The Semi-attached Couple/Chapter 18
CHAPTER XVIII
The library at St. Mary's was of a high, old-fashioned form, and within it was a small flight of steps which led to a light gallery built round three sides of the room, giving thus an easy access to the higher shelves of books. The room itself was full of odd, deep recesses, and was altogether a dangerous style of apartment, for the occupants of the gallery were not necessarily visible to the occupants of the room, so that if any two conversable guests were inclined to discuss the character of a third, there was a very reasonable probability that their conversation might be overheard by the party most concerned. Mary Forrester had entered this gallery from a door above, and was standing in one of the recesses, with a book under her arm, which she meant to take to her room, and another in her hand, which she read as she stood. And while she was thus occupied. Lord Beaufort and his cousin came into the room below. "We can get out through that window," said Lord Beaufort.
"Oh! then I need not announce myself," thought Mary.
"Why, so we can; but won't it be a great deal of trouble? I wish, Beaufort, you would tell me why you hate her, before you drag me any further."
Again Miss Forrester was on the point of saying, "I am here," when a name that had the power to arrest her at any moment drove her back.
"Why, on that poor Reginald Stuart's account: she led that man on to attach himself to her in the days of his prosperity, and threw him over the moment his little money peccadillos came to light."
"That's bad," said Ernest; "but I dare say they were dead tired of each other. It is so difficult to go on liking the same person for ever and ever; and besides, as Reginald was ruined, they could not have lived on air."
"No, but she had had a large fortune left her, and jilted him just when she might have helped him; and that is what people call a saint. And there is that unfortunate Stuart getting into no end of scrapes, for he has become reckless, and will be thoroughly dished."
Mary could stay no longer. As quietly as she could, she glided to the gallery door, and, certain that she could not be recognised, allowed herself the natural solace of letting it fall with a slight tendency to a bang, and rushed along the passage to her own room. The sound of the closing door made the two gentlemen start. "Who's there?" said Lord Beaufort in a very guilty voice. "Is there anybody just come into that gallery?" he added, as the silence continued.
"Nobody just come in, but somebody just gone out," said Ernest, drily. "If it were Miss Forrester, you are about as much dished as Stuart. My chief merit happily is that I am a good listener"; and he sauntered on to the anteroom.
Lord Beaufort rushed up the steps, still with a vague hope of finding a deaf librarian, or a dusting housemaid; but no, there was nothing but a handkerchief, and on one of its corners an intricate arrangement of forget-me-nots and roses represented to an acute decipherer the word "Mary." Lord Beaufort laid it down again as if it were made of glass, walked down the steps as if he were treading on ice, and, following Ernest, whispered to him, "We never must open our lips again in that confounded room."
Mary, on her part, was promising to herself never again to fetch a book from that same unlucky apartment. She would never enter that gallery again. She would never speak to Lord Beaufort as long as she lived; or perhaps she had better annoy him by talking to and at him constantly, though she was not quite sure whether she would not leave St. Mary's at once. But she would tell Helen to explain to him all the Stuart history, and then crush him by the most lofty contempt—not that she cared what he said or thought, in fact she rather enjoyed his malice; and then she burst into a violent fit of crying, and found she had dropped her handkerchief. There is nothing like a good handsome flood of tears when these atrocious attacks on our good name or good looks are detected. The whirl of resentful thoughts, the angry resolves, the crimson cheeks, the burning eyes, the swelling heart, and the twitching fingers—all these moral and physical symptoms of injured innocence are instantly alleviated by a hearty cry. Mary felt better directly, and then she began to look at her mortification rationally, and not passionately. She still thought Lord Beaufort very unjust, because she had really behaved so uncommonly well; she had taken such pains to do what was right in that business; but she began to see how her conduct might have been so represented as to take a selfish colouring; and then the recollection of Lord Beaufort's hatred of her as a saint made her smile as she thought of the fit of temper to which she had just given way. "Oh! that I were one," she said, "in the genuine sense of the word!" and, in pursuing that train of thought, the momentary mortification she had suffered sank to its proper dimensions. Better feelings resumed their sway, and though she ended by thinking it a great pity that Helen should have such a detestable brother, and should live in a house that contained such an absurd room as a library with a gallery, yet she thought there was no necessity for leaving St. Mary's; that Lord Beaufort might have some good qualities, though she could not guess what they were; and that Ernest, who was at first involved in his cousin's disgrace, was not to be treated as a criminal at all. By degrees she began to see that it was for her good that her vanity had met with such a check; her natural good temper and her acquired humility helped each other, and when she joined the rest of the party at luncheon she was almost as cheerful and as benevolent as she was when she left them after breakfast.
Helen's morning had not been passed much more prosperously. Lady Portmore had talked unceasingly for an hour and a half; and though from the vague diffusiveness of her words, and the hopeless entanglement of her ideas, it was difficult to ascertain the precise purport of her remarks, Helen felt that the general result was irritating, though she hardly knew why. She had not the remotest idea what Lady Portmore meant to convey when she said—
"Dearest Helen, you will be candid with me. You will understand me when I implore you to tell me frankly if you think my visit likely to do harm. Helen, you know my heart; you may trust me—say, am I welcome?"
"Dear Lady Portmore, why should you doubt it? Of course I am delighted to see you, and so is Teviot; and as you have asked your own party, I hope you will be amused."
"Helen, you are a noble creature; I see you understand me."
Helen felt thoroughly puzzled, but tried hard for a look of intelligence, so that she might escape a long explanation.
"We shall be friends—we are friends; and as a proof of confidence, before I say anything further on the subject which is at this moment uppermost in both our hearts," ("I wonder what it is," thought Helen), "I will ask your advice on a point that more immediately concerns myself. It is a difficult case to explain, Helen; cannot you guess what I mean?"
