CHAPTER XIV.
"I am afraid that their names will not convey much idea to your minds,as you do not know our part of the world, but you may have met some ofthem in London: Sir Charles and Lady Bolton; Mr. and Mrs. Tredegar;Mr., Mrs., and Miss Annesley; the Misses Denzil (by-the-by, you sawthem at the bazaar yesterday); and two or three stray men."
This remark is addressed by Miss Blessington to her two friends onthe afternoon following the bazaar, and contains a list of the guestsexpected at dinner at Felton that evening.
"So there's to be a party?" says Esther, from a window recess, where,hidden by a drooped curtain, she has been lying _perdue_ up to thepresent moment, deeply buried in the unwonted luxury of a French novel.
Constance gives a little start. "I did not know that you were there!Yes; there are a few people coming to dine!"
"Don't you like parties?" asks Miss De Grey, half turning round herhead, and a coquettish little lace morning cap, in the direction whenceEsther's voice proceeds.
"I--I--think so; I hardly know."
"I suppose that you have only just left the schoolroom?"
Esther laughs. "I can hardly be said to have left it, for I was neverin it."
"Did you never have a governess, do you mean? What a fortunate person!"
"Never."
"I am not sure that the other alternative, going to school, is notworse."
"I never went to school."
"Is it possible? Do you mean (raising herself, and opening her eyes)that you have never had any education at all?"
"I suppose not," answers Esther, reluctantly; regretting having made anadmission which evidently tells so much against her.
"How very odd!"
"What's very odd?" asks her brother, who, with St. John, lounges infrom the billiard-room, where they have been knocking the balls aboutand getting tired of one another.
"Miss Craven has just been telling us that she has had no education,"answers Constance, in her even voice--perhaps not sorry of anopportunity to let Gerard know his _protegee's_ deficiencies. "I amsure (civilly) that we should never have found it out if she had nottold us."
The _protegee_ droops her black eyes in mortification over her book, inwhich she has already found several things that amuse, several thingsthat startle, and several other things that profoundly puzzle herinnocent mind.
How unnecessary to make the admission of her own illiterateness,and how needless for Constance to be in such a hurry to repeat theconfession!
"What an awful sensation it must be being such an ignoramus!" saysGerard's voice, low and laughing, as he sits down on the window-seatbeside her. "What does it feel like?"
She looks up with a re-assured smile.
"At all events," continues he, glancing at her book, "you are doingyour best to supply your deficiencies, _however late in life_."
She colours a little, and involuntarily puts her hand over the title.
"What is it? May I see?"
She hesitates, and her other hand goes hastily to its fellow's help;then, changing her mind, she offers the book boldly to him.
He looks at the title, and a slightly shocked expression dawns on hisfeatures: men are always shocked that women should _read about_ thethings that _they do_.
"Where did you get this?" (quickly).
"I climbed up the ladder in the library; pleasant books always rise totop shelves, as the cream rises to the top of the milk."
"Will you oblige me by putting it back where you took it from?"
"When I have read it? Of course."
"_Before_ you have read it."
"Why should I?" (rather snappishly).
"Why should you," he repeats, impatiently--not much fonder ofopposition than are most of his masterful sex. "Why, because it is nota fit book for a--a _child_ like you to read."
"A _child_ like me!" (sitting bolt up and reddening). "Do you know whatage I am?"
"I have not an idea; forty, perhaps."
She laughs.
"Don't you know that all women are children till they are twenty-one;and you are particularly childish for your age."
"I am, am I?"
"Child or no child, this is a book that no modest woman ought to read."
"But that all modest _men_ may, with pleasure and profit forthemselves," rejoins she, ironically. "Well, when I have finished it Ishall be better able to tell you whether I agree with you or not."
"Do you mean to say that, after what I have told you, you are stillbent on reading it?" he asks, astonishment and displeasure fightingtogether for the mastery in his voice.
"Certainly!" (looking rather frightened, but speaking with a sort oftimid bravado). "Do you suppose that Eve would have cared to tastethe apple if it had been specially recommended to her notice as aparticularly good, juicy Ribstone pippin? Give it me, please!"
"Take it!" he says, throwing it with hasty impoliteness into her lap."Read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest every word of it; and since youhave a taste for such literature, I can lend you a dozen more like it."
