[image]CAPTAIN PLANTAGENET GOBY, V.C., LATE OF THE GUARDS. Who was ordered to read poetry"I say, Mr. de Vere, wasn't that ripping of old Goby to say he'd give me a real pedigree bull-pup? He knows a bull-pup from a window-shutter, as Baker says. You don't like them? No, but you would if you had one. I feed mine myself, and I wear thick gloves, so's not to get hydrophobia when he bites. He's a most interesting dog, and not so good-tempered as most bulldogs. When he sees a cat, oh, my, it's fun! Look here, when Goby gives me the new pup with the pedigree, you can have mine, if you like, cheap. I know you have a place in the country, and you must want a bulldog. Will you buy him?""Good heavens, no!" said the poet."Humph!" cried Bob, who of course had quite forgotten that he was doing all this for Goby, and was just enjoying himself. "Why, what do you do in the country without a dog? Do you ride?""No," said De Vere."Well, of all—I say, Mr. de Vere, what do you do? Do you walk about and make poetry, and do you like making it? Old Guth, I mean Mr. Guthrie, he's my tutor, and he's over there talking to Mrs. Cadwallader, he reads a lot, and some of yours, too.""Oh, does he!" said De Vere, who began to take some interest. "Does he?""Oh, a lot of yours, he says; most of it, I think.""And does he like it?"Bob put his head on one side."Well, he says it's not bad, some of it."De Vere flinched at this faint praise."Indeed! And what does he like best?" he asked."Oh, the beastliest rot," returned Bob, "Browning and Shelley, and I say, do you see that bulge in his pocket? That's Catullus. He reads him all day. But here comes Pen. I say, won't you have my bull-pup? I'll let you have him for half a sovereign; I got him for a sovereign, at least, Baker did.Ithink your poetry's very fine, sir; Mr. Guthrie lent me some."But Penelope came across the lawn, and De Vere forgot Bob and the bull-pup, and fell down and worshipped. And the goddess took hold of him, and stripped a lot of his poetry away, and set a few facts before him and made him gasp."I heard a very strange rumour, Lady Penelope," he said, when he was once more standing upright before Aphrodite. "I heard—oh, but it was absurd! I can't believe it.""Then it is probably true," said the goddess, breathlessly, "for I mean to have my own way and to initiate a reform in marriages, Mr. de Vere. I have been reading the accounts of some fashionable weddings lately, and they made me ill. What you have heard is quite true."The poet shook his head."I have had the honour to beg you to believe a thousand times that I am devoted to you—""Three times, I think," said Pen, who was good at arithmetic."Is it only thrice? But do I understand that, if I were to have the inexpressible delight of winning your love, Lady Penelope, that the marriage would be a secret one, that no one would know of it?""I mean that," said Penelope, enthusiastically. "It is a new departure, an assertion of a just individualism, although I am a socialist. I abhor ceremonies, and will not be interfered with. I have stated with the utmost clarity to all my relations that I shall not consult them or let them know until I choose, and I shall only get married (if I ever do) on these terms.""I agree to them," said the poet. "Lady Penelope, will you do me the inexpressible honour to be my wife?""Oh, dear, no," said Pen. "Why, certainly not, Mr. de Vere. I don't love any one yet, and perhaps I never shall. But what I say is this: I'll think as to whether I shall marry you if you do as I wish about this matter and about others.""My blessed lady," said the poet, "is there anything I would not dare or do?""I've told Captain Goby exactly the same thing," said Penelope, thereby putting her pretty foot upon the sudden flowers of De Vere's imagination, "and what I want of you is to be more an out-of-door man. You live too much in rooms, hothouses, Mr. de Vere, and in your own garden.""I was in a garden, I a poet, with one who was (oh, and is) an angel," said De Vere, "but now I dwell in arid deserts, shall I say the Desert of Gobi? What have I to do with him? Shall he dare to pretend to you, dear lady?""He's a very good chap," said Pen, quite shortly, "and I think it would do you good to associate with him more. I've told him so, and he agrees. I want you to make him read a little, and exercise his imagination. And he can take you out rowing and shooting perhaps, and I think a little hunting wouldn't do you harm. You might ask him to stay with you, and he'll ask you. And I want you to go out in motor-cars.""Good heavens!" said De Vere."I know it will be hard," said Pen, consolingly. "But you know what I want. It's not enough to be rich and write poetry, Mr. de Vere. I think you might read statistics; statistics are a tonic, and I want you to be a useful citizen, too. There are things to be done. Just look at my cousin Bob. Now he'll be a splendid man.""He wanted to sell me a bull-pup," murmured the poet."He's a good boy," said Pen, affectionately, "and his instincts are to be trusted. I think a bulldog would do you good perhaps. And I shall expect to hear you have asked Captain Goby to stay with you. And don't forget the statistics.""I'll do it," said the unhappy poet, "for while the One Hope I have exists, and until 'vain desire at last and vain regret go hand in hand to death,' I am your slave."And, as he went away, he called Bob to him."I'll give you half a sovereign for that bulldog," he said, bitterly."Oh, I say. But Baker says he's worth two sovereigns," cried Bob."I'll give you two," said the poet.And Bob danced on the lawn.CHAPTER IV.If Penelope had had any sense of humour, she would have deprived the round world of much to laugh at in sad times, when laughter was wanted. But thanks be to whatever gods there are, some folks have no humour, and some have a little, and a few much, and thus the world gets on in spite of the spirit of gravity, which, as may be remembered by students of philosophy, Nietzsche branded as the enemy. Pen went ahead, bent on cutting her own swath in the hay-field, and she cut a big one. Goby and the poet must stand as exemplars of her clear and childlike method. It was Pen's Short Way with Her Lovers. She got Rivaulx, who was Nationalist and Anti-Semite to his manicured finger-tips, and had been mixed up in the Dreyfus case, and set him cheek by jowl with Gordon, alias Isaac Levi.She made them dine together in public, and the poor marquis, being head over heels in love with the earnest creature who was so beautiful, submitted like a lamb."Very well, I will," said Rivaulx. There were almighty shrieks in the Paris press. TheJournalhad an article that was wonderful. The affair woke up anti-Semitism again. Rivaulx had been bought by Jewry; France was once more betrayed; the bottom of the world was falling out.Pen, with no sense of humour, had a native capacity for discovering every one's real weakness. As the Frenchman would rather have died than dine as he did, so Gordon would almost prefer to die suddenly than to run the risk of it. He had wonderful brains, and was a power in finance: he could risk a million when he hadn't it or when he had it as coolly as most men can risk a penny on the chance of a slot-machine working. But physically he was timid. Rivaulx went ballooning. He intended to rival Santos-Dumont."You must go with him, Mr. Gordon," said Penelope. Gordon nearly fainted, but Pen was firm, as firm as a rock. Gordon offered to subscribe to all the hospitals in London if she would let him off. He offered to build a small one and endow it; he even suggested that he would build a church. But the poor man had to go. It was now thoroughly understood that any man who refused to do exactly what she told him was struck off the list. The comic papers were almost comic about it. On the day that Gordon went up with Rivaulx in an entirely non-dirigible balloon, the Crystal Palace grounds were crowded with all the Frenchmen and all the Jews in London. The balloon came down in a turnip-field fifteen miles from anywhere, and Gordon got back to London and went to bed. He was consoled by a telegram from Penelope, who congratulated him on overcoming his natural cowardice, and suggested he should do it again."I'll give her up first," said Gordon, knowing all the time that he could no more do it than give up finance. He went out and robbed a lot of his friends as a compensation for disturbance, and found himself a hero. In about forty-eight hours the sensation of being looked on as a man of exceptional grit so pleased him that he adored Penelope more than ever. He was as proud of having been in a balloon as Rivaulx was of having dinedtête-à-têtewith him in the open.She sent for Rufus Q. Plant, and she introduced him to Lord Bramber. Plant was a big American with the common delusion among Americans that he had an entirely English accent. But he hated aristocrats. Bramber had an Oxford accent (Balliol variety), and disliked Americans more than getting up in the morning. He was a fine-looking young fellow with a good skull, who did nothing with it. He had the tendencies of a citizen of Sybaris, and got up at noon. Plant rose at dawn. Bramber loved horses and hated motor-cars. Plant had a manufactory of motors. Pen sent them away together on a little tour, and hinted delicately to Plant that his English accent would be improved by a little Oxford polish."And as for you, Lord Bramber, when you come back, I hope you will be more ready to acknowledge that you don't know everything. Mr. Plant will do you good, and will teach you to drive a motor!"She had never been so beautiful. She showed at her best when her interest in humanity made her courageous and brutal. The colour in her cheeks was splendid; her