FLOSSIE DECLINES.
Flossie had given the driver the address of her only cousin she
remembered; a certain Mrs. Lyman, whose husband she believed was some
instructor or professor at some college, she could not remember where.
They had sent her cards upon their wedding; but Flossie had never been
near them in her previous trips to Boston. She had an idea they might
be poor; and did not wish to trouble them; and after all, what could
there be between her life and theirs?
So she had some qualms of social conscience when the carriage stopped
at the little brick house; the first time, perhaps, in twenty years,
that she felt the slightest doubt as to her reception. But she was
determined that she would go to no hotel, where Wemyss might find her.
But they proved hospitable people, and really glad to see her, if just
the least bit surprised. Evidently they were much afraid of her, and
still more of her maid; but a room was found for Justine too; and in
the morning Mrs. Gower dismissed her, with her wages paid some time
ahead. And gradually Flossie found that they doubted not so much their
breeding as her own; they were by no means ashamed of the little house
and its two maid-servants, but feared that Flossie might be. And they
knew people high-placed enough in the world to be known, by name, even
to her. “How different from New York!” she said to herself; perhaps she
should have said, how different from that New York that she had made.
They had several children, who all came to the breakfast-table; and
Flossie noted, with much compassion, that Mrs. Lyman was her own nurse.
She was persuaded to stay with them over the next day; their mode of
life was a curious study to her. She did not envy it; possibly she
even looked at it with horror, for she never lost her essential love
for wealth; but she was quite clever enough to have for it a certain
respect. Her favorite classifications seemed to fail; they were not
“bourgeois,” but even gentlefolk, such as she had read poor rectors’
families were in England. And such as there are many in America, though
she did not know it. Flossie went back to New York on the morning train
the next day, the same way she had come. She read in the paper that Mr.
Caryl Wemyss was a passenger in the Parthia for Europe. It was the best
thing he could do.
She had given much thought to her coming meeting with her husband.
Would he suspect anything, she wondered? She hoped not; and she turned
about the paper to see what happened in New York. She had not read
a newspaper for several days; her own news she had made, and she
cared for no other. A black headline caught her eye: _Failure of the
Starbuck Oil Company_. Great heavens!
All her fortune was still in that; save only the house upon Fifth
Avenue. She read it with avidity. The failure appeared to be complete;
and from the account she gathered also the facts of the great fire. It
was believed to be incendiary the paper said. How terrible that people
could commit such crimes; what were the laws for, and the decalogue?
The house of Townley & Tamms had also failed; it was believed the
assets would not realize ten per cent. As most of the loss fell upon
trusts held for rich private individuals, it was thought the failure
would have no further disastrous consequences upon the street, the
paper added grimly. Mr. Phineas Tamms was known to be in Montreal;
young Mr. Townley was also a fugitive. The Allegheny Central was also
heavily involved, but it was believed this property might recover.
Warrants were out for the arrest of Mr. Townley, Senior.
Flossie put the paper down with horror. She found it impossible to
believe that she was ruined; that she could really ever be poor.
And then the thought came to her, what a fortunate escape; Lucie still
had money; but what would she have been, as his wife, undivorced
perhaps, who had fled from him with Caryl Wemyss? She shuddered at the
idea; well she knew how her world would have regarded her, poor, no
longer able to dazzle her careless court into complaisance, no longer
materially able to set the fashion she could lead so well. I cannot
say she felt any remorse; women like Flossie Gower do not feel remorse;
but she was at least devoutly thankful she had not made a worldly
blunder.
How would Lucie take it? This was her one thought, now. He had been
absent on his sporting trip; but was certain to be back the very day
she left. How fortunate, after all, had been poor Wemyss’s cowardice!
She had all a woman’s ignorance of business; and she felt, for the
first time in her life, a need of leaning on her husband. Poverty was
the one thing she dreaded, more than death, more even than old age; in
dishonor she did not much believe. But she had never been frightened in
her life before.
The journey passed much more quickly than her journey on; and arriving
back at the great terminus, she had never thought to see again, she got
nimbly into a carriage and drove quickly to her house. It was Lucie
himself who met her at the door.
“I am so glad to see you again, Flo,” said he; and she let him kiss her
twice. “I have been so terribly anxious!”
“Tell me, Lucie--is it all gone?”
“All what gone?” said he; and he took her in his arms again. “You left
no word where you had gone; and I have been almost crying!” And the
honest fellow did let drop two big salt tears upon her little hand.
“I have been to Boston--staying with my cousin--for a little rest. But
do tell me--have we lost everything?”
“Lost? Oh, yes, I believe the Starbuck Oil has pretty well gone up,”
said he. “But what does it matter? I’ve got enough for two, you know.
My dear, I haven’t told you, but I’ve made some money lately! Isn’t it
a joke that I should make money? And I can’t tell you how glad I am
that I can give you something at last! Your income shall be just what
it always was--I’ll take care of that.” Flossie gave a sigh of relief;
and actually kissed him, all herself.
