Number Two, Draper's Gardens, the office of Mr. John Ash, dealer in stocks and shares. Time, noon. Mr. Ash, with his hat pushed on to the back of his head, seated at a table studying a letter.
"Whatever women find to write about beats me. A man puts a volume inside two lines. A woman puts two lines inside a volume."
Mr. Ash rustled the letter irritably in his hands. It was a voluminous production, written by a feminine pen, crossed and recrossed in a way which, in these days of cheap paper and cheap postage, none but a feminine pen would dream of.
"However a man is supposed to read it is more than I can tell. I can just make out the opening: 'My dearest guardian,'--yes, dear at any price! And the signature--where is it? I know I saw it somewhere. Yes, of course, there it is--straggling across the date and the address: 'Your affectionate ward, Lily Truscott'!"
He laid the letter down, and thrust his hands into his breeches-pockets, leaned back in his chair, and began to whistle softly beneath his breath.
"I wish I could get some one to marry her--a decent sort of man. Though, upon my word, if this sort of thing is to go on"--he glanced at the letter with a look of mild despair--"I sha'n't mind who it is. She knows I hate letters--that's why she keeps on writing them. If two men can't know each other without one of them dying and leaving the other with his daughter on his hands, no wonder a man likes to keep his circle of acquaintance small. And when the girl's got looks and money, God help the man who's got to stay and mind her! Well, here goes. I suppose I'll have to answer it, or she'll be writing again to-morrow to know if I am ill."
Taking up the letter he regarded it with a look of ineffable disgust.
"What she says I don't know. Rather than decipher these hieroglyphics I'd lose a hundred pounds. Anyhow, here goes to make the best of it."
Drawing towards him a sheet of paper and a pen he began to nibble the end of the pen.
"What the dickens shall I say? How can a man answer a letter when he doesn't know what is in it!"
He began to write, indulging in a sort or commentary by the way.
"My dear Lily,--I have read your charming letter with the greatest interest. (I have! I have!) You are indeed a mistress of the epistolary art. (I hope she won't imagine that's writ sarkastick. Now, what shall I say?) The account which you give of the doings of your neighbourhood (I hope that's safe--it ought to be, women always do talk about that kind of thing) is most entertaining. (Most!) It is with the greatest pleasure that I hear of your continuance in good health. (I wonder if she says anything about her being ill?) I am glad to hear, too, that your aunt, Mrs. Clive, is still in the enjoyment of nature's greatest blessing. (I wonder if she mentions the old girl's name!) Pray convey to her my compliments. (Old fool! Now for something to wind up with.) I envy you your peaceful sojourn amidst summer's scenic splendours. (Not so bad! 'summer's scenic splendours.') Tied as I am to the Juggernaut of commerce, I can, however, but look and long. (I wouldn't live in a place like that for thirty thousand a year.)
"Your affectionate guardian,
"John Ash."
"I think that'll do. It will, at any rate, prevent her writing again to-morrow to know if I am ill."
While he was examining, with a certain satisfaction, this example of polite correspondence, a voice was heard inquiring for him in the office without: "Mr. Ash in?"
When Mr. Ash heard the voice, an acidulated expression appeared upon his countenance.
"Ely! What does the fool want here? It's not so very long ago since I very nearly had to hurt his head."
"All right; you needn't trouble him. I'll show myself in."
The owner of the voice did show himself in. He was a dapper little man, with fair hair and a little fair moustache, the ends of which were arranged with the utmost nicety, and a pair of rather washed-out blue eyes, which could, however, look keen enough when they pleased. He was what might be described as a bandbox sort of man. Beautiful grey trousers fitted over exquisite patent shoes. A spotless white waistcoat relieved an irreproachable black coat. His necktie was arranged in an absolutely perfect little bow. His hat gleamed as though it had just that moment left the manufacturer's hands. He carried a metal pencil-case, and one of those long, thin note-books which gentlemen of the Stock Exchange use to enter their bargains in. A diamond ring sparkled on the little finger of his left hand, and in the button-hole of his coat, backed by a sprig of maiden-hair, was a sweet blush-rose.
This beautiful little gentleman seemed to be satisfied with himself and all the world.
"Surprised to see me, I daresay."
His rather metallic voice did not altogether accord with the radiancy of his appearance. One expected flute-like notes to come from him. His actual tones were sharp and shrill.
"I am; considering that last time I had the privilege of your conversation you were good enough to say I was a thief."
The dapper little man stood before the empty stove picking his beautiful white teeth with his metal pencil-case.
"Well, Ash, business is business, and no man likes to be robbed, you know."
"Is that what you have come to tell me? Because, if so, you can impart the information equally well while I am pitching you through the window."
