Gwendolen Read online

  She looked hopefully at Lyndale, but to her disappointment he did not respond to her appeal, but only stood gazing down at her with what she considered a highly enigmatic though, at the same time, somehow reassuring smile.

  "I think not. Lady Otilia," he said. "But if I were you, I should try not to worry about it too much. You still have three very attractive daughters, and who knows that one of them may not end up a marchioness, after all? Ladies, I bid you all good-day!"

  And with a comprehensive bow he walked out of the room, leaving Lady Otilia glowering after him.

  "Odious man!" she said. "As if marquises were as plentiful as gooseberries in Gloucestershire! He will marry that encroaching Miss Courtney, I have not the least doubt, and Belville will marry Evelina Rutledge, while as for Neil Fairhall, he will undoubtedly turn into one of those men exactly like his father, who never think of marrying anyone, because they are far too busy with their hounds and their horses, until they have reached the age of five-and-thirty, and by that time Campaspe will have been on the shelf for years!" She bent a sibylline gaze upon her three abashed daughters. "I see," she said, "that I shall have to Take a Hand in affairs, for obviously I have raised three daughters with more hair than wit, who have not the least notion as to where their best interests lie! I shall have Pris here from Brighton at once, and between the two of us we shall see if we cannot settle you respectably in spite of yourselves!"

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  TRUE TO HER word, Lady Otilia sent an express off to her sister that very day, with the result that Lady Priscilla, in a ravishing carriage dress of French green and a matching bonnet with an audaciously curtailed poke, arrived at Brightleaves before the week was out. She swept into the house, paying no more heed to the packing cases that were already littering the hall than if they had been the conventional tables and ornaments ordinarily to be found there; and, presenting her cheek to Lady Otilia, who had come out to greet her at the sound of carriage wheels, went at once with her into the drawing room, where she sat down with great aplomb on a sofa upon which a large family portrait was already reposing.

  "Now, my dear Otilia," she said, "you will be good enough to tell me at once everything about this ridiculous situation you have got yourselves into. Lodgings in Cheltenham, indeed!— and three broken engagements! I vow I don't believe there is another family in Christendom that could have got itself into such a hobble!"

  Lady Otilia, who was the elder of the two by several years, but who had never, since childhood, been able to get the better of her tall, rather gauntly slender, decisive sister, gazed at Lady Priscilla a trifle rebelliously, but then, realising her desperate need of help, said meekly that it was not her fault.

  "Of course it is not," Lady Priscilla said, taking off her gloves and bonnet. "It never is. Hugh is quite unmanageable; I have known that ever since you married him. But that is neither here nor there," she went on, charitably consigning Mr. Quarters and his shortcomings to consideration under less urgent circumstances. "The chief point is, what are we to do about those girls of yours? I will admit I was not all surprised to hear that Campaspe had broken off her engagement, for she has very little sense and even less conduct. But I should have expected better of Gwendolen, who is sensible enough to be aware that, at one-and-twenty, she cannot afford to be too nice in her requirements. Captain Belville, I understand, is a very respectable parti for a girl with no fortune, and I shall attempt to impress that fact upon her."

  Lady Otilia said rather gloomily that she might spare herself the trouble, for Captain Belville had not lost so much as four-and-twenty hours in making up to Evelina Rutledge, and was already to be seen parading the High Street in the village with her on his arm, quite in the style of an engaged man.

  "But," she went on, brightening slightly, "Lord Wilfrid Boulting has been calling almost every day, and obviously to see Gwendolen, so I do think there may be some hope in that direction."

  "Wilfrid Boulting?" Lady Priscilla looked sceptical. "Oh, I shouldn't place too much reliance upon him," she said. "He must be very much épris indeed to make an offer of marriage to any female. I must warn you that a score of caps have been set at him, and some by diamonds of the first water, which you yourself will be the first to admit dear Gwendolen is not."

  Lady Otilia, who was very fond of her eldest daughter, said a trifle indignantly that Gwendolen had a great deal of originality. Lady Priscilla waved a dismissive hand.

