Part 24
“Oh, do let us stay through the autumn! It is the ambition of my life to have a succession of house parties at Ordham.” Both eyes and voice pleaded. “Lady Bridgminster says that your brother doesn’t care how long we stay—mother had a note from her just before you came in. He never intends to live there again, and it is good for the house to keep it open.”
“I cannot imagine what induced this fit of generosity in Bridg. It must have been made in an exuberance of delight in turning his back on Ordham, which he has always hated. It never fitted him, somehow—”
“But it will us! Say you will stay through the autumn. Please! Please!”
“But—but—I cannot have my way with the Foreign Office forever. My mother has great influence at present, but a political earthquake and I am high and dry, unless established first. I might be sent to Persia or South America! My fate would be all the worse for the liberties I had taken under the present government.”
Mabel pouted and shook her head. “Don’t talk politics to me. Everybody says that I was born to be a diplomat’s wife, but thank heaven you are not in politics. Promise me that you will wait a little while—through the autumn.”
Ordham looked at her in dismay. Once or twice before a sudden unaccountable lack of comprehension had given him fleeting pause, but some new manifestation of charm had banished any inclination to dwell upon it. Her transitions from a dignified girl of the world to a spoilt child, even a magpie, were sometimes bewildering, but he always hastened to remind himself that she was most beautiful, high-bred, desirable, exquisite. On these gifts he could count even should she disappoint other hopes. But he was by no means convinced that she would disappoint him in anything. He believed in her brain, although she showed a strange determination to give it rest, and he would not have had her less adorably feminine. But he would have welcomed a trifle more reasonableness, if only for its convenience. He answered gently:
“But Mabel!” He longed to say “darling,” but starlight or moonlight was needful to work him up to that pitch; so he reiterated “Mabel” with increased tenderness of accent. “You are far more interested in my career than in giving house parties at Ordham, are you not?”
To his infinite delight Mabel leaned forward and gave him an impulsive little kiss, exclaiming with her grown-up air: “Indeed I am. We will go to Rome at once, if you wish. That was just an old dream of mine. I have cherished it since I first set eyes on Ordham three years ago. But if you want to go right away—”
“Not for worlds. A man is entitled to a month when he marries, and I shall show up at the Foreign Office every day or so until the ceremony. The place will be kept for me. How splendid you are!”
And Mabel began at once to speculate upon the vacant palaces in Rome. How perfectly heavenly it would be to transform some musty old historical hole, reeking with tragedy, into a nest for two happy little birds. Mabel’s phraseology was not always on a par with her lofty bearing and intellectual brow, but sometimes it was, and any man as much in love as Ordham would forget greater lapses still.
If Mrs. Cutting hastened the wedding that she might be present at the impending trial in New York, she was quite as determined to make it a distinguished function as if she had six months before her. And if few people were in London, nearly everybody was in England, and even Switzerland and the German baths were no great distance away. She received few regrets for the ceremony, which was to take place at St. George’s on the tenth of October. She was very busy and very happy. She thought it a great pity that her lovely flower should marry at all, for she was one of those American women that regard matrimony with refined distaste, an evil to be submitted to for the sake of fashion, position, protection, and, no doubt, the race. Moreover, with the inevitable inconsistency of her sex, she would not have liked her lovely flower to turn sere and yellow, Nature’s revenge on the mateless; but she sincerely hoped that after an heir had been presented to Ordham Castle, and, perchance, an understudy, Ordham’s youthful ardour would have evaporated, and her flower could settle down to the business of becoming a great lady, a woman of exceptional and undesecrated refinement; an easy achievement for one fastidiously reared by a fastidious mother. One reason for Mrs. Cutting’s spontaneous selection of Ordham, and her adherence, in spite of several brilliant offers, to her original decision, was because of his apparent lack of animalism, and she grew more and more convinced that only the wild confusion of first love had roused him from his lethargy. He would soon revert, and this fact, coupled with his incomparable manners, would make him the ideal husband for that rare fine type of womanhood which only her own country at its topmost civilization could produce. Mrs. Cutting was justly proud of Mabel, for the adaptable American girl was not only capable of learning a great many lessons, from a polonaise by Chopin to the tactful manipulation of a cross but important old dowager, but London society had pronounced her the one flawless American in its midst, and its midst was at that time unusually distended with charming and popular Americans. That she had become one of the belles of the season independently of the stamp of that Prince for whose favour all ambitious women, Americans as well as English, sought, but from whom she had been religiously barricaded, was in itself a stamp of original distinction. Mrs. Cutting was pronounced equally irreproachable, if somewhat chilly and invariable, and she too might have purchased a coronet had she chosen; but she had no taste for the man she must take with it, and left her daughter to make the marriage which should place her unassailably in the greatest society of the world.
