Читать книгу The Lady of Fashion - Eric Wollencott Barnes - Страница 5

Table of Contents

Anna Cora was fourteen and still to outward appearances a child. Her chestnut hair fell in long ringlets loose about her shoulders. Her deep blue eyes, set wide apart, were serenely innocent. Because of her slenderness and the way she carried her head, slightly uptilted, and because of the fine texture of her pale skin, she reminded people of a delicate but hardy flower. In the family and to her intimates she was generally known now as “Lily.”

Her parents and sisters continued to regard her as a little girl, but Anna Cora was beginning to feel differently about herself. She could still burst into peals of laughter over nothing at all; and on occasion she was not above a game of hop-scotch or a boisterous run in the garden with younger sisters. But more and more she was beginning to act like a young lady and to feel like one. She was rereading Shakespeare and finding him very different now. Romeo and Juliet were no longer figures in a story made entrancing by duels and rope ladders, potions and horrible tombs. They were two young people to whom something very special had happened, and Anna Cora began to grasp what it was. Then, practically without warning, the same thing happened to her.

It had begun two years before, when Anna Cora was thirteen. Her sister Charlotte, who was Mrs. Lewis Yates and the mother of two small children, had been summering at Rockaway, a new and fashionable resort on the south coast of Long Island. Her husband, an Englishman, was at the moment in his native land on business. Among the guests at Rockaway Hall where Mrs. Yates and her children were staying was Mr. James Mowatt, a young New York lawyer of position and fortune. Mr. Mowatt was a bachelor and not overly shy, though in every way a gentleman. One day on the hotel veranda an opportunity had presented itself for him to speak to the charming Mrs. Yates. The chance remark was prolonged to polite conversation. This was followed by other conversations into which was presently injected a certain ardor. Whereupon Mrs. Yates, with perfect good humor—for it was obvious that Mr. Mowatt’s intentions were to the highest degree honorable—informed the young lawyer that she was not a widow, as he evidently supposed, but a happily-married woman—although her husband was momentarily not available. Mr. Mowatt may not have been crushed by this intelligence, but he was very disappointed: so much so that Mrs. Yates, who was not only sympathetic but practical-minded, suggested that since he could not have her he might be interested in one of her sisters. There were plenty of them, she said, and then added, “One of them very much resembles me. Call upon me in New York, and I will make you acquainted with her.”

Mr. Mowatt, surprisingly enough, was heartened by this suggestion of a substitute and gratefully accepted Mrs. Yates’s invitation. When he was informed a few weeks later that she had returned to the city and was at her father’s house in Warren Street, he hastened to pay his respects.

Anna Cora and Matilda, her next older sister, happened to be at school (which was not far away) when a servant arrived with the message that Miss Matilda was wanted at home. When the girls asked anxiously if anything was wrong, the girl replied no, but that there was a gentleman in the drawing-room who entreated that Miss Matilda might be sent for. When the gentleman was identified as Mr. Mowatt, about whom there had been a good deal of talk in the family, Lily’s curiosity got the better of her and she determined to go along with Matilda. The girls ran all the way home and dashed immediately upstairs to Matilda’s room. There Lily watched yearningly while her sister’s hair was recurled and her school frock exchanged for more becoming attire. All this was done with great care, for Matilda was approaching marriageable age; and in a family with eight daughters it was a matter of principle, if not of expediency, to regard any eligible male as a prospective husband.

At last Matilda was ready to make her entrance into the drawing-room. Lily accompanied her to the foot of the stairs and looked longingly as her sister, with ribbons flying, disappeared in a billow of India muslin through the high walnut doors.

Not till then did Lily recall that she had left school without permission; and visions of black marks rose before her eyes. But it was too late to do anything about that now. Besides, she was determined to have one look at Mr. Mowatt, coûte que coûte! With this thought she seized her satchel of books which was lying nearby, threw open the drawing-room doors, raced the length of the room, deposited the books on the center-table (as if that were their proper place) and rushed out again, having taken a quick look at the trousered figure on the sofa.

As the door banged behind her she heard a deep voice ask:

“Who is that?”

“Only one of the children from the nursery,” answered Mrs. Yates, who was of course chaperoning the interview.

“Do call her back,” urged Mr. Mowatt.

