On the mantelpiece of the little lodging-house drawing-room in Half Moon
Street, supported against the gilt group that decorated the timepiece,
was a note containing an invitation. "Why, here is the whirl beginning
already," Mrs. Warrender said. "Don't you feel that you are in the vortex,
Chatty?" Her mother laughed, but was a little excited even by this mild
matter; but Chatty did not feel any excitement. To the elder woman, the
mere sense of the population about her, the hurry in the street, the
commotion in the air, was an excitement. She would have liked to go
out at once, to walk about, to get into a hansom like a man, and drive
through the streets, and see the lights and the glimmer of the shops,
and the crowds of people. To be within reach of all that movement and
rapidity went into her veins like wine. After the solitude and silence
of so many years,--nothing but the rustle of the leaves, the patter
of the rain, the birds or the winds in the branches, and the measured
voices indoors, to vary the quiet,--the roar of Piccadilly mingling with
everything was a sort of music to this woman. To many others, perhaps
the majority, the birds and breezes would be the thing to long for; but
Mrs. Warrender was one of the people who love a town and all that seems
like a larger life in the collection together of many human lives. Whether
it is so or not is another question, or if the massing together of a
multitude of littles ever can make a greatness. It seems to do so, which
is enough for most people; and though the accustomed soul is aware that
no desert can be more lone than London, to the unaccustomed its very
murmur sounds like a general consent of humanity to go forth and do
more than in any other circumstances. It is the constitution of the ear
which determines what it hears. For Chatty took the commotion rather the
other way. She said, "One can't hear one's self speak," and wanted to
close the windows. But Mrs. Warrender liked the very noise.
The dinner to which they were invited was in Curzon Street, in a house
which was small in reality, but made the most of every inch of its space,
and which was clothed and curtained and decorated in a manner which made
the country people open their eyes. The party was very small, their
hostess said; but it would have been a large party at the Warren, where
all the rooms were twice as big. Chatty was a little fluttered by her
first party in London; but this did not appear in her aspect, which was
always composed and simple, not demanding any one's regard, yet giving
to people who were _blase_ or tired of much attraction (as sometimes
happens) a sense of repose and relief. She must have been more excited,
however, than was at all usual with her; for though she thought she
had remarked everybody in the dim drawing-room,--where the ladies in
their pretty toilets and the men in their black coats stood about in a
perplexing manner, chiefly against the light, which made it difficult to
distinguish them, instead of sitting down all round the room, which in
the country would have seemed the natural way,--it proved that there was
one very startling exception, one individual, at least, whom she had not
remarked. She went down to dinner with a gentleman, whose name of course
she did not make out, and whose appearance, she thought, was exactly the
same as that of half the gentlemen in the procession down the narrow
staircase. Chatty, indeed, made disparaging reflections to herself as to
society in general, on this score; the thought flashing through her mind
that in the country there was more difference between even one curate
and another (usually considered the most indistinguishable class), than
between these men of Mayfair. She was a little bewildered, too, by the
appearance of the dining-room, for at that period the _diner a la Russe_
was just beginning to establish itself in England, and a thicket of
flowers upon the table was novel to Chatty, filling her first with
admiration, then with a little doubt whether it would not be better to
see the people more distinctly on the other side. Dinner had gone on a
little way, and her companion had begun to put the usual questions to
her about where she had been, and where she was going, questions to
which Chatty, who had been nowhere, and had not as yet one other
invitation (which feels a little humiliating when you hear of all the
great things that are going on), could make but little reply, when in
one of the pauses of the conversation, she was suddenly aware of a
laugh, which made her start slightly, and opened up an entirely new
interest in this as yet not very exciting company. It was like the
opening of a window to Chatty, it seemed to let in pure air, new light.
And yet it was only a laugh, no more. She looked about her with a little
eagerness: and then it was that she began to find the flowers and the
ferns, which had filled her with enthusiasm a moment before, to be
rather in the way.
"I suppose you go to the Row every morning," said her entertainer.
"Don't you find that always the first thought when one comes to town?
