Loe raamatut: «A Double Knot», lehekülg 9
Acting the part of host now for the time being, he soon proposed that they should adjourn, for there was a strange longing within him to be within sight and hearing of Marie.
“Ah, to be sure,” said Elbraham; “if I wanted to invest, gentlemen, I should say Egyptian bonds. By all means, let’s join the ladies.”
He, too, had come to the conclusion that he should like “another talk to that girl.” But the drawing-room was filling fast, and there were no more tête-à-têtes. Arthur Litton arrived soon after ten, and his chief approached him to shake hands, as if they had not met for some time.
“Well?” said Litton.
“Stunning, sir, stunning! ’Bove par.”
“Oh!”
“Deuced good dinner, Litton, ’pon my soul. People not half so snobbish as I expected to find them. I say, look here. What do you think of that piece of goods?”
He indicated Clotilde, about whom Dick Millet was now hovering; but who had turned from him to listen to a remark just made by Glen.
“Hum, ha!” said Litton critically. “Oh, that’s one of the Dymcox girls, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t ask you anything about who she is; I said what do you think of her?”
“Not bad-looking, I should say,” replied Litton coolly; “but nothing particular.”
“Oh, you be blowed!” said the great financier, and he screwed his short thick neck down a little lower into his chest, and turned away.
“Well, Lady Littletown, how do matters make themselves?” said Litton quietly, when, after a time, her ladyship passed his way.
“Oh, Arturo, mio caro!” said her ladyship, tickling the centre stud in his shirt-front with the end of her closed fan. “Maravigliosamente. My dear boy, it is wonderful. You shall have a rich wife, Arthur, if you are good, and this affair is un fait accompli.”
“Why didn’t you try a bit of German, too?” muttered Litton, as her ladyship passed on. “Here, I must get on with some of these officers; perhaps they’d take me to their quarters, and give me a smoke and an S. and B. Hang this tea! I forgot, though, I promised Potiphar to go home with him. Hang the beast! but it will save me a fare.”
Everyone was delighted. Lady Littletown was charmed over and over again, but when at last an obsequious footman, who seemed to be shod with velvet, whispered to the Honourable Philippa that her carriage had arrived, that lady, who felt very tired and sleepy, said mentally, “Thank goodness!”
But it was half an hour later before she made a move, and the drawing-rooms were growing unbearably hot with the chattering, buzzing crowd.
Suddenly there was silence, as the Honourable Misses Dymcox rose to go.
Lady Littletown was so sorry the evening had been so short, but she managed to exchange meaning looks.
“I think, yes,” she whispered; and the Honourable Philippa nodded and tightened her lips.
“Good-night, my sweet darling,” said Lady Littletown, kissing Clotilde affectionately. “Mind you come and see me soon. Good-night, dearest Marie. How well you look to-night, child!”
Then her ladyship saw through her square eyeglass, with the broad chased gold rim, Elbraham, podgy, stout and puffy, take Clotilde down to the carriage, followed by Lord Henry with Marie, and Captain Glen with the Honourable Isabella, and little Richard Millet with the Honourable Philippa; everyone but Joseph being perfectly ignorant of the fact that Mr Buddy had been imbibing largely of the stimulants plentifully handed round to the various servants outside.
But the ladies were duly packed inside, the jangling door was banged to, and Joseph, having mounted to the box beside Mr Buddy, perhaps only out of regard for his own safety, assumed the reins of government himself, and steered the fly to the Palace doors.
“Good-night, children,” said the Honourable Misses Dymcox in duet. “Take care of your dresses whatever you do!”
“Oh, Rie!” cried Clotilde, as soon as they were in their bedroom.
“Oh, Clo!” cried Marie. Then, crossing to the farther door to the cupboard in which Ruth’s bed was squeezed – “’Sleep, Ruthy?”
“No, Marie,” was the reply, as a troubled, pale face was lifted from the pillow.
“Why, I declare she has been crying!” said Clotilde. “There, jump up and help us to undress, Cindy, and we’ll tell you all about the prince and the ball. You weren’t there, were you?”
No; Cinderella, otherwise Ruth Allerton, had not been there; but she had been crying bitterly, for she had had a fright.
Volume One – Chapter Eleven.