So speaking, he rises abruptly, and leaves her side and the room atalmost the same moment.
When he is gone, finding that the rest of the company have likewiseslipped away in different directions, Esther relieves her feelings byflinging the disputed volume on the floor; sits for a quarter of anhour staring uncertainly at it; then, pocketing her pride, picks itup, sneaks off with it to the library, and, climbing the high, steepladder, deposits it in the hole whence she had ravished it, between twoof its fellows, as agreeably lax and delicately indelicate as itself.Half an hour later, passing through the hall, she sees the door ofGerard's sanctum ajar, and hears some one walking to and fro within.To one so praise-loving, the temptation to trumpet forth her ownexcellence is irresistible. She knocks timidly.
"Come in!"
"I don't want to come in," she answers, standing in beautiful, bashfulawkwardness in the aperture.
"Is there anything that I can do for you?" he asks, advancing towardsher, looking slightly surprised.
"No, nothing; I--I--only came to tell you that I had put--_it_ back."
At the end of her sentence her eyes, downcast at first, raisethemselves to his with the innocent, eager expectancy of a child thatwaits for approbation of some infantile good action.
"You have, have you?" he cries, joyfully, catching both her hands; "andwas it because I asked you?"
"I don't know for what other reason," she answers, unwillingly.
"And have not read a word more of it?"
"Not a word."
"Not even looked at the end?"
"No."
"Well, you _are_ a good child!"
"_Child! child!_--always _child!_" she cries, puckering up her lowforehead into the semblance of a frown. "I have a good mind to go andfetch it down again!"
"A good old woman, then! a good old lady!--which is best? which is mostrespectful? Don't go!" (seeing that she is about to withdraw.)
"It is dressing-time!"
"Not for half an hour yet," pulling her gently in, and closing thedoor.
"See!" she says, half embarrassed by this _tete-a-tete_ that she hasherself invited, holding up a bunch of scarlet geraniums that she haslately reft from one of the garden's dazzling squares--"I have beenstealing! I hope Sir Thomas won't prosecute me; but as a new dress iswith me a biennial occurrence, these are the only contributions I canmake to the evening's festivity."
"_Red_, of course!" he answers, smiling. "I never saw you that you hadnot something red or yellow about you. But why scarlet geraniums? Don'tyou know that the least imaginable shake (suiting the action to theword, and gently jogging the hand that holds the flowers)--there!" as alittle scarlet shower confirms his prognostications.
She stoops to pick up the scattered blossoms.
"If I had some gum, I would drop a little into the centre of eachflower; _that_ keeps the petals quite firm; I have often done it athome," she says, kneeling on one knee, and looking up gravely foradvice and assis
tance into his friendly, dark face: "but I have no gum."
"Haven't you? I have--somebody has" (ringing the bell). "Please sitdown" (drawing an armchair forwards for her). "This is Constance'schair: and don't look as if you were racking your brains for a decentexcuse to get away from the only comfortable room in the house."
She obeys, and her eyes wander curiously round. Pipes, whips, saloonpistols, prints of Derby winners; photographs of Nilsson tricked outin water-weeds as "Ophelia;" of Patti gazing up, as "Marguerite,"into Mario's fortunate eyes; a table strewn with books--two or threeyellow-paper backed, with enticing Gallic titles, similar to the oneshe has just so heroically foregone. Looking up from these latter, sheinvoluntarily catches his eye.
"You are thinking that what is sauce for the goose is sauce for thegander," he says, laughing rather consciously; "but I assure you thatit is not so. The gander is not nearly such a delicate bird, and takesmuch stronger seasoning."
The gum arrives. She holds the flowers, while he with a paint-brushdelicately insinuates one drop into the scarlet heart of each. Theirheads are bent so close together that his crisp brown locks brushagainst the silk-smooth sweep of hers.
"Gently, gently!" cries Esther, pleasantly excited by the consciousnessof doing something rather _hors de regle_ in that prim household, inhaving this impromptu _tete-a-tete_ with its heir--"not so much! theleast _soupcon_ imaginable--there! does not it look like a stickydewdrop?"
"These people that are coming ought to be very much flattered by theefforts you are making in their honour," says Gerard, half jealously.
