Outbreak of Love (17 page)

“Oh!” I said, a little startled. “Well, it's jolly nice of you to say so.”

“Jolly nice, eh? Are you one of the swells?”

“Which swells?”

“All the swells that hang round the governor and Lord Tomnoddy. Haw! Haw!”

“I don't hang round anyone,” I said. “I don't get a chance.”

At this she inflated with silent laughter, ending in a wheeze.

“What you want to hang round is a pretty girl. And I'll bet you do with that complexion. You're English aren't you? That's where they get it—the Scotch mist and all that. I bet you have your fun and quite right too. We're only young once, I say. Don't you worry about your shirt. You have a good time and tell your cousins to go and you-know-what themselves.”

“Oh, thank you,” I said much cheered. “I will if I can.”

I saw Diana, followed by Wolfie and Josie come into the room. “There is my aunt,” I explained. “I must go and say hullo to her.”

“Ta-ta, ducks. See you later,” said Mrs Montaubyn. She followed me with her benevolent gaze, and I led it straight to her quarry. I saw Wolfie staring at her with horror, and thought he must be annoyed with me for speaking to someone of that kind, though it would be most unlike him. He turned at once and talked to the Pringles, who had arrived just behind them.

“Hullo, Aunt Diana,” I said, “what a lovely dress you have.” It was of black net and had little gold flowers sewn all over it. I asked the inevitable question about my shirt-front, but being used to Wolfie's, her standard was not high and she did not think it mattered.

“There's a most extraordinary woman over there,” I said, “but she's awfully nice really.”

“She looks kind,” said Diana. “She has beautiful hair.”

We drifted towards the queue that had been formed for the guests to be presented to their Excellencies and to the prince. We passed within two yards of Mrs Montaubyn, who ogled us expectantly as we approached. Wolfie, breathless, terrified and pompous, explained some musical theory to Lady Pringle, and tried to look as if he did not see her. I smiled at her but she was no longer concerned with me. As we walked past without any other recognition, the bright expectancy faded from her eyes, and she looked hurt, and rather puffy. She joined the queue a little behind us. Wolfie was so obviously ill-at-ease that Diana asked him what was the matter. He said that his collar-stud hurt him.

We had not moved far away from the prince when Mrs Montaubyn was presented and I heard her name. She was so intent on giving him a glance in which loyalty to the throne and amorous invitation were simultaneously expressed, that she stumbled as she made her curtsey, for which she had not been prepared. John Wyckham, with that readiness for any emergency which is essential to an A.D.C., put out a hand and steadied her.

“That lady is called Montaubyn,” I said to Diana, who was amused.

“She suggests a name of some substance,” she said.

Wolfie opened his mouth twice like a gasping fish, and then urged us to come away, as we were causing a block. For the time being we lost sight of Mrs Montaubyn.

A little later the guests crowded round a cleared space to watch the quadrille which was danced by their Excellencies and the governors of other states and their wives, who were in Melbourne for the races and for the prince's visit. As the wife of the Governor of New South Wales had sciatica, Miss Rockingham took her place. I was jammed in the crowd between Diana and the twins. A man behind us exclaimed
sotto voce
: “Great Scott! Who's that woman like Salomé?” The comparison was with Miss Maud Allan who had recently been in Melbourne, and the reference was to Miss Rockingham, whose sorrowful, sagging eyes showed no consciousness of the people watching her, nor of the grace of her own movements. In the grand chain she wove her way through the opposing line of governors, and as she took each hand she gave a slight inclination of her noble equine head, which brought it into the perfect lines of her body.

“I see Miss Rockingham's having a preliminary canter,” said Anthea, fortunately before Russell Lockwood had edged his way over to join Diana. He admired her dress, saying that she looked like Persephone in mourning. Cynthia pricked up her ears at the hint of culture.

“When was Persephone in mourning?” she asked.

“In the underworld, of course. As she had no real flowers she had to make them out of gold from Pluto's mines.”

“What a nice thing you've made up about my dress,” said Diana. “We've been watching Miss Rockingham dance. She's wonderfully graceful.”

