“Edward!” exclaimed Mrs. Tempest reproachfully; “you forget that Violet is not out. She will not be sixteen till next February.”
“Bless her!” cried the Squire, with a tender look at his only child, “she has grown up like a green bay-tree. But if this were to be quite a friendly affair at Briarwood, she might go, surely.”
“It will not be a friendly affair,” said Mrs. Tempest; “Lady Jane never gives friendly parties. There is nothing friendly in her nature, and I don’t think she likes us — much. But I daresay we shall be asked, and if we go I must have a new dress,” added the gentle lady with a sigh of resignation. “It will be a dinner, no doubt; and the Duke and Duchess will be there, of course.”
The card of invitation came in due course, three weeks before the birthday. It was to be a dinner, as Mrs. Tempest had opined. She wrote off to her milliner at once, and there was a passage of letters and fashion-plates and patterns of silk to and fro, and some of Mrs. Tempest’s finest lace came out of the perfumed chest in which she kept her treasures, and was sent off to Madame Theodore.
Poor Vixen beheld these preparations with an aching heart. She did not care about dinner-parties in the least, but she would have liked to be with Roderick on his birthday. She would have liked it to have been a hunting-day, and to have ridden for a wild scamper across the hills with him — to have seen the rolling downs of the Wight blue in the distance — to have felt the soft south wind blowing in her face, and to have ridden by his side, neck and neck, all day long; and then to have gone home to the Abbey House to dinner, to the snug round table in the library, and the dogs, and papa in his happiest mood, expanding over his port and walnuts. That would have been a happy birthday for all of them, in Violet’s opinion.
The Squire and his daughter had plenty of hunting in this merry month of October, but there had been no sign of Rorie and his big raking chestnut in the field, nor had anyone in the Forest heard of or seen the young Oxonian.
“I daresay he is only coming home in time for the birthday,” Mrs. Tempest remarked placidly, and went on with her preparations for that event.
She wanted to make a strong impression on the Duchess, who had not behaved too well to her, only sending her invitations for indiscriminate afternoon assemblies, which Mrs. Tempest had graciously declined, pleading her feeble health as a reason for not going to garden-parties.
Vixen was in a peculiar temper during those three weeks, and poor Miss McCroke had hard work with her.
“Der, die, das,” cried Vixen, throwing down her German grammar in a rage one morning, when she had been making a muddle of the definite article in her exercise, and the patient governess had declared that they really must go back to the very beginning of things. “What stupid people the Germans are! Why can’t they have one little word for everything, as we have? T, h, e, the. Any child can learn that. What do they mean by chopping up their language into little bits, like the pieces in a puzzle? Why, even the French are more reasonable — though they’re bad enough, goodness knows, with their hes and shes — feminine tables, and masculine beds. Why should I be bothered to learn all this rubbish? I’m not going to be a governess, and it will never be any use to me. Papa doesn’t know a single sentence in French or German, and he’s quite happy.”
“But if your papa were travelling on the Continent, Violet, he would find his ignorance of the language a great deprivation.”
“No, he wouldn’t. He’d have a courier.”
“Are you aware, my dear, that we have wasted five minutes already in this discursive conversation?” remarked Miss McCroke, looking at a fat useful watch, which she wore at her side in the good old fashion. “We will leave the grammar for the present, and you can repeat Schiller’s Song of the Bell.”
“I’d rather say the Fight with the Dragon,” said Vixen; “there’s more fire and life in it. I do like Schiller, Crokey dear. But isn’t it a pity he didn’t write it in English?”
And Vixen put her hands behind her, and began to recite the wonderful story of the knight who slew the dragon, and very soon her eyes kindled and her cheeks were aflame, and the grand verses were rolled out rapidly, with a more or less faulty pronunciation, but plenty of life and vehemence. This exercise of mind and memory suited Vixen a great deal better than dull plodding at the first principles of grammar, and the perpetual der, die, das.
