excited. “Indulge her for the present. You have the rest of your life
for that career of lies they call diplomacy. Indulge this dear child, or
I won’t answer for the consequences—her maid tells me that even when
crossed in ordinary circumstances her health is menaced—the poor dear
spoilt child of fortune! And so beautiful! I have pledged her my
professional word to persuade you to remain in England for a year, at
least. And what more natural, more beautiful, indeed, than this wish of
hers that your first child should be born at Ordham? Think, too, of
foreign doctors! So, go in, dear boy, and promise her to sit tight. Do,
and she’ll be as fit as a fiddle to-morrow.”
Ordham, baffled and helpless, turned on his heel. “You can tell her that
I will remain in England—of course,” he said. “I will see her in an
hour or two. Just now I wish to go for a walk.”
XLIII
THE WOMAN’S INNINGS
Ordham walked far out on the moor, then returned, not to the house, but
to stroll up and down between the avenue of plane trees that connected
it with the Italian garden. He finally threw himself down on a seat in
his favourite spot. Above the glassy lake was a broken grey balustrade
covered with mould and barely outlined against the stiff old cypresses
beyond. In a dark grove on his right were marble seats, several noseless
fauns and nymphs, the whole scene so reminiscent of Italy that his mind,
always liable to peculiar deflections, experienced once more a sense of
infidelity to Margarethe Styr: so often they had planned together that
month in Italy which he had been the one to suggest, and this had been a
favourite spot for making love to his bride.
He was too indolent to cherish anger for any great length of time, but
resentment lingered, and since his talk with the doctor not only had it
increased, but he felt that old sense of humiliation in not rising to an
occasion. He had a hazy idea that young husbands always flew enraptured
to worship their brides anew when informed that their ego had taken a
fresh lease; but he felt anything but enraptured. Not only was he very
much embarrassed, but, while shrinking from arranging the idea in words,
he felt that Mabel, in her determination to press on to victory at any
cost in this their first battle, had been indelicate in taking advantage
of what could be little more than inference on the part of the doctor
aided by her own canny suggestions. Wild horses would not have dragged
such an admission from him until the last possible moment. How could she
have talked it over with Cresswell—and, no doubt, with her maid? The
ideal Mabel whom he had distractedly worshipped for one interminable
fortnight had trembled more than once on her pedestal during the
intimacy of the honeymoon, but it took this final conscious offence to
sweep her off and leave her standing at the base, still beautiful,
young, and fascinating, but for evermore bereft of illusion.
He resented, too, the sudden loss of that sense of pagan youth that he
had enjoyed from the moment he had met Mabel in London, and which had
been crushed but by no means extinguished during the fortnight of
despair. He recalled the day in the Maximilianstrasse when he had
ungratefully carped at fate for the undue allowance of women of the
world that had fallen to his share. He had come into his inheritance
soon after, and now he felt suddenly dispossessed. He had not the
faintest desire to become a father; the very idea made him hot all over,
then cold. Ten years hence would have been time enough; for the matter
of that, nothing short of a plague could exterminate his family.
It is probable that to-day he had for the first time something more than
a glimpse of the depth and vigour of his egoism, which, heretofore,
polite even to himself, he had ignored. At all events, he realized that
unconsciously he had for years been planning an existence into which the
commonplace and material should as little obtrude as was possible on
this mortal plane; he became aware that one of Mabel’s salient
attractions had been her ability to help him to achieve this ideal
existence with as little trouble to himself as possible. Now that his
career was peremptorily postponed, he wanted it more than ever, and not
for the services he might be able to render to his country—he admitted
this brutally—but that he might live in the congenial atmosphere of
Continental and diplomatic life, the while he dwelt in a romantic and
splendid old palace with his lovely bride. He wanted to buy beautiful
things every day in the treasure-house of Europe. His searching
analytical mind craved the constant refreshment of new peoples, with
their strange customs, their hidden traits, their thousand
differentiations from the people of his own land. He wanted the bright
suns of Europe, the wonderful nights, the light careless brilliancy of
Continental life, the abundant music, the un-British drama from which
every taint of puritanism and philistinism had been banished long since.
