Starrbelow
Page 4
But Lord Frome had not spoken. He had danced with Christine in his turn, had walked with her, alone, along the Starrbelow gallery beneath the old portraits of her ancestors; holding her hand on his arm and wishing her happiness on this wonderful night of her birthday ball and for all the years to come. But he, who held her happiness in his keeping, spoke of it and in the very act of speaking spoke it away—for he spoke of nothing else. Now, if ever, the time to tell her what she longed to hear was come; and he said nothing. He smiled into her eyes with his own kind, loving, beloved—too long beloved—smile; and kissed her hand and tucked it into his arm again. ‘The fiddles are starting up, I must take you back to the ballroom; your next partner will be waiting.’
Sick with the last flickering of all her high flame of hope, she temporized. ‘I need not hurry. Unless, of course, you’re engaged to dance?’
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I am no dancer, as you know. I dance with you, but that is for other reasons: for—for the happiness of it.…’ She dipped him a little curtsey, clutching eagerly at the compliment implied, but he broke off; he lightened his voice and said, smiling: ‘One may dance like a bear oneself, but it can’t but be a pleasure to lead out on to the floor so lovely a lady, in so lovely a dress—and on her birthday night!’ In the ballroom below the music began in earnest but he had halted his steps and stood facing her; and now only said unhurriedly: ‘You’re sure I don’t detain you? You need not go?’
‘No, I have a—a little while yet. There’s no occasion for formality with my next partner. It’s only my cousin.’
‘You dance next with Lord Weyburn?’ His whole attitude altered immediately, he took her arm again and led her towards the stairhead. ‘Perhaps, after all, I had better return you to the ballroom. In the pleasure of your company, I’m forgetting my manners; and to my host, of all people.’ Down the broad stair he led her, almost urgently, and across the hall with its attendant footmen and through the crimson curtains that hung in their velvet folds at the doorway to the ballroom.
Lord Weyburn was standing there, looking a little anxious. ‘I deliver Miss Lillane up to you, my lord; with apologies for my part in keeping you waiting. We were detained by your great-grandfathers—we have been quizzing them up in the Long Gallery.’ Lord Weyburn looked at him sharply but in the smiling face could see nothing but the casual pleasure of an evening’s entertainment. Here was no accepted suitor: that was certain. Either he had proposed and been rejected, in which case, of course, true to etiquette and to his own consideration of the lady, he would show no sign; or he had not proposed at all. And if he had ever intended to propose—surely no time would have been so propitious as now? With a heart all of a sudden as light as air, Lord Weyburn offered his arm to his cousin Christine.
Dazed with disappointment and grief she danced like a ghost of happiness in her white birthday dress, through the lovely room; sick with the return of numbed senses to the sharpness of her sorrow, allowed him to lead her out on to the deserted terrace. Vaguely she saw through the undraped window the surge and sway as the guests regrouped themselves, to listen inattentively to the music of the spinet in the intervals of the dancing; and Lord Frome standing alone in the embrasure of an opposite window. A coach had just driven away from the portico and she could see Prince Anton of Brunswick come through the ballroom doorway and stand uncertainly just inside it, looking about him. Clearly her friend was at last arriving. Sophia’s need recalled her a little to life, she revived her attention and now gave recognition for the first time to what her cousin was saying—that he loved her, had loved her always, would love her for ever, that something like a terror of joy gripped his heart because she did not at once repudiate his love, because he dared to hope that her silence might mean consent.… Stupefied by her own grief, conscious only that at any moment Lord Frome might turn and see her outside the uncurtained window, she could only stare back into Charles Weyburn’s eyes, could find no words to speak. ‘Christine, say something—say something!’ But as she gazed speechlessly up at him—she, the remote, cool, controlled Christine, who had she not loved him would surely by now have kindly and quietly denied him?—hope grew in him, and grew. ‘Can it be possible?… All these doubts, all these fears.… Christine, don’t hold me in torment here, say just one word.’ But her tongue was paralysed. ‘Then, dearest, say nothing; but if you say nothing—am I to take it that this means everything to me?’ He stood apart from her, not touching her; and still she uttered not a word. ‘Oh, Christine!’ he said. ‘You are mine! After all this world of uncertainty, never daring to hope—can it be possible that you are mine?’ And he put out his hand to her, slowly, almost as though he were frightened, and like a man in a dream drew her to him; and at last with a swift movement caught her close in his arms and kissed her undenying lips.
