LADY ERRINGTON'S LITTLE DINNER.
"An alien race beneath an alien sky,
Amid strange tongues, and faces strange alone,
Stout English hearts who for the moment try
To form a little England of their own."
After the constant sight of dark Italian faces, and the everlasting
clatter of restless Italian tongues, the guests at the Villa Tagni
found it pleasant to form part of an English circle once more, to eat
an English dinner, to discuss English subjects and compare everything
British to the disadvantage of all things Continental. So great a
delight did these six people take in meeting one another at a
hospitable dinner-table that one would have thought they had been for
years exiled in the centre of Africa, and far removed from all
civilizing influences. Heaven only knows there is no lack of English
tourists on the Continent, but then to a great extent they preserve
their insular stiffness towards one another; consequently when people
meet in foreign parts, who have a slight acquaintance at home, they
rush into one another's arms with tender affection, though they would
mutually consider one another insufferable bores during the London
season.
This, however, was not the case with Lady Errington's guests, who were
all genuinely delighted with one another, and chatted gaily on
different kinds of subjects as if they had been bosom friends all
their lives. The Hon. Henry had been invited on account of his wife,
who in her turn had been invited on account of Victoria, but having
gone to Milan to see an Italian Count who had all the complications of
European politics at his fingers' ends, he telegraphed the sad news
that he would not be able to be present, at which Lady Errington was
secretly very glad, as an extra man would have quite upset the balance
of the party.
As it was, Sir Guy took in the portly Mrs. Trubbles to dinner, his
wife was escorted by Eustace, and the Master of Otterburn realised the
wish of his heart by acting as cavalier to Miss Sheldon. So things
being thus pleasantly arranged, they all sat round the well spread
table as merry a party as it would be possible to find.
In some mysterious manner Lady Errington had managed to provide a
series of English dishes, to which all present did ample justice, not
that anyone was particularly a gourmand, but Italian cookery is a
trifle monotonous and a real English dinner in Italy is something to
be appreciated. At all events, what with the food, the wine, and the
continuous strain of light badinage, all the guests were in a state of
the highest good humour, and even the pessimistic Gartney deigned to
take a moderately charitable view of things.
"This is jolly and no mistake," said Otterburn, as the servant filled
his glass with champagne, "you need to go abroad to appreciate home
comforts."
"I think you would appreciate them anywhere," remarked Eustace the
cynic.
"And quite right too," chimed in Miss Sheldon, with a gay laugh,
"everybody does, only they don't like to confess it."
"Why not?" demanded Sir Guy.
Victoria looked rather nonplussed for the moment, having made an idle
statement without thinking she would be called upon to give her
reasons.
"Oh, I don't know," she replied, after some hesitation. "I suppose
people like to be thought romantic, and thinking about what you eat
and drink isn't romantic."
"It's very sensible at all events," said Lady Errington; "do you not
agree with me Mrs. Trubbles?"
"I do," replied the matron ponderously, nodding her head, upon which
was perched a cheerful-looking cap of black lace and glittering
bugles, "people should always eat and drink well at meal times,
but no nibblin's in between. It isn't nature to despise good food
well-cooked. I've no patience with those gells who starve themselves
and pinch their waists to look pretty. Wasps I call them."
"Without the sting," suggested Sir Guy.
"That depends on their tempers, and their tempers," continued Mrs.
Trubbles impressively, "depend on their eating. Give them good meals
and plenty of exercise, and there's the makin' of good wives about
them. Let them starve themselves and lace tight, and it makes their
noses red and their tempers cross."
"The whole duty of woman then," murmured Eustace demurely, "is to
appreciate her cook and disobey her dressmaker. They might do the
first, but never the second."
Mrs. Trubbles, not understanding irony, looked doubtfully at Eustace
to see if he was smiling, but so grave was the expression of his face
that she did not know whether he spoke in jest or earnest, so without
making any reply, she continued her meal while the conversation became
frivolous and general.
"I think Italy a very over-rated place."
