The dowager countess and the American girl

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DOWAGER COUNTESS

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AMERICAN GIRL

BY

LILIAN BELL

AUTHOR OF “sir JOHN AND THE AMERICAN GIRL*^ “ THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF AN OLD MAID ”

THE EXPATRIATES^^ ETC,

NEW YORK AND LONDON HARPER (5r BROTHERS PUBLISHERS ^ MCMIII

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Two Copies Received

Copyright Entry

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CLASS XXo. No.

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Copyright, 1903, by Harper & Brothers.

All rights reserved.

Published June, 1903.

TO

MY FRIEND

ALFRED ELY, ESQ.

WHO WAS THE FIRST TO SUGGEST THIS SEQUEL TO

SIR JOHN AND THE AMERICAN GIRL”

THE DOWAGER COUNTESS AND THE AMERICAN GIRL

THE DOWAGER COUNTESS AND THE AMERICAN GIRL

Chapter I HEN he saw from her letters that the

Y Y Dowager Countess of May hew was determined to be nasty about her son Archibald’s marriage to the American girl, and Sir John Chartersea realized that by seeing them safely married in Rome, after their somewhat stormy courtship in Cairo, he had largely taken things into his own hands, he naturally felt his responsibility in the affair. He felt it the more because he knew the dowager of old, and next to his own wife. Lady Chartersea, the dowager was considered to be the most terrible old woman in the county.

It had been much against his will (for Sir John was of a sanguine temperament, in

I spite of experience which should have taught him better) that he was at last convinced that the dowager had taken no account of his wedding present of five thousand pounds to dower the portionless bride, and that she was planning at sight to be even nastier to her American daughter-in-law than she had been in her letters.

But Sir John was a man who, having put his hand to the plough, never turned back. Besides this characteristic, he was an Englishman, and the English are a race which, while perhaps not exactly stubborn, are, at least, firm. Therefore Lady Chartersea, having been reduced almost to a pulp by the extravagance of such a wedding present, was further anguished to discover that Sir John had, during the honey-moon, quietly and unostentatiously established himself the bride’s champion, defender, and haven of refuge whenever the dowager’s letters grew too unbearable. Such conduct on Sir John’s part portended future vexation to the nonetoo-amiable Lady Chartersea when they got back to England.

Sir John possessed, in spite of his worldly wisdom and keen old tongue, the kindest of hearts. He was, in addition, the embodiment of old English chivalry — that chivalry which, although filtered down through generations of mixed blood, is the proudest heritage of the American man of to-day and the gift of the gods American women have most cause to be grateful for.

The dowager countess was proud — proud and poor, a combination which always creates trouble wherever it is found. And as an explanation for the unpleasantness of her letters to her young and sensitive daughter-in-law, recently orphaned and a stranger in a strange land, it can only be asserted as a fact open to dispute that most women are cats at heart, but few, fortunately, feel at liberty to allow their cattishness full play. Those few are women whose social position is so hopelessly low that they feel free to gibe at those above them, and those whose position is sufficiently high and assured not to care what anybody thinks of them.

To this latter class the dowager countess belonged.

Nor was it the most auspicious hour for Edith Joyce to have married a younger son, for the situation, always strained, was just now undergoing a particular tension, as the result of the curious will left by the late earl, Archie’s father.

His elder brother, Geoffrey, the present Earl of Mayhew, had never been a favorite with their father, and his extravagance had so reduced the old earl’s income that he took a dying revenge against his son, and left all his personal property in trust for the first male heir of the Earl and Countess of Mayhew, leaving as little ready money as he could both to his wife, the dowager countess, and to his elder son. Only the entailed property, that which he could not possibly control, went to Geoffrey. To his second son, Archie, he left three thousand a year.

This will seemed bad enough when it was read, but hope was strong that the heir would soon make his appearance and clear the atmosphere as well as the estate; but 4 just a week before the news of Archie’s marriage to his American bride was wired from Rome, Tessie had presented her liege lord and her august mother-in-law with twin girls, which made six, if you please, in seven years.