eyes were as earnest as the sea. If Bramber choked, he submitted, though he blasphemed awfully when he got alone."Go at once," said Penelope.She paired off Carteret Williams with Jimmy Carew, A.R.A. Williams knew as much about art as a hog does of harmony. Jimmy thought the war correspondent a howling Philistine, as indeed he was, and believed anything that could not be painted was a mere by-product of the universe."You'll do each other good," said Pen, clasping her beautiful hands together with enthusiasm. Jimmy wanted to draw her at once. Williams wished for an immediate invasion, so that he could save her life and write a flamboyant article about it."Show him pictures, Mr. Carew, beginning with Turner and Whistler.""Make him understand that art isn't everything, Mr. Williams."She sent them away together, and was wonderfully pleased with herself."They are all fine men," she said, thoughtfully, "but it is curious that every man I know thinks every other man more or less of a fool or an idiot, or a cad. They are dreadfully one-sided. When they come back they will be much improved. This is my work in the world, and I don't care a bit what people say."People said lots, though after a bit the fun died down, except among her own people. And even they laughed at last. At least, every one did but Titania, and she had no more sense of humour than Penelope herself. Indeed, she had less, for Penelope could understand a joke when it was explained to her carefully, and Titania couldn't. And in after years Pen came to see the humourous side of things. She even appreciated a joke against herself, which is the crucial test of humour. But Titania died maintaining that life was a serious business, and should be taken like medicine."I never heard of more insane proceedings," said Titania, "never! The notion of sending that poor Jew up in a balloon with that mad Frenchman! Balloons at the best are blasphemous. And to make Captain Goby read with poor little De Vere! I'm sure there will be murder done before she's married. And now it's an understood thing that she will marry one of them. And Brading laughs! If he is only her half-brother, I consider him responsible. And Augustin smiles and smokes and smokes and smiles. And Chloe Cadwallader, whom I never approved of and never shall, backs her up, of course. One of these days I shall tell Chloe Cadwallader what I think of her!""I say, granny, what do you think of her?" asked Bob."Never mind," said Titania; "there are things that you know nothing of, Robert.""Oh, are there?" said Bob. "I say, granny, I ain't sure of that. I've been expelled from three schools, and Baker says—""Oh, bother Baker," cried his exasperated grandmother. "I think Mr. Guthrie might keep you away from Baker.""He can't," said Bob, cheerfully. "Old Guth and I have made a treaty. I do what he tells me between ten and twelve, and what I like afterward. If we are reading Latin, and the clock strikes twelve, I say, 'Mr. Guthrie, don't you think Latin's rot?' and he says, 'Oh, is it twelve? I thought it was only eleven!' I get on with Guth, I tell you."And he was very thick with Goby, who had given him the pedigree bull-pup. Mr. de Vere now owned the interesting one which had to be fed with gloves on, and loathed it with an exceeding hatred only exceeded by his hatred for Goby."I say, Pen, you go it," said Bob. "There's heaps of fun in this. They all tip me now like winking."But Pen did not see the fun. It was a serious business. She looked after her lovers with the greatest care. They brought her reports; they complained of each other. She smoothed over difficulties, and explained what they were to do."How the devil am I to live on a thousand a year!" said Goby. But he tried it and found it quite exciting. It exercised his self-control wonderfully. He went into the War Office once a week and demanded some kind of job, and was put off with all kinds of regulations. He sent a telegram to Penelope the first week, saying that according to his accounts he had spent no more than £20. She wired congratulations, and received another wire:"Have made a mistake. Forgot to include a few bills. Will be more careful in future."GOBY."Plant said:"What, a thousand a year! That's easy. I can live on thirty shillings a week. My dear Lady Penelope, I've done it on half a dollar a day. I'll show you."He took one room in Bloomsbury, and sent in his bills and accounts to her weekly. She suggested he should find out if his great success in the United States had ruined any one in particular, and if so that he should compensate them. This cost him a hundred thousand dollars. Almost every other day she got a telegram something like this:"Have found another person I ruined. Am cabling five thousand dollars to widow and orphans. Man is dead."Or,—"Another find. Man said to be a lunatic, but perfectly sane except on point of Trusts. Have cabled for his transfer to more comfortable asylum."Or,—"Widow refuses money with insults. Have settled it on daughter, and have given son job."Or,—"Man in question has given amount cabled to Republicans of New York. Has recovered and has started a Trust himself."This was very satisfactory. Penelope saw she was doing good. In the middle of her joy, she received a wire from Goby."May I stop poetry with De Vere? Doctor says I am overdoing it. GOBY."She also received one at the same time from De Vere:"If I could have a week to myself to write satire, should be eternally grateful. Doctor says rowing may be carried to excess. The bulldog is well."DE VERE."The Marquis de Rivaulx, after a fortnight with Gordon, asked to be allowed to go over to Paris to see his mother. But he acknowledged that Gordon was not a bad chap, though he was as white as a sheet in the balloon."And he told me, my dear lady, what to buy. He knows very well what to buy and what to sell. He is immensely clevair, oh, yes. And may I go and seemaman?"She let him go, but not before he promised to take no part in any further anti-Semitic proceedings. She told Gordon not to brag so much of having been in a balloon."You know you were afraid," she said. "The marquis said you were.""Of course I was," said Gordon, "but I went, didn't I?"That was unanswerable.She had an "at home" once a week. It was understood that no one but her own relatives and members of the horde were to call on that day. She then issued any directions that she thought of during the week. Bradstock was now openly and recklessly on her side."I believe you're doing good, real good," said Augustin. "I'm proud of you. Don't mind my laughing, Pen. Oh, but you are wonderful."He gave her advice."Kick young Bramber into public life," he said. "He's got brains.""Lord Bramber," said Pen, "you are to go into Parliament at once. Speak to Lord Bradstock about it, and I'll talk to Mrs. Mytton on your behalf. I expect you to be an Under-Secretary of State at once.""Damn! this is worse than Plant," said the obedient Bramber. Nevertheless, he owned that Plant was a man, and a real good sort."I go to see him, Lady Penelope, in his room in Bloomsbury. He's living on about half a crown a day. I—oh—yes, I'm coming down to the thousand by degrees. And of course if you want me to go into the House, I'll go."Carteret Williams was there, and was put through his paces by Pen about art. He had learnt something about it by rote."The Academy is composed of painters," he said, mechanically, "but there are few artists in it. I quite agree with Carew, who had his pictures chucked before they made him an associate through fear. Turner is a very great artist. He shows how near the sublime can get to the ridiculous. Whistler is also great. He shows how near the ridiculous can go to the sublime. Art is a combination of the material and the spiritual. So Carew says. He showed me a lot of Blake, and he says that the beauty of Blake is that you can't understand him by any ordinary means, such as the intellect. I'm not up to Blake yet. The old masters are very fine. I admit it. Velasquez is dry, but wonderful. Rembrandt appeals to me because he is very dark; I think he would be better if he were darker. We go to the National Gallery every day, and then I take him to the Press Club, where he hears about real life."When Carew came, he owned that Williams wasn't a bad sort."And he's doing his level best to understand," said Carew, with enthusiasm. "He stands before a picture of mine every day for an hour while I explain it. He sees something in it at last. And he's reading about art, and is beginning to see why a photograph isn't the last word of things. He's led a wonderful life, Lady Penelope, and when he gets on what he's seen and done, I feel almost ashamed to live as I do.""That's right," said Pen; "every artist should. And every man who is not an artist should be sorry that he is not. We are far from perfect yet."How beautiful she looked, thought Carew."She lives in the world of the ideal, and so do I.""I am very much pleased with everything," said Pen at large to the assembly, and De Vere, who was having a holiday for his satire, was pleased too. And Goby was delighted at being let off poetry for awhile."Not but what there's something in it, I admit," said Goby, critically. "Robert Lindsay Gordon is a fair snorter at it. I can't say I'm up to Shelley yet. De Vere read me the Epi-something-or-other.""'Epipsychidion,'" said Pen."That's it, a regular water-jump of a word," said Goby, "and he took it in his stride, while I boggled on the bank. However, I'm coming up hand over hand with him. I'm reading Keats with him. He's all right when you get to know him, Lady Penelope, and rowing's doing him no end of good. He's a well-made little chap, and getting some good muscle. If I'm not dead by the time I