She came running across the room as she spoke and cast herself at her mother’s feet, flinging her arms
round her, and seeming not to know whether to laugh or cry. Behind her Mr Kenton, very smart in his regimentals, shut the door and remained at a little distance, as though doubtful of his reception. He was a well-set-up young man, with a pleasant countenance and an air of considerable resolution. At the moment, however, he was looking a trifle anxious, and he seemed to find his neckcloth rather too tight.
‘Fanny, my dear, pray – !’ remonstrated Mrs Wingham. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about! How do you do, Richard? I am very pleased to see you. Are you on furlough?’
‘Mama, we have such news for you! Richard’s godmother has died!’ interrupted Fanny ecstatically. ‘And she has left Richard a great deal of money so that he can support a wife after all! He came to tell me at once, and I went with him to the lawyer, and it is true!’
Mrs Wingham turned her bewildered eyes towards Mr Kenton. He said bluntly: ‘No, it is not a great deal of money, ma’am, but it will enable me to buy my exchange, for you must know that I have been offered the chance of a company in the –th, only I never thought I should be able – . However, I can now afford the purchase money, and once I am in the –th, I hope I shan’t be obliged to wait upon the chance of Boney’s escaping a second time, and starting another kick-up, for my promotion. And I thought, if you would give your consent to our marriage, I would settle what will be left of the legacy on Fanny. It won’t be a fortune, but – but it will be something!’
‘Mama, you will consent?’ Fanny said imploringly. ‘You said I must see something of the world before I made up my mind, but I have now seen a great deal of the world, and I haven’t met anyone I like better than Richard, and I know I never shall. And although it is very amusing to lead a fashionable life, and, indeed, I have enjoyed all the parties, I would much prefer to follow the drum with Richard! You will consent?’
Mrs Wingham stared down into the radiant face upturned to hers. A dozen objections died on her lips. She said, with a wavering smile:
‘Yes, Fanny. If you are quite, quite sure, I suppose I must consent!’
Her daughter’s lips were pressed to her cheek, Mr Kenton’s to her hand. Seated amongst the ruins of her ambition, with that weight of depression upon her heart, she said: ‘And Lord Harleston is coming to visit me at three o’clock!’
‘Lord Harleston!’ exclaimed Fanny. ‘Oh, will you tell him, Mama, that I am going to marry Richard? I should have wished to have told him myself, but the thing is that Richard has leave of absence only for one day, and he must rejoin the regiment immediately. Mama, if I take Maria with me, may I go with him to the coach office? Pray, Mama!’
‘Yes – oh yes!’ said Mrs Wingham. ‘I will tell Lord Harleston.’
5
Thus it was that when one of the biggest but most unobtainable prizes of the Matrimonial Mart was ushered into Mrs Wingham’s drawing-room, he found the widow alone and sunk in melancholy. The depression, of which she had been conscious for so many weeks, threatened now to overcome her, and was in no way alleviated by her inability to decide which of the various evils confronting her was at the root of her strong desire to indulge in a hearty bout of tears. The years of economy had been wasted; yet she could not regret the weeks spent in London. Her maternal ambition was utterly dashed; but when she saw the happiness in Fanny’s face she could not be sorry. She must soon lose the daughter on whom her every thought had been centred for years; but if by the lifting of a finger she could have kept Fanny, she would have held her hands tightly folded in her lap, as they were when the Marquis walked into the room.
He paused upon the threshold. The one glance she permitted herself to cast at his face showed her that there was an arrested expression in his eyes, a look of swift concern. The pain she was about to inflict on him most poignantly affected her; for a startling moment she found herself blaming Fanny for having wounded one of whom she was all unworthy. She was unable to sustain his steady regard; her eyes fell to the contemplation of the little gold tassels on his Hessian boots. They moved, swinging jauntily as he came towards her. ‘Mrs Wingham! Something has occurred to distress you. May I know what it is? If there is anything I may do –’
He was bending solicitously over her, one shapely hand lifting one of hers, and holding it in a sustaining clasp. She said disjointedly: ‘Yes – no! It is nothing, my lord! I beg you will not – ! Indeed, it is nothing!’
She drew her hand away as she spoke. He said: ‘Shall I leave you? I have come, I believe, at an unfortunate time. Tell me what you wish! I would not for the world add to your distress!’
‘Oh no! Do not go! This interview ought not to be – must not be – postponed!’
He looked intently at her, as much anxiety in his eyes as there was in hers. ‘I came – I believe you must know for what purpose.’
She bowed her head. ‘I do know. I wish – oh, how deeply I wish that you had not come!’
‘You wish that I had not come!’
‘Because it is useless!’ said the widow tragically. ‘I can give you no hope, my lord!’
There was a moment’s silence. He was looking at once astonished and chagrined, but, after a pause, he said quietly: ‘Forgive me! But when I spoke to you last night I was encouraged to think that you would not be averse from hearing me! You have said that you guessed the object of my visit – am I a coxcomb to imagine that my suit was not then disagreeable to you?’
‘Oh no, no, no!’ she uttered, raising her swimming eyes to his face. ‘I should have been most happy – I may say that I most sincerely desired it! But all is now changed! I can only beg of you to say no more!’
‘You desired it! In heaven’s name, what can possibly have occurred to alter this?’ he exclaimed. Trying for a lighter note, he said: ‘Has someone traduced my character to you? Or is it that –’
‘Oh no, how could anyone – ? My lord, I must tell you that there is Another Man! When I agreed last night to receive you today, I did not know – that is, I thought –’ Her voice became suspended; she was obliged to wipe teardrops from her face.
He had stiffened. Another silence fell, broken only by the widow’s unhappy sniffs into her handkerchief. At last he said, in a constrained tone: ‘I collect – a prior attachment, ma’am?’
She nodded; a sob shook her. He said gently: ‘I will say no more. Pray do not cry, ma’am! You have been very frank, and I thank you for it. Will you accept my best wishes for your future happiness, and believe that –’
‘Happiness!’ she interrupted. ‘I am sure I am the wretchedest creature alive! You are all kindness, my lord: no one could be more sensible than I am of the exquisite forbearance you have shown me! You have every right to blame me for having encouraged you to suppose that your suit might be successful.’ Again her voice failed.
‘I have no blame for you at all, ma’am. Let us say no more! I will take my leave of you, but before I go will you permit me to discharge an obligation? I may not have the opportunity of speaking to you alone again. It concerns Fanny.’
‘Fanny?’ she repeated. ‘An obligation?’