CHAPTER IX.
“WE NEED NOT ASK IF YOU HAVE ENJOYED YOURSELF.”
Sir Fulke, who appeared to be expecting us, was a stout, bald gentleman, with a pair of hard brown eyes and a fixed smile. He bowed profoundly over his stiff shirt-front, as we were introduced; then Mrs. Cholmondeley immediately cut me adrift, saying in her quick little way—
“Now, Sir Fulke, there is a dance going on. Do take Miss Hayes into the ball-room!”
Sir Fulke piloted me carefully—danced with me carefully, but there was not the same swing and go as with my former partner. Sir Fulke gasped out several leading questions, and threw out filmy feelers in order to discover who I was, and where I came from. I did not satisfy his curiosity. Perhaps, if he had known that he was merely dancing with Miss Hayes, who lived in cheap lodgings in Stonebrook, he would have abandoned me in the middle of the room! He was very full of information about himself, and talked of his place, his shooting, his hunters, his intimate friend the Duke of Albion, and his sister la Comtesse de Boulotte.
As we danced, he paused several times to rest and to take breath, and as we stood against the wall on one occasion, I found that my neighbor was Miss Chalgrove.
“Ah, so here you are!” she exclaimed gaily. “We ought to know one another, don’t you think so—and without any formal introduction? Are you staying in Stonebrook?”
“Yes, for the present.”
“You hunt, of course?” gazing at me eagerly.
“Not I. I have never even been on a horse’s back.”
“What!” she ejaculated, as if such an idea was too difficult to grasp.
“Then we are not alike in everything. Why, I”—touching herself with her fan—“live in the saddle—spend my days there, and would sleep there if it were possible.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve heard you are a splendid horse-woman.”
“I’m going to have such a day to-morrow! I’ve brought over a new hunter, a French steeplechaser, and mean to cut them all down—men and women. Look out, and you’ll see an account in the Field.”
“Yes—I shall certainly look for it, and I hope you will get the brush.”
“Have you any sisters?” she asked suddenly.
“No—no sisters or brothers.”
“Neither have I. How I wish——”
Whatever she was about to wish was cut short by her impatient partner, who now put in his claim, and plunged along with her into the revolving crowd.
I danced with Mr. Aubrey Price (the owner of thirty hunters), and as we subsequently promenaded in the long corridor, we encountered a spare, gray-haired, gentlemanly man, who stared so fixedly at me that I felt quite uncomfortable.
“That is Lord Chalgrove,” said Mr. Price. “He looked as if he knew you?”
“Oh no, he does not. I have never seen him in my life.”
“Well, I hope he will manage to recognize you again, at any rate. I wish he would keep his daughter in order! What do you think she said to me just now?”
“I am sure I cannot imagine.”
“That she would like to hold a class to teach young men manners?”
“Were you to be a pupil?”
“Of course! I shouldn’t wonder if my would-be teacher comes to grief to-morrow. It’s a nasty country, tricky fences, and, by Jove! by all accounts, she has got a horse to match.”
“Why does her father allow her to ride him?”
“Allow her! It’s little you know Dolly Chalgrove. She allows him to hunt—she allows him to call his soul his own! He gives her a very loose rein; he is a widower, you see, and she’s his only child, and very clever and taking, and like a sister of his that was ill-treated and that died, and so he makes it up to Dolly. Capital business for Dolly, eh?”
“Yes, I suppose it is, in some ways.”
“A wonderful girl to ride to hounds, has a string of hunters and pays top prices; very odd, but very good-hearted and genuine—no nonsense about her. They say she is to marry Somers. I’m not sure that he quite sees it, but his mother is awfully keen on it. He will be Lord Chalgrove if he lives long enough; his father is the next male heir, and it would be a sound thing to keep the money and the title in the same family. The Somers are fearfully hard up.”
“Are they?”
“Yes; so I suppose it is bound to come off. Lady Hildegarde is very strong.”
“Then you take for granted that Miss Chalgrove would accept Mr. Somers as a matter——”
“As a matter of course,” he finished briskly.
“What nonsense! How can you tell?”
“A straw shows how the wind blows!”
“I give you that straw for your opinion, and,” now warming up, “I think it is too bad to discuss a girl, and take all sorts of things for granted. It is taking a great liberty with her name.”
“Hullo, now I’m catching it! I mean no harm; every one discusses his neighbors’ little affairs. I don’t know what we should do without them. If you bar that subject, what are we to talk about—come now?”
“Books, politics, the weather.”
