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Lady Baltimore

<h2> XVI: The Steel Wasp </h2> Certainly Hortense Rieppe would have won the battle of Chattanooga! I know not from which parent that young woman inherited her gift of strategy, but she was a master. To use the resources of one lover in order to ascertain if another lover had any; to lay tribute on everything that Charley possessed; on his influence in the business world, which enabled him to walk into the V-C Chemical Company’s office and borrow an expert in the phosphate line; on his launch in which to pop the expert and take him up the river, and see in his company and learn from his lips just what resources of worldly wealth were likely to be in-store for John Mayrant; and finally (which was the key to all the rest) on his inveterate passion for her, on his banker-like determination through all the thick and thin of discouragement, and worse than discouragement, of contemptuous coquetry, to possess her at any cost he could afford;—to use all this that Charley had, in order that she might judiciously arrive at the decision whether she would take him or his rival, left one lost in admiration. And then, not to waste a moment! To reach town one evening, and next morning by ten o’clock to have that expert safe in the launch on his way up the river to the phosphate diggings! The very audacity of such unscrupulousness commanded my respect: successful dishonor generally wins louder applause than successful virtue. But to be married to her! Oh! not for worlds! Charley might meet such emergency, but poor John, never! I nearly walked into Mrs. Weguelin and Mrs. Gregory taking their customary air slowly in South Place. “But why a steel wasp?” I said at once to Mrs. Weguelin. It was a more familiar way of beginning with the little, dignified lady than would have been at all possible, or suitable, if we had not had that little joke about the piano snobile between us. As it was, she was not wholly displeased. These Kings Port old ladies grew, I suspect, very slowly and guardedly accustomed to any outsider; they allowed themselves very seldom to suffer any form of abruptness from him, or from any one, for that matter. But, once they were reassured as to him, then they might sometimes allow the privileged person certain departures from their own rule of deportment, because his conventions were recognized to be different from theirs. Moreover, in reminding Mrs. Weguelin of the steel wasp, I had put my abruptness in “quotations,” so to speak, by the tone I gave it, just as people who are particular in speech can often interpolate a word of current slang elegantly by means of the shade of emphasis which they lay upon it. So Mrs. Weguelin smiled and her dark eyes danced a little. “You remember I said that, then?” “I remember everything that you said.” “How much have you seen of the creature?” demanded Mrs. Gregory, with her head pretty high. “Well, I’m seeing more, and more, and more every minute. She’s rather endless.” Mrs. Weguelin looked reproachful. “You surely cannot admire her, too?” Mrs. Gregory hadn’t understood me. “Oh, if you really can keep her away, you’re welcome!” “I only meant,” I explained to the ladies, “that you don’t really begin to see her till you have seen her: it’s afterward, when you’re out of reach of the spell.” And I told them of the interview which I had not been able to tell to Miss Josephine and Miss Eliza. “I doubt if it lasted more than four minutes,” I assured them. “Up the river?” repeated Mrs. Gregory “At the landing,” I repeated. And the ladies consulted each other’s expressions. But that didn’t bother me any more. “And you can admire her?” Mrs. Weguelin persisted. “May I tell you exactly, precisely?” “Oh, do!” they both exclaimed. “Well, I think many wise men would find her immensely desirable—as somebody else’s wife!” At this remark Mrs. Weguelin dropped her eyes, but I knew they were dancing beneath their lids. “I should not have permitted myself to say that, but I am glad that it has been said.” Mrs. Gregory turned to her companion. “Shall we call to-morrow?” “Don’t you feel it must be done?” returned Mrs. Weguelin, and then she addressed me. “Do you know a Mr. Beverly Rodgers?” I gave him a golden recommendation and took my leave of the ladies. So they were going to do the handsome thing; they would ring the Cornerlys’ bell; they would cross the interloping threshold, they would recognize the interloping girl; and this meant that they had given it up. It meant that Miss Eliza had given it up, too, had at last abandoned her position that the marriage would never take place. And her own act had probably