AMONG THE BEST PEOPLE.
When Saturday came — that much-hoped-for Saturday — Basil Maclaine rose all undismayed to the height of the occasion. He prepared himself elaborately for mingling in Good Society. No critical eye ever beheld a more gorgeous expanse of spotless white linen than Basil Maclaine’s well-glazed shirt-front, a more faultless costume than Basil Maclaine’s artistic suit of Scotch homespun dittos, a cleaner shave than Basil Maclaine’s immaculate chin, a tighter fit than the pointed toes of Basil Maclaine’s neat Oxford walking shoes. If Sabine Venables, that coveted heiress, had only known the desperate preparations Basil Maclaine indulged in beforehand for taking a pot-shot at her heart (and accompanying fortune), she would, at least, have felt flattered by the obvious importance which the handsome young civil servant evidently attached to the merest casual glance from those beady black eyes of hers. But, then, Sabine Venables was so thoroughly accustomed to being paid much court to by young men generally — for was she not the greatest catch in that corner of Surrey? — that one extra young man, more or less, to the tale of her conquests really made very little difference to her.
At Waterloo Station the two fellow-lodgers in Miss Figgins’s furnished apartments for gentlemen met by appointment Douglas Harrison’s journalistic brother, Hubert, the editor of that satirical print, the Boomerang.
‘Charlie Simmons, of the War Office, is coming, too,’ Maclaine ventured to observe as they took their seats in the train. ‘Suppose we look out for him?’
‘Oh no, don’t let’s,’ Hubert Harrison answered, making an ugly face. ‘He’s such awfully bad form. He’s the sort of man, don’t you know, who always sticks his invitation-cards in his looking-glass frame, by way of advertising his social importance.’
Basil Maclaine withdrew his head from the window at once, and made no answer. He had always looked upon Charlie Simmons himself as very ‘good form’ till that precise moment; but he registered a mental note now to avoid in future the social solecism — if such it were — which had brought a neatly-dressed and fair-spoken fellow-citizen under the ban of a censor who formed opinion in the public prints of his country. For Basil Maclaine was one of those numerous people who live entirely for the appearances of life, and have never, for even one solitary second, penetrated the fact that it has any solid realities at all behind them.
Charlie Simmons didn’t happen to reach their apartment — in point of fact, he was travelling first; while Basil, who had taken a ticket for the same exalted mode of conveyance, had been hurried and bustled by his companions, unawares, into a third-class carriage — so they went down by themselves in that inferior vehicle all the way to Leatherhead. There, they walked up a long ridge, and past a handsome lodge, Hubert Harrison seeming to know the way particularly well, till, turning a corner in a leafy avenue, they came full in sight of a big house on a hilltop. It was a ruddy Queen Anne mansion of the very latest pattern, plumped down among immemorial elms and beeches.
‘You’ve been here before, I see,’ Basil Maclaine observed, as he stooped to brush the dust of the road off those neat Oxford walking shoes with his second-best handkerchief — the one he kept immured in his right coat-tail for such menial purposes, while the clean society rag resided habitually in his left breast-pocket.
‘Dozens of times,’ Hubert Harrison answered laconically.
‘Then you know the people well?’
‘Intimately,’ the journalist responded, and lapsed into silence.
‘It’s a splendid place,’ Basil Maclaine remarked, glancing round him in admiration. And indeed it was. He had never seen a nobler. The lawn of fine turf sloped gently down towards the Mickleham Valley, and being gracefully planted with well-ordered clumps of horse-chestnut, beech, and lime at irregular intervals, opened up delightful vistas down the wooded glen and across intervening ridges to the tower-topped height of Leith Hill in the distance. The sward in between lay smooth and close and velvety as a carpet. Great parterres of blossom diversified the foreground. Just at that moment, in the first full glory of summer foliage, the broad shady trees of Hurst Croft, against a fleecy blue and white sky, were a sight to rejoice the eye of any lover of nature. But it wasn’t the picturesque beauty of the scene that struck Basil Maclaine with instant admiration and delight; it was the amplitude of the grounds, the spacious expanse of the lawn, the neatness of the roads and paths and flower-beds, the many outward and visible signs of extreme wealth and social importance. He saw in it, most of all, not a lovely stretch of hill country, but ‘a magnificent place,’ the external symbol of livery servants, horses, carriages, silver plates, diamonds, game preserves, dances, dinner-parties, and all the other vulgar gewgaws and festivities that his soul would have revelled in. He valued it at once as so much money’s worth, and so much consideration in the eyes of society.
