# The Lesson of the Master, The Marriages, The Pupil, Brooksmith, The Solution, Sir Edmund Orme (New York & London: Macmillan & Co., 1892)/The Solution/Chapter 3

III.
There was nothing extraordinary in my going to see her, but there was something very extraordinary in my taking such an hour for the purpose. I was supposed to be settled in Rome again, but it was ten o'clock at night when I turned up at the old inn at Albano. Mrs. Bushbrook had not gone to bed, and she greeted me with a certain alarm, though the theory of our intercourse was that she was always glad to see me. I ordered supper and a room for the night, but I couldn't touch the repast before I had been ushered into the vast and vaulted apartment which she used as a parlour, the florid bareness of which would have been vulgar in any country but Italy. She asked me immediately if I had brought bad news, and I replied: "Yes, but only about myself. That's not exactly it," I added; "it's about Henry Wilmerding."
"Henry Wilmerding?" She appeared for the moment not to recognise the name.
"He's going to marry Veronica Goldie."
Mrs. Rushbrook stared. "Que me contez-vous là? Have you come all this way to tell me that?"
"But he is—it's all settled—it's awful!" I went on.
"What do I care, and what do you mean?"
"I've got into a mess, and I want you to advise me and to get me out of it," I persisted.
"My poor friend, you must make it a little clearer then," she smiled. "Sit down, please—and have you had your dinner?"
She had been sitting at one end of her faded saloon, where, as the autumn night was fresh at Albano, a fire of faggots was crackling in the big marble-framed cavern of the chimney. Her books, her work, her materials ​for writing and sketching, were scattered near: the place was a comfortable lamplit corner in the general blankness. There was a piano near at hand, and beyond it were the doors of further chambers, in one of which my hostess's little daughter was asleep. There was always something vaguely annoying to me in these signs of occupation and independence: they seemed to limit the ground on which one could appeal to her for oneself.
"I'm tired and I'm hungry," I said, "but I can't think of my dinner till I've talked to you."
"Have you come all the way from Rome?"
"More than all the way, because I've been at Frascati."
"And how did you get here?"
"I hired a chaise and pair at Frascati—the man drove me over."
"At this hour? You weren't afraid of brigands?"
"Not when it was a question of seeing you. You must do something for me—you must stop it."
"What must I do, and what must I stop?" said Mrs. Rushbrook, sitting down.
"This odious union—it's too unnatural."
"I see, then. Veronica's to marry some one, and you want her for yourself."
"Don't be cruel, and don't torment me—I'm sore enough already. You know well enough whom I want to marry!" I broke out.
"How can I stop anything?" Mrs Rushbrook asked.
"When I see you this way, at home, between the fire and the lamp, with the empty place beside you—an image of charming domesticity—do you suppose I have any doubt as to what I want?"
She rested her eyes on the fire, as if she were turning my words over as an act of decent courtesy and of pretty ​form. But immediately afterwards she said: "If you've come out here to make love to me, please say so at once, so that we may have it over on the spot. You will gain nothing whatever by it."
"I'm not such a fool as to have given you such a chance to snub me. That would have been presumptuous, and what is at the bottom of my errand this evening is extreme humility. Don't therefore think you've gained the advantage of putting me in my place. You've done nothing of the sort, for I haven't come out of it—except, indeed, so far as to try a bad joke on Wilmerding. It has turned out even worse than was probable. You're clever, you're sympathetic, you're kind."
"What has Wilmerding to do with that?"
"Try and get him off. That's the sort of thing a woman can do."
"I don't in the least follow you, you know. Who is Wilmerding?"
"Surely you remember him—you've seen him at Frascati, the young American secretary—you saw him a year ago in Rome. The fellow who is always opening the door for you and finding the things you lose."
"The things I lose?"
"I mean the things women lose. He went with us the other day to Monte Cavo."
"And got himself lost with the girl? Oh yes, I recall him," said Mrs. Rushbrook.
"It was the darkest hour of his life—or rather of mine. I told him that after that the only thing he could do was to marry Veronica. And he has believed me."
"Does he believe everything you tell him?" Mrs. Rushbrook asked.
"Don't be impertinent, because I feel very wretched. He loathes Veronica."
​"Then why does he marry her?"
"Because I worked upon him. It's comical—yet it's dreadful."
"Is he an idiot—can't he judge for himself?" said Mrs. Rushbrook.
"He's marrying her for good manners. I persuaded him they require it."
"And don't they, then?"
"Not the least in the world!"
"Was that your idea of good manners? Why did you do it?"
"I didn't—I backed out, as soon as I saw he believed me. But it was too late. Besides, a friend of mine had a hand in it—he went further than I. I may as well tell you that it's Guy de Montaut, the little Frenchman of the embassy, whom you'll remember—he was of our party at Monte Cavo. Between us, in pure sport and without meaning any harm, we have brought this thing on. And now I'm devoured with remorse—it wasn't a creditable performance."
