by Grant Allen
‘Yes,’ Sabine answered, ‘to refuse you; and for a very good reason, too — because I don’t care for you.’
‘But, my dear Miss Venables — —’
‘Don’t let’s say any more, Duke. This is more than enough. I oughtn’t to have let you say so much. But I wanted to know, don’t you know; I couldn’t help waiting till I’d heard you out to the end, to see whether or not you really meant it. Well, I mean what I say. In no case would I marry you. So that’s settled once for all. But we may go on in future just as if this little episode had never occurred. My father will ask me what you wanted to say; and I shall tell my father, in strict confidence; but I shall never whisper a word of it to anyone else on earth. Nor will he, either. For that, you have my solemn promise and word of honour. I’m sorry now I allowed you to say so much; but I wouldn’t have allowed you if I meant to go away and tell anybody else I’d refused the Duke of Powysland.’
The Duke bowed stiffly. He was quite taken aback. ‘You’re very kind,’ he faltered out, feeling dimly that he hadn’t been quite so magnanimous as he at first imagined. ‘I suppose this chapter’s really closed between us. But you’ll speak of it to nobody then — not even to ... eh ... Harrison?’ And he glanced at her meaningly.
A red spot burnt in Sabine’s cheek once more, but she merely answered, ‘I have promised you already. I shall speak of it to nobody. And then do you know what all the world will say? All the world has been watching us two for the last six months, and talking about us, and quizzing us, and wondering what it would come to. I knew they were. It’s my own fault for trying to play a cruel game. I shall have my punishment. I let it go on too long. I wanted the honour and glory of it. And now all the world will say: She wouldn’t have the courtesy lord when she might, and when she’d like the Duke, he doesn’t care to take her.’
Adalbert Montgomery felt a pang of pity for her humbled pride — thus openly confessed — thrill through and through him. ‘Sooner than they should say that,’ he cried, in another sudden little outburst of chivalrous enthusiasm, this time more genuine, ‘I’ll have it put about myself at all the clubs that I proposed to you and you rejected me.’
Sabine’s eyes had a little dim moisture in them. She didn’t care for the young man, yet she was not insensible to the pleasure of holding a Duke thus in leash for a moment. It was the woman now, she knew, and not the heiress. ‘No, no,’ she answered, trembling. ‘I deserve it all. I’ve told you this because I know I deserve it, and I ought to be punished. I should be ashamed not to take my punishment standing, when it comes, and to submit to it willingly. I ought never to have led you on as I did. I only meant to coquette with you. I coquetted too long. And now this has turned up, and I feel the difference it must make to you and to everybody, and I know I was wrong. Will you think it very strange of me? I want you to forgive me. You do? Yes, then, thank you. And now I think we must go up to the house again to papa. That was really kind. I’m very much obliged to you.’
‘Well. He spoke to you at last, Sabine,’ the typical British Philistine observed an hour or two later, rubbing his hands in his glee. ‘I’m not so blind but I could make that much out for myself. And what did he say to you?’
‘He asked me to be his wife, papa,’ Sabine responded coldly.
‘My darling!’ Mr. Venables cried, rushing over and kissing her effusively on both her cheeks. ‘I congratulate you! I congratulate you! To think of such an honour! But you’re worthy of it, Sabine. Though I say it myself, you’re worthy of it. As you stand there this minute, you look every inch a Duchess.’
Sabine disentangled herself calmly from her father’s embrace. ‘And I told him,’ she went on in a very frigid voice, as if merely continuing her interrupted narrative, ‘you were going to marry Woodbine Weatherley, and that under those circumstances it would be impossible for me to dream of accepting his offer.’
‘Sabine!’
The wounded Philistine said it in a sudden horror of incredulity and fear. Was the girl going mad? Had she really and truly refused in cold blood the ineffable honour of being made a Duchess?
‘Well, papa?’
‘You didn’t! you couldn’t! you can’t mean to tell me you actually refused him!’
‘Yes, I did, papa. I refused him point-blank. Irrevocably, unconditionally. So that’s the whole truth. I couldn’t let him marry me on spec. for a fortune. And, besides, what’s more, I couldn’t possibly love him.’
CHAPTER XIII.
DISILLUSIONED.
