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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?’
He smiled with a slight effort. ‘Why, yes, ma’am! I had hoped to have won the righ
t to speak to you on this subject. Well – I have not won that right, and you may deem it an impertinence that I should still venture, but since Fanny has honoured me with her confidence, and I promised her that I would do what I might, perhaps you will forgive me, and hear me with patience?’
She looked wonderingly at him. ‘Of course! That is – What can you possibly mean, my lord?’
‘She is, I collect, deeply attached to a young man whom she has known since her childhood. She has told me that you are opposed to the match, ma’am. Perhaps there exists some reason beyond his want of fortune to render his suit ineligible, but if it is not so – if your dislike of it arises only from a very natural desire that Fanny should contract some more brilliant alliance – may I beg of you, with all the earnestness at my command, not to stand between her and what may be her future happiness? Believe me, I do not speak without experience! In my youth I was the victim of such an ambition. I shall not say that one does not recover from an early disappointment – indeed, you know that I at least have done so! – but I am most sincerely fond of Fanny, and I would do much to save her from what I suffered. I have some little influence: I should be glad to exert it in this young man’s favour.’
The damp handkerchief had dropped from the widow’s clutch to the floor; she sat gazing up at his lordship with so odd an expression in her face that he added quickly: ‘You find it strange that Fanny should have confided in me. Do not be hurt by it! I believe it is often the case that a girl will more easily give her confidence to her father than to a most beloved mother. When she spoke, it was in the belief that I might become – But I will say no more on that head!’
The widow found her voice at last. ‘My lord,’ she said, ‘do I – do I understand that you are desirous of becoming Fanny’s father?’
‘That is not quite as I should phrase it, perhaps,’ he said, with a wry smile.
‘Not,’ asked the widow anxiously, ‘not – you are quite sure? – Fanny’s husband?’
He looked thunderstruck. ‘Fanny’s husband?’ he echoed. ‘I? Good God, no! Why – is it possible that you can have supposed –?’
‘I have never fainted in all my life,’ stated Mrs Wingham, in an uncertain voice. ‘I very much fear, however –’
‘No, no, this is no time for swoons!’ he said, seizing her hands. ‘You cannot have thought that it was Fanny I loved! Yes, yes, I know what Fanny has been to you, but you cannot have been so absurd!’
‘Yes, I was,’ averred the widow. ‘I could even be so absurd as not to have the remotest guess why I have felt so low ever since I met you, and thought you wished to marry her!’