Certainly, under the circumstances (one pair of twins and four odd ones), one would think poor Tessie not to blame, she having, according to an Americanism of Sir John’s, “put in her best licks.” But the dowager thought differently, and she therefore made a journey to Sudleigh, their place in Sussex, purposely to see Tessie and tell her what she thought of her, which she did with such a freedom and directness of speech that poor Tessie went into convulsions and nearly lost her life.

As for the dowager, the interview had benefited her. It had relieved a certain nervous tension, and she declared she felt better for her visit. She knitted her way back to Mintem Court, firm in the resolution not to pin her faith to that ungrateful Tessie any longer, but to arrange a wealthy match for 5

Archie. She was strengthened in this resolve by her own observations of Mayhew’s increasing flesh and his apoplectic appearance. Her husband, the late earl, had died of apoplexy, as well as his younger brother. Mayhew was sadly like both of them. It was just as well to be prepared for an emergency, the dowager reflected, and get Archie safely married to money.

The following week, a joyous wire from Sir John announced Archie’s marriage in Rome to “the American girl” the dowager had so dreaded in Cairo.

With that, the dowager went into such a purple rage that her own seven daughters, whose numbers should have made her gentle to poor Tessie’s exaggerations in that line, found it expedient to keep out of their mother’s way. As for the dowager, she fell upon Tessie again. This was probably because she could not get at the bride. But the bride was coming, never fear! They were in London even now, and each hour was bringing her nearer and nearer to the welcome awaiting her at Mintern Court, 6 where they were to stay until their own house could be prepared to receive them.

Edith had never been in England. Her invalid mother had died in the South a year previous, and she had gone North to live with her uncle upon an income which supported her in more than comfort. But Edith was a keen-witted, eager, sensitive young girl, with an unusual power of observation and a glorious sense of humor, which very often got her into trouble with the dull. She was not particularly happy in her uncle’s family, so she hailed with delight the prospect of travel in company with the redoubtable Mrs. Richards, a not more unfortunate choice than most travelling companions prove, and straightway the two set off for a tour of the Mediterranean, when in Cairo she met and fell in love with Archie Cavendish.

She possessed an illuminating imagination of the rare sort which could project itself into another’s personality and obtain his point of view. It made her eminently lovable to the clever and broad-minded, but it 7 unfortunately added to her unhappy reputation for cleverness and antagonized the stupid.

It endeared her to Sir John. He, in fact, adored her, and openly declared and paraded the fact, to his wife’s chagrin, but to everybody else’s amusement, for Lady Chartersea was neither lovable nor popular. She and the dowager countess were life-long friends, if so bloodless and pale a companionship may be dignified by that virile name.

Neither Sir John nor the earl had been happy in their marriages, although Sir John was much the finer and nobler man of the two. Sir John, for example, would have been incapable of the post-mortem cruelty of the earl’s will. His nature was larger, grander, more generous, and more forgiving. But they had always been devoted friends, drawn together, not only from their adjoining estates, but the similarity of their wives. These wives differed, however, in this, that whereas Lady Chartersea was devoted to Sir John, and pampered him as only an Englishwoman can pamper and slave for a man, the 8 dowager countess had early seen the futility of such a course with her sterner husband, and had ordained her life separately, with little regard to his pleasure and comfort, except for a fervent respect in words, as became an English wife and mother.

But, always a despot to women and servile to men, the dowager developed, after her husband’s death, into something of a bully. She possessed a certain amount of tact, but her appearance was formidable, and she had acquired that unaccountable ascendency over the lives of her women relatives which one sometimes observes without apparent cause except, perhaps, long precedence and the wholesome fear of a family quarrel.

