V
Duddon Castle in May was an agreeable place. Its park, lying on theeastern slopes of the mountain mass which includes Skiddaw andBlencathra, had none of the usual monotony of parks, but was a genuine"chase," running up on the western side into the heather and rock of themountain where the deer were at home, while on the east and south itssplendid oaks stood thick in bracken beside sparkling becks, overlookingdells and valleys of succulent grass where the sheep ranged at will. Thehouse consisted of an early Tudor keep, married to a Jacobean house ofrose-coloured brick, which Lady Tatham had since her widowhood succeededin freeing from the ugly stucco which had once disguised and defaced it.It could not claim the classical charm, the learned elegance of ThrelfallTower. Duddon was romantic--a medley of beautiful things, full ofhistory, colour, and time, fused by the trees and fern, the luxuriantcreepers and mosses, and of a mild and rainy climate into a lovelyirregular whole; with no outline to speak of, yet with nothing that onecould seriously wish away. The size was great, yet no one but anauctioneer could have called it "superb"; it seemed indeed to take apleasure in concealing the whole extent of its clustered building; and bythe time you were aware of it, you had fallen in love with Duddon, andnothing mattered.
But if without, in its broad external features, Duddon betrayed aromantic freedom in the minds of those who had planned it, nothing couldhave been more orderly or exquisite than its detail, when detail had tobe considered. The Italian garden round the house with its formal massesof contrasting colour, its pleached alleys, and pergolas, its steps,vases, and fountains, was as good in its way as the glorious wildness ofthe Chase. One might have applied to it the Sophoclean thought--"Howclever is man who can make all these things!"--so diverse, and sopleasant. And indoors, Duddon was oppressive by the very ingenuity of itsrefinement, the rightness of every touch. No overcrowding; noostentation. Beautiful spaces, giving room and dignity to a few beautifulobjects; famous pictures, yet not too many; and, in general, thingsrather suggestive than perfect; sketches--fragments--from the great artsof the world; as it were, a lovely wreckage from a vast ocean settenderly in a perfect order, breathing at once the greatness and theeternal defeat of men.
The interior beauty of Duddon was entirely due to Victoria, Lady Tatham,mother of the young man who now owned the Tatham estates. She had createdit through many years; she had been terribly "advised," in the process,by a number of clever folk, English and foreign; and the resultalternately pleased and tormented her. To be fastidious to such a pointis to grow more so. And Victoria Tatham was nothing if not fastidious.She had money, taste, patience, yet ennui confronted her in many paths;and except for the son she adored she was scarcely a happy woman. She waspersonally generous and soft-hearted, but all "causes" found in herrather a critic than a supporter. The follies of her own class wereparticularly plain to her; her relations, with their great names, andgreat "places," seemed to her often the most ridiculous persons in theworld--a world no longer made for them. But one must hasten to add thatshe was no less aware of her own absurdities; so that the ironic mind inher robbed her both of conceit for herself and enthusiasm for others.
Two or three days after the storming of Threlfall Tower, Lady Tatham camein from a mountain ramble at tea-time, expecting her son, who had beenaway on a short visit. She entered the drawing-room by a garden door,laden with branches of hawthorn and wild cherry. In her linen dress andshady hat she still looked youthful, and there were many who could not begot to admit that she was any less beautiful than she had ever been.These flatterers of course belonged to her own generation; young eyeswere not so kind.
Tea had been brought in, and she was busy with the arrangement of abranch of wild cherry in a corner of the room where its pearl and silverblossoms shone out against a background of dull purple, when the door washastily opened, and a curly-haired youth stood on the threshold whosmiled at sight of her.
"You are here, mother! That's jolly! I thought I might find you gone."
"I put off London till next week. Mind my hat, you wretch."
For the young fellow had put his arms round her, kissing her heartily.She disengaged herself and her hat, affecting to scold; but her eyesbetrayed her. She put up her hand and smoothed back the thick andtumbling hair from his forehead.
"What a ruffian you look! Where have you been all this time?"
"I stopped in Keswick to do various things--and then--I say, shan't wehave some tea? I've got lots to tell you. Well, in the first place,mother, I'd better warn you, you may have some visitors directly!"
Lady Tatham opened her eyes, struck by the elation of the tone.
"Strangers?"