Basil Maclaine sat jauntily in his chambers in Clandon Street once more, journal in hand, discussing the affairs of the universe with Douglas Harrison. Breakfast was over, and it was a departmental holiday at the Board of Trade. A man may take his ease at his inn; and Basil Maclaine took his, by dangling his legs over the arm of his chair, and puffing out successive rings of scented tobacco-smoke.
‘Well, it’s my belief,’ he said with flippant familiarity, ‘Powysland’s luffed off that tack altogether now; and the coast’s left clear accordingly for a commoner to tackle her.’
‘It’s my belief,’ Douglas Harrison interposed, ‘that the Duke, on the contrary, has offered himself and been refused. But as it’s no business of ours, we’re fortunately not called upon to produce any evidence either way in defence of our opinions.’
‘I’m not so sure of that,’ Basil Maclaine replied, his eye still resting obliquely upon the paragraph in Truth which had aroused the discussion. ‘I mean I don’t know that it’s no business of ours. I don’t for a moment believe that she’s refused Powysland — not likely she would: girls, even when they’re rich, don’t often get a chance of refusing a coronet. But I think Powysland must have made it clear to them at Hurst Croft he didn’t mean to propose, now he’s a Duke — he can do better elsewhere — or else they wouldn’t have announced this ridiculous engagement of Old Affability’s with that shadowy little Weatherley girl.’
‘You think not?’ Douglas asked, with a faint smile.
‘Oh, I’m sure they wouldn’t, my dear fellow! It stands to reason. I was watching that little comedy all through the rehearsals, and I spotted it at once, and so did Mrs. Bouverie-Barton. My only wonder was Miss Venables didn’t spot it herself as soon as we did. The old man was gone just silly over dear Woodbine’s acting. He hardly ever spoke to me about anything else, except whether Miss Weatherley’s dress was the absolutely correctest thing out for the part of Celia; whether Miss Weatherley’s points were all properly made; whether every other character in the whole piece was devoting himself or herself with a single mind to the one solitary task of playing up direct to Miss Weatherley as a centre. Depend upon it, it was all arranged between them weeks ago; but they deferred the announcement till Bertie Montgomery, as he was then, had made up his mind to propose or not propose to Sabine Venables.’
‘Oh, that’s what you make of it, then, is it?’ Douglas interjected languidly, for to him this gossip of the boudoirs was by no means so enthralling as to the devoted imitator of the very best models.
‘Of course that’s it,’ Basil went on, delighted with the profundity of his own critical insight. ‘You can see the whole thing with half an eye, if you only look close enough. But when Bertie Montgomery found himself suddenly transformed into a real live Duke, he thought better of his intention. Till then, he’d half made up his mind to propose to the girl outright. But the dukedom put him off that tack at once. He luffed and went over. You see, he could sell himself higher in a better market. America’s the place now. It’s my belief he meant to propose that very afternoon of the pastoral play; but Morton came down with the telegram of his brother’s death and spoiled it all. The girl’s had a narrow squeak of being made a Duchess, I can tell you, and missed it by exactly twenty minutes.’
It gave Basil Maclaine infinite pleasure thus to feel himself brought into close contact with the high places of the world, and able to criticise such distinguished conduct from a platform of equality. He stood a good half-inch taller now,
since he had begun to speak familiarly of a noble Duke as plain Powysland.
‘But what did you mean by saying, a minute ago, you didn’t know it was no business of ours?’ Douglas asked with some curiosity, for he wondered whether Basil was thinking of his brother Hubert. (Life is one long game of these personal cross-purposes.)
Basil Maclaine glanced down approvingly at his own neat walking shoes, as he answered with some magnificence of manner, ‘Well, you see, the Duke’s clear out of the way, now, that’s quite certain. He won’t marry her on the off chance of the second Mrs. Venables never happening to present Old Affability with a son and heir. You never can count upon an heiress for certain till her father’s ninety, or comfortably settled in Kensal Green Cemetery. So, of course, there’s a decent chance going at present for any other enterprising young man who’d be content to take a son for granted, and to put up with a modest daughter’s share of the Venables millions.’
‘But I don’t want to marry Sabine Venables,’ Douglas responded, somewhat bewildered, for he supposed Basil must still be referring obliquely to his brother Hubert.
