"Well, perhaps I should hate it too, if mine were curly and _Lady Betty Across the Water

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LADY BETTY ACROSS THE WATER

[Illustration: "_I found myself chatting away with those cadets as

if I had grown up with them_"]

LADY BETTY ACROSS THE WATER

Edited by

C. N. & A. M. WILLIAMSON

Authors of My Friend the Chauffeur

Illustrations by Orson Lowell

[Illustration]

New York

McClure, Phillips & Co.

MCMVI

McClure, Phillips & Co.

Published, May, 1906

Second Impression

_To

the people of that great, delightful, and hospitable

land which gave Lady Betty the time of her life

and inspiration, this story of her visit is admiringly

Dedicated by Betty Bulkeley

and C. N. and A. M. Williamson_

CONTENTS

CHAP. PAGE

I. ABOUT BEING BANISHED 3

II. ABOUT CROSSING THE WATER 20

III. ABOUT NEW YORK 50

IV. ABOUT SHOPPING AND MEN 83

V. ABOUT WEST POINT AND PROPOSALS 101

VI. ABOUT THE PARK AND LOVE STORIES 118

VII. ABOUT SKY-SCRAPERS AND BEAUTIFUL LADIES 133

VIII. ABOUT NEWPORT AND GORGEOUSNESS 141

IX. ABOUT BATHING, A DRESS, AND AN EARL 156

X. ABOUT A VIOLET TEA AND A MILLIONAIRE 170

XI. ABOUT A GREAT AFFAIR 180

XII. ABOUT A WEDDING AND A DISASTER 200

XIII. ABOUT RUNNING AWAY 211

XIV. ABOUT THE TWENTIETH CENTURY LIMITED AND CHICAGO 223

XV. ABOUT SEEING CHICAGO 227

XVI. ABOUT THE VALLEY FARM 238

XVII. ABOUT COWS AND NATIONAL CHARACTERISTICS 253

XVIII. ABOUT SOME COUNTRY FOLK, AND WALKER'S EMPORIUM 272

XIX. ABOUT GETTING ENGAGED 289

XX. ABOUT JIM AND THE DUKE 297

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

"I found myself chatting away with those cadets as if I had

grown up with them" _Frontispiece_

FACING

PAGE

"He turned around quickly, glanced up and caught my eyes,

as I was looking down, quite distressed" 34

"When I turned to speak to him he was gone ... and I

was immediately surrounded by other men asking me for

dances" 196

"I swept past him with my nose in the air, trying to

look like mother" 206

"Mr. Trowbridge took me to the beehives to get some

honey and show me what a queen bee is like" 258

"Jim smiled and kept his seat without the least apparent

effort" 302

LADY BETTY ACROSS THE WATER

ABOUT BEING BANISHED

I don't know yet whether I'm pleased or not, but I do know that I'm

excited--more excited than I've ever been in my life, except perhaps

when Miss Mackinstry, my last governess, had hysterics in the

schoolroom and fainted among the tea things.

I suppose I shan't be able to decide about the state of my feelings

until I've had more of them on the same subject, or until I've written

down in this book of mine everything exactly as it's happened. I like

doing that; it makes things seem so clear when you try to review them

afterwards.

The excitement began at breakfast by Mother having a letter that she

liked. I knew she liked it by the way her eyes lighted up, as if they

had been lamps and the letter a match. All the other letters, mostly

with horrid, tradesmanny-looking envelopes, which had been making her

quite glowery, she pushed aside.

Mother won't have a crown on her envelopes; she thinks it's vulgar;

besides, putting it only on the paper saves expense. This envelope had

a great sprawly gold crest, but she didn't seem to disapprove of it.

She read on and on, then suddenly glanced up as if she would have said

something quickly, to Victoria; she didn't say it, though, for she

remembered me. I am never taken into family conclaves, because I'm not

out yet. I don't see what difference that makes, especially as I'm not

to be allowed to come out till after Vic's married, because she was

presented four years ago, and isn't even engaged yet; so for all I

can tell I may have to stay in till I'm a hundred, or leak out slowly

when nobody is noticing, as Vic says girls do in the middle classes.

This time I didn't mind, however, for I couldn't see how the letter

concerned me; and as I was dying for a sight of Berengaria's puppies,

which were born last night, I was glad when Mother told me not to

fidget after I'd finished breakfast, but to run down to the kennels if

I liked.

Soon I forgot all about the letter, for the puppies were the dearest

ducks on earth (can puppies be ducks, I wonder?), and besides, it was

such a delicious June morning that I could have danced with joy because

I was alive.

I often feel like that; but there's nobody to tell, except the trees

and the dogs, and my poor pony, who is almost too old and second-childish

now to understand. She was my brother Stanforth's pony first of all,

and Stanforth is twenty-eight; then she was Vic's, and Vic is--but

Mother doesn't like Vic's age to be mentioned any more, though she is

years younger than Stan.

I took a walk in the park and afterwards went through the rose-garden,

to see how the roses were getting on. There were a lot of petals for my

_pot-pourri_, and gathering them up kept me for some time. Then, as the

jar stands in Vic's and my den (she calls it her den, but it has to be

part mine, as I have no other), I was going in by one of the long

windows, when I heard Mother's voice. "The question is," she was

saying, "what's to be done with Betty?"

