Part 22

Again the rich colour flushed her cheeks, and she gave Lucio her hand. He bowed over it in courtly fashion,--but did not kiss it as he had kissed the hand of Mavis Clare. We passed into the house, through the drawing-room, and out again into the gardens, Lord Elton being loud in his praise of the artistic manner in which his former dwelling had been improved and embellished. Soon the lawn was sprinkled with gaily attired groups of people,--and my duties as host began in hard earnest. I had to be greeted, complimented, flattered, and congratulated on my approaching marriage by scores of hypocrites who nearly shook my hand off in their enthusiasm for my wealth. Had I become suddenly poor, I thought grimly, not one of them would have lent me a sovereign! The guests kept on arriving in shoals, and when there were about three or four hundred assembled, a burst of exquisite music sounded, and a procession of pages in scarlet and gold, marching two by two appeared, carrying trays full of the rarest flowers tied up in bouquets, which they offered to all the ladies present. Exclamations of delight arose on every side,--exclamations which were for the most part high-pitched and noisy,--for the 'swagger set' have long ceased to cultivate softness of voice or refinement of accent,--and once or twice the detestable slang word, 'ripping' escaped from the lips of a few dashing dames, reputed to be 'leaders' of style. Repose of manner, dignity and elegance of deportment, however, are no longer to be discovered among the present 'racing' duchesses and gambling countesses of the bluest blue blood of England, so one does not expect these graces of distinction from them. The louder they can talk, and the more slang they can adopt from the language of their grooms and stable-boys, the more are they judged to be 'in the swim' and 'up to date.' I speak, of course, of the modern scions of aristocracy. There are a few truly 'great ladies' left, whose maxim is still '_noblesse oblige_,'--but they are quite in the minority and by the younger generation are voted either 'old cats' or 'bores.' Many of the 'cultured' mob that now swarmed over my grounds had come out of the sheerest vulgar curiosity to see what 'the man with five millions' could do in the way of entertaining,--others were anxious to get news, if possible, of the chances of 'Phosphor' winning the Derby, concerning which I was discreetly silent. But the bulk of the crowd wandered aimlessly about, staring impertinently or enviously at each other, and scarcely looking at the natural loveliness of the gardens or the woodland scenery around them. The brainlessness of modern society is never so flagrantly manifested as at a garden-party, where the restless trousered and petticoated bipeds move vaguely to and fro, scarcely stopping to talk civilly or intelligently to one another for five minutes, most of them hovering dubiously and awkwardly between the refreshment-pavilion and the band-stand. In my domain they were deprived of this latter harbour of refuge, for no musicians could be seen, though music was heard,--beautiful wild music which came first from one part of the grounds and then from another, and to which few listened with any attention. All were, however, happily unanimous in their enthusiastic appreciation of the excellence of the food provided for them in the luxurious luncheon tents of which there were twenty in number. Men ate as if they had never eaten in their lives before, and drank the choice and exquisite wines with equal greed and gusto. One never entirely realises the extent to which human gourmandism can go till one knows a few peers, bishops and cabinet-ministers, and watches those dignitaries feed _ad libitum_. Soon the company was so complete that there was no longer any need for me to perform the fatiguing duty of 'receiving'; and I therefore took Sibyl in to luncheon, determining to devote myself to her for the rest of the day. She was in one of her brightest and most captivating moods,--her laughter rang out as sweetly joyous as that of some happy child,--she was even kind to Diana Chesney, who was also one of my guests, and who was plainly enjoying herself with all the _verve_ peculiar to pretty American women, who consider flirtation as much of a game as tennis. The scene was now one of great brilliancy, the light costumes of the women contrasting well with the scarlet and gold liveries of the seemingly innumerable servants that were now everywhere in active attendance. And, constantly through the fluttering festive crowd, from tent to tent, from table to table, and group to group, Lucio moved,--his tall stately figure and handsome face always conspicuous wherever he stood, his rich voice thrilling the air whenever he spoke. His influence was irresistible, and gradually dominated the whole assemblage,--he roused the dull, inspired the witty, encouraged the timid, and brought all the conflicting elements of rival position, character and opinion into one uniform whole, which was unconsciously led by his will as easily as a multitude is led by a convincing orator. I did not know it then, but I know now, that metaphorically speaking, he had his foot on the neck of that 'society' mob, as though it were one prostrate man;--that the sycophants, liars and hypocrites whose utmost idea of good is wealth and luxurious living, bent to his secret power as reeds bend to the wind,--and that he did with them all whatsoever he chose,--as he does to this very day! God!--if the grinning, guzzling sensual fools had only known what horrors were about them at the feast!--what ghastly ministers to pleasurable appetite waited obediently upon them!--what pallid terrors lurked behind the gorgeous show of vanity and pride! But the veil was mercifully down,--and only to me has it since been lifted!

