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diff --git a/24985-h/24985-h.htm b/24985-h/24985-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a3a3a1a --- /dev/null +++ b/24985-h/24985-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,12377 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta content="pg2html (binary v0.17)" name="linkgenerator" /> + <title> + Comedies of Courtship, by Anthony Hope + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .75em; margin-bottom: .75em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + .xx-small {font-size: 60%;} + .x-small {font-size: 75%;} + .small {font-size: 85%;} + .large {font-size: 115%;} + .x-large {font-size: 130%;} + .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} + .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} + .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} + .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} + .indent25 { margin-left: 25%;} + .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} + .indent35 { margin-left: 35%;} + .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; + font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; + text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; + border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} + .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} + span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Comedies of Courtship, by Anthony Hope + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Comedies of Courtship + +Author: Anthony Hope + +Release Date: April 4, 2008 [EBook #24985] +Last Updated: November 7, 2018 + + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP *** + + + + + + +</pre> + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP + </h1> + <h2> + By Anthony Hope + </h2> + <h3> + 1894 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “It is a familiar fact that the intensity of a passion varies + with the proximity of the appropriate object.” + Mr. Leslie Stephen, ‘Science of Ethics’ + + “How the devil is it that fresh features + Have such a charm for us poor human creatures?” + Lord Byron, ‘Don Juan’ +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h3> + NOTE + </h3> + <p> + “The Wheel of Love,” published in Scribner’s Magazine + during the past year, and “The Lady of the Pool,” both + protected by American copyright, are here printed for the first time in + book form. The four other stories appeared without their author’s + consent or knowledge, with their titles changed beyond recognition, and + combined with other unauthorized material, in a small volume printed by an + American firm. They are here given for the first time in their proper form + and by my authority. + </p> + <p> + Anthony Hope. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>THE WHEEL OF LOVE</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. — THE VIRTUOUS HYPOCRITES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. — SYMPATHY IN SORROW </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. — A PROVIDENTIAL DISCLOSURE + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. — THE TALE OF A POSTMARK </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. — A SECOND EDITION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. — A MAN WITH A THEORY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. — THE SIGHTS OF AVIGNON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. — MR. AND MRS. ASHFORTH (1) + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. — MR. AND MRS. ASHFORTH (2) + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. — MR. AND NOT MRS. ASHFORTH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. — A DYNAMITE OUTRAGE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. — ANOTHER! </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. — FAITHFUL TO DEATH </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> <b>THE LADY OF THE POOL</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER I. — A FIRM BELIEVER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER II. — MISS WALLACE’S FRIEND + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER III. — ALL NONSENSE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER IV. — A CATASTROPHE AT THE POOL + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER V. — AN UNFORESEEN CASE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER VI. — THERE WAS SOMEBODY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER VII. — THE INEVITABLE MEETING </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER VIII. — THE MORAL OF IT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER IX. — TWO MEN OF SPIRIT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER X. — THE INCARNATION OF LADY AGATHA + </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> THE CURATE OF POLTONS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> A THREE-VOLUME NOVEL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> THE PHILOSOPHER IN THE APPLE ORCHARD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> THE DECREE OF DUKE DEODONATO </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE WHEEL OF LOVE + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. — THE VIRTUOUS HYPOCRITES + </h2> + <p> + AT first sight they had as little reason for being unhappy as it is + possible to have in a world half full of sorrow. They were young and + healthy; half a dozen times they had each declared the other more than + common good-looking; they both had, and never knew what it was not to + have, money enough for comfort and, in addition that divine little + superfluity wherefrom joys are born. The house was good to look at and + good to live in; there were horses to ride, the river to go a-rowing on, + and a big box from Mudie’s every week. No one worried them; Miss + Bussey was generally visiting the poor; or, as was the case at this + moment, asleep in her arm-chair, with Paul, the terrier, in his basket + beside her, and the cat on her lap. Lastly, they were plighted lovers, and + John was staying with Miss Bussey for the express purpose of delighting + and being delighted by his fiancie, Mary Travers. For these and all their + mercies certainly they should have been truly thankful. + </p> + <p> + However the heart of man is wicked. This fact alone can explain why Mary + sat sadly in the drawing-room, feeling a letter that was tucked inside her + waistband and John strode moodily up and down the gravel walk, a cigar, + badly bitten, between his teeth, and his hand over and again covertly + stealing toward his breast-pocket and pressing a scented note that lay + there. In the course of every turn John would pass the window of the + drawing-room; then Mary would look up with a smile and blow him a kiss, + and he nodded and laughed and returned the salute. But, the window passed, + both sighed deeply and returned to lingering those hidden missives. + </p> + <p> + “Poor little girl! I must keep it up,” said John. + </p> + <p> + “Dear good John! He must never know,” thought Mary. + </p> + <p> + And the two fell to thinking just what was remarked a few lines back, + namely, that the human heart is very wicked; they were shocked at + themselves; the young often are. + </p> + <p> + Miss Bussey awoke, sat up, evicted the cat, and found her spectacles. + </p> + <p> + “Where are those children?” said she. “Billing and + cooing somewhere, I suppose. Bless me, why don’t they get tired of + it?” + </p> + <p> + They had—not indeed of billing and cooing in general, for no one at + their age does or ought to get tired of that—but of billing and + cooing with one another. + </p> + <p> + It will be observed that the situation promised well for a tragedy. + Nevertheless this is not the story of an unhappy marriage. + </p> + <p> + If there be one thing which Government should forbid, it is a secret + engagement. Engagements should be advertised as marriages are; but unless + we happen to be persons of social importance, or considerable notoriety, + no such precautions are taken. Of course there are engagement rings; but a + man never knows one when he sees it on a lady’s hand—it would + indeed be impertinent to look too closely—and when he goes out alone + he generally puts his in his pocket, considering that the evening will + thus be rendered more enjoyable. The Ashforth—Travers engagement was + not a secret now, but it had been, and had been too long. Hence, when Mary + went to Scotland and met Charlie Ellerton, and when John went to + Switzerland and met Dora Bellairs-the truth is, they ought never to have + separated, and Miss Bussey (who was one of the people in the secret) had + been quite right when she remarked that it seemed a curious arrangement. + John and Mary had scoffed at the idea of a few weeks’ absence having + any effect on their feelings except, if indeed it were possible, that of + intensifying them. + </p> + <p> + “I really think I ought to go and find them,” said Miss + Bussey. “Come, Paul!” + </p> + <p> + She took a parasol, for the April sun was bright, and went into the + garden. “When she came to the drawing-room window John was away at + the end of the walk. She looked at him: he was reading a letter. She + looked in at the window: Mary was reading a letter. + </p> + <p> + “Well!” exclaimed Miss Bussey. “Have they had a tiff?” + And she slowly waddled (truth imposes this word-she was very stout) toward + the unconscious John. He advanced toward her still reading; not only did + he not see her, but he failed to notice that Paul had got under his feet. + He fell over Paul, and as he stumbled the letter fluttered out of his + hand. Paul seized it and began to toss it about in great glee. + </p> + <p> + “Good doggie!” Cried Miss Bussey. “Come then! Bring it + to me, dear. Good Paul!” + </p> + <p> + John’s face was distorted with agony. He darted toward Paul, fell on + him, and gripped him closely. Paul yelped and Miss Bussey observed, in an + indignant tone, that John need not throttle the dog. John muttered + something. + </p> + <p> + “Is the letter so very precious?” asked his hostess + ironically. + </p> + <p> + “Precious!” cried John. “Yes!—No!—It’s + nothing at all.” + </p> + <p> + But he opened Paul’s mouth and took out his treasure with wonderful + care. + </p> + <p> + “And why,” inquired Miss Bussey, “are you not with Mary, + young man? You’re very neglectful.” + </p> + <p> + “Neglectful! Surely, Miss Bussey, you haven’t noticed anything—like + neglect? Don’t say——” + </p> + <p> + “Bless the boy! I was only joking. You’re a model lover.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, thank you. I’ll go to her at once,” and he + sped towards the window, opened it and walked up to Mary. Miss Bussey + followed him and arrived just in time to see the lovers locked in one + another’s arms, their faces expressing all appropriate rapture. + </p> + <p> + “There’s nothing much wrong,” said Miss Bussey; wherein + Miss Bussey herself was much wrong. + </p> + <p> + “What a shame! I’ve left you alone for more than an hour!” + said John. “Have you been very unhappy?” and he added, “darling.” + It sounded like an afterthought. + </p> + <p> + “I have been rather unhappy,” answered Mary, and her answer + was true. As she said it she tucked in a projecting edge of her letter. + John had hurriedly slipped his (it was rather the worse for its mauling) + into his trousers-pocket. + </p> + <p> + “You—you didn’t think me neglectful?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no.” + </p> + <p> + “I was thinking of you all the time,” + </p> + <p> + “And I was thinking of you, dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you very happy?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, John; aren’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I am. Happy! I should think so,” and he kissed her + with unimpeachable fervor. + </p> + <p> + When a conscientious person makes up his mind that he ought, for good + reasons, to deceive somebody, there is no one like him for thorough-paced + hypocrisy. When two conscientious people resolve; to deceive one another, + on grounds of duty, the acme of duplicity is in a fair way to be reached. + John Ashforth and Mary Travers illustrated this proposition. The former + had been all his life a good son, and was now a trustworthy partner, to + his father, who justly relied no less on his character than on his brains. + The latter, since her parents’ early death had left her to her aunt’s + care, had been the comfort and prop of Miss Bussey’s life. It is + difficult to describe good people without making them seem dull; but + luckily nature is defter than novelists, and it is quite possible to be + good without being dull. Neither Mary nor John was dull; a trifle limited, + perhaps, they were, a thought severe in their judgments of others as well + as of themselves; a little exacting with their friends and more than a + little with themselves. One description paints them both; doubtless their + harmony of mind had contributed more than Mary’s sweet expression + and finely cut features, or John’s upstanding six feet, and honest + capable face, to produce that attachment between them which had, six + months before this story begins, culminated in their engagement. Once + arrived at, this ending seemed to have been inevitable. Everybody + discovered that they had foretold it from the first, and modestly + disclaimed any credit for anticipating a union between a couple so + obviously made for one another. + </p> + <p> + The distress into which lovers such as these fell when they discovered by + personal experience that sincerely to vow eternal love is one thing, and + sincerely to give it quite another, may be well imagined, and may well be + left to be imagined. They both went through a terrible period of + temptation, wherein they listened longingly to the seductive pleading of + their hearts; but both emerged triumphant, resolved to stifle their mad + fancy, to prefer good faith to mere inclination, and to avoid, at all + costs, wounding one to whom they had sworn to be true. Thus far their + steadfastness carried them, but not beyond. They could part from their + loved ones, and they did; but they could not leave them without a word. + Each wrote, after leaving Scotland and Switzerland respectively, a few + lines of adieu, confessing the love they felt, but with resolute sadness + saying farewell forever. They belonged to another. + </p> + <p> + It was the answers that Mary and John were reading when Miss Bussey + discovered them. + </p> + <p> + Mary’s ran: + </p> + <p> + “MY DEAR MISS TRAVERS: I have received your letter. I can’t + tell you what it means to me. You say all must be over between us. Don’t + be offended—but I won’t say that yet. It can’t be your + duty to marry a man you don’t love. You forbid me to write or come + to you; and you ask only for a word of good-by. I won’t say good-by. + I’ll say <i>Au revoir—au revoir</i>, my darling.” + </p> + <p> + “Charlie.” + </p> + <p> + “Burn this.” + </p> + <p> + This was John’s: + </p> + <p> + “MY DEAR MR. ASHFORTH: What am I to say to you? Oh, why, why didn’t + you tell me before? I oughtn’t to say that, but it is too late to + conceal anything from you. Yes, you are right. It must be good-by. Yes, I + will try to forget you. But oh, John, it’s very, very, very + difficult. I don’t know how to sign this—so I won’t. You’ll + know who it comes from, won’t you? Good-by. Burn this.” + </p> + <p> + These letters, no doubt, make it plain that there had been at least a + momentary weakness both in Mary and in John; but in a true and charitable + view their conduct in rising superior to temptation finally was all the + more remarkable and praiseworthy. They had indeed, for the time, been + carried away. Even now Mary found it hard not to make allowances for + herself, little as she was prone to weakness when she thought of the + impetuous <i>abandon</i> and conquering whirl with which Charlie Ellerton + had wooed her; and John confessed that flight alone, a hasty flight from + Interlaken after a certain evening spent in gazing at the Jungfrau, had + saved him from casting everything to the winds and yielding to the slavery + of Dora Bellairs’s sunny smiles and charming coquetries. He had + always thought that that sort of girl had no attractions for him, just as + Mary had despised ‘butterfly-men’ like Charlie Ellerton. Well, + they were wrong. The only comfort was that shallow natures felt these + sorrows less; it would have broken Mary’s heart (thought John), or + John’s (thought Mary), but Dora and Charlie would soon find + consolation in another. But here, oddly enough, John generally swore + heartily and Mary always began to search for her handkerchief. “They’re + as affectionate as one could wish when they’re together,” + mused Miss Bussey, as she stroked the cat, “but at other times they’re + gloomy company. I suppose they can’t be happy apart. Dear! dear!” + and the good old lady fell to wondering whether she had ever been so + foolish herself. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. — SYMPATHY IN SORROW + </h2> + <p> + “Give me,” observed Sir Roger Deane, “Cannes, a fine + day, a good set to look at, a beehive chair, a good cigar, a cocktail on + one side and a nice girl on the other, and there I am! I don’t want + anything else.” + </p> + <p> + General Bellairs pulled his white mustache and examined Sir Roger’s + figure and surroundings with a smile. + </p> + <p> + “Then only Lady Deane is wanting to your complete happiness,” + said he. + </p> + <p> + “Maud is certainly a nice girl, but when she deserts me——” + </p> + <p> + “Where is she?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “I do,” interposed a young man, who wore an eye—glass + and was in charge of a large jug. “She’s gone to Monte.” + </p> + <p> + “I might have known,” said Sir Roger. “Being missed here + always means you’ve gone to Monte—like not being at church + means you’ve gone to Brighton.” + </p> + <p> + “Surely she doesn’t play?” asked the General. + </p> + <p> + “Not she! She’s going to put it in a book. She writes books + you know. She put me in the last—made me a dashed fool, too, by + Jove!” + </p> + <p> + “That was unkind,” said the General, “from your wife.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Lord love you, she didn’t mean it. I was the hero. That’s + how I came to be such an ass. The dear girl meant everything that was + kind. Who’s taken her to Monte?” + </p> + <p> + “Charlie Ellerton,” said the young man with the eye-glass. + </p> + <p> + “There! I told you she was a kind girl. She’s trying to pull + old Charlie up a peg or two. He’s had the deuce of a facer, you + know.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought he seemed less cheerful than usual.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, rather. He met a girl somewhere or other—I always forget + places—Miss—Miss—hang it, I can’t remember names—and + got awfully smitten, and everything went pleasantly and she took to him + like anything—, and at last old Charlie spoke up like a man, and——” + Sir Roger paused dramatically. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” asked the General. + </p> + <p> + “She was engaged to another fellow. Rough, wasn’t it? She told + old Charlie she liked him infernally, but promises were promises, don’t + you know, and she’d thank him to take his hook. And he had to take + it, by Gad! Rough, don’t you know? So Maud’s been cheering him + up. The devil!” + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter now?” inquired the General. + </p> + <p> + “Why, I’ve just remembered that I promised to say nothing + about it. I say, don’t you repeat it, General, nor you either, + Laing.” + </p> + <p> + The General laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Sir Roger, “he oughtn’t to have been + such a fool as to tell me. He knows I never remember to keep things dark. + It’s not my fault.” + </p> + <p> + A girl came out of the hotel and strolled up to where the group was. She + was dark, slight, and rather below middle height; her complexion at this + moment was a trifle sallow and her eyes listless, but it seemed rather as + though she had dressed her face into a tragic cast, the set of the + features being naturally mirthful. She acknowledged the men’s + salutations and sat down with a sigh. + </p> + <p> + “Not on to-day?” asked Sir Roger, waving his cigar toward the + lawn-tennis courts. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Miss Bellairs. + </p> + <p> + “Are you seedy, Dolly?” inquired the General. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Miss Bellairs. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Laing fixed his eye-glass and surveyed the young lady. + </p> + <p> + “Are you taking any?” said he, indicating the jug. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see any fun in vulgarity,” observed Miss + Bellairs. + </p> + <p> + The General smiled. Sir Roger’s lips assumed the shape for a + whistle. + </p> + <p> + “That’s a nasty one for me,” said Laing. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, here you are, Roger,” exclaimed a fresh clear voice from + behind the chairs. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. We’ve + seen everything—Mr. Ellerton was most kind—and I do so want to + tell you my impressions.” + </p> + <p> + The new-comer was Lady Deane, a tall young woman, plainly dressed in a + serviceable cloth walking-gown. By her side stood Charlie Ellerton in a + flannel suit of pronounced striping; he wore a little yellow mustache, had + blue eyes and curly hair, and his face was tanned a wholesome ruddy-brown. + He looked very melancholy. + </p> + <p> + “Letters from Hell,” murmured Sir Roger. + </p> + <p> + “But I was so distressed,” continued his wife. “Mr. + Ellerton would gamble, and he lost ever so much money.” + </p> + <p> + “A fellow must amuse himself,” remarked Charlie gloomily, and + with apparent unconsciousness he took a glass from Laing and drained it. + </p> + <p> + “Gambling and drink—what does that mean?” asked Sir + Roger. + </p> + <p> + “Shut up, Deane,” said Charlie. + </p> + <p> + Miss Bellairs rose suddenly and walked away. Her movement expressed + impatience with her surroundings. After a moment Charlie Ellerton slowly + sauntered after her. She sat down on a garden-seat some way off. Charlie + placed himself at the opposite end. A long pause ensued. + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid I’m precious poor company,” said + Charlie. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t want you to be company at all,” answered Miss + Bellairs, and she sloped her parasol until it obstructed his view of her + face. + </p> + <p> + “I’m awfully sorry, but I can’t stand the sort of rot + Deane and Laing are talking.” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t you? Neither can I.” + </p> + <p> + “They never seem to be serious about anything, you know,” and + Charlie sighed deeply, and for three minutes there was silence. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know Scotland at all?” asked Charlie at last. + </p> + <p> + “Only a little.” + </p> + <p> + “There last year?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I was in Switzerland.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know Interlaken?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh.” + </p> + <p> + “May I have a cigarette?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, if you like.” + </p> + <p> + Charlie lit his cigarette and smoked silently for a minute or two. + </p> + <p> + “I call this a beastly place,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, horrid,” she answered, and the force of sympathy made + her move the parasol and turn her face towards her companion. “But I + thought,” she continued, “you came here every spring?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don’t mind the place so much. It’s the people.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, isn’t it? I know what you mean.” + </p> + <p> + “You can’t make a joke of everything, can you?” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed no,” sighed Dora. + </p> + <p> + Charlie looked at his cigarette, and, his eyes carefully fixed on it, said + in a timid tone: + </p> + <p> + “What’s the point, for instance, of talking as if love was all + bosh?” + </p> + <p> + Dora’s parasol swept down again swiftly, but Charlie was still + looking at the cigarette and he did not notice its descent, nor could he + see that Miss Bellairs’s cheek was no longer sallow. + </p> + <p> + “It’s such cheap rot,” he continued, “and when a + fellow’s—I say, Miss Bellairs, I’m not boring you?” + </p> + <p> + The parasol wavered and finally moved. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Miss Bellairs. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know whether you—no, I mustn’t say that; + but I know what it is to be in love, Miss Bellairs; but what’s the + good of talking about it? Everybody laughs.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Bellairs put down her parasol. + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn’t laugh,” she said softly. “It’s + horrid to laugh at people when they’re in trouble,” and her + eyes were very sympathetic. + </p> + <p> + “You are kind. I don’t mind talking about it to you. You know + I’m not the sort of fellow who falls in love with every girl he + meets; so of course it’s worse when I do.” + </p> + <p> + “Was it just lately?” murmured Dora. + </p> + <p> + “Last summer.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! And—and didn’t she——?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don’t know. Yes, hang it, I believe she did. She was + perfectly straight, Miss Bellairs. I don’t say a word against her. + She-I think she didn’t know her own feelings until—until I + spoke, you know—and then——” + </p> + <p> + “Do go on, if—if it doesn’t——” + </p> + <p> + “Why, then, the poor girl cried and said it couldn’t be + because she—she was engaged to another fellow; and she sent me away.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Bellairs was listening attentively. + </p> + <p> + “And,” continued Charlie, “she wrote and said it must be + good-by and—and——” + </p> + <p> + “And you think she——?” + </p> + <p> + “She told me so,” whispered Charlie. “She said she + couldn’t part without telling me. Oh, I say, Miss Bellairs, isn’t + it all damnable? I beg your pardon.” + </p> + <p> + Dora was tracing little figures on the gravel with her parasol. + </p> + <p> + “Now what would you do?” cried Charlie. “She loves me, I + know she does, and she’s going to marry this other fellow because + she promised him first. I don’t suppose she knew what love was then.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’m sure she didn’t,” exclaimed Dora + earnestly. + </p> + <p> + “You can’t blame her, you know. And it’s absurd to—to—to—not + to—well, to marry a fellow you don’t care for when you care + for another fellow, you know!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course you can hardly imagine yourself in that position, but + suppose a man liked you and-and was placed like that, you know, what + should you feel you ought to do?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don’t know,” exclaimed Dora, clasping her hands. + “Oh, do tell me what you think! I’d give the world to know!” + </p> + <p> + Charlie’s surprised glance warned her of her betrayal. “You + mustn’t ask me.” she exclaimed hastily. + </p> + <p> + “I won’t ask a word. I—I’m awfully sorry, Miss + Bellairs.” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody knows,” she murmured. + </p> + <p> + “Nobody shall through me.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re not very—? I’m very ashamed.” + </p> + <p> + “Why? And because of me! After what I’ve told you!” + </p> + <p> + Charlie rose suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “I’m not going to stand it,” he announced. + </p> + <p> + Dora looked up eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “What? You’re going to——?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m going to have a shot at it. Am I to stand by and see her——? + I’m hanged if I do. Could that be right?” + </p> + <p> + “I should like to know what one’s <i>duty</i> is?” + </p> + <p> + “This talk with you has made me quite clear. We’ve reasoned it + out, you see. They’re not to be married for two or three months. A + lot can be done in that time.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you’re a man!” + </p> + <p> + “I shall write first. If that doesn’t do, I shall go to her.” + </p> + <p> + Dora shook her head mournfully. + </p> + <p> + “Now, look here, Miss Bellairs you don’t mind me advising you?” + </p> + <p> + “I ought not to have let you see, but as it is—” + </p> + <p> + “You do as I do, you stick to it. Confound it, you know, when one’s + life’s happiness is at stake—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, yes!” + </p> + <p> + “One mustn’t be squeamish, must one?” + </p> + <p> + And Dora Bellairs, in a very low whisper, answered, “No.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall write to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! To-night?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Now promise me you will too.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s harder for me than you.” + </p> + <p> + “Not if he really——.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, indeed, he really does, Mr. Ellerton.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you’ll write?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + “No. Promise!” + </p> + <p> + “Well—it must be right. Yes, I will.” + </p> + <p> + “I feel the better for our talk, Miss Bellairs, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “I do a little.” + </p> + <p> + “We shall be friends now, you know; even if I bring it off I shan’t + be content unless you do too. Won’t you give me your good wishes?” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed I will.” + </p> + <p> + “Shake hands on it.” + </p> + <p> + They shook hands and began to stroll back to the tennis-courts. + </p> + <p> + “They look a little better,” observed Sir Roger Deane, who had + been listening to an eloquent description of the gaming-tables. + </p> + <p> + Dora and Charlie walked on towards the hotel. + </p> + <p> + “Hi!” shouted Sir Roger. “Tea’s coming out here.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got a letter to write,” said Charlie. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Miss Bellairs, you must come. Who’s to pour it out?” + </p> + <p> + “I must catch the post, Sir Roger,” answered Dora. + </p> + <p> + They went into the house together. In the hall they parted. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll let me know what happens, Mr. Ellerton, won’t + you? I’m so interested.” + </p> + <p> + “And you?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—well, perhaps,” and the sallow of her cheeks had + turned to a fine dusky red as she ran upstairs. + </p> + <p> + Thus it happened that a second letter for John Ashforth and a second + letter for Mary Travers left Cannes that night. + </p> + <p> + And if it seems a curious coincidence that Dora and Charlie should meet at + Cannes, it can only be answered that they were each of them just as likely + to be at Cannes as anywhere else. Besides, who knows that these things are + all coincidence? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. — A PROVIDENTIAL DISCLOSURE + </h2> + <p> + On Wednesday the eleventh of April, John Ashforth rose from his bed full + of a great and momentous resolution. There is nothing very strange in + that, perhaps it is just the time of day when such things come to a man, + and, in ordinary cases, they are very prone to disappear with the relics + of breakfast. But John was of sterner stuff. He had passed a restless + night, tossed to and fro by very disturbing gusts of emotion, and he arose + with the firm conviction that if he would escape shipwreck he must secure + his bark by immovable anchors while he was, though not in honor, yet in + law and fact, free; he could not trust himself. Sorrowfully admitting his + weakness, he turned to the true, the right, the heroic remedy. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll marry Mary to—day fortnight,” said he. + “When we are man and wife I shall forget this madness and love her + as I used to.” + </p> + <p> + He went down to breakfast, ate a bit of toast and drank a cup of very + strong tea. Presently Mary appeared and greeted him with remarkable + tenderness. His heart smote him, and his remorse strengthened his + determination. + </p> + <p> + “I want to speak to you after breakfast,” he told her. + </p> + <p> + His manner was so significant that a sudden gleam of hope flashed into her + mind. Could it be that he had seen, that he would be generous? She + banished the shameful hope. She would not accept generosity at the expense + of pain to him. + </p> + <p> + Miss Bussey, professing to find bed the best place in the world, was in + the habit of taking her breakfast there. The lovers were alone, and, the + meal ended, they passed together into the conservatory. Mary sat down and + John leant against the glass door opposite her. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said she, smiling at him. + </p> + <p> + It suddenly struck John that, in a scene of this nature, it ill-befitted + him to stand three yards from the lady. He took a chair and drew it close + beside her. The thing had to be done and it should be done properly. + </p> + <p> + “We’ve made a mistake, Mary,” he announced, taking her + hand and speaking in a rallying tone. + </p> + <p> + “A mistake!” she cried; “oh, how?” + </p> + <p> + “In fixing our marriage——.” + </p> + <p> + “So soon?” + </p> + <p> + “My darling!” said John (and it was impossible to deny + admiration to the tone he said it in), “no. So late! What are we + waiting for? Why are we wasting all this precious time?” + </p> + <p> + Mary could not speak, but consternation passed for an appropriate + confusion, and John pursued his passionate pleadings. As Mary felt his + grasp and looked into his honest eyes, her duty lay plain before her. She + would not stoop to paltry excuses on the score of clothes, invitations, or + such trifles. She had made up her mind to the thing; surely she ought to + do it in the way most gracious and most pleasing to her lover. + </p> + <p> + “If Aunt consents,” she murmured at last, “do as you + like, John dear,” and the embrace which each felt to be inevitable + at such a crisis passed between them. + </p> + <p> + A discreet cough separated them. The butler stood in the doorway, with two + letters on a salver. One he handed to Mary, the other to John, and walked + away with a twinkle in his eye. However even our butlers do not know + everything that happens in our houses (to say nothing of our hearts), + although much they may think they do. + </p> + <p> + John looked at his letter, started violently and crushed it into his + pocket. He glanced at Mary; her letter lay neglected on her lap. She was + looking steadily out of the window. + </p> + <p> + “Well, that’s settled,” said John. “I—I + think I’ll have a cigar, dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, do, darling,” said Mary, and John went out. + </p> + <p> + These second letters were unfortunately so long as to make it impossible + to reproduce them. They were also very affecting, Dora’s from its + pathos, Charlie’s from its passion. But the waves of emotion beat + fruitlessly on the rock-built walls of conscience. At almost the same + moment, Mary, brushing away a tear, and John, blowing his nose, sat down + to write a brief, a final answer. “We are to be married today + fortnight,” they said. They closed the envelopes without a moment’s + delay and went to drop their letters in the box. The servant was already + waiting to go to the post with them and a second later the fateful + documents were on their way to Cannes. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” said John, with a ghastly smile, “we can have a + glorious long day together!” + </p> + <p> + Mary was determined to leave herself no loophole. + </p> + <p> + “We must tell Aunt what—what we have decided upon this + morning,” she reminded him. “It means that the wedding must be + very quiet.” + </p> + <p> + “I shan’t mind that. Shall you?” + </p> + <p> + “I shall like it of all things.” she answered. “Come and + find Aunt Sarah.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Bussey had always—or at least for a great many years back—maintained + the general proposition that young people do not know their own minds. + This morning’s news confirmed her opinion. + </p> + <p> + “Why the other day you both agreed that the middle of June would do + perfectly. Now you want it all done in a scramble.” + </p> + <p> + The pair stood before her, looking very guilty. + </p> + <p> + “What is the meaning of this—this (she very nearly said + ‘indecent’) extraordinary haste?” + </p> + <p> + Miss Bussey asked only one indulgence from her friends. Before she did a + kind thing she liked to be allowed to say one or two sharp ones. Her niece + was aware of this fancy of hers and took refuge in silence. John, less + experienced in his hostess’s ways, launched into the protests + appropriate to an impatient lover. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Miss Bussey, “I must say you look properly + ashamed of yourself [John certainly did], so I’ll see what can be + done. What a fluster we shall live in! Upon my word you might as well have + made it tomorrow. The fuss would have been no worse and a good deal + shorter.” + </p> + <p> + The next few days passed, as Miss Bussey had predicted, in a fluster. Mary + was running after dress makers, John after licenses, Cook’s tickets, + a best man, and all the impedimenta of a marriage. The intercourse of the + lovers was much interrupted, and to this Miss Bussey attributed the low + spirits that Mary sometimes displayed. + </p> + <p> + “There, there, my dear,” she would say impatiently—for + the cheerful old lady hated long faces—“you’ll have + enough of him and to spare by and by.” + </p> + <p> + Curiously this point of view did not comfort Mary. She liked John very + much, she esteemed him even more than she liked him, he would, she + thought, have made an ideal brother. Ah, why had she not made a brother of + him while there was time? Then she would have enjoyed his constant + friendship all her life; for it was not with him as with that foolish boy + Charlie, all or nothing. John was reasonable; he would not have threatened—well, + reading—his letter one way, Charlie almost seemed to be tampering + with propriety. John would never have done that. And these reflections, + all of which should have pleaded for John, ended in weeping over the lost + charms of Charlie. + </p> + <p> + One evening, just a week before the wedding, she roused herself from some + such sad meditations, and, duty-driven, sought John in the smoking-room. + The door was half open and she entered noiselessly. John was sitting at + the table; his arms were outspread on it, and his face buried in his + hands. Thinking he was asleep she approached on tiptoe and leant over his + shoulder. As she did so her eyes fell on a sheet of note-paper; it was + clutched in John’s right hand, and the encircling grasp covered it, + save at the top. The top was visible, and Mary, before she knew what she + was doing, had read the embossed heading—nothing else, just the + embossed heading—Hotel de Luxe, Cannes, Alpes Maritimes. + </p> + <p> + The drama teaches us how often a guilty mind rushes, on some trifling + cause, to self-revelation. Like a flash came the conviction that Charlie + had written to John, that her secret was known, and John’s + heartbroken. In a moment she fell on her knees crying, “Oh, how + wicked I’ve been! Forgive me, do forgive me! Oh, John, can you + forgive me?” + </p> + <p> + John was not asleep, he also was merely meditating; but if he had been a + very Rip Van Winkle this cry of agony would have roused him. He started + violently—as well he might—from his seat, looked at Mary, and + crumpled the letter into a shapeless ball. + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t see?” he asked hoarsely. + </p> + <p> + “No, but I know. I mean I saw the heading, and knew it must be from + him. Oh, John!” + </p> + <p> + “From him!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He’s—he’s staying there. Oh, John! Really I’ll + never see or speak to him again. Really I won’t. Oh, you can trust + me, John. See! I’ll hide nothing. Here’s his letter! You see I’ve + sent him away?” + </p> + <p> + And she took from her pocket Charlie’s letter, and in her noble + fidelity (to John—the less we say about poor Charlie the better) + handed it to him. + </p> + <p> + “What’s this?” asked John, in bewilderment. “Who’s + it from?” + </p> + <p> + “Charlie Ellerton,” she stammered. + </p> + <p> + “Who’s Charlie Ellerton? I never heard—but am I to read + it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, please, I—I think you’d better.” + </p> + <p> + John read it; Mary followed his eyes, and the moment they reached the end, + without giving him time to speak, she exclaimed, “There, you see I + spoke the truth. I had sent him away. What does he say to you, John?” + </p> + <p> + “I never heard of him in my life before.” + </p> + <p> + “John! Then who is your letter from?” + </p> + <p> + He hesitated. He felt an impulse to imitate her candor, but prudence + suggested that he should be sure of his ground first. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me all,” he said, sitting down. “Who is this man, + and what has he to do with you?” + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you show me his letter? I don’t know what he’s + said about me.” + </p> + <p> + “What could he say about you?” + </p> + <p> + “Well he—he might say that—that I cared for him, John.” + </p> + <p> + “And do you?” demanded John, and his voice was anxious. + </p> + <p> + Duty demanded a falsehood; Mary did her very best to satisfy its imperious + commands. It was no use. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, John,” she murmured, and then began to cry. + </p> + <p> + For a moment wounded pride struggled with John’s relief; but then a + glorious vision of what this admission of Mary’s might mean to him + swept away his pique. + </p> + <p> + “Read this,” he said, giving her Dora Bellairs’s letter, + “and then we’ll have an explanation.” + </p> + <p> + Half an hour later Miss Bussey was roused from a pleasant snooze. John and + Mary stood beside her, hand in hand. They wore brother and sister now—that + was an integral part of the arrangement—and so they stood hand in + hand. Their faces were radiant. + </p> + <p> + “We came to tell you, Auntie dear, that we have decided that we’re + not suited to one another,” began Mary. + </p> + <p> + “Not at all,” said John decisively. + </p> + <p> + Miss Bussey stared helplessly from one to the other. + </p> + <p> + “It’s all right, Miss Bussey,” remarked John cheerfully. + “We’ve had an explanation; we part by mutual consent.” + </p> + <p> + “John,” said Mary, “is to be just my brother and I his + sister. Oh, and Auntie, I want to go with him to Cannes.” + </p> + <p> + This last suggestion, which naturally did not appear to any well-regulated + mind to harmonize with what had gone before, restored voice to Miss + Bussey. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter with you? Are you mad?” she demanded. + </p> + <p> + John sat down beside her. His friends anticipated a distinguished + Parliamentary career for John; he could make anything sound reasonable. + Miss Bussey was fascinated by his suave and fluent narrative of what had + befallen Mary and himself; she could not but admire his just remarks on + the providential disclosure of the true state of the case before it was + too late, and sympathized with the picture of suffering nobly suppressed + which grew under his skilful hand; she was inflamed when he ardently + declared his purpose of seeking out Dora; she was touched when he kissed + Mary’s hand and declared that the world held no nobler woman. Before + John’s eloquence even the stern facts of a public engagement, of + invited guests, of dresses ordered and presents received, lost their + force, and the romantic spirit, rekindled, held undivided sway in Miss + Bussey’s heart. + </p> + <p> + “But,” she said, “why does Mary talk of going to Cannes + with you?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Ellerton is at Cannes, Aunt,” murmured Mary, shyly. + </p> + <p> + “But you can’t travel with John.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but you must come too.” + </p> + <p> + “It looks as if you were running after him.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll chance Charlie thinking that,” cried Mary, + clasping her hands in glee. + </p> + <p> + Miss Bussey pretended to be reluctant to undertake the journey, but she + was really quite ready to yield, and soon everything was settled on the + new basis. + </p> + <p> + “And now to write and tell people,” said Miss Bussey. “That’s + the worst part of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor dear! We’ll help,” cried Mary. “But I must + write to Cannes.” + </p> + <p> + “Wire!” cried John. + </p> + <p> + “Of course, wire!” echoed Mary. + </p> + <p> + “The first thing tomorrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Before breakfast.” + </p> + <p> + “Mary, I shall never forget——.” + </p> + <p> + “No, John, it’s you who——.” and they went + off in a torrent of mutual laudation. + </p> + <p> + Miss Bussey shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “If they think all that of one another why don’t they marry?” + she said. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. — THE TALE OF A POSTMARK + </h2> + <p> + “Yes,” said Lady Deane, “we leave today week: Roger has + to be back the first week in May, and I want to stop at one or two places + en route.” + </p> + <p> + “Let’s see. To-day’s the 19th, no, the 20th; there’s + nothing to remind one of time here. That’ll be the 27th. That’s + about my date; we might go together if you and Deane have no objection.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I should be delighted, General; and shall you stay at all in + Paris?” + </p> + <p> + “A few days—just to show Dolly the sights.” + </p> + <p> + “How charming! And you and I must have some expeditions together. + Roger is so odd about not liking to take me.” + </p> + <p> + “We’ll do the whole thing, Lady Deane,” answered General + Bellairs, heartily. “Notre Dame, the Versailles, the Invalides, + Eiffel Tower.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Deane’s broad white brow showed a little pucker. + </p> + <p> + “That wasn’t quite what I meant,” said she. “Oh, + but Roger could take Dora to those, couldn’t he, while you and I + made a point of seeing some of the real life of the people? Of studying + them in their ordinary resorts, their places of recreation and amusement.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the Francais, and the opera, and so on, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, no,” exclaimed Lady Deane, tapping her foot + impatiently and fixing her gray eyes on the General’s now puzzled + face. “Not the same old treadmill in Paris as in London! Not that, + General!” + </p> + <p> + “What then, my dear lady?” asked he. “Your wish is law + to me,” and it was true that he had become very fond of his earnest + young friend. “What do you want to see? The Chamber of Deputies?” + </p> + <p> + Sir Roger’s voice struck in. + </p> + <p> + “I’m not a puritanical husband, Bellairs, but I must make a + stand somewhere. Not the Chamber of Deputies.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be silly, Roger dear,” said Lady Deane, in her + usual tone of dispassionate reproof. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t find out where she does want to go to,” + remarked the General. + </p> + <p> + “I can tell you,” said Sir Roger, and he leant down and + whispered a name; in the General’s ear. The General jumped. + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “I haven’t been + there since the fifties. Is it still like what it used to be?” + </p> + <p> + “How should I know?” inquired Sir Roger. “I’m not + a student of social phenomena. Maud is, so she wants to go.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Deane was looking on with a quiet smile. + </p> + <p> + “She never mentioned it,” protested the General. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, of course if there’s a worse place now!” conceded + Sir Roger. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll make up my mind when we arrive,” observed Lady + Deane. “Anyhow I shall rely on you, General.” + </p> + <p> + The General looked a little uncomfortable. + </p> + <p> + “If Deane doesn’t object——.” + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn’t think of taking my wife to such places.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Dora Bellairs rushed up to them. + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen Mr. Ellerton?” she cried. “Where is he?” + </p> + <p> + “In the smoking-room,” answered Sir Roger. “Do you want + him?” + </p> + <p> + “Would you mind? I can’t go in there: it’s full of men.” + </p> + <p> + “After all we must be somewhere,” pleaded Sir Roger as he went + on his errand. + </p> + <p> + “Dolly,” said the General, “I’ve just made a + charming arrangement. Lady Deane and Sir Roger start for Paris to-day + week, and we’re going with them. You said you’d like another + week here.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s charming our being able to go together, isn’t it?” + said Lady Deane. Dora’s face did not express rapture, yet she liked + the Deanes very much. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but——” she began. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” asked her father. + </p> + <p> + “I rather want to go a little sooner.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid,” said Lady Deane, “we shan’t + get Roger to move before then. He’s bent on seeing the tennis + tournament through. When did you want to go, Dora?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, in fact—to—night.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Dolly, what a weathercock you are! It’s impossible. I’m + dining with the Grand Duke on Monday. You must make up your mind to stay, + young woman.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, please, papa——.” + </p> + <p> + “But why do you want to go?” asked the General, rather + impatiently. + </p> + <p> + Dora had absolutely no producible reason for her eagerness to go. And yet—Oh, + if they only knew what was at stake! “We’re to be married in a + fortnight!” She could see the words dancing before her eyes. And she + must waste a precious week here! + </p> + <p> + “Do you want me, Miss Bellairs?” asked Charlie Ellerton, + coming up to them. