IX

It was very well for him to take that tone; but he felt as he walked home

that he should scarcely know what to say to people who were determined,

as she put it, to hold him with glittering eyes. She had worked a

certain spell; she had succeeded in making him feel responsible. The

sight of her success, however, rather hardened his heart; he might have

pitied her if she had “muffed” it, as they said, but he just sensibly

resented her heavy scoring. He dined alone that evening while his sister

and her husband, who had engagements every day for a month, partook of

their repast at the expense of friends. Mrs. Dolphin, however, came home

rather early and immediately sought admittance to the small apartment at

the foot of the staircase which was already spoken of as her brother’s

den. Reggie had gone on to a “squash” somewhere, and she had returned in

her eagerness to the third member of their party. She was too impatient

even to wait for morning. She looked impatient; she was very unlike

George Littlemore. “I want you to tell me about Mrs. Headway,” she at

once began, while he started slightly at the coincidence of this remark

with his own thoughts. He was just making up his mind at last to speak

to her. She unfastened her cloak and tossed it over a chair, then pulled

off her long tight black gloves, which were not so fine as those Mrs.

Headway wore; all this as if she were preparing herself for an important

interview. She was a fair neat woman, who had once been pretty, with a

small thin voice, a finished manner and a perfect knowledge of what it

was proper to do on every occasion in life. She always did it, and her

conception of it was so definite that failure would have left her without

excuse. She was usually not taken for an American, but she made a point

of being one, because she flattered herself that she was of a type which

under that banner borrowed distinction from rarity. She was by nature a

great conservative and had ended by figuring as a better Tory than her

husband; to the effect of being thought by some of her old friends to

have changed immensely since her marriage. She knew English society as

if she had compiled a red-covered handbook of the subject; had a way of

looking prepared for far-reaching social action; had also thin lips and

pretty teeth; and was as positive as she was amiable. She told her

brother that Mrs. Headway had given out that he was her most intimate

friend; whereby she thought it rather odd he had never spoken of her “at

home.” Littlemore admitted, on this, that he had known her a long time,

referred to the conditions in which the acquaintance had sprung up, and

added that he had seen her that afternoon. He sat there smoking his

cigar and looking up at the cornice while Mrs. Dolphin delivered herself

of a series of questions. Was it true that he liked her so much, was it

true he thought her a possible woman to marry, was it true that her

antecedents had not been most peculiar?

“I may as well tell you I’ve a letter from Lady Demesne,” his visitor

went on. “It came to me just before I went out, and I have it in my

pocket.”

She drew forth the missive, which she evidently wished to read him; but

he gave her no invitation to proceed. He knew she had come to him to

extract a declaration adverse to Mrs. Headway’s projects, and however

little edification he might find in this lady’s character he hated to be

arraigned or prodded. He had a great esteem for Mrs. Dolphin, who, among

other Hampshire notions, had picked up that of the major weight of the

male members of any family, so that she treated him with a consideration

which made his having an English sister rather a luxury. Nevertheless he

was not, on the subject of his old Texan friend, very accommodating. He

admitted once for all that she hadn’t behaved properly—it wasn’t worth

while to split hairs about that; but he couldn’t see that she was much

worse than lots of other women about the place—women at once less amusing

and less impugned; and he couldn’t get up much feeling about her marrying

or not marrying. Moreover, it was none of his business, and he intimated

that it was none of Mrs. Dolphin’s.

“One surely can’t resist the claims of common humanity!” his sister

replied; and she added that he was very inconsistent. He didn’t respect

Mrs. Headway, he knew the most dreadful things about her, he didn’t think

her fit company for his own flesh and blood. And yet he was willing not

to save poor Arthur Demesne.

“Perfectly willing!” Littlemore returned. “I’ve nothing to do with

saving others. All I’ve got to do is not to marry her myself.”

“Don’t you think then we’ve any responsibilities, any duties to society?”

“I don’t know what you mean. Society can look after itself. If she can

bring it off she’s welcome. It’s a splendid sight in its way.”

“How do you mean splendid?”

“Why she has run up the tree as if she were a squirrel!”

“It’s very true she has an assurance _à toute épreuve_. But English

society has become scandalously easy. I never saw anything like the

people who are taken up. Mrs. Headway has had only to appear to succeed.

