Bath Tangle

9

Fanny was disappointed. It was ten days later before the Major declared himself, and he did it then at her instigation.

That he was head over ears in love no one could doubt. He went about like a man dazzled by strong sunshine, so oblivious of his surroundings or any worldly care that his anxious mother was thrown into great disquiet, convinced at one moment that he no longer held her in affection, and at the next that his restlessness and absence of mind must have its root in some deepseated disorder. Since the state of her health made her shrink from social intercourse, and her only expeditions from her eyrie in Lansdown Crescent down into the town were to the Abbey Baths, she remained in ignorance of the true state of affairs. Fashionable Bath could have enlightened her, for although the Major retained just enough sense not to haunt Laura Place it seemed not to occur to him that the spectacle of a tall and handsome young man searching the Pump Room every morning for the Lady Serena Carlow might possibly attract attention. The habitués of the Pump Room derived considerable entertainment from it, one gentleman asserting that it was now his custom to set his watch by the Major’s arrival; and old General Hendy, whose own practice was to steer a gouty and determined course to Fanny’s side, saying indignantly that he never saw such a silly, moonstruck fellow, and had a good mind to tell him what a cake he was making of himself. Whenever the Major came bearing down upon Serena, he scowled at him awfully; but as the Major had no eyes for anyone but Serena, this strong hint from a senior officer went unnoticed. General Hendy was not the only person hostile to the courtship. High sticklers viewed it with disapproval, some maintaining that it was improper for the Lady Serena to be encouraging any gentleman to pay his addresses to her while she was in mourning for her father, others considering that such a match would be scandalously unequal.

Had the Major been less besotted he must have perceived the glances, curious, amused, or condemnatory, and have realized that his goddess had become the most talked-of woman in Bath. He would have been aghast. Serena realized it, and laughed. Fanny did not realize it until Mrs Floore shocked her by saying: “A very pretty beau your daughter-in-law has got for herself, my lady, I do declare! Lord, it’s as good as a play to watch him! Morning after morning, in he comes, and if Lady Serena is here he goes plunging across the room to her, never noticing another soul, and if she ain’t he goes off like a dog that’s lost its tail!”

Dismayed, Fanny exclaimed: “Oh, how could I be so thoughtless? I never dreamed that people would notice—talk about Lady Serena—!”

“Lord, ma’am, who cares for a bit of gossip?” said Mrs Floore comfortably. There’s no harm that ever I heard of in a beautiful girl being courted, and if people choose to talk, let ’em!”

Serena said the same. “My dear Fanny, don’t tease yourself! The world began to talk about me when I drove a high-perch phaeton in Hyde Park! I was eighteen then, and much Papa cared for the exclamations of the censorious! When I declared I would no longer be burdened with a duenna hands were upflung in horror; when I jilted Rotherham I was known to be past reclaim! Add to these all my other iniquities, and you must perceive that I’ve given people so much to talk about that had I cared for their whisperings I must have retired to a nunnery! What’s more, didn’t my aunt warn you that I am an acknowledged flirt?”

“Serena, do not say so!”

“Well, it’s quite true, you know,” said Serena candidly. “How often have you accused me of trifling with some ridiculous creature’s sensibilities?”

“Oh, no, no! I never said that! Only that you have so much liveliness, dearest, and so much beauty, that—that gentlemen can’t help but fall in love with you, and you are so heedless of your beauty that you don’t quite realize it!”

“Fanny, you’re a goose!” Serena told her severely. “Of course I do! If a personable man does me the honour to think me beautiful—alas, that there should not be more of them! But my red hair, you know, is a sad blemish!—well, if he does admire me, what should I do but reward him with a little elegant dalliance?”

“How can you talk so? If I believed you to be flirting with Major Kirkby—Oh, no, Serena, you could not!”

“You are very right! It would be a feat beyond my power. He would be incapable of it!”

“I wish you will be serious!” Fanny said despairingly.

“I can’t be! No, no, don’t pester me with questions, or lecture me on the proprieties, Fanny! Very likely I have taken leave of my senses—indeed, I sometimes fear I have!—but either I shall come about, or—or—I shall not! And as for the rest of the world, it may go to the devil!”

