Chapter Eight #2
The young couple dined tête-à-tête at the fashionable late hour of eight o’clock on their first evening in their new home, sitting opposite one another in their smart dining-room, and waited on by a butler whose spare frame and pallid countenance seemed to indicate that he was of a suitably abstemious character.
The dinner, which consisted of a broiled fowl with mushrooms, preceded by a dressed lobster and a delicacy of cockscombs served in wine-sauce, and followed by a pupton of pears, in the old style, and a trifle, was excellently cooked, and earned the Viscount’s praise.
Hero, who had already been obliged to receive a stately visit from the superior being who presided over the kitchen, said in a very housewifely way that she was glad they had decided to take away the old fireplace from the kitchen, and to install a closed stove in its place.
The Viscount rather spoiled the effect of this utterance by grinning across the table at her, and demanding what the devil she knew about kitchen stoves.
Hero twinkled merrily back at him, and replied: ‘Well, not very much, but Mrs Groombridge says that they are excellent contrivances, and there is a great saving of coal.’
‘Well, that’s something, at all events,’ said Sherry, putting up his glass to inspect the bottle the butler was exhibiting at his elbow. ‘No, not that. Bring up a bottle of sparkling champagne. You’ll like that, Kitten.’
As the Viscount liked his wine to be very dry, Hero had to school her features to an expression of appreciation she was some way from feeling.
That made his lordship laugh, but he told her that he could not permit her to be everlastingly maudling her inside with such stuff as ratafia, and bade her drink it up like a good girl.
‘A glass of wine with you, my lady!’ he said, raising his glass.
‘Damme, we must drink to our first home, so we must!’
Under his instruction, Hero very correctly left him at the end of dinner, and withdrew to the drawing-room above-stairs, while he drank his port in solitary state.
Since this was dull work, he soon joined her, dropping into one of the straw-coloured chairs, and stretching out his long legs towards the grate, where a small fire had been kindled, and saying, with a yawn, that there was a deal to be said for a fellow’s getting married after all.
‘At least,’ he added, ‘there would be, if you hadn’t bought such an uncomfortable set of chairs! What the deuce was Ferdy about to countenance it?’
‘Oh, don’t you remember, Sherry? We bought these together, on that first day, when you went with me to choose our furniture.’
‘Good God, I must have been foxed!’
‘Well, perhaps you are sitting in the wrong one,’ said Hero. ‘I wish you will try this one instead: indeed, it is very comfortable!’
The Viscount made no objection to changing places with her, and as he pronounced this second chair to be tolerably easy, she was perfectly satisfied.
Before the Viscount had had time to find an evening spent at his own fireside very flat, a knock sounded on the street door, and in a few minutes Sir Montagu Revesby’s card was brought up to Sherry.
He commanded Groombridge to beg this late caller to step upstairs, and himself went out on to the landing to welcome him.
Sir Montagu came in, full of graceful apologies for intruding upon her ladyship so soon after her arrival in town.
He had been imperfectly informed: would have left his card at the house that morning: trusted she would forgive such informality: he had come only to discover if Sherry liked to accompany him to a little meeting of a few friends in a house near-by.
‘Brockenhurst begged I would prevail upon you to join us, if you should have returned to London, my dear Sherry, but I fear’ – with a bow, and one of his ironic smiles in Hero’s direction – ‘I have come on a fruitless errand.’
‘Oh, lord, no, nothing of the sort!’ Sherry said. ‘You won’t mind my leaving you, will you, Kitten?’
Mindful of his warning that once they were settled in London they would not interfere with each other’s pursuits, Hero swallowed her disappointment, and assured him that she was on the point of retiring to bed.
‘That’s right,’ said his lordship. ‘I knew you would be tired after the journey.’ He picked up one of her hands, dropped a kiss on her wrist, and took himself off with Sir Montagu.
Hero lifted her wrist to her cheek, and held it there for some moments after he had gone.
She felt a strong inclination to cry, and concluded that she must indeed be tired, since she knew very well that she had nothing whatsoever to cry about, but, on the contrary, everything in the world to make her happy.
On this elevating thought she retired to her bed-chamber, and talked in a very cheerful way to her abigail while she was undressed and put to bed.
Sherry, who did not return to the house until the small hours, put in no appearance at the breakfast-table.
