of some jointless phenomenon, she stalked by his side back into the drawing-room, where, in spite of the efforts of Lady Rea and Vanleigh, nothing could disperse the gloom that had fallen; and the party broke up with the departure of the gentlemen, who walked home on account of the beauty of the night—Vanleigh talking incessantly, and Trevor quiet, but striving hard to conceal his triumph.
“I’ll ease him as much as possible,” Trevor had said to himself, àpropos of Vanleigh.
“Poor brute! he little thinks how he’s shelved,” said Vanleigh to Landells.
“Little girl’s pos’tively b’witching,” said Landells.
“Who, Miss Rea?”
“Jove! No—sister. Sharp and bright as lit’ needle.”
“Just suit you, there, Flick.”
“Ya-as.”
“It came to a climax, then, Dick, eh?” said Pratt.
“Franky, old boy, I’m the happiest dog under the sun.”
These fragments of conversation took place at odd times that night; and the next morning, soon after breakfast, Trevor made an excuse to his friends, and started for Tolcarne.
“Gone to get his congé, Flick,” said Vanleigh.
“Poor Trevor! Sorry. Not bad ’fler,” said Sir Felix.
“Bah! every man for himself. But we shall have to clear out after this. We’ll go and stay at Saint Francis, and when the old boy finds we are there, he’ll ask us up to Tolcarne.”
“But seems so shabby to poor Trevor,” said Sir Felix.
“Pooh, nonsense! Every man has his crosses in this way. Let’s get out somewhere, though, so as not to be at hand when the poor beggar comes back; he’ll be in a towering fury. I hope he won’t make an ass of himself, and force a quarrel on me.”
Speaking to Papa.Meanwhile Trevor was on his way to Tolcarne, where he was shown into the library. He felt flushed and excited, but he had come with the confidence of a conqueror; and, besides, he could feel that he was no ineligible parti for the young lady.“Poor Franky, I know he’s bitten by that little fairy,” he said, as he waited impatiently—the “directly” of Edward, who had announced that Sir Hampton was in the garden and would come, having extended to ten minutes.“Hang the formality of these things!” said Trevor. “I could talk to that dear little woman, Lady Rea, by the hour without feeling uncomfortable; but as to pater—well, there; it’s only once in a man’s life. Here he is.”The door leading into a farther passage opened this moment, and Trevor rose; but instead of encountering fierce Sir Hampton, in skipped petite Fin, to run up to him flushed and excited, but with her eyes sparkling with pleasure.She placed both her little hands in his, and her words came in hurried jerks, as she exclaimed—“Tiny told me all about it—last night—Oh, I’m so glad!”“That’s right, little fairy,” laughed Trevor, smiling down on the pleasant littleface.“But there’s been such a rumpus, and I came to tell you before pa came.”“Indeed,” said Trevor, retaining the little hands, though there was no effort made to remove them.“Yes, pa’s been raging and bullying poor Tiny so. Those friends of yours came and proposed for us, and papa said they might come, and he is horribly cross about it. But you won’t give way?”“Do I look as if I would?” said Trevor.“No; and I am glad, because I think you do like Tiny.”“Like?”“Well, love her, then. Ma likes you, too.”“And little Fin?”“There’s little Fin’s answer,” said the girl, with tears in her eyes, and she held up her face and kissed him with quiet gravity. “Oh, let me go,” she cried, and she struggled from his arms and fled, leaving him to turn round and face Sir Hampton and Aunt Matty, who had entered by the other door.“What does this mean, sir?” exclaimed Sir Hampton, furiously. “Er-rum! I am astounded!”“Merely, Sir Hampton, that your daughter was willing to accord to me the licence that she would to a brother.”Aunt Matty was heard to mutter something about vulgar assurance, and Trevor flushed as Sir Hampton motioned him to a chair, took one, and crossed his legs; but he was determined not to be angry, and he went on—“Our meetings, so far, Sir Hampton, have been unfortunate, and I have come over this morning to try and set myself at one with you. I presume I am to speak before Miss Rea?”“My sister is in my confidence, and is my adviser,” said Sir Hampton, in the tone he had prepared for the magisterial bench.“Then, Sir Hampton, speaking as a frank, blunt sailor, I humbly ask your pardon for any lapses of politeness wherein I have been guilty, and also beg of you to forgive me for my conduct last night.”“A perfect outrage—barbarous,” said Aunt Matty.“Er-rum!—Matilda, let the young man speak,” said Sir Hampton, magisterially.“It was, I am aware, very foolish of me, but I was carried away by my feelings. Sir Hampton Rea, I love your daughter, Valentina.”“Absurd!” exclaimed Miss Matilda, who remained standing.“I ventured to tell her so last night, in explaining away a little misapprehension that had existed between us.”“I never heard such assurance!” said Miss Matilda.“Matty—er-rum! Matilda, I mean, have the goodness not to interrupt the pris—I mean—er-rum—the statement that is being made.”“If I could feel warrant for such a proceeding,” continued Trevor, calmly, “I intended to speak to you this morning, and ask your consent, even as I spoke to Lady Rea last night, before I addressed your daughter.”“Just like Fanny—encouraging it!” muttered Aunt Matty.“Go on, sir, I am listening,” said Sir Hampton, telling himself this was quite a preparation for the bench.“I came, then, Sir Hampton, to formally propose for your daughter’s hand. Though comparatively a stranger to you, I am well known here—of one of the most ancient county families—and I have eight thousand a year. That, Sir Hampton, is putting the matter in a plain, business-like form. If I am wanting in the proper etiquette, my excuse is my seafaring life.”“Exactly,” said Aunt Matty, satirically.The words “prisoner at the bar” were on Sir Hampton’s lips, but he did not utter them; he only rolled his words nice and round, and infused as much dignity as was possible into his tones. “The young man” had insulted him, but he could afford to treat him with dignified composure.“Mr Trevor,” he began, “I have listened to your remarks with patience”—magisterial here, very—“I have, er-rum I heard your application. For your friends’ sake, I was willing to condone”—capital magisterial word, and he liked it so much that he said it again—“er-rum! to condone that which was past. Er-rum! but under the circumstances, near neighbours as we are, I think it better that all communication”—the clearest magisterial tone here, and repeated—“er-rum! communication between us should cease.”“Decidedly!” put in Aunt Matty, arranging her mittens.“Er-rum—hear me out, sir”—a magisterial wave of the hand here, and a quiet settling down into the chair, as of one about to pass sentence—“Er-rum—as to your formal matrimonial proposals, they are quite out of the question. Captain Vanleigh has honoured me by proposing for my daughter Valentina’s hand, and he is accepted.”“By the young lady?” exclaimed Trevor.“Er-rum! there is no occasion for us to enter upon that point, Mr Trevor, for—tut! tut! what do you want here, Lady Rea?—this is business.”“Fanny!” exclaimed Miss Matilda, as her sister-in-law entered the room, walked up to Trevor, shook hands very warmly, and then accepted the chair he vacated on her behalf.“Thank you, Mr Trevor. Matty, I think any of my husband’s affairs that are business for you, are business for me,” said Lady Rea, firmly; “and as I know why Mr Trevor has visited us this morning, I came down.”Aunt Matty looked yellow with anger, and for a few moments Sir Hampton’s magisterial dignity was so upset that he could only ejaculate “Er-rum” three times at a few seconds’ interval. It was awful, this manifestation of firmness on his wife’s part, and he could only glare fiercely.