can't. That's why I was strumming."
"Has something gone wrong with a cheque?" I asked.
"Oh, no," she laughed, "you don't understand. I'm reading law too.
I'm going in for an exam at the London University. You won't mind
explaining about negotiable instruments, will you, if I promise not to
play the piano? Please sit down."
I sat down and explained the matter as lucidly as I could. The
explanation took some little time, but though it was nearly eleven when
I left, the proceeding seemed to strike her as perfectly natural, and I
did not complain, particularly as it meant deliverance from the piano.
The next night, however, I had scarcely settled down when the strumming
began once more. After the trouble that I had taken the night before
it was ungrateful of the damsel, and she had distinctly promised that
the noise should not occur again. I stood it for half an hour, and then
went up to make another protest.
"I thought you were never coming," the damsel said, in an aggrieved
way; "I want you to tell me the difference between a cheque and a bill
of exchange payable at a banker's. Have some tea, won't you?"
I had some tea, and furnished her with further information. We
discussed the Bills of Exchange Act at some length. It was a much
pleasanter way of imbibing the law than by one's self, and her _vivâ
voce_ examination was not without its uses. However, the situation was
unconventional, and I had my doubts on its advisability.
The next afternoon, when I came back from the office, I was informed
that a lady was waiting to see me. In my room, sitting perpendicularly
on the edge of an armchair, was the elderly spinster.
"Is your name Arbuthnot?" she inquired, abruptly and severely.
I admitted the accusation.
"Then, Mr. Arbuthnot," she said, grimly, "I wish to have a word with
you. I hear you have been forcing yourself on my niece."
"I beg your pardon?" I said, in astonishment.
"Forcing yourself on that poor misguided child," she continued, "and
taking advantage of her folly in the most ungentlemanly way."
"If you mean Miss Ormerod," I answered, "perhaps I might explain."
"Perhaps you might," she replied, acidly.
I told her what had happened, and how the mistake had occurred. I was
never very remarkably tactful; and, even if I had been, any other
explanation than the truth would have been difficult.
[Illustration: "THE EXPLANATION TOOK SOME LITTLE TIME."]
"So you supposed," she answered, "that I should have allowed young men
to call on me at a late hour?"
That was rather a poser, and I made no answer.
"Your excuse," she went on, "only confirms my previous opinion of you.
You have deliberately forced yourself on a crazy, motherless child, who
does not understand the ways of the world, nor, I regret to say, what
is due to herself."
"I have done nothing of the kind," I said, indignantly.
"I might have known that it was degrading myself to talk to an
attorney's clerk," she said, with an awful emphasis on the last two
words. Then she strode away.
That evening the piano began again, but I sat stolidly and endured it.
After all, there was something in what the old lady said. The strumming
continued for an hour, and then stopped. In a few minutes the servant
brought me a note.
"Dear Mr. Arbuthnot,
"I cannot understand when a banker is liable for a forged cheque.
"Yours sincerely,
"MARJORIE ORMEROD."
I wrote back to say that I had had an interview with her aunt, and
appended the law on the subject of forged cheques. My note had not been
dispatched more than five minutes when a knock came at the door, and
Miss Ormerod walked in.
"Mr. Arbuthnot," she said, "will you kindly tell me the meaning of this
note?"
"I thought I had made my meaning clear," I answered. "A banker----"
"I was not referring to bankers," she replied, "but to what you say
about my aunt."
"I supposed she would have told you," I said. "She did me the honour of
visiting me this afternoon, and--well--she suggested that there were
conventionalities."
"She's been gossiping with my servant," she exclaimed; "but why do you
pay any attention to what she says?"
"You see," I ventured to protest, "there are conventionalities."
"Conventionalities," she replied, firmly, "are some of the things
that I do not intend to have in my life. If I were a man, and I wished
to--to ask you a polite question about forged cheques, wouldn't you
answer it?"
[Illustration: "'I HEAR YOU HAVE BEEN FORCING YOUR ATTENTIONS ON MY
NIECE.'"]
As a matter of fact, if a man had asked for instruction under pain of
playing the piano, I think I should have refused; but to say no would
have resulted in embarrassing explanations of my previous readiness to
enlighten her. So I replied diplomatically--
"Perhaps so."
"Then," she said, "I insist on your coming upstairs at once. You will
insult me, Mr. Arbuthnot, if you refuse."
