Читать книгу Branded, or, The Daughters of a Convict - Gerald Biss - Страница 5

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The London season had almost run its little course, and despite the prolonged Session dances were becoming belated. Society had laughed its laughs, dined its friends, done its Ascot, and danced the edge off the small hours to the despite of its beauty sleep; and the artificial life of the town, with its utter disregard of nature and its general topsy-turveydom of things, was beginning to pall and to cloy even the most hardened patrons. Business in the marriage mart was growing slack. Matches had been made, bargains struck, and announced to the world, or else they had not come off, to the disgust of dowagers and their daughters.

To ring down the curtain the Countess of Teviotdale was giving a small dance at her house in Park Lane, and amongst the girls who were not a little excited at the prospect were Phyllis and Doris Chichele. They were the twin nieces of Mrs. Chichele, a popular and wealthy widow, on the borderland of fifty, and reputed to be heiresses in a small way.

Moreover, it was their first season, and they had enjoyed it to the full. But, although they were both very attractive girls, so far neither had received an offer of marriage which was either worth considering seriously or had appealed to that unfashionable organ, the heart. But both were building on Lady Teviotdale's dance, each hoping from her different point of view that the evening would bring forth her desire.

There was an unusual contrast between the twins, who, beyond a vague general likeness, were totally unlike each other in face or figure; and of the two Phyllis was commonly accepted as the beauty without question.

She was undoubtedly a very lovely girl, with her tall willowy figure and abundance of rich auburn hair. She had a very clear complexion, and a skin that was almost transparent in its fineness of texture, and in her cheeks there was no trace of color. Her eyes were large and blue, perhaps a shade too light in tint, but strikingly surrounded by long dark lashes, and surmounted by arched black brows. Her nose was small and finely cut, but her chin was slightly too square for the oval of her face, though not very noticeable. Her mouth was contradictory, inclined at times to suggest sensuality, whilst at others it contracted to a thin line of determination. She had, however, a way of smiling which showed the full beauty of her teeth and her mouth at its best.

Doris shared only two points with her—the beautiful teeth and the color of the hair; but hers was considerably darker and less conspicuous. In figure she was petite and plump, and her nose and mouth were not as regular as the canons of beauty demanded. The former ended rather too abruptly, suggesting a snub, but the nostrils were small and sensitive. The latter was inclined to be large and full-lipped, but it was always smiling, and her eyes were full of fun. They were large and black, merry or passionate according to her mood, and they alone took her face out of the commonplace. And more characteristic still were the liberal freckles, which gave her a distinction and lovableness of her own. Altogether there was a quaint irregularity about her face which was very charming in its unexpectedness; but in the eyes of the majority she had to play second fiddle to Phyllis.

Both the young girls were dressed with a smart simplicity, in white, with touches of eau de nil here and there, and Mrs. Chichele eyed them very proudly and affectionately as they entered the drawing-room ready to start.

"You had better make the best of things to-night, children, and have your full fling," she said, smiling, "as there will be no more dances or new dresses for some time to come. I'm going to take you off to the country in a day or two. I think I've been patient to stand so much racketing about this season. Now I'm going to strike!"

"Dear old Aunty," said Doris, kissing her affectionately. "You know you won't. You'll do just as you are told, and take us just where we want to go."

"Don't be too sure, dear," replied Mrs. Chichele, as she returned her kiss.

"I hope Lord Shelford will be there," she said.

An anxious look flitted across Phyllis' face.

"I don't suppose he will," said Doris. "It's only a 'boy and girl' affair, and he must be nearly fifty."

"Lord Shelford," answered Phyllis, sharply, "is only just over forty, and he is quite a young man in all his ways."

"In his vices, you mean, my dear," put in Mrs. Chichele, with some asperity. "You know I have always told you that I don't care about you girls seeing much of him."

"You must be polite," argued Phyllis, sophistically, "and he always pays me such a lot of attention."

A cloud crossed her aunt's brow.

"You are both too young at present to think of such things," she said, abruptly, as though closing the subject, "and you have got to learn this, Phyllis, that Lord Shelford has not the reputation of being a marrying man, and that, even then, to marry some marquises is dear at any price." And with this little homily she preceded them to the carriage.

However, neither of the twins was doomed to disappointment when they arrived at Lady Teviotdale's, as they found plenty of partners awaiting their arrival, including one or two their hearts were specially set on.

"Come, Sir Lionel," said Phyllis, laughing, to a tall, handsome boy with a slight, dark moustache, "you mustn't be greedy and take all my cards to yourself. Besides, I should get terribly bored if I had to see too much of you."

