THE next day Cuyler took the Duke to call on Mrs. Forbes
in her house. It was five o’clock and the lamps were lit. Augusta’s
particular set were there, talking Socialism over their tea, and
enlightening a half-dozen young men and elderly club _roués_, who
listened with becoming gravity. Mrs. Forbes sat somewhat apart by the
tea-table talking to three or four men on any subject but Socialism.
She wore a gown of dark-red velvet with a collar of Venetian lace and
sat in a large high-backed chair of ebony, inlaid with ivory. The seat
was also high, and she looked somewhat like a queen on her throne,
graciously receiving the homage of her courtiers. The drawing-room
was twice as large as the Creighton’s, the Duke noted as he entered.
It was hung with dark-green velvet embroidered with a tree design in
wood colour an inch thick. Every shade of green blended in the great
apartment, and there was no other colour but the wood relief and the
pink of the lamp-shades.
Mrs. Forbes did not rise, but she held out her hand to the stranger
with so spontaneous a warmth that he felt as if he were receiving his
first welcome in transatlantic parts. She had not shaken hands with him
at the opera, and their brief conversation had been over her shoulder;
he now found that her eyes and hand, her womanly magnetism and almost
regal manner combined to effect the impression: “New York, _c’est
moi_. My hospitality to the elect few who win my favour is sincere
and unbounded, the bitter envy of the cold and superfluous stranger
without its gates; and, of all men, my dear Duke of Bosworth, you are
the most genuinely welcome.”
He wondered a little how she did it, but did not much care. It was a
large beautiful gracious presence, and he was content, glad to bask in
it. He forgot Augusta and Mabel, and took a low chair before her.
“I won’t ask you how you like New York,” she said, smiling again. She
half divined his thoughts, and saw that he was clever despite an entire
indifference to his natural abilities; and the sympathy of her nature
conveyed what she thought.
“Oh, I do--now,” he replied with unwonted enthusiasm. “I must say that
the blind rush everybody seems to be in is a trifle disconcerting
at first--it makes an Englishman feel, rather, as if his youngest
child--the child of his old age, as it were, was on a dead run, and
that he must rush after to see what it was all about or be left behind
like an old fogey. Upon my word I feel fully ten years older than I did
when I landed.”
She laughed so heartily that he felt a sudden desire to say something
really clever, and wondered why he usually took so little trouble.
“That is the very best statement of one of our racial differences I
have heard,” she said; “I shall remember to tell it to my husband. He
will be delighted. I feel the rush myself at times, for I was born in
a far more languid climate. But New York is an electrifying place; it
would fascinate you in time.”
“It fascinates me already!” he said gallantly, “and it is certainly
reposeful here.”
“It is always the same, particularly at five o’clock,” she replied.
“Does that mean that I can drop in sometimes at this hour?”
“_Will_ you?”
“I am afraid I shall be tempted to come every day.”
“That would be our pleasure,” and again she smiled. It was a smile that
had warmed older hearts than the weary young profligate’s. “Augusta is
almost invariably here and I usually am. Occasionally I drive down to
bring my husband home.”
The Duke understood her perfectly. Her graceful pleasure in meeting
him was not to be misconstrued. As she turned to greet a new comer he
regarded her closely. If she had not taken the trouble to convey her
subtle warning, he should have guessed that she loved her husband. Then
he fell to wondering what sort of a man Forbes was to have developed
the abundant harvest of such a woman’s nature. “She could easily have
been made something very different in the wrong hands,” he thought,
“and not in one respect only but in many. What a mess I should have
made of a nature like that! Little Miss Creighton, with her meagre
and neutral make-up is about all I am equal to. This woman might have
lifted me up once; but more likely I should have dragged her down. She
is all woman, the kind that is controlled and moulded by the will of a
man.”
His eyes rested on her mouth. “She will hurt Forbes some day, give him
a pretty nasty time; but it won’t be because she doesn’t love him.
And--she’ll make him forget--when she gets ready. A man would forgive a
woman like that anything.”
She turned suddenly and met his eyes. “What are you thinking?” she
demanded.
“That Mr. Forbes must be a remarkable man,” he answered quickly. He
rose. “I must go over and speak to Miss Forbes; but I shall come back.”
