The Highwayman | Page 9

your friend was carrying more
than guineas," he said.

"What then? Papers and plots and the high political? I don't think it. If
you saw him--a mere tub of beer--and a leaky tub this morning, for he
had a vile cold in the head and dribbled damnably."
"I give it up then. Have you let him go?" They were moving out in the
corridor and Hadley did not answer. "Is he gone?" Harry said again.
Hadley turned round upon him. "Why, yes. Does it signify?"
"I wonder who he was," said Harry.
Upon that they entered the drawing-room of Lady Waverton. It was
congested and dim. The two oriel windows were so draped with
curtains of pink and yellow that only a faint light as of the last of a
sunset filtered through. The wide spaces were beset with screens in
lacquer, odd chairs, Dutch tables, and very many cabinets,--cabinets
inlaid with flowers and birds of many colours; cabinets full of shells,
agates, corals, and any gaudy stone; cabinets and yet again more
cabinets full of Eastern china. In the midst Lady Waverton reclined.
She had been handsome in a large, bold style, and might still have been
but for excessive decoration. Her dress was voluminous white satin
embroidered in a big pattern of gold and set off with black. It was low
at her opulent bosom, to the curves of which the eye was directed by
black patches craftily fixed. There were many more patches on her face
which, still only a little too full and too loose, had its colours laid on in
sharp and vivid contrasts. Her black hair was erected in symmetrical
waves high above her brow, and one ringlet was brought by glossy,
frozen curls to caress her bosom. She held out the whitest of hands
drooping from a large but still fine arm for Mr. Hadley to kiss.
"You are a bad fellow, Charles Hadley," she pouted. "You make me
feel old."
"There's a common childish fancy, ma'am."
"You never come to see me now. And when you do come, 'tis not to see
me."

"A thousand pardons. Mr. Boyce delayed me awhile with the beauties
of his conversation."
"Mr. Boyce?" she looked at Harry as if wondering that he dared exist.
"Go and see why they do not bring in dinner."
Having thus diminished Harry, she proceeded, without waiting for him
to be gone, to criticize him. "You know, I would never have a chaplain
in the house. This tutor fellow is of the same breed, Charles. They tease
me, these men which are neither gentlemen nor servants. Faith, life's
hard for the poor wretches. They are torn 'twixt their conceit and their
poverty. They know not from minute to minute whether they will fawn
or be insolent. So they do both indifferent ill."
Harry, who chose not to hear, was opening the door. There came in
upon him a woman--the young woman of the coach. Even as he
recoiled, bowing, even as he collected his startled wits, he was aware of
the singular beauty of her complexion. Its delicacy, its life, were
nonpareil. The first clear process of his mind was to wonder how he
had contrived not to remark that complexion when first he saw her.
Lady Waverton lifted up her voice. "Alison! Dear child! And are you
home at last? It's delicious in you. You seek us out first, do you not?
My sweet girl!" Alison was engulfed. Conceive apple blossom in the
embraces of a peony.
The apple blossom emerged with a calm, "Dear Lady Waverton."
"You are a sad bad thing. I writ you five letters, I think, and not one
from you."
"You are so much cleverer than I am. I had nothing to say." Alison's
voice was sweet and low, but too sublimely calm for perfect comfort in
her hearers. "So here I am to say it and make my excuses," she dropped
a small curtsey, "my lady. Why, Geoffrey, I thought you had been back
at Oxford!"
Mr. Waverton came forward, smiling magnificence. "I am delighted to

disappoint you, Alison."
"Nay, never believe her, Geoffrey," Lady Waverton lifted up her voice
and was arch. "I vow she counted on finding you here. Why else had
she come? I know when I was a toast I wasted none of my time going
to see old women," she languished affectionately at the girl.
"Dear Lady Waverton,"--if it was possible, Alison's voice became
calmer than ever--"how well you know me. And how cruel to expose
me. If Geoffrey had his mother's wit, faith, I should never dare come
here at all."
"It is not my wit which you need ever fear, Alison," Geoffrey's eyes
were ardent upon her.
"Why, you are merciful. Or is it modest?"
"I can be neither, Alison.