Cupid's Understudy, Page 2

  "Domineering! Hear the minx! I'm a regular lamb, Porter. Thatreminds me: When are you going to California!"

  "I hadn't thought. That is, I had thought... That is, I've wished...I mean I've wondered..... I hope you won't think me presumptuous,Mr. Middleton, but I've wondered if you'd allow me to go on the sametrain with you and Miss Middleton."

  "Why, my dear boy, we'd be delighted. Wouldn't we, Elizabeth!"

  Mr. Porter turned to me. "You see, Miss Middleton, you are thesupreme court, after all," his lips said. But his eyes told me whyhe wanted to go on the same train with Dad and me, told me plainerthan words. Perhaps I should have remembered I had never spoken tohim till that morning, but.....

  "The supreme court congratulates the inferior court on the wisdom ofits decision," I said, with an elaborate bow to Dad to hide myconfusion.

  "It's settled!" cried Dad. "This is quite the nicest thing that everhappened," said Mr. Porter. "If only you knew how grateful I am. Ifeel like--like giving three cheers, and tossing my hat in the air."

  "The inferior court rules against hat-tossing as irrelevant,immaterial, and incompetent."

  "Ruling sustained," I said.

  "And they call this a free country!"

  "The newspapers don't. Read the newspapers my boy."

  "At any rate, I now belong to the privileged class. When do weleave, Mr. Middleton?"

  "Elizabeth says to-morrow. We go by rather a slow train."

  "But why?" I began.

  "Because, my dear, an all-wise Providence has decreed that expresstrains shall not haul private cars."

  "Oh, I say!" exclaimed Mr. Porter. "That makes all the difference inthe world."

  "Only a day's difference."

  "I mean....."

  "You're going as our guest, you know."

  "But really, Mr. Middleton, I never....."

  "Don't be absurd, my boy."

  "No," said Mr. Blakely Porter, "I won't be absurd. I shall be morethan glad to go as your guest."

  "That's the way it should be. Isn't it, Elizabeth!"

  "I didn't know you owned a private car, Dad."

  "Pshaw!" said Dad. "What's a private car?"

  I smiled at what I was pleased to term "Dad's magnificence," littlethinking I was soon to look on private cars as one of the mostdelectable of modern inventions.

  Chapter Five

  Our train left Grand Central Station at two o'clock next afternoon;it was bitter cold, I remember, and I drove to the station,smothered in furs. But our car was wonderfully cozy and comfortable,and it warmed my heart to see how proud Dad was of it: I mustinspect the kitchen; this was my stateroom, did I like it? I mustn'tjudge Amos by his appearance, but the way he could cook--he was awonder at making griddle cakes. Did I still like griddle cakes? "Anddo look at the books and magazines Mr. Porter brought. And a box ofchocolates, too. Wasn't it kind of him?" Dear Dad! He was like achild with a new toy.

  I'm sure he enjoyed every minute of the trip. Mr. Porter playedcribbage with him (Dad adores cribbage) by the hour; they talkedrailroads, and politics, and mining--I don't think Dad had been sohappy in years. I know I had never been so happy, for I was sure Mr.Porter loved me. I couldn't help being sure; his heart was in hiseyes every time he looked at me.

  When we started from New York, we were Mr. Middleton, and Mr.Porter, and Miss Middleton to one another; at Chicago, it was Tom,and Blakely, and Miss Middleton; I became Elizabeth in Utah (I madehim call me that.) And when we reached Nevada.....

  It happened so naturally, so sweetly. Dad was taking a nap afterluncheon, and Blakely and I were sitting on the rear platform of ourcar, the last car in the train. It was a heavenly day of blue skyand sunshine; the desert was fresh from recent rain. And then a few,dear, faltered words changed the desert into a garden that reachedto the rim of the world.

  "I love you. I didn't mean to tell you quite yet, but I.....I....."

  "I know. And it makes me so happy."

  * * * * *

  You never saw anybody so delighted as Dad was when we told him."This makes me glad clear through," he said. "Blakely, boy, Icouldn't love you more if you were my own son. Elizabeth, girl, comeand kiss your old Daddy."

  "And you aren't surprised, Dad?"

  "Not a bit."

  "He's known I've loved you, all along. Haven't you, Tom?"

