The Revels ended on Saturday, on which day the wonder-stricken guests
for the most part dispersed, their faces probably shining like Moses'
at this social revelation, and went back to their humble homes. The
success of them had been gigantic. Nobody (except Newport) talked about
anything else for days, and to find news of international importance in
the papers was almost impossible, for everything else except the Revels
was tucked away into odd corners. Newport alone maintained an icy
silence, but disaffection was already at work there, and those who were
only struggling on the fringe of Newport society said openly that they
would go to Long Island next year, since there really seemed to be some
gaiety there, whereas Newport was like a wet Sunday afternoon. Mrs.
Palmer's two English guests, however, stopped on. So also did Bilton;
and Mrs. Emsworth, having decided not to go to Mass on Sunday morning,
was coming down with the larger part of her company on Saturday night
after her performance in New York. Sunday, however, was going to be a
quiet day, with the exception that there was a large dinner-party in
the evening and a play in the theatre afterwards. Ping-pong Armstrong
also remained, for he was the recognised tame cat without claws
about the house. Mrs. Palmer sometimes secretly wished, in her full
consciousness of innocence, that people would 'talk' just a little
about him and her, but nobody ever did. Even the _Gutter Snipe_ never
alluded to his constant presence in the house, but this was probably
due to the fact that the editor--who knew a good deal about the meaner
side of human nature--guessed that it would have pleased Mrs. Palmer.
For it is a most extraordinary, though common, phenomenon to find that
perfectly virtuous and upright people often like to be thought just a
little wicked, whereas bad people are totally indifferent for the most
part as to whether anyone thinks them good or not.
During the two or three days that had elapsed since Bilton and Mrs.
Massington had their talk together, his conduct had been immensely
pleasing to her. He had taken the hint she had given him like a
gentleman, and had not allowed himself to drift into intimate
conversation with her until she gave him the signal. He had been
diplomatic and delicate--above all, he had been intelligent, not
blundering, and she could not help contrasting him, much to his
advantage, with the average Englishman, who either insists on 'talking
the thing out,' or else looks sulky and wears a woebegone aspect. But
Bilton had done neither; he had remained brisk, not brusque, and had
resisted, apparently without effort, any attempt to bring her to the
point, while remaining himself absolutely normal. In the meantime,
during the self-imposed pause in her own affairs, Mrs. Massington
watched with extreme satisfaction the development of that mission
which had brought Bertie Keynes to America. Affairs for him certainly
appeared to be running very smooth; she almost wished for some slight
_contretemps_ to take place in order to put things on the proper
proverbial footing. In other words, Amelie and Bertie had made great
friends, and owing to the extraordinary freedom which eligible young
folk are given in America, with a view to letting them improve their
acquaintance, they had got under way with much rapidity. The house
being full, they had many opportunities for finding the isolation which
exists in crowds, and took advantage of it. Mr. Palmer, however, with a
strong sense of paternal duty, thought it well not to let the matter go
too far without satisfying himself that he was justified in letting it
go to all lengths. With this in his mind he went to his wife's rooms on
Sunday morning to have a quiet talk, as was his custom.
'Pleased with your party?' he asked amiably.
'Lewis, I'm just sick with satisfaction,' she said. 'Long Island, I
tell you, is made, and Newport will crumble into the sea. But what am I
to do next year? Why, I believe that if at this moment I built a house
on Sandy Hook, I could make it fashionable.'
'That would be very convenient,' said he. 'We could flag the liners and
save half a day. I'm glad you are satisfied. Now, what do you get by it
all?'
'Same as what you get when you've made a million dollars,' said Mrs.
Palmer with some perspicacity. 'You don't want them. You don't know
you've got them. But you like getting them.'
His bright gray eyes gleamed suddenly, and he looked at her approvingly.
'I guess that's true,' he said. 'I guess you've hit the nail on the
head, as you do every time. We've got to get, you and I; and when we've
got, we've got to get again. It's the getting we go for.'
His eyes wandered round the room a moment, and he went to a cabinet of
_bric-à-brac_ that stood between the windows.
'Where did you get that Tanagra figure from?' he asked. 'It's a
forgery.' And he took it up and threw it into the grate, where it
smashed to atoms.
