betray something of what she felt. He deserved that! And a sentimental
letter, that last indulgence, was a woman’s right. But she did nothing
of the sort, reflecting in time that a man is not open to sentiment from
two sources at once, particularly when in the throes of his puppy love.
She did not even address the man she knew so well, and whom Mabel
Cutting did not know at all, for she felt quite positive that he was
sound asleep. She wrote him a dignified friendly note, telling him that
she had long been prepared for the news, and was sure that he had chosen
wisely. She did not even insert a blunt sting here and there, for she
knew him so well that she could write exactly what, in his present mood,
he most would wish to receive from her. When it was finished, she found
her first real consolation in visualizing it as an impenetrable bulwark
about her pride. She thanked her stars that he had not come in person to
tell her of his engagement, permitting her to divine his passion for the
little fool. No doubt she would have beaten him, and he would have been
too polite to beat her in return! Heaven! what a mess she would have
made of it. She devoutly hoped she had buried Peggy Hill five fathoms
deep at last.
XL
HAPPY POTTERS
To Ordham’s astonishment Bridgminster proffered the castle for the
honeymoon. This graceful wedding-present was communicated by Lady
Bridgminster soon after her return to London, and Mabel clapped her
hands when told of it by her lover.
“It has been the dream of my life to see the inside of that heavenly
castle,” she cried. “And now I am going to live there! I cannot believe
it.”
“We can stay quite a month, I should think.” Ordham was smiling into her
triumphant face and feeling inanely happy. “I have received private
intimation that I can replace one of the secretaries in Rome—he cannot
stand the climate—and put in my time at the Foreign Office later. No
doubt I can get out of that altogether, especially as I have already
served a year abroad. But I cannot express my delight at spending a
month in that old place as if it really were my own—and with you! with
you!”
Mabel did not give her usual ready response to his rare ebullitions. The
more deeply he descended into the depths of sentimentality induced by
this wondrous creature and his general good fortune, the more shy he
became, and Mabel, who had her share of the feminine intuitions,
divining when he was more than commonly surcharged with silent
adoration, teased him into expression of it. This time, however, he had
delivered himself without assistance, and to his surprise she flushed
and bit her lip.
“Oh, do let us stay through the autumn! It is the ambition of my life to
have a succession of house parties at Ordham.” Both eyes and voice
pleaded. “Lady Bridgminster says that your brother doesn’t care how long
we stay—mother had a note from her just before you came in. He never
intends to live there again, and it is good for the house to keep it
open.”
“I cannot imagine what induced this fit of generosity in Bridg. It must
have been made in an exuberance of delight in turning his back on
Ordham, which he has always hated. It never fitted him, somehow—”
“But it will us! Say you will stay through the autumn. Please! Please!”
“But—but—I cannot have my way with the Foreign Office forever. My
mother has great influence at present, but a political earthquake and I
am high and dry, unless established first. I might be sent to Persia or
South America! My fate would be all the worse for the liberties I had
taken under the present government.”
Mabel pouted and shook her head. “Don’t talk politics to me. Everybody
says that I was born to be a diplomat’s wife, but thank heaven you are
not in politics. Promise me that you will wait a little while—through
the autumn.”
Ordham looked at her in dismay. Once or twice before a sudden
unaccountable lack of comprehension had given him fleeting pause, but
some new manifestation of charm had banished any inclination to dwell
upon it. Her transitions from a dignified girl of the world to a spoilt
child, even a magpie, were sometimes bewildering, but he always hastened
to remind himself that she was most beautiful, high-bred, desirable,
exquisite. On these gifts he could count even should she disappoint
other hopes. But he was by no means convinced that she would disappoint
him in anything. He believed in her brain, although she showed a strange
determination to give it rest, and he would not have had her less
adorably feminine. But he would have welcomed a trifle more
reasonableness, if only for its convenience. He answered gently:
“But Mabel!” He longed to say “darling,” but starlight or moonlight was
needful to work him up to that pitch; so he reiterated “Mabel” with
increased tenderness of accent. “You are far more interested in my
career than in giving house parties at Ordham, are you not?”
