Halcyone

Chapter 12

Arabella Clinker took Sunday afternoons generally to write a long letter

to her mother, and Good Friday seemed almost a Sunday, so she went up to

her room from force of habit. But first she looked up some facts in the

countless books of reference she kept always by her. Mrs. Cricklander

had skated over some very thin ice at luncheon upon a classical subject,

when talking to the distinguished Mr. Derringham, and she must be warned

and primed up before dinner. Arabella had herself averted a catastrophe

and dexterously turned the conversation in the nick of time. Mrs.

Cricklander had a peculiarly unclassical brain, and found learning

statistics about ancient philosophies and the names of mythological

personages the most difficult of all. Fortunately in these days, even

among the most polished, this special branch of cultivation was rather

old-fashioned, Miss Clinker reflected, but still, as Mr. Derringham

seemed determined to wander along this line (Arabella had unconsciously

appropriated some apt Americanisms during her three years of bondage),

she must be loyal and not allow her employer to commit any blunders. So

she got her facts crystallized, or "tabloided," as Mrs. Cricklander

would mentally have characterized the process, and then she began her

letter to her parent. Mrs. Clinker, an Irishwoman and the widow of a

learned Dean, understood a number of things, and was clear-headed and

humorous, for all her seventy years, and these passages in her

daughter's letter amused her.

We are entertaining a number of distinguished visitors, and among

them Mr. John Derringham, the Under Secretary of State for Foreign

Affairs. He is a most interesting personality, as perfectly sure of

what he wants in life as is M. E. (M. E. stood for "My

Employer"--names were invidious). They would be a perfect match, each

as selfish as the other, I should say. He is really very cultivated,

and believes her to be so, too. She has not made a single mistake as

yet, but frightened me at luncheon a little. I must try and get her

to keep him off classical subjects. She intends to marry him--and

then she will not require me, I suppose; or rather, I do not think he

would permit her to keep me. If it came to a measure of wills, he

would win, I think--at first, at least--but she could wear away a

stone in the end, as you know. The arranging of this place is still

amusing her, so she may decide to spend a good deal of time here. She

closed her mouth with that firm snap this morning that I have

described to you often, and said that it was going to be her delight

to make them put themselves out and come so far away from London for

her. "Them," for the moment, are Mr. Derringham and Mr.

Hanbury-Green, almost a Socialist person, who is on the other

side--very brilliantly clever but with a Cockney accent in one or two

words. M. E. does not notice this, of course. Mr. H-G. is in love

with her--Mr. D. is not, but she is determined that he shall be. I do

not know if he intends to marry her. He is making up his mind, I

think, therefore I must be doubly careful not to allow her to commit

any mistakes, because if she did it would certainly estrange him, and

as to keep her free is so much to our advantage, I feel I must be

extra careful in doing my duty.

Arabella was a person of scrupulous honor.

She then proceeded to describe the party, and concluded with,

There is one American girl I like very much--perfectly natural and

bubbling with spirits, saying aloud everything she thinks, really

well educated and taking so much outdoor exercise that she has not

yet begun to have the nervous attacks that are such a distressing

feature of so many of her countrywomen. I am told it is their

climate. M. E. says it is because the men out there have always let

them have their own way. I should think so much smoking has something

to do with it.

John Derringham meanwhile had gone with his hostess and some of the rest

of the party, Mr. Hanbury-Green among them, to inspect the small golf

links Mrs. Cricklander was having constructed in the park. Her

country-house must be complete with suitable amusements. She had taken

all the Wendover shooting, too, and what she could get of Lord

Graceworth's beyond. "You cannot drag people into the wilds and then

bore them to death," she said. What she most enjoyed was to scintillate

to a company of two or three, and fascinate them all into a desire for a

_tte--tte_, and then, when with difficulty one had secured this

privilege, to be elusive and tantalize him to death. To passion she was

a complete stranger, and won all her games because with her great beauty

she was as cold as ice.

She was not feeling perfectly content this Good Friday afternoon.

Something had happened since the evening before which had altered John

Derringham's point of view towards her. She felt it distinctly with her

senses, trained like an animal's, to scent the most subtle things in

connection with herself. It was impossible to seize, she could not

analyze it, but there it was; certainly there seemed to be some change.

He was brilliant, and had been even _empress_ before lunch, but it

was not spontaneous, and she was not perfectly sure that it was not

assumed. It was his cleverness which attracted her. She could not see the

other side of his head--not that she would have understood what that

meant, if she had heard the phrase.

But her habit was not to sit down under an adverse circumstance, but to

probe its source and eradicate it, or, at least, counteract it. Thus,

while she chattered eloquently to Sir Tedbury Delvine, her keen brain

was weighing things. John Derringham had certainly had a look of aroused

passion in his eyes when he had pressed her hand in a lingered good

night; he had even said some words of a more advanced insinuation as to

his intentions towards her than he had ever done before. They were never

exact--always some fugitive hint to which afterwards she would try to

fix some meaning as she reviewed their meetings. She had not seen him at

breakfast because she never came down in the morning until eleven or

twelve, and he had already gone out, she heard, when she did descend.

It followed then that either he had received some disturbing letter by

the post--only one on Good Friday--or something had occurred during his

visit to his old master. It would be her business to find out which of

these two things it was. Could the Professor be married, and might there

be some woman in the family? Or was it nothing to do with the Professor

or with a letter, or was there a more present reason? Had Cora Lutworth

attracted him with her youth and high spirits? They were walking ahead

now, and she could hear his laugh and see how they were enjoying

themselves.

