“What does all this mean?”
“You would ask me, you know. I am bothered out of my life by ever so many things, and now he comes and adds his botheration.”
“What bothers you, Gerard? If anything bothers you, surely you will tell me. If there has been anything to trouble you since you saw your father why have you not written and told me? Is your trouble about me?”
“Well, of course it is, in a sort of way.”
“I will not be a trouble to you.”
“Now you are going to misunderstand me! Of course, you are not a trouble to me. You know that I love you better than anything in the world.”
“I hope so.”
“Of course I do.” Then he put his arm round her waist and pressed her to his bosom. “But what can a man do? When Lady Chiltern recommended that I should go to my father and tell him, I did it. I knew that no good could come of it. He wouldn’t lift his hand to do anything for me.”
“How horrid that is!”
“He thinks it a shame that I should have my uncle’s money, though he never had any more right to it than that man out there. He is always saying that I am better off than he is.”
“I suppose you are.”
“I am very badly off, I know that. People seem to think that £800 is ever so much, but I find it to be very little.”
“And it will be much less if you are married,” said Adelaide gravely.
“Of course, everything must be changed. I must sell my horses, and we must cut and run, and go and live at Boulogne, I suppose. But a man can’t do that kind of thing all in a moment. Then Chiltern comes and talks as though he were Virtue personified. What business is it of his?”
Then Adelaide became still more grave. She had now removed herself from his embrace, and was standing a little apart from him on the rug. She did not answer him at first; and when she did so, she spoke very slowly. “We have been rash, I fear; and have done what we have done without sufficient thought.”
“I don’t say that at all.”
“But I do. It does seem now that we have been imprudent.” Then she smiled as she completed her speech. “There had better be no engagement between us.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it is quite clear that it has been a trouble to you rather than a happiness.”
“I wouldn’t give it up for all the world.”
“But it will be better. I had not thought about it as I should have done. I did not understand that the prospect of marrying would make you—so very poor. I see it now. You had better tell Lord Chiltern that it is—done with, and I will tell her the same. It will be better; and I will go back to Italy at once.”
“Certainly not. It is not done with, and it shall not be done with.”
“Do you think I will marry the man I love when he tells me that by—marrying—me, he will be—banished to—Bou—logne? You had better see Lord Chiltern; indeed you had.” And then she walked out of the room.
Then came upon him at once a feeling that he had behaved badly; and yet he had been so generous, so full of intentions to be devoted and true! He had never for a moment thought of breaking off the match, and would not think of it now. He loved her better than ever, and would live only with the intention of making her his wife. But he certainly should not have talked to her of his poverty, nor should he have mentioned Boulogne. And yet what should he have done? She would cross-question him about Lord Chiltern, and it was so essentially necessary that he should make her understand his real condition. It had all come from that man’s unjustifiable interference—as he would at once go and tell him. Of course he would marry Adelaide, but the marriage must be delayed. Everybody waits twelve months before they are married; and why should she not wait? He was miserable because he knew that he had made her unhappy;—but the fault had been with Lord Chiltern. He would speak his mind frankly to Chiltern, and then would explain with loving tenderness to his Adelaide that they would still be all in all to each other, but that a short year must elapse before he could put his house in order for her. After that he would sell his horses. That resolve was in itself so great that he did not think it necessary at the present moment to invent any more plans for the future. So he went out into the hall, took his hat, and marched off to the kennels.
At the kennels he found Lord Chiltern surrounded by the denizens of the hunt. His huntsman, with the kennelman and feeder, and two whips, and old Doggett were all there, and the Master of the Hounds was in the middle of his business. The dogs were divided by ages, as well as by sex, and were being brought out and examined. Old Doggett was giving advice—differing almost always from Cox, the huntsman, as to the propriety of keeping this hound or of cashiering that. Nose, pace, strength, and docility were all questioned with an eagerness hardly known in any other business; and on each question Lord Chiltern listened to everybody, and then decided with a single word. When he had once resolved, nothing further urged by any man then could avail anything. Jove never was so autocratic, and certainly never so much in earnest. From the look of Lord Chiltern’s brow it
