“Oh yes, Clo dear, it was delightful; but you shouldn’t flirt so with that little boy.”
“Now that’s too bad, dear,” retorted Clotilde, turning half round to smile sweetly at her sister. “You know that it was you. I felt quite ashamed sometimes to see how you went on.”
Ruth’s eyes grew a little more wide open as she heard this, for she thought that poor little Richard Millet seemed to be left to talk to her more than he liked.
“Oh, nonsense, love,” replied Marie. “But you don’t mean it, you know;” and then the sisters smiled most affectionately one at the other, and gazed curiously in each other’s eyes.
But as they smiled and looked affectionately at each other, they seemed to need an outlet for the wrath that was gathering fast, and poor Ruth’s was the head upon which this poured. The tears stood in her eyes again and again, as first one and then the other displayed her irritation in words, pushes, and more than once in what seemed greatly like blows, all of which was borne in a patient, long-suffering manner. For Ruth was far worse off than a servant, the least independent of which class of young lady would not have submitted to a tithe of the insult and annoyance that fell to the poor girl’s share.
Upon the present occasion the loud jangling of the bell, that was swung about and shaken by Joseph as if he detested the brazen creation, announced that lunch was ready, the mid-day repast by a pleasant fiction retaining that name, though no late dinner followed, the evening meal taking the form of tea and thick bread, and butter of the kind known as “best Dorset, and regarding whose birth there is always a mystery.”
The looks of the sisters were anything but bright and loving as they went down, followed by Ruth, who secretly drew up her sleeve, displaying her white, well-moulded arm as she ruefully inspected a black mark – to wit, the bruise made by a forcible pinch from Clotilde’s nervous finger and thumb.
The poor girl heaved a little sigh as she drew back her gingham sleeve – gingham and alpaca being fabrics highly in favour with the Honourable Misses Dymcox – though they always insisted upon calling the latter by the name of “stuff” – on economical grounds. Then she meekly took her place, grace was said, and the Honourable Isabella proceeded to dispense the mutton broth, richly studded with pearls of barley to the exclusion of a good deal of meat, Joseph giving quite a dignity to the proceedings as he waited at table, removing the soup-tureen cover with an artistic flourish, and turning it bottom upwards so as not to let a drop of the condensed steam fall upon the cloth, though a drop reached Ruth, whose fate it seemed to be to get the worst of everything, even to the boniest portions of the substance of the mutton broth, and the crustiest, driest pieces of the day before yesterday’s bread.
But there was a becoming dignity in Miss Philippa’s manners upon the present occasion, and she sipped her broth and played with the barley as if she anticipated finding pearls in place of unpleasant little sharp splinters of scrag of mutton bone.
“Thank you, yes, Joseph,” she said quietly, as the man brought round a very small jug of the smallest beer, and poured out a wineglassful each for the elderly sisters, without froth, so that it might look like sherry, or that delicious elderly maiden lady’s beverage known as marsala.
“Oh, by the way, sister,” said Miss Isabella, “did you think to mention about town?”
“Oh no, I did not,” said Miss Philippa. “By the way, Joseph, you will order the carriage for nine o’clock to-morrow morning.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Joseph, who was handing potatoes to the mutton broth.
“We must go in good time, for we shall have to visit the tailor’s about your new livery, Joseph.”
Joseph’s jaw dropped like the lower lids of his eyes, and a very waxy potato from the dish as he sloped it down, the said potato gambolling gaily across the cloth as if under the idea that it was a vegetable cricket-ball, and that its duty was to hit Ruth’s high-backed chair wicket fashion on the other side. It was, however, carefully blocked by that young lady with a spoon, and after a moment’s hesitation deposited in her soup-plate, her cousins, however, eyeing it jealously from old habit, as if they thought she was getting more than her share.
“Be careful, Joseph,” said Miss Philippa with severity; and Joseph was careful as he went on waiting; but the perspiration broke out profusely over his forehead, and he seemed, as he gazed from one to the other of his mistresses, as though the news, so unaccustomed in its way, was almost greater than he could bear.
“Bring those bouquets from the drawing-room, Joseph,” said Miss Philippa, just before the removal of the soup-tureen.
Joseph went out, and, to the astonishment of the young ladies, returned with the presents.
“Take that one to Miss Clotilde,” said Miss Philippa, beaming on the eldest of the young ladies, as she indicated the gayest of the carefully built up bunches of flowers. “Yes; and now that one to Miss Marie.”
