Leonora | Page 4

letter in her long white hand, could call up and see the
interior of every room to the most minute details. She, the
housemistress, knew her home by heart. She had thought it into
existence; and there was not a cabinet against a wall, not a rug on a
floor, not a cushion on a chair, not a knicknack on a mantelpiece, not a
plate in a rack, but had come there by the design of her brain. Without
possessing much artistic taste, Leonora had an extraordinary talent for
domestic equipment, organisation, and management. She was so
interested in her home, so exacting in her ideals, that she could never
reach finality; the place went through a constant succession of
improvements; its comfort and its attractiveness were always on the
increase. And the result was so striking that her supremacy in the
woman's craft could not be challenged. All Hillport, including her
husband, bowed to it. Mrs. Stanway's principles, schemes, methods,
even her trifling dodges, were mentioned with deep respect by the
ladies of Hillport, who often expressed their astonishment that,
although the wheels of Mrs. Stanway's household revolved with perfect
smoothness, Mrs. Stanway herself appeared never to be doing anything.
That astonishment was Leonora's pride. As her brain marshalled with
ease the thousand diverse details of the wonderful domestic machine,
she could appreciate, better than any other woman in Hillport, without
vanity and without humility, the singular excellence of her gifts and of
the organism they had perfected. And now this creation of hers, this
complex structure of mellow brick-and-mortar, and fine chattels, and
nice and luxurious habit, seemed to Leonora to tremble at the whisper

of an enigmatic message from Uncle Meshach. The foreboding caused
by the letter mingled with the menace of approaching age and with the
sadness of the early autumn, and confirmed her mood.
Millicent, her youngest, ran impulsively to her in the garden. Millicent
was eighteen, and the days when she went to school and wore her hair
in a long plait were still quite fresh in the girl's mind. For this reason
she was often inordinately and aggressively adult.
'Mamma! I'm going to have my tea first thing. The Burgesses have
asked me to play tennis. I needn't wait, need I? It gets dark so soon.' As
Millicent stood there, ardently persuasive, she forgot that adult persons
do not stand on one leg or put their fingers in their mouths.
Leonora looked fondly at the sprightly girl, vain, self-conscious, and
blonde and pretty as a doll in her white dress. She recognised all
Millicent's faults and shortcomings, and yet was overcome by the
charm of her presence.
'No, Milly, you must wait.' Throned on the rustic seat, inscrutable and
tyrannous Leonora, a wistful, wayward atom in the universe, laid her
command upon the other wayward atom; and she thought how strange
it was that this should be.
'But, Ma----'
'Father specially said you must be in for tea. You know you have far
too much freedom. What have you been doing all the afternoon?'
'I haven't been doing anything, Ma.'
Leonora feared for the strict veracity of her youngest, but she said
nothing, and Milly retired full of annoyance against the inconceivable
caprices of parents.
At twenty minutes to seven John Stanway entered his large and
handsome dining-room, having been driven home by David Dain,
whose residence was close by. Three languorous women and the erect

and motionless parlourmaid behind the door were waiting for him. He
went straight to his carver's chair, and instantly the women were alert,
galvanised into vigilant life. Leonora, opposite to her husband, began to
pour out the tea; the impassive parlourmaid stood consummately ready
to hand the cups; Ethel and Millicent took their seats along one side of
the table, with an air of nonchalance which was far from sincere; a
chair on the other side remained empty.
'Turn the gas on, Bessie,' said John. Daylight had scarcely begun to fail;
but nevertheless the man's tone announced a grievance, that, with
half-a-dozen women in the house, he the exhausted breadwinner should
have been obliged to attend to such a trifle. Bessie sprang to pull the
chain of the Welsbach tap, and the white and silver of the tea-table
glittered under the yellow light. Every woman looked furtively at
John's morose countenance.
Neither dark nor fair, he was a tall man, verging towards obesity, and
the fulness of his figure did not suit his thin, rather handsome face. His
age was forty-eight. There was a small bald spot on the crown of his
head. The clipped brown beard seemed thick and plenteous, but this
effect was given by the coarseness of the hairs, not by their number; the
moustache was long and exiguous. His blue eyes were never still, and