The effect of my visit to Bridges was to turn me out for more
profundity. Hugh Vereker, as I saw him there, was of a contact so void
of angles that I blushed for the poverty of imagination involved in my
small precautions. If he was in spirits it was not because he had read
my review; in fact on the Sunday morning I felt sure he hadn’t read
it, though _The Middle_ had been out three days and bloomed, I assured
myself, in the stiff garden of periodicals which gave one of the ormolu
tables the air of a stand at a station. The impression he made on me
personally was such that I wished him to read it, and I corrected to
this end with a surreptitious hand what might be wanting in the careless
conspicuity of the sheet. I am afraid I even watched the result of my
manouvre, but up to luncheon I watched in vain.
When afterwards, in the course of our gregarious walk, I found myself
for half an hour, not perhaps without another manoeuvre, at the great
man’s side, the result of his affability was a still livelier desire
that he should not remain in ignorance of the peculiar justice I had
done him. It was not that he seemed to thirst for justice; on the
contrary I had not yet caught in his talk the faintest grunt of a
grudge--a note for which my young experience had already given me an
ear. Of late he had had more recognition, and it was pleasant, as we
used to say in _The Middle_, to see that it drew him out. He wasn’t of
course popular, but I judged one of the sources of his good humour to be
precisely that his success was independent of that. He had none the less
become in a manner the fashion; the critics at least had put on a spurt
and caught up with him. We had found out at last how clever he was, and
he had had to make the best of the loss of his mystery. I was strongly
tempted, as I walked beside him, to let him know how much of that
unveiling was my act; and there was a moment when I probably should have
done so had not one of the ladies of our party, snatching a place at
his other elbow, just then appealed to him in a spirit comparatively
selfish. It was very discouraging: I almost felt the liberty had been
taken with myself.
I had had on my tongue’s end, for my own part, a phrase or two about
the right word at the right time; but later on I was glad not to have
spoken, for when on our return we clustered at tea I perceived Lady
Jane, who had not been out with us, brandishing _The Middle_ with her
longest arm. She had taken it up at her leisure; she was delighted with
what she had found, and I saw that, as a mistake in a man may often be a
felicity in a woman, she would practically do for me what I hadn’t
been able to do for myself. “Some sweet little truths that needed to be
spoken,” I heard her declare, thrusting the paper at rather a bewildered
couple by the fireplace. She grabbed it away from them again on the
reappearance of Hugh Vereker, who after our walk had been upstairs to
change something. “I know you don’t in general look at this kind of
thing, but it’s an occasion really for doing so. You _haven’t_ seen it?
Then you must. The man has actually got _at_ you, at what _I_ always
feel, you know.” Lady Jane threw into her eyes a look evidently intended
to give an idea of what she always felt; but she added that she couldn’t
have expressed it. The man in the paper expressed it in a striking
manner. “Just see there, and there, where I’ve dashed it, how he brings
it out.” She had literally marked for him the brightest patches of my
prose, and if I was a little amused Vereker himself may well have been.
He showed how much he was when before us all Lady Jane wanted to read
something aloud. I liked at any rate the way he defeated her purpose
by jerking the paper affectionately out of her clutch. He would take it
upstairs with him, would look at it on going to dress. He did this half
an hour later--I saw it in his hand when he repaired to his room. That
was the moment at which, thinking to give her pleasure, I mentioned to
Lady Jane that I was the author of the review. I did give her pleasure,
I judged, but perhaps not quite so much as I had expected. If the author
was “only me” the thing didn’t seem quite so remarkable. Hadn’t I had
the effect rather of diminishing the lustre of the article than of
adding to my own? Her ladyship was subject to the most extraordinary
drops. It didn’t matter; the only effect I cared about was the one it
would have on Vereker up there by his bedroom fire.
At dinner I watched for the signs of this impression, tried to fancy
there was some happier light in his eyes; but to my disappointment
Lady Jane gave me no chance to make sure. I had hoped she would call
triumphantly down the table, publicly demand if she hadn’t been right.