The little man did not seem at all annoyed. He did not even seem amused. He appeared to be quite accustomed to that sort of speech. He seemed to take it for granted, at any rate.
"Well, no--quite the other way. Fact is, I'm looking for a wife."
"A what?"
"A wife."
"The deuce you are! And do you think I've a selection on view here?"
"Not a selection. You've got one."
"What the dickens do you mean?"
"Come, Ash, you know. It's your ward, Miss Truscott."
Mr. Ash gave a loud whistle of surprise. Then he turned in his chair and stared at the dapper little man. The dapper little man went on, in the calmest, matter-of-fact sort of way--
"The fact is, I'm sick of chambers, and I'm sick of dining at the club. I want a house, and I don't care to take a house unless I take a wife. Why shouldn't it be Miss Truscott, Ash?"
He paused as if for a reply. But if he did, none came.
"There's another thing. You know Rosenbaum?"
Mr. Ash signified assent.
"He wants to plant one of his girls on me. All six of them, so far as I can see. He's always shying them at my head. Besides, he's been hammered twice. If he went again, where should I be, I'd like to know. Not to mention that the whole six of them have got carbuncles instead of noses, and moustaches quite as good as mine."
"I did hear that you were engaged to a Miss Rosenbaum."
"Then you heard wrong; I ain't. Why shouldn't it be Miss Truscott, Ash? I've got something and she's got something. I tell you fairly, if she hadn't it wouldn't do. And if we pulled together, you and I, we might put something in each other's way."
He winked at Mr. Ash. Mr. Ash grinned, and turned aside. He regarded the letter on his desk.
"Have you spoken to her yet?"
"Not a word. I wanted first to have things clear with you. I'll run down to-morrow if it's all serene."
Mr. Ash appeared to be turning the matter over in his mind. "There's no man in England that girl need ask to marry her."
"I'm sure I never said there was."
"Ah, I daresay if you were to take nine men out of ten and heap them in a crowd, she might take her pick out of the lot!"
"If it comes to that, I might take my pick out of a few. Frederic Ely's a man who never need go begging."
Mr. Ash smiled. His smile was scarcely flattering to his friend. He continued to turn the matter over in his mind. Suddenly he got up.
"Ely, I like you. We've had our differences, but as you say, that's because we're both men of business, and like to see the entries on the right side of the ledger."
That was not exactly what Mr. Ely had said but no matter.
"Lily Truscott's a girl in a thousand--in million, sir. I know her--I know her well. There's nothing in that girl's heart which is hidden from me, and that girl's heart's all good, and that's something to say of a girl at this time of day. If she were my daughter, and I were her father, there's no man to whom I should be more willing to give her, sir, than you. Take her, sir; take her! and I wish you joy!"
He turned away, but whether it was to hide a tear or even some deeper sign of heartfelt emotion, is a difficult thing to say. Mr. Ely did not appear much touched.
"That's the time of day, old man. You send her along a line to say I'm on the road; prepare her mind, you know."
If Mr. Ash did not know, at least Mr. Ely winked.
"I'll be up in time. If you write to her now, she'll get it the first thing in the morning, and she'll have time to settle herself before I come. Ta, ta! See you in the house!"
Mr. Ely moved towards the door. Mr. Ash spoke to him just as he reached it.
"How about that Erie syndicate?"
Mr. Ely paused. He stared steadily at Mr. Ash's back.
For some reason Mr. Ash continued with his back turned away.
"You help me with this and I'll help you with that. I can't say fairer than that, my boy."
Apparently Mr. Ash did not seem to think he could, for when Mr. Ely was gone, and the door was closed, he indulged in a little quiet laughter. He reseated himself in his chair and began to nurse his knee.
"I think--yes--I think that will do. Ely's a curious combination; in business matters one of the shrewdest men I know, out of them one of the greatest idiots on earth. However, I think that it will do. I'll just add a postscript to that letter of mine."
He drew the letter towards him, and to the end of it tagged the following--
"P.S.--By the way, a friend of yours--Mr. Frederic Ely--will be with you to-morrow morning--perhaps almost as soon as you get this. He is a gentleman for whose character I have the greatest respect. He will ask my dear Lily a question in which both he and I are deeply interested. I earnestly trust that my dear Lily's heart will answer 'Yes.'"
He scanned the P.S. with admiring eyes.
"I call that neat but not gaudy. None of the awful guardian there. And, upon my word, I don't see why she shouldn't have him; one idiot's as good as another, and if he chooses he can be as good as a hundred thousand pounds to me."
Folding the letter, he placed it in an envelope and addressed it: "Miss Truscott, The Cliff, Shanklin, Isle of Wight." While he was still engaged in this proceeding, the clear, ringing tones of a man's voice was heard in the outer office, and for the second time that morning the door of Mr. Ash's sanctum was unceremoniously opened, and, again unannounced, a second visitor came in.