I turned round and ran away on my tiptoes across the lawn, for I didn't

want to be an eavesdropper, and it would be nearly as bad to have

Mother know I had heard even those few words; she would be so annoyed,

and Mother chills me all the way through to my bones when she's

annoyed. It is wonderful how she does it, for she never scolds; but the

thermometer simply drops to freezing-point, and you feel like a poor

little shivering crocus that has come up too soon, by mistake, to find

the world covered with snow, and no hope of squeezing back into its own

cosy warm bulb again.

I stopped out of doors till luncheon, and played croquet against

myself, wishing that Stan would run down; for although Stan rather

fancies himself as a Gorgeous Person since poor father's death gave him

the title, he is quite nice to me, when it occurs to him. I'm always

glad when he comes to the Towers, but he hardly ever does in the

Season; and then in August and September he's always in Scotland. So is

Vic, for the matter of that, and she hates being in the country in May

and June, though Surrey is so close to town that luckily she doesn't

miss much; but this year we seem to have been horribly poor, for some

reason. Vic says it's Stan's fault. He is extravagant, I suppose.

However, as everything is really his, I don't see that we ought to

complain; only, it can't be pleasant for him to feel that Mother is

worrying lest he should marry and make her a frumpy dowager, before we

two girls are off her hands.

At luncheon, Mother mentioned to me that she had wired to ask Mrs.

Stuyvesant-Knox and her cousin, Miss Sally Woodburn, down for dinner

and to stay the night. "You will be pleased, Betty, as you like Miss

Woodburn so much," she said.

"I like her, but I don't like Mrs. Stuyvesant-Knox and I don't know how

to pronounce her," said I.

"For goodness sake, don't call her Mrs. Ess Kay to her face again," cut

in Vic.

"I didn't mean to; it slipped out," I defended myself. "Besides, it was

you who nicknamed her that."

"Mrs. Stuyvesant-Knox is a very charming person, and a thorough woman

of the world," Mother asserted, in that way she has of saying the word

which you had better leave for the last if you know what is good for

you.

I did leave it for the last so far as _answering_ was concerned, but

inside, where, thank goodness, even her eyes can't see, I was wondering

hard when Mother had formed that flattering opinion. A fortnight ago I

heard her announce that Americans "got upon her nerves," and she hoped

she would not soon be called upon to meet any more. As she had made

this remark directly after bidding Mrs. Ess Kay good-bye, I naturally

supposed that lady to be the immediate cause for it. But now, it

seemed, this was not the case.

"You would be very ungrateful if you disliked her," Mother went on, "as

she took such a tremendous fancy to you."

"Dear me, I didn't know that!" I exclaimed, opening my eyes wide. "I

thought it was Vic she----"

"You are her favourite, as you are with Miss Woodburn, also," said

Mother, who gets the effect of being so tremendously dignified partly,

I believe, from never clipping her words as the rest of us do. "I am

asking them down again especially on your account, and I want you to be

particularly nice to them."

"It's easy enough to be nice to Sally Woodburn, but----"

I caught a look from Vic and broke off my sentence, hurrying to change

it into another. "As they're sailing for the States so soon, I shan't

have time to spread myself much."

"Don't be slangy, Betty; it doesn't suit you," said Mother. "You pick

up too many things from Stanforth."

"Trust him not to drop anything worth having," interpolated Vic, which

was pert; but Mother never reproves her.

"Perhaps Mrs. Stuyvesant-Knox and Miss Woodburn won't come," I said,

for the sake of getting on safer ground.

"Not come? Of course they will come. It is short notice, but if they

have other engagements they will break them," returned Mother; and

though it would be as impossible for her to be vulgar or snobbish, as

it would for a tall white arum lily to be either of those things, still

I couldn't help feeling that her unconscious thought was: "The

invitation to a couple of unknown, touring Americans, from the Duchess

of Stanforth, is equivalent to my receiving a Royal Command."

She was probably right,--anyhow, so far as Mrs. Ess Kay is concerned:

as for Sally Woodburn, I don't think she has a drop of snobbish blood

in her veins. She's Southern--not South American, as I was stupid

enough to think at first; but from some Southern State or other;

Kentucky, I believe it is. She's short and plump, and olive and smooth

as ivory satin, with soft, lazy brown eyes, a voice like rich cream, a

smile which says: "Please like me"; and pretty, crinkly dark hair that

is beginning to glitter with silver network here and there, though she

isn't exactly old, even for a woman--perhaps about thirty.

I knew that Miss Woodburn rather fancied me, and I was quite pleased to

take her up to her room, when she and her elder cousin arrived, about

an hour before dinner. I stopped for a few minutes, and then left her

with her maid, while I went to help Vic, and get myself ready. We've

only one maid between the three of us, nowadays; which means (unless

there's some reason why Vic should be made particularly smart), that

Mother gets more than a third of Thompson's services. That's as it

should be, of course, and we don't grudge it; but Vic's rather

helpless, and I always have to hurry, to see her through.

This evening, though, I found Thompson in Vic's room, next to mine; and

just as I scientifically dislocated my arms to unhook my frock, which

does up behind, Mother came in. "Betty," she said, quite playfully for

her, "I have a very pleasant surprise for you. You would never be able

to guess, so I will tell you. I have consented to let you go and visit

Mrs. Stuyvesant-Knox and Miss Woodburn in America. Aren't you

delighted?"

I felt as if the wall of the house were tumbling down, and I would

presently be crumpled up underneath.