"What was the beauty of the joke?" Mrs. Rushbrook inquired, with exasperating serenity.
"Don't ask me now—I don't see it! It seems to me hideous."
"And M. de Montaut—has he any compunction?"
"Not a bit—he looks at it from the point of view of the Goldies. Veronica is a fille sans dot, and not generally liked; therefore with poor prospects. He has put a husband in her way—a rich, good-natured young man, without encumbrances and of high character. It's a service, where a service was needed, of which he is positively proud."
Mrs. Rushbrook looked at me reflectively, as if she were trying to give me her best attention and to straighten out this odd story.
​"Mr. Wilmerding is rich?" she asked in a moment.
"Dear me, yes—very well off."
"And of high character?"
"An excellent fellow—without a fault."
"I don't understand him, then."
"No more do I!"
"Then what can we do? How can we interfere?" my companion went on.
"That's what I want you to tell me. It's a woman's business—that's why I've tumbled in on you here. You must invent something, you must attempt some thing."
"My dear friend, what on earth do I care for Mr. Wilmerding?"
"You ought to care—he's a knight of romance. Do it for me, then."
"Oh, for you!" my hostess laughed.
"Don't you pity me—doesn't my situation appeal to you?"
"Not a bit! It's grotesque."
"That's because you don't know."
"What is it I don't know?"
"Why, in the first place, what a particularly shabby thing it was to play such a trick on Wilmerding—a gentleman and a man that never injured a fly; and, in the second place, how miserable he'll be and how little comfort he'll have with Veronica."
"What's the matter with Veronica—is she so bad?"
"You know them all—one doesn't want to marry them. Fancy putting oneself deliberately under Mrs. Goldie's heel! The great matter with Veronica is that, left to himself, he would never have dreamed of her. That's enough."
"You say he hasn't a fault," Mrs. Bushbrook replied. "But isn't it rather a fault that he's such a booby?"
​"I don't know whether it's because I'm rather exalted, rather morbid, in my reaction against my momentary levity, that he strikes me as so far from being a booby that I really think what he has engaged to do is very fine. If without intending it, and in ignorance of the social perspective of a country not his own, he has appeared to go so far that they have had a right to expect he would go further, he's willing to pay the penalty. Poor fellow, he pays for all of us."
"Surely he's very meek," said Mrs. Rushbrook. "He's what you call a muff."
"Que voulez-vous? He's simple—he's generous."
"I see what you mean—I like that."
"You would like him if you knew him. He has acted like a gallant gentleman—from a sense of duty."
"It is rather fine," Mrs. Rushbrook murmured.
"He's too good for Veronica," I continued.
"And you want me to tell her so?"
"Well, something of that sort. I want you to arrange it."
"I'm much obliged—that's a fine large order!" my companion laughed.
"Go and see Mrs. Goldie, intercede with her, entreat her to let him go, tell her that they really oughtn't to take advantage of a momentary aberration, an extravagance of magnanimity."
"Don't you think it's your place to do all that?"
"Do you imagine it would do any good—that they would release him?" I demanded.
"How can I tell? You could try. Is Veronica very fond of him?" Mrs. Rushbrook pursued.
"I don't think any of them can really be very fond of any one who isn't 'smart.' They want certain things that don't belong to Wilmerding at all—to his ​nationality or his type. He isn't at all 'smart,' in their sense."
"Oh yes, their sense: I know it. It's not a nice sense!" Mrs. Rushbrook exclaimed, with a critical sigh.
"At the same time Veronica is dying to be married, and they are delighted with his money. It makes up for deficiencies," I explained.
"And is there so much of it?"
"Lots and lots. I know by the way he lives."
"An American, you say? One doesn't know Americans."
"How do you mean, one doesn't know them?"
"They're vague to me. One doesn't meet many."
"More's the pity, if they're all like Wilmerding. But they can't be. You must know him—I'm sure you'll like him."
"He comes back to me; I see his face now," said Mrs. Rushbrook. "Isn't he rather good-looking?"
"Well enough; but I'll say he's another Antinous if it will interest you for him."
"What I don't understand is your responsibility," my friend remarked after a moment. "If he insists and persists, how is it your fault?"
"Oh, it all comes back to that. I put it into his head—I perverted his mind. I started him on the fatal course—I administered the primary push."
"Why can't you confess your misdemeanour to him, then?"
"I have confessed—that is, almost. I attenuated, I retracted, when I saw how seriously he took it; I did what I could to pull him back. I rode after him to-day and almost killed my horse. But it was no use—he had moved so abominably fast."
​"How fast do you mean?"
"I mean that he had proposed to Veronica a few hours after I first spoke to him. He couldn't bear it a moment longer—I mean the construction of his behaviour as shabby."
"He is rather a knight!" murmured Mrs. Rushbrook.
