MR. GRANT, like other men in whom a quiet demeanor is the result rather of experience than of temperament, was very observant; and he had observed several things during and after the day at Richmond. It may be assumed that he had not planned that expedition without some anticipation that it might have results particularly affecting Philip and Marion; and up to the moment when the party were overtaken, on their way home, by the Marquise Desmoines, he had reason to think that his anticipations had not been deceived. Since that moment, however, a change had taken place. Philip had worn an aspect of gloomy dejection at variance with his customary bearing; and Marion’s mood had been exaggerated and unequal; sometimes manifesting an over-accented gayety, at other times relapsing abruptly and without apparent cause into depths of wayward perversity. This state of things continued without much modification for several days; it being further noticeable that the young people avoided private interviews, or at any rate did not have any: for, if Philip desired them, Marion had the means of balking his desire. In the presence of other persons, however, she seemed not averse from holding converse with him, but her speech on such occasions had a mocking and unconciliating ring about it; and Philip’s replies were brief and unenterprising. Evidently, the pegs that made their music had been set down awry. There had been some sweet melody for a while. Who was their Iago?
“What a very charming lady is the Marquise Desmoines,” remarked Mr. Grant one day to Philip. “Ihave seldom seen a more lovely face or a more engaging manner.”
“Yes,” returned the young man, looking away, and drumming on the table with his fingers.
“It was easy to see that you and she were on the best of terms with each other,” the old gentleman continued.
Philip folded his arms, and tapped on the floor with his foot.
“She seemed to take a great fancy to Marion,” Mr. Grant went on. “They bid fair to become great friends. It would be an excellent thing for Marion, would it not?”
“Upon my word, sir, it’s none of my business,” exclaimed Philip, rather impatiently. “Miss Lockhart will choose her friends to please herself, I presume. If it were my place to offer her advice in the matter, it might be different. With your permission, I prefer not to discuss the subject.”
“As you please, my dear Philip,” replied Mr. Grant, composedly taking snuff. “For my own part, it appeared to me that the Marquise could give Marion those social advantages and opportunities that she especially needs. This invitation to her soirée will probably be the precursor of others. By the by, you will be present, of course?”
“Yes, that is my intention,” said Philip, after a pause; and his tone had something defiant or threatening in it, as if he meant not only to be present, but to do some deed of note when he got there.
The Marquise’s party was, as she had intimated, strictly limited as to numbers. It was not her wish to begin her formal entertainments as yet; her bereavement was still too recent, and, moreover, her new house was not in order. She might, possibly, have contrived to get along without giving any party at all, just at present; but she was enough a woman of the world not always to demand logical behavior of herself, any more than to expect it in other people. She wished to feelthe atmosphere of the new society into which she was about to enter, and to compare it with that which she had left. It would be novel; it might or it might not be preferable. The Marquise might decide, upon this experiment, not to settle in London after all. Straws may show how the wind blows. She had no one’s pleasure or convenience to think of but her own. There was not even the Marquis now, who, if he did not have things his own way, at all events had occasionally afforded her the gratification of having hers in spite of him; and whose demise she perhaps regretted as much on that account as on any other. For the lady was of a strong and valiant disposition, and wanted something more in life than abject assent, and yielding beds of down. She wanted resistance, almost defeat, in order to give zest to victory. She wanted a strong man to fight with. In her heart, she believed she was stronger than any man she was likely to come across; but there were men, no doubt, who might be formidable enough to be temporarily interesting. What manner of man in other respects this champion might be, would matter little to the Marquise. Like most women of first-rate ability she was at bottom a democrat: rank was her convenience, but she had no respect for it or belief in it. Had she detected, in a stevedore or Hindoo, stuff that was not to be had elsewhere, she would have received and entertained him. Meanwhile, she was well content to put up with Philip Lancaster. There was stuff in him: there was perhaps something in his past relations with her which rendered their present mutual attitude more piquant; and then, there was that little bud of a romance which the Marquise had surprised on Richmond Hill. Upon the whole she was justified in giving her little party.
Sir Francis Bendibow was the first to arrive, bringing with him Merton Fillmore, whom he introduced as follows:“A man, my dear creature, whom I’ve long wished to make known to you. Most brilliant fellow in London; my personal friend, as well as the trusted adviser of the House.” He added in her ear, “You know—Fillmore, son of old Cadwallader Fillmore ... uncle the Honorable ... and Constance, you know ... married Lord Divorn ... that’s the man! make friends with each other.”
“I think,” said the Marquise, glancing at the lawyer as she gave him her hand, “that Mr. Fillmore is more accustomed to choose his friends than to be chosen.”
This bit of impromptu criticism arrested Fillmore’s attention. After a pause he said:
“My friends are my clients, and I don’t choose them.”
“I mean, you have not found it wise to be troubled with women. If I were a man I might think as you do, but I should act otherwise. But then I should not be a barrister.”
“I am a solicitor.”
The Marquise laughed. “Men of real genius distinguish their professions—they are not distinguished by them ... I comprehend!”
“You would have made a better solicitor than I,” said Fillmore, with something like a smile. “Your cross-examination would be very damaging.”
“We shall be all the better friends,” rejoined the Marquise, good humoredly. “Mr. Fillmore is charming,” she added to Sir Francis, who had just returned from a promenade to the other end of the room, where he had been admiring himself in a looking-glass, under cover of smelling a vase of flowers on the mantelpiece.
“Aye, indeed, kindred spirits,” said the baronet, nodding and smiling complacently. “But how is this, eh? May we hope to monopolize these privileges all the evening?”
“Here comes a rival,” answered the Marquise, as thedoor opened, and Mr. Thomas Bendibow was ushered in. “I expect Mr. Philip Lancaster also. Do you know him, Mr. Fillmore? How do you do, Tom? What lovely flowers! For me? You arepreux chevalier; that is more than your papa ever did for me.”
“You know I don’t think of anything but you—well, I don’t, by George! Oh, I say, don’t you look ravishing to-night, Perdita!” exclaimed this ingenuous youth. “I say, there ain’t any other people coming, are there? I want to have you all to myself to-night.”
“Tom, you are not to make love to your sister—before company!”
“Oh, sister be——! I know—you are going to flirt with that Lancaster fellow—”
“You have not told me if you know Mr. Lancaster?” said the Marquise, turning to Merton Fillmore.
“I have read his ‘Sunshine of Revolt,’ ” replied the solicitor.
“Good Gad!” ejaculated Sir Francis, below his breath. He was gazing toward the doorway, in which several persons now appeared—the Lockhart party, in fact—and his ruddy visage became quite pallid.
