Delphi Collected Works of Grant Allen, page 622
‘But I must,’ he cried. ‘I must tell you now, if I am to have no chance afterwards. I wanted you to see more of me before I ventured to ask you if you could ever love me, if you could ever suffer me to go through life with you, to share my all with you.’ He seized my trembling hand. ‘Lois,’ he cried, in a pleading voice, ‘I must ask you; I can’t expect you to answer me now, but do say you will give me at least some other chance of seeing you, and then, in time, of pressing my suit upon you.’
Tears stood in my eyes. He was so earnest, so charming. But I remembered Lady Georgina, and his prospective half-million. I moved his hand away gently. ‘I cannot,’ I said. ‘I cannot — I am a penniless girl — an adventuress. Your family, your uncle, would never forgive you if you married me. I will not stand in your way. I — I like you very much, though I have seen so little of you. But I feel it is impossible — and I am going to-morrow.’
Then I rose of a sudden, and ran down the hill with all my might, lest I should break my resolve, never stopping once till I reached my own bedroom.
An hour later, Lady Georgina burst in upon me in high dudgeon. ‘Why, Lois, my child,’ she cried. ‘What’s this? What on earth does it mean? Harold tells me he has proposed to you — proposed to you — and you’ve rejected him!’
I dried my eyes and tried to look steadily at her. ‘Yes, Lady Georgina,’ I faltered. ‘You need not be afraid. I have refused him; and I mean it.’
She looked at me, all aghast. ‘And you mean it!’ she repeated. ‘You mean to refuse him. Then, all I can say is, Lois Cayley, I call it pure cheek of you!’
‘What?’ I cried, drawing back.
‘Yes, cheek,’ she answered, volubly. ‘Forty thousand a year, and a good old family! Harold Tillington is my nephew; he’s an earl’s grandson; he’s an attaché at Rome; and he’s bound to be one of the richest commoners in England. Who are you, I’d like to know, miss, that you dare to reject him?’
I stared at her, amazed. ‘But, Lady Georgina,’ I cried, ‘you said you wished to protect your nephew against bare-faced adventuresses who were setting their caps at him.’
She fixed her eyes on me, half-angry, half-tremulous.
‘Of course,’ she answered, with withering scorn. ‘But, then, I thought you were trying to catch him. He tells me now you won’t have him, and you won’t tell him where you are going. I call it sheer insolence. Where do you hail from, girl, that you should refuse my nephew? A man that any woman in England would be proud to marry! Forty thousand a year, and an earl’s grandson! That’s what comes, I suppose, of going to Girton!’
I drew myself up. ‘Lady Georgina,’ I said, coldly, ‘I cannot allow you to use such language to me. I promised to accompany you to Germany for a week; and I have kept my word. I like your nephew; I respect your nephew; he has behaved like a gentleman. But I will not marry him. Your own conduct showed me in the plainest way that you did not judge such a match desirable for him; and I have common sense enough to see that you were quite right. I am a lady by birth and education; I am an officer’s daughter; but I am not what society calls “a good match” for Mr. Tillington. He had better marry into a rich stockbroker’s family.’
It was an unworthy taunt: the moment it escaped my lips I regretted it.
I WAS GOING TO OPPOSE YOU AND HAROLD.
To my intense surprise, however, Lady Georgina flung herself on my bed, and burst into tears. ‘My dear,’ she sobbed out, covering her face with her hands, ‘I thought you would be sure to set your cap at Harold; and after I had seen you for twenty-four hours, I said to myself, “That’s just the sort of girl Harold ought to fall in love with.” I felt sure he would fall in love with you. I brought you here on purpose. I saw you had all the qualities that would strike Harold’s fancy. So I had made up my mind for a delightful regulation family quarrel. I was going to oppose you and Harold, tooth and nail; I was going to threaten that Marmy would leave his money to Kynaston’s eldest son; I was going to kick up, oh, a dickens of a row about it! Then, of course, in the end, we should all have been reconciled; we should have kissed and made friends: for you’re just the one girl in the world for Harold; indeed, I never met anybody so capable and so intelligent. And now you spoil all my sport by going and refusing him! It’s really most ill-timed of you. And Harold has sent me here — he’s trembling with anxiety — to see whether I can’t induce you to think better of your decision.’