Charlotte came to the door and called to the figure flying up the stairs. “Anna, Anna, come back and speak to Mr. Mowatt!”

“I don’t care for Mr. Mowatt,” replied Anna Cora in a tone calculated to reach the drawing-room. Then she flounced up to the nursery which she shared with Julia. A servant was sent after her; but she was deaf to the summons. Finally, when she heard the caller taking his leave, she hurried downstairs to return to school. But there had been a mistake in her timing. At the foot of the steps of the front stoop, Mr. Mowatt was waiting—and she rushed headlong into his outstretched arms. There, as she struggled to free herself, he began pelting her with questions. How old was she? Did she go to school? Did she like it? What did she like to study best? Anna Cora answered his questions breathlessly, imploring to be released. When he asked what she liked best to read and she cried, “Shakespeare!” he was so astonished that he loosened his grasp, and Anna was away like a flash. On the other side of the street she looked back and burst into laughter at the sight of Mr. Mowatt, transfixed at the foot of the steps with arms still outstretched and a look of complete bafflement on his face.

Some hours later one of Mr. Mowatt’s intimates who was on the threshold of matrimony asked him how long he intended to remain a bachelor.

“Not long,” he answered, “if a little girl whom I saw today would only grow up.” And then, according to report, he quoted Moore’s lines:

O, there are looks and tones that dart

An instant sunshine through the heart,

As though the soul that moment caught

Some treasure it through life had sought.

Mr. Mowatt had a taste for poetry and (under proper stimulus) was not above airing it even on a busy New York street-corner.

Matilda herself seems not to have languished from having been so promptly abandoned by Mr. Mowatt in favor of Anna Cora. She was after all not quite sixteen and her mind was not irrevocably fixed on marriage. Romance came her way in due time, and she was happily married to a Mr. Wellman of Cincinnati.

Mr. Mowatt was now a frequent and regular visitor at the Ogden mansion, and invariably asked for Lily (he had straightway adopted the family’s pet name for Anna Cora). Usually his desire to see her was frustrated by the fact that she was in school, or studying her lessons, or in bed. But this only made him more persistent. The girls had again changed schools and were finishing their education at Madame Chegaray’s at 15th Street and Union Square, about half a mile from the house. Mr. Mowatt now adopted the habit of meeting them on the way home. He would walk beside Lily carrying her books and slate, catechizing her about her studies. It soon developed that Mr. Mowatt had remarkable gifts for making things clear—and interesting. Soon, Anna Cora tells us, “under the stimulus of his suggestions, my ambition to become an accomplished scholar was aroused.” Soon also she discovered the pleasure of tyranny and began to enjoy ordering Mr. Mowatt about and inflicting little pains which she might have the delight of assuaging. Now and then she made her sisters take a different way home, in order to avoid the assiduous lover. But after a few days Mr. Mowatt saw through this strategy and stationed one of his clerks to watch which street they took.

None of these vagaries disturbed the tenor of Mr. Mowatt’s devotion, or interfered with his intention to have a wife in whose education he would have a hand. Under his encouragement and instruction Anna Cora made rapid progress in school. He directed her reading, furnished her with books, corrected her compositions, and (what she thought most delightful of all) supplied her with an endless quantity of flowers as a reward for her industry.

If her parents were aware of what was going on, they did not seem unduly concerned. It was obvious Mr. Mowatt’s intentions were serious; but it was unlikely that a man of his position or age—he was twenty-eight—would do anything foolish. Also with seven girls at home, all of lively disposition and socially inclined, it was impossible to follow closely the details of all their activities. As for Lily herself, she was still hardly more than a child. At least that is what they thought—and continued to think until she had passed her fifteenth birthday, when events caused them to revise their notions.

Mr. Mowatt was present at the performance of Alzire, and was naturally the most enthusiastic spectator of all. Indeed it must have been the spectacle of little Lily so convincingly expressing the mature passions of Voltaire’s heroine that acted as a spur to his well-controlled ardor.

