The Country Gentleman (20 page)

“You know that?” Anne demanded, amazed, and wondered straightway whether, in that case, he knew the rest of the terms.

“Indeed. We discussed it when he set out to draw up his will. He was afraid—and so was I—that his beneficiary would take as much out and put as little into Linfield as possible, and that the place would fall to ruin. We agreed this condition was a good guard—”

Anne was on the point of asking him if he knew he himself was named in the will, but Highet continued,
“Of course, what I could not know when I so agreed was how painful the tenure would be to you. To be frank, I have been a little surprised at your chusing to stay at all. My mother…”

Anne waited breathlessly to hear what observation this devoted son would make about his mother.

“My mother is an excellent woman, but she is rather silly in some matters. Yet I cannot help thinking she is correct when she says, as she so often says,” he added with the faintest smile, “that you must regret your old life. I remark here that I do not quite believe your story of the organ-grinder’s monkey. Yet since you do not go back to town, but instead live here more and more retired, I can only guess that some circumstance actually prevents your return, and that Mr. Guilfoyle’s bequest came as a godsend more than as a mere boon.”

Such was the trance Anne was in, and so much had she come to trust Mr. Highet even when not enthralled, that she told him simply, “That is quite true. A ship sank, and with it all I had.”

Mr. Highet received this in silence, but his face changed, and he gave her a swift glance in which inquiry, esteem, and sympathy mingled. “In that case,” he at last went on, “my proposal may be of even greater interest to you than I expected.”

“Mr. Highet, what is your proposal?” Anne asked in a sharpened tone, afraid even in her misty confusion lest he revert to his old habit of pitying her.

He hesitated a moment, as a man does who is about to sign a document though he has already read it, then declared, “It is that we bring our estates into even a closer alliance than any Herbert Guilfoyle and I could contrive. In brief, Miss Guilfoyle (and repeating that I admire and
respect you personally very much), I suggest we marry and join the estates together.”

“I beg your pardon?” was Miss Guilfoyle’s flabbergasted answer.

“I knew I should surprise you. Forgive me if I could have prepared you better,” said Mr. Highet (though, curiously, he seemed all the while he made this apology to be resisting a smile). “The purpose of this alliance, you see, would be, on my side, to extend my property substantially—an arithmetical extension which ought to have geometrical benefits in increased production. Whereas on your side, you will be free to return to a life you left, I am persuaded, only reluctantly. You would continue to receive the income from Linfield—which ought, as I say, to increase considerably—without being obliged to remain here. I am the more in favour of this plan, as I think it does not at all thwart your great uncle’s wishes, but on the contrary furthers them. Without immodesty, I hope I may say Mr. Guilfoyle had an excellent opinion of my management.”

Anne could only reply, rather vacantly, “No doubt. But this alliance—”

“Oh, I need hardly add, the marriage would be a legal matter purely. My mother has no wish to be supplanted as mistress of Fevermere, you may be sure—” On this, Mr. Highet put his head back and gave one of the hearty laughs Anne so disliked. “Any more, I trust, than you have ambitions to supplant her. No indeed, our relations—yours and mine—would remain quite as they are. Except that I dareswear I should see a good deal less of you. I should like—though you need not—I should like it if you came up now and then. Say once or twice a year, to see how the estates go on. But as for—well, how can I say
it?” A fresh smile pulled at Mr. Highet’s generous mouth, and he went on, “As for any
intimacies
, you may assure yourself— Oh, no! That, I will hardly require of you!” And again he flung his head back and this time laughed so heartily that Anne, her head newly aswirl, longed to skewer him with the fireplace poker. When he finally managed to recover himself, he continued, “I am sure I have mentioned once or twice the circumstance of my having six nephews by my older brother. Thoughtful of him, wasn’t it, to relieve me of any necessity to produce an heir? One of the boys looks rather like being a farmer to me, when he grows up, though he might dispute it now. George, he’s called. Now that’s a coincidence—George is the name of your friend Lord Ensley, isn’t it? What do you hear from him these days?”

