ON THE BALCONY.
"Are you going out this evening, Stewart?" asked Harriet Routh of her
husband, as they sat together, after their dinner--which had not been
a particularly lively meal--was removed. She did not look at him as
she put the question, but gazed out of the window, holding back the
curtain, while she spoke. Stewart Routh was examining the contents of
a heap of letters which lay on the table before him, and did not
answer for a moment. She repeated the question:
"Are you going out anywhere this evening, Stewart?"
"Of course I am going out," he answered impatiently. "Why do you ask?
I am not going to be mewed up here in this stifling room all the
evening."
"No, of course not," she answered very gently and without an
inflection in her voice to betray that she perceived the irritation of
his tone. "Of course not. You go out every evening, as every one else
does here. I only asked because I think of going with you."
"_You_, Harry?" he said, with real embarrassment, but with feigned
cordiality. "That is a sudden start. Why, you have never been out in
the evening since we've been here but once, and then you seemed to
dislike the place very much. Have you not been out to-day?"
"Yes, I have. I walked a long way to-day. But I have a fancy to go to
the Kursaal this evening. George Dallas tells me a number of new
people have come, and I have a fancy to see them."
Stewart Routh frowned. He disliked this fancy of his wife's; he did
not understand it. Harriet had always shrunk from strangers and
crowds, and had gone to Homburg very unwillingly. On their first
arrival, when he would have been tolerably willing to take her about
with him, though he felt a growing repugnance to her society, she
would not go out except to drink the waters early in the day, and now,
on an occasion when it was particularly inconvenient to him, she took
a fancy to go out. Besides, he hated the mention of George Dallas's
name. There was a tacit sympathy between him and Harriet on this
point. True, she bore the pain of his daily visits, but then she was
accustomed to bearing pain. But she rarely spoke of him, and she knew
his intercourse with Routh was very slight and casual. Harriet
possessed even more than the ordinary feminine power of divination in
such matters, and she felt instinctively that Mr. Felton both disliked
and distrusted her husband.
"It is fortunate we do not want to use Dallas for our purpose any
longer," Harriet had said to herself on only the second occasion of
her seeing the uncle and nephew together--"very fortunate; for Mr.
Felton would be a decided and a dangerous antagonist. Weak and
wavering as George is, his uncle could rule him, I am sure, and would
do so, contrary to us." This impression had been confirmed since
Harriet had watched, as she was in the habit of doing, the proceedings
of Mr. Felton and George at Homburg. When George visited her, he
rarely mentioned Routh, and she knew they had not dined together ever
since they had been there. Assisted, insensibly, by his uncle's
opinion and influence, George had emancipated himself, as all his
reflections had dictated, but all his resolutions had failed to
accomplish. So Harriet ceased to mention George to Routh, and thus it
was that her speech jarred unpleasantly upon his ear.
"Indeed," he said. "I should think Dallas a very poor judge of what is
or is not likely to amuse you. However, I'm sorry I can't take you out
this evening. I have an engagement."
Still she kept her head turned from him and looked out of the window.
He glanced at her uneasily, cleared his throat, and went on:
"I promised to meet Hunt and Kirkland at the tables to-night and try
our luck. I'm sorry for it, Harry, and I'll keep to-morrow evening
quite free. That will do for you, won't it?"
"Yes," she replied; "that will do."
She did not look round, and he did not approach her. He fidgeted about
the room a little, sorted his letters, tied them up in a bundle,
locked them into his travelling desk, and finally, with another uneasy
glance at her, he left the room. Harriet sat quite still, her hand
upon the curtain, her face towards the window. So she sat for several
minutes after he had left the house, in evening dress, with a loose
paletot on, and she had seen him go down the street towards the
Kursaal. Then she wrote a few lines to George Dallas, and, having sent
her note, once more seated herself by the window. The room was
darkening in the quick coming night, and her figure was indistinct in
its motionless attitude by the window, when George came gaily into her
presence.
"Here I am, Mrs. Routh. What are your commands? Nothing wrong with
you, I hope? I can't see you plainly in the dusk. Where's Routh?"
"He has gone out. He had an engagement, and I have a particular fancy
to go out this evening, to see the world; in fact, at the Kursaal, in
particular. You are always so kind and obliging, I thought, as Stewart
could not take me, if your mother did not particularly want you this
evening, you might give me your escort for an hour."
"Too delighted," said George, with genuine pleasure. "I am quite free.
