by George Moore
“Did you ever see such skin?” said Day, speaking of Lady Helen; “she’s like milk.”
“Very Greek, is it not?” replied Ripple, making for Lady Marion, with whom he had resolved to sit until Lady Helen came back. The Sussex families generally tried to come up to town for Mrs. Bentham’s ball; and, sitting in symmetrical rows, were the same people who had been at the tennis party five years ago at Claremont House.
There were the Misses Davidson, in blue, chaperoned by Lady Archer; and Mrs. French, who was bringing out another daughter.
The tennis player was still to the fore, but Miss Fanshaw, her former rival, had changed her name to Cooper, and they made quite a little party, led by Mrs. Swannell, the wife of the member for the county.
Mrs. Bentham had moved away from the door, and, surrounded by smiling faces and a murmur of amiable words, was talking to her intimate friends. Most of the people had arrived, but as she was expecting two important guests, Lord Worthing and Mrs. Campbell Ward, the professional beauty, she had not ventured to mix with the dancers.
Mrs. Ward never appeared at a ball till about one, and she always left before three, remaining only for its summer-time. Her husband was poor and vulgar, but he had the tact to keep out of the way until he was wanted to repress a scandal.
“Mrs. Campbell Ward,” shouted the servant, and Mrs. Bentham turned to welcome a tall, large woman, with brown hair, dyed sufficiently to give it a golden tinge. She took an offered arm and her husband glided away.
At this moment the shrill notes of the comet pierced through the softer sound of the fiddles, then half-a-dozen clear notes from the clarionet, a clashing of cymbals, and then the strings, wood, brass, and drums, finished the last phrase of a waltz.
No sooner had the music ceased than a crowd of black coats and white shoulders entered, and the quick movement of the fans wafted forwards an odour of shoulders and sachet-scented pocket handkerchiefs. The delicate profiles of young girls contrasted with the heavy faces of the parents, and the words “ices” and “heat” were heard recurring constantly.
As the dancers perceived Mrs. Campbell Ward, there was a slight hush; the men looked admiringly at her face and arms, the women examined her dress. Then, leaving a wake of black coats behind her, came Lady Helen, obviously the most beautiful woman in the room. Mrs. Ward gave her a look expressive both of fear and admiration, and she went off to dance with Lord Senton, whose vanity and silliness interested her. The room was again pretty clear. Lewis stood talking to a group of artists. He was asking their opinion of his full length portrait of Mrs. Bentham, which hung at the other end of the room. Mr. Hilton praised it unreservedly, but Mr. Holt, who was supposed to have some sympathies with “The moderns,” was finding fault. The Misses Davidson were sitting underneath the picture, and he used their shoulders to explain his meaning.
“Just look, Seymour, at the subtlety of modelling there is in that girl’s bosom. You can’t see the face, and yet it is like her; the neck is half tint, and all the light is concentrated on the shoulders; by Jove, how wonderful it is! Now, on your bosom there is—”
Lewis was much interested in the conversation, but, recognising Lady Helen, ho rushed off to ask her for a dance, leaving Holt to explain his theories to a young gentleman of artistic tastes, who was listening in the hope of carrying away some of the expressions.
The Misses Davidson, seeing that the men at the other end of the room were looking in their direction, began to feel flattered.
“I wonder what they are saying about us,” asked the younger.
“Oh, they are not talking about us,” exclaimed Miss French, pettishly; “they are only speaking of their horrible painting. I wish men would not come to balls who don’t dance.”
Miss Davidson was disappointed, but she felt that it was only too possibly the truth: and with a sigh she said:
“I think it very unfair to ask people to balls and not introduce them; there are lots of nice men here I should like to know.”
“As for me, I never bored myself so much in my life,” whimpered a young lady in white, who had not yet danced. “It is quite sickening to listen to those men talking politics.” This last remark referred to a group of grave men collected in the doorway opposite to where the artists were standing. Lord Worthing, while waiting for Mrs. Campbell Ward, had consented to discuss the affairs of the nation. His remarks were received with great attention. Mr. Swannell, from time to time, made large and unctuous signs of assent, but did not speak until the peer said the difference that would eternally separate Liberal and Conservative governments was the fact that “we always have and always will teach men to respect their honour before their money.” Mr. Swannel shut his eyes, as if to appreciate more entirely the delicacy of the aphorism: he declared it ought to be sent to the newspapers.