The Marquise’s beautiful eyes lighted up. She had had some secret doubts as to whether Lancaster would come, for she understood not a little of the intricacies of that gentleman’s character; but here he was, and she felt that she had scored the first success in the encounter. To get the better of any one, the first condition is to get him within your reach. But Perdita took care that the brightness of her eyes should not shine upon Philip too soon. She turned first upon Mrs. Lockhart and Marion. She had taken the former’s measure at first sight, and knew how to make her feel pleased and at ease. Marion was a more complex problem; but Marion did not know the world, and it was simple enough to disappoint her probable anticipation that theMarquise would at once monopolize Philip. The Marquise lost no time in introducing Philip to Mr. Fillmore, on the basis of the latter’s having read “The Sunshine of Revolt,” and left the two gentlemen to make friends or foes of each other as they might see fit. She then devoted herself to the two ladies, and incidentally to Mr. Grant, whom she had invited simply as a friend of theirs, and in whom she took no particular interest. Mr. Thomas Bendibow, considering himself slighted, strolled off into an adjoining room to indulge his wrongs over a glass of sherry. The baronet, who was almost manifestly laboring under some unusual embarrassment or emotion, attached himself, after some hesitation, to the Marquise’s party, and endeavored to monopolize the conversation of Mr. Grant. That gentleman, however, met his advances with a quiet reticence, which was beyond Sir Francis’ skill to overcome. By degrees he found himself constrained to address himself more and more to Mrs. and Miss Lockhart; and Perdita, somewhat to her own surprise, was drawn more and more to look and speak to Mr. Grant. There was something about him—in his old-fashioned but noticeable aspect, in his quiet, observant manner—in the things he said—that arrested the Marquise’s attention in spite of herself. Here was a man who had seen and known something: a man—not a suit of clothes, with a series of set grimaces, attitudes and phrases. Manhood had an invincible attraction for this lady, no matter what the guise in which it presented itself to her. At last she and Mr. Grant insensibly settled down to what was practically atête-à-tête.
“You must find it lonely here in England after so many years,” she said.
“My exile is a cage of invisibility for me,” answered Mr. Grant. “I find few to see and recognize me, but that does not prevent me from seeing and recognizing much that is familiar. I find that England stands whereit did, and is none the less homelike for having forgotten me. Indeed, one may say, without being cynical, that the memory of old friends is almost as pleasant, and in some respects more convenient, than their presence would be.”
The Marquise laughed. “I think your old friends might call that cynical, if they could hear it.”
“You would recognize its truth in your own case,” said Mr. Grant, half interrogatively.
She lifted her eyebrows, as if the remark required explanation.
“An old fellow like me sometimes knows more about the origins of the younger generation than they know themselves. I had the honor of your acquaintance when you were learning to say ‘Papa,’ and wore little pink slippers.”
“Ah!” murmured the Marquise, looking at him keenly. “Then....” she paused.
“And your father also,” said Mr. Grant, in a low voice.
“Sir Francis Bendibow,” said Perdita, after a pause.
Mr. Grant met her glance, and said nothing.
“Now I think of it,” remarked Perdita, tapping her chin lightly with the handle of her fan. “I am inclined to agree with you. Memories may sometimes be more convenient than presence.”
“It is not always the convenient that happens, however,” rejoined the old gentleman. “And convenience itself may sometimes, on some accounts, be less desirable than an acceptance of facts. If Sir Francis Bendibow, let us say, had been suspected of a grave indiscretion in early life, and had in consequence disappeared from society, leaving his family behind him—”
“His family would probably, in the course of time, become reconciled to his absence,” interrupted Perdita, coloring slightly. “Human relationship is not so rigidand important a matter as romancers and sentimentalists try to make it out, Mr. Grant. As long as my child, or my husband, or my father continues to live within my sight and reach, I acknowledge myself the mother, wife, or daughter, and conduct myself accordingly. But if they vanish from my knowledge and remembrance, I learn to do without them, and they have no further concern with me. If they die, I shall not weep for them, and if they return, I shall not care for them. If I were more imaginative, or more inclined to feel my emotions to order, it might be otherwise. But it is my nature to feel my own emotions, and not other people’s, and to see things as they are, and not as poetry pretends. My father, sir, is not the man who brought me into the world and then abandoned me, but—on the whole,” she added, suddenly and completely changing her tone and manner, and speaking smilingly, “I prefer to say that I have no father at all, and want none.”
Her speech had been more like that of a frigid and saturnine man, than like the utterance of a beautiful and youthful woman. Mr. Grant had listened to it attentively. He appeared to meditate for a few moments after she had ceased, and then he said, “I too have felt the force of circumstances, and should be the last to underrate it. Ambassadors, you know”—here he smiled a little—“are less deaf to the voice of reason than principals might be. I am intrusted with plenary powers, and may relinquish my side of the discussion definitively. I should regret my mission, were it not that it has obtained me a charming and valuable acquaintance”—here he bowed ceremoniously—“which I trust may continue. If I have annoyed you, be satisfied that I shall never subject you to the same annoyance again—nor to any other, I hope.”
“I have made no disguise of my selfishness, you see,” said the Marquise, with gayety in her voice, but witha somewhat contradictory expression about her eyes and mouth. After a moment she went on as if impelled, despite a certain reluctance, “But I am unselfish too, as you will find out if you come to know me better. You will find out that I am not a daughter whom any parent with a sense of prudence and self-respect would put out his hand to reclaim.” And hereupon the Marquise laughed, while tears sparkled for an instant on her eyelashes.
“What says our fair hostess,” called out the voice of Sir Francis Bendibow, from the other side of the table, where he was conversing with the other two ladies, while his eyes and thoughts were elsewhere; “Should a man who loves two women give up both of them, or settle upon one? Come, ladies, the Marquise shall be our umpire—eh?”
“It is not a question for an umpire to decide,” replied the Marquise. “Let the man put his case before the two women, and leave them to settle it between themselves.”
“But we are supposing him to be an ordinary man, not a hero.”
“Then he would not find more than one woman to be in love with him.”
“And it might turn out,” remarked Marion, “that he was deceived in supposing himself capable of being really in love with anybody.”
“If he were a hero, I’m sure he would not love more than one,” said Mrs. Lockhart, gently.
“Altogether, your problem appears to have been deprived of all its conditions,” observed Fillmore, who with Philip Lancaster, had approached during the discussion.
“A man who really loves one woman, finds in her all that is worth loving in all women,” Lancaster said.
“A poet’s eyes,” remarked the Marquise, “create, in the woman he loves, nine-tenths of what he sees there.”
“And may blind him, for a time, to nine-tenthsmore,” was the poet’s reply; at which every one laughed except Mrs. Lockhart and Mr. Grant, but which very few understood.
After this, the company readjusted itself: the Marquise made Philip sit down and talk to her and Marion; and the three gradually got on very good terms with one another. Meanwhile, Sir Francis improved his opportunity to buttonhole Fillmore, and drew him into the next room, where Mr. Thomas Bendibow was sitting, still in the sulks, behind a large pot of azaleas in the embrasure of the window.
“What did I tell you?” exclaimed the baronet, hushing his voice, but with a vehement gesture. “Did you ever see anything like that fellow’s assurance? Damn him, he wastête-à-têtewith her for half an hour. Ten to one he’s told her the whole thing.”
“What thing?” inquired Fillmore composedly.
“Why, that he’s her father, and—”
“Well, since he is her father, I know of no law to prevent him saying so.”
“Damme, no, if that were all: but how do I know what pack of lies he may have been telling her about me—”
“Come, Bendibow, don’t be a fool. If I were you, I shouldn’t mind what lies he told her about me, so long as I was sure that no truth he might tell would do me any harm. Besides, Mr. Grant, or whatever his name is, does not look to me like a scoundrel or a liar. And the Marquise does not seem to be a lady likely to let herself be imposed upon, or to act imprudently. You have not been open with me about this matter, Sir Francis. You are afraid to act against this man, and you are concealing the reason from me. I don’t ask it, and I don’t want to know it. But I am not going to undertake anything in the dark. You must manage the affair without my co-operation. You should have known me well enough never to have invited it.”