Fanny could only conclude that she was as much in love as the Major, and wished that he would come to the point. Why he did not do so she was at a loss to understand, and was beginning to wonder if some impediment perhaps existed, when, to her surprise, he was ushered into the drawing-room in” Laura Place one afternoon, and said, as he grasped her hand: “I hoped I might find you at home! Serena is out, I know: it is you I particularly wish to see! You are her guardian—the properest person to be consulted! You know her—I believe you must be aware of the nature of the feelings which I—Lady Spenborough, in the joy of seeing her again, hearing her voice, touching her hand, all other considerations were forgotten! I allowed myself—” He broke off, trying to collect himself, and took a few hasty steps about the room.

Filled with trepidation, she said, after a moment: “You allowed yourself, Major Kirkby—?”

“To be happy in a dream! A dream of years, which seemed suddenly to have turned to reality!”

“A dream! I beg your pardon, but why do you call it so?” she asked anxiously.

He turned, and came back to the fireside. “Should I not? Lady Spenborough, I ask myself that question again and again! I tell myself it could be reality, but I cannot silence the doubt—the scruple-that warns me it should not!”

His agitation, the strong emotion under which he was evidently labouring, the oppressed look upon his brow, all awoke her ready compassion. Her disposition was timid; she was always very shy with anyone whom she did not know well; but she felt no shyness upon this occasion. She said, with her pretty smile: “Will you not be seated, and tell me what it is that is troubling you? You know, I am very stupid, and I don’t at all understand what you mean!”

He threw her a grateful look, saying: “You are so very kind! I am talking like a fool, I suppose! I came to ask you—Lady Spenborough, should I be the most presumptuous dog alive to beg Serena to marry me?”

Astonishment widened her eyes. “Presumptuous? But—but why?”

“You don’t think so? But have you considered? You know, I fancy, that the feelings I entertain are not—are not of recent birth! It is nearly seven years since I first saw her, and from that day those feelings have remained unchanged! She appeared to me then like some heavenly creature descended to earth to make every other woman seem commonplace! Her beauty, her grace, the very music of her voice, I could never forget! They have remained with me, haunted all my dreams—” He stopped, reddening, and tried to laugh. “I am talking like a fool again!”

“No, no!” she breathed. “Pray do not think so! Go on, if you please!”

He stared down at his hands, lying clasped between his knees. “Well! You are aware, I daresay, that I had the temerity to raise my eyes—too high!”

“You should not say so,” she interpolated gently.

“It was true! Then I thought otherwise. I was very young! Rank and fortune seemed to me to be of no account when set in the scales against such an attachment as I believed ours to be! I think I never forgave those that parted us until now, when the treasure I had believed unattainable seems to be within my reach, and I see—as any man of honour must!—all the force of the arguments which were advanced against me, seven years ago!”

Again she interrupted him. “Forgive me! But seven years ago she was just come out, and you were a younger son, with no prospects! She is her own mistress now, and you are not a boy, just joined, and proud, as Serena once told me, of your first regimentals. Then, had she been permitted to marry you, she must have followed the drum; today, it is otherwise, is it not?”

He looked up, fixing his eyes upon her intently. “I have come into the property which I never thought to inherit, but it is not large. Indeed, in her eyes the estate must seem a small one, and brings me what I should rather call an easy competence than a handsome fortune. The elegances of life I can command, but not its luxuries! The house to which I should take her, though I have been used to hear it spoken of as commodious, cannot compare with Milverley. I was never at Milverley, but I have visited such places. I have even stayed in one or two, and I know that beside the size and style of such an establishment my poor little manor must be dwarfed indeed. I could afford, I think, to hire a house in town for the Season, but it could not be a mansion, like Spenborough House.”

“Oh!” she cried involuntarily. “Can you suppose that such considerations as that would weigh with Serena?”

“No! Her mind is too lofty—her disposition too generous; If she gave her heart, she would, I think, be ready to live in a cottage! It is with me that those considerations weigh! They must do so—and the more heavily because she would laugh them aside!”

“I don’t know what any woman could want more than what you can offer her,” Fanny said wistfully.

