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The End of the Season.

“Adieu, bal, plaisir, amour! On disait: Pauvre Constance!

Et on dansait jusqu’au Jour chez l’ambassadeur de France.”

Delavigne.

On a certain evening near the close of those busy, rushing summer months which Londoners call “the season,” Lady Breton was sitting alone in the long, luxurious dressing-room which opened off her satin-hung boudoir. She wore one of those mysterious combinations of lace & ribands & soft folds called a wrapper, & as she leaned back rather wearily in her deep-arm-chair, her slippered feet were stretched out to meet the glow of the small wood-fire crackling on the hearth. There was no other light in the room, but the fire-flash, unless a certain dull twilight gleam through the dark folds of the curtains, deserves such a name; for my lady had given orders not to be disturbed, adding that she would ring for the lamps. But in the soft, flickering of the flames, that rose & fell fitfully, it was a very white & mournful face that sank back in the shadow of the crimson cushion; a face in which there was no discernible trace of the rosy, audacious Georgie Rivers whom we used to know. Nor was it the splendid, resistless Lady Breton who had taken London by storm that Summer; but only a very miserable little personage, occasionally breaking the twilight hush of the warm room with a heavy, aching cough, that made her lean shivering nearer the pleasant blaze. In fact, Georgie had at last broken down, in body & mind, under the weight of her bitter mistake; which all her triumphs & her petty glories seemed only to make bitterer, with a sense of something empty & unsatisfied, lower than the surface-gayety of the ball-room. The pang had deepened & deepened, driving her farther into the ceaseless rush of society with the vain hope of losing her individual sorrow there; no one was gayer than Lady Breton. But at home, in the grand house, with its grave servants & its pictures & treasures, that was no more hope of forgetting than abroad. Any sympathy that might eventually have grown up between the old lord & his young wife, had been frozen by Georgie’s persistent indifference to him; & whatever love his worn-out old heart had at first lavished on her, was lost in the nearer interests of a good dinner or an amusing play. Lord Breton, in short, relapsed entirely into his bachelor-habits, & was only with his wife, or conscious of her existence when she presided at his table, or entered a ball-room at his side. He was not ungenerous; he allowed her plenty of liberty & still had a comfortable pleasure in feeling that he was the possessor of the most charming woman in London—but day by day, she became less a part of his life. And still at her heart clung the love that she had despised of old, & whose unconquerable reality she was learning now—too late. Jack Egerton’s reproaches seemed to have been the last drop in her cup of shame & bitterness—again & again came the wretched, haunting thought that she had lost Guy’s esteem forever, & nothing could win back the place in his heart that she had sold so cheap. So she mused on in the closing darkness, over the firelight, & it was 8 o’clock when she rang for her maid, who came in with the lamps & a bottle of cough-syrup for my lady. Georgie rose wearily from her seat, drawing a soft shawl close about her shoulders; &, as the maid stood waiting for orders, said between her painful coughing: “I shall dress for the ball now, Sidenham.” “But, my lady,” the woman answered, “you have had no dinner.” “No, I did not want any, thanks. It is time to dress.” “But—my lady,” persisted the maid, “your cough is so bad … indeed, my lady …” Georgie interrupted her with an impatient movement. “My white dress, Sidenham. Have the flowers come home?” “Yes, my lady.” And the process of the toilette began. Sidenham had a real attachment for her mistress, but she knew that my lady could brook no questioning of her will, & being a good servant, went about her duty obediently. Lord Breton had dined out that evening, but at about 9.30, as Sidenham was putting the last touches to Georgie’s hair, he knocked unexpectedly at the dressing-room door, & then came in, in his evening dress. “I hoped you were in bed by—good Heavens!” he exclaimed, as Georgie rose in her glistening satin. “You don’t mean to say that you are going out tonight?” Sidenham, shaking out my lady’s train, looked volumes of sympathy at my