"Goodbye! Goodbye!--our lives divide,We drift apart on Life's broad tide,Faint-hearted, sad and solemn-eyed,By Fate's decree."Goodbye! Goodbye!--but not farewell,Tho' side by side we may not dwell.Some day we'll meet--But who can tellIf this will be?"
"Goodbye! Goodbye!--our lives divide,We drift apart on Life's broad tide,Faint-hearted, sad and solemn-eyed,
By Fate's decree.
"Goodbye! Goodbye!--but not farewell,Tho' side by side we may not dwell.Some day we'll meet--But who can tell
If this will be?"
So the time of parting had come at last, as it must come to all, and these men and women who had met by chance at the Italian Lakes were about to separate. But who could tell what effect the intimacy of the last few weeks would have on their future lives?
It seemed as though the love-romance of Victoria and Otterburn were over, killed by the woman, and even if they did meet again, it would be under such widely different circumstances that they would surely never be able to renew their earlier intimacy.
True to his resolve Otterburn departed for Como without seeing Victoria again, and Eustace saw him safely off in the train with the faithful Johnnie in attendance. He then went to say goodbye to the Erringtons, who were going up by the St. Gothard line, intending to stay a few days in Paris prior to returning to England.
"Goodbye, old fellow," said Guy, shaking hands with Eustace in the tumult of the station. "When you come back to Town don't forget to look us up."
"No, I won't forget," replied Eustace gravely, though he privately determined to keep out of temptation's way as much as possible. "But I don't know when I'll be in England. I go to Cyprus first, and then may look in at Athens and go up the Dardanelles."
"You should get married and settle down," said Guy gaily. "What do you say, Alizon?"
"I'm afraid to give an opinion," replied Lady Errington discreetly. "When Mr. Gartney returns I may be able to say something."
She looked at Eustace in a friendly manner, and as he saw the cold, pure look in her eyes, he knew at once that whatever passion for this woman he might feel, he had not succeeded in awakening any response in her impassive nature.
"A statue! A statue," he said to himself. "Poor Guy."
"Say goodbye to Mr. Macjean for me," said Lady Errington, giving him her hand. "And as to yourself I will not say goodbye, butau revoir."
The whistle blew shrilly, the train moved slowly off, and Eustace, with bare head, holding his hat in his hand, stood silently amid the crowd with a vision before his mind's eye of the sweet face with the cold pure light in the blue eyes.
"A statue! a statue," he said again, as he went back to Cemobbio. "It is a foolish passion I have for her, but I dare say a few months' travelling will make me forget that such chilly perfection exists."
On his return to the Villa Medici, he told his valet to pack up everything and be ready to start by the early train next morning, in order to meet Otterburn and leave Milan by the afternoon train for Venice, as Victoria would be at Milan the next day, and Otterburn did not wish to meet her again.
As for that young lady, although she did not care much about Otterburn, yet her self-love received rather a severe shock when she learned how promptly he had taken his dismissal.
"Where is Mr. Macjean?" she asked Eustace that night, after dinner, as he sat smoking outside in the garden.
"He has gone away," replied Eustace, who was anxious to prolong her curiosity as much as he could and let her drag the facts of the case piecemeal from his reluctant mouth.
"Where to?"
"Milan."
Victoria flushed a little under his keen gaze and tapped her foot impatiently on the ground.
"I thought he was going with you to-morrow."
"So did I. But for some reason he preferred going by himself to-day."
"Oh!"
There was a vexed tone in the ejaculation, and Eustace smiled to himself as he thought of her anger. She knew the reason of this abrupt departure, so did Eustace, and each of them perfectly understood one another; therefore, when Victoria saw the smile curling the corners of Gartney's mouth, she felt inclined to strike him in her exasperation.
"Why did he not say goodbye?" she demanded sharply. "I don't know. He did not honour me with his confidence."
It was lucky for Eustace that Victoria did not at that moment possess regal power, for she would then and there have ordered him off to execution, but as she could not do this she did the next best thing to it, and retreated gracefully from the field of battle.
"If I were you, Mr. Gartney, I would teach that friend of yours manners," she said superciliously. "However, we are not likely to meet again, so it does not matter. You go to-morrow morning, do you not?"
"Yes."
"And we go in the afternoon, so we won't have the pleasure of being fellow-travellers--goodbye."
"Goodbye."
They shook hands coldly, with mutual dislike, and then Victoria went away gaily, so as to afford Eustace no opportunity of seeing her mortification, but when she arrived in her own room she raged like a young lioness.
"How dare he treat me in such a way!" she said wrathfully, referring to the absent Otterburn. "Because I do not choose to marry him, he need not slight me so openly before his friend. Ah! that wretched Mr. Gartney, how detestable he is. Always sneering and supercilious. I should like to kill him, and he knows it."
There was no doubt that the triumph was now with Gartney, and all through her own fault. She had refused offers before, but the makers of them had always taken their defeat meekly and continued to haunt her steps. Otterburn, however, had treated her as no man had ever treated her before, and when she grew calmer, with the whimsical inconsequence of a woman, she actually began to admire his independence.
"He's a man at all events," she said, drying her tears, "and I'm glad he's got a mind of his own. If I do meet him again I'll make him propose again, in spite of his temper, and then I'll pay him out for going off like this."
It was truly a bad look-out for Otterburn if she remained in the same mind, but then the chances were that his promptitude of action, having secured her admiration, would end up by making her love him, and when they met again it was doubtful who would come off victor.
