She wondered whether Evelyn ever troubled her head about such things.
Deliciously vague day-dreams began to float through her mind, so that she reached out a hand and turned out the lamp, leaving the firelight to play alone over the room. She would see Evelyn again thatt evening, and she would see Miles Vane-Merrick, too; he would dance with her, and she would chaff him about being at a party. Secretly she hoped that he would ask her to stay at his old castle; if she could secure thatt invitation she would be perfectly satisfied with the success of the evening. She must make it her goal. But of the two, she thought that she most wanted to see Evelyn; her heart would turn over, as it always did, when she first caught sight of Evelyn in the room. She would be content, just to be in the same room with her. Evelyn might make life seem more dangerous and more exciting, but she also made it seem safer; she seemed to have deep, strong resources within herself upon which one could draw and rely. She made one feel that one must not be frightened of life, not apprehensive of the perils which might be lurking just round the corner; it was cowardly to evade, cowardly to run away, even though one might suffer. Evelyn, she divined, would suffer if she must, but gallantly; she would take it all as a part of living, the rough with the smooth,—though Evelyn liked the smooth as well as anybody; she liked being an attractive woman, she liked tyrannising over people in her charming, half-kindly, half-cruel, way; she liked power, and, being very much a woman, used all her femininity to get it; she would, however, take the consequences bravely, even as she imposed them on other people. If she had certain standards, she was as prepared to live up to them herself as to exact them of others.
She would see Evelyn at the dance tonight. The danger, tile reassurance, would all start into life again. And Miles Vane-Merrick would be there; he had said so. Her thoughts became hazy; she floated away; after a little while, she slept.
What a cold, rough night it was! so cold and rough that the usual little crowd of people had failed to collect on the pavement to see the Quality dashing out of its motors into Chevron House for the ball. Grosvenor Square was deserted, but for the procession of motors drawing up, one by one, depositing their loads, and gliding off again into the darkness against the railings, there to wait until the linkman bawled out the names at two or three o’clock in the morning. There was only one shivering old woman, trying to sell matches, by the steps of Chevron House. The very doors of the house had to be kept shut, opening as though by magic to admit each fresh arrival, and shutting again instantly, to exclude the wintry blast that otherwise would have rushed up the stairs, undoing the warm influence of the radiators, ruffling the women’s hair, and disturbing the white lilies that stood so stately in their great golden wine-coolers at the corner of every step. Gentlemen’s cloak-room to the right; ladies’ cloakroom to the left; quantities of powdered footmen showing the way, contriving to be at the same time majestic and deferential; it was all very grand, all very much according to Ruth Jarrold’s ideas of how things ought to be done. It was a pity that the eccentric duke, the master of the house, should be away on one of his inexplicable and unnecessary travels; but it really made very little difference, since he was still unmarried, and his mother gave the party in his absence,—a party which he would probably have vetoed had he been in England, for his disapproval of such extravagance was well known and, among his equals, richly derided. It was perhaps not a pity at all, but a good thing, that the duke should be somewhere in Asia instead of in London.
His mother stood at the top of the stairs, receiving her guests. She was somewhat wrinkled and withered, though it was evident that she had once been pretty,—Ruth recalled the words ‘piquante’ and ‘petite’ in her mother’s cross-word puzzle,—and she carried on the traditions of her age gallantly into a changing world. She was still lively and voluble in the extreme; still had a word, a dozen words, a hundred words, for everybody as she shook hands, though her manner was flexible enough to admit many variations, so slight as to be imperceptible save to those who were very touchily on the look-out, such as Ruth Jarrold, for instance, who imagined that she detected a slight falling-off of the note of intimacy in the duchess’ greeting compared with her greeting of Lord and Lady Roehampton who had immediately preceded the Jarrolds. “Sylvia, darling!” she had exclaimed; “dear George!” but to Ruth’s mother and father she had said only, “Oh, Hester, how nice to see you,—and Mr. Jarrold, too,—and dear little Ruth,—you’ll find all your friends in there,” indicating the ballroom. Her manner, though polite and even cordial, had implied a note of dismissal, whereas her manner towards the Roehamptons had implied only that she would fain detain them in conversation, but for her duties as a hostess and the press of other guests on the stairs. But perhaps Ruth was over-sensitive.
Once inside the ballroom, however, she had no cause for complaint. Young men by the dozen came up, asking her to dance. She had the pleasure of refusing several, either because she was genuinely engaged, or because she thought that a judicious procrastination would enable her to make a better choice later on. Ruth never lost her head, even when she was enjoying herself most.
She wondered, as she danced, turning rhythmically under the great chandeliers, what it would feel like to be the mistress of those sumptuous rooms. But it was no good thinking of thatt, for the duke, although a bachelor, was proverbially inaccessible.
Her cup of pleasure was not yet full: she had not yet discovered Evelyn. Evelyn would not take much notice of her. She never did at parties. Presumably she had something more amusing to do. She would just give Ruth a smile, and a word, before passing on. But the smile and the word would be so intimate, so caressing, that Ruth would be more enslaved than ever.
