The Vanity Box

Front matter

"If she were not a beauty, she was interesting and unusual"

THE VANITY BOX

BY ALICE STUYVESANT

Chapter I

CHAPTER I

"Please let Mrs. Forestier know that Sir Ian and Lady Hereward have come."

"Yes, my lady. She is in the rose-garden. I will tell her at once," said the butler, who had opened the door.

He rather expected that the visitors would propose going out of doors to find his mistress; for they had been away for a fortnight, and Lady Hereward was a great admirer of the rose-garden, which was now at the height of its June glory. But the weather that day was sullenly hot, with a still, perfumed heat like the heat of the tropics, and Lady Hereward was looking tired. Evidently, as there was no motor or carriage at the door, she and Sir Ian must have walked the two miles and a half from Friars' Moat to Riding Wood House, and though most of the way—taking the short cut—lay in forest shadow, this windless heat would be oppressive among crowding trees.

The butler moved toward the drawing-room door, but Lady Hereward stopped him. "We will sit here in the hall," she said. "It's delightfully cool." So speaking, she pushed down the long gray glove on her right arm, glancing at her bracelet watch. "We're very early," she went on. "We must have walked faster than we thought. We allowed ourselves too much time."

In pulling down her glove, Lady Hereward dropped something which fell noiselessly upon a polar-bear rug, and lay glittering, half buried in the silver-white fur. "My vanity box!" she exclaimed. "Stupid of me! I'm always dropping it."

The butler stooped rheumatically to pick up the little gold case, but the lady's husband was before him, and the old servant pottered away to call his mistress, thinking, as he had often thought before, how charmingly courteous Colonel Sir Ian Hereward invariably was to his wife. She liked and needed a good deal of attention, a good deal of waiting upon, as the observant Brewster was well aware; yet Sir Ian never failed, never seemed bored or impatient, as many husbands did after years of marriage. But then, if he were more devoted than ordinary husbands, her ladyship was more attractive than ordinary wives. Not that she was precisely beautiful, nor was she precisely young. Every one knew the distinguished officer's age—forty-one; and Lady Hereward was said to be some months older than Sir Ian, who was her distant cousin as well as her husband; but she did not look a day over thirty; and if she were not a beauty, she was interesting and unusual. "Like a proud sort of Madonna," the old man described her to himself as he went toward the rose-garden, to tell Mrs. Forestier that her luncheon guests had arrived, a little earlier than expected.

There was a portrait—one among many on the oak-panelled walls—which for some reason fascinated Sir Ian Hereward; and whenever he came to Riding Wood, he always stood in front of it, even if he had to find some excuse for doing so, looking up at the painted, unsmiling face with a curious, reluctant interest, as if he saw it for the first time.

It was not necessary to invent an excuse now, since he was alone with his wife, waiting for their hostess to appear; nevertheless he walked about the hall a little, before making his way to the portrait, picking up a book or two on the fat-legged Jacobean table in the middle of the flagged floor, and then moving on by slow degrees, pausing here and there to glance at some other portrait. This was not a deliberate plan carried out to cloak his real intention, unless from himself, for he had no idea that his wife knew or cared about his interest in the picture; yet he was always drawn to it, in spite of a certain desire to resist. He tried to persuade himself that he thought of that portrait as he thought of others in the hall at Riding Wood, merely as a fine piece of work by a great artist. It had been painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds, and was a family treasure. Once a few years ago, it had gone away to an exhibition, having been lent by Mr. Forestier, since dead; and during the time of its absence Sir Ian had not visited Riding Wood.

