CHAPTER XVIII
HOW SIR JOHN DERING WENT A-WOOING
My Lord Sayle’s abrupt departure sufficed to break up the assembly; my lords and ladies having been very delightfully amused, interested, thrilled and shocked by the varied incidents of the last crowded hour, hasted to be gone, eager to recapitulate the whole story (with numerous additions, to be sure) to the astounded ears of those unfortunates who had missed so singular an occasion.
Thus, while my lady bade adieu to her guests (each and all more her doting friends and obedient humble servants than ever), Sir John presently found himself alone with the Duchess in a curtained alcove, and stooping, took her so small hand ere she was aware to kiss it with such reverence that she actually flushed.
“O heavens, sir!” she exclaimed. “Pray, why so—so infinite impressive?”
“Madam,” he answered gravely, “despite the evil that is told of me, with more or less truth, alas, you were generous! Having the power to abase me, you mercifully chose to lift me up. Pray believe that my gratitude is yours, now and ever!”
“Indeed,” said she, noting his earnest face, “you are strangely unlike the Sir John Dering I anticipated. Your—your reputation, sir——”
“Aye, my reputation!” he repeated wearily. “’Faith, madam,’tis my incubus that hath me in a strangle-gripe. For years I have endured it with a fool’s content, but now when I would be rid on’t I may not. ’Tis a haunting shadow, a demon mocking my best endeavours. Evil is naturally expected of me, virtue—never. Indeed, you behold in me the poor victim of a relentless fate——”
“Fate, sir?” cried a scornful voice, and my Lady Herminia stepped into the alcove.
“Even so, madam!” he answered, rising to bow.
“Heaven preserve us!” she exclaimed. “Do you dare put the onus of your own misdemeanours upon Fate?”
“Nay, then,” he answered, “let us call it Fortune, madame, since Fortune is—feminine, and esteemed ever a fickle jade!”
“So, sir, having contrived yourself an evil notoriety, you would turn cynic and rail upon Fate, it seems!”
“Nay, madam, cursed by cruel Fortune, I am become a Man o’ Sentiment and find in simple things the great and good content: the carolling bird, the springing flower, the rippling brook, these have charms the which——”
“Tush, sir, you grow lyrical, which becometh you most vilely.”
“Fie, Herminia!” cried the Duchess. “Hold thy teasing tongue, miss. Sir John is right, indeed—I myself love to hear the carolling brook—I mean the rippling bird—— There, see how you ha’ fluttered me! Sit down, Herminia—do! And you, Sir John! Be seated—both o’ you, instead of standing to stare on each other like—like two fond fools foolishly fond! So! Now, surely, Sir John, a man’s reputation is his own, to make or mar?”
“Nay, ’faith, your Grace, doth not a man’s reputation make or mar him, rather? And whence cometh reputation but of our friends and enemies who judge us accordingly. So the world knows us but as they report. Thus, he or she that would be held immaculate should consort solely with dogs or horses that ha’ not the curse of speech.”
Here my lady sighed wearily and began to tap with impatient foot.
“Herminia, hush!” exclaimed the Duchess. “Hush and flap not fidgeting foot, miss. How think you of Sir John’s argument?”
“I think, aunt, that Sir John, according to Sir John, doth make of Sir John a creature so unjustly defamed that one might look to see Sir John sprout wings to waft good Sir John from this so wicked world. And pray, Sir John, may we ask to what we owe the unexpected honour of your presence here?”
“Alas, madam,” he sighed, “to what but matrimony! I am here in the matter of marriage.”
The Duchess gasped and strove to rise, but her niece’s compelling hand restrained her.
“Pray, sir, whose marriage?”
“My own, madam. You behold me ready to wed you how, when and where you will.”
“Oh, then,” quavered the Duchess, “oh, pray, sir, ere you continue—I’ll begone.... Herminia, suffer me to rise——”
“Nay, dear aunt, rather shall you suffer along with me——”
“Loose me, love!” implored the Duchess. “Unhand me, Herminia; I will not remain.... I cannot—so awkward for Sir John ... for me! Oh, horrors, Herminia!”
“Horrors indeed, dear aunt, but we’ll bear ’em together.”