Ordham was somewhat amused at the renewed intimacy of his mother with Mrs. Cutting, but accepted her explanation that she was not the woman to waste her energies opposing the decrees of fate, that she was glad her son was happy, and that, after all, heiresses were heiresses. Besides, Rosamond’s front teeth had rather got on her nerves, and she had unaccountably refused to have her hair touched up. Mabel Cutting was a beauty and would do the family credit, oh, no doubt of that. So she and Mrs. Cutting might be seen any morning in Bond Street, shopping, and looking even more radiant than the young people, who saw little of one another in these busy last days.
That was a memorable wedding even in London. The church was a vast bower of maidenhair and orchids. (Nihilists in Russia gnashed their teeth when they read of it.) Ordham’s connection alone filled half the pews; many of them had ordered new gowns for the occasion in their amazement at the millions flowing toward the family coffers, and that the magnet should be the most indolent and least susceptible of them all. If it had been Stanley, that splendid type of the orthodox, handsome, athletic, sanguine Englishman (he supported his brother at the altar), they could have understood it. But while they impatiently admitted that John was clever, they resented his radical departure from the type, and his complete indifference to their disapproval.
The day was warm and mellow. Not a cloud threatened ruin to the fine costumes with which the church rustled. Royalty honoured the occasion and occupied the front row of chairs. The bridal party, which had rehearsed in the American fashion, advanced up the aisle with precisely the right spacing, that their gowns might be duly appreciated. Lady Bridgminster wore a small bonnet and a tight gown of pale grey shining stuff which made her look not unlike a silver poplar. Mrs. Cutting wore heliotrope velvet and point lace that looked as if it might dissolve before the end of the ceremony. Princess Nachmeister, in a new brocade from Paris, resembled a wicked fairy in a beneficent mood. Of the six bridesmaids, two were Americans, two were French girls who had been Mabel’s chosen friends in Paris, and two were Ordhams. Their gowns had been designed by Lady Bridgminster, and if Mrs. Cutting ran to orchids and ferns, her friend was faithful to the artistic movement to which she had so long lent the light of her ambitious countenance. These six graceful girls held up in front long clinging diaphanous gowns of gold tissue with one hand, and clasped to their bosoms immense sheaves of lilies with the other. Their sleeves were greatly puffed, and on their heads were charming caps shaped like sunflowers. The old duchess, examining them through her lorgnette, and herself apparelled in black moiré and a mantle trimmed with bugles and fringe, remarked audibly that they looked like chorus girls; but they received only a passing attention, for Mabel was as lovely a bride as ever triumphed over a pitiless noonday sun. Beneath a robe composed entirely of rose point, and once in the wardrobe of some unfortunate princess, there was a shimmer as of pale green waters. Mabel had rebelled at looking like a Morris stained-glass window with Wilde improvements, but had agreed with Lady Bridgminster that there was no objection to resembling Undine if she could still be smart. As she advanced up the aisle on the arm of the American Minister, people stood up to look at her and whispered that did she remain in London a year or two longer she would reign as a “professional beauty” and dim the halos of the celebrated group. Ordham, slinking in from the vestry, terribly frightened but magnificently dignified, almost lost his breath when he saw her. Oh, there was no doubt that she had the grand air as well as beauty; and as she walked down the aisle at the conclusion of the ceremony on the arm of her princely young husband, her veil thrown back, her cheeks stained an entrancing pink, her head very high, London set the final seal of its approval upon her, adopted her as its very own, and hastened enraptured to the great house in Grosvenor Square, where all, not merely the family, had been bidden for breakfast.
