Precise consideration by Lydia of her feelings for her betrothed--and
presently her husband, as they were married in the following
January--were rendered superfluous for the time being by the worship
which he lavished upon her. There were so many other things to think of:
first her engagement ring, which called forth ejaculations of envious
admiration from her contemporaries; then her trousseau, the costumes of
her bridesmaids, the details of the ceremony and the wedding breakfast,
and the important question whether the honeymoon was to be spent in
Europe. There was never any doubt as to this in Lydia's mind. After
deliberation she had decided on a winter passage by the Mediterranean
route to Nice and Cannes, followed by a summer in the Tyrol and
Switzerland, with a fortnight in Paris to repair the ravages in her
wardrobe made by changing fashion. It must not be understood that
Maxwell demurred to this attractive programme. He merely intimated that
if he remained at home and demonstrated what he called his serious side,
he would probably receive a nomination for the Legislature in the
autumn; that the party managers had predicted as much; and that the
favorable introduction into politics thus obtained might lead to
Congress or a foreign mission, as he had the means to live up to either
position worthily.
Lydia listened alertly. "I should like you to go as ambassador to Paris
or London some day, of course, but to serve in the Legislature now
would scarcely conduce to that, Herbert. I've set my heart on going
abroad--I've never been but once, you know--and it's just the time to go
when we are building our two houses. Where should we live if we stayed
at home? The sensible plan is to store our presents, buy some tapestries
and old furniture on the other side, and come back in time to get the
autumn hunting at Westfield and inaugurate our two establishments."
This settled the matter. The only real uncertainty had been whether she
did not prefer a trip around the world instead. But that would take too
long. She was eager to figure as the mistress of the most stately modern
mansion and the most consummate country house which money and
architectural genius could erect. These two houses were perhaps the most
engrossing of all among the many concerns which led her to postpone
precise analysis of her feelings to a period of greater leisure. That is
the exact quality of her love--whether it were eighteen carat or not, to
adopt a simile suggested to her by her wedding-ring. That she loved
Herbert sufficiently well to marry him was the essential point; and it
seemed futile to play hide-and-seek with her own consciousness over the
abstract proposition whether she could have loved someone else better,
especially as there were so many immediately pressing matters to
consider that both her physician and Herbert had warned her she was
liable, if not prudent, to fall a victim to that lurking ailment,
nervous prostration.
It was certainly no slight responsibility to select the lot in town
which seemed to combine most advantages as the site for a residence. The
matter of the country house was much simpler, for who could doubt that
the ideal location was an expanse of undulating country, higher than the
rest of the neighborhood, known as Norrey's Farm? These fifty acres,
with woods appurtenant, were reputed to be out of the market unless to a
single purchaser. Many a pioneer had picked out Norrey's Knoll as his
choice, only to be thwarted by the owner with the assertion that he must
buy the whole farm or could have none. Later would-be purchasers had
recoiled before the price, which had kept not merely abreast but had
galloped ahead of current valuations, until it had become a by-word in
the colony that Farmer Norrey would bite his own nose off if he were
not careful. But the shrewd rustic was more than vindicated by the
upshot. Lydia, from the moment when she first seriously thought of
Herbert Maxwell as a husband, had cast sheeps' eyes at this stately
property, and within a short period after the engagement was announced
the title deeds passed. Rumor declared that the canny grantor had
divined that the opportunity of his life was at hand and had held out
successfully for still higher figures. But, as everybody cheerfully
remarked, ten thousand dollars more or less was but a flea-bite to
Herbert Maxwell.
Then came the selection of the architects and divers inspections of
plans for the two establishments, which, to the joy of the bridegroom,
were interrupted by the wedding ceremony. They sailed, and their
honeymoon was somewhat of a social parade. Special quarters--the most
expensive and exclusive to be had--were engaged for them in advance on
steamships and in railroad trains, in hotels and wherever they appeared.
Maxwell's manifest tender purpose was to gratify his bride's slightest
whim, and in regard to the choice of the objects on which his ready
money was to be lavished he avoided taking the initiative except when an
occasional mania seized him to buy her costly gems on the sly. Otherwise
he danced attendance on her taste, which was discriminating and
perspicuous. Lydia yearned for distinction, not extravagance; for
superlative effects, not garishness. Her eye was on the lookout in
regard to all the affairs of life, from food to the manifestations of
art, for the note which accurately expressed elegant and fastidious
comfort and gave the rebuff to every-day results or the antics of
vulgarity.
