CHAPTER IVA cold, wet afternoon in March. But a few days ago people believed in spring. There was abundance of sunshine, of blue sky, of tender, venturesome birds; there had been piles of violets and primroses in the flower-girls' baskets, as they moved about the London streets; a breath of genuine spring-time in the soft air; but now all was cold and bleak and drear once more, and people went back shiveringly to fires and furs, and abused the treacherous English climate to their hearts' content. The external cold and dreariness were shut out effectually in a house in fashionable Mayfair. A sort of small drawing-room, opening off the grandeur and luxury of a larger one; a room with a hundred costly knick-knacks scattered about, with velvet draperies, and filled with hothouse flowers, and over which the fire-gleams played.A silver tea-urn stands hissing on a low table by the fire—dainty cups stand beside it. All is warm, fragrant, pleasant to the eye and the senses, and a silvery babble of women's voices adds life to the scene."What has become of your young friend, Mr. Athelstone?" asks a pretty, fair woman, as she puts down her cup, and turns to the presiding goddess of the ceremonies—a big, imposing-looking woman, magnificently dressed."He's in Rome still," she answers, with a strong American accent. "Means to stay there, too, I surmise—leastways, until the Vavasours come to town. Wonderful pretty woman Lady Vavasour—Lady Lauraine, as the poetry man calls her. You know that story?""No," chime in two or three voices. "What was it?""Well, he was an Italian," says the lady, who rejoices in the name of Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe, "and very poor, I believe, living in a garret, and that sort, but a right down poet, so every one saysnow, and Lady Vavasour found him out, and had his book published, and it took like wildfire and of course he's eternal grateful to her, and he wrote something on her—called her 'My Lady Lauraine'—sounds pretty, don't it—and the name was taken up, and in Rome no one called her anything else. She was quite the sensation of the day there; but sheiswonderful pretty, and no pumpkins aboutthat.""She's been married—let me see——""Two years, just upon. She's very delicate—that's why they went to Rome. Chest, or lungs, or something. An almighty pretty baby she's got too, and don't she seem fond of it! As a rule, mothers nowadays don't even bother their heads about their children—'ceptin' to dress 'em like dolls, and take 'em out as a show in their carriages."One or two fashionable mothers present wince a little at Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe's outspoken opinion, and feel more than ever convinced that she is dreadfully vulgar, and really it would be quite impossible to know her, only she is so amazingly rich."And she and Mr. Athelstone are great friends, you say?" questions another voice."Yes," answers Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe shortly. "Knew each other as children; brought up as brother and sister, and all that.""How very charming," simpers an inane-looking model of fashion, settling her bonnet strings, and wishing that some men would take it into their heads to drop in and relieve the monotony of feminine society. "Thatsort of relationship is so free and easy, and no one can say anything. But I heard that the Vavasours are coming back for the season?""So they are—at least Keith told me so when he last wrote. I knew him in New York," she added explanatorily. "He is a nice boy; deserves his luck, too. Uncommon rich, ain't he. My! two million dollars ain't bad; and I'm not sure if it ain't more. Old Hezekiah Jefferson was a relation of my niece. He was a warm man, he was, and this boy's got all.""He ought to marry," suggests a Belgravian matron, who has two daughters "out," and a third budding into bloom, and becoming obtrusively anxious to show herself among the rosebud "garden of girls," who blossom in the London season."Marry?" And Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe laughs. "I guess he don't think of that yet awhile. He's too young, and he likes his liberty; he's a bit skittish, too, but that's not much account as some go. Marryin' will be more than he'll care about for a long time to come, even though the girls do go after him like squir'ls after cobs. But then he's uncommon handsome, too.""Perhaps hisfriend, Lady Lauraine, as you call her, would object to his settling down?" suggests the Belgravian matron, with a little more acidity than sweetness in her well-modulated voice.Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe puts down her teacup, and looks straight at the speaker,"In our country," she remarks, "people say right down what they think. I don't know what you mean, but I guess. Lady Lauraine is a good woman and a good wife, and she'd be glad enough to see her old playfellow settled and happy; but, you see it's difficult for a rich fellow to know whether it's himself or his money that the girl takes him for, and I suspect Keith would like to be sure on that subject before he jumped into matrimony."There is a momentary hush among the fair tea-drinkers; but all are agreed in their minds that Americans have an unpleasantly coarse way of putting things."It's four years ago since I came to Eu-rope," resumed Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe. "I've got more spry about your ways than I was. But there's one thing I don't hold with, and that is that you don't believe in your women. Our Amurcan girls, now, go to their balls, and parties, and skatin' matches, and junketings, and the young fellows see them home and 'squire them about, and we don't think no harm of it; and as for scandal, why, we'd call a man a blackguard who'd say a word against a girl's character for goin' about with another man. It's a point of honour withthemto treat 'em just as respectfully as if a hundred mothers and chaperons were looking on. Now, here in Europe you're all in such a mortal funk, not only with your gals, but with your married women. You don't seem to believe in such a thing as friendship. Why, if a man and a woman like to talk to each other there's a scandal directly! I surmise it's your way, but it bothers me, that it does."There is a little titter among the fair worshippers at the shrine of tea and riches."Dear Mrs. Woollffe, you do say such odd things; but I think you quite mistake. We are certainly particular with our girls. We must be. Society would be scandalized if they went about in the free-and-easy fashion of their American cousins. But with married women it is quite different. We are reallyfree—more free, I think, than your countrywomen; and as forfriendship—dear me, that is quite allowable—quite!""Of course," chime in several voices in the background, for all the attention of the conclave is aroused now. "But then there are friendships,andfriendships.""Exactly," says Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe drily. "It is the 'and' ones I mean. How is it you know so well who may not look at the halter, and who may steal the horse?""It is—it is somewhat difficult to explain," hesitates the pretty fair woman, who has a charming "friendship" of her own on hand just now, and is anxious it should be considered as blameless as, of course, it is.Mrs. Bradshaw Woollffe laughs loudly."I surmise it is," she answers, "something like the people one can't know and the people one can. I suppose as long as one's got a pretty big pile, one can do anything.""But to return to Mr. Athelstone," says Belgravia, a little uncomfortably. "Don't you really know when he'll come back?""Perhaps I do," answers Mrs. Woollffe, with an odd little smile. "He's just promised to come and stay with me the end of the month. I have a niece—a very pretty girl she is, too—coming over from N' York, and as they knew each other in Amurca, I thought it would be company like for them to be together."Horror and consternation fill the heart of the Belgravian matron. The prospects of her two daughters who are "out," and the blushingingénuein prospective, flee further and further back into the regions of disappointment.What an odious woman! What a horrible woman! What on earth does she mean? Oh, if only she were poor, and if only the Earl of Longleat hadn't taken her up, how she would crush her now beneath aristocratic scorn. But—well, it never doesquiteto fall out with so much money, and lose all the dinners, balls, and receptions which the wealthy widow gives right royally in the season. So the ire is smothered and the frowns dispelled, and only the sweetest of phrases issue from lips that are absolutely trembling with hatred and disgust. The rooms grow emptier and emptier. The last visitor leaves, and Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe leans back in her most comfortable chair, and laughs softly to herself in the glow of the firelight."We don't raisethatsort down our way," she says, "and I'm glad of it. Well, I think I riled 'em with that bit about Anastasia, and it's no cram either. She is uncommon pretty, and ought to take. I shouldn't mind getting a bid for her, only she's that sweet on Keith I'm afraid it won't be easy. But he don't care a red herring for her—thatI know. I wonder what's become of the girl he told me of in N' York that fall. He ain't married her, and when I asked him why, he cut up mighty rough, and as good as told me to mind my own business. But I like that Keith. I wish he seemed a bit happier, that I do. He's not near so spry and lively as he used to be. How all these women are after him! Guess I got a rise out of themthattime. My, if they knew he was coming here to-night! 