"these violet delights have violet ends,
and in their triumph die, like fire and powder."
—romeo and juliet.
"that is the way with you men; you don't understand us,—you cannot."
—courtship of miles standish.
whether it is because of marcia's demeanor toward mr. buscarlet, or the unusual excellence of the weather, no one can tell, but to-night mr. amherst is in one of his choicest moods.
each of his remarks outdoes the last in brilliancy of conception, whilst all tend in one direction, and show a laudable desire to touch on open wounds. even the presence of his chosen intimate, the lawyer, who remains to dinner and an uncomfortable evening afterward, has not the power to stop him, though mr. buscarlet does all in his knowledge to conciliate him, and fags on wearily through his gossiping conversations with an ardor and such an amount of staying power as raises admiration even in the breast of marcia.
all in vain. the little black dog has settled down on the old gentleman's shoulders with a vengeance and a determination to see it out with the guests not to be shaken.
poor mr. potts is the victim of the hour. though why, because he is enraged with marcia, mr. amherst should expend his violence upon the wretched plantagenet is a matter for speculation. he leaves no stone unturned to bring down condemnation on the head of this poor youth and destroy his peace of mind; but fortunately, plantagenet has learned the happy knack of "ducking" mentally and so letting all hostile missiles fly harmless over his rosy head.
after dinner mr. darley good-naturedly suggests a game of besique with his host, but is snubbed, to the great grief of those assembled in the drawing-room. thereupon darley, with an air of relief, takes up a book and retires within himself, leaving mr. buscarlet to come once more to the front.
"you have heard, of course, about the wyburns?" he says, addressing mr. amherst. "they are very much cut up about that second boy. he has turned out such a failure! he missed his examination again last week."
"i see no cause for wonder. what does wyburn expect? at sixty-five he weds a silly chit of nineteen without an earthly idea in her head, and then dreams of giving a genius to the world! when," says mr. amherst, turning his gaze freely upon the devoted potts, "men marry late in life they always beget fools."
"that's me," says mr. potts, addressing molly in an undertone, utterly unabashed. "my father married at sixty and my mother at twenty-five. in me you behold the fatal result."
"well, well," goes on mr. buscarlet, hastily, with a view to checking the storm, "i think in this case it was more idleness than want of brain."
"my dear buscarlet, did you ever yet hear of a dunce whose mother did not go about impressing upon people how idle the dear boy was? idle? pooh! lack of intellect!"
"at all events, the wyburns are to be pitied. the eldest son's marriage with one so much beneath him was also a sad blow."
"was it? others endure like blows and make no complaint. it is quite the common and regular thing for the child you have nurtured, to grow up and embitter your life in every possible way by marrying against your wishes, or otherwise bringing down disgrace upon your head. i have been especially blessed in my children and grandchildren."
"just so, no doubt,—no doubt," says mr. buscarlet, nervously. there is a meaning sneer about the old man's lips.
"specially blessed," he repeats. "i had reason to be proud of them. each child as he or she married gave me fresh cause for joy. marcia's mother was an italian dancer."
"she was an actress," marcia interposes, calmly, not a line of displeasure, not the faintest trace of anger, discernible in her pale face. "i do not recollect having ever heard she danced."
"probably she suppressed that fact. it hardly adds to one's respectability. philip's father was a spendthrift. his son develops day by day a very dutiful desire to follow in his footsteps."
"perhaps i might do worse," shadwell replies, with a little aggravating laugh. "at all events, he was beloved."
"so he was,—while his money lasted. eleanor's father——"
with a sudden, irrepressible start molly rises to her feet and, with a rather white face, turns to her grandfather.
"i will thank you, grandpapa, to say nothing against my father," she says, in tones so low, yet so full of dignity and indignation, that the old man actually pauses.
"high tragedy," says he, with a sneer. "why, you are all wrongly assorted. the actress should have been your mother, eleanor."
yet it is noticeable that he makes no further attempt to slight the memory of the dead massereene.
"i shan't be able to stand much more of this," says mr. potts, presently, coming behind the lounge on which sit lady stafford and molly. "i shall infallibly blow out at that obnoxious old person, or else do something equally reprehensible."
"he is a perfect bear," says cecil angrily.
"he is a wicked old man," says molly, still trembling with indignation.
"he is a jolly old snook," says mr. potts. but as neither of his listeners know what he means, they do not respond.
"let us do something," says plantagenet, briskly.
"but what? will you sing for us, molly? 'music hath charms to soothe the savage breast.'"
