by Henry James
“It must certainly be odd to them to see a ‘medical man’ with six or eight millions,” Mr. Freer conceded.
“They use much the same term as the Choctaws,” said his wife.
“Why, some of their own physicians make immense fortunes,” Sidney Feeder remarked.
“Couldn’t he,” she went on, “be made a baronet by the Queen?”
“Yes, then he’d be aristocratic,” said the young man. “But I don’t see why he should want to marry over here; it seems to me to be going out of his way. However, if he’s happy I don’t care. I like him very much; he has ‘A1’ ability. If it hadn’t been for his father he’d have made a splendid doctor. But, as I say, he takes a great interest in medical science and I guess he means to promote it all he can—with his big fortune. He’ll be sure to keep up his interest in research. He thinks we do know something and is bound we shall know more. I hope she won’t lower him, the young marchioness—is that her rank? And I hope they’re really good people. He ought to be very useful. I should want to know a good deal about the foreign family I was going to marry into.”
“He looked to me, riding there, as if he knew a good deal about the Clements,” Dexter Freer said, getting to his feet as his wife suggested they ought to be going; “and he looked to me pleased with the knowledge. There they come down the other side. Will you walk away with us or will you stay?”
“Stop him and ask him, and then come and tell us—in Jermyn Street.” This was Mrs. Freer’s parting injunction to Sidney Feeder.
“He ought to come himself—tell him that,” her husband added.
“Well, I guess I’ll stay,” said the young man as his companions merged themselves in the crowd that now was tending toward the gates. He went and stood by the barrier and saw Doctor Lemon and his friends pull up at the entrance to the Row, where they apparently prepared to separate. The separation took some time and Jackson’s colleague became interested. Lord Canterville and his younger daughter lingered to talk with two gentlemen, also mounted, who looked a good deal at the legs of Lady Agatha’s horse. Doctor Lemon and Lady Barb were face to face, very near each other, and she, leaning forward a little, stroked the overlapping neck of his glossy bay. At a distance he appeared to be talking and she to be listening without response. “Oh yes, he’s making love to her,” thought Sidney Feeder. Suddenly her father and sister turned away to leave the Park, and she joined them and disappeared while Doctor Lemon came up on the left again as for a final gallop. He hadn’t gone far before he perceived his confrère, who awaited him at the rail; and he repeated the gesture Lady Barb had described as a kiss of the hand, though it had not to his friend’s eyes that full grace. When he came within hail he pulled up.
“If I had known you were coming here I’d have given you a mount,” he immediately and bountifully cried. There was not in his person that irradiation of wealth and distinction which made Lord Canterville glow like a picture; but as he sat there with his neat little legs stuck out he looked very bright and sharp and happy, wearing in his degree the aspect of one of Fortune’s favourites. He had a thin keen delicate face, a nose very carefully finished, a quick eye, a trifle hard in expression, and a fine dark moustache, a good deal cultivated. He was not striking, but he had his intensity, and it was easy to see that he had his purposes.
“How many horses have you got—about forty?” his compatriot inquired in response to his greeting.
“About five hundred,” said Jackson Lemon.
“Did you mount your friends—the three you were riding with?”
“Mount them? They’ve got the best horses in England.”
“Did they sell you this one?” Sidney Feeder continued in the same humorous strain.
“What do you think of him?” said his friend without heed of this question.
“Well, he’s an awful old screw. I wonder he can carry you.”
“Where did you get your hat?” Jackson asked both as a retort and as a relevant criticism.
“I got it in New York. What’s the matter with it?”
“It’s very beautiful. I wish I had brought over one like it.”
“The head’s the thing—not the hat. I don’t mean yours—I mean mine,” Sidney Feeder laughed. “There’s something very deep in your question. I must think it over.”
“Don’t—don’t,” said Jackson Lemon; “you’ll never get to the bottom of it. Are you having a good time?”
“A glorious time. Have you been up to-day?”
