‘She is staying at the Hôtel du Rhin, and I have made him feel that he mustn’t leave her while she is here,’ Mrs Headway said, as they drove up the narrow Rue de Seine. ‘Her name is Lady Demesne, but her full title is the Honourable Lady Demesne, as she’s a Baron’s daughter. Her father used to be a banker, but he did something or other for the Government – the Tories, you know, they call them – and so he was raised to the peerage. So you see one can be raised! She has a lady with her as a companion.’ Waterville’s neighbour gave him this information with a seriousness that made him smile; he wondered whether she thought he didn’t know how a Baron’s daughter was addressed. In that she was very provincial; she had a way of exaggerating the value of her intellectual acquisitions and of assuming that others had been as ignorant as she. He noted, too, that she had ended by suppressing poor Sir Arthur’s name altogether, and designating him only by a sort of conjugal pronoun. She had been so much, and so easily, married, that she was full of these misleading references to gentlemen.
V
THEY walked through the gallery of the Luxembourg, and except that Mrs Headway looked at everything at once and at nothing long enough, talked, as usual, rather too loud, and bestowed too much attention on the bad copies that were being made of several indifferent pictures, she was a very agreeable companion and a grateful recipient of knowledge. She was very quick to understand, and Waterville was sure that before she left the gallery she knew something about the French school. She was quite prepared to compare it critically with London exhibitions of the following year. As Littlemore and he had remarked more than once, she was a very odd mixture. Her conversation, her personality, were full of little joints and seams, all of them very visible, where the old and the new had been pieced together. When they had passed through the different rooms of the palace Mrs Headway proposed that instead of returning directly they should take a stroll in the adjoining gardens, which she wished very much to see and was sure she should like. She had quite seized the difference between the old Paris and the new, and felt the force of the romantic associations of the Latin quarter as perfectly as if she had enjoyed all the benefits of modern culture. The autumn sun was warm in the alleys and terraces of the Luxembourg; the masses of foliage above them, clipped and squared, rusty with ruddy patches, shed a thick lacework over the white sky, which was streaked with the palest blue. The beds of flowers near the palace were of the vividest yellow and red, and the sunlight rested on the smooth grey walls of those parts of its basement that looked south; in front of which, on the long green benches, a row of brown-cheeked nurses, in white caps and white aprons, sat offering nutrition to as many bundles of white drapery. There were other white caps wandering in the broad paths, attended by little brown French children; the small, straw-seated chairs were piled and stacked in some places and disseminated in others. An old lady in black, with white hair fastened over each of her temples by a large black comb, sat on the edge of a stone bench (too high for her delicate length), motionless, staring straight before her and holding a large door-key; under a tree a priest was reading – you could see his lips move at a distance; a young soldier, dwarfish and red-legged, strolled past with his hands in his pockets, which were very much distended. Waterville sat down with Mrs Headway on the straw-bottomed chairs, and she presently said, ‘I like this; it’s even better than the pictures in the gallery. It’s more of a picture.’
‘Everything in France is a picture – even things that are ugly,’ Waterville replied. ‘Everything makes a subject.’
‘Well, I like France!’ Mrs Headway went on, with a little incongruous sigh. Then, suddenly, from an impulse even more inconsequent than her sigh, she added, ‘He asked me to go and see her, but I told him I wouldn’t. She may come and see me if she likes.’ This was so abrupt that Waterville was slightly confounded; but he speedily perceived that she had returned by a short cut to Sir Arthur Demesne and his honourable mother. Waterville liked to know about other people’s affairs, but he did not like this taste to be imputed to him; and therefore, though he was curious to see how the old lady, as he called her, would treat his companion, he was rather displeased with the latter for being so confidential. He had never imagined he was so intimate with her as that. Mrs Headway, however, had a manner of taking intimacy for granted; a manner which Sir Arthur’s mother at least would be sure not to like. He pretended to wonder a little what she was talking about, but she scarcely explained. She only went on, through untraceable transitions: ‘The least she can do is to come. I have been very kind to her son. That’s not a reason for my going to her – it’s a reason for her coming to me. Besides, if she doesn’t like what I’ve done, she can leave me alone. I want to get into European society, but I want to get in in my own way. I don’t want to run after people; I want them to run after me. I guess they will, some day!’ Waterville listened to this with his eyes on the ground; he felt himself blushing a little. There was something in Mrs Headway that shocked and mortified him, and Littlemore had been right in saying that she had a deficiency of shading. She was terribly distinct; her motives, her impulses, her desires were absolutely glaring. She needed to see, to hear, her own thoughts. Vehement thought, with Mrs Headway, was inevitably speech, though speech was not always thought, and now she had suddenly become vehement. ‘If she does once come – then, ah, then, I shall be too perfect with her; I sha’n’t let her go! But she must take the first step. I confess, I hope she’ll be nice.’
‘Perhaps she won’t,’ said Waterville perversely.
‘Well, I don’t care if she isn’t. He has never told me anything about her; never a word about any of his own belongings. If I wished, I might believe he’s ashamed of them.’
‘I don’t think it’s that.’
