XVII
The Marquis, in fact, was behaving with unusual circumspection, careful to give the tattle-mongers no food for gossip. Well-aware of his notoriety, of the scandalous on-dits which would instantly attend the least sign he gave of having formed a partiality for Miss Merriville, he was taking inordinate pains to shield her from envious, or merely malicious tongues. To satisfy the curiosity of those who might wonder why he was gratifying so many hostesses by appearing at their balls, drums, and assemblies, he set up the dashing Mrs Ilford as his flirt, knowing that the lively widow’s charms were equalled by her shrewdness: the Marquis, man-of-the-town though he might be, had no desire to break hearts; and the objects of his gallantry had never yet included guileless innocents. In general, he had ignored the handkerchiefs thrown to him, but he had his own, remorseless way with any over-bold damsel who disgusted him by too-obviously setting her cap at him. He would indulge her with a brief, desperate flirtation, conducted under the envious or the shocked eyes of her contemporaries, and, at their next encounter, fail to remember her name, or even that he had met her before. These merciless tactics had earned for him the reputation of being dangerous, and caused prudent parents to warn their daughters against encouraging his advances. They even caused his closest friend to remonstrate with him once or twice, but Mr More-ton’s accusation of cruelty was productive of nothing but a contemptuous smile, and a coldly uttered hope that the victim had learnt her lesson. From the hour of his come-out, the Marquis had been a matrimonial prize, but the years had not taught him to accept this position with equanimity, to tolerate the schemes of match-making mamas, or to be amused by the lures cast out by their ambitious daughters. Since the day of his discovery that his first love would have been as ready to marry a hunchback possessed of his rank and fortune as himself, he had grown steadily more hardened in cynicism, until, at the age of seven-and-thirty, when Frederica thrust herself into his life, he had no more intention of saddling himself with a wife than of throwing himself into the Thames.
But Frederica had seriously ruffled the calm waters of his agreeable existence. Not quite immediately, but soon enough, he had found himself strongly attracted to her, and in a way that was strange to him. The only women who had previously interested him were the well-born flirts, with whom it was amusing to dally, and the barques of frailty with whom he enjoyed more intimate relations. He felt no affection for any of these ladies, and not the smallest wish to establish with any one of them a more permanent connection. To be leg-shackled to a female who, however lively or beautiful she might be, would inevitably become a bore within a very few months was a fate too hideous even to be contemplated. He did not wish for female companionship; and still less did he wish to saddle himself with the trials and responsibilities that attended the married state.
Then came Frederica, upsetting his cool calculations, thrusting responsibilities upon him, intruding more and more into the ordered pattern of his life, and casting him into a state of unwelcome doubt. And, try as he would, he could discover no reason for this uncomfortable change in himself. She had more countenance than beauty; she employed no arts to attract him; she was heedless of convention; she was matter-of-fact, and managing, and not at all the sort of female whom he had ever wished to encourage. Furthermore (now he came to think of it), she had foisted two troublesome schoolboys on to him, which was the last thing in the world he wanted!
Or had she? A rather rueful smile flickered at the corners of his lordship’s mouth as he considered this point. No: she had not. He had allowed himself to yield to the blandishments of Felix (detestable imp!); then Jessamy had got himself into a scrape (tiresome young chub!), and had turned to him for help, which, naturally, had to be given to him; but it would really be quite unjust to blame Frederica for these happenings. She had been as cross as crabs over Jessamy’s affair, top-lofty little peagoose that she was! Top-lofty, gooseish, managing, no more than passably good-looking: why the devil did he like her so much?
Unconsciously following the example Frederica had set, he began to do her justice, trying to discover what quality in her it was which had jerked him out of his idle hedonism into a state of nagging uncertainty. It was a pleasant exercise, but it brought him no nearer to solving the problem. He liked her composure, her frankness, the smile in her eyes, her ready appreciation of the ridiculous, the gay courage with which she shouldered burdens too heavy for a girl to bear, the way she caught herself up guiltily on a cant phrase culled from her brothers’ vocabularies, the intent look which came into her face when she was pondering a ticklish question, the unexpected things she said, and — but what was there in all this to disrupt his present life, and to place his untrammelled future in jeopardy? Nothing, of course: she had certainly aroused in him feelings he had not known he possessed, but she could be no more than a passing fancy.
A frown gathered on his brow as he thought this over. The devil of it was that the more he saw of her the stronger grew the feeling he had for her, which was not love (an emotion which belonged to one’s salad-days), nor yet mere liking. Call it affection! It caused him to think about her far too much for his peace of mind; and (really, he must be growing senile!) to be constantly aware of a wish to lift the burdens from her shoulders. As matters stood, he was powerless to render her any but the most trifling assistance, and none at all in what he guessed must be the greatest of her present anxieties. He had suspected at the outset that she had underestimated the expenses of a London season; and when his experienced eye detected, beneath velvet trimming on a drapery of Albany gauze, the evening dress which had already undergone several transformations, he was very sure that she was beginning to feel purse-pinched. He thought, savagely, that every available groat was squandered on Charis. He was too well-versed in such matters not to recognize that Charis too wore dresses which had been subtly altered to present a new appearance, but he quite unjustly supposed that the cunning hand at work had been Frederica’s, even going to the length of picturing her slaving over her stitchery until the candles guttered in their sockets. Had he been told that the drudgery, as well as the inspiration, belonged to the younger sister (only she did not think it drudgery), he would have been amazed to the point of incredulity, for he had long since decided that Charis had nothing to recommend her but her undeniable beauty. In his lordship’s prejudiced eyes, she lacked what the ton called that certain sort of something, which meant, in a word, quality, and which characterized Frederica. It was apparent, he thought, in whatever Frederica did: from the air with which she wore her furbished-up gowns, to the assurance with which she received visitors in the shabby-genteel house she had hired for the season. But he wanted to remove her from Upper Wimpole Street, and to place her in surroundings worthier of her, furnishing her at the same time with every extravagant luxury, and enough pin-money to enable her to purchase a new gown whenever she chose to do it. And, with all his wealth, the only assistance he had been able to render her was the discharge of Jessamy’s and Lufra’s trifling debts! There was the possibility that he might be granted the opportunity to render further assistance of the same kind, but even that would fall a long way short of what he would like to do for her.
His frown deepened. That eldest brother of hers was likely to prove an encumbrance rather than a support to her. There was no harm in the boy, but if he was not as volatile as his father he had quite as little sense of responsibility. He would probably settle down happily on his Herefordshire estate in a year or two; but at present he was clearly bent on enjoying his first London-fling, and was perfectly willing to leave the conduct of his household, the management of his young brothers, and all the problems that attached to a family living on straitened means, in Frederica’s capable hands. The Marquis had been keeping an unobtrusive eye on him; and he believed that it would not be long before Harry found himself in Dun territory. He seemed, mercifully, to have no taste for gaming, so that the Beau Traps on the look out for well-breeched greenheads from the country cast their lures in vain, and very soon abandoned him for likelier prey. Harry could conceive of few duller or more unprofitable ways of spending the evening than in one of the gaming-hells against which Mr Peplow had warned him. It would certainly be agreeable to win a fortune, but he was shrewd enough to guess that fortunes were not won by those who played with a set of persons described by his friend as Greek banditti.