What a pity that he should take her out of England! Why the diplomatic service—which might take them to unheard-of places? London was for the beautiful, the fortunate. And London was the apex of Earth. The Continent was all very well for baths, and gowns, and scenery, for music and old masters, or alas! economy. London being the Mecca of the civilized world, why, in heaven’s name, did any one voluntarily live out of it? And with millions—
If Ordham heard these comments once, he heard them a dozen times, and was the more annoyed as he observed that Mabel was irrepressibly gratified. The chief of all the personages present, finding speech with her for the first time, went so far as to assure her that the crown of professional beautyship was hers to grasp, even hinted that she could count upon his distinguished support. She turned to Ordham with a little gurgle of sheer happiness; but when she saw the thunder-cloud on the brow of her lord, replied prettily that she was quite convinced Nature had not fitted her to fill so exacting a rôle, and that, much as she adored England, she was quite frantic for the excitement of diplomatic life. The personage bowed and withdrew.
But these were passing clouds. Ordham carried his bride off to the country house lent them for the first few days of the honeymoon and was quite the happiest man on earth.
XLI THE PRINCESS PINCHES
As the carriage crossed the moor in the twilight, Ordham saw that not only was the vast front of the castle illuminated, but that the village at the base of the fell was also brilliant. He was not surprised that his humble friends should light their windows in honour of his bride; but when he was close enough to observe that the village was _en fête_, that there were three arches in the main street composed almost wholly of lanterns, and that a torch flared on the roof of every cottage, he began to feel disquiet, and gave no heed to Mabel’s expressions of delight; and when a dozen lusty young men made a sudden rush out upon the moor, and, unharnessing the horses, dragged the carriage into the village as far as the green, where all the rest of the inhabitants were assembled, the children in white, with nosegays, he wished that he had not come; for this demonstration was not merely a compliment to himself, it was an insult to his brother.
The ancient stone village, built when “Ordham” was prefixed by “de,” and the Normans were defiling the Saxon well, squat and black under the rude illuminations, was a sight picturesque enough to gratify the heart of the most exacting American bride; and Mabel, who had been admitted to the secret, bowed graciously and won the hearts of the villagers immediately. She wore a very light grey costume and a big grey hat covered with feathers, and looked, particularly in the surroundings, exactly like a fairy princess.
The carriage halted. For some moments the cheering was deafening. Then there was a sudden expectant hush, and Ordham, who had been smiling into the faces of his old playmates, turned white and muttered to his radiant bride: “My God, they expect a speech!”
Mabel, who was not accustomed to strong language, looked shocked, but recovered herself instantly. “You must, darling,” she whispered hurriedly. “They always do.”
“They?—Oh, yes, the new lord when he comes home for the first time, or with his bride, but I am not—Bridg!—Great heaven, what a position!”
“But you must!” Mabel gave him a pinch, which so astonished him that he was on his feet before he knew it and thanking them as awkwardly as possible for their delightful kindness. Then he managed to articulate something of his pleasure in bringing his wife to the home of his childhood, and sat down amidst shouts of approval, knowing that no man had ever made a worse speech, but still able to congratulate himself that he had said nothing in poor taste, nor anything that his brother, who had consistently been ignored by the tenantry, could find offensive. He was still so much in love that, although the pinch had filled him with a sudden unaccountable anger, when they were alone in the dark avenue rising to the castle, he kissed Mabel and remarked that if he had been able to make a speech at all upon such a trying occasion, she might thank herself, not his inadequate intelligence.
