0200m
“Fact is, I dabble a bit in art,” he explained. “I have nothing to do, don't you know, and—er—I always felt drawn to the arts. Amateur work—mere amateur work, as you can see for yourself, but I flatter myself this ain't so bad, eh? Miss Ara—Ara—what the devil's her name?—Titch. Done from memory, of course; I don't want these busybodies here to know what I'm doing.”
“You keep your proficiency a secret, then?” I said, gazing politely at this wonderful work of memory. It was not very like nor very artistic, and I wished to avoid passing any opinion.
“Never told a soul but you, mossoo, and—er—well, there's only one other in the secret.”
Again I smiled to myself.
“It must be delightful to perpetuate the faces of your lady friends,” I remarked.
The old boy smiled with some complacency.
“That's rather my forte, I consider,” he replied.
“You are fortunate!” I cried. “I would that I had such an excuse for my gallantries!”
“Come now, mossoo, I'm an old boy, remember!” he protested, though he did not seem at all displeased by this innuendo.
“You are at the most dangerous age for a woman's peace of mind.”
“Tuts—nonsense!” said he. “Twenty years ago, I don't mind admitting—er—”
“I understand! And twenty years subsequent to that? Ah, General!”
He laughed good-humoredly. He admitted that for his years he was certainly as youthful as most men. He had become in an excellent temper both with himself and his guest, when suddenly our conversation was interrupted by a knocking at the door. He barely had time to open it when the dénouement arrived. In other words, Miss Unknown stepped into the room. Yet at the threshold she paused, for I could see that at the first glance she recognized me and knew not what to make of this remarkable coincidence.
As she stood there she made a picture that put into the shade anything a much greater artist than the General could have painted, with her deep, finely turned chin cast a little upward and her dark, glowing eyes looking half arrogantly, half doubtingly, round the room. I noted again the petulant, wilful expression in the small mouth and the indescribable, untamed air. As before, she was dressed in bright colors, that set her off as a heavy gold frame sets off a picture; only her color this time was a vivid shade of purple.
She paused but for a moment, and then she evidently made up her mind to treat me as a stranger, for she turned her glance indifferent to my host and asked, in an off-hand tone,
“Didn't you know I was coming this morning?”
“I? No,” said he, with an air as embarrassed as I could have wished.
“I left a message yesterday afternoon.”
“I never got it.”
“You mean you forgot it.”
“I mean I never got it,” he repeated, irately this time.
She made a grimace, as much as to say, “Don't lose your temper,” and glanced again at me.
“My niece, Miss Kerry,” said he, hurriedly, introducing me with a jerk of his hand.
His “niece”! I smiled to myself at this euphonism, but bowed as deferentially as if I had really believed her to be his near relation, for I have always believed that the flattery of respect paves the way more readily than any other.
She smiled charmingly, while I by my glance endeavored further to assure her that my discretion was complete.
We exchanged a few polite words, and then she turned contemptuously to the canvas.
“Are you still at this nonsense?” she asked, with a smile, it is true, but not a very flattering one.
“Still at it, Kate,” he replied, looking highly annoyed with her tone.
Evidently this hobby of his was a sore subject between them and one which did not raise him in her estimation. For a moment I was assailed by compunction at having thus let her convict him in the ridiculous act. “Yet, after all, they are May and December.” I reflected, “and if the worst comes to the worst, I can find a much more suitable friend for this 'niece.'”
With a movement that was graceful in spite of its free and easy absence of restraint, she rummaged first for and then in her pocket and produced a letter which she handed to her “uncle,” asking, “What is the meaning of this beastly thing?”
Yes, unquestionably her language, like her carriage and her eyes, had something of the savage queen.
The General read the missive with a frown and glanced in my direction uncomfortably as he answered, “It is obviously—er—”
“Oh, it's by way of being a bill,” she interrupted. “I don't need to be told that. But what am I to do?”
“Pay it.”
“Well, then, I'll need—” She stopped, glanced at me, and then, with a defiantly careless laugh, said, boldly, “I'll need an advance.”
