The Determined Bachelor (24 page)

“
Ma pauvre chérie!
” breathed the Princess.

This was really too much for Lady Cardovan to bear. So much pity from so unlikely a source—and for so unlikely a cause—made her wonder for a moment if she had lost her mind. Could it be true? Basil had spoken to her in the most contemptuous terms of the young Miss Newsome. He had not even lavished upon her enough attention to be suspected of protesting too much—only a snort, a sardonic commentary about her sex in general and of the young lady in question in particular. Nothing could have struck her as more improbable than that a man so adamantly disposed to scorn the whole female gender should so suddenly have lost his heart to such an unlikely representative of it. She was insulted, and more—hurt—that he should have felt it necessary to lie to her. The Princess must have seen her expression, for she commenced again, in that same soft, twittering voice:

“I comprehend how you must feel, my friend. It is never a pleasant thing. And after so many years—Basil has always admired you so much.”

“Really, Livvy!” exclaimed Lady Cardovan suddenly. “I cannot believe what you are saying to me!”

“It is so difficult to believe what one wishes to ignore,” concurred the Princess, with a wise nod of her elegant little head. “And especially—the child, after all, must make it doubly hard on you.”

Lady Cardovan only stared back, uncomprehending.

“Oh! Nicole! Why, she is better fit to be an ambassadress, at nine than Miss Newsome will ever be!”

“Yes, yes—of course you are prejudiced. How natural! And the thought of giving her up, just when you had begun to know her! I know how you have always longed for children, my good friend.”

“Yes, it's true. Nicole is as dear to me as if——”

The Princess cut her off with a quick motion of her hand.

“Tell me nothing, Diana, I beg of you! It will be easier for you in the end. These things happen, but it is better not to dwell upon them too much. If only you had been free those many years ago—”

“I do not see what good it would have done.”

“Oh! Do not dissimulate with me, I beg of you! Are not we
chères amies?
My dear Diana, you must not pretend to me that you have not tender feelings in your heart for our dear Basil. Had you been free, I have no doubt but things would have been much happier for you.
C'est vraiment tragique
.”

Lady Cardovan stared at her companion, incredulous. Could she believe her own ears? Good God!

“My dear Livvy,” she inquired sharply, “what are you suggesting?”

“Why! It is common knowledge, is it not? Everyone knows that Basil has always been in love with you, and you with him. In truth, it is a great relief for me to find that you have not denied yourselves
all
of the pleasures of love.”

“Are you suggesting . . .! Good Lord, Livvy!” Lady Cardovan rose abruptly to her feet, her cheeks colouring profusely. “How dare you suggest that to me! And all the while, I supposed you understood me!”

And with these words, spoken with more passion than Lady Cardovan was accustomed to exhibiting, even under the most agonizing circumstances, she brushed by her friend and moved quickly off. The Princess watched her go with a sad little smile. “
Quelle horreur!
” thought she. “I will never understand these English! So much indignation over so little! Why, one would think it was a crime against nature! When, of course, it is precisely the opposite!”

But the Princess had at least found the final proof for her little puzzle, and that, if nothing else, made her rise a moment later with a gay little smile and require the exceedingly ugly, but rather sympathetic young man called Disraeli to summon her carriage.

Chapter XVII

The next morning, at ten o'clock sharp, Sir Basil Ives entered the drawing room of Grove House, that same drawing room which, the evening before, had been the scene of so much amazement on the part of the lady of the house. Sir Basil had long ago given up standing upon ceremony when he visited Lady Cardovan and therefore did not wait to be shown in, but only sent word to her that he had come, and let himself into the drawing room. He had done so often enough before, and accustomed as he was to her ways, did not show any surprise when she did not appear at once. Lady Diana always worked upon her books in the morning, and when she was interrupted in the midst of an idea, would not leave her writing table until it had been completed upon paper.