A very different visitor this to the first. A tall, stalwart fellow, with a guardsman's chest, a long fair beard which hid his neck, and a huge pair of the most ridiculous moustaches. No bandbox fellow he! Dressed in a shooting suit, crowned by a soft, deer-stalker's hat, flourishing what was a bludgeon rather than a stick in his hand, he seemed hardly the type of figure which is generally to be found in the neighbourhood of Capel Court.
"Hallo, Ash, tracked you down, old man."
His voice was like himself: there was plenty of it. It should have been worth a fortune to him on the Stock Exchange.
"Summers! Whatever brings you here?"
"What doesn't often bring a man to the City--love, and my lady's eyes."
"What!"
Mr. Ash fairly sprang out of his chair. He stared at his visitor with bewildered surprise.
"You may well stare, and stare your fill. I'm worth staring at to-day, for I just don't feel as though I know whether I'm standing on my head or heels. The greatest stroke of luck has happened to me that ever happened to a man before--I've sold my picture for a thousand pounds."
"You've done what?"
"Ah, I knew you wouldn't believe it. It does sound incredible, doesn't it? But it is a fact, though, all the same. I've sold my New Gallery picture, 'A Dream of Love: an Idyll, by William Summers,' for a thousand pounds."
"And have you come all the way to Draper's Gardens to tell me so? It's very good of you, I'm sure.
"It would be good of me if that was all, but it's not; there happens to be more. What does that sale mean? It means that I've made a hit--that I've got a commission for another at the same price--that my fortune is made. I'm a man of fortune, sir."
"I assure you I am very glad to hear it; but I hope you will excuse my mentioning that I still have my fortune to make, and that this is the busiest hour of the day."
"All right, wait half a jiffy, man. Keep yourself in hand, for upon my soul I can't. What does my being a man of fortune mean? It means that I have become a marrying man--a man who has a right to marry. So I'm going to marry."
"I congratulate you with all my heart. Do I know the lady?"
"Well, rather, considering that she's your ward."
"What!"
"Miss Truscott's going to be my wife. I thought I would just drop in and let you know."
"Drop in and let me know! If this isn't the coolest proceeding I ever heard of in my life!"
The amazed Mr. Ash stared at his visitor, who seemed, so to speak, to be laughing all over his face. Then he dropped into his chair, and stared at the addressed letter which lay upon his desk. He appeared to be conscious of a certain confusion of mind.
"Good gad!" he told himself; "just now I was wishing that some one would come along and marry her. This is a case of one's wishes being too plentifully granted. It strikes me there's one too many."
Then he addressed himself to his visitor aloud--
"Really, Mr. Summers, I fail to understand you."
"It's plain enough."
"It may be plain enough to you. You must allow me to say that it is anything but plain enough to me. May I ask when you made what I must call this surreptitious request to my ward for her hand?"
"Oh, that's just the point. I haven't spoken to her yet."
"You haven't spoken to her yet! I understood you to say that she was going to marry you?"
"That's right enough--so she is."
"This may be plain enough to you, but it is really getting still less plain to me. You evidently think that her guardian's consent is not required. May I ask if you think that the lady's is unnecessary too?"
"There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy--I see that plainly, Ash! Don't you know that there is a language more eloquent than speech? That it is possible for a man and woman to understand each other perfectly and yet not interchange a word? We understand each other like that, my friend."
"I should be sorry to say anything which might lessen your self-conceit, but I think you are mistaken, Mr. Summers."
"Oh, no, I'm not."
"But I say you are! Hang it, sir, I never saw a more 'Came, saw, and conquered' style about a man before. If I were you, I would wait for victory to forward your despatch. As it is, I happen to know that Miss Truscott is engaged already."
So saying, Mr. Ash slipped his letter into the inner pocket of his coat.
"What!"
"For goodness' sake, Mr. Summers, don't shout the ceiling down! You will have the people coming in from the street, not to speak of the clerks outside."
"If I didn't know that you meant it for a jest, I should say it was a lie."
"You may say exactly what you please, it won't alter the fact."
"The fact! You call that a fact! I'll go down to Shanklin by the next train, and learn the truth from her own lips."
Mr. Summers made for the door, but Mr. Ash interposed; he was conscious that it would be advisable to induce this impetuous suitor to hasten slowly.
"One moment, Mr. Summers. I am sure you would be unwilling to do another an injury, even unconsciously. If you will restrain your impatience I will endeavour to explain to you exactly how the matter lies."
"How the matter lies? That's just what it does do--it lies! Or some one does, at any rate."
