CHAPTER VI"Lauraine is very much changed," laments Mrs. Douglas to a select coterie of friends, on one of those chilly spring afternoons when they have dropped in to sip souchong and talk scandal in her pretty drawing-room. It is her "day." There are heaps of women scattered about—there are a few men. The lights are subdued. There is a pleasant fragrance of tea, and the scents of flowers fill the air, and the babble of many voices sounds cheerfully amidst it all."Changed!" says one of the friends to whom she has addressed that remark; "in what way?""So quiet and cold and—odd," Mrs. Douglas answers; "says she hates society, detests going out, takes up artists and singers, and all sorts of queer people. I really expect to see her going about soon in a terra-cotta gown, and wearing no corsets, and looking as great a fool as Lady Etwynde. So absurd, you know, for a young woman, and a pretty woman. Of course, Lady Etwynde is a duke's daughter, and can do what she likes; besides, she's so lovely nothing could make her a fright, though she only turns it to account by being the most eccentric woman in London. I don't blame her. If you can't be remarkable in one way, it's just as well to be it in another. But the people one meets there—it really istooawful. Just the sort of creatures thatPunchtakes off. And Lauraine is always there; so tiresome, because Lady Etwynde's day is the same as mine, and so she can never come here.""I thought it was odd never meeting her at your house," remarks one of the coterie."Yes, that's how it is you never see her," resumes Mrs. Douglas, somewhat hurriedly. "She and Lady Etwynde are inseparable, though I'm sure I can't imagine why.""I met her—your daughter, I mean—at the Salomans' the other night," remarks a tall, fair woman, leaning languidly back in her chair."Yes, I know she was there," says Mrs. Douglas, colouring slightly. "Charming woman, Lady Jean!""Very," answers her friend dryly. "I—I suppose Lady Vavasour never heard anything about—that.""Oh, there was nothing—nothing; he assured me so himself. I would not have trusted my child's happiness to his care had he not done so. The world issocensorious, dear Mrs. Chetwynde."Mrs. Chetwynde laughs. "True; but all the same there is no smoke without fire, you know—and Lady Jean was awfully wild about his marriage."Mrs. Douglas looked uncomfortable. "I don't know anything about her. But I am quite sure she is all right. She is received everywhere.""Of course," smiles her friend. "And the very openness of their friendship is guarantee sufficient for its perfect harmlessness; just like Lauraine's with Keith Athelstone.""Keith Athelstone!" exclaims Mrs. Douglas, turning very white. "What do you mean?""They are always together," says Mrs. Chetwynde maliciously. "So they were in Rome, for the matter of that. But, of course, they are very old friends—brought up as children, and all that?""Of course," says Mrs. Douglas loftily. "Why, they were like brother and sister. Surely no one is so uncharitable as——""My dear, we are all uncharitable, more or less. And Lauraine is very pretty, and Sir Francis notquiteso devoted as he might be, considering it was a love-match—so you said. I think I should give Lauraine a hint, if I were you.""Lauraine is quite capable of managing her own affairs," said Mrs. Douglas pettishly. In her own mind she thinks she knows how such a hint would be received. "Keith is only a boy. Lauraine looks upon him just as a brother—always did. She is accustomed to order him about, and have him beside her. Pray don't listen to such ill-natured gossip."But all the time an uncomfortable memory is rising up before her. She sees a pale young face and the fiery wrath of two blue eyes, and hears the passionate reproaches of Keith Athelstone's lips as he tells her of his ruined life. Good heavens! what does he mean? Why does he stay by Lauraine's side now? She feels nervous and unsettled, and almost resolves she will speak to Lauraine, and give her that word of caution which her friend has suggested. The world is so wicked, and after all—Her thoughts are interrupted by fresh arrivals. Into the exclusive circle in which Mrs. Douglas' soul delights, stride the massive proportions and gorgeous sweeping draperies of Mrs. Bradshaw B. Wooliffe. Following her is a little dainty figure—a sort of modern Dresden shepherdess in point of colouring and attire. She is introduced by Mrs. Wooliffe as "My niece from New York, Miss Anastasia Jane Jefferson."Every one looks at her. Every one wonders whether it is prettiness, or piquancy, orchic, that makes the radiant face so bewitching—the tiny figure so attractive, and one among the coterie, the Belgravian matron, withdemoiselles à marier, looks virtuously indignant and annoyed at the intrusion."She is sure to be fast and talk with that awful twang, that's one comfort," she thinks, as with the coldest and stiffest of bows she greets the new-comer.But Miss