“The deuce you will!” said the General. “At this moment I can scarcely go into—”
“Don't trouble,” she interrupted. “Just write me a check, please.”
Without a word, but with a very sulky expression, the General banged open a writing-desk and hastily scribbled in his check-book, while the undutiful Miss Kerry turned to me as graciously as ever. But I thought I had carried my plot far enough for the present. Besides, she must come down-stairs, and my room was on the ground floor.
“I fear I must leave you, General,” I said.
“I must go, too,” said Miss Kerry, as I turned to make my adieux to her. “Good-bye, uncle. Much obliged for this.”
It seemed to my ear that there was a laugh in that word “uncle,” and as I saw the unfortunate warrior watch our exit with a face as purple as his “niece's” dress, I heartily pitied the foiled Adonis. Yet if fortune chose so to redistribute her gifts, was it for me to complain?
“May I accompany you for a short distance this time?” I asked.
And a couple of minutes later I was gayly walking with her from the house, prepared to hail a cab and hurry away my prize upon the first sign of pursuit. No appearance, however, of a bereaved general officer running hatless and distraught with jealousy behind us. Evidently he had resigned himself to his fate—or did he place such reliance in the fidelity and devotion of his “niece”? Well, we should see about that!
“Then you remembered me?” I said.
“How do you know?”
“By that question. Ah, it has betrayed you! Yes, you do remember the ignorant and importunate foreigner who pursued you with his unpleasing attentions?”
“But it was a mistake, you said,” she replied, with a flash of her eyes that seemed to mean much.
“A mistake, of course,” I said. “And now let us take a cab and have some lunch.”
She appeared a little surprised at this bold suggestion, and recollecting that an appearance of propriety is very rigorously observed in England, often where one would least expect it, I modified myélanto a more formal gallantry, and very quickly persuaded her to accompany me to the most fashionable restaurant in Piccadilly.
Even then, though she was generous of her smiles and those flashing glances that I could well imagine kindling the gallant heart of General Sholto, and though her talk was dashed with slang and marked with a straightforward freedom, yet she always maintained a sufficient dignity to check any too presumptuous advances. But by this time all compunction for my gallant neighbor had vanished in the delights of Miss Kerry's society, and I was not to be balked so easily.
“To-night I wish you to do me a favor,” I said, earnestly.
“Yes? What is it?” she smiled.
“I have a box at the Gaiety Theatre, and I should like a friend to dine with me first, and then see the play.”
As a matter of fact the box was not yet taken, but how was she to know that?
“And I am to be the friend?” she asked.
“If you will be so kind?”
“My uncle is coming, of course?”
I smiled at her, and she beamed back at me.
“We understand each other,” I thought. “But, my faith, how persistently she keeps up this little farce!”
Aloud I said:
“Of course. Without an uncle by my side I should not even venture to turn out the gas. Would you?”
“Of course not!” she replied.
And so it was arranged that at half-past seven we were to meet at this same restaurant. In the mean time what dreams of happiness!
8000
“Virtue is our euphonism for reaction.”
—La Rabide.
9207
ALF-PAST seven had just struck upon a church clock close by. Five minutes passed, ten minutes, and then she appeared, more beautiful than ever—irresistible, in fact.
“But is this a private room?” she asked, as she surveyed the comfortable little apartment with the dinner laid for two, and the discreet waiter opening the wine.
“It could not be more so, I assure you.”
She glanced at the two places. “Isn't my uncle coming?” she demanded.
I was prepared for this little formality, which, it seemed, spiced the adventure for her.
“At the last moment he was indisposed,” I explained, gravely; “but he will join us for dessert.” The impossibility of gainsaying this, and the attractiveness of the present circumstances—such as they were without an uncle—quickly induced her to accept this untoward accident with resignation, and in a few minutes we were as merry a party of two as you could wish to find. Our jests began to have a more and more friendly sound.
“You do not care for this entrée?” I asked.