drawn this down upon her. When the trustee of that estate had told her of the apparent failure of the phosphates, she had hailed it as an escape for her beloved John, and for all of them, because she made sure that Hortense would never marry a virtually penniless man. And when the work went on, and the rich fortune was unearthed after all, her influence had caused that revelation to be delayed because she was so confident that the engagement would be broken. But she had reckoned without Hortense; worse than that, she had reckoned without John Mayrant; in her meddling attempt to guide his affairs in the way that she believed would be best for him, she forgot that the boy whom she had brought up was no longer a child, and thus she unpardonably ignored his rights as a man. And now Miss Josephine’s disapproval was vindicated, and her own casuistry was doubly punished. Miss Rieppe’s astute journey of investigation—for her purpose had evidently become suspected by some of them beforehand—had forced Miss Eliza to disclose the truth about the phosphates to her nephew before it should be told him by the girl herself; and the intolerable position of apparent duplicity precipitated two wholly inevitable actions on his part; he had bound himself more than ever to marry Hortense, and he had made a furious breach with his Aunt Eliza. That was what his letter had contained; this time he had banished himself from that house. What was his Aunt Eliza going to do about it? I wondered. She was a stiff, if indiscreet, old lady, and it certainly did not fall within her view of the proprieties that young people should take their elders to task in furious letters. But she had been totally in the wrong, and her fault was irreparable, because important things had happened in consequence of it; she might repent the fault in sackcloth and ashes, but she couldn’t stop the things. Would she, then, honorably wear the sackcloth, or would she dishonestly shirk it under the false issue of her nephew’s improper tone to her? Women can justify themselves with more appalling skill than men. One drop there was in all this bitter bucket, which must have tasted sweet to John. He had resigned from the Custom House: Juno had got it right this time, though she hadn’t a notion of the real reason for John’s act. This act had been, since morning, lost for me, so to speak, in the shuffle of more absorbing events; and it now rose to view again in my mind as a telling stroke in the full-length portrait that all his acts had been painting of the boy during the last twenty-four hours. Notwithstanding a meddlesome aunt, and an arriving sweetheart, and imminent wedlock, he hadn’t forgotten to stop “taking orders from a negro” at the very first opportunity which came to him; his phosphates had done this for him, at least, and I should have the pleasure of correcting Juno at tea. But I did not have this pleasure. They were all in an excitement over something else, and my own different excitement hadn’t a chance against this greater one; for people seldom wish to hear what you have to say, even under the most favorable circumstances, and never when they have anything to say themselves. With an audience so hotly preoccupied I couldn’t have sat on Juno effectively at all, and therefore I kept it to myself, and attended very slightly to what they were telling me about the Daughters of Dixie. I bowed absently to the poetess. “And your poem?” I said. “A great success, I am sure?” “Why, didn’t you hear me say so?” said the upcountry bride; and then, after a smile at the others, “I’m sure your flowers were graciously accepted.” “Ask Miss Josephine St. Michael,” I replied. “Oh, oh, oh!” went the bride. “How would she know?” I gave myself no pains to improve or arrest this tiresome joke, and they went back to their Daughters of Dixie; but it is rather singular how sometimes an utterly absurd notion will be the cause of our taking a step which we had not contemplated. I did carry some flowers to Miss La Heu the next day. I was at some trouble to find any; for in Kings Port shops of this kind are by no means plentiful, and it was not until I had paid a visit to a quite distant garden at the extreme northwestern edge of the town that I lighted upon anything worthy of the girl behind the counter. The Exchange itself was apt to have flowers for sale, but I hardly saw my way to buying them there, and then immediately offering them to the fair person who had sold them to me. As it was, I did much better; for what I brought her were decidedly superior to any that were at the Exchange when I entered it at lunch time. They were, as the up-country bride would have put