Red as a Rose is She: A Novel

by Rhoda Broughton

  CHAPTER IX.

  Death and the sun are very much alike in one respect, and that is,their utter impartiality and stupid want of discernment. They make nodifference between those who love them and those who hate. They paytheir visits equally to those who are longing for and lifting up eagerhands towards them, and those who would much prefer to be without them.

  I will drop the parallel, which cannot be carried much farther, andtalk of the sun only. He certainly shows very little judgment, and lesstaste, in these matters. He gives his great, warm light just as readilyto a scullery as a boudoir, to an ill-smelling dunghill as to a bed ofmignonette; kisses with just as much relish the raddled cheeks of anold fish-wife as the fresh scarlet lips of a young countess.

  This present August morning he is blazing full and hot on that verygrievous daub of Mrs. Brandon in a no-waisted black satin, out of whichshe appears to be bursting, like a chrysalis from its sheath, in thePlas Berwyn dining-room, and not a whit more fully or more hotly on theexquisite "Monna Lisa" of Da Vinci, which is the chief jewel of theGerard collection.

  The same sunbeam that brings out with such clearness Monna Lisa'sfaint, weird smile, takes in also within its compass Esther's small,swart head, round the back of which coils a great, loose, carelesstwist of burnished hair, like a black snake. She is standing outsidethe dining-room door, with her lithe, _svelte_ figure stooped forward alittle. The family are at prayers, as she ascertained by applying herear to the key-hole, and hearing a harsh, elderly voice going at a goodround trot through a variety of petitions, for himself, his children(he has only one, and hates him), his friends, his enemies, his queen,his bishops and curates, his black brethren, &c., all without thevestige of a comma between them.

  "What! eavesdropping?" asks St. John, coming down the handsome, shallowstairs in knickerbockers and heather-mixture stockings that his oldmother made him.

  "Hush!" holding up her forefinger; "they are at prayers."

  St. John listens too, and a sneer comes and settles on his mouth.

  "Isn't he a worthy rival for the man who said he would give any one asfar as Pontius Pilate in the Creed, and then beat him?"

  "You ought not to abuse your own father" (in a whisper).

  "I know I ought not" (in another whisper).

  "Why do you, then?" casting down her eyes, that he may see how large aportion of downy cheeks her long curly lashes shade.

  "I only do for him what I know he would do for me if he had the chance."

  "Hush! they are nearly over."

  "... be with us all evermore. Amen. Morris!"

  "Yes, Sir Thomas."

  "What the deuce do you mean sticking the legs of that chair against thewall knocking all the paint off the wainscot?"

  "Oh! blessings on his kindly voice, And on his silver hair!"

  says St. John, in ironical quotation; and then the door opens, and along string of servants issue out, and the two culprits again, as onthe previous evening, together enter.

  Lady Gerard never appears at breakfast. About twenty years ago she hadan illness, and, on the strength of it, has kept up a character forinvalidhood ever since. Miss Blessington takes her place at the headof the table; she is sitting there now. Her shapely hands are busyamong the teacups; her white lids drooped over her calm eyes. Thereis a great gold cross on her breast, that rises and falls in soft,even undulations. Eve, as she was when first she grew into separateentity and embodiment out of Adam's side; Eve, of creamiest flesh,and richest, reddest blood, before a soul--a tormenting, puzzling,intangible, incomprehensible soul--was breathed into her.

  When Constance marries, her husband will gaze at her as a man mightgaze at Gibson's "Venus," supposing that he had bought for a greatprice that marvel of modern sculpture, and had set it up in the placeof honour in his gallery. He would half-shut his eyes, the betterto appreciate the exquisite turn of the cold, stately throat, themodelling of the little rounded wrist; would put his head on one side,and look at it this way and that, to determine whether he liked thetinting.

