Eli's Children: The Chronicles of an Unhappy Family

Part 1, Chapter XXIX.
Mr and the Misses Perry-Morton “At Home.”

It was a lovely and sculpturesque attitude, that which was taken up by the “stained-glass virgins,” as James Magnus called them, on the night of their first “at home” of the season, for at every opportunity, when not otherwise engaged, they joined their hands together, raised them over their left or right shoulder, as the case may be, and then drooped a head against them till an ear just touched the finger-tips, so that they seemed to be saying their prayers all on one side and writhing over the Amens.

Claudine and Faustine Perry-Morton were thorough types of the ladies who have of late taught society how to indulge in the reverent worship of the human form. Their hair was too fearful and wonderful to be described. The nearest approach possible is to compare it to the gum mop of some Papuan belle, who had been chivied during her toilet in the eucalyptus shade, and, consequently, had only managed to get the front part done.

Since dress is made so great a feature in a modern lady’s life, no excuse is surely needed for saying a few words regarding the costume of these gifted sisters. A desire is felt to do justice to those robes, but to give a perfect idea would be extremely difficult.

As it happened, the colour was but one, and it was that of the familiar household tap-rooted vegetable botanically named daucus, but hight the carrot, when seen reposing in sweetness in a dish.

These dresses were, of course, ingeniously contrived to keep on the persons they enfolded, but their aspect was as if a length of many yards of this ruddy orange saffron material had been taken, and one end fastened to an ivory shoulder with a tin-tack of enormous size, the other end being held under the foot of some one far away. Parenthetically, let it be remembered that this is all surmise, as no doubt the costumes were built by one of the highest authorities in fashionable garb. But to resume.

The ends of the dress being thus secured upon the shoulder and beneath a distant foot, it seemed that the lady must then have commenced a slow movement, revolving gently and winding herself in the web till it formed a regular – or rather, irregular – spiral bandage from shoulder to ankle, leaving the long thin arms bare, and, after being secured at the feet, trailing far behind and spreading out like a fan.

Perry-Morton walked to the fireplace, laid his head sideways against a large blue plate, which gave him the appearance of a well-fed saint with an azure halo, closed his eyes like a vicious critic on varnishing day, and uttered a low sigh full of rapture, after which he seemed to bless his sisters for giving him a sensation that was perfectly new.

Of the decorations of that suite of rooms it is needless to speak. Every visitor said they were perfect. Even James Magnus told Lord Artingale they were not half bad, “only there’s too much suggestion of the kitchen-dresser with the dinner-plates ranged all a-row.”

Harry Artingale thought it a polished pantechnicon-inferno till the Mallows were announced, and then it seemed transformed into a paradise of delight, where every one walked on air, and the sweet essence of pretty little Cynthia pervaded all.

For Mr Perry-Morton and the Misses Perry-Morton were “at home,” and the big butler was pretty well occupied in announcing the names called to him by the footman, who stood down among the azaleas with which the hall was half filled, ready to open the door and rearrange the roll of horsehair matting which would keep getting out of place.

Lord Artingale and his artist friend arrived early, Magnus to be button-holed and taken aside to see his picture hung with a gaslight and reflector before it, to show it to the best advantage; and yet he was not grateful, for when he returned to Harry Artingale he growled, as the latter, who was very light-hearted and happy, said, “like a sore tom” – cat, of course, understood.

Perry-Morton was standing with his blue china halo behind his head, and with a fleshly poetic look in his eye; and his sisters were each posed before a big Benares brown dish, etherealising her lambent curls and pallid face into virgin and martyr beauty, when the butler announced the Mallows, the girls looking very natural and charming, and Frank and Cyril creating quite a sensation with their sunburnt, swarthy faces and rugged bearing.

“Oh, Claudine,” whispered Faustine, “look at Julia,” and her sister uttered a tragic. “Ah!” as she advanced with her brother to receive the new arrivals.