The party was large--there were people from outside as well, but I had
never seen a table long enough to deprive Lady Jane of a triumph. I was
just reflecting in truth that this interminable board would deprive
_me_ of one, when the guest next me, dear woman--she was Miss Poyle, the
vicar’s sister, a robust, unmodulated person--had the happy inspiration
and the unusual courage to address herself across it to Vereker, who
was opposite, but not directly, so that when he replied they were both
leaning forward. She inquired, artless body, what he thought of Lady
Jane’s “panegyric,” which she had read--not connecting it however with
her right-hand neighbour; and while I strained my ear for his reply I
heard him, to my stupefaction, call back gaily, with his mouth full of
bread: “Oh, it’s all right--it’s the usual twaddle!”
I had caught Vereker’s glance as he spoke, but Miss Poyle’s surprise was
a fortunate cover for my own. “You mean he doesn’t do you justice?” said
the excellent woman.
Vereker laughed out, and I was happy to be able to do the same. “It’s a
charming article,” he tossed us.
Miss Poyle thrust her chin half across the cloth.
“Oh you’re so deep!” she drove home.
“As deep as the ocean! All I pretend is, the author doesn’t see--”
A dish was at this point passed over his shoulder, and we had to wait
while he helped himself.
“Doesn’t see what?” my neighbour continued.
“Doesn’t see anything.”
“Dear me--how very stupid!”
“Not a bit,” Vereker laughed again. “Nobody does.”
The lady on his further side appealed to him, and Miss Poyle sank back
to me. “Nobody sees anything!” she cheerfully announced; to which I
replied that I had often thought so too, but had somehow taken the
thought for a proof on my own part of a tremendous eye. I didn’t tell
her the article was mine; and I observed that Lady Jane, occupied at the
end of the table, had not caught Vereker’s words.
I rather avoided him after dinner, for I confess he struck me as cruelly
conceited, and the revelation was a pain. “The usual twaddle”--my acute
little study! That one’s admiration should have had a reserve or two
could gall him to that point? I had thought him placid, and he was
placid enough; such a surface was the hard, polished glass that encased
the bauble of his vanity. I was really ruffled, the only comfort was
that if nobody saw anything George Corvick was quite as much out of
it as I. This comfort however was not sufficient, after the ladies had
dispersed, to carry me in the proper manner--I mean in a spotted
jacket and humming an air--into the smoking-room. I took my way in some
dejection to bed; but in the passage I encountered Mr. Vereker, who had
been up once more to change, coming out of his room. _He_ was humming
an air and had on a spotted jacket, and as soon as he saw me his gaiety
gave a start.
“My dear young man,” he exclaimed, “I’m so glad to lay hands on you! I’m
afraid I most unwittingly wounded you by those words of mine at dinner
to Miss Poyle. I learned but half an hour ago from Lady Jane that you
wrote the little notice in _The Middle_.”
I protested that no bones were broken; but he moved with me to my own
door, his hand on my shoulder, kindly feeling for a fracture; and on
hearing that I had come up to bed he asked leave to cross my threshold
and just tell me in three words what his qualification of my remarks had
represented. It was plain he really feared I was hurt, and the sense of
his solicitude suddenly made all the difference to me. My cheap review
fluttered off into space, and the best things I had said in it became
flat enough beside the brilliancy of his being there. I can see him
there still, on my rug, in the firelight and his spotted jacket, his
fine, clear face all bright with the desire to be tender to my youth. I
don’t know what he had at first meant to say, but I think the sight of
my relief touched him, excited him, brought up words to his lips from
far within. It was so these words presently conveyed to me something
that, as I afterwards knew, he had never uttered to any one. I have
always done justice to the generous impulse that made him speak; it was
simply compunction for a snub unconsciously administered to a man of
letters in a position inferior to his own, a man of letters moreover in
the very act of praising him. To make the thing right he talked to me
exactly as an equal and on the ground of what we both loved best. The
hour, the place, the unexpectedness deepened the impression: he couldn’t
have done anything more exquisitely successful.