CHAPTER X.Love is a pathological state which can only be cured by one means. It is a disease, and robs the most humourous of their humour. When Rabelais was in love he no doubt wrote poems which he afterward destroyed. When Dante was in love he did the Paradiso. When he cheered up he wrote the Inferno. Neither of these is any joke. But then, Dante had no more humour than Penelope. It can be imagined (or it cannot be imagined) how unhumourous Pen became when she found she had made her choice between Plant and De Vere and Goby and Carew and Williams and Bramber and Gordon and Rivaulx. She wept at night over those she could not marry. And it added grief to grief to think that the unmarried would probably relapse into their evil ways."What can one poor girl do with so many?" she asked. "I'm sure they will turn around on me, and once more follow their dreadful instincts! And they have improved so much!"The result of her sorrow was such pity that every poor wretch of them all was convinced she loved him better and better. They were quite cheerful. They looked at each other almost sympathetically. They grieved for each other, and struggled on the hard cinder-path of duty, with Penelope at least a long lap ahead. The amount of good they did was wonderful. Plant got his university started, Rivaulx went over to Paris and asked Dreyfus to dinner, Goby was deep in Imperial Yeomanry and rifle ranges, Bramber spoke on every opportunity in the House and voted with the insistence of a whip. De Vere wrote a monograph on outdoor sports, with an appendix on bulldogs. He also owned that poetry was not everything, and went so far as to say that the poet laureate was a very good fellow. Gordon floated a company without any water in the capital, and ran the whole affair with absolute honesty and no waiver clause. Carew learned to draw, and spoke sober truth about the Chantry Bequest.Williams never swore in public, and painted in water-colours. And none of them played bridge or went into good society."And when they know?" said poor Penelope."I wonder if I ought not to sacrifice him and myself on the altar of duty?" said Pen. But she was in love, and the motor-car in which she was to disappear stood ready. She made weekly trips in it with Bob. Sometimes they stayed away for three days, sometimes even for a week."Oh, Bob, I'm so unhappy: so happy," said Pen.And Bob looked at her critically."Well, you look stunning, anyhow," he replied, "you get better looking every day, Pen. Old De Vere said so. He let on that you were a cross between a lily and a rose, or some such rot. You mark me, Pen, he'll go back to poetry if you marry him, and give up dogs. I don't want him to do that. Baker has some pups coming on, a new kind of very savage dog, and I'm halves in 'em. Can't you give me a tip as to whether it's De Vere? If it is, I'll sell him one now, cheap."But Pen looked beautiful and kept her mouth shut. Neither Bob nor Titania nor Bradstock could extract a word from her. And, nevertheless, the whole world grew suspicious. The society papers said she had made her choice. The sporting papers gave tips. They said, "For theLady Penelope Stakeswe give Plant or Bramber," or at least one of them did. Others selected De Vere, and one rude man said a rank outsider would get it. Of course he didn't believe in Pen's word. But then, no one did.And still Pen kept her teeth shut and was as obstinate as a government mule to all persuasion. Ethel cried and said:"Oh, is it Captain Goby?"Chloe laughed and laid traps for Penelope saying:"Oh, by the way, I saw Lord Bramber just now."Or it might be De Vere or Carew or Williams. But no one got a rise out of Penelope."I am entirely determined to give a lead to those who wish to be married without publicity. I shall found a society presently," said Penelope.When Titania, whom nothing could discourage, went at her furiously, Bradstock smiled."If she has a daughter, some day we shall see the girl married in Westminster Abbey," said Bradstock. But even he was very curious."Have you found out anything yet, Bob?" he asked that young financier."I'm on the way," said Bob, "give me time, Lord Bradstock. I feel sure it's not De Vere. He's buying all the dogs I offer him. If he was sure, he wouldn't."But Bradstock wasn't certain. Penelope might have no humour, but she was quite equal to ordering De Vere to buy in order to blind Bob."I never thought of that," said Bob. "I frankly own Pen's a deal worse than Euclid. And I never thought to say that of anything."And upon a certain day in June, when June was doing its best to live up to the poet's ideal, Pen disappeared, by herself, leaving Bob at home with Guthrie, who now came over each day to keep the young vagabond doing something. She came back after lunch, and Bob found her abnormally silent. She had nothing to say, and there was a curious far-off look in her eyes. Her interest in dogs was nil; she showed no appreciation of ferrets; when he spoke she said "Oh" and "Ah" and "what's that you say?" And Bob had no suspicion whatsoever, just as clever people never have when they might be expected to show their wisdom.When she did speak, though, it was to the point."I think, Bob, it is time you went back to your grandmother's," she declared, suddenly, and back he went in spite of all his cajoleries. Pen was very strange, he thought, and rather beastly. There certainly was a change in her, for she dismissed Harriet Weekes with a douceur which did not really sweeten that lady's departure.And in the afternoon Pen casually remarked to Chloe that she was going out of town for three days. When she said so the motor-car was at the door, and Geordie Smith was there too.If Timothy Bunting had known that Smith was as deep in his lady's confidence as he was himself, he would have been jealous. But he must have been, for Pen said to him, when they were out of Piccadilly:"How long will it take to get to Spilsby, Smith?""My lady, with this new racing-car I'll get there when you like," replied Smith, firmly.Pen remembered that Bob said Smith's ambition was to ride through the city regardless of fines."I wouldn't try to do it under three hours," she said."Unless we are followed," said Smith. "If we are followed, my lady, may I let her go?""Yes," said Penelope.Geordie Smith nodded to himself."Fines be damned, and legal limits ditto," said Smith to himself; "wait, my darling, till we get through the traffic."He meant "darling" for his new car. He adored it as much as he did his mistress. He used to dream of it at night and had nightmares about it. Dream ruffians cut up his tires; he was in the middle of Salisbury Plain without petrol; "she" refused to spark; he was held up by gigantic policemen with stop watches the size of a church clock. But now she moved under him smooth and cosy, with a vast reserve of power; she was quick, swift, docile, intelligent, fearless of policemen, careless of the limping law."If my lady wants to go quick, I'm the man," said Geordie. "But I wonder what's up?"Geordie played the car as Joachim plays the violin, or Paderewski the piano. She skated, she swam, she shot like a water-beetle, she was responsive to his lightest touch. He heard her music as every engineer does, and found it as lovely as a dream song."Oh, for a clear road," said the player. He found some of it clear before they reached Barnet, and then he fingered the keyboard, as it were, like a master."Horses, horses," said Smith, "the poor miserable things! Ain't I sorry for Tim Bunting! Here we go, my lady."He broke the law magnificently, and with such skill that Penelope wondered. But only once he ran against the law in the shape of a policeman, north of Hatfield, who saw him coming and signalled to him to stop."Shall I?" said Smith."No!" shrieked Pen, against the tide of wind.They passed him flying and saw him run as they passed."He'll wire to Hitchin and have us there," said Smith. But he knew his roads. "Oh, will he?"He took the right fork of the roads at Welwyn and roared through Stevenage to Baldock and found the main road again at Sandy. They reached Huntington, sixty miles from town, in an hour and three quarters."And I've never let her out but once," said Smith; "she's a daisy!"The eighteen