Part 7 (1/2)

Any of them would

”Buy a minute's mirth to wail a week, And sell eternity to gain a toy.”

They had the manners of organ-grinders and the morals of monkeys. She caught some words of what Mrs. Duveen was saying now and again. Lord Rollington began to tell her, with affected disgust, how he had been at a burlesque theatre the night before, and the musical-comedy heroine of the hour had been so intoxicated that she could hardly sing her song.

”Too bad, you know, Miss Blantyre. I spotted it at once. It's always disgustin' to see a girl take too much to drink, but when she's caperin'

about the stage like that one really has a right to complain. Don't you think so? Now, if it had been a poor little chorus girl, she'd have been fired out of the theatre in a second. For my part, I--” and so on for an interminable five minutes.

General Pompe began to flirt with Lucy in that elderly ”you-are-only-a-little-girl” sort of manner, that is so difficult to repel and which is so offensive. She saw his h.o.r.n.y eyes roving over her person with appreciation.

A great many of Lady Linquest's particular set were like this. Not all of them, thank goodness, but so very many! And the worst of it was that society mingled and overlapped so strangely. The sheep and the goats were not separated in any way. People like the Huddersfields stood almost alone, and even Agatha, when she was with the St. Justs--her mother's family--constantly met this sort of people. But, then, Agatha didn't seem to care, she didn't realise. She laughed at everything and thought it ”awfully good fun.” In fact, Lucy realised Agatha was exactly the same as she herself had always been--with the very slightest intervals--until this moment. It was startling to think that the words of Lord Huddersfield's son had worked this revolution in her point of view. For she was quite persuaded that they were the reason of it. She could find no other reason.

She did not realise then, as she was to realise with humble thankfulness and awe in the future, the august influence that was at work within her.

She was not gay at lunch. Usually she was a most welcome member of any such gathering as this. Her sayings were pointed, she entered fully into the spirit of the hour, her wit adorned the charm of her personality, and she was universally popular and voted ”good fun” in the comprehensive epitome of her a.s.sociates. This was the highest praise they knew, and they gave it her without stint.

To-day the party fell flat--there was no doubt about it. The radiance of the early morning had given place to a heat which became terribly oppressive, and the sky was overclouded. Thunder was in the air, and London awaited a storm.

The electric lights began to glow in the restaurant.

Lady Linquest did her best to rouse her niece to gaiety, but her efforts were futile. The old man who was entertaining them grew sulky, and Lord Rollington drank gla.s.s after gla.s.s of champagne. The beautiful actress was frankly bored, and became more cynical and bitter with every scandalous story she told.

Only Mr. Duveen preserved his equanimity. He ate and drank and purred with secure complaisance. It was his role in life. Ever since he had been a little lick-trencher f.a.g at Eton he had been thus. It was said by his friends in society--after his back was turned--that on one occasion, having discovered the Earl of ---- kissing his wife, he had murmured an apology, saying that he had come to find his cigarette case, and hurriedly retired from the room. This, no doubt, was scandal and untrue, but it showed the estimation in which he was generally held.

Lucy knew this unpleasant story--Lady Linquest had told her. She thought of it as she watched the man pouring _mandarin_ into his coffee. Once more she felt the shrinking and repulsion that had come over her more than three hours ago.

She knew, or once had known, her Dante. She had had but little time for anything but frothy reading during the last year or two, but once she had kept up her Italian. A pa.s.sage from the _Inferno_ came into her brain now,--a long-forgotten pa.s.sage:

”Quest i non hanno speranza di morte, E la lor cicca vita e tanto ba.s.sa Che invidiosi son d'ogni altra sorte.”

She saw the people of whom the Florentine spoke before her now, the people for whom the bitterest fate of all had been reserved,--these who ”have no hope of death, and whose blind life so meanly drags that they are envious of every other fate.”

Before she left Park Lane, it had been arranged that the small brougham should call for her at the restaurant, and take her on to Hornham. Her luggage was small. This smart society girl was going to take her plunge into the great London _Hinterland_ with a single trunk, like any little governess driving to her new situation, where she would learn how bitter the bread of another may taste, and how steep are the stairs in the house of a stranger.

The carriage arrived just as lunch was over, and she left all of them with immeasurable relief.

Driving up Shaftesbury Avenue to find her northward route was like driving into a black curtain. It was terribly hot and dark, the horses were uneasy, and the people moving on the pavements seemed like phantoms in some city of dreadful night.

London began to grip and hold her then as it had never done before. Seen under this pall, its immensity and the dignity it gained by that was revealed in a new aspect. _Her_ London, her corner of the town, the mere pleasure-city, became of no consequence, its luxury, its parks and palaces, shrank and dwindled to nothing in her consciousness.

She was attuned to thoughts more solemn than were wont to have their way with her. Her eyes and ears were opened to the reality of life.

She had lost her dislike for the visit she was going to pay. Below her frequent irritation at her brother's way of life there had always been a strong affection for him. And more than that, she had always respected him, though often enough she would not admit it even to herself. As the brougham turned into the surging arcana at Islington her curiosity about the next few days was quickened: the thought of personal discomfort--discomfort of a physical kind--had quite gone. She felt that she was about to have experience of something new, her pulses quickened to it.

The vicarage of St. Elwyn's was one of those stately old red-brick houses, enclosed in a walled garden of not inconsiderable extent, that are still to be found here and there in north London. They date from the florid Georgian times, when that part was a s.p.a.cious countryside where wealthy merchants withdrew from commerce in the evening of their days and lived a decorous life among the fields and trees. Here and there, in the vast overgrown and congested districts, one or another of these old freeholds has been preserved inviolate--as may be seen in the ride from Hackney to Edmonton--and becomes an alien in a wilderness of mean little houses and vulgar streets.

Father Blantyre had bought one of these few remaining mansions in Hornham, at a high price, and had presented it to the parish of St.

Elwyn's as its vicarage. Here he lived with his two curates and a staff of four servants,--a housekeeper, two maids, and a man-of-all-work. The personal wants of the three clergymen were very simple, but the servants were useful in many parochial affairs. In times when work was scarce, the vicarage staff boiled soup, like any cheap restaurant-keeper. The house was open at all times of the day or night to people who wanted to be quiet and alone for a time; social clubs and guilds had their headquarters there.