XXXI ORDHAM ESCAPES A HANSOM IN PICCADILLY

On the following morning he rose at the comparatively early hour of ten, and, repairing to Piccadilly, bought presents for the servants at Ordham and even sent them off himself. He had intended to omit this exertion in favour of Hines, but the morning was so fresh, and he felt so young and buoyant, particularly after having turned his check into the bank, and the prospect of meeting the beautiful Mabel once more was so unexpectedly enlivening, that he was equal to almost any form of energy.

He even sauntered into the Green Park, and there he met Mrs. Cutting, taking the famous pug for an airing. She dropped the leash when she saw Ordham, and although there was no warmth in her cold pure eyes, her smile was dazzling.

“Dear Mr. Ordham! What a pleasure! Lady Bridgminster told me that you were in England, but I gathered that you intended to remain in the north and shoot for weeks to come.”

“I do not care for shooting and had rather intended to go back to the Continent for a time—to perfect myself in languages. It may, however, be merely an excuse to put off those six months in the F. O. as long as possible.”

“But you have passed your examinations!”

“Heaven only knows how. But my French and German are really very bad. I need the theatres more than anything else.”

“I won’t attempt to conceal my disappointment. To be sure, I was resigned not to see you for a few weeks—but now that I have seen you—well, if it must be, at least you will come to us before you leave? I must show you what I have made of my little girl. She had an enormous success in society. Just now she thinks she wants to be intellectual, artistic, musical, although she played far better than most girls already. It is rather a bore for me, but I am hoping it will pass. I tell her it is a pity she did not have the seizure while at school. But I fancy it is merely the reaction from the rush of the season, and a little too much frivolity, perhaps too many suitors. But I should not say that!”

“Oh, my mother has told me. I hear she uses her scalps as cotillon favours!”

“How like you! But I wish she had fewer.” Mrs. Cutting wrinkled her brows delicately. “She was so sweetly simple and natural before—do you remember what a chatterbox she was? And all this adulation has made her bored, indifferent. I don’t think she is conceited, but I am afraid she has permitted the idea to take lodgment in that clever little head of hers that all men are far too easy game, and therefore to be despised. I have hinted gently that without the bait of her fortune even her beauty and cleverness might not have made her the belle of a London season, but you cannot convince eighteen that men are mercenary, and no doubt some of the poor fellows were sincere enough.”

“Unfortunately, most men cannot afford to be too sincere.” Ordham smiled grimly. “For instance, I could not dream of marrying a poor girl. And it must be far easier even to love a pretty rich girl than a pretty poor one. We have not been brought up on the love-in-a-cottage ideal, and when we try it generally come a cropper.”

She remembered that he had taken her breath away with his audacious candour more than once during the fortnight of their previous acquaintance, and smiled gayly.

“But a rich girl can be loved. That is the point to bear in mind. It is Mabel’s argument, by the way, and even I believe that a really lovely woman need not be eclipsed by her money. Of course I am quite aware of your point of view. But all the same I believe you to be capable of what the world calls folly.”

“You mean that I would marry a poor girl?”

“You are capable of it.”

“Possibly. But I know of no folly that I have less intention of committing.”

“Oh, I don’t say that you will. It is merely your capacity for the sudden and romantic wrecking of your life that makes you so interesting.” She stooped and recovered the leash. Her face, when she stood upright once more, was flushed, but she looked him straight in the eyes. “I have always hoped that you would marry Mabel,” she said, and her courage touched his chivalric nerve while it flushed his face. “I shall be perfectly frank. I wished it from the moment we met. She was too young to think of such a thing, and you were obliged to remain in Germany. But now—she has developed quite wonderfully, and you are quite free. I shall continue to be frank. When I brought Mabel over Lady Bridgminster took a great fancy to her, and I feel sure that she had some such idea herself, although naturally we could not speak of it; but latterly she seems to have taken a dislike to the poor child, and to have set her heart upon a frightfully plain English heiress—”

“She heard my opinion on that subject last night. I fancy she will not broach it again.” Ordham spoke ironically, but his blush had deepened and he moved about nervously.

Mrs. Cutting shook her head with a little absent gesture of despair. “Your mother is not the woman to relinquish lightly any cherished plan, and this Lady Rosamond Hayle seems to be a particular friend of hers. You could never be married against your will—at least I think you could not. But you will see Lady Rosamond quite intimately, you will become fascinated with her virtues, which no one can dispute, and forget her plainness.”

“I have no intention of entering the possibly dangerous zone of her virtues. But you are very kind. Why on earth have you selected me? There are bigger fish in this great pond.”

“That is as it may be. But I am very exacting. I want far more than a title—which, no doubt, you will inherit in due course. You see I am really frank! I got to know you very well in Munich, remember, and of all the young men I have ever met you are the only one to whom I care to intrust my daughter. That is, if you really could love her.”