She wrenched herself free of him; and in that instant saw Lord Frome turn his head and look directly across the ballroom towards the window. One thought only flashed through her mind: He will see me here in my cousin’s arms—I have lost him for ever.
And she raised her hand and with all her force struck Lord Weyburn across the face.
He stood motionless for a moment, gazing down at her, utterly incredulous. At the sharp sound of the slap, heads turned, a silence fell. Lord Frome started, stared: and suddenly turned on his heel and pushed his way through the throng towards the ballroom door, the footmen lifting the velvet curtain to let him pass through. Lord Weyburn moved at last. He stepped back, his hands fell to his sides. He said, ‘Your pardon, madame!’ and made her a bow and a flourish—very pale, with only a slowly mounting flush on his face where her hand had struck; and turned and went back into the ballroom leaving her standing there.
All about her the gardens lay dark and silent, lit only by the stars, as, weeping, she fled past the glittering windows, out into the night alone.
He went back into the ballroom, slowly, not putting up his hand to his face: moving slowly forward into the brilliant ballroom where some imported maestro tinkled unattended his little silver notes from the rosewood spinet—the crowd parting to make way for him, falling gradually silent as though from some creeping contagion of muted tongues, moving slowly forward in the sombre magnificence of his jewels and brocade, not deigning to put up his hand to cover the mark on his cheek that her hand had made. A voice said at last, to break the uneasy silence: ‘What, Charles—has The Lily turned you down?’ and there was laughter, a little high-pitched and nervous; Charles Weyburn was never a man to trifle with. A voice said: ‘She’ll come round, Charles, never fear.’ A woman standing near him said: ‘She’ll have you in the end.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘That is all over.’ And this time he did put his hand to his cheek, and touched the red mark; and the rest of his face was white with a white, cold, frozen anger that stripped away the artificial indifference of society manners, bared the outraged pride for all the world to see. He had made her an honourable proposal and for answer—this!
The Duchess of Witham, avid as ever to be at the storm centre, had squeezed her way towards him. Such an excitement!—and when they had all believed that only the dull Earl of Frome was involved. Rather, a thousand times, Weyburn. ‘For shame, my lord! Our poor Lily—such a pother over nothing! But I vow you shall have her.’ He did not answer, looking with chill disgust into her gloating eyes. ‘Or if you will not, why then we must find you another.’ She rapped him with her fan, looking delightedly about her. ‘Come, don’t look so glum, my lord, put a bold face on it: here’s not the only pretty girl in England. Come to my next rout and I’ll show you half a dozen, I warrant you, good wives enough and fit for any man’s arms.’
He bowed to her icily. ‘I thank your Grace; but I want no other wife in my arms.’ And he raised his voice suddenly and swore it aloud. ‘As long as I live—I’ll hold no other wife in my arms.’
She threw up her hands with their glitter of rings. ‘Why, then there’s nothing for it, after all. You must marry Miss Lillane.’
But she cried out, high and hooting: ‘Not so fast, sir! Not till you promise me.’
He looked at her stupidly. ‘Promise you?’
‘To marry Christine Lillane.’
To marry Christine Lillane: who had replied to his honourable proposals with a—public—slap across the face. ‘As soon, madame,’ he said, ‘would I promise to marry the next woman who walks through that door.’
A few shrugs, a few titters, an exchange of indulgent smiles. But a voice said, ‘A thousand guineas on it, my lord?’
