A SPIDER'S WEB.
Some half a dozen years after the occurrences just recorded there was
a great gathering one night at Essendine House, a palatial mansion
occupying the whole angle of a great London square. The
reception-rooms upon the first floor, five of them, and all _en
suite_, and gorgeously decorated in white and gold, were brilliantly
lighted and thrown open to the best of London society. Lady Essendine
was at home to her friends, and seemingly she had plenty of them, for
the place was thronged.
The party was by way of being musical--that is to say, a famous
pianist had been engaged to let off a lot of rockets from his
finger-tips, and a buffo singer from the opera roared out his "Figaro
la, Figaro quà," with all the strength of his brazen lungs; while one
or two gifted amateurs sang glees in washed-out, apologetical
accents, which were nearly lost in the din of the room.
But there was yet another singer, whose performance was attended with
rather more display. It was preluded by a good deal of whispering and
nodding of heads. Lady Essendine posed as a charitable person, always
anxious to do good, and this singer was a _protégée_ of hers--an
interesting but unfortunate foreigner in very reduced circumstances,
whom she had discovered by accident, and to whom she was most anxious
to give a helping hand.
"A sweet creature," she had said quite audibly that evening, although
the object of her remarks was at her elbow. "A most engaging person;
poor thing, when I found her she was almost destitute. Wasn't it sad?"
"Quite pretty, too," her friends had remarked, also ignoring the near
neighbourhood of the singer.
It did not seem to matter much. The stranger sat there calmly, proudly
unconscious of all that was said about her. Pretty!--the epithet was
well within the mark. Beautiful, rather--magnificently, splendidly
beautiful, with a noble presence and almost queenly air. Her small,
exquisitely-proportioned head, crowned with a coronet of deep chestnut
hair, was well poised upon a long, slender neck; she had a refined,
aristocratic face, with clear-cut features, a well-shaped, aquiline
nose, with slender nostrils; a perfect mouth, great lustrous dark
eyes, with brows and lashes rather darker than her hair. Her teeth
were perfect--perhaps she knew it, for her lower lip hung down a
little, constantly displaying their pearly whiteness, and adding
somewhat to the decided outline of the firm well-rounded chin.
Seated, her beauty claimed attention; but her appearance was still
more attractive when she stood up and moved across the room, to take
her seat at the piano. Her figure was tall and commanding, full, yet
faultless in outline, as that of one in the prime of ripe, rich
womanhood, and its perfect proportions were fully set off by her
close-fitting but perfectly plain black dress.
A little hum of approval greeted her from this well-bred audience as
she sat down and swept her fingers with a flourish over the keys.
Then, without further prelude, she sang a little French song in a
pleasing, musical voice, without much compass, but well trained;
before the applause ended she broke into a Spanish ballad, tender and
passionate, which gained her still greater success; and thus accepted
and approved amidst continual cries of "Brava!" and "Encore!" she was
not allowed to leave her seat until she had sung at least a dozen
times.
When she arose from the piano Lady Essendine went up to her,
patronising and gracious.
"Oh! thank you so much. I don't know when I have heard anything so
charming."
Other ladies followed suit, and, amidst the general cries of approval,
the beautiful singer was engaged a dozen deep to sing at other great
houses in the town.
Presently they pressed her to perform again. Was she not paid for it?
No one, Lady Essendine least of all, thought for one moment of her
_protégée's_ fatigue, and the poor singer might have worked on till
she fainted from exhaustion had not the son of the house interposed.
"You must be tired, mademoiselle," said Lord Lydstone, coming up to
the piano. "Surely you would like a little refreshment? Let me take
you to the tea-room," and, offering his arm, he led her away, despite
his mother's black looks and frowns of displeasure.
"Lydstone is so impulsive," she whispered to the first confidant she
could find. It was Colonel Wilders, one of the family--a poor
relation, in fact, commonly called by them "Cousin Bill"--a hale,
hearty, middle-aged man, with grey hair he was not ashamed of, but
erect and vigorous, with a soldierly air. "I wish he would not
advertise himself with such a person in this way."
