A Peerless Wife, etc

Chapter I

Darling Mother, — I was very unkind not to tell you about the baby, was I ? Well, they are all out this afternoon — I have nothing on earth to do — arid so I will write you a nice long letter, and purchase my forgiveness. "Well, now, what am I to say about the baby ? I have seen it in its mother's arms once. A little round cricket ball of a head, with no hair on it ; a pair of little fat arms and hands, apparently keep- VOL. I. B ing up a perpetual fight with some im aginary enemies ; two little knitted shoes struggling underneath a white garment full of little holes, which, I suppose, you women call ' embroidery,' and you have ' the baby ' as far as the impression it made on me. I ventured to touch its cheek and express myself in gibberish such as I had heard addressed to it by its mother, when it immediately set up a howl which caused it to be conveyed speedily out of my sight, to my infinite relief.

It is not remarkably jolly here, and I do not think I shall stay over Tuesday. I shall then run down to Charlie Farrant's for a day or two, unless you are very dull, you dear old thing, and then I'll come straight home. Let me know. The visitors here are old Sir Edward and Lady Peterson ; he blinder than ever, poor old fellow ; a very intrusive young Irish ensign, and a sister of Mrs. Martyn's, a little mite of a thins: that looks about fifteen, and yet may be fifty for aught I know. I have scarcely looked at her ; she seems to me to pass her time in alternately flirting with Sir Edward and the Irishman. The old fellow appears wonderfully taken with her, and poor old Lady Peterson, who is very deaf, continually asks what he is saying every time he whispers his soft nothings to the young lady, which is amusing in its way.

We had a fearfully dull dinner-party yesterday — ' charming people,' as Mrs. Martyn assured me, from the neighbourhood — 'awful bores,' as I B thought them. A Mj-s. Daintree, a 'blue' in her own estimation, talking on every subject she did not understand, in a loud, metallic voice, with a small, melancholy looking husband, whom she ' shut up ' whenever he opened his mouth ; he had evidently an ardent desire to relate anec dotes, which she as ardently desired he should not, so she signally defeated him every time — the effect of his conversation, therefore, was that of a street ballad monger, as the unfinished sentences were like lines of songs, such as ' When I was a boy,' ' I remember,' ' The night was dark,' ' A year ago,' ' The last time,' ' Ah ! let me tell you,' ' Do you forget, love,' &c. &c. These folks were accompanied by two nieces, young ladies in pre-Eaphaelite costumes — petticoatless females, who appeared to have nothing; on but some crowns, with out bodies to them, and mountains of rough hair piled on their heads — giving the impression that they had suddenly rushed out of bed on an alarm of ' Eire.' I suppose they imagine themselves the em bodiments of Tragedy and Comedy, for one did nothing but sigh and the other laus:h. I was too much alarmed at them to speak to them myself, but I heard the Tragic Muse quoting Tennyson, and saying he was ' such a love,' and the Comic Muse declaring she admired comic songs, they were so ' awfully joll}T.' Oh mother ! what has become of the women our poets raved of, what a mockery of that better nature which should guide and ennoble us, meets one at every turn.

If these are the pure, simple, bright, intelligent English girls, of which elevated, unselfish heroes and nobler self-sacrificing mothers were made — where are they ? and an echo answers, ' where are they ? ' As I have often told you, I know only one woman who reaches my ideal, and that I am proud to say is my mother; but I must finish the description of our guests, so that you may thoroughly realise the agreeable party last night assembled here. A Sir James and Lady Althorpe, he absorbed in politics, she in dress, and a creature, half monkey half man, who sat between the Muses and entertained them with such conversation as suited their taste and comprehension, and you have the party complete. I leave you to judge how far it contained the elements of agreeability. Oh ! how glad I was when they went, and what pain it was to suppress ' an incessant inclination to yawn.

