London was illuminated by the broad full moon. The pavements looked
white as if mantled with snow; ordinary houses were sublimated to the
rank of public buildings, public buildings to palaces, and the faces of
women walking the streets to those of calendared saints and
guardian-angels, by the pure bleaching light from the sky.
In the quiet little street where opened the private door of the Hall
chosen by Ethelberta for her story-telling, a brougham was waiting. The
time was about eleven o'clock; and presently a lady came out from the
building, the moonbeams forthwith flooding her face, which they showed to
be that of the Story-teller herself. She hastened across to the
carriage, when a second thought arrested her motion: telling the
man-servant and a woman inside the brougham to wait for her, she wrapped
up her features and glided round to the front of the house, where she
paused to observe the carriages and cabs driving up to receive the
fashionable crowd stepping down from the doors. Standing here in the
throng which her own talent and ingenuity had drawn together, she
appeared to enjoy herself by listening for a minute or two to the names
of several persons of more or less distinction as they were called out,
and then regarded attentively the faces of others of lesser degree: to
scrutinize the latter was, as the event proved, the real object of the
journey from round the corner. When nearly every one had left the doors,
she turned back disappointed. Ethelberta had been fancying that her
alienated lover Christopher was in the back rows to-night, but, as far as
could now be observed, the hopeful supposition was a false one.
When she got round to the back again, a man came forward. It was
Ladywell, whom she had spoken to already that evening. 'Allow me to
bring you your note-book, Mrs. Petherwin: I think you had forgotten it,'
he said. 'I assure you that nobody has handled it but myself.'
Ethelberta thanked him, and took the book. 'I use it to look into
between the parts, in case my memory should fail me,' she explained. 'I
remember that I did lay it down, now you remind me.'
Ladywell had apparently more to say, and moved by her side towards the
carriage; but she declined the arm he offered, and said not another word
till he went on, haltingly:
'Your triumph to-night was very great, and it was as much a triumph to me
as to you; I cannot express my feeling--I cannot say half that I would.
If I might only--'
'Thank you much,' said Ethelberta, with dignity. 'Thank you for bringing
my book, but I must go home now. I know that you will see that it is not
necessary for us to be talking here.'
'Yes--you are quite right,' said the repressed young painter, struck by
her seriousness. 'Blame me; I ought to have known better. But perhaps a
man--well, I will say it--a lover without indiscretion is no lover at
all. Circumspection and devotion are a contradiction in terms. I saw
that, and hoped that I might speak without real harm.'
'You calculated how to be uncalculating, and are natural by art!' she
said, with the slightest accent of sarcasm. 'But pray do not attend me
further--it is not at all necessary or desirable. My maid is in the
carriage.' She bowed, turned, and entered the vehicle, seating herself
beside Picotee.
'It was harsh!' said Ladywell to himself, as he looked after the
retreating carriage. 'I was a fool; but it was harsh. Yet what man on
earth likes a woman to show too great a readiness at first? She is
right: she would be nothing without repulse!' And he moved away in an
opposite direction.
'What man was that?' said Picotee, as they drove along.
'O--a mere Mr. Ladywell: a painter of good family, to whom I have been
sitting for what he calls an Idealization. He is a dreadful simpleton.'
'Why did you choose him?'
'I did not: he chose me. But his silliness of behaviour is a hopeful
sign for the picture. I have seldom known a man cunning with his brush
who was not simple with his tongue; or, indeed, any skill in particular
that was not allied to general stupidity.'
'Your own skill is not like that, is it, Berta?'
'In men--in men. I don't mean in women. How childish you are!'
The slight depression at finding that Christopher was not present, which
had followed Ethelberta's public triumph that evening, was covered over,
if not removed, by Ladywell's declaration, and she reached home serene in
spirit. That she had not the slightest notion of accepting the impulsive
painter made little difference; a lover's arguments being apt to affect a
lady's mood as much by measure as by weight. A useless declaration like
a rare china teacup with a hole in it, has its ornamental value in
enlarging a collection.
No sooner had they entered the house than Mr. Julian's card was
discovered; and Joey informed them that he had come particularly to speak
with Ethelberta, quite forgetting that it was her evening for
tale-telling.
This was real delight, for between her excitements Ethelberta had been
seriously sick-hearted at the horrible possibility of his never calling
again. But alas! for Christopher. There being nothing like a dead
silence for getting one's off-hand sweetheart into a corner, there is
nothing like prematurely ending it for getting into that corner one's
self.
'Now won't I punish him for daring to stay away so long!' she exclaimed
as soon as she got upstairs. 'It is as bad to show constancy in your
manners as fickleness in your heart at such a time as this.'
'But I thought honesty was the best policy?' said Picotee.
'So it is, for the man's purpose. But don't you go believing in sayings,
Picotee: they are all made by men, for their own advantages. Women who
use public proverbs as a guide through events are those who have not
ingenuity enough to make private ones as each event occurs.'