exaggerated cheery reproach, walking on with her briskly to overtake her
mother.
He was not dining at their inn, but he insisted on coming that evening to
their _table d’hôte_. He sat next Mrs. Tramore, and in the evening he
accompanied them gallantly to the opera, at a third-rate theatre where
they were almost the only ladies in the boxes. The next day they went
together by rail to the Charterhouse of Pavia, and while he strolled with
the girl, as they waited for the homeward train, he said to her candidly:
“Your mother’s remarkably pretty.” She remembered the words and the
feeling they gave her: they were the first note of new era. The feeling
was somewhat that of an anxious, gratified matron who has “presented” her
child and is thinking of the matrimonial market. Men might be of no use,
as Mrs. Tramore said, yet it was from this moment Rose dated the rosy
dawn of her confidence that her _protégée_ would go off; and when later,
in crowded assemblies, the phrase, or something like it behind a hat or a
fan, fell repeatedly on her anxious ear, “Your mother _is_ in beauty!” or
“I’ve never seen her look better!” she had a faint vision of the yellow
sunshine and the afternoon shadows on the dusty Italian platform.
Mrs. Tramore’s behaviour at this period was a revelation of her native
understanding of delicate situations. She needed no account of this one
from her daughter—it was one of the things for which she had a scent; and
there was a kind of loyalty to the rules of a game in the silent
sweetness with which she smoothed the path of Bertram Jay. It was clear
that she was in her element in fostering the exercise of the affections,
and if she ever spoke without thinking twice it is probable that she
would have exclaimed, with some gaiety, “Oh, I know all about _love_!”
Rose could see that she thought their companion would be a help, in spite
of his being no dispenser of patronage. The key to the gates of fashion
had not been placed in his hand, and no one had ever heard of the ladies
of his family, who lived in some vague hollow of the Yorkshire moors; but
none the less he might administer a muscular push. Yes indeed, men in
general were broken reeds, but Captain Jay was peculiarly representative.
Respectability was the woman’s maximum, as honour was the man’s, but this
distinguished young soldier inspired more than one kind of confidence.
Rose had a great deal of attention for the use to which his
respectability was put; and there mingled with this attention some
amusement and much compassion. She saw that after a couple of days he
decidedly liked her mother, and that he was yet not in the least aware of
it. He took for granted that he believed in her but little;
notwithstanding which he would have trusted her with anything except Rose
herself. His trusting her with Rose would come very soon. He never
spoke to her daughter about her qualities of character, but two or three
of them (and indeed these were all the poor lady had, and they made the
best show) were what he had in mind in praising her appearance. When he
remarked: “What attention Mrs. Tramore seems to attract everywhere!” he
meant: “What a beautifully simple nature it is!” and when he said:
“There’s something extraordinarily harmonious in the colours she wears,”
it signified: “Upon my word, I never saw such a sweet temper in my life!”
She lost one of her boxes at Verona, and made the prettiest joke of it to
Captain Jay. When Rose saw this she said to herself, “Next season we
shall have only to choose.” Rose knew what was in the box.
By the time they reached Venice (they had stopped at half a dozen little
old romantic cities in the most frolicsome æsthetic way) she liked their
companion better than she had ever liked him before. She did him the
justice to recognise that if he was not quite honest with himself he was
at least wholly honest with _her_. She reckoned up everything he had
been since he joined them, and put upon it all an interpretation so
favourable to his devotion that, catching herself in the act of glossing
over one or two episodes that had not struck her at the time as
disinterested she exclaimed, beneath her breath, “Look out—you’re falling
in love!” But if he liked correctness wasn’t he quite right? Could any
one possibly like it more than _she_ did? And if he had protested
against her throwing in her lot with her mother, this was not because of
the benefit conferred but because of the injury received. He exaggerated
that injury, but this was the privilege of a lover perfectly willing to
be selfish on behalf of his mistress. He might have wanted her
grandmother’s money for her, but if he had given her up on first
discovering that she was throwing away her chance of it (oh, this was
_her_ doing too!) he had given up her grandmother as much: not keeping
well with the old woman, as some men would have done; not waiting to see
how the perverse experiment would turn out and appeasing her, if it
should promise tolerably, with a view to future operations. He had had a
simple-minded, evangelical, lurid view of what the girl he loved would
find herself in for. She could see this now—she could see it from his
present bewilderment and mystification, and she liked him and pitied him,
with the kindest smile, for the original _naïveté_ as well as for the
actual meekness. No wonder he hadn’t known what she was in for, since he
now didn’t even know what he was in for himself. Were there not moments
when he thought his companions almost unnaturally good, almost
suspiciously safe? He had lost all power to verify that sketch of their
isolation and _déclassement_ to which she had treated him on the great
square at Milan. The last thing he noticed was that they were neglected,
and he had never, for himself, had such an impression of society.