As this question was asked in a tone indicative of mere polite interest, and with a smile perfectly bland, Anne could not suspect Mr. Highet of knowing it had any particular meaning to her. She turned, if possible, a shade whiter, but obliged herself to say, “He is well, I think.” Her voice had a tremor in it which she hoped Mr. Highet did not hear. He was looking at her very closely, or so it seemed to her—perhaps it was only because she especially wished he would not just now. She could bring herself to say nothing more of Ensley—certainly not that he had now been married some hour and a half—but instead observed coldly, “When a country has had three kings named George, one must expect to find Georges sprinkled about. It is hardly a coincidence worth noting, I should say.”

Mr. Highet appeared to take no offence from the condescension in her tone but on the contrary looked peculiarly cheered. “I expect you are right,” he agreed,
bowing. “At all events, you now have my proposition before you. Reflect upon it at your leisure, I beg—”

As he appeared to be about to rise, Anne involuntarily stretched out a hand to stop him, lightly touching his arm for the purpose. Ridiculously (she considered) she got another of those shocks—this one from his sleeve, for heaven’s sake! But at least it brought her colour back a little. Breathing more rapidly, “Pray stop another moment,” she interrupted, “I have something to tell you—though I have sometimes thought,” she added suspiciously, “that you already know it. You are rather deeper than you look, Mr. Highet, are not you?”

“Am I?” He seemed surprised. “As I do not know how deep I look, I suppose I cannot say.”

“You look a plain country gentleman,” she told him, a little impatiently. “No more and no less.”

“But that is just what I am.” He gazed with unusual directness into her eyes and repeated, seriously, “I am a country gentleman, make no mistake. Neither more nor less, as you say; and I pretend to nothing else.”

But he seemed, all the same, to imply by this speech that Miss Guilfoyle had perhaps never quite understood exactly how much the status he admitted to implied. She heard him in silence. At length,

“But you were about to tell me something?” he suggested.

She nodded. “Mr. Highet, I do not know whether you were privy to all the provisions of my great uncle’s will; but in case you were not, I must inform you—”

“That I would inherit if you failed to keep its terms?” he broke in.

“You do know!”

“Certainly. What of it?”

“Have you always known? Since before I came?”

“Of course. Why do you seem so startled?” Mr. Highet gave his friendly, stupid smile.

“Because— Don’t you understand? If I had been unable…”

“I understand perfectly.”

“But— But you have been so kind! In every detail, you have assisted me so willingly! If I had had to depend on Rand, I must have given up by now.” Mr. Highet continuing to look blankly back at her, “But do not you consider your own conduct to have been rather extraordinary?” she demanded. “It went quite against your own self-interest. You have absolutely done yourself out of three thousand a year!”

“Oh, more than that,” was his tranquil answer. “As I told you just now, the joining of the two properties could increase production overall by a factor of two, or even three in time. But you see, dear Miss Guilfoyle, I have no wish to profit by your loss. If you had proved a silly woman, if you had shown no wish to learn your task here, perhaps I might have been less forward. If I had seen the tenants likely to suffer…But believe me enough of a Christian, I beg—even with all my ‘radical’ ideas,” he smiled, “which I know you deplore—pray believe me still Christian enough not to wish active harm to my neighbour.”

Miss Guilfoyle sat staring at him full half a minute, her crumpled mouth hanging ever so slightly open. It was hardly an expression calculated to please: For the moment, though, she had no thought for her appearance. “But you need not have married me,” she finally pointed out. “Don’t you see? If you had simply let me be—not hindered me, but merely kept silent—you could have had
Linfield. Who knows how long I should have stuck it out, but without your help…Don’t you see, if only you had waited—?”

Perhaps the glow of the firelight deceived her, but Miss Guilfoyle thought Mr. Highet’s ruddy glow heightened a little. He hesitated a long while. Was it possible he really had not thought of this? And did he now regret his offer? After a great pause he answered merely, “Miss Guilfoyle, I should not have cared to do that. Would you in my place?”

Anne thought. Curiously, she had never considered the question from this point of view. It took some time, especially with her head still swimming, to imagine herself in his position; but when at last she had done it, “No, of course not,” she replied.

“Then why do you expect so much less of me?” he inquired. His sleepy gaze suggested no teasing or sermonizing: He simply asked.

As simply, “I do not know,” she responded. “Perhaps conceit is my besetting sin after all.”

Mr. Highet said nothing but only checked to be sure the watercolour horse was still flying over the hedge.

