‘I am not in the habit
of complying with demands, Mrs Allardyce; but I shall suppose the question a
civil one, and say in reply that it must refer to your son’s making a proposal
to me at the Dress Ball.’
Mrs Allardyce’s head
jerked back as if Lydia had actually thrown something at her, instead of merely
wanting to.
‘A proposal to
you?
What
is this? Do you mean he conveyed his proposal to Miss Rae through you? A very
unnecessary proceeding, though to be sure Robert is always a model of
discretion—’
‘Not on this occasion,
ma’am. The declaration, the proposal, was to me, not Miss Rae, and I was as
startled by it as you are.’
Such a livid flush
suffused Mrs Allardyce’s face that she looked as if she had been hanged by her
jet choker. ‘To
you?
Miss Templeton, this is a fantasy — or else a jest
in the very poorest taste. I know you are one of those women who set themselves
up as wits, but this is beyond anything.’
‘Very well: if that is
what you choose to believe, then let us talk of some matter else. Will it rain,
do you think?’
‘What you say is
impossible.
Robert
must have been making some sort of joke, and you took
up the wrong idea. That is all I can suppose.’
‘If that were the case,
I do not see why he should have made this very sudden departure. Mrs Allardyce,
there is no great mystery here: the matter is simple. Your son declared his
attachment to me — a thing I had not in the least suspected — and proposed that
I become his wife: an offer which I declined.’
‘Declined! I should hope
you did!’ There was an admission in this that she was beginning to believe: but
now her colour rose again, and still more fiercely she cried: ‘But he must have
taken leave of his senses! I must write him at once — recall him to Bath to set
this matter straight. It has been my firm expectation that he is to marry Miss
Rae. And he
shall.
I shall see to it. Whatever mischievous intrigue you
have led him into—’
‘That Miss Rae was his
object was my expectation also, ma’am; and supposing him to be in love with
her, and the match a promising one, I did all I could to encourage it. It has
not been the most diverting occupation in the world, but I thought it good for
my friend’s sake. Your son informed me, however, that his feelings for Miss Rae
had changed, that he no longer considered her as a bride, and that his
affections inclined to me instead. I am afraid this communication held no
pleasure for me. I felt nothing besides pity for Miss Rae’s disappointment, and
disapproval of the way she had been treated. I told him so, and we parted with
very little cordiality on either side. That is about all of the story, ma’am:
it is not a pretty one, but no one is killed in it: my only concern now is to
see my friend recover her spirits and happiness at last; and as for your son, I
think he did very well to get quickly away from such a scene of embarrassment.’
Mrs Allardyce was quite
still, her eyes hooded. ‘You entrapped him. There is no other explanation. This
is shocking — a shocking admission. My son Robert — my son—’
‘I know he is your son,
ma’am, the words are often enough on your lips for there to be no doubt of the
matter,’ snapped Lydia, in ungovernable irritation. ‘And I tell you for the
last time that I did not seek this, I did not want it, and I shall be heartily
glad to be able to forget all about it.’
‘Oho, you do not catch
me
with such pretty denials, Miss Templeton — I don’t allow the wool to be
pulled over
my
eyes. I know the world pretty well, and I know my son. He
is no fool. It must have required a good deal of guile and cunning to lead him
so disastrously astray. Nothing else could have so blinded him to sense and
interest. He is on a way to a distinguished career, Miss Templeton — what
possible reason could he have to throw himself away on a woman of thirty with
nothing but ten thousand pounds?’
‘That is a question that
must await your letter to him, as only he can answer it. I only hope you will
frame it in less unmannerly terms than you have used to me; and that whatever
his answer may be, it will force you to the recognition that you do not know
your son as well as you suppose.’
‘I understand it now,’
Mrs Allardyce grated, with a bitter shake of her head. ‘This impulse to
mischief and meddling — oh, I have seen it before. You are of that class of
women who cannot get husbands, and so take a perverse pleasure in preventing
others getting them. I pity Miss Rae indeed — a trusting nature so abused . .
.’
For a moment Lydia felt
herself back in the Royal Academy exhibition-room, hearing the wicked wiles of
Miss Templeton deplored: but now there was no amusement in it. And a certain
red rim to her vision suggested that Mrs Allardyce had chosen the wrong person,
at the wrong time, to subject to her insolence.