"A monstrously handsome person!" cried the blunt soldier, evidently
cordially endorsing Lord Lydstone's taste.
"That's not the question, Colonel Wilders; it was not my son's place
to take her to the tea-room, and I am much annoyed. Will you, to
oblige me, go and tell Lydstone I want to speak to him?"
Cousin Bill, docile and obsequious, hurried off to execute her
ladyship's commission. He found the pair chatting pleasantly together
in a corner of the deserted tea-room, and delivered his message.
"Oh, bother!" cried Lord Lydstone undutifully. "What can mother want
with me?"
"You had better go to her," said the colonel, who was a little afraid
of his cousin, the female head of the house. "I will take your place
here--that is to say, if mademoiselle will permit me."
"Madame," corrected Lord Lydstone, who had been already put right
himself. "Let me introduce you. Madame Cyprienne--my cousin, Colonel
Wilders, of the Royal Rangers. I hope we shall hear you sing again
to-night, unless you are too tired."
"I shall do whatever _miladi_ wishes," said Madame Cyprienne, in a
deep but musical voice, with a slight foreign accent. "It is for her
to command, me to obey. She has been very kind, you know," she went on
to Colonel Wilders, who had taken Lydstone's seat by her side. "But
for her I should have starved."
"Dear me! how sad," said the colonel. "Was it so bad as that? How did
it happen. Was M. Cyprienne unlucky?"
She did not answer; and the colonel, wondering, looked up, to find her
fine eyes filled with tears.
"How stupid of me! What an idiot I am! Of course, your husband is--"
She pointed to her black dress, edged with crape, but said nothing.
"Yes, yes! I quite understand. Pray forgive me," stammered the
colonel, and there followed an awkward pause.
"Mine is a sad story," she said at length, in a sorrowful tone. "I was
left suddenly alone, unprotected, without resources, in this strange
country--to fight my own battle, to earn a crust of bread by my own
exertions, or starve."
"Dear, dear!" said the colonel, his sympathies fully aroused.
"I should have starved, but for Lady Essendine. She heard of me. I was
trying to dispose of some lace--some very old Spanish point. You are a
judge of lace, monsieur?"
"Of course, of course!" said the colonel, although, as a matter of
fact, he did not know Spanish point from common _écru_.
"This was some lace that had been in our family for generations. You
must understand we were not always as you see me--poor; we belong to
the old nobility. My husband was highly born, but when he died I
dropped the title and became Madame Cyprienne. It was better, don't
you think?"
"Perhaps so; I am not sure," replied the colonel, hardly knowing what
to say.
"It was. The idea of a countess a pauper, begging her bread!"
"What was your title, may I ask?" inquired the colonel, eagerly. These
tender confidences, accompanied by an occasional encouraging glance
from her bright eyes, were rapidly increasing the interest he took in
her.
"I am the Countess de Saint Clair," replied Madame Cyprienne, proudly;
"but I do not assume the title now. I do not choose it to be known
that I live by singing, and by selling the remnants of our family
lace."
"I hope Lady Essendine paid you a decent price," said the colonel,
pleasantly.
Madame Cyprienne shook her head, with a little laugh--
"She has been very kind--exceedingly kind--but she knows how to drive
a bargain: all women do."
"What a shame! And have you sold it all? You had better entrust me
with the disposal of the rest."
"Oh! Colonel Wilders, I could not think of giving you so much
trouble."
"But I will; I should like to. Send it to me. My chambers are in Ryder
Street; or, better still, I will call for it if you will tell me
where," said the colonel, artfully.
"I am lodging in a very poor place, not at all such as the Countess de
Saint Clair should receive in. But I am not ashamed of it; it is in
Frith Street, Soho, NO. 29A; but I do not think you ought to
come there."
"A most delightful part of the town," said the colonel, who at the
moment would have approved of Whitechapel or the New Cut. "When shall
I call?"
