THE days that elapsed before Major Fitz-David’s dinner-party were
precious days to me.
My long interview with Miserrimus Dexter had disturbed me far more
seriously than I suspected at the time. It was not until some hours
after I had left him that I really began to feel how my nerves had been
tried by all that I had seen and heard during my visit at his house.
I started at the slightest noises; I dreamed of dreadful things; I was
ready to cry without reason at one moment, and to fly into a passion
without reason at another. Absolute rest was what I wanted, and (thanks
to my good Benjamin) was what I got. The dear old man controlled his
anxieties on my account, and spared me the questions which his fatherly
interest in my welfare made him eager to ask. It was tacitly understood
between us that all conversation on the subject of my visit to
Miserrimus Dexter (of which, it is needless to say, he strongly
disapproved) should be deferred until repose had restored my energies of
body and mind. I saw no visitors. Mrs. Macallan came to the cottage,
and Major Fitz-David came to the cottage--one of them to hear what had
passed between Miserrimus Dexter and myself, the other to amuse me with
the latest gossip about the guests at the forthcoming dinner. Benjamin
took it on himself to make my apologies, and to spare me the exertion
of receiving my visitors. We hired a little open carriage, and took long
drives in the pretty country lanes still left flourishing within a
few miles of the northern suburb of London. At home we sat and talked
quietly of old times, or played at backgammon and dominoes--and so, for
a few happy days, led the peaceful unadventurous life which was good for
me. When the day of the dinner arrived, I felt restored to my customary
health. I was ready again, and eager again, for the introduction to Lady
Clarinda and the discovery of Mrs. Beauly.
Benjamin looked a little sadly at my flushed face as we drove to Major
Fitz-David’s house.
“Ah, my dear,” he said, in his simple way, “I see you are well again!
You have had enough of our quiet life already.”
My recollection of events and persons, in general, at the dinner-party,
is singularly indistinct.
I remember that we were very merry, and as easy and familiar with one
another as if we had been old friends. I remember that Madame Mirliflore
was unapproachably superior to the other women present, in the perfect
beauty of her dress, and in the ample justice which she did to the
luxurious dinner set before us. I remember the Major’s young prima
donna, more round-eyed, more overdressed, more shrill and strident as
the coming “Queen of Song,” than ever. I remember the Major himself,
always kissing our hands, always luring us to indulge in dainty dishes
and drinks, always making love, always detecting resemblances between
us, always “under the charm,” and never once out of his character
as elderly Don Juan from the beginning of the evening to the end.
I remember dear old Benjamin, completely bewildered, shrinking into
corners, blushing when he was personally drawn into the conversation,
frightened at Madame Mirliflore, bashful with Lady Clarinda, submissive
to the Major, suffering under the music, and from the bottom of his
honest old heart wishing himself home again. And there, as to the
members of that cheerful little gathering, my memory finds its
limits--with one exception. The appearance of Lady Clarinda is as
present to me as if I had met her yesterday; and of the memorable
conversation which we two held together privately, toward the close of
the evening, it is no exaggeration to say that I can still call to mind
almost every word.
I see her dress, I hear her voice again, while I write.
She was attired, I remember, with that extreme assumption of simplicity
which always defeats its own end by irresistibly suggesting art. She
wore plain white muslin, over white silk, without trimming or ornament
of any kind. Her rich brown hair, dressed in defiance of the prevailing
fashion, was thrown back from her forehead, and gathered into a simple
knot behind--without adornment of any sort. A little white ribbon
encircled her neck, fastened by the only article of jewelry that she
wore--a tiny diamond brooch. She was unquestionably handsome; but her
beauty was of the somewhat hard and angular type which is so often seen
in English women of her race: the nose and chin too prominent and too
firmly shaped; the well-opened gray eyes full of spirit and dignity, but
wanting in tenderness and mobility of expression. Her manner had all
the charm which fine breeding can confer--exquisitely polite, easily
cordial; showing that perfect yet unobtrusive confidence in herself
which (in England) seems to be the natural outgrowth of pre-eminent
social rank. If you had accepted her for what she was, on the surface,
you would have said, Here is the model of a noble woman who is perfectly
free from pride. And if you had taken a liberty with her, on the
strength of that conviction, she would have made you remember it to the
end of your life.