miles to Spilsborough they did at a speed that made Penelope bend her head. She felt wonderful: she was on a shooting-star. They slackened on the outskirts of the cathedral city and rolled through it delicately. She looked about her and remembered the dear bishop who had christened her when he was no more than a vicar."We'll go by Crowland and Spalding, Smith." A car followed them out of Spilsborough, and Smith, going easy, looked back and saw it."Catch us, my son," he said, contemptuously. But when they were well clear of town and he turned her loose, so to speak, Pen's nerve went, or it appeared to go."Don't go so fast, Smith," she commanded.And Smith obeyed sorrowfully."They can't stand it," he said; "none of 'em can stand it really. They let on they can, but it's no go. A few hot miles gives them the mulligrubs."But nevertheless they were running over thirty miles an hour. The car behind crawled up to them."All I've got to do, my lady, is to ask her to shake 'em off, and away we go and leave 'em," he suggested."Oh, no, no," said Pen.At Spalding the pursuer, if he were one, was not a hundred yards behind. But in the town Smith got ahead. He did not see Penelope trembling. Smith had taken a look at the one behind."There's power there," he said, savagely. "If he lets her out and my lady squeals, I'm passed!"She did "squeal" the other side of Spalding, but not for herself. The other car had to stop."That's done 'em," said Smith; "they're in the ditch." He gained ten miles on them, and Penelope wept.And just as they were coming into Boston at an easy gait, Smith turned and saw the other car coming up behind like a meteor, with the dust astern of her in a fume."That chap can drive after all," said Smith. "Won't you try to let me get away from him before we get to Spilsby, my lady?""I—I don't want to," said Pen.And five miles outside of Spilsby the pursuing car drew up with them. Two indistinguishable monsters drove it, and through his glaring goggles Smith glared at them as they came alongside."Stop," said Penelope, suddenly. "Stop, Smith."And the other car stopped too."I'll go on with the other car," said Penelope. She took her place by the most unrecognizable portent of the two, and disappeared in a sudden and terrific cloud of dust."Damned if I know who it is, even now," said Smith.CHAPTER XI.It was Friday when Penelope disappeared from London in a motor-car, and was carried off by a motor pirate, unknown to any one, because he wore a peak cap, a fur coat with the fur outside, and gigantic goggles, making him resemble a diver or a cuttlefish.It was Monday when she returned to town in a motor-car with Geordie Smith. And all the way into town Geordie said:"Blessed if I'd ha' thought it. I always reckoned it would have been one of the others. I lose money on this, but if I do, it warms the cockles of my heart to see my lady happy. Bless her sweet face, I wish she'd leave the blooming world alone and have a good time. I never set eyes on such an aggravatin' beautiful sweet lady for interferin' with men. Just as if the queen herself could alter our ways! Women always gas that they can or mean to, and they're just like hens with men for ducks."If he had been a classical scholar he might have remembered Ariadne up to her knees in the sea, with her lover on the deep in a boat."When I saw who it was at Moat House," said Geordie, "you could have knocked me endwise with something less than a steel spanner. And that horse-whipping ass of a Bunting was equal took aback. For somehow we never spotted him as likely to make the non-stop run. Humph, humph!"And he left Penelope at her house just in time for afternoon tea. As she lay on the sofa she handed a paper to Chloe Cadwallader, saying:"I wish you would send out cards to all these people for Thursday night.""That's very short notice, darling," said Chloe."They'll come," said Pen.And when Chloe looked at the list she found it included only Pen's particular friends, her most bitter relations, and the whole of the "horde.""I wonder—" said Chloe, and she wondered somewhat later with Ethel."Is it?" said Ethel."Can it be?" cried Chloe."It can't be," said Ethel."Who knows?" asked Chloe. "She is so plain and so simple and straightforward that there is no certainty about anything she does. I understand the wicked and the weak, but Penelope—"She threw up her hands, and presently wrote out the cards. And Penelope was trying "to a degree," as Chloe said all Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday. And on Thursday she sent for Bob, who came helter-skelter in a hansom."You'll stand by me, Bob," said Pen, clutching him.Bob put his hands in his pockets and stood straddle-legs. He stared at her. What was hidden from the wisdom of Chloe was revealed to the simplicity of this boy."Pen," said Bob, solemnly, "I'll stick by you till death. But ain't you going to tell me who it is?""Who what is?" asked Pen, feebly."Him," said Bob. "Pen, you've been and gone and done it."Pen, the strong and mighty Pen, wept a little."Don't snivel," said Bob. "It can't be helped now, I suppose, unless you get a divorce. Do you want one?""Oh, no!" said Pen. "Not at all!"Bob considered the matter for a few minutes."I say, what makes you cry?" he asked."I—I don't know," said Penelope."Girls are very rum. Baker says they are. He's not married, you know. He says mules are easy to them. He drove mules once in India, he says. You know you are doing all this off your own bat, Pen, ain't you? Why don't you chuck it?""Chuck what, dear?""Oh, this notion of not letting on. Baker says it's the rummest start he ever knew, and he says he's seen some rum things in his life, especially when he was a sergeant in the Dublin Fusiliers. Can't you chuck it?""Oh, no, certainly not," said Pen, firmly. "It's only, Bob, that I'm not used to it yet, you see.""Of course not," said Bob. "Being married is strange at first, I suppose. Baker says he knew a woman who was married four times, and by the fourth time she wasn't nervous to speak of. But is it true, Pen, that you won't tell any one who it is?""I won't," said Pen."Bravo," cried Bob. "Stick to it. Oh, it will make granny so savage! Has Bill spoken about it to you?""He laughs," said Pen. "He always does laugh.""He tells rattling good stories," said Bob. "He told me a splendid one about a man who stole a parrot the other day. I'll tell it you sometime when I remember it. Is anything going to happen to-night, Pen?"Pen shivered."Oh, dear, I don't know. Mind you come, too, Bob."Bob vowed he wouldn't miss coming for worlds."I believe you're thinking of telling 'em you've done it," he said, and Pen said she was thinking of telling them."You won't tell me who it is? I'm as close as wax," urged Bob."I can't, dear," said Pen."Oh, by Jove, I remember Bill's parrot story, Pen. A man stole a parrot, and when he was caught he said he took it for a lark. And the man who owned it said he'd make a bally fine judge at a bird-show.""Oh," said Pen, rather blankly; "but if he only took it for a lark, I suppose they let him off. Did they?""Let him off what?""Why—going to prison, of course," said Pen."I don't know," replied Bob, staring. "Don't you see it's a joke?""Yes, I see, of course," said Pen. "Why, the man said it was a lark, and it was a parrot. I think it's a very good story, Bob."And Bob went away wondering whether it was or not."I'll tell it to Baker," he said, thoughtfully.He turned up at nine o'clock that night with Titania, who was in a state of mind requiring instant attention from a physician."Good heavens, what is it, I wonder," said Titania. "Robert, I wonder what it is? But what do you know? I am in a tremble; I am sure she will do or say something even more scandalous than she has done yet. I put it all on Bradstock; to make him her guardian was a fatal error. My nerves—but I have none. I quiver like a jelly; I shake; I must be pale as a ghost. Why should we take so much trouble over anything? I must think of myself. I will go to bed and stay there for a week, and send for Dr. Lumsden Griff."But Bradstock was as calm as a philosopher without anything in the objective world to worry him."What does it matter?" he inquired. "Does anything matter?"Brading, whom no one had