DAUGHTERS OF BELGRAVIA.
DAUGHTERS OF BELGRAVIA
BY
MRS. ALEXANDER FRASER,
Author of
“THE LAST DRAWING-ROOM,” “A FATAL PASSION,”
“THE MATCH OF THE SEASON,” “A FASHIONABLE MARRIAGE,”
“A PROFESSIONAL BEAUTY,” etc., etc., etc.
“O! Daughters of dreams and of stories
That life is not wearied of yet!
Faustine! Fragoletta! Dolores!
Fèlise and Yolande, Juliette!”
_IN THREE VOLUMES._
VOLUME II.
LONDON:
F. V. WHITE & CO.,
31, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND.
1887.
PRINTED BY
KELLY AND CO., GATE STREET, LINCOLN’S INN FIELDS,
AND KINGSTON-ON-THAMES.
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I.--LAST NIGHT 1
II.--FLIRTATION 22
III.--“FROGGY WOULD A-WOOING GO” 49
IV.--AT THE BAGATELLE THEATRE 89
V.--CARYLLON HOUSE 99
VI.--IN THE BALCONY 124
VII.--THE STATE BALL 145
VIII.--“SIMPLE FAITH THAN NORMAN BLOOD” 174
IX.--LET THE DEAD PAST BE BURIED 195
“SELECT” NOVELS.
_Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. each._
AT ALL BOOKSELLERS’ AND BOOKSTALLS.
By FLORENCE MARRYAT.
THE HEIR PRESUMPTIVE.
THE HEART OF JANE WARNER.
UNDER THE LILIES AND ROSES.
MY OWN CHILD.
HER WORLD AGAINST A LIE.
PEERESS AND PLAYER.
FACING THE FOOTLIGHTS.
MY SISTER THE ACTRESS.
By ANNIE THOMAS (Mrs. Pender Cudlip).
HER SUCCESS.
KATE VALLIANT.
JENIFER.
FRIENDS AND LOVERS.
By LADY CONSTANCE HOWARD.
MATED WITH A CLOWN.
ONLY A VILLAGE MAIDEN.
MOLLIE DARLING.
By MRS. HOUSTOUN, Author of “Recommended to Mercy.”
BARBARA’S WARNING.
By MRS. ALEXANDER FRASER.
THE MATCH OF THE SEASON.
A FATAL PASSION.
A PROFESSIONAL BEAUTY.
By IZA DUFFUS-HARDY.
ONLY A LOVE STORY.
NOT EASILY JEALOUS.
LOVE, HONOUR AND OBEY.
By JEAN MIDDLEMASS.
POISONED ARROWS.
By MRS. LOVETT CAMERON.
IN A GRASS COUNTRY.
A DEAD PAST.
A NORTH COUNTRY MAID.
By DORA RUSSELL. By LADY VIOLET GRENVILLE.
OUT OF EDEN.
KEITH’S WIFE.
By NELLIE FORTESCUE HARRISON,
Author of “So runs my Dream.”
FOR ONE MAN’S PLEASURE.
By EDMUND LEATHES.
THE ACTOR’S WIFE.
By HARRIETT JAY.
A MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE.
DAUGHTERS OF BELGRAVIA.
CHAPTER I.
LAST NIGHT.
“Trifles light as air
Are to the jealous confirmation strong
As proofs of Holy Writ.”
“Allow me to congratulate you, Zai,” Gabrielle says with a sneer.
Zai leans against the casement, idly toying with a spray of deep red
roses she has just plucked from the trails that cover the wall hard by.
She is very pale, and dark shadows underline her pretty eyes, and her
thoughts are evidently far away, for she starts visibly as Gabrielle’s
voice falls on her ear.
“Congratulate me, and what for?” she answers rather bitterly.
Congratulations indeed! when her poor heart is so sore, her spirit so
wounded by Carlton Conway’s apparent defection last night.
“On your conquest of Lord Delaval,” Gabrielle flashes out. “What a
horrid little hypocrite you are, Zai! To think of how you spoke of him
only yesterday morning and how you flung yourself at his head last
night!”
“I don’t understand,” Zai murmurs, but her cheeks are quite flushed now
and her grey eyes droop, for she remembers perfectly how, to pique Carl,
she had flirted, as folks might think, with Lord Delaval.