"Are they worth making efforts for?"
"_You_ must tell _me_ that to-morrow."
"Who will take me in to dinner, do you think?" she asks,confidentially, looking up at him with childish inquisitiveness.
"I have not an idea; but make your mind easy; it won't be Sir Thomas orme."
"Hardly; but I am sorry that you do not know who it will be, as youmight have told me what to talk about."
"Do you always get up your subject beforehand, like Belinda Denzil, outof the _Saturday_ or _Echoes of the Clubs_?"
"Oh no! but--"
"St. John! St. John!" shouts Sir Thomas, banging a swing-door, behindhim, and coming heavy-footed through the hall.
"It's Sir Thomas!" says Esther growing suddenly pale: and if she hadsaid, and had had reason to say, "It's the Devil!" she could not havemade the communication in a more tragic whisper: then, not waiting forany advice as to her conduct, snatching up her bouquet, she flies as ifshot from a crossbow, out of the window and into the garden.
* * * * *
Was not it Lord Chesterfield who said that the guests at a dinner partyshould never be less than the Graces or more than the Muses? Kantpreferred the Grace number, and had daily two friends, never more, todine with him. The guests at the Felton banquet greatly exceed theChesterfieldian limits. Those who have come only to dinner have beenbemoaning themselves heavily, as they came along, on the hardshipof being forced away from garden and croquet-ground, and obliged todrive three, four, five miles bare-necked and bare-backed--and awoman nowadays in full dress is verily and indeed bare-necked andbare-backed--through the mellow crimson evening.
To even these grumblers, however, destiny now appears kinder--now,I say, that the too candid daylight is shut out, that the amberchampagne--
"With beaded bubbles winking at the brim--"
is creaming gently in every glass, and the _entrees_ are making theirsavoury rounds.
Esther has fallen to the lot of one of the stray men of whom MissBlessington spoke--a man who, when bidden to dinner, complies with theletter of his invitation, and _dines_ chiefly and firstly; looks uponthe lady whom he escorts to the social board as a mere adjunct--anagreeable or disagreeable one, as the case may be, but as merely anadjunct, as the flowers in the vases, or the silver Cupids that upholdthe fruit baskets. In the intervals of the courses he has no objectionto being amused: it is too much exertion to be very amusing himself,but he is not unwilling to smile and lend an indulgent ear to hiscompanion's prattle, so as that prattle does not infringe upon thesucculent programme that he has, by diligent study of the _menu_, laidout for himself.
Baffled on her left hand, Miss Craven turns to her right, to bebaffled there also. Not that this right-hand neighbour labours underany excessive _gourmandise_--he is willing, on the contrary, thatthe unknown, black-eyed innocent and the turtle cutlet should shareand share alike in his regards; but ere a quarter of an hour theirconversation has come to a shipwreck. In it he takes too much forgranted: as, for example, that she has been to London this season; thatshe has seen Faed's last picture; that she has been at Lady ----'sball; that, by having seen both, she is in a position to judge of thecomparative merits of Mademoiselle Nilsson's and Madame Carvalho'srendering of "Marguerite." Tired at length of saying, "I was notthere," "I have not seen it," "I never heard of her," she relapsesinto a mortified silence; thinking, what an impostor must I be to havethrust myself in among all these fine people--I, who cannot even catchtheir jargon for five minutes!
Foiled in her own little conversational ventures, she tries to listento other people's. In vain: if, above the general hum, she catchesthe beginning of one sentence, it is immediately joined on to theend of another. As well, listening to the sultry buzz of a swarm ofbees, might one try to distinguish each separate voice. But the dumbshow, at least, is left her: the waggling heads, the moving jaws--poorjaws, that have to talk and eat both at once! To put a history toeach of these heads--to pick out characters by watching the delicateshades of difference with which each person sits; says, "No, thankyou;" laughs--this is not unamusing. Yes, to study the faces, andfind similitudes for them: one nut-cracker; several flowers; oneplum-pudding; one horse, one vulture, one door-knocker. She is puzzledto find a resemblance for all; for Belinda Denzil, for instance,who, virginally clad in white muslin, that seems to mock her thirtycelibate years, is apparently forcing the suave yet weary De Grey intoan up-hill, one-sided flirtation. No man has hired Belinda, and itis, with her, the eleventh hour. What fowl, or fish, or quadruped, orarticle of furniture is she most like? Before Esther can decide thispoint quite to her mind, the signal of retirement is given, and eachmaid and wife rises obedient and vanishes.
