CHESS.
There entered upon the scene, that is, a little lady of very gay and
airy manner; whose airiness, however, was thoroughly well bred. She was
accompanied by a tall, pleasant-looking man, of somewhat dreamy aspect;
and they were named to Lois and Madge as Mrs. and Mr. Burrage. To Mr.
Dillwyn they were not named; and the greet ing in that quarter was
familiar; the lady giving him a nod, and the gentleman an easy "Good
evening." The lady's attention came round to him again as soon as she
was seated.
"Why, Philip, I did not expect to find you. What are you doing here?"
"I was making toast a little while ago."
"I did not know that was one of your accomplishments."
"They said I did it well. I have picked up a good deal of cooking in
the course of my travels."
"In what part of the world did you learn to make toast?" asked the
lady, while a pair of lively eyes seemed to take note rapidly of all
that was in the room; rapidly but carefully, Lois thought. She was glad
she herself was hidden in the shadowy sofa corner.
"I believe that is always learned in a cold country, where people have
fire," Mr. Dillwyn answered the question.
"These people who travel all over get to be insufferable!" the little
lady went on, turning to Mrs. Wishart; "they think they know
everything; and they are not a bit wiser than the rest of us. You were
not at the De Large's luncheon,--what a pity! I know; your cold shut
you up. You must take care of that cold. Well, you lost something. This
is the seventh entertainment that has been given to that English party;
and every one of them has exceeded the others. There is nothing left
for the eighth. Nobody will dare give an eighth. One is fairly tired
with the struggle of magnificence. It's the battle of the giants over
again, with a difference."
"It is not a battle with attempt to destroy," said her husband.
"Yes, it is--to destroy competition. I have been at every one of the
seven but one--and I am absolutely tired with splendour. But there is
really nothing left for any one else to do. I don't see how one is to
go any further--without the lamp of Aladdin."
"A return to simplicity would be grateful," remarked Mrs. Wishart. "And
as new as anything else could be."
"Simplicity! O, my dear Mrs. Wishart!--don't talk of simplicity. We
don't want simplicity. We have got past that. Simplicity is the dream
of children and country folks; and it means, eating your meat with your
fingers."
"It's the sweetest way of all," said Dillwyn.
"Where did you discover that? It must have been among savages.
Children--country folks--_and_ savages, I ought to have said."
"Orientals are not savages. On the contrary, very far exceeding in
politeness any western nation I know of."
"You would set a table, then, with napkins and fingers! Or are the
napkins not essential?"
"C'est selon," said Dillwyn. "In a strawberry bed, or under a cherry
tree, I should vote them a nuisance. At an Asiatic grandee's table you
would have them embroidered and perfumed; and one for your lap and
another for your lips."
"Evidently they are long past the stage of simplicity. Talking of
napkins we had them embroidered--and exquisitely--Japanese work; at the
De Larges'. Mine had a peacock in one corner; or I don't know if it was
a peacock; it was a gay-feathered bird--"
"A peacock has a tail," suggested Mr. Dillwyn.
"Well, I don't know whether it had a tail, but it was most exquisite;
in blue and red and gold; I never saw anything prettier. And at every
plate were such exquisite gifts! really elegant, you know. Flowers are
all very well; but when it comes to jewellery, I think it is a little
beyond good taste. Everybody can't do it, you know; and it is rather
embarrassing to _nous autres_."
"Simplicity _has_ its advantages," observed Mr. Dillwyn.
"Nonsense, Philip! You are as artificial a man as any one I know."
"In what sense?" asked Mr. Dillwyn calmly. "You are bound to explain,
for the sake of my character, that I do not wear false heels to my
boots."
"Don't be ridiculous! You have no need to wear false heels. _Art_ need
not be _false_, need it?"
"True art never is," said Mr. Dillwyn, amid some laughter.
"Well, artifice, then?"
"Artifice, I am afraid, is of another family, and not allied to truth."
"Well, everybody that knows you knows you are true; but they know, too,
that if ever there was a fastidious man, it is you; and a man that
wants everything at its last pitch of refinement."
"Which desirable stage I should say the luncheon you were describing
had not reached."
