CHAPTER XILauraine is talking to an elderly man—a colonel in the Guards. She neither looks up, nor moves, but she is perfectly, painfully conscious that Keith is standing by her side. She knows that he has crossed the room, and left Lady Etwynde with hersavant, and all the time she has not lifted an eyelid, or stirred from that listening attitude. Keith stands there patiently. He has the happy knack of looking always graceful, and to-night he looks handsomer than ever, despite the pallor of his face, the dark shadows under his eyes. The Colonel talks on, and Lauraine answers animatedly.Keith wonders if any memory is at work within her heart—if her light words and smiles are real or acted.There is a little stir at the other end of the room. Some one is going to recite—a French count, who is a friend of Sir Francis'. The elderly colonel is a little deaf. He murmurs an apology, and moves down the long suite of rooms. Keith comes quietly forward, and drops into the vacant chair. For the first time Lauraine looks at him. With one rapid, comprehensive glance, she takes in the change in his face—the dark shadows under those heavy lashes, the weariness upon the brow, the stern sadness of the mouth. Pity, sympathy, grief—all well up in her heart and speak in her glance, but her lips are schooled to rigid silence. She dares not seem to notice these signs of suffering."If he would only leave me—if he would only be wise!" she thinks, with a sudden passionate dread. "I could bear that, but to go on like this is madness."He speaks at last. "London grows unbearably hot. I suppose you will soon be leaving?" he says."Yes," answers Lauraine, unconcernedly. "Sir Francis talks of going yachting.""And you accompany him?""I? Oh, no—I hate the sea. I shall go to Falcon's Chase. I long for a little quiet and rest. I never cared much for fashionable life, you know.""Does Sir Francis make up a large party?""I believe so. The Salomans, I know, are going; and Marc Vandeleur, his great friend; and the Chesters, and one or two boating men.""The Salomans?" questions Keith, a note of surprise in his voice. "Oh, they go, do they?""Why not?" asks Lauraine, looking at him in wonder. "They are very fond of the sea—at least, Lady Jean is.""So I suppose," he says in the same peculiar way, marvelling if Lauraine is really the only woman in London Society who does not—know?But Lauraine asks the question in perfect good faith. She does not like Lady Jean, but she knows no harm of her. She detests scandal so utterly that she never listens to boudoir gossip and five o'clock tea talk, if she can possibly help it. To her Lady Jean is simply a fascinating woman of the world—very handsome, very brilliant, very much admired; a littlerisquée, perhaps, but on good terms with the most exclusive of great "sets," and received everywhere. That her husband should admire her, and show his preference openly, in no way disturbs her. To be jealous one must love passionately, and Lauraine has never loved her husband at all."Why do you speak like that?" she asks him suddenly. "Don't you like Lady Jean?""Like her? I have scarcely the honour to know her at all," answers Keith. "But if you wish to know the truth, I am unfortunate enough to have formed a prejudice against her. She gives me the idea of being false. I should not like you to make a friend of her.""A friend!" exclaims Lauraine, quickly. "I should never think of doing that. I am not the sort of woman who can't exist without a confidant—some one to 'gush' to and consult, and be constantly with. But Lady Jean is very charming, and has been very kind to me, and Sir Francis wished me to show her every attention."A little hard smile comes to Keith Athelstone's lips. "You are very obedient," he says.Lauraine colours, and is silent. Meanwhile, at the further end of the room, with her yellow skirts and blood-red poppies gleaming in the lamplight, Lady Jean and Sir Francis Vavasour are talking confidentially together."Why must he come?" asks Sir Francis, drawing his dark brows together in a heavy frown. "You could manage it if you wished.""Manage it?" re-echoes Lady Jean. "Cher ami, what can't a woman manage when she wishes? But I don't wish to manage it. I don't care to be talked about as we should be. Of course Jo would do anything I wished, but I know what's best, and mean to stick to my first resolution."Mr. Salomans rejoices in the name of "Joel," but his