False Colours

19

Sir Bonamy, waking from his afternoon nap, yawned, sighed, and refreshed himself with a pinch of snuff. He then picked up the Morning Post, which Norton, tiptoeing into the room, had laid on a table at his elbow, and cast a lacklustre eye over its columns. The only items of interest to him were contained on the page devoted to the activities of the ton; and, since London, in July, was almost deserted, these consisted mostly of such arid pieces of information as that Lady X, with her three daughters, was visiting Scarborough; or that the Duchess of B—was taking the waters at Tunbridge Wells. Brighton news occupied most of the space; and Sir Bonamy read, nostalgically, that His Royal Highness the Prince Regent had entertained a party of distinguished guests at the Pavilion, dinner, to which a select company had been invited, having been followed by a brilliant soirée, with music. Sir Bonamy could not have been said to have shared his royal crony’s taste for music, but he would have enjoyed the dinner, to which he would most certainly have been bidden. Then he read that His Royal Highness the Duke of York was expected to arrive at the Pavilion at the end of the week; and this so painfully sharpened his nostalgia that he decided that the end of the week should also see the return of Sir Bonamy Ripple to the Pavilion.

He had responded without hesitation to Lady Denville’s summons, flattered by it, and willing, in his good-natured way, to do her least bidding. He had looked forward to some agreeable tête-à-têtes with his hostess; he knew that her cook was second only to his own; and he vaguely supposed that the rest of the company would consist of congenial persons with whom he would be able to play whist for high stakes every evening. His devotion to her ladyship had become so much a habit that he would not have refused her invitation even if he had known that his fellow-guests would be unfashionable people with whom he had nothing in common; but he had been as much daunted as surprised when he discovered that one of the ton’s most successful hostesses had invited to Ravenhurst such a small and dull collection of guests.

Sir Bonamy was no lover of the pastoral scene, in general confining his visits to the country to several weeks spent during the winter at various great houses, where he could be sure of meeting persons who were congenial to him, and of being amused by such diversions as exactly suited a grossly fat and elderly dandy of his sedentary disposition; and a very few days spent at Ravenhurst had been enough to set him hankering after the delights of Brighton. There had been few opportunities for elegant dalliance with Lady Denville; playing indifferent whist for chicken-stakes bored him; and the discovery that he had unwittingly stepped into a masquerade made him feel profoundly uneasy. There was no saying what devilry the Fancot twins might be engaged in, and to become involved in what bore all the appearance of a major scandal was a fate which he shuddered to contemplate.

He had laid aside the Morning Post, and was wondering what excuse he could offer Lady Denville for bringing his visit to an end, when the door was softly opened, and she peeped into the room.

As soon as she saw that he was awake, she smiled, and said: “Ah, here you are! Dear Bonamy, do let us go for a stroll together! I don’t believe I’ve had as much as five minutes alone with you since the day you arrived.”

As he hoisted himself out of his chair, she came across the room with her light, graceful step, looking so youthful that he exclaimed: “Upon my word, Amabel, you don’t look a day older than you did when I first saw you!”

She laughed, but said wistfully: “You always say such charming things, Bonamy! But, alas, you’re offering me Spanish coin!”

“Oh, no, I’m not!” he assured her, kissing her hand. “Never any need for that, my pretty! Not an hour older!”

“So many years older!” she sighed. “I daren’t reckon them. Do you care to come into the garden with me? Cressy has driven out with her Grandmama, so at last I am free to do what I choose! My dear, how prosy and dreadful Cosmo has become! Thank you for bearing with him so nobly! I don’t know what I should have done without you!”

“Oh, pooh, nonsense!” he said, beaming fondly down at her. “Always a joy to me to be able to serve you! As for Cosmo—well, thank you for ridding me of him!” He rumbled a laugh. “Scarlet fever indeed, you naughty puss! I thought you were pitching it a trifle too rum, but, lord, he’s the biggest flat I ever knew, for all he thinks himself up to everything!” He drew her hand through his arm and patted it. “If he knew you as well as I do, my pretty, you’d have been gapped!”

