The Determined Bachelor (30 page)

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 anything 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.”

“Ah, well—what a good child she is, to be sure.”

“A wonderful child, Sir. I hope—that is to say. . .”

“Yes?”

Sir Basil had leant a little forward, as had the young lady, but she stopped and would not continue.

“Nothing, Sir—that is, nothing of any importance, now.”

That “now” struck Sir Basil as a little odd. He should liked to have known what had been of some importance before, which was not now. Anything of importance to Miss Calder, it struck him suddenly, was important also to him. But he could not show it without threatening her own delicacy, a thing he dreaded doing.

“Ah! Well! Tell me, Miss Calder, have you had a moment to look into that little book I gave you?”

Miss Calder seemed not to understand.

“
A Country Parson
—did you determine in your own mind whether or not it was written by a man?”

Miss Calder seemed to smile a little.

“Why—yes, Sir. I read it quite thoroughly—acquainted myself with it as much as possible—and have decided that in fact you must be correct after all. It could not possibly have been written by a woman.”

Sir Basil was delighted. At last he had convinced her to see something in his own way. The triumph of the moment made him beam.

“Aha! Far too clever, was it not?”

Miss Calder looked grave, considering for a moment.

“No Sir, that is not what I would say. I would say it was not clever enough.”

Sir Basil gaped. Miss Calder, amused, only stared back and nodded.

Chapter XXIII

Mr. Calder, having read over his letter several times, at last made up his mind what to do. The decision was not born solely out of consideration for Sir Basil Ives, for he had very little reason to wish to be kind to that gentleman. The letter had been so pompous that it had made him laugh, until he had considered what spirit had moved the author to write it. That, combined with a little gnawing desire of his own (not wholly becoming in a man of the cloth) to find out what all the fuss was about which his wife and daughters were continually wailing over, put the final stamp upon his resolution: He would go to London himself upon a dual mission. The first, of course, was to collect his daughter, and the second, was to disillusion the Baronet.

The minister set forth at once, for he was not a man to sit about having once made up his mind, nor did he desire to be encumbered by the company of any other member of his family, which he knew was a strong likelihood if the news of his departure was allowed to get about. Setting forth that same afternoon, therefore, he took stages to Grimley and, passing the night at one of the larger and more commodious inns upon the highway, arrived the next morning in London at about twelve o'clock. He went immediately to the house of his sister, a Mrs. Norton, who lived in Curzon Street, and whom, by dint of having married a well-known solicitor, he could depend upon to advise him, as well as giving both himself and his daughter beds for the night. Mrs. Norton had not been told of her niece's residence in London, for Anne had not wanted to be obliged to her, nor had Mrs. Calder relished the idea of her sister-in-law's reaction to the news of Anne's
governessship. Mrs. Norton was rich and well connected, but she was equally an expansive and devoted aunt. Mr. Calder was positive he could depend upon her to help him.