The faithful Marriner again glanced up. The word "Anak" trembled upon her well-informed lips, but respect for her mistress held her mum. Only a slight rustle betrayed the thrill of deep learning that ran through her.
"Really!" said Chloe. "Go on, dear."
"I met James Bush in the country at a time when I was just beginning fully to feel the emptiness of society."
"Emptiness! Oh, how can you!"
"I remember our first meeting so well," Mrs. Verulam continued with a soft rapture of romance. "He came towards me with his head in a sort of meat-safe, holding in his strong hands the lid of a saucepan, upon which he beat with a wooden spoon with all his might and main."
Chloe sat up in bed and gasped.
"But why—why was he dressed so?" she asked.
"To protect him in his duties."
"What duties—among the sheep?"
"No, oh no! He was swarming bees. Ah, how beautifully he swarms! If only these London creatures who call themselves men could see him!"
"I didn't know one person could swarm alone before. Go on, dear. Did he raise his meat-safe to you?"
"No. He took no notice of me at all, except to tell me to get out of the way. That struck me directly. It was so different from what a London man would do!"
"I should say so. Gracious!"
"It was only afterwards that we talked, and that I learned what a man's life can and should be."
She glowed tenderly, and Chloe's suspicions were confirmed. She shuffled on the sheet towards her friend, and whispered in her right ear:
"Daisy, you're in love with Mr. Bush!"
The faithful Marriner hastily fluttered the pages of Schopenhauer's monumental work, endeavouring not to hear, and failing in the endeavour. Mrs. Verulam replied, after a short pause:
"I'm not sure."
"I am!"
"Hush! I shall know at Ascot."
"Is he coming to Ribwick——? What is the palace called?"
"Ribton Marches. Yes."
"How exciting! Oh, to think that you——"
She stopped and sighed, and, with woman's marvellous intuition, Mrs. Verulam knew that her mind was Huskinson-bound for the moment; that she saw once again the sands, the oranges, the crackers, and the razor-backs of far-off Florida; that she heard again the rattlesnakes of her sweet native land singing their serenades to the peaceful alligator; that she played once more upon the wide veranda with the errant Boswell, and watched the sunset behind the curly pines with the baleful Bream. Yes, Mrs. Verulam divined all this, and, clasping her friend's hand, was silent, thinking of the many mysteries by which we are all surrounded, whether our lot be cast in Margate or in Maryland. When she spoke again, she said in a very low voice:
"I will confess to you that James Bush is a hero in my eyes. Whether he can ever be anything more to me I cannot tell. To me, Chloe, he is the embodiment of the life I mean to lead, the life of simplicity, in which everything has its value; the—the passing of—of a butterfly, the agony of a grasshopper, the swarming ofa bee, the—the murmur of even the—the meanest owl that lives——"
"Are owls mean?"
"Yes. James Bush is the embodiment of the earth, from which we come, to which we go; the earth that we ought all to till and love, to delve in and to delight in. The earth! Dear Mother Earth!"
The faithful Marriner coughed discreetly, and Mrs. Verulam shut up, but not before Chloe had cried:
"I don't think I like a man to be too earthy!"
Mrs. Verulam rose to go to her room and put some eau-de-cologne upon her forehead.
"Wait," she whispered as she went. "Wait till you see him!"
"Marriner," said Chloe, "would you mind going to Francis, and asking him when I may expect my pants?"
CHAPTER VI.
FATIMAH WAS UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF HASCHISH.
Mr. Rodney'scondition of mind during, and for some time after, his drive from Mrs. Verulam's door in the black-and-green cab would scarcely afford fit subject for minute description. When a thoroughly estimable man ceases to take an interest in his "little place in the country," forgets whether he has put on the same pair of lavender gloves on two successive evenings or not, is careless about the set of his white tie, and totally unaware that his hair is unevenly parted when he is setting forth to the "crush" of a Countess, analysis should hold its merciless hand, psychology should veil its piercing eye. Suffice it, then, to say that Mr. Rodney was indeed sore smitten and afflicted by the terrible revelation of Mrs.Verulam's maniacal determination. To a man of his nature, life is society and society is life; the mode is to him what the burning bush was to Moses; the fashion of the day is the god in the car under whose wheels he loves to lie. Men, women, sorrows, joys, all people, all things, are but food for the sustenance of the deity whose rouged and powdered face looks down, like Jezebel's, from the lattices of a meretricious heaven, intent only on gaining an empty compliment, or a slyœilladefrom the worshipping world below. The thought that a woman who was not only in the fashion, but literally the fashion, a woman with whom he was in love, should suddenly fall under an influence with a ridiculous name, hobnailed boots, and no club, rendered him almost imbecile with impotent agitation; and it is on record that he was seen in the late afternoon of the day of Mrs. Verulam's appalling deliverance furiously pacing the Thames Embankment, and that at night he—how was never known—in some manner made his way to Clapham Common, upon which preposterous portion of the earth he wandered alone for nearly an hour and a half, uttering exclamations of despair, and making crude and tragic gestures.
Such deeds as these sufficiently proclaim the extraordinary condition to which he was reduced. But there was more to come. Three days later he departed to Mitching Dean, in the very top of the season, and he might perhaps have been there at this moment, forgotten and clean gone out of recollection, had not a violent telegram from Mr. Lite, the Bun Emperor, summoned him back to town. The telegram ran as follows:
"Where the devil is Lady Sophia Tree's bun praise?—Perry Lite."
"Where the devil is Lady Sophia Tree's bun praise?—Perry Lite."
On receipt of this despairing cry, Mr. Rodney started from the hammock in which he was sulking upon the Mitching Dean lawn like one distraught. He remembered his obligations, and to him obligations were sacred things. In his despair he had thrust Lady Sophia's delicate tribute—his tribute, indeed!—to the Lite buns into the pocket of one of his frock-coats, and there it doubtless remained in darkness, instead of blazing forth, heavily "leaded," in the most popular paper of the day. Now, this frock-coat was up in town. Accordingly, Mr. Rodney ordered round the brougham, drove to the Mitching Dean station—often alluded to by him in conversation as "my bijou station at Mitching Dean"—and took the train to town to do his duty by Mr. Lite. Once there, he remained. Upon his hall table in Grosvenor Place he found a sacred assemblage of invitations to the very best houses. He looked into his vellum-bound and silver-clasped "engagement" book, and discovered that Mr. Pettingham summoned him to the Unattached Club to see views of the Holy Land and to hear a lecture that very night. And he heard all around him the murmur of the monster that he loved licking its lips over its repast of pleasure. His procedure, therefore, was as follows: He extracted the bun praise from the frock-coat and forwarded it at once to Ribton Marches, with many an explanation and apology. He then accepted "with pleasure" all the invitations which he had found upon his table, and, finally, he made a careful toilet, dined quietly, and, stepping into the green-and-black cab, ordered his coachman to drive him to the Unattached Club.