You ride, of course. Oh, why not in the Row? there is nothing alarming
about it. A little practice, that is all that is wanted; to know how to
keep your horse in hand. But you hunt? then you are all right----"
"Oh no, we never hunted." It struck Chatty with a little surprise to be
talked to as if she had a stud at her command. Should she tell him that
this was a mistake; that there were only two horses beside Theo's, and
that Minnie and she had once had a pony between them--which was very
different from hunting, or having nerve to ride in the Row? Chatty found
afterwards that horses and carriages, and unbounded opportunities for
amusing yourself, and a familiar acquaintance with the entire peerage,
were always taken for granted in conversation whenever you dined out;
but at first she was unacquainted with this peculiarity and did not feel
quite easy in her mind about allowing it to be supposed that she was so
much greater a person. Her little hesitations, however, as to how she
should reply and the pauses she made when she heard that laugh arrested
the current of her companion's talk, and made it necessary for her, to
her own alarm, to originate a small observation which, as often happens
to a shy speaker, occurred just at the time when there was a momentary
lull in the general talk. What she said was, "Do you ride often in
the Row?" in a voice which though very soft was quite audible. Chatty
retired into herself with the sensation of having said something very
ridiculous when she caught a glance or two of amusement, and heard a
suppressed titter from somebody on the other side of the fashionable
young man to whom she had addressed this very innocent question. She
thought it was at her they were laughing, whereas the fact was that
Chatty was supposed by those who heard her to be a satirist of more
than usual audacity, putting a coxcomb to deserved but ruthless shame.
Naturally she knew nothing of this, and blushed crimson at her evidently
foolish remark, and retired in great confusion into herself, not conscious
even of the stumbling reply. She was almost immediately conscious,
however, of a face which suddenly appeared on the other side of the
table round the corner of a bouquet of waving ferns, lit up with smiles
of pleasure and eager recognition. "Oh, Mr. Cavendish! then it was you,"
she said, unawares; but the tumult of the conversation had arisen again,
and it seemed very doubtful whether her exclamation could have reached
his ear.
When the gentlemen came upstairs, Chatty endeavoured to be looking very
naturally the other way; not to look as if she expected him; but Dick
found his way to her immediately. "I can't think how I missed you
before. I should have tried hard for the pleasure of taking you down,
had I known you were here," he said, with that look of interest which
was the natural expression in his eyes when he addressed a woman. "When
did you come to town, and where are you? I do not know anything that has
been going on, I have heard nothing of you all for so long. There must
be quite a budget of news."
Chatty faltered a little, feeling that Mr. Cavendish had never been
so intimate in the family as these questions seemed to imply. "The
Wilberforces were quite well when we left," she said, with the honesty
of her nature, for to be sure it was the Wilberforces rather than the
Warrenders who were his friends.
"Oh, never mind the Wilberforces," he said, "tell me something about
you."
"There is something to tell about us, for a wonder," said Chatty. "My
sister Minnie is married: but perhaps you would hear of that."
"I think I saw it in the papers, and was very glad----" here he stopped
and did not finish his sentence. A more experienced person than Chatty
would have perceived that he meant to express his satisfaction that it
was not she: but Chatty had no such insight.
"Yes, he has a curacy quite close, for the time: and he will have an
excellent living, and it is a very nice marriage. We came to town for a
little change, mamma and I."
"That is delightful news. And Theo? I have not heard from Theo for ages.
Is he left behind by himself?"
"Oh! Theo is very well. Theo is---- Oh, I did not mean to say anything
about that."
Chatty did not know why she was so completely off her guard with Dick
Cavendish. She had almost told him everything before she was aware.
"Not in any trouble, I hope. Don't let me put indiscreet questions."
"It is not that. There is nothing indiscreet, only I forgot that we had
not meant to say anything."
"I am so very sorry," cried Cavendish. "You must not think I would ask
anything you don't wish to tell me."
"But I should like to tell you," said Chatty, "only I don't know what
mamma will say. I will tell her it came out before I knew: and you must
not say anything about it, Mr. Cavendish."
"Not a syllable, not even to your mother. It shall be something between
you and me."
