Part 16

I had no time to reply, as just then the carriage stopped, and we alighted at the palace. Through the intervention of the high Court official who presented us, we got a good place among the most distinguished arrivals, and during our brief wait, I was considerably amused by the study of their faces and attitudes. Some of the men looked nervous,--others conceited; one or two Radical notabilities comported themselves with an air as if they and they alone were to be honoured for allowing Royalty to hold these functions at all; a few gentlemen had evidently donned their Levée dress in haste and carelessness, for the pieces of tissue-paper in which their steel or gilt coat-buttons had been wrapped by the tailor to prevent tarnish, were still unremoved. Discovering this fortunately before it was too late, they occupied themselves by taking off these papers and casting them on the floor,--an untidy process at best, and one that made them look singularly ridiculous and undignified. Each man present turned to stare at Lucio; his striking personality attracted universal attention. When we at last entered the throne-room, and took our places in line, I was careful to arrange that my brilliant companion should go up before me, as I had a strong desire to see what sort of an effect his appearance would produce on the Royal party. I had an excellent view of the Prince of Wales from where I myself waited; he made an imposing and kingly figure enough, in full uniform with his various Orders glittering on his broad breast; and the singular resemblance discovered by many people in him to Henry VIII. struck me more forcibly than I should have thought possible. His face however expressed a far greater good-humour than the pictured lineaments of the capricious but ever popular 'bluff King Hal,'--though on this occasion there was a certain shade of melancholy, even sternness on his brow, which gave a firmer character to his naturally mobile features,--a shadow, as I fancied of weariness, tempered with regret,--the look of one dissatisfied, yet resigned. A man of blunted possibilities he seemed to me,--of defeated aims, and thwarted will. Few of the other members of the Royal family surrounding him on the daïs, possessed the remarkable attraction he had for any observant student of physiognomy,--most of them were, or assumed to be, stiff military figures merely who bent their heads as each guest filed past with an automatic machine-like regularity implying neither pleasure, interest, nor good-will. But the Heir-Apparent to the greatest Empire in the world expressed in his very attitude and looks, an unaffected and courteous welcome to all,--surrounded as he was, and as such in his position must ever be, by toadies, parasites, sycophants, hypocritical self-seekers, who would never run the least risk to their own lives to serve him, unless they could get something personally satisfactory out of it, his presence impressed itself upon me as full of the suggestion of dormant but none the less resolute power. I cannot even now explain the singular excitation of mind that seized me as our turn to be presented arrived;--I saw my companion advance, and heard the Lord Chamberlain announce his name;--'Prince Lucio Rimânez'; and then;--why then,--it seemed as if all the movement in the brilliant room suddenly came to a pause! Every eye was fixed on the stately form and noble countenance of my friend as he bowed with such consummate courtliness and grace as made all other salutations seem awkward by comparison. For one moment he stood absolutely still in front of the Royal daïs,--facing the Prince as though he sought to impress him with the fact of his presence there,--and across the broad stream of sunshine which had been pouring into the room throughout the ceremony, there fell the sudden shadow of a passing cloud. A fleeting impression of gloom and silence chilled the atmosphere,--a singular magnetism appeared to hold all eyes fixed on Rimânez; and not a man either going or coming, moved. This intense hush was brief as it was curious and impressive;--the Prince of Wales started slightly, and gazed at the superb figure before him with an expression of eager curiosity and almost as if he were ready to break the frigid bonds of etiquette and speak,--then controlling himself with an evident effort he gave his usual dignified acknowledgment of Lucio's profound reverence, whereupon my comrade passed on,--slightly smiling. I followed next,--but naturally made no impression beyond the fact of exciting a smothered whisper from some-one among the lesser Royalties who caught the name 'Geoffrey Tempest,' and at once murmured the magic words "Five millions!"--words which reached my ears and moved me to the usual weary contempt which was with me growing into a chronic malady. We were soon out of the palace, and while waiting for our carriage in the covered court-yard entrance, I touched Rimânez on the arm.

"You made a veritable sensation Lucio!"

"Did I?" He laughed. "You flatter me Geoffrey."