  "Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null,"

  as the pithy line that everybody knows, and that next to nobody couldhave written, hath it. At forty Constance will be a much handsomerwoman than Esther. At forty those clean-cut, immovable, expressionlessfeatures will be hardly the worse for wear; that colourless marble skinwill be hardly less smoothly polished than it is now. At forty Esther(if she live so long) will have cried and laughed, and fretted andteased herself into a mere shadow of her present self.

  Every one's letters at Felton are put on their plate for them. AsEsther takes her seat, she perceives that there is one for her--onedirected in a scrawling, schoolboy hand. The blood rushes to her face,as it does to a turkeycock's wattles when he is excited or angry, andshe thrusts it hastily into her pocket. To her guilty imagination itseems that written all over it, in big red letters, legible to everyeye, is, "From Bob Brandon, Esther Craven's lover." As her eyes liftthemselves shyly, to see whether St. John is observing her, they meethis, looking at her curiously, interestedly, puzzledly.

  "We allow people to read their letters at breakfast here," he says,with a friendly smile; "we are not particular as to manners, as I daresay you have found out by this time."

  "Oh! thanks, I'm in no hurry; it's of no consequence--it will keep,"answers Esther, disjointedly, with would-be indifference, and theturkeycock hue spreading to the edge of her white gown.

  The morning hours at Felton are not exciting. Sir Thomas is buildinga new orchid house, and spends much of his time standing over thebricklayers, like an Egyptian overseer, telling them with his usualcourteous candour how much more he knows about their trade than theythemselves do, who have been at it all their lives. St. John disappearstoo, and Constance and Esther are left _tete-a-tete_.

  Esther has plenty of time to read Bob's letter, and to understand it,which latter requires some ingenuity, as, from the greater rapidity ofhis thoughts than of his pen, he omits most of the little words--_tos_and _ands_ and _whichs_ and _whos_ and _hes_ and _shes_. There is agood deal about his mother in it: several messages from her; a greatmany questions as to what Mr. Gerard was like, with solemn adjurationsto answer them; a sheet devoted to the exposition of the luxury inwhich it is possible to live on L300 a year; and, lastly, a sentenceor two as to his great loneliness, and his eager longing to have hisdarling Esther back again--not much on that head, as if he were afraidof marring her enjoyment by intruding upon her the picture of his owndisconsolateness. It was not an eloquent letter; in fact, it was rathera stupid one, and had evidently been written with a very nasty scratchypen; but for all that it was a nice one, and so Esther felt, and wishedthat it had been less so.

  Bob is a dear fellow; and, no doubt, when she goes back toGlan-yr-Afon, she will be very glad to see him, and be very fond ofhim; but, for the present, she would like to forget him altogether--tohave a holiday from him: he seems to come in incongruously now somehow.

  "Where's St. John?" grunts miladi, who makes her appearance towardsluncheon time, from the arm-chair which is witness to so many gentledozes on her part.

  Miladi likes St. John; he is very good to her, and often stands in thebreach between her and Sir Thomas.

  "Vanished," answers Miss Blessington, in her slow, sweet drawl. "Ithink Miss Craven must have frightened him away."

  It is very pleasant, is not it? when you think you have been making ahighly favourable impression on a person, to hear that they have fledbefore you in abject fear.

  "I had no idea that he was such a timid fawn," answers Essie, nettled.

  "He is very peculiar," says Constance, her white fingers flyingswiftly in and out among the coloured silks of the smoking cap she isembroidering; "and has a most unfortunate shrinking from strangers."

  "The greatest friends must have been strangers once," objects Essie,feeling rather small.

  "Quite true, so they must; but he is so very _difficile_, we never canget him to admire any one--can we, aunt?"
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  But "aunt" has fallen sweetly asleep.

  "With the exception of two or three fortunate blondes--I prefer darkpeople myself infinitely, don't you?"

  "Infinitely," replies Esther, with emphasis.

  It is not true--she does nothing of the kind; but, after all, what istruth in comparison of the discomfiture of an adversary?