The bouquets were handed to the young ladies in turn.
“Now remove the soup-tureen,” said Miss Philippa.
“Oh, aunt!” exclaimed Clotilde, as Joseph left the room.
“What lovely flowers!” cried Marie, holding them to her face.
“Yes, yes; yes, yes!” cried Miss Philippa in a highly pitched and very much cracked but playful voice. “I don’t know what to say to it, I’m sure; do you, sister?”
“No, indeed – indeed,” cried Miss Isabella, in an imitation playful tone.
“It seems to me that our quiet little innocent home is being laid siege to by gentlemen,” prattled Miss Philippa.
“And – and I don’t know what’s coming to us,” said Miss Isabella gaily; and her hands shook, and her head nodded as she laughed, a sad ghost of a youthful hearty sign of mirth.
“But is this for me, aunt?” cried Clotilde, flushing up, and looking handsome in the extreme.
“And this for me, aunt?” cried Marie, whose cheeks could not brook the rivalry displayed by those of her sister.
“Oh, I don’t know, my dears, I’m sure; but it’s very, very, very, very shocking, and you are both very, very, very, very naughty girls to look so handsome, and go to dinner-parties, and captivate gentlemen.”
“And make them lay offerings before your shrines,” prattled Miss Isabella.
“Floral offerings before your shrines,” repeated Miss Philippa, who nodded her approval of her sister’s poetical comparison.
“But, aunt, who sent them?”
“Oh, it’s no use to ask me, my dear,” exclaimed Miss Philippa. “There may be a wicked little note inside. I don’t know. I don’t understand such things. They are beyond me.”
“Oh yes, quite beyond us, my dear,” said Miss Isabella; and she laid her hand upon her side as she felt a curious little palpitation, and there was a pathetic sadness in her withered face, as she began thinking of Captain Glen.
“But somebody must have sent them, aunties,” said Marie, who dropped into the diminutive, and slightly endearing, appellative quite naturally, now that she found herself being exalted by her relatives.
“Oh yes, my dears, of course – of course,” said Miss Philippa: “someone must have sent them. Mind,” she cried, shaking one finger, “I don’t say that those beautiful, those lovely exotics were sent to you by Lord Henry Moorpark. And I don’t say – no: you don’t say, sister – ”
“Yes, of course,” cried Miss Isabella, clumsily taking up the cue given to her, and shaking her thin finger very slightly, for it shook itself naturally a good deal, “I don’t say, Clotilde, my dear, that that delicious and most expensive bouquet was sent by the great wealthy Mr Elbraham; but I’ve a very shrewd suspicion. Haven’t you, sister?”
“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,” cried Miss Philippa playfully. “A little bird at dear Lady Littletown’s whispered a little something in my ear. But it’s very, very shocking, isn’t it, sister?”
“Oh yes,” cried Miss Isabella, repeating her sad little laugh, her head nodding very much the while; “but fie – fie – fie! Hush – hush – hush! Here is Joseph coming to change the plates.”
Joseph it was, and as he changed the plates Clotilde held her bouquet to her flushed cheeks in turn, and gazed at Marie, who held the flowers to her own cheeks, both of which were creamy white as some of the blossoms; and she, too, gazed rather curiously at her sister, trying to read her meaning in her eyes.
But nobody paid any heed to Ruth, who looked wistfully at the gorgeous colours in Clotilde’s bouquet, and the delicate tints in that of Marie, and she could not help wishing that someone sent her flowers – someone, say, like Captain Glen. Then she thought of Mr Montaigne, and she shivered, she hardly knew why, as she asked herself whether she ought not to have told her aunts of his visit and his ways. Then her thoughts were brought back to the happy present by Joseph placing a large section of “roley-poley” pudding before her upon a plate – not the ordinary homely “roley-poley” pudding, with flaky pastry and luscious gushings of the sweetest jam; but a peculiarly hard, mechanical style of compound which kept its shape, and in which the preserve presented itself in a rich streak of pink, starting from the centre, and winding round and round to the circumference, as if cook had turned artist, and was trying to perpetuate the neighbouring Maze in pastry at the least expenditure in cost.
The cheese which followed was Glo’ster of the ducal sound and soapy consistency, and then the empty plates, representing dessert, were placed upon the table – there was no fruit that day; grace had been said, and the ladies rose, Clotilde and Marie being kissed, and advised to place their bouquets in water in the drawing-room.
“They would look so nice if anyone called, my dears,” said Miss Philippa.
