Works of Ellen Wood, page 740
“Who is she, Hartledon?”
“Mrs. Mirrable,” answered his lordship rather shortly. “I think you must have seen her before. She has been Hartledon’s mistress since my mother died,” he rather pointedly added, for he saw incipient defiance in the old lady’s countenance.
“Oh, Hartledon’s head servant; the housekeeper, I presume,” cried she, as majestically as her harsh voice allowed her to speak. “Perhaps you’ll tell her who I am, Hartledon; and that I have undertaken to preside here for a little while.”
“I believe Mrs. Mirrable knows you, ma’am,” spoke up Percival Elster, for Lord Hartledon had turned away, and was lost amongst his guests. “You have seen the Countess-Dowager of Kirton, Mirrable?”
The countess-dowager faced round upon the speaker sharply.
“Oh, it’s you, Val Elster? Who asked you to interfere? I’ll see the rooms, Mirrable, and the arrangements you have made. Maude, where are you? Come with me.”
A tall, stately girl, with handsome features, raven hair and eyes, and a brilliant colour, extricated herself from the crowd. It was Lady Maude Kirton. Mirrable went first; the countess-dowager followed, talking volubly; and Maude brought up the rear. Other servants came forward to see to the rest of the guests.
The most remarkable quality observable in the countess-dowager, apart from her great breadth, was her restlessness. She seemed never still for an instant; her legs had a fidgety, nervous movement in them, and in moments of excitement, which were not infrequent, she was given to executing a sort of war-dance. Old she was not; but her peculiar graces of person, her rotund form, her badly-made front of flaxen curls, which was rarely in its place, made her appear so. A bold, scheming, unscrupulous, vulgar-minded woman, who had never considered other people’s feelings in her life, whether equals or inferiors. In her day she must have been rather tall — nearly as tall as that elegant Maude who followed her; but her astounding width caused her now to appear short. She went looking into the different rooms as shown to her by Mirrable, and chose the best for herself and her daughter.
“Three en suite. Yes, that will be the thing, Mirrable. Lady Maude will take the inner one, I will occupy this, and my maid the outer. Very good. Now you may order the luggage up.”
“But my lady,” objected Mirrable, “these are the best rooms in the house; and each has a separate entrance, as you perceive. With so many guests to provide for, your maid cannot have one of these rooms.”
“What?” cried the countess-dowager. “My maid not have one of these rooms? You insolent woman! Do you know that I am come here with my nephew, Lord Hartledon, to be mistress of this house, and of every one in it? You’d better mind your behaviour, for I can tell you that I shall look pretty sharply after it.”
“Then,” said Mirrable, who never allowed herself to be put out by any earthly thing, and rarely argued against the stream, “as your ladyship has come here as sole mistress, perhaps you will yourself apportion the rooms to the guests.”
“Let them apportion them for themselves,” cried the countess-dowager. “These three are mine; others manage as they can. It’s Hartledon’s fault. I told him not to invite a heap of people. You and I shall get on together very well, I’ve no doubt, Mirrable,” she continued in a false, fawning voice; for she was remarkably alive at all times to her own interests. “Am I to understand that you are the housekeeper?”
“I am acting as housekeeper at present,” was Mirrable’s answer. “When my lord went to town, after my lady’s death, the housekeeper went also, and has remained there. I have taken her place. Lord Elster — Lord Hartledon, I mean — has not lived yet at Hartledon, and we have had no establishment.”
“Then who are you?”
“I was maid to Lady Hartledon for many years. Her ladyship treated me more as a friend at the last; and the young gentlemen always did so.”
“Very good,” cried the untrue voice. “And, now, Mirrable, you can go down and send up some tea for myself and Lady Maude. What time do we dine?”
“Mr. Elster ordered it for eight o’clock.”
“And what business had he to take orders upon himself?” and the pale little eyes flashed with anger. “Who’s Val Elster, that he should interfere? I sent word by the servants that we wouldn’t dine till nine.”
“Mr. Elster is in his own house, madam; and—”
“In his own house!” raved Lady Kirton. “It’s no house of his; it’s his brother’s. And I wish I was his brother for a day only; I’d let Mr. Val know what presumption comes to. Can’t dinner be delayed?”