seen for many months, as he had spent the whole winter in a yacht down the Mediterranean, was perfectly good-humoured."You see, she's a dear, but only my half-sister after all," he said to Bradstock, "and women are so wonderful! I can tell you a story by and by of a Greek lady, and one about a Spaniard. And, to tell the truth, I almost agree with Pen. I'm a bit of a socialist, or an anarchist, if you like. Have you read Nietzsche?""Who wrote it?" asked Bradstock.But the horde came in one by one, and Penelope, who was dressed in the most unremarkable costume at her disposal, and looked like a lily, received them at the door."A most awful and improper situation," said Titania."I say, I'll tell you about that Greek girl," said Brading. "Do you think Pen could stick a knife in a fellow?"Bradstock didn't think so, and listened to the story of the lady who suggested the notion."Right through my coat and waistcoat," said Brading. "Only a very stiff piece of starch saved my life!""Good heavens!" cried Bradstock.The room was full, and Bob buzzed around it like a bluebottle in an orchard."Oh, I say," he cried to every one. He told the story of the parrot after he had asked Brading whether he had it right. He tried it on De Vere and failed. Goby roared handsomely. Bramber was absent-minded with his eye on Penelope. Gordon said, "Yes, yes, a ripping good story." The Marquis de Rivaulx balked at it, but was led to understand it."And when can I go up in a balloon?" asked Bob. He waited for no answer, but told it to Williams, suggesting that the war correspondent might pay for it by a story with blood and torture in it, please. And all of a sudden it was noticed that the hostess had slipped out of the room."Where—where is Penelope?" asked trembling Titania. "Mrs. Cadwallader, where is Lady Penelope?"Bob ran her to earth in her bedroom, and after many appeals he was let in."Oh, dear, oh, dear," said Penelope. "Bob, let me take hold of you. Do I tremble?""Rather," said Bob. "I'll bet you couldn't drink a glass of wine without spilling it. What's wrong? Buck up. Ain't you comin' in to tell 'em? I've broken it a bit for you."Pen screamed."You wretched boy, what have you done?""Bless you, nothing to speak of," said Bob. "I only said you would make 'em sit up presently. They think I know something, and want to bribe me. I say, Pen, if you say nothing for a few days, I believe old Gordon will make me a director. Can you? I want to make money and restore the family property. I say, do."But Pen paid no attention to him. She groaned instead."Where's the pain?" asked Bob, anxiously. "Shall I get you some brandy?""No, no, Bob! Imustgo in and tell them.""Come on, then," said Bob, eagerly. "I don't care about the directorship. They're all white and shaking. Iguesstheyarein a stew."But still Pen did not move, and when Chloe came she sent her away, saying, "In a moment, in a moment!"Then Bob had a brilliant idea."I say, Pen, I'll do it!""Do what?""I'll go in and tell 'em you've done it. It would be a lark!"But Pen shook her head."No, I must, I will be brave. If a woman has ideas she must live up to them. I have done good so far. Are they not very much improved, Bob?""Some, I think," said Bob, carelessly. "But I dare say they'll go regular muckers now. Come on, Pen, I do want to see their jaws drop."And Pen went with him. She stayed outside the door, and Bob went in first."She's coming," said Bob. And Pen entered with her eyes on the floor. Bob took her hand."Buck up and spit it out," he said, in an encouraging whisper, which was audible in the farthest corner of the room. Some of the horde turned pale; Titania fell back in her chair; Bradstock leant against the wall. Brading put up his eyeglass, and then told Bradstock Pen reminded him of a girl who had once tried to smother him with a pillow."She had Penelope's straightforwardness, and never gave in, just like Pen," said Brading, thoughtfully.And now Penelope took hold of her courage, so to speak, and opened her mouth."S-sh," said Bob, who looked on himself as the master of the ceremonies, "s-sh, I say."And he took hold of Pen's hand."I'm so glad to see you here to-night," said the reformer, "for I am so much interested in you all, you see. And you've all been so brave.""Hear, hear," said Bob."So brave in different ways, about balloons and motor-cars and curing yourselves of your weak points," went on Penelope. "That's what I hoped my influence would do. I said I was only a girl, but even a girl ought to do something, and I knew you all liked me very much, for you all said so, and I said, what can I do for you? And I did my best, and you did yours, I'm sure, for I've heard from every one of you all about the others."This made many of them look rather queer, as no doubt it might."And months ago I said—I said—""Go ahead, Pen," whispered Bob. "You mean you said you'd marry one of 'em.""I said I'd—marry one of you."Titania groaned in the corner of a vast settee. Bradstock and Brading whistled, or it seemed so. But the other poor wretches stared at Penelope, and saw no one, heard no one, but her."And I wanted you to come to-night so that I could ask you all to go on in the path of rectitude and simplicity and courage, balloons and hard work and healthiness and thought for others, even if I was married," said Pen, with a gasp. "Will you, oh, will you?""We will," said the crowd, Goby leading with a deep bass voice and tears in his eyes."Oh, I'm so glad," said Penelope, "for I shall not have lived in vain even if I died to-night. And now—and now—I have to tell you something.""Great heavens," said Titania, in an awestricken and penetrating whisper, "what is she going to say now?""I have kept my word," said Penelope, with her eyes on the floor. "I have kept my word!""What—what word?" asked the collapsed duchess, and Pen tried to say what word she had kept."Speak up," said Bob, "speak up, Pen!"And she did speak up."For—for," gasped Penelope, "for, you see, Ihavemarried one of you!"Titania uttered a scream and promptly fainted. The men looked at each other furiously and suspiciously, while Pen was on her knees beside the poor duchess. At that moment a message was brought in for Gordon, and an urgent note from the whip for Bramber. Brading stood in a corner and whistled. Bradstock shrugged his shoulders, and Bob buzzed all over the room like a wasp in a bottle. By dint of water and smelling-salts and the slapping of hands Titania was brought to, and when she had recovered consciousness to the extent of knowing what it was that had bowled her over, she uttered words on the spur of the moment which were almost as much of a bombshell as those Penelope had spoken."I don't believe she's married at all," said Titania.CHAPTER XII.To talk about the grounds of certainty is to talk metaphysically, and metaphysics being the highest form of nonsense, becomes sense in that altitude, as it must be if Hegel is to be believed. But in the conduct of life the grounds of certainty are an estate beyond the rainbow. If Penelope believed any one thing with more fervour than another, it was that her truthfulness must be self-evident. The course of events after the evening on which Titania fainted and recovered so sharply showed her that nothing was certain, not even self-evident truths. For though she said she was married, few, if any, believed her. Titania, who believed in her intuitions, as all right-minded women must, because reason is only an attribute of man, declared that Penelope had lied, to put it plainly. She invented an hypothesis to account for it."She found out she didn't want to marry any of them, and her courage to say so failed her. This notion of hers gives her time, and of course, my dear, as you see from what I say, she's not married in the least."Bradstock, who was a philosopher, disagreed with her, and agreed with Bob."Not married in the least, eh?" said Bradstock. "What is the least degree of marriage which would meet with your moral approval, Titania?""Don't talk nonsense, Augustin," replied Titania, tartly."I cannot help it," said Augustin, "the situation is so absurd."And so it was for every one but the Duchess and Penelope, who did not understand a joke even with illustrations. And they