Gertrude Atherton - Ancestors

Flora replied at random. “Jack couldn’t very well get on without you.”

His mother’s eyes flashed. “I flatter myself he could not—at present. If Julia Kaye would only marry him!”

“She won’t,” cried Flora, relieved at the change of tone. “And why do you wish it? She is two years older, of quite dreadful origin—and—well—I don’t like her; perhaps my opinion is a little biased.”

“She is immensely rich, one of the ablest political women in London, and Jack is desperately in love with her.”

“I cannot picture Jack in extremities about any one, although I don’t deny that he has his sentimental seizures. He even made love to me when he was cutting his teeth. But he doesn’t need a lot of money, you rank higher than she among the political women, and—well, I believe her to be bad-tempered, and more selfish than any woman I have ever known.”

“He loves her. He wants her. He would dominate any woman he married. He is such a dear that no woman who lived with him could help loving him. Moreover, she is inordinately ambitious, and Jack’s career is the most promising in England.”

“Jack is far too good for her, and I am glad that he will not get her. I happen to know that she has made up her mind to marry Lord Brathland.”

“Bratty is a donkey.”

“She would be the last to deny it, but he is certain to be a duke if he lives, and she would marry a man that had to be led round with a string for the sake of being called ‘your grace’ by the servants. She’ll never be anything but a third-rate duchess, and people that tolerate her now will snub her the moment she gives herself airs. But I suppose she thinks a duchess is a duchess.”

“Money goes pretty far with us,” said Lady Victoria, dryly.

“Doesn’t it? Nevertheless—you know it as well as I do—among the people that really count other things go further, and duchesses have been put in their place before this—you have done it yourself. Julia Kaye has kept her head so far because she has been hunting for strawberry leaves, and there is no denying she’s clever; but once she is in the upper air—well, I have seen her as rude as she dares be, and if she became a duchess she would cultivate rudeness as part of the rôle.”

“We can be rude enough.”

“Yes, and know how to be. A parvenu never does.”

“She is astonishingly clever.”

“Duchesses are born—even the American ones. Julia Kaye has never succeeded in being quite natural; she has always the effect of rehearsing the part of the great lady for amateur theatricals. Poor Gussy Kaye might have coached her better. The moment she mounts she’ll become wholly artificial, she’ll patronize, she’ll give herself no end of ridiculous airs; she won’t move without sending a paragraph to the Morning Post . The back of her head will be quite in line with her charming little bust, and I for one shall walk round and laugh in her face. She is the only person that could inspire me to such a vicious speech, but I am human, and as she so ingenuously snubs me as a person of no consequence, my undazzled eyes see her as she is.”

Lady Victoria, instead of responding with the faint, absent, somewhat irritating smile which she commonly vouchsafed those that sought to amuse her, lit another cigarette and leaned back among the cushions of the sofa behind the tea-table. She drew her eyelids together, a rare sign of perturbation. The only stigma of time on her face was a certain sharpness of outline and leanness of throat. But the throat was always covered, and her wardrobe reflected the most fleeting of the fashions, assuring her position as a contemporary, if driving her dressmaker to the verge of bankruptcy. When her bright, black, often laughing eyes were in play she passed with the casual public, and abroad, as a woman of thirty, but with her lids down the sharpness of the lower part of the face arrested the lover of detail.

“Are you sure of that?” she asked, in a moment.

“Quite.”

“I am sorry. It will be a great blow to Jack. I hoped she would come round in time.”

“She will marry Brathland. I saw Cecilia Spence in town. She was at Maundrell Abbey with them both last week. You may expect the announcement any day—she’ll write it herself for the Morning Post . How on earth can Jack find time to think about women with the immense amount of work he gets through?—and his really immodest ambitions! By-the-way—isn’t this polling-day? I wonder if he has won his seat? But as I said just now I do not associate Jack with defeat. His trifling set-backs have merely served to throw his manifest destiny into higher relief.”

“The telegram should have come an hour ago. I have few doubts—and yet he has so many enemies. I wonder if we shall be born into a world, after we have been sufficiently chastened here, where one can get one’s head above the multitude without rousing some of the most hideous qualities in human nature? It is a great responsibility! But there has been no such speaker, nor fighter, for a quarter of a century.” Her eyes glowed again. “And heaven knows I have worked for him.”

“What a pity he is not a Tory! He could have a dozen boroughs for the asking. I wish he were. The whole Liberal party makes me sick. And it is against every tradition of his family—”

“As if that mattered. Besides, he is a born fighter. He’d hate anything he could have for the asking. And he’s far too modern, too progressive, for the Conservative party—even if there were anything but blue-mould left in it.”

“Well, you know I am not original, and my poor old dad brought us up on the soundest Tory principles; he never would even compromise on the word Conservative. But considering that Jack is as Liberal as if the taint were in the marrow of his bones, what a blessing that poor Artie did not happen to be the oldest son. Cecilia says they were all talking of it at Maundrell Abbey, where of course it is a peculiarly interesting topic. That ornamental and conscientious peer, Lord Barnstable, has never ceased to regret his father’s death, for reasons far removed from sentimental. He told Cecilia that Lord Strathland almost confessed to him that he would give his right eye to hand over his old shoes to Jack, not only because he detests Zeal, but because it would take the backbone out of his Liberalism—”

“And ruin his career. Thank heaven Zeal is engaged at last. They will marry in the spring, and then the only cloud on Jack’s horizon will vanish.”

“What if there were no children?”

“There are so much more often than not—that is the least of my worries. He had five girls by his first wife; there is no reason why this splendid cow I have picked out should not produce a dozen boys. I never worked so hard over one of Jack’s elections—not only to overcome Zeal’s misogyny, which he calls scruples, but I had to fight Strathland every inch of the way. When I think of Jack’s desperation if he were pitchforked up into the Peers—you do not know him as I do.”

“Well, he is safe for a time, I fancy. There has been consumption in the family before, and always the slowest sort—”

A footman entered with a yellow envelope on a tray.

Lady Victoria opened it without haste or change of color.

“Jack is returned,” she said.

“How jolly,” replied the other, with equal indifference.

“You look tired—I will take you up to your room. Vicky has so many on her hands.”

The American rose slowly, but with a flash of gratitude in her eyes.