As he rolled thither on indiarubber tyres he wondered whether he should meet Mrs. Verulam. She used to go there. And, indeed, everybody invariably went to Mr.Pettingham's parties, which were intensely smart, as well as slightly educational in tone. But the deadly influence that emanated from the Farm, Bungay Marshes, Lisborough, might have deterred the pretty widow from adhering to her usual habit upon this occasion. Mr. Rodney's long limbs trembled in the cab until the horse began to gallop, under the impression that only the most rapid motion could save it from an earthquake imminent at its back. If Mrs. Verulam should have already yielded to the baleful and hypnotic powers of the man Bush, should have already died to the only life worth living!
The galloping horse was thrown violently upon its haunches. The brilliant light above the door of the Unattached Club shone upon the twisted face of Mr. Rodney. He was compelled to recollect himself, and to get out. Still trembling with unwonted agitation, he made his way downstairs to the magnificent suite of apartments in the area retained by the enthusiastic Mr. Pettingham for his popular gatherings. A door was thrown open, and he found himself in the pitch dark, and in an atmosphere of heat that was almost suffocating. By this atmosphere Mr. Rodney knew that the room was packed with women of title. He could not see them, but the very great difficulty he experienced in drawing breath proved to him that they were there in this black well on the threshold of which he was standing. He realised them, and he also realised that he had arrived rather late, more especially when he perceived at some distance off a pale circle of light, rather resembling a theatrical moon that had sat up late too many nights running, and heard a small and quacking voice say:
"I very much regret that, owing to a slight accident, resulting in serious injury to my Jerusalem, I am unableto show my views of the Holy Land this evening. I shall therefore substitute for them my slides of Morocco, and shall tell you a few of my recent experiences while travelling with my very good friends Prince Carl of Schmelzig-Heinstein and the Duke of Drigg through the far-famed land of the Moors."
The quacking voice paused to allow a murmur of "Charming! charming!" to rise like incense out of the darkness, and then added:
"The Palestine soup, which you will presently find upon the supper menu, will, I fear, not strike you as appropriate in the changed circumstances. I regret that there has been no time to substitute for it some potage Tetuan. You will now see the Prince, the Duke and myself as we appeared when in the act oflanding at Tangier."
The quacking voice hurled out these last three words with impressive emphasis. Under cover of them Mr. Rodney, who, from old experience, knew the plan of the room, glided down the two steps from the door, and crawled with infinite precaution among the invisible duchesses in search of a seat. For Mr. Pettingham's lectures were long, and his slides were often slow to appear when summoned with a duck-like "Hey, presto!" Now, as Mr. Rodney crawled, like Jean Valjean in the sewers of Paris, he heard upon every side the slow breathing of almost suffocated society. Here he recognised the familiar snort of the Lady Jane Clinch, famous for her luncheons, there the piping sigh of the old Countess of Sage, who was born on the day of the Battle of Waterloo, and talked of the Crimean War as a recent event. He heard the Baroness Clayfield-Moor shuffling her feet, according to her immemorial custom, and recognised,with a happy thrill of instant knowledge, the stifled cough of Mrs. Brainton Gumm, the Banana Queen, who had taken society by storm two seasons ago, and still kept her footing by paying it with persistent entertainments. A little further forward the familiar sneeze of the Duchess of Southborough broke upon his listening ear, and his bosom heaved with the exultant satisfaction of the hare with many friends. There was, indeed, no atmosphere in which Mr. Rodney felt more thoroughly like a fish in water than the atmosphere of Mr. Pettingham's delightful gatherings. The utter darkness in which they invariably took place lent them a peculiar charm, obliging the acute society man to rely on an unusual sense for the discovery of those known to him. The eye was rendered useless; the guns of vision were, for the moment, spiked. Success and comfort depended upon the senses of hearing and of touch. Never did Mr. Rodney feel more completely the rapture of the sleuth-hound than when he followed the trail of one attractive to him through the dense human jungle of the Unattached Club.
To-night, however, he was a little bit off-colour, owing to the agony of mind which he had been enduring for the last few days. In consequence, perhaps, of this fact, his feet forgot for an instant their ancient cunning, and when he heard the Duchess of Southborough sneeze a second time in his immediate vicinity he started, and trod heavily upon a neighbouring Marchioness. Of course he knew her. Directly she screamed he discovered an old and valued friend, and poured forth a complete apology into the blackness, an apology which was whisperingly accepted. But this painful misadventure slightly flurried him, and caused him to commit a solecism the memory of which haunted him to the last days of his life. For,after making his peace with the Marchioness, he inadvertently sat down in the Duchess of Southborough's lap, just as Mr. Ingerstall was vehemently hissing into her ears, "The only thing that makes Tangier possible is the fact that there is a French Consulate there. That cursed thing, British influence——" It was at this point that the Duchess suddenly began to struggle feebly, and to catch her breath beneath the unexpected imposition of Mr. Rodney. He got up immediately. Any gentleman would have done so, much more our friend from Mitching Dean. But the Duchess, partly from surprise, since she had not heard anyone approaching her in the darkness, partly from the physical collapse very naturally brought about in an elderly lady who is suddenly called upon to support a weight of some twelve stone or thereabouts, continued to gurgle in a very alarming manner. Mr. Pettingham, who, rod in hand, was in the very act of pointing to a small figure relieved in colours upon the sheet, and saying, "There you will perceive my excellent friend the Prince stepping into the first boat to go ashore," was brought up short in his informing discourse.
"I hope nothing is the matter? No one is taken ill?" he quacked anxiously.
The perspiration broke out in a cold cloud upon Mr. Rodney's face. He bent down to the darkness from which he had just risen, and murmured with a pungent agony, and a disregard of grammar that did him credit:
"Duchess, it's only me! I do assure you it's only me, Mr. Rodney! Pray, pray forgive me! Oh, pray do recover! Be all right! Oh, Duchess, for our old friendship's sake be all right, or they'll turn on the lights!"
This tragic appeal was not without its effect upon her Grace. She good-naturedly came to, and Mr. Rodney,fortunately discovering an unoccupied seat on her off-side, sat down and hastily went on apologising, while Mr. Pettingham proceeded with his discourse.
"I cannot—I can never tell you how grieved and shocked I am," Mr. Rodney whispered.
"What is your weight?" whispered back the Duchess.
"My—I beg your pardon!"
"How much do you weigh? You are monstrously heavy for your size."
"I am very sorry. I am quite ashamed—only just twelve stone, I do assure you—I am really——"
"My dear man, never mind. If Mr. Pettingham will keep the room so dark we must all expect to be sat on. Where have you been all this long time? I haven't seen you anywhere for the last three days."
"I have been at Mitching Dean."
"What, at this time of year?"
"I have not been at all well."
"Gout? Carlsbad would do you more good than Mitching Dean."
"It was not the gout; it was more painful than that," Mr. Rodney hissed, with genuine emotion. "Is Mrs. Verulam here to-night?"
"Yes, in pale green—charming little creature!"
Mr. Rodney thrilled.
"Mr. Van Adam is with her," continued the Duchess. "They are about eighteen rows behind us, and Pearl is sitting with them."
"Indeed!"
