CHAPTER XXXII.
St. John has arrived; he has jumped down from the dog-cart that broughthim from the station, wrapped up in a huge greatcoat lined withotter-skin, that makes him look like "three single gentlemen rolledinto one." His nose, always rather a salient point in his face, isreddened by the east winds, and his eyelids purple with want of sleep,as he has been travelling night and day--not from any violent hurry toreach his destination, but because boats and mail-trains suited--fromthe South of Ireland, where for the last ten days he has been dailyshooting the wily woodcock, and nightly putting into practice theexcellent resolution expressed in the song of "not going home tillmorning," with some rather fast bachelor-friends, who, like himself,are as yet destitute of household angels, to bring heaven to theirhearths, to take away their cues, blow out their cigars, and reducethe number of their brandies and sodas. Neither a good-looking nor agood-tempered young man does he look as he makes his descent. The firsthe cannot help--the second he can. His ill-humour is owing partly to aviolent headache; partly to the information, just imparted to him bythe butler, that "the family dines at six o'clock now _reg'lar_--nodifference made whatever company there may be--on account of the oldsquire's 'ealth."
Perhaps, had St. John known that a woman was watching his arrival, hemight have endeavoured to smooth his features into an expression ofgreater amiability. Had he known that that woman was Esther Craven, thelook of bored annoyance would certainly have given way to a strongerone, whether of pleasure or pain. Crouched on one of the paintlesswindow-seats in the China gallery, she watches his coming, as she hadwatched his going; only that now she makes no smallest effort toattract his attention--cowers away rather in the dark, while he stands,unconscious and grumbling, in the patch of red light that comes throughthe open hall-door. He has been here half an hour now--half an hourspent in the hot airtight saloon, where the giant fire draws a strongwoolly smell from Miss Blessington's winter dress, as she sits rightinto the fire--a practice not permitted by the autocrat of Felton, andconsequently largely indulged in by his subjects when away from hismaster-eye.
The old squire has requested St. John to come round to his otherside--to draw his chair closer to his--to speak more distinctly. Theold lady has explained to him the exact manner in which the draughtcomes through the middle window, and catches her just at the back ofthe neck, so that when she wakes in the morning it is so stiff thatshe can hardly turn it a quarter of an inch one way or another. MissBlessington has expressed one fear that he had had a cold journeydown, and another that he had not been able to get a foot-warmer atShoreditch; there were always so shamefully few there, particularlythese afternoon trains, that all the business-men came down from theiroffices by. Constance had certainly never spoken a truer word, than insaying that she and her lover were not fond of public demonstrations;the question that their acquaintance asked each other was, whether theywere any fonder of private ones.
As the clock strikes half-past five, Miss Blessington rises and floatsaway lightly, and without noise, to dress. Not for a kingdom would sherob one second from the sacred half-hour--all too short already--thoughthe toilette to be made is only for the benefit of two purblind oldpeople, who cannot see it, and of a young man who does not know ginghamfrom "gaze de Chambery," and who has seen her in short frock andtrousers, in long dress and chignon, in court-dress, in ball-dress, inwalking-dress, in driving-dress, in staying-at-home dress, any thousandnumber of times during the last seventeen years.
Momently the hot close atmosphere is making Gerard's headacheworse; momently the prospect of the six-o'clock dinner becomes moreintolerable to him. Heroically, however, he enters into conversationwith his great aunt-in-law elect.
"So you have been trying an experiment, I hear," he says, scratchingthe cat's ear and cheek and chin as she successively lifts them to himfor titillation,--"set up a 'companion,' haven't you? Do you find itwork well?"
"You must ask grandpapa," replies the old lady, looking towards herhusband, who, with head sunk on chest, lips protruded, and eyes closed,seems at the present moment hardly in a condition to be put through acatechism on any subject; "he has more to say to her than I have. Yousee it was too great a strain on dear Constance's strength readingto him every day, and he dislikes Gurney's reading" (Gurney is thevalet): "he says he never minds his stops, and _bawls_ at him; and sowe thought it better to get a person of more education, who would bealways on the spot, and---"
"And whose strength," interrupts St. John, a little ironically, "unlikeConstance's, would be warranted _un-overworkable?_"
"Exactly," answers the old lady, innocently.
