the great drawing-room at rodenham was full of candles, powdered heads and waving feathers, gentlemen in purple, red, or blue, dames in gorgeous gowns and swelling hoops. the room had been the prior’s parlor of old, and still retained its slender pillars capped with foliage, its deeply moulded groins, its many vaults, now painted azure and crusted with silver stars. candles were ranged around the walls in sconces between the long, gilded mirrors that made the room look like a magician’s maze. the panelling was painted after the french fashion with cupids, garlands, and festoons of flowers. the furniture was also french, louis quinze; fauteuils, canopies carved and gilt and covered with tapestry; handsome commodes; here a fantastic buhl-table, or a chased and inlaid escritoire. there were two fireplaces in the long and curious room, both with oak logs stacked upon their burnished irons.
richard jeffray was entertaining some of his sussex neighbors under the especial patronage of the lady letitia. the hardacre coach had rolled over the priory bridge before dusk to deposit sir peter, mr. lancelot and the fair jilian at richard’s porch. the perkabys, of rookhurst, were present with their three sleepily handsome daughters, dark odalisques who spoke slowly and looked love. dr. sugg bustled to and fro in his best gown, beaming upon every one, and shaking the powder out of his full-bottomed wig. squire bilson had driven over with his wife and son from marling to take snuff with squire rokeley of marvelscombe, whose harriers were the boast of all the sussex nimrods. some half a score lesser folk completed the assemblage—a lawyer, a few young gentlemen of sporting tastes, mary sugg, dr. sugg’s daughter, and several elderly ladies whose plumes nearly swept the star-dusted ceiling.
richard in black, with white silk stockings and silver buckled shoes, his hair powdered and caught up at the back with a black velvet bow, stood behind his aunt’s chair as the guests came to pay their respects to the venerable dowager. the lady letitia might have stood for the high priestess of fashion with her immense toupé, her gorgeous damasks, her rouge and patches, her diamonds and her portentous fan. it was the lady letitia herself who had devised the “rout,” her nephew having consented in the innocence of his heart. he had never seen the lady letitia campaigning before, and had no notion of the strategies and ambuscades she had planned that night. from the moment that the first guest had been announced by peter gladden, the dowager had taken the function to herself, and ousted her nephew from all premiership or authority.
the elder men had gathered about one of the fires, and were discussing the past hunting season, squire rokeley posing as chief mentor and critic. the ladies were bobbing their plumes, smirking and chattering together, while miss julia perkaby, who had been besought by the lady letitia with much graciousness to seat herself at the harpsichord, thrilled the assemblage with her rich contralto. miss jilian hardacre had established herself on a causeuse by the wall, with mr. richard standing by her, looking aristocratic and even distinguished in his black coat, frilled shirt, knee-breeches and silk stockings.
miss jilian was a plump and comely woman, with masses of auburn hair decked out with artificial flowers and ribbons, a pair of experienced gray eyes, a full bosom and a simpering red mouth. she wore a white gown flowered with violets, a green hoop, white satin slippers, an abundance of lace, and a chain of garnets about her throat. there were three patches upon her face, one above the delightful dimple on her left cheek, one to the right of the round chin, another above her right eyebrow. but for a slight thinness of the neck, the sternomastoid muscles showing too patently, and some faint wrinkles about the eyes, miss jilian contradicted the lady letitia’s insinuations very charmingly.
richard, bending over this delightful morsel of old-world perfume and affectation, was unbosoming himself of delicate inquiries as to her health.
“i hope you have been afflicted with no more headaches,” he was asking with true lover-like solicitude. “sir peter appeared uncommonly distressed about you a week ago.”
miss jilian’s gray eyes searched richard’s face suspiciously for the moment. had that wretch lot told him the truth about that horrible cosmetic? no. the lad was as ingenuous and sincere as any galahad.
“la, richard,” she said, fluttering her ivory fan painted with cupids and peacocks, “it is strange that you should remember the days when i keep my bed.”
“are they not sunless days?” quoth mr. richard, with a fine bow.
“oh, richard, i am sure you are poking fun at me.”
“are you not the sussex sun, jilian?”
“oh, cousin, how can you say such things? la, miss perkaby is singing; we must cease our chatter.”
miss hardacre spread her fan and screened the bold mortal from the glow of her luminous countenance. richard could see a round white chin and a mass of auburn hair.
“i would rather hear you talk, jilian. i cannot think why aunt letitia asked the girl to sing. she has a fine voice, though, but—not half so fine as yours.”
a gray eye peeped demurely over the ivory screen.