Mr. Carruthers is with my mother, and my uncle is writing letters for
the American mail."
Harriet thanked him, and left the room; but returned almost
immediately, with her bonnet on, and wearing a heavy black lace veil.
"You will be smothered in that veil, Mrs. Routh," said George, as they
left the house. "And you won't get the full benefit of this delightful
evening air."
"I prefer it," she said; "there are some men here, friends of Stewart,
whom I don't care to see."
They went on, almost in silence, for Harriet was very thoughtful, and
George was wondering what made her so "low," and whether these friends
of Routh's were any of the "old set." He hoped, for Harriet's sake,
Routh was not playing recklessly. He was very clever, of course, but
still--and with all the wisdom and the zeal of his present mental and
moral condition, George shook his head at the idea of a deflection
into gambling on the part of Routh.
The often-described scene at the Kursaal displayed all the customary
features. Light, gilding, gaiety, the lustre and rustle of women's
dress, the murmur of voices and the ring of laughter in all the rooms
not devoted to play; but at the tables, silence, attention, and all
the variety which attends the exhibition of the passion of gambling in
all its stages. From the careless lounger, who, merely passing through
the rooms, threw a few florins on the table to try what the game was
like, to the men and women who lived for and in the hours during which
the tables were open to them, all, with the intermediate ranks of
votaries and degrees of servitude, were there.
George was so accustomed to Harriet's retiring manners, and so
prepared to find the scene distasteful to her, that he did not notice
her unwillingness to assume a prominent position in any of the rooms
through which they passed. As they entered each, she drew him a little
behind the crowd in occupation, and talked to him about the style of
the apartment, its decoration, the brilliancy of its light--in short,
made any commonplace remarks which occurred to her.
They were standing near the door of one of the saloons, and
Harriet, though her veil was not lifted, was scanning from behind its
shelter curiously, and with a rapid sharpness peculiar to her, the
brilliant-dressed crowd, talking, laughing, flirting, lounging on the
velvet seats, and some furtively yawning in the weariness of their
hearts; when a sudden brisk general flutter and a pervading whisper
attracted the attention of both. The movement was caused by the
entrance of a lady, so magnificently dressed and so extremely handsome
that she could not have failed to create a sensation in any resort of
gaiety, fashion, and the pomp and pride of life. The voluminous folds
of her blue satin dress were covered, overflowed rather, by those of a
splendid mantilla of black lace, worn Spanish fashion over her head,
where a brilliant scarlet flower nestled between the rich filmy fabric
and the lustrous black brown hair coiled closely round it. She came
in, her head held up, her bright black eyes flashing, her whole face
and figure radiant with reckless beauty and assertion. Two or three
gentlemen accompanied her, and her appearance had the same
processional air which George had commented upon in the morning. The
lady was Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge.
"We're in luck, Mrs. Routh," said George. "Here comes my uncle's fair
friend, or fair enemy, whichever she may he, in all her splendour.
What a pity Mr. Felton is not here! Perhaps she will speak to me."
"Perhaps so," whispered Harriet, as she slipped her hand from under
his arm, and sat down on a bench behind him. "Pray don't move, please.
I particularly wish to be hidden."
At this moment, Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge, advancing with her train,
and amid the looks of the assembly, some admiring, some affecting the
contemptuous, and a few not remarkably respectful, approached George.
From behind him, where her head just touched the back of his elbow,
Harriet's blue eyes were fixed upon her. But the triumphant beauty was
quite unconscious of their gaze. She stopped for a moment, and spoke
to George.
"Good evening, Mr. Dallas. Is Mr. Felton here? No? He is expecting his
son, I suppose."
"He does not know, madam. He has not heard from him."
"Indeed! But Arthur is always lazy about letter-writing. However, he
will be here soon, to answer for himself."
"Will he? Do you know, my uncle is very anxious--"
She interrupted him with a laugh and a slight gesture of her hand, in
which the woman watching her discerned an insolent meaning, then said,
as she passed on:
"He knows where to find me, if he wants to know what I can tell him.
Good evening, Mr. Dallas."
"Did you hear that, Harriet?" said George, in an agitated voice, after
he had watched the brilliant figure as it mingled with the crowd in
the long saloon.