The morning after the performance he called. It was Saturday and there was no school. Mr. Mowatt arrived very early and asked particularly for Lily. The older girls were engaged in the intricate process of making themselves presentable for the day, but Lily rushed into the drawing-room “in morning dress.” She could not wait to hear Mr. Mowatt repeat his praises of her performance; and she was quite astonished (and not a little disappointed) when he immediately plunged into a somewhat different matter. Lily scarcely realized what he was talking about, but she understood enough to become thoroughly alarmed. When he put the question point-blank, instead of replying she jumped up and ran to the door, calling loudly for Charlotte. Mrs. Yates came quickly downstairs to inquire what on earth was the matter—a query which Lily found herself suddenly unable to answer.

When Mr. Mowatt had gone, she confided to Charlotte what had taken place. Charlotte was greatly amused, and said that of course he was only making fun of her because she was such a forward child. But Lily could not be sure; and when on the following day a letter came from Mr. Mowatt, she had no doubts at all. This time she went to Louisa. Swearing the older girl to secrecy, Lily put the note in her hands.

“Well, and what are you going to do?” she asked, not very helpfully, when she had read the document.

“Get you to help me write an answer, and tell him I am too young to marry anybody, and say something about friendships, and all that sort of thing—because,” added Lily as an afterthought, “I do like him very much.”

Louisa refused to write the letter, but she agreed to correct it. Lily went up to the nursery where she still slept, and after several painful attempts finally got the reply on paper. Louisa said that it would do, privately believing that it contained such childish nonsense, it could not help but bring Mr. Mowatt to his senses. Its effect, however, was quite the reverse. Mr. Mowatt merely laughed at what he considered girlish shyness and increased his visits, assuming the attitude of an accepted rather than a rejected lover. In the end, this singular behavior had its reward. Within a few weeks of her fifteenth birthday, Lily’s oft-repeated “no” became “yes”.

Mr. Ogden was now approached. He received the news with equanimity, but dismissed the idea of an immediate wedding. Although fifteen was by no means an unusual age for girls to be married, in Lily’s case it would be premature. In his eyes she was still a little girl, the liveliest and most diverting of all his daughters, and he was not quite ready to part with her. As for her suitor, he could find no objection to Mr. Mowatt personally; and if the lovers remained of the same mind until Lily was seventeen, he would give his consent.

So Mr. Mowatt, though not dismissed, was put off. He became uneasy. After Lily’s fifteenth birthday she was removed from Madame Chegaray’s and received private instruction in music and drawing at home. This eliminated the chance for daily meetings on the homeward walk. Furthermore, the next winter she was due to make her bow to society. This meant exposure to possible rivals; so far, Mr. Mowatt had had the field to himself. He began to urge a runaway marriage; but Lily was faithful to her filial obligation. Once she almost yielded—indeed, she let matters progress so far as arrangements for the wedding—but when the friend who was to act as bridesmaid came to fetch her, she backed down.

Her coming-out was scheduled for October 17th, which was her father’s birthday. There was to be a grand ball, and the girls, as was their custom at such times, would present a play. The work chosen was Congreve’s The Mourning Bride. As usual the play had to be rewritten to meet the family requirements. This time the problem was gifted little Julia, for whom there was no part in Congreve’s text. Lily met this need by giving Queen Zara, the heroine, a child—a rather precocious and talkative child.

The critical day was approaching and preparations were moving at a frantic pace. Mr. Mowatt came to the house daily; but in the midst of all the activity of rehearsing and sewing and scene-building, he was an outsider. Also, his popularity with the family had declined since the announcement of the engagement. Though the wedding was theoretically still two years away, he represented a threat to family solidarity. The sisters knew that when the time came, Lily’s departure would deprive them of a mistress of the revels. Then there would be no Alzires, no Mourning Brides—a prospect too dismal to contemplate! So there was a coolness toward Mr. Mowatt. Sometimes he was even slighted and subjected to petty annoyances; and this was something, as Anna Cora later pointed out, “to which a man of spirit could ill submit.”

Morose and frustrated, her fiancé now redoubled his entreaties. Lily felt sorry for him and suggested that he again try to obtain Mr. Ogden’s consent. That, Mr. Mowatt said with gloomy conviction, was useless. He continued to urge that they run away, but Lily resisted. Then, when he had quite ceased trying to persuade her, she became so grieved at the sight of his deepening melancholy that of her own free will she agreed to marry him within a week.

Now the problems really began. “What was I to do, and who was to aid me? I could not leave my father’s house alone. I could not be married without a bridal wardrobe. These were huge barriers to be surmounted; but I went resolutely to work, determined to overcome them.”

