by Louisa Parr.
Originally published in Longman's Magazine (Longmans, Green & Co.) vol.1 #9 (Jul 1883).
'My dear Monty, how glad I am to see you! It does seem such an age since you were here, although we've nothing to amuse you, for do you know the Halketts have gone. Mrs. Halkett's grandfather must choose to be taken ill—tiresome old man! And not content with rushing off herself, she must needs drag her sister away—Celia Young. You remember I wrote about her; a charming girl! And here we are, left with nobody but Carrie and Hatty Wentworth. I don't know what you'll say.'
'Say that I'm very glad they are gone, my dear Fanny. My only regret is that Miss Wentworth did not accompany them.'
'Monty!' and the speaker shook her head regretfully. 'Not that really anyone need mind Hatty, for since that ridiculous notion of hers about Tom Carlingford throwing her over, except to sit and abuse all the men, she might as well be dumb.'
The gentleman addressed as Monty curled his lip disdainfully. He was evidently about to give vent to some very cutting sarcasm, but apparently recollecting that the subject was not worth the trouble, he heaved instead a very profound sigh.
'I'm sure you would have liked Celia Young, Monty; and she was expiring to meet you.'
'Thank Heaven then for sending her a disappointment! Fanny, I see you don't believe me, but I give you my solemn word that I have done with women for ever. One has managed to completely blight my life, to break my heart, and half kill me; and I think, if you ask me, that is about enough.'
'Unfeeling, heartless girl!' was murmured sympathetically. 'How you must despise her!'
'I! What, because I discover that she has been dealing falsely with me—trifling with me—do you suppose that I can cease to love her? On the contrary, the hopelessness of her ever being mine but adds fuel to the fire and increases my torture. As long as I live I shall never cease to worship that girl—never!' and making a great display of a cambric pocket-handkerchief, embroidered with a most elaborate initial, the disconsolate lover sank back in the carriage as if thoroughly overcome by despair.
Fanny, otherwise Mrs. Stanhope Rodney, sighed audibly. Monty Curzon was her most petted cousin—one of the best-looking men about town, universally spoiled, and hitherto the greatest adept at a flirtation to be met with in the United Kingdom. For years he had carried everything before him, had raised hopes only to scatter them, wounded hearts which he left for others to spread salve over; had come, seen, and conquered; loved, laughed, and ridden away. All at once Fortune had refused him her favour, just when chance had thrown him in the way of more than his match in an arch-deceiver, who was not only wily enough to lead him on, but she called 'Dilly-dilly-duck' until she actually effected his capture, and then, with Captain Curzon at her feet, was never more surprised than to find that what she had meant as play he had taken as earnest. Naturally she had preferred him because he had seemed to prefer her; but, setting aside her engagement to Mr. Moss Golding (which she thought everybody in the world knew of), how was it possible to conceive that, after having been told fifty thousand times that Captain Curzon never meant anything beyond a flirtation, she was all at once to suppose he intended anything more with her. Captain Curzon's friends said that Miss Lyster had behaved abominably; the strictures passed by the ladies were particularly severe. The men took a more lenient view of the matter; some were even heard to say that he had been only paid back as he deserved to be. However, as it seemed to be insisted upon, Captain Curzon was regarded as heart-broken, and this forsaking town and burying himself in the country was a certain proof of his suffering and his despair.
The short drive from the station accomplished, and Captain Curzon put in possession of the cosiest of bachelor apartments, Mrs. Rodney hastened to the boudoir, where she found her sister Carrie—a kindly, middle-aged spinster—and Hatty Wentworth seated together.
'Well, he's come!' she said excitedly. 'I've brought him back with me, but oh, so altered! You'd hardly know him for the same.'
'There was room for improvement, wasn't there?' said Miss Hatty, ironically.
Mrs. Rodney treated the question with becoming contempt.
'You have never yet met Monty Curzon, Hatty,' she said, crushingly.
'Oh, yes, I have though; only I was never enough talked of to make it worth while for him to want an introduction to me.'
