NOT IN THE PROGRAMME
Lady Caroline Sellwood's incomparable Wednesdays were so salient a
feature of those seasons during which her husband was in office, and her
town house in St. James's Square, that their standard is still quoted as
the ideal of its kind. These afternoons were never dull. Lady Caroline
cast a broad net, and her average draught included representatives of
every decent section of the community. But she also possessed some
secret recipe, the envy and the despair of other professional hostesses,
and in her rooms there was never an undue preponderance of any one
social ingredient. Every class--above a certain line, not drawn too
high--was represented; none was over done; nor was the mistake made of
"packing" the assembly with interesting people. The very necessary
complement of the merely interested was never wanting. One met beauty as
well as brains; wealth as well as wit; and quite as many colourless
nonentities as notorieties of every hue. The proportion was always
perfect, but not more so than the general good-temper of the guests.
They foregathered like long-lost brothers and sisters: the demagogue and
the divine; the judge and the junior; the oldest lady and the newest
woman; the amateur playwright and the actor-manager who had lost his
play; the minor novelist and the young lady who had never heard of him;
and my Lords and Ladies (whose carriages half-filled the Square) with
the very least of these. It was wonderful to see them together; it was a
solemn thought, but yet a fact, that their heavenly behaviour was due
simply and entirely to the administrative genius of Lady Caroline
Sellwood.
The Home Secretary hated the Wednesdays; he was the one person who did;
and _he_ only hated them because they _were_ Wednesdays--and from the
period of his elderly infatuation for golf. It was his great day for a
round; and Lady Caroline had to make his excuses every week when it was
fine. This was another thing which her Ladyship did beautifully. She
would say, with a voice full of sympathy, equally divided between those
mutual losers, her guest and her husband, that poor dear George had to
address such and such a tiresome deputation; when, as a matter of fact,
he was "addressing" his golf-hall on Wimbledon Common, and enjoying
himself exceedingly. Now, among other Wednesdays, the Home Secretary was
down at Wimbledon (with a prominent member of the Opposition) on the
afternoon following the arrival in London of the ninth Duke of St.
Osmund's; and Mr. Sellwood never knew whether to pity his wife, or to
congratulate himself, on his absence from her side on that occasion.
One of their constant ornaments, Claude Lafont, had been forced to
eschew these Wednesdays of late weeks. Lady Caroline Sellwood had never
been quite the same to him since the Easter Recess. She had treated him
from that time with a studied coolness quite inexplicable to his simple
mind; and finally, at Lady Darlingford's, she had been positively rude.
Claude, of course, had gone there expressly to prepare Lady Caroline for
the new Duke. This he conceived to be his immediate duty, and he
attempted to perform it, in the kindliest spirit imaginable, with all
the tact at his command. Lady Caroline declined to hear him out. She
chose to put a sinister construction upon his well-meant words, and to
interrupt them with the announcement that she intended, with Claude's
permission, to judge the Duke for herself. Was he married? Ha! then
where was he to be found? Claude told her, was coldly thanked, and went
home to writhe all that Tuesday night under the mortification of his
kinswoman's snub.
Yet, on the Wednesday afternoon, Claude Lafont not only went to the
Sellwoods' as though nothing had happened, but he was there before the
time. And Lady Caroline was not only amazed, but (for the first time
since Easter) really pleased to see him: for already she had been given
cause to regret her insolent disregard of him overnight at Lady
Darlingford's. She was even composing an apology when the whiteness of
Claude's face brought her thoughts to a standstill.
"Have you seen him?" he cried, as they met.
"The Duke?"
"Yes--haven't you seen him this morning?"
"No, indeed! Haven't you?"
Claude sat down with a groan, shaking his head, and never seeing the
glittering, plump, outstretched hand.
"Haven't you?" repeated Lady Caroline, sitting down herself.
"Not this morning. I made sure he would come here!"
"So he ought to have done. I asked him to lunch. The note was written
and posted the instant we came in from the Darlingfords'. Claude, I
wasn't nice to you there! Can you forgive me? I thought you were
prejudiced. My dreadful temper rose in arms on the side of the absent
man; it always was my great weakness rightly or wrongly to take the part
of those who aren't there to stick up for themselves!"
Her great weakness was of quite another character, but Claude bowed. He
was barely listening.
"I've lost him," he said, looking at Lady Caroline, with a rolling eye.
"He's disappeared."
"Never!"
"This morning," said Claude. "I did so hope he was here!"
"He sent no answer, not one word, and he never came. Who saw him last?"
"The hotel people, early this morning. It seems he ordered a horse for
seven o'clock, shortly after I left him last night. So they got him one,
and off he went before breakfast in the flannel collar and the
outrageous bush wideawake in which he landed. And he's never come
back."