"Yes. Mr. Van Adam has quite cheered her up, poor child; or else it is Dr. Spencer Hill's new spray treatment that she is trying. But I really am inclined to think it is Mr. Van Adam. He is a great success in London."
"Really!"
"Oh, a great success!" By the sound of her whisper Mr. Rodney knew that the Duchess had turned her head to the near side. "Isn't he, Mr. Ingerstall?"
"I really don't know. I only know that he liked the mosaics—actually admired them!" snapped that gentleman, in the distance; "and yet he has lived in Paris. He has seen the——"
"How did Mrs. Verulam get to know him?" continued her Grace to the off-side.
The palpitations of jealousy seized Mr. Rodney.
"I have no idea," he whispered.
"Was she ever in Florida?"
"Oh dear, no!"
"Of course, people are talking——"
"Might I venture to request silence?" quacked the irritated voice of Mr. Pettingham at this juncture. "It is almost impossible for me to bring my friend the Duke of Drigg's adventure in the Soko vividly before you if I do not have the kind assistance of your complete attention. Well, as I was saying, it was very evident to me that Fatimah was decidedly under the influence of haschish." He struck a bell. "Here you see Fatimah under the influence of haschish."
"These adventures of Drigg's are very uninteresting," continued the Duchess, resuming her conversation in a louder whisper. "People are talking, you know, Mr. Rodney."
"Talking—what about?"
"Oh, Mrs. Verulam and Mr. Van Adam. But I take a more charitable view. After all, she's twenty-eight."
"Oh, surely not more than twenty-seven!"
"Englishwomen always look more than their age," Mr.Ingerstall whispered violently. "It's an extraordinary thing! Now, a Parisian——"
"Twenty-eight, Mr. Rodney; and getting on towards twenty-nine. And he looks a mere boy. You have heard all about him? Did Bernard Roche ever tell you his age?"
"No, never!" said Mr. Rodney, suddenly registering a vow to write on the morrow to New York and find out a great deal about Huskinson, against whom he was rapidly conceiving a most deadly hatred.
"He seems very young to have got a divorce," her Grace whispered reflectively. "However, in America I suppose they begin earlier than we do over here. People develop more rapidly, I believe."
"Yes, Duchess; but about Mrs. Verulam and Mr. Van Adam. What are people saying?"
Mr. Rodney's note was hoarse.
"Oh, the usual thing. And certainly it is a little strange, his coming all the way from Florida to stay with her—alone in the house, too. A little injudicious, certainly. Old Martha Sage is terribly shocked about it. She declares it is the most extraordinary affair she has known since the Crimean War!"
Mr. Rodney turned pale in the darkness. On what a precipice was Mrs. Verulam walking. And James Bush, too! But Lady Sage and the Duchess knew nothing yet of him. The darkness became to Mr. Rodney like a spinning ball, in whose interior he violently revolved through space. He was recalled to himself by hearing the Duchess say:
"Are you going on to the panthers?"
"The panthers?"
"Of Sartorius, at Mrs. Vigors' in Brook Street?"
"Oh yes, I believe I am, if there is time. Pettingham is a little lengthy to-night."
"Terribly!"
She listened for a moment.
"Dear! Fatimah is still evidently under the influence of haschish. This is endless!"
She agitated her enormous fan in the darkness. All around might now be heard a rustling as of wings. The Dowagers, half suffocated, were doing likewise. Mr. Pettingham sipped at a glass of water, and calmly continued:
"When the Duke said this to Fatimah, the Prince and I were convulsed. I got down off my donkey——"
"This is wonderfully interesting," Chloe murmured to Mrs. Verulam eighteen rows back.
Mrs. Verulam, who was lost in a reverie, through which James Bush moved with all the dignity of her idea of Agag, started and replied:
"D'you think so? I think it appalling! Even the Holy Land must have been better than this. If he takes us into the interior, I shall faint."
"I shall now proceed to show you some views of the interior," continued Mr. Pettingham, with a quacking complacency. "First try to imagine yourselves in one of the filthy alleys of the Jewish quarter of Tetuan." He struck the bell again. "Here you see one of the filthy alleys faithfully reproduced."
"If only somebody would open a window," murmured Mrs. Verulam distractedly. "Oh, but I forgot; we are in the basement of the club, and there are none."
"Is it really true that the Princess of Galilee is here?"
"Yes, poor thing, in the front row. Oh, Chlo—oh, Mr. Van Adam, if you only knew how I long to be quietly away from all this, sitting in some sweet garden, with thequiet marshes stretching away all round me on every side, and——"
"Oh, not marshes; they are horrible! You should see the swamps in Florida!"
"An English marsh is quite, quite different. Mr. Bush has lived in one all his life at Bungay." She sank her voice on the last romantic word, and breathed a gentle sigh. "He will tell us of his life—of the true, best life—when he comes to Ribton Marches," she added softly. "For he has accepted my invitation in his own dear, characteristic manner. I meant to have told you. I got his letter—or, rather, his postcard—to-night, just before we were starting."
"What did it say?"
"'Coming.—J. Bush.'"
"Isn't that a little short—for an answer to you, I mean?"
"Yes, short and to the point. How much better than filling sheets and sheets of letter-paper with empty phrases and meaningless compliments."
"Yes?" said Chloe rather doubtfully, as she settled her shirt-front, and slightly pulled up her trousers to prevent them getting into "knees." And then her attention was claimed by the Lady Pearl, who murmured in her ear:
"How terrible must be the sufferings of these poor Moorish infidels! It is impossible to escape from agony, mental and physical, in any part of the world."
Meanwhile, Mrs. Verulam suffered under a very delightful infliction of the darkness. At Mr. Pettingham's parties people very often heard themselves talked about, as the want of light rendered it impossible to see who was who and who was where. Therefore the injudicious were constantly prone to allow their opinions to be known by thosewhom they most nearly concerned. While the Lady Pearl was pouring her very creditable heart-woes, or secret consciousness of gouty tendency, into the ears of the supposed Mr. Van Adam, a woman's voice broke upon Mrs. Verulam's unoccupied ears.
"Did you see them come in?" it whispered, apparently carrying on an already begun conversation.
"Yes," replied another murmuring female voice.
"Did you like her gown?"
"Pretty well. I am certain it must have come from Violette's."
"Oh, I thought she got all her gowns in Paris!"
"My dear, shesaysso."
"She does her hair well."
"Yes. But I am not sure whether it suits her broadened out so very much over the temples. I thought it looked a little exaggerated, but I daresay the men like that."
"Men always admire her."
"Oh, men admire anybody! They have nothing else to do. Mrs. Verulam does as well as you or I, or anyone else."
"I hear Mr. Hyacinth Rodney is simply furious about this Mr. Van Adam. They say he has left town and gone away to Mitching Dean."
"Where everything comes from. I don't wonder. Mrs. Verulam seems to have taken leave of her senses. To have a man only just divorced—a mere boy, certainly, but so handsome—over from America to spend the season with her! It's the most extraordinary proceeding! I don't think people will stand it. She's taken Ribton Marches because he has never seen an Ascot. Lady Sage is trotting about everywhere expressing her private opinion of the matter."
