THESE communications were interrupted by the sound of carriage-wheels so near that it was not possible to escape the certainty that visitors were approaching. Lady Penton paused for a moment, discussing with herself whether she should say “Not at home,” the day of the funeral was very early to receive visitors; but then she reflected that they had all got their mourning—even Martha having her black gown—and that there was therefore no reason why she should not receive, though “they,” whoever they were, would have shown better taste had they postponed their visit. However, in this afternoon of excitement and désoeuvrement, it was almost a relief to see somebody who was not concerned, and might consequently impart something new—a little change into the atmosphere. The carriage which came wheeling round past the drawing-room windows was new and glistening, and highly effective, much more so than is usually to be met with in the country: and out of it came two ladies, as carefully got-up as their vehicle, wrapped in furs and plush. That peeps were taken at them from the corner where a judicious observer could see without being seen it is almost unnecessary to say.
“No, I don’t know them,” said Anne, shaking her head. “It is none of the Bannister people, nor the Miltons, nor the Durhams, nor anybody I ever saw. They must be from the other side, or else they are Reading people, or—”
“We know no Reading people,” said Lady Penton, with a tone—well, perhaps it was not pride; but certainly it was a tone which would not have come naturally to Mrs. Penton of the Hook one short week before.
“The footman is opening the door—he has such a delightful fur cape on! They’re coming in. Ally, look, look! Did you ever see them before?”
Ally had held back, not liking to show her curiosity before little Mab, that critic and investigator whom she began instinctively to divine. But she made a little soft movement forward now. And when she saw the ladies stepping out of the carriage Ally gave vent to a startled cry, “Oh!” which showed she was not so ignorant as her sister. Lady Penton turned toward her for explanation, but it was already too late. The door was thrown open by Martha with more demonstration than when she was only parlor-maid to Mrs. Penton. The shadow of a title upon her head changed even Martha. She announced “Mrs. Rochford, my lady!” in a voice such as no one in the Hook had ever heard before.
“Rochford?” said Lady Penton, with a wondering question in her voice, looking at Ally, who seemed to know. It was not in her nature to be otherwise than polite. She stepped forward and accepted the visitor’s outstretched hand, and gave her a seat, but without any of the tremulous shyness of former days. She had taken up the rôle of great lady with less difficulty than could have been anticipated. Mrs. Rochford was large and ample in her furs. She would have made three of Lady Penton; and the muff in which one of her hands was folded was worth more than all that the other lady had to wear. Nevertheless, Lady Penton, simple as she sat there, felt herself so entirely Mrs. Rochford’s social superior that this outside splendor of appearance was altogether neutralized. Perhaps the visitor was a little confused by this, for she made another step beyond the mistress of the house and seized upon Ally with both her hands out and a great deal of enthusiasm.
“Dear Miss Penton, how are you after all this agitation?” she said, in the most sympathetic tone, and looked as if she would have kissed Ally, who blushed crimson, and evidently did not know how to respond; and then it was the turn of Miss Rochford, who was effusive and sympathetic too.
“The dear child,” said Mrs. Rochford, seating herself, “looked a little lost at Penton at the ball. She had never been out before, I am sure, without you, Lady Penton—which makes such a difference to a sensitive girl. I quite took it upon me to be her chaperon. And then I think she enjoyed herself.”
“Oh!” said Lady Penton, with a blank look; and then she added, “So much has happened since that I have heard nothing about the ball.”
“Yes, indeed,” said the other, in the most sympathetic tone. “Such wonderful changes in so short a time! and just when we were all thinking that poor dear Sir Walter might live to be a hundred.” Then she remembered that this was not an event which the Pentons at the Hook would naturally have found desirable. “But I always say,” added the lady, “that it is such a comfort when an old gentleman of that age goes out of life in tolerable comfort without suffering. Sometimes they have so much to go through. It seems so mysterious.”
