الفصل الفصل 3 · Chapter III
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“Let no flower of the spring pass by us; let us crown ourselves with
rosebuds before they be withered.”—BOOK OF WISDOM.
Pity that Offendene was not the home of Miss Harleth’s childhood, or
endeared to her by family memories! A human life, I think, should be
well rooted in some spot of a native land, where it may get the love of
tender kinship for the face of earth, for the labors men go forth to,
for the sounds and accents that haunt it, for whatever will give that
early home a familiar unmistakable difference amid the future widening
of knowledge: a spot where the definiteness of early memories may be
inwrought with affection, and—kindly acquaintance with all neighbors,
even to the dogs and donkeys, may spread not by sentimental effort and
reflection, but as a sweet habit of the blood. At five years old,
mortals are not prepared to be citizens of the world, to be stimulated
by abstract nouns, to soar above preference into impartiality; and that
prejudice in favor of milk with which we blindly begin, is a type of
the way body and soul must get nourished at least for a time. The best
introduction to astronomy is to think of the nightly heavens as a
little lot of stars belonging to one’s own homestead.
But this blessed persistence in which affection can take root had been
wanting in Gwendolen’s life. It was only a year before her recall from
Leubronn that Offendene had been chosen as her mamma’s home, simply for
its nearness to Pennicote Rectory, and that Mrs. Davilow, Gwendolen,
and her four half-sisters (the governess and the maid following in
another vehicle) had been driven along the avenue for the first time,
on a late October afternoon when the rooks were crawing loudly above
them, and the yellow elm-leaves were whirling.
The season suited the aspect of the old oblong red-brick house, rather
too anxiously ornamented with stone at every line, not excepting the
double row of narrow windows and the large square portico. The stone
encouraged a greenish lichen, the brick a powdery gray, so that though
the building was rigidly rectangular there was no harshness in the
physiognomy which it turned to the three avenues cut east, west and
south in the hundred yards’ breadth of old plantation encircling the
immediate grounds. One would have liked the house to have been lifted
on a knoll, so as to look beyond its own little domain to the long
thatched roofs of the distant villages, the church towers, the
scattered homesteads, the gradual rise of surging woods, and the green
breadths of undulating park which made the beautiful face of the earth
in that part of Wessex. But though standing thus behind a screen amid
flat pastures, it had on one side a glimpse of the wider world in the
lofty curves of the chalk downs, grand steadfast forms played over by
the changing days.
The house was but just large enough to be called a mansion, and was
moderately rented, having no manor attached to it, and being rather
difficult to let with its sombre furniture and faded upholstery. But
inside and outside it was what no beholder could suppose to be
inhabited by retired trades-people: a certainty which was worth many
conveniences to tenants who not only had the taste that shrinks from
new finery, but also were in that border-territory of rank where
annexation is a burning topic: and to take up her abode in a house
which had once sufficed for dowager countesses gave a perceptible tinge
to Mrs. Davilow’s satisfaction in having an establishment of her own.
This, rather mysteriously to Gwendolen, appeared suddenly possible on
the death of her step-father, Captain Davilow, who had for the last
nine years joined his family only in a brief and fitful manner, enough
to reconcile them to his long absences; but she cared much more for the
fact than for the explanation. All her prospects had become more
agreeable in consequence. She had disliked their former way of life,
roving from one foreign watering-place or Parisian apartment to
another, always feeling new antipathies to new suites of hired
furniture, and meeting new people under conditions which made her
appear of little importance; and the variation of having passed two
years at a showy school, where, on all occasions of display, she had
been put foremost, had only deepened her sense that so exceptional a
person as herself could hardly remain in ordinary circumstances or in a
social position less than advantageous. Any fear of this latter evil
was banished now that her mamma was to have an establishment; for on
the point of birth Gwendolen was quite easy. She had no notion how her
maternal grandfather got the fortune inherited by his two daughters;
but he had been a West Indian—which seemed to exclude further
question; and she knew that her father’s family was so high as to take
no notice of her mamma, who nevertheless preserved with much pride the
miniature of a Lady Molly in that connection. She would probably have
known much more about her father but for a little incident which
happened when she was twelve years old. Mrs. Davilow had brought out,
as she did only at wide intervals, various memorials of her first
husband, and while showing his miniature to Gwendolen recalled with a
fervor which seemed to count on a peculiar filial sympathy, the fact
that dear papa had died when his little daughter was in long clothes.
