The Determined Bachelor

by Judith Harkness

  Chapter VII

  That Anne Calder had indeed undertaken to climb a mountain rather than an anthill must now be admitted. She was not, as she had confessed in her letter to Ben, “exactly what she seemed,” but neither was she so unlike what she seemed that the reader must suspect every fact hitherto brought forth about her. Certain points, indeed, must wait to be clarified at a more auspicious moment, but the main facts of her life were as she had painted them to Lady Cardovan. Her father was certainly a clergyman in Devonshire, and her mother had borne nine children. If Anne had implied in her account of that family a certain embarrassment for money (which might well be expected, as any father of nine will readily attest), it was her only untruth. And, as it was an untruth of omission, rather than an outright lie, she may be excused, for Lady Cardovan would be the first admit that a woman is often in need of some such little deception or other in order to exist. Mrs. Calder, however, would certainly have been horrified by such an idea, for even if she was excessively fond of complaining to her husband that she had never enough funds to redecorate her house or to buy her silk from Paris, she held a dim view of propagating such news about the countryside. Indeed, it was a point of pride with her that Mr. Calder was among the most prosperous gentlemen in the county. His profession had been chosen rather from desire than penury, as is so often the case with our clergy, and as he held one of the best livings in England and had inherited a considerable sum from his father, a wealthy squire, there was more than ample provision even for nine children. Had none of his daughters married, they should still have come into ten or eleven thousand pounds a piece, and as they were all very comely girls, that likelihood was slender. Indeed, it was amazing that they had not all of them been married before, and the reason they had not was linked closely, if somewhat obscurely, to his eldest daughter’s present employment as a governess. That the reader shall not continue a moment longer in suspense, we shall set forth the story exactly as it transpired, without omitting any crucial points, but as briefly as we may:

  The drama, or that part of the drama which concerns us here, and which in truth is more of a comedy, commenced one bright and warm September morning. Mr. Calder was working in his library, endeavouring to write a sermon, a task made more difficult by the presence of his wife, who had been pacing up and down the room for half an hour.

  “My dear, I wish you would not walk about so much,” remarked that gentleman when he had been forced to toss out a third draft of his speech for the fault of its containing seven repetitions of the same idea.

  “I do not know how you can be so calm,” retorted his wife, only pausing in her progress across the room to cast him an accusing look.

  “If you find fault with my serenity, then I shall endeavour to be as distraught as you. Shall that make you happier?”

  “I wish you would not be so cynical,” replied Mrs. Calder, irritably. “You have no sympathy, and no heart.”

  “My dear,” responded the clergyman, putting down his pen with a smile, “I am incapable of pleasing you. What would you rather I did? Perhaps I should go down to the kitchens and upset the cook by rushing back and forth, wailing all the while.”

  Mrs. Calder did not trouble herself to reply to this sally. Her husband delighted in teasing her, and her present mood would not permit her to indulge him.

  “If you will not be disturbed upon my account,” said she after a moment’s pause, “perhaps you will just allow yourself to think of your daughters.”

  “I see no reason to be upset, even for my daughters, my dear. They are all strong, healthy girls, and while none of them shows much wisdom, they are not any of them dim-witted. On the contrary, I believe you ought to be thanking me for giving you four such remarkable girls.”

  Mrs. Calder could tolerate no more. She raised her hands to Heaven, and a strange strangled sound issued from her lips. “Do you have no pity on me, Arthur? Must you torment me into the grave?” she cried, upon which Mr. Calder looked up in amazement, and would undoubtedly have made some jesting remark had not he seen by her expression that his lady had exhausted her resources of tolerance.

  “Here you sit calmly, only bent on tormenting me with your awful jokes, whilst our daughters are all in danger of being spinsters.”

  The clergyman raised one eyebrow and wondered how this could be. “It seems to me that today of all days you have no reason to complain. Our eldest daughter, if I am not much mistaken, is at this very moment being solicited for her hand in marriage.”

  “Yes, that is very true. Solicited indeed! But Anne will not accept him, depend upon it!”

  “I am delighted to hear you say so, Eliza, for it only upholds my opinion that Anne is not an idiot. If she did consent to become Mrs. Siddons, I am afraid I should have to think less of her.”

  “Oh! How can you say so!”

  “Very easily: Siddons is an idiotic boor.”

  “He is a fine young man, and devoted to you.”

  “He is a young man with four thousand a year and not another stroke to recommend him. He is also, if you will pardon my saying so, less devoted to me than he is to the idea that he is a fine young man.”

  “He gave the parish a great deal of money, you said so yourself.”

  “So that he might look up from his pew and see his name inscribed in gold upon the wall.”

  “Nevertheless,” returned Mrs. Calder, resisting the impulse to lose her temper, “he would make Anne a fine husband, if she were not so ill-natured and stubborn.”

  “If all you have said about him is true,” retorted her husband, smiling, “he does not deserve an ill-natured wife. I am so heartily set against the match, my dear, that I shall make Anne a gift of a new gown if she declines him.”

  “If she declines him, I hope you will scold her roundly!”