When he did emerge from his bedchamber, it was past eleven o’clock, and not only was he clad in a dressing-gown, but he still looked remarkably heavy eyed.
He said simply that they had had a pretty batch of it at Brockenhurst’s, and also that he was dipped a little at hazard.
Altogether, Hero did not think that it would be wise to remind him that they had planned to wait upon his mother at noon.
He retired again to his room, irritably demanding why the devil Bootle had not brought up the water for his shave; and Hero was just deciding that it would be pleasant to go for an airing in Hyde Park in her barouche, when the first of her morning callers knocked on the door.
It was Mrs Bagshot, bringing her two elder daughters in her train. She came sailing into the drawing-room, almost before Groombridge had had time to announce her, paused in the middle of the floor, and, after throwing an appraising glance round, uttered the one word: ‘Well!’
Hero rose from her chair in some confusion, and came forward, blushing faintly, and stammering: ‘C-cousin J-Jane! C-Cassy! Eudora! How do you do?’
‘I wonder you can look me in the face!’ said Mrs Bagshot. Her eyes ran over Hero’s high-necked gown of worked French muslin, with its double flounce and rows of tucks. ‘Upon my word!’ she said. ‘I dare say you have never worn such a dress in your life!’
This was an unfortunate observation, since it gave Hero the opportunity to retort: ‘You must know that I have not, cousin!’
‘Whatever have you done to your hair?’ demanded Cassandra. ‘You look so strange! I should scarcely have known you.’
‘It is the very latest fashion,’ replied Hero. ‘My maid did it.’
Mrs Bagshot gave a short laugh. ‘Fine feathers make fine birds! I see that you have set yourself up in the very latest mode. I suppose we shall have you setting up your carriage, and renting your box at the opera, in imitation of your betters. When I consider – However, I did not come to quarrel with you, and heaven knows I am thankful to see you creditably established, even though you may have had to accept an offer made to you in a fit of pique to do it. I am sure it would not surprise me to find that you are now too grand to recognise the humble cousins who gave you a home when you were left destitute upon the world.’
‘No,’ said Hero seriously. ‘Indeed, I am not so ungrateful! And I would be glad to try to find husbands for my cousins, if I could, only Sherry says –’ She broke off short, colouring to the roots of her hair, the most comical expression of dismay on her face.
‘And pray what may your husband say?’ demanded Mrs Bagshot in menacing accents.
‘I’ve forgotten!’ said Hero desperately.
‘I abhor prevarication,’ remarked Eudora. ‘I am sure you need not fear to repeat what he said, for it does not matter a fig to us what such a rackety young man may say!’
Stung by this criticism of her idol, Hero retorted without hesitation: ‘Well, he said he wouldn’t have you in the house, because he doesn’t like you!’
Mrs Bagshot turned quite purple, and struggled in vain for words.
Before she could find any at all adequate to the situation, Hero had said penitently: ‘Oh, I beg your pardon! But Eudora should not have said that about Sherry! Do, pray, sit down, Cousin Jane, and – and let me ring for Groombridge to bring some fruit, and a glass of wine!’
Mrs Bagshot coldly refused this offer of refreshment, but she condescended to seat herself on the sofa, remarking as she did so that she was sorry to see that her exalted position had not led Hero to mend her manners.
Her daughters wandered about the room, inspecting the furniture, criticising the colour of the hangings, and wondering how Hero could bear to have a canary deafening her with its odious noise.
Hero replied to their strictures and exclamations with what patience she could muster, and tried to counter Mrs Bagshot’s extremely searching questions with dignity and civility.
She was succeeding very well when the door opened to admit Sherry, who came in all unawares, saying: ‘Here’s a damned thing, Kitten! That fool of a man of mine has lost my –’
What Bootle had lost they were not destined to learn, for Sherry, perceiving the morning-callers, broke off in mid-sentence, ejaculated: ‘My God!’ in accents of horror, and retired precipitately.
Hero made a desperate attempt to keep her countenance, failed, and went into a peal of laughter. Her affronted relative rose majestically, and, addressing her daughters, said in a terrible voice: ‘Come, my loves! It is plain that we are not welcome in your cousin’s house.’
‘Oh, pray do not take a pet, Cousin Jane!’ begged Hero. ‘It – it is just that poor Sherry is not feeling quite the thing to-day! He will be sorry presently, I dare say.’