MARRIAGE NOT A LA MODE.
London had come to life again; the meeting of Parliament had summoned
fathers of families from distant climes and cities--from Algiers and
Athens, from Constantinople and Cairo; the light blazed at the summit of
the Clock-tower; cabs and carriages rattled into Palace Yard. And here,
at a table in the Ladies' Dining-room of the House of Commons, sate Mrs.
Ellison and her friend Louie Drexel, along with Lord Musselburgh and
Vincent Harris, the last-named playing the part of host. This Miss
Drexel was rather an attractive-looking little person, brisk and trim
and neat, with a healthy complexion, a pert nose, and the most
astonishingly clear blue eyes. Very frank those eyes were; almost
ruthless in a way; about as ruthless as the young lady's tongue, when
she was heaping contempt and ridicule on some conventionality or social
superstition. "Seeva the Destroyer" Vincent used gloomily to call her,
when he got a little bit tired of having her flung at his head by the
indefatigable young widow. Nevertheless she was a merry and vivacious
companion; with plenty of independence, too: if she was being flung at
anybody's head it was with no consent of her own.
"You don't say!" she was observing to her companion. "Fancy any one
being in Canada in the winter and not going to see the night tobogganing
at Rideau Hall!"
"I never was near Ottawa," said Vincent, in answer to her; "and,
besides, I don't know the Viceroy."
"A member of the British Parliament--travelling in Canada: I don't think
you would have to wait long for an invitation," said she. "Why, you
missed the loveliest thing in the world--just the loveliest thing in the
whole world!--the toboggan-slide all lit up with Chinese lanterns--the
black pine woods all around--the clear stars overhead. Then they have
great bonfires down in the hollow--to keep the chaperons from freezing:
poor things, it isn't much fun for them; I dare say they find out what a
good thing hot coffee is on a cold night. And you were at Toronto?" she
added.
"Yes, I was at Toronto," he answered, absently: indeed at this time he
was thinking much oftener of Toronto than this young lady could have
imagined--wondering when, or if ever, a message was coming to him from
the friendly Scotch banker there.
Mrs. Ellison was now up in town making preparations for her approaching
marriage; but so anxious was she that Louie Drexel and Vincent should
get thrown together, that she crushed the natural desire of a woman's
heart for a fashionable wedding, and proposed that the ceremony should
be quite a quiet little affair, to take place at Brighton, with Miss
Drexel as her chief attendant and Vincent as best man. And of course
there were many consultations; and Mrs. Ellison and her young friend
were much together; and they seemed to think it pleasanter, in their
comings and goings, to have a man's escort, so that the Parliamentary
duties of the new member for Mendover were very considerably interfered
with.
"Look here, aunt," said he, at this little dinner, "do you think I went
into the House of Commons simply to get you places in the Ladies'
gallery and entertain you in the Ladies' Dining-room?"
"I consider that a very important part of your duties," said the young
widow, promptly. "And I tell you this: when we come back from the
Riviera, for the London season, I hope to be kept informed of everything
that is going on--surely, with a husband in one House and a nephew in
the other!"
"But what I want to know is," said Lord Musselburgh on this same
occasion, "what Vin is going to do about the taxation of ground rents.
I think that is about the hardest luck I ever heard of. Here is a young
man, who no sooner gets into Parliament than he is challenged to say
whether he will support the taxation of ground rents; and lo and behold!
every penny of his own fortune is invested in ground rents! Isn't that
hard? Other things don't touch him. Welsh Disestablishment will
neither put a penny in his pocket nor take one out; while he can make
promises by the dozen about the abolition of the tea duty, extension of
Factory Acts, triennial Parliaments, and all the rest of it. Besides,
it isn't only a question of money. He knows he has no more right to tax
ground rents than to pillage a baker's shop; he knows he oughtn't to
give the name of patriot to people who merely want to steal what doesn't
belong to them; and I suppose he has his own ideas about contracts
guaranteed by law, and the danger of introducing the legislation of
plunder. But what is he going to do? What are you going to do, Marcus
Curtius? Jump in, and sacrifice yourself, money and principles and all?"
"You are not one of my constituents," said Vincent, "and I decline to
answer."