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I want—oh, I want to go to Rumpelmayer’s.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. Come along. I’m delighted to go with you.” + </p> + <p> + They walked off in silence. Dora was in distress. She saw that the General + was immovable. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Charlie turned to her and remarked, + </p> + <p> + “Well, it’s all over with me, Miss Bellairs.” + </p> + <p> + “What? How do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “My chance is gone. They’re to be married in a fortnight. I + had a letter to say so this morning.” + </p> + <p> + Dora turned suddenly to him. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but it’s too extraordinary,” she cried. “So + had I!” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, a letter to say they were to be married in a fortnight.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Mr. Ellerton—who—who is your friend?” + </p> + <p> + “Her name’s Mary Travers.” + </p> + <p> + “And who is she going—to marry?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! She hasn’t told me that.” + </p> + <p> + A suspicion of the truth struck them both. Charlie produced his letter. + </p> + <p> + “She writes,” he said, showing the postmark, “from + Dittington.” + </p> + <p> + “It is! It is!” she cried. “It must be Mary Travers that + Mr. Ashforth is going to marry!” + </p> + <p> + “Is that your friend?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Is she pretty, Mr. Ellerton?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, awfully. What sort of a fellow is he?” + </p> + <p> + “Splendid!” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it a deuced queer thing?” + </p> + <p> + “Most extraordinary. And when we told one another we never thought——.” + </p> + <p> + “How could we?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, no, we couldn’t, of course.” + </p> + <p> + A pause followed. Then Charlie observed: “I suppose there’s + nothing to be done.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing to be done, Mr. Ellerton! Why if I were a man I’d + leave for England tonight.” + </p> + <p> + “And why can’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Papa won’t. But you might.” + </p> + <p> + “Ye—es, I suppose I might. It would look rather odd, wouldn’t + it?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, you yourself suggested it!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but the marriage was a long way off then.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s the more reason now for haste.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, that’s true, but——.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, if papa would only take me!” A sudden idea seemed to + strike Charlie; he assumed an air of chivalrous sympathy. “When + shall you go?” he asked. “Not till to-day week,” she + said. “We shan’t get to England till three or four days before + it.” Dora knew nothing of the proposed stay in Paris. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Miss Bellairs,” said Charlie, “we agreed to + stand by one another. I shall wait and go when you do.” + </p> + <p> + “But think——.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve thought.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re risking everything.” + </p> + <p> + “If she’ll break it off ten days before, she’ll do the + same four days before.” + </p> + <p> + “If she really loves you she will.” + </p> + <p> + “Anyhow we’ll stand or fall together.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I oughtn’t to let you, but I can’t refuse. How kind + you are!” + </p> + <p> + “Then that’s settled,” said Charlie, “And we must + try to console one another till then.” + </p> + <p> + “The suspense is awful, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. But we must appear cheerful. We mustn’t betray + ourselves.” + </p> + <p> + “Not for the world! I can never thank you enough. You’ll come + with us all the way?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you again.” + </p> + <p> + She gave him her hand, which he pressed gently. + </p> + <p> + “Hullo!” said he. “We seem to have got up by the church + somewhere. Where were we going to?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, to Rumpelmayer’s.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, ah! Well, let’s go back to the hotel.” + </p> + <p> + Wonderings on the extraordinary coincidence, with an occasional reference + to the tender tie of a common sorrow which bound them together, beguiled + the journey back, and when they reached the hotel Dora was quite calm. + Charlie seemed distinctly cheerful, and when his companion left him he sat + down by Deane and remarked in a careless way, just as if he neither knew + nor cared what the rest of them were going to do, “Well, I shall + light out of here in a few days. I suppose you’re staying some time + longer?” + </p> + <p> + “Off in a week,” said Sir Roger. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, by Jove, that’s about my mark. Going back to England?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I suppose—so—ultimately. We shall stay a few days + in Paris en route. The Bellairs’ go with us.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do they?” + </p> + <p> + Sir Roger smiled gently. + </p> + <p> + “Surprised?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Charlie ignored the question. + </p> + <p> + “And you aren’t going to hurry?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Why should we?” + </p> + <p> + Charlie sat silent. It was tolerably plain that, unless the few days en + route were very few indeed, John Ashforth and Mary Travers were in a fair + way to be prosperously and peacefully married before Dora Bellairs set + foot in England. And if he stayed with the Bellairs’, before he did, + either! Charlie lit a cigarette and sat puffing and thinking. + </p> + <p> + “Dashed nice girl, Dora Bellairs,” observed Sir Roger. + </p> + <p> + “Think so?” + </p> + <p> + “I do. She’s the only girl I ever saw that Laing was smitten + with.” + </p> + <p> + “Laing!” said Charlie. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what’s the matter? He’s an uncommon good chap, + Laing—one of the best chaps I know—and he’s got lots of + coin. I don’t expect she’d sneeze at Laing.” + </p> + <p> + It is, no doubt, taking a very serious responsibility to upset an + arrangement arrived at deliberately and carried almost to a conclusion. A + man should be very sure that he can make a woman happy—happier than + any other man could-before he asks her to face the turmoil and the scandal + of breaking off her marriage only a week before its celebration. Sure as + he may be of his own affection, he must be equally sure of hers, equally + sure that their mutual love is deep and permanent. He must consider his + claims to demand such a sacrifice. What remorse will be his if, + afterwards, he discovers that what he did was not, in truth, for her real + happiness! He must be on his guard against mere selfishness or mere vanity + masquerading in the garb of a genuine passion. + </p> + <p> + As these thoughts occurred to Charlie Ellerton he felt that he was at a + crisis of his life. He also felt glad that he had still a quiet week at + Cannes in which to revolve these considerations in his mind. Above all, he + must do nothing hastily. + </p> + <p> + Dora came out, a book in her hand. Her soft white frock fluttered in the + breeze, and she pushed back a loose lock of dark hair that caressed her + check. + </p> + <p> + “A dashed nice girl, upon my honor,” said Sir Roger Deane. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, very.” + </p> + <p> + “I say, old chap, I suppose you’re in no hurry. You’ll + put in a few days in Paris? We might have a day out, mightn’t we?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know yet,” said Charlie, and, when Deane left + him, he sat on in solitude. + </p> + <p> + Was it possible that in the space of a week—? No, it was impossible. + And yet, with a girl like that——. + </p> + <p> + “I did the right thing in waiting to go with her, anyhow,” + said Charlie, comforting himself. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. — A SECOND EDITION + </h2> + <p> + “Don’t you think it’s an interesting sort of title?” + inquired Lady Deane of Mr. Laing. + </p> + <p> + Laing was always a little uneasy in her presence. He felt not only that + she was analyzing him, but that the results of the analysis seemed to her + to be a very small residuum, of solid matter. Besides, he had been told + that she had described him as a “commonplace young man,” a + thing nobody could be expected to like. + </p> + <p> + “Capital!” he answered, nervously fingering his eye glass. + “The Transformation of Giles Brockleton! Capital!” + </p> + <p> + “I think it will do,” said Lady Deane complacently. + </p> + <p> + “Er—what was he transformed into, Lady Deane?” + </p> + <p> + “A man,” replied the lady emphatically. + </p> + <p> + “Of course. I see,” murmured Laing apologetically, stifling a + desire to ask what Giles had been before. + </p> + <p> + A moment later the author enlightened him. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said she, “into a man, from a useless, + mischievous, contemptible idler, a parasite, Mr. Laing, a creature to whom——” + </p> + <p> + “What did it, Lady Deane?” interrupted Laing hastily. He felt + somehow as if he were being catalogued. + </p> + <p> + “Just a woman’s influence.” + </p> + <p> + Laing’s face displayed relief; he felt that he was in his depth + again. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, got married, you mean? Well, of course, he’d have to pull + up a bit, wouldn’t he? Hang it, I think it’s a fellow’s + duty. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t quite understand me,” observed Lady Deane + coldly. “He did not marry the woman.” + </p> + <p> + “What, did she give him the—I mean, wouldn’t she have + him, Lady Deane?” + </p> + <p> + “She would have married him; but beside her he saw himself in his + true colors. Knowing what he was, how could he dare? That was his + punishment, and punishment brought transformation.” + </p> + <p> + As Lady Deane sketched her idea, her eyes kindled and her tone became + animated. Laing admired both her and her idea, and he expressed his + feeling’s by saying: + </p> + <p> + “Remarkable sort of chap, Lady Deane. I shall read it all right, you + know.” + </p> + <p> + “I think you ought,” said she, rising, and leaving him to + wonder whether she had “meant anything.” + </p> + <p> + He gave himself a little shake, as though to escape from the atmosphere of + seriousness which she had diffused about him, and looked round. A little + way off he saw Dora Bellairs and Charlie Ellerton sitting side by side. + His brow clouded. Before Charlie came it had been his privilege to be Miss + Bellairs’s cavalier, and although he never hoped, nor, to tell the + truth, desired more than a temporary favor in her eyes, he did not quite + like being ousted. + </p> + <p> + “Pretty good for a fellow who’s just had the bag!” he + remarked scornfully, referring to Roger Deane’s unauthorized + revelation. + </p> + <p> + It was the day before the exodus to Paris. Dora’s period of weary + waiting had worn itself away, and she was acknowledging to Charlie that + the last two or three days had passed quicker than she had ever thought + they could. + </p> + <p> + “The first two days I was wretched, the next two gloomy, but these + last almost peaceful. In spite of—you know what—I think you’ve + done me good on the whole.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t mention it,” said Charlie, flinging his arm over + the back of the seat and looking at his companion. + </p> + <p> + “And now—in the end,” pursued Dora, “I’m + actually a little sorry to leave all this; it’s so beautiful,” + and she waved her parasol vaguely at the hills and the islands, while with + the other hand she took off her hat and allowed the breeze to blow through + her hair. + </p> + <p> + “It is jolly, isn’t it?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I should rather think it was,” said Charlie. “The + jolliest I’ve ever seen.” It was evident that he did not refer + to the scenery. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you promised you wouldn’t,” cried Dora + reproachfully. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, I’ll promise again,” he replied, smiling + amiably. + </p> + <p> + “What must I think of you, when only a week or so ago——? + Oh, and what must you think of me to suppose I could? Oh, Mr. Ellerton!” + </p> + <p> + “Like to know what I think of you?” inquired Charlie, quite + unperturbed by this passionate rebuke. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not,” said she, with dignity, and turned away. A + moment later, however, she attacked him again. + </p> + <p> + “And you’ve done nothing,” she said indignantly, “but + suggest to papa interesting places to stop at on the way, and things he + ought to see in Paris. Yes, and you actually suggested going home by sea + from Marseilles. And all the time you knew it was vital to me to get home + as soon as possible. To me? Yes, and to you <i>last week</i>. Shall I tell + you something, Mr. Ellerton?” + </p> + <p> + “Please,” said Charlie. “Whisper it in my ear,” + and he offered his head in fitting proximity. + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn’t mind who heard,” she declared. “I + despise you, Mr. Ellerton.” + </p> + <p> + Charlie was roused to a protest. + </p> + <p> + “For downright unfairness give me a girl!” said he. “Here + have I taken the manly course! After a short period of weakness—I + admit that—I have conquered my feelings; I have determined not to + distress Miss Travers by intruding upon her; I have overcome the + promptings of a cowardly despair; I have turned my back resolutely on a + past devoid of hope. I am, after a sore struggle, myself again. And my + reward, Miss Bellairs, is to be told that you despise me. Upon my honor, + you’ll be despising Simon Stylites next.” + </p> + <p> + “And you wrote and told Miss Travers you were coming!” + </p> + <p> + “All right. I shall write and toll her I’m not coming. I shall + say, Miss Bellairs, that it seems to me to be an undignified thing——” + </p> + <p> + “To do what I’m going to do? Thank you, Mr. Ellerton.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I forgot.” + </p> + <p> + “The irony of it is that you persuaded me to do it yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “I was a fool; but I didn’t know you so well then.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s that got to do with it?” + </p> + <p> + “Everything.” + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t know yourself, I’m afraid,” she + remarked. “You thought you were a man of some—some depth of + feeling, some constancy, a man whose—whose regard a girl would + value, instead of being——” + </p> + <p> + “Just a poor devil who worships the ground you tread on.” + </p> + <p> + Dora laughed scornfully. + </p> + <p> + “Second edition!” said she. “The first dedicated to Miss + Travers.” + </p> + <p> + And then Charlie (and it is thing’s like these which shake that + faith in human nature that we try to cling to) said in a low but quite + distinct voice: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, d——n Miss Travers!” + </p> + <p> + Dora shot—it almost looked as if something had shot her, as it used, + in old days, Miss Zazel—up from her seat. + </p> + <p> + “I thought I was talking to a <i>gentleman</i>,” said she, + “I suppose you’ll use that—expression—about me in + a week.” + </p> + <p> + “In a good deal less, if you treat me like this,” said + Charlie, and his air was one of hopeless misery. + </p> + <p> + We all recollect that Anne ended by being tolerably kind to wicked King + Richard. After all, Charlie had the same excuse. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want to be unkind,” said Dora more gently. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll do anything in the world to please you.” + </p> + <p> + “Then make papa go straight to Paris, and straight on from Paris,” + said Dora, using her power mercilessly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I say, I didn’t mean that, Miss Bellairs.” + </p> + <p> + “You said you’d do anything I liked.” + </p> + <p> + Charlie looked at her thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you’ve no pity?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + “For you? Not a bit,” + </p> + <p> + “You probably don’t know how beautiful you are?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be foolish, and—and impertinent.” + </p> + <p> + She was standing opposite to him. With a sudden motion, he sprang forward, + fell on one knee, seized her ungloved hand, covered it with kisses, sprang + up, and hastened away, crying as he went: + </p> + <p> + “All right. I’ll do it.” + </p> + <p> + Dora stood where he left her. First she looked at her hand, then at + Charlie’s retreating back, then again at her hand. Her cheek was + flushed and she trembled a little. + </p> + <p> + “John never did that,” she said, “at least, not without + asking. And even then, not quite like that.” + </p> + <p> + She walked on slowly, then stopped and exclaimed: + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if he ever did that to Mary Travers.” + </p> + <p> + And her last reflection was: + </p> + <p> + “Poor boy. He must be—oh, dear me!” + </p> + <p> + When Charlie reached the tennis-courts, he was, considering the moving + scene through which he had passed, wonderfully calm. In fact he was + smiling and whistling. Espying Sir Roger Deane, he went and sat down by + him. + </p> + <p> + “Roger,” said he, “I’m going with you and the + Bellairs’ to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “I know that.” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Bellairs wants to go straight through to England without + stopping anywhere.” + </p> + <p> + “She’ll have to want, I expect.” + </p> + <p> + “And I’ve promised to try and get the General to do what she + wants.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you though?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose, Roger, old fellow—you know you’ve great + influence with him—I suppose it’s no use asking you to say a + word to him?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because Maud particularly wants him to stay with us in Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, of course, if Lady Deane wishes it, I mustn’t say a word. + She’s quite made up her mind about it, has she?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I suppose so.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s strong on it, I mean? Not likely to change?” + </p> + <p> + “I think not, Charlie.” + </p> + <p> + “She’d ask him to stay, as a favor to her?” + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn’t at all wonder.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well then, my asking him won’t make much difference.” + </p> + <p> + “Frankly, I don’t see why it should.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks. I only wanted to know. You’re not in a hurry, Roger? + I mean, you won’t ask your wife to go straight on?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I shan’t, Charlie. I want to stop myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks, old chap! See you at dinner,” and Charlie strolled + off with a reassured air. + </p> + <p> + Sir Roger sat and thought. + </p> + <p> + “I see his game,” he said to himself at last, “but I’m + hanged if I see hers. Why does she want to get back to England? Perhaps if + I delay her as much as I can, she’ll tell me. Hanged if I don’t! + Anyhow I’m glad to see old Charlie getting convalescent.” + </p> + <p> + The next morning the whole party left Cannes by the early train. The + Bellairs, the Deanes, and Charlie Ellerton travelled together. Laing + announced his intention of following by the afternoon train. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said Lady Deane, “you’ll get to Paris sooner + than we do.” Dora looked gloomy; so did Charlie, after a momentary, + hastily smothered smile. + </p> + <p> + The porter approached and asked for an address. They told him the Grand + Hotel, Paris. + </p> + <p> + “If anything comes to-day, I’ll bring it on,” said + Laing. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, do; we shall have no address before Paris,” answered + General Bellairs. + </p> + <p> + They drove off, and Laing, feeling rather solitary, returned to his cigar. + An hour later the waiter brought him two telegrams, one for Dora and one + for Charlie, he looked at the addresses. + </p> + <p> + “Just too late, by Jove! All right, gargon, I’ll take ‘em,” + and he thrust them into the pocket of his flannel jacket. And when, after + lunch, he could not stand the dullness any longer and went to Monte Carlo, + he left the telegrams in the discarded flannels, where they lay till—the + time when they were discovered. For Mr. Laing clean forgot all about them! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. — A MAN WITH A THEORY + </h2> + <p> + Even Miss Bussey was inclined to think that all had happened for the best. + John’s eloquence had shaken her first disapprobation; the visible + happiness of the persons chiefly concerned pleaded yet more persuasively. + What harm, after all, was done, except for a little trouble and a little + gossip? To these Mary and John were utterly indifferent. At first they had + been rather shy in referring, before one another, to their loves, but + custom taught them to mention the names without confusion, and ere long + they had exchanged confidences as to their future plans. John’s + arrangement was obviously the more prudent and becoming. He + discountenanced Mary’s suggestion of an unannounced descent on + Cannes, and persuaded her to follow his example and inform her lover that + she would await news from him in Paris. They were to put up at the + European, and telegrams there from Cannes would rind them on and after + April 28th. All this valuable information was contained in the dispatches, + which lay, with their priceless messages, on the said April 28th, in Mr. + Arthur Laing’s flannel jacket, inside his portmanteau, on the way to + Paris. + </p> + <p> + Paris claims to be the centre of the world, and if it be, the world has a + very good centre. Anyhow Paris becomes, from this moment, the centre of + this drama. Not only was Arthur Laing being whirled there by the Nice + express, and Miss Bussey’s party proceeding thither by the eleven o’clock + train from Victoria—Mary laughed as she thought it might have been + her honeymoon she was starting on—but the Bellairs and their friends + were heading for the same point. Miss Bussey’s party had the + pleasanter journey; they were all of one mind; Miss Bussey was eager to + reach Paris because it was the end of the journey; John and Mary desired + nothing but the moment when with trembling fingers they should tear open + their telegrams in the hall of the hotel. The expedition from the south + did not enjoy a like unanimity; but before following their steps we may, + in the interest of simplicity, land the first detachment safely at its + destination. + </p> + <p> + When Mary and John, followed by Miss Bussey—they outstripped her in + their eagerness—entered the hotel, a young man with an eye-glass was + just engaging a bedroom. John took his place beside the stranger, and + asked in a voice, which he strove to render calm, if there were any + letters for——. + </p> + <p> + “Beg pardon, sir. In one moment,” said the clerk, and he added + to Laing, “Number 37, sir.” Laing—Oh, the irony of + things!—turned on John and his companion just that one supercilious + glance which we bestow on other tourists, and followed his baggage + upstairs. + </p> + <p> + “Anything,” resumed John, “for Miss Travers or Mr. + Ashforth?” And he succeeded in looking as if he did not care a straw + whether there were or not. + </p> + <p> + After a search the porter answered, “Nothing, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” exclaimed John, aghast? “Oh, nonsense, look + again.” + </p> + <p> + Another search followed; it was without result. + </p> + <p> + John saw Mary’s appealing eyes fixed on him. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing,” he said tragically. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, John!” + </p> + <p> + “Have you taken the rooms, Mr. Ash forth?” inquired Miss + Bussey. + </p> + <p> + “No. I’m sorry. I forgot all about them.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Bussey was tired; she had been seasick, and the train always made her + feel queer. + </p> + <p> + “Has neither of you got an ounce of wits about you?” she + demanded, and plunged forward to the desk. John and Mary received their + numbers in gloomy silence, and mounted the stairs. + </p> + <p> + Now Arthur Laing in his hasty survey of the party had arrived at a not + unnatural but wholly erroneous conclusion. He had seen a young man, rather + nervous, a young woman, looking anxious and shy, and an elderly person, + plainly dressed (Miss Bussey was no dandy) sitting (Miss Bussey always sat + as soon as she could) on, a trunk. He took John and Mary for a newly + married couple, and Miss Bussey for an old family servant detailed to look + after her young mistress’s entry into independent housekeeping. + </p> + <p> + “More infernal honeymooners,” he said to himself, as he washed + his hands. “The place is always full of ‘em. Girl wasn’t + bad-looking, though.” + </p> + <p> + The next morning, unhappily, confirmed him in his mistake. For Miss + Bussey, overcome by the various trials of the day before, kept her bed, + and when Laing came down, the first sight which met his eyes was a + breakfast-table, whereat Mary and John sat tjte-`-tjte. He eyed them with + that mixture of scorn and envy which their supposed situation awakens in a + bachelor’s heart, and took a place from which he could survey them + at leisure. There is a bright side to everything; and that of Laing’s + mistake was the pleasure he derived from his delusion. Sticking his glass + firmly in his eye, he watched like a cat for those playful little + endearments which his cynical mood—he was, like many of us, not at + his best in the morning—led him to anticipate. He watched in vain. + The young people were decorum itself; more than that, they showed signs of + preoccupation; they spoke only occasionally, and then with a business-like + brevity. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly the waiter entered, with a hand fid of letters which he proceeded + to distribute. Laing expected none, and kept his gaze on his honeymooners. + To his surprise they showed animation enough now; their eyes were first on + the waiter’s approaching form; the bridegroom even rose an inch or + two from his seat; both stretched out their hands. + </p> + <p> + Alas, with a little bow, a smile, and a shrug, the waiter passed by, and + the disappointed couple sank back, with looks of blank despair. + </p> + <p> + Surely here was enough to set any open-minded man on the right track! Yes; + but not enough to free one who was tied and bound to his own theory. + </p> + <p> + “She’s dashed anxious to hoar from home!” mused Laing. + “Poor girl! It ain’t over and above flattering to him, though.” + </p> + <p> + He finished his breakfast and went out to smoke. Presently he saw his + friends come out also; they went to the porter’s desk and he hoard + one of them say “telegram.” A sudden idea struck him. + </p> + <p> + “I am an ass!” said he. “Tell you what it is they’ve + wired for rooms somewhere—Monte, most likely—and can’t + start till they get an answer.” + </p> + <p> + He was so pleased with his explanation that his last doubt vanished and he + watched Mary and John start for a walk—the fraternal relations they + had established would have allowed such a thing even in London, much more + in Paris—with quite a benevolent smile. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Sarah is really quite poorly,” remarked Mary as they + crossed the road and entered the Tuileries Gardens. “She’ll + have to stay in all to-day and perhaps tomorrow. Isn’t it hard upon + her? Paris amuses her so much.” + </p> + <p> + John expressed his sympathy. + </p> + <p> + “Now if it had been you or I,” he ended, “we shouldn’t + have minded. Paris doesn’t amuse us just now.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but, John, we must be ready to start at any moment.” + </p> + <p> + “You can’t start without Miss Bussey,” + </p> + <p> + “I think that in a wagon-lit——” began Mary. + </p> + <p> + “But what’s the good of talking?” cried John, bitterly. + “Why is there no news from her?” + </p> + <p> + “He <i>might</i> have wired—John, is it possible our telegrams + went astray?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, we must wait a day or two; or, if you like, we can wire + again.” + </p> + <p> + Mary hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “I—I can’t do that, John. Suppose he’d received + the first, and—and—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I see. I don’t want to humiliate myself either.” + </p> + <p> + “We’ll wait a day, anyhow. And, now, John, let’s think + no more about them! Oh, well, that’s nonsense; but let’s + enjoys ourselves as well as we can.” + </p> + <p> + They managed to enjoy themselves very well. The town was new to Mary, and + John found a pleasure in showing it off to her. After a morning of + sight-seeing, they drove in the Bois, and ended the day at the theatre. + Miss Bussey, unfortunately, was no better. She had sent for an English + doctor and he talked vaguely about two or three days in bed. Mary ventured + to ask whether her aunt could travel. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, if absolutely necessary, perhaps; but much better not,” + was the answer. + </p> + <p> + Well, it was not absolutely necessary yet, for no letter and no telegram + arrived. This was the awful fact that greeted them when they came in from + the theatre. + </p> + <p> + “We’ll wire the first thing to-morrow,” declared John, + in a resolute tone. “Write yours to-night, Mary, and I’ll + give, them to the porter—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, not mine, please,” cried Mary, in shrinking bashfulness. + “I can’t let the porter see mine!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, we’ll take them out before breakfast to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + To this Mary agreed, and they sat down and wrote their dispatches. While + they were so engaged Laing jumped out of a cab and entered the room. He + seized an English paper, and, flinging himself into a chair, began to + study the sporting news. Presently he stole a glance at Mary. It so + chanced that just at the same moment she was stealing a glance at him. + Mary dropped her eyes with a blush; Laing withdrew behind his paper. + </p> + <p> + “Shy, of course. Anybody would be,” he thought, with a smile. + </p> + <p> + “Did you like the piece, Mary?” asked John. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, very much. I wish Aunt Sarah could have seen it. She missed so + much fun.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, she could hardly have come with us, could she?” + remarked John. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no,” said Mary. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I should rather think not,” whispered Laing, who failed + to identify ‘Aunt Sarah’ with the elderly person on the trunk. + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn’t have been happy if she had,” said Mary. + </p> + <p> + “I simply wouldn’t have let her,” said John, in that + authoritative tone which so well became him. + </p> + <p> + “No more would I in your place, old chap,” murmured Mr. Laing. + </p> + <p> + Mary rose. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks for all your kindness, John. Good-night.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m so glad you’ve had a pleasant day. Good-night, + Mary.” + </p> + <p> + So they parted—with a good-night as calm, as decorous, as frankly + fraternal as one could wish (or wish otherwise). Yet its very virtues + undid it in the prematurely suspicious eyes of Arthur Laing. For no sooner + was he left alone than he threw down his paper and began to chuckle. + </p> + <p> + “All for my benefit, that, eh? ‘Goodnight, Mary!’ + ‘Good-night, John!’ Lord! Lord!” and he rose, lit a + cigarette, and ordered a brandy-and-soda. And ever and again he smiled. He + felt very acute indeed. + </p> + <p> + So vain is it for either wisdom or simplicity, candor or diplomacy—nay, + for facts themselves—to struggle against a Man with a Theory. Mr. + Laing went to bed no more doubting that Mary and John were man and wife + than he doubted that he had ‘spotted’ the winner of the Derby. + Certitude could no farther go. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. — THE SIGHTS OF AVIGNON + </h2> + <p> + “It’s a curious thing,” observed Roger Deane, “but + this fellow Baedeker always travels the opposite way to what I do. When I’m + coming back, he’s always going out, and vice versa. It makes him + precious difficult to understand, I can tell you, Miss Dora. However I + think I’ve got him now. Listen to this! ‘Marseilles to Arles + (Amphitheatre starred) one day. Arles to Avignon (Palace of the Popes + starred) two days—slow going that—Avignon to——‘” + </p> + <p> + “Do you want to <i>squat</i> in this wretched country, Sir Roger?” + demanded Dora angrily. + </p> + <p> + A faint smile played round Sir Roger’s lips. + </p> + <p> + “You’re the only one who’s in a hurry.” he + remarked. + </p> + <p> + “No, I’m not. Mr. Ellerton is in just as much of a hurry.” + </p> + <p> + “Then he bears disappointment better.” + </p> + <p> + “What in the world did papa and—well, and Lady Deane, you know—want + to stop here for?” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t seem to understand how interesting Marseilles is. + Let me read you a passage. ‘Marseilles was a colony founded about + 600 B.C.’—What? Oh, all right! We’ll skip a bit. ‘In + 1792 hordes of galley-slaves were sent hence to Paris, where they + committed frightful excesses.’ That’s what Maud and your + father are going to do. ‘It was for them that Rouget—’ I + say, what’s the matter, Miss Dora?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know why you should enjoy teasing me, but you <i>have</i> + nearly made me cry, so perhaps you’ll be happy now.” + </p> + <p> + “You tried to take me in. I pretended to be taken in. That’s + all.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it was very unkind of you.” + </p> + <p> + “So, after all, it’s not a matter of indifference to you at + what rate we travel, as you said in the train to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I had to. I—I couldn’t let papa see.” + </p> + <p> + “And why are you in a hurry?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t tell you; but I must—oh, I must!—be in + England in four days.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll hardly get your father to give up a day at Avignon.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, one day there; then we should just do it, if we only slept in + Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but my wife——” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you can stay. Don’t say anything about Paris yet. Help me + to get there. I’ll make papa go on. Please do, Sir Roger. I shall be + so awfully obliged to you; so will Mr. Ellerton.” + </p> + <p> + “Charlie Ellerton? Not he! He’s in no hurry.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean? Didn’t you hear him to-day urging papa to + travel straight through?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, I heard that.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “You were there then.” + </p> + <p> + “What of that?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s not so pressing when you’re away.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand. Why should he pretend to be in a hurry + when he isn’t?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, I don’t know. Don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Not in the least, Sir Roger. But never mind Mr. Ellerton. Will you + help me?” + </p> + <p> + “As far as Paris. You must look out for yourself there.” + </p> + <p> + These terms Dora accepted. Surely at Paris she would hear some news of or + from John Ashforth. She thought he must have written one line in response + to her last letter, and that his answer must have been so far delayed as + to arrive at Cannes after her departure; it would be waiting for her at + Paris and would tell her whether she was in time or whether there was no + more use in hurrying. The dread that oppressed her was lest, arriving too + late in Paris, she should find that she had missed happiness by reason of + this wretched dawdling in Southern France. + </p> + <p> + Seeing her meditative, Deane slipped away to his cigar, and she sat in the + hotel hall, musing. Deane’s revelation of Charlie’s treachery + hardly surprised her; she meant to upbraid him severely, but she was + conscious that, if little surprised, she was hardly more than a little + angry. His conduct was indeed contemptible; it revealed an utter + instability and fickleness of mind which made her gravely uneasy as to + Mary Travers’s chances of permanent happiness. Yes, scornful one + might b; but who could be seriously angry with the poor boy? And perhaps, + after all, she did him injustice. Some natures were more prone than others + to sudden passions; it really did not follow that a feeling must be either + shallow or short-lived because it was sudden; whether it survived or + passed away would depend chiefly on the person who excited it. It was + clear that Mary Travers was incapable of maintaining a permanent hold over + Charlie’s affections, but another girl might—might have. If + so, it would perhaps be a pity if Charlie and Mary Travers were to come + together again. She doubted very much if they were suited to one another. + She pictured Mary as a severe, rather stern young woman; and she hardly + knew whether to laugh or groan at the thought of Charlie adapting himself + to such a mate. Meanwhile her own position was certainly very difficult, + and she acknowledged its thorniness with a little sigh. To begin with, the + suspense was terrible; at times she would have been almost relieved to + hear that John was married beyond recall. Then Charlie was a great and a + growing difficulty. He had not actually repeated the passionate + indiscretion, of which he had been guilty at Cannes, but more and more + watchfulness and severity were needed to keep him within the bounds proper + to their relative positions, and it was odious to be disagreeable to a + fellow-traveller, especially when he was such a good and devoted friend as + Charlie. + </p> + <p> + Sir Roger loyally carried out his bargain. Lady Deane was hurried on, + leaving Marseilles, with its varied types of humanity and its profound + social significance, practically unexplored; Aries and Amphitheatre, in + spite of the beckoning “star,” were dropped out of the + programme, and the next day found the party at Avignon. And now they were + once more for a moment in harmony. Dora could spare twenty-four hours; + Lady Deane and the General were mollified by conscious unselfishness; the + prospect of a fresh struggle at Paris lay well in the background and was + discreetly ignored; Charlie Ellerton, who had reached the most desperate + stage of love, looked neither back nor forward. It was enough for him to + have wrung four-and-twenty hours of Dora’s company from fate’s + reluctant grasp. He meant to make the most of it. + </p> + <p> + She and he sat, on the afternoon of their arrival, in the gardens, hard by + the Cathedral, where Lady Deane and the General wore doing their duty. Sir + Roger had chartered a cab and gone for a drive on the boulevards. + </p> + <p> + “And we shall really be in Paris to-morrow night?” said Dora. + “And in England, I hope, six-and-thirty hours afterwards. I want + papa to cross the next evening. Mr. Ellerton, I believe we shall be in + time.” + </p> + <p> + Charlie said nothing. He seemed to be engrossed by the magnificent view + before him. + </p> + <p> + “Well? Have you nothing to say?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a sin to rush through a place like this,” he + observed. “We ought to stay a week. There’s no end to see. It’s + an education!” + </p> + <p> + By way, probably, of making the most of his brief opportunity, he went on + gazing, across the river which flowed below, now towards the heights of + Mont Ventoux, now at the ramparts of Villeneuve. Dora, on the other hand, + fixed pensive eyes on his curly hatless head, which leant forward as he + rested his elbows on his knees. He had referred to the attractions of + Avignon in tones of almost overpowering emotion. + </p> + <p> + Presently he turned his head towards her with a quick jerk. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want to be in time,” he said, and, with equal + rapidity, he returned to his survey of Villeneuve. + </p> + <p> + Dora made no answer, unless a perplexed wrinkle on her brow might serve + for one. A long silence followed. It was broken at last by Charlie. He + left the landscape with a sigh of satisfaction, as though he could not + reproach himself with having neglected it, and directed his gaze into his + companion’s eyes. Dora blushed and pulled the brim of her hat a + little lower down over her brow. + </p> + <p> + “What’s more,” said Charlie, in deliberate tones, and as + if no pause had occurred between this remark and his last, “I don’t + believe you do.” + </p> + <p> + Dora started and straightened herself in her seat; it looked as if the + rash remark were to be met with a burst of indignation, but, a second + later, she leant back again and smiled scornfully. + </p> + <p> + “How can you be so silly, Mr. Ellerton?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “We both of us,” pursued Charlie, “see now that we made + up our minds to be very foolish; we both of us mistook our real feelings; + we’re beginning—at least I began some time ago, and you’re + beginning now—to understand the true state of affairs.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I know what you mean, and I ought to be very angry, I suppose; + but it’s too absurd.” + </p> + <p> + “Not in the least. The absurd thing is your fancying that you care + about this follow Ashforth.” + </p> + <p> + “No, you must really stop, you must indeed. I don’t——” + </p> + <p> + “I know the sort of fellow he is—a dull dry chap, who makes + love as if he was dancing a minuet.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re quite wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “And kisses you as if it was part of the church service.” + </p> + <p> + This last description, applied to John Ashforth’s manner of wooing, + had enough of aptness to stir Dora into genuine resentment. + </p> + <p> + “A Girl doesn’t like a man less because he respects her; nor + more because he ridicules better men than himself.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be angry. I’m only saying what’s true. Why + should I want to run him down?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose—well, I suppose because——” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “You’re a little bit—but I don’t think I ought to + talk about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Jealous, you were going to say.” + </p> + <p> + “Was I?” + </p> + <p> + “And that shows you know what I mean.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, by now I suppose I do. I can’t help your doing it or I + would.” + </p> + <p> + Charlie moved closer, and leaning forward till his face was only a yard + from hers, while his hand, sliding along the back of the seat, almost + touched her, said in a low voice, “Are you sure you would?” + </p> + <p> + Dora’s answer was a laugh—a laugh with a hint of nervousness + in it. Perhaps she knew what was in it, for she looked away towards the + river. + </p> + <p> + “Dolly,” he whispered, “shall I go back to Cannes? Shall + I?” + </p> + <p> + Perhaps the audacity of this per saltum advance from the distance of Miss + ‘Bellairs’ to the ineffable assumption involved in ‘Dolly’ + made the subject of it dumb. + </p> + <p> + “I will, if you ask me,” he said, us she, was silent for a + space. + </p> + <p> + Then with profile towards him and eyes away, she murmured, + </p> + <p> + “What would Miss Travers say if you turned back now?” + </p> + <p> + The mention of Mary did not on this occasion evoke any unseemly words. On + the contrary, Charlie smiled. He glanced at his companion. He glanced + behind him and round him. Then, drilling his deep design into the + semblance of an uncontrollable impulse, he seized Dora’s hand in his + and, before she could stir, kissed her cheek. + </p> + <p> + She leapt to her feet. + </p> + <p> + “How dare you?” she cried. + </p> + <p> + “How could I help it?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll never speak to you again. No gentleman would have—oh, + I do hope you’re ashamed of yourself!” + </p> + <p> + Her words evidently struck home. With an air of contrition he sank on the + seat. + </p> + <p> + “I’m a beast,” he said ruefully. “You’re + quite right, Miss Bellairs. Don’t have anything more to say to me. I + wish I was—I wish I had some—some self-control—and + self-respect, you know. If I were a fellow like Ashforth now, I should + never have done that! Of course you can’t forgive me,” and, in + his extremity of remorse, he buried his face in his hands. + </p> + <p> + Dora stood beside him. She made one step as if to leave him; a glance at + him brought her back, and she looked down at him for a minute. Presently a + troubled doubtful little smile appeared on her face; when she realized it + was there, she promptly banished it. Alas! It was too late. The rascal had + been peeping through his fingers, and, with a ringing laugh, he sprang to + his feet, caught both her hands, and cried, “Shocking, wasn’t + it? Awful?” + </p> + <p> + “Let me go, Mr. Ellerton.” + </p> + <p> + “Must I?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Why? Why, when you——?” + </p> + <p> + “Sir Roger’s coming. Look behind you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the deuce!” + </p> + <p> + An instant later they were sitting demurely at opposite ends of the seat, + inspecting Villeneuve with interest. + </p> + <p> + In another moment Deane stood before them, puffing a cigarette, and + wearing an expression of amiability tempered by boredom. + </p> + <p> + “Wonderful old place, isn’t it, Deane?” asked Charlie. + </p> + <p> + “Such a view, Sir Roger!” cried Dora, in almost breathless + enthusiasm. + </p> + <p> + “You certainly,” assented Deane, “do see some wonderful + sights on this Promenade. I’m glad I came up. The air’s given + you quite a color, Miss Dora.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s tea-time,” declared Dora suddenly. “Take me + down with you, Sir Roger. Mr. Ellerton, go and tell the others we’re + going home to tea.” + </p> + <p> + Charlie started off, and Sir Roger strolled along by Miss Bellairs’s + side. Presently he said: + </p> + <p> + “Still anxious to get to Paris?” + </p> + <p> + “Why shouldn’t I be?” she asked quickly. + </p> + <p> + “I thought perhaps the charms of Avignon would have decided you to + linger. Haven’t you been tempted?” + </p> + <p> + Dora glanced at him, but his face betrayed no secondary meaning. + </p> + <p> + “Tempted? Oh, perhaps,” she answered, with the same nervous + little laugh, “but not quite led astray. I’m going on.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. — MR. AND MRS. ASHFORTH (1) + </h2> + <p> + All that evening Miss Bellairs was not observed—and Deane watched + her very closely—to address a word to Charlie Ellerton; even ‘good-night’ + was avoided by a premature disappearance and unexpected failure to return. + Perhaps it was part of the same policy of seclusion which made her + persuade Lady Deane to travel to Paris with her in one compartment and + relegate the men to another—a proposal which the banished accepted + by an enthusiastic majority of two to one. The General foresaw an infinity + of quiet naps and Deane uninterrupted smoking; Charlie alone chafed + against the necessary interruption of his bold campaign, but, in face of + Dora’s calm coldness of aspect, he did not dare to lift up his + voice. + </p> + <p> + Lady Deane was so engrossed in the study—or the search for + opportunities of study—of sides of life with which she was + unfamiliar as to be, for the most part, blind to what took place + immediately around her. General Bellairs himself (who vaguely supposed + that some man might try to make love to his daughter five years hence, and + thereupon be promptly sent off with a flea in his ear) was not more + unconscious than she that there was, had been, or might be anything, as + the phrase runs, ‘between’ the two junior members of the + party. Lady Deane had no hints to give and no questions to ask; she seated + herself placidly in a corner and began to write in a large note-book. She + had been unwillingly compelled to ‘scamp’ Marseilles, but, as + she wrote, she found that the rough notes she was copying, aided by fresh + memory, supplied her with an ample fund of material. Alternately she + smiled contentedly to herself, and gazed out of the window with a + preoccupied air. Clearly a plot was brewing-, and the author was grateful + to Dora for restricting her interruptions to an occasional impatient sigh + and the taking up and dropping again of her Tauchnitz. + </p> + <p> + With the men tongues moved more. + </p> + <p> + “Well, General,” said Deane, “what’s Miss Dora’s + ultimatum about your staying in Paris?” + </p> + <p> + Charlie pricked up his ears and buried his face behind La Vie Parisienne. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll think me very weak, Deane,” rejoined the + General, with an apologetic laugh, “but I’ve promised to go + straight on if she wants me to.” + </p> + <p> + “And does she?