At this moment Mr. Campbell Ward came from the card-room. He wore a vexed and embarrassed air, and he asked Lord Worthing if he could speak to him for a few seconds.
“Certainly,” replied Lord Worthing; and husband and admirer walked away together.
In the meanwhile Lewis had been enjoying himself immensely. He had been waltzing with Lady Helen, and had attracted much attention. They were delighted to see one another, and they both remembered all about the tennis party. Lady Helen told him how she had bored herself in America; how glad she was to get home: she questioned him about the æsthetes and his painting.
They were now sitting by Lady Marion. She was talking with a Mr. Liston, a very handsome but grave man, who wrote on the domestic life of the Egyptians. He never danced, but his wife, who was supposed to be a little mad, did, and wildly. So the poor man was enabled to save the midnight oil, and, in the corner of a ball-room, he ruminated over the problems of the past, while Mrs. Liston careered wildly with all the young men in London over the parquet She was now looking languidly at Lewis, but Mrs. Collins said it was an unrequited affection.
He not being engaged (a dancer had just come to claim Lady Helen), looked round the room to see whom he would ask. Mrs. Bentham, leaving a group of men, called him.
“Are you engaged for this dance?”
“No, I am not,” he replied, timidly.
“Then dance it with me,” she said, taking his arm, and they went into the ball-room.
“She keeps her puppy well chained up,” said Day to Ripple as he passed. Ripple affected not to understand him, and passed on towards the group of artists, who still stood about the doorway.
The appearance of Mrs. Bentham on Lewis’s arm brought the conversation back to the point from whence it had strayed, and the young gentleman with artistic tastes asked Mr. Hilton if he thought Mr. Seymour had much talent.
“Talent! Good Heavens!” broke in Mr. Holt; “just look at that portrait up there! Nasty, greasy, sickly, slimy thing!”
“I can’t see that it is a bad picture,” answered Mr. Ripple, who defended his friend on all occasions; “because the dress is carefully painted, and the rules of art are not openly defied.”
This aroused Mr. Hilton from the torpor into which he had fallen, and he hastened to say a word in defence of his principles.
“I, for my part, quite agree with Mr. Ripple; I deprecate this outcry against the traditions. You will never succeed in proving to me that it shows great talent to disturb the whole balance of a composition by leaving one leg of a retreating figure in the picture; it is original, if you like, but it is an originality that the merest tyro can obtain. Now, I don’t mean to say that that portrait is a chef d’œuvre, but it is fairly well drawn and modelled, and those are qualities far harder to attain than those you mention.”
Mr. Holt was dying to reply, but he thought it would be better not to contradict the academician, and Ripple, enchanted at the acceptance his views had received, was preparing a further development of his theories, when the young gentleman, his friend with the budding artistic taste, said:
“Besides, I hear that Mr. Seymour makes at the rate of two thousand a year.”
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br /> Nobody answered for a moment, and the young gentleman opened his blue eyes in surprise at the embarrassment he had created. Mr. Ripple looked grave as if an accident had happened, but Mr. Holt, unable to resist the temptation, exclaimed, brutally, that there was no reason why he should not make ten, that it was merely a question of women.
Mr. Hilton said nothing, but being a family man would have preferred that Mr. Holt had put his accusation more delicately.
The conversation then turned upon women, and the question of morality was ardently discussed.
Mr. Hilton believed implicitly in the virtue of all women, at least of those in good society. Mr. Ripple, who was anxious not to have it supposed that he lived a totally loveless life, smiled at this general statement, but defended Mrs. Bentham’s honour. As for Mr. Holt, he shrugged his shoulders, and wondering that such credulity could exist, went to look after a partner.