Day after day went by, and week after week; but no tidings came of the
two fugitives. In such moments of interval as he could snatch from his
various pursuits (for he was writing for an evening paper now, and that
occupied a good deal of his time) his imagination would go wandering
away over the surface of the globe, endeavouring to picture them here or
there. He had remembered Maisrie's injunction; he could not forget
that; but of what avail was it now? Busy as he was, he led a solitary
kind of life; much thinking, especially during the long hours of the
night, was eating into his spirit; in vain did Mrs. Ellison scheme and
plan all kinds of little festivities and engagements in order to get him
interested in Louie Drexel. But he was grateful to the girl, in a sort
of way; when they had to go two and two (which Mrs. Ellison endeavoured
to manage whenever there was a chance) she did all the talking; she did
not seem to expect attention; she was light-hearted and amusing enough.
He bought her music; sent her flowers; and so forth; and no doubt Mrs.
Ellison thought that all was going well; but it is to be presumed that
Miss Drexel herself was under no misapprehension, for she was an
observant and shrewd-witted lass. Once, indeed, as they were walking up
Regent-street, she ventured to hint, in a sisterly sort of fashion, that
he might be a little more confidential with her; but he did not respond
to this invitation; and she did not pursue the subject further.
Then the momentous wedding-day drew near; and it was with curious
feelings that Vincent found himself on the way to Brighton again. But
he was not alone. The two Drexel girls and Lord Musselburgh were with
him, in this afternoon Pullman; and Miss Louie was chattering away like
twenty magpies. Always, too, in an oddly personal way. You--the person
she was addressing--you were responsible for everything that had
happened to her, or might happen to her, in this country; you were
responsible for the vagaries of the weather, for the condition of the
cab that brought her, for the delay in getting tickets.
"Why," she said to Vincent, "you know perfectly well that all that your
English poets have written about your English spring is a pure
imposture. Who would go a-Maying when you can't be sure of the weather
for ten minutes at a time? 'Hail, smiling morn!'--just you venture to
say that, on the finest day you ever saw in an English spring; the
chances are your prayer will be answered, and the chances are that the
morn does begin to hail, like the very mischief. You know perfectly
well that Herrick is a fraud. There never were such people as Corydon
and Phyllis--with ribbons at their knees and in their caps. The
farm-servants of Herrick's time were no better off than the
farm-servants of this present time--stupid, ignorant louts, not thinking
of poetry at all, but living the most dull and miserable of lives, with
an occasional guzzle. But in this country, you believe anything that is
told you. One of your great men says that machine-made things are bad;
and so you go and print your books on hand-made paper--and worry
yourselves to death before you can get the edges out. I call the man
who multiplies either useful or pretty things by machinery a true
philanthropist; he is working for the mass of the people; and it's about
time they were being considered. In former days----"
"Don't you want to hire a hall, Louie?" said her sister Anna.
"Oh, I've no patience with sham talk of that kind!" continued Miss
Drexel, not heeding the interruption. "As I say, in former days no one
was supposed to have anything fine or beautiful in their house, except
princes and nobles. The goldsmiths, and the lapidaries, and the
portrait-painters--and the poor wretches who made Venetian lace--they
all worked for the princes and nobles; and the common people were not
supposed to have anything to do with art or ornament; they could herd
like pigs. Well, I'm for machinery. I'm for chromolithography, when it
can give the labourer a very fair imitation of a Landseer or a Millais
to hang up in his cottage; I'm for the sewing-machine that can give the
L150-a-year people a very good substitute for Syrian embroidery to put
in their drawing-room. You've been so long used to princes and nobles
having everything and the poor people nothing----"
"But we're learning the error of our ways," said Vincent, interposing.
"My father is a Socialist."
"A Socialist," observed Lord Musselburgh, "who broke the moulds of a
dessert-service lest anybody else should have plates of the same
pattern!"
"Who has been telling tales out of school?" Vincent asked; but the
discussion had to end here, for they were now slowing into the station.
Nor did Mrs. Ellison's plans for throwing those two young people
continuously and obviously together work any better in Brighton; for
Vincent had no sooner got down than he went away by himself, seeking out
the haunts he had known when Maisrie and her grandfather had been there.