We got on together admirably. I was introduced as “Mrs. Woodville,” by
previous arrangement with the Major--effected through Benjamin. Before
the dinner was over we had promised to exchange visits. Nothing but the
opportunity was wanting to lead Lady Clarinda into talking, as I wanted
her to talk, of Mrs. Beauly.
Late in the evening the opportunity came.
I had taken refuge from the terrible bravura singing of the Major’s
strident prima donna in the back drawing-room. As I had hoped and
anticipated, after a while Lady Clarinda (missing me from the group
around the piano) came in search of me. She seated herself by my side,
out of sight and out of hearing of our friends in the front room; and,
to my infinite relief and delight, touched on the subject of Miserrimus
Dexter of her own accord. Something I had said of him, when his name had
been accidentally mentioned at dinner, remained in her memory, and led
us, by perfectly natural gradations, into speaking of Mrs. Beauly. “At
last,” I thought to myself, “the Major’s little dinner will bring me my
reward!”
And what a reward it was, when it came! My heart sinks in me again--as
it sank on that never-to-be-forgotten evening--while I sit at my desk
thinking of it.
“So Dexter really spoke to you of Mrs. Beauly!” exclaimed Lady Clarinda.
“You have no idea how you surprise me.”
“May I ask why?”
“He hates her! The last time I saw him he wouldn’t allow me to mention
her name. It is one of his innumerable oddities. If any such feeling as
sympathy is a possible feeling in such a nature as his, he ought to like
Helena Beauly. She is the most completely unconventional person I know.
When she does break out, poor dear, she says things and does things
which are almost reckless enough to be worthy of Dexter himself. I
wonder whether you would like her?”
“You have kindly asked me to visit you, Lady Clarinda. Perhaps I may
meet her at your house?”
“I hope you will not wait until that is likely to happen,” she said.
“Helena’s last whim is to fancy that she has got--the gout, of all the
maladies in the world! She is away at some wonderful baths in Hungary
or Bohemia (I don’t remember which)--and where she will go, or what she
will do next, it is perfectly impossible to say.--Dear Mrs. Woodville!
is the heat of the fire too much for you? You are looking quite pale.”
I _felt_ that I was looking pale. The discovery of Mrs. Beauly’s absence
from England was a shock for which I was quite unprepared. For a moment
it unnerved me.
“Shall we go into the other room?” asked Lady Clarinda.
To go into the other room would be to drop the conversation. I was
determined not to let that catastrophe happen. It was just possible that
Mrs. Beauly’s maid might have quitted her service, or might have been
left behind in England. My information would not be complete until I
knew what had become of the maid. I pushed my chair back a little from
the fire-place, and took a hand-screen from a table near me; it might be
made useful in hiding my face, if any more disappointments were in store
for me.
“Thank you, Lady Clarinda; I was only a little too near the fire. I
shall do admirably here. You surprise me about Mrs. Beauly. From what
Mr. Dexter said to me, I had imagined--”
“Oh, you must not believe anything Dexter tells you!” interposed Lady
Clarinda. “He delights in mystifying people; and he purposely misled
you, I have no doubt. If all that I hear is true, _he_ ought to know
more of Helena Beauly’s strange freaks and fancies than most people.
He all but discovered her in one of her adventures (down in Scotland),
which reminds me of the story in Auber’s charming opera--what is it
called? I shall forget my own name next! I mean the opera in which the
two nuns slip out of the convent, and go to the ball. Listen! How very
odd! That vulgar girl is singing the castanet song in the second act at
this moment. Major! what opera is the young lady singing from?”
The Major was scandalized at this interruption. He bustled into the
back room--whispered, “Hush! hush! my dear lady; the ‘Domino Noir’”--and
bustled back again to the piano.
“Of course!” said Lady Clarinda. “How stupid of me! The ‘Domino Noir.’
And how strange that you should forget it too!”
I had remembered it perfectly; but I could not trust myself to speak.
If, as I believed, the “adventure” mentioned by Lady Clarinda was
connected, in some way, with Mrs. Beauly’s mysterious proceedings on the
morning of the twenty-first of October, I was on the brink of the very
discovery which it was the one interest of my life to make! I held the
screen so as to hide my face; and I said, in the steadiest voice that I
could command at the moment,
“Pray go on!--pray tell me what the adventure was!”
