IV
When the young ladies at the Manor House did not get their dresses from London, a dressmaker came from Brighton to help them, and all together they sat sewing and chattering in the work-room. Maggie would take a bow or a flower, and moving it quickly, guided by the instinct of a bird building its nest, would find the place where it decorated the hat or bonnet best. Neither Sally nor Grace could do this, nor could they drape a skirt or fit a bodice, but they could work well and enjoy their work. But what they enjoyed more was the opportunity these working days afforded for gossip. Mrs. Wood had the Brighton scandal at her tongue's tip, and what she would not tell, her niece told them when her aunt left the room. Secrecy was enjoined, but sometimes they forgot, and in Mrs. Wood's presence alluded too pointedly to stories that had not yet found their way beyond the precincts of the servants' hall, and then the dressmaker raised her mild eyes, and looked through large spectacles at Susan, who sat biting her lips. Susan told the young ladies of her love affairs; they told Susan of theirs; and the different codes of etiquette gave added zest to the anecdotes, in themselves interesting. The story of the young man who had said, “I am afraid that parcel is too heavy for you, miss,” and had been promised a walk in the twilight on the cliff, evoked visions of liberty, and the story of the officer at the Henfield ball, with whom Sally had discovered a room that none knew of, did not fail to impress the little dressmaker. They talked a great deal about Frank. His face and manner called up the name, and after a few hesitations they used his Christian name as they did when he came to see them years ago.
“He is a very good fellow—I don't say he isn't. No one could say he wasn't nice-looking, but somehow he doesn't make you feel—you know, right down, you know, through and through.”
“Electricity,” said Maggie, with a low, subtle laugh, and her thread cracked through the straw of the hat.
“Yes,” cried Sally boisterously. “Electricity, I never heard it called that before; but it isn't a bad name for it; it is like electricity. When a man looks at you—you know, in a peculiar way, it goes right down your back from the very crown of your head.”
“No, not down my back; I feel it down my chest, just like forked lightning. Isn't it horrid? You know that it is coming and you can't help it. Some men fix their eyes on you.”
“It is just when you meet a man's eyes—a man you like, but haven't seen much of.”
“I don't think liking has anything to do with it. I hate it; don't you?”
“No, I don't know that I do. I can't see anything so disagreeable as that in it. 'Tis rather a shock, a sort of pang.”
Mrs. Wood raised her mild face and looked surprised through her thick spectacles; the merry niece bit her lips, and strove to stay her laughter. Then Maggie said: “Sue, have you ever felt electricity?”
“Oh, miss! I don't think I understand,” and she glanced at her aunt over the hem she was running.
“Now, come, tell the truth. You mean to say you never felt electricity?”
“I don't think I ever did, miss.”
“I don't believe you. Not when that nice young man you were telling us about looked at you? Come, now, tell the truth.”
“Well, miss, I don't know—I thought it was very revolting.”
Mrs. Wood said nothing; with her hand in suspended gesture and her spectacles a-glimmer with round surprise, she sat looking at Miss Maggie. Her reveries, however, were soon cut short, for Sally not only asked her if she had ever experienced the doubtful pleasure of electricity, but advised her when she returned home to try if her husband's looks could thrill her.
“I don't think the conversation at all nice,” said Grace, who had up to the present taken no part either by looks, or words, or laughter.
“Who cares what you think? You used to be fond enough of sitting out dances with him. You mean to say he never gave you electricity?”
“No, never.”
“Then I hope Berkins will,” said Sally, with a coarse laugh.
The association of Berkins with electricity proved so generally ludicrous that Mrs. Wood, conscious of the respect she owed Miss Brookes, pretended to look for her handkerchief, and it was for a moment doubtful if the spectacles would preserve their gravity. Tears started to Grace's eyes, and she bent over her work to hide them from her sisters, which was unnecessary, for Maggie and Sally were absorbed in past experiences.
“What about Frank?” Sally asked, and Susan looked up curious to hear Maggie's answer.
“Well,” said Maggie, staring at the window, “Frank is very good-looking, but I don't think that he electrifies one... he did once.”
“And when was that?” said Sally.
“You remember the first time he came to stay here? Willy brought him down from London. We went to bed early and left them playing billiards; I lay awake waiting to hear them come up the stairs, and as he passed my room Frank stopped and I thought he was coming in. I felt it all down my spine, but never afterwards. You see, I didn't know him much then.”
“And Jimmy?”
“I never liked Jimmy.”
“If you don't like him why trouble about him?” Sally replied in her usually defiant manner. “You always take good care to trouble about my men. You tried all you could to get Jimmy away from me, yet you pretend to father that you never flirted with him.”
