The Buccaneers

by Edith Wharton

  The shooting-parties had begun, and, as usual, in response to long-established lists of invitations, the guns were beginning to assemble. The Duchess always made out these lists; her son had never expressed any personal preference in the matter. Though he was a moderately good shot, he took no interest in the sport and, as often as he could, excused himself on the ground of business. His cousins Seadown and Dick Marable, both ardent sportsmen and excellent shots, used often to be asked to replace him on such occasions; and he always took it for granted that Seadown would be invited, though Dick Marable no longer figured in the list.

  After a few days, therefore, he said to his mother: “I’m afraid I shall have to go up to town tomorrow morning for a day or two.”

  “To town? Are you never going to allow yourself a proper holiday?” she protested.

  “I shan’t be away long. When is Seadown coming? He can replace me.”

  The Duchess’s tight lips grew tighter. “I doubt if Seadown comes. In fact, I’ve done nothing to remind him. So soon after his engagement, I could hardly suggest it, could I?”

  The Duke’s passive countenance showed a faint surprise. “But surely, if you invite the young lady—”

  “And her mamma? And her sister? I understand there’s a sister—” the Duchess rejoined ironically.

  “Yes,” said the Duke, the slow blood rising to his face, “there’s a sister.”

  “Well, you know how long in advance our shooting-parties are made up; even if I felt like adding three unknown ladies to our list, I can’t think where I could put them.”

  Knowing the vast extent of the house, her son received this in a sceptical silence. At length he said: “Has Seadown brought Miss St. George to see you?”

  “No. Selina Brightlingsea simply wrote me a line. I fancy she’s not particularly eager to show off the future Marchioness.”

  “Miss St. George is wonderfully beautiful,” the Duke murmured.

  “My dear Ushant, nothing will convince me that our English beauties can be surpassed.—But since you’re here, will you glance at the seating of tonight’s dinner-table. The Hopeleighs, you remember, are arriving....”

  “I’m afraid I’m no good at dinner-tables. Hadn’t you better consult one of the girls?” replied the Duke, ignoring the mention of the expected guests; and as he turned to leave the room his mother thought, with a sinking heart: “I might better have countermanded the Hopeleighs. He has evidently got wind of their coming, and now he’s running away from them.”

  The cottage at Runnymede stood dumb and deserted-looking as the Duke drove up to it. The two mothers, he knew, were in London, with the prospective bride and her friends Lizzy and Mab, who were of course to be among her bridesmaids. In view of the preparations for her daughter’s approaching marriage, Mrs. St. George had decided to take a small house in town for the autumn, and, as the Duke also knew, she had chosen Lady Richard Marable’s, chiefly because it was near Miss Jacky March’s modest dwelling, and because poor Conchita was more than ever in need of ready money.

  The Duke of Tintagel was perfectly aware that he should find neither Mrs. St. George nor her elder daughter at Runnymede; but he was not in quest of either. If he had not learned, immediately on his return to Longlands, that Jean Hopeleigh and her parents were among the guests expected there, he might never have gone up to London, or taken the afternoon train to Staines. It took the shock of an imminent duty to accelerate his decisions; and to run away from Jean Hopeleigh had become his most urgent duty.

  He had not returned to the cottage since the hot summer day when he had avoided playing blindman’s-buff with a bevy of noisy girls only by letting himself be drawn into a tiresome political discussion with a pushing young man whose name had escaped him.

  Now the whole aspect of the place was changed. The house seemed empty; the bright awnings were gone, and a cold gray mist hung in the cedar-boughs and hid the river. But the Duke found nothing melancholy in the scene. He had a healthy indifference to the worst vagaries of the British climate, and the mist reminded him of the day when, in the fog-swept ruins of Tintagel, he had come on the young lady whom it had been his exquisite privilege to guide back to Trevennick. He had called at the inn the next day, to re-introduce himself to the young lady’s governess, and to invite them both to the new Tintagel; and for a fortnight his visits to the inn at Trevennick, and theirs to the ducal seat, had been frequent and protracted. But, though he had spent with them long hours which had flown like minutes, he had never got beyond saying to himself: “I shan’t rest till I’ve found an English girl exactly like her.” And to be sure of not mistaking the copy he had continued his study of the original.

