Lady Lufton and her son were left together looking at each other. Of course, he had intended to ask Griselda to dance, but it cannot be said that he very much regretted his disappointment. Of course also Lady Lufton had expected that her son and Griselda would stand up together, and she was a little inclined to be angry with her
protégé
.
“I think she might have waited a minute,” said Lady Lufton.
“But why, mother? There are certain things for which no one ever waits: to give a friend, for instance, the first passage through a gate out hunting, and such like. Miss Grantly was quite right to take the first that offered.”
Lady Lufton had determined to learn what was to be the end of this scheme of hers. She could not have Griselda always with her, and if anything were to be arranged it must be arranged now, while both of them were in London. At the close of the season Griselda would return to Plumstead, and Lord Lufton would go—nobody as yet knew where. It would be useless to look forward to further opportunities. If they did not contrive to love each other now, they would never do so. Lady Lufton was beginning to fear that her plan would not work, but she made up her mind that she would learn the truth then and there—at least as far as her son was concerned.
“Oh, yes; quite so—if it is equal to her with which she dances,” said Lady Lufton.
“Quite equal, I should think—unless it be that Dumbello is longer-winded than I am.”
“I am sorry to hear you speak of her in that way, Ludovic.”
“Why sorry, mother?”
“Because I had hoped—that you and she would have liked each other.” This she said in a serious tone of voice, tender and sad, looking up into his face with a plaintive gaze, as though she knew that she were asking of him some great favour.
“Yes, mother, I have known that you have wished that.”
“You have known it, Ludovic!”
“Oh, dear, yes; you are not at all sharp at keeping your secrets from me. And, mother, at one time, for a day or so, I thought that I could oblige you. You have been so good to me, that I would almost do anything for you.”
“Oh, no, no, no,” she said, deprecating his praise, and the sacrifice which he seemed to offer of his own hopes and aspirations. “I would not for worlds have you do so for my sake. No mother ever had a better son, and my only ambition is for your happiness.”
“But, mother, she would not make me happy. I was mad enough for a moment to think that she could do so—for a moment I did think so. There was one occasion on which I would have asked her to take me, but—”
“But what, Ludovic?”
“Never mind; it passed away; and now I shall never ask her. Indeed I do not think she would have me. She is ambitious, and flying at higher game than I am. And I must say this for her, that she knows well what she is doing, and plays her cards as though she had been born with them in her hand.”
“You will never ask her?”
“No, mother; had I done so, it would have been for love of you—only for love of you.”
“I would not for worlds that you should do that.”
“Let her have Dumbello; she will make an excellent wife for him, just the wife that he will want. And you, you will have been so good to her in assisting her to such a matter.”
“But, Ludovic, I am so anxious to see you settled.”
“All in good time, mother!”
“Ah, but the good time is passing away. Years run so very quickly. I hope you think about marrying, Ludovic.”
“But, mother, what if I brought you a wife that you did not approve?”
“I will approve of any one that you love; that is—”
“That is, if you love her also; eh, mother?”
“But I rely with such confidence on your taste. I know that you can like no one that is not ladylike and good.”
“Ladylike and good; will that suffice?” said he, thinking of Lucy Robarts.
“Yes; it will suffice, if you love her. I don’t want you to care for money. Griselda will have a fortune that would have been convenient; but I do not wish you to care for that.” And thus, as they stood together in Miss Dunstable’s crowded room, the mother and son settled between themselves that the Lufton-Grantly alliance treaty was not to be ratified. “I suppose I must let Mrs. Grantly know,” said Lady Lufton to herself, as Griselda returned to her side. There had not been above a dozen words spoken between Lord Dumbello and his partner, but that young lady also had now fully made up her mind that the treaty above mentioned should never be brought into operation.
We must go back to our hostess, whom we should not have left for so long a time, seeing that this chapter is written to show how well she could conduct herself in great emergencies. She had declared that after a while she would be able to leave her position near the entrance door, and find out her own peculiar friends among the crowd; but the opportunity for doing so did not come till very late in the evening. There was a continuation of arrivals; she was wearied to death with making little speeches, and had more than once declared that she must depute Mrs. Harold Smith to take her place.
