The Blower of Bubbles Part 34

"He is joining the Horse Guards?"

"Yes. The eldest son always goes into the army until he succeeds to the t.i.tle."

"And the second son?"

"The navy."

A smile lurked in the corners of his mouth. "Supposing the second son proved a bad sailor, what then?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "I suppose he would stay on sh.o.r.e, and probably go to the devil."

He stooped to pick a blade of gra.s.s, and munched it meditatively. "And what happens to the girls?" he asked, after a pause.

Her lips, which were like pomegranates, straightened into a line. "The girls are not of great account," she said, a note of suppressed tension in her voice, which he quite failed to note. "We are educated in a sort of a way, introduced to the arts, but not allowed to pursue the acquaintances.h.i.+p; then we marry--if at all--some one of our set and everybody says, 'Didn't she do well to get him?'"

"And then?"

Again she made a pretty shrug with her shoulders. "Then we move into our new homes, which are much the same as the old ones, and we bring up a family of descendants for our husbands. When the husband dies, the eldest male child takes over the estate, and his wife rules in the mother's place."

"And she leaves, in her declining years, the home which, naturally, she has grown to love?"

"Yes. Why not?"

For several moments neither spoke. Always hasty in its judgments, his brain was fired with a rankling sense of injustice. He thought he saw the explanation of the bloodless good-by to the viscount. The mental inertia of the sons and the emotional placidity of the girl were natural consequences of a hereditary system which dulled personalities and drove initiative into the sc.r.a.p-heap of tradition. It was monstrous that one's future and ent.i.ty should be planned like the life of a hot-house plant; it was no longer a puzzle to him that England's real leaders and thinkers sprang from obscurity. He thanked "whatever G.o.ds there be" that he was born in a country which had only one tradition--that it once rebelled against the past.

He turned towards the girl and gazed argumentatively into her very deep and very blue eyes; then he gasped, and a far-away look crept into his own dark, restless ones.

"_Galatea_," he said, "_is coming to life_."

Subconsciously she had caught his spirit of resentment, and, being a woman, she thrilled to the sense of rebellion in his nature. With the unlocking of her emotions had come the sparkle in the blue depths of her eyes, and the animation which had lit at once the dormant radiancy of her beauty--and his sudden admiration. In addition--though none was needed--the mellowing sun lingered on her hair till it seemed like strands of gold.

"You look like a wild rose," he said irrelevantly, then dashed on into a sea of words. "Are you content with this? Do you never feel a divine restlessness in your nature, urging you to be the architect of your own fate? Are you satisfied to be a mere link in the chain of generations?

Surely the individualistic instinct is not dead in this country?"

He paused, rather astonished, but quite pleased with his burst of oratory.

"What would you have me do?"

"Anything--everything that expresses your own personality. Be yourself, and get away from type."

"I have done a little."

"What? Appeared in a few charity _tableaux vivants_? Posed for your photo in the _Sketch_ as a woman interested in war work?"

"I am sorry," she said demurely, "that you disapprove of me."

"Great Scott!" he said, thrusting his hands into his pockets with an air of defiance, "you are one of the most charming women I've ever seen." He drew himself up to his full height. "But before I succ.u.mb to the beauty of these surroundings and the--the--loveliest----"

"Yes? Please don't hesitate."

"You are mocking me."

"Not at all, Don Quixote. Only why shy at the windmill?"

He surveyed her carefully with his head c.o.c.ked to one side. "I believe you have a sense of humor," he said.

"The daughter of an earl humorous?" She laughed gaily, and her beauty was exceedingly good to look upon.

An uncomfortable feeling crept into the mind of Lawrence Craighouse, officer and satirist, that, though armed with the broadsword of masculine self-a.s.surance, he was being beaten by the stiletto of feminism. His embarra.s.sment, however, was broken by the approach of a servant.

"Pardon me," said Lady Dorothy. "It's the mail."

She took from the salver a letter, which bore the stamp of the Red Cross, and opened it.

"I am so glad," she said, looking up at him; "I have been accepted for France."

"As what?"

"As a V.A.D., my dear knight. I have been one for two years."

He began to think that his broadsword was decidedly worsted, but he made one final and thoroughly masculine attempt to retain the posture of superiority.

"I supposed you soothed a great many convalescent and gallant lieutenants?" he said airily. It was a lamentable attempt, but he felt a sudden jealously of all wounded subalterns.

She pirouetted daintily.

"I was in a Tommies' hospital," she said; "and when I wasn't scrubbing floors I was waiting on the nurses at table--and you have no idea what cats some of them were."

Whereupon Lawrence Craighouse of New York handed over his sword and surrendered unconditionally.

VII

Three days later Craighouse wrote another letter to Mr. Townsend. That gentleman read it with great interest, and noted particularly these pa.s.sages: "They have a library, but nearly every book I have opened has uncut pages." "The daughter, Lady Dorothy Oaklands by name, is quite good-looking, but mentally and emotionally she is asleep." "The old boy showed me the portraits of his ancestors this morning. I made the mistake of asking what each one _did_. It appears that they merely _were_." "I am trying an experiment in feminine psychology--I am acting Pygmalion to Lady Dorothy's Galatea." "The earl appears to be very rich, but quite respectable." "We had some t.i.tled women to lunch to-day. I have at last found out what countesses talk about--how to secure exemption for their gardeners. It has quite done away with the former vice of gossip." "Lady Dorothy plays the piano rather nicely, but with no soul." "Have I mentioned the daughter, Lady Dorothy? She is refres.h.i.+ngly beautiful at times." "I do like the speaking voices of English women when they are not putting on side. Lady Dorothy has a contralto lilt in her voice that is rather pleasing." "Dinner is a tremendous affair. A prune may const.i.tute a course, but nothing reduces the ritual performed by the high priest and his a.s.sistant."

That evening Mr. Townsend looked over the table at his wife.

"My dear," he said, "what happens when an American young man falls in love with the daughter of an English earl?"

"Why, both families object, naturally," said the companion of his joys and sorrows.

VIII

It was the last evening before his departure, and Lady Dorothy had played for him for an hour; played little melodies from _La Boheme_, lesser gems from _Chu Chin Chow_, and twice had explored the delightful memories of Gilbert and Sullivan. Once he sang very softly to her accompaniment, and when they finished she turned abruptly to him.

"You have a voice," she said.

"You play beautifully," he answered.