'Taint none of their business though, and I don't mean it to be. I think I'll keep the dragons off him better'n most. I and—Anastasia!"And she laughs again, a pleasant, cheery laugh, not with any insincere modulation or false ring like the laugh of Society. But with all her vulgarities and eccentricities, Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe is a genuine woman.She pours herself out another cup of tea, and looks complacently round her pretty room; and as she looks, there comes the sound of a step on the stairs, and the door is thrown open, and a tall figure comes straight to her amidst the obscurity, and she springs up to welcome him with a cordiality so genuine that Society would doubtless call it vulgar."Keith, my dear boy—so you've come. I'mrealglad to see you, that I am."Her visitor takes the two hands she extends him, and returns their warm pressure. Then she forces him into a chair by the fire, and stirs the logs into a blaze, and brings him some tea, and fusses about him in a pleasant, genial, womanly fashion that is all her own.Keith Athelstone accepts her attentions with laughing opposition against the amount of trouble she is taking; but on the whole he likes it, and he likes her too, for she has been a kind friend to him in days gone by, when he was only poor and struggling—a stranger in a strange land, not yet having "struck ile" in the way of fortune and success."And so you have really left Rome?" says Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe at last, when her guest is reclining lazily in his chair, and has begged her not to ring for lights or disturb the cosy solitude of the room. "And how are the Vavasours?"A little change is visible in the face of the young man—a face strangely altered in these two years. The features are handsome as ever, but there is a haggard, worn look about them, and the blue eyes are feverish and dim, and heavy shadows lie beneath the long dark lashes.Those eyes and lashes are the greatest beauty in Keith Athelstone's face, and now that haunting look of sadness gives them tenfold more attraction than they possessed before. "They are quite well," he says, after a brief pause; "they come to town next week.""I wonder you did not wait and come with them.""Lady Vavasour did not wish it," he answers quietly.Mrs. Woollffe gives him a quick glance and is silent."I've had a troop of women here," she says presently. "Glad you didn't come in the midst of their chatter. My, they'll be after you like flies after molasses this season, Keith! Take care you aren't married in spite of yourself.""Married?" his voice rings out with angry energy; "not if I know it. Ihatewomen.""Hate 'em?—that's queer," remarks Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe. "Something's wrong with you, then. Boys at your age aren't women-haters for nothing.""I mean, of course, those husband-hunting creatures," says Keith apologetically. "Why can't they let a fellow alone, I wonder?""Can't say, I'm sure, unless it's just their malice drives 'em on one against the other, and each tries to be foremost with the traps and gins. When a man's got money, I suppose they think it ain't right unless he shares it with a female. And there's such an almighty lot of women in Great Britain. Nice enough, too, some of 'em; I like 'em better'n Amurcans. They've a real good time of it out here, too. When we get married, we're shelved—done for. We let the young 'uns have their time; but, lor' bless me,herethe married women seem to have the best of the fun, and are as skittish as colts, even when they're forty.""Yes, that's so," answered Keith. "In these days married women—so long as they're pretty—command more admiration and attention than the girls. The fact of being appropriated seems to lend them a greater charm. Perhaps, though, men think they're safer. The mothers make such dead running, you know, and if you dance twice with a girl, suspect 'intentions.'""It's bad, though," says Mrs. Woollffe, shaking her head. "Bad for Society—bad for men—bad for the girls, too. They'll marry the first man who asks them, because they think they'll have more real freedom afterwards. But what sort of wives and mothers will they make?""Those are secondary points of consideration"—sneers Keith, and his face looks hard and almost cruel now, as the flames leap up and frame it in their sudden brightness. "Old-fashioned ideas like truth and constancy, and all that.""Come, I can't have you getting cynical," says his friend good-humouredly. "You're too young, and I hate to hear young fellows like yourself railing against women. It don't seem right, somehow. What do you know of them? They're mighty queer creatures, and would puzzle the wisest man; but all the same, they're not all downright bad, and you mustn't judge the whole bale from a poor sample."Keith says nothing. His eyes go back to the fire, and a cloud darkens his brow. He knows in his own heart that he hates all women, only because he loves one—too well.
