Babe

by Joan Smith

  “I don’t find my new demeanor so heavy a burden as you think. I have been enjoying myself very much all week.”

  “Tell me,” he asked in a confidential tone, “whose company do you prefer, Charles’s or his aunts’?”

  “Not nice, Clivedon. I thought I might have gained the reward of a compliment from you for my tractability.”

  “You have done better than that. You have gained a more tangible reward.”

  “Yes, I adore the new team. They are beautiful goers.”

  “I wasn’t referring to the grays,” he said with an expression on his face that was hard to read. If she didn’t know him better, Barbara would have said there was mischief in it. “Carefully concealed in this inner pocket, there are a couple of cheroots waiting to be sampled. Shall we sneak out to the garden?”

  “Clivedon! Are you testing me?” she asked, angry with him. “What a low stunt! You don’t believe I have changed after all.”

  “I know you have changed the neckline of your gowns, for the worse,” he mentioned.

  “I have changed more than that. I have changed myself, and shall prove it to you. If you wish to blow a cloud, find yourself a gentleman.”

  “Or a more dashing lady.” He looked off in the general direction of Miss Chumpton. “Congratulations, Babe,” he said, and turned to walk away.

  “I thought you were going to dance with me.”

  “No, I was going to go out and smoke with you, but if you have lost your taste for it, certainly I shan’t encourage you to misbehave. Ellingwood would dislike it.”

  She knew well enough this was true, but it was no thought of Ellingwood’s proprietary interest that angered her. Why had Clivedon suggested it? Was he testing her, or, more surprising still, was he serious? And he was calling her Babe lately all the time, just when she had ceased to deserve the opprobrious name. He usually called her Barbara before, except when he was angry. The whole affair put her in a very bad mood, that was not improved when that Grecian phenomenon, Lord Romeo, made a belated entrance to the assembly and walked directly towards her.

  “How beautiful you are,” was his opening speech. “A constantly recurring delight every time I see you. I am always surprised that reality outpaces the dream. You are wearing a very modest gown this evening, selected by the Philistine, I venture. It does not do justice to the contours of those heavenly shoulders, but its modesty appeals to me after the past several days. I am sated with debauchery. I have given myself to Dionysus and Bacchus. Dare I hope you have been wondering why I have not been to see you?”

  “I haven’t missed you,” she answered sharply.

  “I have missed you desperately.” As he spoke, Clivedon returned, for, having seen the fellow enter, he was wary to guard his charge. “A harlot like Adele is enchanting for a few days, but I am fatigued with her cold, professional lovemaking, and want you now.”

  Barbara cast an eye on Clivedon, hoping he might rescue her, but he made not the least move to do so. He stood listening, interested but no more. Romeo ignored him completely.

  “It is hardly likely to make you attractive to me, to brag of your doxie,” she said angrily, knowing that the last word was not a polite one, and regretting it had slipped out, as it caused Clivedon to perk up his ears.

  “I had hoped you might be jealous,” was her suitor’s simple reply. “Most girls are, but you are valiant, my Barbarian. The gods gave you that heroic quality of accepting me just as I am, without trying to change me. I admire it very much.”

  “You are easily pleased,” she told him.

  “On the contrary, I am nearly impossible to please. Only perfection can long please me. Adele gave me decreasing pleasure after the first night. Only you will please me for eternity.” Then he turned to recognize Clivedon. “As you are officially my lady’s guardian, I suppose I must humbly beg your permission to stand up with her. May I?”

  Barbara waited for the expected refusal, foreseeing it might take the form of Clivedon standing up with her himself. “That is up to the lady,” her guardian said.

  It angered her sufficiently that she took Romeo’s arm and went to stand up for the next waltz. Over the weeks, he had mastered the dance, taking “a fine Bacchanalian pleasure in it,” he said, as it gave him an excuse to hold all the girls in his arms. Being naturally graceful, he performed well. The two made a lovely picture, moving in harmony to the stirring melody of the waltz. There were several heads turned to admire them, and there was one disgruntled gentleman who stalked into the garden to smoke a cigar, alone.