When her husband began his wanderings round the hall, Lady Hereward seized the opportunity to open her vanity box, and look at herself in the tiny mirror inside. She knew perfectly well what Sir Ian's goal was, and that, having reached it, he would not be likely to move until he heard Mrs. Forestier's footsteps. She knew perfectly well, too, why he was drawn to the portrait, and the fascination it had for him annoyed her extremely; still, as she scorned to refer to the subject, the fact remained that he would look at the portrait, and she might as well avail herself of the three or four minutes during which his back was turned. Never for an hour did she forget that she was a year older than Ian, or cease to yearn for her lost youth, or abandon the struggle to keep its semblance. Never for a moment did she fall into the error of letting her husband or her friends guess that she was engaged in a struggle. Nobody dreamed how unremitting were the efforts this Madonna-faced lady made to retain the softness and smoothness and slimness which belonged to her past. To be sure, she was known to carry a vanity box, but nobody ever saw her peep into it, and her fondness for the little gold case was counted as one with her devotion to jewelry. This was her only selfish hobby, and though she allowed herself to wear but a few jewels at a time, she owned some for which she might have been envied by richer women.

While Sir Ian gazed at the portrait, his wife glanced hastily at her own reflection in three inches by two of mirror. Her long oval face was white, and there were shadows under the light blue eyes. Her thin but beautifully cut lips were pale and dry, and the brown hair, softly folding down on either side of the pure forehead, almost covering the ears, lacked lustre. Lady Hereward felt disappointed in herself, although the wide gray hat, which dress and gloves matched, was becoming in shape. She took a tiny powder-puff out of the gold vanity box, and gave a pearly effect to her pallor; then, a touch of pink salve (not vulgar red) outlined the delicate curve of the lips; and last of all, the dove-wing folds of hair were pulled a little more over the ears, which were not as pretty or well made as everything else about Lady Hereward.

"You two dears! how good of you to come, and how glad I am to see you both!" cried Mrs. Forestier's voice at the door.

She was a small, dark woman of large enthusiasms, rather gushing, and perhaps even somewhat insincere—at least Sir Ian thought her so; but he had loved her dead husband dearly, therefore he had a kindly if somewhat contemptuous toleration for her, and an almost romantic affection for Riding Wood.

Mrs. Forestier, bright black eyes shining, dimples twinkling, almost ran to greet Lady Hereward, both plump hands outstretched. The two women presented a strong contrast to one another as they kissed: Lady Hereward tall, slim, dignified and gracious; Mrs. Forestier short, round, energetic, with a rich, peachy bloom of complexion.

"I am lucky to get you at such short notice," she went on.

"We're always delighted to come here, you know," said Lady Hereward, "and we haven't been back from Paris long enough to have made any engagements."

Mrs. Forestier released her friend, and moved a few steps toward Sir Ian.

"Only to think of my keeping you waiting!" she reproached herself.

"It wasn't more than five minutes, and Ian loves mooning about among the portraits," said Lady Hereward.

"Don't you think, Milly, that the Sir Joshua by the staircase reminds one a tiny bit of Terry Ricardo, as she used to be? Heaven knows what she's like now." And Mrs. Forestier glanced at the picture which had been occupying Sir Ian's attention.

Millicent Hereward studied the portrait from a distance for a moment before answering, as if she had never noticed any resemblance, and needed to think the question over.

"Perhaps it does, a tiny bit, now you speak of it; though of course Teresina Ricardo couldn't touch Lady Catherine for beauty," she replied at last.

"Perhaps Sir Joshua's idea of Lady Catherine," amended Mrs, Forestier. "If he could have had Teresina for a model, very likely he would have made her even handsomer than Lady Catherine. What do you think, Sir Ian? You used to know Terry in India."

"She was more fascinating than handsome, as I remember her," he answered with just a perceptible stiffening of his thin, brown soldier-face.

"I mean, what do you think about the portrait reminding one of her?"

"There is something like in the expression of the mouth—or the shape of the eyes."

"Or both," added Mrs. Forestier, "and I suppose it's not so very remarkable, since there are a few drops of the same blood in Terry's veins. I hadn't realized the resemblance, till the other day, though I sometimes said to myself: Who is that portrait like? But then I don't suppose I'd thought twice of Terry Ricardo in five years till a week ago—since you and Milly ran over to Paris."

"What made you think of her then?" asked Lady Hereward, turning her favourite ring on her finger.