Gwendolen, immediately thinking of the unlovable step-father whom she
had been acquainted with the greater part of her life while her frocks
were short, said,
“Why did you marry again, mamma? It would have been nicer if you had
not.”
Mrs. Davilow colored deeply, a slight convulsive movement passed over
her face, and straightway shutting up the memorials she said, with a
violence quite unusual in her,
“You have no feeling, child!”
Gwendolen, who was fond of her mamma, felt hurt and ashamed, and had
never since dared to ask a question about her father.
This was not the only instance in which she had brought on herself the
pain of some filial compunction. It was always arranged, when possible,
that she should have a small bed in her mamma’s room; for Mrs.
Davilow’s motherly tenderness clung chiefly to her eldest girl, who had
been born in her happier time. One night under an attack of pain she
found that the specific regularly placed by her bedside had been
forgotten, and begged Gwendolen to get out of bed and reach it for her.
That healthy young lady, snug and warm as a rosy infant in her little
couch, objected to step out into the cold, and lying perfectly still,
grumbling a refusal. Mrs. Davilow went without the medicine and never
reproached her daughter; but the next day Gwendolen was keenly
conscious of what must be in her mamma’s mind, and tried to make amends
by caresses which cost her no effort. Having always been the pet and
pride of the household, waited on by mother, sisters, governess and
maids, as if she had been a princess in exile, she naturally found it
difficult to think her own pleasure less important than others made it,
and when it was positively thwarted felt an astonished resentment apt,
in her cruder days, to vent itself in one of those passionate acts
which look like a contradiction of habitual tendencies. Though never
even as a child thoughtlessly cruel, nay delighting to rescue drowning
insects and watch their recovery, there was a disagreeable silent
remembrance of her having strangled her sister’s canary-bird in a final
fit of exasperation at its shrill singing which had again and again
jarringly interrupted her own. She had taken pains to buy a white mouse
for her sister in retribution, and though inwardly excusing herself on
the ground of a peculiar sensitiveness which was a mark of her general
superiority, the thought of that infelonious murder had always made her
wince. Gwendolen’s nature was not remorseless, but she liked to make
her penances easy, and now that she was twenty and more, some of her
native force had turned into a self-control by which she guarded
herself from penitential humiliation. There was more show of fire and
will in her than ever, but there was more calculation underneath it.
On this day of arrival at Offendene, which not even Mrs. Davilow had
seen before—the place having been taken for her by her brother-in-law,
Mr. Gascoigne—when all had got down from the carriage, and were
standing under the porch in front of the open door, so that they could
have a general view of the place and a glimpse of the stone hall and
staircase hung with sombre pictures, but enlivened by a bright wood
fire, no one spoke; mamma, the four sisters and the governess all
looked at Gwendolen, as if their feelings depended entirely on her
decision. Of the girls, from Alice in her sixteenth year to Isabel in
her tenth, hardly anything could be said on a first view, but that they
were girlish, and that their black dresses were getting shabby. Miss
Merry was elderly and altogether neutral in expression. Mrs. Davilow’s
worn beauty seemed the more pathetic for the look of entire appeal
which she cast at Gwendolen, who was glancing round at the house, the
landscape and the entrance hall with an air of rapid judgment. Imagine
a young race-horse in the paddock among untrimmed ponies and patient
hacks.
“Well, dear, what do you think of the place,” said Mrs. Davilow at
last, in a gentle, deprecatory tone.
“I think it is charming,” said Gwendolen, quickly. “A romantic place;
anything delightful may happen in it; it would be a good background for
anything. No one need be ashamed of living here.”