  “When shall we elope?” Romeo asked her, as soon as he had got her away from Clivedon.

  “Adele might not like that,” she mentioned.

  “One’s mistress has nothing to say with regard to one’s wife. Besides, I am through with her. It was a very temporal alliance. I gave her a hundred pounds. Do you think it was enough?”

  “I expect she earned more.”

  “The sum was suggested to me by a gentleman friend. She seemed satisfied. But you don’t. My heart, you know it was always you I loved. Are you free to elope this Friday?” he asked punctiliously.

  “I’m afraid Friday is out,” she answered, lured into smiling at his foolishness. “Friday happens to be the day of my ball. I can hardly miss it, when my chaperone has gone to all the bother of arranging it.”

  “I am not allowed to come?”

  “You know they don’t want you hanging around me, Romeo,” she said, laying the blame on the others to soften the blow.

  “I know it. But I know as well that Lady Barbara, who the common people call Babe—insufferable name—is not likely to be stopped for that reason. You have a Jovian disregard for public opinion. It is one of your chief attractions, your disregard for convention. Only you, my beloved, would have dared to attend the Cyprians’ Ball. It was an honor to accompany you. Are you quite determined not to leave before the ball?”

  “Yes, quite determined. I value convention more than you know.”

  “You are making me jealous again,” he said, sounding tender. “Is there someone else? You don’t know what agonies I suffer with this jealousy, the more for the baseness of the passion. It is unworthy of me, but my hubris is dealt a blow as well. I must try to think of your feelings, to put them before my own. I wish I could be less selfish. Has Clivedon been turning you against me?” he asked suddenly.

  “To tell the truth, Romeo, he seldom mentions you.”

  “He hopes to make you forget me, as though the moon could forget her dog star. He has been a great trial to me throughout this London visit. Even with Adele I had to hear his virtues extolled. Virtue rather. He has only one in her eyes, and that his wealth. It was he as well who wrote to my father and spoiled my little surprise, interfering man. He has no taste. He had an appalling Clitias forgery in his study, which I was happy to destroy for him.”

  “Kind of you,” she answered ironically. Romeo was strangely annoying tonight, but with Clivedon ducked back in from the garden after a dozen puffs of his cheroot, she did not intend to show it.

  “Will you come to my house after the dance tonight?” Romeo asked innocently.

  “Are you having a party?”

  “A party à deux, just you and I. I would meet you in our garden after they take you home, and be sure to get you back before morning.”

  “I’m afraid you overestimate my daring, Romeo. I wouldn't dream of doing it, nor of eloping either. In fact, I shall very likely be marrying someone else before the season is over.”

  “Clysedale!” he said, stopping all movement and staring at her with strangely dilated eyes. “He means to force you to have him. I knew it all along.”

  “Don’t be foolish,” she said, jerking him back into the steps of the dance.

  “He will not get away with this,” she was told in an ominous voice. “Don’t fear I’ll let him make you do it, my dear. I shall protect you.”

  “Clivedon has no intention of marrying me. I didn’t speak of him.”<
br />
  “You can’t mean Ellswood? I have heard his name mentioned in connection with yours, but you would never be so lacking in taste. He is a wooden mannikin. Clivedon is at least an eloquent mannikin. He can rattle me off in a very high style, a style worthy of Zoitus.”

  “I know just what you mean,” she laughed, though she hadn’t a notion who Zoitus might be, nor did she care.

  “Is he cruel to you, my dear heart? Shall I kill him?”

  “He is not the least bit cruel. He is very kind, and I wish you will not kill him,” she replied, as though she urged a child not to bite a dog.

  “I must own I am glad you don’t want me to. I have never killed anyone. It would be very Grecian of course, quite in the best dramatic tradition. I admire the Greeks in the plastic arts, indeed in philosophy and everything else but their drama. There is a streak of violence in that that frightens me, though the comedies are very well done. I adore Aristophanes, but when we get to the likes of Medea . . . I have always loathed Medea,” he admitted.