If they can only make out big _enough_ spots in you they’ll find you

attractive. It’s like the decadence of the Roman Empire. You can see to

look at this person that she’s not a lady. She’s pretty, very pretty,

but she might be a dissipated dressmaker. She wouldn’t go down for a

minute in New York. I’ve seen her three times—she apparently goes

everywhere. I didn’t speak of her—I was wanting to see what you’d do. I

judged you meant to do nothing, then this letter decided me. It’s

written on purpose to be shown you; it’s what the poor lady—_such_ a nice

woman herself—wants you to do. She wrote to me before I came to town,

and I went to see her as soon as I arrived. I think it very important.

I told her that if she’d draw up a little statement I’d put it before you

as soon as we should get settled. She’s in real distress. I think you

ought to feel for her. You ought to communicate the facts exactly as

they stand. A woman has no right to do such things as Mrs. Headway and

come and ask to be accepted. She may make it up with her conscience, but

she can’t make it up with society. Last night at Lady Dovedale’s I was

afraid she’d know who I was and get somehow at me. I believe she’d

really have been capable of it, and I got so frightened I went away. If

Sir Arthur wishes to marry her for what she is, of course he’s welcome.

But at least he ought to know.”

Mrs. Dolphin was neither agitated nor voluble; she moved from point to

point with the temper and method of a person accustomed to preside at

committees and to direct them. She deeply desired, however, that Mrs.

Headway’s triumphant career should be checked; such a person had

sufficiently abused a tolerance already so overstrained. Herself a party

to an international marriage, Mrs. Dolphin naturally desired the class to

which she belonged to close its ranks and carry its standard high.

“It seems to me she’s quite as good as the poor young man himself,” said

Littlemore, lighting another cigar.

“As good? What do you mean by ‘good’? No one has ever breathed a word

against him.”

“Very likely. But he’s a nonentity of the first water, and she at least

a positive quantity, not to say a positive force. She’s a person, and a

very clever one. Besides, she’s quite as good as the women lots of them

have married. It’s new to me that your alliances have been always so

august.”

“I know nothing about other cases,” Mrs. Dolphin said, “I only know about

this one. It so happens that I’ve been brought near it, and that an

appeal has been made to me. The English are very romantic—the most

romantic people in the world, if that’s what you mean. They do the

strangest things from the force of passion—even those of whom you would

least expect it. They marry their cooks, they marry their coachmen, and

their romances always have the most miserable end. I’m sure this one

would be wretched. How can you pretend that such a flaming barbarian can

be worked into _any_ civilisation? What I see is a fine old race—one of

the oldest and most honourable in England, people with every tradition of

good conduct and high principle—and a dreadful disreputable vulgar little

woman, who hasn’t an idea of what such things are, trying to force her

way into it. I hate to see such things—I want to go to the rescue!”

“Well, I don’t,” Littlemore returned at his leisure. “I don’t care a pin

for the fine old race.”

“Not from interested motives, of course, any more than I. But surely on

artistic grounds, on grounds of decency?”

“Mrs. Headway isn’t indecent—you go too far. You must remember that

she’s an old friend of mine.” He had become rather stern; Mrs. Dolphin

was forgetting the consideration due, from an English point of view, to

brothers.

She forgot it even a little more. “Oh if you’re in love with her too!”

she quite wailed, turning away.

He made no answer to this, and the words had no sting for him. But at

last, to finish the affair, he asked what in the world the old lady

wanted him to do. Did she want him to go out into Piccadilly and

announce to the passers-by that there had been one winter when even Mrs.

Headway’s sister didn’t know who was her husband?

Mrs. Dolphin’s reply was to read out Lady Demesne’s letter, which her

brother, as she folded it up again, pronounced one of the most

extraordinary communications he had ever listened to. “It’s very

sad—it’s a cry of distress,” she declared. “The whole meaning of it is

that she wishes you’d come and see her. She doesn’t say it in so many

words, but I can read between the lines. Besides, she told me she’d give

anything to see you. Let me assure you it’s your duty to go.”

“To go and abuse Nancy Beck?”

“Go and rave about her if you like!” This was very clever of Mrs.

Dolphin, but her brother was not so easily beguiled. He didn’t take that

view of his duty, and he declined to cross her ladyship’s threshold.

