The first part of her stay in England was more endurable, however, than
she had thought possible. Loring was rather subdued by the "highbrows,"
though he carried it off in private to her with an air of indulgent
toleration for the "fool ceremoniousness" of an "effete" civilisation.
The greater number of her friends and acquaintances he characterised as
"lemons." He said there was not a "shred of snap or go in the whole
bunch of them," that they made him long to "yowl" and fire off pistols
in Piccadilly. One exception he made, however, in favour of the Premier.
"Fine old boy," he said. "Can't exactly call _him_ a lemon ... but he
leans that way. I guess I'll have to class him as a citron--a rarer
product of the lemon variety, you know."
It is not only the husband who feels a sense of responsibility in
marriage. This feeling of being responsible for Loring as the man whom
she had chosen for her mate out of all the world, after such a dire
first marriage, kept Sophy taut with apprehension. Every time that they
went out together she was in nervous dread lest he should "bust loose,"
as he sometimes threatened, and take some undue liberty of speech with
one of the "highbrows" that so oppressed him. One thing, however, gave
her great comfort: It was that he was careful not to drink too freely.
The "pomp and circumstance" that bored him to extinction had at least
the good effect of restraining him in this respect, and his male-pride
could not but glow pleasantly at the way in which he found his wife
considered. And he was immensely gratified--until one day it occurred to
him that he was being assigned the role of "Mrs. Loring's husband." Then
in a burst of inner resentment he determined to shake himself free of
the singular spell which great names and personages had cast over his
usual spirits, and "be himself." His mood became aggressively American.
"Old Glory" seemed to fill his blood with stars. He had had enough of
doing in Britain as the Britons did. He began to take whiskey-and-soda
between meals, just as in New York. When they dined out, he had a
cocktail at the hotel before leaving. But though Sophy saw this with a
quailing heart, he did not go beyond bounds, as at home, only the return
to customary uses made his spirits soar and rendered him rather
garrulous at times. Still, Loring was no fool. The fount of talk thus
loosened had a certain crude and pungent novelty that diverted the
soberer English very much. He found his new role vastly diverting
himself. He thought it "bully fun" to "poke up the highbrows." But Sophy
writhed, for she saw clearly what did not even glimmer on his
consciousness--the fact that the "highbrows" oftener laughed at than
with him. She tried on one occasion to make him realise this without
offending him. But she need not have troubled as to how he would regard
her suggestion. He took it with lordly superiority.
"Bless you, Goddess! ... you don't know your own little old British
world a bit! 'Laugh at me'? Why not? I mean 'em to. I bust panes in
their old window-sash of conventions and let in God's outer air! I'm the
cyclone-blast from Columbia's fresh and verdant shore! They like it, you
squeamish dear--they like it! I beard the British lion in his den and he
purrs!"
Sophy had said, laughing helplessly:
"I'm afraid that when a lion 'purrs' it's really a sort of growling."
"Never you fear! Just you leave it to me, Old Thing!" Loring had replied
easily.
This bit of slang endearment which he had picked up of late grated on
Sophy, until it was almost impossible for her to keep from flashing out
at him when he used it. She said nothing, however, reflecting that the
reason she so detested it was probably because she was too "old" to
enjoy being called "old" in fun.
It was during Ascot week which they spent with the Arundels at their
place on the River that Loring surpassed himself in his game of "poking
up the highbrows." It was at luncheon. There were about twenty people
present--some very important Personages among them. Loring was feeling
especially "full of beans." A famous beauty had coaxed him into making
"American drinks" for the whole party before luncheon. She thought them
"ripping"! She was a very sporting beauty, and Loring was enjoying
himself, what with the races and one thing and another, more than he had
believed it possible to enjoy one's self in England away from the
'Shires in the hunting season. The American cocktails had a _succes de
curiosite_. Loring, himself, took two. At luncheon he was in high
feather. The beauty egged him on. He began to give thumb-nail sketches
of the characters of those present. Sophy's sensations were
indescribable. Not a "highbrow" did her husband spare. In pithy,
American slang he set forth, amid the laughter even of the victims
themselves, what he considered their chief characteristics. Nimbly
piling Ossa on Pelion, he capped the whole with Vesuvius, by pointing a
finger at a stern, iron-clad, reserved and venerable member of the
Opposition, and announcing: "You do the benevolent patriarch act to a T;
but deep down--gad!--you're _foxy_!"
The "benevolent patriarch" himself, after a gleam of surprise such as
might have stirred the countenance of Moses, had a gentile youth
suddenly made a _pied de nez_ at him, gazed inscrutably. The table
rocked with suppressed and somewhat scared laughter. Sophy felt bathed
in flame. She knew that Majesty itself would not have adopted a jesting
tone with the Being whom Loring had just called "foxy." That this
Superior Being in all probability _was_ "foxy" did not at all mend
matters.