Jefferson is not fast or vulgar, and though her accent and expression are decidedly American, they have a piquant charm of their own that the younger members of the conclave listen to enviously, and the men seem to find irresistibly attractive.Mrs. Bradshaw B. Wooliffe and her niece fairly break up the select groups andtête à têtes, and make themselves the centre of attraction and attention. The loud voice and hearty laughter of the elder lady peal through the room, to the utter annihilation of softer voices and confidential whispers."We have just come from Lady Etwynde's reception," she says, laughing immoderately. "I reckon you people are having some fun out of your new craze. Guessshe'sgone pretty nigh out of her mind, at all events.""What was it like? Do tell us," chime in one or two voices—voices of outsiders to whom the Lady—or, as she loved to call herself, the "Ladye"—Etwynde Fitz-Herbert is a sort of unknown wonder. Her sayings and doings are chronicled by society journals; but her circle of intimates and associates is very limited. They begin to wonder how Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe gained admittance. That lady now informs them."Well," she commences, looking round at the attentive faces, "I was calling at Lauraine's—beg pardon, I suppose I should say Lady Vavasour's—and she took me with her and Keith. Keith is a great chum of the 'Ladye' Etwynde's. We got to her house—a real lovely place with a big garden, out Kensington way; all red brick, no windows to speak of, but lots offrames, and a hall—my! the queerest place—all done with matting, and so dark, and everywhere double doors and plush curtains, 'of a sad sage-green,' to use Keith's expression. Such a silent place, not a sound anywhere. Well, we went into a room, also very dim and a great deal of green and yellow about it, and huge pots of sunflowers in the windows, and the very queerest chairs, and on every chair sat a woman, and behind every chair stood a man. They were all quite still, and had their eyes fixed on the sunflowers and their bodies twisted into the queerest attitudes. I stared some, I can tell you. Lauraine went up to a tall, beautiful woman dressed in a clinging gown of terra-cotta stuff—such a gown! My! Worth never had anything to do withthatfrock, I guess. She came forward and spoke to me. 'You are not one of us, but you are welcome,' she said. Her voice was very sad and very sweet."'This is one of our contemplative afternoons,' she said, when I had bowed—speak, I really couldn't. 'We do but sit still, andyearn.'""What?" ejaculated the listeners."Guess you're through," laughs Mrs. Woollffe. "Well, so was I.""'Yes,' she went on. 'We yearn for all that is most soul-uplifting. We each set a distinct object before our mind's eye, and absorb ourselves in its contemplation. These moments are truly precious for those who can be brought to appreciate their intensity. We are most of us earnest students of our faith—disciples of culture—worshippers of the beautiful—the far-reaching—the subtle—the sublime!'"'And don't you ever speak?' I asked her; for of all the vacant-eyed, sleepy idiots in creation I never came across such a set as were 'yearning' there."'Speak—oh yes—in season and at proper times,' she says. 'But thought is often more beautiful than words, and language is deficient in much that might clothe and dignify our ideas.'"Keith chimed in here. 'Yes,' he said; 'theyareapt to sound ridiculous when it comes to clothing them in common-place speech.'" The listeners exchange glances."And this was really how they went on—how idiotic!" murmurs Mrs. Douglas. "I knew Lady Etwynde was always very eccentric, but I think she is quite going out of her mind now. I hope she won't imbue Lauraine with any of her absurd ideas. How was she dressed—Lauraine, I mean?""Oh! quite æsthetic!" exclaims Mrs. Woollffe. "Indian silk, creamy coloured, big puffs, and very clinging about the skirt, and an 'intense' hat. I know it was intense, because Keith said so.""What made Mr. Athelstone go to such a nonsensical affair?" demands Mrs. Douglas, frowning."Didn't ask him. S'pose he likes to 'yearn' a bit also. Perhaps it's refreshing to fix one's mind on an object and meditate upon it. Can't say myself. Don't think I ever tried it.""And didn't theydoanything?" inquires Mrs. Chetwynde."They talked an almighty queer jargon, if that was doing anything. A lot about 'disciples' and 'searching after the unknown,' and the 'abstruseness of the beautiful,' which was the religion of culture. Lauraine saw some snowdrops and violets and admired them, and then some one burst out about the fierce beauty of the sunflower and the grand teachings of the tiger-lily. I confess I felt beat then, and said so, but Lady Etwynde only smiled that sad, pale smile of hers, and murmured: 'Ah, Nature has much to teach you. Her great marvels are yet a blank. To comprehend her is a power given only to the chosen few.' I felt