“I must confess that I never gave a thought to that aspect of the matter. I haven’t appeared to myself as an especially desirable suitor.”
“Perhaps you are too modest. May I speak to you frankly?”
“Of course, Madame, I am honored.”
“Well, you must know that I have come to have a very great esteem for Miss Addington, who has been with us for several years and has won the regard of everyone in our home. Has it never occurred to you that she might be interested in you?”
The blood began to climb into the cherubic cheeks of the man of miracles, and his bright blue eyes opened wider. “Oh, Madame!” he exclaimed; and there was no mistaking the tone of dismay.
“You haven’t given any thought to her?”
“I have done everything in my power to assist Miss Addington, and to guide her in her religious researches when she herself requested it. I sincerely hope there has been nothing in my conduct which has caused her to think that I—that I harbor any other thoughts of her.”
“You don’t feel that you could be interested in her in that way?”
“Oh, Madame, not possibly.”
“Why are you so positive?”
“It is difficult to explain without sounding offensive. Miss Addington is one of the most estimable of ladies, but she is not the type which could interest my—shall I say imagination?”
There was a pause; then Beauty was moved to ask: “Just what do you think would interest your imagination, Mr. Dingle?” She wished so much to understand the platonic philosophy.
“Would you really like me to tell you, Madame?”
“I want to be your friend, and to help you, as you have helped so many others.”
“You do me great honor, and your kindness touches me deeply. I have never had anything in my life that has pleased me so much as your friendship, and I wish to preserve it as I would a precious jewel, and be sure never to do anything that would tarnish it.”
“Of course not, Mr. Dingle—why should you?”
“You have asked me an intimate question, Madame, and it fills me with anxiety—because, through many weeks I have said to myself: oh, if only Madame were not a rich lady, so that I might be at liberty to tell her what is in my heart!”
It was the lovely blond Beauty’s turn to blush, and be sure that she did not fail. The exclamation burst forth: “Oh, mon dieu!” The French do not spell it with a capital letter, which perhaps keeps it from seeming so violent as it does in English.
“Madame!” exclaimed the man of God with much anxiety. “You asked me a question, and it seemed to me that courtesy required me to give an answer.”
“Yes, of course, and I am obliged to you; only—”
“I shall be deeply grieved if Madame is offended.”
“No, surely not. Why should I be? You do me a great honor, Mr. Dingle.”
“Please, please, do not let it make any difference in your regard for me. I know that it is utterly impossible, and I do not permit it to become anything but a beautiful dream, one which may perhaps be realized in heaven, where we do not take our title deeds to property. May I be assured of your forgiveness, and remain your humble and devoted admirer?”
“Yes, surely, Mr. Dingle. Yes, yes—let us talk about God for a while!”
V
Beauty had to tell someone about that most embarrassing episode, and she chose her son. First he said: “Well, I’ll be damned!” Then he thought it over and added: “But, darling, you can’t blame him; it’s the price you pay for being irresistible.”
“It’s really most painful,” complained the mother. “How am I going to meet the man after this?”
“Oh, you don’t need to make so much out of it. You have had plenty of broken-hearted suitors around you.”
“But, Lanny, a man of that class!”
“Class?” inquired the young Pink. “He’s about the same class as my maternal grandfather, I’d imagine.”
“But, I mean—a man of no culture.”
“He’s got a lot of culture, it seems to me; only it’s different from ours; not so smart, but a lot cleaner, if I’m any judge.”
“I didn’t know you thought so highly of him, Lanny.”
“Well, I think he’s earned our respect. We don’t have to agree with his ideas, but we can admit that he’s honest and kind—and that’s more than I can say for some of the men you have been stepping out with.”
