CHAPTER XIII

'At length burst in the argent revelry,

With plume, tiara and all rich array,

Numerous as shadows haunting fairily

The brain new stuffed in youth with triumphs gay

Of old Romance.'

The 'argent revelry' has burst into the Manor in the shape of what Lady

Roupell, with more vigour than elegance, is apt to call one of her

'Beast Parties,' _i.e._ one of those miscellaneous gatherings of the

whole neighbourhood to which she thinks herself bound twice or thrice in

the year--gatherings which, though dictated by hospitality, are not

usually very successful. It is Lady Roupell's principle to override all

the small social distinctions of the neighbourhood, to invite all the

people who quarrel, all the people who look down upon each other, all

the people who are bored by one another, all the people who are trying

to avoid each other, to hobnob at her bounteous board.

'They all go to God's house together, my dear; why should not they come

to mine?' asks she, with a logic that she thinks unanswerable. And so

they do; but they do not enjoy themselves.

That, however, is no concern of milady's. The 'Beasts' _must_ like to

talk to one another, or, if they do not, they ought to like it.

Having thrown open her house to them, having given them every

opportunity of over-eating themselves on her excellent food, and being

exhilarated by her admirable wines, she washes her hands of them; and

having enjoyed her own champagne and venison, sits down to her

Patience-table, which is set out for her every night of her life, and

would be were Queen Victoria to honour her with a visit.

Of the Beast Parties the Evans pair invariably form a constituent part.

'I always ask the Evanses,' says milady good-naturedly. 'It is quite

pretty to see the way in which he enjoys his dinner; and she likes to

wear her dyed gown, good woman, and smuggle candied apricots into her

pockets for those ugly urchins of hers, and look out my friends in her

"Peerage" next day!'

So the Evanses are here, and several harmless rural clergy; like them to

the outer eye, though no doubt to the inner as dissimilar as each

island-like human soul is from its neighbour. There are some large

landowners with their wives, and some very small lawyers and doctors

with theirs. There is a tallow-merchant, who to-day grovels in hides and

tallow, but to-morrow will probably--oh, free and happy England!--soar

to a seat in the Cabinet. There is a Colonial Bishop imported by one

neighbour, and a fashionable buffoon introduced by another; and lastly,

there are Peggy and Prue.

Never before has Peggy set off to a Beast Party with so light a heart.

She knows how little chance of rational or even irrational entertainment

such a feast affords; and yet, do what she will, she feels gay. Prue is

gay too, extravagantly gay, for did not Freddy stroll in half an hour

ago with a flower for her, and a request to her to wear her green gown

for his sake?

Before setting off Peggy bids her eleven birds good-night, telling them

that to-morrow they shall have a swinging ladder in their large cage to

remind them of the swinging tree-tops. Has not Talbot promised to make

them a ladder?

The girls have timed their arrival better than on a former occasion. The

room is already full when they walk in with their breeze-freshened

cheeks and their simple clothes.

Margaret has not even her best dress on. She had looked at it waveringly

and hankeringly at dressing-time; but a sort of superstition--an

undefined feeling that she is not going to meet any one for whom she has

a right to prank herself out, prevents her wearing it. But she cannot

help having her best face on. There is sunshiny weather in her heart.

Even her repulsion for Lady Betty is weakened. Possibly she has been

unjust towards her. Certainly she is not the human octopus from whose

grasp no prey can escape alive, for which she took her. She herself has

the best reason for knowing that from this octopus's arms prey can and

does escape alive and well. After all, she has condemned her upon mere

loose hearsay evidence. Henceforth she will trust only the evidence of

her own eyes and ears. At present her eyes tell her that Betty is very

highly rouged, and rather naked; and her ears--thanks to the din of

tongues--tell her nothing.

For a wonder, Lady Roupell is down in time, her gown properly

laced--usually, from excessive hurry, her maid has to skip half the

eyelet-holes--and with her ornaments duly fastened on. She is following

her usual rule, talking to the person who amuses her most, and leaving

all the others to take care of themselves.

