CHAPTER XVII.

AN EVENING AT MRS. ORMISTON’S.

THE months of June, July, and August were past. London was supposed to be empty, but there were still a few people left in town, and amongst them were Nicolari and his daughter and Mrs. Tregoning and her son. Theodore Tregoning was not to be persuaded to seek a change whilst there were still many sick and suffering ones in the district committed to his care. Mrs. Tregoning had long talked of going to the seaside as soon as her son could get away, but from week to week her wish had to be held in abeyance.

There was another lady who was being kept in town against her will, the mother of Wilfred Ormiston. Mrs. Ormiston imagined that ladyhood was synonymous with helplessness, and that she showed refined feeling by refusing ever to go from home without masculine escort. She decided that it was impossible that she and the one unmarried daughter who remained with her should go to the seaside unless papa or Wilfred could accompany them, so, as it happened this year that an unusual pressure of business would keep Mr. Ormiston senior in town till the late autumn, and Wilfred was not to be persuaded to leave his friends at Cheyne Walk, Mrs. Ormiston was obliged to wait for her holiday.

Wilfred was left free to follow his inclinations. His mother had never been wont to interfere with his wishes. And she was less disposed than ever to do so now since the fact of his engagement to Ida Nicolari gave her the greatest satisfaction. Not that Ida was exactly a girl after her own heart. She frankly owned that for some reasons she would have preferred that Wilfred’s choice should have fallen on a girl with more of what she termed “style” and “go,” some one in short after the stamp of Mrs. Ormiston’s own daughters. She could not altogether understand Miss Nicolari, but that was of little consequence, since in other respects the match was “all that could be desired,” a phrase which meant that Mrs. Ormiston was pleased to think of the fortune which the sculptor’s daughter would bring her son.

Of late years Nicolari’s work had commanded handsome prices, and since his mode of living was so simple, it might well be supposed that his savings would amount to a considerable sum. Moreover, it was known that Ida had property independent of what her father might leave her. The Ormistons were as glad that their son should wed wealth as though they had not been able to provide so easily for his wants. Money-making was the aim and end of William Ormiston’s life. He could not understand how any one could have enough money or be indifferent to acquiring more. Not content with the magnificent income he drew from his business, he was for ever making new schemes for the employment of capital, with a view to increasing his gains. He had already begun to plan how Wilfred might turn his wife’s fortune to the best account, and he congratulated himself on the thought that Nicolari, being of the dreamy, guileless, artist temperament, was not likely to make any fuss about settlements.

One evening in September, Mrs. Ormiston, seated in her showily furnished drawing-room in Sloane Square, was awaiting the arrival of Wilfred and Ida to join a family party at dinner. After her childish days were past, Ida had seldom visited the Ormistons, nor had they seen much more of her since her engagement to Wilfred. She found it difficult to get on with Wilfred’s family. She had no tastes and sympathies in common with them, and their innate vulgarity jarred on her. On the plea of her father’s need of her, she had declined most of their invitations, but on this occasion she had yielded to Wilfred’s persuasions that she would spend an evening at his home in order to meet one of his married sisters, lately returned from abroad.

With Mrs. Ormiston in the drawing-room were her two married daughters and their husbands, her daughter Emmeline, still single, whom Wilfred used to twit with being an old maid, her sister Mrs. Collyer, a wealthy widow, and the widow’s daughter Blanche, a talkative, over-dressed young lady, full thirty years of age, but anxious to appear younger. Mrs. Ormiston was a stout, matronly woman, who had been handsome in her time, after the florid, full-blown type of beauty, and still considered herself comely enough to adopt the most extreme style of evening dress. There were few traces of care or thought on her round, good-humoured face as she sat complacently regarding the gorgeous expanse of her flowered-satin skirt. She was perfectly honest in her vulgar-mindedness, and had no idea of hiding her sentiments on any subject, being quite unaware that there was anything to be ashamed of in her unveiled worldliness. She was a great talker, though she rarely said anything that was worth hearing, her mind being wont to dwell on matters of trivial interest. Just now she was talking about Ida and Wilfred, for whom the company were waiting.

“I do so long to see her,” said Blanche Collyer, who had not yet made Ida’s acquaintance. “She is very pretty, is she not, auntie?”

Blanche fancied that “auntie” came charmingly from her lips, as she sat in a childish attitude on a low ottoman beside Mrs. Ormiston, and she did not consider the suitability of that diminutive to be applied to the substantial-looking matron.

“Yes, I suppose she is pretty,” said Mrs. Ormiston, “though that is a matter of taste. For my part, I like a girl to have some roses in her cheeks, and I do wish that Ida would not wear her hair in such an old-fashioned way.”

“But you like the engagement, do you not, sister?” asked Mrs. Collyer, a little anxiously.

“Oh, yes, we like it,” said Mrs. Ormiston. “It is a good thing for Will, for old Nicolari has made a nice lot of money by his sculptures, and of course his daughter will have it all.”

“Then there is money made in that way,” observed Mrs. Taylor, the daughter who had returned from India. “I thought papa objected to Wilfred’s being a sculptor because he would not get rich in that profession?”

“So he did, for Art does not pay well, as a rule,” replied her mother. “Nicolari made a good thing of it because he got to the top of the tree. Wilfred would have done better if he had gone into his father’s business, where he might make more money in one year than he would in a dozen by messing about with clay. But I am not without hope that he will see his mistake yet. We look upon his love for sculpture as a fad that he will give up by-and-by.”

“I wish with all my heart that he would give it up,” said one of her sons-in-law, who was engaged in the business. “We want Wilfred at the office. The governor is quite overworked, but he will not hear of taking another partner.”

