THE DEBUT.
The door was open. The long drawing-room afforded a sort of processional
path for the newcomer. Her dress was not white like that of the ordinary
_debutante_. It had a yellow golden glow of colour, warm yet soft. She
walked not with the confused air of a novice perceiving herself
observed, but with a slow and serene gait like a young queen. She was
not alarmed by the consciousness that everybody was looking at her. Not
to have been looked at would have been more likely to embarrass Bice.
Her beautiful throat and shoulders were uncovered, her hair dressed
more elaborately than that of English girls in general. English
girls--the two innocents in blue, who were nice girls enough, and stood
with their mouths and eyes open in speechless wonder and
admiration--seemed of an entirely different species from this dazzling
creature. She made a momentary pause on the threshold, while all the
beholders held their breath. Montjoie, for one, was struck dumb. His
commonplace countenance changed altogether. He looked at her with his
face growing longer, his jaw dropping. It was more than a sensation, it
was such a climax of excitement and surprise as does not happen above
once or twice in a lifetime. The whole company were moved by similar
feelings, all except the Contessa, lying back in her chair, and Lucy,
who stood rather troubled, moving from one foot to another, clasping and
unclasping her hands. Jock, roused by the murmur, turned round with a
start, and eyed her too with looks of wild astonishment. She stood for a
moment looking at them all--with a smile which was half mischievous,
half appealing--on the threshold, as Bice felt it, not only of Lady
Randolph's drawing-room, but of the world.
Sir Tom had started at the sight of her as much as any one. He had not
been in the secret. He cried out, "By Jove!" like Montjoie. But he had
those instincts which are, perhaps, rather old-fashioned, of protection
and service to women. He belonged to the school which thinks a girl
should not walk across a room without some man's arm to sustain her, or
open a door for herself. He started forward with a little sense of being
to blame, and offered her his arm. "Why didn't you send for me to bring
you in if you were late?" he cried, with a tone in which there was some
tremor and vexation. The effectiveness of her appearance was terrible to
Sir Tom. She looked up at him with a look of pleasure and kindness, and
said, "I was not late," with a smile. She looked taller, more developed
in a single day. But for that little pucker of vexation on Sir Tom's
forehead they would have looked like a father and daughter, the father
proudly bringing his young princess into the circle of her adorers. Bice
swept him towards Lucy, and made a low obeisance to Lady Randolph, and
took her hand and kissed it. "I must come to you first," she said.
"Well?" said the Contessa, turning round to her retainers with a quick
movement. They were all gazing at the _debutante_ so intently that they
had no eyes for her. One of them at length replied, with something like
solemnity: "Oh, I understand what you mean, Contessa; anybody but you
would have to abdicate." "But not you," said another, who had some
kindness in his heart. The Contessa rose up with an air of triumph. "I
do not want to be compelled," she said, "I told you. I give up. I will
take your arm Mr. St. John, as a private person, having relinquished my
claims, and leave milord to the new _regime_."
This was how it came about, in the slight scuffle caused by the sudden
change of programme, that Bice, in all her splendour, found herself
going in to the dining-room on Lord Montjoie's arm. Notwithstanding that
he had been struck dumb by her beauty, little Montjoie was by no means
happy when this wonderful good fortune fell upon him. He would have
preferred to gaze at her from the other side of the table: on the whole,
he would have been a great deal more at his ease with the Contessa. He
would have asked her a hundred questions about this wonderful beauty;
but the beauty herself rather frightened the young man. Presently,
however, he regained his courage, and as lack of boldness was not his
weak point, soon began to lose the sense of awe which had been so strong
upon him. She smiled; she was as ready to talk as he was, as the
overwhelming impression she had made upon him began to be modified by
familiarity. "I suppose," he said, when he had reached this point, "that
you arrived to-day?" And then, after a pause, "You speak English?" he
added, in a hesitating tone. She received this question with so merry a
laugh that he was quite encouraged.
"Always," she said, "since I was a child. Was that why you were afraid
of me?"
"Afraid?" he said; and then he looked at her almost with a recurrence of
his first fright, till her laugh reassured him. "Yes I was frightened,"
Lord Montjoie said; "you looked so--so--don't you know? I was struck all
of a heap. I suppose you came to-day? We were all on the outlook from
something the Contessa said. You must be clever to get in without
anybody seeing you."
