Hervey 09 - Man Of War (31 page)

‘I . . .’ (he could not – or would not – bring himself to recall its whereabouts) ‘I think I may be able to . . . arrange something.’

‘Very well, sir.’

He recovered himself somewhat. ‘And . . . I should like very much that Sir Thomas himself makes a copy of the head and shoulders.’

The agent looked doubtful. ‘Sir Thomas has a great many commissions to detain him, Colonel Hervey. But a pupil could execute a very faithful copy.’

‘No, I should like the hand of the man for whom my late wife sat.’

Keightley looked troubled, but recognized the powerful sentiment. ‘I shall most certainly see what can be done, Colonel.’

They walked back to the United Service. Fairbrother had taken note of the route by which they had driven to Russell Square, and when Hervey, whose mind was unquestionably elsewhere, said that he would like to take a little exercise – by which Fairbrother supposed he meant air – he was perfectly able to conduct his friend to Charles Street. They exchanged scarcely a word in the best part of the hour that it took them to negotiate the pedestrians and hawkers, horses and conveyances, which at times conjoined into a solid barrier to movement. When they reached the club they ordered hot baths, agreeing that they would dine quietly, and requested two well-chilled bottles of hock to be sent upstairs.

At eight o’clock they took a table by an open window on to the street. ‘I am conscious we have not had much entertainment since we came here,’ said Hervey absently, seeing the line of carriages waiting to deposit their occupants at the Theatre Royal in the Haymarket.

‘I’m sure there will be opportunity,’ replied Fairbrother, seeking to reassure him; he was most conscious, still, of their encounter with the past in Russell Square.

A waiter brought them the menu. This was the day of the month that it changed, although there remained the staple of grills. But Hervey had little appetite for study, and when Fairbrother said he favoured the turbot and then cutlets, he was content merely to follow.

‘And to drink, gentlemen?’ asked the wine steward when their order was taken.

Fairbrother looked to Hervey, in part to tempt him back to the here and now. But Hervey seemed unable to make the effort. ‘Continue with the hock, I think . . . and a burgundy, perhaps. Might you choose for us, James?’

The wine steward made various suggestions; Hervey nodded inconclusively, until the steward saw that he must take the choice upon himself.

When he was gone, Hervey sighed and shook his head. ‘You will forgive me, Fairbrother: I do not think I may confess it to any other man . . . but the painting . . . it was the most thoroughgoing shock to me.’

Fairbrother smiled sympathetically. ‘Of course, Hervey; of course.’

‘I have her picture in my mind’s eye still with easy facility; I always have had. But to see her likeness so, standing wholly independent of any effort of imagination . . .’

‘It is as if she were here yet.’

‘Exactly so, exactly so.’ Hervey shook his head slowly, emphasizing his disbelief that it could be thus. ‘It is a very trite thing to speak of seeing a ghost. I have seen no ghost, Fairbrother. I saw her as if flesh and blood.’

Fairbrother showed not the least discomfort in either the intimacy or the sentiment. He nodded, gently, to reassure his friend. ‘I am sure.’

They began their supper with potted shrimps and desultory conversation. Fairbrother was ever patient, however. Here was not the man he had ridden with at the Cape; here was a man fettered, almost paralysed. For his friend, it seemed to him, was bound by a notion of duty that had run too far – in the case of regiment, so far as to render him (perhaps for ever) a mere compliant; and in the case of private affairs it impelled him down a road to nowhere he could rightly wish to be (certainly not to the peace he sought). But how might these things be spoken of? He had tried, and his friend had shown scant inclination to hear. Did he, Hervey, know these things already, and yet find himself unable to do what he knew he must? Was ‘duty’ but a refuge? But from what (he had seen no want of courage at the Cape)?

The turbot was brought, which provoked some talk of the sea, and inevitably of Peto. Fairbrother was dismayed at the vehemence, still, with which Hervey spoke of Elizabeth’s intentions. Here, too, was a distortion of duty. He tried once more to moderate his friend’s opinion, but with not the least success.

The cutlets, with a very good Marsala sauce, provided a quarter of an hour’s respite (they spoke of what they might see at the theatre), but the savoury of smoked oysters somehow provoked mention of the court of inquiry. Another bottle of burgundy was brought.