Mabel’s eyes were full of coquettish reproach. Augusta chaffed him for
forgetting their existence. Her manner was not her mother’s, but it was
high-bred, and equally sincere. She presented him to the other girls,
and to Mrs. Burr, who lifted her lorgnette, and regarded him with a
prolonged and somewhat discomforting stare. But it was difficult to
embarrass the Duke of Bosworth. He went over and sat beside Mabel.
“I think I met him once,” said Mrs. Burr to Augusta, “but he is so very
unindividual that I cannot possibly remember.”
“I think he is charming,” said Miss Forbes. “I had quite a talk with
him last night.”
“He doesn’t look stupid, but he’s not precisely hypnotic.”
“Oh, there’s _something_ about him!” exclaimed one of the other
girls. “I feel sure that he’s fascinating.”
“He looks as though he knew so much of the world,” said another, with
equal enthusiasm.
“What’s the matter with us?” demanded one of the young men.
“You haven’t a title,” said Mrs. Burr.
“Hal, you are quite too horrid. I have not thought of his title--not
once. But Norry, you _can’t_ look like that, no matter how hard
you try.”
“Oh yes I can; it’s not so hard as you imagine; only it’s not my
chronic effect. When I am--ah--indiscreet enough to produce it, I have
the grace to keep out of sight.”
“That is not what I mean.”
“Oh, he is an Englishman--with a title,” said the young man, huffily.
“Miss Maitland, have you caught the fever?”
“I have either had all, or have outgrown the children’s diseases, and
I class the title-fever among them. I know that some get it late in
life, but some people will catch anything. Our old butler has just had
the mumps.”
“That’s a jolly way of looking at it.”
“Oh you men are not altogether exempt,” said Mrs. Burr. “But the
funniest case is Ellis Davis. He’s just come back from London with
a wild Cockney accent, calls himself ‘Daivis,’ and says ‘todai’ and
the Princess of ‘Wailes,’ and ‘paiper.’ Probably he also says ‘caike’
and ‘laidy.’ I can’t think where he got it, for he must have had
_some_ letters, and you may bet your prospects he presented them.”
“Possibly he saw more of the hotel servants and his barber than he did
of the others,” suggested Miss Maitland.
“Or his ear may be defective, or his memory bad, and he got mixed,”
replied Mrs. Burr. “We’ll give him the benefit of the doubt; but I
can’t think why the most original people on earth want to imitate
anyone. And yet they say we hate the English. Great heaven! Why, we
even drink the nasty concoction called English breakfast tea, a brand
the English villagers would not give tuppence a pound for, simply
because it has the magic word tacked on to it.”
“We don’t hate the English,” said Augusta. “What nonsense. The Irish
do, and the politicians toady to the Irish and control certain of the
newspapers. That is all there is in it; but they make the most noise.”
“And _we_ grovel,” said Mrs. Burr. “It is a pity we can’t strike a
happy medium.”
“I think the greater part of the nation is indifferent,” said Miss
Maitland, “or at all events recognises the bond of blood and gratitude.”
The Duke was making his peace with Mabel.
“I was afraid I bored you this morning,” he said, “it is good of you
not to tell me that you don’t want to talk to me again for a week.”
“You only stayed an hour. Did it seem so long?”
“I never paid a call of twenty minutes before,” he said unblushingly.
“Oh, how sweet of you!”
“Not at all. Can I walk home with you? Is that proper?”
“Oh, there will be a lot of us together; and they will all want to talk
to you.”
“My valuable conversation shall be devoted to you alone.” He hesitated
a moment. “Shall you be at home this evening?”
She looked down, tucking the end of her glove under her cuff. “Yes, I
rarely go out two nights in succession.”
“May I call again?”
“Yes.”
She looked up and met his eyes. “It has to be done,” thought the
Englishman, “there’s no getting out of it now, and I may as well take
the plunge and get over it. And she certainly is likeable.”
“They are going now,” said Mabel.
He went over to Mrs. Forbes to make his adieux.
“I haven’t given you any tea,” she said. “It was stupid of me to forget
it. You must come back to-morrow and have a cup.”
“I shall come--for the tea,” he said.
“And you must dine with us? Some day next week--Thursday?”
“Thanks, awfully; I’ll come on any pretence.”
“You must--Fletcher, take the Duke into the dining-room. It is so cold
outside.”
And to this invitation the Duke responded with no less grace, then
walked home with Mabel and left her at her door, happy and elated.