Cousin Cinderella

by Sara Jeanette Duncan

  “Yes, I know,” said Peter. “I was coming to the station.”

  It was a small fact to make one at once happy and comfortable.

  “That was very kind,” I said. “But now we shall have an opportunity of saying good-bye here. Euston is so far from everywhere.”

  Peter’s face fell, ever so little. It was a joy to me to see his face fall, even ever so little. “Yes,” he said, “we could do that.”

  “If you are dining,” I continued, “there will be plenty of time.”

  Lord Doleford appeared to reflect and to defer his decision; and there was a pause.

  “And so,” he said, “I am not to have you, even approximately, for a sister-in-law?”

  “A sister’s sister-in-law,” I corrected, “not a legal sister-in-law.”

  “I said approximately.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. Why did I say that when I was not? But I may safely repeat it here, as I know I shall not be believed.

  “It would have been something,” I added.

  “Do you think so?”

  “Why, yes. Something nice and friendly. I regret it—for that.”

  Peter, his hands thrust in his pockets, looked gloomily into space. “I’m not sorry,” he said, “even for that. I think it was a poor sort of idea, you know—those two; I didn’t think old Barb would go through with it, once she realised how things were.”

  “How did she realise?”

  “Oh, she arrived at it, I imagine—she worried it out by herself. I didn’t say anything.” Peter twisted himself round to tell me this as if it were important.

  “Dearest Barbara,” I remarked quite easily, “says that nobody ought to marry a mere nice old place.”

  “And she’s as right as possible,” said Peter controversially. “Isn’t she?”

  “Oh, I suppose so. But architecture is very plausible,” I added rather sadly. “Especially Tudor. It seems to stand fearfully on its merits.”

  (Remembering that I have fully disclosed what I really did think about such pretensions, I am ashamed to report this conversation.)

  “Believe me, Trent’s much too good a chap to be married for a coat of paint,” said Peter. Then most unexpectedly, most alarmingly he added, “And so are you!”

  “Oh!” I replied, suddenly thrown into confusion. “Nobody would ever think of marrying me for a coat of paint.”

  “On the contrary—plenty of people,” said Peter darkly. “Don’t ever lend yourself to anything of the sort.”

  “I won’t,” I promised.

  “I hope I know you well enough to offer such advice without impertinence,” he continued stiffly.

  “I am sure you would always advise me for my good,” I told him; and we looked at one another very straight.

  We were in the hall near the bronze figure of Frederick the Great on horseback and more or less behind the azaleas. The silhouette of the Duchess crossed the arched entrance to the ballroom, as if exploring the scene of her function for more duties to perform; but there was nobody left except an Agent-General and his wife, who had secured seats together on the other side of the statue and had not yet noticed that they could be safely given up. No doubt the Duchess was reconnoitring on the Agent-General’s behalf, for presently the secretary appeared and invited them to have some tea, at which they got up and went away.

  “About Americans,” Peter went on with extraordinary candour, “I haven’t the same feeling. They have their eyes open—they know what’s involved and what’s understood. If they care about that kind of bargain, by all means let them make it.”

  “Then if I were an American ” I began.

  “I should not be advising you,” said Peter.

  “No, of course not.”

  “But you—you belong to us,” he continued in a voice which anyone would have found penetrating. “You are our own people. We can’t marry you on that principle.”

  “Can’t you?”

  Peter hesitated. “I would rather not do it myself,” he said.

  “It would be nicer not to,” I reflected.

  “I don’t yet see my way to tariff-reform.”

  “You will,” I interrupted confidently.

  “But I’m a fool about the ties of sentiment.”

  “Aren’t they,” I said, “the only wisdom?”

  Peter looked at me very thoughtfully. “If there were any way of finding out,” he said.

  I could not think of any way; and so we sat, for a full and wonderful moment, waiting for the sun to rise.

  “There’s a suggestion you might make,” he resumed in a pained tone.

  “Is there?” I said. “Well—I’ll make it.”

  “That in our dealings with the colonies the heart is supposed to have more of a chance,” said Peter.

  “I think that is a thing that ought to go without saying,” I told him.

  And then the sun rose.

  Next day saw us embarked, nevertheless. There was time for only one practical measure before we sailed—the desperate and final relief of Pavis Court. Whatever happened, that hardly defended seat should not suffer even temporary capitulation. Dear old Graham was easy to convince about that. It was distressing to seem to take everything, to leave our friend Evelyn not even her vestige of victory; but it was reasonable to suppose that she would understand. In matters of business Evelyn’s understanding could always be relied upon.

  Graham received the news of Peter’s and my engagement without marked enthusiasm, but he gradually warmed into satisfaction at the thought of this happy attendant circumstance. It was not the old ardent flame, but it was a glow from the same source. There was in his demeanour just a hint that it would have been simpler if we had thought of the arrangement sooner, in which case, I might have reminded him, there would have been no story; but those are the things that one thinks of afterwards. I could see too that he liked enormously the idea of being a kind of brother-in-law to Barbara; and I was glad to think that he had at least to thank me for that.

  Peter travelled to Liverpool with us. He would thus, the Duchess told him, learn the proper Imperial route across the ocean; and, besides, he wished to come. The Empress of Britain, after depositing their Excellencies Lord and Lady Lippington, had kindly come back for us; and we were standing on her deck near the gangway, when a steward approached Graham with a telegram. It was not for him, but for Peter, in his care; and I had an intuition that the news it brought was intended to interest us all. It was. Peter considered it in silence for an instant, and then read it aloud:

  “‘Dear Evelyn has consented to marry your Uncle Christopher.—Mother.’”

  After one incredulous second, inextinguishable laughter overtook us. It really was, at that instant, too clever and too funny of Evelyn.

  “Poor old chap!” commented Peter feelingly, in a voice that still trembled.

  “She has taken an heir presumptive with grapenuts,” said Graham brokenly, and added, “We have never done her justice.”

  “She can hardly call him ” I began impulsively.

  “What?” asked the others.

  “A dear and precious lamb,” I murmured. “It is an expression of Evelyn’s when she is fond.”

  “I suppose we must congratulate mother?” said Peter. “She is really attached to her.”

  “Oh, congratulate everybody,” said Graham, going off again.

  There was one person, however, who could not possibly be congratulated; one person to whom indeed it would even be difficult to offer any form of consolation. It was left to me to realise where the blow, delivered with such grace and precision, would most tragically fall. I am proud to remember that I was the first to feel a pang of sympathy with the august lady at whom, I am convinced, it was really aimed.

  “Your mother has telegraphed to you,” I said to Peter, “but who will tell the Duchess?”

  “I will,” said the Earl of Doleford sturdily, as the last bell rang to clear the decks. A moment later he stood upon his native shores. Looking
back at him as the Atlantic widened between us, I noted once more with pride how like he was to the ancestor who held out against Elizabeth.