CHAPTER VII.

LADY ERRINGTON'S LITTLE DINNER.

"An alien race beneath an alien sky, Amid strange tongues, and faces strange alone, Stout English hearts who for the moment try To form a little England of their own."

After the constant sight of dark Italian faces, and the everlasting clatter of restless Italian tongues, the guests at the Villa Tagni found it pleasant to form part of an English circle once more, to eat an English dinner, to discuss English subjects and compare everything British to the disadvantage of all things Continental. So great a delight did these six people take in meeting one another at a hospitable dinner-table that one would have thought they had been for years exiled in the centre of Africa, and far removed from all civilizing influences. Heaven only knows there is no lack of English tourists on the Continent, but then to a great extent they preserve their insular stiffness towards one another; consequently when people meet in foreign parts, who have a slight acquaintance at home, they rush into one another's arms with tender affection, though they would mutually consider one another insufferable bores during the London season.

This, however, was not the case with Lady Errington's guests, who were all genuinely delighted with one another, and chatted gaily on different kinds of subjects as if they had been bosom friends all their lives. The Hon. Henry had been invited on account of his wife, who in her turn had been invited on account of Victoria, but having gone to Milan to see an Italian Count who had all the complications of European politics at his fingers' ends, he telegraphed the sad news that he would not be able to be present, at which Lady Errington was secretly very glad, as an extra man would have quite upset the balance of the party.

As it was, Sir Guy took in the portly Mrs. Trubbles to dinner, his wife was escorted by Eustace, and the Master of Otterburn realised the wish of his heart by acting as cavalier to Miss Sheldon. So things being thus pleasantly arranged, they all sat round the well spread table as merry a party as it would be possible to find.

In some mysterious manner Lady Errington had managed to provide a series of English dishes, to which all present did ample justice, not that anyone was particularly a gourmand, but Italian cookery is a trifle monotonous and a real English dinner in Italy is something to be appreciated. At all events, what with the food, the wine, and the continuous strain of light badinage, all the guests were in a state of the highest good humour, and even the pessimistic Gartney deigned to take a moderately charitable view of things.

"This is jolly and no mistake," said Otterburn, as the servant filled his glass with champagne, "you need to go abroad to appreciate home comforts."

"I think you would appreciate them anywhere," remarked Eustace the cynic.

"And quite right too," chimed in Miss Sheldon, with a gay laugh, "everybody does, only they don't like to confess it."

"Why not?" demanded Sir Guy.

Victoria looked rather nonplussed for the moment, having made an idle statement without thinking she would be called upon to give her reasons.

"Oh, I don't know," she replied, after some hesitation. "I suppose people like to be thought romantic, and thinking about what you eat and drink isn't romantic."

"It's very sensible at all events," said Lady Errington; "do you not agree with me Mrs. Trubbles?"

"I do," replied the matron ponderously, nodding her head, upon which was perched a cheerful-looking cap of black lace and glittering bugles, "people should always eat and drink well at meal times, but no nibblin's in between. It isn't nature to despise good food well-cooked. I've no patience with those gells who starve themselves and pinch their waists to look pretty. Wasps I call them."

"Without the sting," suggested Sir Guy.

"That depends on their tempers, and their tempers," continued Mrs. Trubbles impressively, "depend on their eating. Give them good meals and plenty of exercise, and there's the makin' of good wives about them. Let them starve themselves and lace tight, and it makes their noses red and their tempers cross."

"The whole duty of woman then," murmured Eustace demurely, "is to appreciate her cook and disobey her dressmaker. They might do the first, but never the second."

Mrs. Trubbles, not understanding irony, looked doubtfully at Eustace to see if he was smiling, but so grave was the expression of his face that she did not know whether he spoke in jest or earnest, so without making any reply, she continued her meal while the conversation became frivolous and general.

"I think Italy a very over-rated place."

"Really! In what respect--morals, scenery, manners?"

"No, as regards music. It's a very barrel-organy country."

"Not more so than the London streets. And after all, `Ah che la Morte,' is more musical than 'Tommy make room for your uncle."

"Both out of date."

"Well, say Gounod's 'Romeo and Juliet' and the 'Boulanger March."

"Yes, it's much jollier than the Op. 42 _andante adagio con fuoco prestissimo_ sort of things they give you at the Richter Concerts."

"Maclean," observed Eustace, gravely regarding his glass, "you are a Philistine, and classical music of the advanced school is thrown away on your uncultivated ear."

"No doubt! I prefer 'Auld Lang Syne' to Beethoven."

"Naturally, being a Scotchman. You're like the man who knew two tunes. One was 'God save the Queen,' the other--wasn't."

"I remember," observed Mrs. Trubbles, whose ideas of music were primitive in the extreme, "that I went to a concert at St. James' Hall, where they played something called a fuggy."