Lily’s first step was to engage the alliance of a young nursery-maid, who was very much attached to her. Next she took her sister Matilda—to whom she was closest—into her confidence. Matilda was startled and fearful. She argued, she entreated, she prayed Lily to give up her mad plan. When she saw that it was all useless, she concluded that the wisest course would be to do whatever she could to help. The question of wardrobe was most vexing. Even though they would do the sewing themselves, yards of materials had to be purchased. This presented a real difficulty since neither girl had any money. Here Lily’s dramatic inventiveness came to the rescue. Time and again in plays of her own and of others, people used jewels instead of cash. They were not only more picturesque, they were handier. Did not heroines often buy off dastards or reward the faithful—as the case might be—with the very pearls about their necks? Anna Cora had no pearls, but she had a gold watch, and a few pieces of quite valuable jewelry—heirloom diamonds and emeralds—which she would dispose of!

The girls had heard of places where such transactions were made, and were even familiar with the universal symbol of the three golden balls. Early the morning after the momentous decision had been made, they hunted out a pawnshop. The proprietor, a somewhat frightening individual with a large nose and sharp eyes, studied the young ladies for some time through narrowed lids, and then began to ask questions which Lily thought were impertinent. She finally managed to persuade him that the jewels were her own; and the business was concluded. Then she was asked to sign her name on a slip of paper. Lily was somewhat taken aback. Then summoning all her dignity she seated herself at the grimy counter and wrote, very carefully, “Mrs. James”.

The diamonds and emeralds brought about a tenth of their value; even so, this represented a sum larger than either of the girls had ever seen before. They felt very rich, and as soon as they were out of the shop they engaged a carriage. It was raining torrents, but they were undismayed. For hours they splashed about the city, going from shop to shop, until the carriage was filled with parcels and their pockets were empty. Among other purchases were a large wax doll and a huge basket of sugarplums. The doll was a farewell present to little Julia, while the sweets were to be consolatory offerings for the other younger children.

Since the parcels could not be carried into the house without exciting suspicion, they were deposited at a corner confectioner’s. Later that evening they were smuggled up to Matilda’s room. Here for the next five or six nights the three girls—Matilda, Lily, and the nursery-maid—sewed madly on the trousseau. As a precaution against discovery by their mother when she paid her nightly visit to the nursery, a figure of rags was placed beneath the covers of Lily’s bed.

Finally the 6th of October arrived. Mr. Mowatt had been busy with his part in the preparations. There was some difficulty in finding a clergyman to perform the ceremony. To each one approached, it had been necessary to explain the circumstances; and since Samuel Ogden was a person to be reckoned with, the gentlemen of the cloth were reluctant to officiate at a wedding of which he did not approve, although the bride, now fifteen, was of legal age to be married. Dr. Eastburn, the object of Lily’s earlier passion and the rector of Samuel Ogden’s church, showed understandable prudence in declining. Bishop Onderdonk, also approached, refused on the ground that he had daughters of his own and his sanction of such an example would be bad for them. A third clergyman likewise refused. In desperation James Mowatt turned to the pastor of New York’s French church, l’Eglise du Saint Esprit. This gentleman, the Reverend Mr. Antoine Verren, was a native of Marseilles, with the proverbial temperament of the méridional. Moreover he himself had eloped with his wife, so he scarcely could do otherwise than to agree to perform the ceremony. The wedding was conducted—not inappropriately for Lily’s ease—in French. The date was October 6, 1834.

The ceremony took place in the morning, which made getting out of the house a problem, especially since Lily was wearing a white embroidered muslin frock which to an observant mother might seem slightly strange on a brisk October day. Nevertheless Lily managed to kiss her father and mother without exciting undue suspicion (neither even noticed the white rose and sprig of geranium to her hair), and to slip through the front door. Matilda had gone on ahead, carrying the bridal veil and white gloves rolled up in a handkerchief. At the corner Lily shook out the veil and put on the gloves. At St. John’s Park they were met by Mr. Mowatt and his two groomsmen, and the party proceeded on its way.

