“THE PRELUDE TO SOME BRIGHTER WORLD.”
While the Lancers were being danced to the good old hilarious tunes,
which always give an air of boisterous gaiety to a public ball-room,
Vansittart, ignoring all further obligations to his home party, went in
search of little Mr. Tivett, so that by impounding that gentleman he
should make sure of an introduction to Miss Marchant before the next
dance.
He found the agreeable Tivett in an anteroom, an apartment much
affected by sitters out, and peculiarly congenial to flirtation, where
the good little man had found agreeable occupation in pinning up the
lace flounce of a portly matron in yellow satin, not too portly to
indulge in round dances, which imparted an alarmingly purple shade to
the pearly whiteness of her complexion. “Only mother-of-pearl,” as Mr.
Tivett said afterwards. “You may be quite happy about your Mechlin,
dear lady,” said Tivett, after planting the last pin; “nothing but the
stitches gone. No harm done to your lovely lace, I assure you.”
“He was a clumsy bear all the same. How sweet of you, dear Mr. Tivett!
Ten thousand thanks. And now I’ll run back to my party, or my young man
will be looking for me for the next waltz;” and the lady waddled away
pantingly, to be steered carefully round the room by-and-by, in the
protecting arm of a tall youth, who had an eye to free luncheons and
dinners in the best part of Belgravia.
“You lucky little man,” cried Vansittart, when the lady was gone, “in
favour with both youth and age. You save Mrs. Fotheringay’s priceless
Mechlin, and you secure your first waltz with the belle of the ball.”
Tivett gave a little conscious laugh, and shook his suède glove at
Vansittart airily.
“Pretty girl, that Miss Marchant, ain’t she?” said he, “and not a bit
of nonsense about her; naïveté itself. You should have heard her and
the sisters prattle in the ’bus, while the Champernownes sat looking
thunder.”
“You dog, I believe that bronchitis of yours was all humbug. Come along
with me, Tivett; I am going to waylay Miss Marchant, and you must
introduce me to her.”
“She’ll be parading about with that black-muzzled man, most likely. I
don’t like to shoot another fellow’s bird.”
“Nonsense. She doesn’t like the black man. She didn’t want to
dance with him. I am going to be Ivanhoe and rescue her from that
black-bearded Templar.”
“I couldn’t quite make her out,” said Tivett. “She seemed not to want
to dance with him, and yet she let him march her off. I fancy there’s
an understanding between them. No doubt the puss is an arrant flirt,”
said Tivett, with his little coquettish shrug, as if he were flirting
himself.
Miss Marchant and Sefton, the black-bearded, came into the anteroom at
the head of a procession of youths and maidens, and in the confusion
made by so many couples pouring out of the big room into the small
room, Vansittart contrived to waylay the lady. She dropped Sefton’s arm
and turned smilingly to Tivett, and in the next moment the introduction
was made, while Sefton was captured by the eldest Miss Champernowne, to
whom he was engaged for the next dance.
Miss Marchant’s programme was still a blank, and she allowed Vansittart
to write down his name for a couple of waltzes. There was no question
now of unwritten engagements blocking the way. He gave her his arm, and
they walked slowly to the ball-room, talking those commonplaces with
which even the most fateful acquaintance must needs begin.
Vansittart talked of the long, cold drive; of the rooms, with their red
and white panels, and vizards and other emblems of the chase; of the
heat and the draughts; of the people, the faces, the frocks. Easily as
she had prattled with the lively Tivett, Vansittart found her somewhat
reticent, and even shy. But she waltzed delightfully, and he had never
enjoyed a dance better than this dance, in which his arm was round that
slender waist, and that pretty, fair head with its crystal starlets was
almost level with his own, so tall and straight was she.
The waltz ended, these two dancing till the final chord, he took her
for the conventional scamper through anteroom and tea-room, which
communicated with each other by a canvas corridor, delightfully cool
and dangerously draughty, and so back to the ball-room, where he
restored her to the worthy lady in the red gown, with whom sat the
younger Marchant girls, who were glad to dance one dance out of three;
like those hunting men of modest pretensions who were satisfied with
a day a week. They were quite aware that although tolerated by the
county, and invited to garden-parties, they were not in society, and
must not expect that the fine flower of the hunt, greatly in request
among a majority of the fair sex, would indulge them with more than an
occasional dance. Secure of an after-supper waltz with Eve, Vansittart
remembered his home engagements, tore himself away from Miss Marchant,
and went across the room to that galaxy of the best people in which
his sister had her place. The Champernownes were wandering with
their partners, but Miss Green was sitting by Lady Mandelford, and
entertaining that mild old lady with the cheap cynicism which passes
current for wit.
Vansittart booked himself for his second dance with Miss Green, and
then went to look for the Champernownes. He found Claudia enjoying a
confidential chat with Mr. Sefton in a corner of the anteroom, and
avoided them both as if they had been plague-stricken.
