Part 13 (1/2)

Lady Sellingworth heard Rocheouart's strong, manly young laugh.

”That's just like the d.u.c.h.ess!” he said. ”She's simply made of humour and always. .h.i.ts the nail on the head. And how clever of her to give the right name to the ball herself instead of leaving it for some pretty girl to do. The Hags' Hop! It's perfect! If she hadn't said that, you would have before the evening was out, and then all the charming hags would have been furious with you.”

The girl laughed, and she and Rocheouart pa.s.sed Lady Sellingworth without noticing her and went into the ballroom.

She looked at them as they began to dance; then she looked at the d.u.c.h.ess of Wellingborough, who was also dancing.

The d.u.c.h.ess was frankly middle-aged. She was very good-looking, but she had let her figure go. She was quite obviously the victim of the ”elderly spread.” Her health was excellent, her sense of humour unfailing. She never pretended to anything, but was as natural almost as a big child. Although a widow, she wanted no lover. She often said that she had ”got beyond all that sort of thing.” Another of her laughingly frank sayings was: ”No young man need be afraid of me.” In consequence of her gaiety, humour, frankness and hospitality she was universally popular.

But that night Lady Sellingworth almost hated her.

The Hags' Hop!

That terrible name stuck in Lady Sellingworth's mind and seemed to fasten there like a wound in a body.

As Rocheouart's partner had foretold, the name went all over London.

The d.u.c.h.ess's _mot_ even got into a picture paper, and everyone laughed about it. The d.u.c.h.ess was delighted. n.o.body seemed to mind. Even Lady Sellingworth forced herself to quote the saying and to make merry over it. But from that day she gave up dancing entirely. Nothing would induce her even to join in a formal royal quadrille.

Before his return to Paris, Rocheouart came to bid her good-bye.

Although she was still, as she supposed, madly in love with him, she concealed it, or, if she showed it, did so only by being rather unnaturally cold with him. When he was gone she felt desperate.

Her imp had perhaps controlled her during the short time of Rocheouart's final visit, had mocked and made her fear him. When she was alone, however, he vanished for the moment.

From that time the hidden diffidence in Lady Sellingworth was her deadly enemy, because it fought perpetually with her vanity and with her almost uncontrollable desires. Sometimes she was tempted to give way to it entirely and to retire from the fray. But she asked herself what she had to retire to. The thought of a life lived in the shade, or of a definitely middle-aged life, prolonged in such suns.h.i.+ne as falls upon grey-haired heads, was terrible to her. She was not like the d.u.c.h.ess of Wellingborough. She was cursed with what was called in her set ”a temperament,” and she did not know how to conquer it, did not dare, even, to try to conquer it.

She soon forgot Louis de Rocheouart, but his place was not long left empty. She fell in love with another young man.

Eventually--by this time she had almost ceased to struggle, was not far from being a complete victim to her temperament--she seriously considered the possibility of marrying again, and of marrying a man many years younger than herself. Several women whom she knew had done this.

Why should not she do it? Such marriages seldom turned out well, seldom lasted very long. But there were exceptions to every rule. Her marriage, if she made it, might be an exception. She was now only forty-eight.

(She had reached the age when that qualifying word is applied to the years.) Women older, much older, than herself, had married mere boys.

She did not intend to do that. But why should she not take a charming man of, say, thirty into her life?

The mere thought of having such a husband, such a companion in Number 18A, Berkeley Square, sent a glow through her mind and body. What a flood of virility, antic.i.p.ation, new strength, new interests he would bring with him! She imagined his loud, careless step on the stairs, his strong ba.s.s or baritone voice resounding in the rooms; she heard the doors banged by his reckless hand; she saw his raincoats, his caps, his golf clubs, his gun cases littering the hall. When she motored he would be at the wheel instead of a detached and rigid-faced chauffeur, and he would whirl her along, taking risk, all the time.

But would he be able to love her?

Her diffidence and her vanity fought over that question; fought furiously, and with an ugly tenacity. It seemed that the vanity conquered. For she resolved to make the trial.

Many striking advantages were on her side. She could give any man a magnificent social position, could take him into the heart of the great world. Her husband, unless he were absolutely impossible--and of course he would not be--would be welcomed everywhere because of her. She was rich. She had unusual charm. She was quick witted, intelligent, well read, full of tact and knowledge of the world. Surely she could be a splendid companion, even a great aid, to any man of the least ambition.

And she was still very handsome--with difficulty.

She and her Greek alone knew exactly how much trouble had to be taken to keep her as she was when she went among people.

She had not been able to do much with her mind. It seemed uncontrollable by her. There was no harmony in her inner life. The diversities within her were sharp, intense. In her kingdom of self there was perpetual rebellion. And the disorder in her moral life had hastened the aging process more even than she was aware of. Underneath the artificial beauty of her appearance she was now older than her years.

But she was still very handsome--with difficulty.

She hardened herself after the fight and resolved that, if she chose, she could still make almost any man love her. That she could easily fascinate she knew. Most people were subject to her easy charm and to the delightfully unaffected manner which no amount of vanity had ever been able to rid her of. Surely the temporarily fascinated man might easily be changed into the permanent lover! Fear a.s.sailed her certainly when she thought of the danger of deliberately contrasting with her maturity the vividness of youth. To do what she thought of doing would be to run a great risk. When she had married Lord Sellingworth she had provided herself with a foil to her beauty and to her comparative youth. To marry a young man would be to make herself the foil. He would emphasize her age by his lack of years. Could she dare it?

Again she hardened herself and resolved that she would dare it. The wildness in her came uppermost, rose to recklessness. After me the deluge! She might not be happy long if she married a young husband, but she might be happy for a time. The mere marriage would surely be a triumph for her. And if she had three years, two years, even one year of happiness, she would sing a _Laus Deo_ and let the deluge close over her head.