AUGUSTA was moving restlessly about her boudoir. Her mind was uneasy and a trifle harrowed. For the first time in her life she was not thoroughly satisfied with herself. Once she sat down and opened “Progress and Poverty”; but George had ceased to charm, and she resumed her restless marching. Her boudoir was a scarlet confusion of silk and crêpe, and conducive to cheerfulness. Although it extinguished her drab colouring, Augusta usually felt her best in its glow and warmth; but to-day she felt her worst.
Suddenly she paused. There was a sound of rapid ascent of stair and familiar voices. She opened her door, and a moment later Mrs. Burr and Miss Maitland entered. Both looked unusually grave, and slightly pugnacious. Augusta experienced a disagreeable sensation in her knees.
“Has anything happened?” she asked, after she had greeted them and they were seated.
“Augusta!” said Miss Maitland sternly, “we are perhaps meddling in what is none of our affair; nevertheless, we have made up our minds to speak.”
“Well?”
“Are you trying to get the Duke of Bosworth away from Mabel Creighton?”
“I am not.”
“It looks like it.”
“Does it?”
“You are keeping something back, Augusta,” said Mrs. Burr. “Out with it.”
Miss Forbes recovered herself. “I am going to marry the Duke of Bosworth,” she said distinctly.
“Augusta Forbes!”
“Yes; and I have not cut out Mabel Creighton. I am perfectly willing to justify myself to you, as we have always kept to our compact to stand the truth from each other. He came over here to marry Mabel, but Mr. Creighton could not give him the portion—dot—you know. He is dreadfully embarrassed, but that is a dead secret.”
“And you have out-bid her?”
“I have done nothing of the sort. The thing was quite settled before the Duke spoke to me.”
“He didn’t lose much time. He must have been pretty sure how he would be received before he wound up with Mabel.”
“I did not discuss that part of it with him.”
“It’s too bad you didn’t discuss less. Poor Mabel is a wreck. The way she is trying to keep up is positively pathetic.”
“Well, my not marrying him would not help her.”
“Augusta, you are wood all through.”
The young matron threw herself back in her chair, and beat her knuckles sharply with her lorgnette. Miss Maitland, who had not spoken for some moments, now unburdened herself.
“I have a good deal to say, Augusta, and I am going to say it. You know we all agreed before we came out that we would regard certain matters in a different light from that of most fashionable girls; we agreed, among other things, that, while enjoying all that our wealth and position offered us, we would read, and think, and endeavour to be of some use in the world—not write polemical novels, or belong to clubs, or anything of that sort, but take the very best advantages of the accident of our birth. And we also agreed—do you remember?—that we would cultivate higher ideals than most women care for—particularly in our relations to each other and to men. It is three years since that subject was discussed; but you remember it, I suppose.”
“I do, and I have not broken it.”
“Very well, I shall say no more about that particular phase of the matter; that is for you to settle with your own conscience, and with Mabel. This is what we are chiefly concerned with: there are several ways by which our example can benefit society, and the chief of them is to stop marrying impecunious foreign nobles!”
She paused a moment. Augusta stiffened up, but made no reply. Miss Maitland resumed:
“As long as we continue to jump at titles whenever they come gold-hunting and Jew-flying, just so long shall we—the upper class of the United States, which should be its best—be contemptible in the eyes of the world. Just so long shall we be sneered at in the newspapers, lampooned in novels, excoriated by serious outsiders, and occupy an entirely false place in contemporary history. We are so conspicuous, that everything we do is tittle-tattled in the Press—we are such a god-send to them that it is a thousand pities we don’t give them something worth writing about. Now, my idea is this: that all we New York girls band together and vow not to marry any foreigner of title, English or otherwise, unless he can cap our prospective inheritance by twice the amount—which is equivalent to vowing that we will go untitled to our graves. Also, that such girls as we fail to convert from this nonsensical snobbery, and who insist upon marrying titles whenever they can get them, will see none of us at their weddings.
“Now this is the point: That would not only express to the whole world our contempt for the alliance of the fortune-hunter and the snob, but it would raise the self-esteem of our own men, and be one step toward making them better than they are. You couldn’t convince one of them that we are not all watching the foreign horizon with spy-glasses, waiting to make a break for the first title that appears, and that they have not got to be content with the leavings. But if they saw that we really desired to marry Americans, and, above all, men that we could love and respect, I believe they would make an effort to be worthy of us. That would certainly be one great step gained. The next thing for us to do is to be able to love hard enough to awaken the right kind of love in men.”
“Well?” asked Augusta.
Miss Maitland’s cheeks were flushed. She looked almost beautiful. Augusta felt that she looked pasty, but did not care. She was angry, but determined to control herself.
“You have a great opportunity. Dismiss the Duke of Bosworth, and avow openly that you will only marry an American—that the American at his best is your ideal. How it can be otherwise, as the daughter of your father, passes my comprehension. Will you?”
“Bravo, Alexis!” said Mrs. Burr. “We’ll have to find a man who’s hunting for an ideal woman. And you didn’t mention Socialism once.”
“That belongs to the future. I have come to the conclusion that we must build the house before we can fresco the walls.”
Augusta had risen, and was walking up and down the room. At the end of three or four minutes she paused and faced her visitors, looking down upon them with her habitual calm, slightly accentuated.
“A month ago I should have agreed with you,” she said. “Your ideas, Alex, are always splendid, and, usually, no one is more willing to adopt them than I. But theories sometimes collide with facts. I am going to marry the Duke of Bosworth.”
They rose.
“I hope you’ll scratch each other’s eyes out!” said Mrs. Burr.
“You married for money,” retorted Augusta.
“I did, and my reasons were good ones, as you know. Moreover, I married a man, and an American. If I hadn’t liked him, and if he’d looked as if he’d been boiled for soup, I wouldn’t have looked at him if he’d owned Colorado. Latimer’s wings are not sprouting, and he doesn’t take kindly to the idea of being reformed, but I don’t regret having married him—not for a minute. You will. Maybe you won’t though.”
Miss Maitland had fastened her coat. She gave her muff a little shake.
“Good-bye, Augusta,” she said icily. “It is too bad that you inherited nothing from your father but his iron will.”
And without shaking hands they went out.