"Would you?" he asked, in a serious undertone, looking full into her face with a passionate glance.

She shrugged her shoulders with a dainty gesture, not pretending to take him seriously.

"There you are, after all, Lord Shelford," she went on, to an older man, assuming surprise as he approached her. "I thought you had gone to Goodwood."

"No, sweet lady," he replied, with rather a drawl, eyeing her up and down through his single glass, "the thought of seeing you once more was too much for me, so I decided, much against my principles, to get up early to-morrow morning instead, and go down by the morning train, which will land me in time for the first race."

"How nice and unselfish of you," said Phyllis, half seriously, half banteringly, as she gave him her card. "I will give you an extra dance as a reward."

He smiled indulgently at her under his heavy moustache, raising his eyebrows with a characteristic movement as he scanned her programme, scratching in an 'S' here and there.

He was an undeniably handsome man for his age, or rather, the remnants of a good-looking young man, who had lived his forty-seven years hard. His hair was grizzled, but cut short, and parted in the middle. His moustache was as black as ever it had been, and it was as much as his valet's life would have been worth to allow any suspicion of a grey hair to show. His eyebrows, too, were black and heavy above his keen black eyes, and his aquiline nose well preserved. His bearing was military, and he carried himself very erect, making the most of his bare six feet. His dress was irreproachable, and he always prided himself subconsciously on living up to the nickname of "Dandy Shelford of the Guards."

"Your little Doris does not like me," he said, as, late in the evening, he led her away to a corner of the conservatory.

"She's such a child," rejoined Phyllis, deprecatingly.

"You are twins, I believe?" he said, with a smile.

"Oh, but actual age is not everything," the girl argued, with an answering smile.

"So I like to make myself believe," said the Marquis, lightly. "You do not think me very old, do you, Miss Chichele?" he continued, leaning forward, and looking into her face.

Her head swam for a second. She felt that her ambition was going to be realised, that she was going to be a marchioness.

Then with a great effort she recovered herself, and looked up at him with a gay smile.

"Oh! Lord Shelford!" she exclaimed, as though surprised at the question. "Indeed, no! I always looked upon you as only a very few years older than I am—and I hate boys fresh from school or the 'Varsity."

Lord Shelford drew back a little, smiling inscrutably. She had given herself away, and he had found out what he had wanted to know.

"Even young Lionel Erskine?" he went on, coolly.

"Poof! Sir Lionel!" said the girl, with a dainty shrug of her white shoulders, "he is quite a child."

"He came of age last week," rejoined the Marquis, laughing, "and he thinks himself very grown up."

At that moment, to Phyllis' disgust, the young baronet under discussion appeared in person to claim the next dance.

"How annoying!" she exclaimed to herself, as Lord Shelford yielded place to the younger man.

"I will leave you to tell Sir Lionel what we have just been discussing," he said, mischievously, as he strolled away with a rather careless bow.

"What have you been saying?" asked the other man, eagerly, not noticing her ill-concealed annoyance.

"Oh, nothing of any importance, only discussing ages," she answered, rather shortly.

Then she recovered herself with an effort, and smiled on him, showing her teeth.

"Rather a delicate subject with old 'Dandy' Shelford, I should think," he laughed.

"I don't think he's very old," said Phyllis, decidedly, "and it's better than being too young, you know. Let's go and dance."

"No; one minute, please," said Lionel, eagerly. "Do you mind if we sit it out?"

Phyllis assented rather dubiously, but she felt that she could play Lionel Erskine without danger, even if she had failed to fathom the older man.

"Do you think I'm too young?" he went on, pursuing the subject.

"Too young for what?" parried Phyllis, playing a question off with a question.

"To marry," he answered, bluntly. Then he gave rein to his passion. "To marry you, Phyllis, the woman I adore. Since I met you I've had eyes for no one else, thoughts for nothing else, and it's eating my whole heart out. I know I'm young, but that's a fault on the right side, isn't it? We can go through life together hand in hand, starting level. Besides, I'm of age. I waited till then. And if you'll only marry me I'll be so good to you."

The very rush of words from Lionel, usually self-contained, and rather reserved, almost carried the girl off her feet, and for a moment held her speechless.

Meanwhile, she was summing up the situation, and calculating the chances. Lionel was a baronet with a very fair income and a nice place in Hertfordshire, so he was not to be despised, especially as he was entirely his own master. But, of course, he was not to be compared with the Marquis of Shelford, with his forty thousand a year and great historic castle in the Midlands. Moreover, Lionel in some of his ways was rather too reserved and old-fashioned, and bored her at times. Still, she must not lose him altogether, and it would certainly do no harm to temporise.