"No, indeed, I cannot imagine the point on which I should be capable of advising you."
"Oh, what a relief! I was afraid you were condemning me all this time; that you thought it so strange I had let him come."
"Let who come, where?" said Helen. "Pray remember the seclusion in which we have been living; and have pity on my ignorance."
"Oh, yes! I forgot, you lost all the end of last season; but you must have heard—in fact, you must have seen yesterday, how it was—Ernest! Helen, do you think that I was wrong in asking him to come here?"
"Certainly not; we always expected him this week. He had promised to come when"
"Yes, yes; but, my love, you must know (this is of course in the strictest confidence); but you must see that Ernest is desperately smitten with me. It is almost ludicrous; for he is not the sort of person from whom I should look for sentiment; but he has been too absurd. I had really been completely blind to the whole thing, till one day at my house, your brother said to me, with one of his meaning looks, 'If I want to find Ernest, Lady Portmore, I always come here.' I caught his eye; I felt myself colour to my finger-ends; and I instantly guessed what the world was saying, and what was the warning Beaufort intended to convey. I shall always feel obliged to him for the candour and courage with which he put me on my guard. How he came to be so very clear sighted it is not for me to guess. I was rather puzzled what to do, for, Helen, you and I have, I know, the same high ideas of a wife's duty—and I really hate scenes; but it is so difficult to make that strange creature, Ernest, understand hints. He made the most absurd excuses for calling: the streets were so hot, or he wanted luncheon, or dinner; and if I looked grave, he affected to be bored, or to fall asleep. At last I thought of coming here; and I said honesily to him, 'Now, Ernest, I positively forbid your following me to St. Mary's'. And what do you think was his answer? 'My dear lady, there is nothing I should dislike so much as following you; the roads are so dusty, I should be smothered; so I will go before you.'"
"How like Ernest!" said Helen. "However, that does not sound very sentimental."
"But, my dear, if you had seen his look—I know Ernest's looks so well. You do not understand your cousin, Helen; but I must teach you to know each other thoroughly. You will like him."
"Like Ernest! why, my dear Lady Portmore, I have known him and liked him all my life. He was brought up at Eskdale Castle. I think I told you so when I introduced him to you in London."
"Ah, true! but he is so reserved; and yet there is a good deal under that dry manner that I am sure you will like," said Lady Portmore, who invariably claimed a right to be the first and only friend of all her acquaintances. "It would have been foolish, don't you think it would, if I had put off our visit when I found that Ernest had contrived to include himself in the party? I think apparent unconsciousness is the most dignified line to take, don't you? You see, Helen, what confidence I have in your judgment."
"You are very good; I am sure you will do what is right."
"No speeches, my love. Thank you for your attention and advice; you have put me quite at my ease; and you must not think ill of poor Ernest from what I have told you; he is an excellent creature, you may take my word for it. And now, my dear, talk to me about yourself: are you quite happy, Helen?"
"What a question! dear Lady Portmore," said Helen, affecting to laugh; "you must really find out the answer for yourself."
"My love, do not misunderstand me; I see," she added, looking round with rather a vexed air, "that you have all the luxuries of life in profusion; but I am sure that you are like me, and do not care for those kind of things, and that Teviot's feelings"
"I beg your pardon, I care very much for the luxuries of life," said Helen, determined to pursue that safe subject. "It is a real pleasure to me to look round and see the absolute perfection of my room; and besides, most of my pretty things are gifts, and I love them for the sake of the givers. Do look at this beautiful gold dressing service, which Teviot gave me on our wedding-day."
"Ah, very handsome, beautiful! Lord Portmore wanted to give me just the same set; at least I told him of one I had seen, and he would have given it to me, only he thought it would be useless; but to return to Lord Teviot."
"But just look first at my sapphires; I have heard you admire sapphires."
"Yes, so I do in the abstract; the blue is beautiful, and Lord Portmore would have given me a set if I had wished for them; but don't you think—not that I wish to put you out of conceit of your stones—but don't you think they are less becoming than rubies?"
"Do you think so?" said Helen, raising the tray on which they were placed. "I suppose papa agrees with you, for he gave me these; but Teviot and I like the others best."
"You agree in that then. Ah! similarity of tastes, even in trifles, is a blessing; but now, my love, shut that box, and let us talk rationally. I know Teviot so well that I am sure I can give you some useful hints."
"Do you think this miniature on my watch is like him?"
"Yes, very like; I have seen it before," said Lady Portmore, impatiently. "Of course I know all about it; I recommended Holmes to Teviot. But it is of himself, and not of his picture, that I wish to speak; for though you seem to fly from the subject, let me tell you, Lady Teviot"
"Nothing of my husband, Lady Portmore," said Helen, firmly. "Mamma told me that married people were never, under any circumstances, to make each other the subjects of discussion or comment; so tell me nothing of Lord Teviot."
Lady Portmore was completely defeated, and it seemed to her quite marvellous that such a child as Helen should presume to withstand and baffle her. But even she could not renew a conversation so pointedly interrupted, and after settling her plans for the afternoon, and advising Helen to have her sapphires reset with more diamonds, she left the room, saying as she passed—
"Now, my love, you are not angry with me. I quite agree with you that we wives should say nothing and hear nothing about our husbands. I should fire up just as you did if anyone spoke to me about Portmore; but I know Teviot so well, and am so aware of all the little shades of his character on which everything depends"
"Yes, yes; but I mean to see nothing but lights—no shades; and so good-bye, luncheon will be ready at two."
"Ah! you are very discreet, but I respect you for it"; and she walked off rather mortified, while Helen soothed herself by repairing to her mother's room for the rest of the morning; but she first threw her windows wide open, having a vague idea that nothing short of a thorough draught could drive Lady Portmore's conversation thoroughly out of the room.