“I regret I can’t return the compliment, coz!” said Laurence, surveying him through his quizzing-glass. “If you don’t object to my saying so, your rig is more that of a hayseed than of a Nonesuch!”
“Oh, I gave up aping Waldo’s fashions when I found I couldn’t ape his skill!” retorted Julian, with the blandest of smiles.
Fortunately for the harmony of the day, Laurence recollected that a quarrel with Julian would do nothing to advance his cause with Waldo; so he suppressed a pretty stinging answer, and merely laughed, and said: “How wise!” He then languidly waved aside an offer to yield the reins up to him, and climbed into the phaeton. No conversation was exchanged for the first few minutes; but after critically watching Julian’s handling of the mettlesome pair harnessed to the carriage, Laurence said: “You’re growing to be a regular dash. Pretty lively, ain’t they? What’s keeping Waldo here for so long?”
“Why, you know, don’t you? He’s turning Broom Hall into another orphanage.”
“Oh, yes, I know that! He did the same with that place he bought in Surrey, but if he ever spent as much as one night in it it’s the first I’ve heard of it.”
“That was different!” objected Julian. “There’s the estate to be thought of here, and I can tell you it’s in a shocking way! No bailiff, either. Waldo is determined to bring it into good order before he leaves, which means the devil of a lot of work, you know.”
“Lord, he must have a dozen men he could employ on that!” Laurence said impatiently.
“Well, he don’t choose to. Hallo, here comes the Squire! A very good sort of a man: wife all pretension: one son and two daughters!” explained Julian, in a hurried undervoice, as he pulled up his horses. “Good-morning, sir! Not so hot today, is it? May I present my cousin to you? Mr Calver—Mr Mickleby!”
The Squire, acknowledging Laurence’s graceful bow with a brief nod, stared very hard at him, and ejaculated: “Ha! Calver! Ay, you’ve got a look of old Joseph.”
Laurence had never seen Joseph Calver, but he resented this remark: and told Julian, when the Squire had trotted off on his stout cob, that if his manners were a sample of what was to be expected in this uncouth district he would as lief be spared any more introductions. However, when the hire of the whisky had been arranged, he consented to accompany Julian to the Rectory. Leaving the phaeton at the Crown, they walked down the village street, reaching the Rectory just as Mrs Underhill was stepping into her barouche, which was drawn up at the gate.
Mrs Underhill had driven from Staples to enquire after Patience, and to tell Mrs Chartley how sorry she was that such a disagreeable adventure should have befallen her while she had been in Miss Trent’s charge; and she had arrived at the Rectory in as flustered a state of mind as was possible in one of her calm temperament, her headstrong niece having flatly refused to accompany her on this visit of reparation. She might know little about fashionable manners, but one thing (she said) she did know, and that was that Tiffany had behaved very badly to Miss Chartley, and owed her an apology. Upon which, Tiffany, after declaring in a torrent of angry words that it was Patience who owed her an apology, for exposing her to a scene of odious embarrassment, had slammed out of the room and locked herself into her bedchamber. So Mrs Underhill, much agitated, had been obliged to excuse her to Mrs Chartley. She said that she was laid down with a headache; but when Patience exclaimed that she was so sorry, because it must have been quite horrid for poor Tiffany to be jostled and stared at by a crowd of people, she had abandoned all pretence, and said bluntly: “It’s like you to say so, my dear, but by what I can discover she behaved in a very unbecoming way, and I’m so mortified as never was! And if she won’t beg your pardon—which she won’t, for bring her to own she’s ever at fault you can’t, tell her so till Doomsday,—I will, and so I do!”
Perceiving that she was very much upset, Mrs Chartley made a sign to Patience to leave them, and applied herself to the task of soothing the poor lady’s ruffled sensibilities. She succeeded so well that before long Mrs Underhill was pouring out to her the difficulties and discomforts attached to the guardianship of a spoiled beauty who didn’t seem to have a scrap of affection in her. Mrs Chartley listened sympathetically, agreeing that she would have grown up very differently if her uncle had not sent her to school, and encouraging Mrs Underhill’s wistfully expressed belief that her tantrums were merely childish, and that she would improve when she was a little older.