"Why, she's in England—arrived yesterday, and has come to visit the Norman Ricardos. Maud Ricardo was here about a week ago, and told me they were expecting their cousin Terry."

"Oh!" said Lady Hereward.

Sir Ian said nothing.

Mrs. Forestier flashed one of her bright glances from the wife to the husband.

"Luncheon is served, madam," announced the old butler.

Chapter II

CHAPTER II

They went into the dining-room, and the table conversation strayed from one thing to another, beginning with the Herewards' short visit abroad whence they had just returned. Paris, according to Millicent Hereward, was looking quite lovely, and had been very amusing. They had gone about a good deal, and she had brought back some pretty things. Next week they were going to spend in town, and she would wear them all. She liked London in June, but she liked the country better, especially when she had been out of England and had just come back. A week in town was long enough for her, at one time. They would go up again later, for another week, perhaps. "I'm not so sure you don't look a tiny bit tired, after your Paris dissipations," said Mrs. Forestier.

Lady Hereward smiled, though in reality she was vexed. At forty-two to look tired was to look old. "If I do, it's nothing," she replied. "I always feel excited in Paris, I hardly know why; as if things would happen. I don't sleep well there, though I always enjoy it so much; and when I do sleep I have the most horrid dreams. I don't suppose in the fortnight we were in Paris, I had forty-eight hours sleep. And now the heat's oppressive, isn't it? A brooding, ominous sort of feeling in the air. I shall be quite right again, when I've had a little good sleep, and the weather changes."

"Of course you will, better than ever," said Mrs. Forestier, who was never uncomplimentary or uncomfortable for long. "As for me I adore this sort of weather. It doesn't feel ominous to me. The world's looking so divine. I love my bit of it."

"So do I, mine," Lady Hereward hastened to reply. "It was good to come to dear old Friars' Moat again, wasn't it, Ian?"

"Yes," he said, smiling pleasantly at her, if a little absent-mindedly.

Mrs. Forestier wondered if she knew what he was really thinking about. It was difficult to be sure whether Sir Ian was romantically inclined or not, and yet—he had a romantic profile, she told herself; the kind of profile and the kind of romance that one associated with knights of old, and King Arthur's Round Table and all that. The gravity of his expression when not actually smiling was very marked, but suitable to a soldier who had gone through experiences which sober and age a man before his time. Sir Ian's eyes looked rather wistful, too, if you met them unexpectedly, catching his soul unprepared for attack, as it were; but very likely this did not mean anything as exciting as it appeared to mean. He was a happy and fortunate man, with a charming and devoted wife whom he must have married for love, since she had no money, and he had not been poor; a man who thoroughly enjoyed the country life to which he had settled down after inheriting his uncle's title and place, a few years ago.

"We walked through the woods, and we're going to walk home," went on Millicent Hereward.

"Oh!" said Nina Forestier. "Well, if you're planning to do that, perhaps I ought to tell you something I'm supposed not to tell. I've set my heart on keeping you as long as I can, and showing you the rose-garden. It's quite a dream now, yet if you want to walk home—how long does it take you from here to Friars' Moat?"

"One could do it in forty minutes," said Sir Ian.

"But one doesn't if one is with one's wife, and wanting to enjoy oneself," Millicent finished for him. "One does it in an hour. What is it you ought to tell me and are supposed not to tell?"

"Why—Maud Ricardo mentioned that she was going to take Terry over to pay you a surprise call about half-past four, the day after you came back from Paris. I think she rather wanted Terry to burst upon you; and yet, she'd hate to miss you, of course. I certainly shan't let you leave me till long after three, and if you don't want to miss them, won't you change your mind, and let me send you over in my motor, just in time to arrive by a quarter-past four? You can motor in ten or fifteen minutes."

"No, thank you very much, I can't give up the walk," said Millicent, slowly and rather thoughtfully. "I think we must start early and take plenty of time."

