When five years had passed after the divorce, the Liberal Party
came into power again, and George Heriot, Q.C., M.P., was appointed
Solicitor-General. His work and ambitions had not sufficed to mend
the gap in his life; but it had been in work and ambition that he
endeavoured to find assuagement of the wound. Perhaps eagerness
had never been so keen in him after his wife went as while he was
contesting the borough that he represented now; perhaps he had never
realised the inadequacy of success so fully as he did to-day when one
of the richest prizes of his profession was obtained. Conscious that
the anticipated flavour was lacking, the steps to which he might look
forward still lost much of their allurement. Were he promoted to the
post of Attorney-General, and raised to the Bench, he foresaw that it
would elate him no more than it elated him now, as Sir George Heriot,
and a very wealthy man, to recall the period when, as a struggling
Junior, he had sat up half the night to earn a guinea.
The five years had left their mark upon him; the hours of misery which
no one suspected had left their mark upon him. The lines about his eyes
and mouth had deepened; his hair was greyer, his figure less erect. Men
who, in their turn, sat up half the night to earn a guinea, envied him,
cited his career as an example of brilliant luck--the success of others
is always "luck"--and, though they assumed that a fellow was "generally
cut up a bit when his wife went wrong," found it difficult to conceive
that Sir George had permitted domestic trouble to alloy his triumphs
to any great extent. Nobody imagined that there were still nights when
he suffered scarcely less acutely than on the one when he returned to
discover that Mamie had gone; nobody guessed that there were evenings
when his loneliness was almost unbearable to the dry, self-contained
man--that moments came when he took from a drawer the likeness that
had once stood on his desk and yearned over it in despair. That was
his secret; pride forbade that he should share it with another. He
contemned himself that he did suffer still. A worthless woman should
not be mourned. Out of his life should be out of his memory; such
weakness shamed him!
In August, a week or so after the vacation began, he went to stay at
Sandhills. His object in going to Sandhills was not wholly to see
his brother, and still less was it to see his sister-in-law. He was
solitary, he was wretched, and he was only forty-seven years of age. He
had been questioning for some time whether the wisest thing he could
do would not be to marry again; he sought no resumption of rapture,
but he wanted a home. An estimable wife, perhaps a son, would supply
new interests; and the vague question that had entered his mind had
latterly been emphasised by his introduction to Miss Pierways, who, he
was aware, was now the guest of Lady Heriot.
Miss Pierways was the daughter of a lady who had been the Hon. Mrs.
Pierways, and whose straitened circumstances had debarred her from the
suite in Hampton Court that she might otherwise have had at the period
of her husband's death. The widow and the girl had retired to obscure
lodgings; the only break in the monotony of the latter's existence
being an occasional visit to some connections, or friends, at whose
places it was hoped she might form a desirable alliance. The most
stringent economies had to be practised in order to procure passable
frocks for these visits, but the opportunities had led to no result,
though she had beauty. And then an extraordinary event occurred. When
the girl was twenty-eight, the widow who, for once, had reluctantly
accepted an invitation to accompany her, received an offer of marriage
herself, and became the wife of an American who was known to be several
times over a millionaire.
For one door that had been ajar to the daughter of the Hon. Mrs.
Pierways, with nothing but her birth and her appearance to recommend
her, a hundred doors flew open to the step-daughter of Henry Van Buren;
and it was shortly after the startling metamorphosis in the fortunes of
the pair that Heriot had first met them.
The dowry that Agnes Pierways might bring to her husband weighed
with him very little, for he was in a position to disregard such
considerations. But Miss Pierways' personality appeared to him
suggestive of all the qualifications that he sought in the lady whom
he should marry. Without her manner being impulsive or girlish, she
was sufficiently young to be attractive. She was handsome, and in a
slightly statuesque fashion that bore promise of the serenity which he
told himself was now his aim. Certainly if he did re-marry--and he was
contemplating the step very seriously--it would be difficult to secure
a partner to fulfil his requirements more admirably than Miss Pierways.