"A fugue," translated Victoria for the benefit of the company. "I know! One tune starts, a second catches it up. Then a third joins in, and just as it successfully muddles up the other two, a fourth and a fifth have their say in the matter."

"Sounds dreadfully mixed."

"Then it sounds exactly what it is," said Miss Sheldon promptly. "But what about this particular fugue, Mrs. Trubbles?"

"The fugue, dear--yes, of course. There was a young man in front of me wriggled dreadfully. I thought he was uneasy about a pin, but he was only showing how pleased he was with the music, and kept calling out 'Oh this is food!'"

"Wanted the bottle, I expect," said Eustace sweetly, "such musical babies shouldn't be allowed to go to classical concerts. It's too much for their nerves."

"It's too much for mine," remarked Otterburn grimly. "After dinner," said Gartney, looking thoughtfully at him, "I shall play the 'Moonlight Sonata.'"

"In that case, Lady Errington, may I stay out on the terrace? Such a suggestion is inhuman."

Lady Errington laughed and gave the signal to the ladies, whereupon they all arose to their feet.

"I'm afraid you're talking dreadful nonsense," she said, shaking her head.

"It's a poor heart that never rejoiceth," replied Otterburn impudently, as he opened the door for the ladies to depart.

Following the Continental fashion, Sir Guy and his guests did not linger long over their wine, but, after a few minutes, went into the drawing-room, whence they strolled on to the terrace for cigarettes and coffee.

Mrs. Trubbles, feeling sleepy after her dinner, found a comfortable chair in a distant corner of the room, and went placidly to sleep, while the remaining guests established themselves on the terrace, the gentlemen with cigarettes and the ladies with coffee.

Such a perfect night as it was. Away in the distance, dense and black against the cold, clear sky, frowned the sombre masses of mountains, above which hung in a cloudless firmament the silver shield of the moon. Here and there a liquid star throbbed in the deep heart of the heavens, and overhead shone the misty splendour of the Milky Way; not a breath of wind ruffled the still surface of the lake, which reflected the serene beauty of the sky, but at intervals across the star-smitten surface would move the dark, slim form of a boat, the oars breaking the water into thousands of flashing diamonds.

Far beyond glimmered the orange-coloured lights of Blevio, and the sudden whiteness of some tall campanile shooting up in slender beauty from amid its dark mass of surrounding houses. A sense of perfect fragrance in the still air, a charmed silence all around, and a wondrous restful feeling under the cool magic of the night. Then, mellowed by distance, faint and far like aerial music, the silver tones of a peal of bells sounded at intervals through the clear atmosphere, until the whole night seemed full of sweet sounds.

"This is the night when Diana kisses Endymion," said Eustace dreamily, "the antique deities which we all deny are still on earth in Italy. They are not visible, nor will they ever be so save to the eye of faith alone. Even then they are doubtful of revealing themselves to a generation who would put them under the microscope and on the dissecting table. But although we try hard to disbelieve in their existence, the spell of their beauty is sometimes too strong, and I never go anywhere among these hills without a secret hope of finding Pan asleep at noontide in the ilex shade, or of seeing the laughing face of a Dryad framed in tamarisk leaves."

"And your hope is never realised," said Lady Errington sadly; "that is so true of our modern desires."

"Because we always desire the impossible," replied Eustace, clasping his hands over his knees while the chill moonlight fell on his massive face, "and expect to find it in crowded cities under the glare of gaslight, instead of in these magic solitudes where the moon shines on haunted ground."

"But is it possible to reconcile man and Nature?"

"According to Matthew Arnold, yes."

"What a romantic way you have of looking at things, Mr. Gartney," remarked Victoria with some impatience. "If everyone took your view of life, I'm afraid the world would not get on."

"It's all humbug," cried Otterburn, who agreed in every way with Miss Sheldon, "that is, you know, not quite sensible."

"I daresay it is not--in a worldly sense," said Eustace bitterly, "but then you see I don't look at everything from a purely utilitarian point of view."

"I do" interposed Guy in his hearty British voice, "it's the only way to get one's comforts in life. And one's comforts suggest smoking."

Otterburn assented with avidity, for they had been sitting with cigarettes for some time, but never lighted up, and even Eustace departed so much from his poetic dreamings as to accept the soothing weed.

"You don't practise what you preach, Mr. Gurney," said Lady Errington, smiling.

"How many of us do?" asked Gartney complacently. "I'm afraid we talk a lot and do nothing, now-a-days. It's the disease of the latter end of the nineteenth century."

"Oh, everything's very jolly," said Otterburn, who resembled Mark Tapley in his disposition. "Who was it said that this was the best of all possible worlds?"

"Voltaire! But by that it was not his intention to infer he didn't yearn after some better world."

"Heaven!"

"I don't think that was in M. Arouet's line."