Mrs Underhill felt much better after unburdening herself. A glass of ratafia, and a comfortable gossip with her hostess still further restored her; and by the time the two Chartley ladies escorted her to her barouche she was her placid self again, and able to meet Lord Lindeth without suffering any recrudescence of mortification. He performed the introductions, and while Laurence exchanged civilities with the Chartleys he enquired politely after Tiffany, expressing his regret that the previous day’s accident should have proved too much for her nerves.
“Nerves!” said Mrs Underhill, rejecting this tactful effort. “She hasn’t got any, my lord! A nasty, spiteful temper is what she’s got, and wears us all to death with it! Not that she can’t be as sweet as a nut when she chooses, but if things don’t fall out just the way she wants them to she flies into the boughs directly.” She then lowered her voice, and said, with a significant glance cast at Laurence: “Did you say he was your cousin?”
“Yes, ma’am: my cousin Calver.”
“Well!” she uttered. “I’m sure we all thought there was never anyone as modish as Sir Waldo, so elegant and trim as he is, but he’s nothing to Mr Calver, is he? Why, he’s as fine as a star! I’ll be bound he’s one of the London smarts?”
“Yes, indeed!” said Julian, his eyes dancing. “A real Pink of the Ton!”
“I can see that,” she nodded, much impressed. “I hope you’ll bring him with you when you come to my turtle-dinner next Friday, if he won’t think it a bore.”
“He will be very much obliged to you, ma’am,” Julian answered promptly. He turned his head toward his cousin. “Laurie, Mrs Underhill has been so kind as to invite you to dine at her house next Friday!”
Laurence, executing one of his exquisite bows, said all that was proper, for he prided himself on his social address, but not even Mrs Underhill’s evident admiration reconciled him to the prospect of dining in her house. He described her as a vulgar mushroom, and wondered that his cousins should not have kept her at a proper distance.
“We’re not as niffy-naffy as you—or, of course, of such consequence!”
Laurence reddened, and said peevishly: “You needn’t ride grub because I don’t care for low company! Who is the creature?”
“She is a wealthy widow, with a son, a daughter, and a very beautiful niece. She owns the largest house in the neighbourhood, and may be depended on to set a capital dinner before us. She’s a cit, but excessively good-natured, and has been particularly kind in giving us an open invitation to dine at Staples whenever we choose—or whenever the builders make Broom Hall intolerable! We have been in the habit of going there quite frequently, so if you don’t want one of Waldo’s set-downs, I advise you not to speak of Mrs Underhill to him as a vulgar mushroom!”
“One of Waldo’s eccentricities, I collect. Or has he got up a flirtation with the beautiful niece? Is that what’s keeping him in Yorkshire?”
“I’ve told you already what’s keeping him. As for Miss Wield, she’s no more than seventeen, and if you think Waldo would—”
“Oho!” interrupted Laurence, his curiosity roused. “Have you an interest there yourself?”
Julian flushed, and answered stiffly: “No. I admire her, as everyone must, but I am not one of her suitors. She has dozens of ’em!” He continued, in an easier tone: “She’s a diamond of the first water, I promise you! But there are several very pretty girls to be seen—Miss Colebatch is one of them. I hope she may be at home when we get to Colby Place.”
“Don’t hope it on my account!” said Laurence, yawning.
“I’m not in the petticoat-line!”
Inasmuch as he was too self-absorbed ever to have contracted even the mildest passion for any lady, this was true; but provided that he was not expected to run errands, or to dance attendance, or, in fact, to put himself out in any way, he was rather fond of feminine society. He was also responsive to flattery, and of this he received full measure at Colby Place. Not only was Miss Colebatch at home, but her two younger sisters were sitting with their mama when the visitors were announced; and from the moment of his entering the room they seemed unable to drag their eyes from the elegant Mr Calver. Awe was writ large on their youthful countenances; and when he was kind enough to address a word or two to one or other of them they showed by their blushes, nervous giggles, and stammering replies how appreciative they were of his condescension. Miss Colebatch, though she did not betray it, was a good deal impressed by his air of á la modality; and her mama, not content with begging him to honour her ball with his presence, gratified him by asking his advice on various questions concerning it, because she said that she was persuaded he must be familiar with all the latest kicks of high fashion.
