The day when Lord Hawbury called on
Lady Dalrymple was a very eventful one in his life,
and had it not been for a slight peculiarity of his,
the immediate result of that visit would have been
of a highly important character. This slight
peculiarity consisted in the fact that he was short-sighted,
and, therefore, on a very critical occasion turned
away from that which would have been his greatest joy,
although it was full before his gaze.
It happened in this wise:
On the day when Hawbury called, Ethel
happened to be sitting by the window, and saw him
as he rode up. Now the last time that she had
seen him he had a very different appearance all
his hair being burned off, from head and cheeks and
chin; and the whiskers which he had when she first
met him had been of a different cut from the present
appendages. In spite of this she recognized him
almost in a moment; and her heart beat fast, and her
color came and went, and her hands clutched the window
ledge convulsively.
“It’s he!” she murmured.
Of course there was only one idea
in her mind, and that was that he had heard of her
presence in Naples, and had come to call on her.
She sat there without motion, with
her head eagerly bent forward, and her eyes fixed
upon him. He looked up carelessly as he came along,
and with his chin in the air, in a fashion peculiar
to him, which, by-the-way, gave a quite unintentional
superciliousness to his expression. For an instant
his eyes rested upon her, then they moved away, without
the slightest recognition, and wandered elsewhere.
Ethel’s heart seemed turned
to stone. He had seen her. He had not noticed
her. He had fixed his eyes on her and then looked
away. Bitter, indeed, was all this to her.
To think that after so long a period of waiting after
such hope and watching as hers had been that
this should be the end. She turned away from the
window, with a choking sensation in her throat.
No one was in the room. She was alone with her
thoughts and her tears.
Suddenly her mood changed. A
thought came to her which dispelled her gloom.
The glance that he had given was too hasty; perhaps
he really had not fairly looked at her. No doubt
he had come for her, and she would shortly be summoned
down.
And now this prospect brought new
hope. Light returned to her eyes, and joy to
her heart. Yes, she would be summoned. She
must prepare herself to encounter his eager gaze.
Quickly she stepped to the mirror, hastily she arranged
those little details in which consists the charm of
a lady’s dress, and severely she scrutinized
the face and figure reflected there. The scrutiny
was a satisfactory one. Face and figure were
perfect; nor was there in the world any thing more
graceful and more lovely than the image there, though
the one who looked upon it was far too self-distrustful
to entertain any such idea as that.
Then she seated herself and waited.
The time moved slowly, indeed, as she waited there.
After a few minutes she found it impossible to sit
any longer. She walked to the door, held it open,
and listened. She heard his voice below quite
plainly. They had two suits of rooms in the house the
bedrooms up stairs and reception-rooms below.
Here Lord Hawbury was, now, within hearing of Ethel.
Well she knew that voice. She listened and frowned.
The tone was too flippant. He talked like a man
without a care like a butterfly of society and
that was a class which she scorned. Here he was,
keeping her waiting. Here he was, keeping up
a hateful clatter of small-talk, while her heart was
aching with suspense.
Ethel stood there listening.
Minute succeeded to minute. There was no request
for her. How strong was the contrast between the
cool indifference of the man below, and the feverish
impatience of that listener above! A wild impulse
came to her to go down, under the pretense of looking
for something; then another to go down and out for
a walk, so that he might see her. But in either
case pride held her back. How could she?
Had he not already seen her? Must he not know
perfectly well that she was there? No; if he did
not call for her she could not go. She could
not make advances.
Minute succeeded to minute, and Ethel
stood burning with impatience, racked with suspense,
a prey to the bitterest feelings. Still no message.
Why did he delay? Her heart ached now worse than
ever, the choking feeling in her throat returned,
and her eyes grew moist. She steadied herself
by holding to the door. Her fingers grew white
at the tightness of her grasp; eyes and ears were
strained in their intent watchfulness over the room
below.
Of course the caller below was in
a perfect state of ignorance about all this.
He had not the remotest idea of that one who now stood
so near. He came as a martyr. He came to
make a call. It was a thing he detested.
It bored him. To a man like him the one thing
to be avoided on earth was a bore. To be bored
was to his mind the uttermost depth of misfortune.
This he had voluntarily accepted. He was being
bored, and bored to death.
Certainly no man ever accepted a calamity
more gracefully than Hawbury. He was charming,
affable, easy, chatty. Of course he was known
to Lady Dalrymple. The Dowager could make herself
as agreeable as any lady living, except young and
beautiful ones. The conversation, therefore,
was easy and flowing. Hawbury excelled in this.
Now there are several variations in
the great art of expression, and each of these is
a minor art by itself. Among these may be enumerated:
First, of course, the art of novel-writing.
Second, the art of writing editorials.
Third, the art of writing paragraphs.
After these come all the arts of oratory,
letter-writing, essay-writing, and all that sort of
thing, among which there is one to which I wish particularly
to call attention, and this is:
The art of small-talk.
Now this art Hawbury had to an extraordinary
degree of perfection. He knew how to beat out
the faintest shred of an idea into an illimitable
surface of small-talk. He never took refuge in
the weather. He left that to bunglers and beginners.