Wretchedness, loneliness, was destroying the nerve of this young man. He
had black moods of despair; and not only of despair, but of remorse; he
tortured himself with vain regrets, as one does when thinking of the
dead. If only he could have all those opportunities over again, he would
not misunderstand or mistrust! If only he could have them both
here!--the resolute, brave-hearted old man who disregarded all mean and
petty troubles while he could march along, with head erect, repeating to
himself a verse of the Psalms of David, or perhaps in his careless
gaiety singing a farewell to Bonny Mary and the pier o' Leith. And
Maisrie?--but Maisrie had gone away, proud, and wounded, and indignant.
She had found him unworthy of the love she had offered him. He had not
risen to her height. She would seek some other, no doubt, better fitted
to win her maiden trust. He thought of 'Urania'--
'Yet show her once, ye heavenly Powers,
One of some worthier race than ours!
One for whose sake she once might prove
How deeply she who scorns can love.'
And that other one, that worthier one, she would welcome--
'And she to him will reach her hand,
And gazing in his eyes will stand,
And know her friend, and weep for glee,
And cry: _Long, long I've looked for thee_.'
Then again his mood would change. If Maisrie were only here--if but for
a second or so he could look into her clear, pensive, true eyes, surely
he could convince her of one thing--that even when his father had
offered him chapter and verse to prove that she was nothing but the
accomplice of a common swindler, his faith in her had never wavered,
never for an instant. And would she not forgive his blindness in not
understanding so complex a character as that of her grandfather? He had
not told her of his half-suspicions; nay, he had treated those charges
with an open contempt. And if her quick eyes had perceived that behind
those professions there lingered some unconfessed doubt, would she not
be generous and willing to pardon? It was in her nature to be generous.
And he had borne some things for her sake that he had never revealed to
any mortal.
He ought to have been attending to his groomsman's duties, and acting as
escort to the young ladies who had gone down; but instead of that he
paid a visit to German-place, to look at the house in which the two
Bethunes had lodged; and he slowly passed up and down the Kemp-Town
breakwater, striving to picture to himself the look in Maisrie's eyes
when her soul made confession; and he went to the end of the Chain Pier,
to recall the tempestuous morning on which Maisrie, with her wet hair
blown about by the winds, and her lips salt with the sea-spray, had
asked him to kiss her, as a last farewell. And his promise?--"Promise
me, Vincent, that you will never doubt that you are my dearest in all
the world; promise me that you will say to yourself always and always,
'Wherever Maisrie is at this moment, she loves me--she is thinking of
me.'" He had made light of her wild words; he could not believe in any
farewell; and now--now all the wide, unknown world lay between him and
her, and there was nothing for him but the memory of her broken accents,
her sobs, her distracted, appealing eyes.
Mrs. Ellison affected not to notice his remissness; nay, she went on the
other tack.
"Don't you think it is a pity, Vin," she said on one occasion when she
found him alone--and there was a demure little smile on her very pretty
and expressive face: "Don't you think it is a pity the two marriages
couldn't be on the same day?"
"What two marriages?" he demanded, with a stare.
"Oh, yes, we are so discreet!" she said, mockingly. "We wouldn't
mention anything for worlds. But other people aren't quite blind, young
gentleman. And I do think it would have been so nice if the four of us
could have gone off on this trip together; Louie despises
conventions--she wouldn't mind. Many's the time I've thought of it;
four make such a nice number for driving along the Riviera; and four who
all know each other so well would be quite delightful. If it came to
that, I dare say it could be arranged yet: I'm sure I should be willing
to have our marriage postponed for a month, and I have no doubt I could
persuade Hubert to agree: then the two weddings on the same day would be
jolly--"
"What are you talking about, aunt!" he exclaimed.
"Oh, well," she said, with a wise and amiable discretion, "I don't want
to hurry on anything, or even to interfere. But of course we all expect
that the attentions you have been paying to Louie Drexel will lead to
something--and it would have been very nice if the two weddings could
have been together."
He was still staring at her.
"Mind you," she went on, "I wish you distinctly to understand that Louie
has not spoken a single word to me on the subject--"
"Well, I should hope not!" said Vincent, with quick indignation.
"Oh, don't be angry! Do you think a girl doesn't interpret things?"
continued Mrs. Ellison. "She has her own pride, of course; she wouldn't
speak until she is spoken to. But _I_ can speak; and surely you know
that it is only your interests I have at heart. And that is why we have
been so glad to see this affair coming along--"
"Who have been glad to see it?" he asked again.