He was shortly to be still more gratified. The news that the Nonesuch had another cousin staying with him, and one who was an out-and-out dandy, rapidly spread, and was productive of a spate of notes directed to Sir Waldo, and carrying the assurances of the various hostesses to whom he and Lindeth were engaged that they would be most happy to include Mr Laurence Calver amongst their guests.
Laurence affected unconcern, but he was secretly as much exhilarated as surprised by his sudden and unexpected rise to importance. In London, amongst men of more natural parts and longer purses than his, it was almost impossible to make a hit: particularly (as he had often and resentfully thought) if one had the misfortune to be overshadowed by so magnificent a cousin as the Nonesuch, who, besides being universally acknowledged as Top-of-the-Trees, commanded as much liking as admiration. Far too frequently had Laurence been presented to strangers as Sir Waldo Hawkridge’s cousin; and although he had not scrupled to use this relationship to gain the entrance to certain exclusive circles it galled him very much to know that he was accepted merely because of the respect in which Waldo was held. He would have repudiated with scorn any suggestion that he should seek fame in a rural district remote from the hub of fashion; but having been compelled by circumstances to visit his cousin he did not find it at all disagreeable to have become a star in this lesser firmament. Elderly and bucolic gentlemen might look upon him with disfavour; their hard-riding sons were welcome to make Waldo their model: to be admired or despised by dotards and schoolboys were matters of equal indifference to him while he was courted by the ladies, and enjoyed the exquisite satisfaction of knowing that his hair-style, his neckties, and many of his mannerisms were being copied by several aspirants to dandyism. His success made it possible for him to bear, with tolerable equanimity, his cousin’s tacit refusal to allow him to reopen the discussion which had brought him to Yorkshire. He had only once attempted to do so. He had been foiled, and he had thought that he had been a trifle too precipitate, perhaps, and must allow Waldo more time for consideration. He meant to have another touch at him after a discreet interval; meanwhile he was very well pleased to bridge the gap with whatever entertainments were offered him.
His appearance at the Colebatches’ ball transcended all expectations, and quite eclipsed the local smarts. The beautiful arrangement of his pomaded locks, the height of his shirt-points, the intricacies of his neckcloth, the starched frill which protruded between the lapels of his tightly-fitting coat, with its short front and its extravagantly cutaway tails, the fobs and the seals which hung from his waist, and even the rosettes on his dancing-pumps, proclaimed him to be a Tulip of the first stare. His bow was much admired; if he was not precisely handsome, he was generally held to be good-looking; and when he led Tiffany Wield on to the floor for the first waltz even the most hostile of his critics acknowledged him to be a most accomplished dancer. The Squire went further, setting Sir Ralph Colebatch off into an alarming choking fit by growling in his ear: “Damned caper-merchant!”
The eyes that followed his progress round the room might have remained fixed in his direction had they not been drawn off by a less agreeable but far more startling sight.
“Look!” ejaculated Mrs Banningham to Mrs Mickleby, in throbbing accents.
The Broom Hall party had arrived just as the opening set of country-dances had come to an end. Having greeted his hostess, Sir Waldo passed on, pausing to exchange a word or two with various acquaintances, unhurried, but scanning the room searchingly as he moved from group to group. His height enabled him to see over many heads, and it was thus that he discovered Miss Trent, who was seated beside Mrs Underhill against the wall on one side of the room. She was wearing a ball-dress of pale orange Italian crape, trimmed with lace, and cut low across the bosom; and instead of the demure braids she considered suitable for a companion-governess she had allowed her natural ringlets to fall becomingly from a knot placed high on her head. She looked very much younger, and, in Sir Waldo’s eyes, beautiful.
He made his way towards her, reaching her as the musicians were about to strike up. A smile, and a brief how-do-you-do Mrs Underhill, and he was bowing to Miss Trent, and saying: “May I have the honour, ma’am?”
He had told her that he should ask her for the first waltz, but she had expected him rather to invite her to dance with him later in the evening. She hesitated, feeling that she ought not to be the first lady to stand up with him. “Thank you, but—Miss Colebatch? Should you not—”
“No, certainly not!” he replied. “That’s Lindeth’s privilege.”
