Chapter 2

“That it shall be quite out of the question, you know. It’s not at all difficult. I only have to avoid persons of moderate means.”

“But aren’t you a person of--?”

“Exactly. That’s why. So I choose either a pauper--when it’s impossible--or an heiress--when it’s preposterous. See?”

“But don’t you ever want to get--?” began Miss Phaeton.

“Let’s talk about something else,” said I.

“I believe you’re humbuggin’ me,” said Miss Phaeton.

“I am offering a veiled apology,” said I.

“Stuff!” said she. “You know you told Dolly Foster that I should make an excellent wife for a trainer.”

Oh, these women! A man had better talk to a phonograph.

“Or anybody else,” said I politely.

Miss Phaeton whipped up her horses.

“Look out! There’s the mounted policeman,” I cried.

“No, he isn’t. Are you afraid?” she retorted.

“I’m not fit to die,” I pleaded.

“I don’t care a pin for your opinion, you know,” she continued (I had never supposed that she did); “but what did you mean by it?”

“I never said it.”

“Oh!”

“All right--I never did.”

“Then Dolly invented it?”

“Of course,” said I steadily.

“On your honor?”

“Oh, come, Miss Phaeton!”

“Would--would other people think so?” she asked, with a highly surprising touch of timidity.

“Nobody would,” I said. “Only a snarling old wretch would say so, just because he thought it smart.”

There was a long pause. Then Miss Phaeton asked me abruptly:

“You never met him, did you?”

“No.”

A pause ensued. We passed the Duchess again, and scratched the nose of her poodle, which was looking out of the carriage window. Miss Phaeton flicked Rhino, and the groom behind went plop-plop on the seat.

“He lives in town, you know,” remarked Miss Phaeton.

“They mostly do--and write about the country,” said I.

“Why shouldn’t they?” she asked fiercely.

“My dear Miss Phaeton, by all means let them,” said I.

“He’s awfully clever, you know,” she continued; “but he wouldn’t always talk. Sometimes he just sat and said nothin’, or read a book.”

A sudden intuition discovered Mr. Gay’s feelings to me.

“You were talking about the run, or something, I suppose?”

“Yes, or the bag, you know.”

As she spoke she pulled up Ready and Rhino. The little groom jumped down and stood under (not at) their heads. I leant back and surveyed the crowd sitting and walking. Miss Phaeton flicked a fly off Rhino’s ear, put her whip in the socket, and leant back also.

“Then I suppose you didn’t care much about him?” I asked.

“Oh, I liked him pretty well,” she answered very carelessly.

At this moment, looking along the walk, I saw a man coming toward us. He was a handsome fellow, with just a touch of “softness” in his face. He was dressed in correct fashion, save that his hair was a trifle longer, his coat a trifle fuller, his hat a trifle larger, his tie a trifle looser than they were worn by most. He caught my attention, and I went on looking at him for a little while, till a light movement of my companion’s made me turn my head.

Miss Phaeton was sitting bolt upright; she fidgeted with the reins; she took her whip out of the socket and put it back again; and, to my amazement, her cheeks were very red.

Presently the man came opposite the carriage. Miss Phaeton bowed. He lifted his hat, smiled, and made as if to pass on. Miss Phaeton held out her hand. I could see a momentary gleam of surprise in his eyes, as though he thought her cordiality more than he might have looked for--possibly even more than he cared about. But he stopped and shook hands.

“How are you, Mr. Gay?” she said, not introducing me.

“Still with your inseparables!” he said gayly, with a wave of his hand towards the horses. “I hope, Miss Phaeton, that in the next world your faithful steeds will be allowed to bear you company, or what will you do?”

“O, you think I care for nothin’ but horses?” said she petulantly, but she leant towards him, and gave me her shoulder.

“O, no,” he laughed. “Dogs, also, and, I’m afraid, one day it was ferrets, wasn’t it?”