Consequently the wedding trip after the first surprises was but a change
of scene. There were still too many absorptions for retrospective
thought and nice balancing of soul accounts. At Nice and Cannes they
found themselves in a vortex of small gayeties. While travelling, Lydia
was on the alert to pick up old tapestries, porcelain, and other works
of art; in Paris, shopping and the dressmakers left no time for anything
but a daily lesson to put the finishing touch to her French. She had
said to herself that she would draw a trial balance of her precise
emotions when she was at rest on the steamer--for Lydia by instinct was
a methodical person; but a batch of letters reciting complications in
regard to the last details on the new houses was a fresh distraction,
and the society of several engaging men on the ship another.
Nevertheless the thought that she was nearing home struck her fancy
favorably, and on the evening before they landed she eluded everybody
else to seize her husband's arm for a promenade on deck. There was
elasticity in her step as she said, "Won't it be fun to be at Westfield
again, Herbert? I long for a good run with the hounds, and I'm beginning
to pine for the autumn colors and smells."
"Yes, indeed. And we shall be settled at our own fireside at last," he
answered with a lover's animation.
The remark recalled bothersome considerations to Lydia's mind. She felt
sure from the contents of the last packet of correspondence that the
architect had failed to carry out her instructions in several
instances.
"Settled?" she echoed. "If we are settled a year from now we may
consider ourselves very fortunate."
Lydia's immediate plans met with interruption from an unexpected source.
Before the hunting season had fairly begun it was privately whispered in
Westfield circles that a stork would presently visit the new
establishment on Norrey's Farm. Open inquiries from tactless
interrogators, why the Maxwells did not follow the hounds, were answered
by the explanation that the young people had so many matters to attend
to in connection with their two houses that they had decided to postpone
hunting to another year. Later it was known that they would pass the
winter in the country, and not furnish the town house until spring.
When the baby was actually born, in February, everyone knew that it was
expected; but the advent of the infant in the flesh caused a flutter
among Lydia's immediate feminine acquaintances. As soon as the mother
was able to receive visitors, Mrs. Walter Cole came down from town to
offer her warm felicitations and incidentally to satisfy the curiosity
of those who took an interest. She had arranged to lunch after the
interview with the Andrew Cunninghams, who lived all the year round at
Westfield, and thither at the close of the visit to her intimate friend
she repaired, replete with information. It happened to be Saturday, and
the master of the house had brought down Gerald Marcy by an early train
for a winter's afternoon tramp across country, so that the two women had
only a few minutes of unreserved conversation.
"Well, she was just as one would have expected--Lydia all over," Mrs.
Cole began with the intensity of a pent-up stream which has regained its
freedom. "She looked sweet, and everything in her room and in the
nursery was bewitching, as though she had been preparing for the event
for years and doted on it. That's just like her, of course. She bemoaned
her fate at losing the hunting season, and she has decided not to nurse
the baby. As an experienced mother," continued Mrs. Cole
contemplatively, "I felt bound to remind her that there are two sides to
that question, and that I had nursed Toto and Jim not only because
Walter insisted on it, but to give the children the benefit of the doubt
as to any possible effect on character from being suckled by a stranger.
But she had thought it all out, and had her arguments at her fingers'
ends. She declared it a case of Anglo-Saxon prejudice, and that every
Frenchwoman of position sends her babies to a foster-mother. Of course
it _is_ a bother, and frightfully confining, but my husband wouldn't
hear of it, though half the mamas can't satisfy their babies anyway."
Mrs. Cunningham nodded understandingly. "I daresay it's just as well.
And of course she regards the rest of us as old-fashioned. But tell me
about the baby."
Mrs. Cole laughed. "You ought to have heard Lydia on the subject. She
talks of it in the most impersonal way, as though it belonged to someone
else or were a wedding present. I never cared much for babies before I
was married, but could not endure anyone who wouldn't make flattering
speeches about mine. Lydia's is a dear little thing as they go, and has
a fascinating wardrobe already, and I think she is rather devoted to it
in her secret soul, but one of the first things she said to me--before I
could get in a single compliment--was, 'She's the living image of
Grandma Maxwell, Fannie. She has her mouth and nose.' And the
embarrassing part was that it's true. The moment Lydia called my
attention to it I saw. Her eagle maternal eye had detected what the
ordinary mother would have failed to perceive. But it's Grandma Maxwell
to the life. 'Why evade the truth?' remarked Lydia after one of her
deliberate pauses. 'I shall name her for her, and I can discern in
advance that she will never be a social success.'"
"Poor little thing!" murmured Mrs. Cunningham. Such an anathema so early
in life was certainly heart-rending.
