AT THE SEBBERENS’
The Sebberens were people who indulged greatly in private theatricals
and other sorts of entertainment. With the amateur they included the
professional, and in between the acts, songs and recitations were
contributed by the latter.
Mr. Sebberen had been engaged in pork, and had made enough money thereby
to make the pig respected—as an investment, anyway. He married a
waitress in a restaurant, who was neither more nor less charming and
handsome than most of her class. She had ambitions, and was young.
But for ten long years they had no children, and never a scrap of the
pig was wasted. And those ten years were years of increase. Then to put
spirit to an ambition somewhat sordid, a little daughter was born. Both
parents were beside themselves with joy. It is not everyone who can
manage so much, after breeding nothing but gold or pork, and so they
felt. It’s a common thing to be a mother after a lapse of one year, but
after ten! they grew proud on the strength of it.
And another ten years had trebled the ample fortune, nay, more than
trebled it, and Mr. Sebberen, a comparatively young man—scarce
forty—found himself with a daughter only ten years old.
Another decade saw her twenty, he in the prime of life, her mother too.
“Sebberen’s Pork” was of world-wide fame. The king and the chief prince
had it on their breakfast tables; the poor still bought the sausages,
and doctors still evinced a weakness for onions, milk, and tripe.
No one would have known, to walk into this grand house, that its
occupants once lived behind a little pork shop. For Susiebelle was
handsome and clever, and had taught her mother a thing or two, and made
great friends at school, not from any particular virtue, but from the
glamour of outside show. She had a great deal of the outward semblance
of that inward spirit that had made her father what he was. She was
shallow and brilliant, and a perfect mimic of the world.
When the world wept, she wept. They called her tender-hearted.
When it laughed, she also laughed. They called her gay.
When in a mood for admiration, she, too, had time for adulation, admired
arts and music, knotted her pretty brows at science, and bought rich
copies of all the works of fashionable poets. And what was all this for?
Susiebelle at twenty made up her mind to marry, and marry as well as
could be. Her father had just had a tremendous stroke of luck in
business. She set her mind upon a duke, shooting high to reach as far as
fortune favoured.
One year had passed away, and Susiebelle’s ambition has not yet been
granted. A poor baronet, an insipid, weak-eyed lord; not bad for a
beginning, certainly.
And this brings us to to-night, the amateur theatricals, and gay
company.
Sir John was under commission to paint the lovely Susiebelle, and had
undertaken it with a fine courtesy that made her mother glow with pride
to think the great were servants of the—the small. And Sir John would do
it successfully after all, for she was pretty enough to appeal to the
sense of beauty in any artist, and her parents were over and above
willing to pay.
And that is why Sir John went to the party—from motives of
conscientiousness. And Miss Crokerly went because she wished to give
pleasure to Rosalie. She, an ideal chaperon and friend. And Rosalie went
because there was no way out of it.
But Rosalie’s dress was in itself that night a thing of beauty. Green,
as bright and dazzling a green as the frog’s coat, that fitted to her
graceful figure as perfectly as the shining scales of a serpent’s coils,
worked with tiny seed jewels and edgings of gold.
“You look just like the mermaid,” said the frog, “your hair is so pale,
and your eyes so bright, and your skin so fair, and your lips are as red
as coral.”
And Rosalie looked in the glass just as once before when comparing
herself with Mariana, and laughed again just as then, and clasped her
hands.
Then, when she was ready, she went to Miss Crokerly’s room, who, on
seeing her, uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“What is the matter?” asked Rosalie.
“I believe your frog is a beautifier. Take care no one steals it in the
crush to-night. Or perhaps I ought to take the credit to myself. I think
I shall. You have improved in appearance since coming here, Rosalie, and
to-night you look quite radiant.”
“Thank you,” and with a sudden touch of impulsiveness Rosalie kissed
her. “You are so kind to me that the credit is yours.”
