The Letters of her Mother to Elizabeth Part 11

{_The Doraines_}

Am so glad to hear Valmond has turned up at Chevenix Castle. You have it all your own way now. I hear it was the Doraines who gave the Vane-Corduroys their first start last year. It seems the Doraines were in awfully low water and at their wit's ends what to do. Mrs. Chevington says they had almost decided to go to Boulogne when Lord Doraine met Sir Dennis O'Desmond and advised them to go to Bayswater, for he said that three months there had pulled him straight. It seems you take a house in a terrace, go to the nearest church, and buy groceries and meat in the neighbourhood, and everybody calls. That's the way the Doraines found the Vane-Corduroys. Mrs. Vane-Corduroy was presented by Lady Doraine; it cost an enormous sum, and Lord Doraine told Algy Chevington he was making quite a tidy income in Bayswater terraces. I should think Lord de Manton might follow his example, but I suppose he is too old for Society. Lady de Manton has gone up to London to him. She is not going as stewardess to Jamaica: Lord de Manton has got "put on" to something, it's to do with a Government Contract; and is very secret and mysterious. They have taken a maisonette in Chelsea, and I am so glad for poor Lady de Manton, for they treated her quite like one of themselves at her boarding-house at Weston-super-mare.

{_Society Beauties_}

Your account of the ball was amusing; Octavia looked after you, as I knew she would, and managed to play Valmond very cleverly for you. She wrote me herself to say he was so firmly hooked that he would be landed now without any difficulty. I can't help smiling at your being surprised to find that the Society beauties that the papers rave about are _quite, quite old_, and not really beautiful at all. Did you think that "age could not wither them, nor custom stale their infinite variety"? Nor was I at all surprised to hear that they flirted with boys; they always do at their age; it's their chief amus.e.m.e.nt to pick out the nicest and handsomest boys and make men of the world of them. Dolly Tenderdown may only look fifteen and behave "grown-up," but, depend on it, he knows as much of life as Lord Valmond. Those pretty youngsters have a very quick intelligence, and between the mess-room and the ball-room there is not much that they have not learnt. Immaculate to look at, my experience of them is that they are anything but clean. Tom Carterville belonged to another genus. The Dolly Tenderdown kind only grows when you fertilise the soil, but your Tom Cartervilles grow wild in any soil and in all seasons.

{_Boys in Society_}

I wish boys could be kept out of Society till they are really grown-up, they are such a nuisance. They never know how to preserve their equilibrium, for they are either intense, and make martyrs of themselves like Stefano and Tom, or horrid, fast, impertinent creatures like Dolly.

And there are so many boys in Society now-a-days.

The whole Parker family are at Claridge's, and the Pullman is to take the Taunton guests up to town to-morrow. I shall stop at the Carlton, and remain in London for a few nights, and it is so much gayer there than at the Buckingham Palace _dependances_. It is an awful time of the year for a wedding, but I suppose Miss Parker thinks that if she postpones it, Clandevil may find another bride still richer than herself. Lady Beatrice is not going; she says nothing but family business would take her to town in November. I think the Parkers feel hurt about it, because Lady Beatrice would give a sort of backbone to the marriage feast that n.o.body else would.

{_Hospital Nurses_}

Mrs. Blaine has been p.r.o.nounced out of danger, but the girls have had to give up the "Second Mrs. Tanqueray." The hospital nurse from Bath has been so much trouble that they have had to send her back, and Daisy is nursing her mother. It seems the nurse was very pretty, and Berty, who has never been known to speak to a girl, was found in the dining-room with her at midnight with champagne and biscuits. Blanche said, not between them, for they were sitting so close together there wasn't any room, but in front of them. And poor Mrs. Blaine at 105, and no nourishment had pa.s.sed her lips for hours. Blanche will go up to the wedding with me.

Talking of hospital nurses, it seems the Vane-Corduroys had trouble with theirs too. She wasn't pretty and flirtatious, but middle-aged and "bossy," really to my mind more objectionable than the Blaines'. She had not been at Shotover an hour before she took the measure of the household; the doctor said Mr. Vane-Corduroy must be kept quiet, and the nurse refused to allow even his wife to see him. He was kept as isolated as if he had had the plague, and to amuse him nurse read "Paradise Lost"

aloud to him. She terrorised Mrs. Vane-Corduroy, who fairly quaked in her presence; she kept the servants constantly doing things for her, had her meals served her whenever she fancied them, had the grooms riding into Taunton at all hours of the day and night, and made her power felt thoroughly, besides being paid I don't know how many guineas a day, and if everything was not done just as she wished it and at once, she threatened that Mr. Vane-Corduroy would die as a consequence. Her credentials were so good that even the doctor was afraid of her, but on the second day she fell foul of the _chef_. His suite of rooms was next to hers, and he was composing a _menu_ at the piano, which, as it was after midnight, disturbed nurse a good deal. She complained to Mrs.