A stew of apples partly restored Hervey’s spirits, so that he began speaking with evident pleasure of the invitation to dine with Kat, assuring Fairbrother that the evening was bound to be diverting, for Lady Katherine Greville presided at the most excellent of soirées.

It had become dark outside, but for the street lamps, though it was still warm, even balmy – like an early summer’s evening at the Cape. Hervey asked his friend if he would like port or more burgundy with his Stilton. Fairbrother chose port, and a bottle was decanted.

Hervey poured a little carelessly, so that he had to dab at the table cloth with his napkin. ‘Damned glass too small!’

‘Or the hand unsteady: I am glad you do not point a Cape rifle above my head!’

The Cape Riflemen practised by holding targets thus for their fellows to snipe. Hervey and Fairbrother had even practised the same.

‘Or a bow?’

Fairbrother smiled the more. There had been archery one afternoon at Walden (Kezia was a considerable proficient), at which neither of them had distinguished themselves. ‘Especially a bow!’

They dug into the Stilton with renewed appetite, replenishing their glasses, remarking on this or that, Hervey no longer so low in spirits. At length he put down his glass, and eyed his friend in some earnest. ‘You found Walden agreeable, did you not?’

Fairbrother was at once all attention. ‘Walden is, indeed, a most agreeable place.’

Hervey hesitated. ‘I mean, you found . . . you found my affianced . . . you approve of her?’

Fairbrother was troubled by the turn of conversation. ‘My dear fellow, what can possess you to ask me such a question?’

‘You have made no remark on it.’

Fairbrother was momentarily in some confusion: he had indeed made no remark; it was undeniable. ‘Would you expect me to?’ he asked in a tone of surprise, hoping thereby to throw his friend off any scent – false or otherwise. ‘Forgive me, Hervey, if I have not congratulated you.’

‘I would have been glad of your good opinion,’ Hervey said, a little unsteadily, the wine at length having its effect.

Fairbrother had perhaps drunk more, but he had begun the evening with his sensibility unimpaired. He sighed.

‘Why do you sigh?’

‘There is no good reason.’

‘Is there
any
reason?’

Fairbrother studied his friend intently. They had not known each other long in the usual measure of things, but the fellowship of the veld, the common cause against Xhosa and Zulu, made for the most singular bond between them. And if he was to be true to that bond, he must speak his mind now, for there would scarce be better opportunity.

‘My dear friend,’ he began, reluctantly, laying down his glass. ‘I have something to say which may at first give offence, but which yet I must say and trust that you will hear with every certainty that I say it only out of the very deepest affection for you.’

Hervey looked at him uncertainly. ‘Why indeed might I take offence?’

Fairbrother sighed again, trying manfully, however, to keep the sigh to himself. ‘Hear me, Hervey. I am your good friend. Were I to know there was another who could claim a better connection I should be glad to let him have the responsibility, but I do not. I believe I know your mind on a great many things, and I may say also your heart. I have observed you keenly these past weeks, and I observed Lady Lankester too . . .’

‘What is it you say? Come, man!’

‘It is perfectly clear to me that this marriage is ill conceived.’

Hervey made at once to protest, but Fairbrother held up a hand. ‘Hear me, Hervey. Do me the honour – nay, courtesy – of listening to my opinion, for you have sought it.’

Hervey sat back in his chair, his eyes narrowed.

‘For Lady Lankester I cannot speak, though I am equally sure of her feelings. For your part, I have not the slightest doubt that you will make of her a fine commanding officer’s wife, and the equal figure of a mother for your daughter—’

He lifted a hand again to stay another protest.

‘But in a few years’ time – perhaps more than a few, but it must be so eventually – you will meet another with whom your true feelings shall be engaged, and being the man you are you will be unable to act on them. But you will never be happy. Neither do I believe shall she.’

Hervey rose. ‘You forget yourself, sir!’ he said coldly.

Several heads turned, but Fairbrother took no notice.

‘I trust I do not. I trust I speak as a true friend.’

Hervey threw down his napkin. ‘You have not the slightest notion of what you speak!’

Fairbrother held the angry scowl defiantly, and then Hervey stalked from the room like a goaded beast.

At nine the following morning, as Fairbrother lay half asleep, a tray of tea beside his bed and
The Times
unopened, there was a knock at the door. ‘Yes,’ he called wearily.