'Well, I suppose you know,' said Mrs. Palmer calmly. 'Bilton sold it
me.'
Lewis laughed.
'Spoiled his market,' he remarked. 'That man's very clever, but he
lacks--he lacks length of vision.'
'Perhaps he didn't know it was a forgery,' said Mrs. Palmer charitably.
'That's worse. Give him the credit of knowing.'
Mrs. Palmer put down the paper she was reading.
'Lewis, you didn't come here just to break my things,' she said. 'What
is it?'
'Lord Keynes. What do you know of him?' he asked, with his usual
directness.
Had Mrs. Palmer been in the company of other people, she would have
executed her famous scream, because she was amused. But she never
wasted it, and it would have been quite wasted on her husband.
'He's charming,' she said. 'He's in excellent style; he's in _the_ set
in London. And he wants a wife with a competency. That's why I brought
him here.'
'But what does he do?' asked her husband. 'Does he just exist?'
'Yes, I guess he exists. Men do exist in England; here they don't. They
get.'
'Some exist here. Ping-pong does.'
'And who's Ping-pong?' she asked.
'Why, Armstrong. Amelie thought of it. He is a ping-pong, you know.'
This time Mrs. Palmer gave the scream, for she was so much amused as to
forget the absence of an audience.
'Well, I'm sure, if Amelie isn't bright,' she said. 'But you're pretty
far out, Lewis, if you think that Lord Keynes is a ping-pong. If he
was an American, and did nothing, he would be. But men do nothing in
England without being.'
'England's a ping-pong, I think sometimes,' remarked Lewis. 'She just
plays about. However, we're not discussing that. Now I see you mean
business with Lord Keynes. You'll run it through on your own lines,
I suppose. But remember '--he paused a moment--' I guess it's rather
difficult for one to say it,' he said, 'but it's just this: When a girl
marries a man, if she doesn't hit it off, the best thing she can do is
to make believe she does. But I doubt if Amelie can make believe worth
a cent.'
'Well, she just adores him,' said Mrs. Palmer.
'That's good as far as it goes.'
'It goes just about to the end of the world,' said she.
Mr. Palmer considered this.
'The end of the world occurs sooner than you think sometimes,' he said.
'I'll get you a genuine Tanagra, if you like,' he added, 'and I'll guy
Bilton about the other. I'll pretend he thought it was genuine. That'll
make him tender.'
Though Mrs. Palmer had no objection to exaggeration in a good cause,
she had not in the least been guilty of it when she said that Amelie
adored Bertie Keynes. Most girls have daydreams of some kind, and
Amelie, with the vividness that characterized her, had conjured up
before now with some completeness her own complement. Unless a woman is
celibate by nature (a thing happily rare), she is frequently conscious
of the empty place in herself which it is her duty and her constant,
though often unconscious, quest to find the tenant for. And Amelie was
not in the least of a celibate nature; her warm blood beat generously,
and the love of her nature that should one day pour itself on one at
present overflowed in runnels of tenderness for all living things. The
sprouts of the springing daisies were dear to her--dogs, horses, even
the wild riot of the Revels, was worthy of her affectionate interest.
But the rather unreasonable attention she bestowed on these numberless
objects of affection was only the overflow from the cistern. One day it
would be all given in full flood, its waters would bathe one who had
chosen her, and whom her heart chose.
This morning she was riding through the woods with Bertie Keynes, the
charmingly sensible laws of American etiquette making it possible for
her to ride with anyone she wished, alone and unattended. They had just
pulled up from a gallop through the flowering wood paths, and the two
horses, muscle-stretched and quiet, were willing to walk unfrettingly
side by side.
'Oh, it all smells good, it smells very good,' she said. 'And this
morning somehow--I suppose it's after mamma's fête--I like the fresh,
green out-of-doors more than ever. I think we live altogether too much
indoors in America.'
'But the fêtes were entirely out of doors,' said Bertie.
'Yes; but the pearl-party was just the most indoor thing I ever saw,'
said she. 'Certainly it was out of doors, but all the time I wanted
somebody to open the windows, let in a breath--a breath of----'and she
paused for a word.
'I know what you mean,' he said.
'Did you feel it too? I want to know?'
'In that case, I did.'
He looked at her a moment.
'But all the time you were my breath of out-of-doors,' he said.