Family Matters
Captain Robert Millet’s lunch was carried up to him upon a very stiff, narrow tray, which took dishes and plates one after the other in a long row. It was evidently something or several somethings very savoury and nice from the odours exhaled, but everything was carefully covered over.
It was no easy task, the carriage of that long, narrow tray from the basement to the back drawing-room on the first floor, especially as there were gravies and other liquids on the tray; but Valentine Vidler and his wife had taken up breakfasts, lunches, and dinners too many thousand times to be in any difficulty now.
So, starting from the dark kitchen, where coppers, pewters, and tins shone like so many moons amidst the gloom, the odd couple each took an end of the tray, which was quite six feet long, and Vidler’s own invention. Salome went first, backwards, and Vidler followed over the level, when, as the little woman reached the mat at the foot of the kitchen stairs, there was a pause, while she held the tray with one hand and gave her long garments a hitch, so as to hold one end in her teeth and not tread upon them as she went up backwards. Then, stooping and holding the tray as low as she could, she began to ascend, Vidler following and gradually raising his end to preserve the level of the tray till he held it right above his head.
This raising and lowering in ascent and upon level was all carried out in the most exact and regular way – in fact, so practised had the old couple grown in the course of years, that they could have carried a brimming glass of water up the gloomy stairs without spilling a drop. Hence, then, they reached the drawing-room with the tray preserving its equilibrium from bottom to top.
As soon as they were inside Salome placed her end upon the little bracket while Vidler retained his; then she went out of the room, took up a big, soft drumstick, and gave three gentle taps on a gong that hung in its frame – three taps at long intervals, which sounded like the boomings of a bell at the funeral of a fish and a fowl – and then returned to the drawing-room and stood on the right-hand side of the panel close to the wall with one hand raised.
As she took her place the panel was softly slid back towards her. Then she took off the first cover, Vidler acting in conjunction, made the long tray glide slowly forwards into the opening, its end evidently resting on something within. Then two hands appeared, a knife and fork were used, with a glass at intervals, and the fish was discussed.
As soon as the knife and fork were laid down Salome whipped off two more covers, and the tray glided in a couple of feet further, both the lady and her lord keeping their eyes fixed upon the floor.
The calmness and ease with which all this was carried on indicated long practice, and for precision no amount of drilling could have secured greater regularity. As the knife and fork fell upon the plate again there was a pause, for a pint decanter and glass were pushed opposite the thin white hands that now approached, and, removing the stopper, filled the glass. Then a cover was raised, and the tray glided onward once more, with some steaming asparagus on toast; and after a short pause the cold, colourless voice was heard to repeat a short grace, the tray was slowly withdrawn, the panel glided to, and Vidler and his little wife bore the remains of the luncheon to the lower regions.
Hardly had the tray been set down before there was a double knock, and on going upstairs Vidler found John Huish at the front door.
“Would Captain Millet give me an interview, Vidler?” he asked.
The little man looked at him sidewise, then tried the other eye, and ended by standing out of the way and letting the visitor enter, shutting out the light again as carefully as before.
“I’ll try, sir,” he said; “I don’t think he will. I was just going to take up that,” he continued, pointing to a basket of coloured scraps of print. “He’s about to begin a new counterpane to-day.”
“A new what?” said Huish.
“A new counterpane for the Home Charity. That’ll be six he has made this year. I’ll show you the last.”
He led Huish into the darkened dining-room, and showed him a wonderfully neat piece of needlework, a regular set pattern, composed of hundreds upon hundreds of tiny scraps of cotton print.
“Makes ’em better than many women could, and almost in the dark,” said the little man; “but I’ll go up and see. Miss Millet and her sister have not been gone long.”
“What!” cried Huish, “from here?”
“Gone nearly or quite an hour ago, sir. Been a good deal lately.”
“My usual fortune,” muttered Huish excitedly. “But go up,” he said aloud; “I particularly want to have a few words with him.”
“I don’t think it’s of any use, sir; but I’ll see,” repeated the little man; and he went upstairs, to return at the end of about five minutes to beckon the visitor up, and left him facing the panel.
It was evident that the young man had been there before, as he took a seat, and waited patiently for the panel to unclose, which it did at last, but not until quite a quarter of an hour had passed.