This was the subject on which the son had been expressing himself emphatically as occasions arose. In London there had appeared an elegant man of fashion and of no small means; he had been most attentive, but had omitted to mention that he had a wife somewhere in the background; Margy had found it out. Here on the Riviera had been il Conte di Pistacchio; a charming personality, only he disappeared now and then for a week and reappeared rather pale except for his painted cheeks—he had the habit of taking ether. On the last trip of the Bessie Budd Margy’s nephew had attached himself to this richly blooming beauty, suggestive of the rose at its most complete unfoldment, just before the petals begin to drop; but he was even younger than Lanny, and surely Beauty didn’t have to learn that lesson over again! In short, Lanny had a problem mother; and the more he thought about it, the less disposed he was to ridicule his conscientious if somewhat boresome man of God.
VI
Nothing more was said for a while; but Lanny watched closely, and suspected that nature was getting in her subtle work. Or perhaps it was God—it is a matter of words, for what do we really know about it after all? Mr. Dingle continued to visit at Bienvenu, and to instruct “Madame” in that New Thought which is so very ancient; Beauty listened, with no apparent diminution of interest. The difference was that she no longer invited Miss Addington to share in the instruction. Did the man of God note this difference? And did he attribute it to the fact that he had disclaimed interest in the state of Miss Addington’s heart? If so, what inference was he to draw from the fact that Madame continued as his pupil?
Whatever his thoughts may have been, he was invariably proper, even saintly in his attitude, and if his eyes happened to meet those of the lovely blond rose in full blooming, he would drop them quickly. His state of adoration was apparent, and could not be without its effects upon one who lived to be admired, as Mabel Blackless, alias Beauty Budd, alias Madame Detaze, had done since childhood.
Mr. Dingle began to come more frequently, and was told that he no longer needed to wait for a special invitation. Beauty’s friends got used to finding him there, and after a while they got tired of teasing her about it; they didn’t come so often, because the plain truth was, they began to find Beauty’s conversation boring. That religious crank must have her hypnotized, for she talked about his ideas even without knowing it; things which had formerly been fashionable were now worldly, and those which had been delicious had become frivolous; it was really pathetic.
“Lanny,” said the mother one day, “what do you honestly think about Mr. Dingle’s ideas?”
“Why, I don’t know,” said Lanny; “they may be all right. A lot of great minds have accepted them. Very largely it’s a matter of how you phrase things.”
“Mr. Dingle seems to phrase them remarkably well. But I don’t trust my own judgment—I’m so frightfully ignorant, you know.”
“We’re all ignorant,” said Lanny. “If I were you, I wouldn’t worry about that. If the ideas work with you, they’re right for you.”
“Why don’t you try them, Lanny?”
“I suppose it’s because I’ve never felt the need. People seem to take up with them when they get into some sort of trouble. What is it Mr. Dingle said: ‘Man’s extremity is God’s opportunity’?”
“He was quoting Mrs. Eddy, I believe. Do you remember old Mrs. Sibley, Emily’s mother? She was a Christian Scientist, and it seemed to work very well for her. She often tried to tell me about it, but I wouldn’t pay any attention. I’ve been a very worldly woman, Lanny.”
“I know,” said the other; “but yo
u’ve managed to get out alive.” Then, with a wicked twinkle in his eye: “Would you like me to speak to Mr. Dingle and find out if his intentions are honorable?” The way Beauty blushed made the son realize that things were getting serious.
VII
Lanny wasn’t surprised when a few days later his mother brought up the subject again. She had to talk about it with somebody, and there was no one so deeply concerned as Lanny. “Do you still have such a good opinion of Mr. Dingle?” she wanted to know.
“Better than ever,” he replied. “It seems to me he has been behaving very well indeed.”
“Do you really mean, Lanny, that you’d be willing for me to think of marrying that poor man!”
“What has being poor got to do with it? We have much more than we need.”
“I don’t mean poor in that sense.”
“Then in what sense? If you mean that he isn’t chic, we have enough of that quality also.”
“Everybody would think that I’d made a misalliance!”
“Well, they thought that about you and Marcel; but you lived it down.”
