"Ask me no more; thy fate and mine are sealed.
I strove against the stream, and all in vain.
Let the great river take me to the main.
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;
Ask me no more."
--_The Princess._
Almost as Cecil steps into her carriage, Sir Penthony Stafford is
standing on her steps, holding sweet converse with her footman at her
own hall-door.
"Lady Stafford at home?" asks he of the brilliant but supercilious
personage who condescends to answer to his knock.
"No, sir." Being a new acquisition of Cecil's, he is blissfully
ignorant of Sir Penthony's name and status. "My lady is hout."
"When will she be home?" Feeling a good deal of surprise at her early
wanderings, and, in fact, not believing a word of it.
"My lady won't be at home all this morning, sir."
"Then I shall wait till the afternoon," says Sir Penthony, faintly
amused, although exasperated at what he has decided is a heinous lie.
"Lady Stafford gave strict horders that no one was to be admitted
before two," says flunkey, indignant at the stranger's persistence, who
has come into the hall and calmly divested himself of his overcoat.
"She will admit _me_, I don't doubt," says Sir Penthony, calmly.
"I am Sir Penthony Stafford."
"Oh, indeed! Sir Penthony, I beg your pardon. Of course, Sir Penthony,
if you wish to wait----"
Here Sir Penthony, who has slowly been mounting the stairs all this
time, with Chawles, much exercised in his mind, at his heels--(for
Cecil's commands are not to be disputed, and the situation is a good
one, and she has distinctly declared no one is to be received)--Sir
Penthony pauses on the landing and lays his hand on the boudoir door.
"Not there, Sir Penthony," says the man, interposing hurriedly, and
throwing open the drawing-room door, which is next to it. "If you will
wait here I don't think my lady will be long, as she said she should be
'ome at one to keep an appointment."
"That will do." Sternly. "Go!--I dare say," thinks Stafford, angrily,
as the drawing-room door is closed on him, "if I make a point of it,
she will dismiss that fellow. Insolent and noisy as a parrot. A
well-bred footman never gets beyond 'Yes' or 'No' unless required, and
even then only under heavy pressure. But what appointment can she have?
And who is secreted in her room? Pshaw! Her dressmaker, no doubt."
But, for all that, he can't quite reconcile himself to the dressmaker
theory, and, but that honor forbids, would have marched straight,
without any warning, into "my lady's chamber."
Getting inside the heavy hanging curtains, he employs his time watching
through the window the people passing to and fro, all intent upon the
great business of life,--the making and spending of money.
After a little while a carriage stops beneath him, and he sees Cecil
alight from it and go with eager haste up the steps. He hears her
enter, run up the stairs, pause upon the landing, and then, going into
the boudoir, close the door carefully behind her.
He stifles an angry exclamation, and resolves, with all the airs of a
Spartan, to be calm. Nevertheless, he is _not_ calm, and quite
doubles the amount of minutes that really elapse before the
drawing-room door is thrown open and Cecil, followed by Luttrell, comes
in.
"Luttrell, of all men!" thinks Sir Penthony, as though he would have
said, "Et tu, Brute?" forgetting to come forward,--forgetting
everything,--so entirely has a wild, unreasoning jealousy mastered him.
The curtains effectually conceal him, so his close proximity remains a
secret.
Luttrell is evidently in high spirits. His blue eyes are bright, his
whole air triumphant. Altogether, he is as unlike the moony young man
who left the Victoria Station last evening as one can well imagine.
"Oh, Cecil! what should I do without you?" he says, in a most heartfelt
manner, gazing at her as though (thinks Sir Penthony) he would much
like to embrace her there and then. "How happy you have made me! And
just as I was on the point of despairing! I owe you all,--everything,--the
best of my life."
"I am glad you rate what I have done for you so highly. But you know,
Tedcastle, you were always rather a favorite of mine. Have you forgiven
me my stony refusal of last night? I would have spoken willingly, but
you know I was forbidden."
"What is it I would _not_ forgive you?" exclaims Luttrell,
gratefully.
("Last night; and again this morning: probably he will dine this
evening," thinks Sir Penthony, who by this time is black with rage and
cold with an unnamed fear.)
Cecil is evidently as interested in her topic as her companion. Their
heads are very near together,--as near as they can well be without
kissing. She has placed her hand upon his arm, and is speaking in a
low, earnest tone,--so low that Stafford cannot hear distinctly, the
room being lengthy and the noise from the street confusing. How
handsome Luttrell is looking! With what undisguised eagerness he is
drinking in her every word!