wife has long ago decreed that it shall not be used by her lips, and "Jo" he always is and always will be."You will spoil all the pleasure of the trip for me," murmurs Sir Francis."Chut!" she says, contemptuously; "don't be foolish. You can grow sentimental on the waters of the Mediterranean while you think of your absent wife.""My wife," mutters Sir Francis, following the rapid gesture of the fan. "Oh, there's that young fool again. I wonder he isn't tired of her; she's insufferably stupid.""Most good women are," agrees Lady Jean; "but they have one incomparable advantage—they are so safe. You can always get amusement, you know, from other men's wives—it is a consolation to think the 'other' men can't get it from yours."Sir Francis feels a little twinge. He knows perfectly well what she wishes to convey, but he has an obstinate conviction that Keith's attentions to his wife are nothing to her, that whatevertendressethere is, lies on the side of the young man. Lauraine is cold and calm and uninteresting—he has made up his mind to those facts. Lady Jean has not yet been able to stimulate his tired passion for his wife into emitting one spark of jealous fire. He has tired of her, but he has great trust in her. He never fears that a breath of scandal will hover about her, and to all Lady Jean's hints he turns a deaf ear—as yet."I often wonder what made you marry," says Lady Jean, under cover of the music that has followed the recitation; "and she seems so unlike the sort of woman who would tempt you into such a folly.""You are right; it was a folly," mutters Sir Francis, moodily. "But I was mad about her at the time, and, after all, one must marry some time or other; it is a necessity when you have property and all that.""Mad about her!" sneers Lady Jean. "How like a man! You could stop at nothing, of course, but the absolute possession of your fancied toy. And your craze has lasted two years! Admirable fidelity!""It would never have been a craze at all," whispers Sir Francis low in her ear, "if you——""Hush!" she says, softly; "I have forbidden you to speak of that. It would have been different if we had met—earlier. As it is——"She ends the sentence with a sigh. It may mean anything, and is poetic; it sounds better than to say, "As you are quite as rich as Joel Salomans, and are of better birth and family, I would have taken you instead." Sir Francis hears only the sigh, and meets a glance from the dark, brilliant eyes."As it is you are cruel," he whispers, passionately."Cruel to be kind," she says, with a little mocking laugh. "Keep to your pearl of purity,mon cher. If you are not a jealous husband, you might surely be a faithful one.""Have I not told you she bores me?" says Sir Francis, petulantly. "And I know she detests me, and always did. I did not mind that—once. Now—well, one can't be always at a one-sided adoration.""Fancy 'adoring' any one! How odd!" laughs Lady Jean. "I thought it was only in novels men did that.""Have you never loved then?"Lady Jean raised her arched eyebrows, and looks at him with admirable amusement. "I?—most decidedly not. Should I be without wrinkles at my age, if I had?Non, merci. I never believed in such folly, and never perpetrated it.""Perhaps only because the right teacher was not at hand to give you the lesson," says Sir Francis, audaciously."The right teacher," says Lady Jean, with a little mocking laugh. "There is no such teacher for me, my dear Sir Francis. I can defy fate.""I wish you would tell me how," says Sir Francis. "The recipe might be useful.""You have had your attack of fever, so you are safe," she answers, laughingly. "No, my recipe is too valuable to be parted with. Now, you have talked to me long enough to-night. Go away and entertain some one else.""I don't want to talk to any one else," says Sir Francis, doggedly. "Why do you send me away? You are not afraid of Mrs. Grundy, surely?""Oh no. She and I are the best of friends. Afraid?