XVIIIMRS. RICHMOND REBELS
Forsome time after her mother left Beatrice sat in a brown study, her ex-maid and partner seated across the table from her and not venturing to interrupt. At last, Beatrice said: “I don’t understand it at all. I’d never have believed mother would take it that way.”
“You could hardly expect her to be pleased, Miss Richmond,” replied Valentine.
“Oh, I knew she’d blow up and sail into me,” said Beatrice. “I’m puzzling over the way she acted about father. I never before knew her to revolt against him.”
“Probably—when Mrs. Richmond sees him—” was Miss Clermont’s highly suggestive, unfinished comment.
“No doubt,” said Beatrice. “And yet—Mamma was mad through and through—fighting mad. I never saw her like that—with him. I shouldn’t have believed it was in her. I suspect—I hope—she’ll make trouble.”
Beatrice was right in her diagnosis of her mother’s rage. Mrs. Richmond was indeed fighting mad. Everything that lives, even a human being weakenedby luxury and by long and meek servitude, has its limit of endurance, its point at which it will cease to run or to cower and will fight to the last gasp. That limit, that point had been reached by Mrs. Richmond. There were many things she liked in varying degrees—her children, society novels, half a dozen friends, her maid Marthe, an occasional man—the Count d’Artois just at that time. There were three things only to which she was deeply attached—three besides herself. The first was her youthful appearance, which she struggled so assiduously to retain. The second was wealth, which gave her so many delightful moral, mental and physical sensations. The third and dearest was social position. The mania of social position habitually seizes upon persons of great affluence and small intelligence; it manifests itself early, often in a grave form: but it does not become virulent until middle life. With Mrs. Richmond the mania was aggravated by her not having been born to fashionable society. Patiently, resolutely, toilsomely she had built herself up socially year by year. She had endured humiliations, snubs, insults, as a gallant soldier endures the blows and buffetings of battle. And her virtue had been rewarded. She had attained social position—not, indeed, security, for in America social security is impossible; but an envied rank among the very first, reasonably assured so longas Richmond retained his wealth and no degrading scandal undermined and toppled. Like the prudent soul that she was, she remained sleeplessly vigilant lest some such scandal should come from an unexpected quarter.
There were obscure relations—vulgar—no, worse—positively low. True, everybody was cursed with such; but to Mrs. Richmond her own and her husband’s impossible kin seemed more awful than anyone else’s. Then, Richmond, industrious social climber though he was and as careful about matters of social position as any of the other big men of finance who graciously permitted their families to be fashionable—Richmond occasionally broke loose and offended by coarse and greedy snatching at wealth owned by persons of social power. Also, he occasionally almost overreached himself in his contempt for law and public opinion, and put in jeopardy his reputation. But this danger was not now haunting her as it once had. Through the constant infractions of Richmond and his like the moral code was no longer what it used to be, was a mere collection of old tatters. Pretty much everybody who socially was anybody despised it in private and professed public respect for it only out of habit and for the benefit of the lower classes.
Finally, there were the children. One could never tell what one’s children would grow up into. Of thefour, she had regarded the younger daughter as the safest because she was intensely proud, fond of social position, of fashionable luxury—fonder of them than of anything—except, perhaps, of having her own way where opposed. Yes, Beatrice would never cause her social anxiety. In the irony of fate it was she and only she who had become troublesome. The refusal to marry Peter Vanderkief was bad. The infatuation for an artist, eminent though he seemed to be—at least, in France—was worse. This dressmaking was worst. To Mrs. Richmond’s excited fancy it seemed to foreshadow social downfall—not from the fashionable set, but from leadership in it. If there had been so much as a single previous generation of fashionable Richmonds, or if their own fashion were a matter of twenty years instead of a scant ten, the thing wouldn’t matter. Beatrice would be regarded as eccentric—and eccentricity is a mark of aristocratic blood. But, in the circumstances, for Beatrice to become a dressmaker in partnership with a French maid and a chauffeur——
Mrs. Richmond burst in upon her husband at his office with her fury intact. Richmond knew at a glance that he had to deal with a revolt and a dangerous one. He showed that he understood all about its origin by saying as soon as his secretary had gone: “You’ve been to see Beatrice.”
