The Buccaneers

The three mothers — Mrs. St George, Mrs. Elmsworth, and Mrs. Closson — have all made an attempt to launch their daughters in New York, where their husbands are in business, but have no social standing (the families, all of very ordinary origin, being from the south-west, or from the northern part of the state of New York). The New York experiment is only partly successful, for though the girls attract attention by their beauty they are viewed distrustfully by the New York hostesses whose verdict counts, their origin being hazy and their appearance what was then called “loud.” So, though admired at Saratoga, Long Branch and the White Sulphur Springs, they fail at Newport and in New York, and the young men flirt with them but do not offer marriage.

Mrs. St George has a governess for her youngest daughter, Nan, who is not yet out. She knows that governesses are fashionable, and is determined that Nan shall have the same advantages as the daughters of the New York aristocracy, for she suspects that her daughter Virginia’s lack of success, and the failure of Lizzy and Mabel Elmsworth, may have been due to lack of social training. Mrs. St George therefore engages a governess who has been in the best houses in New York and London, and a highly competent middle-aged woman named Laura Testvalley (she is of Italian origin — the name is corrupted from Testavaglia) arrives in the family. Laura Testvalley has been in several aristocratic families in England, but after a run of bad luck has come to the States on account of the great demand for superior “finishing” governesses, and the higher salaries offered. Miss Testvalley is an adventuress, but a great- souled one. She has been a year with the fashionable Mrs. Parmore of New York, who belongs to one of the oldest Knickerbocker families, but she finds the place dull, and is anxious for higher pay and a more lavish household. She recognizes the immense social gifts of the St George girls, and becomes in particular passionately attached to Nan.

She says to Mrs. St George: “Why try Newport again? Go straight to England first, and come back to America with the prestige of a brilliant London season.”

Mrs. St George is dazzled, and persuades her husband to let her go. The Closson and Elmsworth girls are friends of the oldest St George girl, and they too persuade their parents to let them try London.

The three families embark together on the adventure, and though furiously jealous of each other, are clever enough to see the advantage of backing each other up; and Miss Testvalley leads them all like a general.

In each particular family the sense of solidarity is of course even stronger t

unexciting. Now that he’s managed to scrape together a little money — the first time a Thwarte has ever done it by the work of his hands or his brain

No, no; for there’ll be other days soon. And other chances. Goethe was a very young man when he wrote Clarchen’s song. The next time I come to Champions I’ll bring Faust with me, and show you some of the things life taught him.”

“Oh, are you coming back to Champions? When? Before I leave?” she asked eagerly; and he answered: “I’ll come whenever Lady Glenloe asks me.”

Again he saw her face suffused with one of its Clarchen-like illuminations, and added, rather hastily: “The fact is, I’ve got to hang about here on account of the possible bye-election at Lowdon. Ushant may have told you-”

The illumination faded. “He never tells me anything about politics. He thinks women oughtn’t to meddle with such things.”

Guy laughed. “Well, I rather believe he’s right. But meanwhile, here I am, waiting rather aimlessly until I’m called upon to meddle... And as soon as Champions w

falling a victim to some unscrupulous woman.”

“Yes,” Miss Testvalley acquiesced, a faint glint of irony in her fine eyes. “I can imagine how anxious you must be.”

“Oh, desperately; as anxious as the mother of a flirtatious daughter—”

“I understand that.”

“And you make no comment?”

“I make no comment.”

“Because you think in this particular case I’m mistaken?”

“I don’t know.”

Sir Helmsley glanced through the window at the darkening terrace. “Well, here he is now. And a lady with him. Shall we toss a penny on which it is — Corisande or Kitty? Oh — no! Why, it’s the little Duchess, I believe...”

Miss Testvalley still remained silent.

“Another of your pupils!” Sir Helmsley continued, with a teasing laugh. He paused, and added tentatively: “And perhaps the most interesting — eh?”

“Perhaps.”

“Because she’s the most intelligent — or the most unhappy?”

Miss Testvalley looked up quickly. “Why do you suggest that she’s unhappy?”