—well, I don't think I have any need to be afraid. Every one is talked about nowadays—either for what they do or what they don't do. And it is so much easier to say a thing than disprove it. It is just like a lovely complexion—every one can say you paint, but every one can't see you wash your face. Society never believes in the lovely complexion, and yet wouldn't enter a dressing-room if it could, for fear of finding there was nothing but—soap and water—after all!""But all this is no reason why I am to go away now," complains Sir Francis, sulkily."Can't you trace the analogy? I don't want to make your pretty wife jealous. I don't want people to talk. I—I don't want to give you a monopoly of my company. These are reasons enough, surely.""Your reasons are admirable—all except the first. Lauraine jealous! You might as well expect the Venus of Milo to come down from its pedestal, and walk through a modern drawing-room.""Marriage does not seem an attractivemenuafter all, does it?" says Lady Jean, musingly. "Two years, and you have done with the olives and sweetmeats, and come to the plain ungarnishedrôti. Therôtiis much more wholesome, though.""I believe every man who marries comes to the conclusion he has made a d——d mistake.""And every woman, too," agrees Lady Jean, quickly. "Well, it's not to be wondered at. Difference of feeling makes a wide gulf between two natures; and where do you find two people likely to get on together for a lifetime? Bah—it is impossible! Now go—go—I have talked to you quite enough, and the music is over. I am going to chat with Lady Etwynde. She amuses me, and it is rarely any one does that nowadays."Sir Francis takes himself off obediently, and the evening goes on as such evenings usually do. There is music and singing and conversation, and the people who get next the people they like, are content enough, and those who are wrongly paired are indescribably bored, and the beautiful hostess moves like a slender white lily among them all, and two blue eyes watch her with an intenser "yearning" than ever the Lady Etwynde or her friends have experienced for the subtle—the infinite—the sublime.Lauraine is growing very weary of this life she leads. There seems no possible escape from it, and fashion, in its way, is just as fatiguing as the work-room, or the factory, or the office. There are times now when she longs to be away from the roar of noisy streets, to breathe cool fresh air, to be alone with the peace and loveliness of nature, to have just—rest.There is no such thing to be found here. Every day, almost every hour, has its occupations. The jargon, the laughter, the scandals and frivolities of Society are alike distasteful; but she cannot evade them, be she ever so weary. She stands in the ranks, and must needs move onward in the hot and hurried march.She is counting the days now before it will all be over—before she can fly to quiet Falcon's Chase, and in her child and her books find companionship more to her taste. She longs for those dark old forest lands, where the noise of the sea echoes always, and everything is grand and noble, and rich with the traditions of past ages. She does not dread solitude, but rather longs for it. All this feverish unrest will be over then. She need have no house party till the autumn, but she is going to take Lady Etwynde with her. There is something harmonious and tranquil about her that will suit the dim old Chase, with its great dusky chambers, and magnificent hall, and oak-panelled galleries. Moving to and fro among her guests, and talking the pretty frothy nothings that Society demands, Lauraine thinks only of this. The longing is taking absolute possession of her, and Keith will not be able to follow her—there.She feels a dread—almost a dislike to him to-night. The memory of that scene a few days ago fills her with a sense of intolerable shame, and her mother's warning sounds like an added insult.A sense of irritation—of impatience—of disappointment is heavy at her heart."He is not good, or honourable, or he would not stay," she says to herself, as move where she may, the sadness of those eyes, with their watchful entreaty, haunts her. "Why did I let him persuade me to utter that word?"The guests leave—the great rooms are solitary. Sir Francis goes off to finish the evening somewhere else. Lauraine seats herself wearily by one of the open windows, and looks out at the foliage of the Park—all dry, and sere, and dusty now, with the long drought and heat of summer. She looks and looks, and great tears gather in her eyes and roll slowly down her cheeks. She has everything that the world counts worth having—she is young and beautiful and courted and flattered; but for all that her heart aches—aches—aches."It was impossible then—it is doubly impossible now," she says, wearily. "Sin—shame—misery—whichever way I look at it. Oh, God help me—what am I to do?"