“do you think so, cousin?”
“of course i think so, jilian.”
a loud burst of laughter came from the farther end of the room, marring the melody like an ass braying. it was lot’s laugh, a blatant and self-assertive expression of merriment that seemed to stand in need of being passed through some refining sieve. richard glanced at the gay coated gentlemen about the fire, a cordon of purple, red, and blue, and noticed that his cousin’s protuberant blue eyes appeared fixed upon jilian and himself. richard blushed as though all the ladies in the room were studying him. he stood up and drew a little apart from miss jilian as the lady letitia came sailing down upon them like a gorgeous galleon freighted with all the spices of india and the silks of china.
his aunt’s air of extreme amiability towards miss hardacre puzzled jeffray not a little. she darted a look at him, seated herself beside the fair jilian, and desired her nephew to go and talk to mrs. perkaby and her daughters. richard departed in all innocence, leaving these instinctive and inveterate enemies together on the causeuse. they were soon chatting and smiling, sparring and feinting at each other with that admirable and hypocritical amiability that makes men marvel. the dowager’s keen eyes were subjecting miss hardacre’s person and toilet to a minute and insolent examination. she talked effusively the while to that young lady, a malicious innuendo or half-veiled snub in every sentence.
“i hope to take richard to the wells with me,” said the lady letitia, staring steadily in miss hardacre’s face. “my nephew is a generous lad, but very gauche and inexperienced. it is my wish that richard should see what elegant and modish people are like. he is wasted—stifled—you must perceive, miss hardacre, in this quagmire of a county.”
miss jilian’s gray eyes glittered. she was no novice in the fine art of polite insolence, and knew enough of the world to recognize the string that worked the lady letitia’s tongue.
“i wish cousin richard joy of so experienced a school-mistress,” she said, tartly; “he himself has confessed to me, madam, that he does not love the fashionable world.”
aunt letitia tilted her roman nose.
“truth, miss hardacre, i think you misread the lad’s meaning. he referred to country fashions; and who can blame him? la, dear miss perkaby is about to sing again; a divine voice, and such grace and breeding,” and the lady letitia sat in stately silence through the song with a beatific appreciative smirk upon her bedizened face.
“delicious,” she chattered at the end, bowing and beaming at miss julia perkaby; “the lass has such soul. my dear nephew dotes on miss perkaby’s singing, and he is forever humming her songs over to himself. and do you sing, my dear?”
miss hardacre, flushed and angry, answered that she did.
“and richard never told me. what a memory the lad has! upon my soul, miss hardacre, the simpleton informed me that your hair was nut brown, when i can see with my own eyes how much gold there is in it. my poor nephew’s pate is always stuffed full of poetry. i expect that you have found him very absent-minded at times, my dear.”
miss hardacre’s cheeks were covered with a rare bloom, and she looked as though it would have afforded her exquisite pleasure to slap the lady letitia’s face.
“i find cousin richard very intelligent,” she retorted; “he has read some of his poetry to me. i can admire his genius, madam, though i do not pretend to be clever.”
the dowager elevated her eyebrows and nodded.
“indeed!” she said, with a chuckle, “why, the lad must read his poetry to half the girls in the county. mary sugg, i have heard the doctor say, compares his verse to spenser’s. of course, my dear miss hardacre, richard must find a woman of your mature years a most discerning critic.”
“then, madam,” said the younger lady, with a toss of the head, “you must hear a great deal of mr. richard’s poetry?”
“i, my dear? i cannot abide the stuff. the dear lad showed me a little poem he had written on a certain young lady,” and the dowager beamed; “a young lady—well, i must not give away the boy’s secrets. it was all about dark eyes and raven locks, hearts and darts, love and dove. terrible! all boys scribble this species of stuff, my dear. they discover a new goddess every month, and write poems about her cherry lips till a cherrier-lipped wench appears. by-the-way, who is that very over-dressed person—that young farmer fellow with his back to the fire?”
the lady letitia was indicating mr. lancelot with her fan. again miss jilian’s gray eyes glistened; she bit her red lip, and looked at the dowager with extreme disdain.
“that gentleman, madam, is my brother.”
“nonsense, my dear—”
“i assure you, madam, i know my own brother when i see him.”
the lady letitia did not appear in the least disturbed.
