CHAPTER XLVII

When Willie's mother left him in the aftermath of his nightmare she went

to pay her duty call on Persis, to welcome her formally into the family

and proffer her the use of the family name.

There was the most gleaming cordiality on the surface of their meeting,

but the depths of both streams were a trifle murky. Willie's mother

understood now why her own husband's fierce old mother, known as

"Medusa" Enslee, had received her with such constraint on a similar

occasion. That mother had had to give up part of her name, too, and step

back from being queen to being queen-mother, with endless confusion in

the newspapers, the invitations, the correspondence, and the gossip.

The present Mrs. Enslee felt now a sympathy for the old woman she

had hated. But it crowded out the sympathy she should have felt

for Persis, who was suffering what she had suffered as a

young-woman-afraid-of-her-mother-in-law.

It was bitter for Willie's mother, still beautiful, feeling herself as

young as ever, to realize that henceforth she must be the "the elder,"

or, worse yet, the "old Mrs. Enslee." Perhaps in a year or two a

grandmother! It would be just like Persis to hasten that ghastly day.

At present Persis was not thinking of motherhood. She would have called

it quite a ghastly day herself--one to be postponed by every ingenuity

and subtlety known to American womanhood. She was thinking of her new

name.

"You'll be Mrs. Enslee, and I suppose I'll be Mrs. William Enslee, or

Mrs. Little Willie, sha'n't I, mama? Do you want me to call you mama,

or shall I stick to Mrs. Enslee?"

"As you like, my dear," said Mrs. Enslee, with a little shudder at being

"mama" to a strange woman and a rival. Persis rattled on in ill-managed

embarrassment.

"It will be pretty mixy with two Mrs. William Enslees, won't it? Like

two in a single bed--pardon me! I'll have to be awfully good or awfully

careful, sha'n't I, for fear my letters may fall into your hands? But

I'll promise not to give away what I find in yours if you won't tell on

me."

Mrs. Enslee was rather pleased than offended at this. At least it

credited her with the ability to create scandal.

She was like Mrs. Neff in hating to get too old to be suspected.

She smiled at Persis with Spanish coquetry, and offered her aid in the

appalling details of announcing the engagement. It was the new mode to

use the telephone for the more intimate friends. For others there were

letters, calls, advertisements, luncheons, and dinners in all the

exquisite degrees of familiarity.

She and Persis were going into business for a while on a large scale--a

business for which Persis was peculiarly fitted and in which she

developed an extraordinary energy.

When Persis had returned to New York from the Enslee country place to

find her father helpless and dejected, the offer of Willie's aid had

acted like a magic elixir. It had meant the payment of old bills, or

their enlargement, and the opening of new credits. Dealers whom the

mercantile agencies had secretly filled with alarm for the Cabot

accounts had been subtly reassured.

In place of letters of pathetic appeal for a little something to meet a

pay-roll there came letters announcing private views of new

importations. Persis' own father called her his loan-broker, and said

that she had earned the usual commission; he ordered her to buy new

things. He complained of the shabbiness of her hats. Why hadn't she

bought the lot she had spoken to him about some time ago? She did at

once--and more.

Persis was like a child waking from a bad dream to find that it is

Christmas morning and that its stockings are cornucopias spilling over

with glittering toys.

And what woman lives that does not find more rapture in shopping with a

full purse or an elastic charge-account than in any other earthly or

spiritual pleasure?

The barbaric love of beads and red feathers and mirrors has never been

civilized out of the sex. The male succeeds in love and elsewhere by

what he thinks and makes and gives; the female by what she looks and

wears and extracts. The shops are her art-museums, her gymnasiums, her

paradises, and the privilege of reveling among them is more voluptuous

than any other of her sensualities. Shopping takes the place of

exploration. That is her Wanderlust.

And so when Willie Enslee arrived at the Cabot house with all his

weapons ready to force Persis to an early marriage, he was astounded--he

was even dismayed--to find that she offered no resistance, but greeted

his proposal with delight. It was like making ready to besiege and storm

a castle and being met half-way there by flower-girls instead of troops.

Persis was so instant with acceptance that he took credit to himself. He

cherished a pitiful delusion that she wanted to marry him--was actually

in a hurry to marry him!

But it was because she had seen in the shops the new things for this

year's brides. They were absolutely ravishing! Whatever they are in

reality or in retrospect, fashions are always ravishing as they dawn on

the horizon. Such beauties brighten as they make their entrance and

wither as they take their flight.

To prepare herself for a wedding did not mean--to Persis, at least,

whatever it may mean to other women--that she must prepare her soul for

a mystic union with a stranger soul. It meant that she must prepare her

wardrobe for the inspection of all sorts of critics, from the most

casual to the most intimate. It meant not only buying a veil and some

orange blossoms and a meekly glorious white dress, but it meant

outfitting a private department store. It meant preparing for travel and

a prolonged campaign known as a honeymoon, rather than entering shyly

into obscurity and domestic bliss. It meant not half so much what the

groom should think and see as what to show and what to whisper to the

bridesmaids, hysterically envious and ecstatically horrified.

