CHAPTER X"My dear Lauraine," says Mrs. Douglas, on one of those rare occasions when she is at Lauraine's house, "isn't it rather bad form to have Keith dangling after you so much? Of course every one knows you are just like brother and sister, and Sir Francis is so kind to him and all that—still, people will talk, you know, and really nowadays a woman can't be too careful. Society is terribly scandalous."Mrs. Douglas has made one of a dinner party at the Vavasours', and is at present sitting by her daughter's side in the great flower-scented drawing-room.Lauraine quietly waves the great white fan of feathers in her hand to and fro, and looks coldly down at her mother's face."Who has been good enough to discuss my affairs with you?" she asks, scornfully."Pray don't be offended," says Mrs. Douglas, timidly. "People will talk, you know, and really Keith's adoration is very obvious. He never even seems to see there is another woman in the room when you are by. It really is not fair to you. Why doesn't he marry that Yankee girl who is always running after him? It would be the best thing he could do.""I will ask him if you wish," says Lauraine; "or perhaps it might be better if you put the question yourself."Mrs. Douglas feels decidedly uncomfortable. "I am only speaking for your good," she says. "For your child's sake you ought to be careful. Of course, Society is very lax, and women can do things nowadays that in my youth would have been thought disreputable. Still, you make yourself quite too remarkable about Keith. It is far better to have twenty men dangling after you than one."A hot flush burns on Lauraine's cheeks. "I decline to discuss my affairs with any one," she says, coldly. "I am perfectly well able to take care of myself.""Ah, people always think that," says Mrs. Douglas, fanning herself leisurely. "Of course you are your own mistress now, and can do as you please. I simply give you a hint. People will talk, you know."Lauraine's heart beat quickly, stormily, beneath its shrouding laces. A new trouble seems dawning for her, and yet it but rouses in her heart a fierce desire to brave the world—to laugh to scorn its whispers. Is she not strong? Has she not honour—courage—fidelity?"I will not affect to misunderstand you," she says at last, looking calmly into her mother's face as she speaks. "You think Keith might forget—or I? But you might know us better than that. We are not likely to scandalize Society—be at rest on that point. Is it not possible for a woman and a man to care for each other without love, and without—shame?""Possible?—thatmaybe," said Mrs. Douglas. "But probable—I think not. I don't believe in Platonics when a man is under sixty and a woman not forty-five. Nor does the world. Take my advice, dear—there is safety in numbers—don't think only of the attractions of one.""I am not the sort of woman to make many friends," Lauraine answers, tranquilly. "And the few I really like are more to me than the whole crowd of others. But your warning was quite unnecessary, mother, and I think you had very little right to utter it."She rises from her seat as she speaks and goes towards the other end of the room, where the Lady Jean sits radiant and entertaining, being one of the few wise women who take as much pains to conciliate their own sex, as to charm the other.Mrs. Douglas looks after her uneasily. "I have done no good," she thinks. "Perhaps only harm. But, after all, she is warned, and really it is quite too ridiculous to think he can hang about her for ever. I thought he would have had more sense. And she has been married two years—he ought to have forgotten by this time. As for Lauraine herself, she was always so romantic, I don't blame her so much; but Keith—and what on earth can she see in him except that he has long eyelashes? I always thought him quite stupid myself, and Lauraine has mind enough of her own to like cleverness in other people. But I do hope she won't get talked about. It would be altogether too dreadful. There is Lady Jean, now——"Her reflections are cut short here—a robe of amber silk seems to float past like a pale gold cloud, and disperse itself over the low chair and Ambusson carpet by her side. Emerging pale and languid from amidst the cloudy draperies is the face of the Lady Etwynde. Mrs. Douglas greets her eagerly. It is rarely indeed that conventional gatherings like the present are graced by the presence of the lovely æsthete."Yes; I make an exception in favour of Lady Vavasour," she says, in her soft, plaintive voice, that seems to rebel against the very burden of speech. "But Society is not congenial to me. My tastes and