CHAPTER I.
MR. CARNBY RECEIVES A LETTER.
Mr. and Mrs. Jeremy Carnby furnished to the reflective observer astriking illustration of the circumstance that extremes not only meet,but, not infrequently, marry. Mrs. Carnby confessed to fifty, and was inreality forty-seven. As, in any event, incredulity answers "Never!" whena woman makes mention of her age, she preferred that the adverb shouldbe voiced with flattering emphasis and in her presence, rather thansarcastically and behind her back. She was nothing if not original.
Mrs. Carnby was distinctly plain, a fact which five minutes of hercompany effectually deprived of all significance: her power ofattraction being as forceful as that of a magnet, and similar to amagnet's in its absence of outward evidence. She was a woman oftemperate but kaleidoscopic enthusiasms, who had retained enough of theatmosphere of each to render her interesting to a variety of persons.Prolonged experience of the world had invested her with an admirablebroad-mindedness, which caused her to tread the notoriously dangerouspaths of the American Colony, in which she was a constant andconspicuous figure, with the assurance of an Indian fakir walking onbroken glass--pleasurably appreciative of the risk, that is, whileassured by consummate _savoir faire_ against cutting her feet. Her_fort_ was tact. She had at one and the same time a faculty forforgetting confidences which commended her to women, and a knack ofremembering them which endeared her to men. It was with the latter thatshe was preeminently successful. What might have been termed hermasculine method was based on the broad, general principle that theadult male is most interested in the persons most interested in him, andit never failed, in its many modifications, of effect. Men told her oftheir love-affairs, for example, with the same unquestioning assurancewherewith they intrusted their funds to a reputable banker; and were aptto remember the manner in which their confidences were received, longerthan the details of the confidences themselves. And when you can listenfor an hour, with every evidence of extreme interest, to a man'srhapsodies about another woman, and, at the end, send him away with adistinct recollection of the gown you wore, or the perfume on thehandkerchief he picked up for you, then, dear lady, there is nothingmore to be said.
Mr. Jeremy Carnby infrequently accompanied his wife to a reception or a_musicale_, somewhat as Chinese idols and emperors are occasionallyproduced in public--as an assurance of good faith, that is, and inproof of actual existence. As it is not good form to flaunt one'smarriage certificate in the faces of society, an undeniable,flesh-and-blood husband is, perhaps, the next best thing--whenexhibited, of course, with that golden mean of frequency which liesbetween a hint of henpeck on the one side and a suggestion of neglectupon the other. Mrs. Carnby blazed in the social firmament of theAmerican Colony with the unwavering fixity of the Polar Star: Jeremyappeared rarely, but with extreme regularity, like a comet of wideorbit, as evidence that the marital solar system was working smoothlyand well.
Mrs. Carnby was, and not unreasonably, proud of Jeremy. They had livedtwenty-five years in Paris, and, to the best of her knowledge andbelief, he was as yet unaware, at least in a sentimental sense, thatother women so much as existed. Since one cannot own the Obelisque orthe Venus de Milo, it is assuredly something to have a husband who neverturns his head on the Avenue du Bois, or finds a use for an opera-glassat the Folies-Bergere. Jeremy was not amusing, still less brilliant,least of all popular; but he was preeminently loyal and unfeignedlyaffectionate--qualities sufficiently rare in the world in which Mrs.Carnby lived, and moved, and had the greater portion of her being, torecommend themselves strongly to her shrewd, uncompromising mind. In hersomewhat over-furnished life he occupied a distinct niche, which oneelse could have filled; and in this, to her way of thinking, he wasunique--as a husband. After _foie gras_ and champagne, Mrs. Carnbyalways breakfasted on American hominy, a mealy red apple, and a glass ofmilk. She was equally careful, however, to take the meal in company withJeremy. He was part of the treatment.