it, “graciously accepted.” Miss La Heu stood them in water on the counter beside her ledger. She was looking lovely. “I expected you yesterday,” she said. “The new Lady Baltimore was ready.” “Well, if it is not all eaten yet—” “Oh, no! Not a slice gone.” “Ah, nobody does your art justice here!” “Go and sit down at your table, please.” It was really quite difficult to say to her from that distance the sort of things that I wished to say; but there seemed to be no help for it, and I did my best. “I shall miss my lunches here very much when I’m gone.” “Did you say coffee to-day?” “Chocolate. I shall miss—” “And the lettuce sandwiches?” “Yes. You don’t realize how much these lunches—” “Have cost you?” She seemed determined to keep laughing. “You have said it. They have cost me my—” “I can give you the receipt, you know.” “The receipt?” “For Lady Baltimore, to take with you.” “You’ll have to give me a receipt for a lost heart.” “Oh, his heart! General, listen to—” From habit she had turned to where her dog used to lie; and sudden pain swept over her face and was mastered. “Never mind!” she quickly resumed. “Please don’t speak about it. And you have a heart somewhere; for it was very nice in you to come in yesterday morning after—after the bridge.” “I hope I have a heart,” I began, rising; for, really, I could not go on in this way, sitting down away back at the lunch table. But the door opened, and Hortense Rieppe came into the Woman’s Exchange. It was at me that she first looked, and she gave me the slightest bow possible, the least sign of conventional recognition that a movement of the head could make and be visible at all; she didn’t bend her head down, she tilted it ever so little up. It wasn’t new to me, this form of greeting, and I knew that she had acquired it at Newport, and that it denoted, all too accurately, the size of my importance in her eyes; she did it, as she did everything, with perfection. Then she turned to Eliza La Heu, whose face had become miraculously sweet. “Good morning,” said Hortense. It sounded from a quiet well of reserve music; just a cupful of melodious tone dipped lightly out of the surface. Her face hadn’t become anything; but it was equally miraculous in its total void of all expression relating to this moment, or to any moment; just her beauty, her permanent stationary beauty, was there glowing in it and through it, not skin deep, but going back and back into her lazy eyes, and shining from within the modulated bloom of her color and the depths of her amber hair. She was choosing, for this occasion, to be as impersonal as some radiant hour in nature, some mellow, motionless day when the leaves have turned, but have not fallen, and it is drowsily warm; but it wasn’t so much of nature that she, in her harmonious lustre, reminded me, as of some beautiful silken-shaded lamp, from which color rather than light came with subdued ampleness. I saw her eyes settle upon the flowers that I had brought Eliza La Heu. “How beautiful those are!” she remarked. “Is there something that you wish?” inquired Miss La Heu, always miraculously sweet. “Some of your good things for lunch; a very little, if you will be so kind.” I had gone back to my table while the “very little” was being selected, and I felt, in spite of how slightly she counted me, that it would be inadequate in me to remain completely dumb. “Mr. Mayrant is still at the Custom House?” I observed. “For a few days, yes. Happily we shall soon break that connection.” And she smelt my flowers. “‘We,’” I thought to myself, “is rather tremendous.” It grew more tremendous in the silence as Eliza La Heu brought me my orders. Miss Rieppe did not seat herself to take the light refreshment which she found enough for lunch. Her plate and cup were set for her, but she walked about, now with one, and now with the other, taking her time over it, and pausing here and there at some article of the Exchange stock. Of course, she hadn’t come there for any lunch; the Cornerlys had midday lunch and dined late; these innovated hours were a part of Kings Port’s deep suspicion of the Cornerlys; but what now became interesting was her evident indifference to our perceiving that lunch was merely a pretext with her; in fact, I think she wished it to be perceived, and I also think that those turns which she took about the Exchange—her apparent inspection of an old mahogany table, her examination of a pewter set—were a symbol (and meant to be a symbol) of how she had all the time there was, and the possession of everything she wished including the situation, and that she enjoyed having this sink in while she was rearranging whatever she had arranged to