"Mr. Summers, you are a man of honour--we are both men of honour, I trust. Would you have me break my plighted word?"
"Break your plighted word? That depends. If you've plighted your word to break my heart, by George! I'd have you break it, then!"
"Let me remove this matter from the realms of romance into the regions of common sense."
"When you City men begin to talk about common sense you mean something very common indeed."
"Mr. Summers, this is a very solemn subject to me."
"Solemn subject to you! I wonder what sort of subject you think it is to me. Is she going to be my wife or yours?"
"Miss Truscott will be the wife of neither."
"Won't she? By George, we'll see!"
Again Mr. Summers made helter-skelter for the door. Again Mr. Ash made haste to interpose.
"If you will permit me to speak half a dozen consecutive words without interruption, I will make it plain to you that what I have at heart is the interest of all concerned."
"Except me! Never mind, I'll listen. Out with your half a dozen words."
Mr. Summers dropped into a chair in a way which must have been a severe test of its solidity, and brought his bludgeon down upon the floor with a bang. Mr. Ash started. He felt that this was a sort of suitor he had not bargained for.
"The case in a nutshell is simply this. Just before you came there was a gentleman here who made exactly the same proposal you have done. He, too, solicited the honour of Miss Truscott's hand."
Mr. Summers was up like a rocket. Again his bludgeon came down with a bang.
"The devil there was! Confound his impudence! What was the scoundrel's name?"
"The scoundrel's name is immaterial. The point is that I agreed that he should go down to Shanklin to-morrow, and, in proper form, make to the lady the offer of his hand."
"To-morrow, did you? Then I am off tonight."
"Still one moment, Mr. Summers, if you please. You appeared to be so certain of the lady's affection that I was scarcely prepared to find you so alarmed at the prospect of a rival in the field."
"Alarmed! Not I! I will back my darling's truth against the world!"
"Then supposing, instead of confining yourself to words, you prove your faith by deeds. Let this man try his luck to-morrow. If he fails, there is the next day left for you.
"Look here, Ash; when he's failed, will you consent to Lily being mine?"
"If he fails and Miss Truscott gives her consent, then I will."
"Then it's agreed! To-morrow, the beggar shall have his chance! The day after, I'll try mine."
Just then the door opened and Mr. Ely appeared. Mr. Summers rushed to him with outstretched hand.
"Hallo, Ely, haven't seen you for an age! You're looking queer! You ought to try a change of air."
"Think so? To-morrow I'm going out of town."
"Are you? That's odd! The day after I'm going too."
These remarks were exchanged while the two gentlemen shook hands.
Miss Truscott was evidently not in the pleasantest frame of mind. It was unfortunate, for she was the kind of maid one feels instinctively ought always to be in a pleasant frame of mind. Tall, slender, with great, big eyes, sunny hair, and the sweetest smile. The latter, however, was conspicuous by its absence, as she sat at the breakfast-table with an open letter in her hand.
She was at breakfast with her aunt. Mrs. Clive was a precise old lady, who always indoors wore lace cuffs and collar, and the neatest of caps. It was a peculiarity of hers that she was never known to be anything but cool and self-possessed. Sometimes her niece was neither. Then it increased the young lady's sense of aggravation to observe how her aunt's demeanour contrasted with her own--as, for instance, it did now.
"You don't seem to be in the least surprised or annoyed or hurt. You quite take it for granted that I should be insulted."
Mrs. Clive considered for a moment before she answered. She sat bolt upright, her hands in her lap, the model of decorum.
"My dear Lily, the younger generation is impetuous."
Miss Truscott sighed. To be called impetuous under the circumstances of the case seemed almost more than she could bear.
"I write to my guardian on the whole four sides of a sheet of paper to tell him that I must get away from this dreadful place or I shall die, and this is the answer he sends."
She spread the letter out before her on the table and read it aloud, with comments by the way.
"'My dear Lily' (yes, dear at any price, I know), 'I have read your charming letter with the greatest interest.' (Did anybody ever hear the like of that? He read my charming letter with the greatest interest, when I wrote to tell him that I quite believed that I should die!) 'You are indeed a mistress of the epistolary art.' (That is a pretty compliment to pay when you write and tell a person that life is not worth living!) 'The account which you give of the doings of your neighbours is most entertaining.' (Now I never mentioned a single word about anything but the state of my mind!) 'It is with the greatest pleasure that I hear of your continuance in good health.' (When the whole letter was written to tell him that I was nearly dead!) 'I am glad to hear, too, that your aunt, Mrs. Clive, is still in the enjoyment of nature's greatest blessing.' (What nature's greatest blessing is I don't know, but I am sure I never even breathed your name.) 'Pray convey to her my compliments.' (With pleasure, aunt!) 'I envy you your sojourn amidst summer's scenic splendours.' (That is what he says, and I actually told him that I was convinced that if I stayed any longer amidst what he calls 'summer's scenic splendours' I should just go raving mad!) 'Tied as I am to the Juggernaut of commerce, I can, however, but look and long.' Now did you--did you ever hear anything like that? And yet you say the younger generation is impetuous! I should just like to have my affectionate guardian here; I'd let him know what the Juggernaut really was!"