When they reached the Sebberens’ the large party was assembling in the
great drawing-room, which had been changed into a theatre for the
occasion. Supper was to follow, but light refreshments were being handed
round, and proved very useful to take the chill off the commencement, as
it were. And music not too obtrusive helped digestion. Rosalie’s heart
beat quicker as they entered the brilliantly-lit room, advance and
retreat covered by Miss Crokerly and her brother, before and behind.
Just inside the wide doors stood Mrs. Sebberen talking to a grey-haired
man; Susiebelle was busy behind the curtain, so could not be in
attendance upon the guests.
She greeted Miss Crokerly effusively, stared, as is perfectly compatible
with good manners, at Rosalie from head to foot, became effusive to her,
and then bestowed the same greeting upon Sir John. There was no doubt
about it, she was a happy and genial woman. She evidently considered
them among her guests of honour or chief friendship, for in person she
conducted them to a line of seats near to the front. She was dressed in
rich black satin, and looked handsome enough to be imposing.
On the way she talked much to Miss Crokerly, but looked much at Rosalie,
her dress, her face, the curious little animal upon her shoulder.
Beyond a certain interest, Rosalie read nothing in her glance. Then when
they were seated, she passed away again, and Rosalie found time to look
around. Everything and everybody were very brilliant. And she recognised
some of her new acquaintances, but none more intimate. At last she
whispered to Miss Crokerly—Sir John had left them for the moment:
“Where is the Golden Priest Alphonso?”
Miss Crokerly’s sharp eyes travelled round the assembly.
“He is not here yet,” said she. “Of course I don’t know, but I expect
that he will come. There is Lady Flamington and her husband. Is she not
beautiful? but very sad-looking.”
“Lady Flamington—Lady Flamington! Oh! where is she?” said Rosalie, in an
eager voice.
But just then the lady spoken of, who was sitting some distance to the
right a row in front, turned round, and seeing Miss Crokerly, rose and
came toward her. Her smile was very pleasant.
“I am deserting my husband for better company,” said she. “I dragged him
here against his will, low be it spoken, and am paying the penalty in
sulks. Your brother is easier to manage, Miss Crokerly.”
“The privilege of management is not mine. I am only his sister.”
The other shook her head.
“You are too modest. There was never a man yet who governed himself; he
couldn’t manage it. It ends in sudden death or corpulency. Both are
dreadful things.”
Miss Crokerly laughed.
“You will perhaps have heard what heavy responsibilities I have taken
upon myself lately.”
“Yes; I hear you have turned chaperon,” and Lady Flamington looked
across at Rosalie and smiled as pleasantly as before.
Miss Crokerly introduced them.
“Are you fond of private theatricals?” she asked.
“I’ve never been to any,” replied Rosalie candidly.
“She was an only child, and brought up very strictly,” said Miss
Crokerly, at which Lady Flamington said “Oh!” and looked toward the
door.
She remained sitting by them till the play began, talking with both of
them. At last she said to Rosalie:
“Do you know, I have the oddest sensation that I have met you before.”
“I don’t think so,” said Rosalie. “I have a very good memory for faces,
and I have never seen you anywhere.”
“Perhaps I am mistaken. People often resemble each other so curiously.”
But now silence was imposed. The play had begun in earnest, and it was
quite interesting enough to retain the attention. When the act was over,
a song by a very well-known singer was announced; but before this came
off a few late arrivals made their entrance.
“There is the Golden Priest,” said Miss Crokerly.
He came in with two more gentleman. He was tall and thin, with a narrow
face and black hair. His eyes were deeply set and fixed close together.
His nose was long, and his lips very thin and straight. He looked
clever; beyond that he was scarcely prepossessing, but he was evidently
made much of in that assembly. They gave him a seat upon the very first
row. And yet he never ceased to preach that the pig was unclean! It was
a canon of the Church.
The play had more fine dresses in it than cleverness or substance, but
it was received as warmly as the more deserving performances during the
interludes.
Everybody was in high good-humour apparently, and the next day the paper
said it was the most successful entertainment and supper party Mrs.
Sebberen had ever given, which, coming from such good authority, must
have been the truth.