“It is rather hot for my taste.”
“Not so warm as my heart at this moment,” I declared.
“What nonsense you talk!” she cried. “It has some meaning in French, though, I suppose.”
Yet she laughed delightfully.
“Much meaning,” I assured her.
“When was my uncle taken ill?” she asked, once.
Our eyes met and we mutually smiled.
“When you left his room with me,” I replied.
And this answer seemed perfectly to satisfy her.
“What do you do with yourself all day?” I asked.
Again she laughed.
“You will only laugh,” she said.
“I shall be as solemn as a judge, a jury, and three expert witnesses,” I assured her.
“A friend and I are starting a women's mission.”
I certainly became solemn—dumfounded, for one instant, in fact. Then a light dawned upon me.
“Your friend is a clergyman, I presume?” I asked.
I had noticed the poster of an evening paper with the words “Clerical Scandal,” and I suppose that put this solution into my head.
“My friend is a she,” she replied, with a laugh. “Clergyman? No, thanks! We are doing it all ourselves.”
“Ha, ha!” I laughed. “I see now what you mean! Excellent! Forgive my stupidity.”
I did not see at all, but I supposed that there must be some English idiom which I did not understand. Doubtless I had lost an innuendo, but then one must expect leakage somewhere. Surely I was obtaining enough and could afford to lack a little.
At last we arrived at dessert.
“I wonder if my uncle has come?” she said.
“I have just been visited by a presentiment,” I replied. “General Sholto has retired to bed. This information has been conveyed to me by a spirit—the spirit of love!”
She looked at me with a new expression. Ought I to have restrained my ardor a little longer?
“Does he know I am here?” she asked, quickly.
“I assure you, on my honor, he has not the least notion!” I declared, emphatically.
“Then—” she began, but words seemed to fail her. “Good-night,” she said, dramatically, but with unmistakable emphasis.
She rose and stepped towards the door with the air of a tragedy queen.
A thought, too horrible to be true, rushed into my heated brain.
“Stop, one moment!” I implored her. “Do you mean to say that—that he isreallyyour uncle?”
Her look of indignant consternation answered the question.
I sank into my chair, and, seeing me in this plight, she paused to complete my downfall.
0210m
“What did you imagine?” she asked.
I endeavored to collect my wits.
“Who did you think I was?” she demanded.
“Mademoiselle,” I replied, “behold a crushed, a penitent, a ridiculous figure. I am even more ignorant of your virtuous country than I imagined. Forgive me, I implore you! I shall endow your mission with fifty pounds; I shall walk home barefoot; you have but to name my penance and I shall undergo it!”
Whether it was that my contrition was so complete or for some more flattering reason that I may not hint at, I cannot tell you to this day, but certainly Miss Kerry proved more lenient than I had any right to expect. Not that she did not give me as unpleasant a quarter of an hour as I have ever tingled through. I, indeed, got “what for,” as the English say. But before she left she had actually smiled upon me again and very graciously uttered the words, “I forgive you.”
As for myself, I became filled with a glow of penitence and admiration; the admiration being a kind of moral atonement which I felt I owed to this virtuous and beautiful girl. At that moment the seven virtues seemed incarnate in her, and the seven deadly sins in myself. I was in the mood to pay her some exaggerated homage; I had also consumed an entire bottle of champagne, and I offered her—my services in her mission to woman! I should be her secretary, I vowed. Touched by my earnestness, she at last accepted my offer, and when we parted and I walked home in the moonlight, I hummed an air from a splendid oratorio.
Though the hour was somewhat late when I got in, it seemed to me the commonest courtesy to pay another call upon General Sholto and inquire—after his health, for example. I called, I found him in, and not yet gone to bed as my presentiment had advised me, and in two minutes we happened to be talking about his niece.
It appeared that she was the orphan and only child of his sister, and that for some years Kate and her not inconsiderable fortune had been left in his charge, but from the first I fear that she had proved rather a handful for the old boy to manage.
