Tout vient à point à qui sait attendre.
"My darling Lauraine," writes Lady Etwynde, sitting at the desk in
her pretty morning room, "I am so happy--so happy, I don't know how
to find words to tell you all about it. _He_ has come back. Now you
can guess the rest, can you not? For thirteen years my darling has
been true; thirteen years during which I have made no sign, given no
token of relenting. But it is all over and forgotten now. Once more
I seem to wake and live. The old, cheerless, weary years that I have
dreamt away, have lost their pain, are only full now of a soft regret
that my folly delayed my happiness; for oh! how short life seems when
one is glad, and the possibilities of the future seem limitless. My
poor disciples are in despair, of course. I am bound to neglect
them, for Cyril is a more _exigeant_ lover now than in those days of
old. He says too much time has been wasted, and I cannot find it in
my heart to deny it. We shall be married in February, so I shall
hope to have your presence. I wish you would come up soon. I am
longing to see you, and your letters are so unsatisfactory. You told
me Sir Francis was away. Will you come and stay with me for a few
weeks? I should be more than delighted to have you, and I am sure
the change would do you good. It seems a long time to wait till
Christmas to see you; and we might then go down to Northumberland
together. Do make up your mind and say 'Yes.' You would if you knew
what pleasure it would give me."
This letter finds Lauraine in the lonely splendour of Falcon's Chase.
She reads it and a little pang of bitterness shoots through her
heart. But gradually it subsides, and gives way to softer emotions.
"So Etwynde's pride had to give way at last," she says to herself,
folding up the letter, and half inclined to accept its invitation.
"Ah, how great a lord is love!"
Lauraine has been almost glad of the entire peace and quiet of the
Chase since her guests have left it. There had been nothing but
noise and excitement in it then. The Lady Jean had come thither
radiant in novelties from Worth, and in highest spirits at the
success of some new and gigantic speculation of "Jo's," which
promised her unlimited extravagances for the season. She had been
the life and soul of the party, had organized endless amusements
indoors and out, and had, in fact, made herself useful to Lauraine,
enchanting to Sir Francis, and popular with every one in the house.
That infatuation of her husband's was still unsuspected by Lauraine.
She neither noticed his devotion nor heard the hundred-and-one
comments upon it that were uttered often enough, even in her
presence. They were old friends--had been friends so long, it never
occurred to her that there was anything more between them.
She was not acquainted with the numerous changes that society can
ring out of the little simple air it calls "Platonics." She had felt
grateful to Lady Jean for taking so much trouble off her own hands,
for the energy and invention which had organized and carried out so
much that was entertaining. It never occurred to her that her
husband might be drawing comparisons between her and his friend, and
those comparisons infinitely to the advantage of the latter. In
accordance with her resolution, she had set herself to work to please
and study him in every way, but now he no longer cared for either.
He rather seemed to avoid her as much as possible, and her very
gentleness and patience served to irritate him.
Her mother had been there with the rest of their guests, and her eyes
had noticed with much disquietude what Lauraine never even seemed to
see. It made her seriously uneasy, and in a measure irritated her
against her daughter's stupidity. "She has lost him by her own
silliness, of course," she would say to herself. "Just as if a man
wouldn't get bored with nothing but cold looks and dowdiness, and all
the fads and fangles that Lauraine has occupied herself with lately."
Which was Mrs. Douglas' method of explaining Lauraine's grief for her
child's death, and her friendship with Lady Etwynde.
It had been an intense relief to Lauraine when her guests had all
departed and she was once more alone.
She had tried hard to interest herself in things that used to please
him, to occupy her mind and thoughts; but the efforts seemed to grow
more and more wearisome. The mind and body was at variance.
As now she sits there with Lady Etwynde's letter in her hand, she
thinks it will be better after all to go up to town and leave this
solitude, for which she had once yearned; and when she sees in her
mirror how pale and thin she has grown she begins to think the place
cannot agree with her, as every one says. Of course it is only--the
place. She will not, dare not, allow that there is anything
else--that the mind is preying on itself, and trying to outlive
thought and banish memory, and that the struggle is too hard a one.
No; that old folly is over, done with, buried, so she tells herself.
Of Keith she has heard no word since they met in Baden. He may be
married now, for aught she knows, and yet somehow she feels he is
not--that.