lord. “Oh, certainly,” returned Georgie, unconcernedly. “It is the Duchess of Westmoreland’s ball tonight, you know.” “But this is madness—madness. Your cough was much worse today—such exposure at night would be extremely dangerous.” Georgie was clasping her diamonds, with her back turned towards him, & merely shrugged her white shoulders slightly. “Let me dissuade you,” Lord Breton continued, with real anxiety. “Surely it is little to forfeit one ball—the last of the season—for one’s health’s sake. Your physician would certainly not advise such imprudence, such absolute risk.” “Very likely,” said Georgie, nonchalantly, “but—’when the cat’s away the mice will play,’ you know.” “I know that going out tonight would be folly on your part; let me beg you to desist from it.” “My white fan, Sidenham. I presume,” said Georgie, turning to face her husband as she spoke, “that I shall have your escort?” “I am going to the ball.” “And yet” she continued lightly, “you wish to exile me from it? I should die of ennui in half an hour alone here!” “Then—then, may I offer you my company?” he said, eagerly, taking the cloak from Sidenham’s hands. “Let us give up the ball, Georgina.” Georgie was really moved; such a demonstration was so unusual on Lord Breton’s part, that it could not fail to touch her. But it was not her rôle to shew this. “No indeed!” she replied, clasping her bracelet, & coming closer to him. “Why should either of us be sacrificed? Instead of suicide for one, it would be—murder for both! Please put my cloak on.” “You go then?” said Lord Breton, coldly, with a gathering frown. “Oh, yes. As you say, it is the last ball of the season. Tomorrow I shall do penance.” And drawing her cloak close, with a suppressed cough, she swept out of the room. The Duchess of Westmoreland’s ball, at Lochiel House, was a very grand & a very brilliant affair, & a very fitting finale to one of the gayest seasons that people could recall. Everybody (that is, as her Grace expressively said, “everybody that is anybody”) was there; & the darling of the night was, as usual, the fascinating Lady Breton. White as her white dress, unrelieved by a shade of colour, she came in on her husband’s arm; people remembered afterwards, how strangely, deadly pale she was. But she danced continually, talked & laughed with everyone more graciously than ever, & raised the hearts of I don’t know how many desponding lovers by her charming gayety & goodnature. She was resting after the last quadrille, when the Duke of Westmoreland himself, came up to her, with the inexpressibly relieved air of a model host who, having done his duty by all the ugly dowagers in the room, finds himself at liberty to follow his own taste for a few moments. “I don’t think” he said, answering Georgie’s greeting “that you have seen the Duchess’s new conservatories. Will you let me be your cicerone?” “How did you guess, Duke,” she returned, gaily “that I was longing to escape from the heat & light? Do take me, if I am not carrying you off from any more—agreeable—duty!” “My duty is over,” said the Duke, smiling. “But you are coughing tonight, Lady Breton, & I cannot allow you to go into the cooler air without a wrap.” Signing to a servant, he sent for a soft fur mantle, & having folded it carefully about Georgie’s shoulders, led her on his arm through the long & brilliant suites. Followed by many an envious & many an admiring eye, she walked on with her proud step, talking lightly & winningly to her noble escort, until they reached the folding doors of the great conservatories. The Duke led her in, & they paused on the threshold looking down the green vista of gorgeous tropical plants. The gay dance-music came like a soft echo from the distant ball-room, mingling with the clear tinkle of fountains that tossed their spray amid the branching ferns & palm-trees on which the Chinese lanterns swung from the ceiling, shed an unreal, silvery glow. For a moment neither spoke; then Georgie looked up at her host with a bright smile. “Fairyland!” she exclaimed. “No one shall persuade me that this is the work of anyone less ethereal than Queen Mab herself! Is it real? Will it last?” “I hope so,” his Grace answered, laughing; “it would be a pity that her Elfin Majesty’s work should vanish in a single night.” “Only, as children say, ‘it is too good to be true,’” said Georgie, merrily. “At least, to us lesser mortals, who are not accustomed to all the marvels of Lochiel House.” “Will you come on a little