"Not at all. Why did you stop so long in front of the daïs?"

"To please my humour!" he returned indifferently--"And partly, to give his Royal Highness the chance of remembering me the next time he sees me."

"But he seemed to recognise you,"--I said--"Have you met him before?"

His eyes flashed. "Often! But I have never till now made a public appearance at St James's. Court costume and 'company manners' make a difference to the looks of most men,--and I doubt,--yes, I very much doubt, whether, even with his reputed excellent memory for faces, the Prince really knew me to-day for what I am!"

XVII

It must have been about a week or ten days after the Prince of Wales's Levée that I had the strange scene with Sibyl Elton I am about to relate; a scene that left a painful impression on my mind and should have been sufficient to warn me of impending trouble to come had I not been too egotistical to accept any portent that presaged ill to myself. Arriving at Lord Elton's house one evening, and ascending the stairs to the drawing-room as was now my usual custom, unannounced and without ceremony, I found Diana Chesney there alone and in tears.

"Why, what's the matter?" I exclaimed in a rallying tone, for I was on very friendly and familiar terms with the little American--"You, of all people in the world, having a private 'weep'! Has our dear railway papa 'bust up'?"

She laughed, a trifle hysterically.

"Not just yet, you bet!" she answered, lifting her wet eyes to mine and showing that mischief still sparkled brightly in them,--"There's nothing wrong with the funds as far as I know. I've only had a,----well, a sort of rumpus here with Sibyl."

"With Sibyl?"

"Yes,"--and she rested the point of her little embroidered shoe on a footstool and looked at it critically--"You see it's the Catsup's 'At Home' to-night, and I'm invited and Sibyl's invited; Miss Charlotte is knocked up with nursing the Countess, and of course I made sure that Sibyl would go. Well, she never said a word about it till she came down to dinner, and then she asked me what time I wanted the carriage. I said 'Aren't you going too?' and she looked at me in that provoking way of hers,--_you_ know!--a look that takes you in from your topmost hair to your shoe-edge,--and answered 'Did you think it possible!' Well, I flared up, and said of course I thought it possible,--why shouldn't it be possible? She looked at me in the same way again and said--'To the _Catsups_? with _you_!' Now, you know, Mr Tempest, that was real downright rudeness, and more than I could stand so I just gave way to my mind. 'Look here,' I said--'though you are the daughter of an Earl, you needn't turn up your nose at Mrs Catsup. She isn't half bad,--I don't speak of her money,--but she's a real good sort, and has a kind heart, which it appears to me is more than you have. Mrs Catsup would never treat me as unkindly as you do.' And then I choked,--I could have burst out in a regular yell, if I hadn't thought the footman might be outside the door listening. And Sibyl only smiled, that patent ice-refrigerator smile of hers, and asked--'would you prefer to live with Mrs Catsup?' Of course I told her no,--nothing would induce me to live with Mrs Catsup, and then she said--'Miss Chesney, you pay my father for the protection and guarantee of his name and position in English social circles, but the companionship of my father's daughter was not included in the bargain. I have tried to make you understand as distinctly as I can that I will not be seen in society with you,--not because I dislike you,--far from it,--but simply because people would say I was acting as your paid companion. You force me to speak plainly, and I am sorry if I offend. As for Mrs Catsup, I have only met her once, and she seemed to me very common and ill-bred. Besides I do not care for the society of tradespeople.' And with that she got up and sailed out,--and I heard her order the carriage for me at ten. It's coming round directly, and just look at my red eyes! It's awfully hard on me,--I know old Catsup made his pile out of varnish, but varnish is as good as anything else in the general market. And----and----it's all out now, Mr Tempest,--and you can tell Sibyl what I've said if you like; I know you're in love with her!"

I stared, bewildered by her voluble and almost breathless outburst.

"Really, Miss Chesney," I began formally.

