CHAPTER IX

OFF AND ON

But even a woman cannot calculate with certainty on what another woman will or will not do under given circumstances. The greatest generals have been defeated by unforeseen obstacles. A night's rain or a sandy road may foil the wisest strategy, destroy the nicest combinations.

Miss Douglas never came to dinner after all, and Daisy, too, was absent. Mrs. Lushington, outwardly deploring the want of a "young man" for the "Gordon girls," inwardly puzzled her brains to account for the joint desertion of her principal performers, a frightful suspicion crossing her mind that she might have been too vigorous in her measures, and so frightened Satanella into carrying Daisy off with her, _nolens volens_, once for all. She had short notes of excuse, indeed, from both; but with these she was by no means satisfied: the lady pleading headache, the gentleman a pre-engagement, since called to mind--this might mean anything. But if they _had_ gone away together, she thought, never would she meddle in such matters again!

Not till dinner was over, and Bessie Gordon had sat down to sing plaintive ballads in the drawing-room, did she feel reassured; but the last post brought a few lines from the General in fulfilment of his pledge to let her know how his wooing had sped.

"Congratulate me," he wrote, "my dear Mrs. Lushington, on having taken your advice. You were right about procrastination" (the General loved a long word, and was indeed somewhat pompous when he put pen to paper). "I am convinced that but for your kind counsels I should hardly have done justice to myself or the lady for whom I entertain so deep and lasting a regard. I feel I may now venture to hope time will do much--constant devotion more. At some future period, not far distant, it may be my pride to present to you your beautiful young charge in a new character, as the wife of your obliged and sincere friend--V. St. Josephs."

"V. St. Josephs?" repeated Mrs. Lushington. "I wonder what V. stands for. Valentine, if I remember right. And I wonder what on earth he means _me_ to gather from his letter! I cannot make head or tail of it. If she has accepted him, what makes him talk about time and devotion? If she has refused him, surely he never can intend to persevere! Blanche, Blanche! if you're playing a double game, it will be the worse for you, and I'll never trust a woman with dark eyes again!"

The Gordon girls, going home in their hired brougham, voted that "dear Mrs. Lushington had one of her headaches; that Mr. L. was delightful; that after all, it seemed very selfish of Clara not to have secured them a couple of men; finally, that they had spent a stupid evening, and would be too glad to go to bed!"

All details of love-making are probably much alike, nor is there great room for variety in the putting of that direct question, to which the path of courtship necessarily conducts its dupe. General St. Josephs kept no copy of the letter in which he solicited Miss Douglas to become his wife. That lady tore it immediately into shreds, that went fluttering up the chimney. Doubtless it was sincere and dignified, even if diffuse; worthy, too, of a more elaborate answer than the single line she scribbled in reply:--

"Come and talk it over. I am at home till seven."

His courage rose, however, now he had got fairly into action, and never had he felt less nervous while dismounting at the well-known door, than on this supreme occasion, when he was to learn his fate, as he believed, once for all, from the lips of the woman he loved.

Like most men trained in the school of danger, strong excitement strung his nerves and cleared his vision, he no longer averted his eyes from the face that heretofore so dazzled them; on the contrary, entering the presence of Miss Douglas, he took in her form and features at a glance, as a man scans the figure of an adversary, while he prepares for attack.

It did not escape him that she looked flurried and depressed, that her hand trembled, and her colour went and came. Arguing favourably from these symptoms, he was somewhat disappointed with the first sentence she addressed to him.

"You wrote me a letter, General," said she, forcing a nervous little laugh. "Such a funny letter! I didn't quite know what to make of it!"

A funny letter! And his heart had beat, his eyes had filled, his highest, noblest feelings had been stirred with every line!

He was conscious that his bow seemed stern, even pompous, while he answered with exceeding gravity--

"Surely I made my meaning clear enough. Surely, Miss Douglas--Blanche; may I not call you _Blanche_?"

"Yes; if you like," said she impatiently. "It's a hateful name, I think. That's not my fault. Well, General, what were you going to say?"

He looked and indeed felt perplexed. "I was going to observe," said he, "that as my question was very straightforward, and very much in earnest, so all my future happiness depends on your reply."

"I wonder what there is you can see in me to like!" she retorted, with an impatient movement of her whole body, as if she was in fetters, and felt the restraint. "I'm not good enough for anybody to care for, that's the truth, General. There's hardly a girl in London who wouldn't suit you better than me."

He was looking in her face with sincere admiration.

"That is not the question," he replied. "Surely I am old enough to know my own mind. Besides, you do not seem conscious of your power. You could make a bishop fall in love with you in ten minutes, if you chose!"

There came a depth of tenderness in her eyes, a smile, half sad, half sweet, about her lips, which he interpreted in his own way.

