And yet, when I crossed the threshold of Miss Clyde's house, I was
seized with a sudden vague impression of uneasiness. I felt a, to me,
singular sensation of nervousness, shyness, "mauvais honte"--just as if
a cold key had been put down my back--for which I was at a loss to
account. Those who know me say that bashfulness is one of the least of
my virtues; and, I do not think that I am constitutionally timid--so why
this feeling? Was it not a foreboding of evil? I believe it was, for
everything went wrong with me that night, instead of my having a surfeit
of pleasure, as I had sanguinely expected.
"Hope told a flattering tale." My good fairy deceived me. My
unpropitious star was again in the ascendant.
In fact, my bad genius reigned supreme, in spite of such counteracting
influences as my being at last admitted to Min's home and permitted to
watch her gliding movements about the room, hear her liquid voice, catch
the bright looks from her glancing grey eyes, speak to her, smile with
her, adore her.
Yes, in spite of all this, my bad influence reigned supreme; and, I'm
afraid, something wrong must have been done at my baptism to disgust my
better genii.
In the first place, I arrived too soon, which was a calamity in itself.
There is always pardon for one who goes late to an evening party--nay,
it often enhances his reputation. Absolution may even be extended to
the calculating individual who ravenously times his arrival by the
supper hour; but, for a simple-minded person, unaccustomed to the usages
of polite society, to believe in the invariability of fixed appointments
and, taking an invitation au pied de la lettre, make his appearance a
full hour before any other guest would dare to "turn up," from the fear
of being thought unfashionable, is simply monstrous! His behaviour is
perfectly inexcusable; and, as a punishment, he should in future be
compelled for a certain time to dine at our Saxon forefathers' early
hour, and go to bed at the sound of the curfew bell instituted by their
Norman conquerors--that is how I would teach him manners!
I committed this grievous fault on the present occasion. I had been so
anxious to get there in good time and not miss a minute of Min's
charming company, that, like our friend Paddy who ate his breakfast over
night in order to save time in the morning, I overdid it, arriving there
too early. I saw this at once from Mrs Clyde's face when I was
announced, the unhappy premier of all the coming guests.
Perhaps it was only my fancy, as I'm extremely sensitive on such points,
for she received me courteously enough, pressing the welcoming cup of
coffee and hospitable muffin in an adjoining ante-room on my notice;
but, I thought I could perceive, below the veneer of social civility, a
sort of "how-tiresome-of-you-to-come-before-anybody-else" look in her
eyes, which made me extremely small in my own estimation.
It was a horrible interval waiting for the other guests to come and
support me. I made a vow there and then that I would never again
present myself wherever I might be invited out until a full hour beyond
the specified time--and I've generally kept it, too!
Min did not treat me cavalierly, however, notwithstanding that I had
arrived in advance of expectation. _She_ was all kindness and grace,
endeavouring to make the "mauvais quart d'heure" of my solitary
guesthood pass away as little uncomfortably to me as possible.
She asked me to come and see her flowers in the bay window of the
drawing-room, which she had fitted up as a tiny conservatory; while her
mother sat down to the piano and played dreamy music in a desultory
fashion. I like dreamy music, although it always makes me melancholy--
indeed, all music affects me the same way, in spite of my not being by
any means what you would call a sad person. On the contrary, I am
supposed to be one of the most light-hearted fellows imaginable, and,
certainly, laugh more than I ever cry. However, mirth and sadness are
closer allies than people generally suspect. All emotion proceeds, more
or less, from hysteria.
While Mrs Clyde was playing, Min and I got talking. She thanked me for
coming early; and upbraided the absent guests for thinking it
fashionable to come later than bidden.
We discussed the rival merits of a scarlet japonica and a double
fuchsia, giving the palm of merit to the former, though the latter had
some wondrous lobes; and I was also asked my opinion whether her
favourite maidenhair fern would survive a sudden and unaccountable
blight which had fallen upon it a few days before.
She then showed me the identical violets I had given her that Christmas
morning, now so long passed by: she had tipped the stalks with sealing
wax and preserved them in cotton wool, so that they looked as fresh as
when first gathered.
"There!" she said, with an air of triumph. "There, Mr Lorton! I have
kept them ever since."
"Mr Lorton!" I repeated, "who is he? I don't know him."
"Well, `Frank,' then--will that please you better, you tiresome thing?"
"You know you promised," I said, apologetically.
"Did I?" she asked, with charming naivete.
"Why, have you forgotten that night already?" I said, in a melancholy
tone.
"Don't be so lugubrious," she said. "You have to amuse me. You mustn't
remember all my promises."
"Are they so unsubstantial?" I asked.
"No, they're not, sir!" she said, stamping her foot in affected anger.
"But what do you say to my keeping your violets so long, Frank?"
"What do I say?" I repeated after her, looking my delight into her
eyes; when, a frantic chord, struck deep down in the bass by Mrs Clyde,
marking the finish of some piece of Wagner's, recalled us both to every-
day life.
As nobody else had yet arrived, Min challenged me to a game of chess.