Thelma
coming and going,--there is the rustle of silk and satin,--perfume,
shaken out of lace kerchiefs, and bouquets oppresses the warm air,--the
heat is excessive,--and there is a never-ending monotonous hum of
voices, only broken at rare intervals by the "society laugh"--that
unmeaning giggle on the part of the women,--that strained "ha, ha, ha!"
on the part of the men, which is but the faint ghostly echo of the
farewell voice of true mirth.
Presently, out of the ladies' cloak-room come two fascinating
figures--the one plump and matronly, with grey hair and a capacious neck
glittering with diamonds,--the other a slim girl in pale pink, with dark
eyes and a ravishing complexion, for whom the lazy gentlemen on the
stairs make immediate and respectful room.
"How d'ye do, Mrs. Van Clupp?" says one of the loungers.
"Glad to see you, Miss Marcia!" says another, a sandy-haired young man,
with a large gardenia in his button-hole, and a glass in his eye.
At the sound of his voice Miss Marcia stops and regards him with a
surprised smile. She is very pretty, is Marcia,--bewitchingly
pretty,--and she has an air of demure grace and modesty about her that
is perfectly charming. Why? oh, why does she not remain in that
sylph-like, attitude of questioning silence? But she speaks--and the
charm is broken.
"Waal now! Dew tell!" she exclaims. "I thought yew were in Pa-ar--is!
Ma, would yew have concluded to find Lord Algy here? This is _too_
lovely! If I'd known _yew_ were coming I'd have stopped at home--yes, I
would--that's so!"
And she nods her little head, crowned with its glossy braids of chestnut
hair, in a very coquettish manner, while her mother, persistently
beaming a stereotyped company smile on all around her, begins to ascend
the stairs, beckoning her daughter to follow. Marcia does so, and Lord
Algernon Masherville escorts her.
"You--you didn't mean that!" he stammers rather feebly--"You--you don't
mind my being here, do you? I'm--I'm _awfully_ glad to see you again,
you know--and--er--all that sort of thing!"
Marcia darts a keen glance at him,--the glance of an observant,
clear-headed magpie.
"Oh yes! I dare say!" she remarks with airy scorn. "S'pect _me_ to
believe _yew_! Waal! Did yew have a good time in Pa-ar--is?"
"Fairly so," answers Lord Masherville indifferently. "I only came back
two days ago. Lady Winsleigh met me by chance at the theatre, and asked
me to look in to-night for 'some fun' she said. Have you any idea what
she meant?"
"Of course!" says the fair New Yorker, with a little nasal
laugh,--"don't _yew_ know? We're all here to see the fisherwoman from
the wilds of Norway,--the creature Sir Philip Errington married last
year. I conclude she'll give us fits all round, don't yew?"
Lord Masherville, at this, appears to hesitate. His eye-glass troubles
him, and he fidgets with its black string. He is not intellectual--he is
the most vacillating, most meek and timid of mortals--but he is a
gentleman in his own poor fashion, and has a sort of fluttering chivalry
about him, which, though feeble, is better than none.
"I really cannot tell you, Miss Marcia," he replies almost nervously. "I
hear--at the Club,--that--that Lady Bruce-Errington is a great beauty."
"Dew tell!" shrieks Marcia, with a burst of laughter. "Is she really
though! But I guess her looks won't mend her grammar any way!"
He makes no reply, as by this time they have reached the crowded
drawing-room, where Lady Winsleigh, radiant in ruby velvet and
rose-brilliants, stands receiving her guests, with a cool smile and nod
for mere acquaintances,--and a meaning flash of her dark eyes for her
intimates, and a general air of haughty insolence and perfect
self-satisfaction pervading her from head to foot. Close to her is her
husband, grave, courtly, and kind to all comers, and fulfilling his duty
as host to perfection,--still closer is Sir Francis Lennox, who in the
pauses of the incoming tide of guests finds occasion to whisper trifling
nothings in her tiny white ear, and even once ventures to arrange more
tastefully a falling cluster of pale roses that rests lightly on the
brief shoulder-strap (called by courtesy a sleeve) which, keeps her
ladyship's bodice in place.
Mrs. Rush-Marvelle is here too, in all her glory,--her good-humored
countenance and small nose together beam with satisfaction,--her
voluminous train of black satin showered with jet gets in everybody's
way,--her ample bosom heaves like the billowy sea, somewhat above the
boundary line of transparent lace that would fain restrain it--but in
this particular she is prudence itself compared with her hostess, whose
charms are exhibited with the unblushing frankness of a
ballet-girl,--and whose example is followed, it must be confessed, by
most of the women in the room. Is Mr. Rush-Marvelle here? Oh yes--after
some little trouble we discover him,--squeezed against the wall and
barricaded by the grand piano,--in company with a large album, over
which he pores, feigning an almost morbid interest in the portraits of
persons he has never seen, and never will see. Beside him is a
melancholy short man with long hair and pimples, who surveys the
increasing crowd in the room with an aspect that is almost tragic. Once
or twice he eyes Mr. Marvelle dubiously as though he would speak--and,
finally, he _does_ speak, tapping that album-entranced gentleman on the
arm with an energy that is somewhat startling.
"It is to blay I am here!" he announces. "To blay ze biano! I am great
artist!" He rolls his eyes wildly and with a sort of forced calmness
proceeds to enumerate on his fingers--"Baris, Vienna, Rome, Berlin, St.
Betersburg--all know me! All resbect me! See!" And he holds out his
button-hole in which there is a miniature red ribbon. "From ze Emberor!