Certainly Julia looked deadly pale, for as she descended from the carriage she had caught sight of a great burly fellow bearing a lantern, which he ostentatiously held low, so that her little pale blue satin rosetted shoes should not go astray from the carpeted path, and the sight of his dark eyes had sent the blood rushing to her heart. But this pallor rather added to than took from her beauty, as, simply dressed in the palest of pale blue satin, and her throat and arms wreathed with lustrous pearls, she seemed to stand alone amidst the throng of strangely grotesque costumes by which she was surrounded.

The sisters changed their key instanter upon seeing the effect produced upon their brother, whose eyes half closed once more as he greeted his guests. In fact, he treated the Rector with such deference, that for a moment it seemed as if he were going to sink upon his knees, and in true patriarchal style ask for his blessing.

But he did not, neither did he raise Julia’s hand to his lips. He merely beamed upon her rapturously, led her to a seat after the congratulations of his sisters had had due course, and then, as a kind of hum went through the rooms, proceeded to hover over his choice.

“A melody in heaven’s own azure,” whispered Perry-Morton. “Julia, your costume is perfection.”

The pallor on poor Julia’s cheeks had been giving place to a vivid blush, but her host’s words and manner once more drove the blood to her heart, and she sank back upon the lounge, glad to use her fan, for she thoroughly realised that she was looked upon by all present as the future mistress of the place.

“Magnus, my dear boy,” whispered Artingale, “have you any charity in your nature?”

“Heaps. Why?”

“Because I want you to go and cut that fellow out. Julia really is a nice girl.”

“Don’t be a fool,” was the answer, given with such intensity that Artingale was startled.

“Fool, be hanged! I’m in earnest. Wait a bit, and we’ll go up to her together, and then I’ll be off and leave you. You’d stand no end of a chance, for Cynthia likes you ever so.”

“Don’t be an ass, Harry,” said Magnus, “you seem to be happy enough. Let the poor little body be.”

“Well, I don’t want to quarrel,” said Artingale, “but if ever a fellow was a fool or an ass I should think it would be when he turned up his nose at the chance of winning a little woman who has not been spoiled by the world.”

“Oh, she’s nice enough,” said Magnus, gruffly. “Are those two brothers going to marry those stained-glass virgins?” he continued, as Cyril joined Frank, who was bending impressively towards Faustine.

“I wish to heaven they would,” said Artingale, earnestly. “Hang the brothers! What a thing it is that pretty girls are obliged to have brothers! At last! – I’m off. There’s the telegram.”

The message came along a beam of light, and that little bright beam stretched from Cynthia Mallow’s eye to that of the speaker; and the message was, —

“You dear stupid old goose, why don’t you come?”

For Artingale had held rather aloof until the fair young hostesses had withdrawn.

“Why didn’t you come before, sir?” said the lady, looking very severely at her swain.

“I was afraid,” he said.

“What, of me, sir?”

“No, no,” he whispered, “I’ve been longing to get near you, but I dared not. Oh, my little darling, how beautiful you look to-night.”

“For shame, Harry; now look here, sir; I will not permit you to be so familiar. The idea of addressing me in such a strain.”

“There,” he sighed, “now you are getting on stilts again, and we were so happy down at Lawford.”

“Yes, but that’s country, and this is town. We are in society now, sir, and we must be very proper.”

“There, my beautiful little tyrant,” he whispered, “I am your slave. I won’t rebel; only reward me sometimes for my patience with a kindly look.”

“Well, if you are very good, perhaps I will,” said Cynthia. “But you did not tell me, Harry, why you were afraid. Ah, that’s right, that tall thin ghost is going to sing, so we can talk.”

In effect, a very cadaverous-looking lady, with an exceedingly startled air, was led by Mr Perry-Morton to the piano, and after he had screwed his eyes up, glanced round the room, and held up a white finger to command silence, the thin lady, who evidently purposely lived upon an unwholesome regimen, to keep herself graceful, fixed her eyes upon one particular piece of blue china near the corner of the room, and began to sing.

“Now, sir,” whispered Cynthia, “you must not speak loud. Tell me quietly.”

“May I sit down?”

“If that is enough room for you, sir. Now go on.”

