SOME REMARKS ABOUT CATS.
The Nicaragua, April 27.
I've been sitting for my portrait to Van Nostrand. It is an offering to
the shades of Prof. Darmstetter. I must preserve some attempted record
of my beauty for his sake; though the Bacillus couldn't have made, if
he had lived, another woman as beautiful as I. It isn't conceivable.
I believe I'm a little tired with that, and with rearranging Mrs.
Whitney's flat, and a little worried, too, about bills, the money from
Father comes so slowly. Not that I need mind owing a trifle at the
shops; half the women run accounts; but it's embarrassing not to have
ready money. Why, I have to buy things to ward off gifts; Meg simply
won't see me go without.
Perhaps I'm depressed too, because to-day has been a succession of
petty squabbles, and I hate squabbling.
This morning came Aunt Frank. I knew she had returned from Bermuda, so
I wasn't surprised to see her dumpy figure appear in Mrs. Whitney's
parlour, followed by Uncle Timothy's broad back and towering head. I
did with zest the honours of the apartment. It was sweet revenge to see
Mrs. Baker's nervous discomfort at meeting me, and to watch her
stealing furtive glances at my beautiful home.
"Well, Nelly, dear," she said, "you look very cosey, but we expected
that, after your visit to Mrs. Van Dam, you would go to Marcia until
our return."
"Oh, I couldn't think of troubling either of you," I said sweetly; "I
have friends to whom it is a real pleasure to advise me."
That shot told.
"You don't know what anxiety you've caused, leaving us for--for
strangers, that way," she retorted, bridling; "but since you _would_
go, I'm glad everything's turned out so--been having your portrait
painted? Why, it's a--it _is_ a Van Nostrand!"--She had spied the
painting.--"It's like you, rather; but--doesn't he charge a fortune?"
Then she rattled on, about the rooms, about Bermuda lilies and donkey
carts, trying now and again to pry into my plans and urging me, not too
warmly, to return to her, until she had reached the limits of a call of
courtesy. I think it was with real relief that she rose as she received
my final refusal. Uncle, who had sat silent in kind, or blind,
perplexity, was unfeignedly glad to go.
"Run in often, won't you?" she said, at parting. "I hear--but perhaps I
shouldn't speak of that. Is--is Lord Strathay like his pictures?"
Fussy! She'd gladly wash her hands of me, yet thinks she has a duty.
But I was glad, for once, to see her. It's not for nothing that I have
run society's gauntlet; I can aim confetti with the best of them;
innocent-looking but they hurt.
Scarcely had they gone when in rushed the General and my prim duenna,
Mrs. Whitney; they'd been waiting until the coast was clear. It was
with something like a scream that the two flew at me, crying in one
voice:--
"Have you _really_ refused to be one of Peggy's bridesmaids? Why didn't
you consult _me_?"
Peggy despairs of Mr. Poultney; she's going to marry some person in
Standard Oil, and her wedding will be a function.
"Yes," I said, ignoring the latter question.
"But why--_why_--" Mrs. Whitney squeaked and panted, and her breath
failed.
"Because--was it because Ann Fredericks was asked too?" Meg demanded.
"Yes, if you must know."
"But what has Ann done?" said Meg. She planted herself in front of me,
her hard, handsome eyes blazing with impatience. "She's as homely as
the Sunset Cox statue and as uncivil to you as she dares; but she's
only a cousin of _the_ Frederickses, you mustn't mind her. What has Ann
done, Helen?"
"She weighs two hundred and they call her 'Baby'! She's a fat slug on a
currant bush! I won't talk about her."
I dashed into my room but Meg's staccato reached me even there.
"Just like Helen! Imagine Mrs. Henry's state of mind."
"And Ann's," said Mrs. Whitney.
"Oh, Ann's in mortal terror. But how can Helen expect pasty girls like
Ann Fredericks--out last fall and already touching up--to forgive her
beauty? Trouble is, every girl who comes near Helen knows she makes her
look like a caricature."
Meg paced the floor a minute, then slapped herself into a chair.
"Oh, I've seen the women scowl at her," said Mrs. Whitney.
"Scowl?" said Meg. "Why, I've seen a woman actually put out her foot
for Helen to trip over. Old women are the worst, I do believe; some of
the young ones admire her. What do you think old Mrs. Terry said--Hughy
Bellmer's aunt--at the last of her frightful luncheon concerts, where
you eat two hours in a jungle of palms and orchids, and groan to music
two hours more in indigestion. 'A lovely girl, my dear Mrs. Van Dam,'
she said; 'a privilege to know her. Pity that so many of our best
people fight shy of a protégée of the newspapers.' _That_ from Mrs.
Terry, with her hair and her hats--"
"And her divorce record," added Mrs. Whitney.
"She fears for her nephew; as if Helen would look at him! But the
newspapers _have_ hurt Helen. I wish she'd announce her engagement; she
has the cards in her hands, but she's got to play 'em; and poor
Strathay's so devoted!--Why didn't you shade the lights Tuesday at your
dinner? In that glare we were all worse frights beside her than usual."