This day was the last of October, and Roderick Vawdrey’s birthday. He had not been seen at the Abbey House yet. He had returned to Briarwood before this, no doubt, but had not taken the trouble to come and see his old friends.
“He’s a man now, and has duties, and has done with us,” thought Vixen savagely.
She was very glad that it was such a wretched day — a hideous day for anyone’s twenty-first birthday, ominous of all bad things, she thought. There was not a rift in the dull gray sky; the straight fine rain came down persistently, soaking into the sodden earth, and sending up an odour of dead leaves. The smooth shining laurels in the shrubbery were the only things in nature that seemed no worse for the perpetual downpour. The gravel drives were spongy and sloppy. There was no hunting, or Vixen would have been riding her pony through rain and foul weather, and would have been comparatively independent of the elements. But to be at home all day, watching the rain, and thinking what a horrid, ungrateful young man Rorie was! That was dreary.
Mrs. Tempest went to her room to lie down directly after luncheon. She wanted to keep herself fresh for the evening. She made quite a solemn business of this particular dinner-party. At five precisely, Pauline was to bring her a cup of tea. At half-past five she was to begin to dress. This would give her an hour and a half for her toilet, as Briarwood was only half-an-hour’s drive from the Abbey House. So for the rest of that day — until she burst upon their astonished view in her new gown — Mrs. Tempest would be invisible to her family.
“What a disgusting birthday!” cried Vixen, sitting in the deep embrasure of the hall window, with Argus at her side, dog and girl looking out at the glistening shrubbery.
Miss McCroke had gone to her room to write letters, or Vixen would have hardly been allowed to remain peacefully in such an inelegant position, her knees drawn up to her chin, her arms embracing her legs, her back against the stout oak shutter. Yet the girl and dog made rather a pretty picture, despite the inelegance of Vixen’s attitude. The tawny hair, black velvet frock, and careless amber sash, amber stockings, and broad-toed Cromwell shoes; the tawny mastiff curled in the opposite corner of the deep recess; the old armorial bearings, sending pale shafts of parti-coloured light across Vixen’s young head; — these things made a picture full framed of light and colour, in the dark brown oak.
“What an abominable birthday!” ejaculated Vixen; “if it were such weather as this on my twenty-first birthday, I should think Nature had taken a dislike to me. But I don’t suppose Rorie cares. He is playing billiards with a lot of his friends, and smoking, and making a horror of himself, I daresay, and hardly knows whether it rains or shines.”
Drip, drip, drip, came the rain on the glistening leaves, berberis and laurel, bay and holly, American oaks of richest red and bronze, copper beeches, tall rhododendrons, cypress of every kind, and behind them a dense black screen of yew. The late roses looked miserable. Vixen would have liked to have brought them in and put them by the hall fire — the good old hearth with its pile of blazing logs, before which Nip the pointer was stretched at ease, his muscular toes stiffening themselves occasionally, as if he was standing at a bird in his dreams.
Vixen went on watching the rain. It was rather a lazy way of spending the afternoon certainly, but Miss Tempest was out of humour with her little world, and did not feel equal to groping out the difficulties, the inexorable double sharps and odious double flats, in a waltz of Chopin’s. She watched the straight thin rain, and thought about Rorie — chiefly to the effect that she hated him, and never could, by any possibility, like him again.
Gradually the trickle of the rain from an overfl
owing waterpipe took the sound of a tune. No berceuse by Gounod was ever more rest-compelling. The full white lids drooped over the big brown eyes, the little locked hands loosened, the soft round chin fell forward on the knees; Argus gave a snort of satisfaction, and laid his heavy head on the velvet gown. Girl and dog were asleep. There was no sound in the wide old hall except the soft falling of wood ashes, the gentle breathing of girl and dogs.
Too pretty a picture assuredly to be lost to the eye of mankind.
Whose footstep was this sounding on the wet gravel half-an-hour later? Too quick and light for the Squire’s. Who was this coming in softly out of the rain, all dripping like a water god? Who was this whose falcon eye took in the picture at a glance, and who stole cat-like to the window, and bending down his dark wet head, gave Violet’s sleeping lips the first lover’s kiss that had ever saluted them?
