The afternoon of the day on which Lord Hollingford called, Roger was going upstairs, three steps at a time, when, at a turn on the landing, he encountered his father. It was the first time he had seen him since their conversation about the Towers’ invitation to dinner. The squire stopped his son by standing right in the middle of the passage.
‘Thou’rt going to meet the mounseer, my lad?’ said he, half as affirmation, half as question.
‘No sir; I sent off James almost immediately with a note declining it. I don’t care about it—that’s to say, not to signify.’
‘Why did you take me up so sharp, Roger?’ said his father, pettishly. ‘You all take me up so hastily nowadays. I think it’s hard when a man mustn’t be allowed a bit of crossness when he’s tired and heavy at heart—that I do.’
‘But, father, I should never like to go to a house where they had slighted you.’
‘Nay, nay, lad,’ said the squire, brightening up a little; ‘I think I slighted them. They asked me to dinner, after my lord was made lieutenant, time after time, but I never would go near ’em. I call that my slighting them.’
And no more was said at the time; but the next day the squire again stopped Roger.
‘I’ve been making Jem try on his livery-coat that he hasn’t worn this three or four years—he’s got too stout for it now.’
‘Well, he needn’t wear it, need he? and Dawson’s lad will be glad enough of it,—he’s sadly in want of clothes.’
‘Aye, aye; but who’s to go with you when you call at the Towers? It’s but polite to call after Lord What’s-his-name has taken the trouble to come here; and I shouldn’t like you to go without a groom.’
‘My dear father! I shouldn’t know what to do with a man riding at my back. I can find my way to the stable-yard for myself, or there’ll be some man about to take my horse. Don’t trouble yourself about that.’
‘Well, you’re not Osborne, to be sure. Perhaps it won’t strike ’em as strange for you. But you must look up, and hold your own, and remember you’re one of the Hamleys, who’ve been on the same land for hundreds of years, while they’re but trumpery Whig folk who only came into the county in Queen Anne’s time.’
CHAPTER 28
Rivalry
For some days after the ball Cynthia seemed languid, and was very silent. Molly, who had promised herself fully as much enjoyment in talking over the past gaiety with Cynthia as in the evening itself, was disappointed when she found that all conversation on the subject was rather evaded than encouraged. Mrs. Gibson, it is true, was ready to go over the ground as many times as any one liked; but her words were always like ready-made clothes, and never fitted individual thoughts. Anybody might have used them, and, with a change of proper names, they might have served to describe any ball. She repeatedly used the same language in speaking about it, till Molly knew the sentences and their sequence, even to irritation.
‘Ah! Mr. Osborne, you should have been there! I said to myself many a time how you really should have been there—you and your brother, of course.’
‘I thought of you very often during the evening!’
‘Did you? Now that I call very kind of you. Cynthia, darling! Do you hear what Mr. Osborne Hamley was saying?’ as Cynthia came into the room just then. ‘He thought of us all on the evening of the ball.’
‘He did better than merely remember us then,’ said Cynthia, with her soft, slow smile. ‘We owe him thanks for those beautiful flowers, mamma.’
‘Oh!’ said Osborne, ‘you must not thank me exclusively. I believe it was my thought, but Roger took all the trouble of it.’
‘I consider the thought as everything,’ said Mrs. Gibson. ‘Thought is spiritual, while action is merely material.’
This fine sentence took the speaker herself by surprise; and in such conversation as was then going on, it is not necessary to accurately define the meaning of everything that is said.
‘I’m afraid the flowers were too late to be of much use, though,’ continued Osborne. ‘I met Preston the next morning and of course we talked about the ball. I was sorry to find he had been beforehand with us.’
‘He only sent one nosegay, and that was for Cynthia,’ said Molly, looking up from her work. ‘And it did not come till after we had received the flowers from Hamley’ Molly caught a sight of Cynthia’s face before she bent down again to her sewing. It was scarlet in colour, and there was a flash of anger in her eyes. Both she and her mother hastened to speak as soon as Molly had finished, but Cynthia’s voice was choked with passion, and Mrs. Gibson had the word.
‘Mr. Preston’s bouquet was just one of those formal affairs any one can buy at a nursery-garden, which always strike me as having no sentiment in them. I would far rather have two or three lilies of the valley gathered for me by a person I like, than the most expensive bouquet that could be bought!’
‘Mr. Preston had no business to speak as if he had forestalled you,’ said Cynthia. ‘It came just as we were ready to go, and I put it into the fire directly.’
‘Cynthia, my dear love!’ said Mrs. Gibson (who had never heard of the fate of the flowers until now), ‘what an idea of yourself you will give to Mr. Osborne Hamley; but to be sure, I can understand it. You inherit my feeling—my prejudice—sentimental I grant, against bought flowers.’
Cynthia was silent for a moment; then she said, ‘I used some of your flowers, Mr. Hamley, to dress Molly’s hair. It was a great temptation, for the colour so exactly matched her coral ornaments; but I believe she thought it treacherous to disturb the arrangement, so I sought to take all the blame on myself.’
‘The arrangement was my brother’s, as I told you; but I am sure he would have preferred seeing them in Miss Gibson’s hair rather than in the blazing fire. Mr. Preston comes far the worst off.’ Osborne was rather amused at the whole affair, and would have liked to probe Cynthia’s motives a little farther. He did not hear Molly saying in as soft a voice as if she were talking to herself, ‘I wore mine just as they were sent,’ for Mrs Gibson came in with a total change of the subject.
‘Speaking of lilies of the valley, is it true that they grow wild in Hurstwood? It is not the season for them to be in flower yet; but when it is, I think we must take a walk there—with our luncheon in a basket—a little picnic in fact. You’ll join us, won’t you?’ turning to Osborne. ‘I think it’s a charming plan! You could ride to Hollingford and put up your horse here, and we could have a long day in the woods and all come home to dinner—dinner with a basket of lilies in the middle of the table!’
‘I should like it very much,’ said Osborne; ‘but I may not be at home. Roger is more likely to be here, I believe, at that time—a month hence.’ He was thinking of the visit to London to sell his poems, and the run down to Winchester which he anticipated afterwards—the end of May had been the period fixed for this pleasure for some time, not merely in his own mind, but in writing to his wife.
‘Oh, but you must be with us! We must wait for Mr. Osborne Hamley, must not we, Cynthia?’
‘I’m afraid the lilies won’t wait,’ replied Cynthia.
‘Well, then, we must put it off till dog-rose and honeysuckle time. You will be at home then, won’t you? or does the London season present too many attractions?’
‘I don’t exactly know when dog-roses are in flower!’
‘Not know, and you a poet? Don’t you remember the lines—It was the time of roses,
We plucked them as we went?’
‘Yes; but that doesn’t specify the time of year that is the time of roses; and I believe my movements are guided more by the lunar calendar than the floral. You had better take my brother for your companion; he is practical in his love of flowers, I am only theoretical.’