It could scarcely be enhanced even by the apparition of a large, fair,
hot, red-haired young man, carrying a lady’s fan in his hand, who
suddenly stood before their little party as, on the third evening after
their arrival in Venice, it partook of ices at one of the tables before
the celebrated Café Florian. The lamplit Venetian dusk appeared to have
revealed them to this gentleman as he sat with other friends at a
neighbouring table, and he had sprung up, with unsophisticated glee, to
shake hands with Mrs. Tramore and her daughter. Rose recalled him to her
mother, who looked at first as though she didn’t remember him but
presently bestowed a sufficiently gracious smile on Mr. Guy Mangler. He
gave with youthful candour the history of his movements and indicated the
whereabouts of his family: he was with his mother and sisters; they had
met the Bob Veseys, who had taken Lord Whiteroy’s yacht and were going to
Constantinople. His mother and the girls, poor things, were at the Grand
Hotel, but he was on the yacht with the Veseys, where they had Lord
Whiteroy’s cook. Wasn’t the food in Venice filthy, and wouldn’t they
come and look at the yacht? She wasn’t very fast, but she was awfully
jolly. His mother might have come if she would, but she wouldn’t at
first, and now, when she wanted to, there were other people, who
naturally wouldn’t turn out for her. Mr. Mangler sat down; he alluded
with artless resentment to the way, in July, the door of his friends had
been closed to him. He was going to Constantinople, but he didn’t
care—if _they_ were going anywhere; meanwhile his mother hoped awfully
they would look her up.
Lady Maresfield, if she had given her son any such message, which Rose
disbelieved, entertained her hope in a manner compatible with her sitting
for half an hour, surrounded by her little retinue, without glancing in
the direction of Mrs. Tramore. The girl, however, was aware that this
was not a good enough instance of their humiliation; inasmuch as it was
rather she who, on the occasion of their last contact, had held off from
Lady Maresfield. She was a little ashamed now of not having answered the
note in which this affable personage ignored her mother. She couldn’t
help perceiving indeed a dim movement on the part of some of the other
members of the group; she made out an attitude of observation in the
high-plumed head of Mrs. Vaughan-Vesey. Mrs. Vesey, perhaps, might have
been looking at Captain Jay, for as this gentleman walked back to the
hotel with our young lady (they were at the “Britannia,” and young
Mangler, who clung to them, went in front with Mrs. Tramore) he revealed
to Rose that he had some acquaintance with Lady Maresfield’s eldest
daughter, though he didn’t know and didn’t particularly want to know, her
ladyship. He expressed himself with more acerbity than she had ever
heard him use (Christian charity so generally governed his speech) about
the young donkey who had been prattling to them. They separated at the
door of the hotel. Mrs. Tramore had got rid of Mr. Mangler, and Bertram
Jay was in other quarters.
“If you know Mrs. Vesey, why didn’t you go and speak to her? I’m sure
she saw you,” Rose said.
Captain Jay replied even more circumspectly than usual. “Because I
didn’t want to leave you.”
“Well, you can go now; you’re free,” Rose rejoined.
“Thank you. I shall never go again.”
“That won’t be civil,” said Rose.
“I don’t care to be civil. I don’t like her.”
