Doctor Cupid: A Novel
be left altogether overlooked and unclaimed; and, in point of fact, she
is one of the latest to be paired. Usually such a blow to her vanity
would have disquieted her but little, as her pretensions are never high.
To-day she is shocked to find how much it galls her.
The ill-sorted party have taken their seats, precedence gone, natural
barriers knocked on the head, reciprocal antipathies forced into close
contact, in that topsy-turvy Utopia of universal equality and amity
which it is Lady Roupell's principle to produce.
Margaret looks round the table to see how the principle has worked. Mrs.
Evans has been led in by the doctor, to whom she is fully persuaded that
she owes the death of the last Evans but one. The next largest squiress
in the parish to Lady Roupell is made sulky for the evening by having
had to accept the arm of her man of business. Prue's Bishop has
innocently planted her as far as the length of the interminable table
will allow from Freddy. Betty and Talbot, though distant, are in sight.
She can see that they are sitting side by side in total silence. Is this
their mode of expressing their sorrow at their approaching separation?
Possibly; but, at all events, what a depth of intimacy does such a total
silence imply! Margaret's own mate is the buffoon. She has often heard
his name as that of the pet of royalty; the darling of the fine ladies;
the crowning sparkle in each choicest social gathering. To her, whether
it be that her mental palate is out of taste, he seems dull and coarse;
his wit made up of ugly faces, elderly _double-entendres_, flat
indecencies.
'It is clear that I am not made for good company,' she says to herself
sadly and wearily. 'Jacob, and the birds, and the fox--these are my
society! They are the only ones I am fit for.'
The long dinner ends at last, and the incongruous couples part--in most
cases with mutual relief. Neither Margaret nor her merry man ever wish
to set eyes upon each other again. In the drawing-room natural
affinities reassert themselves: intimates gather into little groups. The
squiress, escaped from her presumptuous solicitor, makes her plaint to
her fellows. Mrs. Evans makes hers to Peggy.
'Did you see how unlucky I was?' cries she. 'I assure you it gave me
quite a shudder to put my hand upon his arm! I declare I look upon that
man as as much the murderer of my Natty as if he had stuck a knife into
her. I could hardly bear to speak to him. However, I managed to secure
some crackers for the children'--indicating a tell-tale bulge in the
direction of her pocket. 'Their last word to me before I came away was,
"Mother, be sure you bring us some crackers!"'
Then it is Prue's turn to make her lament, which she begins with almost
the same words as Mrs. Evans:
'Did you ever see anything like my ill-luck? I was the farthest from
_him_ of anybody at the table. There were eighteen between us. I
counted. But did you notice how he rushed to open the door? As I passed
him he said to me, "Thank you, Prue." That was because I had put my
green gown on. He is always so grateful for any little thing that one
does for him.'
She pauses rather suddenly, for Lady Betty has drawn near.
'What a pretty frock!' says she, stopping before the two girls. 'As
green as grass, as jealousy, as green peas! Come and talk to me, Miss
Prue, and tell me what you have all been doing to-day. You may have been
up to any amount of mischief for all I can tell. Do you know that I have
been writhing on a bed of pain from morning to night? No? but I have.
Are not you sorry for me?'
As she speaks she draws the childish figure down on the sofa beside her.
Margaret walks away. She would like to take Prue away too. There seems
to her to be something unnatural and sinister in an alliance, however
temporary, between these two, and from the distant corner to which she
has retired her eye often wanders uneasily back to them.
Presently her view is obscured. It is no use her looking any longer. The
sofa is shut out from her by a ring of black coats that has clustered
round it. Only now and then, through the interstices, she catches the
glint of one of the numerous hornets, lizards, frogs, flashing in
diamonds upon Betty's breast. Bursts of laughter come from the group,
which Freddy and the buffoon have joined. In the intervals of the other
conversations buzzing around Peggy can hear Betty's high voice
piercing. She cannot hear what she says; but apparently it is always
followed by torrents of mirth, among which Prue's girl-tones are plainly
audible. Oh, what is Prue laughing at? If she could but get her away!
As she so thinks, herself wedged in among a phalanx of women, she sees a
stir among the band she is watching. It expands and moves, pursuing
Betty, who has walked to the piano. Evidently she has been persuaded to
sing.
As soon as this intention has become manifest in the room there is a
polite hush in the talk. Wives look menacingly at unmusical husbands.
The Bishop, who is fond of music, approaches the instrument. Betty has
seated herself leisurely, her audacious eyes wandering round and taking
in the prelate with a mischievous twinkle.
'I am not quite sure that you will like it,' Peggy hears her say. 'But,
you know, I cannot help that--I did not write it. It is supposed to be
said by an affectionate husband on the eve of his setting out for the
wars.'
With this prelude she sets off--
'Oh! who will press that lily-white hand
When I am far away?
Some other man!'
Two more lines in the nature of a chorus follow, but they are so drowned
by a roar of applause that Peggy can't catch them. She can only
conjecture their nature from the look of impudent laughing challenge
which the singer throws at the men around her. Under cover of that roar
of applause the Bishop turns abruptly away.