“Oh! Love!” Ordham’s eyes stared far beyond his companion in a manner not at all to her taste. She resumed sadly:

“Of course she might not be able to interest you after your experience of so many complicated European women. And she—well, Mabel is a mystery even to me—what girl is not a mystery? When we left Munich I fancied that you had made an indelible impression upon her cloistered little heart. But now—as I told you—she affects to despise all men; and so much has happened since then. A girl is no sooner launched in the world than she grows a year every day. And I did not feel that I should be justified in keeping your memory green in her mind, for how could I know that you would not have loved and married before we met again? But I wish! I wish! If she does not marry you, I hope it will be many years before she marries at all. Of course there are many fine men in the world, and she can afford to wait. A fortune hunter shall never have her. Of that I am determined.”

“There are thousands of fine fellows in the world,” said Ordham, generously, increasingly desirous of meeting the enigmatic and difficult Mabel. “When may I call? I should not think of leaving London without renewing that delightful acquaintance. I had intended to try my luck this afternoon.”

“Come at five. And perhaps you will dine with us before you go? You cannot be rushed with engagements at this season, and it will be pleasant to see a bit of you, even if—”

Ordham laughed and shook hands with the handsome charming woman, who looked so unconventionally eager in spite of her cool eyes. “I have never been so flattered in my life, and it is wonderful of you to be so enchantingly frank. Men must get so sick of transparent angling—I wonder that anything induces the big fish to bite. Please don’t let Miss Cutting know that you like me, or she will be sure to hate me. Of course I shall call at five to-day. And dine with you to-morrow? May I?”

He walked to his club in a very thoughtful mood. Here, no doubt, was the natural solution of his difficulties. But with the prospect of that easy escape came a passionate wave of protest, the protest of masculine youth at paying the price. He had not the faintest idea that he could fall in love with Mabel Cutting; and were her millions an adequate compensation for the loss of his precious liberty? He felt that a man’s youth should last until thirty. Time enough then for shackles: wife—and children! He blushed angrily at the thought. This cursed question of money! If his brother would settle two thousand a year on him, he would not consider matrimony with the most beautiful girl that walked.

And deep down in his heart he heard a murmured demand for the woman by the Isar. Was this woman, perchance, his mate? He stopped, appalled at the thought, in the middle of Piccadilly, and was nearly run over by a hansom cab. To what end? The difference in their ages meant nothing to him, but he could not ask the various diplomatic circles of the world to accept Margarethe Styr. Nor was there the least probability that she would renounce her career to keep house for him and devote her talents to the advancement of his own. Even if she loved him—and did she?—how could he demand such a sacrifice? Society would be a poor substitute for art, for the adulation of the multitude. Moreover, there was the question of money again. She might possess small fortune, but it would not go far in his world. To permit her to remain on the stage he would not consider for a moment. He would neither abandon his career nor would he live on a woman’s earnings. To marry a girl with a large inheritance was one thing, but to loaf about while his famous wife sang to a public ignorant of his very name, that neither might want for the luxuries to which they were accustomed—good God!

He wondered, as he turned abruptly from the door of his club and strolled down into St. James’s Park, that the idea of marrying Margarethe Styr had postulated itself. It had not even occurred to him before. He had looked forward to seeing her as often as he could manage, to keeping her in his life, but not even to being her lover. Did he love her? Had he loved her during those enchanting months, and been too contented, too occupied, to understand? Had she purposely refrained from exercising those seductions of which she must be passed mistress, because she knew that love would devastate the lives of both? For a moment he seemed to be peering over the edge of a round wall into the great wells of human nature. He had a passing impression that Margarethe Styr was Nature herself, that in her bosom were all the mysteries, the secrets, the treasures of life, and that they were his, whether he could ever take them or not.

Did he love her? He drew his brows together in the deepest perplexity he had ever experienced. There was no turbulence of emotion in him, no madness of passion, no desire. It was a mental longing—that and something deeper, which he did not pretend to define, but which, so far at least, did not affect his senses. Were they on fire, with the instinct of man for his mate, he knew that he should take the next train for the Continent. But they were not, and the idea suddenly entered his cool wise young brain that he had better stay away from the Continent altogether. It was quite possible that a multiplicity of causes, her own subtle manipulation among them, had delayed his loving this most complete of all women, and it was on the cards that they both would lose their heads the moment they met again. Well! They had got through a dangerous summer safely, and its memory was wholly delightful. He, at least, would not defy the gods, but steer clear of the siren’s rock. Aside from motives of prudence, he was by no means sure that he wanted to experience a tremendous passion; the indolence, the super-civilization in him shrank from elemental tumults. He had locked up the memory of the scene with his brother, but he heard the key rattle for a moment, and his distaste for the primitive increased.

He jerked up the thought of his career and forced his mind to dwell upon it, succeeding so thoroughly that he felt ambition incarnate as he headed for home. He would begin his duties in the Foreign Office on the morrow instead of demanding a leave of absence; that would keep him in England for six months to come. Then he would manage to be sent to St. Petersburg or Madrid, instead of to Berlin, as he had contemplated.

At luncheon he was forced to listen to eulogies of a woman he would not have married had she presented him with a million in the funds, and revenged himself by talking about Mabel Cutting. But deep down in his being went on that same mysterious protest, mutter, demand for the supreme rights of mortal on this imperfect plane called life.