The Career of Katherine Bush Part 15

"Father gave me this business capacity," she mused, "but something beyond must have given me this will to achieve--and I _shall_ achieve--all I desire--in time! Only I must be ruthless and have no emotions. I must follow what Bacon a.s.serts about great spirits," and she quoted softly: "'There is not one that hath been transported to the mad degree of love, which shows that great spirits and great business do keep out this weak pa.s.sion.'"

Yes, she would keep out this weak pa.s.sion! She had tasted its joys, and that memory must last her a lifetime.

On the doorstep she encountered Gerard Strobridge just coming out--he raised his hat and said politely that it was an abominably cold day--then he pa.s.sed on down the steps and so towards Hill Street.

And Katherine Bush went up to her room.

CHAPTER IX

The week of the tableaux had come and gone, and had opened yet another window for Katherine Bush to peep at the world from. She already knew many of the people who came to the luncheons and rehearsals, from their letters, and now she judged of them face to face. She had been in great request to take down innumerable orders, and arrange business details, and had listened and inwardly digested what she heard.

Her contempt for some of the company was as great as for Miss Mabel Cawber--she discovered a few with t.i.tles and positions who were what she disdainfully dubbed, "Middle cla.s.s underneath!"

"Only that they have been more used to things, they are as paltry as Mabel," she said to herself, and set about, as was her custom, to find out why--and from what families they had sprung--and obtained some satisfaction in the confirmation of her theory of heredity, in discovering that most of these could lay small claim to blueness of blood. The insolence of others she approved of.

Many of the American peeresses who were posing as queens, and nuns, and Greek G.o.ddesses, she truly admired--they must have been at one time like herself--out to learn--and now were conscious that they had made good.

"But I mean to have more repose of manner when I am there," she told herself.

Of Sarah Lady Garribardine's sayings and views, she kept a great store in her mind. This was a real aristocrat she felt. A human, faulty, strong woman, incapable of meanness or anything which could lower the flag of her order. She was supremely insolent, too, but then she never did anything which could impair people's respect.

She was hard and generous--and acted up to the doctrine that "_n.o.blesse oblige_" and entirely believed in the divine right of kings and of Sarah Lady Garribardine! She had not been a thirteenth century Baron's daughter for nothing! Katherine Bush shared every one of Her Ladys.h.i.+p's views and moulded all her ideals upon them.

Each day she was enlarging her vocabulary of words to use--adapting sentences which she had read of fine English to modern requirements, pruning colloquialisms, cultivating p.r.o.nunciation, polis.h.i.+ng her critical faculties. She was perfectly conscious that she had often employed homely phrases in the past, and had not always paid enough attention to grammar in speaking, though for some time she had not used "whatever for," or "of a Sunday," as poor Matilda always did.

She learned as much comparatively of the general world of society in that one week, as she had learned of the nature of man in her three days with Lord Algy. He was her first step--these women were her second. Lady Garribardine was her head master, and Gerard Strobridge should be her tutor--when the moment she was ready for him came.

Her suspicions as to her employer's disapproval of the d.u.c.h.ess of Das.h.i.+ngton were realised fully one day, in the beginning of the week.

The poor young-old lady's rheumatism was very painful, and she remained in her room having her favourite nephew and Mrs. Delemar up with her there to lunch, on a little table close to her gilt bed.

Katherine was writing at an escritoire near, having finished her own meal downstairs.

"You need not go, Miss Bush, if you can continue those invitations with our chatter."

So Katherine stayed.

The three talked of many things at first and Katherine hardly noticed them, but presently her attention was caught by a name. Mr. Strobridge was saying:

"Seraphim, it will be very difficult to refuse Dulcie Das.h.i.+ngton, she has written to Beatrice this morning--she is quite determined to play the part of Nell Gwyn as the orange-girl."

"Then she can play it in some other _tableaux vivants_--but not in these that I am arranging." Her Ladys.h.i.+p's voice was acid.

"But why, dearest Sarah, are you so down on poor Dulcie?" Mrs. Delemar protested. "She is really a very good sort, and looks so splendid in these short-skirted, rather common clothes."

"I am not hard on her, Lao; I am sure, had she been the wife of a jolly young stockbroker addicted to low practical jokes and rowdy sport, she would have been a most admirable creature. It is not the woman I am down on; there is just such another at Blissington, she helps me with the bazaars and the school treats, her husband is a local brewer, and we are capital friends. It is the d.u.c.h.ess of Das.h.i.+ngton I ostracise, as I consider she has done more to degrade her order in these socialistic days than any other member of our sadly humbled peerage."

The other two laughed amusedly, but Lady Garribardine went on, raising her voice a little. It was a subject upon which she felt so deeply, that it overcame for the moment her usual dryly humorous handling of any matter.

"Let her have her lovers--we have all had lovers--No one in the least objects to them, arranged suitably, and of one's own cla.s.s. I am not concerned with her or any other woman's physical morality.--Such morality is a question of temperament and geography and custom--but I am profoundly concerned to endeavour to keep up some semblance of dignity in the aristocracy, and Dulcie Das.h.i.+ngton has lowered the whole prestige of d.u.c.h.esses because she is of gentle birth--though Heaven knows what her father was with poor dear Susan's irresponsible ways!"

Gerard Strobridge smiled as he lit a cigarette.

