CHAPTER VI.
IN WHICH DORCAS BRANDON SPEAKS.
In answer to 'the roaring shiver of the gong' we all trooped awaytogether to luncheon. Lady Chelford and Dorcas and Chelford had nearlyended that irregular repast when we entered. My chair was beside MissBrandon; she had breakfasted with old Lady Chelford that morning, andthis was my first meeting that day. It was not very encouraging.
People complained that acquaintance made little way with her. That youwere, perhaps, well satisfied with your first day's progress, but thenext made no head-way; you found yourself this morning exactly at thepoint from which you commenced yesterday, and to-morrow would recommencewhere you started the day before. This is very disappointing, but maysometimes be accounted for by there being nothing really to discover. Itseemed to me, however, that the distance had positively increased sinceyesterday, and that the oftener she met me the more strange she became.As we went out, Wylder enquired, with his usual good taste: 'Well, whatdo you think of her?' Then he looked slily at me, laughing, with hishands in his pockets. 'A little bit slow, eh?' he whispered, and laughedagain, and lounged into the hall. If Dorcas Brandon had been a plainwoman, I think she would have been voted an impertinent bore; but she wasso beautiful that she became an enigma. I looked at her as she stoodgravely gazing from the window. Is it Lady Macbeth? No; she never wouldhave had energy to plan her husband's career and manage that affair ofDuncan. A sultana rather--sublimely egotistical, without reverence--avoluptuous and haughty embodiment of indifference. I paused, looking at apicture, but thinking of her, and was surprised by her voice very nearme.
'Will you give me just a minute, Mr. De Cresseron, in the drawing-room,while I show you a miniature? I want your opinion.'
So she floated on and I accompanied her.
'I think,' she said, 'you mentioned yesterday, that you remembered mewhen an infant. You remember my poor mamma, don't you, very well?'
This was the first time she had yet shown any tendency, so far as I hadseen, to be interested in anything, or to talk to me. I seized theoccasion, and gave her, as well as I could, the sad and pretty picturethat remained, and always will, in the vacant air, when I think of her,on the mysterious retina of memory.
How filmy they are! the moonlight shines through them, as through thephantom Dane in Retzch's outlines--colour without substance. How theycome, wearing for ever the sweetest and pleasantest look of their earthlydays. Their sweetest and merriest tones hover musically in the distance;how far away, how near to silence, yet how clear! And so it is with ourremembrance of the immortal part. It is the loveliest traits that remainwith us perennially; all that was noblest and most beautiful is there, ina changeless and celestial shadow; and this is the resurrection of thememory, the foretaste and image which the 'Faithful Creator' accords usof the resurrection and glory to come--the body redeemed, the spirit madeperfect.
On a cabinet near to where she stood was a casket of ormolu, which sheunlocked, and took out a miniature, opened, and looked at it for a longtime. I knew very well whose it was, and watched her countenance; for, asI have said, she interested me strangely. I suppose she knew I waslooking at her; but she showed always a queenlike indifference about whatpeople might think or observe. There was no sentimental softening; buther gaze was such as I once saw the same proud and handsome face turnupon the dead--pale, exquisite, perhaps a little stern. What she readthere--what procession of thoughts and images passed by--threw neitherlight nor shadow on her face. Its apathy interested me inscrutably.
At last she placed the picture in my hand, and asked--
'Is this really very like her?'
'It is, and it is _not_,' I said, after a little pause. 'The features aretrue: it is what I call an accurate portrait, but that is all. I daresay, exact as it is, it would give to one who had not seen her a false,as it must an inadequate, idea, of the original. There was something_naive_ and _spirituel_, and very tender in her face, which he has notcaught--perhaps it could hardly be fixed in colours.'
'Yes, I always heard her expression and intelligence were very beautiful.It was the beauty of mobility--true beauty.'
'There is a beauty of another stamp, equally exquisite, Miss Brandon, andperhaps more overpowering.' I said this in nearly a whisper, and in avery marked way, almost tender, and the next moment was amazed at my ownaudacity. She looked on me for a second or two, with her dark drowsyglance, and then it returned to the picture, which was again in her hand.There was a total want of interest in the careless sort of surprise shevouchsafed my little sally; neither was there the slightest resentment.If a wafer had been stuck upon my forehead, and she had observed it,there might have been just that look and no more. I was ridiculouslyannoyed with myself. I was betrayed, I don't know how, into this littleventure, and it was a flat failure. The position of a shy man, who hasjust made an unintelligible joke at a dinner-table, was not more pregnantwith self-reproach and embarrassment.
Upon my honour, I don't think there was anything of the _roue_ in me. Iown I did feel towards this lady, who either was, or seemed to me, sosingular, a mysterious interest just beginning--of that peculiar kindwhich becomes at last terribly absorbing.
I was more elated by her trifling notice of me than I can quite accountfor. It was a distinction. She was so indescribably handsome--sopassively disdainful. I think if she had listened to me with even thefaintest intimation of caring whether I spoke in this tone or not, witheven a flash of momentary resentment, I might have rushed into a mostreprehensible and ridiculous rigmarole.
In this, the subtlest and most perilous of all intoxications, it needsimmense presence of mind to conduct ourselves always with decorum. Butshe was looking, just as before, at the miniature, as it seemed to me, infancy infusing some of the spirit I had described into the artist'srecord, and she said, only in soliloquy, as it were, 'Yes, I see--I_think_ I see.'
So there was a pause; and then she said, without, however, removing hereyes from the miniature, 'You are, I believe, Mr. De Cresseron, a veryold friend of Mr. Wylder's. Is it not so?'
