In the course of her hospital work Justine had of necessity run across far different types; but from the connections thus offered she was often held back by the subtler shades of taste that civilize human intercourse. Her world, in short, had been chiefly peopled by the dull or the crude, and, hemmed in between the two, she had created for herself an inner kingdom where the fastidiousness she had to set aside in her outward relations recovered its full sway. There must be actual beings worthy of admission to this secret precinct, but hitherto they had not come her way; and the sense that they were somewhere just out of reach still gave an edge of youthful curiosity to each encounter with a new group of people.
Certainly, Mrs. Gaines’s garden-party seemed an unlikely field for the exercise of such curiosity: Justine’s few glimpses of Hanaford society had revealed it as rather a dull thick body, with a surface stimulated only by ill-advised references to the life of larger capitals; and the concentrated essence of social Hanaford was of course to be found at the Gaines entertainments. It presented itself, however, in the rich June afternoon, on the long shadows of the well-kept lawn, and among the paths of the rose-garden, in its most amiable aspect; and to Justine, wearied by habitual contact with ugliness and suffering, there was pure delight in the verdant setting of the picture, and in the light harmonious tints of the figures peopling it. If the company was dull, it was at least decorative; and poverty, misery and dirt were shut out by the placid unconsciousness of the guests as securely as by the leafy barriers of the garden.
X
“AH, Mrs. Dressel, we were on the lookout for you—waiting for the curtain to rise. Your friend Miss Brent? Juliana, Mrs. Dressel’s friend Miss Brent–-“
Near the brilliantly-striped marquee that formed the axis of the Gaines garden-parties, Mr. Halford Gaines, a few paces from his wife and daughters, stood radiating a royal welcome on the stream of visitors pouring across the lawn. It was only to eyes perverted by a different social perspective that there could be any doubt as to the importance of the Gaines entertainments. To Hanaford itself they were epoch-making; and if any rebellious spirit had cherished a doubt of the fact, it would have been quelled by the official majesty of Mr. Gaines’s frock-coat and the comprehensive cordiality of his manner.
There were moments when New York hung like a disquieting cloud on the social horizon of Mrs. Gaines and her daughters; but to Halford Gaines Hanaford was all in all. As an exponent of the popular and patriotic “good-enough-for-me” theory he stood in high favour at the Hanaford Club, where a too-keen consciousness of the metropolis was alternately combated by easy allusion and studied omission, and where the unsettled fancies of youth were chastened and steadied by the reflection that, if Hanaford was good enough for Halford Gaines, it must offer opportunities commensurate with the largest ideas of life.
Never did Mr. Gaines’s manner bear richer witness to what could be extracted from Hanaford than when he was in the act of applying to it the powerful pressure of his hospitality. The resultant essence was so bubbling with social exhilaration that, to its producer at any rate, its somewhat mixed ingredients were lost in one highly flavoured draught. Under ordinary circumstances no one discriminated more keenly than Mr. Gaines between different shades of social importance; but any one who was entertained by him was momentarily ennobled by the fact, and not all the anxious telegraphy of his wife and daughters could, for instance, recall to him that the striking young woman in Mrs. Dressel’s wake was only some obscure protégée, whom it was odd of Effie to have brought, and whose presence was quite unnecessary to emphasize.
“Juliana, Miss Brent tells me she has never seen our roses. Oh, there are other roses in Hanaford, Miss Brent; I don’t mean to imply that no one else attempts them; but unless you can afford to give carte blanche to your man—and mine happens to be something of a specialist…well, if you’ll come with me, I’ll let them speak for themselves. I always say that if people want to know what we can do they must come and see—they’ll never find out from me!”
A more emphatic signal from his wife arrested Mr. Gaines as he was in the act of leading Miss Brent away.
“Eh?—What? The Amhersts and Mrs. Ansell? You must excuse me then, I’m afraid—but Westy shall take you. Westy, my boy, it’s an ill-wind…. I want you to show this young lady our roses.” And Mr. Gaines, with mingled reluctance and satisfaction, turned away to receive the most important guests of the day.
It had not needed his father’s summons to draw the expert Westy to Miss Brent: he was already gravitating toward her, with the nonchalance bred of cosmopolitan successes, but with a directness of aim due also to his larger opportunities of comparison.
“The roses will do,” he explained, as he guided her through the increasing circle of guests about his mother; and in answer to Justine’s glance of enquiry: “To get you away, I mean. They’re not much in themselves, you know; but everything of the governor’s always begins with a capital letter.”
“Oh, but these roses deserve to,” Justine exclaimed, as they paused under the evergreen archway at the farther end of the lawn.
“I don’t know—not if you’ve been in England,” Westy murmured, watching furtively for the impression produced, on one who had presumably not, by the great blush of colour massed against its dusky background of clipped evergreens.
Justine smiled. “I have been—but I’ve been in the slums since; in horrible places that the least of those flowers would have lighted up like a lamp.”
Westy’s guarded glance imprudently softened. “It’s the beastliest kind of a shame, your ever having had to do such work–-“
“Oh, had to?” she flashed back at him disconcertingly. “It was my choice, you know: there was a time when I couldn’t live without it. Philanthropy is one of the subtlest forms of self-indulgence.”
Westy met this with a vague laugh. If a chap who was as knowing as the devil did, once in a way, indulge himself in the luxury of talking recklessly to a girl with exceptional eyes, it was rather upsetting to discover in those eyes no consciousness of the risk he had taken!
“But I am rather tired of it now,” she continued, and his look grew guarded again. After all, they were all the same—except in that particular matter of the eyes. At the thought, he risked another look, hung on the sharp edge of betrayal, and was snatched back, not by the manly instinct of self-preservation, but by some imp of mockery lurking in the depths that lured him.
He recovered his balance and took refuge in a tone of worldly ease. “I saw a chap the other day who said he knew you when you were at Saint Elizabeth’s—wasn’t that the name of your hospital?”