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what the child has got in her head, but she says + she’ll tell me when she gets to Paris. We shall have a day with you + anyhow; I don’t think she’s so set on not staying as she was, + but I don’t profess to understand her fancies. Still, as you see, I + yield to them.” + </p> + <p> + “Man’s task in the world,” said Deane. “Eh, + Charlie? What are you hiding behind that paper for?” + </p> + <p> + “I was only looking at the pictures.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite enough too. You’re going to stay in Paris, aren’t + you?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t know yet, old fellow. It depends on whether I get a + letter calling me back or not.” + </p> + <p> + “Hang it, one might as well be in a house where the shooting turns + out a fraud. Nobody knows that he won’t have a wire any morning and + have to go back to town. My wife ‘ll be furious if you desert her, + General.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I hope it won’t come to that.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope awfully that I shall be able to stay,” said Charlie, + with obvious sincerity. + </p> + <p> + “Then,” observed Deane with a slight smile, “if the + General and Miss Bellairs leave us you can take my wife about.” + </p> + <p> + “I should think you might take her yourself,” and he gently + kicked Deane. He was afraid of arousing the General’s dormant + suspicions. + </p> + <p> + It was late at night when they arrived in Paris, but the faithful Laing + was on the platform to meet them, and received them with a warm greeting. + While the luggage was being collected by Deane’s man, they stood and + talked on the platform. Presently the General, struck by a sudden thought, + asked: + </p> + <p> + “I suppose nothing came for us at Cannes, oh, Laing? You said you’d + bring anything on, you know.” + </p> + <p> + Laing interrupted a pretty speech which he was trying to direct into Dora’s + inattentive ears. + </p> + <p> + “Beg pardon, General?” + </p> + <p> + “No letters for any of us before you left Cannes?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Gen—” he began, but suddenly stopped. His mouth + remained open and his glass fell from his eye. + </p> + <p> + The General, not waiting to hear more than the first word, had rushed of + to hail a cab and Deane was escorting his wife. Dora and Charlie stood + waiting for the unfinished speech. + </p> + <p> + The end came slowly and with a prodigious emphasis of despair. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, by Jove!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Mr. Laing?” said Dora. + </p> + <p> + “The morning you left—just after—there were two + telegrams.” + </p> + <p> + “For me?” said each of his auditors. + </p> + <p> + “One for each of you, but + </p> + <p> + “Oh, give me mine.” + </p> + <p> + “Hand over mine, old chap.” + </p> + <p> + “I—I haven’t got ‘em.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “I—I’m awfully sorry, I.——I forgot ‘em.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, how tiresome of you, Mr. Laing!” + </p> + <p> + “Send ‘em round first thing to-morrow, Laing.” + </p> + <p> + “But—but I don’t know where I put ‘em. I know I + laid ‘em down. Then I took ‘em up. Then I put ‘em—where + the deuce did I put ‘em? Here’s a go, Miss Bellairs! I say, I + am an ass!” + </p> + <p> + No contradiction assailed him. His victims glared reproachfully at him. + </p> + <p> + “I must have left them at Cannes. I’ll wire first thing in the + morning, Miss Bellairs; I’ll get up as soon as ever the office is + open. I say, do forgive me.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Mr. Laing, I’ll try, but——” + </p> + <p> + “Laing! Here! My wife wants you,” shouted Sir Roger, and the + criminal, happy to escape, ran away, leaving Dora and Charlie alone. + </p> + <p> + “They must have been from <i>them</i>,” murmured Dora. + </p> + <p> + “No doubt; and that fool Laing——” + </p> + <p> + “What has he done with them?” + </p> + <p> + “Lit his pipe with them, I expect.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what shall we do?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “What—what do you think they said, Mr. Ellerton?” + </p> + <p> + “How can I tell? Perhaps that the marriage was off!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” escaped from Dora. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps that it was going on.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s worse than ever. They may have asked for answers.” + </p> + <p> + “Probably.” + </p> + <p> + “And they won’t have written here!” + </p> + <p> + “Sure not to have.” + </p> + <p> + “And—and I shan’t know what to do. I—I believe it + was to say he had broken off the marriage.” + </p> + <p> + “Is the wish father to the thought?” + </p> + <p> + The lights of the station flickered, but Charlie saw, or thought he saw, a + hasty unpremeditated gesture of protest. + </p> + <p> + “Dolly!” he whispered. + </p> + <p> + “Hush, hush! How can you now—before we know?” + </p> + <p> + “The cab’s waiting,” called Deane. “Come along.” + </p> + <p> + They got in in silence. The General and the Deanes went first, and the + three young people followed in a second vehicle. It was but just twelve, + and the boulevards were gay and full of people. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly, as they were near the Opera, they saw the tall figure of an + unmistakable Englishman walking away from them down the Avenue de l’Opera. + Dora clutched Charlie’s arm with a convulsive grip. + </p> + <p> + “Hullo, what’s the—” he began, but a second pinch + enforced silence. + </p> + <p> + “See that chap?” asked Laing, pointing to the figure. “He’s + at my hotel.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he?” said Dora in a faint voice. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I’ve got a good deal of amusement out of him. He oughtn’t + to be out so late though, and by himself, too!” + </p> + <p> + “Who is it?” asked Charlie. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know his name.” + </p> + <p> + “And why oughtn’t he to be out?” + </p> + <p> + “Because he’s on his honeymoon,” + </p> + <p> + “What?” cried Dora. + </p> + <p> + “Just married,” explained Laing. “Wife’s a tallish + girl, fair, rather good-looking; looks standoffish though.” + </p> + <p> + “You—you’re sure they’re married, Mr. Laing?” + gasped Dora, and Charlie, in whom her manner had awakened a suspicion of + the truth, also waited eagerly for the reply. + </p> + <p> + “What, Miss Bellairs?” asked Laing in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I mean—I mean you haven’t made a mistake?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, they’re together all day, and nobody’s with them + except a lady’s-maid. I should think that’s good enough.” + </p> + <p> + With a sigh Dora sank back against the cushions. They were at the hotel + now; the others had already entered, and, bidding Laing a hearty + good-night, Dora ran in, followed closely by Charlie. He did not overtake + her before she found her father. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Dolly,” said the General, “there’s no + letter.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” cried Dolly, “I’ll stay as long as ever you + like, papa.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s right,” said Deane. “And you, Charlie?” + </p> + <p> + Charlie took his cue. + </p> + <p> + “A month if you like.” + </p> + <p> + “Capital! Now for a wash—come along, Maud—and then + supper!” + </p> + <p> + Dora lingered behind the others, and Charlie with her. Directly they were + alone, he asked: + </p> + <p> + “What does it all mean?” + </p> + <p> + She sat down, still panting with agitation. + </p> + <p> + “Why—why, that man we saw—the man Mr. Laing says is on + his honeymoon, is—is——” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Ashforth!” + </p> + <p> + “Dolly! And his wife! By Jove! It’s an exact description of + Mary Travers!” + </p> + <p> + “The telegrams were to say the marriage was to be at once.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and—they’re married!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes!” + </p> + <p> + A short pause marked the astounding conclusion. Then Charlie came up very + close and whispered: + </p> + <p> + “Are you broken-hearted, Dolly?” + </p> + <p> + She turned her face away with a blush. + </p> + <p> + “Are you, Dolly?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m very much ashamed of myself,” she murmured. “Oh, + Mr. Ellerton, not just yet!” and in deference to her entreaty + Charlie had the grace to postpone what he was about to do. + </p> + <p> + When the supper was ready Sir Roger Deane looked round the table + inquiringly. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said he, “what is it to be?” + </p> + <p> + “Champagne—champagne in magnums!” cried Charlie + Ellerton, with a ringing laugh. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. — MR. AND MRS. ASHFORTH (2) + </h2> + <p> + Miss Bussey was much relieved when the doctor pronounced her convalescent + and allowed her to come downstairs. To fall ill on an outing is always + exasperating, but beyond that she felt that her enforced seclusion was + particularly unfortunate at the moment. Here were two young people, not + engaged nor going to be engaged to one another; and for three days or more + circumstances had abandoned them to an inevitable and unchaperoned + tjte-`-tjte! Mary made light of it; she relied on the fraternal + relationship, but that was, after all, a fiction, quite incapable, in Miss + Bussey’s opinion, of supporting the strain to which It had been + subjected. Besides Mary’s sincerity appeared doubtful; the kind + girl, anxious to spare her aunt worry, made light of the difficulties of + her position, but Miss Bussey detected a restlessness in her manner which + clearly betrayed uneasiness. Here, of course, Miss Bussey was wrong; + neither Mary nor John were the least self-conscious; they felt no + embarrassment, but, poor creatures, wore out their spirits in a useless + vigil over the letter-rack. + </p> + <p> + Miss Bussey was restored to active life on the morning after the party + from Cannes arrived in Paris, and she hastened to emphasize the fact of + her return to complete health by the unusual effort of coming down to + breakfast. She was in high feather, and her cheery conversation lifted, to + some extent, the gloom which had settled on her young friends. While + exhorting to patience she was full of hope, and dismissed as chimerical + all the darker explanations which the disconsolate lovers invented to + account for the silence their communications had met with. Under her + influence the breakfast-table became positively cheerful, and at last all + the three burst into a hearty laugh at one of the old lady’s little + jokes. + </p> + <p> + At this moment Arthur Laing entered the room. His brow was clouded. He had + searched his purse, his cigar-case, the lining of his hat—in fact + every depository where a careful man would be likely to bestow documents + whose existence he wished to remember; as no careful man would put such + things in the pocket of his ‘blazer’, he had not searched + there; thus the telegrams had not appeared, and the culprit was looking + forward, with some alarm, to the reception which would await him when he + ‘turned up’ to lunch with his friends, as he had promised to + do. Hardly, however, had he sat down to his coffee when his sombre + thoughts were cleared away by the extraordinary spectacle of young Mr. and + Mrs. Ashforth hobnobbing with their maid, the latter lady appearing quite + at home and leading the gayety and the conversation. Laing laid down his + roll and his knife and looked at them in undisguised amazement. + </p> + <p> + For a moment doubt of his cherished theory began to assail his mind. He + heard the old lady call Ashforth “John;” that was a little + strange, and it was rather strange that John answered by saying: “That + must be as you wish; I am entirely at your disposal.” And yet, + reflected Laing, was it very strange, after all? In his own family they + had an old retainer who called all the children, whatever their age, by + their Christian names, and was admitted to a degree of intimacy hardly + distinguishable from that accorded to a relative. + </p> + <p> + Laing, weighing the evidence pro and contra, decided that there was an + overwhelming balance in favor of his old view, and dismissed the matter + with the comment that, if it ever befell him to go on a wedding-tour, he + would ask his wife to take a maid with rather less claims on her kindness + and his toleration. + </p> + <p> + That same morning the second pair of telegrams, forwarded by post from + Cannes, duly arrived. Dora and Charlie, reading them in the light of their + recent happy information, found them most kind and comforting, although in + reality they, apart from their missing forerunners, told the recipients + nothing at all. John’s ran: “Am in Paris at European. Please + write. Anxious to hear. Everything decided for the best.—John.” + Mary’s to Charlie was even briefer; it said, “Am here at + European. Why no answer to last?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s really very kind of Mr. Ashforth,” said Dora to + Charlie, as they strolled in the garden of the Tuileries, “to make + such a point of what I think. I expect the wire that stupid Mr. Laing lost + was just to tell me the date of the marriage.” + </p> + <p> + “Not a doubt of it. Miss Tr—Mrs. Ashforth’s wire to me + makes that clear. They want to hear that we’re not desperately + unhappy. Well, we aren’t, are we, Dolly?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, perhaps not.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it extraordinary how we mistook our feelings? Of + course, though, it’s natural in you. You had never been through + anything of the sort before. How could you tell whether it was the real + thing or not?” + </p> + <p> + Dora shot a glance out of the corner of her eye at her lover, but did not + disclaim the innocence he imputed to her; she knew men liked to think + that, and why shouldn’t they, poor things? She seized on his implied + admission and carried the war into his country. + </p> + <p> + “But you,—you who are so experienced—how did you come to + make such a mistake?” + </p> + <p> + Charlie was not at a loss. + </p> + <p> + “It wasn’t a mistake <i>then</i>,” he said. “I was + quite right then. Mary Travers was about the nicest girl I had ever seen. + I thought her as charming as a girl could be.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you did! Then why——” + </p> + <p> + “My eyes have been opened since then.” + </p> + <p> + “What did that?” + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you ever pronounce my name?” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind your name. What opened your eyes?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, yours, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “What nonsense! They’re very nice about it, aren’t they? + Do you think we ought to call?” + </p> + <p> + “Shall you feel it awkward?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, a little. Shan’t you? Still we must let them know we’re + here. Will you write to Mrs. Ashforth?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose I’d better. After lunch ‘ll do, won’t + it?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes. And I’ll write a note to him. I expect they won’t + be staying here long.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope not. Hullo, it’s a quarter past twelve. We must be + getting back. Laing’s coming to lunch.” + </p> + <p> + “Where arc the Deanes?” + </p> + <p> + “Lady Deane’s gone to Belleville with your father to see + slums, and Roger’s playing tennis with Laing. He said we weren’t + to wait lunch. Are you hungry, Dolly?” + </p> + <p> + “Not very. It seems only an hour since breakfast.” + </p> + <p> + “How charming of you! We’ve been walking here since ten o’clock.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Ellerton, will you be serious for a minute? I want to say + something important. When we meet the Ashforths there mustn’t be a + word said about—about—you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I couldn’t! So soon! Surely you see that. Why, it would + be hardly civil to them, would it, apart from anything else?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it might look rather casual.” + </p> + <p> + “And I positively couldn’t face John Ashforth. You promise, + don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a nuisance, because, you see, Dolly—— + </p> + <p> + “You’re not to get into the habit of saying ‘Dolly’. + At least not yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Presently?” + </p> + <p> + “If you’re good. Now promise!” + </p> + <p> + “All right.” + </p> + <p> + “We’re not engaged.” + </p> + <p> + “All right.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor thinking of it,” + </p> + <p> + “Rather not.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s very nice of you, and when the Ashforths are gone——” + </p> + <p> + “I shall be duly rewarded?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, we’ll see. Do come along. Papa hates being kept waiting + for his meals, and they must have finished their slums long ago.” + </p> + <p> + They found Lady Deane and the General waiting for them, and the latter + proposed an adjournment to a famous restaurant near the Opera. Thither + they repaired, and ordered their lunch. + </p> + <p> + “Deane and Laing will find out where we’ve gone and follow,” + said the General. “We won’t wait,” and he resumed his + conversation with Lady Deane on the events of the morning. + </p> + <p> + A moment later the absentees came in; Sir Roger in his usual leisurely + fashion, Laing; hurriedly. The latter held in his hand two telegrams, or + the crumpled dibris thereof. He rushed up to the table and panted out, + “Found ‘em in the pocket of my blazer—must have put + ‘em there—stupid ass—never thought of it—put it on + for tennis—awfully sorry.” + </p> + <p> + Wasting no time in reproaches, Dora and Charlie grasped their recovered + property. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me!” they cried simultaneously, and opened the + envelopes. A moment later both leant back in their chairs, the pictures of + helpless bewilderment. + </p> + <p> + Dora had read: “Marriage broken off. Coming to you 28th. Write + directions—European, Paris.” + </p> + <p> + Charlie had read: “Engagement at end. Aunt and I coming to Paris—European, + on 28th. Can you meet?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Deane was writing in her notebook. The General, Sir Roger, and Laing + were busy with the waiter, the menu, and the wine-list. Quick as thought + the lovers exchanged telegrams. They read, and looked at one another. + </p> + <p> + “What does it mean?” whispered Dora. + </p> + <p> + “You never saw anything like the lives those ragpickers lead, Dora,” + observed Lady Deane, looking up from her task. “I was talking to one + this morning and he said——” + </p> + <p> + “Maitre d’hotel for me,” broke in Sir Roger. + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t a notion,” murmured Charlie. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, what’s your liquor, Laing?” + </p> + <p> + “Anything; with this thirst on me——” + </p> + <p> + “There are ample materials for a revolution more astonishing and + sanguinary——” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense, General, yon must have something to drink.” + </p> + <p> + “Can they have changed their minds again, Dolly?” + </p> + <p> + “They must have, if Mr. Laing is——” + </p> + <p> + “Dry? I should think I was. So would you be, if you’d been + playing tennis.” + </p> + <p> + Laing cut across the currents of conversation: + </p> + <p> + “Hope no harm done, Miss Bellairs, about that wire?” + </p> + <p> + “I—I—I don’t think so.” + </p> + <p> + “Or yours, Charlie?” + </p> + <p> + Charlie took a hopeful view. + </p> + <p> + “Upon my honor, Laing, I’m glad you hid it.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I see!” cried Laing. “Tip for the wrong ‘un, + eh, and too late to put it on now?” + </p> + <p> + “You’re not far off,” answered Charlie Ellerton. + </p> + <p> + “Roger, is it to-night that the General is going to take me to the——” + </p> + <p> + “Hush! Not before Miss Bellairs, my dear! Consider her filial + feelings. You and the General must make a quiet bolt of it. We’re + only going to the Palais-Royal.” + </p> + <p> + The arrival of fish brought a momentary pause, but the first mouthful was + hardly swallowed when Arthur Laing started, hunted hastily for his + eyeglass, and stuck it in his eye. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is them,” said he. “See, Charlie, that table + over there. They’ve got their backs to us, but lean see ‘em in + the mirror.” + </p> + <p> + “See who?” asked Charlie in an irritable tone. + </p> + <p> + “Why, those honeymooners. I say, Lady Deane, it’s a queer + thing to have a lady’s-maid to breakf—Why, by Jove, she’s + with them now! Look!” + </p> + <p> + His excited interest aroused the attention of the whole party, and they + looked across the long room. + </p> + <p> + “Ashforth’s their name,” concluded Laing. “I heard + the Abigail call him Ashforth; and the lady is——” + </p> + <p> + He was interrupted by the clatter of a knife and fork falling on a plate. + He turned in the direction whence the sound came. + </p> + <p> + Dora Bellairs leant back in her chair, her hands in her lap; Charlie + Ellerton had hidden himself behind the wine-list. Lady Deane, her husband, + and the General gazed inquiringly at Dora. + </p> + <p> + At the same instant there came a shrill little cry from the other end of + the room. The mirror had served Mary Travers as well as it had Laing. For + a moment she spoke hastily to her companion; then she and John rose, and, + with radiant smiles on their faces, advanced toward their friends. The + long-expected meeting had come; at last. + </p> + <p> + Dora sat still, in consternation. Charlie, peeping out from behind his + menu, saw the approach. + </p> + <p> + “Now, in Heaven’s name,” he groaned, “are they + married or aren’t they?” and having said this he awaited the + worst. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. — MR. AND NOT MRS. ASHFORTH + </h2> + <p> + Suum cuique: to the Man belongeth courage in great things, but in affairs + of small moment Woman is pre-eminent. Charlie Ellerton was speechless; + Dora Bellairs, by a supreme effort, rose on shaking legs and advanced with + outstretched hands to meet John Ashforth. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Ashforth, I declare! Who would have thought of meeting you + here?” she exclaimed; and she added in an almost imperceptible, + mysterious whisper, “Hush!” + </p> + <p> + John at once understood that he was to make no reference to the + communications which had resulted in this happy meeting. He expressed a + friendly gratification in appropriate words. Dora began to breathe again; + everything was passing off well. Suddenly she glanced from John to Mary. + Mary stood alone, about three yards from the table, gazing at Charlie. + Charlie sat as though paralyzed. He would ruin everything. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Ellerton,” she called sharply. Charlie started up, but + before he could reach Dora’s side, the latter had turned to Mary and + was holding out a friendly hand. Mary responded with alacrity. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Bellairs, isn’t it? We ought to know one another. I’m + so glad to meet you.” + </p> + <p> + Charlie was by them now. + </p> + <p> + “And how do you do, Mr. Ellerton?” went on Mary, rivalling + Dora in composure. And she also added a barely visible and quite inaudible + “Hush!” + </p> + <p> + “Who are they?” asked Deane in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “Their name’s Ashforth,” answered Laing. + </p> + <p> + “God bless my soul!” exclaimed the General. “I remember + him now. We made his acquaintance at Interlaken, but his name had slipped + from my memory. And that’s his wife? Fine girl, too. I must speak to + him.” And full of kindly intent he bustled off and shook John warmly + by the hand. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Ashforth, delighted to meet you again, and under such + delightful conditions, too! Ah, well, it only comes once in a lifetime, + does it?—in your case anyhow, I hope. I see Dora has introduced + herself. You must present me. When was it?” + </p> + <p> + Portions of this address puzzled John considerably, but he thought it best + to do as he was told. + </p> + <p> + “Mary,” he said, “let me introduce General Bellairs—Miss + Bellairs’s father—to you. General Bell—” + </p> + <p> + The General interrupted him by addressing Mary with much, effusion. + </p> + <p> + “Delighted to meet you. Ah, you know our young friend Ellerton? + Everybody does, it seems to me. Come, you must join us. Waiter, two more + places. Lady Deane, let me introduce Mr. Ashforth. They’re on their——” + </p> + <p> + He paused. An inarticulate sound had proceeded from Mary’s lips. + </p> + <p> + “Beg pardon?” said the General. + </p> + <p> + A pin might have been heard to drop, while Mary, recovering herself, said + coldly: + </p> + <p> + “I think there’s some mistake. I’m not Mrs. Ashforth.” + </p> + <p> + “Gad, it’s the old ‘un!” burst in a stage whisper + from Arthur Laing, who seemed determined that John Ashforth should have a + wife. + </p> + <p> + The General looked to his daughter for an explanation. Dora dared not show + the emotion pictured on her face, and her back was towards the party. + Charlie Ellerton was staring with a vacant look at the lady who was not + Mrs. Ashforth. The worst had happened. + </p> + <p> + John came to the rescue. With an awkward laugh he said: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you—you attribute too much happiness to me. This is Miss + Travers. I—I—Her aunt, Miss Bussey, and she have kindly + allowed me to join their travelling party. Miss Bussey is at that table,” + and he pointed to “the old ‘un.” + </p> + <p> + Perhaps it was as well that at this moment the pent-up feelings which the + situation, and above all the remorseful horror with which Laing was + regarding his fictitious lady’s-maid, overcame Roger Deane. He burst + into a laugh. After a moment the General followed heartily. Laing was the + next, bettering his examples in his poignant mirth. Sir Roger sprang up. + </p> + <p> + “Come, Miss Travers,” he said, “sit down. Here’s + the fellow who gave you your new name. Blame him,” and he indicated + Laing, Then he cried, “General, we must have Miss Bussey, too.” + </p> + <p> + The combined party, however, was not, when fully constituted by the + addition of Miss Bussey, a success. Two of its members ate nothing and + alternated between gloomy silence and forced gayety; who these were may + well be guessed. Mary and John found it difficult to surmount their + embarrassment at the contretemps which had attended the introduction, or + their perplexity over the cause of it. Laing was on thorns lest his + distributions of parts and stations in life should be disclosed. The only + bright feature was the congenial feeling which appeared at once to unite + Miss Bussey and Sir Roger Deane. They sat together, and, aided by the + General’s geniality and Lady Deane’s supramundane calm, + carried the meal to a conclusion without an actual breakdown, ending up + with a friendly wrangle over the responsibility for the bill. Finally it + was on Sir Roger’s proposal that they all agreed to meet at five o’clock + and take coffee, or what they would, together at a cafi by the water in + the Bois de Boulogne. With this understanding the party broke up. + </p> + <p> + Dora and Charlie, lagging behind, found themselves alone. They hardly + dared to look at one another, lest their composure should fail. + </p> + <p> + “They’re not married,” said Charlie. + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “They’ve broken it off!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Because of us.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “While we——” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, in all my life, I never——” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do be quiet.” + </p> + <p> + “What an infernal ass that fellow Laing——” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think they saw anything?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I half wish they had.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Mr. Ellerton, what shall we do? They’re still in love + with us!” + </p> + <p> + “Rather. They’ve been waiting for us.” + </p> + <p> + Dora entered the hotel gates and sank into a chair in the court-yard. + </p> + <p> + “Well? she asked helplessly; but Charlie had no suggestion to offer. + </p> + <p> + “How could they?” she broke out indignantly. “How could + they break off their marriage at the last moment like that? They—they + were as good as married. It’s really hardly—people should know + their own minds.” + </p> + <p> + She caught sight of a rueful smile on Charlie’s face. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I know, but it’s different,” she added impatiently. + “One expects it of you, but I didn’t expect it of John + Ashforth.” + </p> + <p> + “And of yourself?” he asked softly. + </p> + <p> + “It’s all your fault, you wicked boy,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + Charlie sighed heavily. + </p> + <p> + “We must break it to them,” said he. “Mary will + understand; she has such delicacy of feeling that——” + </p> + <p> + “You’re always praising that girl. I believe you’re in + love with her still.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you as good as told me I wasn’t fit to black Ashforth’s + boots.” + </p> + <p> + “Anyhow he wouldn’t have—have—have tried to make a + girl care for him when he knew she cared for somebody else.” + </p> + <p> + “Hang it, it seems to me Ashforth isn’t exactly immaculate. + Why, in Switzerland——” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind Switzerland, Mr. Ellerton, please.” + </p> + <p> + A silence ensued. Then Charlie remarked, with a reproachful glance at Dora’s + averted face, “And this is the sequel to Avignon! I shouldn’t + have thought a girl could change so in forty-eight hours.” + </p> + <p> + Dora said nothing. She held her head very high in the air and looked + straight in front of her. + </p> + <p> + “When you gave me that kiss——” resumed Charlie. + </p> + <p> + Now this form of expression was undoubtedly ambiguous; to give a kiss may + mean: 1. What it literally says—to bestow a kiss. 2. To offer one’s + self to be kissed. 3. To accept willingly a proffered kiss; and, without + much straining of words, 4. Merely to refrain from angry expostulation and + a rupture of acquaintance when one is kissed—this last partaking + rather of the nature of the ratification of an unauthorized act, and + being, in fact, the measure of Dora’s criminality. But the other + shades of meaning caught her attention. + </p> + <p> + “You know it’s untrue; I never did,” she cried angrily. + “I told you at the time that no gentleman would have done it.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you mean Ashforth, I suppose? It’s always Ashforth.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, he wouldn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “And some girls I know wouldn’t forgive a man on Monday and + round on him on Wednesday.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you needn’t trouble to mention names. I know the paragon + you’re thinking of!” + </p> + <p> + They were now at the hotel. + </p> + <p> + “Going in?” asked Charlie. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose we shall go to the Bois together?” + </p> + <p> + “I shall ask papa or Sir Roger to take me.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I’ll go with Lady Deane.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t mind who you go with, Mr. Ellerton.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll take care that you’re annoyed as little as + possible by my presence,” + </p> + <p> + “It doesn’t annoy me.” + </p> + <p> + “Doesn’t it, D——?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t notice it one way or the other.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-by for the present, Mr. Ellerton.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-by, Miss Bellairs; but I ought to thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “What for?” + </p> + <p> + “For making it easy to me to do what’s right,” and + Charlie turned on his heel and made rapidly for the nearest cafi, where he + ordered an absinthe. + </p> + <p> + Dora went wearily up to her bedroom, and, sitting down, reviewed the + recent conversation. She could not make out how, or why, or where they had + begun to quarrel. Yet they had certainly not only begun but made very fair + progress, considering the time at their disposal. It had all been Charlie’s + fault. He must be fond of that girl after all; if so, it was not likely + that she would let him see that she minded. Let him go to Mary Travers, if—if + he liked that sort of prim creature. She, Dora Bellairs, would not + interfere. She would have no difficulty in finding someone who did care + for her. Poor John! How happy he looked when he saw her! It was quite + touching. + </p> + <p> + He really looked almost—almost. To her sudden annoyance and alarm + she found herself finishing the sentence thus, “almost as Charlie + did at Avignon.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he’s worth a thousand of Charlie,” she exclaimed, + impatiently. + </p> + <p> + At half-past four Sir Roger Deane was waiting; in the hall. Presently Dora + appeared. + </p> + <p> + “Where are the others?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Charlie’s having a drink. Your father and Maud aren’t + coming. They’re going to rest.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, we might start.” + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, Miss Dora, there’s some powder on your nose.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, is there? Thanks.” + </p> + <p> + “What have you been powdering for?” + </p> + <p> + “Really, Sir Roger! Besides the sun has ruined my complexion.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the sun,” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Don’t be horrid. Do let’s start.” + </p> + <p> + “But Charlie—” + </p> + <p> + “I hate riding three in a cab.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, and I like riding alone in one, so——” + </p> + <p> + “No, no. You must come with me. Mr. Ellerton can follow us. He’s + always drinking, isn’t he? I dislike it so.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Roger, with a wink at an unresponsive plaster bust of M. le President, + followed her to the door. They had just got into their little victoria + when Charlie appeared, cigarette in hand. + </p> + <p> + “Charlie,” observed Deane, “Miss Bell airs thinks you’ll + be more comfortable by yourself than perched on this front seat.” + </p> + <p> + “Especially as you’re smoking,” added Dora. “Allez, + cocher.” + </p> + <p> + Charlie hailed another vehicle and got in. As he did so he remarked + between his teeth, “I’m d——d if I stand it.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. — A DYNAMITE OUTRAGE + </h2> + <p> + On one side of the Lake Dora mid John walked together, on the other Mary + and Charlie. Miss Bussey and Roger Deane sat in the garden of the cafi. + The scene round them was gay. Carriages constantly drove up, discharging + daintily attired ladies and their cavaliers. There was a constant stream + of bicycles, some of them steered by fair riders in neat bloomer-suits; + the road-waterers spread a grateful coolness in their ambit, for the + afternoon was hot for the time of year, and the dust had an almost + autumnal volume. Miss Bussey had been talking for nearly ten minutes on + end, and now she stopped with an exhausted air, and sipped her coffee. + Deane lit another cigar and sat silently looking on at the life that + passed and repassed before him. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a curious story,” he observed at last. + </p> + <p> + “Very; but I suppose it’s all ended happily now. Look at them, + Sir Roger.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I see them.” + </p> + <p> + “Their troubles are over at last, poor children; and really I think + they’ve all behaved very well. And yet——” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “I should have thought Mary and Mr. Ashforth so suited to one + another. Well, well, the heart’s an unaccountable thing—to an + old spinster, anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re right, Miss Bussey. Take my wife and me. You wouldn’t + have thought we should have hit it off, would you? First year I knew her I + hardly dared to speak to her—used to mug up Browning and—(Sir + Roger here referred to an eminent living writer) and chaps like that, + before I went to see her, you know. No use! I bored her to death. At last + I chucked it up.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “And I went one day and talked about the Grand National for half an + hour by the clock. Well, she asked me to come again next day, and I went, + and told her all about the last burlesque and—and so on, you know. + And then I asked her to marry me.” + </p> + <p> + “And she said ‘Yes’?” + </p> + <p> + “Not directly. She said there was an impassable gulf between us—an + utter want of sympathy in our tastes and an irreconcilable difference of + intellectual outlook.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear me! Didn’t that discourage you?” + </p> + <p> + “I said I didn’t care a dash; she was the only girl I ever + cared for (all right, Miss Bussey, don’t laugh), and I’d have + any outlook she liked. I said I knew I was an ass, but I thought I knew a + pretty girl when I saw one, and I’d go away if she’d show me a + prettier one.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, she didn’t.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Bussey laughed a little. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” resumed Sir Roger, “I’ve got money, + you know, and all that, and perhaps——” + </p> + <p> + “Sir Roger! What a thing to say of your wife!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, with another girl—but hang it, I don’t believe + Maud would. Still, you see, it’s so dashed queer that sometimes——” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure she’s very fond of you,” said Miss + Bussey, rather surprised fit the nature of the confidence which she was + receiving. + </p> + <p> + “I expect it’s all right,” resumed Deane, more + cheerfully, “and that brings us back to where we started, doesn’t + it?” + </p> + <p> + “And we started in bewilderment.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re puzzled that Dora, Bellairs and Ashforth should pair + off together, and——?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, the other combination would seem more natural, wouldn’t + it? Doesn’t it surprise you a little?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m never surprised at anything till I know it’s true,” + said Sir Roger. + </p> + <p> + “What, you——?” + </p> + <p> + They were interrupted by the return of their friends, and a move was made. + Three vehicles were necessary to take them back, for the twos could, + obviously, neither be separated from one another nor united with anybody + else, and in procession, Miss Bussey and Deane leading, they filed along + the avenues back to the Arc de Triomphe. + </p> + <p> + They had hardly passed the open Place when their progress was suddenly + arrested. A crowd spread almost across the broad road, and + sergents-de-ville imperiously commanded a halt. There was a babble of + tongues, great excitement, and a thousand eager fingers pointing at a + house. The doorway was in ruins, and workmen were busy shoring it up with + beams. In the middle of the crowd there was an open circle, surrounded by + gendarmes, and kept clear of people. In the middle of it lay a thing like + a rather tall slim watering-pot, minus the handle. The crowd, standing on + tiptoe and peeping over the shoulders of their guardians, shook their + fists at this harmless-looking article and apostrophised it with a + wonderful wealth of passionate invectives. + </p> + <p> + “What in the world’s the matter?” cried Miss Bussey, who + was nervous in a crowd. + </p> + <p> + “Revolution, I suppose;” responded Deane calmly, mid turning + to his nearest neighbor, he continued in the first French that came to + him, “Une autre rivolution, n’est-ce-pas, Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + The man stared, but a woman near him burst into a voluble explanation, + from the folds of which unlearned English ears disentangled, at the third + reiteration, the ominous word, “Dynamite;” and she pointed to + the watering-pot. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it’ll go off!” shrieked Miss Bussey. + </p> + <p> + “It’s gone off,” said Sir Roger. “We’re too + late,” and there was a touch of disappointment in his voice, as he + turned and shouted to the others, “Keep your seats! It’s all + over. Only an explosion.” + </p> + <p> + “Only!” shuddered Miss Bussey. “It’s a mercy we + weren’t killed.” + </p> + <p> + It appeared that this mercy had not stopped at Miss Bussey and her + friends. Nobody had been killed—not even the magistrate on the third + floor for whose discipline and reformation the occurrence had been + arranged; and presently the carriages were allowed to proceed. + </p> + <p> + Lady Deane’s grief at having missed so interesting an occasion was + very poignant. + </p> + <p> + “No, Roger,” said she, “it is not a mere craving for + horrors, or a morbid love of excitement; I wish I had been there to + observe the crowd, because it’s just at such moments that people + reveal their true selves. The veil is lifted—the veil of hypocrisy + and convention—and you see the naked soul.” + </p> + <p> + “You could hear it too, Maud,” observed Sir Roger. “Fine + chance of improving your French vocabulary. Still, I daresay you’re + right.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure I am.” + </p> + <p> + Deane looked at his wife meditatively. + </p> + <p> + “You think,” he asked, “that being in danger might make + people——” + </p> + <p> + “Reveal their inmost natures and feelings? I’m sure of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Gad! Then we might try.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean, Roger?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. You’re going out with the General to-night? Very + well, I shall take a turn on my own hook.” + </p> + <p> + As he strolled toward the smoking-room, he met Charlie Ellerton. + </p> + <p> + “Well, old fellow, had a pleasant afternoon?” + </p> + <p> + “Glorious!” answered Charlie in a husky voice. + </p> + <p> + “Are we to congratulate you?” + </p> + <p> + “I—I—well, it’s not <i>absolutely</i> settled yet, + Deane, but—soon, I hope.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s right. Miss Bussey told me the whole story, and I + think you’re precious lucky to get such a girl.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, aren’t I?” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t look over and above radiant.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you want me to go grinning about the hotel like an infernal + hyena?” + </p> + <p> + “I think a chastened joy would be appropriate.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be an ass, Deane. I suppose you think you’re + funny.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Roger passed on, with a smile on his lips. As he passed the + reading-room Dora Bellairs came out. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Miss Dora, enjoyed your afternoon?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, awfully—except that dreadful explosion.” + </p> + <p> + “You must excuse a friend, you know. I’m awfully glad it’s + all come right in the end.” + </p> + <p> + “You—you’re very kind, Sir Roger. It’s—it’s—there’s + nothing quite settled yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, of course not, but still——! Well, I heard all about + it and I think he’s worthy of you. I can’t say more. He seems + a capital fellow.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, isn’t he? I——” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’m very, very, <i>very</i> happy,” and, after + making this declaration in a shaky voice, she fairly ran away down the + passage. Deane watched her as she went. + </p> + <p> + “Maud’s right,” said he. “She always is. There’s + nothing for it but dynamite. I wonder where it’s to be got?” + </p> + <p> + General Bellairs clapped him on the shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Inclined for a turn, Deane? I’m going to see an old servant + of mine—Painter’s his name. He married my poor wife’s + French maid, and set up as a restaurant-keeper in the Palais-Royal. I + always look him up when I come to Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m your man,” answered Deane, and they set out for Mr. + Painter’s establishment. It proved to be a neat little place, + neither of the very cheap nor of the very sumptuous class, and the General + was soon promising to bring the whole party to dejeuner there. Painter was + profuse in thanks and called Madame to thank the General. The General at + once entered into conversation with the trim little woman. + </p> + <p> + “Nice place yours, Painter,” observed Deane. + </p> + <p> + “Pleased to hear you say so, Sir Roger.” + </p> + <p> + “Very nice. Ah—er—heard of the explosion?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Sir Roger. Abominable thing, sir. These Socialists——” + </p> + <p> + “Quite so. Never had one here, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir. We’re pretty well looked after in here.” + </p> + <p> + “Like one?” asked Deane. + </p> + <p> + “Beg pardon, sir. Ha-ha. No, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Because I want one.” + </p> + <p> + “You—beg pardon, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Painter. I’ll drop in here after dinner for some + coffee. I want to talk to you. See? Not a word to the General.” + </p> + <p> + “Glad to see you, Sir Roger, but——” + </p> + <p> + “All right. I’ll put you up to it. Here they come. Present me + to Madame.” + </p> + <p> + They went away, haying; arranged with the Painters for luncheon and a + private room on the next day but one. + </p> + <p> + “Lunch for eight,” said Deane. “At least, General, I + thought we might ask our friends from the European.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—and young Laing.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I forgot him. Yes, Laing, of course. For nine—neuf, you + know, please, madame.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s all right,” said the General, “I’m + glad to do him a turn.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that’s all right,” assented Sir Roger, with the + slightest possible chuckle. “We shall have a jolly lunch, eh, + General?” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. — ANOTHER! + </h2> + <p> + “I shall never, never forgot your generosity, John.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Mary. It was your honesty and courage that did it.” + </p> + <p> + “I told Mr. Ellerton the whole story, and he seemed positively + astonished.” + </p> + <p> + “And Miss Bellairs admitted that when she wrote she considered such + a tiling utterly impossible. She’s changed a little, Mary. She’s + not so cheerful and light-hearted as she used to be.” + </p> + <p> + “Think what she’s gone through. I’ve noticed just the + same in Mr. Ellerton, but—” + </p> + <p> + “You hope to restore him soon?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, I expect Miss Bellairs—what a pretty girl she is, + John—will soon revive too, now she is with you again. John, have; + you observed anything peculiar in Aunt Sarah’s manner?” + </p> + <p> + “To tell you the truth, I fancied she was rather short with me once + or twice at dinner.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe she is—isn’t pleased at—at what’s + happened. She hasn’t taken much to Mr. Ellerton, and you know she + liked you so much, that I think she still wants you as one of the family.” + </p> + <p> + John laughed: then he leant forward and said in a low voice: + </p> + <p> + “Have you settled anything about dates?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Mr. Ellerton—well he didn’t introduce the subject: + so of course I didn’t. Have you?” + </p> + <p> + “No, we haven’t. I made some suggestion of the kind, but Miss + Bellairs didn’t fall in with it. She won’t even let me ask her + father’s consent just yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Ellerton proposes not to announce our—anything—for + a few days.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said John, “I shall insist on an announcement + very shortly, and you ought to do the same, Mary. We know the evils—” + He checked himself, but Mary was not embarrassed. + </p> + <p> + “Of secret engagements?” she said calmly. “We do indeed.” + </p> + <p> + “Besides it’s a bore. I couldn’t go with Miss Bellairs + to the theatre to-night, because she said it would look too marked.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and Mr. Ellerton said that if he dined here he might as well + announce our engagement from the statue of Strasburg.” + </p> + <p> + John frowned, and Mary perceiving the bent of his thoughts ventured to + say, though with a timid air unusual to her: + </p> + <p> + “I think they’re the least little bit inconsiderate, don’t + you, John—after all we have done for them?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don’t mind admitting that I do feel that. I do not + consider that Miss Bellairs quite appreciates the effort I have made.” + </p> + <p> + Mary sighed. + </p> + <p> + “We mustn’t expect too much of them, must we?” she + asked. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose not,” John conceded; but he still frowned. + </p> + <p> + When we consider how simple the elements of perfect happiness appear to + be, regarded in the abstract, it becomes surprising to think how difficult + it is to attain them in the concrete. A kind magician may grant us all we + ask, may transport us whither we would go, dower us with all we lack, + bring to us one desired companion after another, but something is wrong. + We have a toothache, or in spite of our rich curtains there’s a + draught, or the loved one haps not to be at the moment congenial: and we + pitifully pray the wizard to wave his wand again. Would any magician wave + his for these four troublesome folk? It must be admitted that they hardly + deserved it. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless a magician was at work, and, with the expiration of the next + night, his train was laid. At eleven o’clock in the forenoon of + Friday, Roger Deane had a final interview with the still hesitating + Painter. + </p> + <p> + “But if the police should come, Sir Roger?” urged the fearful + man. + </p> + <p> + “Why, you’ll look a fool, that’s all. Isn’t the + figure high enough?” + </p> + <p> + “Most liberal, Sir Roger, but—but it will alarm my wife.” + </p> + <p> + “If you come to that, it’ll alarm my wife.” + </p> + <p> + “Very true, Sir Roger.” Painter seemed to derive some comfort + from this indirect community of feeling with the aristocracy. + </p> + <p> + “It’ll alarm everybody, I hope. That’s what it’s + for. Now mind—2.30 sharp—and when the coffee’s been in + ten minutes. Not before! I must have time for coffee.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good, Sir Roger.” + </p> + <p> + “Is the ladder ready?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Sir Roger.” + </p> + <p> + “And the what’s-its-name?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite ready, Sir Roger.” + </p> + <p> + “Let’s see it.” + </p> + <p> + It was inspected and pronounced satisfactory. Then Roger Deane set out to + return to his hotel, murmuring contentedly: + </p> + <p> + “If that don’t make up their minds for ‘em, I don’t + know what will.” + </p> + <p> + Then he paused suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “Gad! Will the women have hysterics?” he asked, but in a + moment he added, reassuring himself, “Maud never has, and, hang it, + we must chance the rest.” + </p> + <p> + Arrived at home he found Arthur Laing kicking his heels in the + smoking-room. + </p> + <p> + “Lunching with you to-day, ain’t I, somewhere in the + Palais-Royal?” asked the visitor. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, some place the General’s found out. Look here, Laing, + are you a nervous man?” + </p> + <p> + “Nervous! What do you take me for?” + </p> + <p> + “Lose your head in moments of excitement?” + </p> + <p> + “I never have ‘em.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, hang you! I say, Laing, you’re not a fool. Just + look here. Anything I say—anything, mind—at lunch today, you’re + not to contradict. You’re to back me up.” + </p> + <p> + “Right you are, old chap.” + </p> + <p> + “And the more infernal nonsense it sounds, the more you’re to + take your oath about it.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m there.” + </p> + <p> + “And finally, you’re on no account to lay a finger either on + Miss Travers or on Dora Bellairs.” + </p> + <p> + “Hullo! I’m not in the habit of beating women at any time, let + alone at a lunch-party.” + </p> + <p> + “I mean what I say: you’re not to touch either of them. If you + do you’ll spoil it. You’re to go for Miss Bussey.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s not done me any harm.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind. As soon as the row begins and I say, ‘Save the + ladies!’ you collar Miss Bussey. See?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I see. Seems to me we’re going to have a lively lunch. Am + I to carry the old lady?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, by Jove! How’s my biceps? Just feel, will you?” + </p> + <p> + Deane felt and gravely pronounced the muscle to be equal to its task. + Laing was much gratified, and awaited the unknown future with philosophic + patience. + </p> + <p> + Sir Roger had predicted “a jolly lunch,” but, in its early + stages, the entertainment hardly earned this description. Something was + wrong somewhere; Dora started by refusing, very pointedly, to sit near + Charlie Ellerton; and yet, when she found herself between Ashforth and + Laing, she was absent, silent, and melancholy. Charlie, on the other hand, + painfully practised a labored attentiveness to Mary Travers which + contrasted ill with his usual spontaneous and gay courtesy. Miss Bussey + wore an air of puzzled gravity, and Laing kept looking at her with a + calculating eye. He seemed to be seeking the best grip. Lady Deane and the + General, engrossed in a tjte-`-tjte discussion, did little to promote the + hilarity of the table, and it was left to Deane to maintain the flow of + conversation as he best could. Apparently he found the task a heavy one, + for, before long, he took a newspaper out of his pocket, and, ` propos to + one of his own remarks, began to read a highly decorated account of the + fearful injuries under which the last victim of the last diabolical + explosion had been in danger of succumbing. Sir Roger read his gruesome + narrative with much emphasis, and as he laid down the paper he observed: + </p> + <p> + “Well, I hope I’m not more of a coward than most men, but in + face of dynamite—ugh!” and he shuddered realistically. + </p> + <p> + “I should make for the door,” said Laing. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but in this case the bomb was at the door!” + </p> + <p> + “Then,” said Laing, “I should exit by the window.” + </p> + <p> + “But this poor man.” remarked Mary Travers, “stayed to + rescue the woman he loved,” and her eyes rested for an instant in + confident affection on Charlie Ellerton. + </p> + <p> + “We should all do as much, I trust,” said John, glancing at + Dora Bellairs. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure I hope you won’t have to,” said Dora, + rather ungraciously. + </p> + <p> + “Think what a convincing test of affection it would be,” + suggested Deane persuasively. “After that you could never doubt that + the man loved you.” + </p> + <p> + “My good Sir Roger,” observed Miss Bussey, “it would be + common humanity.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose there were two girls,” said Laing, “and you + couldn’t take ‘em both!” + </p> + <p> + Deane hastily interposed. + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t we had enough of this dreary subject?” he + asked, and he frowned slightly at Laing. + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it about time for coffee?” the General suggested. + </p> + <p> + Deane looked at his watch. + </p> + <p> + “What does the time matter, Deane, if we’re ready?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit. 2.20. That’s all right,” and he rang the + bell. + </p> + <p> + Painter came in with the coffee: the little man looked rather pale and + nervous, but succeeded in serving the company without upsetting the cups. + He came to Deane last. + </p> + <p> + “Is everything ready?” whispered that gentleman, and receiving + a trembling “Yes, sir,” he added, “in ten minutes.” + </p> + <p> + “This,” he observed out loud, “has been a pleasant + gathering—a pleasant end to our outing.” + </p> + <p> + “What? You’re going?” asked Miss Bussey. + </p> + <p> + “Yes: my wife and I cross to England to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall go the next day,” announced the General, “if + Dora is ready.” + </p> + <p> + John threw a glance toward Dora, but she was busy drinking her coffee. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Deane, “I hope we may soon meet again, + under equally delightful circumstances, in London. At any rate,” he + added with a laugh, “there we shall be safe from——” + </p> + <p> + Crash! A loud noise came from the door, as if of some metallic substance + thrown against the panels. + </p> + <p> + “Hullo!” said Laing. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, somebody tumbled downstairs,” said Deane reassuringly. + “Don’t move, Miss Bussey.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but Sir Roger, what is it? What do you think? It didn’t + sound at all like what you say.” + </p> + <p> + The General laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Come, Miss Bussey, I don’t suppose it’s——” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke the form of Painter appeared at the open window. He was + breathless, and shrieked hastily: + </p> + <p> + “Dynamite, dynamite! Save yourselves! It’ll be off in a + minute.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I shall be off in half a minute,” said Laing. + </p> + <p> + There was a rush to the door, and Laing, remembering his instructions, + joined hastily in it. + </p> + <p> + “No, no. The bomb’s there!” cried Painter, excitedly. + </p> + <p> + They stood still in horror for ten seconds. + </p> + <p> + “To the window, to the window, for your lives! Save the ladies!” + cried Sir Roger Deane. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. — FAITHFUL TO DEATH + </h2> + <p> + The ladies looked at one another. Even in that awful moment, the becoming, + the seemly, the dignified had its claims. The window was narrow: the + ladder—Mary Travers had gone to look at it—was steep: a + little, curious, excited crowd was gathering below. Deane saw their + hesitation. He rushed to the door and cautiously opened it. The thing was + there! Across the very entrance—that villainous oblong case! And + from below came a shriek—it was Madame’s voice, and a cry of + “Quick! quick!” + </p> + <p> + “This,” said the General firmly (he had been through the + Mutiny), “is not a time for punctilio. Excuse me,” and he + lifted Lady Deane in his stalwart arms and bore her toward the window. + </p> + <p> + With a distant reminiscence of the ball room, Arthur Laing approached Miss + Bussey, murmuring “May I have the—” and with a mighty + effort swung the good lady from the ground. She clutched his cravat + wildly, crying “Save me!” + </p> + <p> + Mary Travers was calmness itself. With quiet mien and unfaltering voice, + she laid her hand on Charlie’s arm and murmured: + </p> + <p> + “I am ready, Charlie.” + </p> + <p> + At the same moment John Ashforth, the light of heroism in his eye, + whispered to Dora, “You must trust yourself implicitly to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Quick, quick!” cried Deane, “or it’s all up with + you. Quick, Ashforth! Quick, Charlie, quick, man!” + </p> + <p> + There was one more pause. Mary’s hand pressed a little harder. John’s + arm was advancing towards Dora’s waist. Sir Roger looked on with + apparent impatience. + </p> + <p> + “Are you never going?” he called. “Must I——” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly a loud cry rang out. It came from Miss Bellairs. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Charlie, save me, save me!” she cried, and then and there + flung herself into his arms. + </p> + <p> + “My darling!” he whispered loudly, and catching her up made + for the window. As they disappeared through it, Deane softly and swiftly + opened the door and disappeared in his turn. Mary and John were left + alone. Then Mary’s composure gave way. Sinking into a chair she + cried: + </p> + <p> + “And I am left! Nobody cares for me. What shall I do?” + </p> + <p> + In an instant John’s strong arm was round her. “I care for + you!” he cried, and raising her almost senseless form, he rushed to + the window. The ladder was gone! + </p> + <p> + “Gone!” he shrieked. “Where is it?” + </p> + <p> + There was no answer. The little crowd had gone too. + </p> + <p> + “We are lost,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Mary opened her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Lost!” she echoed. + </p> + <p> + “Lost! Abandoned—by those who loved—ah, no, no, Mary. In + the hour of danger—then we see the truth!” + </p> + <p> + Mary’s arms clasped him closer. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, John, John,” she said, “we must die together, dear.” + </p> + <p> + John stooped and kissed her. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly the door was opened and Deane entered. He wore a comically + apologetic look, and carried an oblong metal vessel in his right hand. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me,” he said. “There’s been—er—slight + but very natural mistake. It wasn’t—er—exactly dynamite—it’s—er—a + preserved-peach tin. That fool Painter——” + </p> + <p> + “Then we’re safe!” cried Mary. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, thank Heaven,” answered Deane fervently. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, John!” she cried. + </p> + <p> + Sir Roger, with a smile, retired and closed the door after him. + </p> + <p> + Downstairs Lady Deane and Miss Bussey, forgetful of their sufferings, were + restoring Madame Painter to her senses; Painter was uncorking a bottle of + champagne for Arthur Laing; Sir Roger Deane was talking in a low voice and + persuasive tones to an imposing representative of the police. “What + passed between them is unknown; possibly only words, possibly something + else; at any rate, after a time, Deane smiled, the great man smiled + responsively, saluted, and disappeared, murmuring something about Anglais, + milords, and drtles. The precise purport of his reflections could not be + distinctly understood by those in the house, for civility made him + inarticulate, but when he was safely outside he looked at a piece of crisp + paper in his hand, then, with his thumb pointing over his shoulder, he + gave an immense shrug, and exclaimed: + </p> + <p> + “Mais voil`, un fou!” and to this day he considers Roger Deane + the very type of a maniac. + </p> + <p> + Mary and John descended. As soon as they appeared Dora jumped up from her + seat and ran towards John, crying, “Oh, Mr. Ashforth!” + </p> + <p> + While Charlie, advancing more timidly to Mary, murmured: “Forgive + me, but—” + </p> + <p> + Mary with a slight bow, John with a lift of his hat, both without a halt + or a word, passed through the room, arm-in-arm, and vanished from Mr. + Painter’s establishment. + </p> + <p> + Sir Roger had seized on Laing’s champagne and was pouring it out. He + stopped now, and looked at Dora. A sudden gleam of intelligence glanced + from her eyes. Rushing up to him, she whispered, “You did it all? It + was all a hoax?” + </p> + <p> + He nodded. + </p> + <p> + “And why?” + </p> + <p> + “Ask Charlie Ellerton,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but Mr. Ashforth and Mary Travers are so angry!” + </p> + <p> + “With one another?” + </p> + <p> + “No, with us.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Roger looked her mercilessly full in the face, regardless of her + blushes. + </p> + <p> + “That,” he observed with emphasis, “is exactly what you + wanted, Miss Bellairs.” + </p> + <p> + Then he turned to the company, holding a full glass in his hand. “Ladies + and gentlemen,” said he, “some of us have had a narrow escape. + Whether we shall be glad of it or sorry hereafter, I don’t know—do + you, Charlie? But hero’s a health to——” + </p> + <p> + But Dora, glancing apprehensively at the General, whispered, “Not + yet!” + </p> + <p> + “To Dynamite!” said Sir Roger Deane. + </p> + <h3> + POSTSCRIPT + </h3> + <p> + It should be added that a fuller, more graphic, and more sensational + account of the outrage in the Palais-Royal than this pen has been capable + of inscribing will appear, together with much other curious and + enlightening matter, in Lady Deane’s next work. The author also + takes occasion in that work—and there is little doubt that the + subject was suggested by the experiences of some of her friends—to + discuss the nature, quality, and duration of the Passion of Love. She + concludes—if it be permissible thus far to anticipate the + publication of her book—that all True Love is absolutely permanent + and indestructible, untried by circumstance and untouched by time; and + this opinion is, she says, indorsed by every woman who has ever been in + love. Thus fortified, the conclusion seems beyond cavil. If, therefore, + any incidents here recorded appear to conflict with it, we must imitate + the discretion of Plato and say, either these persons were not Sons of the + Gods—that is. True Lovers—or they did not do such things. + Unfortunately, however, Lady Deane’s proof-sheets were accessible + too late to allow of the title of this story being changed. So it must + stand—“The Wheel of Love;” but if any lady (men are + worse than useless) will save the author’s credit by proving that + wheels do not go round, he will be very much obliged—and will offer + her every facility. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LADY OF THE POOL + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. — A FIRM BELIEVER + </h2> + <p> + “I see Mr. Vansittart Merceron’s at the Court again, mamma.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear. Lady Merceron told me he was coming. She wanted to + consult him about Charlie.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s always consulting him about Charlie, and it never makes + any difference.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Bushell looked up from her needlework; her hands were full with + needle and stuff, and a couple of pins protruded from her lips. She + glanced at her daughter, who stood by the window in the bright blaze of a + brilliant sunset, listlessly hitting the blind-cord and its tassel to and + fro. + </p> + <p> + “The poor boy’s very young still,” mumbled Mrs. Bushell + through her pins. + </p> + <p> + “He’s twenty-five last month,” returned Millicent. + “I know, because there’s exactly three years between him and + me.” + </p> + <p> + The sinking rays defined Miss Bushell’s form with wonderful + clearness. She was very tall, and the severe well-cut cloth gown she wore + set off the stately lines of her figure. She had a great quantity of fair + hair and a handsome face, spoilt somewhat by a slightly excessive breadth + across the cheeks; as her height demanded or excused, her hands and feet + were not small, though well shaped. Would Time have arrested his march for + ever, there would have been small fault to find with Nature’s gifts + to Miss Bushell; but, as her mother said, Millie was just what she had + been at twenty-one; and Mrs. Bushell was now extremely stout. Millie + escaped the inference by discrediting her mother’s recollection. + </p> + <p> + The young lady wore her hat, and presently she turned away from the + window, remarking: + </p> + <p> + “I think I shall go for a stroll. I’ve had no exercise to-day.” + </p> + <p> + Either inclination, or perhaps that threatening possibility from which she + strove to avert her eyes, made Millie a devotee of active pursuits. She + hunted, she rode, she played lawn-tennis, and, when at the seaside, golf; + when all failed, she walked resolutely four or five miles on the + high-road, swinging along at a healthy pace, and never pausing save to + counsel an old woman or rebuke a truant urchin. On such occasions her + manner (for we may not suppose that her physique aided the impression) + suggested the benevolent yet stern policeman, and the vicar acknowledged + in her an invaluable assistant. By a strange coincidence she seemed to + suit the house she lived in—one of those large white square dwelling’s, + devoid of ornament, yet possessing every substantial merit, and attaining, + by virtue of their dimensions and simplicity, an effect of handsomeness + denied to many more tricked-out building’s. The house satisfied; so + did Millie, unless the judge were very critical. + </p> + <p> + “I shall just walk round by the Pool and back,” she added as + she opened the door. + </p> + <p> + “My dear, it’s four miles!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it’s only a little after six, and we don’t dine + till eight.” + </p> + <p> + Encountering no further opposition than a sigh of admiration—three + hundred yards was the limit of pleasure in a walk to her mother—Millie + Bushell started on her way, dangling a neat ebony stick in her hand, and + setting her feet down with a firm decisive tread. It did not take her long + to cover the two miles between her and her destination. Leaving the road, + she entered the grounds of the Court and, following a little path which + ran steeply down hill, she found herself by the willows and reeds fringing + the edge of the Pool. Opposite to her, on the higher bank, some seven or + eight feet above the water, rose the temple, a small classical erection, + used now, when at all, as a summer-house, but built to commemorate the sad + fate of Agatha Merceron. The sun had just sunk, and the Pool looked chill + and gloomy; the deep water under the temple was black and still. Millie’s + robust mind was not prone to superstition, yet she was rather relieved to + think that, with the sun only just gone, there was a clear hour before + Agatha Merceron would come out of the temple, slowly and fearfully descend + the shallow flight of marble steps, and lay herself down in the water to + die. That happened every evening, according to the legend, an hour after + sunset—every evening, for the last two hundred years, since poor + Agatha, bereft and betrayed, had found the Pool kinder than the world, and + sunk her sorrow and her shame and her beauty there—such shame and + such beauty as had never been before or after in all the generations of + the Mercerons. + </p> + <p> + “What nonsense it all is!” said Millie aloud. “But I’m + afraid Charlie is silly enough to believe it.” + </p> + <p> + As she spoke her eye fell on a Canadian canoe, which lay at the foot of + the steps. She recognized it as Charlie Merceron’s, and, knowing + that approach to the temple from the other side was to be gained only by a + difficult path through a tangled wood, and that the canoe usually lay + under a little shed a few yards from where she stood, she concluded that + Charlie was in the temple. There was nothing surprising in that: it was a + favorite haunt of his. She raised her voice; and called to him. At first + no answer came, and she repeated: + </p> + <p> + “Charlie! Charlie!” + </p> + <p> + After a moment of waiting a head was thrust out of a window in the side of + the temple—a head in a straw hat. + </p> + <p> + “Hullo!” said Charlie; Merceron in tones of startled surprise. + Then, seeing the visitor, he added: “Oh, it’s you, Millie! How + did you know I was here?” + </p> + <p> + “By the canoe, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Hang the canoe!” muttered Charlie, and his head disappeared. + A second later he came out of the doorway and down the steps. Standing on + the lowest, he shouted—the Pool was about sixty feet across—“What + do you want?” + </p> + <p> + “How rude you are!” shouted Miss Bushell in reply. + </p> + <p> + Charlie got into the canoe and began to paddle across. He had just reached + the other side, when Millie screamed: + </p> + <p> + “Look, look, Charlie!” she cried. “The temple!” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “I—I saw something white at the window.” + </p> + <p> + Charlie got out of the canoe; hastily. + </p> + <p> + “What?” he asked again, walking up to Miss Bushell. + </p> + <p> + “I declare I saw something white at the window. Oh, Charlie! But it’s + all——” + </p> + <p> + “Bosh? Of course it is. There’s nothing in the temple.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I thought—I wonder you like to be there.” + </p> + <p> + “Why shouldn’t I?” + </p> + <p> + The mysterious appearance not being repeated, Millie’s courage + returned. + </p> + <p> + “I thought you believed in the ghost,” she said, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “So I do, but I don’t mind it.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve never seen it?” + </p> + <p> + “Supposing I haven’t? That doesn’t prove it’s not + true.” + </p> + <p> + “But you’re often here at the time?” + </p> + <p> + “Never,” answered Charlie with emphasis. “I always go + away before the time.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you’d better come now. Put the canoe to bed and walk + with me.” + </p> + <p> + Charlie Merceron thrust his hands into his pockets and smiled at his + companion. He was tall also, and just able to look down on her. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said, “I’m not going yet.” + </p> + <p> + “How rude—oh, there it is again, Charlie! I saw it! I’m—I’m + frightened,” and her healthy color paled a trifle, as she laid a + hand on Charlie’s arm. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you what,” observed Charlie. “If you have + fancies of this kind you’d better not come here any more—not + in the evening, at all events. You know people who think they’re + going to see things always do see em.” + </p> + <p> + “My heart is positively beating,” said Miss Bushell. “I—I + don’t quite like walking back alone.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll see you as far as the road,” Charlie conceded, and + with remarkable promptitude he led the way, turning his head over his + shoulder to remark: + </p> + <p> + “Really, if you’re so nervous, you oughtn’t to come + here.” + </p> + <p> + “I never will again—not alone, I mean.” + </p> + <p> + Charlie had breasted the hill with such goodwill that they were already at + the road. + </p> + <p> + “And you’re really going back?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, just for a few minutes. I left my book in the temple—I + was reading there. She’s not due for half an hour yet, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “What—what happens if you see her?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you die,” answered Charlie. “Goodnight;” and + with a smile and a nod he ran down the hill towards the Pool. + </p> + <p> + Miss Bushell, cavalierly deserted, made her way home at something more + than her usual rate of speed. She had never believed in that nonsense, but + there was certainly something white at that window—something white + that moved. Under the circumstances, Charlie really might have seen her + home, she thought, for the wood-fringed road was gloomy, and dusk coming + on apace. Besides, where was the hardship in being her escort? + </p> + <p> + Doubtless none, Charlie would have answered, unless a man happened to have + other fish to fry. The pace at which the canoe crossed the Pool and + brought up at its old moorings witnessed that he had no leisure to spend + on Miss Bushell. Leaping out, he ran up the stops into the temple, crying + in a loud whisper: + </p> + <p> + “She’s gone!” + </p> + <p> + The temple was empty, and Charlie, looking round in vexation, added: + </p> + <p> + “So has she, by Jingo!” + </p> + <p> + He sat down disconsolately on the low marble seat that ran round the + little shrine. + </p> + <p> + There were no signs of the book of which he had spoken to Millie Bushell. + There were no signs of anybody whom he could have meant to address. Stay! + One sign there was: a long hat-pin lay on the floor. Charlie picked it tip + with a sad smile. + </p> + <p> + “Agatha’s,” he said to himself. + </p> + <p> + And yet, as everyone in the neighborhood knew, poor Agatha Merceron went + nightly to her phantom death bareheaded and with golden locks tossed by + the wind. Moreover, the pin was of modern manufacture; moreover, ghosts do + not wear—but there is no need to enter on debatable ground; the pin + was utterly modern. + </p> + <p> + “Now, if uncle Van,” mused Charlie, “came here and saw + this—!” He carefully put the pin in his breast-pocket, and + looked at his watch. It was exactly Agatha Merceron’s time; yet + Charlie leant back on his cold marble seat, put his hands in his pockets, + and gazed up at the ceiling with the happiest possible smile on his face. + For one steeped in family legends, worshipping the hapless lady’s + memory with warm devotion, and reputed a sincere believer in her ghostly + wanderings, he awaited her coming with marvellous composure. In point of + fact he had forgotten all about her, and there was nothing to prevent her + coming, slipping down the steps, and noiselessly into the water, all + unnoticed by him. His eyes were glued to the ceiling, the smile played on + his lips, his ears were filled with sweet echoes, and his thoughts were + far away. Perhaps the dead lady came and passed unseen. That Charlie did + not see her was ridiculously slight evidence whereon to damn so ancient + and picturesque a legend. He thought the same himself, for that night at + dinner—he came in late for dinner—he maintained the credit of + the story with fierce conviction against Mr. Vansittart Merceron’s + scepticism. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. — MISS WALLACE’S FRIEND + </h2> + <p> + In old days the Mercerons had been great folk. They had held the earldom + of Langbury and the barony of Warmley. A failure of direct descent in the + male line extinguished the earldom; the Lady Agatha was the daughter of + the last earl, and would have been Baroness Warmley had she lived. On her + death that title passed to her cousin, and continued in that branch till + the early days of the present century. Then came another break. The Lord + Warmley of that day, a Regency dandy, had a son, but not one who could + inherit his honors, and away went the barony to a yet younger branch, + where, falling a few years later into female hands, it was merged in a + brand-new viscounty, and was now waiting till chance again should restore + it to an independent existence. From the Mercerons of the Court it was + gone for ever, and the blot on their escutcheon which lost it them was a + sore point, from which it behooved visitors and friends to refrain their + tongues. The Regent had, indeed, with his well-known good nature, offered + a baronetcy to hide the stain; but pride forbade, and the Mercerons now + held no titles, save the modest dignity which Charlie’s father, made + a K.C.B. for services in the North-West Provinces, had left behind him to + his widow. But the old house was theirs, and a comfortable remnant of the + lands, and the pictures of the extinct earls and barons, down to him whose + sins had robbed the line of its surviving rank and left it in a position, + from an heraldic point of view, of doubtful respectability. Lady Merceron + felt so acutely on the subject that she banished this last nobleman to the + smoking-room. There was, considering everything, an appropriateness in + that position, and he no longer vexed her eyes as she sat at meat in the + dining room. She had purposed a like banishment for Lady Agatha; but here + Charlie had interceded, and the unhappy beauty hung still behind his + mother’s chair and opposite his own. It was just to remember that + but for poor Agatha’s fault and fate the present branch might never + have enjoyed the honors at all; so Charlie urged to Lady Merceron, + catching at any excuse for keeping Lady Agatha. Lady Merceron’s way + of judging pictures may seem peculiar, but the fact is that she lacked + what is called the sense of historical perspective: she did not see why + our ancestors should be treated so tenderly and allowed, with a charitable + reference to the change in manners, forgiveness for what no one to-day + could hope to win a pardon. Mr. Vansittart Merceron smiled at his + sister-in-law and shrugged his shoulders; but in vain. To the smoking-room + went the wicked Lord Warmley, and Lady Agatha was remarkably lucky in that + she did not follow him. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Vansittart, half-brother to the late Sir Victor, and twenty years + younger than he, was a short thick-set man, with a smooth round white + face, and a way of speaking so deliberate and weighty that it imparted + momentousness to nothings and infallibility to nonsense. When he really + had something sensible to say, and that was very fairly often, the effect + was enormous. He was now forty-four, a widower, well off by his marriage, + and a Member of Parliament. Naturally, Lady Merceron relied much, on his + advice, especially in what concerned her son; she was hazy about the + characters and needs of young men, not knowing how they should be treated + or what appealed to them. Amid her haziness, one fact only stood out + clear. To deal with a young man, you wanted a man of the world. In this + capacity Mr. Vansittart had now been sent for to the Court, the object of + his visit being nothing less than the arrangement and satisfactory + settlement of Charlie’s future. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Vansittart approached the future through the present and the past. + “Yon wasted your time at school, you wasted your time at Oxford, you’re + wasting your time now,” he remarked, when Charlie and he were left + alone after dinner. + </p> + <p> + Charlie was looking at Lady Agatha’s picture. “With a sigh he + turned to his uncle. + </p> + <p> + “That’s all very well,” he said tolerantly, “but + what is there for me to do?” + </p> + <p> + “If you took more interest in country pursuits it might be + different. But you don’t hunt, you shoot very seldom——” + </p> + <p> + “And very badly.” + </p> + <p> + “And not at all well, as you admit. You say you won’t become a + magistrate, you show no interest in politics or—or—social + questions. You simply moon about.” + </p> + <p> + Charlie was vividly reminded of a learned judge whom he had once heard + pronouncing sentence of death. His uncle’s denunciation seemed to + lack its appropriate conclusion—that he should be hanged by the neck + till he was dead. He was roused to defend himself. + </p> + <p> + “You’re quite wrong, uncle,” he said. “I’m + working hard. I’m writing a history of the family.” + </p> + <p> + “A history of the family!” groaned Mr. Vansittart. “Who + wants one? Who’ll read one?” + </p> + <p> + “From an antiquarian point of view—” began Charlie + stoutly. + </p> + <p> + “Of all ways of wasting time, antiquarianism is perhaps the most + futile;” and Mr. Vansittart wiped his mouth with an air of finality. + </p> + <p> + “Now the Agatha Merceron story,” continued Charlie, “is + in itself—-” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps we’d better finish our talk tomorrow. The ladies + will, expect us in the garden.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said Charlie, with much content. He enjoyed + himself more in the garden, for, while Lady Merceron and her brother in + law took counsel, he strolled through the moonlit shrubberies with Mrs. + Marland, and Mrs. Marland was very sympathetically interested in him and + his pursuits. She was a little eager woman, the very antithesis in body + and mind to Millie Bushell; she had plenty of brains but very little + sense, a good deal of charm but no beauty, and, without any + counterbalancing defect at all, a hearty liking for handsome young men. + She had also a husband in the City. + </p> + <p> + “Ghost-hunting again to-night, Mr. Merceron?” she asked, + glancing up at Charlie, who was puffing happily at a cigar. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he answered, “I’m very regular.” + </p> + <p> + “And did you see anyone? + </p> + <p> + “I saw Millie Bushell.” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Bushell’s hardly ghost-like, is she?” + </p> + <p> + “We’ll,” said Charlie meditatively, “I suppose if + one was fat oneself one’s ghost would be fat, wouldn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Marland, letting the problem alone, laughed softly. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Miss Bushell! If she heard you say that! Or if Lady Merceron + heard you!” + </p> + <p> + “It would hardly surprise my mother to hear that I thought Millie + Bushell plump. She is plump, you know;” and Charlie’s eyes + expressed a candid homage to truth. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I know what’s being arranged for you.” + </p> + <p> + “So do I.” + </p> + <p> + “And you’ll do it. Oh, you think you won’t, but you + will. Men always end by doing what they’re told.” + </p> + <p> + “Does Mr. Marland?” + </p> + <p> + “He begins by it,” laughed his wife. + </p> + <p> + “Is that why he’s not coming till Saturday week?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Merceron! But what was Miss Bushell doing at the Pool? Did she + come to find you?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no; just for a walk.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor girl!” + </p> + <p> + “Why—it’s good for her.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t mean the walk,” + </p> + <p> + “I’d blush if there was light enough to make it any use, Mrs. + Marland.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but I know there’s something. You don’t go there + every evening to look for a dead lady, Mr. Merceron.” + </p> + <p> + Charlie stopped short, and took his cigar from his mouth. + </p> + <p> + “What?” he asked, a little abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I shall follow you some day, and I shouldn’t be + surprised if I met—not Agatha—but——” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” asked Charlie, with an uncertain smile. + </p> + <p> + “Why, poor Miss Bushell!” + </p> + <p> + Charlie laughed and replaced his cigar. + </p> + <p> + “What are we standing still for?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. You stopped. She’d be such an ideal match + for you.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I should never have done for you, Mrs. Marland.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear boy, I was married when you were still in Eton collars.” + </p> + <p> + They had completed the circuit of the garden, and now approached where + Lady Merceron sat, enveloped in a shawl. + </p> + <p> + “Charlie!” she called. “Here’s a letter from + Victor Button. He’s coming to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t know you’d asked him,” said Charlie, + with no sign of pleasure at the news. Victor had been at school and + college with Charlie, and often, in his holidays, at the Court, for he was + Sir Victor’s godson. Yet Charlie did not love him. For the rest, he + was very rich, and was understood to cut something of a figure in London + society. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Sutton? Oh, I know him,” exclaimed Mrs. Marland. “He’s + charming!” + </p> + <p> + “Then you shall entertain him,” said Charlie. “I resign + him.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t think why you’re not more pleased to have him + here, Charlie,” remarked Lady Merceron. “He’s very + popular in London, isn’t he, Vansittart?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve met him at some very good houses,” answered Mr. + Vansittart. And that, he seemed to imply, is better than mere popularity. + </p> + <p> + “The Bushells were delighted with him last time he was here,” + continued Lady Merceron. + </p> + <p> + “There! A rival for you!” Mrs. Marland whispered. + </p> + <p> + Charlie laughed cheerfully. Sutton would be no rival of his, he thought; + and if he and Millie liked one another, by all means let them take one + another. A month before he would hardly have dismissed the question in so + summary a fashion, for the habit of regarding Millie as a possibility and + her readiness as a fact had grown strong by the custom of years, and, far + as he was from a passion, he might not have enjoyed seeing her allegiance + transferred to Victor Sutton. Certainly he would have suffered defeat from + that hand with very bad grace. Now, however, everything was changed. + </p> + <p> + “Vansittart,” said Lady Merceron, “Charlie and I want to + consult you (she often coupled Charlie’s hypothetical desire for + advice with her own actual one in appeals to Mr. Vansittart) about Mr. + Prime’s rent.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, at the old farm?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He wants another reduction.” + </p> + <p> + “He’ll want to be paid for staying there next.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, poor man, he’s had to take lodgers this summer—a + thing he’s never done before. Charlie, did you know that?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Charlie, interrupting an animated conversation + which he had started with Mrs. Marland. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know who they are?” pursued his mother, wandering from + Mr. Prime’s rent to the more interesting subject of his lodgers. + </p> + <p> + “Ladies from London,” answered Charlie. + </p> + <p> + “Rather vague,” commented Mr. Vansittart. “Young ladies + or old ladies, Charlie?” + </p> + <p> + “Why does he want to know?” asked Mrs. Marland; but chaff had + about as much effect on Mr. Vansittart as it would have on an ironclad. He + seemed not to hear, and awaited an answer with a bland smile. In truth, he + thought Mrs. Marland a silly woman. + </p> + <p> + “Young, I believe,” answered Charlie, in a careless tone. + </p> + <p> + “It’s curious I’ve not seen them about,” said Lady + Merceron. “I pass the farm almost every day. Who are they, Charlie?” + </p> + <p> + “One’s a Miss Wallace. She’s engaged to Willie Prime.” + </p> + <p> + “To Willie? Fancy!” + </p> + <p> + “H’m! I think,” remarked Mr. Vansittart, “that, + from the point of view of a reduction of rent, these lodgers are a + delusion. Of course she stays with Prime if she’s going to many his + son.” + </p> + <p> + “Fancy Willie!” reiterated Lady Merceron. “Surely he can’t + afford to marry? He’s in a bank, you know, Vansittart, and he only + gets a hundred and twenty pounds a year.” + </p> + <p> + “One blessing of the country is that everybody knows his neighbor’s + income,” observed Mr. Vansittart. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps the lady has money,” suggested Mrs. Marland. “But, + Mr. Merceron, who’s the other lady?” + </p> + <p> + “A friend of Miss Wallace’s, I believe. I don’t know her + name.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, they’re merely friends of Prime’s?” Mr. + Vansittart concluded. “If that’s all he bases his claim for a + reduction on—-” + </p> + <p> + “Hang it! He might as well have it,” interrupted Charlie. + “He talks to me about it for half an hour every time we meet.” + </p> + <p> + “But, my dear Charlie, you have more time than money to waste—at + least, so it seems.” + </p> + <p> + His uncle’s sarcasm never affected Charlie’s temper. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll turn him on to you, uncle,” he replied, “and + you can see how you like it.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go and call on him tomorrow. You’d better come + too, Charlie.” + </p> + <p> + “And then you can see the ladies from London,” added Mrs. + Marland. “Perhaps the one who isn’t young Mr. Prime’s + will be interesting.” + </p> + <p> + “Or,” said Charlie, “as mostly happens in this woeful + world, the one who is.” + </p> + <p> + “I think the less we see of that sort of person at all, the better,” + observed Lady Merceron, with gentle decision. “They can hardly be + quite what we’re accustomed to.” + </p> + <p> + “That sort of person!” + </p> + <p> + Charlie went to bed with the phrase ringing in his horror-struck ears. If + to be the most beautiful, the most charming, and the most refined, the + daintiest, the wittiest and prettiest, the kindest and the sweetest, the + merriest and most provoking creature in the whole world—if to be all + this were yet not to weigh against being ‘that sort of person’—if + it were not, indeed, to outweigh, banish, and obliterate everything else + why, the world was not fit to live in, and he no true Merceron! For the + Merceron men had always pleased themselves. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. — ALL NONSENSE + </h2> + <p> + On the evening of the next day, while the sun was still on the Pool, and + its waters, forgetful of darker moods and bygone tragedies, smiled under + the tickling of darting golden gleams, a girl sat on the broad lowest step + of the temple. She had rolled the sleeves of her white gown above her + elbow, up well-nigh to her shoulder, and, the afternoon being sultry, from + time to time dipped her arms in the water and, taking them out again, + amused herself by watching the bright drops race down to her rosy + fingertips. The sport was good, apparently, for she laughed and flung back + her head so that the stray locks of hair might not spoil her sight of it. + On either side of this lowest step there was a margin of smooth level + grass, and, being unable as she sat to bathe both arms at once, presently + she moved on to the grass and lay down, sinking her elbows in the pond and + leaning her face over the edge of it. The posture had another advantage + she had not thought of, and she laughed again when she saw her own eyes + twinkling at her from the depths. As she lay there a longing came upon + her. + </p> + <p> + “If I could be sure he wouldn’t come I’d dip my feet,” + she murmured. + </p> + <p> + As, however, he had come every evening for a fortnight past the fancy was + not to be indulged, and she consoled herself by a deeper dive yet of her + arms and by drooping her head till her nose and the extreme fringe of her + eyelashes were wetted, and the stray locks floated on either side. + </p> + <p> + Presently, as she still looked, she saw another shadow on the water, and + exchanged with her image a confidential glance. + </p> + <p> + “You again?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + The other shadow nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Why didn’t you come in the canoe?” + </p> + <p> + “Because people see it.” + </p> + <p> + It struck her that her attitude was unconventional, and by a lithe + complicated movement, whereof Charlie noticed only the elegance and not + the details, she swept round and, sitting, looked up at him. + </p> + <p> + “I know who she was,” she observed. + </p> + <p> + “She very nearly knew who you were. You oughtn’t to have come + to the window.” + </p> + <p> + “She thought I was the ghost.” + </p> + <p> + “You shouldn’t reckon on people being foolish.” + </p> + <p> + “Shouldn’t I? Yet I reckoned on your coming—or there’d + have been some more of me in the water.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish I were an irregular man,” said Charlie. + </p> + <p> + She was slowly turning down her sleeves, and, ignoring his remark, said, + with a question in her tones: + </p> + <p> + “Nettie Wallace says that Willie Prime says that everybody says that + you’re going to marry that girl.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe it’s quite true.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” and she looked across the Pool. + </p> + <p> + “True that everybody says so,” added Charlie. “Why do + you turn down your sleeves?” + </p> + <p> + “How funny I must have looked, sprawling on the bank like that!” + she remarked. + </p> + <p> + “Awful!” said Charlie, sitting down. + </p> + <p> + She looked at him with uneasiness in her eye. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing but an ankle, I swear,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + She blushed and smiled. + </p> + <p> + “I think you should whistle, or something, as you come.” + </p> + <p> + “Not I,” said Charlie, with decision. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she turned to him with a serious face, or one that tried to be + serious. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you come?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Why do I eat?” he returned. + </p> + <p> + “And yet you were angry the first time.” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody likes to be caught ranting out poetry especially his own.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe you were frightened—you thought I was Agatha. The + poetry was about her, wasn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not at all a bad poem,” observed Charlie. + </p> + <p> + “You remember I liked it so much that I clapped my hands.” + </p> + <p> + “And I jumped!” + </p> + <p> + The girl laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well,” she said, “it’s time to go home.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear, no,” said Charlie! + </p> + <p> + “But I’ve promised to be early, because Willie Prime’s + coming, and I’m to be introduced to him.” + </p> + <p> + “Willie Prime can wait. He’s got Miss Wallace to comfort him, + and I’ve got nobody to comfort me.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes. Miss Bushell.” + </p> + <p> + “You know her name?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—and yours—your surname, I mean; you told me the + other.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s more than you’ve done for me.” + </p> + <p> + “I told you my name was Agatha.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, but that was a joke. I’d been talking about Agatha + Merceron.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. I’m sorry it doesn’t satisfy you. If you won’t + believe me—!” + </p> + <p> + “But your surname?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, mine? Why, mine’s Brown.” + </p> + <p> + “Brown!” re-echoed Charlie, with a tinge of disappointment in + his tone. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you like it?” asked Miss Agatha Brown with a + smile. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it will do for the present,” laughed Charlie. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don’t mean to keep it all my life. I’ve spent + to-day, Mr. Merceron, in spying out your house. Nettie Wallace and I + ventured quite near. It’s very pretty.” + </p> + <p> + “Rather dilapidated, I’m afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s the time, Mr. Merceron?” + </p> + <p> + “Half-past six. Oh, by Jove!” + </p> + <p> + “Well? Afraid of seeing poor Agatha?” + </p> + <p> + “I should see nobody but you, if you were here. No. I forgot that. I’ve + got to meet someone at the station at a quarter-past seven.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do tell me who?” + </p> + <p> + “You’d be none the wiser. It’s a Mr. Victor Sutton.” + </p> + <p> + “Victor Sutton!” she exclaimed, with a glance at Charlie which + passed unnoticed by him. “Is he a friend of yours?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so. Of my family’s, anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-by. I’m going,” she announced. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll be here to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. For the last time.” + </p> + <p> + She dropped this astounding thunderbolt on Charlie’s head as though + it had been the most ordinary remark in the world. + </p> + <p> + “The last time! Oh, Miss—-” No: somehow he could not lay + his tongue to that “Miss Brown.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t spend all my life in Lang Marsh,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “Agatha,” he burst out. + </p> + <p> + “No, no. This is not the last time. Sha’n’t we keep + that?” she asked, with a provokingly light-hearted smile. + </p> + <p> + “You promise to be here to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall have something to say to you then,” Charlie announced + with a significant air. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you never lack conversation.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll be here at five?” + </p> + <p> + “Precisely,” she answered with mock gravity; “and now I’m + gone!” + </p> + <p> + Charlie took off his straw hat, stretched out his right hand, and took + hers. For a moment she drew back, but he looked very handsome and gallant + as he bowed his head down to her hand, and she checked the movement. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well!” she murmured; she was protesting against any + importance being attached to the incident. + </p> + <p> + Charlie, having paid his homage, walked, or rather ran, swiftly away. To + begin with, he had none too much time if he was to meet Victor Sutton; + secondly, he was full of a big resolve, and that generally makes a man + walk fast. + </p> + <p> + The lady pursued a more leisurely progress. Swinging her hat in her hand, + she made her way through the tangled wood back to the high-road, and + turned towards Mr. Prime’s farm. She went slowly along, thinking + perhaps of the attractive young fellow she had left behind her, wondering + perhaps why she had promised to meet him again. She did not know why, for + there was sure to happen at that last meeting the one thing which she did + not, she supposed, wish to happen. However, a promise is a promise. She + heard the sound of wheels behind her, and, turning, found the farmer’s + spring-cart hard on her heels. The farmer was driving, and by his side sat + a nice-looking girl dressed in the extreme of fashion. On the back seat + was a young man in a very light suit, with a fine check pattern, and a new + pair of brown leather shoes. The cart pulled up. + </p> + <p> + “We can make room for ye, Miss,” said old Mr. Prime. + </p> + <p> + Nettie Wallace jumped tip and stood with her foot on the step. Willie + Prime jumped down and effected her transfer to the back seat. Agatha + climbed up beside the farmer and stretched her hand back to greet Willie. + Willie took it rather timidly. He did not quite ‘savvy’ (as he + expressed it to himself); his fiancie’s friend was very simply + attired, infinitely more simply than Nettie herself. Nettie had told him + that her friend was ‘off and on'(a vague and rather obscure + qualification of the statement) in the same line as herself—namely, + Court and high-class dressmaking. Yet there was a difference between + Nettie and her friend. + </p> + <p> + “Anybody else arrived by the train?” asked Agatha. + </p> + <p> + “A visitor for the Court. A good-looking gentleman, wasn’t he, + Willie?” + </p> + <p> + Nettie was an elegant creature and, but for the ‘gentleman’ + and that slight but ineradicable twang that clings like Nessus’ + shirt to the cockney, all effort and all education notwithstanding (it + will even last three generations, and is audible, perhaps, now and then in + the House of Lords), her speech was correct and even dainty in its prim + nicety. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said Agatha. + </p> + <p> + “His name’s Sutton,” said Willie; “Mr. Charles—young + Mr. Merceron—told me so when he was talking to me on the platform.” + </p> + <p> + “You know young Mr. Merceron?” asked Agatha. + </p> + <p> + “Why, they was boys together,” interrupted the old farmer, who + made little of the refinements of speech. In his youth no one, from the + lord to the laborer, spoke grammar in the country. “Used to larn to + swim together in the Pool, didn’t you, Willie?” + </p> + <p> + “I must have a dip there to-morrow,” cried Willie; and Agatha + wondered what time he would choose. “And I’ll take you there, + Nettie. Ever been yet?” + </p> + <p> + “No. They—they say it’s haunted, don’t they, + Willie?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s nonsense,” said Willie. London makes a man + sceptical. The old farmer shook his head and grunted doubtfully. His + mother had seen poor Agatha Merceron; this was before the farmer was born—a + little while before—and the shock had come nigh to being most + serious to him. The whole countryside knew it. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you call it nonsense, Mr. Prime?” asked Agatha. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don’t know, Miss—-” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Brown, Willie,” said Nettie. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Brown. Anyway, we needn’t go the time the ghost comes.” + </p> + <p> + “I should certainly avoid that,” laughed Agatha. + </p> + <p> + “We’ll go in the morning, Nettie, and I’ll have my swim + in the evening.” + </p> + <p> + Agatha frowned. It would be particularly inconvenient if Willie Prime took + his swim in the evening. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don’t, Willie,” cried Nettie. “She—she + might do you some harm.” + </p> + <p> + Willie was hard to persuade. He was not above liking to appear a + daredevil; and the discussion was still raging when they reached the farm. + The two girls went upstairs to the little rooms which they occupied. + Agatha turned into hers, and Nettie Wallace followed her. + </p> + <p> + “Your Willie is very nice,” said Agatha, sitting on her bed. + </p> + <p> + Nettie smiled with pleasure. + </p> + <p> + “And now that you’ve other company I shall go.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re going, Miss?” + </p> + <p> + “Not Miss.” + </p> + <p> + Nettie laughed. + </p> + <p> + “I forget sometimes,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you must remember just over tomorrow. I shall go next day. I + must meet my grandfather in London.” + </p> + <p> + Nettie offered no opposition. On the contrary, she appeared rather + relieved. + </p> + <p> + “Nettie, did you like Mr. Sutton’s looks?” asked Agatha + after a pause. + </p> + <p> + “He’s too black and blue for my taste,” answered Nettie. + </p> + <p> + Willie Prime was red and yellow. + </p> + <p> + “Blue? Oh: you mean his cheeks?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But he’s a handsome gentleman all the same; and you + should have seen his luggage! Such a dressing-bag—cost fifty pounds, + I daresay.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear, me,” said Agatha, “Yes, Nettie, I shall go + the day after to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Merceron asked to be introduced to me,” said Nettie + proudly. “And he asked where you were—he said he’d seen + you at the window.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he?” said Agatha negligently; and Nettie, finding the + conversation flag, retired to her own room. + </p> + <p> + Agatha sat a moment longer on the bed. + </p> + <p> + “What a very deceitful young man,” she exclaimed at last. + “I must be a very strict secret indeed. Well, I suppose I should be.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. — A CATASTROPHE AT THE POOL + </h2> + <p> + Mr. Vansittart Merceron was not quite sure that Victor Sutton had any + business to call him “Merceron.” He was nearly twenty years + older than Victor, and a man of considerable position; nor was he, as some + middle-aged men are, flattered by the implication of contemporaneousness + carried by the mode of address. But it is hard to give a hint to a man who + has no inkling that there is room for one; and when Mr. Vansittart + addressed Victor as ‘Mr. Sutton’ the latter graciously told + him to “hang the Mister.” Reciprocity was inevitable, and the + elder man asked himself, with a sardonic grin, how soon he would be + “Van.” + </p> + <p> + “Coming to bathe, Merceron?” he heard under his window at + eight o’clock the next morning. “We’re off to the Pool.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Vansittart shouted an emphatic negative, and the two young fellows + started off by themselves. Charlie’s manner was affected by the + ceremonious courtesy which a well-bred host betrays towards a guest not + very well-beloved, but Victor did not notice this. It seldom occurred to + him that people did not like him. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he was saying, “I’m just twenty-nine. I’ve + had my fling, Charlie, and now I shall get to business.” + </p> + <p> + Charlie was relieved to find that according to this reckoning he had + several more years ‘fling’ before him. + </p> + <p> + “Next year,” pursued Victor, “I shall marry; then I + shall go into Parliament, and then I shall go ahead.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t know you were engaged.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I’m not, but I’m going to be. I can please myself, + you see; I’ve got lots of coin.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, but can you please the lady?” asked Charlie. + </p> + <p> + “My dear boy,” began Victor, “when you’ve seen a + little more of the world—— + </p> + <p> + “Here we are,” said Charlie. “Why, hullo! Who’s + that?” + </p> + <p> + A dripping head and a blowing mouth were visible in the middle of the + Pool. + </p> + <p> + “Willie Prime by Jove! ‘Morning Willie;” and Charlie set + about flinging off his flannels, Victor following his example in a more + leisurely fashion. + </p> + <p> + Willie Prime was a little puzzled to know how he ought to treat Charlie. + ‘Charlie’ he had been in very old days—then Master + Charlie (that was Willie’s mother’s doing)—then Mr. + Charles. But now Willie had set up for himself. He had played billiards + with a lord, and football against the Sybarites, and, incidentally, + hobnobbed with quite great people. It is not very easy to assert a social + position when one has nothing on, and only one’s head out of water, + but Willie did it. + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning—er—Merceron,” said he. + </p> + <p> + Victor heard him, and put up his eyeglass in amazement; but he, in his + turn, had only a shirt on, and the hauteur was a failure. Charlie utterly + failed to notice the incident. + </p> + <p> + “Is it cold?” he shouted. + </p> + <p> + “Beastly,” answered Willie. The man who has got in always + tells the man who is going to get in that it is “beastly cold.” + </p> + <p> + “Here goes!” cried Charlie; and a minute later he was treading + water by Willie’s side. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Wallace all fit?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, yes, she’s all right.” + </p> + <p> + “And her friend?” + </p> + <p> + “All right, I believe.” + </p> + <p> + “And when is it to be, old fellow?” + </p> + <p> + “Soon as I get a rise.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” asked the unsophisticated Charlie, who knew the phrase + chiefly in connection with fish. + </p> + <p> + “A rise of screw, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, ah, yes—what a fool I am!” and Charlie disappeared + beneath the waves. + </p> + <p> + When they were all on the bank, drying, Willie, encouraged by not being + discouraged (save by Sutton’s silence) in his advances, ventured + further, and asked in a joking tone: + </p> + <p> + “And aren’t you marked off yet? We’ve been expecting to + hear of it for the last twelve months.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean’?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, you and Miss Bushell.” + </p> + <p> + Charlie struggled through his shirt, and then answered, with his first + touch of distance: + </p> + <p> + “Nothing in it. People’ve got no business to gossip.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s damned impertinent,” observed Victor Sutton in + slow and deliberate tones. + </p> + <p> + Willie flushed. + </p> + <p> + “I beg pardon,” he said gruffly. “I only repeated what I + heard.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear fellow, no harm’s done,” cried Charlie. “Who + was the fool?” + </p> + <p> + “Well—in fact—my father.” + </p> + <p> + The situation was awkward, but they wisely eluded it by laughter. But a + thought struck Charlie. + </p> + <p> + “I say, did your father state it as a fact?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no; but as a certainty, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “When?” + </p> + <p> + “Last night at supper.” + </p> + <p> + Charlie’s brow clouded. Miss B—that is, Agatha, was certain to + have been at supper. However, all that could be put right in the evening—that + one blessed evening left to him. He looked at Willie and opened his mouth + to speak; but he shut it again. It did not seem to him that he could + question Willie Prime about the lady. She had chosen to tell him nothing, + and her will was his law. But he was yearning to know what she was and how + she came there. He refrained; and this time virtue really had a reward + beyond itself, for Willie would blithely have told him that she was a + dressmaker (he called Nettie, however, the manager of a Court modiste’s + business), and that would not have pleased Charlie. + </p> + <p> + It was all very well for Charlie to count on that blessed evening; but he + reckoned without his host—or rather without his guests. + </p> + <p> + The Bushells came to lunch, Millie driving her terrified mother in a lofty + gig; and at lunch Millie recounted her vision of Agatha Merceron. She did + not believe it, of course; but it was queer, wasn’t it? Victor + Sutton rose to the bait at once. + </p> + <p> + “We’ll investigate it,” he cried. “Merceron,” + (he meant the patient Mr. Vansittart), “didn’t yon once write + an article on ‘Apparitions’ for <i>Intellect</i>?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I proved there were none,” answered Mr. Vansittart. + </p> + <p> + “That’s impossible, you know,” remarked Mrs. Marland + gently. + </p> + <p> + “We’ll put you to the proof this very evening,” declared + Mr. Sutton. + </p> + <p> + Charlie started. + </p> + <p> + “Are you game, Miss Bushell?” continued Victor. + </p> + <p> + “Ye—yes, if you’ll keep quite near me, answered Millie, + with a playful shudder. Charlie reflected how ill playfulness became her, + and frowned. But Millie was pleased to see him frown; she enjoyed showing + him that other men liked to keep quite near to her. + </p> + <p> + “Then this evening we’ll go in a body to the Pool.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall not go,” shuddered Mrs. Marland. + </p> + <p> + “An hour after sunset!” + </p> + <p> + “Half an hour. She might be early—and we’ll stay half an + hour after. We’ll give her a fair show.” + </p> + <p> + “Come,” thought Charlie. “I shall get an hour with + Agatha.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll come, Charlie?” asked Victor. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, all right,” he answered, hiding all signs of vexation. He + could get back by six and join the party. But why was Mrs. Marland looking + at him? + </p> + <p> + The first step, however, towards getting back is to get there, and Charlie + found this none so easy. After lunch came lawn-tennis, and he was + impressed. Mr. Vansittart played a middle-aged game, and Victor had found + little leisure for this modest sport among his more ambitious amusements. + Charlie had to balance Millie Bushell, and he spent a very hot and + wearying afternoon. They would go on: Victor declared it was good for him, + Uncle Van delighted in a hard game (it appeared to be a very hard game to + him from the number of strokes he missed), and Millie grew in vigor, + ubiquity, and (it must be added) intensity of color as the hours wore + away. It was close on five before Charlie, with a groan, could throw down + his racquet. + </p> + <p> + “Poor boy!” said Mrs. Marland. + </p> + <p> + “Charlie, dear,” called Lady Merceron, who had been talking + comfortably to Mrs. Bushell in the shade, “come and hand the tea. I’m + sure you must all want some. Millie, my dear, how hot you look!” + </p> + <p> + “She never will take any care of her complexion, complained Mrs. + Bushell. + </p> + <p> + “Take care of your stom—your health—and your complexion + will take care of itself,” observed Mr. Vansittart. + </p> + <p> + “Charlie! Where; is the boy?” called Lady Merceron again. + </p> + <p> + The boy was gone. He was flying as fast as his legs would take him to the + Pool. Where was that cherished interview now? He could hope only for a few + wretched minutes—hardly enough to say good-by once—before he + must hustle—yes, positively hustle—Agatha out of sight. He had + heard that abominable Sutton remark that they might as well start directly + after tea. + </p> + <p> + He was breathless when he burst through the willows. But there he came to + a sudden, a dead stop, and then drew back into shelter again. There on the + bank, scarcely a dozen feet from it, sat two people—a. young man + with his arm round a young woman’s waist. Willie Prime and Nettie + Wallace, “by all that’s damnable!” as Sir Peter says! + Charlie said something quite as forcible. + </p> + <p> + He felt for his watch, but he had left it with his waistcoat on the lawn. + What was the time? Was it going quickly or slowly? Could he afford to + wait, or must he run round to the road and intercept Agatha? Five minutes + passed in vacillation. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go and stop her,” he said, and began a cautious + retreat. As he moved he heard Willie’s voice. + </p> + <p> + “Well, my dear, let’s be off,” said Willie. + </p> + <p> + Nettie rose with a sigh of content, adjusted her hat coquettishly, and + smoothed her skirts. + </p> + <p> + “I’m ready, Willie. It’s been beautiful, hasn’t + it?” + </p> + <p> + They came towards Charlie. Evidently they intended to regain the road by + the same path as he had chosen. Indeed, from that side of the Pool there + was no choice, unless one clambered round by the muddy bank. + </p> + <p> + “We must make haste,” said Willie. “Father’ll want + his tea.” + </p> + <p> + If they made haste they would be close on his heels. Charlie shrank back + behind a willow and let them go by; then, quick as thought, rushed to his + canoe and paddled across—up the steps and into the temple he rushed. + She wasn’t there! Fate is too hard for the best of us sometimes. + Charlie sat down and, stretching out his legs, stared gloomily at his + toes. + </p> + <p> + Thus he must have sat nearly ten minutes, when a head was put round the + Corinthian pilaster of the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “Poor boy! Am I very late?” + </p> + <p> + Charlie leapt up and forward, breathlessly blurting out joy tempered by + uneasiness. + </p> + <p> + Agatha gathered the difficulty of the position. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said she, smiling, “I must disappear, and you + must go back to your friends.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Charlie. “I must talk to you.” + </p> + <p> + “But they may come any moment.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but I do. Charlie, what’s the matter? Oh, didn’t I + ever call you Charlie’ before? Well, Charlie, if you love me (yes, I + know!) you’ll not let these people see me.” + </p> + <p> + “All right! Come along. I’ll take you to the road and come + back. Hullo! What’s that?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s them!” exclaimed the lady. + </p> + <p> + It was. The pair dived back into the temple. On the opposite bank stood + Millie Bushell, Mr. Vansittart, and Victor Sutton. + </p> + <p> + “Hullo, there, Charlie, you thief!” cried Victor. “Bring + that canoe over here. Miss Bushell wants to get to the temple.” + </p> + <p> + “Hush! Don’t move!” whispered Agatha. + </p> + <p> + “But they know I’m here; they see that confounded canoe.” + </p> + <p> + “Charlie! Charlie!” was shouted across in three voices. + </p> + <p> + “What the devil—,” muttered Charlie. + </p> + <p> + “They mustn’t see me,” urged Agatha. + </p> + <p> + Victor Sutton’s voice rose clear and distinct, + </p> + <p> + “I’ll unearth him!” he cried. “I know the way + round. You wait here with Miss Bushell, Merceron.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he’s coming round!” + </p> + <p> + “I must chance it,” said Charlie, and he came out of hiding. A + cry greeted him. Victor was already started, but stopped. Charlie embarked + and shot across. + </p> + <p> + “You villain! You gave us the slip,” cried Uncle Van. + </p> + <p> + Miss Bushell began quietly to embark. Uncle Van followed her example. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Mr. Merceron, you’ll sink us!” cried Millie. + </p> + <p> + Charlie sat glum and silent. The situation beat him completely. + </p> + <p> + Uncle Van drew back. Millie seized the paddle and propelled the canoe out + from the bank. + </p> + <p> + “You come round with me, Merceron,” called Sutton, and the two + men turned to the path. “No,” added Victor. “Look here, + we can climb round here,” and he pointed to the bank. There was a + little narrow muddy track, but it was enough. + </p> + <p> + The canoe was half-way across; the two men—Victor leading at a good + pace—were half-way round. Charlie glanced at the window of the + temple and caught a fleeting glance of a despairing face. “If you + love me, they mustn’t see me!” + </p> + <p> + “Here, give me the paddle!” he exclaimed, and reached forward + for it. + </p> + <p> + “No, I can do it,” answered Millie, lifting the instrument out + of his reach. + </p> + <p> + Charlie stepped forward—rather, he jumped forward, as a man jumps + over a ditch. There was a shriek from Millie; the canoe swayed, tottered, + and upset. In a confused mass, Millie Bushell and Charlie were hurled into + the water. Victor and Uncle Van, hardly five yards from the steps, turned + in amazement. + </p> + <p> + “Help! help!” screamed Millie. + </p> + <p> + “Help!” echoed Charlie. “I can’t hold her up. + Victor, come and help me! Uncle Van, come along!” + </p> + <p> + “The devil!” murmured Uncle Van, + </p> + <p> + “Quick, quick!” called Charlie; and Victor, with a vexed + laugh, peeled off his coat and jumped in. Mr. Vansittart stood with a + puzzled air. Then a happy thought struck him. He turned and trotted back + the way he had come. He would get a rope! + </p> + <p> + As he went, as Victor reached the stragglers in the water, a slim figure + in white, with a smile on her face, stole cautiously from the temple and + disappeared in the wood behind. Charlie saw her go, but he held poor + Millie’s head remorselessly tight towards the other bank. + </p> + <p> + And that was the last he saw of the Lady of the Pool. + </p> + <p> + Millie Bushell landed, her dripping clothes clinging round her. Victor was + shivering, for the evening had turned chilly. Uncle Van had a bit of rope + from the boat-shed in his hand, and a doubtful smile on his face. + </p> + <p> + “We’d best get Miss Bushel home,” he suggested, and they + started in gloomy procession. Charlie, in remorse, gave Millie his arm. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, how could you?” she murmured piteously. She was cold, she + was wet, and she was sure that she looked frightful. + </p> + <p> + I—I didn’t do it on purpose, “Charlie blurted out + eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “On purpose! Well, I suppose not,” she exclaimed, bewildered. + Charlie flushed. Victor shot a swift glance at him. + </p> + <p> + Half-way home they met Mrs. Marland and the whole affair had to be + explained to her. Charlie essayed the task. + </p> + <p> + “Still, I don’t see how you managed to upset the canoe,” + observed Mrs. Marland. + </p> + <p> + “No more do I,” said Victor Sutton. Charlie gave it up. + </p> + <p> + “I’m so sorry, Millie,” he whispered. “You must + try to forgive me.” + </p> + <p> + So, once again, the coast was left clear for Agatha Merceron, if she came + that night. But, whether she did or not, the other Agatha came no more, + and Charlie’s great resolve went unfulfilled. Yet the next evening + he went: alone to the temple, and he found, lying on the floor, a little + handkerchief trimmed with lace and embroidered with the name of “Agatha.” + This he put in his pocket, thanking heaven that his desperate manoeuvre + had kept the shrine inviolate the day before. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Millie!” said he. “But then I had to do it.” + </p> + <p> + “I hear,” remarked Lady Merceron a few days later, “that + one of Mr. Prime’s friends has left him—not Willie’s + young lady—the other.” + </p> + <p> + “Has she?” asked Charlie. + </p> + <p> + No one pursued the subject, and, after a moment’s pause, Mrs. + Marland, who was sitting next to Charlie, asked him in a low voice whether + he had been to the Pool that evening—. + </p> + <p> + “No,” answered Charlie. “I don’t go every night.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, poor dear Miss Bushell!” laughed Mrs. Marland; and, when + Charlie looked inquiringly at her, she shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “You see, I know something of young men,” she explained. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. — AN UNFORESEEN CASE + </h2> + <p> + “I wish to goodness,” remarked the Reverend Sigismund Taylor + rubbing the bridge of his nose with a corner of the Manual, “that + the Vicar had never introduced auricular confession. It may be in + accordance with the practice of the Primitive Church, but—one does + meet with such very curious cases. There’s nothing the least like + it, in the Manual.” + </p> + <p> + He opened the book and searched its pages over again. No, the case had not + been foreseen. It must be included in those which were “left to the + discretion of the priest.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a poor Manual,” said Mr. Taylor, throwing it down + and putting his hands in the pocket of his cassock. “Poor girl! She + was quite distressed, too. I must have something to tell her when she + comes next week.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Taylor had, in face of the difficulty, taken time to consider, and the + penitent had gone away in suspense. To represent oneself as a dressmaker—well, + there was nothing very outrageous in that; it was unbecoming, but venial, + to tell sundry fibs by way of supporting the assumed character—the + Manual was equal to that; but the rest of the disclosure was the crux. + Wrong, no doubt, was the conduct—but how wrong? That made all the + difference. And then there followed another question: What ought to be + done? She had asked for advice about that also, and, although such counsel + was not strictly incumbent on him, he felt that he ought not to refuse it. + Altogether he was puzzled. At eight-and-twenty one cannot be ready for + everything; yet she had implored him to consult nobody else, and decide + for her himself. “I’ve such trust in you,” she had said, + wiping away an incipient teardrop; and, although Mr. Taylor told her that + the individual was nothing and the Office everything, he had been rather + gratified. Thinking that a turn in the open air might clear his brain and + enable him better to grapple with this very thorny question, he changed + his cassock for a long tailed coat, put on his wide awake, and, leaving + the precincts of St. Edward Confessor, struck across Park Lane and along + the Row. He passed several people he knew, both men and women: Mrs. + Marland was there, attended by two young men, and, a little farther on, he + saw old Lord Thrapston tottering along on his stick. Lord Thrapston hated + a parson, and scowled at poor Mr. Taylor as he went by. Mr. Taylor shrank + from meeting his eye, and hurried along till he reached the Serpentine, + where he stood still for a few minutes, drinking in the fresh breeze. But + the breeze could not blow his puzzle out of his brain. Was it a crime, or + merely an escapade? What had she said to the young man? What had her + feelings been or become towards the young man? Moreover, what had she + caused the young man’s feelings to be for her? When he came to think + it over, Mr. Taylor discovered, with a shock of surprise, that on all + these distinctly material points the confession had been singularly + incomplete. He was ashamed of this, for, of course, it was his business to + make the confession full and exhaustive. He could only plead that, at the + moment, it had seemed thorough and candid—an unreserved revelation. + Yet those points did, as a fact, remain obscure. + </p> + <p> + “I wish I knew a little more about human nature,” sighed Mr. + Taylor: he was thinking of one division of human nature, and it is likely + enough that he knew next to nothing of it. + </p> + <p> + A hand clapped him on the shoulder, and, with a start, he turned round. A + tall young man, in a new frock-coat and a faultless hat, stood by him, + smiling at him. + </p> + <p> + “What, Charlie, old fellow!” cried Taylor; “where do you + spring from?” + </p> + <p> + Charlie explained that he was up in town for a month or two. + </p> + <p> + “It’s splendid to meet you first day! I was going to look you + up,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Sigismund Taylor and Charlie had been intimate friends at Oxford, although + Charlie was, as time counts there, very considerably the junior. For the + last two or three years they had hardly met. + </p> + <p> + “But what are you up for?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, you see, my uncle wants me to get called to the Bar, or + something, so I ran tip to have a look into it.” + </p> + <p> + “Will that take a month?” + </p> + <p> + “Look here, old fellow, I’ve got nothing else to do—I + don’t see why I shouldn’t stretch it to three months. Besides, + I want to spend some time with my ancestors.” + </p> + <p> + “With your ancestors?” + </p> + <p> + “In the British Museum: I’m writing a book about them. Queer + lot some of them were, too. Of course I’m specially interested in + Agatha Merceron; but I suppose you never heard of her.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Taylor confessed his ignorance, and Charlie, taking his arm, walked + him up and down the bank, while he talked on his pet subject. Agatha + Merceron was always interesting, and just now anything about the Pool was + interesting; for there was one reason for his visit to London which he had + not disclosed. Nettie Wallace had, when he met her one day, incautiously + dropped a word which seemed to imply that the other Agatha was often in + London. Nettie tried to recall her words; but the mischief was done, and + Charlie became more than ever convinced that he would grow rusty if he + stayed always at Langbury Court. In fact, he could suffer it no longer, + and to town he went. + </p> + <p> + For a long while Sigismund Taylor listened with no more than average + interest to Charlie’s story, but it chanced that one word caught his + notice. + </p> + <p> + “She comes out of the temple,” said Charlie, in the voice of + hushed reverence with which he was wont to talk of the unhappy lady. + </p> + <p> + “Out of where?” asked Mr. Taylor. + </p> + <p> + “The temple. Oh, I forgot, the temple is—” and Charlie + gave a description which need not be repeated. + </p> + <p> + Temple! temple! Where had he heard of a temple lately? Mr. Taylor + cudgelled his brains. Why—why—yes, she had spoken of a temple. + She said they met in a temple. It was a strange coincidence: the word had + struck him at the time. But then everybody knows that, at a certain + period, it was common enough to put up these little classical erections as + a memorial or merely as an ornament to pleasure-grounds. It must be a mere + coincidence. But—Mr. Taylor stopped short. + </p> + <p> + “What’s up?” asked Charlie, who had finished his + narrative, and was now studying the faces of the ladies who rode past. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing,” answered Mr. Taylor. + </p> + <p> + And really it was not much—taken by itself, entirely unworthy of + notice; even taken in conjunction with the temple, of no real + significance, that he could see. Still, it was a whimsical thing that, as + had just struck him, Charlie’s spectre should be named Agatha. But + it came; to nothing: how could the name of Charlie’s spectre have + anything to do with that of his penitent? + </p> + <p> + Presently Charlie, too, fell into silence. He beat his stick moodily + against his leg and looked glum and absent. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well,” he said at last, “poor Agatha was hardly + used: she paid part of the debt we owe woman.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Taylor raised his brows and smiled at this gloomily misogynistic + sentiment. He had the perception to grasp in a moment what it indicated. + His young friend was, or had lately been, or thought he was likely to be, + a lover, and an unhappy one. But he did not press Charlie. Confessions + were no luxury to him. + </p> + <p> + Presently they began to walk back, and Charlie, saying he had to dine with + Victor Button, made an appointment to see Taylor again, and left him, + striking across the Row. Taylor strolled on, and, finding Mrs. Marland + still in her seat, sat down by her. She was surprised and pleased to hear + that Charlie was in town. + </p> + <p> + “I left him at home in deep dumps. You’ve never been to + Langbury Court, have you?” + </p> + <p> + Taylor shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “Such a sweet old place! But, of course, rather dull for a young + man, with nobody hut his mother and just one or two slow country + neighbors.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, a run ‘ll do him good.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; he was quite moped;” and Mrs. Marland glanced at her + companion. She wanted only a very little encouragement to impart her + suspicions to him. It must, in justice to Mrs. Marland, be remembered that + she had always found the simplest explanation of Charlie’s devotion + to the Pool hard to accept, and the most elaborate demonstration of how a + Canadian canoe may be upset unconvincing. + </p> + <p> + “You’re a great friend of his, aren’t you?” + pursued Mrs. Marland. “So I suppose there’s no harm in + mentioning my suspicions to you. Indeed, I daresay you could be of use to + him—I mean, persuade him to be wise. I’m afraid, Mr. Taylor, + that he is in some entanglement.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear, dear!” murmured Mr. Taylor. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’ve no positive proof, but I fear so—and a very + undesirable entanglement, too, with someone quite beneath him. Yes, I + think I had better tell you about it.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Taylor sat silent and, save for a start or two, motionless while his + companion detailed her circumstantial evidence. Whether it was enough to + prove Mrs. Marland’s case or not—whether, that is, it is + inconceivable that a young man should go to any place fourteen evenings + running, and upset a friend of his youth out of a canoe, except there be a + lady involved, is perhaps doubtful; but it was more than enough to show + Mr. Sigismund Taylor that the confession he had listened to was based upon + fact, and that Charlie Merceron was the other party to those stolen + interviews, into whose exact degree of heinousness he was now inquiring. + This knowledge caused Mr. Taylor to feel that he was in an awkward + position. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” asked Mrs. Marland, “candidly, Mr. Taylor, can + you suppose anything else than that our friend Charlie was carrying on a + very pronounced flirtation with this dressmaker?” + </p> + <p> + “Dressmaker?” + </p> + <p> + “Her friend was, and I believe she was too. Something of the kind, + anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + “You—you never saw the—the other person?” + </p> + <p> + “No; she kept out of the way. That looks bad, doesn’t it? No + doubt she was a tawdry vulgar creature. But a man never notices that!” + </p> + <p> + At this moment two people were seen approaching. One of them was a man of + middle height and perhaps five-and-thirty years of age; he was stout and + thick-built; he had a fat face with bulging cheeks; his eyes were rather + like a frog’s; he leant very much forward as he walked, and swayed + gently from side to side with a rolling swagger; and as his body rolled, + his eye rolled too, and he looked this way and that with a jovial leer and + a smile of contentment and amusement on his face. The smile and the merry + eye redeemed his appearance from blank ugliness, but neither of them + indicated a spiritual or exalted mind. + </p> + <p> + By his side walked a girl, dressed, as Mrs. Marland enviously admitted, as + really very few women in London could dress, and wearing, in virtue + perhaps of the dress, perhaps of other more precious gifts, an air of + assured perfection and dainty disdain. She was listening to her companion’s + conversation, and did not notice Sigismund Taylor, with whom she was well + acquainted. + </p> + <p> + “Dear me, who are those, I wonder?” exclaimed Mrs. Marland. + “She’s very distinguie.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s Miss Glyn,” answered he. + </p> + <p> + “What—Miss Agatha, Glyn?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he replied, wondering whether that little coincidence + as to the Agatha’ would suggest itself to anyone else. + </p> + <p> + “Lord Thrapston’s granddaughter?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Horrid old man, isn’t he?” + </p> + <p> + “I know him very slightly.” + </p> + <p> + “And the man—who’s he?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Calder Wentworth.” + </p> + <p> + “To be sure. Why, they’re engaged, aren’t they? I saw it + in the paper.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure I don’t know,” said Mr. Taylor, in a + voice more troubled than the matter seemed to require. “I saw it in + the paper too.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s no beauty, at any rate; but he’s a great match, I + suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, perhaps it isn’t true.” + </p> + <p> + “You speak as if you wished it wasn’t. I’ve heard about + Mr. Wentworth from Victor Sutton—you know who I mean?” and + Mrs. Marland proceeded to give some particulars of Calder Wentworth’s + career. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile that gentleman himself was telling Agatha Glyn a very humorous + story. Agatha did not laugh. Suddenly she interrupted him. + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you ask me more about it?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you’d tell me if you wanted me to know,” he + answered. + </p> + <p> + “You are the most insufferable man. Don’t you care in the + least what I do or where I go?” + </p> + <p> + “Got perfect confidence in you,” said Calder politely. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t deserve it.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I daresay not; but it’s so much more comfortable for me.” + </p> + <p> + “I disappeared—simply disappeared—for a fortnight; and + you’ve never asked where I went, or what I did, or—or + anything.” + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t I? Where did you go?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “There, you see! What the dickens was the good of my asking?” + </p> + <p> + “If you knew what I did I suppose you’d never speak to me + again.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. Keep it dark then, please.” + </p> + <p> + “For one tiling, I met—No, I won’t.” + </p> + <p> + “I never asked you to, you know.” + </p> + <p> + They walked on a little way in silence. + </p> + <p> + “Met young Sutton at lunch,” observed Calder. “He’s + been rusticating with some relations of old Van Merceron’s. They’ve + got a nice place apparently.” + </p> + <p> + “I particularly dislike Mr. Sutton.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. He sha’n’t come when we’re married. + Eh? What?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t speak,” said Miss Glyn, who had certainly done + something. + </p> + <p> + “Beg pardon,” smiled Calder. “Victor told me rather a + joke. It appears there’s a young Merceron, and the usual rustic + beauty, don’t you know—forget the name—but a fat girl, + Victor said, and awfully gone on young Merceron. Well, there’s a + pond or something——” + </p> + <p> + “How long will this story last?” asked Miss Glyn with a tragic + air. + </p> + <p> + “It’s an uncommon amusing one,” protested Calder. + “He upset her in the pond, and——” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mind finishing it some other time?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, all right. Thought it’d interest you.” + </p> + <p> + “It doesn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Never knew such a girl! No sense of humor!” commented Calder, + with a shake of his head and a backward roll of his eye towards his + companion. + </p> + <p> + But it makes such a difference whether a story is new to the hearer. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. — THERE WAS SOMEBODY + </h2> + <p> + Two worlds and half a dozen industries had conspired to shower gold on + Calder Wentworth’s head. There was land in the family, brought by + his grandmother; there was finance on the paternal side (whence came a + Portuguese title, carefully eschewed by Calder); there had been a London + street, half a watering-place, a South African mine, and the better part + of an American railway. The street and the watering-place remained; the + mine and the railway had been sold at the top of the market. About the + same time the family name became Wentworth—it had been Stripes, + which was felt to be absurd—and the family itself began to take an + exalted place in society. The rise was the easier because, when old Mr. + Stripes-Wentworth died, young Mr. Calder S. Wentworth became the only + representative; and a rich young bachelor can rise lightly to heights + inaccessible to the feet of less happily situated folk. It seemed part of + Providence’s benevolence that when Lady Forteville asked how many + ‘Stripes women’ there were, the answer could be ‘None’; + whereupon the countess at once invited Mr. Calder Wentworth to dinner. + Calder went, and rolled his frog’s eyes with much amusement when the + lady asked him to what Wentworths he belonged, for, as he observed to Miss + Glyn, whom he had the pleasure of escorting, his Wentworths were an + entirely new brand, and Lady Forteville knew it as well as if she had read + the letters patent and invented the coat-of-arms. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Wentworth—Mr. Merceron,” said Victor Sutton, with a + wave of his hand. + </p> + <p> + “I believe I know an uncle of yours—an uncommon clever fellow,” + said Calder, unfolding his napkin and glancing round the dining-room of + the Themis Club. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Uncle Van? Yes, we consider him our——” + </p> + <p> + “Leading article? Quite so. I’ve heard a bit about you too—something + about a canoe, eh?” + </p> + <p> + Charlie looked somewhat disturbed. + </p> + <p> + “Oughtn’t Sutton to have told me? Well, it’s too late + now because I’ve told half a dozen fellows.” + </p> + <p> + “But there’s nothing to tell.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I told it to old Thrapston—you don’t know him, do + you? Cunningest old boy in London. Upon my honor, you know, I shouldn’t + like to be like old Thrapston, not when I was getting old, you know. He’s + too——” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what did he say?” asked Victor. + </p> + <p> + “He said what you never had the sense to see, my boy; but I expect + Mr. Merceron won’t be obliged to me for repeating it.” + </p> + <p> + “I should like to hear it,” said Charlie, with necessary + politeness. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it’s not me, its old Thrapston; and if you say it’s + wrong, I’ll believe yon. Old Thrapston—hang it, Victor, that + old man ought to be hanged! Why, only the other day I saw him——” + </p> + <p> + “Do stick to the point,” groaned Victor. + </p> + <p> + “All right. Well, he said, ‘I’ll lay a guinea there was + a’—and he winked his sinful old eye, you know, for all the + world like a what-d’ye-call-it in a cathedral one of those hideous—I + say, what is the word, Victor? I saw ‘em when Agatha took me—beg + pardon, Merceron?” + </p> + <p> + Was the world full of Agathas? If so, it would be well not to start + whenever one was mentioned. Charlie recovered himself. + </p> + <p> + “I think you must mean a gargoyle,” he said, wondering who + this Agatha might be. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I do. Fancy forgetting that! Gargoyle, of course. Well, + old Thrapston said, ‘I’ll lay a guinea there was a woman in + that dashed summer house, Calder, my boy.’” + </p> + <p> + Victor Button’s eyes lighted with a gleam, + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’m hanged if I ever thought of that! Charlie, you held + us all!” + </p> + <p> + “Bosh!” said Charlie Merceron. “There was no one there.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. But there ought to have been, you know—to give + interest to the position.” + </p> + <p> + “Honor bright, Charlie?” asked Victor Sutton. + </p> + <p> + “Shut up, Sutton,” interposed Calder, “He’s not in + the Divorce Court, Let’s change the subject.” + </p> + <p> + Charlie was in a difficulty, but the better course seemed to be to allow + the subject to be changed, in spite of the wink that accompanied Calder’s + suggestion. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said Victor. “How is Miss Glyn, Wentworth?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, she’s all right. She’s been in the country for a + bit, but she’s back now.” + </p> + <p> + “And when is the happy event to be?” + </p> + <p> + Calder laid down his knife and fork and remarked deliberately: + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t, my dear boy, the least idea.” + </p> + <p> + “I should hurry her up,” laughed Sutton. + </p> + <p> + “I’d just like—now I should just like to put you in my + shoes for half an hour, and see you hurry up Agatha.” + </p> + <p> + “She couldn’t eat me.” + </p> + <p> + “Eat you? No, but she’d flatten you out so that you’d go + under that door and leave room for the jolly draught there is all the + same.” + </p> + <p> + Sutton laughed complacently. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you’re a patient man,” he observed. “For my + part, I like a thing to be off or on.” + </p> + <p> + It came to Charlie Merceron almost as a surprise to find that Victor’s + impudence—he could call it by no other name—was not reserved + for his juniors or for young men from the country; but Calder took it + quite good-humoredly, contenting himself with observing, “Well, it + was very soon off in your case, wasn’t it, old fellow?” + </p> + <p> + Sutton flushed. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve told you before that that’s not true,” he + said angrily. + </p> + <p> + Calder laughed. + </p> + <p> + “All right, all right. We used to think, once upon a time, Merceron, + you know, that old Victor here was a bit smitten himself; but he hasn’t + drugged my champagne yet, so of course, as he says, it was all a mistake.” + </p> + <p> + After dinner the three separated. Victor had to go to a party. Calder + Wentworth proposed to Charlie that they should take a stroll together with + a view to seeing whether, when they came opposite to the door of a + music-hall, they would ‘feel like’ dropping in to see part of + the entertainment. Charlie agreed, and, having lit their cigars, they set + out. He found his now friend amusing, and Calder, for his part, took a + liking for Charlie, largely on account of his good looks; like many plain + people, he was extremely sensitive to the influence of beauty in women and + men alike. + </p> + <p> + “I say, old fellow,” he said, pressing Charlie’s arm as + if he had known him all his life, “there was somebody in that + summer-house, eh?” + </p> + <p> + Charlie turned with a smile and a blush. He felt confidential. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, there was, only Victor——” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I know. I nearly break his head whenever he mentions any girl I + like.” + </p> + <p> + “You know what he’d have thought—and it wasn’t + anything like that really.” + </p> + <p> + “Who was she, then?” + </p> + <p> + “I—I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don’t mean her name, of course. But what was she?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “Where did she come from?” + </p> + <p> + “London, I believe.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I say, that’s a queer go, Merceron.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what to think about it. She’s simply + vanished,” said poor Charlie, and no one should wonder if his voice + faltered a little. Calder Wentworth laughed at many things, but he did not + laugh now at Charlie Merceron. Indeed he looked unusually grave. + </p> + <p> + “I should drop it,” he remarked. “It don’t look—well—healthy.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you’ve never seen her,” said Charlie. + </p> + <p> + “No, and I tell you what—it won’t be a bad thing if you + don’t see her again.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because you’re just in the state of mind to marry her.” + </p> + <p> + “And why shouldn’t I?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Wentworth made no answer, and they walked on till they readied + Piccadilly Circus. Then Charlie suddenly darted forward. + </p> + <p> + “Hullo, what’s up?” cried Calder, following him. + </p> + <p> + Charlie was talking eagerly to a very smart young lady who had just got + down from an omnibus. + </p> + <p> + “By Jove! he can’t have found, her!” thought Calder. + </p> + <p> + It was not the unknown, but her friend Nettie Wallace, whom Charlie’s + quick eye had discerned; and the next moment Willie Prime made his + appearance. Charlie received them both almost with enthusiasm, and the + news from Lang Marsh was asked and given. Calder drew near, and Charlie + presented his friends to one another with the intent that he might get a + word with Nettie while Calder engrossed her fiances attention. + </p> + <p> + “Have—have you heard from Miss Brown lately?” he was + just beginning, when Calder, who had been looking steadily at Nettie, + burst out: + </p> + <p> + “Hullo, I say, Miss Wallace, we’ve met before, haven’t + we? You know me, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + Nettie laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, I know you, sir. You’re—-” + </p> + <p> + She paused abruptly, and glanced from Charlie to Calder, and back from + Calder to Charlie. Then she blushed very red indeed. + </p> + <p> + “Well, who am I?” + </p> + <p> + “I—I saw you at—at Miss Glyn’s, Mr. Wentworth.” + </p> + <p> + “‘Course you did—that’s it;” and, looking + curiously at the girl’s flushed face, he added: “Don’t + be afraid to mention Miss Glyn; Mr. Merceron knows all about it.” + </p> + <p> + “All about it, does he, sir?” cried Nettie. “Well, I’m + glad of that. I haven’t been easy in my mind ever since.” + </p> + <p> + Calder’s conformation of eye enabled him to express much surprise by + facial expression, and at this moment he used his power to the full. + </p> + <p> + “Awfully kind of you, Miss Wallace,” said he, “but I don’t + see where your responsibility comes in. Ever since what?” + </p> + <p> + Nettie shot a glance of inquiry at Charlie, but here too she met only + bewilderment. + </p> + <p> + “Does he know that Miss Glyn is—-” she began. + </p> + <p> + “Engaged to me? Certainly.