  Miss Testvalley was alone in the little upstairs sitting-room at Runnymede. For some time past she had craved a brief respite from her arduous responsibilities, but now that it had come she was too agitated to profit by it.

  It was startling enough to be met, on returning home with Nan, by the announcement of Virginia’s engagement; and when she had learned of Lady Churt’s dramatic incursion she felt that the news she herself had to impart must be postponed—the more so as, for the moment, it was merely a shadowy affair of hints, apprehensions, divinations.

  If Miss Testvalley could have guessed the consequences of her proposal to give the St. George girls a season in England, she was not sure she would not have steered Mrs. St. George back to Saratoga. Not that she had lost her taste for battle and adventure; but she had developed a tenderness for Nan St. George, and an odd desire to shelter her from the worldly glories her governess’s rash advice had thrust upon the family. Nan was different, and Miss Testvalley could have wished a different future for her; she felt that Belgravia and Mayfair, shooting-parties in great country-houses, and the rest of the fashionable routine to which Virginia and the Elmsworth girls had taken so promptly, would leave Nan bewildered and unsatisfied. What kind of life would satisfy her, Miss Testvalley did not profess to know. The girl, for all her flashes of precocity, was in most ways immature, and the governess had a feeling that she must shape her own fate, and that only unhappiness could come of trying to shape it for her. So it was as well that at present there was no time to deal with Nan.

  Virginia’s impending marriage had thrown Mrs. St. George into a state of chaotic despair. It was too much for her to cope with—too complete a revenge on the slights of Mrs. Parmore and the cruel rebuff of the Assembly ladies. “We might better have stayed in New York,” Mrs. St. George wailed, aghast at the practical consequences of a granted prayer.

  Miss Jacky March and Conchita Marable soon laughed her out of this. The trembling awe with which Miss March spoke of Virginia’s privilege in entering into one of the greatest families in England woke a secret response in Mrs. St. George. She, who had suffered because her beautiful daughters could never hope to marry into the proud houses of Eglinton or Parmore, was about to become the mother-in-law of an earl, who would one day (in a manner as unintelligible to Mrs. St. George as the development of the embryo) turn into the premier Marquess of England. The fact that it was all so unintelligible made it seem more dazzling. “At last Virginia’s beauty will have a worthy setting,” Miss March exulted; and when Mrs. St. George anxiously murmured: “But look at poor Conchita. Her husband drinks, and behaves dreadfully with other women, and she never seems to have enough money—” Miss March calmed her with the remark: “Well, you ask her if she’d rather be living in Fifth Avenue, with more money than she’d know how to spend.”

  Conchita herself confirmed this. “Seadown’s always been the good boy of the family. He’ll never give Jinny any trouble. After all, that hateful entanglement with Idina Churt shows how quiet and domestic he really is. That was why she held him so long. He likes to sit before the same fire every evening.... Of course, with Dick it’s different. The family shipped him off to South America because they couldn’t keep him out of scrapes. And if I took a sentimental view of marriage I’d sit up crying half the night.... But I’ll tell you what, Mrs.
St. George, even that’s worth while in London. In New York, if a girl’s unhappily married there’s nothing to take her mind off it; whereas here there’s never really time to think about it. And of course Jinny won’t have my worries, and she’ll have a position that Dick couldn’t have given me even if he’d been a model son and husband.”

  Most of this was beyond Mrs. St. George’s grasp; but the gist of it was consoling, and even flattering. After all, if it was the kind of life Jinny wanted, and if even poor Conchita, and that wretched Jacky March, who’d been so cruelly treated, agreed that London was worth the price—well, Mrs. St. George supposed it must be; and anyhow Mrs. Parmore and Mrs. Eglinton must be rubbing their eyes at this very moment over the announcement of Virginia’s engagement in the New York papers. All that London could give, in rank, in honours, in social glory, was only, to Mrs. St. George, a knife to stab New York with—and that weapon she clutched with feverish glee. “If only her father rubs the Brightlingseas into those people he goes with at Newport,” she thought vindictively.

