MR. DULGER arose in the morning dull and early. He stood several hours over the industrious prolétaire who was mending Miss Center’s parasol. Meantime Billy smoked weak cigars, pulled at his sporadic moustache, and studied at a formula of words he meant to use, but would forget.
At eleven, he might have been seen walking in Millard’s halls, uneasily, with a neat parasol in hand.
At 11.03, Miss Millicent descended Jacob’s Ladder equipped for a walk. She was evidently oblivious of her appointment, and taking no notice of poor Dulger at the lower turn of his beat, she turned into the parlour and sat there quite alone, playing with her gloves. Surely she was waiting for someone.
Trepidatingly Dulger approached—— When they returned from their walk, an hour afterward, it was announced, proclaimed, thundered, through Millard’s and through Newport, that Miss Center and Mr. Dulger were engaged. Bulletins to that effect were dispatched to postoffices from the Aroostook[221] to the Rio Grande, as members of Congress say. Billy telegraphed to his friend, the bookkeeper, to send a thousand-dollar diamond ring from Tiffany’s by express; it came, and glittered on her finger that evening at the hop. Billy’s investment for the ring was one-tenth of one per cent. on her million, and, certes, was not extravagant. Rich Milly! Poor Milly! Poor Dulger! Rich Dulger! Poor, rich Mr. and Mrs. Dulger!—the man never forgetting his long and sulky apprenticeship—the woman, unapproached any more by exhilarating flirtations, and never forgetting that her yielding was part compunction and part pis-allerage. So ends the Billy-dulgerid.
Dunstan came down to inquire about to-morrow’s race. Mr. Waddy begged him not to withdraw, unless Diana’s condition should be critical. No one else could ride Pallid. Peter Skerrett, in search of Mr. Waddy, came up and mentioned the new engagement. No one was surprised.
“It was as sure as shooting,” said Gyas Cutus. “He treed her. I gaads! I knew she’d have to come down. He’s been lamming her with bouquets ever since she came out.”
“And now,” says Peter, “she has come down in a shower of gold, reversing the fable of Danae.”
“There’s no fable about the million,” said Cloanthus. “I wonder if Billy would lend me a V on the strength of it?”
[222]“I think it’s a case of dépit amoureux,” whispered to Dunstan, Peter Skerrett, penetrating sage.
Dunstan said nothing, and presently walked off. This gossip was distressing to him; he could only think of his love regained, his love perhaps dying. He must not see her that day. Absolute repose was necessary.
“The old wound,” he thought; “the old wound,” and thinking of it, he shuddered again.
Peter Skerrett took Mr. Waddy’s arm, and walked him away to a quiet corner.
“That damned scoundrel of a Frenchman wouldn’t accept your proposition,” he began. “He said it was wealth for him, but the infernal coxcomb also said he wanted to range himself and become a virtuous man, and a happy father of a family. He must have the ‘fair Arabella, whom he loved and whom he believed was secluded from him by the decree of a harsh parent’; some such stuff he uttered and then blew a kiss from his bruised, swelled lips. Faugh!”
Mr. Waddy echoed the exclamation; he shared in all Peter’s disgust, and all his anxiety.
“It’s lucky,” continued Peter, “he can’t come out to-day. Everyone’s inquiring about the row, and Sir Comeguys says he will only keep still until the fellow is out of bed and able to speak for himself.”
“Well,” said Waddy, as Peter paused again,[223] “what’s to be done? Is that all the scoundrel said?”
“Not by a blamed sight; but it’s so damned unpleasant I hate to repeat it. After refusing your offer, he repeated his threat of exposing Mrs. B., and he gave me details. He said he wanted to see her, and if he sent a waiter, she would have to come. I knew that would never do, so I bullied him a little and said I would see her myself. By Jove! think what a box I was getting into. Mrs. B. is cool; perhaps I may as well put it, brassy. She was complimentary enough to say that she was surprised a man of my experience should listen to the idle talk of a man bruised and angry; that possibly Arabella (blinking entirely the question, as touching herself—I had stated his threat as delicately as I could) had given him so much encouragement as to persuade him he had rights. Very probably, for she herself had hoped that he and Arabella would make a match, and still hoped it. As to the slanders of that young brute of an Englishman, they were pure jealousy. She was satisfied of De Châteaunéant’s position, and thought his abuser a vile coward for profiting by his personal strength to put a rival out of the way. She would talk over the matter with Arabella and see me in an hour.”
“Yes?” said Waddy encouragingly, as Peter paused again, choked with rage. He rather wondered at Peter’s emotion, for that gentleman usually[224] held himself well in hand—but then this was an extraordinary case.
“Well,” continued Peter, “in an hour, I happened to pass through the corridor. Arabella, cried to a perfect jelly, was just opening the door for her mother. How the harridan must have been bullying that poor girl! And yet she was as cool, and smiling, and handsome, as if she was coming out of St. Aspasia’s after her Sunday afternoon nap. She said she had found a little proper ladylike hesitation on the part of Miss Arabella; that young ladies did not like this courting by proxy; and that she had no doubt that when De Châteaunéant was able to plead his own cause, that her daughter’s long-existing inclination for him would develop immediately into the desirable degree of affection. By Jove! I couldn’t help admiring the woman as she stood and told me all this, perfectly self-possessed, though she knew I believed it was every word a lie. Then she said that, as I was quite the confidential friend of the family, she would ask me to go with her to M. De Châteaunéant. And I went! What do you think of that, Waddy?”
“I don’t know what to think,” answered Ira. “And yet it was probably the best thing to do.”
“So I thought,” agreed Peter. “She sat down by the beggar’s bedside and told him, by Jove! that she thought he needed a little motherly sympathy; that she had always looked with great favour upon[225] his suit for her daughter, and that she hoped and had no doubt the young lady would smile upon him. She could promise it, in fact, after an interview this morning. I tell you, Waddy, she took my breath away. I could have screamed with laughter.”
“No doubt,” said Mr. Waddy grimly. “How did the farce end?”
“It ended with a few minutes’ earnest whispering on the part of the lady. Then she got up triumphantly, and that blackguard turned his ugly swollen face towards me.
“‘Monsieur Skarrette,’ he said, in his dirty, broken English, ‘I veel vate faur ze promesse auf Mees Arabella teele aftare to-morrah. I veel not be anie maur cheete. Ef she do not agree, I sall tale all to Meestare Buddilung.’
“Well,” continued Peter, “I was white hot—I don’t think I shall be ever quite so angry again—I certainly hope not. I think Mrs. B. saw it and feared some further injury to the Gaul, for she said good-bye hastily and carried me away with her. Out in the hall, she turned to me again, cool as a cucumber.
“‘You see he is quite reasonable,’ she said, with amazing impudence, ‘though naturally rather ardent for his object. We are much obliged to you, Mr. Skerrett.’
“She gave me her hand and the only sign of emotion she showed in the whole interview was to grasp[226] mine like a vice. A few minutes afterward, I saw Belden help her into his buggy and they drove off together. Do you suppose it possible that she meditates some escapade with him? Of course all this couldn’t be told to poor old Flirney; he should be saved, if possible. But I could not bear to think of Arabella being the victim of such an infernal plot, without a friend. The matter had gone too far for ceremony, so I went up and knocked at her door. There is so much of that familiarity going on, that I supposed no one would notice it. She opened the door and, when she saw me, burst into tears. I felt so sorry for the poor child that I couldn’t help——”
“Oh, you did, did you?” interrupted Ira, seeing a great light.
“Yes, I did; and she shall be Mrs. Peter Skerrett, if her step-mother is a—— She shall, by Jove!”
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