"And she is a satisfactory beast of burden, I hope?" says Gerard,yawning till the tears come into his eyes; "fetches and carries well?"
"She seems a nice, quiet, ladylike person enough," replies Mrs.Blessington, leaning back placidly in her chair, with her hands, inblack kid half-gloves, lying folded in her lap--"only, unfortunately,over-sensitive: those sort of people always are. Why, it was onlyyesterday that she rushed from this room with such violence that shenearly shook Constance and me out of our chairs, because I made someslight observation about a brother of hers who died lately, and towhom, it seems, she was much attached. I'm sure I had no intention ofhurting her feelings, poor girl!"
"Girl!" repeats St. John, laughing; "that means a gushing thing offifty, I suppose?"
"More like fifteen. By-the-by, she said something the other day abouthaving known _you_."
"Known me!" cries the young man, opening his quick grey eyes. "Well,'more know Tom Fool than Tom Fool knows.' I never knew any one in mylife that had a 'companion'--of this sort, I mean. What may my unknownfriend's name be?"
But at this juncture, before the name of his unknown friend can beconfided to him, the old squire, waking up, urgently requests to betold what they are talking about, which information is communicated,in a succession of long dull roars, into his good ear. St. John takesadvantage of the diversion to leave the room, and, running upstairs,knocks at Constance's door.
"Constance!"
"Who's there?" (Voice rather muffled--from under an avalanche of hairapparently).
"I. Can you come out and speak to me for a minute, if you are not intoo great deshabille?"
"Certainly."
Ordinarily, Miss Blessington is a prude; but to appear for an instantbefore her betrothed in light-blue cashmere lined with blue satin, andher hair in golden rain about her shoulders, is, she thinks, for oncepermissible. Has he come to make some demonstration of affection?--togive her some warmer greeting than the nonchalant handshake with whichthey met? Or has he, has he--oh sweeter, warmer thought!--brought hera present from Ireland? Visions of Irish poplin, Irish lace, bog-oakand gold, cunningly fashioned together into bracelet or necklace, floatbefore her mind's eye. In a moment, with a little affected coyness onher face, she stands before him; stands before him--and he does noteven see her! He has opened one of the rusty casements in the passage,and thrust his head out, feeling the keen eastern blast blow againsthis throbbing brow with a sense of relief. He has evidently no giftin his hand, nor does he seem to be assailed by any very overpoweringtemptation to embrace her, blue and gold and white miracle though shebe. Hearing her he turns, and the expression of his countenance is glum.
"I say, does this sort of thing happen every day?"
"What sort of thing?" (with a little pique at the errand on which shehas been called away from among her cosmetics).
"This feeding, I cannot call it dining, like savages, at mid-day?"
"It is a fancy of my uncle," replies Constance, with the door-handlestill in her hand; "he imagines that, if he dined later, he should nothave time to digest his food before going to bed."
St. John utters an impatient exclamation. "In Heaven's name let himdigest in bed, then; or, if not, let him dine by himself! I'm sure noone would object to that arrangement. Poor old boy! he can't help it;but it does take away one's appetite to see a very old man mumbling hisfood, like a toothless old dog ov
er a bone."
"I suppose he may dine at what hour he chooses in his own house?" saysConstance, coldly.
"Of course he may. He may go back to the manners and customs of theancient British," rejoins Gerard, impatiently; "he may get up inthe middle of the night and paint himself in blue-and-white stripes,instead of wearing coat and waistcoat, if he chooses--only he canhardly expect civilized beings to join him."
"I always think it right, on principle, to humour old people's whims,"answers Constance, taking the high moral tone that she has adopted morethan once since their engagement in any discussion with her lover, atone symptomatic of what the postnuptial line of attack is likely to be.