Eustace, on his side was very much gratified by the conversation he had had with Victoria, and after bidding farewell to Mr. and Mrs. Trubbles, went to bed in quite a good temper.
Next morning he left Cemobbio and started for Milan.
On arriving he found Otterburn at the station, looking tired and haggard, but this was due to want of sleep and not to dissipation, as Eustace charitably surmised. The young man was in a fearfully bad temper, and although he was burning to question Eustace about Victoria, yet his own sense of dignity would not allow him. So during their journey to Venice, he sat in sulky silence, reading a book and inwardly raging at the fickleness, ingratitude and caprices of womankind.
Since they had last occupied a railway carriage together, a change had certainly come over both of them, and instead of friendly talk, they sat in dour silence, each regarding the other as an insufferable nuisance.
The cynical French proverb anent women was, without doubt, very applicable to them both in the present case, and it might have been some gratification to Victoria's wounded pride to know that she had effectually estranged these two quondam friends. The bond of sympathy formerly existing between them had entirely vanished, and though each was burning to make a confidant of the other, yet neither would make the first advance, so both sat grimly silent, each cursing his luck in having the other for a companion.
Otterburn did not venture to speak to Eustace about his rejection by Victoria, as he was afraid of being laughed at by the cynic, and Eustace held his tongue concerning his passion for his cousin's wife, as he thought, and with good reason, that Otterburn would consider it dishonourable. It was the quick coupled with the dead, and they both felt it, so when they reached Venice, although they put up together at Danieli's, by tacit consent they saw as little of one another as possible.
To his great delight Otterburn picked up an old Oxford chum one day, and finding that he was going on a shooting excursion to the Carpathian Mountains with another friend, agreed to join him. To this desertion, Eustace by no means objected, as he was heartily sick of Macjean's love-lorn sulkiness, so, at the end of the week, the young man, with his two friends, keen sportsmen and capital company, left Eustace in Venice, and departed in high spirits on his excursion.
Eustace therefore was left entirely alone, and preferred his solitude, for had he so chosen he could have found plenty of pleasant companions willing to go to Cyprus if needful, but having a fancy for a solitary journey, and the idea of a new book of travels in his head, he held aloof from Anglo-Italian society and wandered about Venice with no other company than his own dreary thoughts.
Fate, however, evidently had a spite against Mr. Gartney, for one day, while he was sitting at Florian's, smoking cigarettes and watching the white pigeons whirling aloft in the blue sky, someone touched him on the shoulder, and on turning he found himself facing Billy Dolser, a dapper little man-about-town, whom he particularly disliked.
Mr. Dolser owned a spiteful society paper called "The Pepper Box," which was always getting into trouble for the lies it told, and Eustace himself had been pretty severely handled in its columns, as the proprietor hated him with all the malignant venom of a little soul. Everybody in society was afraid of Billy, who had an unpleasant knack of finding out things people did not want known, and publishing them in his paper, so everyone was civil to him, except one or two men who had the bad taste to horsewhip him, but Billy did not mind, as it made his paper sell, so there was positively no way of society ridding itself of this little wasp.
"How do, Gartney?" said Mr. Dolser, offering two fingers to Eustace, which that gentleman refused to see. "Heard you were here--yes! Cut away from town I suppose because of your book? No! we thought you did. You're getting it hot--rather!"
"I'm hanged if I care," retorted Eustace indolently, "it will only make the book sell. How's 'The Pepper Box' going?"
"Oh capitally--yes!" said Billy, taking a seat. "Three actions of libel on--ha! ha!"
"That sounds well--any horsewhippings?"
Billy grinned, not being a bit offended at this allusion, as it all came under the head of business.
"No, dear boy, no! I'm here with the Pellingers you know--yes! Showing them round. They're paying my ex's."
"Of course. I knew you wouldn't pay them yourself."
"Ah! but they like travelling with me--yes!"
"I shouldn't care about a pet monkey myself," said Eustace rudely.
"No! you're a Robinson Crusoe kind of chap, ain't you?" said Billy, quite unmoved by his epithet. "By the way, I saw your cousin and his wife in Paris--yes! Wife cut me. Beastly rude I think, when I knew her father so well--he was a great friend of mine--rather!"
"Not a very creditable thing to boast of," replied Eustace, enraged at this reference to Lady Errington.
"Oh, who cares? If Asmodeus unroofed the houses in town, you bet there'd be 'ructions. Just so!"
"You do your best to play Asmodeus."
"Yes--want to purify Society. By the way, Mrs. Veilsturm was asking after you."
"Very kind of her!"
"And Major Griff. I wonder Society tolerates those two, Eh?"
"Oh, Society tolerates all kinds of noxious beasts now-a-days," said Eustace, with a significant glance at Billy.
"Yes! horrid, isn't it? Those two have got hold of Dolly Thambits, you know--young fool that came in for a lot of money--rather. She's plucking him, and the Major is pocketing the feathers--yes!"
"Can't you share the spoil?" asked Eustace drily.
"No! wish I could, but Mrs. Veilsturm doesn't like me--not much! I say, look here, where do you go?"
"That's my business," retorted Eustace, rising. "I'm not going to tell you my movements and have them recorded in that scurrilous paper of yours."
"No," said Billy calmly, "that's a pity, because they're all curious about you in town--yes. Never mind, I'll say I met you at Venice."