Persis' father had nearly bankrupted himself once before over the

wedding of Persis' sister into the British peerage, when she ceased to

be the beautiful Miss Cabot and became the Countess of Kelvedon, and had

the privilege of being nineteenth in the fifty-seven varieties of

precedence among British women.

Mr. Cabot had learned nothing from that investment. He encouraged Persis

to extravagances she would never have dared even in her present mood. It

was like chirruping and taking the whip to a horse that was already

running away.

He sent a long cablegram to Persis' sister, insisting that she come over

at once for the wedding and bring the Earl and the eight-year-old

Viscount of Selden, the six-year-old Honorable Paul Hadham, and the

five-year-old Lady Maude Hadham. Persis received at once a brief reply

from the Countess:

"Congratulations old girl snooks says awfully glad to be with you if

papa pays the freight we are stony. Elise."

"Snooks" was the Earl of Kelvedon. Sometimes Elise called him "Kelly"

for short. Papa cabled the freight--and "freight" was beginning to

describe his burdens. But he was in for it; yet he felt that, come what

come would, he should henceforward lean comfortably on the Enslee

Estates.

Persis kept him signing checks till he was tempted to buy one of those

ingenious machines by which one signs twenty at a time.

Persis was running amuck among the shops. She was in a torment of

delight--a cat in a cosmos of catnip. The equipment of the humblest

bride is a matter of supreme effort. To make a Persis Cabot ready to

enter the dynasty of the Enslees was a Xerxic invasion.

The wedding-gown, though it was designed and builded with almost the

importance of St. Paul's Cathedral, was the least part of the trousseau.

Willie was to take her yachting and motoring and touring--perhaps around

the world. They were to be presented at court if the Queen forgave the

Countess her latest epigram in time. They were to visit capitals,

castles, chateaux, gambling-palaces, golf-links, beaches, spas. Costumes

and changes of costumes must be constructed for all these; for each

costume there must be a foundation from the skin out. If it had been

possible, the skin would have been changed as well. They do their best

in that direction--these women with their pallor for a gown of one color

and their carmine for a gown of another.

Persis had to have a going-to-the-altar gown, and a going-away gown, and

going-to-bed gowns, getting-up gowns, going-motoring costumes, and

going-in-swimming suits, dinner-gowns, house-gowns, tea-gowns, informal

theater-gowns, opera-gowns, race-track togs, yachting flannels. And

these were of numberless schools of architecture from train-gowns to tub

frocks and smocks, from lingerie dresses to semi-tailored one-piece and

two-piece suits, coats, and coatees, and coat-dresses, and sport-coats,

opera wraps, rain slip-ons.

And there were colors to choose from that made the rainbow look like a

study in sepia. And there were fabrics of strange names--crepe, tulle,

serge, taffeta, brocade, charmeuse, paillette, jet, batiste, voile--what

not?

And there were the underpinnings to all these--the stockings and

garters, the corsets and chiffon corset-covers and combinations,

chemi-pantalons and petticoats. And there were the accessories--hats,

caps, bonnets, gloves, fans, parasols, veils, jabots, collars,

aigrettes, boots, shoes, slippers, powders, paints, cerates,

massage-cream--_ad infinitum_. And in every instance there must be a

choice.

The complexity of a woman's wardrobe! A man is fitted out in a small

haberdashery and a tailoring establishment, a hat shop and a shoe store.

For woman they build Vaticans of merchandise in order that she may make

an effect on--other women!

Persis had so many dresses to try on that she had two pneumatic images

made of her form to stand in her stead. She had the servants' tongues

hanging out from running errands. Delivery-wagon drivers and

messenger-boys kept the area doorbells ringing early and late.

There was so much mail to send out that she hired two secretaries. Ten

Eyck called on her just once, and was used as telephone-boy,

package-opener, stenographer, change-purse, box-lifter,

memorandum-maker, doorbell-answerer, gift-cataloguer till he was

exhausted.

"How does a man ever dare to marry one of you maniacs?" he said.

"Marriage isn't a sacrament with you; it's a massacre. They have a money

macerator at the mint that destroys old greenbacks. Why don't they get a

couple of brides to do the work? A wedding costs as much as a small

war."

Persis might have retorted that wars were quite as foolish a waste as

fashions, and not half so pretty. A new style in projectiles, the latest

fabric of armor plate, the mode in airships--these things, too, come and

go, cost fortunes, and are soon mere junk. But Persis' head was too full

of other things, and her mouth too full of pins, to make any answer to

Ten Eyck.

If Forbes had called he might have seen that Persis was a great general,

or at least a great quartermaster, equipping not an army with one

uniform, but one poor little frantic body with an army of uniforms. And

Forbes would have been glad to take that body without a shift to its

back and wrap it in one of his own overcoats and ride away with it. But

for Willie she must loot Paris.

Still it was her career. Forbes would not give up his for her; why

should she give up hers for him?

