Chapter X: Marion Is Raised to Distinction

Sir Wilford, clad in the latest fashion in checks, a rough and fleecy raiment which his father would have deemed better suited to clothe his gamekeeper or groom than himself, and mounted on Bull of Bashan, is a sight to behold this winter afternoon as he trots gaily down the wide avenue at the How, and emerges therefrom on a bold and open country. The Bull is a little fresh this afternoon, which, being interpreted, means that the grooms have been too lazy to take the superfluous energy out of that amiable animal for the last two days, whereby the Bull behaves like a quadruped newly introduced to a strange country, where all sights and sounds, colours and shapes of objects, lights and shadows, are new to him. He shies ferociously at every trunk in the long line of elms, and indulges in a serpentine movement for the length of the avenue. He takes objection to the colour of the gravel where the road has been mended; and on suddenly beholding the white gate, which he ought to know as well as his own manger, recoils on his haunches, and curls himself up into a ball, and in this shape canters furiously into the road, startling the lazy waggoner asleep upon his wain, and rousing a flight of rooks from their afternoon repose by the clatter of his iron shoes. The cawing of the rooks finishes the Bull altogether, and sends him off like a maniac, or demoniacally possessed animal; but Sir Wilford having now got him into the open country is able to ‘take it out of him’ over a fine stretch of moorland, and brings him back to the high road a couple of miles further off, a subdued and subjugated beast, willing to settle into a comfortable trot, which, with an occasional interval of walking, carries Sir Wilford into Redcastle by afternoon tea-time, that pleasant hour betwixt day and night, when labour rests, or should rest, from its cares, and the household music of the kettle singing on the hob speaks peace to the soul of the weary.

Mr. Trenchard is taking afternoon tea with his two nieces, Sibyl and Marion, in the firelit drawing-room at Lancaster Lodge, a room which, like most other rooms, looks its best by that uncertain light, now gorgeous in the glow of crimson and gold, anon wrapped in shadow. Marion has been invited to spend the day; the two girls have employed the short winter afternoon in a review of Sibyl’s last new dresses, an inspection which has not been conducive to the younger sister’s peace of mind or good temper.

At the announcement of Sir Wilford Cardonnel however, Marion brightens a little, and is glad.

‘How lucky he should have called to-day!’ she thinks. ‘Sibyl is too mean to ask me here on purpose to see him, and now he must be introduced to me and I can talk about knowing him as well as Sibyl. What will Maria Harrison say, I wonder, when I tell her that I am quite intimate with Sir Wilford Cardonnel?’

Marion little knows the mighty honour which fate has reserved for her--little dreams that by the happy accident of her presence at Lancaster Lodge this afternoon she is to be raised to a giddy height of grandeur, from which she will hardly be able to glance downwards without vertigo.

Sir Wilford is presented to Miss Marion Faunthorpe in due form by Mr. Trenchard, and the conversation becomes at once general and sprightly, glancing upon such original topics as the probability of a hard frost before long, the advantage of the present weather from a sporting point of view, the health and well-being of the baronet’s stud, the superlative virtues and capabilities of his latest equine purchase, the probability of a day’s good racing at Tilberry.

‘You ought to see Tilberry steeplechase,’ says Sir Wilford. ‘Tilberry Common’s only three miles from the How, you know, and it’s an uncommonly good day’s sport, gentlemen jocks, and that kind of thing. I’ve ridden there myself, but I didn’t enter anything this year. You ought really, you know, Miss Faunthorpe; in point of fact, I came over here this afternoon on purpose to ask you and Mr. Trenchard to come and stay with us next week. My sister gave me a letter for you. She’s dreadfully anxious for you to come, and I think the change of air would do Mr. Trenchard good. We stand a good bit higher than you do, you know, and get a sniff off the moors,--remarkably healthy, that kind of thing, I’m told. Do say yes now, Mr. Trenchard,’ he urges, handing Sibyl the letter.

‘I’m afraid my dear uncle’s health won’t permit him to leave home,’ answers Sibyl. ‘He has been quite an invalid lately, you know, Sir Wilford.’

‘All the more reason he should have change of air--brace him up, you know. Capital thing for invalids, moorland air. And if Miss Mary Ann----’

‘Marion,’ interjects that young lady. Not even by Sir Wilford Cardonnel will she submit to be called Mary Ann.