The Baronet, therefore, was perfectly prepared to wait, and occupied himself in the meantime by walking up and down the room, staring out at the gardens, and at last, having exhausted all the diversion of watching a cold rain fall upon the lawns which had been put to rest for the winter, sat down upon a small sofa near one of the fireplaces. Glancing down, he noticed a slim volume upon the rug, and thinking it had dropped from an incidental table, picked it up. A brief glance showed him the title—
A Country Parson
—and inscribed beneath, the legend, “A Satire, by a Lady.”

It was unlike his friend to leave books about like that, for of all of Lady Cardovan's loves, literature was the greatest. She prized the contents of her library as dearly as she prized her friends—indeed a good deal more dearly, Sir Basil sometimes thought. He was not himself a great reader of novels; he had always claimed they were idle amusements for idle
minds. His own time was ordinarily much too crammed full of more constructive work to allow him leisure to pursue the fanciful wanderings of imaginary people. However, having nothing much better to do whilst he waited, he commenced turning over the pages, more (as he assured himself) to find out what ladies did with their afternoons than from any interest of his own.

The first page made him laugh three times, which was a wonder, for Sir Basil was rarely made to laugh at all, save by some few extraordinary minds. The first chapter was soon finished, and had excited his amusement so much that he commenced the second. In truth, it was very astounding. Where he had expected to find the incoherent ramblings of a female intoxicated by romantic antics, he found instead the brisk and lucid style of a seasoned essayist. The characters, moreover, leapt from the page, and the dialogue, consisting so far chiefly in the interchanges of an idiotic, egocentric parson and his intended, struck him as so fresh and alive that he felt he knew them better than he did most of his acquaintance. The style struck him as clear and intelligent—he was amazed it had been written by a woman at all. Indeed, after finishing the second chapter he was determined in his mind that it could not have been the work of a woman, but of a man ashamed of being accused of novel writing, or else for some reason unwilling to be identified.

Thus amused and, one might add, amazed, Sir Basil passed a very pleasant hour. It flew by so quickly that when he heard the clock strike eleven he started up in amazement. Lady Cardovan had yet to appear. Ringing for a servant, he inquired if she had been informed of his presence.

“Yes,” said the footman, “My Lady has been told. But I shall go and remind her myself.”

The footman reappeared a moment later with a puzzled look.

“My Lady Cardovan is unwell,” reported he. “She begs you to excuse her, Your Excellency, but she has got the headache.”

“Unwell!” cried Sir Basil. “Then why was I not informed before? Unwell!”

The footman shuffled his feet and looked noncommittal. “I am sorry to have inconvenienced you, Your Excellency.”

“Pshaw! Well! I have wasted the whole morning! Be so kind as to give your mistress my regards, and tell her I shall
wait upon her tomorrow. No—better yet, bring me paper and a pen, if you will. I shall send up a note to her.”

Writing instruments were duly brought, and Sir Basil, having thought a moment, jotted down several lines. Having finished, he commenced folding it up, but in an afterthought appended his intention of borrowing the book he had commenced reading. The footman bowed, took the note, and saw the Ambassador safely into his carriage.

Sir Basil felt twice injured during his drive back to Regent's Terrace. First, because he had been made to wait above an hour, which was injustice enough; and secondly—and far more cruelly—he had been snubbed. He could not explain his friend's conduct in any other way. Why else had she condemned him to sit for an hour before he had been told she was unwell? Lady Cardovan had behaved similarly once before, and then it had been owing to her displeasure and not to any oversight of footmen or maids. No, no—Diana was in a pique, but whatever could be the cause of it? He had seen her only two days before, and
then
she had been jolly enough. Really, women were the very devil! Even Diana could be as low and petty as the rest of 'em. He supposed she was angry at him for not having turned up at her soiree, that odious conglomeration of little old men who gossiped as badly as little old women, effete poets, and narcissistic politicians. And well out of it he had been, too! Really, then! How could she be so petty?