Several expressions—of anger, of dismay, of perplexity—had passed across the baronet’s features while Fillmore was speaking; but at the end he laughed good humoredly, and put his hand for a moment on the other’s shoulder.
“If I were to live with you, day in and day out,” he said, “you’d make either a saint or a devil of me before six weeks were over. You have the most irritating way with you, begad, that ever I came across. But I know you’re a good fellow, and I shan’t be angry. You might allow me a little natural exasperation at seeing things go topsy-turvy—never mind! I believe you’re right about Perdita, too; she’s no sentimental fool. Dare say matters will come out all right, after all. There! we’ll think more about it. I’ll talk it over quietly with Grantley—with Grant, you know—ah! Here we are!”
The Marquise, leaning on the arm of Mr. Grant, and followed by the rest of the company, were entering the room, being come in quest of supper, which was to be served here, and of which the sherry, whereof Mr. Thomas Bendibow had already partaken, was but an accessory. The Marquise rallied the baronet on his lack of gallantry in not having been on hand to do his part in escorting some one; and they all took their places at table with much gayety and good humor; Mr. Thomas having watched his opportunity, when no one was looking in his direction, to emerge from the shelter of the azaleas and take his seat with the rest. His aspect was so dazed and distraught as to suggest the suspicion that the sherry had been exceptionally potent; only it so happened that no one noticed him. His sulkiness had vanished; but from time to time he turned his eyes on Mr. Grant with a secret expression of consternation and bewilderment, which, considering the peaceful and inoffensive aspect of that gentleman, seemed rather gratuitous.
There were more gentlemen than ladies present, andMr. Grant chanced to have Mr. Fillmore for his left-hand neighbor, and presently fell into talk with him. “I have heard your name mentioned,” he remarked at length, “by my friend Mrs. Lockhart. You are, I believe, a member of the legal profession?”
Fillmore inclined his head in assent.
“There are some affairs of mine which need putting in order,” continued Mr. Grant, “and as they may require a good deal of judgment for their proper disposition, I had been thinking of applying to you for assistance. Will you pardon me for taking advantage of this unexpected opportunity to mention the matter to you?”
“I am obliged to you, sir. You are, perhaps, aware,” added the lawyer, turning so as to look his interlocutor directly in the face, “that I have for several years been legal adviser to Sir Francis Bendibow?”
“Yes: yes, to tell the truth, I was partly influenced by that also,” replied the old man quietly. “Sir Francis will doubtless tell you that he and I are old acquaintances: and I—in short, then, I may request you to appoint a time for our interview.”
Fillmore named a day near the end of the following week; and then relapsed into silence, being fairly taken by surprise, and unable to make the joints of his puzzle fit together. Mr. Grant and the Marquise were both enigmas in different ways, and worth being studied. After a while, however, he decided that the Marquise was the more inviting, if not the more difficult enigma of the two; and he experienced an unusual degree of pleasure in keeping his eyes upon her. He was not inclined to think that anything would be gained by her leaving London.
She was in a very brilliant and fascinating humor; her talk was witty and entertaining beyond what is common even with clever women. Indeed, one who had known her well might have fancied that her vivacitywas the indication of some excitement, which, perhaps, had its origin in something less enjoyable than the lustre of the wax candles on the walls and table. Philip Lancaster no doubt knew the Marquise better than did any one else in that room; but, if he saw more in her behavior than the others did, it is likely that he accounted for it on erroneous grounds. He did not notice that, although she glanced frequently at Mr. Grant, yet that gentleman was the only person at table whom she never addressed. But Philip, in fact, was too much occupied with his own affairs to devote much time to general observation. He was sitting next to Marion, who had young Mr. Bendibow for her neighbor on the other side. Marion, after making several quite ineffectual attempts to draw the latter into conversation, was at length obliged to listen to Philip; and, he fancied, less unconciliatingly than of late. The events of the evening had been rather different from Philip’s anticipation. He had come burdened with a saturnine resolve to offer some deliberate slight to his hostess, by way of improving his position in the eyes of his lady-love; but—whether most to his relief or to his disappointment it would be hard to say—the Marquise had given him no opportunity. Save for one ambiguous remark—to which he had made a prompt rejoinder—she had throughout had the air of bringing him and Marion together, and desiring their felicity. When she had addressed him, which had been but seldom, it had been on literary or indifferent subjects. Philip was not so pig-headed as to fail to perceive that the Marquise might make herself an exceedingly agreeable and even advantageous friend. If she were willing to forget the past, all might be right and pleasant in the future. His gloomy thoughts were considerably lightened by these reflections; and yet, somewhere in the back scenery of his mind, there may have been a faint shadow of resentment at something—for Philip, in spite of his superior poetic and intellectual endowments, was not much more than human after all.
He could not know that the Marquise, also, had found the course of events different from what she had expected; she had aimed her party at Philip, but had started quite other game. Nevertheless, her object as regarded Philip had accomplished itself quite as well as if she had been able to pursue it in her own way. He had received the impression which she wished, and she had the opportunity of estimating the degree of influence which Marion had over him. That was all she desired at the moment. As for the other affair, although she had answered Mr. Grant explicitly and decidedly enough, she was less decided in her own mind; she meant to think it over by herself, and to modify her course should that seem ultimately advisable. There was no need to hurry herself about it; she would have ample opportunities for renewing her conversation with Mr. Grant whenever she wanted to do so. To discover a father after so many years, was at least an excitement and an adventure; and if Mr. Grant were really able to bring about such a meeting, it might be worth while to permit it. But then it was desirable, in the first place, to find out what manner of man this father was. Perdita, on questioning her memory, could not form even the vaguest image of him. She had let herself forget him easily, and it was now too late to recall him.
Upon the whole, destiny seemed to be in an interesting and not unamiable mood. In reality, destiny had never been more sardonically pregnant, as regarded every one of those assembled in the Marquise’s dining-room, than on that evening.
ITcame to the knowledge of Sir Francis, during the ensuing week, that Mr. Grant was going to have a business interview with Fillmore. He thereupon took pen and paper, and wrote Mr. Grant a very polite note. He said that he had been thinking over their relations with each other, and had come to certain conclusions thereon, which he wished to communicate to Mr. Grant, in the confident belief that Mr. Grant would not find them distasteful. To do this by letter, however, would be, for several reasons, inexpedient; word of mouth, in matters of this kind, was a more convenient and flexible way of coming to an understanding. Sir Francis went on to say that he possessed a villa in Twickenham, whither he occasionally repaired during the summer to get a breath of fresh air. It chanced that he had arranged to drive out to this villa on the afternoon of Friday next; and if Mr. Grant did not object, he would call for him on the way, at any place which Mr. Grant would please to indicate. They would dine together at the villa, and Sir Francis would then provide his friend with a horse to ride home on. Hoping for a favorable reply, he had the honor to be Mr. Grant’s faithful friend and servant, Francis Bendibow.