“Lady Spenborough, are you sincere? You don’t think it would be wrong in me to ask her to be my wife?”

“No, indeed! To be sure, I cannot feel that a cottage would do for Serena,” said Fanny, quite unable to picture Serena in such a setting, “because she doesn’t like to feel herself cooped-up. Besides, you could scarcely keep servants in a cottage, and, with all the will in the world, Major Kirkby, she could never manage without!”

He could not help laughing. “I should think not indeed!”

“You see,” Fanny explained, “she has always had so many servants to wait upon her that she has never been obliged to attend very much to domestic matters. But I daresay you have a good housekeeper?”

“Of course! I didn’t mean that she would have to sweep floors, or cook the dinner, or even tell the maids what they must do. My mother was used to direct the servants, but since she has lived in Bath Mrs Harbury has attended to all such matters, and could very well continue to do so, if Serena wished it.”

“I expect she would wish it,” said Fanny, with lively memories of Serena’s unconcern with the domestic arrangements at the Dower House. She added reflectively: “It is the oddest thing! I am sure Serena never groomed a horse in her life, or swept out a stall, but she would manage a stable far more easily than a house!”

These words brought another scruple to his mind. He said: “Her hunting! Could she bear to give that up? Even if I could endure to let her risk her neck, my home is in Kent, and that is poor hunting country—humbug country, I expect she would call it! There are several packs, but I have never been much addicted to the sport. I could become a subscriber, but I doubt—She told me once that she thought nothing equal to the Cottesmore country!”

“Yes,” said Fanny. “Shabituéhe and her papa were used to visit Lord Lonsdale every year, at Lowther Hall. But for the most part, of course, they hunted with the Duke of Beaufort’s pack. I believe—but I have never hunted myself I—that that is very good country too.” She smiled at him, as something very like a groan burst from him. “Major Kirkby, you are too despondent! It would be a very poor creature who would set such considerations as that in the balance!”

“I know she would not! But I should wish her to have everything she desired!”

“Well, if she desired it so very much, perhaps it could be contrived. You might purchase a lodge in the Shires, or—”

“That I might do, but maintain a dozen or so first-rate hunters I could not!”

“But Serena has a very large fortune of her own!” said Fanny.

He sprang up, and began to walk about the room again. “Yes! I have no knowledge—but it was bound to be so! I wish to God it were not! You will understand me, Lady Spenborough, when I say that I had rather by far she were penniless than that there should be sogreat a disparity—as I fear there must be—between our fortunes!”

“I do understand you,” she replied warmly. “Such a sentiment cannot but do you honour, but, believe me, it would be most wrong, most foolish, to let a scruple stand in the way of—perhaps—the happiness of you both!”

He came striding back to her, and caught her hand to his lips. “I have no words with which to thank you! If I have your consent, I care for no other! You know Serena—you love her—and you tell me to go forward!”

“Oh, yes, but I am not her guardian, you know! She is quite her own mistress! At least—” She paused, suddenly struck by an unwelcome thought. “I had forgot! Oh, dear!”

.”She has a guardian? Someone to whom I should apply before approaching her?”

“No, no! Only her fortune is—is strangely tied-up, and perhaps—But I should not be talking of her affairs!”

He pressed her hand slightly. “Do not! I hope it may be so securely tied-up that I could not touch it if I would! I must go. If I could express to you my gratitude for your kindness, your understanding—!” He smiled down at her with a good deal of archness. The word dowager will never again have the power to terrify me!”

She laughed, and blushed. He again kissed her hand, and turned to go away, just as the door opened, and Serena, in her walking dress, came into the room.

“I thought I recognized the modish hat reposing on the table in the hall!” she remarked, drawing off her gloves, and tossing them aside. “How do you do. Hector?” Her eyes went from him to Fanny, and the smile in them deepened. “Now, what conspiracy have you been hatching to make you both look so guilty?”

“No conspiracy,” the Major said, going to her, and helping her to take off her pelisse. “Did you find your very odd acquaintance—Mrs Floore, is it not?—at home? I should think she was very much obliged to you for your visit!”