Mrs. Cole put her head on one side like an arch bird by way of
reflective protest. "It sounds dreadful, of course, but remember she's
Lydia. What she will really do will be to metamorphose her, body and
soul, so that by the time she is eighteen there will not be one trace of
Maxwell visible to the naked eye. See if I'm not right," she said with
the gusto of a brilliant inspiration which seemed to her a logical
defence of her friend.
The arrival of the men interrupted the dialogue, but the general topic
was presently resumed from another point of view. Not many minutes had
elapsed after they sat down to luncheon before Gerald Marcy hazarded the
observation that, prophecies and innuendoes to the contrary
notwithstanding, events in the Maxwell household appeared to have
followed the course of nature. Mrs. Cole, to whom this remark was
directly addressed, ignored the sly impeachment of her abilities as a
seer, and, having finished her piece of buttered toast, said blandly:
"I think Lydia is very happy."
"I felt sure she would be tamed," continued Marcy with a tug at his
mustache. "I look to see her become a model of the domestic virtues."
"Don't be too sure that she is tamed, Gerald," said Mrs. Cunningham.
"Lydia is Lydia." Perhaps the knowledge that she had been longing in
vain for years for a child of her own gave the cue to this slightly
brusk comment.
"Lydia will never be exactly like the rest of us; that's her
peculiarity--virtue--what shall I call it?" interposed Mrs. Cole,
looking round the table with a philosophic air. "The rest of us demur
at conventions, but accept them in the end. She follows what she deems
the truth. I don't say that she is always right or that she doesn't do
queer things," she added by way of conservative qualification of her
bubbling encomium.
"And how about Maxwell?" asked Andrew Cunningham, who had seemed
temporarily lost in the contemplation of his lobster salad so long as
any of that lusciously prepared viand remained on his plate. "Infatuated
as ever, I suppose," he added, sitting back in his chair and exposing
benignly his broad expanse of neckcloth and fancy check waistcoat.
"Yes, and he ought to be, surely. But Lydia has a rival in the daughter
of the house," answered Mrs. Cole, reinspired by the inquiry. "He came
in just as I was leaving, and is almost daft on the subject of the
baby. If Lydia's ecstasy is somewhat below the normal, he more than
makes up for the deficiency. There never was such a proud parent. He
just 'chortled in his joy.' He discerns in her already all the graces
and virtues, and would like to do something at once--he doesn't know
exactly what--to bring them to the attention of an unappreciative world.
If it were a boy, he could put his name down on the waiting lists at the
clubs, but as she is only a girl, he must content himself with hanging
over her crib for the present."
"Only a girl!" echoed Marcy. "Born with a golden spoon in her mouth, an
heiress to all the virtues and graces, and predestined doubtless, like
her mother, to rest her dainty foot upon the neck of man. Nevertheless,
as I have already prophesied, I am inclined to think that the yoke--now
a double yoke--will not bear too severely on Maxwell, though it may not
yield him the bliss which we unregenerate bachelors are wont to
associate with the ideal marital relation."
"Hear--hear!" exclaimed Andrew Cunningham. "You need some further liquid
refreshment after that silver-tongued sophistry, Gerald.--Mary," he said
to the maid, "pass the whiskey and soda to Mr. Marcy."
Mrs. Cole put her head on one side. "I have my doubts whether the ideal
marital relation is a modern social possibility--the strictly ideal such
as you bachelors mean," she added, feeling, doubtless, as the wife of a
man to whom she had described herself in heart-to-heart talks with other
women--not many, for she eschewed the subject ordinarily as sacred--as
deeply attached, that this homily on wedlock needed a qualifying tag.
But May Cunningham was not in the mood to become a party to even so
tempered an imputation on connubial happiness. "Speak for yourself,
Fannie," she said sturdily. "Ideals or no ideals, Andrew and I trot in
double harness better than any single animal of my acquaintance."
"Listen to the old woman, God bless her!" exclaimed the master of the
house, raising his tumbler and smiling at his better-half with
chivalrous expansiveness.
Mrs. Cole was a little nettled at Mrs. Cunningham's obtuseness--wilful
obtuseness, it seemed to her. As though the subtle social problem
suggested by her was to be solved by a reference to the homely affection
of this amiable but limited couple! She sighed and murmured, "Everyone
knows, my dear, that you and Andrew are as happy as the day is long. But
I'm afraid that you don't understand exactly what I meant."
Mrs. Cunningham compressed her lips ominously. She felt that she
understood perfectly well, and that it was simply another case of Fannie
Cole's nonsense. But any retort she may have been meditating was averted
by the timely and genial inspiration of her husband.
"One thing is certain," he said: "we all know that our Gerald is the
ideal bachelor."
