Thus the feud subsided, though Miss Drum to the end of her life occasionally spoke of her sister-in-law as ‘that poor silly thing,’ and of her brother as of one who should have known better.
Whilst, on her side, Mrs. Gawkins Drum remarked to her husband, ‘What a very old-looking woman that Miss Charlmont is, if she’s not thirty, as you say. I never saw such an old, faded-looking woman of her age.’
CHAPTER X.
PARTIES ran high at Kensington and Notting Hill. Stella stood up for charades, Jane for tableaux. Mr. Hartley naturally sided with his wife, Miss Charlmont held back from volunteering any opinion, Mrs. Tyke voted for the last speaker, Dr. Tyke ridiculed each alternative; at last Mr. Durham ingeniously threw his weight into both scales, and won for both parties a partial triumph. ‘Why not,’ asked he, — ’why not let Pug speak, and Miss Jane be silent?’
This pacific suggestion once adopted, Dr. Tyke proposed that a charade word should be fixed upon, and performed by speech or spectacle, as might suit the rival stars; for instance, Love-apple.
But who was to be Love?
Everybody agreed in rejecting little boys; and Jane, when directly appealed to, refused to represent the Mother of love and laughter; ‘for,’ as she truly observed, ‘that would not be Love, after all.’ Mr. Durham, looking laboriously gallant, aimed at saying something neat and pointed; he failed, yet Jane beamed a smile upon his failure. Then Dr. Tyke proposed a plaster Cupid; this, after some disputing, was adopted, with vague accessories of processional Greek girls, to be definitely worked out afterwards. For ‘Apple’ Alan suggested Paris and the rival goddesses, volunteering himself as Paris: Jane should be Venus, and Catherine would make a capital Juno. Jane accepted her own part as a matter of course, but doubted about her sister. ‘Yes,’ put in Miss Charlmont, decisively, ‘I will be Juno, or anything else which will help us forward a little.’ So that was settled; but who should be Minerva? Stella declined to figure as the patroness of wisdom, and Jane drily observed, that they ought all to be tall, or all to be short, in her idea. At last a handsome, not too handsome, friend, Lady Everett, was thought of to take the part. The last scene Dr. Tyke protested he should settle himself with Stella, and not be worried any more about it. So those two went into committee together, and Alan edged in ere long for consultation; finally, Miss Charlmont was appealed to, and the matter was arranged amongst them without being divulged to the rest.
But all was peace and plenty, smiles and wax-candles, at Kensington, when at last the evening came for the performance. Mrs. Hartley’s drawing-rooms being much more spacious than Mrs. Tyke’s, had been chosen for convenience, and about two hundred guests assembled to hear Stella declaim and see Jane attitudinize, as either faction expressed it. Good-natured Mrs. Tyke played the hostess, whilst Mrs. Hartley remained occult in the greenroom. Dr. Tyke was manager and prompter. Mr. Durham, vice Paris - Hartley, welcomed people in a cordial, fussy manner, apologising for the smallness of London rooms, and regretfully alluding to the vast scale of Orpingham Place, ‘where a man can be civil to his friends without treading on their toes or their tails — ha! ha!’
But there is a limit to all things, even fussiness has an end. At last every one worth waiting for had arrived, been received, been refreshed. Orpingham Place died out of the conversation. People exchanged commonplaces, and took their seats; having taken their seats they exchanged more commonplaces. ‘What’s the word?’ — ’ It’s such a bore guessing: I never guess anything.’ — ’ People ought to tell the word beforehand.’ — ’ What a horrible man! Is that Mr. Hartley?’ — ’No, old Durham; backbone Durham.’ — ’ Why backbone?’ — ’Don’t know; hear him called so.’ — ‘Isn’t there a Beauty somewhere?’ — ’ Don’t know; there’s the Beast,’ — and the hackneyed joke received the tribute of a hackneyed laugh.
The manager’s bell rang, the curtain drew up.
A plaster cast of Cupid, with fillet, bow, and quiver, on an upholstery pedestal, stood revealed. Music, commencing behind the scenes, approached; a file of English-Grecian maidens, singing and carrying garlands, passed across the stage towards a pasteboard temple, presumably their desired goal, although they glanced at their audience, and seemed very independent of Cupid on his pedestal. There were only six young ladies; but they moved slowly, with a tolerable space interposed between each and each, thus producing a processional effect. They sang, in time and in tune, words by Dr. Tyke; music (not in harmony, but in unison, to ensure correct execution) by Arthur Tresham
‘Love hath a name of Death:
He gives a breath
And takes away.