“What have you been saying to Mr Trevor?” said Lady Rea, earnestly.“Sir Hampton informs me that the young lady is irrevocably engaged to Captain Vanleigh,” said Trevor, quietly. “May I appeal to Miss Rea?”“My daughters will leave us to discriminate as to—er-rum—what is good for them,” said Sir Hampton, stiffly. “Mr Trevor, we must bring this very unpleasant interview to an end. Sir—er-rum!—you have heard my—er-rum—ultimatum!”Aunt Matty bowed, and smiled a wintry smile, that was as cold as her steely eyes.Trevor directed a piteous look at Lady Rea, and without a moment’s hesitation she exclaimed—“It’s all stuff and nonsense, Hampy! I won’t stand by and see either of my darlings made miserable!”“Frances!” exclaimed Aunt Matty.“Er-rum!” exclaimed Sir Hampton, and he sent at his wife a withering look.“You can say what you like,” cried the little lady, ruffling up like a very bantam hen in defence of her chicks; and now, for the first time, Trevor saw a trace of Fin. “I say I won’t stand by and see my darlings made miserable. Tiny told me not ten minutes ago, crying up in her own room as if her heart would break, that she would sooner die than listen to Captain Vandells.”“Vanleigh,” said Aunt Matilda, contemptuously.“Vandells, or Vanleigh, or Vandunk, I don’t care a button what his ugly Dutch name is!” cried Lady Rea, angrily; “and I say it shan’t go on!”“Hampton!” began Aunt Matty, “do you intend—”“Didn’t I tell you not to interfere, Matilda?” exclaimed Sir Hampton, pettishly.Aunt Matty darted an indignant glance at him, gathered up her skirts, and sailed out of the room, Sir Hampton wiping his perspiring brow.“I thank you for your kindness, Lady Rea,” said Trevor. “I will go now; perhaps another time Sir Hampton will accord me an interview.”“No; don’t you go, my dear boy,” said Lady Rea, earnestly, and she took his hand. “I give way in nearly everything, but I’m not going to give way in this.”“Fanny, this is foolishness,” said Sir Hampton, who looked as if in a state of collapse.“It’s such foolishness as this that makes people happy,” said Lady Rea; “and if Mr Trevor loves my darling, as I know she loves him, no one shall stand in their way.”“But, Fanny,” said Sir Hampton, “I...”“Look here, Hampy, you used to be very fond of me. Now, how would you have liked my father to make me marry some one else?”“May I come in?” said a little voice; and Fin peeped in, entered, and closed the door. “I saw Aunt Matty go, so I came. Oh, pa, dear, Tiny is in such trouble—how could you?”She seated herself on his knee, nestled up to him, and the knight began to stroke her hair.“There now,” said Fin, “I knew pa would be a dear kind old dad, as soon as he knew about Tiny. There now, I may fetch her down.”“No, no, Finetta, certainly not, I...”Fin was gone.“There, Hampy,” said Lady Rea, going up to him, “you do love your children.”“I don’t like it—I—I protest against it!” exclaimed Sir Hampton, struggling against the bonds his woman folk had wreathed around him.“Sir Hampton,” said Trevor, holding out his hand, “say you relent.”“And—er-rum!—how the deuce—devil am I to face those gentlemen?” exclaimed Sir Hampton.“I’ll see them,” said Lady Rea, firmly. “Here’s Tiny.”In effect that young lady entered, red-eyed, wet-cheeked, and blushing, to throw herself on her father’s breast, and cling there sobbing violently, while Fin took the precaution to lock the door.“I don’t like it, Tiny, I—er-rum!—I...”“Oh, dear papa, I could not marry him,” sobbed Tiny—and her emotion was so excessive that Sir Hampton grew frightened, and soothed and petted her till her sobs grew less violent, when Trevor approached and took her hand, and unresistingly drew her to him, till she hid her face in his breast.Then there was a fine scene. Poor Lady Rea ran up to them, kissed Tiny, and tried to kiss Trevor, but could not reach, till he bent lower. After which she broke into a violent fit of sobbing, and plumped herself down in the nearest chair, Fin tending her for a moment, and then fetching Sir Hampton to her side, to ask forgiveness.Next there was a general display of pocket-handkerchiefs. Fin gave a hysterical hurrah, and kissed everybody in turn, ending by exclaiming, as she sobbed aloud—“And now we’re all happy!”In fact there were smiles upon every face but Sir Hampton’s, and he, feebly saying he did not like it, was left alone as the party adjourned to the drawing-room.“Lady Rea, I have you to thank for this,” said Trevor, affectionately. “How am I ever to show it?”“By being very, very, very kind to my darling there,” said Lady Rea, pitifully; “for you’re a bad, cruel man to come and win away her love.”Then, of course, there was a great deal more kissing, ending in a burst of merriment; for Fin dashed, wet-eyed, to the piano, and rattled off, “Haste to the Wedding,” running into Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March,” till Tiny went and closed the instrument.At that moment Edward, the footman, knocked at the door, and entered, saying to Lady Rea—“If you please, m’lady, Miss Matilda’s took bad, and wants the doctor. Who shall I send?”“Gracious, Edward! what is it?” said Lady Rea.“Please, m’lady, they think it’s spasms,” said the footman.Lady Rea ran out, and the doctor was sent for from St Kitt’s; but, by the time he arrived, Aunt Matty’s spasms were better.And so Richard Trevor, master of Penreife, became engaged to Valentina Rea, of Tolcarne.
Meanwhile Trevor was on his way to Tolcarne, where he was shown into the library. He felt flushed and excited, but he had come with the confidence of a conqueror; and, besides, he could feel that he was no ineligible parti for the young lady.
“Poor Franky, I know he’s bitten by that little fairy,” he said, as he waited impatiently—the “directly” of Edward, who had announced that Sir Hampton was in the garden and would come, having extended to ten minutes.
“Hang the formality of these things!” said Trevor. “I could talk to that dear little woman, Lady Rea, by the hour without feeling uncomfortable; but as to pater—well, there; it’s only once in a man’s life. Here he is.”
The door leading into a farther passage opened this moment, and Trevor rose; but instead of encountering fierce Sir Hampton, in skipped petite Fin, to run up to him flushed and excited, but with her eyes sparkling with pleasure.
She placed both her little hands in his, and her words came in hurried jerks, as she exclaimed—
“Tiny told me all about it—last night—Oh, I’m so glad!”
“That’s right, little fairy,” laughed Trevor, smiling down on the pleasant littleface.
“But there’s been such a rumpus, and I came to tell you before pa came.”
“Indeed,” said Trevor, retaining the little hands, though there was no effort made to remove them.
“Yes, pa’s been raging and bullying poor Tiny so. Those friends of yours came and proposed for us, and papa said they might come, and he is horribly cross about it. But you won’t give way?”
“Do I look as if I would?” said Trevor.
“No; and I am glad, because I think you do like Tiny.”
“Like?”
“Well, love her, then. Ma likes you, too.”
“And little Fin?”
“There’s little Fin’s answer,” said the girl, with tears in her eyes, and she held up her face and kissed him with quiet gravity. “Oh, let me go,” she cried, and she struggled from his arms and fled, leaving him to turn round and face Sir Hampton and Aunt Matty, who had entered by the other door.
