CHAPTER VIIThe season rolls on with Fashion tied to its wheels. Society is on its treadmill once more, hard at work and calling it pleasure. To young Lady Vavasour, courted and admired as she is, the life seems to have grown ineffably wearisome. All around her now is gorgeous, restless, insatiable. She plays her own part amidst it all, and finds an endless monotony about it. The glare, the fever, the unrest, oppress her with a vague wonder and an inward contempt, for those who live in it and for it alone, and misname the craving for false excitement—pleasure.She has seen very little of her husband this season. He has his own engagements and occupations—she hers. Lauraine feels often very lonely and very sad. The total want of sympathy between Sir Francis and herself becomes more and more apparent, and she knows very well that among all her host of acquaintances there is not one whom she can really count as a friend—except, perhaps, Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe.Of late a strange fear has come to her—one she hardly dares breathe to herself. It is connected with Keith Athelstone. She has been trying to make herself believe that that youthful episode is quite forgotten; that her marriage has put it out of his head; that his plainly shown preference for her society is only the outcome of past association. He has said no word to undeceive her; but then perhaps words are the least dangerous of the shafts of warfare in Love's armoury. A look, a sigh, a broken sentence—these often convey more than any set form of speech, and between Keith and Lauraine is a subtle comprehension that makes them utterly independent of words. A look across a crowded room, a smile at some witticism caught by their ears when in the midst of some brilliant circle, a glance as some words of a song, or tender strain of music, touch some memory in their hearts, or awake a thrill of pain or pleasure—these are enough to draw them together by the imperceptible links of a common sympathy. But in it all Lauraine suspects no danger. It seems to her that they are so utterly divided, it is impossible Keith can forget that fact. Perhaps he does forget it, but not in the way she imagines.The Lady Etwynde is holding a reception. It is not purely æsthetic this time, and "yearning" is not an item of the programme. Literary people, dramatic people, artistic people, musical people—a strange and somewhat odd-looking throng—crowd the "sad green" rooms, which are all thrown openen suite, and where the "fierce beauty" of the sunflower may be seen in all its glory this warm summer night.Dissimilar as they seem, yet Lauraine and Lady Etwynde are very good friends. Lauraine has discovered how much good sense, cleverness and cordial feeling live beneath that mask of eccentricity which the fair æsthete shows to the outer world, and she finds her entertainments far more amusing than many of the others she attends.To-night Lauraine comes alone, Sir Francis having declined to be present at what he terms "such d——d humbug." It is nearly midnight when she arrives, and the rooms are crowded. She sees the Lady Etwynde attired in a fearful and wonderful gown, with skirts more clinging, and puffs more voluminous, and hair more "tousled" than ever, and in her hand is a fan of peacock's feathers, which she from time to time waves slowly and gracefully to and fro.Even all her enemies and detractors cannot deny that the Lady Etwynde is essentially beautiful and graceful. Her every movement and attitude are a study; her soft, clinging draperies float and sway to her rhythmic motions in a way that is at once the envy and despair of her imitators and admirers. To see her walk across a room is a treat—a poem, as her disciples say, and countless have been the effusions inspired by her doing so.As Lauraine greets her, Keith Athelstone approaches. She had not expected to find him there, and a little flush of pleasure rises to her face.The Lady Etwynde looks at them with grave, soft eyes, and a little puzzled wonder on her face. She has heard some of the buzzing from Society's wings, and she is beginning also to notice that Keith is the very shadow of the beautiful "Lady Lauraine.""I have a great treat in store for you," she says, in her slow, soft voice; "Signor Alfieri has promised to sing for me to-night. You know him, do you not?""I have heard him at the opera, of course," says Lauraine. "But never in a room. How charming.""He is the most perfect Faust I have ever seen on the stage," continues the Lady Etwynde. "To hear him sing the 'Salve Dinora' is quite too exquisitely divine. Yes; he is going to honour my poor little entertainment.""You are very fortunate," remarks Keith Athelstone. "I know he refused to sing at the Duchess of St. Alban's 'At Home' the other night, despite all entreaties.""We must not miss a note," says the hostess tranquilly. "I think I will ask him to