“I didn't flirt with him; once a young man looks at you you think no one must speak to him but yourself. If young Meason asks me to dance with him, I cannot refuse; I am not going to make myself ridiculous though you were to look all the daggers in the world at me, but as for flirting with him, I never cared enough about him.”
“And what about meeting him in London?”
Maggie coloured a little, and repudiated the accusation.
“You told him you were going to London, and you asked him if he were going, and what he would be doing that day. I don't know what more you could say.”
“I never said any such thing.”
“I have it from his own lips.”
“It isn't true; I will ask him to your face if he ever said such a thing; I will tell father that.”
“Well, there's no use in quarrelling,” said Grace, “and I wouldn't advise you to worry father about it. You know he can't stand the name of Meason. It seems to me that neither of you care much whom you flirt with, you like so many young men.”
“It is better to like a dozen young men than one old one.”
“I shan't marry Mr. Berkins, no matter what you say. However, you can't accuse me of interfering in your affairs.”
“No, you don't.”
“No more do I. If you want Frank, take him, only don't come sneaking after Charley. I don't want Frank; I don't care twopence about him. If you want to see it out with him, I shan't interfere; only don't you come interfering with me and Jimmy, or Charley either.”
Maggie did not like the idea of Sally getting two to her one. She would have liked to have introduced a proviso about Alfred, but the title Mount Rorke slipped between her thoughts, and she refrained. She knew the present treaty secured her immunity from Sally only so long as the affections and attentions of Jimmy and Charley showed no signs of declension, and she was aware that her promise would only hold good so long as Frank interested and Charley remained away in London.
The canary that had been twittering, now burst forth into long and prolonged shrillings. Grace folded up her work along her knees; and holding it in her hand like a roll of music, she said that they would never hear the end of this tennis party.
“I don't see why father should ever know anything about it, he has taken that horrid old Joseph with him, he never says more than a few words to the footman, and he never sees the cook or housemaid. We have all to-morrow to get the house straight.”
“It is not certain that he is going to stay the night in London.”
“Yes it is. Don't fidget. Have you got the wine out? We should have a dozen of champagne. Mind you make no mistake; '80, that is the wine you must get. Jimmy is most particular what he drinks, and Alfred has the most frightful headaches if he drinks anything but the very best. I hope he'll find the '80 all right.”
“That's father's favourite wine; you mean to say that he won't miss it? Then the port and Burgundy and cherry brandy—I won't take the responsibility.”
“Nobody asked you. All you have to do is to return the keys to Maggie that you took from her.”
“I don't think father will be as angry as you think, Grace; besides there's no drawing back now the invitations are out. I think it would be better to tell him that we had a few friends in for tennis. We needn't tell him who was there—we will suppress the name of the Southdown Road people; and we can take the bottles out from the back. The wine won't be missed for a long time, and we will invent some better excuse before then. We will say that two bottles were drunk at this party and three at that; and further than that we can't remember.”
“And what about the peaches? There are only a few ripe, and Sally says she'll want them all. Father has been looking forward to them for weeks and weeks.”
“He'll have to do without them; if he wants peaches, he had better bring some down from Covent Garden.”
A knock was heard at the door. “Please Miss, Mr. Escott is in the drawing-room.”
“Tell him I will be downstairs in a moment,” cried Maggie.
“Now off you go, my Lady Mount Rorke,” said Sally, who had already begun to regret her promises, and to consider if she had not better break them.
Maggie asked him what train he came down by, then she called the dog; “Come here, my beautiful boy, come and kiss me.” The bull-dog growled and wagged his tail.
“He won't hurt you; 'tis only his way of talking.”
Maggie laughed, and they walked out on the green sward. “I suppose you've been to a great many balls this season?”
“I don't know that I have; a few, perhaps. I am glad to get away from town. I like no place like this. I don't know if it is the place or the associations.”
“You are used to much finer places. I can fancy Mount Rorke—the lakes and the mountains; somehow I think I can see it. Isn't it strange, there are certain things and places you can realise so much better than others, and for no very understandable reason?”
“Yes, that is so,” said Frank, obviously pleased by the remark. Then, after a pause, “Mount Rorke is a pretty place, and I don't think I could live long away from it. After a time I always find myself sighing for the bleakness and barrenness of the West. The hedgerows of England are pretty enough; but I hate the brick buildings.”
“What kind of buildings do you have in Ireland?”
