Part 9 (1/2)
”When you get a card marked 'Mrs. Devon at home,'” said Oliver. And he went on to tell them about the war which had shaken Society long ago, when the mighty dame had a.s.serted her right to be ”Mrs. Devon,” and the only ”Mrs. Devon.” He told them also about her wonderful dinner-set of china, which had cost thirty thousand dollars, and was as fragile as a humming-bird's wing. Each piece bore her crest, and she had a china expert to attend to was.h.i.+ng and packing it--no common hand was ever allowed to touch it. He told them, also, how Mrs. Devon's housekeeper had wrestled for so long, trying to teach the maids to arrange the furniture in the great reception-rooms precisely as the mistress ordered; until finally a complete set of photographs had been taken, so that the maids might do their work by chart.
Alice went back to the hotel, for Mrs. Robbie Walling was to call and take her home to lunch; and Montague and his brother strolled round to Reggie Mann's apartments, to report upon their visit.
Reggie received them in a pair of pink silk pyjamas, decorated with ribbons and bows, and with silk-embroidered slippers, set with pearls--a present from a feminine adorer. Montague noticed, to his dismay, that the little man wore a gold bracelet upon one arm! He explained that he had led a cotillion the night before--or rather this morning; he had got home at five o'clock. He looked quite white and tired, and there were the remains of a breakfast of brandy-and-soda on the table.
”Did you see the old girl?” he asked. ”And how does she hold up?”
”She's game,” said Oliver.
”I had the devil's own time getting you in,” said the other. ”It's getting harder every day.”
”You'll excuse me,” Reggie added, ”if I get ready. I have an engagement.” And he turned to his dressing-table, which was covered with an array of cosmetics and perfumes, and proceeded, in a matter-of-fact way, to paint his face. Meanwhile his valet was flitting silently here and there, getting ready his afternoon costume; and Montague, in spite of himself, followed the man with his eyes. A haberdasher's shop might have been kept going for quite a while upon the contents of Reggie's dressers. His clothing was kept in a room adjoining the dressing-room; Montague, who was near the door, could see the rosewood wardrobes, each devoted to a separate article of clothing-s.h.i.+rts, for instance, laid upon sliding racks, tier upon tier of them, of every material and colour. There was a closet fitted with shelves and equipped like a little shoe store--high shoes and low shoes, black ones, brown ones, and white ones, and each fitted over a last to keep its shape perfect. These shoes were all made to order according to Reggie's designs, and three or-four times a year there was a cleaning out, and those which had gone out of fas.h.i.+on became the prey of his ”man.” There was a safe in one closet, in which Reggie's jewellery was kept.
The dressing-room was furnished like a lady's boudoir, the furniture upholstered with exquisite embroidered silk, and the bed hung with curtains of the same material. There was a huge bunch of roses on the centre-table, and the odour of roses hung heavy in the room.
The valet stood at attention with a rack of neckties, from which Reggie critically selected one to match his s.h.i.+rt. ”Are you going to take Alice with you down to the Havens's?” he was asking; and he added, ”You'll meet Vivie Patton down there--she's had another row at home.”
”You don't say so!” exclaimed Oliver.
”Yes,” said the other. ”Frank waited up all night for her, and he wept and tore his hair and vowed he would kill the Count. Vivie told him to go to h.e.l.l.”
”Good G.o.d!” said Oliver. ”Who told you that?”
”The faithful Alphonse,” said Reggie, nodding toward his valet. ”Her maid told him. And Frank vows he'll sue--I half expected to see it in the papers this morning.”
”I met Vivie on the street yesterday,” said Oliver. ”She looked as chipper as ever.”
Reggie shrugged his shoulders. ”Have you seen this week's paper?” he asked. ”They've got another of Ysabel's suppressed poems in.”--And then he turned toward Montague to explain that ”Ysabel” was the pseudonym of a young debutante who had fallen under the spell of Baudelaire and Wilde, and had published a volume of poems of such furious eroticism that her parents were buying up stray copies at fabulous prices.
Then the conversation turned to the Horse Show, and for quite a while they talked about who was going to wear what. Finally Oliver rose, saying that they would have to get a bite to eat before leaving for the Havens's. ”You'll have a good time,” said Reggie. ”I'd have gone myself, only I promised to stay and help Mrs. de Graffenried design a dinner. So long!”
Montague had heard nothing about the visit to the Havens's; but now, as they strolled down the Avenue, Oliver explained that they were to spend the weekend at Castle Havens. There was quite a party going up this Friday afternoon, and they would find one of the Havens's private cars waiting. They had nothing to do meantime, for their valets would attend to their packing, and Alice and her maid would meet them at the depot.
”Castle Havens is one of the show places of the country,” Oliver added.
”You'll see the real thing this time.” And while they lunched, he went on to entertain his brother with particulars concerning the place and its owners. John had inherited the bulk of the enormous Havens fortune, and he posed as his father's successor in the Steel Trust. Some day some one of the big men would gobble him up; meantime he amused himself fussing over the petty details of administration. Mrs. Havens had taken a fancy to a rural life, and they had built this huge palace in the hills of Connecticut, and she wrote verses in which she pictured herself as a simple shepherdess--and all that sort of stuff. But no one minded that, because the place was grand, and there was always so much to do. They had forty or fifty polo ponies, for instance, and every spring the place was filled with polo men.
At the depot they caught sight of Charlie Carter, in his big red touring-car. ”Are you going to the Havens's?” he said. ”Tell them we're going to pick up Chauncey on the way.”
”That's Chauncey Venable, the Major's nephew,” said Oliver, as they strolled to the train. ”Poor Chauncey--he's in exile!”
”How do you mean?” asked Montague.
”Why, he daren't come into New York,” said the other. ”Haven't you read about it in the papers? He lost one or two hundred thousand the other night in a gambling place, and the district attorney's trying to catch him.”
”Does he want to put him in jail?” asked Montague.
”Heavens, no!” said Oliver. ”Put a Venable in jail? He wants him for a witness against the gambler; and poor Chauncey is flitting about the country hiding with his friends, and wailing because he'll miss the Horse Show.”
They boarded the palatial private car, and were introduced to a number of other guests. Among them was Major Venable; and while Oliver buried himself in the new issue of the fantastic-covered society journal, which contained the poem of the erotic ”Ysabel,” his brother chatted with the Major. The latter had taken quite a fancy to the big handsome stranger, to whom everything in the city was so new and interesting.”
”Tell me what you thought of the Snow Palace,” said he. ”I've an idea that Mrs. Winnie's got quite a crush on you. You'll find her dangerous, my boy--she'll make you pay for your dinners before you get through!”