“Have--have you written any poetry lately?” she asked.

“How conscientious of you to inquire!” he exclaimed, his eyes twinkling. “O, yes, a hundred things. Have you--killed--anything lately?”

I could swear she flushed again. Her voice trembled as she answered:

“No, not lately.”

I caught sight of his face behind her back and I thought I saw a trace of puzzle--nothing more. He held out his hand.

“Well, so glad to have seen you, Miss Phaeton,” said he, “but I must run on. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Gay,” said she.

And, lifting his hat again, smiling again gayly, he was gone. For a moment or two I said nothing. Then I remarked:

“So that’s your friend Gay, is it? He’s not a bad-looking fellow.”

“Yes, that’s him,” said she, and, as she spoke, she sank back in her seat for a moment. I did not look at her face. Then she sat up straight again and took the whip.

“Want to stay any longer?” she asked.

“No,” said I.

The little groom sprang away, Rhino and Ready dashed ahead.

“Shall I drop you at the club?” she asked. “I’m goin’ home.”

“I’ll get out here,” said I.

We came to a stand again, and I got down.

“Goodbye,” I said.

She nodded at me, but said nothing. A second later the carriage was tearing down the road, and the little groom hanging on for dear life.

Of course, it’s all nonsense. She’s not the least suited to him; she’d make him miserable, and then be miserable herself. But it seems a little perverse, doesn’t it? In fact, twice at least between the courses at dinner I caught myself being sorry for her. It is, when you think of it, so remarkably perverse.

A MATTER OF DUTY

Lady Mickleham is back from her honeymoon. I mean young Lady Mickleham--Dolly Foster (well, of course I do. Fancy the Dowager on a honeymoon!) She signified the fact to me by ordering me to call on her at teatime; she had, she said, something which she wished to consult me about confidentially. I went.

“I didn’t know you were back,” I observed.

“Oh, we’ve been back a fortnight, but we went down to The Towers. They were all there, Mr. Carter.”

“All who?”

“All Archie’s people. The dowager said we must get really to know one another as soon as possible. I’m not sure I like really knowing people. It means that they say whatever they like to you, and don’t get up out of your favorite chair when you come in.”

“I agree,” said I, “that a soupcon of unfamiliarity is not amiss.”

“Of course it’s nice to be one of the family,” she continued.

“The cat is that,” said I. “I would not give a fig for it.”

“And the Dowager taught me the ways of the house.”

“Ah, she taught me the way out of it.”

“And showed me how to be most disagreeable to the servants.”

“It is the first lesson of a housekeeper.”

“And told me what Archie particularly liked, and how bad it was for him, poor boy.”

“What should we do without our mothers? I do not, however, see how I can help in all this, Lady Mickleham.”

“How funny that sounds!”

“Aren’t you accustomed to your dignity yet?”

“I meant from you, Mr. Carter.”

I smiled. That is Dolly’s way. As Miss Phaeton says, she means no harm, and it is admirably conducive to the pleasure of a tete-a-tete.

“It wasn’t that I wanted to ask you about,” she continued, after she had indulged in a pensive sigh (with a dutifully bright smile and a glance at Archie’s photograph to follow. Her behavior always reminds me of a varied and well assorted menu). “It was about something much more difficult. You won’t tell Archie, will you?”

“This becomes interesting,” I remarked, putting my hat down.

“You know, Mr. Carter, that before I was married--oh, how long ago it seems!”

“Not at all.”

“Don’t interrupt. That before I was married I had several--that is to say, several--well, several--”

“Start quite afresh,” I suggested encouragingly.

“Well, then, several men were silly enough to think themselves--you know.”

“No one better,” I assented cheerfully.

“Oh, if you won’t be sensible!--Well, you see, many of them are Archie’s friends as well as mine; and, of course, they’ve been to call.”

“It is but good manners,” said I.

“One of them waited to be sent for, though.”

“Leave that fellow out,” said I.