“ah, now i recognize a certain family likeness,” she said. “bless me, there is that wicked boy richard making love to miss julia perkaby. hey! is it not amusing to watch these young things coquetting? we women, miss hardacre, who have had our day, can afford to smile at the delightful follies of youth. hem! what, supper-time already? i declare, there is peter gladden ready to announce it to us. i must find you a gentleman, my dear, to give you an arm. the young things will sort themselves as they think fit.”
there appeared to be a conspiracy afoot that night to render jeffray’s hospitality obnoxious in every detail to the hardacre folk. how was it that etiquette was so flagrantly outraged, that mrs. perkaby flaunted into the supper-room before a baronet’s daughter, and that richard found himself shackled to miss julia perkaby by his aunt’s machinations? how was it that sir peter was desired to give his arm to mrs. bilson, a lady who had slandered him outrageously on a certain occasion, and whom the baronet had detested ever since? how was it that mr. lot, whose astonished eyes beheld richard in possession of his own especial flame, miss perkaby, was sent down with miss sugg, poor mary, whose yellow face was as plain as a millstone, and whose conversation consisted of prim and monosyllabic nothings? and how was it that miss jilian was abandoned to dr. sugg, the elderly spinster’s refuge, and plumped down in an obscure corner? never had so ill-assorted and tactless an affair been planned.
there was some wanton spirit whispering malicious suggestions about the board. sir peter gulped down his food, swore in serious silence, while mrs. bilson favored him with an occasional glare over her bony shoulder. mr. lot, surly and morose, watched richard and miss julia perkaby with jealous attention, while mary sugg shivered and twisted her fingers into knots at his elbow. dr. sugg attempted in vain to bring the sparkle of a smile to miss hardacre’s outraged eyes. the lady letitia alone appeared amiable and garrulous and wholly at her ease. for the rest, a sulky and distraught silence possessed the majority of the guests.
the plot developed still further when the gentlemen left their wine to join the ladies in the drawing-room. card-tables with candles, ivory markers, and packs of cards had been set out by peter gladden and the footmen. the lady letitia was astir on the instant, bustling about like some gorgeous bumble-bee, setting every one in order, taking the whole function to herself.
“sir peter would play whist; yes, and mrs. bilson was dying for a game. dr. sugg, will you partner me, please? we will challenge mrs. bilson and sir peter. squire rokeley, and you, mr. perkaby, will you two gentlemen arrange the other tables? no doubt the young folk would like to dance at the other end of the room. mary will play for you on the harpsichord. richard, dear, will you walk a minuet with miss julia perkaby? mrs. perkaby, madam, i remember seeing your sweet daughter dance last season at the wells. all the men were watching her—upon my soul, they were, madam. miss jilian, my dear, will you join the young folk, or take a hand at cards?”
richard, helplessly obedient to his august relative’s commands, walked a minuet with miss julia perkaby, while mr. lot glared at him from a corner, and miss hardacre chatted to young bilson, a spotty youth who was about to take up a commission in the foot guards. miss sugg’s bony fingers tinkled rapidly over the notes, while richard, hot and ill at ease, performed with the black-eyed and stately julia, catching every now and again his cousin lot’s sulky stare and a glimpse of miss jilian’s haughty face. more minuets and country-dances followed. youth tripped it under the painted roof, curls jigged, fans flickered. the evening was well advanced before richard found himself seated once again beside miss jilian on the causeuse by the wall.
he did not find miss hardacre in the most angelic of tempers. in truth, she tilted her chin at mr. richard, played restlessly with her fan, and appeared most relentlessly chilling. jeffray, though he was ignorant of the lady letitia’s treachery, yet felt that the evening had been miserably mismanaged. there stood cousin lot looking as surly and as savage as an unpaid creditor, while fat sir peter glowered over his cards at mrs. bilson’s funereal face. miss hardacre herself appeared clouded by the prevailing sulkiness, though there was an unpleasant glint in her sweet, gray eyes.
“la, richard,” she yawned, “you are not coming to sit by your cousin, surely? how hot the room is! i am sure it must be nearly time for us to go.”
miss hardacre was plying her fan with rapid jerks, and staring contemptuously the while at the dark-eyed miss perkaby, who was smiling at richard across the room.
“i hope you are not tired, jilian?”
“tired! i suppose i look a poor washed-out thing! i have nerves, sir, and a delicate body. it is those heavy women who can foot it till cock-crow. miss perkaby dances well, eh, cousin?”
richard blushed.
“does she?” he asked, helplessly, beginning to suspect what had angered this angel of a woman.
“your dear aunt, sir, hinted that i am getting too old to dance.”
“you—too old—to dance?”