In this manner, wholly against tradition, the dowager had managed to obtain M intern Court for a residence, instead of retiring to Dower House, the smaller estate provided for dowager countesses of Mayhew. She had come with her seven daughters to visit Tessie at Mintern while Tessie was a bride. Tessie, being dowerless, although the daughter of Sir William Vargrave, and with no end 9 of fashionable relations, the dowager had terrorized her thoroughly and completely. In addition, measles broke out among the seven daughters, and Tessie, always timid, fled with her husband, leaving the dowager in possession. The measles progressed slowly through the seven, and were followed by lingering disorders which would have made the removal of the Mayhews a cruelty. Therefore they stayed on. When they were completely recovered, the dowager invited Tessie down for a visit, but, instead of taking a bold stand, then and there, and asserting herself once for all, Tessie weakly acquiesced, and found herself a guest in one of her own houses, assigned to a suite of guestchambers, while the dowager and her girls were discovered ensconced in the family rooms.

This was a coup d'etat for the dowager. She was trembling in her shoes for fear Tessie would assert herself, but when she found how Tessie took it, instead of gratitude for her daughter-in-law’s amiability, the dowager frankly despised her for her want of spirit,

lO and immediately took steps to put her further into subjection.

Thus it was that Edith paid her respects to her husband’s mother at Mintern Court instead of Dower House.

Chapter II

O N the afternoon of the arrival of the bride and groom, after dawdling away their honey -moon in Italy, the month of May showed the arrival of the lovely English spring.

Mintern Court was an historic but forbidding pile of gray stone, with turrets and towers and cold floors and winding passages calculated to set fire to an enthusiastic American’s blood.

Like many another American woman, Edith had always thirsted for ancestors. As her eyes travelled eagerly over stately, ivy-covered Mintern, her heart throbbed with pride to realize that now she, too, belonged to English history — she had a place in tradition — she had attained to that proudest of proud positions, an earl’s daughter. And because her disposition was sweet, because she loved her husband very tenderly and deeply, she determined not to allow herself to be prejudiced against her new mother — the only mother she could claim — for all she had written so insultingly not only to Archie and herself, but, most humiliating of all, to the Charterseas.

At first she had shrunk from going to Mintern, and had begged to stay in London, where they were being handsomely entertained, until Fernleigh could be made ready for them, but Sir John and Archie, and even Robert Gordon, Lady Chartersea’s brother, had fiouted the idea, and urged her to “ buck up " and show the dowager her spirit.

Thus encouraged, Edith had “bucked up,” and was even now being ushered into the library of Mintern by the old butler, whose expression, as he welcomed her husband, was sufficient for Edith’s susceptible nature. Metaphorically speaking, she then and there took Jepson to her heart.

There was no one in the library, although it was time for tea. The room was damp and chilly, albeit a fire was vainly endeavoring to make itself felt. Archie looked around anxiously.

“Let Lady Mayhew know we are come, Jepson,” he said.

The butler looked up.

“ I thought you knew, sir,” he said, apologetically. “Lady Mayhew is from home. She left Mintern this morning, sir.”

“From home!” exclaimed Archie, involuntarily. Then he recollected himself. “I had not heard. Where is she, Jepson?”

“She didn’t say, sir. She said to say, when you arrived, that she was from home. She said you would understand.”

Archie’s face colored slowly. His blue eyes grew dangerously black.

“Are my sisters here?” he asked, sharply.

“Yes, sir, but — ”

“Desire them to come down immediately,” said Archie, quietly, but with a note in his voice which Edith never heard before.

Jepson bowed and left the room.

Cavendish thrust his hands deep into his pockets and crossed the room to his wife.

But Edith, after one look into his face, exclaimed, eagerly:

“Oh, Archie, what a beautiful old room! I never dreamed it would be so lovely as this. What millions of books, and how well used the place looks. Oh, if you could see some of the American libraries I know!"

Her husband stared at her. Hadn’t she heard Jepson? Didn’t she understand that his mother was deliberately insulting them? Or wasn’t she sensitive? He bent to look into her face. She was white around the nostrils, and her eyes were bright as with a fever. Her cheeks and lips burned scarlet.

Then the man knew and worshipped her.

“Tell me,’’ she went on, a little breathlessly, “was your father proud of all this? Did he live much of his life here ? It seems to me as if he must have. It associates itself at once with the way I think of him.’’

