“But I won’t think of it at all; and I won’t go on walking with you. If you’ll go one way, Mr. Spooner, I’ll go the other.”
Then Mr. Spooner waxed angry. “Why am I to be treated with disdain?” he said.
“I don’t want to treat you with disdain. I only want you to go away.”
“You seem to think that I’m something—something altogether beneath you.”
And so in truth she did. Miss Palliser had never analysed her own feelings and emotions about the Spooners whom she met in society; but she probably conceived that there were people in the world who, from certain accidents, were accustomed to sit at dinner with her, but who were no more fitted for her intimacy than were the servants who waited upon her. Such people were to her little more than the tables and chairs with which she was brought in contact. They were persons with whom it seemed to her to be impossible that she should have anything in common—who were her inferiors, as completely as were the menials around her. Why she should thus despise Mr. Spooner, while in her heart of hearts she loved Gerard Maule, it would be difficult to explain. It was not simply an affair of age—nor of good looks, nor altogether of education. Gerard Maule was by no means wonderfully erudite. They were both addicted to hunting. Neither of them did anything useful. In that respect Mr. Spooner stood the higher, as he managed his own property successfully. But Gerard Maule so wore his clothes, and so carried his limbs, and so pronounced his words that he was to be regarded as one entitled to make love to any lady; whereas poor Mr. Spooner was not justified in proposing to marry any woman much more gifted than his own housemaid. Such, at least, were Adelaide Palliser’s ideas. “I don’t think anything of the kind,” she said, “only I want you to go away. I shall go back to the house, and I hope you won’t accompany me. If you do, I shall turn the other way.” Whereupon she did retire at once, and he was left standing in the path.
There was a seat there, and he sat down for a moment to think of it all. Should he persevere in his suit, or should he rejoice that he had escaped from such an ill-conditioned minx? He remembered that he had read, in his younger days, that lovers in novels generally do persevere, and that they are almost always successful at last. In affairs of the heart, such perseverance was, he thought, the correct thing. But in this instance the conduct of the lady had not given him the slightest encouragement. When a horse balked with him at a fence, it was his habit to force the animal till he jumped it—as the groom had recommended Phineas to do. But when he had encountered a decided fall, it was not sensible practice to ride the horse at the same place again. There was probably some occult cause for failure. He could not but own that he had been thrown on the present occasion—and upon the whole, he thought that he had better give it up. He found his way back to the house, put up his things, and got away to Spoon Hall in time for dinner, without seeing Lady Chiltern or any of her guests.
“What has become of Mr. Spooner?” Maule asked, as soon as he returned to Harrington Hall.
“Nobody knows,” said Lady Chiltern, “but I believe he has gone.”
“Has anything happened?”
“I have heard no tidings; but, if you ask for my opinion, I think something has happened. A certain lady seems to have been ruffled, and a certain gentleman has disappeared. I am inclined to think that a few unsuccessful words have been spoken.” Gerard Maule saw that there was a smile in her eye, and he was satisfied.
“My dear, what did Mr. Spooner say to you during his walk?” This question was asked by the ill-natured old lady in the presence of nearly all the party.
“We were talking of hunting,” said Adelaide.
“And did the poor old woman get her half-sovereign?”
“No;—he forgot that. We did not go into the village at all. I was tired and came back.”
“Poor old woman;—and poor Mr. Spooner!”
Everybody in the house knew what had occurred, as Mr. Spooner’s discretion in the conduct of this affair had not been equal to his valour; but Miss Palliser never confessed openly, and almost taught herself to believe that the man had been mad or dreaming during that special hour.
XX
Phineas Again in London
Phineas, on his return to London, before he had taken his seat in the House, received the following letter from Lady Laura Kennedy:—
Dresden, .
Dear Friend—
I thought that perhaps you would have written to me from Harrington. Violet has told me of the meeting between you and Madame Goesler, and says that the old friendship seems to have been perfectly reestablished. She used to think once that there might be more than friendship, but I never quite believed that. She tells me that Chiltern is quarrelling with the Pallisers. You ought not to let him quarrel with people. I know that he would listen to you. He always did.
I write now especially because I have just received so dreadful a letter from Mr. Kennedy! I would send it you were it not that there are in it a few words which on his behalf I shrink from showing even to you. It is full of threats. He begins by quotations from the Scriptures, and from the Prayerbook, to show that a wife has no right to leave her husband—and then he goes on to the law.
