CHAPTER I_Comedies of Courtship

COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP

By Anthony Hope

"It is a familiar fact that the intensity of a passion varies

with the proximity of the appropriate object."

Mr. Leslie Stephen, 'Science of Ethics'

"How the devil is it that fresh features

Have such a charm for us poor human creatures?"

Lord Byron, 'Don Juan'

Charles Scribner's Sons New York 1896

NOTE

"The Wheel of Love," published in Scribner's Magazine during the past

year, and "The Lady of the Pool," both protected by American copyright,

are here printed for the first time in book form. The four other

stories appeared without their author's consent or knowledge, with

their titles changed beyond recognition, and combined with other

unauthorized material, in a small volume printed by an American firm.

They are here given for the first time in their proper form and by my

authority.

Anthony Hope.

CONTENTS

The Wheel of Love The Lady of the Pool The Curate of Poltons A

Three-Volume Novel The Philosopher in the Apple Orchard The Decree of

Duke Deodonato

THE WHEEL OF LOVE

CHAPTER I

THE VIRTUOUS HYPOCRITES

AT first sight they had as little reason for being unhappy as it is

possible to have in a world half full of sorrow. They were young and

healthy; half a dozen times they had each declared the other more than

common good-looking; they both had, and never knew what it was not to

have, money enough for comfort and, in addition that divine little

superfluity wherefrom joys are born. The house was good to look at and

good to live in; there were horses to ride, the river to go a-rowing

on, and a big box from Mudie's every week. No one worried them; Miss

Bussey was generally visiting the poor; or, as was the case at this

moment, asleep in her arm-chair, with Paul, the terrier, in his basket

beside her, and the cat on her lap. Lastly, they were plighted lovers,

and John was staying with Miss Bussey for the express purpose of

delighting and being delighted by his fiancée, Mary Travers. For these

and all their mercies certainly they should have been truly thankful.

However the heart of man is wicked. This fact alone can explain why

Mary sat sadly in the drawing-room, feeling a letter that was tucked

inside her waistband and John strode moodily up and down the gravel

walk, a cigar, badly bitten, between his teeth, and his hand over and

again covertly stealing toward his breast-pocket and pressing a scented

note that lay there. In the course of every turn John would pass the

window of the drawing-room; then Mary would look up with a smile and

blow him a kiss, and he nodded and laughed and returned the salute.

But, the window passed, both sighed deeply and returned to lingering

those hidden missives.

"Poor little girl! I must keep it up," said John.

"Dear good John! He must never know," thought Mary.

And the two fell to thinking just what was remarked a few lines back,

namely, that the human heart is very wicked; they were shocked at

themselves; the young often are.

Miss Bussey awoke, sat up, evicted the cat, and found her spectacles.

"Where are those children?" said she. "Billing and cooing somewhere, I

suppose. Bless me, why don't they get tired of it?"

They had--not indeed of billing and cooing in general, for no one at

their age does or ought to get tired of that--but of billing and cooing

with one another.

It will be observed that the situation promised well for a tragedy.

Nevertheless this is not the story of an unhappy marriage.

If there be one thing which Government should forbid, it is a secret

engagement. Engagements should be advertised as marriages are; but

unless we happen to be persons of social importance, or considerable

notoriety, no such precautions are taken. Of course there are

engagement rings; but a man never knows one when he sees it on a lady's

hand--it would indeed be impertinent to look too closely--and when he

goes out alone he generally puts his in his pocket, considering that

the evening will thus be rendered more enjoyable. The Ashforth--Travers

engagement was not a secret now, but it had been, and had been too

long. Hence, when Mary went to Scotland and met Charlie Ellerton, and

when John went to Switzerland and met Dora Bellairs-the truth is, they

ought never to have separated, and Miss Bussey (who was one of the

people in the secret) had been quite right when she remarked that it

seemed a curious arrangement. John and Mary had scoffed at the idea of

a few weeks' absence having any effect on their feelings except, if

indeed it were possible, that of intensifying them.

"I really think I ought to go and find them," said Miss Bussey. "Come,

Paul!"

She took a parasol, for the April sun was bright, and went into the

garden. "When she came to the drawing-room window John was away at the

end of the walk. She looked at him: he was reading a letter. She looked

in at the window: Mary was reading a letter.

"Well!" exclaimed Miss Bussey. "Have they had a tiff?" And she slowly

waddled (truth imposes this word-she was very stout) toward the

unconscious John. He advanced toward her still reading; not only did he

not see her, but he failed to notice that Paul had got under his feet.

He fell over Paul, and as he stumbled the letter fluttered out of his

hand. Paul seized it and began to toss it about in great glee.

"Good doggie!" Cried Miss Bussey. "Come then! Bring it to me, dear.

Good Paul!"

John's face was distorted with agony. He darted toward Paul, fell on

him, and gripped him closely. Paul yelped and Miss Bussey observed, in

an indignant tone, that John need not throttle the dog. John muttered

something.

"Is the letter so very precious?" asked his hostess ironically.

"Precious!" cried John. "Yes!--No!--It's nothing at all."

But he opened Paul's mouth and took out his treasure with wonderful

care.

"And why," inquired Miss Bussey, "are you not with Mary, young man?

You're very neglectful."