To his infinite delight Mabel leaned forward and gave him an impulsive
little kiss, exclaiming with her grown-up air: “Indeed I am. We will go
to Rome at once, if you wish. That was just an old dream of mine. I have
cherished it since I first set eyes on Ordham three years ago. But if
you want to go right away—”
“Not for worlds. A man is entitled to a month when he marries, and I
shall show up at the Foreign Office every day or so until the ceremony.
The place will be kept for me. How splendid you are!”
And Mabel began at once to speculate upon the vacant palaces in Rome.
How perfectly heavenly it would be to transform some musty old
historical hole, reeking with tragedy, into a nest for two happy little
birds. Mabel’s phraseology was not always on a par with her lofty
bearing and intellectual brow, but sometimes it was, and any man as much
in love as Ordham would forget greater lapses still.
If Mrs. Cutting hastened the wedding that she might be present at the
impending trial in New York, she was quite as determined to make it a
distinguished function as if she had six months before her. And if few
people were in London, nearly everybody was in England, and even
Switzerland and the German baths were no great distance away. She
received few regrets for the ceremony, which was to take place at St.
George’s on the tenth of October. She was very busy and very happy. She
thought it a great pity that her lovely flower should marry at all, for
she was one of those American women that regard matrimony with refined
distaste, an evil to be submitted to for the sake of fashion, position,
protection, and, no doubt, the race. Moreover, with the inevitable
inconsistency of her sex, she would not have liked her lovely flower to
turn sere and yellow, Nature’s revenge on the mateless; but she
sincerely hoped that after an heir had been presented to Ordham Castle,
and, perchance, an understudy, Ordham’s youthful ardour would have
evaporated, and her flower could settle down to the business of becoming
a great lady, a woman of exceptional and undesecrated refinement; an
easy achievement for one fastidiously reared by a fastidious mother. One
reason for Mrs. Cutting’s spontaneous selection of Ordham, and her
adherence, in spite of several brilliant offers, to her original
decision, was because of his apparent lack of animalism, and she grew
more and more convinced that only the wild confusion of first love had
roused him from his lethargy. He would soon revert, and this fact,
coupled with his incomparable manners, would make him the ideal husband
for that rare fine type of womanhood which only her own country at its
topmost civilization could produce. Mrs. Cutting was justly proud of
Mabel, for the adaptable American girl was not only capable of learning
a great many lessons, from a polonaise by Chopin to the tactful
manipulation of a cross but important old dowager, but London society
had pronounced her the one flawless American in its midst, and its midst
was at that time unusually distended with charming and popular
Americans. That she had become one of the belles of the season
independently of the stamp of that Prince for whose favour all ambitious
women, Americans as well as English, sought, but from whom she had been
religiously barricaded, was in itself a stamp of original distinction.
Mrs. Cutting was pronounced equally irreproachable, if somewhat chilly
and invariable, and she too might have purchased a coronet had she
chosen; but she had no taste for the man she must take with it, and left
her daughter to make the marriage which should place her unassailably in
the greatest society of the world.
Ordham was somewhat amused at the renewed intimacy of his mother with
Mrs. Cutting, but accepted her explanation that she was not the woman to
waste her energies opposing the decrees of fate, that she was glad her
son was happy, and that, after all, heiresses were heiresses. Besides,
Rosamond’s front teeth had rather got on her nerves, and she had
unaccountably refused to have her hair touched up. Mabel Cutting was a
beauty and would do the family credit, oh, no doubt of that. So she and
Mrs. Cutting might be seen any morning in Bond Street, shopping, and
looking even more radiant than the young people, who saw little of one
another in these busy last days.
That was a memorable wedding even in London. The church was a vast bower
of maidenhair and orchids. (Nihilists in Russia gnashed their teeth when
they read of it.) Ordham’s connection alone filled half the pews; many
of them had ordered new gowns for the occasion in their amazement at the
millions flowing toward the family coffers, and that the magnet should
be the most indolent and least susceptible of them all. If it had been
Stanley, that splendid type of the orthodox, handsome, athletic,
sanguine Englishman (he supported his brother at the altar), they could
have understood it. But while they impatiently admitted that John was
clever, they resented his radical departure from the type, and his
complete indifference to their disapproval.