"I'm almost sorry I told you about Maud and Terry Ricardo," said Mrs. Forestier. "But as Maud mentioned her idea to me, she might think it spiteful if I were the one to make you miss her and her cousin."

"If the call was to be a surprise, she couldn't have blamed us for being out," said Sir Ian. He was a very hospitable man, yet he spoke as if he would not be sorry for an excuse to miss the visitors.

"She would blame us, though," said Millicent, "for she would ask where we were; and when she heard we'd been lunching here, she'd be sure to think Nina had told us, and that we'd stopped out late simply because we didn't care about seeing them."

"Who would tell her?" asked Sir Ian. "Not one of the footmen."

"She would very likely ask to see Miss Verney."

"By the way, Miss Verney didn't once come over here while you were gone," said Mrs. Forestier, "though I begged her to drop in any day, or every day, to tea, thinking she might be lonely."

"Nora isn't the sort of girl to be lonely, while she has the run of the library," remarked Sir Ian. "Still, I wonder she didn't come over."

"She is sulking," said Lady Hereward.

"Isn't that rather an unkind thing to say?" asked Sir Ian.

"Not at all," Millicent answered somewhat sharply. "Nora doesn't care who knows. Indeed, I think she likes people to know that she's furious with me."

"Why, I thought she adored you—as everybody does—and even a little more," exclaimed Mrs. Forestier. "I'm sure she ought to. You've been an angel to her—and so has Sir Ian."

Sir Ian smiled at the suggestion, as concerned himself: "One would have to be decidedly fiendish not to be good to Nora."

"Oh, of course she's clever and pretty, and all that," admitted Mrs. Forestier, "but the fact remains that you and Milly came forward when she was left without a penny in the world, and nobody else was inclined to bother much about her, though she had crowds of relatives."

"Her relatives are all poor," said Lady Hereward. "We were glad to do what we could for her."

"And we've been well paid for what we have done," said Sir Ian. "Milly took her, it's true, not because she particularly felt the need of having a companion, but because she was heartily sorry for the poor child when the vicar died, leaving nothing. However, now that Nora has been nearly six months in the house, I'm sure Milly would hardly know what to do without her. She s made herself useful—almost indispensable in a thousand ways, little and big; and not only is she pretty and clever, as you say, but she is good. A most unusual girl."

"I should like to have you as my champion, if I needed one," laughed Nina Forestier.

"Nora doesn't need a champion, though," protested Lady Hereward. "Nobody is oppressing her. Nobody is unjust to her. On the contrary, everybody is very good and considerate. I am just as fond of her as ever, though I am hurt, and think I have a right to be hurt, because she has entirely changed to me in the last two months. It isn't my fault that she fell in love with the one most undesirable man in the world—her world, anyhow; and he being what he is, it isn't my fault that my very love for the girl prevented me from handing her over to him with my blessing."

"Milly is quite right, isn't she, Sir Ian?" said Mrs. Forestier, soothingly, seeing, or fancying she saw, that tears were not far from her friend's eyes.

"Quite right," responded Sir Ian, smiling at his wife. "She usually is right. By the way, she has brought back a present for all her pets in the village, from old bodies in their second childhood, to young bodies just beginning their first."

"She would!" exclaimed Nina Forestier, aware that the subject was changed. "How they all worship her! But then, as I said, everybody does."

"Not everybody," answered Lady Hereward, looking out of the window with a far-away look, which went past the green lawn and the flower border blazing in the sun.

"She has brought a present for you, too," Sir Ian went on.

"Only a quaint old seal I picked up at an antique shop," said his wife. "It's nothing."

Mrs. Forestier protested that it was sure to be lovely, and even if it weren't, in itself, it would be lovely to her as a proof—unneeded, really—that Millicent never forgot her friends.

