‘I have heard you say, Miss Boncassen, that Americans were more likeable than the English.’
‘Have you? Well, yes; I think I have said so. And I think it is so. I'd sooner have to dance with a bank clerk in New York, than with a bank clerk here.’
‘Do you ever dance with bank clerks?’
‘Oh dear yes. At least I suppose so. I dance with whoever comes up. We haven't got lords in America, you know!’
‘You have got gentlemen?’
‘Plenty of them; – but they are not so easily defined as lords. I do like lords.’
‘Do you?’
‘Oh yes, – and ladies; – Countesses I mean and women of that sort. Your Lady Mabel Grex is not here. Why wouldn't she come?’
‘Perhaps you didn't ask her.’
‘Oh yes I did; – especially for your sake.’
‘She is not my Lady Mabel Grex,’ said Lord Silverbridge with unnecessary energy.
‘But she will be.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘You are devoted to her.’
‘Much more to you, Miss Boncassen.’
‘That is nonsense, Lord Silverbridge.’
‘Not at all.’
‘It is also – untrue.’
‘Surely I must be the best judge of that myself.’
‘Not a doubt; a judge not only whether it be true, but if true whether expedient, – or even possible. What did I say to you when we first began to know each other?’
‘What did you say?’
‘That I liked knowing you; – that was frank enough; – that I liked knowing you because I knew that there would be no tomfoolery of love-making.’ Then she paused; but he did not quite know how to go on with the conversation at once, and she continued her speech. ‘When you condescend to tell me that you are devoted to me, as though that were the kind of thing that I expect to have said when I take a walk with a young man in a wood, is not that the tomfoolery of love-making?’ She stopped and looked at him, so that he was obliged to answer.
‘Then why do you ask me if I am devoted to Lady Mabel? Would not that be tomfoolery too?’
‘No. If I thought so, I would not have asked the question. I did specially invite her to come here because I thought you would like it. You have got to marry somebody.’
‘Some day, perhaps.’
‘And why not her?’
‘If you come to that, why not you?’ He felt himself to be getting into deep waters as he said this, – but he had a meaning to express if only he could find the words to express it. ‘I don't say whether it is tomfoolery, as you call it, or not; but whatever it is, you began it.’
‘Yes; – yes. I see. You punish me for my unpremeditated impertinence in suggesting that you are devoted to Lady Mabel by the premeditated impertinence of pretending to be devoted to me.’
‘Stop a moment. I cannot follow that.’ Then she laughed. ‘I will swear that I did not intend to be impertinent.’
‘I hope not.’
‘I am devoted to you.’
‘Lord Silverbridge!’
‘I think you are –’
‘Stop, stop. Do not say it.’
‘Well I won't; – not now. But there has been no tomfoolery.’
‘May I ask a question, Lord Silverbridge? You will not be angry? I would not have you angry with me.’
‘I will not be angry,’ he said.
‘Are you not engaged to marry Lady Mabel Grex?’
‘No.’
‘Then I beg your pardon. I was told that you were engaged to her. And I thought your choice was so fortunate, so happy! I have seen no girl here that I admire half so much. She almost comes up to my idea of what a young woman should be.’
‘Almost!’
‘Now I am sure that if not engaged to her you must be in love with her, or my praise would have sufficed.’
‘Though one knows a Lady Mabel Grex, one may become acquainted with a Miss Boncassen.’
There are moments in which stupid people say clever things, obtuse people say sharp things, and good-natured people say ill-natured things. ‘Lord Silverbridge,’ she said, ‘I did not expect that from you.’
‘Expect what? I meant it simply.’
‘I have no doubt you meant it simply. We Americans think ourselves sharp, but I have long since found out that we may meet more than our matches over here. I think we will go back. Mother means to try to get up a quadrille.’
‘You will dance with me?’
‘I think not. I have been walking with you, and I had better dance with someone else.’
‘You can let me have one dance.’
