Probation

The rooms at Castle Hill were nearly full, and the ball had just begun, when the Oakenrod party arrived. Sebastian offered his arm to his mother, and she took it, both of them having a very strong sense of the fact that the courtesy was a mere outside show, and that they would rather have been any number of miles apart. Followed by Hugo, they penetrated through the large square hall and the coffee-room, to the drawing-room, which blazed in the full splendour of unlimited wax-lights. In the centre of the room, looking very hot and very uncomfortable, they found Mrs. Spenceley alone. Her lord was nowhere to be seen, though her son was stationed at some little distance from her, helping her in the discharge of her duties with a Thanshopian grace and dignity all his own.

Sebastian, when his mother had finished her greetings and congratulations, went up to Mrs. Spenceley, and in his turn paid his devoirs.

The lady bore upon her face distinct traces of uneasiness of mind. There was something terrible and bezarre in the contrast between her expression and her attire. Helena had considerately tried to arrange her dress for her, with the natural sense of beauty and harmony of colour and material which she so strongly possessed. She had endeavoured to soften down the radiant hues contemplated by Mrs. Spenceley, and had succeeded in inducing her rather to dress herself in a magnificent robe of black satin. Diamonds twinkled upon her spacious bosom, and diamond pins fastened her gorgeous lace cap. Here Helena’s efforts had ceased to produce any effect. At this point Mrs. Spenceley’s own taste in dress asserted itself. She had thrown over her shoulders a floating scarf of crimson gauze, intertwined with lines of orient gold, and over which wandered abnormally large bunches of abnormally large grapes—purple grapes, with leaves of the same phenomenal proportions. This treasure had been put on in order, as she explained to Helena, ‘to cover my shoulders and give me a little colour; for, say what you will, a black satin and a white lace cap is not full enough for a woman of my years.’

In despairing resignation Helena had submitted, and the result was the apparition already described, looking, with the troubled, puzzled expression on her highly coloured face and the restless wandering of her gentle dark eyes, altogether so grotesque, that Sebastian’s quick observation instantly suspected something behind the gay show which surrounded them.

‘I am glad to see you, Mr. Mallory,’ she said, giving him her hand, and with an effort giving her attention to him. ‘I hope you’ll enjoy yourself, I’m sure. We’ve done all we could think of to make people enjoy themselves; but it is very provoking, Spenceley’s not coming at the last minute, isn’t it?’

‘I thought I missed Mr. Spenceley. Is he engaged?’

‘Oh, it’s this horrid business, you know. I said to him, I said, “Spenceley, if business is so uncertain, it’s a very sure thing that we oughtn’t to be giving balls in this style;” not but what I am very glad to see you, and I hope you’ll enjoy it,’ she hastened to add. ‘He had to go off to Liverpool early this morning, and he said he might have to come home by Manchester, but he’d try to be with us before we began. However, he hasn’t turned up.’

‘Very likely he has been detained.’

‘I expect so. These are anxious times, and it keeps a man on the strain, with things going first up and then down, and not knowing how anything will turn out,’ said Mrs. Spenceley, lucidly. ‘But aren’t you going to dance, Mr. Mallory? There’s lots of young ladies will be delighted to dance with you. See! there’s little Fanny Kay sitting out—the first dance, too. Do you know her?’

‘Yes, thank you. I don’t think I will dance at present. I’m looking for Miss Spenceley, to congratulate her; but she is not here, I think.’

‘She’s in the ball-room. You see, she had to open the ball, being for her own birthday, and all, and some of them were very anxious to begin. It makes it very awkward, Spenceley’s being away. But you’ll see Helena directly, I dare say. She said she should come straight here when the dance was over.’

‘I think I will go and see if it is over,’ said Sebastian, who saw Hugo leading off a white-robed virgin to the ball-room.

‘Ay, do; I’m sure they must be nearly done by now,’ she replied, drawing her dazzling scarf more closely about her, and obstinately refusing to lessen her fatigue by sitting down.

Sebastian crossed the hall, and at the door of the ball-room met Helena and her partner coming out. She was leaning on the arm of an elderly man, one of the Thanshope magnates, to whose lot it had fallen to guide her through the mazes of a duty-quadrille, by way of opening the ball. Helena looked bored, and the gentleman no less so. They were making straight for the drawing-room, in order to get rid of each other as soon as possible.

Helena did not at once see Sebastian, and he had time to notice how downcast and pale she looked, although so lovely. Mr. Rawson, her partner, was at this moment ‘collared’ in a summary manner by an acquaintance, and appeared particularly anxious to talk with him on congenial subjects. Mr. Mallory, therefore, seized the opportunity to advance and say:

‘Good evening, Miss Spenceley.’

Helena started, and turned quickly to him.

‘Mr. Rawson,’ proceeded Sebastian, ‘I see you are engaged. Allow me to take Miss Spenceley to the drawing-room—or wherever else you please,’ he added, in a lower voice, as Mr. Rawson, with evident gratitude, gave up his charge, and they walked away, her hand resting lightly on his arm.