As soon as dinner is announced, and Freddy has walked off with his

allotted lady, she turns with an easy smile to her company, and says:

'Will everybody take in somebody, please?'

At this command, so grateful and natural in a small and intimate party,

so extremely ill-suited to this large and miscellaneous crowd, there is

a moment of hesitating and consternation. The hearts of those who know

that they are never anybody's voluntary choice, but whom conventionality

generally provides with a respectable partner, sink to the soles of

their shoes. The young men hang back from the girls, because they think

that some one else may have a better right to them. All fear to grasp at

a precedence not their due.

At length there is a movement. The tallow-merchant, true to his

principle of soaring, offers his arm to the wife of the Lord-Lieutenant.

The parsons and doctors begin timidly to exchange wives. The Colonial

Bishop casts his landing-net over Prue. Margaret's is one of the few

breasts in the room in which the order for promiscuous choice has

excited a spark of pleasure. In the ordinary course of things she is

aware that it is improbable that Talbot would be her portion. If it is a

case of selection, the improbability vanishes. She smiles slightly to

herself as she recalls the surly indignation with which she had

discovered that he was to be her fate on the last occasion of her dining

here. She is still smiling when he passes her by with Betty on his arm.

For a few seconds it seems as if the handsomest girl in the room were to

be left altogether overlooked and unclaimed; and, in point of fact, she

is one of the latest to be paired. Usually such a blow to her vanity

would have disquieted her but little, as her pretensions are never high.

To-day she is shocked to find how much it galls her.

The ill-sorted party have taken their seats, precedence gone, natural

barriers knocked on the head, reciprocal antipathies forced into close

contact, in that topsy-turvy Utopia of universal equality and amity

which it is Lady Roupell's principle to produce.

Margaret looks round the table to see how the principle has worked. Mrs.

Evans has been led in by the doctor, to whom she is fully persuaded that

she owes the death of the last Evans but one. The next largest squiress

in the parish to Lady Roupell is made sulky for the evening by having

had to accept the arm of her man of business. Prue's Bishop has

innocently planted her as far as the length of the interminable table

will allow from Freddy. Betty and Talbot, though distant, are in sight.

She can see that they are sitting side by side in total silence. Is this

their mode of expressing their sorrow at their approaching separation?

Possibly; but, at all events, what a depth of intimacy does such a total

silence imply! Margaret's own mate is the buffoon. She has often heard

his name as that of the pet of royalty; the darling of the fine ladies;

the crowning sparkle in each choicest social gathering. To her, whether

it be that her mental palate is out of taste, he seems dull and coarse;

his wit made up of ugly faces, elderly _double-entendres_, flat

indecencies.

'It is clear that I am not made for good company,' she says to herself

sadly and wearily. 'Jacob, and the birds, and the fox--these are my

society! They are the only ones I am fit for.'

The long dinner ends at last, and the incongruous couples part--in most

cases with mutual relief. Neither Margaret nor her merry man ever wish

to set eyes upon each other again. In the drawing-room natural

affinities reassert themselves: intimates gather into little groups. The

squiress, escaped from her presumptuous solicitor, makes her plaint to

her fellows. Mrs. Evans makes hers to Peggy.

'Did you see how unlucky I was?' cries she. 'I assure you it gave me

quite a shudder to put my hand upon his arm! I declare I look upon that

man as as much the murderer of my Natty as if he had stuck a knife into

her. I could hardly bear to speak to him. However, I managed to secure

some crackers for the children'--indicating a tell-tale bulge in the

direction of her pocket. 'Their last word to me before I came away was,

"Mother, be sure you bring us some crackers!"'