Suddenly, with a little movement as though of sudden remembrance, Cecil
puts her hand in her pocket and draws from it a tiny note, which she
squeezes with much _empressement_ into Tedcastle's hand. Then
follow a few more words, and then she pushes him gently in the
direction of the door.
"Now go," she says, "and remember all I have said to you. Are the
conditions so hard?" With her old charming, bewitching smile.
"How shall I thank you?" says the young man, fervently, his whole face
transformed. He seizes her hands and presses his lips to them in what
seems to the looker-on at the other end of the room an impassioned
manner. "You have managed that we shall meet,--and alone?"
"Yes, alone. I have made sure of that. I really think, considering all
I have done for you, Tedcastle, you owe me something."
"Name anything," says Luttrell, with considerable fervor. "I owe you,
as I have said, everything. You are my good angel!"
"Well, that is as it may be. All women are angels,--at one time or
other. But you must not speak to me in that strain, or I shall mention
some one who would perhaps be angry." ("That's me, I presume," thinks
Sir Penthony, grimly.) "I suppose"--archly--"I need not tell you to be
in time? To be late under such circumstances, with _me_, would
mean dismissal. Good-bye, dear boy: go, and my good wishes will follow
you."
As the door closes upon Luttrell, Sir Penthony, cold, and with an
alarming amount of dignity about him, comes slowly forward.
"Sir Penthony! you!" cries Cecil, coloring certainly, but whether from
guilt, or pleasure, or surprise, he finds it hard to say. He inclines,
however, toward the guilt. "Why, I thought you safe in Algiers." (This
is not strictly true.)
"No doubt. I thought _you_ safe in London--or anywhere else. I
find myself mistaken!"
"I am, dear, perfectly safe." Sweetly. "Don't alarm yourself
unnecessarily. But may I ask what all this means, and why you were
hiding behind my curtains as though you were a burglar or a
Bashi-Bazouk? But that the pantomime season is over, I should say you
were practicing for the Harlequin's window trick."
"You can be as frivolous as you please." Sternly. "Frivolity suits you
best, no doubt. I came in here a half an hour ago, having first almost
come to blows with your servant before being admitted,--showing me
plainly the man had received orders to allow no one in but the one
expected."
"That is an invaluable man, that Charles," murmurs her ladyship,
_sotto voce_. "I shall raise his wages. There is nothing like
obedience in a servant."
"I was standing there at that window, awaiting your arrival, when you
came, hurried to your boudoir, spent an intolerable time there with
Luttrell, and finally wound up your interview here by giving him a
billet, and permitting him to kiss your hands until you ought to have
been ashamed of yourself and him."
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, lying _perdu_ in the
curtains and listening to what wasn't meant for you." Maliciously. "You
ought also to have been a detective. You have wasted your talents
frightfully. _Did_ Teddy kiss my hands?" Examining the little
white members with careful admiration. "Poor Ted! he might be tired of
doing so by this. Well,--yes; and--you were saying----"
"I insist," says Sir Penthony, wrathfully, "on knowing what Luttrell
was saying to you."
"I thought you heard."
"And why he is admitted when others are denied."
"My dear Sir Penthony, he is my cousin. Why should he not visit me if
he likes?"
"Cousins be hanged!" says Sir Penthony, with considerable more force
than elegance.
"No, no," says Cecil, smoothing a little wrinkle off the front of her
gown, "not always; and I'm sure I hope Tedcastle won't be. To my way of
thinking, he is quite the nicest young man I know. It would make me
positively wretched if I thought Marwood would ever have him in his
clutches. You,"--reflectively--"are my cousin too."
"I am,--and something more. You seem to forget that. Do you mean to
answer my question?"
"Certainly,--if I can. But do sit down, Sir Penthony. I am sure you
must be tired, you are so dreadfully out of breath. Have you come just
now, this moment, straight from Algiers? See, that little chair over
there is so comfortable. All my gentlemen visitors adore that little
chair. No? You won't sit down? Well----"
"Are you in the habit of receiving men so early?"
"I assure you," says Cecil, raising her brows with a gentle air of
martyrdom, and making a very melancholy gesture with one hand, "I
hardly know the hour I don't receive them. I am absolutely persecuted
by my friends. They _will_ come. No matter how disagreeable it may
be to me, they arrive just at any hour that best suits them. And I am
so good-natured I cannot bring myself to say 'Not at home.'"