"I did," said Harriet. "And though I don't understand her meaning, I
think there is something wrong and cruel in it. That is a bold, bad
woman, George," she went on, speaking earnestly; "and though _I_ am
not exactly the person entitled to warn you against dangerous
friends--"
"Yes, yes, you are," interrupted George, eagerly, as he drew her hand
again under his arm, and they moved on; "indeed you are. You are the
best of friends to me. When I think of all the past, I hardly know how
to thank you enough. All that happened before I went to Amsterdam, and
the way you helped me out of my scrapes, and all that happened since;
the good advice you gave me! Only think what would have happened to me
if I had not acted upon it."
He was going on eagerly, when she stopped him by the iron pressure of
her fingers upon his arm.
"Pray don't," she said. "I am not strong now. I can't talk of
these--of anything that agitates me."
"I beg your pardon," said George, soothingly. "I ought to have
remembered. And also, Mrs. Routh, I know you never like to be thanked.
What were you going to say when I thoughtlessly interrupted you?"
"I was going to say," she replied, in quite her customary tone, "that
I don't think this American lady would be a very safe friend, and that
I don't think she feels kindly towards your uncle. There was something
malicious in her tone. Is your uncle uneasy about his son?"
The question put George into a difficulty, and Harriet, with unfailing
tact, perceived in a moment that it had done so. "I remember," she
said, "the tone in which Mr. Felton wrote of his son, in his first
letter, was not favourable to him; but this is a family matter,
George, and you are quite right not to tell me about it."
"Thank you, Mrs. Routh," said George. "You are always right, and
always kind. I must tell my uncle what has passed this evening. Thus
much I may say to you. He has had no news of his son lately, and will
be very glad to receive any."
"I don't think he will be glad to receive news of his son through
_her_," said Harriet. All the time this conversation lasted she had
been scanning the crowd through which they were moving, and noting
every fresh arrival.
"Shall we go into the gardens? the lights look pretty," she continued.
George acquiesced, and they passed through the wide doors and down the
broad steps into the gay scene over which the tranquil starlit sky
spread a canopy of deep cloudless blue; the blue of tempered steel;
the dark blue of the night, which is so solemnly beautiful.
"Are you always so successful?" a voice, pitched to a low and
expressive key, said to a lady, who sat, an hour later that night,
with a heap of gold and silver beside her, under the brilliant light
which streamed down over the gaming-tables and their occupants, but
lighted up no such dauntless, bright, conquering beauty as hers. The
man who had spoken stood behind her; his hand rested on the back of
her chair, and was hidden in the folds of the laced drapery which fell
over her dress. She gave him an upward, backward flash of her black
eyes, and answered:
"Always, and in everything. I invariably play to win. But sometimes I
care little for the game, and tire of it in the winning. Now, for
instance, I am tired of this."
"Will you leave it, then?"
"Of course," and she rose as she spoke, took up her money, dropped it
with a laugh into a silver-net bag, a revival of the old gypsin, which
hung at her waist, and, drawing her lace drapery round her, moved
away. The man who had spoken followed her closely and silently. She
passed into one of the saloons, and out into a long balcony, on which
a row of windows opened, and which overlooked the gardens filled with
groups of people.
A band was stationed in one of the rooms which opened upon the
terrace, and the music sounded pleasantly in the still air.
"And so you are always successful!" said the man who had spoken before
to the lady, who leaned upon the balcony, with light from within just
tingeing the satin of her dress, and the faint light of the moon and
stars lending her grace and beauty a softened radiance which well
became them, though somewhat foreign to them. "I believe that firmly.
Indeed, how could you fail? I cannot fancy you associated with defeat.
I cannot fancy anything but triumph for such a Venus Victrix as you
are!"
"You say very pretty things," was the slightly contemptuous answer,
"and you say them very well. But I think I am a little tired of them,
among other things. You see, I have heard so many of them, ever since
I can remember. In fact, I have eaten bonbons of every kind, of all
the colours, as they say in Paris, and they pall upon my taste now."
"You are not easily understood," said her companion; "but you are the
most enchanting of enigmas."
"Again!" she said, and held up an ungloved hand, on which jewels shone
in the dim mixed light.
"Yes, again and again!" he replied, and he drew nearer to her, and
spoke eagerly, earnestly, in low fervent tones. She did not shrink
from him; she listened, with her arms wrapped in her lace mantle,
resting upon the balcony, the long black eyelashes shading her eyes,
and the head, with the scarlet flower decking it, bent--not in
timidity, but in attentive thought. The man leaned with his back
against the balcony and his face turned partly towards her, partly
towards the open windows, through which the light was shining. The
lady listened, but rarely uttered a word. It was a story, a narrative
of some kind, which her companion was telling, and it evidently
interested her.
