The Determined Bachelor

by Judith Harkness

  “You have been out?” he inquired, rather redundantly, considering that he had been twice informed of the fact.

  “Yes, Sir. Nicole and I have been upon an errand.”

  “Satisfactory, I hope?”

  “Yes, Sir—perfectly.”

  “Ah!” Sir Basil gazed at her intently, but she would not meet his eyes, seeming almost to flush. She looked very comely: very. That fine pale blue whatever-it-was became her very well, set off the high colouring of her cheeks and lips, and brought out the sparkle in her eyes. There was something about her that reminded him of a high-bred filly, a spirited and naturally elegant young animal.

  “I hope you have not had some bad news from home?”

  Now she looked surprised. Aha! Had he hit the nail upon the head? Her surprise, however, was quickly concealed, as he noticed and she turned her face a little away from his gaze.

  “No, Sir.”

  Really! One could never believe a woman! He must keep in mind the one general rule to use in interpreting their remarks: reverse ’em completely.

  Well, well. I have been amusing myself with a novel, Miss Calder. I highly recommend it to you. I do not go in for novels much myself, as a rule, but this one is particularly apt. You must have it when I am through. A most fresh wit, a lively tale—just the thing to distract you from your present distress.”

  “Sir?”

  Now the poor young woman looked doubly dismayed. Well, he should not press the point, nor give any hint of what steps he had taken to remedy the situation. Let that come as a surprise. Oh, how he should love to see the look upon her face when she discovered! Then, perhaps she should form a higher opinion of him. The glow of anticipated gratitude made Sir Basil smile.

  “Come, come, my dear Miss Calder. I hope you have learned to think of me as a friend. You may trust me, you know.”

  The young woman smiled, a delightful smile, artless and humourous at once. Did he detect the trace of a blush upon her cheek?

  “I do, Sir,” said she earnestly. “I am most grateful to you for all you have done for me, when really I deserve none of your kindness.”

  “Ah, well! haven’t done anything much, you know. Only what any man would. And you, Miss Calder, have done a great deal to make my own life happier. Certainly you have been more than kind to Nicole. The child dotes upon you.”

  Miss Calder smiled and peered into her lap, where her fingers were twining and untwining rather nervously.

  “I am very glad of that, Sir.”

  Now there came an awkward silence, during which Sir Basil wondered what he could say next. He supposed the book was a safe enough subject, however, and finally clearing his throat, he said:

  “I highly recommend this little novel to your attention, Miss Calder. I should like to hear your opinion of it, for it is very much along your lines, I think. All about a country clergyman, you know, and his insipidity. Lively view of that spectrum of life.”

  He did not notice her start.

  “And so well written,” continued he, oblivious to her sudden change of colour, for he was lifting up the volume and weighing it in his hands thoughtfully, “that although it is said to have been written ‘by a lady,’ I can only believe that in point of fact it was not, but written by a man.”

  “Oh?” Anne looked extremely interested in this idea. “What makes you think so?”

  “Well, the objectivity of it, for one thing. I do not believe females are capable of so much distance upon a subject, and the humour is almost masculine.”

  “What, if I may be so bold, is masculine humour, Sir Basil?”

  “Why, I do not know, in fact,” admitted the Baronet, “though I have the feeling there is such a thing. Perhaps it is the dryness of it. I don’t know. But I have never read anything by a woman that did not portray a life romanticized beyond all recognition. To do so, in my opinion, is to deprive existence of its innate humour.”

  “Have you read a great many novels written by women?” inquired Anne, still with the same expression of genuine interest.

  “Oh, no—to be sure, not very many. I have not time to read such stuff, you know. I have read Lady Cardovan’s books, at least most of ’em, but they aren’t fictional, after all. More in the line of dramatized history. I find them rather fanciful, but perfectly accurate. She is a devil for documenting every fact. Quite wears one out, her knowledge of dates, places, and battles.”

  “And you do not find this book fanciful? And yet you said it was a novel, a made-up story. Is that not more fanciful than the truth, whether or not it is dramatized?”