So soon after my little escapade, I did not like the question; but it wasanswered. There was not the faintest trace of a satirical meaning,however, in her face; and after another very considerable interval, atthe end of which she shut the miniature in its case, she said, 'It was apeculiar face, and very beautiful. It is odd how many of our familymarried for love--wild love-matches. My poor mother was the last. I couldpoint you out many pictures, and tell you stories--my cousin, Rachel,knows them all. You know Rachel Lake?'
'I've not the honour of knowing Miss Lake. I had not an opportunity ofmaking her acquaintance yesterday; but I know her brother--so doesWylder.'
'What's that?' said Mark, who had just come in, and was tumbling over avolume of 'Punch' at the window.
'I was telling Miss Brandon that we both know Stanley Lake.' On hearingwhich, Wylder seemed to discover something uncommonly interesting orclever in the illustration before him; for he approached his face verynear to it, in a scrutinising way, and only said, 'Oh?'
'That marrying for love was a fatality in our family,' she continued inthe same low tone--too faint I think to reach Mark. 'They were all themost beautiful who sacrificed themselves so--they were all unhappymarriages. So the beauty of our family never availed it, any more thanits talents and its courage; for there were clever and witty men, as wellas very brave ones, in it. Meaner houses have grown up into dukedoms;ours never prospers. I wonder what it is.'
'Many families have disappeared altogether, Miss Brandon. It is no smallthing, through so many centuries, to have retained your ancestralestates, and your pre-eminent position, and even this splendid residenceof so many generations of your lineage.'
I thought that Miss Brandon, having broken the ice, was henceforth to bea conversable young lady. But this sudden expansion was not to last. Ovidtells us, in his 'Fasti,' how statues sometimes surprised people byspeaking more frankly and to the purpose even than Miss Brandon, andstraight were cold chiselled marble
again; and so it was with that proud,cold _chef d'oeuvre_ of tinted statuary.
Yet I thought I could, even in that dim glimpse, discern how the silentsubterranean current of her thoughts was flowing; like otherrepresentatives of a dynasty, she had studied the history of her race toprofit by its errors and misfortunes. There was to be no weakness orpassion in her reign.
The princess by this time was seated on the ottoman, and chose to read aletter, thus intimating, I suppose, that my audience was at an end; so Itook up a book, put it down, and then went and looked over Wylder'sshoulder, and made my criticisms--not very novel, I fear--upon the pageshe turned over; and I am sorry to say I don't think he heard much of whatI was saying, for he suddenly came out with--
'And where is Stanley Lake now, do you know?'
'I saw him in town--only for a moment though--about a fortnight ago; hewas arranging, he said, about selling out.'
'Oh! retiring; and what does he propose doing then?' asked Wylder,without raising his eyes from his book. He spoke in a sort of undertone,like a man who does not want to be overheard, and the room was quitelarge enough to make that sort of secrecy easy without the appearance ofseeking it.
'I have not an idea. I don't think he's fit for many things. He knowssomething of horses, I believe, and something of play.'
'But he'll hardly make out a living that way,' said Wylder, with a sortof sneer or laugh. I thought he seemed put out, and a little flushed.
'I fancy he has enough to live upon, without adding to it, however,' Isaid.
Wylder leaned back in his low chair, with his hands stuffed in hispockets, and the air of a man trying to look unconcerned, but bothannoyed and disconcerted nevertheless.
I tell you what, Charlie, between you and me, that fellow, Stanley, is ad----d bad lot. I may be mistaken, of course; he's always been very civilto me, but we don't like one another; and I don't think I ever heard himsay a good word of any one, I dare say he abuses you and me, as he doeseveryone else.'
'Does he?' I said. 'I was not aware he had that failing.'
'Oh, yes. He does not stick at trifles, Master Stanley. He's about thegreatest liar, I think, I ever met with,' and he laughed angrily.
I happened at that moment to raise my eyes, and I saw Dorcas's facereflected in the mirror; her back was towards us, and she held the letterin her hand as if reading it, but her large eyes were looking over it,and on us, in the glass, with a gaze of strange curiosity. Our glancesmet in the mirror; but hers remained serenely undisturbed, and minedropped and turned away hastily. I wonder whether she heard us. I do notknow. Some people are miraculously sharp of hearing.
'I dare say,' said Wylder, with a sneer, 'he was asking affectionatelyfor me, eh?'
'No; not that I recollect--in fact there was not time; but I suppose hedoes not like you less for what has happened; you're worth cultivatingnow, you know.'
Wylder was leaning on his elbow, with just the tip of his thumb to histeeth, with a vicious character of biting it, which was peculiar to himwhen anything vexed him considerably, and glancing sharply this way andthat--
'You know,' he said, suddenly, 'we are a sort of cousins; his mother wasa Brandon--a second cousin of Dorcas's--no, of her father's--I don't knowexactly how. He's a pushing fellow, one of the coolest hands I know; butI don't see that I can be of any use to him, or why the devil I should. Isay, old fellow, come out and have a weed, will you?'
I raised my eyes. Miss Brandon had left the room. I don't know that herpresence would have prevented his invitation, for Wylder's wooing wascertainly of the coolest. So forth we sallied, and under the autumnalfoliage, in the cool amber light of the declining evening, we enjoyed ourcheroots; and with them, Wylder his thoughts; and I, the landscape, andthe whistling of the birds; for we waxed Turkish and taciturn over ourtobacco.
Wylder's Hand Page 7