“But he doesn’t,” she pointed out. “I don’t think anyone does.”

He was so much gratified by this that he could only heave an eloquent sigh, squeezing her arm, and growing pink in the face. Lady Denville guided him out of the house, and disengaged her hand to open her frivolous parasol. She then slipped it back within his crooked arm, and walked slowly along the terrace with him to the shallow steps, saying: “How delightful this is! I have been so much harassed that it is a struggle to support my spirits, but it always does me good to talk to you, my best of friends.”

“It does me good only to look at you, my love!” he responded gallantly, but with a slightly wary look in his eye.

“Dear Bonamy!” she murmured. “Such a detestably dull party to have invited you to! I knew you wouldn’t fail, too, which makes it quite shameless of me to have made such a demand on your good nature! I do beg your pardon!”

“No, no! Happy to have been of assistance to you!” he said, quite overcome.

“I expect you are longing to get back to Brighton,” she sighed. “I don’t wonder at it, and only wish I were going there too, for I do not like the country, except for a very little while!”

“Come, come, Amabel, what’s this?” he expostulated. “Of course you are going to Brighton! Why, you told me yourself that Evelyn had hired the same house on the Steyne which you had last year!”

“Yes, and doesn’t it seem a waste? But Evelyn cannot go there until his shoulder has mended—he was in an accident, you know, which is why Kit was obliged to take his place—and he says he shall go to Leicestershire, to Crome Lodge, and only think how dismal for him, poor lamb, at this season! I must accompany him. Besides, he is in low spirits, because—but I don’t mean to burden you with my troubles!”

“Never a burden to me! There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, Amabel, but the thing is that Evelyn wouldn’t like it if I were to meddle in his affairs. Better not tell me what sort of a scrape he’s got himself into, for you know he don’t like me above half, and I’ll be bound he’d fly up into the boughs if he got to know you’d taken me into your confidence!” said Sir Bonamy firmly.

“I am afraid that even you couldn’t unravel this tangle,” she agreed, with another sigh.

“I’m dashed sure I couldn’t! You leave it to Kit, my pretty! He don’t want for sense! In fact,” he said, with a sudden burst of candour, “it’s surprising how longheaded he’s grown to be! Never thought there was a penny to choose between ’em, your boys, but I shouldn’t wonder at it if Kit turns out to be a sure card.”

It was on the tip of her ladyship’s tongue to utter a hot defence of her beloved elder-born son, but she bit back the words, and replied meekly that Kit had always been the more reliable twin. They had crossed the lawn by this time, to where a rustic seat had been placed in the shade of a great cedar, and she now suggested that they should sit down there, out of the sunshine. Sir Bonamy hailed this with relief, for he was already uncomfortably hot, and had grave fears that his rigid shirt-points were beginning to wilt. He lowered himself on to the seat, beside her ladyship, and mopped his brow. Lady Denville, looking deliciously cool, shut up her parasol, and leaned back, observing that there was nothing so exhausting as walking in such sultry weather. She then fell silent, gazing ahead with so much melancholy in her expression that Sir Bonamy began to feel perturbed. After a long pause, he laid one of his pudgy hands on hers, and said: “Now, my pretty! You mustn’t let yourself get into the hips! Depend upon it, Kit will make all tidy!”

She gave a little start, and turned her head to smile at him. “I wasn’t thinking of that. I was—oh, remembering! Do you ever look back over the years, Bonamy? It does sink one’s spirits a little: so long ago! so many mistakes! so much unhappiness! But there are happy memories too, of course! Do you recall the first time we met?”

“Ay, as if it were yesterday, and so I shall to the end of my life! All in white, you were, my lovely one, with your glorious gold hair glinting under just a light powder, and your eyes like sapphires! I fell in love with you the instant I saw you—swore I’d win your hand, or remain a bachelor! Which I have done! And, what’s more, I was never tempted to break that oath! For no man, my pretty, that loved you,” said Sir Bonamy earnestly, conveniently forgetting the several articles of virtue whom he had subsequently maintained at enormous expense, “could ever feel the smallest tendre for any other female!”