The young lady seemed a little excited, but the elder one was still quite calm.
"You have forgotten the postscript, my dear."
"Forgotten the postscript! Oh, aunty, don't I wish I could!' By the way, a friend of yours, Mr. Frederic Ely, will be with you to-morrow morning, perhaps almost as soon as you get this.' Perhaps the wretch is actually on the doorstep now!"
"Lily, Lily! How can you talk like that!"
"So he is a wretch! But never mind, it's all the same to me. 'He is a gentleman for whose character I have the greatest respect. He will ask my dear Lily a question in which both he and I are deeply interested. I earnestly trust that my dear Lily's heart will answer Yes.' Talk about a woman's postscript! Mr. Ash puts nothing in his letter, and the whole library of the British Museum in his P.S.! Well, aunty, what do you think of that?"
"I congratulate you, my dear, on the near approach of your settlement in life."
Miss Truscott gave a little shriek, and then was dumb. She glared at her aunt as though she could believe neither her eyes or ears. Mrs. Clive went placidly on.
"It is indeed gratifying to learn that Mr. Ash has made his choice."
"Who has made his choice?" asked Miss Truscott between her little teeth.
"One for whose character he has the greatest respect. Such words coming from Mr. Ash are satisfactory in the extreme. You are indeed fortunate in possessing a guardian who has your interests so entirely at heart."
"What are you talking about?" asked Miss Truscott. "Do you think I shall marry this man?"
"Lily!" exclaimed Mrs. Give. "You have such a singular way of expressing yourself. But perhaps"--the old lady smoothed her gown--"perhaps you are a little surprised."
Miss Truscott gave a sort of gasp.
"I am," she said. "I am a little surprised!"
"I suppose we are all when our turns come. I remember in my young days when my dear mother told me that I was to marry Mr. Clive."
"Told you you were to marry Mr. Clive?"
"Yes, my dear. And I remember quite well how bewildered I was at first."
"Didn't you love him, then?"
"My dear, how can you ask me such a question! We were comparative strangers. I had only been acquainted with him about three months."
"Three months! Good gracious! Why, I thought three minutes was long enough to fall in love!"
"Lily, I am amazed to hear you talk so flippantly! It is plain that it is quite time that you had more settled views of life. Among the new responsibilities on which you are now about to enter I trust that you will learn the solemnity of woman's position in the world, and the deference which she owes to the married state."
Miss Truscott laughed. Her laughter was of rather an hysterical kind, as though it were near akin to tears. But Mrs. Clive was shocked. She regarded Miss Truscott with what she intended to be considered as severe disapprobation. Then, with her most stately air, she rose and left the room. Pausing at the door, however, she delivered herself of a final expression of her opinion.
"Lily, I am disappointed in you. I can only hope that Mr. Ely will not have cause to be disappointed too."
When Miss Truscott was left alone she sat quite still, looking into vacancy. The smile about the corners of her mouth was hardly up to its usual character for sweetness. There was a glitter in her eyes which gave them quite a new expression. Suddenly she leaned her face upon her hands and shivered. It could hardly have been with cold, for the sun was shining and the day was warm. Then she got up, and began pacing restlessly about the room.
"Is it a dream? Is it a dream?" Her hands were clasped with a sort of hysteric energy.
"What does it matter! He has forgotten me! What fools we women are!" She took out a locket which was hidden in the bosom of her dress, and gazed upon the face which it contained.
"Willy!"--how softly she breathed the name--"twelve months since you told me that story with your eyes--twelve months ago! Where have you been this weary time! I suppose it was an incident with you. I have heard those sort of things are incidents with men. What a fool I was to take it seriously! What fools we women are! I ought to have known that it was the fashion with Mr. Summers to love and ride away."
She stood gazing at the portrait. All at once something angered her--some recollection, perhaps, of long ago. She snapped the slender chain to which it was attached, and flung the locket on the floor. As if not content with this degradation of her treasure, she placed her little foot upon it and crushed it beneath her heel.
"What fools we women are!"
For a moment she looked upon the ruins she had wrought. The pretty little locket was crushed all out of shape. Then came penitence, and stooping down with streaming eyes she picked the broken locket up and pressed it to her lips; and, still upon her knees, flinging herself face downwards on to the seat of a great arm-chair, she cried as though her heart would break.