After that, they talked about some of those friends, great and humble; Mrs. Forestier told of the small happenings of county and village, while the Herewards had been away; and altogether it was a very pleasant luncheon. When it was over Sir Ian left the table with the ladies; they had coffee on the loggia which opened out from Mrs. Forestier's boudoir, and later, gave a few moments to the rose-garden, but only a few, for Lady Hereward insisted that they must not miss the Ricardos. As she and Sir Ian walked away together, with their pleasant air of good comradeship, Nina Forestier, looking after them from the loggia, thought how punctiliously conscientious her friend was. It was not probable that Milly could really be pleased at the idea of seeing Teresina Ricardo, and it would have been easy enough to have missed the intended "surprise visit" without appearing to have avoided it intentionally. Yet, rather than run the risk of seeming inhospitable to a woman who had not the slightest claim upon her, Milly would cut short her visit to Riding Wood. To be sure, she might have stopped a little longer, and still have reached home in time, if she had accepted the offer of Mrs. Forestier's motor. But, if one could get at her real reason or refusing it, very likely it would turn out to be consideration for the chauffeur, or something else absurdly unselfish, rather than her own desire for a second walk through the woods.

"However," thought Mrs. Forestier, as she saw the two tall, erect figures disappear over the brow of the slight hill which separated them from the long stretch of wood, "however, Milly is so desperately in love with Sir Ian after all these thirteen years of being his wife, that I believe she actually enjoys a tête-à-tête with him better than anything else. He's perfectly delightful to her, too, and they're the greatest friends. Yet I wonder if he's as much in love with her as she is with him, or2

She did not finish the sentence in her mind, but let it break off vaguely as she lost sight of Sir Ian and Lady Hereward, walking companionably together, shoulder to shoulder.

Chapter III

CHAPTER III

The stable clock at Friars' Moat had just struck the quarter after four, as a slender woman, dressed in white, walked up the avenue toward the house. She was alone, and walked slowly, glancing about her with interest, as if she wanted to impress every feature of the place upon her mind. Five minutes after the striking of the clock, she arrived at the door, but even then she did not ring at once. She looked at the old, old stone house, and down at the water-lily leaves in the moat which still ran along one side, though elsewhere it had been filled up generations ago.

An electric bell seemed singularly unsuited to the heavy oak door, hinged and studded with iron, but it was there, though a mere inconspicuous button, and the visitor touched it after a moment's hesitation.

A young footman in a quiet livery answered her ring, and she asked for Lady Hereward.

"Her ladyship went out to lunch, with Sir Ian, and has not come back yet," said the servant. He had never seen the face of the caller before, but it was interesting and striking. It was the face of a woman whom most people would like to know, and the footman thought her a personage, though she had come on foot and was simply dressed in a short white cotton frock, with a garden hat trimmed only with a drooping wreath of ivy leaves. He had a dim idea that it might be a grievous offence in the eyes of his mistress, if he let this stranger go, without making an effort to detain her; yet on the other hand, Lady Hereward had given no instructions concerning expected visitors. Usually, when she went out, if she wished to see any one who might arrive before she came back, she mentioned the hour of her return, and directed the servants to ask possible callers to wait. She had said nothing of the sort to-day, nevertheless the footman qualified his announcement of her absence. "I believe they intended to come back to tea," he ventured. "They may be here any minute, now."

"Thank you, but I think I had better not wait," the lady answered, in one of the most beautiful voices the young man had ever heard; a voice which, if she sang, would be a creamy contralto, honey-sweet. "Please give these cards to her ladyship, but say that Mrs. Ricardo had a headache, and sent Miss Ricardo alone, lest Lady Hereward heard they meant to come, and had possibly given up some engagement."

This seemed an almost unnecessarily detailed explanation, but the lady gave it with a certain explicit earnestness which showed that she really wanted it repeated precisely as made. The footman resolved to obey strictly, for this visitor of his mistress was one of those women whom men, in all ranks of life, instinctively long to please.

The servant knew Mrs. Ricardo by name and sight, though she did not come often to Friars' Moat, but he had never heard of a Miss Ricardo. She certainly could not be a daughter who had been away for a long time—as long as his service with the Herewards; for she must be at least twenty-six or seven, and Mrs. Ricardo was not more than thirty-five. His curiosity was aroused, and he wondered almost painfully who the lady in the white dress and the garden hat could possibly be.