Lauraine is talking to an elderly man—a colonel in the Guards. She neither looks up, nor moves, but she is perfectly, painfully conscious that Keith is standing by her side. She knows that he has crossed the room, and left Lady Etwynde with hersavant, and all the time she has not lifted an eyelid, or stirred from that listening attitude. Keith stands there patiently. He has the happy knack of looking always graceful, and to-night he looks handsomer than ever, despite the pallor of his face, the dark shadows under his eyes. The Colonel talks on, and Lauraine answers animatedly.
Keith wonders if any memory is at work within her heart—if her light words and smiles are real or acted.
There is a little stir at the other end of the room. Some one is going to recite—a French count, who is a friend of Sir Francis'. The elderly colonel is a little deaf. He murmurs an apology, and moves down the long suite of rooms. Keith comes quietly forward, and drops into the vacant chair. For the first time Lauraine looks at him. With one rapid, comprehensive glance, she takes in the change in his face—the dark shadows under those heavy lashes, the weariness upon the brow, the stern sadness of the mouth. Pity, sympathy, grief—all well up in her heart and speak in her glance, but her lips are schooled to rigid silence. She dares not seem to notice these signs of suffering.
"If he would only leave me—if he would only be wise!" she thinks, with a sudden passionate dread. "I could bear that, but to go on like this is madness."
He speaks at last. "London grows unbearably hot. I suppose you will soon be leaving?" he says.
"Yes," answers Lauraine, unconcernedly. "Sir Francis talks of going yachting."
"And you accompany him?"
"I? Oh, no—I hate the sea. I shall go to Falcon's Chase. I long for a little quiet and rest. I never cared much for fashionable life, you know."
"Does Sir Francis make up a large party?"
"I believe so. The Salomans, I know, are going; and Marc Vandeleur, his great friend; and the Chesters, and one or two boating men."
"The Salomans?" questions Keith, a note of surprise in his voice. "Oh, they go, do they?"
"Why not?" asks Lauraine, looking at him in wonder. "They are very fond of the sea—at least, Lady Jean is."
"So I suppose," he says in the same peculiar way, marvelling if Lauraine is really the only woman in London Society who does not—know?
But Lauraine asks the question in perfect good faith. She does not like Lady Jean, but she knows no harm of her. She detests scandal so utterly that she never listens to boudoir gossip and five o'clock tea talk, if she can possibly help it. To her Lady Jean is simply a fascinating woman of the world—very handsome, very brilliant, very much admired; a littlerisquée, perhaps, but on good terms with the most exclusive of great "sets," and received everywhere. That her husband should admire her, and show his preference openly, in no way disturbs her. To be jealous one must love passionately, and Lauraine has never loved her husband at all.
"Why do you speak like that?" she asks him suddenly. "Don't you like Lady Jean?"
"Like her? I have scarcely the honour to know her at all," answers Keith. "But if you wish to know the truth, I am unfortunate enough to have formed a prejudice against her. She gives me the idea of being false. I should not like you to make a friend of her."
"A friend!" exclaims Lauraine, quickly. "I should never think of doing that. I am not the sort of woman who can't exist without a confidant—some one to 'gush' to and consult, and be constantly with. But Lady Jean is very charming, and has been very kind to me, and Sir Francis wished me to show her every attention."
A little hard smile comes to Keith Athelstone's lips. "You are very obedient," he says.
Lauraine colours, and is silent. Meanwhile, at the further end of the room, with her yellow skirts and blood-red poppies gleaming in the lamplight, Lady Jean and Sir Francis Vavasour are talking confidentially together.
"Why must he come?" asks Sir Francis, drawing his dark brows together in a heavy frown. "You could manage it if you wished."
"Manage it?" re-echoes Lady Jean. "Cher ami, what can't a woman manage when she wishes? But I don't wish to manage it. I don't care to be talked about as we should be. Of course Jo would do anything I wished, but I know what's best, and mean to stick to my first resolution."
