Chapter VII: A Dinner at Hyde Park Square

I do not know by what charm Miss Meadows had been gained over to tell a fib, and enact a whole little drama of domestic perfidy; but she did it. When Mr. Tremenheere in his satisfaction asked her to dinner she told him unblushingly that she had just invited young Oswald Fane, a connection of Lord Fanebury’s, a very clever young man, in whom she took a great interest, to dine with her, and did not see how she could put him off. “Clever young men were always Elinor’s weakness,” said Mr. Tremenheere, so intoxicated with his own contentment that he forgot for the moment that it was not his habit to call Miss Meadows by her Christian name. “But if he is one of the Fanes of Fanebury I know his uncle. Bring him with you. That will make it all right.”

And thus accidentally Oswald Fane was introduced into Hyde Park Square. He was not so near a relation of Lord Fanebury’s as Mr. Tremenheere in his moment of elation was ready to suppose. As he waited till his son had changed his dress, and walked out with him to the crowded streets, feeling sure that everybody he met knew that the blushing youth was the hero of the day, that proud father was ready to receive as an heir presumptive at the least, anybody who might have been presented to him. His gratified pride threw a radiance over all the world. He was for the time being the most proud of fathers, the most kind of men. He put his arm through Eddy’s who was two inches taller than himself, with that delightful mixture of the familiar friend with the father which everybody says it is so pleasant to see, and introduced him to several men they met, with overflowing satisfaction. Then when they got out of the lingering crowd, away into the more quiet streets, Mr. Tremenheere began to inquire into his son’s hopes and intentions for the future, as a father should.

“Is this your last year at school,” he said. “How old are you? Eighteen! Are you expected to stay another year?”

“I think, sir,” said Edward, “that my mother means me to leave and go to Oxford at once. But--I don’t think anything is settled. If you thought----”

“I have left all that to your mother,” said Mr. Tremenheere. “That was a bargain, and I don’t mean to interfere with her. Your mother is a very sensible woman. We did not get on when we were together, which was unfortunate, but she has managed admirably with you, and I approve all she does. And after Oxford, Ned, what then, my boy? What do you think of doing then?”

“Well, sir,” said Eddy, “that is a thing there has been no decision about--I think my mother----”

“Yes, but in the choice of a profession one must act for one’s self. What do _you_ think? You will have your mother’s money, of course, but it will scarcely be enough to enable you to take the position I should like to see you take. You must do something----”

“My mother’s money is her own,” said Edward, with a slight flush upon his face. “I don’t want her to give it me. I am very willing to do something. Indeed, I am not at all sure about Oxford for my part, except that she wishes it. For you ought to know, sir,” he added, looking down with another flush of color, “I am not clever; good enough as a bat and that sort of thing, but not much good in school.”!

“Is that so?” said Mr. Tremenheere. But he said it without anything of that half shame, half pity, both sentiments generally concealed by a caress, with which the women among whom Edward Tremenheere had been brought up regarded his want of success in school. The boy had learned to divine this though nobody ever put it into words, and the easy tone of his father cheered and eased him in the most wonderful way. Was it then perhaps not so humiliating after all to be without cleverness? Might a fellow still do something though he could not get Greek and Latin into his head, and had no hope of a scholarship? Edward felt cheered and encouraged, he could scarcely tell why.

“Yes, I am afraid it is so, I have got such a bad memory or something. I do my work, but it goes out of my head again just as fast. That is why I think it is money wasted sending me to Oxford.”

“Not at all,” said Mr. Tremenheere. “It is not for work alone that men go to Oxford. It always tells well in society. Not a high degree, or honors or anything of that sort; for unless you are going into a profession, the world cares very little for Senior Wranglers, &c. But you make friends who can help you in life, and widen your acquaintance, and learn a great deal that is quite as important. Yes, yes, you must go to college; but after? as I asked before----”

“I don’t know, sir,” said Edward, “my mother used to talk of the Bar, not knowing how stupid I was. But that would never do. I don’t seem to have any particular choice; anything that pleases other people----”

“You are too good, I am afraid,” said his father. “Your mother can’t go on thinking for you----”

“So she says,” said the boy with a laugh. At this moment they met a group of other lads with blue ribbons who stared at Eddy’s appearance here; he nodded to them with a look of dejection. “The rest of the fellows are dining together,” he said. “It is rather fun; but I don’t suppose I shall mind.”

