HOW SIR JOHN DERING CAME BACK TO MAYFAIR
For a moment, it seemed, none spoke or moved; all faces turned towards
the slender, elegant figure on the threshold, where stood Sir John, his
most exquisite self. Thus he entered amid a strange hush, a silence
broken only by the tap of his high-heeled shoes; and, aware of the
many staring eyes, saw only those of her who stood drawn to her noble
height, in all the dignity of laces and brocade; and, very conscious of
the latent hostility all about him, advanced down the long room with a
leisured ease, apparently totally unconscious of all save my lady and his
serene and placid self.
Haughty and unbending she stood to meet him, with no smile of greeting,
no hand to welcome him. Thus his bow was of the deepest and his voice of
the gentlest when he spoke.
“My Lady Barrasdaile, this is a moment I have oft dreamed on, and, by my
soul, madam, now that I see you at last, your face and form remind me
powerfully of one whom I found—and have lost awhile! My lady, behold your
most faithful, obedient, grateful servant!”
For a long moment she viewed him with a vague disquiet, then, as she thus
hesitated, the doors were thrown wide to admit the diminutive Duchess,
very dignified as became her rank, and mounted upon a pair of extremely
high-heeled shoes; at whose advent went up a murmur of polite salutation,
backs were dutifully bent, handkerchiefs fluttered, and gowns billowed to
elaborate curtsys; in the midst of which my lady spoke:
“Dear aunt, you come pat to the occasion as usual! Permit me to present
to you Sir John Dering. Sir John, the Duchess of Connington!”
A moment of utter stillness—a dramatic moment wherein noble gentlemen
gazed dumbly expectant and fair ladies thrilled and palpitated in
delightful suspense while the Duchess, that small yet potent arbiter,
scrutinised Sir John in silent appraisement; at last, smiling, she
reached forth her hand.
“Welcome to town, Sir John!” said she as he bowed low above her very
small fingers.
Gentlemen breathed again, ladies fanned themselves and chattered; the
fiat had gone forth: Her Grace of Connington had received the “dreadful
creature,” who consequently could not be too dreadful for Mayfair.
Thus Sir John was duly presented to ladies who blushed and simpered,
drooped tremulous lashes, languished soulfully or frowned austerely
according to which best became her particular type of beauty; and to
gentlemen who bowed and protested themselves his devoted, humble, etc.,
until he found himself confronted by one, a fierce-eyed gentleman with
one arm in a sling, this, who surveyed him from head to foot with an
expression of arrogant contempt.
“Sir John Dering, is it,” he demanded, “or Mr. Derwent—which?”
“You may have your choice, sir,” answered Sir John pleasantly, “for
each of ’em is equally at your service the moment you feel yourself
sufficiently recovered, my lord!” And Sir John made to pass on, but Lord
Sayle interposed, his air more threatening than ever. Quoth he:
“Sir John Dering, or Derwent, or whatever name you happen to be
using—last time we met, sir——”
“To be sure,” smiled Sir John amiably, “I advised your lordship to take
fencing lessons——”
“Tee-hee!” screeched old Lord Aldbourne suddenly. “Hee-ha! Fencing
lessons! Oh, smite me!”
Sir John slipped nimbly aside just in time to escape my Lord Sayle’s
passionate fist; then the two were borne apart amid an indignant whirl of
embroidered coat-skirts.
“Shame, my lord, shame!” cried half a dozen voices, while ladies
screamed, moaned, grew hysterical, and made instant preparation to swoon
in their most becoming attitudes.
“O Ged!” screeched Lord Aldbourne above the hubbub, “I never saw such a
dem’d disgraceful exhibition in all my dem’d life! Sayle, you must be
mad or dem’d drunk, sir ... in a ladies’ drawing-room full o’ the dear
creeters ... oh, dem!” And then, high-pitched, cold and merciless rose my
lady’s voice.
“My Lord Sayle, pray have the goodness to retire. Your manners are better
suited to your country taverns. Begone, sir, ere I summon my servants!”
In the awful silence that ensued, my Lord Sayle stared vaguely about him
like one stupefied with amazement, then, striding to the open door, he
stood striving for coherent speech, and when at last utterance came, he
stammered thickly:
“You ... you shall regret ... bitterly ... bitterly! Aye, let me perish
but you shall!” Then, flinging up his uninjured arm in passionate menace,
he turned and was gone.