“There is certainly nothing common about it.”
“Oh, it would do for fallen royalty or any sort of grand poverty. We
ought properly to have been living in splendor, and have come down to
this. It would have been as romantic as could be. But I thought my
uncle and aunt Gascoigne would be here to meet us, and my cousin Anna,”
added Gwendolen, her tone changed to sharp surprise.
“We are early,” said Mrs. Davilow, and entering the hall, she said to
the housekeeper who came forward, “You expect Mr. and Mrs. Gascoigne?”
“Yes, madam; they were here yesterday to give particular orders about
the fires and the dinner. But as to fires, I’ve had ’em in all the
rooms for the last week, and everything is well aired. I could wish
some of the furniture paid better for all the cleaning it’s had, but I
_think_ you’ll see the brasses have been done justice to. I _think_
when Mr. and Mrs. Gascoigne come, they’ll tell you nothing has been
neglected. They’ll be here at five, for certain.”
This satisfied Gwendolen, who was not prepared to have their arrival
treated with indifference; and after tripping a little way up the
matted stone staircase to take a survey there, she tripped down again,
and followed by all the girls looked into each of the rooms opening
from the hall—the dining-room all dark oak and worn red satin damask,
with a copy of snarling, worrying dogs from Snyders over the
side-board, and a Christ breaking bread over the mantel-piece; the
library with a general aspect and smell of old brown-leather; and
lastly, the drawing-room, which was entered through a small antechamber
crowded with venerable knick-knacks.
“Mamma, mamma, pray come here!” said Gwendolen, Mrs. Davilow having
followed slowly in talk with the housekeeper. “Here is an organ. I will
be Saint Cecilia: some one shall paint me as Saint Cecilia. Jocosa
(this was her name for Miss Merry), let down my hair. See, mamma?”
She had thrown off her hat and gloves, and seated herself before the
organ in an admirable pose, looking upward; while the submissive and
sad Jocosa took out the one comb which fastened the coil of hair, and
then shook out the mass till it fell in a smooth light-brown stream far
below its owner’s slim waist.
Mrs. Davilow smiled and said, “A charming picture, my dear!” not
indifferent to the display of her pet, even in the presence of a
housekeeper. Gwendolen rose and laughed with delight. All this seemed
quite to the purpose on entering a new house which was so excellent a
background.
“What a queer, quaint, picturesque room!” she went on, looking about
her. “I like these old embroidered chairs, and the garlands on the
wainscot, and the pictures that may be anything. That one with the
ribs—nothing but ribs and darkness—I should think that is Spanish,
mamma.”
“Oh, Gwendolen!” said the small Isabel, in a tone of astonishment,
while she held open a hinged panel of the wainscot at the other end of
the room.
Every one, Gwendolen first, went to look. The opened panel had
disclosed the picture of an upturned dead face, from which an obscure
figure seemed to be fleeing with outstretched arms. “How horrible!”
said Mrs. Davilow, with a look of mere disgust; but Gwendolen shuddered
silently, and Isabel, a plain and altogether inconvenient child with an
alarming memory, said,
“You will never stay in this room by yourself, Gwendolen.”
“How dare you open things which were meant to be shut up, you perverse
little creature?” said Gwendolen, in her angriest tone. Then snatching
the panel out of the hand of the culprit, she closed it hastily,
saying, “There is a lock—where is the key? Let the key be found, or
else let one be made, and let nobody open it again; or rather, let the
key be brought to me.”
At this command to everybody in general Gwendolen turned with a face
which was flushed in reaction from her chill shudder, and said, “Let us
go up to our own room, mamma.”
The housekeeper on searching found the key in the drawer of the cabinet
close by the panel, and presently handed it to Bugle, the lady’s-maid,
telling her significantly to give it to her Royal Highness.
“I don’t know what you mean, Mrs. Startin,” said Bugle, who had been
busy up-stairs during the scene in the drawing-room, and was rather
offended at this irony in a new servant.