"You'll say I dropped you into the Grand Canal also, if you don't mind your own business," growled Gartney wrathfully, moving towards him.
"Eh! I don't care. Anything for a paragraph."
The impudence of the little man so tickled Eustace that he burst out laughing, and without carrying out his threat, walked away, while Mr. Dolser, pulling out his note-book, dotted down a few remarks.
"I'll get two columns out of him," he said to himself in a gratified tone. "He's staying at Danieli's I know, so I'll look up his valet and find out where he's off to--yes."
Which Mr. Dolser did, and the result appeared in an abusive article a fortnight afterwards in "The Pepper Box" headed "Gartney's Gaddings" which several of the poet's friends enjoyed very much.
As for Eustace, after getting rid of Billy Dolser, he went off to his hotel, and arranged all about his departure for Cyprus, anxious to get away at once so as to avoid another meeting with the proprietor of "The Pepper Box."
Consequently next day be found himself on board an Austrian-Lloyd steamer, slowly steaming down the Adriatic into the shadow of the coming night, and as he stood on the deck with the salt wind blowing in his face, he murmured:
"Well, that chapter of my life is closed."
He was wrong, for that chapter of his life had just opened.
"Severe, sedate, and highly bred,Sad-tinted gown and cap on head.In high-backed chair she grimly sits,And frowns, and fumes, and talks, and knits,Her nephews, nieces, tremble still,Whene'er she talks about her will,And wonder oft in glad surmiseWhat they will get at her demise.No King upon his throne in StateWas ever such a potentate.Let others face her eye--I can't,I quail before my maiden aunt."
"Severe, sedate, and highly bred,Sad-tinted gown and cap on head.In high-backed chair she grimly sits,And frowns, and fumes, and talks, and knits,Her nephews, nieces, tremble still,Whene'er she talks about her will,And wonder oft in glad surmiseWhat they will get at her demise.No King upon his throne in StateWas ever such a potentate.Let others face her eye--I can't,I quail before my maiden aunt."
Few people are acquainted with Delphson Square, no doubt from the fact that it lies on the extreme edge of the great vortex of London life, isolated in a great measure by its position and character. Those concerned with business or pleasure know not this severely respectable neighbourhood, but occasionally men and women, weary of the restless excitability of the metropolis, glance off from the huge central whirl, and drift helplessly into this haven of rest in order to spend the rest of their days in peace.
Not a tempting place certainly, with its four sides of forbidding-looking houses painted a dull brown, with grim iron balconies attached to each window like prison gratings. No bright flowers in oblong boxes to lighten the austerity of these conventual retreats, flowers being regarded as frivolous by the utilitarian inhabitants of the square. Spotless white blinds, heavy dark-red curtains, occasionally a cage in some glaring window, containing a depressed-looking canary, irreproachable white steps, exasperatingly bright brass knockers on massive doors; these were the principal adornment of the four rows of dwellings.
In the centre of the small quadrangle grew a quincunx of heavy-foliaged elms, encircled by a spiky iron fence of defiant appearance, and under one of the trees a weather-stained statue of some dead and gone warrior, with a suitable inscription in choice Latin, which no one could read. Over all this prim locality an air of Sabbath quiet.
The doors of the houses always seemed to be closed. Rarely were any signs of life seen behind the half screens of the windows, the well-swept streets were empty both of traffic and pedestrians, and viewed under a dull, leaden-coloured London sky, with a humid feeling in the air, Delphson Square looked like some deserted city waiting to be re-peopled.
As to the inhabitants, they mostly resembled their dwellings, being elderly, grim, and forbidding, dressed in the plainest puritanical fashion, yet one and all stamped with the impress of wealth.
Sad tints but rich stuffs, serious faces with port-wine complexions, little jewellery, but what there was, massive in the extreme--no ostentation, but a quietly-prosperous air, telling of snug banking accounts. Respectable-looking carriages, with fat horses and still fatter coachmen, at the grim doors every morning to take them drives in the Park. A general air of subdued religion about the place--they were all Broad Church, and held strong opinions about the ritual. No newspaper admitted into the square except theTimes, which was heavy and respectable, hansoms unknown, even the sweeper who swept the crossings was serious-minded and given to dreary hymns in wet weather. Everybody went to bed at nine o'clock and rose at the same time in the morning; the tradesmen were always punctual and deferential, and the clocks were never out of order.
Miss Angelica Corbin lived in this delightful locality, and, as her residence there dated from the early part of the Victorian age, she was regarded as one of the oldest inhabitants.
A maiden lady of uncertain age and certain income, her life was conducted in a methodical fashion, which enabled her in a great measure to defy Time. As Miss Corbin was ten years ago she was at present, and would in all human probability be at the end of another decade. Quite at variance with the new-fangled ways of the present generation, this old gentlewoman looked like some disdainful spectre of a sedate past, solitary amid a frivolous present.
Her room, old-fashioned and changeless as herself, had about it the aroma of a former generation, when D'Orsay led the fashions, and people were still talking about Lord Byron, Waterloo, and the Reform Bill.
Situated on the ground floor above the basement, it had three windows of small-paned glass looking out on to the dreary square, and was large and airy, having an oval roof painted with designs of flowers, fruit, birds, and butterflies.
