“Oh, I wished to know what sort of a woman she was! Marlow I do know, and I should suppose that any daughter of his must be an intolerable bore. But your Verena’s child might be the very wife for me, don’t you think? You would be disposed to like her, which must be an object with me; and although I don’t mean to burden myself with a wife who wants conduct, I should imagine that there must be enough of Marlow’s blood in this girl to leaven whatever wildness she may have inherited from her mother. Eccentricity may be diverting, Mama, but it is out of place in a wife: certainly in my wife!”
“My dear, what nonsense you are talking! If I believed you meant it I should be most seriously disturbed!”
“But I do mean it! I thought you would have been pleased, too! What could be more romantic than to marry the girl who was betrothed to me in her cradle?”
She smiled, but she did not look to be much amused. His eyes searched her face; he said in the caressing tone he used only to her: “What is it, my dear? Tell me!”
She said: “Sylvester, you have talked of five girls who might perhaps suit you; and now you are talking of a girl of whose existence you were unaware not ten minutes ago—and as though you had only to decide between them! My dear, has it not occurred to you that you might find yourself rebuffed?”
His brow cleared. “Is that all? No, no, Mama, I shan’t be rebuffed!”
“So sure, Sylvester?”
“Of course I’m sure, Mama! Oh, not of Miss Marlow! For anything I know, her affections may be engaged already.”
“Or she might take you in dislike,” suggested the Duchess.
“Take me in dislike? Why should she?” he asked, surprised.
“How can I tell? These things do happen, you know.”
“If you mean she might not fall in love with me, I daresay she might not, though I know of no reason, if she doesn’t love another man, why she shouldn’t come to do so—or, at any rate, to like me very tolerably! Do you suppose me to be so lacking in address that I can’t make myself agreeable when I wish to? Fie on you, Mama!”
“No,” she said. “But I didn’t know you had so much address that you could beguile no fewer than five girls of rank and fashion to be ready to accept an offer from you.”
He could not resist. “Well, Mama, you said yourself that I make love charmingly!” he murmured.
It drew a smile from her, because she could never withstand that gleaming look, but she shook her head as well, and said: “For shame, Sylvester! Do you mean to sound like a coxcomb?”
He laughed. “Of course I don’t! To be frank with you, there are not five but a dozen young women of rank and fashion who are perfectly ready to receive an offer from me. I’m not hard to swallow, you know, though I don’t doubt I have as many faults as a Mr. Smith or a Mr. Jones. Mine are more palatable, however: scarcely noticeable for the rich marchpane that covers them!”
“Do you wish for a wife who marries you for the sake of your possessions?” the Duchess asked, arching her brows.
“I don’t think I mind very much, provided we were mutually agreeable. Such a wife would be unlikely to enact me any tragedies, and anything of that nature, Mama, would lead to our being regularly parted within a twelvemonth. I couldn’t endure it!”
“The enacting of tragedies, my son, is not an invariable concomitant of love-matches,” she said dryly.
“Who should know that better than I?” he retorted, his smile embracing her. “But where am I to look for your counterpart, my dear? Show her to me, and I will engage to fall desperately in love with her, and marry her, fearing no after-ills!”
“Sylvester, you are too absurd!”
“Not as absurd as you think! Seriously, Mama, although I have seen some love-matches that have prospered, I have seen a great many that most certainly have not! Oh! no doubt some husbands and wives of my acquaintance would stare to hear me say I thought them anything but happy! Perhaps they enjoy jealousies, tantrums, quarrels, and stupid misunderstandings: I should not! The well-bred woman who marries me because she has a fancy to be a duchess will suit me very well, and will probably fill her position admirably.” His eyes quizzed her. “Or would you like me to turn my coat inside out, and sally forth in humble disguise, like the prince in a fairy tale? I never thought much of that prince, you know! A chuckle-headed fellow, for how could he hope, masquerading as a mean person, to come near any but quite ineligible females whom it would have been impossible for him to marry?”
“Very true!” she replied.
He was always watchful where she was concerned. It struck him now that she was suddenly looking tired; and he said with quick compunction: “I’ve fagged you to death with my nonsense! Now, why did you let me talk you into a headache? Shall I send Anna to you?”
“No, indeed! My head doesn’t ache, I promise you,” she said, smiling tenderly up at him.
“I wish I might believe you!” he said, bending over her to kiss her cheek. “I’ll leave you to rest before you are assailed by Augusta again: don’t let her plague you!”
He went away, and she remained lost in her reflections until roused from them by her cousin’s return.
“All alone, dear Elizabeth?” Miss Penistone exclaimed. “Now, if I had but known—but in general I do believe Sylvester would stay with you for ever, if I were not obliged at last to come in! I am sure I have said a hundred times that I never knew such an attentive son. So considerate, too! There was never anything like it!”
“Ah, yes!” the Duchess said. “To me so considerate, so endlessly kind!”
She sounded a little mournful, which was unusual in her. Miss Penistone, speaking much in the heartening tone Button used to divert Edmund when he was cross, said: “He was looking particularly handsome today, wasn’t he? Such an excellent figure, and his air so distinguished! What heart-burnings there will be when at last he throws the handkerchief!”
She laughed amiably at this thought, but the Duchess did not seem to be amused. She said nothing, but Miss Penistone saw her hands clasp and unclasp on the arm of her chair, and at once realized that no doubt she must be afraid that so rich a prize as Sylvester might be caught by some wretchedly designing creature quite unworthy of his attention. “And no fear of his marrying to disoblige you, as the saying goes,” said Miss Penistone brightly, but with an anxious eye on the Duchess. “With so many girls on the catch for him I daresay you would be quite in a worry if he were not so sensible. That thought came into my head once—so absurd!—and I mentioned it to Louisa, when she was staying here in the summer. “Not he!” she said—you know her abrupt way! “He knows his worth too well!” Which set my mind quite at rest, as you may suppose.”
It did not seem to have exercised the same beneficial effect on the Duchess’s mind, for she put up a hand to shade her eyes. Miss Penistone knew then what was amiss: she had had one of her bad nights, poor Elizabeth!
3
Sylvester made no further mention of his matrimonial plans; nor, since she could not fail to be cheerful whenever he came to visit her, did he suspect that his mother was troubled for him. Had he known it he would have supposed her merely to dislike the thought of his marriage, and would not have found it difficult to put any such scheme aside; if she had told him that she was more disturbed by the fear, which was taking uncomfortably strong possession of her mind, that he had become arrogant he would have been distressed to think that he could have said anything to put such a notion into her head, and would have done his best to joke her out of it. He knew it to be false: he was acquainted with several persons to whom the epithet might well apply, and he thought them intolerable. Few men were more petted and courted than he; there were not many hostesses who would not have forgiven him such slights as were not uncommonly dealt them by spoiled men of rank and fashion. But no hostess would ever be given cause to complain of Sylvester’s courtesy; and no insignificant person who perhaps rendered him a trifling service, or even did no more than touch his hat to him, would have reason to think himself despised. To reserve one’s civility for people of consequence was a piece of ill-breeding, dishonourable to oneself, as disgusting as to make a parade of greatness, or to curse a servant for clumsiness. Sylvester, who did not arrive at parties very late, refuse to stand up for country dances, take his bored leave within half an hour of his arrival, leave invitations unanswered, stare unrecognizingly at one of his tenants, or fail to exchange a few words with every one of his guests on Public Days at Chance, was not very likely to believe that a charge of arrogance levelled against him was anything but a calumny, emanating probably from a tuft-hunter whom he had snubbed, or some pert mushroom of society whose pretensions he had been obliged to depress.