“Up among the doctors? No—I’ve had a lot of things to do,” Jackson was obliged to plead.
“Well”—and his friend richly recovered it—“we had a very interesting discussion. I made a few remarks.”
“You ought to have told me. What were they about?”
“About the intermarriage of races from the point of view—” And Sidney Feeder paused a moment, occupied with the attempt to scratch the nose of the beautiful horse.
“From the point of view of the progeny, I suppose?”
“Not at all. From the point of view of the old friends.”
“Damn the old friends!” Doctor Lemon exclaimed with jocular crudity.
“Is it true that you’re going to marry a young marchioness?”
The face of the speaker in the saddle became just a trifle rigid, and his firm eyes penetrated the other. “Who has played that on you?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Freer, whom I met just now.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Freer be hanged too. And who told them?”
“Ever so many fashionable people. I don’t know who.”
“Gad, how things are tattled!” cried Jackson Lemon with asperity.
“I can see it’s true by the way you say that,” his friend ingenuously stated.
“Do Freer and his wife believe it?” Jackson went on impatiently.
“They want you to go and see them. You can judge for yourself.”
“I’ll go and see them and tell them to mind their business.”
“In Jermyn Street; but I forget the number. I’m sorry the marchioness isn’t one of ours,” Doctor Feeder continued.
“If I should marry her she would be quick enough. But I don’t see what difference it can make to you,” said Jackson.
“Why, she’ll look down on the profession, and I don’t like that from your wife.”
“That will touch me more than you.”
“Then it is true?” Doctor Feeder cried with a finer appeal.
“She won’t look down. I’ll answer for that.”
“You won’t care. You’re out of it all now.”
“No, I’m not. I mean to do no end of work.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” said Sidney Feeder, who was by no means perfectly incredulous, but who thought it salutary to take that tone. “I’m not sure you’ve any right to work—you oughtn’t to have everything; you ought to leave the field to us, not take the bread out of our mouths and get the kudos. You must pay the penalty of being bloated. You’d have been celebrated if you had continued to practise—more celebrated than any one. But you won’t be now—you can’t be any way you fix it. Some one else is going to be in your place.”
Jackson Lemon listened to this, but without meeting the eyes of the prophet; not, however, as if he were avoiding them, but as if the long stretch of the Ride, now less and less obstructed, irresistibly drew him off again and made his companion’s talk retarding. Nevertheless he answered deliberately and kindly enough. “I hope it will be you, old boy.” And he bowed to a lady who rode past.
“Very likely it will. I hope I make you feel mean. That’s what I’m trying to do.”
“Oh awfully!” Jackson cried. “All the more that I’m not in the least engaged.”
“Well, that’s good. Won’t you come up to-morrow?” Doctor Feeder went on.
“I’ll try, my dear fellow. I can’t be sure. By-bye!”
“Oh you’re lost anyway!” sighed Sidney Feeder as the other started away.
