In Her Own Right. Scott John Reed
Croyden.
“I am, sir, – most assuredly!” the dame answered.
“Well, I must confess ignorance, again,” he replied. “I wouldn’t know a Stuart from a – chromo.”
Miss Erskine gave a little shriek of horror.
“I do not believe it, Mr. Croyden! – you’re playing on my credulity. I shall have to give you some instructions. I will lecture on Stuart and Peale, and the painters of their period, for your especial delectation – and soon, very soon!”
“I’m afraid it would all be wasted,” said Croyden. “I’m not fond of art, I confess – except on the commercial side; and if I’ve any pictures, at Clarendon, worth money, I’ll be for selling them.”
“Oh! Mrs. Carrington! Will you listen – did you ever hear such heresy?” she exclaimed. “I can’t believe it of you, Mr. Croyden. Let me lend you an article on Stuart to read. I shall bring it out to Clarendon to-morrow morning – and you can let me look at all the dear treasures, while you peruse it.”
“Mr. Croyden has an appointment with me to-morrow, Amelia,” said Carrington, quickly – and Croyden gave him a look of gratitude.
“It will be but a pleasure deferred, then, Mr. Croyden,” said Miss Erskine, impenetrable in her self conceit. “The next morning will do, quite as well – I shall come at ten o’clock – What a lovely evening this is, Mrs. Carrington!” preparing to patronize her hostess.
The Captain snorted with sudden anger, and, abruptly excusing himself, disappeared in the library. Miss Carrington stayed a moment, then, with a word to Croyden, that she would show him the article now, before the others came, if Miss Erskine would excuse them a moment, bore him off.
“What do you think of her?” she demanded.
“Pompous and stupid – an irritating nuisance, I should call her.”
“She’s more! – she is the most arrogant, self-opinionated, self-complacent, vapid piece of humanity in this town or any other town. She irritates me to the point of impoliteness. She never sees that people don’t want her. She’s as dense as asphalt.”
“It is very amusing!” Croyden interjected.
“At first, yes – pretty soon you will be throwing things at her – or wanting to.”
“She’s art crazy,” he said. “Dilettanteism gone mad.”
“It isn’t only Art. She thinks she’s qualified to speak on every subject under the sun, Literature – Bridge – Teaching – Music. Oh, she is intolerable!”
“What fits her for assuming universal knowledge?” asked Croyden.
“Heaven only knows! She went away to some preparatory school, and finished off with another that teaches pedagogy. Straightway she became an adept in the art of instruction, though, when she tried it, she had the whole academy by the ears in two weeks, and the faculty asked her to resign. Next, she got some one to take her to Europe – spent six weeks in looking at a lot of the famous paintings, with the aid of a guide book and a catalogue, and came home prepared to lecture on Art – and, what’s more, she has the effrontery to do it – for the benefit of Charity, she takes four-fifths of the proceeds, and Charity gets the balance.
“Music came next. She read the lives of Chopin and Wagner and some of the other composers, went to a half dozen symphony concerts, looked up theory, voice culture, and the like, in the encyclopædias, and now she’s a critic! Literature she imbibed from the bottle, I suppose – it came easy to her! And she passes judgment upon it with the utmost ease and final authority. And as for Bridge! She doesn’t hesitate to arraign Elwell, and we, of the village, are the very dirt beneath her feet. I hear she’s thinking of taking up Civic Improvement. I hope it is true – she’ll likely run up against somebody who won’t hesitate to tell her what an idiot she is.”
“Why do you tolerate her?” Croyden asked. “Why don’t you throw her out of society, metaphorically speaking.”
“We can’t: she belongs – which is final with us, you know. Moreover, she has imposed on some, with her assumption of superiority, and they kowtow to her in a way that is positively disgusting.”
“Why don’t you, and the rest who dislike her, snub her?”
“Snub her! You can’t snub her – she never takes a snub to herself. If you were to hit her in the face, she would think it a mistake and meant for some one else.”
“Then, why not do the next best thing – have fun with her?”
“We do – but even that grows monotonous, with such a mountain of Egotism – she will stay for the Bridge this evening, see if she doesn’t – and never imagine she’s not wanted.” Then she laughed: “I think if she does I’ll give her to you!”
“Very good!” said he. “I’d rather enjoy it. If she is any more cantankerous than some of the women at the Heights, she’ll be an interesting study. Yes, I’ll be glad to play a rubber with her.”
“If you start, you’ll play the entire evening with her – we don’t change partners, here.”
“And what will you do?” he asked.
“Look on – at the other table. She will have my place. I was going to play with you.”
“Then the greater the sacrifice I’m making, the greater the credit I should receive.”
“It depends – on how you acquit yourself,” she said gayly. “There are the others, now – come along.”
There were six of them. Miss Tilghman, Miss Lashiel and Miss Tayloe, Mr. Dangerfield, Mr. Leigh, and Mr. Byrd. They all had heard of Croyden’s arrival, in Hampton, and greeted him as they would one of themselves. And it impressed him, as possibly nothing else could have done – for it was distinctly new to him, after the manners of chilliness and aloofness which were the ways of Northumberland.
“We are going to play Bridge, Miss Erskine, will you stay and join us?” asked Miss Carrington.
“I shall be charmed! charmed!” was the answer. “This is an ideal evening for Bridge, don’t you think so, Mr. Croyden?”
“Yes, that’s what we thought!” said Miss Tilghman, dryly.
“And who is to play with me, dear Davila?” Miss Erskine inquired.
“I’m going to put Mr. Croyden with you.”
“How nice of you! But I warn you, Mr. Croyden, I am a very exacting partner. I may find fault with you, if you violate rules – just draw your attention to it, you know, so you will not let it occur again. I cannot abide blunders, Mr. Croyden – there is no excuse for them, except stupidity, and stupidity should put one out of the game.”
“I’ll try to do my very best,” said Croyden humbly.
“I do not doubt that you will,” she replied easily, her manner plainly implying further that she would soon see how much that “best” was.
As they went in to the drawing-room, where the tables were arranged, Miss Erskine leading, with a feeling of divine right and an appearance of a Teddy bear, Byrd leaned over to Croyden and said:
“She’s the limit!”
“No!” said Leigh, “she’s past the limit; she’s the sublimated It!”
“Which is another way of saying, she’s a superlative d – fool!” Dangerfield ended.
“I think I understand!” Croyden laughed. “Before you came, she tackled me on Art, and, when I confessed to only the commercial side, and an intention to sell the Stuart and Peale, which, it seems, are at Clarendon, the pitying contempt was almost too much for me.”
“My Lord! why weren’t we here!” exclaimed Byrd.
“She’s coming out to inspect my ‘treasures,’ on Thursday morning.”
“Self