CHAPTER LVIII.
"LOVE MAY GO HANG!"
Lady Munro's "At Home" proved, as Lucy had predicted, "no end of an affair." Sir Douglas considered it snobbish to entertain on a scale beyond the resources of his own ménage; but, if the thing was to be done, he would at least have it done without any visible straining on the part of host and hostess. So the rooms at Gloucester Place were given over to the tender mercies of Liberty and Gunter for a day or two, and during that time most people found it advisable to keep out of Sir Douglas's way.
When Mona alighted from her cab on the expanse of crimson drugget before the door, she would not have recognised her aunt's rooms. The half lights, the subtle Eastern aroma, and the picturesque figure of Nubboo had disappeared, giving place to a blaze of pretty lamps, festoons of æsthetic drapery, profuse vegetation, and groups of magnificent footmen.
"Come along, Mona!" Evelyn cried impatiently. "Lucy has been here for half an hour. I was so afraid you would be too late to see the rooms before the bloom is knocked off them. The supper-table is simply a dream."
"Bless my soul!" said Lucy, in an awestruck whisper, as Mona threw off her cloak. "You do look imposing! Mary Stuart going to the scaffold is not in it. I don't think I ever saw you in black before. If only you would show a little more of that swan-white neck and arms, I honestly believe this would be the achievement by which you would live in history."
"The fact is," Mona said, laughing, "it has been borne in upon me lately that the youthfulness of my appearance now-a-days is dependent on the absence from the stage of sweet seventeen; so I resolved, like Sir Walter Scott, to strike out in a new line. I aim at dignity now. This"—she glanced over her shoulder at the stately figure in the pier-glass—"is my Waverley. I flatter myself that you young Byrons can't compete with me here."
"No, indeed! Schoolgirl is the word," Lucy said, ruefully stepping in front of Mona to survey her own pretty gown in the pier-glass; but this was so palpably untrue that they all laughed.
"I am sure you looked dignified enough in the blue velvet. I wonder you did not wear your diamonds, Mona, while you were about it?"
"I wanted to, but I did not dare to do it without asking Uncle Douglas, and he would not hear of such a thing. The old darling! He sent me these white orchids to make up. I must go and let him see how they look, before people begin to arrive."
But Sir Douglas was only half pleased with Mona's gown.
"It is all very well in a crowd like this, perhaps," he said, "but don't wear that dowager plumage when we are by ourselves."
An hour later the rooms were full, and a crowd had gathered in the street below to listen to the music, and to catch an occasional glimpse of fair faces and dainty gowns.
Several professional singers had been engaged, but when most of the people had gone down to supper, and the music-room was half empty, Sir Douglas begged Mona to sing.
"We want something to rest our nerves," he said, "after all that. Sing that little thing of Beethoven's."
He had heard her singing it in her own room one day, when she did not know he was within hearing, and the pathetic song had been a favourite with him ever since.
It was a fine exercise in self-control, and Mona accepted it. The excitement of the evening raised her somewhat above the level of her own personality, and she thought she could do justice to the pathos of the song without spoiling it by feeling too much.
"But if thy vow weary thee now,
Though I should weep for thee, come not to me."
The door of the music-room stood open, and it was fortunate for the success of her song that the last wailing notes had died away before she caught sight of a figure on the landing, reflected in the mirror opposite.
In an instant the sympathetic pleading look went out of her face; she struck a few defiant chords, and launched into Moore's quaint, piquant little melody:—
"When Love is kind, cheerful, and free,
Love's sure to find welcome from me;
But when Love brings heartache and pang,
Tears and such things, Love may go hang!
If Love can sigh for one alone,
Well-pleased am I to be that one;
But if I see Love giv'n to rove
To two or three,—then good-bye, Love!
Love must, in short, keep fond and true,
Through good report and evil too;
Else here I swear young Love may go,
For aught I care, to Jericho!"
She sang with great verve, and of course there was a storm of applause as she finished.
Ralph, looking on, could scarcely believe his eyes and ears. Was she thinking of him? Had his love brought her heartache and pang? He would fain have persuaded himself at that moment that it had; but the very idea of such a thing seemed ridiculous as he looked at her now.
What a chameleon she was! Ever since his conversation with Mr Reynolds the night before, he had pictured her looking up in his face with that sweet half-childlike expression, "Dr Dudley, what have I done?" and here she was, cold, brilliant, self-possessed, surrounded by a group of men of the world, and apparently very much at her ease with them.