"Well, Hubert, for one. And I should think your father. Of course they
must see how admirable a wife she would make you, now you are really
embarked in public life. Clever, bright, amusing; of a good family;
with a comfortable dowry, no doubt--but that would be of little
consequence, so long as your father was pleased with the match: you will
have plenty. And this is my offer, a very handsome one, I consider it:
even now, at the last moment, I will try to get Hubert to postpone our
marriage, if you and Louie will have your wedding on the same day with
us. I have thought of it again and again; but somehow I didn't like to
speak. I was waiting for you to tell me that there was a definite
understanding between you and Louie Drexel----"
"Well, there is not," he said calmly. "Nor is there ever likely to be."
"Oh, come, come," she said insidiously, "don't make any rash resolve,
simply because I may have interfered a little too soon. Consider the
circumstances. Did you ever hear of any young man getting into
Parliament with fairer prospects than you? Your friendship with ---- is
of itself enough to attract attention to you. You have hardly opened
your mouth in the House yet; all the same I can see a disposition on the
part of the newspapers to pet you----"
"What has that got to do with Louie Drexel?" Vincent asked bluntly.
"Everything," was the prompt reply. "You must have social position.
You must begin and entertain--and make your own circle of friends and
allies. Then I shall want you to come to Musselburgh House--you and
your wife--so that my dinner parties shan't be smothered up with elderly
people and political bores. You can't begin too early to form your own
set; and not only that, but with a proper establishment and a wife at
the head of it, you can pay compliments to all kinds of people, even
amongst those who are not of your own set. Why shouldn't you ask Mr.
Ogden to dinner, for example?--there's many a good turn he might do you
in time to come. Wait till you see how I mean to manage at Musselburgh
House--if only Hubert would be a little more serious, and profess
political beliefs even if he hasn't any. For I want you to succeed,
Vincent. You are my boy. And you don't know how a woman who can't
herself do anything distinguished is proud to look on and admire one of
her own family distinguishing himself, and would like to have all the
world admiring him too. I tell you you are losing time; you are losing
your opportunities. What is the use--what on earth can be the use,"
continued this zealous and surely disinterested councillor, "of your
writing for newspapers? If the articles were signed, then I could
understand their doing you some good; or if you were the editor of an
important journal, that would give you a position. But here you are
slaving away--for what? Is it the money they give you? It would be odd
if the son of Harland Harris had to make that a consideration. What
otherwise, then? Do you think half-a-dozen people know that you write
in the ---- ----."
"My dear aunt," he answered her, "all that you say is very wise and very
kind; but you must not bother about me when your own affairs are so much
more important. If I have been too attentive to Miss Drexel--I'm sure I
wasn't aware of it, but I may have been--I will alter that----"
"Oh, Vin, don't be mean!" Mrs. Ellison cried. "Don't do anything shabby.
You won't go and quarrel with the girl simply because I ventured to hope
something from your manner towards her--you wouldn't do such a thing as
that----"
"Certainly not," said he, in a half-amused way. "Miss Drexel and I are
excellent friends----"
"And you will continue to be so!" said Mrs. Ellison, imploringly. "Now,
Vincent, promise me! You know there are crises in a woman's life when
she expects a little consideration--when she expects to be petted--and
have things a little her own way: well, promise me now you will be very
kind to Louie--kinder than ever--why, what an omen at a wedding it would
be if my chief attendant and the groomsman were to fall out----"
"Oh, we shan't fall out, aunt, be sure of that," he said good-naturedly.
"Ah, but I want more," she persisted. "I shall consider myself a horrid
mischief-maker if I don't see that you are more attentive and kind to
Louie Drexel than ever. It's your duty. It's your place as groomsman.
You'll have to propose their health at the wedding-breakfast; and of
course you'll say something nice about American girls--could you say
anything too nice, I wonder?--and you'll have to say it with an air of
conviction. For they'll expect you to speak well, of course: you, a
young member of Parliament; and where could you find a more welcome
toast, at a wedding-breakfast, than the toast of the unmarried young
ladies? Yes, yes; you'll have plenty of opportunity of lecturing a
sleepy House of Commons about Leasehold Enfranchisement and things of
that kind; but this is quite another sort of chance; and I'm looking
forward to my nephew distinguishing himself--as he ought to do, when he
will have Louie and Anna Drexel listening." And here this astute and
insidious adviser ceased, for her future husband came into the room, to
pay his last afternoon call.
