But his face betrays none of these reflections, — its expression is one of polite gravity, though a sudden sweetness smooths it as he shakes hands with Lord Winsleigh and Lorimer, — a sweetness that shows how remarkably handsome Beau can look if he chooses. He rests one hand on Lorimer’s shoulder.
“Why, George, old boy, I thought you were playing the dutiful son at Nice? Don’t tell me you’ve deserted the dear old lady! Where is she? You know I’ve got to finish that argument with her about her beloved Byron.”
Lorimer laughs. “Go and finish it when you like, Beau,” he answers. “My mother’s all right. She’s at home. You know she’s always charmed to see you. She’s delighted with that new book of yours.”
“Is she? She finds pleasure in trifles then—”
“Oh no, Mr. Lovelace!” interrupts Lady Clara, with a winning glance. “You must not run yourself down! The book is exquisite! I got it at once from the library, and read every line of it!”
“I am exceedingly flattered!” says Lovelace, with a grave bow, though there is a little twinkling mockery in his glance. “When a lady so bewitching condescends to read what I have written, how can I express my emotion!”
“The press is unanimous in its praise of you,” remarks Lord Winsleigh cordially. “You are quite the lion of the day!”
“Oh quite!” agrees Beau laughing. “And do I not roar ‘as sweet as any nightingale’? But I say, where’s the new beauty?”
“I really do not know to whom you allude, Mr. Lovelace,” replies Lady Winsleigh coldly. Lorimer smiles and is silent. Beau looks from one to the other amusedly.
“Perhaps I’ve made a mistake,” he says, “but the Duke of Roxwell is responsible. He told me that if I came here to-night I should see one of the loveliest women living, — Lady Bruce-Errington. He saw her in the park. I think this gentleman” — indicating Sir Francis Lennox, who bites his moustache vexedly— “said quite openly at the Club last night that she was the new beauty, — and that she would be here this evening.”
Lady Winsleigh darts a side glance at her “Lennie” that is far from pleasant.
“Really it’s perfectly absurd!” she says, with a scornful toss of her head. “We shall have housemaids and bar-girls accepted as ‘quite the rage’ next. I do not know Sir Philip’s wife in the least, — I hear she was a common farmer’s daughter. I certainly invited her to-night out of charity and kindness in order that she might get a little accustomed to society — for, of course, poor creature! entirely ignorant and uneducated as she is, everything will seem strange to her. But she has not come—”
“Sir Philip and Lady Bruce-Errington!” announces Briggs at this juncture.
There is a sudden hush — a movement of excitement, — and the groups near the door fall apart staring, and struck momentarily dumb with surprise, as a tall, radiant figure in dazzling white, with diamonds flashing on a glittering coil of gold hair, and wondrous sea-blue earnest eyes, passes through their midst with that royal free step and composed grace of bearing that might distinguish an Empress of many nations.
“Good heavens! What a magnificent woman!” mutters Beau Lovelace— “Venus realized!”
Lady Winsleigh turns very pale, — she trembles and can scarcely regain her usual composure as Sir Philip, with a proud tenderness lighting up the depths of his hazel eyes, leads this vision of youth and perfect loveliness up to her, saying simply —
“Lady Winsleigh, allow me to introduce to you — my wife! Thelma, this is Lady Winsleigh.”
There is a strange sensation in Lady Winsleigh’s throat as though a very tight string were suddenly drawn round it to almost strangling point — and it is certain that she feels as though she must scream, hit somebody with her fan, and rush from the room in an undignified rage. But she chokes back these purely feminine emotions — she smiles and extends her jewelled hand.
“So good of you to come to-night!” she says sweetly. “I have been longing to see you, Lady Errington! I dare say you know your husband is quite an old acquaintance of mine!”
And a langourous glance, like fire seen through smoke, leaps from beneath her silky eyelashes at Sir Philip — but he sees it not — he is chatting and laughing gaily with Lorimer and Beau Lovelace.
“Indeed, yes!” answers Thelma, in that soft low voice of hers, which had such a thrilling richness within it— “and it is for that reason I am very glad to meet you. It is always pleasant for me to know my husband’s friends.”
Here she raises those marvellous, innocent eyes of hers and smiles; — why does Lady Winsleigh shrink from that frank and childlike openness of regard? Why does she, for one brief moment, hate herself? — why does she so suddenly feel herself to be vile and beneath contempt? God only knows! — but the first genuine blush that has tinged her ladyship’s cheek for many a long day, suddenly spreads a hot and embarrassing tide of crimson over the polished pallor of her satiny skin, and she says hurriedly —
“I must find you some people to talk to. This is my dear friend, Mrs. Rush-Marvelle — I am sure you will like each other. Let me introduce Mrs. Van Clupp to you — Mrs. Van Clupp, and Miss Van Clupp!”
The ladies bow stiffly while Thelma responds to their prim salutation with easy grace.