“Everything is built of grey stone, a cold grey tint on a background of green pasture lands and blue mountains. I daresay you wouldn't like it. It would recall nothing to you, but when I think of it, much less see it, I re-live my childhood all over again. I am a great person for old times. That is the reason I like coming down here. I knew you all so long ago; how well I can remember you—three dark little things. You used to sit on my knee.”
“And do you find nothing nice in the present?”
“Of course I do; it is nice to walk in the garden with you, but it seems to me you have all moved away from me a little. Grace is engaged, you are engaged—”
“Who said I was engaged?”
“Ha, ha, you see I hear everything. What is his name—Alfred?”
“I suppose Sally told you.”
“I won't tell you who told me, I never betray secrets. You had a desperate flirtation two years ago, and the man had to go away, and you promised to wait for him.”
“I don't mind telling you—I did meet a man about two years ago whom I rather liked; I used to see a great deal of him at tennis parties and balls; he used to ask me to marry him. He wanted me to engage myself to him, and I told him it would be much better to wait and see what father would say.”
“And what did your father say?”
“Father, he never knew anything about it. You may as well tell me, I know it was Sally. I suppose she told you I was very much in love with him?”
“She said, at least, the person who told me said, that you would never care for any one else.”
“So you've been talking about me though you promised you wouldn't talk any more,” Maggie said to herself, “All right, my lady—very well, we shall see.”
“Grace is waving her parasol to us. Lunch must be ready.”
Maggie and Grace had calculated that if they could limit the champagne to half a dozen bottles they would be able to hide the deficit from their father's scrutiny; but the servants seemed to be always filling the glasses of the Southdown Road people, and lunch was not half over when they heard the fourth bottle go pop. Maggie looked at Sally across the pile of peaches, but Sally had no ears for the report, only for Jimmy's voice. Her head wagged as she talked, and Maggie wondered if they were exchanging napkins or rings beneath the table.
At that moment the servant handed a letter on a salver to Maggie, saying, “From Mrs. Horlock; the servant is waiting an answer, miss.” Grace trembled. Sally whispered to Jimmy, “What can she want?” In a reassuring voice Maggie said, “She has heard we are having a few people in to tennis, and she wants to know if she may send us round a young man; she will come round herself with the General some time during the afternoon.” At the mention of a young man many eyes gleamed, and Sally said, “You had better go at once and write a note and say that we shall be delighted.” When they went into the verandah coffee was handed round, and Maggie, as the gentlemen lit their cigarettes, said to Grace, “Nothing could have happened better; father is sure to hear of this, we couldn't have kept it from him: now we can say Mrs. Horlock was our chaperon. None will know when she came, or when she went away.” Then turning to her company, Maggie said, “Now gentlemen, as soon as you have finished your cigarettes we will begin.”
Sally not only insisted on playing, but on playing with Jimmy; and Grace, who was striving to struggle into the position of Miss Brookes, could do nothing but set the girl in the florid dress and the man who stood next to her to play against them. The garden seemed to absorb the girls, but Maggie, catching sight of Mrs. Horlock, went to meet her.
Mrs. Horlock was sixty, but her figure was like a girl's. She led a blind pug in a complicated leading apparatus, and several other pugs in various stages of fat and decrepitude followed her. It was not long before she raised a discussion on hydrophobia, defending the disease from all the charges of horror and contagion that had been urged against it, narrating vehemently how a mad dog had died in her arms licking her hands and face, and appealing to the General, who denounced muzzling; but when the mangy mastiff came near him he whispered to Frank, “I wish they were all shot. You must come and see us; you must come and see us; I have a pretty little place in the Southdown Road (dreadful place to mention here, they don't like it; of course the people there aren't all quite the thing, but what are you to do, you know?). Lunch at two, dinner at eight—old Indians, you know. I have everything I want. Too many animals, perhaps, but that can't be helped.”
“Do you live here all the year?”
“Yes, all the year round. We don't go away much. We have everything here—coach-houses, horses, you'll see when you come. The only thing I want is a little occupation, a little something to bring me out, you know. I read the Morning Post every morning, and I have the St James's in the evening; but then there is the middle of the day,” and, with laughter full of genial kindness and goodwill, the General repeated this phrase: “I want a little something to bring me out, you know.”
Forty years of Indian sun! Balls in the Government House in Calcutta! Viceroys, tigers, horse-racing, elephants, jealousies, flirtations, deaths, all now forgotten, and if not forgotten, at rest; and now glad to watch life unfolding itself again in an English village, this old couple sat in the calm sunlight of an English garden, relics of another generation, emblems of an England drawing to a close.
