IV.
Marie Louise had left Miss Bowles’ house in a whirl of delight. Outside, it appeared that Mr. Emmons was going to his club, and Mrs. Emmons finally agreed that he should take the automobile, and she be driven home by Marie Louise. At parting, she gave vent to an indefinite but friendly phrase about seeing the girl again. Marie Louise refrained with a struggle from being too grateful.
Yet the impulse was not due entirely to Mrs. Emmons’ civility, satisfactory as this was. So unusual a feeling of elation had taken possession of her. No wonder, she thought, that men and women like this are sought after. The instant after she was thinking that but for the accident of her father’s will she might never have known that men like Orvice were to be met with on this mundane planet. Who knows but what, after four or five years more of Stonehurst, she might have been perfectly content with Bobby Peters? She shuddered.
She was amused, and not at all alarmed, to find as she drove home how distinctly she could remember even the tone of everything Orvice had said, the way he had sat nursing one ankle, the little gesture with which he had once pushed up his tie. It only showed, she reflected, how vivid a personality he must have. And perhaps, indeed, it showed nothing more. She attempted to recall Peale, but he seemed quite faint and colorless now, although at the board meeting she had found him a very distinguished person. She fell to considering the effect she had made. Had it been a mistake to confess that she knew no one? The women had both looked shocked, but wasn’t honesty the best policy? Certainly, Mr. Orvice had not entirely hated her, or he would not have offered her the party—he and Mr. Peale.
And then her joy was dashed by the realization that this party which might have furnished so good an excuse for future meetings had not been put to any such use. “Why,” she said to herself, in the Stonehurst formula, “he never even asked if he might call!” It was the first step in her past experience of men who took even the mildest interest. Plainly, the party was never going to come off. Very likely she would never see him again.
As a matter of fact, it was Peale who wrote to her a few days later and gave her the choice of several dates. The party was to take the form of a dinner at a restaurant, and a very late and somewhat noisy arrival at a theater afterward. A moderate enough number had been the original plan, but this had gradually increased.
Needless to say, its mere existence gave rise to rumors of Orvice’s engagement; rumors which at once reached Jerry, and annoyed him not a little. Why, he asked, was Prixley supposed to be above suspicion?
Perhaps the presence of Mrs. Orvice gave color to the reports, or might have, had any one noticed the critical and troubled expression with which her eyes now and again rested on Marie Louise. For she, too, was wondering what was the occasion of this rare energy on her son’s part. In what relation was she to stand to this yellow-haired, bespangled, bejeweled young woman, who gave her photograph to newspapers and offered hospitals as if they were toys?
Miss Carman had not been put next to Jerry at dinner. She was sitting between Peale and a young Italian prince—a slim young man of that finished and gentle manner which can give to the smallest of small talk a certain distinction and interest. Even Marie Louise was conscious of crudity, and found herself talking with lowered voice and less positive assertions.
The prince was supposed to have come out in order to study steel construction in connection with property his family owned in Rome; but there were, of course, other stories as to his motives in coming, to which his obvious interest in his neighbor now gave color,
They had not finished soup before Marie Louise was revolving the proper mode of address to an Italian princess at home. A vision rose before her eyes of herself in velvet and point-lace, trailing through marble halls. Some American girls, she reflected, would not know how to live up to an opportunity like that.
She fell before long to questioning him about the court, feeling, for she had her fair share of prudence, that this was as good a way as another of determining his standing. She was distinctly chilled to hear him reply firmly that he did not go to court.
Her belief in him was so shaken that she was now perfectly ready to turn to Prixley, who hitherto had had only the spangled butterfly on her shoulder presented to his gaze, and at once confided her disappointment to him.
He was able to make clear something of the distinction between “blacks” and “whites” in Rome. She listened with her steady, childlike look, and then pronounced her opinion that “the papal court would be every bit as amusing.” Prixley noted with amusement that she turned back to the prince with her old interest. He felt tempted to touch her elbow and whisper that ladies were never expected to wear low-neck when cardinals were to be present. He saw so plainly the vision before her eyes that he knew the information would be pertinent.
As a matter of fact, the poor prince was infinitely the more in need of the two of explanations. He had been so far encouraged before the end of the evening as to venture to express a hope that he might some day have the pleasure of being introduced to Mrs. Carman.
Marie Louise thought she had never heard an instance of greater good nature. She hardly expected mere Americans to take an interest in “mommer,” but a prince! She beamed upon him in her appreciation.
“Well,” she said, “I’m at home on Mondays, and mommer often comes down.”
He was relieved to hear from Orvice, whom he consulted at the first opportunity, that the mother was neither invalid nor imbecile.