undoubtedly had the illustrations. There were leading articles in several papers on the subject of marriage, with discreet allusions to Penelope's case. There was a long and rabid correspondence in theDaily Turncoat, a new halfpenny paper, to which every lady with a past or a future contributed. The editor of theDictatorwrote a moral essay with his own hand, obvious to every student of his immemorial style, which proved that another such case would knock the bottom out of the British Empire and bring on protection. He showed that marriage, open and unadulterated, in a chapel, at the least, was the minimum on which morality could exist, and he pointed out with sad firmness that the ethical standards of the true Briton were the only decent ones at present unfurled in the universe, and that they were in great danger of being rolled up and put away. As every one knows, all he said was undoubtedly fact. The true Briton is the only moral person in the world. As a result Penelope felt that she wasn't a true Briton, and it made her very mournful, as it should have done. Nothing but her native obstinacy, which was imperial if not British, made her stick to her ideas, when her half-brother came to her and asked her crudely to "chuck" it. For, though he was humourous, it was past a joke now, and his admiration of Pen was tinged with alarm."I say, old girl, chuck it," said Bill."I can't! I won't!" said Penelope."Nobody believes you."Penelope couldn't help that."I've spoken the truth.""Why, even the other men don't believe it," said her brother. "Why, I met three of 'em to-day, and they all said, 'Oh, yes, we understand.' I say, Pen, this is too much. Chuck it!""Once for all, dear, I won't," said Penelope. "Much as I dislike this publicity, I see it is doing good. I get letters every day from scores of people saying that I am doing good. Three to-day declared that they were following my example in a registrar's office, and three more are thinking of it. One lady writes, saying she hopes I would go in for abolishing marriage altogether when public opinion was prepared for the extinction of the race. I don't agree with her, but she was enthusiastic, and enthusiasm is a great thing.""I shall go yachting for a year," said Bill."I wish you would, dear Bill," replied Penelope. "It will do you good. You look quite pale, and I don't like you to do that. Have you any cough?""Damn it, no," said Brading, crossly.And he went yachting again without publicity but with a lady. He was no true Briton, and never read theDictator.His departure took one thing off Pen's hands, but none of her lovers departed. Titania's words had sunk deep in their minds."She's not married," they said. "And if she says she is, it is only to try us."They all interviewed Bob, and made things very pleasant for that rising statesman. If he believed Pen was married there was no reason to say so openly."Am I old enough to be a director, do you think?" he asked Gordon. "What I want is to make pots of money and rebuild Goring, which is a bally ruin.""You don't answer my questions," said Gordon."Oh, about Pen," said Bob. "She's queer. I don't know, Mr. Gordon, I can't tell. She may be, for all I know. She's so clever, I don't know that she hasn't married you, and put you up to coming and asking me questions."Gordon couldn't help grinning."I think you'll be a director of something some day," said he. "I can't make you one now, but if you have a hundred pounds I'll invest it in something for you, my son, that will make your hair curl.""Like yours?" asked Bob, curiously, and Gordon flinched."Well," went on Bob, without waiting for an answer, "I haven't a hundred pounds, but I've an idea how to get it.""Yes?" said the financier. "What's your idea, Bob?""It's a safe and a certain investment, is it?""Why, of course," replied Gordon."Then I'll tell you what, you lend it me," said Bob, brightly, "and invest it for me.""Damned if I don't," cried Gordon. "Bob, when you are twenty-one I'll make you a director and ask your advice! And you'll come and tell me if you find out anything about Lady Penelope?"Bob looked at him and shook his head."I say, you're so clever, I don't know how to take you. I dare say it's you!"The flattered financier smiled."Oh, by the way," said Bob, rather in a hurry, "I suppose I should get nearly as much if I invested ninety pounds as if I put in a hundred?""Nearly," said Gordon, who hoped to be let off a little, "only ten per cent. less.""That'll do me," said Bob. "Then you can give me the tenner now, Mr. Gordon, and put in the rest for me.""I wish I had a boy like that," said Gordon. He went away ten pounds poorer, but with a great admiration for Bob, who was determined to restore the faded splendour of Goring."Hanged if I know who it is," said Bob. "It may be Gordon after all. And every one but De Vere and Bramber have been at me. Is it one of these?"He had a remarkable list of all those who had pretended to Penelope's hand, for he was very curious, like all the rest of the world. He was also a little sore with Pen for not confiding in him."I told her I'd find out," he said, "and I will."This was his list, and a curious document it was, written in a big, round hand that "old Guth" could never get him to modify. His spelling was almost ducal in its splendour."Plant. It isn't Mr. Plant, because he said would I like to go out in a motor, a new one, ninety-horse power, and I said rather, if he'd let her rip. And he looked anshious I thought. He tiped me."Goby. It isn't Goby, Goby says he'll always be my friend. He said had I another pony not sound, to experiment with. He stamped up and down, some. He tiped me."Williams. It isn't Williams, he took me to lunch and told me lots of things about the Chinese that his paper wouldn't print. They were orful. He said if I'd keep in with him he knew worse. He didn't tip me this time because the lunch was so much. I had turtell three times."Rivaulx. It isn't the Frenchy because he tore his hair, and said I could go up in a baloon any day. At least, he didn't tear his hair; it's too short. He keeps it up with Gordon too but looks horrid. He tiped me."Carew. It isn't him. He's very anxshus and says he can't paint: says the crittics are right. He was a sad sight to see, walking around in his studio. He said would I sit to him for an angel. He stops walking and tries to do Pen quick. I think it's muck. I wouldn't like a tip from him, for if an artist can't paint through grief what becomes of him? Do the others buy him for the Chantrey Bequest?""That's the lot so far," said Bob. And he added to his notes:"Gordon. It isn't Gordon. He lent me a hundred pounds to invest in something to make hair curl. I said make it ninety and give me ten now, and he did. He didn't tip me, but I don't think him mean on that account.""That leaves only De Vere and Bramber," said Bob, "and she never seemed much stuck on either to my mind. But if they don't say anything to me I shall begin to suspect."He said so to Bradstock, who called him a young devil.But about three days later Bob added to his notes:"Bramber. It isn't Bramber. I met him in the park. He took me to the House and gave me a beastly lunch. But he didn't notice it as he couldn't eat and looked very pale and savidge. He tiped me."De Vere. It's not the poetry rotter. He wants me to stay with him and look after the dogs. He said if I had a sick one he'd rather have it than not. He said he was desprit. I don't know why, but suppose it's Pen. He tiped me."
CHAPTER X.
Love is a pathological state which can only be cured by one means. It is a disease, and robs the most humourous of their humour. When Rabelais was in love he no doubt wrote poems which he afterward destroyed. When Dante was in love he did the Paradiso. When he cheered up he wrote the Inferno. Neither of these is any joke. But then, Dante had no more humour than Penelope. It can be imagined (or it cannot be imagined) how unhumourous Pen became when she found she had made her choice between Plant and De Vere and Goby and Carew and Williams and Bramber and Gordon and Rivaulx. She wept at night over those she could not marry. And it added grief to grief to think that the unmarried would probably relapse into their evil ways.
