“The pleasures of society are all for the indifferent,” said Dick; “everything comes to you, so the wise people say, when you don’t care for it: but my brothers, who are dancing men, don’t know how malicious ladies are, who make fun of their prowling. I shall remember it next time when I can’t find my partner, and imagine her laughing at me in a corner.”
“The amusement is after,” said Chatty, with candour. “I think it funny now when I think of it, but it seemed stupid at the time. I don’t think I shall care to go to a dance in London again.”
But as she said these words there escaped a mutual glance from two pairs of eyes, one of which said in the twitching of an eyelash, “Unless I am there!” while the other, taken unawares, gave an answer in a soft flash, “Ah, if you were there!” But there was nothing said: and Mrs. Warrender, though full of observation, never noticed this telegraphic, or shall we say heliographic, communication at all.
This little hindrance only made them better friends. They made expeditions to Richmond, where Dick took the ladies out on the river; to Windsor and Eton, where Theo and he had both been to school. Long before now he had been told the secret about Theo, which in the meantime had become less and less of a secret, though even now it was not formally made known. Lady Markland! Dick had been startled by the news, though he declared afterwards that he could not tell why: for that it was the most natural thing in the world. Had not they been thrown together in all kinds of ways; had not Theo been inevitably brought into her society, almost compelled to see her constantly?
“The compulsion was of his own making,” Mrs. Warrender said. “Perhaps Lady Markland, with more experience, should have perceived what it was leading to.”
“It is so difficult to tell what anything is leading to, especially in such matters. What may be but a mutual attraction one day becomes a bond that never can be broken the next.”
Dick’s voice changed while he was speaking. Perhaps he was not aware himself of the additional gravity in it, but his audience was instantly aware of it. That was the evening they had gone to Richmond; the softest summer evening, twilight just falling; Chatty, very silent, absorbed (as appeared) in the responsibilities of steering; the conversation going on entirely between her mother and Dick, who sat facing them, pulling long, slow, meditative strokes. Even when one is absorbed by the responsibilities of the steerage, one can enter into all the lights and shades of a conversation kept up by two other people, almost better than they can do themselves.
“That is true in some cases. Not in Theo’s, I think. It seems to me that he gave himself over from the first. I am not sure that I think her a very attractive woman.”
“Oh yes, mamma!” from Chatty, in an undertone.
“I am not talking of looks. She has a good deal of power about her, she will not be easily swayed; and after having suffered a great deal in her first marriage I think she has very quickly developed the power of acting for herself which some women never attain.”
“So much the better,” said Dick. “Theo doesn’t want a puppet of a wife.”
“But he wants a wife who will give in to him,” said Mrs. Warrender slightly shaking her head.
“I suppose we all do that, in theory: then glide into domestic servitude and like it, and find it the best for us.”
“Let us hope you will do that,” she said, with a smile; “but not Theo, I fear. He has been used to be made much of. The only boy, they say, is always spoiled. You have brothers, Mr. Cavendish—and he has a temper which is a little difficult.”
“Oh, mamma,” from Chatty again. “Theo is always kind.”
“That does not make much difference, my dear. When a young man is accustomed to be given in to, it is easy to be kind. But when he meets for the first time one who will not give in, who will hold her own—I do not blame her for that: she is in a different position from a young girl.”
“And how is it all to be settled?” asked Dick; “where are they to live? how about the child?”
“All these questions make my heart sink. He is not in the least prepared to meet them. Her name even; she will of course keep her name.”
“That always seems a little absurd; that a woman should keep her own name, as they do more or less everywhere but in England—yes; well, a Frenchwoman says née So-and-so; an Italian does something still more distinct than that, I am not quite clear how she does it. That’s quite reasonable I think: for why should she wipe out her own individuality altogether when she marries? But to keep one husband’s name when you are married to another—”
“It is because of the charm of the title. I suppose when a woman has been once called my lady, she objects to come down from those heights. But I think if I were a man, I should not like it, and Theo will not like it. At the same time there is her son, you know, to be considered. I don’t like complications in marriages. They bring enough trouble without that.”
“Trouble!” said Dick, in a tone of lively protest, which was a little fictitious. And Chatty, though she did not say anything, gave her mother a glance.
“Yes, trouble. It breaks as many ties as it makes. How much shall I see of Theo, do you think, when this marriage takes place? and yet by nature you would say I had some right to him. Oh, I do not complain. It is the