  "Yes, I know, my dear—but originality is not what most men are looking for in a wife," she said. "In point of fact, if she were to strive for a little less originality it might be easier for us to get her off. But is there no other possible he except Lord Wilfrid?" she went on. "Of course I could take her to Brighton, but young men at fashionable watering-places so often think only of amusing themselves, and those who are more serious are usually fortune-hunters and wouldn't be interested in her in the least."

  Lady Otilia said a trifle doubtfully that there was Neil Fairhall, who was also a great deal at Brightleaves, oddly enough, since he and Campaspe had broken off, ostentatiously ignoring his erstwhile betrothed and talking for hours to Gwendolen when she would let him.

  "Of course he is a year younger than she is," she said, "but I daresay that doesn't signify. And, really, if Campaspe has been foolish enough to let him get away, it does seem only fair that Gwendolen should have him. She has always liked him very much."

  Lady Priscilla said briskly that they might at least consider him a possibility, and then brought up the subject of Jane's behaviour vis-a-vis her betrothed.

  "I think I may say," she remarked, "that I was never more shocked in my life than when I read in your letter that she had jilted Lyndale—which is what it comes to in the end, even though they were never officially engaged. Such a pretty-behaved girl she seemed in London! I should never have believed she could do anything so wicked as to turn her back on a marquisate and fifty thousand a year! I saw at once, of course, that I should have to have a talk with her."

  Lady Otilia, bristling a little at this criticism of her middle daughter, in spite of her own similar feelings upon the subject, said it wouldn't do any good, because Lord Lyndale had suddenly taken it into his head to go back to London, and had obviously no intention of marrying Jane now.

  "That odious Miss Courtney has been on the catch for him ever since he arrived in Gloucestershire," she said, "and now that he has returned to London she has suddenly discovered she must go there, too—in July, my dear, when of course there is no one in town but Cits and mushrooms!—and I have no doubt she is contriving to see him. I expect the next thing we shall hear is that they are engaged."

  Lady Priscilla, however, refused to take such a gloomy view of the situation, declaring that Frieda Courtney was not at all the kind of young lady that Lyndale had given her to understand he was looking for in a bride, and adding that if she and Lady Otilia put their heads together, they might yet succeed in making a match of it between him and Jane.

  "Depend upon it," she said, "he is not the kind of man to stand upon his dignity and take offence because of a girl's having a passing fancy for a handsome young man, and I have no doubt that if we can bring Jane to see the folly of her pining over a penniless Frenchman, who has no prospects whatever of being able to marry her, we may yet bring the Lyndale affair to a successful conclusion."

  She then, being a woman of boundless energy, expressed a desire to be driven into Cheltenham so that she could see for herself the small house there in which Mr. Quarters proposed to settle his family. Gwendolen and Campaspe, arriving home at that moment from the village, whence they had accompanied Jane, who with her usual good nature had offered to spend the afternoon with a very deaf old lady whose niece-companion was obliged to be absent during that time, were at once included in the party, even though they would gladly have declined the honour, being well aware that Lady Priscilla would occupy the drive to Cheltenham in scolding them for their very improper behaviour in breaking their engagements.<
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  However, they were rewarded at the end of the drive by the opportunity to examine their new home. It was a tiny house with a bow-windowed drawing room giving on one of the less imposing terraces of the thriving spa, and would have done very well for a small young couple beginning married life in a modest way, but appeared appallingly cramped to Lady Priscilla and Lady Otilia for a family that included three very lovely young ladies.

  But if the two elder ladies shook their heads forebodingly over the small drawing room, the three tiny bedrooms upstairs, and the servants' quarters up still another breakneck flight of stairs, with their oval windows almost entirely blocked by the low parapet that ran round the roof, Gwendolen and Campaspe were delighted with the prospect of living in a terrace that looked more like a wedding cake than a street, with its lacy frills of delicate ironwork and its elegantly pilastered facades. Nor was their enthusiasm tempered by the sight of the constant flow of traffic visible from the bow-fronted drawing room—modishly attired ladies in sedan chairs, strolling officers, fashionable tilburies and four-in-hands dashing over the stones, gouty gentlemen and invalidish spinsters on their way to the Pump Rooms, or to Bettison's or Williams's Library. Campaspe had at her fingertips a catalogue of all the gaieties the town provided—balls on Mondays and Fridays, cards and the theatre on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, a dress card assembly held on Wednesdays—and declared her intention of attending every one of them.

