Marriage à la mode | Page 8

the rich English world. His mother was a Lady Barnes; his
father, she gathered, was dead; and he was travelling, no doubt, in the
lordly English way, to get a little knowledge of the barbarians outside,
before he settled down to his own kingdom, and the ways thereof. She
envisaged a big Georgian house in a spreading park, like scores that she
had seen in the course of motoring through England the year before.
Meanwhile, the dear young man was evidently trying to talk to her,
without too much reference to the gilt gingerbread of this world. He did
not wish that she should feel herself carried into regions where she was
not at home, so that his conversation ran amicably on music. Had she
learned it abroad? He had a cousin who had been trained at Leipsic;
wasn't teaching it trying sometimes--when people had no ear?
Delicious! She kept it up, talking with smiles of "my pupils" and "my
class," while they wandered after the others upstairs to the dark
low-roofed room above the death-chamber, where Martha Washington
spent the last years of her life, in order that from the high dormer
window she might command the tomb on the slope below, where her
dead husband lay. The curator told the well-known story. Mrs. Verrier,
standing beside him, asked some questions, showed indeed some
animation.
"She shut herself up here? She lived in this garret? That she might
always see the tomb? That is really true?"
Barnes, who did not remember to have heard her speak before, turned
at the sound of her voice, and looked at her curiously. She wore an
expression--bitter or incredulous--which, somehow, amused him. As
they descended again to the garden he communicated his
amusement--discreetly--to Miss Floyd.

Did Mrs. Verrier imply that no one who was not a fool could show her
grief as Mrs. Washington did? That it was, in fact, a sign of being a
fool to regret your husband?
"Did she say that?" asked Miss Floyd quickly.
"Not like that, of course, but----"
They had now reached the open air again, and found themselves
crossing the front court to the kitchen-garden. Daphne Floyd did not
wait till Roger should finish his sentence. She turned on him a face
which was grave if not reproachful.
"I suppose you know Mrs. Verrier's story?"
"Why, I never saw her before! I hope I haven't said anything I oughtn't
to have said?"
"Everybody knows it here," said Daphne slowly. "Mrs. Verrier married
three years ago. She married a Jew--a New Yorker--who had changed
his name. You know Jews are not in what we call 'society' over here?
But Madeleine thought she could do it; she was in love with him, and
she meant to be able to do without society. But she couldn't do without
society; and presently she began to dine out, and go to parties by
herself--he urged her to. Then, after a bit, people didn't ask her as much
as before; she wasn't happy; and her people began to talk to him about a
divorce--naturally they had been against her marrying him all along. He
said--as they and she pleased. Then, one night about a year ago, he took
the train to Niagara--of course it was a very commonplace thing to
do--and two days afterwards he was found, thrown up by the whirlpool;
you know, where all the suicides are found!"
Barnes stopped short in front of his companion, his face flushing.
"What a horrible story!" he said, with emphasis.
Miss Floyd nodded.

"Yes, poor Madeleine has never got over it."
The young man still stood riveted.
"Of course Mrs. Verrier herself had nothing to do with the talk about
divorce?"
Something in his tone roused a combative instinct in his companion.
She, too, coloured, and drew herself up.
"Why shouldn't she? She was miserable. The marriage had been a great
mistake."
"And you allow divorce for that?" said the man, wondering. "Oh, of
course I know every State is different, and some States are worse than
others. But, somehow, I never came across a case like that--first
hand--before."
He walked on slowly beside his companion, who held herself a little
stiffly.
"I don't know why you should talk in that way," she said at last,
breaking out in a kind of resentment, "as though all our American
views are wrong! Each nation arranges these things for itself. You have
the laws that suit you; you must allow us those that suit us."
Barnes paused again, his face expressing a still more complete
astonishment.
"You say that?" he said. "You!"
"And why not?"
"But--but you are so young!" he said, evidently finding a difficulty in
putting his impressions. "I beg your pardon--I ought not to talk about it
at all. But it was so odd