say, in consequence of finding that I should also hear it. And how well she was worth looking at, no matter whether she stood, or moved, or what she did! Her age lay beyond the reach of the human eye; if she was twenty-five, she was marvelous in her mastery of her appearance; if she was thirty-four, she was marvelous in her mastery of perpetuating it, and by no other means than perfect dress personal to herself (for she had taken the fashion and welded it into her own plasticity) and perfect health; for without a trace of the athletic, her graceful shape teemed with elasticity. There was a touch of “sport” in the parasol she had laid down; and with all her blended serenity there was a touch of “sport” in her. Experience could teach her beauty nothing more; it wore the look of having been made love to by many married men. Quite suddenly the true light flashed upon me. I had been slow-sighted indeed! So that was what she had come here for to-day! Miss Hortense was going to pay her compliments to Miss La Heu. I believe that my sight might still have been slow but for that miraculous sweetness upon the face of Eliza. She was ready for the compliments! Well, I sat expectant—and disappointment was by no means my lot. Hortense finished her lunch. “And so this interesting place is where you work?” Eliza, thus addressed, assented. “And you furnish wedding cakes also?” Eliza was continuously and miraculously sweet. “The Exchange includes that.” “I shall hope you will be present to taste some of yours on the day it is mine.” “I shall accept the invitation if my friends send me one.” No blood flowed from Hortense at this, and she continued with the same smooth deliberation. “The list is of necessity very small; but I shall see that it includes you.” “You are not going to postpone it any more, then?” No blood flowed at this, either. “I doubt if John—if Mr. Mayrant—would brook further delay, and my father seems stronger, at last. How much do I owe you for your very good food?” It is a pity that a larger audience could not have been there to enjoy this skilful duet, for it held me hanging on every musical word of it. There, at the far back end of the long room, I sat alone at my table, pretending to be engaged over a sandwich that was no more in existence—external, I mean—and a totally empty cup of chocolate. I lifted the cup, and bowed over the plate, and used the paper Japanese napkin, and generally went through the various discreet paces of eating, quite breathless, all the while, to know which of them was coming out ahead. There was no fairness in their positions; Hortense had Eliza in a cage, penned in by every fact; but it doesn’t do to go too near some birds, even when they’re caged, and, while these two birds had been giving their sweet manifestations of song, Eliza had driven a peck or two home through the bars, which, though they did not draw visible blood, as I have said, probably taught Hortense that a Newport education is not the only instruction which fits you for drawing-room war to the knife. Her small reckoning was paid, and she had drawn on one long, tawny glove. Even this act was a luxury to watch, so full it was of the feminine, of the stretching, indolent ease that the flesh and the spirit of this creature invariably seemed to move with. But why didn’t she go? This became my wonder now, while she slowly drew on the second glove. She was taking more time than it needed. “Your flowers are for sale, too?” This, after her silence, struck me as being something planned out after her original plan. The original plan had finished with that second assertion of her ownership of John (or, I had better say, of his ownership in her), that doubt she had expressed as to his being willing to consent to any further postponement of their marriage. Of course she had expected, and got herself ready for, some thrust on the postponement subject. Eliza crossed from behind her counter to where the Exchange flowers stood on the opposite side of the room and took some of them up. “But those are inferior,” said Hortense. “These.” And she touched rightly the bowl in which my roses stood close beside Eliza’s ledger. Eliza paused for one second. “Those are not for sale.” Hortense paused, too. Then she hung to it. “They are so much the best.” She was holding her purse. “I think so, too,” said Eliza. “But I cannot let any one have them.” Hortense put her purse away. “You know best. Shall you furnish us flowers as well as cake?” Eliza’s sweetness rose an octave, softer and softer. “Why, they have flowers there! Didn’t you know?” And to this last and frightful peck through the bars Hortense found no retaliation. With a bow