“How clever — no, how sympathetic — you are, dearest! Yes, this was his favorite room. He greatly added to the collection of books, and all these early prints, most rare they are, were his. He and Sir John have spent years of their lives within these four walls.”

“Sir John!” cried Edith. “ I was sure of it. I can see them! They wrangled, didn’t they?”

“ Fairly fought, sometimes, yet loved each other as men sometimes do — through everything.”

Jepson entered, with a deprecating cough.

“ Miss Inch worthy sends her compliments, sir, and says that her ladyship left word, as the young ladies are not at all well this spring, that they are to drink their tea and have no excitement, but go quietly to bed. The doctor’s orders, I believe, sir.”

Archie did not stir from Edith’s side, but she felt his arm, which was touching hers, stiffen.

“Jepson, my compliments to Miss Inchworthy, and tell her I desire her presence and that of the young ladies in the library in ten minutes. If the young ladies have retired, desire them to dress at once and join us at tea. Be so good, Jepson, as to send tea in immediately. Mrs. Cavendish is

i6 greatly in need of it. You get my message, Jepson?”

“Yes, sir. Perfectly, sir. Miss Inchworthy shall be informed at once, sir.”

In less than ten minutes they came — in fact, it seemed to Edith that Miss Inch worthy and her seven charges must have been concealed behind the door, so immediately did they appear.

Edith was well-bred, but, I repeat, she had never been in England before, therefore her breeding was severely strained not to give more than a smile of amiability as one, two, three, four, five, six, seven tall girls, dressed alike, looking alike, walking alike, bowing alike, came up to her like going down a flight of steps, each ash-colored head a few inches shorter than the ash-colored head preceding, each pair of pale eyes fluttering with exactly the same flutter, each right hand damp with the same dampness of all the others.

It was so deadly, unspeakably funny that, as the seven were passing in review before Archie, Edith bent over the Are to conceal an irrepressible nervous giggle, a 17 which instantly smothered itself in a polite cough.

Then she straightened up and ventured another look at them.

After a consulting glance at the governess, they had ranged themselves in a stiff row.

Jepson was bringing tea. Edith looked around wildly.

“Won’t you sit down?” she asked. “Archie, push some chairs nearer the fire for your sisters and Miss Inch worthy.”

Although Archie turned obediently, eight shocked pairs of eyes were fastened upon the bride, and Jepson and the footman sprang to assist him.

In great trepidation the girls were finally seated.

Miss Inchworthy whispered to the eldest girl, who turned immediately to Edith.

“Did you have a comfortable journey?” she asked.

The governess nodded approvingly.

“Oh yes, very,” answered Edith. “I have never before seen an English spring. It is almost too beautiful.”

i8

No one replied.

Miss Inchworthy coughed reprovingly. The second girl started nervously, and, with an apprehensive glance at the cougher, said :

“I am very glad you had a comfortable journey.”

“Thank you,” said Edith, gently. She smiled at the second girl, and the second girl, after a timid appeal to Miss Inch worthy, smiled in return and colored pink clear up to her ash-colored hair.

“Edith,” said Archie, “will you pour tea, or are you too tired?”

“I am not in the least tired,” said Edith.

She rose and went to the tea-table, eight pairs of eyes following her pretty figure and well-poised head with interest. Her black gown fitted her slim waist to perfection and spread around her feet in lines of grace and elegance which the girls had never seen before. Her lovely auburn hair was dressed as thousands of American girls dress theirs, without the slightest dread that an English girl could ever copy it, even though she saw it done every day. Just a loose puff, just a dexterous twist, just a push forward over the forehead by a skilled hand — the fewer hair-pins the better — a final touch of a wide comb, and there you are, with your hair done as no one in all this world can do it, except just the girls who live under the stars and stripes. The sleek undulation of the French, and the fussy fringe of the English, with their eternal invisible nets and inevitable bun, never can hope to compete with the airy grace and the irresistible and unmistakable style of the head of a well-groomed American girl.

