A cold, wet afternoon in March. But a few days ago people believed
in spring. There was abundance of sunshine, of blue sky, of tender,
venturesome birds; there had been piles of violets and primroses in
the flower-girls' baskets, as they moved about the London streets; a
breath of genuine spring-time in the soft air; but now all was cold
and bleak and drear once more, and people went back shiveringly to
fires and furs, and abused the treacherous English climate to their
hearts' content. The external cold and dreariness were shut out
effectually in a house in fashionable Mayfair. A sort of small
drawing-room, opening off the grandeur and luxury of a larger one; a
room with a hundred costly knick-knacks scattered about, with velvet
draperies, and filled with hothouse flowers, and over which the
fire-gleams played.
A silver tea-urn stands hissing on a low table by the fire--dainty
cups stand beside it. All is warm, fragrant, pleasant to the eye and
the senses, and a silvery babble of women's voices adds life to the
scene.
"What has become of your young friend, Mr. Athelstone?" asks a
pretty, fair woman, as she puts down her cup, and turns to the
presiding goddess of the ceremonies--a big, imposing-looking woman,
magnificently dressed.
"He's in Rome still," she answers, with a strong American accent.
"Means to stay there, too, I surmise--leastways, until the Vavasours
come to town. Wonderful pretty woman Lady Vavasour--Lady Lauraine,
as the poetry man calls her. You know that story?"
"No," chime in two or three voices. "What was it?"
"Well, he was an Italian," says the lady, who rejoices in the name of
Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe, "and very poor, I believe, living in a
garret, and that sort, but a right down poet, so every one says
_now_, and Lady Vavasour found him out, and had his book published,
and it took like wildfire and of course he's eternal grateful to her,
and he wrote something on her--called her 'My Lady Lauraine'--sounds
pretty, don't it--and the name was taken up, and in Rome no one
called her anything else. She was quite the sensation of the day
there; but she _is_ wonderful pretty, and no pumpkins about _that_."
"She's been married--let me see----"
"Two years, just upon. She's very delicate--that's why they went to
Rome. Chest, or lungs, or something. An almighty pretty baby she's
got too, and don't she seem fond of it! As a rule, mothers nowadays
don't even bother their heads about their children--'ceptin' to dress
'em like dolls, and take 'em out as a show in their carriages."
One or two fashionable mothers present wince a little at Mrs.
Bradshaw B. Woollffe's outspoken opinion, and feel more than ever
convinced that she is dreadfully vulgar, and really it would be quite
impossible to know her, only she is so amazingly rich.
"And she and Mr. Athelstone are great friends, you say?" questions
another voice.
"Yes," answers Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe shortly. "Knew each other
as children; brought up as brother and sister, and all that."
"How very charming," simpers an inane-looking model of fashion,
settling her bonnet strings, and wishing that some men would take it
into their heads to drop in and relieve the monotony of feminine
society. "_That_ sort of relationship is so free and easy, and no
one can say anything. But I heard that the Vavasours are coming back
for the season?"
"So they are--at least Keith told me so when he last wrote. I knew
him in New York," she added explanatorily. "He is a nice boy;
deserves his luck, too. Uncommon rich, ain't he. My! two million
dollars ain't bad; and I'm not sure if it ain't more. Old Hezekiah
Jefferson was a relation of my niece. He was a warm man, he was, and
this boy's got all."
"He ought to marry," suggests a Belgravian matron, who has two
daughters "out," and a third budding into bloom, and becoming
obtrusively anxious to show herself among the rosebud "garden of
girls," who blossom in the London season.
"Marry?" And Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe laughs. "I guess he don't
think of that yet awhile. He's too young, and he likes his liberty;
he's a bit skittish, too, but that's not much account as some go.
Marryin' will be more than he'll care about for a long time to come,
even though the girls do go after him like squir'ls after cobs. But
then he's uncommon handsome, too."
"Perhaps his _friend_, Lady Lauraine, as you call her, would object
to his settling down?" suggests the Belgravian matron, with a little
more acidity than sweetness in her well-modulated voice.
Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe puts down her teacup, and looks straight at
the speaker,
"In our country," she remarks, "people say right down what they
think. I don't know what you mean, but I guess. Lady Lauraine is a
good woman and a good wife, and she'd be glad enough to see her old
playfellow settled and happy; but, you see it's difficult for a rich
fellow to know whether it's himself or his money that the girl takes
him for, and I suspect Keith would like to be sure on that subject
before he jumped into matrimony."