“What does this mean, sir?” exclaimed Sir Hampton, furiously. “Er-rum! I am astounded!”
“Merely, Sir Hampton, that your daughter was willing to accord to me the licence that she would to a brother.”
Aunt Matty was heard to mutter something about vulgar assurance, and Trevor flushed as Sir Hampton motioned him to a chair, took one, and crossed his legs; but he was determined not to be angry, and he went on—
“Our meetings, so far, Sir Hampton, have been unfortunate, and I have come over this morning to try and set myself at one with you. I presume I am to speak before Miss Rea?”
“My sister is in my confidence, and is my adviser,” said Sir Hampton, in the tone he had prepared for the magisterial bench.
“Then, Sir Hampton, speaking as a frank, blunt sailor, I humbly ask your pardon for any lapses of politeness wherein I have been guilty, and also beg of you to forgive me for my conduct last night.”
“A perfect outrage—barbarous,” said Aunt Matty.
“Er-rum!—Matilda, let the young man speak,” said Sir Hampton, magisterially.
“It was, I am aware, very foolish of me, but I was carried away by my feelings. Sir Hampton Rea, I love your daughter, Valentina.”
“Absurd!” exclaimed Miss Matilda, who remained standing.
“I ventured to tell her so last night, in explaining away a little misapprehension that had existed between us.”
“I never heard such assurance!” said Miss Matilda.
“Matty—er-rum! Matilda, I mean, have the goodness not to interrupt the pris—I mean—er-rum—the statement that is being made.”
“If I could feel warrant for such a proceeding,” continued Trevor, calmly, “I intended to speak to you this morning, and ask your consent, even as I spoke to Lady Rea last night, before I addressed your daughter.”
“Just like Fanny—encouraging it!” muttered Aunt Matty.
“Go on, sir, I am listening,” said Sir Hampton, telling himself this was quite a preparation for the bench.
“I came, then, Sir Hampton, to formally propose for your daughter’s hand. Though comparatively a stranger to you, I am well known here—of one of the most ancient county families—and I have eight thousand a year. That, Sir Hampton, is putting the matter in a plain, business-like form. If I am wanting in the proper etiquette, my excuse is my seafaring life.”
“Exactly,” said Aunt Matty, satirically.
The words “prisoner at the bar” were on Sir Hampton’s lips, but he did not utter them; he only rolled his words nice and round, and infused as much dignity as was possible into his tones. “The young man” had insulted him, but he could afford to treat him with dignified composure.
“Mr Trevor,” he began, “I have listened to your remarks with patience”—magisterial here, very—“I have, er-rum I heard your application. For your friends’ sake, I was willing to condone”—capital magisterial word, and he liked it so much that he said it again—“er-rum! to condone that which was past. Er-rum! but under the circumstances, near neighbours as we are, I think it better that all communication”—the clearest magisterial tone here, and repeated—“er-rum! communication between us should cease.”
“Decidedly!” put in Aunt Matty, arranging her mittens.
“Er-rum—hear me out, sir”—a magisterial wave of the hand here, and a quiet settling down into the chair, as of one about to pass sentence—“Er-rum—as to your formal matrimonial proposals, they are quite out of the question. Captain Vanleigh has honoured me by proposing for my daughter Valentina’s hand, and he is accepted.”
“By the young lady?” exclaimed Trevor.
“Er-rum! there is no occasion for us to enter upon that point, Mr Trevor, for—tut! tut! what do you want here, Lady Rea?—this is business.”
“Fanny!” exclaimed Miss Matilda, as her sister-in-law entered the room, walked up to Trevor, shook hands very warmly, and then accepted the chair he vacated on her behalf.
“Thank you, Mr Trevor. Matty, I think any of my husband’s affairs that are business for you, are business for me,” said Lady Rea, firmly; “and as I know why Mr Trevor has visited us this morning, I came down.”
Aunt Matty looked yellow with anger, and for a few moments Sir Hampton’s magisterial dignity was so upset that he could only ejaculate “Er-rum” three times at a few seconds’ interval. It was awful, this manifestation of firmness on his wife’s part, and he could only glare fiercely.
“What have you been saying to Mr Trevor?” said Lady Rea, earnestly.
“Sir Hampton informs me that the young lady is irrevocably engaged to Captain Vanleigh,” said Trevor, quietly. “May I appeal to Miss Rea?”
“My daughters will leave us to discriminate as to—er-rum—what is good for them,” said Sir Hampton, stiffly. “Mr Trevor, we must bring this very unpleasant interview to an end. Sir—er-rum!—you have heard my—er-rum—ultimatum!”
Aunt Matty bowed, and smiled a wintry smile, that was as cold as her steely eyes.
Trevor directed a piteous look at Lady Rea, and without a moment’s hesitation she exclaimed—
“It’s all stuff and nonsense, Hampy! I won’t stand by and see either of my darlings made miserable!”
“Frances!” exclaimed Aunt Matty.
“Er-rum!” exclaimed Sir Hampton, and he sent at his wife a withering look.
“You can say what you like,” cried the little lady, ruffling up like a very bantam hen in defence of her chicks; and now, for the first time, Trevor saw a trace of Fin. “I say I won’t stand by and see my darlings made miserable. Tiny told me not ten minutes ago, crying up in her own room as if her heart would break, that she would sooner die than listen to Captain Vandells.”
“Vanleigh,” said Aunt Matilda, contemptuously.
“Vandells, or Vanleigh, or Vandunk, I don’t care a button what his ugly Dutch name is!” cried Lady Rea, angrily; “and I say it shan’t go on!”
“Hampton!” began Aunt Matty, “do you intend—”
“Didn’t I tell you not to interfere, Matilda?” exclaimed Sir Hampton, pettishly.
Aunt Matty darted an indignant glance at him, gathered up her skirts, and sailed out of the room, Sir Hampton wiping his perspiring brow.
“I thank you for your kindness, Lady Rea,” said Trevor. “I will go now; perhaps another time Sir Hampton will accord me an interview.”
“No; don’t you go, my dear boy,” said Lady Rea, earnestly, and she took his hand. “I give way in nearly everything, but I’m not going to give way in this.”
“Fanny, this is foolishness,” said Sir Hampton, who looked as if in a state of collapse.
“It’s such foolishness as this that makes people happy,” said Lady Rea; “and if Mr Trevor loves my darling, as I know she loves him, no one shall stand in their way.”
“But, Fanny,” said Sir Hampton, “I...”
“Look here, Hampy, you used to be very fond of me. Now, how would you have liked my father to make me marry some one else?”
“May I come in?” said a little voice; and Fin peeped in, entered, and closed the door. “I saw Aunt Matty go, so I came. Oh, pa, dear, Tiny is in such trouble—how could you?”
She seated herself on his knee, nestled up to him, and the knight began to stroke her hair.
“There now,” said Fin, “I knew pa would be a dear kind old dad, as soon as he knew about Tiny. There now, I may fetch her down.”
“No, no, Finetta, certainly not, I...”
Fin was gone.
“There, Hampy,” said Lady Rea, going up to him, “you do love your children.”
“I don’t like it—I—I protest against it!” exclaimed Sir Hampton, struggling against the bonds his woman folk had wreathed around him.
“Sir Hampton,” said Trevor, holding out his hand, “say you relent.”
“And—er-rum!—how the deuce—devil am I to face those gentlemen?” exclaimed Sir Hampton.