“A fine girl, sir; a handsome girl,” he declared, “but a rum 'un if ever there was. I'd once thought of living together, making a home and all that; but, as I said, mossoo, she's a rum girl. You noticed her temper this morning? Hang it, I was ashamed of her!”
“Where is she, then?” I asked.
“Living in a flat of her own with another woman. She is great on her independence, mossoo. Fine spirit, no doubt, but—er—just a little dull for me sometimes.”
“She is young,” I urged, for I seemed to see only Miss Kerry's side of the argument. “And you, General—”
“Am old,” he said. “Hang it, she doesn't let me forget that.”
Evidently, I thought, my neighbor was feeling out of sorts, or he would never show so little appreciation of his charming niece. I must take up my arms on behalf of maligned virtue.
“I am certain she regards you with a deep though possibly not a demonstrative affection,” I declared. “She does not know how to express it; that is all. She is love inarticulate, General!”
“It hasn't taken you long to find that out,” said he; but observing the confusion into which, I fear, this threw me, he hastened to add, with a graver air: “Young women, mossoo, and young men too, for the matter of that, have to get tired of 'emselves before they waste much affection on any one else.”
I protested so warmly that the General's smile became humorous again.
“You forget the grand passion!” I exclaimed. “Your niece is at the age of love.”
“Possibly a young man might—er—do the trick and that kind of thing,” he replied. “But I don't think Kate is very likely to fall in love at present—unless it's with one of her own notions.”
“Her own notions?” I asked.
“Well,” he explained, “the kind of man I'd back for a place would be a good-looking cabby or a long-haired fiddler. She'd rig him out with a soul, and so forth, to suit her fancy—and a deuce of a life they'd lead!”
No use in continuing this discussion with such an unsympathetic and unappreciative critic. He was unworthy to be her uncle, I said to myself.
When I returned to my own rooms, I opened my journal and wrote this striking passage:
“Illusion gone, clear sight returns. I have found a woman worthy of homage, of admiration, of friendship. Love (if, indeed, I ever felt that sacred emotion for any) has departed to make room for a worthier tenant. Reason rules my heart. I see dispassionately the virtues of Kate Kerry; I regard them as the mariner regards the polar star.'”'
I reproduce this extract for the benefit of the young, just as—to pursue my original and nautical metaphor—they put buoys above a dangerous wreck or mark a reef in the chart. It is on the same principle as the awful example who (I am told) accompanies the Scottish temperance lecturer.
8000
“If you-would improve their lot,
Put a penny in the slot!”
English Song (adapted).
9215
ERTAINLY John Bull is a singularly sentimental animal. I have said so before, but I should like to repeat it now with additional emphasis. I do not believe that he ever sold his wife at Smithfield, or, if he did, he became dreadfully penitent immediately after and forthwith purchased a new one. He is not a socialist; that is a too horribly and coldly logical creed for him, but he enjoys stepping forth from the seclusion of that well-furnished castle which every Englishman is so proud of, and dutifully endeavoring to ameliorate the condition of the working-classes.
“England expects every man to do his duty,” he repeats, as he puts his hand into his capacious pocket and provides half a dozen mendicants with the means of becoming intoxicated.
Oh yes, my kind English friends, I admit that I am putting it strongly; but again let me remind you (in case you ever see these words) that if I begin to be quite serious I shall cease to be quite readable. The working-man, I quite allow, is provided with the opportunity of learning the violin and the geography of South America and the Thirty-nine Articles of the Anglican Church, besides obtaining many other substantial advantages from the spread of the Altruistic Idea. You are wiser than I am (certainly more serious), and you have done these deeds. For my part, I shall now confine myself to recording my own share in one of them. Only I must beg you to remember that for a time I was actually a philanthropist myself, and as a mere chronicler write with some authority.