inclinations move in a very different groove. Whywillpeople be frivolous? Life is not meant for eating and drinking and scandalmongering. What can it really matter who is dressed by Worth, or Pingat, or Elise; or whose husband ran off with an actress, or whose wife got talked about at Hurlingham, or anything else of the same sort? Yet this is all one hears discussed in Society. Ah, when a perfect culture has given us a perfect understanding of the beautiful, we shall also have a truer morality. The soul will soar far above the senses, and we shall look back in wonder at the ignorance we once enjoyed.""No doubt," murmurs Mrs. Douglas, vaguely. She is quite unable to comprehend what Lady Etwynde means, but it would never do to let her perceive it."We shall be translated—advanced, as it were," continues Lady Etwynde, dreamily. "We shan't tie back our gowns, and impede the action of our limbs. We shan't cramp our bodies into the machinery of bones and wires, that gives us that most odious of modern inventions—a 'waist.' We shall languish no longer for happiness and occupation. Our minds will soar into purer ether. Ah! happy days that I see in the dim future, and yearn for in the mists of present darkness.""Exactly," again asserts Mrs. Douglas, in increasing bewilderment. "But don't you think 'waists' are very much admired?" She possesses a very elegant figure of her own, and has her corsets made by a special French artist. It therefore brings no thrill of blissful expectation to her that advanced civilization preludes such an abolition as "stays.""Admired!" murmurs the Lady Etwynde, dreamily. "By the Philistines—yes; by the thoughtful—the advanced—the intense—oh, no!""The Philistines!" says Mrs. Douglas, in growing bewilderment. "I—I thought corsets were not introduced till the time of Queen Elizabeth."The Lady Etwynde smiles sadly. "You do not understand—it is merely a technical term for those outside the pale. Progress and culture mean enlightenment—we all need to be enlightened. Our individual tendencies are hampered by social restrictions. But the soul will find its wings and soar above such paltry barriers. Women will take their place in the ranks of the advanced, and the mockers at progress will have to recognize its truth, and feel that it is a law powerful enough to sway the whole machinery of civilization, and lift it upwards to a grander and loftier life.""Good Heavens! what a dreadful woman," thinks Mrs. Douglas. "I—I have not thought much of such things," she says aloud. "I am not a clever woman, like yourself, dear Lady Etwynde. But I really think we are very happy as we are. What good can progress do?""Ah!" sighs Lady Etwynde. "The old cry of the world—the battle-cry of the human race, that is ever so obstinately opposed to its own good. When we cease to oppose, and investigate instead—when prejudice and obstinacy give way to thoughtfulness and consideration, then some proper basis will have been obtained on which to establish the glories of Progress, and the sublimity of Culture."Mrs. Douglas feels too hopelessly bewildered after this speech to pursue the subject. She gives a sigh, and resigns herself to incomprehensibility; but the entrance of the gentlemen makes a slight disturbance, and the Lady Etwynde lapses into thought. Unknown to each other, both of them are watching the same man—the tall, well-knit figure of Keith Athelstone. He stands a little apart from the group; his face is very grave and very pale. There are dark shadows like a bruise under his eyes, and the drooped lids hide their expression. Perhaps it is as well. They are eyes more given to reveal than to conceal. The other men draw nearer to the dazzling groups of silk and satin and lace. Some one goes to the piano, and begins to play. Through the open window a faint breeze steals, and, weighted with perfume, floats through the soft-lighted rooms."He only looks ather," sighs Lady Etwynde."Why doesn't the silly boy go and talk to some of those women?" Mrs. Douglas says to herself angrily. "Does he really care for her still? How absurd! And how ill he looks—as if he hadn't slept for weeks; but perhaps that's dissipation. He's sure to have his full share of it now."Meanwhile Keith stands there absorbed and grave. He has not spoken to Lauraine all the evening. He is wondering whether he might seek her now—whether her duties as hostess will permit her to give five minutes to him. But even as he thinks it, he lifts his eyes, and meets a signal from the gracefully waving fan of the Lady Etwynde. He has no choice but to cross the room and take the seat by her side."We have been discussing