“No, thank you”—with great scorn.
“Well, then, horses.”
“Ah, that’s better.”
We were now in the ball-room once more, where we were promptly joined by Mr. Somers.
“You look as if you two were quarreling,” he remarked; “so I think I had better separate you at once.”
“Yes, I’m crushed flat. I’m not to talk of my neighbors. We have fought over Miss Chalgrove.”
“Indeed! That is strange, for she and I have just had a severe passage-at-arms.”
“Oh, that does not surprise me! It’s quite en règle,” and he grinned significantly.
Mr. Somers took no notice of the impudent hint, but said, “It’s about a horse she will ride, in spite of her father or any one—a steeplechaser she has picked up—and she is bound to have some nasty accident if some one does not shoot him. I’ve a good mind to shoot him myself, although he is a magnificent fencer, and can go all day—a French horse, called Diable Vert.”
“Oh, by Jove! I know him—a real nasty-tempered brute. He won two or three good races, and then cut up rusty. They say he killed a jockey at Auteuil.”
I stood against the wall between the two men as they talked, and noticed that the sofas were occupied, the recesses of the windows full of lookers-on. Lady Bloss and her daughter were sitting together, and surveying me and my companions with unaffected interest. The former presently beckoned to me to approach. I did so, rather reluctantly, followed by my two cavaliers, whilst Sir Fulke hovered at a little distance.
“Oh, good evening, Miss Hayes,” said Lady Bloss, in her loftiest manner. “So surprised to see you here!”—looking me slowly up and down. “Pray, where is Mrs. Hayes?”
“She is at home,” I meekly replied.
“And so you came alone; how very independent!”
“Oh no; I came with the Miss Bennys.”
“I did not know that you ever went out of an evening. We had a little dance last week, and I would have asked you, only I did not think you would like the expense of a fly!” And she threw back her head, and sniffed.
I am sure Mr. Somers heard, and also Mr. Price; and a girl at the other side of Lady Bloss tittered quite audibly.
I, however, merely bowed. It was a safe reply. What could I say?—the expense of a fly was an object to me. However, I was soon whirling round the room with my partner; and I had numerous partners, I could have danced every dance thrice over. Yes, I was enjoying myself enormously. I suppose my head was turned; I could not understand myself. I was surely a changeling. My luxurious surroundings, my splendid gown had transformed me. As I have said before, it was another young woman than Gwendoline Hayes—a stranger, who was walking about in her body, who received admiring glances with an air of cool unconcern, who accepted Sir Fulke’s and Mr. Price’s petits soins with affable condescension.
I saw Lady Polexfen fanning herself languidly in the doorway. As I passed out on her brother’s arm there was a block, and we stood for an instant side by side. She was splendidly dressed in silver brocade and sea-green, and ablaze with diamonds; her waist resembled an hour-glass, and her hair was dressed French style, over her ears. She affected not to see me, but she was as fully conscious of my vicinity as I was of hers. A tall, dark, sardonic man was beside her. Her brother did not notice her, but I did, as she turned to the dark man and whispered something, at which he laughed delightedly—and then looked hard at me.
Mr. Somers took me in to supper. It was served at little tables—a commendable arrangement—and we sat down tête-à-tête.
“I suppose you are staying with friends in the neighborhood?” said my companion in his genial voice.
“No; we are only in lodgings in Stonebrook.”
“Lodgings! I did not know there were such things to be had. Don’t you find it rather—rather—slow?”
“We must cut our coat according to our cloth. We cannot afford grand quarters.” (I saw his eyes fixed momentarily on my, so to speak, “coat” of filmy lace and satin.) “The doctors ordered my stepmother out of London to some dry, bracing climate. Of course, we should have preferred Biarritz, or Nice; but—well, here we are at Stonebrook instead, and it suits Emma pretty well.”
“You have seen my mother, of course?”
“Oh yes, she has been to call on us.” I was on the eve of adding—and we are to dine with you en famille on Christmas Day; but something inexplicable restrained me.
“She has only lately returned home, and I hope we shall often see you and Mrs. Hayes?”
I made no answer. I did not think his wish was at all likely to be realized.
“By the way, you saw Miss Chalgrove. Do you know that you are curiously alike in appearance—only you are much the taller of the two? The resemblance struck me the first time I saw you; you might be sisters, or, at any rate cousins.”
“I have no sisters or cousins.”
“Oh, surely you must have cousins—even half a dozen. Why, I possess half a hundred.”
“If I have, I have never heard of them.”
