Lady Good-for-Nothing: A Man's Portrait of a Woman

by Arthur Quiller-Couch

  Chapter V.

  SIR OLIVER'S HEALTH.

  "De lady is here, yo' Honah!"

  Manasseh announced it from the doorway and stood aside. Of the companyfour had already succumbed and slid from their chairs. The othersstaggered to their feet, Sir Oliver as promptly as any. With a faceunnaturally white he leaned forward, clutching the edge of the long ovaltable, and stared between the silver candelabra down the broken ranks ofhis guests--Mr. Silk, purple of face as his patron was pale; Ned Manley,maundering the tag of a chorus; Captain St. Maur, Captain Goodacre, andEnsign Lumley, British officers captured by the French at Fort Chanseauand released to live at Boston on parole until the war should end; Mr.Fynes, the Collector's Secretary; Mr. Bythesea, Deputy-Collector; youngShem Hacksteed and young Denzil Baynes, sons of wealthy New Englanders,astray for the while, and sowing their wild oats in a society openlyscornful of New England traditions.

  Batty Langton's was the chair nearest the door, and Batty Langton wasthe one moderately sober man of the company. He had not heard, in timeto interfere, the proposal to send for Ruth: it had started somewhere atthe Collector's end of the table. But trifler though he was, he thoughtit cruel to the girl--a damnable shame--and pulled himself together toprevent what mischief he might. At the same time he felt curious to seeher, curious to learn if these many months of seclusion had fulfilledthe Collector's wager that Ruth Josselin would grow to be the loveliestwoman in America. At Manasseh's announcement he faced about, and, witha gasp, clutched at the back of his chair.

  In the doorway stood little Miss Quiney. It was so ludicrous adisappointment that for the moment no one found speech. Langton heardGoodacre, behind him, catch his breath upon a wondering "O--oh!" andfelt the shock run down the table along the unsteady ranks. At the farend a voice--Mr. Silk's--cackled and burst into unseemly laughter.

  Langton swung round. "Mr. Fynes," he called sharply, "oblige me,please, by silencing that clergyman--with a napkin in his mouth, ifnecessary."

  He turned again to Miss Quiney. "Madam," he said, offering his arm,"let me lead you to a seat by Sir Oliver."

  The little lady accepted with a curtsy. A faint flush showed uponeither cheek bone, and in her eyes could be read the light of battle.It commanded his admiration the more that her small arm trembled againsthis sleeve. "The courage of it," he murmured; "and Miss Quiney of allwomen!"

  She needed courage. The Collector's handsome face greeted her with ascowl and a hard stare; he could be intractable in his cups.

  "Excuse me, madam, but I sent for Miss Josselin."

  She answered him, but first made low obeisance. "Ruth Josselin willattend, sir, with all despatch. The sedan is capable of accommodatingbut one at a time."

  There stood an empty chair on the Collector's right. To set it for herMr. Langton had, as a preliminary, to stoop and drag aside the legs of areveller procumbent on the floor. The effort flushed him; but MissQuiney, with an inclination of the head, slipped into the seat as thoughshe had seen nothing unusual.

  "And it gives me the occasion," she continued respectfully, as her eyespassed over the form of young Manley opposite, who stood with his glassat an angle, spilling its wine on the mahogany, "of expressing--I thankyou. . . . What? Is it Mr. Silk? A pleasure, indeed! . . .Yes, Irarely take wine, but on such an occasion as this--an occasion, as I wassaying, to felicitate Sir Oliver Vyell on his accession to a title whichwe, who have served him, best know his capacity to adorn."

  "Oh, damn!" growled the Collector under his breath.

  "Half a glassful only!" Miss Quiney entreated, as Mr. Silk poured forher. She was, in fact, desperately telling herself that if sheattempted to lift a full glass, her shaking hand would betray her.

  "Yo' Honah--Mis' Josselin!"

  Mr. Langton had caught the sound of Manasseh's footfall in the corridorwithout, and was on the alert before the girl entered. But at sight ofher in the doorway he fell back for a moment.

  Yes, the Collector's promise had come true--and far more than true.She was marvellous.

  It was by mere beauty, too, that she dazzled, helped by no jewels butthe one plain rope of pearls at her throat. She stood there holdingherself erect, but not stiffly, with chin slightly lifted; not inscorn, nor yet in defiance, though you were no sooner satisfied of thisthan a tiniest curve of the nostril set you doubting. But no; she wasneither scornful nor defiant--alert rather, as a fair animal quiveringwith life, confronting some new experience that for the moment it failsto read. Or--borrowing her morning's simile, to convert it--you mightliken her to huntress-maiden Diana, surprised upon arrested foot;instep arched, nostril quivering to the unfamiliar, eyes travelling insudden speculation over a group of satyrs in a glade. For a certaintythat poise of the chin emphasised the head's perfect carriage; as didthe fashion of her head-tire, too--the hair drawn straight above thebrows and piled superbly, to break and escape in two carelesslove-locks on the nape of the neck--in the ripple of each a smile,correcting the goddess to the woman. The right arm hung almost straightat her side, the hand ready to gather a fold of the white brocadedskirt; the left slanted up to her bosom, where its finger-tips touchedthe stem of a white rose in the lace at the parting of the bodice. . . .

  So she stood--for ten seconds maybe--under the droop of the heavycurtain Manasseh held aside for her. The hush of the room was homage toher beauty. Her gaze, passing between the lines of his guests, soughtthe Collector. It was fearless, but held a hint of expectancy. Perhapsshe waited for him to leave his place and come forward to receive her.But he made no motion to do this; not being, in fact, sufficient masterof his legs.