Mr. Grant replied by return of post that he would be happy to accept Sir Francis Bendibow’s invitation, and that Sir Francis might call for him at four o’clock at the chambers of Mr. Fillmore in the city.
When Sir Francis read this answer, he flushed up to the roots of his hair, and sat quite still in his chair,staring fixedly at the letter which he held in his hand, and breathing in a labored and irregular manner. Presently the color faded out of his face, and he became extremely pale, and his hands cold. He rang the bell, and told the servant to bring him a decanter of wine, the greater part of which he drank, though it wanted but an hour of dinner. But the baronet had been in a nervous and anxious state for several days past; he had been worried, probably, by some of the exigencies and disappointments which are inseparable even from the most sagaciously conducted business; and he had moreover been seriously harassed by the odd behavior of his son Thomas, who, since the night of the Marquise’s party, had not been behaving like himself. He had been moody, reticent and inactive; had attended no cock-fights or rat-catchings; had foregone his customary horseback exercise, and had even gone so far as to refuse to drink more than half his usual quantity of wine. When his father addressed him, he had replied curtly and evasively; and yet Sir Francis had several times detected his son in the act of watching him with a very intent and peculiar expression. What was the matter with him? Had he contracted a secret marriage? or had he suffered a disappointment in love? or had he been losing money at play? These questions, which the baronet could not, and his son evidently would not answer, occasioned the former a good deal of disquietude. But all this would scarcely account for his vivid emotion at the receipt of so commonplace a thing as an acceptance of an invitation. Had he expected Mr. Grant to refuse?
On the forenoon of Friday, Mr. Grant put into his pocket a leathern wallet containing a variety of papers, and betook himself to the city. Previous to starting he had a short colloquy with Marion.
“I shall not return until after you are all in bed andasleep,” he said. “You must on no account sit up or keep awake for me.”
“What are you going to do?” inquired Marion, point blank.
“Something which will perhaps give you a chance to display your magnanimity,” Mr. Grant answered with a smile.
The girl gave him a deep and somewhat troubled look.
“I shall be glad when there are no more mysteries,” she said. “Nothing good comes of them.”
“It depends in some measure upon yourself how soon this mystery is dissipated,” returned Mr. Grant. “Have you no mysteries of your own?”
“Oh, housekeeping mysteries—how to boil a potato, or starch a frill; I shall never have any other kind,” answered Marion with a laugh, and turning away.
“To-morrow,” said Mr. Grant, after a pause, “you and I will have a chat about mysteries, and perhaps we may clear each other up. Good-by, my dear.” He took her hand, and drawing her a little toward him, kissed her cheek. She looked at him, reddening, and said:
“Be careful of yourself. Good-by.”
“Proud and jealous,” said the old gentleman to himself, as he marched down the street to the corner where the coach passed; “but we shall circumvent that, I hope. What is the use of my twenty thousand pounds if she will not be my daughter? But there is common sense at the bottom of Philip’s romance, that will counteract and persuade her stubbornness—if it comes to that.”
The coach came along, and in due time landed Mr. Grant in the city; and ten minutes later he had entered Merton Fillmore’s private office, which had witnessed many singular revelations, but none more so, perhaps, than the one which was now going to take place.
“Good day, sir,” said the lawyer, rising ceremoniouslyas his visitor entered. “Is your business likely to occupy us long?”
“It chiefly concerns the drawing up of my will,” replied Mr. Grant. “And since the dispositions that I wish to make are somewhat precise and complicated, we may as well put the limit at not less than two hours.”
“I am at your disposal, then, until four o’clock.” Here Fillmore took out some blank sheets of paper, which he placed before him on the desk. Resting his hands upon these, with the tips of the fingers meeting each other, he fixed his eyes upon Mr. Grant and said slowly:
“Before we begin, I wish to put one question to you. You will, of course, decide whether or not it be worth your while to answer it.”
“I am at your service,” said the other courteously.
Fillmore paused a moment, looking down at his hands. Then, raising his head, he asked abruptly, “What is your name?”
“I had intended to inform you on that point as soon as the occasion required,” answered the old man quietly. “The name by which I have chosen to be known here is not mine. I am Charles John Grantley. My father was Thomas Grantley, of whom you have doubtless heard.”
Fillmore leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin. Presently he said, “Sir Francis Bendibow spoke to me regarding your identity a few weeks ago; and, taking all the circumstances into consideration, I own that I shared the surprise he seemed to feel at your reappearance in England.”
“I can understand that,” was the composed reply; “but it has always been my intention to end my days in my native land.”
“It seems you have amassed a fortune during the interval?”
“I have laid by some twenty thousand pounds.”
“Which you now propose to dispose of by will?”
“With your assistance, sir.”
“You are a man of the world, Mr. Grantley, and acquainted with the general rules by which society is regulated. I cannot suppose you to be ignorant that a person in the peculiar position which you are understood to occupy might find it difficult to establish a claim to this, or any other property.”
“I shall not affect to misapprehend your meaning, sir,” returned the old gentleman, with a manner of grave kindliness; “and I will answer you with as much openness as justice to myself and others allows. I left England twenty years ago under a cloud of disaster and contumely. I chose exile in preference to inquiry, and the results which such an inquiry would produce. My reasons for taking that course I did not disclose then, nor shall I willingly do so now. I do not apprehend that I shall be called upon to alter this purpose; but, should it turn out otherwise, I have the means to meet the emergency, and I shall know how to use them.” Here he laid his right hand upon the leathern pocket-book which he had placed upon the table. “It is far from being my wish, however,” he continued, “to become the occasion of any disturbance or controversy. I rather desire that such small influence as I may still be able to exercise over my fellow beings may be in the direction of making some of them happy.”
“Am I to infer that you contemplate anything in the way of restitution?” the lawyer demanded.
“No.”
“You are quite right, of course, in withholding your confidence,” rejoined the other, with a coldness that was partly assumed to veil his perplexity. “But—is it your intention to present yourself hereafter under your true name?”
“There is only one other person beside yourself, to whom it was necessary I should declare myself—I mean Sir Francis Bendibow; and I took an early opportunity of doing that. To the rest of the world I intend at present to be Mr. Grant. The fulfillment of the bequests of my will may hereafter necessitate the revelation of who I really am; but I trust that may not occur during my lifetime. And, even in the alternative event, I doubt not the revelation could be so managed as not to incommode any one.”
“Well, Mr. Grantley,” said the lawyer, taking up a pen and turning it between his fingers, “your attitude is unexpected and, so far as my information would lead me to judge, unaccountable. But that is none of my affair. I need only to put it to you whether you feel so secure in that attitude as to warrant a belief that the directions of your will have a reasonable chance of getting themselves fulfilled—whether you feel confident that third parties may not interfere to thwart your intentions?”
“On that point I have no misgivings whatever,” replied Mr. Grantley, with a slight smile. “My only apprehension would respect the principal legatee.”
“I will not attempt to understand you,” said Fillmore, smiling also. “If you please, we will proceed to the particulars.”
Hereupon the two entered upon a prolonged discussion, into which we shall not be obliged to follow them; since what is of import in it will appear in its proper place. At a few minutes after four o’clock the colloquy ended, and Mr. Grant, after shaking hands very cordially with the lawyer, bade him farewell and went down stairs.
