“I don’t think I could,” said Sir Gus, briefly.
“But the people here,” said Dolly, “oh, the people here!” She stamped her foot upon the ground in her impatience and indignation; but when he would have pursued the subject, Dolly became prudent, and stopped short. She would say nothing more, except another appeal to heaven and earth against “the horridness of people.” This, however, gave Sir Gus a great deal to think of. Dolly did not in the least know what he had in his mind. She was not aware that the little man was going about among all the pretty groups of the garden party in the conscious exercise of choice, noting all the ladies, selecting the one that pleased him. Two or three had pleased him more or less—but one most of all: which was what Dolly Stainforth never suspected. Sir Gus walked about with the air of a man occupied with important business. He had no time to pay any attention to the progress of the games that were going on; his own affairs engrossed him altogether. Sometimes he selected one lady from a number on pretence of showing her something, or of watching a game, or hearing the band play a particular air, and carried her off with him to the suggested object, talking much and earnestly. He did not pay much court to the mothers and chaperons, but went boldly to the fountain-head. And some of the pretty young women to whom he talked so gravely did not quite know what to make of the little baronet. They laughed among themselves, and asked each other, “Did he ask you whether you liked town better or country? and if you would not like to take a voyage to the tropics?” Dolly on being asked this question quite early in their acquaintance, had answered frankly, “Not at all,” and had further explained that life out of the parish was incomprehensible to her. “I could not leave my poor people for months and months, with nobody but papa to look after them,” Dolly had said.
It was only after he had enjoyed about half a dozen interviews of this kind, amusing the greater part of his temporary companions, but fluttering the bosoms of one or two who were quick-witted enough to see the handkerchief trembling in the little sultan’s hand, that Sir Gus allowed himself to be carried off in his turn by Ada Westland, who came up to him in her bold way, neglecting all decorum.
“Come with me, Sir Augustus,” she said, “I have got a view to show you,” and she led him to where among the trees, there was a glimpse of the beautiful rich country, undulating, all wooded and rich with cornfields, to where Markham Chase, with all its oaks and beeches, shut in the horizon line. There was a glimpse of the house to be had in the distance, peeping from the foliage: and in the centre of the scene, the red roofs of the village and the slope of the Rectory garden in the sunshine. “I used to be brought here often to have my duty taught me,” said Ada. “Mamma made quite a point of it every day when we first came here.”
“I am glad your duty makes you look at my house, Miss Westland,” said Sir Gus, making her a bow.
“Oh, I don’t mean now,” said the outspoken young woman. “That is quite a different matter. I was quite young then, you know, and so was Paul, and my mother trained me up in the way that a girl should go. We are new people, you know; we have not much distinction in the way of family. What mamma intended to do with me was to make me marry Paul.”
Once more Sir Augustus bowed his head quite gravely. He did not laugh at the bold announcement, as she meant he should. “Was your heart in it?” he said.
“My heart? Do you think I have got one? I don’t know—I don’t think it was, Sir Augustus. ‘Look at all that sweep of country,’ mamma used to say; ‘that may all be yours if you play your cards well—and a family going back to the Conqueror.’ There have only been two generations of us,” said Ada; “you may think how grand it would have felt to know that there was a Crusader’s monument in the family. In some moods of my mind, especially when I have been very much sat upon by the blue-blooded people, I don’t think I should have minded marrying the Crusader himself.”
“I can understand the feeling,” said Gus. He was perfectly grave, his muscles did not relax a hairsbreadth. He stood and looked upon the woods that were his own, and the house which he called home. It looked a little chilly to him, even in the midst of the sunshine. The sky was pale with heat, and all the colours of the country subdued in the brilliant afternoon light, the trees hanging together like terrestrial clouds, the stubblefields grey where the corn had been already cut, and the roads white with dust. But it did not occur to him as he stood and gazed at Markham that it would make him happy to live there with his present companion by his side. “Beauty is deceitful, and favour is vain.” She was one of the prettiest persons present. She was full of wit and cleverness, and had far more wit and knowledge than half of her party put together. But the heart of the little baronet was not gained by those qualities. He stood quite unmoved by Ada’s side. She might have married the Crusader for anything Sir Augustus cared. Ada waited a little to see if no better reply would come, and then she made another coup.
“Pity us for an unfortunate family, foiled on every side,” she said. “Paul you know, has ceased to be a parti altogether. Anybody may marry him who pleases—and to a district in which men do not abound this is a great grievance—but I don’t blame you for that, Sir Augustus, though some do. And look there,” she said, suddenly turning round, “look at the door of the conservatory. There are mamma’s hopes tumbling down in another direction. I don’t feel the disappointment so much in my own case, but about George, I do really pity mamma. She can’t marry me to the next property, as she intended; and just look at George, making a fool of himself with the parson’s daughter. Now, Sir Augustus, don’t you feel sorry for mamma?”