  And then there was the prospect of Race-week, if they were fortunate enough to complete the move from Brightleaves by that time, when the hotels would be crammed with visitors, and balls, routs, races, and plays would offer an endless variety of amusements and opportunities to three young ladies in search of husbands.

  Even Lady Otilia, who was inclined to take the darkest view of everything at the moment, was obliged to agree that such opportunities would be far more numerous in Cheltenham than they had been in the comparative seclusion of Brightleaves, if only the eligible gentlemen who were to be found in that fashionable spa were willing to overlook the dismal state of the family finances that had confined them to such cramped quarters. And she was even brought to admit at last that the drawing room, though small, was quite elegant, with its chinoiserie wallpaper and frail chandelier.

  The party was therefore able to return in a tolerably cheerful mood to Brightleaves, where they found Mr. Quarters just come in from a farewell tour of the stables, for his horses were about to be sent off to Tattersall's on the following morning. He was in a melancholy-mad humour, ready to be inflamed upon the least provocation into a quarrel with his sister-in-law, whom he cordially disliked, and dinner was accordingly enlivened by a highly acerbic conversation between the two, during which the shortcomings of each were unsparingly discussed by the other. Meanwhile, Gwendolen and her sisters, not anxious to have the battlefield artillery turned upon themselves, sat silent in a row, as prim as church-mice. This, however, did not save them—Jane, in particular—from having their duty pointed out to them after dinner by Lady Priscilla in the baldest of terms, with the result that Jane was soon reduced to tears, Campaspe to fierce scowls, and Gwendolen to a most unseemly fit of the giggles.

  “I can't help it," she defended herself later that evening to Campaspe, when they were alone together. "The very thought of my following Aunt Pris's advice and 'attempting to attach Belville again,' as she puts it, is enough to send me into whoops. The poor man was so pleased to be rid of me that I expect he would run as if the devil were at his heels if I gave him so much as a come-hither look. As for Neil Fairhall, if she could overhear our conversations, she would understand perfectly well that the only reason he comes to see me is to talk about you and how badly you have behaved towards him.'*

  "Well, he has behaved just as badly towards me," Campaspe said hotly. "He said I was an infernal flirt and he didn't care to be married to me, and when I tried to explain to him that I was doing it all for Jane, he wouldn't listen to me. And speaking of Jane," she went on, characteristically forgetting her displeasure almost as soon as she had given vent to it, "I think we shall have to do something about her again. She is weakening; did you see her face when Aunt Pris was telling her what a wicked, ungrateful girl she was for not snapping up Lyndale the moment he made her the offer, and how it was all her fault that we are obliged to leave Brightleaves?"

  "Yes, but there is nothing she or anyone else can do about it now, with Lyndale in London," Gwendolen said practically. "Even Aunt Pris can't expect Jane to pursue him there, and I should think it highly unlikely that he will return to Gloucestershire in the near future. He is certainly not on the most cordial of terms with the Duke or Lord Wilfrid, and now that he has broken off with Jane, there can be no reason for him to visit this part of the country again."

  She was somewhat surprised to find herself attacked by a twinge of regret as she spoke these last words, a twinge that she attributed, upon consideration, to the fact that, in spite of the really outrageous candour of his conversation—or perhaps because of it—his lordship could be counted upon to enliven to a notable extent any gathering at which he was present. Certainly there could be no other reason for her regretting his absence from Gloucestershire!

