Contrary Cousins Page 4

  “Yes,” said Tony, taking a seat near her aunt, on the other side of the tea tray from Freddy. “Our side of the family lives there; but my cousin resides in Baltimore.”

  “By Jove!” exclaimed Freddy, leaning forward rather more eagerly than civility required. He had been quite taken aback by the brilliance of his American cousin. She had a famous little figure, and her face was really rather extraordinary. “By Jove!” cried he again, “how famous! Are they very different?”

  “Different? Well, I suppose they are. Yes, to an American I suppose they are quite different. To an Englishman, they might not appear so.”

  Freddy did not seem to catch her subtle inflection, and beaming at the young lady, nearly dropped the cup of tea his aunt was handing him.

  “Antonia’s father,” chirped Lady Pendleton, smiling back and forth between them, “is the mayor of Philadelphia. So borin’!”

  “No, Auntie—that was my grandfather.”

  “Oh, dear, of course! Well, but your family still rules that city, don’t it?”

  “Hardly rules it, Auntie,” replied Antonia with a gentle smile. “In America, cities are not ruled, but governed. And as to that, I hardly think we govern anything, save our own lives.”

  “Really, dear, how fascinatin’!” exclaimed Lady Pendleton, blinking at her. “Well, but you were awfully hospitable to me, I’m sure, even if you don’t rule anything!”

  Freddy gave his aunt a reproving look. “Honestly, Aunt Winnie! I believe Miss Powell’s distinction between ‘rule’ and ‘government’ is perfectly insightful. How positively fascinating democracy is, to be sure. Is it doing well, Miss Powell?”

  Antonia, momentarily confused, smiled back at him. “Very well, thank you. Would you not say so, Auntie?”

  “Oh, perfectly!” cried Aunt Winifred, glad of being asked anything. She was growing a little nervous, what with Freddy nearly falling out of his chair, and Antonia sitting back so calmly and, she thought, coldly. “The buns are marvelous! Never ate so many in all my life!”

  Both young people now looked rather startled.

  “A true test,” said Freddy finally, “of a well-organized government!”

  “Indeed,” responded Antonia, with her first really warm smile at the young man. She allowed her eyes to linger upon him for a moment, and for the first time noticed that his chin was very good, and that he had a most appealing smile. Freddy, feeling the look, grew rather warm, and felt it necessary to loosen the folds in his neckcloth.

  “Well!” said he, trying to forget the throbbing in his temples, “I hope you shall like our old England!”

  “I’m sure I shall,” responded Tony.

  Serena coming in just then interrupted what might have been an awkward silence, and reminded Antonia that she aught to dislike anyone who disliked her cousin. A sharp examination of Mr. Howard’s conduct toward that lady, however, drew forth no criticism. Though certainly not so eager as he had been toward Antonia, his greeting of Serena was perfectly civil and friendly. Serena was so shy that she soon slipped into a chair as if it had been a hole, and everyone forgot about her. After some little overtures (which, in truth, were more like the incoherent chirpings of a squirrel) Lady Pendleton turned her attention back to the others with a sigh. She was surprised to see that Freddy had changed his place, and, having drawn up a foot stool so that he could sit beneath the shadow of the younger Miss Powell, was interrogating her about the vessel.

  “What’s that, dear? Oh, yes—the motion! Frightful! Hate it myself—much better to sit quietly. Did it, really? Poor Serena!”

  Three pairs of eyes turned upon the last mentioned, and Serena, who would have preferred to sit unnoticed in her corner, found herself being cross-examined.

  “Oh! It wasn’t so very awful. At least—well, I was rather queasy, but only for a little.”

  Antonia gave her an encouraging smile. “It wasn’t nearly so bad, do you think, as the voyage out? I thought I would go under, and you know, I am never sick!”

  “By Jove, is that so?” exclaimed Freddy eagerly. Everything about Miss Antonia Powell seemed to strike him as wonderful and amazing.

  “Oh, heaven, no! Papa says I am like a rock. Never sick, never faint—nothing so feminine!”

  “Oh, I’m sure that’s not so!” protested Aunt Winifred, who generally only followed about half of a conversation. “You are very feminine, dear. Don’t you think so, Freddy?”