"Hush, Sir Lionel," she said softly, yet with a touch of imperiousness, "hush, please; you bewilder me. I had no idea; it comes as such a surprise to me. I always looked on you as a friend—as too young to think of marriage."

"But," he broke in, eagerly, "not too young to love? Oh, Phyllis, you don't know how much it means to me. Don't you—won't you—can't you love me?"

"I don't know," answered the girl, with deliberate slowness. "I'm not sure of myself. That's the truth, Lionel," (she let the name without the prefix slip out as though unconsciously), "and I'm bewildered. I must have time to think. Give me time; give me a few days."

"Yes, dear, of course," said the man, tenderly, "of course, as long as you like. I have been too abrupt, but may I hope?"

She flashed an enigmatic look at him from her bright eyes.

"Take me back to my aunt, please," she said, softly, slipping her hand into his arm.

But she was doomed to disappointment, as the Marquis of Shelford, though very charming and attentive, did not again get on dangerous ground.

"Lionel spoilt it," she thought, rather vindictively, as she laughed and joked with her elderly admirer, trying to outdo him in lack of seriousness.

Suddenly she looked up and caught the eye of Caton Bramber, the famous K.C., focussed upon her, and for an instant she felt uncomfortable. Somehow, she never felt at her ease with him, and of late she had caught him staring at her several times.

"I wonder if he's worth marrying?" she thought, instinctively. "But I should always feel afraid of him."

"Who is it that that girl reminds me of?" the big lawyer muttered to himself, as he dropped his eyes.

Meanwhile, Doris was fully occupied with partners, but in looking back upon Lady Teviotdale's dance one event eclipsed all others, and left the rest of the evening a delicious blank.

Girls, despite the psychology of story-books and the tenets of twenty years ago, are not too illogically modest not to have desires of their own or to set their hearts upon an undeclared suitor, and all through the season Doris had been gradually weeding out the men she met until only one was left in the place of pride in her heart.

This was Ralph Shopwyke, and in the world's eyes he was not a great catch. Therein, however, Doris differed, and her heart held only one desire to the exclusion of everything else. He, too, was little more than a big over-grown schoolboy, a year senior to Lionel at Oxford, but to the little girl his immense frame dwarfed all considerations of age and income. For though he was well enough off as a bachelor on two or three thousand a year, with his old manor-house in Sussex, which had come down to him in unbroken sequence from Norman times, it was but a drop in the London whirlpool, too inconsiderable to engage the consideration of the more important match-maker.

Moreover, he was not accounted particularly good-looking, erring on the big side with his six foot four and his forty-eight inch chest. But he was finely made, and his frank, clean-shaven face, with its big, obstinate chin, and good-natured blue eyes, was distinctly pleasing in effect. His fair hair curled just enough to be pleasant, and Doris herself certainly saw very little, if anything, to find fault with. Above all, he had a big, protecting, masterful manner, which was as reassuring at times as it was disconcerting at others.

Ralph was not a society man, nor was he particularly fond of the society of women in general. In fact, he was a man's man, and liked men as much as they liked him. But, somehow, through that inexplicable kink called love, in Doris he seemed to find something different to all other women, and whereas with most of her sex he was tongue-tied and felt foolish, to her he could rattle away breezily on all manner of subjects of mutual interest. But as the season waned, and he began to become more definitely self-conscious of his real feelings towards her, he found conversation growing proportionately more difficult, and it needed a woman's tact to help him out and to keep him from any appearance of awkwardness.

Yet, while acknowledging himself hopelessly in love, he could not bring himself to speak, partially from a fear of refusal, which in his saner moments he felt was ungrounded, and partially because he did not consider himself a good enough catch for a girl who was not only charming, but also reputed to be well dowered. This he had had rubbed into him by a certain celebrated countess two years before, when, in a passionate fit of calf love, he had, with the arrogance of youth, offered himself to her daughter, destined for a duke.

However, in view of the approaching parting, which was inevitable with the decline of the season, he had nerved himself to take the plunge, which afterwards seems so simple, whereas beforehand it appears so stupendous.

"I ought to be at home to-night," he said, approaching his object deviously. "I've got my usual bachelor party for Goodwood, but I wired to say I'd be down to-morrow."

"That was very rude," said Doris, severely, with a violent but pleasant throb inside; "why aren't you there?"

"It's because of—of you," he went on, haltingly, "and they are all old pals."

"I don't like people to be rude," she said, whimsically, sure of her ground, and mercilessly ignoring any personal responsibility.

"Oh, hang it!" floundered the big man, wretchedly; "can't you understand?"

And she did.