There is a momentary hush among the fair tea-drinkers; but all are
agreed in their minds that Americans have an unpleasantly coarse way
of putting things.
"It's four years ago since I came to Eu-rope," resumed Mrs. Bradshaw
B. Woollffe. "I've got more spry about your ways than I was. But
there's one thing I don't hold with, and that is that you don't
believe in your women. Our Amurcan girls, now, go to their balls,
and parties, and skatin' matches, and junketings, and the young
fellows see them home and 'squire them about, and we don't think no
harm of it; and as for scandal, why, we'd call a man a blackguard
who'd say a word against a girl's character for goin' about with
another man. It's a point of honour with _them_ to treat 'em just as
respectfully as if a hundred mothers and chaperons were looking on.
Now, here in Europe you're all in such a mortal funk, not only with
your gals, but with your married women. You don't seem to believe in
such a thing as friendship. Why, if a man and a woman like to talk
to each other there's a scandal directly! I surmise it's your way,
but it bothers me, that it does."
There is a little titter among the fair worshippers at the shrine of
tea and riches.
"Dear Mrs. Woollffe, you do say such odd things; but I think you
quite mistake. We are certainly particular with our girls. We must
be. Society would be scandalized if they went about in the
free-and-easy fashion of their American cousins. But with married
women it is quite different. We are really _free_--more free, I
think, than your countrywomen; and as for _friendship_--dear me, that
is quite allowable--quite!"
"Of course," chime in several voices in the background, for all the
attention of the conclave is aroused now. "But then there are
friendships, _and_ friendships."
"Exactly," says Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe drily. "It is the '_and_'
ones I mean. How is it you know so well who may not look at the
halter, and who may steal the horse?"
"It is--it is somewhat difficult to explain," hesitates the pretty
fair woman, who has a charming "friendship" of her own on hand just
now, and is anxious it should be considered as blameless as, of
course, it is.
Mrs. Bradshaw Woollffe laughs loudly.
"I surmise it is," she answers, "something like the people one can't
know and the people one can. I suppose as long as one's got a pretty
big pile, one can do anything."
"But to return to Mr. Athelstone," says Belgravia, a little
uncomfortably. "Don't you really know when he'll come back?"
"Perhaps I do," answers Mrs. Woollffe, with an odd little smile.
"He's just promised to come and stay with me the end of the month. I
have a niece--a very pretty girl she is, too--coming over from N'
York, and as they knew each other in Amurca, I thought it would be
company like for them to be together."
Horror and consternation fill the heart of the Belgravian matron.
The prospects of her two daughters who are "out," and the blushing
_ingénue_ in prospective, flee further and further back into the
regions of disappointment.
What an odious woman! What a horrible woman! What on earth does she
mean? Oh, if only she were poor, and if only the Earl of Longleat
hadn't taken her up, how she would crush her now beneath aristocratic
scorn. But--well, it never does _quite_ to fall out with so much
money, and lose all the dinners, balls, and receptions which the
wealthy widow gives right royally in the season. So the ire is
smothered and the frowns dispelled, and only the sweetest of phrases
issue from lips that are absolutely trembling with hatred and
disgust. The rooms grow emptier and emptier. The last visitor
leaves, and Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe leans back in her most
comfortable chair, and laughs softly to herself in the glow of the
firelight.
"We don't raise _that_ sort down our way," she says, "and I'm glad of
it. Well, I think I riled 'em with that bit about Anastasia, and
it's no cram either. She is uncommon pretty, and ought to take. I
shouldn't mind getting a bid for her, only she's that sweet on Keith
I'm afraid it won't be easy. But he don't care a red herring for
her--_that_ I know. I wonder what's become of the girl he told me of
in N' York that fall. He ain't married her, and when I asked him
why, he cut up mighty rough, and as good as told me to mind my own
business. But I like that Keith. I wish he seemed a bit happier,
that I do. He's not near so spry and lively as he used to be. How
all these women are after him! Guess I got a rise out of them _that_
time. My, if they knew he was coming here to-night! 'Taint none of
their business though, and I don't mean it to be. I think I'll keep
the dragons off him better'n most. I and--Anastasia!"