Progress," she says, with that exquisite smile of hers lighting her face like moonlight as she looks at him. "I was saying women spoil themselves by their dress nowadays. It is too elaborate—too overdone. Lauraine is one of the few women who can dress perfectly. But then she has taste and artistic feeling.""It is not every one who could dare to copy the Lady Etwynde," Keith says, with an admiring glance at the amber clouds that seem to float round the graceful figure of his companion. "And to one who dresses as she does, all other women must look only 'clothed.'""A distinction with a difference," says Lady Etwynde. "You pay compliments very gracefully. That is a rare thing nowadays.""You are very good to flatter me," answers Keith. "What I said was scarcely a compliment. How handsome Lady Jean Salomans looks to-night!""Yes," answers his companion, giving a rapid glance from under her languid lids in the direction indicated.Lady Jean is sitting on an ottoman, with a maze of hothouse blossoms as a background for her brilliant beauty, and wears a dress of corn-coloured satin, with scarlet poppies gleaming here and there. Sir Francis is standing beside her, and looking down with unmistakable admiration at the animated face and brilliant eyes.Involuntarily Keith's glance turns from her to Lauraine. What a contrast!"Like a sunflower and a lily," murmurs the Lady Etwynde, following that glance and comprehending it."Yes," he says, quietly. "They are very unlike. One would scarcely expect the same man to admire both.""Sir Francis has been more than two years married," says Lady Etwynde, musingly. "Time enough, I suppose, to admire other people besides his own wife. Why will women marry? It is such a mistake!""Why will they marry the wrong man, is more to the point," Keith mutters under his thick moustache. "Heavens, what ill-assorted matches one does see!""True," replies "the Ladye." "Scarcely made in heaven, I suppose you think?""In a very different place, it is my candid opinion."Mrs. Douglas has risen ere this and moved away. She is never comfortable in Keith Athelstone's presence, and is only too thankful when she can evade him."Yes," says Lady Etwynde. "It is sad, but true, that much of the unhappiness of life is caused voluntarily—the proofs of our own unwisdom. Of course, results are always unforeseen. We only grope in the dark. But, for my part, I have never heard of people acting for what they term 'the best' without dire misfortunes following."Keith's eyes seem to travel down the long rooms to where one shimmering white robe trails in fleecy folds.His heart aches bitterly as he thinks of what "acting for the best" has brought upon two lives that might have been so happy now."Oh, the little more, and how much it is, and the little less—and what worlds away!"He talks on with Lady Etwynde in desultory fashion. He knows he need not exert himself to be entertaining here. She likes a good listener—one who can be interested in her ideas and follow them, and with Keith Athelstone, as with Lauraine, she lays her art jargon aside. Yet in his heart he longs for one sound of Lauraine's voice—for just five minutes by her side.They have not met since the scene in Lady Etwynde's garden, and to-night her greeting has been of the coldest description. But he dares not go over to her now, as he would have done a few days ago. He sits there, contenting himself with an occasional glance, and listening patiently, if a little wearily, to the beautiful æsthete's discussion. Then Lauraine looks across at him and smiles. His heart seems to warm beneath that sign of remembrance—his whole face changes. Lady Etwynde notices it, and grows troubled."He is in love, and he does not conceal it—poor boy," she thinks, compassionately. "Ah, I always thought those fraternal arrangements were a great imposition. One or other is sure to ask or desire that 'little more' which just makes all the difference. Ah! it is worlds enough away from these two. Does she know, I wonder? I think not. She could not act that serenity and indifference. She is too transparent. Oh, I hope she does not suspect. It would be terrible indeed. She is so young and beautiful, but she is not happy. Any one can see that; and her husband is always running after that brazen woman over there. Dear me, how sad life is. Full of contradictions—of pain. Mr. Athelstone," she adds aloud, "I want to speak to that gentleman over there. He is asavantof the most advanced school. Kindly give me your arm."Keith rises and obeys, and comes now within the radiance of the floating white draperies that have been before his eyes the whole night long.