can take the Epi-what's-his-name, I'll make a man of him."Rivaulx, who had come in with Gordon on his return from seeing his mother in Paris, was very proud of himself."A year ago I should not have had the courage to show myself with a Jew," said Rivaulx, triumphantly. "Lady, dear lady, I thought I should have died when I asked him to dinner. But now I like him. He is wonderful. When he says 'buy,' I buy, and heigh, presto! the shares go up like my balloon. And when he says 'sell,' I sell, and they go down like a barometer when you go up. Oh, yes, and all your aristocracy admire him. I saw seven great lords with him the other day, and they said: 'What company am I to be a director of, Gordon?' and he said he'd ask his clerk. But I have refused to be a director. I should not likemamanto know I know him. She is very dreadful against Jews, owing to theaffairein France."And that was the celebrated afternoon that Penelope, who found that she was doing good in every way to all mankind by obliterating all class and professional jealousies, raised passion and curiosity to its highest point by saying, with the sweetest blush:"Very well, then, I promise to marry one of you!"CHAPTER V.Penelope was the swan, and all her relations were the ducks. The noise they made was simply unendurable. For, besides Titania, she had cousins and other aunts, or people who were in the position of aunts, and she had friends who had been friends of her mother, and they came down on her like the Assyrian. They objected to publicity, especially for other people, and for a young woman to become a public character was something worse than immorality. Nothing but Penelope's entire singleness of character and her humourous want of humour enabled her to meet and overcome them. And even she felt at times that flight was the only thing left. She sent to her solicitor for a list of all the houses and mansions and castles that she owned, and she took her motor-car and her pet chauffeur, and, having borrowed Bob from his grandmother, she set off on a tour. She disappeared for a week at a time. Then she disappeared for two weeks. She was even lost for a month."She ought to be in an asylum," said Titania, "and I have to let Bob go with her. He is some kind of a safeguard. How do I know she isn't married already? Bob, dear Bob, has ceased to confide in me. When I interrogate him, he puts me off. I get nothing out of him. The only thing that I can congratulate myself on is that now, instead of 'Baker says,' it is 'Pen says.' And I doubt, I own I doubt, and I cannot help it, whether Bob is not being done serious harm to, considering that he will one day be a duke. A duke should be brought up properly. Goring was brought up badly, I deeply regret to say. He laughs at Penelope's behaviour, and says girls will be girls. I say they will be women, and he says, 'Thank the Lord,' and I don't know what he means. But, as I say, this wretched girl may be married by now. It is already months since she said, in my hearing, to a whole crowd of men, 'I promise to marry one of you!' Was there ever an aunt in a more unfortunate position? I feel as if I should become a lunatic. Augustin, do you hear me, I am rapidly becoming insane.""Oh, ah," said Augustin, who always knew more about Pen's actions than any one else. She wrote to him from a hundred places."Keep your eye upon Mr. Gordon," she said. "And what are people saying about Lord Bramber's speech? I shall be up in town in time to see Mr. Carew's new picture. I got a letter from Mr. de Vere, saying that Captain Goby was learning Wordsworth's ode on the 'Intimations of Immortality in Childhood' by heart. Mr. de Vere says he is doing what I told him, and is keeping his eye on Mr. Roosevelt. I told him to model himself on the President of the United States. He says he rows and has bought a Sandow exerciser, and he says it does not make him so tired now. Mr. Williams told me when I was last in town that he was thinking of writing a guide to Dulwich Gallery if war didn't break out. I am afraid he hopes it will. Mr. Plant's last weekly accounts were only 10*s*. 6*d*. I advised him to see a doctor if he thought it was doing him harm. The marquis has written a very good article in theRevue des Deux Mondesagainst anti-Semitism. I am greatly pleased with this. I hope Mr. Carew's picture is intelligible. I told him it was no absolute sign of genius to be entirely incomprehensible. He took it very well. I think Mr. Williams will have a good effect on him. I have visited ten mansions, seven castles (two with moats; mother used to love moats, because there are none in America), and several other houses of mine. Most need repairs. I shall be home next week. Tell aunt that Bob is very well and brown, and is learning to drive my car at full speed down a narrow road with sharp turns in it. Smith says he will be the best driver in England when he is grown up, if he goes on and doesn't have his nerve broken up early by an accident. But I think his nerve is good, though I can't always tell, as I shut my eyes when we go very fast. Good-bye now, dear Guardy."Your loving"PENELOPE."P. S. I am sure I am doing good!"Bob was very sure of it, too."I say, Pen, old Guth will be lonely, won't he? But he's all right if he has a bally Catullus in his pocket, and he draws his screw just the same. Granny is very decent to him, take it all around. And I like him because he likes dogs. I must wire to Baker to hear how 'Captain' is getting on. I called him Captain because old Goby gave him to me. I say, Pen, don't you think Smith is a ripping good driver? He says that he'll be my chauffeur when I'm a duke, if you don't want him. He says him and me'll win every bally race. I'd like to do that. I begin to think horse-racing is rot. You see three or four people can't ride a race-horse, and the responsibility of driving you fast when the road's crooked is the fun. Every time I miss a cart, Pen, I feel as happy as if I'd hit Rhodes for four every time he sent a ball down to me. That would be fun. Baker says—no, I mean Smith says that all other sports are rot of the worst kind. He says if he's ever rich, he'll go through the city every day as fast as he can. He hates the police, and some of them hate him. He rode over a sergeant in the Kingston Road once, but he didn't hurt him much. When shall we leave this castle and go to another one? I hope the next is a long way off. Smith says he wants a good road to show what she'll do when she's out to the last notch. And it must be down-hill."And in town, while Pen was going about the country, people's tongues ran as fast as any motorcar."It is nonsense," said one; "she's married already.""I know she's not. I paid a shilling and looked it up at Somerset House.""That's nothing," said a barrister. "They could have been married under wrong names.""That wouldn't be legal.""Yes, it would. It's only illegal if a false name is used and one of the parties doesn't know. Then the one who is deceived can get a declaration of nullity," said the barrister."Oh, well, but who is it?""It's no one. I don't believe she'll marry at all.""She's a crank.""It's madness. I hear the Duchess of Goring has taken to her bed.""Well, Goring hasn't. I saw him at the Frivolity.""Who is it now?""I don't know her name. But where's Lady Penelope?"No one knew but Bradstock, and even Augustin was behind by a post or two. None of the "horde" knew, and they began to get suspicious of each other. Goby watched De Vere, and De Vere kept his eye on Goby. It was obvious from the newspapers that Bramber was in the House. Gordon was seen at his Club. And then Carteret Williams was missing. Carew hunted for him in vain at the Press Club and at the office of theMorning Hour. There was no war yet, though there were rumours of it in the Balkans as usual.It got about that she had married Williams, though he had only run away from Carew for a week."The very worst of the lot," wailed Titania. "I knew it would be Williams. He's hardly a gentleman, though he comes of a good family. Being a war correspondent makes a man brutal. I knew, I knew, I knew it was Williams, and now I shall never speak to her; and he will beat her in time, I know it, and there will be a horrible scandal; and what, oh, what can she have done with Bob? Augustin, go at once and find where Bob is. I knew it would be Williams! Didn't I always say it would be Williams? I could have forgiven her any one else."Gordon came to ask Bradstock if it was true. And Bradstock had a sense of humour, if Pen had none."My dear sir," he said, "how can I tell? She liked him very much, took a great interest in him. She told me he was writing a guide to the art of Dulwich Gallery. Do you think that a bad sign?"Gordon groaned."It looks bad, Lord Bradstock. But I don't believe she takes much interest in him. She takes an interest in me, my lord! Why, I went up in a balloon all on her account. I went with that madman, the French marquis, and as sure as my name's Le— I mean Gordon, there's not another woman in the world I'd have done it for. Don't you think that going up in a balloon, when you'd rather die than do it, ought to touch a woman's heart? I give you my word that she as good as said, 'Go up in a balloon and I'll—' well, or words to that effect. I tell you what, Lord Bradstock, I know you ain't a rich man, not a very rich one, that is, but, if you'll be on my side, I'll put you on to a good thing, the best thing in the market. It's going up like—oh, like a beastly balloon, sir,—my lord, I mean. I'm making it go up, and I'll tell you when to sell. Oh, Lord, I'm very unhappy, my lord. I love the ground she walks on. I'd like to buy it at the price of a city frontage. Come in with me, my lord, and you shall have a tip that half a dozen dukes are dying for. There's a room full of bally dukes waiting to see me now, and I gave them the slip. Will you come in with me? Do, do!"He was a lamentable object, and there was a spot upon his hat which did not shine. He worked at it eagerly with his sleeve, and stood waiting for a reply."I don't mind telling you," said Bradstock, "that my income is only five thousand a year.""Poor beggar!" murmured Gordon."But I only spend four. And if I had more what could I do with it?""Give it me," said Gordon, eagerly, "and I'll make more of it for you. Man alive,—my lord, I mean—I can make it millions."There was a faint suspicion of the "millionth" in the word."I can make it millionth," said Gordon. "I've put a pound or two into that Frenchman's pocket, I can tell you, though he did take me up in a balloon, and I'll put fifty for one into yourth, so help me.""I don't want it.""Well, you can give it away," shrieked Gordon. "They'll make you a duke if you only give away enough. If there wathn't a faint thuspithion of Jewish blood in me, I'd be a baron now at leathth. Give it away to hospithalths, build a lunatic asylum, finanth your party. And if that don't thucktheed, go into beer or biscuits, and you'll be made anything you like.""If they would make me thirty, I'd do it," said Bradstock."Thirty dukes?" asked Gordon, in bewilderment."Thirty years old," said Bradstock.