The Reflections of Ambrosine

Chapter 2

In spite of Augustus--in spite of everything--I suddenly feel as if I

had become alive again here at Harley!

The whole place pleases me. It is an old Georgian house, with long

wings stretching right and left, and from a large salon in the centre

the other reception-rooms open.

Lady Tilchester is so kind, and makes one feel perfectly at home. A

number of people were assembled upon the croquet lawn and in the great

tent playing bridge when we arrived, and as no one seems to introduce

any one it has taken me two whole days to find out people's names.

Some of them, indeed, I have not grasped yet! It does seem a strange

custom. Either it is because every one in this set is supposed to be

acquainted with the other, and strangers are things that do not count,

or that meeting under one roof constitutes an introduction. I have not

yet found out which it is.

Anyway, it makes things dull at first. Augustus found it "deuced

unpleasant," he told me, as, instead of remaining quiet until he knew

his ground, he proceeded to commit a series of _betises_.

The first afternoon I subsided into a low chair, and a gruff-looking

man handed me some tea, and patted and talked to a bob-tailed

sheep-dog that was near.

I don't know if he expected me to answer for the dog, and so make

a conversation. He was disappointed, however, if so, as I remained

silent. Presently I discovered he was our host.

Lady Tilchester was busy being gushed at by Augustus. A little woman

with light hair came and sat down at the other side of me. She looks

like a young, fluffy chicken, and has a lisp and an infantile voice,

and wears numbers of trinkets, and her name, "Babykins," spelled in a

brooch of diamonds. I should not like to be called "Babykins," and I

wonder why one should want strangers to read one's name printed upon

one's chest.

Everything of hers is marked with that. Chain bracelets with

"Babykins" in sapphires and diamonds. On her handkerchief, which she

plays with, "Babykins" again stares at you. Even the corner of her

chemise, which shows through her transparent blouse, has "Babykins"

embroidered on it. It is no wonder even the young men never call her

anything else.

You have the first impression that you are talking to a child,

but afterwards you are surprised to find what a lot of grown-up,

scandalous things she has said.

She was very agreeable to me, and gave me to understand she was so

interested to make my acquaintance, as Lady Tilchester had told her so

much about me.

"You come from Yorkshire, don't you?" she said; "and your husband has

that wonderful breed of black pigs, hasn't he?"

"No," I said, "we live only sixteen miles off."

"Oh, of course! How stupid of me! You are quite another person, I

see," and she laughed. "But the pig farmers are coming, and I am so

anxious to meet them, as I have a perfect mania for piglets myself. I

want to start a new sort, and I hoped you could tell me about them."

"I am so sorry," I said. "I wish I could help you, but I do not

believe--except casually in the village--that I have ever seen a pig;

they must be delightful companions."

"Yes, indeed! I have large families of the fat white ones, and really

the babies are most engaging, and the very image of my step-children.

I always tell my husband it seems like eating Alice or Laura when he

insists upon having suckling-pig for luncheon. I suppose one would

not mind eating one's step-children, though--would one? What do you

think?"

Her great, blue eyes looked at me pathetically.

I tried to consider seriously the problem of the consumption of

possible step-children; it was too difficult for me.

"I quite hoped to make it pay," she continued--"keeping prize pigs, I

mean; we are so frightfully poor. But I am away so much I fear it does

not do very well. You play bridge, of course?"

This did not seem to have much to do with the pigs.

"No, I do not play."

"You don't play bridge? How on earth do you get through the day?"

"I really do not know."

"Oh, you must learn at once. I can give you the address of a woman in

London who goes out for five pounds an afternoon and who would teach

you in three or four lessons. It does seem funny, your not playing."

I said "Yes."

She did not appear to want many answers from me after this, but

prattled on about people and the world in general, and before half an

hour was over I was left with the impression that society is chiefly

composed of people living upon an agreeable and amusing ground

somewhere at the borderland of the divorce court.

