CHAPTER II
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ON THE FOLLOWING EVENING THE cold and frowning aspect of the mansion in Carlton House Terrace underwent a sudden transformation. Lights gleamed from every window; the strip of garden which extended from the rear of the building to the Mall, was covered in by red and white awning, and the balcony where the millionaire master of the dwelling had, some few hours previously, sat talking with his distinguished legal friend, Sir Francis Vesey, was turned into a kind of lady’s bower, softly carpeted, adorned with palms and hothouse roses, and supplied with cushioned chairs for the voluptuous ease of such persons of opposite sexes as might find their way to this suggestive “flirtation” corner. The music of a renowned orchestra of Hungarian performers flowed out of the open doors of the sumptuous ballroom which was one of the many attractions of the house, and ran in rhythmic vibrations up the stairs, echoing through all the corridors like the sweet calling voices of fabled nymphs and sirens, till, floating still higher, it breathed itself out to the night,—a night curiously heavy and sombre, with a blackness of sky too dense for any glimmer of stars to shine through. The hum of talk, the constant ripple of laughter, the rustle of women’s silken garments, the clatter of plates and glasses in the dining-room, where a costly ball-supper awaited its devouring destiny,—the silvery tripping and slipping of light dancing feet on a polished floor—all these sounds, intermingling with the gliding seductive measure of the various waltzes played in quick succession by the band, created a vague impression of confusion and restlessness in the brain, and David Helmsley himself, the host and entertainer of the assembled guests, watched the brilliant scene from the ballroom door with a weary sense of melancholy which he knew was unfounded and absurd, yet which he could not resist,—a touch of intense and utter loneliness, as though he were a stranger in his own home.
“I feel,” he mused, “like some very poor old fellow asked in by chance for a few minutes, just to see the fun!”
He smiled,—yet was unable to banish his depression. The bare fact of the worthlessness of wealth was all at once borne in upon him with overpowering weight. This magnificent house which his hard earnings had purchased,—this ballroom with its painted panels and sculptured friezes, crowded just now with kaleidoscope pictures of men and women whirling round and round in a maze of music and movement,—the thousand precious and costly things he had gathered about him in his journey through life,—must all pass out of his possession in a few brief years, and there was not a soul who loved him or whom he loved, to inherit them or value them for his sake. A few brief years! And then—darkness. The lights gone out,—the music silenced—the dancing done! And the love that he had dreamed of when he was a boy—love, strong and great and divine enough to outlive death—where was it? A sudden sigh escaped him——
“Dear Mr. Helmsley, you look so very tired!” said a woman’s purring voice at his ear. “Do go and rest in your own room for a few minutes before supper! You have been so kind!—Lucy is quite touched and overwhelmed by all your goodness to her,—no lover could do more for a girl, I’m sure! But really you must spare yourself! What should we do without you!”
“What indeed!” he replied, somewhat drily, as he looked down at the speaker, a cumbrous matron attired in an over-frilled and over-flounced costume of pale grey, which delicate Quakerish colour rather painfully intensified the mottled purplish-red of her face. “But I am not at all tired, Mrs. Sorrel, I assure you! Don’t trouble yourself about me—I’m very well.”
“Are you?” And Mrs. Sorrel looked volumes of tenderest insincerity. “Ah! But you know we old people must be careful! Young folks can do anything and everything—but we, at our age, need to be over-particular!”
“You shouldn’t call yourself old, Mrs. Sorrel,” said Helmsley, seeing that she expected this from him, “you’re quite a young woman.”
Mrs. Sorrel gave a little deprecatory laugh.
“Oh dear no!” she said, in a tone which meant “Oh dear yes!” “I wasn’t married at sixteen, you know!”
“No? You surprise me!”
Mrs. Sorrel peered at him from under her fat eyelids with a slightly dubious air. She was never quite sure in her own mind as to the way in which “old Gold-Dust,” as she privately called him, regarded her. An aged man, burdened with an excess of wealth, was privileged to have what are called “humours,” and certainly he sometimes had them. It was necessary—or so Mrs. Sorrel thought—to deal with him delicately and cautiously—neither with too much levity, nor with an overweighted seriousness. One’s plan of conduct with a multi-millionaire required to be thought out with sedulous care, and entered upon with circumspection. And Mrs Sorrel did not attempt even as much as a youthful giggle at Helmsley’s half-sarcastically implied compliment with its sarcastic implication as to the ease with which she supported her years and superabundance of flesh tissue. She merely heaved a short sigh.
“I was just one year younger than Lucy is to-day,” she said, “and I really thought myself quite an old bride! I was a mother at twenty-one.”
Helmsley found nothing to say in response to this interesting statement, particularly as he had often heard it before.
“Who is Lucy dancing with?” he asked irrelevantly, by way of diversion.
“Oh, my dear Mr. Helmsley, who is she not dancing with!” and Mrs. Sorrel visibly swelled with maternal pride. “Every young man in the room has rushed at her—positively rushed!—and her programme was full five minutes after she arrived! Isn’t she looking lovely to-night?—a perfect sylph! Do tell me you think she is a sylph!”
David’s old eyes twinkled.
“I have never seen a sylph, Mrs. Sorrel, so I cannot make the comparison,” he said; “but Lucy is a very beautiful girl, and I think she is looking her best this evening. Her dress becomes her. She ought to find a good husband easily.”
“She ought,—indeed she ought! But it is very difficult—very, very difficult! All the men marry for money nowadays, not for love—ah!—how different it was when you and I were young, Mr. Helmsley! Love was everything then,—and there was so much romance and poetical sentiment!”
“Romance is a snare, and poetical sentiment a delusion,” said Helmsley, with sudden harshness. “I proved that in my marriage. I should think you had equally proved it in yours!”
Mrs. Sorrel recoiled a little timorously. “Old Gold-Dust” often said unpleasant things—truthful, but eminently tactless,—and she felt that he was likely to say some of those unpleasant things now. Therefore she gave a fluttering gesture of relief and satisfaction as the waltz-music just then ceased, and her daughter’s figure, tall, slight, and marvellously graceful, detached itself from the swaying crowd in the ballroom and came towards her.
“Dearest child!” she exclaimed effusively, “are you not quite tired out?”
The “dearest child” shrugged her white shoulders and laughed.
“Nothing tires me, mother—you know that!” she answered—then with a sudden change from her air of careless indifference to one of coaxing softness, she turned to Helmsley.
“You must be tired!” she said. “Why have you been standing so long at the ballroom door?”
“I have been watching you, Lucy,” he replied gently. “It has been a pleasure for me to see you dance. I am too old to dance with you myself, otherwise I should grudge all the young men the privilege.”
“I will dance with you, if you like,” she said, smiling. “There is one more set of Lancers before supper. Will you be my partner?”
He shook his head.
“Not even to please you, my child!” and taking her hand he patted it kindly. “There is no fool like an old, fool, I know, but I am not quite so foolish as that.”
“I see nothing at all foolish in it,” pouted Lucy. “You are my host, and it’s my coming-of-age party.”
Helmsley laughed.
“So it is! And the festival must not be spoilt by any incongruities. It will be quite sufficient honour for me to take you in to supper.”
She looked down at the flowers she wore in her bodice, and played with their perfumed petals.
“I like you better than any man here,” she said suddenly.
A swift shadow crossed his face. Glancing over his shoulder he saw that Mrs. Sorrel had moved away. Then the cloud passed from his brow, and the thought that for a moment had...