Artingale would have thought the edge of a knife room enough, so that he could be near Cynthia, so he sat down in a very uncomfortable position, and received such a merry, mischievous look that he sighed with content.

“The fact is – oh, murder!”

“Hush, Harry! What is the matter?”

“Would it look rude if I were to cork my ears with glove-fingers, Cynthy?”

“Of course, sir! For shame! You have no soul for music.”

“Not a bit,” he whispered; “only when you warble one of those little ballads of yours, I shut my eyes and wish you were a brook.”

“Wish I were a what, you foolish boy?” whispered Cynthia, looking up at the great boy who towered over her.

“A brook, my darling, to go on for ever,” he whispered back so earnestly, that Cynthia felt a little thrill of pleasure run through her, and her pretty face became slightly suffused.

“Now you are talking nonsense again,” she said. “Oh. I do wish that dreadful romance would end. Harry, if you speak to me again like that, I shall send you away. Now, sir, why were you frightened? Did I look so fierce and majestic?”

“No: only more beautiful than ever.”

“Harry!”

“Fact. Well, I’ll tell you: Claudine Perry-Morton was by you.”

“Well, what of that, sir?”

“And I felt as if I dared not come near in case of an accident.”

“An accident, Harry! What, to the gas? Oh fie! what a silly old joke; you mean her hair would set it alight.”

“No, I don’t; I don’t mind red hair. After yours, it’s the prettiest there is.”

“Don’t stoop to compliments, sir. Now tell me why you were afraid of an accident?”

“Why I feel sure that some time or other she’ll come undone. Look at her dress. I wouldn’t be there for the world.”

“Harry!”

There was a very genuine blush as she looked at him reproachfully; but her face softened directly as he whispered in such a low, earnest tone that it thrilled her once more —

“Forgive me, darling, it was too bad, I know; there, we won’t talk about ourselves, I only want to be near you. Let me take you down to supper.”

“Would you like to?”

“Yes.”

“Very much?”

“Darling!”

What wonderful emphasis an engaged couple can put into their words. Evidently that last noun uttered by the young fellow opened out a vista of future bliss to Cynthia, who answered him with a look which was a perfect bond in its way, engrossed in parchment, sealed, signed, witnessed, endorsed, and tied with dark-green silk in proper legal style.

“I haven’t been to dear Julie yet,” he said.

“What a shame! Go at once, sir.”

“No, no; don’t send me away at present.”

“Well, you must go presently, Harry,” she said, softly; “I’m so glad you are fond of Julie.”

“Bless her! I love her very much,” he said. “She’s the dearest, sweetest, sisterly little body I ever met. I always feel as if I should like to kiss her when I shake hands, and her pretty little lips seem to look up to one so naturally. Cynthy, darling, I often wished I had a sister, and – and now I’m to have one, am I not?”

“I don’t know – perhaps,” she said, looking down.

“I told Magnus one day I wished I had a sister for his sake. Thank goodness the song’s done. Let’s clap our hands, for joy.”

They clapped their hands, as did every one else, but of course not for joy.

“I like Mr Magnus,” said Cynthia, thoughtfully.

“He’s the best and truest-hearted fellow in the world,” cried Artingale, enthusiastically.

“And if you had had a sister, what then, sir?”

“I should have made old Magnus marry her.”

“Indeed, my lord bashaw! And suppose the lady did not approve?”

“But she would approve. No really sensible girl would refuse Magnus, if she came to thoroughly know him.”

There was silence here, during which a very-pale gentleman with a very large aquiline nose, which seemed to be his feature, the rest of his face merely representing base or pedestal, threw his long black hair behind his ears, and recited a portion of one of Rosetti’s poems.

“Harry,” said Cynthia then, “go and see Julie now.”

“Must I?”

“Please. Poor girl, she is so unhappy; I’m in great trouble about her.”

“Poor darling!” he replied.

“You know I told you about our being out in the woods collecting flowers?”

“Yes.”

“And how Julia came upon that great fellow lying amongst the moss and primroses?”

“Yes; I wish I had been there!” and the young man’s teeth gave a grit together. “But he did not say anything to her?”