‘I think not. There will not be many.’
‘Are you angry with me?’
‘Yes, I am; there.’ But as she said this she smiled. ‘The truth is, I thought I was getting the better of you, and you turned round and gave me a pat on the head to show me that you could be master when it pleased you. You have defended your intelligence at the expense of your good-nature.’
‘I'll be shot if I know what it all means,’ he said, just as he was parting with her.
CHAPTER 32
Miss Boncassen's River-Party No. 2
Lord Silverbridge made up his mind that as he could not dance with Miss Boncassen he would not dance at all. He was not angry at being rejected, and when he saw her stand up with Dolly Longstaff he felt no jealousy. She had refused to dance with him not because she did not like him, but because she did not wish to show that she liked him. He could understand that, though he had not quite followed all the ins and outs of her little accusations against him. She had flattered him – without any intention of flattery on her part. She had spoken of his intelligence and had complained that he had been too sharp to her. Mabel Grex when most sweet to him, when most loving, always made him feel that he was her inferior. She took no trouble to hide her conviction of his youthfulness. This was anything but flattering. Miss Boncassen, on the other hand, professed herself to be almost afraid of him.
‘There shall be no tomfoolery of love-making,’ she had said. But what if it were not tomfoolery at all? What if it were good, genuine, earnest love-making? He certainly was not pledged to Lady Mabel. As regarded his father there would be a difficulty. In the first place he had been fool enough to tell his father that he was going to make an offer to Mabel Grex. And then his father would surely refuse his consent to a marriage with an American stranger. In such case there would be no unlimited income, no immediate pleasantness of magnificent life such as he knew would be poured out upon him if he were to marry Mabel Grex. As he thought of this, however, he told himself that he would not sell himself for money and magnificence. He could afford to be independent, and gratify his own taste. Just at this moment he was of opinion that Isabel Boncassen would be the sweeter companion of the two.
He had sauntered down to the place where they were dancing and stood by, saying a few words to Mrs Boncassen. ‘Why are you not dancing, my Lord?’ she asked.
‘There are enough without me.’
‘I guess you young aristocrats are never overfond of doing much with your own arms and legs.’
‘I don't know about that; polo, you know, for the legs, and lawn-tennis for the arms, is hard work enough.’
‘But it must always be something new-fangled; and after all it isn't of much account. Our young men like to have quite a time at dancing.’
It all came through her nose! And she looked so common! What would the Duke say to her, or Mary, or even Gerald? The father was by no means so objectionable. He was a tall, straight, ungainly man, who always wore black clothes. He had dark, stiff, short hair, a long nose, and a forehead that was both high and broad. Ezekiel Boncassen was the very man, – from his appearance, – for a President of the United States; and there were men who talked of him for that high office. That he had never attended to politics was supposed to be in his favour. He had the reputation of being the most learned man in the States, and reputation itself often suffices to
give a man dignity of manner. He, too, spoke through his nose, but the peculiar twang coming from a man would be supposed to be virile and incisive. From a woman, Lord Silverbridge thought it to be unbearable. But as to Isabel, had she been born within the confines of some lordly park in Hertfordshire, she could not have been more completely free from the abomination.
‘I am sorry that you should not be enjoying yourself,’ said Mr Boncassen, coming to his wife's relief.
‘Nothing could have been nicer. To tell the truth, I am standing idle by way of showing my anger against your daughter, who would not dance with me.’
‘I am sure she would have felt herself honoured,’ said Mr Boncassen.
‘Who is the gentleman with her?’ asked the mother.
‘A particular friend of mine – Dolly Longstaff.’
‘Dolly!’ ejaculated Mrs Boncassen.
‘Everybody calls him so. His real name I believe to be Adolphus.’
‘Is he, – is he – just anybody?’ asked the anxious mother.
‘He is a very great deal, – as people go here. Everybody knows him. He is asked everywhere, but he goes nowhere. The greatest compliment paid to you here is his presence.’
