The butler glanced for guidance towards his master, as though he doubted whether the command would be endorsed, but Mr. Beaumaris merely said with his usual indifference: “As you please, Charles.”
“What an ungrateful dog you are!” said Lord Fleetwood, when Brough had left the room. “You don’t deserve your fortune! This is the hand of Providence!”
“I should doubt of their being Paphians,” was all Mr. Beaumaris found to say. “I thought that was what you wanted?”
“Any diversion is better than none!” replied Lord Fleetwood.
“What a singularly infelicitous remark! I wonder why I invited you.”
Lord Fleetwood grinned at him. “Now, Robert, did you think—
“You are forgetting the cook.”
“
Mr. Beaumaris’s habitual aspect was one of coldness, and reserve, but sometimes he could smile in a way that not only softened the austerity of his countenance but lit his eyes with a gleam of the purest amusement. It was not the smile he kept for social occasions—a faintly sardonic curl of the lips, that one—but those who were honoured by a glimpse of it generally revised their first impressions of him. Those who had never seen it were inclined to think him a proud, disagreeable sort of a man, though only the most daring would ever have uttered aloud such a criticism of one who, besides possessing all the advantages of birth and fortune, was an acknowledged leader of society. Lord Fleetwood, no stranger to that smile, saw it dawn now, and grinned more broadly than ever.
“How can you, Charles? When you must know that almost your only claim to fashion is being noticed by me!”
Arabella entered the room to find both its occupants laughing, and thus had the felicity of seeing Mr. Beaumaris at his best. That she herself was looking remarkably pretty, with her dusky curls and charming complexion admirably set off by a high-crowned bonnet, with curled ostrich-feather tips, and crimson ribbons tied into a bow under one ear, never entered her head, since Mr. Tallant’s daughters had always been discouraged from thinking much about their appearance. She paused on the threshold, while the butler murmured her name and Miss Blackburn’s, quite unselfconscious, but looking about her with a kind of wide-eyed, innocent interest. She was very much impressed by what she saw. The house was not a large one, but she perceived that it was furnished with a good taste which was as quiet as it was expensive. Her quick scrutiny took in Lord Fleetwood, who had put up an instinctive hand to straighten the Belcher necktie he affected, and passed on to Mr. Beaumaris,
Arabella had one brother who aspired to dandyism, and she had thought that she had seen in Harrowgate gentlemen of decided fashion. She now perceived that she had much mistaken the matter. No one she had ever seen approached the elegance of Mr. Beaumaris.
Lord Fleetwood, or any of his cronies, could have recognized the tailoring of that coat of olive-green superfine at a glance; Arabella, to whom the magic name of Weston was unknown, was merely aware of a garment so exquisitely cut that it presented all the appearance of having been moulded to its wearer’s form. A very good form, too, she noted, with approval. No need of buckram wadding, such as that Knaresborough tailor had inserted into Bertram’s new coat, to fill out those shoulders! And how envious Bertram would have been of Mr. Beaumaris’s fine legs, sheathed in tight pantaloons, with gleaming Hessian boots pulled over them! Mr. Beaumaris’s shirt-points were not as high as Bertram’s, but his necktie commanded the respect of one who had more than once watched her brother’s struggles with a far less complicated arrangement. Arabella was not perfectly sure that she admired his style of hairdressing—he affected a Stanhope crop—but she did think him a remarkably handsome man, as he stood there, laughter dying on his lips, and out of his gray eyes.
It was only a moment that he stood thus. She had the impression that he was scanning her critically; then he moved forward, and bowed slightly, and begged, in a rather colourless tone, to know in what way he could be of service to her.
“How do you do?” said Arabella politely. “I beg your pardon, but the thing is that there has been an accident to my carriage, and—and it is raining, and horridly cold! The groom has rid in to Grantham, and I daresay will bring another carriage out directly, but—but Miss Blackburn has taken a chill, and we should be very much obliged if we might wait here in the warm!”
She was stammering and blushing by the time she came to the end of this speech. Outside, it had seemed the simplest thing in the world to solicit shelter; under Mr. Beaumaris’s eye, it all at once seemed as though the request were outrageous. To be sure, he was smiling, but it was a very different smile from the one his face had worn when she had entered the room. It was such a very slight curl of the lips, yet there was some quality in it which made her feel ruffled and uncomfortable.
But he said with perfect civility: “An unfortunate mishap. You must permit me to send you to Grantham in one of my carriages, ma’am.”
Lord Fleetwood, who had been standing staring in the frankest admiration at Arabella, was jerked into action by this speech. Pulling a chair invitingly close to the fire, he exclaimed: “No, no, come and sit down, ma’am! I can see you are chilled to the bone! Shocking weather for travelling! You will have got your feet wet, I daresay, and
With a look which Arabella was strongly inclined to construe as one of resignation, Mr. Beaumaris replied: “I trust he may be doing so. I beg you will be seated, ma’am!”
But it was Lord Fleetwood who handed Arabella to the chair he had placed, saying solicitously: “I am sure you are hungry, and will be glad of something to eat!”
“Well, yes, sir,” confessed Arabella, who was very hungry indeed. “I own, I have been thinking of my dinner for several miles! And no wonder, for I see it is already past five o’clock!”
This naive speech made his lordship, who never sat down to his dinner before half-past seven at the very earliest, swallow convulsively, but he recovered himself, in an instant, and replied without a blink: “So it is, by Jupiter! You are famished, then! But never mind! Mr. Beaumaris here was just saying that dinner would be served in a trice. Weren’t you, Robert?”
“Was I?” said Mr. Beaumaris. “I have the wretchedest of memories, but I am sure you are right. I beg you will do me the honour of dining with me, ma’am.”
Arabella hesitated. She could see from her anguished expression that Miss Blackburn thought she should rather accept Mr. Beaumaris’s first offer; and not the most inveterate of optimists could have read into that languid gentleman’s voice anything more than a reluctant civility. But this warm, comfortably furnished room was a most welcome change from the travelling carriage, and the aroma of cooking which had assailed her nostrils as she had crossed the hall had considerably whetted her appetite. She looked a little doubtfully at her host. Again it was Lord Fleetwood who, with his friendly smile and easy manners, clinched the matter. “Of course they will dine with us! Now, won’t you, ma’am?”
“It would be giving too much trouble, sir!” said Miss Blackburn, in a sort of gasp.
“No trouble in the world, ma’am, I assure you! In fact, we are very much obliged to you, for we had been wishing that we were to have company, eh, Robert?”
“Certainly,” agreed Mr. Beaumaris. “Was I not just saying so?”
Miss Blackburn, having undergone a life-time of slights and snubs, was quick to catch the satirical inflexion. She cast him a scared, deprecating look, and coloured. His eyes met hers; he stood looking down at her for a moment, and then said in a much kinder tone: “I am afraid you are not quite comfortable there, ma’am. Will you not draw nearer to the fire?”
She was thrown into a flutter, and assured him rather disjointedly that she was perfectly comfortable, and himself too good, too obliging! Brough had come into the room with a tray of glasses and decanters, which he set down on a table, and Mr. Beaumaris moved towards it, saying: “You will like to go upstairs with my housekeeper, I daresay, to take off your wet coat, but first you must let me give you a glass of wine.” He began to pour out some Madeira. “Two extra covers for dinner, Brough—which you will serve immediately,”
Brough thought of the Davenport fowls roasting on the spits in the kitchen, and of the artist in charge of them, and was visibly shaken. “Immediately, sir?” he said, in a failing voice,
