The pride that prompts the bitter jest.
A s.p.a.ce had with some difficulty been cleared at the upper end of an aristocratic London drawing-room, and with considerable enthusiasm Miss Fitzmannering pranced into the middle of it. Miss Fitzmannering had kindly allowed herself to be persuaded to do "only a few steps" of her celebrated skirt-dance. Miss Eline Fitzmannering officiated at the piano, and later on, while they were brushing their hair, they quarrelled because she took the time too quickly.
The aristocratic a.s.sembly looked on with mixed feelings, and faces suitable to the same. The girls who could not skirt-dance yawned behind their fans--gauze preferred, because the Fitzmannerings could see through gauze if they could not see through anything else. The gifted products of fashionable Brighton schools, who could in their own way make exhibitions of themselves also, wondered who on earth had taught Miss Fitzmannering; and the servants at the door felt ashamed of themselves without knowing why.
Miss Fitzmannering had practised that skirt-dance--those few steps--religiously for the last month. She had been taught those same contortions by a young lady in THE profession, whom even Billy Fitzmannering raised his eyebrows at. And every one knows that Billy is not particular. The performance was not graceful, and the gentlemen present, who knew more about dancing--skirt or otherwise--than they cared to admit, pursed up the corners of their mouths and looked straight in front of them--afraid to meet the eye of some person or persons undefined.
But the best face there was that of Sir John Meredith. He was not bored, as were many of his juniors--at least, he did not look it. He was neither shocked nor disgusted, as apparently were some of his contemporaries--at least, his face betrayed neither of those emotions.
He was keenly interested--suavely attentive. He followed each spasmodic movement with imperturbably pleasant eyes.
"My dear young lady," he said, with one of his courtliest bows, when at last Miss Fitzmannering had had enough of it, "you have given us a great treat--you have, indeed."
"A most unique performance," he continued, turning gravely to Lady Cantourne, by whose side he had been standing; and, strange to say, her ladyship made a reproving little movement of the lips, and tapped his elbow surrept.i.tiously, as if he were misbehaving himself.
He offered his arm with a murmur of refreshments, and she accepted.
"Well," he said, when they were alone, or nearly so, "do you not admit that it was a most unique performance?"
"Hush!" replied the lady, either because she was a woman or because she was a woman of the world. "The poor girl cannot help it. She is forced into it by the exigencies of society, and her mother. It is not entirely her fault."
"It will be entirely my fault," replied Sir John, "if I see her do it again."
"It does not matter about a man," said Lady Cantourne, after a little pause; "but a woman cannot afford to make a fool of herself. She ought never to run the risk of being laughed at. And yet I am told that they teach that elegant accomplishment at fashionable schools."
"Which proves that the schoolmistress is a knave as well as--the other thing."
They pa.s.sed down the long room together--a pattern, to the younger generation, of politeness and mutual respect. And that which one or other did not see was not worth comprehension.
"Who," asked Sir John, when they had pa.s.sed into the other room, "who is the tall fair girl who was sitting near the fireplace?"
He did not seem to think it necessary to ask Lady Cantourne whether she had noticed the object of his curiosity.
"I was just wondering," replied Lady Cantourne, stirring her tea comfortably. "I will find out. She interests me. She is different from the rest."
"And she does not let it be seen--that is what I like," said Sir John.
"The great secret of success in the world is to be different from other people and conceal the fact." He stood his full height, and looked round with blinking, cynical eyes. "They are all very like each other, and they fail to conceal that."
"I dislike a person," said Lady Cantourne in her tolerant way, "who looks out of place anywhere. That girl would never look so."
Sir John was still looking round, seeing all that there was to be seen, and much that was not intended for that purpose.
"Some of them," he said, "will look self-conscious in heaven."
"I hope so," said Lady Cantourne quietly; "that is the least one may expect."
"I trust that there will be no skirt--" Sir John broke off suddenly, with a quick smile. "I was about to be profane," he said, taking her cup. "But I know you do not like it."
She looked up at him with a wan little smile. She was wondering whether he remembered as well as she did that half an ordinary lifetime lay between that moment and the occasion when she reproved his profanity.
"Come," she said, rising, "take me back to the drawing-room, and I will make somebody introduce me to the girl."
Jocelyn Gordon, sitting near the fire, talking to a white-moustached explorer, and listening good-naturedly to a graphic account of travels which had been put in the background by more recent wanderers, was somewhat astounded when the hostess came up to her a few minutes later, and introduced a stout little lady, with twinkling, kindly eyes, by the name of Lady Cantourne. She had heard vaguely of Lady Cantourne as a society leader of the old school, but had no clue to this obviously intentional introduction.
"You are wondering," said Lady Cantourne, when she had sent the explorer on his travels elsewhere in order that she might have his seat--"you are wondering why I asked to know you."
She looked into the girl"s face with bright, searching eyes.
"I am afraid I was," admitted Jocelyn.
"I have two reasons: one vulgar--the other sentimental. The vulgar reason was curiosity. I like to know people whose appearance prepossesses me. I am an old woman--no, you need not shake your head, my dear! not with me--I am almost a very old woman, but not quite; and all my life I have trusted in appearances. And," she paused, studying the lace of her fan, "I suppose I have not made more mistakes than other people. I have always made a point of trying to get to know people whose appearance I like. That is my vulgar reason. You do not mind my saying so--do you?"
Jocelyn laughed with slightly heightened colour, which Lady Cantourne noted with an appreciative little nod.
"My other reason is that, years ago at school, I knew a girl who was very like you. I loved her intensely--for a short time--as girls do at school, you know. Her name was Treseaton--the Honourable Julia Treseaton."
"My mother!" said Jocelyn eagerly.
"I thought so. I did not think so at first, but when you spoke I was certain of it. She had a way with her lips. I am afraid she is dead."
"Yes; she died nearly twenty-five years ago in Africa."
"Africa--whereabouts in Africa?"
Then suddenly Jocelyn remembered where she had heard Lady Cantourne"s name. It had only been mentioned to her once. And this was the aunt with whom Millicent Chyne lived. This cheery little lady knew Jack Meredith and Guy Oscard; and Millicent Chyne"s daily life was part of her existence.
"The West Coast," she answered vaguely. She wanted time to think--to arrange things in her mind. She was afraid of the mention of Jack"s name in the presence of this woman of the world. She did not mind Maurice or Guy Oscard--but it was different with a woman. She could hardly have said a better thing, because it took Lady Cantourne some seconds to work out in her mind where the West Coast of Africa was.
"That is the unhealthy coast, is it not?" asked her ladyship.
"Yes."
Jocelyn hardly heard the question. She was looking round with a sudden, breathless eagerness. It was probable that Millicent Chyne was in the rooms; and she never doubted that she would know her face.
"And I suppose you know that part of the world very well?" said Lady Cantourne, who had detected a change in her companion"s manner.
"Oh yes."
"Have you ever heard of a place called Loango?"
"Oh yes. I live there."
"Indeed, how very interesting! I am very much interested in Loango just now, I must tell you. But I did not know that anybody lived there."
"No one does by choice," explained Jocelyn. "My father was a judge on the Coast, and since his death my brother Maurice has held an appointment at Loango. We are obliged to live there for eight months in the twelve."
She knew it was coming. But, as chance would have it, it was easier than she could have hoped. For some reason Lady Cantourne looked straight in front of her when she asked the question.
"Then you have, no doubt, met a friend of mine--Mr. Meredith? Indeed, two friends; for I understand that Guy Oscard is a.s.sociated with him in this wonderful discovery."