“You will always do the right thing,” replied Mabel, complacently, “only you do need a lot of stirring up,”—a remark that would have created considerable amusement among the Ordhams could they have overheard it.
The courtyard was illuminated not only by the windows but by torches and coloured lanterns. All the servants of the castle stood at the foot of the staircase, and on that imposing feature itself were contributions from Grosvenor Square in the Ordham livery. Ordham noticed with fleeting astonishment that the liveries of his brother’s servants also were new. He went through this ordeal more gracefully, but was glad to find himself alone with Hines in his old suite. Mabel had been conducted to the adjoining suite by Mrs. Felt, who remarked, possibly for Ordham’s benefit, that it was most unusual kind of his lordship to allow those London decorators to do it over, and that they had done wonders in so short a time. But Ordham, who was hungry and agitated, did not follow his bride into the renovated suite, but calling after her that he would meet her in the octagonal drawing-room, sought solace in his bath and a cigarette.
Half an hour later he strolled over to the other side of the palace and through the splendid suites of rooms, now as brilliantly alight as when his mother had given her great political house parties, but looking, in their emptiness, dim and Italian and old, with their high, darkly frescoed ceilings, their panelled walls set with religious paintings, a few of which were originals, the rest admirable replicas of the Italian masters, their tapestries, and infrequent but superb pieces of old Italian furniture, carved and gilded, upholstered with Venetian brocades,—all so carefully chosen by William Morris. The mantels were carved with large terminal figures and coats of arms; the fireplace in the octagonal drawing-room was of stone upheld by male and female figures and carved above with grinning masques. The cabinets, chests, and chairs of this room were the most elaborately carved in the palace; and on the walls, between the carved dado and the painted frieze, was a tapestry of white velveteen printed with brown acanthus leaves and powdered as with gold dust, designed by Morris. The hangings seemed to shed forth the rich and beautiful colours of the Renaissance textile fabrics; and the silks, brocades, and embroideries of this immense but sumptuous room, the silken carpet with Persian design, might have been discovered by the great decorator marvellously preserved instead of almost as marvellously made in his looms. The furniture, light, delicate, graceful, and a mass of intricate carving, had really served the grandees of the Renaissance, who, mayhap, had no such appreciation of its wonders as moderns have to-day. Even tradition did not whisper of the original furnishing of Ordham, for Cromwell’s men had left not a stick; but no doubt it was early and extremely rude Gothic, not to be compared in either comfort, elegance, or appropriateness with this interior, as Italian as the palace, or “castle” itself. The paintings and silver alone had been buried in time, and so escaped the vandals; nor had they vented their righteous wrath upon the mantels and panellings of the royalist who was distinguishing himself abominably in the army of Charles Stuart.
It was all very beautiful, very romantic, and had it been his, Ordham would have been the proudest young bridegroom in England; but he still felt in a false position, was oppressed by a sense of unreality mingled with anger that he should be compelled to experience such emotions. Commonly he excluded Bridgminster from his mind, for his last interview with his brother was a memory he would have been glad to obliterate; but to-night, when he had been forced to play at “make-believe,” he was filled with resentment once more, and in no mood to regret the news subtly conveyed to him that Bridg was “in a bad way.” “How fine you do look, sir,” one of the men in the village had said to him. “His lordship, now, was that grey when he left you might say he had death writ in his face, and he sat like an old man and never so much as looked at one of us when he drove through the village—to make room for you, sir!”
But he was young and in love, and turned expectantly toward the door at the end of the long suite through which his bride must enter. After all, why should he not be proud to bring this pampered American to his ancestral castle? And if it were not his now, it would be one of these days, so why waste emotions upon an interval possibly brief? He shrugged his shoulders and dismissed them.