“I mean the young lady that’s to command us all—and well worthy for
looks and figure,” replied Mrs. Startin in propitiation. “She’ll know
what key it is.”
“If you have laid out what we want, go and see to the others, Bugle,”
Gwendolen had said, when she and Mrs. Davilow entered their black and
yellow bedroom, where a pretty little white couch was prepared by the
side of the black and yellow catafalque known as the best bed. “I will
help mamma.”
But her first movement was to go to the tall mirror between the
windows, which reflected herself and the room completely, while her
mamma sat down and also looked at the reflection.
“That is a becoming glass, Gwendolen; or is it the black and gold color
that sets you off?” said Mrs. Davilow, as Gwendolen stood obliquely
with her three-quarter face turned toward the mirror, and her left hand
brushing back the stream of hair.
“I should make a tolerable St. Cecilia with some white roses on my
head,” said Gwendolen,—“only how about my nose, mamma? I think saint’s
noses never in the least turn up. I wish you had given me your
perfectly straight nose; it would have done for any sort of
character—a nose of all work. Mine is only a happy nose; it would not
do so well for tragedy.”
“Oh, my dear, any nose will do to be miserable with in this world,”
said Mrs. Davilow, with a deep, weary sigh, throwing her black bonnet
on the table, and resting her elbow near it.
“Now, mamma,” said Gwendolen, in a strongly remonstrant tone, turning
away from the glass with an air of vexation, “don’t begin to be dull
here. It spoils all my pleasure, and everything may be so happy now.
What have you to be gloomy about _now_?”
“Nothing, dear,” said Mrs. Davilow, seeming to rouse herself, and
beginning to take off her dress. “It is always enough for me to see you
happy.”
“But you should be happy yourself,” said Gwendolen, still
discontentedly, though going to help her mamma with caressing touches.
“Can nobody be happy after they are quite young? You have made me feel
sometimes as if nothing were of any use. With the girls so troublesome,
and Jocosa so dreadfully wooden and ugly, and everything make-shift
about us, and you looking so dull—what was the use of my being
anything? But now you _might_ be happy.”
“So I shall, dear,” said Mrs. Davilow, patting the cheek that was
bending near her.
“Yes, but really. Not with a sort of make-believe,” said Gwendolen,
with resolute perseverance. “See what a hand and arm!—much more
beautiful than mine. Any one can see you were altogether more
beautiful.”
“No, no, dear; I was always heavier. Never half so charming as you are.”
“Well, but what is the use of my being charming, if it is to end in my
being dull and not minding anything? Is that what marriage always comes
to?”
“No, child, certainly not. Marriage is the only happy state for a
woman, as I trust you will prove.”
“I will not put up with it if it is not a happy state. I am determined
to be happy—at least not to go on muddling away my life as other
people do, being and doing nothing remarkable. I have made up my mind
not to let other people interfere with me as they have done. Here is
some warm water ready for you, mamma,” Gwendolen ended, proceeding to
take off her own dress and then waiting to have her hair wound up by
her mamma.
There was silence for a minute or two, till Mrs. Davilow said, while
coiling the daughter’s hair, “I am sure I have never crossed you,
Gwendolen.”
“You often want me to do what I don’t like.”
“You mean, to give Alice lessons?”
“Yes. And I have done it because you asked me. But I don’t see why I
should, else. It bores me to death, she is so slow. She has no ear for
music, or language, or anything else. It would be much better for her
to be ignorant, mamma: it is her _rôle_, she would do it well.”
“That is a hard thing to say of your poor sister, Gwendolen, who is so
good to you, and waits on you hand and foot.”
“I don’t see why it is hard to call things by their right names, and
put them in their proper places. The hardship is for me to have to
waste my time on her. Now let me fasten up your hair, mamma.”
“We must make haste; your uncle and aunt will be here soon. For
heaven’s sake, don’t be scornful to _them_, my dear child! or to your
cousin Anna, whom you will always be going out with. Do promise me,
Gwendolen. You know, you can’t expect Anna to be equal to you.”
