Mrs. Keats came down, and our dinner that day was somewhat formal. I
don't think any of ns felt quite at ease, and, for my own part, it was
a relief to me when the old lady asked my leave to retire after her
coffee. “If you should feel lonely, sir, and if Miss Herbert's company
would prove agreeable--”
“Yes,” said I, languidly, “that young person will find me in the
garden.” And therewith I gave my orders for a small table under a great
weeping-ash, and the usual accompaniment of my after-dinner hours, a
cool flask of Chambertin. I had time to drink more than two-thirds of
my Burgundy before Miss Herbert appeared. It was not that the hour hung
heavily on me, or that I was not in a mood of considerable enjoyment,
but somehow I was beginning to feel chafed and impatient at her long
delay. Could she possibly have remonstrated against the impropriety of
being left alone with a young man? Had she heard, by any mischance, that
impertinent phrase by which I designated her? Had Mrs. Keats herself
resented the cool style of my permission by a counter-order? “I wish I
knew what detains her!” cried I to myself, just as I heard her step on
the gravel, and then saw her coming, in very leisurely fashion, up the
walk.
Determined to display an indifference the equal of her own, I waited
till she was almost close; and then, rising languidly, I offered her a
chair with a superb air of Brummelism, while I listlessly said, “Won't
you take a seat?”
It was growing duskish, but I fancied I saw a smile on her lip as she
sat down.
“May I offer you a glass of wine or a cigar?” said I, carelessly.
“Neither, thank you,” said she, with gravity.
“Almost all women of fashion smoke nowadays,” I resumed. “The Empress
of the French smokes this sort of thing here; and the Queen of Bavaria
smokes and chews.”
She seemed rebuked at this, and said nothing.
“As for myself,” said I, “I am nothing without tobacco,--positively
nothing. I remember one night,--it was the fourth sitting of the
Congress at Paris, that Sardinian fellow, you know his name, came to me
and said,--
“'There's that confounded question of the Danubian Provinces coming on
to-morrow, and Gortschakoff is the only one who knows anything about it.
Where are we to get at anything like information?'
“'When do you want it, Count?' said I.
“'To-morrow, by eleven at latest There must be, at least, a couple of
hours to study it before the Congress meets.'
“'Tell them to bring in ten candles, fifty cigars, and two quires of
foolscap,' said I, 'and let no one pass this door till I ring.' At ten
minutes to eleven next morning he had in his hands that memoir which
Lord C. said embodied the prophetic wisdom of Edmund Burke with the
practical statesmanship of the great Commoner. Perhaps you have read
it?”
“No, sir.”
“Your tastes do not probably incline to affairs of state. If so, only
suggest what you 'd like to talk on. I am indifferently skilled in most
subjects. Are you for the poets? I am ready, from Dante to the Biglow
Papers. Shall it be arts? I know the whole thing from Memmling and his
long-nosed saints, to Leech and the Punctuate. Make it antiquities,
agriculture, trade, dress, the drama, conchology, or cock-fighting,--
I'm your man; so go in; and don't be afraid that you 'll disconcert me.”
“I assure you, sir, that my fears would attach far more naturally to my
own insufficiency.”
“Well,” said I, after a pause, “there's something in that Macaulay used
to be afraid of me. Whenever Mrs. Montagu Stanhope asked him to one
of her Wednesday dinners, he always declined if I was to be there. You
don't seem surprised at that?”
“No, sir,” said she, in the same quiet, grave fashion.
“What's the reason, young lady,” said I, somewhat sternly, “that you
persist in saying 'sir' on every occasion that you address me? The ease
of that intercourse that should subsist between us is marred by this
Americanism. The pleasant interchange of thought loses the charming
feature of equality. How is this?”
“I am not at liberty to say, sir.”
“You are not at liberty to say, young lady?” said I, severely. “You
tell me distinctly that your manner towards me is based upon a something
which you must not reveal?”
“I am sure, sir, you have too much generosity to press me on a subject
of which I cannot, or ought not to speak.”