  “Do you know, Miss Calder,” returned Sir Basil, after a moment’s thought, “you have quite puzzled me there. And yet I shall persist in my opinion: This tale, though fanciful, strikes me as a clearer mirror of reality than any of Diana’s books. It shows a thorough knowledge of the idiosyncrasies of human manners and morals. Though it is a very broad comedy—its sole weakness, in my opinion, is the very breadth of it—it manages to retain the seed of truth. The gentleman must have an extraordinary eye.”

  “Then you are quite determined that it was written by a man?”

  “No doubt about it. I can’t fathom why he should masquerade as a woman, but! ah, well—I suppose he is waiting to see how his little book shall be received before he reveals his identity. I wonder who he is?”

  “I am quite as curious as you, Sir, to find out who this clever man could be.”

  Did Sir Basil detect a note of sarcasm in her tone? The devil of it! She was as bad as Diana. Perhaps all these women were alike. How odd, though, to take offense at his suggestion that a realistic satire could not be written by a woman. Was there nothing they could admit doing less well than a man?

  “I see you think me unduly prejudiced, Miss Calder,” said he, in an attempt to smooth down her ruffled feathers.

  “No, sir.”

  “Only excessively so?”

  Now he was granted a tiny smile.

  “It is not my place to say, Sir. You are my employer, I am your ward’s governess. Were we equal in every way, I might tell you what I think, but as it is, I am prevented by my station.”

  “Forget that for a moment, Miss Calder. I am tired to death of being reminded of your station. Say what you think, please.”

  “I think you are less prejudiced than ignorant, Sir. Excuse me—but you asked me to tell you my honest opinion. It is clear you have not much familiarity with the working of the female brain, much less of its powers. You think we are all foolish, stupid creatures who cannot direct our thoughts to any greater issues than a bonnet or a pelisse. You think we have no view of the world around us, no opinions worth listening to, no morality beyond a superficial kind of etiquette. You dislike us so thoroughly that you will not even grant us a sense of humour! Only a man of your own vast arrogance could have lived upon the earth as long as you have done and still fail to see that half the population of the earth is not deaf, dumb, and half-witted. It is a pity you do not have any idea of how you are regarded by some females!”

  “Yourself in particular, I suppose?” Sir Basil’s voice was low and cold, his cheeks pale.

  Miss Calder was shaking too violently to reply. With a seeming realization of what she had said, she looked down into her lap and coloured fiercely.

  “I beg your pardon, Sir.”

  “No, no! Go on, I beg of you!”

  “I ought not to have spoken so fiercely. You did not deserve it. I have been worried about another matter, and am not myself.”

  “Perhaps you are more yourself, Miss Calder.” Sir Basil hesitated for a moment. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps you have not underestimated me. But I assure you, whatever my opinion of the rest of your sex, I feel very differently about you. I think you neither deaf nor dumb, and I know you are not half-witted. You are a most intelligent young woman, and I have enjoyed talking to you as much as I have ever enjoyed talking to any man. Indeed, if there were more women like you, I should have a higher opinion of your whole s
ex.”

  “Perhaps you have not known very many of us, Sir Basil. You will grant that Lady Cardovan is an exception to the general rule? And you know her better than any of my sex.”

  Now Sir Basil smiled. “Then there are two exceptions to the rule. And perhaps you are right, perhaps I have not made an effort to converse with ladies in any depth. But in all fairness, I must say that there are not many whose ideas I much wanted to hear.”

  “Do you find every man of your acquaintance worth listening to?”

  “Heavens, no! Far from it!”

  “Well, then.”

  “Miss Calder, please do not look so condescending.”

  “I am not looking condescending.”

  “You make me feel like a child.”

  “I doubt I am exceptional enough to do that, Sir,” said Anne rising. “I hope you will forget my outburst. Now I must go back to Nicole.”

  “Here, take this book, Miss Calder, I shall not have time to read any more today. Tell me if you like it.”

  Anne glanced at the book and smiled. She hesitated a moment, and then reached out her hand to take it.

