Dinner that night was a very grand affair. Fledge inspired awe by his
majestic mien--Fledge liked duchesses--and Burton and William, the
recently promoted, with their heads striped with grease and powder,
looked to the enraptured eyes of the female servants their very best.
There were crimson roses in beautiful silver vases on the table, and in
the centre stood a particularly hideous but very valuable silver
ship--"given," as Tommy once gravely explained to a guest, "by somebody
or other--a king, or an admiral, I think--to one of my ancestors, in the
seventeenth century, who did something or other rather well."
Lady Kingsmead, under the Duchess' influence, was suffering from one of
her attacks of thinking Tommy "quaint," so, by the old lady's
suggestion, the boy was allowed to sit at the foot of his own table,
pretending, as he had told his sister he should find it necessary to do,
to be as young as his mother's guests.
The Duchess, greatly diverted by his demeanour, and reinforced on her
other side by an amusing, sad dog of thirty, who wrote wicked novels,
thoroughly enjoyed her dinner. There are so many reasons for enjoying
one's dinner; some people do because they like to meet their
fellow-creatures; some because they like being seen at certain houses;
some because they have beauty to display or stories to tell; and some
because they enjoy eating and drinking simply as eating and drinking.
The Duchess, in that she enjoyed dining for all the reasons above cited,
except that of bothering her ancient head about whose house she was seen
at, was extremely pleased with her entertainment. She wagged her old
head--white now, quite frankly, after many years of essays in difficult
tints--whispered to her novelist, and made love to Tommy quite
shamelessly.
"You look like an Eastern potentate, you are so silent and serious," she
told him once. "Do I bore you so horribly, or is it Miss Letchworth?"
"I am not bored at all, Duchess," answered the boy simply; "I am
thinking."
"And what are you thinking about?"
Tommy hesitated. Under her frivolous manner he knew the Duchess had a
heart, and very human sympathies.
"I want to be a violinist," he said slowly, after a pause during which
the Duchess, with a little shriek, rescued her salad, which William had
pounced upon.
"A violinist!"
"Hush! Please don't tell."
"Of course I'll not tell, but----"
"Have you heard him play?"
"Joyselle? Of course I have."
"Well?" asked Tommy in quiet triumph. What more could anyone say?
The old woman smiled sweetly at him. She, too, had been young, and
remembered. And there was in this little, plain boy a certain strain of
blood that she loved; his grandmother had been a Yeoland.
"So you really love it that much, do you? It means hard work, Tommy."
"I know," nodded the boy gravely.
And his mother, seeing his gravity, feared that he was not being
sufficiently quaint to amuse the old lady, and screamed down the table
at him to tell the Duchess the story of the jibbing pony at the Irish
race meeting. The story was not told.
On her right hand Lady Kingsmead had the local M.F.H., a dull man with
his head full of hounds, as she expressed it. But on her left sat
Joyselle, and as a guest he was certainly perfect. Lady Kingsmead in
pale pink and pearls was good enough to look at, and feeling that she
wished to be made love to, he made love to her, as was his duty. And he
did it well, for he was an artist. He was not conspicuous, or
over-impassioned, or over-adoring (very few women like unmixed
adoration), but he was amusing, a trifle outrageous, admiring, and
tactful. He was also amazingly handsome.
Down to her left Lady Kingsmead could see Carron being bored to death by
the wife of the M.F.H., who, someone said, if he had _his_ head full of
hounds and foxes, certainly had hers full of coals and blankets. For the
vicar was a bachelor, and poor Lady Brinsley hated hounds and foxes, and
really loved helping the poor. And being of the simple-minded who talk
to strangers out of the fulness of their hearts, she was telling him
sadly of the shameful way in which the coal-dealer had cheated poor,
dear Mr. Smith.
Mentally damning poor, dear Mr. Smith and his friend, as well as the
whole race of coal-dealers, Carron watched Brigit as she talked to Théo
and her other neighbour, Pat Yelverton, who watched her in quite evident
surprise.
"May I be rude and make a personal remark?" he asked her presently. She
smiled. "Yes." Yelverton hesitated, and then said slowly: "You have
changed wonderfully since I last saw you, Lady Brigit."
"You mean that I am not so disagreeable?"
"I mean----"
"I know. And you are right, Mr. Yelverton. I was very horrid, and now I
am--nicer--because I am very happy. It's a selfish reason, but I hope I
can use it as--as a kind of means to a good end."
Yelverton held his breath. Was it possible that the mere fact of being
engaged to a sweet-natured youth like Théo Joyselle could cause such a
miracle as this before his eyes? What was the boy to change Brigit from
a sullen, caustic woman into a charming, lovely young girl?
"I am very glad for you," he said presently, "and for him. I'm a sorry
old stager, Lady Brigit, but it is good to see two young things like you
and Joyselle find each other--in time."
As so often happens, his mood was answering hers, and she remembered
some story she had heard long ago about him and some girl who had
drowned herself.
"Thank you," she said very gently, and turned to Théo, for she had a
manlike fear of intruding on people's secrets. But Yelverton was one of
those unfortunate beings who, when they turn to their sentimental past,
must turn not to the memory of one face, but to a kind of romantic
mosaic of many faces that in time takes on the horrid semblance of a
composite photograph. So it is to be feared that the sad little story of
the girl who drowned herself because he who loved her, made casual and,
so to speak, duty-love to a married woman, had not occurred to him, as
Brigit in her new-found kindliness of supposition, took for granted.
It was a wonderful dinner to the girl; wonderful in the indulgence that
had come over her regarding her _convives_, and in the interesting
things she found it possible to glean from the snatches of talk she
caught from time to time. Alert, bright-eyed, an unwonted smile ever
hovering on her mouth, she listened, and young Joyselle watched her in a
fearful ecstasy of joy.
He felt, in his innocent youth, so old, so wicked, so world-worn for
this radiant angel who had given, herself to him. It was too good to be
true, and he trembled at the thought. But after dinner, when he had at
last been able to fly to the drawing-room, the Duchess had a beautiful
word to say to him. "Mr. Joyselle," the old woman began abruptly,
beckoning to him, "come here for a second, I want to congratulate you."
"Thank you, Duchess. I--I am indeed to be congratulated, for she is the
most perfect----"
"Tà, tà, tà, I don't mean that at all! I mean I want to congratulate you
on what you have been able to do for her in so short a time."
"I? To do for her?" He was honestly puzzled.
"Yes, you. Do you suppose she has always been what she is now? Not a bit
of it. The last time I saw Brigit Mead--it was at Ascot--she was a very
good-looking, of course--oh, unbelievably beautiful, if you prefer it,
but an ill-tempered, black-faced young minx, who should have been put on
bread and water for a month to correct her manner."
"Her manners!" shouted Théo, unable to believe his ears.
"No. Her manners were always all right, but her manner was atrocious.
And you have made her most delightful, as well as ten times lovelier
than I would have thought possible. There, now, you may go to her." And
Théo wasted no time.
"Love is a strange thing, isn't it?" went on the old woman to her
neighbour, without looking to see who he was, for it is a remark that
may safely be addressed to anybody.
"It is a damnable thing," growled the afflicted Carron, for it was he
who chanced, for his sins, to have paused just then under the pretence
of lighting a cigarette.
"Exactly," assented the Duchess briskly. "It has led you an awful life,
Gerald, hasn't it?"
"The absurdity of calling that boy's feelings for Brigit by the same
word that must express----"
"Yours for her mother, eh? Go away, you immoral thing!"