_The Duke of Nocastle Arrives_
His Grace the Duke of Nocastle is in town, and the way the wheels are
buzzing within wheels keeps me in one long headache. I must confess I
am worried. As I was sitting in the Ping-Pong Club the other afternoon,
gazing into the depths of a Scotch, Plumstone Smith, Jr., addressed me
in an airy way.
"I see that the Duke has arrived," said he smiling.
I have no recollection of what I said to him, but I hope he does not
report it to the governors, for I suspect that it was not the kind of
language one gentleman should use to another in the club. He seems
content, however, to smile at me and cut me dead. But I do not care
for him, for he is nothing but one of these dingy heirlooms that is
handed down in Society from generation to generation. Of course I think
all will come out well in the end, but still I shall not be sure till
Pearl Veal and I have walked down from the altar together and the mob
at the church-door is actually pulling her dress to pieces. Naturally,
the matter lies entirely with his Grace, but I find strength in the
fact that Ethel Bumpschus has ten millions, while Pearl can boast
but four. But Miss Bumpschus is so plain! Of course, once she became
a duchess we should all rave over her beauty, but while she is an
American "Miss," there are some doubts on that point. It is unfortunate
that the Duke should be visiting the Bumpschuses, for distance lends
enchantment, and Pearl Veal, with $4,000,000 six blocks away, must be
fascinating to a man who dines daily with Miss Bumpschus and her ten.
Nocastle is a relative of Nothingham, who a few years ago married a
Bumpschus. His arrival in this country was announced by the papers with
a great flourish of trumpets, and the social historians even went so
far as to say that he was to marry Miss Ethel, that the match was one
of love, pure and simple, that he had met her at Nice while he was
staying there incog., and had lost his heart on sight to the sweet and
simple little New Yorker. They did meet at Nice last winter; but he
hurried back to England and stuck to his pride and his leaky castles
till a few heavy rains had mildewed his wardrobe. Thereupon he set sail
for this country to get the means to mend his roofs. To mend the roofs
of a half-dozen English castles requires the fortune of a Radigan.
When a picture of the Duke in his Guard's uniform burst upon my eye as
I opened my paper at breakfast on the morning of his arrival, I was
panic-stricken. He was magnificent, seemed to stand about six feet six,
and wore as many decorations as one of our own Sons of the Revolution.
When I read of his achievements I was in despair. A man of action,
he. He had served in the Soudan with the Red Cross Society; had been
decorated by her Majesty for his services in the commissary department
in South Africa; had written a pamphlet on the ginger-beer evil, and
had made several speeches on that subject in the House of Lords. What
chance would a plain American real-estate agent have against a man like
this?
That afternoon I dropped in at the Bumpschuses to see him, and seeing
him, hope rose again. His Grace is possibly five feet four, partially
bald, very pale, and wears a tiny, fuzzy mustache turned upside down.
His collar was much too big for him, and seemed designed to allow him
to draw his head in like a turtle. As for his clothes, they were cut
in the English fashion, to fit a fire-plug or an upright piano. I must
say that he was very affable, and declared that everything he had seen
was "jolly little," or "jolly big," or "jolly good." For a while he
looked so small and harmless and behaved so decently all around that
I quite lost my heart to him and promised to show him the sights of
the town, the Flatiron Building, the Brooklyn Bridge, and the Clark
mansion. Then Miss Speechless pulled me over to one corner and told me
not to be so familiar with him, as he was one of the greatest men in
England. And when she got through reciting his name I was so overcome I
hardly dared speak in his presence. Fancy my clapping on the shoulder
Charles John Peter Michael Henry Edwin Reginald Clarence Angus Joseph
Fitznit, Duke of Nocastle, Marquis of Bumpshire, Earl of Duckham, Baron
Llfygntynllan, Baron McGonigle in Ireland, Knight of the Garter, the
Bath, the Fleece. When I raised my eyes again to his Grace I saw him
as in the photograph, six feet six in the uniform of the Guards; I saw
Mrs. Radigan, just in, holding his hand and calling him "Duke"; I saw
Pearl Veal in an attitude of rapt admiration and I shuddered.
