“I suppose you had better ask Mrs. Fairfax Torrington,” she suggested.
“Yes, Leonard and she are great chums. We must have Mrs. Torrington. And there are the St. Aubyns, nice lively girls and an inoffensive father and mother. I believe Leonard rather likes them. And then it will be a charity to have Dopsy and Mopsy.”
“I thought you detested them.”
“No, poor foolish things — I was once sorry for Dopsy.” The tears rushed to her eyes. She rose suddenly from her chair, and went to the window.
“Then she has not forgotten,” thought Jessie.
So it was that the autumn party was planned. Mr. Faddie was doing duty at the little church in the glen, and thus happened to be in the way of an invitation. Mr. Montagu was asked as a person of general usefulness. The St. Aubyn party brought horses, and men and maids, and contributed much to the liveliness of the establishment, so far as noise means gaiety. They were all assembled when Baron de Cazalet telegraphed from a yacht off the Lizard to ask if he might come, and, receiving a favourable reply, landed at Penzance, and posted over with his valet; his horse and gun cases were brought from London by another servant.
Leonard had been home nearly a fortnight, and had begun to accept this new mode of life without further wonder, and to fall into his old ways, and find some degree of pleasure in his old occupations — hunting, shooting.
The Vandeleur girls were draining the cup of pleasure to the dregs. Dopsy forgot her failure and grief of last year. One cannot waste all one’s life in mourning for a lover who was never in love with one.
“I wore bugles for him all last winter, and if I had been able to buy a new black gown I would have kept in mourning for six mouths,” she told her sister apologetically, as if ashamed of her good spirits, “but I can’t help enjoying myself in such a house as this. Is not Mrs. Tregonell changed for the better?”
“Everything’s changed for the better,” assented Mopsy. “If we had only horses and could hunt, like those stuck up St. Aubyn girls, life would be perfect.”
“They ride well, I suppose,” said Dopsy, “but they are dreadfully arriérées. They haven’t an æsthetic idea. When I told them we had thoughts of belonging to the Browning Society, that eldest one asked me if it was like the Birkbeck, and if we should be able to buy a house rent-free by monthly instalments. And the youngest said that sunflowers were only fit for cottage gardens.”
“And the narrow-minded mother declared she could see no beauty in single dahlias,” added Dopsy, with ineffable disgust.
The day was hopelessly wet, and the visitors at Mount Royal were spending the morning in that somewhat straggling manner common to people who are in somebody else’s house — impressed with a feeling that it is useless to settle oneself even to the interesting labour of art needlework when one is not by one’s own fireside. The sportsmen were all out; but de Cazalet, the Rev. St. Bernard, and Mr. FitzJesse preferred the shelter of a well-warmed Jacobean mansion to the wild sweep of the wind across the moor, or the dash of the billows.
“I have had plenty of wild life on the shores of the Pacific,” said de Cazalet, luxuriating in a large sage green plush arm chair, one of the anachronisms of the grave old library. “At home I revel in civilization — I cannot have too much of warmth and comfort — velvetty nests like this to lounge in, downy cushions to lean against, hot-house flowers, and French cookery. Delicious to hear the rain beating against the glass, and the wind howling in the chimney. Put another log on, Faddie, like the best of fellows.”
The Reverend St. Bernard, not much appreciating this familiarity, daintily picked a log from the big brazen basket and dropped it in a gingerly manner upon the hearth, carefully dusting his fingers afterwards with a cambric handkerchief which sent forth odours of Maréchale.
Mr. FitzJesse was sitting at a distant table, with a large despatch box and a pile of open letters before him, writing at railway speed, in order to be in time for the one o’clock post.
“He is making up his paper,” said de Cazalet, lazily contemplating the worker’s bowed shoulders. “I wonder if he is saying anything about us.”
“I am happy to say that he does not often discuss church matters,” said Mr. Faddie. “He shows his good sense by a careful avoidance of opinion upon our difficulties and our differences.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t think them worth discussing — of no more consequence than the shades of difference between tweedledum and tweedledee,” yawned de Cazalet, whereupon Mr. Faddie gave him a look of contemptuous anger, and left the room.