“I don’t want her to be equal,” said Gwendolen, with a toss of her head
and a smile, and the discussion ended there.
When Mr. and Mrs. Gascoigne and their daughter came, Gwendolen, far
from being scornful, behaved as prettily as possible to them. She was
introducing herself anew to relatives who had not seen her since the
comparatively unfinished age of sixteen, and she was anxious—no, not
anxious, but resolved that they should admire her.
Mrs. Gascoigne bore a family likeness to her sister. But she was darker
and slighter, her face was unworn by grief, her movements were less
languid, her expression more alert and critical as that of a rector’s
wife bound to exert a beneficent authority. Their closest resemblance
lay in a non-resistant disposition, inclined to imitation and
obedience; but this, owing to the difference in their circumstances,
had led them to very different issues. The younger sister had been
indiscreet, or at least unfortunate in her marriages; the elder
believed herself the most enviable of wives, and her pliancy had ended
in her sometimes taking shapes of surprising definiteness. Many of her
opinions, such as those on church government and the character of
Archbishop Laud, seemed too decided under every alteration to have been
arrived at otherwise than by a wifely receptiveness. And there was much
to encourage trust in her husband’s authority. He had some agreeable
virtues, some striking advantages, and the failings that were imputed
to him all leaned toward the side of success.
One of his advantages was a fine person, which perhaps was even more
impressive at fifty-seven than it had been earlier in life. There were
no distinctively clerical lines in the face, no tricks of starchiness
or of affected ease: in his Inverness cape he could not have been
identified except as a gentleman with handsome dark features, a nose
which began with an intention to be aquiline but suddenly became
straight, and iron-gray hair. Perhaps he owed this freedom from the
sort of professional make-up which penetrates skin, tones and gestures
and defies all drapery, to the fact that he had once been Captain
Gaskin, having taken orders and a diphthong but shortly before his
engagement to Miss Armyn. If any one had objected that his preparation
for the clerical function was inadequate, his friends might have asked
who made a better figure in it, who preached better or had more
authority in his parish? He had a native gift for administration, being
tolerant both of opinions and conduct, because he felt himself able to
overrule them, and was free from the irritations of conscious
feebleness. He smiled pleasantly at the foible of a taste which he did
not share—at floriculture or antiquarianism for example, which were
much in vogue among his fellow-clergyman in the diocese: for himself,
he preferred following the history of a campaign, or divining from his
knowledge of Nesselrode’s motives what would have been his conduct if
our cabinet had taken a different course. Mr. Gascoigne’s tone of
thinking after some long-quieted fluctuations had become ecclesiastical
rather than theological; not the modern Anglican, but what he would
have called sound English, free from nonsense; such as became a man who
looked at a national religion by daylight, and saw it in its relation
to other things. No clerical magistrate had greater weight at sessions,
or less of mischievous impracticableness in relation to worldly
affairs. Indeed, the worst imputation thrown out against him was
worldliness: it could not be proved that he forsook the less fortunate,
but it was not to be denied that the friendships he cultivated were of
a kind likely to be useful to the father of six sons and two daughters;
and bitter observers—for in Wessex, say ten years ago, there were
persons whose bitterness may now seem incredible—remarked that the
color of his opinions had changed in consistency with this principle of
action. But cheerful, successful worldliness has a false air of being
more selfish than the acrid, unsuccessful kind, whose secret history is
summed up in the terrible words, “Sold, but not paid for.”
Gwendolen wondered that she had not better remembered how very fine a
man her uncle was; but at the age of sixteen she was a less capable and
more indifferent judge. At present it was a matter of extreme interest
to her that she was to have the near countenance of a dignified male
relative, and that the family life would cease to be entirely,
insipidly feminine. She did not intend that her uncle should control
her, but she saw at once that it would be altogether agreeable to her
that he should be proud of introducing her as his niece. And there was
every sign of his being likely to feel that pride. He certainly looked
at her with admiration as he said,
“You have outgrown Anna, my dear,” putting his arm tenderly round his
daughter, whose shy face was a tiny copy of his own, and drawing her
forward. “She is not so old as you by a year, but her growing days are
certainly over. I hope you will be excellent companions.”
