Works of Grant Allen

by Grant Allen

  But something must clearly be done. I couldn’t stand and argue out the case with Ida before those twelve young fiends, now reinforced by a group of porters; and I determined to act strategically — that is to say, tell a white lie. “You can go to the Randolph, of course, if you wish, Miss Van Rensselaer,” I said; “will you come and show me which is your luggage? Here, you, sir,” to one of the porters, — a little angrily, I fear,— “come and get this lady’s boxes, will you?”

  In a minute I had secured the boxes, and went out for a cab. There was nothing left but a single hansom. Demoralized as I was, I took it, and put Ida inside. “Drive to Lechlade Villa, the Parks,” I whispered to the cabby — that was Annie’s address — and I jumped in beside my torturer. As we drove up by the Corn-market, I could see the porters and scouts of Balliol and John’s all looking eagerly out at the unwonted sight of a Senior Proctor in full academicals, driving through the streets of Oxford in a hansom cab, with a lady by his side. As for Ida, she remained happily unconscious, though I blamed her none the less for it. In her native wilds I knew that such vagaries were permitted by the rules of society; but she ought surely to have known that in Europe they were not admissible.

  “Now, Miss Van Rensselaer,” I said as we turned the corner of Carfax, “I am taking you to my sister’s. Excuse my frankness if I tell you that, according to English, and especially to Oxford etiquette, it would never do for you to go to an hotel. People’s sense of decorum would be scandalized if they learnt that a lady had come alone to visit the Senior Proctor, and was stopping at the Randolph. Don’t you see yourself how very odd it looks?”

  “Well, no,” said Ida promptly; “I think you are a dreadfully suspicious people: you seem always to credit everybody with the worst motives. In America, we think people mean no harm, and don’t look after them so sharply as you do. But I really can’t go to your sister’s. I don’t know her, and I haven’t been invited. Does she know I’m coming?”

  “Well, I can’t say she does,” I answered hesitatingly. “You see, your letter only reached me half an hour ago, and I had no time to see her before I went to meet you.”

  “Then I certainly won’t go, Mr. Payne, that’s certain.”

  “But my dear Miss Van Rensselaer — —”

  “Not the slightest use, I assure you. I can’t go to a house where they don’t even know I’m coming. Driver, will you go to the Randolph Hotel, please?”

  I sank back paralyzed and unmanned. This girl was one too many for me. “Miss Van Rensselaer,” I cried, in a last despairing fit, “do you know that as Senior Proctor of the University I have the power to order you away from Oxford; and that if I told them at the Randolph not to take you in, they wouldn’t dare to do it?”

  “Well really, Mr. Payne, I dare say you have some extraordinary mediæval customs here, but you can hardly mean to send me away again by main force. I shall go to the Randolph.”

  And she went. I had to draw up solemnly at the door, to accompany her to the office, and to see her safely provided with a couple of rooms before I could get away hastily to the Ancient House of Convocation, where public business was being delayed by my absence. As I hurried through the Schools Quadrangle, I felt like a convicted malefactor going to face his judges, and self-condemned by his very face.

  That afternoon, as soon as I had gulped down a choking lunch, I bolted down to the Parks and saw Annie. At first I thought it was a hopeless task to convince her that Ida Van Rensselaer’s conduct was, from an American point of view, nothing extraordinary. She persisted in declaring that such goings-on were not respectable, and that I was bound, as an officer of the University, to remove the young woman at once from the eight-mile radius over which my jurisdiction extended. I pleaded in vain that ladies in America always travelled alone, and that nobody thought anything of it. Annie pertinently remarked that that would be excellent logic in New York, but that it was quite un-Aristotelian in Oxford. “When your American friends come to Rome,” she said coldly — as though I were in the habit of importing Yankee girls wholesale— “they must do as Rome does.” But when I at last pointed out that Ida, as an American citizen, could appeal to her minister if I attempted to turn her out, and that we might find ourselves the centre of an international quarrel — possibly even a casus belli — she finally yielded with a struggle. “For the sake of respectability,” she said solemnly, “I’ll go and call on this girl with you; but remember, Cyril, I shall never undertake to help you out of such a disgraceful scrape a second time.” I sneaked out into the garden to wait for her, and felt that the burden of a Proctorship was really more than I could endure.