“No; only stared in a way that frightened her horribly, and it seemed to have such an effect upon her when she dragged herself away, that she was quite ill, and it was hours before I found out what it was.”

“Poor child! But she must not think about it. She may never see him again.”

“But she keeps seeing him, so she says. He seems to haunt her. She saw him in the park again a few days ago.”

“But did she see him, or was it fancy?”

“Oh, no, it was not fancy; I saw him too. A great big leering fellow.”

“Oh, but it must be stopped; your brothers and I must thrash him.”

“And I half think she saw, or fancied she saw, him to-night, for she was so bright and cheerful when we started, and when we came in she seemed to have turned to stone.”

“Well, poor child, she will soon have a manly protector now,” he said, rather bitterly, as he glanced at where Perry-Morton was hovering over Julia, while the Rector stood by smiling rigid approval.

“Don’t talk like that, Harry,” said Cynthia, quietly; “you hurt me.”

“Forgive me,” he whispered, “but it makes me mad to see your people ready to sell her to that man.”

“Papa thinks it right, and for the best. And it is not selling, Harry, for papa is rich.”

“But surely Julia cannot care for him?”

“She does not say so, but she loathes him, Harry.”

“Then why in the name of common sense does she not strike against it, or fall in love with some trump of a fellow who would stick up for her and take her part?”

“I wish she would, Harry. But, there, go to her now. She is miserable. Go and stay with her. Send Mr Magnus to talk to me. No, take him with you, and let him chat to her about his pictures. Here is Mr Perry-Morton coming to beam on me, Harry.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you feel jealous?”

“Horribly,” he said, with a look that contradicted his word; and getting up, he went to where James Magnus was talking to a brother artist about their host’s last purchase, an early specimen of Burne Jones, full of wonderful realistic trees, and a group of figures, who were evidently all in pain.

“Here,” he whispered, catching him by the sleeve, “I want to take you to a lady.”

“No, no – nonsense. I don’t like ladies, Harry.”

“Don’t be stupid. I want you to come and chat with Julia Mallow, and take her down to supper. Why, what’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing, nothing at all. There – no. Get some one else.”

“Come along, old man. Cynthia sent me. And I say, talk about your pictures to her. Poor girl, she’s miserable. They are trying to hook her on to Perry-Morton.”

“Why, of course. People say they are engaged.”

“And I say she isn’t. She hates the fellow. Why, Magnus, old fellow, why not?”

“Why not what?”

“Oh, nothing. Come along.” The artist, after a moment’s further hesitation, allowed himself to be led off, and the rest of that evening passed very pleasantly to Julia, who listened eagerly to the quiet, grave conversation of Lord Artingale’s friend.

Like all evenings, this memorable one came to a close, amidst the shouting of linkmen, for the carriage of Mr this, and my Lord that, and the clattering of uneasy horses’ feet on the paving fronting the poet’s home. At last the cry arose – “Mr Mallow’s carriage stops the way;” and the voice of a footman, like that of an archangel of fashion, came from inside the magnificent hall, where he stood amidst the flowers, with a deep-voiced “Coming down.”

There was a little craning forward of the heads of the two rows of servants and idlers running from the kerb right up into the great hall, forming a moving human wall on each side of the striped Edgington canopy put up for the occasion. The two policemen mildly suggested something about keeping back, but the big burly fellow with a lantern stood his ground, as he had stood it ever since the party had arrived.

The carriage steps were rattled down, the host came delicately tripping like a fat faun in evening costume, and handed Cynthia in, Lord Artingale being apparently quite content. Frank and Cyril were by the door waiting for a cab, there being some talk of calling at a club.

“Why didn’t Artingale bring down Julia?” said Frank, scowling at James Magnus. “Perry-Morton ought to have handed her down.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” said Cyril, whose face was flushed with champagne. “Come along.”

The brothers were moving off, but they stayed; for just then, as Artingale’s friend was handing Julia in, softening his voice involuntarily as he bade her good night, an importunate linkman thrust himself forward, ostensibly to hold his lantern to make the carriage steps plainer, and to keep the ladies’ dresses from the wheels.

