CHAPTER XXXV.
"When the days begin to lengthen, Then the cold begins to strengthen."
This ancient distich proves true in the year I am speaking of. Notlater than Christmas does the moist mild weather last. With January thefrost comes hurrying back; hanging great icicles on the house-eaves,throwing men out of work, and pressing with its iron finger the thinfaint life out of half-a-dozen old almsmen and almswomen. The foxeshave a little breathing-time--a little space in which to steal and eatthree or four more fat capons and stubble-fed geese--before that evilday when their dappled foes shall tear their poor little red bodieslimb from limb. Hunting is stopped, and men are hurrying up fromthe shires to London. St. James's Street and its hundred clubs arecrowded. At Blessington everybody is pirouetting on the ice. St. John,passionately fond of all out-of-door sports, spends the whole day onthe mere. One afternoon a large party comes over from Lord Linley'splace, five miles away. Not in all Lord Linley's grounds is there sucha stretch of smooth ice as the Blessington pool affords; and so theyare all come to show their prowess on its hard flat face.
Esther keeps well out of their way. From her post of observation--thedeep window-seat in the China gallery--she has watched their arrival,heard their gay voices in the hall, and then, unnoticed, unmissed, shehas stolen out upon one of her long, dawdling, cold-giving strolls inthe park: over the frost-crisped grass, under the branchy trees, whosestaglike crowns cut the pale sky--up little knolls and down into dipswhere, in summer time, the fern stands neck high. At last she comesin sight of the mere; and, impelled by curiosity, trusting in her owninsignificance to escape notice, sits down on a bank that slopes gentlydown towards the sheet of water, and looks upon the unwonted brillianceof the scene. Girls in velvet short costumes; bright petticoats, furs,hats with humming birds on them, curls, fair chignons, glancing in thecheerful winter sun. Fashion in all its folly and extravagance, butpicturesque withal; it is as if a company of Dresden shepherdesseshad stepped off the mantelshelf, and come tripping, dainty-footed,over the frozen water. Her eyes follow the shepherdess figures witheager interest--so seldom in her simple country-bred life has she beenbrought into contact with any of Fashion's bright daughters. The menhave less attraction for her. Under no most prosperous conjunctionof circumstances could she ever have been a man; but under happierauspices she might have been one of these fluttering butterflies--aprettier butterfly than any there, her heart tells her. Shylock'swords recur to her: "Am not I 'fed with the same food, hurt withthe same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the samemeans, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer?' Why, then,are they frisking about in purple and fine linen upon the ice, withhalf-a-dozen young patricians (in trousers of surprising tightness andcoats of unequalled brevity) in their train, while I am perched hereupon the all-alone stone, among these stiff cold sedges, with only theCanada geese, with their long necks craned out, screeching above myhead?"
Meanwhile, Miss Craven is the subject of more remark than she is at allaware of.
"I say, Gerard," says Lord Linley's heir--a goodnatured ugly littleprodigal, who is one of the shining lights of Her Majesty's Household,and goes among men by the _sobriquet_ of "Gaolbird," for which he hasto thank the unexampled brevity of his locks--"I say, Gerard, you oughtto know all the remarkable objects about here: tell us, who is the_mourner_ in the distance?"
St. John's eyes follow the direction indicated by his friend, anda shade of annoyance crosses his face. "Her name is Miss Craven, Ibelieve," he answers, shortly.
"Uncommon good-looking girl, whoever she is!" says a second man, whohas just stopped to adjust his skates; "I have been perilling my lifeamong those d----d rushes by the edge, to get a good look at her!"
"Deuced good legs!" subjoins a third, remarkable for his laconism;taking his pipe out of his mouth to make room for his criticism, andfixing upon that part of a woman's charms which is always the first toenchain the masculine attention.
"She is vewy like a girl I used to know at the Cape," says a "Heavy,"who has been vanquished in single combat by the letter R. "The _Fly_ weused to call her, because when she settled on a f'la, it was mowallyimpossible to dwive her off."
St. John, who has been listening with ill-concealed anger and disgustto these comments--free as if they had been upon the points of ahorse--on the charms of the woman for whom he has been trying topersuade himself that he feels inveterate aversion, turns to move away;but Linley's voice recalls him.