“Then she’ll come and see you,” said his visitor with decision.

“If she does I’ll tell her Nancy’s an angel.”

“If you can say so conscientiously she’ll be delighted to hear it.” And

she gathered up her cloak and gloves.

Meeting Rupert Waterville the next day, as he often did, at the Saint

George’s Club, which offers a much-appreciated hospitality to secretaries

of legation and to the natives of the countries they assist in

representing, Littlemore let him know that his prophecy had been

fulfilled and that Lady Demesne had been making proposals for an

interview. “My sister read me a desperate letter from her.”

Our young man was all critical attention again. “‘Desperate’?”

“The letter of a woman so scared that she’ll do anything. I may be a

great brute, but her scare amuses me.”

“You’re in the position of Olivier de Jalin in _Le Demi-Monde_,”

Waterville remarked.

“In _Le Demi-Monde_?” Littlemore was not quick at catching literary

allusions.

“Don’t you remember the play we saw in Paris? Or like Don Fabrice in

_L’Aventurière_. A bad woman tries to marry an honourable man, who

doesn’t know how bad she is, and they who do know step in and push her

back.”

“Yes, it comes to me. There was a good deal of lying,” Littlemore

recalled, “all round.”

“They prevented the marriage, however—which is the great thing.”

“The great thing if your heart’s set! One of the active parties was the

intimate friend of the man in love, the other was his son. Demesne’s

nothing at all to me.”

“He’s a very good fellow,” said Waterville.

“Then go and talk to him.”

“Play the part of Olivier de Jalin? Oh I can’t. I’m not Olivier. But I

think I do wish he’d corner me of himself. Mrs. Headway oughtn’t really

to be allowed to pass.”

“I wish to heaven they’d let me alone,” Littlemore murmured ruefully and

staring a while out of the window.

“Do you still hold to that theory you propounded in Paris? Are you

willing to commit perjury?” Waterville asked.

“Assuredly I can refuse to answer questions—even that one.”

“As I told you before, that will amount to a condemnation.”

Longmore frowningly debated. “It may amount to what it pleases. I guess

I’ll go back to Paris.”

“That will be the same as not answering. But it’s quite the best thing

you can do. I’ve really been thinking it out,” Waterville continued,

“and I don’t hold that from the point of view of social good faith she’s

an article we ought to contribute—!” He looked at the matter clearly now

from a great elevation; his tone, the expression of his face, betrayed

this lofty flight; the effect of which, as he glanced down at his

didactic young friend, Littlemore found peculiarly irritating.

He shifted about. “No, after all, hanged if they shall drive me away!”

he exclaimed abruptly; and he walked off while his companion wondered.

X

The morning after this the elder man received a note from Mrs. Headway—a

short and simple note, consisting merely of the words: “I shall be at

home this afternoon; will you come and see me at five? I’ve something

particular to say to you.” He sent no answer to the question, but went

to the little house in Chesterfield Street at the hour its mistress had

proposed.

“I don’t believe you know what sort of a woman I _am_!” she began as soon

as he stood before her.

“Oh Lord!” Littlemore groaned as he dropped into a chair. Then he added:

“Please don’t strike up _that_ air!”

“Ah, but it’s exactly what I’ve wanted to say. It’s very important. You

don’t know me—you don’t understand me. You think you do—but you don’t.”

“It isn’t for the want of your having told me—many many times!” And

Littlemore had a hard critical smile, irritated as he was at so austere a

prospect. The last word of all was decidedly that Mrs. Headway was a

dreadful bore. It was always the last word about such women, who never

really deserved to be spared.

She glared at him a little on this; her face was no longer the hospitable

inn-front with the showy sign of the Smile. The sign had come down; she

looked sharp and strained, almost old; the change was complete. It made

her serious as he had never seen her—having seen her always only either

too pleased or too disgusted. “Yes, I know; men are so stupid. They

know nothing about women but what women tell them. And women tell them

things on purpose to see how stupid they can be. I’ve told you things

like that just for amusement when it was dull. If you believed them it

was your own fault. But now I want you really to know.”

“I don’t want to know. I know enough.”

“How do you mean you know enough?” she cried with all her sincerity.

“What business have you to know anything?” The poor little woman, in her

passionate purpose, was not obliged to be consistent, and the loud laugh

with which Littlemore greeted this must have seemed to her unduly harsh.