  "I may have suspected it."

  "But I'm sure he never dreamed I could possibly care for you," Isaid. And then, because I was too happy to do anything else, I wentto my state-room, and had a good cry.

  I have read somewhere that Love would grow old were it not for thetears of happy women.

  Chapter Six

  When we flew down the grade into California, everything seemed settled;we were going to Santa Barbara where Dad was building a little palacefor his Elizabeth as a grand surprise (Blakely's mother was in SantaBarbara); we would take rooms at the same hotel; I would be presentedto Mrs. Porter, and as soon as the palace on the hill was completed--amatter of two or three months--Blakely, and Dad, and I would move intoit. Only, first, Blakely and I were going to San Bernardino on ourwedding trip.

  Wasn't that sweet of Blakely? When I told him about San Bernardino,and the livery-stable, and the cottage where Dad and I used to live,he said he'd rather spend our honeymoon there than any place in theworld. Of course Dad had never sold the cottage, and it was touchingto see how pleased he was with our plan.

  "You'll find everything in first-class condition," he said; "I gothere often myself. I built a little house in one corner of thegarden for the caretakers. You should see that gold-of-Ophir rose,Elizabeth; it has grown beyond belief."

  When we reached Oakland--where our car had to be switched off andattached to a coast line, train--we found we had four hours to kill,so Dad and Blakely and I (it was Blakely's idea) caught the boatacross to San Francisco.

  What do you suppose that dear boy wanted us to go over there for?And where do you suppose he took us? He took us straight toShreve's, and he and Dad spent a beautiful two hours in choosing anengagement ring for me. So when we finally landed in Santa Barbara Iwas wearing a perfect love of a ruby on the third finger of my lefthand. I was wearing my heart on my sleeve, too; I didn't care if allthe world saw that I adored Blakely. We arrived in Santa Barbara inthe morning, and it was arranged that Blakely should lunch with hismother and devote himself to her during the afternoon, but he was todine with us in our rooms. Naturally, I had a lot to do, supervisingthe unpacking of my clothes, and straightening things about in oursitting-room so that it wouldn't look too hotelish. Then Dadwouldn't be happy till I'd inspected my new palace on the hill.

  It was an alarming looking pile. If anybody but Dad had beenresponsible for it, I should have said it was hideous. Poor old Dad!He knows absolutely nothing about architecture. But of course Iraved over it, and, really, when I came to examine it closer, Ifound it had its good points. Covered with vines, it would have beenactually beautiful. Virginia creeper grows like mad in Californiaand with English ivy and Lady Banksia roses to help out, I was sureI could transform my palace into a perfect bower in almost no time.I was awfully glad I had seen it first, for now. I could break thebad news gently to Blakely. If I were a man, I couldn't love a girlwho owned such a hideous house.

  But I didn't have a chance to talk house to Blakely for some time.When he came in to dinner that night he looked awfully depressed; hebrightened up a lot, though, when he saw me. I had on my mostbecoming gown, and Dad had ordered a grand dinner, including his ownspecial brand of Burgundy. If Dad knew as much about architecture ashe does about wine, they'd insist on his designing all the buildingsfor the next world's fair.

  All through dinner Blakely wasn't quite himself--I could see it; Ithink Dad saw it, too-but I knew he would tell us what was thematter as soon as he had an opportunity. One, of the sweetest thingsabout Blakely is his perfect frankness. I couldn't love a man whowasn't frank with me. That is, I suppose I could, but I should hateto; it would break my h
eart. Well, after dinner, when Dad hadlighted his cigar, and Blakely his cigarette, it all came out.

  "Tom!"

  "Yes, my boy." (I think Dad loved to hear Blakely say Tom almost asmuch as I loved to hear him say Elizabeth.)

  "Tom, I've got you and Elizabeth into a deuce of an unpleasantposition. I've told you what a fine woman my mother is, and howshe'd welcome Elizabeth with open arms, and now I find I was allwrong. My mother isn't a fine woman; she's an ancestor-worshiping,heartless, selfish snob. I'm ashamed of her, Tom. She refuses tomeet Elizabeth."

  Chapter Seven

  I never was so sorry for anybody in my whole life as I was forBlakely; I would have done anything to have saved him the bitternessand humiliation of that moment. As for Dad, he couldn't understandit at all. That Blakely's mother should refuse to meet his Elizabethwas quite beyond his comprehension.