Vane-Corduroy the next day, and poor Mrs. Vane-Corduroy, who is terribly afraid of her _chef_, was driven nearly distracted; nurse even sought out the _chef_ himself and ordered him to obey her, and his reply was a gesture more rude than effective, and even went so far as to threaten her if she interfered with his province. That night for dinner there was something with a delicious port-wine sauce, and nurse, who never touches spirits in any shape, didn't know what she was eating, it was so disguised. It upset her equilibrium completely, first, by making her very merry and then by making her horribly sick. She was so firmly convinced that the _chef_ had made an attempt to poison her that she went off the first thing the next day in high dudgeon, to the inexpressible relief of everybody at Shotover.

I have a love of a frock and hat for the wedding. I will write you next from London and let you know how the wedding went off.--Your dearest Mamma.

LETTER XXVIII

THE CARLTON HOTEL Midnight, 13th November

DARLING ELIZABETH:

{_The Wedding_}

{_Wedding Presents_}

The Clandevil-Parker _noces_ took place to-day with great ostentation, as you may imagine. You will read the report of it to-morrow in the _Morning Post_, but I shall probably be able to give you a more graphic account of it. The ceremony was performed by the Bishop of St. Esau at twelve o'clock, at St. George's, Hanover Square, a.s.sisted by other prelates of more or less note in the ecclesiastical world. There was a thick yellow fog that made several people arrive at the church after everything was over, and prevented the crowd from congregating as it would otherwise have done. Blanche and I had excellent seats, as we arrived early; the bride was late owing to the fog, and Clandevil looked awfully bored. Following the American custom, there had been a full-dress rehearsal of the ceremony the day before, and the first five rows of pews had been taken out, and the altar banked with plants. The bridesmaids were all earls' daughters, and the best man was that notorious rake, the Honourable Ralph Swift; everyone was remarking at his cleverness in keeping out of jail. You will read all about the costumes in the _Post_; the bride looked well; the lace on her dress belonged to Marie Antoinette, and the dress itself was an exact duplication of that worn by the Queen of Holland at her Coronation, saving of course the royal mantle. Breakfast was served afterwards at the Dowager d.u.c.h.ess of Clandevil's in Eton Place, where the wedding presents were on show! Their value, apart from Mr. Parker's settlement on the bride, of a square mile of New York with a rental of two million dollars annually, is estimated at five hundred thousand dollars, the more costly gifts coming from across the Atlantic. Mrs. Parker gave her daughter a Holbein; Clandevil gave his bride a tiara of emeralds; the Dowager d.u.c.h.ess gave a hot-water bottle; Royalty sent the bride a lace handkerchief, and the bridegroom a horse-shoe scarf pin set with brilliants; the Hon. Ralph Swift gave a solid silver napkin ring; Mr.

Sweetson gave a necklace of diamonds as big as walnuts; Mrs. Dot gave a dessert set of Sevres specially made with the Clandevil arms on it. The Marchioness of Tuke, Clandevil's only sister, gave a solid silver inkstand, and Lady Doreen Fitz Mortimer and the Countess of Warbeck gave a bog-oak blotting-pad, with a tortoise-sh.e.l.l paper knife; the tenants at Clandevil gave a gold loving-cup, and the servants an oak chest of damask sheets; the clerks in Mr. Parker's office in New York sent five pieces of twelfth-century tapestry, and from various people in America there came many magnificent things. But Mr. Parker, Junior, the brother, who is in Chicago, made a panic on the Stock Exchange, and sent his profits; the cheque was put to the new d.u.c.h.ess's account at Coutts'. The happy pair left for Clandevil Castle, Tipperary, where the honeymoon will be spent. The d.u.c.h.ess will be presented on her marriage at the first drawing-room.

Mr. Parker seemed delighted, and talked a good deal after the breakfast of "my son the Duke;" Mrs. Parker seemed depressed, and when she kissed her daughter good-bye, said, "My child, I hope you will be happy." Mr.

Sweetson talked to me for some time on triumphant democracy, and the effete monarchies of the old world, his favourite subjects. He said it was cheaper to buy dukes in America than in England, but admitted the price fluctuated, and depended entirely on supply, which not infrequently ran short of the demand. The atmosphere of wealth was overpowering; Blanche said she felt as if she were trampling on diamonds. Everybody thinks it will be a most happy match, for there is no pretence at love on either side, and each has got what each most desired. Flaxie Frizzle, the skirt-dancer, and her two children came to the church: everybody remarked how much the boy looked like his father.