* * * * *
It is the general complaint in the Felton neighbourhood that at thathouse the men sit unfashionably, wearisomely long over their wine. SirThomas belongs to that excellent school that in their hearts regretthe good old days, when a man never rejoined the ladies without seeingdouble their real number. Half an hour, three-quarters of an hour, anhour and a quarter have passed. Several girls are beginning to yawnbehind their fans; the Misses De Grey are driving heavily through along duet, with never a squire to turn over the leaves (in the wrongplace) for them. The door opens, and a fat, bald head appears; themost uninteresting always come first, but, like Noah's dove, he is theharbinger of better things. Five minutes more, and the room is as fullof broadcloth as of silk and satin. The younger men are still hoveringabout uncertainly, unfixed as yet in their minds as to which elaboratefair one they shall come to final anchor by.
The epicure, now that there is nothing to eat, casts his eyes roundin search of the finest woman and the comfortablest chair to befound in the great gilded room. Both requisites he finds united inEsther's neighbourhood. Accordingly he is moving towards her, whenhis attention is happily arrested by a remark that he overhears as tothe best method of dressing _beccaficos_. Instantly Miss Craven'swhite, silky shoulders and red-pouted lips go out of his head. Whiteshoulders and red lips are good things in their way, but what are theyto _beccaficos!_ Esther draws a long breath of relief. What an escape!In a minute more suspense is ended, and the low armchair beside her isoccupied by the person for whom it was intended--for whom, indeed, shehas been slyly keeping it half-covered by her dress.
"Well! and how are you getting on?" says Gerard, asking a sillyquestion for want
of a wiser one occurring to him, and looking ratheraffectionate.
St. John is not in the very least degree elevated; but it is uselessto deny that the best and fondest of men are still fonder after dinnerthan before: it must be a very, _very_ deep love that cannot be alittle deepened by champagne.
"Better than I thought I should be a few seconds ago, when that odiousgourmand seemed to be steering this way," she answers, not taking anygreat trouble to hide her pleasure in his neighbourhood.
"Poor devil! he must not come to you for a character, I see."
"I could forgive a man _most_ sins," she says, rather viciously, "but I_never_ could forgive him the making me feel in his estimation I stoodon a lower level than red mullet and ortolans."
"Well, you know, they _are_ very good things," answers Gerard, chieflyto tease her, but partly also because he really thinks so. "Don't lookso disgusted," he continues, laughing. "I was afraid you were bored atdinner: you looked absent; I tried to catch your eye once or twice, butyou would not let me."
"I was not bored," she answers, simply; "I was quite happy. You see Idid not know who was who, and I amused myself pairing the people: Ifind that I paired them all wrong, though."
"Gave every man his neighbour's wife, did you? I dare say that some ofthem would not have objected to the arrangement."
"I married _that_ old man" (indicating with the slightest possiblemotion of her head the persons alluded to) "to _that_ old woman; I wishit was not ill-manners to point. They both looked so red and pursy andconsequential, as if they had been telling each other for the lastthirty years what swells they were!"
"_Which_ old man to _which_ old woman? Oh! I see."
"They are rather like one another, too," she continues, gravely; "andyou know people say that, however unlike they may be at starting,merely by dint of living together, man and wife grow alike."
"Do they?" he says, a transient thought flashing through his mind as towhether, after twenty years of wedlock, that blooming peach face wouldhave gained any likeness to his hard, mahogany one. "But how did youfind out your mistake?"
"He put down her cup for her so politely just now, that I knew he couldnot be her husband."
He looks amused. "You are rather young to be so severe upon weddedbliss."
"Was I severe?" she asks, naively; "I did not know it; but, you know, aman may be fond of his wife, may be kind to her, but can hardly be saidto be _polite_: politeness implies distance."
"Does it?" he says, involuntarily drawing his chair closer to hers, andleaning forward under pretence of looking at the flowers that make ascarlet fire in her hair. "By-the-by, how does the gum answer?"
