“To see me!” said Cleone archly.
“That is the obvious, fair tormentor! Another reason had I.”
“The first should be enough, sir,” answered Cleone, with downcast eyes.
“And is, Most Beautiful. But the other reason concerns you also.”
“La! You intrigue me, sir! Pray, what is it?”
“To beg, on my knees, that you will dance with me on Wednesday!”
“Oh, I don’t know!” Cleone shook her head. “I doubt all the dances are gone.”
“Ah, no, dearest lady! Not all!”
“Indeed, I think so! I cannot promise anything.”
“But you give me hope?”
“I will not take it from you,” said Cleone. “Perhaps Jennifer will give you a dance.”
Sir Deryk did not look much elated. But he bowed to Jennifer.
“May that happiness be mine, madam?”
“Th-thank you,” stammered Jennifer. “If you please!”
Sir Deryk bowed again and straightway forgot her existence.
“You wear my primroses, fairest!” he said to Cleone. “I scarce dared to hope so modest a posy would be so honoured.”
Cleone glanced down at the pale yellow blooms.
“Oh, are they yours? I had forgot,” she said cruelly.
“Ah, Cleone!”
Cleone raised her brows.
“My name, sir?”
“Mistress Cleone,” corrected Brenderby, bowing.
Lady Malmerstoke chose that moment at which to billow into the room. She leaned on the arm of one Mr. Jettan.
“Philip, you are a sad fellow! You do not mean one word of what you say! Oh, lud! I have chanced on a reception. Give ye good den, Jenny, my dear. Sir Deryk? Thus early in the morning? I think you know Mr. Jettan?”
The two men bowed.
“I have the pleasure, Lady Malmerstoke,” said Brenderby. “I did not see you last night, Jettan? You were not at Gregory’s card-party?”
“Last night?—last night? No, I was at White’s with my father. Mademoiselle, your very obedient! Et la petite! ”
“Bonjour, monsieur!” ventured Jennifer shyly.
Philip swept her a leg.
“Mademoiselle a fait des grands progrès,” he said.
She wrinkled her brow.
“Great—progress?” she hazarded.
“Of course! And how is mademoiselle?”
“Very well, I thank you, sir.”
Lady Malmerstoke sank into a large armchair.
“Well, I trust I don’t intrude?” she remarked. “Clo, where is my embroidery?” She turned to her guests. “I never set a stitch, of course. It would fatigue me too much. But it looks industrious to have it by me, doesn’t it?”
Cleone and Brenderby had walked to the table in search of the missing embroidery. Cleone looked over her shoulder.
“You must not believe what she says,” she told them. “Aunt Sarah embroiders beautifully. She is not nearly as lazy as she would have you think.”
“Not lazy, my love—indolent. A much nicer word. Thank you, my dear.” She received her stitchery and laid it down. “I will tell you all a secret. Oh, Philip knows! Philip, you need not listen.”
Philip was perched on a chair-arm.
“A million thanks, Aunt!”
“That is very unkind of you!” she reproached him. “You tell my secret before ever I have time to say a word!”
“Eh bien! You should not have suggested that I did not want to listen to your voice.”
“When I am, indeed, your aunt, I shall talk to you very seriously about flattering old women,” she said severely.
Cleone clapped her hands.
“Oh, Aunt Sally! You are going to wed Mr. Jettan?”
“One of them,” nodded her aunt. “I gather that this one”—she smiled up at Philip—“is going to wed Someone Else. And I do not think I would have him in any case.”
“And now who is unkind?” cried Philip. “I’ve a mind to run away with you as you enter the church!”
Cold fear was stealing through Cleone. Mechanically she congratulated her aunt. Through a haze she heard Brenderby’s voice and Jennifer’s. So Philip was going to marry Someone Else? No doubt it was Ann Nutley, the designing minx!
When Philip came presently to her side she was gayer than ever, sparkling with merriment, and seemingly without a care in the world. She drew Sir Deryk into the conversation, flirting outrageously. She parried all Philip’s sallies and laughed at Sir Deryk’s witticisms. Then Philip went to talk to Jennifer. A pair of hungry, angry, jealous, and would-be careless blue eyes followed him and grew almost hard.