A cold, wet afternoon in March. But a few days ago people believed in spring. There was abundance of sunshine, of blue sky, of tender, venturesome birds; there had been piles of violets and primroses in the flower-girls' baskets, as they moved about the London streets; a breath of genuine spring-time in the soft air; but now all was cold and bleak and drear once more, and people went back shiveringly to fires and furs, and abused the treacherous English climate to their hearts' content. The external cold and dreariness were shut out effectually in a house in fashionable Mayfair. A sort of small drawing-room, opening off the grandeur and luxury of a larger one; a room with a hundred costly knick-knacks scattered about, with velvet draperies, and filled with hothouse flowers, and over which the fire-gleams played.
A silver tea-urn stands hissing on a low table by the fire—dainty cups stand beside it. All is warm, fragrant, pleasant to the eye and the senses, and a silvery babble of women's voices adds life to the scene.
"What has become of your young friend, Mr. Athelstone?" asks a pretty, fair woman, as she puts down her cup, and turns to the presiding goddess of the ceremonies—a big, imposing-looking woman, magnificently dressed.
"He's in Rome still," she answers, with a strong American accent. "Means to stay there, too, I surmise—leastways, until the Vavasours come to town. Wonderful pretty woman Lady Vavasour—Lady Lauraine, as the poetry man calls her. You know that story?"
"No," chime in two or three voices. "What was it?"
"Well, he was an Italian," says the lady, who rejoices in the name of Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe, "and very poor, I believe, living in a garret, and that sort, but a right down poet, so every one saysnow, and Lady Vavasour found him out, and had his book published, and it took like wildfire and of course he's eternal grateful to her, and he wrote something on her—called her 'My Lady Lauraine'—sounds pretty, don't it—and the name was taken up, and in Rome no one called her anything else. She was quite the sensation of the day there; but sheiswonderful pretty, and no pumpkins aboutthat."
"She's been married—let me see——"
"Two years, just upon. She's very delicate—that's why they went to Rome. Chest, or lungs, or something. An almighty pretty baby she's got too, and don't she seem fond of it! As a rule, mothers nowadays don't even bother their heads about their children—'ceptin' to dress 'em like dolls, and take 'em out as a show in their carriages."
One or two fashionable mothers present wince a little at Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe's outspoken opinion, and feel more than ever convinced that she is dreadfully vulgar, and really it would be quite impossible to know her, only she is so amazingly rich.
"And she and Mr. Athelstone are great friends, you say?" questions another voice.
"Yes," answers Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe shortly. "Knew each other as children; brought up as brother and sister, and all that."
"How very charming," simpers an inane-looking model of fashion, settling her bonnet strings, and wishing that some men would take it into their heads to drop in and relieve the monotony of feminine society. "Thatsort of relationship is so free and easy, and no one can say anything. But I heard that the Vavasours are coming back for the season?"
"So they are—at least Keith told me so when he last wrote. I knew him in New York," she added explanatorily. "He is a nice boy; deserves his luck, too. Uncommon rich, ain't he. My! two million dollars ain't bad; and I'm not sure if it ain't more. Old Hezekiah Jefferson was a relation of my niece. He was a warm man, he was, and this boy's got all."
"He ought to marry," suggests a Belgravian matron, who has two daughters "out," and a third budding into bloom, and becoming obtrusively anxious to show herself among the rosebud "garden of girls," who blossom in the London season.
"Marry?" And Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe laughs. "I guess he don't think of that yet awhile. He's too young, and he likes his liberty; he's a bit skittish, too, but that's not much account as some go. Marryin' will be more than he'll care about for a long time to come, even though the girls do go after him like squir'ls after cobs. But then he's uncommon handsome, too."
"Perhaps hisfriend, Lady Lauraine, as you call her, would object to his settling down?" suggests the Belgravian matron, with a little more acidity than sweetness in her well-modulated voice.
Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe puts down her teacup, and looks straight at the speaker,
"In our country," she remarks, "people say right down what they think. I don't know what you mean, but I guess. Lady Lauraine is a good woman and a good wife, and she'd be glad enough to see her old playfellow settled and happy; but, you see it's difficult for a rich fellow to know whether it's himself or his money that the girl takes him for, and I suspect Keith would like to be sure on that subject before he jumped into matrimony."