She had stayed on for Ascot week because Loring had wished it. She now
determined to return to America as soon as possible. She had never
suffered in just this way before. She found it almost as excruciating as
the death of love had been. She marvelled at the endless variety of
pain.
That night Olive came to her bedroom for a private chat. She had slipped
on a dressing-gown and brought her cigarette-case with her, so Sophy
knew that she had "things on her mind" which she meant to unburden.
She lounged in an armchair and smoked while Sophy's maid finished
brushing her hair. When the girl had left the room, Olive looked at her
with affectionate but keen curiosity, and said abruptly:
"Sophy, you must forgive me, because I'm so _vewy_ fond of you--but ...
are you _weally_ as happy as I want you to be?"
Sophy returned her look quietly.
"Who is _really_ happy?" she said.
"Well ... _I_ am ... at times," replied Olive.
Sophy couldn't help smiling. She knew that this "at times" meant when
Olive was deep in some love-affair.
"Is this one of the times, dear?" she asked lightly, hoping to change
the subject.
Olive nodded, making little rings of smoke with the lips that were still
so smooth and fresh--though she had a big girl of sixteen.
"It's because I'm so happy myself that I want _you_ to be happy, too,
darling," she murmured.
"It takes such different things to make different people happy, Olive,
dear."
"Oh, love makes _evwybody_ happy--while it lasts!"
"Yes--while it lasts."
Olive crushed out her cigarette thoughtfully. Then she said in a musing
voice:
"Isn't it _atwocious_ of it not to last?"
Sophy had to laugh out for all her sore heart.
"Very atrocious," she admitted.
"Just suppose one could _contwol_ love," Olive continued, still in that
musing voice. "What a divine place the world would be! _Evwy_body would
be happy _all_ the time, then. Nobody would be bored--nobody would
divorce--nobody would be disagweeable."
"Nobody would need a God or a philosophy," supplemented Sophy.
"But as it is, they are _most_ necessary," said Olive seriously. "Which
is it with you, Sophy?"
"Both," replied Sophy. She was not smiling now.
"With me," said Olive, "it's first one and then the other. I'm afraid
I've a very _fwiv_olous nature, Sophy. I _can't_ seem to keep to one
thing, _all_ the time. But you, now...."
She gazed again at Sophy with that affectionate, meditative curiosity.
"You seem made for a _gwande passion_, Sophy. And yet...." She
hesitated; then went on quickly: "Now _do_ forgive me ... but, somehow,
I don't feel as if you'd found it ... even now."
This "even now" sent the blood to Sophy's face. She sat very still,
looking at the monogram on one of the brushes with which she had been
playing as Olive talked.
"Are you vexed, darling? You mustn't be vexed. It's only because I'm so
_twuly_ fond of you. Now Mr. Loring is awfully nice, and immensely
good-looking, and ... and all that. But...." She hesitated again, then
went on as before: "The _twuth_ is, Sophy--that he's _much_ more the
sort of man I might fancy, than your sort. He's ... he's ... you see, he
_stwikes_ me as too _fwivolous_ for you, you _sewious_ darling!"
Sophy said, in a flat, tired voice:
"Don't you mean he's too--young for me, Olive?"
"Oh, no! _No_, darling! Fancy! How wi_dic_ulous!" Her tone was the acme
of sincerity. "I never had such an absurd thought for one moment! I only
meant that he's ... well ... a bit larky for any one like you. And ...
and ... he's so ... so twe_men_dously Amewican ... and you aren't, you
know...."
"Yes," said Sophy wearily. She wished with all her might that Olive
would go away. She was very fond of her, but she didn't like even those
kindly little fingers fumbling at the latch of her heart. She wanted to
be alone--in the dark.
"Were you _des_perwately in love with him, Sophy?"
This "_were_ you" hurt almost as much as the "even now" had done. Was
her state of mind so apparent, then, that even affectionate but flighty
Olive had divined it?
She got up, and went round the room as though in search of something. As
she moved about, she said casually:
"Dear Olive, do you think I would have married again if I hadn't been
very much in love?"
"No. Of course not," replied the other absently. She had not at all said
what she had come to say. Suddenly she too rose, and went over to Sophy.
She flipped an arm about her shoulders.
"Darling," she said. "You are so _wowwied_.... I can't bear it!... I
know perfectly well what's wowwying you.... The fact is Jack and I
talked it over before I came in here just now.... I'm going to be
perfectly _fwank_.... May I?"
