I
It was generally recognized that Lydia Arnold's perceptions were quicker
than those of most other people. She was alert in grasping the
significance of what was said to her; her face clearly revealed this.
She had the habit of deliberating just an instant before responding,
which marked her thought; and when she spoke, her words had a succinct
definiteness of their own. The quality of her voice arrested attention.
The intonation was finished yet dry: finished in that it was well
modulated; dry in that it was void of enthusiasm.
Yet Lydia was far from a grave person. She laughed readily and freely,
but in a minor key, which was only in keeping with her other attributes
of fastidiousness. Her mental acuteness and conversational poise were
accounted for at Westfield--the town within the limits of which dwelt
the colony of which she was a member--by the tradition that she had read
everything, or, more accurately, that she had been permitted to read
everything while still a school-girl.
Her mother, a beautiful, nervous invalid--one of those mysterious
persons whose peculiarities are pigeon-holed in the memories of their
immediate families--had died in Lydia's infancy. Her amiable but
self-indulgent father had been too easy-going or too obtuse to follow
the details of her home-training. He had taken refuge from qualms or
perplexities by providing a governess, a well-equipped, matronly
foreigner, from whom she acquired a correct French accent and composed
deportment, both of which were now marks of distinction. Mlle. Demorest
would have been the last woman to permit a _jeune fille_ to browse
unreservedly in a collection of miscellaneous French novels. But Lydia
saw no reason why she should inform her preceptress that, having entered
her father's library in search of "Ivanhoe" and the "Dutch Republic,"
she had gone there later to peruse the works of Flaubert, Octave
Feuillet, and Guy de Maupassant. Why, indeed? For, to begin with, was
she not an American girl, and free to do as she chose? And then again
the evolution was gradual; she had reached this stage of culture by
degrees. She read everything which the library contained--poetry,
history, philosophy, fiction--and having exhausted these resources, she
turned her attention outside, and became an omnivorous devourer of
current literature.
Before her "coming-out" party she was familiar with all the "up-to-date"
books, and had opinions on many problems, sexual and otherwise, though
be it said she was an eminently proper young person in her language and
behavior, and her knowingness, so far as appeared, was merely
intellectual. Early in the day her father's scrutiny was forever dazzled
by the assuring discovery that she was immersed in Scott. Mr. Arnold had
been told by some of his contemporaries that the rising generation did
not read Sir Walter, a heresy so damnable that when he found his
daughter pale with interest over the sorrows of the "Bride of
Lammermoor," he jumped to the conclusion that her literary taste was
conservative, and gave no more thought to this feature of her education.
Presently he did what he considered the essentially paternal
thing--introduced her to the social world through the medium of a
magnificent ball, which taxed his income though he had been preparing
for it for a year or two. As one of a bevy of pretty, innocent-looking
maidens in white tulle, Lydia attracted favorable comment from the
outset by her piquant expression and stylish figure. But shortly after
the close of her first season she was driven into retirement by her
father's death, and when next she appeared on the horizon, sixteen
months later, it was as a spirited follower of the hounds belonging to
the Westfield Hunt Club.
On the crisp autumn day when this story opens, the members of that
energetic body were eagerly discussing the interesting proposition
whether or not Miss Lydia Arnold was going to accept Herbert Maxwell as
a husband. This was the universal query, and the point had been agitated
for the past six weeks with increasing curiosity. The hunting season was
now nearing its close, and the lover was still setting a tremendous
pace, but none of the closest feminine friends of the young woman in
question appeared to have inside information. Even her bosom friend,
Mrs. Walter Cole, as she joined the meet that morning, could only say in
answer to inquiries that Lydia was mum as an oyster.
"I suppose the reflection that the offspring might resemble Grandma
Maxwell tends to counteract the glamour of the four millions," remarked
one of the group, Gerald Marcy, a middle-aged bachelor with a partiality
for cynical sallies--also an ex-master of the hounds and one of the
veterans of the colony. He was mounted on a solid roan hunter slightly
but becomingly grizzled like himself. Thereupon he gave a twist to his
mustache, as he was apt to do after uttering what he thought was a good
thing. Most of the Westfield Hunt Club were clean-shaven young men who
regarded a mustache as a hirsute superfluity. The nucleus of the club
had been formed twenty years previous--in the late seventies--at which
time it was the fashion to wear hair on the face, but of the small band
of original members some had grown too stout or too shaky to hunt, most
had families which forbade them to run the risk of breaking their
necks, and others were dead.