That lady stuck to her through all her labours with admirable constancy, and made the work bearable. Without some such constancy on a friend’s part, it would have been unbearable. And it must be acknowledged that this was much to the credit of Mrs. Harold Smith. Her own hopes with reference to the great heiress had all been shattered, and her answer had been given to her in very plain language. But, nevertheless, she was true to her friendship, and was almost as willing to endure fatigue on the occasion as though she had a sister-in-law’s right in the house.
At about one o’clock her brother came. He had not yet seen Miss Dunstable since the offer had been made, and had now with difficulty been persuaded by his sister to show himself.
“What can be the use?” said he. “The game is up with me now;”—meaning, poor, ruined ne’er-do-well, not only that that game with Miss Dunstable was up, but that the great game of his whole life was being brought to an uncomfortable termination.
“Nonsense,” said his sister; “do you mean to despair because a man like the Duke of Omnium wants his money? What has been good security for him will be good security for another;” and then Mrs. Harold Smith made herself more agreeable than ever to Miss Dunstable.
When Miss Dunstable was nearly worn out, but was still endeavouring to buoy herself up by a hope of the still-expected great arrival—for she knew that the hero would show himself only at a very late hour if it were to be her good fortune that he showed himself at all—Mr. Sowerby walked up the stairs. He had schooled himself to go through this ordeal with all the cool effrontery which was at his command; but it was clearly to be seen that all his effrontery did not stand him in sufficient stead, and that the interview would have been embarrassing had it not been for the genuine good-humour of the lady.
“Here is my brother,” said Mrs. Harold Smith, showing by the tremulousness of the whisper that she looked forward to the meeting with some amount of apprehension.
“How do you do, Mr. Sowerby?” said Miss Dunstable, walking almost into the doorway to welcome him. “Better late than never.”
“I have only just got away from the House,” said he, as he gave her his hand.
“Oh, I know well that you are
sans reproche
among senators—as Mr. Harold Smith is
sans peur
—eh, my dear?”
“I must confess that you have contrived to be uncommonly severe upon them both,” said Mrs. Harold, laughing; “and as regards poor Harold, most undeservedly so: Nathaniel is here, and may defend himself.”
“And no one is better able to do so on all occasions. But, my dear Mr. Sowerby, I am dying of despair. Do you think he’ll come?”
“He? who?”
“You stupid man—as if there were more than one he! There were two, but the other has been.”
“Upon my word, I don’t understand,” said Mr. Sowerby, now again at his ease. “But can I do anything? shall I go and fetch any one? Oh, Tom Towers; I fear I can’t help you. But here he is at the foot of the stairs!” And then Mr. Sowerby stood back with his sister to make way for the great representative man of the age.
“Angels and ministers of grace assist me!” said Miss Dunstable. “How on earth am I to behave myself? Mr. Sowerby, do you think that I ought to kneel down? My dear, will he have a reporter at his back in the royal livery?” And then Miss Dunstable advanced two or three steps—not into the doorway, as she had done for Mr. Sowerby—put out her hand, and smiled her sweetest on Mr. Towers, of the
Jupiter
.
“Mr. Towers,” she said, “I am delighted to have this opportunity of seeing you in my own house.”
“Miss Dunstable, I am immensely honoured by the privilege of being here,” said he.
“The honour done is all conferred on me,” and she bowed and curtsied with very stately grace. Each thoroughly understood the badinage of the other; and then, in a few moments, they were engaged in very easy conversation.
“By-the-by, Sowerby, what do you think of this threatened dissolution?” said Tom Towers.
“We are all in the hands of Providence,” said Mr. Sowerby, striving to take the matter without any outward show of emotion. But the question was one of terrible import to him, and up to this time he had heard of no such threat. Nor had Mrs. Harold Smith, nor Miss Dunstable, nor had a hundred others who now either listened to the vaticinations of Mr. Towers, or to the immediate report made of them. But it is given to some men to originate such tidings, and the performance of the prophecy is often brought about by the authority of the prophet. On the following morning the rumour that there would be a dissolution was current in all high circles. “They have no conscience in such matters; no conscience whatever,” said a small god, speaking of the giants—a small god, whose constituency was expensive.