She had been a perfect fool to ask Cora. She did not fear a single

Englishwoman, the powers of most of whom in her heart she despised--but

Cora was of her own race, and well equipped to rival her in a question

of marriage. Cora was only twenty-one, and she herself was thirty--and

there was the divorce which, although she had found it no bar to her

entrance into the most exclusive English society, still might perhaps

rankle unconsciously in the mind of a man mounting the political ladder,

and determined to secure the highest honors.

She felt she hated Cora, and would have destroyed her with a look if she

had been able.

Miss Lutworth, meanwhile, brimful of the joy of life and _insouciance_,

was amusing herself vastly. And John Derringham was experiencing that

sense of relaxation and irresponsible pleasure he got sometimes when he

was overworked from going to an excruciatingly funny Paris farce. Miss

Lutworth did not appeal to his brain at all, although she was quite

capable of doing so; she just made him feel gay and frolicsome with her

deliciously _rus_ view of the world and life in general. He forgot his

ruffled temper of the morning, and by the time they had returned for

tea, was his brilliant self again, and quite ready to sit in a low chair

at his hostess's side, while she leaned back among the cushions of her

sofa, in her own sitting-room, whither she had enticed him during that

nondescript hour before dinner, when each person could do what he

pleased.

"Is not Cora sweet?" she said, smoothing the brocade beneath her hand.

Her sitting-room had been arranged by the artist who had done the house,

as a perfect bower of Italian Sixteenth Century art. Mr. Jephson, the

artist, had assured her that this period would make a perfect background

for her fresh and rather voluptuous coloring; it had not become so

_banal_ as any of the French Louis'. And so Arabella had been instructed

to drum into her head the names of the geniuses of that time, and their

works, and she could now babble sweetly all about Giorgione, Paolo

Veronese and Titian's later works without making a single mistake. And

while the pictures bored her unspeakably, she took a deep pleasure in

her own cleverness about them, and delighted in tracing the influence

Paolo Veronese must have had upon Boucher, a hint from Arabella which

she had announced as an inspiration of her own.

She had tea-gowns made to suit this period, and adopted the stately

movements which were evidently the attribute of that time.

John Derringham thought her superb. If he had been really in love with

her, he might have seen through her--and not cared--just as if she had

not attracted him at all, he would certainly have taken her measure and

enjoyed laying pitfalls for her. But as it was, his will was always

trying to augment his inclination. He was too busy to analyze the real

meaning of any woman, and until the Professor's words about the divorce

and the Misses La Sarthe's view of the affair, it had never even struck

him that there could be one single aspect of Mrs. Cricklander's case

which he might have to blink at. He had told himself he had better marry

a rich woman, since his old maternal uncle, Joseph Scroope, had just

taken unto himself a young wife and might any day have an heir. And this

was his only other possible source of fortune.

Mrs. Cricklander seemed the most advantageous bargain looming upon the

horizon. She was of proved entertaining capabilities. She had passed her

examination in the power of being a perfect hostess. She had undoubted

and expanding social talents. Women did not dislike her; she was very

vivid, very handsome, very rich. What more could a man who in his

innermost being had a supreme contempt for women, and a supreme belief

in himself, desire?

He had even balanced the advantages of marrying a rich American girl,

one like Miss Lutworth, for example. But such beings were unproven, and

might develop nerves and fads, which were of no consequence in the

delightful creatures with whom he passed occasional leisure hours of

recreation, but which in a wife would be a singular disadvantage. Since

he must marry--and soon--before the present Parliament broke up and his

Government went out, and there came some years of fighting from the

Opposition benches, when especially brilliant entertaining might be of

advantage to him--he knew he had better make up his mind speedily, and

take this ripe and luscious peach, which appeared more than willing to

drop into his mouth.

So, this late afternoon, aided by the scents and colors and propinquity,

he did his very best to make gradual love to her, and for some

unaccountable hideously annoying reason felt every moment more aloof. It

almost seemed at last as if he were guarding something of fine and free

that was being assailed. His dual self was fighting within his soul.

Mrs. Cricklander was experiencing all the exciting emotions which

presumably the knights of old enjoyed when engaged in a tournament. She

was not even disturbed when the dressing-gong rang and she had not yet

won. It was only a postponement of one of the most entrancing games she

had ever played in her successful life. And Mr. Hanbury-Green was going

to sit upon her left hand at dinner and would afford new flint for her

steel. He was a recent acquisition, and of undoubted coming value. His

views were in reality nearer her heart politically than those of John

Derringham. Deep down in her being was a strong class hatred--undreamed

of, and which would have been vigorously denied. She remembered the

burning rage and the vows of vengeance which had convulsed her as a

girl, because the refined and gently bred women of her own New York's

inner circle would have none of her, and how it had been her glory to

trample upon as many of them as she could, when Vincent Cricklander had

placed her as head of his fine mansion in Fifty-ninth Street, having

moved from the old family home in Washington Square. And there,

underneath, was the feeling still for those of any country who, instinct

told her, had inherited from evolution something which none of her

money, and none of her talent, and none of her indomitable will, could

buy. But of course Mr. Hanbury-Green was not to be considered, except as

a foil for her wit--a pawn in the game for the securing of John

Derringham.

Thus it was that she was able to walk in her stately way with trailing

velvets down the broad stairs of her newly acquired home with a sense of

exaltation and complacency which was unimpaired.

John Derringham, on the contrary, was rather abrupt with his valet and

spoilt two white ties, and swore at himself because his old Eton hand

had lost its cunning. But finally he too went down the shallow steps,

and, joining his hostess at the door, sailed in with her to the George I

saloon, his fine eyes shining and his bearing more arrogant than before.