While his remarkable poise, not the least of his gifts, had preserved
the health of his mind notwithstanding his insatiable curiosity, still
was it a mind that could only feel quite alive when feeding upon the
unusual, stimulated with a variety not to be found rooted in his own
orthodox soil; with all, indeed, that was covered from common
uncomprehending eyes. To remain in England for a year on end as a
prospective parent and an idle country gentleman, while he hated
increasingly his sporting neighbours with their wolfish appetites, and
was pressed down into the very depths of gloom by leaden skies and
drizzling mists—he was still young and irresponsible enough to think of
bolting.
But in a little while he faced another side of his problem. He was
married to a girl whose pampered existence had given her a fairly good
substitute for a strong will. It was patent that when she discovered his
was the stronger she would resort to weapons—those enormous tears, for
instance,—which he as a man could not emulate. He wished that he had
something to fling viciously into the lake, but in that well-kept garden
there were neither rocks nor fallen branches. The pebbles of the path
were much too small. Then he laughed aloud as he realized that in one
small tract of his brain he was as much of a child as his wife. Then he
ground his teeth—
He stirred uneasily, turned his head. Mabel was standing there in the
grove. Her hair looked like an offering from the sun to the soft gloom
of ilex and cypress. Surrounded by those ancient trees, those battered
old fauns and nymphs, she looked like the blessed damozel. If she was as
white as her frock, her eyes were shining. She had never been more
beautiful.
Ordham caught his breath. He had a confused sense that the world had
turned over and in the act burst open a shell from which the ideal
Mabel, that Mabel whom he had once seen in a sort of magic reflection,
had really emerged. She stood quite still, gazing at him with soft
appealing eyes, yet holding herself with dignity, and seeming taller
than when under the lofty ceilings of the castle. Once more she looked
the creature of pure romance, the fairy princess. His pulses shook. In
an instant he was the adoring bridegroom, youth revelling in the joy of
having found its mate.
Mabel permitted him to cover the distance, and when he had taken her in
his arms and kissed her many times, with a certain imperious softness
that never became violent, she asked him to sit down, and nestled
against him in a fashion that made him feel very big and strong. Then
she murmured apologies for “going to pieces.” “She had hidden herself to
cry it out, first because she was unhappy and ashamed, and then because
she could not control herself. Brigitte had sent for that dear old
doctor, who had made her well at once.” By common consent the delicate
subject was ignored, and they prattled like happy children themselves.
On the following day she was pink and white once more, in the best of
health and spirits. It was evident that she was to be spared the minor
and more humiliating common-places of maternity. A week later Lady
Bridgminster, who had joined them, was sending out invitations for a
monster house party, while the bridegroom ordered the guns cleaned, the
discharged beaters replaced, the stables replenished, and felt as if he
were hypnotized.
XLIV
STARS AND DUST
Munich was sheathed in ice. The bare trees of the Englischergarten, the
little parks set into the city like so many jewels, the long avenue of
the Leopoldstrasse, the thousand gardens, glittered with the prismatic
radiance of the diamond, while the hard snow was underfoot, and the sky
was like a vast blue and white flag of the House of Wittelsbach. The
lake was frozen, and gay with skating parties. The Isar alone flowed too
swiftly to be caught in the ice grasp. It was intensely cold, clear,
brilliant, tonic. Margarethe opened the window of her tower and stood
looking out at the arctic splendours winter had given to the park beyond
the light green belt of water. Once more she felt something of the
exaltation of spirit that in the old days she had been able almost to
summon at will, and that had never tarried before such inspiration as
this.
But she moved away in a moment with an impatient sigh and returned to
the warm comfort of the gallery. It was now four months since she had
seen Ordham, and she was still unable to break the mental habit of
discussing all things interesting with him, invoking him to share her
pleasure. She had but just now called his attention to the contrast of
the beryl green of the river with the crystal groves beyond. Yesterday
she had caught herself discussing _A Rebours_ with him. Was it not time
to banish this senseless habit?
It was, of course, the effect of living alone, and some time since she
had made up her mind to go constantly into society upon its return,
become a persistent seeker after the lighter distractions of the world.