At five o'clock Grace was busy at the tea-table; and very hot and moist Sally threw herself into a cane chair. Maggie, who had suddenly appeared upon the scene, arranged some fresh sets in which she and Frank did not take part—she having promised to walk with him; and they went towards the shade of the sycamores. She had neglected him nearly the whole day, and he was vexed with her. But she excused herself volubly, accusing Sally of indifference to all things except her own pleasures, and impressed upon him that it was her duty to show some politeness to Mrs. Horlock's friend.
“Sally would play tennis, she played two sets, three if I am not mistaken, and she never left Jimmy's side. She took no notice of any one; for that reason I hate having people to the house when she is here; everything devolves upon Grace and me. It is really too bad. Father wouldn't mind our giving this party at all, if it weren't for him. If he hears that he was here, well, I don't know what will happen.”
“He doesn't look quite a gentleman, does he? He is a ship's mate, isn't he?”
“Yes, but it isn't that; father cannot bear those Southdown Road people. A lot of young men live there—quite as good as ourselves, no doubt, but they are all so poor, and father thinks of nothing but money. And Sally meets them. When she goes out driving in the cart she picks them up, and they go off together. Father doesn't know any of them, and he says they laugh at him when he goes to the station in the morning. 'Tisn't true, it is only his imagination; but I can quite well understand his feelings. You know Sally won't give way in anything. Once she ran into the kitchen, and told cook to put back the dinner, so that she might run down the slonk to finish her conversation with him. Of course father was mad at that, coming home tired from the City, and finding that his dinner had been put back. You saw the way they went on at lunch, sitting close together.”
“We were all sitting close together.”
“Yes, but not like they were. And all that nonsense with their napkins under the table. If you didn't see it, so much the better. I thought everybody saw it. I wish Sally wouldn't do it. Father, as you know, has a lot of money to leave, and if she did really go too far, I fear he would cut her off.”
“But she never would go too far.”
“No, I don't think so; I am sure Sally wouldn't do anything that was really wrong, but she is very imprudent.”
“How do you mean?”
“I don't know that I ought to tell you.”
“I promise not to tell any one—you know you can trust me.”
“Well, she brings people up to her room.”
“You don't mean to her bedroom?”
“She says you can't call it a bedroom, but she sleeps there for all that. She covers up the bed and makes it look like a couch; she keeps birds and dogs there; Flossie had her puppies there. That's her room,” said Maggie, lifting one of the boughs. “I shouldn't be surprised if Jimmy were there with her now.”
The foliage glinted in the sunset, and as Maggie stood pointing, still holding the bough, the picture flashed upon Frank, and he said: “Oh, how pretty you are now! How I should like to paint you!” And a moment after he said, interested, solely interested in sentimental affection, “Sally's ideas of love seem to me very funny; if she really loves Meason, why doesn't she marry him?”
“He has no money, and father would never hear of it.”
“Never hear of it! If I loved a girl, nothing in the world would prevent my marrying her.”
“I wonder if that's true,” said Maggie, and she let go the bough and stood facing him, her hands clasped behind her back.
“Of course it is. What is life for if it isn't to get the woman we love?”
“It is nice to hear you say so; but I am afraid very few young men think like you nowadays. One woman is the same as another to them.”
“I cannot understand any one thinking so. If it were so, the whole charm would be lost.”
So the young people talked, and lost in the charm of each thrilling minute, they walked through the shadows and darkening leaves. The soft garden echoed with the sound of a girl's voice crying, “Cuckoo, cuckoo,” and the white dresses flew over the sward, and the young men ran after them and caught them. They were playing hide and seek. Excited beyond endurance, Triss barked loudly, and forms were seen flying precipitately.
“Tie him up to this tree,” said Maggie.
“No, no, better take him to the house,” said Frank; “it would make him savage to tie him up.”
When the ninth bottle of champagne had been opened, and the supper table was noisy, Frank whispered to Maggie, “Did you ever see Macbeth?”
“Yes, but why?”
“Because I can't help thinking what a splendid occasion it would be for Banquo's ghost to appear.”
Maggie pressed his hand and laughed.
Soon after the sound of wheels was heard. Grace turned pale, Sally said: “Who would have thought it?” A moment after Mr. Brookes, with Berkins and Willy behind him, entered. He stood amazed, and seeing that the tears were mounting to his eyes, Maggie said: “Father, how tired and faint you look. We thought you wouldn't be coming home to-night. Do sit down and have a glass of wine.” But neither winning words nor ways could soothe this storm, and in reply to a question from Berkins, Mr. Brookes declared passionately that he knew none of the young men who came to his house.