"There is a great deal in what you say, Seraphim; she has certainly dragged the t.i.tle down a good deal, with her fancies for professional gamesters of all sorts for friends, and her total disregard of tradition at Das.h.i.+ngton--but you forget that she has had a good deal to put up with from Toni, who is an impossible husband."

"No man is an impossible husband if he is a Duke; at least no d.u.c.h.ess ought to find him so--and if he were, that is not the slightest excuse.

When a woman undertakes a great position she should realise that personal feelings have ceased to count. She has, so to speak, accepted the responsibility of guarding the safety of an order, just as a sentry is responsible when he is on duty. He would be shot in war time if he fell asleep on duty--however pitiful his case might be from hards.h.i.+p and want of rest. He would be shot as an example to the others not to allow even nature to overcome them and endanger the post."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'No man is an impossible husband if he is a Duke.'"]

"It seems very cruel," piped Mrs. Delemar.

"Not at all!" Lady Garribardine flashed while her voice vibrated with scorn. "We are at war now with the Radical ma.s.ses and cannot afford to jeopardise positions--either keep up prestige, or throw up the game and let the whole thing go by the board, but while we pretend there is still an aristocracy in England we, the members of it, should defend it.

Dulcie Das.h.i.+ngton and her ways and her photographs in the papers, and her vulgarity, and the flaunting of her unsavoury domestic affairs, are a byword and as long as I have a voice in society, and can lay some claim to power, I shall let it be known what my opinion is, and why I will not receive her. To me there is no sin like betraying an order."

"I suppose you are quite right," Mrs. Delemar now agreed meekly, "but there are such lots of odd people in society who do unheard-of things; it is these boys marrying these wretched actresses or Americans which has changed everything."

"Not at all!" contradicted her ladys.h.i.+p. "Boys have always married actresses from time to time, and some of them have proved very decent creatures, and if they do err, what does it matter? No one expects better from them, they are making no real breach in the wall.--And as for Americans, they are often very pretty and so clever that they seldom disgrace their new station; they are like converts to Rome, more zealous than the born papists. The only evil which can lie at their door is that they have too much money, and have given false values to entertaining, and perhaps have encouraged eccentric amus.e.m.e.nts.--No, my dear child, it is the English-women themselves who have lost self-respect, and have lowered the flag, and when one of really high birth does it, like Dulcie Das.h.i.+ngton, she should be made to pay the price."

This was unanswerable Katherine Bush thought as she listened, and she wondered why the other two should chaff lightly, as though it were just one of Lady Garribardine's notions. That is what generally astonished her a good deal; no one appeared to have any convictions or enthusiasm, they seemed to her to be a company of drifters, so little energy appeared to be shown by any of them. They were unpunctual and unpractical, but they were amusing and deliciously happy-go-lucky. If they had any real feelings none appeared upon the surface; even Lady Beatrice and her coterie of highly evolved poetesses and other artistic worldings, flew from theme to theme, turning intent faces upon new fads each week.

Most people's manners were casual, and their att.i.tudes, too, would often have shocked Mabel Cawber, so far were they from being genteel. The few who truly fulfilled Katherine Bush's ideas of the meaning of the word "lady" stood out like stars. But with all these flaws, as a collection of people, there was that ease of manner, that total absence of self-consciousness, about them which never could be known at Bindon's Green.

"I suppose times are changed," Katherine told herself, "and the laxity is producing a new type--I do wonder how they would all behave if some cataclysm happened again, like the French Revolution. But when my day comes I mean to uphold the order which I shall join, as Her Ladys.h.i.+p does."

At the last moment, Lady Beatrice did not go as Ganymede to the Artist Models' ball. The history of her alteration of character was a rather bitterly humorous story for Gerard Strobridge's ears. She had been trying on the dress when a note had arrived with a parcel for her from her husband's aunt, which contained a very beautiful Greek mantle with these few words:

_Dear Child_,

I send you this mantle which I hope you will wear; it will not really spoil the character of your Ganymede dress, and from the back it will hide the fact that your legs are very slightly bowed.

Your charming face will help to distract eyes from the front view, and this very small flaw in your anatomy will pa.s.s unnoticed.

Affectionately yours, SARAH GARRIBARDINE.

She had written it with her own hand. Lady Beatrice stamped with rage, and then flew to her looking-gla.s.s. She stood this way and that, and finally came to the conclusion that there might be the faintest substratum of truth in the accusation. The rest of the limbs were not so perfect as her tiny ankles. It would not be safe to risk criticism. So the costume was altered and became a Flora with garlands of roses and long diaphanous draperies--and Gerard and Lady Garribardine watched her entry with the Vermont party with relieved eyes, and the wily aunt said:

"You can achieve the impossible with women, G., if you only appeal to, or wound, their vanity. You must never give orders to one unless she is in love with you--then she glories in obedience--but a modern wife can only be controlled either on the principle of the Irish-man's pig being driven towards Dublin when it was intended for Cork, or by a Machiavellian manipulation of her self-love."

"And then the game is not worth the candle," Mr. Strobridge sighed with a little discouragement. "I wonder, Seraphim, what is worth while?

Striving for the infinite, I suppose--certainly the finite things are but Dead Sea fruit."

"Gerard, my poor boy, you make me fear, when you talk like that, that one day you will be profoundly in love!"

"Heaven forbid!--It would upset my digestion. I was thirty-five last month and have to be careful!"