uncommon near saying thatsheresembled Nature there, for I am blessed if I comprehended her.""And one hears such wonderful stories about this Lady Etwynde," murmurs a voice in the background. "Really, it seems quite disappointing.""She is real pretty," remarks Miss Anastasia Jefferson."Pretty? But then she dresses so oddly, and her hair——""A club behind and a nimbus in front," laughs the pretty American. "Trying, but still seems to suit her. Real cunning she looked when she lay back in her chair with her eyes turned up—so."She imitates her so exactly that there is a well-bred ripple of laughter among the circle, but behind Miss Jefferson's back they will all denounce the vulgarity and bad taste of ridiculing any one to whose house she had just been. Of course, they themselves never do such things! Mrs. Douglas draws a little nearer to Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe. She wants to question her concerning Keith Athelstone."You might have brought your young friend here," she says affably."Guess he didn't want to come," answers Mrs. Woollffe bluntly. "At least he said so."Mrs. Douglas colours faintly. "He has so many engagements; money of course makes a young man immensely popular," she says, with a cold smile."'Tain't money that's got anything to do with Keith Athelstone's popularity," answers Mrs. Woollffe sharply. "He's just one of the nicest young fellows I've ever known, and people don't take long to find that out. His manners are perfect. He can dress like a gentleman without looking a fop. He's plenty to say and says it well, and he's most uncommonly good-looking. Ain't that enough to make a young man run after?""Still," says Mrs. Douglas sweetly, "if he had no money, Society would turn its back on him to-morrow.""Society?" echoes Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe. "I guess you mean the mothers in society. I've my own opinion about the gals.""Does he—does he seem to care about any woman in particular?" asks Mrs. Douglas. "I suppose he means to marry and settle down now.""Guess he don't," says Mrs. Woollffe. "Likes to be free, so he says, and quite right too.""Then there is no one—no girl—he pays attention to," persists Mrs. Douglas determinedly.Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe looks at her with aroused curiosity, and a faint smile comes to her lips. "Oh, yes, there issome onehe pays great attention to," she says, slowly and distinctly, "but no girl as you say—she is a married woman."
"Lauraine is very much changed," laments Mrs. Douglas to a select coterie of friends, on one of those chilly spring afternoons when they have dropped in to sip souchong and talk scandal in her pretty drawing-room. It is her "day." There are heaps of women scattered about—there are a few men. The lights are subdued. There is a pleasant fragrance of tea, and the scents of flowers fill the air, and the babble of many voices sounds cheerfully amidst it all.
"Changed!" says one of the friends to whom she has addressed that remark; "in what way?"
"So quiet and cold and—odd," Mrs. Douglas answers; "says she hates society, detests going out, takes up artists and singers, and all sorts of queer people. I really expect to see her going about soon in a terra-cotta gown, and wearing no corsets, and looking as great a fool as Lady Etwynde. So absurd, you know, for a young woman, and a pretty woman. Of course, Lady Etwynde is a duke's daughter, and can do what she likes; besides, she's so lovely nothing could make her a fright, though she only turns it to account by being the most eccentric woman in London. I don't blame her. If you can't be remarkable in one way, it's just as well to be it in another. But the people one meets there—it really istooawful. Just the sort of creatures thatPunchtakes off. And Lauraine is always there; so tiresome, because Lady Etwynde's day is the same as mine, and so she can never come here."
"I thought it was odd never meeting her at your house," remarks one of the coterie.
"Yes, that's how it is you never see her," resumes Mrs. Douglas, somewhat hurriedly. "She and Lady Etwynde are inseparable, though I'm sure I can't imagine why."
"I met her—your daughter, I mean—at the Salomans' the other night," remarks a tall, fair woman, leaning languidly back in her chair.
"Yes, I know she was there," says Mrs. Douglas, colouring slightly. "Charming woman, Lady Jean!"
"Very," answers her friend dryly. "I—I suppose Lady Vavasour never heard anything about—that."
"Oh, there was nothing—nothing; he assured me so himself. I would not have trusted my child's happiness to his care had he not done so. The world issocensorious, dear Mrs. Chetwynde."
Mrs. Chetwynde laughs. "True; but all the same there is no smoke without fire, you know—and Lady Jean was awfully wild about his marriage."
Mrs. Douglas looked uncomfortable. "I don't know anything about her. But I am quite sure she is all right. She is received everywhere."