“Do you mean to say that you have no relations?”
“None that I know of. My father had an only brother in the navy. He was drowned years ago, and he himself lived in India so long that he lost sight of all his connections.” (I did not mention my mother. Why should I tell him that she had been disowned by her family?) “I had not seen my father since I was eight years old.”
“Then I saw him, and knew him well, quite recently—knew him better than you did, if I may say so, Miss Hayes, for, of course, two men have more in common than a man and a little girl in pinafores. He was a rare good sort.”
“Yes, I believe he was. I wish he was alive now with all my heart. It seems so hard that people in the prime of life are cut off, and old men and women who have lived their lives out, and are tired of existence, drag on wearily year after year.”
“Yes, there’s my poor father,” said Mr. Somers; “his bodily health is good—it is the health of a young man—whilst his mind is dying.”
I had heard of that, but felt it only polite to express sympathetic surprise.
“He was in a railway accident years ago, and it’s coming against him now. And how is Mrs. Hayes?” he inquired, rather abruptly.
“Pretty well.”
“I am coming to see her immediately—to-morrow—only it is a hunting day; but, perhaps, I can look in for a flying visit.”
“And was your expedition successful?” I asked.
“No, not a bit. The business part was a dead failure, and only throwing good money after bad; but, as you may have noticed, I’m not at all clever. I did my little best, and I could do no more. However, I enjoyed the trip, as a trip, extremely. There is the band again: shall we go and take a turn?”
“But I believe I am engaged to some one,” I answered, rising all the same.
“Pray, how can you tell? you have no program—no, not even a shirt-cuff!”
And thus persuaded, against my conscience, we began; but, before I had been twice round the room, I was claimed by Sir Fulke, and not alone Sir Fulke, but a little weather-beaten cavalry man, who was very positive that “this was his dance.”
As we stood disputing amicably, I was suddenly arrested by a higher power. Alas! poor Cinderella’s trivial triumph was over, her hour had come.
The Miss Bennys waylaid me with grave, determined faces, much to my companions’ disgust, and Miss Benny said in a very loud voice—
“Scott, the fly man, is waiting, Miss Hayes. We promised not to detain him after one o’clock; it is now half-past one. Therefore, if you are returning in our charge, I must ask you to come home at once.”
“And my dance?” cried Mr. Aubrey Price.
“And mine?” echoed Sir Fulke.
There was no use in attempting to resist them—no time to take leave of my hostess: she was at supper. I was in the Miss Bennys’ clutches; they were inexorable. This was their moment of triumph, and I was carried away, followed to the very door of the fly by four eligible partners, uttering loud regrets.
Mr. Somers pressed my hand as he said good-by, and added, “I shall look forward to seeing you soon—in a day or two.”
“We need not ask if you have enjoyed yourself, Miss Hayes,” exclaimed the elder Miss Benny in an acrid key. “I admire your”—I thought perhaps she was going to say dress or dancing, but it was my—“wonderful self-confidence! Mrs. Cholmondeley seems to have quite taken you up! She is fond of doing that; she took a fancy to an Australian girl, she met on board ship, and actually brought her home, and had her with her, taking her everywhere for months. People called her the kangaroo; she was a horror.”
The tone implied, that I was a horror also,—if not actually a kangaroo. I burst out laughing. I laughed loud and long; I could not stop. I suppose I was almost hysterical. The reaction from the late brilliant scene, where I had been made much of, where I had danced and enjoyed the pleasures of this life for the very first time, where I had been conscious of whispered flattering comments, and eloquently flattering eyes, where I had sniffed a little of the intoxicating incense of admiration, and felt that youth and beauty are a great power, was too much. Then to come down to being one of four in a close stuffy fly, to remember the dingy little bedroom in which I must shed my fine feathers—how seven-and-sixpence for my share of the conveyance would pinch my weekly purse, and that I had forgotten to buy bacon for the morrow’s breakfast! All these thoughts and contrasts were jumbled up in my excited brain, and I laughed loud and long. My indecorous hilarity was succeeded by a freezing silence—a terrible, accusing, blank silence, which lasted the whole way home. For five long miles there was not a sound in that fly, save a sneeze or a yawn. The experience was appalling; it got upon my nerves. I felt inclined to sing or to scream. Luckily I controlled myself, or I should probably have been delivered at the door of the lunatic asylum. At last we drove up to Mrs. Gabb’s. I opened the door and sprang out, then I politely thanked the Miss Bennys for their escort, and wished them all a fair good night—which met with no response.