  "This is very strange," he said, "very strange. There must be somemistake. Why shouldn't she meet Elizabeth?"

  "There is no reason in the world," Blakely answered.

  "Then why--?"

  "She probably has other plans for her son, Daddy dear," I said. "Andno doubt she has heard that we're fearfully vulgar."

  "Well, we ain't," said Dad in a relieved voice; "and as for thoseplans of hers, I reckon she'll have to outgrow them. Buck up, myboy! One look at Elizabeth will show her she's mistaken."

  "You don't know my mother," Blakely replied; "I feel that I haven'tknown her till now. It's out of the question, our staying here afterwhat has happened. Let's go up to Del Monte, and let's not wait fourmonths for the wedding. Why can't we be married this week? I'm donewith my mother and with the whole tribe of Porters; they're not mykind, and you and Elizabeth are."

  "Tom, I never felt, that I had a father till I found you. Elizabeth,girl, I never knew what happiness was till you told me you loved me.My mother says she would never consent to her son's marrying thedaughter of a man who has kept a livery-stable. I say that I'm donewith a family that made its money out of whisky. My mother's fatherwas a distiller, her grandfather was a distiller, and if there's anyshame, it's mine, for by all the standards of decency, a livery-stableis a hundred times more respectable than a warehouse full ofwhisky. You made your money honestly, but ours has been wrung out ofthe poor, the sick, the ragged, the distressed. The whisky businessis a rotten business, Tom, rotten!"

  "It was whisky that bought an ambassadorship for my mother'sbrother; it was whisky that paid for the French count my sistermarried; it was whisky that sent me to college. Whisky,whisky--always whisky!"

  "I never thought twice about it before, but I've done some tallthinking today. I'm done with the Porters, root and branch.Elizabeth and I are going to start a little family tree, of our own,and we're not going to root it in a whisky barrel, either.We're--we're--"

  "There, there!" said Dad. "It's all right, Blakely, boy. It ain't sobad as you think. You ain't going to throw your mother over and yourmother ain't going to throw you over. I take it that all mothers arealike; they love their sons. Naturally, you're sore and disappointednow, but I reckon that mother of yours is sore and disappointed,too. As for our going to Del Monte, I never heard of a Middleton yetthat cut and ran at a time like this, and Elizabeth and I ain'tgoing to start any precedent."

  "No, my boy, we're going to stay right here, and you're going tostay here with us. There's lots of good times ahead for you andElizabeth, and in the meantime, I want you to be mighty sweet tothat mother of yours. She's the only mother you've got, boy. Youdon't know what it means for us old folks to be disappointed in ourchildren. Now, don't disappoint me, lad. You be nice to that motherof yours, and keep on loving Elizabeth, and it will all come right,you see if it don't. If it don't come one way, it will come another;you can take my word for it." As if Dad knew anything about it. Hethought then that every woman possessed a sweet mind and a lovingheart; he thinks so now. But one glimpse of Blakely's mother wasenough for me. She had a heart of stone; everything about her wasmilitant, uncompromising; her eyes were of a piercing, steely blue;the gowns she wore were insolently elegant; she radiated a superbself-satisfaction. When she looked at you through her lorgnette, youfelt as if you were on trial for your life. When she ceased looking,you knew you were sentenced to mount the social scaffold. If ithadn't been for Blakely and Dad, I should have died of rage duringthe first two weeks of our stay in Santa Barbara.

  It was a cruel position for me, and it didn't make it easier thatbefore we had been there three days the whole hotel was talkingabout it. Of course, every woman in the hotel who had been snubbedby Blakely's mother instantly took my part, and as there were onlytwo women who hadn't been snubbed by her--Mrs. Tudor Carstairs andMrs. Sanderson-Spear--I was simply overwhelmed with unsolicitedadvice and undesirable attention. Indeed, it was all I could do tosteer a dignified course between that uncompromising Scylla,Blakely's mother, and the compromising Charybdis of my self-electedchampions. But I managed it, somehow. Dad bought me a stunning bigautomobile in Los Angeles, and Blakely taught me how to run it;then, Blakely was awfully fond of golf; and we spent loads of timeat the Country Club. And of course there was the palace on the hillto be inspected every little while.