"Neglectful! Surely, Miss Bussey, you haven't noticed anything--like

neglect? Don't say----"

"Bless the boy! I was only joking. You're a model lover."

"Thank you, thank you. I'll go to her at once," and he sped towards the

window, opened it and walked up to Mary. Miss Bussey followed him and

arrived just in time to see the lovers locked in one another's arms,

their faces expressing all appropriate rapture.

"There's nothing much wrong," said Miss Bussey; wherein Miss Bussey

herself was much wrong.

"What a shame! I've left you alone for more than an hour!" said John.

"Have you been very unhappy?" and he added, "darling." It sounded like

an afterthought.

"I have been rather unhappy," answered Mary, and her answer was true.

As she said it she tucked in a projecting edge of her letter. John had

hurriedly slipped his (it was rather the worse for its mauling) into

his trousers-pocket.

"You--you didn't think me neglectful?"

"Oh, no."

"I was thinking of you all the time,"

"And I was thinking of you, dear."

"Are you very happy?"

"Yes, John; aren't you?"

"Of course I am. Happy! I should think so," and he kissed her with

unimpeachable fervor.

When a conscientious person makes up his mind that he ought, for good

reasons, to deceive somebody, there is no one like him for

thorough-paced hypocrisy. When two conscientious people resolve; to

deceive one another, on grounds of duty, the acme of duplicity is in a

fair way to be reached. John Ashforth and Mary Travers illustrated this

proposition. The former had been all his life a good son, and was now a

trustworthy partner, to his father, who justly relied no less on his

character than on his brains. The latter, since her parents' early

death had left her to her aunt's care, had been the comfort and prop of

Miss Bussey's life. It is difficult to describe good people without

making them seem dull; but luckily nature is defter than novelists, and

it is quite possible to be good without being dull. Neither Mary nor

John was dull; a trifle limited, perhaps, they were, a thought severe

in their judgments of others as well as of themselves; a little

exacting with their friends and more than a little with themselves.

One description paints them both; doubtless their harmony of mind had

contributed more than Mary's sweet expression and finely cut features,

or John's upstanding six feet, and honest capable face, to produce that

attachment between them which had, six months before this story begins,

culminated in their engagement. Once arrived at, this ending seemed to

have been inevitable. Everybody discovered that they had foretold it

from the first, and modestly disclaimed any credit for anticipating a

union between a couple so obviously made for one another.

The distress into which lovers such as these fell when they discovered

by personal experience that sincerely to vow eternal love is one thing,

and sincerely to give it quite another, may be well imagined, and may

well be left to be imagined. They both went through a terrible period

of temptation, wherein they listened longingly to the seductive

pleading of their hearts; but both emerged triumphant, resolved to

stifle their mad fancy, to prefer good faith to mere inclination, and

to avoid, at all costs, wounding one to whom they had sworn to be true.

Thus far their steadfastness carried them, but not beyond. They could

part from their loved ones, and they did; but they could not leave them

without a word. Each wrote, after leaving Scotland and Switzerland

respectively, a few lines of adieu, confessing the love they felt, but

with resolute sadness saying farewell forever. They belonged to another.

It was the answers that Mary and John were reading when Miss Bussey

discovered them.

Mary's ran:

"MY DEAR MISS TRAVERS: I have received your letter. I can't tell you

what it means to me. You say all must be over between us. Don't be

offended--but I won't say that yet. It can't be your duty to marry a

man you don't love. You forbid me to write or come to you; and you ask

only for a word of good-by. I won't say good-by. I'll say _Au

revoir--au revoir_, my darling."

"Charlie."

"Burn this."

This was John's:

"MY DEAR MR. ASHFORTH: What am I to say to you? Oh, why, why didn't you

tell me before? I oughtn't to say that, but it is too late to conceal

anything from you. Yes, you are right. It must be good-by. Yes, I will

try to forget you. But oh, John, it's very, very, very difficult. I

don't know how to sign this--so I won't. You'll know who it comes from,

won't you? Good-by. Burn this."

These letters, no doubt, make it plain that there had been at least a

momentary weakness both in Mary and in John; but in a true and

charitable view their conduct in rising superior to temptation finally

was all the more remarkable and praiseworthy. They had indeed, for the

time, been carried away. Even now Mary found it hard not to make

allowances for herself, little as she was prone to weakness when she

thought of the impetuous _abandon_ and conquering whirl with which

Charlie Ellerton had wooed her; and John confessed that flight alone, a

hasty flight from Interlaken after a certain evening spent in gazing at

the Jungfrau, had saved him from casting everything to the winds and

yielding to the slavery of Dora Bellairs's sunny smiles and charming

coquetries. He had always thought that that sort of girl had no

attractions for him, just as Mary had despised 'butterfly-men' like

Charlie Ellerton. Well, they were wrong. The only comfort was that

shallow natures felt these sorrows less; it would have broken Mary's

heart (thought John), or John's (thought Mary), but Dora and Charlie

would soon find consolation in another. But here, oddly enough, John

generally swore heartily and Mary always began to search for her

handkerchief. "They're as affectionate as one could wish when they're

together," mused Miss Bussey, as she stroked the cat, "but at other

times they're gloomy company. I suppose they can't be happy apart.

Dear! dear!" and the good old lady fell to wondering whether she had

ever been so foolish herself.