G. M.
“He will settle about his horses, and arrange everything,” said Adelaide, as she showed the letter to Lady Chiltern. “The horses first, and everything afterwards. The everything, of course, includes all my future happiness, the day of my marriage, whether tomorrow or in ten years’ time, and the place where we shall live.”
“At any rate, he’s coming.”
“Yes;—but when? He says next week, but he does not name any day. Did you ever hear or see anything so unsatisfactory?”
“I thought you would be glad to see him.”
“So I should be—if there was any sense in him. I shall be glad, and shall kiss him.”
“I dare say you will.”
“And let him put his arm round my waist and be happy. He will be happy because he will think of nothing beyond. But what is to be the end of it?”
“He says that he will settle everything.”
“But he will have thought of nothing. What must I settle? That is the question. When he was told to go to his father, he went to his father. When he failed there the work was done, and the trouble was off his mind. I know him so well.”
“If you think so ill of him why did you consent to get into his boat?” said Lady Chiltern, seriously.
“I don’t think ill of him. Why do you say that I think ill of him? I think better of him than of anybody else in the world;—but I know his fault, and, as it happens, it is a fault so very prejudicial to my happiness. You ask me why I got into his boat. Why does any girl get into a man’s boat? Why did you get into Lord Chiltern’s?”
“I promised to marry him when I was seven years old;—so he says.”
“But you wouldn’t have done it, if you hadn’t had a sort of feeling that you were born to be his wife. I haven’t got into this man’s boat yet; but I never can be happy unless I do, simply because—”
“You love him.”
“Yes;—just that. I have a feeling that I should like to be in his boat, and I shouldn’t like to be anywhere else. After you have come to feel like that about a man I don’t suppose it makes any difference whether you think him perfect or imperfect. He’s just my own—at least I hope so;—the one thing that I’ve got. If I wear a stuff frock, I’m not going to despise it because it’s not silk.”
“Mr. Spooner would be the stuff frock.”
“No;—Mr. Spooner is shoddy, and very bad shoddy, too.”
On the Saturday in the following week Gerard Maule did arrive at Harrington Hall—and was welcomed as only accepted lovers are welcomed. Not a word of reproach was uttered as to his delinquencies. No doubt he got the kiss with which Adelaide had herself suggested that his coming would be rewarded. He was allowed to stand on the rug before the fire with his arm round her waist. Lady Chiltern smiled on him. His horses had been specially visited that morning, and a lively report as to their condition was made to him. Not a word was said on that occasion which could distress him. Even Lord Chiltern when he came in was gracious to him. “Well, old fellow,” he said, “you’ve missed your hunting.”
“Yes; indeed. Things kept me in town.”
“We had some uncommonly good runs.”
“Have the horses stood pretty well?” asked Gerard.
“I felt uncommonly tempted to borrow yours; and should have done so once or twice if I hadn’t known that I should have been betrayed.”
“I wish you had, with all my heart,” said Gerard. And then they went to dress for dinner.
In the evening, when the ladies had gone to bed, Lord Chiltern took his friend off to the smoking-room. At Harrington Hall it was not unusual for the ladies and gentlemen to descend together into the very comfortable Pandemonium which was so called, when—as was the case at present—the terms of intimacy between them were sufficient to warrant such a proceeding. But on this occasion Lady Chiltern went very discreetly upstairs, and Adelaide, with equal discretion, followed her. It had been arranged beforehand that Lord Chiltern should say a salutary word or two to the young man. Maule began about the hunting, asking questions about this and that, but his host stopped him at once. Lord Chiltern, when he had a task on hand, was always inclined to get through it at once—perhaps with an energy that was too sudden in its effects. “Maule,” he said, “you ought to make up your mind what you mean to do about that girl.”
“Do about her! How?”
“You and she are engaged, I suppose?”
“Of course we are. There isn’t any doubt about it.”
“Just so. But when things come to be like that, all delays are good fun to the man, but they’re the very devil to the girl.”
“I thought it was always the other way up, and that girls wanted delay?”
“That’s only a theoretical delicacy which never means much. When a girl is engaged she likes to have the day fixed. When there’s a long interval the man can do pretty much as he pleases, while the girl can do nothing except think about him. Then it sometimes turns out that when he’s wanted, he’s not there.”
“I hope I’m not distrusted,” said Gerard, with an air that showed that he was almost disposed to be offended.
“Not in the least. The women here think you the finest paladin in the world, and Miss Palliser would fly at my throat if she thought that I said a word against you. But she’s in my house, you see; and I’m bound to do exactly as I should if she were my sister.”
“And if she were your sister?”
“I should tell you that I couldn’t approve of the engagement unless you were prepared to fix the time of your marriage. And I should ask you where you intended to live.”
“Wherever she pleases. I can’t go to Maule
