CHAPTER X.
Six months later appeared "The Right of Way," the last chance,
though we didn't know it, that we were to have to redeem ourselves.
Written wholly during Vereker's sojourn abroad, the book had been
heralded, in a hundred paragraphs, by the usual ineptitudes. I
carried it, as early a copy as any, I this time flattered myself,
straightway to Mrs. Corvick. This was the only use I had for it; I
left the inevitable tribute of The Middle to some more ingenious
mind and some less irritated temper. "But I already have it,"
Gwendolen said. "Drayton Deane was so good as to bring it to me
yesterday, and I've just finished it."
"Yesterday? How did he get it so soon?"
"He gets everything so soon! He's to review it in The Middle."
"He--Drayton Deane--review Vereker?" I couldn't believe my ears.
"'Why not? One fine ignorance is as good as another."
I winced but I presently said: "You ought to review him yourself!"
"I don't 'review,'" she laughed. "I'm reviewed!"
Just then the door was thrown open. "Ah yes, here's your
reviewer!" Drayton Deane was there with his long legs and his tall
forehead: he had come to see what she thought of "The Right of
Way," and to bring news that was singularly relevant. The evening
papers were just out with a telegram on the author of that work,
who, in Rome, had been ill for some days with an attack of malarial
fever. It had at first not been thought grave, but had taken, in
consequence of complications, a turn that might give rise to
anxiety. Anxiety had indeed at the latest hour begun to be felt.
I was struck in the presence of these tidings with the fundamental
detachment that Mrs. Corvick's overt concern quite failed to hide:
it gave me the measure of her consummate independence. That
independence rested on her knowledge, the knowledge which nothing
now could destroy and which nothing could make different. The
figure in the carpet might take on another twist or two, but the
sentence had virtually been written. The writer might go down to
his grave: she was the person in the world to whom--as if she had
been his favoured heir--his continued existence was least of a
need. This reminded me how I had observed at a particular moment--
after Corvick's death--the drop of her desire to see him face to
face. She had got what she wanted without that. I had been sure
that if she hadn't got it she wouldn't have been restrained from
the endeavour to sound him personally by those superior reflexions,
more conceivable on a man's part than on a woman's, which in my
case had served an a deterrent. It wasn't however, I hasten to
add, that my case, in spite of this invidious comparison, wasn't
ambiguous enough. At the thought that Vereker was perhaps at that
moment dying there rolled over me a wave of anguish--a poignant
sense of how inconsistently I still depended on him. A delicacy
that it was my one compensation to suffer to rule me had left the
Alps and the Apennines between us, but the sense of the waning
occasion suggested that I might in my despair at last have gone to
him. Of course I should really have done nothing of the sort. I
remained five minutes, while my companions talked of the new book,
and when Drayton Deane appealed to me for my opinion of it I made
answer, getting up, that I detested Hugh Vereker and simply
couldn't read him. I departed with the moral certainty that as the
door closed behind me Deane would brand me for awfully superficial.
His hostess wouldn't contradict THAT at least.
I continue to trace with a briefer touch our intensely odd
successions. Three weeks after this came Vereker's death, and
before the year was out the death of his wife. That poor lady I
had never seen, but I had had a futile theory that, should she
survive him long enough to be decorously accessible, I might
approach her with the feeble flicker of my plea. Did she know and
if she knew would she speak? It was much to be presumed that for
more reasons than one she would have nothing to say; but when she
passed out of all reach I felt renannouncement indeed my appointed
lot. I was shut up in my obsession for ever--my gaolers had gone
off with the key. I find myself quite as vague as a captive in a
dungeon about the tinge that further elapsed before Mrs. Corvick
became the wife of Drayton Deane. I had foreseen, through my bars,
this end of the business, though there was no indecent haste and
our friendship had fallen rather off. They were both so "awfully
intellectual" that it struck people as a suitable match, but I had
measured better than any one the wealth of understanding the bride
would contribute to the union. Never, for a marriage in literary
circles--so the newspapers described the alliance--had a lady been
so bravely dowered. I began with due promptness to look for the
fruit of the affair--that fruit, I mean, of which the premonitory
symptoms would be peculiarly visible in the husband. Taking for
granted the splendour of the other party's nuptial gift, I expected
to see him make a show commensurate with his increase of means. I
knew what his means had been--his article on "The Right of Way" had
distinctly given one the figure. As he was now exactly in the
position in which still more exactly I was not I watched from month
to month, in the likely periodicals, for the heavy message poor
Corvick had been unable to deliver and the responsibility of which
would have fallen on his successor. The widow and wife would have
broken by the rekindled hearth the silence that only a widow and
wife might break, and Deane would be as aflame with the knowledge
as Corvick in his own hour, as Gwendolen in hers, had been. Well,
he was aflame doubtless, but the fire was apparently not to become
a public blaze. I scanned the periodicals in vain: Drayton Deane
filled them with exuberant pages, but he withheld the page I most
feverishly sought. He wrote on a thousand subjects, but never on
the subject of Vereker. His special line was to tell truths that
other people either "funked," as he said, or overlooked, but he
never told the only truth that seemed to me in these days to
signify. I met the couple in those literary circles referred to in
the papers: I have sufficiently intimated that it was only in such
circles we were all constructed to revolve. Gwendolen was more
than ever committed to them by the publication of her third novel,
and I myself definitely classed by holding the opinion that this
work was inferior to its immediate predecessor. Was it worse
because she had been keeping worse company? If her secret was, as
she had told me, her life--a fact discernible in her increasing
bloom, an air of conscious privilege that, cleverly corrected by
pretty charities, gave distinction to her appearance--it had yet
not a direct influence on her work. That only made one--everything
only made one--yearn the more for it; only rounded it off with a
mystery finer and subtler.