  The conversation was abruptly ended by the sound of a closing door, ensuing footsteps, and the murmur of voices in the passage. Mrs. Calder put a finger to her lips and endeavoured to hear what was being said, but failing this, was forced to wait till the closing of the front door told her that Mr. Siddons had gone away. She flew out into the hallway to discover the news, and Mr. Calder, who felt a great deal more curiosity about the outcome of the interview than he would admit, returned to his labours. He was not allowed time to get much past the first page of his sermon, however, before there came a knock at the door. His eldest daughter stood before him with a bowed head.

  “My mother sent me to you, Sir,” said she, with the air of a miscreant.

  Mr. Calder regarded his daughter with a grave look. At length he said, “You have refused young Siddons, I suppose?”

  A nod was all the reply she could make. “I hope you will not think ill of me, Papa,” said she, “but the idea of sitting next to him at dinner is awful enough. The idea of facing him at the breakfast table, I cannot bear.”

  Mr. Calder suppressed his smile, and looked solemn: “This is very perplexing news for your mother, I fear.”

  “I hope she will forgive me at last, Sir, but I could not bring myself to marry a man for her sake whom I could not marry for my own.”

  “Your three sisters will take the news very hard. They are none of them free to marry until you have, your mother says, lest we give up on you completely, and declare you a spinster.”

  Anne contrived to look guilty. “Perhaps that is what you ought to do then, for I do not know that I shall ever meet the man I wish to marry.”

  “You have rejected four already, my dear,” said her papa, regarding her solemnly. “Four eligible young men have crept away from your door, mortified and wounded.”

  “Three of them have recovered sufficiently to marry other girls,” replied Anne with equal gravity. “I cannot think I am so terrible a slayer of men as not to be persuaded that Mr. Siddons shall recover with similar ease.”

  Now father and daughter allowed themselves to share a smile, for they had often engaged in this discussion before.

  “That is all very well, Anne,”
said Mr. Calder at last, “and, as you know my feelings about the young Siddons, I shall not pretend that I am excessively distraught at your refusal. However, there is a graver matter of your sisters to consider. Your mothers says they shall die of misery before they die of spinsterhood, and it is not right that you should keep them from matrimony. I cannot help but sympathize with you all—with your sisters for wishing to marry, and with you for wishing not to; however, you cannot all be satsified. There must be some remedy.”

  “Is it not a very antiquated custom to prevent the younger girls from being happy, only because I prefer to remain single?” inquired Anne. “I think you ought really to release them from it, for I am sure Mary and Gwen should be married within the year if you did.”

  “Perhaps that is what we ought to do, after all,” replied her father with a sigh. “I have been in great hopes that you should marry, I shall not deny it: for I believe that of all four of you, you are the best equipped to be a wife. And yet I cannot urge you to do so only from a sense of duty, if it will make you miserable. And I have not yet met the man I should like to see you wedded to. I may simply be a foolish and fond old father, but I have ever been of the opinion that you ought to marry a special kind of man. It is a great sadness to me that none has made your acquaintance, for I flatter myself that if such a creature exists, he would be twice blessed to have you for a wife.”

  Anne was flattered to hear these words, for her father was of a restrained turn of mind, and seldom expressed himself so freely to his children.

  “I cannot say how deeply I feel your compliment, Sir,” she replied, “though it may be prejudiced by your affection for me. I hope indeed that it is, for I cannot share your confidence in my own abilities to make another being happy. I am only sure that I am equipped to make myself happy, and if, by my little scribblings, I may entertain some others for an hour or two, I shall be content. That is a subject I had wished to discuss with you in any case. I ought to tell you, Sir, that I have sent a manuscript to London, to a publisher, and that I have only just learned that they will print it.”

  “Why! This is astonishing news, Anne!” exclaimed her father. “You are a secretive creature, to be sure! What, is it a book of poems? I know you are always scribbling, and I am sorry I have not paid you more attention.”

  “It is only a little novel,” replied Anne, with a great deal more modesty than she felt.

  “Only a novel! Well, well! I suppose it is a romance of some kind, eh? Dear me, I never thought I should have a novelist in the family!”

  “It is not exactly a romance, Sir,” replied his daughter, beginning to feel uncomfortable, “although, in truth, it does contain some elements of romance, and a little intrigue. But you ought to read it yourself. I hope you will.”

  “Why, you know I never read novels,” replied her father with a twinkle, “but I shall make an exception for you. Well, well! What a surprise this is to be sure! I hope you have got some money for your efforts?”

  Anne was able to reply with some pride that the publisher had agreed to pay her one hundred pounds immediately, and more if the novel had success. Mr. Calder was quite dumbfounded by the largess of the figure, and repeated over and over that he had never dreamed a daughter of his might add to the family wealth, unless it was by marrying. Conscious of her father’s amazement, and laughing inwardly at his complacent view of womankind, Anne endeavoured to reply as modestly as she could, although her pride was not a little piqued by the profundity of Mr. Calder’s amazement at having raised up a daughter who could write.

  “I hope,” said Anne, when her father’s exclamations had died down a little, “that this news might make you take a more charitable view of my state. If I am able to earn a living by my pen, and wish to do so above everything, why cannot my sisters marry before me? You may say I am a spinster if you like, and I shall take up wearing a lace cap and going about the neighbourhood with baskets.”