The next Monday he presented himself, and had, by a rare accident, the good fortune to see Mrs. Carman. Marie Louise, who was not of the sort to be ashamed of her mother, wished, nevertheless, that the day had been fairer, for Mrs. Carman, who had been out walking, wore a bonnet constructed the year before by a Stonehurst milliner. She did not naturally suppose that the prince’s own mother was even less modern in head-gear.
The little prince felt that the meeting had gone very well. Mrs. Carman was rendered somewhat shy by his title, and could not bring herself to address him as anything but “sir,” but this did very well, and they contrived to chat very nicely.
A few days afterward he came again, and could not guess that he had seriously injured his cause by bringing a bouquet.
It only shows how dangerous it is to embark in matrimonial projects in alien lands. The prince had been delighted by his encouraging reception, and never imagined that he was merely being treated as a “beau”; that his position differed in no way from that of Bobby Peters when he used to come every Sunday evening at Stonehurst. On the other hand, Marie Louise did not suppose that any one could be so ignorant as to think that a girl committed herself by tolerating attentions that were clearly the due of youth and beauty. She would have thought it most unmaidenly to make up her mind to accept the prince before he had asked her.
Jerry came in—his first visit—after the prince had left on the very day on which he had brought the fatal bouquet. She pointed with a gesture of contempt to the regular circles of roses.
“Do you think he can be a real prince?” she asked.
Jerry replied that in his own country it would probably have been surrounded by a paper frill.
The girl marveled. “Why, even Bobby Peters,” she said, “knew better than that, when he used to bring me pinks, done up in brown paper, to wear to church. He knew he ought to have sent them from a regular florist with his card.”
“Poor Bobby Peters,” said Orvice, selecting his piece of toast carefully, but his tone was so poignantly sympathetic that Marie Louise asked in surprise:
“Why, did you ever know him?”
“Never,” answered Orvice; “but your manner tells everything. He has, of course, loved you for years, and he was just beginning to hope that about the year after next he would be justified in asking you to be engaged to him, when all of a sudden you became an heiress, and he never dared ask you at all.”
“I don’t know why that should have stopped him if he really cared; do you?”
“Why, yes, if he really cared, I think I do know.”
Marie Louise looked at him gravely. “Would it have stopped you?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Jerry, and took away all meaning from his answer by adding: “In Bobby Peters’ place.”
“Well,” said Marie Louise, “he never did ask me.” And then went on with characteristic directness: “No one ever did.”
“By Jove!” said Orvice. He leaned back in his chair and studied her coolly. “This time next year you won't be able to say that.”
“I hope not, I’m sure,” said the girl warmly. “Bobby did hint once that if I did not marry him he would move away and go into business in Troy, but I suppose that could hardly be counted, could it?”
Jerry laughed, “I think we can do a little better for you than that in the metropolis,” he said. “In fact,” he went on, glancing at the prince’s bouquet, “I should say the experience was approaching rapidly.”
“Oh, you mean the prince.” Marie Louise looked thoughtful. “I was awfully excited at first by the idea of being a princess, but,” she shook her head, “now I think it would be almost grander to have refused a prince than to be a princess.”
Orvice gave vent to no outward expression of hilarity.
“Possibly,” he returned; “but if you do happen to have a fancy to be a princess, you could hardly find a nicer little fellow than this man.”
The answer displeased Marie Louise—displeased her out of all proportion.
“Oh, I see,” she said coldly, “you think I ought to jump at the chance.”
“Far from it. I don't think any one ought to do any single thing they don’t want to, and if I were situated as you are, I don't think I should marry at all.”
“And I probably sha’n't,” said she, glad of the opportunity to make the assertion, but she added directly: “Or if I do, it will certainly be some one I love.”
“Well, I don’t know that I agree with you there,” he answered. “When you get over that, you know it is better to find that you have a title and a position left than just nothing but—well, shall we say, but a Bobby Peters?”
“And does every one get over it?”
He smiled. “The statistics show that the mortality from the tender passion is low.”
There was a moment's silence, and then the door opened and Mrs. Carman entered,
Jerry had not been specially eager for this meeting. The pictures he had drawn of what Marie Louise’s “mommer” must be had not been attractive. Youth and beauty excused much that would have been hard to bear otherwise. But now he found himself shaking hands with the utmost friendliness with this calm, good-natured looking woman.
“How do you do, Mr. Orvice?” she was saying. “I have heard Marie Louise talk of you. I like to know her friends.”
“He's advising me to marry the prince,” said Marie Louise sullenly.
“Begging your pardon,” said Jerry, startled at the suddenness of the attack; “I’m doing nothing of the kind.”
“Has he asked her?” inquired Mrs. Carman, with temperate interest.
“I believe not as yet,” Orvice answered, finding he was expected to reply.