“About your being a Christian,” Anne presently took up. “Does not your…proposition strike you as being rather sacrilegious?”

Earnestly, “I am glad you mention that,” he told her, leaning forward and shifting his gaze to (as best Anne could reckon) the keys of the pianoforte. “I fancied that might trouble you. In some particulars, I suppose, what I suggest will not be a proper marriage. You will not truly undertake to obey and serve me, for example, though when you are asked ‘Will you,’ you must answer ‘I will.’ For my part, though I shall honour you as
charged—indeed I shall—I expect I shall have but little opportunity, say, to comfort you. As for forsaking all others…” Mr. Highet’s voice faded and he looked distinctly uneasy. He gave her a queer glance before he resumed, “That scarcely enters into it. But Miss Guilfoyle, I need hardly point out to you, who have lived so long in town, that hardly a marriage does get made there more sincere than this one. The estate of matrimony is daily entered into by persons with no motive at all save the increase of wealth or station, with only the barest acquaintance, if that, between the parties—”

“Hear, hear,” Anne muttered bitterly, while he went on as if he had not heard:

“Whereas our alliance at least would be made in—I hope—mutual esteem and genuine good will. On my side, in any case.”

Anne bowed. It did not occur to her then that Mr. Highet might be hoping for her assurance that such esteem and good will existed on her side also. She asked, “Does your mother favour this—suggestion?”

“Oh, very much.” He put back his head and roared before going on, “It is the answer to all her prayers. She has lived in fear these fifteen years and more of my taking a wife—a wife who would then insist on mending my stockings and pouring my tea and performing all those other useful offices my mother so much relishes performing herself. To have me married at last, yet to retain her position—what a blessing she must think it.” He added, very belatedly, “Naturally she has also a high regard for you.”

“Oh, naturally.” Miss Guilfoyle laughed as merrily as she expected to that day.

“But I do not wish to persuade or urge you to accept.
Not at all. I should like you to think it over and discuss it with me again. Perhaps you see a flaw I have overlooked—it would not surprise me. Consult your friends; consult your inclinations…For the moment, I am content that you do not, at least, resent the very notion. At least—you do not?” He looked at her searchingly.

Her head throbbed; her pulses throbbed. In all her life she had never had a day so strange. She considered Mr. Highet’s question. He had taken her by surprise, that was certain; but, “No, I do not resent it,” she heard herself saying. “Quite the opposite. I am honoured that you should think well enough of me, should trust me sufficiently, to be willing to suggest what could, after all, become a rather vexed proposition. I shall think of it, as you ask. And now perhaps—”

She stood. Mr. Highet caught her meaning and stood as well. A little awkwardly—for after all, the circumstances were awkward—they took their leave of one another, Mr. Highet bowing, Anne putting out her hand, Mr. Highet going to take her hand, Anne retracting it before he could. Mr. Highet drove away. Miss Guilfoyle returned to her bed-chamber to ponder now, not only Lord Ensley’s marriage, but perhaps her own.

What an extraordinary idea,” was Mrs. Insel’s first comment when, some twenty-four hours after Mr. Highet’s visit, Anne explained that gentleman’s proposition to her. Then, “Do you think he quite means what he says?”

“Means what he says? When a man pretends love, perhaps he wants money; but what Mr. Highet says is so preposterous, I can hardly imagine a more bizarre design hidden behind it. Can you?”

Maria had actually been thinking of a design less, not more, bizarre; but she decided on second thoughts to keep this possibility to herself and merely answered, vaguely, “Perhaps not. But what did you say to him?”

“I promised to consider it.”

“Indeed?”

“Why? Do you think I ought to have rejected it out of hand?” They were talking in the modestly cosy upstairs sitting-room Anne had adopted as her own. Now she distractedly lifted the cover of the mahogany box on the Pembroke table, only to find the same sticky comfits she had forgot to mention to Miss Veal. Mrs. Insel was curled up on a couch opposite, her tiny feet tucked beneath her.

She answered, “No; but I am surprised. How would it seem to Ensley?”

“Do you mean, would he be jealous? Don’t be daft, Maria. On the contrary, I think the point is, if I really love him, I must accept. How else can I ever be with him? This way I will have the means and the freedom. It makes our situations symmetrical. You may be sure that is how he will see it.”