"You married her."
"The circ.u.mstances are admitted."
"If I may hazard a guess, she is unlikely to come to terms without a previous interview. She is bent on meeting you."
"I am to be subjected to further annoyance, or she will take the name of the place she at present inhabits, and bombard me with it. Those are the terms."
"She has a brother living, I remind you."
"State the deduction, if you please, my lady."
"She is not of "a totally inferior family."
"She had a father famous over England as the Old Buccaneer, and is a diligent reader of his book of MAXIMS FOR MEN."
"Dear me! Then Kirby--Captain Kirby! I remember. That"s her origin, is it?" the great lady cried, illumined. "My mother used to talk of the Cressett scandal. Old Lady Arpington, too. At any rate, it ended in their union--the formalities were properly respected, as soon as they could be."
"I am unaware."
"I detest such a tone of speaking. Speaking as you do now--married to the daughter? You are not yourself, Lord Fleetwood."
"Quite, ma"am, let me a.s.sure you. Otherwise the Kirby-Cressetts would be dictating to me from the muzzle of one of the old rapscallion"s Maxims.
They will learn that I am myself."
"You don"t improve as you proceed. I tell you this, you"ll not have me for a friend. You have your troops of satellites; but take it as equal to a prophecy, you won"t have London with you; and you"ll hear of Lord Fleetwood and his Whitechapel Countess till your ears ache."
The preluding box on them reddened him.
"She will have the offer of Esslemont."
"Undertake to persuade her in person."
"I have spoken on that head."
"Well, I may be mistaken,--I fancied it before I knew of the pair she springs from: you won"t get her consent to anything without your consenting to meet her. Surely it"s the manlier way. It might be settled for to-morrow, here, in this room. She prays to meet you."
With an indicated gesture of "Save me from it," Fleetwood bowed.
He left no friend thinking over the riddle of his conduct. She was a loud-voiced lady, given to strike out phrases. The "Whitechapel Countess" of the wealthiest n.o.bleman of his day was heard by her on London"s wagging tongue. She considered also that he ought at least have propitiated her; he was in the position requiring of him to do something of the kind, and he had shown instead the dogged pride which calls for a whip. Fool as he must have been to go and commit himself to marriage with a girl of whom he knew nothing or little, the a.s.sumption of pride belonged to the order of impudent disguises intolerable to behold and not, in a modern manner, castigate.
Notwithstanding a dislike of the Dowager Countess of Fleetwood, Lady Arpington paid Livia an afternoon visit; and added thereby to the stock of her knowledge and the grounds of her disapprobation.
Down in Whitechapel, it was known to the Winch girls and the Woodseers that Captain Kirby and his wife had spent the bitterest of hours in vainly striving to break their immoveable sister"s will to remain there.
At the tea-time of simple people, who make it a meal, Gower"s appet.i.te for the home-made bread of Mary Jones was checked by the bearer of a short note from Lord Fleetwood. The half-dozen lines were cordial, breathing of their walk in the Austrian highlands, and naming a renowned city hotel for dinner that day, the hour seven, the reply yes or no by messenger.
"But we are man to man, so there"s no "No" between us two," the note said, reviving a scene of rosy crag and pine forest, where there had been philosophical fun over the appropriate s.e.xes of those our most important fighting-ultimately, we will hope, to be united-syllables, and the when for men, the when for women, to select the one of them as their weapon.
Under the circ.u.mstances, Gower thought such a piece of writing to him magnanimous.
"It may be the solution," his father remarked.
Both had the desire; and Gower"s reply was the yes, our brave male word, supposed to be not so compromising to men in the employment of it as a form of acquiescence rather than insistent pressure.
CHAPTER XXIII. IN DAME GOSSIP"S VEIN
Right soon the London pot began to bubble. There was a marriage.
"There are marriages by the thousand every day of the year that is not consecrated to prayer for the forgiveness of our sins," the Old Buccaneer, writing it with simple intent, says, by way of preface to a series of Maxims for men who contemplate acceptance of the yoke.
This was a marriage high as the firmament over common occurrences, black as Erebus to confound; it involved the wreck of expectations, disastrous eclipse of a sovereign luminary in the splendour of his rise, Phaethon"s descent to the Shades through a smoking and a crackling world. a.s.serted here, verified there, the rumour gathered volume, and from a serpent of vapour resolved to st.u.r.dy concrete before it was tangible. Contradiction retired into corners, only to be swept out of them. For this marriage, abominable to hear of, was of so wonderful a sort, that the story filled the mind, and the discrediting of the story threatened the great world"s cranium with a vacuity yet more monstrously abominable.