“yes. and did you notice, richard, that i was sent down to supper with dr. sugg? so you read your poetry to mary sugg, cousin, eh? and write verses about miss julia perkaby? heavens, how hot the room is! i wish the butler would announce our coach.”
richard, pitifully bewildered, stared at miss jilian, and felt that the room was certainly overheated.
“i have never read my poems to mary sugg,” he began.
miss jilian’s lip curled.
“she thinks them equal to spenser’s, cousin.”
“what! did she tell you so?”
“oh, dear, no; she is not so innocent.”
richard, very flushed and unhappy, began to suspect the lady letitia of mendacity. mary sugg had never seen his verses. and the dowager had talked for some time to jilian, perhaps poisoning the girl’s mind.
“my dear cousin—” he began.
“won’t you go and talk to miss perkaby, richard? i am such a dull creature. heavens! what is the matter with sir peter, yonder?”
a sudden hubbub had arisen at the lady letitia’s table. the baronet, a look of overheated indignation on his face, had thrown down his cards and was taking snuff with great vigor. the lady letitia was turning over the tricks with a wicked smile in her eyes. parson sugg appeared flushed and uncomfortable, while mrs. bilson sat bolt upright in her chair. the players at the other tables were glancing curiously at one another.
“pardon me, sir peter.”
“pardon you, madam!”
“see. you did revoke. see, sir, you played a club here.”
“damn the club, madam!”
mrs. bilson uttered a little squeak of indignation, tilted her nose, and stared at the baronet with shocked pity.
“it is evident that my partner has made a mistake, lady letitia,” she said, with unpleasant emphasis upon the error.
“such mistakes will occur,” said dr. sugg, mildly.
“i am afraid the wine was rather heavy, sir peter. i told gladden to be chary of the port—”
the baronet flared up at last with righteous and disgusted wrath.
“what, madam! you hint that i am fuddled? i can see the pips as clear as you can.”
“sir peter!”
“i think it is time that we laid down our cards,” said mrs. bilson, rising.
“exactly, madam. i heartily agree with you, madam,” retorted the baronet, savagely, “whist is only fit for old women.”
“oh, sir peter!”
“sir peter!”
“will you be so good as to ring for my coach, richard jeffray? lot, jilian, it is time we were moving. lady letitia, i kiss your hand. gentlemen, good-night.”
jeffray had hurried forward with an expression of pain upon his face. he glanced angrily at the lady letitia, and followed sir peter, who had marched pompously out of the room. the baronet frowned at him and ignored the hand that richard had extended.
“order my coach, lad,” was all he said.
“but, sir peter—”
they had reached the hall, and richard, who had given his orders to peter gladden, turned to appease the angry baronet. sir peter, who had been bubbling with a seething sense of wrong, exploded his wrath in richard’s face.
“don’t ask me to any more of your infernal drums or routs,” he said. “those old women were for hinting that i cheated—cheated, sir, to pocket their damned miserly sixpences!”
“i am sure, sir peter—”
“deuce take your sureness, sir. i tell you that painted old image of an aunt of yours tricked us here, sir, to make fun of us before that old she-dog of a bilson and the rest. damme, sir, are we hardacres to be set down to supper after all the bilsons and perkabys and nobodies in the county? come, jill, my lass, they sent you down with the snuffler, did they! deuce take you, sir, my daughter ain’t one to be treated as though she were born on a dung-heap and dragged up in a hovel!”
richard, bewildered, shamed and very miserable, turned to miss hardacre with a piteous and boyish appeal in his dark eyes.
“i wish i had never given the party,” he said.
“thank you, cousin!”
“it was my aunt’s doing.”
“to be sure, little ’un,” quoth mr. lot, with a glum grin, “and you didn’t enjoy yourself at all, eh? julia perkaby’s a fine wench, richard. what! don’t know when a woman’s got a pair of deuced fine eyes in her head?”
mr. lot laughed loudly and slapped jeffray on the shoulder with a vigor that was not wholly inspired by cousinly regard. peter gladden was standing at the hall door with a lantern in his hand; the hardacre coach-horses were pawing the gravel without.
“come, sir peter, i don’t think we are prime-beef here.”
richard was still gazing ruefully at jilian, watching her enfold her auburn head in a light-blue wrapper.
“i am very sorry,” he said, in a humble aside.
miss hardacre made him a fine courtesy.
“la, cousin, don’t apologize,” she said, “we have had a delicious evening. i am sure miss julia’s dancing was superb.”