Sir Basil had passed, in the end, a far more enjoyable evening. He had stayed at home with Nicole and Miss Calder, had dined with them, and afterward had spent a most refreshing hour with the young lady in his library, discussing the Slavery Question. Miss Calder was really a most amiable young woman, and far brighter, in the end, then almost all his male acquaintances. Certainly she possessed none of that urge to be complimented that was so obnoxious in the rest of her sex. Her remarks were always insightful—even if a trifle impulsive—and her manner was perfectly engaging. Why was not most of womankind fashioned along such sensible, and amiable, lines? She was not, he had noticed, an unhandsome creature, either. Rather to the contrary, though of course that was not really his line. A fine pair of eyes, a lovely, graceful bearing, and the glow of health made up for whatever slight lack of perfection existed in her features. Of course she was not a classic beauty, like Diana. But there was that in her
smile, in the light of her eye, and in her rather peculiar, windy laugh, which was certainly most enchanting. He wondered—not for the first time—why she had not been snapped up long ago by some quick-witted young man? He himself might almost have been tempted to do so, had he been younger, and of that turn of mind. Now, of course, his ideas were too settled, his style of life too pleasantly laid out, to make such an idea plausible, Still, there had been moments when he had wondered—but! Marriage had ever appared to him an unattractive business, entered into, more often than not, in a weak moment by an unsuspecting victim, only to be regretted bitterly forever afterwards. Even those marriages most expected to succeed, where birth, station, and education suited the partners to each other admirably, were apt to become, in short order, burdens to both parties. Only look at his brother! Louisa ought to have suited him down to the ground! And who could have forseen that that pretty little thing would turn so quickly sour? No, no—it was an idea too appalling to contemplate. And yet. . .

And yet, mused Sir Basil, absently watching the passing faces and streets, Miss Calder was nothing like his sister-in-law. In every aspect save birth, she was infinitely superior to Louisa.

In looks, manner, intelligence, and breeding, Miss Calder put her to shame. Indeed, it was a pity that such a fine young woman should have been relegated by ill-fortune to her present position in the world. He supposed her father must be a gentleman, to have sired such a lady. And then, of course, there was the invalided brother—tragic, really. Sir Basil, watching with unseeing eyes the passing of the outskirts of London and then the slow progress into the center of Town, had a sudden inspiration. It had occurred to him once before, actually, but had been set aside as too impulsive an idea. But, after all, one must not pass by every chance in life simply for its being impulsive!

The Baronet smiled to himself. Who would have thought he would end up one day chiding himself for being too staid? No, no—he would prove to all those who had long accused him of it, that he could be quite as impulsive as anyone, when he chose. So saying, he jumped down from the carriage before his club and, having ordered his luncheon, proceeded to put into action his little scheme.

Chapter XVIII

“How would you like to go on an errand with me, Nicole?” demanded Miss Calder of her pupil at about the time that Sir Basil was sitting down to his partridge in St. James's Street.

“Why, I should love it!” exclaimed the child, throwing down her pen with an exasperated sigh. The lessons had gone very badly all morning. Incapable of concentration, Nicole had been for an hour upon the events of the Roman Conquest of Asia Minor without taking in one fact. Her mind, it seemed, could not be kept away from the recent, and more exciting events of-her own personal life. Since the visit to the Prince's teahouse, she had been unable to talk of anything else. “The Great World” outside of her own window held far more fascination for her than that portrayed within her text.

“Where are we to go?”

But Miss Calder would not offer any concise answer. She replied simply that they were to go to a part of London where Nicole had never been.

“Have you been there yourself?” demanded the child with wide eyes.

“Only twice.”

And Anne stood up to go and fetch her bonnet and a pelisse. Nicole could obtain no further information from her until they had walked several blocks down St. James's Street. Then, a fine icy rain beginning to fall—for it was now the first week of December—the people hurrying up and down the street began to seek shelter in the shops and galleries lining the street. Seeing a hackney cab letting out its passenger, Anne signaled for it.