"Why, Mona!" Sir Douglas said, laying his hand on her arm.
It was a pretty sight to see how her face changed.
"Don't be angry," she said coaxingly, turning away from the others. "We have had nothing but sentiment all evening, and it proved nauseous at last."
"We will discuss that another time. Come now and have some supper."
Dudley escaped into the adjoining room. He felt positively jealous of Sir Douglas.
"What the deuce did I come here for?" he said, looking round the sea of unknown faces. He would not own, even to himself, that he had come in the hope of having a long talk with Mona. But just then he caught sight of Lucy Reynolds, and went up to speak to her.
"Oh, Dr Dudley, I am so glad to see you," she said eagerly.
This was very soothing, and Ralph seated himself on a vacant chair beside her.
"I hope your father may be able to say the same when I meet him next. I am afraid I proved a heavy strain on his endurance last night."
"Oh no! I will spare your blushes, and not tell you what father said of you at breakfast this morning."
But this remark had not the desired effect of sparing Ralph's blushes.
"Do you know many people here?" he asked.
"No, I am rather out of it."
"So am I. It was quite refreshing to see a face I knew."
"Have you seen Miss Maclean?"
"I have heard her sing. She seems to be greatly in requisition."
"Well, of course she is practically a daughter of the house, and Miss Munro is so young."
"May I have the pleasure of taking you down to supper?"
"Thank you, I have promised to go with Mr Lacy. Here he comes."
And Ralph was left alone once more. He could not tear himself away from the house till he had seen Mona again; and, while he waited, he suddenly espied his friend Jack Melville.
"How in the world do you come to be here?" he asked, surprised.
"If I had not been well brought up, dear boy, I should repeat the question. As it is, with characteristic complaisance I answer it. I am here, firstly, because I cherish a hopeless passion for Lady Munro; secondly, because my cousins were kind enough to bring me."
"I did not know you knew the Munros."
"My acquaintance with them is not profound. It is enough to see Lady Munro, and hear her speak. She is simply perfect; at least I thought so until I was introduced to her niece. Jove! Ralph, that is a stunning girl!"
Ralph did not answer.
"Did you see her sing?"
"I heard her."
"Ah, but you should have seen her. She changed completely when she sang that first thing. She has a face like your Nydia."
At this moment Mona entered the room on her uncle's arm. She was, as Ralph had said, very much in requisition, and it was almost impossible to get a chance to speak to her. Ralph was very pale with excitement. Convinced as he now was that he had inflicted a great deal of unnecessary suffering, possibly on her, and certainly on himself, he would not have found it easy to face even Miss Simpson's assistant. How, then, was he to address this woman of the world, who sat there so thoroughly at ease in her own circle, so utterly regardless of him?
Ralph watched his opportunity, however, and when Mona rose, he took his courage in both hands.
"Miss Maclean," he said, in a low voice, "will you allow me to see you to your carriage?"
"Thank you very much," she said simply, "but I have promised to stay here all night."
Ralph bit his lip. No, certainly she had not been thinking of him when she sang that song.
He made a few commonplace remarks, to which Mona replied quietly, but it was maddening work trying to talk to her in that crowd, and he soon gave up the attempt in despair. To-morrow, thank heaven! he could see her alone.
"Have not you had enough of this, Jack?" he said to his friend. "I vote we go home."
"Done! Let's go and have a smoke."
When the two men entered Dudley's sitting-room, Jack walked straight up to the Nydia on the wall.
"There!" he said triumphantly. "Miss Maclean might have stood for that."
"Or you might!" said Ralph scornfully.
But when his friend was gone, he owned to himself that there was a superficial resemblance to Mona in the contour of the face, and in the breadth of movement suggested by the artist. Ralph laid down his meerschaum and walked across the room to look at it.
The blind girl was carrying roses—white roses—all white. One red rose had been among them, but it had fallen unheeded to the ground, and would soon be trodden under foot on the tesselated pavement. Why had she dropped the red rose? She could ill spare that.
And then a curious fancy came upon him, and he asked himself whether Mona too had dropped her red rose. She had seemed so cold, so self-possessed, so passionless. Did the red rose lie quite, quite behind her? Was it already withered and trampled under foot, or could he still help her to pick it up again?
"Oh, my love, my love," he said, "you don't really care for all those men! You do belong to me, don't you? don't you?"
But at this point Ralph's thoughts became incoherent, if indeed they had not been so before.
To-morrow, at least, thank God! she would be out of the din and crowd; to-morrow he could see her alone, and say whatever he would.