"I didn't mean to do it, Willy, I didn't mean to do it; but it's all the same, it doesn't matter whom I marry now!"
She was only a girl: and it is a charming characteristic of the better sort of girls that they will do foolish things at times.
But there was very little of the girl about her when Mr. Ely came; she was the stateliest of young ladies then. The air of having just come out of a bandbox was more apparent about Mr. Ely in the country even than in town. He was one of those very few men who are never seen out of a frock-coat. Throgmorton Street or a Devonshire lane it was the same to him. Wherever he was his attire remained unaltered. But it must be allowed that he was conscious that things were not compatible--patent shoes, top-hat, frock-coat, and a Devonshire lane. So from the Devonshire lane he religiously stayed away. He did his ruralising in centres of fashion where his frock-coat was in place, and not in the equivalents of the Devonshire lane. He was not affected by the modern craze for the country side. He objected to it strongly: a fact which he made plain as soon as he appeared on the scene.
Mrs. Clive received him. She began the conversation on what she fondly conceived were the usual lines.
"How glad you must be to get into the country. It must be such a change from town."
"Change! I should think it is a change! Beastly change, by George!"
Mrs. Clive was a little shocked. The adverb did not fall sweetly on her ear. But Mr. Ely went glibly on. He had a grievance which he wished to air.
"Why they don't have decent cabs at the station I don't know. If there was a live man in the place he'd put some hansoms on the road. Fly, they called the thing I came up in! Fly! I should like to know what's the aboriginal definition of 'to crawl'! And dusty! I left my mark upon that seat, and that seat left its mark on me. I feel like a regular dustman--upon my word I do."
Miss Truscott made her first appearance at the luncheon-table. The meal was not an entire success. This was partly owing to the fact that Miss Trustcott seemed to have gone back into the glacial or prehistoric period, and partly because Mr. Ely still had his grievance on his mind. Mrs. Clive did her best to entertain the company, but in spite of her meritorious efforts the conversation languished.
"And how are things in the City?" She felt that this was the sort of question she ought to ask.
"All over the shop!"
Mrs. Clive started. She felt that the answer was not so explanatory as it might have been. Still she bravely persevered.
"Dear me! I suppose that commercial matters are affected by the seasons." She thought that this sort of remark would go home to the commercial mind.
"Eh? Oh, yes; rather! I should think they were! In fine weather traffics go up all round. Noras have gone up one, Doras one seven-eighths, Trunks are flat: there's a rig-out there and rates are pooled, but this side bulls are in the right hole pretty near all along the line. Bertha's about the only one got stuck."
Mrs. Clive was speechless. She looked at Miss Truscott with imploring eyes. But that young lady was tranquilly engaged with the contents of her plate.
"Poor girl!"
It was a study to see Mr. Ely's face when the old lady made this innocent remark.
"I beg your pardon! What did you say?"
"I said, poor girl! I hope she has done nothing wrong."
"Who's done nothing wrong?"
"The young lady you mentioned. Miss Bertha, I think you said. I am not acquainted with her surname."
Mr. Ely was silent. He was not a man gifted with a keen sense of humour, and was not at all clear in his own mind that the old lady was not amusing herself at his expense. Mrs. Clive, conscious that something was wrong, went painfully plodding on.
"I trust, Mr. Ely, that I have not, unintentionally, said something to hurt your feelings. Is the young lady a friend of yours?"
"What young lady?"
Mr. Ely placed his knife and fork together, with a little clatter, on his plate. Was she at it again? This was more than a man could stand.
"Miss Bertha--the young lady you mentioned."
"Bertha's not a lady."
"Not a lady! Dear me! One of the lower classes! I perceive! Now I understand. Ah, I'm afraid that from them anything may be expected nowadays."
Mr. Ely turned pink, not with suppressed mirth, but with what was very much like rage. For some moments an unprejudiced spectator might have debated in his own mind as to whether he was not about to be profane. But if it were so, he conquered his impious tendency, and adopted another line of conduct instead. He rose from his seat. "If you will allow me, I'll go outside for a change of air"; and without waiting for the required permission he marched through the French window out on to the lawn. The old lady turned to her niece--
"My dear Lily, what have I said or done?"
"My dear aunt, I believe that Bertha, in the slang of the Stock Exchange, signifies the London, Brighton, and South Coast Railway. I suspect that Mr. Ely imagines that you have been amusing yourself at his expense."
Mrs. Clive was aghast.
"Go to him, Lily. Don't leave him alone in his present state of mind. He might return at once to town!"
Miss Truscott rose with her most tranquil air.
"We might survive his departure if he did."
But her aunt was shocked.
