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"I see, ma'am, that for some reason or other you doubt my word. Would you put confidence in it if another person were to confirm what I have said?" "That depends entirely upon who the other person may be." "The person I mean is Lord Hawbury." "Lord Hawbury? Indeed!" said Lady Dalrymple, in some surprise. "But he's in Rome." "No, ma'am, he's not. He's here in this hotel." "In this hotel? Here?"
"I'm going to Rome!" repeated Dacres, resolutely. Hawbury looked at him. "You'll come, Hawbury, won't you?" "Why, confound it all, of course. I'm afraid you'll do something rash, old man, and you'll have to have me to stand between you and harm." "Oh, don't be concerned about me," said Dacres. "I only want to watch her, and see what her little game is.
Through this opening Hawbury could have all the air that was requisite for breathing. Then Ethel assisted the priest to lift the lid on. Thus far all had been quiet; but now a slight noise was heard below. Some men were moving. Ethel was distracted with anxiety, but the priest was as cool as a clock. He whispered to her to go back to the room where she belonged.
Hawbury, however, did not move a muscle of his face, nor did he show the slightest feeling of any kind. He was covered with dust, and his clothes were torn and splashed with mud, and his hands were bound, and his mouth was gagged; but he preserved a coolness that astonished his enemies.
Hawbury sprang to his feet as though he had been shot. "What!" he cried. "I'm married!" "You're what? Married? You! married! Scone Dacres! not you not married?" "I'm married!" "Good Lord!" "I'm married!" Hawbury sank back in his seat, overwhelmed by the force of this sudden and tremendous revelation. For some time there was a deep silence. Both were smoking.
The Dowager could make herself as agreeable as any lady living, except young and beautiful ones. The conversation, therefore, was easy and flowing. Hawbury excelled in this. Now there are several variations in the great art of expression, and each of these is a minor art by itself. Among these may be enumerated: First, of course, the art of novel-writing. Second, the art of writing editorials.
This led to long explanations, and a long conversation, which was protracted far into the night, to the immense enjoyment of both of the friends. The Baron was, as Lord Hawbury had said, an old friend. He had become acquainted with him many years before upon the prairies of America, near the Rocky Mountains.
And Hawbury stroked away the preposterous idea through his long, pendent whiskers. Mrs. Willoughby had been spending a few days with a friend whom she had found in Naples, and on her return was greatly shocked to hear of Minnie's adventure on Vesuvius. Lady Dalrymple and Ethel had a story to tell which needed no exaggerations and amplifications to agitate her strongly.
Upon such a being as this the homeless wanderer, the outcast, looked, and his soul seemed turned to fire as he gazed. Was it any wonder? All this Hawbury thought, and with full sympathy for his injured friend. He saw also that Dacres could not be trusted by himself. Some catastrophe would be sure to occur.
It bored him. To a man like him the one thing to be avoided on earth was a bore. To be bored was to his mind the uttermost depth of misfortune. This he had voluntarily accepted. He was being bored, and bored to death. Certainly no man ever accepted a calamity more gracefully than Hawbury. He was charming, affable, easy, chatty. Of course he was known to Lady Dalrymple.
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