Alice Lauder/Part 2/Chapter 11

IT was generally understood throughout the length and breadth of the land about this time that the Klingenders would have a brilliant ball, if they died for it; and as nothing succeeds like success, past, present, or to come, everyone made a point of being present on their Tuesday evening, in spite of all the difficulties and dangers of the bad roads and worse river-crossings that had to be surmounted. The two girls who chiefly represented the Klingender family in the eyes of the world (putting aside a harmless necessary father and mother, and two or three useful but uninteresting brothers) were very pretty, very small, very blonde little creatures, much resembling in colouring and fluffiness of hair, and in a habit of generally wearing some shade of yellow, a pair of pretty and animated prize canaries. They were so much alike in figure, complexion, and general featheriness, that it was a difficult task for a new acquain​tance to discern one from the other, or to distinguish the engaged one from the sister who was still at liberty. The engaged Miss Klingender seemed to cling to that blessed estate through good report and evil report, merely as a matter of conviction and inward principle—the object of her engagement, if one may speak scientifically, being a movable quantity, and liable to be changed according to the fluctuations of the seasons, like a winter mantle or a thin pair of shoes. After a short acquaintance, however, observant strangers began to notice that there was a difference, and that the quieter, soberer, and less feathery-fringed and yellow-crested of the two girls was the born coquette; while the superficially brighter and more frivolous was really the business woman of the family, and the strong spirit who managed the entertainments, household affairs, and social functions, with such admirable results. If there was a whisper of flirtation or fastness about the reputation of these charming sisters, it was due to the airy manner, or rather mannerisms, of the useful one; the mild, angelic smiles of the younger girl being invariably bestowed on the object of her affections (for the time being), and on him alone. There was, however, a whisper going round well-informed circles that Miss ​Klingender had designs on the peace of a certain personage, no one less than the chief justice of a neighbouring colony, a well-preserved dignified widower then on a visit to Government House; and it was popularly reported (supposing this affaire de cœur came to a satisfactory point) that Miss Klingender intended to marry him out of hand—the experience of the family with Adeline’s variations having caused them to lose all confidence in a preliminary time of betrothal. However this might turn out in the end, the mere supposition gave an extra spark of éclat to the ball; and all the “nobility and gentry” for twenty miles round poured into the garden entrance on this rose-scented night of early summer. The ball was given in honour of a new house, just completed; and very stately and hospitable the wide hall looked as the entering guests filled it up for the house-warming. The Klingenders had sacrificed everything to this apartment. People said it was so like them, in a tone of disparagement; but the general effect was undoubtedly very successful. The lofty vaulted ceiling was ribbed and panelled with native cedar of satiny texture, and yellow as a sunflower in colouring. At one end a well-designed spiral staircase rose in graceful lightness into a recessed gallery; at the other a fine ​bay window formed a sort of daïs or stage for the grand piano and a harp. The Klingenders thoroughly understood the art of lighting up, and if ever there is a good excuse for reckless extravagance, it certainly lies in the becoming radiance of innumerable wax candles. They had, on the other hand, carefully abstained from the wild profusion of ornamental pots and garlands of flowers, which in so many similar cases turns our houses into the semblance of a bad horticultural show, with a slight tinge of a cheap bazaar, and some reminiscences of church decorations thrown in. The cedar-lined coved ceiling glowed in a more golden shade of brown, the few choice bowls of flowers, placed well out of reach of the destroyers, perfumed the room with dreamy odours, and the music that floated from the little raised daïs was delicious enough to persuade the new-world fairies to leave their white mushroom rings on the green plain outside, and dance a measure on the satin-polished cedar floor within. Whatever might be the fate of the other domestic apartments, it could not be denied that the ample space, sylvan-colouring, and fine architectural design of this large open hall formed a very attractive introduction to the usual informal, timber-built country-house of the colonies.