She sighed again as she thought of that ideal life she had led in this
villa by the Isar for nearly seven years, and which she found it
impossible to renew. But she had opened the gates of her Eden
deliberately, and it was fair that she should pay the price.
She had made no attempt to develop her infrequent interchange of notes
with Ordham into a correspondence, partly because she knew that a young
bridegroom has no reserve fund of sentiment, no active memories of the
past, partly because she had persuaded herself of a firm belief in the
wisdom of severed relations. But yesterday she had received a call from
Princess Nachmeister, who had been flitting about, avoiding her castle
after a brief sojourn in the summer, as she was in an economical temper
and indisposed to entertain a horde of relatives. In Paris she had met
Mrs. Cutting, whose detention in New York had been mercifully brief, and
had gone with her to Ordham Castle. Immediately upon her return to
Munich she had flown to her admirable Styr with news of their
_jüngling_. The Ordhams were entertaining one great house party after
another, and in the most brilliant fashion imaginable. Those Americans!
They cared not what they spent. Mabel received with the aplomb of six
seasons, and was increasingly beautiful, with frocks—But frocks! New
ones came every week from Paris. In spite of a certain expected event,
mercifully distant, she was quite well, and with that tall slender
figure—enfin! The _jüngling_? He was the most perfect host imaginable.
He even sacrificed himself and rode to hounds with his guests; a lazy
careless rider, but often in the lead, nevertheless. Need she ask? So
much exercise and outdoor life had improved him; he was beginning to
have a more lusty look, while losing nothing of that aloof air, that
perfect courtesy. But he glowed. Ah, yes! no doubt with happiness as
well as health. His career? She had had but few words with him on the
subject, for with royalties, she could not sit beside him at dinner; but
once or twice he had managed to place her next to him at luncheon; yes,
she had asked him, and he had said that no doubt he should go abroad
late in the following year, that fortunately these unavoidable delays
would not ruin his prospects. But he had spoken languidly; it was
evident that he was well content. And why not? Gott! but that was a
life. Forty million marks and as much again when dear Adela was gathered
to her American ancestors. Gott! One of the greatest places in England
virtually his own, a broken-down elder brother, and a lovely wife!
“I forgot that I had been so ambitious for him,” continued the old dame,
contritely. “I said: ‘But this is enough. Why fly in the face of
providence by asking all things? And if dear Mabel is so opposed to life
on our Continent—what substitute, indeed, could we offer her, since she
does not mind the climate of this island?’ And he said, in his old
manner: ‘Of course. Why indeed? She is so happy that I am almost in love
with England myself. It is all very wonderful.’ Then when I was gone
from that enchanted scene, I reproached myself. Shall he bury those
great abilities in matrimony, in society, in that country which is
always making great men but very properly sending them elsewhere? Is he
not made to manipulate the destinies of Europe? I should have
remonstrated instead of weakly yielding, almost participating in his
happiness, the charming creature! It was such a delight to hear him jest
and run on in his old fashion, to see him happy as the young should be
happy. We must trust to time. He will wake up. It may be two years,
three. But he was born to be a diplomatist and a great one, and that is
not for nothing. Mabel may rule now, he may be philosophically happy,
but—”
Judiciously interrogated, the keen old observer admitted that Mabel was
selfish, spoilt, “American.” She loved Ordham. But yes! Was it not his
lot to be loved? Too much, no doubt. He had the gift, the genius of
charm, and when a young thing was married to him—enfin! Had she, Olivia
Nachmeister, been fifty years younger, she should have married and
worshipped him herself. But Mabel had no real sensuousness in her
nature, none of those strong emotions that make the woman the willing
subject of a resolute man. She loved, yes; but with youth, selfishness,
vanity, romantic sentiment, the instinct of the race. That little brain
would be cool and calculating in its fondest moments. He might win if
ever it came to a great battle of two wills, crush that poor little
butterfly, who fancied herself a personage of vast importance; but he
never would manage her. But never! That was her part, and whether he
recognized that fact, and was resigned, other causes keeping him in
England, or whether he was merely enthralled, she could not say. But he
had a jaw. Ma foi, but a jaw! And Mabel had been indulged like a—well,
an American princess (“Who more disciplined than ours?”), from the
moment she screeched in her cradle. “Some day—well, what matter? Do not
all have their troubles? They are fortunate, those two, but they are not
immortals. Think of our beloved King, and of Rudolph von Hapsburg. But
the future Bridgminster has one talent denied these poor princes, what
you call ‘landing on his feet.’ Through no management of his, perhaps,
but destiny—women?—Yes, shall not we always arrange that he alights in
the safe spot, dry, sound, whole, even if he has whirled through the air
in the heart of what you call a cyclone? What happens to the women? Ah,
many die in this world that a few may live, dear Gräfin.” It was a mere
matter of destiny—of the survival of the strongest—of charm, perhaps?