“Oh,” he rejoined, with a slight shrug, “because you’re so incurably philanthropic that I should say your swans would often turn out to be lame ducks.”

“Perhaps they do. At any rate, she’s the pupil I was fondest of and should most wish to guard against un- happiness.”

“Ah—” murmured Sir Helmsley, on a half-questioning note.

“But Lady Glenloe must be ready to start; I’d better go and call the Duchess,” Miss Testvalley added, moving toward the door. There was a sound of voices in the hall, and among them Lady Glenloe’s, calling out: “Cora, Kitty — has any one seen the Duchess? Oh, Mr. Thwarte, we’re looking for the Duchess, and I see you’ve been giving her a last glimpse of your wonderful view...”

“Not the last, I hope,” said Guy smiling, as he came forward with Annabel.

“The last for today, at any rate; we must be off at once on our long drive. Mr. Thwarte, I count on you for next Saturday. Sir Helmsley, can’t we persuade you to come too?”

The drive back to Champions passed like a dream. To secure herself against disturbance, Nan had slipped her hand into Miss Testvalley’s, and let her head droop on the governess’s shoulder. She heard one of the Glenloe girls whisper: “The Duchess is asleep,” and a conniving silence seemed to enfold her. But she had no wish to sleep: her wide-open eyes looked out into the falling night, caught the glint of lights flashing past in the High Street, lost themselves in the long intervals of dusk between the villages, and plunged into deepening night as the low glimmer of the west went out. In her heart was a deep delicious peace such as she had never known before. In this great lonely desert of life stretching out before her she had a friend — a friend who understood not only all she said, but everything she could not say. At the end of the

“Ah, I’m glad you’ve got a good fire. They tell me it’s very cold this evening. So delighted you’ve come, my dear; you must need a change and a rest after a series of those big Longlands parties. I’ve always wondered how your mother-in-law stood the strain... Here you’ll find only the family; we don’t go in for any ceremony at Champions — but I hope you’ll like being with my girls... By the way, dinner may be a trifle late; you won’t mind? The fact is, Sir Helmsley Thwarte sent a note this morning to ask if he might come and dine, and bring his son, who’s at Honourslove. You know Sir Helmsley, of course? And Guy — he’s been with you at Longlands, hasn’t he? We must all drive over to Honourslove... Sir Helmsley’s a most friendly neighbour; we see him here very often, don’t we, Miss Testvalley?”

The governess’s head was bent to the grate, from which a coal had fallen. “When Mr. Thwarte’s there, Sir Helmsley naturally likes to take him about, I suppose,” she murmured to the tongs.

“Ah, just so! — Guy ought to marry,” Lady Glenloe announced. “I must get some young people to meet him the next time he comes... You know there was an unfortunate marriage at Rio — but luckily the young woman died... leaving him a fortune, I believe. Ah, I must send word at once to the cook that Sir Helmsley likes his beef rather underdone... Sir Helmsley’s very particular about his food... But now I’ll leave you to rest, my dear. And don’t make yourself too fine. We’re used to pot-luck at Champions.”

Annabel, left alone, stood pondering before her glass. She was to see Guy Thwarte that evening — and Miss Testvalley had reproached her for not thinking enough about the details of her dress and hair. Hair-dressing had always been a much-discussed affair among the St George ladies, but something winged and impatient in Nan resisted the slow torture of adjusting puffs and curls. Regarding herself as the least noticeable in a group where youthful beauty carried its torch so high, and convinced that, wherever they went, the other girls would always be the centre of attention, Nan had never thought it worth while to waste much time on her inconspicuous person. The Duke had not married her for her beauty — how could she imagine it, when he might have chosen Virginia? Indeed, he had mentioned, in the course of his odd wooing, that beautiful women always frightened him, and that the qualities he especially valued in Nan were her gentleness and her inexperience— “And certainly I was inexperienced enough,” she meditated, as she stood before the mirror; “but I’m afraid he hasn’t found me particularly gentle.”