Mr. Towers stood there chatting for about twenty minutes, and then took his departure without making his way into the room. He had answered the purpose for which he had been invited, and left Miss Dunstable in a happy frame of mind.
“I am very glad that he came,” said Mrs. Harold Smith, with an air of triumph.
“Yes, I am glad,” said Miss Dunstable, “though I am thoroughly ashamed that I should be so. After all, what good has he done to me or to any one?” And having uttered this moral reflection, she made her way into the rooms, and soon discovered Dr. Thorne standing by himself against the wall.
“Well, doctor,” she said, “where are Mary and Frank? You do not look at all comfortable, standing here by yourself.”
“I am quite as comfortable as I expected, thank you,” said he. “They are in the room somewhere, and, as I believe, equally happy.”
“That’s spiteful in you, doctor, to speak in that way. What would you say if you were called on to endure all that I have gone through this evening?”
“There is no accounting for tastes, but I presume you like it.”
“I am not so sure of that. Give me your arm and let me get some supper. One always likes the idea of having done hard work, and one always likes to have been successful.”
“We all know that virtue is its own reward,” said the doctor.
“Well, that is something hard upon me,” said Miss Dunstable, as she sat down to table. “And you really think that no good of any sort can come from my giving such a party as this?”
“Oh, yes; some people, no doubt, have been amused.”
“It is all vanity in your estimation,” said Miss Dunstable; “vanity and vexation of spirit. Well; there is a good deal of the latter, certainly. Sherry, if you please. I would give anything for a glass of beer, but that is out of the question. Vanity and vexation of spirit! And yet I meant to do good.”
“Pray, do not suppose that I am condemning you, Miss Dunstable.”
“Ah, but I do suppose it. Not only you, but another also, whose judgement I care for, perhaps, more than yours; and that, let me tell you, is saying a great deal. You do condemn me, Dr. Thorne, and I also condemn myself. It is not that I have done wrong, but the game is not worth the candle.”
“Ah; that’s the question.”
“The game is not worth the candle. And yet it was a triumph to have both the duke and Tom Towers. You must confess that I have not managed badly.”
Soon after that the Greshams went away, and in an hour’s time or so, Miss Dunstable was allowed to drag herself to her own bed.
That is the great question to be asked on all such occasions, “Is the game worth the candle?”
CHAPTER XXX
The Grantly Triumph
It has been mentioned cursorily—the reader, no doubt, will have forgotten it—that Mrs. Grantly was not specially invited by her husband to go up to town with a view of being present at Miss Dunstable’s party. Mrs. Grantly said nothing on the subject, but she was somewhat chagrined; not on account of the loss she sustained with reference to that celebrated assembly, but because she felt that her daughter’s affairs required the supervision of a mother’s eye. She also doubted the final ratification of that Lufton-Grantly treaty, and, doubting it, she did not feel quite satisfied that her daughter should be left in Lady Lufton’s hands. She had said a word or two to the archdeacon before he went up, but only a word or two, for she hesitated to trust him in so delicate a matter. She was, therefore, not a little surprised at receiving, on the second morning after her husband’s departure, a letter from him desiring her immediate presence in London. She was surprised; but her heart was filled rather with hope than dismay, for she had full confidence in her daughter’s discretion.
On the morning after the party, Lady Lufton and Griselda had breakfasted together as usual, but each felt that the manner of the other was altered. Lady Lufton thought that her young friend was somewhat less attentive, and perhaps less meek in her demeanour than usual; and Griselda felt that Lady Lufton was less affectionate. Very little, however, was said between them, and Lady Lufton expressed no surprise when Griselda begged to be left alone at home, instead of accompanying her ladyship when the carriage came to the door.