"it would take a good deal of music to soothe our bête noire," says potts. "besides—i confess it,—music is not what artemus ward would call my 'forte.' i don't understand it. i am like the man who said he only knew two tunes in the world: one was 'god save the queen,' and the other wasn't. no, let us do something active,—something unusual, something wicked."
"if you can suggest anything likely to answer to your description, you will make me your friend for life," says cecil, with solemnity. "i feel bad."
"did you ever see a devil?" asks mr. potts, in a sepulchral tone.
"a what?" exclaim cecil and molly, in a breath.
"a devil," repeats he, unmoved. "i don't mean our own particular old gentleman, who has been behaving so sweetly to-night, but a regular bona fide one."
"are you a spiritualist?" cecil asks with awe.
"nothing half so paltry. there is no deception about my performance. it is simplicity itself. there is no rapping, but a great deal of powder. have you ever seen one?"
"a devil? never."
"should you like to?"
"shouldn't i!" says cecil, with enthusiasm.
"then you shall. it won't be much, you know, but it has a pretty effect, and anything will be less deadly than sitting here listening to the honeyed speeches of our host. i will go and prepare my work, and call you when it is ready."
in twenty minutes he returns and beckons them to come; and, rising, both girls quit the drawing-room.
with much glee mr. potts conducts them across the hall into the library, where they find all the chairs and the centre table pushed into a corner, as though to make room for one soup-plate which occupies the middle of the floor.
on this plate stands a miniature hill, broad at the base and tapering at the summit, composed of blended powder and water, which mr. potts has been carefully heating in an oven during his absence until, according to his lights, it has reached a proper dryness.
"good gracious! what is it?" asks molly.
"powder," says potts.
"i hope it won't go off and blow us all to bits," says cecil, anxiously.
"it will go off, certainly, but it won't do any damage," replies their showman, with confidence; "and really it is very pretty while burning. i used to make 'em by hundreds when i was a boy, and nothing ever happened except once, when i blew the ear off my father's coachman."
this is not reassuring. molly gets a little closer to cecil, and cecil gets a little nearer to molly. they both sensibly increase the distance between them and the "devil."
"now i am going to put out the lamp," says plantagenet, suiting the action to the word and suddenly placing them in darkness. "it don't look anything if there is light to overpower its own brilliancy."
striking a match, he applies it to the little black mountain, and in a second it turns into a burning one. the sparks fly rapidly upward. it seems to be pouring its fire in little liquid streams all down its sides.
cecil and molly are in raptures.
"it is vesuvius," says the former.
"it is mount etna," says the latter, "except much better, because they don't seem to have any volcanoes nowadays. mr. potts, you deserve a prize medal for giving us such a treat."
"plantagenet, my dear, i didn't believe it was in you," says cecil. "permit me to compliment you on your unprecedented success."
presently, however, they slightly alter their sentiments. every school-boy knows how overpowering is the smell of burnt powder.
"what an intolerable smell!" says molly, when the little mound is half burned down, putting her dainty handkerchief up to her nose. "oh! what is it? gunpowder? brimstone? sulphur?"
"and extremely appropriate, too, dear," says cecil, who has also got her nose buried in her cambric; "entirely carries out the character of the entertainment. you surely don't expect to be regaled with incense or attar of roses. by the bye, plantagenet, is there going to be much more of it,—the smell, i mean?"
"not much," replies he. "and, after all, what is it? if you went out shooting every day you would think nothing of it. for my part i almost like the smell. it is wholesome, and—er—— oh, by jove!"
there is a loud report,—a crash,—two terrified screams,—and then utter darkness. the base of the hill, being too dry, has treacherously gone off without warning: hence the explosion.
"you aren't hurt, are you?" asks mr. potts, a minute later, in a terrified whisper, being unable to see whether his companions are dead or alive.
"not much," replies cecil, in a trembling tone; "but, oh! what has happened? molly, speak."
"i am quite safe," says molly, "but horribly frightened. mr. potts, are you all right?"
"i am." he is ignorant of the fact that one of his cheeks is black as any nigger's, and that both his hands resemble it. "i really thought it was all up when i heard you scream. it was that wretched powder that got too dry at the end. however, it doesn't matter."
"have you both your ears, molly?" asks cecil, with a laugh; but a sudden commotion in the hall outside, and the rapid advance of footsteps in their direction, check her merriment.
"i hear mr. amherst's voice," says mr. potts, tragically. "if he finds us here we are ruined."