to Eliza, and a total oblivion of me, she went out of the Exchange. She had flaunted “her” John in Eliza’s face, she had, as they say, rubbed it in that he was “her” John;—but was it such a neat, tidy victory, after all? She had given away the last word to Eliza, presented her with that poisonous speech which when translated meant:— “Yes, he’s ‘your’ John; and you’re climbing up him into houses where you’d otherwise be arrested for trespass.” For it was in one of the various St. Michael houses that the marriage would be held, owing to the nomadic state of the Rieppes. Yes, Hortense had gone altogether too close to the cage at the end, and, in that repetition of her taunt about “furnishing” supplies for the wedding, she had at length betrayed something which her skill and the intricate enamel of her experience had hitherto, and with entire success, concealed—namely, the latent vulgarity of the woman. She was wearing, for the sake of Kings Port, her best behavior, her most knowing form, and, indeed it was a well-done imitation of the real thing; it would last through most occasions, and it would deceive most people. But here was the trouble: she was wearing it; while, through the whole encounter, Eliza La Heu had worn nothing but her natural and perfect dignity; yet with that disadvantage (for good breeding, alas!, is at times a sort of disadvantage, and can be battered down and covered with mud so that its own fine grain is invisible) Eliza had, after a somewhat undecisive battle, got in that last frightful peck! But what had led Hortense, after she had come through pretty well, to lose her temper and thus, at the finish, expose to Eliza her weakest position? That her clothes were paid for by a Newport lady who had taken her to Worth, that her wedding feast was to be paid for by the bridegroom, these were not facts which Eliza would deign to use as weapons; but she was marrying inside the doors of Eliza’s Kings Port, that had never opened to admit her before, and she had slipped into putting this chance into Eliza’s hand—and how had she come to do this? To be sure, my vision had been slow! Hortense had seen, through her thick veil, Eliza’s interest in John in the first minute of her arrival on the bridge, that minute when John had run up to Eliza after the automobile had passed over poor General. And Hortense had not revealed herself at once, because she wanted a longer look at them. Well, she had got it, and she had got also a look at her affianced John when he was in the fire-eating mood, and had displayed the conduct appropriate to 1840, while Charley’s display had been so much more modern. And so first she had prudently settled that awkward phosphate difficulty, and next she had paid this little visit to Eliza in order to have the pleasure of telling her in four or five different ways, and driving it in deep, and turning it round: “Don’t you wish you may get him?” “That’s all clear as day,” I said to myself. “But what does her loss of temper mean?” Eliza was writing at her ledger. The sweetness hadn’t entirely gone; it was too soon for that, and besides, she knew I must be looking at her. “Couldn’t you have told her they were my flowers?” I asked her at the counter, as I prepared to depart. Eliza did not look up from her ledger. “Do you think she would have believed me?” “And why shouldn’t—” “Go out!” she interrupted imperiously and with a stamp of her foot. “You’ve been here long enough!” You may imagine my amazement at this. It was not until I had reached Mrs. Trevise’s, and was sitting down to answer a note which had been left for me, that light again came. Hortense Rieppe had thought those flowers were from John Mayrant, and Eliza had let her think so. Yes, that was light, a good bright light shed on the matter; but a still more brilliant beam was cast by the up-country bride when I came into the dining-room. I told her myself, at once, that I had taken flowers to Miss La Heu; I preferred she should hear this from me before she learned it from the smiling lips of gossip. It surprised me that she should immediately inquire what kind of flowers? “Why, roses,” I answered; and she went into peals of laughter. “Pray share the jest,” I begged her with some dignity. “Didn’t you know,” she replied, “the language that roses from a single gentleman to a young lady speak in Kings Port?” I stood staring and stiff, taking it in, taking myself, and Eliza, and Hortense, and the implicated John, all in. “Why, aivrybody in Kings Port knows that!” said the bride; and now my mirth rose even above hers. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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