The mission of which I now found myself unpaid and unqualified secretary was a recently born but vigorous infant; considering the sex for which it catered, I think this simile is both appropriate and encouraging. The credit of the inspiring idea belonged to Miss Clibborn, the friend with whom my dark-eyed divinity shared a flat; the funds were supplied by both these ladies and from the purses of such of their friends as admired inspiring ideas or intoxicating glances; the office was in an East London street of so dingy an aspect that I felt some small peccadillo atoned for every time I walked along its savory pavements. By the time I had spent a day in that office I could with confidence have murdered a member of Parliament or abducted a clergyman's wife; so much, I was sure, must have been placed to the credit side of my account, that these crimes would be cancelled at once.
Yet can I call it drudgery or penance to sit in the same room with Kate Kerry, to discuss with her whether Mrs. Smith should receive a mangle or Mrs. Brown a roll of flannel and two overshoes, to admonish her extravagance or elicit her smiles? Scarcely, I fear, and I must base my claims to any credit from this adventure upon the hours when she happened to be absent and I had to amuse myself by abortive efforts to mesmerize a peculiarly unsusceptible office cat.
0218m
From this you will perhaps surmise that there was no great press of business in our mission; and, indeed, there was not, or I should not have been permitted to conduct its affairs so long; for I spent nearly three weeks in furthering the cause of woman. As for our work, it was really too comprehensive to describe in detail. All women in the district, as they were informed by a notice outside our door, were free to come in. Advice in all cases, assistance in some, was to be given gratuitously. In time, when the mission had thoroughly established its position and influence, these women were to be formed into a league having for its objects female franchise, a thorough reform of the marriage laws, and the opening of all professions and occupations whatsoever to the gentler but, my employers were convinced, more capable sex. In a word, we were the thin end of the Amazonian wedge.
The strong brain which had devised this far-reaching scheme resided in the head of Miss Clibborn. Concerning her I need only tell you that she was a pale little woman with an intense expression, a sad lack of humor, and an extreme distrust of myself. She did not amuse me in the least, and I was relieved to find that her duties consisted chiefly in propagating her ideas in the homes of the women of that and other neighborhoods.
As for Kate, she had entered upon the undertaking with a high spirit, a full purse, and a strong conviction that woman was a finer animal than man and that something should be done in consequence. In the course of a week or two, however, the spirit began to weary a little, the purse was becoming decidedly more empty; and, though the conviction remained as strong as ever, one can think of other things surprisingly well in spite of a conviction, and Miss Kerry's thoughts began to get a little distracted by her secretary, I am afraid, while his became even more distracted by Miss Kerry.
Plato; that was the theme on which we spoke. A platonic friendship—magnificent and original idea! We should show the astonished world what could be done in that line of enterprise. How eloquently I talked to her on this profound subject! On her part, she listened, she threw me more dazzling smiles and captivating glances, she delivered delightfully unconsidered opinions with the most dashing assurance, she smoked my cigarettes and we opened the window afterwards. This was philanthropy, indeed.
Do you think I was unreasonably prejudiced in this lady's favor? Picture to yourself soft lashes fringing white lids that would hide for a while and then suddenly reveal two dark stars glowing with possibilities of romance; set these in the midst of the ebb and flow of sudden smiles and passing moods; crown all this with rich coils of deep-brown hair, and frame it in soft colors and textures chosen, I used to think, by some sprite who wished to bring distraction among men. Then sit by the hour beside this siren who treats you with the kind confidence of a friend, who attracts and eludes, perplexes and delights you, suggesting by her glance more than she says, recompensing by her smile for half an hour's perversity. Do this before judging me.
But I am now the annalist of a mission, and I must narrate one incident in our work that proved to have a very momentous bearing on that generous inspiration of two women's minds.
Kate and I had been talking together for the greater part of a profitable morning, when a woman entered our austere apartment.
She was one of our few regular applicants; a not ill-looking, plausible, tidily dressed widow who confessed to thirty and probably was five years older.
“Good-morning, Mrs. Martin,” said Kate, with a haughty, off-hand graciousness that, I fear, intimidated these poor people more than it flattered them. “What do you want?”