  “Your mother’s pride would not allow of it, even if yours could,” replied Mr. Calder humourously, “for it might be taken as a reflection on her own beauty and charm if her eldest daughter was a spinster.”

  Anne had already considered her mother’s reaction, and having formed a scheme of her own by which nobody’s pride could be offended and her own desires consummated, she now set it forth. Might not it serve everyone’s wishes if she went to London? There her single state could not possibly mortify her mother, and there too she would be exposed to all manner of life, to add fuel to her literary fire. She had long considered the scheme, and the more she thought upon it, the more desirable it seemed. She had exhausted the resources of character and drama in the little village where they lived, and now longed for some greater view of humanity to write about. Yet how could she ever do so, had she not seen something of the world?

  Mr. Calder was a liberal man, and entertained for his eldest daughter a deep affection and respect. Yet he was not so liberated from what he laughingly called his “ancient ways” to like the scheme. To begin with, there were practical objections: a hundred pounds was a vast sum, to be sure, but it was not sufficient to live upon above a month in the city. He could provide her with an income from his own pocket, but was that wise? It would certainly cost more to keep her alive in London than at home, and he could not reasonably excuse giving one daughter so much more than all the others, especially if the money were to further a scheme which no one much approved. Her mother, he was sure, would raise violent objections, and where, after all, would she live?

  But Anne could be as stubborn as her father, and having once set her mind to the scheme, she would not easily be opposed. Would not it serve if she found employment as a governess? She was very fond of children, and now that all her own brothers and sisters were nearly grown, she missed tutoring them. As she was not likely to have any of her own, it would satisfy her maternal instincts, and would leave time enough to scribble when she could.

  Mr. Calder only chuckled upon hearing this. Had she any idea what her mother would say to this? It would cause her no end of mortification and shame. But Mr. Calder, who had not a little love of the ridiculous in him, was so amused that he grew quite soon to like the plan. He would give his consent, then, provided her mother could be persuaded to approve, and provided also that Anne found a suitable situation. In addition, he would give her outright the cost of a year’s expenses at home: no more could he justify, and the offer was very gratefully received. Anne turned to leave, but was stopped by her father’s voice,

  “You know, my dear, that I admire your spirit. I believe—indeed, I pray—that you shall not be the cause of your own unhappiness.”

  “Dear Papa!” cried Anne, “I believe for the first time in my life, I am completely happy!”

  Mr. Calder looked grave. “That is all very well to say now, my dear, but you have only laid your plans. Perhaps when you have been a month in London, you shall think differently. You shall not have a mother or father to turn to then, and you will most certainly be very lonely. If you go, I shall expect you to stay a whole year. Else you might take your own decision too lightly. But after that, if you desire to come home, you know you may.”

  A tear sprang into the young lady’s eye despite herself, but nodding gravely, she agreed. Her former excitement returning almost instantly, however, she flew off to make her preparations and to inform her sisters. The younger Miss Calders were amazed, and second only to their mother in the intensity of wailing they set up. At first it was: why should Anne be allowed to go to London, and not they? and soon afterward, however could they lift up their heads again, when their acquaintance learned that Anne had gone to be governess?

  Mrs. Calder was most preoccupied with the last idea. What would her friends think of her?

  “They may think what they like,” said Mr. Calder, coming into the room just then. “If their opinion is needed in order for you to form your own, then Anne has every reason to wish to leave us.”

  His wife and daughters were silent after that
, for they held Mr. Calder in awe. But as soon as Anne had returned from London with the news that she was engaged to be governess to Sir Basil Ives’ ward, they were once more torn between envy and chagrin. Mrs. Calder wished to have a new wardrobe made up for her daughter, that the Baronet should know she was not the ordinary run of governess, and that her family was well able to dress her in silk.

  “I think you need not bother, Mama,” said Anne. “Sir Basil will not care whether I wear silk or flannel, so long as I am neat. You had much better spend your money on my sisters, who are all longing for new gowns.” And this reply was so happily received by the younger Miss Calders that it won their good graces instantly.

  Of all the family, only her father and her eldest brother seemed really sorry to see her go. Her sisters were all happy to have the field cleared for themselves, and her mama content to have the one great blot on her happiness removed from her sight. But Ben, who was the eldest child, was distraught. He was a young man of nine and twenty, but owing to a childhood infirmity which still kept him weak, had not grown to the great height and strength of his father and younger brothers. Of all her family, Anne was most loathe to part with him. They shared a special affection for each other, and were both addicted to reading books. In their childhood they had invented a world peopled by imaginary beings, half human and half elfin. For hours upon end they had told each other stories, and had laughed until tears ran down their cheeks. There existed between them a silent understanding which ran like a river beneath their conversation. Anne went last of all to bid him farewell, and found him upon a couch, for he was very seldom able to stay up all day. The sight of his poor withered frame, wrapped up in a cocoon of blankets, bearly tore her heart, and more so still when she met the smiling gaze of his eyes, which, large by any standard, seemed like two great orbs set in the midst of his emaciated features.