"I hate murky rooms!" I cried, breaking out upon them, for I couldn't
stand it any longer. "It's your 'rose of yesterday' who insists on
twilight and shaded candles. I enjoy electricity!"
Meg gazed at me in despair.
"Helen, are you really bent on making enemies?" she asked. "What _did_
Ann Fredericks do?"
I couldn't have answered; it would have been no answer to say that she
angers me with a supercilious stare; but the trouble of replying was
spared me, for Mrs. Henry appeared that minute in the doorway, greeting
me in her nervous puffy voice:--
"How _well_ you look!" she said. "_Such_ a treat to get a peep at you!
Peggy really must try your dressmaker--but she's _so_ disappointed! You
_must_ let me beg of you--_just_ like an own daughter and Peggy
couldn't think more of a sister! You _will_ reconsider--"
Something in the way she thrust forward her head reminded me of how her
tiara slipped and hitched about, on the night of her dance, and how Ned
and I giggled when it had to be repinned.
"I'm afraid Peggy should have consulted me earlier," I said with a
spite born of the recollection.
It would have been more than mortal not to take offense at that. Mrs.
Henry's face grew red, and after a few perfunctory words she and Meg
left, and Mrs. Whitney went out with them.
As Mrs. Henry backed into the hall, she almost collided with Kitty, who
had just come up.
"Talking wedding?" that tease asked, following me back into the parlour
and pirouetting before a mirror. "Chastening experience for once in a
way to see mysel' as ithers see me. Big wedding, won't it be? Florist
told Cadge he was forcing a churchful of peach and apple blossoms.
You're a bridesmaid, ain't you? That _was_ Mrs. Henry? Know I've seen
her here. Looks apoplectic; and there's too much musk in her violet."
"That was Mrs. Henry, but I'm not on Peggy's list. How are the
beastesses' noses and toeses?"
"Ambulance rung for." Kitty darted to another looking glass. "Regular
hall of mirrors, ain't it? Helen, why are photo-engravers--but say,
I've seen a list of bridesmaids; Ann Fredericks was one, cousin of
_the_ Frederickses; great for Helen, we all said--Pros. and Cadge and--"
"Has the list been printed?"
Kitty looked puzzled.
"What are you cross about?" she said finally. "I don't wonder you get
tired of such doings, tugging a ton of bouquet down a church aisle,
organ grinding Lohengrin. If ever I marry, I sha'n't ask you to stand
up with me; I propose to be the central figure at my own wedding; Cadge
can do as she chooses."
"Why, Kitty! Cadge and--why, Pros., of course."
"In June. Came to tell you."
For a moment Kitty's eyes danced, then the mist followed the sunlight,
and the poor little creature buried her head in my lap, sobbing.
"Oh, what'll I do," she cried, "when Cadge takes away my brother and my
brother takes away Cadge, and you--they say you're going off with that
Englisher to be a Countess--not that I ever see anything of you now."
"Oh, hush, child; don't you know you're talking nonsense?"
Kitty took me at my word.
"Earl's lady is a Countess, ain't she?" she asked, her voice still
shaky. Then she sat suddenly upright and put back her red curls from
her brow, winking vigourously. "Oh, if you do live in a castle, put in
bathtubs and gas; and if you go to court, please, Princess, hide a
kodak under your bouquet for me and--"
Crying and laughing by turns and tossing back her flaming locks, she
started for the door.
"Helen," she said, turning as she reached it, "I have such bad
symptoms! Am I really the only girl that's jealous of you?"
"The only one that isn't jealous, you--you dear!" I exclaimed; and I
believe it's almost true!
Kitty paused in the hall, playing with the roses in a bowl upon the
table.
"We hear something of how the dowagers adore you. But let 'em wag their
double chins; you'll scat the old cats from their cushions!" she said.
At the impetuous outflinging of her hands, the floor was strewn with
pink petals.
"Cats?" repeated Mrs. Whitney, who just then made her appearance, "are
they a hobby with Miss Reid?"
"I'd drown 'em," cried Kitty, vanishing, "nine times!"
Oh, I'm weary of these bickerings; so womanish! Every creature whose
rival I could possibly become is my enemy. I don't blame them. What
chance have they while I am present? Women who agree about nothing else
make common cause against one who surpasses them. They are like prairie
wolves that run in packs to pull down the buffalo, and I shall pity
them as I would pity wolves. They shall find that I have a long memory.
I have decided. I shall marry Strathay.
February--March--April--three long, long months, and still Ned doesn't
come, does not write. Yes, it's time to act; thank God, I've still some
pride!
While Darmstetter lived, I couldn't have left New York; but now, now
that I am safe, why should I stay here, flatting with a shrew,
provoking the Van Dams, to whom I owe some gratitude, wasting my life
for a man who--who said he didn't love me?
