The Nonesuch

These words afforded his wife food for considerable thought. She could not be perfectly reconciled, but her resolution wavered. The reference to Tiffany, little though the Rector knew it, had operated powerfully upon her. She was not, she hoped, a worldly woman, but neither was she so saintly (or so unnatural a parent) as to be unmoved by the spectacle of her daughter’s being cast into the shade by an odiously precocious little baggage who was wild to a fault, as vain as she was beautiful, and wholly wanting in character and disposition. Mrs Chartley, in fact, did not like Tiffany Wield; and she had been thinking for some time that it was sad to see such a delightful young man as Lindeth in her toils. Heaven knew she was no matchmaking mother! Unlike certain of her husband’s parishioners, she had made not the smallest attempt to throw her child in his lordship’s way; but when she had watched him dancing with Patience the thought had flashed across her mind that they were a remarkably well-suited couple. Lindeth was just the sort of young man she would have chosen for Patience. It was one thing to make no push to engage his interest in the child, but quite another to throw obstacles in the way of his becoming better acquainted with her.

She was still in a state of indecision when the matter was clinched by an invitation to Patience from Mrs Underhill, to attend one or two morning dances at Staples, to practise the waltz.

“Morning dances!” she exclaimed. “Good gracious, what next?”

Patience, her eyes shining, and her cheeks in a glow, said: “It was Tiffany’s suggestion, Mama, and Miss Trent says it is quite true that they have become the fashion in London. Just to enable people to practise waltzes and quadrilles, you know. And she has undertaken to play for us, and tell us all how to waltz in the correct manner. Mama, nearly all my friends are going! And even Courtenay Underhill, and the Banninghams, and Arthur Mickleby are determined to learn! And Lord Lindeth and Mr Ash have been so obliging as to promise to come too, to show us the way. And Mrs Underhill will be present, and—”

“My dear, how you do run on!”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am! Only, may I go? Not if you dislike it—but I should like to so very much!”

Mrs Chartley could not withstand such an appeal. “Well, my love, since your papa sees no harm in it, and the ball is to be a private one, not a public assembly—”

“Oh, thank you,Mama!” breathed Patience. “Now I can look forward to it, which I didn’t when I thought I should be obliged to sit down when the others were all dancing!”

“No, that would never do,” agreed Mrs Chartley, visualizing such a scene with profound disapprobation.

“It is going to be a beautiful party!” confided Patience. “There are to be coloured lamps in the garden, and—but this is a great secret, Mama, which Lizzie whispered to me!—a firework display at midnight!”

“It’s to be hoped, then, that it doesn’t rain,” said Mrs Chartley.

“Oh, don’t suggest such a thing!” begged Patience. “Mama, would you think it very extravagant if I were to purchase a new reticule for it? I’ve been to so many parties that mine is looking sadly shabby.”

“Not, not at all. You know, my dear, I have been thinking that if you were to bring back a length of satin from Leeds on Friday we could very easily make a fresh underdress for your gauze ball-dress. I never did like the green we chose. A soft shade of pink would become you. And if you can find some velvet ribbon to match it—How vexatious it is that I can’t go with you! But Dr Wibsey threatens me with all manner of evil consequences if I don’t continue to be invalidish until the end of the week at least, so if I am to take you to this ball next week I suppose I must do what he tells me. Well, you will have Miss Trent to advise you! Let yourself be guided by her: she has excellent taste!”

What with the dissipation of waltzing at Staples all one rainy morning, and the prospect of an orgy of spending in Leeds, attended by a nuncheon-party, it was in a festive mood that Patience awaited the arrival of the Staples carriage on Friday morning. She had arrayed herself for the occasion in her best walking-dress of figured muslin, with long sleeves, and a double flounce round the hem; on her head she wore a pretty straw bonnet, trimmed with flowers; on her feet sandals of tan kid; in one hand she held a small parasol; and in the other (very tightly) a stocking-purse containing the enormous largesse bestowed on her by her Mama. It seemed quite profligate to spend so much money on her adornment, for although the Rector had been born to an independence which enabled him to command the elegancies of life he had reared his children in habits of economy, and in the belief that it was wrong to set store by one’s appearance.

“Going to waste your money on more finery?” he had said, smiling, but disapproving too.