“Zai! Zai! I thought you never told lies, and now you stand there in
broad daylight uttering a monstrous falsehood.”
Upon this, Zai bursts into an uncontrolable passion of tears, and
flinging herself on the sofa presses down her face on the cushions.
Gabrielle attempts neither soothing nor scolding. To her such emotion is
a display of childishness for which her hard nature has no sympathy. She
rests calm and unmoved in her chair, languidly inhaling Eau de Cologne
and occasionally sprinkling herself with a fragrant shower while she
waits for the tears to subside.
“It seems very foolish spoiling your eyes by crying, Zai,” she remarks
at last contemptuously, when her not too great a stock of patience is,
like the widow’s cruse of oil, exhausted. “Of course I don’t deny that
Lord Delaval flirted with you as much as ever you could wish, and I
suppose if you are engaged to him, it does not much matter if you _did
afficher_ yourself with him so shamefully.”
“Gabrielle, you know I would sooner die than engage myself to that man!”
Zai exclaims impetuously, dashing away her tears and sitting bolt
upright.
“Child, you must surely be joking,” answers Gabrielle, with a
well-feigned accent of surprise, and with a quick uplifting in a curve
of her dark brows.
Gabrielle is a rare actress by nature, and her vocation in life is the
stage assuredly.
“Do you mean to tell me then that you are not engaged to him? If so you
are certainly most indiscreet. All I know is, that if I descend to
_afficher_ myself before society with anyone, I shall take some man I
like, and not one I was always professing to detest!”
“I _do_ detest Lord Delaval!” cries Zai, in as shrill a tone as her
bird-like voice can take. “I don’t profess to detest him, but I detest
him with all my heart and soul, and you know it.”
“How on earth should I know it?” Gabrielle says sarcastically. “In fact
I quite differ with you on this point; you may possibly fancy that you
dislike him, but actions always speak so much louder than words that I
am certainly sceptical.”
“And pray what action of mine has shown any liking for him?” persists
Zai, her eyes blazing angrily.
“Did your proceedings last night show any dislike? Instead of staying in
the ball-room with the rest of the world, you prefer to remain outside.
It was desperately dangerous and sentimental work that, Zai--only the
Chinese lanterns and Lord Delaval’s handsome eyes to keep you company,
while you hung on his arm, and probably arrived at the conclusion that
Lord Delaval is not worse looking than most of his sex!”
“Don’t!”
There is quite a ring of pain in Zai’s voice, and she gives a little
shudder. The whole situation these last words bring so vividly before
her is one she hates to realise, for she knows few would be charitable
enough, and certainly not Carl, to give her credit for real dislike to
such a rare-visaged Lothario as Lord Delaval, whose eyes, though their
expression at times is hard and chilly as marble, can, when he desires,
have an undeniable fascination in their sapphire depths, the bare
outline of whose face is simply superb, and who looks what he is, an
aristocrat all over.
The passionate looks Carlton Conway had given her have been her guiding
star, and she believes that she would unhesitatingly follow their light
into the deadly Styx itself, so it can be imagined how her very soul
revolts as Gabrielle insinuates that she flung herself at Lord Delaval’s
head.
“Oh, Gabrielle, do you really doubt in your heart I would give anything
I possess never to see Lord Delaval again and to be all right with
Carl?”
“I don’t care about going into possibilities,” Gabrielle replies
pettishly, “I prefer restraining myself to simple facts.”
“Perhaps you will be less sceptical of my feelings if I explain a little
about last night, Gabrielle,” Zai murmurs deprecatingly. “You see I
heard what Sir Everard said to you about Carl riding with Crystal
Meredyth and looking ‘awful spoons.’ How those vulgar horrid words cut
me through and through, Gabrielle! Then when we arrived, the first thing
I saw was Carl waltzing with her, and--and--as if he really enjoyed it!
I could not bear the sight of that, so when Lord Delaval proposed to go
and see the illuminated grounds, I was thankful to go. After we had been
out a little while I was anxious to come in, but he told me that Carl
was engaged to Crystal--that he was obliged to marry some one who was
rich, Gabrielle,” and Zai flings herself down at her sister’s feet and
lifts up great pitiful eyes. “Instead of bullying me you ought to feel
for me! I am heart-broken!”