Under this cheerful ceiling a remarkably comfortable room, furnished in an antique style. Warm-coloured Turkish carpet, rather threadbare in places, woolly mats of different tints, heavy mahogany chairs and sofa, with slippery horsehair coverings; a solid-looking table of the same wood, draped with dark-green cloth; out-of-date piano, rigid against the wall, with faded drawn blue silk and tassels above its yellow ivory keys. An ancient fireplace with elaborate brass dogs' between which generally blazed a fire of logs (no coal for Miss Corbin, as she thought it detestable), and a massively-carved mantelpiece with quaint ornaments of Dresden china, in front of a gold-framed mirror swathed in green gauze.
On the left-hand side of the fireplace a tall book-case, with glass doors, fitting into a shallow recess and surmounted by a plaster of Parts bust of Shakespeare, imprisoned first editions of books popular in their owner's youth, editions priceless to bibliomaniacs. These, though now worth their weight in gold, never saw the light of day.
On the red-papered walls, smoky-looking oil pictures in tarnished frames, one or two yellow samplers, worked by dead and gone school-girls on the table wax flowers, Berlin wool mats, and velvet-bound Books of Beauty, from whose faded pages simpered large-eyed beauties of the Dudu type; on the floor treacherous footstools, always in the way, and a long bead-worked cushion, elevated on six square mahogany legs, in front of the brass fender. Here and there gaudy porcelain jars filled with withered rose-leaves and dried lavender, which gave forth a faint, dreamy odour, redolent of bygone days and vanished summers.
Surrounded by all this faded splendour, in a straight-backed chair placed by the fire-side, her feet resting on a foot-stool, and constantly knitting, sat Miss Angelica Corbin, better known to her friends and relations as Aunt Jelly.
Tall, stiff and commanding, with rigid features, cold grey eyes, iron-grey hair, always dressed in the same kind of silken slate-coloured gown, with a dainty lace apron, lace cap, China crape shawl on her shoulders, lisle thread mittens, and old-fashioned rings on her withered hands, she never changed in the smallest degree.
Her father had been a very wealthy man, connected with the H.E.I.C.S., and on his death left his property equally divided between his three daughters, Jane, Angelica, and Marian, the first and the last of whom married respectively Sir Frederick Errington and Mr. Martin Gartney. Both sisters and their husbands had long since departed this life, leaving Guy Errington and Eustace Gartney, who thus stood in the relation of nephews to Miss Corbin.
That lady had never married, which did not seem strange to those who knew her at present, but without doubt she must have been a handsome woman in her youth, and presumably had had her romance, like the rest of her sex. As a matter of fact, she had been engaged to marry Harry Sheldon, the father of her ward, but owing to some misunderstanding, an explanation of which was forbidden by the pride of both, they separated, and Sheldon went out to seek his fortune in Australia, where in due course he married Miss Macjean, and Miss Corbin, devoting herself to perpetual maidenhood, had removed to Delphson Square, where she had remained ever since.
Having a handsome income well invested in the Funds, Miss Corbin lived in excellent albeit old-fashioned style, and, in spite of her apparent hardness and brusque manner, was not an ungenerous woman. When her old lover, dying in Australia, sent home his orphan child to her guardianship, she had promptly accepted the charge, and loved the girl for the sake of that dead and buried romance which was still fresh in her heart. To Victoria she was strict but kind, and the presence of this bright young girl made a pleasant variety in her dull, methodical life, although she never, by word or deed, betrayed such a weakness.
Hard she undoubtedly was, and but little given to sentimental feelings, which was a great grief to her companion, Miss Minnie Pelch, who was tender-hearted in the extreme, and had oceans of tears on every possible occasion, from a wedding to a funeral.
Miss Pelch was a weak, soulful creature, the daughter of a clergyman who had been curate at Denfield, a village near Errington Hall. The Rev. Pelch was a widower, and his sole offspring was the fair Minnie, but having only a small income, he saved nothing: so when he died she was left destitute, with a doubtful future before her. She had not enough brains for a governess, no talents except a pretty taste in poetry, which was not a marketable commodity, and no beauty to attract marriageable young men, so Minnie wept over the mistake of having been born, and Heaven only knows what would have become of her had not Miss Corbin, like a kind-hearted vulture, swooped down on the poor creature and taken her up to London as her companion.
So Minnie was provided for by brusque Aunt Jelly, although no one ever knew what a trial she was to that sensible old lady, for Miss Pelch was one of those exasperatingly limp creatures who always pose as martyrs, and shed tears at the least thing.
Aunt Jelly was not unkind by nature, but sometimes the tearful Minnie was too much for her endurance, and if she could have got rid of her she certainly would have had small hesitation in doing so. But there was no chance of this coming to pass, as Minnie was one of those meek creatures who rest where they are thrown, so Miss Corbin, regarding her as a necessary cross, did the best she could to put up with her tears, her milk-and-water conversation and her longings after fame.
Fame! yes! this invertebrate creature, whose intellect was of the smallest, had actually written a book of poems after the style of L.E.L., in which she compared herself to "a withered leaf on the tree of life." She had several times inflicted these weak rhymes, in which mountain rhymed to fountain, and dove to love, on Miss Jelly, but that stout old dame snorted disdainfully at her companion's poetical fancies, whereupon Minnie retired with her manuscript, sat in the twilight, and wished herself dead.
When Eustace visited his aunt, Minnie always attacked him about the publication of her poems, and Eustace, the cynical, the bitter, the scornful, actually read her poor little rhymes and promised to see what he could do with them, which proved that a good deal of his cynicism was only skin deep. Perhaps he was forced into this promise by Aunt Jelly, who thought if Minnie could only get her drivel published she would perhaps hold her tongue for the rest of her life, but this hope seemed too good to be realised.