II
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br /> IT WAS Lady Marmaduke, wife of Sir Henry of that clan, who had introduced the amusing young American to Lady Beauchemin; after which Lady Beauchemin had made him acquainted with her mother and sisters. Lady Marmaduke too was of outland strain, remaining for her conjugal baronet the most ponderable consequence of a tour in the United States. At present, by the end of ten years, she knew her London as she had never known her New York, so that it had been easy for her to be, as she called herself, Jackson’s social godmother. She had views with regard to his career, and these views fitted into a scheme of high policy which, if our space permitted, I should be glad to lay before the reader in its magnitude. She wished to add an arch or two to the bridge on which she had effected her transit from America; and it was her belief that Doctor Lemon might furnish the materials. This bridge, as yet a somewhat sketchy and rickety structure, she saw—in the future—boldly stretch from one solid pier to another. It could but serve both ways, for reciprocity was the keynote of Lady Marmaduke’s plan. It was her belief that an ultimate fusion was inevitable and that those who were the first to understand the situation would enjoy the biggest returns from it. The first time the young man had dined with her he met Lady Beauchemin, who was her intimate friend. Lady Beauchemin was remarkably gracious, asking him to come and see her as if she really meant it. He in fact presented himself and in her drawing-room met her mother, who happened to be calling at the same moment. Lady Canterville, not less friendly than her daughter, invited him down to Pasterns for Eastertide, and before a month had passed it struck him that, though he was not what he would have called intimate at any house in London, the door of the house of Clement opened to him pretty often. This seemed no small good fortune, for it always opened upon a charming picture. The inmates were a blooming and beautiful race, and their interior had an aspect of the ripest comfort. It was not the splendour of New York—as New York had lately begun to appear to the young man—but an appearance and a set of conditions, of factors as he used to say, not to be set in motion in that city by any power of purchase. He himself had a great deal of money, and money was good even when it was new; but old money was somehow more to the shilling and the pound. Even after he learned that Lord Canterville’s fortune was less present than past it was still the positive golden glow that struck him. It was Lady Beauchemin who had told him her father wasn’t rich; having told him furthermore many surprising things—things both surprising in themselves and surprising on her lips. This was to come home to him afresh that evening—the day he met Sidney Feeder in the Park. He dined out in the company of Lady Beauchemin, and afterwards, as she was alone—her husband had gone down to listen to a debate—she offered to “take him on.” She was going to several places, at some of which he must be due. They compared notes, and it was settled they should proceed together to the Trumpingtons’, whither, it appeared at eleven o’clock, all the world was proceeding, with the approach to the house choked for half a mile with carriages. It was a close muggy night; Lady Beauchemin’s chariot, in its place in the rank, stood still for long periods. In his corner beside her, through the open window, Jackson Lemon, rather hot, rather oppressed, looked out on the moist greasy pavement, over which was flung, a considerable distance up and down, the flare of a public-house. Lady Beauchemin, however, was not impatient, for she had a purpose in her mind, and now she could say what she wished.
“Do you really love her?” That was the first thing she said.
“Well, I guess so,” Jackson Lemon answered as if he didn’t recognise the obligation to be serious.
She looked at him a moment in silence; he felt her gaze and, turning his eyes, saw her face, partly shadowed, with the aid of a street-lamp. She was not so pretty as Lady Barb; her features had a certain sharpness; her hair, very light in colour and wonderfully frizzled, almost covered her eyes, the expression of which, however, together with that of her pointed nose and the glitter of several diamonds, emerged from the gloom. What she next said seemed somehow to fall in with that. “You don’t seem to know. I never saw a man in so vague a state.”
“You push me a little too much; I must have time to think of it,” the young man returned. “You know in my country they allow us plenty of time.” He had several little oddities of expression, of which he was perfectly conscious and which he found convenient, for they guarded him in a society condemning a lonely New Yorker who proceeded by native inspiration to much exposure; they ensured him the profit corresponding with sundry sacrifices. He had no great assortment of vernacular drolleries, conscious or unconscious, to draw upon; but the occasional use of one, discreetly chosen, made him appear simpler than he really was, and reasons determined his desiring this result. He was not simple; he was subtle, circumspect, shrewd—perfectly aware that he might make mistakes. There was a danger of his making one now—a mistake that might gravely count. He was resolved only to succeed. It is true that for a great success he would take a certain risk; but the risk was to be considered, and he gained time while he multiplied his guesses and talked about his country.
“You may take ten years if you like,” said Lady Beauchemin. “I’m in no hurry whatever to make you my brother-in-law. Only you must remember that you spoke to me first.”
“What did I say?”
“You spoke to me of Barb as the finest girl you had seen in England.”
“Oh I’m willing to stand by that.” And he had another try, which would have been transparent to a compatriot. “I guess I like her type.”
“I should think you might!”
“I like her all round—with all her peculiarities.”
“What do you mean by her peculiarities?”