‘Yes, there’s a beautiful view,’ Hubert Harrison answered, gazing vaguely away from the lawn and the foreground towards the varied outline of blue hills in the distance, rising one behind the other in long perspective. ‘But Venables père is just a typical British Philistine of the first water. He doesn’t deserve to live in such a lovely bit of wild country as this. He doesn’t regard those trees of his as trees at all; he regards them as a magnificent lot of first-class timber.’
And poor Basil Maclaine had that moment been reflecting to himself that if only he had money to ‘keep it up,’ such a lovely bit of finely-timbered land as that would suit him down to the ground. For he, too, in his callow way, was an unfledged Philistine.
On the terrace in front of the windows half a dozen guests were already assembled, chatting in a group around Miss Venables and her father.
‘Your friend Bertie Montgomery’s here this afternoon, I see,’ Douglas Harrison remarked, a little maliciously, to Basil, as they approached the group.
‘Why do you call him Bertie?’ the civil servant retorted, staring hard at all the guests in turn to see if he could possibly distinguish the scion of nobility from the common herd around him.
‘I do it only in inverted commas,’ Douglas Harrison answered, laughing.
‘Which is he?’ Basil asked at last, after a careful scrutiny. ‘I thought you didn’t know him. I ... I was only pointed him out just once at Goodwood myself, and I don’t remember him now very vividly.’
‘The noisy young man in the noisy check suit,’ Douglas Harrison replied, smiling. ‘I hardly know him myself, though I meet him out sometimes; but Hubert and he have a nodding acquaintance. Come up, and let me introduce you to Miss Venables and her father.’
Basil hurried forward with his best company smile, and raised his hat politely with his first-class bow, as performed before ladies of the highest distinction only. He was a gentlemanly young man, in his way, as well as handsome; and if he could but for a moment have forgotten his profound respect for the externals of life, and considered somewhat its actualities, he might, perhaps, have turned out a very decent good fellow. As he raised his hat, responsive to Douglas’s mention of her name, Sabine Venables made a gentle inclination of her head, and beamed softly upon him in her part as hostess. Basil Maclaine was vaguely aware of a tall, lithe figure, and a beautiful, graceful face, haughty and clear-cut, but intensely picturesque in its warm Southern beauty. She looked like the paintings he had seen — by Burgess, he fancied — of high-born Spanish ladies; the same proud curl of the lip, the same quick flash of the eyes, even the same faint suspicion of a dark, silky fringe around the delicate corners of that sensitive small mouth. Altogether, a young lady by no means to be trifled with, Miss Sabine Venables. Basil Maclaine, as he met her, came, saw, and was conquered.
A buzz of voices rang indefinitely on his ears. He murmured the usual commonplaces of first introduction about this lovely garden — such a charming day — the best month of the year to see England in — delightful to get away from London dust and London mud to the clear blue skies and fresh air of the country. Then he fell back, inarticulate, into the second row, to catch and treasure up on the tablets of his soul what stray scraps might fall his way of the Best People’s improving conversation.
‘And where’s your brother at present?’ Charlie Simmons was asking in a familiar fashion of Lord Adalbert Montgomery. Charlie had followed them up close behind from the station, and greeted the descendant of antique Welsh princes with cordial affability, as indeed did also, to Basil’s great surprise, both the Harrisons, for he had no idea they knew such very Good People.