Mrs. Cole's reply was uttered so that only Marcy heard it. Perhaps she
feared to shock the smooth-shaven younger men, for, though she prided
herself on her complete sophistication in regard to the world and its
ways, one evidence of it was that she suited her conversation to the
person with whom she was talking. There are points of view which a young
matron can discuss with a middle-aged bachelor which might embarrass or
be misinterpreted by less experienced males. So she caused her pony to
bound a little apart before she said to Marcy, who followed her:
"I doubt very much if children of her own are included in Lydia's scheme
of life."
Mrs. Cole was a bright-eyed, vivacious woman, who talked fast and
cleverly. She was fond of making paradoxical remarks, and of defending
her theses stoutly. She glanced sideways at her companion to observe the
effect of this animadversion, then, bending, patted the neck of her
palfrey caressingly. She was herself the mother of two chubby infants,
and, out of deference to domestic claims, she no longer followed the
hounds, but simply took a morning spin to the meets on a safe hack.
Marcy smiled appreciatively. As a man of the world he felt bound to do
this, yet as a man of the world he felt shocked at the hypothesis. Race
suicide was in his eyes a cardinal sin compared with which youthful
indiscretions resulting from hot blood appeared trifling and normal.
Besides, it was deliberate rebellion against the vested rights of man.
This latter consideration gave the cue to his slightly dogged answer.
"I rather think that Herbert Maxwell would have something to say about
that."
Mrs. Cole surveyed him archly, meditating a convincing retort, when
suddenly a new group of riders appeared over the crest of an intervening
hill. "Here they are!" she cried with a gusto which proclaimed that the
opportunity for subtle confabulation on the point at issue was at an
end.
The newcomers, all ardent hunting spirits--Mr. and Mrs. Andrew
Cunningham, Miss Peggy Blake, Miss Lydia Arnold, Guy Perry and Herbert
Maxwell--came speeding forward at a brisk gallop. Mrs. Cunningham--May
Cunningham--was a short, dumpy woman, amiable and popular, but hard
featured, as though she had burned the candle in social comings and
goings in her youth, which indeed was the case. But since her marriage
she had by way of settling down fixed her energies on cross-country
riding, and was familiarly known as the mother of the hunt. She had an
excellent seat. She and her husband, a burly sportsman whose ruling
passion was to reduce his weight below two hundred pounds, and whose
predilection for gaudy effects in waistcoats and stocks always pushed
the prevailing fashion hard, were prime movers in the Westfield set.
They had no children, and, as Mrs. Cole once said, it sometimes seemed
as though the hounds took the place of them.
Miss Peggy Blake was a breezy Amazon, comely, long-limbed and
enthusiastic, of many adjectives but simple soul, whose hair was apt to
tumble down at inopportune moments, but who stuck at nothing which
promised fresh physical exhilaration. Guy Perry, a young broker who had
made a fortune in copper stocks, was one of her devoted swains. But
dashingly as she rode, her carriage lacked Lydia Arnold's distinction
and witchery. Indeed, that slight, dainty young person seemed a part of
the animal, so gracefully and jauntily did she follow the movements of
her rangy, spirited thoroughbred. When Gerald Marcy exclaimed fervently,
"By Jove, but she rides well!" no one of the awaiting group was doubtful
as to whom he meant.
Keeping as close to his Dulcinea as he could, but not quite abreast,
came Herbert Maxwell, a rather lumbering equestrian. Fashion had led
him, the previous season, as a young man with great possessions, to
follow the hounds, but sedately, as became a somewhat sober novice. Love
now spurred him to take the highest stone walls, and for the purpose he
had bought a couple of famous hunters. He had long ago dismissed both
fear and caution, and had eyes only for the nape of Miss Arnold's neck
as they sped over hill and dale. Twice in the last six weeks he had come
a cropper, as the phrase is, and been cut up a bit, but he still rode
valiantly, bent on running the risk of a final tumble which would break
not his ribs but his heart. In every-day life he appeared large and
above the average height, with reddish-brown hair and eyebrows and a
somewhat grave countenance--rather a nondescript young man, but entirely
unobjectionable; the sort of personality which, as Lydia's friends were
saying, a clever woman could mould into a solid if not ornamental social
pillar.
For Herbert Maxwell was a new man. That is, the parents of the members
of the Westfield Hunt Club remembered his father as a dealer in
furniture, selling goods in his own store, a red-visaged round-faced,
stubby looking citizen with a huge standing collar gaping at the front.
Though he had grown rich in the process, settled in the fashionable
quarter of the city and sent his boy to college in order to make
desirable friends and get a good education, it could not be denied that
he smelt of varnish metaphorically if not actually, and that Herbert
was, so to speak, on the defensive from a social point of view.