Kaiser Wilhelm!" He exhibits a ring on his little finger. "From ze
Tsar!" Another rapid movement and a pompous gold watch is thrust before
the bewildered gaze of his listener. "From my bubils in Baris! I am
bianist--I am here to blay!"
And raking his fingers through his long locks, he stares defiantly
around him. Mr. Rush-Marvelle is a little frightened. This is an
eccentric personage--he must be soothed. Evidently he must be soothed!
"Yes, yes, I quite understand!" he says, nodding persuasively at the
excited genius. "You are here to play. Exactly! Yes, yes! We shall all
have the pleasure of hearing you presently. Delightful, I'm sure! You
are the celebrated Herr--?"
"Machtenklinken," adds the pianist haughtily. "Ze celebrated
Machtenklinken!"
"Yes--oh--er,--yes!" And Mr. Marvelle grapples desperately with this
terrible name. "Oh--er--yes! I--er know you by reputation
Herr--er--Machten--. Oh, er--yes! Pray excuse me for a moment!"
And thankfully catching the commanding eye of his wife, he scrambles
hastily away from the piano and joins her. She is talking to the Van
Clupps, and she wants him to take away Mr. Van Clupp, a white-headed,
cunning-looking old man, for a little conversation, in order that she
may be free to talk over certain naughty bits of scandal with Mrs. Van
Clupp and Marcia.
To-night there is no place to sit down in all the grand extent of the
Winsleigh drawing-rooms,--puffy old dowagers occupy the sofas, ottomans,
and chairs, and the largest and most brilliant portion of the assemblage
are standing, grinning into each other's faces with praiseworthy and
polite pertinacity, and talking as rapidly as though their lives
depended on how many words they could utter within the space of two
minutes. Mrs. Rush-Marvelle, Mrs. Van Clupp and Marcia make their way
slowly through the gabbling, pushing, smirking crowd till they form a
part of the little _coterie_ immediately round Lady Winsleigh, to whom,
at the first opportunity, Mrs. Marvelle whispers--
"Have they come?"
"The modern Paris and the new Helen?" laughs Lady Clara, with a shrug of
her snowy shoulders. "No, not yet. Perhaps they won't turn up at all!
Marcia dear, you look _quite_ charming! Where is Lord Algy?"
"I guess he's not a thousand miles away!" returns Marcia, with a knowing
twinkle of her dark eyes. "He'll hang round here presently!
Why,--there's Mr. Lorimer worrying in at the doorway!"
"Worrying in" is scarcely the term to apply to the polite but determined
manner in which George Lorimer coolly elbows a passage among the heaving
bare shoulders, backs, fat arms, and long trains that seriously obstruct
his passage, but after some trouble he succeeds in his efforts to reach
his fair hostess, who receives him with rather a supercilious uplifting
of her delicate eyebrows.
"Dear me, Mr. Lorimer, you are quite a stranger!" she observes somewhat
satirically. "We thought you had made up your mind to settle in Norway!"
"Did you really, though!" and Lorimer smiles languidly. "I wonder at
that,--for you knew I came back from that region in the August of last
year."
"And since then I suppose you have played the hermit?" inquires her
ladyship indifferently, unfurling her fan of ostrich feathers and waving
it slowly to and fro.
"By no means! I went off to Scotland with a friend, Alec Macfarlane, and
had some excellent shooting. Then, as I never permit my venerable mamma
to pass the winter in London, I took her to Nice, from which delightful
spot we returned three weeks ago."
Lady Winsleigh laughs. "I did not ask you for a categorical explanation
of your movements, Mr. Lorimer," she says lightly--"I'm sure I hope you
enjoyed yourself?"
He bows gravely. "Thanks! Yes,--strange to say, I _did_ manage to
extract a little pleasure here and there out of the universal dryness of
things."
"Have you seen your friend, Sir Philip, since he came to town?" asks
Mrs. Rush-Marvelle in her stately way.
"Several times. I have dined with him and Lady Errington frequently. I
understand they are to be here to-night?"
Lady Winsleigh fans herself a little more rapidly, and her full crimson
lips tighten into a thin, malicious line.
"Well, I asked them, of course,--as a matter of form," she says
carelessly,--"but I shall, on the whole, be rather relieved if they
don't come."
A curious, amused look comes over Lorimer's face.
"Indeed! May I ask why?"
"I should think the reason ought to be perfectly apparent to you"--and
her ladyship's eyes flash angrily. "Sir Philip is all very well--he is
by birth a gentleman,--but the person he has married is not a lady, and
it is an exceedingly unpleasant duty for me to have to receive her."
A feint tinge of color flushes Lorimer's brow. "I think," he says
slowly, "I think you will find yourself mistaken, Lady Winsleigh. I
believe--" Here he pauses, and Mrs. Rush-Marvelle fixes him with a stony
stare.
"Are we to understand that she is educated?" she inquires freezingly.
"Positively well-educated?"
Lorimer laughs. "Not according to the standard of modern fashionable
requirements!" he replies.
Mrs. Marvelle sniffs the air portentously,--Lady Clara curls her lip. At
that moment everybody makes respectful way for one of the most important
guests of the evening--a broad-shouldered man of careless attire, rough
hair, fine features, and keen, mischievous eyes--a man of whom many
stand in wholesome awe,--Beaufort Lovelace, or as he is commonly called.
"Beau" Lovelace, a brilliant novelist, critic, and pitiless satirist.
For him society is a game,--a gay humming-top which he spins on the palm
of his hand for his own private amusement. Once a scribbler in an attic,
subsisting bravely on bread and cheese and hope, he now lords it more
than half the year in a palace of fairy-like beauty on the Lago di
Como,--and he is precisely the same person who was formerly disdained
and flouted by fair ladies because his clothes were poor and shabby, yet