Whether Vincent spoke well or ill on that auspicious occasion does not
concern us here: it only needs to be said that the ceremony, and the
quiet little festivities following, all passed off very satisfactorily;
and that bride and bridegroom (the former being no novice) drove away
radiant and happy, amid the usual symbolic showers. It was understood
they were to break their journey southward at Paris for a few days; and
Vincent--who had meanwhile slipped along to his hotel to change his
attire--went up to the railway station to see them off. He was
surprised to find both the Drexel girls there.
"Now, look here, Vin," said the charming, tall, pretty-eyed, and not
inexperienced bride, "I want you to do me a favour. If a woman isn't to
be humoured and petted on her wedding day--when, then? Well, Louie and
Anna don't return to town till to-morrow morning; and what are they to
do in that empty house with old Mrs. Smythe? I want you to take them in
hand for the afternoon--to please me. Leave that wretched House of
Commons for one more evening: in any case you couldn't go up now before
the five o'clock express."
And then she turned to the two young ladies. "Louie, Vincent has
promised to look after you two girls; and he'll see you safely into your
train to-morrow morning. So you must do your best to entertain him in
the meanwhile; the afternoon will be the dullest--you must find
something to amuse yourselves with----"
Miss Drexel seemed a little self-conscious, and also inclined to laugh.
"If he will trust himself entirely to us," said she, with covertly merry
eyes fixed on the bride, "Anna and I will do our best. But he must put
himself entirely in our charge. He must be ruled and governed. He must
do everything we ask----"
"Training him for a husband's duties," said Lord Musselburgh, without
any evil intention whatever; for indeed he was more anxious about
getting a supply of foot-warmers into the carriage that had been
reserved for him.
Then the kissing had to be gone through; there were final farewells and
good wishes; away went the train; there was a fluttering of
handkerchiefs; and here was Vincent Harris, a captive in the hands of
those two young American damsels--who, at first, did not seem to know
what to do with him.
But very soon their shyness wore off; and it must be freely conceded
that they treated him well. To begin with, they took him down into the
town, and led him to a little table at a confectioner's, and ordered two
ices for themselves and for him a glass of sherry and a biscuit. When
that fluid was placed before him, he made no remark: his face was
perfectly grave.
"What's the matter now?" Louie Drexel asked, looking at him.
"I said nothing," he answered.
"What are you thinking, then?"
"Nothing--nothing."
"But I insist on knowing."
"Oh, very well," he said. "But it isn't my fault. I promised to obey.
If you ask me to drink a glass of confectioner's sherry I will do
so--though it seems a pity to die so young."
"What would you rather have then--tea or an ice?"
She got an ice for him; and duly paid for the three--much to his
consternation, but he had undertaken to be quite submissive. Then they
took him for a walk and showed him the beauties of the place, making
believe to recognise the chief features and public buildings of New
York. Then they carried him with them to Mrs. Ellison's house, and
ascended into the drawing room there, chatting, laughing,
nonsense-making, in a very frank and engaging manner. Finally, towards
six o'clock, Miss Drexel rang the bell, and ordered the carriage.
"Oh, I say, don't do that," Vincent interposed, grown serious for a
moment. "People don't like tricks being played with their horses. You
may do anything else in a house but that."
"And pray who asked you to interfere?" she retorted, in a very imperious
manner; so there was nothing for it but acquiescence and resignation.
And very soon--in a few minutes, indeed--the carriage was beneath the
windows: coachman on the box, footman at the door, maidservant
descending the steps with rugs, all in order. It did not occur to
Vincent to ask how those horses came to be harnessed in so miraculously
brief a space of time; he accepted anything that might befall; he was as
clay in the hands of the potter. And really the two girls did their
best to make things lively--as they drove away he knew not, and cared
not, whither. The younger sister was rather more subdued, perhaps; but
the elder fairly went daft, as the saying is; and her gaiety was
catching. Not but that she could be dexterous in the midst of her
madness. For example, she was making merry over the general inaptitude
of Englishmen for speech-making; and was describing scenes she had
herself witnessed in both Houses of Parliament, when she suddenly
checked herself.