  Poor Blakely! How he did hate it all! Again and again he begged Dadto give his consent to our marrying at once. But Dad, as unconsciousof what was going on round him as a two-months-old baby, wouldalways insist that everything would come out all right.

  "Give her time, my boy," he would say, "give her time. Your motherisn't used to our Western way of rushing things, and she wants alittle time to get used to it."

  "What if she never gets used to it?" Blakely would ask.

  Then Dad would answer: "You're impatient, boy; all lovers areimpatient. Don't I know?"

  "But things can't go on this way forever."

  "Of course they can't," Dad would agree. "When I think things havegone long enough, I'll have a little talk with your mother myself.She's a dashed fine-looking woman, your mother--a dashedfine-looking woman! Be patient with her, boy."

  Poor Dad! Blakely and I were resolved that he should never have thatlittle talk he spoke of with so much confidence. Ideals are awfullyin the way sometimes, but nobody with a speck of decency can bear tostand by and see them destroyed. Dad's deals had to be preserved atany price.

  Chapter Eight

  And so another two weeks passed. Then, one day, a comet of amazingbrilliancy shot suddenly into our social orbit, and things happened.That this interesting stellar phenomenon was a Russian grand duke, anephew of the Czar, but added to the piquancy of the situation.

  The hotel was all in a flutter; the manager was beside himself withjoy; bell-boys danced jig steps in the corridors; chambermaids wentabout with a distracted air--and all because the grand duke,Alexander Melovich, was to arrive on the morrow. It was anepoch-making event. It was better than a circus, for it was free. Copiesof the Almanach de Gotha appeared, as if by magic. Everybody wasinterested. Everybody was charmed, until--

  The rumor flew rapidly along the verandas. It was denied by the headwaiter, it was confirmed by the chief clerk; it was referred to themanager himself and again confirmed. Alas, it was true! The GrandDuke Alexander was coming, not to honor the hotel, but to honor Mrs.Carmichael Porter; she would receive him as her guest, she would paythe royal hotel bill, she would pay the bills of the royal suite.Yes, Blakely's mother had captured the grand duke.

  A wave of indignation swept the columns of the rank and file. Theydidn't want the grand duke themselves, but they didn't wantBlakely's mother to have him; Blakely's mother and Mrs. Sanderson-Spear,and Mrs. Tudor Carstairs. In a way, it was better than acomic opera; it was fearfully amusing.

  The grand duke, accompanied, according to the newspapers, "by theRoyal Suite and the Choicest Flower of San Francisco Society,"arrived on a special train direct from Del Monte. Having captured agrand duke, these "Choicest Flowers" (ten in number) were loath tolose him, so they accompanied him. They did more; they paid for thespecial train. Blakely's moth
er greeted them, one and all, in a mostfriendly manner. There was an aristocratic air about the wholeproceeding that was distinctly uplifting.

  And now began a round of gaieties, the first being a tea were realRussian samovars were in evidence, and sandwiches of real Russiancaviar were served. Real Russian cigarettes were smoked, realRussian vodka was sipped; the Czar's health was drunk; no bombs werethrown, no bonds were offered for sale, the Russian loan was notdiscussed; the Japanese servants were not present, having been givena half holiday. Oh, it was a little triumph, that tea! Blakely'smother was showered with congratulations. The "Choicest Flowers"vied with one another in assurances of their distinguished approval.

  Indeed, they were all crazy about it--except the grand duke. Blakelysaid the grand duke was bored to death, and that he had led him offto the bar and given him a whisky-and-soda out of sheer pity. Fromthat time on the duke stuck to him like a postage stamp, so thatBlakely had an awful time escaping that night to dine with Dad andme. He told us all about the tea at dinner, and I was surprised tolearn (I hadn't seen him yet) that the duke was just Blakely's age,and, as Blakely put it, "a very decent sort." Not that there is anyreason why a grand duke shouldn't be a decent sort, but Rumor wasbusy just then proclaiming that this particular grand duke was aperfect pig.

  The next day I had a chance to judge for myself. It seems the dukenoticed me as I got into my automobile for my morning ride, andafter finding out who I was, sent for Blakely and demanded that I bepresented to him.