“I don’t believe Marie Louise thinks she was cut out to be a princess,” said her mother.
“I don’t know why not,” said Marie Louise “I think I would make a very good princess.”
Mrs. Carman merely chuckled at this, and, turning to Orvice, remarked: “And so you think it would be a good thing?”
“I think nothing of the kind,” said Jerry quickly. “but I must confess your entrance saved me from another impertinence. I was going to advise your daughter that if she does not mean to take the little man, she had better let him alone.”
“That's a pretty good rule with everything,” said Mrs. Carman.
Jerry found himself turning with relief to Mrs. Carman’s extremely intelligent interest in what he had to say. “Over here, I know women are supposed to have no intentions,” he went on, “but there, you know, a woman is called hard names if she leads a man on for the pleasure of saying no. They are so benighted as to think it dishonorable.”
“Well, I’m sure I don’t know how to refuse a man before he has asked me,” said Marie Louise.
“Perhaps your mother could convey the notion to him,” Jerry suggested.
Mrs. Carman looked alarmed. “Why, I hardly know the young man,” she objected.
The matter ended—Jerry never could remember exactly how—in his agreeing to give the prince a hint himself.
Before he rose to go, Mrs. Carman had gone up-stairs and left them alone. Marie Louise had been staring before her, and did not at once notice his outstretched hand.
“I'm afraid,” she said, at length, “that I am a very ignorant girl. I don’t even know the rules of polite society in my own country, and certainly not in others. I wish you would always tell me things—like this, I mean.” She gave her hand to him as she spoke, and his fingers closed upon it.
“By all means,” he answered; “tell me all your love-affairs, and I'll advise you.”
“I have no love-affairs—at least, I never did while | was poor.”
“I wish you were poor at this moment,” said Jerry, and then very sensibly took his departure, for pity, if not akin to love, has some unfortunately similar manifestations.
Her richness, her ignorance, the extremely bad taste of all her surroundings, touched, for some reason, his very tender heart, and he was so absorbed in thought that when a young footman sprang out from behind a column and handed him his hat he started violently.
That same evening Marie Louise received her first box of flowers from a “real florist”—a huge flowered box, full of warm, perfumed tissue-paper, and gardenias and lilies-of-the-valley. The card was Orvice’s. The girl was still sufficiently objective to be as much pleased with the flowers themselves as with the fact that Jerry had taken the trouble to send them to her. She enjoyed the enforced calm of her reception of them, as if it were an hourly occurrence, to match the perfect calm of the butler, to whom, indeed, it was. Her whole life now had this delightful element of unreality, as if she were playing an exciting and complicated game. Other women might dress for balls; Marie Louise “dressed up,” as frankly as a little girl on a rainy day. It happened that she had ordered and paid for the clothes she wore, but she had a feeling that really they belonged to some one else. She was never laced into an evening dress, with the lovely string of pearls she had bought herself about her neck, without feeling as much made up for the part as if she were about to step upon the stage; as if she were wearing a cotton-velvet cloak trimmed with rabbits’ skin and a tinsel crown. It is the same feeling which every girl has, to a greater or less extent, the first time she puts on a long dress. With Marie Louise, it ran through every action; to give an order to the footman and drop back into the corner of the victoria, to touch the bell and let fall the words, “Tea, Simmons,” to feel the carpet flung out under her feet before she entered her carriage—all caused her an almost excruciating delight. Even to drive about of an afternoon emptying little boxes of cards, while she checked off names on a crumpled penciled list—the wearisome round that even the most conscientious will shirk—-was a joy to Marie Louise. How enchanting to know that there were people for whom she could leave cards! And when, as the winter wore on, and she had learned to say: “Visit, oh, dear no. If I get through my dinner visits I think I am doing well,” it was merely the form of the pleasure that was changed.
Those brought up as members of a society can hardly take in the excitement that people, as such, were to the girl. The born “mondaine” requires some special inducement—an advanced love-affair—to give her the thrill that Marie Louise derived from just going about.
Not, of course, but what she had some dark and bitter moments. Her career was by no means an uninterrupted triumph, though regarded by old observers as wonderfully successful. Still, there were times when her conspicuous appearance only marked the fact that she was conspicuously neglected—particularly by other women. There were times when very disagreeable speeches were repeated to her. Again, there were parties to which she was not asked at all, even after, with maneuvering, she had been introduced to their givers. No lovers ever watched the mails with greater longing than she for those large, square, fairly directed envelopes, which only too frequently failed to arrive. Part of the sting of these episodes was their secrecy. She could not explain even to her mother, who was incapable of understanding what Marie Louise referred to vaguely as “differences,” and who regarded rather the number of times that the girl dined out than the houses went to. Sometimes, particularly at first, when disappointments had been more frequent, Marie Louise had had serious thoughts of throwing up the game and returning to Stonehurst, which, with her present experience, she felt tolerably sure of being able to dazzle. Again, after a good run of luck, like a gambler, she felt convinced that no destiny had ever been as brilliant and certain as her own. This is at once the danger and the excitement of objective standards. She was forever judging herself, as an uncertain friend judges, by the event of the moment.