‘If Miss Miriam----’

‘Marion.’

‘I beg your pardon, I’m shaw. If Miss Marion will come I shall be delighted, and I’m sure my sister will be quite awfully glad.’

Marion blushes crimson with delight at such an invitation.

‘You’re too kind,’ she gasps. ‘I positively doat upon races.’

‘I shouldn’t have thought your passion for them had had time to reach such a height,’ says Sibyl, sneeringly, ‘since you never were at a race in your life before last year’s summer meeting.’

She is provoked at Marion’s eagerness to accept an invitation, the acceptance of which can only bring embarrassment upon her, Sibyl.

‘That means you’ll come,’ exclaims Sir Wilford, answering Marion, ‘and, of course, if you say yes, Miss Faunthorpe can’t say no. Sisters always think alike--two cherries on one stalk, like Juno’s swans, together and inseparable, you know; and now we only want Mr. Trenchard’s acquiescence.’

‘I should be a churl to refuse so hospitable an invitation, and to deprive these girls of so much pleasure,’ replies Stephen Trenchard.

‘Bravo!’ cries Sir Wilford; ‘then it’s all settled. You’ll come next Saturday?’

‘I don’t think I could be ready by Saturday,’ murmurs Marion, with an awful fear upon the subject of her wardrobe, which will need herculean labours of cutting and contriving, and some expenditure of cash, before it can be fit for the halls of Cardonnel.

‘Pray, dear uncle, do not think of us,’ says Sibyl, ‘I don’t at all care about races, and, much as I appreciate Miss Cardonnel’s kind invitation, I really would rather not accept it, for fear the fatigue and the excitement should be too much for you.’

‘Nasty thing,’ thinks Marion, ‘she refuses just because I’m invited.’

‘Artful puss,’ thinks Stephen, ‘she keeps him on by holding him off.’

‘Don’t be afraid about your uncle, Miss Faunthorpe,’ says Sir Wilford, ‘we shall be awfully careful of him.’

‘I’m not quite so decrepid as my niece thinks me,’ says Mr. Trenchard, ‘and I shall quite enjoy a few days at the How.’

‘That’s glorious,’ cries Sir Wilford. ‘On Saturday, then. You’ll drive over in time for luncheon? Be sure you bring your habit, Miss Faunthorpe. I’ve a chestnut mare that will suit you to perfection. And I can mount you too, Miss Marion, if you like riding?’

‘I positively adore it,’ gushes Marion. ‘Sibyl and I used to take it in turns to ride uncle Robert’s pony when we were little things. I was so sorry when the pony grew too small for us.’

Sir Wilford, having settled this important question, and drunk three cups of tea, chiefly for the pleasure of having his cup and saucer handed him by Sibyl, departs, leaving the elder sister heavy-hearted, the younger in a state of wild excitement, which her natural awe of Stephen Trenchard can hardly subdue.

‘What am I to do about my things, Sibyl?’ she whispers, as the two girls sit side by side on a sofa by the fire.

‘What things?’

‘My dresses, jackets, gloves, hats, boots, everything. I’ve hardly a rag that’s fit to wear at the How.’

‘Then you oughtn’t to have accepted the invitation. You might have seen that you were only asked because you happened to be here, and Sir Wilford could not very well leave you out.’

‘How unkind of you to say that!’

‘It’s preposterous to accept an invitation when you have no clothes fit to be worn at the house you’re asked to visit. You ought to have refused.’

‘Ought I? That’s very nice and sisterly of you, I’m sure. Very much like twin cherries and Juno’s fiddlesticks. Just the only chance I ever had of enjoying myself and seeing life,--going into society, in fact, and a chance that would give me quite a new position in Redcastle, bring those horrid Stormonts and that disgusting Mrs. Groshen to their senses; and you expect me to refuse it. It’s positively unnatural of you, Sibyl.’ And Marion relieves her bursting heart with a gush of tears.

‘Why, what’s the matter, girl?’ cries Stephen Trenchard, starting from that placid slumber into which the fire-glow and the subdued murmur of the girls’ voices have beguiled him. ‘You don’t come here to cry, I hope, Marion. If we make you unhappy you’d better stay away.’