'My dear, don't be spiteful! Besides, in the present case it is really most unfeeling in you. The poor fellow is crushed—absolutely heart-broken.'
Miss Wentworth laughed derisively.
'Really, Fanny, it is too absurd of you! MHeart-broken! As if any man had a heart to break. The whole of them are altogether made of cast iron.'
'As I've told you before, Hatty,' Mrs. Rodney delivered herself sententiously, 'it is a pity to judge all by one bad specimen. However, you're certain to alter your opinion before long, for I suppose you don't mean to be a spinster for ever?'
'Heaven forbid!' cried Miss Hatty, tragically. 'My only regret is that I can only marry one man. I should like to have the tormenting of thousands for all I am being made to suffer.' And having delivered herself of this exalted sentiment of humanity, without waiting for a reproof, which she foresaw was in store for her, the young lady beat a hasty retreat from the room.
'Oh dear, dear! What a pity it is that girl makes herself so silly,' exclaimed Mrs. Rodney, irritably. 'I do wish that Stanhope hadn't persuaded me to ask her here; I'm sure it was very ill-judged, Carrie.'
Miss Wentworth, a cousin on Mr. Rodney's side of the family, was a pretty girl with a great store of attractive power which had never failed her except in the instance of Mr. Tom Carlingford, who, having been played fast and loose with by her for an indefinite time, had at length grown restive and escaped this tyranny by removing his allegiance from her and placing it and his hand and fortune at the disposal of a simple unattractive country girl; thereby, according to Hatty's showing, wrecking her peace of mind for ever, and setting her at variance with all mankind.
'I do hope she won't make herself disagreeable to Monty,' said Mrs. Rodney, continuing to address her sister.
'Not at all likely, unless he interferes with her.'
'Which he is quite certain not to do; he knows too much of her already, and the way she has behaved to dozens of men, especially to Roger Cotton. I believe he quite dislikes her; he told me some time ago that she has everywhere the character of flirting most abominably.'
'Then I can quite understand the grounds for your apprehension.'
'Why? How?'
'Simply because two of a trade seldom agree.'
In the drawing-room the lowering of the lids over eyes which did not deign to look at him was the only acknowledgement Miss Wentworth vouchsafed in return for the unnecessarily profound bow made by Captain Curzon to her. That it might be perfectly understood that no further intimacy was desired, the young lady, last to put in an appearance, crossed outside the circle made round the fire, and drew over a chair close to the window at which she sat looking out until the announcement of dinner.
'I give myself to you, Monty,' said Mrs. Rodney, rising.
'Come along, Carrie,' said the host, cheerily. 'Hatty will have to bring up the rear.'
Miss Wentworth rose so slowly, and trailed herself after them so languidly, that on reaching the door of the dining-room she perceived the party already seated, with a chair left vacant for her—it was placed opposite to Captain Curzon.
'I wish somebody was here to take a bet that he'll eat a capital dinner,' she said inwardly; 'it would be something new to see a man's appetite affected by anything but his liver. I'll just watch him.'
And when Captain Curzon, who was really very well disposed towards the excellently arranged menu set before him, having finished his soup, looked up from it, his eyes were met by a pair which seemed to promise their owner some amusement in taking note of him.
'Confound that girl,' he thought. 'I wonder whether she means to sit staring at me all through dinner?' and in order to avoid her he handed the menu to Mrs. Rodney.
'I hope you've brought down a little appetite with you, Monty,' she said imploringly.
'Oh, but certainly I have. To-day I intend to make an extra good dinner, for I have not had much beyond a cup of coffee since yesterday.'
Mrs. Rodney shook her head to show how deeply this announcement pained her.
'Isn't it at Malta where, to move your pity, they say that they haven't eaten anything for a week or a fortnight?' The expression of Miss Wentworth's face as she asked this question was a study.
Captain Curzon, feeling the thrust, and hoping to give it back again, answered her quickly, that he had known the beggars there say they had been a month without food. What made Miss Wentworth think of the Maltese? was she interested in anyone at Malta? The 60th had gone from there.
