Leonore Stubbs

"I am merely stating a fact," said Maud, stolidly.

"And I am sure we ought to be very glad," murmured Sue in her humble, peacemaking accents—but even she looked disconcerted.

"We can have Custance to meet Paul at dinner, if that will satisfy him," was the general's next; he had had a few minutes for reflection, and after rapidly weighing the pros and cons of the new development, decided to swallow it with a good grace. "Will that satisfy him, or will he want the curates too?"

"You may laugh if you choose, but it is as well you should know;" Maud drew up her neck, and retorted stiffly. "Paul has been about the world, and doesn't expect to find people all cut to the same pattern,—only I imagine I shall have to conform to his ideas after we are married, and he has set his heart on getting a house with a private chapel attached."

This was better; the general breathed again. A house with a private chapel? That meant a big house, a stately house, a house he would be proud to go to and refer to. "Oh well, a man must have his fads," quoth he, cheerfully; "and though we have got along well enough at Boldero Abbey without a private chapel, still if one had been here before my day, I don't know, 'pon my word, I don't know that I should have done away with it."

But the above conversation sent Leonore to look again at the photograph.

She was nervous, curiously nervous on behalf of this unknown Paul, of whom every day produced fresh impressions.

As time passed, he assumed a form she had not been prepared for,—and the first joyous flurry having worn off, she felt or fancied that he had in reality been no more fathomed by her sister than she by him.

It will be seen by this that Leonore had herself rapidly altered of late. She had taken to looking below the surface of things. She pondered and prophesied within herself. She perceived the drift of casual observations, and following in thought the byways of life, divined to what they might lead. In fine, her own blunders and mishaps had implanted seeds for reflection, and while less unhappy, she was infinitely more serious than before.

And for Paul Foster's appearance on the scene she grew every day more impatient.

Perhaps she was altogether mistaken about him, and the being of her imagination would prove so unlike the reality that doubts and misgivings would fly to the winds, made ridiculous by a very ordinary individual, devoid of all the mystery, all the glamour cast over him in day-dreams?

If so, of course she would be glad; it would be the best possible thing to happen; and yet? "I shall have to get rid of this Paul from my thoughts somehow," she decided. "He worries me. If he would only come and be done with it!"

It was evident that Maud attached a certain éclat to her lover's piety; she recurred to the subject more than once.

"It is all very well for father to make light of it, but I do hope he understands that it is no joke with Paul. Paul is very sensible, and never thrusts his opinions on other people, but no one ever thinks of laughing at them to him."

"It is only father's way," began Sue, distressed; but her sister continued, unheeding. When Maud had a thing to say she was not to be defrauded of saying it, and she had now got the ear of the house in the shape of two other attentive listeners.

"What I mean is that father always seems to think that it is only clergymen who really care about religion. He looks upon it as their trade,—oh, he does, Sue—and he would be the first to be down on them if they neglected their trade,—but as for other people, particularly other men's caring—and Paul does care, that's the unfortunate part of it."

"Why unfortunate, dear Maud?" said Sue, gently.

"Oh, I only mean lest he and father should clash," explained Maud with perfect coolness. "I am not speaking of my own feelings. I don't mind." After a pause she subjoined: "You might give father a hint, Sue."

"And what about asking Mr. Custance to dinner?" struck in Sybil, who had hearkened to the above uneasily, yet with a different sort of uneasiness from that which made poor Sue breathe an unconscious sigh. "It might create a good impression. Well?"

"It wouldn't take Paul in for a moment," said Maud. "Still," she hesitated and looked over her shoulder as she was leaving the room, "a third person might be of use on the first evening after dinner. Just as you like about that," and she passed out with the air of a queen. She felt every inch a queen in those days.

"So it wouldn't take Paul in for a moment?" The words raised a new question in Leonore's mind. If Paul where his deeper feelings were concerned were thus acute and clear-sighted, how came it that he was so blind otherwise? Ah, there she was at it again! Back to her old dilemma—to the bogie which had just been torn in tatters during a merry feminine conclave, in which wedding preparations and wedding clothes had formed the chief objects of discussion.

