"I hope he will not give her a heartache!"
"I expect he will, however. The odd thing is that she is not at all the sort of young woman he had been in the habit of deceiving." She added thoughtfully: "One comfort is that he is more likely to make a fool of her than she of him."
"Really, Bab!" he protested.
"Now, don't be shocked! It would never do for George to marry her. He won't, of course. He depends too much upon my grandfather, and wouldn't dare. She may be perfectly ladylike, but her connection with that horrid little Cit of an uncle makes her quite Ineligible. My grandfather was himself held to have married beneath him, but that does not make him Indulgent towards any mesalliance we might wish to make! He is pleased, by the way, with my engagement. I have had letters from him and my grandmother by today's post. You never told me you had written to him, Charles!"
"Of course I wrote to him. Have we his blessing?"
"Decidedly! You are unexceptionable. He did not suppose me to have so much good sense. My grandmother, who is quite the most delightful creature imaginable, writes that she is in doubt of her felicitations being still acceptable by the time they reach me. You observe, Charles, you have broken all records!" She gathered up the reins, and signed to her tiger to jump up behind. "There seems to be nothing to stay for: I shall go. Who is invited to this dinner at Uxbridge's?"
"All commanding cavalry officers, and of course the foreign visitors."
"Ah, a horrid male party! You will enjoy it excessively, I daresay, get abominably foxed, and come reeling back to Brussels with the dawn."
"Well! You have drawn no rose-coloured picture of-my character, at all events! There can be no disillusionment for you to fear!"
"No, none for me," she said.
He saw that she was ready to give her horses the office to start, but detained her. "Do you mean to drive alone? Is not Harry with you?"
"Certainly I mean to drive alone. Harry is not here."
"Don't tell me there are no young gentlemen eager for the chance to escort you?"
"I have sometimes a strong liking for my owrr company," she replied. "But as for being alone, pray observe Matthew, my tiger."
"Let someone ride back with you, Bab."
"Are you afraid I may be molested by the brutal soldiery? I don't fear it!"
"You might well meet with unpleasantness. Is not Vidal here?"
"Yes, driving with Gussie. You will not expect me to curb my horses to keep pace with a sober barouche. I shall spring 'em, you know."
He stepped back. She said saucily: "Retiring again. Charles? You're the wisest man of my acquaintance. Goodbye! Don't be anxious: I am a famous whip."
She began to make her way out of the ranks of carriages; the Colonel mounted his horse again, and rode off to his brother's curricle. He saluted Judith, but without attending to what she had to say of the review, addressed Worth. "Julian, be a good fellow, will you, and follow Bab? She's alone, and I don't care for her to be driving all the distance without an escort. You need not so proclaim yourself, by the way, but I should be glad if you would keep her in sight."
"Certainly," said Worth.
"Thank you: I knew I might depend on you."
He raised two fingers to his hat, and rode off. Judith said: "Well, if she's alone it must be for the first time. Poor Charles! I daresay she has done it simply to vex him."
"Very possibly," Worth agreed. "There is a bad streak in the Alastairs."
"Yes. Lord George, in particular, is not at all the thing. I am so disturbed to see him making Lucy the object of his attentions! It was most marked last night: he danced with her three times."
"She did not appear to mind."
"You are wrong: I saw her look distressed when he came up to her the third time. She is not the girl to have her head turned by a handsome Life Guardsman."
"She is singular, then," he said in his driest tone.
Chapter Thirteen
May had worn itself out; and looking back over four weeks of pleasure seeking, Judith could not feel that there had been unalloyed gaiety. She was aware of tension; she had herself been carried into the swirl. No one could foretell what the future held; but everyone knew that these weeks might be the last of happiness. Except when news crept through of movement on the frontier, war was not much talked of. Talking of it could not stop its coming; it was better to put the thought of it behind one, and to be merry while the sun still shone.