The 60th was the regiment of Roger Cotton, Miss Wentworth's old admirer, and the young lady—reported to have treated him very badly—perfectly understood the allusion.
'Oh, are they!' she said, feigning great interest in the matter. 'Then the sea has put a further distance between England and your friend, Captain Cotton?'
'My friend! was he not yours also? I have heard him talk so very much about you.'
'Really! have you? I wonder now if I ought to feel flattered by what you tell me?'
And the eyes of the two speakers measured swords so openly that. Mrs. Rodney, who alone had been listening to them, hastened to throw herself into the breach.
'Oh, come!' she said, 'never mind now what anybody else said of anybody, let us talk of something more general. Stanhope, what are you saying to Carrie? When the party is small the conversation should go round the table.'
'By all means, my dear. I was asking Carrie what could be Giles's reason for not giving the old dun cow Thorley's "Food for Cattle"; now give us your subject, and we'll choose between them.'
But this arrangement not being satisfactory, Mrs. Rodney said they were not talking about anything at all, 'So now let us start something fresh.'
'Decidedly,' said her husband. Whereupon a dead silence was maintained by everyone, and when that at length was broken, conversation was only kept up spasmodically.
Captain Curzon, deprived 'of the enjoyment of his dinner,' each dish of which was made bitter by the consciousness that Miss Wentworth was watching him, felt in a horribly bad temper; his host was disposed to confound the fellow for not being as usual 'good company.' Soon after the ladies left the table the two gentlemen joined them.
'That's right, Hatty,' said Mr. Rodney, seeing her go towards the piano, 'sing us something, do.'
Miss Wentworth had a charming voice which she was dying to make heard, and though she feigned reluctance, she was anything but sorry that Stanhope had asked her.
'Hatty, I beg of you be careful what you sing,' said Mrs. Rodney, in a whisper. Of late Hatty's songs had been descriptive of the most harrowing agony. 'I would not for the world have you sing one of those dreadfully pathetic things.'
'Why?' said Miss Wentworth audibly. Mrs. Rodney frowned ominously, and then with her eyes intimated the heart-broken Curzon.
'Oh, I understand,' and while seeming to search her memory, Hatty played a rather stirring prelude, and then burst into a popular comic song.
'I say, Hatty,' Mr. Rodney was laughing heartily, 'what on earth made you sing that? I didn't think you could do anything but pile up the agony.'
'Surely this style must be much better suited to Miss Wentworth,' said Captain Curzon, maliciously.
'I feel duly grateful for such a flattering opinion,' said the young lady, 'quite unmerited by me, for I chose the song. out of regard to somebody to whom pathos is objectionable apparently.'
'If I stay here any longer I shall say something rude to that girl,' thought Captain Curzon, rising hastily. 'Fanny,' he said aloud, 'the moon is shining gloriously; are you afraid to venture on a turn in the garden with me?'
'It was just what I was wishing to do,' and with a look intended to annihilate Hatty, Mrs. Rodney and her cousin stepped out through the window.
Does not everyone know how events always happen—that the thing you most wish to avoid is almost certain to take place.
The next morning there lay Mrs. Rodney distracted with neuralgia, utterly unable to lift her head from the pillow—the result of that moonlight ramble last night; her husband off to the meet, not expected back until to-morrow; and Carrie—who really might have had some grain of sympathy in the matter—refusing to put off her visit to a sick relation because she had written to say she would come by an early train. Oh, well, what might not happen it was impossible to say! The bare idea of Monty Curzon and that Hatty Wentworth having to sit down to breakfast together—alone, with nobody else with them—reduced poor Mrs. Rodney to utter despair. 'I can't help it,' she moaned; 'Davis, you must go down and tell Captain Curzon that just at present I am not able to raise my head from the pillow, and ask Miss Wentworth if she will oblige me by having her breakfast in her own room.'