"A very excellent sentiment, my dear," says St. John, a littlemockingly, "worthy of being copied by little boys and girls afterthey have mastered straight strokes and pothooks; but to-night I mustrequest the aged to humour my whim, and my whim is to absent myselffrom this symposium. I have got a splitting headache, and am altogetherpretty nearly dead-beat. I have hardly a leg to stand upon: if youwon't take it as a personal insult, I have a good mind to turn in atonce. I have not been in bed, for any time worth speaking of, for thelast ten days."
"Indeed!" replies Constance, freezing up, and looking as thoughtortures should not wring from her any question as to what had been thevicious pursuits that had detained her lover from balmy slumbers. "Youwill please yourself of course."
"If every one pleased themselves, and no one else, this would be amuch more passable world to live in," retorts St. John, with a littlemisanthropy; "for then each person would get their fair share ofattention neither more nor less, which is what they do not now."
But the last half of his sentence is addressed to himself, as hismadonna has retired again within her shrine.
Meanwhile, for the first time since her brother's death, the"companion"--the nice, quiet, young ladylike person, whose onlyfault is being over-sensitive--is, like Constance, making a toilette.Since Jack's death she has daily put on her clothes, as a necessarypreliminary to the day's work; but it has been a task full ofweariness--devoid of pleasure. To-night, like Constance, she makesa toilette, and like Constance, it is for the benefit of the youngman who does not know gingham from "gaze de Chambery." It is not,however, with any faintest hope that her Sunday frock, any more thanher work-a-day one, will bring back her lost lover to her side, thatshe puts the former on. The very strength of her faith in his honourhinders the possibility of his turning away from the woman he haspromised to marry to any other woman from entering her head. Only,seeing, as plainly as if it were another's and not her own, the ruinof the face that meets her, daily and nightly, in the dim oval of theold glass in its tarnished frame, she wishes that that ruin might berevealed slowly, and by degrees (not _all at once_), to him that hadonce thought her so fair. For this one night, she would fain look likeher old self--would fain be pretty plump Esther Craven, whose face,dimpled and _debonnaire_, men used to turn round in the street to lookafter--instead of the thin depressed "companion," whom if men looked atat all, it was only to pity her sunken white cheeks and sombre mourningweeds. Her Sunday frock is a lugubrious combination of cheap black silkand crape, against which her artistic eye has been revolting ever sinceshe heard of St. John's coming. A little white tucker will not makeher any the less mindful of Jack. And so she has been devoting most ofthe short winter daylight to the inserting of such a tucker, and tocutting the funereal body square. The alterations have been effected,now the Sunday frock is on: if it had been costliest velvet or satin,instead of papery silk at two-and-sixpence a yard, its black could nothave contrasted better with the milkwhite of the long lily throat andswelling bust. Esther has lost flesh a good deal lately; but, beingsmall-boned and thoroughly well-made, no unsightly hollows show as yet,like salt-cellars, beneath her collar-bones--not yet are elbows orshoulders sharp. Brilliancy of colouring is gone; but the head, archedlike the Clytie's, is still left, and great plenty of night-dark hairto clothe it. Instead of the unnatural protuberance of a chignon, shehas arranged this hair in the thick plain twists with which in the oldtime Miss Blessington's betrothed used--
.......... "to play Not knowing----,"
and, so playing, spoke in loving commendation of them. In like twistsMiss Blessington herself often disposes her locks--twists purchased byher for a considerable price from M. Isidore, golden hair being hard tomatch, and consequently expensive.
It is five minutes to six. The toilette is finished, and Esther standsbefore the glass considering it; but with none of the triumphantself-content with which a fine woman usually regards the victorythat art and nature, fighting side by side, have achieved on thebattle-field of her face. Colour had been Esther's strong point, andcolour has gone from her; as it goes from a violet sent in a letter,or from a poppy dried between the leaves of a love-song. A ragingdesire for rouge, raddle, plate-powder--anything to bring back thatflower-flush that used to need no persuasion to stay with her--entersher mind. But neither rouge nor raddle is near, and for plate-powdershe would have to apply to the butler--an effort for which not evenher great wish to appear once more red-cheeked before her ex-lover cannerve her. Suddenly, her eyes fall on a spray of scarlet geranium,that, plucked this morning in the conservatory, she has worn all dayin the breast of her dress. A recollection comes to her of having,when a child, crushed one of those dazzling flowers against the faceof another child, and of having laughed with pleasure at the scarletstain. She snatches up eagerly some of the petals, and rubs them on hercheeks; the hue produced, though too scarlet for nature, is vivid andbeautifying. She sets to work on the other cheek.