“Well, John Huish,” said the voice, “what do you want?”
It was rather a chilling reception for one who had come upon such a mission; but he was prepared for it, and dashed at once into the object of his visit, in spite of the peculiarity of having to address himself to a square opening in the wall.
“I have come for advice and counsel,” said Huish firmly.
“You, a man of the world, living in the world, come to such an anchorite as I!” said the voice – “as I, who have for pretty well thirty years been dead to society and its ways?”
“Yes,” said Huish. “I come to you because you can help.”
“How much do you want, John Huish?” said the voice. “Give me the pen and ink.”
The thin white hand appeared impatiently at the opening, with the fingers clutching as if to take the pen.
“No, no, no!” said the young man hastily. “It is not that. Let me tell you,” he exclaimed, as the fingers ceased to clutch impatiently at the air and the white hand rested calmly upon the edge of the opening – “let me speak plainly, for I am not ashamed of it – I am in love.”
There was a faint sigh here, hardly audible to the young man, who went on:
“I come to you for help and advice.”
“What can I do to help? As for advice,” said the voice coldly, “I will do what I can. Is she worthy of your love?”
“Worthy?” cried Huish, flushing. “She is an angel.”
“Yes,” said the voice, with a sigh. “They all are. But, tell me, does she refuse you.”
“No, sir.”
“Then what more do you want? Who and what is she?”
These last words were said with more approach to interest, and the fingers began to tap the edge of the opening.
“It is presumption on my part,” said Huish, growing excited, and rising to stride up and down the room, “for I am poor and unworthy of her.”
“No true honourable man is unworthy of the woman he loves,” said the voice calmly, “though he may, perhaps, be unsuited. Go on. Who is the lady?”
“Who is she, sir? I believed that you must know. It is your niece – Gertrude.”
“My God!”
It was almost a whisper, but John Huish heard it, and saw that the thin white hand seemed to be jerked upwards, falling slowly back, though, to remain upon the edge of the opening trembling.
“I shock you, sir, by my announcement,” said Huish bitterly.
“No – yes – no; net shock – surprise me greatly.” There was a pause, and the fingers trembled as they were now and again raised, then grew steady as they were laid down. “But tell me,” it continued, trembling and becoming less cold, “does Gertrude return your love?”
“Oh yes, Heaven bless her, yes!” cried the young man fervently; and there was another silence, such as might have ensued had the owner of the voice been trying to master some emotion.
“What more, then, do you want?” said the voice, now greatly changed. “You, an honourable young man, in love with a girl who is all sweetness and purity. It is strange; but it is the will of God. Marry her, and may He bless the union!”
“Captain Millet, you make me very, very happy,” cried the young man; and before the hand could be removed it was seized and pressed in his strong grasp.
It was withdrawn directly, and a fresh silence ensued, when the voice said softly:
“And my brother, does he approve?”
“Oh yes; I think so,” replied Huish; “but – ”
“The mother objects – of course. She has made her choice. Who is it?”
“Lord Henry Moorpark.”
“A man nearly three times her age. It would be a crime. You will not permit such an outrage against her youth. Moorpark must be mad.”
“What can I do, sir?” cried Huish. “That is why I ask your help and counsel.”
“Bah!” said the voice contemptuously. “You are young and strong; you have your wits; Gertrude loves you, and you ask me for help and counsel! John Huish, at your age, under such circumstances, it would have been a bold man who would have robbed me of my prize. There, go – go, young man, and think and act. Poor Gertrude! she has a mother who makes Mammon her God – a woman who has broken one of her children’s hearts; do not let her break that of the other. Go now, I am weary: this has been a tiring day. You can come to me again.”
“Do not let her break that of the other,” said John Huish to himself as the panel slowly closed; and from that moment the dim twilight of the shuttered house became to him glorious with light, and he went away feeling joyous and elastic as he had not felt for days. As he neared his chambers a thin, grey, hard-faced-looking woman, who had stood watching for quite an hour, stepped out of a doorway and touched him on the arm.
He turned sharply, and she said in a low voice:
“I must see you. Come to-morrow night at the old time.”
Before he could speak she had hurried away, turned down the next street, and was gone.