Poor Lucie! He had never been so happy in his life. Not even when they
had first been married; for though he was a simple gentleman, his
heart had grown, since then; and hearts do more of God’s work than
intellects, even now in the world. And that very day he went down and
bought her diamonds, even finer than those he had given her upon their
wedding-day.
Did Flossie change? I think not. It is only in novels that such natures
change at nearly forty; it is only in novels, too, that the unrepentant
are brought up with a round turn, and a moral pointed, in a flare of
transformation-scene blue lights. But Flossie is still rich, and still
she leads her set; she is still successful, and will doubtless be so
to the very end. It is true some people say she is in her decadence.
She seems to have resigned herself to her final place in life; and
other younger members of her set, Baby Malgam, perhaps, or Mrs. Jimmy
De Witt, are passing her. She will have no catastrophe; and though
(perhaps) against all morals of romance, it must be said that she is
making simple Lucie happier than he has ever been before.
She still had one great scare, however. It was some weeks or months
after this, that the servant brought Lucie word a lady wished to
see him. It was in the early afternoon; and he said that it must be
for Mrs. Gower; but no, she insisted, the man told him, that it was
for him. She was a veiled lady, the servant said, and he ran to his
dressing-room and gave orders for her to be ushered to the parlor.
Going down, to his astonishment, he met Justine. He commonly took
little note of his wife’s maids; but this one he remembered because she
had been with them so long. “You must wish to see Mrs. Gower,” he said.
“I’ll go and find her.”
But no, simpered the Frenchwoman, her business was with him.
“Has she not paid you your wages? she told me she had dismissed
you--and for cause.”
A black scowl disfigured the handsome face. “Madame has turned me
out--like a dog. And I have had no time to get even the dresses that
I left. And--” the maid looked at him curiously. “I do know somesings
about Madame Monsieur would like to know--and Madame, she would give
almost her beaux yeux not to have me tell.”
Lucie’s eyes opened wide; but in a moment their honest wonderment was
changed to a look that Justine misinterpreted. “If Monsieur will make
it worth my while--_je connais la générosité de Monsieur_--I can tell
of Madame’s voyage to Boston--sings zat he would like to know!”
She stopped; for Mr. Gower was struggling with many words. The
soubrette looked cunningly at the gentleman; and he began with an
indignant burst; but then he mastered himself. He took her by the
wrist, and led her forcibly to Mrs. Gower’s room. It must be confessed
that Flossie’s color changed when she saw the strange pair enter.
“Has this woman been fully paid?” said he to his wife.
“Of course,” said Flossie. “I had to discharge her for insolence to me,
and she went away vowing revenge.”
“I thought so,” said Lucie. “James, show this woman the door; and hark
ye, Pauline, Fifine, whatever your name is, if you even ring this
door-bell again, I’ll have you arrested.”
Ah, Miss Flossie, there are some advantages you had not understood, in
marrying a gentleman, though not a clever one--are there not?
And this scene ended Flossie Gower’s episode. She lived on, and still
went to balls, and gave her dinners; some people even say that she
fell in love with her husband. But this the author, at least, takes
liberty to doubt; she liked him, in a way, for he made her own way his
so good-naturedly. I do not even know if she be contented; but she
certainly has more than her deserts. Perhaps she still hears, with half
a sigh, of Kitty Farnum’s--the Countess of Birmingham’s--success in
England; and casts a glance of envy at that lady’s varied photographs
in the shop-windows, if she ever walks down Broadway. But then her
whilom protégée had married a peer of the realm; and I am sure that she
is glad she has not married Caryl Wemyss.
But Mrs. Gower leads no longer. She even has little influence for ill;
or if she has, she does not choose to exert it. She is a model no
longer; the débutantes have taken other patterns. I am not sure that
Mrs. Haviland even has not greater influence--but this is anticipating.
The young men no longer cluster round her carriage at the races; poor
Arthur’s was perhaps the last of all the lives she injured.
Let us turn to others, in whom, as may be hoped, the reader takes more
interest. But first, we turn one glance at Mr. Wemyss. One glance will
be enough. No one, of course, ever knew of his great adventure; he has
sometimes wished to tell it, but never wholly dared. Moreover, his
honor as a gentleman forbids. Clarendon has sometimes spoken of his
queer meeting with him and Flossie Gower; people wonder idly, when they
grow scandalous, what has been between them; but no one really cares.
Mr. Wemyss himself, as Flossie thought, did the best thing possible
under the circumstances; he went to Europe on the Parthia, and has
stayed there ever since. Let us dismiss him from our thoughts; he is
surely not a hero of romance, nor yet even a man in a French play, as
he fondly fancied; nor yet even a real man at all. Perhaps there will
even be no Décadence.
Of his life he made a poor play; yet could not even play it to the end.