Lauraine is talking to an elderly man--a colonel in the Guards. She
neither looks up, nor moves, but she is perfectly, painfully
conscious that Keith is standing by her side. She knows that he has
crossed the room, and left Lady Etwynde with her _savant_, and all
the time she has not lifted an eyelid, or stirred from that listening
attitude. Keith stands there patiently. He has the happy knack of
looking always graceful, and to-night he looks handsomer than ever,
despite the pallor of his face, the dark shadows under his eyes. The
Colonel talks on, and Lauraine answers animatedly.
Keith wonders if any memory is at work within her heart--if her light
words and smiles are real or acted.
There is a little stir at the other end of the room. Some one is
going to recite--a French count, who is a friend of Sir Francis'.
The elderly colonel is a little deaf. He murmurs an apology, and
moves down the long suite of rooms. Keith comes quietly forward, and
drops into the vacant chair. For the first time Lauraine looks at
him. With one rapid, comprehensive glance, she takes in the change
in his face--the dark shadows under those heavy lashes, the weariness
upon the brow, the stern sadness of the mouth. Pity, sympathy,
grief--all well up in her heart and speak in her glance, but her lips
are schooled to rigid silence. She dares not seem to notice these
signs of suffering.
"If he would only leave me--if he would only be wise!" she thinks,
with a sudden passionate dread. "I could bear that, but to go on
like this is madness."
He speaks at last. "London grows unbearably hot. I suppose you will
soon be leaving?" he says.
"Yes," answers Lauraine, unconcernedly. "Sir Francis talks of going
yachting."
"And you accompany him?"
"I? Oh, no--I hate the sea. I shall go to Falcon's Chase. I long
for a little quiet and rest. I never cared much for fashionable
life, you know."
"Does Sir Francis make up a large party?"
"I believe so. The Salomans, I know, are going; and Marc Vandeleur,
his great friend; and the Chesters, and one or two boating men."
"The Salomans?" questions Keith, a note of surprise in his voice.
"Oh, they go, do they?"
"Why not?" asks Lauraine, looking at him in wonder. "They are very
fond of the sea--at least, Lady Jean is."
"So I suppose," he says in the same peculiar way, marvelling if
Lauraine is really the only woman in London Society who does
not--know?
But Lauraine asks the question in perfect good faith. She does not
like Lady Jean, but she knows no harm of her. She detests scandal so
utterly that she never listens to boudoir gossip and five o'clock tea
talk, if she can possibly help it. To her Lady Jean is simply a
fascinating woman of the world--very handsome, very brilliant, very
much admired; a little _risquée_, perhaps, but on good terms with the
most exclusive of great "sets," and received everywhere. That her
husband should admire her, and show his preference openly, in no way
disturbs her. To be jealous one must love passionately, and Lauraine
has never loved her husband at all.
"Why do you speak like that?" she asks him suddenly. "Don't you like
Lady Jean?"
"Like her? I have scarcely the honour to know her at all," answers
Keith. "But if you wish to know the truth, I am unfortunate enough
to have formed a prejudice against her. She gives me the idea of
being false. I should not like you to make a friend of her."
"A friend!" exclaims Lauraine, quickly. "I should never think of
doing that. I am not the sort of woman who can't exist without a
confidant--some one to 'gush' to and consult, and be constantly with.
But Lady Jean is very charming, and has been very kind to me, and Sir
Francis wished me to show her every attention."
A little hard smile comes to Keith Athelstone's lips. "You are very
obedient," he says.
Lauraine colours, and is silent. Meanwhile, at the further end of
the room, with her yellow skirts and blood-red poppies gleaming in
the lamplight, Lady Jean and Sir Francis Vavasour are talking
confidentially together.
"Why must he come?" asks Sir Francis, drawing his dark brows together
in a heavy frown. "You could manage it if you wished."
"Manage it?" re-echoes Lady Jean. "_Cher ami_, what can't a woman
manage when she wishes? But I don't wish to manage it. I don't care
to be talked about as we should be. Of course Jo would do anything I
wished, but I know what's best, and mean to stick to my first
resolution."