“Lanny, I believe you really want me to do it!”
“I’ve been thinking a lot about it. If you married him, you would know exactly what you are getting. He won’t have his head turned by money, and he won’t go chasing after younger women; he’ll worship you as a goddess out of the skies.”
“Oh, you want to get rid of me!” exclaimed the errant female.
“I’ll stay right here,” he promised, “and lend Mr. Dingle my Swedenborg and St. Theresa’s Way of Perfection—Great-Great-Uncle Eli was strong on the mystics, you know.”
“Lanny, I just couldn’t face the idea of being known as Mrs. Dingle!”
“Let it be a sort of morganatic marriage; take him as a prince consort. Your friends will go on calling you Beauty Budd, and the servants and tradespeople calling you Madame Detaze. Why should anyone change?”
“Lanny, I think it’s horrid of you to urge such a thing!”
“All right, old dear; it was you who brought up the subject. All I say is, if I had to choose among the beaux in sight at this moment, this miracle man would be my stepfather.”
“Do you realize that if I married him here in France, he’d own—I don’t know just what, but a large share of this property?”
“In the first place I doubt if he’d touch it.”
“But he may have relatives who would feel differently.”
“Well, go to your lawyer and fix up a property settlement. Marceline gets along with him all right; and you surely don’t have to worry about me, for I can make what I need, and all I want for you is to be happy, and safe from the buzzards I see hovering over this Coast of Pleasure.”
“Lanny, I think it’s perfectly awful—it’s humiliating!” There were tears in the mother’s eyes.
“Bless your heart, I’ll never mention it again. If you want to stay a fascinating widow, you have everything it takes.”
VIII
Several days passed, and Beauty said no more. It chanced that Mr. Dingle came calling, and gave her an especially beautiful discourse on the love of God as an example to our frail mortality. Beauty was deeply moved, and when it was over, she began: “Do you remember what you said about your attitude to me, Mr. Dingle?”
“Of course, Madame. How could I forget?”
“Are you still of the same opinion?”
“I could never change.”
Whereupon Beauty, blushing most becomingly, set out upon a long explanation, to the effect that she had two children, and that Marcel had wished and Robbie required that her property should go to these children. If Mr. Dingle were to marry her it would be necessary for them to make a special legal arrangement.
“Oh, Madame!” exclaimed the man of God. “I wouldn’t dream of touching a sou of your money! Never would the purity of my love for you be sullied by a question of property.” He fell upon one knee before the loveliest of Franco-American widows and kissed her hand in the perfect tradition of the Victorian romancers.
Beauty might have said: “Rise, Sir Parsifal.” But instead she sat with tears running down her cheeks, and when he looked at her and saw them, he also wept; it was an emotional betrothal, and very soon the pair were as completely dissolved in bliss as if they had been seventeen years old. If Beauty had not been restrained by fear of her fashionable friends, she would have got a complete trousseau and a dress with a train several yards long.
There is no such thing as getting married in a hurry in the staid land of France. For one thing, both parties had to have birth certificates especially obtained from their native land—the certificates had to be no more recent in date than three months. Also Beauty’s lawyer had to prepare the documents concerning the property settlement; and lawyers work carefully and methodically in France. Then there had to be ten days for the publication of the banns. When all these formalities had been arranged, Sophie and her husband came over—two friends who could be counted upon not to laugh publicly; the party traveled to the mairie, where they were declared man and wife under the French civil code. They did not take a honeymoon journey, for Mr. Dingle said, what was the use of going elsewhere when God was here? Marceline and her governess went over to have a holiday with Rosemary’s children, and the new bridegroom brought his few belongings and installed them in the room which had never been used since Kurt had moved out of it a year and a half ago. The miracle man moved also into the heart which Kurt had vacated, and he filled it full. An odd sort of ending to the adventures of Beauty Budd, but her son sighed with relief, and crossed off in his mind a string of painful incidents which weren’t going to happen.
