When she realized this, she went over to the dining room and disposed of the cold supper awaiting her. She had little appetite, but she ate abundantly, nevertheless, even warming the bouillon over the spirit lamp, for she knew that nothing would so certainly drain the blood from her head. When she had finished she returned to the gallery, and lighting a cigarette, sat down to think connectedly.
That she had no impulse to go to London and exert her fascinations upon Ordham, bring him to his senses, proved to her, that however she might resent his desertion, regret his loss, love him, in short, her mind would never permit her to wreck his career or her own. She had no taste for love in an Italian villa, idle herself, with an idle man on her hands; she was a worker, an artist; such a life would bore her to extinction, wither those tender and beautiful shoots that had not been blasted by the rain of hot ashes in her mind to-night. What she really wanted was a return of the old conditions, their permanence; and this she had known all along she could not have, known that it was an episode, from every moment of which she had deliberately extracted the full flavour. Did Ordham love and seek her, there were no mortal conditions in which they could unite. Her past life, which would be unearthed to the last detail did she seek to enter society as an equal; her present position, so public as to relegate a husband to the position of a superior lackey; that insatiable artistic nine-tenths of her nature,—all precluded marriage with any man that respected himself; any permanent tie, in fact. She had exulted for eight years in her aloneness, her aloofness; now was the time to decide that this condition must exist as long as she did. There was nothing for her but art, art, art. She uttered the word aloud in her round sonorous voice; she no longer had the least desire to throttle it. On the contrary it induced the profoundest sensation of gratitude she had ever known. Without it where should she be to-night? Where, indeed?
It occurred to her to wonder that after her life of the past eight years there was any of the original woman left. What a poor half-born thing was civilization, with its educations, its spiritual developments, its thousand magnets for the higher and highly specialized centres of the brain, when a really great woman could be overwhelmed by passion like those confidential agents of Nature that swarmed the earth. If she still was unconscious of any elemental ache for this man, the fact remained that she had acted for an hour or two to-night with the blind primitive fury of a jungle beast deprived of its mate. And—it might be—if she was to continue to love the inner hidden man alone,—that product of the centuries charged with the electrical fascination of an uncommon personality which had charmed her out of her happy solitude,—she must see as little of him as possible. It was on the cards, that once roused, his progress would be very rapid, his character would overtake his mind. Then, were they thrown together, the real danger would begin. No doubt, one thing that had protected her was that the visible man was too young. She should have felt embarrassed had they taken to love making. But twenty-five is not young for an Englishman, and she might find him very wide awake indeed a year hence.
She made up her mind to correspond with him intermittently for a time, then drop him out of her life. She should miss him, ache for him, be forced to plod through all the pros and cons again and again, for it is long before the reiterative heart runs down; but her will had carried her through great crises before; she could always rely upon it. And there were worse things than memories to live upon, particularly if radiant enough to put out the ghastly flickers of others.
She should overlook no opportunity that would lead her to a broader stage, replete with distraction. There was talk of organizing a Wagner season in New York as a pendant to the regular season of Italian and French opera, for the fame of The Master, thanks to Theodore Thomas, Leopold Damrosch, and other enthusiasts, was steadily growing. She had met Walter Damrosch in Bayreuth; he had heard her sing many times, and no doubt would have approached her for this innovation had it not been for the ten years’ contract she was known to have signed with the Hof-und-National-Theatre in Munich, and the King’s personal objection that she should leave Munich for more than a few weeks at a time. If this coming season of German opera was successful, she should write to Damrosch and announce her willingness to break her contract if unable to obtain a leave of absence. It was probable that by that time the King would be wholly mad; in that case her enemies in the Hof would be her allies for once. The only shadow on this brilliant future was the possible confiscation of her villa did she summarily leave without permission. That would substitute one unhappiness for another, for she passionately loved the only home she had ever had, and believed that the acuteness of its later associations would mellow with time. Well, she had her friends, Princess Nachmeister among others. Let the future take care of itself. Meanwhile she should demand other rôles here: the revival of the great operas of Glück—Alceste, Ifigénie en Tauride, Orfeo ed Euridice. She would sing the great rôle of Dido in The Trojan. All would afford her fine dramatic opportunities and fill her time with work.
She went to her desk to write to Ordham. The temptation was strong to betray something of what she felt. He deserved that! And a sentimental letter, that last indulgence, was a woman’s right. But she did nothing of the sort, reflecting in time that a man is not open to sentiment from two sources at once, particularly when in the throes of his puppy love. She did not even address the man she knew so well, and whom Mabel Cutting did not know at all, for she felt quite positive that he was sound asleep. She wrote him a dignified friendly note, telling him that she had long been prepared for the news, and was sure that he had chosen wisely. She did not even insert a blunt sting here and there, for she knew him so well that she could write exactly what, in his present mood, he most would wish to receive from her. When it was finished, she found her first real consolation in visualizing it as an impenetrable bulwark about her pride. She thanked her stars that he had not come in person to tell her of his engagement, permitting her to divine his passion for the little fool. No doubt she would have beaten him, and he would have been too polite to beat her in return! Heaven! what a mess she would have made of it. She devoutly hoped she had buried Peggy Hill five fathoms deep at last.
XL
HAPPY POTTERS
To Ordham’s astonishment Bridgminster proffered the castle for the honeymoon. This graceful wedding-present was communicated by Lady Bridgminster soon after her return to London, and Mabel clapped her hands when told of it by her lover.
“It has been the dream of my life to see the inside of that heavenly castle,” she cried. “And now I am going to live there! I cannot believe it.”
“We can stay quite a month, I should think.” Ordham was smiling into her triumphant face and feeling inanely happy. “I have received private intimation that I can replace one of the secretaries in Rome—he cannot stand the climate—and put in my time at the Foreign Office later. No doubt I can get out of that altogether, especially as I have already served a year abroad. But I cannot express my delight at spending a month in that old place as if it really were my own—and with you! with you!”