Mr. Trenchard is not the kind of man to allow his afternoon repose to be disturbed by a whimpering niece. His young kinsfolk must make themselves agreeable if they hope to retain his favour.

‘It’s all Sibyl’s unkindness,’ says Marion, swallowing her sobs in an unpleasantly convulsive manner. ‘She hasn’t a bit of heart, she never had. When Sir Wilford Cardonnel has invited me and all, she throws my poverty in my face, and says I must refuse the invitation on account of my things.’

‘What does the girl mean by things?’

‘I simply reminded Marion that the invitation gives us very short notice, and that her wardrobe is hardly fit for visiting at the How.’

‘Oh, is that all?’ exclaims Mr. Trenchard. ‘That shan’t stand in your way, Marion. You can get whatever you want for this visit at Carmichael’s, and have it put down to Sibyl’s account.’

‘Oh, uncle, you are too good, too generous,’ gasps Marion, forgetting how often she has inveighed against Mr. Trenchard’s meanness.

‘Don’t make a fuss, please, Marion,’ says Stephen, closing his eyes again.

Sibyl is gloomy. She would do much to prevent this visit, were there any way open to her by which it could be prevented. She feels that to visit at Sir Wilford’s house is a kind of treason against her husband. True that the baronet is not yet her declared admirer, but his admiration is not the less obvious, and the town gossips have already been busy with her name and Sir Wilford’s. How provoking uncle Trenchard is--and Marion too! She hates them both, and preserves a sullen manner towards Marion all the evening, a sullenness which that young lady imputes to jealousy.

‘Perhaps she thinks that Sir Wilford might be fickle enough to admire me a little,’ muses Marion, elated beyond measure by the prospect of her visit, and the idea of getting ‘things’ at Carmichael’s. ‘Of course Sibyl is the beauty, we all know that; but I flatter myself I have a little more animation than she has, and in the long run, fascinating manners are more admired than good looks.’

Fortified thus in her self-esteem Marion departs in the highest spirits, after having made Sibyl promise to go shopping with her next morning.

Sibyl makes her preparations for the visit with a heavy heart. She assists Marion kindly enough now that she has resigned herself to the inevitable. She lends her sister the aid of her counsel, and considerably chastens Marion’s taste in colours and patterns, a taste which inclines to the ‘loud’ and ‘fast,’ large checks, big metal buttons, yachting jackets, and small pork-pie hats. Sibyl takes care that her sister shall be dressed like a lady, which may be done cheaply, and not like a fashion plate, the latter involving lavish expenditure, and often resulting in disappointment. Sibyl selects hues which harmonize with Marion’s hair and complexion, and not the last new colour, which the shopman presses upon her, as if novelty and beauty were convertible terms.

‘I’m afraid you’ll make me an awful dowdy,’ remonstrates Marion, who is inclined to object to the combination of rich brown and soft cream-colour, which Sibyl recommends for a walking costume, and this languid shade of blue, relieved by ruchings, pipings, and flouncings of palest salmon, which Sibyl declares will make a lovely dinner dress.

‘See what Miss Eylett will say to my choice,’ says Sibyl.

‘Oh, of course that old Eylett will side with you. She knows how to flatter a good customer.’

‘Choose for yourself then, Marion, and be happy.’

‘Well, upon my word, I don’t know what to have,’ says Marion, surveying the counter, and biting the tip of her gloved forefinger to assist cogitation. ‘There’s that lovely peach. I should like of all things, and that heavenly maize. Think of it trimmed with black lace.’

‘Charming for a brunette, but odious for a blonde And to trim it properly you would want at least fifty pounds’ worth of lace.’

‘That apple-green brocade, then, with the lovely rosebuds.’

‘Admirable for a dowager, but quite unsuited to you.’

‘I wonder if uncle Trenchard would mind my having a ruby velvet? I have always fancied a ruby velvet.’

‘With a diamond tiara, of course. Most appropriate for a country surgeon’s niece, especially when he’s the parish doctor.’

‘Well, I suppose you’d better choose. I’ll have the blue and salmon, but it’s a horrid thin silk.’

‘Quite good enough for an evening dress, which will be done for when its freshness is gone.’

