EDMUND AIREY had the most perfect command of his features under all
circumstances. While the members of the Front Opposition Benches were
endeavouring to sneer him into their lobby, upon the occasion of a
division on some question on which it was rumoured he differed from
the Government, he never moved a muscle. The flaunts and gibes may
have stung him, but he had never yet given an indication of feeling
the sting; so that if Lord Fotheringay looked for any of those twitches
about the corners of Mr. Airey’s mouth, which the sudden announcement
of his determination would possibly have brought around the mouth of
an ordinary man, he must have had little experience of his companion’s
powers.
But that Lord Fotheringay felt on the whole greatly flattered by the
impassiveness of Edmund Airey’s face after his announcement, Edmund
Airey did not for a moment doubt. When a man of fifty-seven gravely
announces his intention to another man of marrying a girl of, perhaps,
twenty, and with eyes of remarkable lustre, and when the man takes such
an announcement as the merest matter of course, the man who makes it has
some reason for feeling flattered.
The chances are, however, that he succeeds in proving to his own
satisfaction that he has no reason for feeling flattered; for the man
of fifty-seven who is fool enough to entertain the notion of marrying a
girl of twenty with lustrous eyes, is certainly fool enough to believe
that the announcement of his intention in this respect is in no way out
of the common.
Thus, when, after a glance concentrated upon the corners of Edmund
Airey’s mouth, Lord Fotheringay resumed his seat and began to give
serious reasons for taking the step that he had declared himself ready
to take--reasons beyond the mere natural desire to prevent Miss Avon
from being made a fool of--he gave no indication of feeling in the least
flattered by the impassiveness of the face of his companion.
Yes, he explained to Mr. Airey, he had been so badly treated by the
world that he had almost made up his mind to retire from the world--the
exact words in which he expressed that resolution were “to let the world
go to the devil in its own way.”
Now, as the belief was general that Lord Fotheringay’s presence in the
world had materially accelerated its speed in the direction which he
had indicated, the announcement of his intention to allow it to proceed
without his assistance was not absurd.
Yes, he had been badly treated by the world, he said. The world was very
wicked. He felt sad when he thought of the vast amount of wickedness
there was in the world, and the small amount of it that he had already
enjoyed. To be sure, it could not be said that he had quite lived the
life of the ideal anchorite: he admitted--and smacked his lips as he did
so--that he had now and again had a good time (Mr. Airey did not assume
that the word “good” was to be accepted in its Sunday-school sense)
but on the whole the result was disappointing.
“As saith the Preacher,” remarked Mr. Airey, when Lord Fotheringay
paused and shook his head so that another little scrap of caked powder
escaped from the depths of one of the wrinkles of his forehead.
“The Preacher--what Preacher?” he asked.
“The Preacher who cried _Vanitas Vanitatum_,” said Edmund.
“He had gone on a tour with an Italian opera company,” said Lord
Fotheringay, “and he had fallen foul of the basso. Airey, my boy,
whatever you do, steer clear of a prima donna with a high soprano. It
means thousands--thousands, and a precipitate flight at the last. You
needn’t try a gift of paste--the finest productions of the Ormuz
Gem Company--‘a Tiara for Thirty Shillings’--you know their
advertisement--no, I’ve tried that. It was no use. The real thing
she would have--Heavens above! Two thousand pounds for a trinket, and
nothing to show for it, but a smashing of supper plates and a hurried
flight. Ah, Airey, is it any wonder that I should make up my mind
to live a quiet life with--I quite forget who was in my mind when I
commenced this interesting conversation?”
“It makes no difference,” said Mr. Airey. “The principle is precisely
the same. There is Miss Innisfail looking for someone, I must go to
her.”
“A desperately proper girl,” said Lord Fotheringay. “As desperately
proper as if she had once been desperately naughty. These proper girls
know a vast deal. She scarcely speaks to me. Yes, she must know a lot.”
His remarks were lost upon Mr. Airey, for he had politely hurried to
Miss Innisfail and was asking her if he could be of any assistance to
her. But when Miss Innisfail replied that she was merely waiting for
Brian, the boatman, who should have returned long ago from the other
side of the lough, Mr. Airey did not return to Lord Fotheringay.
He had had enough of Lord Fotheringay for one afternoon, and he hoped
that Lord Fotheringay would understand so much. He had long ago ceased
to be amusing. As an addition to the house-party at the Castle he was
unprofitable. He knew that Lady Innisfail was of this opinion, and he
was well aware also that Lady Innisfail had not given him more than a
general and very vague invitation to the Castle. He had simply come to
the Castle in order to avoid the possibly disagreeable consequences of
buying some thousands of pounds’ worth of diamonds--perhaps it would be
more correct to say, diamonds costing some thousands of pounds, leaving
worth out of the question--for a woman with a husband.