Everybody's eye was on him to see that he did not make some "break," and
inasmuch as he was commonly, if patronizingly, spoken of as "a very
decent sort of chap," it may be taken for granted that he had managed to
escape serious criticism. His sober manner was partly to be accounted
for by his determination to keep himself well in hand, which had been
formed ten years previous, during his Freshman year, when one of his
classmates, to the manner born, informed him in a moment of frankness
that he was too loud-mouthed for success.
This had been the turning-point in his career; he had been toning down
ever since; he had been cultivating reserve, checking all temptations
toward extravagance of speech, deportment or dress, and, in short, had
become convincingly repressed--that is, up to the hour of his
infatuation for Lydia Arnold. Since then he had let himself go, yet not
indecorously, and with due regard to the proprieties. All the world
loves a lover, and to the Westfield Hunt Club Herbert Maxwell's kicking
over the bars of colorless conventionality appeared both pardonable and
refreshing, especially as it was recognized that the manifestations of
his ardor, though unmistakable, had not been lacking in taste. The
sternest censors of society had not the heart to sneer at the possessor
of four millions because the entertainments which he gave in his lady
love's honor were more sumptuous than the occasion demanded, and that in
his solicitude to keep up with her on the hunting field he was an easy
victim to the horse-dealers. Before the bar of nice judgment it was
tacitly admitted that he appeared to better advantage than if he had
ambled after his goddess with the lacklustre indifference which some of
his betters were apt to affect. It takes one to the manner born to be
listless in love and yet prevail; and so it was that Maxwell's reversion
to breakneck manners had given a pleasant thrill to this fastidious
colony.
Gay greetings and felicitations on the beauty of the day for hunting
purposes were exchanged between the new-comers and their friends. The
men in their red coats had a word of gallantry or chaff for every woman.
New equestrians appeared approaching from diverse directions, while
suddenly from the kennels a few rods distant issued a barking, snuffing
pack of eager hounds, conducted by Kenneth Post, the master, whose
expansive high white stock and shining black leather boots proclaimed
that he took his functions seriously. This was a red-letter day for him,
as he had invited the hunt to breakfast with him at the club-house
after the run.
Lydia, on her arrival, had guided her thoroughbred to the other side of
Mrs. Cole so deftly that her admirer was shut out from immediate
pursuit. At a glance from her the two women's heads bent close together
in scrutiny of some disarrangement in her riding-habit.
"Fanny," she whispered, "I've done it."
"Lydia! When did it happen?"
"Last evening. I've given him permission to announce it at the
breakfast."
"My dear, I'm just thrilled. You've kept us all guessing."
"I've heard that the betting was even," answered Lydia with dry
complacency. The intimation that she had kept the world in the dark was
evidently agreeable. "I wished you to know first of all."
"That was lovely of you. And how clever to escape the bore of writing
all those hateful notes! That was just like you, Lydia."
"I know a girl who wrote two hundred, and the day they were ready to be
sent out changed her mind. I don't wish to run the risk. Here comes Mr.
Marcy."
Fannie Cole gave her hand an ecstatic squeeze and they lifted their
heads to meet the common enemy, man. It was time to start, and he was
solicitous lest something were wrong with Miss Arnold's saddle girths.
"Beauty in distress?" he murmured with a tug at his mustache. Marcy had
his commonplace saws, like most of us.
Mrs. Cole was opening her mouth to reassure him on that score when she
was forestalled by Lydia.
"That's a question, Mr. Marcy, which can be more easily answered a year
or two hence."
Marcy bowed low in his saddle. "At your pleasure, of course. I did not
come to pry." At his best Marcy had quick perceptions and could put two
and two together. He was assisted to the divination that something was
in the wind by catching sight at the moment of Herbert Maxwell's
countenance. That worthy had been blocked in his progress by pretty Mrs.
Baxter, who, having resented his attempt to squeeze past her by the
following remark, had barred his way with her horse's flank.
"We all know where you are heading, Mr. Maxwell, but as a punishment for
endeavoring to shove me aside you must pay toll by talking to me for a
little."
The culprit had started and stared like one awakened in his sleep, and
stammered his apologies to his laughing tormentor. But while she kept
him at bay, his eyes could not help straying beyond her toward the woman
of his heart, and it was their peculiar expression which drew from Marcy
the remark which he referred to later as an inspiration.
"It's not exactly pertinent to the subject, Miss Arnold, but Herbert
Maxwell has the look this morning of having seen the Holy Grail."
Lydia calmly turned her graceful head in the direction indicated, then
facing her interrogator, said oracularly after a pause: "The wisest men
are liable to see false visions. But provided they are happy, does it
really matter, Mr. Marcy?"
Whereupon, without waiting for a response to this Delphic utterance,
she tapped her thoroughbred with her hunting crop and cantered forward
to take her place in the van of those about to follow the hounds.