For he, the planet Croesus of his time, recently, scarce later than last night, a glorious object of the mid-heavens above the market, has been enveloped, caught, gobbled up by one of the nameless little witches riding after dusk the way of the wind on broomsticks-by one of them! She caught him like a fly in the hand off a pane of gla.s.s, gobbled him with the customary facility of a pecking pullet.
But was the planet Croesus of his time a young man to be so caught, so gobbled?
There is the mystery of it. On his coming of age, that young man gave sign of his having a city head. He put his guardians deliberately aside, had his lawyers and bailiffs and stewards thoroughly under control: managed a particularly difficult step-mother; escaped the snares of her lovely cousin; and drove his team of sycophants exactly the road he chose to go and no other. He had a will.
The world accounted him wildish?
Always from his own offset, to his own ends. Never for another"s dictation or beguilement. Never for a woman. He was born with a suspicion of the s.e.x. Poetry decorated women, he said, to lime and drag men in the foulest ruts of prose.
We are to believe he has been effectively captured?
It is positively a marriage; he admits it.
Where celebrated?
There we are at hoodman-blind for the moment. Three counties claim the church; two ends of London.
She is not a person of society, lineage?
Nor of beauty. She is a witch; ordinarily petticoated and not squeaking like a shrew-mouse in her flights, but not a whit less a moon-shade witch. The kind is famous. Fairy tales and terrible romances tell of her; she is just as much at home in life, and springs usually from the mire to enthral our knightliest. Is it a popular hero? She has him, sooner or later. A planet Croesus? He falls to her.
That is, if his people fail to attach him in legal bonds to a damsel of a corresponding birth on the day when he is breeched.
Small is her need to be young--especially if it is the man who is very young. She is the created among women armed with the deadly instinct for the motive force in men, and shameless to attract it. Self-respecting women treat men as their tamed housemates. She blows the horn of the wild old forest, irresistible to the animal. O the droop of the eyelids, the curve of a lip, the rustle of silks, the much heart, the neat ankle; and the sparkling agreement, the reserve--the motherly feminine pet.i.tion that she may retain her own small petted babe of an opinion, legitimate or not, by permission of superior authority!--proof at once of her intelligence and her appreciativeness. Her infinitesimal spells are seen; yet, despite experience, the magnetism in their repulsive display is barely apprehended by sedate observers until the astounding capture is proclaimed. It is visible enough then:--and O men! O morals! If she can but trick the smallest bit in stooping, she has the pick of men.
Our present sample shows her to be young: she is young and a foreigner.
Mr. Chumley Potts vouches for it. Speaks foreign English. He thinks her more ninny than knave: she is the tool of a wily plotter, picked up off the highway road by Lord Fleetwood as soon as he had her in his eye. Sir Meeson Corby wrings his frilled hands to depict the horror of the hands of that tramp the young lord had her from. They afflict him malariously still. The man, he says, the man as well was an infatuation, because he talks like a Dictionary Cheap Jack, and may have had an education and dropped into vagrancy, owing to indiscretions. Lord Fleetwood ran about in Germany repeating his remarks. But the man is really an accomplished violinist, we hear. She dances the tambourine business. A sister of the man, perhaps, if we must be charitable. They are, some say, a couple of Hungarian gypsies Lord F. found at a show and brought over to England, and soon had it on his conscience that he ought to marry her, like the Quixote of honour that he is; which is equal to saying crazy, as there is no doubt his mother was.
The marriage is no longer disputable; poor Lady Fleetwood, whatever her faults as a step-mother, does no longer deny the celebration of a marriage; though she might reasonably discredit any such story if he, on the evening of the date of the wedding day, was at a Ball, seen by her at the supper-table; though it is admitted he left the Ball-room at night. But the next day he certainly was in his place among the Peers and voted against the Government, and then went down to his estates in Wales, being an excellent holder of the reins, whether on the coach box or over the cash box.
More and more wonderful, we hear that he drove his bride straight from the church to the field of a prizefight, arranged for her special delectation. She doats on seeing blood-shed and drinking champagne.
Young Mr. Mallard is our authority; and he says, she enjoyed it, and cheered the victor for being her husband"s man. And after the shocking exhibition, good-bye; the Countess of Fleetwood was left sole occupant of a wayside inn, and may have learnt in her solitude that she would have been wise to feign disgust; for men to the smallest degree cultivated are unable to pardon a want of delicacy in a woman who has chosen them, as they are taught to think by their having chosen her.