But Judith had good sense to guide her, nor was she any longer a single beauty with scores of admirers clamouring for her favours. If she grew tired, she could rest; but Barbara, it seemed, could not rest, and appeared not to wish even to draw breath. She was beginning to look a little haggard; that she took laudanum was an open secret. What caprice it was that drove her on Judith could not imagine. The very fact of her being betrothed to Charles should have made it possible for her to have lived more quietly; she ought not to want to be for ever at parties. When he could he accompanied her, but he had very little leisure for picnics, or for spending days at the races. Often he came off duty looking so tired that it put his sister-in-law out of all patience to find him bent on attending some ball or reception. He denied that he felt tired, and the harassed little frown between his eyes would vanish as he laughed at her solicitude. She was not deceived; she could have shaken Barbara for her selfishness.
But Charles, keeping pace with his betrothed, never allowed a hint of languor to appear in his face or manner. Once Barbara said to him: "Is it wrong of me not to give up the parties and all the fun? I love it so! And when I am married I shall have to be so sober!"
"No, no, never think that!" he said quickly.
"Gussie says it must be so."
"It shall not be so! Don't listen to Augusta, I beg of you! Do you think I have not known from the start how little she likes our engagement?"
"Gussie!" she said scornfully. "I never listened to her my life!"
But even though she scoffed at Augusta she did listen to her, with an unconscious ear.
"Make the most of your freedom, my dear," said Augusta. "You won't have the chance when you've married your staff officer. Will you miss your court, do you think? Shall you mind not being crowded round at every ball you go to? And oh, Bab, do you mean to wear a matronly cap, and bear your Charles a quiverful of stout children? How I shall laugh to see you!"
No, one did not set any store by what Gussie said, but nevertheless those barbs found their mark. Gallant young gentlemen, too, would cry imploringly: "Oh, don't turn into a sober matron, Bab! Only conceive of world without Bad Bab to set everyone by the ears!"
They all drew the same picture of her, grown grave and thinking not of her conquests but of her household perhaps being obliged to languish in some dull garrison town, with nothing to do but visit other officers' wives and be civil to Charles.
She would see herself like that, and would thrust the picture behind her, and hurry away to be gay while she could. When Charles was with her, the picture faded. for Charles swore he wanted no such wife. Yet some sobriety Charles did want. There had been an incident in May which he had not laughed at. Some of the officers of Lord Edward Somerset's brigade had given one of the moonlight picnics of which the old-fashioned people so much disapproved. Lord George had been at the root of it; he had engaged Miss Devenish to go to it with his sister, laying his careless command upon Barbara to bring the chit with her. The wonder was that Miss Devenish had liked to go, but she did go, and had managed to get lost with Lord George in a coppice for over an hour. It was no concern of Barbara's. "Good God, Charles, if a chaperon had been wanted I was not the one to choose for the part! Everyone contrived to lose themselves. Why, I had the most absurd half hour myself, with an engaging child from George's regiment on one side of me and Captain Clayton of the Blues on the other."
"It sounds safe and rather stupid," he said. "But Miss Devenish's prolonged absence with George has caused a little talk. I can't but blame you, Bab. You should not nave allowed it
."
"My dear Charles, I suppose her to know her own business. The truth is that you are like your sister, and disapprove of moonlight picnics."
He was silent. She thought he looked displeased, and said with a light laugh: "Do you wish me to give up such frivolous amusements?"
"I shan't ask you to give them up, Bab."
"Do you think I would not?"
"I don't know," he replied. "I only know that if you did so at my request it would be against your will. If you did not care to go without me, well that would be different."
Her eyes danced; she looked half roguish, half rueful, and murmured coaxingly: "Oh, confound you, Charles, you make me seem the veriest wretch! Don't look so gravely at me! I swear I would rather stay at home with you than go to the most romantic of picnics. But when -you can't be with me, what the devil am I to do?"
She peeped at him under her lashes; he was obliged to laugh, even though there was very little laughter in his heart.