“Why don’t you like her?”
“You ask too many questions.”
“I know I do,” the girl acknowledged.
Captain Jay had already shaken hands with her, but at this he put out his
hand again. “She’s too worldly,” he murmured, while he held Rose
Tramore’s a moment.
“Ah, you dear!” Rose exclaimed almost audibly as, with her mother, she
turned away.
The next morning, upon the Grand Canal, the gondola of our three friends
encountered a stately barge which, though it contained several persons,
seemed pervaded mainly by one majestic presence. During the instant the
gondolas were passing each other it was impossible either for Rose
Tramore or for her companions not to become conscious that this
distinguished identity had markedly inclined itself—a circumstance
commemorated the next moment, almost within earshot of the other boat, by
the most spontaneous cry that had issued for many a day from the lips of
Mrs. Tramore. “Fancy, my dear, Lady Maresfield has bowed to us!”
“We ought to have returned it,” Rose answered; but she looked at Bertram
Jay, who was opposite to her. He blushed, and she blushed, and during
this moment was born a deeper understanding than had yet existed between
these associated spirits. It had something to do with their going
together that afternoon, without her mother, to look at certain
out-of-the-way pictures as to which Ruskin had inspired her with a desire
to see sincerely. Mrs. Tramore expressed the wish to stay at home, and
the motive of this wish—a finer shade than any that even Ruskin had ever
found a phrase for—was not translated into misrepresenting words by
either the mother or the daughter. At San Giovanni in Bragora the girl
and her companion came upon Mrs. Vaughan-Vesey, who, with one of her
sisters, was also endeavouring to do the earnest thing. She did it to
Rose, she did it to Captain Jay, as well as to Gianbellini; she was a
handsome, long-necked, aquiline person, of a different type from the rest
of her family, and she did it remarkably well. She secured our
friends—it was her own expression—for luncheon, on the morrow, on the
yacht, and she made it public to Rose that she would come that afternoon
to invite her mother. When the girl returned to the hotel, Mrs. Tramore
mentioned, before Captain Jay, who had come up to their sitting-room,
that Lady Maresfield had called. “She stayed a long time—at least it
seemed long!” laughed Mrs. Tramore.
The poor lady could laugh freely now; yet there was some grimness in a
colloquy that she had with her daughter after Bertram Jay had departed.
Before this happened Mrs. Vesey’s card, scrawled over in pencil and
referring to the morrow’s luncheon, was brought up to Mrs. Tramore.
“They mean it all as a bribe,” said the principal recipient of these
civilities.
“As a bribe?” Rose repeated.
“She wants to marry you to that boy; they’ve seen Captain Jay and they’re
frightened.”
“Well, dear mamma, I can’t take Mr. Mangler for a husband.”
“Of course not. But oughtn’t we to go to the luncheon?”
“Certainly we’ll go to the luncheon,” Rose said; and when the affair took
place, on the morrow, she could feel for the first time that she was
taking her mother out. This appearance was somehow brought home to every
one else, and it was really the agent of her success. For it is of the
essence of this simple history that, in the first place, that success
dated from Mrs. Vesey’s Venetian _déjeuner_, and in the second reposed,
by a subtle social logic, on the very anomaly that had made it dubious.
There is always a chance in things, and Rose Tramore’s chance was in the
fact that Gwendolen Vesey was, as some one had said, awfully modern, an
immense improvement on the exploded science of her mother, and capable of
seeing what a “draw” there would be in the comedy, if properly brought
out, of the reversed positions of Mrs. Tramore and Mrs. Tramore’s
diplomatic daughter. With a first-rate managerial eye she perceived that
people would flock into any room—and all the more into one of hers—to see
Rose bring in her dreadful mother. She treated the cream of English
society to this thrilling spectacle later in the autumn, when she once
more “secured” both the performers for a week at Brimble. It made a hit
on the spot, the very first evening—the girl was felt to play her part so
well. The rumour of the performance spread; every one wanted to see it.