"In the afternoon. In the morning I am engaged in giving lessons. But
come, we have lingered here long enough. _Miladi_ will expect me to
sing again."
Lady Essendine frowned at Cousin Bill when he brought back her singer;
but whether it was at the length of the talk, or the withdrawal of her
_protégée_ from the duties for which she was paid, her ladyship did
not condescend to explain. It was a little of both. She was pleased to
have hindered her son from paying marked attention to a person in
Madame Cyprienne's doubtful position. Now she found that person
exercising her fascinations upon Colonel Wilders, and it annoyed her,
although Cousin Bill was surely old enough to take care of himself.
Already she was changing her opinion concerning the fair singer she
had introduced into the London world. She could not fail to notice the
admiration Madame Cyprienne generally received, especially from the
men, and she doubted whether she had done wisely in taking her by the
hand.
A few days later she had no doubt at all. To her disgust, all the old
Spanish point-lace was gone; and Madame Cyprienne had told her plainly
that it was her own fault for haggling over the price. Her ladyship's
disgust was heightened when she found the best piece of all--a
magnificent white mantilla--in the possession of a rival leader of
fashion, who refused to say where she had got it, or how.
She set her emissaries at work, however--for every great London lady
has a dozen devoted, unpaid _attachés_, ready to do any little
commission of this kind--and the lace was traced back to Colonel
Wilders.
"My dear," she said, one morning, to her lord, "I am afraid Colonel
Wilders is very intimate with that Madame Cyprienne."
"Our eccentric Cousin Bill! You don't say so? Well, there's no fool
like an old fool," said Lord Essendine, who was a very matter-of-fact,
plain-spoken peer.
"I always thought she was an adventuress," cried Lady Essendine,
angrily.
"Then why did you take her up so hotly? But for you, no one would ever
have heard of the woman, least of all Cousin Bill."
"Well, I have done with her now. I shall drop her."
"The mischief's done. Unless I am much mistaken, she won't drop Cousin
Bill."
Lord Essendine, who was, perhaps, behind the scenes, was not wrong in
his estimate of the influence Madame Cyprienne exercised. Before six
months were out, Colonel Wilders came, with rather a sheepish air, to
the head of the house, and informed him of his approaching marriage to
the Countess de Saint Clair.
"That's a new title to me, Bill. Foreign, I suppose?" Lord Essendine
had the usual contempt of the respectable Briton for titles not
mentioned in Debrett or Burke.
"It's French, I fancy; and for the moment it is in abeyance. Madame
Cyprienne tells me--"
"Gracious powers, William Wilders! have you fallen into that woman's
clutches?"
"I must ask you, Lord Essendine, to speak more respectfully of the
lady I propose to make my wife."
"You had better not! I warn you while there is yet time."
"What do you know against her?" asked the colonel, hotly.
"What do you know of or for her?" replied the peer, quickly. "I tell
you, man, it's a disgrace to the family. Lady Essendine will be
furious. If I had any authority over you I would forbid the marriage.
In any case," he went on, "do not look for any countenance or support
from me."
"I hope we shall be able to get on without your assistance, Lord
Essendine. I thought it my duty to inform you of my marriage, and I
think I might have been better received."
"Stay, you idiot; don't go off in a huff. I don't like the match, I
tell you frankly; but I don't want to quarrel. Is there anything I can
do for you, except attending the wedding? I won't do that."
Colonel Wilders could not bring himself to ask any favours of his
unsympathetic kinsman. Nevertheless, it was through Lord Essendine's
interest that he obtained a snug staff appointment in one of the large
garrison towns; and he did not return indignantly the very handsome
cheque paid in by his cousin to his account as a wedding present.
He was still serving at Chatsmouth, his young and beautiful wife the
life of the gay garrison, when the war-clouds gathered dark upon the
horizon, and, thanks again to the Essendine interest, he found himself
transferred, still on the staff, to the expeditionary army under
orders for the East.