Lady Penelope

Chapter VI

Penelope came back to town about a week later and saw every one.

“I wonder whom I love,” said Pen, “for I’m sure I love some one. And they are all so kind and sweet and good. I’m sorry I shall have to hurt so many of them, for the poor dears all adore me.”

It was marvellous how they had developed in a short time under Pen’s system, which was evidently sound, as Bradstock declared. Plant, under his ten-and-sixpence-a-week scheme, had lost a stone weight, and was as hard and fine as a coil of wire. His search after the people he had ruined gave him a peace of mind to which he had long been a stranger, for American millionaires in business have no peace of mind.

“I feel good,” said Plant, meaning it both ways, “and my endurance of young Bramber has stiffened my moral fibre.”

“Whether I marry you or not, Mr. Plant,” said Penelope, “I am awfully pleased with you. And how has Lord Bramber behaved?”

“He’s been death on what he called my accent,” said Plant, a little bitterly, “and it is notorious I’ve none to speak of; and, for that matter, his own you could cut with a knife. However, I think he’s a good boy, and will discover he has brains. I’ve talked to him straight, Lady Penelope. I told him you meant me to. I said he might be a lord and the son of an earl, but that he was a lazy, loafing scallawag, and that, if he’d been my son, I’d have cowhided him. That did him good; it made him sit up, I tell you. Oh, he fairly fizzled and felt like going for me, but he knew better. He has brains, and I’ve talked with members of your legislature who say he’ll do well. Put this down to me, Lady Penelope. Credit me with this. I’ve looked after him like a baby, and I’ve hustled him around in my motor till he can’t help going when he’s out of it. You and me together, my dear young lady, could educate the entire universe. If you’ll only marry me, I’ll start a university on these lines of yours.”

The idea was a pleasing one, but of course Pen pointed out to him that it was his duty to do it whether she married him or not.

“Duty is duty,” said Pen. “I’m doing all this out of a sense of duty.”

“Don’t marry out of a sense of it,” retorted Plant. “I just want to be loved. I’m going around feeling I want to be loved. I’ve never been loved properly all my life, and I begin to hanker after it wildly. And, if you do marry me, Lady Penelope, I want you to understand right here and now that I don’t want you to do your duty by me. If you begin to do that, I’ll take a Colt’s forty-five and scatter my brains out. I want love, that’s what I want. I want it straight, without water in it.”

“I see what you mean,” said Penelope. “I think you are a very noble-hearted man, Mr. Plant.”

And away went poor Plant to draw up a scheme for a university.

“I think I could almost love him,” said the pensive Penelope. “I could—almost—”

Her contemplations were interrupted by Captain Goby. He was a little paler than usual, and perhaps a trifle more intelligent. And he was more in love than ever.

“I’ve done everything you told me,” he said, as he sat down and eyed her wistfully. “I’ve gone into poetry like a bull at a hedge, Lady Penelope. I begin to see what it means. Old Austin (poor old josser) has taken the deuce’s own pains over me. He’s read ‘The Lady of the Garden’ to me seventeen times. He wrote it ten years ago. He says he wonders how he did it, and so do I. I’ve been trying to write poetry to you, do you know. That showed me there must be some special gift in it, for I never did anything worth the horrid trouble. And I’ve been worrying the War Office like a bulldog. They say they’ll think of me, and haven’t gone any further, and talking of bulldogs, Bob’s bulldog bit Austin de Vere, and he swore like a man. I was surprised. But if I were you, I’d tell Bob to stop sending him more dogs. He’s very kind to them, but they worry him. Bob’s prices are very high, too. How is Bob? Oh, by the way, I’m living on ten pounds a week. Need I reckon tailor’s bills in, do you think? Oh, yes, this bulge is the Golden Treasury. I take it out and read a lyric between meals. The chaps at the Rag chaff me like blazes, but I don’t mind so long as I improve. I want to improve so as to be worthy of your intellect, Lady Penelope.”

“The poor dear,” said Pen, when he was gone, “I think I could almost love him!”

As luck would have it, Bob and Austin de Vere came in almost at the same minute. For now Titania couldn’t keep Bob away. For the matter of that, she did not want to. Bob was to be Penelope’s safeguard. He was much better than Chloe Cadwallader, said Titania.