"I was far more clever than that," said Bice; "you don't know how clever
I am."
"I dare say," said Lord Montjoie, admiringly, "because you don't want
it. That's always the way."
"I am so clever that I have been here all the time," said Bice, with
another laugh so joyous,--"so jolly," Montjoie said, that his terrors
died away. But his surprise took another development at this
extraordinary information.
"By Jove!" he cried, "you don't mean that, Miss--Mademoiselle--I am so
awfully stupid I never heard--that is to say I ain't at all clever at
foreign names."
"Oh, never mind," cried Bice; "neither am I. But yours is delightful; it
is so easy, Milord. Ought I to say Milord?"
"Oh," cried Montjoie, a little confused. "No; I don't think so--people
don't as a rule."
"Lord Montjoie, that is right? I like always to know----"
"So do I," said Montjoie; "it's always best to ask, ain't it, and then
there can be no mistakes? But you don't mean to say _that_? You here
yesterday and all the time? I shouldn't think you could have been hid.
Not the kind of person, don't you know."
"I can't tell about being the kind of person. It has been fun," said
Bice; "sometimes I have seen you all coming, and waited till there was
just time to fly. I like leaving it till the last moment, and then there
is the excitement, don't you know."
"By Jove, what fun!" said Montjoie. He was not clever enough, few people
are, to perceive that she had mimicked himself in tone and expression.
"And I might have caught you any day," he cried. "What a muff I have
been."
"If I had allowed myself to be caught I should have been a greater--what
do you call it? You wear beautiful things to do your smoking in, Lord
Montjoie; what is it? Velvet? And why don't you wear them to
dinner?--you would look so much more handsome. I am very fond myself of
beautiful clothes."
"Oh, by Jove!" cried Montjoie again, with something like a blush.
"You've seen me in those things! I only wear them when I think nobody
sees. They're something from the East," he added, with a tone of
careless complacency; for, as a matter of fact, he piqued himself very
much upon this smoking-suit which had not, at the Hall, received the
applause it deserved.
"You go and smoke like that among other men? Yes, I perceive," said
Bice, "you are just like women, there is no difference. We put on our
pretty things for other ladies, because you cannot understand them; and
you do the same."
"Oh, come now, Miss---- Forno-Populo! you don't mean to tell me that you
got yourself up like that for the sake of the ladies?" cried the young
man.
"For whom, then?" said Bice, throwing up her head; but afterwards, with
the instinct of a young actress, she remembered her _role_, which it was
fun to carry out thoroughly. She laughed. "You are the most clever," she
said. "I see you are one that women cannot deceive."
Montjoie laughed, too, with gratified vanity and superior knowledge.
"You are about right there," he said. "I am not to be taken in, don't
you know. It's no good trying it on with me. I see through ladies'
little pretences. If there were no men you would not care what guys you
were; and no more do we."
Bice made no reply. She turned upon him that dazzling smile of which she
had learned the secret from the Contessa, which was unfathomable to the
observer but quite simple to the simple-minded; and then she said: "Do
you amuse yourself very much in the evening? I used to hear the voices
and think how pleasant it would have been to be there."
"Not so pleasant as you think," said the young man. "The only fun was
the Contessa's, don't you know. She's a fine woman for her age, but
she's---- Goodness! I forgot. She's your----"
"She is _passee_," said the girl calmly. "You make me afraid, Lord
Montjoie. How much of a critic you are, and see through women, through
and through." At this the noble Marquis laughed with true enjoyment of
his own gifts.
"But you ain't offended?" he said. "There was no harm meant. Even a lady
can't, don't you know, be always the same age."
"Don't you think so?" said Bice. "Oh, I think you are wrong. The
Contessa is of no age. She is the age she pleases--she has all the
secrets. I see nobody more beautiful."