"At all events," she said, "I will say this for your House of Commons,
that there are a number of very good-looking men in it. No one can deny
that. But the House of Lords--whew! You know, my contention is that my
pedigree is just as long as that of any of your lords; but I've got to
admit that, some of them more nearly resemble their ancestors--I mean
their quadrumanous ancestors--"
"Louie!" said the sister, reprovingly.
And she was going on to say some very nice things about the House of
Commons (as contrasted with the Upper Chamber) when Vincent happened to
look out into the now gathering dusk.
"Why," said he, "we're at Rottingdean; and we're at the foot of an
awfully steep hill; I must get out and walk up."
"No, no, no," said Miss Drexel, impatiently. "The horses have done
nothing all day but hang about the church door. You English are so
absurdly careful of your horses: more careful of them than of
yourselves--as I've noticed myself at country houses in wet weather. I
wonder, when I get back home, if the people will believe me when I tell
them that I've actually seen horses in England with leather shoes over
their feet to keep the poor things warm and comfortable. Yes, in this
very town of Brighton--"
But here Miss Louie had the laugh turned against her, when he had
gravely to inform her that horses in England wore over-shoes of leather,
not to keep their feet warm, but to prevent their cutting the turf when
hauling a lawn-roller.
"But where are we going?" said he again.
"Oh, never mind," she answered, pertly.
"All right--all right," he said, and he proceeded to ensconce himself
still more snugly in the back seat. "Well, now, since you've told us of
all the absurd and ludicrous things you've seen in England, won't you
tell us of some of the things you have admired? We can't be insane on
every point, surely."
"I know what you think I am," she said of a sudden. "A
comparison-monger."
"You were born in America," he observed.
"And you despise people who haven't the self-sufficiency, the stolid
satisfaction, of the English."
"We don't like people who are too eager to assert themselves--who are
always beating drums and tom-toms--quiet folk would rather turn aside,
and give them the highway."
"But all the same, you know," Miss Drexel proceeded, "some of your
countrymen have been very complimentary when they were over with us: of
course you've heard of the one who said that the biggest things he had
seen in America were the eyes of the women?"
"What else could he say?--an Englishman prides himself on speaking the
truth," he made answer, very properly.
By this time, however, he was beginning seriously to ask himself whither
those two young minxes meant to take him--a runaway expedition carried
out with somebody else's horses! At all events they were going to have
a fine night for it. For by now it ought to have been quite dark; but
it was not dark: the long-rolling downs, the wide strip of turf along
the top of the cliffs, and the far plain of the sea were all spectrally
visible in a sort of grey uncertainty; and he judged that the moon was
rising, or had risen in the east. What did Charles and Thomas, seated
on the box, think of this pretty escapade? In any case, his own part
and lot in the matter had already been decided: unquestioning obedience
was what had been demanded of him. It could not be that Gretna Green
was the objective point?--this was hardly the way.
At last they descended from those grey moonlit solitudes, and got down
into a dusky valley, where there were scattered yellow lights--lamp
lights and lights of windows. "This is Newhaven," he thought to
himself; but he did not say anything; for Miss Drexel was telling of a
wild midnight frolic she and some of her friends had had on Lake
Champlain. Presently the footfalls of the horses sounded hollow; they
were going over a wooden bridge. Then they proceeded cautiously for a
space, and there was a jerk or two; they were crossing a railway line.
And now Vincent seemed to understand what those mad young wretches were
after. They were going down to the Newhaven Pier Hotel. To dine there?
Very well; but he would insist on being host. It was novel, and odd,
and in a certain way fascinating, for him to sit in a restaurant and
find himself entertained by two young ladies---find them pressing
another biscuit on him, and then paying the bill; but, of course, the
serious business of dinner demanded the intervention of a man.
What followed speedily drove these considerations out of his head. The
enterprising young damsels having told the coachman when to return with
the carriage, conducted their guest to the hotel, and asked for the
coffee-room. A waiter opened the door for them. The next thing that
Vincent saw was that, right up at the end of the long room, Lord
Musselburgh and his bride were seated at a side table, and that they
were regarding the new comers--especially himself--with some little
amusement. They themselves were in no wise disconcerted, as they ought
to have been.