Violet awoke with a faint shiver of surprise and joy. Instinct told her from whom that kiss came, though it was the first time Roderick had kissed her since he went to Eton. The lovely brown eyes opened and looked into the dark gray ones. The ruddy brown head rested on Rorie’s shoulder. The girl — half child, half woman, and all loving trustfulness, looked up at him with a glad smile. His heart was stirred with a new feeling as those softly bright eyes looked into his. It was the early dawn of a passionate love. The head lying on his breast seemed to him the fairest thing on earth.
“Rorie, how disgracefully you have behaved, and how utterly I detest you!” exclaimed Vixen, giving him a vigorous push, and scrambling down from the window-seat. “To be all this time in Hampshire and never come near us.”
A moment ago, in that first instant of a newly awakened delight, she was almost betrayed into telling him that she loved him dearly, and had found life empty without him. But having had just time enough to recover herself, she drew herself up as straight as a dart, and looked at him as Kate may have looked at Petruchio during their first unpleasant interview in which they made each other’s acquaintance.
“All this time!” cried Rorie. “Do you know how long I have been in Hampshire?”
“Haven’t the least idea,” retorted Vixen haughtily.
“Just half-an-hour — or, at least it is exactly half-an-hour since I was deposited with all my goods and chattels at the Lyndhurst Road Station.”
“You are only just home from Switzerland?”
“Within this hour!”
“And you have not even been to Briarwood?”
“My honoured mother still awaits my duteous greetings.”
“And this is your twenty-first birthday, and you came here first of all.”
And, almost uninvited, the tawny head dropped on to his shoulder again, and the sweet childish lips allowed themselves to be kissed.
“Rorie, how brown you have grown.’”
“Have I!”
The gray eyes were looking into the brown ones admiringly, and the conversation was getting a trifle desultory.
Swift as a flash Violet recollected herself. It dawned upon her that it was not quite the right thing for a young lady “rising sixteen” to let herself be kissed so tamely. Besides, Rorie never used to do it. The thing was a new development, a curious outcome of his Swiss tour. Perhaps people did it in Switzerland, and Rorie had acquired the habit.
“How dare you do such a thing?” exclaimed Vixen, shaking herself free from the traveller’s encircling arm.
“I didn’t think you minded,” said Rorie innocently; “and when a fellow comes home from a long journey he expects a warm welcome!”
“And I am glad to see you,” cried Vixen, giving him both her hands with a glorious frankness; “but you don’t know how I have been hating you lately.”
“Why, Vixen?”
“For being always away. I thought you had forgotten us all — that you did not care a jot for any of us.”
“I had not forgotten any of you, and I did care — very much — for some of you.”
This, though vague, was consoling.
The brown became Roderick. Dark of visage always, he was now tanned to a bronze as of one born under southern skies. Those deep gray eyes of his looked black under their black lashes. His black hair was cut close to his well-shaped head. An incipient moustache shaded his upper lip, and gave manhood to the strong, firm mouth. A manly face altogether, Roderick’s, and handsome withal. Vixen’s short life had shown her none handsomer.
He was tall and strongly built, with a frame that had been developed by many an athletic exercise — from throwing the hammer to pugilism. Vixen thought him the image of Richard Coeur de Lion. She had been reading “The Talisman” lately, and the Plantagenet was her ideal of manly excellence.
“Many happy returns of the day, Rorie,” she said softly. “To think that you are of age to-day. Your own master.”
“Yes, my infancy ceased and determined at the last stroke of midnight yesterday. I wonder whether my anxious mother will recognise that fact?”
“Of course you know what is going to happen at Briarwood. There is to be a grand dinner-party.”
“And you are coming? How jolly!”
“Oh, no, Rorie. I am not out yet, you know. I shan’t be for two years. Papa means to give me a season in town. He calls it having me broken to harness. He’ll take a furnished house, and we shall have the horses up, and I shall ride in the Row, You’ll be with us part of the time, won’t you, Rorie?”