It was so obvious that no one else had any arrière pensée as regarded the bridegroom elect, that she had suppressed her own successfully for the time being, and entered eagerly into all the details which even Maud condescended to be sociable over.

Maud had been quite sociable and pleasant over everything that morning. She had read bits of Paul's letter aloud; she had permitted herself to be bantered, even rather mischievously bantered, by Leo; and altogether was so approachable and communicative, that the reference to her lover's religious views and her desire that these should be respected, fell out naturally. Why then should Leo be perplexed anew?

By the time Paul actually arrived, she told herself she was sick to death of him, and everything about him....

And before the first interview was over she was jeering at herself for her fussiness. The man was well enough, but he fell from his pedestal the moment he approached. No, he was not like his presentment. Maud had declared it did not do him justice—Leo thought differently. She ran him up and down with her eye, and though she conceded his stature and general outline to be correctly rendered, there was a disappointing lack of effect; he had not the air of a hero; he had not the lofty, melancholy bearing and inscrutable countenance which was to set him apart from his fellows, a mark for furtive looks and whispers. His brow was not worn and furrowed. His smile was not forced and fleeting.

Obviously he was a bashful man, unused to finding himself the centre of attraction, and almost painfully desirous of acquitting himself well when needs must. When spoken to by a fresh voice, he jerked himself in the speaker's direction with an almost perceptible start, and flushed beneath his tan like a boy.

The position, it must be owned, was trying; Leonore had protested against it beforehand. But her father and Maud were against her, ruling that all should be assembled and the arrival made an affair of state—in fact neither would have missed it for the world.

"But Paul?" Leo had ventured doubtfully.

"You may leave Paul to me," said Maud.

It appeared that Paul had brought a dog, and to Leo it was excruciatingly funny to see General Boldero with this dog. He would have Lion brought in—he from whose path all the animals belonging to the lower stratum of household society fled by instinct—and his efforts to coax the big, gentle creature from beneath his master's chair were continuous. Whenever conversation flagged, Lion was admired and petted. Finally he made a joke. Leo and Lion? Ha, ha, ha! Upon which Paul raised his eyes which were mainly bent upon the ground, and Leo saw them fully for the first time. They were dark grey and very soft. They had an infinite amount of expression, and although she certainly could not call them sad at the moment, she felt that they might once have been so and might be so again.

But she was not anxious to speak to Paul, and every one else was. By Maud, as was natural, he was chiefly appropriated, but he listened to every remark that was made, and without opening his lips took as it were a leading part in the conversation.

General Boldero was eager to describe his shooting; he had planned how to put its best side forward, and, while deprecating its merits as superlative, to leave no doubt as to its being superior to that of his neighbours.

He hoped Paul would not expect too much; on the other hand, such as it was, and it was not—hum, ha—to be exactly despised, it had been carefully saved up for him.

"You are very good, sir," said Paul, gratefully.

"I was coming home from church last Sunday morning," continued the general—and stopped, apparently to pick up his stick which slipped, but in reality to let the words sink in—"we walk across the fields from church, it cuts off a mile—and I marked a covey of sixteen. That's not a bad covey, is it?"

"It is so long since I shot in England, sir, that I am afraid I hardly know a large covey from a small one."

"You have been tracking bigger game. I envy you that. But we poor stay-at-homes must be content with what we can get. Valentine Purcell—that's a young neighbour of ours—walked home from church with me on Sunday, and he was astonished at the size of our coveys. We are to shoot his, later on in the week."

Having thus twice brought in that he had been at church, though the tenor of his speech was partridge-shooting, the general felt that he had acquitted himself to admiration, and cast a glance of triumph at Maud. Maud had been apprehensive of his manners forsooth? He hoped he knew better than to tread on any one's toes; and a man who could afford to give his daughter a handsome establishment and was on the look-out for a house with a private chapel attached, had every right to his consideration.

He had decreed that no official mention should be made of the family party having been augmented at dinner.