"Of course," smiles her friend. "And the very openness of their friendship is guarantee sufficient for its perfect harmlessness; just like Lauraine's with Keith Athelstone."
"Keith Athelstone!" exclaims Mrs. Douglas, turning very white. "What do you mean?"
"They are always together," says Mrs. Chetwynde maliciously. "So they were in Rome, for the matter of that. But, of course, they are very old friends—brought up as children, and all that?"
"Of course," says Mrs. Douglas loftily. "Why, they were like brother and sister. Surely no one is so uncharitable as——"
"My dear, we are all uncharitable, more or less. And Lauraine is very pretty, and Sir Francis notquiteso devoted as he might be, considering it was a love-match—so you said. I think I should give Lauraine a hint, if I were you."
"Lauraine is quite capable of managing her own affairs," said Mrs. Douglas pettishly. In her own mind she thinks she knows how such a hint would be received. "Keith is only a boy. Lauraine looks upon him just as a brother—always did. She is accustomed to order him about, and have him beside her. Pray don't listen to such ill-natured gossip."
But all the time an uncomfortable memory is rising up before her. She sees a pale young face and the fiery wrath of two blue eyes, and hears the passionate reproaches of Keith Athelstone's lips as he tells her of his ruined life. Good heavens! what does he mean? Why does he stay by Lauraine's side now? She feels nervous and unsettled, and almost resolves she will speak to Lauraine, and give her that word of caution which her friend has suggested. The world is so wicked, and after all—
Her thoughts are interrupted by fresh arrivals. Into the exclusive circle in which Mrs. Douglas' soul delights, stride the massive proportions and gorgeous sweeping draperies of Mrs. Bradshaw B. Wooliffe. Following her is a little dainty figure—a sort of modern Dresden shepherdess in point of colouring and attire. She is introduced by Mrs. Wooliffe as "My niece from New York, Miss Anastasia Jane Jefferson."
Every one looks at her. Every one wonders whether it is prettiness, or piquancy, orchic, that makes the radiant face so bewitching—the tiny figure so attractive, and one among the coterie, the Belgravian matron, withdemoiselles à marier, looks virtuously indignant and annoyed at the intrusion.
"She is sure to be fast and talk with that awful twang, that's one comfort," she thinks, as with the coldest and stiffest of bows she greets the new-comer.
But Miss Jefferson is not fast or vulgar, and though her accent and expression are decidedly American, they have a piquant charm of their own that the younger members of the conclave listen to enviously, and the men seem to find irresistibly attractive.
Mrs. Bradshaw B. Wooliffe and her niece fairly break up the select groups andtête à têtes, and make themselves the centre of attraction and attention. The loud voice and hearty laughter of the elder lady peal through the room, to the utter annihilation of softer voices and confidential whispers.
"We have just come from Lady Etwynde's reception," she says, laughing immoderately. "I reckon you people are having some fun out of your new craze. Guessshe'sgone pretty nigh out of her mind, at all events."
"What was it like? Do tell us," chime in one or two voices—voices of outsiders to whom the Lady—or, as she loved to call herself, the "Ladye"—Etwynde Fitz-Herbert is a sort of unknown wonder. Her sayings and doings are chronicled by society journals; but her circle of intimates and associates is very limited. They begin to wonder how Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe gained admittance. That lady now informs them.
"Well," she commences, looking round at the attentive faces, "I was calling at Lauraine's—beg pardon, I suppose I should say Lady Vavasour's—and she took me with her and Keith. Keith is a great chum of the 'Ladye' Etwynde's. We got to her house—a real lovely place with a big garden, out Kensington way; all red brick, no windows to speak of, but lots offrames, and a hall—my! the queerest place—all done with matting, and so dark, and everywhere double doors and plush curtains, 'of a sad sage-green,' to use Keith's expression. Such a silent place, not a sound anywhere. Well, we went into a room, also very dim and a great deal of green and yellow about it, and huge pots of sunflowers in the windows, and the very queerest chairs, and on every chair sat a woman, and behind every chair stood a man. They were all quite still, and had their eyes fixed on the sunflowers and their bodies twisted into the queerest attitudes. I stared some, I can tell you. Lauraine went up to a tall, beautiful woman dressed in a clinging gown of terra-cotta stuff—such a gown! My! Worth never had anything to do withthatfrock, I guess. She came forward and spoke to me. 'You are not one of us, but you are welcome,' she said. Her voice was very sad and very sweet.
"'This is one of our contemplative afternoons,' she said, when I had bowed—speak, I really couldn't. 'We do but sit still, andyearn.'"