"What can one poor girl do with so many?" she asked. "I'm sure they will turn around on me, and once more follow their dreadful instincts! And they have improved so much!"
The result of her sorrow was such pity that every poor wretch of them all was convinced she loved him better and better. They were quite cheerful. They looked at each other almost sympathetically. They grieved for each other, and struggled on the hard cinder-path of duty, with Penelope at least a long lap ahead. The amount of good they did was wonderful. Plant got his university started, Rivaulx went over to Paris and asked Dreyfus to dinner, Goby was deep in Imperial Yeomanry and rifle ranges, Bramber spoke on every opportunity in the House and voted with the insistence of a whip. De Vere wrote a monograph on outdoor sports, with an appendix on bulldogs. He also owned that poetry was not everything, and went so far as to say that the poet laureate was a very good fellow. Gordon floated a company without any water in the capital, and ran the whole affair with absolute honesty and no waiver clause. Carew learned to draw, and spoke sober truth about the Chantry Bequest.
Williams never swore in public, and painted in water-colours. And none of them played bridge or went into good society.
"And when they know?" said poor Penelope.
"I wonder if I ought not to sacrifice him and myself on the altar of duty?" said Pen. But she was in love, and the motor-car in which she was to disappear stood ready. She made weekly trips in it with Bob. Sometimes they stayed away for three days, sometimes even for a week.
"Oh, Bob, I'm so unhappy: so happy," said Pen.
And Bob looked at her critically.
"Well, you look stunning, anyhow," he replied, "you get better looking every day, Pen. Old De Vere said so. He let on that you were a cross between a lily and a rose, or some such rot. You mark me, Pen, he'll go back to poetry if you marry him, and give up dogs. I don't want him to do that. Baker has some pups coming on, a new kind of very savage dog, and I'm halves in 'em. Can't you give me a tip as to whether it's De Vere? If it is, I'll sell him one now, cheap."
But Pen looked beautiful and kept her mouth shut. Neither Bob nor Titania nor Bradstock could extract a word from her. And, nevertheless, the whole world grew suspicious. The society papers said she had made her choice. The sporting papers gave tips. They said, "For theLady Penelope Stakeswe give Plant or Bramber," or at least one of them did. Others selected De Vere, and one rude man said a rank outsider would get it. Of course he didn't believe in Pen's word. But then, no one did.
And still Pen kept her teeth shut and was as obstinate as a government mule to all persuasion. Ethel cried and said:
"Oh, is it Captain Goby?"
Chloe laughed and laid traps for Penelope saying:
"Oh, by the way, I saw Lord Bramber just now."
Or it might be De Vere or Carew or Williams. But no one got a rise out of Penelope.
"I am entirely determined to give a lead to those who wish to be married without publicity. I shall found a society presently," said Penelope.
When Titania, whom nothing could discourage, went at her furiously, Bradstock smiled.
"If she has a daughter, some day we shall see the girl married in Westminster Abbey," said Bradstock. But even he was very curious.
"Have you found out anything yet, Bob?" he asked that young financier.
"I'm on the way," said Bob, "give me time, Lord Bradstock. I feel sure it's not De Vere. He's buying all the dogs I offer him. If he was sure, he wouldn't."
But Bradstock wasn't certain. Penelope might have no humour, but she was quite equal to ordering De Vere to buy in order to blind Bob.
"I never thought of that," said Bob. "I frankly own Pen's a deal worse than Euclid. And I never thought to say that of anything."
And upon a certain day in June, when June was doing its best to live up to the poet's ideal, Pen disappeared, by herself, leaving Bob at home with Guthrie, who now came over each day to keep the young vagabond doing something. She came back after lunch, and Bob found her abnormally silent. She had nothing to say, and there was a curious far-off look in her eyes. Her interest in dogs was nil; she showed no appreciation of ferrets; when he spoke she said "Oh" and "Ah" and "what's that you say?" And Bob had no suspicion whatsoever, just as clever people never have when they might be expected to show their wisdom.
When she did speak, though, it was to the point.
"I think, Bob, it is time you went back to your grandmother's," she declared, suddenly, and back he went in spite of all his cajoleries. Pen was very strange, he thought, and rather beastly. There certainly was a change in her, for she dismissed Harriet Weekes with a douceur which did not really sweeten that lady's departure.
And in the afternoon Pen casually remarked to Chloe that she was going out of town for three days. When she said so the motor-car was at the door, and Geordie Smith was there too.
If Timothy Bunting had known that Smith was as deep in his lady's confidence as he was himself, he would have been jealous. But he must have been, for Pen said to him, when they were out of Piccadilly:
"How long will it take to get to Spilsby, Smith?"
"My lady, with this new racing-car I'll get there when you like," replied Smith, firmly.
Pen remembered that Bob said Smith's ambition was to ride through the city regardless of fines.
"I wouldn't try to do it under three hours," she said.
"Unless we are followed," said Smith. "If we are followed, my lady, may I let her go?"
"Yes," said Penelope.
Geordie Smith nodded to himself.
"Fines be damned, and legal limits ditto," said Smith to himself; "wait, my darling, till we get through the traffic."
He meant "darling" for his new car. He adored it as much as he did his mistress. He used to dream of it at night and had nightmares about it. Dream ruffians cut up his tires; he was in the middle of Salisbury Plain without petrol; "she" refused to spark; he was held up by gigantic policemen with stop watches the size of a church clock. But now she moved under him smooth and cosy, with a vast reserve of power; she was quick, swift, docile, intelligent, fearless of policemen, careless of the limping law.
"If my lady wants to go quick, I'm the man," said Geordie. "But I wonder what's up?"
Geordie played the car as Joachim plays the violin, or Paderewski the piano. She skated, she swam, she shot like a water-beetle, she was responsive to his lightest touch. He heard her music as every engineer does, and found it as lovely as a dream song.
"Oh, for a clear road," said the player. He found some of it clear before they reached Barnet, and then he fingered the keyboard, as it were, like a master.
"Horses, horses," said Smith, "the poor miserable things! Ain't I sorry for Tim Bunting! Here we go, my lady."
He broke the law magnificently, and with such skill that Penelope wondered. But only once he ran against the law in the shape of a policeman, north of Hatfield, who saw him coming and signalled to him to stop.
"Shall I?" said Smith.
"No!" shrieked Pen, against the tide of wind.
They passed him flying and saw him run as they passed.
"He'll wire to Hitchin and have us there," said Smith. But he knew his roads. "Oh, will he?"
He took the right fork of the roads at Welwyn and roared through Stevenage to Baldock and found the main road again at Sandy. They reached Huntington, sixty miles from town, in an hour and three quarters.
"And I've never let her out but once," said Smith; "she's a daisy!"
The eighteen miles to Spilsborough they did at a speed that made Penelope bend her head. She felt wonderful: she was on a shooting-star. They slackened on the outskirts of the cathedral city and rolled through it delicately. She looked about her and remembered the dear bishop who had christened her when he was no more than a vicar.
"We'll go by Crowland and Spalding, Smith." A car followed them out of Spilsborough, and Smith, going easy, looked back and saw it.