“Sir Francis Lennox” — continues Lady Winsleigh, and there is something like a sneer in her smile, as that gentleman makes a deep and courtly reverence, with an unmistakable look of admiration in his sleepy tiger-brown eyes, — then she turns to Lord Winsleigh and adds in a casual way, “My husband!” Lord Winsleigh advances rather eagerly — there is a charm in the exquisite nobility of Thelma’s face that touches his heart and appeals to the chivalrous and poetical part of his nature.
“Sir Philip and I have known each other for some years,” he says, pressing her little fair hand cordially. “It is a great pleasure for me to see you to-night, Lady Errington — I realize how very much my friend deserves to be congratulated on his marriage!”
Thelma smiles. This little speech pleases her, but she does not accept the compliment implied to herself.
“You are very kind, Lord Winsleigh” — she answers; “I am glad indeed that you like Philip. I do think with you that he deserves every one’s good wishes. It is my great desire to make him always happy.”
A brief shadow crosses Lord Winsleigh’s thoughtful brow, and he studies her sweet eyes attentively. Is she sincere? Does she mean what she says? Or is she, like others of her sex, merely playing a graceful part? A slight sigh escapes him, — absolute truth, innocent love, and stainless purity are written in such fair, clear lines on that perfect countenance that the mere idea of questioning her sincerity seems a sacrilege.
“Your desire is gratified, I am sure,” he returns, and his voice is somewhat sad. “I never saw him looking so well. He seems in excellent spirits.”
“Oh, for that!” and she laughs. “He is a very light-hearted boy! But once he would tell me very dreadful things about the world — how it was not at all worth living in — but I do think he must have been lonely. For he is very pleased with everything now, and finds no fault at all!”
“I can quite understand that!” and Lord Winsleigh smiles, though that shadow of pain still rests on his brow.
Mrs. Rush-Marvelle and the Van Clupps are listening to the conversation with straining ears. What strange person is this? She does not talk bad grammar, though her manner of expressing herself is somewhat quaint and foreign. But she is babyish — perfectly babyish! The idea of any well-bred woman condescending to sing the praises of her own husband in public! Absurd! “Deserves every-one’s good wishes!” — pooh! her “great desire is to make him always happy!” — what utter rubbish! — and he is a “light-hearted boy!” Good gracious! — what next? Marcia Van Clupp is strongly inclined to giggle, and Mrs. Van Clupp is indignantly conscious that the Errington diamonds far surpass her own, both for size and lustre.
At that moment Sir Philip approaches his wife, with George Lorimer and Beau Lovelace. The
lma’s smile at Lorimer is the greeting of an old friend — a sun-bright glance that makes his heart beat a little quicker than usual. He watches her as she turns to be introduced to Lovelace, — while Miss Van Clupp, thinking of the relentless gift of satire with which that brilliant writer is endowed, looks out for “some fun” — for, as she confides in a low tone to Mrs. Marvelle— “she’ll never know how to talk to that man!”
“Thelma,” says Sir Philip, “this is the celebrated author, Beaufort Lovelace, — you have often heard me speak of him.”
She extends both her hands, and her eyes deepen and flash.
“Ah! you are one of those great men whom we all love and admire!” she says, with direct frankness, — and the cynical Beau, who has never yet received so sincere a compliment, feels himself coloring like a school-girl. “I am so very proud to meet you! I have read your wonderful book, ‘Azaziel,’ and it made me glad and sorry together. For why do you draw a noble example and yet say at the same time that it is impossible to follow it? Because in one breath you inspire us to be good, and yet you tell us we shall never become so! That is not right, — is it?”
Beau meets her questioning glance with a grave smile.
“It is most likely entirely wrong from your point of view, Lady Errington,” he said. “Some day we will talk over the matter. You shall show me the error of my ways. Perhaps you will put life, and the troublesome business of living, in quite a new light for me! You see, we novelists have an unfortunate trick of looking at the worst or most ludicrous side of everything — we can’t help it! So many apparently lofty and pathetic tragedies turn out, on close examination, to be the meanest and most miserable of farces, — it’s no good making them out to be grand Greek poems when they are only base doggerel rhymes. Besides, it’s the fashion nowadays to be chiffonniers in literature — to pick up the rags of life and sort them in all their uncomeliness before the morbid eyes of the public. What’s the use of spending thought and care on the manufacture of a jewelled diadem, and offering it to the people on a velvet cushion, when they prefer an olla-podrida of cast-off clothing, dried bones and candle-ends? In brief, what would it avail to write as grandly as Shakespeare or Scott, when society clamors for Zola and others of his school?”
There was a little group round them by this time, — men generally collected wherever Beau Lovelace aired his opinions, — and a double attraction drew them together now in the person of the lovely woman to whom he was holding forth.