  “I wonder what she would have thought of you?” she asked, smiling at this peculiarly mild strain in him.

  “I daresay she would have loved me. Most ladies do. Adele said I was a very accomplished lover. I was happy to hear that my style pleased an Englishwoman. But of course she is not a lady. Perhaps I should take an English lady as mistress for a week . . .”

  “Please don’t bother on my account.”

  “You are jealous,” he said, and smiled softly. “Do you know, that pleases me too? Everything about you delights me. It would be immoral if we are not allowed to marry. The gods in their heavens would wreak vengeance on the perpetrator of such a foul deed. But we shall overcome all obstacles, my Divine One.”

  It was with very real relief that she heard the waltz come to a stop. It was also a relief when the assembly was over, and Clivedon could at last stop following Miss Chumpton’s every step, making a cake of himself over the girl, and not once having the common decency to stand up with his own ward. She went home to relive the more lively moments of the evening before sinking into sleep.

  No image of Lord Ellingwood, whom she had definitely decided to marry, was in her head as she lay down that night. That was all settled, and there was no need to bother with that. She smiled a little at Romeo, frowned at Clivedon’s unusual behavior, offering her a cigar, and apparently succumbing during the course of one dinner party to Miss Chumpton, for whom he had shown not the least partiality all season. And she had a perfectly horrid laugh, too.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Lady Withers was extremely happy with the success she had achieved in leading her cousin away from the shabby precincts of hell’s fire. As often as she had a word alone with her brother she congratulated him and herself on it, till he grew tired of hearing the words “perfect lady.”

  “Nothing could be more gratifying to me than to see her so well behaved when we go out together. I never have cause to blush for her, Larry. She puts on no gowns I must hint her out of, nor does she go a step out of her way to draw the attention of her ex-friends, but is polite without being friendly enough to encourage them to come to call at Cavendish Square. She will make a charming addition to our circle next year, she and Ellingwood. l wonder where they will live.”

  “Ellingwood?” he asked. “Don’t think she’ll settle for that dull dog.”

  “You are quite mistaken, dear. Dullness—that is, a little less vivacity than before—is what she seeks now. She is out with Charles this minute. You’ll never guess what! He has taken her to call on Lady Anstrom and her family. It is certainly a prelude to a formal offer. His aunts have both called on me on separate occasions, and expressed—in a roundabout way, you know—their approval of the match. Both her fortune and family quite unexceptionable of course, and in that way a very good wife for Charles. Lady Graham had something to do with it, certainly. An old crony of Charles’s aunts, and she has put in a good word for Barbara. Those two visits to Mecklenberg Square have paid handsome dividends.

  Who ever would have thought—”

  “I can’t quite picture Lady Graham giving Babe a good character.”

  “She only cut up one lark while there.”

  “She has a few more under her belt since.”

  “Yes, but Charles was with her at the water party, and it is as much his fault as anything that she went on the raft.”

  “What have Charles’s aunts to say to her late engagement to Gentz?” he asked, in a sardonic mood.

  “They do not go much into Society. They lay the whole affair in the colonel’s dish, where it belongs, very likely.”

  “You actually think Ellingwood will be calling on me?”

  “I know he will, and I think you must ask him to call you Larry. Or Laurence at least. Oh, I would be so happy if we could announce her engagement at the ball. A fit climax to the season, and it would mean she is settled decently for life, and we could all stop worrying about her.”

  “You can’t seriously think she has changed her spots in the space of a month!”

  “But she has, and she tells me she is more content than ever she was before. Haven’t you noticed she is calm? Not so eager and bubbling as she used to be. It was an inspiration on my part to have her. It is what she lacked all along, someone to take a little interest in her. Tact and tenderness, as I suggested from the start. She speaks of going home to Drumbeig for the summer, which would be a very good thing too—the marriage, I mean—for her to have someone to oversee her estate. Lord Romeo could never have been trusted to do it. He would have turned it into a Parthenon. My only regret in the matter is that we didn’t think to have her when first her father died, for if we had, she would never have run amok. However, all’s well that ends well, as they say,” she ended up cheerfully.