"Catch us, my son," he said, contemptuously. But when they were well clear of town and he turned her loose, so to speak, Pen's nerve went, or it appeared to go.
"Don't go so fast, Smith," she commanded.
And Smith obeyed sorrowfully.
"They can't stand it," he said; "none of 'em can stand it really. They let on they can, but it's no go. A few hot miles gives them the mulligrubs."
But nevertheless they were running over thirty miles an hour. The car behind crawled up to them.
"All I've got to do, my lady, is to ask her to shake 'em off, and away we go and leave 'em," he suggested.
"Oh, no, no," said Pen.
At Spalding the pursuer, if he were one, was not a hundred yards behind. But in the town Smith got ahead. He did not see Penelope trembling. Smith had taken a look at the one behind.
"There's power there," he said, savagely. "If he lets her out and my lady squeals, I'm passed!"
She did "squeal" the other side of Spalding, but not for herself. The other car had to stop.
"That's done 'em," said Smith; "they're in the ditch." He gained ten miles on them, and Penelope wept.
And just as they were coming into Boston at an easy gait, Smith turned and saw the other car coming up behind like a meteor, with the dust astern of her in a fume.
"That chap can drive after all," said Smith. "Won't you try to let me get away from him before we get to Spilsby, my lady?"
"I—I don't want to," said Pen.
And five miles outside of Spilsby the pursuing car drew up with them. Two indistinguishable monsters drove it, and through his glaring goggles Smith glared at them as they came alongside.
"Stop," said Penelope, suddenly. "Stop, Smith."
And the other car stopped too.
"I'll go on with the other car," said Penelope. She took her place by the most unrecognizable portent of the two, and disappeared in a sudden and terrific cloud of dust.
"Damned if I know who it is, even now," said Smith.
CHAPTER XI.
It was Friday when Penelope disappeared from London in a motor-car, and was carried off by a motor pirate, unknown to any one, because he wore a peak cap, a fur coat with the fur outside, and gigantic goggles, making him resemble a diver or a cuttlefish.
It was Monday when she returned to town in a motor-car with Geordie Smith. And all the way into town Geordie said:
"Blessed if I'd ha' thought it. I always reckoned it would have been one of the others. I lose money on this, but if I do, it warms the cockles of my heart to see my lady happy. Bless her sweet face, I wish she'd leave the blooming world alone and have a good time. I never set eyes on such an aggravatin' beautiful sweet lady for interferin' with men. Just as if the queen herself could alter our ways! Women always gas that they can or mean to, and they're just like hens with men for ducks."
If he had been a classical scholar he might have remembered Ariadne up to her knees in the sea, with her lover on the deep in a boat.
"When I saw who it was at Moat House," said Geordie, "you could have knocked me endwise with something less than a steel spanner. And that horse-whipping ass of a Bunting was equal took aback. For somehow we never spotted him as likely to make the non-stop run. Humph, humph!"
And he left Penelope at her house just in time for afternoon tea. As she lay on the sofa she handed a paper to Chloe Cadwallader, saying:
"I wish you would send out cards to all these people for Thursday night."
"That's very short notice, darling," said Chloe.
"They'll come," said Pen.
And when Chloe looked at the list she found it included only Pen's particular friends, her most bitter relations, and the whole of the "horde."
"I wonder—" said Chloe, and she wondered somewhat later with Ethel.
"Is it?" said Ethel.
"Can it be?" cried Chloe.
"It can't be," said Ethel.
"Who knows?" asked Chloe. "She is so plain and so simple and straightforward that there is no certainty about anything she does. I understand the wicked and the weak, but Penelope—"
She threw up her hands, and presently wrote out the cards. And Penelope was trying "to a degree," as Chloe said all Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday. And on Thursday she sent for Bob, who came helter-skelter in a hansom.
"You'll stand by me, Bob," said Pen, clutching him.
Bob put his hands in his pockets and stood straddle-legs. He stared at her. What was hidden from the wisdom of Chloe was revealed to the simplicity of this boy.
"Pen," said Bob, solemnly, "I'll stick by you till death. But ain't you going to tell me who it is?"
"Who what is?" asked Pen, feebly.
"Him," said Bob. "Pen, you've been and gone and done it."
Pen, the strong and mighty Pen, wept a little.
"Don't snivel," said Bob. "It can't be helped now, I suppose, unless you get a divorce. Do you want one?"
"Oh, no!" said Pen. "Not at all!"
Bob considered the matter for a few minutes.
"I say, what makes you cry?" he asked.
"I—I don't know," said Penelope.
"Girls are very rum. Baker says they are. He's not married, you know. He says mules are easy to them. He drove mules once in India, he says. You know you are doing all this off your own bat, Pen, ain't you? Why don't you chuck it?"
"Chuck what, dear?"
"Oh, this notion of not letting on. Baker says it's the rummest start he ever knew, and he says he's seen some rum things in his life, especially when he was a sergeant in the Dublin Fusiliers. Can't you chuck it?"
"Oh, no, certainly not," said Pen, firmly. "It's only, Bob, that I'm not used to it yet, you see."
"Of course not," said Bob. "Being married is strange at first, I suppose. Baker says he knew a woman who was married four times, and by the fourth time she wasn't nervous to speak of. But is it true, Pen, that you won't tell any one who it is?"
"I won't," said Pen.
"Bravo," cried Bob. "Stick to it. Oh, it will make granny so savage! Has Bill spoken about it to you?"
"He laughs," said Pen. "He always does laugh."
"He tells rattling good stories," said Bob. "He told me a splendid one about a man who stole a parrot the other day. I'll tell it you sometime when I remember it. Is anything going to happen to-night, Pen?"
Pen shivered.
"Oh, dear, I don't know. Mind you come, too, Bob."
Bob vowed he wouldn't miss coming for worlds.
"I believe you're thinking of telling 'em you've done it," he said, and Pen said she was thinking of telling them.
"You won't tell me who it is? I'm as close as wax," urged Bob.
"I can't, dear," said Pen.
"Oh, by Jove, I remember Bill's parrot story, Pen. A man stole a parrot, and when he was caught he said he took it for a lark. And the man who owned it said he'd make a bally fine judge at a bird-show."
"Oh," said Pen, rather blankly; "but if he only took it for a lark, I suppose they let him off. Did they?"
"Let him off what?"
"Why—going to prison, of course," said Pen.
"I don't know," replied Bob, staring. "Don't you see it's a joke?"
"Yes, I see, of course," said Pen. "Why, the man said it was a lark, and it was a parrot. I think it's a very good story, Bob."
And Bob went away wondering whether it was or not.
"I'll tell it to Baker," he said, thoughtfully.
He turned up at nine o'clock that night with Titania, who was in a state of mind requiring instant attention from a physician.
"Good heavens, what is it, I wonder," said Titania. "Robert, I wonder what it is? But what do you know? I am in a tremble; I am sure she will do or say something even more scandalous than she has done yet. I put it all on Bradstock; to make him her guardian was a fatal error. My nerves—but I have none. I quiver like a jelly; I shake; I must be pale as a ghost. Why should we take so much trouble over anything? I must think of myself. I will go to bed and stay there for a week, and send for Dr. Lumsden Griff."
