"Lauraine is very much changed," laments Mrs. Douglas to a select
coterie of friends, on one of those chilly spring afternoons when
they have dropped in to sip souchong and talk scandal in her pretty
drawing-room. It is her "day." There are heaps of women scattered
about--there are a few men. The lights are subdued. There is a
pleasant fragrance of tea, and the scents of flowers fill the air,
and the babble of many voices sounds cheerfully amidst it all.
"Changed!" says one of the friends to whom she has addressed that
remark; "in what way?"
"So quiet and cold and--odd," Mrs. Douglas answers; "says she hates
society, detests going out, takes up artists and singers, and all
sorts of queer people. I really expect to see her going about soon
in a terra-cotta gown, and wearing no corsets, and looking as great a
fool as Lady Etwynde. So absurd, you know, for a young woman, and a
pretty woman. Of course, Lady Etwynde is a duke's daughter, and can
do what she likes; besides, she's so lovely nothing could make her a
fright, though she only turns it to account by being the most
eccentric woman in London. I don't blame her. If you can't be
remarkable in one way, it's just as well to be it in another. But
the people one meets there--it really is _too_ awful. Just the sort
of creatures that _Punch_ takes off. And Lauraine is always there;
so tiresome, because Lady Etwynde's day is the same as mine, and so
she can never come here."
"I thought it was odd never meeting her at your house," remarks one
of the coterie.
"Yes, that's how it is you never see her," resumes Mrs. Douglas,
somewhat hurriedly. "She and Lady Etwynde are inseparable, though
I'm sure I can't imagine why."
"I met her--your daughter, I mean--at the Salomans' the other night,"
remarks a tall, fair woman, leaning languidly back in her chair.
"Yes, I know she was there," says Mrs. Douglas, colouring slightly.
"Charming woman, Lady Jean!"
"Very," answers her friend dryly. "I--I suppose Lady Vavasour never
heard anything about--_that_."
"Oh, there was nothing--nothing; he assured me so himself. I would
not have trusted my child's happiness to his care had he not done so.
The world is _so_ censorious, dear Mrs. Chetwynde."
Mrs. Chetwynde laughs. "True; but all the same there is no smoke
without fire, you know--and Lady Jean was awfully wild about his
marriage."
Mrs. Douglas looked uncomfortable. "I don't know anything about her.
But I am quite sure she is all right. She is received everywhere."
"Of course," smiles her friend. "And the very openness of their
friendship is guarantee sufficient for its perfect harmlessness; just
like Lauraine's with Keith Athelstone."
"Keith Athelstone!" exclaims Mrs. Douglas, turning very white. "What
do you mean?"
"They are always together," says Mrs. Chetwynde maliciously. "So
they were in Rome, for the matter of that. But, of course, they are
very old friends--brought up as children, and all that?"
"Of course," says Mrs. Douglas loftily. "Why, they were like brother
and sister. Surely no one is so uncharitable as----"
"My dear, we are all uncharitable, more or less. And Lauraine is
very pretty, and Sir Francis not _quite_ so devoted as he might be,
considering it was a love-match--so you said. I think I should give
Lauraine a hint, if I were you."
"Lauraine is quite capable of managing her own affairs," said Mrs.
Douglas pettishly. In her own mind she thinks she knows how such a
hint would be received. "Keith is only a boy. Lauraine looks upon
him just as a brother--always did. She is accustomed to order him
about, and have him beside her. Pray don't listen to such
ill-natured gossip."
But all the time an uncomfortable memory is rising up before her.
She sees a pale young face and the fiery wrath of two blue eyes, and
hears the passionate reproaches of Keith Athelstone's lips as he
tells her of his ruined life. Good heavens! what does he mean? Why
does he stay by Lauraine's side now? She feels nervous and
unsettled, and almost resolves she will speak to Lauraine, and give
her that word of caution which her friend has suggested. The world
is so wicked, and after all--
Her thoughts are interrupted by fresh arrivals. Into the exclusive
circle in which Mrs. Douglas' soul delights, stride the massive
proportions and gorgeous sweeping draperies of Mrs. Bradshaw B.