Lady Denville, recalling one veritable Incognita, and at least three high-flyers, who had enjoyed Sir Bonamy’s protection, stifled a giggle, and said soulfully: “And Papa married me to Denville! We danced together, didn’t we? And the next day you sent me a bouquet of white and yellow roses—so many that there was no counting them! That should be a happy memory, but it makes me want to cry. Not that I mean to do so,” she added, with one of her dancing gleams of mischief, “for there is nothing so tedious as a female who turns herself into a watering-pot! I’ve never done that, have I?”

“Never!” he declared, raising her hand to his lips. “Well, I hope it will be set down in my favour in the judgement-book, and I do feel it may be, for I haven’t had a happy life. One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, and I perfectly realize that poor Denville had as much to bear as I had—well, almost as much! The truth is that we were each of us deceived in the other, and should never, never have been married!” She wrinkled her brow. “I’ve often wondered why he believed himself to have fallen in love with me, for he disapproved of me amazingly, and he was so cold—so formal—that even now it makes me shiver to remember it!”

“Ah, my poor pretty!” said Sir Bonamy, much moved. “If you had married me, how happy we should both have been!”

Her eyes quizzed him laughingly. “Well, I might have been, but perhaps you would have been as much provoked by me as Denville was! Consider my shocking want of management, and economy, and my fondness for gaming, and my dreadful debts!”

Sir Bonamy snapped his fingers in the air. “That for such fiddle-faddle! Your debts? Pooh!—an almond for a parrot! Let me settle them! Over and over I’ve told you I’m able to stand more of the nonsense than you ever dreamed of, my lovely one. It don’t do to be prating like some counter-coxcomb, but I’m no chicken-nabob. Well, I’m not a nabob at all, of course: I inherited my fortune, and how much I’m worth I can’t tell you, for it don’t signify: even you couldn’t spend the half of it!”

“Good gracious, Bonamy, you must be rich!” she countered.

“I am,” he said simply. “Richest man in the kingdom, for I fancy I have a trifle the advantage of Golden Ball. Much good it does me! I had as lief be living on a mere competence, for I’ve not a soul to spend it on, Amabel, and it didn’t win me the only thing I wanted. You may say it’s of no consequence—no consequence at all!”

Since she was well aware that he lived in the height of luxury, maintaining, in addition to his mansion in Grosvenor Square, establishments at Brighton, Newmarket, York and Bath (to which slightly outmoded resort he occasionally retired, when his constitution demanded rehabilitation); stabling teams of prime cattle on no fewer than five of the main post-roads; and gaming for preposterous stakes either at Watier’s, or at Oatlands, the residence of his extremely expensive crony, the Duke of York, she had no overmastering desire to avail herself of this permission. But, although her lips quivered, and there was just the suspicion of a choke in her voice, she responded, with a shake of her head: “No, indeed! How very sad it is, my dear friend! How empty your life has been! How lonely!”

“Ay, so it has!” he agreed, struck for the first time in many years by the truth of this sympathetic remark. He took her hand again, pressing it in his own very warm and slightly damp one, and said with great earnestness: “All the use I ever had for my wealth was to bestow it upon you, my dear! It’s yours for the asking, and always will be. Only let me take your debts on my shoulders! Let me—”

She interrupted him, raising her beautiful eyes to his face, and saying: “Bonamy, are you—after all these years—asking me to marry you?”