"Really! In what respect--morals, scenery, manners?"
"No, as regards music. It's a very barrel-organy country."
"Not more so than the London streets. And after all, `Ah che la
Morte,' is more musical than 'Tommy make room for your uncle."
"Both out of date."
"Well, say Gounod's 'Romeo and Juliet' and the 'Boulanger March."
"Yes, it's much jollier than the Op. 42 _andante adagio con fuoco
prestissimo_ sort of things they give you at the Richter Concerts."
"Maclean," observed Eustace, gravely regarding his glass, "you are a
Philistine, and classical music of the advanced school is thrown away
on your uncultivated ear."
"No doubt! I prefer 'Auld Lang Syne' to Beethoven."
"Naturally, being a Scotchman. You're like the man who knew two tunes.
One was 'God save the Queen,' the other--wasn't."
"I remember," observed Mrs. Trubbles, whose ideas of music were
primitive in the extreme, "that I went to a concert at St. James'
Hall, where they played something called a fuggy."
"A fugue," translated Victoria for the benefit of the company. "I
know! One tune starts, a second catches it up. Then a third joins in,
and just as it successfully muddles up the other two, a fourth and a
fifth have their say in the matter."
"Sounds dreadfully mixed."
"Then it sounds exactly what it is," said Miss Sheldon promptly. "But
what about this particular fugue, Mrs. Trubbles?"
"The fugue, dear--yes, of course. There was a young man in front of me
wriggled dreadfully. I thought he was uneasy about a pin, but he was
only showing how pleased he was with the music, and kept calling out
'Oh this is food!'"
"Wanted the bottle, I expect," said Eustace sweetly, "such musical
babies shouldn't be allowed to go to classical concerts. It's too much
for their nerves."
"It's too much for mine," remarked Otterburn grimly. "After dinner,"
said Gartney, looking thoughtfully at him, "I shall play the
'Moonlight Sonata.'"
"In that case, Lady Errington, may I stay out on the terrace? Such a
suggestion is inhuman."
Lady Errington laughed and gave the signal to the ladies, whereupon
they all arose to their feet.
"I'm afraid you're talking dreadful nonsense," she said, shaking her
head.
"It's a poor heart that never rejoiceth," replied Otterburn
impudently, as he opened the door for the ladies to depart.
Following the Continental fashion, Sir Guy and his guests did not
linger long over their wine, but, after a few minutes, went into the
drawing-room, whence they strolled on to the terrace for cigarettes
and coffee.
Mrs. Trubbles, feeling sleepy after her dinner, found a comfortable
chair in a distant corner of the room, and went placidly to sleep,
while the remaining guests established themselves on the terrace, the
gentlemen with cigarettes and the ladies with coffee.
Such a perfect night as it was. Away in the distance, dense and black
against the cold, clear sky, frowned the sombre masses of mountains,
above which hung in a cloudless firmament the silver shield of the
moon. Here and there a liquid star throbbed in the deep heart of the
heavens, and overhead shone the misty splendour of the Milky Way; not
a breath of wind ruffled the still surface of the lake, which
reflected the serene beauty of the sky, but at intervals across the
star-smitten surface would move the dark, slim form of a boat, the
oars breaking the water into thousands of flashing diamonds.
Far beyond glimmered the orange-coloured lights of Blevio, and the
sudden whiteness of some tall campanile shooting up in slender beauty
from amid its dark mass of surrounding houses. A sense of perfect
fragrance in the still air, a charmed silence all around, and a
wondrous restful feeling under the cool magic of the night. Then,
mellowed by distance, faint and far like aerial music, the silver
tones of a peal of bells sounded at intervals through the clear
atmosphere, until the whole night seemed full of sweet sounds.
"This is the night when Diana kisses Endymion," said Eustace dreamily,
"the antique deities which we all deny are still on earth in Italy.
