“WE NEED NOT ASK IF YOU HAVE ENJOYED YOURSELF.”
Sir Fulke, who appeared to be expecting us, was a stout, bald
gentleman, with a pair of hard brown eyes and a fixed smile. He bowed
profoundly over his stiff shirt-front, as we were introduced; then Mrs.
Cholmondeley immediately cut me adrift, saying in her quick little way—
“Now, Sir Fulke, there is a dance going on. Do take Miss Hayes into the
ball-room!”
Sir Fulke piloted me carefully—danced with me carefully, but there
was not the same swing and go as with my former partner. Sir Fulke
gasped out several leading questions, and threw out filmy feelers in
order to discover who I was, and where I came from. I did not satisfy
his curiosity. Perhaps, if he had known that he was merely dancing with
Miss Hayes, who lived in cheap lodgings in Stonebrook, he would have
abandoned me in the middle of the room! He was very full of information
about himself, and talked of his place, his shooting, his hunters,
his intimate friend the Duke of Albion, and his sister la Comtesse de
Boulotte.
As we danced, he paused several times to rest and to take breath, and
as we stood against the wall on one occasion, I found that my neighbor
was Miss Chalgrove.
“Ah, so _here_ you are!” she exclaimed gaily. “We ought to know one
another, don’t you think so—and without any formal introduction? Are
you staying in Stonebrook?”
“Yes, for the present.”
“You hunt, of _course_?” gazing at me eagerly.
“Not I. I have never even been on a horse’s back.”
“_What!_” she ejaculated, as if such an idea was too difficult to grasp.
“Then we are not alike in everything. Why, I”—touching herself with
her fan—“_live_ in the saddle—spend my days there, and would sleep
there if it were possible.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve heard you are a splendid horse-woman.”
“I’m going to have such a day to-morrow! I’ve brought over a new
hunter, a French steeplechaser, and mean to cut them all down—men and
women. Look out, and you’ll see an account in the _Field_.”
“Yes—I shall certainly look for it, and I hope you will get the brush.”
“Have you any sisters?” she asked suddenly.
“No—no sisters or brothers.”
“Neither have I. How I wish——”
Whatever she was about to wish was cut short by her impatient partner,
who now put in his claim, and plunged along with her into the revolving
crowd.
I danced with Mr. Aubrey Price (the owner of thirty hunters), and as we
subsequently promenaded in the long corridor, we encountered a spare,
gray-haired, gentlemanly man, who stared so fixedly at me that I felt
quite uncomfortable.
“That is Lord Chalgrove,” said Mr. Price. “He looked as if he knew you?”
“Oh no, he does not. I have never seen him in my life.”
“Well, I _hope_ he will manage to recognize you again, at any rate. I
wish he would keep his daughter in order! What do you think she said to
me just now?”
“I am sure I cannot imagine.”
“That she would like to hold a class to teach young men manners?”
“Were you to be a pupil?”
“Of _course_! I shouldn’t wonder if my would-be teacher comes to grief
to-morrow. It’s a nasty country, tricky fences, and, by Jove! by all
accounts, she has got a horse to match.”
“Why does her father allow her to ride him?”
“_Allow_ her! It’s little you know Dolly Chalgrove. She allows _him_
to hunt—she allows him to call his soul his own! He gives her a very
loose rein; he is a widower, you see, and she’s his only child, and
very clever and taking, and like a sister of his that was ill-treated
and that died, and so he makes it up to Dolly. Capital business for
Dolly, eh?”
“Yes, I suppose it is, in some ways.”
“A wonderful girl to ride to hounds, has a string of hunters and pays
top prices; very odd, but very good-hearted and genuine—no nonsense
about her. They say she is to marry Somers. I’m not sure that _he_
quite sees it, but his mother is awfully keen on it. He will be Lord
Chalgrove if he lives long enough; his father is the next male heir,
and it would be a sound thing to keep the money and the title in the
same family. The Somers are fearfully hard up.”
“Are they?”
“Yes; so I suppose it is bound to come off. Lady Hildegarde is very
strong.”
“Then you take for granted that Miss Chalgrove would accept Mr. Somers
as a matter——”
“As a matter of course,” he finished briskly.
“What nonsense! How can you tell?”
“A straw shows how the wind blows!”
“I give you that straw for your opinion, and,” now warming up, “I think
it is too bad to discuss a girl, and take all sorts of things for
granted. It is taking a great liberty with her name.”
“Hullo, _now_ I’m catching it! I mean no harm; every one discusses his
neighbors’ little affairs. I don’t know what we should do without them.
If you bar that subject, what _are_ we to talk about—come now?”
“Books, politics, the weather.”