"What is it?"
"Oh, too straightforward to quote here. But I fancy if Mrs. Verulam isn't very careful she will get to know what the cold shoulder is at last. One can't fly in the face of—oh, what's that?"
A crash in Mr. Pettingham's direction startled the suffocating titles. Providence had been kind, and, taking pity on their increasing breathlessness, had caused the hand of the slide-manager to slip at a critical moment. The interior of Morocco strewed the floor in fragments, and the adventures of "my excellent friends, Prince Carl of Schmelzig-Heinstein and the Duke of Drigg," were brought to an abrupt and merciful termination. A blaze of electric light revealed a panorama of hot faces, heaving shoulders, gleaming tiaras, and waving fans. Mr. Pettingham stepped down, with many apologies for the unfortunate accident, into the room, offered his arm to the Princess of Galilee, and escorted her towards the supper-room, quacking loudly as he went. Conversation burst forth as if a dam had been pierced. Dowagers rose up, groups formed and dispersed. The two words "Palestine soup" floated on the surface of every mind, and a general move was made in the direction taken by the host and the Princess.
In the midst of the confusion Mrs. Verulam saw the tall and thin form of Mr. Rodney carefully—remembering the Marchioness—threading his way towards her through the throng. His eyes were fixed reproachfully upon her. And he had assumed the self-conscious air of a man recovering from a long and dangerous illness. The Duchess of Southborough followed, escorted by the shouting Mr. Ingerstall. Mrs. Verulam found herself overtaken by a shudder of boredom. She looked away, and saw the twowomen who had been discussing her so incautiously get up and exchange glances of dull and strangled horror on perceiving that she had been sitting so near to them. And while she felt that she hated them, she almost loved their scandal, for it seemed to set the cage-door ajar. And she fancied that she could see the squirrel—no longer Tommy, but Daisy—cease from its everlasting scramble upon the revolving gilded bars, and turn bright eyes upon the door pushed ever so little outwards, and move to it, and put his nose—just outside. That was lovely! And since it was most certainly the young gentleman in the tweed suit, now in orthodox evening-dress, who had accomplished this good beginning of a miracle, Mrs. Verulam turned to him with a quick and expressive movement of gratitude and graciousness. More than one well-bred starer noticed it, and the Verulam and Van Adam scandal marched another step onward, while Mr. Rodney began to look as if the poor, self-conscious man was rather relapsing into than recovering from his illness. However, he approached, trying not to glare at Chloe, who looked marvellously young and handsome in her man's costume, took Mrs. Verulam's hand, and said softly:
"I have just returned from Mitching Dean."
"Indeed! I didn't know you had been away until to-night."
"I felt that I must have rest—change—time to think and to recover."
"From what, Mr. Rodney?"
"From the blow; the blow dealt me by a cherished hand."
Mrs. Verulam tried not to look too obviously bored.
"I hope you are better?"
"That I have to find out; that I must know. It is a question to me whether I shall ever be better."
He glanced again at the radiant Huskinson, now in animated conversation with Lady Pearl and the Duchess, thought again of James Bush, and was nearly feeling himself the most unhappy of men. He could not hide from himself the horrible fact that Huskinson looked well in evening-dress, and the man who looks well in evening-dress looks well in anything. Mr. Rodney surveyed the slim form of the orange-grower, his curly black hair, his bright and merry dark eyes, noted his animated and youthful manner, perceived that he went to a first-rate tailor—Francis did know all about it!—and felt a sort of prostration stealing over him. He mentally went back upon his resolve to hold out the right hand of fellowship to Huskinson by a present of melons from Mitching Dean. One does not heap melons upon an adversary. Human charity has its limits. Mr. Rodney, casting a pale and jaundiced glance upon the bright and successful youth so lightly bearing his recent trouble, resolved, and resolved with real firmness, that the beds of Mitching Dean should not be denuded of their mellow and tender-hued fruit. No, no!
Meanwhile, Chloe was in high feather. She had lost all fear of discovery, and gave herself ardently to the bosom of that wonderful thing society, which received her with that strange and bizarre passion of receptive protection and coaxing ecstasy reserved for the millionaire. Only the millionaire fully knows the greedy love of the monster, its tenacious anxiety to please, its skipping and self-conscious lures, its readiness for self-humiliation, its grand and ample abandonments of dignity. Only the millionaire sees in perfection those fawning attitudes ofthe monster, supple and engaging, which no new-fledged puppy dog can ever surpass, or even emulate, when creeping with flattened ears about the feet of a worshipped master. Chloe knew at last the smiles of Duchesses as she could never have known them, had she not slipped into an evening coat, pumps, silk socks, and "the newest thing in waistcoats." The lethargy of a forgetful footman had opened for her the very gates of heaven. She had the animal spirits to enter in with an intrepid gladness. At present she was cheering up the melancholies of the Lady Pearl, who blossomed into a sort of sepulchral hilarity beneath her warming rays. The Duchess of Southborough smiled upon the sunny transformation. But soon her Grace, business-like even in beatitude, remembered that there were even more important matters afoot than the gradual dispersion of a daughter's gout, and, advancing upon Mrs. Verulam, she exclaimed in her friendly bass:
"And what about Ascot, Mrs. Verulam? Is it all settled? The Duke is enchanted at the idea of a week in the Bun Emperor's palace; for Ribton Marches is forbidden ground to everybody. Mr. Lite never has visitors, except to lunch to sign an advertisement. He thinks the sanctity of the home should not be intruded upon. Have you really got the house?"
"Mr. Rodney says 'really,'" Mrs. Verulam said, looking at him.
Mr. Rodney bowed towards his boots.
"Dear me! How delightful! A large party?"
"Very small."
Mrs. Verulam mentioned its items. Her Grace, although her magnificent jaw fell slightly at the name of Mr. Ingerstall, was pleased to say that it was cosy.
"And Mr. Van Adam will keep us all going," sheadded, flinging in Chloe's direction a weighty smile of approbation.
Mr. Rodney squirmed.
"But who is this Mr. Bush, dear Mrs. Verulam?" she continued. "Does one know his name?"
"He is a country friend; he lives in retirement in Bungay Marshes."
"Sounds a rather damp existence. I hope he will not give us all cold. Pearl, my darling, you may go in to supper now with Mr. Van Adam. Remember to drink nothing but lime-juice cordial. Mr. Van Adam, I trust you to see that my child does not touch champagne. With her tendency, it would be fatal."
The Lady Pearl flushed with vexation. To have one's mental malady drenched with lime-juice—one's soul treated like the body of a North Pole explorer—is to swallow a bitter pill. She looked at her large mother with a dawning defiance. Then she took Chloe's arm, and whispered loudly in her ear:
"I shall drink champagne to-night. I will not be treated like a"—she had nearly said "child," but, recollecting herself, substituted "gout patient." The words, tremulous and tragic, seemed to come from the very depths of a nature profound as a well. Chloe received them with the smile that had enthralled Huskinson, and whispered back:
"I'll get you two glasses."