I made up my mind at once. ‘No, Lady Georgina,’ I said, in my gentlest voice — positively stooping down and kissing her. ‘I like Mr. Tillington very much. I dare not tell you how much I like him. He is a dear, good, kind fellow. But I cannot rest under the cruel imputation of being moved by his wealth and having tried to capture him. Even if you didn’t think so, his family would. I am sorry to go; for in a way I like you. But it is best to adhere to our original plan. If I changed my mind, you might change yours again. Let us say no more. I will go to-morrow.’
‘But you will see Harold again?’
‘Not alone. Only at dinner.’ For I feared lest, if he spoke to me alone, he might over-persuade me.
‘Then at least you will tell him where you are going?’
‘No, Lady Georgina; I do not know myself. And besides, it is best that this should now be final.’
She flung herself upon me. ‘But, my dear child, a lady can’t go out into the world with only two pounds in pocket. You must let me lend you something.’
I unwound her clasping hands. ‘No, dear Lady Georgina,’ I said, though I was loth to say it. ‘You are very sweet and good, but I must work out my life in my own way. I have started to work it out, and I won’t be turned aside just here on the threshold.’
‘And you won’t stop with me?’ she cried, opening her arms. ‘You think me too cantankerous?’
‘I think you have a dear, kind old heart,’ I said, ‘under the quaintest and crustiest outside such a heart ever wore; you’re a truculent old darling: so that’s the plain truth of it.’
She kissed me. I kissed her in return with fervour, though I am but a poor hand at kissing, for a woman. ‘So now this episode is concluded,’ I murmured.
‘I don’t know about that,’ she said, drying her eyes. ‘I have set my heart upon you now; and Harold has set his heart upon you; and considering that your own heart goes much the same way, I daresay, my dear, we shall find in the end some convenient road out of it.’
Nevertheless, next morning I set out by myself in the coach from Schlangenbad. I went forth into the world to live my own life, partly because it was just then so fashionable, but mainly because fate had denied me the chance of living anybody else’s.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE INQUISITIVE AMERICAN
In one week I had multiplied my capital two hundred and forty-fold! I left London with twopence in the world; I quitted Schlangenbad with two pounds in pocket.
‘There’s a splendid turn-over!’ I thought to myself. ‘If this luck holds, at the same rate, I shall have made four hundred and eighty pounds by Tuesday next, and I may look forward to being a Barney Barnato by Christmas.’ For I had taken high mathematical honours at Cambridge, and if there is anything on earth on which I pride myself, it is my firm grasp of the principle of ratios.
Still, in spite of this brilliant financial prospect, a budding Klondike, I went away from the little Spa on the flanks of the Taunus with a heavy heart. I had grown quite to like dear, virulent, fidgety old Lady Georgina; and I felt that it had cost me a distinct wrench to part with Harold Tillington. The wrench left a scar which was long in healing; but as I am not a professional sentimentalist, I will not trouble you here with details of the symptoms.
My livelihood, however, was now assured me. With two pounds in pocket, a sensible girl can read her title clear to six days’ board and lodging, at six marks a day, with a glorious margin of four marks over for pocket-money. And if at the end of six days my fairy godmother had not pointed me out some other means of earning my bread honestly — well, I should feel myself unworthy to be ranked in the noble army of adventuresses. I thank thee, Lady Georgina, for teaching me that word. An adventuress I would be; for I loved adventure.
Meanwhile, it occurred to me that I might fill up the interval by going to study art at Frankfort. Elsie Petheridge had been there, and had impressed upon me the fact that I must on no account omit to see the Städel Gallery. She was strong on culture. Besides, the study of art should be most useful to an adventuress; for she must need all the arts that human skill has developed.
So to Frankfort I betook myself, and found there a nice little pension— ‘for ladies only,’ Frau Bockenheifner assured me — at very moderate rates, in a pleasant part of the Lindenstrasse. It had dimity curtains. I will not deny that as I entered the house I was conscious of feeling lonely; my heart sank once or twice as I glanced round the luncheon-table at the domestically-unsympathetic German old maids who formed the rank-and-file of my fellow-boarders. There they sat — eight comfortable Fraus who had missed their vocation; plentiful ladies, bulging and surging in tightly stretched black silk bodices. They had been cut out for such housewives as Harold Tillington had described, but found themselves deprived of their natural sphere in life by the unaccountable caprice of the men of their nation. Each was a model Teutonic matron manquée. Each looked capable of frying Frankfort sausages to a turn, and knitting woollen socks to a remote eternity. But I sought in vain for one kindred soul among them. How horrified they would have been, with their fat pudding-faces and big saucer-eyes, had I boldly announced myself as an English adventuress!