"Lily, it pains me to hear such language from your lips. You are now approaching one of the most solemn moments of your life. Rise to the occasion, child, and show that, although still a child in years, you have within you the wherewithal with which to make a woman in good time."
Miss Truscott looked as if she could have said something if she would, but she refrained. She left the room without a word.
The interview between Mr. Ely and the object of his heart's devotion was not so solemn as it might have been. Possibly that was in a measure owing to what had gone before. But it must be owned that Miss Truscott's mood was hardly attuned to the occasion. We must also, at the same time, allow that Mr. Ely's demeanour was hardly that of the ideal wooer.
"Your aunt seems to have a nice idea of business! I've heard a few things, but she beats all! I thought she was getting at me, upon my word I did!"
This was scarcely the remark with which to open a tender interview. Miss Truscott said nothing. She was seated in a low garden-chair, hatless, her little feet peeping from under the hem of her summer gown. She seemed sufficiently cool just then, but her silence did not appear to be altogether to Mr. Ely's liking. He himself did not seem to be as cool as he might have been.
"I believe, Miss Truscott, that Mr. Ash has told you what's brought me here."
Mr. Ely's tone seemed even waspish--not loverlike at all.
"Indeed!" Miss Truscott just parted her lips and let the word drop out, that was all.
"May I ask what I am to understand by that?"
Just then a fat white dog, of the doormat species, appeared on the top of the steps. Miss Truscott addressed this animal--
"Pompey! Pompey! Good dog! Come here!"
The "good dog" referred to slowly waddled across the grass, and on reaching Miss Truscott's chair was raised to the seat of honour upon that lady's knee.
"Are you interested in dogs, Mr. Ely? If so, I am sure you must like Pompey. He generally bites strangers at first, but perhaps after a time he won't bite you!"
"I'll take care he doesn't get a chance--either first or last."
"Why not? He bit a piece of cloth out of the Curate's trousers the other day, but Mr. Staines says that he doesn't think his teeth quite met in the calf of his leg."
Mr. Ely gasped. His temperature seemed rapidly to increase.
"I did not come here to talk about dogs: and you'll excuse my mentioning that you have not yet informed me as to whether Mr. Ash has told you what I did come for."
"Let me see!" Miss Truscott took out her guardian's letter and referred to it before Mr. Ely's distended eyes. "Hum--hum--Pompey, lie down! There, now Pompey has torn it all to bits!" As indeed the animal had, and was now chewing some of the fragments as though they were a sort of supplementary meal. "What shall I do? Pompey has the most extraordinary taste. It runs in the family, I think. Do you know that his mother once ate nearly the whole of a pair of my old shoes?"
Mr. Ely wiped his brow. He was becoming very warm indeed. He seated himself in another garden chair. For a moment he contemplated drawing it closer to Miss Truscott's side, but the thought of Pompey and his extraordinary taste--which ran in his family--induced him to refrain.
"Miss Truscott, I'm a business man, and I like to do things in a business kind of way."
Mr. Ely paused. He felt that he was feeling his way. But the young lady disarranged his plans.
"By the way, Mr. Ely, have you been up Regent Street just lately?"
"Been up Regent Street?"
"Can you tell me if there are any nice things in the shop-windows?"
Mr. Ely did not exactly gasp this time. He choked down something in his throat. What it was we cannot say.
"Miss Truscott, I'm a business man----"
"You said that before." The words were murmured as Miss Truscott stroked Pompey's woolly head.
"Said it before! I say it again! I wish you'd allow me to get right through."
"Right through what?"
"Right through what! Right through what I have to say!"
"Oh, go on, pray. I hope I haven't interrupted you?"
"Interrupted me!" Mr. Ely snorted; no other word will describe the sound he made. "I say, I'm a business man----"
"Third time of asking!"
Mr. Ely got up. He looked very cross indeed. Pompey snarled. That faithful animal seemed to scent battle in the air.
"Well, I'm--hanged!"
We fear that Mr. Ely would have preferred another termination, but he contented himself with "hanged." Miss Truscott looked up. She allowed her long, sweeping eyelashes gradually to unveil her eyes. She regarded Mr. Ely with a look of the sweetest, most innocent surprise.
"Mr. Ely! Whatever is there wrong?"
Mr. Ely was obliged to take a step or two before he could trust himself to speak. As he was sufficiently warm already the exercise did not tend to make him cool. Under the circumstances, he showed a considerable amount of courage in coming to the point with a rush.
"Miss Truscott, I want a wife!"
"You want a what?"
"A wife! Don't I say it plain enough? I want a wife!"
"I see. You want a wife." With her calmest, coolest air Miss Truscott continued stroking Pompey's head. "Did you notice how they are wearing the hats in town?"
Mr. Ely sprang--literally sprang!--about an inch and a half from the ground. "What the dickens do I know about the hats in town?"