Lo we, beneath his sway,
Grow like a flower
To bloom an hour,
To droop a day,
And fade away.’
The first Anglo-Greek had been chosen for her straight nose, the last for her elegant foot; the intermediate four, possessing good voices, bore the burden of the singing. They all moved and sang with self-complacent ease, but without much dramatic sentiment, except the plainest of the six, who assumed an air of languishment.
Some one suggested ‘cupid-ditty,’ but without universal acceptance. Some one else, on no obvious grounds, hazarded ‘Bore, Wild Boar:’ a remark which stung Dr. Tyke, as playwright, into retorting, ‘Boreas.’
The second scene was dumb show. Alan Hartley as Paris, looking very handsome in a tunic and sandals, and flanked by the largest-sized, woolly toy lambs, sat, apple in hand, awaiting the rival goddesses. A flourish of trumpets announced the entrance of Miss Charlmont, a stately crowned Juno, robed in amber-coloured cashmere, and leading in a leash a peacock, with train displayed, and ingeniously mounted on noiseless wheels. She swept grandly in, and held out one arm, with a studied gesture, for the apple; which, doubtless, would have been handed to her then and there, had not warning notes on a harp ushered in Lady Everett: a modest, sensible-looking Minerva, robed and stockinged in blue, with a funny Athenian owl perched on her shoulder, and a becoming helmet on her head. Paris hesitated visibly, and seemed debating whether or not to split the apple and the difference together, when a hubbub, as of birds singing, chirping, calling, cleverly imitated by Dr. Tyke and Stella on water-whistles, heralded the approach of Venus. In she came, beautiful Jane Charlmont, with a steady, gliding step, her eyes kindling with victory, both her small hands outstretched for the apple so indisputably hers, her lips parted in a triumphant smile. Her long, white robe flowed classically to the floor; two doves, seeming to nestle in her hair, billed and almost cooed; but her face eclipsed all beside it; and when Paris, on one knee, deposited the apple within her slim, white fingers, Juno forgot to look indignant and Minerva scornful.
After this the final scene fell dead and flat. In vain did Stella whisk about as the most coquettish of market-girls of an undefined epoch and country, balancing a fruit-basket on her head, and crying, ‘Grapes, melons, peaches, love-apples,’ with the most natural inflections. In vain did Arthur Tresham beat down the price of peaches, and Alan Hartley bid for love-apples: — Jane had attained one of her objects, and eclipsed her little friend for that evening.
The corps dramatique was to sit down to supper in costume; a point arranged ostensibly for convenience, secretly it may be for vanity’s sake: only Stella laid her fruit-basket aside, and Miss Charlmont released her peacock. Lady Everett continued to wear the helmet, which did not conceal her magnificent black hair (she had been a Miss Moss before marriage, Clara Lyon Moss), and Jane retained her pair of. doves.
But during the winding up of the charade, more of moment had occurred off the stage than upon it. Jane, her part over, left the other performers to their own devices, and quietly made her way into a conservatory which opened out of the room devoted for that evening to ‘cloaks and hoods. If she expected to be followed she was not disappointed. A heavy step, and an embarrassed clearance of throat, announced Mr. Durham. He bustled up to her, where she sat fanning herself and showing white and brilliant against a background of flowers and
leaves, whilst he looked at once sheepish and pompous, awkward and self-satisfied; not a lady’s man assuredly.
‘Hem — haw — Miss Jane, you surpassed yourself. I shall always think of you now as Venus; I shall, indeed.’ Jane smiled benignantly. ‘Poor Pug’s nose is quite out of joint; it is, indeed. But the chit has got a husband, and can snap her fingers at all of us.’ Jane surveyed him with grave interrogation, then cast down her lustrous eyes, and slightly turned her shoulder in his direction. Abashed, he resumed: ‘But really, Miss Jane, now wasn’t Venus a married lady too? and couldn’t we—?’ Jane interrupted him: ‘Pray give me your arm, Mr. Durham;’ she rose: ‘let us go back to the company. I don’t know what you are talking about, unless you mean to be rude and very unkind:’ the voice broke, the large, clear eyes softened to tears; she drew back as he drew nearer. Then Mr. Durham, ill-bred, but neither scheming nor cold-hearted, pompous and fussy, but a not ungenerous man for all that, — then Mr. Durham spoke: ‘Don’t draw back from me, Miss Jane, but take my arm for once to lead you back to the company, and take my hand for good. For I love and admire you, Miss Jane; and if you will take an oldish man for your husband, you shall never want for money or for pleasure while my name is good in the City.’