"You don't know. I had not told you the half. Fancy!--the ice floated
in our glasses in the form of pond lilies; as pretty as possible, with
broad leaves and buds."
"How did they get it in such shapes?" asked Madge, with her eyes a
trifle wider open than was usual with them.
"O, froze it in moulds, of course. But you might have fancied the
fairies had carved it. Then, Mrs. Wishart, there was an arrangement of
glasses over the gas burners, which produced the most silver sounds of
music you ever heard; no chime, you know, of course; but a most
peculiar, sweet, mysterious succession of musical breathings. Add to
that, by means of some invisible vaporizers, the whole air was filled
with sweetness; now it was orange flowers, and now it was roses, and
then again it would be heliotrope or violets; I never saw anything so
refined and so exquisite in my life. Waves of sweetness, rising and
falling, coming and going, and changing; it was perfect."
The little lady delivered herself of this description with much
animation, accompanying the latter part of it with a soft waving of her
hand; which altogether overcame Philip's gravity, and he burst into a
laugh, in which Mr. Burrage presently joined him; and Lois and Madge
found it impossible not to follow.
"What's the matter, Philip?" the lady asked.
"I am reminded of an old gentleman I once saw at Gratz; he was copying
the Madonna della Seggia in a mosaic made with the different-coloured
wax heads of matches."
"He must have been out of his head."
"That was the conclusion I came to."
"Pray what brought him to your remembrance just then?"
"I was thinking of the different ways people take in the search after
happiness."
"And one worth as much as another, I suppose you mean? That is a matter
of taste. Mrs. Wishart, I see _your_ happiness is cared for, in having
such charming friends with you. O, by the way!--talking of
seeing,--_have_ you seen Dulles & Grant's new Persian rugs and carpets?"
"I have been hardly anywhere. I wanted to take Madge to see Brett's
Collection of Paintings; but I have been unequal to any exertion."
"Well, the first time you go anywhere, go to Dulles & Grant's. Take her
to see those. Pictures are common; but these Turkish rugs and things
are not. They are the most exquisite, the most odd, the most delicious
things you ever saw. I have been wanting to ruin myself with them ever
since I saw them. It's high art, really. Those Orientals are wonderful
people! There is one rug--it is as large as this floor, nearly,--well,
it is covered with medallions in old gold, set in a wild, irregular
design of all sorts of Cashmere shawl colours--thrown about anyhow; and
yet the effect is rich beyond description; simple, too. Another,--O,
that is very rare; it is a rare Keelum carpet; let me see if I can
describe it. The ground is a full bright red. Over this run palm leaves
and little bits of ruby and maroon and gold mosaic; and between the
palm leaves come great ovals of olive mixed with black, blue, and
yellow; shading off into them. I _never_ saw anything I wanted so much."
"What price?"
"O, they are all prices. The Keelum carpet is only fifteen hundred--but
my husband says it is too much. Then another Persian carpet has a
centre of red and white. Round this a border of palm leaves. Round
these another border of deliciously mixed up warm colours; warm and
rich. Then another border of palms; and then the rest of the carpet is
in blended shades of dark dull red and pink, with olive flowers thrown
over it. O, I can't tell you the half. You must go and see. They have
immensely wide borders, all of them; and great thick, soft piles."
"Have you been to Brett's Collection?"
"Yes."
"What is there?"
"The usual thing. O, but I haven't told you what I have come here for
to-night."
"I thought it was, to see me."
"Yes, but not for pleasure, this time," said the lively lady, laughing.
"I had business--I really do have business sometimes. I came this
evening, because I wanted to see you when I could have a chance to
explain myself. Mrs. Wishart, I want you to take my place. They have
made me first directress of the Forlorn Children's Home."
"Does the epithet apply to the place? or to the children?" Mr. Dillwyn
asked.
"Now I _cannot_ undertake the office," Mrs. Burrage went on without
heeding him. "My hands are as full as they can hold, and my head
fuller. You must take it, Mrs. Wishart. You are just the person."
"I?" said Mrs. Wishart, with no delighted expression. "What are the
duties?"
"O, just oversight, you know; keeping things straight. Everybody needs
to be kept up to the mark. I cannot, for our Reading Club meets just at
the time when I ought to be up at the Home."