“Yes, she is,” said Russell, and he watched her for a minute or two with more than casual admiration. Anthea had the sense to say nothing more about horses.

The quadrille ended and the crowd drifted apart. Mrs Montaubyn appeared again. She looked appraisingly at the twins and said:

“Having your fun, ducks? That's right.” She then moved away.

“Who on earth's that?” demanded Cynthia.

“She's called Mrs Montaubyn.”

“Do you
know
her?”

“Not exactly,” I said, unwilling to disclaim anyone who had been so kind.

“Then why did she call you a duck?”

“I suppose she thinks I look like one,” I said.

“Your nose isn't the right shape,” said Anthea.

The general dancing began and I was occupied with my youthful partners, but I noticed that in the intervals Mrs Montaubyn appeared to be circling round any group I happened to join, like some gorgeous bird of prey preparing to swoop. Or I may have been to her like the pilot fish that leads the shark, if this is true natural history. She had seen me greet Wolfie, and thought that through me she might force him to acknowledge her. He was no longer in sight, but was sitting in the men's cloakroom, mopping his head and sighing.

As I had only just begun to go to dances, I did not know a great many girls, and I had some gaps in my programme. During one of these, I was standing at the buffet eating ices, when Uncle George joined me.

“Hullo,” he said, “Baba said your shirt looks as if you'd been using it to clean a motor car.”

“Does it?” I asked.

He gave it a judicious glance. “No, only a bicycle,” he said.

At this moment I became aware of a presence on my other side, and of a whiff of brandy, strong enough to assert itself above all the smells of food and drink and women's scent in the supper room. I turned and found Mrs Montaubyn beside me, and I realized that the necklace of golden vine leaves was not inappropriate, though she had not chosen it herself, but had inherited it from her mother-in-law, who had often worn it to most temperate dinner-parties given by the Archbishop of Sydney.

“Where's your girl, ducks?” she asked.

“I haven't got this dance,” I said.

She nudged me and whispered huskily: “Introduce me to the gentleman.”

“Oh, Uncle George,” I said, “may I introduce you to Mrs Montaubyn? My uncle, Mr Langton.”

“How d'you do,” said George, without looking at her, and he walked away.

“Stuck-up old love-child, isn't he?” said Mrs Montaubyn. She tried to appear indifferent, but in her eyes was once more the hurt expression of a child who is puzzled to find itself the victim of social injustice. In her simplicity she had imagined that when once she had arrived at the ball, all would be gaiety and good-fellowship. Feeling myself under a cloud because of my shirt-front, and all the time haunted by a picture of Mildy, perhaps sitting up for me, while in her room the new ball-dress was spread uselessly on her bed, and being ashamed of Uncle George's behaviour, and also hating anyone not to be happy, I felt much sympathy for her.

“My uncle is not really like that,” I said, “but his wife's very jealous.”

She looked at me suspiciously.

“Really,” I assured her. “I bet he'd much rather talk to you than to Aunt Baba. I know I jolly well would.”

She pinched my cheek, and I looked round in dismay, but the music had begun again and the supper room was nearly empty.

“You're a real pal,” she said. “I'd dance with you only I'm not a cradle-snatcher. My toes aren't half itching, all the same.”

Mr Hemstock, taking advantage of the dancing, had come in to have a quiet guzzle.

“Look,” I said. “There's a man I'd like to introduce to you.”

“Which, dear?” she asked, turning. “What the giglamps! I'd rather die a virgin.” I was both too polite and too unsophisticated to ask if this were still possible. “I must say I would like a dance,” she continued. “Come on, ducks, I'll dance with you. Who cares what these stuck-up sods think?”

Although I cared a great deal what the stuck-up sods, particularly Cousin Sophie and the twins, thought, I did not see how I could properly refuse. I was full of sympathy for her loneliness and I thought that by dancing with her I might make a kind of act of reparation to Mildy. Also I thought that no gentleman could possibly refuse a request of this kind from a lady. I did not realize then, or until many years afterwards, that to be a gentleman one must put strict limits to one's chivalry, that is if one wishes to remain in the class where gentlemen are supposed most usually to be found.