IX
Rosemary was not present at these nuptials because she had left hurriedly for London, there being some family trouble about which her brother had written her. She came to Lanny about it, but said that it was a matter of which she hadn’t the right to talk; he understood that it was the well-known English reticence. He asked if there was anything he could do—go with her, drive her, run errands—but she answered that she would have to do it alone. She would write to him.
Rosemary’s letters had never been what you could call inordinate; she used a lot of paper and ink, but gave only a sketch at best. This time, “A bally mess. Cheerio!” was the extent of her communication. However, Lanny had other ways of getting news. Rick was still in England, and he played with Rosemary’s smart friends in childhood—and what one of these young people knew, all the rest knew quickly. Moreover, this set went in for the intellectual life, and the smart press people circulated among them like busy bees, gathering tiny drops of the sweet honey of gossip. On the newsstands of every town on the Continent you could buy newspapers and magazines having columns from which you might learn that Lady T*tt*nh*mpt*n was seen frequently in the fashionable clubs nowanights, but she and her lawful spouse sat at different tables; her ladyship was oft observed in the company of a bachelor captain of the Hussars. A few paragraphs later you would read that Captain So-and-so of the Hussars had changed dancing partners recently, and was teaching the newest steps to a fair young matron in Burke’s Peerage. If you couldn’t put these twos together, you must indeed be ignorant concerning the ways of ladies and gentlemen in Mayfair.
From various sources Lanny was able to gather the story. Poor Bertie had had the bad judgment to stray from the couch of the lady with whom he had been happy, and she had left him in a fury, and from somewhere in the distant background a husband had appeared, making threats of a divorce suit and scandal. Being in the Foreign Office and hoping for a career, Bertie had paid the fellow money, but he, being a gambler, was never satisfied, and the two had got into a fight, and now it wasn’t just a question of money, but a vicious grudge. After Rosemary arrived in London it broke into the papers. Bertie was considered to be “ruined,” was in that state where he might retire to his manor and shoot off his head. But the Earl of Sandhaven of course had influential friends, and Rosemary’s family also had the
m, and they insisted that something had to be done to help the poor fellow. There were conferences with important officials, and presently came to Lanny the longest letter he had ever received from his amie:
Dear Lanny:
I have had a hard decision to make, and can only count upon your kindness. Do forgive me and not take it too hard. Bertie has been offered a post which will give him a future. You know what I told you about the Empire and what it does to people’s private lives. The condition of this appointment is that I shall go with him to the Argentine, and that he promises to settle down and work very hard. I assume you have been told about some of the unpleasant events here, and will not expect me to put the details on paper. Believe me that life has jolly well got to be real and earnest for us; the law has been laid down. It is a question of my children’s future, and the situation is such that I am morally bound. It is just one of those things that come, like the war, you know. Your many kindnesses to my family will never be forgotten, and I hope you will do one more and tell me that you undertand and forgive. I have told Nina about it, and she will tell you.
Bertie and I are leaving for our new post in a few days. I am writing the governess to bring the children home at once, as we are taking them. Give my best love to your darling mother, and thank her for her hospitality. I will write her a note before I leave. You can understand that I am frightfully crowded. Everything has to be arranged in a few days. Good-by, and believe that your friendship will be one of my very best memories; nothing will take it from me.
Rosemary.
So there it was. When you had to cut off a love affair, you just took and pair of scissors and—snip!—there it wasn’t. Lanny couldn’t complain, for Rosemary had made it clear to him that that was the way with life among the governing classes of an empire. Britannia, who ruled the waves, had put an end to Rosemary’s previous affair, and now had put an end to Lanny’s. How many times he had heard his sweetheart say: “We mustn’t fall too much in love, dear. We can’t count upon it.” Now he learned the lesson of how to write a letter that could never be used by any blackmailer. One can never tell into what hands a letter may fall, and when you belong to the governing classes, you are careful what you set down on any piece of paper!