“You shall know what I want you to know, however. You think me a bad

woman—you don’t respect me; I told you that in Paris. I’ve done things I

don’t understand, myself, to-day; that I admit as fully as you please.

But I’ve completely changed, and I want to change everything. You ought

to enter into that, you ought to see what I want. I hate everything that

has happened to me before this; I loathe it, I despise it. I went on

that way trying—trying one thing and another. But now I’ve got what I

want. Do you expect me to go down on my knees to you? I believe I will,

I’m so anxious. You can help me—no one else can do a thing; they’re only

waiting to see if _he’ll_ do it. I told you in Paris you could help me,

and it’s just as true now. Say a good word for me for Christ’s sake!

You haven’t lifted your little finger, or I should know it by this time.

It will just make the difference. Or if your sister would come and see

me I should be all right. Women are pitiless, pitiless, and you’re

pitiless too. It isn’t that Mrs. Dolphin’s anything so great, most of my

friends are better than that!—but she’s the one woman who _knows_, and

every one seems to know she knows. _He_ knows it, and he knows she

doesn’t come. So she kills me—she kills me! I understand perfectly what

he wants—I’ll do everything, be anything, I’ll be the most perfect wife.

The old woman will adore me when she knows me—it’s too stupid of her not

to see. Everything in the past’s over; it has all fallen away from me;

it’s the life of another woman. This was what I wanted; I knew I should

find it some day. I knew I should be at home in the best—and with the

highest. What could I do in those horrible places? I had to take what I

could. But now I’ve got nice surroundings. I want you to do me justice.

You’ve never done me justice. That’s what I sent for you for.”

Littlemore had suddenly ceased to be bored, but a variety of feelings had

taken the place of that one. It was impossible not to be touched; she

really meant what she said. People don’t change their nature, but they

change their desires, their ideal, their effort. This incoherent

passionate plea was an assurance that she was literally panting to be

respectable. But the poor woman, whatever she did, was condemned, as he

had said of old, in Paris, to Waterville, to be only half right. The

colour rose to her visitor’s face as he listened to her outpouring of

anxiety and egotism; she hadn’t managed her early life very well, but

there was no need of her going down on her knees. “It’s very painful to

me to hear all this. You’re under no obligation to say such things to

me. You entirely misconceive my attitude—my influence.”

“Oh yes, you shirk it—you only wish to shirk it!” she cried, flinging

away fiercely the sofa-cushion on which she had been resting.

“Marry whom you damn please!” Littlemore quite shouted, springing to his

feet.

He had hardly spoken when the door was thrown open and the servant

announced Sir Arthur Demesne. This shy adventurer entered with a certain

briskness, but stopped short on seeing Mrs. Headway engaged with another

guest. Recognising Littlemore, however, he gave a light exclamation

which might have passed for a greeting. Mrs. Headway, who had risen as

he came in, looked with wonderful eyes from one of the men to the other;

then, like a person who had a sudden inspiration, she clasped her hands

together and cried out: “I’m so glad you’ve met. If I had arranged it it

couldn’t be better!”

“If you had arranged it?” said Sir Arthur, crinkling a little his high

white forehead, while the conviction rose before Littlemore that she had

indeed arranged it.

“I’m going to do something very queer”—and her extravagant manner

confirmed her words.

“You’re excited, I’m afraid you’re ill.” Sir Arthur stood there with his

hat and his stick; he was evidently much annoyed.

“It’s an excellent opportunity; you must forgive me if I take advantage.”

And she flashed a tender touching ray at the Baronet. “I’ve wanted this

a long time—perhaps you’ve seen I wanted it. Mr. Littlemore has known me

from far back; he’s an old old friend. I told you that in Paris, don’t

you remember? Well he’s my only one, and I want him to speak for me.”

Her eyes had turned now to Littlemore; they rested upon him with a

sweetness that only made the whole proceeding more audacious. She had

begun to smile again, though she was visibly trembling. “He’s my only

one,” she continued; “it’s a great pity, you ought to have known others.