There was a stunned pause. Sir Bonamy’s round eyes stared down into hers. They were never expressive, but they were now more than ordinarily blank; and the rich colour faded perceptibly from his pendulous cheeks. Twenty-six years earlier he had been a suitor for her hand; during the years of her marriage he had been her constant and devoted cavaliere servente, and very agreeably had those years slipped past. She was indeed the only woman he had ever wished to marry; but although the disappointment he had suffered when the late Lord Baverstock had preferred the Earl of Denville’s offer to his had been severe it had not been very long before his cracked heart had mended sufficiently for him not only to appreciate the advantages of his single state, but to offer a carte blanche to a charming, if somewhat rapacious, ladybird, universally acknowledged to be a dasher of the first water. But throughout this left-hand connexion, and the many which had succeeded it, he had maintained his devotion to the lovely Countess of Denville, earning for himself the envious respect of his less favoured contemporaries, and, in due course, the reputation of being a man who, having once lost his heart, would never again offer it (with his enormous fortune) to any other lady. After a couple of years, even the most determined matron, with marriageable daughters on her hands, considered it a waste of time to throw out lures to him, and observed his light, elegant flirtations without a flicker either of hope or of jealousy.

Such a state of affairs exactly suited his indolent, hedonistic disposition. He had settled down into a state of opulent bachelordom, enjoying every luxury which his wealth could provide, rapidly becoming the intimate of the Prince of Wales, and of his scarcely less expensive brother, the Duke of York; abandoning the struggle to overcome a tendency to corpulence; and achieving, by his impeccable lineage, his amiable manners, his lavish hospitality, the genius of his tailor, and the favour of the most admired lady in the land, the position of being a leader of fashion, and one whom any ambitious hostess was proud to include amongst her guests.

Credited by his world with an undying passion for his first love, it had never until this moment occurred to him to question his own heart; and had it been suggested to him that his original infatuation had gently but inevitably declined into fondness he would have been much affronted. But now, staring down into Lady Denville’s beautiful face, an even more beautiful kaleidoscope of his comfortable, untrammelled existence intervened.

Lady Denville’s soft laughter recalled him from this vision; she said, in a voice of affectionate chiding: “Oh, Bonamy, what a complete hand you are! A Banbury man, no less! You don’t wish to marry me, do you?”

He pulled himself together, declaring valiantly: “The one wish of my heart!”

“Well, you didn’t look as if it was! Confess, now! You’ve been shamming it—all these years!”

He rejected this playful accusation with vehemence. “No, that I haven’t! How can you say such a thing, Amabel? Haven’t I stayed single for your sake?”

A provocative smile hovered about the corners of her mouth; she seemed to consider him. “That’s what you say,but are you perfectly sure it wasn’t for your own sake, abominable palaverer that you are, my dear?”

He was so indignant at having a doubt cast on his fidelity that the colour surged up into his face, and he almost glared at her. “No! I mean, yes! I am sure! Upon my word, Amabel—! Have I ever formed an attachment for anyone but yourself? Have I—”

“Often!” she said cordially. “First, there was that ravishing creature, with black curls and flashing eyes, who was used to drive in the park in a landaulet behind a pair of jet-black horses, perfectly matched, and such beautiful steppers that everyone said they must have cost you a fortune! Then there was that languishing female—the one with the flaxen hair, who was certainly of a consumptive habit! And after her—”

“Now, that will do!” interposed Sir Bonamy, aghast at these accurate recollections. “Bachelor’s fare! Good God, Amabel, you should know that they don’t mean anything, those little connexions! Why, your own father—Well, well, mum for that!”

The laughter was quenched in her eyes; she turned her head away, and said in a low voice: “And Denville. Did it mean nothing? It seemed to me to mean so much! What a goose-cap I was!”

“Amabel!” pronounced Sir Bonamy, controlling himself with a strong effort, “I have never permitted myself to utter a word in dispraise of Denville, and I’ll keep my tongue between my teeth now, but had you married me, the most dazzling bird of Paradise amongst the whole of the muslin company would have thrown out her lures in vain to me!”

“But it is too late,” she said mournfully. “I’ve worn out your love, my poor Bonamy! I read it in your face, and indeed I cannot wonder at it!”

