The Sorrows of Satan Part 24

XVII

It must have been about a week or ten days after the Prince of Wales's Levee that I had the strange scene with Sibyl Elton I am about to relate; a scene that left a painful impression on my mind and should have been sufficient to warn me of impending trouble to come had I not been too egotistical to accept any portent that presaged ill to myself.

Arriving at Lord Elton's house one evening, and ascending the stairs to the drawing-room as was now my usual custom, unannounced and without ceremony, I found Diana Chesney there alone and in tears.

"Why, what's the matter?" I exclaimed in a rallying tone, for I was on very friendly and familiar terms with the little American--"You, of all people in the world, having a private 'weep'! Has our dear railway papa 'bust up'?"

She laughed, a trifle hysterically.

"Not just yet, you bet!" she answered, lifting her wet eyes to mine and showing that mischief still sparkled brightly in them,--"There's nothing wrong with the funds as far as I know. I've only had a,----well, a sort of rumpus here with Sibyl."

"With Sibyl?"

"Yes,"--and she rested the point of her little embroidered shoe on a footstool and looked at it critically--"You see it's the Catsup's 'At Home' to-night, and I'm invited and Sibyl's invited; Miss Charlotte is knocked up with nursing the Countess, and of course I made sure that Sibyl would go. Well, she never said a word about it till she came down to dinner, and then she asked me what time I wanted the carriage. I said 'Aren't you going too?' and she looked at me in that provoking way of hers,--_you_ know!--a look that takes you in from your topmost hair to your shoe-edge,--and answered 'Did you think it possible!' Well, I flared up, and said of course I thought it possible,--why shouldn't it be possible? She looked at me in the same way again and said--'To the _Catsups_? with _you_!' Now, you know, Mr Tempest, that was real downright rudeness, and more than I could stand so I just gave way to my mind. 'Look here,' I said--'though you are the daughter of an Earl, you needn't turn up your nose at Mrs Catsup. She isn't half bad,--I don't speak of her money,--but she's a real good sort, and has a kind heart, which it appears to me is more than you have. Mrs Catsup would never treat me as unkindly as you do.' And then I choked,--I could have burst out in a regular yell, if I hadn't thought the footman might be outside the door listening. And Sibyl only smiled, that patent ice-refrigerator smile of hers, and asked--'would you prefer to live with Mrs Catsup?' Of course I told her no,--nothing would induce me to live with Mrs Catsup, and then she said--'Miss Chesney, you pay my father for the protection and guarantee of his name and position in English social circles, but the companions.h.i.+p of my father's daughter was not included in the bargain. I have tried to make you understand as distinctly as I can that I will not be seen in society with you,--not because I dislike you,--far from it,--but simply because people would say I was acting as your paid companion. You force me to speak plainly, and I am sorry if I offend. As for Mrs Catsup, I have only met her once, and she seemed to me very common and ill-bred. Besides I do not care for the society of tradespeople.' And with that she got up and sailed out,--and I heard her order the carriage for me at ten. It's coming round directly, and just look at my red eyes! It's awfully hard on me,--I know old Catsup made his pile out of varnish, but varnish is as good as anything else in the general market. And----and----it's all out now, Mr Tempest,--and you can tell Sibyl what I've said if you like; I know you're in love with her!"

I stared, bewildered by her voluble and almost breathless outburst.

"Really, Miss Chesney," I began formally.

"Oh yes, Miss Chesney, Miss Chesney--it's all very well!" she repeated impatiently, s.n.a.t.c.hing up a gorgeous evening cloak which I mutely volunteered to put on, an offer she as mutely accepted--"I'm only a girl, and it isn't my fault if I've got a vulgar man for a father who wants to see me married to an English n.o.bleman before he dies,--that's _his_ look-out--_I_ don't care about it. English n.o.blemen are a ricketty lot in _my_ opinion. But I've as good a heart as anyone, and I could love Sibyl if she'd let me, but she _won't_. She leads the life of an ice-berg, and doesn't care a rap for anyone. She doesn't care for you, you know!--I wish she did,--she'd be more human!"

"I'm very sorry for all this,"--I said, smiling into the piquante face of the really sweet-natured girl, and gently fastening the jewelled clasp of her cloak at her throat--"But you mustn't mind it so much. You are a dear little soul Diana,--kind and generous and impulsive and all the rest of it,--but,--well----English people are very apt to misunderstand Americans. I can quite enter into your feelings,--still you know Lady Sibyl is very proud----"

"Proud!" she interrupted--"My! I guess it must feel something splendid to have an ancestor who was piked through the body on Bosworth field, and left there for the birds to eat. It seems to give a kind of stiffness in the back to all the family ever afterwards. Shouldn't wonder if the descendants of the birds who ate him felt kinder stuck up about it too!"