“Please, mum,” said Mrs. Martin, glancing from one to the other of us and beginning an effective little dry cough, “my 'ealth is a-suffering dreadful from this weather. The doctor 'e says nothink but a change of hair won't do any good. I was that bad last night, miss, I scarcely thought I'd see the morning.”
And here the good lady stopped to cough again.
“Well,” said Kate, “what can we do?”
“If I 'ad the means to get to the seaside for a week, miss, my 'ealth would benefit extraordinary; the doctor 'e says Margate, sir, would set me up wonderful.”
“You had better see the doctor, Miss Kerry,” I suggested.
“Oh, I can't be bothered. I've seen him before; he's a stupid little fool. Give her a pound.”
0221m
“A pound, mum—” began Mrs. Martin, in a tone of decorous expostulation.
“Oh, give her three, then,” said Kate, impatiently.
Just as the grateful recipient of woman's generosity to her sex was retiring with her booty, Miss Clibborn returned from her round of duty. She was the business partner, with the shrewd head, the judgment comparatively unbiassed, the true soul of the missionary. I give her full credit for all these virtues in spite of her antipathy to myself.
She overheard the last words of the effusive Mrs. Martin, demanded an explanation from us, and frowned when she got it.
“You had much better have investigated the case, Kate,” she observed, in a tone of rebuke.
“So I did,” replied Kate, with charming insolence. “I asked her whether she went to church and why she wore feathers in her hat, and if she had pawned her watch—all the usual idiotic questions.”
“Kate,” said her friend severely, “this spirit is fatal to our success.”
“Spirit be bothered!” retorted the more mundane partner.
“Ladies,” I interposed amicably, “I have in my overcoat pocket a box of chocolate creams. Honor me by accepting them!”
Not even this overture could mollify Miss Clibborn, and presently she departed again with a sad glance at her lukewarm ally and frivolous secretary.
Ah, how divine Kate looked as she consumed those bonbons and our talk turned back to Plato! So divine, indeed, that I felt suddenly impelled to ask a question, to solve a little lingering doubt that sometimes would persist in coming to poison my faith in my friend.
“I have been wondering,” I said, after a pause.
“Wondering what?”
“You remember that evening I met you in the Temple? I was wondering what rendezvous you were keeping.”
“What a funny idea!” she laughed. “I took a fancy to walk in the Temple; that was all.”
“And expected no one?”
“Of course not!”
At last I was entirely satisfied, so satisfied that I felt a strong and sudden desire to fervently embrace this lovely, pure-hearted creature.
But no; it would be sacrilege! I said to myself. She would never forgive me. Our friendship would be at an end. The rules of Plato do not permit such liberties. Alas!
8000
“To the foolish give counsel from the head; to the wise from the heart!”
—Cervanto Y'ALVEZ.
9224
VER since I became secretary I had been as one dead to my friends. Except the General, I had seen none of them. One or two, including Dick Shafthead, had called upon me, only to be told that I might not return until long after midnight (for I was occasionally in the habit of dining with one of my employers after my labors). When I thought of Dick, my conscience smote me. I intended always to write to him, and also to Lumme, to explain my disappearance, but never took pen in hand. I heard nothing from France, nothing about the packing-case; nor did I trouble my head about this silence. The present moment was enough for me. To Halfred I had only mentioned that I was busily employed in a distant part of London, and I fear my servant's vivid imagination troubled him considerably, for he was earnestly solicitous about my welfare.
“It ain't nothing I can lend a 'and in, sir?” he inquired one day.
“I am afraid not,” I replied.
He hesitated, uncertain how best to express his doubts politely and indicate a general warning.
“You'll excuse me, sir, for saying so,” he remarked at last, “but Mr. Titch 'e says that furriners sometimes gets themselves into trouble without knowing as 'ow they are doing anything wrong.”
“Tell Mr. Titch, with my compliments, to go to the devil and mind his own business,” I replied, with, I think, pardonable wrath.