There was an almost imperceptible rustling of distant skirts on marble floors, and Mabel floated down the long vista while he stood and gazed upon her in expectation of new raptures. But to his surprise he experienced a shock of disappointment. Mabel was enchantingly dressed as ever. Her white train followed her like a cloud, and her slender neck was almost hidden under ropes of pearls; a little wreath of diamonds rested in the yellow fluff of her hair. But she looked unaccountably small, out of place, insignificant, in these dim, stately, historical rooms. The white and gold spaces of Grosvenor Square, light, French, extravagant, gay, not too large, and with ceilings artfully lowered, might have been designed to frame her ethereal loveliness, and the idea crossed Ordham’s mind that perchance they had.
But no misgivings beset Mabel, and as her husband suddenly advanced to meet her, she cried out, “Isn’t this too lovely, Jackie?” (This fond nickname was, so far, her only indiscretion in his adoring regard.) “I feel like an ancient Lady Ordham come to life; and as for this immense castle, or palace, or whatever you call it,—isn’t it exactly like those old things in Italy?—I had to send for a footman to pilot me. I never was so happy in all my life.”
“You should be,” said Ordham, gallantly. “Your capacity for conferring happiness passes belief.”
Dinner was announced, and to his surprise they were conducted to the banqueting hall instead of to the dining room.
“This is my first order,” said Mabel, smiling playfully, as they entered the vast room, whose panels were set with bygone Ordhams, and whose ceiling, frescoed on wood, panelled and gilded, was in the most elaborate Italian style. Ordham was amused at his wife’s childishness, but nothing averse, for the dining room might have revived hideous memories he chose to forget. In this superb hall there were no memories for him but of great dinners to the county, hunt breakfasts, house parties numbering many Englishmen already passed into history. Now it must always be associated with his first dinner, in the company of his bride, in this splendid castle of his race.
Mabel, who seemed excited to the point of exhilaration, chattered incessantly.
“Oh, Jackie! Jackie!” she cried, as the servants finally left the room, “how simply wonderful this castle must be when it is full of guests. Your mother says she has had more than a hundred people here at once. If you _won’t_ stay here, we must return some fall and have a regular traditional house party—royalties and all the rest of it. It would be exactly like living in one of Scott’s novels, and as the castle is Renaissance instead of Elizabethan, we could have a fancy dress ball and make believe we were in Italy.”
“The Renaissance reached England before Elizabeth,” replied Ordham, diplomatically. “It is too good of you to feel that you will not have tired of Italy before we can return here.”
“Oh, I love Italy, although I have malaria in Rome, and there are so many beggars, and my governess made me look at so many pictures. I am sure I can’t see what good those miles and miles of tramping through dark stuffy galleries full of madonnas and saints did me, for I only remember about three pictures in all Italy. I remember my headaches much better.”
“If you had a guide-book mind, there would be no room in it for anything else.” Ordham was very indulgent to this bride of nineteen short years who so often shot him a glance of sweet appeal, or prettily begged him not to be severe if he discovered that she did not know as much as he did. “How could a girl just out of school compete with quite the cleverest young man on earth?” He had already begun to wonder how he could have expected her to know anything, and still oftener how any woman could look such unutterable wisdom out of an apparently empty skull. That bony structure, which included a high intellectual brow, width between the eyes, and a fine decided nose, was merely the shell inherited from a long line of able Americans who had made history, political and financial. It was a perfect and a very roomy shell. He had also begun to ask himself how long it would take to furnish it, and if the process would be as interesting as he had fancied. But what mystified him more than all was that during those weeks of his courtship, conscious and unconscious, he should have believed her to be serious, studious, remote, vastly above her sex and age in all respects. Of course, he reflected, he was in love all the time—no doubt—and blind from the moment her beauty and grace had dazzled him in that incomparable setting. He knew now that Mabel had not progressed in her literary drudgeries beyond Scott and Macaulay, and had by no means exhausted those prolific authors; indeed, she openly yearned for abridged editions.