"Oh yes, Miss Chesney, Miss Chesney--it's all very well!" she repeated impatiently, snatching up a gorgeous evening cloak which I mutely volunteered to put on, an offer she as mutely accepted--"I'm only a girl, and it isn't my fault if I've got a vulgar man for a father who wants to see me married to an English nobleman before he dies,--that's _his_ look-out--_I_ don't care about it. English noblemen are a ricketty lot in _my_ opinion. But I've as good a heart as anyone, and I could love Sibyl if she'd let me, but she _won't_. She leads the life of an ice-berg, and doesn't care a rap for anyone. She doesn't care for you, you know!--I wish she did,--she'd be more human!"

"I'm very sorry for all this,"--I said, smiling into the piquante face of the really sweet-natured girl, and gently fastening the jewelled clasp of her cloak at her throat--"But you mustn't mind it so much. You are a dear little soul Diana,--kind and generous and impulsive and all the rest of it,--but,--well----English people are very apt to misunderstand Americans. I can quite enter into your feelings,--still you know Lady Sibyl is very proud----"

"Proud!" she interrupted--"My! I guess it must feel something splendid to have an ancestor who was piked through the body on Bosworth field, and left there for the birds to eat. It seems to give a kind of stiffness in the back to all the family ever afterwards. Shouldn't wonder if the descendants of the birds who ate him felt kinder stuck up about it too!"

I laughed,--she laughed with me, and was quite herself again.

"If I told you _my_ ancestor was a Pilgrim Father, you wouldn't believe me I expect!" she said, the corners of her mouth dimpling.

"I should believe anything from _your_ lips!" I declared gallantly.

"Well, believe that, then! Swallow it down if you can! I can't! He was a Pilgrim Father in the _Mayflower_, and he fell on his knees and thanked God as soon as he touched dry land in the true Pilgrim-Father way. But he couldn't hold a candle to the piked man at Bosworth."

Here we were interrupted by the entrance of a footman.

"The carriage is waiting, Miss."

"Thanks,--all right. Good-night Mr Tempest,--you'd better send word to Sibyl you are here; Lord Elton is dining out, but Sibyl will be at home all the evening."

I offered her my arm, and escorted her to the carriage, feeling a little sorry for her as she drove off in solitary state to the festive 'crush' of the successful varnisher. She was a good girl, a bright girl, a true girl,--vulgar and flippant at times, yet on the whole sincere in her better qualities of character and sentiment,--and it was this very sincerity which, being quite unconventional and not at all _la mode_, was misunderstood, and would always be misunderstood by the higher and therefore more hypocritically polished circles of English society.

I returned to the drawing-room slowly and meditatively, telling one of the servants on my way to ask Lady Sibyl if she could see me for a few moments. I was not kept waiting long; I had only paced the room twice up and down when she entered, looking so strangely wild and beautiful that I could scarcely forbear uttering an exclamation of wonder. She wore white as was always her custom in the evenings,--her hair was less elaborately dressed than usual, and clustered over her brow in loose wavy masses,--her face was exceedingly pale, and her eyes appeared larger and darker by comparison--her smile was vague and fleeting like that of a sleep-walker. She gave me her hand; it was dry and burning.

"My father is out--" she began.

"I know. But I came to see _you_. May I stay a little?"

She murmured assent, and sinking listlessly into a chair, began to play with some roses in a vase on the table beside her.

"You look tired Lady Sibyl,"--I said gently--"Are you not well?"

"I am quite well--" she answered--"But you are right in saying I am tired. I am dreadfully tired!"

"You have been doing too much perhaps?--your attendance on your mother tries you----"

She laughed bitterly.

"Attendance on my mother!--pray do not credit me with so much devotion. I never attend on my mother. I cannot do it; I am too much of a coward. Her face terrifies me; and whenever I do venture to go near her, she tries to speak, with such dreadful, such ghastly efforts, as make her more hideous to look at than anyone can imagine. I should die of fright if I saw her often. As it is, when I do see her I can scarcely stand--and twice I have fainted with the horror of it. To think of it!--that that living corpse with the fearful fixed eyes and distorted mouth should actually be _my mother_!"

She shuddered violently, and her very lips paled as she spoke. I was seriously concerned, and told her so.

"This must be very bad for your health,"--I said, drawing my chair closer to hers--"Can you not get away for a change?"