sing now. I have been waiting for Lauraine."Keith offers his arm, but the "Ladye" declines it, and makes a sign to an æsthetic poet, who looks starved enough to be "yearning" after the substantial goods of life. Then she floats off in her swaying, sensuous fashion, and Keith and Lauraine follow in silence. Seldom has Lauraine looked so lovely as she does tonight. Her dress is of the palest primrose shade, and of that exquisitely soft texture of silk calledsatin merveilleux, which drapes itself in graceful, clinging folds. A bodice and train of this shows a mass of creamy lace beneath. Some Gloire de Dijon roses nestle at her bosom, and a few more carelessly intermingled with maidenhair fern, and knotted together by long trails of primrose-coloured ribbon, are held in her hand. Her hair is without ornament, and the beautiful throat and neck are unmarred by any jewels, and gleam white as marble.Keith Athelstone's heart gives one great painful throb as he moves on by her side. He thinks he has never seen her look so exquisite, so dangerously attractive, as to-night. "Sir Francis not coming?" he says carelessly, and from his voice no one would suspect the feelings at work within his breast."No," says Lauraine. "He doesn't like æstheticism, you know.""They are not in such strong force to-night," says Keith, glancing round to see to whom Lauraine has just bowed. "Still, a good many planted about, I think. It's the men get over me. Did you ever see such guys?""Can't Lady Etwynde convert you?" asks Lauraine, smiling a little."To make myself up in that fashion—no, thank you. Besides, Nature hasn't given me the class of features necessary, and I don't suppose even a prolonged course of starvation would reduce me to such skinniness in the matter of legs and arms as those 'yearners' can boast of.""No; it would take a good time to make you thin, I imagine," Lauraine answers, with an involuntary glance at the splendid proportions of her old playmate. "So much the better. All men should be tall and well-made. Nature should establish it as a rule.""And all women beautiful, of course?""Beauty is not the only attraction a woman need possess," Lauraine says thoughtfully. "I remember hearing some one remark once that the most beautiful women might win the greatest amount of admiration, but not the greatest love.""There is a class of beauty that can command both. Of course, there are women who are eaten up with the vanity and satisfaction of their own charms. To my thinking, no amount of personal loveliness could compensate for bad temper, ignorance, or self-conceit.""I think so too," Lauraine answers, meeting a sudden glance of the blue eyes, and colouring faintly beneath the warm admiration they speak. "But, as a rule, men go mad after a beautiful face, and don't trouble themselves about anything else beneath it.""I should never do that," Keith remarks quietly. "I like a woman for what is in her—not for the straight features, and fair complexion, and good eyes.""You are hard to please," Lauraine remarks, glancing down at her flowers.He makes her no answer whatever.There is a sudden hush now in the crowded rooms—a silence of expectation. Keith finds a seat for Lauraine on a low ottoman near one of the windows, and stands there beside her. The moon is shining clear and brilliant in the sky above, and streams over the quaint flower-beds and trees in the garden. The sweet sultry summer night is full of beauty and fragrance—it acts like a spell on the warm, imaginative temperament and ardent fancy of the young man.Across the silence a chord of music breaks. With his eyes still fixed on the garden and the sky, Keith Athelstone waits and listens.The voice of the great singer thrills across the rooms in that most exquisite of strains which Faust utters to his love. Lauraine's heart grows chill for a moment, then leaps up and beats with a sudden vivid emotion that fills her veins like fire, and holds her spell-bound to the end. In that moment it seems to her as if some revelation had come of all she has missed in life. The passionate music finds its way to her very soul, and holds in suspense life, thought, memory.There is a lull—a pause, and then a torrent of acclamation fills the air. The charm is snapped.The hands that hold the roses tremble visibly. She sits there and is silent, and does not look up at the face above her for answering sympathy, because of this strange dread and ecstasy he may read upon her own.Hehasread it, despite the downcast eyes. He has read it, and his own heart grows rapturous with a sudden delight, and cold with as sudden a dread.Fresh applause—fresh entreaties. A moment's silence, and then the great singer seats himself at the piano, and pours out again in the matchless melody of his voice these words:The old, old pain of earthOn land or sea,And all that makes life worthFor you or me.What is it, darling, say,While stars