0225m
“Yes, sir; very good, sir,” said Halfred, hastily; but I do not know that his doubts were removed. However I consoled myself for my want of confidence in him by thinking that he had now a fair field with Aramatilda.
On the evening of that day when we had despatched Mrs. Martin to the seaside, I returned earlier than usual and sat in my easy-chair ruminating on the joys and drawbacks of platonic friendship. “Yes,” I said to myself, “it is pleasant, it is pure—devilish pure—and it is elevating. But altogether satisfactory? No, to be candid; something begins to be lacking. If I had had the audacity this morning—what would she have said? Despised me? Alas, no doubt! Yet, is there not something delicate, ideal, out of all ordinary experience in our relations? And would I risk the loss of this? Never!”
At this point there came a knock upon the door, and in walked my dear Dick Shafthead.
“Found you at last,” he said. “Well, monsieur, give an account of yourself. What have you been doing—burgling or duelling or what?”
His manner was as cool and unpretentiously friendly as ever; he was the same, yet with a subtle difference I was instantly conscious of. There was I know not what of kindness in his eye, of greater courtesy in his voice. Somehow there seemed a more sympathetic air about him. Slight though it was, this something insensibly drew forth my confidence. Naturally, I should have hesitated to confess my little experiment in Plato and my improbable vocation to such a satirical critic. I could picture the grim smile with which he would listen, the dry comments he would make. But this evening I was emboldened to make a clean breast of it, and, though his smile was certainly sometimes a little more humorous than sympathetic, yet he heard me with a surprising appearance of interest.
“Then she's deuced pretty and embarrassingly proper?” he said, when I had finished the outline of my story.
“Indeed, my friend, she is both.”
“Novel experience?” he suggested.
“Entirely novel.”
“And what's to be the end of it?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Going to marry her?”
“Marry!” I exclaimed. “I have told you we are not even lovers. Dick, I cannot tell you what my feeling is towards her, because I do not know it myself. Yes, perhaps it is love. She has virtues; I have told you them—her truth, her high spirit, her—”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted Dick, with something of his old brutality, “you've given me the list already. Let's hear her faults.”
“She is so full of delightful faults I know not where to begin. Perverse, sometimes inconsiderate, without knowledge of herself. Divide these up into the little faults they give rise to in different circumstances, and you get a picture of an imperfect but charming woman.”
“It is evidentyoudon't know what falling in love means,” said Dick.
I looked at him hard.
“Do you?” I asked.
Dick actually blushed.
“Well,” he replied, with a smile that had a little tenderness as well as humor, “since you are a man of feeling, monsieur, and by way of being—don't you know?—yourself, I might as well tell you. I've rather played the fool, I expect.”
He said this with an air of sincerity, but it was clear he did not think himself so very stupid in the matter.
“My dear friend,” I cried, “I am all ears and sympathy—also intelligent advice.”
And then the story came out. I shall not give it in Dick's words, for these were not selected with a view to romantic effect, and the story deserves better treatment.
It appeared that, some twenty years before, a cousin of Lady Shafthead's had taken a step which forever disgraced her in the eyes of her impecunious but ancient family. She had, in fact, married the local attorney, a vulgar but insinuating person with a doubtful reputation for honesty and industry. The consequences bore out the warnings of her family; he went from bad to worse, and she from discomfort to misery, until, at last, they both died, leaving not a single penny in the world, but, instead, a little orphan daughter. Of all the scandalized relations, Lady Shafthead had alone come to the rescue. She had the girl educated in a respectable school, and now, when she was nineteen years of age, gave her a home until she could find a profession for herself.
This latter step did not meet with Sir Philip's approval. He had lent the father money, and in return had had his name forged for a considerable amount; besides, he did not approve of bourgeois relations. However, he had reluctantly enough consented to let Miss Agnes Grey spend a few months at his house on the understanding that, as soon as an occupation was found, that was to be the last of the unworthy connection.