"Come along!" the bridegroom said, rather impatiently. "You're nearly
half-an-hour late, and we're famishing. Here, waiter, dinner at once,
please! Vin, my boy, you sit next Miss Drexel--that's all right!"
At this side-table, covers were already laid for five. As Vincent took
his place, he said:--
"Well, this is better than being had up before a magistrate for stealing
a carriage and a pair of horses!"
"Sure they didn't let on?" the bride demanded, with a glance at the two
girls.
"Not a word!" he protested. "I had not the remotest idea where or what
we were bound for. Looked more like Gretna Green than anything else."
"The nearest way to Gretna Green," said she, regarding Vincent with
significant eyes, "is through Paris--to the British Embassy."
Now although this remark (which Miss Drexel affected not to hear--she
was so busy taking off her gloves) seemed a quite haphazard and casual
thing, it very soon appeared, during the progress of this exceedingly
merry dinner, that Lady Musselburgh, as she now was, had been wondering
whether they might not carry the frolic a bit further; whether, in
short, this little party of five might not go on to Paris together by
the eleven o'clock boat that same night.
"Why, Louie, you despise conventionalities," she exclaimed. "Well, now
is your chance!"
Miss Louie pretended to be much frightened.
"Oh, but I couldn't do that!" she cried. "Neither Nan nor I have any
things with us."
"The idea of American girls talking of taking things with them to
Paris!" the bride said, with a laugh. "That is the very reason you
should go to Paris--to get the things."
"Do you really mean to cross to-night?" Vincent asked, turning to
Musselburgh.
"Oh, yes, certainly. The fixed service--eleven o'clock--so there's no
hurry, whatever you decide on."
For he, too, seemed rather taken with this audacious project; said he
thought it would be good fun; pleasant company, and all that; also he
darkly hinted--perhaps for the benefit of the American young
ladies--that Paris had been altogether too pallid of late, and wanted a
little crimson added to its complexion. And indeed as the little
banquet proceeded, these intrepid schemes widened out, in a half-jocular
way. Why should the runaway party stop at Paris? Why should they not
all go on to the Mediterranean together, to breathe the sweet airs blown
in from the sea, and watch the Spring emptying her lavish lap-full of
flowers over the land? Alas! it fell to Vincent's lot to demolish these
fairy-like dreams. He said he would willingly wait to see the recruited
party off by that night's steamer; and would send any telegrams for
them, or deliver any messages; but he had to return to London the next
morning, without fail. And then Miss Louie Drexel said it was a pity to
spoil a pleasant evening by talking of impossibilities; and that they
had already sufficiently outraged conventionalities by running away with
a carriage and pair and breaking in upon a wedding tour. So the
complaisant young bride had for the moment to abandon her half-serious,
half-whimsical designs; and perhaps she even hoped that Miss Drexel had
not overheard her suggested comparison between the British Embassy at
Paris and Gretna Green.
At nine o'clock the carriage came round, and at nine o'clock the younger
people, having got their good-byes said all over again, set out for
home.
"I suppose we ought to keep this little expedition a secret," said
Vincent, as they were climbing up from the dusky valley to the moonlight
above, which was now very clear and white.
"Why?" said Miss Louie.
"Rather unusual--isn't it?" he asked, doubtfully, for he knew little of
such matters.
"That's what made it so nice," she answered, promptly. "Don't you think
they were charmed? Fancy their being quite alone in that big hotel,
waiting for a steamer! We had it all planned out days ago. Didn't you
suspect in the least--when you knew they were going by Newhaven and
Dieppe, and that they would have to wait till eleven to-night? I'm sure
they would have been delighted if we had gone over to Paris with them,
and down to the Mediterranean: but I suppose that would have been a
little too much--just a little too much!"
And if Miss Drexel was vivacious and talkative or her way out, she was
equally so on the way back; so that Vincent, in such cheerful company,
had little reason to regret their having captured and run away with him.