“Nothing of the sort!” he replied stoutly. “You misunderstood! I had come to believe that my case was hopeless—can you wonder at it that I was knocked acock? My heart stood still! Was it possible, I asked myself, that its dearest wish might yet be granted? A moment’s rapture, and my spirits were dashed down again, as I realized how absurd it was to think that at my age I could win what was denied me when I was young, and—I fancy—not an ill-looking man!”

“Very true! Even then you had a decided air of fashion—though it wasn’t until much later that you became of the first stare!”

“Well, well!” he said, visibly gratified, “I was always one who liked to have everything prime about me, but propriety of taste, you know, comes to one in later years! But I am growing old, my pretty—too old for you, I fear! Alas that it should be so!”

“Fudge!” said her ladyship briskly. “You are three-and-fifty, just ten years older than I am! A very comfortable age!”

“But of late years I have grown to be a trifle portly! I don’t ride any more, you know, and I get fagged easily nowadays. Ticklish in the wind, too—I might pop off the hooks at any moment, for I have palpitations!”

“Yes, you eat too much,” she nodded. “My poor dear Bonamy, it is high time you had me to take care of you! I have thought for years that your constitution must be of iron to have withstood your excesses, and so it is, for you don’t even suffer from the gout, which Denville did, although for every bottle he drank you drank two, if not three!”

“No, no!” protested Sir Bonamy feebly. “Not three, Amabel! I own I eat more than he did, but recollect that he was of a spare habit! Now, I have a large frame, and I must eat to keep up my strength!”

“So you shall!” said her ladyship, smiling seraphically upon him. “But not to send yourself off in an apoplexy!”

Regarding her with eyes of fascinated horror, he played his last ace. “Evelyn!” he uttered. “You are forgetting Evelyn, my pretty! Ay, and Kit too, I dare say, though he don’t seem to hold me in such aversion as Evelyn does! But you must know Evelyn wouldn’t stomach it! Why, he never sees me but he looks yellow! Well do I know there ain’t a soul you dote on more, and never would I cause a rift between you!”

Wholly unimpressed by this noble self-abnegation, she replied: “You couldn’t! Besides, he is going to be married!”

“What?” he ejaculated, momentarily diverted. “But it’s as plain as a pack-saddle the gal’s head over ears in love with Kit!”

“Yes, and was there ever anything so delightful? Dear Cressy! she might have been made for Kit! Evelyn has formed what he declares to be a lasting passion for quite another sort of girl. Kit believes it may well be so, but she sounds to me to be positively Quakerish! The daughter of a mere country gentleman—perfectly genteel, but only picture to yourself how ineligible Brumby will think her!—and one of those pale, saintly females, reared in the strictest respectability!”

“You don’t mean it!” gasped Sir Bonamy, staggered by this disclosure.

“I do mean it!” she asserted, tears sparkling on her curling eyelashes. She brushed them hurriedly away. “Evelyn thinks I shall love her, but I have the most melancholy conviction that I shan’t, Bonamy! And, what is more, I don’t think she will love me, do you?”

“No,” he replied candidly. “Not if she’s Quakerish! You wouldn’t deal well at all!”

“Exactly so! I knew you would understand! Evelyn declares I must continue to live in Hill Street, but that I was determined not to do, even if he had married Cressy! I had quite made up my mind to it that I must retire to an establishment of my own, and dwindle into a mere widow, until you came here, my dear friend, only because I begged you to, and not wanting to leave Brighton in the least, which I know very well you didn’t, and it struck me, like a flash of lightning, that never had you wavered in your attachment to me, and never had you received the smallest reward, or even looked for one, for all your goodness to me, and your exceeding generosity!”

“I see what it is!” he exclaimed. “Kit blabbed to you that I didn’t have that brooch of yours copied, silly chub that he is! Now, put it out of your mind, my pretty! Yes, yes, you think you must make a sacrifice of yourself, but I won’t permit you to do so!”