His resources were of a different character, and were
so skillfully managed that he never failed to leave
a very agreeable impression. Small-talk!
Why, I’ve been in situations sometimes where
I would have given the power of writing like Dickens
(if I had it) for perfection in this last art.
But this careless, easy, limpid, smooth,
natural, pleasant, and agreeable flow of chat was
nothing but gall and wormwood to the listener above.
She ought to be there. Why was she so slighted?
Could it be possible that he would go away without
seeing her?
She was soon to know.
She heard him rise. She heard him saunter to
the door.
“Thanks, yes. Ha, ha, you’re
too kind really yes very
happy, you know. To-morrow, is it? Good-morning.”
And with these words he went out.
With pale face and staring eyes Ethel
darted back to the window. He did not see her.
His back was turned. He mounted his horse and
gayly cantered away. For full five minutes Ethel
stood, crouched in the shadow of the window, staring
after him, with her dark eyes burning and glowing
in the intensity of their gaze. Then she turned
away with a bewildered look. Then she locked
the door. Then she flung herself upon the sofa,
buried her head in her hands, and burst into a convulsive
passion of tears. Miserable, indeed, were the
thoughts that came now to that poor stricken girl
as she lay there prostrate. She had waited long,
and hoped fondly, and all her waiting and all her
hope had been for this. It was for this that she
had been praying for this that she had
so fondly cherished his memory. He had come at
last, and he had gone; but for her he had certainly
shown nothing save an indifference as profound as
it was inexplicable.
Ethel’s excuse for not appearing
at the dinner-table was a severe headache. Her
friends insisted on seeing her and ministering to her
sufferings. Among other things, they tried to
cheer her by telling her of Hawbury. Lady Dalrymple
was full of him. She told all about his family,
his income, his habits, and his mode of life.
She mentioned, with much satisfaction, that he had
made inquiries after Minnie, and that she had promised
to introduce him to her the next time he called.
Upon which he had laughingly insisted on calling the
next day. All of which led Lady Dalrymple to
conclude that he had seen Minnie somewhere, and had
fallen in love with her.
This was the pleasing strain of conversation
into which the ladies were led off by Lady Dalrymple.
When I say the ladies, I mean Lady Dalrymple and Minnie.
Mrs. Willoughby said nothing, except once or twice
when she endeavored to give a turn to the conversation,
in which she was signally unsuccessful. Lady
Dalrymple and Minnie engaged in an animated argument
over the interesting subject of Hawbury’s intentions,
Minnie taking her stand on the ground of his indifference,
the other maintaining the position that he was in love.
Minnie declared that she had never seen him.
Lady Dalrymple asserted her belief that he had seen
her. The latter also asserted that Hawbury would
no doubt be a constant visitor, and gave Minnie very
sound advice as to the best mode of treating him.
On the following day Hawbury called,
and was introduced to Minnie. He chatted with
her in his usual style, and Lady Dalrymple was more
than ever confirmed in her first belief. He suggested
a ride, and the suggestion was taken up.
If any thing had been needed to complete
Ethel’s despair it was this second visit and
the project of a ride. Mrs. Willoughby was introduced
to him; but he took little notice of her, treating
her with a kind of reserve that was a little unusual
with him. The reason of this was his strong sympathy
with his friend, and his detestation of Mrs. Willoughby’s
former history. Mrs. Willoughby, however, had
to ride with them when they went out, and thus she
was thrown a little more into Hawbury’s way.
Ethel never made her appearance.
The headaches which she avouched were not pretended.
They were real, and accompanied with heartaches that
were far more painful. Hawbury never saw her,
nor did he ever hear her mentioned. In general
he himself kept the conversation in motion; and as
he never asked questions, they, of course, had no opportunity
to answer. On the other hand, there was no occasion
to volunteer any remarks about the number or the character
of their party. When he talked it was usually
with Lady Dalrymple and Minnie: and with these
the conversation turned always upon glittering generalities,
and the airy nothings of pleasant gossip. All
this, then, will very easily account for the fact
that Hawbury, though visiting there constantly, never
once saw Ethel, never heard her name mentioned, and
had not the faintest idea that she was so near.
She, on the other hand, feeling now sure that he was
utterly false and completely forgetful, proudly and
calmly held aloof, and kept out of his way with the
most jealous care, until at last she staid indoors
altogether, for fear, if she went out, that she might
meet him somewhere. For such a meeting she did
not feel sufficiently strong.
Often she thought of quitting Naples
and returning to England. Yet, after all, she
found a strange comfort in being there. She was
near him. She heard his voice every day, and
saw his face. That was something. And it
was better than absence.
Minnie used always to come to her
and pour forth long accounts of Lord Hawbury how
he looked, what he said, what he did, and what he
proposed to do. Certainly there was not the faintest
approach to love-making, or even sentiment, in Hawbury’s
attitude toward Minnie. His words were of the
world of small-talk a world where sentiment
and love-making have but little place. Still
there was the evident fact of his attentions, which
were too frequent to be overlooked.