"My goodness gracious, Mother!" I managed to stammer, forgetting how

I've always stood in awe of her, since I could toddle. "How--how

perfectly extraordinary! _Why_ am I going? And is it all decided,

whether I like or not?"

"Of course you will like. To travel with pleasant companions and see a

great, new country under such charming auspices, is an immense

privilege, a very unusual privilege for a young girl," Mother replied

promptly. "As for the 'why,' you are going because you have been

cordially invited; because I think the experience will be for your

advantage, present and future; because also it will be good for a

growing girl like you to have the bracing effect of a sea voyage."

"Mother, I haven't a thing the matter with me, and I haven't grown the

eighth of an inch this whole last year; you can see by my frocks," I

protested, more on principle than because it would be any use to

protest, or because I was sure that I wanted Mother to change her mind.

Naturally the protest had no effect, but Mother's mood mercifully

remained placid, and she didn't give me a single freezing look.

"Mrs. Stuyvesant-Knox is a woman of good family and position in her own

country," she went calmly on. "I have satisfied myself on those points

beyond doubt, or I should not dream of allowing you to be her guest.

She has a cottage at Newport, and will take you there, as summer, it

seems, is not the Season in New York. You may stay with her through

July and August,--even for September, if you are amusing yourself.

Later, Mrs. Stuyvesant-Knox will send you home with friends of hers,

who can be trusted to take good care of you. She knows several people,

she tells me, who are crossing in the autumn, to winter abroad; and

they would bring you to me. Of course, I should have to be nice to

them, by way of showing my appreciation of any trouble you had given;

but a dinner, and a Saturday to Monday at most, would be quite enough."

So it was all arranged, even to the details of my home-coming, and the

price to be paid for returning me, like a parcel, to my owner! Suddenly

I remembered the words I had overheard at the window of the den. "The

question is, what is to be done with Betty?"

Mother had evidently been so anxious to have the question answered,

that she had at once taken measures to settle it. But why should

anything be done with me? Nothing ever had been, so far, except when I

was sent last autumn to stop with my aunt; and she was so much annoyed

because my cousin Loveland came home unexpectedly, that after that I

could do nothing to please her, and was packed back to Battlemead

Towers in disgrace, I never could understand for what crime.

"How did Mrs. Ess--I mean, Mrs. Stuyvesant-Knox happen to ask for a

visit from me?" I ventured to wriggle out, like a worm who isn't sure

whether it had better turn or not. I was certain that for some reason

of her own, Mother had suggested the idea, if only hypnotically; but

she seemed almost too frank as she answered, and it was frightening not

even to be snubbed.

"I told you to-day that she had taken a fancy to you, my dear. Of

course, she could not hope to secure Victoria, even if she preferred

her, for Victoria has important engagements which will carry her

through the season, and afterwards to Cowes and up to Scotland for the

shooting at Dorloch Castle. But you are still almost a child; and

children do not have engagements. Nevertheless, you are Lady Betty

Bulkeley, the Duke of Stanforth's sister, and as such, though in

yourself you are an unimportant little person, it's not impossible that

as a member of your family, these Americans may think you worth

cultivating. One hears that they worship titles."

"I'm sure they can't worship them as much as some people in our own

country, who haven't got them, do," I cried, defending Americans for

Miss Woodburn's sake. "Vic says----"

"Never mind what Victoria says," returned Mother. "The less you think

on these subjects, the better, my dear Betty. I merely hinted at a

possible and partial incentive to these people's friendship for you, so

that you need not feel it incumbent to be oppressively grateful, you

know. I should wish you to keep your dignity among foreigners, even

though you would, of course, look upon Mrs. Stuyvesant-Knox as, in a

way, your guardian. Now I must call Thompson, and have her put me into

my dinner dress, as there is no more time to waste. When Mrs.

Stuyvesant-Knox speaks of your visit, you will know what to say."

I mumbled something vaguely dutiful, and began to dress as quickly as I

could; but the more I thought of it, the more I felt that I hadn't been

fairly treated, to be disposed of in such an offhand way. After all, I

_am_ eighteen; and a person of eighteen isn't a child.

I'm not sure I wasn't pouting when Vic came in, ready for dinner,

asking if she should fasten up my frock. I had nearly finished it, for

practice has made me almost as clever as a conjurer about manipulating

my hands behind my back, but when Vic flew at me and began giving

useless little touches, I guessed that she wanted to whisper something

in my ear without Mother seeing, if she should happen to prance in at

the wrong moment--as she often does.

"Look here, Betty, are you going to be a good little girl, and do what

you're bid, without making a fuss?" she asked, in a quick, low voice.

"I'm not certain yet," said I. "I'm thinking it over. I don't see why I

should be sent off across the water with strangers, at a moment's

notice, and I----"

"'Tisn't a moment's notice. It's five days. They're not sailing till

Wednesday, and as they've a suite engaged,--the best on the ship, Mrs.

Ess Kay says,--your going won't put them out a bit, and they'll _love_

having you. As for the whys and wherefores, Mother's been telling you,

hasn't she?"

"She talked about my health and valuable experiences, and a lot of

things in the air, but I feel there's something behind it, and I hate

mysteries----"

"If I can convince you it's for the good of the family in general, if

not yours in particular, will you be a nice, white, woolly lamb, and go

with your kind little American friends?" Vic broke in, with her head on

my shoulder and an arm slipped round my waist.

"Mrs. Ess Kay's neither little nor kind," said I, "but, of course, I'll

do anything to help, if only I'm treated like a rational, grown-up

human being."