They are not visible, nor will they ever be so save to the eye of
faith alone. Even then they are doubtful of revealing themselves to a
generation who would put them under the microscope and on the
dissecting table. But although we try hard to disbelieve in their
existence, the spell of their beauty is sometimes too strong, and I
never go anywhere among these hills without a secret hope of finding
Pan asleep at noontide in the ilex shade, or of seeing the laughing
face of a Dryad framed in tamarisk leaves."
"And your hope is never realised," said Lady Errington sadly; "that is
so true of our modern desires."
"Because we always desire the impossible," replied Eustace, clasping
his hands over his knees while the chill moonlight fell on his massive
face, "and expect to find it in crowded cities under the glare of
gaslight, instead of in these magic solitudes where the moon shines on
haunted ground."
"But is it possible to reconcile man and Nature?"
"According to Matthew Arnold, yes."
"What a romantic way you have of looking at things, Mr. Gartney,"
remarked Victoria with some impatience. "If everyone took your view of
life, I'm afraid the world would not get on."
"It's all humbug," cried Otterburn, who agreed in every way with Miss
Sheldon, "that is, you know, not quite sensible."
"I daresay it is not--in a worldly sense," said Eustace bitterly, "but
then you see I don't look at everything from a purely utilitarian
point of view."
"I do" interposed Guy in his hearty British voice, "it's the only way
to get one's comforts in life. And one's comforts suggest smoking."
Otterburn assented with avidity, for they had been sitting with
cigarettes for some time, but never lighted up, and even Eustace
departed so much from his poetic dreamings as to accept the soothing
weed.
"You don't practise what you preach, Mr. Gurney," said Lady Errington,
smiling.
"How many of us do?" asked Gartney complacently. "I'm afraid we talk a
lot and do nothing, now-a-days. It's the disease of the latter end of
the nineteenth century."
"Oh, everything's very jolly," said Otterburn, who resembled Mark
Tapley in his disposition. "Who was it said that this was the best of
all possible worlds?"
"Voltaire! But by that it was not his intention to infer he didn't
yearn after some better world."
"Heaven!"
"I don't think that was in M. Arouet's line."
"I'm afraid it isn't in any of our lines."
"What a rude remark," said Lady Errington severely. "This conversation
is becoming so atheistical that I must ask Mr. Gartney to carry out
his promise and play the Moonlight Sonata. It may inspire us with
higher thoughts."
"The Como Moonlight Sonata--it will be a local hit."
"What nonsense you do talk, Macjean," said Eustace rising to his feet
and throwing his cigarette into the water, "you're like that man in
the Merchant of Venice."
"What man in the Merchant of Venice?"
"Oh, if you don't know your Shakespeare, I'm afraid I can't teach it
to you," retorted Eustace, and stepping lightly across the terrace, he
sat down at the piano, which was placed near the window of the
drawing-room, and ran his fingers lightly over the ivory keys. Within
the party on the terrace could see the gleam of the marble floor, the
dull glitter of heavily embroidered curtains, the faint reflection of
a mirror, and over all the rosy light of a red-shaded lamp the glare
of which streamed out into the pale moonlight.
Everyone sat silently in the wonderful mystic world created by the
magic of the moon, and from the piano a stream of melody, sad and
melancholy, in a minor key, broke forth on the still night. The spell
of the shadows, the weirdness of the hour, and the presence of Lady
Errington, to whom he felt strangely drawn, all had their influence on
Gartney's wonderfully impressionable nature, and he began to improvise
delicate melodies on a story suggested to him by the calm lake
gleaming without.
"In the crystal depths of the blue lake," he chanted in a dreamy
monotone, while the subtle harmonies wove themselves under his long
lithe fingers, "there dwells a beautiful fairy, in a wondrous palace.
She is in love with the nightingale who sings so sweetly from the
laurels that hang their green leaves over the still waters. The voice
of the hidden singer has strange power and tells her of the cool green
depths of the forest; of the rich perfumes shaken from the flowers by
the gentle night-wind, and of the ruined shrines from whence the gods
have fled. As the passionate notes well forth from amid the dusky
shadows the eyes of the beautiful fairy fill with hot tears, for she
knows that the bird sings of a long dead love, of a long dead sorrow.