further?” said the Duke, well-pleased. “I want to shew you some rare ferns. Here they are.” And so they passed along the aisle of mingled green, in the soft moonlike radiance; pausing here & there to admire or discuss the Duke’s favourite specimens. At the end of the long, cool bower a broad ottoman stood in a recess filled with ferns; & Georgie asked to sit down before entering the next conservatory. “You are tiring yourself, Lady Breton?” asked the Duke, anxiously, sitting down beside her, & drawing the mantle, which had slipped down, over her shoulder. “No, not tired, indeed,” she answered, “but half dizzy with so much beauty. I must sit still to be able to enjoy it perfectly—sit still, & drink it in.” “It is a relief after the crowded rooms,” assented his Grace. “I was longing to be here all the evening.” “I cannot wonder. Do you know, Duke,” said Georgie, laughing, “if I were disposed to be sentimental I should say that I envied the gardener who has these conservatories in charge more than anyone in Lochiel House!” The Duke echoed her laugh. “If it suits you to be sentimental just now, Lady Breton, the gardener—an old protégé of mine—is a very fit subject. He has a romance attached to him.” “Better & better!” cried Georgie. “He can come in here & dream of it!” “I daresay though—poor fellow!—he would rather forget it,” said the Duke. Georgie started slightly, & a strange look came into her eyes. “Oh, if we could but forget,” she half-whispered; then, in a different tone: “but what of the gardener? I will not let you off with that story; you must play Princess Scheherazade, Duke!” “Most obediently, though poor Watson probably never intended his poor little love-affair to serve such a grand purpose. Well—’anything, but to the purpose’ is my motto, Lady Breton, so here is the whole romance. Watson came into my father’s service as a lad & rose to be one of the undergardeners down at Morley Towers. There he wooed my mother’s maid, a pretty young woman, who in the end spoiled two lives by her ambition.—Are you ill, Lady Breton?” “No, no,” said Georgie, hastily, playing nervously with her bouquet, “please go on. I am quite impatient.” “Watson,” continued the Duke, “was successful in his suit, & the wedding was arranged, much to the poor fellow’s happiness—for he was as genuinely in love, Lady Breton,” said the Duke, with slight sarcasm, “as any gentleman would have been—the wedding, I say, was arranged, when my father brought home a fine French valet, who got a larger salary, & had altogether a higher seat in the synagogue, than Watson. The bride, whose head was turned by the attentions of this more fascinating rival, gave Watson the slip—jilted him, and—great Heavens! You are faint, Lady Breton—what is it?” The bouquet had slipped from Georgie’s powerless hands, & she could scarcely answer, as the Duke bent over her, “it will be over—in a moment—” “Let me call someone,” said his Grace, anxiously; but she shook her head, & whispered faintly, “No, no … Do not call … it will be over …” “I will get you some wine. Can you wait here alone?” She gave a little, frightened cry & caught his hand wildly. “Don’t leave me! I … I … am better … now. I don’t want anything … Take me away, Duke!” Sorely perplexed, he helped her to rise, & giving her his arm, led her very slowly back through the conservatory. She had evidently rallied her strength for the effort, for though she did not trust herself to speak, her step was almost steady; & at last, to the Duke’s intense relief, they reached the doors. The room on which the conservatory opened was hung with pictures & during the earlier part of the evening had been deserted for the other end of the suite; but the crowd had taken a new turn now & people were thronging in, to fill the interval before supper. Once or twice in his anxious progress through the crush the Duke was arrested, & not a few astonished glances met Lady Breton’s white, suffering face; but they had nearly gained a door leading by a back way to the cloak-room, when his Grace felt the cold hand slip from his arm, & Georgie fell backward fainting. In an instant they were ringed in by a startled, eager crowd; but the Duke, lifting the slight, unconscious form in his arms, refused peremptorily all offers for assistance, & despatching a messenger for Lord Breton, himself carried Georgie into a dressing-room, out of reach of the bustle & curiosity of his officious guests.

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