CHAPTER VII.
Wharton was sitting alone in the big Mellor drawing-room, after dinner.He had drawn one of the few easy chairs the room possessed to the fire,and with his feet on the fender, and one of Mr. Boyce's French novels onhis knee, he was intensely enjoying a moment of physical ease. The workof these weeks of canvassing and speaking had been arduous, and he wasnaturally indolent. Now, beside this fire and at a distance, it amazedhim that any motive whatever, public or private, should ever have beenstrong enough to take him out through the mire on these winter nights tospout himself hoarse to a parcel of rustics. "What did I do it for?" heasked himself; "what am I going to do it for again to-morrow?"
Ten o'clock. Mr. Boyce was gone to bed. No more entertaining of _him_ tobe done; one might be thankful for that mercy. Miss Boyce and her motherwould, he supposed, be down directly. They had gone up to dress at nine.It was the night of the Maxwell Court ball, and the carriage had beenordered for half-past ten. In a few minutes he would see Miss Boyce inher new dress, wearing Raeburn's pearls. He was extraordinarilyobservant, and a number of little incidents and domestic arrangementsbearing on the feminine side of Marcella's life had been apparent tohim from the beginning. He knew, for instance, that the trousseau wasbeing made at home, and that during the last few weeks the lady for whomit was destined had shown an indifference to the progress of it whichseemed to excite a dumb annoyance in her mother. Curious woman, Mrs.Boyce!
He found himself listening to every opening door, and already, as itwere, gazing at Marcella in her white array. He was not asked to thisball. As he had early explained to Miss Boyce, he and Miss Raeburn hadbeen "cuts" for years, for what reason he had of course left Marcella toguess. As if Marcella found any difficulty in guessing--as if thepreposterous bigotries and intolerances of the Ladies' League were notenough to account for any similar behaviour on the part of any similarhigh-bred spinster! As for this occasion, she was far too proud both onher own behalf and Wharton's to say anything either to Lord Maxwell orhis sister on the subject of an invitation for her father's guest.
It so happened, however, that Wharton was aware of certain other reasonsfor his social exclusion from Maxwell Court. There was no necessity, ofcourse, for enlightening Miss Boyce on the point. But as he sat waitingfor her, Wharton's mind went back to the past connected with thosereasons. In that past Raeburn had had the whip-hand of him; Raeburn hadbeen the moral superior dictating indignant terms to a young fellowdetected in flagrant misconduct. Wharton did not know that he bore himany particular grudge. But he had never liked Aldous, as a boy, that hecould remember; naturally he had liked him less since that old affair.The remembrance of it had made his position at Mellor particularly sweetto him from the beginning; he was not sure that it had not determinedhis original acceptance of the offer made to him by the LiberalCommittee to contest old Dodgson's seat. And during the past few weeksthe exhilaration and interest of the general position--considering allthings--had been very great. Not only was he on the point of ousting theMaxwell candidate from a seat which he had held securely foryears--Wharton was perfectly well aware by now that he was trespassingon Aldous Raeburn's preserves in ways far more important, and infinitelymore irritating! He and Raeburn had not met often at Mellor during theseweeks of fight. Each had been too busy. But whenever they had comeacross each other Wharton had clearly perceived that his presence in thehouse, his growing intimacy with Marcella Boyce, the free-masonry ofopinion between them, the interest she took in his contest, the villagefriendships they had in common, were all intensely galling to AldousRaeburn.
The course of events, indeed, had lately produced in Wharton a certainexcitement--recklessness even. He had come down into these parts tocourt "the joy of eventful living"--politically and personally. But thesituation had proved to be actually far more poignant and personal thanhe had expected. This proud, crude, handsome girl--to her certainly itwas largely due that the days had flown as they had. He was perfectly,one might almost say gleefully, aware that at the present moment it washe and not Aldous Raeburn who was intellectually her master. His mindflew back at first with amusement, then with a thrill of something else,over their talks and quarrels. He smiled gaily as he recalled her fitsof anger with him, her remonstrances, appeals--and then her awkwardinevitable submissions when he had crushed her with sarcasm or withfacts. Ah! she would go to this ball to-night; Aldous Raeburn wouldparade her as his possession; but she would go with thoughts, ambitions,ideals, which, as they developed, would make her more and more difficultfor a Raeburn to deal with. And in those thoughts and ambitions the manwho had been her tormentor, teacher, and companion during six rushingweeks knew well that he already counted for much. He had cherished inher all those "divine discontents" which were already there when hefirst knew her; taught her to formulate them, given her better reasonsfor them; so that by now she was a person with a far more defined andstormy will than she had been to begin with. Wharton did notparticularly know why he should exult; but he did exult. At any rate, hewas prodigiously tickled--by the whole position.