She looked at me in silence. The expression of her eyes thrilled me strangely,--it was not tender or wistful, but fierce, passionate and commanding.

"I saw Miss Chesney for a few moments just now"--I resumed,--"She seemed very unhappy."

"She has nothing to be unhappy about--" said Sibyl coldly--"except the time my mother takes in dying. But she is young; she can afford to wait a little for the Elton coronet."

"Is not----may not this be a mistaken surmise of yours?" I ventured gently--"Whatever her faults, I think the girl admires and loves you."

She smiled scornfully.

"I want neither her love nor her admiration,"--she said--"I have few women-friends and those few are all hypocrites whom I mistrust. When Diana Chesney is my step-mother, we shall still be strangers."

I felt I was on delicate ground, and that I could not continue the conversation without the risk of giving offence.

"Where is _your_ friend?" asked Sibyl suddenly, apparently to change the subject--"Why does he so seldom come here now?"

"Rimânez? Well, he is a very queer fellow, and at times takes an abhorrence for all society. He frequently meets your father at the club, and I suppose his reason for not coming here is that he hates women."

"All women?" she queried with a little smile.

"Without exception!"

"Then he hates me?"

"I did not say that--" I answered quickly--"No one could hate you, Lady Sibyl,--but truly, as far as Prince Rimânez is concerned, I expect he does not abate his aversion to womankind (which is his chronic malady) even for you."

"So he will never marry?" she said musingly.

I laughed. "Oh, never! That you may be quite sure of."

Still playing with the roses near her, she relapsed into silence. Her breath came and went quickly; I saw her long eyelashes quiver against the pale rose-leaf tint of her cheeks,--the pure outline of her delicate profile suggested to my mind one of Fra Angelico's meditative saints or angels. All at once, while I yet watched her admiringly, she suddenly sprang erect, crushing a rose in her hand,--her head thrown back, her eyes flashing, her whole frame trembling.

"Oh, I cannot bear it!" she cried wildly--"I cannot bear it!"

I started up astonished, and confronted her.

"Sibyl!"

"Oh, why don't you speak, and fill up the measure of my degradation!" she went on passionately--"Why don't you tell _me_, as you tell my father, your purpose in coming here?--why don't you say to _me_, as you say to him, that your sovereign choice has fastened upon me,--that I am the woman out of all the world you have elected to marry! Look at me!" and she raised her arms with a tragic gesture; "Is there any flaw in the piece of goods you wish to purchase? This face is deemed worthy of the fashionable photographer's pains; worthy of being sold for a shilling as one of England's 'beauties,'--this figure has served as a model for the showing-off of many a modiste's costume, purchased at half-cost on the understanding that I must state to my circle of acquaintance the name of the maker or designer,--these eyes, these lips, these arms are all yours for the buying! Why do you expose me to the shame of dallying over your bargain?--by hesitating and considering as to whether, after all, I am worthy of your gold!"

She seemed seized by some hysterical passion that convulsed her, and in mingled amazement, alarm and distress, I sprang to her and caught her hands in my own.

"Sibyl, Sibyl!" I said--"Hush--hush! You are overwrought with fatigue and excitement,--you cannot know what you are saying. My darling, what do you take me for?--what is all this nonsense in your mind about buying and selling? You know I love you,--I have made no secret of it,--you must have seen it in my face,--and if I have hesitated to speak, it is because I feared your rejection of me. You are too good for me, Sibyl,--too good for any man,--I am not worthy to win your beauty and innocence. My love, my love--do not give way in this manner"--for as I spoke she clung to me like a wild bird suddenly caged--"What can I say to you, but that I worship you with all the strength of my life,--I love you so deeply that I am afraid to think of it; it is a passion I dare not dwell upon, Sibyl,--I love you too well,--too madly for my own peace----"

I trembled, and was silent,--her soft arms clinging to me robbed me of a portion of my self-control. I kissed the rippling waves of her hair; she lifted her head and looked up at me, her eyes alit with some strange lustre that was not love as much as fear,--and the sight of her beauty thus yielded as it were to my possession, broke down the barriers of restraint I had hitherto imposed upon myself. I kissed her on the lips,--a long passionate kiss that, to my excited fancy, seemed to mingle our very beings into one,--but while I yet held her in my arms, she suddenly released herself and pushed me back. Standing apart from me she trembled so violently that I feared she would fail,--and I took her hand and made her sit down. She smiled,--a very wan smile.

