CHAPTER IX.
"I'D LIKE TO HAVE THINGS ON A SOUNDER BASIS."
In coquetry as in other matters, the old saying about the natural and the acquired taste holds good. Leonore, having once tasted blood, was not to be kept from it; exasperation and despair were thrown to the winds in the triumph of her first victory, and the ease with which she had brought Valentine Purcell to book turned her head. Its consequence was immediate.
"That's the jolliest little widow I have seen for ages," pronounced Mr. George Augustus Butts, after seeing the Boldero ladies to their carriage at the close of a prolonged call at his uncle's house. "It's all right, Aunt Laura. If she's on, I am. Mrs. Stubbs may become Mrs. Butts—why the very names seem to melt into each other, ha—ha—ha!"
"Really, George!" But George's aunt, who was very little older than himself, laughed sympathetically. It was she who had summoned him to the spot; she who had instructed him in the why and wherefore of the visit; and had the two been alone, she would not even have exclaimed, "Really, George!"
But Lady Butts had a daughter, and Gwendoline was listening with the curious ears of thirteen.
"Gwenny will think you mean that," continued her ladyship, with a warning intonation. "She takes your little jokes au serieux, you know."
"Jokes?" But he perceived his mentor was in earnest, and mentally confounded Gwenny for a nuisance. What business had that long-legged, staring, pigtailed brat in her mother's drawing-room?
She had as a fact been brought in to make a third to match the three visitors; but having fulfilled her end, and escorted Sybil Boldero in one direction while Leonore was piloted by her cousin in another, round the gardens—(Sue and her hostess meanwhile sitting in state within)—Gwen's mission was over, and the point was to get rid of her.
It is not so easy, however, to get rid of a spoilt child. Gwen admired George Butts very much indeed. She hung about him whenever he came to the house, believed in him whenever he spoke, and had secret ideas of marrying him as soon as she should be grown up. She was now bursting with jealousy and curiosity, and meant to hold her ground by hook or by crook.
"Hadn't you ever met Leonore before, Cousin George?"
The elders exchanged glances.
"No," said Cousin George, bluntly. (Damn it all, was he to be cross-questioned next?)
"You seemed to like her. How you and she did talk! And you got away from us altogether," proceeded Gwenny, stabbing her own wound as a greenhorn will. "I suppose you think her very pretty?"
"If I do, do you think I should tell you, Tailywags?" He tossed the thick plait of her hair up and down in returning good-humour. After all, he might as well hear if she had anything amusing to say.
"I believe it is only because she wears black," continued Gwenny, watching to see how this was taken. "Black, with a little white stuff about the throat, is so becoming, and Leo doesn't look a bit like a widow now."
"So you noticed that, you observant imp? I say, Aunt Laura, when did this young person of yours become such a prodigy? Perhaps she will tell me what the—the lady under discussion does look like, eh?"—lighting a cigarette,—for free and easy manners prevailed in the Butt mansion, and every one did as they chose there.
"Just like any other girl," responded Gwen, readily. "And—and I don't think she ought, either."
"Oh, just like any other girl. And, pray, why don't you think she ought?"
"Because she's not; she's a married woman. She was married ever so long ago, when I was little."
"Of course you're awfully big now. And so Mrs. Stubbs—Heavens, what a name!—even though she has lost her husband, is to go on for ever being 'a married woman' in your eyes, is she?"
But here Gwen's mother interposed, having had enough, and burning for more confidential intercourse.
"Of course Gwenny is right, George. But—but you don't quite understand, darling," to her. "And Cousin George is only teasing. Suppose you run away to Miss Whitmore now, and see what she has been about all this time? She will wonder what has become of you."
"Oh, she won't, she's writing letters. She always writes letters when you send for me, and she had–"
"Tell her, love, that the post goes out at–"
"She knows when the post goes out. She knows better than any one else in the house, for she has told me lots of times."
"Go, now, Gwenny. Go, my dear, when I tell you."
"You'll have a handful to deal with when that young lady comes out," observed George, bringing his eyes back from the door as it slowly closed upon the reluctant figure. "Gwen's too clever by half for you, Aunt Laura; and, I say, we must both keep our eyes skinned if we are to carry through this affair. She's half suspicious as it is."
