Chapter XXIII: Dowager and Cowboy

John left me on Friday for Saltbridge, to visit Archdeacon Williams, whom, as you know, he is always quoting. They have never met and I do hope they will not be disappointed in one another, and that John will behave! I feel like a mother whose child has gone to visit strangers. However, I comfort myself with the thought that children often behave better when they are left alone--I suppose because they then have a keener sense of responsibility!

I expect him back this afternoon and am hastening to write you before his return, for I would not have him see this letter for worlds. He would never cease teasing me about my "beloved English."

He had scarcely gone before a telegram came from Gertrude Shelburne, asking me to come to them for the week-end. I was glad to get it, first, because I am devoted to her, and second, because I wanted to see their place, which I had been told was beautiful--I suppose I ought to add that I had already begun to be a trifle triste without John.

On the map it did not look far from Shrewsbury to Deepford, but the porter told me it would save time if I went up to "town" and caught the Brighton express, which would stop at Deepford if I told the guard I was for Admiral Shelburne's. This did not seem probable, but it proved to be true.

I arrived for tea, which was being served on the lawn, quite as in an English novel. I felt somewhat like the poor governess, in such stories, who is destined ultimately to marry the heir of the adjoining estate, but has not yet discovered her fate! For I was feeling a little shy--not because the people were so fine, but because they were so intimate. If one does not know the people talked of in an English household, it looks as if one did not know anybody! However, that did not last long, for Gertrude, who had been motoring with a young man when I arrived, soon appeared and made me feel at home.

If I were a human pig I should arrange to have, each day, an American breakfast, a French dinner, and an English tea! What would I do for luncheon? Do as I did to-day. Go without one in order to enjoy the tea!

Admiral Sir George Shelburne, as I believe he is formally called, is as delightful as ever. He kissed me, not quite with the paternal air which should go with his years, but rather like one who has had a sweetheart in every port! He is under the impression that he rules the house as he once ruled a man-of-war. As a matter of fact, Gertrude manages him and every one else!

After tea the admiral asked me if I would like to see the gardens. As this was the "first time of asking" I was able to say with a clear conscience that I should be delighted. How I wish you might see these gardens! There is a "lady's walk" that you would rejoice to make a water-color of. It is enclosed by brick walls of a deep red, and the borders are a riot of color. Take down your Latin dictionary and read anywhere in it, and you will get a notion of the names the admiral called off to me! Whether they were right or wrong I have no means of knowing, but it sounded very learned. I asked the admiral if his taste had laid out the lady's walk, and he modestly admitted that it had; and the best of it is he believes it. Gertrude is a wonder!

The "guests" were a young man who is secretary to some one in the government, and is never separated from a despatch-box, supposed to contain international secrets upon which the peace of the world depends. I do not think I ever met any one who took himself quite so seriously. He is supposed to be devoted to Gertrude, and is probably as much interested in her as he can be in any one besides himself. So I fear she is, at best, but a bad second! There is, however, trouble brewing for that young man, as I learned as soon as I saw a "photo" (by the way, one never says "photograph" in polite society, but "photo," and "pram," and "bike." It is a liberty the owners take with their language. This sounds like John, the reason being that for the moment I feel like John. But you will be saying: "What about the photograph?") How curious you are! Well, if you must know, it is of a young naval officer the Shelburnes met at "Gib," two years ago. He has a straight nose and a firm chin _à la_ Gibson, and blue eyes, and his name is Guy. Doesn't this tell you all you need to know? The admiral is supposed to favor the young man with the despatch-box--possibly because he knows too much about sweethearts in every port. How do you guess it will end? See what powers of condensation I have! It took Gertrude two hours to tell me what I have written in a few moments!

There are two perfectly uninteresting men besides the one already spoken of, and three nondescript women who devoted themselves to me. Only one of them calls for any attention. This is Lady Agatha Bumstead. She is handsome and really means to be nice, but unfortunately she has been in the "States," and does not want to hear, but only to tell about them.

After dinner, while the men were sitting over their wine, she suddenly said to me: "Have you any honest judges in America now?"

I said I hoped so.

She replied: "I am glad to hear it. When I was in New York, with my dear husband (she is a dowager), I remember they were trying a judge for taking a bribe, and I was told it was quite common."