"And so you shall be. I told Mother it would be much better to be frank

with you, if you _are_ a Baby. It's too late to explain things now, but

if you'll be sweet to Mrs. Ess Kay, and agree with everything everybody

says about your trip, when we come up to bed and Mother's door's shut,

I'll make a clean breast and show you _exactly_ how matters stand."

With this, we separated, for we could hear Mrs. Ess Kay's voice in the

corridor, talking to Sally Woodburn on the way downstairs. Her voice is

never difficult to hear; rather the other way; and Miss Woodburn's soft

little drawl following it, reminded me of a spoonful of Devonshire

cream after a bunch of currants.

Mother was with them both in the oak drawing-room when Vic and I got

down, and I found myself staring at Mrs. Ess Kay with a new kind of

criticism in my mind; indeed, it hadn't occurred to me before to

criticise at all. I'd only felt that I didn't want to come any closer

to her. Now I was to come much closer, it seemed, and I looked at the

glittering lady, wondering how it would feel to be so close--wondering

what _she_ herself was.

Outside, she's more like the biggest and most splendid dressmaker's

model ever made for a Paris show-window than anything else I can think

of; at least, she is like that from under her chin down to the tips of

her toes. I say under her chin, for that feature, as well as all the

others above it, are miles removed from a pretty, wax lady in a

show-window.

I never supposed till I met Mrs. Stuyvesant-Knox, that a live woman

could have a figure exactly like the fashion-plates, swelling like a

tidal wave above an hourglass of a waist, and retreating far, far into

the dim perspective below it, then suddenly bulging out behind like a

round, magnificent knoll, after a deep curve inward under the

shoulders. But Mrs. Stuyvesant-Knox's figure does all these things even

when she stands still, and a great many more when she walks, which act

she accomplishes in a grand, sweepy kind of a way, with her head a

little thrown back, as if she wants everybody to know that she is

tremendously important in the scheme, not only of the world, but of the

universe.

Yet in spite of all, in the end it's her face which impresses you even

more than her figure--which is a real triumph, as the figure is so

elaborate and successful. On top of her head is a quite little coil of

hair that lifts itself, and spirals up, like a giant snail-shell. A

dagger keeps it in place, and looks as if the point plunged into Mrs.

Ess Kay's brain, though I suppose it doesn't. Over the forehead is a

noble roll which has the effect of a breaker just about to fall into

surf, but never falling. It's a black breaker, and the straight, thick

eyebrows an inch below it are black too; so are the short eyelashes,

also thick and straight, like a stiff fringe, but the eyes are

grey--grey as glass, though not transparent. Sometimes they seem almost

white, with just a tiny bead of black for the pupil. I never saw

anything so hard (except the glass marbles I used to play with): and

they look at most people as if something behind them were doing a

mental sum in arithmetic, for the Something's own advantage. They don't

look at Mother in that way; no eyes in the world would dare; but I'm

talking about ordinary people, who are not tall white arum lilies, with

the air of having grown in kings' gardens.

Mrs. Stuyvesant-Knox's nose is well-shaped and rather large; so is her

mouth, with a "thin red line" of lips; but somehow it's the chin--the

feature you simply take for granted and hardly remember on most

faces--which dominates the rest. It comes rounding out under her lips,

making them seem to recede, though they don't really; and it's square,

with an effect of the skin being laid on over some perfectly hard

material, like marble, or the same ivory her teeth are made of. Besides

all this,--as if it weren't enough--she's a widow; one of those women

who look as if they had been born widows; anyway, I'm certain that Mrs.

Stuyvesant-Knox can never have been a child.

Sally Woodburn's chin is rather full, too. I wonder if, in spite of her

lazy ways, and slow, soft speech, she is very decided, like her cousin,

who is so much older and bigger, and apparently able to make the gentle

little Southern relative do as she wills?

Mrs. Ess Kay, terribly glittering this evening in a gown contrasting

strongly with our simple things, was almost too nice to me, saying

several times over how glad she was that I was going to visit her. At

dinner, she painted word-pictures of the "good times" she would give

me, and though I've never been able to care for her, and don't a bit

more now, I began to be rather excited by her talk, for she made things

seem so interesting and new. Besides, it appears that Sally Woodburn

will be at Newport most of the summer, so I shall have her to fall back

upon.

As for me, I was good as gold, and Vic threw me approving glances, for

which I was grateful, for I like being in Vic's good graces. She

doesn't often bother with me much, but when she does, she is so sweet

it makes up for everything--and she knows that well.

I could hardly wait to hear her "explanations," and so I was glad Mrs.

Ess Kay and Miss Woodburn were hypnotised by Mother into thinking they

wanted to go early to bed. Mother is very clever about such things.

She didn't come again to talk to me in my room; I suppose she thought

it best to let the new ideas simmer. Anyhow, she sent Thompson away,

and shut the door between Vic's room and hers sooner than usual.

Presently Vic slipped quietly in to me, in the new blue dressing-gown

which was to have been mine, only when she saw it finished, she wanted

it, and had four inches taken up above the hem.

"Well, how are you feeling about things now?" she asked, sitting down

in front of the mirror, with her hairbrush in her hand.

"I'll tell you after you've told me why I ought to feel one way more

than another," I said with prudent reserve.

"Then, like a good child, brush my hair. I wouldn't let Thompson do

anything, because I knew you'd be dying to have me, and I can talk so

beautifully while my hair is being done. It makes me wish I were a

pussy cat, so that I could purr."