And she laughs again, a pleasant, cheery laugh, not with any
insincere modulation or false ring like the laugh of Society. But
with all her vulgarities and eccentricities, Mrs. Bradshaw B.
Woollffe is a genuine woman.
She pours herself out another cup of tea, and looks complacently
round her pretty room; and as she looks, there comes the sound of a
step on the stairs, and the door is thrown open, and a tall figure
comes straight to her amidst the obscurity, and she springs up to
welcome him with a cordiality so genuine that Society would doubtless
call it vulgar.
"Keith, my dear boy--so you've come. I'm _real_ glad to see you,
that I am."
Her visitor takes the two hands she extends him, and returns their
warm pressure. Then she forces him into a chair by the fire, and
stirs the logs into a blaze, and brings him some tea, and fusses
about him in a pleasant, genial, womanly fashion that is all her own.
Keith Athelstone accepts her attentions with laughing opposition
against the amount of trouble she is taking; but on the whole he
likes it, and he likes her too, for she has been a kind friend to him
in days gone by, when he was only poor and struggling--a stranger in
a strange land, not yet having "struck ile" in the way of fortune and
success.
"And so you have really left Rome?" says Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe at
last, when her guest is reclining lazily in his chair, and has begged
her not to ring for lights or disturb the cosy solitude of the room.
"And how are the Vavasours?"
A little change is visible in the face of the young man--a face
strangely altered in these two years. The features are handsome as
ever, but there is a haggard, worn look about them, and the blue eyes
are feverish and dim, and heavy shadows lie beneath the long dark
lashes.
Those eyes and lashes are the greatest beauty in Keith Athelstone's
face, and now that haunting look of sadness gives them tenfold more
attraction than they possessed before. "They are quite well," he
says, after a brief pause; "they come to town next week."
"I wonder you did not wait and come with them."
"Lady Vavasour did not wish it," he answers quietly.
Mrs. Woollffe gives him a quick glance and is silent.
"I've had a troop of women here," she says presently. "Glad you
didn't come in the midst of their chatter. My, they'll be after you
like flies after molasses this season, Keith! Take care you aren't
married in spite of yourself."
"Married?" his voice rings out with angry energy; "not if I know it.
I _hate_ women."
"Hate 'em?--that's queer," remarks Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe.
"Something's wrong with you, then. Boys at your age aren't
women-haters for nothing."
"I mean, of course, those husband-hunting creatures," says Keith
apologetically. "Why can't they let a fellow alone, I wonder?"
"Can't say, I'm sure, unless it's just their malice drives 'em on one
against the other, and each tries to be foremost with the traps and
gins. When a man's got money, I suppose they think it ain't right
unless he shares it with a female. And there's such an almighty lot
of women in Great Britain. Nice enough, too, some of 'em; I like 'em
better'n Amurcans. They've a real good time of it out here, too.
When we get married, we're shelved--done for. We let the young 'uns
have their time; but, lor' bless me, _here_ the married women seem to
have the best of the fun, and are as skittish as colts, even when
they're forty."
"Yes, that's so," answered Keith. "In these days married women--so
long as they're pretty--command more admiration and attention than
the girls. The fact of being appropriated seems to lend them a
greater charm. Perhaps, though, men think they're safer. The
mothers make such dead running, you know, and if you dance twice with
a girl, suspect 'intentions.'"
"It's bad, though," says Mrs. Woollffe, shaking her head. "Bad for
Society--bad for men--bad for the girls, too. They'll marry the
first man who asks them, because they think they'll have more real
freedom afterwards. But what sort of wives and mothers will they
make?"
"Those are secondary points of consideration"--sneers Keith, and his
face looks hard and almost cruel now, as the flames leap up and frame
it in their sudden brightness. "Old-fashioned ideas like truth and
constancy, and all that."
"Come, I can't have you getting cynical," says his friend
good-humouredly. "You're too young, and I hate to hear young fellows
like yourself railing against women. It don't seem right, somehow.
What do you know of them? They're mighty queer creatures, and would
puzzle the wisest man; but all the same, they're not all downright
bad, and you mustn't judge the whole bale from a poor sample."
Keith says nothing. His eyes go back to the fire, and a cloud
darkens his brow. He knows in his own heart that he hates all women,
only because he loves one--too well.