Luncheon over, the singing of mirthful voices, tuned to a kind of village roundelay, attracted the company, now fed to repletion, towards the lawn at the back of the house, and cries of delight were raised as the Maypole came into view, I myself joining in the universal applause, for I had not expected to see anything half so picturesque and pretty. The pole was surrounded by a double ring of small children,--children so beautiful in face and dainty in form, that they might very well have been taken for little fairies from some enchanted woodland. The boys were clad as tiny foresters, in doublets of green, with pink caps on their curly locks,--the girls were in white, with their hair flowing loosely over their shoulders, and wreaths of May-blossom crowning their brows. As soon as the guests appeared on the scene, these exquisite little creatures commenced their dance, each one taking a trail of blossom or a ribbon pendant from the May-pole, and weaving it with the others into no end of beautiful and fantastic designs. I looked on, as amazed and fascinated as anyone present, at the wonderful lightness and ease with which these children tripped and ran;--their tiny twinkling feet seemed scarcely to touch the turf,--their faces were so lovely,--their eyes so bright, that it was a positive enchantment to watch them. Each figure they executed was more intricate and effective than the last, and the plaudits of the spectators grew more and more enthusiastic, till presently came the _finale_, in which all the little green foresters climbed up the pole and clung there, pelting the white-robed maidens below with cowslip-balls, knots of roses, bunches of violets, posies of buttercups, daisies and clover, which the girl-children in their turn laughingly threw among the admiring guests. The air grew thick with flowers, and heavy with perfume, and resounded with song and laughter;--and Sibyl, standing at my side, clapped her hands in an ecstasy.

"Oh, it is lovely--lovely!" she cried--"Is this the prince's idea?" Then as I answered in the affirmative, she added, "Where, I wonder, did he find such exquisitely pretty little children!"

As she spoke, Lucio himself advanced a step or two in front of the other spectators and made a slight peremptory sign. The fairy-like foresters and maidens, with extraordinary activity, all sprang away from the May-pole, pulling down the garlands with them, and winding the flowers and ribbons about themselves so that they looked as if they were all tied together in one inextricable knot,--this done, they started off at a rapid run, presenting the appearance of a rolling ball of blossom, merry pipe-music accompanying their footsteps, till they had entirely disappeared among the trees.

"Oh do call them back again!" entreated Sibyl, laying her hand coaxingly on Lucio's arm,--"I should so like to speak to two or three of the prettiest!"

He looked down at her with an enigmatical smile.

"You would do them too much honour, Lady Sibyl," he replied--"They are not accustomed to such condescension from great ladies and would not appreciate it. They are paid professionals, and, like many of their class, only become insolent when praised."

At that moment Diana Chesney came running across the lawn, breathless.

"I can't see them anywhere!" she declared pantingly--"The dear little darlings! I ran after them as fast as I could; I wanted to kiss one of those perfectly scrumptious boys, but they're gone!--not a trace of them left! It's just as if they had sunk into the ground!"

Again Lucio smiled.

"They have their orders,--" he said curtly--"And they know their place."

Just then, the sun was obscured by a passing black cloud, and a peal of thunder rumbled over-head. Looks were turned to the sky, but it was quite bright and placid save for that one floating shadow of storm.

"Only summer thunder,"--said one of the guests--"There will be no rain."