  We called duly upon Ida, that very hour, and Ida certainly behaved herself remarkably well. She was so charmingly frank and pretty, she apologized so simply to Annie for her ignorance of English etiquette, and she was so obviously guileless and innocent-hearted in all her talk, that even Annie herself — who is, I must confess, a typical don’s wife — was gradually mollified. To my great surprise, Annie even asked her to dinner en famille the same evening, and suggested that I should make an arrangement with the Junior Proctor to take my work, and join the party. I consented, not without serious misgivings; but I felt that if Ida was really going to stop a week, it would be well to put the best face upon it, and to show her up in company with Annie as often as possible. That might just conceivably take the edge off the keen blade of University scandal.

  To cut a long story short, Ida did stop her week, and I got through it very creditably after all. Annie behaved like a brick, as soon as the first chill was over; for though she is married to a professor of dry bones (Comparative Osteology sounds very well, but means no more than that, when you come to think of it), she is a woman at heart in spite of it all. Ida had the most winning, charming, confiding manner; and she was so pleased with Oxford, with the colleges, the libraries, the gardens, the river, the boats, the mediæval air, the whole place, that she quite gained Annie over to her side. Nay, my sister even discovered incidentally that Ida had a little fortune of her own, amounting to some £300 a year, which, though it doesn’t count for much in America, would be a neat little sum to a man like myself, in England; and she shrewdly observed, in her sensible business-like manner, that it would quite make up for the possible loss of my Magdalen fellowship. I am not exactly what you call a marrying man — at least, I know I had never got married before; but as the week wore on, and I continued boating, flirting, and acting showman to Ida, Annie of course always assisting for propriety’s sake, I began to feel that the Proctor was being conquered by the man. I fell most seriously and undoubtedly in love. Ida admired my rooms, was charmed with the pretty view from my windows over Magdalen Bridge and the beautiful gardens, and criticized my Botticelli with real sympathy. I was interested in her; she was so fresh, so real, and so genuinely delighted with the new world which opened before her. It was almost her first glimpse of the true interior Europe, and she was fascinated with it, as all better American minds invariably are when they feel the charm of its contrast with their own hurrying, bustling, mushroom world. The week passed easily and pleasantly enough; and when it was drawing to an end, I had half made up my mind to propose to Ida Van Rensselaer.

  The day before she was to leave she told us she would not go out in the afternoon; so I determined to stroll down the river to Iffley by myself in a “tub dingey” — a small boat with room in it for two, if occasion demands. When I reached the Iffley Lock, imagine my horror at seeing Ida in the middle of the stream, quietly engaged in paddling herself down the river in a canoe. I ran my dingey close beside her, drove her remorselessly against the bank, and handed her out on to the meadow, before she could imagine what I was driving at.

  “Now, Miss Van Rensselaer,” I said sternly, “this will never do. By herculean efforts Annie and I have got over this week without serious scandal; and at the last moment you endeavour to wreck our plans by canoeing down the open river by yourself before the eyes of the whole University. Everybody
will talk about the Senior Proctor’s visitor having been seen indecorously paddling about in broad daylight in a boat of her own.”

  “I didn’t know there was any harm in it,” said Ida penitently; for she was beginning to understand the real seriousness of University etiquette.

  “Well,” I answered, “it can’t be helped now. You must get into my boat at once — I’ll send one of Salter’s men down to fetch your canoe — and we must row straight back to Oxford immediately.”

  She obeyed me mechanically, and I began to pull away for very life. “There’s nothing for it now,” I said pensively, “except to propose to you. I half meant to do it before, and now I’ve quite made up my mind. Will you have me?”

  Ida looked at me without surprise, but with a little pleasure in her face. “What nonsense!” she said quietly. “I knew you were going to propose to me this afternoon, and so I came out alone to keep out of your way. You haven’t had time to make up your mind properly yet.”

  As I looked at her beautiful calm face and lovely eyes I forgot everything. In a moment, I was over head and ears in love again, and conscious of nothing else. “Ida,” I cried, looking at her steadily, “Ida!”