Since she put it in that way, I was compelled to give in, however
much I agreed with the old lady. When I had finished my exposition of
the law, Miss Ormerod expounded some of her theories of life, with
autobiographical illustrations. The fundamental theory seemed to be
that a girl ought to be allowed to do anything without taking the
consequences. As a deduction from this great truth, she had decided
to live alone and become a London University Portia. At one time she
had intended to pursue her ambitions at an Oxford college, but inquiry
had revealed the fact that the girls there were still in swaddling
clothes. It was only in London, and in a flat, that the true woman--she
disclaimed the term new woman--could possibly realise herself. Most
of her life she had spent in the country, a fact which I might have
guessed. One of the main fallacies which the true woman was going to
expose, and which had been intruded on her that night, was the notion
that no girl could associate with a man without some foolish idea of
love-making. This fallacy she denounced vigorously, and, as I thought,
with a purpose. It was naturally not a conversation in which I could
take much part, and I listened mostly in silence.
The situation was more unpleasant than the piano. It was hard to avoid
further interviews, and at the same time I knew that I ought to do
so. The little girl had contracted some diseased modern notions, and
I had no business to aid and abet her. However, if she persisted in
regarding it as an insult for me to do my duty, I saw no alternative
but to acquiesce. I could only hope that in future she might find fewer
difficulties in the law. In this hope I was disappointed. Regularly
for the next fortnight the piano demanded instruction every evening,
and with more and more misgiving I obeyed it. The fact was that I felt
myself beginning to take a disquieting interest in her, and at the
end of the fortnight I acknowledged frankly to myself that, as far as
concerned me at least, her favourite fallacy had been proved true.
Matters were in this condition, and were already sufficiently
complicated, when a further complication was added to them. Shortly
after my arrival home one evening, a person of Hebraic appearance was
shown in, who announced himself as Mr. Hart.
"Good evening," he began, greasily; "I have been consulted by Miss
Prentice in regard to a rather delicate matter. Miss Prentice has, I
believe, already spoken to you on the subject."
"Has she?" I inquired. "Who is Miss Prentice?"
"She is the aunt of Miss Ormerod, the young lady who lives above you,"
he went on. "She informs me that at her interview with you she found
you--shall we say?--unreasonable."
"Well?" I said curtly, for I disliked the man.
"Now," he continued, "of course we know that Miss Ormerod, though
holding these peculiar views, is a young lady possessed of a
considerable fortune--not very large, but considerable."
"Do we?" I answered. "I know nothing of the kind."
"Come, come," he said, "let us talk as men of the world--in a friendly
way--but as men of the world."
"If you'd kindly tell me the object of your visit, I should be
obliged," I replied.
"Oh, I can quite see your point of view," he said, with an oily leer.
"Miss Ormerod, being, as I say, possessed of some fortune--not so large
as some people might suppose, but some fortune--her relations are
naturally anxious that she should not marry without seeing a little
more of the world than--shall we say?--can be seen in these flats."
"Are you incapable of saying what you mean, sir?" I inquired, with
gathering suspicion.
"As a brother professional, you must know that things cannot always
be put crudely," he said. "Of course, Miss Prentice is not a lady to
be parsimonious where her niece is in question. At the same time, she
is not a lady of unlimited means. I may, however, remind you, Mr.
Arbuthnot, that a bird in the hand----"
"Do you mean," I burst out angrily, "that I am supposed to be
attempting to inveigle Miss Ormerod into a marriage, and that you've
come here to offer me a bribe?"
"Gently, Mr. Arbuthnot, gently," he protested.
[Illustration: "'WILL YOU KINDLY LEAVE THE ROOM AT ONCE?' I ROARED."]
"Will you kindly leave the room at once?" I roared.
"I was afraid this might happen," he answered, "so we made a few
inquiries and took precautions. There are such things, Mr. Arbuthnot,
as unpaid Oxford debts, eh? And tradesmen are sometimes so distrustful
as to sell those debts. Now, here's a tailor's bill--dear me, where's
the schedule? Yes, a tailor's bill for £57 odd."
"What on earth do you mean?" I said.
"And you can have all these bills and a little ready money," he went
on, "if you'd only be reasonable."
"Get out!" I exclaimed again.
"Do be reasonable, Mr. Arbuthnot," he purred on, "or otherwise I may
be compelled to follow my instructions and sue, and--I regret to say
it--sell you up, and prevent your inhabiting this delightful little
flat any longer."