"I say, Gerard!--Gerard!"
"Well?"
"Do you know her?"
"Slightly."
"Introduce me, then--there's a good fellow!"
"And me!"
"And me!"
"My acquaintance with Miss Craven is not such as to justify myintroducing any one to her," answers Gerard, stiffly, and so walksresolutely off.
"Sly dog!" cries Linley, laughing; "means to keep her all to himself--anice quiet little game of his own."
"Means to drive a pair then--eh?" asks the laconic youth.
"Vewy seldom pays," says the "Heavy," sagely; "one or other invawiablyjibs."
But Mr. Linley, being more in earnest than he usually is about mostthings, is not so easily balked. After many fruitless inquiries amongthe company, he at length appeals to Miss Blessington.
"Do you know, Miss Blessington," he says, peering up at her with hisquick terrier-face (for her stately height exceeds his), "I haveactually been putting the same question to twenty people running, andnever yet succeeded in getting an answer? You are my last hope: who_is_ that lady in black?"
"The lady in black!" repeats Constance, amiably--following, as herlover had done, the direction of his gaze. "Oh!" (with a little,slighting laugh), "nobody very particular; only poor Miss Craven, myaunt's companion!"
"Poor girl!" he says--his eyes still riveted upon the pensive ovalface, and his interest in her not the least lessened by the informationas to her social status, that Constance had thought so damning. He doesnot want to _marry_ her; and for any other purpose a pretty woman isa pretty woman, be she duchess or fishwife. "It must be very slow forher, mustn't it? I always hate looking on--don't you? I always like tohave a hand in everything, whatever it may be; it would really be acharity to go and speak to her, only I'm afraid she would take it as aninsult if I went up and introduced myself."
"I assure you she is quite happy watching us," replies Constance,sweetly; being, for the most part, not fond of going shares with asister fair one in any of the proper men and tall that are wont togather about her.
But he is persevering. "Don't you think that a little improvingconversation with me would tend to make her happier still?" he asks,banteringly, yet in earnest. "I tried to get Gerard to introduce me,but I could not make out exactly what was up; he seemed to take it as apersonal insult. You won't mind doing me that good turn, I'm sure?"
"I shall be most happy, of course," she answers, hiding her displeasureunder the calm smile which covers all her emotions, or approximationsto emotion. And with apparent readiness she leads the way to the spotwhere, couched in her rushy lair, the subject of their talk sitsunconscious, with her eyes riveted on the darting forms beneath her.
"Miss Craven, Mr. Linley wishes to be introduced to you."
"To _me!_" she says, starting; her eyes opening wide, and cheeksflushing with surprise.
Then two bows are executed, and the thing is done. Esther is not longerupon the all-alone stone; she has other occupation for her ears thanto listen to the screeching of the Canada geese; she, too, like theother butterflies, has got a tight-trousered, short-coated patrician intow.
"Linley has succeeded, do you see?" says the man to whom Esther's legshave had the happiness to appear "very good."
"Mostly does; it is a little way he has!"
"Who did they say she was?"
"Somebody's companion; old Blessington's, I think."
"Cunning old beggar! He knows what he is about, though he does pretendto be stone-blind."
; "Old Blessington's companion, eh? I'm sure I wish she were mine."
"A sort of 'Abishag the Shunammite,' I suppose?"
These are some of the comments that the unknown beauty draws forth.Five minutes later, Miss Craven's scruples--such as never having skatedbefore, having no skates, &c.--being overruled by her new acquaintance,she is sitting on the bank; and he, kneeling before her, is fasteningsome one else's unused skates on her little feet. A great desire forpleasure has come over her--a great longing for warmth and colour inher grey life, that looks all the greyer now in the contrast to thebrilliant reds and purples of these strange lives with which it isbrought into sudden contact. A great delight in the wintry brightnessfills her--in the shifting, varying hues--in the bubbling laughter;a great impulse to laugh too, the spirit of youth rising up in armsagainst the tyranny of grief.