Meanwhile, Miss Rochford, a pretty but much-curled and frizzed girl of the period, seized upon Ally. “Oh, I’ve wanted so much to come and see you. Mamma said we oughtn’t to, that you were much greater people now. But you were so nice at the ball, and looked so pleased to be with us, I felt sure you wouldn’t mind. Wasn’t it a delightful ball? But you who were in the house must have felt all that dreadful business about old Sir Walter dying. It was very dreadful, of course; but what a good thing he waited till the ball was over. Had it happened only a little sooner there would have been no ball. Is that your sister? are they both your sisters? Oh!” This exclamation followed when Mab turned round and revealed to the visitor the features of the heiress who had been pointed out to everybody at the Penton ball.
“This is my sister Anne, but she wasn’t at Penton. And this is Miss Russell,” said Ally, who did not know much about the formulas of introduction, and who was considerably startled by the recollection that the Rochfords had been her protectors at Penton, which even she, simple as she was, felt to be inappropriate now. Mab made the new-comer a very dignified little bow. She knew everything of this kind much better than the others did, and knew very well who the Rochfords were.
“My son has told me so often about your charming family and how kind you were to him; and after meeting Miss Penton, as there seemed then a sort of double connection, I thought I might take it upon me to call.”
“Oh, you are very kind,” Lady Penton said.
“My son does nothing but talk of Penton Hook. He is so charmed with everything here. And he is not easily pleased. He is a great favorite in the county, don’t you know? He is invited everywhere. I told him at his age it is enough to turn his head altogether. But he is very true; he is not led away by finery. I find that he always prefers what is really best.”
“Yes,” said Lady Penton; “we saw Mr. Rochford several times. He used to come about the business which unfortunately was not completed.”
“Do you say unfortunately? He supposed you would rather be pleased.”
“I am not at all pleased,” said Lady Penton, drawing back into the stronghold of her dignity. “It is always a pity when family arrangements can not be carried out.”
“I am sure,” said Mrs. Rochford, in her most ingratiating tones, “the county will like far better to see you there than Mrs. Russell Penton. Not that there is anything disagreeable in Mrs. Russell Penton. She is everything that is nice; but it is always more or less a false position, don’t you think? and, on the other hand, a young family is always cheerful and popular.”
“I don’t know how that may be. We are really more a nursery-party than anything else.”
“Oh, don’t say so, Lady Penton! with those two charming girls.”
The mother’s eye followed the wave of the visitor’s hand, and she could not but feel that there was truth in this. She had not thought of Ally and Anne from this point of view. They were not beauties, she was aware. Still, looking at them as they were now, a thrill of that satisfaction and complacency which is at once the most entirely unselfish and the most egotistical of sentiments warmed her bosom. She felt, contrasting them with the somewhat artificial neatness of the Rochford young lady, and the bluntness of little Mab on the other hand, that they might very well be called charming girls. She had rarely had creatures of the same species to compare them with.
“They are very young,” she said, “and we have had little opportunity to do anything for them; they are not at all acquainted with the world.”
“And that is such a charm, I always think! When my son brought Miss Penton to us the other night she had that look of wanting her mother which is so sweet. Mrs. Penton of course had all her guests to look to, and the anxiety about her father. I was so happy to take your dear girl under my motherly wing. It is broad enough,” said Mrs. Rochford, raising a little the arm which was clothed in sealskin and beaver, or in something else more costly than these, if there is anything more costly, and which indeed had an air of softness and warmth which was pleasant. She was what is called a motherly woman, large and caressing, and really kind. She might perhaps have found the courage to keep a poor girl at “a proper distance” had her son been in danger, but otherwise in all probability would have been kind to Ally even had she not been Miss Penton of Penton. And in that case would have taken no credit for it, such as in the present she felt it expedient to insist upon.
“You will be going nowhere in your mourning,” said Miss Rochford to Ally, “it will be so dull for you just at this time of the year. I do so wish you would come to us a little. We don’t give parties, not often; but there is always something going on. Mamma is very good, she never minds the trouble. And Charley is the very best of brothers, he is always trying to keep us amused. Now if you would come there’s nothing he wouldn’t do. We could give you a mount if you hunt. My sister doesn’t ride. I should be so happy to have another girl to go out with me. Oh, do come. And if the frost holds there will be skating. You will have to be quiet, of course, at home for the sake of your mourning, but with us you needn’t mind. Oh, do! It would be so delightful to have you. Charley was very despondent about it. He thought you would be so much too grand for us, who are only Reading people, but I said I was sure you were not one to forget old friends.”
