Chapter V
Penelope was the swan, and all her relations were the ducks. The noise they made was simply unendurable. For, besides Titania, she had cousins and other aunts, or people who were in the position of aunts, and she had friends who had been friends of her mother, and they came down on her like the Assyrian. They objected to publicity, especially for other people, and for a young woman to become a public character was something worse than immorality. Nothing but Penelope’s entire singleness of character and her humourous want of humour enabled her to meet and overcome them. And even she felt at times that flight was the only thing left. She sent to her solicitor for a list of all the houses and mansions and castles that she owned, and she took her motor-car and her pet chauffeur, and, having borrowed Bob from his grandmother, she set off on a tour. She disappeared for a week at a time. Then she disappeared for two weeks. She was even lost for a month.
“She ought to be in an asylum,” said Titania, “and I have to let Bob go with her. He is some kind of a safeguard. How do I know she isn’t married already? Bob, dear Bob, has ceased to confide in me. When I interrogate him, he puts me off. I get nothing out of him. The only thing that I can congratulate myself on is that now, instead of ‘Baker says,’ it is ‘Pen says.’ And I doubt, I own I doubt, and I cannot help it, whether Bob is not being done serious harm to, considering that he will one day be a duke. A duke should be brought up properly. Goring was brought up badly, I deeply regret to say. He laughs at Penelope’s behaviour, and says girls will be girls. I say they will be women, and he says, ‘Thank the Lord,’ and I don’t know what he means. But, as I say, this wretched girl may be married by now. It is already months since she said, in my hearing, to a whole crowd of men, ‘I promise to marry one of you!’ Was there ever an aunt in a more unfortunate position? I feel as if I should become a lunatic. Augustin, do you hear me, I am rapidly becoming insane.”
“Oh, ah,” said Augustin, who always knew more about Pen’s actions than any one else. She wrote to him from a hundred places.
“Keep your eye upon Mr. Gordon,” she said. “And what are people saying about Lord Bramber’s speech? I shall be up in town in time to see Mr. Carew’s new picture. I got a letter from Mr. de Vere, saying that Captain Goby was learning Wordsworth’s ode on the ‘Intimations of Immortality in Childhood’ by heart. Mr. de Vere says he is doing what I told him, and is keeping his eye on Mr. Roosevelt. I told him to model himself on the President of the United States. He says he rows and has bought a Sandow exerciser, and he says it does not make him so tired now. Mr. Williams told me when I was last in town that he was thinking of writing a guide to Dulwich Gallery if war didn’t break out. I am afraid he hopes it will. Mr. Plant’s last weekly accounts were only 10*s*. 6*d*. I advised him to see a doctor if he thought it was doing him harm. The marquis has written a very good article in the Revue des Deux Mondes against anti-Semitism. I am greatly pleased with this. I hope Mr. Carew’s picture is intelligible. I told him it was no absolute sign of genius to be entirely incomprehensible. He took it very well. I think Mr. Williams will have a good effect on him. I have visited ten mansions, seven castles (two with moats; mother used to love moats, because there are none in America), and several other houses of mine. Most need repairs. I shall be home next week. Tell aunt that Bob is very well and brown, and is learning to drive my car at full speed down a narrow road with sharp turns in it. Smith says he will be the best driver in England when he is grown up, if he goes on and doesn’t have his nerve broken up early by an accident. But I think his nerve is good, though I can’t always tell, as I shut my eyes when we go very fast. Good-bye now, dear Guardy.
“Your loving “PENELOPE.
“P. S. I am sure I am doing good!”
Bob was very sure of it, too.