Well, good-bye, sweet mother, love me ever, and never forget how dearly you are loved and honoured by your un worthy, though devoted son, Cecil Wentworth. As he folded and directed his letter and slowly dropped on the envelope the wax to seal it, with the graceful indolence natural to him whatever he did, the door of the library opened a little way, and a head covered with short rough hair was popped in and hastily withdrawn. ' Come in, llita,' said Cecil, ' I am here alone,' but no one answered, and the door remained partly open ; again Cecil said, ' Come in,' and then very slowly the head made its reappearance. ' Come along, Rita, come and talk to me.' The body belonging to the head, at this repeated invitation, then pushed itself through the half-open door, and a child some six or seven years old stood there with large brown eyes beaming like stars through the darkness of a skin bronzed with the sun, and apparently somewhat ignorant of the value of soap and water.

A frock, which had once been made of some soft pink material, hung now in slits, and was so covered with stains as to have left but little trace of its original colour, was much too short for her, and a petticoat showed itself an inch or two below. In her hand the child held a brown straw hat bent and torn, and a large bunch of ox eyed daisies. ' Oh ! Rita,' exclaimed Wentworth with a slight laugh, ' what would Mrs. Martyn say if she saAv you ? ' ' I don't know, you called me in,' said the child ; ' I was going upstairs, she does not care what I look like there.' ' But you peeped in here, did you not, as though you wanted to come in ? ' ' Yes ; I peeped, because if there had baen no one here, I should have come in and got my book.' ' Now I am going,' and she turned to leave the room. ' JSTo, no ! don't be in such a hurry, come here to me, and tell me what book you want.' ' I must not stay here, I am such a figure,' making another attempt to go out of the room. ' I don't mind your being a figure, and there is no one at home but me ; so you will have plenty of time to get your book and have a little chat before you need go up to make a swell of yourself.' ' I am not going up to make a " swell " of myself, I never am a " swell."

I sit on the stairs and see all you that are going into dinner, and then I go to bed,' ' Poor little maid,' said Wentworth, kindly holding out his hand to the child who had relinquished her hold of the door and now stood close beside him. ' Would you like to be smart and come down to dinner with us? You will when you're a grown-up young lady.' ' No ! I don't believe I ever shall, for mamma does not like me or want me down stairs ; so when I am grown up, I shall go away and act for my living like she did,' pointing to a beautiful picture of Mrs. Siddons. ' Then I shall be great and glorious like her, and much grander and more consequence than mamma.' 'You strange little woman; "act?" what put that in your head ? ' ' I don't know, I went to the play once — grandpa' took me — and I've acted it over and over again to nurse often since, and I know when I'm big I shall be able to act Lady Macbeth and Queen Katherine like she did,' nodding again to the picture ; ' there's a book I've often read called " Anecdotes of celebrated Actresses," and that tells how she used to play, and how the people admired her and used to stand round the theatre doors, for hours to get good places to see her ; and there used to be a mob to see her get in and out of her carriage, how I should like that !' ' Poor child ! ' said Wentworth, pushing the roucdi hair back from her fine forehead and looking gravely into the large eyes which sparkled with excitement as she spoke. 'What makes you say mamma does not like you ? ' ' Because it is true ; I know it, but I don't care.

She is not my own mother, you know. I don't want her to like me, and I don't try to make her.' ' Well, but I think you should,' answered Wentworth ; ' little girls should always try to please every one.' ' Should they? Then I never do what I ought; for I 'm never thinking of pleasing anyone. I go on just the same in my own way always; no one takes any notice of me; I and Flirt amuse ourselves, and I think the people in this house care for us both alike. If I was to get in papa's way he would push me away with his foot, I believe, as he does that dog. And, hark ! he 's whining for me, I must go to him.' ' But stay, do not you want your book ? let me reach it down for you; which is it?' ' It's a book of Fairy Tales up in that top corner, please ; that 's it, thank you.' ' Who taught you to read?' said Cecil, as he handed her the book. ' My mother,' she answered softly ' She cared enough about you then to take some trouble for you.' ' Cared about me !