A step, a rustle outside--he hastily shut his book and listened.
The door opened, and Marcella came in--a white vision against the heavyblue of the walls. With her came, too, a sudden strong scent of flowers,for she carried a marvellous bunch of hot-house roses, Aldous's gift,which had just arrived by special messenger.
Wharton sprang up and placed a chair for her.
"I had begun to believe the ball only existed in my own imagination!"he said gaily. "Surely you are very late."
Then he saw that she looked disturbed.
"It was papa," she said, coming to the fire, and looking down into it."It has been another attack of pain--not serious, mamma says; she iscoming down directly. But I wonder why they come, and why he thinkshimself so ill--do you know?" she added abruptly, turning to hercompanion.
Wharton hesitated, taken by surprise. During the past weeks, what withMr. Boyce's confidence and his own acuteness, he had arrived at a veryshrewd notion of what was wrong with his host. But he was not going toenlighten the daughter.
"I should say your father wants a great deal of care--and is nervousabout himself," he said quietly. "But he will get the care--and yourmother knows the whole state of the case."
"Yes, she knows," said Marcella. "I wish I did."
And a sudden painful expression--of moral worry, remorse--passed acrossthe girl's face. Wharton knew that she had often been impatient of latewith her father, and incredulous of his complaints. He thought heunderstood.
"One can often be of more use to a sick person if one is not too wellacquainted with what ails them," he said. "Hope and cheerfulness areeverything in a case like your father's. He will do well."
"If he does he won't owe any of it--"
She stopped as impulsively as she had begun. "To me," she meant to havesaid; then had retreated hastily, before her own sense of somethingunduly intimate and personal. Wharton stood quietly beside her, sayingnothing, but receiving and soothing her self-reproach just as surely asthough she had put it into words.
"You are crushing your flowers, I think," he said suddenly.
And indeed her roses were dangling against her dress, as if she hadforgotten all about them.
She raised them carelessly, but he bent to smell them, and she held themout.
"Summer!" he said, plunging his face into them with a long breath ofsensuous enjoyment. "How the year sweeps round in an instant! And allthe effect of a little heat and a little money. Will you allow me aphilosopher's remark?"
He drew back from her. His quick inquisitive but still respectful eyetook in every delightful detail.
"If I don't give you leave, my experience is that you will take it!" shesaid, half laughing, half resentful, as though she had old aggressionsin mind.
"You admit the strength of the temptation? It is very simple, no onecould help making it. To be spectator of the _height_ of anything--thebest, the climax--makes any mortal's pulses run. Beauty, success,happ
iness, for instance?"
He paused smiling. She leant a thin hand on the mantelpiece and lookedaway; Aldous's pearls slipped backwards along her white arm.
"Do you suppose to-night will be the height of happiness?" she said atlast with a little scorn. "These functions don't present themselves to_me_ in such a light."
Wharton could have laughed out--her pedantry was so young andunconscious. But he restrained himself.
"I shall be with the majority to-night," he said demurely. "I may aswell warn you."
Her colour rose. No other man had ever dared to speak to her with thisassurance, this cool scrutinising air. She told herself to be indignant;the next moment she _was_ indignant, but with herself for rememberingconventionalities.
"Tell me one thing," said Wharton, changing his tone wholly. "I know youwent down hurriedly to the village before dinner. Was anything wrong?"
"Old Patton is very ill," she said, sighing. "I went to ask after him;he may die any moment. And the Hurds' boy too."
He leant against the mantelpiece, talking to her about both cases with aquick incisive common-sense--not unkind, but without a touch ofunnecessary sentiment, still less of the superior person--whichrepresented one of the moods she liked best in him. In speaking of thepoor he always took the tone of comradeship, of a plain equality, andthe tone was, in fact, genuine.
"Do you know," he said presently, "I did not tell you before, but I amcertain that Hurd's wife is afraid of you, that she has a secret fromyou?"
"From me! how could she? I know every detail of their affairs."
