of the newspapers and the war!” cried Lady Janet, with a sudden explosion of anger, which was genuine anger this time. “I detest the newspapers! I won’t allow the newspapers to enter this house. I lay the whole blame of the blood shed between France and Germany at their door.”
Horace’s eyes opened wide in amazement. The old lady was evidently in earnest. “What can you possibly mean?” he asked. “Are the newspapers responsible for the war?”
“Entirely responsible,” answered Lady Janet. “Why, you don’t understand the age you live in! Does anybody do anything nowadays (fighting included) without wishing to see it in the newspapers? I subscribe to a charity; thou art presented with a testimonial; he preaches a sermon; we suffer a grievance; you make a discovery; they go to church and get married. And I, thou, he; we, you, they, all want one and the same thing—we want to see it in the papers. Are kings, soldiers, and diplomatists exceptions to the general rule of humanity? Not they! I tell you seriously, if the newspapers of Europe had one and all decided not to take the smallest notice in print of the war between France and Germany, it is my firm conviction the war would have come to an end for want of encouragement long since. Let the pen cease to advertise the sword, and I, for one, can see the result. No report—no fighting.”
“Your views have the merit of perfect novelty, ma’am,” said Horace. “Would you object to see them in the newspapers?”
Lady Janet worsted her young friend with his own weapons.
“Don’t I live in the latter part of the nineteenth century?” she asked. “In the newspapers, did you say? In large type, Horace, if you love me!”
Horace changed the subject.
“You blame me for being out of spirits,” he said; “and you seem to think it is because I am tired of my pleasant life at Mablethorpe House. I am not in the least tired, Lady Janet.” He looked toward the conservatory: the frown showed itself on his face once more. “The truth is,” he resumed, “I am not satisfied with Grace Roseberry.”
“What has Grace done?”
“She persists in prolonging our engagement. Nothing will persuade her to fix the day for our marriage.”
It was true! Mercy had been mad enough to listen to him, and to love him. But Mercy was not vile enough to marry him under her false character, and in her false name. Between three and four months had elapsed since Horace had been sent home from the war, wounded, and had found the beautiful Englishwoman whom he had befriended in France established at Mablethorpe House. Invited to become Lady Janet’s guest (he had passed his holidays as a school-boy under Lady Janet’s roof)—free to spend the idle time of his convalescence from morning to night in Mercy’s society—the impression originally produced on him in a French cottage soon strengthened into love. Before the month was out Horace had declared himself, and had discovered that he spoke to willing ears. From that moment it was only a question of persisting long enough in the resolution to gain his point. The marriage engagement was ratified—most reluctantly on the lady’s side—and there the further progress of Horace Holmcroft’s suit came to an end. Try as he might, he failed to persuade his betrothed wife to fix the day for the marriage. There were no obstacles in her way. She had no near relations of her own to consult. As a connection of Lady Janet’s by marriage, Horace’s mother and sisters were ready to receive her with all the honors due to a new member of the family. No pecuniary considerations made it necessary, in this case, to wait for a favorable time. Horace was an only son; and he had succeeded to his father’s estate with an ample income to support it. On both sides alike there was absolutely nothing to prevent the two young people from being married as soon as the settlements could be drawn. And yet, to all appearance, here was a long engagement in prospect, with no better reason than the lady’s incomprehensible perversity to explain the delay. “Can you account for Grace’s conduct?” asked Lady Janet. Her manner changed as she put the question. She looked and spoke like a person who was perplexed and annoyed.
“I hardly like to own it,” Horace answered, “but I am afraid she has some motive for deferring our marriage which she cannot confide either to you or to me.”
Lady Janet started.
“What makes you think that?” she asked.
“I have once or twice caught her in tears. Every now and then—sometimes when she is talking quite gayly—she suddenly changes color and becomes silent and depressed. Just now, when she left the table (didn’t you notice it?), she looked at me in the strangest way—almost as if she was sorry for me. What do these things mean?”
Horace’s reply, instead of increasing Lady Janet’s anxiety, seemed to relieve it. He had observed nothing which she had not noticed herself. “You foolish boy!” she said, “the meaning is plain enough. Grace has been out of health for some time past. The doctor recommends change of air. I shall take her away with me.”
“It would be more to the purpose,” Horace rejoined, “if I took her away with me. She might consent, if you would only use your influence. Is it asking too much to ask you to persuade her? My mother and my sisters have written to her, and have produced no effect. Do me the greatest of all kindnesses—speak to her to-day!” He paused, and possessing himself of Lady Janet’s hand, pressed it entreatingly. “You have always been so good to me,” he said, softly, and pressed it again.
The old lady looked at him. It was impossible to dispute that there were attractions in Horace Holmcroft’s face which made it well worth looking at. Many a woman might have envied him his clear complexion, his bright blue eyes, and the warm amber tint in his light Saxon hair. Men—especially men skilled in observing physiognomy—might have noticed in the shape of his forehead and in the line of his upper lip the signs indicative of a moral nature deficient in largeness and breadth—of a mind easily accessible to strong prejudices, and obstinate in maintaining those prejudices in the face of conviction itself.
To the observation of women these remote defects were too far below the surface to be visible. He charmed the sex in general by his rare personal advantages, and by the graceful deference of his manner. To Lady Janet he was endeared, not by his own merits only, but by old associations that were connected with him. His father had been one of her many admirers in her young days. Circumstances had parted them. Her marriage to another man had been a childless marriage. In past times, when the boy Horace had come to her from school, she had cherished a secret fancy (too absurd to be communicated to any living creature) that he ought to have been her son, and might have been her son, if she had married his father! She smiled charmingly, old as she was—she yielded as his mother might have yielded—when the young man took her hand and entreated her to interest herself in his marriage. “Must I really speak to Grace?” she asked, with a gentleness of tone and manner far from characteristic, on ordinary occasions, of the lady of Mablethorpe House. Horace saw that he had gained his point. He sprang to his feet; his eyes turned eagerly in the direction of the conservatory; his handsome face was radiant with hope. Lady Janet (with her mind full of his father) stole a last look at him, sighed as she thought of the vanished days, and recovered herself.
“Go to the smoking-room,” she said, giving him a push toward the door. “Away with you, and cultivate the favorite vice of the nineteenth century.” Horace attempted to express his gratitude. “Go and smoke!” was all she said, pushing him out. “Go and smoke!”
Left by herself, Lady Janet took a turn in the room, and considered a little.
Horace’s discontent was not unreasonable. There was really no excuse for the delay of which he complained. Whether the young lady had a special motive for hanging back, or whether she was merely fretting because she did