“Heart-broken! You silly child, hearts are tough things and don’t break
so easily, I don’t believe Carl Conway is going to marry that girl, but
if he is, you must know he is a deceitful interested creature not worth
thinking of. Well, what did you say to Lord Delaval in return for his
information?”
“I only insisted on going round the garden by myself. I wanted to be
alone with my wretchedness, and I wanted to call up courage to meet Carl
face to face without betraying all I felt.”
“Well?”
“Lord Delaval would not let me go alone, but I swear I forgot his
existence even!”
Gabrielle gives a short unpleasant laugh at this.
“It is true, Heaven knows. We returned and were just going into the
house when you and Sir Everard spoke about us--we were not a stone’s
throw from you, and of course every word you said fell out clear and
distinct. I confess I was surprised at all I heard, as you know you did
not speak the truth. However we won’t discuss that point now. What I did
hear made me resolve on an explanation with Lord Delaval at once. So I
just told him frankly that I did not care for him and would never marry
him!”
“In other words, you were amiable enough to reject him before he had the
trouble of offering himself,” Gabrielle says with a mocking smile.
“He had told me before that he loved me passionately, Gabrielle!” Zai
murmurs with a hot deprecatory blush.
Her delicacy of character would not have let her reveal this except in
defence of the seemingly fast conduct that has called down Gabrielle’s
sneers. And Gabrielle is well punished for her sneers--for this
revelation of Zai’s drives the colour from her cheek, and makes her
writhe with jealousy.
“Very probably he did,” she answers sharply. “Lord Delaval is a would-be
monopoliser of women’s hearts, and passionate love-making is one of the
tricks of his trade. I don’t believe there was a bit of genuine
sentiment in all he said.”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care if it was so. His protestations hadn’t a
feather’s weight with me. And I never wish to see him again,” Zai says
quietly and truthfully.
“It never appears to strike you what people will say of last night.
Society hasn’t much romance in its composition. Society does not know,
and would not credit that Zai Beranger wanders by day and night, blind
to external influences, with a buckler girded on her heart on which is
written ‘Carlton Conway.’ And if Belgravia cannot comprehend such
high-flown sentiment, is it strange that I, born and bred amongst the
_canaille_, with unlimited faith in the practical and matter-of-fact,
and with a contempt for the foolish and the sickly romance of women,
cannot help doubting and blaming you?”
“Blame has no effect on me,” Zai says rather defiantly, with her little
head erect. She is astonished and irritated at the cool condemnatory way
in which it pleases Gabrielle to speak. It strikes her that there is too
much presumption in it, and her really sweet nature, trodden on, like
the traditional worm, seems inclined to “turn.”
“But Lady Beranger is a slave to _on dits_, and she will lash herself
into a fury if you don’t carry out her scheme of marrying you to Lord
Delaval, after your curious behaviour last night.”
“It is mamma’s fault, and not mine that it happened; she is always
throwing Lord Delaval and me together, and the whole thing is hateful to
me.”
“Fiddlesticks! Mamma and lover being leagued, the odds are too much
against you. You had better make up your mind to marry him; you will
_have_ to do so by-and-bye.”
Lord Delaval’s threat almost verbatim. Zai blanches with a sudden thrill
of fear, and her heart gives a quick bound, but she says lightly:
“_Nous verrons!_”
“_Nous verrons!_” is the answer, and after a moment, Gabrielle goes on
in studied accents: “I think it right to tell you, Zai, that I am
resolved not to persuade you any more to marry Lord Delaval. I am a
soldier of fortune, you know, and have to make my own way in the world;
Lady Beranger deserves no tolerance from me, so I warn you, that I am
going to try and serve myself, and if my interest clashes with anyone
else’s I won’t yield an inch.”
“In other words, Gabrielle, you give me notice that you are going in for
Lord Delaval, yourself! I am sure I wish you _bon voyage_ in your
undertaking. I hope you will find the result, if gained, a happy one.”
“I am not afraid, I never knew what fear was in my life. Cowardice in
man or woman is the biggest crime in my eyes,” Gabrielle says with a
dare-devil glance.
“But,” replies Zai, “why on earth should you consider it necessary to
warn me of your project, I, who have no interest in the matter except
to wish you happy?”
“Simply because I should wish the point made clear to you, so that you
may not think me deceitful in the end. I owe the world--_your_ world of
Belgravia--nothing. But I have determined to take all I can gain from it
by my woman’s wit.”