  “Thank you, I shall enjoy looking into it.”

  “Tell me what you think.”

  “I shall try to form a fair opinion of it.”

  Miss Calder closed the door behind her, and for a while Sir Basil stared after her with a bemused expression. Then, sighing, he rose to his feet and went to his desk to dispatch a letter to the Paris Embassy.

  Chapter XX

  Mr. Calder laid down his pen in resignation. He had been attempting to compose a letter to his solicitor, but the several people in the room who had come in to disturb him would not let him continue.

  “I thought a man’s library was meant to be his private domain, even if his home has ceased to be his castle,” remarked he.

  “How can you be so calm?” exclaimed his wife in return. “And how can you speak about castles when your daughter’s welfare is at stake?”

  “I am afraid I do not catch the gist of your ideas, my dear.”

  “I am speaking about your daughter, Sir! Kindly do not make fun of me!”

  “I should never make fun of you, Eliza,” returned the minister with a reproachful look, “least of all, when you are speaking about Anne. Why, what is wrong now?”

  “Why, Sir! What do you think? How can she be so selfish? To wish to come home, just when she is getting along very well! Does not she have any consideration for us?”

  “That is what you wished to know when she first desired to go away.”

  “But then things were very different. She had not been to Carlton House, nor begun to be on intimate terms with a good kind of people. I thought she was going to make a mockery of us all.”

  “But now that she has met the Prince, you think she shall do us credit?”

  Mrs. Calder sniffed.

  “I am of Mama’s opinion,” put in the second Miss Calder, a handsome, strapping girl of plain speech. “Anne ought not to come home now. After all, she wished to go away, despite the mockery it made of us to have her acting as a governess. Maria is getting along very well with Mr. Siddons, and I have no doubt they shall be soon engaged to marry.”

  “And you, Harriet, are doing pretty well by yourself, too,” added her father, with a sly look which Miss Calder chose to ignore.

  “I am not speaking on my own behalf, Papa. But for Maria’s sake, and my mother’s, I think it is unfair for Anne to come home, just now. It is certain to ruin everything between Maria and Mr. Siddons, just when things were going along so well.”

  “And for the greater convenience of Mr. Siddons, I am expected to let my eldest daughter make shift as well as she can in a strange city,” remarked Mr. Calder ironically.

  “She has shifted perfectly well thus far, my dear,” his wife pointed out. “Why, only look at her! She went to London with an hundred pounds, and has now as her circle of acquaintance two countesses, a baronet, and the Prince himself!”

  Here Ben, who had risen from his couch to join in the family argument, chose to speak up. “I do not think she regards the Prince as quite her intimate acquaintance, Ma’am.”

  “Why, she took tea with him! And sat next to the Princess Lieven all the while!” retorted Mrs. Calder. “At least, that is what you have told us. It would have been very kind in her to write about it to her parents, rather than that brief little note!”

  “That is neither here nor there, Eliza,” interrupted Mr. Calder. “I am not a reader of minds, and cannot guess what has made her so unhappy. But unhappy she certainly is, or she would not give up so easily. It is not like Anne to admit defeat.”

  Now Ben added his agreement, and his mother, seeing herself as one against two, appealed to her daughter for support:

  “Do not you think it most unkind of her, Harriet, to come home just when she was getting to the point where she might have done us all some good, rather than harm?”

  “Most unkind, Mama,” affirmed the young lady. “She ought to stay where she is. Why, perhaps Sir Basil will marry her!”

  “I do not think so, Harriet,” interjected Ben with a smile. “From what I gather, she does not hold a very high opinion of him, and he sounds too arrogant to fall in love with his ward’s governess.”

  “What do you think has made her so miserable, Ben?” demanded his father. “Be so good as to be silent for a moment, ladies, and let us hear Ben’s opinion.”

  The ladies, who had both opened their mouths at once, subsided with equal discontent. Their eyes turned simultaneously upon the young man, wrapped in a blanket and sitting upon a chair.