James Magnus saw it, quick as was the act in the semi-darkness, for as Julia was on the last step a great muscular, hand grasped her soft white arm.

She turned sharply, and then uttered a cry of dread as she saw a brown bearded face close to hers.

It was the work almost of a moment; then she sank back in her place in the carriage; the Rector followed; the steps had been rattled up, the door closed, the footman shouted “Home,” and the horses sprang forward, hiding from the frightened girl the struggle taking place in the little crowd, as James Magnus seized the great ruffian by the throat.

Part 1, Chapter XXX.
A Little Narrative

“Really, Cynthy, it is not a pleasant thing to talk to you about.”

“I insist upon knowing all, sir. Please tell me, Harry.”

“That first order would have been obeyed, Cynthy; but that last appeal makes me try to tell you with all my heart.”

“Now, Harry, once for all, I won’t have it,” said the little maiden, holding up a tiny white warning finger, which, as they were alone in the drawing-room, Lord Artingale seized and kissed. “I want you to be straightforward and sensible when you talk to me, sir, and if you do really like me, don’t pay me silly, sickly compliments.”

“I’ll never pay you another, Cynthy, as long as I live,” he said, eagerly; and the light-hearted girl burst into a merry fit of laughter.

“Oh, Harry, what a dear, stupid old boy you are. There, now, that will do – well, only one more. Now be serious, and tell me, for really I am in very, very great trouble.”

“But would you like me to tell you all about it?”

“Every word, Harry,” said Cynthia, with a quiet, earnest look, as she laid her little white hand in his.

For, saving an occasional rebuff by teasing, Lord Artingale’s love affairs seemed to be progressing in the most unromantic fashion. Cynthia had made a very pretty little confession to him; the Rector had been appealed to, and had become for the moment a little less rigid; and Mrs Mallow had sighed and then smiled.

“Well, dear. No: let me hold your hand like that, I can talk so much better.”

“Oh, you foolish boy!”

It was very foolish, no doubt; but Cynthia let her hand rest where it was.

“Well, it was like this,” said Artingale. “James Magnus saw that great fellow with the lantern take hold of Julie’s arm.”

“Then you see now, sir, that it is not fancy.”

“Not much fancy about it, certainly,” said the young man, grimly, “unless it’s P.R. fancy.”

“P.R. fancy, Harry; what’s that?”

“Oh, nothing,” he replied, hastily. “It’s a term they give to fighting. Well, Magnus says he felt as if he could have killed the scoundrel.”

“That’s well,” said Cynthia, flushing scarlet, and with her eyes sparkling; “I like that.”

“Do you?”

“Oh, yes,” she whispered, nestling up to her companion, and letting him draw her nearer, till her shiny little head rested against his breast.

“Yes, Harry, I like it – it sounds so brave and manly of him. Harry, dear, can’t you make James Magnus fall in love with Julie?”

“No.”

“You can’t!”

“No, Cynthy. Shall I tell you a secret?”

“I thought there were to be no secrets between us, Harry,” said the maiden, archly.

“Of course not. Well, little one, I think – no, I’m almost sure – that he has fallen in love with her already, without any making.”

“Oh, Harry, dear, how delightful. Here, I must go and tell her.”

“Not for the world, darling.”

“And pray why not, sir?”

“Because, Cynthy,” he said, raising her little face so that he could gaze seriously into her bright eyes, “because, dear, I should feel as if I had been betraying the confidence of my best friend.”

“But I should tell her, not you, Harry.”

“Is there any difference?” he said, quietly. “Isn’t it all one now, Cynthy?”

There was a slight pause, during which Cynthia’s eyes drooped beneath the searching gaze. Then she raised them, and returned his look with one so frank and full of loving trust that the young man’s heart gave one great throb, and the silence seemed likely to be lasting.

“Did James Magnus tell you he loved Julie, Harry?”

“No; but I feel sure he does.”

“I’m so glad, Harry,” said Cynthia, softly; “so very, very glad. But now tell me all. I saw a sort of scuffle, and then we were out of sight, with poor Julie in a dead faint.”