That fatal Burgundy had got into my brains, while the princely delusion
was uppermost; and if I had been submitted to the thumbscrew now, I
would have died one of the Orleans family.
“Mademoiselle,” said I, grandly, “I have been fortunately, or
unfortunately, brought up in a class that never tolerates contradiction.
When we ask, we feel that we order.”
“Oh, sir, if you but knew the difficulty I am in--”
“Take courage, my dear creature,” said I, blending condescension with
something warmer. “You will at least be reposing your confidence where
it will be worthily bestowed.”
“But I have promised--not exactly promised; but Mrs. Keats enjoined me
imperatively not to betray what she revealed to me.”
“Gracious Powers!” cried I, “she has not surely communicated my
secret,--she has not told you who I am?”
“No, sir, I assure you most solemnly that she has not; but being annoyed
by what she remarked as the freedom of my manner towards you at dinner,
the readiness with which I replied to your remarks, and what she deemed
the want of deference I displayed for them, she took me to task this
evening, and, without intending it, even before she knew, dropped
certain expressions which showed me that you were one of the very
highest in rank, though it was your pleasure to travel for the moment in
this obscurity and disguise.”
She quickly perceived the indiscretion she had committed, and said,
“Now, Miss Herbert, that an accident has put you in possession of
certain circumstances, which I had neither the will nor the right to
reveal, will you do me the inestimable favor to employ this knowledge
in such a way as may not compromise me?' I told her, of course, that
I would; and having remarked how she occasionally--inadvertently,
perhaps--used 'sir' in addressing you, I deemed the imitation a safe
one, while it as constantly acted as a sort of monitor over myself to
repress any relapse into familiarity.”
“I am very sorry for all this,” said I, taking her hand in mine, and
employing my most insinuating of manners towards her. “As it is more
than doubtful that I shall ever resume the station that once pertained
to me; as, in fact, it may be my fortune to occupy for the rest of
life an humble and lowly condition, my ambition would have been to draw
towards me in that modest station such sympathies and affections as
might attach to one so circumstanced. My plan was to assume an obscure
name, seek out some unfrequented spot, and there, with the love of
one--one only--solve the great problem, whether happiness is not as much
the denizen of the thatched cottage as of the gilded palace. The first
requirement of my scheme was that my secret should be in my own keeping.
One can steel his own heart against vain regrets and longings; but one
cannot secure himself against the influence of those sympathies which
come from without, the unwise promptings of zealous followers, the hopes
and wishes of those who read your submission as mere apathy.”
I paused and sighed; she sighed, too, and there was a silence between
us.
“Must she not feel very happy and very proud,” thought I, “to be sitting
there on the same bench with a prince, her hand in his, and he pouring
out all his confidence in her ear? I cannot fancy a situation more full
of interest.”
“After all, sir,” said she, calmly, “remember that Mrs. I Keats alone
knows your secret. _I_ have not the vaguest suspicion of it.”
“And yet,” said I, tenderly, “it is to _you_ I would confide it; it is
in _your_ keeping I would wish to leave it; it is from _you_ I would ask
counsel as to my future.”
“Surely, sir, it is not to such inexperience as mine you would address
yourself in a difficulty?”
“The plan I would carry out demands none of that crafty argument called
'knowing the world.' All that acquaintance with the byplay of life,
its conventionalities and exactions, would be sadly out of place in an
Alpine village, or a Tyrolese Dorf, where I mean to pitch my tent. Do
you not think that your interest might be persuaded to track me so far?”
“Oh, sir, I shall never cease to follow your steps with the deepest
anxiety.”
“Would it not be possible for me to secure a lease of that sympathy?”
“Can you tell me what o'clock it is, sir?” said she, very gravely.
“Yes,” said I, rather put out by so sudden a diversion; “it is a few
minutes after nine.”
“Pray excuse my leaving you, sir, but Mrs. Keats takes her tea at nine,
and will expect me.”
And, with a very respectful courtesy, she withdrew, before I could
recover my astonishment at this abrupt departure.
“I trust that my Royal Highness said nothing indiscreet,” muttered I to
myself; “though, upon my life, this hasty exit would seem to imply it.”