"Well, nearly--but I think you've seen them. You know that lady and herdaughters who came to White Cottage about two years ago?"
"A Mrs. Penfold?"
"Just so. I told you I met them--in April, when you were abroad--at theHunt Ball. But--well, really, I've met them several times since. TheDeacons know them." The slight consciousness in the voice did not escapehis mother. "You know you've never called on them. Mother, you aredisgraceful about calling! Well, I met them again this afternoon, justthe other side of Whitebeck. They were in a pony-carriage, and I was inthe motor. It's a jolly afternoon, and they didn't seem to have anythingparticular to do, so I just asked them to come on here, and have tea, andwe'd show them the place."
"All right, dear. I'll bear up. Do you think they'll come?"
"Well, I don't know," said her son dubiously. "You see--I think MissPenfold thought you ought to have called on them before they came here!But Mrs. Penfold's a nice old thing--she _said_ they'd come."
"Well, there's plenty of tea, and I'll go and call if you want me to."
"How many years?" laughed Tatham. "I remember somebody you took eightyears to call on, and when you got there you'd forgotten their names."
"Pure invention. Never mind, sit down and have your tea. How manydaughters?"
"How many Miss Penfolds? Well, there are two, and I danced with themboth. But"--the young man shook his head slowly--"I haven't got any usefor the elder one."
"Plain?"
"Not at all--rather pretty. But she talks philosophy and stuff. Not mysort."
"And the younger one doesn't talk philosophy?"
"Not she. She's a deal too clever. But she paints--like a bird. I've seensome of her things."
"Oh!--so _you_'ve been to call?"
Lady Tatham lifted her beautiful eyes upon her son. Harry Tatham fidgetedwith his cup and spoon.
"No. I was shy, because you hadn't been. But--"
"Harry," interrupted his mother, her look all vivacity, "did she paintthose two water-colours in your sitting-room?"
The boyish, bluntly cut face beside her broke into a charming laugh.
"I bought 'em out of the Edinburgh exhibition. Wasn't it 'cute of me? Shetold me she had sent them there. So I just wrote to the secretary andbought them."
There was silence a moment. Lady Tatham continued to look at her son. Theeyebrows on her brow, as they slowly arched themselves, expressed thehalf-amused, half-startled inquiry she did not put into words. He flushedscarlet, still smiling, and suddenly he laid his hand on hers.
"I say, mummie, don't tease me, and don't talk to me about it. There maybe nothing in it--nothing at all."
His mother's face deepened into gravity.
"You take my breath away. Remember--there's only me, Harry, to look afteryou."
"I know. But you're not like other mothers," said the youth impatiently."You want me to be happy and please myself. At least if you'd wanted theusual thing, you should have brought me up differently!" He smiled uponher again, patting her hand.
"What do you mean by the 'usual thing'?"
"Well, family and money, I suppose. As if we hadn't got enough for ten!"
Lady Tatham hesitated.
"One talks in the air," she said, frowning a little. "I can't promiseyou, Harry, exactly how I should behave, if--"
"If what?"
"If you put
me to the _test_."
"Oh, yes, you can," he said, affectionately. Then he got up restlesslyfrom the table. "But don't let's talk about it. Somehow I can't standit--yet. I just wanted you to know that I liked them--and I'd be glad ifyou'd be civil to them--that's all. Hullo--here they are!" For as hemoved across the room he caught sight, through a side window commandingthe park, of a pony-carriage just driving into the wide gravel spacebefore the house.
"Already? Their pony must have seven-leagued boots, to have caught you upin this time."
"Oh! I was overtaken by Undershaw, and he kept me talking. He told me themost extraordinary thing! You've no idea what's been happening at theTower. That old brute Melrose! But I say--!" He made a dash across theroom.
"What's the matter?"
"I must go and put those pictures away, in case--"
A far door opened and shut noisily behind him. He was gone.
"In case he asks her to go and see his sitting-room? This is all verysurprising."
Lady Tatham sat on at the tea-table, her chin in her hands. It was quitetrue that she had brought up her son with unconventional ideas; that shehad unconventional ideas herself on family and marriage. All the same,her mind at this moment was in a most conventional state of shock. Sheknew it, perceiving quite clearly the irony of the situation. Who werethe Penfolds? A little artist girl?--earning her living--with humble,perhaps hardly presentable relations--to mate with her glorious, goldenHarry?--Harry whom half the ambitious mothers of England courted andflattered?