Nobody called in Bruton Street that afternoon—no one, at least, was let in—except the archdeacon. He came there late in the day, and remained with his daughter till Lady Lufton returned. Then he took his leave, with more abruptness than was usual with him, and without saying anything special to account for the duration of his visit. Neither did Griselda say anything special; and so the evening wore away, each feeling in some unconscious manner that she was on less intimate terms with the other than had previously been the ease.
On the next day also Griselda would not go out, but at four o’clock a servant brought a letter to her from Mount Street. Her mother had arrived in London and wished to see her at once. Mrs. Grantly sent her love to Lady Lufton, and would call at half-past five, or at any later hour at which it might be convenient for Lady Lufton to see her. Griselda was to stay and dine in Mount Street; so said the letter. Lady Lufton declared that she would be very happy to see Mrs. Grantly at the hour named; and then, armed with this message, Griselda started for her mother’s lodgings.
“I’ll send the carriage for you,” said Lady Lufton. “I suppose about ten will do.”
“Thank you,” said Griselda, “that will do very nicely;” and then she went.
Exactly at half-past five Mrs. Grantly was shown into Lady Lufton’s drawing-room. Her daughter did not come with her, and Lady Lufton could see by the expression of her friend’s face that business was to be discussed. Indeed, it was necessary that she herself should discuss business, for Mrs. Grantly must now be told that the family treaty could not be ratified. The gentleman declined the alliance, and poor Lady Lufton was uneasy in her mind at the nature of the task before her.
“Your coming up has been rather unexpected,” said Lady Lufton, as soon as her friend was seated on the sofa.
“Yes, indeed; I got a letter from the archdeacon only this morning, which made it absolutely necessary that I should come.”
“No bad news, I hope?” said Lady Lufton.
“No; I can’t call it bad news. But, dear Lady Lufton, things won’t always turn out exactly as one would have them.”
“No, indeed,” said her ladyship, remembering that it was incumbent on her to explain to Mrs. Grantly now at this present interview the tidings with which her mind was fraught. She would, however, let Mrs. Grantly first tell her own story, feeling, perhaps, that the one might possibly bear upon the other.
“Poor dear Griselda!” said Mrs. Grantly, almost with a sigh. “I need not tell you, Lady Lufton, what my hopes were regarding her.”
“Has she told you anything—anything that—”
“She would have spoken to you at once—and it was due to you that she should have done so—but she was timid; and not unnaturally so. And then it was right that she should see her father and me before she quite made up her own mind. But I may say that it is settled now.”
“What is settled?” asked Lady Lufton.
“Of course it is impossible for any one to tell beforehand how those things will turn out,” continued Mrs. Grantly, beating about the bush rather more than was necessary. “The dearest wish of my heart was to see her married to Lord Lufton. I should so much have wished to have her in the same county with me, and such a match as that would have fully satisfied my ambition.”
“Well, I should rather think it might!” Lady Lufton did not say this out loud, but she thought it. Mrs. Grantly was absolutely speaking of a match between her daughter and Lord Lufton as though she would have displayed some amount of Christian moderation in putting up with it! Griselda Grantly might be a very nice girl; but even she—so thought Lady Lufton at the moment—might possibly be priced too highly.
“Dear Mrs. Grantly,” she said, “I have foreseen for the last few days that our mutual hopes in this respect would not be gratified. Lord Lufton, I think—but perhaps it is not necessary to explain— Had you not come up to town I should have written to you—probably to-day. Whatever may be dear Griselda’s fate in life, I sincerely hope that she may be happy.”
“I think she will,” said Mrs. Grantly, in a tone that expressed much satisfaction.
“Has—has anything—”
“Lord Dumbello proposed to Griselda the other night, at Miss Dunstable’s party,” said Mrs. Grantly, with her eyes fixed upon the floor, and assuming on the sudden much meekness in her manner; “and his lordship was with the archdeacon yesterday, and again this morning. I fancy he is in Mount Street at the present moment.”