"No matter. I listened to what she said that day in the cottage when Ihad the boy on my knee. I noticed her face, and I am quite certain. Shehas a secret, and above all a secret from you."
Marcella looked disturbed for a moment, then she laughed.
"Oh, no!" she said, with a little superior air. "I assure you I know herbetter than you."
Wharton said no more.
"Marcella!" called a distant voice from the hall.
The girl gathered up her white skirts and her flowers in haste.
"Good-night!"
"Good-night! I shall hear you come home and wonder how you have sped.One word, if I may! Take your _role_ and play it. There is nothingsubjects dislike so much as to see royalty decline its part."
She laughed, blushed, a little proudly and uncertainly, and went withoutreply. As she shut the door behind her, a sudden flatness fell upon her.She walked through the dark Stone Parlour outside, seeing still thefirmly-knit lightly-made figure--boyish, middle-sized, yet neverinsignificant--the tumbled waves of fair hair, the eyes so keenly blue,the face with its sharp mocking lines, its powers of sudden charm. Thenself-reproach leapt, and possessed her. She quickened her pace, hurryinginto the hall, as though from something she was ashamed or afraid of.
In the hall a new sensation awaited her. Her mother, fully dressed,stood waiting by the old billiard-table for her maid, who had gone tofetch her a cloak.
Marcella stopped an instant in surprise and delight, then ran up to her."Mamma, how _lovely_ you look! I haven't seen you like that, not since Iwas a child. I remember you then once, in a low dress, a white dress,with flowers, coming into the nursery. But that black becomes you sowell, and Deacon has done your hair beautifully!"
She took her mother's hand and kissed her cheek, touched by an emotionwhich had many roots. There was infinite relief in this tender naturaloutlet; she seemed to recover possession of herself.
Mrs. Boyce bore the kiss quietly. Her face was a little pinched andwhite. But the unusual display Deacon had been allowed to make of herpale golden hair, still long and abundant; the unveiling of the shapelyshoulders and neck, little less beautiful than her daughter's; theelegant lines of the velvet dress, all these things, had very noblytransformed her. Marcella could not restrain her admiration and delight.Mrs. Boyce winced, and, looking upward to the gallery, which ran roundthe hall, called Deacon impatiently.
"Only, mamma," said Marcella, discontentedly, "I don't like that littlechain round your neck. It is not equal to the rest, not worthy of it."
"I have nothing else, my dear," said Mrs. Boyce, drily. "Now, Deacon,don't be all night!"
Nothing else? Yet, if she shut her eyes, Marcella could perfectly recallthe diamonds on the neck and arms of that white figure of herchildhood--could see herself as a baby playing with the treasures of hermother's jewel-box.
Nowadays, Mrs. Boyce was very secretive and reserved about her personalpossessions. Marcella never went into her room unless she was asked, andwould never have thought of treating it or its contents with anyfreedom.
The mean chain which went so ill with the costly hoarded dress--itrecalled to Marcella all the inexorable silent miseries of her mother'spast life, and all the sordid disadvantages and troubles of her ownyouth. She followed Mrs. Boyce out to the carriage in silence--once morein a tumult of sore pride and doubtful feeling.
* * * * *
Four weeks to her wedding-day! The words dinned in her ears as theydrove along. Yet they sounded strange to her, incredible almost. Howmuch did she know of Aldous, of her life that was to be--above all, howmuch of herself? She was not happy--had not been happy or at ease formany days. Yet in her restlessness she could think nothing out.Moreover, the chain that galled and curbed her was a chain of character.In spite of her modernness, and the complexity of many of her motives,there was certain inherited simplicities of nature at the bottom of her.In her wild demonic childhood you could always trust Marcie Boyce, ifshe had given you her word--her schoolfellows knew that. If her passionswere half-civilised and southern, her way of understanding the point ofhonour was curiously English, sober, tenacious. So now. Her sense ofbond to Aldous had never been in the least touched by any of herdissatisfactions and revolts. Yet it rushed upon her to-night withamazement, and that in four weeks she was going to marry him! Why?how?--what would it really _mean_ for him and for her? It was as thoughin mid-stream, she were trying to pit herself for an instant against thecurrent which had so far carried them all on, to see what it might belike to retrace a step, and could only realise with dismay the forceand rapidity of the water.