But I’m very much alone and must make the best of what I have. I want so

much that some one else than myself should speak for me. Women usually

can ask that service of a relative or of another woman. I can’t; it’s a

great pity, but it’s not my fault, it’s my misfortune. None of my people

are here—I’m terribly alone in the world. But Mr. Littlemore will tell

you; he’ll say he has known me for ever so long. He’ll tell you if he

knows any reason—if there’s anything against me. He has been wanting the

chance—he thought he couldn’t begin himself. You see I treat you as an

old friend, dear Mr. Littlemore. I’ll leave you with Sir Arthur. You’ll

both excuse me.” The expression of her face, turned towards Littlemore

as she delivered herself of this singular proposal, had the intentness of

a magician who wishes to work a spell. She darted at Sir Arthur another

pleading ray and then swept out of the room.

The two men remained in the extraordinary position she had created for

them; neither of them moved even to open the door for her. She closed it

behind her, and for a moment there was a deep portentous silence. Sir

Arthur Demesne, very pale, stared hard at the carpet.

“I’m placed in an impossible situation,” Littlemore said at last, “and I

don’t imagine you accept it any more than I do.” His fellow-visitor kept

the same attitude, neither looking up nor answering. Littlemore felt a

sudden gush of pity for him. Of course he couldn’t accept the situation,

but all the same he was half-sick with anxiety to see how this

nondescript American, who was both so precious and so superfluous, so

easy and so abysmal, would consider Mrs. Headway’s challenge. “Have you

any question to ask me?” Littlemore went on. At which Sir Arthur looked

up. The other had seen the look before; he had described it to

Waterville after Mrs. Headway’s admirer came to call on him in Paris.

There were other things mingled with it now—shame, annoyance, pride; but

the great thing, the intense desire to _know_, was paramount. “Good God,

how can I tell him?” seemed to hum in Littlemore’s ears.

Sir Arthur’s hesitation would have been of the briefest; but his

companion heard the tick of the clock while it lasted. “Certainly I’ve

no question to ask,” the young man said in a voice of cool almost

insolent surprise.

“Good-day then, confound you.”

“The same to you!”

But Littlemore left him in possession. He expected to find Mrs. Headway

at the foot of the staircase; but he quitted the house without

interruption.

On the morrow, after luncheon, as he was leaving the vain retreat at

Queen Anne’s Gate, the postman handed him a letter. Littlemore opened

and read it on the steps, an operation which took but a moment.

DEAR MR. LITTLEMORE—It will interest you to know that I’m engaged to

be married to Sir Arthur Demesne and that our marriage is to take

place as soon as their stupid old Parliament rises. But it’s not to

come out for some days, and I’m sure I can trust meanwhile to your

complete discretion.

Yours very sincerely,

NANCY H.

_P.S._—He made me a terrible scene for what I did yesterday, but he

came back in the evening and we fixed it all right. That’s how the

thing comes to be settled. He won’t tell me what passed between

you—he requested me never to allude to the subject. I don’t care—I

was bound you should speak!

Littlemore thrust this epistle into his pocket and marched away with it.

He had come out on various errands, but he forgot his business for the

time and before he knew it had walked into Hyde Park. He left the

carriages and riders to one side and followed the Serpentine into

Kensington Gardens, of which he made the complete circuit. He felt

annoyed, and more disappointed than he understood—than he would have

understood if he had tried. Now that Nancy Beck had succeeded her

success was an irritation, and he was almost sorry he hadn’t said to Sir

Arthur: “Oh well, she was pretty bad, you know.” However, now they were

at one they would perhaps leave him alone. He walked the irritation off

and before he went about his original purposes had ceased to think of

Mrs. Headway. He went home at six o’clock, and the servant who admitted

him informed him in doing so that Mrs. Dolphin had requested he should be

told on his return that she wished to see him in the drawing-room. “It’s

another trap!” he said to himself instinctively; but in spite of this

reflexion he went upstairs. On entering his sister’s presence he found

she had a visitor. This visitor, to all appearance on the point of

departing, was a tall elderly woman, and the two ladies stood together in

the middle of the room.

“I’m so glad you’ve come back,” said Mrs. Dolphin without meeting her

brother’s eye. “I want so much to introduce you to Lady Demesne that I

hoped you’d come in. Must you really go—won’t you stay a little?” she

added, turning to her companion; and without waiting for an answer went

on hastily: “I must leave you a moment—excuse me. I’ll come back!”