"I hate having mine touched by anyone," said I.

"Well, perhaps I should hate it too, if mine were curly and about six

inches thick, and came down to my knees; I should be afraid of being

pulled to pieces. There! That's heavenly. Well, now I can begin. You

know, Baby, this isn't a _quite_ new idea about your going to America.

Mrs. Ess Kay _did_ say something on the subject when she was staying

here before."

"Oh, yes, when she was going away she said how much she would like to

have either of us visit her. Is that all?"

"It's something, isn't it? Enough to make a handle of, when a handle's

needed."

"But why is a handle needed?"

"I'm going to tell you the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

Mother had a letter from Sir Gilbert Mantell this morning."

"Oh, that big, splashy crest was his, then. It _looked_ like him, now I

come to think of it. Nobody but a brand-new knight, with piles and

piles of money, would need one more than half the size."

"Don't sneer at his money, my good child. We want it badly enough in

this family."

"Not his."

"Yes, we do. And I see a reasonable prospect of our getting it, if

you'll go to the States with Mrs. Ess Kay."

"What can that have to do with it? I don't know one bit what you mean."

"That's because you're such a great baby. If you _must_ have every t

crossed and every i dotted, Sir Gilbert has apparently conceived a

patronising toleration for your Victoria, which is likely, if properly

fostered and encouraged, to develop into something more satisfactory."

"Patronising, indeed! That dull elephant!"

"Elephants are not, as a rule, dull. And forty thousand a year in any

form can afford to patronise a daughter of a hundred dukes without a

penny, whereas I'm merely the granddaughter of three. In fact, my dear,

I'm humbly anxious that Sir Gilbert should propose; and as he's been

rather nice, and as he's written almost asking for an invitation to

come down with Stan, from next Saturday to Monday, although he

carefully states he's been invited for the same time, by Princess Paul

of Plon, things look hopeful. The only trouble is--you."

"Me!"

"Yes, you. The one time he ever saw you, was when you had that

frightful cold, and looked hideous, with your poor dear nose twice its

size, and your eyes half theirs. But--well, Betty, you're a beauty, and

I'm not, though I do flatter myself I'm not bad looking. I'm 'penny

plain,' and you're 'tuppence coloured'; and the Mantell man can afford

tuppence for a wife. You are so frightfully, luridly pretty that it's

almost improper, and if he comes down and sees you, he'll probably

think you better worth his money than I am."

"What nonsense! And if he were such an idiot, of course I should refuse

him."

"You would. That's one of mother's difficulties. Even you must see that

would do no good from the family point of view."

"I could keep out of the creature's way."

"You couldn't, without Stan making some blundering remark, or some

_contretemps_ happening; it would be sure to. It's much safer to have

you absolutely out of the way; and it was when we were talking it over

this morning, that Mother hit upon the plan of sending you to the

States. You know how prompt she is, once she's made up her mind? Mother

is really a wonderful woman. Twenty minutes later she sent a telegram

to Mrs. Ess Kay, asking her to come down, and certain, under

Providence, that she would; for an intimate sort of invitation like

this, when we're alone (especially after the Great Disappointment),

would be too flattering to a woman of that type not to be snapped at,

no matter if a dozen engagements had to be trampled in the dust."

"What Great Disappointment are you talking about?"

"Infant in Arms! Why, Stan and Miss Woodburn."

"I--didn't know--nobody told me----"

"Fancy needing to be told! As if that weren't the only reason why

Mother smiled on Mrs. Ess Kay in the beginning. It was because she

thought Miss Woodburn might do for Stanforth, who _must_ marry money,

and is too poor, horribly poor, to be much of a catch with most English

heiresses, who aren't as keen on titles as they used to be, unless

there's some solid foundation for them to stand on, and not wobble.

Everyone says Miss Woodburn's a great heiress, and though she's a few

years older than Stan, she's a lady, a charming creature, and not bad

looking. Mother thought all that out, the day they were introduced to

her at the Northminster's concert, so she invited them here. But Stan

and the Woodburn wouldn't _look_ at each other. It was useless even for

Mother's genius to attempt the impossible, so she resigned herself to

the inevitable, and gave the thing up. She meant to drop the Americans

gently--which she could easily do as they were going home soon--when

this new idea popped up. It's really important for me, dear. I do want

you to see that. It will be so much better all around if you are out of

the way, anyhow until I'm safely engaged, and the wedding-day fixed.

Then, you know, if you haven't meanwhile picked up an American

millionaire on the other side--don't look so horrified!--Mother will be

able to devote herself to you, heart and soul, as she has to me. Next

spring you can be presented----"

"Don't bribe," I said, feeling as if I wanted to cry. "If you want to

get rid of me, I'll go without that. But I should have thought I might

be sent again to Aunt Sophy's."

"Not again till our magnificent cousin's safely married. She wouldn't

have you there. Remember how she sent you home, last time. Poor

Loveland! He too, must think about collecting honest gold (somebody

else's), to brighten up his coronet. We're a poverty-stricken lot, my

child, and it's for me, with your help, to retrieve the fallen fortunes

of this branch of the family."

"That's settled then," said I, as drily as I could with wet tears in

the background. "And now, let's go to bed, please. I'm sleepy."

I wasn't; but my eyes were hot, and there was a lump in my throat. I

was homesick--dreadfully homesick, for something--I don't know what,

but it seemed to be something I've never had yet and probably never can

have. That is why I wanted to be alone, and write everything down

exactly as it has happened.