Miss Pelch had a thin drooping figure, a pensive face with pale skin, pale eyebrows, pale eyes, pale lips, in fact she was all pallid, and wore her thin brown hair in girlish curls, with two drooping over her ears after the style of those called "kiss-me-quicks." She generally wore an ancient black silk dress, with lace cuffs and lace collar fastened by a large brooch containing the portrait (done in oil by a village artist) of her late father.
Seated at the window, in the dull light of an October day, Miss Fetch, having been worsted in an encounter with Aunt Jelly over the question of reading one of her effusions, was drooping like a withered flower over the manuscript, and could hardly read her own scratchy writing for tears.
Aunt Jelly was is her usual place, sitting bolt upright, with her woolly-haired poodle, Coriolanus, at her feet, and no sound disturbed the quiet save an occasional patter of Minnie's tears, or the vicious clicking of Aunt Jelly's needles. On the table in the centre of the room were decanters of port and sherry and a plate of cake, for Miss Corbin was expecting her nephew, Guy, and his wife, to call on her that afternoon, the young couple having just arrived from the Continent, and always gave her visitors wine in preference to tea, which she characterised tersely as "wash."
Miss Corbin opened her mouth once or twice to make a remark, but, casting an angry glance at the tearful Minnie, shut it again without uttering a sound, and knitted with redoubled fury. At last her stoicism could hold out no longer, and she called out in her strong, clear voice:
"For Heaven's sake, Minnie, stop crying. There's plenty of rain outside, without you bringing it into the house."
"Very well, Miss Jelly," said Minnie meekly, and drying her eyes, she slipped her poem into her pocket and sat with folded hands, looking as if she carried the weight of the world on her round shoulders.
Aunt Jelly looked at her keenly for a moment, and then issued another command.
"Come here, child."
Minnie rose to her feet and drifted across the room, for her mode of getting about could hardly be called walking.
"You mustn't cry because I don't listen to your poetry," said Aunt Jelly grimly. "I hate poetry--it's all rubbish, and I can't and won't stand it. But I daresay your poetry's all right--it sounds sing-songy enough. Wait till Mr. Gartney comes home, and then you can read it to him. I've no doubt it's as good as his own. Now take a glass of port, and stop your whimpering."
"Oh, no, Miss Jelly," said Minnie' in a frightened tone. "Oh, yes, Miss Minnie," mimicked the old lady fiercely. "Do what I tell you--it will put some blood into you."
"Tea!" began Miss Pelch nervously.
"Tea! wash!" snorted Aunt Jelly disdainfully, "there's no strength in tea, girl. You might as well drink vinegar. Your blood's like water; I'm sure I don't know how your father reared you."
"Father was a vegetarian," volunteered Minnie, in mild triumph.
"And a pretty example you are of the system," retorted Miss Corbin. "If I didn't keep my eye on you I don't believe you'd eat meat."
"It's so strong."
"That's more than you are!"
"Dr. Pargowker----" began Miss Pelch once more. "Prescribes iron, I know all about that," said Aunt Jelly wrathfully. "I don't hold with drugs, I never did. Meat and port wine is what you want and what you've got to take. Hold your tongue and do what I tell you."
Thus adjured Minnie did not dare to disobey, and although she hated wine, dutifully swallowed a glass of old port, which was so strong that it made her cough. The revivifying effect was soon seen in the colour which came into her pale cheeks, proving that Aunt Jelly was right in her prescription, as a long girlhood of vegetarianism had weakened the Pelch system.
Minnie now feeling better sat down and took up her work, which consisted in crocheting antimacassars, a mode of employing time of which Aunt Jelly approved. Indeed, the industrious Miss Pelch had manufactured enough antimacassars to stock a bazaar, and she was constantly at work on them except when she took a turn at talking, for Miss Corbin would not allow her to knit, that being her own special weakness. The two sat working in silence for a few minutes, Miss Jelly grim and repellent as the Sphinx and Minnie weakly gay, as the wine had slightly affected her brain.
"Minnie," said Aunt Jelly suddenly, pointing to the table with one lean finger, "wipe your glass."
"Very well, Miss Jelly," responded Miss Pelch with her invariable formula, and thereupon arose from her seat and having wiped the glass with a duster which she took from a drawer, replaced the glass on the tray, folded up and put away the duster, then returned to her chair and antimacassar in meek silence.
Silence, however, did not suit Aunt Jelly, who liked to be amused, so she gave Minnie the last letter she had received from Victoria and made her read it, keeping up a running comment on the contents meanwhile.
"Liked Rome did she!--humph! nothing but pictures and priests no doubt. Cooking wasn't good. Of course not, all oil and garlic. Mr. Trubbles ill! pity that fool doesn't die--not much loss about him I should think. Wait a bit, Minnie, till I count the heel of this stocking. One, two, three, four--go on, I can listen--ten, eleven, twelve. My nephew gone to Cyprus--twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two--he's always going to some out-of-the-way place--forty-five, forty-six. He'll end up by being eaten by cannibals--fifty-three! Humph! I hope his new book will be more respectable than the last one. Eh! The Master of Otterburn. Who is he? Never heard of him. Coming back by Naples!--how can they come back by Naples. Oh! the steamer, yes! I hope Victoria won't flirt with all the young men on board. Perhaps she'll be sea-sick. That'll take all the nonsense out of her. Is that all?--dear me, these girls can't write a letter now-a-days. Here, give it to me back. You read so quietly, I can't hear half you say."