Airey knew that the philosophy of Lord Fotheringay was the philosophy of
the maker of omelettes. No one has yet solved the problem of how to make
omelettes without breaking eggs. Lord Fotheringay had broken a good many
eggs in his day, and occasionally the result was that his share of the
transaction was not the omelette but the broken shells. Occasionally,
too, Edmund Airey was well aware, Lord Fotheringay had suffered more
inconvenience than was involved in the mere fact of his being deprived
of the comestible. His latest adventure. Airey thought, might be
included among such experiences. He had fled to the brink of the ocean
in order to avoid the vengeance of the Husband. “Here the pursuer can
pursue no more,” was the line that was in Edmund Airey’s mind as he
listened to the fragmentary account of the latest _contretemps_ of the
rheumatic butterfly.
Yes, he had had quite enough of Lord Fotheringay’s company. The
announcement of his intention to marry Miss Avon had not made him more
interesting in the eyes of Edmund Airey, though it might have done so
in other people’s eyes--for a man who makes himself supremely ridiculous
makes himself supremely interesting as well, in certain circles.
The announcement made by Lord Fotheringay had caused him to seem
ridiculous, though of course Edmund had made no sign to this effect:
had he made any sign he would not have heard the particulars of Lord
Fotheringay’s latest fiasco, and he was desirous of learning those
particulars. Having become acquainted with them, however, he found that
he had had quite enough of his company.
But in the course of the afternoon Mr. Airey perceived that, though
in his eyes there was something ridiculous in the notion of Lord
Fotheringay’s expression of a determination to marry Beatrice Avon, the
idea might not seem quite so ridiculous to other people--Miss Avon’s
father, for instance.
In another moment he had come to the conclusion that the idea might not
seem altogether absurd to Miss Avon herself.
Young women of twenty--even when they have been endowed by heaven with
lustrous eyes (assuming that the lustre of a young woman’s eyes is
a gift from heaven, and not acquired to work the purposes of a very
different power)--have been known to entertain without repugnance
the idea of marrying impecunious peers of fifty-seven; and upon this
circumstance Edmund pondered.
Standing on the brink of a cliff at the base of which the great rollers
were crouching like huge white-maned lions, Mr. Airey reflected as he
had never previously done, upon the debased condition of modern society,
in which such incidents are of constant occurrence. But, however
deplorable such incidents are, he knew perfectly well that there never
had existed a society in the world where they had not been quite as
frequent as they are in modern society in England.
Yes, it was quite as likely as not that Lord Fotheringay would be able
to carry out the intention which he had announced to his confidant of
the moment.
But when Mr. Airey thought of the lustrous eyes of Beatrice Avon,
recalling the next moment the rheumatic movements of Lord Fotheringay
and the falling of the scrap of caked powder from his forehead, he felt
quixotic enough to be equal to the attempt to prevent the realization of
Lord Fotheringay’s intention.
It was then that the thought occurred to him--Why should not Harold, who
was clearly ready to fall in love with the liquid eyes of Beatrice Avon,
ask her to marry him instead of his father?
The result of his consideration of this question was to convince
him that such an occurrence as it suggested should be averted at all
hazards.
Only the worst enemy that Harold Wynne could have--the worst enemy that
the girl could have--would like to see them married.
It would be different if the hot-blooded Italian husband were to pursue
the enemy of his household to the brink of the Atlantic cliffs and then
push him over the cliffs into the depths of the Atlantic Ocean. But the
hot-blooded Italian was not yet in sight, and Edmund knew very well that
so long as Lord Fotheringay lived, Harold was dependent on him for his
daily bread.
If Harold were to marry Miss Avon, it would lie in his father’s power
to make him a pauper, or, worse, the professional director with the
honorary prefix of “Honourable” to his name, dear to the company
promoter.
On the death of Lord Fotheringay Harold would inherit whatever property
still remained out of the hands of the mortgagees; but Edmund was well
aware of the longevity of that species of butterfly which is susceptible
of rheumatic attacks; so that for, perhaps, fifteen years Harold might
remain dependent upon the good-will of his father for his daily bread.
It thus appeared to Mr. Airey that the problem of how to frustrate the
intentions of Lord Fotheringay, was not an easy one to solve.
He knew the world too well to entertain for a moment the possibility of
defeating Lord Fotheringay’s avowed purpose by informing either the girl
or her father of the evil reputation of Lord Fotheringay. The evil deeds
of a duke have occasionally permitted his wife to obtain a divorce; but
they have never prevented him from obtaining another wife.
All this Mr. Edmund Airey knew, having lived in the world and observed
the ways of its inhabitants for several years.
END OF VOLUME I.
A GRAY EYE OR SO
By Frank Frankfort Moore
In Three Volumes--Volume II
Sixth Edition
London, Hutchinson & Co., 34 Paternoster Row
1893
A GRAY EYE OR SO.