"It's the custom in French houses for the abbé to appear without invitation when he pleases. A very good custom; I wish it prevailed in England," he alleged unblushingly. "As it doesn't, it is not our fault if Custance only comes when he's asked; and I should certainly—Paul would certainly, eh, Maud?—You needn't look stupid, my dear," with a sudden touch of irritation. "You know very well what I mean."

And as she did and the rest did likewise, it was left to himself to say easily as the party broke up: "We have only our good rector to meet you to-night; he is quite l'ami intime here, as I am sure you will agree with me the clergyman of the parish ought to be. Squire and parson hand in hand, eh?"

"And now I think I have settled that," quoth General Boldero to himself.

He had shot both his bolts; and though for a moment dismayed by the reflection that he had no more in reserve, there was consolation in the hope that no more would be required of him. Paul was evidently a gentlemanly fellow who would avoid unpleasant subjects.

The general opinion of Paul, though it took a different form, was equally favourable.

No sooner had the lovers disappeared in orthodox fashion, than encomiums broke out all round. They compared him with people they knew; he was like one man but taller—he reminded them of another but he was handsomer. Perhaps he was not strictly handsome, but certainly he was distinguished looking. If his nose were not a little on one side, it would be a good nose. Sue had not noticed that it was on one side; she thought it a very good nose as it was. Sue was even more enthusiastic than Sybil. Sybil lamented the absence of a moustache. Let a mouth be ever so good, a moustache was an improvement,—whereat her father stroked his own and agreed with her.

In the midst of it all, Leonore slipped aside, and passed into the next room where the photograph was. She was going to convince herself of its being unlike, absolutely unlike, the original. She was going to discover, point by point, wherein lay the contrast, and abandon for ever the old Paul, thus replaced by the new.

The old Paul looked at her, and she started.

For the new Paul had looked, just once, for a single passing minute, the same.

CHAPTER XIII.

"I AM TO GIVE YOU A WIDE BERTH, ALWAYS."

A formal dinner-party was of course necessary to introduce Major Foster to the neighbourhood, and it took place a week after his arrival.

"You will wear your best white silk, I suppose, Leo," said Sue, beforehand.

"No," said Leo, sharply.

"Won't you, dear? But we are all going to dress up a little, and you look so well in white."

"I—never mind, I am not going to wear it."

"What shall you wear?"

"Something—anything."

"But, Leo–"

"What does it matter? Why should you care? You never used to worry about my clothes;" perceiving however that Sue looked hurt, Leo laughed—not quite naturally. "Don't you see, stupid old darling, that white silk—well, it makes a bride, and I am not the bride."

"But you wore it in London."

"One wears in London what one never wears out of it." There was finality in the tone, but Sue persevered; she had not the art of letting well alone.

"Your only other is the grey voile."

"Well, it would do well enough," impatiently. "It's in rags, but it will do. You ought to be flattered, as it was your present."

"But it really is rather the worse for wear, Leo; and the white silk–"

Leo ran out of the room, and presently she was seen tearing down the avenue at breakneck speed, and did not look round, though hailed loudly from the terrace, as she swept out of sight.

"So tiresome!" exclaimed Maud, joining her eldest sister within; "I had been hunting everywhere for Leo; she promised to show Harrison the new way of doing the hair, and Harrison is ready now. It was Leo herself who said it would suit me."

"She must have forgotten," said Sue; "but I daresay she has only gone for a little run, and will be back directly. You know she often does run out in the twilight."

"It was very inconsiderate, I think. She had the whole afternoon to go out in, and then to take the only time when she could have been of use!"

Sue was silent, feeling both for the offender and the offended. Maud certainly had a grievance, for Leo's good offices had been volunteered not besought, and further Leo was aware that Harrison, good soul, was a despot of the worst type.

All the Boldero servants were despots—all the heads of departments at least; they had the strength of long-continued, undisputed rule—and Harrison, who had begun by being a little schoolroom maid, taken on the recommendation of the late vicar, while yet Sue was young and her sisters children, now governed them with a rod of iron. It was only in consideration of Maud's present attitude that the present concession regarding her hair had been made, and it was felt to be so magnanimous that she was positively aghast at Leo's delinquency.

"It is only six o'clock now," adventured Sue, soothingly. "Could you not–?"