He did give a comparing glance at his daughter, but if he saw her
inferiority, he might also see that Anna’s timid appearance and
miniature figure must appeal to a different taste from that which was
attracted by Gwendolen, and that the girls could hardly be rivals.
Gwendolen at least, was aware of this, and kissed her cousin with real
cordiality as well as grace, saying, “A companion is just what I want.
I am so glad we are come to live here. And mamma will be much happier
now she is near you, aunt.”
The aunt trusted indeed that it would be so, and felt it a blessing
that a suitable home had been vacant in their uncle’s parish. Then, of
course, notice had to be taken of the four other girls, whom Gwendolen
had always felt to be superfluous: all of a girlish average that made
four units utterly unimportant, and yet from her earliest days an
obtrusive influential fact in her life. She was conscious of having
been much kinder to them than could have been expected. And it was
evident to her that her uncle and aunt also felt it a pity there were
so many girls:—what rational person could feel otherwise, except poor
mamma, who never would see how Alice set up her shoulders and lifted
her eyebrows till she had no forehead left, how Bertha and Fanny
whispered and tittered together about everything, or how Isabel was
always listening and staring and forgetting where she was, and treading
on the toes of her suffering elders?
“You have brothers, Anna,” said Gwendolen, while the sisters were being
noticed. “I think you are enviable there.”
“Yes,” said Anna, simply. “I am very fond of them; but of course their
education is a great anxiety to papa. He used to say they made me a
tomboy. I really was a great romp with Rex. I think you will like Rex.
He will come home before Christmas.”
“I remember I used to think you rather wild and shy; but it is
difficult now to imagine you a romp,” said Gwendolen, smiling.
“Of course, I am altered now; I am come out, and all that. But in
reality I like to go blackberrying with Edwy and Lotta as well as ever.
I am not very fond of going out; but I dare say I shall like it better
now you will be often with me. I am not at all clever, and I never know
what to say. It seems so useless to say what everybody knows, and I can
think of nothing else, except what papa says.”
“I shall like going out with you very much,” said Gwendolen, well
disposed toward this _naïve_ cousin. “Are you fond of riding?”
“Yes, but we have only one Shetland pony amongst us. Papa says he can’t
afford more, besides the carriage-horses and his own nag; he has so
many expenses.”
“I intend to have a horse and ride a great deal now,” said Gwendolen,
in a tone of decision. “Is the society pleasant in this neighborhood?”
“Papa says it is, very. There are the clergymen all about, you know;
and the Quallons, and the Arrowpoints, and Lord Brackenshaw, and Sir
Hugo Mallinger’s place, where there is nobody—that’s very nice,
because we make picnics there—and two or three families at Wanchester:
oh, and old Mrs. Vulcany, at Nuttingwood, and—”
But Anna was relieved of this tax on her descriptive powers by the
announcement of dinner, and Gwendolen’s question was soon indirectly
answered by her uncle, who dwelt much on the advantages he had secured
for them in getting a place like Offendene. Except the rent, it
involved no more expense than an ordinary house at Wanchester would
have done.
“And it is always worth while to make a little sacrifice for a good
style of house,” said Mr. Gascoigne, in his easy, pleasantly confident
tone, which made the world in general seem a very manageable place of
residence: “especially where there is only a lady at the head. All the
best people will call upon you; and you need give no expensive dinners.
Of course, I have to spend a good deal in that way; it is a large item.
But then I get my house for nothing. If I had to pay three hundred a
year for my house I could not keep a table. My boys are too great a
drain on me. You are better off than we are, in proportion; there is no
great drain on you now, after your house and carriage.”