“And you came away without telling me! That was kind of you, Ned. But I hope you will enjoy yourself with us. You will see a great difference in Vera. She is almost grown up, and I shall soon have to think of getting her brought out and introduced into society, which is a great bore for me. So you see we all have our difficulties. I am still in that same old house which you remember. It will be pleasant to dine together this one night.”

“Yes,” said Edward, somewhat disconsolately. He would have liked the dinner with his comrades better, but he was too good to put his own wishes forward. And Mr. Tremenheere thought no more about it. He told him of several young potentates at Oxford whom he should introduce him to. “And I hope you will be very careful about the set you get into. Whatever you may do in the way of scholarship you must never be indifferent to the art of making friends.”

“That is what my mother says,” said the lad, a statement which made his father stare. “She says that if I get into a good reading set----”

Mr. Tremenheere laughed. “That is very like your mother,” he said, “but not exactly what I meant. If you are weak in scholarship don’t go in for it, my boy. What I mean is a good set of men, men whom it will be of use for you to know, who may give you a helping hand in life, or at least in society. A great deal depends on that.”

“Yes,” said Eddy, dutifully. “A good set of men” sounded much better to him than “the reading set” of whom he had been thinking with some alarm, but he did not so well understand about the “helping hand in life” to which his father referred. He was a perfectly humble simple-minded fellow, but yet he was not without a certain pride of his own.

Thus they went home to Hyde Park Square, where Mrs. Tremenheere, agitated by many thoughts, was preparing for dinner in her old room, now empty, swept, and garnished, and asking herself various questions which she could not answer, which she did not like even to put in words. There was a little pause when they all came together in the drawing-room, a little holding of the breath, or so, she thought. It was late and beginning to be twilight, and I cannot describe with what a strange thrill of curiosity Edward looked at his two parents thus brought together. What could they be thinking, these two people who belonged to each other, yet did not belong to each other? And--whose fault was it? The boy was instinctively respectful and dutiful, and made no reply to himself, but yet the question arose in his mind whether he would or not.

“I have been speaking to Ned about his future,” said Mr. Tremenheere. “He does not seem to be very clear what he is to do after Oxford.”

“No. We must let circumstances decide,” said his mother. “Perhaps if he reads hard----”

“My dear Ada, I wouldn’t interfere with you for the world, but why should he read if that is not the turn of his mind?” said Mr. Tremenheere.

“It is the turn his mind ought to take,” she said. “It is the only use so far as I can see of a University. What were colleges instituted for but reading? And it is his duty as well as the best thing to do.”

“Well, I think there are other uses for Universities,” said Mr. Tremenheere. “Is that you, Vera? Come here; your mother cannot see you in this light. You would not think, would you,” he added, with some pride, “that this demure little person was the saucy Vera who used to poke her small fingers into everything?” He laid his hand upon her head caressingly--not that he was much in the habit of caressing her, but he felt a natural impulse to put forth his own production, as it were, by the side of his wife’s, in an amiable rivalry which had no evil intention in it. For, indeed, though he felt proud of his son, and was pleased with him, he was not at all jealous of his son’s mother, to whom the boy specially belonged, and could not have understood the sharp and keen jealousy of himself, almost bitter, which shot like an arrow through Mrs. Tremenheere’s heart as he laid his hand on Vera’s head.

“I had no objections to the saucy Vera,” she said, hurriedly forcing herself to smile.

“Ah, that is not my ideal of a young woman,” said the father, equally unaware how much of the original leaven remained in the demure little person of whose quietness he was so proud.

Mrs. Tremenheere restrained herself as by force and made no reply, though all the old lively impulses of contradiction seemed to spring up in her as she listened; and thus the divided family remained for a moment silent, the father and son standing together, the mother and daughter seated in the shadow. Miss Campbell kept apart at the furthest window, with a book in her hand. She disapproved profoundly of Mrs. Tremenheere. What did she want in this house which she had left of her own accord? Did she mean to come back, disturbing other people in the established routine of their life, perhaps turning the carefully-trained Vera into something fast and disorderly? Such a woman was capable of anything, Miss Campbell thought, and the poor lady had an excuse for her dislike in her growing alarm and terror. She had a very comfortable position in Mr. Tremenheere’s house, and was fond of Vera in her way, and if she left Hyde Park Square there was at her age little before her, except poor genteel lodgings on a small annuity, or the “Home.”