"I give you just one minute," I said, taking out my watch.
"Oh, very well, very well," he answered; "a gold watch--I must remember
that."
I sat down and cursed that elderly spinster. The position was quite
delightful. Those bills, as far as I remembered them, amounted to
something over £300; and, if my uncle discovered their existence, my
prospects of a partnership, and probably even my allowance, would be at
an end. Never having been at a university himself, he held strong views
on the subject of getting into debt. That evening the piano played
again, and I went up to explain Miss Ormerod's difficulties as usual.
With dramatic irony, they concerned the sale of goods.
Borrowing the money was out of the question, and I resolved
desperately to allow the law to take its course, and to spend the few
remaining days in Miss Ormerod's company as far as I could. Our legal
discussions, and sometimes our discussions on other things, became
more protracted, but the time went swiftly, and in the course of a
fortnight or so there was a man in possession. Probably if that elderly
spinster had been gifted with any capacity for sitting tight, I should
now be in South Africa, but as I sat burning my letters preparatory to
the sale, Miss Ormerod burst in.
[Illustration: "'I'M VERY ANGRY,' SHE SAID."]
"Mr. Arbuthnot," she said, "I should like to have a few words with you.
I'm very angry."
I followed her meekly.
"My aunt has been here this afternoon," she began, when we had reached
her flat, "and I hear that you are in debt, and that your furniture is
going to be sold."
"It is quite true," I said, wearily. "You see, I got into debt at
Oxford----"
"Do you think I'm a fool?" she asked, indignantly. "What has my aunt
got to do with it?"
"Your aunt?" I answered. "What should she have to do with it? I suppose
someone informed her----"
"You suppose nothing of the kind," she answered, hotly. "I know why;
she told me. It was because she disapproved of--of your tuition, and
I'm sure she had something to do with this, or she wouldn't have been
so pleased with herself. I know my aunt only too well. On your word of
honour, isn't she concerned in this, Mr. Arbuthnot?"
"What in the world," I replied, attempting to parry the question,
"should a respectable elderly lady like your aunt have to do with
debt-collecting?"
"There are very few things," she answered, "with which my aunt has not
to do if she gets within measurable distance of them. Now, will you
please explain?"
"How can I," I said, "if there's nothing to explain?"
"I think you told me the other night," she answered, "that _suppressio
veri_ sometimes amounts to _suggestio falsi_."
"Miss Ormerod," I said, "I've got a lot of letters to burn to-night,
and I am rather busy----"
"Oh, very well," she observed, "then I must find out for myself."
She hurried down to my flat along the passage, and burst open the
kitchen door. The sheriff's man had already drained the beer-cask, and
was sitting smoking with his feet on the kitchen range.
"Now," Miss Ormerod remarked, "please tell me why you're here."
"If you open your mouth," I broke in, "I'll throttle you."
"You're a witness, young lady," the man said, "he's threatened to
assault an officer of the law in the execution of his duty."
"Perhaps this might soothe your feelings," Miss Ormerod said, slipping
something into his hand.
"I'll give you a sovereign to hold your tongue," I exclaimed,
desperately.
"Very well, sir," he said, "hand it over."
"I'll give it you to-morrow," I replied. As a matter of fact my cash in
hand amounted to some fifteen shillings.
"Oh, I daresay," he replied, with a grin. "Make it five shillings more,
young lady."
He got the five shillings, and then began as though he were unfolding
a portentous secret.
"I'm in for a matter of £300 recovered in the action of Prentice
_versus_ Arbuthnot."
There was no false delicacy about Miss Prentice; she had gleefully sued
as assignee in her own name.
"Miss Ellen Prentice?" Miss Ormerod asked, quickly.
"I fancy that's the name," he said, searching among some greasy papers.
"Oh, that will do," Miss Ormerod replied, with a flushed face. "Mr.
Arbuthnot, I want to speak to you."
She swept upstairs again, and I accompanied her in silence.
"Now, perhaps," she remarked, "you'll be good enough to tell me the
truth."
I told her a part of it, including the visit of my Hebraic friend, but
I omitted his suggestions of the matrimonial objects of my visits. Miss
Prentice's proceedings, I suggested, were all due to her regard for the
conventionalities and her niece's welfare.