There is a momentary hush among the fair tea-drinkers; but all are agreed in their minds that Americans have an unpleasantly coarse way of putting things.
"It's four years ago since I came to Eu-rope," resumed Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe. "I've got more spry about your ways than I was. But there's one thing I don't hold with, and that is that you don't believe in your women. Our Amurcan girls, now, go to their balls, and parties, and skatin' matches, and junketings, and the young fellows see them home and 'squire them about, and we don't think no harm of it; and as for scandal, why, we'd call a man a blackguard who'd say a word against a girl's character for goin' about with another man. It's a point of honour withthemto treat 'em just as respectfully as if a hundred mothers and chaperons were looking on. Now, here in Europe you're all in such a mortal funk, not only with your gals, but with your married women. You don't seem to believe in such a thing as friendship. Why, if a man and a woman like to talk to each other there's a scandal directly! I surmise it's your way, but it bothers me, that it does."
There is a little titter among the fair worshippers at the shrine of tea and riches.
"Dear Mrs. Woollffe, you do say such odd things; but I think you quite mistake. We are certainly particular with our girls. We must be. Society would be scandalized if they went about in the free-and-easy fashion of their American cousins. But with married women it is quite different. We are reallyfree—more free, I think, than your countrywomen; and as forfriendship—dear me, that is quite allowable—quite!"
"Of course," chime in several voices in the background, for all the attention of the conclave is aroused now. "But then there are friendships,andfriendships."
"Exactly," says Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe drily. "It is the 'and' ones I mean. How is it you know so well who may not look at the halter, and who may steal the horse?"
"It is—it is somewhat difficult to explain," hesitates the pretty fair woman, who has a charming "friendship" of her own on hand just now, and is anxious it should be considered as blameless as, of course, it is.
Mrs. Bradshaw Woollffe laughs loudly.
"I surmise it is," she answers, "something like the people one can't know and the people one can. I suppose as long as one's got a pretty big pile, one can do anything."
"But to return to Mr. Athelstone," says Belgravia, a little uncomfortably. "Don't you really know when he'll come back?"
"Perhaps I do," answers Mrs. Woollffe, with an odd little smile. "He's just promised to come and stay with me the end of the month. I have a niece—a very pretty girl she is, too—coming over from N' York, and as they knew each other in Amurca, I thought it would be company like for them to be together."
Horror and consternation fill the heart of the Belgravian matron. The prospects of her two daughters who are "out," and the blushingingénuein prospective, flee further and further back into the regions of disappointment.
What an odious woman! What a horrible woman! What on earth does she mean? Oh, if only she were poor, and if only the Earl of Longleat hadn't taken her up, how she would crush her now beneath aristocratic scorn. But—well, it never doesquiteto fall out with so much money, and lose all the dinners, balls, and receptions which the wealthy widow gives right royally in the season. So the ire is smothered and the frowns dispelled, and only the sweetest of phrases issue from lips that are absolutely trembling with hatred and disgust. The rooms grow emptier and emptier. The last visitor leaves, and Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe leans back in her most comfortable chair, and laughs softly to herself in the glow of the firelight.
"We don't raisethatsort down our way," she says, "and I'm glad of it. Well, I think I riled 'em with that bit about Anastasia, and it's no cram either. She is uncommon pretty, and ought to take. I shouldn't mind getting a bid for her, only she's that sweet on Keith I'm afraid it won't be easy. But he don't care a red herring for her—thatI know. I wonder what's become of the girl he told me of in N' York that fall. He ain't married her, and when I asked him why, he cut up mighty rough, and as good as told me to mind my own business. But I like that Keith. I wish he seemed a bit happier, that I do. He's not near so spry and lively as he used to be. How all these women are after him! Guess I got a rise out of themthattime. My, if they knew he was coming here to-night! 'Taint none of their business though, and I don't mean it to be. I think I'll keep the dragons off him better'n most. I and—Anastasia!"