“I assure you, Fanny, now that the children are growing up, I am
obliged to cut and contrive,” said Mrs. Gascoigne. “I am not a good
manager by nature, but Henry has taught me. He is wonderful for making
the best of everything; he allows himself no extras, and gets his
curates for nothing. It is rather hard that he has not been made a
prebendary or something, as others have been, considering the friends
he has made and the need there is for men of moderate opinions in all
respects. If the Church is to keep its position, ability and character
ought to tell.”
“Oh, my dear Nancy, you forget the old story—thank Heaven, there are
three hundred as good as I. And ultimately, we shall have no reason to
complain, I am pretty sure. There could hardly be a more thorough
friend than Lord Brackenshaw—your landlord, you know, Fanny. Lady
Brackenshaw will call upon you. And I have spoken for Gwendolen to be a
member of our Archery Club—the Brackenshaw Archery Club—the most
select thing anywhere. That is, if she has no objection,” added Mr.
Gascoigne, looking at Gwendolen with pleasant irony.
“I should like it of all things,” said Gwendolen. “There is nothing I
enjoy more than taking aim—and hitting,” she ended, with a pretty nod
and smile.
“Our Anna, poor child, is too short-sighted for archery. But I consider
myself a first-rate shot, and you shall practice with me. I must make
you an accomplished archer before our great meeting in July. In fact,
as to neighborhood, you could hardly be better placed. There are the
Arrowpoints—they are some of our best people. Miss Arrowpoint is a
delightful girl—she has been presented at Court. They have a
magnificent place—Quetcham Hall—worth seeing in point of art; and
their parties, to which you are sure to be invited, are the best things
of the sort we have. The archdeacon is intimate there, and they have
always a good kind of people staying in the house. Mrs. Arrowpoint is
peculiar, certainly; something of a caricature, in fact; but
well-meaning. And Miss Arrowpoint is as nice as possible. It is not all
young ladies who have mothers as handsome and graceful as yours and
Anna’s.”
Mrs. Davilow smiled faintly at this little compliment, but the husband
and wife looked affectionately at each other, and Gwendolen thought,
“My uncle and aunt, at least, are happy: they are not dull and dismal.”
Altogether, she felt satisfied with her prospects at Offendene, as a
great improvement on anything she had known. Even the cheap curates,
she incidentally learned, were almost always young men of family, and
Mr. Middleton, the actual curate, was said to be quite an acquisition:
it was only a pity he was so soon to leave.
But there was one point which she was so anxious to gain that she could
not allow the evening to pass without taking her measures toward
securing it. Her mamma, she knew, intended to submit entirely to her
uncle’s judgment with regard to expenditure; and the submission was not
merely prudential, for Mrs. Davilow, conscious that she had always been
seen under a cloud as poor dear Fanny, who had made a sad blunder with
her second marriage, felt a hearty satisfaction in being frankly and
cordially identified with her sister’s family, and in having her
affairs canvassed and managed with an authority which presupposed a
genuine interest. Thus the question of a suitable saddle-horse, which
had been sufficiently discussed with mamma, had to be referred to Mr.
Gascoigne; and after Gwendolen had played on the piano, which had been
provided from Wanchester, had sung to her hearers’ admiration, and had
induced her uncle to join her in a duet—what more softening influence
than this on any uncle who would have sung finely if his time had not
been too much taken up by graver matters?—she seized the opportune
moment for saying, “Mamma, you have not spoken to my uncle about my
riding.”
“Gwendolen desires above all things to have a horse to ride—a pretty,
light, lady’s horse,” said Mrs. Davilow, looking at Mr. Gascoigne. “Do
you think we can manage it?”
Mr. Gascoigne projected his lower lip and lifted his handsome eyebrows
sarcastically at Gwendolen, who had seated herself with much grace on
the elbow of her mamma’s chair.
“We could lend her the pony sometimes,” said Mrs. Gascoigne, watching
her husband’s face, and feeling quite ready to disapprove if he did.
“That might be inconveniencing others, aunt, and would be no pleasure
to me. I cannot endure ponies,” said Gwendolen. “I would rather give up
some other indulgence and have a horse.” (Was there ever a young lady
or gentleman not ready to give up an unspecified indulgence for the
sake of the favorite one specified?)