“Which they might, you know, my darling,” added Miss Isabella, smiling, and nodding her head.
So the flowers were placed in vases, duly watered, and the young ladies went up once more to their room, under orders to quickly redescend.
“There!” cried Clotilde maliciously, as soon as they were alone, “I knew it – I knew it! Ruth! Cindy! Do you hear! Go down on one knee, and kiss the hand of the future Viscountess or Baroness, or whatever she is to be, Lady Moorpark.”
“No, don’t, Ruth,” cried Marie fiercely. “Go and salute the future Mrs Elbraham. Let me see, Clo dear; do ladies who marry Jews become Jewesses?”
“Perhaps they do,” cried Clotilde, who had no repartee ready.
Marie laughed. “Jew – Jewess! Clo – old Clo! I wonder whether Mr Elbraham made his money that way? Eh, Clo dear?”
“I shall throw the water-bottle or the jug at you directly,” cried Clotilde, as she washed her hands. “Never mind: he is rich, and not old. I wouldn’t marry a yellow, snuffy old man, if he were ten thousand lords. There!”
“Who’s going to marry him?” said Marie scornfully.
“You are. You’ll be obliged to,” retorted Clotilde.
“I wonder,” said Marie, “whether Mr Elbraham is going to buy you of aunties, and if so, how much he is going to give.”
Clotilde faced round at this sting.
“If you think I’m going to marry him, or if aunts think so, they are mistaken!” she cried. “I know what I am going to do. I know something that you would give your ears to know, my lady.”
She looked mockingly at her sister, and waved her hand, as if wafting a kiss through the air.
Marie did not respond, but there was something in her eyes that troubled Ruth, who, being near, laid her hand in a sympathetic fashion upon her arm.
A summons from Markes put a stop to further conversation.
“What is it, Markes?” cried Clotilde.
“Aunts want you,” said the woman roughly. “Gentlemen visitors;” and before she could be further questioned she closed the door.
“I know,” cried Clotilde, darting a malicious glance at her sister: “it’s Captain Glen, and he has brought his little squire with him. Come along down, and speak to Richard Millet, while I talk to the Captain. I say, Rie, dear.”
“Well?”
“What a nice little husband he would make – quite a lady’s page!”
“‘My pretty page, look out afar,
Look out, look out afar,’”
she sang; but Marie seemed hardly to notice her, for she was very quiet and thoughtful, as she gave a touch or two to her hair.
“There, that will do; come along – you won’t be noticed.”
Marie glanced at her sharply, and the blood suffused her cheeks; but she said nothing, only beckoned to Ruth to come, and they had nearly reached the drawing-room door when they met Markes, who took Ruth into custody.
“Not you, my dear,” she said quietly – “you’re to stop; it’s them that’s to go.”
As she laid her hand upon the door Clotilde’s heart beat fast, while a look of delight flushed her countenance. At the same time, though, she wondered that Marcus Glen and his friend should have called so soon.
“The silly old things!” she thought; “they could not see that the bouquets came from the Captain and Mr Millet.”
Then she glanced round to see that her sister was close beside her, opened the door, and entered.
Disappointment!
Seated with their backs to the window were Mr Elbraham and Lord Henry Moorpark. The Fates had ordained that they should make their calls both at the same hour, and they now rose to meet Clotilde and Marie.
“Then they did send the bouquets,” thought Clotilde; and her heart sank at the thought of their aunts’ innuendoes meaning anything serious.
Had she or her sister any doubts, they were soon chased away; for, though this was made quite a formal visit, there was a something quite unmistakable in their visitors’ ways.
Lord Henry and Elbraham had encountered close by the door, and a look of distrust overspread their features as they exchanged an exceedingly cool salutation; but soon after their meeting the elder and the younger sisters, matters seemed so satisfactory, that their breasts expanded with quite a brotherly feeling.
Elbraham had the natural dislike of a man of his stamp for one who happened to be high-born, and was by nature refined and amiable; while Lord Henry, with his gentlemanly notions of polish, felt rather a shrinking from the blatant man of the world, whose manners were not always separated from the dross that clings to badly-refined metal. But in a very short time each saw that he was on a different route, and that there was no likelihood of their clashing in their onward journey.
The Honourable sisters were amiability itself, and played most cleverly into their visitors’ hands; while, in spite of a feeling of repugnance and disgust at the idea of their being, as it were, sold into bondage to men so much older than themselves, and so very far from their hearts’ ideal of a lover, both Clotilde and Marie felt flattered.