Mr. FitzJesse went away soon afterwards with his batch of letters for the post-bag in the hall, and the Baron was left alone, in listless contemplation of the fire. He had been in the drawing-room, but had found that apartment uninteresting by reason of Mrs. Tregonell’s absence. He did not care to sit and watch the two Miss St. Aubyns playing chess — nor to hear Mrs. Fairfax Torrington dribbling out stray paragraphs from the “society journals” for the benefit of nobody in particular — nor to listen to Mrs. St. Aubyn’s disquisitions upon the merits of Alderney cows, with which Jessie Bridgeman made believe to be interested, while deep in the intricacies of a crewel-work daffodil. For him the spacious pink and white panelled room without one particular person was more desolate than the wild expanse of the Pampas, with its low undulations, growing rougher towards the base of the mountains. He had come to the library — an apartment chiefly used by the men — to bask in the light of the fire, and to brood upon agreeable thoughts. The meditations of a man who has a very high opinion of his own merits are generally pleasant, and just now Oliver de Cazalet’s ideas about himself were unusually exalted, for had he not obviously made the conquest of one of the most charming women he had ever met.
“A pity she has a husband,” he thought. “It would have suited me remarkably well to drop into such a luxurious nest as this. The boy is not three years old — by the time he came of age — well — I should have lived my life, I suppose, and could afford to subside into comfortable obscurity,” sighed de Cazalet, conscious of his forty years. “The husband looks uncommonly tough; but even Hercules was mortal. One never knows how or when a man of that stamp may go off the hooks.”
These pleasing reflections were disturbed by the entrance of Mopsy, who, after prowling all over the house in quest of masculine society, came yawning into the library in search of anything readable in the way of a newspaper — a readable paper with Mopsy meaning theatres, fashions, or scandal.
She gave a little start at sight of de Cazalet, whose stalwart form and florid good looks were by no means obnoxious to her taste. If he had not been so evidently devoted to Mrs. Tregonell, Mopsy would have perchance essayed his subjugation; but, remembering Dopsy’s bitter experience of last year, the sadder and wiser Miss Vandeleur had made up her mind not to “go for” any marriageable man in too distinct a manner. She would play that fluking game which she most affected at billiards — sending her ball spinning all over the table with the hope that some successful result must come of a vigorous stroke.
She fluttered about the room, then stopped in a Fra Angelico pose over a table strewed with papers.
“Baron, have you seen the Queen?” she asked presently.
“Often. I had the honour of making my bow to her last April. She is one of the dearest women I know, and she was good enough to feel interested in my somewhat romantic career.”
“How nice! But I mean the Queen newspaper. I am dying to know if it really is coming in. Now it has been seen in Paris, I’m afraid it’s inevitable.”
“May I ask what it is?”
“Perhaps I oughtn’t to mention it — crinoline. There is a talk about something called a crinolette.”
“And Crinolette, I suppose, is own sister to Crinoline?”
“I’m afraid so — don’t you hate them? I do; I love the early Italian style — clinging cashmeres, soft flowing draperies.”
“And accentuated angles — well, yes. If one has to ride in a hansom
or a single brougham with a woman the hoop and powder style is rather a burthen. But women are such lovely beings — they are adorable in any costume. Madame Tallien with bare feet, and no petticoats to speak of — Pompadour in patches and wide-spreading brocade — Margaret of Orleans in a peaked head dress and puffed sleeves — Mary Stuart in a black velvet coif, and a ruff — each and all adorable — on a pretty woman.”
“On a pretty woman — yes. The pretty women set the fashions and the ugly women have to wear them — that’s the difficulty.”
“Ah, me,” sighed the Baron, “did any one ever see an ugly woman? There are so many degrees of beauty that it takes a long time to get from Venus to her opposite. A smile — a sparkle — a kindly look — a fresh complexion — a neat bonnet — vivacious conversation — such trifles will pass for beauty with a man who worships the sex. For him every flower in the garden of womanhood, from the imperial rose to the lowly buttercup, has its own peculiar charm.”