When the temporary curtain had fallen for the last time upon general and
good-natured applause, a movement was made toward the supper-room.
They put a little round-headed man with weak eyes to look after Rosalie.
He blinked upon her critically, and then smiled. Rosalie did not like
him.
However, not being dumb now, she needs must talk to him; never had
anyone been more tongue-tied. The coldness of the weather, their only
conversation, scarcely matched her conduct to him. The supper-room was
brilliant; nothing had been spared that money could buy to please the
eye or taste. He forgot her in the contemplation of his food, and she
was glad; it gave her time to look about.
The table was long, and everyone apparently was seated at it. There was
not a plain-looking woman among the number, so it seemed to her; and
many of them were really beautiful. But Lady Flamington possessed a
certain individual grace, a coldness and sadness under her exterior
charm of manner, that raised her much above the ordinary plane. Sir John
was sitting by her, and they were talking pleasantly to one another. She
gave one the impression that she could be very fascinating.
But as Rosalie’s eyes travelled up the table on the opposite side, she
recognised Mr. Barringcourt for the first time that evening, and he was
sitting next to Susiebelle.
Susiebelle was evidently in good feather, for everyone had been
congratulating her upon her acting, and she was simple-minded enough to
believe them, which gave her quite a charm. She was talking to him with
great spirit and gaiety, and looked quite handsome enough to make any
mother proud. Mr. Barringcourt was listening so politely that his
attention seemed to lack interest. When she laughed he smiled; when she
smiled he listened gravely; when her face was serious, as it rarely was,
he took the opportunity to look around.
On one of those occasions his eye travelled across to where Rosalie sat.
No sign of recognition was visible in them, but a little later he looked
at her again.
Rosalie was annoyed to find that both times she had been looking at him,
and for the future looked discreetly the other way, nay, cultivated the
acquaintance of her companion, and found him scarcely as uninteresting
as at first she had imagined.
But at last the evening was over, and she standing by Miss Crokerly in
the hall, waiting for their carriage.
The coldness of the day had changed to snow, and the ground outside was
white; a sight which somehow or other always surprises people when first
they see it, however much they may have expected it. Thick white flakes
were still falling rapidly. People drew their wraps round them and
shivered, or pretended to.
Lady Flamington’s carriage drove away as Miss Crokerly and Rosalie
reached the top step. Mr. Barringcourt had seen them off, and closed the
carriage door. Before moving away himself, he looked up at the steps and
saw these two descending. He raised his hat, looking at Miss Crokerly.
“Sir John is not returning home with you?”
“No,” she answered anxiously. “He said he preferred to walk; but I’m
sure he can have no idea of the state of the night. I have not seen him
since before supper-time.”
“I’ll seek him out and bring him to you; it’s a beastly night.” And he
ran lightly up the steps, whilst they got as quickly under cover as
possible.
He was not long away, and returned, bringing Sir John along with him.
“You surely are not walking yourself?” said Miss Crokerly, as he
proceeded to close the door for them also.
“Yes. It never occurred to me to order a carriage, and I have neither
wife nor sister to be concerned about my getting wet.”
“Then,” said she decidedly, “you must come with us. I noticed as you
went up the steps your shoes are not at all suitable to the night.”
It seemed almost as if he would decline, then suddenly he said “Thank
you,” and stepped in beside Sir John, and they were off.
Now, the frog was so bright that the carriage was quite pleasantly lit,
for it had crept out from beneath Rosalie’s wraps to its accustomed
place.
Miss Crokerly then introduced him to Rosalie; but as he showed no signs
of recognition, neither did she, but leant back in her corner and
listened to the conversation.
“What did you think of the theatricals?” asked Miss Crokerly.
“I did not arrive in time for them. The secretary of Todbrook’s Home for
Deaf and Dumb came to see me about a Christmas treat for them. For
myself, I can imagine no treat that would appeal to incurables. But he
has faith in turkey, and I think he said plum-pudding.”