Wooliffe. Following her is a little dainty figure--a sort of modern
Dresden shepherdess in point of colouring and attire. She is
introduced by Mrs. Wooliffe as "My niece from New York, Miss
Anastasia Jane Jefferson."
Every one looks at her. Every one wonders whether it is prettiness,
or piquancy, or _chic_, that makes the radiant face so
bewitching--the tiny figure so attractive, and one among the coterie,
the Belgravian matron, with _demoiselles à marier_, looks virtuously
indignant and annoyed at the intrusion.
"She is sure to be fast and talk with that awful twang, that's one
comfort," she thinks, as with the coldest and stiffest of bows she
greets the new-comer.
But Miss Jefferson is not fast or vulgar, and though her accent and
expression are decidedly American, they have a piquant charm of their
own that the younger members of the conclave listen to enviously, and
the men seem to find irresistibly attractive.
Mrs. Bradshaw B. Wooliffe and her niece fairly break up the select
groups and _tête à têtes_, and make themselves the centre of
attraction and attention. The loud voice and hearty laughter of the
elder lady peal through the room, to the utter annihilation of softer
voices and confidential whispers.
"We have just come from Lady Etwynde's reception," she says, laughing
immoderately. "I reckon you people are having some fun out of your
new craze. Guess _she's_ gone pretty nigh out of her mind, at all
events."
"What was it like? Do tell us," chime in one or two voices--voices
of outsiders to whom the Lady--or, as she loved to call herself, the
"Ladye"--Etwynde Fitz-Herbert is a sort of unknown wonder. Her
sayings and doings are chronicled by society journals; but her circle
of intimates and associates is very limited. They begin to wonder
how Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe gained admittance. That lady now
informs them.
"Well," she commences, looking round at the attentive faces, "I was
calling at Lauraine's--beg pardon, I suppose I should say Lady
Vavasour's--and she took me with her and Keith. Keith is a great
chum of the 'Ladye' Etwynde's. We got to her house--a real lovely
place with a big garden, out Kensington way; all red brick, no
windows to speak of, but lots of _frames_, and a hall--my! the
queerest place--all done with matting, and so dark, and everywhere
double doors and plush curtains, 'of a sad sage-green,' to use
Keith's expression. Such a silent place, not a sound anywhere.
Well, we went into a room, also very dim and a great deal of green
and yellow about it, and huge pots of sunflowers in the windows, and
the very queerest chairs, and on every chair sat a woman, and behind
every chair stood a man. They were all quite still, and had their
eyes fixed on the sunflowers and their bodies twisted into the
queerest attitudes. I stared some, I can tell you. Lauraine went up
to a tall, beautiful woman dressed in a clinging gown of terra-cotta
stuff--such a gown! My! Worth never had anything to do with _that_
frock, I guess. She came forward and spoke to me. 'You are not one
of us, but you are welcome,' she said. Her voice was very sad and
very sweet.
"'This is one of our contemplative afternoons,' she said, when I had
bowed--speak, I really couldn't. 'We do but sit still, and _yearn_.'"
"What?" ejaculated the listeners.
"Guess you're through," laughs Mrs. Woollffe. "Well, so was I."
"'Yes,' she went on. 'We yearn for all that is most soul-uplifting.
We each set a distinct object before our mind's eye, and absorb
ourselves in its contemplation. These moments are truly precious for
those who can be brought to appreciate their intensity. We are most
of us earnest students of our faith--disciples of
culture--worshippers of the beautiful--the far-reaching--the
subtle--the sublime!'
"'And don't you ever speak?' I asked her; for of all the vacant-eyed,
sleepy idiots in creation I never came across such a set as were
'yearning' there.
"'Speak--oh yes--in season and at proper times,' she says. 'But
thought is often more beautiful than words, and language is deficient
in much that might clothe and dignify our ideas.'