"I'm afraid it isn't in any of our lines."

"What a rude remark," said Lady Errington severely. "This conversation is becoming so atheistical that I must ask Mr. Gartney to carry out his promise and play the Moonlight Sonata. It may inspire us with higher thoughts."

"The Como Moonlight Sonata--it will be a local hit."

"What nonsense you do talk, Macjean," said Eustace rising to his feet and throwing his cigarette into the water, "you're like that man in the Merchant of Venice."

"What man in the Merchant of Venice?"

"Oh, if you don't know your Shakespeare, I'm afraid I can't teach it to you," retorted Eustace, and stepping lightly across the terrace, he sat down at the piano, which was placed near the window of the drawing-room, and ran his fingers lightly over the ivory keys. Within the party on the terrace could see the gleam of the marble floor, the dull glitter of heavily embroidered curtains, the faint reflection of a mirror, and over all the rosy light of a red-shaded lamp the glare of which streamed out into the pale moonlight.

Everyone sat silently in the wonderful mystic world created by the magic of the moon, and from the piano a stream of melody, sad and melancholy, in a minor key, broke forth on the still night. The spell of the shadows, the weirdness of the hour, and the presence of Lady Errington, to whom he felt strangely drawn, all had their influence on Gartney's wonderfully impressionable nature, and he began to improvise delicate melodies on a story suggested to him by the calm lake gleaming without.

"In the crystal depths of the blue lake," he chanted in a dreamy monotone, while the subtle harmonies wove themselves under his long lithe fingers, "there dwells a beautiful fairy, in a wondrous palace. She is in love with the nightingale who sings so sweetly from the laurels that hang their green leaves over the still waters. The voice of the hidden singer has strange power and tells her of the cool green depths of the forest; of the rich perfumes shaken from the flowers by the gentle night-wind, and of the ruined shrines from whence the gods have fled. As the passionate notes well forth from amid the dusky shadows the eyes of the beautiful fairy fill with hot tears, for she knows that the bird sings of a long dead love, of a long dead sorrow. But she has no soul, the beautiful fairy, and cannot feel the rapture, the passion, the sadness of love. She rises to the glittering surface of the lake, and waves her slender white arms to the nightingale that sings so sweetly in the moonlight. But the dawn breaks rosy in the eastern skies, the rough wind of the morning whitens the lake, and the nightingale sings no more. Then the beautiful fairy, broken-hearted, sinks far down into the placid waters, to where there blooms strange flowers of wondrous hues, and weeps, and weeps, and weeps for the love which she can never feel without a soul."

A chord, and the player let his hands fall from the keyboard.

"That is a beautiful story, such as Heine might have told," said Lady Errington softly.

"The inspiration is Heine," replied Eustace dreamily, and relapsed into silence.

Victoria, eminently a woman of the world, grew weary of this poetical talk and made a sign to Otterburn, who, understanding her meaning, arose to his feet as she left her chair, and they strolled along the terrace laughing gaily. A sound from within showed that Mrs. Trubbles was once more awake, so Guy in his capacity of host went inside to attend to her, and Eustace, sitting at the piano, was left alone with Lady Errington.

So frail, so pale, so ethereal she looked in the thin cold beams of the moon, lying back, still and listless, in her wicker chair, with her hands crossed idly on her white dress. The man at the piano was in the radiance of the rosy lamplight, but the woman, dreaming in the silence, looked a fitter inhabitant for this weird, white world of mystery and chilly splendour. Watching her closely, even in the distance, Eustace caught a glimpse of her eyes for the moment, and fancied, with the vivid imagination of a poet, that he saw in their depths that undefinable look of unfulfilled motherhood which had led him to call her an "incomplete Madonna."

Filled with this idea, a sudden inspiration of ascertaining the truth seized him, and without changing his position, he replaced his fingers on the ivory keys and broke into the steady rhythmical swing of a cradle song.

His voice was a small sweet tenor, not very loud, but wonderfully soft and sympathetic, so that he rendered the song he now sang with rare delicacy and tenderness.

I.

"Sleep, little baby! peacefully rest, Mother is clasping thee close to her breast; Angels watch over thee gentle and mild, Guard thee with heavenly love undefiled. Sleep little baby, safe in thy nest, Sleep little baby! mother's own child."

II.

"Sleep, little baby! fear not the storm, Tenderly mother is holding thy form. Mother's eyes watching thee ever above Shine like twin stars with fathomless love. Sleep, little baby! safely and warm, Sleep, little baby! mother's own dove."

When he had ended the song with one soft, long-drawn note, he glanced furtively at Lady Errington, and saw that he had touched the one sympathetic chord of her nature, for those calm blue eyes were full of unshed tears hanging on the long lashes. Eustace delicately refrained from noticing her emotion, but rising from the piano strolled on to the terrace, leaned lightly over the balustrade and gazed absorbedly at the restless water, dark and sombre under the stone wall.