"My dear Lauraine," says Mrs. Douglas, on one of those rare occasions when she is at Lauraine's house, "isn't it rather bad form to have Keith dangling after you so much? Of course every one knows you are just like brother and sister, and Sir Francis is so kind to him and all that—still, people will talk, you know, and really nowadays a woman can't be too careful. Society is terribly scandalous."
Mrs. Douglas has made one of a dinner party at the Vavasours', and is at present sitting by her daughter's side in the great flower-scented drawing-room.
Lauraine quietly waves the great white fan of feathers in her hand to and fro, and looks coldly down at her mother's face.
"Who has been good enough to discuss my affairs with you?" she asks, scornfully.
"Pray don't be offended," says Mrs. Douglas, timidly. "People will talk, you know, and really Keith's adoration is very obvious. He never even seems to see there is another woman in the room when you are by. It really is not fair to you. Why doesn't he marry that Yankee girl who is always running after him? It would be the best thing he could do."
"I will ask him if you wish," says Lauraine; "or perhaps it might be better if you put the question yourself."
Mrs. Douglas feels decidedly uncomfortable. "I am only speaking for your good," she says. "For your child's sake you ought to be careful. Of course, Society is very lax, and women can do things nowadays that in my youth would have been thought disreputable. Still, you make yourself quite too remarkable about Keith. It is far better to have twenty men dangling after you than one."
A hot flush burns on Lauraine's cheeks. "I decline to discuss my affairs with any one," she says, coldly. "I am perfectly well able to take care of myself."
"Ah, people always think that," says Mrs. Douglas, fanning herself leisurely. "Of course you are your own mistress now, and can do as you please. I simply give you a hint. People will talk, you know."
Lauraine's heart beat quickly, stormily, beneath its shrouding laces. A new trouble seems dawning for her, and yet it but rouses in her heart a fierce desire to brave the world—to laugh to scorn its whispers. Is she not strong? Has she not honour—courage—fidelity?
"I will not affect to misunderstand you," she says at last, looking calmly into her mother's face as she speaks. "You think Keith might forget—or I? But you might know us better than that. We are not likely to scandalize Society—be at rest on that point. Is it not possible for a woman and a man to care for each other without love, and without—shame?"
"Possible?—thatmaybe," said Mrs. Douglas. "But probable—I think not. I don't believe in Platonics when a man is under sixty and a woman not forty-five. Nor does the world. Take my advice, dear—there is safety in numbers—don't think only of the attractions of one."
"I am not the sort of woman to make many friends," Lauraine answers, tranquilly. "And the few I really like are more to me than the whole crowd of others. But your warning was quite unnecessary, mother, and I think you had very little right to utter it."
She rises from her seat as she speaks and goes towards the other end of the room, where the Lady Jean sits radiant and entertaining, being one of the few wise women who take as much pains to conciliate their own sex, as to charm the other.
Mrs. Douglas looks after her uneasily. "I have done no good," she thinks. "Perhaps only harm. But, after all, she is warned, and really it is quite too ridiculous to think he can hang about her for ever. I thought he would have had more sense. And she has been married two years—he ought to have forgotten by this time. As for Lauraine herself, she was always so romantic, I don't blame her so much; but Keith—and what on earth can she see in him except that he has long eyelashes? I always thought him quite stupid myself, and Lauraine has mind enough of her own to like cleverness in other people. But I do hope she won't get talked about. It would be altogether too dreadful. There is Lady Jean, now——"
Her reflections are cut short here—a robe of amber silk seems to float past like a pale gold cloud, and disperse itself over the low chair and Ambusson carpet by her side. Emerging pale and languid from amidst the cloudy draperies is the face of the Lady Etwynde. Mrs. Douglas greets her eagerly. It is rarely indeed that conventional gatherings like the present are graced by the presence of the lovely æsthete.