ABOUT CROSSING THE WATER

Only ten days have passed, but I feel as if they were a hundred, I have

lived so much. I've heard people near me in deck-chairs saying that

it's been a "dull voyage," but whatever else it has been for _me,_ it

hasn't been dull.

In the first place, I've never been on the sea before, except crossing

the Channel, which doesn't count, of course. And now that I've been

thrown with so many people--all sorts of people--I realise how few I

have known in my life, so far. If I had about twice as many fingers and

toes as I have, I believe I might tick off every human being I've ever

met as actual acquaintances, outside my own relations.

I've lived always at dear, beautiful old Battlemead (it seems doubly

beautiful as I think of it now, from far away); and till last year most

of my time was spent in the schoolroom, or walking, or pottering about

in a pony carriage with one of the governesses I used to drive to

distraction. When we had house parties I was kept out of the way, as

Mother said it spoiled young girls to be taken notice of, and I should

have my fun later. When the others went up to town for the Season, as

they often did, I was left behind, and though Battlemead is within

five-and-twenty miles of London, I suppose I haven't been there more

than two dozen times in my life. When I did go, it was generally for a

concert, or a matinee, and, of course, I enjoyed it immensely; but I

don't know that it taught me much about life. And the one time I was

taken abroad we had nothing to do with anyone we met at hotels. Being

on this big ship seemed at first exactly like being at a play when I

had been brought in late, and found it difficult to know which were the

leading actors, which the villains and villainesses, and what the plot

was about.

Now, though, I've been through so many experiences, I feel as if I were

_in_ the play myself, not watching it from outside.

Everything was very nice, though very strange, to begin with.

Dear old Stan came out of his shell and actually travelled all the way

to Southampton to see me off, which was good of him, especially as Vic

explained that he and Sally Woodburn had been thrown at each other's

heads, in vain.

He'd brought me a great box of sweets, a bunch of roses, and several

magazines; and just as we were starting he slipped something small but

fat into my hand.

"That's to help you keep your end up, Kid, in case you're imposed on,"

said he. "You _are_ only a kid, you know; but all the same, don't let

them treat you like one, and if you get the hump over there, just you

cable me. I'll see you through, and have you back again with your own

sort, Mater or no Mater, hanged if I don't."

Stan never made me such a long speech before, and after we sailed and I

got time to look at the fat thing he'd put in my hand, I found it was a

lot of goldpieces bundled up in two ten-pound notes. The gold made

twelve sovereigns more, so Stan had given me altogether more than

thirty pounds. All that money, with the twenty pounds Mother had told

me to use only "when strictly necessary," made me feel a regular

millionaire. I've never had a sixth part as much before, in my life.

Stan's kindness was just like a cup of something warm and comforting

when you're tired and cold, so that I began to brighten up and feel

happy.

I liked our suite, with two staterooms, a bath, and a dear little

white-and-blue drawing-room, about as big as the old dolls' house I

inherited from Vic. I was thankful to find I was to chum with Miss

Woodburn, not Mrs. Ess Kay, for I _never_ could have stood that. It was

fun finding places to hang up our things when they were unpacked, and

Mrs. Ess Kay's French maid, Louise, helped me get settled, paying me so

many compliments on my hair, and my eyes and my complexion, that I grew

quite confused; but perhaps that's a habit in which American ladies

encourage their maids.

"But the marvel that is Miladi's hair! It is of the colour of gold, and

with a natural curl. It will be so great a joy if I may dress it. And

her complexion! It is beyond that of any English demoiselle I have

seen, yet all the world knows they are the best on earth. With such

eyes, no doubt Miladi can wear any colour; and she has the figure for

which the make of corsets is of no import."

If it had been in English, I should have wanted to order her out of the

room; but things like that don't sound so objectionable in French.

Miss Woodburn's, and especially Mrs. Ess Kay's clothes looked so

exquisite that I was mortified to have Louise unpack mine, though I

have brought my smartest things, and Vic had two or three pretty

blouses of hers altered in a great hurry, for me. Besides, Mother said

my outfit was quite good enough for a young girl in England, and that I

was not to let myself feel dissatisfied if in another country they

chose to overdress.

Anyhow, I will say for Mrs. Ess Kay that she didn't appear to be

ashamed of me at first. On the contrary, she had a way of seeming to

show me off, almost as if she thought I did her credit.

When we had unpacked, we three went to luncheon, and took the first

seats which were vacant. But presently Mrs. Ess Kay sent for the chief

steward or someone important. "I am Mrs. Stuyvesant-Knox," said she, in

a haughty voice, "and I have as my guest Lady Betty Bulkeley, daughter

of the Duchess of Stanforth. You must give me three of the best seats

at the Captain's table."

I couldn't help hearing, and my ears did tingle, but Miss Woodburn only

smiled and looked down, with a funny twinkle under her eyelashes, which

curl up so much that it always seems as if she were just going to

laugh.

I thought, if I were the steward, I would give us the worst seats on

the ship, to teach us not to be proud; but he didn't do anything of the

sort; he was as meek as a lamb, so I'm sure he can't have any sense of

humour. He said Mrs. Stuyvesant-Knox might count on him, and she and

her party should have places on the Captain's right hand.