"That may be," said Montjoie; "but you can't see everybody, don't you
know. She's very handsome and all that--and when the real thing isn't
there--but when it is, don't you know----"
"English is very perplexing," said Bice, shaking her head, but with a
smile in her eyes which somewhat belied her air of simplicity. "What may
that be--the real thing? Shall I find it in the dictionary?" she asked;
and then their eyes met and there was another burst of laughter,
somewhat boisterous on his part, but on hers with a ring of
lightheartedness which quenched the malice. She was so young that she
had a pleasure in playing her _role_, and did not feel any immorality
involved.
While this conversation was going on, which was much observed and
commented on by all the company, Jock from one end of the table and Mr.
Derwentwater from the other, looked on with an eager observation and
breathless desire to make out what was being said which gave an
expression of anxiety to the features of MTutor, and one of almost
ferocity to the lowering countenance of Jock. Both of these gentlemen
were eagerly questioned by the ladies next them as to who this young
lady might be.
"Terribly theatrical, don't you think, to come into a room like that?"
said the mother of the girls in blue. "If my Minnie or Edith had been
asked to do it they would have died of shame."
"I do not deny," said Mr. Derwentwater, "the advantage of conventional
restraints. I like the little airs of seclusion, of retirement, that
surround young ladies. But the----" he paused a little for a name, and
then with that acquaintance with foreign ways on which Mr. Derwentwater
prided himself, added, "the Signorina was at home."
"The Signorina! Is that what you call her--just like a person that is
going on the stage. She will be the--niece, I suppose?"
Jock's next neighbour was the lady who was engaged in literature. She
said to Jock: "I must get you to tell me her name. She is lovely. She
will make a great sensation. I must make a few notes of her dress after
dinner--would you call that yellow or white? Whoever dressed her knew
what they were about. Mademoiselle, I imagine, one ought to call her. I
know that's French, and she's Italian, but still---- The new beauty!
that's what she will be called. I am so glad to be the first to see her;
but I must get you to tell me her name."
Among the gentlemen there was no other subject of conversation, and but
one opinion. A little hum of curiosity ran round the table. It was far
more exciting than tableaux, which was what some of the guests had
expected to be arranged by the Contessa. Tableaux! nothing could have
been equal to the effect of that dramatic entry and sudden revelation.
"As for Montjoie, all was up with him, but the Contessa knew what she
was about. She was not going to throw away her effects," they said.
"There could be no doubt for whose benefit it all was." The Contessa
graciously baffled with her charming smile all the questions that were
poured upon her. She received the compliments addressed to her with
gracious bows, but she gave no reply to any one. As she swept out of the
room after dinner she tapped Montjoie lightly on the arm with her fan.
"I will sing for you to-night," she said.
In the drawing-room the elements were a little heterogeneous without the
gentlemen. The two girls in blue gazed at this wonderful new competitor
with a curiosity which was almost alarm. They would have liked to make
acquaintance, to draw her into their little party of youth outside the
phalanx of the elders. But Bice took no more note of them than if they
had been cabbages. She was in great excitement, all smiles and glory.
"Do I please you like this?" she said, going up to Lucy, spreading out
all her finery with the delight of a child. Lucy shrank a little. She
had a troubled anxious look, which did not look like pleasure; but Lady
Anastasia, who wrote for the newspapers, walked round and round the
_debutante_ and took notes frankly. "Of course I shall describe her
dress. I never saw anything so lovely," the lady said. Bice, in the glow
of her golden yellow, and of her smiles and delight, with the noble
correspondent of the newspapers examining her, found the acutest
interest in the position. The Contessa from her sofa smiled upon the
scene, looking on with the air of a gratified exhibitor whose show had
succeeded beyond her hopes. Lady Randolph, with an air of anxiety in her
fair and simple countenance, stood behind, looking at Bice with
protecting yet disturbed and troubled looks. The mother and daughters at
the other side looked on, she all solid and speechless with
disapproval, they in a flutter of interest and wonder and gentle envy
and offence. More than a tableau; it was like an act out of a play. And
when the gentlemen came in what a sudden quickening of the interest!