“No; because he hopes that Wilfred will yet fill his right place,” said Mrs. Ormiston, serenely. “Well, well, we shall see. Old Nicolari is failing fast, and when he is gone, and Wilfred is a married man, it will be easier to persuade him to take a common-sense view of things.”

“I suppose Wilfred is very fond of her, auntie,” said Blanche, wondering if her cousin had been drawn to Miss Nicolari by the attraction of her fortune.

“Oh yes, dear, no doubt of it, and she is devoted to him. Wilfred told me that Ida used to be quite jealous of Miss Seabrook, when she came to sit to him for her bust. He used to tease her by admiring Miss Seabrook. Naughty boy!”

“Miss Seabrook! Has he done her bust?” exclaimed Blanche, eagerly. “Do tell me about it! She is lovely, is she not?”

“Oh, yes; every one calls her a beauty. You see her photographs in the shops,” said Mrs. Ormiston.

“You know that she is going to be married?” said Blanche, who prided herself on acquaintance with every item of news concerning the fashionable world that the Society papers could furnish.

“No, I did not know it. Who is she going to be married to?” inquired Mrs. Ormiston, with whom grammar was not a strong point.

“Oh, to some foreign swell—Count Ferowski, or some such name. He is said to be tremendously rich.”

“Ah, the right match for a banker’s daughter,” said Mrs. Ormiston, without the least intention of being satirical. “Wilfred had some notion that she would marry Mr. Tregoning, one of the curates at St. Angela’s, but I said that could never be; her father would know better than to let her marry a hungry curate.”

Here Mrs. Ormiston’s choice speech was interrupted by the entrance of Ida and Wilfred.

Ida was even more colourless though no less beautiful than usual. She was simply dressed in white, with no ornament save a string of pearls at her throat, and her quiet style of dress, contrasted with the gayer attire of the other ladies, made her produce an effect similar to that of a snowy lily midst flaunting tulips and marigolds.

Mrs. Ormiston welcomed her son’s “fiancée” with a heartiness from which Ida rather shrank, as she did also from the minute inquiries concerning her father’s health with which Mrs. Ormiston followed up her greeting. The daughters welcomed Ida with equal effusiveness, and on the entrance of Mr. Ormiston, a commonplace, shrewd-looking little man, the party adjourned to the dining-room.

The dinner was a dreary affair to Ida. She sat at the right of Mr. Ormiston, but he did little to entertain her, since he concentrated his attention on his dinner with the thoroughness to which his success in life was mainly due. Nor was Mr. Taylor, her other neighbour, though he dilated on his experiences in India, much more interesting. Wilfred was the most lively member of the party. His flow of small talk never failed, and his jokes, though not of the first quality, kept his female relatives constantly amused.

Mr. Taylor had ceased to talk to her, and Ida had fallen into a reverie, from which she was roused by hearing the name of Seabrook. It fell from the lips of Blanche Collyer, who was talking to Wilfred, by whom she was seated. Ida looked across at them with sudden interest.

“How strange you should mention her!” Wilfred was saying. “Oddly enough, Ida and I chanced to see her just now as we came along. We met a carriage loaded with travelling trunks, and I, glancing in, caught sight of Miss Seabrook and another lady whom I took to be her mother. I was surprised to see her in town at this time.”

“Perhaps she has come home to prepare for her wedding,” suggested Blanche Collyer.

“Very likely, and, now you mention it, I believe I saw a gentleman on the back seat of the carriage.” As he said this, Wilfred’s eyes encountered Ida’s. “What do you think, Ida?” he said in a low tone, leaning across the table. “Blanche says that Miss Seabrook is going to marry some foreign count; so poor Tregoning is cut out.”

Ida looked surprised and even startled.

“I daresay it is not true,” she said after a moment.

“It is much more likely to be true than the other thing—I mean that she should marry Tregoning,” returned Wilfred.

Ida made no reply, and Miss Seabrook’s matrimonial prospects gave place to topics of more general interest. Ida made an effort to join in the talk that was going on, but all the while she was thinking of those few words which Wilfred had said to her, and Mr. Taylor observed that she had no appetite and only trifled with the dainty dishes on which Mrs. Ormiston prided herself. Ida was not concerned for Miss Seabrook’s happiness, but she was intensely anxious for one whose happiness she believed would be wrecked if the news she had heard were true.

She was not to be persuaded to remain long after the drawing-room was regained. In any case she would have been desirous of returning to her father as early as possible, but since she had heard Miss Collyer’s gossip, she had on her own account felt an eager longing to escape from this uncongenial company to the quietude of her home.

“Do you think it can be true about Miss Seabrook?” she said to Wilfred as he drove with her to Cheyne Walk.

“Very likely,” he returned indifferently. “She would never think of Tregoning. She may have amused herself with him, but she could not marry him. It would be a most unsuitable match.”

“Yes, because he is so much above her,” said Ida, with sudden warmth. “But, Will, I can’t think she was only amusing herself with him. She is—” Ida was about to say “too good,” but she checked herself and substituted the word “religious.” “She is too religious to act in such a way.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Wilfred. “Religious people are not always above amusing themselves at the expense of others. But, Ida, I wonder how long Miss Seabrook will be in town. Do you think she would give me a sitting? I long to get that bust finished and out of the way.”

“If you like, I will call and ask her,” said Ida.

“Oh, will you? That is good of you, darling.”

“Don’t give me credit for too much goodness,” said Ida, with a smile; “I have a wish to see Miss Seabrook.”

“Do you want to ask her if she is engaged?” The stopping of the fly at the sculptor’s door spared Ida the necessity of replying to this question.