Judith, when she heard of the famous picnic, was aghast. She could not understand how Mrs Fisher could have permitted her niece to take part in such an expedition. The reason was not far to seek: Mrs Fisher was dreaming of bridals. Young people, she said, often behaved foolishly, and indeed she had scolded Lucy for her thoughtlessness, but she dared say there was no harm done, after all.
Judith blamed Barbara for the whole, and wondered how long Charles would bear with her capriciousness.
"I have always felt a little sorry for Bab Alastair," said the Duchess of Richmond once, in her quiet way. "Her mama died when Harry was born, and that is a very sad thing for a girl, you know. I am afraid the late Lord Vidal was rather dissolute, and Bab grew up without that refining influence which her mama must have exercised. She has never been in the way of being checked, and was unfortunate in being made a pet of by her papa."
"Oh!" exclaimed Judith. "Could that have done harm to a daughter's character?"
"The melancholy truth was, my dear, that Lord Vidal's principles were not high, and he did not scruple to instil into Bab his own cynical notions. You will not repeat it, but Lord Vidal's household was apt to include females of whose very existence young girls should be unaware."
"But her grandparents!"
"Oh yes, but, you see, Lord Vidal was not always upon terms with his father," said her Grace. "And the Duchess was not of an age to dance attendance upon a flighty granddaughter. She was most distressed at that wretched marriage, I know. There can never have been a more shocking business! Childe was a man whose reputation, whose whole manner of life - but I am talking of the dead, and indeed have said too much already."
"I am glad you have told me as much; it may help me to be patient. I own, I cannot like Barbara."
"I am sorry for it. Yet she is not heartless, as so many people say. I could tell you of a hundred generous actions. She is accounted perfectly selfish, but I have been a good deal touched by her kindness to my boy during his long, painful convalescence. I believe no one aware how often she has forgone some pleasure party merely to sit with poor William for a little while, quite taking him out of himself."
"Ah, that was kind indeed! You are right: it warms one's heart towards her to hear of such conduct. How does poor William go on? He has not left his room?"
"Oh no! It must be weeks yet before he will be able stand upon his feet. It was a dreadful accident — he was thrown in such a way! But I don't care to think of it and can only thank God he has been spared to me." Nothing more was said of Barbara, but the conversation remained in Judith's memory. She was able to meet Barbara with more cordiality, and even to pardon some of her wildness; and for a little while could almost hope that she might make Charles happy. The incident of the moonlight picnic, however, bought back all the old disgust; she could hardly forgive Barbara for having lent herself to what she believed to have been nothing less than a trap laid for Lucy Devenish.
Lucy's own distress was evident. She looked so pale and wretched that Judith began to fear that her affections had been seriously engaged. Lord George was as brazen as might have been expected. He had made Lucy the subject of the latest scandal, but when taxed with it by his elder brother, would do nothing but laugh.
"I wish you will consider me!" complained Vidal.
"Consider you? Why the devil should I?" demanded George.
"It is no very pleasant thing for me, I can tell you, to have my brother pointed out as a rake and a libertine on the one hand, and my sister on the other as -"
"Keep your damned tongue off Bab, unless you want your teeth knocked down your throat, Vidal!" said George, looking ugly.
"Pray do not bring your ringside manners into my drawing-room, George," said Augusta sharply. "I find your championing of Bab more than a little absurd, let me tell you!"
He turned, looking down at her from his great height with an expression of mocking indifference. "You do. do you? And what the devil do you think I care for your opinion?"
"Thank you, I am well aware of your habit of disregarding everyone's opinion but your own. However, Bab's conduct has nothing to do with your folly in entangling yourself with that Devenish chit. Depend upon it, her uncle is merely awaiting his opportunity to force you into marrying her. I know what men of his stamp are like, if you do not."
"Oho, do you really, Gussie? Where did you come by your knowledge, I should like to know?"
She replied coldly: "Laugh, if you choose, but do not look to me for help when you find yourself trapped. I suppose you have thought how you will break the news to your grandfather. I don't envy you that task!"
He flushed, seemed about to retort, and then turned on his heel and walked away.