“Follow Trixy’s example, and sell yourself to the highest bidder you can
find in my world, then!”
“No one has ever bid high enough for me,” Gabrielle cries bitterly, at
the same time tossing her head with the proud air of a De Rohan.
“Pariah, as I am, I have that which many of you Belgravians lack--the
knowledge how to _live. Mon Dieu!_ What a magnificent specimen of a
_grande dame_ I should make! Would that I were a peeress, and rich!”
Zai looks at her wonderingly, then she says quietly:
“I cannot think why people do not consider an inordinate desire for
money sinful. It seems to me that money is at the bottom of every crime
ever since our Lord Himself was betrayed for thirty pieces of silver.”
“Why don’t you preach all this to Trixy, then? She is practical in her
greed for gold. You know all my rhapsodies may be purely theoretical.”
“It would be a waste of time and breath to preach to Trixy. She has not
a tenth part of your common sense, Gabrielle, and she cannot be held so
accountable for her actions. Of course, mamma has literally coerced her
into this awful match. She will endure the existence she has in prospect
better than I should do, however. She won’t think of Mr. Stubbs and his
vulgarity while she has fine dresses and jewels. Sometimes I believe
these things constitute her ideas of real happiness, do you know! But
you, Gabrielle, are so different; if you pretend to lack a heart, at any
rate you don’t lack brains.”
“No, I certainly don’t,” Gabrielle answers conceitedly.
Lack brains! Why it is on these very brains that she relies to bring
honey and roses into her life, to get her luxury and ease, purple and
fine linen, such as she loves actually quite as much as Trixy does: but
has the _savoir faire_, or rather cunning, to keep her petty weaknesses
locked up within the citadel of her own breast.
For a woman--and a young one--few could hanker more greedily after the
flesh-pots and the silken attire of the children of Heth than this girl
does.
To deck her ripe glowing beauty in the splendour of satins and velvets
and soft bright hues, to see her long graceful throat encircled by the
gleam of oriental pearls, her dusky braids crowned with a diadem of
glittering brilliants, has been the dream of her life.
Ever since the old days when she loved to don a faded scarlet bow or a
tarnished gilt brooch, to queen it over her sister _gamins_.
“By the way, Zai, I found out last night, that Baby has accepted old
Archibald Hamilton! It was only by chance, as the little brat wants to
keep the matter a secret from us for a while, I believe.”
“Baby!” cries Zai, in amazement. “And yet I ought not to be surprised,
for I might have read the news in Lord Delaval’s face when he looked up
from beside her at tea last night. I expect he likes _embarrass des
richesses_, and is angry that even one of his worshippers should secede
from her homage.”
“It is no reason, because Baby gives her fat, dimpled hand to old
Hamilton, that she should consider it necessary to close her heart to
the fascination of her quasi lover!” says Gabrielle, with her Balzacian
ideas, ideas that find no response in the pure mind of Zai.
“I can’t stay chattering any longer, Gabrielle,” she says hurriedly, and
in the twinkling of an eye she is gone; and, as Gabrielle looks up
surprised at her summary departure, she sees the tall figure of Lord
Delaval slowly crossing the lawn towards the house, and guesses at once
why Zai has disappeared in such haste. She bends forward, and, with
wildly beating heart and tightly clenched hands, eagerly watches him.
Everyone who knew Gabrielle, sooner or later, asked themselves if she
had a heart; and nobody amongst those most intimate with her, had yet
been able to answer the question at all satisfactorily, excepting Lord
Delaval.
But he did not seem to deem it worth his while to study her at all,
though indirectly, and at all favourable opportunities, he let her be
fully aware through the medium of his handsome eyes and his voice that
he _knew_ she had a heart, and that it was one he read like an open book
and found remarkably interesting.
According to Dickens, there are chords in the human heart--strange
varying strings which are only struck by accident, which will remain
mute and senseless to appeals the most passionate and earnest, and
respond at last to the slightest casual touch.
And so it is with Gabrielle.
She has reached over a quarter of a century.
Her nature is as passionate as that of a daughter of the south, and her
early nurturing has been as wild and free as an Arab’s; but no man’s
hand had struck the keynote of feeling until Lord Delaval put in an
appearance on the scene.
He came, he saw, he conquered; and Gabrielle fell down at once,
helplessly and hopelessly, to worship him.