“What I want to ask you is this--and I believe you’re not silly, really, you know, except when you choose to be.”

“Walk in the Row any afternoon,” said I, “and you won’t find ten wiser men.”

“It’s this. Ought I to tell Archie?”

“Good gracious! Here’s a problem!”

“Of course,” pursued Lady Mickleham, opening her fan, “it’s in some ways more comfortable that he shouldn’t know.”

“For him?”

“Yes--and for me. But then it doesn’t seem quite fair.”

“To him?”

“Yes--and to me. Because if he came to know from anybody else, he might exaggerate the things, you know.”

“Impossible!”

“Mr. Carter!”

“I--er--mean he knows you too well to do such a thing.”

“Oh, I see. Thank you. Yes. What do you think?”

“What does the Dowager say?”

“I haven’t mentioned it to the Dowager.”

“But surely, on such a point, her experience--”

“She can’t have any,” said Lady Mickleham decisively. “I believe in her husband, because I must. But nobody else! You’re not giving me your opinion.”

I reflected for a moment.

“Haven’t we left out one point to view?” I ventured to suggest.

“I’ve thought it all over very carefully,” said she; “both as it would affect me and as it would affect Archie.”

“Quite so. Now suppose you think how it would affect them?”

“Who?”

“Why, the men.”

Lady Mickleham put down her cup of tea. “What a very curious idea!” she exclaimed.

“Give it time to sink in,” said I, helping myself to another piece of toast. She sat silent for a few moments--presumably to allow of the permeation I suggested. I finished my tea and leant back comfortably. Then I said:

“Let me take my own case. Shouldn’t I feel rather awkward--?”

“Oh, it’s no good taking your case,” she interrupted.

“Why not mine as well as another?”

“Because I told him about you long ago.”

I was not surprised. But I could not permit Lady Mickleham to laugh at me in the unconscionable manner in which she proceeded to laugh. I spread out my hands and observed blandly:

“Why not be guided--as to the others, I mean--by your husband’s example?”

“Archie’s example? What’s that?”

“I don’t know; but you do, I suppose.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Carter?” she asked, sitting upright.

“Well, has he ever told you about Maggie Adeane?”

“I never heard of her.”

“Or Lilly Courtenay?”

“That girl!”

“Or Alice Layton?”

“The red-haired Layton?”

“Or Florence Cunliffe?”

“Who was she?”

“Or Millie Trehearne?”

“She squints, Mr. Carter.”

“Or--”

“Stop, stop! What do you mean? What should he tell me?”

“Oh, I see he hasn’t. Nor, I suppose, about Sylvia Fenton, or that little Delancy girl, or handsome Miss--what was her name?”

“Hold your tongue--and tell me what you mean.”

“Lady Mickleham,” said I gravely, “if your husband has not thought fit to mention these ladies--and others whom I could name--to you, how could I presume--?”

“Do you mean to tell me that Archie--?”

“He’d only known you three years, you see.”

“Then it was before--?”

“Some of them were before,” said I.

Lady Mickleham drew a long breath.

“Archie will be in soon,” said she.

I took my hat.

“It seems to me,” I observed, “that what is sauce--that, I should say, husband and wife ought to stand on an equal footing in these matters. Since he has--no doubt for good reasons--not mentioned to you--”

“Alice Layton was a positive fright.”

“She came last,” said I. “Just before you, you know. However, as I was saying--”

“And that horrible Sylvia Fenton--”

“Oh, he couldn’t have known you long then. As I was saying, I should, if I were you, treat him as he has treated you. In my case it seems to be too late.”

“I’m sorry I told him that.”

“Oh, pray don’t mind, it’s of no consequence. As to the others--”

“I should never have thought it of Archie!”

“One never knows,” said I, with an apologetic smile. “I don’t suppose he thinks it of you.”

“I won’t tell him a single word. He may find out if he likes. Who was the last girl you mentioned?”