The Carnby _hotel_ was one of the number in the Villa Dupont. One turnedin through a narrow gateway, from the sordid dinginess of the RuePergolese, and, at a stone's throw from the latter's pungent cheese andbutter shops, and grimy _charbonneries_, came delightfully into theshade of chestnuts greener than those exposed to the dust of the greatavenues, and to the sound of fountains plashing into basins buried infresh turf. It was very quiet, like some charming little back street atSt. Germain or Versailles, and the houses, with their white walls andgreen shutters and glass-enclosed porticos, were more like countryvillas than Parisian _hotels_. The gay stir of the boulevards and theAvenue du Bois might, to all seeming, have been a hundred kilometresdistant, so still and simple was this little corner of the capital.Jeremy frankly adored it. He had a great office looking out upon thePlace de l'Opera, and when he rose from his desk, his head aching withthe reports and accounts of the mighty insurance company of which he wasthe European manager, and went to the window in search of distraction,it was only to have his eyes met by a dizzier hodge-podge than that ofthe figures he had left--the moil of _camions_, omnibuses, and cabs,threading in and out at the intersection of the six wide driveways,first up and down, and then across, as the brigadier in charge regulatedthe traffic with sharp trills of his whistle, which jerked up the rightarms of the policemen at the crossings, as if some one had pulled thestrings of so many marionettes with white batons in their hands. Allthis was not irritating, or even displeasing, to Jeremy. He was toothorough an American, despite his long residence in Paris, and too keena business man, notwithstanding his wife's fortune, not to derivesatisfaction from every evidence of human energy. The Place de l'Operaappealed to the same instincts in his temperament that would have beengratified by the sight of a stop-cylinder printing-machine in action.But, not the less for that, his heart was domiciled in the _hotel_ inthe Villa Dupont.
On a certain evening in mid-April, Jeremy had elaborated his customaryhalf-hour walk homeward with a detour by way of the BoulevardMalesherbes, the Parc Monceau, and the Avenue Hoche, and it was closeupon six when he let himself in at his front door, and laid his derbyamong the shining top-hats of his wife's callers, on the table in the_antichambre_. Through the half-parted curtains at the _salon_ door camescraps of conversation, both in French and English, and the pleasanttinkle of cups and saucers; and, as he passed, he had a glimpse ofseveral well-groomed men, in white waistcoats and gaiters, sitting onthe extreme edges of their chairs, with their toes turned in, theirelbows on their knees, and tea-cups in their hands; and smartly-dressedwomen, with big hats, and their veils tucked up across their noses,nibbling at _petits fours_. He turned into his study with a feeling ofsatisfaction. It was incomprehensible to his mind, this seeminglyuniversal passion for tea and sweet cakes; but if the institution was toexist under his roof at all, it was gratifying to know that, albeit thetea was the finest Indian overland, and the sweet cakes from the MaisonGage, it was not for these reasons alone that the 16th Arrondissementwas eager, and the 7th not loath, to be received at the _hotel_ in theVilla Dupont. Jeremy knew that his wife was the most popular woman inthe Colony, as to him she was the best and most beautiful in the world.Before he touched the _Temps_ or the half-dozen letters which lay uponhis table, he leaned forward, with his elbows on the silver-mountedblotter, and his temples in his hands, and looked long at her photographsmiling at him out of its Russian enamel frame. If the world, whichlaughed at him for his prim black neckties and his common-sense shoes,even while it respected him for his business ability, had seen him thus,it would have shared his wife's knowledge that Jeremy Carnby was anuncommonly good sort.
He opened his letters carefully, slitting the envelopes with a slenderpaper-knife, and endorsing each one methodically with the date ofreceipt before passing on to the next. All were private and personal,his voluminous business mail being handled at his office by a secretaryand two stenographers. With characteristic loyalty, Jeremy wroteregularly to a score of old acquaintances and poor relations in theStates, most of whom he had seen but once or twice in the twenty-fiveyear
s of his exile, and read their replies with interest, often withemotion: and his own left hand knew not how many cheques had beensigned, and cheering words written, by his unassuming right, in reply tothe plaints and appeals of his intimates of former years. For thesteady, white light of Jeremy Carnby's kindliness let never a glint ofits brightness pass through the closely-woven bushel of his modesty.
He hesitated with the last letter in his hand, reread it slowly, andthen lit a cigar and sat looking fixedly at his inkstand, blowing outthin coils of smoke. So Mrs. Carnby found him, as she swept in, droppedinto a big red-leather arm-chair, and slid smoothly into an especialvariety of small talk, wherewith she was wont to smooth the businesswrinkles from his forehead, and bring him into a frame of mind proper toan appreciation of the efforts of their _chef_.