"Yes ... do ... please," said Sophy. She was pale now. She had felt
something of what was coming as soon as Olive mentioned John Arundel.
"Go on, Olive ... please do. I beg you to," she urged, as the other
still hesitated.
"Well, then, my sweet--would you like Jack to speak to Mr. Loring--oh,
_vewy_ tactfully, of course! ... but just make him understand, you know,
that one doesn't ... that it isn't ... _cus_tomawy ... for people to
joke ... er ... in that way ... with ... er ... personages like Mr...."
But Sophy broke in on her. She felt that she could not bear the sound of
the overwhelming name whose owner Loring had called "foxy" to his august
countenance.
"Yes, yes ... do!" she said hurriedly. "I'll take it as an act of the
greatest kindness and friendship on Jack's part. Tell him so from me.
You see, Morris is so young and so ... so 'American,' as you said." She
forced a smile. "The bump of reverence isn't much cultivated in my
native land, you know...."
"I know," said Olive soothingly. "But we _weally_ make allowances for
that, you know. It isn't _at all_ as if an Englishman had called that
old gwandeur 'foxy.' You see, Amewicans think so _vewy_ differently from
what we do." She was rattling on in her affectionate desire to mitigate
Sophy's mortification by showing her a comprehending sympathy. "Why, I
knew the most _charming_ young Amewican girl once ... and she told me,
as a _gweat_ joke, that when she was pwesented to the Pwincess Louise,
she said: 'Hello!'... Now, you see, she _weally_ thought that was
funny--and what Amewicans call 'smart.' You see, it's just the different
point of view, darling. And we _all_ understand _that_. I'm sure that
Mr...."
"Never mind, Olive," Sophy broke in again. "If Jack will make Morris
understand ... that such things aren't done ... I'll be very grateful.
More grateful than I can say."
* * * * *
Olive was more thoughtful than ever as she returned to her own room. She
stood in a brown study for some moments when she reached it, then went
and tapped on the door of her husband's dressing-room.
It was nearly one o'clock, and, attired in his pyjamas, he was swinging
a light pair of Indian clubs before going to bed. He put them down as
his wife entered and said:
"How did it come off? Awkward thing to do--eh? Was she huffy?"
"'Huffy'!... She was a _Sewaph_!... Oh, Jack"--she dropped limply upon a
chair-arm--"it's _twagic_!"
"I felt tragic enough at luncheon, that's certain," replied he grimly.
"But what's tragic now?... If Sophy wasn't offended by your suggestion?
You really made it, I suppose?"
"Yes. I did," said Olive curtly. "But I'm not thinking of _that_ any
longer--I'm thinking of Sophy. I'd _so_ hoped she was happy _this_
time!... But she isn't ... she isn't...."
"How could she be ... married to a young bounder like that?" asked
Arundel.
Olive shook her head.
"No, Jack. He's _not_ a bounder ... that's what's so puzzling. There's
_something_ w'ong with him--but he's _weally_ not a bounder...."
"Well, no ... perhaps not," admitted he grudgingly.
"But there's certainly something damned 'wrong' with him."
"Yes. And Sophy knows it as well as we do ... only she has to _pwetend_
not to. Now isn't that _twagic_?"
"Yes. Hard lines ... poor girl!..." said Arundel. He had always been
very fond of Sophy. "First she gets a Bedlamite like Chesney--then this
... this lurid Yankee."
Olive began giggling in spite of her genuine concern. "Lurid Yankee"
seemed to her so exquisitely fitting an epithet. But she stopped as
suddenly as she had begun.
"What _is_ w'ong with him, Jack?" she took it up, deeply pondering once
more. "You're a man ... you ought to be able to say at once."
Arundel pondered also.
"Perhaps it's a form of National swagger," he ventured at last. "That
sort of way they have of implying 'I'm as good as a king, and better,
damn your eyes!' It's odd to me that an American of this type will
condescend to bend his knees in prayer. They'd call up the Lord over a
telephone wire if they could."
"Maybe it's the way they're brought up, Jack."
"Oh, they aren't 'brought up'!"
"Well, then ... maybe it's that."
Olive's heart was sore for her friend. She was as loyal in her
friendships as she was fickle in her loves. She lay long awake as she
had predicted, thinking it all over.
"Sophy ought to have made a _gweat_ match, with her gifts and charm and
beauty," she reflected sadly. "And she goes and mawwies that _howidly_
handsome boy."
Just as she was drowsing off, however, a consoling thought occurred to
her:
"But he must have made _divine_ love!" she reflected, smiling. And this
smile lay prettily on her lips as she slept. To be "made divine love to"
was, in Olive's creed, compensation for most of the ills of life.