When Miss Meadows came in with young Fane, followed at a moment’s interval by the stray man, adapted to fill a place at an emergency, whom Mr. Tremenheere had met at Lords’, the family were not sorry. Perhaps, on the whole, it was more easy to get on when there were strangers present. There was an awkward moment, however, when they went to dinner. Mr. Tremenheere went across the room to Miss Campbell before the procession started.

“Perhaps,” he said, in a slightly nervous tone, “it would be better if Vera took the head of the table to-day?”

“It must be exactly as you please, Mr. Tremenheere,” she replied stiffly, giving him no assistance. And then he had to give his wife his arm, and hand her down-stairs.

“You are the greatest stranger, Ada,” he cried, with a nervous laugh, and attempt at jauntiness. “The guest of the evening!”

She did not say anything, but put her hand within his arm, as if she had been in a dream. But after that, the small party round the dinner-table went on quite smoothly. Vera, her cheeks burning, sat at the head of the table, feeling wretched, ashamed and proud. She could not bear to look at her mother, who ought to have been occupying that place, and yet could look at nothing else, not even at Eddy, who kept smiling at her, shy but genial. She did not even notice, for five minutes at least, the handsome countenance of Oswald Fane at her left hand, though it was one which few girls of Vera’s age looked at with absolute indifference. He had one of those picturesque dark faces which physiognomists suspect and sentimentalists love; dark eyes, liquid and persuasive, capable of looking unutterable things; dark hair, curling crisply round a well-shaped head; a smile on the curved lips, just shaded with a soft line of moustache which no unsuspecting person could resist. And he had judgment to add to his personal attractions. He saw Vera’s agitation, and neither spoke nor looked at her for these five minutes, but chattered pleasantly to Elinor Meadows, shielding her from observation. Then when Vera began to get used to her position, and to calm out of her excitement, he threw over Elinor and struck in:

“You were very much interested in the match to-day, Miss Tremenheere. Was it for the sake of cricket? Some ladies, I know, are great connoisseurs----”

“Oh, no! I don’t know anything about cricket. My brother was playing.”

“I know; and I knew that was the reason, if you will let me say so. Cricketing young ladies don’t look as you look.”

“I? How did I look? Not very odd, I hope?” said Vera; “Miss Campbell says I am always showing my feelings.”

“I must not trust myself to description,” he said. “Your look raised very violent emotions in my mind. Yes, I may as well confess. I turned immediately to the men in the field, and I said to myself, ‘A set of wretched schoolboys. What have they done, I wonder, with their stupid game that any idiot could play, to deserve _that_?----’”

“Mr. Fane! I hope you don’t mean what you say!” cried Vera, indignantly, raising her head, “because I am Edward’s sister. No one ought to speak like that, knowing that my brother is Captain of the Eleven.”

“I told you, you had raised diabolical passions in my breast,” said Fane unmoved. “Envy, hatred, and jealousy; because you see, I knew very well that if I were to do the greatest feat that a man could do, no one would look so at me.”

“Ah!” said Vera, mollified, drawing a breath of relief; “then you have no sister,” she added softly, looking at him for the first time with interest.

Here I think it was the duty of Elinor to have interfered; but she was much amused; and she was, as she avowed boldly, half in love herself, in an elderly fashion, with Oswald Fane.

“No,” he said, “I am all alone in the world. It does not matter to any one what I do or what I don’t do; so, you must forgive me my grudge at that happy fellow you were watching. I did not intend him any harm.”

“Eddy played very well to-day,” said the friend of the family, who sat at Vera’s right hand. “Made a good score. Saved that last innings, he did. I don’t like to see my old school beaten, though I’m an old fellow. I give you leave to be proud of your brother, Vera. I never saw a neater catch. It made a man feel young again.”

“I am very proud of him, thanks,” said Vera, beaming. She looked at Eddy almost for the first time. His face was very serious, poor fellow. He was sitting next to Miss Campbell, who addressed instructive conversation to him, as she thought it was her duty to do with the young. And, alas, I fear poor Eddy, though he was at home, with all the members of his family round him, was thinking ruefully of the gay dinner at which the others were drinking their toasts and making their speeches. This certainly was not so lively. He did not see Vera look at him, but he met his mother’s eye, and smiled, with a slight shrug of the shoulders. Vera saw this pantomime, and was angry. Was he not glad to be at home?