He discovered a younger Champernowne in the tea-room, and offered
himself for those dances so lightly promised in the morning. She had
kept some numbers open for him. He went to the other sister and wrote
his name on her programme for other two waltzes, and this, with his
number on Miss Green’s programme, and the two still owing to Claudia,
left him a very poor chance of sitting out a dance or two with Miss
Marchant. He pined for one quiet quarter of an hour of confidential
talk with her. He wanted to make friends with her; so that she should
prattle to him as freely as she had prattled to little Tivett.
That golden opportunity did not come till late in the evening. His
dance with Claudia Champernowne came at just the hour when all the best
people were pouring into the supper-room. When their waltz was over
he could not avoid asking her to go in to supper, and she promptly
accepted.
“There will be a crowd,” she said, “but we shall get the first of the
oysters, and the scrimmage will be more fun than a half-empty room.”
It was an hour later when he danced his extra with Eve Marchant. The
next dance was the Caledonians.
“Surely you are not going to dance the Caledonians?” he said. “It is a
cruelty to keep the floor from all those portly matrons in fine raiment
who are sighing for a square dance.”
“I am happy to say I am not engaged for the Caledonians.”
“Then let us go into that little talking-room. Of course you have been
in to supper?”
Miss Marchant owned blushingly that she had not supped.
“Poor dear Mrs. Ponto had been sitting so long in her corner,” she
said, “so I asked my last partner to take her in.”
“Poor dear partner, I think. What a sacrifice for him! Why, you must be
famishing. And I’m afraid all the oysters must have been eaten by this
time.”
“I can be quite happy without oysters.”
“Can you? The youngest Miss Champernowne was inclined to scold the
waiters because of the poor supply of natives.”
“The Miss Champernownes are used to such luxuries as oysters, and can’t
do without them,” laughed Eve. “My sisters and I have been brought up
in a harder manner.”
“Curious, isn’t it, how fashion changes?” said Vansittart, taking her
to a little table in the furthest corner of the room--a tiny table that
would only just accommodate two people. “When Byron was in society it
was considered odious for a young woman to care what she eat, or to
have a healthy appetite. Nowadays, it is rather chic for a girl to
be a gourmet. We have bread-and-butter Misses affecting a fine taste
in dry champagne and a passion for quails. And now what can I get
you--mayonnaise lobster, truffled turkey, boar’s head, chicken?”
She decided for chicken, and trifled with a wing while Vansittart
sipped a glass of champagne, enchanted to have her all to himself in
this corner, wishing that the Caledonians might last for ever, and
inclined to be reckless about his engagement for the waltz that was to
follow.
“You have been dancing every dance, I think,” he said.
“No; not all. I sat in my corner with Mrs. Ponto all through a most
exquisite waltz.”
“Was it possible you had no partner?”
“Mr. Sefton asked me to dance--and I told him I was tired.”
“I have an idea you don’t much like Mr. Sefton?”
“No, he’s not a favourite of mine; but he has always been very kind,
and he has given my father some shooting; so I don’t want to be rude to
him.”
“Was that why you danced the Lancers with him, after refusing him a
dance?”
“How did you know I refused him? Ah, I remember, you were sitting in
the tea-room. You must have heard all we said.”
“Every syllable.”
“How flattering to the lady who was talking to you!”
“Dear Miss Green! Oh, she would not mind. She is so pleased with her
own conversation that it does not matter whether people listen or
not. She is a lady who shakes hands with herself every morning, and
says, ‘My dear soul, you are really the cleverest, wittiest, brightest
creature I know--not exactly beautiful, but infinitely charming,’ and
in that humour she comes smiling down to breakfast, and lets us all see
what poor creatures she thinks us.”
“I find you can be ill-natured, Mr. Vansittart. You are not like Lady
Hartley, who has always a kind word to say of every one.”
“That is my sister’s little way. She pays most of her debts with kind
words.”
“Ah, but she has given us more than words. She asks us to her
delightful summer parties, and seems always glad to see us.”
“She is very lucky to have such young ladies at her parties. What would
a garden-party be if there were not faces in the crowd worth following
and asking questions about? But what of Mr. Sefton? I am interested in
Mr. Sefton.”
“Why?” she asked, with innocent wonder.
“Oh, for various reasons. My father and his father were once friends.
And then he is a landowner, a great man in these parts, and one always
wants to know about such people.”
“Yes, he has a fine estate, and he is said to be rich; but he is not
as popular as his father was. I remember old Mr. Sefton, a splendid
gentleman. But this Mr. Sefton and my father get on very well together.”
“You say he has been kind. How kind?”
“He asks my father to shooting parties, and he sends us game, and
grapes, and pines. I would rather for my own part that he didn’t, for
we can give him nothing in return. Sophy wanted to work him a pair of
slippers--preposterous--as if he were a curate! My two nursery sisters
offered to make him a set of mats in Russian cross-stitch. Imagine
sending Mr. Sefton mats for his toilet table.”
“He scarcely looks the kind of man to appreciate that particular form
of attention. Tivett, now, would be delighted with such a gift. There
is nothing too microscopic or too feminine to interest that dear little
man.”
“He is a dear little man. It is quite delightful to hear him talk about
London people and London parties.”
“Did he set you longing to be in the whirl of a London season?”
“I don’t know. It would be very nice, for once in one’s life; but I
am quite happy in our country home, as long as--as,” she faltered a
little, “father is well and contented.”