She loved me dearly.' ' Why, just now you said she did not like you.' I said ' mamma ' did not like me — not mother ;' and she uttered the last word with a ling-erins; tender tone touching to hear, especially for Cecil who could so well enter into a child's love for its mother. He let her go without another word, for the sound of carriage wheels on the drive warned him of the return of some of the party, and he could not have borne then to hear a harsh word ad dressed to her. He had seen her only once before during his stay in the house, and then she had been spoken to sharply by Mrs. Martyn for leaving her hoop in the front hall. It was Cecil Wentworth's first visit to Beechdale. Mr. Martyn was a cousin of his, but Cecil saw little of him, as for many years he had been abroad, being a junior partner in a large mercantile house in Cadiz.

There he mar ried his first wife, the beautiful daughter and heiress of a rich Spanish merchant. She died after six years of a happy wedded life, leaving one little girl to the care of her husband, who, at the death of his beautiful wife, appeared overwhelmed with grief. Indeed, he was so ill as to be ordered to return to his native air, and for two years he went from one wateringplace to another with his little girl, absorbed in grief, and at times declaring he could not bear the sight of Rita, her painful likeness to her mother being too much for him. But suddenly a new light broke on his path. A widow lady and her daughter were staying at the same hotel in Malvern ; the young lady was interesting and elegant-looking, and appeared to gaze with sympathy on the distracted young widower and little child.

An acquaintance by some slight circumstance was com menced, and in a few months Martyn's friends had to congratulate him on his marriage for the second time to an heiress. Everyone exclaimed at his wonderful good fortune, and said, how wise he was to overcome his desperate grief and console himself so sensiblv; and his second marriage appeared to give general satisfaction to all but his little girl. Eor a time she was utterly unmanage able, but by coaxing and threats she was induced to be decently civil to the fair haired, fair-faced, delicate-looking woman, so great a contrast to her own dark-haired, grand and glorious-looking mother; but on being told she must address her by that title, she stoutly refused, saying, ' No, I will not say mother to her ; I will call her "mamma," if you like;' and so she did, scrupulously, but never did ' mother ' escape her lips, save in those tender, thril ling tones with which she spoke of the lovely young Spaniard now lying in her iar-off grave, and a lock of whose long vol. i. o black glossy hair lay always on the heart of her wayward, adoring little child.

The new Mrs. Martyn had tried, as far as her nature would let her, to win the heart of her husband's child, but the task was too hard for her whose life had been one of uninterrupted, easy indolence ; she had never done anything since she could remember that fatigued or annoyed her, and she was as unable as she was unwilling to commence now; and so Rita was left to herself and the servants, and to two-hours a-day instruction from a young lady in the village, who was too much afraid of the passionate headstrong child to do much with her, or attempt to instruct her; but Rita was very clever, and having taken this fancy to become a great actress, she really at times worked hard at such studies as she liked, although there were many days when she would obstinately refuse to do anything, assuring Miss Temple that it was too hot or too cold to work, and if the former, that she should go to her favourite spot in the garden with a book, and read.

Miss Temple might come too if she liked, and she would read out loud to her, but she should not work; and poor meek Miss Temple, feeling resistance was useless and impossible, would go with her, till her stipulated two hours were over, and go away, ashamed to think how Httle she had earned her money, and yet not knowing how to alter it, or what steps to take. Once she requested to see Mr. Martyn on the subject, but he only laughed, and said he c i knew Rita was a troublesome rogue, but her learning at present did not much signify, if Miss Temple would kindly do the best she could with her. ' At least,' he con tinued, ' she has the companionship of a lady for those two hours, Miss Temple, and that is a great thing.' And so, too shy and too much afraid of Mr. Martyn to argue the point, and having satisfied her conscience by telling him the state of affairs, Miss Temple continued to attend on her strange pupil, for whom she entertained a strong interest, though not a positive affection.