The thought of defeating the mothers of England was however so pleasantto her sense of humour that she hurriedly abandoned this line ofreflection. What had she been about? to be so blind to Harry'sproceedings? She had been lately absorbed, with that intensity she couldstill, at fifty, throw into the most diverse things, in a piece of newembroidery, reproducing a gorgeous Italian design; and in a religiousnovel of Fogazzaro's. Also she had been watching birds, for hours, with aspy-glass in the park. She said to herself that she had better have beenwatching her son.
Meanwhile she was quite aware of the slight sounds from the hall whichheralded the approaching visitors. The footman threw the door open; andshe rose.
There came in, with hurrying steps, a little lady in widow's dress, herwidow's veil thrown back from her soft brown hair and childish face.Behind her, a tall girl in white, wearing a shady hat.
The little lady held out a hand--eager but tremulous.
"I _hope_, Lady Tatham, we are not intruding? We know it isn'tcorrect--indeed we are quite aware of it--that we should call upon youfirst. But then we know your son--he is such a charming young man!--andhe asked us to come. I don't think Lydia wanted to come--she always wantsto do things properly. No, indeed, she didn't want to come. It's all mydoing. I persuaded her."
"That was very kind of you," said Lady Tatham as she shook hands firstwith the mother, and then with the silent daughter. "Oh, I'm a dreadfulneighbour. I confess it in sackcloth and ashes. I ought to have calledupon you long ago. I don't know what to say. I'm incorrigible! Pleasewill you sit down, and will you have some tea? My son will be heredirectly."
But instead of sitting down Mrs. Penfold ran to the window, exclaiming onthe beauty of the view, the garden, the trees, and the bold profile ofthe old keep, thrown forward among the flowers. There was nothing theleast distinguished in her ecstasy. But it flowed and bubbled withperfect sincerity; and Lady Tatham did not dislike it at all.
"A lady"--she thought--"quite a lady, though rather a goose. The daughteris uncomfortable."
And she glanced at the slightly flushed face of Lydia, who followed intheir wake, every now and then replying, as politeness demanded, to someappeal from her mother. It was indeed clear that the visit had been noneof her doing.
Grace?--personality?--Lady Tatham divined them, from the way the girlmoved, from the look in her gray-blue eyes, from the carriage of herhead. She was certainly pretty, with that proud virginal beauty whichoften bears itself on the defensive, in our modern world where a certainsuperfluity of women has not tended to chivalry. But how littleprettiness matters, beside the other thing!--the indefinable,irresistible something--which gives the sceptre and the crown! All thetime she was listening to Mrs. Penfold's chatter, and the daughter'soccasional words, Victoria Tatham was on the watch for this something;and not without jealousy and a critical mind. She had been taken bysurprise; and she resented it.
Harry was very long in coming back!--in order she supposed to give hertime to make acquaintance.
But at last she had them at the tea-table, and Mrs. Penfold's adjectiveswere a little quenched. Each side considered the other. Lady Tatham'sdress, her old hat, and country shoes attracted Lydia, no less than theboyish, open-air look, which still survived through all the signs of acomplex life and a cosmopolitan experience. Mrs. Penfold, on her part,thought the old hat, and the square-toed shoes "unsuitable." In her youngdays great ladies "dressed" in the afternoons.
"Do you like your cottage?" Lady Tatham inquired.
Mrs. Penfold replied that nothing could be more to their taste--exceptfor the motors and the dust.
"Ah! that's my fault," said a voice behind her. "All motorists arebrutes. I say, it was jolly of you to come!"
So saying, Tatham found a place between his mother and Mrs. Penfold,looking across at Lydia. Youth, happiness, manly strength came in withhim. He had no features to speak of--round cheeks, a mouth generallyslightly open, and given to smiling, a clear brow, a red and whitecomplexion, a babyish chin, thick fair hair, and a countenance neitherreserved nor foolishly indiscreet. Tatham's physical eminence--and it wasundisputed--lay not in his plain, good-tempered face, but in the youngperfection of his athlete's form. Among spectacles, his mother, at least,asked nothing better than to see him on horseback or swinging agolf-club.