But Bradstock was as calm as a philosopher without anything in the objective world to worry him.
"What does it matter?" he inquired. "Does anything matter?"
Brading, whom no one had seen for many months, as he had spent the whole winter in a yacht down the Mediterranean, was perfectly good-humoured.
"You see, she's a dear, but only my half-sister after all," he said to Bradstock, "and women are so wonderful! I can tell you a story by and by of a Greek lady, and one about a Spaniard. And, to tell the truth, I almost agree with Pen. I'm a bit of a socialist, or an anarchist, if you like. Have you read Nietzsche?"
"Who wrote it?" asked Bradstock.
But the horde came in one by one, and Penelope, who was dressed in the most unremarkable costume at her disposal, and looked like a lily, received them at the door.
"A most awful and improper situation," said Titania.
"I say, I'll tell you about that Greek girl," said Brading. "Do you think Pen could stick a knife in a fellow?"
Bradstock didn't think so, and listened to the story of the lady who suggested the notion.
"Right through my coat and waistcoat," said Brading. "Only a very stiff piece of starch saved my life!"
"Good heavens!" cried Bradstock.
The room was full, and Bob buzzed around it like a bluebottle in an orchard.
"Oh, I say," he cried to every one. He told the story of the parrot after he had asked Brading whether he had it right. He tried it on De Vere and failed. Goby roared handsomely. Bramber was absent-minded with his eye on Penelope. Gordon said, "Yes, yes, a ripping good story." The Marquis de Rivaulx balked at it, but was led to understand it.
"And when can I go up in a balloon?" asked Bob. He waited for no answer, but told it to Williams, suggesting that the war correspondent might pay for it by a story with blood and torture in it, please. And all of a sudden it was noticed that the hostess had slipped out of the room.
"Where—where is Penelope?" asked trembling Titania. "Mrs. Cadwallader, where is Lady Penelope?"
Bob ran her to earth in her bedroom, and after many appeals he was let in.
"Oh, dear, oh, dear," said Penelope. "Bob, let me take hold of you. Do I tremble?"
"Rather," said Bob. "I'll bet you couldn't drink a glass of wine without spilling it. What's wrong? Buck up. Ain't you comin' in to tell 'em? I've broken it a bit for you."
Pen screamed.
"You wretched boy, what have you done?"
"Bless you, nothing to speak of," said Bob. "I only said you would make 'em sit up presently. They think I know something, and want to bribe me. I say, Pen, if you say nothing for a few days, I believe old Gordon will make me a director. Can you? I want to make money and restore the family property. I say, do."
But Pen paid no attention to him. She groaned instead.
"Where's the pain?" asked Bob, anxiously. "Shall I get you some brandy?"
"No, no, Bob! Imustgo in and tell them."
"Come on, then," said Bob, eagerly. "I don't care about the directorship. They're all white and shaking. Iguesstheyarein a stew."
But still Pen did not move, and when Chloe came she sent her away, saying, "In a moment, in a moment!"
Then Bob had a brilliant idea.
"I say, Pen, I'll do it!"
"Do what?"
"I'll go in and tell 'em you've done it. It would be a lark!"
But Pen shook her head.
"No, I must, I will be brave. If a woman has ideas she must live up to them. I have done good so far. Are they not very much improved, Bob?"
"Some, I think," said Bob, carelessly. "But I dare say they'll go regular muckers now. Come on, Pen, I do want to see their jaws drop."
And Pen went with him. She stayed outside the door, and Bob went in first.
"She's coming," said Bob. And Pen entered with her eyes on the floor. Bob took her hand.
"Buck up and spit it out," he said, in an encouraging whisper, which was audible in the farthest corner of the room. Some of the horde turned pale; Titania fell back in her chair; Bradstock leant against the wall. Brading put up his eyeglass, and then told Bradstock Pen reminded him of a girl who had once tried to smother him with a pillow.
"She had Penelope's straightforwardness, and never gave in, just like Pen," said Brading, thoughtfully.
And now Penelope took hold of her courage, so to speak, and opened her mouth.
"S-sh," said Bob, who looked on himself as the master of the ceremonies, "s-sh, I say."
And he took hold of Pen's hand.
"I'm so glad to see you here to-night," said the reformer, "for I am so much interested in you all, you see. And you've all been so brave."
"Hear, hear," said Bob.
"So brave in different ways, about balloons and motor-cars and curing yourselves of your weak points," went on Penelope. "That's what I hoped my influence would do. I said I was only a girl, but even a girl ought to do something, and I knew you all liked me very much, for you all said so, and I said, what can I do for you? And I did my best, and you did yours, I'm sure, for I've heard from every one of you all about the others."
This made many of them look rather queer, as no doubt it might.
"And months ago I said—I said—"
"Go ahead, Pen," whispered Bob. "You mean you said you'd marry one of 'em."
"I said I'd—marry one of you."
Titania groaned in the corner of a vast settee. Bradstock and Brading whistled, or it seemed so. But the other poor wretches stared at Penelope, and saw no one, heard no one, but her.
"And I wanted you to come to-night so that I could ask you all to go on in the path of rectitude and simplicity and courage, balloons and hard work and healthiness and thought for others, even if I was married," said Pen, with a gasp. "Will you, oh, will you?"
"We will," said the crowd, Goby leading with a deep bass voice and tears in his eyes.
"Oh, I'm so glad," said Penelope, "for I shall not have lived in vain even if I died to-night. And now—and now—I have to tell you something."
"Great heavens," said Titania, in an awestricken and penetrating whisper, "what is she going to say now?"
"I have kept my word," said Penelope, with her eyes on the floor. "I have kept my word!"
"What—what word?" asked the collapsed duchess, and Pen tried to say what word she had kept.
"Speak up," said Bob, "speak up, Pen!"
And she did speak up.
"For—for," gasped Penelope, "for, you see, Ihavemarried one of you!"
Titania uttered a scream and promptly fainted. The men looked at each other furiously and suspiciously, while Pen was on her knees beside the poor duchess. At that moment a message was brought in for Gordon, and an urgent note from the whip for Bramber. Brading stood in a corner and whistled. Bradstock shrugged his shoulders, and Bob buzzed all over the room like a wasp in a bottle. By dint of water and smelling-salts and the slapping of hands Titania was brought to, and when she had recovered consciousness to the extent of knowing what it was that had bowled her over, she uttered words on the spur of the moment which were almost as much of a bombshell as those Penelope had spoken.
"I don't believe she's married at all," said Titania.
CHAPTER XII.
To talk about the grounds of certainty is to talk metaphysically, and metaphysics being the highest form of nonsense, becomes sense in that altitude, as it must be if Hegel is to be believed. But in the conduct of life the grounds of certainty are an estate beyond the rainbow. If Penelope believed any one thing with more fervour than another, it was that her truthfulness must be self-evident. The course of events after the evening on which Titania fainted and recovered so sharply showed her that nothing was certain, not even self-evident truths. For though she said she was married, few, if any, believed her. Titania, who believed in her intuitions, as all right-minded women must, because reason is only an attribute of man, declared that Penelope had lied, to put it plainly. She invented an hypothesis to account for it.