Yet all the time another side of her was well aware that she was at thatmoment the envy of half a county, that in another ten minutes hundredsof eager and critical eyes would be upon her; and her pride was risingto her part. The little incident of the chain had somehow for the momentmade the ball and her place in it more attractive to her.
* * * * *
They had no sooner stepped from their carriage than Aldous, who waswaiting in the outer hall, joyously discovered them. Till then he hadbeen walking aimlessly amid the crowd of his own guests, wondering whenshe would come, how she would like it. This splendid function had beenhis grandfather's idea; it would never have entered his own head for amoment. Yet he understood his grandfather's wish to present his heir'spromised bride in this public ceremonious way to the society of whichshe would some day be the natural leader. He understood, too, that therewas more in the wish than met the ear; that the occasion meant to LordMaxwell, whether Dick Boyce were there or no, the final condoning ofthings past and done with, a final throwing of the Maxwell shield overthe Boyce weakness, and full adoption of Marcella into her new family.
All this he understood and was grateful for. But how would _she_respond? How would she like it--this parade that was to be made ofher--these people that must be introduced to her? He was full ofanxieties.
Yet in many ways his mind had been easier of late. During the last weekshe had been very gentle and good to him--even Miss Raeburn had beenpleased with her. There had been no quoting of Wharton when they met;and he had done his philosopher's best to forget him. He trusted herproudly, intensely; and in four weeks she would be his wife.
"Can you bear it?" he said to her in a laughing whisper as she and hermother emerged from the cloak-room.
"Tell me what to do," she said, flushing. "I
will do my best. What acrowd! Must we stay very long?"
"Ah, my dear Mrs. Boyce," cried Lord Maxwell, meeting them on the stepsof the inner quadrangular corridor--"Welcome indeed! Let me take you in.Marcella! with Aldous's permission!" he stooped his white head gallantlyand kissed her on the cheek--"Remember I am an old man; if I choose topay you compliments, you will have to put up with them!"
Then he offered Mrs. Boyce his arm, a stately figure in his ribbon andcross of the Bath. A delicate red had risen to that lady's thin cheek inspite of her self-possession. "Poor thing," said Lord Maxwell to himselfas he led her along--"poor thing!--how distinguished and charming still!One sees to-night what she was like as a girl."
Aldous and Marcella followed. They had to pass along the great corridorwhich ran round the quadrangle of the house. The antique marbles whichlined it were to-night masked in flowers, and seats covered in red hadbeen fitted in wherever it was possible, and were now crowded withdancers "sitting out." From the ball-room ahead came waves ofwaltz-music; the ancient house was alive with colour and perfume, withthe sounds of laughter and talk, lightly fretting, and breaking theswaying rhythms of the band. Beyond the windows of the corridor, whichhad been left uncurtained because of the beauty of the night, the stiffTudor garden with its fountains, which filled up the quadrangle, wasgaily illuminated under a bright moon; and amid all the varied colour oflamps, drapery, dresses, faces, the antique heads ranged along the wallsof the corridor--here Marcus Aurelius, there Trajan, there Seneca--andthe marble sarcophagi which broke the line at intervals, stood in cold,whitish relief.
Marcella passed along on Aldous's arm, conscious that people werestreaming into the corridor from all the rooms opening upon it, and thatevery eye was fixed upon her and her mother. "Look, there she is," sheheard in an excited girl's voice as they passed Lord Maxwell's library,now abandoned to the crowd like all the rest. "Come, quick! There--Itold you she was lovely!"
Every now and then some old friend, man or woman, rose smiling from theseats along the side, and Aldous introduced his bride.
"On her dignity!" said an old hunting squire to his daughter when theyhad passed. "Shy, no doubt--very natural! But nowadays girls, whenthey're shy, don't giggle and blush as they used to in _my_ young days;they look as if you meant to insult them, and they weren't going toallow it! Oh, very handsome--very handsome--of course. But you can seeshe's advanced--peculiar--or what d'ye call it?--woman's rights, Isuppose, and all that kind of thing? Like to see you go in for it,Nettie, eh!"
"She's _awfully_ handsome," sighed his pink-cheeked, insignificantlittle daughter, still craning her neck to look--"very simply dressedtoo, except for those lovely pearls. She does her hair very oddly, solow down--in those plaits. Nobody does it like that nowadays."