"Yes; I make an exception in favour of Lady Vavasour," she says, in her soft, plaintive voice, that seems to rebel against the very burden of speech. "But Society is not congenial to me. My tastes and inclinations move in a very different groove. Whywillpeople be frivolous? Life is not meant for eating and drinking and scandalmongering. What can it really matter who is dressed by Worth, or Pingat, or Elise; or whose husband ran off with an actress, or whose wife got talked about at Hurlingham, or anything else of the same sort? Yet this is all one hears discussed in Society. Ah, when a perfect culture has given us a perfect understanding of the beautiful, we shall also have a truer morality. The soul will soar far above the senses, and we shall look back in wonder at the ignorance we once enjoyed."
"No doubt," murmurs Mrs. Douglas, vaguely. She is quite unable to comprehend what Lady Etwynde means, but it would never do to let her perceive it.
"We shall be translated—advanced, as it were," continues Lady Etwynde, dreamily. "We shan't tie back our gowns, and impede the action of our limbs. We shan't cramp our bodies into the machinery of bones and wires, that gives us that most odious of modern inventions—a 'waist.' We shall languish no longer for happiness and occupation. Our minds will soar into purer ether. Ah! happy days that I see in the dim future, and yearn for in the mists of present darkness."
"Exactly," again asserts Mrs. Douglas, in increasing bewilderment. "But don't you think 'waists' are very much admired?" She possesses a very elegant figure of her own, and has her corsets made by a special French artist. It therefore brings no thrill of blissful expectation to her that advanced civilization preludes such an abolition as "stays."
"Admired!" murmurs the Lady Etwynde, dreamily. "By the Philistines—yes; by the thoughtful—the advanced—the intense—oh, no!"
"The Philistines!" says Mrs. Douglas, in growing bewilderment. "I—I thought corsets were not introduced till the time of Queen Elizabeth."
The Lady Etwynde smiles sadly. "You do not understand—it is merely a technical term for those outside the pale. Progress and culture mean enlightenment—we all need to be enlightened. Our individual tendencies are hampered by social restrictions. But the soul will find its wings and soar above such paltry barriers. Women will take their place in the ranks of the advanced, and the mockers at progress will have to recognize its truth, and feel that it is a law powerful enough to sway the whole machinery of civilization, and lift it upwards to a grander and loftier life."
"Good Heavens! what a dreadful woman," thinks Mrs. Douglas. "I—I have not thought much of such things," she says aloud. "I am not a clever woman, like yourself, dear Lady Etwynde. But I really think we are very happy as we are. What good can progress do?"
"Ah!" sighs Lady Etwynde. "The old cry of the world—the battle-cry of the human race, that is ever so obstinately opposed to its own good. When we cease to oppose, and investigate instead—when prejudice and obstinacy give way to thoughtfulness and consideration, then some proper basis will have been obtained on which to establish the glories of Progress, and the sublimity of Culture."
Mrs. Douglas feels too hopelessly bewildered after this speech to pursue the subject. She gives a sigh, and resigns herself to incomprehensibility; but the entrance of the gentlemen makes a slight disturbance, and the Lady Etwynde lapses into thought. Unknown to each other, both of them are watching the same man—the tall, well-knit figure of Keith Athelstone. He stands a little apart from the group; his face is very grave and very pale. There are dark shadows like a bruise under his eyes, and the drooped lids hide their expression. Perhaps it is as well. They are eyes more given to reveal than to conceal. The other men draw nearer to the dazzling groups of silk and satin and lace. Some one goes to the piano, and begins to play. Through the open window a faint breeze steals, and, weighted with perfume, floats through the soft-lighted rooms.
"He only looks ather," sighs Lady Etwynde.
"Why doesn't the silly boy go and talk to some of those women?" Mrs. Douglas says to herself angrily. "Does he really care for her still? How absurd! And how ill he looks—as if he hadn't slept for weeks; but perhaps that's dissipation. He's sure to have his full share of it now."
Meanwhile Keith stands there absorbed and grave. He has not spoken to Lauraine all the evening. He is wondering whether he might seek her now—whether her duties as hostess will permit her to give five minutes to him. But even as he thinks it, he lifts his eyes, and meets a signal from the gracefully waving fan of the Lady Etwynde. He has no choice but to cross the room and take the seat by her side.
