Produced by Annie McGuire, from scans obtained from Google
Print project.
Her Ladyship's
Elephant
By
D. D. Wells
London
William Heinemann
1912
FIRST EDITION, 3s. 6d., _May
1898_. NEW IMPRESSIONS, _August
1898_; _November 1899_; _September
1905_. HEINEMANN'S SEVENPENNY
NOVELS, _July 1912_.
[Illustration: "He sat down hurriedly on the breakfast table"]
HEINEMANN'S
Sevenpenny Novels
By Hall Caine
The Bondman
The Scapegoat
By R. L. Stevenson
The Ebb-Tide
(With LLOYD OSBOURNE)
By Jack London
The Call of the Wild
By H. G. Wells
The War of the Worlds
By Robert S. Hichens
Flames
By R. Harding Davis
Soldiers of Fortune
By E. L. Voynich
The Gadfly
By Maxwell Gray
The Last Sentence
By D. D. Wells
Her Ladyship's Elephant
_A WORD TO THE WISE_
_A well-known English novelist once told me that of all his published
works--and their name is legion--one only had been founded on fact, and
that one his critics united in condemning as impossible and unnatural.
In the case of my own little book, I venture to forestall such criticism
by stating that while the characters which appear in its pages are at
the most only composite photographs, the one "impossible" and
"unnatural" figure, the elephant, had his foundation in actual fact; and
the history of its acquirement by the Consul, as hereinafter set forth,
is the truthful narration of an actual experience, one of many episodes,
stranger than fiction, which went to form the warp and woof of my
diplomatic experience._
_DAVID DWIGHT WELLS._
CHAPTER I
IN WHICH THE SAME QUESTION IS ANSWERED IN TWO WAYS
Harold Stanley Malcolm St. Hubart Scarsdale, Esq., of "The Towers,"
Sussex, sat uncomfortably on a very comfortable chair. His
patent-leather boots were manifestly new, his trousers fresh from the
presser, his waistcoat immaculate, while his frock coat with its white
gardenia, and his delicate grey suede gloves, completed an admirable
toilet. He was, in short, got up for the occasion, a thoroughly healthy,
muscular, well-groomed animal; good-natured too, fond in his big-hearted
boyish way of most other animals, and enough of a sportsman to find no
pleasure in winging tame or driven grouse and pheasants. He was
possessed, moreover, of sufficient brains to pass with credit an
examination which gave him a post in the War Office, and had recently
become, owing to the interposition of Providence and a restive mare, the
eldest son.
In spite of all this, he was very much out of his depth as he sat there;
for he was face to face with a crisis in his life, and that crisis was
embodied in a woman. And such a woman!--quite unlike anything his
conservative British brain had ever seen or imagined before the present
London season: a mixture of Parisian daintiness and coquetry, nicely
tempered by Anglo-Saxon breeding and common sense--in a word, an
American.
He had come to propose to her, or rather she had sent for him, to what
end he hardly knew. Of this only was he certain, that she had turned his
world topsy-turvy; cast down his conventional gods; admired him for what
he considered his fallings-off from the established order of things;
laughed at his great coups; cared not a whit for his most valued
possessions; and become, in short, the most incomprehensible,
bewitching, lovable woman on earth.
He had talked to her about the weather, the opera, the Court Ball, and
now--now he must speak to her of his love, unless, blessed reprieve! she
spoke first--which she did.
"Now, Mr. Scarsdale," she remarked, "I have not sent for you to talk
amiable society nonsense: I want an explanation."
"Yes, Miss Vernon," he replied, nerving himself for the ordeal.
"Why did you propose to Aunt Eliza at the Andersons' crush last night?"
"Because----" he faltered. "Well, really, you see she is your only
relative in England--your chaperon--and it is customary here to address
offers of marriage to the head of the family."
"I really don't see why you want to marry her," continued his tormentor.