WHENMr. Grant got to the door of the building, he found Sir Francis Bendibow awaiting him in a small but stylish turn-out with two horses. He took his seat beside the baronet on the box, and the footman sat behind, with his arms folded. In this fashion they drove westward.
Sir Francis knew how to make himself an entertaining companion, and he availed himself of his knowledge on this occasion. He talked volubly and genially, giving his companion the gossip of the society of that day, a society which somehow seems to have been more amusing and eventful, and to have possessed more character and variety than is the case in our times. The footman with folded arms had often listened to his master’s conversation sallies, but had seldom heard him so agreeable as on the present occasion; and he inferred that the gentleman, his companion, who said very little, but whose manner was courteous and attentive, must either be a particular friend of master’s or else some one from whom he had received or was anticipating a favor.
“We should see more of each other, you know, Grant,” the baronet said heartily. “A man makes many acquaintances as he moves on in the world, but, damme, there are no friends like the friends of one’s youth, after all! No friend has been more often in my thoughts during the last twenty years than you have, and good reason, too!” To which, and to much more of the same tendency, Mr. Grant responded in terms of grave and composed politeness. Altogether it was a very amicable drive, and the weather and the roads were all that could be desired.
Their route lay through Richmond and across the gray stone bridge that separates the town from the parish of Twickenham. “When you ride home to-night,” said Sir Francis, “you’ll find it an agreeable change to follow the Isleworth road, on the west bank of the river; and cross by Brentford Bridge. Mighty pretty quiet stretch, and but a trifle longer if at all.” The footman could have told exactly how much further it was, but of course held his peace, as he would have done had the baronet affirmed it to be two miles shorter. Still bowling easily westward, the horses tramped through the narrow winding street of a sleepy little town, which seemed wearied out as it were with the burden of its historic associations, and drew up at last before a wrought-iron gateway in a high brick wall, the bricks cemented with green moss and crowned with ivy. The gate having been promptly thrown open by the alert footman, the horses tramped through it and up the graveled crescent of a drive overshadowed with fragrant lime trees, until their driver pulled them up before the gabled portal of an elderly but comfortable and solid-looking edifice, faced with white plaster, and dignified by far-projecting eaves. Tossing the reins to the man, Sir Francis got actively down and assisted his friend to alight. They entered the house arm-in-arm. A large cool shadowy hall received them; beyond, a broad staircase, and opening inward to the right of it a vista of spacious drawing-room, with windows giving upon a verandah, and a rich lawn at the back of the house.
“Serve dinner at six, sharp!” said Sir Francis to the obeisant butler. “Now, my dear Grant, no ceremony here, you know; but I remember your fastidious habits. If you want to wash your hands, give yourself the trouble to follow me up-stairs, and I think you’ll find everything arranged to make you comfortable.”
“Uncommon civil the governor is to-day,” remarkedthe butler to the footman, when the two gentlemen had disappeared in the upper regions. “WhohisMr. Grant, I’d like ter know?”
“Ha! you may arsk that, Mr. Tuppin,” returned the footman, with airs of superior knowledge. “You may arsk that, and no blame to yer!”
“Well, I does hax it,” answered Mr. Tuppin brusquely; “not that I supposes you can tell me hanythin’ about it, neither!”
“Ha! per-raps not!” retorted the footman, abandoning the vagueness of mystery for the definiteness of imagination. “Per’aps I didn’t ’ear ’em conversin’ as we came along, and the gent a-sayin’ as ’ow ’e’d arf a millium as he was dyin’ to invest, and could the baronet adwise ’im on the subjick? And the baronet he says, says ’e, ‘Why, if ten per cent. is any good to you, my dear friend,’ says ’e, ‘I fancies we can take it hoff yer ’ands and no questions arsked.’ And the gent ’e said as ’ow ‘e’d think about it.”
“Oh, that’s the story, his it?” said Mr. Tuppin, pushing up his eyebrows and turning down the corners of his mouth. “Well, I thought it might ha’ been somethin’ new. But as fur that, my good feller,” he added, turning away indifferently, “Sir Francis was talkin’ about it arter dinner no longer ago nor day before yesterday. I ’eard ’im myself.”
To this assertion the footman was unable to frame a reply; being undecided whether to credit his own ears with miraculous inspiration, or to charge Mr. Tuppin with being a liar. The former course appearing the more agreeable both to his vanity and his self-interest, he ended by adopting it.
Dinner, instead of being served in the dining-room, which was in the front part of the house, and commanded no pleasant outlook, was laid out in the drawing-room, through the open windows of which thefriends could let their eyes wander out upon the expanse of silken turf, and the verdurous masses of whispering foliage. A sentiment of cultured and imperturbable repose was expressed by this little region: not the vacant or helpless repose of wild nature; but the repose that comes of over-ripeness, or of containing more than can be uttered. The quaint ghosts of past times paced the deep smoothness of the lawn, and lurked in the shadows of the trees.
“Other parts of the world are better, perhaps, to live in than England,” remarked Mr. Grant: “but the place to die in is here.”
“What’s that? Die in? Pooh! time enough to talk of dying twenty years hence,” cried the genial baronet.
“Twenty years is a long time to wait,” replied the other meditatively. “The time to leave life is when you find it pleasant, but no longer necessary. My former interests are finished. I should not care to become absorbed in new ones; not in this world at all events.”
Here the servant entered with the after-dinner wine.
“We can’t afford to lose you yet awhile, my dear friend,” exclaimed the baronet. “Now that we have you safely with us again, we mean to keep hold of you. What do you say to finishing our wine out yonder on the lawn? Yes—Tuppin, take the small table out, and a couple of chairs. Such weather as this should be taken advantage of.”
“And, by the way,” he resumed, after the change had been made, and they had been left finally alone in their seclusion, “talking about life in England—whereabouts do you propose actually to settle? Of course I assumed that you’ve no notion of remaining permanently in your present quarters—not even if you have designs on the widow—eh? ha! ha!”
The other rested his eyes coldly on the baronet andreplied: “Possibly not: but I have no other definite plans touching a dwelling.”
“Well, if your coming back to England was as unexpected to you as it was to us, your plans might easily be a bit ... undigested!”
“As to that, I question whether there was any moment during my absence when I did not cherish the purpose of returning; and ’tis at least a year ago that the date of my departure from India was fixed. What I might do on my arrival was, indeed, another question.”
Sir Francis crossed one leg over another and caressed his shapely knee. “Upon the whole, you know,” he said, “I rather wonder at your remaining so faithful to us. You were well enough placed in India, I suppose? Seems to me I would have stayed there. What did you expect to find here? One’s acquaintances get pretty well used up in twenty years.”
“Considerations had weight with me that might not have affected you in my place. I acted according to my feeling, as does every one who acts freely.”
“Ah! I understand: the Marquise—eh? Parental affection and all that! Well, does the lady reciprocate?”
This was uttered in a somewhat strained tone, and the speaker’s countenance wore a smile that was anxious and perfunctory rather than spontaneous and genial. But Mr. Grant seemed not to notice the alteration.