And the crowd that had been pressed together to watch the 'Maypole dance' began to break up in groups, and speculate as to what diversion might next be provided for them. I, watching my opportunity, drew Sibyl away.

"Come down by the river;"--I whispered--"I must have you to myself for a few minutes." She yielded to my suggestion, and we walked away from the mob of our acquaintance, and entered a grove of trees leading to the banks of that part of the Avon which flowed through my grounds. Here we found ourselves quite alone, and putting my arm round my betrothed, I kissed her tenderly.

"Tell me," I said with a half-smile--"Do you know how to love yet?"

She looked up with a passionate darkness in her eyes that startled me.

"Yes,--I know!" was her unexpected answer.

"You do!" and I stopped to gaze intently into her fair face--"And how did you learn?"

She flushed red,--then grew pale,--and clung to me with a nervous, almost feverish force.

"Very strangely!" she replied--"And--quite suddenly! The lesson was easy, I found;--too easy! Geoffrey,"--she paused, and fixed her eyes full on mine--"I will tell you how I learnt it, ... but not now, ... some other day." Here she broke off, and began to laugh rather forcedly. "I will tell you ... when we are married." She glanced anxiously about her,--then, with a sudden abandonment of her usual reserve and pride, threw herself into my arms and kissed my lips with such ardour as made my senses reel.

"Sibyl--Sibyl!" I murmured, holding her close to my heart----"Oh my darling,--you love me!--at last you love me!"

"Hush!--hush!" she said breathlessly--"You must forget that kiss,----it was too bold of me--it was wrong--I did not mean it, ... I, ... I was thinking of something else. Geoffrey!"--and her small hand clenched on mine with a sort of eager fierceness--"I wish I had never learned to love; I was happier before I knew!"

A frown knitted her brows.

"Now"--she went on in the same breathless hurried way--"I _want_ love! I am starving, thirsting for it! I want to be drowned in it, lost in it, killed by it! Nothing else will content me!"

I folded her still closer in my arms.

"Did I not say you would change, Sibyl?" I whispered--"Your coldness and insensibility to love was unnatural and could not last,--my darling, I always knew that!"

"You always knew!" she echoed a little disdainfully--"Ah, but you do not know even now what has chanced to me. Nor shall I tell you--yet. Oh Geoffrey!--" Here she drew herself out of my embrace, and stooping, gathered some bluebells in the grass--"See these little flowers growing so purely and peacefully in the shade by the Avon!--they remind me of what I was, here in this very place, long ago. I was quite as happy, and I think as innocent as these blossoms; I had no thought of evil in my nature,--and the only love I dreamed of was the love of the fairy prince for the fairy princess,--as harmless an idea as the loves of the flowers themselves. Yes!--I was then all I should like to be now,--all that I am not!"

"You are everything that is beautiful and sweet!"--I told her, admiringly, as I watched the play of retrospective and tender expression on her perfect face.

"So you judge,--being a man who is perfectly satisfied with his own choice of a wife!" she said with a flash of her old cynicism--"But I know myself better than you know me. You call me beautiful and sweet,--but you cannot call me good! I am not good. Why, the very love that now consumes me is----"

"What?" I asked her quickly, seizing her hands with the blue-bells in them, and gazing searchingly into her eyes--"I know before you speak, that it is the passion and tenderness of a true woman!"

She was silent for a moment. Then she smiled, with a bewitching languor.

"If you know, then I need not tell you"--she said--"So, do not let us stay here any longer talking nonsense;--'society' will shake its head over us and accuse us of 'bad form,' and some lady-paragraphist will write to the papers, and, say--'Mr Tempest's conduct as a host left much to be desired, as he and his bride-elect were "spooning" all the day.'"

"There are no lady-paragraphists here,"--I said laughing, and encircling her dainty waist with one arm as I walked.

"Oh, are there not, though!" she exclaimed, laughing also, "Why, you don't suppose you can give any sort of big entertainment without them do you? They permeate society. Old Lady Maravale, for example, who is rather reduced in circumstances, writes a guinea's worth of scandal a week for one of the papers. And _she_ is here,--I saw her simply gorging herself with chicken salad and truffles an hour ago!" Here pausing, and resting against my arm, she peered through the trees. "There are the chimneys of Lily Cottage where the famous Mavis Clare lives," she said.