{_The Wedding_}

I should have mentioned that the food and drink were beyond cavil. Mr.

Parker told me he always got his "fizz" from the Russian Court, as the best brands were sent there from France. I cannot think of any more to tell you of the wedding; the crowd and the confusion were so great, I found it difficult to take in all that happened.

Blanche and I returned to the Carlton at three o'clock, and went straight to bed to sleep off the effects. When we went to dinner at eight, we saw the Vicomte de Narjac at one of the tables; we had a long chat with him afterwards. He came over to London to purchase an English automobile, and returns to Paris in a couple of days. We told him of the grand wedding we had been to, and he said he had seen a beautifully dressed woman helped out of a hansom, and carried upstairs unconscious, and when he enquired what had happened, the porter had told him in French that she was one of the _invitees aux epousailles de M. le duc de Clandevil avec une des plus grandes heritieres du Nouveau Monde_.

Blanche and I set Therese to find out who it could have been, and she says it was the Marchioness of Portcullis; we noticed at the breakfast that she and Mr. Sweetson were drinking neat brandy, and wondered at the time what would be the result. The Vicomte was stupefied; he thought she was a demi-mondaine.

{_The Lucerne Set_}

{_Mrs. Porter_}

We asked the Vicomte all about the Lucerne set. He says Mr. Wertzelmann has been transferred to St. Petersburg, and that Madame Colorado has gone to spend the winter at the American Emba.s.sy; she was such a dear friend of Mrs. Wertzelmann's. The De Pivarts are in Paris; the Marquis has a _proces_ running in the Courts against the Swiss Government, and hopes he will make enough out of it to start a stud in the spring. It seems the Marquise was arrested on a steamboat on Lake Geneva, being mistaken for Mrs. Phineas Porter, the beautiful American, whose husband shot Monsieur Dupont in the Hotel Beau Rivage. And the New York _Paris Herald_ has been full of it. Mrs. Phineas Porter lives in Paris, and Mr.

Phineas Porter in Chicago; he comes over every year, and, on this occasion, said good-bye to his wife and left for Havre, but returned secretly, and found Mrs. Porter had disappeared. He traced her and Dupont, who is a prominent member of the Jockey Club, to Geneva. He arrived late at night, knocked on his wife's door at the Beau Rivage, who thought he was the chamber-maid, and forced himself in. Mrs. Porter shrieked, and Dupont, who had retired for the night, jumped out of bed, and was chased by Mr. Porter with a loaded revolver through the whole suite of apartments into the last room, and Dupont, caught in a _cul de sac_ as it were, hid behind an arm-chair, where Mr. Porter killed him.

As you may imagine, the affair created a scandal, for the people are so well known in Society. Mr. Porter was arrested by the police, and is now on trial. In the confusion Mrs. Porter disappeared, and has up to the present baffled all attempts to find her. The Marquise de Pivart is said to be the image of her, and, as she was embarking about a week after the affair on a steamboat, to spend the day at Chillon, she was arrested by the stupid Swiss police. The Vicomte says the Swiss authorities apologised most humbly when they discovered their mistake, but both the Marquis and the Marquise would not be satisfied with anything less than heavy damages. The _proces_ has added to the Porter-Dupont _esclandre_, and the reputation of the Marquise has been torn to shreds. The Vicomte says it is very amusing to read the accounts in the _Paris Herald_, and everybody says the Marquis could get a divorce as well as the Marquise, but they swore the deepest affection for one another in the courts, and will swear anything for the chance of touching the pockets of the Swiss Government. They are always seen together just like the _ouvriers_ on Sundays at Nogent-sur-Marne. The Vicomte added that the sacrifices they were making of their private feelings were well worth one hundred thousand francs, the sum they claim as damages.

{_A Roman Prince_}

{_Elasticity of Conscience_}

{_A Prayer for Paquin_}

Old Mrs. Johnson has found a Roman Prince in the place of Count Albert for Rosalie Isaacs. The Vicomte says he is all that can be desired. He has a palazzo like a fortress at Rome, with a priceless collection of Greek marbles which he can't sell, and was so poor that he spent one winter on the Via Corniche, with a monkey and an organ that he borrowed from his former steward, who had just returned from tramping in America with enough to start himself in a small business. But the Prince is not bogus; he has the right to stand in the presence of the King of Italy, and best of all he is a Bourbon _sur la cote gauche_. The Vicomte thinks he cost infinitely less than Clandevil cost the Parkers, and Rosalie's wedding this winter in Rome will be much more magnificent, for the Pope will marry her, and the Royal Family will be present. Mrs. Johnson must be _tres fiere_ of her success. But, as Blanche remarked, the extraordinary part of these American marriages is the elasticity of the religious conscience. The Parkers are Baptists, yet Mr. Parker has been restoring Gothic churches, and Miss Parker, who has been "dipped," was married by the Bishop of St. Esau. And Mrs. Johnson, who told me in Lucerne that she belonged to the Plymouth Brethren, after marrying her daughter to a Jew and her granddaughter to a Roman Catholic, will actually receive the Papal benediction! But of course, as I told Blanche, one must be _a la mode_, and that I asked the Bishop of St.

