Tilney’s hilarity increased.
“At any rate,” she continued, without noticing it, “there’s one thing that you and no one else can do for them, and I really believe that Mrs. Bixby, in her present mood, would be capable of rewarding you with her daughter’s hand.”
“Good heavens! Then I should have to take a look at Miss Bixby before doing it.”
“Oh, Sadie’s charming. Didn’t you notice her last night at the ball? I managed to smuggle her in, though I couldn’t get the others invited. What Mrs. Bixby wants,” Miss Grantham earnestly continued, “what she’s absolutely sickening for at this moment, is to have Sadie invited to Aline Leicester’s little Louis XV. dance to-morrow night. And you are the only person in Newport who can do it. I didn’t even have a chance to try—for the very day my invitation came I happened to meet Aline, and she said at once: ‘Belle, I see the Bixbys in your eye; but I don’t see them in my ballroom.’ After that, I tried a little wire-pulling, but it simply made her more obstinate—you know her latest pose is to snub the new millionaires; and you are the only person who can persuade her to make an exception for the Bixbys. Aline’s family feeling is tremendously strong, and every one knows you are her favorite cousin.”
Tilney listened attentively to this plea; but when it had ended he said, with a discouraging gesture: “I was just going to try to get an invitation for Magraw!”
“Lump them together, then—it will be just as easy; and if you should want Mr. Bixby to do anything for you—such as putting you on to a good tip—”
“Thanks, but I’ve been put on to too many good tips. If it weren’t for the good tips I’ve had, I should be living like a gentleman on my income.”
“Well, you’ll make Mrs. Bixby think you the most eligible young man in Newport. And if you could persuade Aline to ask Sadie to the dinner before the dance—”
“Comme vous y allez! What would be my return for that?”
She rose with a charming gesture. “Who knows, after all? Perhaps only the pleasure of doing me a very great favor.”
“That settles it. I’ll do what I can. But how about getting your costumes at such short notice?”
“Oh, we cabled out to Worth on the chance.” She held out her hand for good-by. “If only there were something I could do for you!”
“Well, there is, as it happens,” he rejoined with a smile. “If I succeed in my attempt, let Magraw dance the cotillon with you at Aline’s.”
She hesitated, visibly embarrassed. “I should be delighted, of course. I’m engaged already, but that’s nothing. Only—I’m going to be horribly frank—the Bixbys are rather a heavy load, and I’m not sure I can carry your friend too!”
“Oh, yes, you can. That’s my reason for asking you. You see, I really can’t help Magraw much. It takes a woman to give a man a start. Aline will say, ‘Oh, bring him, if you choose’—but when he comes she won’t take any notice of him, or introduce him to any of the nice women. He was too shy to go to the Summertons’ last night—he’s really very shy under his loudness—so Aline’s dance will be his first appearance in Newport; and if he’s seen dancing the cotillon with you, at a little souterie like that, with only a handful of people in the room, why, he’s made, and my hard work is over for the season.”
She smiled. “If you take a fancy to Sadie, perhaps it’s over for life.”
“And if you—by George! No, I don’t think I want you to dance the cotillon with Magraw.”
“Why not? Do you grudge me a comfortable home for my old age?”
He stood gazing at her as though for the first time his eyes took in the full measure of her grace.
“No—but I grudge him even a cotillon with you.”
“Ah, you and I were not made to dance cotillons with one another; or do anything together, except conspire at sunrise for each other’s material advancement. And that reminds me—I shan’t see you again to-day, for we are going to Narragansett on Mr. Bixby’s yacht, and to-night we have a dinner at home. But if you succeed with Aline, will you send me a line in the evening?”
He shook his head as they clasped hands once more. “No; but I’ll tell you about it here to-morrow morning.”
“Very well—I’ll be punctual!” she called out to him, as she sped away through the shrubbery.
II.