  The bell rung by the Duke tinkled languidly and long before a flurried maid appeared; and the Duke, accustomed to seeing double doors fly open on velvet carpets at his approach, thought how pleasant it would be to live in a cottage with too few servants, and have time to notice that the mat was shabby, and the brass knocker needed polishing.

  Mrs. St. George and Mrs. Elmsworth were up in town. Yes, he knew that; but might he perhaps see Miss Testvalley? He muttered the name as if it were a term of obloquy, and the dazzled maid curtsied him into the drawing-room and rushed up to tell the governess.

  “Did you tell His Grace that Miss Annabel was in London too?” Miss Testvalley asked.

  No, the maid replied; but His Grace had not asked for Miss Annabel.

  “Ah—” murmured the governess. She knew her man well enough by this time to be aware that this looked serious. “It was me he asked for?” And the maid, evidently sharing her astonishment, declared that it was.

  “Oh, Your Grace, there’s no fire!” Miss Testvalley exclaimed, as she entered the drawing-room a moment later and found her visitor standing close to the icy grate. “No, I won’t ring. I can light a fire at least as well as any house-maid.”

  “Not for me, please,” the Duke protested. “I dislike overheated rooms.” He continued to stand near the hearth. “The—the fact is, I was just noticing, before you came down, that this clock appears to be losing about five minutes a day—that is, supposing it to be wound on Sunday mornings.”

  “Oh, Your Grace—would you come to our rescue? That clock has bothered Mrs. St. George and Mrs. Elmsworth ever since we came here—”

  But the Duke had already opened the glass case and, with his ear to the dial, was sounding the clock as though it were a human lung. “Ah—I thought so!” he exclaimed in a tone of quiet triumph; and for several minutes he continued his delicate manipulations, watched attentively by Miss Testvalley, who thought: “If ever he nags his wife—and I should think he might be a nagger—she will only have to ask him what’s wrong with the drawing-room clock. And how many clocks there must be, at Tintagel and Longlands and Folyat House!”

  “There—but I’m afraid it ought to be sent to a professional,” said the Duke modestly, taking the seat designated by Miss Testvalley.

  “I’m sure it will be all right. Your Grace is so wonderful with clocks.” The Duke was silent, and Miss Testvalley concluded that doctoring the time-piece had been prompted less by an irrepressible impulse than by the desire to put off weightier matters. “I’m so sorry,” she said, “that there’s no one here to receive you. I suppose the maid told you that our two ladies have taken a house in town, to prepare for Miss St. George’s wedding.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of that,” said the Duke, almost solemnly. He cast an anxious glance about him, as if in search of something; and Miss Testvalley thought it proper to add: “And your young friend Annabel has gone to London with her sister.”

  “Ah—” said the Duke laboriously.

  He stood up, walked back to the hearth, gazed at the passive face of the clock, and for a moment followed the smooth movement of the hands. Then he turned to Miss Testvalley. “The wedding is to take place soon?”

  “Very soon; in about a month. Colonel St. George naturally wants to be present, and business will take him back to New York before December. In fact, it was at first intended that the wedding should take place in New York—”

  “Oh—” murmured the Duke in the politely incredulous tone of one who implies: “Why attempt such an unheard-of experiment?”

  Miss Testvalley caught his meaning and smiled. “You know Lord and Lady Richard were married in New York. It seems more natural that a girl should be married from her own home.”

  The Duke looked doubtful. “Have they the necessary churches?” he asked.

  “Quite adequate,” said Miss Testvalley drily.

  There was another and heavier silence before the Duke continued: “And does Mrs. St. George intend to remain in London, or will she take a house in the country?”

  “Oh, neither. After the wedding Mrs. St. George will go to her own house in New York. She will sail immediately with the Colonel.”

