Part 33 (1/2)
Barbara responded with a sprightly amiability that she had never displayed in her pre-Neuilly days, and which Alex angrily and uncomprehendingly perceived both pleased and amused Sir Francis.
”But I am not sure I approve of your taste in the selection of your admirers, my dear,” he said humorously, his right hand lightly swinging his gla.s.ses against his left.
”I have never met any Englishmen, you know, father,” said Barbara piteously, opening her eyes very wide. ”If mother would only let me come out this year and see a few people!”
Alex was aghast at Barbara's duplicity, recognizing perfectly her manoeuvre of implying that only her mother's consent was still required for her debut.
”Well, well, well,” said Sir Francis, wearing the expression of an indulgent parent; ”but surely young ladies are expected to wait till their eighteenth birthday?”
”Oh, but I _should_ so like a long frock,” sighed Barbara, her head on one side--an admirable rendering of the typical ”young lady” known and admired of her father's generation.
Sir Francis laughed, unmistakable yielding foreshadowed in his tone, and in the glance he directed towards his wife.
”'Gad! Isabel, we shall have a regular little society b.u.t.terfly on our hands; what do you think?”
Lady Isabel, also smiling, nevertheless said almost reluctantly, as though to imply that a.s.sent would be in defiance of her better judgment:
”Of course, this year will be exceptionally gay because of the Jubilee.
I should rather like her to come out when there is so much going on, but I don't quite know about taking two of them everywhere.” She glanced at Alex and sighed almost involuntarily. It was impossible not to remember the tentative plans that they had discussed so short a while ago for a brilliant wedding that should take place, just when all London was busy with festivals in honour of the Queen's Diamond Jubilee. The same recollection shot like a pang through Alex, feeling the pain of her mother's disappointment far more acutely than her own humiliation, and making her speak sharply, and almost unaware of what she said, sooner than endure a moment's silence:
”You can take Barbara instead of me. I hate b.a.l.l.s and I'm sick of going to things.”
She was horrified at the sound of the words as she spoke them, and at her own roughened, mortified voice.
There was a moment's silence.
”That,” said Sir Francis gently and gravely, ”is neither a very gracious nor a very dutiful speech, Alex. Your mother has spared herself neither trouble nor fatigue in conducting you to those entertainments organized for your pleasure and advantage, and it is a poor reward for her many sacrifices to be told with a scowling face that you are 'sick of going about.' If those are your sentiments, I shall strongly advise her to consult her own convenience in the future, instead of making everything give way to your pleasures, as she has done for the last two years.”
Lady Isabel looked distressed, and said, ”It is very difficult to know what you want, Alex. If you'd only say!”
”I don't want anything; I'm quite happy,” began Alex, overwhelmed with the sense of her own ingrat.i.tude; and by way of proving her words she began to cry hopelessly, although she knew that Sir Francis could not bear tears, and that anything in the nature of a scene made Lady Isabel fed ill.
”Control yourself,” said her father.
They all looked at her in silence, and her nervousness made her give a loud sob.
”If you are hysterical, Alex, you had better go to bed.”
Alex was only too thankful to obey. Still sobbing, she received the conventional good-night kiss which neither she nor her parents would have dreamed of omitting, however deep their displeasure with her, and left the room reproaching herself bitterly.
They had all been so cheerful before she spoilt it all, Sir Francis in unwontedly good spirits, and both of them pleased at the harmless amus.e.m.e.nt caused by Barbara's visitor.
”I spoil _everything_,” Alex told herself pa.s.sionately, and longed for some retreat where she might be the solitary victim of her own temperament, and need not bear the double pang of the vexation and grief which she inflicted upon others.
She did not go downstairs to dinner, and soon after eight o'clock Barbara came in and told her that there was supper in the schoolroom for both of them.
”Though after this,” said Barbara importantly, ”I shall be having dinner properly in the dining-room quite soon. They are going to let me put up my hair, and I _think_ they will let me be presented at a late Drawing-room, though they won't promise. It was settled after you went upstairs.”