Whether he fulfilled hers, he could ascertain when he had fully made up
his mind. It was with the intention of making up his mind, in proximity
to the lady, that he had gone to Sandhills; and one evening, when he
was alone in the smoking-room with his brother, the latter blundered
curiously enough on to the bull's-eye of his meditations.
"I wonder," said Sir Francis, "that you've never thought of
re-marrying, George?"
"My experience of matrimony was not fortunate," answered Heriot,
smoking slowly, but with inward perturbation.
"Your experience of matrimony was a colossal folly. All things
considered, the consequences might easily have been a good deal worse."
"I don't follow you."
"Between ourselves, the end never seemed to me so regrettable as you
think it."
"My wife left me."
"And you divorced her! And you have no children."
"If I had had children," said Heriot musingly, "it is a fact that the
consequences would have been worse."
"But in any case," said the Baronet, "it was a huge mistake. Really one
may be frank, in the circumstances! You married madly. The probability
is that if your wife had been--if you were living together still, you
would be a miserable man to-day. It was a very lamentable affair, of
course, when it happened, but regarding it coolly--in looking back on
it--don't you fancy that perhaps things are just as well as they are?"
"I was very fond of my wife," replied Heriot, engrossed by his cigar.
"To an extent," said Sir Francis indulgently, "no doubt you had an
affection for her. But, my dear fellow, what companionship had you? Was
she a companion?"
"I don't know."
"Was she interested in your career? Could she understand your ways of
thought? Was she used to your world? One doesn't ask a great deal of
women, but had you any single thing in common?"
"I don't know," said Heriot again.
Sir Francis shrugged his shoulders.
"Take my word for it that, with such a girl as you married, your
divorce wasn't an unmixed evil. It wasn't the release one would have
chosen, but at least it was better for you than being tied to her for
life. Damn it, George! what's the use of blinking the matter now? She
was absolutely unsuited to you in every way; you must admit it!"
"I suppose she was. At the same time I was happy with her."
"How long would the infatuation have lasted?"
"It lasted more than three years."
"Would it have lasted another five?"
"Speaking honestly, I believe it would."
"Though you had nothing in common?"
"I don't explain," said Heriot. "I tell you, I was happy with her,
that's all. Viewing it dispassionately, I suppose she _was_ unsuited to
me--I don't know that we did have anything in common; I don't see any
justification for the fool's paradise I lived in. But for all that, if
I married again, I should never care for the woman as--as I cared for
_her_. In fact, I should merely marry to----" He was about to say "to
try to forget her"--"to make a home for myself," he said, instead.
"Have you considered such a step?" asked Sir Francis.
"Sometimes, yes."
"The best thing you could do--a very proper thing for you to do....
Anybody in particular?"
"It's rather premature----"
"You're not in chambers, old fellow!"
"What do you think of Miss Pierways?" inquired Heriot after a scarcely
perceptible pause.
"A very excellent choice! I should congratulate you heartily. We had
not noticed the---- And Catherine is very acute in these matters----"
"There has been nothing to notice; probably she would refuse me
point-blank. But in the event of my determining to marry again, I've
wondered whether Miss Pierways wouldn't be the lady I proposed to."
"I don't think you could do better."
"Really? You don't think I'm too old for her?"
"On my honour! 'Too old for her'? Not a bit, a very sensible marriage!
I'm not surprised that you should be attracted by her."
"'Attracted by her,'" said Heriot, "suggests rather more than the
actual facts. I appreciate her qualities, but I can't say I'm sensible
of any attachment. I'm sorry that I'm not. I appreciate her so fully
that I am anxious to be drawn towards her a little more. I'm somewhat
past the age for ardent devotion, but I couldn't take a wife as I
might buy a horse. Of course, I've not been very much in her society.
Er--down here, I daresay, when I come to know her better---- Have you
met Van Buren?"
"In town, before he sailed. He is in New York, you know. I like them
all. We were very pleased to have the mother and the girl come to
us.... Well, make your hay while the sun shines!"
"It isn't shining," said Heriot; "I'm just looking east, waiting for
it to rise. But I'm glad to have talked to you; as soon as the first
ray comes I think I'll take your advice. I _ought_ to marry, Francis; I
know you're right."