Thelma
for whom they now practise all the arts known to their sex, in fruitless
endeavors to charm and conciliate him. For he laughs at them and their
pretty ways,--and his laughter is merciless. His arrowy glance discovers
the "poudre de riz" on their blooming cheeks,--the carmine on their
lips, and the "kohl" on their eyelashes. He knows purchased hair from
the natural growth--and he has a cruel eye for discerning the artificial
contour of a "made-up" figure. And like a merry satyr dancing in a
legendary forest, he capers and gambols in the vast fields of
Humbug--all forms of it are attacked and ridiculed by his powerful and
pungent pen,--he is a sort of English Heine, gathering in rich and daily
harvests from the never-perishing incessantly-growing crop of fools. And
as he,--in all the wickedness of daring and superior intellect,--approaches,
Lady Winsleigh draws herself up with the conscious air of a
beauty who knows she is nearly perfect,--Mrs. Rush-Marvelle makes a
faint endeavor to settle the lace more modestly over her rebellious
bosom,--Marcia smiles coquettishly, and Mrs. Van Clupp brings her
diamond pendant (value, a thousand guineas) more prominently
forward,--for as she thinks, poor ignorant soul! "wealth always
impresses these literary men more than anything!" In one swift glance
Beau Lovelace observes all these different movements,--and the inner
fountain of his mirth begins to bubble. "What fun those Van Clupps are!"
he thinks. "The old woman's got a diamond plaster on her neck! Horrible
taste! She's anxious to show how much she's worth, I suppose! Mrs.
Marvelle wants a shawl, and Lady Clara a bodice. By Jove! What sights
the women do make of themselves!"
But his face betrays none of these reflections,--its expression is one
of polite gravity, though a sudden sweetness smooths it as he shakes
hands with Lord Winsleigh and Lorimer,--a sweetness that shows how
remarkably handsome Beau can look if he chooses. He rests one hand on
Lorimer's shoulder.
"Why, George, old boy, I thought you were playing the dutiful son at
Nice? Don't tell me you've deserted the dear old lady! Where is she? You
know I've got to finish that argument with her about her beloved Byron."
Lorimer laughs. "Go and finish it when you like, Beau," he answers. "My
mother's all right. She's at home. You know she's always charmed to see
you. She's delighted with that new book of yours."
"Is she? She finds pleasure in trifles then--"
"Oh no, Mr. Lovelace!" interrupts Lady Clara, with a winning glance.
"You must not run yourself down! The book is exquisite! I got it at once
from the library, and read every line of it!"
"I am exceedingly flattered!" says Lovelace, with a grave bow, though
there is a little twinkling mockery in his glance. "When a lady so
bewitching condescends to read what I have written, how can I express my
emotion!"
"The press is unanimous in its praise of you," remarks Lord Winsleigh
cordially. "You are quite the lion of the day!"
"Oh quite!" agrees Beau laughing. "And do I not roar 'as sweet as any
nightingale'? But I say, where's the new beauty?"
"I really do not know to whom you allude, Mr. Lovelace," replies Lady
Winsleigh coldly. Lorimer smiles and is silent. Beau looks from one to
the other amusedly.
"Perhaps I've made a mistake," he says, "but the Duke of Roxwell is
responsible. He told me that if I came here to-night I should see one of
the loveliest women living,--Lady Bruce-Errington. He saw her in the
park. I think _this_ gentleman"--indicating Sir Francis Lennox, who
bites his moustache vexedly--"said quite openly at the Club last night
that she _was_ the new beauty,--and that she would be here this
evening."
Lady Winsleigh darts a side glance at her "Lennie" that is far from
pleasant.
"Really it's perfectly absurd!" she says, with a scornful toss of her
head. "We shall have housemaids and bar-girls accepted as 'quite the
rage' next. I do not know Sir Philip's wife in the least,--I hear she
was a common farmer's daughter. I certainly invited her to-night out of
charity and kindness in order that she might get a little accustomed to
society--for, of course, poor creature! entirely ignorant and uneducated
as she is, everything will seem strange to her. But she has not come--"
"SIR PHILIP AND LADY BRUCE-ERRINGTON!" announces Briggs at this
juncture.
There is a sudden hush--a movement of excitement,--and the groups near
the door fall apart staring, and struck momentarily dumb with surprise,
as a tall, radiant figure in dazzling white, with diamonds flashing on a
glittering coil of gold hair, and wondrous sea-blue earnest eyes, passes
through their midst with that royal free step and composed grace of
bearing that might distinguish an Empress of many nations.
"Good heavens! What a magnificent woman!" mutters Beau Lovelace--"Venus
realized!"
Lady Winsleigh turns very pale,--she trembles and can scarcely regain
her usual composure as Sir Philip, with a proud tenderness lighting up
the depths of his hazel eyes, leads this vision of youth and perfect
loveliness up to her, saying simply--
"Lady Winsleigh, allow me to introduce to you--my wife! Thelma, this is
Lady Winsleigh."
There is a strange sensation in Lady Winsleigh's throat as though a very
tight string were suddenly drawn round it to almost strangling
point--and it is certain that she feels as though she must scream, hit
somebody with her fan, and rush from the room in an undignified rage.
But she chokes back these purely feminine emotions--she smiles and
extends her jewelled hand.
"So good of you to come to-night!" she says sweetly. "I have been
longing to see you, Lady Errington! I dare say you know your husband is
quite an old acquaintance of mine!"