Whatever Mr Fisher's plans might be, Miss Devenish at least did not appear to be desirous of encouraging George's attentions. Judith was a witness of a decided rebuff to his lordship, and could only be glad of it, although she felt sorry for the pain it seemed to cause Lucy. Lucy's wan looks began to make Judith feel anxious, and she even cast about in her mind for some eligible young man to take Lord George's place in the girl's affections.
At the review of the cavalry, she thought she had found a gentleman, who might answer the purpose, but before she could put into execution her amiable plan of inviting him and Lucy to dine one evening her anxieties were diverted in quite another direction.
Sir Peregrine, either from a slight feeling of guilt or from mere thoughtlessness, did not inform his Harriet of his assignation in the suburbs. Upon his return to Brussels he had found Harriet far from well, and quite in the dumps. He bounced in, ready to recount all the days happenings, but she had the headache, was sipping hartshorn and water, and announced her intention of going to bed and having her dinner sent up to her on a tray.
"Well, I am sorry you have the headache, Harry. Shall you mind if I dine from home? If you would like me to stay with you?"
"Oh no! I shall be better tomorrow, I daresay, but my head aches too much to make me pleasant company tonight. Go out, by all means. I am only sorry to be such a stupid creature!"
So Peregrine had sailed forth to call for Barbara, and had spent an entertaining evening with her in one of the cafes beyond the ramparts.
Had Colonel Audley been able to see them he must have acquitted Barbara of any desire to flirt, but he could scarcely have been pleased with the result of her sisterly behaviour. When she chose to treat a man en camarade, she was at her most enchanting. She had not the smallest intention of captivating Peregrine, but her candid way of looking at him, her rippling laugh, her boyish speech, and her sense of fun charmed him irresistibly. He was not in love with her, but he had never in his life encountered so dazzling a creature.
Barbara said frankly at the outset: "This is capital! I shall pretend you are my young brother. I, if you please, am your elder sister - though I fear I am not quite like Lady Worth."
Peregrine did not think that she was in the least like Judith, except in being able to talk sensibly of horses. He soon found himself describing his y
acht to her: discovered that she also was fond of sailing; and from that moment became her slave. Sailing, riding, cocking. prizefighting: they talked of them all. No squeamish nonsense about Lady Bab! Why, it was like talking to man, only much more exciting.
It was all quite innocent, but as ill-luck would have is they were seen by some people who were driving back to Brussels from Nivelles, and in less time than might have been thought possible the news that Sir Peregrine was Bab's latest victim was not only current but had reached Harriet's ears.
She was thunderstruck, and, in her nervous condition, easily convinced that the woman whom she detested ever since the fatal expedition to Hougoumont was stealing from her Peregrine's affections. No doubt he was tired of such a dull, ailing wife: she did not blame him - or, at any rate, not very much but no words were bad enough to describe Barbara's wicked malice.
She carried the story to Judith, casting herself upon her bosom and sobbing out her woes. Judith heard her with incredulity. She insisted upon her calming herself, obliged her to drink a glass of wine, and to sit down on the sofa, and said with brisk good sense: "I don't believe a word of it! What has Perry to say for himself?"
Oh, Harriet might be a fool, but she was not such a fool as to attack Perry with his infidelity!
"Infidelity!" said Judith. "Stuff and nonsense! What a piece of work about nothing! I daresay he may admire Barbara who does not? But as for the rest of it why, Harriet, it is the merest irritation of nerves! If you take my advice you'll think no more of it!"
"How can you be so heartless?" wept Harriet. "I might have guessed this would happen! I mistrusted her from the start. Perry is tired of me, and she has stolen him from me."
"I have a great affection for Perry," responded Judith tartly, "but I doubt very much his having the power to engage Lady Barbara's interest. Depend upon it, you are making a mountain out of a molehill."
"Oh no! I have been so poorly of late that I have had no spirits to go into society, and so he has looks elsewhere for amusement. I see it all!"
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