“Anything the matter, Apjohn?” said Mr. Fothergill, kindly, seeing the utter despair written on the poor man’s countenance; “can I get anything for you?”
“The sauce!” said Mr. Apjohn, in a voice that would have melted a hermit; and as he looked at Mr. Fothergill, he pointed at the now distant sinner, who was dispensing his melted ambrosia at least ten heads upwards, away from the unfortunate supplicant.
Mr. Fothergill, however, knew where to look for balm for such wounds, and in a minute or two, Mr. Apjohn was employed quite to his heart’s content.
“Well,” said Frank to his neighbour, “it may be very well once in a way; but I think that on the whole Dr. Thorne is right.”
“My dear Mr. Gresham, see the world on all sides,” said Mr. Athill, who had also been somewhat intent on the gratification of his own appetite, though with an energy less evident than that of the gentleman opposite. “See the world on all sides if you have an opportunity; and, believe me, a good dinner now and then is a very good thing.”
“Yes; but I don’t like eating it with hogs.”
“Whish-h! softly, softly, Mr. Gresham, or you’ll disturb Mr. Apjohn’s digestion. Upon my word, he’ll want it all before he has done. Now, I like this kind of thing once in a way.”
“Do you?” said Frank, in a tone that was almost savage.
“Yes; indeed I do. One sees so much character. And after all, what harm does it do?”
“My idea is that people should live with those whose society is pleasant to them.”
“Live—yes, Mr. Gresham—I agree with you there. It wouldn’t do for me to live with the Duke of Omnium; I shouldn’t understand, or probably approve, his ways. Nor should I, perhaps, much like the constant presence of Mr. Apjohn. But now and then—once in a year or so—I do own I like to see them both. Here’s the cup; now, whatever you do, Mr. Gresham, don’t pass the cup without tasting it.”
And so the dinner passed on, slowly enough as Frank thought, but all too quickly for Mr. Apjohn. It passed away, and the wine came circulating freely. The tongues again were loosed, the teeth being released from their labours, and under the influence of the claret the duke’s presence was forgotten.
But very speedily the coffee was brought. “This will soon be over now,” said Frank, to himself, thankfully; for, though he by no means despised good claret, he had lost his temper too completely to enjoy it at the present moment. But he was much mistaken; the farce as yet was only at its commencement. The duke took his cup of coffee, and so did the few friends who sat close to him; but the beverage did not seem to be in great request with the majority of the guests. When the duke had taken his modicum, he rose up and silently retired, saying no word and making no sign. And then the farce commenced.
“Now, gentlemen,” said Mr. Fothergill, cheerily, “we are all right. Apjohn, is there claret there? Mr. Bolus, I know you stick to the Madeira; you are quite right, for there isn’t much of it left, and my belief is there’ll never be more like it.”
And so the duke’s hospitality went on, and the duke’s guests drank merrily for the next two hours.
“Shan’t we see any more of him?” asked Frank.
“Any more of whom?” said Mr. Athill.
“Of the duke?”
“Oh, no; you’ll see no more of him. He always goes when the coffee comes. It’s brought in as an excuse. We’ve had enough of the light of his countenance to last till next year. The duke and I are excellent friends; and have been so these fifteen years; but I never see more of him than that.”
“I shall go away,” said Frank.
“Nonsense. Mr. de Courcy and your other friend won’t stir for this hour yet.”
“I don’t care. I shall walk on, and they may catch me. I may be wrong; but it seems to me that a man insults me when he asks me to dine with him and never speaks to me. I don’t care if he be ten times Duke of Omnium; he can’t be more than a gentleman, and as such I am his equal.” And then, having thus given vent to his feelings in somewhat high-flown language, he walked forth and trudged away along the road towards Courcy.
Frank Gresham had been born and bred a Conservative, whereas the Duke of Omnium was well known as a consistent Whig. There is no one so devoutly resolved to admit of no superior as your Conservative, born and bred, no one so inclined to high domestic despotism as your thoroughgoing consistent old Whig.
When he had proceeded about six miles, Frank was picked up by his friends; but even then his anger had hardly cooled.