"Mr. Ely! How excited you do get! I thought everybody knew about the hats in town--I mean, whether they wear them on the right side or the left."
Mr. Ely was not an excitable man as a rule, but he certainly did seem excited now. His handkerchief, which he had kept in his hand since the commencement of the interview, he had kneaded into a little ball which was hard as stone.
"Miss Truscott, I'll--I'll give a sovereign to any charity you like to name if you'll stick to the point for just two minutes."
"Hand over the sovereign!"
Mr. Ely was taken aback. Miss Truscott held out her small, white hand with a promptitude which surprised him.
"I--I said that I would give a sovereign to any charity you like to name if you'll stick to the point for just two minutes."
"Cash in advance, and I'll keep to any point you like to name for ten."
Mr. Ely was doubtful. Miss Truscott looked at him with eyes which were wide enough open now. Her hand was unflinchingly held out. Mr. Ely felt in the recesses of his waistcoat pocket. He produced a sovereign purse, and from this sovereign purse he produced a coin.
"It's the first time I ever heard of a man having to pay a sovereign to ask a woman to be his wife!"
"Hand over the sovereign!" She became possessed of the golden coin. "This sovereign will be applied to the charitable purpose of erecting a monument over Pompey's mother's grave. Now, Mr. Ely, I'm your man."
Mr. Ely seemed a little subdued. The business-like way in which he had been taken at his word perhaps caused him to feel a certain respect for the lady's character. He reseated himself in the garden-chair.
"I've already said that I want a wife."
"Do you wish me to find you one? I can introduce you to several of my friends. I know a young lady in the village, aged about thirty-eight, who has an impediment in her speech, who would make an excellent companion for your more silent hours."
"The wife I want is you."
"That is very good of you, I'm sure."
There was a pause. The lady, with a little smile, tranquilly tickled Pompey with the sovereign she had earned. The gentleman fidgeted with his handkerchief.
"Well, Miss Truscott, am I to be gratified?"
"Why do you want me? Won't some one else do as well?"
Immediately the gentleman became a little rose.
"May I ask you for an answer to my question?"
"You haven't asked me a question yet."
"Will you be my wife?"
The question was put in a rather louder key than, in such cases, is understood to be the rule. Miss Truscott raised her head, and for some moments kept her glance fixed upon the gentleman, as though she were trying to read something in his face. Then she lowered her glance and made answer thus--
"Frankly--you say you are a business man--let us, as you suggest, understand each other in a business kind of way. In asking me to be your wife, you are not asking for--love?"
As she spoke of love her lips gave just the tiniest twitch.
"I believe that a wife is supposed to love her husband--as a rule."
"In your creed love comes after marriage?"
"At this present moment I'm asking you to be my wife."
"That's exactly what I understand. You're not even making a pretence of loving me?"
"Miss Truscott, as you put it, I'm a business man. I have money, you have money----"
"Let's put the lot together and make a pile. Really, that's not a bad idea on the whole." It was the young lady who gave this rather unexpected conclusion to his sentence. Then she looked at him steadily with those great eyes of hers, whose meaning for the life of him he could not understand. "I suppose that all you want from me is 'Yes'; and that in complete indifference as to whether I like you or do not?"
"If you didn't like me you wouldn't be sitting here."
"Really, that's not a bad idea again. You arrive at rapid conclusions in your own peculiar way. I suppose if I told you that I could like a man--love him better than my life--you would not understand."
"That sort of thing is not my line. I'm not a sentimental kind of man. I say a thing and mean a thing and when I say I'll do a thing it's just as good as done."
"Then all you want me to be is--Mrs. Ely?"
"What else do you suppose I want you to be? It's amazing how even the most sensible women like to beat about the bush. Here have I asked you a good five minutes to be my wife, and you're just coming to the point. Why can't you say right out--Yes or No."
Miss Truscott shrugged her shoulders.
"I suppose it doesn't matter?"
"What doesn't matter?"
"What I say."
"By George, though, but it does!"
Miss Truscott leaned her head back in her chair. She put her hand before her mouth as if to hide a yawn. She closed her eyes. She looked more than half asleep.
"Then I will."
"Will what?"
"Say 'Yes.'"
"You mean that you will be my wife? It's a bargain, mind!"
"It is a bargain. That's just the proper word to use."
"That's all right. Then I'll send a wire to Ash to let him know it's done."
"Yes, send a wire up to town to let him know it's done."
Mr. Ely moved towards the house. From her voice and manner Miss Truscott still seemed more than half asleep; but hers was a curious kind of sleepiness, for in the corner of each of her closed eyelids there gleamed something that looked very like a drop of diamond dew. Prosaic people might have said it was a tear.