“What exactly do you mean by the word ‘suitable’?”
“Oh, that his rank and fortune are such as you must both—we must all—approve, I suppose,” she answered.
“As to rank, my dear, I am perfectly indifferent,” he replied.
“But”—she began, surprised—“but do you not share grandmother’s views, then—do you not feel that as I am the last of our line, it is my duty to link the name with one of equal antiquity, and greater rank?”
He shook his head. “When you marry, Joanna, I would wish you to choose”—he accented the last word faintly—“a man who may be worthy of you. To the rest of the world, perchance, he may even appear a paltry fellow: so long as you are content, that is all that signifies. I wonder if you are at all acquainted with the work of the Scottish poet, Robert Burns?”
Joanna shook her head. She thought that her grandfather was going off at a tangent again, as he was only too apt to do, and wondered if it would be too unkind to mention once again that Lady Feniton was expecting to see him at once.
“He died some few years since,” went on Sir Walter. “His work is perhaps somewhat difficult to follow, for much of it is in the dialect of the Lowlands, but it is well worth the effort involved in unravelling his meaning. I have one particular poem of his in mind which is very much to the purpose of this discussion: it concerns poverty. Some of his conclusions may perhaps appear to be arrived at a thought hastily: but I believe that no one will challenge him when he states that: ‘The rank is but the guinea stamp, The man’s the gold, for a’ that.’
“Be guided by him in this, child, and fix your thoughts upon the man himself, and not his rank.”
“That’s all very well,” objected Joanna, with a smile. “But I don’t know the man, sir. He may or may not be worthy, but it will certainly take time to discover. I must say,” she added, quizzically, “that I do hope he is not too worthy. There is something about that word—”
He gave an answering chuckle. “Which conjures up a dried old stick of a fellow? I am completely of your mind. By all means, let young Cholcombe be just a little unworthy!”
“I notice,” said Joanna, still smiling, “that you make no objection to my choosing him on the grounds of his fortune?”
“Did I not? Well, no. You see, my dear, one is forced to be practical, after all. Up to the present, you have been reared as a young lady of fortune: you cannot therefore expect to feel completely content with less than you have become accustomed to. I do not mean to say that one cannot be very happy without money: I only insist that it is more difficult, especially when one has been reared to an adequate competence. You have had the wrong training for austerities, my child, therefore must try to fall in love with a man who has sufficient for the requirements of you both.”
“I thank you for your advice,” replied Joanna, with mock demureness, “but I do not aim as high as to fall in love, as you put it.”
He considered her for a moment, all his raillery gone.
“Do you not?” He shook his head. “You make a sad mistake there, my dear.”
She felt shaken by this reply, but tried not to let him see it.
“Grandmama!” she exclaimed, in horrified accents. “She will be beyond anything vexed! You must go to her at once, sir!”
He made a comical face of dismay, and rose to put away his book. With his hand on the place in the shelf, he turned.
“Had your grandmother aimed so high, she would not now be conducting her own personal ‘Reign of Terror’,” he said, half in jest, half in earnest. “I, too, you know, was once considered a good match.”
NINE - Suspicion
The next day brought Guy Dorlais to Shalbeare House, though not until the late afternoon. Ever since an early hour of the morning, Kitty had been straining her eyes for a sight of his curricle coming up the drive; so that when he finally arrived, she was at first in a fervour of excitement. This cooled, however, before he had fairly had time to step over the threshold, and she was noticeably offhand in her greeting.
“What’s amiss, my love?” he whispered, when, general civilities being over, he was able to take his place beside her upon the gold and red striped satin sofa in the drawing room. “Have I done anything to vex you?”
Kitty turned a face full of polite incredulity towards him. “Vex me, sir? Pray, what should make you imagine that I am vexed?”
“You can’t bamboozle me, my own, though you act very prettily,” he replied, with a smile. “Come, confess: there is something.”
Kitty tossed her head. “I have never been in better spirits,” she lied, glibly. “If you find me cross, it is perhaps in contrast to whatever company you may have been keeping during the earlier part of the day!”