Hawbury rapidly became the most prominent
subject of Minnie’s conversation. She used
to prattle away for hours about him. She alluded
admiringly to his long whiskers. She thought them
“lovely.” She said that he was “awfully
nice.” She told Mrs. Willoughby that “he
was nicer than any of them; and then, Kitty darling,”
she added, “it’s so awfully good of him
not to be coming and saving my life, and carrying
me on his back down a mountain, like an ogre, and then
pretending that he’s my father, you know.
“For you know, Kitty pet, I’ve
always longed so awfully to see some really nice person,
you know, who wouldn’t go and save my life and
bother me. Now he doesn’t seem a bit like
proposing. I do hope he won’t.
Don’t you, Kitty dearest? It’s so
much nicer not to propose. It’s
so horrid when they go and propose. And then,
you know, I’ve had so much of that sort of thing.
So, Kitty, I think he’s really the nicest person
that I ever saw, and I really think I’m beginning
to like him.”
Far different from these were the
conversations which Mrs. Willoughby had with Ethel.
She was perfectly familiar with Ethel’s story.
It had been confided to her long ago. She alone
knew why it was that Ethel had walked untouched through
crowds of admirers. The terrible story of her
rescue was memorable to her for other reasons; and
the one who had taken the prominent part in that rescue
could not be without interest for her.
“There is no use, Kitty no
use in talking about it any more,” said Ethel
one day, after Mrs. Willoughby had been urging her
to show herself. “I can not. I will
not. He has forgotten me utterly.”
“Perhaps he has no idea that
you are here. He has never seen you.”
“Has he not been in Naples as
long as we have? He must have seen me in the
streets. He saw Minnie.”
“Do you think it likely that
he would come to this house and slight you? If
he had forgotten you he would not come here.”
“Oh yes, he would. He comes
to see Minnie. He knows I am here, of course.
He doesn’t care one atom whether I make my appearance
or not. He doesn’t even give me a thought.
It’s so long since that time that he
has forgotten even my existence. He has been all
over the world since then, and has had a hundred adventures.
I have been living quietly, cherishing the remembrance
of that one thing.”
“Ethel, is it not worth trying? Go down
and try him.”
“I can not bear it. I can
not look at him. I lose all self-command when
he is near. I should make a fool of myself.
He would look at me with a smile of pity. Could
I endure that? No, Kitty; my weakness must never
be known to him.”
“Oh, Ethel, how I wish you could try it!”
“Kitty, just think how utterly
I am forgotten. Mark this now. He knows
I was at your house. He must remember your
name. He wrote to me there, and I answered him
from there. He sees you now, and your name must
be associated with mine in his memory of me, if he
has any. Tell me now, Kitty, has he ever mentioned
me? has he ever asked you about me? has he ever made
the remotest allusion to me?”
Ethel spoke rapidly and impetuously,
and as she spoke she raised herself from the sofa
where she was reclining, and turned her large, earnest
eyes full upon her friend with anxious and eager watchfulness.
Mrs. Willoughby looked back at her with a face full
of sadness, and mournfully shook her head.
“You see,” said Ethel,
as she sank down again “you see how
true my impression is.”
“I must say,” said Mrs.
Willoughby, “that I thought of this before.
I fully expected that he would make some inquiry after
you. I was so confident in the noble character
of the man, both from your story and the description
of others, that I could not believe you were right.
But you are right, my poor Ethel. I wish I could
comfort you, but I can not. Indeed, my dear,
not only has he not questioned me about you, but he
evidently avoids me. It is not that he is engrossed
with Minnie, for he is not so; but he certainly has
some reason of his own for avoiding me. Whenever
he speaks to me there is an evident effort on his
part, and though perfectly courteous, his manner leaves
a certain disagreeable impression. Yes, he certainly
has some reason for avoiding me.”
“The reason is plain enough,”
murmured Ethel. “He wishes to prevent you
from speaking about a painful subject, or at least
a distasteful one. He keeps you off at a distance
by an excess of formality. He will give you no
opportunity whatever to introduce any mention of me.
And now let me also ask you this does he
ever take any notice of any allusion that may be made
to me?”
“I really don’t remember hearing any allusion
to you.”
“Oh, that’s scarcely possible!
You and Minnie must sometimes have alluded to ‘Ethel.’”
“Well, now that you put it in
that light, I do remember hearing Minnie allude to
you on several occasions. Once she wondered why
‘Ethel’ did not ride. Again she remarked
how ‘Ethel’ would enjoy a particular view.”
“And he heard it?”
“Oh, of course.”
“Then there is not a shadow
of a doubt left. He knows I am here. He
has forgotten me so totally, and is so completely indifferent,
that he comes here and pays attention to another who
is in the very same house with me. It is hard.
Oh, Kitty, is it not? Is it not bitter? How
could I have thought this of him?”
A high-hearted girl was Ethel, and
a proud one; but at this final confirmation of her
worst fears there burst from her a sharp cry, and
she buried her face in her hands, and moaned and wept.