She continued to study her reflection critically, wondering whether Miss Testvalley was right, and she owed it to herself to dres

“Oh, Ushant — how generous, how noble!”

The Duchess’s hard little eyes filled with sudden tears. Her mind was torn between wrath at her daughter-in- law’s incredible exactions, and the thought of what such generosity on her own husband’s part might have meant to her, with those eight girls to provide for. But Annabel had no daughters — and no sons — and the Dowager’s heart had hardened again before her eyes were dry. Would there be no limit to Ushant’s weakness, she wondered?

“You’re the best judge, of course, in any question between your wife and yourself; but I hope Annabel will never forget what she owes you.”

The Duke gave a short laugh. “She’s forgotten it already.”

“Ushant-!”

He crimsoned unhappily and again averted his face from his mother’s eyes. He felt a nervous impulse to possess himself of the clock on the mantel-shelf and take it to pieces; but he turned his back on the temptation. “I’m sorry to bother you with these wretched details... but... perhaps one woman can understand another where a man would fail...”

“Yes-?”

“Well, you see, Annabel has been rather nervous and uncertain lately; I’ve had to be patient. But I thought — I thought when she found she’d gained her point about the money... she... er... would wish to show her gratitude...”

“Naturally.”

“So, when the men left the smoking-room last night, I went up to her room. It was not particularly late, and she had not undressed. I went in, and she did thank me... well, very prettily... But when I... when I proposed to stay, she refused, refused absolutely—”

The Dowager’s lips twitched. “Refused? On what ground?”

“That she hadn’t understood I’d been driving a bargain with her. The scene was extremely painful,” the Duke stammered.

“Yes; I understand.” The Dowager paused, and then added abruptly: “So she handed back the envelope — ?”

Her son hung his head. “No; there was no question of that.”

“Ah — her pride didn’t prevent her accepting the bribe, though she refused to stick to the bargain?”

“I can’t say there was an actual bargain; but — well, it was something like that...”

The Dowager sat silent, her needles motionless in her hands. This, she thought, was one of the strangest hours of her life, and not the least strange part of it was the light reflected back on her own past, and on the weary nights when she had not dared to lock her door...

“And then-?”

“Then — well, the end of it was that she said she wanted to go away.”

“Go away?”

“She wants to go off somewhere — she doesn’t care where — alone with her old governess. You know; the little Italian woman who’s with Augusta Glenloe and came over the other night with the party from Champions. She seems to be the only person Annabel cares for, or who, at any rate, has any influence over her.”

The Dowag

at this intrusion. “Where did you come from? Why aren’t you out with the guns?” she stammered.

“I was to have been; but a message came from Low- don to say that Sir Hercules is worse, and Ushant has asked me to prepare some notes in case the election comes on sooner than we expected. So I wandered up the hill to clear my ideas a little.”

Nan stood looking at him with a growing sense of resentment. Hitherto his presence had roused only friendly emotions; his nearness had even seemed a vague protection against the unknown and the inimical. But in her present mood that nearness seemed a deliberate intrusion — as though he had forced himself upon her out of some unworthy curiosity, had seized the chance to come upon her unawares.

“Won’t you tell me why you are crying?” he insisted gently.

Her childish anger flamed. “I’m not crying,” she retorted, hurriedly pushing her handkerchief into her pocket. “And I don’t know why you should follow me here. You must see that I want to be alone.”

The young man drew back, surprised. He too, since the distant day of their first talk at Honourslove, had felt between them the existence of a mysterious understanding which every subsequent meeting had renewed, though in actual words so little had passed between them. He had imagined that Annabel was glad he should feel this, and her sudden rebuff was like a blow. But her distress was so evident that he did not feel obliged to take her words literally.

“I had no idea of following you,” he answered. “I didn’t even know you were here; but since I find you in such distress, how can I help asking if there’s nothing I can do?”

“No, no, there’s nothing!” she cried, humiliated that this man of all others should surprise her in her childish wretchedness. “Well, yes — I am crying... now... You can see I am, I suppose?” She groped for the handkerchief. “But if anybody could do anything for me, do you suppose I’d be sitting here and just bearing it? It’s because there’s nothing... nothing... any one can do, that I’ve come here to get away from people, to get away from everything... Can’t you understand that?” she ended passionately.

