‘Not notorious. You spoil your case if you “speak extremely,” as a friend says. I saw her yesterday. She worships “Miss Radnor.”’
Nesta will know when she is older; she will thank me,’ said Dudley hurriedly. ‘As it is at present, I may reckon, I hope, that the association ceases. Her name: I have to consider my family.’
‘Good anchorage! You must fight it out with the girl. And depend upon this—you’re not the poorer for being the husband of a girl of character; unless you try to bridle her. She belongs to her time. I don’t mind owning to you, she has given me a lead.—Fredi ‘ll be merry to-night. Here’s a letter I have from the Sanfredini, dated Milan, fresh this morning; invitation to bring the god-child to her villa on Como in May; desirous to embrace her. She wrote to the office. Not a word of her duque. She has pitched him to the winds. You may like to carry it off to Fredi and please her.’
‘I have business,’ Dudley replied.
‘Away to it, then!’ said Victor. ‘You stand by me?—we expect our South London borough to be open in January; early next year, at least; may be February. You have family interest there.’
‘Personally, I will do my best,’ Dudley said; and he escaped, feeling, with the universal censor’s angry spite, that the revolutions of the world had made one of the wealthiest of City men the head of a set of Bohemians. And there are eulogists of the modern time! And the man’s daughter was declared to belong to it! A visit in May to the Italian cantatrice separated from her husband, would render the maiden an accomplished flinger of caps over the windmills.
At home Victor discovered, that there was not much more than a truce between Nesta and Nataly. He had a medical hint from Dr. Themison, and he counselled his girl to humour her mother as far as could be: particularly in relation to Dudley, whom Nataly now, womanlike, after opposing, strongly favoured. How are we ever to get a clue to the labyrinthine convolutions and changeful motives of the sex! Dartrey’s theories were absurd. Did Nataly think them dangerous for a young woman? The guess hinted at a clue of some sort to the secret of her veering.
‘Mr. Sowerby left me with an adieu,’ said Nesta.
‘Mr. Sowerby! My dear, he is bound, bound in honour, bound at heart. You did not dismiss him?’
‘I repeated the word he used. I thought of mother. The blood leaves her cheeks at a disappointment now. She has taken to like him.’
‘Why, you like him!’
‘I could not vow.’
‘Tush.’
‘Ah, don’t press me, dada. But you will see, he has disengaged himself.’
He had done it, though not in formal speech. Slow digestion of his native antagonism to these Bohemians, to say nothing of his judicial condemnation of them, brought him painfully round to the writing of a letter to Nataly; cunningly addressed to the person on whom his instinct told him he had the strongest hold.
She schooled herself to discuss the detested matter forming Dudley’s grievance and her own with Nesta; and it was a woeful half-hour for them. But Nataly was not the weeper.
Another interview ensued between Nesta and her suitor. Dudley bore no resemblance to Mr. Barmby, who refused to take the word no from her, and had taken it, and had gone to do holy work, for which she revered him. Dudley took the word, leaving her to imagine freedom, until once more her mother or her father, inspired by him, came interceding, her mother actually supplicating. So that the reality of Dudley’s love rose to conception like a London dawn over Nesta; and how, honourably, decently, positively, to sever herself from it, grew to be an ill-visaged problem. She glanced in soul at Dartrey Fenellan for help; she had her wild thoughts. Having once called him Dartrey, the virginal barrier to thoughts was broken; and but for love of her father, for love and pity of her mother, she would have ventured the step to make the man who had her whole being in charge accept or reject her. Nothing else appeared in prospect. Her father and mother were urgently one to favour Dudley; and the sensitive gentleman presented himself to receive his wound and to depart with it. But always he returned. At last, as if under tuition, he refrained from provoking a wound; he stood there to win her upon any terms; and he was a handsome figure, acknowledged by the damsel to be increasing in good looks as more and more his pretensions became distasteful to her. The slight cast of sourness on his lower features had almost vanished, his nature seemed to have enlarged. He complimented her for her ‘generous benevolence,’ vaguely, yet with evident sincereness; he admitted, that the modern world is ‘attempting difficulties with at least commendable intentions’; and that the position of women demands improvement, consideration for them also. He said feelingly: ‘They have to bear extraordinary burdens!’ There he stopped.
The sharp intelligence fronting him understood, that this compassionate ejaculation was the point where she, too, must cry halt. He had, however—still under tuition, perhaps—withdrawn his voice from the pursuit of her; and so she in gratitude silenced her critical mind beneath a smooth conceit of her having led him two steps to a broader tolerance. Susceptible as she was, she did not influence him without being affected herself in other things than her vanity: his prudishness affected her. Only when her heart flamed did she disdain that real haven of refuge, with its visionary mount of superiority, offered by Society to its effect, in the habit of ignoring the sins it fosters under cloak;—not less than did the naked barbaric time, and far more to the vitiation of the soul. He fancied he was moulding her; therefore winning her. It followed, that he had the lover’s desire for assurance of exclusive possession; and reflecting, that he had greatly pardoned, he grew exacting. He mentioned his objections to some of Mr. Dartrey Fenellan’s ideas.
Nesta replied: ‘I have this morning had two letters to make me happy.’
A provoking evasion. He would rather have seen antagonism bridle and stiffen her figure. ‘Is one of them from that gentleman?’
‘One is from my dear friend Louise de Seilles. She comes to me early next month.’
‘The other?’
‘The other is also from a friend.’
‘A dear friend?’
‘Not so dear. Her letter gives me happiness.’
‘She writes—not from France: from…? you tempt me to guess.’
‘She writes to tell me, that Mr. Dartrey Fenellan has helped her in a way to make her eternally thankful.’
‘The place she writes from is…?’
The drag of his lips betrayed his enlightenment insisted on doubting. He demanded assurance.
‘It matters in no degree,’ she said.
Dudley ‘thought himself excusable for inquiring.’
She bowed gently.
The stings and scorpions and degrading itches of this nest of wealthy Bohemians enraged him.
‘Are you—I beg to ask—are you stilclass="underline" —I can hardly think it—Nesta!—I surely have a claim to advise:—it cannot be with your mother’s consent:—in communication, in correspondence with…?’
Again she bowed her head; saying: ‘It is true.’
‘With that person?’
He could not but look the withering disgust of the modern world in a conservative gentleman who has been lured to go with it a little way, only to be bitten. ‘I decline to believe it,’ he said with forcible sound.
‘She is married,’ was the rather shameless, exasperating answer.
‘Married or not!’ he cried, and murmured: ‘I have borne—. These may be Mr. Dartrey Fenellan’s ideas; they are not mine. I have—Something at least is due to me: Ask any lady:—there are clergymen, I know, clergymen who are for uplifting—quite right, but not associating:—to call one of them a friend! Ask any lady, any! Your mother…’
‘I beg you will not distress my mother,’ said Nesta.
‘I beg to know whether this correspondence is to continue?’ said Dudley.
‘All my life, if I do not feel dishonoured by it.’