She was a student of effects, not of causes. It was enough to know the
surface of this terrible world; but dig up the roots and put them under
the microscope? Not she! That was for clever people like Die Styr and
their dear _jüngling_.
To do Excellenz justice, she had not come altogether to torment Styr
with this picture of Ordham’s felicity, for she was still convinced that
there had been but a pleasant summer friendship between the two, whose
only undercurrent was the subtle influence exercised upon Ordham in
behalf of his examinations. To no other woman would she have given the
benefit of the doubt for a moment, but not only had Styr let the young
man go, permitted him to marry, but she looked quite the same as ever.
She was an artist, nothing more. They came to that! What the Nachmeister
had forgotten, possibly because the fact was so glaring that it blinded
her, was that Styr was a great actress. And she was something more, a
woman of magnificent pride, of iron strength of will. Not a tear had she
shed over the loss of Ordham, not a moment’s sleep had she lost since
that night when she had very nearly taken all Munich into her
confidence. She could summon sleep, banish thought, the moment her head
touched the pillow. She had no mind to furnish gossip for Nachmeister,
still less to ruin her own life. If she chose to spend her idler hours
in his imagined society, why not? That was compensation of a sort and
did no harm.
She had persistently refused to sing _Isolde_ again, for not only was
she aware that Munich would demand a repetition of her last performance,
an impossible feat even for her, but, strong as she was, she shrank from
too vivid a reminder of that awful night. She had weathered a storm of
feeling that would have prostrated a weaker or a less seasoned woman;
but avaunt its memory, nevertheless!
The worst was over, yes, but not for a moment did she cease to miss him,
to regret, to long unreasonably for his return. Her mind argued that an
episode of that sort when closed was closed forever, but her heart
ached. True, she had had the perfect experience she deliberately
planned, she possessed a beautiful memory; but she found this cold
comfort, now that she no longer pretended to deny that she loved him,
that her imagination had woven itself all over that Ordham so unknown to
others, until he was almost visibly hers.
This morning she asked herself squarely what she intended to do,
admitting as squarely that from the very first she had had no real
intention of remaining quiescent and forgotten. She could meet him
within a week if she chose, for a prima donna can always develop a
throat and demand a rest. But she was quite positive that the time had
not yet come for their second meeting. She knew that he would tire of
his Mabel, hate her, beyond doubt, and before long; but she did not care
to see him until then. Ordham complacently in love with a pretty doll
might sicken her; she was resigned never to find again the young man she
had known, but she wanted him in his next evolution, not this! not this!
