SIR OLIVER'S HEALTH.
"De lady is here, yo' Honah!"
Manasseh announced it from the doorway and stood aside. Of the company
four had already succumbed and slid from their chairs. The others
staggered to their feet, Sir Oliver as promptly as any. With a face
unnaturally white he leaned forward, clutching the edge of the long oval
table, and stared between the silver candelabra down the broken ranks of
his guests--Mr. Silk, purple of face as his patron was pale; Ned Manley,
maundering the tag of a chorus; Captain St. Maur, Captain Goodacre, and
Ensign Lumley, British officers captured by the French at Fort Chanseau
and released to live at Boston on parole until the war should end; Mr.
Fynes, the Collector's Secretary; Mr. Bythesea, Deputy-Collector; young
Shem Hacksteed and young Denzil Baynes, sons of wealthy New Englanders,
astray for the while, and sowing their wild oats in a society openly
scornful of New England traditions.
Batty Langton's was the chair nearest the door, and Batty Langton was
the one moderately sober man of the company. He had not heard, in time
to interfere, the proposal to send for Ruth: it had started somewhere at
the Collector's end of the table. But trifler though he was, he thought
it cruel to the girl--a damnable shame--and pulled himself together to
prevent what mischief he might. At the same time he felt curious to see
her, curious to learn if these many months of seclusion had fulfilled
the Collector's wager that Ruth Josselin would grow to be the loveliest
woman in America. At Manasseh's announcement he faced about, and, with
a gasp, clutched at the back of his chair.
In the doorway stood little Miss Quiney. It was so ludicrous a
disappointment that for the moment no one found speech. Langton heard
Goodacre, behind him, catch his breath upon a wondering "O--oh!" and
felt the shock run down the table along the unsteady ranks. At the far
end a voice--Mr. Silk's--cackled and burst into unseemly laughter.
Langton swung round. "Mr. Fynes," he called sharply, "oblige me,
please, by silencing that clergyman--with a napkin in his mouth, if
necessary."
He turned again to Miss Quiney. "Madam," he said, offering his arm,
"let me lead you to a seat by Sir Oliver."
The little lady accepted with a curtsy. A faint flush showed upon
either cheek bone, and in her eyes could be read the light of battle.
It commanded his admiration the more that her small arm trembled against
his sleeve. "The courage of it," he murmured; "and Miss Quiney of all
women!"
She needed courage. The Collector's handsome face greeted her with a
scowl and a hard stare; he could be intractable in his cups.
"Excuse me, madam, but I sent for Miss Josselin."
She answered him, but first made low obeisance. "Ruth Josselin will
attend, sir, with all despatch. The sedan is capable of accommodating
but one at a time."
There stood an empty chair on the Collector's right. To set it for her
Mr. Langton had, as a preliminary, to stoop and drag aside the legs of a
reveller procumbent on the floor. The effort flushed him; but Miss
Quiney, with an inclination of the head, slipped into the seat as though
she had seen nothing unusual.
"And it gives me the occasion," she continued respectfully, as her eyes
passed over the form of young Manley opposite, who stood with his glass
at an angle, spilling its wine on the mahogany, "of expressing--I thank
you. . . . What? Is it Mr. Silk? A pleasure, indeed! . . .Yes, I
rarely take wine, but on such an occasion as this--an occasion, as I was
saying, to felicitate Sir Oliver Vyell on his accession to a title which
we, who have served him, best know his capacity to adorn."
"Oh, damn!" growled the Collector under his breath.
"Half a glassful only!" Miss Quiney entreated, as Mr. Silk poured for
her. She was, in fact, desperately telling herself that if she
attempted to lift a full glass, her shaking hand would betray her.
"Yo' Honah--Mis' Josselin!"
Mr. Langton had caught the sound of Manasseh's footfall in the corridor
without, and was on the alert before the girl entered. But at sight of
her in the doorway he fell back for a moment.
Yes, the Collector's promise had come true--and far more than true.
She was marvellous.
It was by mere beauty, too, that she dazzled, helped by no jewels but
the one plain rope of pearls at her throat. She stood there holding
herself erect, but not stiffly, with chin slightly lifted; not in
scorn, nor yet in defiance, though you were no sooner satisfied of this
than a tiniest curve of the nostril set you doubting. But no; she was
neither scornful nor defiant--alert rather, as a fair animal quivering
with life, confronting some new experience that for the moment it fails
to read. Or--borrowing her morning's simile, to convert it--you might
liken her to huntress-maiden Diana, surprised upon arrested foot;
instep arched, nostril quivering to the unfamiliar, eyes travelling in
sudden speculation over a group of satyrs in a glade. For a certainty
that poise of the chin emphasised the head's perfect carriage; as did
the fashion of her head-tire, too--the hair drawn straight above the
brows and piled superbly, to break and escape in two careless
love-locks on the nape of the neck--in the ripple of each a smile,
correcting the goddess to the woman. The right arm hung almost straight
at her side, the hand ready to gather a fold of the white brocaded
skirt; the left slanted up to her bosom, where its finger-tips touched
the stem of a white rose in the lace at the parting of the bodice. . . .
So she stood--for ten seconds maybe--under the droop of the heavy
curtain Manasseh held aside for her. The hush of the room was homage to
her beauty. Her gaze, passing between the lines of his guests, sought
the Collector. It was fearless, but held a hint of expectancy. Perhaps
she waited for him to leave his place and come forward to receive her.
But he made no motion to do this; not being, in fact, sufficient master
of his legs.
"Good-evening, my lord!" She swept him a curtsy. "You sent for me?"