"What did you feel then?" she asked.

"When, Sibyl?"

"Just now,--when you kissed me?"

"All the joys of heaven and fires of hell in a moment!" I said.

She regarded me with a curious musing frown.

"Strange! Do you know what _I_ felt?"

I shook my head smiling, and pressed my lips on the soft small hand I held.

"Nothing!" she said, with a kind of hopeless gesture--"I assure you, absolutely nothing! I cannot feel. I am one of your modern women,--I can only think,--and analyse."

"Think and analyse as much as you will, my queen,"--I answered playfully--"if you will only think you can be happy with me. That is all I desire."

"Can you be happy with _me_?" she asked--"Wait--do not answer for a moment, till I tell you what I am. You are altogether mistaken in me." She was silent for some minutes, and I watched her anxiously. "I was always intended for this"--she said slowly at last,--"this, to which I have now come,--to be the property of a rich man. Many men have looked at me with a view to purchase, but they could not pay the price my father demanded. Pray do not look so distressed!--what I say is quite true and quite commonplace,--all the women of the upper classes,--the unmarried ones,--are for sale now in England as utterly as the Circassian girls in a barbarian slave-market. I see you wish to protest, and assure me of your devotion,--but there is no need of this,--I am quite sure you love me,--as much as any man can love,--and I am content. But you do not know me really,--you are attracted by my face and form,--and you admire my youth and innocence, which you think I possess. But I am not young--I am old in heart and feeling. I was young for a little while at Willowsmere, when I lived among flowers and birds and all the trustful honest creatures of the woods and fields,--but one season in town was sufficient to kill my youth in me,--one season of dinners and balls, and--fashionable novel-reading. Now _you_ have written a book, and therefore you must know something about the duties of authorship,--of the serious and even terrible responsibility writers incur when they send out to the world books full of pernicious and poisonous suggestion to contaminate the minds that have hitherto been clean and undiseased. Your book has a noble motive; and for this I admire it in many parts, though to me it is not as convincing as it might have been. It is well written too; but I gained the impression while reading it, that you were not altogether sincere yourself in the thoughts you strove to inculcate,--and that therefore you just missed what you should have gained."

"I am sure you are right,"--I said, with a wholesome pang of humiliation--"The book is worthless as literature,--it is only the 'boom' of a season!"

"At any rate,"--she went on, her eyes darkening with the intensity of her feeling--"you have not polluted your pen with the vileness common to many of the authors of the day. I ask you, do you think a girl can read the books that are now freely published, and that her silly society friends tell her to read,--'because it is so dreadfully _queer_!'--and yet remain unspoilt and innocent? Books that go into the details of the lives of outcasts?--that explain and analyse the secret vices of men?--that advocate almost as a sacred duty 'free love' and universal polygamy?--that see no shame in introducing into the circles of good wives and pure-minded girls, a heroine who boldly seeks out a man, _any_ man, in order that she may have a child by him, without the 'degradation' of marrying him? I have read all those books,--and what can you expect of me? Not innocence, surely! I despise men,--I despise my own sex,--I loathe myself for being a woman! You wonder at my fanaticism for Mavis Clare,--it is only because for a time her books give me back my self-respect, and make me see humanity in a nobler light,--because she restores to me, if only for an hour, a kind of glimmering belief in God, so that my mind feels refreshed and cleansed. All the same, you must not look upon me as an innocent young girl Geoffrey,--a girl such as the great poets idealized and sang of,--I am a contaminated creature, trained to perfection in the lax morals and prurient literature of my day."

I looked at her in silence, pained, startled, and with a sense of shock, as though something indefinably pure and precious had crumbled into dust at my feet. She rose and began pacing the room restlessly, moving to and fro with a slow yet fierce grace that reminded me against my wish and will of the movement of some imprisoned and savage beast of prey.