Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
That Girl in BlackBy Mrs MolesworthPublished by Chatto and Windus, Piccadilly, London.This edition dated 1889.
That Girl in Black, by Mrs Molesworth.
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________________________________________________________________________THAT GIRL IN BLACK, BY MRS MOLESWORTH.
CHAPTER ONE.
He was spoilt--deplorably, absurdly spoilt. But, so far, that wasperhaps the worst that could fairly be said against him. There wasgenuine manliness still, some chivalry even, yet strugglingspasmodically to make itself felt, and--what was practically, perhaps,of more account as a preservative--some small amount of originality inhis character. He had still a good deal to learn, and something too tounlearn before he could take rank as past-master in the stupidworldliness of his class and time. For he was neither so _blase_ nor socynical as he flattered himself, but young enough to affect being bothto the extent of believing his own affectations real.
He was popular; his position and income were fair enough to have securedthis to a considerable extent in these, socially speaking, easy-goingdays, even had he been without the further advantages of good looks anda certain arrogance, not to say insolence of bearing, which, thoughnothing can be acquired with greater facility and at less expenditure ofbrain tissue, appears to be the one not-to-be-disputed hall-mark of theperiod.
Why he went to Mrs Englewood's reception that evening he could scarcelyhave told, or perhaps he would have vaguely shrunk from owning even tohimself the real motives--of sincere though feeble loyalty to oldassociations, of faintly stirring gratitude for much kindness in thepast--which had prompted the effort. For Mrs Englewood was neithervery rich, nor very beautiful, nor--worst of "nors"--very fashionable;scarcely, indeed, to be reckoned as of _notre monde_ in any veryexclusive sense of the words, though kindly, and fairly refined,irreproachable as wife and mother, and so satisfied with her lot as tobe uninterestingly free from social ambition.
But her house was commonplace, she herself not specially amusing.
"If she'd be content to ask me there when they're alone--I like talkingto her herself well enough," thought Despard, as he dressed. In hisheart, however, he knew that would not do. He was more or less of alion from Mrs Englewood's point of view; she was not above a certainpride in knowing that for "old sake's sake" she could count upon him forher one party of the season. And for this, as she retained a realaffection for the man she had known as that delightful thing--a bright,intelligent, and unspoilt boy, and as she thought of him still far morehighly than he deserved to be thought of, her conscience left herunrebuked.
Year after year, it is true, her husband wet-blanketed her innocentpleasure in seeing the young man's name on her invitation list.
"That fellow! In your place, my dear Gertrude!" and an expressiveraising of the eyebrows said the rest.
"But, Harry," she would mildly expostulate, "you forget. I knew himwhen he was--"
"So high--at Whipmore. Oh, yes; I know all about it. Well, well, takeyour way of it; it doesn't hurt me if you invite people who don't wantto come."
"But who always _do_ come, you must allow," she would replytriumphantly.
"And think themselves mighty condescending for doing so," Mr Englewoodput in.
"You don't do Despard justice. It's always the way with men, Isuppose."
"Come now, don't be down upon me about it," he would say good-naturedly."I don't stop your asking him. It isn't as if we had daughters. Inthat case--" but the rest was left to the imagination.
And this particular year Mrs Englewood had smiled to herself at thispoint of the discussion.
"One can make plans even though one _hasn't_ daughters," she reflected."If Harry would let me ask him to dinner now--but I know there's nochance of that. And, after all, a good deal may be done at an eveningparty. I should like to do Despard a good turn, and give him a startbefore any other. If I could give him a hint! But then there's mypromise to her father,--and Despard is sure to be sensitive on thosepoints. I might spoil it all. No; I shall appeal to hiskindheartedness; that is the best. How tender he used to be to poorLily when she was a tiny child! How he used to mount her up on hisshoulders when she couldn't see the fireworks! I will tell Maisie thatstory! It is the sort of thing she will appreciate."
It was a hot, close evening. Though only May, there was thunder in theair, people said. Despard's inward dissatisfaction increased.
"Upon my soul it's too bad," he ejaculated while examining the flowersin his button-hole. "Why, when one's made up one's mind to do adisagreeable thing, should everything conspire to make it more odiousthan it need be, I wonder? I have really--more than half a mind--notto--"
Poor Gertrude Englewood, at that moment smilingly receiving her guests!She little knew how her great interest in the evening was trembling inthe balance!
It was late when he arrived. Not that he had specially intended this.He cared too little about it to have considered whether he should belate or early, and, as he slowly made his way through the crowd at thedoorway, he was conscious of but one wish--to get himself at once seenby his hostess, and then to make his escape as soon as possible. As tothe first part of this little programme there was no difficulty.Scarcely did the first syllables of his name, "Mr Despard Norreys,"fall on the ear, before Mrs Englewood's outstretched hand was in his,her pleasant face smiling up at him, her pleasant voice bidding himwelcome. Yes, there was something difficult to resist about her; it wasrefreshing, somehow, and--there lay the secret--it brought back otherdays, when poor Jack's big sister, Gertrude, had welcomed the orphanschoolboy just as heartily, and when he had glowed with pride andgratification at her notice of him.
Despard's resigned, not to say sulky, expression cleared; it was nowonder Mrs Englewood's old liking for him had suffered no diminution;he did show at his best with her.
"So pleased you've come, so good of you," she was saying simply.
Her words made the young man feel vaguely ashamed of himself.
"Good of me!" he repeated, flushing a little, though the same or a muchmore fervent greeting from infinitely more exalted personages thanGertrude had often failed to disturb his composure. "No, indeed, verymuch the reverse. I'm sorry," with a glance round, "to be so late,especially as--"
"No, no, you're not to begin saying you can't stay long, the very momentyou've come. Listen, Despard," and she drew him aside a little; "I wantyou to do something to please me to-night. I have a little friendhere--a Miss Fforde--that I want you to be very good to. Poor littlething, she's quite a stranger, knows nobody, never been out. But she'sa nice little thing. Will you ask her to dance? or--" for the shadow ofa frown on her favourite's forehead became evident even to MrsEnglewood's partial eyes--"if you don't care to dance, will you talk toher a little? Anything, you know, just to please her."
Despard bowed. What else could he do? Gertrude slid her hand throughhis arm.
"There she is," she said. "That girl in black over there by thefireplace. Maisie, my dear," for a step or two had brought them to theindicated spot, "I want to introduce my old friend, Mr Despard Norreys,to you. Mr Norreys--Miss Fforde;" and as she pronounced the names shedrew her hand quietly away, and turned back towards her post at thedoor.
Despard bowed and, with the very slightest possible instinct ofcuriosity, glanced at the girl before him. She was of middle height,rather indeed under than above it; she was neither very fair nor verydark; there was nothing very special or striking in her appearance. Shewas dressed in black; there was nothing remarkable about her attire,rather, as Despard saw in an instant, an a
bsence of style, of finish,which found its epithet at once in his thoughts--"countrified, ofcourse," he said to himself. But before he had time to decide on hisnext movement she raised her eyes, and for half an instant his attentiondeepened. The eyes were strikingly fine; they were very blue, butredeemed from the shallowness of very blue eyes by the depth of theeyelashes, both upper and lower. And just now there was a brightness,an expectancy in the eyes which was by no means their constantexpression. For, lashes notwithstanding, Miss Fforde's blue eyes couldlook cold enough when she chose.
"Good eyes," thought Despard. But just as he allowed the words to shapethemselves in his brain, he noticed that over the girl's clear,