Before he knew it Littlemore found himself alone with her ladyship and

understood that since he hadn’t been willing to go and see her she had

taken upon herself to make an advance. It had the queerest effect, all

the same, to see his sister playing the same tricks as Nancy Beck!

“Ah, she must be in a fidget!” he said to himself as he stood before Lady

Demesne. She looked modest and aloof, even timid, as far as a tall

serene woman who carried her head very well could look so; and she was

such a different type from Mrs. Headway that his present vision of

Nancy’s triumph gave her by contrast something of the dignity of the

vanquished. It made him feel as sorry for her as he had felt for her

son. She lost no time; she went straight to the point. She evidently

felt that in the situation in which she had placed herself her only

advantage could consist in being simple and business-like.

“I’m so fortunate as to catch you. I wish so much to ask you if you can

give me any information about a person you know and about whom I have

been in correspondence with Mrs. Dolphin. I mean Mrs. Headway.”

“Won’t you sit down?” asked Littlemore.

“No, thank you. I’ve only a moment.”

“May I ask you why you make this inquiry?”

“Of course I must give you my reason. I’m afraid my son will marry her.”

Littlemore was puzzled—then saw she wasn’t yet aware of the fact imparted

to him in Mrs. Headway’s note. “You don’t like her?” he asked,

exaggerating, in spite of himself, the interrogative inflexion.

“Not at all,” said Lady Demesne, smiling and looking at him. Her smile

was gentle, without rancour; he thought it almost beautiful.

“What would you like me to say?” he asked.

“Whether you think her respectable.”

“What good will that do you? How can it possibly affect the event?”

“It will do me no good, of course, if your opinion’s favourable. But if

you tell me it’s not I shall be able to say to my son that the one person

in London who has known her more than six months thinks so and so of

her.”

This speech, on Lady Demesne’s clear lips, evoked no protest from her

listener. He had suddenly become conscious of the need to utter the

simple truth with which he had answered Rupert Waterville’s first

question at the Théâtre Français. He brought it out. “I don’t think

Mrs. Headway respectable.”

“I was sure you would say that.” She seemed to pant a little.

“I can say nothing more—not a word. That’s my opinion. I don’t think it

will help you.”

“I think it will. I wanted to have it from your own lips. That makes

all the difference,” said Lady Demesne. “I’m exceedingly obliged to

you.” And she offered him her hand; after which he accompanied her in

silence to the door.

He felt no discomfort, no remorse, at what he had said; he only felt

relief—presumably because he believed it would make no difference. It

made a difference only in what was at the bottom of all things—his own

sense of fitness. He only wished he had driven it home that Mrs. Headway

would probably be for her son a capital wife. But that at least would

make no difference. He requested his sister, who had wondered greatly at

the brevity of his interview with her friend, to spare him all questions

on the subject; and Mrs. Dolphin went about for some days in the happy

faith that there were to be no dreadful Americans in English society

compromising her native land.

Her faith, however, was short-lived. Nothing had made any difference; it

was perhaps too late. The London world heard in the first days of July,

not that Sir Arthur Demesne was to marry Mrs. Headway, but that the pair

had been privately and, it was to be hoped as regards Mrs. Headway on

this occasion, indissolubly united. His mother gave neither sign nor

sound; she only retired to the country.

“I think you might have done differently,” said Mrs. Dolphin, very pale,

to her brother. “But of course everything will come out now.”

“Yes, and make her more the fashion than ever!” Littlemore answered with

cynical laughter. After his little interview with the elder Lady Demesne

he didn’t feel at liberty to call again on the younger; and he never

learned—he never even wished to know—whether in the pride of her success

she forgave him.

Waterville—it was very strange—was positively scandalised at this

success. He held that Mrs. Headway ought never to have been allowed to

marry a confiding gentleman, and he used in speaking to Littlemore the

same words as Mrs. Dolphin. He thought Littlemore might have done

differently. But he spoke with such vehemence that Littlemore looked at

him hard—hard enough to make him blush. “Did you want to marry her

yourself?” his friend inquired. “My dear fellow, you’re in love with

her! That’s what’s the matter with you.”

This, however, blushing still more, Waterville indignantly denied. A

little later he heard from New York that people were beginning to ask who

in the world Lady Demesne “had been.”