This terrible old woman seized the letter and put it away, frowning on Minnie meanwhile, that damsel having meekly resumed her antimacassar.
"Four o'clock," said Miss Corbin, as the clock struck the hour, "they should be here by now, but none of you young people are punctual now-a-days."
"Perhaps they've been detained," expostulated Minnie timidly.
"Nonsense," snapped Miss Jelly wrathfully. "Why should they be detained? They've been two days in town already. Gadding about I daresay. I don't think much of his wife, but whatever she is he's worse. I don't know however I came to have such a nephew. He hasn't got his mother's brains. That comes of having an idiot for a father."
At this moment Aunt Jelly's courteous conversation was interrupted by a ring at the door, and Miss Pelch being sent to the window to reconnoitre returned with the information that it was Sir Guy and Lady Errington.
Miss Corbin drew her shawl carefully round her angular shoulder, laid her knitting on her lap, and having dismissed Minnie to a distant corner of the room, where she sat in the shadow like an unhappy ghost, was prepared to receive company.
Bickles, the fat, pompous butler of the establishment, threw open the door of the room and announced in a deep voice:
"Sir Guy and Lady Errington."
And the young couple entered into the presence of the old dragon.
"All speech is silver, silence gold(I wish it were on some occasions),For though unpleasant to be told,You get the truth from your relations."
"All speech is silver, silence gold
(I wish it were on some occasions),
For though unpleasant to be told,
You get the truth from your relations."
Anyone hostile towards matrimony, seeing Sir Guy in the character of a newly-returned bridegroom, would certainly have said that marriage was not a failure in his case, for he looked wonderfully bright and happy as he presented his wife to Aunt Jelly.
Lady Errington, on the other hand, still preserved her appearance of fragility and her air of calmness, forming with her reposeful manner a great contrast to her husband, who was bubbling over with excitement and looked like a happy schoolboy out on his holiday.
"Here we are, Aunt Jelly," he said in his loud, hearty voice, kissing his elderly relation, "back from foreign parts and glad to be home once more. Don't you think Alizon is looking well?"
"I don't know yet," replied Aunt Jelly sharply, with a keen look at the young couple. "Come here, my dear, and give me a kiss."
Alizon had a horror of feminine embraces, and always skilfully avoided demonstrative friends, but from this direct command there was no possibility of escaping, so she submitted to the ordeal with the best grace she could and then took her seat near Miss Corbin, while Guy went to the end of the room to shake hands with Minnie Pelch.
"Well, Miss Pelch, and how are you? Jolly, eh!--ah, that's right. Been writing any more poetry? By Jove, you're quite a literary person."
Minnie smiled faintly at this compliment and glanced rather disapprovingly at Guy, who was far too healthy and English-looking to resemble her favourite heroes of the Manfred-Lara type, who all had pale faces, raven hair, and no morals. Guy, however, having done his duty towards his aunt's companion, wandered back to that redoubtable lady and sat down by his wife.
Being thus placed before the judge, Aunt Jelly commenced to cross-examine them both in her own brusque way.
"Well, Guy," she said, resuming her knitting, "now you've idled away so many months on the Continent, I hope you've come back to look after your property once more."
"Of course I have, aunt. We would have been back long ago, but Alizon was in love with the Italian lakes. Weren't you, Alizon?"
"Yes, I thought they were very beautiful," replied Alizon, who, being a comparative stranger to Aunt Jelly, hardly knew how to speak in a way congenial to that lady, "but I'm afraid it is a very lotos-eating place."
"Humph!" remarked the old gentlewoman, with a sharp glance, "and you don't like lotos-eating."
"No! I think life means something more than idleness."
"For Heaven's sake, child, understand the value of being idle. Don't become a woman with a mission. It's a most detestable class--clatter, clatter, chatter, chatter! They do more harm than good, in my opinion, but then I'm an old woman and my ideas are much behind those of to-day."
"I don't think there's much chance of my becoming a woman with a mission," replied Lady Errington, smiling, "it's not my nature, nor do I think Guy admires them."
"By Jove! no," said Sir Guy, energetically; "those women who turn themselves into feminine men--I can't say I care for them at all. They worry a fellow's life out with their preachings. My ideal of a woman is--my wife."
Lady Errington's eyes smiled a grateful recognition of this compliment, and even Aunt Jelly, who hated a display of any demonstrative affection, was not ill-pleased.
"Well, well," she said grimly; "I'm glad to see a husband appreciate his wife, 'tis such a novelty now-a-days, they generally appreciate someone else's. By-the-way, child, you don't look very strong."
"Don't you think so, aunt?" said Guy in alarm.
"No! too pale--far too pale. Have you got any blood, child? Oh, of course, you say you have. Sick people always do. You must eat more and take port wine. Guy, pour your wife out a glass of port."
Guy obediently did as he was told, but Alizon protested against being made to drink it.
"I'm really very strong, Miss Corbin----"
"Aunt Jelly," interrupted the old lady.
"Well, Aunt Jelly, I look delicate, but I'm not--I am----"
"Never mind what you are. Drink up the port. You're as bad as Minnie. Bless the child, do you think I don't know what's good for people? Teetotalism fudge? It all comes of adulterated drinks, though I daresay there's a good deal of truth in it. But a glass of good port is what you want and what you've got to take."
