Mr. Aylett had--accidentally, it would seem--his wife understood
that the action was premeditated--stationed himself at an angle to
the piano that allowed him a fair view of her, and did not grudge
the merriest bachelor there his share of enjoyment, while he could
keep furtive watch upon the changeful countenance, the Sappho-like
head, and the delicate hands which one could have thought made the
music, rather than did the obedient keys they touched. The wedded
lovers had taste and pride in equal proportions, and a parade of
their satisfaction in one another for the edification or amusement
of indifferent spectators would have been revolting to both, but the
ray that sped from half-averted eyes, from time to time, and was
returned by a kindling glance, also shot sidelong beneath dropped
lashes, said more to each other than would a quarto volume of
stereotyped protestations and caresses, such as Tom Barksdale dealt
out profusely to his beauteous Imogene. Clearly, neither Mr. nor
Mrs. Winston Aylett was fond of sugar-candy.
Mabel's faith in the sincerity of her sister-in-law's agreeable
sayings and ways was not invariable nor absolute. She liked her
after a certain fashion; got along swimmingly with her, the amazed
public decided "SO much better than could have been expected, and
than was customary with relations by marriage, and not by descent;"
yet her more upright nature and different training helped her to
detect the petty artifices with which Clara cajoled the unwary,
moulded the plastic at her will. But she had never questioned the
reality of her love for Winston. As a wife, her deportment was
exemplary, her devotion too freely and consistently rendered to have
its spring in policy or affectation. She gloried in her handsome,
courtly lord, and in his attachment for herself. Whether she would
have espied the same causes for loving exultation in him, had he
been a poor clergyman or merchant's clerk, was an irrelevant
consideration. The master of Ridgeley was not to be contemplated
apart from the possessions and dignities that were his inalienable
pedestal. Clara Dorrance was a clever woman, and she had given these
due weight in accepting his hand; and they may have had their
influence in moving her to unceasing, yet unobtrusive endeavor to
make herself still more necessary to his happiness, to strengthen
her hold upon him by every means an affectionate and beloved wife
has at her command. She had done well for herself--she was thinking
while he concluded as silently within himself that the slight
pensiveness tempering the expressive face was its loveliest dress.
She--beautiful and penniless, ambitious, and a devotee of
pleasure--yet dependent for food and clothing upon her mother's
life-interest in an estate, not one penny of which would revert to
her children at her decease; without kindred and without society in
the elegant suburb they had inhabited for four or five years, might
have been elated at a less brilliant match than that she had made.
The "best people" of the aforesaid suburb were exclusive; slow to
form intimacies with their unaccredited neighbors, and very hasty in
breaking them at the faintest whiff of a doubtful or tainted
reputation. And of the second best the Dorrances had kept themselves
clear. Having met and captivated her wealthy lover on a rarely
fortunate summer jaunt, made in company with her eldest brother, his
wife, and two relatives of the last-named, Clara did not repel him
or disgust the best people of Roxbury by indiscreet raptures over,
or exhibition of, her prize.