"We have been discussing Progress," she says, with that exquisite smile of hers lighting her face like moonlight as she looks at him. "I was saying women spoil themselves by their dress nowadays. It is too elaborate—too overdone. Lauraine is one of the few women who can dress perfectly. But then she has taste and artistic feeling."
"It is not every one who could dare to copy the Lady Etwynde," Keith says, with an admiring glance at the amber clouds that seem to float round the graceful figure of his companion. "And to one who dresses as she does, all other women must look only 'clothed.'"
"A distinction with a difference," says Lady Etwynde. "You pay compliments very gracefully. That is a rare thing nowadays."
"You are very good to flatter me," answers Keith. "What I said was scarcely a compliment. How handsome Lady Jean Salomans looks to-night!"
"Yes," answers his companion, giving a rapid glance from under her languid lids in the direction indicated.
Lady Jean is sitting on an ottoman, with a maze of hothouse blossoms as a background for her brilliant beauty, and wears a dress of corn-coloured satin, with scarlet poppies gleaming here and there. Sir Francis is standing beside her, and looking down with unmistakable admiration at the animated face and brilliant eyes.
Involuntarily Keith's glance turns from her to Lauraine. What a contrast!
"Like a sunflower and a lily," murmurs the Lady Etwynde, following that glance and comprehending it.
"Yes," he says, quietly. "They are very unlike. One would scarcely expect the same man to admire both."
"Sir Francis has been more than two years married," says Lady Etwynde, musingly. "Time enough, I suppose, to admire other people besides his own wife. Why will women marry? It is such a mistake!"
"Why will they marry the wrong man, is more to the point," Keith mutters under his thick moustache. "Heavens, what ill-assorted matches one does see!"
"True," replies "the Ladye." "Scarcely made in heaven, I suppose you think?"
"In a very different place, it is my candid opinion."
Mrs. Douglas has risen ere this and moved away. She is never comfortable in Keith Athelstone's presence, and is only too thankful when she can evade him.
"Yes," says Lady Etwynde. "It is sad, but true, that much of the unhappiness of life is caused voluntarily—the proofs of our own unwisdom. Of course, results are always unforeseen. We only grope in the dark. But, for my part, I have never heard of people acting for what they term 'the best' without dire misfortunes following."
Keith's eyes seem to travel down the long rooms to where one shimmering white robe trails in fleecy folds.
His heart aches bitterly as he thinks of what "acting for the best" has brought upon two lives that might have been so happy now.
"Oh, the little more, and how much it is, and the little less—and what worlds away!"
He talks on with Lady Etwynde in desultory fashion. He knows he need not exert himself to be entertaining here. She likes a good listener—one who can be interested in her ideas and follow them, and with Keith Athelstone, as with Lauraine, she lays her art jargon aside. Yet in his heart he longs for one sound of Lauraine's voice—for just five minutes by her side.
They have not met since the scene in Lady Etwynde's garden, and to-night her greeting has been of the coldest description. But he dares not go over to her now, as he would have done a few days ago. He sits there, contenting himself with an occasional glance, and listening patiently, if a little wearily, to the beautiful æsthete's discussion. Then Lauraine looks across at him and smiles. His heart seems to warm beneath that sign of remembrance—his whole face changes. Lady Etwynde notices it, and grows troubled.
"He is in love, and he does not conceal it—poor boy," she thinks, compassionately. "Ah, I always thought those fraternal arrangements were a great imposition. One or other is sure to ask or desire that 'little more' which just makes all the difference. Ah! it is worlds enough away from these two. Does she know, I wonder? I think not. She could not act that serenity and indifference. She is too transparent. Oh, I hope she does not suspect. It would be terrible indeed. She is so young and beautiful, but she is not happy. Any one can see that; and her husband is always running after that brazen woman over there. Dear me, how sad life is. Full of contradictions—of pain. Mr. Athelstone," she adds aloud, "I want to speak to that gentleman over there. He is asavantof the most advanced school. Kindly give me your arm."
Keith rises and obeys, and comes now within the radiance of the floating white draperies that have been before his eyes the whole night long.