  “Don’t count on it. I’m not sure we’ve seen the end of Babe yet.”

  “I wish you would not use that name, dear. Barbara dislikes it. You are in very poor spirits for a gentleman who has done precisely what he set out to do. Several times you have urged Ellingwood forward, and now she has decided to have him, so why are you in the devil’s own mood? You should be happy for her.”

  “I am happy,” he said, with a black scowl.

  His sister was too busy on this, the day before Barbara’s ball, to quibble, though she observed he was not in his customary spirits. Trouble with one of his flirts, of course. It was always woman trouble when Larry took to sulking. He was still protesting to be happy, and showing it in the same way, when Ellingwood brought Barbara home from the visit to Lady Anstrom. There was something on Clivedon’s face that made Charles decide to delay the pending interview one more day. He had the perfect opportunity to speak, for Barbara had gone to remove her pelisse, and Lady Withers with great tact went out behind her to clear the way. When the suitor tried to make a few polite remarks before getting on with his business, he received such a blighting set-down that he suddenly remembered a commission he had to perform for his aunt, and asked Clivedon to make his adieux to Lady Barbara.

  “I’ll tell Babe you had to leave, Lord Ellingwood,” he was told. And there was a deuced odd thing, too. Clivedon had called him Lord Ellingwood three times in as many minutes, and he always used to call him Ellingwood.

  “What—has Charles left already?” Barbara asked, when she entered the room.

  “Yes, he asked me to tell you he had an errand to perform. So, Lady Barbara, have you found a captain to steer your frail barque after all?” he asked, in a tone not far removed from a sneer.

  “I believe I may have,” she answered pertly. “A lady may be managed quite as easily as a man, you see, if the gentleman knows what he is about. Why are you staring so? You told me once that a lady might manage any gentleman, and I am merely pointing out that the reverse is also true. Even I am manageable, after all, by the right

  man.”

  The sneer was markedly accentuated at this speech. “I wonder how much success Charles would have had if I hadn’t ta
med you for him?”

  This was said in a way that would have raised the temper of a much more docile lady than Lady Barbara, who did not consider herself quite broken to the bridle yet. “He has a talent for it. I think he might have contrived without your help,” she answered tartly.

  “Odd a young gentleman of twenty-five years should be so talented.”

  “Talent is by definition an innate gift, is it not? With a little cooperation from the barque, we will see it safely landed yet. Did he speak to you before leaving?”

  “Yes, he said two or three times that it is a jolly fine day out.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “You refer to making an offer for you? The subject did not arise. You think he intends to do it, when he manages to screw up his courage?”

  “I trust he does. Surely he did not mean to set me up in a love nest when he spoke of my going to him. He never calls me Babe,” she added with a saucy look.

  “The slow top!”

  “You are the one who said it showed disrespect!”

  “Did I, Babe?”

  “Oh you are hateful! You don’t want to see me settled. I have learned from you not to live up to everyone’s worst expectations of me. You said I should marry someone nice, and I shall.”

  “I am quite certain I did not use the meaningless word ‘nice.’ Nor do I wish to see you anchored to an anchorite.”

  “He’s not like that! Not hermitish in the least.”

  “He’s the dullest dog in the country. Watch what you are about, or, in your effort to show me a lesson, you’ll end up in the role of Lady Ellingwood. How does that strike you?”

  “I’m not trying to show you a lesson! Clivedon, you suggested Charles yourself.”

  “You said he was immature and hadn’t an original word to say.”

  “Well, I’ve changed my mind.”

  “So have I.”

  She stared at him in disbelief. This contradiction of his former views was so sudden she felt for a moment the floor was shifting under her feet. One of the major reasons she had undertaken to change herself was to please these relatives, and this was the way he reacted. “Kind of you to let me know!” she said angrily. “Don’t you think you’ve left it a little late?”