“Is it any use trying to remember all their names?” I asked in a soothing tone. “No doubt he’s forgotten them by now--just as you’ve forgotten the others.”

“And the Dowager told me that he had never had an attachment before.”

“Oh, if the Dowager said that! Of course, the Dowager would know!”

“Don’t be so silly, for goodness sake! Are you going?”

“Certainly I am. It might annoy Archie to find me here when he wants to talk to you.”

“Well, I want to talk to him.”

“Of course you won’t repeat what I’ve--”

“I shall find out for myself,” she said.

“Goodbye. I hope I’ve removed all your troubles?”

“O, yes, thank you. I know what to do now, Mr. Carter.”

“Always send for me if you’re in any trouble. I have some exp--”

“Goodbye, Mr. Carter.”

“Goodbye, Lady Mickleham. And remember that Archie, like you--”

“Yes, yes; I know. Must you go?”

“I’m afraid I must. I’ve enjoyed our talk so--”

“There’s Archie’s step.”

I left the room. On the stairs I met Archie. I shook hands sympathetically. I was sorry for Archie. But in great causes the individual cannot be considered. I had done my duty to my sex.

MY LAST CHANCE

“Now mind,” said Mrs. Hilary Musgrave, impressively, “this is the last time I shall take any trouble about you. She’s a very nice girl, quite pretty, and she’ll have a lot of money. You can be very pleasant when you like--”

“This unsolicited testimonial--”

“Which isn’t often--and if you don’t do it this time I wash my hands of you. Why, how old are you?”

“Hush, Mrs. Hilary.”

“You must be nearly--”

“It’s false--false--false!”

“Come along,” said Mrs. Hilary, and she added over her shoulder, “she has a slight north-country accent.”

“It might have been Scotch,” said I.

“She plays the piano a good deal.”

“It might have been the fiddle,” said I.

“She’s very fond of Browning.”

“It might have been Ibsen,” said I.

Mrs. Hilary, seeing that I was determined to look on the bright side, smiled graciously on me and introduced me to the young lady. She was decidedly good-looking, fresh and sincere of aspect, with large inquiring eyes--eyes which I felt would demand a little too much of me at breakfast--but then a large tea-urn puts that all right.

“Miss Sophia Milton--Mr. Carter,” said Mrs. Hilary, and left us.

Well, we tried the theaters first; but as she had only been to the Lyceum and I had only been to the Gaioety, we soon got to the end of that. Then we tried Art: she asked me what I thought of Degas: I evaded the question by criticizing a drawing of a horse in last week’s Punch--which she hadn’t seen. Upon this she started literature. She said “Some Qualms and a Shiver” was the book of the season. I put my money on “The Queen of the Quorn.” Dead stop again! And I saw Mrs. Hilary’s eye upon me; there was wrath in her face. Something must be done. A brilliant idea seized me. I had read that four-fifths of the culture of England were Conservative. I also was a Conservative. It was four to one on! I started politics. I could have whooped for joy when I elicited something particularly incisive about the ignorance of the masses.

“I do hope you agree with me,” said Miss Milton. “The more one reads and thinks, the more one sees how fatally false a theory it is that the ignorant masses--people such as I have described--can ever rule a great Empire.”

“The Empire wants gentlemen; that’s what it wants,” said I, nodding my head and glancing triumphantly at Mrs. Hilary.

“Men and women,” said she, “who are acquainted with the best that has been said and thought on all important subjects.”

At the time I believed this observation to be original, but I have since been told that it was borrowed. I was delighted with it.

“Yes,” said I, “and have got a stake in the country, you know, and know how to behave emselves in the House, don’t you know?”

“What we have to do,” pursued Miss Milton, “is to guide the voters. These poor rustics need to be informed--”

“Just so,” I broke in. “They have to be told--”

“Of the real nature of the questions--”

“And which candidate to support.”

“Or they must infallibly”--she exclaimed.