"A perfect night," he murmured after a pause, during which Lady Errington found time to recover herself from the momentary fit of emotion.

"Yes," answered Alizon mechanically, then after a pause, "thank you very much for the song."

"I'm glad you liked it," responded Eustace equably, and again there was silence between them. The moonlight shone on both their faces, on his, massive and masterful with a poetic look in his wonderfully eloquent eyes, and on hers, delicate, distinct and fragile, as if it had been carved from ivory. Light laughter from the two young people at the end of the terrace, a deep murmur of conversation from within, where Sir Guy strove gallantly to entertain his drowsy guest, but this man and woman, oblivious of all else, remained absorbed in their own thoughts.

Of what was she thinking? of her past sorrow, her present happiness, her doubtful future (for the future is doubtful with all humanity)--Who could tell? Eustace, delicately sympathetic as he was, stood outside the closed portals of her soul, into which no man, not even her husband, had penetrated. But men and women, however closely allied, how, ever passionately attached, however unreserved in their confidences, never know one another's souls. There is always a something behind all which is never revealed, which the soul feels intensely itself, yet shrinks from disclosing even to nearest and dearest, and it is this vague secret which all feel, yet none tell, that makes humanity live in loneliest isolation from each other.

Perhaps Lady Errington was thinking of this hidden secret of her soul which none knew, nor ever would know, but Eustace, softened for the moment by the unexpected maternal emotion his song had evoked, was envying his cousin the possession of this cold, silent woman. Had he known her personally before her marriage he might not have cared much about her, save in a friendly way, but his eccentric imagination had endowed her with a vague charm, which no other woman possessed, and the knowledge that she belonged to another man made him bitterly regretful. It was ever thus with the whimsical character of Eustace Gartney. Place something within his reach, and he despised it, place it beyond his hope of attainment, and he would strain every nerve to possess it. He lived in the pursuit of the unattainable, which of all things had the greatest charm for him, and this unattainable vision of charming womanhood filled his soul with passionate anguish and desire.

Suddenly, with a sigh, Lady Errington lifted up her eyes and saw Eustace looking at her, respectfully enough, yet with a certain meaning in his gaze which caused her vague embarrassment, she knew not why.

"Your music has made me dream, Mr. Gartney," she said, nervously opening her fan.

"You are of a sensitive nature, perhaps."

She sighed again.

"Yes, very sensitive. It is a most unhappy thing to be impressionable, one feels things other people count as nothing."

"Other people are wise," said Eustace in an ironical tone, "they take Talleyrand's advice about a happy life, and--are happy."

"What is your experience?"

"The reverse; but then you see I have not taken Talleyrand's advice. It is excellent and infallible to many people, but not to me."

"Why not?"

"I refer you to one Hamlet, who said, 'The time is out of joint.'"

"Hamlet was a morbid, self-analysing egotist," said Lady Errington, emphatically.

"No--you are wrong. He was a man crushed down by melancholy."

"Principally of his own making, though certainly he had plenty of excuse."

"And don't you think I have any excuse for being unhappy?"

Alizon looked at him critically.

"You are young, healthy, rich, famous. No, I don't think you have any excuse. Do you remember my advice to you the other night?"

"About philanthropy, yes. But we did not come to any agreement on the subject, because we were interrupted."

"History repeats itself," said Lady Errington, rising, "for here come Mrs. Trubbles and Guy."

"And Macjean and Miss Sheldon. Farewell, Minerva--Momus is King."

"Wisdom gives place to Folly--well, is not that a very good thing," said Alizon laughing, "you would grow weary of a world without change."

"I daresay. To no moment of my life could I have said with Faust, 'Stay, thou art so fair.'"

"Alizon, Mrs. Trubbles is going," said Sir Guy's voice, as the ponderous matron rolled towards his wife like a war-chariot.

"I'm so sorry," observed Lady Errington, taking the lady's hand.

"So am I, dear," said Mrs. Trubbles in a sleepy voice, "but I always go to bed early here, the climate makes me so sleepy. I have enjoyed myself so much--so very much. Yes."

"Next time you visit," whispered Otterburn to Victoria, "bring a chaperon who is wide-awake."

"I will--you shall choose my chaperon, Mr. Macjean."

"You mightn't like my choice," said Macjean wickedly.

"I mean a lady, of course," replied Victoria demurely, "not an irreverent young man like--well, never mind."

"Like me, I suppose?"

"I never said so."

"No, but you looked it."

Victoria laughed, and departed with Mrs. Trubbles and her hostess to put her wraps on, while the three gentlemen had a short smoke and conversation, after which they all separated for the night.

Eustace walked silently back in the moonlight with Mrs. Trubbles who did all the talking; and the young couple behind them talked Chinese metaphysics.