Amelie was not fool enough to take this as a compliment, or to simper
acknowledgments. As he spoke he wondered how she would take it, hoped
she would look at him, anyhow, then hoped she would not.
'Ping-pong is indoors enough,' she said. 'Do tell me what you think of
him.'
'I don't think of him,' said Bertie. 'If I sat down to think of him I
should instantly begin, without meaning to, to think about something
else.'
'Do you loathe him?' she asked.
'Good heavens, no! But--but there are people like husks. Just husks.'
She considered this.
'Husky Ping-pong,' she said, half to herself. 'Poor Husky Ping-Pong. Do
you grow them in England?'
'Yes, heaps. They grow in London. They are always at every party, and
they know everybody, and make themselves immensely agreeable. It is all
they do. And you see them in the back seats of motor-cars.'
She looked at him with some mischief in her eyes.
'And what do you do?' she asked.
'No more than they. Anyone is at liberty to call one a ping-pong. Only
I'm not.'
'I know. I was wondering what the difference was according to your
description.'
'There is none, I suppose. But don't confuse me with ping-pongs.'
She laughed.
'Lord Keynes, you are just adorable,' she said. 'I'll race you to the
end of the avenue.'
'Adoring me all the time?'
'Unless you win,' she said.
'Then I will lose on purpose.'
'That will be mean. I never adore meanness. Are you ready?'
And her beautiful horse gathered his legs up under him and whirled her
down the grassy ride. Bertie got not so good a start, and rode the
gauntlet of the flying turf scattered by his heels, till, a bend of
the path favouring him, he drew nearly abreast, pursuing her through
sunshine and the flecked shadows on the grass. He had seen her day
after day in the Revels, night after night at ball or concert, yet
never had her beauty seemed to him so compelling as it did now, as,
swaying the rein with dainty finger-tip, her body moving utterly in
harmony with the grand swing of her horse's stride, she turned her
smiling face to him, all ecstasy at the exhilaration of the gallop, all
wide-eyed smile of consternation at the decreasing lead which she had
got at the start. And all at once, for the first time, his blood was
kindled; he had admired her form as one may admire a perfect piece of
sculptured grace, he had admired her splendid vitality, her charming
companionship, her intense _joie de vivre_. But now all the separate,
isolated admirations were fused and glowed flamelike. Suddenly she
laughed aloud, as he had nearly caught her up.
'Ride, ride!' she cried, in a sudden burst of intimate, upwelling joy
that came from she knew not where. 'You will win.'
Apollo pursued Daphne in the vale of Tempe, and in the vales of Long
Island Bertie Keynes rode hard after Amelie. And she encouraged him to
win, she even drew rein a shade--just a shade--though she had wanted to
win so much.
All the afternoon motor-cars, bicycles, carts, tandems, brakes, were
arriving, for though it was a quiet Sunday, Mrs. Palmer, it was
well-known, liked to see a few friends about teatime, who usually
stopped for dinner, and before evening it was as if the Revels
were extended a day longer. The weather was extremely hot, and in
consequence dinner was served in the great marquee on the terrace.
Among others, Mrs. Emsworth had come with those of her company who were
to act that night in the theatre. The _petit saleté_ to be produced
had never been presented on any stage before, the Lord-Chamberlain of
England, with a fatherly regard for the morals of the nation entrusted
to him, having deemed that it was too _sale_; and, as a matter of fact,
Mrs. Emsworth rather embraced this opportunity of playing it before
a private audience, with a view to seeing whether her public in New
York, with their strange mixture of cynical indifference to anything
but money, and the even stranger survival of the Puritan spirit, which
crops up every now and then as some rare border plant will crop up
among the weeds and grasses of a long overgrown garden, would be likely
to swallow it. She herself was a little nervous of presenting it there.
Bilton, on the other hand, who might be supposed to know the taste of
the patrons for whom he catered so successfully, thought it would be an
immense success.
'After all, Paris loved it,' he said, as he had a few words with her
when they went up to dress for dinner. 'And what is bad enough for
Paris is good enough for New York. You may take my word for it that
what Paris swallows America will gobble.'
'You mean they are more--more emancipated here?'