Hervey opened the door, cautiously. He was fully dressed, and with all the appearance of one who had been so for some hours.

The valet had half drawn the curtains; Fairbrother squinted in the bright sunlight, and groaned. ‘What? Is the building afire? Do the Zulu attack? I did not hear “alarm”.’

‘I was awake before dawn, and rose early.’

‘Then you’re a deuced fool.’ He turned away from the door.

‘I had not slept well. I cannot bear to lie abed if I am awake.’

‘But there’s no cause to inflict your peculiar regimen on others.’

‘I’ve been to Russell-square.’

Fairbrother at once turned, and raised himself on an arm, eyes open. ‘Why?’ he asked, quietly.

‘I believe you know the answer.’

‘Did they admit you at such an hour?’

‘Yes. The housekeeper was very obliging. I did not stay long – just long enough to look at the painting again.’

Fairbrother was now sitting upright. He poured himself tea, lukewarm. ‘And did you walk away from Russell-square the more composed?’

Hervey pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘In a sense, yes. There was not the shock of first seeing it, naturally. But, you know, she’s still there.’

‘What do you mean by that exactly?’

Hervey’s brow furrowed as he sought the words to explain. ‘These past few years – these past five years, I suppose, the time in India principally – the memory has receded. Not so much receded, as . . . Well, what I mean is that I do not think of her hour to hour as first I did, or even day to day. And there have been some weeks when I do not believe I thought of her at all, though they were exceptional – when we were in the field, or some such. And yet when I
did
think of her it was with undiminished force. Do you understand me?’

Fairbrother nodded. ‘I do,’ he said, tenderly.

‘And this painting . . . It is such a likeness that she might be there in the room.’

Fairbrother sighed. ‘And so what is it that you conclude?’

Hervey shook his head. ‘My dear fellow, I am most excessively sorry for what I said last night. It troubled me greatly as I lay awake, as much as did thoughts of the painting.’

Fairbrother leaned forward, as if to make a greater contact. ‘Hervey, no man ought to hear such a thing as I said, any more than a man ought to say it. My disquiet can be naught to yours, however. Think nothing more of it.’

‘You are very good,’ said Hervey, forcing a sad smile. ‘I do not believe there is a man in my own regiment with whom I could speak so freely – on any matter. Indeed, I am certain of it.’

Fairbrother smiled by return. ‘Of course; it must be so. There, a man ever stands in relation to another as subordinate or superior. Except the cornets, naturally, among whom seniority is like virginity among whores. And you are no longer a cornet.’

Hervey smiled ruefully. ‘No, indeed, I am no longer a cornet.’

‘And so?’

He shook his head. ‘That is the point, my friend: I am no longer a cornet.’

Now Fairbrother shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, dear one: you lose me.’

‘I am a field officer – major, with a half-colonel’s brevet, and, I flatter myself, prospects of substantive promotion. I have a daughter, and no wife, but the prospect of marrying a good woman.’

Fairbrother sighed inly. A sleepless night and a brisk morning’s walk had evidently done little for his friend’s powers of apt introspection. ‘Hervey, I know you to be a most honourable man, with the most honourable of intentions . . .’

Hervey held up a hand. These were deep waters – waters he had never before trodden. There were strange forces at work in such depths; he did not trust himself to remain afloat, let alone make headway. But he had freely entered those waters, had he not? In truth, had he not long craved this new-found intimacy, even without knowing that he did? ‘Fairbrother, I can scarce say the words, for they will, I know, dismay you the more – and why should I care about that? – but I have asked Lady Lankester to marry me, and she has accepted me. That is, truly, an end to it.’

Fairbrother shook his head. ‘You do dismay me. You play the Stoic: you would beat out your brains to prove your virtue!’

‘And what, precisely, do you mean by that?’

‘I mean precisely what I said last night; no more, no less. Hervey, I have seen the way you look at Lady Lankester – she is an uncommonly attractive woman – but it is plain that there is insufficient love between the two of you. And it will not serve, I tell you.’

‘And I repeat that I have asked for Kezia’s hand, and she has accepted me. It would be unsupportable to consider otherwise now.’

Fairbrother’s face was a picture of incredulity. ‘You would proceed knowing that you were in error?’