“Was the duke as civil as ever when you took your leave of him?” said he to his cousin George, as he took his seat on the drag.
“The juke has jeuced jude wine—lem me tell you that, old fella,” hiccupped out the Honourable George, as he touched up the leader under the flank.
CHAPTER XX
The Proposal
And now the departures from Courcy Castle came rapidly one after another, and there remained but one more evening before Miss Dunstable’s carriage was to be packed. The countess, in the early moments of Frank’s courtship, had controlled his ardour and checked the rapidity of his amorous professions; but as days, and at last weeks, wore away, she found that it was necessary to stir the fire which she had before endeavoured to slacken.
“There will be nobody here to-night but our own circle,” said she to him, “and I really think you should tell Miss Dunstable what your intentions are. She will have fair ground to complain of you if you do not.”
Frank began to feel that he was in a dilemma. He had commenced making love to Miss Dunstable partly because he liked the amusement, and partly from a satirical propensity to quiz his aunt by appearing to fall into her scheme. But he had overshot the mark, and did not know what answer to give when he was thus called upon to make a downright proposal. And then, although he did not care two rushes about Miss Dunstable in the way of love, he nevertheless experienced a sort of jealousy when he found that she appeared to be indifferent to him, and that she corresponded the meanwhile with his cousin George. Though all their flirtations had been carried on on both sides palpably by way of fun, though Frank had told himself ten times a day that his heart was true to Mary Thorne, yet he had an undefined feeling that it behoved Miss Dunstable to be a little in love with him. He was not quite at ease in that she was not a little melancholy now that his departure was so nigh; and, above all, he was anxious to know what were the real facts about that letter. He had in his own breast threatened Miss Dunstable with a heartache; and now, when the time for their separation came, he found that his own heart was the more likely to ache of the two.
“I suppose I must say something to her, or my aunt will never be satisfied,” said he to himself as he sauntered into the little drawing-room on that last evening. But at the very time he was ashamed of himself, for he knew he was going to ask badly.
His sister and one of his cousins were in the room, but his aunt, who was quite on the alert, soon got them out of it, and Frank and Miss Dunstable were alone.
“So all our fun and all our laughter is come to an end,” said she, beginning the conversation. “I don’t know how you feel, but for myself I really am a little melancholy at the idea of parting;” and she looked up at him with her laughing black eyes, as though she never had, and never could have a care in the world.
“Melancholy! oh, yes; you look so,” said Frank, who really did feel somewhat lackadaisically sentimental.
“But how thoroughly glad the countess must be that we are both going,” continued she. “I declare we have treated her most infamously. Ever since we’ve been here we’ve had all the amusement to ourselves. I’ve sometimes thought she would turn me out of the house.”
“I wish with all my heart she had.”
“Oh, you cruel barbarian! why on earth should you wish that?”
“That I might have joined you in your exile. I hate Courcy Castle, and should have rejoiced to leave—and—and—”
“And what?”
“And I love Miss Dunstable, and should have doubly, trebly rejoiced to leave it with her.”
Frank’s voice quivered a little as he made this gallant profession; but still Miss Dunstable only laughed the louder. “Upon my word, of all my knights you are by far the best behaved,” said she, “and say much the prettiest things.” Frank became rather red in the face, and felt that he did so. Miss Dunstable was treating him like a boy. While she pretended to be so fond of him she was only laughing at him, and corresponding the while with his cousin George. Now Frank Gresham already entertained a sort of contempt for his cousin, which increased the bitterness of his feelings. Could it really be possible that George had succeeded while he had utterly failed; that his stupid cousin had touched the heart of the heiress while she was playing with him as with a boy?
“Of all your knights! Is that the way you talk to me when we are going to part? When was it, Miss Dunstable, that George de Courcy became one of them?”
Miss Dunstable for a while looked serious enough. “What makes you ask that?” said she. “What makes you inquire about Mr. de Courcy?”
“Oh, I have eyes, you know, and can’t help seeing. Not that I see, or have seen anything that I could possibly help.”
“And what have you seen, Mr. Gresham?”
“Why, I know you have been writing to him.”
“Did he tell you so?”
