Part 47 (1/2)
The middle of the day is past before one by one they straggle down.
Breakfast awaits each newcomer, hot and tempting. Trix eats hers with a relish. Trix possesses one of the chief elements of perpetual human happiness--an appet.i.te that never fails, a digestion that, in her own metaphorical American language, ”never goes back on her.” But Edith looks f.a.gged and spiritless. If people are to be supernaturally brilliant and bright, das.h.i.+ng and fascinating all night long, people must expect to pay the penalty next day, when la.s.situde and reaction set in.
”My poor Edie!” Mr. Charles Stuart remarks, compa.s.sionately, glancing at the wan cheeks and l.u.s.treless eyes, as he lights his after-breakfast cigar, ”you do look most awfully used up. What a pity for their peace of mind, some of your frantic adorers of last night can't see you now.
Let me recommend you to go back to bed and try an S. and B.”
”An 'S. and B.'?” Edith repeats vaguely.
”Soda and Brandy. It's the thing, depend upon it, for such a case as yours. I've been seedy myself before now, and know what I'm talking about. I'll mix it for you, if you like.”
There is a copy of Tennyson, in blue and gold, beside Miss Darrell, and Miss Darrell's reply is to fling it at Mr. Stuart's head. It is a last effort of expiring nature; she sinks back exhausted among her cus.h.i.+ons. Charley departs to enjoy his Manila out under the waving trees, and Sir Victor, looking fresh and recuperated, strolls in and bends over her.
”My dear Edith,” he says, ”how pale you are this morning--how tired you look. If one ball is going to exhaust you like this, how will you stand the wear and tear of London seasons in the blissful time to come?”
She does not blush--she turns a trifle impatiently away from him and looks out. She can see Charley and Hammond smoking sociably together in the sunny distance.
”I will grow used to it, I dare say. 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.'”
”Have you had breakfast?”
”I made an effort and failed. I watched Trix eat hers, however, and that refreshed me quite as well. It was invigorating only to look at her.”
He smiles and bends lower, drawing one long brown silken tress of hair fondly through his fingers, feeling as though he would like to stoop and kiss the pale, weary face. But Trix is over yonder, pretending to read, and kissing is not to be thought of.
”I am going over to Catheron Royals,” he whispered; ”suppose you come--the walk will do you good. I am giving orders about the fitting up of the old place. Did I tell you the workmen came yesterday?”
”Yes; you told me.”
”Shall I ring for your hat and parasol? Do come, Edith.”
”Excuse me, Sir Victor,” Edith answers, with an impatient motion, ”I feel too tired--too lazy, which ever you like--to stir. Some other day I will go with pleasure--just now I feel like lying here and doing the _dolce far niente_. Don't let me detain you, however.”
He turns to leave her with a disappointed face. Edith closes her eyes and takes an easier position among the pillows. The door closes behind him; Trix flings down her book and bursts forth:
”Of all the heartless, cold-blooded animals it has ever been my good fortune to meet, commend me to Edith Darrell!”
The dark eyes unclose and look up at her.
”My dear Trix! what's the matter with you now? What new enormity have I committed?”
”Oh, nothing new--nothing new at all,” is Trixy's scornful response; ”it is quite in keeping with the rest of your conduct. To be purely and entirely selfish is the normal state of the future Lady Catheron!
Poor Sir Victor! who has won you. Poor Charley! who has lost you. I hardly know which I pity most.”
”I don't see that you need waste your precious pity on either,”
answered Edith, perfectly unmoved by Miss Stuart's vituperation; ”keep it for me. I shall make Sir Victor a very good wife as wives go, and for Charley--well, Lady Gwendoline is left to console him.”
”Yes, of course, there is Lady Gwendoline. O Edith! Edith! what are you made of? Flesh and blood like other people, or waxwork, with a stone for a heart? How can you sell yourself, as you are going to do?
Sir Victor Catheron is no more to you than his hall-porter, and yet you persist in marrying him. You love my brother and yet you hand him over to Lady Gwendoline. Come, Edith, be honest for once; you love Charley, don't you?”
”It is rather late in the day for such tender confessions as that,”
Edith replies, with a reckless sort of laugh; ”but yes--if the declaration does you any good, Trix--I love Charley.”