“I can’t say I’ve been disappointed,” he replied; “perhaps because I expected little. The child I left in your care has grown up to be a woman of the world, wealthy and fashionable, and naturally not much given to sentiment. She has fascination, ambition, and common sense; she is quick-witted, independent and adventurous. I saw the germ of these traits in her long ago; but I also saw—or so I fancied—a generous and passionate heart, which might counterbalance whateverwas dangerous in her other qualities. Doubtless ’twas this hope that influenced my determination to return to England.”
“Ah! a passionate and generous heart! ... well. And may I enquire whether the lady meets your anticipations in that particular?”
Mr. Grant did not at once reply; but after awhile he said in a measured tone, his eyes turned toward the ground, “With due allowance for accidents and circumstances, I do not think my estimate of Perdita was a mistaken one.”
“Accept my congratulations then!” rejoined the baronet, with a short and heavy laugh. “I am to take it, then, that, in order to win the sympathy of this passionate and generous heart, you have not spared the reputation of the lady’s foster-father?”
Grant looked up quickly and keenly. “I made no such insinuation!” said he.
“But you can’t deny the fact?”
“I’m not concerned either to deny or to admit it.”
“Well, well—you’re quite right: no use disputing about that. And Fillmore—another sympathetic confidant, I presume?”
“As a man of affairs, I found Mr. Fillmore all I could wish.”
“Exactly! and who is to be next? I’m interested to know the persons who are henceforth to behold me in my true colors! Or perhaps you intend to be impartial in your favors, and publish the matter broadcast?” All this was said with a kind of ghastly jocularity. “Let me hear just what I’m to expect. That’s only fair—eh?”
“Doesn’t it occur to you, Frank,” said the other, looking fully at him, while the color reddened in his face, “that what you are saying is offensive? Has my past conduct given you grounds to adopt this tonetoward me? You try my temper, sir! and I ... I shall not, however, allow myself to be angry.” By a manifest effort he, in fact, controlled his rising heat, and constrained himself to an austere coldness.
The baronet seemed not to wish to provoke his guest any further. Either he was afraid of him—and there was a stern fire at the heart of the uniformly serene old gentleman which did not encourage wanton experiment—or else there were reasons why he desired rather to conciliate than to irritate him. “I expressed myself clumsily, Charles,” he said. “ ’Pon my honor I meant no insult. But a man wants to know how he stands—where he’s to look for enemies and where for friends. Now you and I are not going to rake up old matters—eh? For good or bad, the past is done with. The wrong can’t be righted now; you can’t right it, nor can I; if I could, I would in a moment. But time has arranged things after its own fashion. I did what I could for the wife and child, didn’t I? I stuck to Perdita till she got a good husband, and then ’twas she left me, not I her. You ... well—you made your way in the world, and if all were known, perhaps you’re in a better position to-day than if all this had never happened. But your turning up again has put a new face on the affair—eh?”
“In what manner?”
“Why, in this manner—but you mustn’t mind my speaking out: we know each other well enough not to stickle at formalities—eh?”
“Say on, sir.”
“I understand human nature as well as most men; and I don’t expect too much of it—not even of you, my dear Charles. I can put myself in your place, and look at things in your way. Quite right and natural you should wish Perdita to feel toward you as a daughter to her father. And as to Fillmore, of course it might benecessary, in doing business with him, to enter into certain explanations: for Merton has his crotchets, and is not the man to go into anything he doesn’t, in a certain way, approve of. But, allowing all that, I have to consider my own position also. I’m compromised; and taking my age and yours into consideration (not to mention other things), it makes me doocidly uneasy. I can believe you mean me no harm; but others might be less considerate. I’m not half sure of Fillmore; and as for Perdita ... who trusts a woman at the best of times?”
“Let me point out to you, Bendibow, that you are proceeding upon an assumption of your own: namely, that my daughter and Mr. Fillmore know your secret.”
“Well,” said the other, with a husky laugh, “appearances look that way, and what’s more, you’ve not denied it.”
“I have neither denied nor affirmed it,” repeated Grant.
“Quite right of you not to commit yourself. But, passing that over, if you really mean me no mischief, why the devil can’t you give me tangible proof and pledge of it?”
“Bendibow, have you had any occasion to suspect me of unfriendliness since my return here?”
“H’m! nothing definite, perhaps. But it would have seemed more natural if you had banked with us instead of Childs, for instance.”
“That is a matter of financial judgment. You cannot expect me, who know what your business practices are, to have the same confidence in your financial orthodoxy that I have in Childs’? But I did leave a thousand in your hands, precisely in order to avoid remark.”
“And if ’twere a hundred thousand, you might have it back, with interest, to-morrow!” exclaimed Sir Francis with vehemence. “But that’s not our topic. You have something in your possession—you know what Imean—which you can’t object to making over to me, if we are friends.”
“Do you refer to the letter you wrote to me at the time”—
“Never mind the details! Yes, that’s the thing—that and the other papers. Many a wakeful night they’ve given me, since then!”
“I shall never surrender them to you,” said Grant, with decision. “Your only use for them would be to destroy them. They are my protection. My personal security, as well as my right to my property, might depend on them. Were you a far more trustworthy man than you have ever shown yourself to me, Frank Bendibow, I would not place myself so helplessly at your mercy.”
“You won’t let me have ’em, then?”
“No. I am immovable on that point. Remember, that the possession of those papers was the condition of my action when ... twenty years since. What influenced me then has at least as much weight now. You must be content with some other pledge than that. An honest man should ask no other pledge than an honest man’s word.”
“Look here, Grantley,” said the baronet, leaning forward and speaking in a husky and uneven voice: “I swear to you by all that’s sacred, if you’ll give me the papers, I’ll never take advantage of you. I’ll down on my knees and take what oath you please—I’ll do it this moment if you say so. Think, man! If anything should happen to you, and those things were found and read, what would become of me ... but it’s not that—’tis not myself I care about. If the worst comes to the worst, I should know how to deal with myself. But it’s that boy of mine—poor little fellow! I love him better than my own soul, or anything else. Sooner than he should ever think ill of his father, I’d let you shoot me dead here where I sit. All I live for is to make himhappy, and leave him an honorable name and fair prospects. And if, after all I’ve hoped and done, he were to get wind of this—! I can’t endure to think of it!” cried the baronet, his voice breaking.
“You’re the same Frank Bendibow as in the old days,” said the other sadly. “I cared a great deal for you then, and I fear I’m not quite cured of it yet. The worst is, you make yourself believe your own deceptions. I won’t do what you ask; it would be to risk interests and obligations which needn’t be mentioned now. But perhaps we might make some compromise. The papers might be handed to some third person—to Mr. Fillmore, for example”—
“Fillmore be damned!” cried the baronet violently, striking the table with his fist, while his face flushed dark red. “I’ll have no compromises! I’ll trust neither you nor Fillmore! How do I know what plot you’ve been hatching against me this very day? Will you give me the papers, or not? Yes or no?”
“I can only repeat that I will not,” said the baronet’s guest, gravely.
“Then.... But, oh, for God’s sake, Charley,” said Bendibow, abruptly changing his tone from menace to entreaty, “think of my Tom! You’re a father yourself, you”—
“Let’s have an end of this,” interrupted the other, between compassion and scorn. “You needn’t fear for the boy, nor for yourself either. The papers can never be made public, except by my voluntary act: and it depends solely on you whether that ever becomes necessary. I always carry them upon my person, in a sealed cover, addressed to a friend who, on receiving them, and after taking certain precautions, would probably destroy them. In case of my dying suddenly, therefore, you would suffer no detriment. That’s all I have to say: and now, if you please, we’ll drop the subject.”