Mrs. Ess Kay was as bad with the deck steward. She found that he hadn't

put our chairs (which she had brought on board herself) in the right

place, and she had him called up and made a great fuss. The cards of a

Reverend Somebody, his wife and daughters, were on chairs in the

position which she had made up her mind to have, exactly amidship and

on the shady side.

"I must have my chairs changed and put here," she said. And then--oh,

horror!--I'm certain I caught her repeating the formula she'd used at

luncheon. "I am Mrs. Stuyvesant-Knox, and I have as my guest, etc,

etc." To be sure, she had walked off to a little distance with the

deck-steward, where our chairs were, and I might have been mistaken;

but two or three people who were standing near looked suddenly very

hard at me, and I know I turned scarlet with annoyance, to be labelled

in that way, as if I were a parcel marked "glass" and to be handled

with care.

Afterwards, when I came to read the passenger-list, I found that there

was nobody else on board with any sort of title, not even an Honourable

Anybody; otherwise, of course, Mrs. Ess Kay's little manoeuvre (which

I'm afraid must have been meant for snobbishness) wouldn't have excited

the slightest notice.

"Now," said Mrs. Ess Kay, when we were settled in our places, "I know a

good many people on the ship, but most of them are Nobodies, and I do

_not_ intend to be troubled with them, nor do I think that the Duchess

would care to have me let Betty mix herself up with anybody and

everybody. I shall do a great deal of weeding and select her

acquaintances carefully."

"Betty," indeed! I'd never told her that she might call me Betty; and I

hate having persons I don't care for take hold of my name, without

using a handle to touch it. It makes me feel as I did when I was a

child, and Mother commanded me to let myself be kissed by unkissable

and extraneous grown-ups.

Thank goodness, Vic and I have come into the world with something of

poor Father's sense of humour. My share often serves me as well as balm

on a wound, or as a nice, dry, crackly little biscuit which you're

enchanted to find when you're hungry, and thought you had nothing to

eat; and I got a good deal of quiet comfort out of it during Mrs. Ess

Kay's "weeding" process, which otherwise would have done nothing but

make me squirm.

When we had been on deck for a short time, a number of people came up

to speak to Mrs. Ess Kay, and some to Miss Woodburn. The water was as

smooth as the floor of a ballroom when it's been well waxed for a

dance, and there was no excuse for the most sensitive person to be ill;

consequently the deck was something like a kaleidoscope, with all its

moving groups of men and women, girls and children. Most of the

best-looking and best-dressed ones were Americans, and a great many

seemed to know each other. Some of them laughed a good deal, and talked

in high voices, putting emphasis on prepositions, which Miss Mackinstry

and the others would never let me do in writing compositions. Somehow,

though, when these people spoke it sounded very nice and cordial, more

so than it does when English people greet each other, though the voices

weren't so sweet--except a few that drawled in a pretty, Southern way,

like Sally Woodburn's.

I could tell which were the poor things that Mrs. Ess Kay wanted to

weed out of her acquaintance-garden for next season, by the way she

acted when they came to say "How do you do?" to her. She screwed up her

eyes till they looked hard and sharp enough to go through you like a

thin knife--(or more like a long, slender hatpin jabbing your head),

and having waited an instant before returning their greeting, slowly

answered; "Very well, thank you. Yes, I _am_ going home rather early.

I'm due at Newport as soon as possible"; then fingered her open book

(which she hadn't peeped into before) and made a little, just

noticeable gesture with her lorgnette.

Then the poor people were too much crushed to stop and try to talk to

Miss Woodburn, though she always looked at them sweetly, as if she

would make up for her cousin being a dragon if she could.

By and by, somebody else would sail up, perhaps not half as nice to

look at as the one who had gone. But lo, Mrs. Stuyvesant-Knox would be

suddenly transformed. She would smile, and hold out her hand. To their

"How do you do?" she would respond "How do you do?" and though I don't

think she's really much interested in anyone but herself, she would ask

where they had been, what they had been doing, and how it happened they

were going back so soon. The next thing, she would say to me: "Betty,

dear, I should like you and Mrs. or Mr. So-and-So to know each other,

as I hope you'll meet again, while you're staying with me. Lady Betty

Bulkeley, etc., etc. I wonder if you have ever met her brother, the

Duke of Stanforth, and her cousin, the Marquis of Loveland, over in

London?"

Loveland would have had a fit if he could have heard her, for, of

course, at home only the lower middle classes and such people hurl a

Marquis's title at his head in that fashion; but I suppose foreigners,

unless they've been in England a long time, don't know the difference.

When I got a chance, I asked Sally Woodburn how Mrs. Stuyvesant-Knox

made her distinctions in snubbing some people and preening herself to

others.

"My deah," said Sally (I'm to call her "Sally" now; it's been

understood between us for some time), "my deah, you're a poor, innocent

child, and I reckon you've been brought up in darkness, without even so

much as hearing of the Four Hundred."

"What are the Four Hundred? Are they a kind of Light Brigade, like the

Six Hundred?" I asked. "Or is it a sort of governing body like--like

the Council of Three?"

She laughed so much at this, with her charming, velvety laugh, that I

grew quite nervous, for it's embarrassing to have said something funny

when you've meant to be rather intelligent. But soon she took pity on

me. "You perfect love," she said; "that's really too sweet. It deserves

to be put into _Life_, or something. And yet you're not so far wrong,

when one comes to think of it. The Four Hundred _is_ a kind of

governing body; only I believe it's really reduced to Two Hundred now.

