The Determined Bachelor

by Judith Harkness

  Chapter XXII

  When she was summoned by a footman to go to Sir Basil, Anne was sitting at her writing table composing the most difficult document she had ever been called upon to execute. It was, in point of fact, a letter of resignation to her employer, though resembling the commonality of that sort of missive in nothing more than name.

  Certainly the feelings with which she set down the few and simple phrases—born out of thoughts anything but few and simple—were a far cry from the feelings with which most governesses, submitting the news of their departure, compose their final words. In a few short weeks—hardly more than a month—Anne had undergone so many transformations that the young woman bent in concentration over her paper was almost a different creature from the one who had first sat at that same desk, writing with the same implements a letter to her brother from London. So vast was the metamorphosis, indeed, that she herself could scarcely recall that girl. In her heart she thought she must have been no more than that—for only the events of the last weeks had taught her to be a woman. And what good, indeed, had it done her? Only forced her to retreat from the happiest life she had ever known; only made her understand with awesome fullness the innocence and arrogance of that past self.

  For seven and twenty years, Anne Calder had lived upon the earth indulged by her family, admired by her friends, the happy recipient of everything that love, and a reasonable fortune, and beauty, can provide. And yet she had been bored with her lot; bored, nearly, to extinction. Tedium had been her hourly plight, and only the habit of scribbling, formed at an early age and brought to maturity with the help of her brother, had eased that burden. But had she not been the luckiest girl in all the world? No, she had not: for her very good fortune had been her greatest bain, and the gifts which others might have envied, had only made her more acutely aware of what she lacked. Only the last weeks had truly opened her eyes to that vacancy in her life, which in the humblest existences is sometimes full. Only the last weeks had taught her that the real meaning of good fortune has little to do with wealth, or position, or beauty, but with the sense of fulfillment which is granted to those who are dearly loved and whose service is appreciated by their loved ones. Strange, that in her first taste of humility, had also come the first taste of that fulfillment.

  To all outward appearances, Anne must have gained tenfold in the last month, for it was hardly more than that since she had first set foot in Regent’s Terrace. She ought, by having seen the work of her hand and brain brought forth by a noted publisher, and admired by everyone who had seen it, felt a sense of triumph. Even had she not gained such a feeling from knowing herself capable of self-support in a strange city and amidst strange people, that triumph ought to have sufficed to fill her with pride. But whatever of triumph was in her heart, was overshadowed by a new sensation of humility, such as she had never experienced in the whole course of her life. Odd, that such a sensation should come now, when she was most prepared for the exact opposite, when all the world would have expected, even condoned, a trace of arrogance.

  But what the world expected, or condoned, had never touched Anne very deeply. Her own ambitions were so far removed from the common run of human endeavour that one of the greatest sources of amusement in her life had been to observe the strivings of her fellow beings for riches, admiration, and social position. What others had fought for, she had never valued very highly. Her own ambition had been to achieve a place amongst the great satirists of the world, which she considered a company far more elite than any group of duchesses. And just at the moment when the first step seemed to have been taken toward that goal, she had found it unworthy. Her whole view of things had been transformed, in fact, and she now struggled helplessly to discern her new values, as if she had been a fish swept up upon the shore.

  For Anne had undergone a transformation of the heart and soul as profound as any metamorphosis of fish to mammal. She had fallen in love, against all her best instincts, desires, and sense of right, and she now found herself changed beyond all recognition. The process had thrilled her as much as it had startled her—let there be no doubt about that. But it had also left her stunned and shaken. And now, just when she was learning to enjoy her new view of things, she must give it up. It was with the most immense reluctance that she now prepared to return to her old life, with only the achievement she had set out to conquer, and none of the whole new world of light and laughter she had just begun to glimpse.

  Let us not, in the words of Ben, “digress from the action overmuch, nor philosophize our heroine into an unnatural, and early extinction. That Sir Basil Ives was the object of her sentiments can come as no great surprise either, though it may amaze the reader a little to discover it, given her former prejudices against that gentleman. The progress from dislike to ardour had been neither neat nor couth, as is generally the case in life. In a novel we may contract it a great deal, and lend it that degree of lucidity which reality usually lacks, much to the dismay of us all. As we have seen, Anne Calder had first found the gentleman “handsome, gentlemanly, and elegant” to the point of stiffness. He had lacked in amiability everything which he possessed in achievement, recognition, and stature. A little later, she was put off by his undue coolness, and then amazed by his spontaneity. She had pitied him his awkwardness with Nicole and every other female he was ever put in contact with: Here was the first sign of her regard for him as a regular human being rather than a character to be satirized in a book. But the dawning of her awareness had come at that moment when she had read over the extent of her first draft of what might have been called “The Determined Bachelor,” and found that where she had always considered herself more than adequately wise, she was here sadly naive. That Sir Basil could not be made a mockery of was evident: at least by one of her own short-sightedness.

  Naturally, the dilemma had made her think, for it threatened every supposition she had ever made about human conduct, and her own in particular. It was the opening of her own eyes to her own soul, and the first hint to her heart that she was not the self-possessed young woman she had always thought herself.