"Yes, I will go," she says, at last. "The solitude and dreariness
are oppressing me, and Etwynde's happiness will rouse me."
And she dashes off an immediate acceptance of the invitation, and the
next day bids her maid pack her trunks, and starts for London.
Lady Etwynde is overjoyed to see her, but shocked at the change in
her looks. Yet she dares not breathe too much sympathy, or touch on
the old sorrow. "Of what use?" she asks herself, "of what use now?"
Colonel Carlisle and Lauraine are mutually delighted with each other.
She cannot but admire the handsome physique, the courtly, genial
manners, the cultivated intelligence of this hero of her friend's;
and they are so perfectly content and happy with each other, that
even the most cynical disbelievers in love might acknowledge
themselves converts regarding these two.
Lauraine makes a charming "propriety." She is engrossed in a book,
or inventive of an errand, or just going into the other room to write
a letter or try over a song, or, in fact, furnished with any amount
of excuses that seem perfectly natural and innocent enough to leave
the lovers to themselves.
"There will be one happy marriage among my acquaintances," she thinks
to herself, as she sees them so radiant, so engrossed. "And, indeed,
they deserve it. Fancy, thirteen years' constancy, and in our age,
too! It seems like a veritable romance!"
One evening they go to the theatre; the piece is Robertson's comedy,
"Caste," and as Lauraine takes her seat and glances round the
well-filled house she sees in the box opposite the well-known figures
of Mrs. Bradshaw Woollffe, and her niece, and Keith Athelstone. Of
course, they see her directly, and exchange bows, Keith keeps at the
back of the box, and behind the radiant little figure of his
_fiancée_.
Lady Etwynde is deeply annoyed at the _contretemps_. As for
Lauraine, all the pleasure of the evening is spoilt for her.
After the second act she sees Keith leave the box. A few moments
afterwards he appears in their own.
"I am the bearer of a message from Mrs. Woollffe," he says to Lady
Etwynde, after greetings have been exchanged. "She says I am to
insist on your all coming to supper with her. She has secured one or
two professional and literary celebrities, and it will be very
charming. She won't take no. There, I have delivered my message
verbatim."
He speaks hurriedly, and a little nervously. Colonel Carlisle looks
at his "ladye love," and declares he is quite ready to accept if she
is. Lady Etwynde, seeing how calm and indifferent Lauraine appears,
is at a loss what to say.
"We, I mean Lady Vavasour and I, were----" she stammers. Lauraine
looks quickly up--
"I should be delighted to meet such charming society," she says. "I
am quite ready to waive our previous engagement if you are, Etwynde."
So there remains nothing but to accept, and Keith retires to inform
Mrs. Woollffe of the success of his mission.
"You are sure you do not mind?" asks Lady Etwynde kindly, as she
bends forward to her friend, when they are alone.
"Not in the least--why should I?" answers Lauraine. "And I always
like Mrs. Woollffe. I should be sorry to offend her, and we have no
excuse to offer."
"And you never tell 'white lies,'" smiles Lady Etwynde. "Isn't she
wonderful, Cyril?"
"Lady Vavasour is indeed an example to most of her sex," answers the
Colonel. "I thought they were all addicted to that harmless little
practice. But I am glad you have decided upon going to Mrs.
Woollffe's. I am delighted with her niece, although I have a
remembrance of being 'questioned' within an inch of my life five
minutes after my first introduction to them."
"Do you remember that evening?" asks Lady Etwynde softly.
"Do I not?" his eyes answer for him, as under cover of the dim light
he touches her hand.
She looks up and meets his glance, and smiles softly back with
perfect understanding.
Ah, no shadow of doubt or wrong will ever come between herself and
him again. Lauraine notes that fond glance, that swift
comprehension, and her heart grows sick and cold as she thinks of the
emptiness of her own life. A woman never feels the want of love so
much as when she sees another in possession of what she has lost.
If beauty, wit, and intelligence can make a supper party brilliant,
Mrs. Bradshaw Woollffe should have had no reason to complain. None
of the "celebrities" disappoint. "Dresden China" is a host in
herself, Colonel Carlisle is delightful, Lady Etwynde radiant. The
only silent members of the party are Keith Athelstone and Lauraine.