The vows had been spoken and the registry book opened when the Rev. Mr. Verren became worried. Twice he asked Anna Cora her age, and although each time she promptly answered “fifteen”, which was all quite right and legal, the good pasteur seemed very dubious. And no wonder; for the little figure bent over the registry, with six inches of pantalette showing beneath the froth of petticoats, and the long dark curls hanging down her back, seemed more like a child ready for her first Communion than a woman about to assume the responsibilities of marriage. Even to Lily herself it was all like some wonderfully exciting game, or a scene from an impromptu play.

“What could a girl of fifteen know of the sacred duties of a wife?” she afterwards wrote. “With what eyes could she contemplate the new and important life into which she was entering? She had known nothing but her childhood—had scarcely commenced her girlhood. What could she comprehend of the trials, the cares, the hopes, the responsibilities of womanhood? I thought of none of these things... I only remembered that I was keeping a promise. I had perfect faith in the tenderness of him to whom I confided myself. I did not in the least realize the novelty of my own situation.”

Lily removed the veil and tucked it in her reticule. Outside the rectory the groomsmen took their departure, and Mr. Mowatt and the two girls started back for the Ogden mansion. As they turned into their own street, they almost ran headlong into Mr. Ogden, on his way to his counting-house. He walked back a few paces with them, exchanging civilities with Mr. Mowatt. He had hardly noticed the girls. As he turned to leave, however, his eye took in Anna Cora’s white gown. “Why, how like a bride you look!” he exclaimed. “One of these days, Mowatt, she will grow up to be quite a fine girl!” At the mention of “bride”, Lily began to tremble violently from head to foot. Fortunately Mr. Ogden was in a hurry and did not notice her agitation.

The girls now returned to the house, as though they had simply been out for an hour or two on some inconsequential errand, and passed the rest of the day in their normal pursuits. It was planned that on the morrow Mr. Mowatt would come for Lily and take her away to the country where they would pass a few weeks until the inevitable upheaval in the family should have a chance to subside. That evening Mr. Mowatt called as usual, and the family chatted together in the drawing-room. As usual the topic uppermost was the forthcoming ball and the production of The Mourning Bride; and though Mr. Mowatt was largely ignored, it might have been noted that this made him less melancholy than usual.

When at last the gathering broke up and Mr. Mowatt had taken his departure, Lily went up to the nursery to bed. When she looked at little Julia, sleeping peacefully, she saw that the child’s cheeks were wet. Suddenly a wave of desolation swept over her. She had earlier confided in Julia, so that the shock of her departure might not be too severe on the little sister who had been her special charge. Julia, though only five, had kept the secret well; but the bedtime tears showed how miserable the news had made her. As Lily bent over the little figure, the full realization of what she had done came over her. She would have given anything, at that instant, to find that it was all a dream and that she might wake up to know herself still a little girl, sharing the nursery with her baby sister.

At breakfast the next morning, Lily found some excuse to kiss everyone present. She had already greeted her father at his bedside earlier in the morning. The second embrace caused Samuel Ogden to look up anxiously and ask if anything were wrong. She could only make a little choking sound and rush out of the room. Hastily she gathered up her bonnet and shawl. The nursery-maid, who was to accompany her on her honeymoon, had already left the house with her portmanteau. Lily slipped through the door and into the street, where Matilda was waiting for her. Together the two girls set off. Halfway up the block Lily turned back for a farewell glimpse of the house. As she looked, she saw the door open and Julia appear on the stoop. Presently Mrs. Ogden also came out and took Julia by the hand to bring her back into the house. At sight of the two figures Lily’s eyes filled with tears. When she saw Julia draw closer to her mother and bend down and kiss the latter’s hand, it was more than she could bear. She clutched Matilda’s arm and cried, “Let us run! O, let us run!”

Mr. Mowatt and the nursery-maid were waiting for them at the steamboat landing. Great clouds of smoke were billowing from the vessel’s gilded smokestacks. The whistle was blowing as Mr. Mowatt led Lily up the gangplank. In another moment they were pushing out into the Hudson. Lily stood at the rail waving her handkerchief to Matilda standing on the bank. When the edge of a warehouse interposed itself between them and Matilda had disappeared, Lily knew that the first chapter of her life was over. But she was not afraid. The hand that held hers was firm but gentle, and when she looked into her husband’s eyes she no longer felt that it was all a terrible dream. Or if it was a dream, it was one from which she hoped never to awaken.