"You brought yourself to say it this morning."
"Ah, yes. But that was because I was engaged on very particular
business."
"What business?"
"I am sorry I cannot tell you."
"You shall, Cecil. I will not leave this house until I get an answer. I
am your husband. I have the right to demand it."
"You forget our little arrangement. I acknowledge no husband," says
Cecil, with just one flash from her violet eyes.
"Do you refuse to answer me?"
"I do," replies she, emphatically.
"Then I shall stay here until you alter your mind," says Sir Penthony,
with an air of determination, settling himself with what in a low class
of men would have been a bang, in the largest arm-chair the room
contains.
With an unmoved countenance Lady Stafford rises and rings the bell.
Dead silence.
Then the door opens, and a rather elderly servant appears upon the
threshold.
"Martin, Sir Penthony will lunch here," says Cecil, calmly. "And--stay,
Martin. Do you think it likely you will dine, Sir Penthony?"
"I do think it likely," replies he, with as much grimness as etiquette
will permit before the servant.
"Sir Penthony thinks it likely he will dine, Martin. Let cook know.
And--can I order you anything you would specially prefer?"
"Thank you, nothing. Pray give yourself no trouble on my account."
"It would be a pleasure,--the more so that it is so rare. Stay yet a
moment, Martin. May I order you a bed, Sir Penthony?"
"I am not sure. I will let you know later on," replies Stafford, who,
to his rage and disgust, finds himself inwardly convulsed with
laughter.
"That will do, Martin," says her ladyship, with the utmost
_bonhommie_. And Martin retires.
As the door closes, the combatants regard each other steadily for a
full minute, and then they both roar.
"You are the greatest little wretch," says Sir Penthony, going over to
her and taking both her hands, "it has ever been my misfortune to meet
with. I am laughing now against my will,--remember that. I am in a
frantic rage. Will you tell me what all that scene between you and
Luttrell was about? If you don't I shall go straight and ask him."
"What! And leave me here to work my wicked will? Reflect--reflect. I
thought you were going to mount guard here all day. Think on all the
sins I shall be committing in your absence."
She has left her hands in his all this time, and is regarding him with
a gay smile, under which she hardly hides a good deal of offended
pride.
"Don't be rash, I pray you," she says, with a gleam of malice.
"The man who said pretty women were at heart the kindest lied," says
Sir Penthony, standing over her, tall, and young, and very nearly
handsome. "You know I am in misery all this time, and that a word from
you would relieve me,--yet you will not speak it."
"Would you"--very gravely--"credit the word of such a sinner as you
would make me out to be?"
"A sinner! Surely I have never called you that."
"You would call me anything when you get into one of those horrid
passions. Come, are you sorry?"
"I am more than sorry. I confess myself a brute if I ever even hinted
at such a word,--which I doubt. The most I feared was your imprudence."
"From all I can gather, that means quite the same thing when said of a
woman."
"Well, _I_ don't mean it as the same. And, to prove my words, if
you will only grant me forgiveness, I will not even mention Tedcastle's
name again."
"But I insist on telling you every word he said to me, and all about
it."
"If you had insisted on that half an hour ago you would have saved
thirty minutes," says Stafford, laughing.
"_Then_ I would not gratify you; _now_--Tedcastle came here, poor
fellow, in a wretched state about Molly Massereene, whose secret he has
at length discovered. About eleven o'clock last night he rushed in here
almost distracted to get her address; so I went to Molly early this
morning, obtained leave to give it,--and a love-letter as well, which
you saw me deliver,--and all his raptures and tender epithets were meant
for her, and not for me. Is it not a humiliating confession? Even when
he kissed my hands it was only in gratitude, and his heart was full of
Molly all the time."
"Then it was not you he was to meet alone?"--eagerly.
"What! Still suspicious? No, sir, it was not your wife he was to meet
'alone,' Now, are you properly abashed? Are you satisfied?"
"I am, and deeply contrite. Yet, Cecil, you must know what it is causes
me such intolerable jealousy, and, knowing, you should pardon. My love
for you only increases day by day. Tell me again I am forgiven."
"Yes, quite forgiven."
"And"--stealing his arm gently round her--"are you in the smallest
degree glad to see me again?"