The day was warm and mellow. Not a cloud threatened ruin to the fine
costumes with which the church rustled. Royalty honoured the occasion
and occupied the front row of chairs. The bridal party, which had
rehearsed in the American fashion, advanced up the aisle with precisely
the right spacing, that their gowns might be duly appreciated. Lady
Bridgminster wore a small bonnet and a tight gown of pale grey shining
stuff which made her look not unlike a silver poplar. Mrs. Cutting wore
heliotrope velvet and point lace that looked as if it might dissolve
before the end of the ceremony. Princess Nachmeister, in a new brocade
from Paris, resembled a wicked fairy in a beneficent mood. Of the six
bridesmaids, two were Americans, two were French girls who had been
Mabel’s chosen friends in Paris, and two were Ordhams. Their gowns had
been designed by Lady Bridgminster, and if Mrs. Cutting ran to orchids
and ferns, her friend was faithful to the artistic movement to which she
had so long lent the light of her ambitious countenance. These six
graceful girls held up in front long clinging diaphanous gowns of gold
tissue with one hand, and clasped to their bosoms immense sheaves of
lilies with the other. Their sleeves were greatly puffed, and on their
heads were charming caps shaped like sunflowers. The old duchess,
examining them through her lorgnette, and herself apparelled in black
moiré and a mantle trimmed with bugles and fringe, remarked audibly that
they looked like chorus girls; but they received only a passing
attention, for Mabel was as lovely a bride as ever triumphed over a
pitiless noonday sun. Beneath a robe composed entirely of rose point,
and once in the wardrobe of some unfortunate princess, there was a
shimmer as of pale green waters. Mabel had rebelled at looking like a
Morris stained-glass window with Wilde improvements, but had agreed with
Lady Bridgminster that there was no objection to resembling Undine if
she could still be smart. As she advanced up the aisle on the arm of the
American Minister, people stood up to look at her and whispered that did
she remain in London a year or two longer she would reign as a
“professional beauty” and dim the halos of the celebrated group. Ordham,
slinking in from the vestry, terribly frightened but magnificently
dignified, almost lost his breath when he saw her. Oh, there was no
doubt that she had the grand air as well as beauty; and as she walked
down the aisle at the conclusion of the ceremony on the arm of her
princely young husband, her veil thrown back, her cheeks stained an
entrancing pink, her head very high, London set the final seal of its
approval upon her, adopted her as its very own, and hastened enraptured
to the great house in Grosvenor Square, where all, not merely the
family, had been bidden for breakfast.
What a pity that he should take her out of England! Why the diplomatic
service—which might take them to unheard-of places? London was for the
beautiful, the fortunate. And London was the apex of Earth. The
Continent was all very well for baths, and gowns, and scenery, for music
and old masters, or alas! economy. London being the Mecca of the
civilized world, why, in heaven’s name, did any one voluntarily live out
of it? And with millions—
If Ordham heard these comments once, he heard them a dozen times, and
was the more annoyed as he observed that Mabel was irrepressibly
gratified. The chief of all the personages present, finding speech with
her for the first time, went so far as to assure her that the crown of
professional beautyship was hers to grasp, even hinted that she could
count upon his distinguished support. She turned to Ordham with a little
gurgle of sheer happiness; but when she saw the thunder-cloud on the
brow of her lord, replied prettily that she was quite convinced Nature
had not fitted her to fill so exacting a rôle, and that, much as she
adored England, she was quite frantic for the excitement of diplomatic
life. The personage bowed and withdrew.
But these were passing clouds. Ordham carried his bride off to the
country house lent them for the first few days of the honeymoon and was
quite the happiest man on earth.