  Freddy hardly need have answered, for his eyes were so full of such passionate agreement that nothing his tongue was capable of could have contradicted them.

  “Wonderfully!” breathed he.

  Antonia could not deny that she was flattered by the gentleman’s evident admiration. Nothing becomes a pretty girl so well as being admired, and Antonia, much used to masculine attentions, had missed them since leaving Philadelphia. Her father was more interested in cathedrals and museums than in balls, and, since they had been under his supervision, the cousins had contented themselves with sightseeing and whatever invitations to dinner her father did not at once refuse. She had missed the solicitations of men, much as a musician might miss his instrument, on being deprived of it for several months. To flirt and be flirted with was certainly among her greatest talents, and it was an art which, close to seeing perfection in her hands, had grown a little rusty from disuse. Now, as one might flex one’s fingers before sitting down to play, Antonia felt her powers gather about her. She gave the gentleman at her side a little arch smile, and saw how he returned it—it was clear he was not unused to the game! “Oh, tosh!” said she, with a laugh, “I am nothing wonderful.” But, to cut off any protestation from the gentleman, she remarked to Lady Pendleton:

  “Serena is very eager to see the sights, Auntie. I hope we shall have an opportunity to go about a little tomorrow?”

  “As much as you please,” replied Lady Pendleton. “You shall have my carriage whenever you like.” The darting look from her nephew made her add quickly, “And of course you shall want to look into the shops! I have got a perfectly dashin’ little woman in Park Place—but perhaps . . .” Lady Pendleton’s voice dwindled off in dismay.

  But, “Oh, have you, Auntie?” Antonia exclaimed joyfully. “Serena did so hope you would! But of course—you are so elegant, you would have!”

  Antonia beamed at her aunt, unmindful of the curious gazes being directed at herself, and rushed on. “It’s so stupid to waste anything really nice upon an ocean voyage, and of course we had hoped to completely reconstruct our wardrobes in Europe, but of course the French tariffs being what they are—or rather the English—dear me! In any case, it did not seem very wise to bring over any silk from France. And so we hoped—Serena positively begged me—to inquire of you if there was a decent dressmaker about.”

  Antonia took a little breath and directed her gaze at her hostess, who was opening her mouth and blinking, and looking generally as astonished as possible. This was nothing to the astonishment of Serena, who had bidden no such thing, nor to that of Freddy Howard, for whom it was intended.

  “Why, of course, darlin’—you shall have anything you like. Madame Violet—silly name, of course—they all do—is a positive mire of fashion. Is she not, Freddy?”

  “Oh, absolutely! She gets you up don’t she, Auntie?” Freddy winked at Antonia, who pretended not to notice.

  “Positive mire, my dear—that’s the term, isn’t it?”

  Here there was a little silence, until Freddy pointed out that “mire,” while very appropriate to a description of a bog, did not seem to give the desirable ring to that of a dressmaker.

  “Oh, dear, of course! Meant mirror! How borin’!”

  Thus the hint, which Antonia had meant to give Mr. Howard, disappeared from the conversation. Having by necessity to include Lady Pendleton, that did not portend much coherence, nor was there anything said of any great import until after the footman came in to collect the tea tray, and to announce that Bentley had returned with the young ladies’ luggage
safely in tow. Freddy rose a moment later with some reluctance.

  “Must you, dear?” inquired his aunt.

  “Must, I’m afraid. Expected to dine at Boodles, and on to the theater afterwards. Opera night, don’t you know.”

  Freddy looked quite as regretful as he sounded.

  “Oh! I should love to visit the Opera! Tony, shouldn’t you?” The sound of Serena’s soft and wistful voice made everyone start.

  “Eh, should you really?” inquired Freddy, looking uncomfortable. “Well, we shall have to see about that. Simplest thing in the world, of course—perhaps next week! You shall still be here?” His inquiring look was directed at Antonia, who replied, “We are at Lady Pendleton’s disposal. What d’you say, Auntie?”

  “Next week, next week? Ooh, la, la—I suppose so! Dear me, how I hate the Opera!”

  “Well, you needn’t trouble, Auntie—I shall be more than honored to escort your guests,” said Freddy, with a very gallant bow to Antonia. “Perhaps on the evening you are required by the Prince?”

