CHAPTER XIX
A MILLIONAIRE'S MANOEUVRES
Will you, my reader, forgive me if for a few moments I am prosy? I speak only of what is so very near my woman's heart.
When we think of what Society might be to us, it becomes a painful thing to speak of what it is. When we, who are world-weary, think of the seasons of mental refreshment which might be enjoyed, the possible interchange of mutual trust and kindness, the awakening of new ideas, the correction of old ones, the sweeping away of prejudice and the establishment of thought, the extension of benevolence and the increase of sympathy, confidence, and good faith which might thus be brought about amongst the families of mankind, we become filled only by regret that the young and the joyous spirit, buoyant with the energies of untried life and warm with the generous flow of unchecked feeling, must so soon become disillusioned.
You, my reader, know too well how soon we all tire of the eternal shams which go to make up our present social life. You yourself are weary of it, though perhaps you hesitate to confess this openly, because such a confession would be an offence against the convenances. Convenances! Bah! Society as it now exists is such that no mother, once she has launched her daughter into its maelstrom by that process known as "coming out," ever hopes to receive back to the peaceful nest the wing so lately fledged, unruffled by its flight, the snowy breast unstained, or the beating heart as true as when it first went forth elated by the glowing hope of finding in Society what it never yet was rich enough to yield.
And yet the charge we women bring against Society for its flattery and its falsehood is an old-established one, and we go on year after year complaining in the same strain; those who have expected most, and have been the most deceived, complaining in the bitterest terms.
Having run the whole gamut of Society's follies, I had become heartsick; and never was the bald truth more forcibly impressed upon me than that night when, on descending to my cabin on board the Vispera, I found Ulrica there—the gay, careless Ulrica, whose sang-froid nothing ever ruffled—examining one of my newest gowns. She was an average woman, one of ten thousand or more to be found any day during the season between Hyde Park Corner and Kensington Church, gay and chic, with just that slight touch of the cosmopolitan which always proves so attractive to men. It is women such as she whose sentiments and feelings give tone to Society, and Society—which now apes the tone, the manners, and the dress of the modern Aspasia—influences the sentiments and feelings of English life.
"Why, how horribly late you are, dear!" Ulrica began, when I entered my cabin. "We've all been thinking that you were lost, or else that the Countess had induced you to remain with her. Gerald has taken a cab back to Ardenza to look for you."
This announcement caused me considerable annoyance, but I affected to pass it by, laughingly remarking that I had stayed late with my old schoolfellow.
"These Italian ports are always cut-throat places, Gerald said; and when you were not back at half-past ten, he decided to go and look for you."
"Very kind of him," I remarked. "You all dined on board, I suppose?"