"Of course," she began, sitting down and taking a chequebook from a
drawer, "you'll let me lend you this money."
"Thank you very much," I said, "but it's quite out of the question."
"How preposterous!" she exclaimed, in astonishment. "If a man were to
offer you the money----"
"Very likely," I said; "you are not a man."
"But what difference in the world can that make?" she inquired,
indignantly.
"In the world," I said, "it makes a considerable difference."
"But we've been friends, Mr. Arbuthnot," she said, appealingly, "and
this is my fault. Won't you take this wretched money to please me?"
"I'd do most things to please you," I answered, "but I can't do this."
"I--I don't understand," she said, in a half-broken voice, and looked
at me dolorously for a moment or two.
"Will you be able to be a solicitor after this?" she asked.
"Oh, I haven't thought about things yet," I answered.
"Surely you might tell me," she said, tearfully; "I think I've ruined
your life."
"Miss Ormerod," I remarked, getting up, "what's happened was my own
fault, and you're not to blame in the least; but I think it would be
better if I went down to my place and finished looking things over."
[Illustration: "'PLEASE TELL ME WHY YOU'RE HERE,' SAID MISS ORMEROD TO
THE SHERIFF'S MAN."]
"Oh, but I can't let you go like this," she pleaded, tearfully; "it's
so silly of you. I've got such a lot of money, and surely you'll do me
a favour and let me lend you a little of it."
"It's out of the question," I said.
"And," she pursued, a little timorously, "how am I to get through
my examination if you won't help me? You've helped me so much, Mr.
Arbuthnot, you really have."
"Good-bye," I said, holding out my hand.
"It's cruel of you, very cruel," she went on, without noticing it;
"and--and you don't seem to mind in the least."
"What's done is done. Good-bye," I said again.
"And I suppose you'll go somewhere--quite away from this?" she
continued, "quite far away?"
"Probably," I said.
"But don't you mind--at all?" she asked.
"It's not particularly pleasant," I admitted.
"We've been good friends, haven't we?" she said, with a little quiver
of her lips.
"The best of friends," I agreed.
"Good-bye," she said, holding out her hand.
As I took it our eyes met, and she drew her hand back. It was hard,
under the circumstances, not to look something more than the best of
friends.
"I suppose," she said, "that you refused to take that money
because--because it would have hurt your self-respect."
"I think so," I answered.
"Well," she went on, slowly, and half turning away, "girls have their
self-respect too."
"What manner of man must you think I am?" I asked, understanding a
little what she meant, but refusing to take advantage of what I thought
the little girl's mistaken chivalry.
"And what manner of girl must you think me?" she replied, and burst out
crying.
"Don't think I don't understand and don't appreciate," I said, lamely.
"Go away, go away," she sobbed.
"I can't go," I said, "till I have explained. I don't quite know how
to, but our friendship began with bills of exchange, and don't you
think a debtor would sometimes prefer not to have an acceptance for
honour when he cannot pay his debts?"
"It depends," she said, softly, and with a lamentable disregard of the
law, "whether it's supra protest."
"Don't tempt me too far," I urged.
"I am not tempting you," she said, getting up and turning on me angrily.
"If you only knew," I protested, bitterly, and her face changed.
"How am I to know," she asked, "if you refuse to tell me?"
"What right have I?" I burst out.
"A right," she murmured, "implies an obligation, and of course----"
Well, well, the rest of the conversation was commonplace except to
ourselves. The man in possession exhausted most of my capital in
getting extremely drunk that night, my uncle insisted for the first
time in his life in regarding me as a clever fellow after all, and
Miss Prentice has been confirmed in her opinion that I am a scheming
scoundrel.
[Illustration: "'GO AWAY, GO AWAY,' SHE SOBBED."]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
AMERICAN WIVES OF ENGLISH HUSBANDS.
SOME CHARMING LINKS IN THE ANGLO-AMERICAN ALLIANCE.
Those who scout the notion of an Anglo-American Alliance should
remember that in a considerable number of cases the question has been
solved, and in a very satisfactory manner, by the contracting parties
themselves. Every year Anglo-American marriages become more frequent,
and there can be no doubt that, on more than one occasion, this fact
has told significantly when affairs of moment were in question.
In this matter, at least, the United Kingdom has remained faithful to
her "oldest colony," and latterly distinguished Englishmen have sought
wives in America, rather than in Greater Britain.