He checked; he was brought up short. He said, over intervening heads: ‘A wager? On what?’
‘On what you’ve just said, my lord. That you’ll marry the first woman to walk through the ballroom door.’
Ah, now indeed the langour deserted them! Lord Weyburn of Starrbelow—who was known never to refuse a wager; and the challenger (did any then observe that covert glance towards the door?) the Princeling, Anton of Brunswick, whom his lordship was known to regard with little-concealed contempt. Excitement rose in them, rose like champagne bubbles all about the packed ballroom till the very candleflames in their crystal chandeliers seemed to quiver with anticipation. Painted fans made screens for exchange of shocked comment, white hands were struck motionless, handing the open snuff-box: all heads turned at the sound of murmuring in the hall outside. Belated arrivals were being questioned by the footmen, were giving their names. The voice repeated insistently on a note of odd urgency, ‘A thousand guineas, my lord?’
The moment lasted an hour: but as the footman’s white-gloved hand lifted aside the red velvet curtain, Charles Weyburn cried out, ‘Done!’
And the curtains parted: and Sapphire Devigne came in.
FOUR
They are all staring at me, thought Sapphire. They are all remembering. It is an eternity since I came through the doorway and stood here and felt their eyes on me; and this chill immobility and this silence will never end.
But it ended. A figure advanced, handsome, magnificent in dark velvet and brocade, and bowed, and took her small hand in a long white hand. A voice said: ‘Lady Corby … Miss Devigne.… I am happy to welcome you to Starrbelow.’ His voice rang out very cold and clear in the great room where the only other sound was the tiny, far-away tinkle of the spinet; she could hear the rustle and whisper of her aunt’s dress as Lady Corby curtseyed, the creak of Sir Bertram’s corseting as he bowed. She dropped into a curtsey, and could not see herself, as he saw her, poised there for a moment like a porcelain figurine, cool white dress, warm white skin, bright gold of hair, eyes cast down: red lips smiling the little smile. He raised her, still holding her hand, and led her forward into the room; and as on that other evening—nobody spoke. Now, even the spinet had ceased its tinkling; and into the silence, like Hans Andersen’s mermaid whose every step was to cause her the agony of sharp knives cutting into the flesh, Sapphire Devigne entered upon her destiny.
Lord Weyburn was apologizing for the absence of her hostess. ‘No doubt she will be here in a moment. I believe her friend, Lord Frome, has gone in search of her.’
She was a little surprised—she had seen the Earl of Frome a moment ago, standing in the hall with his carriage cloak on. But she could not give her full mind to it. All about her, conversation was resuming, the fiddles were tuning up for the dancing, the whole frozen room coming to life again; all eyes, she knew, were upon her—and into her quailing heart had been thrust a new, sharp stab of presentiment, a new threat born in that single moment when she had looked up from her curtsey and into his eyes.… I must speak. I must say something.… She stammered out that this was a happy, a very happy evening for. Miss Lillane.
‘Happy? Why? Because Lord Frome has gone in search of her?’
She opened her eyes and looked directly at him and for the first time Lord Weyburn saw the blue blaze of sapphires. ‘I meant only because it’s her birthday and you’re giving her this ball.’
‘Oh, aye,’ he said. ‘The ball. That is your notion of happiness, madame, is it? A birthday ball?’
She might have retorted that the ball to her was shame and misery, that all she longed for was to be away from it. She replied, however, indifferently, falling back upon the new manner, the new, cool front of ironic disdain with which, before all the world but Christine, she covered her vulnerability, that she had been merely making polite conversation. ‘If every exchange of civilities is to be so critically analysed, I had better keep silent.’
‘Even silence may be open to analysis.’
‘Do you keep silence also then, my lord; and we may analyse one another without giving offence.’
A spark of anger, yet not without a grudging admiration, kindled his eyes. He bowed. ‘I trust that so early in our acquaintance, I have not offended?’