‘Nay, my Lord, there are the Countess Montague, and the Marchioness of Capulet, and Lord Tybalt, and –’1
‘They go everywhere. They are nobodies. It is a charity to even invite them. But to have had Dolly Longstaff once is a triumph for life.’
‘Laws!’ said Mrs Boncassen, looking hard at the young man who was dancing. ‘What has he done?’
‘He never did anything in his life.’
‘I suppose he's very rich.’
‘I don't know. I should think not. I don't know anything about his riches, but I can assure you that having had him down here will quite give a character to the day.’
In the meantime Dolly Longstaff was in a state of great excitement. Some part of the character assigned to him by Lord Silverbridge was true. He very rarely did go anywhere, and yet was asked to a great many places. He was a young man, – though not a very young man, – with a fortune of his own and the expectation of a future fortune. Few men living could have done less for the world than Dolly Longstaff, – and yet he had a position of his own. Now he had taken it into his head to fall in love with Miss Boncassen. This was an accident which had probably never happened to him before, and which had disturbed him much. He had known Miss Boncassen a week or two before Lord Silverbridge had seen her, having by some chance dined out and sat next to her. From that moment he had become changed, and had gone hither and thither in pursuit of the American beauty. His passion having become suspected by his companions had excited their ridicule. Nevertheless he had persevered; – and now he was absolutely dancing with the lady out in the open air. ‘If this goes on, your friends will have to look after you and put you somewhere,’ Mr Lupton had said to him in one of the intervals of the dance. Dolly had turned round and scowled, and suggested that if Mr Lupton would mind his own affairs it would be as well for the world at large.
At the present crisis Dolly was very much excited. When the dance was over, as a matter of course, he offered the lady his arm, and as a matter of course she accepted it. ‘You'll take a turn; won't you?’ he said.
‘It must be a very short turn,’ she said, – ‘as I am expected to make myself busy.’
‘Oh, bother that.’
‘It bothers me; but it has to be done.’
‘You have set everything going now. They'll begin dancing again without your telling them.’
‘I hope so.’
‘And I've got something I want to say.’
‘Dear me; – what is it?’
They were now on a path close to the riverside, in which there were many loungers. ‘Would you mind coming up to the temple?’ he said.
‘What temple?’
‘Oh such a beautiful place. The Temple of the Winds, I think they call it, or Venus; – or – or – Mrs Arthur de Bever.’
‘Was she a goddess?’
‘It is something built to her memory. Such a view of the river! I was here once before and they took me up there. Everybody who comes here goes and sees Mrs Arthur de Bever. They ought to have told you.’
‘Let us go then,’ said Miss Boncassen. ‘Only it must not be long.’
‘Five minutes will do it all.’ Then he walked rather quickly up a flight of rural steps. ‘Lovely spot; isn't it?’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘That's Maidenhead Bridge; – that's - somebody's place; – and now I've got something to say to you.’
‘You're not going to murder me now you've got me up here alone,’ said Miss Boncassen laughing.
‘Murder you!’ said Dolly, throwing himself into an attitude that was intended to express devoted affection. ‘Oh no!’
‘I am glad of that.’
‘Miss Boncassen!’
‘Mr Longstaff! If you sigh like that you'll burst yourself.’
‘I'll – what?’
‘Burst yourself!’ and she nodded her head at him.
Then he clapped his hands together, and turned his head away from her towards the little temple. ‘I wonder whether she knows what love is,’ he said, as though he were addressing himself to Mrs Arthur de Bever.
‘No, she don't,’ said Miss Boncassen.
‘But I do,’ he shouted, turning back towards her. ‘I do. If any man were ever absolutely, actually, really in love, I am the man.’
‘Are you indeed, Mr Longstaff? Isn't it pleasant?’
‘Pleasant; – pleasant? Oh, it could be so pleasant.’