“I can understand your feeling so — yes. I’ve often thought you must.” She gave him a startled look, and her face crimsoned. “But can’t you see,” he pursued, “that it’s hard on a friend — a man who’s ventured to think himself your friend — to be told, when he sees you in trouble, that he’s not wanted, that he can be of no use, that even his sympathy’s unwelcome?”

Annabel continued to look at him with resentful eyes. But already the mere sound of his voice was lessening the weight of her loneliness, and she answered more gently: “You’re very kind—”

“Oh, kind!” he echoed impatiently.

“You’ve always been

large sum. Has your dress-maker led you on rather farther than your means would justify?”

Nan reddened. Her dress-maker! She wondered if Ushant had ever noticed her clothes? But might he not be offering her the very pretext she needed? She hated having to use one, but since she could think of no other way of getting what she wanted, she resolved to surmount her scruples.

“Well, you see, I’ve never known exactly what my means were... but I do want this money...”

“Never known what your means were? Surely it’s all clearly enough written down in your marriage settlements.”

“Yes; but sometimes one is tempted to spend a trifle more...”

“You must have been taught very little about the value of money to call five hundred pounds a trifle.”

Annabel broke into a laugh. “You’re teaching me a lot about it now.”

The Duke’s temples grew red under his straw-coloured hair, and she saw that her stroke had gone home.

“It’s my duty to do so,” he remarked drily. Then his tone altered, and he added, on a conciliatory note: “I hope you’ll bear the lesson in mind; but of course if you’ve incurred this debt it must be paid.”

“Oh, Ushant-”

He raised his hand to check her gratitude. “Naturally... If you’ll please tell these people to send me their bill.” He rose stiffly, with another glance at his watch. “I said a quarter of an hour — and I’m afraid it’s nearly up.”

Nan stood crestfallen between her husband and the door. “But you don’t understand...” (She wondered whether it was not a mistake to say that to him so often?) “I mean,” she hurriedly corrected herself, “it’s really no use your bothering... If you’ll just make out the cheque to me I’ll—”

The Duke stopped short. “Ah—” he said slowly. “Then it’s not to pay your dress-maker that you want it?”

Nan’s quick colour flew to her forehead. “Well, no- it’s not. I — I want it for... my private charities...”

“Your private charities? Is your allowance not paid regularly? All your private expenditures are supposed to be included in it. My mother was always satisfied with that arrangement.”

“Yes; but did your mother never have unexpected calls — ? Sometimes one has to help in an emergency...”

The two faced each other in a difficult silence. At length the Duke straightened himself, and said with an attempt at ease: “I’m willing to admit that emergencies may arise; but if you ask me to advance five hundred pounds at a moment’s notice it’s only fair that I should be told why you need it.”

Their eyes met, and a flame of resistance leapt into Nan’s. “I’ve told you it’s for a private charity.”

“My dear, there should be nothing private between husband and wife.”

She laughed impatiently. “Are you trying to say you won’t give me the money?”

“I’m saying quite the contrary. I’m ready to give it if you’ll tell me what you

“But, Conchie, it’s not being bad to be unhappy—”

“No, darling; and goodness knows I’m unhappy enough. But I suppose it’s wrong to try to console myself — in the way I have. You must think so, I know; but I can’t live without affection, and Miles is so understanding, so tender...”

Miles Dawnly, then — Two or three times Nan had wondered — had noticed things which seemed to bespeak a tender intimacy; but she had never been sure... The blood rushed to her forehead. As she listened to Conchita she was secretly transposing her friend’s words to her own use. “Oh, I know, I know, Conchie—”

Lady Dick lifted her head quickly, and looked straight into her friend’s eyes. “You know — ?”

“I mean, I can imagine... how hard it must be not to...”