He felt that in this faltering phrase there was a hint of domestic
cares. Hubert Hartley had told him, during a few minutes’ talk on the
omnibus, that Colonel Marchant was something of a Bohemian, and a
difficult man to get on with.
“I always feel sorry for those five girls of his,” Sir Hubert concluded.
“You are wise in liking your country life,” said Vansittart. “It is the
happier life. All my best days are at Merewood--our place near Liss. Do
you know Liss, by-the-by?”
“No, indeed. I know there is such a place somewhere between here and
Portsmouth.”
“You must have passed it, I think. I dare say you sometimes go to
Southsea or to the Isle of Wight for your summer holidays.”
“You dare to say too much,” she answered, with her frank, girlish
laugh. “We never go anywhere for our summer holidays. We live in the
same house all the year round. When a poor man has five daughters he
can’t afford to carry them about to seaside lodgings, which are always
dreadfully dear in the season, I am told. I think we ought to go back
to the ball-room. I am engaged for the next waltz.”
“And I, to a most exacting partner.”
The waltz was half over when they entered the dancing-room, and Hilda
Champernowne, who saw them enter side by side, looking very happy, was
evidently offended.
“It is hardly worth while standing up,” she said; “the waltz is just
over.”
“I thought it had only just begun.”
“That shows how engrossed you must have been.”
“I was giving a young lady some supper, and a young lady who might have
starved but for me.”
“Impossible! The young lady was Miss Marchant, whom you yourself
pronounced the belle of the ball. Mr. Tivett told me so.”
“In such an assembly as this--where there is some of the best blood in
England--there are many belles,” said Vansittart. “Will you come for a
turn round the rooms, if you won’t dance?”
The lady rose, and took his arm, somewhat mollified, and in the
course of that turn--which could not, from the limited space, last
very long--she questioned Vansittart sharply about Miss Marchant.
Did he think her good style? Had he found her bright and clever in
conversation, or was she very dull?
“The poor things go nowhere, I am told, except to garden-parties, where
they are lost in a crowd of nobodies. It has been too sad to see them
sitting with that awful woman in the red gown. Why do girls go to
dances to endure such purgatory? I would as soon sit in the pillory,
like Daniel Defoe, as in that corner with the crimson lady.”
“Oh, but they have been dancing a good deal. Theirs is not quite such a
piteous case as you make out.”
“Have they really?” asked Miss Champernowne, with a disparaging drawl;
“I’m glad some one has taken compassion upon them. They’ve always been
sittin’ when I happened to look their way.”
The Champernownes and the Marchants met an hour later in the
cloak-room, and this time Lady Hartley formally introduced the Miss
Marchants to the haughty Devonians, in the hope that this might make
the return journey a little more sociable; a vain hope, for the
Champernownes and Miss Green affected to be overcome by sleep as soon
as they had settled themselves in the omnibus. So Mr. Tivett and the
Marchants had all the talk to themselves, as before, with an occasional
kindly word from the hostess, who was genuinely sleepy, and who dreamt
that she and the Marchant girls were travelling in Italy, and that
their carriage was stopped by brigands.
The brigand-in-chief was her own groom, who came to open the door, and
assist the young ladies to alight at their garden gate. But he was not
allowed to do more than hold the door open, for Vansittart was standing
on the whitened road ready to hand his partner and her sisters to the
ground. They alighted as airily as Mercury on the heaven-kissing hill.
“Dear Lady Hartley, we have no words to express our gratitude,” said
Sophy, as Maud shook hands with her at parting.
Eve was less demonstrative, but not less grateful, and the youngest of
the three only murmured something unintelligible from between the folds
of her tartan shawl.
Vansittart opened a low wooden gate. The house stood boldly out against
the clear moonlit sky; but he had no time to look at it, for he was
absorbed in guiding Eve Marchant’s footsteps on the slippery garden
path, while the groom followed in attendance on her sisters. The path
was smooth as glass, and he almost held her in his arms as they went
slowly up the sharp little hill that led to the rustic porch.
An old woman opened the door, and the three girls were speedily
absorbed into a dark vestibule, a single candle glimmering in the
distance.
“Are we very late, Nancy?” asked Eve.
“Not later than I thowt you’d be,” answered the woman, with a
north-country accent; and then there was nothing for Vansittart to do
except to wish the three sisters good night, and go back to the ’bus,
where Sir Hubert was beginning to be uneasy about his horses waiting in
the frosty air.
“Cuts into them like knives,” said Sir Hubert, as his brother-in-law
clambered on to the box. “You might have made shorter work of seeing
Miss Marchant to her door.”
“I might have let her fall on that inclined plane,” growled Vansittart.
“Capital for tobogganing, but very dangerous for a young lady in satin
shoes.”
“Poor girl, I wonder where her next satin shoes will come from,” said
Hubert.
“Is the Colonel so very hard up?”
“Very, I should think, since he is always in debt to the little
tradespeople about here.”
“And on the strength of that you all talk about those three girls as if
they were lepers,” retorted Vansittart. “I have no patience with the
pettiness of village society.”