He had never seen such eyes as hers, although his ideal of fine eyes had been turquoise blue ones until this minute, and these eyes were gray, even a greenish gray, when you looked straight into them, though the thick dark lashes on upper and lower lids made them seem dark as shadowed trout-pools. Oh, yes, they were eyes that were eyes! Apart from them, there was perhaps nothing very extraordinary about the dusky-pale oval of the face, yet Richard, the second footman, could fancy himself doing anything for a woman like this. Up to a few minutes ago, he had imagined that he was hopelessly in love with Lady Hereward's companion, Miss Verney, but now he had suddenly recovered from that passion. He could not bear to let Miss Ricardo go.

"Would you like to see Miss Verney, madam?" he asked in desperation, even as he mechanically tendered a little silver tray for visiting-cards.

"Miss Verney?" the lady repeated after him.

"Yes, madam; her ladyship's companion, a daughter of the late vicar at Havershall, a neighbouring village. I thought perhaps2"

"No, thank you, I won t trouble Miss Verney, if you will kindly remember to give my message."

What a voice! Richard hoped that he might have the artistic pleasure of hearing it again. As he was assuring the speaker that her message should by no means be forgotten, he caught sight of Sir Ian coming toward the house, across the lawn. One came in that direction, if one had taken the short cut to Friars Moat from Riding Wood. Already Sir Ian had seen the lady's face, as she turned from the door to go away, and seeing it, Richard the footman fancied that he paused. Perhaps it was only fancy, though, for after half a second's apparent hesitation, he quickened his steps. The servant thought that he had never seen his master look so soldierly, as he walked briskly forward, head up, shoulders squared.

This settled it, of course. The visitor would not go now. She would have to wait and speak with Sir Ian, who evidently recognized her, and probably she would have to wait now until Lady Hereward's return. No doubt that would be soon. It was even a little surprising that she should not be with Sir Ian, but very likely she had gone to the village of Riding St. Mary, to see some of her pensioners.

Just as the footman expected, Miss Ricardo stopped, at sight of Sir Ian, and waited for him to join her. Richard hovered a minute or two at the door, expecting his master to bring the visitor inside, but presently he saw that which convinced him it would be more discreet to retire.

Exactly what convinced him, he could hardly have explained, for really nothing happened which would not happen between any lady and gentleman who met after an absence of some time. Perhaps it was the way they looked at one another, which banished the servant almost against his will; yet it could hardly have been that, either, for they did not smile, or appear to be particularly pleased to see each other. Indeed, they were somewhat stiff in their manner; and their voices as they spoke, though quite polite, sounded strained. Nevertheless, the fact remained that Richard the footman felt impelled to efface himself.

It was the lady who spoke first, and held out her hand, saying in her sweet voice which quivered just perceptibly: "How do you do, Sir Ian? I wonder if I've changed so much that you don't remember me?"

"You have changed scarcely at all," he answered; and certainly there was no ring of gladness in his tone. Possibly it hid feeling, rather than expressed it.

They shook hands, and looked in each other's faces, as if half-afraid of what they might see there. Yet there was nothing that either need have feared. No colour showed through the ineradicable South African tan which had permanently bronzed the soldier's face; and the bright rose which stained the cheeks of the young woman made her look far prettier and more youthful than she had done five minutes before. She now appeared to be no more than twenty-five.

For an instant she forgot to draw her hand from Sir Ian's and naturally he could not let it drop, so he held it firmly in his, till it occurred to her that it would be well for her to take it away. She blushed deeply as she did so, though not in offence; otherwise her gray eyes would not have been so kind, so gentle, as they rested on the man s brown face, and seemed to count the silver threads on his temples.

"You have changed," she said, "but only as I have liked to think you would change, with the years. The South African War2

"Yes, that changed all of us," he caught her up.