“I’m afraid not, my lady.”
“Ugh!” snapped the countess-dowager. “Send up tea at once; and let it be strong, with a great deal of green in it. And some rolled bread-and-butter, and a little well-buttered toast.”
Mirrable departed with the commands, more inclined to laugh at the selfish old woman than to be angry. She remembered the countess-dowager arriving on an unexpected visit some three or four years before, and finding the old Lord Hartledon away and his wife ill in bed. She remained three days, completely upsetting the house; so completely upsetting the invalid Lady Hartledon, that the latter was glad to lend her a sum of money to get rid of her.
Truth to say, Lady Kirton had never been a welcome guest at Hartledon; had been shunned, in fact, and kept away by all sorts of ruses. The only other visit she had paid the family, in Mirrable’s remembrance, was to the town-house, when the children were young. Poor little Val had been taught by his nurse to look upon her as a “bogey;” went about in terror of her; and her ladyship detecting the feeling, administered sly pinches whenever they met. Perhaps neither of them had completely overcome the antagonism from that time to this.
A scrambling sort of life had been Lady Kirton’s. The wife of a very poor and improvident Irish peer, who had died early, leaving her badly provided for, her days had been one long scramble to make both ends meet and avoid creditors. Now in Ireland, now on the Continent, now coming out for a few brief weeks of fashionable life, and now on the wing to some place of safety, had she dodged about, and become utterly unscrupulous.
There was a whole troop of children, who had been allowed to go to the good or the bad very much in their own way, with little help or hindrance from their mother. All the daughters were married now, excepting Maude, mostly to German barons and French counts. One had espoused a marquis — native country not clearly indicated; one an Italian duke: but the marquis lived somewhere over in Algeria in a small lodging, and the Duke condescended to sing an occasional song on the Italian stage.
It was all one to Lady Kirton. They had taken their own way, and she washed her hands of them as easily as though they had never belonged to her. Had they been able to supply her with an occasional bank-note, or welcome her on a protracted visit, they had been her well-beloved and most estimable daughters.
Of the younger sons, all were dispersed; the dowager neither knew nor cared where. Now and again a piteous begging-letter would come from one or the other, which she railed at and scolded over, and bade Maude answer. Her eldest son, Lord Kirton, had married some four or five years ago, and since then the countess-dowager’s lines had been harder than ever. Before that event she could go to the place in Ireland whenever she liked (circumstances permitting), and stay as long as she liked; but that was over now. For the young Lady Kirton, who on her own score spent all the money her husband could scrape together, and more, had taken an inveterate dislike to her mother-in-law, and would not tolerate her.
Never, since she was thus thrown upon her own resources, had the countess-dowager’s lucky star been in the ascendant as it had been this season, for she contrived to fasten herself upon the young Lord Hartledon, and secure a firm footing in his town-house. She called him her nephew— “My nephew Hartledon;” but that was a little improvement upon the actual relationship, for she and the late Lady Hartledon had been cousins only. She invited herself for a week’s sojourn in May, and had never gone away again; and it was now August. She had come down with him, sans cérémonie, to Hartledon; had told him (as a great favour) that she would look after his house and guests during her stay, as his mother would have done. Easy, careless, good-natured Hartledon acquiesced, and took it all as a matter of course. To him she was ever all sweetness and suavity.
None knew better on which side her bread was buttered than the countess-dowager. She liked it buttered on both sides, and generally contrived to get it.
She had come down to Hartledon House with one fixed determination — that she did not quit it until the Lady Maude was its mistress. For a long while Maude had been her sole hope. Her other daughters had married according to their fancy — and what had come of it? — but Maude was different. Maude had great beauty; and Maude, truth to say, was almost as selfishly alive to her own interest as her mother. She should marry well, and so be in a position to shelter the poor, homeless, wandering dowager. Had she chosen from the whole batch of peers, not one could have been found more eligible than he whom fortune seemed to have turned up for her purpose — Lord Hartledon; and before the countess-dowager had been one week his guest in London she began her scheming.