‘I didn’t for one moment suppose you did,’ Basil retorted, drawing himself up with one of his superior glances. ‘But I may. There’s your aristocratic insolence coming out again, Harrison. Why shouldn’t I have as good a right to have a shot at Miss Venables, and as good a chance of hitting the mark, as any other fellow?’
‘Oh, of course,’ Douglas answered, with a certain uneasy air of arrière pensée.
‘Why this mental reservation?’ the civil servant put in searchingly.
‘Well, it’s not my place to speak about it again,’ Douglas went on, with some hesitation; ‘but do you know, Maclaine, I think, if you mean to marry anybody else, you — excuse my recurring to it — but you oughtn’t to go on as you do with Miss Figgins.’
‘Miss Figgins!’ Basil repeated, with infinite scorn in his voice. ‘There you’re at it again! What a fellow you are! You seem to think because a man’s people are in trade he can’t have a particle of self-respect in his composition in any way. That’s what comes of having a father engaged in performing archidiaconal functions. Bless your heart, archdeacons and their families are not the only people in the world with any proper pride in them. Now, do you think it likely a man in my position would ruin himself for life by marrying Miss Figgins?’
Douglas Harrison gazed across at him with a curious look of hesitation. ‘I can hardly understand you, Maclaine,’ he answered after a short pause. ‘Long as we’ve lived together, I can hardly understand you.’
‘Well now, look here, my dear fellow,’ the civil servant answered, rising, and leaning his arm argumentatively on the mantelpiece. ‘What sort of fuss do you think my father and my friends would kick up if I went down to Birmingham and told them I was going to marry — not Sabine Venables, or somebody else in my own position in life — but the girl who waited at table in my chambers in Clandon Street? Just imagine me going back to the paternal roof in the Hagley Road, Edgbaston, and telling the governor I was bringing him home a daughter-in-law to introduce to his friends — from a London lodging-house. Why, my father isn’t exactly what you call a passionate man, but hang me if I don’t think he’d kick me out of the house the moment I ventured even to suggest or hint the bare possibility of such an alliance.’
‘You speak a foreign language to me,’ Douglas Harrison answered, closing his eyes dreamily in the vain attempt to realize the frame of mind that could so regard his incomparable Linda.
‘Besides,’ Basil went on, looking down upon him contemptuously, ‘there are my prospects in life; I’ve got them to think about. Controllership of corn returns: there’s a post that’d suit me down to the ground, when I’ve worked my way up to it. Twelve hundred a year and pickings. But even supposing I was fool enough in other ways to wish to marry the girl — which I’m far from being — I have my own prospects in life to consider, of course. She’s a very nice girl to flirt with and to pull about — —’
Douglas Harrison rose in virtuous indignation. ‘You never pulled her about,’ he cried angrily. ‘You daren’t. And you know it. Your words are shameful. No man shall use such language about Miss Figgins in my presence. I won’t allow it.’
Basil waved his hand with a gentle deprecatory air. ‘Well, you needn’t get so warm about it, anyhow,’ he answered, smiling. ‘She isn’t wax. Fingers don’t leave marks upon her. Besides, I never said I did. I said she was a nice enough girl for the purpose you decline to let me mention; but as to marrying her, why, the idea’s ridiculous. Even supposing, as I say, I chose to make a fool of myself as far as affection is concerned — though, for my part, I’m much more likely to fall in love with a girl in a good position in life than with a London lodging-house keeper — still, it isn’t likely I’d want to marry anybody at present, unless she had enough money to keep both of us decently. It’ll take me ten years at least to carve out my place in the world in the way I’ve designed it. When I’ve done that, I may think of settling down and marrying a penniless girl, if I happen to fancy her; but till then — impossible!’
‘A foreign language still!’ Douglas answered, shutting his eyes once more. ‘So utterly alien to everything I hope, and feel, and think, and believe, that I can’t even put myself in your place and realize it. I know it’s what the political economists call prudence; but for my part, I call it a much harsher name, and I confess I don’t care for it.’
Basil Maclaine lighted another cigar with a spill, and strolled to the door. ‘Well, that subject’s closed,’ he said resolutely. ‘We won’t discuss it again. I hate these bickerings. The fact is, you can’t talk about that girl without losing your temper. But one thing’s certain. I’ve made up my mind to so much. I never dreamt in my life of marrying Miss Figgins, and whatever comes, I never will marry her.’