"That's because nobody has such a head," said her brother, a youngHussar lieutenant, beside her, in the tone of connoisseurship. "ByGeorge, she's ripping--she's the best-looking girl I've seen for a goodlong time. But she's a Tartar, I'll swear--looks it, anyway."
"Every one says she has the most extraordinary opinions," said the girl,eagerly. "She'll manage him, don't you think? I'm sure he's very meekand mild."
"Don't know that," said the young man, twisting his moustache with theair of exhaustive information. "Raeburn's a very good fellow--excellentfellow--see him shooting, you know--that kind of thing. I expect he'sgot a will when he wants it. The mother's handsome, too, and looks alady. The father's kept out of the way, I see. Rather a blessing for theRaeburns. Can't be pleasant, you know, to get a man like that in thefamily. Look after your spoons--that kind of thing."
Meanwhile Marcella was standing beside Miss Raeburn, at the head of thelong ball-room, and doing her best to behave prettily. One afteranother she bowed to, or shook hands with, half the magnates of thecounty--the men in pink, the women in the new London dresses, for whichthis brilliant and long-expected ball had given so welcome an excuse.They knew little or nothing of her, except that she was clearlygood-looking, that she was that fellow Dick Boyce's daughter and wasreported to be "odd." Some, mostly men, who said their conventional fewwords to her, felt an amused admiration for the skill and rapidity withwhich she had captured the _parti_ of the county; some, mostly women,were already jealous of her. A few of the older people here and there,both men and women--but after all they shook hands like the rest!--knewperfectly well that the girl must be going through an ordeal, weretouched by the signs of thought and storm in the face, and looked backat her with kind eyes.
But of these last Marcella realised nothing. What she was saying toherself was that, if they knew little of her, she knew a great deal ofmany of them. In their talks over the Stone Parlour fire she and Whartonhad gone through most of the properties, large and small, of hisdivision, and indeed of the divisions round, by the help of theknowledge he had gained in his canvass, together with a blue-book--oneof the numberless!--recently issued, on the state of the midlandlabourer. He had abounded in anecdote, sarcasm, reflection, based partlyon his own experiences, partly on his endless talks with theworking-folk, now in the public-house, now at their own chimney-corner.Marcella, indeed, had a large unsuspected acquaintance with the countybefore she met it in the flesh. She knew that a great many of these menwho came and spoke to her were doing their best according to theirlights, that improvements were going on, that times were mending. Butthere were abuses enough still, and the abuses were far more vividlypresent to her than the improvements. In general, the people whothronged these splendid rooms were to her merely the incompetent membersof a useless class. The nation would do away with them in time!Meanwhile it might at least be asked of them that they should practisetheir profession of landowning, such as it was, with greater conscienceand intelligence--that they should not shirk its opportunities or idlethem away. And she could point out those who did both--scandalously,intolerably. Once or twice she thought passionately of Minta Hurd,washing and mending all day, in her damp cottage; or of the Pattons in"the parish house," thankful after sixty years of toil for a hovel wherethe rain came through the thatch, and where the smoke choked you,unless, with the thermometer below freezing-point, you opened the doorto the blast. Why should _these_ people have all the gay clothes, theflowers, the jewels, the delicate food--all the delight and all theleisure? And those, nothing! Her soul rose against what she saw as shestood there, going through her part. Wharton's very words, everyinflection of his voice was in her ears, playing chorus to the scene.
But when these first introductions, these little empty talks of three orfour phrases apiece, and all of them alike, were nearly done with,Marcella looked eagerly round for Mary Harden. There she was, sittingquietly against the wall in a remote corner, her plain face all smiles,her little feet dancing under the white muslin frock which she hadfashioned for herself with so much pain under Marcella's directions.Miss Raeburn was called away to find an arm-chair for some dowager ofimportance; Marcella took advantage of the break and of the end of adance to hurry down the room to Mary. Aldous, who was talking to old SirCharles Leven, Frank's father, a few steps off, nodded and smiled to heras he saw her move.
"Have you been dancing, Mary?" she said severely.
"I wouldn't for worlds! I never was so much amused in my life. Look atthose girls--those sisters--in the huge velvet sleeves, like colouredballoons!--and that old lady in the pink tulle and diamonds.--I do sowant to get her her cloak! _And_ those Lancers!--I never could haveimagined people danced like that. They didn't dance them--they rompedthem! It wasn't beautiful--was it?"
"Why do you expect an English crowd to do anything beautiful? If wecould do it, we should be too ashamed."