There was a long silence. Annabel was conscious that Conchita was waiting for some word of solace — material or sentimental, or if possible both; but again a paralyzing constraint descended on her. In her girlhood no one had ever spoken to her of events or emotions below the surface of life, and she had not yet acquired words to express them. At last she broke out with sudden passion: “Conchie — it’s all turned out a dreadful mistake, hasn’t it?”

“A dreadful mistake — you mean my marriage?”

“I mean all our marriages. I don’t believe we’re any of us really made for this English life. At least I suppose not, for they seem to take so many things for granted here that shock us and make us miserable; and then they’re horrified by things we do quite innocently — like that silly reel last night.”

“Oh — you’ve been hearing about the reel, have you? I saw the old ladies putting their heads together on the sofa.”

“If it’s not that it’s something else. I sometimes wonder—” She paused again, struggling for words. “Conchie, if we just packed up and went home to live, would they really be able to make us come back here, as my mother- in-law says? Perhaps I could cable to father for our passage-money—”

She broke off, perceiving that her suggestion had aroused no response. Conchita threw herself back in her armchair, her eyes wide with an unfeigned astonishment. Suddenly she burst out laughing.

“You little darling! Is that your panacea? Go back to Saratoga and New York — to the Assemblies and the Charity balls? Do you really imagine you’d like that better?”

“I don’t know... Don’t you, sometimes?”

“Never! Not for a single minute!” Lady Dick continued to gaze up laughingly at her friend. She seemed to have forgotten her personal troubles in the vision of this grotesque possibility. “Why, Nan, have you forgotten those dreary endless summers at the Grand Union, and the Opera boxes sent on off-nights by your father’s business friends, and the hanging round, fishing for invitations to the Assem

all the other places are foreign. And he hates anything foreign. There are lots of things he’s never done that he feels quite sure he’d hate.”

Guy was silent. Again he seemed to himself to be eaves-dropping — unintentionally leading her on to say more than she meant; and the idea troubled him.

He turned back to his study of the pictures. “Has it ever occurred to you,” he began again after a pause, “that to enjoy them in their real beauty—”

“I ought to persuade Ushant to send them back where they belong?”

“I didn’t mean anything so drastic. But did it never occur to you that if you had the courage to sweep away all those... those touching little — er... family mementoes—” His gesture ranged across the closely covered walls, from illuminated views of Vesuvius in action to landscapes by the Dowager Duchess’s great-aunts, funereal monuments worked in hair on faded silk, and photographs in heavy oak frames of ducal relatives, famous race-horses, Bishops in lawn sleeves, and undergraduates grouped about sporting trophies.

Annabel coloured, but with amusement, not annoyance. “Yes; it did occur to me; and one day I smuggled in a ladder and took them all down — every one.”

“By jove, you did? It must have been glorious.”

“Yes; that was the trouble. The Duchess—”

She broke off, and he interposed, with an ironic lift to the brows: “But you’re the Duchess.”

“Not the real one. You must have seen that already. I don’t know my part yet, and I don’t believe I ever shall. And my mother-in-law was so shocked that every single picture I’d taken down had to be put back the same day.”

“Ah. that’s natural too. We’re built like that in this tight little island. We fight like tigers against change, and then one fine day accept it without arguing. You’ll see: Ushant will come round, and then his mother will, because he has. It’s only a question of time — and luckily you’ve plenty of that ahead of you.” He looked at her as he spoke, conscious that he was not keeping the admiration out of his eyes, or the pity either, as he had meant to.

Her own eyes darkened, and she glanced away. “Yes; there’s plenty of time. Years and years of it.” Her voice dragged on the word, as if in imagination she were struggling through the long desert reaches of her own future.

“You don’t complain of that, do you?”

“I don’t know; I can’t tell. I’m not as sure as Ushant how I shall feel about things I’ve never tried. But I’ve tried this — and I sometimes think I wasn’t meant for it...” She broke off, and he saw the tears in her eyes.

“My dear child—” he began; and then, half-embarrassed: “For you are a child still, you know. Have you any idea how awfully young you are?”

As soon as he had spoken he reflected that she was too young not to resent any allusion to her inexperience. She laughed. “Plea