“To-morrow night – the old time?” said Huish, gazing after her, and then raising his hat to place his hand upon his forehead. “Quite cool. Is it fancy? Why should that woman speak to me?”
Then, turning upon his heel, he entered the door of his chambers, and set himself to work to think over his interview, and to devise some plan for defeating Lady Millet in her projected enterprise.
“It would shock her,” he said at last; “but when she knows of her uncle’s views she might be influenced. She must, she shall be. The poor old man’s words have given me strength, and I shall win, after all. But what slaves we are to custom and prejudice! I ought not to be the man to study them in such a case as this.”
Then the words just spoken to him at the door came back to puzzle and set him thinking of several other encounters – or fancied encounters with people whom he felt that he had never seen before.
“I don’t know what to say to it,” he thought; “Stonor ought to know; but somehow I feel as if he had not grasped my case. There, I will not trouble about that now.”
He kept the thoughts which troubled him from his brain for a time, but they soon forced themselves back with others.
“I wonder,” he mused, “what took place in the past? There must have been something. My father and mother must have known Captain Millet very intimately. He received his injury from some fall, and Dr Stonor saved his limb, I believe. But there’s a reticence about all that time which is aggravating. I suppose I must wait, and when I learn everything which puzzles me now, it will be only shadowy and vague. Only my mother always asks about the Captain with so tender a tone of respect. Ah, well! I must wait.”
At about the same time that John Huish was pondering over his state in connection with his love affairs, Renée Morrison called in her carriage for her sister, bore her off to where she thought they could be alone, and sent the carriage back. The place chosen was the Park, which, though pretty well thronged with people, seemed to them solitary, as they strolled across toward the Row.
Gertrude was very silent, for she felt that Renée had something important to say; but the minutes sped on, and their scattered remarks had been of the most commonplace character, and at last, as she glanced sideways, Gertrude saw that if her sister were to confide her troubles and be the recipient of those effervescing in her own breast she herself must speak.
“You do not confide in me, Renée dear,” she said tenderly, as they took a couple of chairs beneath one of the spreading trees. “Why do you not always make me more your confidant? One feels as if one could talk out here in the park, where there are no walls to listen. Come, dear, why do you not tell me all?”
“Because I feel that my husband’s secrets are in my keeping, and that I should be doing wrong to speak of what he does.”
“Not wrong in confiding in me, Renée. You are not happy. Oh, Ren, Ren, why did you consent? Trouble, and so soon!”
“Don’t talk to me like that, now, Gerty,” cried Renée in a low, passionate voice, “because it was mamma’s will that we should marry well and have establishments, and satisfy her pride. Sometimes I think it would have been better if I had never been born.”
“Oh, Ren, Ren,” her sister whispered, pressing her hand. “But Frank – he is kind to you?”
“Yes,” said Renée sadly; “he is never angry with me.”
“But I mean kind and loving and attentive, as your husband should be?” said Gertrude softly.
Renée looked at her with a sad, heavy look, and now that the first confidence had been made, her heart was open to her sister.
“Gertrude,” she whispered to her, “he never loved me!”
“Oh, Ren dear, think what you are saying!”
“I do think, dear, and I say it once more. He never loved me.”
“But, Renée, you have been kind and loving to him.”
“Yes, as tender as a woman could be to the man she had sworn to love; but he does not care for me, and I am haunted.”
“Haunted, Renée?”
“Yes; hush! Here is Major Malpas.”
Gertrude glanced in the direction taken by her sister’s eyes, and her heart seemed to be compressed as by a cold hand, as she turned indignantly to her sister.
“Renée!” she said, in a horrified whisper, “oh, do not say you care for him still!”
“Gertrude!” cried Renée, catching her hand, “how dare you say that! I hate – I detest him! I thought him a gentleman once, and I did love him; but that was over when I married Frank, and since then he has haunted me; he follows me everywhere, and Frank makes him his constant companion, and he leads him away.”
“Oh, this is dreadful!”
“Dreadful!” cried Renée, “I feel at times that I cannot bear it. Come away: he has seen us, and is coming here.”
“Is – is that Mr Huish?” whispered Gertrude, gazing in another direction.
“Yes. Who is the dark lady on his arm?”