'Not at all, but that they are eager to accept anything that has been a
success in London or Paris. Why, I produced "Dram-drinking" here. Dead
failure. I took it to London, where it ran well, and brought it back
here. Tremendous success. We Americans, I mean, are entirely devoid
of artistic taste. But we give our decided approbation to what other
people say is artistic, which, for your purpose and mine, is the same
thing. Left to ourselves, we like David Harum. I produce "Hamlet" here
next week. The house is full for the next month. But alter the name
and say it is by a new author, and it won't run a week. The papers, to
begin with, would all damn it.'
'But the critics. Do you mean they don't _know_ "Hamlet"?'
'There are no critics, and they don't know anything. They are violent
ignoramuses who write for unreadable papers.'
'Then why do you ever consider them?'
'Because they are not critics, and because in New York everyone reads
the unreadable. This is my room--you are next door, I think.'
'I shan't come to dinner,' she said. 'I am rather tired. By the way, is
that large, beautiful girl Mrs. Palmer's daughter?'
'Probably. Why?'
'Will she be at the play to-night?'
'Probably. Why?'
Mrs. Emsworth frowned.
'It is not fit,' she said.
Bilton raised his eyebrows. This was indeed a woman of 'infinite
variety.'
'You cannot alter your play for fear she will be there,' he said.
'No; I suppose not. I say, what devils we are!'
The play was an enormous success, and Mrs. Emsworth's personality
seemed to lift it out of the regions of the equivocal. The part, that
of a woman who represented the triumph of mind over morals, fitted her
like a glove, and it was as impossible to be shocked as it is when a
child uses a coarse or profane expression. Her impropriety was no more
improper than is the natural instinct of a bird or animal improper;
by a supreme effort of nature rather than art she seemed to roll up
like an undecipherable manuscript the whole moral code, and say, 'Now,
let's begin again.' Her gaiety covered her sins; more than that it
transformed them into something so sunlit that the shadows vanished.
Even as we laugh at Fricka when she inveighs against Siegmund and
Sieglinde, feeling that condemnation is impossible, because praise or
blame is uncalled for and irrelevant, so the ethical question (indeed,
there was no question) of whether the person whom Mrs. Emsworth
represented behaved quite 'like a lady 'never occurred to anyone. Her
vitality dominated the situation.
Of all her audience, there was none so utterly surprised at the
performance as Bilton. He knew her fairly well, but he had never
seen in her half so clearly the triumph of temperament. Knowing her
as he did, he knew it was not art; it was only an effort, unique
and unsurpassable, to be herself. Again and again he longed to be a
play-wright; he could write her, he felt, could he write at all, a
part that would be she. For never before had she so revealed herself a
sunlit pagan. And as the play went on, his wonder increased. She was
admirable. Then Mrs. Massington, who sat next him, laughed at something
he had not seen, and for the moment he was vexed to have been called
down from the stage to a woman less vivid, for his sensualism was of a
rather high order.
Late that night, after the supper that followed the entertainment, he
went upstairs. In Mon Repos there was no barbaric quenching of electric
light at puritanical hours, no stranding of belated guests in strange
passages, and he walked up from the smoking-room with his hands in
his pockets, unimpeded by any guttering bedroom candle. The evening
had been a triumph for Dorothy--in the mercantile way it had been as
great a triumph for him, for the _cachet_ of success at Mrs. Palmer's
would certainly float the play in New York. The _Gutter Snipe_, he
reflected, would have at least a column of virulent abuse, since it
had been performed at Mon Repos. So much the better; he would have
a whole procession of sandwich men, London fashion, parading Fifth
Avenue, every alternate one bearing the most infamous extracts from
that paper. To use abuse as a means of advertisement was a new idea
... it interested him. Certainly, Dorothy had been marvellous. She was
a witch ... no one knew all her incantations ... and he paused at his
bedroom door. She had gone upstairs only five minutes before him. Since
the performance she had been queen bee to the whole party; he himself
had not had a word with her. Surely even Puritanical Long Island would
not be shocked if he just went to her even now for a minute, and
congratulated her. Besides, Puritanical Long Island would never know.
So he tapped softly and entered, after the manner of a man whose tap
merely means 'I am coming.'
The room was brilliantly lit. Mrs. Emsworth was standing by the bed. By
her, having looked in for a go-to-bed chat, was Sybil Massington.