Lady Maude was nothing loth. Young, beautiful, vain, selfish, she yet possessed a woman’s susceptible heart; though surrounded with luxury, dress, pomp, show, which are said to deaden the feelings, and in some measure do deaden them, Lady Maude insensibly managed to fall in love, as deeply as ever did an obscure damsel of romance. She had first met him two years before, when he was Viscount Elster; had liked him then. Their relationship sanctioned their being now much together, and the Lady Maude lost her heart to him.
Would it bring forth fruit, this scheming of the countess-dowager’s, and Maude’s own love? In her wildest hopes the old woman never dreamed of what that fruit would be; or, unscrupulous as she was by habit, unfeeling by nature, she might have carried away Maude from Hartledon within the hour of their arrival.
Of the three parties more immediately concerned, the only innocent one — innocent of any intentions — was Lord Hartledon. He liked Maude very well as a cousin, but otherwise he did not care for her. They might succeed — at least, had circumstances gone on well, they might have succeeded — in winning him at last; but it would not have been from love. His present feeling towards Maude was one of indifference; and of marriage at all he had not begun to think.
Val Elster, on the contrary, regarded Maude with warm admiration. Her beauty had charms for him, and he had been oftener at her side but for the watchful countess-dowager. It would have been horrible had Maude fallen in love with the wrong brother, and the old lady grew to hate him for the fear, as well as on her own score. The feeling of dislike, begun in Val’s childhood, had ripened in the last month or two to almost open warfare. He was always in the way. Many a time when Lord Hartledon might have enjoyed a tête-à-tête with Maude, Val Elster was there to spoil it.
But the culminating point had arrived one day, when Val, half laughingly, half seriously, told the dowager, who had been provoking him almost beyond endurance, that she might spare her angling in regard to Maude, for Hartledon would never bite. But that he took his pleasant face beyond her reach, it might have suffered, for her fingers were held out alarmingly.
From that time she took another little scheme into her hands — that of getting Percival Elster out of his brother’s favour and his brother’s house. Val, on his part, seriously advised his brother not to allow the Kirtons to come to Hartledon; and this reached the ears of the dowager. You may be sure it did not tend to soothe her. Lord Hartledon only laughed at Val, saying they might come if they liked; what did it matter?
But, strange to say, Val Elster was as a very reed in the hands of the old woman. Let her once get hold of him, and she could turn him any way she pleased. He felt afraid of her, and bent to her will. The feeling may have had its rise partly in the fear instilled into his boyhood, partly in the yielding nature of his disposition. However that might be, it was a fact; and Val could no more have openly opposed the resolute, sharp-tongued old woman to her face than he could have changed his nature. He rarely called her anything but “ma’am,” as their nurse had taught him and his brothers and sisters to do in those long-past years.
Before eight o’clock the guests had all assembled in the drawing-room, except the countess-dowager and Maude. Lord Hartledon was going about amongst them, talking to one and another of the beauties of this, his late father’s place; scarcely yet thought of as his own. He was a tall slender man; in figure very much resembling Percival, but not in face: the one was dark, the other fair. There was also the same indolent sort of movement, a certain languid air discernible in both; proclaiming the undoubted fact, that both were idle in disposition and given to ennui. There the resemblance ended. Lord Hartledon had nothing of the irresolution of Percival Elster, but was sufficiently decisive in character, prompt in action.
A noble room, this they were in, as many of the rooms were in the fine old mansion. Lord Hartledon opened the inner door, and took them into another, to show them the portrait of his brother George — a fine young man also, with a fair, pleasing countenance.
“He is like Elster; not like you, Hartledon,” cried a young man, whose name was Carteret.
“Was, you mean, Carteret,” corrected Lord Hartledon, in tones of sad regret. “There was a great family resemblance between us all, I believe.”
“He died from an accident, did he not?” said Mr. O’Moore, an Irishman, who liked to be called “The O’Moore.”
“Yes.”
Percival Elster turned to his brother, and spoke in low tones. “Edward, was any particular person suspected of having fired the shot?”
“None. A set of loose, lawless characters were out that night, and—”
“What are you all looking at here?”