“I believe you are quite as high in the instep as Fanny, and disapprove of Mrs Floore as heartily!” Serena exclaimed.

“I own I cannot think her a proper friend for you,” he admitted.

“Stuff! I found her at home, and I was very much obliged to her for the welcome she was kind enough to give me. I must say, Fanny, I wish we were in London, just that we might see with our own eyes the Laleham woman’s triumph!”

“You don’t mean to say that she has made up a brilliant match for poor Emily already?” cried Fanny.

“No, she hasn’t done that, but, if she’s to be believed, she might have her pick of a dozen eligible partis tomorrow, if she chose! Flying at higher game, I conclude! So does Mrs Floore. She still holds by her cross-eyed Duke! I am very sceptical about him, but there seems to be no doubt that the Rotherham ball has worked like a charm. I daresay it might help to open some doors, but what tactics the Laleham woman employed to force open some others, and which of the Patronesses she out-generalled into surrendering vouchers for Almack’s, I would give a fortune to know. One can’t but admire her!”

“Odious woman!” Fanny said. “I am sorry for Emily.”

“Nonsense! She will be in high feather, enjoying a truly magnificent season.”

“But who is this lady?” asked the Major.

“She is Mrs Floore’s daughter, not as engaging as her mama, but quite as redoubtable.”

“She is a hateful, scheming creature!” said Fanny, with unusual asperity. “Excuse me!—I must speak to Lybster!—Something I forgot to tell him he must do! No, no, pray don’t pull the bell, dearest!”

“Good gracious, Fanny, what in the world—?” Serena stopped, for the door had closed softly behind Fanny.

“Serena!”

She turned her head, struck by the urgent note in the Major’s voice. One look at his face was enough to explain Fanny’s surprising behaviour. She felt suddenly breathless, and absurdly shy.

He came towards her, and took her hands. “It was not conspiracy. I came to ask her, as one who is in some sort your guardian, if I might ask you to marry me.”

“Oh, Hector, how could you be so foolish?” she said, her voice catching on something between a laugh and a sob. “What has poor Fanny to say to anything? Did she tell you that you might? Must I ask her what I should reply?”

“Not that! But I am aware now, as I never was seven years ago, of the gulf that lies between us!”

She pulled one of her hands away, and pressed her fingers against his mouth. “Don’t say such things! I forbid you! Don’t think yourself unworthy of me! If you only knew—But you don’t, my poor Hector, you don’t! It’s I who am unworthy! You’ve no notion how detestable I can be, how headstrong, how obstinate, how shrewish.”

He caught her into his arms, saying thickly: “Do not you say such things! My goddess, my queen!”

“Oh, no, no, no!”

He raised his head, smiling a little crookedly down at her. “Do you dislike to hear yourself called so? There is nothing I would not do to please you, but you cannot help but be my goddess! You have been so these seven years!”

“Only a goddess could dislike it! You see by that how wretchedly short of the mark I fall. I have a little honesty—enough to tell you now that you must not worship me.”

He only laughed, and kissed her again. She protested no more, too much a woman not to be deeply moved by such idolatry, and awed by the constancy which, though it might have been to a false image, could not be doubted.

It was not long before he was saying to her much of what he had previously said to Fanny, anxiously laying his circumstances before her, and dwelling so particularly on the disparity between them of rank and fortune, that she interrupted presently to say with mingled amusement and impatience: “My dearest Hector, I wish you will not talk such nonsense! Why do you set so much store by rank? You are a gentleman, and I hope I am a gentlewoman, and as for fortune, we shall Ho very well!”

His expression changed; he said: “I wish to God you had no fortune!”

It was not to be expected that she should understand such a point of view, nor did she. In her world, a poorly dowered girl was an object for compassion. Even a love-match must depend upon the marriage-settlements, and wealthy and besotted indeed must be the suitor who allied himself to a portionless damsel. She looked her astonishment, and repeated, in a blank voice: “Wish I had no fortune?”

“Yes! I had rather by far you were penniless, than—I daresay—.so rich that my own fortune must seem the veriest pittance beside yours!”

