One night Jack dashed into my chambers and carried me off to a reception
at the house of John Thackwell, the well-known Lancashire millionaire,
at Hyde Park Gate. He would hear no excuses, for Dora was to be there,
and he pointed out that I had not yet congratulated her upon her
engagement. This fact alone induced me to accompany him, but, truth to
tell, I had only once before accepted Thackwell's hospitality, and on
that occasion had been terribly bored.
Thackwell had risen from a carding-hand to be sole proprietor of
extensive mills at Oldham, and a dozen other great spinning mills in the
neighbourhood of Manchester. This Lancashire cotton-king was bluff,
honest, and unassuming, and still retained all the peculiarities of the
dialect of his youth. He had tried to enter the gate of Society by the
Parliamentary pathway, but the electors of Bamborough had returned a
young sprig of the aristocracy by a narrow majority, notwithstanding the
fact that the cotton-king had built a fresh wing to one of the
hospitals, and presented the town with a brand new redbrick free
library. In chagrin he had come to London, bought one of the finest
mansions overlooking Hyde Park, and was now endeavouring to enter the
charmed circle by entertaining all and sundry on a scale lavish even for
millionaires.
Although the bluff old bachelor was fond of placing his "J.P." after his
name, dropping his "h's," and referring on inopportune occasions to the
fact that when a lad he had assisted to build his great mill at Oldham
by carrying hods of mortar up a ladder, he was nevertheless popular
among a certain set. Many scheming and impecunious mothers with titles
and marriageable daughters coveted his wealth, and it was no secret that
several of the men registered in "Debrett," who "looked in" at his
monthly functions, were indebted to him for substantial financial
assistance.
On arrival, we found the great magnificently-furnished rooms crowded
almost to suffocation by a brilliant but decidedly mixed throng. Some
of the men who nodded to us were high-priests of Mammon, officers who
lounged in clubs without any visible means of subsistence, and idlers
about town; but there was also a fair sprinkling of those leisurely
well-dressed people who constitute what is known as London, and I
noticed at once that on the whole the guests were of a much better set
than when I had before partaken of the millionaire's hospitality.
Society resembles a bal masque, where the women never unmask themselves.
At the moment we were announced, Thackwell, a burly, florid-faced,
grey-bearded man in ill-fitting clothes, and with an enormous diamond
solitaire in the centre of his crumpled shirt-front, was talking loudly
with old Lady Stretton, who was congratulating him upon the completion
of the beautiful frescoes by the Italian artists he had employed. As I
approached, I heard the millionaire reply:
"It's shaping gradely weel, but after all I get no more pleasure out of
life than when I wor a journeyman. Yet a chap with any spirit likes to
get on, and when he has put his heart into a job, feels as if he would
rayther dee than be bet. It's cost me a sight o' money, but it doesn't
pay to scamp."
Then, noticing me, he gripped my hand heartily, and to Bethune cried:
"Well, Jack, lad, how goes it?"
"Jack, lad," smiled as he made polite reply, but did not seem to greatly
admire this style of greeting, albeit the soldier-novelist knew the
cotton-king intimately. Truly, old Thackwell was an incongruity in
Society.
Lady Stretton smiled pleasantly, and bowed to us as we pushed our way
forward among the crowd, and we were not long in discovering the
Honourable Dora, Jack's adored, comfortably ensconced in a cosy-corner,
chatting with three men we knew.
"Halloa, Ridgeway!" cried one, a club acquaintance. Then dropping his
voice he added: "Unusual to find you in the cotton-palace, isn't it?"
"I've been here once before," I replied briefly, as, turning to Dora, I
sank into a low chair near her and began to chat. Soon the others left,
and Jack and I were alone with her. When I offered her my
congratulations, she clutched my arm quickly, whispering:
"Don't let anyone overhear you. Remember, no announcement has yet been
made, and Ma is quite inexorable."
"I'm looking for it in the Morning Post each day," I laughed, while as
punishment she playfully tapped me with her ostrich-feather fan.
Though three years had elapsed since she had kissed the hand of her
Sovereign, Society had not spoiled her. She was just as fresh,
light-hearted, and ingenuous as I remembered her in her hoyden days at
Blatherwycke, and as she sat talking with her lover and myself I saw how
thoroughly charming and brilliant she was.
Her fund of vivacity was, I knew, inexhaustible. When she wished to do
honour to a melancholy occasion, her vivacity turned any slight sorrow
she had into hysterical weeping; when the occasion was joyful, it became
a torrent of frivolity that is delightful when poured forth by a happy
girl of twenty-two. This evening the occasion was distinctly joyful.
Men had complimented her upon her dress, and she had a large sense of
success.
When she spoke to Jack there was a love-look in her dark brilliant eyes
that was unmistakable, and she was altogether handsome and fascinating.
Small-featured, hers was a delicately-moulded oval face with pointed
chin and pouting lips, while at the back of her well-poised head, her
maid had deftly coiled her wealth of dark-brown hair, wherein a diamond
aigrette glittered. Her smart gown was of pale pink chine silk,
patterned in green and darker pink. The coat bodice of darker pink
moire boasted diamond buttons, kilted frills of ivory lace, the sleeves
of kilted pale green chiffon, and a large bow of green chiffon with
draped ends to the waist over a jabot of ivory lace.
Many turned and looked at her as they passed. The glow of excitement
and success burned brightly in her cheeks, and no one accused Dora of
using rouge. Lady Stretton eyed us viciously once or twice;
nevertheless, Jack held in conversation the girl he loved, and they
laughed happily together. He was telling us of an amusing incident that
had occurred during the exercise of the troopers on Hounslow Heath that
morning, and I was feeling myself de trop when Dora, looking up
suddenly, exclaimed:
"Why, here's Mabel!"
Turning quickly I found her elder sister, the Countess of Fyneshade, in
a marvellous creation in yellow, leaning over my chair.
"I've come across to talk to you, Mr Ridgeway," she exclaimed, smiling.
"I saw that Jack had quite monopolised Dora. Their public love-making
is really becoming a scandal." Then she seated herself in a dimly-lit
corner close by, and motioned me to a chair near her.