"She is over sixty. Oh, you needn't be shocked; Aunt Eliza is not
sensitive about her age, and it is well to look these things fairly in
the face. You can't honestly call her handsome, though she is a dear
good old soul, but, I fear, too inured to Chicago to assimilate readily
with English society. Of course her private means are enormous----"
"Good heavens! Miss Vernon," he exclaimed, "there has been some dreadful
mistake! I entertain the highest respect for your aunt, Miss Cogbill,
but I don't wish to marry her; I wish to marry--somebody else----"
"Really! Why don't you propose to Miss Somebody Else in person, then?"
"It is usual----" he began, but she cut him short, exclaiming:
"Oh, bother! Excuse me, I didn't mean to be rude, but really, you know,
any girl who was old enough to marry would be quite capable of giving
you your--answer." The last word, after a pause for consideration, was
accompanied by a bewitching, if ambiguous, smile.
"I--I hope you are not offended," he floundered on, in desperate straits
by this time.
"Oh dear, no," she returned serenely, "I'm only grieved for Aunt Eliza.
You shouldn't have done it, really; it must have upset her dreadfully;
she's too old for that sort of thing. Do tell me what she said to you."
"She said I must propose on my own account," he blurted out, "and that
she could not pretend to advise me."
"Clever Aunt Eliza!" murmured Miss Vernon.
"So you see," continued her lover, determined to have it over and know
the worst, "I came to you."
"For more advice?" she queried, and, receiving no answer, continued
demurely: "Of course I haven't the remotest idea whom you mean to
honour, but it does seem to me that the wives of Englishmen allow
themselves to be treated shamefully, and I once made out a list of
objections which I always said I would present to any Englishman who
proposed to me. Of course," she hastened to add, "you will probably
marry an English girl, who won't mind."
"I haven't said so!" he interjected.
"No," she said meditatively, "you haven't. I'll tell you what they are
if you wish."
"Do," he begged.
"Well, in the first place," she continued, "I should refuse to be a
'chattel.'"
"Oh I say----" he began. But she went on, unheeding his expostulation:
"Then my husband couldn't beat me, not even once, though the law allows
it."
"What do you take us for?" he exclaimed.
"Then," she proceeded, "he would have to love me better than his horses
and his dogs."
"Oh I say! Mabel," he burst out, teased beyond all limits of endurance,
"don't chaff me; I'm awfully in earnest, you know, and if you will
accept what little I have to offer--three thousand a year, and 'The
Towers,' now poor Bob's gone----" He paused, but she made no answer,
only he noticed that all of a sudden she had become very serious.
"Lady Mary, my mother, you know, would of course leave the place to you
at once, but there's no title; my father was only a knight. I'm
sorry----"
"Oh," she replied, "I wouldn't have married you if you had had one;
quite enough of my countrywomen have made fools of themselves on that
account."
"Then you will marry me!" he cried, and sprang towards her.
She saw her slip and tried to correct it.
"I haven't said----" she began, but the sentence was never finished; for
Harold Stanley Malcolm St. Hubart Scarsdale, of "The Towers," Sussex,
closed the argument and the lips of Miss Mabel Vernon, of Chicago,
Illinois, U.S.A., at one and the same time.
* * * * *
Robert Allingford, United States Consul at Christchurch, England, and
Marion, youngest daughter of Sir Peter and Lady Steele, were seated on
the balcony of the Hyde Park Club one hot afternoon. Everybody had gone
down to the races at Goodwood, and the season was drawing its last gasp.
The "Row," which they overlooked, was almost deserted, save for an
occasional depressed brougham, while the stretches of the Park beyond
were given over to nursemaids and their attendant "Tommies" and
"Bobbies."
Mamma was there, of course. One must be conventional in London, even in
July; but she was talking to the other man, Jack Carrington, who had
been invited especially for that purpose, and was doing his duty nobly.
The afternoon tea had been cleared away, and the balcony was deserted.
In another week Marion would go into the country, and he would return to
his consulate. He might never have such another chance. Opportunities
for a proposal are so rare in London that it does not do to miss them. A
ball affords almost the only opening, and when one remembers the offers
to which one has been a third party, on the other side of a thin paper
screen--well, it makes a man cautious.