‘Now he is happy with a friend of his own age,’ remarked Sebastian. ‘I could not find you in the drawing-room, so I came to seek you, in order to offer you my sincere congratulations upon this occasion.’

‘Why so sincere? You speak so emphatically that I begin to doubt your sincerity. Why congratulate me at all?’

‘What a question! I always understood, from your own words, that you looked forward to your twenty-first birthday as a moment of emancipation, when you would not be trodden down any more, and could really show the sex which fails to meet your approval what you think of them, and——’

‘I wish you would not keep talking in that way,’ said Helena. ‘It does not amuse me in the least, and I don’t see what fun there is in it.’

‘Fun! I had no idea of fun! You shock me. I am in the most solemn earnest I beg to be allowed to offer my congratulations to the heroine of the present occasion, and to wish you “many happy returns of this day.” You will permit me to do that?’

‘I am not a heroine, and the present occasion requires anything but congratulations,’ was all Helena said.

Her wonted brilliance and high spirits had quite deserted her, even in the presence of Sebastian Mallory, for whose delectation they were usually wont to flow rather more rapidly than at other times. In this new and more pensive mood Sebastian found the charm, which he had always owned, a strong one. He had never before found her so attractive. Her dress was less splendid, and more airy and girlish than usual. It was white and full and flowing, suggestive of tulle illusion and silvery clouds, and was dotted all over with little bunches of rosebuds. There was a string of pearls around her lovely throat; and, for all her paleness and downcast looks, her beauty came out triumphant.

‘She is a lovely creature!’ he thought, glancing downwards at the serious face and the dark lashes which swept her cheek.

‘Not a heroine!’ he said. ‘You must be one to-night, whether you like it or not. And as for congratulations, I could offer you a hundred reasons why people should congratulate you; but to confine myself to one, you are Helena Spenceley. Don’t you think that is reason enough for congratulation?’

They had wandered into a little anteroom, divided by curtains from one of the other sitting-rooms, and as Sebastian asked the last question they were standing in the middle of the room, and Helena looked at him. Her face was sad, and her eyes were bright with tears.

‘It is of no use; you cannot make me angry to-night, even by laughing at me. But if you want the satisfaction of knowing that your remarks wound me, take it: it is so.’

‘Helena! Miss Spenceley!’ he stammered, in confusion, for his words had not been free from malice, and he knew it. What he had not known was that Helena was in no mood for battle—that she did not even wish to quarrel with him.

‘If you are offended, I beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘I did not mean anything like what you imagine. And, since you do not choose to be congratulated, I withdraw the congratulations. May I say you have my good wishes?’

‘Not unless you mean it,’ said Helena, coldly; ‘and, when you think how different our thoughts and wishes, and hopes and objects in life are, you will, I hope, hesitate before making more pretty speeches.’

‘You are very severe. I think I had better say no more upon the subject. But,’ he added, with that air of almost affectionate interest which Helena believed she so greatly resented, ‘you are downcast and out of spirits to-night—not as you should be for your own birthday ball. How is it?’

In so matter-of-fact a tone was the question asked, that Helena scarcely felt it strange that he should put it, and began in a docile manner to explain.

‘How can I be otherwise? It is such nonsense. What is the good of having a ball? I don’t want a ball. I wanted to be quiet. I go about every day, from house to house, and see people starving—much better people than I am, or ever shall be—and then I have to come home and see money flung away on a ball—for me—because such an important personage has condescended to live twenty-one years in this horrid, grimy old world; and to put on a dress that has cost—no, I will never reveal all my shame, but I could tear my dress to pieces when I think of a woman whom I saw this afternoon, and who was crying as if her heart would break, because she had to pawn her husband’s and children’s Sunday clothes, and their best tea-things, that she had when she was married. I thought of this dress, which was got on purpose for me at Paris, and which cost about ten times as much as the materials that made it are worth,’ said Helena passionately, ‘and when I put it on, I felt as if I were putting on my shroud.’

‘I am very sorry—only you won’t believe it, because I say so, but surely now it will be different? You must not get morbid. That never does any good. You will have wealth of your own now, and be your own mistress, when you can take your revenge on all these fine clothes, and go about in home-spun, or even sackcloth, if you choose.’

‘Yes,’ said Helena dispiritedly, ‘I know; but I should not like it. I love expensive things, and I hate coarse and common ones. And I am beginning to think that perhaps I am not such a very fit person to have money. I have heard a great deal about money lately, and I don’t fancy it is so easy to manage as I used to think.’

‘Miss Mereweather will assist you,’ he said, half smiling.

‘Don’t name Miss Mereweather to me,’ said Helena, with sudden animation. ‘She has deceived me cruelly. I never was so cut-up about anything.’

‘What has she done?’

‘She has got married,’ said Helena, in a determined voice, as if anxious to get the worst over.

‘Got married!... Why ... and a very good wife she will make, if she has got the right sort of husband. I remember thinking, that evening I met her here, what a capital head of a large establishment she would make....’

‘Did you?’ said Helena, with a curious quaver in her voice, half laughter, half astonishment. ‘Well, you must have been right. She has married a clergyman who is the head of a very large boys’ school—a sort of college.’

