=The Fitness of Things.=
If anything could have consoled Market Denborough for the certain
postponement and possible loss of the Duke of Mercia's visit, it
would have been the cause of these calamities. Its citizens were not
more hard-hearted than other people, and they bestowed much sympathy
on Nellie Fane, who, out of the competitors, was easily elected the
heroine of the incident; but neither were they more impervious to the
charms of excitement, of gossip, and of notoriety. The reporters and
the artists who had been told off to describe and depict the scene
of the royal visit did not abandon their journey, but substituted
sketches of the fatal spot, of the Grange, of Littlehill, and of the
actors in the tragedy; while interviews with the Mayor, and anybody
else who knew, or knew someone who knew about the circumstances, or
professed to do either, amply supplied the place which the pageant and
the speeches had been destined to fill. And if the occurrence excited
such interest in the great London papers, the broadsheets and columns
of the local journals were a sight to behold. The circulation of the
_Standard_ went up by more than a hundred; while the _Chronicle_
announced, it must be admitted to a somewhat skeptical world, that
its weekly issue had exhausted three editions, and could no longer be
obtained at the booksellers' or the office. The assertion, however,
being untested, passed, and everyone allowed that young Mingley's
detailed account of poor Roberts' last words to Dale Bannister,
before he fired, were perfect in verisimilitude, which, under the
regrettable circumstance of Mingley's absence, and of no such words
having been uttered, was all that could be expected. Mingley was puffed
up, demanded a rise of salary, got it, and married Polly Shipwright,
the young lady at the "Delane Arms." So the ill wind blew Mingley
good. Yet the editor of the _Chronicle_ was not satisfied, and as
a further result of Mingley's activity, he inserted an article the
following week, in which he referred, with some parade of mystery,
to the romantic character of the affair. It was not only in fiction,
he remarked, that love had opportunities for displaying itself in
heroism, nor, it was to be earnestly hoped, only in the brains of
imaginative writers that affection and gratitude found themselves
working together toward a joyful consummation. Denborough knew and
admired its gifted fellow-townsman, and Denborough had been a witness
of the grace and charm of the young lady who had shed such luster
on her sex. Accordingly, Denborough waited the result with some
confidence. Into this personal side of the matter the _Standard_ did
not try to follow its rival. Mr. Delane controlled the _Standard_,
and he forbade any such attempt, on grounds of careful generality. But
the article in the _Chronicle_ was quite enough; it expressed what
everyone had been thinking, and very soon the whole town was expecting
to hear, simultaneously, that Nellie was out of danger, and that she
had given her hand to Dale Bannister. The theory was so strongly and
unhesitatingly accepted that the two or three who, mainly out of a
love of paradox, put their heads on one side and asked how Miss Delane
came to be out in the garden with Dale Bannister, were pooh-poohed and
told that they merely showed their ignorance of the usages of society;
whereupon they went home and grumbled to their wives, but were heard no
more in public places.
Dale Bannister flung the _Chronicle_ down on the table with a muttered
oath, asking the eternally-asked, never-to-be-answered question, why
people could not mind their own business--an unjust query in this case,
for it is a reporter's business to mind other people's business. He had
just come down from his first interview with Nellie. She was mending
rapidly, and was now conscious, although any reference to the events of
the fatal night was sternly forbidden; he was not even allowed to thank
the friend who, happily, had only risked, not lost, her life for him.
He had whispered his joy at finding her doing well, and she had pressed
his hand in answer; more than that vigilant attendants prevented. Then
he had come downstairs, picked up the _Chronicle_ in the hall, read
the article, and gone into the smoking room, where he had found Arthur
Angell sitting by the fire, his hands deep in his pockets and his
shoulders up to his ears, a picture of woe.
"What infernal nonsense!" said Dale, with a vexed laugh. "Do you see
how this fellow disposes of us, Arthur?"
"Yes, I saw," said Arthur gloomily.
"I suppose they're bound to say that. The public loves romance."
"I think it's very natural they should say it. Why did she follow you?
Why did she risk her life? Why did she ask after you the first moment
she was conscious?"
"No one but me was being murdered," suggested Dale, with a rather
uneasy smile.
"We left her here. Why did she go out at all? But it's too plain. I saw
it before I had been here a day."
"Saw what, man?" asked Dale, passing by Arthur's questionable assertion.
"Why, that Nellie--you know. I don't know what you feel, but I know
what she feels. It's rough on me having me down----"
"I never thought of such a thing," said Dale quickly.
"Oh, I suppose not; though how you didn't---- I say, now, before you
came to Denborough, didn't you?"
"I--I don't think so. We were great friends."
Arthur shook his head, and Dale poked the little bit of fire in an
impatient way.
"How damned crooked things go!" he said.
Arthur rose and said in a decided tone:
"Well, I'm out of it. She saved your life, and she's in love with you.
It seems to me your duty's pretty plain. You must drop your other
fancy."
"My other fancy?" exclaimed Dale in horror. Lived there a man who could
call his love for Janet a "fancy"?
"You'd break her heart," said Arthur, who thought of no one but his
lady-love in his unselfish devotion.