"Yes, I know,"--I replied readily--"Rimânez and I have visited her. She is away just now, or she would have been here to-day."

"Do you like her?" Sibyl queried.

"Very much. She is charming."

"And ... the prince ... does he like her?"

"Well, upon my word," I answered with a smile--"I think he likes her more than he does most women! He showed the most extraordinary deference towards her, and seemed almost abashed in her presence. Are you cold, Sibyl?" I added hastily, for she shivered suddenly and her face grew pale--"You had better come away from the river,--it is damp under these trees."

"Yes,--let us go back to the gardens and the sunshine;"--she answered dreamily--"So your eccentric friend,--the woman-hater,--finds something to admire in Mavis Clare! She must be a very happy creature I think,--perfectly free, famous, and believing in all good things of life and humanity, if one may judge from her books."

"Well, taken altogether, life isn't so very bad!" I observed playfully.

She made no reply,--and we returned to the lawns where afternoon tea was now being served to the guests, who were seated in brilliant scattered groups under the trees or within the silken pavilions, while the sweetest music,--and the strangest, if people had only had ears to hear it,--both vocal and instrumental, was being performed by those invisible players and singers whose secret whereabouts was unknown to all, save Lucio.

XXIV

Just as the sun began to sink, several little pages came out of the house, and with low salutations, distributed among the guests daintily embossed and painted programmes of the 'Tableaux Vivants,' prepared for their diversion in the extemporized bijou theatre. Numbers of people rose at once from their chairs on the lawn, eager for this new spectacle, and began to scramble along and hustle one another in that effective style of 'high-breeding' so frequently exhibited at Her Majesty's Drawing-Rooms. I, with Sibyl, hastily preceded the impatient, pushing crowd, for I wished to find a good seat for my beautiful betrothed before the room became full to over-flowing. There proved however, to be plenty of accommodation for everybody,--what space there was seemed capable of limitless expansion, and all the spectators were comfortably placed without difficulty. Soon we were all studying our programmes with considerable interest, for the titles of the 'Tableaux' were somewhat original and mystifying. They were eight in number, and were respectively headed--'Society,'--'Bravery: Ancient and Modern,'--'A Lost Angel,'--'The Autocrat,'--'A Corner of Hell,'--'Seeds of Corruption,'--'His Latest Purchase,'--and 'Faith and Materialism.' It was in the theatre that everyone became at last conscious of the weirdly beautiful character of the music that had been surging round them all day. Seated under one roof in more or less enforced silence and attention, the vague and frivolous throng grew hushed and passive,--the 'society' smirk passed off certain faces that were as trained to grin as their tongues were trained to lie,--the dreadful giggle of the unwedded man-hunter was no longer heard,--and soon the most exaggerated fashion-plate of a woman forgot to rustle her gown. The passionate vibrations of a violoncello, superbly played to a double harp accompaniment, throbbed on the stillness with a beseeching depth of sound,--and people listened, I saw, almost breathlessly, entranced, as it were, against their wills, and staring as though they were hypnotized, in front of them at the gold curtain with its familiar motto--

"All the world's a stage And all the men and women merely players."