‘Abused, but not by me.
The character you have given me is an insulting one, ma’am; and if I
had
accepted
your son’s proposal, it is an interesting question how you would have
maintained it in your daughter-in-law, before the opinion of that society which
is so important to you.’
‘Ha! It would not have
come to that, trust me — oh dear no — I would very soon have turned Robert’s
head back the right way, if he had come to me to announce such a folly. But
there, I should not have been surprised: there was, after all, much in your
mother’s reputation that did not bear scrutiny.’
‘My mother made mistakes
in her life, ma’am, that I do not deny. But I felt towards her all the warmth
and affection that a child must feel for a mother, whatever her deficiencies;
and those deficiencies were never felt but as a past shadow, easily redeemed by
her present grace, tenderness and goodness. I was never driven to shame, for
example, by her behaviour in public: never blushed at her vulgarity, or
struggled to make excuses for her ill-bred and ignorant self-assertion. My
brother and I were able to love her, with no such sacrifice of respect as you
require from a son who eternally indulges you, and a daughter who must silently
despise you.’ Lydia rose to her feet, remembering Susannah comparing her to a
giant. Very well: it was no bad feeling. ‘You will, I know, be diligent in
defaming me, in the tiresome circles in which you move, and where your parade
of presumption is taken as consequence. I am helpless against that, but I am
not unduly troubled. I take comfort in the fact that Miss Rae, unhappy as she
is now, has been saved from the greater, the more lasting unhappiness of an
intimate connection with you.’
Mrs Allardyce stared and
mouthed, but no words came. It was a savage sort of satisfaction, no doubt,
that Lydia took to the door — and incomplete, as the pug-dog had made itself scarce,
and was unavailable for a kick: but it was the best that could be hoped for,
until the blessed day that took her away from Bath.
Ah, blessed day — so it
had always appeared to Lydia; but as she emerged into Queen Square and stood
hard-breathing, blinking in the sunlight — gazing at the obelisk in the centre,
and idly trying to remember which royal blockhead it commemorated — the blessed
day somehow refused to present itself in its old glowing colours. There was
something tarnished about it, as of a prize no longer valued.
Phoebe had seemed a
little more herself that morning, and had declared, with a willed sort of
lightness, that she was sick of being in her room; and when Lydia returned to
Sydney Place, she found her receiving a caller. Hugh Hanley was lounging
elegantly in the drawing-room, and in the middle of some amusing anecdote to
which Phoebe was giving a welcome, if faintly dutiful smile.
‘Ah, I could tell you
many a tale about Lady Desborough. Even the true ones are entertaining. Miss
Templeton, I am concerned. Miss Rae tells me you are quite recovered from your
indisposition of the other night, but I shall be glad to hear it from your own
lips.’
‘You may set your mind
at ease, Mr Hanley. I was never better.’
‘I am intensely relieved.
It does not do to fall ill in Bath, you know: rather detracts from the purpose
of the place. And look at my uncle: I wouldn’t go so far as to call him as
fresh as a daisy, but certainly fresh as a good strong thistle, say, and — I
cannot repress an unearthly shiver at it — almost in spirits. He actually asked
me to breakfast with him this morning. You must look to Hamlet meeting his
father’s ghost to picture my astonishment.’
‘Except that Hamlet was
a worthy young man with a wicked uncle,’ Lydia said.
‘You are too delicious
for Bath,’ he said, with an appreciative look. ‘But now tell me — what and
whence? My unwicked uncle — this sinister cordiality — what does it mean?’
‘I can’t conceive how
I
am supposed to know that, Mr Hanley.’
‘Well, your past
association — your close neighbourhood — your peculiar friendship: you are in a
way his ally, surely. I doubt anyone holds the key to his heart, but you—’
‘Mr Hanley, I am
nobody’s ally,’ Lydia said, with a relapse into irritation, ‘and I would be
heartily glad if everyone would leave me out of their games. But if you are
concerned that Mr Durrant has it in mind to marry, and disappoint you of your
inheritance, then very well — that is what he came here for. I do not know his
mind, but he is a man of determination — I say no more: except that if you
hadn’t wanted such a thing ever to happen, you should have conducted yourself
better to begin with, and it is too late to undo it now.’