Esther is not a very cunning artiste; she has no idea of softening offedges with cotton-wool--of working deftly from cheekbone downwards. Sheis only possessed by a great longing to get back, for this one night,something of her old brilliancy. And in this she partially succeeds.The result of her labours is, indeed, a too hectic bloom; but thebright colour seems to fill up somewhat the hollowed cheeks--seems tobring back a little of the old childish _debonnaire_ grace. Her labourended, she runs downstairs quickly--not giving herself time for remorseat the meretricious nature of her charms, and listens, trembling allover, at the saloon-door before entering. There is no sound exceptthe rolling grunts with which, unheard by himself, the old gentlemanaccompanies every respiration. A footman crosses the hall; the"companion" must not be caught eavesdropping; she turns the door-handleand goes in.
The old squire, with coat-tails under his arms, standing on totteryold legs before the fire; the old lady, in her evening-cap, sunk inarmchair and Shetland shawls; Miss Blessington, with blue bands bindingclose her waved golden hair, and an expression of face less bland thanusual, on the ottoman. No one else.
"How smart you are, my dear!" the old lady says, not unkindly, herfaded eyes straying slowly over the square-cut bodice, white tucker,and cabled hair. "Is that in honour of Mr. Gerard?"
"It is rather thrown away if it is," says Mr. Gerard's future owner,with some temper: "St. John has chosen to make an invalid of himselfto-night, and has gone to bed."
No need now for the geranium dye: a great hot blush bums throughit--burns throat and brow and neck; she has _made herself up_ in vain.
"Gone to bed!" repeats Mrs. Blessington, raising herself a little fromamong her pillows--"at _six_ o'clock! Dear me, love, I hope he is notill! I thought he seemed rather absent when he was talking to me beforeI went to dress; and he left the room so abruptly too! Are you sure,Constance, that he would not like something sent up to him?"
"He is quite able to take care of himself, I assure you--thanks, aunt,"replies Constance, not without a vexed ring in her low flute voice. "Ifwe served him right, we should accept him as the invalid he pretendshimself, and allow him nothing but a little water-gruel or arrowroot."
"It seems so unnatural, a young man going to bed without his dinner;I'm sure, dear, I hope it is nothing serious," cries the old lady, withthat righteous horror of death and sickness which, by some strangecontrariety, one f
inds so often amongst the aged, so seldom amongst theyoung.
"Nothing more serious than the natural results of ten days' Irishhospitality," replies Constance, with a laugh, which, though low andhighbred, is not mirthful; "men are so fond of one another's societywhen they get together, that they never can take it in moderation. Idislike bachelor parties particularly."
"He is making the most of his time, my dear--he knows it is short,"suggests the old lady, smiling and nodding, and looking wise.
"Quite right, too!--quite right! Sensible fellow--knows when he is welloff! So did I when I was his age--eh, Mrs. Blessington?" chimes in thesquire, who, for a wonder, has caught the drift of the talk; chucklingto himself at the recollection--perfectly clear, though he forgets whathappened yesterday--of the pleasant immoralities that have the weightof over half a century lying upon them.
"Dinner!" announces the butler, coming close up to his master, andbawling unnecessarily loud.
"You'll have to be content with the old squire again, Conny, my dear,"says the old man, putting out his feeble arm; "you'll find the oldfellows are best, after all."
"I quite agree with you, uncle--I think they are," replies Constance,gravely; and so, the old man supported on one young girl's arm, and theold woman on another's, the procession toddles solemnly, at a snail'space, into the carefully-warmed and shaded dining-room.