No one certainly could help sympathising with a child who led so unchildlike a life ; who never heard words of love or tenderness addressed to her, never had amusements provided for her, nor ever felt that she was of the least con sequence to anyone on earth. Her way ward passionate temper, and what they called her ' strange ways,' prevented her being a favourite, even with the servants. and so she, in the words of the old song, ' cared for nobody, no, not she, for nobody cared for her.' But for the last few months a change had come to her. There was now one thinsr she cared for beside her dog Flirt — her half-sister, the fat baby alluded to in Cecil Wentworth's letter. Since the death of her mother never had Rita known what it was to feel a real love for anything, till the tiny baby was placed in her arms by nurse, and she was told it was her little sister.

A strange light came into her dark eye as she gazed speechless on the little creature ; and from that moment a new love was cherished in her heart beside the memory of her dead mother. To sit beside it if nurse was busy — for a promise to hold it in her arms — she would try to restrain her tem per, and be obedient and docile. Baby ! for baby she would do anything ; give up any cherished plan of amusement, a scam per with Flirt — a hunt for eggs or wild flowers, so that in the nursery the advent of the ' little stranger ' had in every way proved a blessing.

Chapter II

When Rita lest the library, where she had been talking to Cecil, she slowly ascended the stairs and stood for an instant lookin sr o from a window in the gallery that com manded a view of the park and the drive to the house, and watched the carriage which Cecil had heard, go slowly back to the stables, and saw Mrs. Martyn, her sister, and Lady Peterson, who had just alighted from it, walk along to meet Mr. Martyn and Mr. O'Brien, Avho were re turning from a ride ; and then she went on along the gallery, and up another staircase, to the apartments especially dedicated to ' the children,' and throwing open a door, entered a large airy room, the walls being hung with gay-coloured prints, and looking as bright and cheerful as a room should in which a child is to pass its early days. Rita went at once to the end of the room, where a bassinet stood, and by which the nurse sat working.

She put up her finger as Rita came near, and said : ' Hush ! baby is asleep.' Rita made no reply, but gazed on the eping infant for a moment or two, and then turning away, Avalked to the window, and jumping up into its deep seat, opened her book to read. ' What a figure you are, Miss Rita ! ' said nurse softly. ' Where have you been ? ' ' Out,' was the laconic reply. ' Oh dear ! you are a naughty girl to tear your clothes so. I have got no other frock but your best to put you on.' ' I don't care. What does it signify ? I've got a nightgown I suppose ? ' ' Of course ; but you can't go down stairs in your nightgown.' ' I'm not going down — do I ever ? Do hold your tongue — I want to read till baby wakes.' ' Your ma might take it in her head you was to go down,' persisted nurse ; ' besides, you ain't fit to be met on the stairs.' ' I'm not going on the stairs any more to-night.' ' In the morning, then, perhaps you will tell me what you are to put on.

I suppose you are going to get up ? ' ' We will wait till the morning,' anwered Rita; 'there is no occasion to bother our selves to-night.' ' Well, you are a strange child, surely ; but I declare,' continued the nurse, more to herself than the child, ' it is a shame she hasn't more clothes, so rich as her pa is. I really will make a point of speaking to mistress about it.' Rita was now deep in her book, far away in fairyland, among gardens with trees laden with jewels, and birds with feathers of silver and gold ; and she had forgotten her own dreary existence, and her dirty pink frock, and felt more deeply for the poor princess, persecuted by the cruel fahy, and more anxiety as to her ultimate fate, than she did for her own scanty wardrobe, or the terrible appearance she should make in the morning.