Robert Allingford had planned and worked up this tea with patience and
success. Jack was to be best man, in consideration of his devotion to
mamma--provided, of course, that the services of a best man should be
required. On this point Allingford was doubtful. He was sure that Lady
Steele understood; he knew that Sir Peter had smiled on him indulgently
for the past fortnight; his friends chaffed him about it openly at
dinners and at the club; but Marion--he was very far from certain if she
comprehended the state of affairs in the slightest degree.
He had given her river-parties, box-parties, dinners, flowers, candy--in
short, paid her every possible attention; but then she expected
Americans to do so; it was "just their way," and "didn't mean anything."
He greatly feared that his proposal would be a shock to her, and English
girls, he had been told, did not like shocks. He wondered if it would
have been better to ask Lady Steele for her daughter's hand, but this he
felt was beyond him. Proposing was bad enough anyway, but to attempt a
declaration in cold blood--he simply couldn't. Moreover he felt that it
must be now or never. Jack had been giving him the field for five
minutes already, and he had not even made a beginning. He would go in
and get it over.
"You are leaving town next week," he said. "I shall miss you."
"You have been very good to me," she replied simply.
"Good to myself, you mean. It is the greatest pleasure I have in life to
give you pleasure, Marion."
"Mr. Allingford!" she said, half rising. He had used her Christian name
for the first time.
"Forgive me if I call you Marion," he went on, noting with relief that
her ladyship was talking charity bazaar to Jack, and so assuring him
from interruption.
"I mean, give me the right to do so. You see I'm awfully in love with
you; I can't help loving the sweetest girl I know. You must have seen
how I cared."
"Lately, yes--I have suspected it," she answered in a low voice.
"Do you mind? I can't help it if you do. I'll love you anyway, but I
want you to be my wife, to care for me just a little; I don't ask
more."
"I think you must speak to mamma."
"But I don't wish--I mean, can't you give me something to go on--some
assurance?"
She blushed and looked down, repeating the phrase, "I think you must
speak to mamma."
"Is that equivalent----" he began; then he saw that it was, and added,
"My darling!"
Her head sank lower, he had her hand in a moment, and wondered if he
might venture to kiss her, screened as they both were by her sunshade,
but hesitated to do so because of the ominous silence at the other end
of the balcony.
"If you have nothing better to do this evening," said Lady Steele's
voice to him, "come to us. Sir Peter and I are dining at home, and if
you will partake of a family dinner with us we shall be delighted."
He bowed his acceptance.
"Come, Marion," her ladyship continued. "We have spent a charming
afternoon, Mr. Allingford, thanks to your hospitality. We are at home on
Thursdays after September; Mr. Carrington, you must come and hear more
about my bazaar." And they were gone.
Jack stepped to the bell. "Well, Bob," he said to Allingford, "is it
brandy and soda or champagne?"
"Champagne," replied that gentleman.
"Then," remarked Carrington, after ordering a bottle of '80
"Perrier"--"then, Bob, my boy, let me congratulate you."
"I think I deserve it," he replied, as he wrung his friend's hand; "for
I believe I have won for my wife the most charming girl in London."
"I am awfully glad for you," said Carrington, "and I consider her a very
lucky young woman."
"I don't know about that," returned Allingford, "and I'm sure I don't
see what she can find to care for in me. Why, we hardly know each other.
I've only met her in public, and not over a couple of dozen times at
that."
"Oh, you will find it much more fun becoming acquainted after you are
engaged. Our English conventions are beautifully Chinese in some
respects."
Allingford laughed, saying: "I don't know that I'm going to be engaged.
I can't imagine why her family should approve of the match; I haven't a
title and never can have, and I'm only in consular service. Now if I had
been a diplomat----"
"My dear fellow," said Carrington, "you seem to forget that you have a
few dozen copper-mines at your disposal, and a larger income than you
can conveniently spend. Her people haven't forgotten it, however, as
I'll venture to prophesy that you'll find out before to-morrow morning.
