The Cords of Vanity. A Comedy of Shirking

person opposite. 'My grandfather,' said she in meditation, 'began as a clerk in a country store. Oh of course, we have discovered, since he made his money and since Mother married a Musgrave, that his ancestors came over with William the Conqueror, and that he was descended from any number of potentates. But he lived. He was a rip at first—ah, yes, I'm glad of that as well, —and he became a religious fanatic because his oldest son died very horribly of lockjaw. And he browbeat people and founded banks, and made a spectacle of himself at every Methodist conference, and everybody was afraid of him and honoured him. And I fancy I am prouder of Old Tim Ingersoll than I am of any of the emperors and things that make such a fine show in the Musgrave family tree. For I am like him. And I want to leave something in the world that wasn't there before I came. I want my life to count, I want—why, a hundred years from now I do want to be something more than a name on a tombstone. I—oh, I daresay it is only my ridiculous egotism,' she ended, with a shrug and Stella's usual quick smile,—a smile not always free from insolence, but always satisfactory, somehow.

'It's late hours,' I warned her, with uplifted forefinger, 'late hours and too much bridge and too many sweetmeats and too much bothering over silly New Women ideas. What is the sense of a woman's being useful,' I demanded, conclusively, 'when it is so much easier and so much more agreeable all around for her to be adorable?'

She pouted. 'Yes,' she assented, 'that is my career—to be adorable. It is my one accomplishment,' she declared, unblushingly,—yet not without substantiating evidence.

After a little, though, her gravity returned. 'When I was a girl—oh, I dreamed of accomplishing all sorts of beautiful and impossible things! But, you see, there was really nothing I could do. Music, painting, writing—I tried them all, and the results were hopeless. Besides, Rob, the women who succeed in anything like that are always so queer looking. I couldn't be expected to give up my complexion for a career, you know, or to wear my hair like a golf-caddy's. At any rate, I couldn't make a success by myself. But there was one thing I could do, —I could make a success of Peter. And so,' said Stella, calmly, 'I did it.'

I said nothing. It seemed expedient.

'You know, he was a little—'

'Yes,' I assented, hastily. Peter had gone the pace, of course, but there was no need of raking that up. That was done with, long ago.

'Well, he isn't the least bit dissipated now. You know he isn't. That is the first big thing I have done.' Stella checked it off with a small, spear-pointed, glinting finger-nail. 'Then—oh, I have helped him in lots of ways. He is doing splendidly in consequence; and it is my part to see that the proper people are treated properly.'

Stella reflected a moment. 'There was the last appointment, for instance. I found that the awarding of it lay with that funny old Judge Willoughby, with the wart on his nose, and I asked him for it—not the wart, you understand,—and got it. We simply had him to dinner, and I was specially butterfly; I fluttered airily about, was as silly as I knew how to be, looked helpless and wore my best gown. He thought me a pretty little fool, and gave Peter the appointment. That is only an instance, but it shows how I help.' Stella regarded me, uncertainly. 'Why, but an authorman ought to understand!'

Of a sudden I understood a number of things—things that had puzzled. This was the meaning of Stella's queer dinner the night before, and the ensuing theatre-party, for instance; this was the explanation of those impossible men, vaguely heralded as 'very influential in politics,' and of the unaccountable women, painfully condensed in every lurid shade of satin, and so liberally adorned with gems as to make them almost valuable. Stella, incapable by nature of two consecutive ideas, was determined to manipulate the unseen wires, and to be, as she probably phrased it, the power behind the throne….

'Eh, it would be laughable,' I thought, 'were not her earnestness so pathetic! For here is Columbine mimicking Semiramis.'

Yet it was true that Peter Blagden had made tremendous strides in his profession, of late. For a moment, I wondered—? Then I looked at this butterfly young person opposite, and I frowned. 'I don't like it,' I said, decisively. 'It is a bit cold-blooded. It isn't worthy of you, Stella.'

'It is my career,' she flouted me, with shrugging shoulders. 'It is the one career the world—our Lichfield world—has left me. And I am doing it for Peter.'

The absurd look that I objected to—on principle, you understand— returned at this point in the conversation. I arose, resolutely, for I was really unable to put up with her nonsense.

'You are in love with your husband,' I grumbled, 'and I cannot countenance such eccentricities. These things are simply not done—'

She touched my hand. 'Old crosspatch, and to think how near I came to marrying you.'

'I do think of it—sometimes. So you had better stop pawing at me. It isn't safe.'

I wish I could describe her smile. I wish I knew just what it was that Stella wanted me to say or do as we stood for a moment silent, in this pleasant, half-lit room where brass things blinked in the firelight.

'Old crosspatch!' she repeated….

'Stella,' said I, with dignity, 'I wish it distinctly understood that I am not a funny old judge with a wart on his nose.'

Whereupon I went away.

14. He Participates in a Brave Jest

1

Stella drove on fine afternoons, under the protection of a trim and preternaturally grave tiger. The next afternoon, by a Lichfieldian transition, was irreproachable. I was to remember, afterward, wondering in a vague fashion, as the equipage passed, if the boy's lot was not rather enviable. There might well be less attractive methods of earning the daily bread and butter than to whirl through life behind Stella. One would rarely see her face, of course, but there would be such compensations as an unfailing sense of her presence, and the faint odour of her hair at times and, always, blown scraps of her laughter or shreds of her talk, and, almost always, the piping of the sweet voice that was stilled so rarely.

Perhaps the conscienceless tiger listened when she was 'seeing the proper people were treated properly'? Yes, one would. Perhaps he ground his teeth? Well, one would, I suspected. And perhaps—?

There was a nod of recognition from Stella; and I lifted my hat as they bowled by toward the Reservoir. I went down Regis Avenue, mildly resentful that she had not offered me a lift.

2

A vagrant puff of wind was abroad in the Boulevard that afternoon. It paused for a while to amuse itself with a stray bit of paper. Presently the wind grew tired of this plaything and tossed between the eyes of a sorrel horse. Prince lurched and bolted; and Rex, always a vicious brute, followed his mate. One fancies the vagabond wind must have laughed over that which ensued.

After a moment it returned and lifted a bit of paper from the roadway, with a new respect, perhaps, and the two of them frolicked away over close-shaven turf. It was a merry game they played there in the spring sunlight. The paper fluttered a little, whirled over and over, and scuttled off through the grass; with a gust of mirth, the wind was after it, now gained upon it, now lost ground in eddying about a tree, and now made up the disadvantage in the open, and at last chuckled over its playmate pinned to the earth and flapping in sharp, indignant remonstrances. Then da capo.

It was a merry game that lasted till the angry sunset had flashed its final palpitant lance through the