“Get their marching orders,” I cried, in rapture. It was exactly what I always did on my small property.

“Oh, I didn’t quite mean that,” she said reproachfully.

“Oh, well, neither did I--quite,” I responded adroitly. What was wrong with the girl now?

“But with the help of the League--” she went on.

“Do you belong?” I cried, more delighted than ever.

“O, yes,” said she. “I think it’s a duty. I worked very hard at the last election. I spent days distributing packages of--”

Then I made, I’m sorry to say, a false step. I observed, interrupting:

“But it’s ticklish work now, eh? Six months’ ‘hard’ wouldn’t be pleasant, would it?”

“What do you mean, Mr.--er Carter?” she asked.

I was still blind. I believe I winked, and I’m sure I whispered, “Tea.”

Miss Milton drew herself up very straight.

“I do not bribe,” she said. “What I distribute is pamphlets.”

Now I suppose that “pamphlets” and “blankets don’t really sound much alike, but I was agitated.

“Quite right,” said I. “Poor old things! They can’t afford proper fuel.”

She rose to her feet.

“I was not joking,” she said with horrible severity.

“Neither was I,” I declared in humble apology. “Didn’t you say blankets?’”

“Pamphlets.”

“Oh!”

There was a long pause. I glanced at Mrs. Hilary. Things had not fallen out as happily as they might, but I did not mean to give up yet.

“I see you’re right,” I said, still humbly. “To descend to such means as I had in my mind is--”

“To throw away our true weapons,” said she earnestly. (She sat down again--good sign.)

“What we really need--” I began.

“Is a reform of the upper classes,” said she.

“Let them give an example of duty, of self-denial, of frugality.”

I was not to be caught out again.

“Just what I always say,” I observed, impressively.

“Let them put away their horse racing, their betting, their luxurious living, their--”

“You’re right, Miss Milton,” said I.

“Let them set an example of morality.”

“They should,” I assented.

Miss Milton smiled.

“I thought we agreed really,” said she.

“I’m sure we do,” cried I; and I winked with my “off” eye at Mrs. Hilary as I sat down beside Miss Milton.

“Now I heard of a man the other day,” said she, “who’s nearly 40. He’s got an estate in the country. He never goes there, except for a few days’ shooting. He lives in town. He spends too much. He passes an absolutely vacant existence in a round of empty gaiety. He has by no means a good reputation. He dangles about, wasting his time and his money. Is that the sort of example--?”

“He’s a traitor to his class,” said I warmly.

“If you want him, you must look on a race course, or at a tailor’s, or in some fashionable woman’s boudoir. And his estate looks after itself. He’s too selfish to marry, too idle to work, too silly to think.”

I began to be sorry for this man, in spite of his peccadilloes.

“I wonder if I’ve met him,” said I. “I’m occasionally in town, when I can get time to run up. What’s his name?”

“I don’t think I heard--or I’ve forgotten. But he’s got the place next to a friend of mine in the country, and she told me all about him. She’s exactly the opposite sort of person--or she wouldn’t be my friend.”

“I should think not, Miss Milton,” said I admiringly.

“Oh, I should like to meet that man, and tell him what I think of him!” said she. “Such men as he do more harm than a dozen agitators. So contemptible, too!”

“It’s revolting to think of,” said I.

“I’m so glad you--” began Miss Milton, quite confidentially; I pulled my chair a trifle closer, and cast an apparently careless glance towards Mrs. Hilary. Suddenly I heard a voice behind me.

“Eh, what? Upon my honor it is! Why, Carter, my boy, how are you? Eh, what? Miss Milton, too, I declare! Well, now, what a pity Annie didn’t come!”

I disagreed. I hate Annie. But I was very glad to see my friend and neighbor, Robert Dinnerly. He’s a sensible man--his wife’s a little prig.