Ruth felt that life at such moments was too good to be true. She revelled in the lights, and the music, and in the privileged crowd of which she was one. Surely, she thought, the English upper classes (a horrid expression, but she must define them somehow) were the most decorative on earth. They looked as though for generations they had been well-fed, well-warmed, well-exercised, and nourished in the conviction that the world could not produce their peers. The standard of looks was amazing; they had the distinction and beauty of thoroughbred animals. The young men were as elegant as greyhounds, the young women coloured as a herbaceous border. What did it matter, Ruth would have added, had she thought of it, that those sleek heads contained no more brains than a greyhound’s, since those slender bodies expressed an equal grace? What did it matter that their code should strangely enough involve a contempt for the intellectual advantages which might have been theirs? What did it matter that they should immure themselves within the double barricade of their class and their nationality? But Ruth had no such thoughts, being herself one of them, or, at any rate, so good an adaptation as to resemble them in almost every particular.
She was more definitely class-conscious than they, thatt was all. She could not quite take things for granted. She consciously enjoyed being Ruth Jarrold, dancing at Chevron House.
All the dance-tunes sounded much the same, and thatt, in itself, was reassuring. Faintly lascivious, faintly cacophonous; a young man’s arm round one, a young man’s body surprisingly close, his breath on one’s hair, and yet a disharmony between oneself and him, or, at most, a fictitious temporary closeness which tumbled to pieces as soon as the music stopped. They were held together, she and the young men, only by their similar circumstances and their pleasure-loving frivolity. There were other things; such other things, for instance, as Evelyn by her personality suggested.
She looked across the room, over her partner’s shoulder, and through the blaze of lights and the movement of enlaced couples saw Evelyn dancing with Miles Vane-Merrick.
She was glad, welcoming any link which might strengthen Vane-Merrick’s friendship with her family. It even crossed her mind that Evelyn might be dancing with him for her, Ruth’s, sake,—testing the young man in whom her niece had revealed an interest. Dear Evelyn, thatt
was the kind of thing she would do, if only to indulge her weakness for having a finger in all the Jarrold pies. Ruth continued to dance, waiting for the moment when the turn of the dance would come, enabling her to observe once more the dark head and the fair, associated so harmoniously together. A disturbing tenderness overwhelmed her, seeing them thus unexpectedly combined, those two of whom she had hitherto thought quite separately: Evelyn whom she openly loved, and Miles whom she knew she could openly love at any moment, like an explosion produced by a touch on a prepared train of fire; indeed, she was not sure that the explosion had not been already produced by the mere sight of Evelyn in Miles’ arms. Were they really dearer to her, those two, than anything else on earth, that the sight of them in alliance should move her to such a strong emotion?—It was surprising to see them together; so intimately and physically together as a dance necessitated. It was almost shocking. It was shocking that Evelyn’s head should come so close to Miles’ shoulder. She, Ruth, had never thought of them before as such vivid physical entities.
The music stopped and the illusion vanished; Ruth became once more a girl faced with the problem of talking to a young man she scarcely knew, between two dances. Fortunately the interval between two dances was a brief one, and those who had nothing to say to one another could then find other partners, and those who had everything to say could sit out. Ruth was one of those who found another partner. She carried a secret contentment within her, being sure that presently Miles Vane-Merrick would find her, and that in the delicious intimacy between two dances they would talk about Evelyn, and would agree.
Every moment which went by added something to her happy anticipation. It was an exquisite state of mind to be in, grown more exquisite since she had admitted to herself that she could love Miles Vane-Merrick. To admit that she could love him meant that she did love him. She took the plunge in her own mind, and then looked at him again, a new and rapturous terror possessing her, so that a physical uneasiness overcame her, her heart beat irregularly, her head swam slightly, a choking sensation rose in her throat, her head fell back a little, and her eyes closed even as her lips parted. It lasted for a second only; she came to herself almost instantly, and found herself still dancing with a young man whose arm was about her and who had noticed nothing wrong. The black cloth of his coat was very near her eyes, she could see the threads of the weaving. She went on dancing, but she was a different person: something of enormous importance had taken place.
When Miles came up to her, it was only by an effort that she could remember that he knew nothing of what had happened. His manner was quite ordinary as he asked her for a dance. The one after next, she answered, wondering how she should survive until then, wondering how she should endure it when it came. And to think that it meant nothing to him at all! for having received her answer he thanked her and turned away without even an extra glance. Such ignorance on his part was unbelievable.
The music struck up again, but feeling that she must be alone Ruth slipped out of the ballroom, jostled as she went by the crowd of returning people. Noise and laughter and music; lights and parquet floors and abounding flowers. A ball at Chevron House, with such hidden things going on in one’s heart. Men’s voices saying, “Where are you running away to, Ruth? Come and dance with me!” But she disentangled herself from them all, saying that she had torn her dress and must get a stitch put in it in the cloak-room, saying anything, only to get away.