  He thought for a moment, and then replied, slowly:

  “Indeed, Sir, I cannot guess. It is the first time I have ever been so completely ignorant of Anne’s thoughts. Her letters, until this last one—” nodding toward the missive which lay upon a corner of Mr. Calder’s desk—“have all been cheerful and full of her usual good humour. Perhaps she has been concealing things from me—I don’t know. That must be the case, for she has given no hint of any misery, if indeed there is any. Save that she was discouraged with her writing, and had been unable to put anything down that she liked.”

  “Pooh!” exclaimed Harriet. “Why should that make anyone miserable?”

  “It could not, my dear,” replied her mama. “No doubt there is some other cause. I doubt not but that she has changed her mind about Mr. Siddons, and wishes to marry him after all now that he is nearly wed to Maria.”

  “I beg of you, ladies, to be quiet for a moment!” commanded Mr. Calder, and turning to his son, he inquired if there had been no other mention of her work?

  “She did mention that her novel had come out, Sir, but said no more about it. Only that her publisher advised her to keep up in the same line rather than to change. But I have got a clipping here from the London Courier, Sir, which speaks very glowingly about the book.”

  “Why, let me see it!” Mr. Calder glanced over the sheet, and after a moment, exclaimed, “Why, this is most high praise! Fancy! I never knew we had a genius in the family!”

  “A most selfish genius!” sniffed Harriet, doubly cross to see her sister defended, on the one hand, and praised for what she had always considered her idiotic scribbling, on the other. “Why, what does it say?”

  Mr. Calder read them some excerpts of the column, and lifted his eyeglass to gaze at his wife.

  “Now, then, Eliza—what do you have to say about your daughter?”

  Mrs. Calder had several things to say, not the least of which was a condemnation of the young lady for being ashamed of her family name.

  “Why should she keep it secret? Has she no pity for us? After shaming us all by going to be a governess, she might at least salvage our reputation a little by letting it be known who she is, when at last she does something we might all take pride in!”

  “She did not wish to offend you and my father,” put in Ben gently, “in case it was not well received. She would not make you the
laughing stock of the whole neighbourhood, she said.”

  “Now here is something I hope you will attend to, Eliza,” pronounced the lady’s husband, much in the same voice he used upon the pulpit. “Here is a sentiment worthy of your respect and gratitude.”

  Mrs. Calder said nothing. Her nerves were faring very poorly, and she was too confused to know what to think.

  “We shall welcome her home with open arms,” continued Mr. Calder, “and let her know that she is well loved here, whether she choose to marry or no. The other girls have my consent to marry as they please, and you, my dear, must just accustom yourself to the idea that one of your daughters may live a solitary life. I have already written to tell her so, in any case. I dare say we shall see her any day now.”

  “It was you, Arthur, who made her promise to stay for a whole year,” cried Mrs. Calder, “lest she take her own decision too lightly.”

  “Well, well—perhaps I was wrong to do so. Even I am occasionally mistaken. Now run along, all of you, and leave me in peace. Do you, Ben, only wait a moment, please.”

  Ben was very glad to stay, for he had more to say to his father than he would mention before his mother and sister, and when those ladies had left the room, he spoke up.

  “Father, there is one other thing. . . .”

  “Ah! I thought there might be.” Mr. Calder regarded his son very keenly. “You and Anne have always been as close as two peas in a pod. I supposed you might have some further insight into the case. What can have made her miserable, when she seemed to be going along so well?”

  “I believe,” replied Ben slowly, “that it has got something to do with this.” Whereupon he handed over the last letter, but one, he had received from Ann, in which her visit to the Prince was described. “Only read the last two pages, Sir. The rest I have already told you.”

  Mr. Calder did as he was bid, and after a while, looked up with a grave expression.

  “I see what you mean. Such a suspicion must have made her situation very hard. Poor Anne! And she is so devoted to the child, as well as to Lady Cardovan. No doubt she has got some proof of her suspicions now. It would make her position exceedingly delicate. I suppose she thought she could not go along any more knowing what she did.”