“No, thank you”—with great scorn.
“Well, then, horses.”
“Ah, that’s better.”
We were now in the ball-room once more, where we were promptly joined
by Mr. Somers.
“You look as if you two were quarreling,” he remarked; “so I think I
had better separate you at once.”
“Yes, I’m crushed flat. I’m not to talk of my neighbors. We have fought
over Miss Chalgrove.”
“Indeed! That is strange, for she and I have just had a severe
passage-at-arms.”
“Oh, that does not surprise me! It’s quite _en règle_,” and he grinned
significantly.
Mr. Somers took no notice of the impudent hint, but said, “It’s
about a horse she will ride, in spite of her father or any one—a
steeplechaser she has picked up—and she is bound to have some nasty
accident if some one does not shoot him. I’ve a good mind to shoot him
myself, although he is a magnificent fencer, and can go all day—a
French horse, called Diable Vert.”
“Oh, by Jove! I know him—a real nasty-tempered brute. He won two or
three good races, and then cut up rusty. They say he killed a jockey at
Auteuil.”
I stood against the wall between the two men as they talked, and
noticed that the sofas were occupied, the recesses of the windows full
of lookers-on. Lady Bloss and her daughter were sitting together, and
surveying me and my companions with unaffected interest. The former
presently beckoned to me to approach. I did so, rather reluctantly,
followed by my two cavaliers, whilst Sir Fulke hovered at a little
distance.
“Oh, good evening, Miss Hayes,” said Lady Bloss, in her loftiest
manner. “So surprised to see _you_ here!”—looking me slowly up and
down. “Pray, where is Mrs. Hayes?”
“She is at home,” I meekly replied.
“And so you came alone; how very independent!”
“Oh no; I came with the Miss Bennys.”
“I did not know that you ever went out of an evening. We had a little
dance last week, and I would have asked you, only I did not think you
would like the _expense_ of a fly!” And she threw back her head, and
sniffed.
I am sure Mr. Somers heard, and also Mr. Price; and a girl at the other
side of Lady Bloss tittered quite audibly.
I, however, merely bowed. It was a safe reply. What could I say?—the
expense of a fly _was_ an object to me. However, I was soon whirling
round the room with my partner; and I had numerous partners, I could
have danced every dance thrice over. Yes, I was enjoying myself
enormously. I suppose my head was turned; I could not understand
myself. I was surely a changeling. My luxurious surroundings, my
splendid gown had transformed me. As I have said before, it was another
young woman than Gwendoline Hayes—a stranger, who was walking about in
her body, who received admiring glances with an air of cool unconcern,
who accepted Sir Fulke’s and Mr. Price’s _petits soins_ with affable
condescension.
I saw Lady Polexfen fanning herself languidly in the doorway. As I
passed out on her brother’s arm there was a block, and we stood for an
instant side by side. She was splendidly dressed in silver brocade and
sea-green, and ablaze with diamonds; her waist resembled an hour-glass,
and her hair was dressed French style, over her ears. She affected
not to see me, but she was as fully conscious of my vicinity as I was
of hers. A tall, dark, sardonic man was beside her. Her brother did
not notice her, but I did, as she turned to the dark man and whispered
something, at which he laughed delightedly—and then looked hard at me.
Mr. Somers took me in to supper. It was served at little tables—a
commendable arrangement—and we sat down _tête-à-tête_.
“I suppose you are staying with friends in the neighborhood?” said my
companion in his genial voice.
“No; we are only in lodgings in Stonebrook.”
“Lodgings! I did not know there were such things to be had. Don’t you
find it rather—rather—slow?”
“We must cut our coat according to our cloth. We cannot afford grand
quarters.” (I saw his eyes fixed momentarily on my, so to speak,
“coat” of filmy lace and satin.) “The doctors ordered my stepmother
out of London to some dry, bracing climate. Of course, we should have
preferred Biarritz, or Nice; but—well, here we are at Stonebrook
instead, and it suits Emma pretty well.”
“You have seen my mother, of course?”
“Oh yes, she has been to call on us.” I was on the eve of adding—and
we are to dine with you _en famille_ on Christmas Day; but something
inexplicable restrained me.
“She has only lately returned home, and I hope we shall often see you
and Mrs. Hayes?”
I made no answer. I did not think his wish was at all likely to be
realized.
“By the way, you saw Miss Chalgrove. Do you know that you are
curiously alike in appearance—only you are much the taller of the
two? The resemblance struck me the first time I saw you; you might be
sisters, or, at any rate cousins.”
“I have no sisters or cousins.”
“Oh, surely you must have cousins—even half a dozen. Why, I possess
half a hundred.”
“If I have, I have never heard of them.”