'But, ma'am,' began Davis.
'Don't talk to me, I can't listen; go and give the message as I tell you.'
Davis, who had but intended to explain that she fancied Miss Wentworth was already downstairs, went off rather huffily. Of course, if her lady wouldn't listen, there was nothing left but for her to obey, and she therefore walked straight into the morning-room, at the far end of which—divided by the greatest space possible—two persons were standing.
'Breakfast in my own room! Why?'
'I can't tell, Miss, I'm sure, that was the message given to me; and if you please, Sir, Mrs. Rodney is very ill, not able to raise her head from the pillow, she told me to say.'
'Where's Miss Carrie?' was asked in dismay.
'She went by the early train, Miss, to see Lady Maudsley. Master drove her so far as Hatherley, or she wouldn't have started so soon.'
'Then isn't Mr. Rodney here?'
'No, Sir, he has gone hunting to-day; Groves took the horses over on Monday.'
Davis disappeared—two faces were left staring blankly at one another.
'Breakfast is on the table, if you please,' said a voice at the open door; 'I won't ring the bell because of disturbing mistress.'
'Really I don't know what I am expected to do,' said Miss Wentworth, who did not choose to remember that this was the first morning she had ever been down so early.
'Mistress did not know that you'd be up yet, Miss,'—the butler at once grasped the situation—'Davis is gone to tell her now,' and he stood waiting while Captain Curzon assumed an expectant air that Miss Wentworth would lead so that he might follow.
'Coffee or tea do you take?' Miss Wentworth was seated behind the urn, the servant had left them together.
'Thanks. Tea, if I may trouble you.'
'Milk?'
'A little.'
'Sugar?'
'Not-any.'
'What may I give you?' It was Captain Curzon's turn to make the offer.
'A piece of dry toast.'
'Nothing more?'
'Yes, a small piece of butter.'
And then silence, except for the ticking of the clock and the purring of the big cat curled up in front of the fire.
Five minutes passed; long enough, they both thought, to seem an hour.
Vexed as she was, Hatty felt an irresistible desire to laugh—the effort to control herself was almost painful. Captain Curzon, who was so seated that he could get a perfect view of her face in an opposite glass, was saying to himself, 'There is no denying that this girl is remarkably good-looking.' Suddenly she turned round, struck with the certainty that he was watching her. Yes, she had caught his eyes fixed in that direction; but, equal to the emergency, Captain Curzon, although inwardly vexed, showed no sign of chagrin. 'I was thinking,' he said, contemplatively, 'how very different a face looks in a glass to the same face reflected in an urn.' And Hatty, turning her eyes straight before her, saw a countenance depressed and its cheeks spread out until they seemed to cover the whole circle of silver. Try as she might, her mouth would quiver, and in another instant she had burst into an irresistible fit of laughter.
The ice once broken, a thaw seemed to set in, and neither of the two showed any disposition to move, until Foster desired the young footman to go in and attend to the fire, and bring out word what on earth they could be after.
Having first expressed much satisfaction that the morning was so fine, and it would be pleasant to sit quiet and undisturbed in the garden, Hatty went up to her room.
Staring her in the face was the despairingly dowdy hat she had during her visit adopted; but instead of putting it on, and, as hitherto, without a glance at herself walking away, she contemptuously flung it aside, and diving into a drawer set apart for that purpose, she produced a most coquettish arrangement of straw, which having placed on her head she surveyed with unfeigned satisfaction. Then she drew over a chair, laid a book on her knee, and oddly enough opened a big rose-lined parasol.
The effect was perfect: a pretty morning gown, from underneath which a foot neatly chaussé was pointed—the country straw hat—the becoming shade from the parasol; the picture left nothing to be desired. And thus armed for conquest, Miss Wentworth strolled down into the garden.
Although standing close near the window, it is barely presumable that Captain Curzon caught sight of her, for he was busy donning another coat—the one he wore was a brute. Everything but velvet was objectionable. Those rough tweed things gave such a ruffianly look to a fellow. He could not think why he had brought one there. At that moment he had forgotten that he had said anything would do; what could it matter what he had on?
