Doctor Cupid: A Novel
Prue hesitates. In point of fact she had not heard one word of the
jocose ditty alluded to; as, during the whole of it, she had been
keeping up a conversation in heart-broken whispers with Peggy.
'Oh yes; of course,' she answers nervously; 'it was very
funny--excessively funny! I--I--should like to hear it again. I--I--am
sure that it is one of those things that one would think much funnier
the second time than the first.'
'It is as good as anything of Grossmith's,' repeats Freddy confidently.
Then, beginning to hum a valse, 'You can have no idea what a floor this
is! Be sure, dear, that you keep quantities of dances for me!'
'Oh yes; of course--of course,' replies she, with tremulous ecstasy.
'Which--which would you like?'
But before Mr. Ducane has time to signify his preferences, a third
person intervenes. Poor Prue has often expressed a wish to see the
eldest Miss Hartley; but the mode in which our wishes are granted is not
always quite that which we should have chosen.
'Oh, Mr. Ducane,' she says, hurrying up, 'I am so sorry to interrupt
you; but it is the old story,' laughing, and with an apologetic bow to
Prue--'we cannot get on without you. We are so puzzled to know who it is
that papa ought to take in to supper! Is it Lady Manson, or Lady
Chester? We thought you could tell us which is the oldest creation.'
Freddy has not an idea, but instantly volunteers to go off in search of
a 'Peerage' to decide this knotty point; and Miss Hartley, having
civilly lingered a moment to excuse herself to the Miss Lambtons, and to
remark in almost the same words as her mother had used upon the
extraordinary unselfishness of Mr. Ducane, flits away after him.
'It was too bad of her,' says Prue, with a trembling lip. 'She might at
least have let him tell me how many dances he wanted; but'--brightening
up--'he said "quantities," did not he? You heard him?'
Peggy's rejoinder is prevented by her attention being at the same moment
claimed by milady, and by a general forward movement of the company,
which has been requested by Mrs. Hartley to vacate the hall in order
that it may be got ready for dancing.
In the slight confusion and pushing that follows, Peggy finds herself
separated from her sister and her chaperon; and a few minutes
afterwards, the joyful tidings having spread abroad that the supper-room
doors are open, an acquaintance offers her his arm to lead her thither.
She looks around anxiously once again in search of Prue; but not being
able to catch a glimpse of either her or Lady Roupell, can only hope
that both have reached the goal of supper before her.
The room is of course thronged--when was a just-opened supper-room not
crowded?--and it is some little while before Peggy's partner is able to
elbow a way for her to the table, which, when she reaches it, is already
robbed of its virgin glory. She looks down the long rows of moving jaws;
catches milady's eye--milady eating _pate de foie gras_, which always
makes her ill; snatches a far glimpse of Mr. Evans setting down a
champagne-glass, with the beatific smile of one who, drinking, remembers
the Vicarage small-beer; and has a nearer, fuller view of Lady Betty,
rosy and naked as Aphrodite, laughing at the top of her voice, and
pulling a chicken's merry-thought with one of her Guardsmen to see which
will be married first.
Peggy quickly averts her eyes; and, bringing them home, they alight upon
Mrs. Evans, whom, by a singular accident, she finds next door to her.
Mrs. Evans, as we know, cannot come under the condemnation of those who
'have not on a wedding-garment,' since she never wears anything else.
Despite her old dyed gown, however, she is obviously enjoying herself
with the best.
'This is not the sort of thing that one sees every day,' cries she, in a
voice of elated wonder, surveying the ocean of delicacies around her. 'I
only wish I could get hold of a _menu_ to take home with me! I am so
glad we came. I was not at all anxious to come, on account of the
distance; in fact, I yielded entirely on Mr. Evans's account. He is in
one of his low ways; you know what that means! He wants change; we all
want change. Did you hear the mistake he made last Sunday in the Psalms?
He said, "In the midst were the damsels playing with the _minstrels_."'
Peggy laughs absently.
'It sounds rather frisky.'
'I only hope that nobody noticed it,' pursues the Vicaress; 'he always
makes those kind of mistakes when he wants change. Dear me!' casting a
look and a long sigh of envy round the room; 'if I had a house like
this, I should never want change for my part; and to think that it is to
be shut up for the whole of the winter--for a whole year, in fact!'
The Hartleys' house has not, so far, afforded Peggy such a large harvest
of pleasure that she is able very cordially to echo this lamentation.
'What can possess any one to go round the world passes my
understanding,' continues her interlocutor, pelican-like, as she speaks,
forcing some nougat for her offspring surreptitiously into a little bag
under cover of the table-edge; 'not but what they will do it in all
possible luxury, of course--cheval glasses, and oil-paintings, and
Indian carpets, just as one has in one's own drawing-room.'
At this last clause, sad and inattentive as she is, Peggy cannot forbear
a smile of amusement, as the image of the Vicarage Kidder rises before
her mind's eye; but it is very soon dissipated by her neighbour's next
remark.
'By the bye, some one was telling me to-night that Freddy Ducane is to
be of the party. I assured her, looking wise, that I knew better; but
she persisted that she had had it upon the best authority--one of the
family, as far as I could understand.'