When the guests had gone Cleone felt as though her head were full of fire. Her cheeks burned, her eyes were glittering. Lady Malmerstoke looked at her.
“You are hot, my love. Open the window.”
Cleone obeyed, cooling her cheeks against the glass panes.
“How very shy that child is!” remarked my lady.
“Jenny? Yes. Very, is she not?”
“I thought Sir Deryk might have noticed her a little more than he did.”
“He had no chance, had he? She was quite monopolised.”
Her ladyship cast a shrewd glance towards the back of Cleone’s head. She smiled unseen.
“Well, my love, to turn to other matters, which is it to be—Philip or Sir Deryk?”
Cleone started.
“What do you mean, Aunt? Which is it to be?”
“Which are you going to smile upon? You have given both a deal of encouragement. I don’t count young James, of course. He’s a babe.”
“Please, please—”
“I don’t like Sir Deryk. No, I don’t like him at all. He has no true politeness, or he would have talked a little more to me, or to Jenny. Which do you intend to wed, my dear?”
“Neither?”
“My dear Cleone!” Her ladyship was shocked. “Then why do you encourage them to make love to you? Now be advised by me! Have Sir Deryk!”
Cleone gave a trembling laugh.
“I thought you did not like him?”
“No more I do. But that’s not to say he’d make a bad husband. On the contrary. He’d let you do as you please, and he’d not be for ever pestering you with his presence.”
“For these very reasons I’ll none of him!”
“Then that leaves Philip?”
Cleone whirled about.
“Whom I would not marry were he the last man in the world!”
“Luckily he is not. Don’t be so violent, my dear.”
Cleone stood for a moment, irresolute. Then she burst into tears and ran out of the room.
Lady Malmerstoke leaned back against the cushions and closed her eyes.
“There’s hope for you yet, Philip,” she remarked, and prepared to go to sleep. It was not to be. Barely five minutes later Sir Maurice was ushered into the room.
Her ladyship sat up, a hand to her wig.
“Really, Maurice, you should know better than to take a woman unawares!” she said severely. “Your family has been in and out the house all the morning. What’s the matter now?”
Sir Maurice kissed her hand.
“First, my heartiest congratulations, Sarah! I have just seen Tom.”
If a lady could grin, Sarah Malmerstoke grinned then.
“Thank you, Maurice. And how did you find Tom?”
“Quite incoherent,” said Sir Maurice. “He has talked a deal of nonsense about love-passions belonging only to the young, but I never saw a man so madly elated in my life.”
“How nice!” sighed my lady blissfully. “And what’s your second point?”
Sir Maurice walked to the fire and stared into it.
“Sally, it’s Cleone.”
“Dear me! What’s to do?”
“If anyone can help me, it’s you,” he began.
Her ladyship held up her hands.
“No, Maurice, no! You’re too old!”
“You ridi
culous woman!” He smiled a little. “Does she care for Philip, or does she not?”
“Well”—my lady bit her finger—“I’ve been asking her that question, or one like it, myself.”
“What did she say?”
“That she wouldn’t marry him were he the last man in the world.”
Sir Maurice looked at her wretchedly.
“What’s come over her? I thought—She said nothing more?”
“Not a word. She burst into tears and fled.”
His face brightened.
“Surely that augurs well for him?”
“Very well,” nodded my lady. “But—”
“But what? Tell me, Sally!”
“You’re very anxious,” she observed.
“Of course I am anxious! I tell you Philip is head over ears in love with the child! And she—”
“And she,” finished her ladyship deliberately, “will need a deal of convincing that it is so. We are told that Philip is in love with Ann Nutley. We know that Philip trifled elegantly with various French ladies. We see him being kind to little Jennifer. And so on.”
“But he means nothing! You know that!”
“I? Does it matter what I know? It is what Cleone knows, but there’s naught under the sun so unreasonable as a maid in love.”