Before we had time to applaud the violoncello solo however, the music changed,--and the mirthful voices of violins and flutes rang out in a waltz of the giddiest and sweetest tune. At the same instant a silvery bell tinkled, and the curtain parted noiselessly in twain, disclosing the first tableau--"Society." An exquisite female figure, arrayed in evening-dress of the richest and most extravagant design, stood before us, her hair crowned with diamonds, and her bosom blazing with the same lustrous gems. Her head was slightly raised,--her lips were parted in a languid smile,--in one hand she held up-lifted a glass of foaming champagne,--her gold-slippered foot trod on an hour-glass. Behind her, catching convulsively at the folds of her train, crouched another woman in rags, pinched and wretched, with starvation depicted in her face,--a dead child lay near. And, overshadowing this group, were two Supernatural shapes,--one in scarlet, the other in black,--vast and almost beyond the stature of humanity,--the scarlet figure represented Anarchy, and its blood-red fingers were advanced to clutch the diamond crown from 'Society's' brow,--the sable-robed form was Death, and even as we looked, it slowly raised its steely dart in act to strike! The effect was weird and wonderful,--and the grim lesson the picture conveyed, was startling enough to make a very visible impression. No one spoke,--no one applauded,--but people moved restlessly and fidgetted on their seats,--and there was an audible sigh of relief as the curtain closed. Opening again, it displayed the second tableau--'Bravery--Ancient and Modern.' This was in two scenes;--the first one depicted a nobleman of Elizabeth's time, with rapier drawn, his foot on the prostrate body of a coarse ruffian who had evidently, from the grouping, insulted a woman whose slight figure was discerned shrinking timidly away from the contest. This was 'Ancient Bravery,'--and it changed rapidly to 'Modern,' showing us an enervated, narrow-shouldered, pallid dandy in opera-coat and hat, smoking a cigarette and languidly appealing to a bulky policeman to protect him from another young noodle of his own class, similarly attired, who was represented as sneaking round a corner in abject terror. We all recognised the force of the application, and were in a much better humour with this pictured satire than we had been at the lesson of 'Society.' Next followed 'A Lost Angel,' in which was shown a great hall in the palace of a king, where there were numbers of brilliantly attired people, all grouped in various attitudes, and evidently completely absorbed in their own concerns, so much so as to be entirely unconscious of the fact that in their very midst, stood a wondrous Angel, clad in dazzling white, with a halo round her fair hair, and a glory, as of the sunset, on her half drooping wings. Her eyes were wistful,--her face was pensive and expectant; she seemed to say, "Will the world ever know that I am here?" Somehow,--as the curtain slowly closed again, amid loud applause, for the picture was extraordinarily beautiful, I thought of Mavis Clare, and sighed. Sibyl looked up at me.

"Why do you sigh?" she said--"It is a lovely fancy,--but the symbol is wasted in the present audience,--no one with education believes in angels now-a-days."

"True!" I assented; yet there was a heaviness at my heart, for her words reminded me of what I would rather have forgotten,--namely her own admitted lack of all religious faith. 'The Autocrat,' was the next tableau, and represented an Emperor enthroned. At his footstool knelt a piteous crowd of the starving and oppressed, holding up their lean hands to him, clasped in anguished petition, but he looked away from them as though he saw them not. His head was turned to listen to the side-whisper of one who seemed, by the courtly bend and flattering smile, to be his adviser and confidant,--yet that very confidant held secreted behind his back, a drawn dagger, ready to strike his sovereign to the heart. "Russia!" whispered one or two of the company, as the scene was obscured; but the scarcely-breathed suggestion quickly passed into a murmur of amazement and awe as the curtain parted again to disclose "A Corner of Hell." This tableau was indeed original, and quite unlike what might have been imagined as the conventional treatment of such a subject. What we saw was a black and hollow cavern, glittering alternately with the flashings of ice and fire,--huge icicles drooped from above, and pale flames leaped stealthily into view from below, and within the dark embrasure, the shadowy form of a man was seated, counting out gold, or what seemed to be gold. Yet as coin after coin slipped through his ghostly fingers, each one was seen to change to fire,--and the lesson thus pictured was easily read. The lost soul had made its own torture, and was still at work intensifying and increasing its own fiery agony. Much as this scene was admired for its Rembrandt effect of light and shade, I, personally, was glad when it was curtained from view; there was something in the dreadful face of the doomed sinner that reminded me forcibly and unpleasantly of those ghastly Three I had seen in my horrid vision on the night of Viscount Lynton's suicide. 'Seeds of Corruption' was the next picture, and showed us a young and beautiful girl in her early teens, lying on a luxurious couch _en deshabille_, with a novel in her hand, of which the title was plainly seen by all;--a novel well-known to everyone present, and the work of a much-praised living author. Round her, on the floor, and cast carelessly on a chair at her side, were other novels of the same 'sexual' type,--all their titles turned towards us, and the names of their authors equally made manifest.