XLI
THE PRINCESS PINCHES
As the carriage crossed the moor in the twilight, Ordham saw that not
only was the vast front of the castle illuminated, but that the village
at the base of the fell was also brilliant. He was not surprised that
his humble friends should light their windows in honour of his bride;
but when he was close enough to observe that the village was _en fête_,
that there were three arches in the main street composed almost wholly
of lanterns, and that a torch flared on the roof of every cottage, he
began to feel disquiet, and gave no heed to Mabel’s expressions of
delight; and when a dozen lusty young men made a sudden rush out upon
the moor, and, unharnessing the horses, dragged the carriage into the
village as far as the green, where all the rest of the inhabitants were
assembled, the children in white, with nosegays, he wished that he had
not come; for this demonstration was not merely a compliment to himself,
it was an insult to his brother.
The ancient stone village, built when “Ordham” was prefixed by “de,” and
the Normans were defiling the Saxon well, squat and black under the rude
illuminations, was a sight picturesque enough to gratify the heart of
the most exacting American bride; and Mabel, who had been admitted to
the secret, bowed graciously and won the hearts of the villagers
immediately. She wore a very light grey costume and a big grey hat
covered with feathers, and looked, particularly in the surroundings,
exactly like a fairy princess.
The carriage halted. For some moments the cheering was deafening. Then
there was a sudden expectant hush, and Ordham, who had been smiling into
the faces of his old playmates, turned white and muttered to his radiant
bride: “My God, they expect a speech!”
Mabel, who was not accustomed to strong language, looked shocked, but
recovered herself instantly. “You must, darling,” she whispered
hurriedly. “They always do.”
“They?—Oh, yes, the new lord when he comes home for the first time, or
with his bride, but I am not—Bridg!—Great heaven, what a position!”
“But you must!” Mabel gave him a pinch, which so astonished him that he
was on his feet before he knew it and thanking them as awkwardly as
possible for their delightful kindness. Then he managed to articulate
something of his pleasure in bringing his wife to the home of his
childhood, and sat down amidst shouts of approval, knowing that no man
had ever made a worse speech, but still able to congratulate himself
that he had said nothing in poor taste, nor anything that his brother,
who had consistently been ignored by the tenantry, could find offensive.
He was still so much in love that, although the pinch had filled him
with a sudden unaccountable anger, when they were alone in the dark
avenue rising to the castle, he kissed Mabel and remarked that if he had
been able to make a speech at all upon such a trying occasion, she might
thank herself, not his inadequate intelligence.
“You will always do the right thing,” replied Mabel, complacently, “only
you do need a lot of stirring up,”—a remark that would have created
considerable amusement among the Ordhams could they have overheard it.
The courtyard was illuminated not only by the windows but by torches and
coloured lanterns. All the servants of the castle stood at the foot of
the staircase, and on that imposing feature itself were contributions
from Grosvenor Square in the Ordham livery. Ordham noticed with fleeting
astonishment that the liveries of his brother’s servants also were new.
He went through this ordeal more gracefully, but was glad to find
himself alone with Hines in his old suite. Mabel had been conducted to
the adjoining suite by Mrs. Felt, who remarked, possibly for Ordham’s
benefit, that it was most unusual kind of his lordship to allow those
London decorators to do it over, and that they had done wonders in so
short a time. But Ordham, who was hungry and agitated, did not follow
his bride into the renovated suite, but calling after her that he would
meet her in the octagonal drawing-room, sought solace in his bath and a
cigarette.