It was innocently said, but that it was strictly judicious cannot be admitted. Such tender treatment was surely calculated to stir too wildly a character like the Lady Pearl's. And, moreover, it led her into subterfuges, for, half an hour later, when the Duchess, Mrs. Verulam, Chloe, Mr. Rodney, Mr. Ingerstall, and others, were gathered inthe hall of the Unattached Club, waiting for the carriages which were to take them all "on" to the panthers, she replied to her Grace's question, "You kept to lime-juice, Pearl darling?"—"Oh, mamma, I drank two glasses," and her accompanying glance at Chloe was almost in the nature of a tiny wink.
CHAPTER VII.
THE BUN EMPEROR AND EMPRESS AT HOME.
Asthe rabbit, in moments of danger, has a passion for the little hole into which it darts with the speed of lightning, so, in moments both of safety and danger, has the properly-constituted Englishman a passion for "the home." Even the most middle-class owner of a tiny semi-detached "villa residence," looking out over a network of railway, is prepared to defend it and its clothes-line, and that mysterious barrel which always stands on end at its back-door, with his heart's best blood. Now, this is very creditable. But even a very beautiful and noble instinct may be carried too far. And the Englishman's passion for the home was, in the Bun Emperor's case, carried very far indeed.
Mr. Lite was a remarkable man in many subtle ways. Of course he had risen from the gutter. Everybody does do that nowadays. There is nothing original in the feat. His gutter was an exceedingly small, and exceedingly dingy, pie-shop in Camberwell, the sort of miscellaneous pie-shop which exhibits to the street a terrace on which things of meat and things of jam, the saveloy and the marmalade puff, air themselves side by side in a fly-blown amity of meek endurance. And it was this fact whichhad eventually obtained for worthy Mrs. Lite, who had assisted in the shop, the sobriquet of "the raised pie," a title suitable to her changed social condition.
In the old days, Mr. Perry Lite had been devoured by a passion for the Camberwell home. He had worshipped the terrace on which the pies lethargically leaned. He had adored the stuffy back-parlour, divided from the shop by a half-glass door, on which a cracked bell tinkled. The man who had dared to invade the privacy of that parlour would have found himself face to face with a fury, inflexibly set on ejection. The small bedroom above-stairs was, at that time, Mr. Lite's idea of heaven, and he considered the attic in which the servant—had there been one, which there was not—would have slept a fit receptacle for a goddess. In fact, Mr. Lite's heart sent out tendrils, which climbed, like creepers, all over the Camberwell pie-house. But in due time he had to cut the creepers down.
Either Mrs. Lite was unusually clever at making pies, buns, sweetmeats, and cakes, or Mr. Lite had extraordinary business capacity, or Fortune was determined that there should be a Bun Emperor in Britain, and that Mr. Lite looked the part better than anybody else. In any case, money came, and with it changes. The Camberwell residence was exchanged for Bayswater; Bayswater was given up, in its turn, for Oxford Street. Then followed Piccadilly, with branch establishments all over the place. And, finally, Mr. and Mrs. Lite found themselves settled in the palace near Ascot which was known far and wide to a wondering world as Ribton Marches. And it was in Ribton Marches that Mr. Lite allowed the old passion to develop into a disease. At Camberwell he had been very fond of the home. AtSunninghill he adored it with his whole heart and body, preferring it to Windsor Castle, and strong in a belief that her Most Gracious Majesty, who occasionally passed near his gates while on her afternoon carriage expeditions, sickened with envy when her royal eyes beheld the cupolas which made the roof-tree of the palace bulbous in every imaginable direction. Ribton Marches had been built according to Mr. Lite's own ideas, which took the form of a huge erection combining many of the peculiar merits of the Leicester Square Alhambra and the Crystal Palace. Wherever you expected to find stone you came upon glass; wherever you anticipated glass you came upon stone. If you looked for a flat roof, your eye met a cupola; if you glanced up in search of a cupola, you probably missed it and saw a flat roof. The palace continually "had" you. It was full of winter gardens, and in all these winter gardens there were talking parrots. The palace was crammed with echoes, and as you explored it, under the careful and most suspicious supervision of Mr. Lite, its mighty walls seemed to breathe out to you from every side such mysterious expressions as "Hallelujah! Bow-wow-wow!" "Polly, go to bed!" and "Polly very drunk; naughty Polly!" the latter statement being usually succeeded by a loud noise as of the drawing of dozens of champagne corks. There were several libraries in the palace, and several boudoirs; but the boudoirs were on the ground-floor, and the libraries were upstairs. In the picture-gallery the Dutch-oven school was well represented, and in the purple drawing-room there was a new species of orchestrion, to the hullabaloo of which Mr. and Mrs. Lite were wont to fall gently asleep each evening after dinner. A remarkable feature of the palace was the large number of machines, constructedon the penny-in-the-slot principle, which stood about in the different apartments, prepared to yield to the influence of the enquiring copper an assortment of cigars, stamps, cigarettes, surprise packets, chocolate drops, Dutch dolls, perfume squirts, luggage-labels, and other like necessaries. Of these Mr. Lite was very proud: their mechanism, which no fellow was ever able to understand, was devised by him, and was different in important respects from that of the graceful erections which have been so artistically placed in many of the more beautiful parts of England. Whenever any guests came to lunch with him—he seldom had anyone to stay the night—he would always invite them to set his machines in motion, and the disappearing pennies went to assist in the founding of the Lite Home for Elderly Bun-makers who had got past their work.
In the centre of the palace was a large hall, baronial here and there, containing a staircase which had been conveyed at a vast cost from somewhere abroad, an oak ceiling, an organ, and other necessary furniture. At the first glance this hall looked rather more suitable for the accommodation of Handel Festivals than for a simple home life. But the Bun Emperor and Empress, looking—as to size—like a couple of peas in the vast immensity of unutterable space, often took afternoon tea there in sweet domestic solitude, or sat there by the hour listening to the distant voices of the parrots resounding from the adjacent winter gardens. Other inhabitants of the palace were certain pugs—Dinah, Sam, Gog and Magog—retained by Mrs. Lite to give an air of aristocracy to the establishment; various footmen, powdered and unpowdered; and a very large and scorbutic individual, by name Mr. Harrison, who enjoyed the titleof "groom of the chambers," and the advantage of doing nothing whatsoever from morning till night.
On a certain evening in June the Bun Emperor and Empress rose at about eight o'clock from their late dinner in the cedar-wood dining-parlour, decorated with the heads of stags shot by nobody knows who, engravings of popular pictures, and china from different portions of the habitable globe, and proceeded to the purple drawing-room to listen to the cooling orchestrion, whose tremendous strains so soothed their souls and stimulated their digestive processes. They went arm-in-arm, preceded by a footman, and followed by the pugs in waddling procession. The Bun Emperor was short, with exceedingly rounded contours, features resembling those of the first Napoleon, fierce dark eyes, and the gait of a man who has won a great many battles. His Empress was also short and rounded, with grey hair elaborated into many little curls about her forehead, neat features of the nut-cracker type, and, as a general rule, a slightly fatuous expression of eager self-complacency. To-night, however, her face was decorated with the flames of temper, and she gained the purple drawing-room on rather tremulous feet.