For as Clotilde listened to Elbraham’s deep voice, and gazed unflinchingly in his coarse face, she saw through him, as it were, and beyond him, visions of life and gaiety, of a princely establishment, with servants and carriages and plate, and, for her own special use, the richest of dresses, the brightest of bonnets, and jewels as many as she would.
Marie, too, as she listened to the polished, deferential remarks of Lord Henry Moorpark, and saw the deep interest and admiration that beamed from his eyes, could not help thoughts of a similar character crossing her mind. Lord Henry was certainly old, but he was the perfection of all that was gentlemanly, and his deference for the young and beautiful woman to whom he was certainly paying his court had for her something that was very grateful to her feelings, while it was flattering to her self-esteem.
But interposing, as it were, between them and the visitors, the frank, manly countenance of Marcus Glen was constantly rising before the young girls’ vision, making them thoughtful and distant as their visitors chatted on. This, however, only added to their attraction, especially in Lord Henry’s eyes. To him even the shabby furniture and their simple dresses lent a piquancy that he would have missed had they been elsewhere; and at last, when he rose to take his leave, both gentlemen stepped out into the open air feeling as if their paths were in future to be strewn with roses, and ready to become brothers on the spot.
“Shall we take a walk in the gardens for a few minutes, my lord?” said Elbraham, as they stood together outside.
“With much pleasure, Mr Elbraham,” replied Lord Henry.
“Then I’ll just hook on,” said Elbraham.
He did “hook on” – to wit, he took Lord Henry’s arm; and that gentleman did not shrink, but walked with the millionaire down one of the broad walks between the trim lawns, both for the time being silent.
“I’m a man of the world,” said Mr Elbraham at last.
“Indeed,” said Lord Henry.
“Yes, my lord, and I’m going to speak out like a man of that sort.”
Lord Henry bowed and smiled, for he had Marie’s great dark eyes before him, and the memory was very pleasant at the time.
“Just an hour ago, my lord, when I met you at that door, I felt as if we two were to be enemies.”
“Indeed,” said Lord Henry again. “Yes, my lord; but now I don’t think we are.”
“Surely not.”
“To be plain then, my lord, I am going to propose in due form for the hand of Miss Clotilde.”
Lord Henry stopped short, with his eyes half-closed, and one foot beating the gravel as if he were thinking out an answer to the remark made by the man who held his arm.
“Well, my lord, what have you got to say?”
“Not much,” said Lord Henry, rousing himself; “but I will be frank and plain to you, Mr Elbraham, though no one is more surprised at this change in my prospects than I. You are going to propose for the hand of Miss Clotilde, one of the most beautiful women I ever saw.”
“Eh!” exclaimed Elbraham, whose jaw dropped, “don’t say that.”
“But I do say it,” said Lord Henry, smiling, and looking very dreamy and thoughtful: “the most beautiful woman I ever saw – except her sister – for whose hand I shall become a candidate myself.”
“Hah!” ejaculated Mr Elbraham, with a sigh of relief; “then look here, my lord, under these circumstances we shall be brothers-in-law.”
“Probably so.”
“Then we’ll have no more ceremony. Look here, my lord, I’m a plain man, and I don’t boast of my blood nor my position, but I’m warm; and a fellow can’t find a better friend than I can be when I take to a man. I like you. You’ve got blood, and a title, and all that sort of thing; but that isn’t all: you’re a gentleman, without any haw-haw, sit-upon-a-fellow airs. Moorpark, there’s my hand, and from henceforth I’ll back you up in anything.”
“Thank you, Mr Elbraham,” said Lord Henry, smiling, for in his then frame of mind the coarse manners of his companion were kept from jarring by the roses that metaphorically hedged him in. “There, then, is my hand, and I’m sure we shall be the best of friends.”
“And brothers,” exclaimed Elbraham, giving Lord Henry exquisite pain, which he bore like a martyr, by crushing his fingers against a heavy signet ring.
“God bless you, Moorpark! God bless you!”
There was more than a trace of emotion in Lord Henry’s eyes just then, as he warmly returned the other’s grasp; and then they walked on together.
“I shan’t shilly-shally, Moorpark,” exclaimed Elbraham hoarsely. “I shall send her down a few diamonds and things at once. What’s the use of waiting?”
“Ay, what, indeed!” said Lord Henry, smiling.
“Besides, my friend, we are too old.”