“I say, Pen, old Guth will be lonely, won’t he? But he’s all right if he has a bally Catullus in his pocket, and he draws his screw just the same. Granny is very decent to him, take it all around. And I like him because he likes dogs. I must wire to Baker to hear how ‘Captain’ is getting on. I called him Captain because old Goby gave him to me. I say, Pen, don’t you think Smith is a ripping good driver? He says that he’ll be my chauffeur when I’m a duke, if you don’t want him. He says him and me’ll win every bally race. I’d like to do that. I begin to think horse-racing is rot. You see three or four people can’t ride a race-horse, and the responsibility of driving you fast when the road’s crooked is the fun. Every time I miss a cart, Pen, I feel as happy as if I’d hit Rhodes for four every time he sent a ball down to me. That would be fun. Baker says—no, I mean Smith says that all other sports are rot of the worst kind. He says if he’s ever rich, he’ll go through the city every day as fast as he can. He hates the police, and some of them hate him. He rode over a sergeant in the Kingston Road once, but he didn’t hurt him much. When shall we leave this castle and go to another one? I hope the next is a long way off. Smith says he wants a good road to show what she’ll do when she’s out to the last notch. And it must be down-hill.”
And in town, while Pen was going about the country, people’s tongues ran as fast as any motorcar.
“It is nonsense,” said one; “she’s married already.”
“I know she’s not. I paid a shilling and looked it up at Somerset House.”
“That’s nothing,” said a barrister. “They could have been married under wrong names.”
“That wouldn’t be legal.”
“Yes, it would. It’s only illegal if a false name is used and one of the parties doesn’t know. Then the one who is deceived can get a declaration of nullity,” said the barrister.
“Oh, well, but who is it?”
“It’s no one. I don’t believe she’ll marry at all.”
“She’s a crank.”
“It’s madness. I hear the Duchess of Goring has taken to her bed.”
“Well, Goring hasn’t. I saw him at the Frivolity.”
“Who is it now?”
“I don’t know her name. But where’s Lady Penelope?”
No one knew but Bradstock, and even Augustin was behind by a post or two. None of the “horde” knew, and they began to get suspicious of each other. Goby watched De Vere, and De Vere kept his eye on Goby. It was obvious from the newspapers that Bramber was in the House. Gordon was seen at his Club. And then Carteret Williams was missing. Carew hunted for him in vain at the Press Club and at the office of the Morning Hour. There was no war yet, though there were rumours of it in the Balkans as usual.
It got about that she had married Williams, though he had only run away from Carew for a week.
“The very worst of the lot,” wailed Titania. “I knew it would be Williams. He’s hardly a gentleman, though he comes of a good family. Being a war correspondent makes a man brutal. I knew, I knew, I knew it was Williams, and now I shall never speak to her; and he will beat her in time, I know it, and there will be a horrible scandal; and what, oh, what can she have done with Bob? Augustin, go at once and find where Bob is. I knew it would be Williams! Didn’t I always say it would be Williams? I could have forgiven her any one else.”
Gordon came to ask Bradstock if it was true. And Bradstock had a sense of humour, if Pen had none.
“My dear sir,” he said, “how can I tell? She liked him very much, took a great interest in him. She told me he was writing a guide to the art of Dulwich Gallery. Do you think that a bad sign?”
Gordon groaned.
“It looks bad, Lord Bradstock. But I don’t believe she takes much interest in him. She takes an interest in me, my lord! Why, I went up in a balloon all on her account. I went with that madman, the French marquis, and as sure as my name’s Le— I mean Gordon, there’s not another woman in the world I’d have done it for. Don’t you think that going up in a balloon, when you’d rather die than do it, ought to touch a woman’s heart? I give you my word that she as good as said, ‘Go up in a balloon and I’ll—’ well, or words to that effect. I tell you what, Lord Bradstock, I know you ain’t a rich man, not a very rich one, that is, but, if you’ll be on my side, I’ll put you on to a good thing, the best thing in the market. It’s going up like—oh, like a beastly balloon, sir,—my lord, I mean. I’m making it go up, and I’ll tell you when to sell. Oh, Lord, I’m very unhappy, my lord. I love the ground she walks on. I’d like to buy it at the price of a city frontage. Come in with me, my lord, and you shall have a tip that half a dozen dukes are dying for. There’s a room full of bally dukes waiting to see me now, and I gave them the slip. Will you come in with me? Do, do!”
He was a lamentable object, and there was a spot upon his hat which did not shine. He worked at it eagerly with his sleeve, and stood waiting for a reply.