‘The very thing for her. I wish, when you write, you would ask if she remembers my insignificance, and offer my warmest congratulations and good wishes.’

‘When I write!’ echoed Helena, scornfully. ‘I wrote to her once, after I heard of it, but never again. I told her my mind.’

‘Did you really? What did you say?’

‘I said she was a traitor to her sex and her cause, and that, as I still held my old opinions, I could not be her friend any longer.’

‘How awful for her! May I ask whether she made any reply?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Helena, her colour rising, ‘she made a very stupid reply.’

‘Won’t you tell me what it was?’

‘No, it was too silly.’

‘I believe you got the worst of it.’

‘At least, it was too ridiculous to repeat.’

‘Perhaps she said, “Wait and see;” or, “Don’t shout till you are out of the wood!” only more elegantly expressed.’

‘She—oh, there is Hugo coming. This is my first dance with him.’

‘Miss Spenceley, will you be very kind to Hugo to-night? Really and truly, he has had a great trouble.’

‘I will. Poor boy!’

‘And have you any dances left?—a waltz? Though I can hardly hope it. You must have been engaged long ago, for the whole evening?’

‘In that case you might have spared yourself the trouble of asking,’ said Helena, rather defiantly; but as their eyes met, hers wavered.

‘Perhaps you have still one left,’ said he, capturing her programme and opening it.

‘It looks very full,’ he said; ‘but—ah, yes! here is one, a waltz—two waltzes. This is extraordinary—my luck, I mean; don’t you think so? And may I——’

He paused, looking inquiringly at her as he held the pencil suspended over the card.

‘Two waltzes!’ exclaimed Helena, innocently. ‘Oh, but that must be a mistake. I know when Mr. Consterdine came just now I told him I had not one left.’

‘No doubt you told him what was good for him,’ said Sebastian, with laudable gravity. ‘At least, we will make it quite sure now. There: “S. M., 6,” and “S. M., 10.” Thank you, very much.’

With a bow and a half-smile he resigned her to Hugo, who came up at that moment to offer congratulations and to claim his dance, while Sebastian walked away to while away the time until ‘Number 6’ should begin.

As he danced only once or twice with any one but Helena, he had ample opportunity of observing the general features of the entertainment, and he soon saw that Helena’s depression was but a part of that obvious more or less throughout the whole assembly. The rooms were dazzling, the decorations were unutterably gorgeous, the brilliance of the lights amounted to an absolute glare, and became oppressive and terrible. On all sides there was evidence of the most lavish expenditure; flowers, furniture, attendants, refreshments, all seemed to cry in loud and blatant voices, ‘Try us; we are of the very best. No stint here, because expense is no object, absolutely none at all.’ It would have been exceedingly amusing, and Sebastian was by no means slow to see the humorous side of ambitious entertainments of that kind; but the amusing part of it was quite overcome and swamped by the great and nameless cloud and oppression that hung over it all. What was the reason of that cloud? Surely not the simple fact that the master of the house was absent. That alone would have been a relief rather than otherwise.

For he came not, and came not, and poor Mrs. Spenceley still looked ill at ease: and at last Sebastian noticed some one else begin to look ill at ease too, and to glance round with a suspicious, watchful air now and then. That person was Frederick Spenceley. Something was wrong, something lay behind it all, thought Sebastian, as he stood in the cool hall after his first dance with Helena, that is to say, between ten and eleven o’clock. During that dance they had quite forgotten to flout each other, or to do anything but enjoy themselves. He had said all he could to raise that nameless cloud from her face, and he had been startled to find what brilliant success had attended his efforts. Helena had soon smiled again, and had half confessed that she had kept the two dances for him, and had even blushed and laughed when he teased her about it. He was thinking of that waltz, and humming the tune to which they had danced as he paced about the hall, while he still seemed to feel Helena lightly resting in his arms, her fleet foot keeping pace with his; and he began to wish that he had not four whole dances to wait before his next one with her came.

‘She is very lovely, and there is something very bewitching about her,’ he said to himself for the second time that evening.

A dance was going on in the ball-room, and the hall at the moment was empty, save for himself. He paused before a huge mirror, which had been raised at one end of it, and in front of which was erected a fragrant pyramid of flowers and ferns, delicate hothouse blossoms, and feathery aromatic leaves. There was a blaze of light all around, and the staircase and part of the gallery running round the second story were reflected in the mirror. Sebastian stood before the pyramid of flowers, and gently first touched one and then the other, and then his eyes fell upon the reflection of his own face, and he was surprised to see how grave it looked; for he did not feel particularly grave at the moment, and that interview with Adrienne Blisset seemed to hang like a dream in the far background of his consciousness, while another face and form, flower-crowned and glowingly beautiful, advanced to the front.

Suddenly he became conscious, as it were, of some shadow crossing the glass, and looking higher, to where the staircase was reflected, he saw the figure of a man stealing carefully, softly, noiselessly up the stairs, keeping well to the wall, with averted face, as if anxious to get as quickly as possible out of all that obtrusive glare of light and stream of dancing sound.