Then it is Prue's turn to make her lament, which she begins with almost

the same words as Mrs. Evans:

'Did you ever see anything like my ill-luck? I was the farthest from

_him_ of anybody at the table. There were eighteen between us. I

counted. But did you notice how he rushed to open the door? As I passed

him he said to me, "Thank you, Prue." That was because I had put my

green gown on. He is always so grateful for any little thing that one

does for him.'

She pauses rather suddenly, for Lady Betty has drawn near.

'What a pretty frock!' says she, stopping before the two girls. 'As

green as grass, as jealousy, as green peas! Come and talk to me, Miss

Prue, and tell me what you have all been doing to-day. You may have been

up to any amount of mischief for all I can tell. Do you know that I have

been writhing on a bed of pain from morning to night? No? but I have.

Are not you sorry for me?'

As she speaks she draws the childish figure down on the sofa beside her.

Margaret walks away. She would like to take Prue away too. There seems

to her to be something unnatural and sinister in an alliance, however

temporary, between these two, and from the distant corner to which she

has retired her eye often wanders uneasily back to them.

Presently her view is obscured. It is no use her looking any longer. The

sofa is shut out from her by a ring of black coats that has clustered

round it. Only now and then, through the interstices, she catches the

glint of one of the numerous hornets, lizards, frogs, flashing in

diamonds upon Betty's breast. Bursts of laughter come from the group,

which Freddy and the buffoon have joined. In the intervals of the other

conversations buzzing around Peggy can hear Betty's high voice

piercing. She cannot hear what she says; but apparently it is always

followed by torrents of mirth, among which Prue's girl-tones are plainly

audible. Oh, what is Prue laughing at? If she could but get her away!

As she so thinks, herself wedged in among a phalanx of women, she sees a

stir among the band she is watching. It expands and moves, pursuing

Betty, who has walked to the piano. Evidently she has been persuaded to

sing.

As soon as this intention has become manifest in the room there is a

polite hush in the talk. Wives look menacingly at unmusical husbands.

The Bishop, who is fond of music, approaches the instrument. Betty has

seated herself leisurely, her audacious eyes wandering round and taking

in the prelate with a mischievous twinkle.

'I am not quite sure that you will like it,' Peggy hears her say. 'But,

you know, I cannot help that--I did not write it. It is supposed to be

said by an affectionate husband on the eve of his setting out for the

wars.'

With this prelude she sets off--

'Oh! who will press that lily-white hand

When I am far away?

Some other man!'

Two more lines in the nature of a chorus follow, but they are so drowned

by a roar of applause that Peggy can't catch them. She can only

conjecture their nature from the look of impudent laughing challenge

which the singer throws at the men around her. Under cover of that roar

of applause the Bishop turns abruptly away.

The second verse follows--

'Oh! who will kiss those ruby lips

When I am far away?

Some other man!'

Again the two drowned lines. Again the chord and the applause; but this

time it is very evident that the approbation is confined to the circle

round the piano.

Betty has been well taught, and her enunciation is exceedingly pure and

distinct. Not a word of her charming song is lost. She has reached the

third verse--

'Oh! who will squeeze that little waist

When I am far away?

Some other man!'

Again that roar of admiring laughter from the men round the piano--all

the more marked from the displeased silence of the rest of the room.

But is it only men who are encoring so ecstatically? Is not that Prue

who is joining her enraptured plaudits to theirs?--Prue, with flushed

face and flashing eyes, and slight shoulders convulsed with merriment?

If she could but get her away! But that is out of the question; Prue is

in the inner circle, utterly beyond reach.

'Oh! who will pay those little bills?'

Peggy cannot stand it any longer; it makes her sick. A gap in the ranks

of ladies that had shut her in gives her the wished-for opportunity to

escape. She slips towards an open French window giving on the terrace.

Before reaching it she has to pass Lady Roupell and her Patience. As she

does so she hears the old lady saying, in a voice of tepid annoyance, to

the man beside her:

'I wish that some one would stop her singing that indecent song. She

will not leave me a rag of character in the county!'