‘But who is the lady? Perhaps you don't mean to tell me that.’
‘You mean to say you don't know?’
‘Haven't the least idea in life.’
‘Let me tell you then that it could only be one person. It never was but one person. It never could have been but one person. It is you.’ Then he put his hand well on his heart.
‘Me!’ said Miss Boncassen, choosing to be ungrammatical in order that he might be more absurd.
‘Of course it is you. Do you think that I should have brought you all the way up here to tell you that I was in love with anybody else?’
‘I thought I was brought to see Mrs de Somebody, and the view.
‘Not at all,’ said Dolly emphatically.
‘Then you have deceived me.’
‘I will never deceive you. Only say that you will love me, and I will be as true to you as the North Pole.’
‘Is that true to me?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘But if I don't love you?’
‘Yes, you do!’
‘Do I?’
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Dolly. ‘I didn't mean to say that. Of course a man shouldn't make sure of a thing.’
‘Not in this case, Mr Longstaff; because really I entertain no such feeling.’
‘But you can if you please. Just let me tell you who I am.’
‘That will do no good whatever, Mr Longstaff.’
‘Let me tell you at any rate. I have a very good income of my own as it is.’
‘Money can have nothing to do with it.’
‘But I want you to know that I can afford it. You might perhaps have thought that I wanted your money.’
‘I will attribute nothing evil to you, Mr Longstaff. Only it is quite out of the question that I should – respond as I suppose you wish me to; and therefore, pray, do not say anything further.’
She went to the head of the little steps but he interrupted her. ‘You ought to hear me,’ he said.
‘I have heard you.’
‘I can give you as good a position as any man without a title in England.’
‘Mr Longstaff, I rather fancy that wherever I may be I can make a position for myself. At any rate I shall not marry with the view of getting one. If my husband were an English Duke I should think myself nothing, unless I was something as Isabel Boncassen.’
When she said thi
s she did not bethink herself that Lord Silverbridge would in the course of nature become an English Duke. But the allusion to an English Duke told intensely on Dolly, who had suspected that he had a noble rival. ‘English Dukes aren't so easily got,’ he said.
‘Very likely not. I might have expressed my meaning better had I said an English Prince.’
‘That's quite out of the question,’ said Dolly. ‘They can't do it,2 – by Act of Parliament, – except in a hugger-mugger left-handed way, that wouldn't suit you at all.’
‘Mr Longstaff, – you must forgive me – if I say – that of all the gentlemen – I have ever met in this country or in any other – you are the – most obtuse.’ This she brought out in little disjointed sentences, not with any hesitation, but in a way to make every word she uttered more clear to an intelligence which she did not believe to be bright. But in this belief she did some injustice to Dolly. He was quite alive to the disgrace of being called obtuse, and quick enough to avenge himself at the moment.
‘Am I?’ said he. ‘How humble-minded you must be when you think me a fool because I have fallen in love with such a one as yourself.’
‘I like you for that,’ she replied laughing, ‘and withdraw the epithet as not being applicable. Now we are quits and can forget and forgive; – only let there be the forgetting.’
‘Never!’ said Dolly, with his hand again on his heart.
‘Then let it be a little dream of your youth, – that you once met a pretty American girl who was foolish enough to refuse all that you would have given her.’
‘So pretty! So awfully pretty!’ Thereupon she curtsied. ‘I have seen all the handsome women in England going for the last ten years, and there has not been one who has made me think that it would be worth my while to get off my perch for her.’
‘And now you would desert your perch for me!’
‘I have already.’
‘But you can get up again. Let it be all a dream. I know men like to have had such dreams. And in order that the dream may be pleasant the last word between us shall be kind. Such admiration from such a one as you is an honour, – and I will reckon it among my honours. But it can be no more than a dream.’ Then she gave him her hand. ‘It shall be so; – shall it not?’ Then she paused. ‘It must be so, Mr Longstaff.’
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