They were alone. The rooms within filled, and emptied, and filled
again, and people rambled about them, went out upon the terrace and
into the gardens; but no one intruded upon the _tête-á-tête_ upon the
balcony.
A momentary pause in the earnest, passionate flow of her companion's
speech caused the lady to change her position and look up at him.
"What is it?" she said.
"Nothing. Dallas passed by one of the windows just now, and I thought
he might have seen me. He evidently did not, for he's just the
blundering fool to have come out here to us if he had. It never would
occur to him that he could be in any one's way."
There was an exasperation in his tone which surprised the lady. But
she said, calmly, "I told you I thought him a booby." She resumed her
former position, and as she did so the scarlet flower fell from her
hair over the parapet. Her companion did not notice the accident,
owing to his position. She leaned a little more forward to see where
the flower had fallen. A lady, who had, no doubt, been passing along
the terrace under the balcony at the moment, had picked it up. Mrs.
Ireton P. Bembridge saw the blossom with the deep red colour in the
lady's hand as she walked rapidly away, and was lost to sight at the
end of the terrace.
A little more time passed, and the American lady and her companion
left the balcony, passed through the central hall, and reached the
grand entrance of the Kursaal. A close carriage was in waiting, into
which the gentleman handed her.
"Where is the flower you wore in your hair to-night?" he said, as he
lingered, holding the carriage door in his hand; "have you taken it
out? Are you going to give it to me?" Exciting boldness was in his
voice, and his keen dark eyes were aflame.
"Impertinent! I lost it; it fell over the balcony while you were
talking--talking nonsense, I fancy."
"I will find it when you are gone. I may--No, I will keep it."
"Some one has been too quick for you," she said, with a mischievous
laugh. "I saw some one pick it up and walk off with it, very quickly
too."
"What? and you--"
"Don't be foolish," she interrupted him; "shut the door, please, I'm
cold. I want to pull the glass up--I want to get home. There,
good-night. Pooh, are you a booby also? It was only a woman!"
A brilliant light was given by the lamps in the portico, and it shone
on her face as she leaned a moment from the carriage window and looked
full at him, a marvellous smile on her curved lips and in her black
eyes. Then the carriage was gone, and he was standing like a man in a
dream.
"Has Mrs. Routh come in?" George had asked, anxiously, of the English
servant at Routh's lodgings, half an hour before.
"Yes, sir; but she has gone to her room, and she told me to give you
this."
It was a note, written hastily in pencil, on a card:
"I felt so ill, after you left me to get me the lemonade, that I was
afraid to wait for your return, and came home at once. Pray forgive
me. I know you will come here first, or I would send to your own
house.
"H. R."
"Tell Mrs. Routh I hope to see her to-morrow," said George, "and to
find her better." Then he walked slowly towards his mother's house,
thinking as he went of Clare Carruthers, of the Sycamores, and of how
still, and solemn, and stately that noble avenue of beeches in which
he saw her first was then doubtless looking in the moonlight; thinking
the harmless thoughts of a young man whom love, the purifier, has come
to save. A carriage passing him with bright lamps, and a swift vision
of sheeny blue seen for an instant, reminded him of Mrs. Ireton P.
Bembridge, and turned his thoughts to the topic of his uncle's
anxiety. When he reached home, he found Mr. Felton alone; and told him
at once what had passed.
"You are quite correct in supposing that I don't particularly like
this woman, George," said Mr. Felton, after they had talked for some
time, "and that I should prefer any other channel of intelligence. But
we must take what we can get, and it is a great relief to get any. It
is quite evident there's nothing wrong with him. I don't allude to his
conduct," said Mr. Felton, with a sigh. "I mean as to his safety. I
shall call on her to-morrow."
George bade his uncle good-night, and was going to his own room, when
a thought struck him, and he returned.
"It has just occurred to me, uncle," he said, "that Mrs. Bembridge may
have a likeness of Arthur. From the account you give of her, I fancy
she is likely to possess such trophies. Now we may not require to use
such a thing at all, and you have sent for one under any
circumstances; still, when you see her, if you consider it expedient,
you might ascertain whether she has one in her possession. If her
information is not satisfactory, to have a likeness at hand will save
time."