[Illustration: MRS. ARTHUR PAGET.
_J. Thomson, Photo_]
At the present time three of the most prominent personalities in the
House of Commons--Mr. Joseph Chamberlain, Sir William Harcourt, and Mr.
George Curzon--are each married to an American, and the only difficulty
that meets those who would attempt to draw up a list of these informal
Anglo-American alliances is to choose from the large number of names
that presents itself. To take the peerage only, there are at the
present time three American duchesses, and Lady Francis Hope (Miss
May Yohe) may one day be Duchess of Newcastle. The only transatlantic
marchioness is Lady Anglesey, but there are three American countesses,
four baronesses, and many other ladies whose husbands are in possession
of courtesy titles.
Of the three American ladies who have worn and are wearing the
strawberry leaves, perhaps the most interesting, from several points of
view, is the lady who is still known to the world as Lilian, Duchess of
Marlborough.
_Née_ Miss Price, the future duchess was married when very young to a
wealthy American, Mr. Hammersley. His death occurred comparatively soon
after the marriage, and he left his young wife his entire fortune. Some
years later, she greatly astonished her friends by marrying the then
Duke of Marlborough; but, contrary to general expectation, no part of
her immense fortune was squandered, for Her Grace proved herself an
excellent woman of business, and though considerable sums were spent
on putting and keeping Blenheim in repair, it was arranged that an
insurance covering the whole amount should, in each case, be effected
on the duke's life. Consequently, at his death, his widow found herself
an even wealthier woman than she was before she became his wife.
After the late Duke of Marlborough's death, the duchess lived very
quietly; but, as she was still a comparatively young woman, her
marriage to Lord William Beresford was considered to be, on her part,
a very judicious step. Her stepson, the young Duke of Marlborough,
gave her away, and she has remained on very good terms with her second
husband's family.
Lord William Beresford was believed, until comparatively lately, to be
a confirmed Anglo-Indian, for he managed, as Military Secretary, the
households of several Viceroys, and he is known, both among Europeans
and Indians all over the Queen's Eastern Empire, as a man possessing
not only exceptional business capacity, but remarkable _savoir faire_.
He has taken part in many campaigns, and was the prototype of "Soldier
Bill" in one of Whyte Melville's best known novels.
Since his marriage, he and his wife have lived at the Deep Dene, Lord
Francis Hope's beautiful place near Dorking, and it was there that
their infant son was born last year. The duchess has adapted herself
completely to the conditions of English country life. The Deep Dene
was described by Aubrey as "an epitome of Paradise," and a "Garden of
Eden." Accordingly, the lines of Lord William Beresford and his wife
are laid in pleasant places. The latter devotes a good deal of her time
to the collection and growth of orchids. Under her supervision a fine
orchid-house has been erected, and she is fast becoming a formidable
rival to the most noted growers in the kingdom.
[Illustration: LADY NAYLOR-LEYLAND.
_Alice Hughes, Photo_]
At the present moment the personality of Consuelo, Duchess of
Manchester, as she will henceforth be known, is of peculiar interest.
Although the engagement of the young duke was lately announced, his
mother is still one of the youngest looking women in society, and she
has scarcely changed since the day, twenty-two years ago, when she took
London by storm as the bride of Viscount Mandeville, the then Duke of
Manchester's eldest son and heir.
[Illustration: (1) LADY HARCOURT.
_Elliot and Fry, Photo_
(2) LADY TERENCE BLACKWOOD.
_J. Thomson, Photo_
(3) THE DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH.
_Russell & Sons, Photo_
(4) LADY ARTHUR BUTLER.
_Faulkner, Photo_]
Unlike most Americans who have married Englishmen, Miss Consuelo Yznaga
had only once paid a flying visit to London before her marriage. Her
mother, who had been a noted belle of New Orleans in the fifties, on
her marriage to a distinguished Spaniard went to Cuba, where the future
British duchess was born in the little village of Sant Espiritu.
As has been the case with almost every family connected with Cuba,
the Yznagas sustained great losses, which led to their settling once
more in America, and it was there that Miss Yznaga first met Lord
Mandeville, then travelling in the States. When visiting at her
father's house he fell ill, and was very kindly nursed and entertained
till his recovery. The engagement excited exceptional interest owing
to the fact that Lady Mandeville, as she became, was the first
Anglo-American peeress.