"Do you think so?" said she. "I wish I could believe you. I've not had a happy youth, and I've not been brought up in a very good school. I often tell myself I could, and ought to have been better, but somehow one's whole life seems to be a mistake!"

"A mistake I could rectify, if you would give me the right," answered St. Josephs, disheartened, but not despairing. "I only ask you to judge me fairly, to trust me honestly, and to love me some day, if you _can_!"

She gave him her hand. He drew her towards him, and pressed his lips to her cold, smooth brow. No more, and yet he fancied she was his own at last. Already half pledged, already half an affianced wife. She released herself quickly, and sat down on the farther side of her work-table.

"You are very generous," she said, "and very good. I still maintain you deserve somebody far superior to me. How odd these sort of things are, and why do they never turn out as one--expects?"

She was going to say "wishes," but stopped herself in time.

He would _not_ understand.

"Life is made up of hopes and disappointments," he observed. "You do not seem to hope much, Blanche. I trust, therefore, you will have less cause for disappointment. I will do all in _my_ power. And now, dearest, do not call me impatient, fidgetty; but, when do you think I may look forward to--to making arrangements in which we are to be equally interested?"

"Oh! I don't know!" she exclaimed, with considerable emphasis. "Not yet, of course: there's plenty of time. And I'm so hurried and worried, I can hardly speak! Besides, it's very late. I promised to dine with Mrs. Lushington, and it's nearly eight o'clock now."

Even from a future help-meet, so broad a hint could not be disregarded. The General was forced to put on his gloves and prepare for departure.

"But I shall see you again soon," he pleaded. "Shall you be at the opera--at Mrs. Cramwell's--at Belgrave House?"

"Certainly not at Belgrave House!" she answered impatiently. "I hate a crush; and that woman asks all the casuals in London. It's a regular refuge for the destitute. I'm not going there _yet_. I may, perhaps, when I'm destitute!"

There was a hard ring in her voice that distressed him, and she perceived it.

"Don't look so wretched," she added kindly. "There are places in the world besides Belgrave Square and Covent Garden. What do you say to Punchestown? It's next week, and I'm sure to be _there_!"

He turned pale, seeming no whit reassured. "Punchestown," he repeated. "What on earth takes you to Punchestown?"

"Don't you know I've got a horse to run?" she said lightly. "I should like to see it win, and I do _not_ believe they have anything in Ireland half as good as my beautiful Satanella!"

"Is that all?" he asked in a disturbed voice. "It seems such an odd reason for a lady; and it's a long journey, you know, with a horrible crossing at this time of year! Blanche, Miss Douglas, can you not stay away, as--as a favour to _me_?"

There was an angry flush on her cheek, an angry glitter in her eyes, but she kept her temper bravely, and only said in mocking accents--

"Already, General! No; if you mean to be a tyrant you must wait till you come to the throne. I intend to show at Punchestown the first day of the races. I have made an assignation with _you_. If you like to keep it, well and good; if you like to let it alone, do! I shall not break my heart!"

He felt at a disadvantage. She seemed so cool, so unimpressionable, so devoid of the sentiment and sensibility he longed to kindle in her nature. For a moment, he could almost have wished to draw back, to resume his freedom, while there was yet time; but no, she looked so handsome, so queenly--he had rather be wretched with _her_ than happy with any other woman in the world!

"Of course, I will not fail," he answered. "I would go a deal further than Punchestown, only to be within hearing of your voice. When do you start? If Mrs. Lushington, or anybody you knew well, would accompany you, why should we not cross over together?"

"Now, you're too exacting," she replied. "Haven't I told you we shall meet on the course, when the saddling-bell rings for the first race. Not a moment sooner, and my wish is the law of the Medes and Persians--as yet!"

The two last words carried a powerful charm. Had he been mature in wisdom as in years, he ought never to have thought of marrying a woman who could influence him so easily.

"I shall count the days till then," he replied gallantly. "They will pass very slowly, but, as the turnspit says in the Spanish proverb, 'the largest leg of mutton must get done in time!' Good-bye, Miss Douglas. Good luck to you; and I hope Satanella will win!"

He bowed over the hand she gave him, but did not attempt to kiss it, taking his leave with a mingled deference and interest she could not but appreciate and admire.

"_Why_ can't I care for him?" she murmured passionately, as the street-door closed with a bang. "He's good, he's generous, he's a _gentleman_! Poor fellow, he loves me devotedly; he's by no means ugly, and he's not so _very_ old! Yet I can't, I can't! And I've promised him, _almost_ promised him! Well, come what may, I've got a clear week of freedom still. But what a fool I've been, and oh! what a fool I _am_!"

Then she sent her excuse to Mrs. Lushington, declined dinner at home, ordered tea, didn't drink any, and so crept sorrowful and supperless to bed.