  It had been only two days after this that she had had the suspicion, from the Princess Lieven, about Nicole’s parentage implanted in her mind, and that, more than anything else, made her aware of what she might otherwise have avoided for some time. It was the pang of jealousy and rage (so foreign to her nature heretofore) which had given her the hint. And no matter how she argued with herself, saying that her own situation prevented her even regarding the gentleman in any other light but that of an employer, or the lady as anything more than a kind and condescending patroness, she had not been able to resist the calling from within. And it was in direct proportion to the growth of the suspicion that she had begun to view her true feelings. As it became more apparent to her that she was in danger of losing her heart, Sir Basil had helped along the process by unwittingly (or so she thought) beginning to reveal himself to her. Here was a very different man from the one she had first glimpsed and, with a toss of her head, supposed she might sketch in one or two lines. Complex he most certainly was, and far surpassing everyone she had known before for obscurity. But what she had thought before arose from an icy heart, had begun to seem as if it might really come from a surfeit of feeling. In his own way, Sir Basil struck her as nearly as sincere in his sensibilities as her own dear Ben, a man whom none other had ever approached in her esteem. Certainly he was more passionate: But this new side of his character, revealed as it has been, did little to cheer her. On the contrary, the increasing awareness that he was just that sort of man who might have won her heart—the only man, perhaps—had come jointly with the belief that his own heart was already taken. Even had there been less difference in their stations, that prevented any further thought upon the idea.

  Anne had resolved all this in her own mind—with a good deal less simplicity than that with which we have set it down—and concluded that she had but one choice. Leave she must, at once, before she did any more damage
to herself, or risked damaging some others by her conduct. Nicole was here regarded first: She would not endanger the child’s happiness more than she already must. Would not Nicole feel her loss twice as strongly at some later date? No. The decision, having once been made, must now be acted upon and without any delay. And so the letter was written to her father, and no hint given to Ben of the true reason for her return. She expected that Mr. Calder, contrary to his first admonition, would allow her home. She had duly expressed her shame at having thought herself up to the task she had taken on, and declared herself fully prepared to return as a wiser, and a more dutiful, daughter. She suspected what elation that might cause at home—but for the moment she was too preoccupied with her own more pressing dilemma to care.

  She had set it down upon paper already, in preparation for the letter she expected hourly from Devonshire, that there might be not a moment’s delay in her flight. She had not told Nicole as yet: Let that awful scene come at the last possible moment. It was just as she had appended her signature upon the letter that the footman knocked.

  Nothing could have been more ill-timed. Anne, still distraught, could hardly compose herself sufficiently to greet the servant, much less the Baronet. But go she must, and so, quickly taking up her shawl, she went toward the door, only at the last moment stopping and going to retrieve her letter. There would not be any more fortuitous time, she was sure. What must under any circumstances be a heart-rending chore had better be dispatched at once. And so it was with the letter in her hand that she stood in the doorway of Sir Basil’s library—as always, uncertain whether she ought to come boldly in, or stay close to the exit.

  Sir Basil regarded her with a smile. Silly goose—would she never take it into her own hands to come and take possession of what was rightly her own in any case? He supposed that would be one of the tasks which lay ahead of him—a by no means unpleasant one, indeed. But (as he reminded himself in a moment’s time, having invited her to come in and seeing the look upon her face of reluctance) he was getting ahead of himself. The only task now was to ascertain what was in her heart. And first of all, he must dispatch his most unpleasant errand, it was to this subject which he now turned, when the young woman was ensconced in her usual place and he in his.

  “I am afraid I have disturbed you, Miss Calder,” said he with a look which was as much a plea for a contradiction as anything else.

  “Oh—no, Sir.”

  She seemed to be hiding something between the folds of her shawl—he tried to get a glimpse of it, without seeming to do so, and was unsuccessful.

  “Are you certain? I have not awakened you from a nap, or interrupted some business?”

  A shake of the head, rather too abrupt, was his reply.

  “Well, then, I shall be as brief as possible. I am afraid it is not a very pleasant thing I have to say.”

  Miss Calder seemed startled, but said nothing.

  “It concerns my ward, which is why I wished to ask your advice. Well—not exactly. It concerns, in point of fact, both myself and Lady Cardovan.” Now the young lady looked really uncomfortable. Could she have had any hint of it before?

  Sir Basil rushed on:

  “I wished especially to seek your advice, Miss Calder,” said he, growing more red every moment, “as you have always been good enough to council me, and in a most generous and wise manner. I hope you shall do so again, for I am more in need of it than ever. The matter,” said he, after pausing to cough and glance quickly at her expression, which was impassive, “has come to my attention only this afternoon. Lady Diana has been ill, and has not before been able to give me the news. It is not exactly news. I do not know what you would call it.”

  It would have been very difficult to judge, at this moment, which of the two of them was most uncomfortable—the gentleman was absolutely scarlet, and the lady white.