I laughed,--she laughed with me, and was quite herself again.

"If I told you _my_ ancestor was a Pilgrim Father, you wouldn't believe me I expect!" she said, the corners of her mouth dimpling.

"I should believe anything from _your_ lips!" I declared gallantly.

"Well, believe that, then! Swallow it down if you can! I can't! He was a Pilgrim Father in the _Mayflower_, and he fell on his knees and thanked G.o.d as soon as he touched dry land in the true Pilgrim-Father way. But he couldn't hold a candle to the piked man at Bosworth."

Here we were interrupted by the entrance of a footman.

"The carriage is waiting, Miss."

"Thanks,--all right. Good-night Mr Tempest,--you'd better send word to Sibyl you are here; Lord Elton is dining out, but Sibyl will be at home all the evening."

I offered her my arm, and escorted her to the carriage, feeling a little sorry for her as she drove off in solitary state to the festive 'crush'

of the successful varnisher. She was a good girl, a bright girl, a true girl,--vulgar and flippant at times, yet on the whole sincere in her better qualities of character and sentiment,--and it was this very sincerity which, being quite unconventional and not at all _la mode_, was misunderstood, and would always be misunderstood by the higher and therefore more hypocritically polished circles of English society.

I returned to the drawing-room slowly and meditatively, telling one of the servants on my way to ask Lady Sibyl if she could see me for a few moments. I was not kept waiting long; I had only paced the room twice up and down when she entered, looking so strangely wild and beautiful that I could scarcely forbear uttering an exclamation of wonder. She wore white as was always her custom in the evenings,--her hair was less elaborately dressed than usual, and cl.u.s.tered over her brow in loose wavy ma.s.ses,--her face was exceedingly pale, and her eyes appeared larger and darker by comparison--her smile was vague and fleeting like that of a sleep-walker. She gave me her hand; it was dry and burning.

"My father is out--" she began.

"I know. But I came to see _you_. May I stay a little?"

She murmured a.s.sent, and sinking listlessly into a chair, began to play with some roses in a vase on the table beside her.

"You look tired Lady Sibyl,"--I said gently--"Are you not well?"

"I am quite well--" she answered--"But you are right in saying I am tired. I am dreadfully tired!"

"You have been doing too much perhaps?--your attendance on your mother tries you----"

She laughed bitterly.

"Attendance on my mother!--pray do not credit me with so much devotion.

I never attend on my mother. I cannot do it; I am too much of a coward.

Her face terrifies me; and whenever I do venture to go near her, she tries to speak, with such dreadful, such ghastly efforts, as make her more hideous to look at than anyone can imagine. I should die of fright if I saw her often. As it is, when I do see her I can scarcely stand--and twice I have fainted with the horror of it. To think of it!--that that living corpse with the fearful fixed eyes and distorted mouth should actually be _my mother_!"

She shuddered violently, and her very lips paled as she spoke. I was seriously concerned, and told her so.

"This must be very bad for your health,"--I said, drawing my chair closer to hers--"Can you not get away for a change?"

She looked at me in silence. The expression of her eyes thrilled me strangely,--it was not tender or wistful, but fierce, pa.s.sionate and commanding.

"I saw Miss Chesney for a few moments just now"--I resumed,--"She seemed very unhappy."

"She has nothing to be unhappy about--" said Sibyl coldly--"except the time my mother takes in dying. But she is young; she can afford to wait a little for the Elton coronet."

"Is not----may not this be a mistaken surmise of yours?" I ventured gently--"Whatever her faults, I think the girl admires and loves you."

She smiled scornfully.

"I want neither her love nor her admiration,"--she said--"I have few women-friends and those few are all hypocrites whom I mistrust. When Diana Chesney is my step-mother, we shall still be strangers."

I felt I was on delicate ground, and that I could not continue the conversation without the risk of giving offence.

"Where is _your_ friend?" asked Sibyl suddenly, apparently to change the subject--"Why does he so seldom come here now?"

"Rimanez? Well, he is a very queer fellow, and at times takes an abhorrence for all society. He frequently meets your father at the club, and I suppose his reason for not coming here is that he hates women."

"All women?" she queried with a little smile.

"Without exception!"

"Then he hates me?"

"I did not say that--" I answered quickly--"No one could hate you, Lady Sibyl,--but truly, as far as Prince Rimanez is concerned, I expect he does not abate his aversion to womankind (which is his chronic malady) even for you."

"So he will never marry?" she said musingly.

I laughed. "Oh, never! That you may be quite sure of."