“I’ll see them,” said Lady Rea, firmly. “Here’s Tiny.”
In effect that young lady entered, red-eyed, wet-cheeked, and blushing, to throw herself on her father’s breast, and cling there sobbing violently, while Fin took the precaution to lock the door.
“I don’t like it, Tiny, I—er-rum!—I...”
“Oh, dear papa, I could not marry him,” sobbed Tiny—and her emotion was so excessive that Sir Hampton grew frightened, and soothed and petted her till her sobs grew less violent, when Trevor approached and took her hand, and unresistingly drew her to him, till she hid her face in his breast.
Then there was a fine scene. Poor Lady Rea ran up to them, kissed Tiny, and tried to kiss Trevor, but could not reach, till he bent lower. After which she broke into a violent fit of sobbing, and plumped herself down in the nearest chair, Fin tending her for a moment, and then fetching Sir Hampton to her side, to ask forgiveness.
Next there was a general display of pocket-handkerchiefs. Fin gave a hysterical hurrah, and kissed everybody in turn, ending by exclaiming, as she sobbed aloud—
“And now we’re all happy!”
In fact there were smiles upon every face but Sir Hampton’s, and he, feebly saying he did not like it, was left alone as the party adjourned to the drawing-room.
“Lady Rea, I have you to thank for this,” said Trevor, affectionately. “How am I ever to show it?”
“By being very, very, very kind to my darling there,” said Lady Rea, pitifully; “for you’re a bad, cruel man to come and win away her love.”
Then, of course, there was a great deal more kissing, ending in a burst of merriment; for Fin dashed, wet-eyed, to the piano, and rattled off, “Haste to the Wedding,” running into Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March,” till Tiny went and closed the instrument.
At that moment Edward, the footman, knocked at the door, and entered, saying to Lady Rea—
“If you please, m’lady, Miss Matilda’s took bad, and wants the doctor. Who shall I send?”
“Gracious, Edward! what is it?” said Lady Rea.
“Please, m’lady, they think it’s spasms,” said the footman.
Lady Rea ran out, and the doctor was sent for from St Kitt’s; but, by the time he arrived, Aunt Matty’s spasms were better.
And so Richard Trevor, master of Penreife, became engaged to Valentina Rea, of Tolcarne.
Very Dreamy.Trevor heard it afterwards from Fin, how that mamma saw Captain Vanleigh when he called with Sir Felix; Sir Hampton leaving a note, and—so Fin declared—hiding in the gardener’s toolhouse till the visit was over; and that she had, at the earnest wish of Sir Felix, seen him in the drawing-room.“Where he made the most downright booby of himself you ever saw,” said Fin.And the result was that one morning, after the most elaborate fencing had been going on between Trevor and his guests, one vieing with the other in politeness, Pratt met his old schoolfellow on his return from Tolcarne with—“Thank goodness, Dick, there’s peace in the grove.”“What do you mean, Franky?” said Trevor, who was rather uneasy at having heard from Lady Rea that Sir Felix and Vanleigh had been up to the house while he was away with the girls, and had a long interview with Sir Hampton and Aunt Matty.“Mean, Dick? Why, that the telegram has come at last—message from St Kitt’s—Vanleigh and Flick wanted directly in town—so sorry couldn’t stop to say good-bye, and that sort of thing.”“Then they are gone?”“Yes. I ordered round the waggonette; and Mrs Lloyd seems in ecstasies at the clear-out, and is getting ready to bestow a benediction on me—for I must be off next.”“Nonsense, Franky; you are happy enough here.”“No, old fellow—this Sybarite’s life is spoiling me, and I must go.”“Why not follow my example, Franky?” said Trevor, laughing.Pratt shrugged his shoulders, and the matter dropped for the time being.The next evening the Reas dined at Penreife in great state and dignity—all but Aunt Matty, who steadily refused pardon, and turned her back upon Trevor; while Sir Hampton preserved a dignified composure upon the matter, as if submitting of necessity; for—“Mark my words, Hampton,” his sister had said, “this ridiculous marriage will never take place. I should as soon expect Finetta to be espoused by that wretched little companion of the seafaring man.”Sir Hampton grunted, and went to the dinner, which he thoroughly enjoyed, and softened a good deal over his wine; after which, the evening being delicious, he allowed himself to be inveigled into the grounds, where Trevor asked his advice respecting some new forcing-houses which he proposed having, listening to him with deference; and at last, when they strolled in through the open drawing-room window, Sir Hampton said aloud—“Er-rum—yes, Trevor, I’ll come over with Sanders—say Wednesday—and he shall mark out the lines on the same plan as mine. I think I can put you in the way of many improvements.”Directly after, he was settled in an easy-chair, with his handkerchief spread upon his knees, thinking—with his eyes closed; and while he thought, everybody spoke in a whisper, for it was a custom with Sir Hampton Rea to think for half an hour after dinner—with his eyes closed: he never took a nap.Lady Rea, looking rosy, round, and warm, was presiding at the tea-table; and Tiny, blushing and happy, was rearranging some flowers, Frank Pratt helping her in a loving, deferential manner, very different from his general easy-going way; while Fin had caught Trevor by the arm, led him into the far window, and forced him back into a chair, before which she stood, holding up a menacing finger.“I’m ashamed of you, Dick—I am indeed,” she said, sharply.“Ashamed!” he exclaimed. “Why?”“Such cunning, such artfulness! I didn’t give you credit for it.”“What do you mean?”“Coaxing pa round like that, when you no more want hothouses than I do. There, go away, sir; I’m disgusted. Look! ma’s beckoning to you.”In effect, Lady Rea was cautiously making signals from the tea-tray; and on Trevor going to her, Pratt slowly crossed to the window, and began to talk to Fin.“Do you know, Miss Rea, I find I’ve been here six weeks,” he said awkwardly.“You don’t say so, Mr Pratt,” said Fin, quietly.Pratt stared, and went on.“The time has gone like magic.”“Has it really?” said Fin, demurely.“Yes,” said Pratt a little bitterly; “and as I have decided upon returning to town in a day or two, I thought I’d take this opportunity of saying good-bye.”“I think its the very best thing you can do, Mr Pratt,” said Fin, sharply.“What, say good-bye?”“No, go back to town. You will be industrious there. See what’s come to your poor friend by mooning about in the country.”She nodded her saucy head in the direction of Trevor, who was bending over Tiny—she looking shyly conscious and happy—while Lady Rea beamed upon them both; and Sir Hampton thought so deeply with his eyes closed, that he emitted something much like a stertorous snore.“Yes, dear old Dick’s very happy,” said Pratt, gravely. “Rich, loved, and with the fixture all sunshine. She’s a sweet girl.”“Yes, a rose—with a thorn of a sister, ready to pester her husband,” said Fin. “Yes, Mr Pratt, you had better go. It is not good for young men to be idle.”“So I have been thinking,” said Pratt—“especially poor fellows like myself.”“How is our little friend?” said Fin, maliciously.“What little friend?”“The little, round-cheeked niece of Mrs Lloyd—Polly, isn’t her name?”“Really, I don’t know, Miss Rea,” said Pratt, smiling.“Fie, Mr Pratt!” said Fin. “Why, you are always being seen with her in the lane. Is it true you are to be engaged?”Pratt looked at her sharply.“Does it give you so much pleasure to tease?” he said, quietly.“Tease? I thought it was a settled thing.”“I don’t think you did,” said Pratt, quietly.