Before he could answer, she had lowered her eyes. They rested on a
chair that happened to stand empty beside Batty Langton, and a slight
inclination of the head gave Langton to understand that she wished him
to offer it. He did so, and she moved to it. The men, embarrassed for
a moment by their host's silence--they had expected him to answer her,
but he stood staring angrily as one rebuffed--followed her cue and
reseated themselves. He, too, dropped back in his chair, leaned forward
for the decanter, and poured himself more wine. The buzz of talk
revived, at first a word or two here and there, tentative after the
check, then more confidently. Within a minute the voices were babel
again.
Batty Langton pondered. A baronet should not be addressed as "my lord,"
and she had been guilty of a solecism. At the same time her manner had
been perfect; her carriage admirably self-possessed. Her choice of a
seat, too, at the end of the table and furthest from Sir Oliver--if she
had come unwillingly--had been wittily taken, and on the moment, and
with the appearance of deliberate ease.
"They will be calling on you presently to drink our host's health," he
suggested, clearing a space of the table in front of her and collecting
very dexterously two or three unused wine-glasses. Champagne? . . .
Miss Quiney is drinking champagne, I see, though her neighbours have
deserted it for red wine. Sir Oliver, by the way, grows lazy in pushing
the decanters. . . . Shall I signal to him?"
"On no account. Champagne, if you please . . . though I had rather you
kept it in readiness."
"I am sorry, Miss Josselin, but there you ask of me the one thing
impossible. I cannot abide to let wine stand and wait; and champagne--
watch it, how it protests!" He filled her glass and refilled his own.
"By the way," he added, sinking his voice, "one is permitted to
congratulate a debutante?"
"And to criticise."
"There was nothing to criticise except--Oh, well, a trifle. At home in
England we don't 'my lord' a mere baronet, you know."
"But since he _is_ my lord?" She smiled gently, answering his puzzled
stare. "How, otherwise, should I be here?"
Mr. Langton took wine to digest this. He shook his head. "You must
forgive me. It is clear that I am drunk--abominably drunk--for I miss
the point--"
"You accuse yourself unjustly."
"Do I? Well, I have certainly drunk a deal more wine than is good for
me, and it will be revenged to-morrow. As a rule,"--he glanced around
at his fellow-topers--"I pride myself that in head and legs I am
inexpugnable. We all have our gifts; and i' faith until a moment ago I
was patting myself on the back for owning this one."
"And why, Mr. Langton?"
"On the thought, Mistress Josselin, that I had cut out the frigate, as
our tars say, and towed the prize to moorings before the others could
fire a gun."
"I had hoped," she murmured, and bent her eyes on the wine-bubbles
winking against the rim of her glass, "you did it in simple kindness."
"Well," he owned slowly, "and so I did. This belittling of good
intentions, small enough to begin with, is a cursed habit, and I'll
renounce it for once. It was little--it was nothing; yet behold me
eager to be thanked."
"I thank you." She fingered the stem of the glass, not lifting her
eyes. "But you have belittled me, too. I read it in books, and here on
the threshold, as I step outside of books, you meet me with it. We
women are always, it seems, poor ships, beating the seas, fleeing
capture; and our tackle, our bravery--" She broke off, and sat musing,
while her fingers played with the base of the glass.
"I take back my metaphors, Miss Josselin. I admit myself no buccaneer,
but a simple ass who for once pricked ears on an honest impulse."
"That is better. But hush! Mr. Manley, yonder, is preparing to sing."
Mr. Manley, a young protege of the Collector's, had a streak of genius
as an architect and several lesser gifts, among them a propensity for
borrowing and a flexible tenor voice. He trolled an old song, slightly
adapted--
"Here's a health unto Sir Oliver,
With a fal-la-la, lala-la-la;
Confusion to his enemies,
With a fa-la-la, lala-la-la;
And he that will not drink his health,
I wish him neither wit nor wealth,
Nor yet a rope to hang himself--
With a fa-la-la, lala-la-la."
The effort was applauded. Above the applause the bull voice of Mr. Silk
shouted,--
"But Miss Josselin has not drunk it yet! Langton monopolises her.
Miss Josselin! What has Miss Josselin to say?"
The cry was taken up. "Miss Josselin! Miss Josselin!"
Batty Langton arose, glass in hand. "Is it a toast, gentlemen?"
He glanced at Sir Oliver, who sat sombre, not lifting his eyes.
"Our host permits me. . . . Then I give you 'Miss Josselin!'"
Acclamations drowned his voice here, and the men sprang up, waving their
glasses. Sir Oliver stood with the rest.
"Miss Josselin! Miss Josselin!" they shouted, and drank what their
unsteady hands left unspilt. Langton waited, his full glass half
upraised.
"Miss Josselin," he repeated very deliberately on the tail of the
uproar, "who honours this occasion as Sir Oliver's ward."
For about five seconds an awkward silence held the company.
Their fuddled memories retained scraps of gossip concerning Ruth, her
history and destiny--gossip scandalous in the main. One or two glanced
at the Collector, who had resumed his seat--and his scowl.
"The more reason she should drink his health." Again Mr. Silk was
fugleman.
His voice braved it off on the silence. Ruth was raising her glass.
Her eyes sought Miss Quiney's; but Miss Quiney's, lifted heavenward, had
encountered the ceiling upon which Mr. Manley had recently depicted the
hymeneals of Venus and Vulcan, not omitting Mars; and the treatment--a
riot of the nude--had for the moment put the redoubtable little lady out
of action.
Ruth leaned forward in her seat, lifting her glass high. It brimmed,
but she spilled no drop.
"To Sir Oliver!"