"If it isn't smoking a cigar at fifteen minutes before the dinner-hour!"she began, with an assumption of indignation. "Really, Jeremy, you'regetting quite revolutionary in your ways. I think I shall tell Armandthat hereafter we shall begin dinner with coffee, have salad with theRuedesheimer, and take our soup in the conservatory."
Mr. Carnby laid down his cigar.
"I lit it absent-mindedly," he answered. "Have they gone?"
"No, of course not, stupid!" retorted his wife. "They're all out there.I told them to wait until we'd finished dinner. Now, Jeremy! why _will_you ask such questions?"
"It _was_ stupid of me," he admitted.
"And to punish you, I shall tell you who they were," announced Mrs.Carnby. "I might do worse and tell you all they said. You're so--so_comfortable_, Jeremy. When I'm on the point of boiling over because ofthe inanities of society I can always come in here and open mysafety-valve, and you don't care a particle, do you, if I fill yourstudy full of conversational steam?"
Jeremy smiled pleasantly.
"You _nice_ person!" added his wife. "Well, here goes. First, there wasthat stupid Mrs. Maitland. She told me all about her portrait. It seemsBenjamin-Constant is painting it--and I thought the others would nevercome. Finally, however, they did--the Villemot girls and Mrs. SidneyKane, and a few men--Daulas and De Bousac and Gerald Kennedy and thatinsufferable little Lister man. Then Madame Palffy. It makes me furiousevery time I hear her called 'madame.' The creature was born inWorcester--and do you know, Jeremy, I'm positive she buys her gowns atan upholsterer's? No mere dressmaker could lend her that strikingresemblance to a sofa, which is growing stronger every day! Her Frenchis too impossible. She was telling Daulas about something that neverhappened to her on her way out to their country place, and I heard hersay '_compartiment de dames soules_' quite distinctly. I can't imaginehow she contrives to know so many things that aren't so. One wouldsuppose she'd stumble over a real, live fact now and again, if only byaccident. And her husband's no better. Trying to find the truth in oneof his stories severely taxes one's aptitude in long division. I saw himat the Hatzfeldts' _musicale_ night before last. Pazzini was playing,and Palffy was sound asleep in a corner, after three glasses of punch. Ireally felt sorry that a man with such a wife should be missingsomething attractive, and I was going to poke him surreptitiously withmy fan, but Tom Radwalader said, 'Better let the lying dog sleep!' Hepositively _is_ amusing, that Radwalader man!"
Mrs. Carnby looked up at her husband for the admiring smile which wasthe usual guarantee that she had amused him, but only to find Jeremy'seyes once more riveted upon the inkstand, and the cigar between his thinlips again.
"My dear Jeremy," she said, "I'm convinced that you've not heard onesyllable of my carefully prepared discourse."
"My dear Louisa," responded Mr. Carnby with unwonted readiness, "I'mconvinced that I have not. The truth of the matter is," he addedapologetically, "that I've received an unusual letter."
"It must indeed be unusual if it can cause you to ignore myconversation," said Louisa Carnby.
"That is perfectly true," said Jeremy with conviction.
His wife rose, came over to his side, and kissed him on the tip of hisnose.
"Good my lord," she said, "I think I like your tranquil endorsement ofthe compliments I make for myself better than those which other meninvent out of their own silly heads! Am I to know what is in yourunusual letter?"
"Why not?" asked Jeremy seriously.
"Why not, indeed?" said Mrs. Carnby. "I have taken you for better orworse. There's so little 'worse' about the contract, Jeremy, that Istand ready to accept such as there is in a willing spirit, even when itcomes in the form of a dull letter."
Jeremy looked up at her with his familiar smile.
"Louisa," he said, "if I were twenty years of age, I should ask nothingbetter than the chance to marry you again."
"Man! but thou'rt the cozener!" exclaimed Mrs. Carnby. "Thou'dst fairturn the head of a puir lassis. There--that'll do. Go on with yourletter!"
"It's from Andrew Sterling," said Jeremy. "You'll remember him, I think,in Boston. He was a friend of my father's, and kept a friendly eye on meafter the old gentleman's death. We've always corresponded, more or lessregularly, and now he writes to say--but perhaps I'd best read you thatpart of his letter."