In a dim way the seven sisters watching Edith felt this. She seemed by her rounded slimness to accentuate their awkwardness. Her small wrists and narrow feet made their thick ankles and stout boots more than ever conspicuous. They thought her extremely beautiful and her manner very gentle and kind as she, by dint of much coaxing, finally extracted from them the information that they took three lumps of sugar each. They thought her simply fascinating when, with a little smile, she put a fourth in their saucers.

and Inch worthy did not forbid their slipping it into their sirupy tea.

Still their mother’s cautions told. They felt that this charm was the charm of evil, and this fascination was something to watch and pray over as a temptation of the devil. The American was like a forbidden French novel to them. They would dearly have loved to meet her advances and dip into her at will, but they were wholesomely afraid of the contamination she would be to them.

Their brother sat looking at them with eyes which had been cultivated by two months of close companionship with his American wife. If he had not known Edith, he would have taken them as a matter of course, and not noticed them more than usual. They were, after all, quite like other English girls who were still in the school-room. But now he looked at them with amazement. Surely Inch worthy was cruel to caricature them with such clothes and such manners. But, as he looked at the governess, he reflected that poor Inchworthy was incapable of the imagination of a caricature or of comprehending one if she saw it.

The seven ladies were so plainly anguished by the situation that their brother released them as soon as the tea was over, and Inchworthy piloted them hurriedly back to safety.

But with their disappearance Archie’s embarrassment returned. He pulled at his mustache, dug his hands into his pockets, knocked down the fire-irons, and gave so many other signs of perturbation that Edith, who was a great believer in taking the bull by the horns, finally tucked her hand under his arm and said:

“Never mind, Archie, dear. I know how you feel — I know how I should feel in your place. Your mother has behaved outrageously in her endeavor to show her displeasure, so why not admit it and be done with it? I don’t believe in dodging about and pretending you don’t see a thing which is as fiagrant as this. But don’t allow it to spoil your home-coming, for it is home to you if it isn’t to me, and, above everything, never let her see that we were annoyed or even surprised. In the mean time, I am free to admit that, apart from her rudeness, I am glad not to be obliged to face her until I am rested. And oh, Archie, could we look at the house to-night — all by ourselves.? I would so love to explore it with candles!”

Her tall husband smiled down at her and patted the hand on his arm.

“Your way is best, dear. I feel so relieved, now that I see how you are taking it. But don’t imagine, because I can’t talk about it, that I am not awfully cut up. I’ve always known that my mother had her faults, but she has her good qualities, too, and I have always been able to respect her. But her behavior since our marriage has lowered her in my esteem more than I like to realize, and more than I would have believed possible. It is — it is an awful thing, Edith, when a parent deliberately does a thing which loses her the respect of a child I I never realized the — how shall I say it? — the obligation which rests upon parents to live up to certain conventions or traditions which must compel their children’s respect. I swear to you, Edith, I feel most awfully cut up — for my mother, you understand — on her account. She has lost ground with me so immeasurably. She has lost a place in my esteem which she can never regain. I feel bowled over, by Jove, to discover what sort of a woman she is!”

“Poor Archie,” said Edith. “You take away half the sting of her actions by the unmistakable way in which you array yourself on my side. I was afraid, from the idea I gleaned of you in Egypt, that you would prefer loyalty to your family to loyalty to anybody else on earth — even a wife — ”

“ Stop a moment, Edith. I try to be just. I believe I am just, and, in this case, there seems to me to be but one side to take, and that is your side. My mother has not a leg to stand on. She is wholly in the wrong. In Cairo — well, that was different. You must see how different it was to this case. You know I am no good at expressing myself, but you understand.”

“Well, don’t dwell on it any more. We 24 understand each other, and we will bear it as best we can and—”

“And we’ll get out at the earliest possible moment, won’t we, little woman?”

“We will, indeed.”