"let us get behind the curtains at the other end of the room," whispers cecil, hurriedly; "they may not find us there,—and—throw the plate out of the window."
no sooner said than done: plantagenet with a quick movement precipitates the soup-plate—or rather what remains of it—into the court-yard beneath, where it falls with a horrible clatter, and hastily follows his two companions into their uncertain hiding-place.
it stands in a remote corner, rather hidden by a bookcase, and consists of a broad wooden pedestal, hung round with curtains, that once supported a choice statue. the statue having been promoted some time since, the three conspirators now take its place, and find themselves completely concealed by its falling draperies.
this recess, having been originally intended for one, can with difficulty conceal two, so i leave it to your imagination to consider how badly three fare for room inside it.
mr. potts, finding himself in the middle, begins to wish he had been born without arms, as he now knows not how to dispose of them. he stirs the right one, and cecil instantly declares in an agonized whisper that she is falling off the pedestal. he moves the left, and molly murmurs frantically in another instant she will be through the curtains at her side. driven to distraction, poor potts, with many apologies, solves the difficulty by placing an arm round each complainant, and so supports them on their treacherous footing.
they have scarcely brought themselves into a retainable position when the door opens and mr. amherst enters the room, followed by sir penthony stafford and luttrell.
with one candlestick only are they armed, which sir penthony holds, having naturally expected to find the library lighted.
"what is the meaning of this smell?" exclaims mr. amherst, in an awful voice, that makes our three friends shiver in their shoes. "has any one been trying to blow up the house? i insist on learning the meaning of this disgraceful affair."
"there doesn't seem to be anything," says tedcastle, "except gunpowder, or rather the unpleasant remains of it. the burglar has evidently flown."
"if you intend turning the matter into a joke," retorts mr. amherst, "you had better leave the room."
"nothing shall induce me to quit the post of danger," replies luttrell, unruffled.
meantime, sir penthony, who is of a more suspicious nature, is making a more elaborate search. slowly, methodically he commences a tour round the room, until presently he comes to a stand-still before the curtains that conceal the trembling trio.
mr. amherst, in the middle of the floor, is busily engaged examining the chips of china that remain after their fiasco,—and that ought to tell the tale of a soup-plate.
tedcastle comes to sir penthony's side.
together they withdraw the curtains; together they view what rests behind them.
grand tableau!
mr. potts, with half his face blackened beyond recognition, glares out at them with the courage of despair. on one side of him is lady stafford, on the other miss massereene; from behind each of their waists protrudes a huge and sooty hand. that hand belongs to potts.
three pairs of eyes gleam at the discoverers, silently, entreatingly, yet with what different expressions! molly is frightened, but evidently braced for action; mr. potts is defiant; lady stafford is absolutely convulsed with laughter. already filled with a keen sense of the comicality of the situation, it only wanted her husband's face of indignant surprise to utterly unsettle her. therefore it is that the one embarrassment she suffers from is a difficulty in refraining from an outburst of merriment.
there is a dead silence. only the grating of mr. amherst's bits of china mars the stillness. plantagenet, staring at his judges, defies them, without a word, to betray their retreat. the judges—although angry—stare back at him, and acknowledge their inability to play the sneak. sir penthony drops the curtain,—and the candle. instantly darkness covers them. luttrell scrapes a heavy chair along the waxed borders of the floor; there is some faint confusion, a rustle of petticoats, a few more footsteps than ought to be in the room, an uncivil remark from old amherst about some people's fingers being all thumbs, and then once more silence.
when, after a pause, sir penthony relights his candle, the search is at an end.
now that they are well out of the library, though still in the gloomy little anteroom that leads to it, molly and cecil pause to recover breath. for a few moments they keep an unbroken quiet. lady stafford is the first to speak,—as might be expected.
"i am bitterly disappointed," she says, in a tone of intense disgust. "it is a downright swindle. in spite of a belief that has lasted for years, that nose of his is a failure. i think nothing of it. with all its length and all its sharpness, it never found us out!"
"let us be thankful for that same," returns molly, devoutly.
by this time they have reached the outer hall, where the lamps are shining vigorously. they now shine down with unkind brilliancy on mr. potts's disfigured countenance. a heavy veil of black spreads from his nose to his left ear, rather spoiling the effect of his unique ugliness.
it is impossible to resist; lady stafford instantly breaks down, and gives way to the laughter that has been oppressing her for the last half-hour, molly chimes in, and together they laugh with such hearty delight that mr. potts burns to know the cause of their mirth, that he may join in.
he grins, however, in sympathy, whilst waiting impatiently an explanation. his utter ignorance of the real reason only enhances the absurdity of his appearance and prolongs the delight of his companions.
when two minutes have elapsed, and still neither of them offers any information, he grows grave, and whispers rather to himself than them, the one word, "hysterics?"