It crossed Dale's mind to say that the situation seemed to involve the
breaking of one heart at least, if Arthur were right; but he thought
he had no right to speak of Janet's feelings, well as he knew them. He
threw the poker down with a clang.
"Take care--you'll disturb her."
This annoyed Dale.
"My good fellow," he remarked, "we're not all, except you, entirely
indifferent whether she lives or dies. I might throw pokers about all
day--and I feel inclined to--without her hearing me in the blue room."
"Oh, I beg pardon," said Arthur, turning to the window and looking out.
He saw a stout man coming up the hill. It was the Mayor of Denborough,
and he was evidently making for Littlehill. When he was ushered into
the smoking room, he explained that he had come to ask after Miss
Fane's progress.
"The town, Mr. Bannister, sir," he said, "is takin' a great interest in
the young lady."
"I am glad to say she has, we think, turned the corner," said Dale.
"That's happy news for all--and you first of all, sir."
The Mayor might merely have meant that Dale's feelings would be most
acute, as Nellie had received her wound in his service; but there was a
disconcerting twinkle in the Mayor's eye.
"Mrs. Roberts," the Mayor continued, "is doin' first rate. After all,
it's a riddance for her, sir. Have you any news from the Grange?"
"I hear there is no change in Miss Delane. She still suffers from the
shock."
"Poor young lady! I hear the Captain's back at the Warren, sir."
"What?"
"Captain Ripley, sir. Back at home."
"Oh!"
The Mayor was bursting with suppressed gossip on this point also, but
the atmosphere was most repressive. He looked round in despair for
another opening, and his eye fell on Arthur Angell.
"Seen the _Chronicle_, sir?" he asked. "That Mingley's a sharp young
chap. Still I don't 'old--hold with all that talk about people. Did you
say you'd seen it, sir?"
"Yes, I've seen it. It's mostly lies."
"He, he!" chuckled the Mayor. "You're right, sir."
A long pause ensued before the Mayor very reluctantly took his hat.
"I hope we shall see Miss Fane about soon, sir?" he said.
"Oh, I hope so. I think so, if nothing goes wrong."
"She must be proud and happy, that young lady, sir. As I said to my
daughters, says I: 'Now, girls, which of you is goin' to save your
young man's life?' And my wife, Mrs. Hedger, sir, she put in: 'None of
you, I'll be bound, if you don't----'"
The anecdote was lost, for Dale interrupted:
"Let me see you as far as the gate," and pushed the Mayor's
walking-stick into his hand.
Having got rid of the Mayor, Dale did not hasten to return to Arthur
Angell. At this moment, exasperated as he was, everything about his
friend annoyed him--his devotion, his unselfishness, his readiness to
accept defeat himself, his indiscreet zeal on behalf of his mistress.
His despair for himself, and his exhortation to Dale, joined in
manifesting that he neither possessed himself nor could understand in
another what a real passion was. If he did or could, he would never
have used that word "fancy." How could people speak of friendship or
gratitude, or both together, as if they were, or were in themselves
likely to lead to, love? You did not love a woman because you esteemed
her. If you loved her, you might esteem her--or you might not; anyhow,
you worshiped her. Yet these peddling Denborough folk were mapping out
his course for him. And Arthur Angell croaked about broken hearts.
Suddenly a happy thought struck him, a thought which went far to
restore his equanimity. These people, even that excellent Arthur, spoke
in ignorance. At the most, they--those who knew anything--supposed that
he had a "fancy" for Janet. They had no idea that his love had been
offered and accepted, that he was plighted to her by all the bonds of
honor and fidelity. This exacting gratitude they harped upon might
demand a change of nascent inclinations; it would not require, nor even
justify, broken promises, and the flinging back of what a man had asked
for and received. Dale's step grew more elastic and his face brighter
as he realized that, in reality, on a sane view of the position, duty
and pleasure went hand in hand, both pointing to the desired goal,
uniting to free him from any such self-sacrifice as Arthur Angell had
indicated. If Arthur were right about Nellie's feelings, and if he had
been a free man, he might have felt some obligation on him, or at least
have chosen, to make the child happy, but as it was----
"I must be just before I'm generous," he said to himself, and added,
with a shamefaced laugh, "and I happen to like justice best."
At this moment a servant in the Grange livery rode up, touching his
hat, and handed him a note. It was from Janet, though her writing was
so tremulous as to be scarcely recognizable. He tore it open and read:
You can never wish to see me again, but come once more. It was not
quite as bad as it seemed.
J.
In bewilderment he turned to the man.
"Miss Delane sent this?"
"Yes, sir."
"Say I'll come over to the Grange to-morrow morning."
The man rode off, and Dale stood, fingering and staring at his note.
"What does the dear girl mean?" he asked. "What wasn't so bad? Why
don't I wish to see her again? Has that ruffian driven her out of her
senses?"
When Dr. Spink came that evening, Dale seized the opportunity of
sounding him. The Doctor laughed at the idea of any serious mental
derangement.
"Miss Delane's very much upset, of course, very much, but her mind is
as right as yours or mine."
"She's got no delusions?"
"Oh, dear, no. She's nervous and over-strained, that's all. She'll be
all right in a few days."
"Then," said Dale to himself, as the Doctor bustled off, "all I can say
is that I don't understand women."