A strange constraint is upon them both. As from time to time their
eyes meet, each notes with a heavy heart the change wrought in these
few months. On Keith it is even more apparent. His face is as pale
as if the hot young blood had been frozen in its currents, and no
longer could warm and colour that passionless exterior. The half
petulant, wayward manner which had been charming in its very
youthfulness and caprice, was now grave and chill, and had lost all
its brightness and vivacity.
"He is not happy," thinks Lauraine sadly, and she glances at the
pretty little sparkling creature opposite, who is chattering and
laughing as if she had not a care in the world, and had certainly
escaped the contamination of her lover's gravity.
"Do you make a long stay in London?" asks Keith, in a low voice, when
the clatter of tongues and laughter is at its height.
Lauraine looks suddenly up, and meets the blue eyes that seem to have
lost all their fire and eagerness now. "No; only two or three weeks.
Lady Etwynde comes back with me to Falcon's Chase for Christmas."
"I--I have something to ask you," he says, almost humbly. "I have
longed to see you often--just for one half-hour--to say this. You
know I have grown so accustomed to take counsel with you that the old
habit clings to me still. May I call on you to-morrow? May I see
you alone? Do not look so alarmed; you need not fancy I have
forgotten--Erlsbach."
"I shall be very glad to see you if you want my advice," says
Lauraine, very coldly. "But I can scarcely imagine you do. Surely,
in all the momentous arrangements before you, Miss Jefferson is the
person you should consult."
"Yes," he answers quietly, "and her taste and mine so invariably
clash that I find the best thing to do is to yield her undisputed
choice. Can you imagine me yielding the palm of all things? Beaten
into subjection. A good beginning, is it not?"
Lauraine looks at him, inexpressibly pained by his words and tone.
"She is very charming, and I daresay will make an admirable wife,"
she says uneasily. "I am sure every one admires your choice!"
"Isn't that rather a disadvantage nowadays?" says Keith bitterly.
'The husband of the pretty Mrs. So-and-so' is not a very dignified
appellation. You see scores of men running after your wife, and if
you object are called a jealous fool, or 'bad style' or something of
that sort. We certainly live in a delightful age for--women."
"I don't think you ought to affect that cynical style of talking,"
says Lauraine gravely. "It doesn't sit naturally on your years, and
it is too much like the caught-up cant of society. Women are no
worse now than they have always been, I suppose, nor men either."
"It is like old times to have you 'lecturing' me," says Keith, with a
sudden smile--the first she has seen on his lips to-night.
Lauraine colours and remembers. "Well, you deserve a lecture for
speaking so. I hate to hear men, especially young men, abusing
women! As if the worst of us were not, after all, better than most
of you. And what do you know, _really_ know, of women? At your age
a man is hardly conscious of what he wants except amusement and
excitement; and the woman who gives him these, be her moral nature
ever so vile, is the woman from whom he takes his opinions of the
whole sex. '_Toujours femme varie_' has a wide meaning. To deduce
from _one_ an opinion of all, is the greatest folly a man can commit."
"What a tirade!" says Keith amusedly. "I know well enough your sex
are enigmas. It is hard to make out what you really are. And I am
quite sure that I shall never meet another woman like you; but I hope
you don't mean to say that I have formed my opinion from a 'bad'
specimen."
"I was speaking of men in general," says Lauraine, somewhat
hurriedly. "The fashion of talking slightingly of women is a most
pernicious one. Certainly we are to blame, or our age, for such a
fashion. Women have too little dignity nowadays; but they suffer for
it, by losing their own prestige in the sight of men."
"You would never lose your self-respect," says Keith, in a low voice.
"I should be the most miserable woman alive if I did," she answers
composedly; but her cheeks burn, and in her heart she says: "I have
lost it--long ago!"
"Ah," says Keith bitterly, "it is well to be you. Heaven help you if
you had been cast in a weaker mould, like those you condemn; if you
had to look back on life as only a _coup manque_."
A burst of riotous laughter drowns his words. The whole table is
convulsed over some _risqué_ American story told with inimitable
point and humour by the lovely rosy lips of "Dresden China."
As they part that night Keith whispers in Lauraine's ear: "To-morrow,
twelve, I will call."