“Now, there’s the dressing-bell. Come along. And after dinner, armed with candles — ”

“We’ll explore,” cried Edith, with such enthusiasm that Archie’s brow cleared, and Edith thought the worst was over, but twenty minutes later he rapped on her door and stood on the threshold in his shirt-sleeves, wrestling with his tie, to say, with a threatening wag of his blond head:

“Not that I sha’n’t give her a good talking to — a regular wigging — on account of this, for I shall.”

Then he closed the door again, and when he emerged finally he said no more.

Theirs was a merry dinner, full of laughter and freedom from restraint, and a complete satisfaction to Jepson, whose face relaxed as he served his young master, until, under some, he might have lost his place for smiling.

And after dinner they explored indeed, Edith making so lovely a picture in her satin gown, the exact color of her hair, with the amber necklace, bracelets, and stomacher, the stones of which Archie had got for her in Egypt and had cut and mounted in Paris, that when she held her candle above her head, the better to examine a tapestry or old painting, Archie forgot everything but to look at her and admire her and wonder at her loveliness, and he was only recalled by hot wax spilled on his hand from his own candle.

They had made a hasty tour of the more interesting parts of Mintem, and were loitering in the picture-gallery, when the sound of carriage - wheels and a hurried running to the door of the younger footman revealed the fact that the dowager countess had returned. ^

Archie and Edith were on the stairs in the act of descending to the library again when this occurred, and almost immediately the hearty and welcome sound of Sir John Chartersea’s voice so amazed them that, without 26 waiting to be summoned, they came on down directly.

The dowager retired to the library without a word.

“Why, whatever in the world — ” began Archie, going up to Sir John.

“Never better, Archie! I assure you, I was never better. In fact, I feel like a new man. And, Edith, meh girl, you look like an etching — a beautiful artist-proof etching, signed by the hand of a master!”

“Dear Sir John,” laughed Edith.

Archie dismissed the footman at a sign from Sir John, and then the old man said, in a low tone:

“I haven’t enjoyed mehself so much in years. Archie, meh boy, you’ll forgive me, I know, for I can see by your face that the blood of your father, the old fighting Mayhew blood, is up. Listen. I found her at Arlesworth. She had come over, if you please, to welcome us. Fancy! Leaving you and Edith to get on as best you could without a welcome, except from the servants and the dogs! I saw the whole thing, 27 in a moment, and, without saying a word, I ordered the horses put to, and I told her to put on her bonnet, and I fetched her home. By Jove! I never gave her a chance. I fetched her home. Meh wife is furious. But I fetched Lady Mayhew home, by the Lord Harry! And, Archie, I can see it in your eye that you were going to have your say out with her. But if you will let your father’s friend advise you — I wouldn’t. The fact is, old man, I talked to her a little mehself, and I haven’t left anything to say!”

Sir John laughed until he choked, and Archie was obliged to thump him on the back to bring him to. His keen, old, blue eyes twinkled as they rested on his little American girl.

As Archie turned to lead the way into the library. Sir John stopped and whispered in Edith’s ear:

“She’s always needed just what she got to-night. Poor Mayhew never dared, but I’ve avenged him at last. I give you meh word, I haven’t enjoyed mehself so much 28 in years. Now, then, go in and speak to her. Has Archie told you she was google-eyed?”

Edith was in the open doorway as this last whisper reached her. It was too late to retreat, for the dowager had spied her and was holding out her hand. She was, indeed, “ google-eyed ” — that is to say, her pale, bulging eyes seldom seemed to have the same intention at the same time, so that, in their rolling, they gave a stranger the impression that she could see behind her.

Sir John was in such spirits that he was plainly delighted by Edith’s confusion, for she was trembling visibly in her effort not to break into hysterical laughter. The countess was slightly mollified by her agitation, which she set down to Edith’s knowledge of her position.

“You must be tired, mother,’’ said Archie, when the first awkward greetings were over. “Won’t you have a glass of port and a biscuit?”

“I have not even dined,” said the dowager.

“No, she wouldn’t stay. Meh wife begged her to,” said Sir John, “but after she had seen with her own two eyes that Robert and Jane hadn’t brought me home a corpse, nothing would do but she must hurry right home to welcome you two.”