It was an entertainment of which, that winter in the country, and the
next season in town, persons of taste desired to give their friends the
freshness. The thing was to make the Tramores come late, after every one
had arrived. They were engaged for a fixed hour, like the American
imitator and the Patagonian contralto. Mrs. Vesey had been the first to
say the girl was awfully original, but that became the general view.
Gwendolen Vesey had with her mother one of the few quarrels in which Lady
Maresfield had really stood up to such an antagonist (the elder woman had
to recognise in general in whose veins it was that the blood of the
Manglers flowed) on account of this very circumstance of her attaching
more importance to Miss Tramore’s originality (“Her originality be
hanged!” her ladyship had gone so far as unintelligently to exclaim) than
to the prospects of the unfortunate Guy. Mrs. Vesey actually lost sight
of these pressing problems in her admiration of the way the mother and
the daughter, or rather the daughter and the mother (it was slightly
confusing) “drew.” It was Lady Maresfield’s version of the case that the
brazen girl (she was shockingly coarse) had treated poor Guy abominably.
At any rate it was made known, just after Easter, that Miss Tramore was
to be married to Captain Jay. The marriage was not to take place till
the summer; but Rose felt that before this the field would practically be
won. There had been some bad moments, there had been several warm
corners and a certain number of cold shoulders and closed doors and stony
stares; but the breach was effectually made—the rest was only a question
of time. Mrs. Tramore could be trusted to keep what she had gained, and
it was the dowagers, the old dragons with prominent fangs and glittering
scales, whom the trick had already mainly caught. By this time there
were several houses into which the liberated lady had crept alone. Her
daughter had been expected with her, but they couldn’t turn her out
because the girl had stayed behind, and she was fast acquiring a new
identity, that of a parental connection with the heroine of such a
romantic story. She was at least the next best thing to her daughter,
and Rose foresaw the day when she would be valued principally as a
memento of one of the prettiest episodes in the annals of London. At a
big official party, in June, Rose had the joy of introducing Eric to his
mother. She was a little sorry it was an official party—there were some
other such queer people there; but Eric called, observing the shade, the
next day but one.
No observer, probably, would have been acute enough to fix exactly the
moment at which the girl ceased to take out her mother and began to be
taken out by her. A later phase was more distinguishable—that at which
Rose forbore to inflict on her companion a duality that might become
oppressive. She began to economise her force, she went only when the
particular effect was required. Her marriage was delayed by the period
of mourning consequent upon the death of her grandmother, who, the
younger Mrs. Tramore averred, was killed by the rumour of her own new
birth. She was the only one of the dragons who had not been tamed.
Julia Tramore knew the truth about this—she was determined such things
should not kill _her_. She would live to do something—she hardly knew
what. The provisions of her mother’s will were published in the
“Illustrated News”; from which it appeared that everything that was not
to go to Eric and to Julia was to go to the fortunate Edith. Miss
Tramore makes no secret of her own intentions as regards this favourite.
Edith is not pretty, but Lady Maresfield is waiting for her; she is
determined Gwendolen Vesey shall not get hold of her. Mrs. Vesey however
takes no interest in her at all. She is whimsical, as befits a woman of
her fashion; but there are two persons she is still very fond of, the
delightful Bertram Jays. The fondness of this pair, it must be added, is
not wholly expended in return. They are extremely united, but their life
is more domestic than might have been expected from the preliminary
signs. It owes a portion of its concentration to the fact that Mrs.
Tramore has now so many places to go to that she has almost no time to
come to her daughter’s. She is, under her son-in-law’s roof, a brilliant
but a rare apparition, and the other day he remarked upon the
circumstance to his wife.
“If it hadn’t been for you,” she replied, smiling, “she might have had
her regular place at our fireside.”
“Good heavens, how did I prevent it?” cried Captain Jay, with all the
consciousness of virtue.
“You ordered it otherwise, you goose!” And she says, in the same spirit,
whenever her husband commends her (which he does, sometimes,
extravagantly) for the way she launched her mother: “Nonsense, my
dear—practically it was _you_!”