CHAPTER III.
THE BREAKING-UP DANCE.
The great day of breaking-up dawned at last. What preparations were made! A cartload of hired chairs for the company was the first arrival; then a consignment of glass and crockery, baskets of hot-house flowers from the friends of wealthy pupils, and finally, in a confectioner’s van—the supper! Mrs. Harper, her cap askew, her curls bristling, was nearly crazy with excitement and fuss. The Misses Harper were busy, important, and dangerous to accost. The girls, from an early tea, had retired upstairs to indulge in the next best amusement to dancing—dressing. Oh, with what leisurely enjoyment were heads tired, white dresses donned, and gloves drawn on! How often was the following artful query put with an artless air:—
“You are looking awfully nice, dear! Now, tell me candidly, what do you think of me?”
Madeline had no trouble with her toilette. The black high-necked day-gown, with a white fichu and lace ruffles, was all the embellishment within her power; but she was in much request, and very busy dressing and decorating her more fortunate schoolfellows. The bell rang. Down they all trooped, conscious, conceited, coquettish, or careless, and filed past Miss Selina, who held a full-dress inspection in the hall—Miss Selina, whose face was flushed to the hue of her new crimson silk, flushed to a shade that set pearl powder at defiance, and scorned the application of Rowland’s Kalydor. The young ladies passed muster creditably—with some few exceptions, such as “Minnie, your dress is too short;” “Fanny, those flowers are frightful!” “Jocelyn, where did you get such horrible gloves?” The bevy of fair creatures passed into the schoolroom, where, on a raised platform, were seats for the chorus, two pianos, a harmonium—in short, all the preparations for a concert, the one drawback to the young ladies’ absolute felicity—that is to say, those young ladies who were compelled to perform, and who now awaited the audience in a kind of cold shiver, with clammy hands and quickly pulsing hearts. Presently Herr Kroot arrived in elaborate evening dress, frilled shirt, white gloves, and an immense accession of dignity, and talked and scolded, commanded and encouraged, his miserable pupils. Much as they dreaded the audience, they were trebly afraid of him, and dared not break down with his eye upon them, his hand turning over the leaves, his low “counting” in their ears. The large room filled soon, and filled fast, with day boarders, their friends, parents, a few outsiders, and the Misses Harper’s own circle—chiefly clerical. There was quite a notable sprinkling of the sterner sex, for Mrs. Harper’s establishment was reported to include some beauties. Very nice, indeed, the young people looked from the body of the concert hall, so young and fresh and fair in their simple white dresses, with their downcast eyes—that noted everything all the same. Among other facts, they noted the arrival of all the Wolfertons and Mr. Wynne, whose presence on the occasion Miss Selina attributed solely to her own attractions. She was fourteen years older than him, but what of that? He was old for his age, and she was young for hers. She flattered herself that in a becoming dress, by lamplight, or behind a spotted veil, she did not look a day more than seven and twenty. By all accounts Mr. Wynne was a briefless barrister (but then Selina’s share of the family stocking was by no means contemptible), he had the reputation of being clever, and would “get on” of course. The Wolfertons declared that he was highly thought of as a rising man, and of fine old family—but poor. Strange that he should come to the breaking-up this year too—“made quite a point of it,” Amy Wolferton had whispered, and Amy had looked as if she would have liked to have added more.
As he pressed her hand, and she glanced at him from under her scanty eyelashes, a delicious conviction assured Miss Selina that he had not forgotten her—their charming walk from church, or the little picnic party, at which he had sat beside her, and when the second supply of plates had failed, and with regard to the remains of some cold chicken, said in the most marked manner, “Miss Selina, will you permit me to lay my bones beside yours?” What was this but a proposal? Certainly in a novel form, unquestionably it meant that they would share the same grave. It was a distinct invitation to the family vault of the blue-blooded Wynnes. How agreeable he was—these barristers always were! How good-looking! What a contrast to Mr. Murphy, the red-haired Irish curate, on whom, with his loud, rich brogue, her sister Letitia had built her hopes matrimonial (N. B. and it had been building on a quicksand), casting a contemptuous glance at the well-oiled red head to her left.