'I beg your pardon, I hadn't an idea that I should find you here. I hope I haven't disturbed you?'
Captain Curzon had unearthed the contemplative fair one, who had betaken herself to a small, snugly-arranged, out-of-sight bower.
Surely some knowledge of the habits of the animal must have guided his instincts there.
'Oh no, not at all—' having heard his footsteps, the start she gave was most becoming; 'only I seem to be driving you away.'
'That is a very little matter. I was but looking for a seat where one might sit undisturbed and quiet,' and he sighed heavily.
'I don't think, except this one, there is another to be found here; that is why I chose it,' and the sigh he had heaved was echoed back by her. 'It is so unfortunate that Fanny should have a headache,' she continued, noticing that he seemed disposed to linger; 'she had looked forward to devoting every minute of the day to you.'
'Poor Fanny, she's a dear good creature, and I'm awfully fond of her; but you know, Miss Wentworth, she doesn't in the least understand one.'
Miss Wentworth smiled.
'Ah, yes,' he continued; 'I see you don't believe me.'
'On the contrary, I was just thinking that that was exactly my experience of her. I don't blame her; she does not know what it is to suffer. Fanny has been always happy.'
'Just so, and because of that, she thinks one can forget at pleasure—that one's feelings and affections are in one's own power.'
Miss Wentworth's pretty little head wagged itself in sympathy.
'Ah, Captain Curzon,' she murmured softly, 'if such were the case, what a different world this might be.'
'And yet,' he said, sternly, 'you women make it what it is.'
'That I deny emphatically; it is the men who are cruel, heartless, without the suspicion of what the meaning of the word love is.'
Captain Curzon held in his hand a cigar: he flung it from him with a tragic gesture, stepped into the bower, and with the air of a man who has a mission to perform, sat himself down on the little bench fronting Miss Wentworth's wicker-chair.
'I shall not leave here,' he said, 'until I have convinced you; and perhaps the surest way of pointing out your error is to confide to you some of the misery that I have been lately made to endure.'
'I am quite willing to listen, but before I am made a convert of, in my turn there is something you will have to hear from me.'
At Mrs. Rodney's the rule of the house was to have luncheon at one o'clock, but two had struck before there was any sign of Captain Curzon and Miss Wentworth. Then they came strolling in together, and sat at the table so long, that the butler remarked it would very soon be time for dinner.
Mrs. Rodney, unable to bear the distressing pain, had been obliged to resort to a composing draught. It was, therefore, plain that she would not be down that evening. The rector, who chanced to make a call, left word that he should be pleased if Captain Curzon would dine with him. The invitation was promptly declined. The continuance of the conversation commenced that morning presented far greater attractions than anything the rectory could offer. The result had been an opening up of confidences which threatened to establish the warmest friendship between the two who had up to this period professed to hate each other cordially.
'Here, Foster—Captain Curzon was addressing the butler—'is it a necessity to have dinner in the dining-room? It seems such a wilderness of a place when there are only Miss Wentworth and I.'
'I had thought of laying in the morning-room, Sir, but didn't quite like to name it. Master and mistress always dine there when they're two.'
'Leagues better. The morning-room then let it be.'
And accordingly in that snuggery Captain Curzon thoroughly enjoyed a meal, which he could not help contrasting with the one they had both partaken of the evening before.
Never had the fair Hatty looked more bewitching. Captain Curzon decided that his friend Cotton must have been a fool not to have secured her. Hatty, on her part, was saying, 'If I had been Flora Lyster, I'd have thrown over fifty Moss Goldings for you.'
Already these two young people, equally expert at the game, had begun playing with the fire. The question was, which would get burnt—he, she, both, or neither?
Dinner ended, a whole evening was before them to compare notes and to examine feelings, so that they might make sure how exactly constituted alike they each were. Long ago they had discovered that of all the people living they alone possessed hearts which were capable of being broken, These hearts were shattered, never to be made whole again; but the delightful luxury of dissecting the agony they had endured was theirs still. 'Counterfeiting sweet woes, they suffered them again.'