"But it _is_ beautiful, all the same, you scornful person!" cried Mary,dragging her friend down beside her. "How pretty the girls are! And asfor the diamonds, I never saw anything so wonderful. I wish I could havemade Charles come!"
"Wouldn't he?"
"No"--she looked a little troubled--"he couldn't think it would bequite right. But I don't know--a sight like this takes
me off my feet,shakes me up, and does _me_ a world of good!"
"You dear, simple thing!" said Marcella, slipping her hand into Mary'sas it lay on the bench.
"Oh, you needn't be so superior!" cried Mary,--"not for another year atleast. I don't believe you are much more used to it than I am!"
"If you mean," said Marcella, "that I was never at anything so big andsplendid as this before, you are quite right."
And she looked round the room with that curious, cold air of personaldetachment from all she saw, which had often struck Mary, and to-nightmade her indignant.
"Then enjoy it!" she said, laughing and frowning at the same time."That's a much more plain duty for _you_ than it was for Charles to stayat home--there! Haven't you been dancing?"
"No, Mr. Raeburn doesn't dance. But he thinks he can get through thenext Lancers if I will steer him."
"Then I shall find a seat where I can look at you," said Mary,decidedly. "Ah, there is Mr. Raeburn coming to introduce somebody toyou. I knew they wouldn't let you sit here long."
Aldous brought up a young Guardsman, who boldly asked Miss Boyce for thepleasure of a dance. Marcella consented; and off they swept into a roomwhich was only just beginning to fill for the new dance, and where,therefore, for the moment the young grace of both had free play.Marcella had been an indefatigable dancer in the old London days atthose students' parties, with their dyed gloves and lemonade suppers,which were running in her head now, as she swayed to the rhythm of thisperfect band. The mere delight in movement came back to her; and whilethey danced, she danced with all her heart. Then in the pauses she wouldlean against the wall beside her partner, and rack her brain to find aword to say to him. As for anything that _he_ said, every word--whetherof Ascot, or the last Academy, or the new plays, or the hunting and theelections--sounded to her more vapid than the last.
Meanwhile Aldous stood near Mary Harden and watched the dancing figure.He had never seen her dance before. Mary shyly stole a look at him fromtime to time.
"Well," he said at last, stooping to his neighbour, "what are youthinking of?"
"I think she is a dream!" said Mary, flushing with the pleasure of beingable to say it. They were great friends, he and she, and to-nightsomehow she was not a bit afraid of him.
Aldous's eye sparkled a moment; then he looked down at her with a kindsmile.
"If you suppose I am going to let you sit here all night, you are verymuch mistaken. Marcella gave me precise instructions. I am going offthis moment to find somebody."
"Mr. Raeburn--don't!" cried Mary, catching at him. But he was gone, andshe was left in trepidation, imagining the sort of formidable young manwho was soon to be presented to her, and shaking at the thought of him.
When the dance was over Marcella returned to Miss Raeburn, who wasstanding at the door into the corridor and had beckoned to her. She wentthrough a number of new introductions, and declared to herself that shewas doing all she could. Miss Raeburn was not so well satisfied.
"Why can't she smile and chatter like other girls?" thought Aunt Neta,impatiently. "It's her 'ideas,' I suppose. What rubbish! There,now--just see the difference!"
For at the moment Lady Winterbourne came up, and instantly Marcella wasall smiles and talk, holding her friend by both hands, clinging to heralmost.
"Oh, do come here!" she said, leading her into a corner. "There's such acrowd, and I say all the wrong things. There!" with a sigh of relief."Now I feel myself protected."
"I mustn't keep you," said Lady Winterbourne, a little taken aback byher effusion. "Everybody is wanting to talk to you."
"Oh, I know! There is Miss Raeburn looking at me severely already. But Imust do as I like a little."
"You ought to do as Aldous likes," said Lady Winterbourne, suddenly, inher deepest and most tragic voice. It seemed to her a moment had comefor admonition, and she seized it hastily.
Marcella stared at her in surprise. She knew by now that when LadyWinterbourne looked most forbidding she was in reality most shy. Butstill she was taken aback.
"Why do you say that, I wonder?" she asked, half reproachfully. "I havebeen behaving myself quite nicely--I have indeed; at least, as nicely asI knew how."
Lady Winterbourne's tragic air yielded to a slow smile.