But to nurse it was a subject of much annoyance. Often she would say, ' Why not take and send the child right away to school some where if they do not care anything about her, but not let her be about neglected like that, to tear her clothes off her back, and never have nothing like other young ladies.' And it had come now to such a pass that she was determined, when Mrs. Martyn came up to see baby, as she always did before going down to dinner, to mention the subject. Accordingly, when the rustle of silk on the staircase announced the arrival of Mrs. Martyn, nurse rose and prepared her speech. Rita was seated, when Mrs. Martyn entered, on the rug, with the baby in her lap, whose little fingers were fast in the child's thick hair, and she was crowing and tugging at it unmercifully, Rita bearing it with the greatest coin posure, content to submit to anything for baby's amusement. ' Oh ! dear me, nurse, is baby safe ? ' was Mrs. Martyn's first exclamation.

Can Miss Rita manage her?' ' Oh ! yes, ma'am, perfectly ; and please, ma'am,' continued nurse, hurriedly, fearful lest her mistress should go before she could prefer her request, ' would you order Miss Rita some new frocks ; she has only one left decent, and that's a very handsome, silk, not fit for every day.' ' You never mean she wants dresses again ! How many she does wear out ! I seem always buying.' ' Yes, ma'am, she is a terrible . young lady to wear things out, I own; I'm for ever scolding and telling her about it.' ' Rita, you must be more careful, or 1 must complain to your papa. I will see about her having some more, nurse.' ' I think if she could have a few nice washing frocks, ma'am, as she don't come down much, it would be best.' ' Well, those you can get in the village ; go to Swathman's to-morrow and buy three or four.

Come to mamma, my precious darling,' she continued, taking the baby from Rita, and kissing it again and again — ' my own little treasure ! How lovely and well she is looking ! Has Miss Elwyn been up to see her ? ' ' No, ma'am ; Miss Elwyn usually comes up after dinner.' A few more endearing words and kisses were lavished on baby, Rita remaining on the rug, with her large earnest eyes fixed on the elegant young mother and the httle happy baby, whose tiny fingers had grasped in place of her sister's hair a costly bracelet gleaming on her mother's white arm. The gong announcing that din ner was ready to be served compelled Mrs. Martyn at length to cease her endear ments, and bidding Rita come and gently take the tiny fingers from her bracelet, she placed the baby in the nurse's arms with another loving kiss, and left the room with a courteous inclination of her head to the nurse, and a ' Good night, Rita,' only to the child, who, having with the greatest gentleness unlaced the baby's fingers, had since stood with an air of haughty proud defiance till her step mother had left the room, and then the old look of love returned to her face as she took the baby again from the nurse, and begged to be allowed to undress it, which was a treat to which she looked forward all day.

Cecil Wentworth having despatched his letters and discussed a cigar, and gone through the operation of dressing for dinner, a performance he intensely dis liked, declaring it was a disgrace to the nineteenth century, and an innovation on the liberty of the subject, had lounged into the drawing-room, and was reposing on one of its luxurious couches after his exertions, when Mrs. Martyn entered, accompanied by her sister, Miss Elwyn, 'the little mite, who might be fifteen or fifty,' that he had mentioned in his letter to his mother. ' Well, Mr. Wentworth, how have you managed to kill time since luncheon? You were not of the riding or driving party,' said Mrs. Martyn, 'were you?' 'No; I had letters to write, and felt idle,' answered Cecil, rising to offer her his place. ' Oh, pray do not let me disturb you ; besides, that is not my favourite lounge.

I like this chair infinitely better. Nina you bad child, I do believe you never thought to make an excursion after the lilies of the valley you promised.' ' No more I did. I meant to have gone after luncheon, and then I drove with you instead,' answered Miss Elwyn, fastening a rose into her dress as she came in from the conservatory, where she had gone to gather it. ' I will go in the morning, or I verily believe you will doubt my word that there are any there.' Mrs. Martyn laughed as she answered, ' I have very great doubts already, you have so often promised me them.' ' Have you none in the garden ? ' asked Cecil. ' A few, I believe, but for some reasons they do not bloom well here ; and Nina VOL. I. D asserts that she has seen a quantity full of luxuriant bloom in the wood near here ; they are my favourite flower.' ' Beyond a rose do you rank them ? ' said Cecil. ' I don't know ; I admit it is a close competition.

