XLVII A FAIRY COMET

Mabel was not a congenital liar. She had, indeed, displayed a fairly truthful record until John Ordham came into her life. When little, she had been duly punished for telling the fibs natural to childhood; and, during the years that followed, those faculties with which the social unit adapts itself automatically, and economically, to the exigencies of the moment, had in her case been put to little strain, indulged young beauty that she was. She was a good girl in all ways, and after turning on the fountain of those beautiful crystal tears, or terrifying the parent whose solitary passion she was, she had the grace to be ashamed of herself, vowing never to repeat the offence. As she grew older, she broke this vow less and less often.

But the long coaching of her mother and Lady Bridgminster had wrought its inevitable work. She was merely one more victim of the disabilities of her sex. She could not go frankly forth and woo the man to whom she had immediately surrendered her heart; she must scheme, and wait, blow hot and cold, demoralize her character generally. She had no cleverness save in female craft, but she was vaguely conscious during those weeks when Ordham wooed her with a silken rope round his neck and a padded prod at his back, that the crystalline quality of her girl’s mind was permanently clouding.

She had assumed, of course, that after marriage her influence would be paramount. Had not momma ruled poppa? Was not the ascendency of the American woman one of the truisms of the century? She rode gayly into the breakers of generalities oblivious of the rocks beneath, whose other name is facts.

The result of that triumphant little confession in the library had given her self-confidence a profound shock. As time went on she found her husband more and more of a mystery, caught blinding glimpses of wants far beyond her comprehension, of dissimilar tastes, of an almost world-old brain, and, in spite of his youthful ardours, of an inner impenetrable reserve. She had almost despised him at times during the courtship, so easy had been the game, so completely had he been deluded. But Ordham was not a man to be despised for more than a moment at a time, and he had won her complete respect on that fatal day in the library when he had given her to understand that when people were so simple as to lay their cards on the table no will but his would prevail. But after the lachrymal attack was over (genuine enough upon this occasion), she had reflected that the cleverest of men would be no match for three clever women if they kept their cards out of sight. She had lost no time calling to her aid Lady Bridgminster and her mother, and a new campaign of gentle manipulation began. Live on the Continent she would not; where one could never drink water and the food ruined one’s complexion, where she must be taken in to dinner by an attaché, instead of by a prince of the blood, where she must play fourth fiddle to old frumps with frizzed fronts and bugles and not a tenth part of her income. Not she. Jackie could have all the career he wanted in England.

She was enchanted at the idea of having a baby, not only because she possessed all those charming feminine instincts which would have made her an estimable woman had circumstances permitted, but because it gratified her to feel one of a line, to be the indispensable connecting link between one Bridgminster and the next. It is only the well-born American that is deeply impressed with the antiquity of English blood, of a descent in which figure historic names; for all these represent what they feel they have just missed, and to capture them for their issue is a triumph far more subtle than that experienced by the American who belongs to the aristocracy of wealth alone. Not that Mabel was capable of any such analysis, but her mother was; the instinct was in her, however, and it is doubtful if she would have adored Ordham as blindly and devoutly as she did had it not been for that long record of his family in Burke, and the magnificence of Ordham Castle. But, to be sure, minus these causes, and he would not have been John Ordham.

Once more he was unconsciously demonstrating the inferiority of his sex when pitted against hers. But like many another, she forgot that there is a psychological statute of limitations, also that it is impossible to watch the man?uvres of an enemy whose existence is unknown. She was pouting in bed late on Sunday night, wondering if her husband intended to sit up until dawn again, almost hating the social triumphs that so oddly separated them, when the door between their rooms was pushed softly open and he entered.

She was lying in a mass of pale green satin and lace; her bedroom had been done over and looked like Undine’s bower. Her hair, spread over the shimmering counterpane, might have been the golden fleece. No more enchanting vision was ever presented to a young husband; but Ordham was suffering (slightly) from conscience, and the familiar picture did not appeal to him. He kissed her affectionately, asked her solicitously if she were shockingly tired, and sat down on the edge of the bed.

“I must not awaken you in the morning,” he remarked. “I thought it better to run the risk to-night—to tell you that I must go up to London for a few days. I have some business to attend to.”

“What? Business?” She sat up straight, and she was so astonished that grievance stood off. “You never had any business in your life. You don’t know the meaning of the word.”

“But it is time I learned. I wish to consult my solicitors in regard to certain investments.”

“Well, I never!” She stared at him for a moment. Then she asked plaintively: “Am I not your wife? I expect to share all your worries, although I can’t imagine your condescending to have any.” She knew that he disliked direct questions, but there are moments when no woman can be diplomatic, and she finally asked him if that were his only reason for going up to London on the eve of another house party.

He had anticipated glittering spheres, which he would dutifully stanch, the while administering the lesson that he had not yielded a jot of his real liberty. But he answered promptly, looking straight into her surprised but unclouded eyes: “Yes, I have another reason. Quaritch has some rare books that I am to have a first look at.”

“We go up to London before long, now. Books will keep.”

“Not these, I am afraid. There are many in England quite as keen as I am on first editions.”

She explored those large ingenuous orbs. Hers was not a jealous nature, and she had been given ample opportunity to observe how little his devoted manner and challenging eyes meant, had often laughed at the girls who took him seriously. So the possibility of a feminine magnet in London she rejected with disdain, but a sensation of antagonism took possession of her. It angered her that she could not understand him better, that he never really deferred to her, that he must be eternally “managed.” Still more did it incense her that he was indifferently depriving himself of several days of her society. But she could think of no ruse to keep him at home unless she whipped up a storm, and against this indulgence she had been warned by the doctor. As for tears, better reserve them until the Continent threatened again. Much to his surprise, she lay back in her pillows and said in the grand manner:

“Nothing that I could say will hold you back if you have made up your mind to go. I never expect to have the slightest influence over you.”

“I wish you would not say such things!” He looked as uncomfortable as she intended he should feel. “How can you? I shall be gone only four days. Please do not make me feel a brute.”

“Four days will seem very long.”

She uttered these artistically simple words with a quiver of her little pink mouth, which was not altogether deliberate, for although she was determined not to be commonplace, those four days without her husband unrolled before her in an endless procession. He felt very contrite, and kissed her fondly; but he did not retreat from his purpose. The next night saw him in London, enjoying himself hugely at the theatre, from which he had been divorced for nearly three months. It so happened that there were a number of good plays on, and Hans Richter was out of town when he arrived. Mabel received long impassioned telegrams and brief impassioned notes, apologies and explanations that would have hoodwinked a wronged and suspicious wife; but the castle did not see him again for ten days. Then he was so charming, so repentant, so indignant at a cruel destiny, and so unfeignedly happy in being with his lovely little wife once more, that he was not only forgiven, but Mabel, in her joy at having him again after that dreary watch, was persuaded to move up to London a month earlier than she had intended.