“So that’s it!” he exclaimed, with a chuckle. “You dear, silly creature! To be sure, you cannot compete in charm and conversation with Noakes and Stoddart. I was obliged to spend the greater part of the morning in consultation with them. We have a plan to drain Five Oaks acre, you know, and turn it to pasturage. The vegetation would be lush, and—”
But Kitty was of no mind to talk farming, neither did she relish having her tantrums treated as though they were of little consequence.
“Indeed!” she answered, tartly. “So that is what kept you from my side! It is as well that I know who my rivals are!”
A frown marred the dark, handsome face. “What nonsense is this, Kit? Surely you cannot be in earnest? You must realize that I have responsibilities.”
“What are servants for?” she asked, pettishly. “Do you not pay Noakes and Stoddart to free you from these duties? At least, your uncle does.”
The frown deepened. “But I’ve no wish to be freed from them,” he said, without weighing his words. Such an admission was not what Miss Lodge wished to hear in her present frame of mind, and a moment’s reflection must have told him so. “You know that I am extremely interested in farming, and I fancy that already I have made some difference in my uncle’s land. Why, only the other day, he—”
“I suppose it is because you are really a Frenchman that you must play so hard at being the English Squire,” said Kitty, remorselessly.
Joanna could not help overhearing the words. She was sitting close by, sustaining an erratic, uninteresting conversation with Lady Lodge. She saw Dorlais stiffen, watched him abruptly leave her friend’s side and go over to have a word with his host and Sir George, who were chatting together on the opposite side of the hearth.
She longed to intervene, say a word of warning to her friend, but one look at Kitty’s face persuaded her that it would be ill-judged to do so at present. There was something else, too: the words which Kitty had made use of had started an uneasy train of thought in her own head. There was little opportunity at present for following it up, however. Lady Feniton had been absent from the room for a few moments, but she now returned, full of schemes for the entertainment of her guests. Sir Walter was restrained from creeping back to his beloved library, and made to take a hand of cards, a thing he detested. Joanna and Kitty, offered a choice between backgammon and their embroidery frames, found themselves unable to agree. Miss Feniton was for backgammon; but Miss Lodge, her powers of concentration completely dissipated, considered that there would be more opportunity for feminine chatter over the embroidery. Joanna yielded, as was proper since Kitty was a guest, and a servant was dispatched to fetch the work. To Kitty’s disgust, however, Lady Feniton completely destroyed any hope of a tête-à-tête between the two young ladies, by placing herself between them, and directing the conversation in her usual efficient manner. Thus the evening passed away without opportunity for a reconciliation between the lovers, or for any intervention on Joanna’s part.
The following morning, Captain Masterman and his sister arrived. Miss Masterman was not generally well-liked: she was the kind of a young lady who believed in exploiting her femininity to the full, and did not scruple to belittle others if it aided her purpose. She was possessed of an extremely good
figure, and the prevailing fashion of light, flimsy materials enabled her to set it off to advantage. She was pretty in a hard, competent way that was very different from Miss Feniton’s cold reserve. Like her brother, she was fair, with blue eyes; she wore her flaxen hair dressed in a chignon and ringlets, with a curled fringe on the forehead. Kitty avowedly detested her: Joanna, who was calmer in her judgments, could not altogether like the girl.
When the newcomers were fairly settled in, Lady Feniton strongly recommended a walk in the grounds. She pointed out that the day, though chilly, was bright; and the gravel walks, at least, would be dry underfoot.
Objections melted away under her forceful persuasion, and presently the five younger members of the party set out.
The grounds of Shalbeare House extended over several acres, and had been laid out early in the eighteenth century with all the extravagances of landscape gardening peculiar to that period. Nothing had been omitted: there were temples and grottoes, artificial ponds and streams, rustic bridges and even a hermitage. It had been considered at the time a masterly touch of the Gothic to pave this with sheep’s marrow bones; and one enterprising Feniton of the last century had gone so far as to insert an advertisement in one of the journals for a genuine hermit to take up occupation of the building.