It was evident that Mrs. Radigan did not know his entire name, for
she talked to him so familiarly, tapping him with her fan, calling
him "Your Royal Highness," "Your Grace," "My Lord," and "Duke" with
equal facility. Miss Bumpschus was furious. She tried in vain to get
her guest out of the masterful woman's hands, but was outgeneralled.
You simply cannot awe Mrs. Radigan. She showed the Duke that she was
on easy terms with nobility by asking him if he knew the Count and
Countess Poglioso Spinnigini and her dear friend, Prince Cosmospopolis
of Greece. When he replied that he had not that pleasure, she got up a
dinner on the spot for Thursday evening. Miss Bumpschus kept breaking
in all the time, but accomplished nothing. Mrs. Radigan told the Duke
plainly that she would not let Ethel monopolize him. She wanted him to
know her little sister, Pearl Veal, who had long been reading about
him and was devoted to Red Cross work and the ginger-beer problem.
Pearl was looking very lovely indeed, as she stood silently smiling at
her sister's side, and his Grace promised to come to lunch the very
next day. By this time I joined my cause with Miss Bumpschus and we
surrounded them and forced the Dewberry Lambs between Mrs. Radigan and
the prize. She took it good-naturedly and sipped tea with Willie Lite.
While Mrs. Dewberry Lamb was telling Nocastle how her automobile had
broken down on the way, he cross-examined me as to my friends.
"Who," he asked, "is the jolly girl with the eyes, that that jolly Mrs.
Bannigan introduced to me--Cutter--Cuttle--Cutlet?"
"Ve-al," said I, emphasizing the French pronunciation indignantly.
"Veal," said he. "A jolly name. I knew it had something to do with
dinner."
"Miss Veal is my fiancée," said I sternly.
"Lucky fel-lah," said he; "jolly lucky. I lunch there to-morrow."
Lucky! At that moment I was the most unhappy man in all the world. I
saw myself at the mercy of this great Englishman; I saw myself going
the way of Plumstone Smith; I saw slipping from my grasp, not four
millions, but Pearl. Strange as it may seem, I have never given a
thought for her money. I know no one will believe it, but nevertheless
it is true. To sit quietly with her is happiness. She is altogether
lovely in her eyes, in her color, in the roundness of her face, and
the fulness of her form. Mere talk is the complement that makes
plainness attractive. Pearl Veal seldom talks. She smiles. She smokes.
And when the gray clouds float around her she is like a charming
sunset. People say she is brainless. When I want learning I can find it
in books; when I want wit, I can read my Richardson and Lamb. I am not
blind. Beauty feasts my eye. To delight me it only has to smile. Pearl
and I are boon companions. She says she finds real contentment in my
company; I do not bore her with chatter about stocks and real estate,
about novels and plays, about tennis and bridge; I just smoke and
smile; my clothes fit so very well and my taste in ties appeals to her.
Then, when the air is clear and crisp, when the sunlight kaleidoscopes
the avenue and its many-colored fronts, when all the town seems to be
afoot or awheel, we find it rare sport to escape Mrs. Radigan and go
tearing along together, speaking to those we ought not to speak to, and
leaving unspoken to those to whom we should speak, to hail Mignonette
Klapper and Estelle Beerberger, Green, and the fellows of my old
boarding-house. Sometimes, in more serious mood, we turn into Madison,
the avenue of sentiment, the thoroughfare along which the young and
thoughtless wander into matrimony. Sometimes Pearl becomes cynical.
Sometimes she rails. She wonders whether it really pays to be so smart
as we have become under Mrs. Radigan's generalship. Then it is that I
know that she has brains.
Are these days over? I am looking to the future with dread. Few women,
however noble, can refuse a Duke. When the opportunity comes they deem
it a sacred duty to mend the roofs of historic castles. I feel that my
fate lies entirely with his Grace. Will he take Miss Bumpschus and her
ten millions, or Pearl Veal with her four? I await his decision. He had
luncheon with the Radigans yesterday. To-morrow he dines there with
Prince Cosmospopolis, the Poglioso Spinniginis, and other local nobles.
A few days will decide all.