  “Dear me! I had nearly forgot.”

  Thus was the plan laid. They were all three to go and see a new Italian episode on the following Thursday. Freddy lingered at the door, wanting most dreadfully to invite Miss Antonia Powell to drive with him on the morrow—he had a new barouche, quite trim and light, and should have loved to have showed off his skill with the ribbons. There was, however, the matter of her cousin, who evidently was destined to follow her relation like a shadow. With a doubtful sideways glance, Freddy took in again the long gawky figure, hunched forward so eagerly, the dowdy brown traveling costume, and the rather extraordinarily-colored hair, pulled severely away from her face. With a tightening of his heartstrings, he kept silent, and bowed his way out.

  Chapter IV

  Upon quitting his aunt’s house, Freddy went directly to his own rooms in St. James Street, there to dress for dinner. As he stood with outstretched arms while his man slipped on his waistcoat and brushed down the handsome black evening coat for which Freddy still owed Hanson thirty guineas (together with innumerable other guineas for various other articles of vanity) his expression was markedly improved from what it had been earlier in the day. The vision of Theonia Ulridge which had haunted his fantasy for the past forty-eight hours had miraculously vanished; in its place there now hung a rather dazzling likeness of the American Miss Powell. Charming creature! Dashing, neat, light-footed—everything, in fact, which Freddy most admired in womankind, and more besides: for Miss Antonia Powell appeared to possess a certain brilliancy of mind which Theonia, for all her gazellelike charms, did not. Perhaps Miss Powell lacked something of his old love’s absolute symmetry of feature. But then, she was vivid, while Theonia (thought the suddenly disenamored Freddy) had always been rather pale and monochrome. Theonia was rich, a decided stroke in her favor—especially at the nonce—but was it not altogether possible that Miss Powell was richer?

  He hoped so, indeed he did. Turning to the looking glass to arrange the complicated knot of his neckcloth, Freddy was hard-pressed to see his own reflection through the stars dancing in his eyes. These stars had been brought out, as it were, by the sudden recollection of certain hushed conversations he had overheard in his youth. Murmurs hardly audible—for to mention the American cousins aloud had been unthinkable during all his growing up—now floated up from the wonderful reservoir of memory which stores without favor bits and pieces of seemingly inconsequential nonsense against such a time as this, when the fragments might be put to practical use. Had not there been talk of vast fortunes, earned at the expense of of the Crown, and, what’s worse, in trade? Vast fortunes earned in trade were, of course, anathema to those possessors of vast fortunes earned through birth. But Freddy, who was a modern and unprejudiced young man, and a second son besides, had not his relatives’ contempt for earned money. Wealth of any kind, at the moment, seemed particularly desirable; and that such a virtue might be added to the list of Miss Powell’s other merits struck him as a happy chance of fate. Indeed, had not everyone always said he was lucky?

  An optimist by nature, Freddy had hardly set foot outside his door, and, putting off a little longer the need for economy, hailed down a hansom, when he had determined in his soul that his own fate and that of Miss Powell were destined to comingle. The same streets and monuments which had this afternoon struck him as oppressive now made him hum a cheerful little tune and tap his cane upon the floor of the carriage. Boodles, that bastion of masculine solidarity, was reached almost before he knew it, and hopping down, he pressed a shilling into the coachman’s hands with the words, “Keep the change, my good man.”

  The doorman, an ancient fellow who had know his father and his father’s father before him, welcomed him warmly and said that Mr. Lytton-Smythe was waiting in the Reading Room. Freddy found his friend ensconced in one of those massive red leather chairs which are the chief mark of superiority of men’s clubs over private residences, and for the comfort of which men regularly desert their own hearths.

  “Ah!” said “Cuffs” Lytton-Smythe, glancing up from his Daily Courier, “I was beginning to think you had mistaken the day, old chap. Been reading here about Bentham’s latest skirmishes in the House—abominable pluck the fellow’s got!”

  “Sorry, Cuffs—waylaid at my aunt’s house. You know what it is!”