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” + </p> + <p> + Willie stood by in silence. He had never heard of this Miss Glyn. Charlie, + puzzled as he was, was too intent on Miss Brown to spend much time + wondering why Miss Glyn’s affairs should have been a trouble to + Nettie. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll let me know if you hear about her, won’t you?” + he asked in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + Nettie gave up the hope of understanding. She shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll ask her, if I see her, whether she wishes it,” she + whispered back; and, with a hasty good-night, she seized Willie’s + arm and hurried him off. Charlie was left alone with Calder. + </p> + <p> + “What the deuce did she mean?” asked Calder. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” answered Charlie. + </p> + <p> + “Where did you meet her?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, down at home. The fellow she was with is a son of a tenant of + ours; she’s going to marry him.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s a nice little girl, but I’m hanged if I know what + she meant.” + </p> + <p> + And, as the one was thinking exclusively of Agatha Glyn, and the other + spared a thought for no one but Agatha Brown, they did not arrive at an + explanation. + </p> + <p> + One result, however, that chance encounter had. The next morning Miss + Agatha Glyn received a letter in the following terms: + </p> + <p> + “Madam:—I hope you will excuse me intruding, but I think you + would wish to know that Mr. Charles Merceron is in London, and that I met + him this evening with Mr. Wentworth. As you informed me that you had + passed Mr. Merceron on the road two or three times during your visit to + Lang Marsh, I think you may wish to be informed of the above. I may add + that Mr. Merceron is aware that you are engaged to Mr. Wentworth, but I + could not make out how far he was aware of what happened at Lang Marsh. I + think he does not know it. Of course you will know whether Mr. Wentworth + is aware of your visit there. I should be much obliged if you would be so + kind as to tell me what to say if I meet the gentlemen again. Mr. Merceron + is very pressing in asking me for news of you. I am to be married in a + fortnight from the present date, and I am, Madam, yours respectfully, + Nettie Wallace.” + </p> + <p> + “In London, and with Calder!” exclaimed Agatha Glyn. “Oh + dear! oh dear! oh dear! What is to be done? I wish I’d never gone + near the wretched place!” + </p> + <p> + Then she took up the letter and reread it. + </p> + <p> + “He and I mustn’t meet, that’s all,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Then she slowly tore the letter into very small pieces and put them in the + waste-paper basket. + </p> + <p> + “Calder has no idea where I was,” she said, and she sat down + by the window and looked out over the Park for nearly ten minutes. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well! I should like to see him just once again. Dear old Pool.” + said she. + </p> + <p> + Then she suddenly began to laugh—an action only to be excused in one + in her position, and burdened with her sins, by the fact of her having at + the moment a peculiarly vivid vision of Millie Bushell going head first + out of a canoe. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. — THE INEVITABLE MEETING + </h2> + <p> + The first Viscount Thrapston had been an eminent public character, and the + second a respectable private person; the third had been neither. And yet + there was some good in the third. He had loved his only son with a + fondness rare to find; and for ten whole years, while the young man was + between seventeen and twenty-seven, the old lord lived, for his sake, a + life open to no reproach. Then the son died, leaving a lately married wife + and a baby-girl, and Lord Thrapston, deprived at once of hope and of + restraint, returned to his old courses, till age came upon him and drove + him from practice into reminiscence. Mrs. Glyn had outlived her husband + fifteen years and then followed him, fairly snubbed to death, some said, + by her formidable father-in-law. The daughter was of sterner stuff, and + early discovered for herself that nothing worse than a scowl or a snarl + was to be feared. On her, indeed, descended a relic of that tenderness her + father had enjoyed, and Agatha used to the full the advantages it gave + her. She knew her own importance. It is not every girl who will be a + peeress in her own right, and she amused her grandfather by calmly + informing him that it was not on the whole a subject for regret that she + had not been a boy. “You see,” said she, “we get rid of + the new viscounty, and it’s much better to be Warmley than + Thrapston.” + </p> + <p> + The fact that she was some day to be ‘Warmley’ was the + mainspring of that hairbrained jaunt to Lang Marsh in company with Nettie + Wallace. Nettie was the daughter of Lord Thrapston’s housekeeper, + and the two girls had been intimate in youth, much as Charlie Merceron and + Willie Prime had been at the Court; and when Nettie, scorning servitude, + set up in life for herself, Agatha gave her her custom and did not + withdraw her friendship. In return, she received an allegiance which + refused none of her behests, and a regard which abolished all formality + between them, except when Nettie got a pen in her hand and set herself to + compose a polite letter. The expedition was, of course, to see the Court—the + old home of the Warmleys, for which Agatha felt a sentimental attraction. + She had told herself that some day, if she were rich (and, Lord Thrapston + not being rich, she must have had some other resource in her mind), she + would buy back Langbury Court and get rid of the Mercerons altogether. + There were only a widow and a boy, she had heard, and they should have + their price. So she went to the Court in the business-like mood of a + possible purchaser (Calder could afford anything), as well as in the + romantic mood of a girl escaped from every-day surroundings and plunging + into a past full of interest to her. Had not she also read of Agatha + Merceron? And in this mixed mood she remained till one evening at the Pool + she had met ‘the boy’, when the mood became more mixed still. + She dared not now look back on the struggles she had gone through before + her meeting with the boy became first a daily event, and then the daily + event. She had indulged herself for once. It was not to last; but for once + it was overpoweringly sweet to be gazed at by eyes that did not remind her + of a frog’s, and to see swiftly darting towards her a lithe straight + figure crowned with a head that (so she said) reminded her of Lord Byron’s. + But alas! alas! why had nobody told her that the boy was like that before + she went? Why did her grandfather take no care of her? Why did Calder + never show any interest in what she did? Why, in fine, was everybody so + cruel as to let her do exactly what she liked, and thereby get into a + scrape like this? + </p> + <p> + One thing was certain. If that boy were in London, she must avoid him. + They must never meet. It was nonsense for Mr. Sigismund Taylor to talk of + making a. clean breast of it—of a dignified apology to Charlie, + coupled with a no less dignified intimation that their acquaintance must + be regarded as closed. Mr. Taylor knew nothing of the world. He even + wanted her to tell Calder! No. She was truly and properly penitent, and + she hoped that she received all he said in that line in a right spirit; + but when it came to a question of expediency, she would rather have Mrs. + Blunt’s advice than that of a thousand Mr. Taylors. So she wrote to + Mrs. Blunt and asked herself to lunch, and Mrs. Blunt, being an + accomplished painstaking hostess, and having no reason to suppose that her + young friend desired a confidential interview, at once cast about for some + one whom Agatha would like to meet. She did not ask Calder Wentworth—she + was not so commonplace as that—but she invited Victor Sutton, and, + delighting in a happy flash of inspiration, she added Mr. Vansittart + Merceron. The families were connected in some way, she knew, and Agatha + certainly ought to know Mr. Merceron. + </p> + <p> + Accordingly, when Agatha arrived, she found Victor, and she had not been + there five minutes before the butler, throwing open the door, announced + “Mr. Merceron.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle Van had reached that state of body when he took his time over + stairs, and between the announcement and his entrance there was time for + Agatha to exclaim, quite audibly, “Oh!” + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter, dear?” asked Mrs. Blunt; but Uncle + Van’s entrance forbade a reply, and left Agatha blushing but + relieved. + </p> + <p> + Was she never to hear the end of that awful story? It might be natural + that, her hereditary connection with the Mercerons being disclosed, Mr. + Vansittart should discourse of Langbury Court, of the Pool, and of Agatha + Merceron; but was it necessary that Victor Sutton should chime in with the + whole history of the canoe and Miss Bushell, or joke with Mr. Merceron + about his nephew’s ‘assignations’? The whole topic + seemed in bad taste, and she wondered that Mrs. Blunt did not discourage + it. But what horrible creatures men were! Did they really think it + impossible for a girl to like to talk to a man for an hour or so in the + evening without——? + </p> + <p> + “You must let me bring my nephew to meet Miss Glyn,” said + Uncle Van graciously to his hostess. “She is so interested in the + family history that she and Charlie would get on like wildfire. He’s + mad about it.” + </p> + <p> + “In fact,” sniggered Victor (Miss Glyn always detested that + man), “so interested that, as you hear, he went to meet Agatha + Merceron every evening for a fortnight!” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll be delighted to meet him, won’t you, Agatha? We + must arrange a day,” said Mrs. Blunt. + </p> + <p> + “Calder knows him,” added Victor. + </p> + <p> + “He’s an idle young dog,” said Uncle Van, “but a + nice fellow. A little flighty and fanciful, as boys will be, but no harm + in him. You mustn’t attach too much importance to our chaff about + his meetings at the Pool, Miss Glyn; we don’t mean any harm.” + </p> + <p> + Agatha tried to smile, but the attempt was not a brilliant success. She + stammered that she would be delighted to meet Mr. Charles Merceron, + swearing in her heart that she would sooner start for Tierra del Fuego. + But her confession to Mrs. Blunt would save her, if only these odious men + would go. They had had their coffee, and their liqueurs, and their + cigarettes. What more, in Heaven’s name, could even a man want to + propitiate the god of his idolatry? + </p> + <p> + Apparently the guests themselves became aware that they were trespassing, + for Uncle Van, turning to his hostess with his blandest smile, remarked, + “I hope we’re not staying too long. The fact is, my dear Mrs. + Blunt, you’re always so kind that we took the liberty of telling + Calder Wentworth to call for us here. He ought to have come by now.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Blunt declared that she would be offended if they thought of going + before Calder came. Agatha rose in despair: the confession must be put + off. She held out her hand to her hostess. At this moment the door-bell + rang. + </p> + <p> + “That’s him,” said Victor. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down again for a minute, dear,” urged Mrs. Blunt. + </p> + <p> + There was renewed hope for the confession. Agatha sat down. But hardly had + she done so before the strangest presentiment came over her. She heard the + door below open and shut, and it was borne in upon her mind that two men + had entered. How she guessed it, she could not tell, but, as she sat + there, she had no doubt at all that Charlie Merceron had come with Calder + Went worth. Escape was impossible, but she walked across to the window and + stood there, with her back to the door. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Wentworth!” she heard, and then, cutting the servant + short, came Calder’s voice. + </p> + <p> + “I took the liberty—-” he began: and she did not know + how he went on, for her head was swimming. + </p> + <p> + “Agatha! Agatha, dear!” called Mrs. Blunt. + </p> + <p> + Perforce she turned, passing her hand quickly across her brow. Yes! It was + so. There he stood by Calder’s side, and Calder was saying, “My + dear Agatha, this is Charlie Merceron.” + </p> + <p> + She would not look at Charlie. She moved slowly forward, her eyes fixed on + Calder, and bowed with a little set smile. Luckily people pay slight + attention to one another’s expressions on social occasions, or they + must all have noticed her agitation. As it was, only Calder Wentworth + looked curiously at her before he turned aside to shake hands with Uncle + Van. + </p> + <p> + Then she felt Charlie Merceron coining nearer, and, a second later, she + heard his voice. + </p> + <p> + “Is it possible that it’s you?” he asked, in a low tone. + </p> + <p> + Then she looked at him. His face was pale and his eyes eagerly straining + to read what might be in hers. + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” she whispered. “Yes. Hush! hush!” + </p> + <p> + “But—but he told me your name was Glyn?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And he says you’re engaged to him.” + </p> + <p> + Agatha clasped her hands, and Calder’s voice broke in, between them: + “Come along, Merceron, we’re waiting for you.” + </p> + <p> + “They’ve got into antiquities already,” smiled Mrs. + Blunt. “You must come again, Mr. Merceron, and meet Miss Glyn. Mustn’t + he, Agatha?” + </p> + <p> + Agatha threw one glance at him. + </p> + <p> + “If he will,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Charlie pulled himself together, muttered something appropriate, and + shuffled out tinder his uncle’s wing. Mr. Vansittart was surprised + to find him a trifle confused and awkward in society. + </p> + <p> + Outside the house, Charlie ranged up beside Calder “Wentworth, + leaving Uncle Van and Sutton together. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what do you think of her?” asked Calder. + </p> + <p> + Charlie gave no opinion. He asked just one question: + </p> + <p> + “How long have you been engaged to her?” + </p> + <p> + “How long? Oh, let’s see. About—yes, just about a year. + I never knew that there was a sort of connection between you and her—sort + of relationship, you know. I ain’t strong on the Peerage.” + </p> + <p> + “A sort of connection!” There was that in more senses than the + one Calder had been told of by Uncle Van. There was a connection that poor + Charlie thought Heaven itself had tied on those summer evenings by the + Pool, which to strengthen and confirm forever he had sallied from his + home, like a knight in search of his mistress the world over in olden + days. And he found her—such as this girl must be! Stay! He did not + know all yet. Perhaps she had been forced into a bond she hated. He knew + that happened. Did not stories tell of it, and moralists declaim against + it? This man—this creature, Calder Wentworth—was buying her + with his money, forcing himself on her, brutally capturing her. Of course! + How could he have doubted her? Charlie dropped Calder’s arm as + though it had been made of red-hot iron. + </p> + <p> + “Hullo!” exclaimed that worthy fellow, unconscious of offence. + </p> + <p> + Charlie stopped short. “I can’t come,” he said. “I—I’ve + remembered an engagement;” and without more he turned away and shot + out of sight round the nearest corner. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’m hanged!” said Calder Wentworth, and, with a + puzzled frown, he joined his other friends. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. — THE MORAL OF IT + </h2> + <p> + Left alone with Mrs. Blunt, Agatha sank into the nearest chair. + </p> + <p> + “A very handsome young man, isn’t he?” asked the good + lady, pushing a chair back into its place. “He’ll be an + acquisition, I think.” + </p> + <p> + Agatha made no answer, and Mrs. Blunt, glancing at her, found her + devouring the carpet with a stony stare. + </p> + <p> + “What on earth’s the matter, child?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m the wretchedest wickedest girl alive,” declared + Agatha. + </p> + <p> + “Good gracious!” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Blunt, who do you think was in the summer-house when Mr. + Merceron went there?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, are you ill? You jump about so from subject to subject.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s all one subject, Mrs. Blunt. There was a girl there.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, my dear, and if there was? Boys will be boys; and I’m + sure there was no harm.” + </p> + <p> + “No harm! Oh!” + </p> + <p> + “Agatha, are you crazy?” demanded Mrs. Blunt, with an access + of sternness. + </p> + <p> + “Could I fancy,” pursued Agatha, in despairing playfulness + mimicking Uncle Van’s manner, “how Miss Bushell looked, and + how Victor looked, and how everybody looked? Could I fancy it? Why, I was + there!” + </p> + <p> + “There! Where?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, in that wretched little temple. I was the girl, Mrs. Blunt. I—I—I + was the milkmaid, as Mr. Sutton says. I was the country wench! Oh dear! oh + dear! oh dear!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Blunt, knowing her sex, held out a bottle of salts. + </p> + <p> + “I’m not mad,” said Agatha. + </p> + <p> + “You’re nearly hysterical.” + </p> + <p> + Agatha took a long sniff. + </p> + <p> + “I think I can tell you now,” she said more calmly. “But + was ever a girl in such an awful position before?” + </p> + <p> + It is needless to repeat what Mrs. Blunt said. Her censures will have been + long ago anticipated by every right-thinking person, and if she softened + them down a little more than strict justice allowed, it must have been + because Agatha was an old favorite of hers, and Lord Thrapston an old + antipathy. Upon her word, she always wondered that the poor child, brought + up by that horrid old man, was not twice as bad as she was. + </p> + <p> + “But what am I to do about them?” cried Agatha. + </p> + <p> + Them’ evidently meant Calder and Charlie. + </p> + <p> + “Do! Why, there’s nothing to do. You must just apologize to + Mr. Merceron, and tell him that an end had better be put—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I know—Mr. Taylor said that; but, Mrs. Blunt, I don’t + want an end to be put to our acquaintance. I like him very very much. Oh, + and he thinks me horrid! Oh!” + </p> + <p> + “Take another sniff,” advised Mrs. Blunt, “Of course, if + Mr. Merceron is willing to let bygones be bygones, and just be an + acquaintance——” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but I know he won’t. If you knew Charlie + </p> + <p> + “Knew who, Agatha?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Merceron,” said Agatha, in a very humble voice. “If + you knew him at all, you’d know he wouldn’t do that.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you must send him about his business. Oh, yes, I know. You’ve + treated him atrociously, but Calder Wentworth must be considered first; + that is, if you care two straws for the poor fellow, which I begin to + doubt.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I do, Mrs. Blunt!” + </p> + <p> + “Agatha, you shameless girl, which of these men—-?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t talk as if there were a dozen of them, dear Mrs. Blunt. + There are only two.” + </p> + <p> + “One too many.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know. You—you see I’m—I’m accustomed + to Calder.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, are you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Don’t be unkind, Mrs. Blunt. And then Charlie was something + so new—such a charming change—that——” + </p> + <p> + “Upon my word, you might be your grandfather. Talk about heredity, + and Ibsen, and all that!” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t you help me, dear Mrs. Blunt?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t give you two husbands, if that’s what you want. + There, child, don’t cry. Never mind me. Have another sniff.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall go home,” said Agatha. “Perhaps grandpapa may + be able to advise me.” + </p> + <p> + “Your grandfather! Gracious goodness, girl, you’re never going + to tell him?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I shall. Grandpapa’s had a lot of experience: he says + so.” + </p> + <p> + “I should think he had!” whispered Mrs. Blunt with uplifted + hands. + </p> + <p> + “Good-by, Mrs. Blunt. You don’t know how unhappy I am. Thanks, + yes, a hansom, please. Mrs. Blunt, are you going to ask Mr. Merceron here + again?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Blunt’s toleration was exhausted. + </p> + <p> + “Be off with you!” she said sternly, pointing a forefinger at + the door. + </p> + <p> + By great good fortune Agatha found Lord Thrapston at home. Drawing a + footstool beside his chair, she sat down. Her agitation was past, and she + wore a gravely business like air. + </p> + <p> + “Grandpapa,” she began, “I have got something to tell + you.” + </p> + <p> + “Go ahead, my dear,” said the old gentleman, stroking her + golden hair. Her father had curls like that when he was a boy. + </p> + <p> + “Something dreadful I’ve done, you know. But you won’t + be very angry, will you?” + </p> + <p> + “We’ll see.” + </p> + <p> + “You oughtn’t to be, because you’re not very good + yourself, are you?” and she first glanced up into his burnt-out old + eyes and then pressed her lips on his knotted lean old hand. + </p> + <p> + “Aggy,” said he, “I expect you play the deuce with the + young fellows, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + Agatha laughed softly, but a frown succeeded. + </p> + <p> + “That’s just it,” she said. “Now, you’re to + listen and not interrupt, or I shall never be able to manage it. And you’re + not to look at me, grandpapa.” + </p> + <p> + The narrative—that thrice-told tale—began. As the comments of + Mr. Taylor and Mrs. Blunt were omitted, those of Lord Thrapston may well + receive like treatment, more especially as they tended not to edification; + but before his granddaughter had finished her story the old man had sworn + softly four times and chuckled audibly twice. + </p> + <p> + “I knew there was a girl in that temple, soon as Calder told me,” + said he. + </p> + <p> + “But you didn’t know who it was. Oh, and Calder doesn’t?” + </p> + <p> + “Not he. Well, you’ve made a pretty little fool of yourself, + missie. What are you going to do now?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s what you’ve got to tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “I? Oh, I dare say. No, no; you got into the scrape and you can get + out of it. And—-” He suddenly recollected his duties. “Look + here, Agatha, I must—hang it, Agatha, I shouldn’t be doing my + duty as—as a grandfather if I didn’t say that it’s a + monstrous disgraceful thing of you to have done. Yes, d——d + disgraceful;” and he took a pinch of snuff with an air of severe + virtue. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear; but you shouldn’t swear, should you?” + </p> + <p> + Lord Thrapston felt that he had spoilt the moral effect of his reproof, + and, without dwelling further on that aspect of the subject, he addressed + his mind to the more practical question. The outcome, different as the + source was, was the same old verdict. + </p> + <p> + “We must tell Calder, my dear. It isn’t right to keep him in + the dark.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t tell him. Why must he be told?” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Lord Thrapston, “it’s just possible, + Aggy, that he may have something to say to it, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t mind what he says,” declared Agatha. + </p> + <p> + “Eh? Why, I thought you were so fond of him.” + </p> + <p> + “So I am.” + </p> + <p> + “And as you’re going to marry him + </p> + <p> + “I never said I was going to marry him. I only said he might be + engaged to me, if he liked.” + </p> + <p> + “Oho! So this young Merceron——” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all, grandpapa. Oh, I do wish somebody would help me!” + </p> + <p> + Lord Thrapston rose from his seat. + </p> + <p> + “You must do what you like,” he said. “I’m going + to tell Calder.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because,” he answered, “I’m a man of honor.” + </p> + <p> + Before the impressive invocation of her grandfather’s one religion, + Agatha’s opposition collapsed. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose he must be told,” she admitted mournfully. “I + expect he’ll never speak to me again, and I’m sure Mr. + Merceron won’t;” and she sat on the footstool, the picture of + dejection. + </p> + <p> + Lord Thrapston was moved to enunciate a solemn truth. + </p> + <p> + “Aggy,” said he, shaking his finger at her, “in this + world you can’t have your fun for nothing.” But then he spoilt + it by adding regretfully, “More’s the pity!” and off he + hobbled to the club, intent on finding Calder Wentworth. + </p> + <p> + For some time after he went, Agatha sat on her stool in deep thought. Then + she rose, sat down at the writing-table, took a pen, and began to bite the + end of it. At last she started to write: + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know whether I ought to write or not, but I must tell + you how it happened. Oh, don’t think too badly of me! I came down + just because I had heard so much about the Court and I wanted to see it, + and I came as I did with Nettie Wallace just for fun. I never meant to say + I was a dress-maker, you know; but people would ask questions and I had to + say something. I never, never thought of you. I thought you were about + fifteen. And you know—oh, you must know—that I met you quite + by accident, and was just as surprised as you were. And the rest was all + your fault. I didn’t want to come again; you know I refused ever so + many times; and you promised you wouldn’t come if I came, and then + you did come. It was really all your fault. And I’m very, very + sorry, and you must please try to forgive me, dear Mr. Merceron, and not + think me a very wicked girl. I had no idea of coming every evening, but + you persuaded me. You know you persuaded me. And how could I tell you I + was engaged? You know you never asked me. I would have told you if you + had. I am telling Mr. Wentworth all about it, and I don’t think you + ought to have persuaded me to meet you as you did. It wasn’t really + kind or nice of you, was it? Because, of course, I’m not very old, + and I don’t know much about the world, and I never thought of all + the horrid things people would say. Do, please, keep this quite a secret. + I felt I must write you just a line. I wonder what you’re thinking + about me, or whether you’re thinking about me at all. You must never + think of me again. I am very, very unhappy, and I do most earnestly hope, + dear Mr. Merceron, that I have not made you unhappy. We were both very + much to blame, weren’t we? But we slipped into it without knowing. + Good-by. I don’t think I shall ever forget the dear old Pool, and + the temple, and—the rest. But you must please forget me and forgive + me. I am very miserable about it and about everything. I think we had + better not know each other any more, so please don’t answer this. + Just put it in the fire and think no more about it or me. I wanted to tell + you all this when I saw you to-day, but I couldn’t. Good-by. Why did + we ever meet?” + </p> + <p> + “Agatha Glyn.” + </p> + <p> + She read this rather confused composition over twice, growing more sorry + for herself each time. Then she put it in an envelope, addressed it to + Charlie, looked out Uncle Van in the Directory, and sent it under cover to + his residence. Then she went and lay down on the hearth-rug, and began to + cry, and through her tears she said aloud to herself, + </p> + <p> + “I wonder whether he’ll write or come.” + </p> + <p> + Because it seemed to her entirely impossible that, in spite of her prayer, + he should put the letter in the fire and let her go. Surely he too + remembered the dear old Pool, and the temple, and—the rest! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. — TWO MEN OF SPIRIT + </h2> + <p> + “The fact is,” observed Lord Thrapston complacently, “the + girl very much resembles me in disposition.” + </p> + <p> + Calder’s eyes grew larger and rounder. + </p> + <p> + “Do you really think so?” he asked anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “Well, this little lark of hers—hang me, it’s just what + I should have enjoyed doing fifty years ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah—er—Lord—Thrapston, have you noticed the + resemblance you speak of in any other way?” + </p> + <p> + “That girl, except that she is a girl, is myself over again—myself + over again.” + </p> + <p> + “The deuce!” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, Calder; I grow hard of hearing.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. Lord Thrapston. Look here, Lord Thrapston——” + </p> + <p> + “Well, well, my dear boy?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, nothing; that is—” + </p> + <p> + “But she’ll be all right in your hands, my boy. You must keep + an eye; on her, don’t you know: she’ll need a bit o’ + driving; but I really don’t see why you should come to grief. I don’t, + ‘pon my soul. No. With tact on your part, you might very well pull + through.” + </p> + <p> + “How d’ye mean tact, Lord Thrapston?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, amuse her. Let her travel; give her lots of society; don’t + bother her with domestic affairs. Don’t let her feel she’s + under any obligation. That’s what she kicks against. So do I; always + did.” + </p> + <p> + Calder pulled his mustache. Lord Thrapston had briefly sketched the exact + opposite of his ideal of married life. + </p> + <p> + “The fact is,” continued the old man, “the boy’s + an uncommon handsome boy. She can’t resist that. No more can I; + never could.” + </p> + <p> + There chanced to be a mirror opposite Calder, and he impartially + considered himself. There was, he concluded, every prospect of Miss Glyn + resisting any engrossing passion for him. + </p> + <p> + “It’s very good of you to have told, me all about it,” + he remarked, rising. “I’ll think it over.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, do. Of course, I admit she’s given you a perfectly good + reason for breaking off your engagement if you like. Mind that. We don’t + feel aggrieved, Calder. Act as you think best. We admit we’re in the + wrong, but we must stand by what we’ve done.” + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn’t like to give her any pain—” + </p> + <p> + “Pain! Oh, dear me, no, my dear boy. She won’t fret. Make your + mind easy about that.” + </p> + <p> + Calder felt a sudden impulse to disclose to Lord Thrapston his secret + opinion of him, and he recollected, with a pang, that in the course of so + doing he would have to touch on more than one characteristic shared by the + old man and Agatha. Where were his visions of a quiet home in the country, + of freedom from the irksome duties of society, of an obedient and devoted + wife, surrounded by children and flanked by jampots? He had once painted + this picture for Agatha, shortly after she had agreed to that arrangement + which she declined to call a promise of marriage; and it occurred to him + now that she had allowed the subject to drop without any expression of + concurrence. He took leave of Lord Thrapston and went for a solitary walk. + He wanted to think. But the position of affairs was such that other + persons also felt the need of reflection, and Calder had not been walking + by the Row very long before, lifting his eyes, he saw a young man + approaching. The young man was not attired as he ought to have been: he + wore a light suit, a dissolute necktie, and a soft wideawake crammed down + low on his head. He had obviously forsworn the vanities of the world and + was wearing the willow. He came up to Calder and held out his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Wentworth,” he said, “I left you rudely the other day. + I was doing you an injustice. I have heard the truth from Mrs. Blunt. You + are free from all blame. We—we are fellow-sufferers.” + </p> + <p> + His tones were so mournful that Calder shook his hand with warm sympathy, + and remarked, “Pretty rough, on us both, ain’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “For me,” declared Charlie, “everything is over. My + trust in woman is destroyed; my pleasure in life is—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don’t feel A1 myself, old chap,” said Calder. + </p> + <p> + “I have written to—to her, to say good-by.” + </p> + <p> + “No, have yon, though?” + </p> + <p> + “What else could I do? Wentworth, do you suppose that, even if she + was free, I would think of her for another moment? Can there be love where + there is no esteem, no trust, no confidence?” + </p> + <p> + “I was just thinking that when you came up,” said Calder. + </p> + <p> + “No, at whatever cost, I—every self-respecting man—must + consider first of all what he owes to his name, to his family, to his—Wentworth, + to his unborn children.” + </p> + <p> + Calder nodded. + </p> + <p> + “You, of course,” pursued Charlie, “will be guided by + your own judgment. As to that, the circumstances seal my lips.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t like it, you know,” said Calder. + </p> + <p> + “As regards you, she may or may not have excuses. I don’t + know; but she wilfully and grossly deceived me. I have done with her.” + </p> + <p> + “Gad, I believe you’re right, Merceron, old chap! A chap ought + to stand up for himself, by Jove! You’d never feel safe with her, + would you, by Jove?” + </p> + <p> + “Good-by,” said Charlie suddenly. “I leave Paddington by + the 4.15.” + </p> + <p> + “Where are you off to?” + </p> + <p> + “Hell—I mean home,” answered Charlie. + </p> + <p> + Calder beat his stick against his leg. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t stay here either,” he said moodily. + </p> + <p> + Charlie stretched out his hand again. + </p> + <p> + “Come with me,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “Eh? what?” + </p> + <p> + “Come with me; we’ll forget her together.” + </p> + <p> + Calder looked at him. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you are a good chap. Dashed if I don’t. Yes, I will. We’ll + enjoy ourselves like thunder. But I say, Merceron, I—I ought to + write to her, oughtn’t I?” + </p> + <p> + “I am just going to write myself.” + </p> + <p> + “To—to say good-by, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall write and break it off.” + </p> + <p> + “Come along. We’ll go to your rooms and got the thing done, + and then catch the train. My luggage is at the station now.” + </p> + <p> + “It won’t take me a minute to get mine.” + </p> + <p> + “Wentworth, I’m glad to be rid of her.” + </p> + <p> + “All—oh, well—so am I,” said Calder. + </p> + <p> + Late that evening the butler presented Miss Agatha Glyn with two letters + on a salver. As her eye fell on the addresses, she started. Her heart + began to beat. She sat and looked at the two momentous missives. + </p> + <p> + “Now which,” she thought, “shall I read first? And what + shall I do, if they are both obstinate?” + </p> + <p> + There was another contingency which Miss Glyn did not contemplate. + </p> + <p> + After a long hesitation, she took up Charlie’s letter, and opened + it. It was very short, and began abruptly without any words of address: + </p> + <p> + “I have received your letter. Your excuses make it worse. I could + forgive everything except deceit. I leave London to-day. Good-by.—C. + M.” + </p> + <p> + “Deceit!” cried Agatha. “How dare he? What a horrid boy!” + </p> + <p> + She was walking up and down the room in a state of great indignation. She + had never been talked to like that in her life before. It was + ungentlemanly, cruel, brutal. She flung Charlie’s letter angrily + down on the table. + </p> + <p> + “I am sure poor dear old Calder won’t treat me like that!” + she exclaimed, taking up his letter. + </p> + <p> + It ran thus: “My dear Agatha:—I hope you will believe that I + write this without any feeling of anger towards you. My regard for you + remains very great, and I hope we shall always be very good friends; but, + after long and careful consideration, I have come to the conclusion that + the story Lord Thrapston told, me shows conclusively what I have been + fearing for some time past—namely, that I have not been so lucky as + to win a real affection from you, and that we are not likely to make one + another happy. Therefore, thanking you very much for your kindness in the + past, I think I had better restore your liberty to you. I shall hear with, + very great pleasure of your happiness. I leave town to day for a little + while, in order that you may not be exposed to the awkwardness of meeting + me. + </p> + <p> + “Always your most sincerely, + </p> + <p> + “Calder Wentworth.” + </p> + <p> + Agatha passed her hand across her brow; then she reread Calder’s + letter, and then Charlie’s. Yes, there, was not the least doubt + about it! Both of the gentlemen had well, what they had done did not admit + of being put into tolerable words. With a little shriek, Agatha flung + herself on the sofa. + </p> + <p> + The door opened and Lord Thrapston entered. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Aggy, what’s the news? Still bothered by your two young + men? Hullo! what’s wrong?” + </p> + <p> + “Read them!” cried Agatha, with a gesture towards the table. + </p> + <p> + “Eh? Head what? Oh, I see.” + </p> + <p> + He sat down at the table and put on his glasses. Agatha turned her face + towards the wall; for her also everything was over. For a time no sound + was audible save an occasional crackle of the note-paper in Lord Thrapston’s + shaking fingers. Then, to Agatha’s indescribable indignation, there + came another sort of crackle—a dry, grating, derisive chuckle—from + that flinty-hearted old man, her grandfather. + </p> + <p> + “Good, monstrous good, ‘pon my life!” said he. + </p> + <p> + “You’re laughing at me!” she cried, leaping up. + </p> + <p> + “Well, my dear, I’m afraid I am.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, how cruel men are!” + </p> + <p> + “H’m! They’re both men of spirit evidently.” + </p> + <p> + “Calder I can just understand. I—perhaps I did treat Calder + rather badly—-” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you go so far as to admit that, do you, Aggy?” + </p> + <p> + “But Charlie! Oh, to think that Charlie should treat me like that!” + and she threw herself on the sofa again. + </p> + <p> + Lord Thrapston sat quite still. Presently Agatha rose, came to the table, + and took up her two letters. She looked at them both; and the old man, + seeming to notice nothing, yet kept his eye on her. + </p> + <p> + “I shall destroy these things,” said she; and she tore Calder’s + letter into tiny fragments, and flung them on the fire. Charlie’s + she crumpled up and held in her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, grandpapa,” she said wearily, and kissed him. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, my dear,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + And, whatever she did when she went upstairs, Lord Thrapston was in a + position to swear that Charlie’s letter was not destroyed in the + drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. — THE INCARNATION OF LADY AGATHA + </h2> + <p> + “She’s such a dear good girl, Mr. Wentworth,” said Lady + Merceron. “She’s the greatest comfort I have.” + </p> + <p> + It was after luncheon at Langbury Court. Lady Merceron and Calder sat on + the lawn: Mrs. Marland and Millie Bushell were walking up and down; + Charlie was lying in a hammock. A week had passed since the two young men + had startled Lady Merceron by their unexpected arrival, and since then the + good lady had been doing her best to entertain them; for, as she could not + help noticing-, they seemed a little dull. It was a great change from the + whirl of London to the deep placidity of the Court, and Lady Merceron + could not quite understand why Charlie had tired so soon of his excursion, + or why his friend persisted with so much fervor that anything was better + than London, and the Court was the most charming place he had ever seen. + Of the two Charlie seemed to feel the ennui much the more severely. Yet, + while Mr. Wentworth spoke of returning to town in a few weeks, Charlie + asseverated that he had paid his last visit to that revolting and + disappointing place. Lady Merceron wished she had Uncle Van by her side to + explain these puzzling inconsistencies. However, there was a bright side + to the affair: the presence of the young men was a godsend to poor Millie, + who, by reason of the depressed state of agriculture, had been obliged + this year to go without her usual six weeks of London in the season. + </p> + <p> + “And she never grumbles about it,” said Lady Merceron + admiringly. “She looks after her district, and takes a ride, and + plays tennis, when she can get a game, poor girl, and is always cheerful + and happy. She’d be a treasure of a wife to any man.” + </p> + <p> + “You’d better persuade Charlie of that, Lady Merceron.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Charlie never thinks of such a thing as marrying. He thinks of + nothing but his antiquities.” + </p> + <p> + “Doesn’t he?” asked Calder, with apparent sympathy and a + covert sad amusement. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Wentworth,” said Mrs. Marland, approaching, “I + believe it’s actually a fact that you’ve been here a week and + have never yet been to the Pool.” + </p> + <p> + At this fateful word, Calder looked embarrassed, Charlie raised his head + from the hammock, and Millie glanced involuntarily towards him. + </p> + <p> + “We must take you,” pursued Mrs. Marland, “this very + evening. You’ll come, Miss Bushell?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think I care very much about the Pool,” said + Millie. + </p> + <p> + “We won’t let Mr. Merceron take you in his canoe this time.” + </p> + <p> + Charlie rolled out of the hammock and came up to them. + </p> + <p> + “You must take us to the Pool. I don’t believe you’ve + been there since you came back. Poor Agatha will quite—-” + </p> + <p> + “Agatha?” exclaimed Calder. + </p> + <p> + “Agatha Merceron, you know. Why, haven’t you heard—-?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, ah! Yes, of course. I beg your pardon.” + </p> + <p> + “I hate that beastly Pool,” said Charlie. + </p> + <p> + “How can you?” smiled Mrs. Marland. “You used to spend + hours there every evening.” + </p> + <p> + Charlie glanced uneasily at Calder, who turned very red. + </p> + <p> + “Times have changed, have they?” Mrs. Marland asked archly. + “You’ve got tired of looking in vain for Agatha?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, all right,” said Charlie crossly, “we’ll go + after tea.” + </p> + <p> + Anything seemed better than this rallying mood of Mrs. Marland’s. + </p> + <p> + Presently the two young men went off together to play a game at billiards; + but after half a dozen strokes Charlie plumped down in a chair. + </p> + <p> + “I say, Calder, old chap, how do you feel?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Calder licked his cigar meditatively. + </p> + <p> + “Better,” said he at last. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” + </p> + <p> + “And you?” + </p> + <p> + “Worse—worse every day. I can’t stand it, old chap. I + shall go back.” + </p> + <p> + “What, to her?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s hardly sticking to our bargain, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “But, hang it, what’s the good of our both cutting her?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I thought you did it because you were disgusted with her. That + was my reason.” + </p> + <p> + “So it was mine, but—-” + </p> + <p> + “Probably she’s got some other fellow by now,” observed + Calder calmly. + </p> + <p> + “The devil!” cried Charlie. “What makes you think so?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, nothing. I know her way, you see.” + </p> + <p> + “You think she’s that sort of girl? Good heavens!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, if she wasn’t, I’d like to know where you’d + be, my friend. I shouldn’t have the honor of your acquaintance.” + </p> + <p> + Charlie ignored this point. + </p> + <p> + “And yet you wanted, to marry her?” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say I was an ass—like better men before me and—er—since + me.” + </p> + <p> + “Hang it!” cried Charlie. “I’m sick of the whole + thing. I’m sick of life. I’m sick of all the nonsense of it. + For two straws I’d have done with it, and marry Millie Bushell.” + </p> + <p> + “What! Look here, Charlie—” + </p> + <p> + Calder left his sentence unfinished. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said Charlie. + </p> + <p> + “If,” said Calder slowly, “there are any girls, either + down here or in London, whom you’re quite sure you’ll never + want to marry, I should like to be introduced to one of ‘em, + Charlie, if you’ve no objections.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, in fact, during this last week, Charlie, I have come to have a + great esteem for Miss Bushell. There’s about her a something—a + solidity—-” + </p> + <p> + “She can’t help that, poor girl.” + </p> + <p> + “A solidity of mind,” said Calder, a little stiffly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I beg pardon. But I say, Calder, what are you driving at?” + </p> + <p> + “Charlie! Charlie!” sounded from outside. “Tea’s + ready.” + </p> + <p> + Calder rose and took Charlie by the arm. + </p> + <p> + “Should I be safe,” he asked solemnly, “in allowing + myself to fall in love with Miss Bushell, or are you likely to step in + again?” + </p> + <p> + “You mean it? Honor bright, Calder?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Where’s Bradshaw? By Jove, where’s Bradshaw?” + </p> + <p> + “Bradshaw? What the devil has Bradshaw——?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, a train, man—a train to town.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want to go to town, bless the man—-” + </p> + <p> + “You! No, but I do. To town, Calder—to Agatha, you old fool.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that’s your lay?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, of course. I couldn’t go back on you, but if you’re + off—-” + </p> + <p> + “Charlie, old fellow, think again.” + </p> + <p> + “Go to the deuce! Where’s that—-?” + </p> + <p> + “Charlie, Charlie! Tea!” + </p> + <p> + “Hang tea!” he cried; but Calder dragged him off, telling him + that to-morrow would do for Bradshaw. + </p> + <p> + At tea Charlie’s spirits were very much better, and it was observed + that Calder Wentworth paid marked attention to Millie Bushell, so that, + when they started for the Pool, Millie was prevailed upon to be one of the + party, on the understanding that Mr. Went worth would take care of her. + This time the expedition went off more quietly than it had previously, but + at the last moment the ladies declared that they would, be late for dinner + if they waited till it was time for Agatha Merceron to come. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, nonsense!” said Calder. “Come over to the temple, + Miss Bushell. I won’t upset the canoe.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, if you insist,” said Millie. + </p> + <p> + Then Mrs. Marland remarked in the quietest voice in the world—- + </p> + <p> + “There’s some one in the temple.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” cried Millie. + </p> + <p> + “Eh?” exclaimed Calder. + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense!” said Charlie. + </p> + <p> + “I saw a face at the window,” insisted Mrs. Marland. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Mrs. Marland! Was it very awful?” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all, Millie—very pretty,” and she gave Charlie a + look full of meaning. + </p> + <p> + “Look, look!” cried Millie in strong agitation. + </p> + <p> + And, as they looked, a slim figure in white came quietly out of the + temple, a smile—and, alas! no vestige of a blush—on her face, + walked composedly down the steps, and, standing on the lowest one, thence—did + not throw herself into the water—but called, in the most natural + voice in the world, “Which of you is coming to fetch me?” + </p> + <p> + Charlie looked at Calder. Calder said, + </p> + <p> + “I think you’d better put her across, old man. And—er—we + might as well walk on.” + </p> + <p> + They turned away, Millie’s eyes wide in surprise, Mrs. Marland + smiling the smile of triumphant sagacity. + </p> + <p> + “I was coming to you to-morrow,” cried Charlie the moment his + canoe bumped against the stops. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean, sir, by staying away a whole week? How could you?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” said Charlie. “You see, I couldn’t + come till Calder—— + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what about Calder?