‘If you have, sir, it need not signify,’ said Sapphire. ‘Our acquaintance is likely to be so short that there’ll be no time for you to do so again.’
It was his turn to look startled. Rumour had reached him that Lady Corby had destined him as a match for her niece, nor had he been slow to divine that the lady’s lover had tricked him into his present pass—that Prince Anton had been well aware, having just arrived at Starrbelow in her company, that Sophia Devigne would be the next woman to pass through the fateful door. This at least did not look like complicity on the young lady’s part. ‘Why do you predict that our acquaintance shall be short?’
‘Because, sir, my “notion of happiness” is so far removed from balls and routs and the rest of your English joys that I purpose to return to Italy as soon as I may.’
He bowed. ‘Our English joys will be the less for your going.’
‘No doubt,’ she said, coolly. ‘But the hounds will soon find some other poor creature to bay.’ And she also bowed, withdrawing. ‘The music is beginning, my lord, your place is with the dancers. I will return to my aunt.’
But he caught her hand and pulled her back to him and once more she looked up at him, startled, and once more he caught the flash of blue. ‘To your aunt! And then—to Italy? Why, madame, you do nothing but threaten to run away.’ And he put his hand behind her waist and pressed her forward into the dance with him, and she went, neither resisting nor going willingly. ‘You shall not return to your aunt—nor to Italy, either, if I can prevent it,’ said Lord Weyburn of Starrbelow to Sapphire Devigne.
Lady Corby paraded the ballroom on her husband’s arm, bowing this way and that effusively, despite the cool reception her greetings received. ‘Keep your eye on her, Bertram; I can’t afford to be seen watching.…’ She fluttered her fan and dipped a curtsey to a nervous-looking little woman huddled in a corner with a couple of cronies, watching the dancing. ‘Bow, Bertram, quickly; it is Lady Lillane, Christine’s mother. Do keep your wits about you,’ she hissed sharply, under cover of the smile. ‘She could be useful.’
Sir Bertram bowed vaguely in the general direction indicated. ‘I can’t watch Sophia and be on the look-out for useful old ladies as well: I am not cross-eyed.’
‘It would not help you if you were,’ she said, with, what was rare in her, a genuine ring of laughter.
‘Yes, it would; for I could watch Sophia and, by keeping a permanent grin on my face, convince the old pussies that I was smiling at them.’
‘How does she seem to be doing? Does he look impressed?’
‘I think one might say,’ said Sir Bertram carefully, ‘that he looks impressed: yes. Whether he looks very pleased is another matter.’
‘Is she not smiling?’
‘Oh, yes, she is smiling,’ said Sir Bertram; they both knew by now what that could mean.
‘Oh, Lord! That girl will undo herself and all of us—’
‘She has done that once already, my dear,’ said Sir Bertram, laughing in his turn.
‘Pouf—that is long forgotten: it is she alone who makes much of it. And
yet—what a hush when she made her entrance just now! I thought she’d refuse at the last minute, after all our trouble. If Lord Weyburn had not come forward, she would have. How goes it now? Are they speaking?’
‘She is speaking; by the look on her face—and his—I should say she was speaking her mind.’
‘You don’t mean—he seems angry?’ In her anxiety she stole a glance herself, from behind her fan. ‘How strange he looks: so pale, and there is a flush all down one side of his face.… But as to the expression, wouldn’t you say that he looked not so much angry as—well, as intrigued? And, look!—positively, he is leading her into the dance. Come, Bertram, we had better dance, too; we can watch best that way.’
‘Not I,’ he said. ‘What do you keep your tame monkey for? Dance with him.’
But Prince Anton was not in the ballroom; and when, later, they looked for him in the drawing-rooms and about the long buffet-tables laid out in the dining-hall, he was not there, either. For Prince Anton of Brunswick, having sold his soul to the devil, and realizing too late that it was so, had fled out into the wilderness: where his master waited.