"It was your own fault, George. How could you be so foolish as to blurt out what you did before her?"
"Good Lord, I never gave her a thought. However, I'll be more careful in future. Well, now, now she's gone, what do you say? How did it go off? How did I do? Do you think—eh?"
"I did not exaggerate, did I, George?"
"Exaggerate? You did not come up to the mark. She's a ripper. And I suppose the tin's all right? There's no mistake about that? Because—well, I needn't tell you how things are with me."
"I know—of course. And of course I'd never have asked you to come and meet Leonore Stubbs unless I knew she had been left well off."
"'Well off,' only? I thought you said–"
"Very well off, then. All the neighbourhood rang with the Bolderos' big marriage, and it was big in no other sense. The poor little thing was barely grown up and had been nowhere and seen nobody,—and when the husband died she was received back at the Abbey with open arms."
"It's a wonder she hasn't been snapped up before."
"The Bolderos have taken care of that. They have immured her like a nun. This is positively the first call she has made here."
"She's awfully pretty." He sighed contentedly.
"And she seemed to get on with you?"
"Famously. Flirty little thing."
"Of course there will be others after her, George. You must lose no time."
"I haven't time to lose, my good aunt. Poor devils in Stock Exchange offices can't call their souls their own. I must get back next week. Luckily I only had a week in August, or I should not have been here now."
"You poor, ill-used individual! Do you mean that you must actually and positively return to your slavery at the risk of losing what would emancipate you from it forever? It can't be, George. It simply must not be. Your uncle must make up some excuse–"
"My uncle Thomas is a great man on his native heath, no doubt, Aunt Laura—but he hardly carries the same weight on the Stock Exchange. No, I must go when the day comes. When Duty calls Love must obey. And it's no use casting away the substance for the shadow. And—and I could think of a dozen other wise sayings à propos, but it all comes to this, I've got eight days clear—I'm wound up now like an eight-day clock—and can make my running steadily till these are out. Then, if–"
"You could come down again?"
"If it were worth it, yes."
He smoked thoughtfully and proceeded. "It does seem a chance, and I'm awfully grateful to you and all that for providing it. But supposing the widow is not to be caught, and who's to tell? She knows her own value, you bet—I should be up a tree if I had had a row with the Koellners. I don't want to fall between two stools, you know."
It ended in this, that he was to present himself at Boldero Abbey on the following day, armed with an excuse; and that, as things developed, further counsel as to further progression should be taken.
It was left to Sir Thomas to cast a damper over their hopes. He was not told about them, but he would have been a simpleton indeed if he had not seen for himself—neither his wife nor nephew being wary conspirators,—and directly he was alone with the former, he spoke out with conjugal frankness.
"You think yourself mighty clever? Look out. You have old Boldero to deal with."
"But, my dear, Leonore is quite independent of her father."
"A child like that is never independent. The more money she has, the sharper he will look after it."
"If she chooses to marry again–"
"Now look here, Laura, if Godfrey Stubbs' widow chooses to marry again, she may marry anybody. Anybody, d'ye take me? Is it likely she'd take George? Who's George? What's George? An eighth son, and nothing at that. Not even clever or good-looking."
"Oh, he is good-looking."
"Hanged if he is. Anyhow he's not a half nor a quarter as good-looking as Valentine Purcell. And what's more, though he is my nephew, he is not so much of a gentleman as poor Val is."
Lady Butts, however, stood to her guns.
"What girl in her senses would marry that creature?"
"Creature? Humph! Val isn't over sensible, and he has no backing,—but in his own way he's quite a nice fellow, and has a wonderful appearance when he's dressed. I don't want to see any one look better than Val Purcell turned out for a meet."
"He's just a big boy, and no one thinks of him as anything else."
"One person does—or at any rate, pretends she does. You may take your oath old granny yonder has an eye on your pretty widow; and the Purcells are too close to the Bolderos not to have a dozen opportunities of meeting, for one that you and your precious George have. I wouldn't mind laying odds upon the rival candidate."