“Well, she has some peculiar ideas,” said Jackson Lemon in a tone of the sweetest reasonableness, “and she has a peculiar way of speaking.”
“Ah, you can’t expect us to speak so well as you!” cried Lady Beauchemin.
“I don’t see why not.” He was perfectly candid. “You do some things much better.”
“We’ve our own ways at any rate, and we think them the best in the world—as they mostly are!” laughed Lady Beauchemin. “One of them’s not to let a gentleman devote himself to a girl for so long a time without some sense of responsibility. If you don’t wish to marry my sister you ought to go away.”
“I ought never to have come,” said Jackson Lemon.
“I can scarcely agree to that,” her ladyship good-naturedly replied, “as in that case I should have lost the pleasure of knowing you.”
“It would have spared you this duty, which you dislike very much.”
“Asking you about your intentions? Oh I don’t dislike it at all!” she cried. “It amuses me extremely.”
“Should you like your sister to marry me?” asked Jackson with great simplicity.
If he expected to take her by surprise he was disappointed: she was perfectly prepared to commit herself. “I should like it particularly. I think English and American society ought to be but one. I mean the best of each. A great whole.”
“Will you allow me to ask whether Lady Marmaduke suggested that to you?” he at once inquired.
“We’ve often talked of it.”
“Oh yes, that’s her aim.”
“Well, it’s my aim too. I think there’s a lot to be done.”
“And you’d like me to do it?”
“To begin it, precisely. Don’t you think we ought to see more of each other? I mean,” she took the precaution to explain, “just the best in each country.”
Jackson Lemon appeared to weigh it. “I’m afraid I haven’t any general ideas. If I should marry an English girl it wouldn’t be for the good of the species.”
“Well, we want to be mixed a little. That I’m sure of,” Lady Beauchemin said.
“You certainly got that from Lady Marmaduke,” he commented.
“It’s too tiresome, you’re not consenting to be serious! But my father will make you so,” she went on with her pleasant assurance. “I may as well let you know that h
e intends in a day or two to ask you your intentions. That’s all I wished to say to you. I think you ought to be prepared.”
“I’m much obliged to you. Lord Canterville will do quite right,” the young man allowed.
There was to his companion something really unfathomable in this little American doctor whom she had taken up on grounds of large policy and who, though he was assumed to have sunk the medical character, was neither handsome nor distinguished, but only immensely rich and quite original—since he wasn’t strictly insignificant. It was unfathomable to begin with that a medical man should be so rich, or that so rich a man should be medical; it was even, to an eye always gratified by suitability and, for that matter, almost everywhere recognising it, rather irritating. Jackson Lemon himself could have explained the anomaly better than any one else, but this was an explanation one could scarcely ask for. There were other things: his cool acceptance of certain situations; his general indisposition to make comprehension easy, let alone to guess it, with all his guessing, so much hindered; his way of taking refuge in jokes which at times had not even the merit of being American; his way too of appearing to be a suitor without being an aspirant. Lady Beauchemin, however, was, like her puzzling friend himself, prepared to run a certain risk. His reserves made him slippery, but that was only when one pressed. She flattered herself she could handle people lightly. “My father will be sure to act with perfect tact,” she said; “though of course if you shouldn’t care to be questioned you can go out of town.” She had the air of really wishing to act with the most natural delicacy.
“I don’t want to go out of town; I’m enjoying it far too much here,” Jackson cried. “And wouldn’t your father have a right to ask me what I should mean by that?”
Lady Beauchemin thought—she really wondered. But in a moment she exclaimed: “He’s incapable of saying anything vulgar!”
She hadn’t definitely answered his inquiry, and he was conscious of this; but he was quite ready to say to her a little later, as he guided her steps from the brougham to the strip of carpet which, beneath a rickety border of striped cloth and between a double row of waiting footmen, policemen and dingy amateurs of both sexes, stretched from the curbstone to the portal of the Trumpingtons: “Of course I shan’t wait for Lord Canterville to speak to me.”