"You look very well, my dear. That white becomes you charmingly; so dothe pearls. I don't wonder that Aldous always knows where you are."
Marcella raised her eyes and caught those of Aldous fixed upon her fromthe other side of the room. She blushed, smiled slightly, and lookedaway.
"Who is that tall man just gone up to speak to him?" she asked of hercompanion.
"That is Lord Wandle," said Lady Winterbourne, "and his plain secondwife behind him. Edward always scolds me for not admiring him. He sayswomen know nothing at all about men's looks, and that Lard Wandle wasthe most splendid man of his time. But I always think it an unpleasantface."
"Lord Wandle!" exclaimed Marcella, frowning. "Oh, _please_ come with me,dear Lady Winterbourne! I know he is asking Aldous to introduce him, andI won't--no I will _not_--be introduced to him."
And laying hold of her astonished companion, she drew her hastilythrough a doorway near, walked quickly, still gripping her, through twoconnected rooms beyond, and finally landed her and herself on a sofa inLord Maxwell's library, pursued meanwhile through all her hurried courseby the curious looks of an observant throng.
"That man!--no, that would really have been _too_ much!" said Marcella,using her large feather fan with stormy energy.
"What _is_ the matter with you, my dear?" said Lady Winterbourne in heramazement; "and what is the matter with Lord Wandle?"
"You must know!" said Marcella, indignantly. "Oh, you _must_ have seenthat case in the paper last week--that _shocking_ case! A woman and twochildren died in one of his cottages of blood-poisoning--nothing in theworld but his neglect--his _brutal_ neglect!" Her breast heaved; sheseemed almost on the point of weeping. "The agent was appealed to--didnothing. Then the clergyman wrote to him direct, and got an answer. Theanswer was published. For cruel insolence I never saw anything like it!He ought to be in prison for manslaughter--and he comes _here_! Andpeople laugh and talk with him!"
She stopped, almost choked by her own passion. But the incident, afterall, was only the spark to the mine.
Lady Winterbourne stared at her helplessly.
"Perhaps it isn't true," she suggested. "The newspapers put in so manylies, especially about _us_--the landlords. Edward says one ought neverto believe them. Ah, here comes Aldous."
Aldous, indeed, with some perplexity on his brow, was to be seenapproaching, looking for his betrothed. Marcella dropped her fan and saterect, her angry colour fading into whiteness.
"My darling! I couldn't think what had become of you. May I bring LordWandle and introduce him to you? He is an old friend here, and mygodfather. Not that I am particularly proud of the relationship," hesaid, dropping his voice as he stooped over her. "He is a soured,disagreeable fellow, and I hate many of the things he does. But it is anold tie, and my grandfather is tender of such things. Only a word ortwo; then I will get rid of him."
"Aldous, I _can't_," said Marcella, looking up at him. "How could I? Isaw that case. I must be rude to him."
Aldous looked considerably disturbed.
"It was very bad," he said slowly. "I didn't know you had seen it. Whatshall I do? I promised to go back for him."
"Lord Wandle--Miss Boyce!" said Miss Raeburn's sharp little voice behindAldous. Aldous, moving aside in hasty dismay, saw his aunt, looking verydetermined, presenting her tall neighbour, who bowed with old-fashioneddeference to the girl on the sofa.
Lady Winterbourne looked with trepidation at Marcella. But the socialinstinct held, to some extent. Ninety-nine women can threaten a scene ofthe kind Lady Winterbourne dreaded, for one that can carry it through.Marcella wavered; then, with her most forbidding air, she made ascarcely perceptible return of Lord Wandle's bow.
"Did you escape in here out of the heat?"
he asked her. "But I am afraidno one lets you escape to-night. The occasion is too interesting."
Marcella made no reply. Lady Winterbourne threw in a nervous remark onthe crowd.
"Oh, yes, a great crush," said Lord Wandle. "Of course, we all come tosee Aldous happy. How long is it, Miss Boyce, since you settled atMellor?"
"Six months."
She looked straight before her and not at him as she answered, and hertone made Miss Raeburn's blood boil.
Lord Wandle--a battered, coarsened, but still magnificent-looking man ofsixty--examined the speaker an instant from half-shut eyes, then put uphis hand to his moustache with a half-smile.
"You like the country?"
"Yes."
As she spoke her reluctant monosyllable, the girl had really noconception of the degree of hostility expressed in her manner. Insteadshe was hating herself for her own pusillanimity.