“Do you mean to say that you have no relations?”
“None that I know of. My father had an only brother in the navy. He was
drowned years ago, and he himself lived in India so long that he lost
sight of all his connections.” (I did not mention my mother. Why should
I tell him that she had been disowned by her family?) “I had not seen
my father since I was eight years old.”
“Then I saw him, and knew him well, quite recently—knew him better
than you did, if I may say so, Miss Hayes, for, of course, two men have
more in common than a man and a little girl in pinafores. He was a rare
good sort.”
“Yes, I believe he was. I wish he was alive now with all my heart. It
seems so hard that people in the prime of life are cut off, and old men
and women who have lived their lives out, and are tired of existence,
drag on wearily year after year.”
“Yes, there’s my poor father,” said Mr. Somers; “his bodily health is
good—it is the health of a young man—whilst his mind is dying.”
I had heard of that, but felt it only polite to express sympathetic
surprise.
“He was in a railway accident years ago, and it’s coming against him
now. And how is Mrs. Hayes?” he inquired, rather abruptly.
“Pretty well.”
“I am coming to see her immediately—to-morrow—only it is a hunting
day; but, perhaps, I can look in for a flying visit.”
“And was your expedition successful?” I asked.
“No, not a bit. The business part was a dead failure, and only throwing
good money after bad; but, as you may have noticed, I’m not at all
clever. I did my little best, and I could do no more. However, I
enjoyed the trip, as a trip, extremely. There is the band again: shall
we go and take a turn?”
“But I believe I am engaged to some one,” I answered, rising all the
same.
“Pray, how can you tell? you have no program—no, not even a
shirt-cuff!”
And thus persuaded, against my conscience, we began; but, before I
had been twice round the room, I was claimed by Sir Fulke, and not
alone Sir Fulke, but a little weather-beaten cavalry man, who was very
positive that “this was _his_ dance.”
As we stood disputing amicably, I was suddenly arrested by a higher
power. Alas! poor Cinderella’s trivial triumph was over, her hour had
come.
The Miss Bennys waylaid me with grave, determined faces, much to my
companions’ disgust, and Miss Benny said in a very loud voice—
“Scott, the fly man, is waiting, Miss Hayes. We promised not to detain
him after one o’clock; it is now half-past one. Therefore, if you are
returning in _our_ charge, I must ask you to come home at _once_.”
“And my dance?” cried Mr. Aubrey Price.
“And mine?” echoed Sir Fulke.
There was no use in attempting to resist them—no time to take leave of
my hostess: she was at supper. I was in the Miss Bennys’ clutches; they
were inexorable. This was _their_ moment of triumph, and I was carried
away, followed to the very door of the fly by four eligible partners,
uttering loud regrets.
Mr. Somers pressed my hand as he said good-by, and added, “I shall look
forward to seeing you soon—in a day or two.”
“We need not ask if you have enjoyed yourself, Miss Hayes,”
exclaimed the elder Miss Benny in an acrid key. “I admire your”—I
thought perhaps she was going to say dress or dancing, but it was
my—“wonderful self-confidence! Mrs. Cholmondeley seems to have _quite_
taken you up! She is fond of doing that; she took a fancy to an
Australian girl, she met on board ship, and actually brought her home,
and had her with her, taking her everywhere for months. People called
her the kangaroo; she was a horror.”
The tone implied, that I was a horror also,—if not actually a
kangaroo. I burst out laughing. I laughed loud and long; I could not
stop. I suppose I was almost hysterical. The reaction from the late
brilliant scene, where I had been made much of, where I had danced and
enjoyed the pleasures of this life for the very first time, where I
had been conscious of whispered flattering comments, and eloquently
flattering eyes, where I had sniffed a little of the intoxicating
incense of admiration, and felt that youth and beauty are a great
power, was too much. Then to come down to being one of four in a close
stuffy fly, to remember the dingy little bedroom in which I must
shed my fine feathers—how seven-and-sixpence for my share of the
conveyance would pinch my weekly purse, and that I had forgotten to
buy bacon for the morrow’s breakfast! All these thoughts and contrasts
were jumbled up in my excited brain, and I laughed loud and long. My
indecorous hilarity was succeeded by a freezing silence—a terrible,
accusing, blank silence, which lasted the whole way home. For five long
miles there was not a sound in that fly, save a sneeze or a yawn. The
experience was appalling; it got upon my nerves. I felt inclined to
sing or to scream. Luckily I controlled myself, or I should probably
have been delivered at the door of the lunatic asylum. At last we
drove up to Mrs. Gabb’s. I opened the door and sprang out, then I
politely thanked the Miss Bennys for their escort, and wished them all
a fair good night—which met with no response.