  Mr. Lytton-Smythe, with a little sideways smile, said that he knew all about aunts. The two proceeded toward the paneled supper room, and there, ensconced across the table from each other, passed some moments in deciding what wine they would imbibe. Having settled upon a ’78 claret with their mutton and a ’93 Lafitte with their pheasant, they proceeded on to other matters.

  “And how is Lady Pendleton?” inquired Cuffs with a lean look. He nearly always wore a lean look, as he was a poet. Not one of your lyrical poets, though, thought Freddy, smiling back at him. Cuffs described himself as a spiritual esthete and an artistic atheist: more of an affectation than an accurate description, however, for though he was given to writing terse lines, swept clean of the romantic metaphors of Byron, his cynicism was born precisely of the sort of high ideals with which true romantics are so woefully afflicted. It had sometimes crossed Freddy’s mind—a mind notable for its lack of introspection at other times—that his friend would have had an easier time of it, had he not paid such close attention to those ideals of conduct, whether his own or another’s. It was certainly due to the dim view he took of feminine scruples in general which made him steer clear of the whole designing lot of them. Unlike Freddy, who took unceasing delight from the tricks and vanities of womankind, and who would not have traded all their deviousness for the soul of one pure angel, Cuffs was so convinced that no such creature walked upon Earth, that he had long ago sworn himself to celibacy. The vow was made, as all his grandest gestures were, with a laugh, but it had held good nonetheless for eight years of majority.

  It was a pity, in the view of a number of London’s comeliest debutantes, for the Honorable Alexander Parniss Winthrop Lytton-Smythe, as he had so wordily been christened, was by no means a paltry catch. Even aside from the considerable titles and fortune he stood to inherit, his person was not in the slightest objectionable. Cut from a different mold from that which produced the dandies of Regent’s Terrace, he was tall and angular, with legs the length of stilts and shoulders very broad, though slim. When he rolled back the sleeves of his blouse, as he sometimes did, when employed in the writing of verse, a length of lean and muscular forearm protruded, evidencing a love of riding, though not to hounds. His love of solitude and antipathy for sport was clearly visible in his eyes, which brooded, dark and liquid, fringed round with black, above the chiseled projection of his cheekbones and almost perfectly sculpted aquiline nose. If he could have hidden them, as he nearly always managed to hide his beautiful hands, he certainly would. They were far too naked, and their changing colors revealed more of his inner self than he would have liked. It was partly to counteract the unfortunate impression
of sheer handsomeness which they produced that he had perfected the skill of folding up his limbs in a remarkable fashion, rather like a cat, or a camel, and of exuding an air of almost apologetic affability. As an extremely slender young man will sometimes be nicknamed “Pudge,” so had the nomenclature of “Cuffs” been fastened on the young Lytton-Smythe, when he was still at Harrow, and already, scarcely out of knee breeches, exhibiting a marked antipathy for the “gentlemanly arts of self-defense.” Freddy Howard, who was all that Lytton-Smythe was not, adored his friend in a way that certain open, amiable, and outwardly self-confident young men do adore those more self-contained than they, and who seem to possess none of their easier charms. He thought Cuffs brilliant, and deep, and admirable in many ways which he could not precisely name. Whatever the case, it had become his wont to confide everything to his friend, and more often than not, to count upon Cuff’s judgment more entirely even than upon his own.

  “Admirable as always—top feather!” responded Freddy, grinning. “I found her all in a heap, with her legs waggling in the air. Said she was ‘practicin’ bowin’ for the Prince’!”

  Cuffs put back his head and laughed. It was a long and hearty laughter, unaffected by self-consciousness or any desire to be thought clever, and it seemed to Freddy the nicest sound in all the world. Some gentlemen at the next table, however, glanced irritably in the direction of the sound, and seeing from whence it came, seemed to shrug, as if to say, “What else could you expect from such a pair?”

  “Your aunt is certainly the most delicious character in England,” declared Cuffs. “If I could pour sauce all over her, and eat her whole, I should.”

  “I shouldn’t!” exclaimed Freddy dispassionately, “I should be afraid to find my digestion stuck upon her mass of ringlets—or that I commenced jabbering away dropping all my endings, as she does!”

  “Bosh, you know you adore her. Who else would have stood by you all this time, when, from the looks of it, your own family seems to have forgotten your existence?”