"How did you come?--through the Glendarra woods?" he asked of Lydia. Thedelight in his eyes as he turned them upon her was already evident to hismother.
Lydia assented.
"Then you saw the rhododendrons? Jolly, aren't they?"
Lydia replied with ardour. There is a place in the Glendarra woods, wherethe oaks and firs fall away to let a great sheet of rhododendrons sweepup from the lowland into a mountain boundary of gray crag and tumblingfern. Rose-pink, white and crimson, the waves of colour roll among therocks, till Cumbria might seem Kashmir. Lydia's looks sparkled, as shespoke of it. The artist in her had feasted.
"Won't you come and paint it?" said Tatham bending forward eagerly."You'd make a glorious thing of it. Mother could send a motor for you soeasily. Couldn't you, mother?"
"Delighted," said Lady Tatham, rather perfunctorily. "They are just intheir glory--they ought to be painted."
"Thank you so much!"--Lydia's tone was a little hurried--"but I have somany subjects on hand just now."
"Oh, but nothing half so beautiful as that, Lydia!" cried her mother, "orso uncommon. And they'll be over directly. If Lady Tatham would _really_send the motor for you--"
Lydia murmured renewed thanks. Tatham, observing her, retreated, with alaugh and a flush.
"I say, we mustn't bother you to paint what _we_ like. That would be toobad."
Lydia smiled upon him.
"I'm so busy with a big view of the river and Threlfall."
"Threlfall? Oh, do you know--mother! do you know what's been happening atThrelfall. Undershaw told me. The most marvellous thing!" He turned toMrs. Penfold. "You've heard the stories they tell about here of oldMelrose?"
Lydia laughed softly.
"Mother collects them!"
Mrs. Penfold confessed that, being a timid person, she went in fear,sometimes of Mr. Melrose, sometimes of his bloodhounds. She did not likepassing the gate of Threlfall, and the high wall round the estate madeher shudder. Of course the person that put up that wall _must_ be mad.
"A queer sort of madman!" said Tatham, with a shrug. "They say he getsricher every year in spite of the state of the property. And meanwhile nohuman being, except himself o
r the Dixons, has ever slept in that house,or taken bite or sup in it for at least twenty years. And as for hisbehaviour to everybody round about--well, I can tell you all about thatwhenever you want to know! However, now they've stormed him--they'vesmoked him out like a wasp's nest. My goodness--he did buzz! Undershawfound a man badly hurt, lying on the road by the bridge--bicycleaccident--run over too, I believe--and carried him into the Tower,willy-nilly!" The speaker chuckled. "Melrose was away. Old Dixon saidthey should only come in over his body--but was removed. Undershaw gotfour labourers to help him, and, by George, they carried the man in! Theyfound the drawing-room downstairs empty, no furniture in it, or next tonone--turned it into a bedroom in no time. Undershaw telegraphed for acouple of nurses--and when Melrose came home next day--_tableau_! Therewas a jolly row! Undershaw enjoyed it. I'd have given anything in theworld to be there. And Melrose'll have to stick it out they say for weeksand weeks--the fellow's so badly hurt--and--"
Lydia interrupted him.
"What did Doctor Undershaw say of him to-day?"
She bent forward across the tea-table, speaking earnestly.
Tatham looked at her in surprise.
"The report is better. Had you heard about it?"
"I must have seen him just before the accident--"
"Lydia! I never understood," said Mrs. Penfold rather bewildered.
Lydia explained that she too had seen Doctor Undershaw that morning, onhis way to the Tower, in Whitebeck village, and he had told her thestory. She was particularly interested, because of the little meeting bythe river, which she described in a few words. Twenty minutes or so afterher conversation with the stranger the accident must have happened.
Mrs. Penfold meanwhile was thinking, "Why didn't Lydia tell me all thison the drive?" Then she remembered one of Lydia's characteristics--a kindof passionate reticence about things that moved her. Had the fate then ofthe young man--whom she could only have seen for a few minutes--touchedher so much?
Lady Tatham had listened attentively to Lydia's story--the inner mind ofher all the time closely and critically observant of the story-teller,her beauty, the manner and quality of it, her movements, her voice. Hervoice particularly. When the girl's little speech came to an end,Victoria still had the charm of it in her ears.