Esau at the wedding if he would not put in a prayer for Paquin in the Litany after "and all the n.o.bility."

Well, my darling, I must say good-night; it is frightfully late, and the champagne that came from the Russian Court that I had this morning, has given me just a wee bit of a _migraine_.--Your dearest Mamma.

LETTER XXIX

THE CARLTON HOTEL 15th November

DARLING ELIZABETH:

{_A Rainy Day_}

{_At Lunch_}

Yesterday it rained as it only can rain in London in November, and when it stopped for a few minutes there was such a nasty fog. We had breakfast in bed, and didn't get up till quite twelve; it was such a miserable day we didn't know what to do with ourselves, so we went down-stairs and sat in that jolly place with the gla.s.s roof and the palms, and there was quite a good band playing. There were very few people there, as it isn't the season, but about one o'clock a great many people began to come for lunch. Most of the men looked like Jews, and they all wore gold rings with crests on their little fingers. I am sure they were company-promoters, for presently Lord de Manton arrived with poor, tottering Lord Ardath, and joined some of the Israelite people, and they all went in to lunch together. Little Dolly Daydreams of the Tivoli drove up in a hansom with that young simpleton, Percy Felton, of the Scots Greys. We could see them through the gla.s.s doors as they got out of the cab; she lifted her skirt up to her knee to keep it out of the wet, and he kissed her on the ear right in front of the porter. Lady Ann Fairfax, the war-special, had lunch with six khaki men, and they made such a noise at their table we could hear them laughing where we were. Medina, Viscountess Frogmore, and Mrs. Beverley Fruit came together and sat down near us for a few minutes when they were joined by the Bishop of St. Esau and the three had lunch together. The Viscountess was in deep mourning, her c.r.a.pe veil trailed on the ground behind her, and she looked very melancholy; you know her son fell at Magersfontein.

A smart-looking curate, evidently late, rushed up after they sat down.

Blanche says she thinks he is a protege of the Bishop's, he paid the greatest deference to both the Bishop and Lady Frogmore after lunch when they were having coffee outside in the gla.s.s place where the band is. I am sure we shall hear of him one of these days.

{_A Conversation_}

A lank man, with long hair and a flabby face, and a woman who looked the wife of the editor of a newspaper, took the seats next us vacated by Lady Frogmore and Mrs. Fruit. The man criticised Mrs. Fruit's books; Blanche whispered to me that she thought he must be an unsuccessful author, for he hadn't a good word to say for either Mrs. Fruit or her works. The conversation turned on to "An Englishwoman's Love Letters."

The woman said she was dying to know who wrote them; the man became quite mysterious, with a could-if-I-would air. She playfully tapped him on the arm with the handle of her umbrella, and guessed _he_ was the author. He looked very self-satisfied, and admitted he knew who the author was, but was bound by frightful oaths never to divulge the secret. But the woman wouldn't believe him; she declared if he hadn't written the book, he didn't know who did, for she was constantly hearing people say they knew the author and the reason he did not wish his ident.i.ty disclosed.

Then the conversation drifted on to Exeter Hall, and Labouchere and Stead and the Society notes in the _Daily Sensation_, and the War in South Africa, and the man talked of some poems he had written, and what the critics had said of them, and the woman listened. When he had exhausted himself, the woman began. She talked of high life just like a pocket peerage; she told anecdotes of Royalty, which she said were perfectly true; she knew what peers gambled, who married actresses, who were divorced, who had a _menage_ in St. John's Wood, and she knew what peeresses dyed their hair, and where they did it, and what they said and what they thought. She even mentioned Lady Beatrice's name, and said that it was rumoured Tom Carterville had gone back to South Africa, because he was displeased that his mother intended to marry a Low Church curate. Poor Lady Beatrice! She also mentioned me, and that I was the best dressed woman in Society (dear Paquin), and that it was considered very improper of me to let you visit at the places you did. I am sure she was the wife of a journalist, for she knew so much more about Society than Society knew about itself or her.

{_Lunch with the Vicomte_}