"you are right," cries cecil: "i was never nearer hysterics in my life. oh, plantagenet! your face is as black as—as——"
"your hat!" supplies molly, as well as she can speak. "and your hands,—you look demoniacal. do run away and wash yourself and—— i hear somebody coming."
whereupon potts scampers up-stairs, while the other two gain the drawing-room, just as mr. amherst appears in the hall.
seeing them, half an hour later, seated in all quietude and sobriety, discussing the war and the last new marvel in bonnets, who would have supposed them guilty of their impromptu game of "hide and seek"?
tedcastle and sir penthony, indeed, look much more like the real culprits, being justly annoyed, and consequently rather cloudy about the brows. yet, with a sense of dignified pride, the two gentlemen abstain from giving voice to their disapprobation, and make no comment on the event of the evening.
mr. potts is serenity itself, and is apparently ignorant of having given offense to any one. his face has regained its pristine fairness, and is scrupulously clean; so is his conscience. he looks incapable of harm.
bed-hour arrives, and tedcastle retires to his pipe without betraying his inmost feelings. sir penthony is determined to follow his lead; cecil is equally determined he shall not. to have it out with him without further loss of time is her fixed intention, and with that design she says, a little imperiously:
"sir penthony, get me my candle."
she has lingered, before saying this, until almost all the others have disappeared. the last of the men is vanishing round the corner that leads to the smoking-room; the last of the women has gone beyond sight of the staircase in search of her bedroom fire. cecil and her husband stand alone in the vast hall.
"i fear you are annoyed about something," she says, in a maddening tone of commiseration, regarding him keenly, while he gravely lights her candle.
"why should you suppose so?"
"because of your gravity and unusual silence."
"i was never a great talker, and i do not think i am in the habit of laughing more than other people."
"but you have not laughed at all,—all this evening, at least,"—with a smile,—"not since you discovered us in durance vile."
"did you find the situation so unpleasant? i fancied it rather amused you,—so much so that you even appeared to forget the dignity that, as a married woman, ought to belong to you."
"well, but!"—provokingly—"you forget how very little married i am."
"at all events you are my wife,"—rather angrily; "i must beg you to remember that. and for the future i shall ask you to refrain from such amusements as call for concealment and necessitate the support of a young man's arm."
"i really do not see by what right you interfere with either me or my amusements," says cecil, hotly, after a decided pause. never has he addressed her with so much sternness. she raises her eyes to his and colors richly all through her creamy skin. "recollect our bargain."
"i do. i recollect also that you have my name."
"and you have my money. that makes us quits."
"i do not see how you intend carrying out that argument. the money was quite as much mine as yours."
"but you could not have had it without me."
"nor you without me."
"which is to be regretted. at least i should have had a clear half, which i haven't; so you have the best of it. and—i will not be followed about, and pried after, and made generally uncomfortable by any one."
"who is prying after you?"
"you are."
"what do you mean, cecil?" haughtily.
"just what i say. and, as i never so far forget myself as to call you by your christian name without its prefix, i think you might have the courtesy to address me as lady stafford."
"certainly, if you wish it."
"i do. have you anything more to say?"
"yes, more than——"
"then pray defer it until to-morrow, as"—with a bare-faced attempt at a yawn—"i really cannot sit up any longer. good-night, sir penthony."
sir penthony puts the end of his long moustache into his mouth,—a sure sign of irritation,—and declines to answer.
"good-night," repeats her ladyship, blandly, going up the staircase, with a suspicion of a smile at the corners of her lips, and feeling no surprise that her polite little adieu receives no reply.
when she has reached the centre of the broad staircase she pauses, and, leaning her white arms upon the banisters, looks down upon her husband, standing irresolute and angry in the hall beneath.
"sir penthony," murmurs she; "sir——" here she hesitates for so long a time that when at last the "penthony" does come it sounds more familiar and almost unconnected with the preceding word.
stafford turns, and glances quickly up at her. she is dressed in some soft-flowing gown of black, caught here and there with heavy bows and bands of cream-color, that contrast admirably with her hair, soft skin, her laughing eyes, and her pouting, rosy lips. in her hair, which she wears low on her neck, is a black comb studded with pearls; there are a few pearls round her neck, a few more in her small ears; she wears no bracelets, only two narrow bands of black velvet caught with pearls, that make her arms seem even rounder and whiter than they are.