"Does any one know the man's name?" she inquired.
"I forgot to ask Undershaw," said Tatham.
Lydia supplied the information. The name of the young man was ClaudeFaversham. He seemed to have no relations whatever who could come andnurse him.
"Claude Faversham!" Tatham turned upon her with astonishment. "I say! Iknow a Claude Faversham. I was a term with him at Oxford--at least ifit's the same man. Tall?--dark?--good-looking?"
Lydia thought the adjectives fitted.
"He had the most beautiful ring!" she added. "I noticed it when he wastying up my easel."
"A ring!" cried Tatham, wrinkling up his forehead. "By George, that isodd! I remember Faversham's ring perfectly. An uncle gave it him--an oldProfessor at Oxford, who used to collect things. My tutor sent me to alecture once, when I was in for schools. Mackworth--that was the oldboy's name--was lecturing, and Faversham came down to help him show hiscases. Faversham's own ring was supposed to be something special, andMackworth talked no end about it. Goodness!--so that's the man. Of courseI must go and see him!--ask after him anyway."
But the tone had grown suddenly dubious. Lady Tatham's eyebrows roseslightly.
"Go to Threlfall, Harry?"
"Well, not to call on Melrose, mother! I should have to make sure he wasout of the way. But I feel as if I ought to do something about Faversham.The fact is he did me a great kindness my first term at Oxford--he got meinto a little club I wanted to belong to."
"Oh, but _you_ could belong to any club you wished!" cried Mrs. Penfold.
Tatham laughed and coloured. Lady Tatham slipped the slightest look atLydia.
"Not at all. Faversham was awfully useful. I must see what can be done.He can't stay on at that place."
"You never go to Threlfall?" Mrs. Penfold addressed her hostess.
"Never," said Lady Tatham quietly. "Mr. Melrose is impossible."
"I should jolly well think he is!" said Tatham; "the most graspingand tyrannical old villain! He's got a business on now of the mostabominable kind. I have been hearing the whole story this week. A manwho dared to county court him for some perfectly just claim. And Melrosein revenge has simply ruined him. Then there's a right of way disputegoing on--scandalous!--nothing to do with me!--but I'm helping otherpeople to fight him. And his _cottages_!--you never saw such pigsties!He's defied every sort of inspector. I believe everybody's afraid of him.And you can't get a yard of land out of him for any public purposewhatever. Well, now that I'm on the County Council, I mean to _go forhim!"_
The young man sprang up, apparently to fetch cigarettes, really thathe might once more obtain a full view of Lydia, who had moved from thetea-table to a more distant seat.
Mrs. Penfold waved the silver box aside. "I never learnt"--she said,adding with soft, upturned eyes--confidingly--"sometimes I wish I did.Oh, Lydia will!"
And Lydia, following Lady Tatham's lead, quietly lit up. Tatham whocherished some rather strict and old-fashioned notions about women, veryimperfectly revealed even to his mother, was momentarily displeased; thenlost himself in the pleasure of watching a white hand and arm--for theday was hot and sleeves short--in new positions.
Lady Tatham looked round in answer to her son's last words.
"I wish, Harry, you'd leave him alone."
"Who? Melrose? _Mother!_ Oh, I forgot--he's a sort of cousin, isn't he?"
"My second cousin."
"Worse luck! But that's nothing, unless one chooses it shall be. Ibelieve, mother, you know a heap of things about Melrose you've nevertold me!"
Lady Tatham smiled faintly, but did not reply. Whereat Mrs. Penfold whosecuriosity was insatiable, within lady-like bounds, tried to ask questionsof her hostess. A wife? Surely there had been a wife?
"Certainly--twenty years ago. I saw her." The answer came readily.
"She ran away?"
"Not in the usual sense. There was no one, I understand, to run with.But she could not stand Threlfall--nor--I suppose--her husband. So oneday--when he had gone to Italy, and she was left behind--she just--"
"'Elopes--down a ladder of ropes'" laughed Tatham; "and took the child?"
"Yes--and a bronze, worth a thousand pounds."
"Sensible woman! And where are they now?"
Lady Tatham shrugged her shoulders.
"Oh, they can't be alive, surely," said Lydia. "Mr. Melrose told DoctorUndershaw that he had no relations in the world, and didn't wish to betroubled with any."