[image]LEOPOLD NORFOLK GORDON. Some said his real name was Isaac LeviGordon advanced on him and took him by a button."My lord," he said, solemnly, "money ith youth and strength and everything except Lady Penelope. If you had a million, you'd feel twenty-five. When I had a measly hundred thousand, I was thin and always going to doctors. When I got two, I got fatter and gave 'em up. Now I'm worth two millionth."But Bradstock said, brutally: "No, Mr. Gordon, I don't want money, and I don't want you to marry Lady Penelope. If I had a million, I'd rather lose it than see her do so.""Did you tell her that?" asked Gordon."I did.""I'm damned glad," said Gordon. "If you want a cat to go one way, pull its tail the other.""Tut, tut," said Bradstock, and Gordon went away sorrowfully, for he had great riches, and saw no good in them without Pen.Bradstock had to interview all the lovers one after one. They came to implore his vote and interest. He saw Rivaulx, whose great desire was to look like an Englishman and act like one. Rivaulx adopted a stony calm, which sat upon him like a title on a Jew, but did not stick so tight. He ended a talk which began most conventionally in a wild and impassioned waltz around Bradstock's room, with despair for a partner. He tore at his hair, but, having had it clipped till it was like a shaved blacking-brush, he could not get hold of it."I must wed her," he howled. "I toldmamanso, or I shall perish. I will become an Englishman.Mon Dieu, I am sad. I am fearfully mournful. I weep exceedingly. Have I not done all? I have eaten largely in public with Mr. Gordon. I have bought his shares and have sold them, but in my heart I cannot. When I return to Paris, I shall fight duels because I have written for Dreyfus with tears in my eye and my tongue in my cheek for sorrow. Where is she, Lord Bradstock? Tell me where she is? I will go to her and say I have done all and can no more!"De Vere tackled him, too."My dear chap," said Bradstock, "I don't know her mind.""She knows her own," said De Vere, with much bitterness, "and so does that boy Bob. I bought a bulldog of him, because she said she thought one would do me good. I don't know why, and now Bob sells me dogs by telegram, and I daren't refuse 'em.""Great Scott!" said his host; "but why?""That young ruffian has an influence over her," mourned the poet. "He is always with her. He is capable of saying I am a 'rotter'; yes, a rotter, a dozen times a day if I refuse, and to have him doing that would be more than I can endure. I want her to love me, and so I buy his dogs. I have a bulldog which hasn't done me any good. All he has done is to tear my trousers and trample over my flower-beds. I have an Irish terrier who is now being cured of bulldog bites by a veterinary surgeon. I've a retriever who howls at night and makes the bulldog unhappy. I have a Borzois with bronchitis and no hair on his tail. Bob wrote to say the hair would grow if I put hair-wash on it myself. He said men couldn't be trusted to do it. And then I've Goby on my hands. I speak in confidence, Lord Bradstock.""Of course," said Bradstock."Then I own I loathe Goby," said De Vere, viciously. "He has less brains than my bulldog, and I think the bulldog has less brains than the retriever. He reads poetry because she said he was to, and he makes me explain mine to him. Explain it! And he makes me row every day he's with me, and he says I'm not imitating Roosevelt if I don't. She said I was to imitate Roosevelt. Why should I? I loathe Republicans. She also told me I was to imitate Sven Hedin. On inquiry I found Sven Hedin was an ass who explored deserts, and went without water for many days. Goby can do that, as my wine-cellar can testify. He says he only tastes water when he cleans his teeth, and then it makes him sick. And, though I keep wine for my friends, I am a water-drinker. How can I do without it? I am very unhappy.""I should chuck Goby and give it up," said Bradstock."I wish I could," said the poet, "but my nature is an enduring one. We learn in suffering Gobies and bulldogs what we teach in song. A dog may be the friend of man, but a bulldog is a tailor's enemy. And I believe they gave Goby the V.C. to get rid of him. Do they ever give decorations to get rid of people?"Bradstock said he thought so, and wondered what he could give De Vere.And then the poet sighed and rose."I have to meet Goby and lunch with him. And afterward we read Shelley together, and then he will teach me billiards at his club. I loathe billiards. It is the most foolish game on earth except keeping bulldogs. And Goby's friends are not sympathetic. They are sportsmen, and ought to be hunted with bulldogs."He went away sadly, and Bradstock lay on a sofa and laughed till he cried."Pen will be my death and the death of a dozen," he said. "And as for Bob—"No sooner had De Vere departed than young Bramber was announced."Conceited young ass," said Bradstock. But Bramber was in the House, and was supposed to be doing very well. He had brains, no doubt, and the manner of Oxford (Balliol variety, as aforesaid) sat on him well. He made speeches, and Mr. Mytton congratulated him on one of them. Nothing but his passion for Penelope prevented him being as conceited as Bradstock supposed him to be. But it must be remembered that Bradstock couldn't make speeches."I thought I'd come and look you up," said Bramber. "I thought you could tell me something about Lady Penelope.""I can't," replied Bradstock. "I spend all my afternoons in saying so. I've had Rivaulx and Austin de Vere and Gordon here already, and after you go I don't doubt that Goby or Plant will turn up. How do you get on with Plant? Do you know, Bramber, I believe Plant is the best man of the lot of you."Bramber frowned."He has an accent that can be cut into slabs, to use his own dialect," said Bramber."Your own accent is equally disagreeable to an American," said Bradstock, who had been in the United States several times."I have no accent," said Bramber, haughtily."Oh," returned Bradstock. "And how do you get along with Plant?"Bramber was obviously more jealous of Plant than any one. But he made a tremendous effort to be fair."He's a very able man," he said at last, "but there's no man I should find it so hard to get on with. He says just what he thinks in the most awful way. And because Lady Penelope said he was not to spend more than twenty-five pounds a week, he is living on ten shillings out of bravado. I hate bravado. He made me dine with him in Soho, and our dinners came to elevenpence each. Where is Lady Penelope?""I don't know," said Bradstock."I didn't see Plant yesterday," said Bramber, uneasily."The devil!""You don't think?""I don't know what to think," said Bradstock, wickedly. "I hear that Jimmy Carew hasn't been seen for days, either."Bramber fidgeted on his chair."Shecan'tmarry Carew. He's a thorough outsider.""Women don't understand the word, my dear chap. How are you getting on in the House? And have you been motoring with Plant?""Yes," said Bramber; "we killed three fowls and a dog yesterday. And Plant was fined ten pounds a week ago. He said he would wire to Lady Penelope to know if that was business expenses. I believe he wants to break my neck.""I shouldn't be surprised," said Bradstock. "Has he gone out alone to-day, do you think? I suppose you know Penelope is doing a lot of it now?""The devil she is!" said Bramber. "I think I'll go and look up Plant."Bradstock got some amusement out of the situation, if Titania didn't.
[image]CAPTAIN PLANTAGENET GOBY, V.C., LATE OF THE GUARDS. Who was ordered to read poetry
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CAPTAIN PLANTAGENET GOBY, V.C., LATE OF THE GUARDS. Who was ordered to read poetry
"I say, Mr. de Vere, wasn't that ripping of old Goby to say he'd give me a real pedigree bull-pup? He knows a bull-pup from a window-shutter, as Baker says. You don't like them? No, but you would if you had one. I feed mine myself, and I wear thick gloves, so's not to get hydrophobia when he bites. He's a most interesting dog, and not so good-tempered as most bulldogs. When he sees a cat, oh, my, it's fun! Look here, when Goby gives me the new pup with the pedigree, you can have mine, if you like, cheap. I know you have a place in the country, and you must want a bulldog. Will you buy him?"