“Well,” said Fin, laughing, “Mr Mervyn told me the other day that—oh, look at that now!”The last words were said by Fin to herself; for as she mentioned Mr Mervyn’s name Pratt turned slowly away, and going to a table began to turn over the leaves of a book.In the meantime Lady Rea had had a few words with Trevor.“I declare I felt quite frightened of her, my dear.”“It’s her way only,” said Trevor, smiling. “She nursed me like a mother, Lady Rea; and she and her husband have for years done almost as they liked here, only checked by the agent and my poor father’s executors, who seem to have come down once a year to look at the place so long as they lived; but they have both gone now.”“She looked dreadfully cross, though, at Tiny—just as if, my dear, she was horribly jealous of her. And now, Richard, my dear, you won’t be offended if I ask a favour of you?”“Certainly not,” said Trevor, in the same low whisper in which the conversation was carried on.“Then make her send that niece of hers away. After what you told me, I’m sure it would be for the best; because while she is here the poor woman will always be thinking of her disappointed plans.”“Well, but,” said Trevor, smiling, “I was thinking of hurrying on her marriage with my keeper, Humphrey; the poor fellow is desperately fond of her, and, as far as I can make out, the feeling is mutual.”“Oh, if that’s it,” said Lady Rea, “pray don’t do anything to make the young people unhappy.”“Yes, Trevor,” said Sir Hampton, “fifty feet by twenty will be the size.”The conversation was carried on henceforth in voices pitched now in the normal key.The distance was so short that it was decided to walk back through the moonlit lane, and as Trevor and Pratt accompanied the party, it was a matter of course that Fin should walk papa off first, Lady Rea following with Pratt, and Tiny lingering behind in the silvered arcades—dreamy, loving, too happy to speak, and feeling that if life would but always be the same, how could they ever tire?Here, in the rugged lane, all was black darkness, and the gnarled tree trunks seemed to spring from sable velvet. A few yards farther, a sheaf of silver arrows seemed shot down through the foliage upon the laced ferns that rose like a tiny forest of palms; down by their side there was the rippling tinkle of water, gurgling amongst stones; and again a few steps, and a pool shone like molten silver. Above all, the air was soft, humid, and balmy; and love seemed breathed in the gentle wind that barely stirred the leaves. They had no need to talk, for it was very sweet; and they could foresee no black clouds to come sweeping across their horizon.Tolcarne gates at last, new and crest-crowned—good-bye—and then out cigars, and a matter-of-fact walk back, the young men both too dreamy to speak. And after a brief “Good night, Dick, old fellow”—“Good night, Franky, old boy,” each sought his room—Trevor thinking the while of Lady Rea’s words, and how that he had hardly seen Polly lately, while he had been too happy in his love to so much as think of Mrs Lloyd and her baffled plans. For her part, she seemed to have avoided him ever since she had heard of the engagement that he had made.“Ah, well,” he said, smiling, as he gazed from the open window at the moonlit shimmering sea, “all these things come right in the end. What need have I to trouble, with life so pleasurably spread out before me? Heigho! I don’t deserve such good luck; but I think I can bear it like a good man and true. I wonder, though, whether Frank really cares for little Fin!”Ten minutes after, Trevor was dreaming happily of his love, without a sign of cloud or storm in his sunlit fancies; but they were gathering fast the while.
Trevor heard it afterwards from Fin, how that mamma saw Captain Vanleigh when he called with Sir Felix; Sir Hampton leaving a note, and—so Fin declared—hiding in the gardener’s toolhouse till the visit was over; and that she had, at the earnest wish of Sir Felix, seen him in the drawing-room.
“Where he made the most downright booby of himself you ever saw,” said Fin.
And the result was that one morning, after the most elaborate fencing had been going on between Trevor and his guests, one vieing with the other in politeness, Pratt met his old schoolfellow on his return from Tolcarne with—
“Thank goodness, Dick, there’s peace in the grove.”
“What do you mean, Franky?” said Trevor, who was rather uneasy at having heard from Lady Rea that Sir Felix and Vanleigh had been up to the house while he was away with the girls, and had a long interview with Sir Hampton and Aunt Matty.
“Mean, Dick? Why, that the telegram has come at last—message from St Kitt’s—Vanleigh and Flick wanted directly in town—so sorry couldn’t stop to say good-bye, and that sort of thing.”
“Then they are gone?”
“Yes. I ordered round the waggonette; and Mrs Lloyd seems in ecstasies at the clear-out, and is getting ready to bestow a benediction on me—for I must be off next.”
“Nonsense, Franky; you are happy enough here.”
“No, old fellow—this Sybarite’s life is spoiling me, and I must go.”
“Why not follow my example, Franky?” said Trevor, laughing.
Pratt shrugged his shoulders, and the matter dropped for the time being.
The next evening the Reas dined at Penreife in great state and dignity—all but Aunt Matty, who steadily refused pardon, and turned her back upon Trevor; while Sir Hampton preserved a dignified composure upon the matter, as if submitting of necessity; for—
“Mark my words, Hampton,” his sister had said, “this ridiculous marriage will never take place. I should as soon expect Finetta to be espoused by that wretched little companion of the seafaring man.”
Sir Hampton grunted, and went to the dinner, which he thoroughly enjoyed, and softened a good deal over his wine; after which, the evening being delicious, he allowed himself to be inveigled into the grounds, where Trevor asked his advice respecting some new forcing-houses which he proposed having, listening to him with deference; and at last, when they strolled in through the open drawing-room window, Sir Hampton said aloud—
“Er-rum—yes, Trevor, I’ll come over with Sanders—say Wednesday—and he shall mark out the lines on the same plan as mine. I think I can put you in the way of many improvements.”
Directly after, he was settled in an easy-chair, with his handkerchief spread upon his knees, thinking—with his eyes closed; and while he thought, everybody spoke in a whisper, for it was a custom with Sir Hampton Rea to think for half an hour after dinner—with his eyes closed: he never took a nap.
Lady Rea, looking rosy, round, and warm, was presiding at the tea-table; and Tiny, blushing and happy, was rearranging some flowers, Frank Pratt helping her in a loving, deferential manner, very different from his general easy-going way; while Fin had caught Trevor by the arm, led him into the far window, and forced him back into a chair, before which she stood, holding up a menacing finger.
“I’m ashamed of you, Dick—I am indeed,” she said, sharply.
“Ashamed!” he exclaimed. “Why?”
“Such cunning, such artfulness! I didn’t give you credit for it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Coaxing pa round like that, when you no more want hothouses than I do. There, go away, sir; I’m disgusted. Look! ma’s beckoning to you.”
In effect, Lady Rea was cautiously making signals from the tea-tray; and on Trevor going to her, Pratt slowly crossed to the window, and began to talk to Fin.
“Do you know, Miss Rea, I find I’ve been here six weeks,” he said awkwardly.
“You don’t say so, Mr Pratt,” said Fin, quietly.
Pratt stared, and went on.
“The time has gone like magic.”
“Has it really?” said Fin, demurely.
“Yes,” said Pratt a little bitterly; “and as I have decided upon returning to town in a day or two, I thought I’d take this opportunity of saying good-bye.”
“I think its the very best thing you can do, Mr Pratt,” said Fin, sharply.
“What, say good-bye?”
