The next morning, at ten o’clock sharp, Sir Basil Ives entered the drawing room of Grove House, that same drawing room which, the evening before, had been the scene of so much amazement on the part of the lady of the house. Sir Basil had long ago given up standing upon ceremony when he visited Lady Cardovan and therefore did not wait to be shown in, but only sent word to her that he had come, and let himself into the drawing room. He had done so often enough before, and accustomed as he was to her ways, did not show any surprise when she did not appear at once. Lady Diana always worked upon her books in the morning, and when she was interrupted in the midst of an idea, would not leave her writing table until it had been completed upon paper.
The Baronet, therefore, was perfectly prepared to wait, and occupied himself in the meantime by walking up and down the room, staring out at the gardens, and at last, having exhausted all the diversion of watching a cold rain fall upon the lawns which had been put to rest for the winter, sat down upon a small sofa near one of the fireplaces. Glancing down, he noticed a slim volume upon the rug, and thinking it had dropped from an incidental table, picked it up. A brief glance showed him the title—A Country Parson—and inscribed beneath, the legend, “A Satire, by a Lady.”
It was unlike his friend to leave books about like that, for of all of Lady Cardovan’s loves, literature was the greatest. She prized the contents of her library as dearly as she prized her friends—indeed a good deal more dearly, Sir Basil sometimes thought. He was not himself a great reader of novels; he had always claimed they were idle amusements for idle minds. His own time was ordinarily much too crammed full of more constructive work to allow him leisure to pursue the fanciful wanderings of imaginary people. However, having nothing much better to do whilst he waited, he commenced turning over the pages, more (as he assured himself) to find out what ladies did with their afternoons than from any interest of his own.
The first page made him laugh three times, which was a wonder, for Sir Basil was rarely made to laugh at all, save by some few extraordinary minds. The first chapter was soon finished, and had excited his amusement so much that he commenced the second. In truth, it was very astounding. Where he had expected to find the incoherent ramblings of a female intoxicated by romantic antics, he found instead the brisk and lucid style of a seasoned essayist. The characters, moreover, leapt from the page, and the dialogue, consisting so far chiefly in the interchanges of an idiotic, egocentric parson and his intended, struck him as so fresh and alive that he felt he knew them better than he did most of his acquaintance. The style struck him as clear and intelligent—he was amazed it had been written by a woman at all. Indeed, after finishing the second chapter he was determined in his mind that it could not have been the work of a woman, but of a man ashamed of being accused of novel writing, or else for some reason unwilling to be identified.
Thus amused and, one might add, amazed, Sir Basil passed a very pleasant hour. It flew by so quickly that when he heard the clock strike eleven he started up in amazement. Lady Cardovan had yet to appear. Ringing for a servant, he inquired if she had been informed of his presence.
“Yes,” said the footman, “My Lady has been told. But I shall go and remind her myself.”
The footman reappeared a moment later with a puzzled look.
“My Lady Cardovan is unwell,” reported he. “She begs you to excuse her, Your Excellency, but she has got the headache.”
“Unwell!” cried Sir Basil. “Then why was I not informed before? Unwell!”
The footman shuffled his feet and looked noncommittal. “I am sorry to have inconvenienced you, Your Excellency.”
“Pshaw! Well! I have wasted the whole morning! Be so kind as to give your mistress my regards, and tell her I shall wait upon her tomorrow. No—better yet, bring me paper and a pen, if you will. I shall send up a note to her.”
Writing instruments were duly brought, and Sir Basil, having thought a moment, jotted down several lines. Having finished, he commenced folding it up, but in an afterthought appended his intention of borrowing the book he had commenced reading. The footman bowed, took the note, and saw the Ambassador safely into his carriage.
Sir Basil felt twice injured during his drive back to Regent’s Terrace. First, because he had been made to wait above an hour, which was injustice enough; and secondly—and far more cruelly—he had been snubbed. He could not explain his friend’s conduct in any other way. Why else had she condemned him to sit for an hour before he had been told she was unwell? Lady Cardovan had behaved similarly once before, and then it had been owing to her displeasure and not to any oversight of footmen or maids. No, no—Diana was in a pique, but whatever could be the cause of it? He had seen her only two days before, and then she had been jolly enough. Really, women were the very devil! Even Diana could be as low and petty as the rest of ’em. He supposed she was angry at him for not having turned up at her soiree, that odious conglomeration of little old men who gossiped as badly as little old women, effete poets, and narcissistic politicians. And well out of it he had been, too! Really, then! How could she be so petty?
Sir Basil had passed, in the end, a far more enjoyable evening. He had stayed at home with Nicole and Miss Calder, had dined with them, and afterward had spent a most refreshing hour with the young lady in his library, discussing the Slavery Question. Miss Calder was really a most amiable young woman, and far brighter, in the end, then almost all his male acquaintances. Certainly she possessed none of that urge to be complimented that was so obnoxious in the rest of her sex. Her remarks were always insightful—even if a trifle impulsive—and her manner was perfectly engaging. Why was not most of womankind fashioned along such sensible, and amiable, lines? She was not, he had noticed, an unhandsome creature, either. Rather to the contrary, though of course that was not really his line. A fine pair of eyes, a lovely, graceful bearing, and the glow of health made up for whatever slight lack of perfection existed in her features. Of course she was not a classic beauty, like Diana. But there was that in her smile, in the light of her eye, and in her rather peculiar, windy laugh, which was certainly most enchanting. He wondered—not for the first time—why she had not been snapped up long ago by some quick-witted young man? He himself might almost have been tempted to do so, had he been younger, and of that turn of mind. Now, of course, his ideas were too settled, his style of life too pleasantly laid out, to make such an idea plausible, Still, there had been moments when he had wondered—but! Marriage had ever appared to him an unattractive business, entered into, more often than not, in a weak moment by an unsuspecting victim, only to be regretted bitterly forever afterwards. Even those marriages most expected to succeed, where birth, station, and education suited the partners to each other admirably, were apt to become, in short order, burdens to both parties. Only look at his brother! Louisa ought to have suited him down to the ground! And who could have forseen that that pretty little thing would turn so quickly sour? No, no—it was an idea too appalling to contemplate. And yet. . .
And yet, mused Sir Basil, absently watching the passing faces and streets, Miss Calder was nothing like his sister-in-law. In every aspect save birth, she was infinitely superior to Louisa.
In looks, manner, intelligence, and breeding, Miss Calder put her to shame. Indeed, it was a pity that such a fine young woman should have been relegated by ill-fortune to her present position in the world. He supposed her father must be a gentleman, to have sired such a lady. And then, of course, there was the invalided brother—tragic, really. Sir Basil, watching with unseeing eyes the passing of the outskirts of London and then the slow progress into the center of Town, had a sudden inspiration. It had occurred to him once before, actually, but had been set aside as too impulsive an idea. But, after all, one must not pass by every chance in life simply for its being impulsive!
The Baronet smiled to himself. Who would have thought he would end up one day chiding himself for being too staid? No, no—he would prove to all those who had long accused him of it, that he could be quite as impulsive as anyone, when he chose. So saying, he jumped down from the carriage before his club and, having ordered his luncheon, proceeded to put into action his little scheme.