The waltz was just finishing, and a crowd of perspiring dancers passed from the ball to the card-room. Mrs. Bentham was on Lewis’s arm. Without knowing why, she suspected that the people about were talking of her; but she did not care, and looked to the left and right defiantly. She longed for something to happen, and vainly tried to assure herself that there was no reason for supposing that Lewis and Lady Helen were going to fall in love with each other. Her excitement was not lost upon Mr. Day, and he went over to where Lord Senton was talking with a thick-set man, who generally spoke of thrashing someone.
“There will be a row to-night,” said Day; “he’s engaged for the next waltz to Lady Hellen.”
“I can’t see,” murmured Lord Sent on between his decayed teeth, “what women like in him; I wonder why Lady Marion allows Lady Helen to dance with him, the effeminate brute, how I should like to kick him!”
The thick-set man grew interested at once, and offered much advice as to how it was to be done. They were joined by their old pal, Sir John, who, having escaped from the eyes of his father-in-law, ventured to ask them to come down to supper.
Watching Mrs. Bentham till she passed into the card-room, they assented, and then the four men went downstairs together.
The card and lounging-room was a spacious place hung with dark red curtains, full of low sofas and arm-chairs, and soft shadow. Here and there clear dresses and white shirt fronts glimmered in the purple gloom, and as the whist players raised their heads to play, the lamplight fell on their faces.
“Let us sit down here,” said Mrs. Bentham; “are you engaged for this next waltz?”
“Well, I am,” replied Lewis, hesitating, and colouring slightly.
“To whom?”
Feeling afraid that she would object to his dancing with Lady Helen, for with the instinct of a woman he guessed that Mrs. Bentham was jealous, and wishing to avoid a discussion, he boldly answered that he was engaged to Miss Davidson.
“Oh, very well then, we’ll dance together later on.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Not in the least; what right have I to mind; you are your own master.”
“Well, don’t be cross; if you don’t like, I won’t dance with her,” he replied, knowing very well that she didn’t care how much he danced with Miss Davidson.
At this moment the music began, and Mrs. Bentham went to talk to Mrs. Campbell Ward and Lord Worthing, who were thinking of going.
Lewis hurried away assuring himself that Lucy might not give it another thought, and that it was ten chances to one she would be detained and would not be able to get near the ballroom. He found Lady Helen waiting for him; the two went off to dance together in almost infantile glee. Lewis was completely under the charm of her beauty. Till now, he had never desired anything but faintly; and this was the first time he had ever been able to particularise a passion. Lady Helen, he had remembered as something extraordinarily white, with saffron coloured hair, and as his recollection of her grew fainter, she had passed into his mind as a type of beauty, the queen of all the blonde phantoms that peopled his dreams. He thought sometimes of the flirtation by the river, in the tepid silence of the woods, and it had remained a bit of purity and grace that the ever recurring tendernesses and treasons which made up the tenor of his life had not been able to destroy.
As they glided over the floor, they passed Miss Davidson, who whispered to her partner, as she danced. They bumped up against Lady Archer, who was going at a prodigious rate; exchanged words with the Misses Sedgwick, Lady Helen’s cousins; passed by a number of unknown faces, and then came back to the window to rest.
Mrs. Bentham did not believe Lewis when he said he was going to dance with Miss Davidson. She felt sure he was engaged to Lady Helen, and she resolved to watch. But, fortunately for the lovers, Mrs. Campbell Ward could not be persuaded to stay a moment longer, and as the supper rooms were not yet open, Mrs. Bentham had to go down with them, and when at last, wearied out, she got back to the ball-room, the waltz was over.
Nervous and irritated, but determined to find Lewis, she walked to and fro. Constantly she was stopped by young men who thought it their duty to bore her for a dance, and by women who murmured their teasing common-places.
Never had fashionable life appeared to her so insupportable; the soft, fussy ways of those who spoke to her, and the necessity of answering them politely, provoked her beyond endurance. Getting rid of one with a yes, the other with a no, and a third with a mechanical smile, she pressed through a group of black coats that blocked the doorway.