"How can I? If you mean send after her? No one knows where she is by this time. I called and called, but she never looked round. You might have reminded her, Sue."

"I should, if I had thought of it myself. But though she was here just now, we were talking of other things."

"What other things? Everything else is settled. The dinner-table really looks very nice," in mollified accents; "Watts has done the flowers beautifully, and Grier has condescended to have out all the plate. Well, I must go and break it to Harrison, I suppose—but if she is in a temper, she won't wait, even if I suggest it."

"I don't think I should suggest it," said Sue. She had an instinct that waiting would be of no use, and it proved to be a correct instinct.

The lower rooms were deserted when Leo hurried in; and lamps were being lit, while a faint pale moon became momentarily more clear in the dusk without. Servants were drawing down blinds and shutting shutters. Leo half expected to find the garden-door bolted, but it was not so,—and she scurried along the corridor, and prepared to mount the staircase, when her heart gave a sudden jump. There was some one in her path. Paul was on the next landing, looking from the great staircase window, with his back turned.

He was contemplating the scene without, which was certainly beautiful enough to command admiration—but Leo fancied that he was also sunk in thought. The pose of his motionless form suggested that he had not merely stopped to look out in passing, but had come to a halt at that spot and withdrawn into himself.

She put her foot on the next step and hesitated—but he did not look round. Obviously the slight noise of her entrance had fallen on deaf ears, or been held of no consequence, as were the other openings and shutting of doors in the distance,—and that being the case, there was no absolute need to intrude.

She stole back into the shadows beneath.

Finally by a circuitous route she reached her own room unseen.

"I say, Maud does look splendid, doesn't she?"

It was Val Purcell who voiced the general sentiment, and as he did so he turned from Leonore to whom he had addressed himself, to gaze down the table afresh at her resplendent sister.

Despite the contretemps of the hair, Maud was looking her best—suited by her dress, her ornaments, and the unusual animation which coloured her cheeks, and sparkled in her eyes. Hitherto her looks, though universally admitted, had failed to elicit warmth on the part of any present—since, truth to tell, she was not a favourite. She was too cold and too grand. She never forgot that she was a Boldero, and took care that no one else should. Even honest Val, as we know, did not choose to be booked too surely as her admirer.

But that point being now settled, and the party having been assembled in the lady's honour, he was free to add his mite.

"Splendid!" he repeated, settling down again with unction. "I always did say Maud was a ripper when she chose. I hope her johnnie appreciates his luck. Between you and me, Leo," sinking his voice for her private ear, "I wonder how he dared? I wonder how he ever got it out? Maud can be so awfully nasty—Oh, I say! I don't mean that, you know."

"Then you shouldn't say it," said Leo, shortly. Maud's star was high in the heavens, while her own—where was it? nowhere. She had no star; her little glowworm light was out, and all was darkness—yet she was loyal, even with Val. "Every one is not such a craven as you, Val; and apparently Major Foster–" she paused.

"He appears to have tackled her right enough. I only wonder how he screwed himself up to the point? Bet you he had a good pint of champagne first."

"I daresay," said Leo, absently.

"Now don't you round on me for that, Leo. I know you when you speak like that. You mean to nab me the next minute."

"I shan't nab you this time. I know nothing about Major Foster's proclivities, and can't be answerable for them."

"He never drinks anything but water when he's out shooting, but he wasn't likely to face Maud upon water, was he?"

"I tell you I don't know. Ask him yourself."

"Ask him myself? That's a good one. Ask him myself? Ha—ha—ha. Well, whatever he took, it did the trick, and she looks as proud as a cat with a tin tail,—but between you and me, Leo–"

"Oh, don't have any more 'between you and me's,' Val–" But the next moment Leo demanded inconsequently: "What is it you want to say? Say it."

"He's an uncommonly nice fellow, and all that,—but–"

"But—well, but–?" impatiently.

"I should have thought he was more your sort than Maud's, that's all."

"My sort!" She was white to the lips, and there was a sudden heaving of her bosom. "My—my sort?"