  “Now, please stop,” said Ida, before I could get any further. “I know exactly what you’re going to say. You’re going to say, ‘Ida, I love you.’ Don’t desecrate the verb to love by draggling it more than it has already been draggled through all the grammars of every European language. I’ve conjugated to love, myself, in English, French, German, and Italian; and you’ve conjugated it in Latin and Greek, and for aught I know in Anglo-Saxon and Coptic and Assyrian as well; so now let’s have done with it for ever, and conjugate some other verb more worthy the attention of two rational and original human beings. Can’t you strike out a line for yourself?”

  “You’re quite mistaken,” I answered curtly, for I wasn’t going to be browbeaten in that way; “I meant to say nothing of the sort. What I did mean to say — and I’ll trouble you to listen to it attentively — was just this. You seem to me about as well suited to my abstract requirements as any other young woman I have ever met: and if you’re inclined to take me, we might possibly arrange an engagement.”

  “What a funny man you are!” she went on innocently. “You don’t propose at all en règle. I’ve had twelve men propose to me separately in a boat in America, and you make up the baker’s dozen: but all the others leaned forward lackadaisically, dropped the oars when they were beginning to get serious, and looked at me sentimentally; while you go on rowing all the time as if there was nothing unusual in it.”

  “Probably,” I suggested, “your twelve American admirers attached more importance to the ceremony than I do. But you haven’t answered my question yet.”

  “Let me ask you one instead,” she said, more seriously. “Do you think I’m at all the kind of person for a Senior Proctor’s wife? You say I suit your abstract requirements, but one can’t get married in the abstract, you know. Viewed concretely, don’t you fancy I’m about the most unsuitable helpmate you could possibly light upon?”

  “The profound consciousness of that indubitable fact,” I replied carelessly, “has made me struggle in a hopeless sort of way against the irresistible impulse to propose to you ever since I saw you first. But I suppose Senior Proctors are much the same as other men. They fly like moths about the candle, and can’t overcome the temptation of singeing their wings.”

  “If I had any notion of accepting you,” said Ida reflectively, “I should at least have the consolation of knowing that you didn’t make anything by your bargain; for my fifteen hundred dollars would just amount to the three hundred a year which you would have to give up with your fellowship.”

  “Quite so,” I answered; “I see you come of a business-like nation; and I, as former bursar of my college, am a man of business myself. So I have no reason for concealing from you the fact that I have a private income of about four hundred a year, besides University appointments worth five hundred more, which would not go with the fellowship.”

  “Do you really think me sordid enough to care for such considerations?”

  “If I did, I wouldn’t have taken the trouble to tell you them. I merely mentioned the facts for their general interest, and not as bearing on the question in hand.”

  “Well, then, Mr. Payne, you shall have my answer. — No.”

  “Is it final?”

  “Is anything human final, except one’s twenty-ninth birthday? I choose it to be final for the present, and ‘the subject then dropped,’ as the papers say about debates in Congress. Let us have done now with this troublesome verb altogether, and conjugate our return to Oxford instead. See what bunches of fritillaries again! I never saw anything prettier, except the orange-lilies in New Hampshire. If you like, you may come to America next season. You would enjoy our woodlands.”

  “Where shall I find you?”

  “At Saratoga.”

  “When?”

  “Any day from July the first.”

  “Good,” I said, after a moment’s reflection. “If I stick to my fancy for flying into the candle, you will see me there. If I change my mind, it won’t matter much to either of us.”

  So we paddled back to Oxford, talking all the way of indifferent subjects, of England and our English villages, and enjoying the peaceful greenness of the trees and banks. It was half-past six when we got to Salter’s barge, and I walked with Ida as far as the Randolph. Then I returned to college, feeling very much like an undetected sheep-stealer, and had a furtive sort of dinner served up in my own room. Next morning, I confess it was with a sigh of relief that Annie and I saw Ida Van Rensselaer start from the station en route for Liverpool. It was quite a fortnight before I could face my own bulldogs unabashed, and I bowed with a wan and guilty smile upon my face whenever any one of those twelve undergraduates capped me in the High till the end of term. I believe they never missed an opportunity of meeting me if they saw a chance open. I was glad indeed when long vacation came to ease me of my office and my troubles.

  II.