But she has no soul, the beautiful fairy, and cannot feel the rapture,
the passion, the sadness of love. She rises to the glittering surface
of the lake, and waves her slender white arms to the nightingale that
sings so sweetly in the moonlight. But the dawn breaks rosy in the
eastern skies, the rough wind of the morning whitens the lake, and the
nightingale sings no more. Then the beautiful fairy, broken-hearted,
sinks far down into the placid waters, to where there blooms strange
flowers of wondrous hues, and weeps, and weeps, and weeps for the love
which she can never feel without a soul."
A chord, and the player let his hands fall from the keyboard.
"That is a beautiful story, such as Heine might have told," said Lady
Errington softly.
"The inspiration is Heine," replied Eustace dreamily, and relapsed
into silence.
Victoria, eminently a woman of the world, grew weary of this poetical
talk and made a sign to Otterburn, who, understanding her meaning,
arose to his feet as she left her chair, and they strolled along the
terrace laughing gaily. A sound from within showed that Mrs. Trubbles
was once more awake, so Guy in his capacity of host went inside to
attend to her, and Eustace, sitting at the piano, was left alone with
Lady Errington.
So frail, so pale, so ethereal she looked in the thin cold beams of
the moon, lying back, still and listless, in her wicker chair, with
her hands crossed idly on her white dress. The man at the piano was in
the radiance of the rosy lamplight, but the woman, dreaming in the
silence, looked a fitter inhabitant for this weird, white world of
mystery and chilly splendour. Watching her closely, even in the
distance, Eustace caught a glimpse of her eyes for the moment, and
fancied, with the vivid imagination of a poet, that he saw in their
depths that undefinable look of unfulfilled motherhood which had led
him to call her an "incomplete Madonna."
Filled with this idea, a sudden inspiration of ascertaining the truth
seized him, and without changing his position, he replaced his fingers
on the ivory keys and broke into the steady rhythmical swing of a
cradle song.
His voice was a small sweet tenor, not very loud, but wonderfully soft
and sympathetic, so that he rendered the song he now sang with rare
delicacy and tenderness.
I.
"Sleep, little baby! peacefully rest,
Mother is clasping thee close to her breast;
Angels watch over thee gentle and mild,
Guard thee with heavenly love undefiled.
Sleep little baby, safe in thy nest,
Sleep little baby! mother's own child."
II.
"Sleep, little baby! fear not the storm,
Tenderly mother is holding thy form.
Mother's eyes watching thee ever above
Shine like twin stars with fathomless love.
Sleep, little baby! safely and warm,
Sleep, little baby! mother's own dove."
When he had ended the song with one soft, long-drawn note, he glanced
furtively at Lady Errington, and saw that he had touched the one
sympathetic chord of her nature, for those calm blue eyes were full of
unshed tears hanging on the long lashes. Eustace delicately refrained
from noticing her emotion, but rising from the piano strolled on to
the terrace, leaned lightly over the balustrade and gazed absorbedly
at the restless water, dark and sombre under the stone wall.
"A perfect night," he murmured after a pause, during which Lady
Errington found time to recover herself from the momentary fit of
emotion.
"Yes," answered Alizon mechanically, then after a pause, "thank you
very much for the song."
"I'm glad you liked it," responded Eustace equably, and again there
was silence between them. The moonlight shone on both their faces, on
his, massive and masterful with a poetic look in his wonderfully
eloquent eyes, and on hers, delicate, distinct and fragile, as if it
had been carved from ivory. Light laughter from the two young people
at the end of the terrace, a deep murmur of conversation from within,
where Sir Guy strove gallantly to entertain his drowsy guest, but this
man and woman, oblivious of all else, remained absorbed in their own
thoughts.