The ladies went into a closer discussion of the subject in its various
bearings; and Mr. Dillwyn and Madge returned to their chess play. Lois
lay watching and thinking. Mr. Burrage looked on at the chess-board,
and made remarks on the game languidly. By and by the talk of the two
ladies ceased, and the head of Mrs. Burrage came round, and she also
studied the chess-players. Her face was observant and critical, Lois
thought; oddly observant and thoughtful.
"Where did you get such charming friends to stay with you, Mrs.
Wishart? You are to be envied."
Mrs. Wishart explained, how Lois had been ill, and had come to get well
under her care.
"You must bring them to see me. Will you? Are they fond of music? Bring
them to my next musical evening."
And then she rose; but before taking leave she tripped across to Lois's
couch and came and stood quite close to her, looking at her for a
moment in what seemed to the girl rather an odd silence.
"You aren't equal to playing chess yet?" was her equally odd abrupt
question. Lois's smile showed some amusement.
"My brother is such an idle fellow, he has got nothing better to do
than to amuse sick people. It's charity to employ him. And when you are
able to come out, if you'll come to me, you shall hear some good music.
Good-bye!"
Her brother! thought Lois as she went off. Mr. Dillwyn, _her_ brother!
I don't believe she likes Madge and me to know him.
Meanwhile Mr. and Mrs. Chauncey Burrage drove away in silence for a few
minutes; then the lady broke out.
"There's mischief there, Chauncey!"
"What mischief?" the gentleman asked innocently.
"Those girls."
"Very handsome girls. At least the one that was visible."
"The other's worse. _I_ saw her. The one you saw is handsome; but the
other is peculiar. She is rare. Maybe not just so handsome, but more
refined; and _peculiar_. I don't know just what it is in her; but she
fascinated me. Masses of auburn hair--not just auburn--more of a golden
tint than brown--with a gold _reflet_, you know, that is so lovely; and
a face--"
"Well, what sort of a face?" asked Mr. Burrage, as his spouse paused.
"Something between a baby and an angel, and yet with a sort of sybil
look of wisdom. I believe she put one of Domenichino's sybils into my
head; there's that kind of complexion--"
"My dear," said the gentleman, laughing, "you could not tell what
complexion she was of. She was in a shady corner."
"I was quite near her. Now that sort of thing might just catch Philip."
"Well," said the gentleman, "you cannot help that."
"I don't know if I can or no!"
"Why should you want to help it, after all?"
"Why? I don't want Philip to make a mis-match."
"Why should it be a mis-match?"
"Philip has got too much money to marry a girl with nothing."
Mr. Burrage laughed. His wife demanded to know what he was laughing at?
and he said "the logic of her arithmetic."
"You men have no more logic in action, than we women have in
speculation. I am logical the other way."
"That is too involved for me to follow. But it occurs to me to ask, Why
should there be any match in the case here?"
"That's so like a man! Why shouldn't there? Take a man like my brother,
who don't know what to do with himself; a man whose eye and ear are
refined till he judges everything according to a standard of
beauty;--and give him a girl like that to look at! I said she reminded
me of one of Domenichino's sybils--but it isn't that. I'll tell you
what it is. She is like one of Fra Angelico's angels. Fancy Philip set
down opposite to one of Fra Angelico's angels in flesh and blood!"
"Can a man do better than marry an angel?"
"Yes! so long as he is not an angel himself, and don't live in
Paradise."
"They do not marry in Paradise," said Mr. Burrage dryly. "But why a
fellow may not get as near a paradisaical condition as he can, with the
drawback of marriage, and in this mundane sphere,--I do not see."
"Men never see anything till afterwards. I don't know anything about
this girl, Chauncey, except her face. But it is just the way with men,
to fall in love with a face. I do not know what she is, only she is
nobody; and Philip ought to marry somebody. I know where they are from.
She has no money, and she has no family; she has of course no breeding;
she has probably no education, to fit her for being his wife. Philip
ought to have the very reverse of all that. Or else he ought not to
marry at all, and let his money come to little Phil Chauncey."
"What are you going to do about it?" asked the gentleman, seeming
amused.
But Mrs. Burrage made no answer, and the rest of the drive, long as it
was, was rather stupid.