“And did he find one?” asked Miss Masterman, when Joanna had told this story.
“I do not know; but I dare say my grandfather will be able to tell you.”
“It is dreadfully Gothic, and vastly disagreeable inside,” said Miss Masterman, peering in at the entrance and giving a theatrical little shudder. “I do not envy your hermit, if hermit there was. It’s not the kind of place for a rendezvous, either,” she added, evidently pursuing some new train of thought.
“It seems that there is no romance in your soul, Miss Masterman,” said Dorlais, in a tone of raillery. “Aren’t you stirred by the stark simplicity of this retreat? Don’t you find here more than a dash of Mrs. Radcliffe?”
“You are quizzing me, sir!” she answered, with a coy, upward glance from under her long, silky lashes. “You must know that I am not at all clever, like Miss Feniton and Miss Lodge: I fear I can lay no claims to being bookish.”
The slight emphasis on the last words left her hearers in no doubt as to Miss Masterman’s opinion of young ladies who could lay such claims. Kitty reddened slightly, began to speak, then thought better of it, and bit her lip.
“One scarcely needs to be a scholar to have read The Mysteries of Udolpho, however,” said Joanna, quietly.
“Oh, I fear even that is beyond me!” exclaimed Miss Masterman, glancing at Guy for understanding. “The only reading that I can at all comprehend is in the Lady’s Magazine—or perhaps The Monthly Museum, at a pinch! I find long works tedious—but I am accounted rather a volatile creature, so that may explain it.”
“Shall we walk farther, or turn back now?” asked Joanna, seeing from Kitty’s expression that it would be wiser to change the conversation before Miss Lodge enlivened it with one of her disconcerting bursts of candour. “The sun has gone, and I for one am none too warm.”
“By all means, ma’am, let us turn back,” said Captain Masterman, instantly. “If you are feeling the cold, I am sure no one can wish to be keeping you out of doors. Perhaps we may walk a little more sharply on our return journey.”
He offered Miss Feniton his arm, and after a second’s hesitation, she accepted it. He then turned to Kitty. Guy Dorlais had hung back a little, answering something which Miss Masterman had said. After an indignant glance in their direction, Kitty accepted the other arm, and the Captain set off at a smart pace along the path, between the two friends.
Dorlais and Miss Masterman were left standing outside the hermitage.
“I do hope,” said Georgina Masterman, gazing after the others with an expression of exaggerated anxiety, “that Miss Lodge is not—vexed—with me?”
“I beg your pardon?” he asked, puzzled.
“I rather fancy,” said Miss Masterman, gazing up at him with wide blue eyes, “that Miss Lodge did not care for you to be talking so much to me. You two are engaged, are you not, and sometimes such a situation makes a girl very possessive. I quite understand how she feels, of course.”
“Oh, fustian!” he said, in some embarrassment. “I beg your pardon,” he added, hastily, feeling that perhaps this had been less than civil, “but I’m sure you’re mistaken. Kitty felt the cold, that is all I’m sure that you must, too, for it is deuced chilly, standing here. Shall we follow the others?”
He started forward without waiting for her; then, recollecting himself, checked, and offered her his arm. So it was that Kitty Lodge observed them, when she turned her head for a brief glance, coming arm in arm down the path.
This incident did not help in healing the breach between Kitty and her betrothed. For the remainder of the day, Joanna was concerned chiefly in trying to conceal from the rest of the party the coolness which existed between two of its members. After everyone had said good night, and the bedroom candles been taken, she watched her opportunity to slip into Kitty’s room.
She found her friend face down on the bed in a flood of tears. Joanna’s lovely eyes softened, and she raised the other girl in her arms.
“Kitten!” she expostulated, softly. “You little goose!”
“H—How can I be a kitten and a—a g—goose at the same time?” stammered Kitty, between laughing and crying.
“Because you are unusually gifted at being two things at once,” said Joanna, reproachfully. “Now dry your eyes, and tell me the whole.”