On her way down the stairs she met Evelyn coming up. Evelyn was laughing with the man whom she was with. She looked extraordinarily gay and mischievous, as though she sparkled all over from some inner source of excitement and happiness. With one hand she picked up her frock; the other rested lightly on the banisters, a great fan made of tortoise-shell and eagles’ feathers dangling on a ribbon from her wrist. A little diamond monogram twinkled as it caught the light. Slender though she was, she looked almost statuesque to-night, in the closely-swathed gown of ivory satin reaching to the ground, and no colour on her anywhere, nothing but the soft ivory which made her rounded throat look whiter, and showed up the network of blue veins on her breast. Her skin looked as cool as marble, as warm as ivory. The only colour was in her mouth and in her cheeks, which were brightly flushed; in her dark blue eyes and short, curling hair. Ruth noticed how straight she held herself, although so flexible; how small her head was, and how delicately poised.
“Running away, Ruth?” she said, as the others had said.
Ruth gave her prepared excuse, then she felt that Evelyn was scrutinising her very closely. She was looking at her with a searching, mocking glance,—the expression she put on when she was about to make fun of somebody. The man, bored by this encounter, had gone up a step or two and was waiting for Evelyn, tapping his fingers rather impatiently on the banisters. Ruth had an impulse to say something; to release something of the turmoil pent-up within her. “Evelyn,” she said, and stopped.
“What is it, then? Come, now! What is it?” Evelyn looked at her, sparkling with enquiry and mischief. She was radiant, quizzical, and animated. But she was unsafe. “Come, Ruth, what’s in your mind?”
“Nothing,” said Ruth. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Yes!—are you? A lovely party. Well, go and get yourself mended, since you won’t say what you were going to say.”
She doesn’t know what I was going to say, thought Ruth; she wanted me to pay her a compliment, to tell her she was lovely tonight, to tell her I was glad to see her; thatt’s all she wanted, and all that she expected. What was I going to say, anyhow? Nothing; there’s nothing to say.
Coming upstairs again she met Evelyn coming down, accompanied this time by Miles Vane-Merrick. The strains of music floated out on to the landing above. They both smiled at her casually, but did not stop.
Ruth returned to the ballroom feeling as though something had happened to dim the lights. When the time came for Vane-Merrick’s dance, she cut it.
Christmas at the Jarrolds’ was always a very deliberate affair. William Jarrold believed in keeping up old English traditions, and since it was an old English tradition that the head of the house should keep Christmas with his family around him, to Newlands the family had to go, whether they would have preferred to be elsewhere or not. Then, the pervading theory that everyone should be festive amounted to a royal command. It was hard to see why a number of grown-up people should behave like a pack of children because the calendar indicated the twenty-fifth of December, but so it was. From earliest morning on Christmas-day, the house resounded with cries of delight and expressions of gratitude, and every room looked as though a waste-paper basket had been emptied over the floor. Then came church, and then luncheon, with the yearly argument as to whether one ought to blow out the brandy or not. In the afternoon the excitement subsided a little, and one went out for a walk. After dinner they had crackers, and everyone, from William Jarrold down to Minnie, Ruth’s little sister, adorned their heads with paper caps and blew ear-splitting blasts on wooden whistles. Minnie went round the littered dinner-table, collecting the coloured crinkly paper off the crackers, the mottoes, and the pictures of black cats stuck on the outside. Then they went into the drawing-room and turned on the wireless, and had the usual difficulty in getting Minnie to go to bed. Next day all the writing-tables in the house were occupied by people writing to say thank you. Such was Christmas at Newlands, and there was no reason to suppose that it would be different this year from any other.
Evelyn was not looking forward to the prospect; this year even less than usual.
She had Dan to herself for two or three days first, in London. He had to be stowed away in the tiny spare-room at the flat. When he arrived she was lying in bed opening her letters and looking at the papers, for she had not expected him quite so early. She could scarcely believe that it was his voice she heard, as deep as a man’s voice, saying “Hullo, Privett,” in the passage, but next moment he came into her room. “Dan!”
she cried, opening her arms to him. He bent down and kissed her, saying, “Hullo, Mummy,” in his deep voice, as he had said it to Privett. She hugged him to her. He kissed her again.
Presently he sat eating his breakfast off a tray beside her bed, while, propped on her elbow, she regarded him with pride. At seventeen and a half, he was very large, sleek, and good-looking. Not spotty; she was thankful that he should not be spotty. In spite of his size,—his physique was really magnificent,—his face was perhaps rather too pretty for a boy. There was perhaps too much sensitiveness revealed by mouth and chin. But he had beautiful eyes, as brown as a fawn’s, and a beautiful white brow, with dark hair growing thick and low. He was rather grave, taking some time to unbend from the sober and courteous manner habitual to him; immaculately and unostentatiously dressed, having inherited his mother’s taste for clothes; his hands were long and sensitive, but surprisingly dirty, which did not seem to go with the rest of him. A suggestion of some suppressed complexity, grinding at work behind the reticence of his manner, made grown-up people say, according to the degree of their own intelligence, either that Dan Jarrold was an interesting boy or that there was something wrong with him. Whatever they said, Dan Jarrold went quietly on his own way, taking very little notice of anybody.
Family History Page 5