shine on above.What makes us glad or gay?'Tis love—'tis love!The world's old weariness,What can it be,And all life's sad mistakesThat sad lives see.What makes them, darling, say,While here we hold our bliss:What makes us glad to day?A word—a kiss.The strange winds sigh aboveThe bending trees,And strange and sad days, love,May follow these.What care we, darling, now,Since love is ours,For winter blasts that robThe summer flowers?So that our hearts be one,So that our love be true,The world may laugh or frownFor me and you.Men may be wise or fools,Stars may die out above;We ask of life no gift,But love—but love![1][1] These words are copyright.He has set the words to music of his own. Music sad and gay and triumphant all in one. Music that finds its way from ear to heart, and fairly carries away the listeners. As he ceases—as the rapturous exclamations of the crowd sound stormily after the long silence—Lauraine looks up and meets Keith Athelstone's eyes.Only a look!But looks have broken the fetters of a lifetime's silence before now, and in that moment the secret of two hearts is revealed as clearly and distinctly as if a trumpet-blast had shouted it to their ears.Their eyes droop. Neither speaks. A moment or two pass on. Then comes a hoarse whisper to Lauraine's ear."Come away from this crowd; it is stifling, and that man has spoilt all other singing for to-night."Without a word she rises and takes his arm. She feels like one in a dream. Senses, feelings—all are lulled to a strange mysterious repose, and now and then her heart thrills with a dreamy rapturous ecstasy.The memory of that perfect melody is about her still, and follows her out into the shadows of the night, and the dim walks of the quaint old garden. She feels disturbed, perplexed, but almost happy. She has not noticed where he is taking her; only the breath of the cool night air is on her brow, and her eyes, dark and passionate as his own, gaze up at the tranquil lustre of the stars. Under the trees they stand, and face one another at last. He sees only a slender white figure, with the moon shedding its silver rays around it, and two quivering lips that part as if to speak. With a sudden ungovernable impulse he draws her to his breast, and on the trembling mouth spends the pent-up passion of his heart in one long kiss.
The season rolls on with Fashion tied to its wheels. Society is on its treadmill once more, hard at work and calling it pleasure. To young Lady Vavasour, courted and admired as she is, the life seems to have grown ineffably wearisome. All around her now is gorgeous, restless, insatiable. She plays her own part amidst it all, and finds an endless monotony about it. The glare, the fever, the unrest, oppress her with a vague wonder and an inward contempt, for those who live in it and for it alone, and misname the craving for false excitement—pleasure.
She has seen very little of her husband this season. He has his own engagements and occupations—she hers. Lauraine feels often very lonely and very sad. The total want of sympathy between Sir Francis and herself becomes more and more apparent, and she knows very well that among all her host of acquaintances there is not one whom she can really count as a friend—except, perhaps, Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe.
Of late a strange fear has come to her—one she hardly dares breathe to herself. It is connected with Keith Athelstone. She has been trying to make herself believe that that youthful episode is quite forgotten; that her marriage has put it out of his head; that his plainly shown preference for her society is only the outcome of past association. He has said no word to undeceive her; but then perhaps words are the least dangerous of the shafts of warfare in Love's armoury. A look, a sigh, a broken sentence—these often convey more than any set form of speech, and between Keith and Lauraine is a subtle comprehension that makes them utterly independent of words. A look across a crowded room, a smile at some witticism caught by their ears when in the midst of some brilliant circle, a glance as some words of a song, or tender strain of music, touch some memory in their hearts, or awake a thrill of pain or pleasure—these are enough to draw them together by the imperceptible links of a common sympathy. But in it all Lauraine suspects no danger. It seems to her that they are so utterly divided, it is impossible Keith can forget that fact. Perhaps he does forget it, but not in the way she imagines.
The Lady Etwynde is holding a reception. It is not purely æsthetic this time, and "yearning" is not an item of the programme. Literary people, dramatic people, artistic people, musical people—a strange and somewhat odd-looking throng—crowd the "sad green" rooms, which are all thrown openen suite, and where the "fierce beauty" of the sunflower may be seen in all its glory this warm summer night.