"Good heavens, no!" said the poet.
"Humph!" cried Bob, who of course had quite forgotten that he was doing all this for Goby, and was just enjoying himself. "Why, what do you do in the country without a dog? Do you ride?"
"No," said De Vere.
"Well, of all—I say, Mr. de Vere, what do you do? Do you walk about and make poetry, and do you like making it? Old Guth, I mean Mr. Guthrie, he's my tutor, and he's over there talking to Mrs. Cadwallader, he reads a lot, and some of yours, too."
"Oh, does he!" said De Vere, who began to take some interest. "Does he?"
"Oh, a lot of yours, he says; most of it, I think."
"And does he like it?"
Bob put his head on one side.
"Well, he says it's not bad, some of it."
De Vere flinched at this faint praise.
"Indeed! And what does he like best?" he asked.
"Oh, the beastliest rot," returned Bob, "Browning and Shelley, and I say, do you see that bulge in his pocket? That's Catullus. He reads him all day. But here comes Pen. I say, won't you have my bull-pup? I'll let you have him for half a sovereign; I got him for a sovereign, at least, Baker did.Ithink your poetry's very fine, sir; Mr. Guthrie lent me some."
But Penelope came across the lawn, and De Vere forgot Bob and the bull-pup, and fell down and worshipped. And the goddess took hold of him, and stripped a lot of his poetry away, and set a few facts before him and made him gasp.
"I heard a very strange rumour, Lady Penelope," he said, when he was once more standing upright before Aphrodite. "I heard—oh, but it was absurd! I can't believe it."
"Then it is probably true," said the goddess, breathlessly, "for I mean to have my own way and to initiate a reform in marriages, Mr. de Vere. I have been reading the accounts of some fashionable weddings lately, and they made me ill. What you have heard is quite true."
The poet shook his head.
"I have had the honour to beg you to believe a thousand times that I am devoted to you—"
"Three times, I think," said Pen, who was good at arithmetic.
"Is it only thrice? But do I understand that, if I were to have the inexpressible delight of winning your love, Lady Penelope, that the marriage would be a secret one, that no one would know of it?"
"I mean that," said Penelope, enthusiastically. "It is a new departure, an assertion of a just individualism, although I am a socialist. I abhor ceremonies, and will not be interfered with. I have stated with the utmost clarity to all my relations that I shall not consult them or let them know until I choose, and I shall only get married (if I ever do) on these terms."
"I agree to them," said the poet. "Lady Penelope, will you do me the inexpressible honour to be my wife?"
"Oh, dear, no," said Pen. "Why, certainly not, Mr. de Vere. I don't love any one yet, and perhaps I never shall. But what I say is this: I'll think as to whether I shall marry you if you do as I wish about this matter and about others."
"My blessed lady," said the poet, "is there anything I would not dare or do?"
"I've told Captain Goby exactly the same thing," said Penelope, thereby putting her pretty foot upon the sudden flowers of De Vere's imagination, "and what I want of you is to be more an out-of-door man. You live too much in rooms, hothouses, Mr. de Vere, and in your own garden."
"I was in a garden, I a poet, with one who was (oh, and is) an angel," said De Vere, "but now I dwell in arid deserts, shall I say the Desert of Gobi? What have I to do with him? Shall he dare to pretend to you, dear lady?"
"He's a very good chap," said Pen, quite shortly, "and I think it would do you good to associate with him more. I've told him so, and he agrees. I want you to make him read a little, and exercise his imagination. And he can take you out rowing and shooting perhaps, and I think a little hunting wouldn't do you harm. You might ask him to stay with you, and he'll ask you. And I want you to go out in motor-cars."
"Good heavens!" said De Vere.
"I know it will be hard," said Pen, consolingly. "But you know what I want. It's not enough to be rich and write poetry, Mr. de Vere. I think you might read statistics; statistics are a tonic, and I want you to be a useful citizen, too. There are things to be done. Just look at my cousin Bob. Now he'll be a splendid man."
"He wanted to sell me a bull-pup," murmured the poet.
"He's a good boy," said Pen, affectionately, "and his instincts are to be trusted. I think a bulldog would do you good perhaps. And I shall expect to hear you have asked Captain Goby to stay with you. And don't forget the statistics."
"I'll do it," said the unhappy poet, "for while the One Hope I have exists, and until 'vain desire at last and vain regret go hand in hand to death,' I am your slave."
And, as he went away, he called Bob to him.
"I'll give you half a sovereign for that bulldog," he said, bitterly.
"Oh, I say. But Baker says he's worth two sovereigns," cried Bob.
"I'll give you two," said the poet.
And Bob danced on the lawn.
CHAPTER IV.
If Penelope had had any sense of humour, she would have deprived the round world of much to laugh at in sad times, when laughter was wanted. But thanks be to whatever gods there are, some folks have no humour, and some have a little, and a few much, and thus the world gets on in spite of the spirit of gravity, which, as may be remembered by students of philosophy, Nietzsche branded as the enemy. Pen went ahead, bent on cutting her own swath in the hay-field, and she cut a big one. Goby and the poet must stand as exemplars of her clear and childlike method. It was Pen's Short Way with Her Lovers. She got Rivaulx, who was Nationalist and Anti-Semite to his manicured finger-tips, and had been mixed up in the Dreyfus case, and set him cheek by jowl with Gordon, alias Isaac Levi.
She made them dine together in public, and the poor marquis, being head over heels in love with the earnest creature who was so beautiful, submitted like a lamb.
"Very well, I will," said Rivaulx. There were almighty shrieks in the Paris press. TheJournalhad an article that was wonderful. The affair woke up anti-Semitism again. Rivaulx had been bought by Jewry; France was once more betrayed; the bottom of the world was falling out.
Pen, with no sense of humour, had a native capacity for discovering every one's real weakness. As the Frenchman would rather have died than dine as he did, so Gordon would almost prefer to die suddenly than to run the risk of it. He had wonderful brains, and was a power in finance: he could risk a million when he hadn't it or when he had it as coolly as most men can risk a penny on the chance of a slot-machine working. But physically he was timid. Rivaulx went ballooning. He intended to rival Santos-Dumont.
"You must go with him, Mr. Gordon," said Penelope. Gordon nearly fainted, but Pen was firm, as firm as a rock. Gordon offered to subscribe to all the hospitals in London if she would let him off. He offered to build a small one and endow it; he even suggested that he would build a church. But the poor man had to go. It was now thoroughly understood that any man who refused to do exactly what she told him was struck off the list. The comic papers were almost comic about it. On the day that Gordon went up with Rivaulx in an entirely non-dirigible balloon, the Crystal Palace grounds were crowded with all the Frenchmen and all the Jews in London. The balloon came down in a turnip-field fifteen miles from anywhere, and Gordon got back to London and went to bed. He was consoled by a telegram from Penelope, who congratulated him on overcoming his natural cowardice, and suggested he should do it again.
"I'll give her up first," said Gordon, knowing all the time that he could no more do it than give up finance. He went out and robbed a lot of his friends as a compensation for disturbance, and found himself a hero. In about forty-eight hours the sensation of being looked on as a man of exceptional grit so pleased him that he adored Penelope more than ever. He was as proud of having been in a balloon as Rivaulx was of having dinedtête-à-têtewith him in the open.
She sent for Rufus Q. Plant, and she introduced him to Lord Bramber. Plant was a big American with the common delusion among Americans that he had an entirely English accent. But he hated aristocrats. Bramber had an Oxford accent (Balliol variety), and disliked Americans more than getting up in the morning. He was a fine-looking young fellow with a good skull, who did nothing with it. He had the tendencies of a citizen of Sybaris, and got up at noon. Plant rose at dawn. Bramber loved horses and hated motor-cars. Plant had a manufactory of motors. Pen sent them away together on a little tour, and hinted delicately to Plant that his English accent would be improved by a little Oxford polish.
"And as for you, Lord Bramber, when you come back, I hope you will be more ready to acknowledge that you don't know everything. Mr. Plant will do you good, and will teach you to drive a motor!"