Thus in one evening Jane Charlmont attained both her objects.
Supper was a very gay meal, as brilliant as lights, glass, and plate could make it. People were pleased with the night’s entertainment, with themselves, and with each other. Mr. Durham, with an obtrusive air of festivity, sat down beside Jane, and begged his neighbours not to inconvenience themselves, as they did not mind squeezing. Jane coloured, but judged it too early to frown. Mr. Durham, being somewhat old-fashioned, proposed healths: the fair actresses were toasted, the Anglo-Greeks in a bevy, the distinguished stars one by one. Mr. Tresham returned thanks for the processional six; Dr. Tyke for Miss Charlmont, Sir James Everett and Mr. Hartley for their respective wives.
Then Jane’s health was drunk: who would rise to return thanks? Mr. Durham rose: ‘Hem — haw — ’ said he: ‘haw — hem — ladies and gentlemen, allow me to return thanks for the Venus of the evening — I mean for the Venus altogether, whose health you have done me the honour to drink’ — knowing smiles circled round the table. ‘Done us, I should say: not that I unsay what I said; quite the contrary, and I’m not ashamed to have said it. I will only say one word more in thanking you for the honour you have done her and all of us: the champagne corks pop, and suggest popping; but after popping mum’s the word. Ladies and gentlemen, my very good friends, I drink your very good health.’
And the master of Orpingham Place sat down.
CHAPTER XI.
LUCY received the news of Jane’s engagement with genuine vexation, and then grew vexed with herself for feeling vexed. Conscience took alarm, and pronounced that envy and pride had a share in her vexation. Self retorted: It is not envy to see that Jane is mercenary, nor pride to dislike vulgarity. Conscience insisted: It is envy to be annoyed by Jane’s getting married before you, and it is pride to brand Mr. Durham as vulgar, and then taboo him as beyond the pale. Self pleaded: No one likes growing old and being made to feel it; and who would not deprecate a connection who will put one out of countenance at every turn? But Conscience secured the last word: If you were younger than Jane, you would make more allowances for her; and if Mr. Durham were engaged to any one except your sister, you would think it fair not to condemn him as destitute of every virtue because he is underbred.
Thus did Conscience get the better of Self. And Lucy gulped down dignity and disappointment together when, in reply to Miss Drum’s, ‘My dear, I hope your sisters are well, and enjoying their little gaieties,’ she said, cheerfully: ‘Now, really, you should give me something for such wonderful news: Jane is engaged to be married.’
There was nothing Miss Drum relished more than a wedding ‘between persons suited to each other, and not ridiculous on the score of age and appearance,’ as she would herself pointedly have defined it. Now Jane was obviously young enough and pretty enough to become a bride; so Miss Drum was delighted, and full of interest and of inquiries, which Lucy found it rather difficult to answer satisfactorily.
‘And who is the favoured gentleman, my dear?’
‘Mr. Durham, of Orpingham Place, in Gloucestershire. Very rich it seems, and a widower. His only daughter,’ Lucy hurried on with an imperceptible effort, ‘married that Mr. Hartley Catherine and I used to meet so often at Notting Hill. She was thought to be a great heiress; but I suppose this will make some difference.’
‘Then he is rather old for Jane?’
‘He is not yet fifty it seems, though of course that is full old. By what he says, Orpingham Place must be a very fine country-seat; and Jane appears cut out for wealth and pleasure, she has such a power of enjoying herself;’ and Lucy paused.
Miss Drum, dropping the point of age, resumed: ‘Now what Durham will this be, my dear? I used to know a Sir Marcus Durham — a gay, hunting Baronet. He was of a north-country family; but this may be a branch of the same stock. He married an Earl’s daughter, Lady Mary; and she used to take precedence, let who would be in the room, which was not thought to be in very good taste when the dowager Lady Durham was present. Still an Earl’s daughter ought to understand good breeding, and that was how she acted; I do not wish to express any opinion. Perhaps Mr. Durham may have a chance of the Baronetcy, for Sir Marcus left no children, but was succeeded by a bachelor brother; and then Jane will be “my lady” some day.’