“There isn’t much to tell you, Cynthy, only that Magnus seized the scoundrel by the throat as the carriage dashed off; then there was a moment’s struggle, and the fellow threw him by some clever wrestling dodge, and he fell with his bare head a most awful crash upon the kerbstone.”

“Oh!”

“That made me feel mad, and I went at the fellow, but he was off like a shot, dashed down the road through the gateway; and as I ran after him, followed by a lot of people and two policemen, I saw him cross the road, go right at the park railings, and he was over in a moment, and right into the shrubs.”

“And did you follow?” said Cynthia, excitedly.

“Didn’t I! But I couldn’t get over so quickly as he did, and when I dropped on the other side I was half hanging by one of the tails of my coat, for a spike had gone through it.”

“Oh, what fun,” laughed Cynthia; “how droll you must have looked.”

“I dare say I did,” he said, good-humouredly; “but it gave the rascal time to get a good start, and when I was free and ran on with the police and two more men, the scoundrel had gone goodness knows where.”

“And you did not catch him, then?”

“No, he had got clean away, Cynthy, and after we had been hunting for above an hour we had to give it up.”

“Oh, what a pity.”

“Yes, wasn’t it.”

“I don’t know, though,” said Cynthia, softly; “if you had caught him he might have hurt you, too, Harry.”

“I’ll give him leave to,” said Artingale, “if I can only manage to make my mark upon him.”

“Oh, Harry, don’t look like that; you frighten me.”

“Do I? – there; but don’t you be alarmed about me, little one, I can take care of myself, and I don’t mean to rest till I’ve paid that fellow my debt.”

“Paid your debt, Harry?” said Cynthia, with a look of alarm.

“Yes, little one; I owe him something for frightening you, too, down at Lawford! – if it is the same man,” he added.

“Oh, yes, Harry; I saw his face last night quite plainly,” cried Cynthia, excitedly.

“Then he has frightened little sister twice since. I say, Cynthy, I may call her little sister now?”

“Of course you may; but go on with what you are saying. Oh, Harry, dear,” she whispered, “I wish I was as big and brave as you.”

“And,” he whispered, “I wish that you were always just as you are now, so sweet and bright and loving.”

“Well, sir, go on.”

“That’s about all,” he said, “only that I owe my fine fellow for last night’s affair as well.”

“And about Mr Magnus?”

“Well, I went back, of course, to Sunflower Oil soap.”

“Went where?” cried Cynthia, in astonishment. “Oh, I see, you had made your hands dirty getting over the railings.”

“No, no,” said Artingale, laughing, “I mean I went back to Perry-Morton’s.”

“Oh, what a shame, to call him such a name,” said Cynthia, solemnly, but with her eyes sparkling with delight.

“And there was poor Magnus lying on the sofa in the dining-room, and a couple of doctors bandaging his head, after which he insisted upon being taken back to his chambers, and that’s about all.”

“But you’ve been to see him this morning, Harry?”

“I sat up with him all night, and he grew quite delirious, and talked a good deal about Julia.”

“Oh!” and a pause. “And is his hurt very bad, Harry?” said Cynthia, looking now rather white. “Will it kill him?”

“Oh, no,” said Artingale, “he was a good deal hurt, and lost a lot of blood, and – oh, what an idiot I am!”

“No, no, Harry. I’m not so silly. I’m not going to faint. Hush, here’s Julia.”

For just then the door opened, and, looking very pale and wistful, the elder sister came into the room – smiling, though, as her eyes lit on the young couple; and as Artingale jumped up to greet her, there was something very loving and sisterly in the way in which she gazed in his face, and let him lead her to the couch upon which they had been sitting.

Here she inquired very anxiously after Mr Magnus, showing that she knew a good deal about the previous night’s affair; but Artingale noted her shudder and look of horror when her assailant was mentioned.

“That fellow must be stopped,” said the young man, as he went thoughtfully away. “Poor girl! she seems thoroughly afraid of him. Oh, hang it all, it must – it shall be stopped, or he’ll drive the poor child mad.”