An Accomplished Woman (13 page)

Soon followed Mr
Shipley, her father’s friend, land-agent and lawyer, from Bourne: a rotund,
convivial little man with a mirthful weakness for the absurd: then, not at all
inclined to mirth, Miss Beaumont — who had, it was true, very little occasion
for it.

Twenty-five years ago
she had been the accredited beauty of the district, indulged by a father with
an East India fortune, and with eligible gentlemen at her feet. But the fortune
was lost in speculation, and the father shot himself: the eligible gentlemen
got up from her feet and went away: the tiger-skinned mansion was sold, and
Miss Beaumont had retired to a small house on the edge of Heystead, there to
take responsibility for a brother whose youthful eccentricity had reached the
threshold of outright madness. Now she had few pleasures except the exercise of
a sharp tongue and a censorious temper: she had become, in fact, the living
caricature of the dry spinster. Lydia made every allowance, but could never be
easy with her; partly because she suspected that in Miss Beaumont she herself
ought to behold an Awful Lesson.

Mr Lewis Durrant
completed the party. He looked very well in the evening clothes he despised;
but in Lydia’s eyes he scarcely troubled to conceal the fact that he came here
only out of respect for Dr Templeton, and otherwise considered the evening as
merely something to be got through. Yet these old vexations with his manner
were familiar enough to be disregarded, beside her still wonderfully fresh and
tart delight in his scheme of wife-hunting. Nothing could mar the amusement it
afforded her to think of it — of Lewis Durrant transporting his grim looks,
curt speech, and hardened carapace of self-opinion to the ballroom and the
circulating-library (Nothing, that is, except the name of the town where this
delirious scene might take place — and Lady Eastmond’s letter had reminded her
sufficiently of that.) She greatly looked forward to tormenting him a little
more about it — and likewise to learning what had happened at Melton Mowbray.

There on a very moderate
income lived his elder sister Mrs Hanley, the relic of a clergyman who six
years ago had done the only noteworthy thing in his life, by dying; leaving
fatherless not only Hugh but three young daughters. That this female household
was ruled by only two ideas — that Hugh was a picture of perfection, and that
their rich uncle Durrant must always do something handsome for the family —
Lydia had gathered only from Mr Durrant’s own jaundiced account; but she found
it believable, and was much interested to know the result of the momentous
meeting.

No chance of that for
now, however. Mr Durrant’s attention was monopolised as soon as he entered the
drawing-room by Mrs Vawser.

Though everyone except
the obtuse Mr Paige knew her marriage to be ruinously unhappy, still she made
much of her status as a married woman. She exhibited a vast condescension to
those unfortunate females — like Lydia — who had reached and passed the age of
discretion without acquiring a husband; and she liked to indulge in the sort of
arch, showy flirtation with gentlemen that in a single woman would have been
reproved as fast, and that gave her the opportunity to be splendid,
fascinating, and so forth. Lydia’s general attention to the comforts of her
guests allowed her to lend only half an ear to Mrs Vawser’s efforts to
captivate Lewis Durrant; but a screech of ‘Oh, sir, I see you are
determined
to play the rogue with me!’ and Mr Durrant’s look of mingled scorn,
amazement, and titanic gloom gave her a fair idea of its progress.

She was glad, as they
took their seats at dinner, that her father had congenial company in Mr Shipley
on his left, and Emma on his right; but she was less happily accommodated. Mr
Durrant was on her right, but he naturally had Mrs Vawser at his other side —
no more capable of being ignored, even by him, than a pillar of flame. Lydia’s
other companion was Mr Paige, all ready to make good his threat of discussing
with her the state of the nation.

He had scarcely begun on
the poor, however, when he was obliged to turn to Miss Beaumont on his left. She
had much to tell, and complain of, in the insolence of servants and labourers,
which she put down entirely to the French example and free-thinking. Here was
Mr Paige’s subject: Lydia was free of him throughout the soup, fish and
oyster-sauce, and could observe Mrs Vawser’s campaign against her neighbour.

‘But to be sure, though
we are newly
acquainted,
I have always
heard
of you, when I have
visited my sister,’ she cried. ‘Oh, yes: Mr Durrant of Culverton — everyone
must know
him
— he is the one who will go a whole week without
speaking.’

