FullReads

For the girl loved him! He felt himself to be, as most men do, a swindler when he comprehended this preposterous fact; and, in addition, he thought of divers happenings, such as shipwrecks, holocausts and earthquakes, which might conceivably have appalled him, and understood that he would never in his life face any sense of terror as huge as was this present sweet and illimitable awe.

And then he said, “You know that what I hunger for is impossible. There are so many little things, like common-sense, to be considered. For this is just a matter which concerns you and Paul Vanderhoffen–a literary hack, a stuttering squeak-voiced ne’er-do-well, with an acquired knack for scribbling verses that are feeble-minded enough for Annuals and Keepsake Books, and so fetch him an occasional guinea. For, my dear, the verses I write of my own accord are not sufficiently genteel to be vended in Paternoster Row; they smack too dangerously of human intelligence. So I am compelled, perforce, to scribble such jingles as I am ashamed to read, because I must write something. . . .” Paul Vanderhoffen shrugged, and continued, in tones more animated: “There will be no talk of any grand-duke. Instead, there will be columns of denunciation and tittle-tattle in every newspaper–quite as if you, a baronet’s daughter, had run away with a footman. And you will very often think wistfully of Lord Brudenel’s fine house when your only title is–well, Princess of Grub Street, and your realm is a garret. And for a while even to-morrow’s breakfast will be a problematical affair. It is true Lord Lansdowne has promised me a registrarship in the Admiralty Court, and I do not think he will fail me. But that will give us barely enough to live on–with strict economy, which is a virtue that neither of us knows anything about. I beg you to remember that–you who have been used to every luxury! you who really were devised that you might stand beside an emperor and set tasks for him. In fine, you know—-“

And Mildred Claridge said, “I know that, quite as I observed, man proposes–when he has been sufficiently prodded by some one who, because she is an idiot–And that is why I am not blushing–very much—-“

“Your coloring is not–repellent.” His high-pitched pleasant voice, in spite of him, shook now with more than its habitual suggestion of a stutter. “What have you done to me, my dear?” he said. “Why can’t I jest at this . . . as I have always done at everything—-?”

“Boy, boy!” she said; “laughter is excellent. And wisdom too is excellent. Only I think that you have laughed too much, and I have been too shrewd–But now I know that it is better to be a princess in Grub Street than to figure at Ranelagh as a good-hearted fool’s latest purchase. For Lord Brudenel is really very good-natured,” she argued, “and I did like him, and mother was so set upon it–and he was rich–and I honestly thought—-“

“And now?” he said.

“And now I know,” she answered happily.

They looked at each other for a little while. Then he took her hand, prepared in turn for self-denial.

“The Household Review wants me to ‘do’ a series on famous English bishops,” he reported, humbly. “I had meant to refuse, because it would all have to be dull High-Church twaddle. And the English Gentleman wants some rather outrageous lying done in defense of the Corn Laws. You would not despise me too much–would you, Mildred?–if I undertook it now. I really have no choice. And there is plenty of hackwork of that sort available to keep us going until more solvent days, when I shall have opportunity to write something quite worthy of you.”

“For the present, dear, it would be much more sensible, I think, to ‘do’ the bishops and the Corn Laws. You see, that kind of thing pays very well, and is read by the best people; whereas poetry, of course– But you can always come back to the verse-making, you know—-“

“If you ever let me,” he said, with a flash of prescience. “And I don’t believe you mean to let me. You are your mother’s daughter, after all! Nefarious woman, you are planning, already, to make a responsible member of society out of me! and you will do it, ruthlessly! Such is to be Prince Fribble’s actual burial–in his own private carriage, with a receipted tax-bill in his pocket!”

“What nonsense you poets talk!” the girl observed. But to him, forebodingly, that familiar statement seemed to lack present application.