A change came over Lady Caroline Sellwood. She drew her chair a little
nearer, and she favoured Claude Lafont with a kindlier glance than he
had had from her since Easter.
"Something may have happened," whispered Lady Caroline hopefully.
"That's just it. Something _must_ have happened."
"But something dreadful! Only last season there was a man killed in the
Row! Was he--a _very_ rough diamond, Claude?"
"Very."
Lady Caroline sighed complacently.
"But you can't help liking him," hastily added Claude, "and I hope to
goodness nothing serious is the matter!"
"Of course, so do I. That goes without saying."
"Nor is he at all a likely man to be thrown. He has lived his life in
the saddle. By the way, he brought his own old bush-saddle with him, and
it appears that he insisted on riding out in that too."
"You see, Claude, it's a pity you didn't leave him in the bush; he's
evidently devoted to it still."
"He is--that's the trouble; he has already spoken of bolting back there.
My fear is that he may even now be suiting the action to the word."
"Don't tell me that," said Lady Caroline, whose head was still full of
her first theory.
"It's what I fear; he's just the sort of fellow to go back by the first
boat, if the panic took him. He showed signs of a panic last night. You
see, he's only just beginning to realise what his position here will
mean. And it frightens him; it may have frightened him out of our sight
once and for all."
Lady Caroline shook her head.
"My fear is that he has broken his neck! And if he has, depend upon it,
sad as it would be, it would still be for the best. That's what I always
say: everything is for the best," repeated Lady Caroline, pensively
gazing at Claude's handsome head. "However," she added, as the door
opened, "here's Olivia; go and ask her what she thinks. _I_ am prepared
for the worst. And pray stop, dear Claude, and let us talk the matter
over after the others have gone. We may _know_ the worst by that time.
And we have seen nothing of you this season!"
Olivia looked charming. She was also kind to Claude. But she entirely
declined to embrace her mother's dark view of the Duke's disappearance.
On the other hand, she was inconveniently inquisitive about his looks
and personality, and Claude had to say many words for his cousin before
he could get in one for himself. However, he did at length contrive to
speak of his new volume of poems. It was just out. He was having a copy
of the exceedingly limited large-paper edition specially bound in vellum
for Olivia's acceptance. Olivia seemed pleased, and apart from his
anxiety Claude had not felt so happy for weeks. They were allowed to
talk to each other until the rooms began to fill.
It was a very good Wednesday; but then the season was at its height. The
gathering comprised the usual measure of interesting and interested
persons, and the former had made their names upon as many different
fields as ever. Claude had a chat with his friend, Edmund Stubbs, a
young man with an unhealthy skin and a vague reputation for immense
cleverness. They spoke of the poems. Stubbs expressed a wish to see the
large-paper edition, which was not yet for sale, as did Ivor Llewellyn,
the impressionist artist, who was responsible for the "decorations" in
most volumes of contemporary minor verse, Claude's included. Claude was
injudicious enough to invite both men to his rooms that night. The
Impressionist was the most remarkable-looking of all Lady Caroline's
guests. He wore a curled fringe and a flowing tie, and pince-nez
attached to his person by a broad black ribbon. His pale face was
prematurely drawn, and he showed his gums in a deathly grin at the many
hard things which Stubbs muttered at the expense of all present whom he
knew by sight. Claude had a high opinion of both these men, but for once
he was scarcely in tune for their talk, which was ever at a sort of
artistic-intellectual concert-pitch. The Duke was to be forgotten in the
society of Olivia only. Claude therefore edged away, trod on the skirts
of a titled divorcee, got jammed between an Irish member and a composer
of comic songs, and was finally engaged in conversation by the aged
police magistrate, Sir Joseph Todd.
Sir Joseph had lowered his elephantine form into a chair beside the
tea-table, where he sat, with his great cane between his enormous legs,
munching cake like a school-boy and winking at his friends. He winked at
Claude. The magistrate had been a journalist, and a scandalous Bohemian,
so he said, in his young days; he had given Claude introductions and
advice when the latter took to his pen. He, also, inquired after the new
book, but rather grimly, and expressed himself with the rough edge of
his tongue on the subject of modern "poets" and "poetry": the inverted
commas were in his voice.
"You young spring poets," said he, "are too tender by half; you're all
white meat together. You may say that's no reason why I should have my
knife in you. Why didn't you say it? A bad joke would be a positive
treat from you precious young fellows of to-day. And you give us bad
lyrics instead, in limited editions; that's the way it takes you now."
Claude laughed; he was absurdly good-humoured under hostile criticism, a
quality of which some of his literary friends were apt to take
advantage. On this occasion, however, his unconcern was partly due to
inattention. While listening to his old friend he was thinking still of
the Duke.