The second verse follows--
'Oh! who will kiss those ruby lips
When I am far away?
Some other man!'
Again the two drowned lines. Again the chord and the applause; but this
time it is very evident that the approbation is confined to the circle
round the piano.
Betty has been well taught, and her enunciation is exceedingly pure and
distinct. Not a word of her charming song is lost. She has reached the
third verse--
'Oh! who will squeeze that little waist
When I am far away?
Some other man!'
Again that roar of admiring laughter from the men round the piano--all
the more marked from the displeased silence of the rest of the room.
But is it only men who are encoring so ecstatically? Is not that Prue
who is joining her enraptured plaudits to theirs?--Prue, with flushed
face and flashing eyes, and slight shoulders convulsed with merriment?
If she could but get her away! But that is out of the question; Prue is
in the inner circle, utterly beyond reach.
'Oh! who will pay those little bills?'
Peggy cannot stand it any longer; it makes her sick. A gap in the ranks
of ladies that had shut her in gives her the wished-for opportunity to
escape. She slips towards an open French window giving on the terrace.
Before reaching it she has to pass Lady Roupell and her Patience. As she
does so she hears the old lady saying, in a voice of tepid annoyance, to
the man beside her:
'I wish that some one would stop her singing that indecent song. She
will not leave me a rag of character in the county!'
CHAPTER XIV.
'Whilst she was here
Methought the beams of light that did appear
Were shot from her; methought the moon gave none
But what it had from her.'
Safely out on the terrace in the moonlight! Not, it is true, a great
wash of moonlight such as went billowing over the earth when she paid
her former night-visit to milady's garden; but such small radiance as a
lessening crescent, now and then dimmed by over-flung cloud-kerchiefs,
can lend. The stars, indeed, seeing their lady faint and fail, eke her
out with their lesser lights. Peggy stands drawing deep breaths, staring
up at them with her head thrown back, as they shine down upon her in
their overwhelming, overpowering distance, and purity and age. But
between her and their august and soothing silence comes again that
odious refrain:
'Some other man!
.....'
She puts her fingers in her ears and runs, nor does she stop until she
has reached the close of the long, broad gravel walk that keeps the
house-front company from end to end. Then she pauses and listens. No,
she is not far enough off even yet. Fainter, but still perfectly
audible, comes the vulgar ribaldry:
'Some other man!
.....'
and then the storm of applause. Let her at all events reach some spot
where she will be unable to detect any tone of Prue's in that insane
mirth! But is there such a spot? To her excited fancy it seems as if in
the remotest dell, the loneliest coppice of the park, she would still
overhear her Prue's little voice applauding that disgusting pleasantry.
She walks quickly on, between flower-borders and shrubberies, until she
reaches a wrought-iron gate that leads into the walled garden. She opens
it and passes through, then stands still once again to listen. She has
succeeded at last. Not an echo of Betty's high-pitched indecencies
attains to this quiet garden-close to offend her ears. There is no noise
less clean and harmless than that of the south wind delicately wagging
the heads of the slumberous flowers.
The garden, as its name implies, is hedged in from each rude gust on
three sides by stout walls, stone-coped and balled. On the fourth,
towards the sun-setting, it is guarded only by a light decorated iron
railing, now muffled in the airy fluff of the traveller's joy, and
embraced by the luxuriant arms of the hop, the clematis, and the
wandering vine. Between their tendrils, between the branches of the
strong tea-rose and the Virginia creeper's autumn fires, one catches
friendly glimpses of the church tower and the park, and the gentle deer.
Inside, the garden is encompassed by wide and crowded flower-borders,
but the middle is sacred to the green simplicity of the velvet grass.
Margaret draws a deep breath of relief, and begins to walk slowly along.
A row of tall, white gladioli, nearly as high-statured as herself,
looking ghostly fair in the starshine, keep her company, lovely and
virginal as May lilies; and from the farther side of the garden comes an
ineffable waft of that violet smell which we used to connect only with
spring. As she paces to and fro the ugly din fades out of her ears and
the ireful red out of her cheeks. A sort of peace settles down upon
her--only a _sort_ of peace, however! Her mind is still oppressed by the
image of Prue, and by a vague misgiving of coming trouble, coupled with
a sense, which she will not own to herself, of personal disappointment,
and of a mortified covert self-gratulation upon not having worn her best
gown, or in anywise tricked herself out.
To one, however, whose hand is on the garden-latch, as she so thinks,
she looks tricked out enough, indeed, in her own fairness; enough to
make his heart sick with the hopelessness of its longing as he goes
towards her. After all, she is not much surprised at his having followed
her! Possibly he may have a message of recall for her.
'Well!' she says, meeting him with a delicate moonlit smile.
Low as the light is, it is light enough to show that there is no
answering smile on his face.
'So you escaped at last!' he says, with a sort of groan. 'I watched to
see how long you could stand it.'
The shadow that the star-beams, and the violet breath, and Heaven knows
what other gentle influence, have chased from her features, settles down
on them again.