“Oh, indeed!” said Lady Lufton. She would have given worlds to have possessed at the moment sufficient self-command to have enabled her to express in her tone and manner unqualified satisfaction at the tidings. But she had not such self-command, and was painfully aware of her own deficiency.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Grantly. “And as it is all so far settled, and as I know you are so kindly anxious about dear Griselda, I thought it right to let you know at once. Nothing can be more upright, honourable, and generous, than Lord Dumbello’s conduct; and, on the whole, the match is one with which I and the archdeacon cannot but be contented.”
“It is certainly a great match,” said Lady Lufton. “Have you seen Lady Hartletop yet?”
Now Lady Hartletop could not be regarded as an agreeable connexion, but this was the only word which escaped from Lady Lufton that could be considered in any way disparaging, and, on the whole, I think that she behaved well.
“Lord Dumbello is so completely his own master that that has not been necessary,” said Mrs. Grantly. “The marquis has been told, and the archdeacon will see him either to-morrow or the day after.”
There was nothing left for Lady Lufton but to congratulate her friend, and this she did in words perhaps not very sincere, but which, on the whole, were not badly chosen.
“I am sure I hope she will be very happy,” said Lady Lufton, “and I trust that the alliance”—the word was very agreeable to Mrs. Grantly’s ear—”will give unalloyed gratification to you and to her father. The position which she is called to fill is a very splendid one, but I do not think that it is above her merits.”
This was very generous, and so Mrs. Grantly felt it. She had expected that her news would be received with the coldest shade of civility, and she was quite prepared to do battle if there were occasion. But she had no wish for war, and was almost grateful to Lady Lufton for her cordiality.
“Dear Lady Lufton,” she said, “it is so kind of you to say so. I have told no one else, and of course would tell no one till you knew it. No one has known her and understood her so well as you have done. And I can assure you of this, that there is no one to whose friendship she looks forward in her new sphere of life with half so much pleasure as she does to yours.”
Lady Lufton did not say much further. She could not declare that she expected much gratification from an intimacy with the future Marchioness of Hartletop. The Hartletops and Luftons must, at any rate for her generation, live in a world apart, and she had now said all that her old friendship with Mrs. Grantly required. Mrs. Grantly understood all this quite as well as did Lady Lufton; but then Mrs. Grantly was much the better woman of the world.
It was arranged that Griselda should come back to Bruton Street for the night, and that her visit should then be brought to a close.
“The archdeacon thinks that for the present I had better remain up in town,” said Mrs. Grantly, “and under the very peculiar circumstances Griselda will be—perhaps more comfortable with me.”
To this Lady Lufton entirely agreed; and so they parted, excellent friends, embracing each other in a most affectionate manner.
That evening Griselda did return to Bruton Street, and Lady Lufton had to go through the further task of congratulating her. This was the more disagreeable of the two, especially so as it had to be thought over beforehand. But the young lady’s excellent good sense and sterling qualities made the task comparatively an easy one. She neither cried, nor was impassioned, nor went into hysterics, nor showed any emotion. She did not even talk of her noble Dumbello—her generous Dumbello. She took Lady Lufton’s kisses almost in silence, thanked her gently for her kindness, and made no allusion to her own future grandeur.
“I think I should like to go to bed early,” she said, “as I must see to my packing up.”
“Richards will do all that for you, my dear.”
“Oh, yes, thank you, nothing can be kinder than Richards. But I’ll just see to my own dresses.”
And so she went to bed early.
Lady Lufton did not see her son for the next two days, but when she did, of course she said a word or two about Griselda.
“You have heard the news, Ludovic?” she asked.
“Oh, yes; it’s at all the clubs. I have been overwhelmed with presents of willow branches.”
“You, at any rate, have got nothing to regret,” she said.
“Nor you either, mother. I am sure that you do not think you have. Say that you do not regret it. Dearest mother, say so for my sake. Do you not know in your heart of hearts that she was not suited to be happy as my wife—or to make me happy?”
“Perhaps not,” said Lady Lufton, sighing. And then she kissed her son, and declared to herself that no girl in England could be good enough for him.