IV.

Dartmouth had been at Rhyd-Alwyn two weeks, when Sir Iltyd turned

to him one night as he was leaving the dining-room and asked him to

follow him into the library for a few moments.

"I feel quite alarmed," said Harold to Weir, as the door closed behind

her father. "Do you suppose he is going to tell me that I do not give

satisfaction?"

"Harold!" exclaimed Weir, reprovingly, "I wish you would not talk as

if you were a butler; you look much more dignified than you ever talk.

You look like an English nobleman, and you talk like any ordinary

young man about town."

"My dearest girl, would you have me a Sir Charles Grandison? The

English nobleman of your imagination is the gentleman who perambulates

the pages of Miss Burney's novels. The present species and the young

man about town are synonymous animals."

"There you are again! You always make me laugh; I cannot help that;

but I wish you would do yourself justice, nevertheless. You may not

know it, but if you would only put on a ruff and satin doublet and

hose and wig, and all the rest of it, you would look exactly like one

of the courtiers of the court of Queen Elizabeth. You are a perfect

type of the English aristocrat."

"My dear Lady Jane Grey, if you had been an American girl, you would

have said a perfect gentleman, and I should never have spoken to you

again. As a matter of fact, I always feel it a sort of sacrilege that

I do not address you in blank verse; only my attempts thereat are

so very bad. But it is never too late to mend. We will read Pope

together, Shakespeare, and all the rest of the old boys. We will

saturate our minds with their rhythm, and we will thereafter

communicate in stately phrase and rolling periods."

"It would be a great deal better than slang and 'facetiousness,' as

you call it. That is all very well for Lord Bective Hollington; it

suits him; but you should aim at a higher standard."

Dartmouth, who was standing by the chimney-piece near the chair on

which she was sitting, put his hand under her chin and raised her

face, smiling quizzically as he did so.

"My dear child," he said, "you are too clever to fall into the common

error of women, and idealize your lover. The tendency is a constituent

part of the feminine nature, it is true. The average woman will

idealize the old tweed coat on her lover's back. But your eyes are too

clear for that sort of thing. I am a very ordinary young man, my dear.

Becky is twice as clever--"

"He is not!" burst in Weir, indignantly. "A man who can do nothing but

chaff and joke and talk witty nonsense!"

"If you knew him better you would know that under all that persiflage

there is much depth of feeling and passion. I do not claim any unusual

amount of intellectuality for him, but he has a wonderful supply of

hard common-sense, and remarkably quick perceptions. And I have great

respect for his judgment."

"That may be," said Weir, indifferently; "I care nothing about him."

She rose and stood in front of him and leaned her elbows on his

shoulders. "You may underrate yourself, if you like," she went on,

"but I know that you are capable of accomplishing anything you wish,

and of distinguishing yourself. I recall the conversations I have had

with you in your serious moments, if you do not, and I expect you to

be a great man yet."

Dartmouth flung his cigar impatiently into the fire. "My dear girl,

my grandmother preached that same thing to me from the day I was old

enough to reason, to the day she died. But I tell you, Weir, I have

not got it in me. I have the ambition and the desire--yes; but no

marked ability of any sort. Some day, when we are ready to settle

down, I will write, and publish what I write. Men will grant me a

certain standing as a thinker, I believe, and perhaps they will also

give me credit for a certain nice use of words; I have made a study of

literary style all my life. But that is the most I shall ever attain.

I am not a man of any genius or originality, and you may as well make

up your mind to the inevitable at once."

"Harold," said Weir, without taking the slightest notice of his

outburst, "do you remember that extraordinary experience of yours that

night in Paris? I believe you have the soul of a poet in you, only as

yet your brain hasn't got it under control. Did you ever read the life

of Alfieri? He experienced the same desire to write, over and over

again, but could accomplish nothing until after he was thirty.

Disraeli illustrated his struggles for speech in 'Contarini Fleming'

most graphically, you remember."