“No, go back to town. You will be industrious there. See what’s come to your poor friend by mooning about in the country.”
She nodded her saucy head in the direction of Trevor, who was bending over Tiny—she looking shyly conscious and happy—while Lady Rea beamed upon them both; and Sir Hampton thought so deeply with his eyes closed, that he emitted something much like a stertorous snore.
“Yes, dear old Dick’s very happy,” said Pratt, gravely. “Rich, loved, and with the fixture all sunshine. She’s a sweet girl.”
“Yes, a rose—with a thorn of a sister, ready to pester her husband,” said Fin. “Yes, Mr Pratt, you had better go. It is not good for young men to be idle.”
“So I have been thinking,” said Pratt—“especially poor fellows like myself.”
“How is our little friend?” said Fin, maliciously.
“What little friend?”
“The little, round-cheeked niece of Mrs Lloyd—Polly, isn’t her name?”
“Really, I don’t know, Miss Rea,” said Pratt, smiling.
“Fie, Mr Pratt!” said Fin. “Why, you are always being seen with her in the lane. Is it true you are to be engaged?”
Pratt looked at her sharply.
“Does it give you so much pleasure to tease?” he said, quietly.
“Tease? I thought it was a settled thing.”
“I don’t think you did,” said Pratt, quietly.
“Well,” said Fin, laughing, “Mr Mervyn told me the other day that—oh, look at that now!”
The last words were said by Fin to herself; for as she mentioned Mr Mervyn’s name Pratt turned slowly away, and going to a table began to turn over the leaves of a book.
In the meantime Lady Rea had had a few words with Trevor.
“I declare I felt quite frightened of her, my dear.”
“It’s her way only,” said Trevor, smiling. “She nursed me like a mother, Lady Rea; and she and her husband have for years done almost as they liked here, only checked by the agent and my poor father’s executors, who seem to have come down once a year to look at the place so long as they lived; but they have both gone now.”
“She looked dreadfully cross, though, at Tiny—just as if, my dear, she was horribly jealous of her. And now, Richard, my dear, you won’t be offended if I ask a favour of you?”
“Certainly not,” said Trevor, in the same low whisper in which the conversation was carried on.
“Then make her send that niece of hers away. After what you told me, I’m sure it would be for the best; because while she is here the poor woman will always be thinking of her disappointed plans.”
“Well, but,” said Trevor, smiling, “I was thinking of hurrying on her marriage with my keeper, Humphrey; the poor fellow is desperately fond of her, and, as far as I can make out, the feeling is mutual.”
“Oh, if that’s it,” said Lady Rea, “pray don’t do anything to make the young people unhappy.”
“Yes, Trevor,” said Sir Hampton, “fifty feet by twenty will be the size.”
The conversation was carried on henceforth in voices pitched now in the normal key.
The distance was so short that it was decided to walk back through the moonlit lane, and as Trevor and Pratt accompanied the party, it was a matter of course that Fin should walk papa off first, Lady Rea following with Pratt, and Tiny lingering behind in the silvered arcades—dreamy, loving, too happy to speak, and feeling that if life would but always be the same, how could they ever tire?
Here, in the rugged lane, all was black darkness, and the gnarled tree trunks seemed to spring from sable velvet. A few yards farther, a sheaf of silver arrows seemed shot down through the foliage upon the laced ferns that rose like a tiny forest of palms; down by their side there was the rippling tinkle of water, gurgling amongst stones; and again a few steps, and a pool shone like molten silver. Above all, the air was soft, humid, and balmy; and love seemed breathed in the gentle wind that barely stirred the leaves. They had no need to talk, for it was very sweet; and they could foresee no black clouds to come sweeping across their horizon.
Tolcarne gates at last, new and crest-crowned—good-bye—and then out cigars, and a matter-of-fact walk back, the young men both too dreamy to speak. And after a brief “Good night, Dick, old fellow”—“Good night, Franky, old boy,” each sought his room—Trevor thinking the while of Lady Rea’s words, and how that he had hardly seen Polly lately, while he had been too happy in his love to so much as think of Mrs Lloyd and her baffled plans. For her part, she seemed to have avoided him ever since she had heard of the engagement that he had made.
“Ah, well,” he said, smiling, as he gazed from the open window at the moonlit shimmering sea, “all these things come right in the end. What need have I to trouble, with life so pleasurably spread out before me? Heigho! I don’t deserve such good luck; but I think I can bear it like a good man and true. I wonder, though, whether Frank really cares for little Fin!”
Ten minutes after, Trevor was dreaming happily of his love, without a sign of cloud or storm in his sunlit fancies; but they were gathering fast the while.
A Little Confession.But Mrs Lloyd, though quiet for a time, and letting matters rest till the termination of Vanleigh and Sir Felix Landells’s visit, was anything but dormant.The fact was, that Vanleigh had been in the way upon more than one occasion. When Polly had been sent for a walk in the hope of enchanting the “young master,” Vanleigh had met her, and been so attentive that the girl had come back at last, sobbing and almost defiant, telling her aunt that sooner than be so treated she would run away back to the mountains in Wales.This put a stop to it for the time, and Aunt Lloyd waited, hearing rumours that the two London visitors were engaged to the young ladies of Tolcarne, and rubbing her hands thereon, for these were threatened rivals out of the way.Her encounters with Trevor had been few and far between; but all seemed satisfactory, and, to use her own words, she “bided her time.”When the news came to her ears, endorsed by the sudden departure of the visitors, and further confirmed by the many visits to Tolcarne, and lastly by the coming of the Reas to Penreife, that Trevor was engaged to Valentina Rea, the woman was furious.“It shan’t go on, Lloyd—I won’t have it. I’ll put a stop to it. He shall marry Polly, or—”“Martha, Martha!” cried her husband, wringing his hands—“you will ruin us.”“Ruin! I’ll ruin him—an upstart! I’ll have him on his knees to me. After the way in which I brought him up, to turn upon me like this. He shall marry Polly!”“How can you be so mad?” groaned Lloyd. “Oh, Martha, think of our old age.”“Think!” said Mrs Lloyd, contemptuously, “I do think. Mad? Isn’t a girl with the blood of the Lloyds in her veins better than the daughter of an upstart London merchant? There—hold your tongue; and don’t you interfere. I’m not going to be stopped in my plans, so I tell you. Lloyd, are you asleep?”“No,” said her husband, with a heavy sigh, “I wish I was, so as to forget my troubles.”“You dolt!” exclaimed Mrs Lloyd. “Have you seen Humphrey hanging about lately?”There was no answer.“I say, have you seen Humphrey hanging about or talking to Polly lately? I don’t want to think the girl artful; but she has been very quiet, and I hardly like it. Lloyd, do you hear what I say?”There was a long-drawn breath for reply, and Mrs Lloyd went on making her plans—giving her husband the credit of being asleep.But the latter was very wide awake, and he had seen something that night of which he did not wish to tell. For while Mrs Lloyd had been busy with the company that evening, there had come a soft tap on the housekeeper’s room window, whose effect was to make little Polly turn violently red in the face, begin to tremble, then, after listening at the door, steal out, little thinking that the butler had seen her go.Of course it was very artful and very wrong, but it is an acknowledged fact that there is a certain magnetism in love; and, to go back to the simile before used, when the loadstone came what could the industrious little needle do?The next morning, after breakfast, Mrs Lloyd called Polly to her.