Dissimilar as they seem, yet Lauraine and Lady Etwynde are very good friends. Lauraine has discovered how much good sense, cleverness and cordial feeling live beneath that mask of eccentricity which the fair æsthete shows to the outer world, and she finds her entertainments far more amusing than many of the others she attends.
To-night Lauraine comes alone, Sir Francis having declined to be present at what he terms "such d——d humbug." It is nearly midnight when she arrives, and the rooms are crowded. She sees the Lady Etwynde attired in a fearful and wonderful gown, with skirts more clinging, and puffs more voluminous, and hair more "tousled" than ever, and in her hand is a fan of peacock's feathers, which she from time to time waves slowly and gracefully to and fro.
Even all her enemies and detractors cannot deny that the Lady Etwynde is essentially beautiful and graceful. Her every movement and attitude are a study; her soft, clinging draperies float and sway to her rhythmic motions in a way that is at once the envy and despair of her imitators and admirers. To see her walk across a room is a treat—a poem, as her disciples say, and countless have been the effusions inspired by her doing so.
As Lauraine greets her, Keith Athelstone approaches. She had not expected to find him there, and a little flush of pleasure rises to her face.
The Lady Etwynde looks at them with grave, soft eyes, and a little puzzled wonder on her face. She has heard some of the buzzing from Society's wings, and she is beginning also to notice that Keith is the very shadow of the beautiful "Lady Lauraine."
"I have a great treat in store for you," she says, in her slow, soft voice; "Signor Alfieri has promised to sing for me to-night. You know him, do you not?"
"I have heard him at the opera, of course," says Lauraine. "But never in a room. How charming."
"He is the most perfect Faust I have ever seen on the stage," continues the Lady Etwynde. "To hear him sing the 'Salve Dinora' is quite too exquisitely divine. Yes; he is going to honour my poor little entertainment."
"You are very fortunate," remarks Keith Athelstone. "I know he refused to sing at the Duchess of St. Alban's 'At Home' the other night, despite all entreaties."
"We must not miss a note," says the hostess tranquilly. "I think I will ask him to sing now. I have been waiting for Lauraine."
Keith offers his arm, but the "Ladye" declines it, and makes a sign to an æsthetic poet, who looks starved enough to be "yearning" after the substantial goods of life. Then she floats off in her swaying, sensuous fashion, and Keith and Lauraine follow in silence. Seldom has Lauraine looked so lovely as she does tonight. Her dress is of the palest primrose shade, and of that exquisitely soft texture of silk calledsatin merveilleux, which drapes itself in graceful, clinging folds. A bodice and train of this shows a mass of creamy lace beneath. Some Gloire de Dijon roses nestle at her bosom, and a few more carelessly intermingled with maidenhair fern, and knotted together by long trails of primrose-coloured ribbon, are held in her hand. Her hair is without ornament, and the beautiful throat and neck are unmarred by any jewels, and gleam white as marble.
Keith Athelstone's heart gives one great painful throb as he moves on by her side. He thinks he has never seen her look so exquisite, so dangerously attractive, as to-night. "Sir Francis not coming?" he says carelessly, and from his voice no one would suspect the feelings at work within his breast.
"No," says Lauraine. "He doesn't like æstheticism, you know."
"They are not in such strong force to-night," says Keith, glancing round to see to whom Lauraine has just bowed. "Still, a good many planted about, I think. It's the men get over me. Did you ever see such guys?"
"Can't Lady Etwynde convert you?" asks Lauraine, smiling a little.
"To make myself up in that fashion—no, thank you. Besides, Nature hasn't given me the class of features necessary, and I don't suppose even a prolonged course of starvation would reduce me to such skinniness in the matter of legs and arms as those 'yearners' can boast of."
"No; it would take a good time to make you thin, I imagine," Lauraine answers, with an involuntary glance at the splendid proportions of her old playmate. "So much the better. All men should be tall and well-made. Nature should establish it as a rule."
"And all women beautiful, of course?"
"Beauty is not the only attraction a woman need possess," Lauraine says thoughtfully. "I remember hearing some one remark once that the most beautiful women might win the greatest amount of admiration, but not the greatest love."