They govern New York; and Newport; and Lennox; and Bar Harbour; and

several other places which are considered very nice and important."

"Oh! Are they Republicans or Democrats?" I enquired, sure that I really

was being intelligent at last, for I'd heard Stan say that, in America,

the Republican party was rather like our Conservatives, and the

Democrats like the Liberals; and I'd remembered because I believe I

should be very much interested in politics if only I understood more

about them. But Sally seemed to think that question funny, too.

"They can be either, my poor lamb," she exclaimed; "and they can be

almost anything else they like, if only they're just awfully,

dreadfully rich, and can manage to scrape up a family crest. It used to

be the crest that counted, with the man who invented the Four Hundred;

but since his day, that idea has got buried under heaps and heaps of

gold, and pearls and diamonds; especially pearls. In those places I was

telling you about, you don't exist unless you're in the Four Hundred,

which is now being sifted down to Two Hundred, and will probably be

Seventy-five in a year or two. You may have the bluest blood in America

in your veins; you may be simply _smeared_ with ancestors, but if you

haven't managed to push forward in a clever, indescribable way, neither

they nor you will ever be noticed, and your grey hairs will go down to

the grave in the Wrong Set. _Now_ do you understand why my cousin

Katherine makes narrow eyes for some people, and broad smiles for

others?"

"Ye-es, I suppose I do," I answered. "Only--we are quite different at

home. I haven't been about at all yet, but I know; because some things

are in the air. How did Mrs. Stuyvesant-Knox ever have the poor Wrong

Setters for acquaintances, though?"

"Because (she'd kill me if she heard this) she has only lately got into

the Right Set herself, and after trouble enough to give an ordinary

woman nervous prostration. That kind of thing _does_ give it to a lot

of women--especially if they fail. But Cousin Katherine very seldom

fails. She almost always carries things through. If you knew anything

about America in general, and New York in particular, you'd be able to

realise what a hard time she's had, when I tell you that till her

husband died she lived west of Chicago. To get into the Four Hundred if

you've lived west of Chicago, (unless you're Californian, which is

getting to be fashionable), is just like having to climb over one of

those great, high walls of yours in England, bristling with nails or

broken glass."

"My goodness!" I exclaimed. "How funny! Fancy if people who live in

Surrey should glare at people who live in Devonshire."

"That's different. You see, Chicago is _new_."

"But so is all America, isn't it?" I asked, stupidly. "What difference

can a hundred or so years make?"

"We haven't begun to think in centuries yet, on our side of the water,

my deah." (She has the most delicious way of saying "my deah," and all

her "r's" are soft like that; only it's too much trouble to write them

for nobody but myself to see.) "Anyhow, it _is_ so, between New York

and Chicago people--that is, the people who count in Society with a big

S: and it was a great triumph for my cousin to become the

Three-Hundred-and-Ninety-Ninth in the Four Hundred. She did it by

buying a Russian Prince."

"_Buying_ a----"

"Yes, love, he was going to the highest bidder, and she bought him.

That is, she entertained him so gorgeously and did so many nice things

for him, that he posed as her property; and as everyone was dying to

meet him, it _made_ her. She'd been working killingly hard before that,

for a whole year after taking her house on Fifth Avenue and building

her cottage at Newport, but it was buying the Prince which did the

trick. On the strength of that episode and its consequences, she went

to Europe with very nice introductions, and as you know, deah, she has

made some valuable as well as pleasant friends. To live up to them and

her reputation, she will have to be busy for a while dropping a lot of

old acquaintances."

"How horrid!" I couldn't help exclaiming, though Mrs. Ess Kay was going

to be my hostess.

"Yes, it seems rather miserable to me, because I'm a weak, lazy,

Southern thing, who would be right down sick, if I had to hurt any

human being's feelings. Yet perhaps it looks fair to her. She's so

ambitious, and she's worked so hard, she _has_ deserved to succeed. As

for poor me, she just regularly mesmerises me all through. She

mesmerised me into coming up from Kentucky and visiting her this

spring; then she mesmerised me into going with her to Europe. But I'm

not sorry I went, for I've had a _right_ good time."

"I'm so glad you went," said I, "because if you hadn't I shouldn't have

met you. I'm sure I should love Kentucky if all the people there are

like you. But these things you've been saying seem so odd. Do you mean

to tell me that the people who lead Society in New York want to keep

their set limited to a certain number, and refuse to know others, even

if they're extraordinarily clever and interesting?

"They don't like them to be too clever, because they call such people

'_queer_'--that is, unless they happen to be 'lions' of some sort from

England or other places abroad. Then, so long as they're not

_American_, they welcome them with open arms."

"I'm glad Society isn't like that in England," I said. "There the

_real_ people--the people who have the right to make social laws, you

know--are delighted with anyone who can amuse them. Of course, deep

down in our hearts, we may be proud if we have old names, which have

been famous for hundreds of years in one way or another; but we are so

used, after all those centuries, to being _sure_ of ourselves, that we

just take our position for granted, and don't think much more about it.

If people who haven't got quite the same position are gentlefolk, and

amusing, or clever, or beautiful, or anything like that which really

matters, why, we're only too pleased with them."

"That's all the difference in the world! You've been 'sure of

yourselves for centuries.' You've said the last word, my deah. 'Out of

the mouths of babes'--but Cousin Katherine's finished gushing to that

silly old Mrs. Van der Windt. We mustn't dare discuss these things from

our point of view any more. I reckon she would faint."