“Found out at last,” thought poor Polly.She went shivering up to her very stern-countenanced aunt, with the recollection of twenty sweet but stolen meetings on her conscience.“Go and put on your white muslin dress and blue ribbons, Polly,” said her aunt.“Are we going out, aunt?” faltered the girl.“You are, my dear,” said Mrs Lloyd; “so put on your hat—the new one, mind.”“Please, aunt, I’d rather not go,” faltered the girl.“Go and dress yourself this minute,” exclaimed the housekeeper, firmly: “and look here, if you dare to cry, and make those eyes red, I’ll punish you.”Polly shivered, went to her room, and came back, looking as pretty a little rustic rosebud as could be seen for miles around.“Ah,” said Mrs Lloyd, hanging about her with a grim smile on her face, to give a pull at a plait here, a brush at a fold there, and ending by smoothing the girl’s soft hair—“if he can resist that, he’s no man.”“Please, aunt, what do you mean?” pleaded the girl. “Don’t send me out again.”“There are no captains about now, goose, are there?” said the housekeeper, angrily.“No, aunt, dear,” faltered the girl; “but don’t send me out. What do you mean?”“What do I mean?” exclaimed Mrs Lloyd; “as if you didn’t know what I mean. To raise the house of Lloyd, child—to make you mistress of Penreife—”“Oh, aunt!”“Instead of letting you throw yourself away upon a common servant.”“Aunt—aunt, dear!” cried the girl, piteously.But the woman stopped her.“Not another word. Now, look here—do I speak plain?”“Yes, aunt.”“Hush!—no crying. You are to be Mrs Richard Trevor, with a handsome husband, and plenty of money. If you don’t know what’s good for you, I do. Now go out for a walk; and when he meets you, if you don’t smile on him, and lead him on, I’ll—I’ll—There, I believe I shall poison you!”The girl turned, shivering, from the fierce-looking face, as if believing the threat, and hurried out of the house.“If Humphrey don’t take me away I shall go and drown myself,” she cried, with a sob. “Oh, it’s dreadful! He will hate me for this, and if Mr Richard sees me, what will he think!”Poor Polly’s life had been a very hard one. So accustomed was she to blindly obey, that it never occurred to her that she might take any other route than the one so often indicated by her aunt; and she went as usual—ready to cry, but not daring, and thinking bitterly of her position.“If I had only been a man,” she thought, “I’d run away to sea, and—here he is.”“Ah, little maiden,” exclaimed Trevor—for Mrs Lloyd had timed the matter well—“why, how bright and pretty you look!”“Please, sir, I’m very sorry,” faltered the girl.“Sorry! Why? Have you come out here,” he continued, suspiciously, “to meet Humphrey?”“Please, sir—no, sir,” said the girl, looking appealingly in his frank face.“Having a walk then, eh?”“Please, sir, aunt sent me,” said the girl.“Polly, my little maid, I believe you are a good girl,” said Trevor, his face growing dark—“there, don’t cry, I’m not angry with you. Speak out, and trust me. You are not afraid of me?”“Oh no, sir. Humphrey says you’re so good and kind,” said the girl.“Thanks to Humphrey for his good opinion,” said Trevor. “But, now, tell me plainly, what does all this mean?”“Please, sir, I dursen’t,” sobbed the girl.“Nonsense, child! Tell me directly.”“Aunt would kill me,” sobbed Polly.“Stuff, child! Now, be a good, sensible little girl, and fancy I’m Humphrey.”“Oh, sir—please, sir, I couldn’t do that.”“Come, come, speak out. Now, do you come of your own accord for these walks?”“No, sir. I—I—Aunt makes me.”“I thought so—I supposed so,” said Trevor. “And why do you come?”“Oh, sir, don’t ask me, please—don’t ask me,” sobbed Polly, now crying out-right.“Now, look here, my little girl; if you’ll speak plainly perhaps I can help you. Once more, why do you come here? There, there, don’t cry.”“Oh, please, sir, it’s—it’s aunt’s doing.”“Well, well, child, speak,” said Trevor, and he took the girl’s hand. “It makes me cross when you will keep on crying.”“Pray, sir, don’t—pray, don’t,” she sobbed, trying to withdraw her hand. “Oh! what shall I do?”“Speak put,” said Trevor.“Aunt—aunt thinks, sir—wants, sir—you to marry me, sir; and oh!” she cried, throwing herself on her knees, and holding up her little hands as in prayer, “I do hate you so—I do, indeed!”“Thank you, little one,” exclaimed Trevor, laughing merrily. “There, Polly, get up before you stain that pretty dress with the moss. Wipe your little eyes, and leave off hating me as soon as you can, and you shall marry Humphrey.”“Oh, sir!” faltered Polly, rising.“There, little one, go and walk about till your eyes are not red; and if you should see Humphrey down by the long copse, where they are repairing the ditches, tell him I shall want to see him about three—no, stop, say this evening. I am going for a drive.”Polly hesitated a moment, and then caught and kissed his hand, shrinking back the next moment, ashamed at her boldness.“There, I thought you would not hate me,” said Trevor. “I’ll go back at once and see your aunt. You shan’t be unhappy any more, little maiden.”“Oh, pray, sir!” cried Polly again.“I’m master here, my child; and I won’t have anybody about me made unhappy if I can stay it. Now, trot along.”The girl gave him one timid glance, and then went on, while he turned in the direction of Penreife.Before he had gone far, though, he turned back, with a smile on his lip.“I’ll wager a sovereign,” he thought, “that Humphrey was not down at the long copse, but pretty close at hand, watching for the safety of his sweetheart.”He walked sharply back to a curve in the woodland path, and found that he was right; for some distance ahead he caught sight of Polly’s pretty muslin dress, and across it there was plainly visible a bar of what resembled olive velveteen.“Eight,” said Trevor, smiling. “Well, why shouldn’t they be happy too? Now, then, to have it out with Mrs Lloyd.”
But Mrs Lloyd, though quiet for a time, and letting matters rest till the termination of Vanleigh and Sir Felix Landells’s visit, was anything but dormant.
The fact was, that Vanleigh had been in the way upon more than one occasion. When Polly had been sent for a walk in the hope of enchanting the “young master,” Vanleigh had met her, and been so attentive that the girl had come back at last, sobbing and almost defiant, telling her aunt that sooner than be so treated she would run away back to the mountains in Wales.
This put a stop to it for the time, and Aunt Lloyd waited, hearing rumours that the two London visitors were engaged to the young ladies of Tolcarne, and rubbing her hands thereon, for these were threatened rivals out of the way.
Her encounters with Trevor had been few and far between; but all seemed satisfactory, and, to use her own words, she “bided her time.”
When the news came to her ears, endorsed by the sudden departure of the visitors, and further confirmed by the many visits to Tolcarne, and lastly by the coming of the Reas to Penreife, that Trevor was engaged to Valentina Rea, the woman was furious.
“It shan’t go on, Lloyd—I won’t have it. I’ll put a stop to it. He shall marry Polly, or—”
“Martha, Martha!” cried her husband, wringing his hands—“you will ruin us.”
“Ruin! I’ll ruin him—an upstart! I’ll have him on his knees to me. After the way in which I brought him up, to turn upon me like this. He shall marry Polly!”
“How can you be so mad?” groaned Lloyd. “Oh, Martha, think of our old age.”