The low sun shoots down dazzling crimson rays on the mere's dirty whiteface. The swans and Solan geese are exiled to a little corner, wherethe ice has been broken for them, and where they have to keep swimminground and round to prevent the invasion of their little territoryby the grasping frost. Girls that cannot skate being pushed aboutin chairs; "Whirr! whirr!" they rush along the smooth surface at aheadlong pace. Men, with their arms stretched out like the sails of awindmill, advancing cautiously--first one foot, then the other--justmanaging to keep on their feet, and thinking themselves extremelyclever for so managing. Other men and women flying hand-in-hand, fromone end of the pool to the other, in long, smooth slides--as safe andsecure as if running upon their own feet on the grass. Others, cuttingeights, and all manner of figures, whirling round upon one leg, andmaking themselves altogether remarkable. One poor gentleman with hisskates in the air, and head starring the ice; brother men laughingand jeering; pretty girls pitying--light laughter mixed with theircondolences also. Eight people dancing a quadrille, _chaine des dames:_in and out, in and out--right, left--go the moving figures, the cerisepetticoats, the glancing feet. It is all so pretty and gay. When onehas spent the best part of three months in weeping, when one has thequick blood of seventeen in one's veins, one longs to get up and run,and dance, and jump about too.
"There's no wind to-day," says Linley, turning his face to thenorth-east, whence a bitter breath comes most faintly; "when there is,it is the best fun in the world to get a very light cane chair and abig umbrella--to sit on the one and hold the other up; you can have noconception of the terrific rate that one gets along at."
"I should think it sometimes happened that the cane chair and the bigumbrella went on by themselves and left you behind?" says Esther archly.
"Frequently, but that makes it all the more exciting."
"Does it?"
"Keep hold of the chair, push it gently before you, and try to balanceyourself as well as you can," continues he, giving grave instructionsto his new pupil.
"How _can_ one balance oneself on things no bigger than knife-blades?"she asks, grasping desperately the chair-back.
"Rome was not built in a day," he answers, with a cheery laugh; "try!"
She obeys, and moves forward two or three timid inches; then stopsagain.
"I have that poor gentleman's fate before my mind's eye," she says,nervously. "I feel as if, by some natural attraction, one's feet mustgo up sky-wards, and one's head make acquaintance with the ice."
"No necessity at all," replies the young man, encouragingly. "Thatfellow is a duffer at everything; he is the very worst rider I ever seteyes on--holds his whip like a fishing-rod."
"Does he?"
"Look at that girl, now, with the purple feather! She skims along likea bird; she is as much at her ease as if she were in her arm-chair athome. By Jove! no, she ain't though!" For, as he speaks, "Thud!" comesthe girl with the purple feather down in a sitting posture on the ice:men crowd round, inquire into casualties, pick her up again: off shegoes!
"You must be more careful next time in your selection of examples,"Esther says, smiling mischievously; "_that_ one was not encouraging,you must allow."
Constitutionally timid, she stands hesitating, in half-shyness,half-fear, and whole dread of being ridiculous; laughing, reddening,dimpling in the happy sunlight--as pretty a picture as ever littleterrier-faced member of the Household has seen.
"Perhaps you'd get on better if you tried walking between two people,"he says, suggestively; "it is easier than with a chair. That is theway my sister began--I on one side, don't you know, and another fellowon the other. Here, Gerard, come and make yourself useful; give MissCraven your arm!"
Gerard looks--has been looking all the while; sees the face, that hadmet him so pale and dejected three hours ago, transformed by the keenJanuary air, and the excitement of the moment, into more than its oldloveliness; sees the soft splendour of languishing almond eyes, theguileless baby-smile. It is the transient happiness of a moment thathas wrought the change, and he, in his rough anger, attributes it tothe insatiate rabid desire for admiration.
"She would flirt in her coffin," he says to himself, bitterly; and soanswers, coldly, "I cannot--I have taken my skates off!"
"All right," says Mr. Linley, gaily, and then, in an aside to Esther,"On duty, evidently!"
"Evidently!" She assents with a faint smile, but her lips quiver witha dumb pain. "He need not have slighted me so openly," she thinks, incruel mortification. "Perhaps if you gave me your hand I might manageto steady myself gradually," she says naively.
Mr. Linley has no objection whatever to having his hand convulsivelyclutched by a very pretty woman, even though it is so clutched, notin affection to himself, but in the spasmodic effort to maintain theperpendicular--in the desperate endeavour to hinder her feet fromoutrunning body and head. And so she totters along--amused, flattered,frightened; and far too much absorbed in considerations of her ownsafety, to be at all aware of the condescending notice that severalof the more worthy gender are good enough to bestow upon her, thoughthe conceit inborn in the male mind would have made them completelysceptical of that fact, had they been told it.