You vote for a rose, I pre sume, by your question.' ' I believe I do, but really I should not like to be compelled to say,' ' Then you have never ventured on the Torture book, Mr. Wentworth ? ' asked Miss Elwyn. It was the first time she had addressed him since he had been to the house ; and as in general the young ladies he met were most attentive to him, he had been somewhat nettled, not to say hurt, at her so apparently ignoring his existence, which may account for his description of her in his mother's letter. He replied, therefore, somewhat coolly : ' I do not know what book has earned so pleasing a title.' ' Oh, don't you ? ' interrupted Mrs. Martyn. ' Nina means the questions one is expected to answer which are sup posed to give an idea of one's character — as to our favourite food, colour, name, hero, &c, &c. I have one, and shall be proud to ' have your writing in it, if you will favour me.' ' Excuse me, I should find it too impossible to reply to any such queries.' ' It would be amusing to discover what Mr. Wentworth's notion of the greatest D earthly happiness is, would it not.

Emmy? ' said Miss Elwyn. ' Yes, but I never believe that anyone answers that truly,' said Mrs. Martyn. ' Ah ! I am delighted to see you at last,' she continued, turning to the rest of the party, who all entered the room. ' I should think Framboise is on the eve of a fit : dinner has been ready this age.' ' Ring at once, then, pray, my dear,' said Mr. Martyn ; and the bell was quickly responded to by the servant an nouncing that dinner was serve'd. Lady Peterson always took her husband down to dinner on account of his blindness, and Mr. Martyn took Miss Elwyn, and Mrs. Martyn fell to the share of Cecil Went worth. AVIFE. 37 ' It is too bad ; you have not a young lady for me to take down, Mrs. Martyn,' said O'Brien, as he ran downstairs behind them. ' So it is, Mr. O'Brien. L did try for one to-day, I asked Miss Graham, but she was engaged.

I Avanted you to hear her sing, Mr. WentAvorth,' she continued, turning to Cecil, as he took his seat on her right hand. ' Does she sing Avell ? ' he asked ' Wre think beautifully ; but you are frightfully hard to please, so that you may not agree Avith us.' ' Hard to please ! Since Avhen have you discovered that ? ' ' Since I first knew you. I have intro duced you to half-a-dozen nice girls since you have been with us, but cannot get you to say that you are in the least charmed Avith them.' ' Charmed ! well, that is a strong ex pression. I do not know that I have been charmed.' • ' Exactly, that is Avhat I say. Now, those Marchmont girls are raved of about the county, asked everywhere, and are quite the rage.' ' Which are they? some of the half-dozen you have introduced to me?

Their name has at least passed from my memory.' ' The girls that Avere here last night ; they are Mrs. Daintree's nieces, co-heiresses — orphans, and taken care of by their aunt.' ' Oh, dear, yes,' said Cecil, with a sigh, as though the very recollection of them oppressed him; 'the Avomen with the hair.' ' Yes, superb hair,' answered Mrs. Mar tyn. ' Now you will acknowledge that.' ' Nature — I suppose it is nature — has sup plied them Avith an abundance,' ansAvered Cecil ; ' but I longed to present them each Avith a brush and comb, as their appearance suggested the idea that in these articles of the toilet they Avere deficient.' ' But that, is the fashion, Mr. Went worth,' argued Mrs. Martyn. ' What is the fashion ?' asked Sir Ed mund Peterson, who till that moment had been too much occupied Avith the dinner to notice anything else. ' What 's the fashion ? having your dessert to stare at all dinner time, while it's getting nice and Avarm in WrIFE. the hot room, and the sickly smell of hot house flowers to sniff at, instead of the honest roast beef which used to be an Englishman's pride.