“Oh! Yes, of course. But there are many other ladies who have a claim to—”
“No,” he interrupted. He smiled down at her, holding out his hand. “With you or no one! Come!”
“That’s right, Sir Waldo!” said Mrs Underhill, beaming up at him. “Don’t you take no for an answer, that’s my advice to you! And as for you, my dear, just you say thank you kindly, sir,and no more nonsense!”
Ancilla could not resist. She rose, giving Sir Waldo her hand. Her eyes laughed into his. “Thank you kindly, sir!” she repeated obediently.
His right hand lightly clasped her waist; he said, as he guided her round the room: “That woman is a constant refreshment to me!”
“Indeed!” she said quizzing him. “How quickly your opinions change, sir! I seem to recall that when you last spoke of her it was in very different terms!”
“I did her an injustice. I now recognize that she is a woman of great good sense. How well you dance!”
It was true, but very few of the onlookers derived any pleasure from the spectacle. Matrons who had brought their daughters to the ball felt their bosoms swell with wrath as they watched Tiffany Wield’s companion (or whatever she called herself) gliding over the floor in the Nonesuch’s arms, not finding it necessary to mind her steps, but performing the waltz gracefully and easily, and apparently enjoying an amusing conversation with him while she did it.
The Rector was one of those who watched with approval. He said to his wife: “Now, my love, we see how unexceptionable this new dance is! Charming! charming, indeed!”
“Well, I cannot quite like it, but I own that it is very pretty when it is danced correctly,” she replied. “I understand that Mr Calver is the best dancer here, but for my part I prefer Sir Waldo’s more restrained style. Miss Trent, too, dances as a lady should, but you may depend upon it that as soon as ever they become familiar with the steps Tiffany Wield, and Lizzie Colebatch, and the Mickleby girls will turn it into a romp. I should be sorry indeed to see a daughter of mine led into such impropriety.”
He laughed gently. “It would reflect sadly on her upbringing, would it not? I fancy we need feel no apprehension! She is dancing very prettily. It may be my partiality, but I am of the opinion that, saving only Miss Trent, she performs the waltz better than any other lady present.�
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“Yes,” agreed his wife, “but Arthur Mickleby is too clumsy a partner for her.”
She saw that Mrs Underhill was quite alone, and went to her, sitting down beside her, and saying: “What do you think of the waltz, Mrs Underhill? My husband is in raptures over it, and thinks me very old-fashioned for not liking it as much as he does!”
“Well, I wouldn’t like to be seen dancing it myself,” said Mrs Underhill, “but I’m sure I never saw anything so pretty as the way Sir Waldo and Miss Trent glide and twirl about the room so elegantly! What has me in a puzzle is how she knows when he means to go down the room, and when he means to go round and round, for he don’t seem to push her or pull her, which you’d think he’d be obliged to, and which he certainly would be, if it was me he had his arm round!”
Mrs Chartley smiled. “They certainly dance very well together.”
“Ay, don’t they?” nodded Mrs Underhill, watching them complacently. “So well-matched as they are, Miss Trent being so tall, and the both of them so handsome! When she came downstairs this evening, with her hair dressed the way you see it, and that gown on, which she says she’s had laid up in lavender ever since she left the General’s house, though little would you think it, ‘Well,’ I said to her, ‘I declare I’ve never seen you in greater beauty!’ I said. And no more I have.” She lowered her voice, and added conspiratorially: “What’s more, Mrs Chartley, I wasn’t the only one to be knocked bandy! Oh, no! ‘With you or no one!’ he said, when she was telling him he should ask another lady to stand up with him!”
“Sir Waldo?” asked Mrs Chartley, startled.
“Sir Waldo!” corroborated Mrs Underhill, with immense satisfaction. “Mind you, it didn’t come as any surprise to me! A pea-goose I may be, which Mr Underhill was used to call me—joking me, you understand!—but I’ve got eyes in my head, and I don’t need to wear spectacles either! Nor I’m not such a pea-goose as to think it’s for the pleasure of my company that Sir Waldo comes to Staples as often as he does. I did think it was Tiffany he was dangling after, but it ain’t. Not but what he flirts with her: that I can’t deny. But, to my way of thinking, it’s no more than playfulness. It’s Miss Trent who brings him to Staples.”
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