Milly's at home again; let Ned return to her, if he chooses. I shall
marry Strathay. Meg shall be friend to a Countess. Then I shall be
quits with her and with Mrs. Henry and with Peggy. And the "best
people" will no more fight shy of me--though they don't now; they don't
need to. Except Mrs. Schuyler, who has snubbed me just enough to leave
herself right, whatever happens, few of them have ever met me.
I owe no thanks to Mrs. Whitney, with her prunes and her prisms and her
penny-pinchings. I must secure my future.
And there's only one way--Strathay. I've been foolish to hesitate. He
tried to speak yesterday, after the flower tea--for that's the extent
of my social shining now; I am good to draw a crowd at a bazaar!--and I
should have let him; I meant to do so.
But I can't blame myself for being sentimental, weak, and for putting
him off; I was tired out. What an ordeal I'd undergone! What black
looks from the women! They'd rather have starved their summer church in
the Adirondacks than nursed it with my help!
But he must have understood; I think he saw everything that happened.
The girls at my stall were sulky because no one bought of them, while I
was surrounded; and one, in lifting a handful of roses, drew them
towards her with a spiteful jerk that left a long thorn-scratch across
my hand.
I pretended not to notice. Then in a minute I cried:--
"Why, see; how could that have happened?"
And I laid my perfect hand beside hers, ugly with outstanding veins,
that she might note the accident--and the difference. People giggled,
and she snatched her hand away, blushing furiously.
I was in high spirits, with a crowd about me. I knew how tall and
graceful I looked behind my flowers; and to tease Mrs. Terry, I pinned
Bellmer's boutonniere with unnecessary graciousness, and smiled at her
while he sniffed it with beatitude beaming from his moony face.
"Awf'ly slow things, teas," he said regretfully, as she bore him off';
"awf'ly slow, don't you think?" Really the man's little better than a
downright fool; if he were poor, no one would waste a better word upon
him.
As he went, I caught sight of a slight figure, a pair of jealous,
worshipping eyes. Poor Strathay had seen the incident; had perhaps
thought--
I took pains to be cordial to him, when he had made his way with
Poultney to my side; and to Mr. Poultney, too; though I don't like him
much better than Cadge does, with his cold eyes and his thin smile,
that seems to say: "Hope you find my schoolboy entertaining."
An Earl is always entertaining!
Yet I ran away from him. I left the tea early. I wanted to think. All
the way home in the carriage I marshalled arguments in his favour. I
saw myself at court, throned in my brilliant circle, flattered by
princes, consulted by statesmen, the ornament of a society I am fitted
to adorn. I saw a world of jealous women at my feet and Ned convinced
that I had been playing with him. I even rehearsed the scene we should
enact when Strathay should speak; I foresaw the flush upon his face,
the sparkle of his eyes when I should tell him that I would try to love
him.
He must have slipped his cousin's leash, for he was at the Nicaragua
almost as soon as I was. But there at home, with the boy's eyes fixed
on mine, with the tremour of his voice telling me how much he cared, I
couldn't listen.
I made talk with him, for him. I gave him no chance to speak,
determined as I was that he should speak. I was conscious of but one
desire--to put off the avowal.
At last he said: "Sometimes I fancy you're not happy."
His voice was tense. He was leaning forward in his eagerness; he looked
so zealous to be my champion--so honest!
I tried to smile. I really liked him.
Happy! Out of memory there came to me a picture: I was creeping to
Ethel's bed at night, whispering to her that I was the happiest girl in
the world; she kissed me sleepily, and said she was happy too, and then
I groped my way back to bed, and lay there in the dark, smiling. That
was years ago. Three months? Years, long, long years ago!
Now it flashed across me that Lord Strathay loved me as I had loved
Ned. That gave me a measure of the gift he was to offer. I felt Ned's
kisses on my hands, bidding me be honest.--I felt other kisses, too; I
saw--good God, how long must I see?--a gray old face--the face of
Darmstetter! Happy! I closed my eyes to shut out the vision. I
shuddered.
"You--really, I'm afraid you're very tired," he said, after waiting a
little.
"Yes; tired," I gasped; "that's all."
But I knew I must marry him. I controlled myself. I smiled; I waited. I
wished him to go on, but he was peering into my straining eyes with
anxious sympathy.
"I'm afraid you're too tired to talk with me to-day," he said;
"but--you will let me come again?"
"Yes."
Such a relief! Though what was to be gained by waiting? What must be
must be.
Indeed an older man might have seen the wisdom of speaking at once. But
Strathay looked wistfully at me for a moment, then turned away with a
big, honest schoolboy sigh; and something like a sob broke his voice as
he whispered:--
"I--I would do anything to serve you."
Then he went away.
Perverse! I _will_ marry him. Other women take husbands so. I like him;
I should like him even if he were not an Earl--and his name a career.
I shall make Strathay as fine a Countess as any cold, blonde English
girl, and he'll be proud of me, and every man will envy him. I shall
wrong him less than I should have wronged John Burke. I should have
hated John if I had married him, for he'd expect love, where Strathay
will be content to give it. Why, the one honest thing I've done was to
break with John.
I wish I could afford to keep on being honest!