The next morning both were down early, impelled by a certain sympathy, to taste the freshness of the morning air. From strolling round the garden they came in to breakfast together, and learnt, with well-assumed pleasure, that Mrs. Rodney was feeling better, and had sent down word to say that she hoped to join them later in the day.
'Tell her,' said Captain Curzon, to whom the message seemed principally addressed, 'I shall be delighted to see her; but I do hope she won't make any effort that might try her in any way.'
Miss Wentworth wondered if Fanny would like her to go up and sit with her. 'Will you ask her, Davis?' she said.
'Yes, Miss; but I'm sure she'll say No. If mistress is down by the afternoon, it's quite as much as she'll be able to do.'
In that case Captain Curzon was tempted to propose that he and Miss Wentworth should go as far as Abbot's Rest together. It was such a lovely walk, and with the autumnal tints upon the great trees around, the ruin would be something worth seeing now. His offer was accepted; and Davis had the satisfaction of restraining her mistress's well-meant efforts by informing her that the Captain and Miss Hatty had gone for a long walk, 'so that unless you feel inclined, Ma'am, there's no necessity to hurry.'
Mrs. Rodney permitted herself to sink back upon the pillow, and then reflection came, and she told herself that Monty was so kind, no doubt he considered it due to her to sacrifice himself and be amiable to Hatty, and she would accept the offer, hoping to irritate him by so doing. 'Davis, I will get up,' she said; so that when the truant couple returned they found Mrs. Rodney waiting to receive them. Needless to relate the mystification, the astonishment, finally the indignation which took possession of her. The two she had left crossing swords had now taken up arms together, and their weapons were smiles and sighs, which they practised regardless of her.
The afternoon seemed very long. It was quite a relief when the tea was brought in, and Mrs. Rodney noticed that neither Monty nor Hatty made any opposition when she proposed resting a little before dinner in her own room.
'So you've had one of your bad headaches, Fanny?' Mrs. Rodney saw it was her husband speaking; he had returned, had opened the door softly, and was bending down to her. 'Poor darling,' he said tenderly, 'if I'd known it I would not have gone.'
'Oh, you could not have done anything for me, the pain was worse than usual; I had just to take a draught and lie quietly curled up until it was over.'
'And the Kilkenny cats, what did they do? I looked about, but there wasn't so much as the tip of one of their tails below. What's become of them?'
'Oh, I don't know—gone out to look at the moon, I shouldn't wonder.'
'But not together?'
Mrs. Rodney's eyes were fixed on the fire, her husband stared at her incredulously.
Shaking her head she said, 'I don't know what people are coming to; at all events I don't understand them.'
'Why, what's the matter?'
'Nothing, only that I'm never going to mix myself up in anybody's love affairs any more. When people tell me they are brokenhearted, I believe them; and when they say they dislike anyone, I think they do. I don't expect everything to be changed and forgotten in a few hours.'
'Whew!' ejaculated Mr. Rodney; 'is it Curzon and Hatty you are meaning?'
Mrs. Rodney's head gave the reply; then glancing at her husband, 'I see you,' she said; 'of course you're laughing, as every one else will do—you call me a stupid, and I suppose I am one.'
'No, you are not anything of the kind, only you're a romantic old goose, who thinks everybody's heart is as soft as your own.'
'When I was in love I meant it,' said Mrs. Rodney aggrievedly. 'If you had deceived me, or anything had come between us, I should have died, Stanhope, and I believe you would have died too.'
'Oh, but we fell in love in a very old-fashioned way.'
'Well, then, I like old-fashioned ways best, don't you?'
'I like old-fashioned wives best, if that is the same;' then seeing that she was beginning to smile he added, 'Don't you bother your head about those two, they can look after each other, and take care of themselves—the rule of a good deal of what is called love in the present day.'