So Marion finally accepts Sibyl’s superior judgment. Her purchases include a pretty gray merino for mornings and walking, a rich brown silk, the pale blue dinner dress, and a handsome black cloth jacket, garments which are judiciously bought for something less than thirty pounds. With these materials the two girls drive straight to Miss Eylett, who, with much persuasion from Sibyl, is induced to promise the three dresses for Saturday morning.

‘And now all you have to do is to get Hester to wash and iron your white muslins,’ says Sibyl, ‘so that you may have some simple dresses for the quiet evenings. I’ll lend you a sash or two.’

‘Upon my word, Sib, you’re quite a darling. What made you so disagreeable last night?’

‘I don’t want to go to the How, and I was vexed with you and uncle Trenchard for snapping at the invitation.’

‘Don’t want to go to the How!’ cries Marion, with as much astonishment as if Sibyl had said she didn’t wish to go to heaven. ‘Don’t want to go to the How, when it’s the grandest chance you ever had in your life, and people are beginning to say that you can be Lady Cardonnel if you like.’

‘People are idiots and busybodies. I don’t want to be Lady Cardonnel, or Lady anybody else.’

‘Sibyl, don’t be so affected!’ exclaims Marion, disgusted by a repudiation which she believes thoroughly insincere.

Mr. Trenchard’s carriage deposits Marion at the shabby old house beyond the minster, and Jenny comes rushing out into the wintry air--last year’s tartan frock a good deal too short for those obtrusive legs of hers--to kiss Sibyl, to the disgust of the coachman, who looks upon this branch of his employer’s family as a low lot.

‘That’s the worst of living with these here novvo riches,’ he complains to John the footman. ‘They may climb the ladder of fortune theirselves, but they leave their relations a-grovellin’ at the bottom.’

‘What do you mean by novvo riches?’ inquires the simple John.

‘Well, parwennoos, stoopid, if you must ’av the wernackerler.’

Hester and Jenny Faunthorpe have rather a hard time of it for the rest of this important week, Hester at the wash-tub and the ironing-board, Jane engaged in darning stockings and sewing on tapes and buttons, her sister’s wardrobe requiring more small repairs than are consistent with a notion of order and industry in its owner.

‘Well, you have let your things go to seed, Marion,’ remarks Jane. ‘If it hadn’t been for this visit of yours I should think you must have dropped to pieces altogether before long.’

‘You’re an impertinent chit,’ exclaims Marion, frowning over a complicated darn.

‘Well, you might be civil when I’m toiling like a slave for you.’

‘You may help me or leave it alone, just as you please. It’s no pleasure to be under an obligation to you.’

‘As far as inclination goes, I’d much rather leave it alone,’ replies the argumentative Jane, ‘but for the credit of the family I shall do my best to prevent you going into society with your heels coming through your stockings. But I can’t help saying that I think you’d find it better for the health of your stockings to darn them before they come to this;’ and Jenny emphasizes her remark by thrusting her hand through a yawning chasm in the stocking she is operating upon.

‘Keep your opinions to yourself, and don’t make the holes bigger by sticking your enormous hand through them,’ says Marion.

‘This is a grateful world,’ murmurs Jane, resignedly.

Dr. Faunthorpe is pleased at the idea of his younger niece’s pleasure, though the visit to the How will drag a pound or two out of his scantily furnished purse, pounds already engaged for tax or water rate, as the case may be, and the subtraction of which will throw his financial arrangements out of gear for ever so long. But Robert Faunthorpe is one of those good little men whose mission upon this earth seems to be to suffer and be patient, if not to suffer and be strong. Nay, is there not exceeding strength in this quiet patience, this placid endurance of loss and deprivation, this uncomplaining surrender of all that the selfish live for? Humboldt wisely says that if every man is said to have his own destiny in his hands, that saying must be read to mean, not that he has the power to alter fate, but rather the power to make the best of bad fortune, and by his gentle acceptance of ill to transmute evil into good. Deprivations, small acts of self-abnegation which would have hurt another man, gave Dr. Faunthorpe a pleasant feeling, a genial sense of warmth and comfort in the region of the heart, which had the effect of whisky toddy or any other comfortable stimulant.