Of what was she thinking? of her past sorrow, her present happiness,
her doubtful future (for the future is doubtful with all
humanity)--Who could tell? Eustace, delicately sympathetic as he was,
stood outside the closed portals of her soul, into which no man, not
even her husband, had penetrated. But men and women, however closely
allied, how, ever passionately attached, however unreserved in their
confidences, never know one another's souls. There is always a
something behind all which is never revealed, which the soul feels
intensely itself, yet shrinks from disclosing even to nearest and
dearest, and it is this vague secret which all feel, yet none tell,
that makes humanity live in loneliest isolation from each other.
Perhaps Lady Errington was thinking of this hidden secret of her soul
which none knew, nor ever would know, but Eustace, softened for the
moment by the unexpected maternal emotion his song had evoked, was
envying his cousin the possession of this cold, silent woman. Had he
known her personally before her marriage he might not have cared much
about her, save in a friendly way, but his eccentric imagination had
endowed her with a vague charm, which no other woman possessed, and
the knowledge that she belonged to another man made him bitterly
regretful. It was ever thus with the whimsical character of Eustace
Gartney. Place something within his reach, and he despised it, place
it beyond his hope of attainment, and he would strain every nerve to
possess it. He lived in the pursuit of the unattainable, which of all
things had the greatest charm for him, and this unattainable vision of
charming womanhood filled his soul with passionate anguish and desire.
Suddenly, with a sigh, Lady Errington lifted up her eyes and saw
Eustace looking at her, respectfully enough, yet with a certain
meaning in his gaze which caused her vague embarrassment, she knew not
why.
"Your music has made me dream, Mr. Gartney," she said, nervously
opening her fan.
"You are of a sensitive nature, perhaps."
She sighed again.
"Yes, very sensitive. It is a most unhappy thing to be impressionable,
one feels things other people count as nothing."
"Other people are wise," said Eustace in an ironical tone, "they take
Talleyrand's advice about a happy life, and--are happy."
"What is your experience?"
"The reverse; but then you see I have not taken Talleyrand's advice.
It is excellent and infallible to many people, but not to me."
"Why not?"
"I refer you to one Hamlet, who said, 'The time is out of joint.'"
"Hamlet was a morbid, self-analysing egotist," said Lady Errington,
emphatically.
"No--you are wrong. He was a man crushed down by melancholy."
"Principally of his own making, though certainly he had plenty of
excuse."
"And don't you think I have any excuse for being unhappy?"
Alizon looked at him critically.
"You are young, healthy, rich, famous. No, I don't think you have any
excuse. Do you remember my advice to you the other night?"
"About philanthropy, yes. But we did not come to any agreement on the
subject, because we were interrupted."
"History repeats itself," said Lady Errington, rising, "for here come
Mrs. Trubbles and Guy."
"And Macjean and Miss Sheldon. Farewell, Minerva--Momus is King."
"Wisdom gives place to Folly--well, is not that a very good thing,"
said Alizon laughing, "you would grow weary of a world without
change."
"I daresay. To no moment of my life could I have said with Faust,
'Stay, thou art so fair.'"
"Alizon, Mrs. Trubbles is going," said Sir Guy's voice, as the
ponderous matron rolled towards his wife like a war-chariot.
"I'm so sorry," observed Lady Errington, taking the lady's hand.
"So am I, dear," said Mrs. Trubbles in a sleepy voice, "but I always
go to bed early here, the climate makes me so sleepy. I have enjoyed
myself so much--so very much. Yes."
"Next time you visit," whispered Otterburn to Victoria, "bring a
chaperon who is wide-awake."
"I will--you shall choose my chaperon, Mr. Macjean."
"You mightn't like my choice," said Macjean wickedly.
"I mean a lady, of course," replied Victoria demurely, "not an
irreverent young man like--well, never mind."
"Like me, I suppose?"
"I never said so."
"No, but you looked it."
Victoria laughed, and departed with Mrs. Trubbles and her hostess to
put her wraps on, while the three gentlemen had a short smoke and
conversation, after which they all separated for the night.
Eustace walked silently back in the moonlight with Mrs. Trubbles who
did all the talking; and the young couple behind them talked Chinese
metaphysics.