“But if Philip assures her—”
“Pho!” said her ladyship, and snapped her fingers. “Pho!”
“She wouldn’t believe it?”
“She might. But she might not choose to show it.”
“But it’s ridiculous! It’s—”
“Of course. All girls are ridiculous.”
“Sally, don’t be tiresome! What’s to be done?”
“Leave ’em alone,” counselled her ladyship. “There’s no good to be got out of interfering. Philip must play his own game.”
“He intends to. But he does not know whether she loves him or not!”
“You can tell him from me that there is hope, but that he must go carefully. And now I’m going to sleep. Good bye, Maurice.”
SIXTEEN
MISTRESS CLEONE FINDS THERE IS NO SAFETY IN NUMBERS
WHEN PHILIP entered the ballroom of my lady Dering’s house, on Wednesday evening, Lady Malmerstoke had already arrived. Cleone was dancing with Sir Deryk; Jennifer was sitting beside her ladyship, looking very shy and very bewildered. As soon as he could do so, Philip made his way to that end of the room.
Lady Malmerstoke welcomed him with a laugh.
“Good even, Philip! Have you brought your papa?”
Philip shook his head.
“He preferred to go to White’s with Tom. Jenny, you’ll dance with me, will you not? Remember, you promised!”
Jennifer raised her eyes.
“I—I doubt I—cannot. I—I have danced so few times, sir.”
“Don’t tell me those little feet cannot dance, chérie!”
Jennifer glanced down at them.
“It’s monstrous kind of you, Philip—but—but are you sure you want to lead me out?”
Philip offered her his arm.
“I see you are in a very teasing mood, Jenny,” he scolded.
Jennifer rose.
“Well, I will—but—oh, I am very nervous! I expect you dance so well.”
“I don’t think I do, but I am sure you underrate your dancing. Let us essay each other!”
*
From across the room Cleone saw them. She promptly looked away, but contrived, nevertheless, to keep an eye on their movements. She saw Philip presently lead Jenny to a chair and sit talking to her. Then he hailed a passing friend and presented him to Jennifer. Cleone watched him walk across the room to a knot of men. He returned to Jennifer with several of them. Unreasoning anger shook Cleone. Why did Philip care what happened to Jennifer? Why was he so assiduous in his attentions? She told herself she was an ill-natured cat, but she was still angry. From Jennifer Philip went to Ann Nutley.
Sir Deryk stopped fanning Cleone.
“There he goes! I declare, Philip Jettan makes love to every pretty woman he meets! Just look at them!”
Cleone was looking. Her little teeth were tightly clenched.
“Mr. Jettan is a flatterer,” she said.
“Always so abominably French, too. Mistress Ann seems amused. I believe Jettan is a great favourite with the ladies of Paris.”
Suddenly Cleone remembered that duel that Philip had fought “over the fair name of some French maid.”
“Yes?” she said carelessly. “Of course, he is very handsome.”
“Do you think so? Oh, here he comes! Evidently the lovely Ann does not satisfy him . . . Your servant, sir!”
Philip smiled and bowed.
“Mademoiselle, may I have the honour of leading you out?” he asked.
Above all, she must not show Philip that she cared what he did.
“Oh, I have but this instant sat down!” she said. “I protest I am fatigued and very hot!”
“I know of a cool withdrawing-room,” said Brenderby at once. “Let me take you to it, fairest!”
“It’s very kind, Sir Deryk, but I do not think I will go. If I might have a glass of ratafia?” she added plaintively, looking at Philip.
For once he was backward in responding. Sir Deryk bowed.
“At once, dear lady! I go to procure it!”
“Oh, thank you, sir!” This was not what Cleone wanted at all. “Well, Mr. Jettan, you have not yet fled to Paris?”
Philip sat down beside her.
“No, mademoiselle, not yet. To-night will decide whether I go or stay.” His voice was rather stern.
“Indeed? How vastly exciting!”
“Is it not! I am going to ask you a plain question, Cleone. Will you marry me?”