‘I know it isn’t. I know what it is. It’s just modesty. He doesn’t want to brag – he’s too much of a gentleman. He doesn’t want to dazzle me – he wants me to like him for himself. Well, Ido like him,’ she added in a moment. ‘But I shall like him still better if he brings his mother. They shall know that in America.’
‘Do you think it will make an impression in America?’ Waterville asked, smiling.
‘It will show them that I am visited by the British aristocracy. They won’t like that.’
‘Surely they grudge you no innocent pleasure,’ Waterville murmured, smiling still.
‘They grudged me common politeness – when I was in New York! Did you ever hear how they treated me, when I came on from the West?’
Waterville stared; this episode was quite new to him. His companion had turned towards him; her pretty head was tossed back like a flower in the wind; there was a flush in her cheek, a sharper light in her eye. ‘Ah! my dear New Yorkers, they’re incapable of rudeness!’ cried the young man.
‘You’re one of them, I see. But I don’t speak of the men. The men were well enough – though they did allow it.’
‘Allow what, Mrs Headway?’ Waterville was quite in the dark.
She wouldn’t answer at once; her eyes, glittering a little, were fixed upon absent images. ‘What did you hear about me over there? Don’t pretend you heard nothing.’
He had heard nothing at all; there had not been a word about Mrs Headway in New York. He couldn’t pretend, and he was obliged to tell her this. ‘But I have been away,’ he added, ‘and in America I didn’t go out. There’s nothing to go out for in New York – only little boys and girls.’
‘There are plenty of old women! They decided I was improper. I’m very well known in the West – I’m known from Chicago to San Francisco – if not personally (in all cases), at least by reputation. People can tell you out there. In New York they decided I wasn’t good enough. Not good enough for New York! What do you say to that?’ And she gave a sweet little laugh. Whether she had struggled with her pride before making this avowal, Waterville never knew. The crudity of the avowal seemed to indicate that she had no pride, and yet there was a spot in her heart which, as he now perceived, was intensely sore an
d had suddenly begun to throb. ‘I took a house for the winter – one of the handsomest houses in the place – but I sat there all alone. They didn’t think me proper. Such as you see me here, I wasn’t a success! I tell you the truth, at whatever cost. Not a decent woman came to see me!’
Waterville was embarrassed; diplomatist as he was, he hardly knew what line to take. He could not see what need there was of her telling him the truth, though the incident appeared to have been most curious, and he was glad to know the facts on the best authority. It was the first he knew of this remarkable woman’s having spent a winter in his native city – which was virtually a proof of her having come and gone in complete obscurity. It was vain for him to pretend that he had been a good deal away, for he had been appointed to his post in London only six months before, and Mrs Headway’s social failure preceded that event. In the midst of these reflections he had an inspiration. He attempted neither to explain, to minimise, nor to apologise; he ventured simply to lay his hand for an instant on her own and to exclaim, as tenderly as possible, ‘I wish I had known you were there!’
‘I had plenty of men – but men don’t count. If they are not a positive help, they’re a hindrance, and the more you have, the worse it looks. The women simply turned their backs.’
‘They were afraid of you – they were jealous,’ Waterville said.
‘It’s very good of you to try and explain it away; all I know is, not one of them crossed my threshold. You needn’t try and tone it down; I know perfectly how the case stands. In New York, if you please, I was a failure!’
‘So much the worse for New York!’ cried Waterville, who, as he afterwards said to Littlemore, had got quite worked up.
‘And now you know why I want to get into society over here?’ She jumped up and stood before him; with a dry, hard smile she looked down at him. Her smile itself was an answer to her question; it expressed an urgent desire for revenge. There was an abruptness in her movements which left Waterville quite behind; but as he still sat there, returning her glance, he felt that he at last, in the light of that smile, the flash of that almost fierce question, understood Mrs Headway.
She turned away, to walk to the gate of the garden, and he went with her, laughing vaguely, uneasily, at her tragic tone. Of course she expected him to help her to her revenge; but his female relations, his mother and his sisters, his innumerable cousins, had been a party to the slight she suffered, and he reflected as he walked along that after all they had been right. They had been right in not going to see a woman who could chatter that way about her social wrongs; whether Mrs Headway were respectable or not, they had a correct instinct, for at any rate she was vulgar. European society might let her in, but European society would be wrong. New York, Waterville said to himself with a glow of civic pride, was quite capable of taking a higher stand in such a matter than London. They went some distance without speaking; at last he said, expressing honestly the thought which at that moment was uppermost in his mind, ‘I hate that phrase, “getting into society”. I don’t think one ought to attribute to one’s self that sort of ambition. One ought to assume that one is in society – that one is society – and to hold that if one has good manners, one has, from the social point of view, achieved the great thing. The rest regards others.’