‘No,’ replied Lucy; ‘I don’t think that likely. Mr. Durham is enormously wealthy, by what I hear; but not of a county family. He made his fortune in the City.’
Miss Drum persisted: ‘The cadets of even noble families have made money by commerce over and over again. It is no disgrace to make a fortune; and I see no reason why Mr. Durham should not be a baronet some day. Many a City man has been as fine a gentleman as any idler at court. Very likely Mr. Durham is an elegant man of talent, and well connected; if so, a fortune is no drawback, and the question of age may be left to the lady’s decision.’
Lucy said no more: only she foresaw and shrank from that approaching day of undeceiving which should bring Mr. Durham to Brompton-on-Sea.
Once set off on the subject of family, there was no stopping Miss Drum, who, having had no proveable great-grandfather, was sensitive on the score of pedigree.
‘You might not suppose it now, Lucy, but it is well known that our family name of Drum, though less euphonious than that of Durham, is in fact the same. I made the observation once to Sir Marcus, and he laughed with pleasure, and often afterwards addressed me as cousin. Lady Mary did not like the suggestion; but no one’s fancies can alter a fact:’ and the old lady looked stately, and as if the Drum-Durham theory had been adopted and emblazoned by the College of Heralds; whereas, in truth, no one besides herself, not even the easy-tempered Gawkins, held it.
Meanwhile, all went merrily and smoothly at Notting Hill. As Jane had said, she was old enough to know her own mind, and apparently she knew it. When Mr. Durham presented her with a set of fine diamonds, she dropped naturally into calling him George; and when he pressed her to name the day, she answered, with an assumption of girlishness, that he must talk over all those dreadful things with Catherine.
To Miss Charlmont he had already opened his mind on the subject of settlements: Jane should have everything handsome and ample, but Pug must not lose her fortune either. This Catherine, deeming it right and reasonable, undertook to explain to Jane. Jane sulked a little to her sister, but displayed only a smiling aspect to her lover, feeling in her secret heart that her own nest was being particularly well feathered: for not only were Mr. Durham’s new marriage settlements most liberal, in spite of Stella’s prospective twenty thousand pounds on coming of age, and twenty thousand at her father’s demise; but Catherine, of her own accord, provided that at her death all her share of their father’s property should descend to Jane, for her own separate use, and at h
er own absolute disposal. The younger sister, indeed, observed with safe generosity: ‘Suppose you should marry, too, some day?’ But Catherine, grateful for any gleam of unselfishness in her favourite sister, answered warmly and decisively: ‘I never meant to marry, and I always meant what fortune I had to be yours at last: only, dear, do not again think hardly of our poor father’s oversight.’
Mr. Durham was urgent to have the wedding-day fixed, and Jane reluctant merely and barely for form’s sake. A day in August was named, and the honeymoon pre-devoted to Paris and Switzerland. Then Miss Charlmont pronounced it time to return home; and was resolute that the wedding should take place at Brompton-on-Sea, not at Notting Hill as the hospitable Tykes proposed.
Jane was now nothing loth to quit town; Mr. Durham unwilling to lose her, yet willing as recognising the step for an unavoidable preliminary. Nevertheless, he felt hurt at Jane’s indifference to the short separation; whilst Jane, in her turn, felt worried at his expecting any show of sentiment from her, though, having once fathomed his feelings, she kept the worry to herself and produced the sentiment. He looked genuinely concerned when they parted at London-
Bridge Station; but Jane never in her life had experienced a greater relief than now, when the starting train left him behind on the platform. A few more days, and it would be too late to leave him behind: but she consoled herself by reflecting that without him she might despair of ever seeing Paris; Switzerland was secondary in her eyes.
Miss Drum had often set as a copy, ‘Manners make the Man,’ and explained to her deferential pupils how in that particular phrase 1 Man ‘includes’ Woman.’ Catherine in later life reflected that ‘Morals make the Man’ (including Woman) conveys a not inferior truth. Jane might have modified the sentence a trifle further, in employing it as an M copy, and have written, ‘Money makes the Man.’
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Christina Rossetti Page 85