Mrs Clarendon lived in one of the great houses in Portland Place which fashion has abandoned. It was very silent, wrapped in that stillness and decorum which is one of the chief signs of an entirely well-regulated house, also of a place in which life is languid and youth does not exist. Frances followed her mother with a beating heart through the long wide hall and large staircase, over soft carpets, on which their feet made no sound. She thought they were stealing in like ghosts to some silent place in which mystery of one kind or other must attend them; but the room they were ushered into was only a very large, very still drawing-room, in painfully good order, inhabited by nothing but a fire, which made a little sound and flicker {v2-119}that preserved it from utter death. The blinds were drawn half over the windows; the long curtains hung down in dark folds. There were none of the quaintnesses, the modern æstheticisms, the crowds of small picturesque articles of furniture impeding progress, in which Lady Markham delighted. The furniture was all solid, durable—what upholsterers call very handsome—huge mirrors over the mantelpieces, a few large portraits in chalk on the walls, solemn ornaments on the table; a large and brilliantly painted china flower-pot enclosing a large plant of the palm kind, dark-green and solemn, like everything else, holding the place of honour. It was very warm and comfortable, full of low easy-chairs and sofas, but at the same time very severe and forbidding, like a place into which the common occupations of life were never brought.
“She never sits here,” said Lady Markham in a low tone. “She has a morning-room that is cosy enough. She comes up here after dinner, when Mr Clarendon takes a nap before he looks over his briefs; and he comes up at ten o’clock for ten minutes and takes a cup of tea. Then she goes to bed. That is about{v2-120} all the intercourse they have, and all the time the drawing-room is occupied, except when people come to call. That is why it has such a depressing look.”
“Is she not happy, then?” said Frances wistfully, which was a silly question, as she now saw as soon as she had uttered it.
“Happy! Oh, probably just as happy as other people. That is not a question that is ever asked in Society, my dear. Why shouldn’t she be happy? She has everything she has ever wished for—plenty of money—for they are very rich—her husband quite distinguished in his sphere, and in the way of advancement. What could she want more? She is a lucky woman, as women go.”
“Still she must be dull, with no one to speak to,” said Frances, looking round her with a glance of dismay. What she thought was, that it would probably be her duty to come here to make a little society for her aunt, and her heart sank at the sight of this decent, nay, handsome gloom, with a sensation which Mariuccia’s kitchen at home, which only looked on the court, or the dimly lighted rooms of the villagers, had{v2-121} never given her. The silence was terrible, and struck a chill to her heart. Then all at once the door opened, and Mrs Clarendon came in, taking the young visitor entirely by surprise; for the soft carpets and thick curtains so entirely shut out all sound, that she seemed to glide in like a ghost to the ghosts already there. Frances, unaccustomed to English comfort, was startled by the absence of sound, and missed the indication of the footstep on the polished floor, which had so often warned her to lay aside her innocent youthful visions at the sound of her father’s approach. Mrs Clarendon coming in so softly seemed to arrest them in the midst of their talk about her, bringing a flush to Frances’ face. She was a tall woman, fair and pale, with cold grey eyes, and an air which was like that of her rooms—the air of being unused, of being put against the wall like the handsome furniture. She came up stiffly to Lady Markham, who went to meet her with effusion, holding out both hands.
“I am so glad to see you, Caroline. I feared you might be out, as it was such a beautiful day.{v2-122}”
“Is it a beautiful day? It seemed to me cold, looking out. I am not very energetic, you know—not like you. Have I seen this young lady before?”
“You have not seen her for a long time—not since she was a child; nor I either, which is more wonderful. This is Frances. Caroline, I told you I expected——”
“My brother’s child!” Mrs Clarendon said, fixing her eyes upon the girl, who came forward with shy eagerness. She did not open her arms, as Frances expected. She inspected her carefully and coldly, and ended by saying, “But she is like you,” with a certain tone of reproach.
“That is not my fault,” said Lady Markham, almost sharply; and then she added: “For the matter of that, they are both your brother’s children—though, unfortunately, mine too.”
“You know my opinion on that matter,” said Mrs Clarendon; and then, and not till then, she gave Frances her hand, and stooping kissed her on the cheek. “Your father writes very seldom, and I have never heard a word from you. All the same, I have always taken an interest in{v2-123} you. It must be very sad for you, after the life to which you have been accustomed, to be suddenly sent here without any will of your own.”
“Oh no,” said Frances. “I was very glad to come, to see mamma.”
“That’s the proper thing to say, of course,” the other said with a cold smile. There was just enough of a family likeness to her father to arrest Frances in her indignation. She was not allowed time to make an answer, even had she possessed confidence enough to do so, for her aunt went on, without looking at her again: “I suppose you have heard from Constance? It must be difficult for her too, to reconcile herself with the different kind of life. My brother’s quiet ways are not likely to suit a young lady about town.”
“Frances will be able to tell you all about it,” said Lady Markham, who kept her temper with astonishing self-control. “She only arrived last night. I would not delay a moment in bringing her to you. Of course, you will like to hear. Markham, who went to fetch his sister, is of opinion that on the whole the change will do Constance good.{v2-124}”
“I don’t at all doubt it will do her good. To associate with my brother would do any one good—who is worthy of it; but of course it will be a great change for her. And this child will be kept just long enough to be infected with worldly ways, and then sent back to him spoilt for his life. I suppose, Lady Markham, that is what you intend?”
“You are so determined to think badly of me,” said Lady Markham, “that it is vain for me to say anything; or else I might remind you that Con’s going off was a greater surprise to me than to any one. You know what were my views for her?”
“Yes. I rather wonder why you take the trouble to acquaint me with your plans,” Mrs Clarendon said.
“It is foolish, perhaps; but I have a feeling that as Edward’s only near relation——”
“Oh, I am sure I am much obliged to you for your consideration,” the other cried quickly. “Constance was never influenced by me; though I don’t wonder that her soul revolted at such a marriage as you had prepared for her.{v2-125}”
“Why?” cried Lady Markham quickly, with an astonished glance. Then she added with a smile: “I am afraid you will see nothing but harm in any plan of mine. Unfortunately, Con did not like the gentleman whom I approved. I should not have put any force upon her. One can’t nowadays, if one wished to. It is contrary, as she says herself, to the spirit of the times. But if you will allow me to say so, Caroline, Con is too like her father to bear anything, to put up with anything that——”
“Thank heaven!” cried Mrs Clarendon. “She is indeed a little like her dear father, notwithstanding a training so different. And this one, I suppose—this one you find like you?”
“I am happy to think she is a little, in externals at least,” said Lady Markham, taking Frances’ hand in her own. “But Edward has brought her up, Caroline; that should be a passport to your affections at least.”
Upon this, Mrs Clarendon came down as from a pedestal, and addressed herself to the girl, over whose astonished head this strange dialogue had gone. “I am afraid, my dear, you will think me very hard and disagreeable,” she{v2-126} said. “I will not tell you why, though I think I could make out a case. How is your dear father? He writes seldomer and seldomer—sometimes not even at Christmas; and I am afraid you have little sense of family duties, which is a pity at your age.”
Frances did not know how to reply to this accusation, and she was confused and indignant, and little disposed to attempt to please. “Papa,” she said, “is very well. I have heard him say that he could not write letters—our life was so quiet: there was nothing to say.”
“Ah, my dear, that is all very well for strangers, or for those who care more about the outside than the heart. But he might have known that anything, everything would be interesting to me. It is just your ............