‘What, the Duke?’ Lord Adalbert answered, stroking the ends of his almost imperceptible moustache with the attentive affection of early youth. ‘Oh, he’s all right; he’s still at Homburg. Fluctuates pretty equally between there and Monte Carlo with great regularity, poor dear Powysland! Never by any chance goes near Llanfyllin Castle. A confirmed absentee, as Harrison says in the papers. Homburg in summer, Monte Carlo in winter, with flying visits to England just for the Oaks and Cesarewitch. Gambling himself to death at all of them, as usual.’
At this Lord Adalbert smiled sweetly, and Basil perceived that when he smiled he showed an even row of the whitest and pearliest teeth in all England. He was a good-looking young fellow enough, this Bertie Montgomery, and pleasant into the bargain, with that nameless incommunicable charm of manner which sometimes belongs as a hereditary gift to the youngest branches of our great old families.
‘I should love to go to Monte Carlo so,’ Sabine Venables put in; and as she spoke, all the young men, Lord Adalbert included, leant forward to listen; ‘but papa won’t take me. He’s such a dreadful man about those things. He says it isn’t proper.’
‘My dear,’ the typical British Philistine replied, with a deprecating cough, stroking his smooth-shaven chin, ‘not at your present age, at least. The atmosphere’s unsuited for you. In four or five years’ time, perhaps; but not just at present.’
‘In four or five years’ time, perhaps,’ Lord Adalbert said, smiling, ‘Miss Venables may possibly have passed from your parental safe-keeping.’
‘Very possibly,’ Mr. Venables responded with a pleased and conscious air, rubbing his hands softly. ‘Very possibly. Ve-ry possibly.’
‘In that case,’ Sabine said, looking around her like a queen upon her assembled court, and catching Hubert Harrison’s eye as she spoke, ‘I shall make whoever succeeds to the duty take me to Monte Carlo.’
‘No doubt he’d be charmed,’ Lord Adalbert answered, showing his teeth once more. ‘I can imagine nothing more delightful than — —’
‘Mr. Maclaine,’ Sabine put in, darting suddenly round upon him, and hauling him off in triumph to where she saw a lady of a certain age seated alone upon a garden bench, without anyone to talk to her, ‘let me introduce you to Mrs. Bouverie-Barton — you’ve heard of Mrs. Bouverie-Barton, of course — ah! yes; I thought so.’ Then, in a confidential undertone, ‘You’ll find her a most delightful and piquant talker, I’m sure. Very much spread about in society, you know. One of the most brilliant women in literary London.’
Thus withdrawn perforce from the circle round the throne and the inspiriting presence of Lord Adalbert Montgomery, Basil did his best to make himself agreeable, under depressing circumstances, to Mrs. Bouverie-Barton. Not that that clever lady, indeed, needed much entertaining. On the contrary, she included in herself, like a well-known journal, a perpetual fund of original entertainment. As Basil afterwards remarked to his friends, the Harrisons, the literary lady could talk like one o’clock.
‘Yes, she’s a beautiful girl, Sabine,’ Mrs. Bouverie-Barton burst forth in answer to Basil’s ingenuous outbreak of admiration for their charming young hostess. ‘But it’s a pity, for her own sake, she hasn’t a mother to keep her in order. She’s a desperate flirt — proud, but desperate. She coquettes eternally. And how absurdly she goes on with — oh dear no, I don’t mean with him; she doesn’t care twopence for poor Bertie, dear boy, though her father’d give his eyes for her to marry a Duke’s brother — and a childless Duke, too, who’s killing himself as hard as he can on the Continent. But I didn’t mean with him. That’s the merest flirtation — just love of power, the display of her fascination — but with a much more dangerous person — Hubert Harrison.’
