THE SECOND MRS. MOPIUS

When the Baronial invitation reached Villa Blanda, Uncle Mopius immediately said “No.” He wanted so exceedingly to go that he revolted from himself, and then stuck to his assertion of independence. For, most of all, he wanted not to want to accept.

“We have no need of their patronage,” he said, pompously, over his morning paper. “Villa Blanda will cook its own modest Christmas dinner. Ha, ha! I have no notion of sitting down to a coroneted dish containing one skinny fowl.”

“What did you say?” asked Harriet, with an affectation of indifference. “Were you speaking to me?”

“My dear, I said we should not accept.”

Harriet, who had been trying to make up her mind, was glad of this timely assistance.

“And why not?” she questioned, sharply. “Of course we shall go. What excuse would you give?” She did not wait for his answer. “I don’t intend to have Ursula saying I’m afraid of her, or ashamed, because of the money and marrying you. No, indeed; we shall certainly go. Johan must hurry round to the dress-maker’s immediately.” She stroked her pretty morning-gown. Her dress-maker now was the one who had employed Mademoiselle Adeline.

“Dress-maker!” said Mopius, sharply. “Nonsense, Harriet; you have more dresses already than my first wife wore out in all her life.”

“I am going to have two new evening-frocks,” replied Harriet, ignoring the reference. “I have no good dinner things. They will have to sit up all night to get them ready.” She smiled pleasantly at her own importance.

“We’re not going,” said Mopius, settling his bull neck into his shiny collar.

She looked across at him quickly, and again she smiled.

“Yes, we are, because I want to,” she said, cruelly, without a shadow of playfulness. Mopius by this time had resolved that wild horses should not drag him to the Horst.

A simple Dutchwoman, however, is not a wild horse. Alas, she is more commonly a jade. Occasionally she is a mule.

Harriet sat down, watching her husband’s sullen face. Suddenly, from love of ease, she changed her tone.

“Did he want to stay at home with his own wifie?” she said, “like two turtles in a nest. Did he want to have a Christmas-tree all to themselves, and buy her a lot of lovely presents? That was good of him, and his wifie will give him a kiss for it.”

In the first months of their married life this tone had been fairly successful; it had obtained for her the numerous fineries of which JacÓbus’s soul now repented.

“Stop fooling, Harriet,” he now said, most unexpectedly. “I’m going to remain where I am because I hate dancing attendance on lords and beggarly great people. I’m a rich man, I am. And besides there’s a meeting of the Town Council on Tuesday.”

“Did you hear me suggest,” continued Harriet, sweetly, “that it was my intention to go?”

“Yes, hold your tongue and attend to your house-keeping. The beef was underdone yesterday. It never used to be in my dear departed’s time.”

“JacÓbus, that is your second allusion this morning to your dead wife. It marks a new departure, for till now you had wisely kept her in the background. But I must warn you, once for all, that I won’t stand it. Besides, it’s quite useless. Didn’t I know the poor fool? Wasn’t I present at her daily sacrifice? I am perfectly aware that she loved you in a different way from mine. She was like a faithful dog, poor creature, and you led her a dog’s life.”

A reproachful tear—not self-reproachful—stood in Mynheer Mopius’s yellow eye.

“Mine is a more natural affection. I love you in a reasonable, matrimonial way. Not only for your gray hairs”—JacÓbus winced—“but also for the comforts of our mutual entente. So we shall order two nice new dresses and depart on Tuesday morning.”

“Your aunt was a better woman than you, Harriet.”

“She was not my aunt; don’t call her so. Of course she was much better than I. Had she not been, you would have been a better man.”

“I don’t understand,” said Mynheer Mopius, helplessly, “but I am not going to the Horst.”

“Don’t want to see wheels go round,” quoted Harriet, whose course of novel-reading in all languages was very extensive, “but you will, though.”

She went over to her writing-table and carefully indited a little note. JacÓbus sat watching her nervously. She closed her envelope and got up without speaking.

“Written to Ursula?” asked her apprehensive lord.

“Oh dear, no; there’s time enough for that. It’s a note to Madame Javardy,” and she rang the bell. “Take this at once,” she said to the servant.

Mynheer Mopius rose on his spindle legs, protuberant and goggling.

“I am master of this house,” he began, “and I forbid—”

“Leave the room, Johan,” broke in Harriet, with suppressed vehemence; and, turning, as the man obeyed, “JacÓbus,” she said, “listen to me for one moment. That man knows you ill-treated your first wife. Everybody in the house knows it, but Drum society doesn’t, so you needn’t mind. Poor thing, she never told; but I shall, mind you, Mynheer the Town Councillor. If you ill-treat me, I shall cry out—cry out as far as—as Mevrouw Pock, for instance, and leave the rest to her!”

“Ill-treat you, Harriet!” spluttered Mynheer Mopius.

“Yes, ill-treat me. Do you know what they call Mevrouw Pock in Drum? ‘Sister Ann,’ because she’s always on the lookout for tidings. Mind they don’t call you ‘Bluebeard’ at the Club to-night.”

“They’ll say: What did you marry me for?” cried JacÓbus.

“Yes, they will—the women will; but the men will pity me, because I’m young and good looking, and you’re—old, JacÓbus. Oh, don’t bother,” she went on, hastily; “I’m sure I make you comfortable enough, and you can have everything you want. Only, I’m not going to put up with being teased out of pure whim, as you used to do. If you’ve a reason for stopping, I’ll stop, but as you’ve no reason, we go.”

She swept to the door.

“Harriet,” said Mopius, solemnly; “this is very wrong. You make scenes, Harriet; a thing I detest—”

She came back to him.

“Scenes,” she repeated. “No, indeed. This is merely a conversation. If we were to have a scene”—her dark eyes flashed—“I think I should beat you, and if we were to have a second, I—I should kill you. But we love each other; pray don’t let us have scenes.”

She left her consort to preen his ruffled feathers.

Said Harriet on the night of her arrival at the Manor-house:

“I want to speak to you for a moment, Ursula, where nobody can hear us. Come into my room.”

Ursula followed, wondering.

Harriet stood by her dressing-table in Madame Javardy’s wonderful white cashmere, all embroidery, with silken Edelweiss. She seemed uncertain how to begin.

“Ursula,” she said at last, “I suppose you were very angry with me, weren’t you, for marrying your Uncle Mopius?”

“I?” exclaimed Ursula, in amazement. “No, indeed; why should I—”

Then she reddened, suddenly understanding.

“Oh, of course, I remember,” continued Harriet, “you don’t care about money, and all that kind of thing. Still you married Baron van Helmont. Yes, I know; he’s not as old as Mopius. Don’t interrupt me. All I wanted to tell you was this: When I married, I looked to my marriage settlements. Your uncle has plenty of money, and I secured a handsome jointure, but, unless I should still have children, the bulk of his property goes to you and your heirs. I told him to make that arrangement and saw to his doing it. I don’t want money for money’s sake, nor more than I’m entitled to. Good-night.”

“Good-night,” echoed Ursula, and drew hesitatingly nearer.

“Don’t,” said the bride, holding her aloof. “I’m all right, thanks. What a dear little boy you have! Good-night.”