If Forbes had been leading his company to war he would have felt sorry

for Persis, bitterly sorry to leave her, afraid for her; but he would

still have gone, as men have always gone. He would not have been immune

to bugles or the gait-quickening thrup of drums. He might have hummed

love songs to her, but "Dixie" would still have thrilled him. He would

not have neglected his uniform or his tactics. He would not have skulked

from a charge or dodged a shell on her account.

That was his trade. This was hers. And Persis was as happy as a man is

when he is going into battle. She was happy because she was busy and

because she was buying, exercising choice, spurning, pillaging among

cities of beautiful things. She dozed standing while skirts were draped;

at night she simply fell into bed and was asleep; her maid drew her

skirts from her hips and her stockings from her legs as if she were

dead. But the next morning she woke without being called, and began the

day with new ferocity of attack.

She had not forgotten Forbes. The thought of him hovered about her

heart. She paused now and then, with hand on cheek and eyes far away,

thinking of him so intently that the saleswoman had to speak twice to

her, or the dressmaker to lift her arms into the position he wanted for

the try-on.

Sometimes she woke from dreams in which she seemed to feel Forbes' arms

about her. As she woke they were withdrawn, as if he fled. She would

weep a little and lick the salt from her lips and find her tears very

bitter. She would pout at Fate and muse: "Why couldn't it have been

Harvey instead of Willie? Oh, what a pitiful sacrifice I am making of my

life!"

But her anger or despair in these humors was not half so intense as her

despair at finding that some color could not be matched or that a color

chosen in electric light was wrong in the daylight, or her anger because

some tradesman failed to keep his word or some caller came to wish her

well at a busy time, when true well-wishing would have shown itself in

keeping out of the way.

A president could hardly have given more thought to selecting his

cabinet than Persis gave to the choice of her bridesmaids, those

lieutenants who must stand by in the same uniform like moving

caryatides. There was the enormously important subject of their costume

to debate. Since the livery that suited one style of beauty was

loathsome on another, there was no little politics to play.

Persis invited the four elect to a luncheon at her club, and by having

her ideas clear and enforcing them in a delicately adamant tone she

managed to close the session in two hours. It was good work, and it was

necessary; for the bridesmaids' costumes must be ready in time for the

photographs.

She managed the luncheon so well that she finished it ahead of the time

she had told her chauffeur to call for her. She left the bridesmaids all

talking at once, for she had an appointment with one of her dressmakers.

As she came down the steps of the quaintly colonial Colony Club she

found no taxi in sight. She would not wait to have one summoned. The

brief walk would do her good. She set out briskly down Madison Avenue

and turned into Twenty-ninth Street to cross to Fifth Avenue.

This brought her to one of the few churchyards in almost grassless New

York--the pleasant green acre of the Church of the Transfiguration,

known to theatrical history as "The Little Church Around the Corner,"

and to the elopement industry as another Gretna Green.

As she approached it a taxicab drew up at the curb, and Stowe Webb and

Alice Neff bounced out, almost bowling Persis over, as usual. Both had a

much dressed-up look, and Alice carried a little bouquet.

Persis was in a hurry, but she scented excitement. When the two lovers

had apologized for their Juggernautical haste she asked, with the

demurest of smiles:

"And what are you children doing in this dark alley?"

"Oh, we're just--just--" Alice stammered.

"Does your mother know you're out?"

"Naturally not," Alice smiled, more cheerfully.

"Mischief's brewing. I've got to know."

"Can you keep a secret?"

"That's my other name--Inviolate."

Alice hesitated, then took a precaution. "Cross your heart and hope to

swallow fish-hooks?"

Persis drew an X over her heart, and vowed: "I am full of fish-hooks."

Alice looked up and down the street cautiously, then spoke in a whisper

of awesome solemnity: "Well, then, Stowe and I have given mama the slip,

and we're going to--to--"

"Get a chocolate-sundae with two spoons!"

Alice bridled with indignation. "Certainly not! We're not children! We

are going to run away and be married."

Persis nodded her head gravely. "That was what I was afraid you were

going to say. But why this haste?"

"Well, you see, Stowe has just got a job--umm-humm! It's a terribly

important post--secretary to Ambassador Tait."

"Ambassador?"

"Yes; the Senator is going to France, and Stowe is to help him out."

The young secretary spoke in, trying not to look as important as he

felt: "I simply can't endure the thought of leaving Alice all alone over

here. So we're going to get married."

"Fine!" said Persis, with subtlety. "I suppose you get a whopping big

salary."

"Indeed he does!" said Alice. "Twelve hundred a year! It's wonderful for

a beginning."

Persis suppressed her emotions at the talk of salary. She hated the

word; but she exclaimed, "Wonderful!" Then she turned to Stowe to ask:

"Does the Senator know you're going to bring a bride along?"

"No; we're going to surprise him."

Persis thought of her appointment. It was vitally important, but she

felt a call to duty. She thought it was rather good of her to heed it.

She bundled the two young people back into the waiting taxicab in spite

of their protests.

"Take us for a little drive, Stowe," she said. "I want a word with you.

Tell the man to go down Washington Square way. You're not so likely to

meet her mother."