It was, in fact, Miss Grantham who was first on the scene the next morning; and so eager was she to learn the result of the mission with which she had charged her friend, that, instead of profiting by her few moments of solitude, she sat watching the path and chafing at Mr. Tilney’s delay.
When he arrived, politeness restrained the question on her lips; but his first word was to assure her of his success. “You are to bring Miss Bixby to the dinner,” he announced.
“Oh, thank you, thank you—you’re wonderful!” she exclaimed; “and if there’s anything in the world I can do—” She paused suddenly, remembering her side of the compact, and added with nobility: “If it is of any possible advantage to Mr. Magraw to make my acquaintance, I shall be very glad—”
She had already observed in Tilney a marked depression of manner, which even this handsome reaffirmation of her purpose did not dispel.
“Oh,” he merely said, “I did not mean to hold you so closely to your bargain—” and with that he seated himself at her side, and lapsed into a state of dumb preoccupation.
Miss Grantham suffered this as long as it was possible for a young lady of spirit to endure; then she determined to make Mr. Tilney aware of her presence by withdrawing it.
“I am afraid,” she said, rising with a smile, “that, though you welcomed me so handsomely yesterday, my being here seriously interferes with your enjoyment of the hour, and I am going to propose a compromise. Since it is agreed that we are joint proprietors of this bench, and entitled to an equal share of its advantages, and since our sitting on it together practically negatives those advantages, I suggest that we occupy it on alternate mornings—and to show my gratitude for the favor you have done me, I will set the example by withdrawing to-day.”
Tilney met her smile with a look of unrelieved melancholy. “I don’t wonder,” he said, “that you find solitude less oppressive than my company; but since our purpose in seeking this bench is to snatch an hour’s quiet enjoyment, and since enjoyment of any sort is impossible to me to-day, it is obviously you who are entitled to remain here, and I who ought to take myself away.” And he held out his hand in farewell.
Miss Grantham detained it in hers. “To have you surrender your rights because you are too miserable to enjoy them, leaves me with no heart to profit by my own; and if you wish me to remain you must stay also, and tell me what it is that troubles you.”
She reseated herself as she spoke, and Tilney, with a deprecating gesture, resumed his place at her side.
“My dear Miss Grantham, the subject is too trifling to mention; I was only trying to calculate how long one could live in Venice on a hundred dollars.”
“Why in Venice—and why a hundred dollars?”
“Because, when my passage is paid, it will be all the ready money I possess, and I have always heard that one could live very moderately in Venice.”
Miss Grantham flushed and threw a quick glance at him. “You’re not thinking of deserting?” she cried, reproachfully.
The young man returned her look. “Deserting—whom?” he inquired.
“Well, me, if you choose! You can’t think the comfort it’s been to me, since yesterday, to know that there were two of us. I understand now how humane it is to chain convicts together!”
Tilney considered this with a faint smile. “How long have you been at it?” he asked.
“At the Bixbys? I joined them last April in Paris.”
“Ah, well—I’ve been six months with Magraw. It wasn’t so bad when we were yachting and knocking about the world—but since we’ve taken to society it has become unendurable.”
“Yes. I didn’t mind ordering th
e Bixbys’ dresses as much as I mind providing opportunities for their wearing them.”
“I don’t so much mind trotting Magraw about—though you know it’s nonsense about your having to dance with him this evening—”
“No matter about that. What is it that bothers you?”
“The whole preposterous situation. Magraw’s the best fellow in the world—but there are moments when he takes me for the butler.”
“Oh, I know,” she sympathized. “Mrs. Bixby—”
“That isn’t the worst, though: it’s the reaction. He took me for the butler yesterday afternoon—and in the evening I found a ruby scarf pin on my dressing table.”
But her sympathy was ready for any demand on it. “I know, I know—” she reiterated; and then, breaking off, she added with a mounting color: “You know I couldn’t go to the dance to-night if Mrs. Bixby didn’t pay for my dress.”
“Oh, the cases are not the same; and it’s different for a woman.”
“Why are the cases not the same? And why should I not be humiliated by what humiliates you?”