“I do not know,” said Gertrude quietly. “Some friend, perhaps; but, look, is not that Frank?”
She drew her sister’s attention towards a phaeton in which Frank Morrison was driving a handsome-looking woman dressed in the height of fashion; and directly Renée saw him plainly the Major came up.
“What a delightful meeting, Miss Millet!” he said. “Mrs Morrison, I hope I shall not be de trop?”
“My husband’s friends have too great a claim on me,” said Renée quietly, as she left her seat and moved in the direction of her own home; but she kept glancing in the direction taken by the phaeton.
It was cleverly-managed, and as if Malpas knew exactly when the carriage would next come by, timing his place so well that the sisters were close to the railings as the dashing pair scattered some of the earth over the young wife’s dress.
“Who is that with Frank Morrison, Major Malpas?” said Gertrude quickly.
“I beg your pardon?” he said.
“That fashionably-dressed lady in my brother-in-law’s phaeton. There they go.”
“Indeed!” said the Major. “I was not looking. Are you sure it was he?”
“Certain,” replied Gertrude.
“My dear Mrs Morrison, is anything the matter?” cried the Major, with a voice full of sympathy.
“No, nothing,” said the young wife, who was now deadly pale. “May I ask you – to leave us?”
“Yes,” he said earnestly; “but I shall not go. Pray take my arm. Miss Millet, your sister is ill. I fear you have been imprudent and have taxed her strength. I must see her safely home, or I could not face Morrison again.”
“He haunts me!” thought Gertrude to herself, as she recalled her sister’s words, and found that the Major persisted in walking by her side till they reached Chesham Place, where, murmuring his satisfaction that Renée seemed better, he left the sisters in the hall.
“All things come to the man who waits,” he muttered to himself, as he went off smiling.
“Renée,” said Gertrude, as soon as they were alone, “have you ever encouraged him in any way since your marriage? How is it he seems to have such a hold upon you?”
“I do not know – I cannot tell,” said Renée wearily, as, with brow contracted, she sat thinking of the scene in the Park. “But do not mention him – do not think of him, Gertrude dear; he is as nothing in face of this new misery.”
“New misery?” said Gertrude innocently.
“Yes,” cried Renée passionately; “do you not see? Oh, Frank, Frank!” she moaned, “why do you treat me so?”
Gertrude, upon whom all this came like a revelation, strove to comfort her, and to point out that her fears might be mere exaggerations, but her sister turned sharply.
“You do not understand these things, Gertrude,” she said. “He does not love me as he should, and, knowing this, Major Malpas has never ceased to try and tempt him away from me – to the clubs – to gambling parties, from which he comes home hot and feverish; and now it seems that worse is to follow. Oh, mother, mother! you have secured me an establishment which I would gladly change for the humblest cottage, if it contained my husband’s faithful love.”
Gertrude’s heart beat fast at these words, and a faltering purpose became strengthened.
“But, Ren darling,” she whispered; “have you spoken to him and tried to win him from such associations? Frank is so good at heart.”
“Yes,” sighed Renée; “but so weak and easily led away. Spoken to him, Gertrude? No, dear. As his wife, I have felt that I must ignore such things. I would not know that he visited such places – that he gambled – that he returned home excited. I have put all such thoughts aside, and met him always with the same smile of welcome, when my heart has been well-nigh broken.”
“My poor sister!” whispered Gertrude, drawing her head to her breast and thinking of the husband and establishment that her mother had arranged for her to possess.
“But this I feel that I cannot bear,” cried Renée impetuously. “It is too great an outrage!”
“Oh, Ren, Ren!” whispered Gertrude, “do not judge him too rashly; wait and see – it may be all a mistake.”
“Mistake!” said Renée bitterly; “did you not see him driving that woman out? Did you not see her occupying the place that should be mine?”
“Yes – yes,” faltered Gertrude; “but still there may be some explanation.”
“Yes,” said Renée at last, as she dried her tears and sat up, looking very cold and stern; “there may be, and we will wait and see. At all events, I will not say one single harsh word.”
Gertrude left her at last quite calm and composed, the brougham being ordered for her use, and she sat back thinking of John Huish with the dark lady; but only to smile, for no jealous fancy troubled her breast.