She may continue her speech to the ambient air; for, when next she looks
up from her larceny of bonbons, Peggy is gone. The hall, meanwhile, has
been cleared of its innumerable chairs, and its theatrical properties
generally, and converted into a back-room, with that surprising rapidity
that unlimited money, with practically unlimited labour at its beck and
call, can always command.
No sooner have the guests well supped, than, with no tiresome
interregnum, no waiting and wondering, they may, if they list, begin to
dance. A smooth sea of Vienna parquet spreads before them, and
established on the stage, the British Grenadiers themselves--no mere
piano and fiddle--are striking up the initial quadrille. It is some
little time before Peggy is able to make her way between the forming
sets to where milady sits, her coronet more hopelessly askew than ever,
and an expression of good-humoured resignation on her face.
'My mind is braced for the worst,' she says good-naturedly; 'get along
both of you and dance. Not that there can be much dancing in this silly
child,' pointing to Prue; 'she must be as empty as a drum. She has not
eaten a mouthful.'
She shrugs her shoulders, since it is evident that Prue does not hear.
In a state of preoccupation so intense as that of the young girl's, it
would be difficult for anything presented by the senses to make its way
into the brain. She is standing stiffly upright, her head and chin
slightly advanced, as one looking with passionate eagerness ahead. Her
lips are moving, as if she were saying some one thing over and over to
herself. Whatever of her face is not lividly white is burning; and her
eyes----
As she so stands, an acquaintance comes up, and asks her for the dance,
now well begun. She does not understand him at first; but, on his
repeating his request, she refuses it curtly.
'Thank you, I am engaged.'
'If you are neither of you going to dance,' says milady, seeing both her
_protegees_ remaining standing beside her, and speaking with a slight
and certainly pardonable irritation, 'I may as well go home to my
blessed bed.'
_Go home!_ Prue has caught the words, and cast a glance of agony at her
sister. _Go home!_
'Do not be impatient, dear milady,' says Margaret, trying to speak
lightly and look gay; 'you will be crying out in quite another key just
now. I am engaged for nearly all the programme. Ah, here comes my
partner!'
For by this time the quadrille has come to an end, and a valse has
struck up. To join it, Margaret walks off reluctantly, looking behind
her. She is profoundly unwilling to leave her sister in her present
state; but, since to dance is the only means of averting milady's
fulfilment of her threat of going home, there is no alternative.
To most girls of Peggy's age the joy in dancing for dancing's sake is a
thing of the past; but to her, from the innocency of her nature, and her
little contact with the world, which has preserved in her a freshness of
sensation that usually does not survive eighteen, the pleasure in the
mere movement of her sound young limbs, in the lilt of the measure and
the wind of her own fleetness, is as keen as ever.
Peggy loves dancing. To-night she has a partner worthy of her, in her
ears brave music beyond praise, under her light feet a Vienna parquet of
slippery perfection; and she is no more conscious of these advantages
than if she were dancing in clogs on a brick floor. Whenever she
pauses--and, long-winded as she is, she must pause now and again, in
whatever part of the pink-light-flooded room her partner lands her,
whether by the great bank of hothouse flowers at the lower end, or near
the blaring Grenadiers at the top, or beneath one of the portraits of
famous musicians that line the side walls--it seems to her that
absolutely nothing meets her eyes but that one tiny burning face,
stretched always forward in the same attitude, with its lips moving, and
its eyes turning hither and thither in forlorn and desperate search.
Prue is not dancing.
As Peggy, answering absently and _a batons rompus_, the civil speeches
of her companion, watches, in a pained perplexity, the features whose
misery has so effectually poisoned her own evening, she sees a fresh
expression settle upon them, an expression no longer of deferred and
piteous expectation, but of acute and intolerable wretchedness. She is
not long in learning the cause. Following the direction of Prue's
glance, her own alights upon a couple that have but just joined the
dance. It is needless to name them.
Peggy's partner catches himself wondering whether it can be any of his
own harmless remarks that has brought the frown that is so indubitably
lowering there to her smooth forehead, or that has made her red lips
close in so tight and thin. He wonders a little, too, at the request
that immediately follows these phenomena.
'Would you mind taking me to Miss Hartley and her partner? I want to
speak to them; we might dance there.'
A minute of smooth whirling lands her at Freddy's side, and fortunately
for her, at the same moment some one addressing the daughter of the
house from behind takes off her attention.
'Are not you going to dance with Prue?' she asks in a stern breathless
whisper. 'Have you forgotten that you are engaged to Prue?'
He looks at her with a gentle astonishment.
'What are you talking about, dear? Is it a thing that I am likely to
forget? Of course I must get through my duty-dances first. Dear Prue is
the last person not to understand that. You are looking _splendid_
to-night, Peg! perhaps because you are so ill-tempered--evil passions
always become you. You have not a dance to spare me, I suppose? What a
floor! Tra la la!'
Away he scampers with Miss Hartley, and Peggy, curtly resisting all her
ill-used swain's entreaties to take another turn, insists upon being led
back there and then to her chaperon. Prue shall not, through her fault,
have one second's more suspense to endure.
'It is all right!' she says eagerly, under her breath, into the young