Arrived there, she sharply withdrew her hand from the Emperor's fat arm, sat down in a brocaded chair, and turned upon the respectful flunkey who had shown the way.
"Frederick," she said, "turn on the orchestrion."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And set it at 'They Never do That to Me.'"
She darted a glance at the Emperor as she said the last words.
"Yes, ma'am," replied Frederick.
The pugs sat down. Frederick obeyed orders, and in a moment the big room was crammed with the beautiful and classical strains of the song already alluded to, given out by the expensive instrument with an unflinching power and a stentorian sweetness that must surely have compelled the most unmusical person to do homage, if not to melody, at least to strength. Frederick made his exit, and the Bun Emperor collapsed in silence by his wife's side. He looked less violent than usual, and, indeed, the expression upon his face might almost have been called an expression of apprehension. The song ran on. The pugs declined from a sitting into a sidelong posture, and with four simultaneous sighs gave way to the charms of snoring with open eyes. The Emperor's two thumbs began rapidly to revolve one over the other.
"Don't do that, Perry," said the Empress; "it spoils the music."
The Emperor desisted, apparently very much to his wife's vexation, for she pursed her lips, screwed her brow, and arranged her curls with a trembling hand. "For they nev-arr do thattome!" shouted the orchestrion for the dozenth time.
"D'you hear that, Perry?" said the Empress viciously.
The Emperor jerked an affirmative with his head.
"And d'you feel it?" pursued the Empress. "D'you feel it as you ought?"
"My dear!" said the Emperor. "My dear!"
"Oh, I daresay," said the Empress, flaunting her head passionately sideways. "I daresay. But what's the good of that? What's the good of affection, and 'my dear' this, and 'my dear' that, when it's done and can't be undone?"
"I can't go back upon my word, Henrietta."
"Then why give it? That's what I say. Why give it?" cried the Empress. "And all for a paltry bit of bun-praise that won't sell half a million of buns when all's said and done!"
And she kicked Magog sharply in his third rib. The dog sent forth a cry of anguish, but the Empress was in no way concerned; on the contrary, the utterance seemed to nerve her for fresh exertions.
"No, nor a quarter of a million," she continued. "Let it be in every paper in Christendom."
"I think you underrate Lady Sophia's influence, Henrietta," said the Emperor meekly; "I do indeed. She will have great weight in infant circles, I feel sure—very great weight, my dear. That 'they should be nourishing' will go home to the mothers, too. Oh, there can be no doubt at all about it, no doubt in the world."
"That's what you think?"
"It is, my darling, it is indeed!"
"Well, and if she does sell half a million, or a million either, it ain't worth it. No, Perry, it ain't!"
At this juncture the Empress was visibly affected. Her "ain't" was really tragic, not merely on account of the stress with which it was given out, but still more on account of its employment by the lady; for both the Emperor and Empress were in calm moments very particular in speech. They not merely refrained from dropping their h's and from putting them in wrongly, they went further than that. They dealt very tenderly and impressively with aspirates, sounding them in a marked and highly deliberate manner when they occurred, and even leaving them out when they did not occur, in a way that could scarcely escape the attention of the keen grammarian or finished orator. The Emperor was greatlymoved by his wife's avoidance of the customary "is not." But he was a tenacious man, and still held to his point.
"If I had not secured Lady Sophia's bun-praise when I had the opportunity, my dear," he said, "it would have haunted me to the last day of my life. It would have been going against the principles of a lifetime; them as have—those which have made us what we are, Henrietta. Go for the names—that has been my motto in the trade. Go for the names."
"Yes; go for the names, and go out of the home!" cried the Empress. "Oh, Perry, Perry!"
The orchestrion drowned her wail, but the Emperor felt it, divined it, nevertheless. He was sincerely moved.
"Don't, my dear, don't!" he ejaculated.
"I will! I must!" said the Empress. "To leave the old home at our time of life! To be turned out into the streets! Oh! oh!"
This statement of the Empress contained at least two fallacies, which might almost be called thumping lies. For Ribton Marches was only about five years old, and the fishing-cottage to which Mr. Rodney had persuaded the worthy couple presently to retire was backed by a pine wood and fronted by a charming little pond, generally called "the lake." However, the Emperor did not contradict his spouse. He only patted her gently on her heaving back, while his own features became contorted with agitation at the prospect conjured up by her pictorial remarks.
"And these Londoners," continued the Empress, very nearly qualifying them with the contemptuous epithet "'ere,"—"these Londoners! Oh, what may they not do to the home! What may they not do! I can't bear it! No, I can't!"
The Emperor's face assumed an expression such as may well have been observed upon Napoleon's immediately before the battle of Waterloo.
"Do to the home!" he said, striking one fat hand down upon his knee. "Let them try it on! Mr. Harrison has his orders."
The Empress looked up.
"What d'you mean, Perry?" she asked.
"What I say, Henrietta. Mr. Harrison has his orders."
Had the Emperor been speaking of certain secret commands laid by him upon a professional assassin his voice could not have been more fiercely sinister. The blood of the Empress almost ran cold.
"No, they never do that to me!" bellowed the orchestrion.
"What orders, Perry? Orders to do what?"
"Ah!" said the Emperor, wagging his massive head passionately from one side to the other, while his eyes stared as if in contemplation of some terrible picture. "Let them try it on! Let them only try it, and they will repent it, Henrietta, to the last day of their natural lives!"
"Perry!" said the Empress impressively, "what are you going for to do?"
"My duty to you and to the home."
"What! then the Londoners ain't coming?"
"Are not, my dear," said the Emperor in courtly correction. "Yes, come they must, for I've given my word to the fiddle-faced feller. But, as I say, Mr. Harrison has his orders to keep his eye on them, day in, day out, morning, noon and night."
"Night, Perry!" ejaculated the Empress. "What—the ladies?"
"Only till they retire, Henrietta, of course. If they damage the bedrooms they shall answer for it, though!"
The Emperor delivered the last sentence with the sudden rapidity and power of a thunder-clap. The Empress, who was now beginning to take a back seat, looked admiringly at her lord.
"Ah, Perry, what a man you are!" she murmured.
"They shall find out what sort of a man I am, if they try on any of their tricks here," said the Emperor. "If so much as a bit of wood's chipped off, or so much as a parrot's missing, they'll regret it—to their lives' end, they will!"
But now, with the inconsistency of woman, the Empress returned to her former complaining.
"Yes, I daresay," she said, in a whining voice; "but having it out of them in the end won't make up to us for all we have to go through. Think of it, Perry! You and me not able to be in the home, not able to sit at tea in the hall, not able to hear that"—she waved her plump hand sorrowfully at the orchestrion—"of an evening! Oh, Perry, think of the silence—think of the silence!"
And here the Empress wept as women weep at the silence of the grave. The Emperor looked at the orchestrion.