  "Good-evening, my lord!" She swept him a curtsy. "You sent for me?"

  Before he could answer, she had lowered her eyes. They rested on achair that happened to stand empty beside Batty Langton, and a slightinclination of the head gave Langton to understand that she wished himto offer it. He did so, and she moved to it. The men, embarrassed fora moment by their host's silence--they had expected him to answer her,but he stood staring angrily as one rebuffed--followed her cue andreseated themselves. He, too, dropped back in his chair, leaned forwardfor the decanter, and poured himself more wine. The buzz of talkrevived, at first a word or two here and there, tentative after thecheck, then more confidently. Within a minute the voices were babelagain.

  Batty Langton pondered. A baronet should not be addressed as "my lord,"and she had been guilty of a solecism. At the same time her manner hadbeen perfect; her carriage admirably self-possessed. Her choice of aseat, too, at the end of the table and furthest from Sir Oliver--if shehad come unwillingly--had been wittily taken, and on the moment, andwith the appearance of deliberate ease.

  "They will be calling on you presently to drink our host's health," hesuggested, clearing a space of the table in front of her and collectingvery dexterously two or three unused wine-glasses. Champagne? . . .Miss Quiney is drinking champagne, I see, though her neighbours havedeserted it for red wine. Sir Oliver, by the way, grows lazy in pushingthe decanters. . . . Shall I signal to him?"

  "On no account. Champagne, if you please . . . though I had rather youkept it in readiness."

  "I am sorry, Miss Josselin, but there you ask of me the one thingimpossible. I cannot abide to let wine stand and wait; and champagne--watch it, how it protests!" He filled her glass and refilled his own."By the way," he added, sinking his voice, "one is permitted tocongratulate a debutante?"

  "And to criticise."

  "There was nothing to criticise except--Oh, well, a trifle. At home inEngland we don't 'my lord' a mere baronet, you know."

  "But since he _is_ my lord?" She smiled gently, answering his puzzledstare. "How, otherwise, should I be here?"

  Mr. Langton took wine to digest this. He shook his head. "You mustforgive me. It is clear that I am drunk--abominably drunk--for I missthe point--"

  "You accuse yourself unjustly."

  "Do I? Well, I have certainly drunk a deal more wine than is good for
me, and it will be revenged to-morrow. As a rule,"--he glanced aroundat his fellow-topers--"I pride myself that in head and legs I aminexpugnable. We all have our gifts; and i' faith until a moment ago Iwas patting myself on the back for owning this one."

  "And why, Mr. Langton?"

  "On the thought, Mistress Josselin, that I had cut out the frigate, asour tars say, and towed the prize to moorings before the others couldfire a gun."

  "I had hoped," she murmured, and bent her eyes on the wine-bubbleswinking against the rim of her glass, "you did it in simple kindness."

  "Well," he owned slowly, "and so I did. This belittling of goodintentions, small enough to begin with, is a cursed habit, and I'llrenounce it for once. It was little--it was nothing; yet behold meeager to be thanked."

  "I thank you." She fingered the stem of the glass, not lifting hereyes. "But you have belittled me, too. I read it in books, and here onthe threshold, as I step outside of books, you meet me with it. Wewomen are always, it seems, poor ships, beating the seas, fleeingcapture; and our tackle, our bravery--" She broke off, and sat musing,while her fingers played with the base of the glass.

  "I take back my metaphors, Miss Josselin. I admit myself no buccaneer,but a simple ass who for once pricked ears on an honest impulse."

  "That is better. But hush! Mr. Manley, yonder, is preparing to sing."

  Mr. Manley, a young protege of the Collector's, had a streak of geniusas an architect and several lesser gifts, among them a propensity forborrowing and a flexible tenor voice. He trolled an old song, slightlyadapted--

  "Here's a health unto Sir Oliver, With a fal-la-la, lala-la-la; Confusion to his enemies, With a fa-la-la, lala-la-la; And he that will not drink his health, I wish him neither wit nor wealth, Nor yet a rope to hang himself-- With a fa-la-la, lala-la-la."

  The effort was applauded. Above the applause the bull voice of Mr. Silkshouted,--

  "But Miss Josselin has not drunk it yet! Langton monopolises her.Miss Josselin! What has Miss Josselin to say?"

  The cry was taken up. "Miss Josselin! Miss Josselin!"

  Batty Langton arose, glass in hand. "Is it a toast, gentlemen?"He glanced at Sir Oliver, who sat sombre, not lifting his eyes."Our host permits me. . . . Then I give you 'Miss Josselin!'"Acclamations drowned his voice here, and the men sprang up, waving theirglasses. Sir Oliver stood with the rest.

  "Miss Josselin! Miss Josselin!" they shouted, and drank what theirunsteady hands left unspilt. Langton waited, his full glass halfupraised.

  "Miss Josselin," he repeated very deliberately on the tail of theuproar, "who honours this occasion as Sir Oliver's ward."

  For about five seconds an awkward silence held the company.Their fuddled memories retained scraps of gossip concerning Ruth, herhistory and destiny--gossip scandalous in the main. One or two glancedat the Collector, who had resumed his seat--and his scowl.

  "The more reason she should drink his health." Again Mr. Silk wasfugleman.

  His voice braved it off on the silence. Ruth was raising her glass.Her eyes sought Miss Quiney's; but Miss Quiney's, lifted heavenward, hadencountered the ceiling upon which Mr. Manley had recently depicted thehymeneals of Venus and Vulcan, not omitting Mars; and the treatment--ariot of the nude--had for the moment put the redoubtable little lady outof action.

  Ruth leaned forward in her seat, lifting her glass high. It brimmed,but she spilled no drop.

  "To Sir Oliver!"