A Valiant Ignorance (Vol. 1-3). Victorian Romance
She stopped suddenly. The last letter of the pile was contained in a small square envelope, and addressed in what was obviously a man’s handwriting—a good handwriting, clear and strong, but somewhat cramped and precise. “Mrs. William Romayne, 22, Queen Anne Street, Chelsea.” A curious stillness seemed to come over the little alert figure as the pale blue eyes caught sight of the writing, and then Mrs. Romayne moved and walked slowly away to the window, still with her eyes fixed on the envelope. She paused a moment, and then she opened it and drew out a sheet of note-paper bearing a few lines only in the same small, clear hand.
“Well, mother, and what have your correspondents got to say? I have had no end of a screed from Von Mühler.”
Nearly ten minutes had passed, and Mrs. Romayne started violently. She thrust the letter—still open in her hand, though she was looking fixedly out of the window—back into its envelope and turned. Her face had altered curiously and completely. All its colour, all the genuine animation which had pervaded it as she came into the room, had disappeared; it was pale and hard-looking, and the lines about the mouth and eyes were very visible.
“A dinner invitation from Lady Ashton,” she said, “and a long rigmarole from Mrs. Ponsonby to tell me that she is resigning her stall, and why she is doing it. Poor Mrs. Pomeroy should be grateful to her!”
Her tone was an exaggeration of her bright carelessness of ten minutes before, forced and unnatural; her back was towards the window, or even Julian’s boyish eyes might have noticed the stiff unreality of the smile with which she spoke.
They sat down to lunch together, but the strange change which had come to her did not pass away. Julian did most of the talking, though the readiness of her comments and her smiles—which left her lips always hard and set, and never seemed to touch her eyes—prevented his being in the least aware of the fact. Their afternoon was spent apart; but when they met again there was that about her face which made Julian say with some surprise:
“Are you tired, mother?”
They were going to a large dinner-party before the very smart “at home” to which Julian and Mr. Loring had referred on the previous evening as an opportunity for meeting, and Mrs. Romayne was magnificently dressed. There were diamonds round her throat and in her hair, and as they flashed and sparkled, seeming to lend glow and animation to her face as she laughed at him for a ridiculous boy, Julian thought carelessly that he must have imagined the drawn look which had struck him—though he had only recognised it as “tired-looking”—on his mother’s face. As though his words had startled or even annoyed her, she gave neither Julian nor any one else any further excuse for taxing her with fatigue. Throughout the long and rather dull dinner she was vivacity itself; her face always smiling, her laugh always ready. As the evening went on a flush made its appearance on her cheeks, as though the mental stimulus under which that gaiety was produced involved a veritable quickening of the pulses; and her son, when he met her in the hall after she had uncloaked for their second party, thought that he had never seen his mother look “jollier,” as he expressed it.
“We must look out for Loring,” he said eagerly. “Oh, there he is, mother, just inside the doorway! That clever-looking fellow, do you see, with a yellow buttonhole?”
It was easier to recognise an acquaintance than to approach within speaking distance of him; and some time elapsed, during which Mrs. Romayne and Julian exchanged greetings on all sides, and were received by Lady Bracondale, before they found themselves also just inside the doorway. Mrs. Romayne had given one quick, keen glance in the direction indicated by Julian, and then had become apparently oblivious of Mr. Marston Loring’s existence until Julian finally exclaimed:
“Well met, Loring! Awfully pleased to see you! Mother, may I introduce Mr. Marston Loring?”
She turned her head then, and bent it very graciously, holding out her hand with her most charming smile.
“I have known you by sight for a long time, Mr. Loring!” she said. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance!”
“The delight is mine!” was the response, spoken with just that touch of well-bred deference which is never so attractive to a woman as when it is exhibited in conjunction with such a personality as Loring’s. “It is one for which I have wished for a long time!”
“Seen the papers to-night?” interposed Julian eagerly. “We’ve lost Nottingham, you see!”
He was alluding to a bye-election which had led to the political discussion of the evening before, and Loring nodded.
“I see,” said Loring. “Romayne has told you, no doubt,” he went on, turning to Mrs. Romayne, “that we foregathered to a considerable extent last night over politics—and other things.” The last words were spoken with a glance at the younger man which seemed to ascribe to their acquaintance an altogether more personal and friendly footing than political discussion alone could have afforded it, and Mrs. Romayne laughed very graciously.
“Yes; he has told me!” she said. “I am rather thinking of getting a little jealous of you, Mr. Loring.”
A few minutes’ more talk followed—talk in which Loring bore himself with his usual cynical manner, just tempered into even unusual effectiveness—and then Mrs. Romayne prepared to move on.
“You must come and see us,” she said to Loring. “Julian will give you the address. I am at home on Fridays; and I hope you will dine with us before long!”
She gave him a pretty nod and an “au revoir,” and turned away.
“He’s awfully jolly, isn’t he, mother?” exclaimed Julian, as soon as they were out of earshot.
“Very good style,” returned Mrs. Romayne approvingly. “He is just the kind of man to get on. You have a good deal of discrimination, sir,” she added.
The mother and son were separated after that, and about half an hour later Mrs. Romayne caught sight of Julian disappearing with a very pretty girl, whose face she did not know, in the direction of the supper-room, just as she herself was greeted by Lord Garstin and pressed to repair thither.
“Thanks, no,” she said lightly. “There is such a crowd, and I really don’t want anything.”
She paused. That accentuated vivacity was still about her, as she looked up at Lord Garstin with a little smile and a gesture which he thought unusually charming.
“I want a little chat with you, though, very much,” she said with pretty confidence. “I’m going to ask you to give me some advice, do you know. Will it bore you frightfully?”
“On the contrary, it will delight me,” was the ready and by no means insincere response.
Mrs. Romayne made a gracious and grateful movement of her head.
“I would rather take your opinion than that of any other man I know,” she said confidentially. She stopped and laughed slightly. “It’s about my boy, of course!” she said. “I want to know what you think of a club for a young man in his position? Do you think, now, that it is a good thing?”
“Emphatically, yes,” returned Lord Garstin. “I consider a good club of the first importance to a young man. Your young man ought to be a member of the Prince’s.” He paused a moment, looking at her as she nodded her head softly, waiting as though for further words of wisdom from him, and thought what a delightful little woman she was. “Suppose I talk to him about it?” he said pleasantly. “I will see to it with pleasure if you would like it.”
Nothing, certainly, could have been more delightful than Mrs. Romayne’s manner, as she spoke just the right words of graceful acknowledgement and acceptance. Then she made a gaily disparaging comment on club life, and Lord Garstin’s advocacy of it, and a few minutes’ bantering, laughing repartee followed—that society repartee of which Mrs. Romayne was a mistress. From thence she drifted into talk about the party, and a complaint of the heat of the room.
“It is time we were going, I think!” she remarked,