This assertion called forth cordial acquiescence from both the ladies,
and turned the current of the conversation into a smoother channel. The
subject of the remark bowed decorously.
"In this company I am free to admit that I sometimes sigh in secret for
a happy home. Yet even venerable bachelorhood has its compensations. By
the way," he added, "our colony at Westfield is likely to have an
addition to its stud of bachelors. I hear that Harry Spencer is coming
home."
"Harry Spencer? How interesting," cried the two women in the same
breath.
"The fascinator," continued Mrs. Cole with slow, sardonic articulation.
"To break some other woman's heart, I suppose," said Mrs. Cunningham.
"And yet it is safe to say that he will be received with open arms by
your entire sex, including the present company," remarked Gerald with a
tug at his mustache.
The sally was received with pensive silence as a deduction apparently
not to be gainsaid.
"He is very agreeable," said Mrs. Cunningham flatly.
"And extremely handsome," said Mrs. Cole. "Not the type of manly beauty
which would cause my mature heart to flutter, but dangerous to the
youthful imagination. He used to look like a handsome pirate, and if he
had whispered honeyed words to me instead of to Laura--who knows?"
"Poor Laura!"
"They had neither of them a cent; there was nothing for him to do but
withdraw. And yet there is no doubt he broke her heart, though there is
consumption in her family." Mrs. Cole knit her brows over this attempt
on her part to formulate complete justice.
"He's a woman's man," said Andrew Cunningham. He had stepped to the
mantel-piece to fill his pipe, and having uttered this fell speech, he
lit it and smoked for some moments in silence with his back to the
cheerful wood fire before proceeding. No one had seen fit to contradict
him. The gaps between his assertions and the subsequent explanations
thereof were expected and rarely interrupted. "He does everything
well--rides, shoots, plays rackets, golf, cards--is infernally
good-looking, as you say, has a pat speech and a flattering eye for
every woman he looks at, and yet somehow he has always struck me as a
_poseur_. I wouldn't trust him in a tight place, though he prides
himself on his sporting blood. It may be prejudice on my part. Gerald
likes him, I believe, because he is a keen rider and always has a good
mount. He always has the best of everything going, but what does he live
on anyway?"
"Wild oats, perhaps," suggested Marcy. But he hastened to atone for
this levity by adding, "He had a little money from his mother, while it
lasted, and just after he and Miss Wilford drifted apart, I am told that
he followed a tip from Guy Perry on copper stocks and cleaned up enough
to enable him to travel round the world."
"Poor Laura!" interjected Mrs. Cole. "What a pity he didn't get a tip
earlier!"
"It wasn't enough to marry on," said Marcy, "and it's probably mostly
gone by this time."
"That's the sort of thing I complain of," exclaimed Cunningham. "I'm no
martinet in morals, Heaven knows, but I always feel a little on my guard
with fellows who live by their wits and spend like princes. Confound it,
you know it isn't quite respectable even in a free country." Andrew
spoke with a wag of his head as though he expected to be adjudged an old
fogy for this conservative utterance.
"He's an attractive fellow on the surface anyway," answered Marcy after
a pause, "and will be an addition from the hunting standpoint. And--give
the devil his due, Andrew--if he was looking for money only, there were
several heiresses he might have married. That would have made him
irreproachable at once."
Mrs. Cole drew a long breath. "Perfectly true, Mr. Marcy. I never
thought of it before. Harry Spencer doesn't look at a woman twice unless
he admires her, no matter how rich she is. He could have married
several, of course, if he had tried."
"Dozens. That's the humiliating part of it," assented Mrs. Cunningham.
"When he is ready to settle down that's what he'll do--pick out some
woman with barrels of money," said Andrew. Having once got a proposition
in his head he was wont to stick to it tenaciously, like a puppy to a
root.
"You misjudge him--you misjudge him!" cried Mrs. Cole eagerly. "He won't
do anything of the kind. He will never marry any woman unless she has
money--or he has; that I'm ready to admit. But, on the other hand, he'll
never ask anyone to marry him unless he loves her for herself alone,
and--and," she continued with a gasp born of the thrill which the
definiteness of her insight caused her, "there are very few women in the
world whom he is liable to fall in love with. That's what makes him so
interesting. He is polite to us all, but the majority of women bore him
at heart."
Marcy laughed. "A masterly diagnosis," he said. "And now that he has
seen the world and is returning heart-free, so far as we know, there
will naturally be curiosity as to how he will bear the ordeal of a fresh
contact with native loveliness."
"Exactly," said the two women together, and with an engaging frankness
which quite overshadowed the grunt by which the master of the house
indicated his suspicious dissent from this exposition of character.