As for your being an American and a Consul, that doesn't count. Just
make the settlements sufficiently large, and as long as you don't eat
with your knife or drink out of your finger-bowl they will pardon the
rest as amiable eccentricities."
"You are a cynic, Carrington, and I don't believe it," said Allingford,
rising to go. "Anyway, what do you know about marriage?"
"Nothing, and I am not likely to," rejoined his friend, "but I've lived
in London."
The dinner that night at Belgrave Square did not serve to put the Consul
at his ease. True, he sat by Marion, but no word was spoken of what had
passed that afternoon, and he could not help feeling that he was in an
anomalous position. He had on his company manners, and was not at his
best in consequence. He felt he was being watched and would be
criticised in the drawing-room after dinner, which made him nervous. Sir
Peter had several married daughters, one of whom was present, and
Allingford wondered how their husbands had behaved under similar
circumstances. He gave Lady Steele, at whose right he sat, ample
opportunity to question him concerning his family history and future
plans and prospects--a chance of which she was not slow to avail
herself.
When the ladies had departed and had left the two gentlemen to their
coffee and cigars, Sir Peter lost no time in opening the question, and
said, somewhat bluntly:
"So I hear that you wish to marry my daughter."
The Consul signified that such was the case.
"I'm sure I don't know why," resumed her father, with true British
candour. "I become so used to my children that I sometimes wonder what
other people can see in them. Marion is a good little girl, however,
I'll say that for her--a good little girl and not extravagant."
Sir Peter's manner was reassuring, and Allingford hastened to say that
he was sensible of the great honour Miss Steele had done him in
considering his suit, and that he should strive to prove himself worthy
of her.
"I don't doubt it, my dear fellow, I don't doubt it." And the baronet
paused, smiling so amiably that the Consul was disconcerted, and began
to fear an unpleasant surprise.
"I trust," he returned, "that you are not averse to me as a son-in-law?"
"Personally much the reverse; but I always ask the man who comes to me
as you have done one question, and on his answer I base my approval or
disapproval of his suit."
"And that question is?"
"Can you support a wife, Mr. Allingford?"
"As a gentleman I could not have asked her hand if such were not the
case."
"Ah," replied Sir Peter, "that is quite right."
"As for my position----" continued the young man.
"You hold a public office in the service of your country. I consider
that sufficient guarantee of your position, both moral and social."
Allingford, who knew something of American practical politics, thought
this by no means followed, but forbore to say so, and Sir Peter
continued:
"Have you any family?"
"No relations in the world except my younger brother, Dick, who manages
the property at home, while I play at politics abroad."
"I see," said his host. "One question more and I have done. I dislike
talking business after dinner--it should be left to the lawyers; but,
seeing that you are an American and do not understand such things, I
thought----"
The Consul stopped him by a gesture. "You are referring to the
settlements, Sir Peter," he said. "Set your mind at rest on that score.
I'll do the proper thing."
"Of course, my dear fellow, of course; I don't doubt that for a moment.
But--er--you won't think me mercenary if I ask you to be--in short--more
definite. I speak most disinterestedly, purely out of consideration for
my daughter's future."
Allingford frowned slightly as Carrington's prophecy came back to him.
His prospective father-in-law was quite within his rights in speaking as
he did, but why couldn't he have left it at least till to-morrow?
"Would a copper-mine do?" he said, looking up. "I'd give her a
copper-mine."
"Really, I don't know what to say," replied Sir Peter, in some
perplexity. "I'm quite ignorant of such matters. Are--er--copper-mines
valuable?"
"The one I'm thinking of has been worth a quarter of a million since it
started, and we have only begun to work it," replied the Consul.
"Bless my soul!" ejaculated his host. "You don't say so! Do you go in
much for that sort of thing?"
"Yes, I've quite a number."
"Dear me!" said Sir Peter dreamily, "a quarter of a million." Then
waking up he added: "But I'm forgetting the time. My dear
Allingford--er--your Christian name escapes me."
"Robert, Sir Peter."
"Thanks. I was going to say, my dear Robert, that you must go upstairs
and see mamma."