She had remained becalmed, unanalytical, until yesterday, because
nothing had occurred to rouse her from the half melancholy half
pleasurable state of mind into which she had drifted. But Princess
Nachmeister’s gossip had filled her with rage and bitterness. The
sleeping devil she so seldom permitted to assert itself stirred, yawned,
awakened. The little fool had lived in her paradise long enough. She
comprehended the intentions of Mabel Ordham and her mother, for
Excellenz had prattled for quite an hour. They purposed to turn this
brilliant gifted but incomparably lazy young man into the mere husband
of a rich wife, of a professional beauty, manipulating and drugging him
until the springs that carry ambition over discouragement and opposition
had sagged, broken, and he would sink down into his good fortune,
entertaining the great of the land at his castle, proud of the enormous
social importance to which he had attained in his youth; taking the
waters at Carlsbad, growing stouter every year; wintering on the
Riviera; everywhere following his wife at a respectful distance while
her court crowded at her heels; taking out his increasing brood for an
occasional romp in the park—
She sprang to her feet with a hoarse cry of rage and a face that would
have made Excellenz cross and excoriate herself. But before she reached
her desk that other self so assiduously cultivated these last nine years
cried out peremptorily. True, she did take a deep and legitimate
interest in this young man whose future was threatened, but that was not
the impulse which drove her to open a campaign that must shatter his
domestic life. No woman, particularly no woman constantly exercising an
art, occupies herself for long with the future of any man that has not
vitally interested her. Friendship between the sexes is casual, a mere
matter of time and habit, never demonstrating itself during long
absences unless love skulks at the foundations. Had Ordham interested
her no more vitally than he had interested so many others during his
memorable sojourn in Munich his future could have taken care of itself.
But not only was he her chief work, whom she would not renounce
unfinished, but she wanted him to be conscious that his soul, his ego,
was hers. The passions of the body, what were they to the passions of
the heart? There were remedies for the impulses that man shared in
common with the beasts, but none short of death for that imperious
demand of the soul for its mate. It was the one thing that made her give
some credence to religious belief, this insistent desire of the hidden
ego for one other ego out of the billions of egos on Earth alone.
Possibly these two had sought one another since the birth of Time;
perhaps they had been united and severed, united and severed; paying, no
doubt, for sins and crimes for which no other adequate punishment could
be devised even by a resourceful God. If she had committed crimes in
another existence instead of hideous sins as in this, it was possible
that her punishment was that brief tormenting glimpse of her other part,
possible also that she should be just, and accept the natural sequence
as final.
But his secret, invisible life?
She made a last-effort to be “fine,” always a pitiful effort in people
foredoomed by the very strength of their wills and passions, the
anarchistic tendencies of their strong brains, to failure. Let him go!
When he was older! Time might awaken him, ambition call, with no
assistance from her. Let him be happy as long as he could; untroubled.
Let that poor child, whose worst offence, after all, was her love for
this charming young man—bah! Not for nothing was she the greatest of
Isoldes. She went straight to her desk.
XLV
EUROPE’S BOUQUET
A group of æsthetes—the women in the livery of Burne-Jones, the men in
the satin small-clothes, velvet coat, and silk stockings affected by
Wilde—stood before the great stone mantel in the octagonal drawing-room
of Ordham, permitting the brilliant company to gaze upon them. The only
celebrities present were the reigning professional beauty, that famous
young politician who resembled an intellectual pug, and the great poet
who looked like the reincarnation of Paris and Helen of Troy. The rest
of the distinguished company scattered throughout the endless suites of
state reception rooms were drawn from nearly every old family in the
kingdom, and there were royalties, domestic and foreign. Mrs. Cutting
and Lady Bridgminster had assembled these unrivalled house parties one
after another, the former not only with a proud satisfaction, but with
the complacent sense of fulfilling a patriotic duty, the latter with a
keen relish in handling the income of millions as were it her very own.
Mabel, spared every detail, had only to dress herself exquisitely, sit
at the head of the table in the dining room, or in a high abbot’s chair,
carved and gilded, in one of the salons, look radiant, and chatter. She
did all to perfection.
But these three notable figures, two with inexhaustible wardrobes from
Paris, the other looking alternately like a Burne-Jones or a Rossetti,
to say nothing of the magnificent rooms, now made richer and more
inviting by a thousand subtle touches, were but a background for the
young host. Never for a moment had Ordham been reminded that this lavish
display, this recrudescence of the glory of his house, this skilful
gathering of the most difficult people in England, had been accomplished
with his wife’s money, not with his own delayed inheritance. He had
heard of the unhappy fate of American husbands, but had quite forgotten
that beyond the seas the world was woman’s. In this splendid company he
was the legitimate host, the chief figure; several of the men that ruled
the destinies of Britain might have had long and meaning conferences
with “Lady Pat,” so subtly did they flatter and court him.