Volume Ii Part 7 (1/2)
”These promiscuous gatherings are dreadful,” moaned Mrs Naylor. ”This is the reward one may expect for not taking care whom we allow to slide into our intimacy.” Then, in a very superior tone, she added, ”I must beg of you to put down that umbrella.”
”You may beg till you're tired, ma'am; my umbrelly is going to stay as it is. To hear some people, out of little, country, back-door settlements! Ye would not think that it was a shanty among the stumps, they lived in at home. The pint of an umbrelly needn't trouble them so much. Does she think people are to be put about by sich as she? Her and her daughter setting up to trifle with gentlemen of intelleck and poseetion, forsooth! Yes, ma'am, ye may look! and be as mad as ye like. It's shame ye should be thinking of yourself and your girls--two sa.s.sy, underhand, designing brats!”
”My good woman, what can you possibly know about me and my daughters?
Were you ever in your life under the same roof with gentlefolks, before you came to Clam Beach?”
Mrs Wilkie grew hot with indignation to hear herself addressed as a ”good woman.” It is a mystery to the male mind why this should be so, but it is undeniable that when one lady is minded to put the last indignity upon another, she speaks of her as a ”woman.” The only a.n.a.logous trait--and we commend it to those with a turn for natural history--appears in coloured circles, where, as the most crus.h.i.+ng retort in a scolding-match, the disputants are wont to apostrophise each other as ”you black n.i.g.g.e.r.” But this is digression.
Mrs Wilkie grew hot and indignant at being called a woman. It confused and silenced her. The thread of her ideas was broken, and she was not equal to a prompt rejoinder. But she was not going to give in on that account--being, indeed, more angry than before. It was to avenge a slight to her son that she had started on the war-path, and now the insult to herself added fuel to her wrath. She pressed her lips tightly together, and moved closer to Mrs Naylor, as the readiest way of being provoking.
”Where are you crus.h.i.+ng to?” cried the other. ”Would you force me into Mrs Petty's lap?” and then, after a pause, ”unmannerly woman!” This time the word failed of its effect. ”Woman” used as a missile is no better than a bomb-sh.e.l.l or a torpedo. It goes off but once. It pa.s.sed unheeded, and Mrs Wilkie rejoined--
”You're great upon the manners to-day. Ye'll be making manners to Mrs Petty, as ye made them to me wance, to try if ye can inveigle her son into the clutches of your little-worth daughter?”
”What do you mean?” cried the other, angrily.
”Just what I say. But ye may save yourself the trouble. The girl's well able to fish on her own account. She has a beau of her own on the sly. What do ye think of that? I thought I'd make ye wince, for all your airs and pretensions! She had a young man waiting for her on the island. And never said a word to ye about it, I'm thinking? And then, to have the a.s.surance to take Mr Wilkie away stravaiging with her, like a toy dog, before the eyes of all the company! Ye may well start and look affronted.”
Mrs Naylor did start, but the a.s.sault was so outrageous that she could not but show fight.
”Your son was disappointed, I presume, that he could not have Miss Naylor's undivided attention; and so, when he comes home, he circulates idle tattles to her disadvantage. Is that conduct becoming a gentleman? I should say it was an act of the kind of person whom gentlemen call a cad.”
Peter Wilkie, who had heard his mother's voice wax louder, looked round to where they sat. The angry looks of both ladies told him all.
He hastened towards them, and if anything more had been needed to incriminate his poor old mother, her guilty and frightened looks at his approach would have sufficed. She pressed her hand to her side and rolled her eyes.
”Your palpitations, mother?” he said. ”You have been exerting yourself in the heat. Come up-stairs to your room and lie down.” He gave her his arm, and led her away looking like a bold child detected in a misdemeanour. She did not appear again in public till the cool of the evening, when she presented a penitent and crestfallen aspect, very different from her warlike demeanour on the tennis-ground.
Mrs Naylor's spirit sank almost as rapidly as her foe's. Now that the stir of battle was at an end, she could sit and make up her list of killed and wounded. Whether the enemy had taken flight or been withdrawn from the contest, this was a grievous blow which she had dealt at parting. She had been pluming herself on her skilful management of Margaret's affairs; and it now appeared that she had managed nothing, and the objectionable attachment was like to be too much for her. But the girl should not have her way, if she could help it. She would keep a sharper eye on her than ever. It was that pernicious young Blount's going away which had thrown her off her guard. But her eyes were opened now, and she would watch; and meanwhile she would rate Margaret soundly, and bring her to a sense of the turpitude of her behaviour.
She did so, and Margaret had to expiate in much weariness of spirit her happy little outbreak on Fessenden's Island.
CHAPTER XXVII.
AN OBDURATE DAUGHTER.
Margaret had a bad quarter of an hour that afternoon, when the lawn-tennis was over. She felt no misgiving as she went up-stairs. The danger had been got over, she thought, on Sunday morning, when her mother started off in full career upon the other scent. What a happy circ.u.mstance was Uncle Joseph's engagement! She positively loved Rosa now for having accepted him. And Rose herself was so dear a girl, the very nicest aunt whom Joseph could have found her; binding him closer to them, if that were possible, instead of estranging him as another might have done. It was therefore an altogether unexpected shock when her mother, following her into her room, closed and fastened the door, and in a voice which shook with anger, demanded of her what she meant.
”Mean, mother dear? I do not understand you.”
”You know perfectly what I mean, you double, deceitful girl!”
Margaret understood now. The tempest, delayed for a while, was upon her. She hung her head, and bent like a willow before the blast.
”You may well cower,” her mother cried, pacing up and down. Her spirit boiled, to think that she had been so duped--she, the wise one, the manager--and she could neither sit nor stand still, in her vehement indignation.
”That I should be mother of a girl whose name can be mentioned as I have heard you spoken of this day! Shameless, deceitful, unwomanly--oh!” Words failed her as she stood with clenched hands and eyes of wrath, which might have turned the other to stone, had she dared look up and meet them.
”Say that it is not true! Tell me that woman has lied!--that there was no man with you on the island but your uncle and her detestable son!
”You do not answer me? Speak! Let me hear that there is not a word of truth in her horrid insinuations. I will even say that I am not sorry you would have none of such a woman's son;” and here her voice veered round into the minor key. ”I shall not press you to think of _him_.