Half an hour later he strolled over to the other side of the palace and
through the splendid suites of rooms, now as brilliantly alight as when
his mother had given her great political house parties, but looking, in
their emptiness, dim and Italian and old, with their high, darkly
frescoed ceilings, their panelled walls set with religious paintings, a
few of which were originals, the rest admirable replicas of the Italian
masters, their tapestries, and infrequent but superb pieces of old
Italian furniture, carved and gilded, upholstered with Venetian
brocades,—all so carefully chosen by William Morris. The mantels were
carved with large terminal figures and coats of arms; the fireplace in
the octagonal drawing-room was of stone upheld by male and female
figures and carved above with grinning masques. The cabinets, chests,
and chairs of this room were the most elaborately carved in the palace;
and on the walls, between the carved dado and the painted frieze, was a
tapestry of white velveteen printed with brown acanthus leaves and
powdered as with gold dust, designed by Morris. The hangings seemed to
shed forth the rich and beautiful colours of the Renaissance textile
fabrics; and the silks, brocades, and embroideries of this immense but
sumptuous room, the silken carpet with Persian design, might have been
discovered by the great decorator marvellously preserved instead of
almost as marvellously made in his looms. The furniture, light,
delicate, graceful, and a mass of intricate carving, had really served
the grandees of the Renaissance, who, mayhap, had no such appreciation
of its wonders as moderns have to-day. Even tradition did not whisper of
the original furnishing of Ordham, for Cromwell’s men had left not a
stick; but no doubt it was early and extremely rude Gothic, not to be
compared in either comfort, elegance, or appropriateness with this
interior, as Italian as the palace, or “castle” itself. The paintings
and silver alone had been buried in time, and so escaped the vandals;
nor had they vented their righteous wrath upon the mantels and
panellings of the royalist who was distinguishing himself abominably in
the army of Charles Stuart.
It was all very beautiful, very romantic, and had it been his, Ordham
would have been the proudest young bridegroom in England; but he still
felt in a false position, was oppressed by a sense of unreality mingled
with anger that he should be compelled to experience such emotions.
Commonly he excluded Bridgminster from his mind, for his last interview
with his brother was a memory he would have been glad to obliterate; but
to-night, when he had been forced to play at “make-believe,” he was
filled with resentment once more, and in no mood to regret the news
subtly conveyed to him that Bridg was “in a bad way.” “How fine you do
look, sir,” one of the men in the village had said to him. “His
lordship, now, was that grey when he left you might say he had death
writ in his face, and he sat like an old man and never so much as looked
at one of us when he drove through the village—to make room for you,
sir!”
But he was young and in love, and turned expectantly toward the door at
the end of the long suite through which his bride must enter. After all,
why should he not be proud to bring this pampered American to his
ancestral castle? And if it were not his now, it would be one of these
days, so why waste emotions upon an interval possibly brief? He shrugged
his shoulders and dismissed them.
There was an almost imperceptible rustling of distant skirts on marble
floors, and Mabel floated down the long vista while he stood and gazed
upon her in expectation of new raptures. But to his surprise he
experienced a shock of disappointment. Mabel was enchantingly dressed as
ever. Her white train followed her like a cloud, and her slender neck
was almost hidden under ropes of pearls; a little wreath of diamonds
rested in the yellow fluff of her hair. But she looked unaccountably
small, out of place, insignificant, in these dim, stately, historical
rooms. The white and gold spaces of Grosvenor Square, light, French,
extravagant, gay, not too large, and with ceilings artfully lowered,
might have been designed to frame her ethereal loveliness, and the idea
crossed Ordham’s mind that perchance they had.
But no misgivings beset Mabel, and as her husband suddenly advanced to
meet her, she cried out, “Isn’t this too lovely, Jackie?” (This fond
nickname was, so far, her only indiscretion in his adoring regard.) “I
feel like an ancient Lady Ordham come to life; and as for this immense
castle, or palace, or whatever you call it,—isn’t it exactly like those
old things in Italy?—I had to send for a footman to pilot me. I never
was so happy in all my life.”
“You should be,” said Ordham, gallantly. “Your capacity for conferring
happiness passes belief.”
Dinner was announced, and to his surprise they were conducted to the
banqueting hall instead of to the dining room.
“This is my first order,” said Mabel, smiling playfully, as they entered
the vast room, whose panels were set with bygone Ordhams, and whose
ceiling, frescoed on wood, panelled and gilded, was in the most
elaborate Italian style. Ordham was amused at his wife’s childishness,
but nothing averse, for the dining room might have revived hideous
memories he chose to forget. In this superb hall there were no memories
for him but of great dinners to the county, hunt breakfasts, house
parties numbering many Englishmen already passed into history. Now it
must always be associated with his first dinner, in the company of his
bride, in this splendid castle of his race.
Mabel, who seemed excited to the point of exhilaration, chattered
incessantly.