“Ça se peut. If papa will invite me.”
“Oh, he will, if I wish it. It’s to be my first season, you know, and I’m to have everything my own way.”
“Will that be a novelty?” demanded Roderick, with intention.
“I don’t know. I haven’t had my own way in anything lately.”
“How is that?”
“You have been away.”
At this naïve flattery, Roderick almost blushed.
“How you’ve grown. Vixen,” he remarked presently.
“Have I really? Yes, I suppose I do grow. My frocks are always getting too short.”
“Like the sleeves of my dress-coats a year or two ago.”
“But now you are of age, and can’t grow any more. What are you going to be, Rorie? What are you going to do with your liberty? Are you going into Parliament?”
Mr. Vawdrey indulged in a suppressed yawn.
“My mother would like it,” he said, “but upon my word I don’t care about it. I don’t take enough interest in my fellow-creatures.”
“If they were foxes, you’d be anxious to legislate for them,” suggested Vixen.
“I would certainly try to protect them from indiscriminate slaughter. And in fact, when one considers the looseness of existing game-laws, I think every country gentleman ought to be in Parliament.”
“And there is the Forest for you to take care of.”
“Yes, forestry is a subject on which I should like to have my say. I suppose I shall be obliged to turn senator. But I mean to take life easily — you may be sure of that, Vixen; and I intend to have the best stud of hunters in Hampshire. And now I think I must be off.”
“No, you mustn’t,” cried Violet. “The dinner is not till eight. If you leave here at six you will have no end of time for getting home to dress. How did you come?”
“On these two legs.”
“You shall have four to take you to Briarwood. West shall drive you home in papa’s dog-cart, with the new mare. You don’t know her, do you? Papa only bought her last spring. She is such a beauty, and goes — goes — oh, like a skyrocket. She bolts occasionally; but you don’t mind that, do you?”
“Not in the least. It would be rather romantic to be smashed on one’s twenty-first birthday. Will you tell them to order West to get ready at once.”
“Oh, but you are to stop to tea with Miss McCroke and me — that’s part of our bargain. No kettledrum, no Starlight Bess! And you’d scarcely care about walking to Briarwood under such rain as that!”
“So be it, then; kettledrum and Starlight
Bess, at any hazard of maternal wrath. But really now I’m doing a most ungentlemanly thing, Vixen, to oblige you!”
“Always be ungentlemanly then for my sake — if it’s ungentlemanly to come and see me,” said Vixen coaxingly.
They were standing side by side in the big window looking out at the straight thin rain. The two pairs of lips were not very far away from each other, and Rorie might have been tempted to commit a third offence against the proprieties, if Miss McCroke had not fortunately entered at this very moment. She was wonderfully surprised at seeing Mr. Vawdrey, congratulated him ceremoniously upon his majority, and infused an element of stiffness into the small assembly.
“Rorie is going to stay to tea,” said Vixen. “We’ll have it here by the fire, please, Crokey dear. One can’t have too much of a good fire this weather. Or shall we go to my den? Which would you like best, Rorie?”
“I think we had better have tea here, Violet,” interjected Miss McCroke, ringing the bell.
Her pupil’s sanctum sanctorum — that pretty up-stairs room, half schoolroom, half boudoir, and wholly untidy — was not, in Miss McCroke’s opinion, an apartment to be violated by the presence of a young man.
“And as Rory hasn’t had any luncheon, and has come ever so far out of his way to see me, please order something substantial for him,” said Vixen.
Her governess obeyed. The gipsy table was wheeled up to the broad hearth, and presently the old silver tea-pot and kettle, and the yellow cups and saucers, were shining in the cheery firelight. The old butler put a sirloin and a game-pie on the sideboard, and then left the little party to shift for themselves, in pleasant picnic fashion.
Vixen sat down before the hissing tea-kettle with a pretty important air, like a child making tea out of toy tea-things. Rorie brought a low square stool to a corner close to her, and seated himself with his chin a little above the tea-table.
Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon Page 635