​The Klingenders had a large sense of hospitality, and had determined not to deal out their invitations by the yard measure of Mrs. Grundy. Consequently all the neighbours, gentle and simple, who by any stretch of fancy could be construed into dancing people, were brought into their fold; and the extra element of “outsiders” gave a piquancy to the general flavour, like the clove of garlic which the French chef rubs over the salad bowl, and which, “unsuspected, animates the whole.” The up-country detachment were chiefly distinguishable by the intensified accent of their dress and manners. They did everything in italics, as it were. They were all punctual to a fault in arriving, majestic and ceremonious in their greeting, conscientious to the point of solemnity in working out the steps and evolutions of the quadrilles and Lancers. When it came to the more rapid whirl of waltzes and galops, however, the up-country contingent knew what was required of them. They danced very well as a whole, and with the greatest empressement and vitality. It was a point of honour with the girls not to give in for a moment’s pause till the last note of the waltz had died away; and they spoke not a word, and hardly smiled, until they could feel that this stern duty was accomplished.

​But even in a ball-room the race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong; and before the festivity was half over it was generally admitted that the belle of the evening was a new arrival, a pale quiet young lady in blue and silver brocade who seemed greatly sought after by all sorts and conditions of dancing men, but who, after the manner of such fair potentates, confined her favours to one or two chosen partners. Something must be allowed for the charm of novelty; something to the delicate art of Julie Bond’s ideal creation, which, while it seemed on the surface to bring out the weak points of the wearer’s appearance—her paleness and want of contour—really accentuated by some subtle touches the colour of her sea-blue eyes and the grace of her slenderly made figure. The great secret, however, of her success was in the charm of her movements. She had carefully studied the art of dancing—as another branch of music, indeed—and the teaching of the best London experts had not been thrown away. Some people can dance by a happy instinct of nature, and when they are in the mood they impart a wild and elemental charm to the practice of this art, which others, guided only by the light of reason, can never hope to attain to. Alice, too, was thoroughly ​enjoying herself, conscious that she was playing a part, and playing it with great spirit and refinement. When Cinderella danced so triumphantly at the fairy ball, it must have been a great comfort to her to know that the gaze of her relations was upon her; and on this occasion Alice was well aware that the eyes of one person at least, who had known her in her former primitive and chrysalis state—in her old frocks, and big boots, and misguided ideas—were fixed upon her, as now, in her brightest mood, admired, surrounded, dressed in silk attire, and sparkling with the diamond stars which Clare insisted on lending her, she floated over the polished cedar floor with

This person, however, showed no empressement in seeking her out; he seemed to have relapsed into the lazy fainéant manner of the London man, spoilt by attention, and too indolent even to dance with the pretty colonial girls—the conventional globe-trotter’s manner. He sauntered up to Miss Lauder early in the evening, and carelessly, as she thought, asked her for a dance. “I’m afraid I haven't got one left till quite the end. The twenty-fourth, if you like ; but perhaps I shan’t be here at that time.”

​“And I certainly shall not,” he replied, rather rudely, turning away. But he had not far to turn before a bright-tressed head bent towards him, and a brighter voice exclaimed:

“Ah, here you are at last! If I didn’t think you had given me the slip altogether, and I was in a rage, too, I can tell you! You don’t seem very chirpy, though; what’s the matter?”

It was the universal opinion universally expressed on that memorable evening that Mrs. Austin was making a fool of herself. “So stately his form and so lovely her face,” it was impossible they should escape observation. She was literally inseparable from her handsome friend; and if bereft of him for a short time she sat waiting—visibly, for his return—refusing all requests from other men—gaily enough, it is true—but with such devotion to this one companion, that (as some of the up-country girls observed), “It’s a regular scandal! She might just as well be engaged to him!” Whether the scandal consisted in the selfish absorption of an eligible partner, or some more recondite cause, did not appear on the surface; but the disapproval of her conduct was certainly widespread and broadly expressed.

