“I feel sure that whatever you have done has been wise and right, dearest. There must be a black sheep in every family. I have played the part myself, and ought to sympathise with all such delinquents.”
Delicacy prevented his pursuing the subject further. Could he do less than trust her fully, who had shown such noble confidence in him?
A life so happy would have been bounded within a very narrow circle had John Treverton and his wife consulted only their own inclination; but society expects something from a wellborn country gentleman with fourteen thousand a year. The Lady Parkers and Lady Barkers, of whom Celia had spoken somewhat disparagingly, came in state, swinging lightly on C springs in their old family carriages, to call upon the young couple.
Invitations to ceremonious dinners followed in due course, and were reluctantly accepted; since it would have seemed ungracious to refuse them: and by-and-bye Mrs. Trimmer, the housekeeper, suggested that the Manor House ought to give a series of dinners, such as she remembered when she was a giddy-pated young kitchen-maid in the service of Jasper Treverton’s father and mother.
“They used to send out invitations for two or three dinner parties when the pheasant shooting began, and get it over,” said Mrs. Trimmer, “for they were homely people, and didn’t care much for company. The old gentleman was wrapped up in his books, and the old lady was wrapped up in her garden; but when they gave a dinner there was no mistake about it.”
Laura submitted to inexorable custom.
“We have eaten people’s dinners, and I suppose we must invite them here,” she said, with an air of seriocomic vexation, “or they will consider us dishonest. Shall I make a list of the people to be asked, Jack, and shall we give Trimmer carte blanche about the dinner?”
“I suppose that will be best,” assented John, whose Christian name affection had corrupted to Jack. “Trimmer is a capital cook of the substantial English school. Her menu may be wanting in originality, but it will be safe.”
“Well, I am glad you are awaking to the necessity of living like civilised Christians, instead of spooning all day in the seclusion of a house, compared with which Robinson Crusoe’s island must have been a vortex of dissipation,” exclaimed Celia Clare, who was present at this discussion. “I am glad that at last, if it were only for my sake, you are going to conform to the laws of society. How am I to get a husband, I should like to know, unless I meet people here? There is no other house worth visiting in the neighbourhood.”
“We’ll take your necessities into consideration, my dear girl,” answered John, gaily, “and if you can suggest any eligible bachelors, we’ll ask them to dinner.”
“That’s exactly what I cannot do,” said Celia, with a despairing shrug. “There are no eligible bachelors indigenous to the soil. The only plan would be to put a nota bene to your cards of invitation, ‘If you have any nice young men about you, pray bring them.’ ”
“Laura might give a dance at Christmas, and then we might beat up for young men,” answered John. “I’m afraid as long as we confine ourselves to dinner parties, we shall not be able to do much for you, my poor Celia.”
“But are you not going to have people to stay in the house when the pheasant shooting begins?” inquired Celia, with uplifted eyebrows. “Are not your old friends going to rally round you? I thought they always did when a man came into a fortune.”
“I believe that is one of the characteristics of friendship,” said John. “But I lost sight of my old friends—the friends of my soldiering days, that is to say—nearly seven years ago, and I don’t care about digging them out.”
“I wonder they don’t come to the surface of their own accord,” said Celia. “And how about the friends you have made since you sold out? You can’t have existed seven years without society.”
“I have existed quite as long as that without what you would call society.”
“All, I see,” assented Celia, “the people you have known are not people you would care to bring here, or to introduce to your wife.”
“Precisely.”
“Poor Laura,” thought Celia, and then there followed a pause, brief but uncomfortable.
“Shall I write the list of invitations?” asked Laura, who was sitting at her Davenport. They were in the book-room, the fresh autumnal air blowing in across beds and borders filled with September’s gaudy flowers.
“Yes, dear, beginning, of course, with Sir Joshua and Lady Parker, and descending gradually in the social scale to—”
“My father and mother,” interrupted Celia, “if you mean to ask them. I’m sure you can’t go lower than the parson of the parish; for he’s generally the poorest man in it.”
“And often the most beloved,” said John Treverton.
“Do you think I should give my first dinner party without inviting your father and mother, Celia?” asked Laura, reproachfully. “They will be my most honoured guests.”
“Heaven knows how the mater is to get a new gown,” ejaculated Celia; “but I’m sure she can’t come in the old one. That grey satin of hers has been to so many dinner parties that I should think it could go by itself, and would know how to behave, without having poor mother inside it. How well all the servants hereabouts must know the back of that dress, and the dark patch on the shoulder, where Lady Barker’s butler spilt some lobster sauce. It is like the bloodstain on Lady Macbeth’s hand. All the benzine in the world won’t take it out. Oh, by the by,” pursued Celia, rattling on breathlessly, “if you really don’t mind being overrun with the Clare family, would you write a card for Ted?”
“With pleasure,” said Laura, “but is he not in London?”
“At