  It was an emotion that was soon forgotten, at any rate, in the bustle of the family's removal to Cheltenham, which was complicated even further, in her case, by the fact that Lord Wilfrid Boulting and Lieutenant Neil Fairhall were constantly underfoot, each of them appearing to be quite willing to overlook the disorder of a house people were just moving into or out of in order to obtain the pleasure of her company. It was a new experience for her to be so pursued, and though she had the gravest suspicions that the goal of neither of her suitors was honourable matrimony, she could not but be somewhat flattered by all the attention she was receiving. Lord Wilfrid had already claimed the privilege of escorting her to one of the balls to be held during Race-week at the Assembly Rooms, and Neil had booked rooms at the Plough in Cheltenham for the sole purpose, he said, of being at her service to gallant her to any of the Race-week festivities in which she wished to participate.

  All this was heady stuff, and if only, she thought, Jane were in better spirits, they might all enjoy themselves famously during Race-week and forget about the vexing question of finding three eligible gentlemen who were willing to marry them.

  Or at least so she thought until Campaspe burst in upon her during the first morning of Race-week, as she was busy trimming a gypsy hat of Lady Priscilla's with ribbon of a colour more suitable for a young lady of one-and-twenty than for a matron of two-and-forty, and plumped herself down in a chair opposite her with an expression upon her face indicating that she was pregnant with ominous news.

  "You will never guess," she said impressively, when she could catch her breath, for she had run up the stairs at top speed, "who I've just met in the High Street!"

  "Whom," said Gwendolen automatically and somewhat absently, holding the hat up to inspect it critically. "Cammie, do you like this ribbon? I rather thought—"

  "Oh, what do I care for ribbons!" Campaspe interrupted, with violent impatience. "Do you know who—whom I've just met? Lyndale! In the High Street! He's come back!"

  "Lyndale?" There was no further question now of the hat; it dropped upon the small worktable beside her as Gwendolen stared at her sister. "Here? Oh, you must be mistaken!" she said disbelievingly.

  "How could I be mistaken when he spoke to me?" Campaspe said scornfully. "He's here, I tell you—and, what's more, he asked me where we were living now and said he meant to call upon us at once. I ran all the way home so I could warn Jane. I expect that's him now," she added, as a confused noise in the hall below resolved itself into the agitated tones of their very young maid endeavouring to cope with a male visitor. "Well! He hasn't wasted any time, has he?" She leaned forward and spoke urgently to her sister. "Gwen, we shall have to do something, don't you see?—for he has certainly changed his mind about Jane and has come back to make her marry him!"

&
nbsp; CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  IT WAS THE merest curiosity, Gwendolen told herself, and certainly no desire upon her part to see the Marquis of Lyndale again, that sent her downstairs to the drawing room with Campaspe a few minutes later. They found his lordship in amiable conversation with Lady Otilia, Jane, and Lady Priscilla, who was not staying at the house, owing to its cramped accommodations, but fortunately—at least from her point of view —had arrived shortly before from her rooms at the Royal for the purpose of discussing plans for the day. Jane, it was true, was taking very little part in the conversation, but sat, with the half-demented but very appealing look on her face of the wronged heroine in a coloured ballad-sheet, gazing down at her hands, which were tightly clasped in her lap; but her mama and her aunt more than made up for her silence with their own excessive cordiality.

  "Disgusting!" said Campaspe in Gwendolen's ear as they paused together on the threshold, and without further ado she marched across the room and dragged up a chair between Lyndale's and Lady Otilia's, upon which she sat with somewhat unnecessary emphasis.

  "Good morning to you again. Lord Lyndale," she said. “You certainly haven't let the grass grow under your feet-have you? Have you come to ask if you may escort us to the races today? Lord Wilfrid has offered to gallant us, but I do think three females are too much for any man—don't you? So if you like, you may escort me, and leave Lord Wilfrid with only Gwendolen and Jane."

  During this speech, which had been uttered very rapidly and with great determination, Lady Priscilla and Lady Otilia had been regarding her with undisguised shock and disapproval, obviously restraining themselves with difficulty from ordering her to go to her room at once and telling her that she should have no supper. But Lyndale appeared quite unperturbed by her advances.