He shrugged his shoulders ironically. “I’m not humiliated by anything that poor Magraw does to me; I’m humiliated by what I do to him!:
“What you do?”
“Yes. What right have I to behave like a gentleman, and return his scarf pins?”
“At least you do return them? And I can’t return the dresses. Oh, it’s detestable either way!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, especially when one succumbs to the weakness of hating them instead of one’s self. I hate Magraw this morning,” he confessed.
She rose with an impatient glance at her watch. “Dear me, I must go. I promised Sadie to see the dressmaker at half-past nine: she’s coming to alter our fancy dresses. You see I felt sure you would get Sadie’s invitation. I want you to know her,” she continued. “She’s really a very nice girl. I should like her immensely if I didn’t have to accept so many favors from her.”
“Ah, you’ve just expressed my feeling about Magraw. I really should like your opinion of him,” he added.
“Well, you shall have it—to-morrow morning.”
“Here?” he rejoined with sudden interest.
“Why not? You know I mean to dance with him this evening.”
The morning after the dance it was Miss Grantham’s turn to arrive late at the tryst; and when she did so, it was with the air of having a duty to discharge rather than a pleasure to enjoy.
“Mr. Tilney,” she said, advancing resolutely to the bench on which he sat awaiting her, “my only object in coming this morning is—”
He rose with extended hand. “To let me thank you, I hope, for the generous way in which you fulfilled your share of the compact? It was awfully good of you to be so nice to Magraw.”
She colored vividly, but held his gaze. “As it happens, I liked Mr. Magraw. But if I had known the means you had used to obtain his invitation—”
Tilney colored in turn, but they continued to face each other boldly.
“Did Aline betray me? How like a woman!” he exclaimed.
“I can quite understand,” Miss Grantham witheringly continued, “the importance you attached to having Mr. Magraw invited to your cousin’s dance. You had to make some return for the scarf pin. But to use my name as a pretext—to tell Aline Leicester that I was trying to marry Mr. Magraw!”
“Oh, I didn’t say trying—I said you meant to,” Tilney corrected.
“As if that made it any better! To let that man think—”
“He’ll never hear of it; and you don’t seem to realize that it’s not easy to extract an invitation from Aline.”
“I don’t know that it was absolutely necessary that Mr. Magraw should receive one!”
Tilney, at this, raised his head with a challenging air. “You appeared to think it absolutely necessary that Miss Bixby should.”
“Well—I don’t see—”
“You don’t see how I got hers? I dare say you’ll think the same method is even more objectionable when the situation is reversed—”
She stared at him with growing disapproval. “You don’t mean to say that you let Aline think you wanted to marry Sadie Bixby?”
“I told you there was nothing I wouldn’t stoop to. I suppose you think that horribly low.”
Her stare resolved itself into a faint sound of laughter. “Good heavens, how enchanted Mrs. Bixby will be!”
“The deuce she will—but of course the joke can easily be explained.”
“To whom? To Mrs. Bixby? I’m glad you think so. I should have said it would be difficult.”
“Oh, Mrs. Bixby will never hear of it. I told Aline in the strictest confidence—”
“Every one at the dance was congratulating me on my conquest of Mr. Magraw. I don’t see why Aline should keep one secret and not the other.”
Tilney’s brow darkened ominously. “Well, at any rate, I’ll soon undeceive Magraw!”
“A thousand thanks. And I suppose you leave it to me to undeceive Sadie? She talked of you all the way home. Of course, you’re almost the only decent man she’s met.”
“Ah, then the remedy is simple enough. You’ve only to introduce a few others.”
“Yes, I’ve thought of that.” Miss Grantham examined him with a cold smile. “But are you quite sure you want me to?”
Tilney met her question with another. “What on earth do you mean?”
“I’m not stupid in such cases, and I could see that Sadie was interested. Did you find her so perfectly impossible?”
“Impossible? I thought her very pretty.”