‘Hubert Harrison!’ Basil exclaimed, looking up in surprise. ‘You don’t mean to say — —’
But Mrs. Bouverie-Barton didn’t even permit him to get a word in edgeways. ‘Oh yes, I do mean to say,’ she ran on, interrupting him; ‘and it’s true, every word of it. Just look at her now! Don’t you see she’s ostensibly talking to Lord Adalbert, and gazing at Lord Adalbert, and answering Lord Adalbert, but at every second word she says, for all that, she peeps out of the corners of her eyes, sideways, to see what Hubert Harrison thinks of what she’s saying to him. I was a girl once myself — a long time ago — and I know the ways of them. She’s leading Master Hubert a pretty dance, if anybody ever led him one. He’s a clever boy, and a good-looking boy, and a nice boy; and if she doesn’t ruin him, he has a great future before him still, for he’s the smartest leader-writer in London this moment. But, take my word for it, she means to grind that boy to powder, like Lady Clara Vere de Vere, before she’s done with him.’
‘What! do you think she’s in love with him?’ Basil Maclaine asked breathlessly. This odour of gossip about the Best People — and at first hand, too — was as incense in his nostrils.
‘Love, my dear Mr. Maclaine — your name’s Maclaine, isn’t it? I thought that was how I caught it. Why, what century do you live in, and what on earth are you thinking of? You’re talking archæology. Our young people nowadays know nothing of love — the fierce, unreasoning, inexplicable passion which moved the world when men and things were more natural. What they covet now is not hearts and darts, mutual flames, and so forth, but horses, jewellery, a title, an establishment. Young girls are taught the value of these things when they’re the merest children, and they know the one way for them to earn them is by a good marriage. They’re put in training for a match, and they know they’re in training. Hair, figure, skin, voice, dancing, music, French accent, culture — all are of importance to them only as so many points to play in the marriage-market. The girl’s brought out at last like a horse upon the course — as much uncovered as possible — and every step she takes, every triumph she makes, every costume, every conquest, every ball, every drawing-room, is blazoned abroad in all the vulgar publicity of the society papers. And when at last she catches her rich man, and nails him to her ear, they congratulate her publicly on having made very good running.’
Mrs. Bouverie-Barton paused, for want of breath, not want of words, and Basil Maclaine managed to interpose a hasty sentence. ‘But Miss Venables has all these things already,’ he said. ‘She doesn’t need them.’
By this time Mrs. Bouverie-Barton had recovered her breath, and began again excitedly. ‘Of course not,’ she flowed on in full flood. ‘But young Harrison needs them, and he won’t get them. Poor young fellows, of course, never stand a chance of winning these great matrimonial lottery prizes. If the beauty’s penniless, she’s bought in by wealth; if the beauty’s rich, she’s bought in by title. Nothing for nothing’s the rule of the bazaar. That’s the first act; then comes the second. After marriage, these young people, hitherto only intent on selling themselves in the dearest market, suddenly discover, to their immense surprise, there’s such a reality in the world as love — the love they despised — an irresistible energy — a force that sweeps down everything before it — money, position, honour, reputation. And what’s the end of it all? The Divorce Court, disgrace, shame, misery, suicide!’
‘What a Cassandra you are!’ Basil Maclaine interposed with a visible effort to break the current. ‘But you don’t think, then, she’ll marry Hubert Harrison?’
‘Marry him?’ Mrs. Bouverie-Barton cried with a scornful air. ‘No. The idea’s preposterous. Old Affability — they call the papa Old Affability, you know, for his smug manners — he’d never for a moment allow such a match, though she likes Hubert best. But she’ll do as they all do. She’ll marry Lord Adalbert first, and then, at the end of six months, she’ll run away with Hubert. “My dear Bertie” will do for either, that’s one comfort. She won’t have the trouble of learning a new name when she runs away from her husband with the man she ought in the first instance to have married.’
‘Then it’s a usual case, you think?’
‘Usual? Why, I’ve offered Lord Adalbert to bet him two to one in dozens of gloves that whoever he marries won’t live a year with him. That was in confidence, of course; but he only smiled, and declined to take me. He’s as jealous as a toad, you know; and he smiled, but he didn’t at all like it.’