"Keith chimed in here. 'Yes,' he said; 'they _are_ apt to sound
ridiculous when it comes to clothing them in common-place speech.'"
The listeners exchange glances.
"And this was really how they went on--how idiotic!" murmurs Mrs.
Douglas. "I knew Lady Etwynde was always very eccentric, but I think
she is quite going out of her mind now. I hope she won't imbue
Lauraine with any of her absurd ideas. How was she
dressed--Lauraine, I mean?"
"Oh! quite æsthetic!" exclaims Mrs. Woollffe. "Indian silk, creamy
coloured, big puffs, and very clinging about the skirt, and an
'intense' hat. I know it was intense, because Keith said so."
"What made Mr. Athelstone go to such a nonsensical affair?" demands
Mrs. Douglas, frowning.
"Didn't ask him. S'pose he likes to 'yearn' a bit also. Perhaps
it's refreshing to fix one's mind on an object and meditate upon it.
Can't say myself. Don't think I ever tried it."
"And didn't they _do_ anything?" inquires Mrs. Chetwynde.
"They talked an almighty queer jargon, if that was doing anything. A
lot about 'disciples' and 'searching after the unknown,' and the
'abstruseness of the beautiful,' which was the religion of culture.
Lauraine saw some snowdrops and violets and admired them, and then
some one burst out about the fierce beauty of the sunflower and the
grand teachings of the tiger-lily. I confess I felt beat then, and
said so, but Lady Etwynde only smiled that sad, pale smile of hers,
and murmured: 'Ah, Nature has much to teach you. Her great marvels
are yet a blank. To comprehend her is a power given only to the
chosen few.' I felt uncommon near saying that _she_ resembled Nature
there, for I am blessed if I comprehended her."
"And one hears such wonderful stories about this Lady Etwynde,"
murmurs a voice in the background. "Really, it seems quite
disappointing."
"She is real pretty," remarks Miss Anastasia Jefferson.
"Pretty? But then she dresses so oddly, and her hair----"
"A club behind and a nimbus in front," laughs the pretty American.
"Trying, but still seems to suit her. Real cunning she looked when
she lay back in her chair with her eyes turned up--so."
She imitates her so exactly that there is a well-bred ripple of
laughter among the circle, but behind Miss Jefferson's back they will
all denounce the vulgarity and bad taste of ridiculing any one to
whose house she had just been. Of course, they themselves never do
such things! Mrs. Douglas draws a little nearer to Mrs. Bradshaw B.
Woollffe. She wants to question her concerning Keith Athelstone.
"You might have brought your young friend here," she says affably.
"Guess he didn't want to come," answers Mrs. Woollffe bluntly. "At
least he said so."
Mrs. Douglas colours faintly. "He has so many engagements; money of
course makes a young man immensely popular," she says, with a cold
smile.
"'Tain't money that's got anything to do with Keith Athelstone's
popularity," answers Mrs. Woollffe sharply. "He's just one of the
nicest young fellows I've ever known, and people don't take long to
find that out. His manners are perfect. He can dress like a
gentleman without looking a fop. He's plenty to say and says it
well, and he's most uncommonly good-looking. Ain't that enough to
make a young man run after?"
"Still," says Mrs. Douglas sweetly, "if he had no money, Society
would turn its back on him to-morrow."
"Society?" echoes Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe. "I guess you mean the
mothers in society. I've my own opinion about the gals."
"Does he--does he seem to care about any woman in particular?" asks
Mrs. Douglas. "I suppose he means to marry and settle down now."
"Guess he don't," says Mrs. Woollffe. "Likes to be free, so he says,
and quite right too."
"Then there is no one--no girl--he pays attention to," persists Mrs.
Douglas determinedly.
Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe looks at her with aroused curiosity, and a
faint smile comes to her lips. "Oh, yes, there is _some one_ he pays
great attention to," she says, slowly and distinctly, "but no girl as
you say--she is a married woman."