Mrs. Collins was talking to Mrs. Thorpe, and Mrs. Bentham tried to escape, but Lady Marion called her, and asked her if she had seen Lady Helen. The old lady was enjoying herself immensely, and in the excitement of her many conversations had forgotten all about her niece. She had had a long political argument, a literary discussion, and was now contesting the origin of the Irish castles with a man who for many years had given it out that he was writing a book on the subject Trembling under Mrs. Collin’s searching gaze, Mrs. Bentham said she had not seen Lady Helen, and escaped into the card-room.
But Lewis was not there, and a whist party that had just risen detained her a long while with the most useless and inane remarks. Then she got caught in a crowd of dancers who were going towards the supper rooms, and, thinking he might be downstairs, she determined to follow. But to do this she had to get a partner, and going back to where Lady Marion was sitting, she looked around the group to see who would be easiest to get rid of if the occasion required. Finally she decided on a very young man who was waiting for an opening to say that he was of opinion that Swinburne was a greater poet than Tennyson.
“Have you been down to supper, Lady Marion?” she said, trying to smile.
Lady Marion replied that she had not, whereupon the poetically inclined young man at once put himself forward; but the antiquarian, remembering an argument that he thought would tell against Lady Marion’s theory of the Irish castles, offered his arm, and Mrs. Bentham was left to the Swinburnite.
The staircase was full of clear dresses and black coats, which passed up and down, looking at themselves in the huge mirror. Mrs. Bentham, fearing she was betraying her emotion, tried vainly to answer her partner’s questions. As they crossed the tessellated pavement of the large hall, with its high pillars supporting the gallery overhead, the sounds of the music died away in the clatter of the knives and forks.
The supper room was on the right; an immense square, wainscotted as high as the doors in oak, with pilasters dividing the walls; dark green velvet curtains, hanging from massive gold cornices, concentrated all the light upon the table covered with flowers, silver, and cold meats.
Mrs. Bentham could not see at once if Lewis was there; lines of black coats and white shoulders intercepted the view. At this end of the table Mr. Ripple continued to explain to Mrs. Liston that a married woman was not obliged to love her husband after — he added ingeniously — the third year. His argument did not appear to interest Mrs. Liston, who, probably, had long ago made up her mind on the subject; anyhow, she constantly interrupt
ed him with questions about Lewis, and demands for an infinite variety of eatables. Animal instincts were everywhere visible. Old ladies, with lumpy shoulders, attended by young men, were making up for many hours of misery by gratifying the last passion that remained to them: groups of middle-aged men wearily talked politics, thinking of what they should eat when the ladies were gone.
The noise was a long continuous murmur, punctuated by the popping of champagne corks. Men of all kinds called to servants, who were beginning to lose their heads, for “pâté de foie gras,”
“salmi de pleuvier doré,” ham, cutlets, cream, and jelly.
The Misses Davidson, the Misses French, and others had managed to get introduced to some men, with whom they spok of the floor, the music, the weather, and the last plays, novels, and race meetings.
Mrs. Bentham, under the pretext of looking for a place, passed from where Mr. Ripple sat with Mrs. Liston to the far corner, where a cluster of black coats were supping together.
“I’ll tell you what,” mumbled Sir John, his lips full of salad; “there’s a girl here, a Miss Harrison, I don’t know who she is, but upon my soul—” Sir John had to stop to swallow the salad.
“I know who you mean,” said the man next him; “never saw such shoulders in my life — splendid.”
The two men looked at each other contemplative; and Lord Senton begged to have the young lady pointed out to him.
“Look, look,” whispered Day, who was a little drunk, “‘pon my soul it is as good as a play to watch the old girl.”
“What’s as good as a play?” replied Senton, who sat moodily sipping his champagne.
“Why, look at dear Lucy, who has come to look after her chicken. Here’s to her jolly good health,” he added, lifting his glass. The toast was drank rapturously.
“Just look,” said Day, staring vaguely; “she wont stay; he isn’t here, is he? Haven’t seen him.”
“Bet you a fiver she won’t stay if he isn’t here,” whispered one.
“Done,” said Lord Senton, and, holding full glasses of champagne, they watched to see what Mrs. Bentham would do.