However, De Vere came in first. He held Penelope’s hand no longer than a poet should, as poets naturally hold girls’ hands rather longer than other people.

“You are looking really well, Mr. de Vere,” said Penelope, when she was free.

“I am well,” said the poet, “exceedingly well in a way. My dear lady of the beautiful garden, I owe all that to you. At first I was afraid of Captain Goby. I told Lord Bradstock so the other day. I’m afraid I left him under a false impression as to my feelings to Goby, by the way. I’m quite proud of Goby. He says I am really a powerful man, and he made me row till I was worn out. And then he insisted that I should use Sandow’s exerciser. I own I did it with reluctance. I pointed out to Goby that I did not wish to look like Mr. Sandow. Goby always stopped by the posters in which Mr. Sandow is lifting ten tons or so, and pointed out certain muscles to me as ideals. I was recalcitrant, for, although I admire Mr. Sandow immensely, I think muscle can be overdone. However, I used the machine, which is ingenious and elastic, and only dangerous if the hook comes out of the wall, and I’ve found I rather like it. I should miss it now. I think it imparts a certain vigour to verse, if not overdone. Oh—”

For in came Bob. He rushed at Pen and kissed her hair, and then bounced at the poet.

“I say is it true the bulldog bit you? I saw Goby yesterday in the park, and he said so,” asked Bob, in great excitement.

“It is true,” said the poet.

Penelope shook her head at the late owner of the dog.

“Oh, Bob! Mr. de Vere, I’m very sorry.”

“So was I,” said De Vere.

“Where did he bite you?” asked Bob, anxiously. “Was it the arm or the leg? And did he hang on like a proper bulldog? Baker says that if a bulldog once gets hold, you have to use a red-hot poker to make him let go. Did you use a red-hot poker?”

“He only snapped and fetched blood,” said De Vere.

“Ah!” cried Bob, “I always thought he wasn’t a real good bulldog.”

“At any rate, he bit the Irish terrier,” said the poet. “I mean the one you sold to me for three pounds.”

“I’m glad he did, sir. That Irish terrier, though he’s splendidly bred, Baker says, has an awful temper and is very troublesome. Does Rollo, the retriever, howl much at night, sir?”

“Oh, not so very much,” said De Vere. “It’s only when the moon is near the full that he does his best.”

“I never thought of that,” said Bob, “but now I remember that it was very moony when I sent him over to you. Baker said you’d like him. His kennel is next to Baker’s house.”

“I’m much obliged to Baker,” said De Vere. “But the tail of the Borzois is still bald, Bob.”

Bob opened his eyes wide.

“Oh, dear, I thought you would have cured him by now; and how about his bronchitis?”

“That’s better, I hope and trust,” said the poet. And Penelope, who was very greatly touched by his kindness to all these dogs, sent Bob into the library.

“It’s so good of you to be kind to Bob,” she said. “Bob’s a dear, and he adores me. He says that he’s going to live with me always, even when I’m married.”

“Oh!” gasped De Vere. “We were talking about Goby, I think, when dear Bob came in. You’ll find him much improved, I’m sure, my dear Lady Penelope. He has read a great deal of Shelley and Keats and Browning with me. He was especially struck with ‘Sordello.’ I read it to him and he sat with his hand to his forehead taking it all in. And every now and again he said, ‘Great Scott!’ which is his way of expressing wonderment and admiration. I do not know its origin. I’ve written to Doctor Murray to ask him if he knows. And Goby, oh, yes, you’ll find him improved. I’ve done my best with him, and I’ve really struggled hard. Any improvement you notice is, I really believe, under you and Providence, due to me.”

And when he went, Penelope sat thinking.

“The poor dear, how nicely he took the bulldog bites and the howling of the retriever. I think—I think I could almost love him!”

And that afternoon and evening she saw Bramber and Carteret Williams and Jimmy Carew and Gordon, and they were all most marvellously improved. Bramber was alert and bright, and began to show that he had some ambition in him, and, if he did not tell Penelope his exact mind about Plant, he did show some little appreciation of the American’s qualities.