Contempt sat on Tatham's ruddy countenance.
"Well, as far as we're concerned, he may take it easy. His familyaffections don't matter to anybody! But the way he behaves as a landownerdoes really matter to all of us. He brings disgrace on the whole show."
He rose, straightening his young shoulders as he spoke. Lydia noted themodest involuntary consciousness of power and responsibility which for amoment dignified the boyish countenance; and as her eyes met his Tathamwas startled by the passionate approval expressed in the girl's look.
She asked if there was no agent on the Melrose estates to temper thetyrannies of their master.
Tatham came to her side--explaining--looking down upon her with aneagerness which had but a superficial connection with the thing said.
"You see no decent man would ever stay with him. He'd never do the thingsMelrose does. He'd cut his hand off first. And if he didn't, the oldvillain would kick him out in no time. But that's enough about him, isn'tit? I get him on the brain! Won't you come and see the pictures?"
* * * * *
The quartet inspecting the house had passed through the principal rooms,and had returned to the drawing-room. There Tatham said something toLydia, and they moved away together. His mother loo
ked after them. Tathamwas leading the way toward the door in the farther wall which led to hisown sitting-room. Their young faces were turned toward each other. Thegirl's shyness seemed to have broken up. She was now talking fast, withsmiles. Ah, no doubt they would have plenty to say to each other, as soonas they were together.
It was one of the bitter-sweet moments of life. Lady Tatham steadiedherself.
"That is a sketch," she said mechanically, "by Burne-Jones, for one ofthe Pygmalion and Galatea series. We have one or two others on the samesubject."
Mrs. Penfold clasped her small hands in rapture.
"Oh! but _how_ interesting! Do you know I was once Galatea? When I was agirl I used to act a great deal. Well, not act exactly--for I didn't haveto speak. I never could remember my lines. But I had two great parts.There was Hermione, in 'The Winter's Tale'; and Galatea. I made hundredsof pounds for hospitals--hundreds. It's not vain now, is it, to say onewas pretty in one's youth?"
"You like remembering it? Some people don't."
"Ah, no, that's wrong! I'd liked to have been beautiful once, if I'm oldand ugly now," cried Mrs. Penfold with fervour. "Of course"--she lookedshyly at the sketch--"I had beautiful draperies on. My Galatea was notlike that."
"Draperies?" Lady Tatham laughed. "Pygmalion had only just madeher--there had been no time to dress her."
"_We_ dressed her," said Mrs. Penfold decidedly, "from top to toe. Someday I must show you the drawings of it--it's not like that at all. Thegirls think I'm silly to talk of it--oh! they don't say it--they're verygood to me. But I can see they do. Only--they've so many things to beproud of. Susy's so clever--she knows Greek and all that kind of thing.And Lydia's drawing is so wonderful. Do you know she has made twentypounds out of her sketches this week!"
"Capital!" said Lady Tatham smiling.
"Ah, it means a great deal to us! You see"--Mrs. Penfold looked roundher--"when you're very rich, and have everything you want, you can'tunderstand--at least I don't think you can--how it feels to have twentypounds you don't expect. Lydia just danced about the room. And I'm tohave a new best dress--she insists on it. Well, you see"--the little pinkand white face of the speaker broke into smiles--"that's all so_amusing_. It puts one in good spirits. It's just as though one wererich, and made a thousand pounds. I daresay"--she looked, awestruck, atthe Burne-Jones sketch--"that's worth our whole income. But we're veryhappy. We never fret. Lydia and Susy both help in the housework. And Imake their blouses."
"How clever of you! That's a Fra Angelico"--said Lady Tatham pointing,and not knowing what to do with these confidences--"an Annunciation."
Mrs. Penfold thought it quite lovely. Lydia, when she was studyingin London, had copied one like it in the National Gallery. And herpoor father had liked it so. As they wandered on through the pictures,indeed, Lady Tatham soon came to know a great deal about Lydia's "poorfather"--that he had been a naval officer, a Captain Penfold, who hadhad to retire early on half-pay because of ill-health, and had diedjust as the girls had grown up. "He felt it so--he was so proud ofthem--but he always said, 'If one of us is to go, why, it had better beme, Rosina--because you have such spirits--you're so cheerful.' And I am.I can't help it."