"good-night," she says, for the third time, nodding at him in a slow, sweet fashion that has some grace or charm about it all its own, and makes her at the instant ten times lovelier than she was before.
stafford, coming forward until he stands right under her, gazes up at her entranced like some modern romeo. indeed, there is something almost theatrical about them as they linger, each waiting for the other to speak,—he fond and impassioned, yet half angry too, she calm and smiling, yet mutinous.
for a full minute they thus hesitate, looking into each other's eyes; then the anger fades from stafford's face, and he whispers, eagerly, tenderly:
"good-night, my——"
"friend," murmurs back her ladyship, decisively, leaning yet a little farther over the banisters.
then she kisses her hand to him and drops at his feet the rose that has lain on her bosom all the evening, and, with a last backward glance and smile, flits away from him up the darkened staircase and vanishes.
"i shall positively lose my heart to her if i don't take care," thinks the young man, ruefully, and very foolishly, considering how long ago it is since that misfortune has befallen him. but we are ever slow to acknowledge our own defeats. his eyes are fixed upon the flower at his feet.
"no, i do not want her flowers," he says, with a slight frown, pushing it away from him disdainfully. "it was a mere chance my getting it. any other fellow in my place at the moment would have been quite as favored,—nay, beyond doubt more so. i will not stoop for it."
with his dignity thus forced to the front, he walks the entire length of the hall, his arms folded determinedly behind him, until he reaches a door at the upper end.
here he pauses and glances back almost guiltily. yes, it is still there, the poor, pretty yellow blossom that has been so close to her, now sending forth its neglected perfume to an ungrateful world.
it is cruel to leave it there alone all night, to be trodden on, perhaps, in the morning by an unappreciative john or thomas, or, worse still, to be worn by an appreciative james. desecration!
"'who hesitates is lost,'" quotes stafford, aloud, with an angry laugh at his own folly, and, walking deliberately back again, picks up the flower and presses it to his lips.
"i thought that little speech applied only to us poor women," says a soft voice above him, as, to his everlasting chagrin, cecil's mischievous, lovable face peers down at him from the gallery overhead. "have another flower, sir penthony? you seem fond of them."
she throws a twin-blossom to the one he holds on to his shoulder as she speaks with very accurate aim.
"it was yours," stammers sir penthony, utterly taken aback.
"so it was,"—with an accent of affected surprise,—"which makes your behavior all the more astonishing. well, do not stand there kissing it all night, or you will catch cold, and then—what should i do?"
"what?"
"die of grief, most probably." with a little mocking laugh.
"very probably. yet you should pity me too, in that i have fallen so low as to have nothing better given me to kiss. i am wasting my sweetness on——"
"is it sweetness?" asks she, wickedly.
at this they both laugh,—a low, a soft laugh, born of the hour and a fear of interruption, and perhaps a dread of being so discovered, that adds a certain zest to their meeting. then he says, still laughing, in answer to her words, "try."
"no, thank you." with a little moue. "curiosity is not my besetting sin, although i could not resist seeing how you would treat my parting gift a moment ago. ah!"—with a little suppressed laugh of the very fullest enjoyment,—"you cannot think what an interesting picture you made,—almost tragic. first you stalked away from my unoffending rose with all the dignity of a thousand spaniards; and then, when you had gone sufficiently far to make your return effective, you relented, and, seizing upon the flower as though it were—let us say, for convenience sake—myself, devoured it with kisses. i assure you it was better than a play. well,"—with a sigh,—"i won't detain you any longer. i'm off to my slumbers."
"don't go yet, cecil. wait one moment. i—have something to say to you."
"no doubt. a short time since you said the same thing. were i to stay now you might, perhaps, finish that scolding; instinct told me it was hanging over me; and—i hate being taken to task."
"i will not, i swear i will never again attempt to scold you about anything, experience having taught me the futility of such a course. cecil, stay."
"lady stafford, if you please, sir penthony." with a tormenting smile.
"lady stafford then,—anything, if you will only stay."
"i can't, then. where should i be without my beauty sleep? the bare idea fills me with horror. why, i should lose my empire. sweet as parting is, i protest i, for one, would not lengthen it until to-morrow. till then—farewell. and—sir penthony—be sure you dream of me. i like being dreamed of by my——"
"by whom?"
"my slaves," returns this coquette of all coquettes, with a last lingering glance and smile. after which she finally disappears.
"there is no use disguising the fact any longer,—i have lost my heart," groans sir penthony, in despair, as he straightway carries off both himself and his cherished flowers to the shelter of his own room.