  Congress Hall in Saratoga is really one of the most comfortable hotels at which I ever stopped. Of course it holds a thousand guests, and covers an unknown extent of area: it measures its passages by the mile and its carpets by the acre. All that goes unsaid, for it is a big American hotel; but it is also a very pleasant and luxurious one, even for America. I was not sorry, on the second of July, to find myself comfortably quartered (by elevator) in room No. 547 on the fifth floor, with a gay look-out on Broadway and the Columbia Spring. After ten days of dismal rolling on the mid-Atlantic, and a week of hurry and bustle in New York, I found it extremely delightful to sit down at my ease in summer quarters, on a broad balcony overlooking the leafy promenade, to sip my iced cobbler like a prince, and to watch that strange, new, and wonderfully holiday life which was unfolding itself before my eyes. Such a phantasmagoria of brightly-dressed women in light but costly silks, of lounging young men in tweed suits and panama hats, of sulkies, carriages, trotting horses, string bands, ice-creams, effervescing drinks, cool fruits, green trees, waving bunting, lilac blossoms, roses, and golden sunshine I had never seen till then, and shall never see again, I doubt me, until I can pay a second visit to Saratoga. It was a midsummer saturnalia of strawberries and acacia flowers, gone mad with excessive mint julep.

  “After all,” said I to myself, “even if I don’t happen to run up against Ida Van Rensselaer, I shall have taken as pleasant a holiday as I could easily have found in old Europe. Everybody is tired of Switzerland and Italy, so, happy thought, try Saratoga. On the other hand, if Ida keeps her tryst, I shall have one more shot at her in the shape of a proposal; and then if she really means no, I shall be none the worse off than if I had stayed in England.” In which happy-go-lucky and philosophic frame of mind I sat watching the crowd in the Broadway after dinner, in utrumque paratus, ready either to marry Ida if she would have me, or to go home again in the autumn, a joyous bachelor, if she did not
turn up according to her promise. A very cold-blooded attitude that to assume towards the tender passion, no doubt; but after all, why should a sensible man of thirty-five think it necessary to go wild for a year or two like a hobbledehoy, and convert himself into a perambulating statue of melancholy, simply because one particular young woman out of the nine hundred million estimated to inhabit this insignificant planet has refused to print his individual name upon her visiting cards? Ida would make as good a Mrs. Cyril Payne as any other girl of my acquaintance — no doubt; indeed, I am inclined to say, a vast deal a better one; but there are more women than five in the world, and if you strike an average I dare say most of them are pretty much alike.

  As I sat and looked, I could not help noticing the extraordinary magnificence of all the toilettes in the promenade. Nowhere in Europe can you behold such a republican dead level of reckless extravagance. Every woman was dressed like a princess, nothing more and nothing less. I began to wonder how poor little Ida, with her simple and tasteful travelling gowns, would feel when she found herself cast in the midst of these gorgeous silks and these costly satin grenadines. Look, for example, at that pair now strolling along from Spring Avenue: a New York exquisite in the very coolest of American summer suits, and a New York élégante (their own word, I assure you) in a splendid but graceful grey silk dress, gold bracelet, diamond ear-rings, and every other item in her costume of the finest and costliest. What would Ida do in a crowd of such women as that?... Why ... gracious heavens! ... can it be?... No, it can’t.... Yes, it must.... Well, to be sure, it positively is — Ida herself!

  My first impulse was to lean over the balcony and call out to her, as I would have called out to a friend whom I chanced to see passing in Magdalen quad. Not an unnatural impulse either, seeing that (in spite of my own prevarications to myself) I had after all really come across the Atlantic on purpose to see her. But on second thoughts it struck me that even Ida might perhaps find such a proceeding a trifle unconventional, especially now that she was habited in such passing splendour. Besides, what did it all mean? The only rational answer I could give myself, when I fairly squared the question, was that Ida must have got suddenly married to a wealthy fellow-countryman, and that the exquisite in the cool suit was in fact none other than her newly-acquired husband. I had thought my philosophy proof against any such small defeats to my calculation: but when it actually came to the point, I began to perceive that I was after all very unphilosophically in love with Ida Van Rensselaer. The merest undergraduate could not have felt a sillier flutter than that which agitated both auricles and ventricles of my central vascular organ — as a Senior Proctor I must really draw the line at speaking outright of my heart. I seized my hat, rushed down the broad staircase, and walked rapidly along Broadway in the direction the pair had taken. But I could see nothing of them, and I returned to Congress Hall in despair.