“It must be a terrible thing to be afflicted with either defect. What
else are you going to do for them?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. I said I’d call to see him in the morning.”
“Oh! you should have a Christmas tree, and a cinematograph, and take
them all to the Pantomime to see the transformation scenes,” said
Rosalie.
And she sat up again, and her eyes were very big and bright, because the
subject was especially interesting to her. The other three looked at
her.
“Are you a philanthropist?” asked Mr. Barringcourt, with a vein of
coldness running in his words, in direct opposition to her heat.
She laughed.
“No; but I was told you were,” and leant back in her seat, and evidently
felt safe enough to betray no outward fear.
“I was speaking last night about your exertions on behalf of the deaf
and dumb,” said Miss Crokerly, in explanation, recognising, without
understanding it, the tone in each of their voices.
“You were naturally prepossessed in my favour then,” and he looked at
Rosalie again, speaking in a voice not free from sarcasm.
“No. I simply recognised that you were doing your duty.”
“Which you must admit is the hardest of all things.”
“I take your word for it. From to-day I honour you as a martyr. I was
not prepossessed in your favour at all. Forgive me for my stupidity.”
Rosalie’s voice was changed from hot to cold. Miss Crokerly heard it
with surprise, and a silence must have fallen had not Sir John, whose
mind ranged on different topics, put in suddenly:
“I hear that it is quite true the Great High Priest intends to resign
office.”
“I have heard the same thing,” said Mr. Barringcourt. “It is a very
unusual occurrence.”
“Did you hear the reason of it?” asked Sir John.
“I believe it has something to do with the Feast of White Souls. The
episode was rather unfortunate. A great many are in favour of his
resignation.”
“Might I ask your opinion?” said Sir John.
“Yes. I think the Great High Priest should be above scandal, and he is
evidently not.”
And he looked at Rosalie, and his eyes were laughing, though his face
and voice were as serious as those of a judge.
The old distaste rose in her, as of some dumb thing against a cruel and
powerful oppressor. But she said:
“Do you indulge in scandal, Mr. Barringcourt? I thought it was the
recreation of idle women.”
“Oh, no,” he answered, with the coolness of rudeness. “Idle women in
these parts are known by the sharpness of their tongues.”
“I’m very sorry,” she answered, suddenly changing in tone and manner,
“but I can’t help liking the Great High Priest; and as for Golden Priest
Alphonso—I detest him.”
“Oh, dear! dear!” said Miss Crokerly, with agitation, laying her hand on
Rosalie’s knee. “You must not talk like that, Rosalie, indeed, you must
not. It is not usual. Remember he is Mr. Barringcourt’s friend, and
bears an excellent reputation.”
But as the carriage drew up, she stopped speaking of necessity.
“You will drive on, will you not?” asked Sir John.
“No, thank you. I’ll get out, and borrow whatever Miss Crokerly cares to
lend me. I never had a cold in my life. The experience would be new to
me.”
So he came with them into the house, and seemed in no particular hurry
to depart. Rosalie said to him:
“Will you do me a favour, Mr. Barringcourt?”
“To the best of my ability.”
“Then give me one good point in the character of your friend.”
“Which friend?”
“The Golden Priest.”
“He is a man of great integrity.”
“What’s that?”
“Honour.”
“What’s that?”
Rosalie’s questions were not contemptuous; they were put with a great
desire to find out.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“There you have me,” he answered. “I’m sure I don’t know. The word
generally speaks for itself to all but the ignorant.”
“Then you cannot defend him on the strength of it?”
“No; he is clever enough to defend himself, I hope. You are wearing a
very pretty and uncommon ornament, Miss Paleaf.”
“It is not an ornament. It is alive, and one of my dearest friends.”
“Such a friend is rather questionable on Lucifram.”
“Why?”
“The Serpent has a weakness for frogs. In a natural state they form part
of its food.”
“My friend has powers of self-defence as well as yours.”
“The Serpent has a very big mouth.”
“Yes. And is ambitious enough to prefer men to frogs upon occasion.”
He laughed, and the conversation changed to general topics.