"I'll tell you what I mean. We had a long day together yesterday—no, it was the day before. There wasn't much doing, the birds were shy and scattered, and I took Foster into our church, as he seemed to want to see it. I told him I generally went to yours for the sake of the walk, but—anyhow he seemed to hanker after going inside, and it is an awfully nice, rum, little old place, you know; lots of people come to see it. Oh, they come from long distances. Foster was delighted; I couldn't tear him away. He poked and poked about, and at last he said to me: 'This is the sort of thing I've dreamed about. An English village church, with its old worn pillars and arches–' and he raved on a bit. I said I liked it too; of course I did; I had known it all my life, and he said 'Ah?' and was quite interested. And then—I don't know how it was—it just seemed as if we were in the thick of it all of a sudden—he was talking about his ideas of marriage and that. You never heard anything so queer! But it was very nice, you know. I didn't mind it a bit, only I thought to myself, 'Do you jolly well imagine you are going to catch old Maud going in with those highflown ideas? Because if you do, I don't.'"

"What ideas?" said Leo, in a strangled voice. She had a choking sensation in her throat.

"Eh? Well–" he considered; "they weren't exactly what you would have expected from a fellow who's knocked about as Foster has. Sort of romantic, you know."

As she made no reply, he continued: "I expect he had to let them out to some one, and perhaps Maud—what do you think? Do you see Maud playing the pious and charitable?—but I daresay she will, you know. Woa there! I have it, I knew there was something," his tone quickened, "he called her, that's to say he didn't call her, but of course he meant her, he said he hoped his wife would be an 'Angel in the House,' or something of that kind. He said a lot more, but I can't remember it."

"You are remembering very well. Go on."

"So then I thought of you."

"Of me? Oh, no."

"But I did, Leo. I can't help it. Anyhow I did." After a minute he continued briskly. "Whatever made him think of Maud? She must have been jolly different to him from what she is to us. You know what I mean, Leo. If he thinks he is going to marry a saint–"

"Oh, Val, don't. You mustn't. You haven't said anything about this to other people?" said Leo, in great agitation, "you haven't, have you?"

"Rather not. Give you my word. I have been bursting with it ever since—and if my gran had known she'd have got it out of me sure as fate—but she doesn't care twopence about Foster, and is only glad it isn't you."

"Do leave me out of the question. I—I—why should you think of me at all?"

"Gran keeps me up to it. She goes on praising you. You see I never told her about that, Leo, and she still thinks—you know what," and he nodded significantly. "This marriage has set her going again."

After a pause it was: "You aren't making much of a dinner, Leo. You say 'no' to everything. What's put you off your feed?"

"Too much afternoon-tea probably. No, it's not that," said Leo, correcting the fib. "I'm not hungry, that's all."

"This venison is awfully good. Where did it come from? You generally do have venison about this time, I know. I have eaten it here before in October."

"Have you?"

"Where does it come from?"—reiterated he.

"From an old cousin, Anthony Boldero. We have no one else who sends us venison."

"Respects to him. His venison is A1. Leo?"

"Well?" said Leo, in a hard, dry tone. She recognised what was coming.

"It isn't me, it isn't anything I've been saying that bothers you?"

But at the same moment Leo's neighbour on her other hand spoke to her.

She was partly glad and partly sorry for this—glad because it relieved her from embarrassment, but sorry because it might be difficult, and indeed it proved impossible, to lead the erratic Val back to the same point thereafter.

He had delivered himself of all he had to say on the matter, and he had a talkative damsel on the other side who having been already somewhat affronted by his neglect, was resolved to endure it no longer. The two were soon in full tide of conversation; and though Leo had her turn once and again when Miss Merivale was attacked by her other neighbour, she could not all in a brief moment resume a dialogue of such import as the above. She thought Val was approaching it once, however.

"That's a fine dog of his—of Foster's."

"Lion? Yes, a delightful dog."

"It's awfully funny to see your father with him. When he can't make anything of Foster—he makes no end of a fuss with Foster—but it doesn't always exactly come off—then he panders to the dog. And, you know, they take it exactly in the same way! Lion gives him a bored look, and shakes himself. I think—he—he! his master would like to do the same."