“You always carry them about you?” repeated the baronet.
“I have them on me now. Isn’t it getting a little damp out here? My Indian experience makes me cautious.”
“ ’Tis a cloudy night: there’ll be no dew,” said the baronet absently. “What did you say? Yes, certainly, we’ll go into the house. I have some prints I want you to look at. Wait a moment! I say, Charley—it’s all right—it’s all right. I didn’t mean anything. Fact is, my head is not always quite right, I fancy. I get carried away ... damme, I ask your pardon—shake hands with me, Charley!”
He stretched out his hand and grasped the other’s, which he shook hard and mechanically, then letting it go abruptly.
“Life’s a queer business!” he continued with a laugh. “We get pushed into doing things we wouldn’t have believed ourselves capable of: ’tis all circumstances ... fate! As far as I can see, I’m no worse nor better than others. Come in—come into the study. The evening hasn’t begun yet.”
“I must turn homewards. ’Twill be a dark night.”
“Pooh! not a bit of it. Can’t let you off before ten or eleven. And your horse won’t be ready yet. Come now—else I’ll think you bear me a grudge. You’ve had it your own way so far—give me my turn a bit now—eh?”
“I’ll stay a little longer, if you wish,” said the guest courteously.
“That’s right! You shan’t go off to call me a brute and a bully. Why, we used to hit it off pretty well together in the old times! Let’s have ’em over again, for this one evening—eh? just as if nothing had happened.”
And herewith Sir Francis cast aside his dejection and preoccupation, and became once more vivacious andagreeable. His guest had again occasion to admire the man’s really great social and mental powers. Two or three hours passed rapidly. Then, all at once, Sir Francis complained of severe twinges in his right leg and foot.
“That damned gout of mine!” he exclaimed ruefully. “Ah! ah! all up with me for the next day or two! Ah!—may I trouble you to ring that bell? Tuppin—here, Tuppin! I’ve got another attack. See that everything in my room is ready. Whew! Well, my dear Grant, sorry our evening should end so. Better luck next time.”
“Shall I carry a message to your physician?” asked Grant, who had risen to take his leave.
“No—oh, no—I have everything here; shall have to fight it out—no hastening the thing—ah! Good-by, then, till next meeting. Tuppin—ah!—Mr. Grant’s horse; have it brought round to the door.”
“The ’orse is quite ready, Sir Francis, if you please.”
“Good-by, then, Grant, good-by. The lower road, you know, through Isleworth; the lower road, eh?”
“Thank you, I remember. Farewell, and a speedy recovery to you!” And with a kindly look at his suffering host, Mr. Grant left the room under the respectful guidance of Tuppin, and having bestowed a gratuity upon that worthy butler, he mounted his horse and rode away into the summer darkness.
ITnow becomes our duty to follow for a time the fortunes of Mr. Thomas Bendibow. This honest and prosperous young gentleman, had he been as familiar with the text of Shakspeare as he was with those of some other dramatic authors, might have compared his plight to that of Prince Hamlet, when the noble Dane was in a state of collapse at the scene of domestic revolution which followed so hard upon his father’s decease. Though never exceptionally dutiful in his filial relations, he had a genuine fondness for the author of his being, and allowed no liberties to be taken with his name and character by any one beside himself. But since the reception at the house of the Marquise Desmoines, and the conversation that he had overheard there, his mental attitude had undergone a dolorous transformation. Whatever his other failings, Tom had always possessed the honesty and fearless candor that belonged to his idea of a gentleman, and had never thought of questioning his father’s proficiency in the same virtues. Even now he could not bring himself fully to adopt the inferences that obtruded themselves upon him. Further information might modify the aspect of the case. Nevertheless, an uncertainty as to whether the modification would be for the better or for the worse, hindered the young gentleman from putting it to the test. Moreover, he recoiled, when it came to the point, from directly questioning his father on a subject involving the latter’s honor. The degradation of such a situation would be mutual. Therefore poor Tom nursed his despondency in secret; when all at once it occurred to him, as anillumination from on high, to seek sympathy and perchance enlightenment from the Marquise. He did not give this inspiration time to cool, but acted upon it at once. With his ostensible purpose in visiting her may have mingled another, not the less dear because not openly avowed; and which we, as well as he, may leave to its own development. So, at about the hour when Merton Fillmore and Mr. Grant were having their interview in the lawyer’s office, Thomas Bendibow, Esquire, caused himself to be announced at Madame Desmoines’.
Perdita was in a delightful humor. She had, indeed, a singularly even and cheerful temper, the result of an habitually good digestion and a general sense of the adequacy of her means to her ends. Yet she, too, had her moments of especial loveliness, and this was one of them. She was sitting in a chair by the window, with her hair drawn up on the top of her head, and arranged in flat curls on her forehead. She wore a thin, black silk gown, charmingly disposed about the throat and shoulders; a book lay open on her lap, and in her white hands she idly held a piece of embroidery, on which she might be supposed to be at work, though in reality she had taken hardly a dozen stitches in it that afternoon. She was languorous and dreamy.
“Oh, Tom!” she said, stretching her arms above her head, and parting her smiling lips in a pretty yawn. “How pleasant to see you. Poor boy, my pleasure is your pain.”
“Eh? Why do you say that?” he demanded, stopping midway in the ceremonious obeisance he was making.
“Your face told me. So pale and sorrowful! Poor child, what is it?”
“I am not a child, Madame Desmoines,” said Tom with dignity.
“You are not civil, sir.”
“Not civil—to you!”
“It is not civil to remind a lady of her age. I like to remember the time when you and I were children together, Tom, and to forget the years since then.”
“Oh, to be sure! I didn’t look at it in that way; and I hope you’ll forgive me,” said the youth repentantly. “I wouldn’t hurt your feelings for the world, Perdita; upon my soul, now, I wouldn’t! But about my being a child, you know—in a certain way I shouldn’t mind—for your sake, I mean, so that you needn’t imagine you’re any older. But in another way—as a matter of fact—of course I can’t help being a man, and feeling it. And in that way I’d like you to feel it, too; because what I feel for you isn’t at all what a child would feel; and ... I hope you understand me!”
“There’s a great deal of feeling in what you say,” responded the Marquise, with innocent gravity, “but I’m not sure I know what the feeling is about. Is it about yourself?”
“I don’t believe there’s a fellow alive who could feel anything about himself when he’s with you: that is, except to feel that he felt ... you might feel....”
“There! see how mysterious you are. I’m afraid you’re chaffing me!” put in the lady, delivering Tom a glance that might have upset an ascetic of seventy.
“Oh, this is too bad, and I can’t stand it!” cried Mr. Bendibow with a groan. Then he burst out: “ ’Tis you I feel about, Perdita! and I don’t care who knows it! I’ve met lots of women in my life, and—all that sort of thing; but never a woman like you, and I don’t believe there is another like you in the whole world. And if you’d only ... look here! Can’t you feel that way for me? Oh, do!”