And so, feeling that I was in one of those dreams where we are naked or grotesquely clad in a public street, I followed Mrs Montaubyn back to the ballroom, and with courteous diffidence allowed her to fold me to her bosom. We may be reasonably sure that this act of pure compassion was seen with delight by the holy angels, but my relatives did not share their view. Mrs Montaubyn had already attracted notice by her prowling round the ballroom, and her roving expectant eye. Baba said furiously to George: “Look at Guy dancing with that woman. He must have gone mad. Can't you keep your relations out of the gutter?” Even the more tolerant thought I was a little off my head, and the twins found further support for their assumption that I had a leaning towards older women. Like many plump people Mrs Montaubyn was light on her feet, and she responded to the slightest touch, like a racing dinghy to the tiller, so that we danced very well together, which made my behaviour appear more outrageous. Mrs Montaubyn was aware that it was a little odd of me to dance with her, and when the music stopped, from a good-natured wish to save me further embarrassment, she merely said: “Thanks, ducks. That was good-oh,” and she turned on her heel to begin once more her lonely prowl.

Anthea passed me with Freddie Thorpe, and deliberately ignored me. My next dance was with Cynthia, and I was almost afraid to claim it. To my surprise she was quite pleasant. She had just begun to realize that the social exclusiveness in which she had been brought up, was not intellectual, and she took an enlightened view of my performance, though questioning me about it rather as if it were a case-history.

The twins frequently surprised me in this way. Just as I had decided that Anthea was the kinder and more naturally friendly of the two, she would administer a devastating snub, while Cynthia, as now, would be understanding. The reason was that Anthea was guided entirely by her feelings and personal convenience at the moment, while Cynthia's actions were always directed by her mind, which at this time was in process of change. Anthea thought: “He has a dirty shirt and he likes dancing with old women. How squalid!” Cynthia's first reaction was the same. Then she thought: “Am I possibly prejudiced? Is there any reason why he should not dance with old women if he likes?” And she began that train of questioning, of re-assessment so beloved of the intelligentsia, which having become an obsession, has led to the distintegration of our whole tradition of art and religion and moral values.

At the far end of the ballroom was the state drawing-room, opening into a corridor near the main entrance to the house. The ballroom had its own entrance by which people arrived for large parties. In the intervals between dances a few people found their way into this drawing-room, but for much of the time it was empty. At about eleven o'clock Russell and Diana went in there. They had met twice since he had had supper with her at Brighton, and at both meetings they had continued more or less the conversation of that evening. Whenever they met they at once burst into this animated exchange of ideas which they only broke off with the greatest reluctance. The slight stiffness and uncertainty of their first meetings had quite worn away.

“You talk,” said Diana, “not as if we
were
somewhere, but as if we had to
go
somewhere. After all most people have to live in the countries where they're born, and they quite like it.”

“Poor things,” said Russell.

“Not at all.”

“Well, let me think. I know that there's an answer to that. I've got it. Only our bodies were born in Australia. Our minds were born in Europe. Our bodies are always trying to return to our minds.”

“Well then, suppose we go to Europe. Our minds want to return to our bodies in Australia. Besides, it's largely things we go to Europe for. Our people are in Australia. Perhaps you like things more than people.”

“That's absolutely wrong. I came back to Australia because I like people more than things.”

“And now you want to get back to the things again.”

“I didn't say I did. You say it.”

“You always talk of them. So do I. I want them too. But you keep showing me the moon, and saying, ‘Look, isn't it wonderful? That is what you ought to have.' It's not within my reach.”

“I don't see why we can't have people and things too. One makes one's love of things obvious. It's not so easy with people.”

Baba looked into the room, saw them sitting there, gave no sign of recognition and went away again.

“Are we discontented with our lots?” asked Diana.

“Yes,” said Russell, and they laughed.

“What have we to be discontented about? We are sitting in a very grand room—a little ugly perhaps—we both have enough to eat, warm clean clothes, and a ball every now and then.”