“Associating with him has done you good,” said Pen. “I see it has. You lived far too much for yourself, Lord Bramber. I cannot endure selfishness.”

“I’m not selfish any more, I think,” said Bramber. “I rather like Plant. He seems a man, take him all around. He is abrupt, perhaps, and brutal. I own I’ve found him trying, and he says things one finds it hard to forgive.”

“Yes, he told me,” said Pen, delightedly. “Oh, he told me he said you ought to be beaten severely, and he said you took it very nicely. Did you?”

Bramber bit his lip.

“I did.”

“That’s right,” said Pen. “Oh, I’m improving you all so much. You’ve no idea how much improved you are. Mr. Mytton said he’d make something out of you, Lord Bramber.”

“Did he really?”

“Oh, yes. He said he made fair successes out of very much worse material.

“He’s quite a dear,” she sighed, when he was gone, but, before she could add that she might almost love him, Carew and Williams came in together. And before she could greet them, Gordon came, too. Williams eyed him with strange ferocity, for he was by nature a hater of Hebrews, and wanted to dust the floor with him. Pen, who was as quick as lightning, caught his glances and said to him, sweetly:

“I think you would get on nicely with Mr. Gordon.”

And Williams blenched visibly.

“Oh, I couldn’t leave Carew,” he said. “I’m deep in art, very deep; I adore it. Carew has introduced me to several Academicians, and I have bought a box of paints. One Academician took me home with him and showed me his pictures. He doesn’t agree with Jimmy altogether, and he says Jimmy will alter his opinions presently. His idea is that when a man is an A.R.A., he is only beginning, you see. He also explained to me the attitude of the R.A. with regard to the Chantrey Bequest. He says that if they found a good picture not by an Academician, they would buy it, which is interesting, isn’t it? He was painting a picture called ‘War,’ and wanted my opinion. I said I’d ask Jimmy, because I didn’t know anything about war except what I’d seen. I don’t know why he was chuffy about it. I find artists get chuffy and huffy very quick, and I don’t know what for. Do you think there will be war soon?”

Penelope didn’t know, and said she wanted eternal peace and happiness for every one, and meant having it if it could be got by any legitimate influence.

“War is horrible!”

“It is,” said Carew, who joined in just here, after getting away from Gordon, who told him to buy Hittites at 3-1/8. “War is horrid. Williams is always talking of it.”

“I’m not,” said Williams, angrily. “I want peace, eternal peace and happiness for every one.”

“Ah, so do I,” put in Gordon. “My idea is to have a peaceful life, far from the roar of London, in a deep green vale, where I shall hear no one talking of shares, and where mines are unknown, and there are no Chinese or crushing reports. Why is it that most reports from mines are crushing? I wish I knew.”

“Ah, how sweet it would all be,” said beautiful Penelope. “You could keep cows, Mr. Gordon.”

“I adore them,” said Gordon. “There is a breed without horns, isn’t there?”

“They look incomplete,” said Jimmy.

“What are you painting now?” asked Pen.

“I’m not really painting, I’m modelling in clay, as you told me,” said the obsequious lover. “Don’t you remember saying I was to model in clay? I’m doing Williams in clay. He looks very well in it. I’m also doing a bull going at a gate. When I get tired of Williams, I do the bull, and when I’m fatigued by the bull I go back to Williams.”

“And are they like?” asked Penelope.

“Oh, exactly,” replied Carew.

And the interesting conversation was interrupted by Chloe and Ethel. But Penelope said to herself that they were all dears.

“Mr. Williams is greatly improved,” she murmured happily. “And Mr. Carew looks more healthy and less engrossed in himself. I was awfully glad to hear Mr. Gordon speak like that about a peaceful life.”

And Williams slipped Carew on the door-step and went to his club. He roared of war till two o’clock in the morning, and then got three out-of-work war correspondents in the corner and told them the great story of his love. But Jimmy went down to Chelsea, and damned modelling in clay to other impressionist painters, and had a real good time. As for Gordon of the “deep green vale,” he went home and found a clerk waiting with a bundle of cables from all quarters of the mining globe. He sent a wire to Bramber to be let off an engagement to hear a debate on drains.

On the whole, every one was tolerably happy, if we do not include Titania and the retriever who howled at nights.