Meanwhile Miss Blessington, a little out of breath with her exertions,is resting on a chair, in bright blue velvet and a more delicatepink-and-white porcelain face than any of the other shepherdesses.Over her Gerard is leaning--frowning, sad, and heavy-hearted. Over andover again he has tried to turn his eyes to other groups, but againand again, contrary to his will, they return and fix themselves uponthat slender staggering figure in black. Once he sees her on the pointof falling--saved only by being caught with quick adroitness in hercompanion's arms. He draws his breath involuntarily hard. How dare anyman but he touch her--lay a finger upon her fair person? One of theold simple instincts, stronger--oh, how far stronger!--than any of therestrictions with which our civilisation has sought to bind them--agreat lust of raging jealousy--is upon him.
"I _hate_ her!" he says to himself, fiercely; "she is a vileunprincipled coquette. Thank God, I found her out in time! Thank God, Iwashed my hands of her before it was too late! And yet--and yet--if Icould but pick a quarrel with that fellow!"
What right has Gerard to object if every man upon the ground catch herin big arms, and hold her there under his very eyes? He has washed hishands of her, thank God! All his rights of proprietorship in womankindcentre in the calm blue statue, smiling with even placidness onhimself, on his poodle, on all the world--his Constance, whom no one isthinking of taking from him; his own--oh, blissful thought!--in life,in death, and in eternity!
In the meantime the remarks upon Esther vary from the wildly laudatoryto the discriminatingly censuring.
"She is extwemely dark," says the _dwagoon_, as he would have calledhimself; "a thowough bwunette; must have a touch of the tar-bwush, Ifancy!"
The stable-clock strikes four. Esther starts, as much as scullionCinderella started at the chiming midnight. "I must go" she says,hastily; "I shall be wanted."
"Wanted?" he repeats, inquiringly. "And are not you wanted here? Youcannot be in two places at once, like a bird."
"Mrs. Blessington wi
ll want me--I am her companion," she answers,colouring slightly. "I daresay you did not know it." ("He wouldnot have been so civil to me if he had, I daresay," is her mentalreflection.)
"Yes, I did."
"Who told you?--or have all 'companions' such a family likeness thatyou detected me at a glance?"
"Miss Blessington told me; and for the first time in my life I wishedmyself an old woman," he replies, sentimentally.
She laughs, a little embarrassed. She knows as well as he does that hedoes _not_ wish to be an old woman, even for the pleasure of having herto carry his air-cushion and spectacle-case. But civil speeches arealways more or less untrue, and none the less pleasant for that.
"If the frost holds," says the young man, suggestively--taking thesmall black hand which she has timidly proffered, not being by anymeans sure that it is etiquette for a "companion" to shake hands withlords' eldest sons--"If the frost holds, will you be inclined foranother lesson or two? There is nothing like making hay when the sunshines--say _to-morrow?_"
Her face brightens for a moment; it is so pleasant to talk gaily, andbe admired, and made much of, and reminded that there are other thingsbesides death and poverty and servitude; then her countenance falls.
"To-day has been very pleasant," she says, naively, "but I cannotanswer for to-morrow."
"Are you so changeable," he asks, with a laudable though unsuccessfulendeavour to fashion his jolly little dog-face into an expression ofreproachful sentiment, "as not to know to-day what you will like ornot like to-morrow?"
"I know what _I_ shall like," she answers, gently, "but I don't knowwhat other people will. Would not you think it very odd if yourvalet were to make engagements without consulting you? _I_ am Mrs.Blessington's valet."
She evidently thinks this argument so conclusive, and that it sodecidedly closes the question, that he has no choice but to loose herhand; and she, having no other farewells to make, turns and passeshomewards through the crisply rustling sedges.
"_Very_ clean about the fetlock!" ejaculates the laconic youth, unableto raise his mind from her legs; following them with his eyes, as sheclimbs the grassy slope.
"Yes, but what howible boots! Whoever could have had the atwocity tofwame such beetle-cwushers?"
Red as a Rose is She: A Novel Page 35