"We might take it with us, perhaps," he said musingly. "It would be a comfort to us, Henrietta, that can't be denied."
"It's too big for the cottage," wept the Empress. "No, it must be left for the Londoners to hear; they'll listen to 'em, Perry—to all our tunes. They'll hear 'em sitting where we sit now—'What's the Odds as Long as we're Young?' and 'I Didn't Go for to Cheese my Pal,' and 'My Old Dutch,' and all the rest of 'em! And we shall be sitting, you and me, and nothing but silence for us to hear!"
The poor lady became epic. She beat her hands in her emblazoned lap, and her features seemed to disappear behind her expression as the features in an agonised face sometimes do.
"It's only for six days," faltered the Emperor, almost overwhelmed by the realisation of what was before them.
"It'll seem six years—it'll seem a lifetime! And the size of the cottage, too! Why, it was only made to hold a fisherman!"
This argument was so unanswerable that the Emperor could only say:
"My dear, the house in Camberwell was small."
"And so was we when we lived there," retorted the Empress. "But we're a bit bigger now, I hope."
Who could stand up against such merciless logic? Not the Emperor, certainly. He began to feel as if they would have to spend their week in the fishing-cottage crouching upon all-fours, in attitudes formed to attract the cramp. And meanwhile that pernicious race, "the Londoners," as the Empress always called them in the voice of one alluding to the Hairy Ainu, or any other peculiarly savage tribe—the Londoners would be couching in the partially baronial hall, wandering through the vistas of boudoirs, reading in the libraries, listening to the light conversation of the parrots in the winter gardens, dining among the stags' heads in the cedar-wood parlour, possibly even dancing, or dicing, or following some other cannibal custom in the purple drawing-room. All these ideas, thronging upon him in a grisly crowd, so weighed upon the Emperor's spirit that he let his head drop on his breast, and allowed to escape from him this awful sentence of self-condemnation:
"I do believe I've been a fool!"
"You never spoke a truer word, Perry," rejoined the pitiless Empress. "And if I'd been at the Crystal Palace that night things would have been different. All I say is, don't let that Mr. Rodney come near me, or I may forget as I'm a lady, and let him feel on his face what I think of him."
"He over-persuaded me. He said, Lady Sophia's word would bring in every mother in the kingdom."
"May it prove so," said the Empress, with biting sarcasm—"may it prove so, Perry! Do they bring their own linen?" she added sharply, "or do they sleep between our very sheets?"
"I'm afraid, my love, that we have to provide everything, excepting food. They pay extra for that—and drink."
The Empress lay back in a suffering position, as one who thinks of a strange and unknown tribe sleeping between her private sheets, and resting their dreadful heads upon her gently-nurtured pillow-slips. This announcement of the Emperor's seemed to be the last straw. She struggled no more; she resorted no longer to the weapons of argumentative brilliancy, cunning sarcasm, fiery logic, or tender pathos. She simply lay back and endured the devastating blows of Fate, as prepared for her by the husband to whom she naturally looked for tenderness and protection. And the Emperor, gazing furtively upon his consort, was wrung to the very heart. And all the time the orchestrion, as if in a mood of diabolic raillery, thundered out persistently "They Never do That to Me!" The noise of the refrain got upon the Emperor's nerves. It seemed to chide him for a base deed. For had he not done the wrong thing by the Empress in striking his fearful bargain among the glittering steel knives with Mr.Rodney? Surely, surely, yes. But we do not like to have our faults brought home to us by a machine. The Emperor suddenly stamped his foot furiously upon the floor. This motion rang an electric bell let into the carpet beside his armchair. The powdered Frederick instantly appeared.
"Stop it!" cried the Emperor in a fearful voice—"stop it!"
"Sir?"
"Stop that tune!"
Frederick induced the instrument to be quiet.
"And now," said the Emperor, throwing a compassionate and ashamed glance upon his wife—"now set it at—let's see"—he paused, in deep thought—"at the 'Dear Old Home.'"
Frederick obeying, the purple drawing-room was quickly pervaded by a strain so soft and heartrending that it might have melted an actor-manager to modesty, or persuaded a tigress to be tame. It had its effect even upon the Empress. She started, glanced around her with agitation as the melody smote—or rather glided—upon the porches of her ears, composed herself to inflexibility, started again, regarded the orchestrion with an air of distracted enquiry, turned to the Emperor, and finally, with a wild and poignant cry of "Oh, Perry, Perry, that it should come to this!" fell upon his breast, and bedewed his frilled shirt-front with wifely tears.
There are scenes that must not be described, circumstances that must not be depicted, situations that must not be intruded upon. One of the chief of these is surely an Emperor and Empress in hysterics. Let the veil close. Let privacy immerse the prostrated couple.
Yet we must meet them again in circumstances perhapseven more tragic. We must follow them through ways foggy with misfortune.
The Sunday immediately preceding the Monday of Ascot week was a black-letter day indeed for Mr. and Mrs. Lite. No potentates on the eve of being thrust out from their kingdom ever suffered under a sense of greater indignity than did they as they saw their boxes being packed by valet and maid for departure, and wandered through the palace taking a last farewell of the many objects that they loved so dearly. Mrs. Lite was become entirely lachrymose under the weight of unmerited misfortune, but her husband could in almost all circumstances rely with certainty upon the support of his naturally violent temper, and on this, as on many other less terrible occasions, it buoyed him up, and prevented him from sinking into a condition of unmanly despondency. Instead of being simply sad, he was also furious, and although depression unutterable attacked his bleeding heart as the hour drew near when he must leave the home, the passionate antagonism which he increasingly felt against "the Londoners" kept him from breaking down, and even assisted his habitual vitality till it burnt with the fierceness of a flame fed by petroleum. Especially hot was his wrath against poor innocent Mr. Rodney, the unsuspicious cause of all this trouble. And one circumstance which increased the Bun Emperor's anger against the gentle owner of Mitching Dean was that Lady Sophia Tree's bun-praise, although it had been duly advertised in almost every paper in the kingdom, had not as yet occasioned any very unusual rush of infants upon the provender by the sale of which the Emperor and Empress lived. The sale had kept up, had even slightly increased, but that was all that could be said. Therefore the Emperor'stroubled waters were not mingled with a sufficient quantity of oil to quiet them. And on this fateful Sunday his passion mounted to a climax. The veins of his ample forehead were already swelled at breakfast—in Winter Garden number one. His cheeks were flushed at lunch-time, and as the afternoon drew on he seemed perpetually on the verge of an ebullition of ungovernable fury. His large, gipsy-like eyes stared about him at all the familiar objects which he had collected in the home, objects hitherto only beheld by the very few persons—aristocratic bun-praisers and others—whom the Emperor honoured with his personal friendship. He held in one fat hand, and frequently referred to, a list, forwarded according to agreement by Mr. Rodney, of the members of the vile tribe who on the morrow were to take possession of his beautiful palace. The list was as follows:
Mrs. Verulam.The Duchess of Southborough.The Lady Pearl McAndrew.Hon. Miss Bindler.Lady Drake.Mr. Van Adam.Mr. Hyacinth Rodney.The Duke of Southborough.Mr. Ingerstall.Mr. James Bush.