And a langourous glance, like fire seen through smoke, leaps from
beneath her silky eyelashes at Sir Philip--but he sees it not--he is
chatting and laughing gaily with Lorimer and Beau Lovelace.
"Indeed, yes!" answers Thelma, in that soft low voice of hers, which had
such a thrilling richness within it--"and it is for that reason I am
very glad to meet you. It is always pleasant for me to know my husband's
friends."
Here she raises those marvellous, innocent eyes of hers and smiles;--why
does Lady Winsleigh shrink from that frank and childlike openness of
regard? Why does she, for one brief moment, hate herself?--why does she
so suddenly feel herself to be vile and beneath contempt? God only
knows!--but the first genuine blush that has tinged her ladyship's cheek
for many a long day, suddenly spreads a hot and embarrassing tide of
crimson over the polished pallor of her satiny skin, and she says
hurriedly--
"I must find you some people to talk to. This is my dear friend, Mrs.
Rush-Marvelle--I am sure you will like each other. Let me introduce Mrs.
Van Clupp to you--Mrs. Van Clupp, and Miss Van Clupp!"
The ladies bow stiffly while Thelma responds to their prim salutation
with easy grace.
"Sir Francis Lennox"--continues Lady Winsleigh, and there is something
like a sneer in her smile, as that gentleman makes a deep and courtly
reverence, with an unmistakable look of admiration in his sleepy
tiger-brown eyes,--then she turns to Lord Winsleigh and adds in a casual
way, "My husband!" Lord Winsleigh advances rather eagerly--there is a
charm in the exquisite nobility of Thelma's face that touches his heart
and appeals to the chivalrous and poetical part of his nature.
"Sir Philip and I have known each other for some years," he says,
pressing her little fair hand cordially. "It is a great pleasure for me
to see you to-night, Lady Errington--I realize how very much my friend
deserves to be congratulated on his marriage!"
Thelma smiles. This little speech pleases her, but she does not accept
the compliment implied to herself.
"You are very kind, Lord Winsleigh"--she answers; "I am glad indeed that
you like Philip. I do think with you that he deserves every one's good
wishes. It is my great desire to make him always happy."
A brief shadow crosses Lord Winsleigh's thoughtful brow, and he studies
her sweet eyes attentively. Is she sincere? Does she mean what she says?
Or is she, like others of her sex, merely playing a graceful part? A
slight sigh escapes him,--absolute truth, innocent love, and stainless
purity are written in such fair, clear lines on that perfect countenance
that the mere idea of questioning her sincerity seems a sacrilege.
"Your desire is gratified, I am sure," he returns, and his voice is
somewhat sad. "I never saw him looking so well. He seems in excellent
spirits."
"Oh, for that!" and she laughs. "He is a very light-hearted boy! But
once he would tell me very dreadful things about the world--how it was
not at all worth living in--but I do think he must have been lonely. For
he is very pleased with everything now, and finds no fault at all!"
"I can quite understand that!" and Lord Winsleigh smiles, though that
shadow of pain still rests on his brow.
Mrs. Rush-Marvelle and the Van Clupps are listening to the conversation
with straining ears. What strange person is this? She does not talk bad
grammar, though her manner of expressing herself is somewhat quaint and
foreign. But she is babyish--perfectly babyish! The idea of any
well-bred woman condescending to sing the praises of her own husband in
public! Absurd! "Deserves every-one's good wishes!"--pooh! her "great
desire is to make him always happy!"--what utter rubbish!--and he is a
"light-hearted boy!" Good gracious!--what next? Marcia Van Clupp is
strongly inclined to giggle, and Mrs. Van Clupp is indignantly conscious
that the Errington diamonds far surpass her own, both for size and
lustre.
At that moment Sir Philip approaches his wife, with George Lorimer and
Beau Lovelace. Thelma's smile at Lorimer is the greeting of an old
friend--a sun-bright glance that makes his heart beat a little quicker
than usual. He watches her as she turns to be introduced to
Lovelace,--while Miss Van Clupp, thinking of the relentless gift of
satire with which that brilliant writer is endowed, looks out for "some
fun"--for, as she confides in a low tone to Mrs. Marvelle--"she'll never
know how to talk to that man!"
"Thelma," says Sir Philip, "this is the celebrated author, Beaufort
Lovelace,--you have often heard me speak of him."
She extends both her hands, and her eyes deepen and flash.
"Ah! you are one of those great men whom we all love and admire!" she
says, with direct frankness,--and the cynical Beau, who has never yet
received so sincere a compliment, feels himself coloring like a
school-girl. "I am so very proud to meet you! I have read your wonderful
book, 'Azaziel,' and it made me glad and sorry together. For why do you
draw a noble example and yet say at the same time that it is impossible
to follow it? Because in one breath you inspire us to be good, and yet
you tell us we shall never become so! That is not right,--is it?"
Beau meets her questioning glance with a grave smile.
"It is most likely entirely wrong from _your_ point of view, Lady
Errington," he said. "Some day we will talk over the matter. You shall
show me the error of my ways. Perhaps you will put life, and the
troublesome business of living, in quite a new light for me! You see, we
novelists have an unfortunate trick of looking at the worst or most
ludicrous side of everything--we can't help it! So many apparently lofty
and pathetic tragedies turn out, on close examination, to be the meanest
and most miserable of farces,--it's no good making them out to be grand
Greek poems when they are only base doggerel rhymes. Besides, it's the
fashion nowadays to be _chiffonniers_ in literature--to pick up the rags
of life and sort them in all their uncomeliness before the morbid eyes