The way in which this was said made Chatty's eyes droop for a moment:
but what a pleasure it was to tell him! She could not understand herself.
She was not given to chatter about what happened in the family, and Dick
was not so intimate with Theo that he had a right to know; but still it
was delightful to tell him. "We don't know whether to be glad or sorry,"
she said. "It is that perhaps Theo, after a while, is going to marry."
"That is always interesting," said Dick; but he took the revelation
calmly. "What a lucky fellow! No need to wait upon fortune like the rest
of us. To marry--whom? Do I know the lady? I hope she is all that can be
desired."
"Oh, Mr. Cavendish, that is just the question. There is mamma coming,
perhaps she will tell you herself, which would be so much better than if
you heard it from me."
Mrs. Warrender came up at this moment very glad to see him, and quite
willing to disclose their number in Half Moon Street, and to grant a
gracious permission that he should call and be "of use," as he offered
to be. "I am not a gentleman at large, like Warrender, I am a toiling
slave, spending all my time in Lincoln's Inn. But in the evening I can
spare a little time--and occasionally at other moments," he added, with
a laugh, "when I try. A sufficient motive is the great thing. And of
course you will want to go to the play, and the opera, and all that is
going on."
"Not too much," said Mrs. Warrender. "The air of London is almost enough
at first, but come, and we shall see."
She said nothing, however, about Theo, nor was there any chance of saying
more. But when Cavendish took Chatty downstairs to put her in the
carriage (only a cab, but that is natural to country people in town),
he hazarded a whisper as they went downstairs, "Remember there is still
something to tell me." "Oh yes," she replied, "but mamma herself, I am
sure----" "No," he said, "she has nothing to do with it. It is between
you and me." This little conference made her wonderfully bright and
smiling when she took her place beside her mother. She did not say
anything for a time, but when the cab turned into Piccadilly, with its
long lines of lights,--an illumination which is not very magnificent
now, and was still less magnificent then, but very new and fine to
Chatty, accustomed to little more guidance through the dark than
that which is given by the light of a lantern or the oil lamp in Mrs.
Bagley's shop,--she suddenly said, "Well! London is very pleasant,"
as if that was a fact of which she was the first discoverer.
"Is it not?" said her mother, who was far more disinterested and had not
had her judgment biassed by any whisper on the stairs. "I am very glad
that you like it, Chatty. That will make my pleasure complete."
"Oh, who could help liking it, mamma?" She blushed a little as she
said this, but the night was kind and covered it; and how could Mrs.
Warrender divine that this gentle enthusiasm related to the discovery of
what Chatty called a friend among so many strangers, and not to the mere
locality in which this meeting had taken place? Who could help liking
it? To be talked to _like that_, with eyes that said more than even the
words, with that sudden look of pleasure, with the delightful little
mystery of a special confidence between them, and with the prospect of
meetings hereafter,--who could tell how many?--of going to the play.
Chatty laughed under her breath with pleasure, at the thought. It was a
most admirable idea to come to London. After all, whatever Minnie might
say, there was nobody for understanding how to make people happy like
mamma!
Dick's sensations were not so innocent nor so sweet. He walked home to
his chambers, smoking his cigar, and chewing the cud of fancy, which was
more bitter than sweet. What right had he to bend over that simple girl,
to lay himself out to please her, to speak low in her ear? Dick knew
unfortunately too well what was apt to come of such a beginning. Without
being more of a coxcomb than was inevitable, he was aware that he had a
way of pleasing women. And he had a perception that Chatty was ready to
be pleased, and that he himself wished--oh, very much, if he dared--to
please her. In these circumstances it was perfectly evident that he
should peremptorily take himself out of all possibility of seeing Chatty.
But this was utterly contrary to the way in which he had greeted her,
and in which he had immediately flung himself into the affairs of the
family. It was his occupation while he walked home to defend and excuse
himself for this to himself. In the first place, which was perfectly
true, he had not known at all that the Warrenders were to be of the
party; he had thus fallen into the snare quite innocently, without any
fault of his. Had he known, he might have found an excuse and kept away.