This caused a fresh outburst from Kitty, and it was some time before she could be sufficiently soothed for coherent conversation. When she was once more able to express herself freely, she launched into a violent diatribe against Miss Masterman. Joanna heard her out in silent sympathy, until she appeared to have exhausted her flood of words.
“I agree that she is a tiresome female,” said Joanna. “The determined man-hunter invariably is. But I think you judge her too harshly, Kitty, in deeming her responsible for the coolness existing between you and Mr. Dorlais. That began before she arrived here—almost as soon as he came in fact; I do not altogether understand why.”
Kitty sat up, and dried her eyes fiercely. “He—he was so much occupied with his schemes for the farm, that he could delay coming to me for more than half a day,” she complained, bitterly. “While I—I was counting every minute, impatient to set eyes on him, thinking of nothing else! How can he possibly love me, if I am always to take second place in his affections?”
“Always?” queried Joanna, with a little smile. “Is that quite just?”
“I tell you that I am so tired of this way of going on, that I am minded to break our contract!” said Kitty, a set expression on her usually lively face.
“You cannot mean that, Kitty!” exclaimed Joanna, in dismay. “Only think—think of the gossip, for one thing: the stir made in the county by such a step would bid fair to rival the invasion rumours, I imagine!”
“Everyone is welcome to discuss my affairs, if it gives them pleasure to do so,” replied Kitty, loftily, but with eyes full of tears. “I do not mind!”
“But you would mind very much if you were not to wed Mr. Dorlais,” said her friend, quietly. “And it’s no use to pretend that you would not, Kitty, for I shan’t believe you!”
“What is the use in our being married, if we are always to be at cross purposes?” asked Kitty, despairingly. “It may be hard to break off our engagement—indeed, you cannot know how hard, Jo, for you were never in love!—but I feel it is better to do so now, than to endure a lifetime of disillusionment!”
Joanna was hard put to it not to smile at this pronouncement, made with an air of high tragedy.
“If only you had not such a fatal penchant for the dramatic,” she expostulated, ruefully. “Let’s try and consider your case calmly. To say that you and Mr. Dorlais are always at cross purposes is as absurd as your statemen
t that you are always to hold second place in his affections. The truth of the matter is—I’m afraid you must face it, Kitty—your notions are altogether too romantic. No one who has seen you together can possibly doubt the strength of Mr. Dorlais’s attachment to you; but a man of principle is not likely to forget every duty, every interest, in his feelings for the woman he loves. If she’s wise, she will recognize this fact early in their association, and not seek to be too possessive. For her part, she can—”
Kitty leaned forward suddenly, and placed her hand over her friend’s mouth. “Not another word, Jo, of how you feel a woman in love should act! I won’t allow you to be a judge! When you have succumbed to the passion yourself, then perhaps I may listen to you!”
Miss Feniton shook her dark head. “I had much rather not succumb to it. I am a deal more comfortable as I am, judging from your situation!”
“Oh, but this is not all of it, my dear! There are moments—transports such as one never knows in any other connection—in short, to be out of love is to be only half alive!”
“But to be wholly sane,” replied Joanna, with a twinkle.
Kitty sighed. “I wish I could be more like you,” she said, ruefully. “You always seem to know just how to act, and what to think!”
Joanna laughed softly. “You make me sound odious, Kit! What an impossible creature I must be, if this were true!”
“Isn’t it?”
Joanna shook her head. “There have been occasions when—I have acted most unwisely,” she said, slowly, “when I have certainly not followed the dictates of good sense.”
“I am delighted to hear it!” said the irrepressible Kitty. “I should never have guessed such a thing was possible! But when, my dear Jo, and where? Do, pray, tell me the whole!”
“Not now—it’s too late,” said Joanna, quickly. “In any case, there’s little to relate. But you know, Kitty,” she went on, ingeniously, “I could wish that I knew just how to think and act on the morrow! You may not realize it, my love, but the thought of Mr. Cholcombe’s arrival puts me in a certain flutter of spirits!”
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