Then again the night was surpassingly beautiful--the moonlight grey on
the land and white on the sea; the heavens cloudless; the world
everywhere apparently silent and asleep. Not that they were to get all
the way home without a little bit of an adventure, however. When they
reached the top of the height just west of Rottingdean, Louie Drexel
proposed that they should get out and walk along the cliff for a while,
leaving the carriage to go slowly on by road. This they accordingly
did; and very soon the carriage was out of sight; for at this point the
highway is formed by a deep cutting in the chalk. It was pleasant to be
by themselves on such a night--high up on this lofty cliff, overlooking
the wide, far-shimmering, silver sea.
Presently there came into the stillness a sound of distant voices; and
shortly afterwards, at the crest of the hill, a band of strayed
revellers appeared in sight, swaying much in their walk, and singing
diverse choruses with energy rather than with skill. They were in high
good humour, all of them. As they drew near, Vincent perceived that one
of them was a soldier; and he seemed the centre of attraction; this one
and that clung to his arm, until their legs, becoming involved, carried
them wide away, when two other members of the group would occupy the
twin places of honour. The soldier was drunk, too; but he had the
honour of the flag to maintain; and made some heroic effort to march
straight.
Now what with their insensate howling and staggering, they were almost
on Vincent and his two companions before they were aware; but instantly
there was a profusion of offers of hospitality. The gentleman must
drink with them, at the Royal Oak. The gentleman declined to drink, and
civilly bade them good-night. At the same moment another member of the
jovial crew appeared to have discovered that there were also two young
ladies here; most probably he had a dim suspicion there might only be
one; however, it was this one, the one nearest, he insisted should also
go down and have a glass at the Royal Oak. It was all done in good
fellowship, with no harm meant; but when at the same time this
particular roysterer declared he would have his sweetheart come along o'
him, and caught Miss Louie by the arm, he had distinctly overstept the
bounds of prudence.
"Hands off!" said Vincent; and he slung the fellow a clip on the ear
that sent him staggering, until his legs got mixed up somehow, and away
he went headlong on to the grass.
Then he said in a rapid undertone to the two girls--
"Off you go to the carriage--quick!"
He turned to the now murmuring group.
"What do you want?" he said. "I can't fight all of you: I'll fight the
soldier--make a ring, to see fair play----"
He glanced over his shoulder: the two girls had disappeared: now he
breathed freely.
"But, look here," said he in a most amicable tone, "you've had a
glass--any one can see that--and it's no use a man trying to fight if
he's a bit unsteady on his pins; you know that quite well. And I don't
want to fight any of you. If you ask me in a friendly way, I'll go down
to the Royal Oak and have something with you; or I'll treat you, if you
like that better. I call that fair."
And they seemed to think it fair, too; so they picked up their companion
(who looked drowsy) and helped him along. But they hadn't gone
half-a-dozen yards when two dark figures appeared at the top of the
chalk cutting; and these, when they came quickly up, Vincent to his
surprise discovered to be the coachman and footman.
"Where are the young ladies?" he demanded, instantly and angrily.
"Miss Drexel is on the box, sir--she sent us to you," said the
coachman--staring with amazement at the revellers, and no doubt
wondering when the fighting was about to begin.
"Oh, go away back!" said he. "Get the ladies into the carriage and
drive them home! I'm going to have a drink with these good
fellows--I'll follow on foot!"
"I'm quite sure, sir, Miss Drexel won't go," said the coachman.
But here the soldier stepped forward. He had arrived at some nebulous
perception of the predicament; and he constituted himself spokesman of
the party. They had no wish to inconvenience the gentleman. He hoped
some other night--proud to see such a gentleman--wouldn't interfere with
ladies--not interfere with anybody--all gentlemen and good friends--no
use in animosity--no offence I meant--no offence taken----
This harangue might have gone on all night had not Vincent cut it short
by requesting to be allowed to hand his friends five shillings to drink
his health withal; and away the jocund brethren went to obtain more
liquor--if haply they could induce the landlord of the Royal Oak to
serve them.
And here, sure enough, was Miss Louie Drexel seated sedately on the box,
whip and reins in hand; and there was Miss Anna, in the white moonlight,
at the horses' heads. When Vincent and his two companions were in the
carriage again, he said to the elder of them--
"Why didn't you drive away home?"
"Drive away home?" said she, with some touch of vibrant indignation in
her voice. "And leave you there? I was just as near as possible going
back myself, with the whip in my hand. Do you think I couldn't have
lashed my way through those drunken fools?"