“She rides so well. She has had lessons, and the riding-master said she
had so good a seat and hand she might be trusted with any mount,” said
Mrs. Davilow, who, even if she had not wished her darling to have the
horse, would not have dared to be lukewarm in trying to get it for her.
“There is the price of the horse—a good sixty with the best chance,
and then his keep,” said Mr. Gascoigne, in a tone which, though
demurring, betrayed the inward presence of something that favored the
demand. “There are the carriage-horses—already a heavy item. And
remember what you ladies cost in toilet now.”
“I really wear nothing but two black dresses,” said Mrs. Davilow,
hastily. “And the younger girls, of course, require no toilet at
present. Besides, Gwendolen will save me so much by giving her sisters
lessons.” Here Mrs. Davilow’s delicate cheek showed a rapid blush. “If
it were not for that, I must really have a more expensive governess,
and masters besides.”
Gwendolen felt some anger with her mamma, but carefully concealed it.
“That is good—that is decidedly good,” said Mr. Gascoigne, heartily,
looking at his wife. And Gwendolen, who, it must be owned, was a deep
young lady, suddenly moved away to the other end of the long
drawing-room, and busied herself with arranging pieces of music.
“The dear child has had no indulgences, no pleasures,” said Mrs.
Davilow, in a pleading undertone. “I feel the expense is rather
imprudent in this first year of our settling. But she really needs the
exercise—she needs cheering. And if you were to see her on horseback,
it is something splendid.”
“It is what we could not afford for Anna,” said Mrs. Gascoigne. “But
she, dear child, would ride Lotta’s donkey and think it good enough.”
(Anna was absorbed in a game with Isabel, who had hunted out an old
back-gammon-board, and had begged to sit up an extra hour.)
“Certainly, a fine woman never looks better than on horseback,” said
Mr. Gascoigne. “And Gwendolen has the figure for it. I don’t say the
thing should not be considered.”
“We might try it for a time, at all events. It can be given up, if
necessary,” said Mrs. Davilow.
“Well, I will consult Lord Brackenshaw’s head groom. He is my _fidus
Achates_ in the horsey way.”
“Thanks,” said Mrs. Davilow, much relieved. “You are very kind.”
“That he always is,” said Mrs. Gascoigne. And later that night, when
she and her husband were in private, she said,
“I thought you were almost too indulgent about the horse for Gwendolen.
She ought not to claim so much more than your own daughter would think
of. Especially before we see how Fanny manages on her income. And you
really have enough to do without taking all this trouble on yourself.”
“My dear Nancy, one must look at things from every point of view. This
girl is really worth some expense: you don’t often see her equal. She
ought to make a first-rate marriage, and I should not be doing my duty
if I spared my trouble in helping her forward. You know yourself she
has been under a disadvantage with such a father-in-law, and a second
family, keeping her always in the shade. I feel for the girl, And I
should like your sister and her family now to have the benefit of your
having married rather a better specimen of our kind than she did.”
“Rather better! I should think so. However, it is for me to be grateful
that you will take so much on your shoulders for the sake of my sister
and her children. I am sure I would not grudge anything to poor Fanny.
But there is one thing I have been thinking of, though you have never
mentioned it.”
“What is that?”
“The boys. I hope they will not be falling in love with Gwendolen.”
“Don’t presuppose anything of the kind, my dear, and there will be no
danger. Rex will never be at home for long together, and Warham is
going to India. It is the wiser plan to take it for granted that
cousins will not fall in love. If you begin with precautions, the
affair will come in spite of them. One must not undertake to act for
Providence in these matters, which can no more be held under the hand
than a brood of chickens. The boys will have nothing, and Gwendolen
will have nothing. They can’t marry. At the worst there would only be a
little crying, and you can’t save boys and girls from that.”
Mrs. Gascoigne’s mind was satisfied: if anything did happen, there was
the comfort of feeling that her husband would know what was to be done,
and would have the energy to do it.