Alizon, anxious to please the old lady on her first visit, did as she was told, and then, after making Guy drink some sherry, Aunt Jelly proceeded to talk about Victoria.
"Yes, we met her abroad," said Lady Errington, sipping her wine, "a very charming girl."
"Ah, her father was such a handsome man," answered Aunt Jelly, with a secret thought of her dead and done with romance. "I never saw her mother."
"She was a Macjean, I believe," said Guy indolently, "at least Otterburn said something about his family being mixed up with hers."
Aunt Jelly raised her head like an old war-horse at the sound of a trumpet.
"Otterburn! Otterburn! Who is he?" she demanded sharply. "Someone Victoria has been flirting with, I suppose. I never heard of him, though she does mention him in her letters."
"He's new to town," explained her nephew carelessly, "the eldest son of Lord Dunkeld. Angus Macjean, you know, his title is the Master of Otterburn. A very nice boy and awfully in love with Victoria."
"Oh, is he? And I daresay Victoria encouraged him."
"Rather!"
"No, no!" interposed Lady Errington, seeing a rising storm in Aunt Jelly's frown, "I don't think she went as far as that, but you know, Aunt jelly, Victoria is very pretty and the boy could hardly help admiring her."
"Oh, I daresay she wasn't blind to his admiration," said Miss Corbin viciously; "she's pretty, no doubt, but after all beauty is only skin deep."
A weak giggle coming out of the dark corner showed that Minnie agreed with her, whereupon Aunt Jelly, who never permitted any familiarities, vented her anger on Miss Pelch at once.
"What are you sniffling for, Minnie?" she called out. "Come here and show yourself. This is my niece, Lady Errington, and this is Miss Pelch, my dear. Her father was curate at Denfield."
"How do you do?" said Alizon kindly, feeling sorry for the blushing Minnie. "I've heard about you from my husband. You write poetry, do you not?"
An affirmative snort from Aunt Jelly.
"Yes," replied Minnie, "I do write poetry sometimes."
"So Mr. Gartney told me."
"Oh, Eustace," cried Aunt Jelly significantly, "where is he now? Guy, don't go to sleep! Where is your cousin?"
"I don't know," retorted Guy, who had closed his eyes for a moment. "Gone to Cyprus, or some out of-the-way place. Hasn't he written to you?"
"Does he ever write letters?" demanded Aunt Jelly in an exasperated tone. "No! he keeps all his scribblings for the public."
"Oh, he does write beautifully," said Minnie, clasping her hands.
"Humph! that's a matter of opinion," responded Aunt Jelly doubtfully. "He's as blasphemous as Lord Byron, without any of his genius. He's more like that Lalla Rookh man that wrote such dreadful things under the name of Little. Don't be afraid, child, I'm not going to quote them."
"Mr. Gartney is a very charming talker," said Alizon quietly.
"Bless me, child, you've got a good word to say for everyone," remarked Aunt Jelly, with a benevolent scowl. "He certainly does talk well. It's almost a lost art now-a-days. Men and women don't talk, they drivel about their own virtues and their friends' faults. But Eustace!--well, yes, he's more amusing than you, Guy; you, my dear, have got all your goods in the shop window. Good appearance, but no brains."
Guy, being used to Miss Corbin's plain speaking, roared with laughter at this flattering description, but Alizon felt indignant at her good-looking, kind-hearted husband being thus decried, and spoke out boldly.
"I don't think so at all."
"That's a very good thing--for Guy," said the old dame grimly. "Don't take up the cudgels on your husband's account, my dear, he's big enough to look after himself. After all, he has a better heart than Eustace, and he doesn't write poetry, which is a blessing. We must always be thankful for small mercies."
Minnie felt rather indignant at this indirect shaft, but stood too much in awe of Miss Corbin to venture a remonstrance, so after a pause, during which Aunt Jelly eyed the trio like an elderly beldame of romance, Lady Errington continued the conversation.
"Well, we must allow some latitude to genius."
"Genius!" scoffed Aunt Jelly, picking up a stitch she had dropped. "My dear, in my young days every farthing rush-light did not call itself the sun. Eustace is clever in a nasty find-faulty way, I admit, but he's not a genius. He ought to give up writing abusive books, and marry, but there--if he did he'd worry the best woman that ever breathed into her grave."
"He sings beautifully, at all events," said Lady Errington, feeling rather nonplussed as to how to satisfy this contradictory woman.
"God bless my soul, child I don't go through a list of my nephew's virtues. I know them already, and from the best authority--himself. When he returns from this tree place--what do you call it?--Cyprus--yes, I knew it had something to do with a tree. Well, when he returns, I hope he'll be improved--there's room for it, great room. Guy, when do you go down to Denfield?"
"To-morrow, aunt."
"That's sensible. Errington Hall needs a master's eyes. I don't believe in absenteeism myself. If I had my way--which I'm not likely to have, because it's too sensible--I'd pack all landlords back to their estates in the country instead of letting them waste their money in London."
"But what would London do without them?" asked Alizon, much amused at this new view of the subject.
"Much better," retorted Aunt Jelly, sharply. "In my young days, before steam and electricity upset everything, people stayed in their own houses. But now everyone comes up to London. A cake's no good if the currants are all in one place. Scatter them, and it's an improvement."
"There's a good deal of truth in what you say," remarked Alizon, quietly. "If literary men and musicians, for instance, made little centres of art and letters all over the three kingdoms, it would be more beneficial in every way than centralising everything in London."