And she laughs again, a pleasant, cheery laugh, not with any insincere modulation or false ring like the laugh of Society. But with all her vulgarities and eccentricities, Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe is a genuine woman.
She pours herself out another cup of tea, and looks complacently round her pretty room; and as she looks, there comes the sound of a step on the stairs, and the door is thrown open, and a tall figure comes straight to her amidst the obscurity, and she springs up to welcome him with a cordiality so genuine that Society would doubtless call it vulgar.
"Keith, my dear boy—so you've come. I'mrealglad to see you, that I am."
Her visitor takes the two hands she extends him, and returns their warm pressure. Then she forces him into a chair by the fire, and stirs the logs into a blaze, and brings him some tea, and fusses about him in a pleasant, genial, womanly fashion that is all her own.
Keith Athelstone accepts her attentions with laughing opposition against the amount of trouble she is taking; but on the whole he likes it, and he likes her too, for she has been a kind friend to him in days gone by, when he was only poor and struggling—a stranger in a strange land, not yet having "struck ile" in the way of fortune and success.
"And so you have really left Rome?" says Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe at last, when her guest is reclining lazily in his chair, and has begged her not to ring for lights or disturb the cosy solitude of the room. "And how are the Vavasours?"
A little change is visible in the face of the young man—a face strangely altered in these two years. The features are handsome as ever, but there is a haggard, worn look about them, and the blue eyes are feverish and dim, and heavy shadows lie beneath the long dark lashes.
Those eyes and lashes are the greatest beauty in Keith Athelstone's face, and now that haunting look of sadness gives them tenfold more attraction than they possessed before. "They are quite well," he says, after a brief pause; "they come to town next week."
"I wonder you did not wait and come with them."
"Lady Vavasour did not wish it," he answers quietly.
Mrs. Woollffe gives him a quick glance and is silent.
"I've had a troop of women here," she says presently. "Glad you didn't come in the midst of their chatter. My, they'll be after you like flies after molasses this season, Keith! Take care you aren't married in spite of yourself."
"Married?" his voice rings out with angry energy; "not if I know it. Ihatewomen."
"Hate 'em?—that's queer," remarks Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe. "Something's wrong with you, then. Boys at your age aren't women-haters for nothing."
"I mean, of course, those husband-hunting creatures," says Keith apologetically. "Why can't they let a fellow alone, I wonder?"
"Can't say, I'm sure, unless it's just their malice drives 'em on one against the other, and each tries to be foremost with the traps and gins. When a man's got money, I suppose they think it ain't right unless he shares it with a female. And there's such an almighty lot of women in Great Britain. Nice enough, too, some of 'em; I like 'em better'n Amurcans. They've a real good time of it out here, too. When we get married, we're shelved—done for. We let the young 'uns have their time; but, lor' bless me,herethe married women seem to have the best of the fun, and are as skittish as colts, even when they're forty."
"Yes, that's so," answered Keith. "In these days married women—so long as they're pretty—command more admiration and attention than the girls. The fact of being appropriated seems to lend them a greater charm. Perhaps, though, men think they're safer. The mothers make such dead running, you know, and if you dance twice with a girl, suspect 'intentions.'"
"It's bad, though," says Mrs. Woollffe, shaking her head. "Bad for Society—bad for men—bad for the girls, too. They'll marry the first man who asks them, because they think they'll have more real freedom afterwards. But what sort of wives and mothers will they make?"
"Those are secondary points of consideration"—sneers Keith, and his face looks hard and almost cruel now, as the flames leap up and frame it in their sudden brightness. "Old-fashioned ideas like truth and constancy, and all that."
"Come, I can't have you getting cynical," says his friend good-humouredly. "You're too young, and I hate to hear young fellows like yourself railing against women. It don't seem right, somehow. What do you know of them? They're mighty queer creatures, and would puzzle the wisest man; but all the same, they're not all downright bad, and you mustn't judge the whole bale from a poor sample."
Keith says nothing. His eyes go back to the fire, and a cloud darkens his brow. He knows in his own heart that he hates all women, only because he loves one—too well.