"She found out she didn't want to marry any of them, and her courage to say so failed her. This notion of hers gives her time, and of course, my dear, as you see from what I say, she's not married in the least."
Bradstock, who was a philosopher, disagreed with her, and agreed with Bob.
"Not married in the least, eh?" said Bradstock. "What is the least degree of marriage which would meet with your moral approval, Titania?"
"Don't talk nonsense, Augustin," replied Titania, tartly.
"I cannot help it," said Augustin, "the situation is so absurd."
And so it was for every one but the Duchess and Penelope, who did not understand a joke even with illustrations. And they undoubtedly had the illustrations. There were leading articles in several papers on the subject of marriage, with discreet allusions to Penelope's case. There was a long and rabid correspondence in theDaily Turncoat, a new halfpenny paper, to which every lady with a past or a future contributed. The editor of theDictatorwrote a moral essay with his own hand, obvious to every student of his immemorial style, which proved that another such case would knock the bottom out of the British Empire and bring on protection. He showed that marriage, open and unadulterated, in a chapel, at the least, was the minimum on which morality could exist, and he pointed out with sad firmness that the ethical standards of the true Briton were the only decent ones at present unfurled in the universe, and that they were in great danger of being rolled up and put away. As every one knows, all he said was undoubtedly fact. The true Briton is the only moral person in the world. As a result Penelope felt that she wasn't a true Briton, and it made her very mournful, as it should have done. Nothing but her native obstinacy, which was imperial if not British, made her stick to her ideas, when her half-brother came to her and asked her crudely to "chuck" it. For, though he was humourous, it was past a joke now, and his admiration of Pen was tinged with alarm.
"I say, old girl, chuck it," said Bill.
"I can't! I won't!" said Penelope.
"Nobody believes you."
Penelope couldn't help that.
"I've spoken the truth."
"Why, even the other men don't believe it," said her brother. "Why, I met three of 'em to-day, and they all said, 'Oh, yes, we understand.' I say, Pen, this is too much. Chuck it!"
"Once for all, dear, I won't," said Penelope. "Much as I dislike this publicity, I see it is doing good. I get letters every day from scores of people saying that I am doing good. Three to-day declared that they were following my example in a registrar's office, and three more are thinking of it. One lady writes, saying she hopes I would go in for abolishing marriage altogether when public opinion was prepared for the extinction of the race. I don't agree with her, but she was enthusiastic, and enthusiasm is a great thing."
"I shall go yachting for a year," said Bill.
"I wish you would, dear Bill," replied Penelope. "It will do you good. You look quite pale, and I don't like you to do that. Have you any cough?"
"Damn it, no," said Brading, crossly.
And he went yachting again without publicity but with a lady. He was no true Briton, and never read theDictator.
His departure took one thing off Pen's hands, but none of her lovers departed. Titania's words had sunk deep in their minds.
"She's not married," they said. "And if she says she is, it is only to try us."
They all interviewed Bob, and made things very pleasant for that rising statesman. If he believed Pen was married there was no reason to say so openly.
"Am I old enough to be a director, do you think?" he asked Gordon. "What I want is to make pots of money and rebuild Goring, which is a bally ruin."
"You don't answer my questions," said Gordon.
"Oh, about Pen," said Bob. "She's queer. I don't know, Mr. Gordon, I can't tell. She may be, for all I know. She's so clever, I don't know that she hasn't married you, and put you up to coming and asking me questions."
Gordon couldn't help grinning.
"I think you'll be a director of something some day," said he. "I can't make you one now, but if you have a hundred pounds I'll invest it in something for you, my son, that will make your hair curl."
"Like yours?" asked Bob, curiously, and Gordon flinched.
"Well," went on Bob, without waiting for an answer, "I haven't a hundred pounds, but I've an idea how to get it."
"Yes?" said the financier. "What's your idea, Bob?"
"It's a safe and a certain investment, is it?"
"Why, of course," replied Gordon.
"Then I'll tell you what, you lend it me," said Bob, brightly, "and invest it for me."
"Damned if I don't," cried Gordon. "Bob, when you are twenty-one I'll make you a director and ask your advice! And you'll come and tell me if you find out anything about Lady Penelope?"
Bob looked at him and shook his head.
"I say, you're so clever, I don't know how to take you. I dare say it's you!"
The flattered financier smiled.
"Oh, by the way," said Bob, rather in a hurry, "I suppose I should get nearly as much if I invested ninety pounds as if I put in a hundred?"
"Nearly," said Gordon, who hoped to be let off a little, "only ten per cent. less."
"That'll do me," said Bob. "Then you can give me the tenner now, Mr. Gordon, and put in the rest for me."
"I wish I had a boy like that," said Gordon. He went away ten pounds poorer, but with a great admiration for Bob, who was determined to restore the faded splendour of Goring.
"Hanged if I know who it is," said Bob. "It may be Gordon after all. And every one but De Vere and Bramber have been at me. Is it one of these?"
He had a remarkable list of all those who had pretended to Penelope's hand, for he was very curious, like all the rest of the world. He was also a little sore with Pen for not confiding in him.
"I told her I'd find out," he said, "and I will."
This was his list, and a curious document it was, written in a big, round hand that "old Guth" could never get him to modify. His spelling was almost ducal in its splendour.
"Plant. It isn't Mr. Plant, because he said would I like to go out in a motor, a new one, ninety-horse power, and I said rather, if he'd let her rip. And he looked anshious I thought. He tiped me.
"Goby. It isn't Goby, Goby says he'll always be my friend. He said had I another pony not sound, to experiment with. He stamped up and down, some. He tiped me.
"Williams. It isn't Williams, he took me to lunch and told me lots of things about the Chinese that his paper wouldn't print. They were orful. He said if I'd keep in with him he knew worse. He didn't tip me this time because the lunch was so much. I had turtell three times.
"Rivaulx. It isn't the Frenchy because he tore his hair, and said I could go up in a baloon any day. At least, he didn't tear his hair; it's too short. He keeps it up with Gordon too but looks horrid. He tiped me.
"Carew. It isn't him. He's very anxshus and says he can't paint: says the crittics are right. He was a sad sight to see, walking around in his studio. He said would I sit to him for an angel. He stops walking and tries to do Pen quick. I think it's muck. I wouldn't like a tip from him, for if an artist can't paint through grief what becomes of him? Do the others buy him for the Chantrey Bequest?"
"That's the lot so far," said Bob. And he added to his notes:
"Gordon. It isn't Gordon. He lent me a hundred pounds to invest in something to make hair curl. I said make it ninety and give me ten now, and he did. He didn't tip me, but I don't think him mean on that account."
"That leaves only De Vere and Bramber," said Bob, "and she never seemed much stuck on either to my mind. But if they don't say anything to me I shall begin to suspect."
He said so to Bradstock, who called him a young devil.
But about three days later Bob added to his notes:
"Bramber. It isn't Bramber. I met him in the park. He took me to the House and gave me a beastly lunch. But he didn't notice it as he couldn't eat and looked very pale and savidge. He tiped me.
"De Vere. It's not the poetry rotter. He wants me to stay with him and look after the dogs. He said if I had a sick one he'd rather have it than not. He said he was desprit. I don't know why, but suppose it's Pen. He tiped me."