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s all right.” + </p> + <p> + “What? Miss—the girl you upset out of the canoe?” + </p> + <p> + “I think so,” said Charlie. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well!” said Agatha. “But how very curious!” + Then she smiled at Charlie, and asked, “But what love can there be, + Mr. Merceron, where there is deceit?” + </p> + <p> + Charlie took no notice at all of this question. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mind Calder going?” he whispered. + </p> + <p> + “Well, not much,” said Miss Glyn. + </p> + <p> + Thus it was that the barony of Warmley returned to the house of Merceron, + and the portrait of the wicked lord came to hang once more in the + dining-room. So the curtain falls on the comedy; and what happened + afterwards behind the scenes, whether another comedy, or a tragedy, or a + mixed half-and-half sort of entertainment, now grave, now gay, sometimes + perhaps delightful, and again of tempered charm—why, as to all this, + what reck the spectators who are crowding out of the theatre and home to + bed? + </p> + <p> + But it seems as if, in spite of certain drawbacks in Agatha Merceron’s + character, nothing very dreadful can have happened, because Mr. and Mrs. + Wentworth, who are very particular folk, went to stay at the Court the + other day, and their only complaint was that Charlie and his bride were + always at the Pool! + </p> + <p> + And, for his own part, if he may be allowed a word (which some people say + he ought not to be) here, just at the end, the writer begs to say that he + once knew Agatha, and—he would have taken the risks. However, a lady + to whom he has shown this history differs entirely from him, and thinks + that no sensible man would have married her. But, then, that is not the + question. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE CURATE OF POLTONS + </h2> + <p> + I must confess at once that at first, at least, I very much admired the + curate. I am not referring to my admiration of his fine figure—six + feet high and straight as an arrow—nor of his handsome, open, + ingenuous countenance, or his candid blue eye, or his thick curly hair. + No; what won my heart from an early period of my visit to my cousins, the + Poltons of Poltons Park, was the fervent, undisguised, unashamed, + confident, and altogether matter-of-course manner in which he made love to + Miss Beatrice Queenborough, only daughter and heiress of the wealthy + shipowner Sir Wagstaff Queenborough, Bart., and Eleanor his wife. It was + purely the manner of the curate’s advances that took my fancy: in + the mere fact of them there was nothing remarkable. For all the men in the + house (and a good many outside) made covert. stealthy, and indirect steps + in the same direction; for Trix (as her friends called her) was, if not + wise, at least pretty and witty, displaying to the material eye a charming + figure, and to the mental a delicate heartlessness—both attributes + which challenge a self-respecting mans best efforts. But then came the + fatal obstacle. From heiresses in reason a gentleman need neither shrink + nor let himself be driven; but when it comes to something like twenty + thousand a year—the reported amount of Trix’s dot—he + distrusts his own motives almost as much as the lady’s relatives + distrust them for him. We all felt this—Stanton, Rippleby, and I; + and, although I will not swear that we spoke no tender words and gave no + meaning glances, yet we reduced such concessions to natural weakness to a + minimum, not only when Lady Queenborough was by, but at all times. To say + truth, we had no desire to see our scalps affixed to Miss Trix’s + pretty belt, nor to have our hearts broken (like that of the young man in + the poem) before she went to Homburg in the autumn. With the curate it was + otherwise. He—Jack Ives, by the way, was his name—appeared to + rush, not only upon his fate, but in the face of all possibility and of + Lady Queenborough. My cousin and hostess, Dora Polton, was very much + distressed about him. She said that he was such a nice young fellow, and + that it was a great pity to see him preparing such unhappiness for + himself. Nay, I happen to know that she spoke very seriously to Trix, + pointing out the wickedness of trifling with him; whereupon Trix, who + maintained a bowing acquaintance with her conscience, avoided him for a + whole afternoon and endangered all Algy Stanton’s prudent + resolutions by taking him out in the Canadian canoe. This demonstration in + no way perturbed the curate. He observed that, as there was nothing better + to do, we might as well play billiards, and proceeded to defeat me in + three games of a hundred up (no, it is quite immaterial whether we played + for anything or not), after which he told Dora that the vicar was taking + the evening service—it happened to be the day when there was one at + the parish church—a piece of information only relevant in so far as + it suggested that Mr. Ives could accept an invitation to dinner if one + were proffered to him. Dora, very weakly, rose to the bait; Jack Ives, + airily remarking that there was no use in ceremony among friends, seized + the place next to Trix at dinner (her mother was just opposite) and walked + on the terrace after dinner with her in the moonlight. When the ladies + retired he came into the smoking-room, drank a whiskey-and-soda, said that + Miss Queenborough was really a very charming companion, and apologized for + leaving us early on the ground that his sermon was still unwritten. My + good cousin, the squire, suggested rather grimly that a discourse on the + vanity of human wishes might be appropriate. + </p> + <p> + “I shall preach.” said Mr. Ives thoughtfully, “on the + opportunities of wealth.” + </p> + <p> + This resolution he carried out on the next day but one, that being a + Sunday. I had the pleasure of sitting next to Miss Trix, and I watched her + with some interest as Mr. Ives developed his theme. I will not try to + reproduce the sermon, which would have seemed by no means a bad one, had + any of our party been able to ignore the personal application which we + read into it: for its main burden was no other than this—that wealth + should be used by those who were fortunate enough to possess it (here Trix + looked down and fidgeted with her prayer-book) as a means of promoting + greater union between themselves and the less richly endowed, and not—as, + alas, had too often been the case—as though it were a new barrier + set up between them and their fellow—creatures. (Here Miss Trix + blushed slightly, and had recourse to her smelling-bottle.) “You,” + said the curate, waxing rhetorical as he addressed an imaginary, but + bloated, capitalist, “have no more right to your money than I have. + It is intrusted to you to be shared with me.” At this point I heard + Lady Queenborough sniff, and Algy Stanton snigger. I stole a glance at + Trix and detected a slight waver in the admirable lines of her mouth. + </p> + <p> + “A very good sermon, didn’t you think?” I said to her, + as we walked home. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, very, she replied demurely. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, if we followed all we heard in church!” I sighed. + </p> + <p> + Miss Trix walked in silence for a few yards. By dint of never becoming + anything else, we had become very good friends; and presently she + remarked, quite confidentially, “He’s very silly, isn’t + he?” + </p> + <p> + “Then you ought to snub him,” said I, severely. + </p> + <p> + “So I do—sometimes. He’s rather amusing, though. + </p> + <p> + “Of course, if you’re prepared to make the sacrifice involved—-” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what nonsense!” + </p> + <p> + “Then you’ve no business to amuse yourself with him.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear, dear! how moral you are!” said Trix. + </p> + <p> + The next development in the situation was this. My cousin Dora received a + letter from the Marquis of Newhaven, with whom she was acquainted, praying + her to allow him to run down to Poltons for a few days: he reminded her + that she had once given him a general invitation: if it would not be + inconvenient—and so forth. The meaning of this communication did + not, of course, escape my cousin, who had witnessed the writers attentions + to Trix in the preceding season, nor did it escape the rest of us (who had + talked over the said attentions at the club) when she told us about it, + and announced that Lord Newhaven would arrive in the middle of next day. + Trix affected dense unconsciousness; her mother allowed herself a + mysterious smile—which, however, speedily vanished when the curate + (he was taking lunch with us) observed in a cheerful tone, “Newhaven! + oh, I remember the chap at the House—ploughed twice in Smalls—stumpy + fellow, isn’t he? Not a bad chap, though, you know, barring his + looks. I’m glad he’s coming.” + </p> + <p> + “You won’t be soon, young man,” Lady Queenborough’s + angry eye seemed to say. + </p> + <p> + “I remember him,” pursued Jack, “awfully smitten with a + tobacconist’s daughter in the Corn—oh, it’s all right, + Lady Queenborough—she wouldn’t look at him.” + </p> + <p> + This quasi-apology was called forth by the fact of Lady Queenborough + pushing back her chair and making for the door. It did not at all appease + her to hear of the scorn of the tobacconist’s daughter. She glared + sternly at Jack, and disappeared. He turned to Trix and reminded her—without + diffidence and coram populo, as his habit was, that she had promised him a + stroll in the west wood. + </p> + <p> + What happened on that stroll I do not know; but meeting Miss Trix on the + stairs later in the afternoon, I ventured to remark, “I hope you + broke it to him gently, Miss Queenborough?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what you mean,” replied Trix, haughtily. + </p> + <p> + “You were out nearly two hours,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Were we?” asked Trix with a start. “Good gracious! + Where was mamma, Mr. Wynne?” + </p> + <p> + “On the lawn—watch in hand.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Trix went slowly upstairs, and there is not the least doubt that + something serious passed between her and her mother, for both of them were + in the most atrocious of humors that evening; fortunately the curate was + not there. He had a Bible class. + </p> + <p> + The next day Lord Newhaven arrived. I found him on the lawn when I + strolled up, after a spell of letter-writing, about four o’clock. + Lawn-tennis was the order of the day, and we were all in flannels. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, here’s Mark,” cried Dora, seeing me. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Mark, you and Mr. Ives had better play against Trix and Lord + Newhaven. That’ll make a very good set.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, Mrs. Polton,” said Jack Ives. “They wouldn’t + have a chance. Look here, I’ll play with Miss Queenborough against + Lord Newhaven and Wynne.” + </p> + <p> + Newhaven—whose appearance, by the way, though hardly distinguished, + was not quite so unornamental as the curate had led us to expect—looked + slightly displeased, but Jack gave him no time for remonstrance. He + whisked Trix off, and began to serve all in a moment. I had a vision of + Lady Queenborough approaching from the house with face aghast. The set + went on; and, owing entirely to Newhaven’s absurd chivalry in + sending all the balls to Jack Ives instead of following the well-known + maxim to “pound away at the lady,” they beat us. Jack wiped + his brow, strolled up to the tea-table with Trix, and remarked in exultant + tones: + </p> + <p> + “We make a perfect couple, Miss Queenborough; we ought never to be + separated.” + </p> + <p> + Dora did not ask the curate to dinner that night, but he dropped in about + nine o’clock to ask her opinion as to the hymns on Sunday; and + finding Miss Trix and Newhaven in the small drawing-room he sat down and + talked to them. This was too much for Trix; she had treated him very + kindly and had allowed him to amuse her; but it was impossible to put up + with presumption of that kind. Difficult as it was to discourage Mr. Ives, + she did it, and he went away with a disconsolate, puzzled expression. At + the last moment, however, Trix so far relented as to express a hope that + he was coming to tennis to-morrow, at which he brightened up a little. I + do not wish to be uncharitable—least of all to a charming young lady—but + my opinion is that Miss Trix did not wish to set the curate altogether + adrift. I think, however, that Lady Queenborough must have spoken again, + for when Jack did come to tennis, Trix treated him with the most freezing + civility and a hardly disguised disdain, and devoted herself to Lord + Newhaven with as much assiduity as her mother could wish. We men, over our + pipes, expressed the opinion that Jack Ives’s little hour of + sunshine was passed, and that nothing was left to us but to look on at the + prosperous uneventful course of Lord Newhaven’s wooing. Trix had had + her fun (so Algy Stanton bluntly phrased it) and would now settle down to + business. + </p> + <p> + “I believe, though,” he added, “that she likes the + curate a bit, you know.” + </p> + <p> + During the whole of the next day—Wednesday—Jack Ives kept + away; he had, apparently, accepted the inevitable, and was healing his + wounded heart by a strict attention to his parochial duties. Newhaven + remarked on his absence with an air of relief; and Miss Trix treated it as + a matter of no importance; Lady Queenborough was all smiles; and Dora + Polton restricted herself to exclaiming, as I sat by her at tea, in a low + tone and ` propos of nothing in particular, “Oh, well—poor Mr. + Ives!” + </p> + <p> + But on Thursday there occurred an event, the significance of which passed + at the moment unperceived, but which had, in fact, most important results. + This was no other than the arrival of little Mrs. Wentworth, an intimate + friend of Dora’s. Mrs. Wentworth had been left a widow early in + life; she possessed a comfortable competence; she was not handsome, but + she was vivacious, amusing, and, above all, sympathetic. She sympathized + at once with Lady Queenborough in her maternal anxieties, with Trix on her + charming romance, with Newhaven on his sweet devotedness, with the rest of + us in our obvious desolation—and, after a confidential chat with + Dora; she sympathized most strongly with poor Mr. Ives on his unfortunate + attachment. Nothing would satisfy her, so Dora told me, except the + opportunity of plying Mr. Ives with her soothing balm; and Dora was about + to sit down and write him a note, when he strolled in through the + drawing-room window, and announced that his cooks mother was ill, and that + he should be very much obliged if Mrs. Polton would give him some dinner + that evening. Trix and Newhaven happened to enter by the door at the same + moment, and Jack darted up to them, and shook hands with the greatest + effusion. He had evidently buried all unkindness—and with it, we + hoped, his mistaken folly. However that might be, he made no effort to + engross Trix, but took his seat most docilely by his hostess—and + she, of course, introduced him to Mrs. Wentworth. His behavior, was, in + fact, so exemplary, that even Lady Queenborough relaxed her severity, and + condescended to cross-examine him on the morals and manners of the old + women of the parish. “Oh, the Vicar looks after them,” said + Jack; and he turned to Mrs. Wentworth again. + </p> + <p> + There can be no doubt that Mrs. Wentworth had a remarkable power of + sympathy. I took her into dinner, and she was deep in the subject of my + “noble and inspiring art,” before the soup was off the table. + Indeed, I’m sure that my life’s ambitions would have been an + open book to her by the time that the joint arrived, had not Jack Ives, + who was sitting on the lady’s other side, cut into the conversation + just as Mrs. Wentworth was comparing my early struggles with those of Mr. + Carlyle. After this intervention of Jack’s I had not a chance. I ate + my dinner without the sauce of sympathy, substituting for it a certain + amusement which I derived from studying the face of Miss Trix + Queenborough, who was placed on the opposite side of the table. And if + Trix did look now and again at Mrs. Wentworth and Jack Ives, I cannot say + that her conduct was unnatural. To tell the truth, Jack was so obviously + delighted with his new friend that it was quite pleasant—and, as I + say, under the circumstances, rather amusing—to watch them. We felt + that the Squire was justified in having a hit at Jack when Jack said, in + the smoking-room, that he found himself rather at a loss for a subject for + his next sermon. + </p> + <p> + “What do you say,” suggested my cousin, puffing at his pipe, + “to taking constancy as your text?” + </p> + <p> + Jack considered the idea for a moment, but then he shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “No. I think,” he said, reflectively, “that I shall + preach on the power of sympathy.” + </p> + <p> + That sermon afforded me—I must confess it, at the risk of seeming + frivolous—very great entertainment. Again I secured a place by Miss + Trix—on her left, Newhaven being on her right, and her face was + worth study when Jack Ives gave us a most eloquent description of the + wonderful gift in question. It was, he said, the essence and the crown of + true womanliness, and it showed itself—well, to put it quite + plainly, it showed itself, according to Jack Ives, in exactly that sort of + manner and bearing which so honorably and gracefully distinguished Mrs. + Wentworth. The lady was not, of course, named, but she was clearly + indicated. “Your gift, your precious gift,” cried the curate, + apostrophizing the impersonation of sympathy, “is given to you, not + for your profit, but for mine. It is yours, but it is a trust to be used + for me. It is yours, in fact, to share with me.” At this climax, + which must have struck upon her ear with a certain familiarity, Miss Trix + Queenborough, notwithstanding the place and occasion, tossed her pretty + head and whispered to me, “What horrid stuff!” + </p> + <p> + In the ensuing week Jack Ives was our constant companion; the continued + illness of his servant’s mother left him stranded, and Dora’s + kind heart at once offered him the hospitality of her roof. For my part I + was glad, for the little drama which now began was not without its + interest. It was a pleasant change to see Jack genially polite to Trix + Queenborough, but quite indifferent to her presence or absence, and + content to allow her to take Newhaven for her partner at tennis as often + as she pleased. He himself was often an absentee from our games. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Wentworth did not play, and Jack would sit under the trees with her, + or take her out in the canoe. What Trix thought I did not know, but it is + a fact that she treated poor Newhaven like dirt beneath her feet, and that + Lady Queenborough’s face began to lose its transiently pleasant + expression. I had a vague idea that a retribution was working itself out, + and disposed myself to see the process with all the complacency induced by + the spectacle of others receiving punishment for their sins. + </p> + <p> + A little scene which occurred after lunch one day was significant. I was + sitting on the terrace, ready booted and breeched, waiting for my horse to + be brought round. Trix came out and sat down by me. + </p> + <p> + “Where’s Newhaven?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don’t always want Lord Newhaven,” she exclaimed + petulantly; “I sent him off for a walk—I’m going out in + the Canadian canoe with Mr. Ives.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you are, are you?” said I smiling. As I spoke, Jack Ives + ran up to us. + </p> + <p> + “I say, Miss Queenborough,” he cried, “I’ve just + got your message saying you’d let me take you on the lake.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it a great bore?” asked Trix, with a glance—a glance + that meant mischief. + </p> + <p> + “I should like it awfully, of course,” said Jack; “but + the fact is I’ve promised to take Mrs. Wentworth—before I got + your message, you know.” + </p> + <p> + Trix drew herself up. + </p> + <p> + “Of course, if Mrs. Wentworth—-” she began. + </p> + <p> + “I’m very sorry,” said Jack. + </p> + <p> + Then Miss Queenborough, forgetting—as I hope—or choosing—to + disregard my presence, leant forward and asked in her most coaxing tones, + “Don’t you ever forget a promise, Mr. Ives?” + </p> + <p> + Jack looked at her. I suppose her dainty prettiness struck him afresh, for + he wavered and hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “She’s gone upstairs,” pursued the tempter, “and + we shall be safe away before she comes down again.” + </p> + <p> + Jack shuffled with one foot on the gravel. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you what,” he said. “I’ll ask her if she + minds me taking you for a little while before I——” + </p> + <p> + I believe he really thought that he had hit upon a compromise satisfactory + to all parties. If so, lie was speedily undeceived. Trix flushed rod and + answered angrily, “Pray don’t trouble. I don’t want to + go.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps afterwards you might—” suggested the curate, + but now rather timidly. + </p> + <p> + “I’m going out with Lord Newhaven,” said she. And she + added in an access of uncontrollable annoyance, “Go, please go. I—I + don’t want you.” + </p> + <p> + Jack sheered off, with a look of puzzled shamefacedness. He disappeared + into the house. Nothing passed between Miss Trix and myself. A moment + later Newhaven came out. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Miss Queenborough,” said he, in apparent surprise, + “Ives is going with Mrs. Wentworth in the canoe!” + </p> + <p> + In an instant I saw what she had done. In rash presumption she had told + Newhaven that she was going with the curate—and now the curate had + refused to take her—and Ives had met him in search of Mrs. + Wentworth. What could she do? Well, she rose—or fell—to the + occasion. In the coldest of voices she said, “I thought you’d + gone for your walk.” + </p> + <p> + “I was just starting,” he answered apologetically, “when + I met Ives. But, as you weren’t going with him—-” He + paused, an inquiring look in his eyes. He was evidently asking himself why + she had not gone with the curate. + </p> + <p> + “I’d rather be left alone, if you don’t mind,” + said she. And then, flushing red again, she added. “I changed my + mind and refused to go with Mr. Ives. So he went off to get Mrs. Wentworth + instead.” + </p> + <p> + I started. Newhaven looked at her for an instant, and then turned on his + heel. She turned to me, quick as lightning and with her face all aflame, + “If you tell, I’ll never speak to you again,” she + whispered. + </p> + <p> + After this there was silence for some minutes. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” she said, without looking at me. + </p> + <p> + “I have no remark to offer, Miss Queenborough,” I returned. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose that was a lie, wasn’t it?” she asked, + defiantly. + </p> + <p> + “It’s not my business to say what it was,” was my + discreet answer. + </p> + <p> + “I know what you’re thinking.” + </p> + <p> + “I was thinking-,” said I, “which I would rather be—the + man you will marry, or the man you would like—-” + </p> + <p> + “How dare you? It’s not true. Oh, Mr. Wynne, indeed it’s + not true!” + </p> + <p> + Whether it were true or not I did not know. But if it had been, Miss Trix + Queenborough might have been expected to act very much in the way in which + she proceeded to act: that is to say, to be extravagantly attentive to + Lord Newhaven when Jack Ives was present, and markedly neglectful of him + in the curate’s absence. It also fitted in very well with the theory + which I had ventured to hint, that her bearing towards Mrs. Went worth was + distinguished by a stately civility, and her remarks about that lady by a + superfluity of laudation; for if these be not two distinguishing marks of + rivalry in the well-bred, I must go back to my favorite books and learn + from them—more folly. And if Trix’s manners were all that they + should be, praise no less high must be accorded to Mrs. Wentworth’s; + she attained an altitude of admirable unconsciousness, and conducted her + flirtation (the poverty of language forces me to the word, but it is over + flippant) with the curate in a staid, quasi-maternal way. She called him a + delightful boy, and said that she was intensely interested in all his aims + and hopes. + </p> + <p> + “What does she want?” I asked Dora, despairingly. “She + can’t want to marry him.” I was referring to Trix + Queenborough, not to Mrs. Wentworth. + </p> + <p> + “Good gracious, no!” answered Dora, irritably. “It’s + simple jealousy. She won’t let the poor boy alone till he’s in + love with her again. It’s a horrible shame!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, he has great recuperative power,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “She’d better be careful, though. It’s a very dangerous + game. How do you suppose Lord Newhaven likes it?” + </p> + <p> + Accident gave me that very day a hint how little Lord Newhaven liked it, + and a glimpse of the risk Miss Trix was running. Entering the library + suddenly, I heard Newhaven’s voice raised above his ordinary tones. + </p> + <p> + “I won’t stand it,” he was declaring. “I never + know how she’ll treat me from one minute to the next.” + </p> + <p> + My entrance, of course, stopped the conversation very abruptly. Newhaven + had come to a stand in the middle of the room, and Lady Queenborough sat + on the sofa, a formidable frown on her brow. Withdrawing myself as rapidly + as possible, I argued the probability of a severe lecture for Miss Trix, + ending in a command to try her noble suitor’s patience no longer. I + hope all this happened, for I, not seeing why Mrs. Wentworth should + monopolize the grace of sympathy, took the liberty of extending mine to + Newhaven. He was certainly in love with Trix, not with her money, and the + treatment he underwent must have been as trying to his feelings as it was + galling to his pride. + </p> + <p> + My sympathy was not premature, for Miss Trix’s fascinations, which + were indubitably great, began to have their effect. The scene about the + canoe was re-enacted, but with a different denouement. This time the + promise was forgotten, and the widow forsaken. Then Mrs. Wentworth put on + her armor. We had, in fact, reached this very absurd situation that these + two ladies were contending for the favors of, or the domination over, such + an obscure, poverty-stricken, hopelessly ineligible person as the curate + of Poltons undoubtedly was. The position seemed to me then, and still + seems, to indicate some remarkable qualities in that young man. + </p> + <p> + At last Newhaven made a move. At breakfast, on Wednesday morning, he + announced that, reluctant as he should be to leave Poltons Park, he was + due at his aunt’s place, in Kent, on Saturday evening, and must + therefore make his arrangements to leave by noon on that day. The + significance was apparent. Had he come down to breakfast with “Now + or Never!” stamped in fiery letters across his brow, it would have + been more obtrusive, indeed, but not a whit plainer. We all looked down at + our plates, except Jack Ives. He flung one glance (I saw it out of the + corner of my left eye) at Newhaven, another at Trix; then he remarked + kindly— + </p> + <p> + “We shall be uncommonly sorry to lose you, Newhaven.” + </p> + <p> + Events began to happen now, and I will tell them as well as I am able, + supplementing my own knowledge by what I learnt afterwards from Dora—she + having learnt it from the actors in the scene. In spite of the solemn + warning conveyed in Newhaven’s intimation, Trix, greatly daring, + went off immediately after lunch for what she described as ‘a long + ramble’ with Mr. Ives. There was, indeed, the excuse of an old woman + at the end of the ramble, and Trix provided Jack with a small basket of + comforts for the useful old body; but the ramble was, we felt, the thing, + and I was much annoyed at not being able to accompany the walkers in the + cloak of darkness or other invisible contrivance. The ramble consumed + three hours—full measure. Indeed, it was half-past six before Trix + alone, walked up the drive. Newhaven, a solitary figure, paced up and down + the terrace fronting the drive. Trix came on, her head thrown back and a + steady smile on her lips. She saw Newhaven: he stood looking at her for a + moment with what she afterwards described as an indescribable smile on his + face, but not, as Dora understood from her, by any means a pleasant one. + Yet, if not pleasant, there is not the least doubt in the world that it + was highly significant; for she cried out nervously, “Why are you + looking at me like that? What’s the matter?” + </p> + <p> + Newhaven, still saying nothing, turned his back on her and made as if he + would walk into the house and leave her there, ignored, discarded, done + with. She, realizing the crisis which had come, forgetting everything + except the imminent danger of losing him once for all, without time for + long explanation or any round—about seductions, ran forward, laying + her hand on his arm and blurting out, “But I’ve refused him.” + </p> + <p> + I do not know what Newhaven thinks now, but I sometimes doubt whether he + would not have been wiser to shake off the detaining hand and pursue his + lonely way, first into the house, and ultimately to his aunt’s. But + (to say nothing of the twenty thousand a year, which, after all, and lie + you as romantic as you may please to be, is not a thing to be sneezed at) + Trix’s face, its mingled eagerness and shame, its flushed cheeks and + shining eyes, the piquancy of its unwonted humility, overcame him. He + stopped dead. + </p> + <p> + “I—I was obliged to give him an—an opportunity,” + said Miss Trix, having the grace to stumble a little in her speech. + “And—and it’s all your fault.” + </p> + <p> + The war was thus, by happy audacity, carried into Newhaven’s own + quarters. + </p> + <p> + “My fault!” he exclaimed. “My fault that you walk all + day with that curate!” + </p> + <p> + Then Miss Trix—and let no irrelevant considerations mar the + appreciation of line acting—dropped her eyes and murmured softly, + “I—I was so terribly afraid of seeming to expect you.” + </p> + <p> + Wherewith she (and not he) ran away, lightly, up the stairs, turning just + one glance downwards as she reached the landing. Newhaven was looking up + from below with an ‘enchanted’ smile—the word is Trix’s + own: I should probably have used a different one. + </p> + <p> + Was then the curate of Poltons utterly defeated—brought to his + knees, only to lie spurned? It seemed so: and he came down to dinner that + night with a subdued and melancholy expression. Trix, on the other hand, + was brilliant and talkative to the last degree, and the gayety spread from + her all round the table, leaving untouched only the rejected lover and + Mrs. Wentworth; for the last-named lady, true to her distinguishing + quality, had begun to talk to poor Jack Ives in low soothing tones. + </p> + <p> + After dinner Trix was not visible; but the door of the little boudoir + beyond stood half-open, and very soon Newhaven edged his way through. + Almost at the same moment Jack Ives and Mrs. Wentworth passed out of the + window and began to walk up and down the gravel. Nobody but myself + appeared to notice these remarkable occurrences, but I watched them with + keen interest. Half an hour passed and then there smote on my watchful ear + the sound of a low laugh from the boudoir. It was followed almost + immediately by a stranger sound from the gravel walk. Then, all in a + moment, two things happened. The boudoir door opened, and Trix, followed + by Newhaven, came in smiling; from the window entered Jack Ives and Mrs. + Wentworth. My eyes were on the curate. He gave one sudden comprehending + glance towards the other couple; then he took the widows hand, led her up + to Dora, and said, in low yet penetrating tones, “Will you wish us + joy, Mrs. Polton?” The Squire, Rippleby, and Algy Stanton were round + them in an instant. I kept my place, watching now the face of Trix + Queenborough. She turned first flaming red, then very pale. I saw her turn + to Newhaven and speak one or two urgent imperative words to him. Then, + drawing herself up to her full height, she crossed the room to where the + group was assembled round Mrs. Wentworth and Jack Ives. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter? What are you saying?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Wentworth’s eyes were modestly cast down, but a smile played + round her mouth. No one spoke for a moment. Then Jack Ives said, “Mrs. + Wentworth has promised to be my wife. Miss Queenborough.” + </p> + <p> + For a moment, hardly perceptible. Trix hesitated; then, with the most + winning, touching, sweetest smile in the world, she said, “So you + took my advice, and our afternoon walk was not wasted after all!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Polton is not used to these fine flights of diplomacy; she had heard + before dinner something of what had actually happened in the afternoon; + and the simple woman positively jumped. Jack Ives met Trix’s + scornful eyes full and square. + </p> + <p> + “Not at all wasted,” said he with a smile. “Not only has + it shown me where my true happiness lies, but it has also given me a + juster idea of the value and sincerity of your regard for me, Miss + Queenborough.” + </p> + <p> + “It is as real, Mr. Ives, as it is sincere,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “It is like yourself, Miss Queenborough,” said he, with a + little bow; and he turned from her and began to talk to his fiancie. + </p> + <p> + Trix Queenborough moved slowly towards where I sat. Newhaven was watching + her from where he stood alone on the other side; of the room. + </p> + <p> + “And have you no news for us?” I asked, in low tones. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” she said haughtily; “I don’t care + that mine should be a pendant to the great tidings about the little widow + and the curate.” + </p> + <p> + After a moment’s pause she went on: + </p> + <p> + “He lost no time, did he? He was wise to secure her before what + happened this afternoon could leak out. Nobody can tell her now.” + </p> + <p> + “This afternoon?” + </p> + <p> + “He asked me to marry him this afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + “And you refused?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, his behavior is in outrageously bad taste, but—-” + </p> + <p> + She laid a hand on my arm, and said in calm level tones, + </p> + <p> + “I refused him because I dared not have him; but I told him I cared + for him, and he said he loved me. And I let him kiss me. Good-night, Mr. + Wynne.” + </p> + <p> + I sat still and silent. Newhaven came across to us. Trix put out her hand + and caught him by the sleeve. + </p> + <p> + “Fred,” she said, “my dear honest old Fred, you love me, + don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + Newhaven, much embarrassed and surprised, looked at me in alarm. But her + hand was in his now, and her eyes imploring him. + </p> + <p> + “I should rather think I did, my dear,” said he. + </p> + <p> + I really hope that Lord and Lady Newhaven will not be very unhappy, while + Mrs. Ives quite worships her husband, and is convinced that she eclipsed + the brilliant and wealthy Miss Queenborough. Perhaps she did—perhaps + not. There are, as I have said, great qualities in the curate of Poltons, + but I have not quite made up my mind precisely what they are. I ought, + however, to say that Dora takes a more favorable view of him and a less + lenient view of Trix than I. That is perhaps natural. Besides, Dora does + not know the precise manner in which the curate was refused. By the way, + he preached next Sunday on the text, “The children of this world are + wiser in their generation than the children of light.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A THREE-VOLUME NOVEL + </h2> + <p> + It was, I believe, mainly as a compliment to me that Miss Audrey Liston + was asked to Poltons. Miss Liston and I were very good friends, and my + cousin Dora Polton thought, as she informed me, that it would be nice for + me to have someone I could talk to about “books and so on.” I + did not complain. Miss Liston was a pleasant young woman of + six-and-twenty; I liked her very much except on paper, and I was aware + that she made it a point of duty to read something at least of what I + wrote. She was in the habit of describing herself as an “authoress + in a small way.” If it were pointed out that six three-volume novels + in three years (the term of her literary activity at the time of which I + write) could hardly be called “a small way.” she would smile + modestly and say that it was not really much; and if she were told that + the English language embraced no such word as “authoress,” she + would smile again and say that it ought to, a position towards the bugbear + of correctness with which, I confess, I sympathize in some degree. She was + very diligent; she worked from ten to one every day while she was at + Poltons; how much she wrote is between her and her conscience. + </p> + <p> + There was another impeachment which Miss Liston was hardly at the trouble + to deny. “Take my characters from life!” she would exclaim. + “Surely every artist (Miss Liston often referred to herself as an + artist) must!” And she would proceed to maintain—what is + perhaps true sometimes—that people rather liked being put into + books, just as they liked being photographed, for all that they grumble + and pretend to be afflicted when either process is levied against them. In + discussing this matter with Miss Liston I felt myself on delicate ground, + for it was notorious that I figured in her first book in the guise of a + misogynistic genius; the fact that she lengthened (and thickened) my hair, + converted it from an indeterminate brown to a dusty black, gave me a + drooping mustache, and invested my very ordinary work-a-day eyes with a + strange magnetic attraction, availed nothing; I was at once recognized, + and, I may remark in passing, an uncommonly disagreeable fellow she made + me. Thus I had passed through the fire. I felt tolerably sure that I + presented no other aspect of interest, real or supposed, and I was quite + content that Miss Liston should serve all the rest of her acquaintance as + she had served me. I reckoned they would last her, at the present rate of + production, about five years. + </p> + <p> + Fate was kind to Miss Liston, and provided her with most suitable patterns + for her next piece of work at Poltons itself. There were a young man and a + young woman staying in the house—Sir Gilbert Chillington and Miss + Pamela Myles. The moment Miss Liston was appraised of a possible romance; + she began the study of the protagonists. She was looking out, she told me, + for some new types (if it were any consolation—and there is a sort + of dignity about it—to be called a type, Miss Liston’s victims + were always welcome to so much), and she had found them in Chillington and + Pamela. The former appeared to my dull eye to offer no salient novelty; he + was tall, broad, handsome, and he possessed a manner of enviable + placidity. Pamela, I allowed, was exactly the heroine Miss Liston loved—haughty, + capricious, difficile, but sound and true at heart (I was mentally + skimming Volume I.). Miss Liston agreed with me in my conception of + Pamela, but declared that I did not do justice to the artistic + possibilities latent in Chillington; he had a curious attraction which it + would tax her skill (so she gravely informed me) to the utmost to + reproduce. She proposed that I also should make a study of him, and + attributed my hurried refusal to a shrinking from the difficulties of the + task. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” she observed, looking at our young friends who + were talking nonsense at the other side of the lawn, “they must have + a misunderstanding.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, ‘of course’,” said I, lighting my pipe. + “What should you say to another man?” + </p> + <p> + “Or another woman?” said Miss Liston. + </p> + <p> + “It comes to the same thing,” said I. (About a volume and a + half I meant.) + </p> + <p> + “But it’s more interesting’. Do you think she’d + better be a married woman?” And Miss Liston looked at me + inquiringly. + </p> + <p> + “The age prefers them married,” I remarked. + </p> + <p> + This conversation happened on the second day of Miss Liston’s visit, + and she lost no time in beginning to study her subjects. Pamela, she said, + she found pretty plain sailing, but Chillington continued to puzzle her. + Again, she could not make up her mind whether to have a happy or a tragic + ending. In the interests of a tender-hearted public, I pleaded for + marriage-bells. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I think so,” said Miss Liston, but she sighed, and I + think she had an idea or two for a heart-broken separation, followed by + mutual, life-long, hopeless devotion. + </p> + <p> + The complexity of young Sir Gilbert did not, in Miss Liston’s + opinion, appear less on further acquaintance; and indeed, I must admit + that she was not altogether wrong in considering him worthy of attention. + As I came to know him better, I discerned in him a smothered + self-appreciation, which came to light in response to the least tribute of + interest or admiration, but was yet far remote from the aggressiveness of + a commonplace vanity. In a moment of indiscretion I had chaffed him—he + was very good-natured—on the risks he ran at Miss Liston’s + hands; he was not disgusted, but neither did he plume himself or spread + his feathers. He received the suggestions without surprise, and without + any attempt at disclaiming fitness for the purpose; but he received it as + a matter which entailed a responsibility on him. I detected the conviction + that, if the portrait was to be painted, it was due to the world that it + should be well painted; the subject must give the artist full + opportunities. + </p> + <p> + “What does she know about me?” he asked, in meditative tones. + </p> + <p> + “She’s very quick; she’ll soon pick up as much as she + wants,” I assured him. + </p> + <p> + “She’ll probably go all wrong,” he said, sombrely; and + of course I could not tell him that it was of no consequence if she did. + He would not have believed me, and would have done precisely what he + proceeded to do, and that was to afford Miss Liston every chance of + appraising his character and plumbing the depths of his soul. + </p> + <p> + I may say at once that I did not regret this course of action; for the + effect of it was to allow me a chance of talking to Pamela Myles, and + Pamela was exactly the sort of a girl to beguile the long pleasant morning + hours of a holiday in the country. No one had told Pamela that she was + going to be put in a book, and I don’t think it would have made any + difference had she been told. Pamela’s attitude towards books was + one of healthy scorn, confidently based on admitted ignorance. So we never + spoke of them, and my cousin Dora condoled with me more than once on the + way in which Miss Liston, false to the implied terms of her invitation, + deserted me in favor of Sir Gilbert, and left me to the mercies of a + frivolous girl. Pamela appeared to be as little aggrieved as I was. I + imagined that she supposed that Chillington would ask her to marry him + some day before very long, and I was sure she would accept him; but it was + quite plain that, if Miss Liston persisted in making Pamela her heroine, + she would have to supply from her own resources a large supplement of + passion. Pamela was far too deficient in the commodity to be made anything + of, without such reinforcement, even by an art more adept at making much + out of nothing than Miss Liston’s straightforward method could claim + to be. + </p> + <p> + A week passed, and then, one Friday morning, a new light burst on me. Miss + Liston came into the garden at eleven o’clock and sat down by me on + the lawn. Chillington and Pamela had gone riding with the squire, Dora was + visiting the poor. We were alone. The appearance of Miss Liston at this + hour (usually sacred to the use of the pen), no less than her puzzled + look, told me that an obstruction had occurred in the novel. Presently she + let me know what it was. + </p> + <p> + “I’m thinking of altering the scheme of my story, Mr. Wynne,” + said she. “Have you ever noticed how sometimes a man thinks he’s + in love when he isn’t really?” + </p> + <p> + “Such a case sometimes occurs,” I acknowledged. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and he doesn’t find out his mistake——” + </p> + <p> + “Till they’re married?” + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes, yes,” she said, rather as though she were making + an unwilling admission. “But sometimes he sees it before—when + he meets somebody else.” + </p> + <p> + “Very true,” said I, with a grave nod. + </p> + <p> + “The false can’t stand against the real.” pursued Miss + Liston; and then she fell into meditative silence. I stole a glance at her + face; she was smiling. Was it in the pleasure of literary creation—an + artistic ecstasy? I should have liked to answer yes, but I doubted it very + much. Without pretending to Miss Liston’s powers, I have the little + subtlety that is needful to show me that more than one kind of smile may + be seen on the human face, and that there is one very different from + others; and finally, that that one is not evoked, as a rule, merely by the + evolution of the troublesome encumbrance in pretty writing, vulgarly + called a “plot.” + </p> + <p> + “If,” pursued Miss Liston, “some one comes who can + appreciate him and draw out what is best in him——” + </p> + <p> + “That’s all very well,” said I, “but what of the + first girl?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, she’s—she can be made shallow, you know; and I can + put in a man for her. People needn’t be much interested in her.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you could manage it that way,” said I, thinking how + Pamela—I took the liberty of using her name for the shallow girl—would + like such treatment. + </p> + <p> + “She will really be valuable mainly as a foil,” observed Miss + Liston; and she added generously, “I shall make her nice, you know, + but shallow—not worthy of him.” + </p> + <p> + “And what are you going to make the other girl like?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + Miss Liston started slightly; also she colored very slightly, and she + answered, looking away from me across the lawn, “I haven’t + quite made up my mind yet, Mr. Wynne.” + </p> + <p> + With the suspicion which this conversation aroused fresh in my mind, it + was curious to hear Pamela laugh, as she said to me on the afternoon of + the same day, “Aren’t Sir Gilbert and Audrey Liston funny? I + tell you what, Mr. Wynne, I believe they’re writing a novel + together.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps Chillington’s giving her the materials for one,” + I suggested. + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn’t think,” observed Pamela, in her + dispassionate way, “that anything very interesting had ever happened + to him.” + </p> + <p> + “I. thought you liked him,” I remarked, humbly. + </p> + <p> + “So I do. What’s that got to do with it?” asked Pamela. + </p> + <p> + It was beyond question that Chillington enjoyed Miss Liston’s + society; the interest she showed in him was incense to his nostrils. I + used to overhear fragments of his ideas about himself, which he was + revealing in answer to her tactful inquiries. But neither was it doubtful + that he had by no means lost his relish for Pamela’s lighter talk; + in fact, he seemed to turn to her with some relief—perhaps it is + refreshing to escape from self-analysis, even when the process is + conducted in the pleasantest possible manner—and the hours which + Miss Liston gave to work were devoted by Chillington to maintaining his + cordial relations with the lady whose comfortable and not over-tragical + disposal was taxing Miss Liston’s skill. For she had definitely + decided all her plot; she told me so a few days later. It was all planned + out; nay, the scene in which the truth as to his own feelings bursts on + Sir Gilbert (I forget at the moment what name the novel gave him) was, I + understood, actually written; the shallow girl was to experience nothing + worse than a wound to her vanity, and was to turn with as much alacrity as + decency allowed to the substitute whom Miss Liston had now provided. All + this was poured into my sympathetic ear, and I say sympathetic with all + sincerity; for, although I may occasionally treat Miss Liston’s + literary efforts with less than proper respect, she herself was my friend, + and the conviction under which she was now living would, I knew, unless it + were justified, bring her into much of that unhappiness in which one + generally found her heroine plunged about the end of Volume II. The + heroine generally got out all right, and the knowledge that she would + enabled the reader to preserve cheerfulness. But would poor little Miss + Liston get out? I was none too sure of it. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly a change came in the state of affairs. Pamela produced it. It + must have struck her that the increasing intimacy of Miss Liston and + Chillington might become something other than “funny.” To put + it briefly and metaphorically, she whistled her dog back to her heels. I + am not skilled in understanding or describing the artifices of ladies; but + even I saw the transformation in Pamela. She put forth her strength and + put on her prettiest gowns; she refused to take her place in the see-saw + of society, which Chillington had recently established for his pleasure. + If he spent an hour with Miss Liston, Pamela would have nothing of him for + a day; she met his attentions with scorn unless they were undivided. + Chillington seemed at first puzzled; I believe that he never regarded his + talks with Miss Liston in other than a business point of view, but + directly he understood that Pamela claimed him, and that she was prepared, + in case he did not obey her call, to establish a grievance against him, he + lost no time in manifesting his obedience. A whole day passed in which, to + my certain knowledge, he was not alone a moment with Miss Liston, and did + not, save at the family meals, exchange a word with her. As he walked off + with Pamela, Miss Liston’s eyes followed him in wistful longing; she + stole away upstairs and did not come down till five o’clock. Then + finding me strolling about with a cigarette, she joined me. + </p> + <p> + “Well, how goes the book?