“No; he did not tell me; but I know it.”
For a moment she sat silent, and then her face again resumed its usual happy smile. “Come, Mr. Gresham, you are not going to quarrel with me, I hope, even if I did write a letter to your cousin. Why should I not write to him? I correspond with all manner of people. I’ll write to you some of these days if you’ll let me, and will promise to answer my letters.”
Frank threw himself back on the sofa on which he was sitting, and, in doing so, brought himself somewhat nearer to his companion than he had been; he then drew his hand slowly across his forehead, pushing back his thick hair, and as he did so he sighed somewhat plaintively.
“I do not care,” said he, “for the privilege of correspondence on such terms. If my cousin George is to be a correspondent of yours also, I will give up my claim.”
And then he sighed again, so that it was piteous to hear him. He was certainly an arrant puppy, and an egregious ass into the bargain; but then, it must be remembered in his favour that he was only twenty-one, and that much had been done to spoil him. Miss Dunstable did remember this, and therefore abstained from laughing at him.
“Why, Mr. Gresham, what on earth do you mean? In all human probability I shall never write another line to Mr. de Courcy; but, if I did, what possible harm could it do you?”
“Oh, Miss Dunstable! you do not in the least understand what my feelings are.”
“Don’t I? Then I hope I never shall. I thought I did. I thought they were the feelings of a good, true-hearted friend; feelings that I could sometimes look back upon with pleasure as being honest when so much that one meets is false. I have become very fond of you, Mr. Gresham, and I should be sorry to think that I did not understand your feelings.”
This was almost worse and worse. Young ladies like Miss Dunstable—for she was still to be numbered in the category of young ladies—do not usually tell young gentlemen that they are very fond of them. To boys and girls they may make such a declaration. Now Frank Gresham regarded himself as one who had already fought his battles, and fought them not without glory; he could not therefore endure to be thus openly told by Miss Dunstable that she was very fond of him.
“Fond of me, Miss Dunstable! I wish you were.”
“So I am—very.”
“You little know how fond I am of you, Miss Dunstable,” and he put out his hand to take hold of hers. She then lifted up her own, and slapped him lightly on the knuckles.
“And what can you have to say to Miss Dunstable that can make it necessary that you should pinch her hand? I tell you fairly, Mr. Gresham, if you make a fool of yourself, I shall come to a conclusion that you are all fools, and that it is hopeless to look out for anyone worth caring for.”
Such advice as this, so kindly given, so wisely meant, so clearly intelligible, he should have taken and understood, young as he was. But even yet he did not do so.
“A fool of myself! Yes; I suppose I must be a fool if I have so much regard for Miss Dunstable as to make it painful for me to know that I am to see her no more: a fool: yes, of course I am a fool—a man is always a fool when he loves.”
Miss Dunstable could not pretend to doubt his meaning any longer; and was determined to stop him, let it cost what it would. She now put out her hand, not over white, and, as Frank soon perceived, gifted with a very fair allowance of strength.
“Now, Mr. Gresham,” said she, “before you go any further you shall listen to me. Will you listen to me for a moment without interrupting me?”
Frank was of course obliged to promise that he would do so.
“You are going—or rather you were going, for I shall stop you—to make a profession of love.”
“A profession!” said Frank making a slight unsuccessful effort to get his hand free.
“Yes; a profession—a false profession, Mr. Gresham—a false profession—a false profession. Look into your heart—into your heart of hearts. I know you at any rate have a heart; look into it closely. Mr. Gresham, you know you do not love me; not as a man should love the woman whom he swears to love.”
Frank was taken aback. So appealed to he found that he could not any longer say that he did love her. He could only look into her face with all his eyes, and sit there listening to her.
“How is it possible that you should love me? I am Heaven knows how many years your senior. I am neither young nor beautiful, nor have I been brought up as she should be whom you in time will really love and make your wife. I have nothing that should make you love me; but—but? I am rich.”
“It is not that,” said Frank, stoutly, feeling himself imperatively called upon to utter something in his own defence.
“Ah, Mr. Gresham, I fear it is that. For what other reason can you have laid your plans to talk in this way to such a woman as I am?”