“Oh, Mr. Dinnerly,” cried Miss Milton, “how funny that you should come just now? I was just trying to remember the name of a man Mrs. Dinnerly told me about. I was telling Mr. Carter about him. You know him.”

“Well, Miss Milton, perhaps I do. Describe him.”

“I don’t believe Annie ever told me his name, but she was talking about him at our house yesterday.”

“But I wasn’t there, Miss Milton.”

“No,” said Miss Milton, “but he’s got the next place to yours in the country.”

I positively leaped from my seat.

“Why, good gracious, Carter himself, you mean?” cried Dinnerly, laughing. “Well, that is a good un--ha-ha-ha!”

She turned a stony glare on me.

“Do you live next to Mr. Dinnerly in the country?” she asked.

I would have denied it if Dinnerly had not been there. As it was, I blew my nose.

“I wonder,” said Miss Milton, “what has become of Aunt Emily.”

“Miss Milton,” said I, “by a happy chance you have enjoyed a luxury. You have told the man what you think of him.”

“Yes,” said she; “and I have only to add that he is also a hypocrite.”

Pleasant, wasn’t it? Yet Mrs. Hilary says it was my fault. That’s a woman all over!

THE LITTLE WRETCH

Seeing that little Johnny Tompkins was safely out of the country, under injunctions to make a new man of himself, and to keep that new man, when made, at the Antipodes, I could not see anything indiscreet in touching on the matter in the course of conversation with Mrs. Hilary Musgrave. In point of fact, I was curious to find out what she knew, and supposing she knew, what she thought. So I mentioned little Johnny Tompkins.

“Oh, the little wretch!” cried Mrs. Hilary. “You know he came here two or three times? Anybody can impose on Hilary.”

“Happy woman I--I mean unhappy man, Mrs. Hilary.”

“And how much was it he stole?”

“Hard on a thousand,” said I. “For a time, you know, he was quite a man of fashion.”

“Oh, I know. He came here in his own hansom, perfectly dressed, and--”

“Behaved all right, didn’t he?”

“Yes. Of course there was a something.”

“Or you wouldn’t have been deceived!” said I, with a smile.

“I wasn’t deceived,” said Mrs. Hilary, an admirable flush appearing on her cheeks.

“That is to say, Hilary wouldn’t.”

“Oh, Hilary! Why didn’t his employers prosecute him, Mr. Carter?”

“In the first place, he had that inestimable advantage in a career of dishonesty--respectable relations.”

“Well, but still--”

“His widowed mother was a trump, you know.”

“Do you mean a good woman.”

“Doubtless she was; but I mean a good card. However, there was another reason.”

“I can’t see any,” declared Mrs. Hilary.

“I’m going to surprise you,” said I. “Hilary interceded for him.”

“Hilary?”

“You didn’t know it? I thought not. Well, he did.”

“Why, he always pretended to want him to be convicted.”

“Cunning Hilary!” said I.

“He used to speak most strongly against him.”

“That was his guile,” said I.

“Oh, but why in the world--?” she began; then she paused, and went on again: “It was nothing to do with Hilary.”

“Hilary went with me to see him, you know, while they had him under lock and key at the firm’s offices.”

“Did he? I never heard that.”

“And he was much impressed with his bearing.”

“Well, I suppose, Mr. Carter, that if he was really penitent--”

“Never saw a man less penitent,” I interrupted. “He gloried in his crime; if I remember his exact expression, it was that the jam was jolly well worth the powder, and if they liked to send him to chokee they could and be--and suffer accordingly, you know.”

“And after that, Hilary--!”

“Oh, anybody can impose on Hilary, you know. Hilary only asked what the jam was.”

“It’s a horrid expression, but I suppose it meant acting the part of a gentleman, didn’t it?”

“Not entirely. According to what he told Hilary, Johnny was in love.”

“Oh, and he stole for some wretched--?”

“Now do be careful. What do you know about the lady?”

“The lady! I can imagine Johnny Tompkin’s’s ideal?”