Mr. Salomans rejoices in the name of "Joel," but his wife has long ago decreed that it shall not be used by her lips, and "Jo" he always is and always will be.
"You will spoil all the pleasure of the trip for me," murmurs Sir Francis.
"Chut!" she says, contemptuously; "don't be foolish. You can grow sentimental on the waters of the Mediterranean while you think of your absent wife."
"My wife," mutters Sir Francis, following the rapid gesture of the fan. "Oh, there's that young fool again. I wonder he isn't tired of her; she's insufferably stupid."
"Most good women are," agrees Lady Jean; "but they have one incomparable advantage—they are so safe. You can always get amusement, you know, from other men's wives—it is a consolation to think the 'other' men can't get it from yours."
Sir Francis feels a little twinge. He knows perfectly well what she wishes to convey, but he has an obstinate conviction that Keith's attentions to his wife are nothing to her, that whatevertendressethere is, lies on the side of the young man. Lauraine is cold and calm and uninteresting—he has made up his mind to those facts. Lady Jean has not yet been able to stimulate his tired passion for his wife into emitting one spark of jealous fire. He has tired of her, but he has great trust in her. He never fears that a breath of scandal will hover about her, and to all Lady Jean's hints he turns a deaf ear—as yet.
"I often wonder what made you marry," says Lady Jean, under cover of the music that has followed the recitation; "and she seems so unlike the sort of woman who would tempt you into such a folly."
"You are right; it was a folly," mutters Sir Francis, moodily. "But I was mad about her at the time, and, after all, one must marry some time or other; it is a necessity when you have property and all that."
"Mad about her!" sneers Lady Jean. "How like a man! You could stop at nothing, of course, but the absolute possession of your fancied toy. And your craze has lasted two years! Admirable fidelity!"
"It would never have been a craze at all," whispers Sir Francis low in her ear, "if you——"
"Hush!" she says, softly; "I have forbidden you to speak of that. It would have been different if we had met—earlier. As it is——"
She ends the sentence with a sigh. It may mean anything, and is poetic; it sounds better than to say, "As you are quite as rich as Joel Salomans, and are of better birth and family, I would have taken you instead." Sir Francis hears only the sigh, and meets a glance from the dark, brilliant eyes.
"As it is you are cruel," he whispers, passionately.
"Cruel to be kind," she says, with a little mocking laugh. "Keep to your pearl of purity,mon cher. If you are not a jealous husband, you might surely be a faithful one."
"Have I not told you she bores me?" says Sir Francis, petulantly. "And I know she detests me, and always did. I did not mind that—once. Now—well, one can't be always at a one-sided adoration."
"Fancy 'adoring' any one! How odd!" laughs Lady Jean. "I thought it was only in novels men did that."
"Have you never loved then?"
Lady Jean raised her arched eyebrows, and looks at him with admirable amusement. "I?—most decidedly not. Should I be without wrinkles at my age, if I had?Non, merci. I never believed in such folly, and never perpetrated it."
"Perhaps only because the right teacher was not at hand to give you the lesson," says Sir Francis, audaciously.
"The right teacher," says Lady Jean, with a little mocking laugh. "There is no such teacher for me, my dear Sir Francis. I can defy fate."
"I wish you would tell me how," says Sir Francis. "The recipe might be useful."
"You have had your attack of fever, so you are safe," she answers, laughingly. "No, my recipe is too valuable to be parted with. Now, you have talked to me long enough to-night. Go away and entertain some one else."
"I don't want to talk to any one else," says Sir Francis, doggedly. "Why do you send me away? You are not afraid of Mrs. Grundy, surely?"
"Oh no. She and I are the best of friends. Afraid?—well, I don't think I have any need to be afraid. Every one is talked about nowadays—either for what they do or what they don't do. And it is so much easier to say a thing than disprove it. It is just like a lovely complexion—every one can say you paint, but every one can't see you wash your face. Society never believes in the lovely complexion, and yet wouldn't enter a dressing-room if it could, for fear of finding there was nothing but—soap and water—after all!"