"What a brilliant colour you have to-night, Miss Craven!" saysConstance that evening; endeavouring vainly to get a strong lightthrown upon Esther's countenance--the one small lamp, with its deepgreen shade, effectually baffling her.
"I went out in the wind, and it caught my face," answers Esther,hurriedly: involuntarily raising her hands to her cheeks and thensnatching them away again, in the fear that the scarlet dye, stainingthem, may betray her secret.
"But there was no wind to-day, and I did not think that you had beenoutside the doors?"
"Yes, I was; I went for a run in the park just before dressing-time."
"It must have been quite dark."
"It is never _quite_ dark out-of-doors; total darkness is a humaninvention, I think; there is always a sort of _owl_ light."
Constance shrugs her shoulders: "_Chacun a son gout_, I prefer leavingit to the owls."
"It stifles me staying indoors all day; I have never been used to it."
Miss Blessington unbuttons her great eyes a little: "Really?"
"Yes, really."
"But there was no wind, surely?" persists Constance.
"Not a breath!" replies the other, absently, forgetting her formerexcuse for her brilliant face. "There never is any wind worth calling awind in these low countries; the winds keep to the mountains, and verywise of them too."
"But you said it was the wind that had caught your face?" saysConstance, raising herself from her lounging attitude with moreanimation than is customary to her.
Esther starts. "Oh! so I did--I forgot; I meant the air, of course."
Constance looks slightly sceptical, but is too well-bred to pursue herinquiries further; merely saying, languidly, as she rearranges thecushions upon which her stately shoulders rest posed, "Glycerine-creamis the best thing in the world for a chapped face."
"Is it?" answers Essie, guiltily conscious that a little cold water isthe only glycerine-cream needed to effect the cure of _her_ chappedface.
"Have you seen St. John since he came?" asks Constance, presently; thelinks that connect his name with her artificially-reddened countenancebeing painfully evident to Miss Craven.
"No--yes--no, not to speak to."
"You were out when he came, I suppose, weren't you?"
"No, I was upstairs."
"I have not told him you are here; it will be a surprise to him to meetan old acquaintance."
Esther gives an involuntary start of dismay. "Why did not you tellhim?" she asks, hurriedly.
"_I!_ Oh, I don't know; I have the worst memory in the world. I haveintended to tell him in every letter, but I have always forgotten."
"Will he stay here long?" asks Miss Blessington's unsuccessful rival,in a low voice, bending down her head.
"I don't know, I'm sure; he is always so full of engagements, and Inever allow him to refuse a good invitation on my account."
"Will your wedding be soon, Miss Blessington?" (spoken quietly andfirmly).
"I really have not thought about it" (with a little yawn, as if thesubject were rather a wearisome one than otherwise); "'sufficient untothe day is the evil thereof.' I don't suppose I shall be given morethan two or three months longer; some time in the spring, I daresay."
"I always think it is a good omen when people are married in thespring," says the young companion, with a dreamy smile; "when the worldis beginning all over again, it is right that people's new life shouldbegin with it."
"Do you think so? I don't much believe in omens. May is certainly thebest time for Paris. I have set my heart upon seeing the Grand Prix runfor; unfortunately, St. John hates Paris."
"All men hate all towns, I think, except American men; 'good Americanswhen they die go to Paris,' somebody said, didn't they?"
"Did they? It was rather irreverent, don't you think? By-the-by, someone told me in the summer that you were engaged to be married; is ittrue? I hope you won't think me impertinent for asking."
"Not in the least; but it is not true."
"Really? How odd it is the way those sort of reports get about!"
"Very odd; people are singularly fond of pairing their neighbours, butthey don't often hit upon the right pairs."
"Perhaps not," answers Constance, closing her eyes, and looking bored,whereupon Esther lapses into silence.
Every Jack has his Jill; but my Jill is probably in Siberia or HongKong, and yours is close at hand; so I marry yours, and you, being inSiberia or Hong Kong, marry mine, and we both rue it to our dying day.
Red as a Rose is She: A Novel Page 32