These complacent reflections were chasing each other through the good lady’s brain as she sat in the attitude of solicitous attention during the opening cantata. A shrewd, keen, calculating woman with regard to every-day matters, such as school accounts, butchers’ bills, extras, and with a lynx eye for the failings and shortcomings of her flock, but where vanity whispered, and a possible (or impossible) husband loomed on her horizon, Miss Selina was a completely different character, and an absolute fool, as giddy, as credulous, as feather-headed as any of the young ladies meekly facing her behind these sheets of music—nay, worse, for has not every one heard the proverb—“There is no fool like an old one”? Far-seeing, crafty girls were clever enough to discover Miss Selina’s weak side, and to use their discovery to their own advantage. They plied her with compliments, ludicrously inappropriate. They called her “their own beautiful Miss Selina,” hinted that she had only to come, to be seen, and to conquer, etc., the result being that these wise young virgins were frequently invited to tea in the drawing-room, to supper in Mrs. Harper’s own private refectory, were taken to concerts, were “let off” on various occasions, and laughed at “Old Selina” (or Snappy) in their sleeve; called her a ridiculous goose, as ugly as sin, and as vain as a peacock. It is necessary to reveal the younger Miss Harper in her true colours in order to explain how a woman in her position could imagine for a moment that a young man would fall in love with her elderly charms, in spite of the overwhelming advantages possessed by at least twenty young rivals—her own pupils. She had long regarded the girls en masse as her natural enemies, not as pretty creatures of from sixteen to eighteen years of age, with bright eyes, brilliant complexions, and angelic dispositions! She ticketed them in her own mind as disagreeable female children, with loud voices, voracious appetites, and sly ways. Nevertheless, she was reluctantly aware, that Madeline could be no longer considered a child, that some people considered her appearance pleasing! She stared hard at her now, where her black dress made a sort of blot among the snowy gowns of the first trebles. What a colour! was she rouged? She looked just like a doll. Doll or no doll, Miss Selina made a mental note that she should not be of the happy band who were going in to supper. She might be getting ideas into her mind—foolish ideas. People perhaps would notice her, as they had done last year, and turn her giddy head. The cantata came to a satisfactory conclusion. A fierce, tempestuous bravura, performed with desperate energy by a long-fingered young lady, succeeded it. Poor girl! she was trembling with terror as she sat down. What with the audience before her, and Herr Kroot behind her, she occupied the proverbial situation of being between the devil and the deep sea, and played with a courage that was absolutely reckless.
The bravura was followed by a duet, the duet by a violin solo, then one or two songs. With regard to the last of these, the miserable performer found her feelings quite too overpowering, and after some gurgling in the throat, and sniffing in her handkerchief, she collapsed into floods of tears, and was briskly hustled into the background and hidden behind the others, whilst, at a moment’s notice, Madeline West was commanded to take her place and step into the gap.
Poor Madeline! It had not been intended that she should perform. She had no friends among the audience; no complacent relations to clap their hands and look proud and important. When the last words of “A Finland Love Song” had died away in silence—a silence caused by surprise and emotion—there was a pause of a full minute, and then a tremendous hurricane of applause burst forth. Ladies winked away unaccustomed tears, and clapped in a manner that was trying to their new ten-button gloves; their hearts were moved for the moment; some chord had been touched by that fresh young voice, by those sympathetic words, a chord that vibrated, and woke up old memories of the days when they were young—those days so sad, so sweet, that were no more.
The men encored tumultuously, not only because the singer had a lovely voice, and sang from her very heart, but—oh, well, because men will be men, and because the girl in black was uncommonly pretty. “Auld Robin Gray” was vociferously commanded, but the fair vocalist was adamant; she only curtseyed timidly, and curtseyed again. No one but herself had seen Miss Selina’s emphatic shake of the head, as she met her cold grey eye in that “little look across the crowd.” No, there was to be no encore.