Marcia Van Clupp stared mightily — surely the Norwegian peasant would not understand Beau’s similes, — for they were certainly incomprehensible to Marcia. As for his last remark — why! she had read all Zola’s novels in the secrecy of her own room, and had gloated over them; — no words could describe her intense admiration of books that were so indelicately realistic! “He is jealous of other writers, I suppose,” she thought; “these literary people hate each other like poison.”
Meanwhile Thelma’s blue eyes looked puzzled. “I do not know that name,” she said. “Zola! — what is he? He cannot be great. Shakespeare I know, — he is the glory of the world, of course; I think him as noble as Homer. Then for Walter Scott — I love all his beautiful stories — I have read them many, many times, nearly as often as I have read Homer and the Norse Sagas. And the world must surely love such writings — or how should they last so long?” She laughed and shook her bright head archly. “Chiffonnier! Point du tout! Monsieur, les divines pensées que vous avez donné au monde ne sont pas des chiffons.”
Beau smiled again, and offered her his arm. “Let me find you a chair!” he said. “It will be rather a difficult matter, — still I can but try. You will be fatigued if you stand too long.” And he moved through the swaying crowd, with her little gloved hand resting lightly on his coat-sleeve, — while Marcia Van Clupp and her mother exchanged looks of wonder and dismay. The “fisherwoman” could speak French, — moreover, she could speak it with a wonderfully soft and perfect accent, — the “person” had studied Homer and Shakespeare, and was conversant with the best literature, — and, bitterest sting of all, the “peasant” could give every woman in the room a lesson in deportment, grace, and perfect taste in dress. Every costume looked tawdry beside her richly flowing velvet draperies — every low bodice became indecent compared with the modesty of that small square opening at Thelma’s white throat — an opening just sufficient to display her collar of diamonds — and every figure seemed either dumpy and awkward, too big or too fat, or too lean and too lanky — when brought into contrast with her statuesque outlines.
The die was cast, — the authority of Beau Lovelace was nearly supreme in fashionable and artistic circles, and from the moment he was seen devoting his attention to the “new beauty,” excited whispers began to flit from mouth to mouth,— “She will be the rage this season!”— “We must ask her to come to us!”— “Do ask Lady Winsleigh to introduce us!”— “She must come to our house!” and so on. And Lady Winsleigh was neither blind nor deaf — she saw and heard plainly enough that her reign was over, and in her secret soul she was furious. The “common farmer’s daughter” was neither vulgar nor uneducated — and she was surpassingly lovely — even Lady Winsleigh could not deny so plain and absolute a fact. But her ladyship was a woman of the world, and she perceived at once that Thelma was not. Philip had married a creature with the bodily loveliness of a goddess and the innocent soul of a child — and it was just that child-like, pure soul looking serenely out of Thelma’s eyes that had brought the long-forgotten blush of shame to Clara Winsleigh’s cheek. But that feeling of self-contempt soon passed — she was no better and no worse than other women of her set, she thought — after all, what had she to be ashamed of? Nothing, except — except — perhaps, her “little affair” with “Lennie.” A new emotion now stirred her blood — one of malice and hatred, mingled with a sense of outraged love and ungratified passion — for she still admired Philip to a foolish excess. Her dark eyes flashed scornfully as she noted the attitude of Sir Francis Lennox, — he was leaning against the marble mantel-piece, stroking his moustache with one hand, absorbed in watching Thelma, who, seated in an easy chair which Beau Lovelace had found for her, was talking and laughing gaily with those immediately around her, a group which increased in size every moment, and in which the men were most predominant.
“Fool!” muttered Lady Winsleigh to herself, apostrophizing “Lennie” in this uncomplimentary manner. “Fool! I wonder if he thinks I care! He may play hired lacquey to all the women in London if he likes! He looks a prig compared to Philip!”
And her gaze wandered, — Philip was standing by his wife, engaged in an animated conversation with Lord Winsleigh. They were all near the grand piano — and Lady Clara, smoothing her vexed brow, swept her ruby velvets gracefully up to that quarter of the room. Before she could speak, the celebrated Herr Machtenklinken confronted her with some sternness.
“Your ladyshib vill do me ze kindness to remember,” he said, loftily, “zat I am here to blay! Zere has been no obbortunity — ze biano could not make itself to be heard in zis fery moch noise. It is bossible your ladyshib shall require not ze music zis efening? In zat case I shall take my fery goot leave.”
Lady Winsleigh raised her eyes with much superciliousness.
“As you please,” she said coolly. “If you are so indifferent to your advantages — then all I can say is, so am I! You are, perhaps, known on the Continent, Herr Machtenklinken, — but not here — and I think you ought to be more grateful for my influence.”
So saying, she passed on, leaving the luckless pianist in a state of the greatest indignation.
“Gott in Himmel!” he gasped, in a sort of infuriated sotto voce. “Ze Emberor himself would not have speak to me so! I come here as a favor — her ladyshib do not offer me one pfenning, — ach! ze music is not for such beoble! I shall brefer to blay to bigs! Zere is no art in zis country!—”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 108