Lady Harriet threw herself back in her chair, and yawned; Mrs. Gibson took one of her ladyship’s hands in a soft sympathizing manner, and murmured,—
‘Poor Lady Harriet!’ and then she purred affectionately.
After a pause Lady Harriet started up and said—‘I used to take you as my arbiter of morals when I was a little girl. Tell me, do you think it wrong to tell lies?’
‘Oh, my dear! how can you ask such questions?—of course it is, very wrong,—very wicked indeed, I think I may say. But I know you were only joking when you said you had told lies.’
‘No, indeed, I wasn’t. I told as plump, fat lies as you would wish to hear. I said I “was obliged to go into Hollingford on business,” when the truth was there was no obligation in the matter, only an insupportable desire of being free from my visitors for an hour or two, and my only business was to come here, and yawn, and complain, and lounge at my leisure. I really think I’m unhappy at having told a story, as children express it.’
‘But, my dear Lady Harriet,’ said Mrs. Gibson, a little puzzled as to the exact meaning of the words that were trembling on her tongue, ‘I am sure you thought that you meant what you said when you said it.’
‘No, I didn’t,’ put in Lady Harriet.
‘And besides, if you didn’t, it was the fault of the tiresome people who drove you into such straits—yes, it was certainly their fault, not yours—and then you know the conventions of society—ah, what trammels they are!’
Lady Harriet was silent for a minute or two; then she said,—‘Tell me, Clare; you’ve told lies sometimes, haven’t you?’
‘Lady Harriet! I think you might have known me better; but I know you don’t mean it, dear.’
‘Yes, I do.You must have told white lies, at any rate. How did you feel after them?’
‘I should have been miserable if I ever had. I should have died of self-reproach. “The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” has always seemed to me such a fine passage. But then I have so much that is unbending in my nature, and in our sphere of life there are so few temptations; if we are humble we are also simple, and unshackled by etiquette.’
‘Then you blame me very much? If somebody else will blame me, I shan’t be so unhappy at what I said this morning.’
‘I am sure I never blamed you, not in my innermost heart, dear Lady Harriet. Blame you, indeed! That would be presumption in me.’
‘I think I shall set up a confessor! and it shan’t be you, Clare, for you have always been only too indulgent to me.’
After a pause she said,—‘Can you give me some lunch, Clare? I don’t mean to go home till three. My “business” will take me till then, as the people at the Towers are duly informed.’
‘Certainly. I shall be delighted! but you know we are very simple in our habits.’
‘Oh, I only want a little bread-and-butter, and perhaps a slice of cold meat—you must not give yourself any trouble, Clare—perhaps you dine now? let me sit down just like one of your family.’
‘Yes, you shall. I won’t make any alteration;—it will be so pleasant to have you sharing our family meal, dear Lady Harriet. But we dine late, we only lunch now. How low the fire is getting; I really am forgetting everything in the pleasure of this tête-à-tête!’
So she rang twice; with great distinctness, and with a long pause between the rings. Maria brought in coals.
But the signal was as well understood by Cynthia as the ‘Hall of Apollo’ was by the servants of Lucullus. The brace of partridges that were to have been for the late dinner were instantly put down to the fire; and the prettiest china brought out, and the table decked with flowers and fruit, arranged with all Cynthia’s usual dexterity and taste. So that when the meal was announced, and Lady Harriet entered the room, she could not but think her hostess’s apologies had been quite unnecessary; and be more and more convinced that Clare had done very well for herself. Cynthia now joined the party, pretty and elegant as she always was; but somehow she did not take Lady Harriet’s fancy; she only noticed her on account of her being her mother’s daughter. Her presence made the conversation more general, and Lady Harriet gave out several pieces of news, none of them of any great importance to her, but as what had been talked about by the circle of visitors assembled at the Towers.
‘Lord Hollingford ought to have been with us,’ she said, amongst other things; ‘but he is obliged, or fancies himself obliged, which is all the same thing, to stay in town about this Crichton legacy!’
‘A legacy? To Lord Hollingford? I am so glad!’
‘Don’t be in a hurry to be glad! It’s nothing for him but trouble. Didn’t you hear of that rich eccentric Mr. Crichton, who died some time ago, and—fired by the example of Lord Bridgewater,db I suppose—left a sum of money in the hands of trustees, of whom my brother is one, to send out a man with a thousand fine qualifications, to make a scientific voyage, with a view to bringing back specimens of the fauna of distant lands, and so forming the nucleus of a museum which is to be called the Crichton Museum, and so perpetuate the founder’s name. Such various forms does man’s vanity take! Sometimes it simulates philanthropy; sometimes a love of science!’
‘It seems to me a very laudable and useful object, I am sure,’ said Mrs. Gibson, safely.
‘I dare say it is, taking it from the public-good view. But it’s rather tiresome to us privately, for it keeps Hollingford in town—or between it and Cambridge—and each place as dull and empty as can be, just when we want him down at the Towers. The thing ought to have been decided long ago, and there’s some danger of the legacy lapsing. The two other trustees have run away to the Continent, feeling, as they say, the utmost confidence in him, but in reality shirking their responsibilities. However, I believe he likes it, so I ought not to grumble. He thinks he is going to be very successful in the choice of this man—and he belongs to this county, too,—young Hamley of Hamley, if he can only get his college to let him go, for he is a fellow of Trinity, senior wrangler or something; and they’re not so foolish as to send their crack man to be eaten up by lions and tigers!’
‘It must be Roger Hamley!’ exclaimed Cynthia, her eyes brightening, and her cheeks flushing.
‘He’s not the eldest son; he can scarcely be called Hamley of Hamley!’ said Mrs. Gibson.
‘Hollingford’s man is a fellow of Trinity, as I said before.’
‘Then it is Mr. Roger Hamley,’ said Cynthia; ‘and he’s up in London about some business! What news for Molly when she comes home!’
‘Why, what has Molly to do with it?’ asked Lady Harriet. ‘Is_______?’ and she looked into Mrs. Gibson’s face for an answer. Mrs. Gibson in reply gave an intelligent and very expressive glance at Cynthia, who, however, did not perceive it.
‘Oh, no! not at all,’ and Mrs. Gibson nodded a little at her daughter, as much as to say, ‘If any one, that.’
Lady Harriet began to look at the pretty Miss Kirkpatrick with fresh interest; her brother had spoken in such a manner of this young Mr. Hamley that every one connected with the phoenix was worthy of observation. Then, as if the mention of Molly’s name had brought her afresh into her mind, Lady Harriet said,—‘And where is Molly all this time? I should like to see my little mentor. I hear she is very much grown since those days.’