"Undoubtedly," put in his wife. "That is, if you can. People write sobadly, nowadays."
"Um--um--" mumbled Jeremy, skipping the introductory sentences. "Ah!Here we have it. Mr. Sterling says: 'Now for the main purpose of thisletter. My poor daughter's only son, Andrew Sterling Vane, is sailingto-day on the _Kaiser Wilhelm der Grosse_. He has been obliged to leaveHarvard, as his health is not robust, and I have thought that perhapsthe sea-voyage and some months in Paris might put him in shape--'"
"_Good_ Lord!" broke in Mrs. Carnby. "Imagine some months in Paris byway of rest-cure!"
"'And so,'" continued Jeremy, "'I'm sending him over, in hopes that thechange may be of benefit. He is a singular lad--sensitive in theextreme, and utterly inexperienced--and I am going to ask if, "for auldlang syne," you will be so good as to make him welcome. I don't mean, ofcourse, that I expect you to exercise any sort of supervision. The boymust take care of himself, like all of us, but I would like to feelthat, in a strange city, there is one place where he may find a hint ofhome."
Jeremy paused.
"Go on!" observed Mrs. Carnby.
"There is really nothing more of importance," said her husband, "exceptthat I've also received a note from young Vane. He's at the Ritz."
"Of course!" ejaculated Mrs. Carnby. "Paying two louis per diem for hisroom, and making semi-daily trips to Morgan, Harjes'. They're wonderful,these tourist bank-accounts. Their progress from a respectable amount toabsolute zero is as inevitable as the recession of the sea fromhigh-water mark to dead low tide--a steady withdrawal from the bank, mydear Jeremy! How old might the young gentlemen be?"
Mr. Carnby made a mental calculation.
"His mother was about my own age," he said presently. "I know she and Iused to go to dancing-school together. And she died in childbirth, if Iremember rightly. Her husband was a scamp--ran off with another woman. Inever saw him. That would make the boy about twenty or twenty-one."
"He will be rather good-looking," said Mrs. Carnby reflectively, "with ageneral suggestion of soap and cold water about him. He will wearpreposterously heavy boots with the soles projecting all around likelittle piazzas, and a straw hat, and dog-skin gloves with seams likesmall hedges, and turned back at the wrists. They're all exactly alike,the young Americans one sees over here. One would think they came by thedozen, in a box. And when he is sitting down he will be hitching at histrousers all the time, so that the only thing one remembers about himafterwards is the pattern of his stockings."
"We ought to invite him to dinner," suggested Jeremy.
"Without doubt," agreed his wife; "but to breakfast first, I think--andon Sunday. One can judge a man's character so well by the way he behavesat Sunday breakfast. If he fidgets, and drinks quantities of water, thenhe's dissipated! I don't know why Saturday night is always fatal todissipated men, but it is. If his top hat looks as if it had beenbrushed the wrong way, t
hen he's religious, and has been to church. Ishall go out and inspect it while you're smoking. If he does all thetalking, he's an ass; and if I do it all, he's a fool."
"You're a difficult critic, my dear," said Jeremy. "You must remember heis only twenty or so."
"To be twenty or so in appearance is a man's misfortune," replied Mrs.Carnby. "To be twenty or so in behaviour is his fault. I'll write to himto-night, and ask him to breakfast on Sunday, _tout a fait en famille_,and we'll try him on a--you don't mind my calling you a dog, Jeremy?"
"Not in the least," said Mr. Carnby.
"_Eh bien!_" said his wife. "We'll have him to breakfast on Sunday, andtry him on a dog! If he's presentable and amusing, I shall make him myexclusive property. If he's dull, I shall tell him Madame Palffy is awoman he should cultivate assiduously. I send her all the people whodon't pass muster at my dinners. She has them next day, like warmed-over_vol-au-vents_. My funeral baked meats do coldly furnish forth herbreakfast-table."
"When you wish to appear most unmerciful, my dear," said Jeremy, "youalways pick out Madame Palffy; and whenever you do, I spoil the effectof what you say by thinking of--"
"Margery?" put in Mrs. Carnby. "Yes, of course, that's my soft spot,Jeremy. There's only one thing which Margery Palffy ought to be that sheisn't, and that's--ahem!--an orphan."