“I don’t mind telling you,” said Bradstock, “that my income is only five thousand a year.”
“Poor beggar!” murmured Gordon.
“But I only spend four. And if I had more what could I do with it?”
“Give it me,” said Gordon, eagerly, “and I’ll make more of it for you. Man alive,—my lord, I mean—I can make it millions.”
There was a faint suspicion of the “millionth” in the word.
“I can make it millionth,” said Gordon. “I’ve put a pound or two into that Frenchman’s pocket, I can tell you, though he did take me up in a balloon, and I’ll put fifty for one into yourth, so help me.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Well, you can give it away,” shrieked Gordon. “They’ll make you a duke if you only give away enough. If there wathn’t a faint thuspithion of Jewish blood in me, I’d be a baron now at leathth. Give it away to hospithalths, build a lunatic asylum, finanth your party. And if that don’t thucktheed, go into beer or biscuits, and you’ll be made anything you like.”
“If they would make me thirty, I’d do it,” said Bradstock.
“Thirty dukes?” asked Gordon, in bewilderment.
“Thirty years old,” said Bradstock.
Gordon advanced on him and took him by a button.
“My lord,” he said, solemnly, “money ith youth and strength and everything except Lady Penelope. If you had a million, you’d feel twenty-five. When I had a measly hundred thousand, I was thin and always going to doctors. When I got two, I got fatter and gave ’em up. Now I’m worth two millionth.”
But Bradstock said, brutally: “No, Mr. Gordon, I don’t want money, and I don’t want you to marry Lady Penelope. If I had a million, I’d rather lose it than see her do so.”
“Did you tell her that?” asked Gordon.
“I did.”
“I’m damned glad,” said Gordon. “If you want a cat to go one way, pull its tail the other.”
“Tut, tut,” said Bradstock, and Gordon went away sorrowfully, for he had great riches, and saw no good in them without Pen.
Bradstock had to interview all the lovers one after one. They came to implore his vote and interest. He saw Rivaulx, whose great desire was to look like an Englishman and act like one. Rivaulx adopted a stony calm, which sat upon him like a title on a Jew, but did not stick so tight. He ended a talk which began most conventionally in a wild and impassioned waltz around Bradstock’s room, with despair for a partner. He tore at his hair, but, having had it clipped till it was like a shaved blacking-brush, he could not get hold of it.
“I must wed her,” he howled. “I told maman so, or I shall perish. I will become an Englishman. Mon Dieu, I am sad. I am fearfully mournful. I weep exceedingly. Have I not done all? I have eaten largely in public with Mr. Gordon. I have bought his shares and have sold them, but in my heart I cannot. When I return to Paris, I shall fight duels because I have written for Dreyfus with tears in my eye and my tongue in my cheek for sorrow. Where is she, Lord Bradstock? Tell me where she is? I will go to her and say I have done all and can no more!”
De Vere tackled him, too.
“My dear chap,” said Bradstock, “I don’t know her mind.”
“She knows her own,” said De Vere, with much bitterness, “and so does that boy Bob. I bought a bulldog of him, because she said she thought one would do me good. I don’t know why, and now Bob sells me dogs by telegram, and I daren’t refuse ’em.”
“Great Scott!” said his host; “but why?”
“That young ruffian has an influence over her,” mourned the poet. “He is always with her. He is capable of saying I am a ‘rotter’; yes, a rotter, a dozen times a day if I refuse, and to have him doing that would be more than I can endure. I want her to love me, and so I buy his dogs. I have a bulldog which hasn’t done me any good. All he has done is to tear my trousers and trample over my flower-beds. I have an Irish terrier who is now being cured of bulldog bites by a veterinary surgeon. I’ve a retriever who howls at night and makes the bulldog unhappy. I have a Borzois with bronchitis and no hair on his tail. Bob wrote to say the hair would grow if I put hair-wash on it myself. He said men couldn’t be trusted to do it. And then I’ve Goby on my hands. I speak in confidence, Lord Bradstock.”
“Of course,” said Bradstock.