“Think!” said Mrs Lloyd, contemptuously, “I do think. Mad? Isn’t a girl with the blood of the Lloyds in her veins better than the daughter of an upstart London merchant? There—hold your tongue; and don’t you interfere. I’m not going to be stopped in my plans, so I tell you. Lloyd, are you asleep?”
“No,” said her husband, with a heavy sigh, “I wish I was, so as to forget my troubles.”
“You dolt!” exclaimed Mrs Lloyd. “Have you seen Humphrey hanging about lately?”
There was no answer.
“I say, have you seen Humphrey hanging about or talking to Polly lately? I don’t want to think the girl artful; but she has been very quiet, and I hardly like it. Lloyd, do you hear what I say?”
There was a long-drawn breath for reply, and Mrs Lloyd went on making her plans—giving her husband the credit of being asleep.
But the latter was very wide awake, and he had seen something that night of which he did not wish to tell. For while Mrs Lloyd had been busy with the company that evening, there had come a soft tap on the housekeeper’s room window, whose effect was to make little Polly turn violently red in the face, begin to tremble, then, after listening at the door, steal out, little thinking that the butler had seen her go.
Of course it was very artful and very wrong, but it is an acknowledged fact that there is a certain magnetism in love; and, to go back to the simile before used, when the loadstone came what could the industrious little needle do?
The next morning, after breakfast, Mrs Lloyd called Polly to her.
“Found out at last,” thought poor Polly.
She went shivering up to her very stern-countenanced aunt, with the recollection of twenty sweet but stolen meetings on her conscience.
“Go and put on your white muslin dress and blue ribbons, Polly,” said her aunt.
“Are we going out, aunt?” faltered the girl.
“You are, my dear,” said Mrs Lloyd; “so put on your hat—the new one, mind.”
“Please, aunt, I’d rather not go,” faltered the girl.
“Go and dress yourself this minute,” exclaimed the housekeeper, firmly: “and look here, if you dare to cry, and make those eyes red, I’ll punish you.”
Polly shivered, went to her room, and came back, looking as pretty a little rustic rosebud as could be seen for miles around.
“Ah,” said Mrs Lloyd, hanging about her with a grim smile on her face, to give a pull at a plait here, a brush at a fold there, and ending by smoothing the girl’s soft hair—“if he can resist that, he’s no man.”
“Please, aunt, what do you mean?” pleaded the girl. “Don’t send me out again.”
“There are no captains about now, goose, are there?” said the housekeeper, angrily.
“No, aunt, dear,” faltered the girl; “but don’t send me out. What do you mean?”
“What do I mean?” exclaimed Mrs Lloyd; “as if you didn’t know what I mean. To raise the house of Lloyd, child—to make you mistress of Penreife—”
“Oh, aunt!”
“Instead of letting you throw yourself away upon a common servant.”
“Aunt—aunt, dear!” cried the girl, piteously.
But the woman stopped her.
“Not another word. Now, look here—do I speak plain?”
“Yes, aunt.”
“Hush!—no crying. You are to be Mrs Richard Trevor, with a handsome husband, and plenty of money. If you don’t know what’s good for you, I do. Now go out for a walk; and when he meets you, if you don’t smile on him, and lead him on, I’ll—I’ll—There, I believe I shall poison you!”
The girl turned, shivering, from the fierce-looking face, as if believing the threat, and hurried out of the house.
“If Humphrey don’t take me away I shall go and drown myself,” she cried, with a sob. “Oh, it’s dreadful! He will hate me for this, and if Mr Richard sees me, what will he think!”
Poor Polly’s life had been a very hard one. So accustomed was she to blindly obey, that it never occurred to her that she might take any other route than the one so often indicated by her aunt; and she went as usual—ready to cry, but not daring, and thinking bitterly of her position.
“If I had only been a man,” she thought, “I’d run away to sea, and—here he is.”
“Ah, little maiden,” exclaimed Trevor—for Mrs Lloyd had timed the matter well—“why, how bright and pretty you look!”
“Please, sir, I’m very sorry,” faltered the girl.
“Sorry! Why? Have you come out here,” he continued, suspiciously, “to meet Humphrey?”
“Please, sir—no, sir,” said the girl, looking appealingly in his frank face.
“Having a walk then, eh?”
“Please, sir, aunt sent me,” said the girl.
“Polly, my little maid, I believe you are a good girl,” said Trevor, his face growing dark—“there, don’t cry, I’m not angry with you. Speak out, and trust me. You are not afraid of me?”
“Oh no, sir. Humphrey says you’re so good and kind,” said the girl.
“Thanks to Humphrey for his good opinion,” said Trevor. “But, now, tell me plainly, what does all this mean?”
“Please, sir, I dursen’t,” sobbed the girl.
“Nonsense, child! Tell me directly.”
“Aunt would kill me,” sobbed Polly.
“Stuff, child! Now, be a good, sensible little girl, and fancy I’m Humphrey.”
“Oh, sir—please, sir, I couldn’t do that.”
“Come, come, speak out. Now, do you come of your own accord for these walks?”
“No, sir. I—I—Aunt makes me.”
“I thought so—I supposed so,” said Trevor. “And why do you come?”
“Oh, sir, don’t ask me, please—don’t ask me,” sobbed Polly, now crying out-right.
“Now, look here, my little girl; if you’ll speak plainly perhaps I can help you. Once more, why do you come here? There, there, don’t cry.”
“Oh, please, sir, it’s—it’s aunt’s doing.”
“Well, well, child, speak,” said Trevor, and he took the girl’s hand. “It makes me cross when you will keep on crying.”
“Pray, sir, don’t—pray, don’t,” she sobbed, trying to withdraw her hand. “Oh! what shall I do?”
“Speak put,” said Trevor.
“Aunt—aunt thinks, sir—wants, sir—you to marry me, sir; and oh!” she cried, throwing herself on her knees, and holding up her little hands as in prayer, “I do hate you so—I do, indeed!”
“Thank you, little one,” exclaimed Trevor, laughing merrily. “There, Polly, get up before you stain that pretty dress with the moss. Wipe your little eyes, and leave off hating me as soon as you can, and you shall marry Humphrey.”
“Oh, sir!” faltered Polly, rising.
“There, little one, go and walk about till your eyes are not red; and if you should see Humphrey down by the long copse, where they are repairing the ditches, tell him I shall want to see him about three—no, stop, say this evening. I am going for a drive.”
Polly hesitated a moment, and then caught and kissed his hand, shrinking back the next moment, ashamed at her boldness.
“There, I thought you would not hate me,” said Trevor. “I’ll go back at once and see your aunt. You shan’t be unhappy any more, little maiden.”
“Oh, pray, sir!” cried Polly again.
“I’m master here, my child; and I won’t have anybody about me made unhappy if I can stay it. Now, trot along.”
The girl gave him one timid glance, and then went on, while he turned in the direction of Penreife.
Before he had gone far, though, he turned back, with a smile on his lip.
“I’ll wager a sovereign,” he thought, “that Humphrey was not down at the long copse, but pretty close at hand, watching for the safety of his sweetheart.”
He walked sharply back to a curve in the woodland path, and found that he was right; for some distance ahead he caught sight of Polly’s pretty muslin dress, and across it there was plainly visible a bar of what resembled olive velveteen.
“Eight,” said Trevor, smiling. “Well, why shouldn’t they be happy too? Now, then, to have it out with Mrs Lloyd.”