But then he asked himself, why in the name of heaven should he have kept
away? Was he so captivating a person that it would be dangerous to Miss
Warrender to meet him--once; or such a fool as to be unable to meet a
young lady whom he admired--once: without harm coming to it? To be sure
he had gone farther: he had thrown himself, as it were, at the feet of
the ladies, with enthusiasm, and had made absurd offers of himself to be
"of use." There could be no doubt that in the circumstances this was
mad enough, and culpable too; but it was done without premeditation, by
impulse, as he was too apt to act, especially in such matters; and it
could be put a stop to. He was pledged to call, it was true; but that
might be once, and no more. And then there was the play, the opera, to
which he had pledged himself to attend them; once there could not do
much harm, either. Indeed, so long as he kept, which he ought to do
always, full control over himself, what harm could it at all do to be
civil to Theo Warrender's mother and sister, who were, so to speak,
after a sort, old friends? He was not such an ass (he said to himself)
as to think that Chatty was at his disposal if he should lift up his
finger; and there was her mother to take care of her; and they were not
people to be asking each other what he "meant," as two experienced women
of society might do. Both mother and daughter were very innocent; they
would not think he meant anything except kindness. And if he could not
take care of himself, it was a pity! Thus in the course of his reflections
Dick found means to persuade himself that there was nothing culpable in
pursuing the way which was pleasant, which he wanted to pursue; a result
which unfortunately very often follows upon reflection. The best way
in such an emergency is not to reflect, but to turn and fly at once.
But that, he said to himself, not without some complaisance, would be
impulse, which he had just concluded to be a very bad thing. It was
impulse which had got him into the scrape, he must trust to something
more stable to get him out.
In the course of his walking, and, indeed, before these thoughts had
gone very far, he found himself at the corner of Half Moon Street, and
turned along with the simple purpose of seeing which was No. 22. There
were lights in several windows, and he lingered a moment wondering
which might be Chatty's. Then with a stamp of his foot, and a laugh of
utter self-ridicule, which astounded the passing cabmen (for in any
circumstances he was not surely such a confounded sentimental ass as
_that_), he turned on his heel and went straight home without lingering
anywhere. It was hard upon him that he should be such a fool; that he
should not be able to restrain himself from making idiotic advances,
which he could never follow out, and for a mere impulse place himself at
the mercy of fate! But he would not be led by impulse now in turning his
back. It should be reason that should be his guide; reason and
reflection and a calm working out of the problem, how far and no farther
he could with safety go.
And yet if it had been so that he could have availed himself of the
anxiety of his family to get "a nice girl" to take an interest in him!
Where could there be a nicer girl than Chatty? There were prettier girls,
and as for beauty, that was not a thing to be spoken of at all in the
matter. Beauty is rare, and it is often (in Dick's opinion) attended by
qualities not so agreeable. It was often inanimate, he thought, apt to
rest upon its natural laurels, to think it did enough when it consented
to look beautiful. He did not go in, himself, for the sublime. But to
see the light come over Chatty's face as if the sun had suddenly broken
out in the sky; to see the pleased surprise in her eyes as she lifted
them quickly, without any affectation, in all the sweetness of nature.
She was not clever either; all that she said was very simple. She was
easily pleased, not looking out for wit as some girls do, or insisting
upon much brilliancy in conversation. In short, if he had been writing
a poem or a song about her (with much secret derision he recognised that
to be the sort of thing of which in the circumstances foolish persons
were capable), the chief thing that it occurred to him any one could
say would be that she was Chatty. And quite enough too! he added, to
himself, with a curious warmth under his waistcoat, which was pleasant.
Wasn't there a song that went like that? Though this was fair, and that
was something else, and a third was so-and-so, yet none of them was Mary
Something-or-other. He was aware that the verse was not very correctly
quoted, but that was the gist of it; and a very sensible fellow, too,
was the man who wrote it, whoever he might be.
With this admirable conclusion, showing how much reason and reflection
had done for him, Dick Cavendish wound up the evening--and naturally
called at 22 Half Moon Street next day.