Mr. Salomans rejoices in the name of "Joel," but his wife has long
ago decreed that it shall not be used by her lips, and "Jo" he always
is and always will be.
"You will spoil all the pleasure of the trip for me," murmurs Sir
Francis.
"Chut!" she says, contemptuously; "don't be foolish. You can grow
sentimental on the waters of the Mediterranean while you think of
your absent wife."
"My wife," mutters Sir Francis, following the rapid gesture of the
fan. "Oh, there's that young fool again. I wonder he isn't tired of
her; she's insufferably stupid."
"Most good women are," agrees Lady Jean; "but they have one
incomparable advantage--they are so safe. You can always get
amusement, you know, from other men's wives--it is a consolation to
think the 'other' men can't get it from yours."
Sir Francis feels a little twinge. He knows perfectly well what she
wishes to convey, but he has an obstinate conviction that Keith's
attentions to his wife are nothing to her, that whatever _tendresse_
there is, lies on the side of the young man. Lauraine is cold and
calm and uninteresting--he has made up his mind to those facts. Lady
Jean has not yet been able to stimulate his tired passion for his
wife into emitting one spark of jealous fire. He has tired of her,
but he has great trust in her. He never fears that a breath of
scandal will hover about her, and to all Lady Jean's hints he turns a
deaf ear--as yet.
"I often wonder what made you marry," says Lady Jean, under cover of
the music that has followed the recitation; "and she seems so unlike
the sort of woman who would tempt you into such a folly."
"You are right; it was a folly," mutters Sir Francis, moodily. "But
I was mad about her at the time, and, after all, one must marry some
time or other; it is a necessity when you have property and all that."
"Mad about her!" sneers Lady Jean. "How like a man! You could stop
at nothing, of course, but the absolute possession of your fancied
toy. And your craze has lasted two years! Admirable fidelity!"
"It would never have been a craze at all," whispers Sir Francis low
in her ear, "if you----"
"Hush!" she says, softly; "I have forbidden you to speak of that. It
would have been different if we had met--earlier. As it is----"
She ends the sentence with a sigh. It may mean anything, and is
poetic; it sounds better than to say, "As you are quite as rich as
Joel Salomans, and are of better birth and family, I would have taken
you instead." Sir Francis hears only the sigh, and meets a glance
from the dark, brilliant eyes.
"As it is you are cruel," he whispers, passionately.
"Cruel to be kind," she says, with a little mocking laugh. "Keep to
your pearl of purity, _mon cher_. If you are not a jealous husband,
you might surely be a faithful one."
"Have I not told you she bores me?" says Sir Francis, petulantly.
"And I know she detests me, and always did. I did not mind
that--once. Now--well, one can't be always at a one-sided adoration."
"Fancy 'adoring' any one! How odd!" laughs Lady Jean. "I thought it
was only in novels men did that."
"Have you never loved then?"
Lady Jean raised her arched eyebrows, and looks at him with admirable
amusement. "I?--most decidedly not. Should I be without wrinkles at
my age, if I had? _Non, merci_. I never believed in such folly, and
never perpetrated it."
"Perhaps only because the right teacher was not at hand to give you
the lesson," says Sir Francis, audaciously.
"The right teacher," says Lady Jean, with a little mocking laugh.
"There is no such teacher for me, my dear Sir Francis. I can defy
fate."
"I wish you would tell me how," says Sir Francis. "The recipe might
be useful."
"You have had your attack of fever, so you are safe," she answers,
laughingly. "No, my recipe is too valuable to be parted with. Now,
you have talked to me long enough to-night. Go away and entertain
some one else."
"I don't want to talk to any one else," says Sir Francis, doggedly.
"Why do you send me away? You are not afraid of Mrs. Grundy, surely?"
"Oh no. She and I are the best of friends. Afraid?--well, I don't
think I have any need to be afraid. Every one is talked about
nowadays--either for what they do or what they don't do. And it is
so much easier to say a thing than disprove it. It is just like a
lovely complexion--every one can say you paint, but every one can't
see you wash your face. Society never believes in the lovely
complexion, and yet wouldn't enter a dressing-room if it could, for
fear of finding there was nothing but--soap and water--after all!"