"So tiresome of the husbands!" she concluded. "Before the war

they used to be the most docile creatures; as long as they got a

percentage, and the wives did not worry at their own little affairs,

all went smoothly. Now, since going out there and fighting, they have

come back giving themselves great airs, and talking about wounded

honor, and ridiculous things of that sort that one reads of in early

Victorian books. One does not know where it will end."

She yawned a little after this, and Lord Tilchester shuffled up and

sat down in the corner of the sofa near her. He has the manner of an

awkward school-boy.

"You are taking away every one's character, as usual, I suppose,

Babykins," he chuckled. "What will Mrs. Gurrage think of it all, I

wonder?"

Lady Tilchester interrupted further conversation by carrying me off

to see the garden. She is the most fascinating personality I have yet

met. There is something like the sun's rays about her--you feel warmed

and comforted when she is near. She looks so great and noble, and

above all common things, one cannot help wondering why she married

Lord Tilchester, who is quite ordinary. When she talks, every one

listens. Her voice is like golden bells, and she never says stupid

things that mean nothing. We had half an hour in the glorious garden,

and she made me feel that life was a fair thing, and that even I

should find bits to smile over. How great to have a nature like this,

that one's very presence does good to other human beings!

"There are a lot of tiresome people here, I am afraid," she said, at

last; "but I wanted you to come to the first party we had after our

return, so you must try and not be bored. You shall sit next Mr. Budge

to-night; he will be obliged to take in Lady Lambourne, but I will put

you on the other side. He will amuse you; he is the cleverest man I

know."

"Mr. Budge is a politician, is he not?" I asked. "I think I have heard

his name."

"That is delightful," she laughed, "Poor Mr. Budge! He--and, indeed,

many of us in England--fancies there is no other name to be heard. He

has a fault, though. He writes sentimental poetry which is complete

rubbish, and he prides himself upon it far more than upon his splendid

powers of oratory or wonderful organization capacities."

"What a strange side for a great man to have!" I said. "Sentimental

poetry--it seems so childish, does it not?"

"We all have our weaknesses, I suppose," and she smiled. "We should be

very dull if we left nothing for our friends to criticise."

"_Si nous n'avions point de difauts nous ne prendrions pas tant de

plaisir en remarquer dans les autres!_" I quoted.

After a while we went back to the house.

Augustus and I got down at half-past eight for dinner, as grandmamma

had always told me that punctuality is a part of politeness, but only

one or two men were standing by the huge wood-fire that burns all the

time in the open fireplace in the salon where we assembled.

We did not know any of their names, and I suppose they did not know

ours. We stared at one another, and they went on talking again, all

about the war. Augustus joined in. He is dreadfully uneasy in case the

rest of the Tilchester Yeomanry may volunteer at last to go out, and

was anxious to hear their views of the possibility. I sat down upon a

fat-pillowed sofa, one of those nice kind that puff out again slowly

when you get up, and make you feel at rest any way you sit.

A short man with a funny face came and sat beside me.

"What a wonderful lady, to be so punctual!" he said. "You evidently

don't know the house. We shall be lucky if we get dinner at nine

o'clock."

"Why did you come down, then," I asked, "since you are acquainted with

the ways?"

"On the off chance, and because a bad habit of youth sticks to me, and

I can't help being on time."

"I am finding it absurd to have acquired habits in youth; they are all

being upset," I said.

He had such a cheery face, in spite of being so ugly, it seemed quite

easy to talk to him. We chatted lightly until some one called out:

"Billy, do ring and ask if we can have a biscuit and a glass of

sherry, to keep us up until we get dinner."

At that moment--it was nearly nine--more people strolled in, two women

with their husbands, and several odd pairs--the last among the single

people quite the loveliest creature I have ever seen. She does not

know how to walk, her lips were almost magenta with some stuff on

them, but her eyes flashed round at every one, and there seemed to be

a flutter among the men by the fireplace.

Augustus dropped his jaw with admiration. She had on a bright purple

dress and numbers of jewels. I feel sure he was saying to himself that

she was a "stunner." She did not look at all vulgar, however, only

wicked and attractive and delightful.