Lady Clarinda was quite flattered by my eager desire to hear the coming
narrative.
“I hope my story will be worthy of the interest which you are so good as
to feel in it,” she said. “If you only knew Helena--it is _so_ like
her! I have it, you must know, from her maid. She has taken a woman who
speaks foreign languages with her to Hungary and she has left the maid
with me. A perfect treasure! I should be only too glad if I could keep
her in my service: she has but one defect, a name I hate--Phoebe. Well!
Phoebe and her mistress were staying at a place near Edinburgh, called
(I think) Gleninch. The house belonged to that Mr. Macallan who was
afterward tried--you remember it, of course?--for poisoning his wife. A
dreadful case; but don’t be alarmed--my story has nothing to do with
it; my story has to do with Helena Beauly. One evening (while she was
staying at Gleninch) she was engaged to dine with some English friends
visiting Edinburgh. The same night--also in Edinburgh--there was a
masked ball, given by somebody whose name I forget. The ball (almost
an unparalleled event in Scotland!) was reported to be not at all a
reputable affair. All sorts of amusing people were to be there. Ladies
of doubtful virtue, you know, and gentlemen on the outlying limits of
society, and so on. Helena’s friends had contrived to get cards, and
were going, in spite of the objections--in the strictest incognito, of
course, trusting to their masks. And Helena herself was bent on going
with them, if she could only manage it without being discovered
at Gleninch. Mr. Macallan was one of the strait-laced people who
disapproved of the ball. No lady, he said, could show herself at such
an entertainment without compromising her reputation. What stuff! Well,
Helena, in one of her wildest moments, hit on a way of going to the ball
without discovery which was really as ingenious as a plot in a French
play. She went to the dinner in the carriage from Gleninch, having sent
Phoebe to Edinburgh before her. It was not a grand dinner--a little
friendly gathering: no evening dress. When the time came for going back
to Gleninch, what do you think Helena did? She sent her maid back in the
carriage, instead of herself! Phoebe was dressed in her mistress’s cloak
and bonnet and veil. She was instructed to run upstairs the moment she
got to the house, leaving on the hall table a little note of apology
(written by Helena, of course!), pleading fatigue as an excuse for not
saying good-night to her host. The mistress and the maid were about
the same height; and the servants naturally never discovered the
trick. Phoebe got up to her mistress’s room safely enough. There, her
instructions were to wait until the house was quiet for the night, and
then to steal up to her own room. While she was waiting, the girl fell
asleep. She only awoke at two in the morning, or later. It didn’t much
matter, as she thought. She stole out on tiptoe, and closed the door
behind her. Before she was at the end of the corridor, she fancied she
heard something. She waited until she was safe on the upper story,
and then she looked over the banisters. There was Dexter--so like
him!--hopping about on his hands (did you ever see it? the most
grotesquely horrible exhibition you can imagine!)--there was Dexter,
hopping about, and looking through keyholes, evidently in search of the
person who had left her room at two in the morning; and no doubt taking
Phoebe for her mistress, seeing that she had forgotten to take her
mistress’s cloak off her shoulders. The next morning, early, Helena came
back in a hired carriage from Edinburgh, with a hat and mantle borrowed
from her English friends. She left the carriage in the road, and got
into the house by way of the garden--without being discovered, this
time, by Dexter or by anybody. Clever and daring, wasn’t it? And, as
I said just now, quite a new version of the ‘Domino Noir.’ You will
wonder, as I did, how it was that Dexter didn’t make mischief in the
morning? He would have done it no doubt. But even he was silenced (as
Phoebe told me) by the dreadful event that happened in the house on the
same day. My dear Mrs. Woodville! the heat of this room is certainly too
much for you, take my smelling-bottle. Let me open the window.”
I was just able to answer, “Pray say nothing! Let me slip out into the
open air!”
I made my way unobserved to the landing, and sat down on the stairs to
compose myself where nobody could see me. In a moment more I felt a hand
laid gently on my shoulder, and discovered good Benjamin looking at
me in dismay. Lady Clarinda had considerately spoken to him, and had
assisted him in quietly making his retreat from the room, while his
host’s attention was still absorbed by the music.
“My dear child!” he whispered, “what is the matter?”
“Take me home, and I will tell you,” was all that I could say.