CHAPTER XXXII

DIPLOMACY

“I have not the slightest inclination to dance, Mr. Barringcourt. I’ve spent one of the most delightfully lazy evenings I ever spent in my life.”

“I envy you. I’ve been going through a species of treadmill. I’ve danced with every school-girl in the room.”

“Myself included. You began the evening badly, you know.”

He sat down beside her.

“Where were you all the supper-time?” he asked.

Rosalie looked at him. She detected the old, tired, wearily contemptuous expression on his face. She herself was far from tired. Her eyes were bright. Her cheeks had flushed a pretty pink; she had been under no unwilling exertion to please anyone.

“I stayed upstairs to see how long I’d be forgotten, and when no one remembered me, and I grew hungry, I came down.”

“You should have acted the part of the jealous fairy godmother, and blasted us all.”

“Well, though I be a school-girl, yet I’ve none of the attractions of youth, and so I’ve learnt toleration.”

“It’s hardly fair to keep repeating what I once said at random.”

“Was it at random? I set a whole night apart to weep about it.”

“You had nothing better to do, then?”

“The most miserable of all states, you must acknowledge. And through no fault of my own.”

“Whose, then?”

“Yours. You have much to be answerable for, Mr. Barringcourt.”

He laughed. “I have expiated most of my offences to-night; I have danced the polka.”

“With Miss Sebberen. I saw you.”

“Let us go into some quieter room. This dancing wearies me. I never was fond of it.”

Rosalie’s trailing dress hid her feet, and they passed into the picture-gallery. It was deserted.

She sat down under the picture of Geoffrey Todbrook.

“One day Mariana brought me here and showed me this picture. I forget what was said, but somewhere in our conversation she laughed. She said laughing always produced a pain at her heart.”

“Mariana laughed? You utterly astonish me.”

His face betrayed no signs of conviction of cruelty, certainly.

“Yes,” said Rosalie. “It is astonishing, truly. Had I lived here as long as she, laughing would have been utterly beyond me.”

“It is a good thing you escaped, then.”

“You don’t grudge me my freedom?”

“I grudge no man anything if he wins it, or woman either. And far from grudging you your freedom, I’m glad you won it.”

“You were glad, then, when I ran away?”

“Well, no—not at the time. I do not know that I ever became thoroughly reconciled to you till you came to see me the other night.”

Here a pause followed, broken only by distant strains of music.

“You have another dance on New Year’s Eve, Mr. Barringcourt?”

“Yes. You will come? It is the one night in the whole year worth dancing on.”

“I would come gladly; but I can find no dress to my liking.”

“You have a week before you.”

She clasped her hands round her knee, shook her head and looked at him.

“I won’t come unless I can wear exactly what I want.”

“And what is that?”

“The dress that Mariana was making long ago. But I expect she’s finished it, and the moths have eaten it away. But all the same, I won’t come unless I have it. It is the one thing on earth I’ve set my heart upon.”

Mr. Barringcourt looked at her. The pretty air of reasonless determination suited her.

“It’s impossible,” said he.

“The moths have eaten it away, then,” and without pretence or acting two big tears rose in her eyes and fell—one for sorrow at his hardness, one for the memory of Mariana in the cell.

But two tears upon occasion can be very fascinating.

“You never did reason, did you, Rosalie?” said he.

“Yes. It’s the one thing I’ve done all my life. But the simpler you are in this world the more you’re derided. Let me see Mariana to ask her about the dress?”

“Oh, hang Mariana!”

“Are you speaking broadly?”

“What do you mean?”

“You should never use abusive language towards the individual. I learnt that long ago. If you want to be profane you should generalise.”

“Whose lax teaching was that?”

“I learnt it from the Governor; the gentleman whom I met when I ran away from you. But he wasn’t lax, I’m sure. Perhaps I misunderstood him.”

“I wouldn’t put it beyond you. But give me a form of forcible language that would fit in with his exposition.”

“Well, the only one that presents itself at all to me is ‘Damn it.’ You see ‘it’ means nothing in particular, is quite impersonal, and therefore no one is any the worse for it, yourself included.”

“You’re an advocate of that particular form?” said he.

“I’d allow it to you upon occasion, but not to myself.”

“Indeed! Why?”

“Because if I were a perfect woman I’d never have any inclination to go further than the ‘d.’”

“You’re striving after the perfect woman?”

“Yes,” sighed Rosalie; “but she’s very delusive. It’s so easy to overstep the bounds and become saintly.”

He laughed. “I don’t think you’ll ever be that.”

“But why?”

“The strain would be too great. You’d best remain as you are. I believe the dance is ending.”

“And—and never a word settled about my dress.”

“Are you so much in earnest about it?”

“Indeed, yes. I went through all the pains and penalties of trying it on, stood three weary hours as model, and it was so beautiful my heart longed for it then, and has done so ever since.”

“It’s nothing but imagination. You must look for something else.”

They rose together, and suddenly she put her hand upon his arm, and said in just such a voice as a mermaid might, half laughing, half plaintively:

“I won’t come to dance the New Year in; I’ve nothing fit to come in. And as for the slippers that you sent to me, you can search for them just where you like. I don’t want them, and I won’t wear them. I only want the dress.” And she showed him her foot in its silk stocking, without slipper or other covering.

“Where are your slippers?” said he.

“I’ve hidden them, and you may find them.”

And suddenly he looked at her quite sternly, and he said: “You’ve been to see Mariana.”

Rosalie returned the glance as meekly as became the situation.

“The doors were all unlocked. Besides, you should have found me a partner for the supper-time. I resented it.”

“And what do you think of Mariana?”

“I think that you and I are inexpressibly different in our idea of things.”

“Indeed! It is because of you she’s placed where she is.”

“And because of me you ought to place her where she isn’t.”

“I am not disposed to laugh. Your constant prying is objectionable.”

“I pay dearly for it: hard words and cold glances from everyone, yourself included.”

“Not too high a price, it seems.”

“Dear me, no! I trust to the luck that saved Red Chin’s wife. I’m not in the least bit inclined to cry to-night, Mr. Barringcourt I feel happy enough to dance without slippers on.” And she stooped and kissed the precious stone she wore.

He looked at it and then at her. “Give that stone to me,” he said suddenly.

Her cheeks paled as quickly. “I love it too well to ever think of parting with it,” she answered.

“The price of Mariana’s freedom.”

“No,” and her voice was a mixture of a gasp and weakness.

“And yet you love Mariana! How you do misjudge the word! You don’t know what love is.”

“Neither do you.”

“I make no professions.”

“I have no right to give away this stone; it was given to me.”

“Keep it, then. I simply asked for it to prove your inherent selfishness.”

“You could have proved it by a much simpler test. It is one of the dragon’s heads impossible to conquer. Every now and then I give it a sleeping potion, and get some rest. It’s very efficacious, I can tell you.”

She turned and went away, and they did not see each other again that night, or rather morning.