“Oh! Tom, is it really about me?” cried the lovely Marquise, in the tenderest warble of a voice. She foldedher hands in her lap and gazed at him with hesitating wonder, as if, in the first place, she had that instant realized the fact that such a person as herself existed; and secondly, was struggling to comprehend so incredible a circumstance as that another person should exist who could regard her otherwise than with indifference. Miranda upon Setebos would have seemed a sophisticated woman of the world beside the Marquise Desmoines at that moment.
Having allowed this shaft time to rankle, she proceeded. “But why do you ask me whether I feel for you? You know I love you, Tom. Have I ever disguised it?”
“You love me? O Perdita!” cried the gentleman, fairly breaking into a giggle of unanticipated bliss.
“Why, who could help loving you?”
Tom suddenly became grave, with a momentary misgiving. “But you understand I mean marrying,” said he; “husband and wife, you know!”
She replied with a smile of radiant sympathy, “Ah! well, now I do understand you. You mean to marry, and you are come to tell me all about it! Sit down here beside me and begin. Is she worthy of you, Tom? But first, tell me her name!”
“Her name?” faltered Mr. Bendibow. “Why, it’s—you!”
“See how stupid I am!” exclaimed the Marquise, laughing with an air of perplexity. “I meant to ask you what is the name of the lady you intend to marry?”
“Don’t I tell you ’tis you? Who else, since we both love”—
The Marquise threw up her hand; her eyes flashed: there was an instant’s dead silence. Then she said in a low voice of mingled amazement and indignation, “You, Thomas Bendibow, marry me!” And she added, with a tragic tone and gesture, “You trifle with me, sir!”
“ ’Pon my soul, Perdita,” asseverated the wretched Thomas, quaking at he knew not what, “I never was further from trifling in my life. I mean an honest thing, and I mean it with all my heart. And I can’t think what you’re so angry”—
“You have shocked me, Tom—and grieved me! I can’t tell you what you’ve made me suffer. You—my brother—to betray your sister’s confidence and twist her words like that! I shall never trust another man as long as I live—no, never!”
“But I never thought ... and besides, you’re not my sister at all!” stammered Tom, from pale becoming very red. “You know that my father is no more yours than—than I am; nor my mother neither! But if you don’t want to have me, you should put it on some fairer ground than that. I offered you the most a man can give a woman; and I’m in right dead earnest, too!”
The Marquise, having played out her little comedy to her satisfaction, was now ready to deal with her victim on a less fanciful basis.
“Sit down here, Tom,” she said, “and look at me, my dear. Yes, I am a beautiful woman; and I am wise: at least ten times as wise as you will ever be. And I’ve seen the world—the great world; and ... I’m a widow! All the finest gentlemen in Europe have made love to me. I knew you’d fancy you’d lost your heart to me too; and for both our sakes I wished the affair over as soon as possible. You could no more be my husband, my dear, than you could wear the moon on your watch-chain. My husband—if I ever have another—will be a man wiser, stronger, and handsomer than I am: a man who can rule me with a word or a look: a king of men—and that’s more than a king of nations. How near do you come to being such a man as that? You and I might go to church together, and a priest might pronounce the marriage service over us;but it would take more than a priest and a marriage service, Tom, to make you and me man and wife! The man who can be my husband will have no need of forms of law and religion to keep me safe; though we’d have those, too,” she added with an odd smile, “because it’s proper!”
Tom pulled up his stock ruefully, and strove to maintain as manly a bearing as possible. “I know I’m nothing very great,” he said; “but loving a woman like you makes a fellow ever so much better, and more of a fellow than he was before. If it hadn’t been for that, maybe I wouldn’t have dared say anything. But if you won’t have me, Perdita, I suppose.... I shall have ... to do without you! And I wish I’d never been born! I beg your pardon. I think I’d better go!”
“No; you must stay until you are happy,” said Perdita, firmly, laying her hand on the youth’s arm as he was about to rise. At her touch he subsided, helpless.
“There’s something you’ll enjoy better than being my husband,” continued the Marquise, looking at him kindly, “and you’ll have no rivals! I need a brother, Tom, much more, perhaps, than a husband. I want a friend; no woman can be my friend, and no man, unless you will. Don’t you think it might be pleasant to be my friend? Would you rather be that or—nothing?”
“I don’t know what I want if I can’t have you. I’m awfully miserable. Look here—don’t marry any other fellow! I could stand anything but that! Well, I’ll see if I can be your friend. Better break my heart with you than away from you, I suppose. Only I won’t have you call me your brother—that would be too desperate! Look here, do you know who your father is?”
“I know who he was.”
“Well, he is still. He’s back here. Don’t you know? You talked with him long enough the other day. Didn’t he tell you?”
Perdita lifted her head high and looked at him intently. “Who do you mean?” she demanded.
“Why, old Grant, to be sure! Grantley is his real name, and he is your father.”
Perdita looked aside, with a thoughtful expression, and said, “He didn’t tell me.”
“Well, he is.”
“Who told you so?”
“I heard my father and Fillmore saying it in the dining-room. That’s what’s been plaguing me ever since. I hoped you’d know about it. Because, if he’s the thief and scoundrel, my father said, why isn’t he arrested? Instead of that, father acts as if he was afraid of him. ’Tis as if father was the scoundrel and Grant the honest man. I’d ask father myself, only it wouldn’t be decent.”
“I see!” murmured Perdita, meditating. “But why did he not tell me? It may be an imposture. But he would have no motive for that. Besides, he couldn’t impose on Sir Francis. Yes, it does seem strange. Let me think.”
She leaned back in her chair, her eyes downcast, folding and unfolding the work in her lap. She had evidently forgotten all about Tom. That unfortunate youth sat staring at her with burning eyes. How little he cared about his father, or anything else, in comparison with her! And she would never be his. Tom suppressed a groan and felt the hollowness of life. He longed to do something extraordinary, frantic, heroic. Not to forget himself in dissipation—he loved her too truly for that, but to rise to the level of such a man as might worthily possess her. Since that happiness could never be his, to deserve it would be the next best thing. And, perhaps, after all, no achievement could be so arduous and heroic as to be her friend—her true and unselfish friend. Some day she should esteem him at his true value and thank him. She should be made to feelthat he was not a child, and that he was something more than a brother. Hereupon Tom felt an aching in his throat, and two tears trickled down his face. He surreptitiously wiped them away.
“Will you do something for me, my dear?” asked Perdita, looking up.
Tom nodded, not wishing just then to trust his voice.
“This thing will have to be cleared up some day,” she continued, “and it might as well be now. You can help me already, you see. I can do nothing without you. You shall be my friend and my confidant. If that man is my father I must see him again and find out ... whatever he has to tell me.”
“What shall you do when you find out?”
“Then we can consult together, since we are both interested.”
“If there should be anything wrong about my father”—
“We will arrange to keep it secret. Mr. Grant—or whoever he is—cannot profit by any public revelation, and I’m sure I wish Sir Francis nothing but good. I should have preferred not to have the matter come up at all, and I told Mr. Grant as much; but I must know about it, since others do, and it must be settled definitely.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Go to Mr. Grant and tell him ... or stop! I’ll write a note for you to take to him. You’ll find him, I suppose, at the Lockharts’ house in Hammersmith. Give the letter only into his own hands. Will you do that for me?”