After the concert, the room was cleared for dancing, and Madeline took up her post at the best (the drawing-room) piano and played first a set of lancers, to set every one going, and to polish off the dowagers and duty dances, and then a waltz—and yet another waltz. It was very dull work for her. She was placed with her back to the company, and could neither see nor be seen—which was precisely what Miss Selina had intended; but the pretty singer was not to be so easily concealed. More than one would-be partner vainly begged for an introduction. More than one crafty young man pleaded fatigue, and halted long in the neighbourhood of the piano, where he could obtain a good view of the charming pianiste. After the third waltz, played by Madeline’s weary fingers, Mr. Wynne approached, and said, as she stood up selecting the next piece on the programme—
“Miss West, we have all to thank you for your capital playing,” holding out his hand as he spoke. “And now I hope you will give me the pleasure of this dance?” She touched his hand timidly, and shook her head. “Oh! I beg your pardon!” he exclaimed, with a quick glance at her black dress. “Let me, at least, take you to the tea-room. You must want some refreshment after your exertions.”
“No, thank you very much,” she answered, once more seating herself at the instrument. “I have had my tea!”
“You don’t mean to say that you are going to play again?” he asked in a tone of indignant astonishment.
“Yes, I am going to play all the evening,” she replied, turning over the leaves and finding the place, with a considerably heightened colour.
“But last year you danced all the evening. What does it mean?”
“It means, Mr. Wynne, that I was then one of the boarders; now, I am only a pupil-teacher. Circumstances are changed; it is my duty to play—and,” faltering slightly, “I like it.”
“I find it difficult to believe that, Miss West,” he exclaimed; “but I suppose I must endeavour to do so. Will you permit me to turn over the leaves?”
“No, no!” she protested eagerly; “on no account. You must dance.”
“‘Je n’en vois pas la nécessité,’” he quoted, seating himself deliberately as he spoke. “I am afraid you have lost a relative,” he continued, in a lower voice. “Your father?”
“I have in one sense,” now striking up another waltz. “My father has not been heard of for a whole year and a half. When last he wrote he had lost a great deal of money. He was always a speculator. He has never written since——” She paused expressively.
“And have you no friend or relation in this country?”
“No, none that I have any claim upon. I have been at school here since I was seven years old.”
“And, good heavens! you don’t mean to tell me that you have no resource but to remain on here as pupil-teacher?”
“No other. You see I have no home in this country. I had one long ago in Melbourne—the only one I ever knew.”
“Do you remember it?” he asked rather abstractedly.
“Yes, I remember the big white house and the bright, sunny climate.”
“Has your father never come home to see you all these years?”
“Never! I’m afraid—I’m afraid——” She paused, unable to articulate, but her fingers still played steadily on.
“I’m afraid,” he said in a low voice, bending forward, “that you are not happy here,” contrasting rapidly in his own mind the brilliant figure she had made last year, as the belle of the evening, the cynosure of all eyes, to what she now appeared, the poor piano-playing drudge, not so much as rewarded with a “thank you,” and dressed in a gown that even he could see was shabby and old-fashioned.
“Oh, Mr. Wynne!” said a sprightly staccato voice at his elbow. “Oh! you naughty man! Why are you not dancing? Come away; I cannot have you distracting Miss West’s attention, you dreadful person! We are going to have another set of lancers, and you shall be my partner.”
With this heavy bribe, he was summarily detached from his post by the piano, and carried off by the triumphant Miss Selina (swearing to himself, despite a smiling countenance). Madeline played and played, until she felt that her fingers had no feeling, and were just as stiff and mechanical as the teeth in a musical-box. At length supper released her. She stood up, half expectant, as the others flocked past two and two, each happy girl provided with a cavalier—beaming, giggling, blushing, as the case might be! Whilst she waited, a bony, much-beringed hand was laid heavily upon her shoulder, and she beheld Miss Selina, who had arrested Mr. Wynne.
“Madeline, my dear,” she whispered, “I am sorry there is no room for you. I’ll send you out a sandwich, or something.” And then she passed on, leaving poor Madeline alone in that big empty room, with a lump in her throat and tears in her eyes.
Miss West was occasionally foolish enough to cut off her nose to spite her face, and she indignantly declined the subsequent sandwich brought in on a plate by the sympathetic parlourmaid, who vowed “it was a shame,” but met with no encouragement to relieve her mind further on the subject.
Madeline knew that she dared not go to bed. She had still to play—“it was in the bond.” So she had not even that small comfort; nor might she, as yet, indulge herself in the further luxury of a thoroughly good cry.