Bice rose to the action like a heroine when the great scene has come,
and the others all gathered round with a spectatorship that was almost
breathless. The worst feature of the whole to those who were interested
in Bice was her own evident enjoyment. She talked, she distributed her
smiles right and left, she mimicked yet flattered Montjoie with a
dazzling youthful assurance which confounded Mr. Derwentwater, and made
Jock furious, and brought looks of pain not only to the face of Lucy but
also to that of Sir Tom, who was less easily shocked. She was like a
young actress in her first triumph, filling her _role_ with a sort of
enthusiasm, enjoying it with all her heart. And when the Contessa rose
to sing, Bice followed her to the piano with an air as different as
possible from the swift, noiseless self-effacement of her performance on
previous occasions. She looked round upon the company with a sort of
malicious triumph, a laugh on her lips as of some delightful
mystification, some surprise of which she was in the secret. "Come and
listen," she said to Jock, lightly touching him on the shoulder as she
passed him. The Contessa's singing was already known. It was considered
by some with a certain contempt, by others with admiration, as almost as
good as professional. But when instead of one of her usual performances
there arose in splendid fulness the harmony of two voices, that of Bice
suddenly breaking forth in all the freshness of youth, unexpected,
unprepared for, the climax of wonder and enthusiasm was reached. Lady
Anastasia, after the first start and thrill of wonder, rushed to the
usual writing-table and dashed off a hurried note, which she fastened to
her fan in her excitement. "Everybody must know of this!" she cried. One
of the young ladies in the background wept with admiration, crying,
"Mamma, she is heavenly," while even the virtuous mother was moved.
"They must intend her for the stage," that lady said, wondering,
withdrawing from her _role_ of disapproval. As for the gentlemen, those
of them who were not speechless with enthusiasm were almost noisy in
their excitement. Montjoie pressed into the first rank, almost touching
Bice's dress, which she drew away between two bars, turning half round
with a slight shake of her head and a smile in her eyes, even while the
loveliest notes were flowing forth from her melodious throat. The
listeners could hear the noble lord's "by Jove," in the midst of the
music, and even detect the slight quaver of laughter which followed in
Bice's wonderful voice.
The commotion of applause, enthusiasm, and wonder afterwards was
indescribable. The gentlemen crowded round the singers--even the
parliamentary gentlemen had lost their self-control, while the young
lady who had wept forgot her timidity to make an eager approach to the
_debutante_.
"It was heavenly: it was a rapture: oh, sing again!" cried Miss Edith,
which was much prettier than Lord Montjoie's broken exclamations, "Oh,
by Jove! don't you know," to which Bice was listening with delighted
mockery.
Bice had been trained to pay very little attention to the opinions of
other girls, but she gave the young lady in blue a friendly look, and
launched over her shoulder an appeal to Jock. "Didn't you like it,
you?" she cried, with a slight clap together of her hands to call his
attention.
Jock glared at her over Miss Edith's shoulder. "I don't understand
music," he said, in his most surly voice. These were the distinct
utterances which enchanted Bice amid the murmurs of more ordinary
applause. She was delighted with them. She clapped her hands once more
with a delight which was contagious. "Ah, I know now, this is what it is
to have _succes_," she cried.
"Now," said the Contessa, "it is the turn of Lord Montjoie, who is a
dab--that is the word--at singing, and who promised me three for one."
At this there rose a hubbub of laughter, in the midst of which, though
with many protestations and remonstrances, "don't you know," that young
nobleman was driven to the fulfilment of his promise. In the midst of
this commotion, a sign as swift as lightning, but, unlike lightning,
imperceptible, a lifting of the eyebrows, a movement of a finger, was
given and noted. In such a musical assembly the performance of a young
marquis, with nobody knows how many thousands a year and entirely his
own master, is rarely without interest. Mr. Derwentwater turned his back
with marked indifference, and Jock with a sort of snort went away
altogether. But of the others, the majority, though some with laughter
and some with sneers, were civil, and listened to the performance. Jock
marched off with a disdain beyond expression; but he had scarcely issued
forth into the hall before he heard a rustle behind him, and, looking
back, to his amazement saw Bice in all the glory of her golden robes.
"Hush!" she cried, smothering a laugh, and with a quick gesture of
repression, "don't say anything. It must not be discovered that I have
run away!"
"Why have you run away? I thought you thought no end of that little
scug," cried savage Jock.
Bice turned upon him that smile that said everything and nothing, and
then flew like a bird upstairs.