It was all sincere. There was neither snobbishness nor affectation in thelittle widow, even when she prattled most embarrassingly about her ownaffairs, or stood frankly wondering at the Tatham wealth. But no onecould deny it was untutored. Lady Tatham thought of all the HonourableJohns, and Geralds, and Barbaras on the Tatham side--Harry's uncles andcousins--and the various magnificent people, ranging up to royalty, onher own; and envisaged the moment when Mrs. Penfold should look them allin the face, with her pretty, foolish eyes, and her chatter about Lydia'searnings and Lydia's blouses. And not all the inward laughter which thenotion provoked in one to whom life was largely comedy, in theMeredithian sense, could blind her to the fact that the shock would besevere.
Had she really injured the prospects of her boy by the way--the romantic,idealist way--in which she had brought him up. Her Harry!--with whom shehad read poetry, and talked of heroes, into whose ears she had pouredRuskin and Carlyle from his youth up; who was the friend and comrade ofall the country folk, because of a certain irrepressible interest in hiskind, a certain selflessness that were his cradle gifts; who shared inhis boyish way, her own amused contempt for shams and shows--had she,after all, been training him for a mistake in the most serious step oflife?
For, like it or despise it, English society was there, and he must fillhis place in it. And things are seemly and unseemly, fitting andunfitting--as well as good and bad. This inexperienced girl, with herprettiness, and her art, and her small world--was it fair to her? Isthere not something in the unconscious training of birth and position,when, _bon gre, mal gre_, there is a big part in the world's socialbusiness to be played?
And meanwhile, with a fraction of her mind, she went on talking"Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff." She did the honours of half theirpossessions. Then it suddenly seemed to her that the time was long, andshe led the way back once more to the drawing-room, in a ratherformidable silence, of which even her cheerful companion became aware.
But as they entered the room, the door at the farther end opened again,and Tatham and Lydia emerged.
Good heavens!--had he been proposing already? But a glance dispelledthe notion. Lydia was laughing as they came in, and a little flushed,as though with argument. It seemed to his mother that Harry's look, onthe other hand, was overcast. Had the girl been trampling on him?Impossible! In any case, there was no denying the quiet ease, thecomplete self-possession, with which the "inexperienced" one movedthrough Harry's domain, and took leave of Harry's mother. Your moderngirl?--of the intellectual sort--quite unmoved by gewgaws! Minx!
Harry saw the two ladies into their pony-carriage. When he returned tohis mother, it was with an absent brow. He went to the window and stoodsoftly whistling, with his hands in his pockets. Lady Tatham waited alittle, then went up to him, and took him by the arms--her eyes smilinginto his, without a word.
He disengaged himself, almost roughly.
"I wish I knew something about art!" he said discontentedly. "And whyshould anybody want to be independent all their lives--economicallyindependent?"
He slowly repeated the words, evidently from another mouth, in a land ofwonder.
"That's the young woman of to-day, Harry."
"Isn't it better to be happy?" he broke out, and then was silent.
"Harry!--you didn't propose to her?"
He laughed out.
"Propose to her! As if I dare! I haven't even made friends with heryet--though I thought I had. She talks of things I don't understand."
"Not philosophy and stuff?"
"Lord, no!" he said, shrugging his shoulders. "It's much worse. It's asthough she despised--" He paused again.
"Courting?" said his mother at last, her head against his shoulder.
"Well, anything of that sort, in comparison with art--and making acareer--and earning money--and things of that kind. Oh, I daresay I'm astupid ass!--"
Lady Tatham laughed softly.
"You can buy all her pictures, Harry."
"I don't believe she'd like it a bit, if she knew!" he said, gloomily.
The young man's chagrin and bewilderment were evident. His mother couldonly guess at the causes.
"How long have you known her, Harry?"
"Just two months."
Lady Tatham took him again by the shoulders, and looked into his face.
"Why didn't you tell me before? Do you want her?" she asked slowly.
"Yes--but I shall never get her," was the half desperate reply.
"Pooh!" she said, releasing him, after she had kissed him. "We shallsee."
And straightway, with a wave of the hand as it were, she dismissed allthought of the Honourable Johns and Geralds. Mrs. Penfold and her chattersank out of sight and hearing. She was her son's champion--against theworld.