‘I think you ought to tell her so, then,’ Douglas interposed warmly.
‘I don’t. You can, if you like. But I should think she’d be very much surprised indeed to find you thought it necessary to assure her of a fact which must already be obvious to the meanest understanding.’
‘It’s no use my telling her, Maclaine. She wouldn’t believe me. She ought to hear it from your own lips.’
‘Well, she won’t, then. That’s flat. Why should I spoil my own sport for nothing? She’s a very nice young woman to flutter about when one has nothing better on hand to do. But marry her! Nonsense! Why should I tell her I don’t mean to propose what in her wildest moments of excitement she could never have expected of me?’
‘Maclaine, you’re breaking that girl’s heart!’
Basil stuck his hat on his head with a very decisive air, and pulled his necktie straight. It rather flattered his soul than otherwise to be treated as a lady-killer, though even on so humble a plane of life. ‘Then it’s all her own fault,’ he answered. ‘But she can’t be quite such a fool as all that comes to, either. She can never have imagined for half a moment a man in my position meant anything serious.’
And he strolled casually to the door, puffing away at his cigar with an elaborate air of profound decision.
As soon as he was gone, Douglas passed through the folding doors into his own bedroom, which opened out of their joint sitting-room.
The doors were ajar, for the floor was arranged in the common London lodging-house fashion — drawing-room in front, bedroom behind, folding doors between, and a separate door for each room on to the landing.
He entered the bedroom noiselessly, gliding through the open space, not intentionally, but of pure accident, because his movements were always naturally gentle. As he did so, an unexpected sight met his eye.
Linda stood there, transfixed, by the bottom of the bed, leaning on the brass rail of the bedstead for support, deadly pale, and very ghastly to look upon.
‘Linda!’ the young man cried, his own lips trembling with sympathetic horror. ‘You heard what he said, then? Oh, Linda, you heard him!’
Linda put
her hand to her side, as if breath failed her. ‘I didn’t mean to, Mr. Harrison,’ she answered. ‘I wasn’t trying to listen. I’d only just come in to tidy up the room, and caught the tag end of your conversation. When I heard you were talking of me, I tried to slip away without either of you noticing it. But if I’d slipped away, I must have passed the door, and Mr. Maclaine would have seen me in the glass, for he was looking in the glass, and I couldn’t have endured that he should know I’d heard what he said of me. It was bad enough he should say it, and that I should overhear him; but that he should know I’d heard, I could never have survived it.’
Douglas Harrison gazed at her fixedly for a moment. ‘Linda,’ he said, in a very pained voice, ‘this is a terrible blow for you; but as he thinks and feels like that, for your own sake, not mine, I’m not sorry you should have found it out at last. I’m not sorry you should know he never meant anything.’
Linda lifted up her face, now scarlet with shame. ‘It’s all over,’ she answered, in heart-broken accents. ‘He shall never have the chance of speaking so again. Mr. Harrison, you’ve always been a dear, kind friend to me. I wish I could have loved you as I have loved that man. But it’s all over now. He shall never again be able to say such things of me.’
And, with her head erect and proud once more, but her heart standing still, she walked firmly to the door, which Douglas Harrison held open for her, with a deferential air, as he would have held it open for any other lady.
CHAPTER XIV.
MR. MACLAINE INTERVIEWED.
That evening Cecil Figgins came home from the tube-works elastic as usual, full of manifold resolutions for the future. He had made up his mind, in fact, to several important steps. And some of them he intended to carry out, for once in his life, without even so much as consulting Linda.
Douglas Harrison was dining out that night in the West-End, and Basil Maclaine sat alone accordingly, with that blushing journalistic nymph, the Globe, to keep him company, in the sacred shades of the drawing-rooms at Clandon Street. Linda had gone to bed betimes; she complained of headache, and seemed sadly out of sorts; but her early disappearance from the scene exactly suited her brother’s convenience; for he wanted to talk with Basil Maclaine alone, and this was precisely the opportunity he had long been looking for. So he washed off the tell-tale grime of the works with as great care and attention as if it had been Sunday morning, and, arraying himself in a clean white shirt and neat black coat, like a capable, self-respecting, superior mechanic that he was, knocked, about half-past eight, with somewhat marked assurance, at the door of the drawing-rooms.