“What a difference money makes!” she said to herself bitterly. “What a contrast between this night and last year! Who would have believed—I, least of all—that that night twelve months I should be sitting here alone? However, I don’t suppose,” she added, half aloud, with a catch in her voice, “that any one misses me.”
In this supposition she was wrong. Many people missed the girl in black, who had sung the song of the concert, who had played unremittingly all the evening, and who had such a shabby dress, and such a sweetly pretty face!
Not a few of Mrs. Harper’s guests, who were eating her good things and sipping her champagne, were registering a black mark against her all the same, and thinking that they would be sorry if any friend of theirs had to fill the post of her present “pupil-teacher.”
Mr. Wynne dissembled—as they used to say in good old melodramas—and was most agreeable to his partner, Miss Selina, but inwardly he was raging. With professional cleverness he drew her out, and cross-examined her with regard to Miss West, and she—her tongue unloosened by two glasses of champagne, her vanity stimulated by his attentions (to her plate)—was completely off her guard, and as easily turned inside-out as any quaking witness at the Old Bailey.
She expounded eloquently on Mr. West’s enormities, the vast sums expended on his daughter, the fact that “but for them she would be friendless and homeless—probably begging from door to door. The wretched swindler was dead, the girl had no relatives or friends, and only for their charity——” Here she paused impressively, expecting Mr. Wynne to fill up the blank, with some neat and appropriate speech; but, for once, she was doomed to disappointment.
“Only for your charity she would be a governess, would she not?” he remarked carelessly. “With such musical talents she is sure of a lucrative situation—a hundred or so a year. But, of course, under your roof she has all that she can wish for—a happy home, among her old companions—and any one can see with half an eye that Mrs. Harper is a mother to her,” he concluded with immovable features.
Miss Selina started and became of a yet richer shade of crimson. This idea of a governess, at one hundred pounds a year, was something entirely novel. The girl was clever and accomplished! Was Mr. Wynne speaking ironically, when he alluded to a mother’s care and a happy home? Impossible! His face was as unmoved, his eyes as smiling, his manner as sociable and friendly as usual. It was a wild, foolish idea, and she immediately dismissed it from her mind, and plunged into a discussion on platonic friendships—and a second helping of a most excellent truffle.
Mr. Wynne managed to have a few words with Mrs. Wolferton after supper. He stated his case concisely, pointed out Miss West, and strongly commended her to the kind lady’s notice. Mrs. Wolferton was the mother of Fred (Mr. Wynne’s schoolfellow, college friend, and chum), and was very fond of Laurence, whom she had known from the time when he was an audacious boy in jacket upwards. As she listened to the sorry history of pretty Miss West, her motherly heart was touched, and she immediately begged to be introduced to her.
“Remembered her well,” she declared, “from last year. Hoped she would come and see her during the holidays.” And, finally, being a woman who believed in deeds as well as words, took off her gloves, removed a jingling bracelet, and seated herself at the piano for the remainder of the night, in spite of Mrs. Harper’s horrified face and excited expostulations, saying pleasantly to Madeline, “Now, my dear, my dancing days are over; yours are just beginning. Go and dance, Laurence; Miss West has not danced a step this evening.”
The hint was superfluous. Already Laurence and Miss West were at the other end of the room, and already a very portentous frown had settled deep on Miss Selina’s brow; but it availed nothing. The two offenders were dauntless.
Mr. Wynne was a capital partner. He introduced Madeline to various others, who voted the girl in black quite the prettiest they had seen for months, and who were the more eager to make her acquaintance, and to dance with her, from seeing that their attentions were palpably displeasing to the Harper family. Madeline danced until the end of the evening, although Miss Selina had hissed into her ear, as she stood near her, “You are a bold, pushing, unladylike girl.”
She knew she would have to pay dearly for these present delights on the morrow, and was resolved to drain the cup of pleasure—yes, to the very dregs! She looked supremely lovely, if slightly defiant; the exercise of dancing had made her eyes brighter, her colour deeper. Mr. Wynne told himself that she was the prettiest—ay, and the nicest—girl he had ever met in the whole course of his life; but he must not lose his head—no, a briefless barrister could not afford to fall in love with a penniless pupil-teacher!