The interruption came from Lady Kirton, who was sailing into the room with Maude. A striking contrast the one presented to the other. Maude in pink silk and a pink wreath, her haughty face raised in pride, her dark eyes flashing, radiantly beautiful. The old dowager, broad as she was high, her face rouged, her short snub nose always carried in the air, her light eyes unmeaning, her flaxen eyebrows heavy, her flaxen curls crowned by a pea-green turban. Her choice attire was generally composed, as to-day, of some cheap, flimsy, gauzy material bright in colour. This evening it was orange lace, all flounces and frills, with a lace scarf; and she generally had innumerable ends of quilted net flying about her skirts, not unlike tails. It was certain she did not spend much money upon her own attire; and how she procured the costly dresses for Maude the latter appeared in was ever a mystery. You can hardly fancy the bedecked old figure that she made. The O’Moore nearly laughed out, as he civilly turned to answer her question.
“We were looking at this portrait, Lady Kirton.”
“And saying how much he was like Val,” put in young Carteret, between whom and the dowager warfare also existed. “Val, which was the elder?”
“George was.”
“Then his death made you heir-presumptive,” cried the thoughtless young man, speaking impulsively.
“Heir-presumptive to what?” asked the dowager snapping at the words.
“To Hartledon.”
“He heir to Hartledon! Don’t trouble yourself, young man, to imagine that Val Elster’s ever likely to come into Hartledon. Do you want to shoot his lordship, as he was shot?”
The uncalled-for retort, the strangely intemperate tones, the quick passionate fling of the hand towards the portrait astonished young Carteret not a little. Others were surprised also; and not one present but stared at the speaker. But she said no more. The pea-green turban and flaxen curls were nodding ominously; and that was all.
The animus to Val Elster was very marked. Lord Hartledon glanced at his brother with a smile, and led the way back to the other drawing-room. At that moment the butler announced dinner; the party filed across the hall to the fine old dining-room, and began finding their seats.
“I shall sit there, Val. You can take a chair at the side.”
Val did look surprised at this. He was about to take the foot of his brother’s table, as usual; and there was the pea-green turban standing over him, waiting to usurp it. It would have been quite beyond Val Elster, in his sensitiveness, to tell her she should not have it; but he did feel annoyed. He was sweet-tempered, however. Moreover, he was a gentleman, and only waited to make one remark.
“I fear you will not like this place, ma’am. Won’t it look odd to see a lady at the bottom of the table?”
“I have promised my dear nephew to act as mistress, and to see after his guests; and I don’t choose to sit at the side under those circumstances.” But she had looked at Lord Hartledon, and hesitated before she spoke. Perhaps she thought his lordship would resign the head of the table to her, and take the foot himself. If so, she was mistaken.
“You will be more comfortable at the side, Lady Kirton,” cried Lord Hartledon, when he discovered what the bustle was about.
“Not at all, Hartledon; not at all.”
“But I like my brother to face me, ma’am. It is his accustomed place.”
Remonstrance was useless. The dowager nodded her pea-green turban, and firmly seated herself. Val Elster dexterously found a seat next Lady Maude; and a gay gleam of triumph shot out of his deep-blue eyes as he glanced at the dowager. It was not the seat she would have wished him to take; but to interfere again might have imperilled her own place. Maude laughed. She did not care for Val — rather despised him in her heart; but he was the most attractive man present, and she liked admiration.
Another link in the chain! For how many, many days and years, dating from that evening, did that awful old woman take a seat, at intervals, at Lord Hartledon’s table, and assume it as a right!
CHAPTER V.
JEALOUSY.
The rain poured down on the Monday morning; and Lord Hartledon stood at the window of the countess-dowager’s sitting-room — one she had unceremoniously adopted for her own private use — smoking a cigar, and watching the clouds. Any cigar but his would have been consigned to the other side the door. Mr. Elster had only shown (by mere accident) the end of his cigar-case, and the dowager immediately demanded what he meant by displaying that article in the presence of ladies. A few minutes afterwards Lord Hartledon entered, smoking, and was allowed to enjoy his cigar with impunity. Good-tempered Val’s delicate lips broke into a silent smile as he marked the contrast.