I spent my first morning in laborious self-education at the Ariadneum and the Städel Gallery. I borrowed a catalogue. I wrestled with Van der Weyden; I toiled like a galley-slave at Meister Wilhelm and Meister Stephan. I have a confused recollection that I saw a number of stiff mediæval pictures, and an alabaster statue of the lady who smiled as she rode on a tiger, taken at the beginning of that interesting episode. But the remainder of the Institute has faded from my memory.
In the afternoon I consoled myself for my herculean efforts in the direction of culture by going out for a bicycle ride on a hired machine, to which end I decided to devote my pocket-money. You will, perhaps, object here that my conduct was imprudent. To raise that objection is to misunderstand the spirit of these artless adventures. I told you that I set out to go round the world; but to go round the world does not necessarily mean to circumnavigate it. My idea was to go round by easy stages, seeing the world as I went as far as I got, and taking as little heed as possible of the morrow. Most of my readers, no doubt, accept that philosophy of life on Sundays only; on week-days they swallow the usual contradictory economic platitudes about prudential forethought and the horrid improvidence of the lower classes. For myself, I am not built that way. I prefer to take life in a spirit of pure inquiry. I put on my hat: I saunter where I choose, so far as circumstances permit; and I wait to see what chance will bring me. My ideal is breeziness.
The hired bicycle was not a bad machine, as hired bicycles go; it jolted one as little as you can expect from a common hack; it never stopped at a Bier-Garten; and it showed very few signs of having been ridden by beginners with an unconquerable desire to tilt at the hedgerow. So off I soared at once, heedless of the jeers of Teutonic youth who found the sight of a lady riding a cycle in skirts a strange one — for in South Germany the ‘rational’ costume is so universal among women cyclists that ’tis the skirt that provokes unfavourable comment from those jealous guardians of female propriety, the street boys. I hurried on at a brisk pace past the Palm-Garden and the suburbs, with my loose hair straying on the breeze behind, till I found myself pedalling at a good round pace on a broad, level road, which led towards a village, by name Fraunheim.
As I scurried across the plain, with the wind in my face, not unpleasantly, I had some dim consciousness of somebody unknown flying after me headlong. My first idea was that Harold Tillington had hunted me down and tracked me to my lair; but gazing back, I saw my pursuer was a tall and ungainly man, with a straw-coloured moustache, apparently American, and that he was following me on his machine, closely watching my action. He had such a cunning expression on his face, and seemed so strangely inquisitive, with eyes riveted on my treadles, that I didn’t quite like the look of him. I put on the pace, to see if I could outstrip him, for I am a swift cyclist. But his long legs were too much for me. He did not gain on me, it is true; but neither did I outpace him. Pedalling my very hardest — and I can make good time when necessary — I still kept pretty much at the same distance in front of him all the way to Fraunheim.
HE KEPT CLOSE AT MY HEELS.
Gradually I began to feel sure that the weedy-looking man with the alert face was really pursuing me. When I went faster, he went faster too; when I gave him a chance to pass me, he kept close at my heels, and appeared to be keenly watching the style of my ankle-action. I gathered that he was a connoisseur; but why on earth he should persecute me I could not imagine. My spirit was roused now — I pedalled with a will; if I rode all day I would not let him go past me.
Beyond the cobble-paved chief street of Fraunheim the road took a sharp bend, and began to mount the slopes of the Taunus suddenly. It was an abrupt, steep climb; but I flatter myself I am a tolerable mountain cyclist. I rode sturdily on; my pursuer darted after me. But on this stiff upward grade my light weight and agile ankle-action told; I began to distance him. He seemed afraid that I would give him the slip, and called out suddenly, with a whoop, in English, ‘Stop, miss!’ I looked back with dignity, but answered nothing. He put on the pace, panting; I pedalled away, and got clear from him.
I WAS PULLED UP SHORT BY A MOUNTED POLICEMAN.
At a turn of the corner, however, as luck would have it, I was pulled up short by a mounted policeman. He blocked the road with his horse, like an ogre, and asked me, in a very gruff Swabian voice, if this was a licensed bicycle. I had no idea, till he spoke, that any license was required; though to be sure I might have guessed it; for modern Germany is studded with notices at all the street corners, to inform you in minute detail that everything is forbidden. I stammered out that I did not know. The mounted policeman drew near and inspected me rudely. ‘It is strongly undersaid,’ he began, but just at that moment my pursuer came up, and, with American quickness, took in the situation. He accosted the policeman in choice bad German. ‘I have two licenses,’ he said, producing a handful. ‘The Fräulein rides with me.’