Cleone gasped in amazement. Unreasoning fury shook her. That Philip should dare to come to her straight from the smiles of Ann Nutley! She glanced at him. He was quite solemn. Could it be that he mocked her? She forced herself to speak lightly.
“I can hardly suppose that you are serious, sir!”
“I am in earnest, Cleone, never more so. We have played at cross-purposes long enough.”
His voice sent a thrill through her. Almost he was the Philip of Little Fittledean. Cleone forced herself to remember that he was not.
“Cross-purposes, sir? I fail to understand you!”
“Yes? Have you ever been honest with me, Cleone?”
“Have you ever been honest with me, Mr. Jettan?” she said sharply.
“Yes, Cleone. Before you sent me away I was honest with you. When I came back, no. I wished to see whether you wanted me as I was, or as I pretended to be. You foiled me. Now I am again honest with you. I say that I love you, and I want you to be my wife.”
*
“You say that you love me . . .” Cleone tapped her fan on her knee. “Perhaps you will continue to be honest with me, sir. Am I the only one you have loved?”
“You are the only one.”
The blue eyes flashed.
“And what of the ladies of the French Court, Mr. Jettan? What of a certain duel you fought with a French husband? You can explain that, no doubt?”
Philip was silent for a moment, frowning.
“So the news of that absurd affair reached you, Cleone?”
She laughed, clenching her teeth.
“Oh, yes, sir! It reached me. A pity, was it not?”
“A great pity, Cleone, if on that gossip you judge me.”
“Ah! There was no truth in the tale?” Suppressed eagerness was in her voice.
“I will be frank with you. A certain measure of truth there was. M. de Foli-Martin thought himself injured. It was not so.”
“And why should he think so, sir?”
“Presumably because I paid court to madame, his wife.”
“Yes?” Cleone spoke gently, dangerously. “You paid court to madame. No doubt she was very lovely?”
“Very.” Philip was nettled.
“As lovely,
perhaps, as Mademoiselle de Marcherand, of whom I have heard, or as Mistress Ann Nutley yonder? Or as lovely as Jennifer?”
Philip took a false step.
“Cleone, surely you are not jealous of little Jenny?” he cried.
She drew herself up.
“Jealous? What right have I to be jealous? You are nothing to me, Mr. Jettan! I confess that once I—liked you. You have changed since then. You cannot deny that you have made love to a score of beautiful women since you left home. I do not blame you for that. You are free to do as you please. What I will not support is that you should come to me with your proposal, having shown me during the time that you have spent in England that I am no more to you than Ann Nutley, or Julie de Marcherand. ‘To the Pearl that Trembles in her Ear,’ was it not? Very pretty, sir. And now I intrigue you for the moment. I cannot consider myself flattered, Mr. Jettan.”
Philip had grown pale under his paint.
“Cleone, you wrong me! It is true that I have trifled harmlessly with those ladies. It is the fashion—the fashion you bade me follow. There has never been aught serious betwixt any woman and me. That I swear!”
“You probably swore the same to M. de Foli-Martin?”
“When I had given him the satisfaction he craved, yes.”
“I suppose he believed you?”
“No.” Philip bit his lip.
“No? Then will you tell me, sir, how it is that you expect me to believe what M. de Foli-Martin—closely concerned—would not believe?”
Philip looked straight into her eyes.
“I can only give you my word, Cleone.”
Still she fought on, wishing to be defeated.
“So you have never trifled with any of these women, sir?”
Philip was silent again.
“You bring me”—Cleone’s voice trembled—“a tarnished reputation. I’ve no mind to it, sir. You have made love to a dozen other women. Perhaps you have kissed them. And—and now you offer me—your kisses! I like unspoilt wares, sir.”
Philip rose, very stiff and stern.
“I am sorry that you consider yourself insulted by my offer, Cleone.”
Her hand half flew towards him and fell again. Couldn’t he understand that she wanted him to beat down her resistance? Did he care no more than that? If only he would deny everything and master her!
“I hasten to relieve you of my obnoxious presence. Your servant, mademoiselle.” Philip bowed. He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Cleone stricken.
The Transformation of Philip Jettan Page 13