“She told you this morning that she was going into the dressmaking business?” said the wife, nostrils dilating, eyes blazing at him.
“Yes.” And Richmond concentrated himself in a corner of his big chair. It looked like a gesture of shrinking, of timidity. In fact, it was simply his way of gathering himself together at the first onslaught of danger.
“Here in New York!”
“Yes.”
“With Valentine!”
Richmond made a slight gesture of assent.
“And—Léry!”
Richmond from the corner of his chair stretched out one hesitating hand to the papers on the desk before him.
“What are you going to do about it?” demanded the wife in a low tone that sounded as if it had forced its way through clinched teeth.
Richmond leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his big head, stared out of the window.
“What are you going to do about it?” repeated his wife.
Still no reply.
“Are you going to sacrifice all that I’ve spent so many years in building up?”
“You?” snapped Richmond, with contemptuous sarcasm. “What haveyoudone?”
“I’ve made our social position—that’s what I’ve done.”
“You meanI’ve built it—my money and my power. People recognize us because they don’t dare angerme.” This in the voice of axiomatic truth.
But Mrs. Richmond was too angry—too alarmed. Panic has its courage more dangerous than valor’s. “Look at the Galloways,” cried she. “They’ve got more money than we have. Look at the Roebucks—more money than we have—and Roebuck a man you’re afraid of.”
“I’m afraid of nobody!” blustered he.
She answered this with a maddening, little, sneering laugh, and went on: “Look at the Fosdicks—and the Bellinghams—and the Ashforths. More money than we have.”
“Yes—and they’re received.” But his tone was not all it might have been.
“You know the difference,” said she, in open contempt of his flimsy evasion. “They’reinbut notof. We’re both in and of. And why?... Why?” she repeated fiercely. “Why are we in and of, in spite of the enemies you’ve made—in spite of the shady things you’ve done—in spite of——”
“Now, see here, Lucy—I’ve not complained of your way of managing your side of the family affairs. You’ve done very well.” This was said patronizingly, but with a mildness that, issuing from Daniel Richmond, made it sound almost like a whimper.
“And since I got the Earl of Broadstairs away from Sally Peyton and married him to Rhoda we’ve been right in the front rank. There aren’t but two big families that still hold out.”
“The Vanderkief marriage might have got them,” said Richmond.
“If Beatrice starts up as a dressmaker—with those two servants——”
“But—what canIdo?” he interrupted violently. “She’s insane—insane!”
“It’s you that are insane, Dan,” cried his wife. “You knew the girl. You knew you’d made her hard to manage. Why did you goad her?”
“I suppose you’d have let her marry that painter fellow,” sneered the husband.
“Anything but such a scandal as this,” declared she. “And it’s got to be stopped!”
Richmond shrugged his shoulders. “I offered to drop the Vanderkief marriage. I offered to take her back. I begged her to come back.”
“But you didn’t tell her she could marry Wade.”
“Yes, I did!” confessed he. “Yes—I did even that.”
Mrs. Richmond frankly showed her incredulity; and that there might be no doubt, she said: “I don’t believe it.”
“Do you think I’ve got no sense? I saw what the scandal would mean. Besides—” Richmond did not give his other reason. He was too ashamed of his weakness of love for the girl to expose it.
By this time Mrs. Richmond had recovered. “And is thatallyou’ve done?”
“All?” he cried. “All?What else could I do?”
“Get her the man.”
“Get her the man?” repeated he, as if trying in vain to understand.
“She doesn’t trust you—and you can’t be surprised at that. You’ve got to get her the man. You’ve mismanaged this thing from the start. You’ve driven her on and on until now there’s only the one chance left.”
Richmond did not contradict this, even mentally. He said presently: “But I’ve talked with him and he won’t have her.”
Again Mrs. Richmond was taken by surprise—so much so that she said: “What did you say?”
Richmond showed his wild internal commotion.With glittering eyes and teeth suggesting that they were about to gnash he all but hissed: “Are you getting deaf? I said I had talked with him, and he won’t have her. I can’t make the man marry her—can I?”
In her excitement, in her amazement Mrs. Richmond leaned forward and said slowly: “Did you go to him and give him permission to marry Beatrice?”
“No,” Richmond confessed.