This turn in the tide of public feeling was not long in reaching the quick ears of Carrie Klin​gender, as her bright eyes roved incessantly over the ball-room, taking note of every incident and almost every smile or frown, all the time that her flying feet and airy conversation enchanted her partners; and it was Carrie’s capable little hand which finally put a match to the mine, and destroyed a fortress that all the heavy arguments of the Granby family, the laboured warnings of Mr. Austin, and the murmured commentaries of all the world around, had not sufficed even to shake for an instant previously.

But the moment of action was not yet arrived, in Carrie’s opinion, and she was carried onward by the stream of her social duties in the direction of the supper-room, towards whose closed doors her devoted chief justice had been casting anxious glances for more than an hour previously.

As soon, however, as she could get away from the supper-room Carrie slipped her arm into Mrs. Austin’s, and, with the authority of an old school friend, and of a girl who might be married at any moment, suggested that they should go upstairs to the little half-enclosed gallery, which hung over the hall at that corner, in the style of a “Queen’s closet” of old Spanish palaces. Carrie well knew what she was about when she fought a pitched battle (and won it) ​with the architect over that particular niche, though it had to be built in gross violation of “periods” and of all architectural conscience. She had been long used to the diplomacies of “the interview,” and her experience with her sister’s numerous admirers—aspirants to future engagements, or “broken-off” lovers on the retired list—led her to desiderate above all things the repose of some quiet spot where an undisturbed conversation could be carried on. Her previous council-chamber had been the old summer-house in the vegetable garden—the only place where she might hope for half an hour’s quiet, unbroken by the noisy claims of her large family, or the maraudings of the servants for orders; but this charming little latticed recess had not yet been made use of, and Carrie saw her opportunity to inaugurate it now in a friendly way and for a good cause.

“Isn’t this a nice quiet little spot to rest and be thankful in?” she chattered gaily to her companion. “We can see all that is going on underneath us, and no one knows we are looking on and seeing the game. How do you like this Cairo lattice-screen? It’s genuine; we got it sent out by a friend in Egypt—one of Adeline’s old lovers. Now there is my dear old judge looking everywhere for me. See how faithful ​he is! What an example to the younger men!”

“Why, Carrie, do you really mean to———”

“Oh, I don’t know; you must not ask me that till he does. But he is really a charming companion―so cultivated, so civilized! Of course, there is a disparity of age; but you, Lizzie, can’t cast a stone at me on that account.”

“No, oh no! But are you sure you love him enough to—to———?”

“Love? Oh, nonsense! I have had enough of sentiment with Adeline’s affairs to last me all the rest of my natural life. But if you do want to see a case of the real thing—what mother calls the good old-fashioned, jealous devotion of her young days—just look at that young man standing against the door, over there—to the right.”

“Arthur Campbell! You don’t mean him, do you?”

“Yes, I do; and he is just as mad as he can be to-night, because that pale girl in the blue brocade—by the bye, I must take a note of her dressmaker—won’t look at him; and she has turned the heads of half my own special partners to-night.”

Carrie saw that her shaft had sped, and she ​gave her friend time to pluck out the quivering dart, while she rattled on in her pretty, twittering tones, as if all unconscious of Lizzie’s whitening cheek and anxious expression.

“Do you mean he cares for her?” she managed to bring out presently; and although Carrie had wandered miles away from her subject meanwhile, they both knew what was meant by the question.

“Rather! My dear child, don’t you know it is your pretty face that has come in the way of these two young people? I’m ashamed of you! You ought to know better at your age. All Green Street calls you names, and Miss Lauder is as wild as she can be, and Mr. Campbell thinks she wants to snub him, and so he gets the sulks; and you—silly old Greek statue with pink cheeks that you are!—never see an inch before your nose, but just take what comes, and do no end of mischief without knowing it.”

“Are you really in earnest, Carrie, or is this one of your jokes? You know I never could tell at school what you meant, and you always say I am so literal-minded. Do explain it to me.”

“Oh, this is no joke, I can assure you! And if you don’t mind my speaking plainly for once, I would like to say to you—Give him up—it’s ​time! You have had your fun, and the play is nearly over; ring down the green curtain, and let the audience go home. They have had quite enough amusement for their money!”