Of this conversation we may be sure no echo ever reached other ears, and indeed Lady Butts soon forgot its tenor herself, in her exuberation over George's report of his next step. He returned from the Abbey treading on air. Even the general had been civil—though it transpired at the last moment that the young man had been mistaken for his eldest brother—"but he couldn't go back on me then," chuckled the narrator, "though I'm bound to say he looked a bit blank. He doesn't yet know there are eight of us, and Heaven forfend his looking us up in Debrett!"
"Did you get any invitation?"
"Rather. To luncheon to-morrow. Beastly things, luncheons,—but I couldn't cadge for anything else. What I did was to say I should be walking past, and ask if I could do anything for anybody in the town?"
"My dear George! You don't propose walking all the way to–"
"Of course I don't; but I propose being prevented by the superior attractions of Boldero Abbey."
"Oh, I see." She laughed and considered. There were many things she wanted to ask, but to ask was to suggest, and suggestions were horribly dangerous.
For instance, about the Purcells? Sir Thomas had made her uneasy by his praise of Val Purcell's looks, praise which her own heart endorsed—and George, whose knowledge of the world was extensive, had all along been slow to believe in his own chances of success. He knew what it meant in London to be an eighth son. It was only her repeated assurances of the Boldero's problematic ignorance on this head and her encouragement on every other, which had brought him up to the scratch at all. Thus hints which might have spurred on another man, would quite possibly daunt one alive to his disadvantages and inclined to magnify them. She reverted to Leonore, and he was willing to talk about Leonore to any extent.
But on thinking it over afterwards, she could not see that he had in reality very much to say. The little widow had looked as charming as before, but she had not been so talkative. He thought she was shy before her family; once only, when out of their sight for a few minutes, she had brisked up and chattered as at their first meeting; and she certainly did look pleased when on saying "Good-bye," he had added, "till morrow"; but otherwise—the fact was there had been no opportunity for anything else.
The luncheon party however proved more productive. Let us see how this came about.
"I really can't see what that man is coming for again to-day," observed Leonore, plaintively, the next morning. "People at luncheon are a bother, I think."
"You're not often bothered by them," drily returned Maud; "it is months and months since such a thing happened. If we lived in a more habitable neighbourhood we should think nothing of it."
"Glad we don't then;" Leo pouted like a sullen child. "It means changing one's frock, and–"
"There's no need of that—for you. You are all right. One black thing is the same as another."
This was what Leo wanted to find out. She had a pretty new coat and skirt, eminently satisfactory to herself, but about which there had been some demur when it first arrived. It was devoid of crape, and had a neat, coquettish air. Sue thought it hardly decent.
"But what am I to do?" queried her sister. "I did so want something to wear in wet weather. Even when it is only damp and misty—and you know it nearly always is damp and misty about here in the autumn—crape gets limp and wretched looking. However, I'll send this back if you wish, Sue?"
Upon which Sue had relented—as Leo knew she would. "Of course if you keep it for walking about in the woods, and do not go where you are seen, there might be no harm. Or perhaps it might be trimmed–"
"No, no; it could not be trimmed," said Leo, hastily. Trimmed? Disgusting! The very thought of a plain tailor-made coat which was so simple and workmanlike, yet so unspeakably chic in its simplicity, being mauled by a village dress-maker was terrible.
"I must either wear it as it is, or not at all," she exclaimed with decision; "but I would not wear it to vex you, dear," and the sharpness softened; "only I can't afford to buy another," murmured Leo,—and of course she was allowed to wear it.
Accordingly just as the door bell rang, down stepped a very smart little figure indeed, yet wearing a demure, unconscious air that would have deceived a Solon.
"Why, Leo! My dear!"
"Men never know," said Leo, calmly, "and that other old rag wasn't fit to be seen. It's torn at the back, and I gave it Bessie to mend."
"But, dear, you promised,—and supposing Lady Butts–"
"She's not there. I looked from my window."
"I understood this was to be kept for out-of-doors," murmured Sue, uneasily, "and somehow, Leo, you look altogether,"—but the door opened, and no more could be said.
Feeling that she had got off cheap on the whole, Leo did nothing further to merit reprobation, and beyond placing herself well within Mr. George Butts' line of vision, took no pains to attract his notice.
But she was aware that he felt her, that more than once a general observation was designed chiefly if not entirely for her, and that she had but to open her lips for him to be silent. Girls always know when this is the case.