She interrupted him, staring at him with widened eyes. “You didn’t—Do you mean to tell me that I lost the real brooch to Silverdale? And you gave me £500 for it, saying that—Bonamy, did you sell any of my jewellery? Kit has never breathed a word of this! Bonamy—did you?”

“No, no, of course I didn’t!” he answered, much discomposed. “Now, is it likely I’d let you sell your jewels, and replace ’em with paste and pinchbeck? It was nothing to me, Amabel, so, if Kit didn’t tell you, you may forget it, and oblige me very much!”

“Oh, Bonamy!” she cried, impulsively stretching out her hands to him, “how good you are! How much, much too good!”

He responded instinctively, and, the next instant, found himself clasping a fragrant armful to his massive bosom. Lady Denville, adapting her slim form, not without difficulty, to his formidable contour, lifted her face invitingly. His senses swimming, Sir Bonamy tightened his hold about her, and fastened his lips to hers. At the back of his mind lurked the conviction that he would regret this yielding to temptation, and the premonition that the sybaritic pleasures of his life stood in jeopardy; but never before had he been encouraged to venture more than a chaste salute upon her ladyship’s hand, or, upon rare occasions, her cheek, and he surrendered to intoxication.

He came to earth again when she gently disengaged herself, saying: “How comfortable it is to reflect that we need neither of us look forward to a lonely old age, which I have always thought the most lowering prospect!”

His countenance would not have led anyone to suppose that he was deriving much comfort from this reflection, but he replied heroically: “You have made me the happiest man on earth, my beautiful!”

The irrepressible laughter, inherited from her by her sons, bubbled up. “No, I haven’t: I’ve thrown you into gloom! But I shall make you happy. Only consider how alike are our tastes, and how very well we are acquainted! Naturally it will seem strange at first, because you are so much accustomed to being a bachelor. To own the truth, I didn’t think I should ever marry again, for I have enjoyed being a widow amazingly! But I am persuaded it will be the best thing for everyone! Particularly for Evelyn!”

“I hope he may think so!” Sir Bonamy said gloomily.

“It isn’t of the least consequence if he doesn’t, because it will be. I dare say he won’t care nearly as much now that his mind is full of his angelic Patience. In any event, he’s at the end of his rope, poor love, on account of my wretched debts, which he is determined to discharge, and which he would never be able to do until he is thirty, if he marries Patience, because you may depend upon it Brumby will utterly disapprove of the match! But if he were not obliged to pay my debts that wouldn’t signify in the least, and although he made me promise I would never again borrow money from you, he couldn’t refuse to let you pay the debts if I were your wife, could he?”

“Well, it won’t make a ha’porth of odds if he does!” said Sir Bonamy, accepting without resentment this unflattering reason for the marriage proposed to him, but regarding his prospective bride with tolerant cynicism. “I might have known that resty young bellows-blower of yours was behind this!”

“Yes, but how fortunate, Bonamy, that my affairs had come to such a pass that I was obliged to consider the advantages of marrying you! But for that I might never have thought of it!” she said. “Or have perceived how much more comfortable I should be if I did marry you! It is all very well now to be a widow, but only think how dismal when I begin to grow hagged, and have to cover up my throat, because it looks exactly like the neck of a plucked hen, and I’ve no flirts left to me! And then, of course, I thought of you, my poor Bonamy, and my heart was wrung! I, at least, have my beloved sons, and I might become wrapped up in my grandchildren—though it seems most unlikely, and quite sinks my spirits—but what, my dear, will be left to you, when your friends drop off—”

“Eh?” exclaimed Sir Bonamy, startled.

“Or die!” continued her ladyship inexorably. “And you find yourself alone, with no one to care a straw what becomes of you—except that odious cousin of yours, who will very likely push you into your grave!—and your whole life wasted? Dear Bonamy I cannot endure the thought of it!”

“No!” he said fervently. “No, indeed!”

She smiled brilliantly upon him. “So you see that it will be much better for you too!”

“Yes,” he agreed, horrified by the picture she had delineated. “Good God, yes!”