She forgets to reply to his harmless question, while her eyes falltroubled, half-frightened: the eyes that cannot, without a theft upon athird person, give him back his tender looks--the eyes in whose pupilsBrandon is to see himself reflected for the next forty, fifty, sixtyyears.
There is a little stir and flutter among the company: Belinda Denzilmoving to the piano; a music-stool screwed up and down; gloves takenoff; then a polite hush, infringed only by a country gentleman inthe distance saying something rather loud about guano, while Belindainforms her assembled friends in a faint soprano that "He will return;she knows he will." She has made the same asseveration any time thelast ten years; but he has not returned yet, and her relatives begin tobe afraid that he never will.
During the song Gerard falls into a reverie. At the end, coming out ofit, he asks with an abrupt change of subject: "What did you say thename of your place was?"
"Glan-yr-Afon."
"Glan Ravvon?" (following her pronunciation.)
"Yes; you would never guess that it was sounded _Glan Ravvon_ if youwere to see it written: it is spelt quite differently."
"What does it mean? or does it mean anything?"
"It means 'Bank of the River;' so called, because it is not near thebank of any river."
"What part of the world is it in?--Europe, Asia, Africa, America, orthe Polynesian Islands?"
"It is three miles from Naullan, if you are any the wiser."
"Naullan! Naullan!" he repeats, as if trying to overtake a recollectionthat eludes him. "Of course it does: why I was _at_ Naullan once."
"Were you?" (eagerly.) "When?"
"Two years ago; no, three. I was staying in the neighbourhood withsome people for fishing. No doubt you know them--the Fitz-Maurices?"
Esther's countenance falls a little. "I--I--have heard of them," shesays, uncertainly.
"Why, they must be neighbours of yours."
"They are rather beyond a drive, I think," she replies, doubtfully.
"If you are three miles from Naullan, and they are only four, I don'tsee how that can be."
She does not answer for a moment, but only furls and unfurls herfan uneasily; then, looking up with a sudden, honest impulse,speaks, colouring up to the eyes the while. "Why should I be ashamedof what there is no reason to be ashamed of? They _are_ withincalling distance, and I do know them in a way; that is to say, LadyFitz-Maurice bows to me whenever she recollects that she knows me; but,you see, they are great people, and we are small ones."
He looks thoroughly annoyed. The idea that the woman of his choice isby her own confession not _exactly_ on his own level, grates upon hispride.
"Nonsense!" he says, brusquely, "one gentleman is as good as another,all the world over; and it must be the same with ladies."
"St. John, you are wanted to make up a rubber," interrupts Constance,sweeping up to them, resplendent but severe, in green satin andseaweed, like a nineteenth century Nereid, if such an anachronism couldexist.
"Am I?" looking rather sulky, and not offering to move.
"We have got one already, but Sir Charles and Mrs. Annesley wish foranother.'
"Let them play double-dummy!" settling himself resolutely in his chair,and looking defiantly at her out of his quick, cross eyes.
"Absurd!"
"If you are so anxious to oblige them, why cannot you take a handyourself?"
"You know how I detest cards!"
"And you know how I detest Mrs. Annesley." (Mrs. Annesley is thevulture of Esther's lively imagination.)
Too dignified to descend to wrangling, Miss Blessington desists, andmoves away, casting only one small glance of suppressed resentment atthe innocent cause of Mr. Gerard's contumacy.
"How _could_ you be so disobliging?" cries Esther, reproachfully,in childish irritation with him at having drawn her into undeserveddisgrace.
"Why shouldn't I?" he asks, placidly. "Believe me, it is the worst planpossible to encourage the idea that you are good-natured among your ownpeople; it subjects you to endless impositions. For the last thirtyyears I have been struggling to establish a character for never doingwhat I am asked; would you have me undo all my work at one blow?"
"St. John is impracticable," says Constance, returning from herfruitless quest, and stooping over the card-table her golden head andthe sea-tang twisted with careless care about it. "You must accept ofme as his substitute, please; he is good-naturedly devoting himself tomy little friend. Did you happen to notice her, Lady Bolton? She isreally looking quite pretty to-night. She does not know anybody, poorchild! and he was afraid she might feel neglected."
Red as a Rose is She: A Novel Page 14