Thus the dinner was not the greatest of successes; and the ordeal of the drawing-room was still more severe. Mr. Tremenheere walked up to his wife when he came up-stairs, and sat down beside her.

“I could not say anything to you at dinner,” he said, “Ada; but I want now just to say a word. Don’t press the scholarship business upon Ned. You can afford to send him to Oxford, and he can afford to go; that is, he is young enough not to be losing his time; but don’t worry him and strain him to do something out of his line altogether. There, I don’t want to interfere; but this you must let me say.”

“Thank you,” she said, a little stiffly; “I will think of it, Charles. Of course your advice in respect to Eddy must always have the greatest weight.”

“Well, yes, I think it ought,” said the father, “especially as there has never been any quarrel, so to speak, between us. We have always been quite good friends.”

“Perfectly good friends; if you will allow me in my turn to make a remark, I think poor Vera’s natural vivacity is too much repressed. Miss Campbell, I have no doubt, is a very good woman, but Vera will never be really one of those meek girls whom you admire. She has a great deal of energy and spirit in her. I think you should take care not to carry the subduing process too far.”

“Ah!” he said, raising his eyebrows, “do you think so? I should not have supposed that would have occurred to you. Miss Campbell’s process seems to me to have answered admirably. However, I will keep my eye upon her, since you think so. Curious! I expected you to compliment me, as everybody does.”

“Yes, and so I do; she has grown up very sweet and fair,” she said, with some emotion.

“But only you do not approve of the way in which she has been brought up,” he said, with a laugh. “Well, well, we never did agree, and it is evident we were never intended to agree, Ada; which does not, however, prevent me from giving, as you say, the greatest weight to your advice, and from our continuing the best of friends.”

With this he grasped her hand heartily, and rising from his chair beside her, went off to talk to Edward, whom old Mr. Carnaby was cross-questioning. Mrs. Tremenheere sat alone for a time. Near the open window, with its long lace curtains swaying softly in the summer air, sat Vera beside Miss Meadows, looking up into the dark, handsome face of young Fane, who bent over her. I don’t think it occurred to the mother to take any panic about young Fane. She had subjects enough to occupy her mind without that. But whether by inadvertence or purpose, I cannot tell which, Elinor Meadows rose up suddenly, and came and joined her, leaving the two young people together--Miss Campbell, not being able to put up with this overturn of all her habits, having left the room.

“Well,” said Elinor, eagerly, “have you settled anything? Indeed you ought to have come to your senses, you two, at your age.”

“Perhaps we ought,” said Mrs. Tremenheere, “but nothing is changed that I can see. Age makes little difference. For Vera’s sake I might risk it, but he has no such idea; he is too triumphant in his own success.”

“Then nothing is to come of it; what was the good then--” cried Elinor, with tears in her eyes. “Ada! Ada! I thought you would have done anything for poor little Vera’s sake.”

“I suppose it is only justice,” said Mrs. Tremenheere, with a slight faltering; “when he would have made it up, I wouldn’t; and now when perhaps--I don’t know--I might----”

“Is that all you say? when of course you would that or anything else, for Vera’s sake.”

“Well, put it as you please; but anyhow it would be a failure. We should begin again to contradict each other the very next day. However, it is needless to discuss the question, for he does not wish it; that is as clear as daylight.”

A little while after the two halves of the divided family said goodbye to each other, and the mother and son went back to their separate lodgings with Elinor, like any other visitors.

“Well, Eddy, have you spent a happy evening?” said Miss Meadows, in the darkness of the carriage, driving home.

“Oh, happy? Well enough,” said Edward. “Of course I was glad to see my father and Vera; still it was a bore not to be at the dinner with the other fellows, and this my last year.”

The next step after this strange family meeting was taken in all innocence, with no thought of the complications it might lead to. Mr. Tremenheere consented that Vera should pay a visit to her mother in the country, under the charge of Elinor Meadows. It was to be for two days only, too short a time to have much effect upon the girl, one way or another,--Miss Meadows, however, did not tell any one that on her own responsibility she had offered a seat in her carriage, and an introduction into her friend’s house, to Oswald Fane.