The Imitator: A Novel

  CHAPTER IX.

  To cotton-batting and similar unromantic staples the great house of R.S.Neargood & Co. first owed the prosperity that later developed intoworld-wide fame. It was success in cotton-batting that enabled the firmto make those speculations that eventually placed millions to itscredit, and familiarized the Bourse and Threadneedle Street with itsname.

  What ever else can be said of cotton-batting, however, it is hardly atopic of smart conversation. So in smart circles there was never anymention of cotton-batting when the name of Neargood came up. Instead, itwas customary to refer to them as "the people, you know, who built theEquator Palace for the Tropical Government, and all that sort of thing."A certain vagueness is indispensable to polite talk.

  Yet not even this detail of politics and finance counted most in thesmart world. The name of Neargood might never have been heard of in thatworld if it had not been for the beautiful daughters of the house ofNeargood. There is nothing, nowadays, like having handsome daughters.You may have made your millions in pig, or your thousands in whisky,but, in the eyes of the complaisant present, the curse dies with thedebut of a beautiful daughter. It is true that the smart sometimes makean absurd distinction between the older generation and the new;sometimes a barrier is raised for the daughter that checks the mother;but caprice was ever one of the qualities of smartness.

  Through two seasons the beautiful Misses Neargood--Mary andAlice--reigned as belles. They were both good to look at, tall, stately,with distinct profiles. There was not much to choose, so to put it,between them. Mary was the handsomer; Alice the cleverer. Through twoseasons the society reporters, on the newspapers that are yellow as wellas those that make one blue, exhausted the well of journalese inchronicling the doings of these two young women.

  The climax of descriptive eloquence was reached on the occasion of thedouble wedding of Mary and Alice Neargood.

  Mary changed the name of Neargood for that of Spalding-Wentworth; Alicebecame Mrs. Van Fenno.

  Up to this time--as far, at least, as was observable--these two sistershad dwelt together in unity. Never had the spirits of envy oruncharitableness entered them. But after marriage there came to each ofthem that stormy petrel of Unhappiness, Ambition.

  As a composer of several songs and light operas. Van Fenno was fairlywell known. Spalding-Wentworth was known as a man of Western wealth, ofWestern blue blood, and of prominence in the smart set. For some timethe worldly successes of the Van Fennos did not disturb Mrs.Spalding-Wentworth at all. Her husband was smart, since he moved withthe smart; he and his hyphen were the leaders in a great many famousways, notably in fashion and in golf. From the smart point of view theVan Fennos were not in the hunt with the other family.

  Mrs. Van Fenno chafed and churned a little in silence, but hope did notdie in her. She made up her mind to be as prominent as her sister orperish in the attempt.

  She did not have to perish. Things took a turn, as they will even in thesmart world, and there came a time when it was fashionable to beintellectual. The smart set turned from the distractions of dinners anddivorces to the allurements of the arts. Music, painting and literaturebecame the idols of the hour. With that bland, heedless facility thatdistinguishes To-day, the men and women of fashion became quickly versedin the patter of the Muses.

  The Van Fennos became the rage. Everybody talked of his music and hercharm. Where the reporters had once used space in describingSpalding-Wentworth's leadership in a cotillon or conduct of a coach,they were now required to spill ink in enumeration of "those present"at Mrs. Van Fenno's "musical afternoons."

  Wherefore there was a cloud on the fair brow of Mary Wentworth. Herintimates were privileged to call her that. Ordinary mortals, omittingthe hyphen, would have been frozen with a look.

  When there is a cloud on the wife's brow it bodes ill for the husband.The follies of a married man should be dealt with leniently; they aremostly of his wife's inspiration. One day the cloud cleared from MaryWentworth's brow. She was sitting at breakfast with her husband.

  "Why, Clarence," she exclaimed, with a suddenness that made him drop histoast, "there's literature!"

  "Where?" said Clarence, anxiously. "Where?" He looked about, eager toplease.

  "Stupid," said his wife. "I mean--why shouldn't we, that is, you--" Shelooked at him, sure that he would understand without her putting thething into syllables. "Yes," she repeated, "literature is the thing.There it is, as easy, as easy--"

  "Hasn't it always been there?" asked her dear, dense husband. A womanmay brood over a thing, you see, for months, and the man will not get somuch as a suspicion.

  She went on as if he had never spoken. "Literature is the easiest.Clarence, you must write novels!"

  He buttered himself another slice of toast.

  "Certainly, my dear," he nodded, with a pleasant smile. "Quite as youplease."

  It was in this way that the Spalding-Wentworth novels were incited. Theart of writing badly is, unfortunately, very easy. In painting and inmusic some knowledge of technic is absolutely necessary, but inliterature the art of writing counts last, and technic is rarelyapplauded. The fact remains that the smart set thought theSpalding-Wentworth novels were "so clever!" Mrs. Van Fenno was utterlycrushed. Mary Wentworth informed an eager world that her husband's nextnovel would be illustrated with caricatures by herself; she haddeveloped quite a trick in that direction. Now and again her husbandrefused to bother his head with ambitions, and devoted himself entirelyto red coats and white balls. Mrs. Wentworth's only device at such timeswas to take desperately to golf herself. She really played well; if shehad only had staying power, courage, she might have gone far. But, ifshe could not win cups, she could look very charming on the clubhouselawn. One really does not expect more from even a queen.

  It did not disturb Mrs. Wentworth at all to know that, where he was bestknown, her husband's artistic efforts were considered merely a joke. Sheknew that everyone had some mask or other to hold up to the world; andshe knew there was nothing to fear from a brute of a man or two. In herheart she agreed with them; she knew her husband was a large, kindly,clumsy creature; a useful, powerful person, who needed guidance.

  Kindly and clumsy--Clarence Spalding-Wentworth had title to those twoadjectives: there was no denying that. It was his kindliness that movedhim, after a busy day at a metropolitan golf tournament, toward OrsonVane's house. He had heard stories of Vane's illness; they had been atcollege together; he wanted to see him, to have a chat, a smoke, a good,chummy hour or two.

  It was his clumsiness that brought about the incident that came to havesuch memorable consequences. Nevins told him Mr. Vane was out; Wentworththought he would go in and have a look at Vane's rooms, anyway; sitdown, perhaps, and write him a note. Nevins had swung the curtain tobehind him when Wentworth's heel caught in the wrapping around the newmirror.

  He looked into the pool of glass blankly.

  "Funny thing to cover up a mirror like that!" he told himself. He flungthe stuff over the frame carelessly. It merely hung by a thread. Almostany passing wind would be sure to lift it off.

  "Wonder where he keeps his smokes?" he hummed to himself, striding upand down, like a good natured mammoth.

  He found some cigars began puffing at one with an audible satisfaction,and at last let himself down to an ebony escritoire that he could havesmashed with one hand. He wrote a scrawl; waited again, whistled, lookedout of the window, picked up a book, peered at the pictures, and then,with a puff of regret, strode out.

  As he passed the Professor's mirror the current of air he made swept thecurtain from the glass and left it exposed.