“That’s going to the other extreme—but she certainly looked her best last night. Still, before deciding, I should want you to see her by daylight—and without the paint—”
“Oh, she had on very little paint. One could see her own color through it.”
“Yes—she has an unfortunate way of getting red—”
“At that age I should call it blushing.”
Miss Grantham’s face grew suddenly stern. “Of course,” she said, “I should never forgive myself if you were only trifling with Sadie—”
Tilney paused. “But if I were in earnest—?” he suggested.
She gazed at him intently for a moment. “After all, I might be saving her from something worse!”
III.
For two mornings after that Tilney, to his secret regret, had the bench on the cliffs to himself. On the third morning he was detained indoors somewhat later than usual on pressing business of his employer’s; and when he emerged from the house he was surprised, and considerably dismayed, to find his seat tenanted by the incongruous figure of Mr. Hutchins Magraw.
Given his patron’s unmatutinal habits, and rooted indifference to the beauties of nature, it was impossible to conceive what whim had drawn him to so unlikely a spot at so improbable an hour; and Tilney’s first impulse was to approach the seat, and allay his curiosity by direct inquiry. Hardly, however, had he begun to advance when the flutter of a white skirt through the Cliffwood shrubberies caused him to retreat abruptly into the covert of lilac bushes edging the lawn. It was by a mere accident, of course, that an unknown female, wearing a white gown, happened to be walking along the path from that particular direction. The path was open to the public, and there was no reason to assume any coincidence between—
Tilney drew a sharp breath. Mr. Magraw had risen and was advancing in the direction of the approaching petticoat; and as it was impossible for him to recognize its wearer from where he sat, it was obvious that he expected some one, and that the invisible female was no casual stroller drawn forth by the beauty of the morning. The next moment this conjecture was unpleasantly confirmed; for Miss Grantham emerged from the shrubbery, and placed her hand in Mr. Magraw’s without perceptible surprise. He, then, had also been expected; and she had actually had the effrontery to select, as the scene of their tryst, the seat which, by every right of friendship, should have been kept s
acred to her conversations with Fred Tilney!
“The idea of telling him about my bench!” Resentment of her perfidy was for the moment uppermost in Tilney’s breast, or was, at any rate, the only sentiment to which he chose to give explicit expression. But other considerations surged indignantly beneath it—wonder at woman’s unaccountableness, disgust at her facility, disappointment, above all, that this one little episode, saved from the wreckage of many shattered illusions, should have had so premature and unpoetic an ending.
“Magraw—if only it hadn’t been Magraw!”
He had meant to turn away and reenter the house; but a feeling of mingled curiosity and wretchedness kept him rooted in his hiding place, while he followed with his eyes the broad swaggering back of Mr. Hutchins Magraw, as it attended Miss Grantham’s slender silhouette across the lawn.
“I hadn’t realized how disgustingly fat the man has grown. One would think a fellow with that outline would know better than to rig himself out in a check a foot square, and impale his double chin on the points of that preposterous collar! It’s odd how little the most fastidious women notice such details. If they did, fewer men would make themselves ridiculous. Why are they standing there, looking up at the house? Perhaps, after all, it was an accident, their meeting. No—they’re making straight for the bench—by George, I believe they were looking at the house to make sure I wasn’t coming! Don’t be alarmed, my dear Miss Grantham, I’ve no desire to interfere with your amusements. I see now, though, why Magraw was in such a hurry to have me balance his bank book this morning. Just a dodge to keep me indoors, of course. It’s beastly bad taste, anyhow, to make a poor devil like me go over a bank book with such an indecently big balance. That’s the kind of thing that makes a man turn socialist. Why the devil should Magraw have all those millions while I—well, to be sure, poor devil, he needs them all to make up for his other deficiencies. I’d like to see how long Belle Grantham would share that bench with him if it weren’t for his bank account! It must be hard work to talk to Magraw at nine o’clock in the morning. I wonder what the deuce she’s saying to him?”
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