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t done much to it just lately,” she answered, + in a low voice. “I—it’s—I don’t quite know + what to do with it.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you’d settled?” + </p> + <p> + “So I had, but—oh, don’t let’s talk about it, Mr. + Wynne!” + </p> + <p> + But a moment later she went on talking about it. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know why I should make it end happily,” she + said. “I’m sure life isn’t always happy, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not,” I answered. “You mean your man might + stick to the shallow girl after all?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” I just heard her whisper. + </p> + <p> + “And be miserable afterwards?” I pursued. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” said Miss Liston. “Perhaps he + wouldn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you must make him shallow himself.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t do that,” she said quickly. “Oh, how + difficult it is!” + </p> + <p> + She may have meant merely the art of writing—when I cordially agreed + with her—but I think she meant also the way of the world, which does + not make me withdraw my assent. I left her walking up and down in front of + the drawing-room windows, a rather forlorn little figure, thrown into + distinctness by the cold rays of the setting sun. + </p> + <p> + All was not over yet. That evening Chillington broke away. Led by vanity, + or interest, or friendliness, I know not which—tired maybe of paying + court (the attitude in which Pamela kept him), and thinking it would be + pleasant to play the other part for a while—after dinner he went + straight to Miss Liston, talked to her while we had coffee on the terrace, + and then walked about with her. Pamela sat by me; she was very silent; she + did not appear to be angry, but her handsome mouth wore a resolute + expression. Chillington and Miss Liston wandered on into the shrubbery, + and did not come into sight again for nearly half an hour. + </p> + <p> + “I think it’s cold,” said Pamela, in her cool, quiet + tones. “And it’s also, Mr. Wynne, rather slow. I shall go to + bed.” + </p> + <p> + I thought it a little impertinent of Pamela to attribute the ‘slowness’ + (which had undoubtedly existed) to me, so I took my revenge by saying, + with, an assumption of innocence purposely and obviously unreal, “Oh, + but won’t you wait and bid Miss Liston and Chillington good-night?” + </p> + <p> + Pamela looked at me for a moment. I made bold to smile. + </p> + <p> + Pamela’s face broke slowly into an answering smile. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Wynne,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “No?” said I. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Pamela, and she turned away. But before she went + she looked over her shoulder, and, still smiling, said, “Wish Miss + Liston good-night for me, Mr. Wynne. Anything I have to say to Sir Gilbert + will wait very well till to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + She had hardly gone in when the wanderers came out of the shrubbery and + rejoined me. Chillington wore his usual passive look, but Miss Liston’s + face was happy and radiant. Chillington passed on into the drawing-room. + Miss Liston lingered a moment by me. + </p> + <p> + “Why, you look,” said I, “as if you’d invented the + finest scene ever written.” + </p> + <p> + She did not answer me directly, but stood looking up at the stars. Then + she said in a dreamy tone, “I think I shall stick to my old idea in + the book.” + </p> + <p> + As she spoke Chillington came out. Even in the dim light I saw a frown on + his face. + </p> + <p> + “I say, Wynne,” said he, “where’s Miss Myles?” + </p> + <p> + “She’s gone to bed,” I answered. “She told me to + wish you good-night for her, Miss Liston. No message for you, Chillington.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Liston’s eyes were on him. He took no notice of her; he stood + frowning for an instant, then, with some muttered ejaculation, he strode + back into the house. We hoard his heavy tread across the drawing-room; we + heard the door slammed behind him, and I found myself looking on Miss + Liston’s altered face. + </p> + <p> + “What does he want her for, I wonder?” she said, in an + agitation that made my presence, my thoughts, my suspicions, nothing to + her. “He said nothing to me about wanting to speak to her to-night.” + And she walked slowly into the house, her eyes on the ground, and all the + light gone from her face and the joy dead in it. Whereupon I, left alone, + began to rail at the gods that a dear, silly little soul like Miss Liston + should bother her poor, silly little head about a hulking fool; in which + reflections I did, of course, immense injustice not only to an eminent + author, but also to a perfectly honorable, though somewhat dense and + decidedly conceited, gentleman. + </p> + <p> + The next morning Sir Gilbert Chillington ate dirt—there is no other + way of expressing it—in great quantities and with infinite humility. + My admirable friend Miss Pamela was severe. I saw him walk six yards + behind her for the length of the terrace; not a look nor a turn of her + head gave him leave to join her. Miss Liston had gone upstairs, and I + watched the scene from the window of the smoking-room. At last, at the end + of the long walk, just where the laurel-bushes mark the beginning of the + shrubberies—on the threshold of the scene of his crime—Pamela + turned round suddenly and faced the repentant sinner. The most interesting + things in life are those which, perhaps by the inevitable nature of the + case, one does not hear; and I did not hear the scene which followed. For + a while they stood talking—rather, he talked and she listened. Then + she turned again and walked slowly into the shrubbery. Chillington + followed. It was the end of a chapter, and I laid down the book. + </p> + <p> + How and from whom Miss Liston heard the news, which Chillington himself + told me without a glimmer of shame or a touch of embarrassment some two + hours later, I do not know; but hear it she did before luncheon; for she + came down, ready armed with the neatest little speeches for both the happy + lovers. I did not expect Pamela to show an ounce more feeling than the + strictest canons of propriety demanded, and she fulfilled my expectations + to the letter; but I had hoped, I confess, that Chillington would have + displayed some little consciousness. He did not; and it is my belief that, + throughout the events which I have recorded, he retained, and that he + still retains, the conviction that Miss Liston’s interest in him was + purely literary and artistic, and that she devoted herself to his society + simply because he offered an interesting problem and an inspiring theme. + An ingenious charity may find in that attitude evidence of modesty; to my + thinking it argues a more subtle and magnificent conceit than if he had + fathomed the truth, as many humbler men in his place would have done. + </p> + <p> + On the day after the engagement was accomplished Miss Liston left us to + return to London. She came out in her hat and jacket and sat down by me; + the carriage was to be round in ten minutes. She put on her gloves slowly + and buttoned them carefully. This done, she said, “By the way, Mr. + Wynne, I’ve adopted your suggestion. The man doesn’t find out.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you’ve made him a fool?” I asked bluntly. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she answered. “I—I think it might happen + though he wasn’t a fool.” + </p> + <p> + She sat with her hands in her lap for a moment or two, then she went on in + a lower voice, “I’m going to make him find out afterwards.” + </p> + <p> + I felt her glance on me, but I looked straight in front of me. + </p> + <p> + “What! after he’s married the shallow girl?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Miss Liston. + </p> + <p> + “Rather too late, isn’t it? At least if you mean there is to + be a happy ending.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Liston enlaced her fingers. + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t decided about the ending yet,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “If you’re intent is to be tragical—which is the fashion—you’ll + do as you stand,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she answered slowly, “if I’m tragical I + shall do as I stand.” + </p> + <p> + There was another pause, and rather a long one; the wheels of the carriage + were audible on the gravel of the front drive. Miss Liston stood up. I + rose and held out my hand. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” said Miss Liston, still intent on her novel, + “I could—” She stopped again, and looked apprehensively + at me. My face, I believe, expressed nothing more than polite attention + and friendly interest. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” she began again, “the shallow girl—his + wife—might—might die, Mr. Wynne.” + </p> + <p> + “In novels,” said I, with a smile, “while there’s + death there’s hope.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, in novels,” she answered, giving me her hand. + </p> + <p> + The poor little woman was very unhappy. Unwisely, I dare say, I pressed, + her hand. It was enough; the tears leapt to her eyes; she gave my great + fist a hurried squeeze. I have seldom been more touched by any thanks, + however warm or eloquent, and hurried away. + </p> + <p> + I have read the novel. It came out a little while ago. The man finds out + after the marriage; the shallow girl dies un regretted (she turns out as + badly as possible); the real love comes, and all ends joyfully. It is + simple story, prettily told in its little way, and the scene of the + reunion is written with genuine feeling—nay, with a touch of real + passion. But then Sir Gilbert Chillington never meets Miss Liston now. And + Lady Chillington not only behaves with her customary propriety, but is in + the enjoyment of most excellent health and spirits. + </p> + <p> + True art demands an adaptation, not a copy, of life. I saw that remark + somewhere the other day. It seems correct, if Miss Liston be any + authority. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PHILOSOPHER IN THE APPLE ORCHARD + </h2> + <p> + It was a charmingly mild and balmy day. The sun shone beyond the orchard, + and the shade was cool inside. A light breeze stirred the boughs of the + old apple-tree under which the philosopher sat. None of these things did + the philosopher notice, unless it might be when the wind blew about the + leaves of the large volume on his knees, and he had to find his place + again. Then he would exclaim against the wind, shuffle the leaves till he + got the right page, and settle to his reading. The book was a treatise on + ontology; it was written by another philosopher, a friend of this + philosopher’s; it bristled with fallacies, and this philosopher was + discovering them all, and noting them on the fly-leaf at the end. He was + not going to review the book (as some might have thought from his + behavior), or even to answer it in a work of his own. It was just that he + found a pleasure in stripping any poor fallacy naked and crucifying it. + Presently a girl in a white frock came into the orchard. She picked up an + apple, bit it, and found it ripe. Holding it in her hand, she walked up to + where the philosopher sat, and looked at him. He did not stir. She took a + bite out of the apple, munched it, and swallowed it. The philosopher + crucified a fallacy on the fly-leaf. The girl flung the apple away. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Jerningham,” said she, “are you very busy?” + </p> + <p> + The philosopher, pencil in hand, looked up. + </p> + <p> + “No, Miss May,” said he, “not very.” + </p> + <p> + “Because I want your opinion.” + </p> + <p> + “In one moment,” said the philosopher, apologetically. + </p> + <p> + He turned back to the fly-leaf and began to nail the last fallacy a little + tighter to the cross. The girl regarded him, first with amused impatience, + then with a vexed frown, finally with a wistful regret. He was so very old + for his age, she thought; he could not be much beyond thirty; his hair was + thick and full of waves, his eyes bright and clear, his complexion not yet + divested of all youth’s relics. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Miss May, I’m at your service,” said the + philosopher, with a lingering look at his impaled fallacy; and he closed + the book, keeping it, however, on his knee. + </p> + <p> + The girl sat down just opposite to him. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a very important thing I want to ask you,” she + began, tugging at a tuft of grass, “and it’s very—difficult, + and you mustn’t tell any one I asked you; at least, I’d rather + you didn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall not speak of it; indeed, I shall probably not remember it,” + said the philosopher. + </p> + <p> + “And you mustn’t look at me, please, while I’m asking + you.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think I was looking at you, but if I was I beg your + pardon,” said the philosopher, apologetically. + </p> + <p> + She pulled the tuft of grass right out of the ground, and flung it from + her with all her force. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose a man—” she began. “No, that’s not + right.” + </p> + <p> + “You can take any hypothesis you please,” observed the + philosopher, “but you must verify it afterward, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do let me go on. Suppose a girl, Mr. Jerningham—I wish + you wouldn’t nod.” + </p> + <p> + “It was only to show that I followed you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, of course you ‘follow me’, as you call it. Suppose + a girl had two lovers—you’re nodding again—or, I ought + to say, suppose there were two men who might be in love with a girl.” + </p> + <p> + “Only two?” asked the philosopher. “You see, any number + of men might be in love with— + </p> + <p> + “Oh, we can leave the rest out,” said Miss May, with a sudden + dimple; “they don’t matter.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” said the philosopher, “if they are + irrelevant we will put them aside.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose, then, that one of these men was, oh, <i>awfully</i> in + love with the girl, and—and proposed, you know—” + </p> + <p> + “A moment!” said the philosopher, opening a note-book. “Let + me take down his proposition. What was it?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, proposed to her—asked her to marry him,” said the + girl, with a stare. + </p> + <p> + “Dear me! How stupid of me! I forgot that special use of the word. + Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “The girl likes him pretty well, and her people approve of him, and + all that, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “That simplifies the problem,” said the philosopher, nodding + again. + </p> + <p> + “But she’s not in—in love with him, you know. She doesn’t + really care for him—much. Do you understand?” + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly. It is a most natural state of mind.” + </p> + <p> + “Well then, suppose that there’s another man—what are + you writing?” + </p> + <p> + “I only put down (B)—like that,” pleaded the + philosopher, meekly exhibiting his note-book. + </p> + <p> + She looked at him in a sort of helpless exasperation, with just a smile + somewhere in the background of it. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you really are—” she exclaimed. “But let me + go on. The other man is a friend of the girl’s: he’s very + clever—oh, fearfully clever—and he’s rather handsome. + You needn’t put that down.” + </p> + <p> + “It is certainly not very material,” admitted the philosopher, + and he crossed out ‘handsome’; ‘clever’ he left. + </p> + <p> + “And the girl is most awfully—she admires him tremendously; + she thinks him just the greatest man that ever lived, you know. And she—she—” + The girl paused. + </p> + <p> + “I’m following,” said the philosopher, with pencil + poised. + </p> + <p> + “She’d think it better than the whole world if—if she + could be anything to him, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean become his wife?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, of course I do—at least, I suppose I do.” + </p> + <p> + “You spoke rather vaguely, you know.” + </p> + <p> + The girl cast one glance at the philosopher as she replied: + </p> + <p> + “Well, yes; I did mean become his wife.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Well?” + </p> + <p> + “But,” continued the girl, starting on another tuft of grass, + “he doesn’t think much about those things. He likes her. I + think he likes her-” + </p> + <p> + “Well, doesn’t dislike her?” suggested the philosopher. + “Shall we call him indifferent?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. Yes, rather indifferent. I don’t think he + thinks about it, you know. But she—she’s pretty. You needn’t + put that down.” + </p> + <p> + “I was not about to do so,” observed the philosopher. + </p> + <p> + “She thinks life with him would be just heaven; and-and she thinks + she would make him awfully happy. She would-would be so proud of him, you + see.” + </p> + <p> + “I see. Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “And—I don’t know how to put it, quite—she thinks + that if he ever thought about it at all he might care for her; because he + doesn’t care for anybody else, and she’s pretty—” + </p> + <p> + “You said that before.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh dear, I dare say I did. And most men care for somebody, don’t + they? Some girl, I mean.” + </p> + <p> + “Most men, no doubt,” conceded the philosopher. + </p> + <p> + “Well then, what ought she to do? It’s not a real thing, you + know, Mr. Jerningham. It’s in—in a novel I was reading.” + She said this hastily, and blushed as she spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Dear me! And it’s quite an interesting case! Yes, I see. The + question is, Will she act most wisely in accepting the offer of the man + who loves her exceedingly, but for whom she entertains only a moderate + affection—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; just a liking. He’s just a friend.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly. Or in marrying the other whom she loves ex—” + </p> + <p> + “That’s not it. How can she marry him? He hasn’t—he + hasn’t asked her, you see.” + </p> + <p> + “True; I forgot. Let us assume, though, for the moment, that he has + asked her. She would then have to consider which marriage would probably + be productive of the greater sum total of—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but you needn’t consider that.” + </p> + <p> + “But it seems the best logical order. We can afterward make + allowance for the element of uncertainty caused by—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no; I don’t want it like that. I know perfectly well which + she’d do if he-the other man you know-asked her.” + </p> + <p> + “You apprehend that—” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind what I ‘apprehend’. Take it as I told you.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good. A has asked her hand, B has not.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “May I take it that, but for the disturbing influence of B, A would + be a satisfactory—er—candidate?” + </p> + <p> + “Ye—es; I think so.” + </p> + <p> + “She therefore enjoys a certainty of considerable happiness if she + marries A?” + </p> + <p> + “Ye—es; not perfect, because of—B, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite so, quite so; but still a fair amount of happiness. Is it not + so?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t—well, perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + “On the other hand, if B did ask her, we are to postulate a higher + degree of happiness for her?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, please, Mr. Jerningham—much higher.” + </p> + <p> + “For both of them?” + </p> + <p> + “For her. Never mind him.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. That again simplifies the problem. But his asking her is + a contingency only?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that’s all.” + </p> + <p> + The philosopher spread out his hands. + </p> + <p> + “My dear young lady,” he said, “it becomes a question of + degree. How probable or improbable is it?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know; not very probable—unless—” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Unless he did happen to notice, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes; we supposed that, if he thought of it, he would probably + take the desired step-at least, that he might be led to do so. Could she + not—er—indicate her preference?” + </p> + <p> + “She might try—no, she couldn’t do much. You see, he—he + doesn’t think about such things.” + </p> + <p> + “I understand precisely. And it seems to me, Miss May, that in that + very fact we find our solution.” + </p> + <p> + “Do we?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I think so. He has evidently no natural inclination toward her—perhaps + not toward marriage at all. Any feeling aroused in him would be + necessarily shallow and, in a measure, artificial, and in all likelihood + purely temporary. Moreover, if she took steps to arouse his attention one + of two things would be likely to happen. Are you following me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Mr. Jerningham.” + </p> + <p> + “Either he would be repelled by her overtures, which you must admit + is not improbable, and then the position would be unpleasant, and even + degrading, for her; or, on the other hand, he might, through a misplaced + feeling of gallantry—” + </p> + <p> + “Through what?” + </p> + <p> + “Through a mistaken idea of politeness, or a mistaken view of what + was kind, allow himself to be drawn into a connection for which he had no + genuine liking. You agree with me that one or other of these things would + be likely?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I suppose they would, unless he did come to care for her.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you return to that hypothesis. I think it’s an extremely + fanciful one. No, she need not marry A, but she must let B alone.” + </p> + <p> + The philosopher closed his book, took off his glasses, wiped them, + replaced them, and leaned back against the trunk of the apple-tree. The + girl picked a dandelion in pieces. After a long pause she asked: + </p> + <p> + “You think B’s feelings wouldn’t be at all likely to—to + change?” + </p> + <p> + “That depends on the sort of man he is. But if he is an able man, + with intellectual interests which engross him-a man who has chosen his + path in life—a man to whom women’s society is not a necessity—” + </p> + <p> + “He’s just like that,” said the girl, and she bit the + head off a daisy. + </p> + <p> + “Then,” said the philosopher, “I see not the least + reason for supposing that his feelings will change.” + </p> + <p> + “And would you advise her to marry the other—A?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, on the whole, I should. A is a good fellow (I think we made A + a good fellow), he is a suitable match, his love for her is true and + genuine—” + </p> + <p> + “It’s tremendous!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—and—er—extreme. She likes him. There is every + reason to hope that her liking will develop into a sufficiently deep and + stable affection. She will get rid of her folly about B, and make A a good + wife. Yes, Miss May, if I were the author of your novel I should make her + marry A, and I should call that a happy ending.” + </p> + <p> + A silence followed. It was broken by the philosopher. + </p> + <p> + “Is that all you wanted my opinion about, Miss May?” he asked, + with his finger between the leaves of the treatise on ontology. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I think so. I hope I haven’t bored you?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve enjoyed the discussion extremely. I had no idea that + novels raised points of such psychological interest. I must find time to + read one.” + </p> + <p> + The girl had shifted her position till, instead of her full face, her + profile was turned toward him. Looking away toward the paddock that lay + brilliant in sunshine on the skirts of the apple orchard, she asked in low + slow tones, twisting her hands in her lap: + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you think that perhaps if B found out afterward-when + she had married A, you know—that she had cared for him so very, very + much, he might be a little sorry?” + </p> + <p> + “If he were a gentleman he would regret it deeply.” + </p> + <p> + “I mean—sorry on his own account; that—that he had + thrown away all that, you know?” + </p> + <p> + The philosopher looked meditative. + </p> + <p> + “I think,” he pronounced, “that it is very possible he + would. I can well imagine it.” + </p> + <p> + “He might never find anybody to love him like that again,” she + said, gazing on the gleaming paddock. + </p> + <p> + “He probably would not,” agreed the philosopher. + </p> + <p> + “And—and most people like being loved, don’t they?” + </p> + <p> + “To crave for love is an almost universal instinct, Miss May.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, almost,” she said, with a dreary little smile. “You + see, he’ll get old, and-and have no one to look after him.” + </p> + <p> + “He will.” + </p> + <p> + “And no home.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, in a sense, none,” corrected the philosopher, smiling. + “But really you’ll frighten me. I’m a bachelor myself, + you know, Miss May.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she whispered, just audibly. + </p> + <p> + “And all your terrors are before me.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, unless—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, we needn’t have that ‘unless’,” laughed + the philosopher, cheerfully. “There’s no ‘unless’ + about it, Miss May.” + </p> + <p> + The girl jumped to her feet; for an instant she looked at the philosopher. + She opened her lips as if to speak, and at the thought of what lay at her + tongue’s tip her face grew red. But the philosopher was gazing past + her, and his eyes rested in calm contemplation on the gleaming paddock. + </p> + <p> + “A beautiful thing, sunshine, to be sure,” said he. + </p> + <p> + Her blush faded away into paleness; her lips closed. Without speaking, she + turned and walked slowly away, her head drooping. The philosopher heard + the rustle of her skirt in the long grass of the orchard; he watched her + for a few moments. + </p> + <p> + “A pretty, graceful creature,” said he, with a smile. Then he + opened his book, took his pencil in his hand, and slipped in a careful + forefinger to mark the fly-leaf. + </p> + <p> + The sun had passed mid-heaven and began to decline westward before he + finished the book. Then he stretched himself and looked at his watch. + </p> + <p> + “Good gracious, two o’clock! I shall be late for lunch!” + and he hurried to his feet. + </p> + <p> + He was very late for lunch. + </p> + <p> + “Everything’s cold,” wailed his hostess. “Where + have you been, Mr. Jerningham?” + </p> + <p> + “Only in the orchard—reading.” + </p> + <p> + “And you’ve missed May!” + </p> + <p> + “Missed Miss May? How do you mean? I had a long talk with her this + morning-a most interesting talk.” + </p> + <p> + “But you weren’t here to say good-by. Now you don’t mean + to say that you forgot that she was leaving by the two-o’clock + train? What a man you are!” + </p> + <p> + “Dear me! To think of my forgetting it!” said the philosopher, + shamefacedly. + </p> + <p> + “She told me to say good-bye to you for her.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s very kind. I can’t forgive myself.” + </p> + <p> + His hostess looked at him for a moment; then she sighed, and smiled, and + sighed again. + </p> + <p> + “Have you everything you want?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Everything, thank you,” said he, sitting down opposite the + cheese, and propping his book (he thought he would just run through the + last chapter again) against the loaf; “everything in the world that + I want, thanks.” + </p> + <p> + His hostess did not tell him that the girl had come in from the apple + orchard and run hastily upstairs, lest her friend should see what her + friend did see in her eyes. So that he had no suspicion at all that he had + received an offer of marriage-and refused it. And he did not refer to + anything of that sort when he paused once in his reading and exclaimed: + </p> + <p> + “I’m really sorry I missed Miss May. That was an interesting + case of hers. But I gave the right answer; the girl ought to marry A.” + </p> + <p> + And so the girl did. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DECREE OF DUKE DEODONATO + </h2> + <p> + “It is a most anxious thing—to be an absolute ruler,” + said Duke Deodonato, “but I have made up my mind. The Doctor has + convinced me (here Dr. Fusbius, Ph.D., bowed very low) that marriage is + the best, noblest, wholesomest, and happiest of human conditions.” + </p> + <p> + “Your Highness will remember—” began the President of + the Council. + </p> + <p> + “My lord, I have made up my mind,” said Duke Deodonato. + </p> + <p> + Thus speaking, the Duke took a large sheet of foolscap paper, and wrote + rapidly for a moment or two. + </p> + <p> + “There,” he said, pushing the paper over to the President, + “is the decree.” + </p> + <p> + “The decree, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “I think three weeks afford ample space,” said Duke Deodonato. + </p> + <p> + “Three weeks, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “For every man over twenty-one years of age in this Duchy to find + himself a wife.” + </p> + <p> + “Your Highness,” observed Dr. Fusbius with deference, “will + consider that between an abstract proposition and a practical measure—” + </p> + <p> + “There is to the logical mind no stopping-place,” interrupted + Duke Deodonato. + </p> + <p> + “But, sir,” cried the President, “imagine the + consternation which this—!” + </p> + <p> + “Let it be gazetted to-night,” said Duke Deodonato. + </p> + <p> + “I would venture,” said the President, “to remind your + Highness that you are yourself a bachelor.” + </p> + <p> + “Laws,” said Duke Deodonato, “do not bind the Crown + unless the Crown is expressly mentioned.” + </p> + <p> + “True, sir; but I humbly conceive that it would be pessimi exempli—” + </p> + <p> + “You are right; I will marry myself,” said Duke Deodonato. + </p> + <p> + “But, sir, three weeks! The hand of a princess cannot be requested + and granted in—” + </p> + <p> + “Then find me somebody else,” said Deodonato; “and pray + leave me. I would be alone;” and Duke Deodonato waved his hand to + the door. + </p> + <p> + Outside the door the President said to the Doctor, + </p> + <p> + “I could wish, sir, that you had not convinced his Highness.” + </p> + <p> + “My lord,” rejoined the Doctor, “truth is my only + preoccupation.” + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” said the President, “are you married?” + </p> + <p> + “My lord,” answered the Doctor, “I am not.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought not,” said the President, as he folded up the + decree, and put it in his pocket. + </p> + <p> + It is useless to deny that Duke Deodonato’s decree caused + considerable disturbance in the Duchy. In the first place, the Crown + lawyers raised a puzzle of law. Did the word ‘man’ as used in + the decree, include woman’? + </p> + <p> + The President shook his head, and referred the question to his Highness. + </p> + <p> + “It seems immaterial,” observed the Duke. “If a man + marries, a woman marries.” + </p> + <p> + “Ex vi terminorum,” assented the Doctor. + </p> + <p> + “But, sir,” said the President, “there are more women + than men in the Duchy.” + </p> + <p> + Duke Deodonato threw down his pen. “This is very provoking,” + said he. “Why was it allowed? I’m sure it happened before <i>I</i> + came to the throne.” + </p> + <p> + The Doctor was about to point out that it could hardly have been guarded + against, when the President (who was a better courtier) anticipated him. + </p> + <p> + “We did not foresee that your Highness, in your Highness’s + wisdom, would issue this decree,” he said humbly. + </p> + <p> + “True,” said Duke Deodonato, who was a just man. + </p> + <p> + “Would your Highness vouchsafe any explanation—?” + </p> + <p> + “What are the Judges for?” asked Duke Deodonato. “There + is the law—let them interpret it.” + </p> + <p> + Whereupon the Judges held that a ‘man’ was not a ‘woman’ + and that although every man must marry, no woman need. + </p> + <p> + “It will make no difference,” said the President. + </p> + <p> + “None at all,” said Dr. Fusbius. + </p> + <p> + Nor, perhaps, would it, seeing that women are ever kind, and in no way by + nature averse from marriage, had it not become known that Duke Deodonato + himself intended to choose a wife from the ladies of his own dominions, + and to choose her (according to the advice of Dr. Fusbius, who, in truth, + saw little whither his counsel would in the end carry the Duke) without + regard to such adventitious matters as rank or wealth, and purely for her + beauty, talent, and virtue. Which resolve being proclaimed, straightway + all the ladies of the Duchy, of whatsoever station, calling, age, + appearance, wit, or character, conceiving each of them that she, and no + other, should become the Duchess, sturdily refused all offers of marriage + (although they were many of them as desperately enamored as virtuous + ladies may be), and did nought else than walk, drive, ride, and display + their charms in the park before the windows of the ducal palace. And thus + it fell out that when a week had gone by, no man had obeyed Duke Deodonato’s + decree, and they were, from sheer want of brides, like to fall into + contempt of the law and under the high displeasure of the Duke. + </p> + <p> + Upon this the President and Dr. Fusbius sought audience of his Highness, + and humbly laid before him the unforeseen obstacle which had occurred. + </p> + <p> + “Woman is ever ambitious,” said Dr. Fusbius. + </p> + <p> + “Nay,” corrected the President, “they have seen his + Highness’s person as his Highness has ridden through the city.” + </p> + <p> + Duke Deodonato threw down his pen. + </p> + <p> + “This is very tiresome,” said he, knitting his brows. “My + lord, I would be further advised on this matter. Return at the same hour + to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + The next day Duke Deodonato’s forehead had regained its customary + smoothness, and his manner was tranquil and assured. + </p> + <p> + “Our pleasure is,” said he to the President, “that, + albeit no woman shall be compelled to marry if so be that she be not + invited thereunto; yet, if bidden, she shall in no wise refuse, but + straightway espouse that man who first after the date of these presents + shall solicit her hand.” + </p> + <p> + The President bowed in admiration. + </p> + <p> + “It is, if I may humbly say so, a practical and wise solution, sir,” + he said. + </p> + <p> + “I apprehend that it will remedy the mischief,” said Duke + Deodonato, not ill-pleased. + </p> + <p> + And doubtless it would have had an effect as altogether satisfactory, + excellent, beneficial, salutary, and universal as the wisdom of Duke + Deodonato had anticipated from it, had it not fallen out that, on the + promulgation of the decree, all the aforesaid ladies of the Duchy, of + whatsoever station, calling, age, appearance, wit, or character, + straightway, and so swiftly that no man had time wherein to pay his court + to them, fled to and shut and bottled and barricaded themselves in houses, + castles, cupboards, cellars, stables, lofts, churches, chapels, chests, + and every other kind of receptacle whatsoever, and there remained beyond + reach of any man, be he whom he would, lest haply one, coming, should ask + their hand in marriage, and thus they should lose all prospect of wedding + the Duke. + </p> + <p> + When Duke Deodonato was apprised of this lamentable action on the part of + the ladies of the Duchy, he frowned and laid down his pen. + </p> + <p> + “This is very annoying,” said he. “There appears to be a + disposition to thwart Our endeavors for the public good.” + </p> + <p> + “It is gross contumacy,” said Dr. Fusbius. + </p> + <p> + “Yet,” remarked the President, “inspired by a natural, + if ill-disciplined, admiration for his Highness’s person.” + </p> + <p> + “The decree is now a fortnight old,” observed Duke Deodonato. + “Leave me, I will consider further of this matter.” + </p> + <p> + Now even as his Highness spoke a mighty uproar arose under the palace + windows, and Duke Deodonato, looking out of the window (which, be it + remembered, but for the guidance of Heaven he might not have done), beheld + a maiden of wonderful charms struggling in the clutches of two halberdiers + of the guard, who were haling her off to prison. + </p> + <p> + “Bring hither that damsel,” said Deodonato. + </p> + <p> + Presently the damsel, still held by the soldiers, entered the room. Her + robe was dishevelled and rent, her golden hair hung loose on her + shoulders, and her eyes were full of tears. + </p> + <p> + “At whose suit is she arrested?” asked Deodonato. + </p> + <p> + “At the suit of the most learned Dr. Fusbius, may it please your + Highness.” + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” said Dr. Fusbius, “it is true. This lady, grossly + contemning your Highness’s decree, has refused my hand in marriage.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it true, damsel?” asked Duke Deodonato. + </p> + <p> + “Hear me, your Highness!” answered she “I left my + dwelling but an instant, for we were in sore straits for—” + </p> + <p> + “Bread?” asked Deodonato, a touch of sympathy in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “May it please your Highness, no—pins wherewith to fasten our + hair. And, as I ran to the merchant’s, this aged man—” + </p> + <p> + “I am but turned of fifty,” interrupted Fusbius. + </p> + <p> + “And have not yet learnt silence?” asked Deodonato severely. + “Damsel, proceed!” + </p> + <p> + “Caught me by my gown as I ran and—” + </p> + <p> + “I proposed marriage to her,” said Fusbius. + </p> + <p> + “Nay, if you proposed marriage, she shall marry you,” said + Deodonato. “By the crown of my fathers, she shall marry you. But + what said he, damsel?” + </p> + <p> + “May it please your Highness, he said that I had the prettiest face + in all the Duchy, and that he would have no wife but me; and thereupon he + kissed me; and I would have none of him, and I struck him and escaped.” + </p> + <p> + “Send for the Judges,” said Duke Deodonato. “And + meanwhile keep this damsel and let no man propose marriage to her until + Our pleasure be known.” + </p> + <p> + Now when the Judges were come, and the maiden was brought in and set over + against them on the right hand, and the learned Doctor took his stand on + the left, Deodonato prayed the Judges that they would perpend carefully + and anxiously of the question—using all lore, research, wisdom, + discretion, and justice—whether Dr. Fusbius had proposed marriage + unto the maiden or no. + </p> + <p> + “Thus shalt Our mind be informed, and We shall deal profitably with + this matter,” concluded Duke Deodonato. + </p> + <p> + Upon which arose great debate. For there was one part of the learned men + which leant upon the letter and found no invitation to marriage in the + words of Dr. Fusbius; while another part would have it that in all things + the spirit and mind of the utterer must be regarded, and that it sorted + not with the years, virtues, learning, and position of the said most + learned Doctor to suppose that he had spoken such words and sealed the + same with a kiss, save under the firm impression, thought, and conviction + that he was offering his hand in marriage; which said impression, thought, + and conviction were fully and reasonably declared and evident in his + actions, manner, bearing, air, and conduct. + </p> + <p> + “This is very perplexing,” said Duke Deodonato, and he knit + his brows; for as he gazed upon the beauty of the damsel, it seemed to him + a thing unnatural, undesirable, unpalatable, unpleasant, and unendurable, + that she should wed Dr. Fusbius. Yet if such were the law—Duke + Deodonato sighed, and he glanced at the damsel: and it chanced that the + damsel glanced at Duke Deodonato, and, seeing that he was a proper man and + comely, and that his eye spoke his admiration of her, she blushed; and her + cheek that had gone white when those of the Judges who favored the learned + Doctor were speaking, went red as a rose again, and she strove to order + her hair and to conceal the rent that was in her robe. And Duke Deodonato + sighed again. + </p> + <p> + “My Lord,” he said to the President, “we have heard + these wise and erudite men; and, forasmuch as the matter is difficult, + they are divided among themselves, and the staff whereon we leant is + broken. Speak, therefore, your mind.” + </p> + <p> + Then the President of the Council looked earnestly at Duke Deodonato, but + the Duke veiled his face with his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Answer truly,” said he, “without fear or favor; so + shall you fulfil Our pleasure.” + </p> + <p> + And the President, looking round upon the company, said: + </p> + <p> + “It is, Your Highness, by all reasonable, honest, just, proper, and + honorable intendment, as good, sound, full, and explicit an offer of + marriage as hath ever been had in this Duchy.” + </p> + <p> + “So be it,” said Duke Deodonato; and Dr. Fusbius smiled in + triumph, while the maiden grew pale again. + </p> + <p> + “And,” pursued the President, “it binds, controls, and + rules every man, woman, and child in these Your Highness’s + dominions, and hath the force of law over all.” + </p> + <p> + “So be it,” said Deodonato again. + </p> + <p> + “Saving,” added the President, “Your Highness only.” + </p> + <p> + There was a movement among the company. + </p> + <p> + “For,” pursued the President, “by the ancient laws, + customs, manners, and observances of the Duchy, no decree or law shall in + any way whatsoever impair, alter, lessen, or derogate from the high + rights, powers, and prerogatives of Your Highness, whom may Heaven long + preserve. Although, therefore, it be, by and pursuant to Your Highness’s + decree, the sure right of every man in this Duchy to be accepted in + marriage of any damsel whom he shall invite thereunto, yet is this right + in all respects subject to and controlled by the natural, legal, + inalienable, unalterable, and sovereign prerogative of Your Highness to + marry what damsel so ever it shall be Your pleasure to bid share your + throne. Hence I, in obedience to Your Highness’s commands, pronounce + and declare that this damsel is lawfully and irrevocably bound and + affianced to the learned Dr. Fusbius, unless and until it shall please + Your Highness yourself to demand her hand in marriage. May what I have + spoken please Your Highness.” And the President sat down. + </p> + <p> + Duke Deodonato sat awhile in thought, and there was silence in the hall. + Then he spoke: + </p> + <p> + “Let all withdraw, saving the damsel only.” + </p> + <p> + And they one and all withdrew, and Duke Deodonato was left alone with the + damsel. + </p> + <p> + Then he arose and gazed long on the damsel; but the damsel would not look + on Duke Deodonato. + </p> + <p> + “How are you called, lady?” asked Duke Deodonato. + </p> + <p> + “I am called Dulcissima,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “Well named!” said Deodonato softly, and he went to the + damsel, and he laid his hand, full gently, on her robe, and he said, + “Dulcissima, you have the prettiest face in all the Duchy, and I + will have no wife but you;” and Duke Deodonato kissed the damsel. + </p> + <p> + The damsel forbore to strike Duke Deodonato, as she had struck Dr. + Fusbius. Again her cheek went red, and again pale, and she said, “I + wed no man on compulsion.” + </p> + <p> + “Madam, I am Your Sovereign,” said Duke Deodonato; and his + eyes were on the damsel. + </p> + <p> + “If you were an Archangel—!” cried the damsel. + </p> + <p> + “Our House is not wont to be scorned of ladies,” said + Deodonato. “Am I crooked, or baseborn, or a fool?” + </p> + <p> + “This day in your Duchy women are slaves, and men their masters by + your will,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “It is the order of nature,” said Deodonato. + </p> + <p> + “It is not my pleasure,” said the damsel. + </p> + <p> + Then Deodonato laid his hand on his silver bell, for he was very angry. + </p> + <p> + “Fusbius waits without,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “I will wed him and kill him,” cried Dulcissima. + </p> + <p> + Deodonato gazed on her. + </p> + <p> + “You had no chance of using the pins,” said he, “and the + rent in your gown is very sore.” + </p> + <p> + And upon this the eyes of the damsel lost their fire and sought the floor; + and she plucked at her girdle, and would not look on Deodonato. And they + said outside, “It is very still in the Hall of the Duke.” + </p> + <p> + Then said Deodonato, + </p> + <p> + “Dulcissima, what would you?” + </p> + <p> + “That you repeal your decrees,” said she. + </p> + <p> + Deodonato’s brow grew dark; he did not love to go back. + </p> + <p> + “What I have decreed, I have decreed,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “And what I have resolved, I have resolved,” said she. + </p> + <p> + Deodonato drew near to her. + </p> + <p> + “And if I repeal the decrees?” said he. + </p> + <p> + “You will do well,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “And you will wed—?” + </p> + <p> + “Whom I will,” said she. + </p> + <p> + Deodonato turned to the window, and for a space he looked out; and the + damsel smoothed her hair and drew her robe, where it was whole, across the + rent; and she looked on Deodonato as he stood, and her bosom rose and + fell. And she prayed a prayer that no man heard or, if he heard, might be + so base as to tell. But she saw the dark locks of Deodonato’s hair + and his form, straight as an arrow and tall as a six-foot wand, in the + window. And again, outside, they said, “It is strangely still in the + Hall of the Duke.” + </p> + <p> + Then Deodonato turned, and he pressed with his hand on the silver bell, + and straightway the Hall was filled with the Councillors, the Judges, and + the halberdiers, attentive to hear the will of Deodonato and the fate of + the damsel. And the small eyes of Fusbius glowed and the calm eyes of the + President smiled. + </p> + <p> + “My Cousins, Gentlemen, and my faithful Guard,” said + Deodonato, “Time, which is Heaven’s mighty Instrument, brings + counsel. Say! what the Duke has done, shall any man undo?” + </p> + <p> + Then cried they all, save one, “No man!” + </p> + <p> + And the President said, “Saving the Duke.” + </p> + <p> + “The decrees which I made,” said Deodonato, “I unmake. + Henceforth let men and maidens in my Duchy marry or not marry as they + will, and God give them joy of it.” + </p> + <p> + And all, save Fusbius, cried “Amen.” But Fusbius cried, + “Your Highness, it is demonstrated beyond cavil, ay, to the + satisfaction of your Highness—” + </p> + <p> + “This is very tedious,” said Deodonato. “Let him speak + no more.” + </p> + <p> + And again he drew near to Dulcissima, and there, before them all, he fell + on his knee. And a murmur ran through the hall. + </p> + <p> + “Madam,” said Deodonato, “if you love me, wed me. And, + if you love me not, depart in peace and in honor; and I, Deodonato, will + live my life alone.” + </p> + <p> + Then the damsel trembled, and barely did Deodonato catch her words: + </p> + <p> + “There are many men here,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “It is not given to Princes,” said Deodonato, “to be + alone. Nevertheless, if you will, leave me alone.” + </p> + <p> + And the damsel bent low, so that the breath of her mouth stirred the hair + on Deodonato’s head, and he shivered as he knelt. + </p> + <p> + “My Prince and my King!” said she. + </p> + <p> + And Deodonato shot to his feet, and before them all he kissed her, and, + turning, spoke: + </p> + <p> + “As I have wooed, let every man in this Duchy woo. As I have won, + let every man that is worthy win. For, unless he so woo, and unless he so + win, vain is his wooing and vain is his winning, and a fig for his + wedding, say I, Deodonato! I, that was Deodonato, and now am—Deodonato + and Dulcissima.” + </p> + <p> + And a great cheer rang out in the Hall, and Fusbius fled to the door; and + they tore his gown as he went and cursed him for a knave. But the + President raised his voice aloud and cried—“May Heaven + preserve your Highnesses—and here’s a blessing on all windows!” + </p> + <p> + And that is the reason why you will find (if you travel there, as I trust + you may, for nowhere are the ladies fairer or the men so gallant) more + windows in the Duchy of Deodonato than anywhere in the wide world besides. + For the more windows, the wider the view; and the wider the view, the more + pretty damsels do you see; and the more pretty damsels you see, the more + jocund a thing is life-and that is what the men of the Duchy love—and + not least Duke Deodonato, whom, with his bride Dulcissima, may Heaven long + preserve! + </p> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Comedies of Courtship, by Anthony Hope + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP *** + +***** This file should be named 24985-h.htm or 24985-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/9/8/24985/ + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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