“Well, I don’t know so much about that, Moorpark. A man’s as old as he feels; and hang it, sir, when I’m in the presence of that woman, sir, I feel two-and-twenty.”
“Well, yes; it does make one feel young and hopeful, and as if we imbibed some of their sweetness and youth, Elbraham.”
“Sweetness and youth! Ah, that’s it, Moorpark. Sweetness and youth – they’re full of it. Miss Riversley’s lovely, ain’t she?”
“Truly a beautiful woman.”
“That she is,” said Elbraham. “Though, for the fact of that, Marie is not to be sneezed at.”
“No, by no means,” assented Lord Henry, whose brow knit a little here. “They are very charming, and thoroughly unspoiled by the world.”
“That’s the beauty of them, Moorpark, and that’s what fetches me, my dear boy. Lord bless your heart! with my money I could have married a thousand women. I’m not boasting, Moorpark, but I can assure you I’ve stood up like a stump, and duchesses, and countesses, and viscountesses, and my lady this and my lady that, have for any number of years bowled their daughters at me, and I might have had my pick and choice,” said Elbraham – apparently forgetting in his excitement that there was a trifling degree of exaggeration in his words, for his efforts to get into high-class society had not been successful on the whole.
“I am not surprised – with your wealth,” said Lord Henry.
“Yes, I am warm,” continued Elbraham; “and the best of the fun is, that they were all ready to forget that I was a Jew. For I don’t mind speaking plainly to you: I have some of the chosen blood in my veins, though I have changed over. But that’s neither here nor there.”
“Of course not,” assented Lord Henry.
“And what I like in our beauties is, that they look as if they’d got some of the chosen blood in them.”
“Ye-e-es,” assented Lord Henry; “they are dark, with the Southern look in their complexions. But it improves them.”
“Improves! I should think it does. Why, look here, Moorpark, you saw Clotilde to-day in that plain cotton dress thing, or whatever it was?”
“Yes, and she looked beautiful as her sister,” said Lord Henry warmly.
“She did – she did. But wait a bit, my boy. I’ll hang diamonds and pearls round that girl’s neck, and stick tiaras in her hair, and bracelets on her arms, till I make even the princesses envious – that I will. But now, look here, I’m glad we’ve come to an understanding. You’ll dine with me at my club, Moorpark? Don’t say no.”
“With pleasure, if you will dine with me.”
“Done. Where do you hang out?”
“Four hundred and four, Berkeley Square.”
“Say Monday for me, at the Imperial – seven sharp; and we’ll settle when I come to you.”
“At seven on Monday,” said Lord Henry, “I will be there.”
“And now I must be off back to town. Good-bye, God bless you, Moorpark. One word first: you’ll like to do it handsome, of course, in presents, and that sort of thing.”
“Indeed I shall not be ungenerous as soon as I know her tastes.”
“Then look here, Moorpark, these things cost money.”
“Assuredly.”
“Then can I do anything for you? A few thousands on your simple note of hand? Only say the word. No dealing – no interest. Just a simple loan. How much?”
“My dear Elbraham,” said Lord Henry, “you are very kind; but I have a handsome balance at my bank. I am a man of very simple tastes, and I have never lived half up to my income.”
“Then you must be worth a pot,” exclaimed Elbraham. “I mean, you are really rich.”
“Well, I suppose I am,” said Lord Henry, smiling; “but I care very little for money, I assure you.”
“That’ll do,” exclaimed Elbraham, crushing the other’s hand once more. “Good-bye. Monday.”
By this time they had reached the spot where their carriages were waiting – Elbraham’s a phaeton, with a magnificent pair of bays, whose sides were flecked with the foam they had formed in champing their bits; Lord Henry’s a neat little brougham drawn by a handsome roan.
Then there was a wave of the hand, and Elbraham took his whip, the bays starting off at a rapid trot, while, having let himself into his brougham, Lord Henry gave the word “Home,” and leaned back with the tears in his eyes to think how soon he was finding consolation for the coldness with which he had been treated by Gertrude Millet. Then he felt slightly uneasy, for though he had never spoken to Lady Millet, his visits had been suggestive, and he could not help asking himself what her ladyship would say.
But that soon passed off, as he began to glide into a delightful day-dream about beautiful Marie, and to think how strange it was that, at his age, he should have fallen fairly and honestly in love with an innocent, heart-whole, unspoiled girl.
“Yes, so different to Gertrude Millet,” he said to himself. “She loved that young Huish, I am sure.”