“And yet I should have thought you were awfully fastidious,” said Mopsy, trifling with the newspapers, “and that nothing short of absolute perfection would please you.”
“Absolute perfection is generally a bore. I have met famous beauties who had no more attraction than if they had been famous statues.”
“Yes; I know there is a cold kind of beauty — but there are women who are as fascinating as they are lovely. Our hostess, for instance — don’t you think her utterly sweet?”
“She is very lovely. Do come and sit by the fire. It is such a creepy morning. I’ll hunt for any newspapers you like presently; but in the meanwhile let us chat. I was getting horribly tired of my own thoughts when you came in.”
Mopsy simpered, and sat down in the easy chair opposite the Baron’s. She began to think that this delightful person admired her more than she had hitherto supposed. His desire for her company looked promising. What if, after all, she, who had striven so much less eagerly than poor Dopsy strove last year, should be on the high road to a conquest. Here was the handsomest man she had ever met, a man with title and money, courting her society in a house full of people.
“Yes, she is altogether charming,” said the Baron lazily, as if he were talking merely for the sake of conversation. “Very sweet, as you say, but not quite my style — there is a something — an intangible something wanting. She has chic — she has savoir-faire; but she has not — no, she has not that electrical wit which — which I have admired in others less conventionally beautiful.”
The Baron’s half-veiled smile, a smile glancing from under lowered eyelids, hinted that this vital spark which was wanting in Christabel might be found in Mopsy.
The damsel blushed, and looked down, conscious of eyelashes artistically treated.
“I don’t think Mrs. Tregonell has been quite happy in her married life,” said Mopsy. “My brother and Mr. Tregonell are very old friends, don’t you know; like brothers, in fact; and Mr. Tregonell tells Jack everything. I know his cousin didn’t want to marry him — she was engaged to somebody else, don’t you know, and that engagement was broken off, but he had set his heart upon marrying her — and his mother had set her heart upon the match — and between them they talked her into it. She never really wanted to marry him — Leonard has owned that to Jack in his savage moods. But I ought not to run on so — I am doing very wrong” — said Mopsy, hastily.
“You may say anything you please to me. I am like the grave. I never give up a secret,” said the Baron, who had settled himself comfortably in his chair, assured that Mopsy, once set going, would tell him all she could tell.
“No, I don’t believe — from what Jack says he says in his tempers — I don’t believe she ever liked him,” pursued Mopsy. “And she was desperately in love with the other one. But she gave him up at her aunt’s instigation, because of some early intrigue of his — which was absurd, as she would have known, poor thing, if she had not been brought up in this out-of-the-way corner of the world.”
“The other one. Who was the other one?” asked the Baron.
“The man who was shot at St. Nectan’s Kieve last year. You must have heard the story.”
“Yes; Mr. St. Aubyn told me about it. And this Mr. Hamleigh had been engaged to Mrs. Tregonell? Odd that he should be staying in this house!”
“Wasn’t it? One of those odd things that Leonard Tregonell is fond of doing. He was always eccentric.”
“And during this visit was there anything — the best of women are mortal — was there anything in the way of a flirtation going on between Mrs. Tregonell and her former sweetheart?”
“Not a shadow of impropriety,” answered Mopsy heartily. “She behaved perfectly. I knew the story from my brother, and couldn’t help watching them — there was nothing underhand — not the faintest indication of a secret understanding between them.”
“And Mr. Tregonell was not jealous?”
“I cannot say; but I am sure he had no cause.”
“I suppose Mrs. Tregonell was deeply affected by Mr. Hamleigh’s death?”
“I hardly know. She seemed wonderfully calm; but as we left almost immediately after the accident I had not much opportunity of judging.”
“A sad business. A lovely woman married to a man she does not care for — and really if I were not a visitor under his roof I should be tempted to say that in my opinion no woman in her senses could care for Mr. Tregonell. But I suppose after all practical considerations had something to do with the match. Tregonell is lord of half-a-dozen manors — and the lady hadn’t a sixpence. Was that it?”