"There is a class of beauty that can command both. Of course, there are women who are eaten up with the vanity and satisfaction of their own charms. To my thinking, no amount of personal loveliness could compensate for bad temper, ignorance, or self-conceit."
"I think so too," Lauraine answers, meeting a sudden glance of the blue eyes, and colouring faintly beneath the warm admiration they speak. "But, as a rule, men go mad after a beautiful face, and don't trouble themselves about anything else beneath it."
"I should never do that," Keith remarks quietly. "I like a woman for what is in her—not for the straight features, and fair complexion, and good eyes."
"You are hard to please," Lauraine remarks, glancing down at her flowers.
He makes her no answer whatever.
There is a sudden hush now in the crowded rooms—a silence of expectation. Keith finds a seat for Lauraine on a low ottoman near one of the windows, and stands there beside her. The moon is shining clear and brilliant in the sky above, and streams over the quaint flower-beds and trees in the garden. The sweet sultry summer night is full of beauty and fragrance—it acts like a spell on the warm, imaginative temperament and ardent fancy of the young man.
Across the silence a chord of music breaks. With his eyes still fixed on the garden and the sky, Keith Athelstone waits and listens.
The voice of the great singer thrills across the rooms in that most exquisite of strains which Faust utters to his love. Lauraine's heart grows chill for a moment, then leaps up and beats with a sudden vivid emotion that fills her veins like fire, and holds her spell-bound to the end. In that moment it seems to her as if some revelation had come of all she has missed in life. The passionate music finds its way to her very soul, and holds in suspense life, thought, memory.
There is a lull—a pause, and then a torrent of acclamation fills the air. The charm is snapped.
The hands that hold the roses tremble visibly. She sits there and is silent, and does not look up at the face above her for answering sympathy, because of this strange dread and ecstasy he may read upon her own.
Hehasread it, despite the downcast eyes. He has read it, and his own heart grows rapturous with a sudden delight, and cold with as sudden a dread.
Fresh applause—fresh entreaties. A moment's silence, and then the great singer seats himself at the piano, and pours out again in the matchless melody of his voice these words:
The old, old pain of earthOn land or sea,And all that makes life worthFor you or me.What is it, darling, say,While stars shine on above.What makes us glad or gay?'Tis love—'tis love!
The world's old weariness,What can it be,And all life's sad mistakesThat sad lives see.What makes them, darling, say,While here we hold our bliss:What makes us glad to day?A word—a kiss.
The strange winds sigh aboveThe bending trees,And strange and sad days, love,May follow these.What care we, darling, now,Since love is ours,For winter blasts that robThe summer flowers?
So that our hearts be one,So that our love be true,The world may laugh or frownFor me and you.Men may be wise or fools,Stars may die out above;We ask of life no gift,But love—but love![1]
[1] These words are copyright.
He has set the words to music of his own. Music sad and gay and triumphant all in one. Music that finds its way from ear to heart, and fairly carries away the listeners. As he ceases—as the rapturous exclamations of the crowd sound stormily after the long silence—Lauraine looks up and meets Keith Athelstone's eyes.
Only a look!
But looks have broken the fetters of a lifetime's silence before now, and in that moment the secret of two hearts is revealed as clearly and distinctly as if a trumpet-blast had shouted it to their ears.
Their eyes droop. Neither speaks. A moment or two pass on. Then comes a hoarse whisper to Lauraine's ear.
"Come away from this crowd; it is stifling, and that man has spoilt all other singing for to-night."
Without a word she rises and takes his arm. She feels like one in a dream. Senses, feelings—all are lulled to a strange mysterious repose, and now and then her heart thrills with a dreamy rapturous ecstasy.
The memory of that perfect melody is about her still, and follows her out into the shadows of the night, and the dim walks of the quaint old garden. She feels disturbed, perplexed, but almost happy. She has not noticed where he is taking her; only the breath of the cool night air is on her brow, and her eyes, dark and passionate as his own, gaze up at the tranquil lustre of the stars. Under the trees they stand, and face one another at last. He sees only a slender white figure, with the moon shedding its silver rays around it, and two quivering lips that part as if to speak. With a sudden ungovernable impulse he draws her to his breast, and on the trembling mouth spends the pent-up passion of his heart in one long kiss.