“Then I own I loathe Goby,” said De Vere, viciously. “He has less brains than my bulldog, and I think the bulldog has less brains than the retriever. He reads poetry because she said he was to, and he makes me explain mine to him. Explain it! And he makes me row every day he’s with me, and he says I’m not imitating Roosevelt if I don’t. She said I was to imitate Roosevelt. Why should I? I loathe Republicans. She also told me I was to imitate Sven Hedin. On inquiry I found Sven Hedin was an ass who explored deserts, and went without water for many days. Goby can do that, as my wine-cellar can testify. He says he only tastes water when he cleans his teeth, and then it makes him sick. And, though I keep wine for my friends, I am a water-drinker. How can I do without it? I am very unhappy.”
“I should chuck Goby and give it up,” said Bradstock.
“I wish I could,” said the poet, “but my nature is an enduring one. We learn in suffering Gobies and bulldogs what we teach in song. A dog may be the friend of man, but a bulldog is a tailor’s enemy. And I believe they gave Goby the V.C. to get rid of him. Do they ever give decorations to get rid of people?”
Bradstock said he thought so, and wondered what he could give De Vere.
And then the poet sighed and rose.
“I have to meet Goby and lunch with him. And afterward we read Shelley together, and then he will teach me billiards at his club. I loathe billiards. It is the most foolish game on earth except keeping bulldogs. And Goby’s friends are not sympathetic. They are sportsmen, and ought to be hunted with bulldogs.”
He went away sadly, and Bradstock lay on a sofa and laughed till he cried.
“Pen will be my death and the death of a dozen,” he said. “And as for Bob—”
No sooner had De Vere departed than young Bramber was announced.
“Conceited young ass,” said Bradstock. But Bramber was in the House, and was supposed to be doing very well. He had brains, no doubt, and the manner of Oxford (Balliol variety, as aforesaid) sat on him well. He made speeches, and Mr. Mytton congratulated him on one of them. Nothing but his passion for Penelope prevented him being as conceited as Bradstock supposed him to be. But it must be remembered that Bradstock couldn’t make speeches.
“I thought I’d come and look you up,” said Bramber. “I thought you could tell me something about Lady Penelope.”
“I can’t,” replied Bradstock. “I spend all my afternoons in saying so. I’ve had Rivaulx and Austin de Vere and Gordon here already, and after you go I don’t doubt that Goby or Plant will turn up. How do you get on with Plant? Do you know, Bramber, I believe Plant is the best man of the lot of you.”
Bramber frowned.
“He has an accent that can be cut into slabs, to use his own dialect,” said Bramber.
“Your own accent is equally disagreeable to an American,” said Bradstock, who had been in the United States several times.
“I have no accent,” said Bramber, haughtily.
“Oh,” returned Bradstock. “And how do you get along with Plant?”
Bramber was obviously more jealous of Plant than any one. But he made a tremendous effort to be fair.
“He’s a very able man,” he said at last, “but there’s no man I should find it so hard to get on with. He says just what he thinks in the most awful way. And because Lady Penelope said he was not to spend more than twenty-five pounds a week, he is living on ten shillings out of bravado. I hate bravado. He made me dine with him in Soho, and our dinners came to elevenpence each. Where is Lady Penelope?”
“I don’t know,” said Bradstock.
“I didn’t see Plant yesterday,” said Bramber, uneasily.
“The devil!”
“You don’t think?”
“I don’t know what to think,” said Bradstock, wickedly. “I hear that Jimmy Carew hasn’t been seen for days, either.”
Bramber fidgeted on his chair.
“She can’t marry Carew. He’s a thorough outsider.”
“Women don’t understand the word, my dear chap. How are you getting on in the House? And have you been motoring with Plant?”
“Yes,” said Bramber; “we killed three fowls and a dog yesterday. And Plant was fined ten pounds a week ago. He said he would wire to Lady Penelope to know if that was business expenses. I believe he wants to break my neck.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Bradstock. “Has he gone out alone to-day, do you think? I suppose you know Penelope is doing a lot of it now?”
“The devil she is!” said Bramber. “I think I’ll go and look up Plant.”
Bradstock got some amusement out of the situation, if Titania didn’t.