"But all this is no reason why I am to go away now," complains Sir
Francis, sulkily.
"Can't you trace the analogy? I don't want to make your pretty wife
jealous. I don't want people to talk. I--I don't want to give you a
monopoly of my company. These are reasons enough, surely."
"Your reasons are admirable--all except the first. Lauraine jealous!
You might as well expect the Venus of Milo to come down from its
pedestal, and walk through a modern drawing-room."
"Marriage does not seem an attractive _menu_ after all, does it?"
says Lady Jean, musingly. "Two years, and you have done with the
olives and sweetmeats, and come to the plain ungarnished _rôti_. The
_rôti_ is much more wholesome, though."
"I believe every man who marries comes to the conclusion he has made
a d----d mistake."
"And every woman, too," agrees Lady Jean, quickly. "Well, it's not
to be wondered at. Difference of feeling makes a wide gulf between
two natures; and where do you find two people likely to get on
together for a lifetime? Bah--it is impossible! Now go--go--I have
talked to you quite enough, and the music is over. I am going to
chat with Lady Etwynde. She amuses me, and it is rarely any one does
that nowadays."
Sir Francis takes himself off obediently, and the evening goes on as
such evenings usually do. There is music and singing and
conversation, and the people who get next the people they like, are
content enough, and those who are wrongly paired are indescribably
bored, and the beautiful hostess moves like a slender white lily
among them all, and two blue eyes watch her with an intenser
"yearning" than ever the Lady Etwynde or her friends have experienced
for the subtle--the infinite--the sublime.
Lauraine is growing very weary of this life she leads. There seems
no possible escape from it, and fashion, in its way, is just as
fatiguing as the work-room, or the factory, or the office. There are
times now when she longs to be away from the roar of noisy streets,
to breathe cool fresh air, to be alone with the peace and loveliness
of nature, to have just--_rest_.
There is no such thing to be found here. Every day, almost every
hour, has its occupations. The jargon, the laughter, the scandals
and frivolities of Society are alike distasteful; but she cannot
evade them, be she ever so weary. She stands in the ranks, and must
needs move onward in the hot and hurried march.
She is counting the days now before it will all be over--before she
can fly to quiet Falcon's Chase, and in her child and her books find
companionship more to her taste. She longs for those dark old forest
lands, where the noise of the sea echoes always, and everything is
grand and noble, and rich with the traditions of past ages. She does
not dread solitude, but rather longs for it. All this feverish
unrest will be over then. She need have no house party till the
autumn, but she is going to take Lady Etwynde with her. There is
something harmonious and tranquil about her that will suit the dim
old Chase, with its great dusky chambers, and magnificent hall, and
oak-panelled galleries. Moving to and fro among her guests, and
talking the pretty frothy nothings that Society demands, Lauraine
thinks only of this. The longing is taking absolute possession of
her, and Keith will not be able to follow her--there.
She feels a dread--almost a dislike to him to-night. The memory of
that scene a few days ago fills her with a sense of intolerable
shame, and her mother's warning sounds like an added insult.
A sense of irritation--of impatience--of disappointment is heavy at
her heart.
"He is not good, or honourable, or he would not stay," she says to
herself, as move where she may, the sadness of those eyes, with their
watchful entreaty, haunts her. "Why did I let him persuade me to
utter that word?"
The guests leave--the great rooms are solitary. Sir Francis goes off
to finish the evening somewhere else. Lauraine seats herself wearily
by one of the open windows, and looks out at the foliage of the
Park--all dry, and sere, and dusty now, with the long drought and
heat of summer. She looks and looks, and great tears gather in her
eyes and roll slowly down her cheeks. She has everything that the
world counts worth having--she is young and beautiful and courted and
flattered; but for all that her heart aches--aches--aches.
"It was impossible then--it is doubly impossible now," she says,
wearily. "Sin--shame--misery--whichever way I look at it. Oh, God
help me--what am I to do?"