‘You are mistaken,
madam: sometimes I go a fortnight.’

‘I like your style of
joking excessively! I dare say you have picked it up in town: it is not the
sort of thing that suits a country neighbourhood — charming though Heystead
is,
and indeed I will not hear a word said against it. As far as the country
goes,
I contend there is no sweeter spot anywhere: I often tell my sister so: no,
anyone who would disparage Heystead must first deal with me.’ Mrs Vawser gave a
laugh — so enormous and purposeful that she might have been demonstrating to
some curious denizen of another world, where laughter was unknown, exactly what
it was. ‘Oh, dear, yes, they would first have to deal with
me,
and that,
you know, is no matter for the faint-heart.’

Mr Durrant murmured that
he had not a doubt of that; and helped her to the sole with as much
discriminating care as if there were poison in certain parts of it.

‘But I always maintain
that there is country and there is town,’ she resumed, using her two hands to
illustrate this difficult concept. ‘There is a distinction, as I need not
remind
you,
that is defining — that is essential. Whenever
you
are
in town—’

‘You must pardon me, I
never go to London unless I can help it.’

‘Oh, dear me, Mr Durrant,
upon my word that I cannot believe. This is more of your joking, but you won’t
catch me out with it — oho, you must bait a better hook than that to catch me .
. .’ She embarked on the laugh again: but as Mr Durrant only went on eating,
she looked over at Lydia. ‘Come, then, let us refer the question to Miss
Templeton.
She,
I am sure, will know: she must be
au fait
with
all the little gossip of the neighbourhood — when precisely Mr Durrant is at
Culverton, and when in town, what day he returned, and what his conveyance—’

‘You credit me with a
knowledge, and above all an interest, that I do not possess,’ Lydia said
placidly. ‘But I can say, knowing Mr Durrant as an old neighbour and
acquaintance, that he seldom goes to London.’

‘Ah, but then you are so
attached to Culverton — are you not, sir? Is that not it? Everyone knows of Mr
Durrant’s attachment to Culverton and no one wonders at it — if they were to
wonder at anything, it would be his spending any time in town at all — I am
sure
I
should wonder at it if he did — and I have never yet been to
Culverton myself.’ Mrs Vawser having shifted her ground so swiftly and
completely, proceeded to dig herself in. ‘It is a great matter of wonder to me
why a person who is so admirably situated as you are at Culverton, sir, should
ever be supposed to wish a removal to London, even for a little time in the
year: who
could
wish it? No, no: they would have to deal with me, before
proposing such a self-evident piece of nonsense.’

The removal of the first
course interrupted, though it did not entirely stop, Mrs Vawser’s tireless
waving of the flag of personality. She could still subject Mr Durrant to
glances, glances away, and sharp suppressions of hilarity accompanied by slaps
with her handkerchief: to all of which Mr Durrant presented the same look of a
man being turned slowly into stone, and welcoming it. Little observant Mr
Shipley, primed with wine, was already beginning to quiver under his tight
waistcoat, and might soon be emitting his uncontrollable giggle. Sobriety was
restored by Miss Beaumont, reverting to her favourite topic of the impudence of
servants, and wondering aloud how it was that they lived so long when they were
always complaining of their poverty.

‘There is a tiresome old
creature, who was one of my father’s maids, still living at Ingoldsby: I do
what I can for her, as one must: but what is offered as kindness is received as
if it were obligation. Yet she must be seventy if a day and, believe me,
enjoying such health and vigour as I would be glad of. Really I suspect she
will outlive me.’

‘Our earthly lot is
scriptural,’ announced Mr Paige, automatically: and then, considering: ‘But
there is a robustness about that class of people, to be sure, ma’am: perhaps
length of years may be a providential recompense, for their lives do not have
much to trouble or concern them; they are given in large measure what they
could never appreciate in little.’

‘They appreciate
nothing,’ contended Miss Beaumont, with her fiercest face.

‘The bestowal of years
is indeed a question for the moralist,’ said Lydia.’There are so many people
whose early loss is mourned: and yet so many, Miss Beaumont, whose existence
seems to persist long after it is wanted or justified.’