Over and over again did the Emperor con this list, and endeavour to conjure up an idea of what manner of women and men these unknown strangers might be. Over and over again did he read the names aloud to the Empress with a hard and guttural intonation. The only members of the tribe personally known to him were the Duke and Duchess of Southborough and Mr. Rodney. The latter he now loathed with all his soul. The two former he respected as thoroughly useful and efficient bun-praisers. What of the others? What of Mrs. Verulam, the Lady Pearl, Miss Bindler? What of Mr. Van Adam, Mr. Ingerstall, and Mr. James Bush? Names are sometimessuggestive, and call up pictures before the eyes of the imaginative. The Bun Emperor became imaginative under the combined influences of sorrow and temper, and, summoning the Empress to him in the hall built for the accommodation of Handel Festivals, he proceeded to go through a performance that was somewhat like a public school "call-over," without any answers from the boys.
"Sit down, Henrietta," he said in a loud and quivering voice.
The Empress sat on a chair just under the great organ, and in the shadow of the enormous staircase. The Emperor remained standing, as if at a desk.
"Mrs. Verulam!" he cried, and looked from his list to the Empress, consulting furiously her intuitions.
The Empress shook her curly head.
"You don't like it, Henrietta?" said the Emperor anxiously.
"It's a silly-sounding name," said the Empress.
"It is, my dear. She's the one that pays the rent."
The Empress pursed her lips, and two tears trickled slowly over her rounded cheeks.
"That don't make her name any less silly-sounding," she gulped. "Oh, to think——"
"Mr. Van Adam!" cried the Emperor hastily, consulting the list again.
This time he did not ask the Empress for her opinion, but gave his own.
"I call that a low name," he said. "Bible names I never could abide since I was done by Ezekiel. You remember how I was done by Ezekiel over the pork pies?" The Empress nodded miserably. "Never trust a man with a Bible name," continued the Emperor impressively."If you do, he'll round on you. Ezekiel, Adam, Hezekiah—they're all alike, as downy as they're made. Give a child a Bible name, and he'll grow up a hypocrite. The Duchess of Southborough!"
"She's better."
"Yes; her Grace does know a good bun," rejoined the Emperor. "'Your buns are exquisite'—you remember, Henrietta? That bit of bun-praise did us more good than ever that Lady Sophia's will, I'll lay. Hon. Miss Bindler?"
No response from the Empress. No comment from the Emperor.
"Lady Drake!"
Ditto.
"Mr. Hyacinth Rodney! Fiddle-faced beast! Mr. Ingerstall! What d'you think of him, my dear?"
"Not much," said the Empress. "Not much, Perry. He sounds to me like one of those nasty little fellers that go worming themselves about in places where they've no business."
"He'd better let Mr. Harrison catch him worming himself about when he's here!" cried the Emperor with a sudden explosion of passion. "There shall be no worming here, Henrietta, if I have to go against my word and turn them all out neck and crop into the street."
In moments of emotion the imperial minds instinctively returned to early Camberwell days, and fell into the dear old Cockney habit of supposing that on making an exit from any building whatsoever, the person so doing must immediately find himself in a street. As a matter of fact, Ribton Marches stood majestically in its own grounds of some sixty acres, or thereabouts.
"Mr. James Bush!" cried the Emperor, partially recovering self-control.
There was a long pause, during which the couple regarded each other with staring eyes, that seemed turned inward in vehement self-examination. It appeared as if this name, the last on the list, carried with it a strange luggage of perplexity and confusion.
"Bush," the Emperor said at length—"James Bush. Well, Henrietta?"
"I don't know what to think of it," said the Empress. "I don't like it, Perry, I can't say I do. It's not a name I should have ever cared to marry, even when I was a foolish thing, before I took up with you and the pie-shop. No, it's not a name to marry."
The Emperor seemed greatly struck with these illuminative remarks. Yet he passed over the matrimonial demerits of Mr. Bush's name, and, with that power of coming straight to the point so characteristic of great minds, said:
"Is it a name to have in the home, Henrietta? That's the thing for us. Is it a name to have sleeping in our beds, eating off our linen, and listening to the instrument of an evening?"
The Empress wagged her head morosely in reply.
"Ah!" she said, "is it?"
"I have my doubts," the Emperor continued. "Shall we ask Mr. Harrison, my dear? We can always rely on him. He is a man that has seen the world, and can judge of a name at a first hearing."
"We might do worse," responded the Empress lachrymosely.
The Emperor pommelled the bell.
"Request Mr. Harrison to step this way," he said firmly to the footman.
In about five minutes the groom of the chambers appearedwithin the precincts of the hall. Mr. Harrison was remarkably well grown, and of a certain age. His hair had left him in his youth, but he retained a very red complexion, a heavy manner, and a habit of throwing out his feet, like a horse, on either side of him as he went along, which he seldom did, since he was peculiarly addicted to repose. Apparently he had been disturbed while in the active enjoyment of this peculiarity, for he entered the presence with half-open eyes, a somewhat touzled and distressed whisker, and one side of his face an entirely different colour from the other. Where ordinary menials have their "day out," Mr. Harrison had his day in bed. This day was the Sabbath; and it must be confessed that he looked ill-pleased at the tour which he had been so unexpectedly obliged to take.
"Mr. Harrison," the Emperor said, casting on the groom of the chambers a searching glance, "I believe you are a man of the world."
"I am, sir," said Mr. Harrison, half allowing and half suppressing a yawn, a circumstance which made his countenance suddenly full of contradictory expressions.
"You can judge of a name at a first hearing, Mr. Harrison, I presume?" said the Emperor.
"Sir?" said Mr. Harrison, still under the influence of slumber.
"You can tell what you think about a name the first time you hear it, I say?" rejoined the Emperor, raising his voice.
"Oh, certainly, sir!" said Mr. Harrison, arranging the whisker which had been next to the bolster with an unerring hand—"oh, most certainly!"
"Very well, then. Now, Mr. Harrison, give me your attention, if you please. I have here"—the Emperorpointed to Mr. Rodney's list—"the name James Bush." The Emperor paused, and Mr. Harrison tried to emerge from his last dream. "James Bush," repeated the Emperor.
"Indeed, sir!" said Mr. Harrison, feeling like a novice entangled in some complicated game—"indeed!"
"Well, Mr. Harrison?" said the Emperor with growing emphasis—"well?"
The groom of the chambers felt that a statement of some kind about something was undoubtedly required of him; he made a violent effort to summon his mind, and, partially succeeding, was able presently to exclaim with a good deal of determination:
"Not at all, sir—oh dear no; not at all—by no means!"
This seemed to him a remark that was adroit, and one that covered a considerable number of interrogative possibilities. Unfortunately, however, it did not appear to satisfy the requirements of the Emperor, who with some ferocity remarked:
"And what d'you mean by that, Mr. Harrison? Hah!"