She had never been so beautiful. She showed at her best when her interest in humanity made her courageous and brutal. The colour in her cheeks was splendid; her eyes were as earnest as the sea. If Bramber choked, he submitted, though he blasphemed awfully when he got alone.
"Go at once," said Penelope.
She paired off Carteret Williams with Jimmy Carew, A.R.A. Williams knew as much about art as a hog does of harmony. Jimmy thought the war correspondent a howling Philistine, as indeed he was, and believed anything that could not be painted was a mere by-product of the universe.
"You'll do each other good," said Pen, clasping her beautiful hands together with enthusiasm. Jimmy wanted to draw her at once. Williams wished for an immediate invasion, so that he could save her life and write a flamboyant article about it.
"Show him pictures, Mr. Carew, beginning with Turner and Whistler."
"Make him understand that art isn't everything, Mr. Williams."
She sent them away together, and was wonderfully pleased with herself.
"They are all fine men," she said, thoughtfully, "but it is curious that every man I know thinks every other man more or less of a fool or an idiot, or a cad. They are dreadfully one-sided. When they come back they will be much improved. This is my work in the world, and I don't care a bit what people say."
People said lots, though after a bit the fun died down, except among her own people. And even they laughed at last. At least, every one did but Titania, and she had no more sense of humour than Penelope herself. Indeed, she had less, for Penelope could understand a joke when it was explained to her carefully, and Titania couldn't. And in after years Pen came to see the humourous side of things. She even appreciated a joke against herself, which is the crucial test of humour. But Titania died maintaining that life was a serious business, and should be taken like medicine.
"I never heard of more insane proceedings," said Titania, "never! The notion of sending that poor Jew up in a balloon with that mad Frenchman! Balloons at the best are blasphemous. And to make Captain Goby read with poor little De Vere! I'm sure there will be murder done before she's married. And now it's an understood thing that she will marry one of them. And Brading laughs! If he is only her half-brother, I consider him responsible. And Augustin smiles and smokes and smokes and smiles. And Chloe Cadwallader, whom I never approved of and never shall, backs her up, of course. One of these days I shall tell Chloe Cadwallader what I think of her!"
"I say, granny, what do you think of her?" asked Bob.
"Never mind," said Titania; "there are things that you know nothing of, Robert."
"Oh, are there?" said Bob. "I say, granny, I ain't sure of that. I've been expelled from three schools, and Baker says—"
"Oh, bother Baker," cried his exasperated grandmother. "I think Mr. Guthrie might keep you away from Baker."
"He can't," said Bob, cheerfully. "Old Guth and I have made a treaty. I do what he tells me between ten and twelve, and what I like afterward. If we are reading Latin, and the clock strikes twelve, I say, 'Mr. Guthrie, don't you think Latin's rot?' and he says, 'Oh, is it twelve? I thought it was only eleven!' I get on with Guth, I tell you."
And he was very thick with Goby, who had given him the pedigree bull-pup. Mr. de Vere now owned the interesting one which had to be fed with gloves on, and loathed it with an exceeding hatred only exceeded by his hatred for Goby.
"I say, Pen, you go it," said Bob. "There's heaps of fun in this. They all tip me now like winking."
But Pen did not see the fun. It was a serious business. She looked after her lovers with the greatest care. They brought her reports; they complained of each other. She smoothed over difficulties, and explained what they were to do.
"How the devil am I to live on a thousand a year!" said Goby. But he tried it and found it quite exciting. It exercised his self-control wonderfully. He went into the War Office once a week and demanded some kind of job, and was put off with all kinds of regulations. He sent a telegram to Penelope the first week, saying that according to his accounts he had spent no more than £20. She wired congratulations, and received another wire:
"Have made a mistake. Forgot to include a few bills. Will be more careful in future.
"GOBY."
Plant said:
"What, a thousand a year! That's easy. I can live on thirty shillings a week. My dear Lady Penelope, I've done it on half a dollar a day. I'll show you."
He took one room in Bloomsbury, and sent in his bills and accounts to her weekly. She suggested he should find out if his great success in the United States had ruined any one in particular, and if so that he should compensate them. This cost him a hundred thousand dollars. Almost every other day she got a telegram something like this:
"Have found another person I ruined. Am cabling five thousand dollars to widow and orphans. Man is dead."
Or,—
"Another find. Man said to be a lunatic, but perfectly sane except on point of Trusts. Have cabled for his transfer to more comfortable asylum."
Or,—
"Widow refuses money with insults. Have settled it on daughter, and have given son job."
Or,—
"Man in question has given amount cabled to Republicans of New York. Has recovered and has started a Trust himself."
This was very satisfactory. Penelope saw she was doing good. In the middle of her joy, she received a wire from Goby.
"May I stop poetry with De Vere? Doctor says I am overdoing it. GOBY."
She also received one at the same time from De Vere:
"If I could have a week to myself to write satire, should be eternally grateful. Doctor says rowing may be carried to excess. The bulldog is well.
"DE VERE."
The Marquis de Rivaulx, after a fortnight with Gordon, asked to be allowed to go over to Paris to see his mother. But he acknowledged that Gordon was not a bad chap, though he was as white as a sheet in the balloon.
"And he told me, my dear lady, what to buy. He knows very well what to buy and what to sell. He is immensely clevair, oh, yes. And may I go and seemaman?"
She let him go, but not before he promised to take no part in any further anti-Semitic proceedings. She told Gordon not to brag so much of having been in a balloon.
"You know you were afraid," she said. "The marquis said you were."
"Of course I was," said Gordon, "but I went, didn't I?"
That was unanswerable.
She had an "at home" once a week. It was understood that no one but her own relatives and members of the horde were to call on that day. She then issued any directions that she thought of during the week. Bradstock was now openly and recklessly on her side.
"I believe you're doing good, real good," said Augustin. "I'm proud of you. Don't mind my laughing, Pen. Oh, but you are wonderful."
He gave her advice.
"Kick young Bramber into public life," he said. "He's got brains."
"Lord Bramber," said Pen, "you are to go into Parliament at once. Speak to Lord Bradstock about it, and I'll talk to Mrs. Mytton on your behalf. I expect you to be an Under-Secretary of State at once."
"Damn! this is worse than Plant," said the obedient Bramber. Nevertheless, he owned that Plant was a man, and a real good sort.
"I go to see him, Lady Penelope, in his room in Bloomsbury. He's living on about half a crown a day. I—oh—yes, I'm coming down to the thousand by degrees. And of course if you want me to go into the House, I'll go."
Carteret Williams was there, and was put through his paces by Pen about art. He had learnt something about it by rote.
"The Academy is composed of painters," he said, mechanically, "but there are few artists in it. I quite agree with Carew, who had his pictures chucked before they made him an associate through fear. Turner is a very great artist. He shows how near the sublime can get to the ridiculous. Whistler is also great. He shows how near the ridiculous can go to the sublime. Art is a combination of the material and the spiritual. So Carew says. He showed me a lot of Blake, and he says that the beauty of Blake is that you can't understand him by any ordinary means, such as the intellect. I'm not up to Blake yet. The old masters are very fine. I admit it. Velasquez is dry, but wonderful. Rembrandt appeals to me because he is very dark; I think he would be better if he were darker. We go to the National Gallery every day, and then I take him to the Press Club, where he hears about real life."
When Carew came, he owned that Williams wasn't a bad sort.
"And he's doing his level best to understand," said Carew, with enthusiasm. "He stands before a picture of mine every day for an hour while I explain it. He sees something in it at last. And he's reading about art, and is beginning to see why a photograph isn't the last word of things. He's led a wonderful life, Lady Penelope, and when he gets on what he's seen and done, I feel almost ashamed to live as I do."
"That's right," said Pen; "every artist should. And every man who is not an artist should be sorry that he is not. We are far from perfect yet."
How beautiful she looked, thought Carew.
"She lives in the world of the ideal, and so do I."
"I am very much pleased with everything," said Pen at large to the assembly, and De Vere, who was having a holiday for his satire, was pleased too. And Goby was delighted at being let off poetry for awhile.
"Not but what there's something in it, I admit," said Goby, critically. "Robert Lindsay Gordon is a fair snorter at it. I can't say I'm up to Shelley yet. De Vere read me the Epi-something-or-other."
"'Epipsychidion,'" said Pen.
"That's it, a regular water-jump of a word," said Goby, "and he took it in his stride, while I boggled on the bank. However, I'm coming up hand over hand with him. I'm reading Keats with him. He's all right when you get to know him, Lady Penelope, and rowing's doing him no end of good. He's a well-made little chap, and getting some good muscle. If I'm not dead by the time I can take the Epi-what's-his-name, I'll make a man of him."