"I'm sorry you would be a poet, Claude," the magistrate continued. "The
price of poets has gone down since my day. And you'd have done so much
better in the House--by which, of course, I mean the House we all
thought you were bound for. Has he--has he turned up yet?"
"Oh yes; he's in England," replied Claude, with discretion.
Sir Joseph pricked his ears, but curbed his tongue. Of all the questions
that gathered on his lips, only one was admissible, even in so old a
friend as himself.
"A family man?"
"No; a bachelor."
"Capital! We shall see some fun, eh?" chuckled Sir Joseph, gobbling the
last of his last slice. "What a quarry--what a prize! I was reminded of
him only this morning, Claude. I had an Australian up before me--a most
astounding fellow! An escaped bush-ranger, I should call him; looked as
if he'd been cut straight out of a penny dreadful; never saw such a man
in my life. However----"
Claude was not listening; his preoccupation was this time palpable. The
mouth of him was open, and his eyes were fixed; the police magistrate
followed their lead, with double eye-glasses in thick gold frames; and
then _his_ mouth opened too.
Her guests were making way for Lady Caroline Sellwood, who was leading
towards the tea-table, by his horny hand, none other than the ninth Duke
of St. Osmund's himself. Her Ladyship's face was radiant with smiles;
yet the Duke was just as he had been the day before, as unkempt, as
undressed (his Crimean shirt had a flannel collar, but no tie), as
round-shouldered; with his nose and ears still flayed by the sun; and
the notorious wideawake tucked under his arm.
"He has come straight from the bush," her Ladyship informed everybody
(as though she meant some shrub in the Square garden), "and just as he
is. I call it so sweet of him! You know you'll never look so picturesque
again, my dear Duke!"
Olivia followed with the best expression her frank face could muster.
Claude took his cousin's hand in a sudden hush.
"Where in the world have you been?" broke from him before them all.
"Been? I've been run in," replied the Duke, with a smack of his bearded
grinning lips.
"Tea or coffee, Duke?" said Lady Caroline, all smiling tolerance. "Tea?
A cup of tea for the Duke of St. Osmund's. And _where_ do you say you
have been?"
"Locked up!" said his Grace. "In choky, if you like it better!"
Lady Caroline herself led the laugh. The situation was indeed worthy of
her finely tempered steel, her consummate tact, her instinctive
dexterity. Many a grander dame would have essayed to quell that
incriminating tongue. Not so Lady Caroline Sellwood. She took her
Australian wild bull very boldly by the horns.
"I do believe," she cried, "that you are what we have all of us been
looking for--in real life--all our days. I do believe you are the
shocking Duke of those dreadful melodramas in the flesh at last! What
was your crime? Ah! I've no doubt you cannot tell us!"
"Can I not?" cried the Duke, as Claude stopped him, unobserved, from
pouring his tea into the saucer. "I'll tell you all about it, and
perhaps you'll show me where the crime comes in, for I'm bothered if I
see it yet. All I did was to have a gallop along one of your streets; I
don't even know which street it was; but there's a round clearing at one
end, then a curve, and then another clearing at the far end."
"Regent Street," murmured Claude.
"That's the name. Well, it was quite early, there was hardly anybody
about, so I thought surely to goodness there could be no harm in a
gallop; and I had one from clearing to clearing. Blowed if they didn't
run me in for that! They kept me locked up all the morning. Then they
took me before a fat old joker who did nothing much but wink. That old
joker, though, he let me off, so I've nothing agen' _him_. He's a white
man, he is. So here I am at last, having got your invitation to lunch,
ma'am, just half-an-hour ago."
Sir Joseph Todd had been making fruitless efforts to rise, unaided, from
his chair; he now caught Claude's arm, and simultaneously, the eye of
the Duke.
"Jumping Moses!" roared Jack; "why, there he is! I beg your pardon,
mister; but who'd have thought of finding _you_ here?"
"This is pleasing," muttered Edmund Stubbs, in the background, to his
friend the Impressionist. "I've seen the lion and the lamb lie down here
together before to-day. But nothing like this!"
The Impressionist whipped out a pencil and bared a shirt-cuff. No one
saw him. All eyes were upon the Duke and the magistrate, who were
shaking hands.
"You have paid me a valuable compliment," croaked Sir Joseph gayly. "Of
course I winked! Hadn't I my Lord Duke's little peccadillo to wink at?"
And he bowed himself away under cover of his joke, which also helped
Lady Caroline enormously. The Duke mentioned the name by which he would
go down to posterity on a metropolitan charge-sheet. Most people resumed
their conversation. A few still laughed. And the less seriously the
whole matter was taken, the better, of course, for all concerned,
particularly the Duke. Olivia had him in hand now. And her mother found
time to exchange a few words with Claude Lafont.