"Darling Letitia," she pleaded, to a stiff-looking old woman sitting

bolt-upright under a lamp, "don't glare at me so. I am not the last

to-night; there are still Babykins and Margaret and several others to

come."

"Oh, Lord, how hungry I am!" announced Mr. Budge, in a loud voice. I

recognized him now from his picture being so often in the papers.

Then, from a door at the other end, in tripped Babykins, and close

behind her Lord Tilchester, and, last of all, when the clock had

struck nine-fifteen, and even the funny-faced man next me had

exhausted all his conversation, the door at the north end of the salon

opened, and serenely, like a lovely ship, our beautiful hostess sailed

towards us.

"So sorry to be a little late," she said, calmly. "Tilchester, as you

have, of course, told every one whom they are to take in, we may as

well start."

Lord Tilchester had been sitting in the window-seat with Babykins, and

had completely forgotten this duty, I suppose. He got up guiltily and

fumbled for a paper in his pocket.

"Oh, don't let us wait for that," said Mr. Budge, gruffly. "Come, Lady

Tilchester, I shall take you and lead the way," and he gave her his

arm.

She laughed and took it.

"Very well," she said.

Every one scrambled for the people they wanted or knew best; and so

it happened that I found myself standing staring at a pale young man

with weak blue eyes and a wonderfully well-tied tie, the last of the

company.

He held out his arm nervously, and we finally got to the dining-room

and found two seats.

It was not until dinner was almost over that I found out he was the

Duke of Myrlshire, and ought to have taken in Lady Tilchester.

Augustus had placed himself next the purple lady, and his face grew

a gray mauve with excitement at her gracious glances.

My ducal partner was unattractive. He had a squeaky voice and a

nervous manner, but said some _entreprenant_ things in a way which

made me understand he is accustomed to be listened to with patience,

not to say pleasure.

He told me he was grateful to Mr. Budge for his move, as he had been

admiring me since the moment we arrived, and had determined, directly

the _melee_ began, to secure me if possible.

"Er--you don't look like an Englishwoman," he said, "and it is a nice

change. My eye is wearied with them; their outlines are all exactly

alike."

He further informed me that Paris was the only place to live in, and

that the English as a nation were crude in their vices.

"They make such a noise about everything here," he added. "One cannot

do a thing that it is not put the wrong way up in the halfpenny

papers."

"The penalty of greatness," I said, laughing. "They don't worry at

all, for instance, about what I am doing."

"Then they show extremely bad taste," he said, with a look of frank

admiration.

Before the women swept in a body from the room, I understood that his

object in life would henceforth be to make me sensible of his great

worth and charm. All these masterful, forward sentiments sounded so

comic, expressing themselves in his squeaky voice, I could not help

smiling. He became radiant. He did not guess in the least what amused

me.

Although the salon is immense, the ten or twelve women all crowded

around the fireplace. It was a damp, chilly evening.

They all seemed to know one another very well, and called each other

by their Christian names, so until Babykins again gave me some

information I did not realize who people were.

The purple lady is Lady Grenellen; her husband is at the war. She is

most attractive. She sat on a big sofa and smoked cigarettes rapidly

in a little amber holder. She must have got through at least three or

four of them before the men came in.

Lady Tilchester and two other women were deep in South-African news,

the rest talked about books and their clothes, but Babykins and

Letitia exchanged views upon the scandal of the time.

"In my day," Letitia said, "it sometimes happened that men made love

and ran away with a woman because they found they liked her better

than anything else in the world. It was a great sin, but their passion

was mixed with respect, and the elopement constituted the wedding

ceremony. Now you remain on at home until you are found out, and then

the husband takes a gratuity and the matter is hushed up, and probably

the lover passes on to your best friend, an added feather in his cap."

"Dear Lady Lambourne, how severe you are!" chirped Babykins.

"And you really should not use that little word 'you.' Of course,

you don't mean any of us, but it sounds unkind and might be

misunderstood--especially," she added, in a whisper to me, "as that

is the exact case of Cordelia Grenellen."

