When the sun rose it shone down with an air of personal sympathy upon the fleet of white yachts in the bay, upon the grand old avenues, upon the relics of an historic past no cottager ever thinks of, upon the splendid houses of those who have made Newport’s younger fame.  And it straggled through one pair of heavy curtains and gleamed upon the white face of a young man who had joined the ranks of those that proclaim the world their conqueror.

VII

Crowned with One Crest

(Published in Vanity Fair, London, in 1895)

People were beginning to wonder if an American, having captured a title and worn it for five years, would renounce it for mere good looks and brains; in other words, if Lady Carnath, formerly Miss Edith Ingoldsby, of Washington, and still earlier—­before her father had found leisure to crown a triumphant financial career with the patriotic labors of a United States Senator—­of Boone, Iowa, would marry Butler Hedworth, M.P., a gentleman of some fortune and irreproachable lineage who had already made himself known on the floor of the House, but was not so much as heir-presumptive to a title.  So many American maidens had placidly stood by while their mammas “arranged” a marriage between their gold-banked selves and the impecunious scion of an historical house, that the English, when forced to admit them well-bred, found solace in the belief that these disgustingly rich and handsome girls were without heart.

Nevertheless, Lady Carnath, who had worn her weeds but a year, permitted Butler Hedworth to pay her attentions so pronounced that her world was mildly betting on his possible acceptance as husband or lover.  It was argued that during the life of Lord Carnath his wife’s demeanor had been above comment, but a cynic remarked that women had all sorts of odd ideals; and was widely quoted.

Edith Ingoldsby had bought her Earl and paid a high price for him; nevertheless she had liked him better than any man but one that she had ever known, and they had been the best of friends.  When she met him she was in the agonies of her only passion, and had clutched the first opportunity to bury alive the love that was destroying her beauty and her interest in life.

The passion had lingered for a time, then gone the way of all passions unfed by a monotonous environment and too much leisure.  She found it very interesting to be an English countess.  For a while she had the impression of playing a part in a modern historical drama; but before long she realized, with true American adaptability, that her new life was but the living chapters of a book whose earlier parts had been serial instalments of retiring memory.  Her great wealth, her beauty, her piquant dashing thoroughbred manner, her husband’s popularity and title, created for her a position that would have closed any wound not irritated by domestic unhappiness; and this canker was not in her rose.  When Carnath died she mourned him sincerely, but not too profoundly to anticipate pleasurably the end of the weeded year.  When she met Hedworth she was as free of fancy and of heart as if she had but stepped from a convent.