"But all this is no reason why I am to go away now," complains Sir Francis, sulkily.
"Can't you trace the analogy? I don't want to make your pretty wife jealous. I don't want people to talk. I—I don't want to give you a monopoly of my company. These are reasons enough, surely."
"Your reasons are admirable—all except the first. Lauraine jealous! You might as well expect the Venus of Milo to come down from its pedestal, and walk through a modern drawing-room."
"Marriage does not seem an attractivemenuafter all, does it?" says Lady Jean, musingly. "Two years, and you have done with the olives and sweetmeats, and come to the plain ungarnishedrôti. Therôtiis much more wholesome, though."
"I believe every man who marries comes to the conclusion he has made a d——d mistake."
"And every woman, too," agrees Lady Jean, quickly. "Well, it's not to be wondered at. Difference of feeling makes a wide gulf between two natures; and where do you find two people likely to get on together for a lifetime? Bah—it is impossible! Now go—go—I have talked to you quite enough, and the music is over. I am going to chat with Lady Etwynde. She amuses me, and it is rarely any one does that nowadays."
Sir Francis takes himself off obediently, and the evening goes on as such evenings usually do. There is music and singing and conversation, and the people who get next the people they like, are content enough, and those who are wrongly paired are indescribably bored, and the beautiful hostess moves like a slender white lily among them all, and two blue eyes watch her with an intenser "yearning" than ever the Lady Etwynde or her friends have experienced for the subtle—the infinite—the sublime.
Lauraine is growing very weary of this life she leads. There seems no possible escape from it, and fashion, in its way, is just as fatiguing as the work-room, or the factory, or the office. There are times now when she longs to be away from the roar of noisy streets, to breathe cool fresh air, to be alone with the peace and loveliness of nature, to have just—rest.
There is no such thing to be found here. Every day, almost every hour, has its occupations. The jargon, the laughter, the scandals and frivolities of Society are alike distasteful; but she cannot evade them, be she ever so weary. She stands in the ranks, and must needs move onward in the hot and hurried march.
She is counting the days now before it will all be over—before she can fly to quiet Falcon's Chase, and in her child and her books find companionship more to her taste. She longs for those dark old forest lands, where the noise of the sea echoes always, and everything is grand and noble, and rich with the traditions of past ages. She does not dread solitude, but rather longs for it. All this feverish unrest will be over then. She need have no house party till the autumn, but she is going to take Lady Etwynde with her. There is something harmonious and tranquil about her that will suit the dim old Chase, with its great dusky chambers, and magnificent hall, and oak-panelled galleries. Moving to and fro among her guests, and talking the pretty frothy nothings that Society demands, Lauraine thinks only of this. The longing is taking absolute possession of her, and Keith will not be able to follow her—there.
She feels a dread—almost a dislike to him to-night. The memory of that scene a few days ago fills her with a sense of intolerable shame, and her mother's warning sounds like an added insult.
A sense of irritation—of impatience—of disappointment is heavy at her heart.
"He is not good, or honourable, or he would not stay," she says to herself, as move where she may, the sadness of those eyes, with their watchful entreaty, haunts her. "Why did I let him persuade me to utter that word?"
The guests leave—the great rooms are solitary. Sir Francis goes off to finish the evening somewhere else. Lauraine seats herself wearily by one of the open windows, and looks out at the foliage of the Park—all dry, and sere, and dusty now, with the long drought and heat of summer. She looks and looks, and great tears gather in her eyes and roll slowly down her cheeks. She has everything that the world counts worth having—she is young and beautiful and courted and flattered; but for all that her heart aches—aches—aches.
"It was impossible then—it is doubly impossible now," she says, wearily. "Sin—shame—misery—whichever way I look at it. Oh, God help me—what am I to do?"