And scarcely had the party risen from the table, and the sisters retired, ere an astonishing thing happened.
We all know there are days of happenings; days charged with vitality and eventfulness; when nothing surprises and nothing seems out of the way,—it seemed quite a commonplace occurrence on the present occasion, when a motor car, full to the brim, whirled to the Abbey door.
At another time such a sight would have sent a thrill of excitement through the whole house; as it was, Sue moved quietly forward to greet a bevy of ladies, and Leo inwardly blessed her coat and skirt.
"We are on tour, and ought to have been here an hour ago, my dear people," cried a gay voice, belonging to General Boldero's only sister, who though several years older than he, seemed, and to all intents and purposes was, at least as much younger. She then presented her friends, and continued: "We took a wrong turning, or should have hit off your luncheon hour, Sue; but you will still have pity on our famished state, I'm sure,–" and the speaker put up her glasses, and inspected the circle.
"Only yourselves, I see; and only you girls. Is your father not at home to-day?"
"He is still in the dining-room, but–"
"In the dining-room? How lucky! We are not as late as we thought. Pray, dear Sue, take us there at once. You know I told you I should drop in unbeknownst some day," proceeded the voluble lady, slipping her hand within her niece's arm, and gently urging her towards the door, "so you probably were on the look out? No? Oh, but I said I should come."
"In the summer, Aunt Charlotte."
"Summer? But it is far pleasanter now. No dust, and the inns not half so crowded. Well, William, here we are,"—and the amazed William, who was peacefully sipping his coffee and smoking his cigar, and thinking that after all even an eighth son who was nephew of a rich and powerful neighbour was worth a luncheon and not bad company after it, found himself startled out of his chair by an invasion as unexpected as it was inopportune.
But he was somewhat afraid of his sister, of her fashion and smartness—above all of her sang froid. There was no saying what she might say or do.
Moreover he had a sneaking desire to show off before her. He was really pleased to be found entertaining, if so be he must be found at all. Altogether, after the first shock, he rose to the occasion creditably.
And now there rose on the horizon George Butts' lucky star. He had vacated his place at table in favour of the newcomers, and was hesitating as to whether after all he must not affect to pursue the walk which had been given out as the raison-d'être of his being where he was, when he caught Leonore's eye. Leonore, little minx, had all her wits about her. In five minutes the pair were stealing forth from a side door, and were quickly out of sight of the house.
"I put him on his way," she remarked, subsequently; "you were all so taken up with Aunt Charlotte's people that poor Mr. Butts was utterly neglected, and could not get any one even to say 'Good-bye' to him. So I killed two birds with one stone. Turned him civilly out of doors, and kept myself in my objectionable get-up out of the reach of Aunt Charlotte's scathing tongue. Do you know, I really believe she hardly saw me. I am sure she did not take me in at all."
"She inquired where you had gone, Leo?"
"Did she? The old cat—I beg her pardon. But what business was it of hers where I had gone? Father," continued Leo, reverting to a trick whose value was tried and true, "you looked so dumfoundered, poor father, and were so completely taken possession of by—by an octopus,"—she paused to see how this was taken, and at his smile proceeded,—"that said I to myself: 'You're not wanted here, neither is friend George; you are both de trop: be off with you, and it will clear the field'. That was all right, wasn't it?"
"Hum—I suppose so. I never saw you go."
"The octopus had you fast. She adores her William—when she does not forget all about him."
The general grinned appreciatively. "She certainly does not favour us with much of her company; we're not fine enough for her. It was at your marriage, I believe, she was here last. Sue," turning to her, "wasn't it at Leo's marriage your Aunt Charlotte was here last?"
Sue believed so—gravely. Leo experienced a qualm, despite herself, and threw out a little flag of conciliation.
"What did you say when she asked about me, Sue?"
"What could I say? You ought not to have gone, Leonore."
"And you might have known that for yourself," appended Maud. "You really ought not to need so much looking after. Walking about alone with a young man!"
"I did not—we did not—walk far. I took him through the park to the side gate–"
A general exclamation.