"What?" ejaculated the listeners.
"Guess you're through," laughs Mrs. Woollffe. "Well, so was I."
"'Yes,' she went on. 'We yearn for all that is most soul-uplifting. We each set a distinct object before our mind's eye, and absorb ourselves in its contemplation. These moments are truly precious for those who can be brought to appreciate their intensity. We are most of us earnest students of our faith—disciples of culture—worshippers of the beautiful—the far-reaching—the subtle—the sublime!'
"'And don't you ever speak?' I asked her; for of all the vacant-eyed, sleepy idiots in creation I never came across such a set as were 'yearning' there.
"'Speak—oh yes—in season and at proper times,' she says. 'But thought is often more beautiful than words, and language is deficient in much that might clothe and dignify our ideas.'
"Keith chimed in here. 'Yes,' he said; 'theyareapt to sound ridiculous when it comes to clothing them in common-place speech.'" The listeners exchange glances.
"And this was really how they went on—how idiotic!" murmurs Mrs. Douglas. "I knew Lady Etwynde was always very eccentric, but I think she is quite going out of her mind now. I hope she won't imbue Lauraine with any of her absurd ideas. How was she dressed—Lauraine, I mean?"
"Oh! quite æsthetic!" exclaims Mrs. Woollffe. "Indian silk, creamy coloured, big puffs, and very clinging about the skirt, and an 'intense' hat. I know it was intense, because Keith said so."
"What made Mr. Athelstone go to such a nonsensical affair?" demands Mrs. Douglas, frowning.
"Didn't ask him. S'pose he likes to 'yearn' a bit also. Perhaps it's refreshing to fix one's mind on an object and meditate upon it. Can't say myself. Don't think I ever tried it."
"And didn't theydoanything?" inquires Mrs. Chetwynde.
"They talked an almighty queer jargon, if that was doing anything. A lot about 'disciples' and 'searching after the unknown,' and the 'abstruseness of the beautiful,' which was the religion of culture. Lauraine saw some snowdrops and violets and admired them, and then some one burst out about the fierce beauty of the sunflower and the grand teachings of the tiger-lily. I confess I felt beat then, and said so, but Lady Etwynde only smiled that sad, pale smile of hers, and murmured: 'Ah, Nature has much to teach you. Her great marvels are yet a blank. To comprehend her is a power given only to the chosen few.' I felt uncommon near saying thatsheresembled Nature there, for I am blessed if I comprehended her."
"And one hears such wonderful stories about this Lady Etwynde," murmurs a voice in the background. "Really, it seems quite disappointing."
"She is real pretty," remarks Miss Anastasia Jefferson.
"Pretty? But then she dresses so oddly, and her hair——"
"A club behind and a nimbus in front," laughs the pretty American. "Trying, but still seems to suit her. Real cunning she looked when she lay back in her chair with her eyes turned up—so."
She imitates her so exactly that there is a well-bred ripple of laughter among the circle, but behind Miss Jefferson's back they will all denounce the vulgarity and bad taste of ridiculing any one to whose house she had just been. Of course, they themselves never do such things! Mrs. Douglas draws a little nearer to Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe. She wants to question her concerning Keith Athelstone.
"You might have brought your young friend here," she says affably.
"Guess he didn't want to come," answers Mrs. Woollffe bluntly. "At least he said so."
Mrs. Douglas colours faintly. "He has so many engagements; money of course makes a young man immensely popular," she says, with a cold smile.
"'Tain't money that's got anything to do with Keith Athelstone's popularity," answers Mrs. Woollffe sharply. "He's just one of the nicest young fellows I've ever known, and people don't take long to find that out. His manners are perfect. He can dress like a gentleman without looking a fop. He's plenty to say and says it well, and he's most uncommonly good-looking. Ain't that enough to make a young man run after?"
"Still," says Mrs. Douglas sweetly, "if he had no money, Society would turn its back on him to-morrow."
"Society?" echoes Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe. "I guess you mean the mothers in society. I've my own opinion about the gals."
"Does he—does he seem to care about any woman in particular?" asks Mrs. Douglas. "I suppose he means to marry and settle down now."
"Guess he don't," says Mrs. Woollffe. "Likes to be free, so he says, and quite right too."
"Then there is no one—no girl—he pays attention to," persists Mrs. Douglas determinedly.
Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe looks at her with aroused curiosity, and a faint smile comes to her lips. "Oh, yes, there issome onehe pays great attention to," she says, slowly and distinctly, "but no girl as you say—she is a married woman."