I was too much taken aback at so providential an interposition to contradict this highly imaginative statement. My highwayman had turned into a protecting knight-errant of injured innocence. I let the policeman go his way; then I glanced at my preserver. A very ordinary modern St. George he looked, with no lance to speak of, and no steed but a bicycle. Yet his mien was reassuring.
‘Good morning, miss,’ he began — he called me ‘Miss’ every time he addressed me, as though he took me for a barmaid. ‘Ex-cuse me, but why did you want to speed her?’
‘I thought you were pursuing me,’ I answered, a little tremulous, I will confess, but avid of incident.
‘And if I was,’ he went on, ‘you might have con-jectured, miss, it was for our mutual advantage. A business man don’t go out of his way unless he expects to turn an honest dollar; and he don’t reckon on other folks going out of theirs, unless he knows he can put them in the way of turning an honest dollar with him.’
‘That’s reasonable,’ I answered: for I am a political economist. ‘The benefit should be mutual.’ But I wondered if he was going to propose at sight to me.
He looked me all up and down. ‘You’re a lady of con-siderable personal attractions,’ he said, musingly, as if he were criticising a horse; ‘and I want one that sort. That’s jest why I trailed you, see? Besides which, there’s some style about you.’
‘Style!’ I repeated.
‘Yes,’ he went on; ‘you know how to use your feet; and you have good understandings.’
I gathered from his glance that he referred to my nether limbs. We are all vertebrate animals; why seek to conceal the fact?
‘I fail to follow you,’ I answered frigidly; for I really didn’t know what the man might say next.
SEEMS I DIDN’T MAKE MUCH OF A JOB OF IT.
‘That’s so!’ he replied. ‘It was I that followed you; seems I didn’t make much of a job of it, either, anyway.’
I mounted my machine again. ‘Well, good morning,’ I said, coldy. ‘I am much obliged for your kind assistance; but your remark was fictitious, and I desire to go on unaccompanied.’
He held up his hand in warning. ‘You ain’t going!’ he cried, horrified. ‘You ain’t going without hearing me! I mean business, say! Don’t chuck away good money like that. I tell you, there’s dollars in it.’
‘In what?’ I asked, still moving on, but curious. On the slope, if need were, I could easily distance him.
‘Why, in this cycling of yours,’ he replied. ‘You’re jest about the very woman I’m looking for, miss. Lithe — that’s what I call you. I kin put you in the way of making your pile, I kin. This is a bonâ-fide offer. No flies on my business! You decline it? Prejudice! Injures you; injures me! Be reasonable anyway!’
I looked round and laughed. ‘Formulate yourself,’ I said, briefly.
He rose to it like a man. ‘Meet me at Fraunheim; corner by the Post Office; ten o’clock to-morrow morning,’ he shouted, as I rode off, ‘and ef I don’t convince you there’s money in this job, my name’s not Cyrus W. Hitchcock.’
Something about his keen, unlovely face impressed me with a sense of his underlying honesty. ‘Very well,’ I answered,’I’ll come, if you follow me no further.’ I reflected that Fraunheim was a populous village, and that only beyond it did the mountain road over the Taunus begin to grow lonely. If he wished to cut my throat, I was well within reach of the resources of civilisation.
When I got home to the Abode of Blighted Fraus that evening, I debated seriously with myself whether or not I should accept Mr. Cyrus W. Hitchcock’s mysterious invitation. Prudence said no; curiosity said yes; I put the question to a meeting of one; and, since I am a daughter of Eve, curiosity had it. Carried unanimously. I think I might have hesitated, indeed, had it not been for the Blighted Fraus. Their talk was of dinner and of the digestive process; they were critics of digestion. They each of them sat so complacently through the evening — solid and stolid, stodgy and podgy, stuffed comatose images, knitting white woollen shawls, to throw over their capacious shoulders at table d’hôte — and they purred with such content in their middle-aged rotundity that I made up my mind I must take warning betimes, and avoid their temptations to adipose deposit. I prefer to grow upwards; the Frau grows sideways. Better get my throat cut by an American desperado, in my pursuit of romance, than settle down on a rock like a placid fat oyster. I am not by nature sessile.