‘As I have lately had
cause to remark,’ put in Dr Templeton, peaceably, ‘human longevity is a great
preoccupation of ours — and yet one that has a finite solution. However long we
live — as earthly creatures, that is —’ with a bow to Mr Paige, bristling ‘—
the term must end. Indeed it is an engaging philosophical consideration, that
in sixty or seventy years —’ he smiled ‘— all of us gathered here will be in
the grave.’

‘Not all in the same
one, I hope,’ muttered Mr Durrant: while Mr Shipley made a suppressed noise
like a mouse being strangled.

‘But is it not the case,’
said Emma, looking perturbed, ‘that we look to a longer future in the lives of
our children? I’m sure when I look at my little ones—’

‘Quite true,’ Lydia put
in quickly, suspecting that her father, in his zealous objectivity, would
cheerfully remark that they would eventually die too. ‘That is a consideration.
And reminds me, Miss Beaumont, that I was lately with my brother and his
family; and George especially asked to be remembered to you, and to present his
compliments.’ George had done no such thing, but he might have if he had
thought of it.

‘Mr George Templeton is
very good,’ Miss Beaumont said, with the faintest warming of severity. ‘I
suppose, sir, they will be coming here at the end of the summer?’

‘Such is my happy
expectation,’ Dr Templeton said, as the mutton and fowls were brought in.

‘It must be a great
comfort to you, my dear Dr Templeton, having a son married, and respectably
settled,’ cried Mrs Vawser. ‘I may have mentioned to you before Mr Vawser’s
cousins, the Randals — the Randals of Holme Park, you know, in Hertfordshire:
we were there last Christmas: quite the sweetest country spot I ever saw—’

‘I thought that was
Heystead,’ said Mr Durrant to his wineglass.

‘Tut — you see how this
beau of mine rallies me! I shall attend to your nonsense in a moment, sir. I
was talking of the Randals of Holme Park — excellent people — taste, elegance,
yet nothing of affectation, which I detest above all things — I yield to no one
in my absolute dislike of affectation.
He
is the most sensible, well-bred
man: and
she
is all that is amiable, and one would never guess that she
is near fifty. Yet it is their misfortune to have two grown children still
about the place — a boy and a girl, I was going to say but they must both be
past twenty-five — great awkward things, showing no inclination to make a
proper match, or do anything for themselves! I do pity the Randals excessively,
for
they
have spared no effort in seeking an establishment for their
children. It seems so very unnatural!’

‘Well, now, I have
observed from studying estate and parish records at Heystead that a later age
of marriage has become more prevalent in the last hundred and fifty years or
so,’ Dr Templeton said thoughtfully. ‘This may reflect various changes: the
decline of marriages absolutely arranged by the parents, for example, in favour
of free choice.’

‘The tendency to late
marriages may reflect nothing more than the growth of sense,’ Lewis Durrant
said. ‘At twenty-one, a man seldom knows what he is doing, or where his best
interests lie.’

‘I am glad you say
a
man,
Mr Durrant, and exempt woman from this youthful imbecility,’ Lydia
said.

‘I do: a woman’s
imbecility is not dependent on youth: it flourishes at all ages.’

‘You
are
a provoking
creature,’ exclaimed Mrs Vawser, returning to the attack, ‘trying to tease me
so! But you won’t win, you know - I shall give as good as I get, I assure you!
I have not half done with you! Now, what were we talking of?’

‘Death,’ said Mr
Durrant, with a face suitable to the word.

‘Before that, monster.
It was Culverton: we were talking of your heavenly place at Culverton, and you
were telling me about it, or you were just going to.’

‘You were kind enough to
suggest, madam, that everyone knew about Culverton: so I will not weary you
with repetition.’

‘But then
I
have
not seen it — and I take nothing, you know, on trust. Dear me no! — I cannot
help but laugh, for there are a good many friends of mine who would absolutely
stare at the notion of my taking anything on trust. “Not Penelope Vawser,” they
would say. I assure you I have heard them say it. “I will not believe it,” they
say, “until I have it from Penelope Vawser’s own lips, for she takes nothing on
trust.” That is the way I am, I’m afraid, Mr Durrant: you will not change me!’