  Miss Calder broke the momentary silence with, “Dear me, Sir Basil. Perhaps you ought not to go on. If it is some private affair of your own—”

  “No, no! That is, well—yes, in fact. It is extremely private. That is, I hope it will remain so. But perhaps it will not. Gossip is such in this city, my dear lady—ah, well, you would not know about that, I suppose. In any case, suffice it to say that there are some women who have not your fine sense of decorum.”

  Miss Calder blushed and stared at her hands. His effort to make her look up was abortive.

  “Please, Sir Basil,” murmured she, “do not tell me anything I had rather not know five years hence. Do please consider that—for I shall have to live with it, as well.”

  “I hope not,” returned the Baronet with immense gravity. “I most certainly do hope not, Miss Calder. It is just for that reason that I wish to tell you now, to clear the air, as it were. To clear it for my ward, as much as for you.”

  “I am glad you are thinking of Nicole,” Miss Calder almost whispered. “You need not think of my comfort.”

  “Well, I choose to think both of your comfort and hers,” replied the Baronet rather primly. Realizing how he must have sounded, however, he gave her a pleading look. “Please hear me out, Miss Calder. Then you may judge me. Only do not judge me first.”

  “I would not judge you, Sir Basil. Very well, then.”

  She seemed immensely resigned, which was hardly the attitude he would have chosen to proceed, but having very little choice, he blurted out the following:

  “I went to Grove House today, Miss Calder, on purpose to consult with my friend upon another subject—” this with a little glance at her, which went unnoticed—“and also, to find out why she had refused to see me, or indeed, to recognize my existence these last few days. Lady Cardovan was good enough to come downstairs. She would not speak to me at first—at least not in any kind of amiable way—and it was soon apparent why. She had happened to be informed at her own soiree, on Thursday last, of a piece of news which, though interpreting it falsely, must by now be common news about the town. I shall not tell you who was the source just now—only let me tell you what it was. It was, in short, the far-fetched notion that Miss Lessington was in truth born my own child, and herded away to the country in order to obscure her true identity. The death of her real guardian, then, must have resulted in my coming into her guardianship as a sort of double farce, a joke upon the world in general, for, in fact, that would make her my own child, would it not?”

  Miss Calder nodded dumbly.

  “Naturally, I did not take the news at first. In fact, I thought the point was that she was Diana’s child—only fancy! I nearly accused her of hiding away a natural child and then pretending she was an orphan! Well, of course, as it turned out, we were both wrong. The rumour was started by an idle woman who has nothing better to do with her time than suppose the rest of the world is engaging in her own narrow intrigues. Lady Cardovan was actually pleased at the idea—fancy being accused of having a nine-year-old child at her age! She was almost delighted. And when it came out that Nicole is nothing more than she has ever seemed, or been, or been suspected of—well, you can imagine our mirth! Only, of course, it was not really very funny—half of London may suppose just that at this very moment. That is, suppose Nicole to be our joint child. Only fancy!”

  “She—she is not your child, then?” Miss Calder was exceedingly pale.

  “Heavens, no! But of course that is not the point. The point is, that Nicole must be protected from any rumours to that effect. I have already been to see the Princess Li—— the person whose idea this all was. And she has promised to stifle it for us, as well as she can. But gossip is like fire, Miss Calder—it generally spreads a great deal faster than the objects of it would like. I have no illusions as to what the effects of that might be upon Nicole, should she ever get a hint of it.”

  Miss Calder nodded. “I understand you perfectly, Sir. Of course she must never hear about it.”

  “Do you indeed? Why! I knew you would. And so, Miss Calder—what ought we to do?”

  “I don’t imagine there is anythi
ng we can do. Of course, if she ever got a hint of it—if some ignorant and unkind person were to mention it, even in passing—it will be your duty to stand beside her.”

  “I doubt not but that she should rather have you stand beside her,” replied the Baronet with a little smile, which was meant to speak volumes.

  Miss Calder flushed a little, and looked down at her lap again.

  “But,” said Sir Basil, “do not you think one of us ought to prepare her for it—just in the eventuality———”

  “I can see no reason for it. I think Nicole has got about as much sense as either of us. She would not be thrown much by it.”

  “Not even for a moment?”

  “I think not.”

  “Well! That settles it, doesn’t it?”

  “I hope so.”

  Sir Basil was rather at a loss for where to go from here. He had hoped that the subject might lead naturally enough along, if indeed it was cleared up at all (although he had had less of an idea of preparing Nicole, if the truth be known, than of forearming her governess), to another subject altogether. But Miss Calder was not at all herself tonight. She seemed restrained, tentative, even aloof. She had not even seemed much shocked by the news, once he had let her know it, but rather, relieved. Suddenly the thought struck him that she had had news from home of an unhappy kind, and questioned her about it.

  “I hope you have not had any letters from home to make you unhappy?”

  “No!” She seemed amazed at the suggestion. “No, Sir, I have not.”

  “Good, good.” Sir Basil was literally bursting to tell her that she might any day now have news of a very happy kind from that quarter, but restrained himself. Let it come in a natural way, of itself. He could wait yet a while.

  “And Nicole—her lessons are going along well?”

  “She is having some difficulty with her drawing, Sir, but otherwise, she is a clever as possible, and applies herself diligently.”