“Now you are talking riddles. You bewilder me. What do you expect me to do?”

“Just to say, ‘Not at home,’ the next time your friend comes, and let him fight it out with the other girl. All our dearest friends are talking you over and advising and remonstrating with you (to other people), but no one has the courage to speak to you straight. But believe me, Lizzie, it’s the best way—if you really have a friendship for him, it’s the best for him.”

“And best for you yourself, a thousand times,” she added under her breath; but Carrie was too experienced a campaigner to press that side of the question.

“Ah! they are going to have some music now,” she said aloud, leaning over the little carved balcony, where the yellow flutter of her ribbons and the feathery gold of her hair showed brightly beside the dead-white satin and the classic outline of her friend. Even at that moment Carrie noticed how much the touch of emotion added to Mrs. Austin’s beauty. The fine mask of her face was plainly meant for tragedy; ​her pallor and look of trouble seemed to bring out the original design with admirable harmony. Lizzie looked down with all her soul in her eyes—looked at Arthur as if she would read his inmost thoughts; but she could see nothing except that he was looking decidedly sulky, as Carrie had suggested. He stood with his back to the wall and his hands in his pockets, in a tolerably dark and quiet nook, all unaware that anyone could watch his proceedings; while his attention was fixed gloomily on the little impromptu stage. Apparently what he saw there gave him very little pleasure. Some people were getting music arranged; the professor seated himself at the piano, and, with the air of a man who knows what he is about, began to play the accompaniment to their duet.

“Oh, that we two were maying!” floated in clearest melody up the hall, and a fine baritone accompanied Alice’s pure liquid soprano notes.

It was really a beautiful, dreamlike piece of music, and all the audience testified to their enjoyment with the enthusiasm of people who hear a first-class professional performance with​out paying for it. There was a pause, and a slight confusion of tongues; the two ladies in the balcony looked on with interest.

“What are they going to do next?” exclaimed Carrie, feeling that she ought to be at the helm. “What on earth are they bringing that old spinning-wheel of grandmother’s on the stage for? Oh, I see! She is going to do Marguerite for us. How delightful!”

Alice said afterwards she did not know what had possessed her, but she was wound up to the proper dramatic pitch; and when she came back to the stage, a white cashmere thrown over her rich dress, her hair let down, and one or two hasty toilet touches transforming her from the modern ball-room young lady into the simple love-stricken heroine of the poem, she felt as real—more real and more at home, indeed—in her assumed character than in all her previous gaiety. Her companion began to play the low, melancholy opening accompaniment (she had chosen Schubert’s beautiful conception of the song), and a flute-player from the musicians standing beside the piano added a few liquid notes in obligato. Alice sat down to the spinning-wheel in the attitude she had often rehearsed with her stage teacher, and, like a girl in a dream, began to sing very softly in the intensely ​sad, appealing music which of itself would translate Goethe’s words to any sympathetic listener:

Mrs. Austin did not know a word of German, but she understood the music—oh, how clearly! She knew too well the meaning of those sad, hopeless notes, “Mein Herz ist schwer.” Heavy-hearted she was indeed, but she made a brave fight with herself. It seemed to her as if the dry winter branches of her life had all too late burst into blossom; nevertheless, she must with her own hand destroy the flowers, and spoil all the love and poetry late come into her heart. But she never faltered in her resolution, now that her eyes were opened. All the uprightness and honesty of her nature—the inherited instinct of unstained forefathers—rose in her soul, and bade her take arms and fight her battle, even in this bright music-stirred scene of gaiety and outward happiness. Carrie had said that the only thing she could do for him was to give him up. These words rang in her ears, and she clenched her hand on the balcony with a sudden pang as she listened in her inmost heart to this ​conviction. Lizzie was not very poetical, but she could have wept with poor, ill-fated Marguerite, as the last words fell on the silence to the sad, hopeless refrain of the spinning-wheel, “Meine Ruh’ ist hin—mein Herz ist schwer.”