Rivaulx, who had come in with Gordon on his return from seeing his mother in Paris, was very proud of himself.
"A year ago I should not have had the courage to show myself with a Jew," said Rivaulx, triumphantly. "Lady, dear lady, I thought I should have died when I asked him to dinner. But now I like him. He is wonderful. When he says 'buy,' I buy, and heigh, presto! the shares go up like my balloon. And when he says 'sell,' I sell, and they go down like a barometer when you go up. Oh, yes, and all your aristocracy admire him. I saw seven great lords with him the other day, and they said: 'What company am I to be a director of, Gordon?' and he said he'd ask his clerk. But I have refused to be a director. I should not likemamanto know I know him. She is very dreadful against Jews, owing to theaffairein France."
And that was the celebrated afternoon that Penelope, who found that she was doing good in every way to all mankind by obliterating all class and professional jealousies, raised passion and curiosity to its highest point by saying, with the sweetest blush:
"Very well, then, I promise to marry one of you!"
CHAPTER V.
Penelope was the swan, and all her relations were the ducks. The noise they made was simply unendurable. For, besides Titania, she had cousins and other aunts, or people who were in the position of aunts, and she had friends who had been friends of her mother, and they came down on her like the Assyrian. They objected to publicity, especially for other people, and for a young woman to become a public character was something worse than immorality. Nothing but Penelope's entire singleness of character and her humourous want of humour enabled her to meet and overcome them. And even she felt at times that flight was the only thing left. She sent to her solicitor for a list of all the houses and mansions and castles that she owned, and she took her motor-car and her pet chauffeur, and, having borrowed Bob from his grandmother, she set off on a tour. She disappeared for a week at a time. Then she disappeared for two weeks. She was even lost for a month.
"She ought to be in an asylum," said Titania, "and I have to let Bob go with her. He is some kind of a safeguard. How do I know she isn't married already? Bob, dear Bob, has ceased to confide in me. When I interrogate him, he puts me off. I get nothing out of him. The only thing that I can congratulate myself on is that now, instead of 'Baker says,' it is 'Pen says.' And I doubt, I own I doubt, and I cannot help it, whether Bob is not being done serious harm to, considering that he will one day be a duke. A duke should be brought up properly. Goring was brought up badly, I deeply regret to say. He laughs at Penelope's behaviour, and says girls will be girls. I say they will be women, and he says, 'Thank the Lord,' and I don't know what he means. But, as I say, this wretched girl may be married by now. It is already months since she said, in my hearing, to a whole crowd of men, 'I promise to marry one of you!' Was there ever an aunt in a more unfortunate position? I feel as if I should become a lunatic. Augustin, do you hear me, I am rapidly becoming insane."
"Oh, ah," said Augustin, who always knew more about Pen's actions than any one else. She wrote to him from a hundred places.
"Keep your eye upon Mr. Gordon," she said. "And what are people saying about Lord Bramber's speech? I shall be up in town in time to see Mr. Carew's new picture. I got a letter from Mr. de Vere, saying that Captain Goby was learning Wordsworth's ode on the 'Intimations of Immortality in Childhood' by heart. Mr. de Vere says he is doing what I told him, and is keeping his eye on Mr. Roosevelt. I told him to model himself on the President of the United States. He says he rows and has bought a Sandow exerciser, and he says it does not make him so tired now. Mr. Williams told me when I was last in town that he was thinking of writing a guide to Dulwich Gallery if war didn't break out. I am afraid he hopes it will. Mr. Plant's last weekly accounts were only 10*s*. 6*d*. I advised him to see a doctor if he thought it was doing him harm. The marquis has written a very good article in theRevue des Deux Mondesagainst anti-Semitism. I am greatly pleased with this. I hope Mr. Carew's picture is intelligible. I told him it was no absolute sign of genius to be entirely incomprehensible. He took it very well. I think Mr. Williams will have a good effect on him. I have visited ten mansions, seven castles (two with moats; mother used to love moats, because there are none in America), and several other houses of mine. Most need repairs. I shall be home next week. Tell aunt that Bob is very well and brown, and is learning to drive my car at full speed down a narrow road with sharp turns in it. Smith says he will be the best driver in England when he is grown up, if he goes on and doesn't have his nerve broken up early by an accident. But I think his nerve is good, though I can't always tell, as I shut my eyes when we go very fast. Good-bye now, dear Guardy.
"PENELOPE.
"P. S. I am sure I am doing good!"
Bob was very sure of it, too.
"I say, Pen, old Guth will be lonely, won't he? But he's all right if he has a bally Catullus in his pocket, and he draws his screw just the same. Granny is very decent to him, take it all around. And I like him because he likes dogs. I must wire to Baker to hear how 'Captain' is getting on. I called him Captain because old Goby gave him to me. I say, Pen, don't you think Smith is a ripping good driver? He says that he'll be my chauffeur when I'm a duke, if you don't want him. He says him and me'll win every bally race. I'd like to do that. I begin to think horse-racing is rot. You see three or four people can't ride a race-horse, and the responsibility of driving you fast when the road's crooked is the fun. Every time I miss a cart, Pen, I feel as happy as if I'd hit Rhodes for four every time he sent a ball down to me. That would be fun. Baker says—no, I mean Smith says that all other sports are rot of the worst kind. He says if he's ever rich, he'll go through the city every day as fast as he can. He hates the police, and some of them hate him. He rode over a sergeant in the Kingston Road once, but he didn't hurt him much. When shall we leave this castle and go to another one? I hope the next is a long way off. Smith says he wants a good road to show what she'll do when she's out to the last notch. And it must be down-hill."
And in town, while Pen was going about the country, people's tongues ran as fast as any motorcar.
"It is nonsense," said one; "she's married already."
"I know she's not. I paid a shilling and looked it up at Somerset House."
"That's nothing," said a barrister. "They could have been married under wrong names."
"That wouldn't be legal."
"Yes, it would. It's only illegal if a false name is used and one of the parties doesn't know. Then the one who is deceived can get a declaration of nullity," said the barrister.
"Oh, well, but who is it?"
"It's no one. I don't believe she'll marry at all."
"She's a crank."
"It's madness. I hear the Duchess of Goring has taken to her bed."
"Well, Goring hasn't. I saw him at the Frivolity."
"Who is it now?"
"I don't know her name. But where's Lady Penelope?"
No one knew but Bradstock, and even Augustin was behind by a post or two. None of the "horde" knew, and they began to get suspicious of each other. Goby watched De Vere, and De Vere kept his eye on Goby. It was obvious from the newspapers that Bramber was in the House. Gordon was seen at his Club. And then Carteret Williams was missing. Carew hunted for him in vain at the Press Club and at the office of theMorning Hour. There was no war yet, though there were rumours of it in the Balkans as usual.
It got about that she had married Williams, though he had only run away from Carew for a week.
"The very worst of the lot," wailed Titania. "I knew it would be Williams. He's hardly a gentleman, though he comes of a good family. Being a war correspondent makes a man brutal. I knew, I knew, I knew it was Williams, and now I shall never speak to her; and he will beat her in time, I know it, and there will be a horrible scandal; and what, oh, what can she have done with Bob? Augustin, go at once and find where Bob is. I knew it would be Williams! Didn't I always say it would be Williams? I could have forgiven her any one else."
Gordon came to ask Bradstock if it was true. And Bradstock had a sense of humour, if Pen had none.
"My dear sir," he said, "how can I tell? She liked him very much, took a great interest in him. She told me he was writing a guide to the art of Dulwich Gallery. Do you think that a bad sign?"
Gordon groaned.
"It looks bad, Lord Bradstock. But I don't believe she takes much interest in him. She takes an interest in me, my lord! Why, I went up in a balloon all on her account. I went with that madman, the French marquis, and as sure as my name's Le— I mean Gordon, there's not another woman in the world I'd have done it for. Don't you think that going up in a balloon, when you'd rather die than do it, ought to touch a woman's heart? I give you my word that she as good as said, 'Go up in a balloon and I'll—' well, or words to that effect. I tell you what, Lord Bradstock, I know you ain't a rich man, not a very rich one, that is, but, if you'll be on my side, I'll put you on to a good thing, the best thing in the market. It's going up like—oh, like a beastly balloon, sir,—my lord, I mean. I'm making it go up, and I'll tell you when to sell. Oh, Lord, I'm very unhappy, my lord. I love the ground she walks on. I'd like to buy it at the price of a city frontage. Come in with me, my lord, and you shall have a tip that half a dozen dukes are dying for. There's a room full of bally dukes waiting to see me now, and I gave them the slip. Will you come in with me? Do, do!"