"Do wait," continued Leo, quickly. "At the gate we fell in with Mr. Custance,—" involuntarily her eye rested on Sue, and Sue was silenced on the instant,—"so then I knew we were all right. We headed him off coming here, for which I knew you would be grateful. He would not have assimilated with Aunt Charlotte's lot." She paused for assent, and perceiving the shot told, proceeded with confidence: "So we took the dear rector along with us—we could do nothing else,—and when I came back, they went on together. I thought it was rather masterly, myself."
"Why, aye, Custance would have been a fish out of water," allowed the general, nodding approval; "though to be sure the clergyman of the parish is always a respectable visitor. But what of young Butts? I hope he did not think it rather cavalier being shipped off in that fashion?"
"You see I was quite civil to him, father. I saw him looking at his watch as if in a hurry to be off; so I suggested making his apologies to you; and we were standing near the door, so it made no disturbance; and my hat was in the hall, and I was so glad to get out into the open air—there was no harm in it, was there, Sue?"
No wonder the recipient of so much diplomacy went home radiant. He really—really he,—dashed if he didn't think he had a chance. If he could only work it up—he hummed and hawed and considered. At length: "I'll tell you what, Aunt Laura, it's no use shilly-shallying when there's so little time. If you can bring about one other meeting–"
"I have thought of that, George, and have secured the Merivale girls for golf-croquet on Thursday."
"Bravo! you don't let the grass grow under your feet. Thursday? That's the last day I have here, but I suppose—no, you could not have done anything sooner."
"And I thought you might ride over to-morrow, with my note?"
"I say! That would look a bit pointed, wouldn't it?"
"Perhaps. But since Leonore was so nice to you to-day–"
"Oh, she was. Still–" he hesitated.
"What is it, George?—" a trifle impatiently.
"It's so beastly hard to tell. She's a dear little thing, and if she had been any one else, I should say she was—was–" and he laughed foolishly.
"Épris?"
"Look here, Aunt Laura, I'm not a fool, and it seems almost uncanny, don't you know?"
"Your being in such luck?"
"A girl like that! If she were ugly and poor–"
"There's no accounting for tastes," quoth Lady Butts, gaily. "Mr. Stubbs—Leonore's first husband—was nothing in particular."
"So you think she might take a 'nothing in particular' for her second? But remember she's in a different position now. She has only to lift up her little finger–"
"Apparently she has lifted it," Lady Butts laughed and patted his arm. "Do try and infuse some spirit into your faint heart, George. You have had the most wonderful encouragement–"
"It's just that which frightens me. I—I don't like the look of it. When a prospectus looks too rosy, we shy at it at Koellners. There's a screw loose somewhere."
"But just now you were all up in the air about Leonore?"
He was silent.
"Could she have done more than she did, George?"
"Less would have put things upon a sounder basis." He shook his head gloomily.
"A sounder basis? I don't know what you mean, I don't understand those business phrases," cried his aunt, with very natural vexation; "what in the world has 'a sounder basis' to do with Leonore Stubbs?"
"I'll tell you;" he roused himself, "I go about the world a good deal, and I know girls—a little. I know this, that it isn't usual for them to make the running so freely on their own account when they are—are—in earnest. When they are in search of scalps, it's different."
"Scalps? Oh, I see; I know. But surely Leonore–"
"She went for me—yes; but she was as cool as a cucumber. Do you know, once or twice to-day I felt not exactly nervous, but that way—but she? Not a bit of her. She was all froth and foam,–"
"You are quite poetic, but you don't explain the 'sounder basis'?"
"Hang it all, aunt, I can't think that girl means anything."
"And yet when you came in just now, you told me she was so delightful and responsive."
"I said 'delightful'—I didn't say responsive'. The truth was, it was I who had to be responsive. She made the advances—if they could be called advances. And that isn't what I call having things upon a sound basis."
With which piece of wisdom the two separated, for though Lady Butts told herself that her protégé was simply suffering from reaction, and that the reaction would pass, she felt that no more was to be gained by pursuing the subject at present.
When, however, the Bolderos declined her invitation for Thursday, and were not at home to the bearer of her note—(although George vowed he saw faces peeping from a window, and placed himself within view for a good many minutes thereafter)—her ladyship understood the meaning of the "business phrase," and owned that it had been correctly applied.
She made no further effort, and the whole trivial episode came to an end—but it had had its effect upon Leonore.