At this stage in the story—about a fortnight ago—fate and a short-sighted guest put a charge of shot into the baronet's left shoulder. At first it was feared the accident might be dangerous; Dick was hurriedly summoned home, and there he found Miss Agnes Grey grown (so he assured me) into one of the most charming girls imaginable. He had known her and been fond of her, in a patronizing way, for some years. Now he saw her with tears in her voice, anxious about his father, devoted to his mother, and all the time feeling herself a forlorn and superfluous dependant. What would any chivalrous young man, with an unattached heart, have done under these circumstances? What would I have done myself? Fallen in love, of course—or something like it.
Well, Dick did not do things by halves. He fell completely in love; circumstances hurried matters to an issue, and he discovered himself beloved in turn. Little was said, and little was done; but quite enough to enable a discerning eye to see at the first glance that something had happened to Dick.
And here he sat, with his blue eyes looking far through the walls of my room, and his mouth compressed, giving his confidence not to one of his oldest and most discreet friends, but to one who could share a sentiment. A strange state of things for Dick Shafthead!
“It is an honorable passion?” I asked.
“What the devil—” began Dick.
“Pardon,” I interposed. “I believe you. But the world is complex, and I merely asked. You are then engaged?”
Dick frowned.
“We haven't used that word,” he replied.
“But you intend to be?”
He was silent for a little, and then, with some bitterness, said: “My earnings for the last three years average £37, 11s., 4d. I have had two briefs precisely this term, and I am thirty years old. It would be an excellent thing to get engaged.”
“But your father; he will surely help you?”
“He will see me damned first.”
“Then he will not approve of Miss Grey?”
“He will not.”
“Have you asked him?”
“No.”
Again Dick was silent for a minute, and then he went on: “Look here, d'Haricot, old man, this is how it is. I know my father; he's one of the best, but if I've got any prejudices I inherit them honestly. What he likes he likes, and what he doesn't like he doesn't like. He doesn't like Agnes, he doesn't like her family—or didn't like 'em. He doesn't like younger sons marrying poor girls. On the other hand, he does like the 'right kind of people,' as he calls 'em, and the right sort of marriage, and he does like me too well, I think, to see me doing what he doesn't like. I have only a hundred a year of my own, and expectations from an aunt of fifty-two who has never had a day's illness in her life. You see?”
“What will you do?” I asked.
“What can I do?” he replied, and added, “it is pleasant folly.”
His brows were knitted, his mouth shut tight, his eyes hard. He had come down to stern realities and the mood of tenderness had passed.
“But you really love her?” I said.
His face lit up for a moment. “I do,” he answered, and then quickly the face clouded again.
“My friend,” I said, “I, too, have a friend—a girl, whom I place before the rest of the world; I share your sentiments and I judge your case for you. What is life without woman, without love? Would you place your income, your prospects, the sordid aspects of your life, even the displeasure of relations, before the most sacred passion of your heart? Dick, if you do not say to this dear girl, 'I love you; let the devil himself try to part us! I shall not think of you as the same friend.”
He gave a quick glance, and in his eye I saw that my audience was with me in spirit.
“And my father? Tell him that too?” he said, dryly in tone, but not unmoved, I was sure.
“Tell him that your veneration, your homage, belongs to him, but that your soul is your own! Tell him that you are not afraid to take some risk for one you love! Are you afraid, Dick?”
He gave a short laugh.
“I'd risk something,” he replied.
“Only something? And for Agnes Grey, Dick? Think of the future without her, the life you have been leading repeated from day to day, now that you have known her. Is that pleasant? Is she not worth some risk—a good deal of risk?”
He rose and then he smiled; and he had a very pleasant smile.
“Thanks,” he said; “you're a good chap, monsieur. I wish you had to tackle the governor, though.”
“Let me!” I exclaimed.
“Well,” he said, “if I want an eloquent counsel I know where to look for one. Good-night.”
“You will dare it?” I asked, as he went towards the door.
“Shouldn't be surprised,” he answered, and with a friendly nod was gone.
I said to myself that I had done a splendid night's work. Also I began to apply my principles to my own case.