“But—O child! A proposal—and I here! So indelicate! I’m all of a twitter, I vow!”
“So am I, aunt. So shalt thou sit here with me and hear Sir John’s comedy out, poor though it be. And Sir John ever performs better with an audience, I’ll vow!”
“O sir,” wailed the little Duchess helplessly, “you see how I’m constrained! Herminia is so—so strapping and strong! I may not stir, indeed!”
“Aunt!”
“And brutishly brawny, sir.”
“Aunt Lucinda!”
“Ha!” exclaimed Sir John. “A most excellent phrase, your Grace!” And out came his memorandum forthwith. “‘Bewitching but brutishly brawny is she!’ Here is metre with an alliterative descriptiveness very delightfully arresting! And now, mesdames, I am hither come most solemnly to sue the hand of my Lady Barrasdaile in marriage——”
“Then,” she retorted angrily, “all things considered, sir, I demand to know how you dare?”
“Not lightly, madam, believe me,” he answered gravely; “but matrimony no longer daunts me. Having made up my mind to’t, I am ready to face it undismayed, to endure unflinching——”
“Sir, you insult me!”
“Madam, if I do, you are the first and only woman I have so insulted.”
“Remember the past, sir—its horrors——”
“Think of the future, madam, its joys. As my wife——”
“Heaven save and deliver me, sir!” she exclaimed scornfully. “Do you for one moment imagine I would contemplate a situation so extreme horrid?”
“But indeed, my lady, despite what the cynics say, marriage hath much to commend it. More especially a union ’twixt you and me, our natures being so extreme the opposite of each other.”
“That, indeed, is true, I thank heaven!” she nodded.
“Alas, yes, my lady. You being of a somewhat violent, shall we say—ungovernable temper——”
“Too tragically true!” murmured the Duchess behind her fan.
“Aunt, pray be silent!”
“The armoire, child!”
“Do not distract me, aunt. Sir, you are an insolent impertinent!”
“But of a nature serenely calm, madam, to temper your excessive cholers. Indeed, we are each other’s opposites, for whiles you are something ungentle, very headstrong, extreme capricious and vastly vindictive, I am——”
“Utterly detestable, sir!” she cried indignantly. “Enough—enough! Good Gad! must I sit and hear you thus abuse me? Forbid it, heaven! Is it not enough affliction that my name should be coupled with yours in the scandalous columns of an infamous journal?”
“Can you possibly mean The Polite Monitor, madam?” he sighed.
“What else, sir? And you ha’ read the hateful thing as a matter of course!”
“No, my lady. I wrote it.”
“You, Sir John!” exclaimed the Duchess.
“You—’twas you?” cried my lady.
“Myself!” quoth Sir John. “’Twas writ in haste and hath small merit, I fear, and little to commend it, but such as ’tis——”
“Commend it!” cried my lady. “Commend it! Oh, this is too much; you are insufferable! Sir John Dering, you weary me; you may retire!” And magnificently disdainful, she arose.
Sir John’s bow was Humility manifest.
“Madam,” sighed he, “I am now as ever your ladyship’s most obedient, humble servant. I go—yet first o’ your mercy and in justice to myself, pray tell us when ’twill be?”
“What, sir, in heaven’s name?”
“Our wedding. When will you marry me, Herminia?”
“Never—oh, never!” she cried passionately. “I had rather die first!”
“Alas, Herminia, for your so passionate refusal!” he mourned. “Tush, my lady, for your choice o’ death! And for thy so arrogant, unruly self—fare thee well. So must I to the country there to seek my Rose.... O Rose o’ love, my fragrant Rose.... God keep thee, my Lady Herminia, and teach thee more of gentleness. Duchess, most generous of women—adieu!”
So saying, Sir John bowed, and, wistful and despondent, took his departure.
“Aunt,” cried her ladyship, when they were alone, “in heaven’s name, why did you?”
“Why did I what, miss?”
“Receive that—that—man?”
“Perhaps because he—is a man, Herminia. Perhaps because he is the man to mould and master you. Perhaps because of his wistful, wondering, woman’s eyes. Perhaps because you—wished me to—ha! Why must ye blush, child, pink as a peony, I vow?”