I said I supposed that was in the time of the Tweed regime.

"Yes," she replied, "that was the name of the governor" (_sic_).

I said I thought things had improved since then, and that, after all, he was but one of the hundreds of American judges, and that it was hardly fair to condemn the whole bench because of the iniquity of one Tammany judge.

"But," she said, "I thought all the judges in America were appointed by Tammany. I remember my husband said, when he was trying to recover some of the money he had put into that awful Erie, that all the judges were appointed by Tammany."

Hoping to get a more favorable view of America if I moved out of New York, I asked if she had travelled much in the "States."

"Far more than I wished," she dryly remarked.

I expressed my sympathy.

"You see," she continued, "it is hard for people of refinement to put up with the lack of manners in America. Of course, you will not misunderstand me, my dear; I do not mean people like yourself; indeed, as I was saying to Sir George at dinner, I should hardly know you were an American. I had in mind the lower classes."

I feebly remarked that I thought they meant to be "kind."

"Kind, my dear," she exclaimed in a shocked tone. "What business have they to be 'kind'? It is for us to be kind, for _them_ to be respectful. I cannot say I met any such. I had an experience once which left an indelible impression on my mind. You," she continued, turning to one of the other women, who were drinking in this unprejudiced view of our country, "can have no conception of what that country really is. While we were in New York, trying to save something out of the wreck of the Erie, my husband met a man from the West who told him that there was a fortune to be made in silver-mines, and he started with him to look into it. I may say here that he lost every penny he put into this venture. The mines were 'pickled'--no, I think the word they used was 'salted.'

"However, that does not signify now--what I was going to tell you was, that he was detained longer than he had expected, and wrote me to join him in a place called Cheyenne. So I started; but what I endured in those sleeping-cars I never told even my husband. It wasn't proper! The passengers were of the most ordinary type, mostly bagmen, I should say. And the women! Vulgar and overdressed. I must say, however, I was rather pleased with the black man who waited on the passengers. He was rather grotesque, but was the only one I saw who seemed to have at all the bearing of a servant, and even he had a habit of smiling when spoken to which looked like impudence, till one learned that the poor creature had never been properly trained. Well, at length we reached Cheyenne. I had been told that it was the capital of the State, or whatever the district was called, and you may imagine my disgust when I found that it was a mere jumble of miserable wooden houses.

"My husband was not there to meet me--he had gone into the mountains to inspect a mine, and there had been a 'wash-out' or a 'hot-box.' I am sure I do not know the difference; I only know it was either the one or the other which continually caused delays. So there I was, with no one to meet me, and it was night. I looked round for a porter, and of course there was none. I saw a rough-looking man leaning against the station-house, and said to him: 'My man, carry my portmanteau to the hotel, please.'"

The pause which followed was so long that I thought the story ended, or that the narrator had fallen asleep. But I was mistaken--her emotion choked her. Finally one of the others said:

"And what happened then?"

In a sepulchral tone she answered: "_He spat!_ Then, without a word, he picked up the bag and led the way to the hotel. I handed him a shilling, and instead of touching his cap--by the way, it was not a cap at all, but a hat with a huge brim--which, if you please, he took off with a flourish and, declining the tip, remarked: 'Always a pleasure to help a lady!' I thought I should have died of shame at his insolence!"

I nearly choked, but fortunately did not, for every one else was shocked. After a painful silence Lady Agatha continued: "I must say some people have a peculiar sense of humor. I told this shocking story to Charlie Beresford, and he laughed till the tears ran down his face, and asked me to let him put it into a book he is writing on America. But I would not consent. It might give offense--Americans are very sensitive--and I think it most important that nothing should be done to cause ill-feeling between the two countries, for, as Sir George was saying at dinner, one cannot tell how soon we may need one another's help."

Here Gertrude, who had been walking on the terrace with the complacent secretary, came in and took me to her room to talk about the blue-eyed Guy.

Now you see why I do not want John to see this letter. He thinks he has a strong sense of humor, but it is ten to one he would no more understand the dowager than she understood the gentleman in the sombrero. How I should like to meet Sir Charles Beresford and hear him on dowagers and cowboys!

But, honestly, are not the English the most impossible people! I do not mean ridiculous--no one would accuse them of being that--but funny as the camel is. "There ain't no sich animal." Only there is!