Laughter sprang to her eyes. “Oh, you goose! Do you fear to be taken for a fortune-hunter? Of all the crack-brained ideas to take into your head! No, indeed, Hector, this is being foolish beyond permission!”

“I don’t know that I care so much for that—though it is what people will say!—but I must support my wife, not live upon her fortune! Serena, surely you must understand this!”

It seemed to her absurdly romantic, but she only said quizzingly: “Was this thought in your head seven years ago?”

“Seven years ago,” he replied gravely, “your father was alive, and you were not sole mistress of your fortune. If I thought about the matter at all—but you must remember that I was then no more than a green boy!—I imagine I must have supposed that Lord Spenborough, if he countenanced the match, would settle on you a sum comparable to my own means.”

“Or have cut me off without a penny?” she inquired, amused.

“Or have done that,” he agreed, perfectly seriously.

She perceived that he was in earnest, but she could not help saying, with a gurgle of laughter: “It is too bad that you cannot enact the role of Cophetua! I must always possess an independence, which cannot be wrested from me But take heart! It is by no means certain that I shall ever have more than that. Are you prepared to take me with my wretched seven hundred pounds a year, my ridiculous fortune-hunter? I warn you, it may well be no more!”

“Are you in earnest?” he asked, his brow lightening. “Lady Spenborough said something about your fortune’s being oddly tied-up, but no more than that. Tell me!”

“I will, but if you mean to take it as a piece of excellent good news we are likely to fall out!” she warned him. “Nothing was ever more infamous! My dear but misguided papa left my fortune—all but what I have from my mother—to Rotherham, in trust for me, with the proviso that he was to allow me no more than the pin-money I had always been given, until I was married—with, mark you! his lordship’s consent and approval! In the event of my marrying without that august approval. I may, I suppose, kiss my fingers to my inheritance!”

He was staggered, and his first thoughts agreed exactly with her own. “What? You must win Rotherham’s consent? Good God, I never in my life heard of anything so iniquitous!”

“Just so!” said Serena, with immense cordiality. “I hope you will perceive that I was not to be blamed for flying into the worst passion of my career when that clause was read to me!”

“I do not wonder at it! Rotherham, of all men alive! Pardon me, but the indelicacy of such a provision, the—But I must be silent on that head!”

“Abominable, wasn’t it? I am heartily of your opinion!”

He sat for a moment or two, with his lips tightly compressed, but as other thoughts came into his mind, his face relaxed, and he presently exclaimed: “Then if he should refuse his consent, you will have no more than will serve for your gowns, and—and such fripperies!”

“Very true—but you need not say it as though you were glad of it!”

“I am glad of it!”

“Well, so am not I!” retorted Serena tartly.

“Serena, all I have is yours to do with as you please!” he said imploringly.

She was touched, but a strong vein of common sense made her say: “I am very much obliged to you, but what if I should please to spend all you have upon my gowns—and such fripperies? My dear, that is very fine talking, but it won’t do! Besides, the very thought of Ivo’s holding my purse-strings to the day of his death, or mine, is enough to send me into strong convulsions! He shall not do it! And now I come to think of it, I believe he will not be able to. He told me himself that if he withheld his consent unreasonably I might be able to break the Trust. Hector, if you do not instantly wipe from your face that disappointed look, you will have a taste of my temper, and so I warn you!”

He smiled, but said with quiet confidence: “Rotherham will never give his consent to your marrying me!”

“We shall see!”

“And nothing—nothing!—would prevail upon me to seek it!” said the Major, with suppressed violence.

“Oh, you need not! That at least was not stipulated in Papa’s Will! I shall inform him myself of my betrothal—but that will not be until I am out of mourning, in the autumn.”

“The autumn!” He sounded dismayed, but recollected himself immediately, and said: “You are very right! My own feelings—But it would be quite improper for such an announcement to be made until you are out of black gloves!”

She stretched out her hand to lay it upon one of his. “Well, I think it would. Hector. In general, I set little store by the proprieties, but in such a case as this—oh, every feeling would be offended! In private we are engaged, but the world shall not know it until October.”

He lifted the hand to his lips. “You are the only judge: I shall be ruled entirely by your wishes, my queen!”