One day, about the end of June, he came in to see me when I had two
or three other visitors; you know that even at that season I am almost
always at home from six to seven. He had not been three minutes in the
room before I saw that he was different,--different from what he
had been the last time, and I guessed that something had happened in
relation to his marriage. My visitors did n’t, unfortunately, and they
stayed and stayed until I was afraid he would have to go away without
telling me what, I was sure, he had come for. But he sat them out; I
think that by exception they did n’t find him pleasant. After we were
alone he abused them a little, and then he said, “Have you heard about
Vandeleur? He ‘s very ill. She’s awfully anxious.” I had n’t heard, and
I told him so, asking a question or two; then my inquiries ceased,
my breath almost failed me, for I had become aware of something very
strange. The way he looked at me when he told me his news was a full
confession,--a confession so full that I had needed a moment to take it
in. He was not too strong a man to be taken by surprise,--not so strong
but that in the presence of an unexpected occasion his first movement
was to look about for a little help. I venture to call it help, the sort
of thing he came to me for on that summer afternoon. It is always help
when a woman who is not an idiot lets an embarrassed man take up her
time. If he too is not an idiot, that does n’t diminish the service; on
the contrary his superiority to the average helps him to profit. Ambrose
Tester had said to me more than once, in the past, that he was capable
of telling me things, because I was an American, that he would n’t
confide to his own people. He had proved it before this, as I have
hinted, and I must say that being an American, with him, was sometimes a
questionable honor. I don’t know whether he thinks us more discreet and
more sympathetic (if he keeps up the system: he has abandoned it with
me), or only more insensible, more proof against shocks; but it is
certain that, like some other Englishmen I have known, he has appeared,
in delicate cases, to think I would take a comprehensive view. When I
have inquired into the grounds of this discrimination in our favor, he
has contented himself with saying, in the British-cursory manner, “Oh,
I don’t know; you are different!” I remember he remarked once that our
impressions were fresher. And I am sure that now it was because of my
nationality, in addition to other merits, that he treated me to the
confession I have just alluded to. At least I don’t suppose he would
have gone about saying to people in general, “Her husband will probably
die, you know; then why should n’t I marry Lady Vandeleur?”
That was the question which his whole expression and manner asked of me,
and of which, after a moment, I decided to take no notice. Why shouldn’t
he? There was an excellent reason why he should n’t It would just kill
Joscelind Bernardstone; that was why he should n’t? The idea that he
should be ready to do it frightened me, and independent as he might
think my point of view, I had no desire to discuss such abominations. It
struck me as an abomination at this very first moment, and I have never
wavered in my judgment of it. I am always glad when I can take the
measure of a thing as soon as I see it; it ‘s a blessing to _feel_ what
we think, without balancing and comparing. It’s a great rest, too, and
a great luxury. That, as I say, was the case with the feeling excited in
me by this happy idea of Ambrose Tester’s. Cruel and wanton I thought it
then, cruel and wanton I thought it later, when it was pressed upon me.
I knew there were many other people that did n’t agree with me, and I
can only hope for them that their conviction was as quick and positive
as mine; it all depends upon the way a thing strikes one. But I will add
to this another remark. I thought I was right then, and I still think I
was right; but it strikes me as a pity that I should have wished so
much to be right Why could n’t I be content to be wrong; to renounce my
influence (since I appeared to possess the mystic article), and let my
young friend do as he liked? As you observed the situation at Doubleton,
should n’t you say it was of a nature to make one wonder whether, after
all, one did render a service to the younger lady?
At all events, as I say, I gave no sign to Ambrose Tester that I
understood him, that I guessed what he wished to come to. He got no
satisfaction out of me that day; it is very true that he made up for it
later. I expressed regret at Lord Vandeleur’s illness, inquired into its
nature and origin, hoped it would n’t prove as grave as might be
feared, said I would call at the house and ask about him, commiserated
discreetly her ladyship, and in short gave my young man no chance
whatever. He knew that I had guessed his _arrière-pensée_, but he let
me off for the moment, for which I was thankful; either because he was
still ashamed of it, or because he supposed I was reserving myself for
the catastrophe,--should it occur. Well, my dear, it did occur, at the
end of ten days. Mr. Tester came to see me twice in that interval, each
time to tell me that poor Vandeleur was worse; he had some internal
inflammation which, in nine cases out of ten, is fatal. His wife was
all devotion; she was with him night and day. I had the news from other
sources as well; I leave you to imagine whether in London, at the height
of the season, such a situation could fail to be considerably discussed.
To the discussion as yet, however, I contributed little, and with
Ambrose Tester nothing at all. I was still on my guard. I never admitted
for a moment that it was possible there should be any change in his
plans. By this time, I think, he had quite ceased to be ashamed of his
idea, he was in a state almost of exaltation about it; but he was very
angry with me for not giving him an opening.
As I look back upon the matter now, there is something almost amusing in
the way we watched each other,--he thinking that I evaded his question
only to torment him (he believed me, or pretended to believe me, capable
of this sort of perversity), and I determined not to lose ground by
betraying an insight into his state of mind which he might twist into an
expression of sympathy. I wished to leave my sympathy where I had placed
it, with Lady Emily and her daughter, of whom I continued, bumping
against them at parties, to have some observation. They gave no signal
of alarm; of course it would have been premature. The girl, I am sure,
had no idea of the existence of a rival. How they had kept her in the
dark I don’t know; but it was easy to see she was too much in love to
suspect or to criticise. With Lady Emily it was different; she was a
woman of charity, but she touched the world at too many points not to
feel its vibrations. However, the dear little woman planted herself
firmly; to the eye she was still enough. It was not from Ambrose Tester
that I first heard of Lord Vandeleur’s death; it was announced, with a
quarter of a column of “padding,” in the _Times_. I have always known
the _Times_ was a wonderful journal, but this never came home to me so
much as when it produced a quarter of a column about Lord Vandeleur. It
was a triumph of word-spinning. If he had carried out his vocation, if
he had been a tailor or a hatter (that’s how I see him), there might
have been something to say about him. But he missed his vocation, he
missed everything but posthumous honors. I was so sure Ambrose Tester
would come in that afternoon, and so sure he knew I should expect him,
that I threw over an engagement on purpose. But he didn’t come in, nor
the next day, nor the next. There were two possible explanations of
his absence. One was that he was giving all his time to consoling Lady
Vandeleur; the other was that he was giving it all, as a blind, to
Joscelind Bernardstone. Both proved incorrect, for when he at last
turned up he told me he had been for a week in the country, at his
father’s. Sir Edmund also had been unwell; but he had pulled through
better than poor Lord Vandeleur. I wondered at first whether his son had
been talking over with him the question of a change of base; but guessed
in a moment that he had not suffered this alarm. I don’t think that
Ambrose would have spared him if he had thought it necessary to give him
warning; but he probably held that his father would have no ground for
complaint so long as he should marry some one; would have no right to
remonstrate if he simply transferred his contract. Lady Vandeleur had
had two children (whom she had lost), and might, therefore, have
others whom she should n’t lose; that would have been a reply to nice
discriminations on Sir Edmund’s part.