“Not at all. Mrs. Tregonell has money in her own right. She was the only child of an Indian judge, and her mother was co-heiress with the late Mrs. Tregonell, who was a Miss Champernowne — I believe she has at least fifteen hundred a year, upon which a single woman might live very comfortably, don’t you know,” concluded Miss Vandeleur with a grand air.
“No doubt,” said the Baron. “And the fortune was settled on herself, I conclude?”
“Every shilling. Mr. Tregonell’s mother insisted upon that. No doubt she felt it her duty to protect her niece’s interest. Mr. Tregonell has complained to Jack of his wife being so independent. It lessens his hold upon her, don’t you see.”
“Naturally. She is not under any obligation to him for her milliner’s bills.”
“No. And her bills must be awfully heavy this year. I never saw such a change in any one. Last autumn she dressed so simply. A tailor-gown in the morning — black velvet or satin in the evening. And now there is no end to the variety of her gowns. It makes one feel awfully shabby.”
“Such artistic toilets as yours can never be shabby,” said the Baron. “In looking at a picture by Greuze one does not think how much a yard the pale indefinite drapery cost, one only sees the grace and beauty of the draping.”
“True; taste will go a long way,” assented Mopsy, who had been trying for the last ten years to make taste — that is to say a careful study of the west-end shop-windows — do duty for cash.
“Then you find Mrs. Tregonell changed since your last visit?” inquired de Cazalet, bent upon learning all he could.
“Remarkably. She is so much livelier — she seems so much more anxious to please. It is a change altogether for the better. She seems gayer — brighter — happier.”
“Yes,” thought the Baron, “she is in love. Only one magician works such wonders, and he is the oldest of the gods — the motive power of the universe.”
The gong sounded, and they went off to lunch. At the foot of the stairs they met Christabel bringing down her boy. She was not so devoted to him as she had been last year, but there were occasions — like this wet morning, for instance — when she gave herself up to his society.
“Leo is going to eat his dinner with us,” she said, smiling at the Baron, “if you will not think him a nuisance.”
“On the contrary, I shall be charmed to improve his acquaintance. I hope he will let me sit next him.”
“Thant,”
lisped Leo decisively. “Don’t like oo.”
“Oh, Leo, how rude.”
“Don’t reprove him,” said the Baron. “It is a comfort to be reminded that for the first three or four years of our lives we all tell the truth. But I mean you to like me, Leo, all the same.”
“I hate ‘oo,” said Leo, frankly — he always expressed himself in strong Saxon English—”but ‘oo love my mamma.”
This, in a shrill childish treble, was awkward for the rest of the party. Mrs. Fairfax Torrington gave an arch glance at Mr. FitzJesse. Dopsy reddened, and exploded in a little spluttering laugh behind her napkin. Christabel looked divinely unconscious, smiling down at her boy, whose chair had been placed at the corner of the table close to his mother.
“It is a poet’s privilege to worship the beautiful, Leo,” said the Baron, with a self-satisfied smirk. “The old troubadour’s right of allegiance to the loveliest — as old as chivalry.”
“And as disreputable,” said FitzJesse. “If I had been one of the knights of old, and had found a troubadour sneaking about my premises, that troubadour’s head should have been through his guitar before he knew where he was — or he should have discovered that my idea of a common chord was a halter. But in our present age of ultra-refinement the social troubadour is a gentleman, and the worship of beauty one of the higher forms of culture.”
The Baron looked at the journalist suspiciously. Bold as he was of speech and bearing, he never ventured to cross swords with Mr. FitzJesse. He was too much afraid of seeing an article upon his Jersey antecedents or his married life in leaded type in the Sling.
Happily, Mr. Tregonell was not at luncheon upon this particular occasion. He had gone out shooting with Jack Vandeleur and little Monty. It was supposed to be a great year for woodcock, and the Squire and his friends had been after the birds in every direction, except St. Nectan’s Kieve. He had refused to go there, although it was a tradition that the place was a favourite resort of the birds.
Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon Page 725