For a moment she appeared not to understand; then she broke out: ‘Well, I suppose I haven’t good manners; at any rate, I’m not satisfied! Of course, I don’t talk right – I know that very well. But let me get where I want to first – then I’ll look after my expressions. If I once get there, I shall be perfect!’ she cried with a tremor of passion. They reached the gate of the garden and stood a moment outside, opposite to the low arcade of the Odeon, lined with bookstalls at which Waterville cast a slightly wistful glance, waiting for Mrs Headway’s carriage, which had drawn up at a short distance. The whiskered Max had seated himself within, and on the tense, elastic cushions had fallen into a doze. The carriage got into motion without his awaking; he came to his senses only as it stopped again. He started up, staring; then, without confusion, he proceeded to descend.
‘I have learned it in Italy – they say the siesta,’ he remarked with an agreeable smile, holding the door open to Mrs Headway.
‘Well, I should think you had!’ this lady replied, laughing amicably as she got into the vehicle, whither Waterville followed her. It was not a surprise to him to perceive that she spoiled her courier; she naturally would spoil her courier. But civilisation begins at home, said Waterville; and the incident threw an ironical light upon her desire to get into society. It failed, however, to divert her thoughts from the subject she was discussing with Waterville, for as Max ascended the box and the carriage went on its way, she threw out another little note of defiance. ‘If once I’m all right over here, I can snap my fingers at New York! You’ll see the faces those women will make.’
Waterville was sure his mother and sisters would make no faces; but he felt afresh, as the carriage rolled back to the Hôtel Meurice, that now he understood Mrs Headway. As they were about to enter the court of the hotel a closed carriage passed before them, and while a few moments later he helped his companion to alight, he saw that Sir Arthur Demesne had descended from the other vehicle. Sir Arthur perceived Mrs Headway, and instantly gave his hand to a lady seated in the coupé. This lady emerged with a certain slow impressiveness, and as she stood before the door of the hotel – a woman still young and fair, with a good deal of height, gentle, tranquil, plainly dressed, yet distinctly imposing – Waterville saw that the baronet had brought his mother to call upon Nancy Beck. Mrs Headway’s triumph had begun; the Dowager Lady Demesne had taken the first step. Waterville wondered whether the ladies in New York, notified by some magnetic wave, were distorting their features. Mrs Headway, quickly conscious of what had happened, was neither too prompt to appropriate the visit, nor too slow to acknowledge it. She just paused, smiling at Sir Arthur.
‘I wish to introduce my mother – she wants very much to know you.’ He approached Mrs Headway; the lady had taken his arm. She was at once simple and circumspect; she had all the resources of an English matron.
Mrs Headway, without advancing a step, put out her hands as if to draw her visitor quickly closer. ‘I declare, you’re too sweet!’ Waterville heard her say.
He was turning away, as his own business was over; but the young Englishman, who had surrendered his mother to the embrace, as it might now almost be called, of their hostess, just checked him with a friendly gesture. ‘I daresay I sha’n’t see you again – I’m going away.’
‘Good-by, then,’ said Waterville. ‘You return to England?’
‘No; I go to Cannes with my mother.’
‘You remain at Cannes?’
‘Till Christmas very likely.’
The ladies, escorted by Mr Max, had passed into the hotel, and Waterville presently quitted his interlocutor. He smiled as he walked away reflecting that this personage had obtained a concession from his mother only at the price of a concession.
The next morning he went to see Littlemore, from whom he had a standing invitation to breakfast, and who, as usual, was smoking a cigar and looking through a dozen newspapers. Littlemore had a large apartment and an accomplished cook; he got up late and wandered about his room all the morning, stopping from time to time to look out of his windows which overhung the Place de la Madeleine. They had not been seated many minutes at breakfast when Waterville announced that Mrs Headway was about to be abandoned by Sir Arthur, who was going to Cannes.
‘That’s no news to me,’ Littlemore said. ‘He came last night to bid me good-by.’
‘To bid you good-by? He was very civil all of a sudden.’
‘He didn’t come from civility – he came from curiosity. Having dined here, he had a pretext for calling.’
‘I hope his curiosity was satisfied,’ Waterville remarked, in the manner of a person who could enter into such a sentiment.
Littlemore hesitated. ‘Well, I suspect not.
He sat here some time, but we talked about everything but what he wanted to know.’
‘And what did he want to know?’
‘Whether I know anything against Nancy Beck.’
Waterville stared. ‘Did he call her Nancy Beck?’
‘We never mentioned her; but I saw what he wanted, and that he wanted me to lead up to her – only I wouldn’t do it.’
‘Ah, poor man!’ Waterville murmured.
‘I don’t see why you pity him,’ said Littlemore. ‘Mrs Beck’s admirers were never pitied.’
‘Well, of course he wants to marry her.’
‘Let him do it, then. I have nothing to say to it.’
‘He believes there’s something in her past that’s hard to swallow.’
‘Let him leave it alone, then.’
‘How can he, if he’s in love with her?’ Waterville asked, in the tone of a man who could enter into that sentiment too.
‘Ah, my dear fellow, he must settle it himself. He has no right, at any rate, to ask me such a question. There was a moment, just as he was going, when he had it on his tongue’s end. He stood there in the doorway, he couldn’t leave me – he was going to plump out with it. He looked at me straight, and I looked straight at him; we remained that way for almost a minute. Then he decided to hold his tongue, and took himself off.’