"Literature! Bah!" said Miss Corbin, with scorn; "milk-and-water novels about religion and society, bilious essays, and fault-finding critics--that's what you call literature now-a-days. As for music, I don't know much about it. 'The Maiden's Prayer' and the 'Battle of Prague' were thought good enough when I was young. But now it's all systems and theories, and what they call sixths and sevenths. A very good name, too," concluded the old lady, grimly, "for the whole lot of them do seem at sixes and sevens."
"Ah! you see, everything is improving," said Guy, meekly, not having any idea about what he was talking, but only making a vain endeavour to stay Aunt Jelly's rancorous tongue.
"It's more than manners are," replied the old lady, tartly. "Minnie, don't twiddle your fingers so. It annoys me. Humph! so you're going down to Errington to play the Lord of the Manor and your wife Lady Bountiful. Mind you take care of yourself, my dear; the mists down there are very bad for the throat."
"I don't think they are bad, Aunt Jelly," expostulated Guy, indignant that she should try to prejudice Alizon against her future home.
"Oh, you think about nothing!" said Aunt Jelly, coolly. "I tell you the place is unhealthy. Bless the man, don't I know what I'm talking about? Look at that girl," pointing to the shrinking Minnie, who was dreadfully upset at having public attention thus drawn to her--"she's lived all her life at Denfield, and what has she had? Measles, whooping-cough, neuralgia; she was a pale rickety mass of disease when she came to me. What built her up? Port wine. I tell you the place is unhealthy, and mind you take plenty of port wine and beef tea, Alizon, or you'll go out some day like the snuff of a candle. I've seen several of your sort go that way."
"Aunt," cried Guy, rising to his feet in a rage, "how can you speak so! Hang it all! talk of something more cheerful. I didn't bring my wife here to be frightened out of her wits."
"Pooh! nonsense! Don't you get angry," said the old lady, quite pleased at upsetting her good-tempered nephew, "What's the good of being an old woman if you can't say what you like? Well, go down home at once, and perhaps next year I'll pay you a visit."
"I wonder you're not afraid of dying in such an unhealthy place," said Guy, scornfully.
"Don't you be afraid. I shan't afford you that gratification for some time yet," answered Aunt Jelly malignantly. "I'm a creaking door. They hang long, you know."
"Goodbye, Aunt Jelly," said Alizon, holding out her hand to Miss Corbin, for she felt she could not stand this terrible old woman any longer. "I'll come and see you when I'm next in town."
"Humph! that means if you've got ten minutes to spare," growled the old lady, kissing Lady Errington's soft cheek. "Well! well! go on. The old are always neglected."
"They wouldn't be if they were a little more pleasant," said Guy, still indignant, as he said goodbye.
"Ah! you young folks expect to find life all honey, but there's a good deal of vinegar in it. I dare say you'll grow tired of one another."
Guy, who was at the door with his wife, turned round at this, and called out in a rage:
"No, we won't!"
"I've heard better men than you say the same thing, but it always came to pass."
"It won't in this case, so your kind heart will be disappointed for once."
By this time Minnie Pelch had escorted Lady Errington to the hall door, and Sir Guy was about to follow after his parting shot, but the redoubtable Aunt Jelly was not one to give in without a struggle, and would have the last word.
"Go away! go away!" she said, furiously--"go away and learn manners."
"I certainly won't come to you for the teaching," retorted Guy, in great heat. "Goodbye, Aunt Jelly, and I hope you'll be in a more Christian spirit next time we come."
He closed the door after him so as to give her no opportunity of replying, and Aunt Jelly thus being beaten, felt in an exceedingly bad temper. She fought with every one who came to the house, and crushed all except Eustace, whose cool sarcasm was too much for her, but this unexpected resistance of the dutiful Guy surprised her, and she was not ill-pleased.
"I didn't think he had so much spirit," she chuckled, as she resumed her knitting. "It comes from his mother, I'll be bound. Jane always had a fine temper of her own and, was twice the man her milksop of a husband was. Well, well! I'm glad Guy can speak his mind. He hasn't much to speak, poor fool; still it's better than nothing."
In fact, the old lady was so pleased with Guy's rebellion on behalf of his wife that she became quite good-tempered, and Minnie, on her return, found her patroness for once in her life an amiable companion.
As for Guy and his wife, when they were both snugly ensconced in their carriage and driving back to the hotel, both of them laughed heartily over the visit.
"Isn't she an old cat?" said Guy, wiping the tears from his eyes; "she fights like the devil! It's the first time I've had a row with her."
"I'm sorry it was on my account, Guy," observed Alizon, anxiously.
"Don't you bother your head, my dear," he replied coolly, patting her hand; "if it hadn't been you it would have been someone else. If Aunt Jelly hadn't a row every now and then she'd die. I wish to Heaven she would, and then I'd get her money!"
"Oh, Guy, how can you speak so?"
"Why not? We need the money badly enough, I'm sure. She only wastes it on churches and orphans' homes. I wish to Heaven I was an orphan; Aunt Jelly might take some interest in me."
"Well, you are an orphan."
"Yes, but that's not the genuine article. Aunt Jelly loves a snivelling, alone-in-the-world brat who needs reforming. A titled orphan like myself is no fun. I can't harrow her soul."
"You did your best to do so just now," said Alizon, laughing. Sir Guy echoed her laughter, and when they arrived at their hotel both of them came to the conclusion that they had passed a very pleasant afternoon.