“I have laid no plans,” said Frank, now getting his hand to himself. “At any rate, you wrong me there, Miss Dunstable.”
“I like you so well—nay, love you, if a woman may talk of love in the way of friendship—that if money, money alone would make you happy, you should have it heaped on you. If you want it, Mr. Gresham, you shall have it.”
“I have never thought of your money,” said Frank, surlily.
“But it grieves me,” continued she, “it does grieve me, to think that you, you, you—so young, so gay, so bright—that you should have looked for it in this way. From others I have taken it just as the wind that whistles;” and now two big slow tears escaped from her eyes, and would have rolled down her rosy cheeks were it not that she brushed them off with the back of her hand.
“You have utterly mistaken me, Miss Dunstable,” said Frank.
“If I have, I will humbly beg your pardon,” said she. “But—but—but—”
“You have; indeed you have.”
“How can I have mistaken you? Were you not about to say that you loved me; to talk absolute nonsense; to make me an offer? If you were not, if I have mistaken you indeed, I will beg your pardon.”
Frank had nothing further to say in his own defence. He had not wanted Miss Dunstable’s money—that was true; but he could not deny that he had been about to talk that absolute nonsense of which she spoke with so much scorn.
“You would almost make me think that there are none honest in this fashionable world of yours. I well know why Lady de Courcy has had me here: how could I help knowing it? She has been so foolish in her plans that ten times a day she has told her own secret. But I have said to myself twenty times, that if she were crafty, you were honest.”
“And am I dishonest?”
“I have laughed in my sleeve to see how she played her game, and to hear others around playing theirs; all of them thinking that they could get the money of the poor fool who had come at their beck and call; but I was able to laugh at them as long as I thought that I had one true friend to laugh with me. But one cannot laugh with all the world against one.”
“I am not against you, Miss Dunstable.”
“Sell yourself for money! why, if I were a man I would not sell one jot of liberty for mountains of gold. What! tie myself in the heyday of my youth to a person I could never love, for a price! perjure myself, destroy myself—and not only myself, but her also, in order that I might live idly! Oh, heavens! Mr. Gresham! can it be that the words of such a woman as your aunt have sunk so deeply in your heart; have blackened you so foully as to make you think of such vile folly as this? Have you forgotten your soul, your spirit, your man’s energy, the treasure of your heart? And you, so young! For shame, Mr. Gresham! for shame—for shame.”
Frank found the task before him by no means an easy one. He had to make Miss Dunstable understand that he had never had the slightest idea of marrying her, and that he had made love to her merely with the object of keeping his hand in for the work as it were; with that object, and the other equally laudable one of interfering with his cousin George.
And yet there was nothing for him but to get through this task as best he might. He was goaded to it by the accusations which Miss Dunstable brought against him; and he began to feel, that though her invective against him might be bitter when he had told the truth, they could not be so bitter as those she now kept hinting at under her mistaken impression as to his views. He had never had any strong propensity for money-hunting; but now that offence appeared in his eyes abominable, unmanly, and disgusting. Any imputation would be better than that.
“Miss Dunstable, I never for a moment thought of doing what you accuse me of; on my honour, I never did. I have been very foolish—very wrong—idiotic, I believe; but I have never intended that.”
“Then, Mr. Gresham, what did you intend?”
This was rather a difficult question to answer; and Frank was not very quick in attempting it. “I know you will not forgive me,” he said at last; “and, indeed, I do not see how you can. I don’t know how it came about; but this is certain, Miss Dunstable; I have never for a moment thought about your fortune; that is, thought about it in the way of coveting it.”
“You never thought of making me your wife, then?”
“Never,” said Frank, looking boldly into her face.
“You never intended really to propose to go with me to the altar, and then make yourself rich by one great perjury?”
“Never for a moment,” said he.
“You have never gloated over me as the bird of prey gloats over the poor beast that is soon to become carrion beneath its claws? You have not counted me out as equal to so much land, and calculated on me as a balance at your banker’s? Ah, Mr. Gresham,” she continued, seeing that he stared as though struck almost with awe by her strong language; “you little guess what a woman situated as I am has to suffer.”