“Oh,” said his wife with sarcasm, “you went to forbid him to marry her. Why do you deceive me when we’re in such a dangerous position?”
“I didn’t deceive you,” growled he. “I went to make sure he didn’t want to marry her. We got along all right.”
Mrs. Richmond showed relief. “Then we’re in a position to make advances to him.”
“I’ll make no more advances!” cried he defiantly—blustering defiance.
“I suppose you’d rather see the newspapers full of your daughter making dresses in partnership with a maid and a chauffeur,” sneered Mrs. Richmond.
He winced as she jabbed surely at his one weak point—the weakness she knew so well; her knowledge of it had given her the courage to attack him. And she knew also that his one belief in her, his one use for her, was her skill as a social maneuverer.
“You’ll do whatever is necessary,” she went on. “I can’t understand why you were so opposed to her marrying. He’s young, but famous already. He’ll be a help.”
A long pause. Then: “Yes, he can paint,” said Richmond absently, a queer look in his usually hard and wicked eyes.
“Of course he can. D’Artois told us so. I’ll go ask him to dinner on my way home. If he accepts I’ll telephone Beatrice to come down.”
“Yes—that’s a good idea—excellent,” said Richmond. “I want to get this thing settled. It has unfitted me for business. A few weeks more of it and I’ll go to pieces. Do whatever you like. I don’t care, so long as you settle things.” And he took up his papers to indicate that he had no more time to waste.
“I hope this will be a lesson to you,” said she. “Next time any trouble comes with the children you’d better leave it to me.”
Richmond muttered something into his papers. Mrs. Richmond issued forth in dignity and in triumph. No one, viewing her cold and haughty face, her beautiful, expensive toilet, her air throughout of the story-book aristocrat, would have believed her capable of participating in such a scene as she and her husband had just enacted. She was secure from suspicion of suchvulgarities—secure behind the glamour of wealth and fashion that veils the Richmond kind of sordid lives and the sordid pursuits that engross them.
When Mrs. Richmond’s auto stopped before Roger Wade’s gate she saw him reading behind the leafy screen of the front veranda. She waited and watched a moment or so, but he did not glance up.
“Give the horn a squeeze or so,” said she to the chauffeur.
At the sound of three sharp, imperious calls the artist slowly lifted his eyes. Mrs. Richmond, her face at the open window of her limousine, saw him observing her as one might a chance passer-by on the high-road. When he saw that she was seeing him he rose and advanced toward the gate at a pace that was neither fast nor slow—a pace somehow discouraging to Mrs. Richmond. She awaited him with a smile of the most flattering warmth.
“How do you do, Mr. Wade?” cried she as he opened the gate, and out went her gloved hand to meet his cordially. “You have treated me shamefully,” she went on. “But one who is nobody must take whatever treatment a great man gives one and be grateful that it’s no worse.”
The big, dark man, looking extremely handsome inhis loose, white flannels, laughed amiably. He showed his good sense by attempting no reply. He simply stood waiting.
“I’ve stopped to ask you to dine with us to-morrow night—very informally,” said she. “It’d be an enormous favor, as we’re dreadfully dull.”
“All this is very kind,” said Roger, “but I can’t come.”
“Now, don’t say that,” urged she, her manner making her insistence seem polite—a manner of which she was admirably mistress. “Mr. Richmond told me this afternoon that I mustn’t take no for an answer. He has developed a great admiration and liking for you. If you’re not refusing just out of unneighborliness, perhaps you’ll come day after to-morrow evening?”
“I’ll be on the sea,” said Roger. “I’m sailing Saturday morning.”
“So suddenly!” cried Mrs. Richmond with an arresting agitation in her voice—obviously not the agitation of pleasure, but of alarm. “Then, youmustcome to-morrow evening. It is our last chance for better acquaintance.”
“Oh, there’s Paris,” said Roger carelessly. His frank eyes were regarding her with a puzzled expression.
Mrs. Richmond flung away the last shred of pretense of merely social purposes. Her eyes pleaded and her voice implored as she said: “Mr. Richmond particularly wished to see you. Can’t you arrange it—for to-morrow evening—or this evening?”
“Thank you. It’s really impossible.” And Roger’s tone and manner were a courteous but final refusal of all that she was implying. “Will you trouble yourself with my adieux to Mr. Richmond and your daughter?”