Letitia (Lady Lambourne) has a distinct voice and decided opinions.

She continued, as though no interruption had taken place:

"If the matter was only for love, too, I should still have nothing

to say; but it is so often for a string of pearls, or some new

carriage-horses."

"But, surely, it is more logical to have that reason than no reason at

all, like the case of your poor cousin. I understood that was sheer

foolishness, and Lord Edam did not even pretend to care for her."

Lady Lambourne looked daggers and remained speechless. "What

scandalous things you are all saying," laughed Lady Grenellen from her

sofa. "Letitia, you are sitting there and being epigrammatic, just

like the people in those unreal society plays they had last year. We

are all perfectly contented and happy if you would let us alone."

"One cannot but deplore the change," said Lady Lambourne.

"Personally, I am delighted with everything as it is," cooed Babykins.

"Life must be much pleasanter now than in your day, dear Lady

Lambourne; such a fuss and pretending, and such hypocrites you must

all have been--as, of course, human nature was the same then, and

since the beginning of time. We have always eaten and drank too rich

food and wine in our class and have not had enough to do, so we can't

help being as we are, can we?"

"Babykins, you silly darling, as if what we eat makes any difference!"

said Lady Grenellen, puffing her cigarette-smoke into cloudy rings in

the neatest way.

"Of course it does, Cordelia! Food makes all the difference, you know.

I have kept those white pigs for four years and I know all about it."

Babykins has the most pathetic blue eyes, and her childish voice is

arresting. Lady Grenellen went into a fit of laughter.

"You are perfectly mad about those horrid pigs!" she told her.

Lady Lambourne interrupted again, in a dignified voice. "Human nature

was _not_ the same in my day--as you call it--Mrs. Parton-Mills" (thus

she discovered to me Babykins' name). "We lived much more simply, and

enjoyed our pleasures and did our duties, and stayed at home more."

"And I expect you were frightfully bored, Letitia, darling," said Lady

Grenellen, "and that is why you never stay at home now."

It seemed to me quite wonderful how they could be so disrespectful to

this elderly lady, but she did not seem at all offended.

"You are incorrigible, Cordelia," was all she said, and she laughed.

"You had no bridge, and it must have been exactly like it still is

when I stay with Edward's relations in Scotland," Babykins continued.

"As we arrive there I feel 'goose-flesh' on my arms, with the

stiffness and decorum of everything. We chat about the weather at tea,

and no one ever says a word they really think; and we play idiotic,

childish games of cards for love in the evening; and it is all feeble

and wearisome, and the guests are always looking at the clock."

Lady Tilchester came and joined us; it seemed a breath of fresh

sunlight illuminating the scene.

"You appear all to be talking scandal," she said.

Imperceptibly the conversation changed, and we were discussing the war

news when the double doors of the dining-room opened.

Augustus looked very flushed in the face and unattractive as he came

towards us, but Lady Grenellen moved her skirts and made room for him

on her sofa. She smiled at him divinely, and was perfectly lovely to

him--as friendly and caressing as if he were an equal. It perfectly

astonished me. I could not talk and joke familiarly that with Augustus

any more than if he were one of the footmen. And she is a viscountess,

and must at least know what a gentleman is.

Half the party moved off to play bridge in one of the drawing-rooms;

the rest arranged themselves comfortably, two and two. Lady Tilchester

and Mr. Budge wandered into the music-room, and I, who had not

stirred, found myself almost alone by the fireplace with the Duke.

He proceeded to say a number of things to me that astonished me

greatly. I should not have understood them all had I not been to those

plays in Paris.

I suppose he was beginning to make love to me--if this is what is

called making love. His personality is not attractive, so it did not

touch me at all, and I am only able to look upon men now through eyes

which see coarse brutes. Perhaps they may be really nice, some of

them, but as I look at them one after another, the thought always

comes, how revolting could they appear in the eyes of their wives?

This is not nice of me, and I am sure grandmamma would reprove me for

it.