He was a lamentable object, and there was a spot upon his hat which did not shine. He worked at it eagerly with his sleeve, and stood waiting for a reply.
"I don't mind telling you," said Bradstock, "that my income is only five thousand a year."
"Poor beggar!" murmured Gordon.
"But I only spend four. And if I had more what could I do with it?"
"Give it me," said Gordon, eagerly, "and I'll make more of it for you. Man alive,—my lord, I mean—I can make it millions."
There was a faint suspicion of the "millionth" in the word.
"I can make it millionth," said Gordon. "I've put a pound or two into that Frenchman's pocket, I can tell you, though he did take me up in a balloon, and I'll put fifty for one into yourth, so help me."
"I don't want it."
"Well, you can give it away," shrieked Gordon. "They'll make you a duke if you only give away enough. If there wathn't a faint thuspithion of Jewish blood in me, I'd be a baron now at leathth. Give it away to hospithalths, build a lunatic asylum, finanth your party. And if that don't thucktheed, go into beer or biscuits, and you'll be made anything you like."
"If they would make me thirty, I'd do it," said Bradstock.
"Thirty dukes?" asked Gordon, in bewilderment.
"Thirty years old," said Bradstock.
[image]LEOPOLD NORFOLK GORDON. Some said his real name was Isaac Levi
[image]
[image]
LEOPOLD NORFOLK GORDON. Some said his real name was Isaac Levi
Gordon advanced on him and took him by a button.
"My lord," he said, solemnly, "money ith youth and strength and everything except Lady Penelope. If you had a million, you'd feel twenty-five. When I had a measly hundred thousand, I was thin and always going to doctors. When I got two, I got fatter and gave 'em up. Now I'm worth two millionth."
But Bradstock said, brutally: "No, Mr. Gordon, I don't want money, and I don't want you to marry Lady Penelope. If I had a million, I'd rather lose it than see her do so."
"Did you tell her that?" asked Gordon.
"I did."
"I'm damned glad," said Gordon. "If you want a cat to go one way, pull its tail the other."
"Tut, tut," said Bradstock, and Gordon went away sorrowfully, for he had great riches, and saw no good in them without Pen.
Bradstock had to interview all the lovers one after one. They came to implore his vote and interest. He saw Rivaulx, whose great desire was to look like an Englishman and act like one. Rivaulx adopted a stony calm, which sat upon him like a title on a Jew, but did not stick so tight. He ended a talk which began most conventionally in a wild and impassioned waltz around Bradstock's room, with despair for a partner. He tore at his hair, but, having had it clipped till it was like a shaved blacking-brush, he could not get hold of it.
"I must wed her," he howled. "I toldmamanso, or I shall perish. I will become an Englishman.Mon Dieu, I am sad. I am fearfully mournful. I weep exceedingly. Have I not done all? I have eaten largely in public with Mr. Gordon. I have bought his shares and have sold them, but in my heart I cannot. When I return to Paris, I shall fight duels because I have written for Dreyfus with tears in my eye and my tongue in my cheek for sorrow. Where is she, Lord Bradstock? Tell me where she is? I will go to her and say I have done all and can no more!"
De Vere tackled him, too.
"My dear chap," said Bradstock, "I don't know her mind."
"She knows her own," said De Vere, with much bitterness, "and so does that boy Bob. I bought a bulldog of him, because she said she thought one would do me good. I don't know why, and now Bob sells me dogs by telegram, and I daren't refuse 'em."
"Great Scott!" said his host; "but why?"
"That young ruffian has an influence over her," mourned the poet. "He is always with her. He is capable of saying I am a 'rotter'; yes, a rotter, a dozen times a day if I refuse, and to have him doing that would be more than I can endure. I want her to love me, and so I buy his dogs. I have a bulldog which hasn't done me any good. All he has done is to tear my trousers and trample over my flower-beds. I have an Irish terrier who is now being cured of bulldog bites by a veterinary surgeon. I've a retriever who howls at night and makes the bulldog unhappy. I have a Borzois with bronchitis and no hair on his tail. Bob wrote to say the hair would grow if I put hair-wash on it myself. He said men couldn't be trusted to do it. And then I've Goby on my hands. I speak in confidence, Lord Bradstock."
"Of course," said Bradstock.
"Then I own I loathe Goby," said De Vere, viciously. "He has less brains than my bulldog, and I think the bulldog has less brains than the retriever. He reads poetry because she said he was to, and he makes me explain mine to him. Explain it! And he makes me row every day he's with me, and he says I'm not imitating Roosevelt if I don't. She said I was to imitate Roosevelt. Why should I? I loathe Republicans. She also told me I was to imitate Sven Hedin. On inquiry I found Sven Hedin was an ass who explored deserts, and went without water for many days. Goby can do that, as my wine-cellar can testify. He says he only tastes water when he cleans his teeth, and then it makes him sick. And, though I keep wine for my friends, I am a water-drinker. How can I do without it? I am very unhappy."
"I should chuck Goby and give it up," said Bradstock.
"I wish I could," said the poet, "but my nature is an enduring one. We learn in suffering Gobies and bulldogs what we teach in song. A dog may be the friend of man, but a bulldog is a tailor's enemy. And I believe they gave Goby the V.C. to get rid of him. Do they ever give decorations to get rid of people?"
Bradstock said he thought so, and wondered what he could give De Vere.
And then the poet sighed and rose.
"I have to meet Goby and lunch with him. And afterward we read Shelley together, and then he will teach me billiards at his club. I loathe billiards. It is the most foolish game on earth except keeping bulldogs. And Goby's friends are not sympathetic. They are sportsmen, and ought to be hunted with bulldogs."
He went away sadly, and Bradstock lay on a sofa and laughed till he cried.
"Pen will be my death and the death of a dozen," he said. "And as for Bob—"
No sooner had De Vere departed than young Bramber was announced.
"Conceited young ass," said Bradstock. But Bramber was in the House, and was supposed to be doing very well. He had brains, no doubt, and the manner of Oxford (Balliol variety, as aforesaid) sat on him well. He made speeches, and Mr. Mytton congratulated him on one of them. Nothing but his passion for Penelope prevented him being as conceited as Bradstock supposed him to be. But it must be remembered that Bradstock couldn't make speeches.
"I thought I'd come and look you up," said Bramber. "I thought you could tell me something about Lady Penelope."
"I can't," replied Bradstock. "I spend all my afternoons in saying so. I've had Rivaulx and Austin de Vere and Gordon here already, and after you go I don't doubt that Goby or Plant will turn up. How do you get on with Plant? Do you know, Bramber, I believe Plant is the best man of the lot of you."
Bramber frowned.
"He has an accent that can be cut into slabs, to use his own dialect," said Bramber.
"Your own accent is equally disagreeable to an American," said Bradstock, who had been in the United States several times.
"I have no accent," said Bramber, haughtily.
"Oh," returned Bradstock. "And how do you get along with Plant?"
Bramber was obviously more jealous of Plant than any one. But he made a tremendous effort to be fair.
"He's a very able man," he said at last, "but there's no man I should find it so hard to get on with. He says just what he thinks in the most awful way. And because Lady Penelope said he was not to spend more than twenty-five pounds a week, he is living on ten shillings out of bravado. I hate bravado. He made me dine with him in Soho, and our dinners came to elevenpence each. Where is Lady Penelope?"
"I don't know," said Bradstock.
"I didn't see Plant yesterday," said Bramber, uneasily.
"The devil!"
"You don't think?"
"I don't know what to think," said Bradstock, wickedly. "I hear that Jimmy Carew hasn't been seen for days, either."
Bramber fidgeted on his chair.
"Shecan'tmarry Carew. He's a thorough outsider."
"Women don't understand the word, my dear chap. How are you getting on in the House? And have you been motoring with Plant?"
"Yes," said Bramber; "we killed three fowls and a dog yesterday. And Plant was fined ten pounds a week ago. He said he would wire to Lady Penelope to know if that was business expenses. I believe he wants to break my neck."
"I shouldn't be surprised," said Bradstock. "Has he gone out alone to-day, do you think? I suppose you know Penelope is doing a lot of it now?"
"The devil she is!" said Bramber. "I think I'll go and look up Plant."
Bradstock got some amusement out of the situation, if Titania didn't.