"And the people?"
"Some of them."
And straightway she raised her fierce black eyes to his, and the manbefore her understood, as plainly as any one need understand, that,whoever else Miss Boyce might like, she did not like Lord Wandle, andwished for no more conversation with him.
Her interrogator turned to Aldous with smiling _aplomb_.
"Thank you, my dear Aldous. Now let me retire. No one must _monopolise_your charming lady."
And again he bowed low to her, this time with an ironical emphasis notto be mistaken, and walked away.
Lady Winterbourne saw him go up to his wife, who had followed him at adistance, and speak to her roughly with a frown. They left the room, andpresently, through the other door of the library which opened on thecorridor, she saw them pass, as though they were going to theircarriage.
Marcella rose. She looked first at Miss Raeburn--then at Aldous.
"Will you take me away?" she said, going up to him; "I am tired--take meto your room."
He put her hand inside his arm, and they pushed their way through thecrowd. Outside in the passage they met Hallin. He had not seen herbefore, and he put out his hand. But there was something distant in hisgentle greeting which struck at this moment like a bruise on Marcella'squivering nerves. It came across her that for some time past he had madeno further advances to her; that his first eager talk of friendshipbetween himself and her had dropped; that his _acceptance_ of her intohis world and Aldous's was somehow suspended--in abeyance. She bit herlip tightly and hurried Aldous along. Again the same lines of gay,chatting people along the corridor, and on either side of the widestaircase--greetings, introduction--a nightmare of publicity.
"Rather pronounced--to carry him off like that," said a clergyman to hiswife with a kindly smile, as the two tall figures disappeared along theupper gallery. "She will have him all to herself before long."
* * * * *
Aldous shut the door of his sitting-room behind them. Marcella quicklydrew her hand out of his arm, and going forward to the mantelpiecerested both elbows upon it and hid her face.
He looked at her a moment in distress and astonishment, standing alittle apart. Then he saw that she was crying. The colour flooded intohis face, and going up to her he took her hand, which was all she wouldyield him, and, holding it to his lips, said in her ear every soothingtender word that love's tutoring could bring to mind. In his emotion hetold himself and her that he admired and loved her the more for theincident downstairs, for the temper she had shown! She alone among themall had had the courage to strike the true stern Christian note. As tothe annoyance such courage might bring upon him and her in thefuture--even as to the trouble it might cause his own dear folk--whatreal matter? In these things she should lead.
What could love have asked better than such a moment? Yet Marcella'sweeping was in truth the weeping of despair. This man's very sweetnessto her, his very assumption of the right to comfort and approve her,roused in her a desperate stifled sense of bonds that should never havebeen made, and that now could not be broken. It was all plain to her atlast. His touch had no thrill for her; his frown no terror. She hadaccepted him without loving him, coveting what he could give her. Andnow it seemed to her that she cared nothing for anything he couldgive!--that the life before her was to be one series of petty conflictsbetween her and a surrounding circumstance which must inevitably in theend be too strong for her, conflicts from which neither heart norambition could gain anything. She had desired a great position for whatshe might do with it. But could she do with it! She would besubdued--oh! very quickly!--to great houses and great people, and allthe vapid pomp and idle toil of wealth. All that picture of herself,stooping from place and power, to bind up the wounds of the people, inwhich she had once delighted, was to her now a mere flimsy vulgarity.She had been shown other ideals--other ways--and her pulses were stillswaying under the audacity--the virile inventive force of the showman.Everything she had once desired looked flat to her; everything she wasnot to have, glowed and shone. Poverty, adventure, passion, the joys ofself-realisation--these she gave up. She would become Lady Maxwell, makefriends with Miss Raeburn, and wear the family diamonds!
Then, in the midst of her rage with herself and fate, she drew herselfaway, looked up, and caught full the eyes of Aldous Raeburn. Consciencestung and burned. What was this life she had dared to trifle with--thisman she had dared to treat as a mere pawn in her own game? She gave wayutterly, appalled at her own misdoing, and behaved like a penitentchild. Aldous, astonished and alarmed by her emotions and by the wildincoherent things she said, won his way at last to some moments ofdivine happiness, when, leaving her trembling hand in his, she satsubmissively beside him, gradually quieting down, summoning back hersmiles and her beauty, and letting him call her all the fond names hewould.