“I’m so disappointed I hardly know what to say,” cried Mrs. Richmond with pathetic appeal. “Do forgive my rudeness, but——”
“It’s quite impossible for me to change my plans for the little time I have between now and Saturday morning.” Roger was simply polite—not unfriendly, yet certainly not friendly.
Mrs. Richmond’s handsome eyes veiled their anger behind a look of resigned regret. She dared not quarrel with him, must part with him on friendly terms. “I understand. I am dreadfully sorry. But—as you say, there’s Paris. We haven’t your address there, I believe.”
“I have no address,” said Roger. “I shall have to find a place.”
“D’Artois will know,” said Mrs. Richmond hastily,to cover the almost blunt refusal to continue the acquaintance. “We can find out from him.”
“I lead rather a secluded life there,” was Roger’s reply. “One must fight constantly against the temptations to distraction. But I needn’t explain that to the wife of a busy man of affairs.”
“No, indeed,” cried she, with undiminished cordiality—and she did not find it difficult to be cordial to a man whose charm she was now feeling, hardly the less, perhaps the more, because he was defeating her will. “Still,” she went on, “we’ll venture to hope that you’ll relent a little and not look on us altogether as intruders, Mr. Wade.”
“You are too kind, Mrs. Richmond,” said Roger. He made as much of a move toward turning away as politeness permitted.
“Again, I’m sorry—so sorry, about dinner,” said Mrs. Richmond, once more extending her hand. She was all friendliness, all cordiality. “And I’ll hope you and Fate will be kinder in Paris. Good-by. Mr. Richmond will be really distressed. And Beatrice——”
Roger’s eyes shifted. A faint color crept into his cheeks.
“She will think you’re a sadly negligent friend. She’s at the Wolcott. If you are in town——”
“Unfortunately, I’ll not be,” interrupted Rogercurtly. “I’ll have to trust to you to make my apologies.”
Mrs. Richmond once more looked defeated. “Don’t forget us,” she pleaded.
“Thank you,” said Roger embarrassed.
“Good-by.”
Roger bowed. The machine got under way and disappeared in a cloud of dust while he went slowly and moodily back to the veranda to take up his book, but not to read it.
As Mrs. Richmond’s auto swung into the terrace before the main entrance to Red Hill Richmond’s auto departed, having just set him down upon the stone esplanade. He opened the door of the car for his wife. “Well?” said he sharply.
“He can’t—that is, won’t—come.”
“I thought so.”
“He’s sailing.”
“I know. Next week.”
“No—Saturday.”
Richmond startled. “Day after to-morrow?”
“And he wouldn’t come either to-night or to-morrow night.”
They walked in silence side by side into the house.
“He’s a splendidly handsome man,” said Mrs. Richmond. “Any woman would be proud to havehim as her husband. And he has the air of a personage.... I must telephone Beatrice.”
“You must do nothing of the sort,” ordered Richmond in the tone which, when he first had begun to use it with her, had made her feel like a servant. “You’ll not tempt her to make a public fool of herself.”
“You don’t understand her,” protested Mrs. Richmond.
“No matter. No telephoning. Small, timid people never can understand that a person of her sort has unlimited capacity for reckless folly.”
“But what are we to do?” demanded his wife.
“I’ll go to see him.”
“To say what?”
“What circumstances may dictate after I get there,” said her husband. “I’ll go at once.”
“Yes—yes. The time’s very short,” cried she.
“On the contrary, there’s plenty of time.”
And he turned on his heel and retraced his steps toward the door. Mrs. Richmond paused to look pityingly after him; he was slightly bent; his step had lost its spring. Only once before had she seen him so harassed—the time when he was trying to negotiate apparently impossible loans to save his fortune from ruin and himself from prison. She hated him with what she believed to be an implacable hate. In fact, shehated him only because he would not let her love him; he fascinated her, a woman of the sort that crave a master and really love the servitude they profess to loathe. She rejoiced in his defeats; she delighted to waste his money where she could not sequester it. But her soul did homage to him as its lord. She looked after him longingly; she would have given a good part of her possessions to be an unseen and unsuspected spectator at the scene between him and Roger. For she would have staked all she had on Roger’s administering to him the defeat of his life.