‘Thank you.’ Mr Hanley
stood and bowed. ‘You have spoken to me honestly and directly. It is a thing I
never do, but I know how to value it. And please believe me, I shall not pester
you with the subject again.’ He looked at her closely — perhaps kindly. ‘Miss
Templeton, are you sure you are quite well?’
‘I am perfectly well!’
she cried, her voice breaking; and hurrying from the room, ran upstairs to her
bedroom, where she flung herself down in a dry-eyed and stubborn misery. It was
the interview at Queen Square, of course: vituperation had sustained her at the
time, but it could not do so for long — as the blood cooled, the woeful
reaction set in. After some time she heard the front door close; and soon
after, Phoebe’s light footsteps approaching her room, and pausing. But Lydia
had not the heart to invite her in — she felt that even to take sympathy from
Phoebe would be to rob her — and it seemed that Phoebe had not the heart to
press either, and the footsteps went softly away.
The next day brought a
letter from Lady Eastmond — usually an occasion to be relished, for she was as
effusively likeable on the page as in person: but now, the kind thoughts,
genial hopes, and eager speculations on their progress in Bath gave more pain
than pleasure. It was hard to know what to write in return — what urbane
phrases could be employed to convey that all was in ruins. The reply was best
postponed, along with the larger question of what they were to do.
They had approached it,
in some sort. Before breakfast Mary Darber had brought Lydia a question about
the buying of provisions, which had made Lydia ask Phoebe, in a tone of fragile
casualness: ‘Do you — do you think, Phoebe, that you would wish to stay at Bath
until the end of our lease, or — or perhaps make an early return home?’
‘I don’t much mind,’
Phoebe said. ‘We could go home early, if you like. But it depends how you
feel.’
And that was how they
went on for the next few days — raising the subject, only to drop it: as if
neither had the will to confront the task of decision. At last Lydia did sit
down at the writing-desk, sharpen a pen, and remark that she really ought to
write to Lady Eastmond. Phoebe agreed; and fell into uneasy contemplation.
‘I was thinking,’ Lydia
went on, ‘that we need not go into a great deal of explanation — indeed, I feel
that is much better left until we return to Lincolnshire, and see her face to
face.’
‘That will be better,
indeed.’
‘But what I might do —
what I should do, after all, is inform her of when we are coming back. In other
words, fix a day when she may expect us. We will need time to arrange matters
with the house-agent and the tradesmen, and book our coach-places and so on;
but if we fix a day, that will be — that will be something.’
‘Yes . . .’ Phoebe’s
shoulders slumped. ‘I do want to see Lady Eastmond again — Sir Henry — Osterby
— it is all so present to my mind. And yet I don’t know how I shall be able to
face it.’
‘Face it? My dear
Phoebe, you speak as if you have done something wrong, and you assuredly have
not.’
Phoebe sternly shook her
head. ‘Oh, no. I have been foolish, Lydia. Foolish in that I have — vacillated.
Is that a good word?’
‘It is a ... a good word
to describe a certain way of . . . Oh, but, Phoebe—’
‘A good word,’ Phoebe
said, still solemnly determined, ‘for me. There, I shall use the whole
dictionary at last. Well, no more vacillating. It seems to me now that there is
no more criminal folly’
‘Oh, there are many’
Lydia began; but as so often now, she felt Phoebe was only half attending to
her; and she was far from inclined to blame her for it.
It was a drifting,
tail-end sort of life: the old companionable walks to the Pump Room or Sydney
Gardens seemed to them both, by tacit agreement, out of the question; but its
oppressiveness was alleviated by two things, both perhaps unexpected. Mrs
Vawser was as good, or as bad, as her word, and descended on Sydney Place to
take Phoebe out in the barouche. To Phoebe’s usual obliging nature was added
this melancholy supine quality, in which one thing, alas, was as good as
another. She went: she returned saying it had been very pleasant, and looking,
at least, less papery of complexion; and Mrs Vawser insisted on the drive being
a daily appointment. Certainly it had everything that could please a mind such
as hers: she could indulge in ostentation in the fact of the barouche,
condescension in taking Phoebe in it, and spite in never inviting Lydia to join
them. But so low was Lydia’s self-opinion that she thought it, if not a good
thing, then a better one for her friend than anything she could propose.