  “Immediately—” echoed the Duke. He hesitated. “And Miss Annabel—?”

  “Naturally goes home with her parents. They wish her to have a season in New York.”

  This time the silence closed in so oppressively that it seemed as though it had literally buried her visitor. Miss Testvalley felt an impulse to dig him out, but repressed it.

  At length the Duke spoke in a hoarse, unsteady voice. “It would be impossible for me—er—to undertake the journey to New York.”

  Miss Testvalley gave him an amused glance. “Oh, it’s settled that Lord Seadown’s wedding is to be in London.”

  “I—I don’t mean Seadown’s. I mean—my own,” said the Duke. He stood up again, walked the length of the room, and came back to her. “You must have seen, Miss Testvalley ... It has been a long struggle, but I’ve decided...”

  “Yes?”

  “To ask Miss Annabel St. George—”

  Miss Testvalley stood up also. Her heart was stirred with an odd mixture of curiosity and sympathy. She really liked the Duke—but could Annabel ever be brought to like him?

  “And so I came down today, in the hope of consulting with you—”

  Miss Testvalley interrupted him. “Duke, I must remind you that arranging marriages for my pupils is not included in my duties. If you wish to speak to Mrs. St. George—”

  “But I don’t!” exclaimed the Duke. He looked so startled that for a moment she thought he was about to turn and take flight. It would have been a relief to her if he had. But he coughed nervously, cleared his throat, and began again.

  “I’ve always understood that in America it was the custom to speak first to the young lady herself. And, knowing how fond you are of Miss St. George, I merely wished to ask—”

  “Yes, I am very fond of her,” Miss Testvalley said gravely.

  “Quite so. And I wished to ask if you had any idea whether her ... her feelings in any degree corresponded with mine,” faltered the anxious suitor.

  Miss Testvalley pondered. What should she say? What could she say? What did she really wish to say? She could not, at the moment, have answered any of these questions; she knew only that, as life suddenly pressed closer to her charge, her impulse was to catch her fast and hold her tight.

  “I can’t reply to that, Your Grace. I can only say that I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” repeated the Duke in surprise.

  “Nan in some ways is still a child. She judges many things as a child would—”

  “Yes! That’s what I find so interesting ... so unusual....”

  “Exactly. But it makes your question unanswerable. How can one answer for a child who can’t yet answer for herself?”

  The Duke looked crestfallen. “But it’s her childish innocence, her indifference
to money and honours and—er—that kind of thing, that I value so immensely....”

  “Yes. But you can hardly regard her as a rare piece for your collection.”

  “I don’t know, Miss Testvalley, why you should accuse me of such ideas....”

  “I don’t accuse you, Your Grace. I only want you to understand that Nan is one thing now, but may be another, quite different, thing in a year or two. Sensitive natures alter strangely after their first contact with life.”

  “Ah, but I should make it my business to shield her from every contact with life!”

  “I’m sure you would. But what if Nan turned out to be a woman who didn’t want to be shielded?”

  The Duke’s countenance expressed the most genuine dismay. “Not want to be shielded? I thought you were a friend of hers,” he stammered.

  “I am. A good friend, I hope. That’s why I advise you to wait, to give her time to grow up.”

  The Duke looked at her with a hunted eye, and she suddenly thought: “Poor man! I daresay he’s trying to marry her against someone else. Running away from the fatted heiress ... But Nan’s worth too much to be used as an alternative.”

  “To wait? But you say she’s going back to the States immediately.”

  “Well, to wait till she returns to England. She probably will, you know.”

  “Oh, but I can’t wait!” cried the Duke, in the astonished tone of the one who has never before been obliged to.

  Miss Testvalley smiled. “I’m afraid you must say that to Annabel herself, not to me.”

  “I thought you were my friend. I hoped you’d advise me....”

  “You don’t want me to advise you, Duke. You want me to agree with you.”

  The Duke considered this for some time without speaking; then he said: “I suppose you’ve no objection to giving me the London address?” And the governess wrote it down for him with her same disciplined smile.