“Too grand!” cried Ally, turning red. “Oh, no, no.” It was not surely that she was too grand. Still there was something—a sentiment of repugnance, a drawing back—which, if it was that, was the meanest sentiment, she thought, in the world.
“No, I am sure not,” said Miss Ethel Rochford. “I knew you were not one to throw over old friends.”
Were they old friends? She was very much puzzled by this question. It seemed so ungracious to make any exception to a claim made with such kindness and enthusiasm. But Ally did not know what answer to make when the ladies at length had rustled away back to their carriage, still very caressing and cordial, but somewhat disappointed, since Lady Penton, with a firmness not at all in keeping with her character, had declined the invitation to Ally.
“Are you such great friends with these people?” asked Anne, before the sealskin had quite swept out of the door; and, “Were you so much with them at the ball?” said Lady Penton, sitting down, and turning her mild eyes upon her daughter with great seriousness. Poor Ally felt as if she were a culprit at the bar.
“They were very kind,” she said, with a look of great humility at her mother. “I never saw them except that one time; but they were very kind.”
“You have never told me anything about the ball, there have been so many other things to think of. I ought to have remembered, my poor little Ally, you would be very forlorn without me or some one; but then I thought your cousin Alicia—Didn’t you have any dancing then? Didn’t you enjoy yourself at all?”
“She danced all the evening,” said Mab; “I saw her. I never could get near her to say a word.”
“Then what does this lady mean?” the mother said.
Poor Ally was very nearly crying with distress and shame, though there was nothing to be ashamed about. Oh, yes! there was cause for shame, and she felt it. She had been very thankful for Mrs. Rochford’s notice. She had been thankful to meet him, to feel herself at once transformed from the neglected little poor relation, whom no one noticed, to the admired and petted little heroine of the other set, who were not the great people, and yet who looked just as well as the great people, and danced as well, and were as well dressed, and so much more kind. And now she felt ashamed of it all—of them and him, and all the people who had made the evening so pleasant. She did not like to tell her story—how she had been neglected, and how she had been admired, and the comfort the Rochford set had been to her, and now that she was ashamed of them all—for that was the conclusion which she could not disguise from herself. Now that she was Sir Edward Penton’s daughter, now that she herself was to be the first at Penton, she was ashamed to have known nobody but the Rochfords, and she was ashamed of being ashamed. The family solicitor, that was all—a sort of official person, whose duty it was to take a little notice of her, not to let her feel herself neglected, whom she had been so glad to cling to. And now? There was no word of contempt that Ally did not heap upon herself. She was not sure if girls were ever called “snobs,” but this she was sure of, that if so, then a snob was what she was.
“Mother, they’re both true,” she said. “It was—oh, dreadful at first! I didn’t know any one. I knew some of them by sight, but that was all. And nobody spoke to me. I should have liked to go through the floor or run away, but I hadn’t the courage. And then I saw him—I mean Mr. Rochford, you know, who has been so often here. And he asked me to dance; and when he saw I had no one to go to, took me to his mother. And they were so kind; and I enjoyed myself very much after that. But—” said Ally, and stopped short.
Oh, odious little traitor that she was! But she could not say what was in her heart besides, which was—oh, horrible snobbishness, miserableness, unworthiness!—that she never wished to see these good Samaritans any more.
“When I return her call I must thank her for being so kind to you,” said Lady Penton, with a cloudy countenance.
And this was all she said. Nor was there any further conversation on the subject—none, at least, which Mab heard. She had her own theory on the subject, and formed her little history at once, which was founded on Ally’s faint little emphasis, “I saw him.” “Him” Mab decided to be a lover, whom, now that the Pentons had risen in the world, the family would no longer permit to be spoken of, but whom Ally favored in secret, and to whom she had given her heart. It was a mistake which was very natural—the most usual thing in the world. Mab decided that it was a great blunder for the mother and sisters to interfere. What could they do? except to put the other party on their guard? Our comprehensions are limited by our experiences. To understand the state of mind in which Ally was—the repugnance she felt toward the people whom she had liked so much, and who had been so kind to her, and her disgust at herself for that other disgust which she could not conquer—was what no one at Penton Hook was the least able to do.