"A dear fellow, is he not? So natural! Such an example in that way to us
all! How many of us would carry ourselves as well in--in our bush
garments?" speculated her Ladyship, for the benefit of more ears than
Claude's. Then her voice sank and trembled. "Take him away, Claude," she
gasped below her breath. "Take him away!"
"I intend to," he whispered, nodding, "when I get the chance."
"But not only from here--from town as well. Carry him off to the Towers!
And when you get him there, for heaven's sake keep him there, and take
him in hand, and we will all come down in August to see what you have
done."
"I'm quite agreeable, of course; but what if he isn't?"
"He will be. _You_ can do what you like with him. I have discovered that
already; he asked at once if you were here, and said how he liked you.
Claude, you are so clever and so good! If any one can make him
presentable, it is you!" She was wringing her white hands whiter yet.
"I'll do my best, for all our sakes. I must say I like my material."
"Oh, he's a dear fellow!" cried Lady Caroline, dropping her hands and
uplifting her voice once more. "So original--in nothing more than in his
moral courage--his superiority to mere conventional appearances! _That_
is a lesson----"
Lady Caroline stopped with a little scream. In common with others, she
had heard the high, shrill mewing of a kitten; but cats were a special
aversion of her Ladyship's.
"What was that?" she cried, tugging instinctively at her skirts.
"Meow!" went the shrill small voice again; and all eyes fastened upon
the Duke of St. Osmund's, whose ready-made coat-tails were moving like a
bag of ferrets.
The Duke burst into a hearty laugh, and diving in his coat-tail pocket,
produced the offending kitten in his great fist. Lady Caroline Sellwood
took a step backward; and because she did not lead it, there was no
laugh this time from her guests; and because there was no laugh but his
own, the Duke looked consciously awkward for the first time. In fact, it
was the worst moment yet; the next, however, Olivia's pink palms were
stretched out for the kitten, and Olivia's laughing voice was making the
sweetest music that ever had gladdened the heart of the Duke.
"The little darling!" cried the girl with genuine delight. "Let me have
it, do!"
He gave it to her without a word, but with eyes that clung as fast to
her face as the tiny claws did to her dress. Olivia's attention was all
for the kitten; she was serenely unconscious of that devouring gaze; but
Claude saw it, and winced. And Lady Caroline saw it too.
"Poor mite!" pursued Olivia, stroking the bunch of black fur with a
cheek as soft. "What a shame to keep it smothered up in a stuffy pocket!
Are you fond of cats?" she asked the Duke.
"Am I not! They were my only mates up the bush. I brought over three
besides the kitten."
"You brought them from the bush?"
"I did so!"
Olivia looked at him; his eyes had never left her; she dropped hers, and
caressed the kitten.
"I put that one in my pocket," continued the Duke, "because I learned
Livingstone to ride in front of me when he was just such another little
'un. But he'd done a bolt in the night; I found him just now with his
three working paws black with your London soot; but he wasn't there when
I got up, so I took the youngster. P'r'aps it wasn't over kind. It won't
happen again. He's yours!"
"The kitten?"
"Why, certainly."
"To keep?"
"If you will. I'd be proud!"
"Then _I_ am proud. And I'll try to be as kind to it as you would have
been."
"You're uncommon kind to me," remarked the Duke irrelevantly. "So are
you all," he added, in a ringing voice, as he drew himself up to his
last inch, and for once stood clear of the medium height. "I never knew
that there were so many of you here, or I'd have kept away. I'm just as
I stepped off of the ship. I went aboard pretty much as I left the bush;
if you'll make allowances for me this time, it sha'n't happen again. You
don't catch me twice in a rig like this! Meanwhile, it's very kind of
you all not to laugh at a fellow. I'm much obliged to you. I am so. And
I hope we shall know each other better before long!"
Claude was not ashamed of him then. There was no truer dignity beneath
the ruffles and periwigs of their ancestors in the Maske picture-gallery
than that of the rude, blunt fellow who could face modestly and yet
kindly a whole roomful of well-dressed Londoners. It did not desert him
as he shook hands with Lady Caroline and Olivia. In another moment the
Duke was gone, and of his own accord, before he had been twenty minutes
in the house. And what remained of that Wednesday afternoon fell flat
and stale--always excepting the little formula with which Lady Caroline
Sellwood sped her parting guests.
"Poor fellow," it ran, "he has roughed it so dreadfully in that horrible
bush! You won't know him the next time you see him. Yes, I assure you,
he went straight on board at that end and came straight to us at this!
Not a day for anything in Melbourne or here. Actually not one day! I
thought it so dear of him to come as he was. Didn't you?"