Nor were her interests only frivolous. Her offer to the hospital had been at last formally accepted, and she took the keenest interest in the plans for the new building. By this interest and energy, and by really bringing her powers to bear on the subject, she succeeded in making herself a valuable member of the board. Often in these days, girls who were driving in the park with Marie Louise, or merely being transported from point to point (for the girl’s possessions and conveyances were very useful to some of her new friends), would hear her say to them: “Do you mind waiting for a moment? I wish to speak to my architect.” And she would disappear up the stairs of an up-town office building, and proceeding, unabashed, into the drafting-room, would distract the eyes of numberless young draftsmen by her healthy, handsome presence,
The architect himself, beside being a very good architect, was a very charming man, and could hardly be expected, considering the number of his friends, to refrain from repeating some of her criticisms. He could hardly enter a familiar drawing-room now without being greeted as, “Ah, my architect!”
Yet, though he laughed at her a little behind her back, he could not help feeling as others had found, that, even while he laughed, his heart warmed to her.
Of Orvice she saw a good deal. He came often to the house, condoling with her when she was depressed, laughing at her agony over malicious criticisms of her, advising her now and again, but, for the most part, chatting contentedly with Mrs. Carman, while Marie Louise, not so contentedly, perhaps, occupied herself with other visitors. Between the older woman and Jerry a tremendous friendship had grown up.
“I believe you like mommer better than me,” Marie Louise had exclaimed one day.
She had grown to know that he would never respond to this species of coercion, and now he answered:
“Well, don’t you think yourself she is nicer?”
His manner was always so perfectly friendly, that Marie Louise, rejecting the obvious explanation, began very soon to persuade herself that he had a reason for such self-control. It is a dangerous moment when it becomes necessary to read below the surface. She remembered his speech about Bobby Peters and her fortune, and when two or three other kind friends took care to warn her that Orvice was a notorious fortune-hunter, a very satisfactory explanation of his manner occurred to her. Of course, it might be that he cared nothing at all for her, but then why did he come so often? On the other hand, had he not himself said that if a man really loved a woman her fortune might serve only as an obstacle. Under certain hypotheses some boldness on the part of a woman is permissible. One does not want a man’s best qualities to stand in his way. She found herself debating how, according to his supposition, the knowledge that the woman’s affections were already engaged would act upon the man. Suppose, let us say, she had loved Bobby Peters; ought he still to have held back? She deterred from putting the question by terror, lest Orvice should imagine that she had.
As the winter went on, and her social progress became smoother, another anxiety began to present itself. During the summer, while she was still unnoticed, Mr. Mullins had mentioned in one of his letters that another claimant to her father’s fortune had appeared. “But give yourself no uneasiness,” he had written; “this always happens when a rich man dies, and in this case the whole claim seems particularly clumsy.” The story was that the man, whose name was Thomas, had put up the money for Carman’s claim. Carman at the time was actually starving, and had consented to work the claim for the sake of the first year’s profits. At the end of three years, Thomas, who was then just starting for Alaska, was to return and take over the mine. Unfortunately, Thomas had been delayed in Alaska; rumors had gone about that he was dead. Five years had elapsed since the agreement was made. The mine was his, Thomas said.
Mr. Mullins gave her the story, but pointed out that it hardly held water. In the autumn, however, he had written again that the whole thing could be settled and kept out of the courts, if she wanted, by sending Thomas five thousand dollars. He was inclined to advise her to do it, on the condition that Thomas signed a paper releasing his claim. Marie Louise signed the check, and thought no more about it.
Now, however, the thing seemed to have cropped up again. Mr. Mullins’ letters began to betray anxiety. Fresh evidence had been brought forward. He begged the girl not to alarm herself, but he was himself obviously alarmed. Another check, this time for eight thousand dollars, was sent to keep Thomas quiet.
She did not mention the situation to her mother. She had a strange pride about her fortune. No one should be troubled about it but herself. This, as much as anything, kept her from consulting Peale—a step she had considered. She was discouraged, too, by his manner. She felt that he was often amused at her, that he sometimes even a little despised her. Besides, she had a terror of admitting the possibility that the money could in any way pass from her, as some women will conceal their first gray hair. She would not be suspected of being an impostor, she said to herself, and she guarded her secret like death.