"Neither Alfieri nor Contarini Fleming ever had any such experience as

mine. Their impulse to write was not only a mental concept as well as

a spiritual longing, but it was abiding. I never really experienced

a desire to write poetry except on that night. I have occasionally

wished that I had the ability, but common-sense withheld me from

brooding over the impossible. The experience of that night is one

which can be explained by no ordinary methods. I can make nothing

of it, and for that reason I prefer not to speak of it. I abominate

mysteries."

"Well," she said, "some day I believe it will be explained. I believe

it was nothing more than an extraordinarily strong impulse to write,

and that you exaggerate it into the supernatural as you look back upon

it. I did not think so when you first told me; you were so dramatic

that you carried me off my feet, and I was an actor in the scene. But

that is the way I look at it now, and I believe I am correct."

"It may be," said Dartmouth, moodily, "but I hope it won't affect me

that way again, that is all." He caught her suddenly to him and kissed

her. "Let us be contented as we are," he said. "Ambition is love's

worst enemy. Geniuses do not make their wives happy."

"They do when their wives understand and are in absolute sympathy with

them," she said, returning his caress; "and that I should always be

with you. But do not imagine that I am in love with the idea of your

being a famous man. I care nothing for fame in itself. It is only that

I believe you to be capable of great things, and that you would be

happier if they were developed."

"Well, well," he said, laughing; "have your own way, as you will in

spite of me. If ever the divine fire lays me in ashes, you may triumph

in your predictions. But I must go and interview your father; I have

kept him waiting too long already."

They went out into the hall, and Dartmouth left her there and went to

the library. Sir Iltyd was sitting before a large table, reading by

the light of a student's lamp, which looked like an anachronism in

the lofty, ancient room. He closed his book as Dartmouth entered, and

rising, waved his hand toward a chair on the other side of the table.

"Will you sit down?" he said; "I should like to have a little talk

with you."

Dartmouth obeyed, and waited for the old gentleman to introduce the

subject. Sir Iltyd continued in a moment, taking up a small book and

bringing it down lengthwise on the desk at regular intervals while he

spoke:

"Of course, you must know, Harold, that it has not taken me two weeks

to discover my personal feelings toward you. I should have liked or

disliked you on the first evening we met, and, as a matter of fact, my

sensations towards you have undergone no change since that night. If

it had happened that I disliked you, I should not have allowed the

fact to bias my judgment as to whether or not you were a suitable

husband for my daughter, but it would not have taken me two weeks

to make up my mind. As it is I have merely delayed my consent as an

unnecessary formality; but perhaps the time has come to say in so many

words that I shall be very glad to give my daughter to you."

"Thank you," said Dartmouth. The words sounded rather bald, but it

was an unusual situation, and he did not know exactly what to say.

Something more was evidently expected of him, however, and he plunged

in recklessly: "I am sure I need not say that I am highly honored

by your regard and your confidence, nor protest that you will never

regret it. To tell you that I loved Weir with all my heart would be

trite, and perhaps it is also unnecessary to add that I am not a man

of 'veering passions'--that is, of course when my heart is engaged as

well."

Sir Iltyd smiled. "I should imagine that the last clause was added

advisedly. I was a man of the world myself in my young days, and

I recognize one in you. Judging from your physiognomy and general

personality I should say that you have loved a good many women, and

have lived in the widest sense of the word."

"Well--yes," admitted Dartmouth, with a laugh. "That sort of thing

leaves a man's heart untouched, however."

"It may, and I am willing to believe that you have given your heart to

Weir for good and all."

"I think I have," said Dartmouth.

And then the question of settlements was broached, and when it had

been satisfactorily arranged, Dartmouth lingered a few moments longer

in conversation with his host, and then rose to go. Sir Iltyd rose

also and walked with him to the door.

"Do you mind our being married in a month?" asked Dartmouth, as they

crossed the room. "That will give Weir all the time she wants, and we

should like to spend the spring in Rome."

"Very well; let it be in a month. I cannot see that the date is of any

importance; only do not forget me in the summer."

"Oh, no," said Dartmouth; "we expect you to harbor us off and on all

the year around."

And then Sir Iltyd opened the door and bowed with his old-time

courtier-like dignity, and Dartmouth passed out and into the hall.