"In a degree,--yes." Raising to his, two eyes, full of something more
than common gladness.
"Really?"
"Really."
He looks at her, but she refuses to understand his appealing
expression, and regards him calmly in return.
"Cecil, how cold you are!" he says, reproachfully. "Think how long I
have been away from you, and what a journey I have come."
"True; you must be hungry." With willful ignorance of his meaning.
"I am not." Indignantly. "But I think you might--after three weary
months, that to me, at least, were twelve--you might----"
"You want me to--kiss you?" says Cecil, promptly, but with a rising
blush. "Well, I will, then."
Lifting her head, she presses her lips to his with a fervor that takes
him utterly by surprise.
"Cecil," whispers he, growing a little pale, "do you mean it?"
"Mean what?" Coloring crimson now, but laughing also. "I mean this: if
we don't go down-stairs soon luncheon will be cold. And, remember, I
hold you to your engagement. You dine with me to-day. Is not that so?"
"You know how glad I shall be."
"Well, I hope now," says Cecil, "you intend to reform, and give up
traveling aimlessly all over the unknown world at stated intervals. I
hope for the future you mean staying at home like a respectable
Christian."
"If I had a home. You can't call one's club a home, can you? I would
stay anywhere,--with you."
"I could not possibly undertake such a responsibility. Still, I should
like you to remain in London, where I could look after you a little bit
now and then, and keep you in order. I adore keeping people in order. I
am thrown away," says Cecil, shaking her flaxen head sadly. "I know I
was born to rule."
"You do a great deal of it even in your own limited sphere, don't you?"
says her husband, laughing. "I know at least one unfortunate individual
who is completely under your control."
"No. I am dreadfully cramped. But come; in spite of all the joy I
naturally feel at your safe return, I find my appetite unimpaired.
Luncheon is ready. Follow me, my friend. I pine for a cutlet."
They eat their cutlets _tete-a-tete_, and with evident
appreciation of their merits; the servants regarding the performance
with intense though silent admiration. In their opinion (and who shall
dispute the accuracy of a servant's opinion?), this is the beginning of
the end.
When luncheon is over, Lady Stafford rises.
"I am going for my drive," she says. "But what is to become of you
until dinner-hour?"
"I shall accompany you." Audaciously.
"You! What! To have all London laughing at me?"
"Let them. A laugh will do _them_ good, and _you_ no harm.
How can it matter to you?"
"True. It cannot. And after all to be laughed at one must be talked
about. And to be talked about means to create a sensation. And I should
like to create a sensation before I die. Yes, Sir Penthony,"--with a
determined air,--"you shall have a seat in my carriage to-day."
"And how about to-morrow?"
"To-morrow probably some other fair lady will take pity on you. It
would be much too slow,"--mischievously--"to expect you to go driving
with your wife every day."
"I don't think I can see it in that light. Cecil,"--coming to her side,
and with a sudden though gentle boldness, taking her in his
arms,--"when are you going to forgive me and take me to your heart?"
"What is it you want, you tiresome man?" asks Cecil, with a miserable
attempt at a frown.
"Your love," replies he, kissing the weak-minded little pucker off her
forehead and the pretended pout from her lips, without this time
saying, "by your leave," or "with your leave."
"And when you have it, what then?"
"I shall be the happiest man alive."
"Then _be_ the happiest man alive," murmurs she, with tears in her
eyes, although the smile still lingers round her lips.
It is thus she gives in.
"And when," asks Stafford, half an hour later, all the retrospective
confessions and disclosures having taken some time to get
through,--"when shall I install a mistress in the capacious but
exceedingly gloomy abode my ancestors so unkindly left to me?"
"Do not even think of such a thing for ever so long. Perhaps next
summer I may----"
"Oh, nonsense! Why not say this time ten years?"
"But at present my thoughts are full of my dear Molly. Ah! when shall I
see her as happy as--as--I am?"
Here Sir Penthony, moved by a sense of duty and a knowledge of the
fitness of things, instantly kisses her again.
He has barely performed this necessary act when the redoubtable Charles
puts his head in at the door and says:
"The carriage is waiting, my lady."
"Very good," returns Lady Stafford, who, according to Charles's version
of the affair, a few hours later, is as "red as a peony." "You will
stay here, Penthony,"--murmuring his name with a grace and a sweet
hesitation quite irresistible,--"while I go and make ready for our
drive."