"I1 est impayable, as Montaut says. Montaut practiced upon him without scruple. I really think it was Montaut who settled him."
"Have you told him, then, it was a trick?" my hostess demanded.
I hesitated. "No, not quite that."
"Are you afraid he'll cut your throat?"
"Not in the least. I would give him my throat if it would do any good. But he would cut it and then cut his own. I mean he'd still marry the girl."
"Perhaps he does love her," Mrs. Rushbrook suggested.
"I wish I could think it!"
She was silent a moment; then she asked: "Does he love some one else?"
"Not that I know of."
"Well then," said Mrs. Rushbrook, "the only thing for you to do, that I can see, is to take her off his hands."
"To take Veronica off?"
"That would be the only real reparation. Go to Mrs. Goldie tomorrow and tell her your little story. Say: 'I want to prevent the marriage, and I've thought of the most effective thing. If I will take her, she will let him go, won't she? Therefore consider that I will take her.'"
"I would almost do that; I have really thought of it," I answered. "But Veronica wouldn't take me."
"How do you know? It's your duty to try."
​"I've no money."
"No, but you're 'smart.' And then you're charming."
"Ah, you're cruel—you're not so sorry for me as I should like!" I returned.
"I thought that what you wanted was that I should be sorry for Mr. Wilmerding. You must bring him to see me," said Mrs. Rushbrook.
"And do you care so little about me that you could be witness of my marrying another woman? I enjoy the way you speak of it!" I cried.
"Wouldn't it all be for your honour? That's what I care about," she laughed.
"I'll bring Wilmerding to see you to-morrow: he'll make you serious," I declared.
"Do; I shall be delighted to see him. But go to Mrs. Goldie, too—it is your duty."
"Why mine only? Why shouldn't Montaut marry her?"
"You forget that he has no compunction."
"And is that the only thing you can recommend?"
"I'll think it over—I'll tell you to-morrow," Mrs. Rushbrook said. "Meanwhile, I do like your American—he sounds so unusual." I remember her exclaiming further, before we separated: "Your poor Wilmerding—he is a knight! But for a diplomatist—fancy!"
It was agreed between us the next day that she should drive over to Frascati with me; and the vehicle which had transported me to Albano and remained the night at the hotel conveyed us, before noon, in the opposite sense, along the side of the hills and the loveliest road in the world—through the groves and gardens, past the monuments and ruins and the brown old villages with feudal and papal gateways that overhang the historic plain. If I begged Mrs. Rushbrook to accompany me there was ​always reason enough for that in the extreme charm of her society. The day moreover was lovely, and a drive in those regions was always a drive. Besides, I still attached the idea of counsel and aid to Mrs. Rushbrook's presence, in spite of her not having as yet, in regard to my difficulty, any acceptable remedy to propose. She had told me she would try to think of something, and she now assured me she had tried, but the happy idea that would put everything right had not descended upon her. The most she could say was that probably the marriage wouldn't really take place. There was time for accidents; I should get off with my fright; the girl would see how little poor Wilmerding's heart was in it and wouldn't have the ferocity to drag him to the altar. I endeavoured to take that view, but through my magnifying spectacles I could only see Veronica as ferocious, and I remember saying to Mrs. Rushbrook, as we journeyed together: "I wonder if they would take money."
"Whose money—yours?"
"Mine—what money have I? I mean poor Wilmerding's."
"You can always ask them—it's a possibility," my companion answered; from which I saw that she quite took for granted I would intercede with the Honourable Blanche. This was a formidable prospect, a meeting on such delicate ground, but I steeled myself to it in proportion as I seemed to perceive that Mrs. Rushbrook held it to be the least effort I could reputably make. I desired so to remain in her good graces that I was ready to do anything that would strike her as gallant—I didn't want to be so much less of a "knight" than the wretched Wilmerding. What I most hoped for—secretly, however, clinging to the conception of a clever woman's tact as infinite—was that she would speak for me either to ​Mrs. Goldie or to Veronica herself. She had powers of manipulation and she would manipulate. It was true that she protested against any such expectation, declaring that intercession on her part would be in the worst possible taste and would moreover be attributed to the most absurd motives: how could I fail to embrace a truth so flagrant? If she was still supposed to be trying to think of something, it was something that I could do. Fortunately she didn't say again to me that the solution was that I should "take over" Veronica; for I could scarcely have endured that. You may ask why, if she had nothing to suggest and wished to be out of it, if above all she didn't wish, in general, to encourage me, she should have gone with me on this occasion to Frascati. I can only reply that that was her own affair, and I was so far from quarrelling with such a favour that as we rolled together along the avenues of ilex, in the exquisite Roman weather, I was almost happy.
I went straight to Mrs. Goldie's residence, as I should have gone to a duel, and it was agreed that Mrs. Rushbrook should drive on to the Villa Mondragone, where I would rejoin her after the imperfect vindication of my honour. The Villa Mondragone—you probably remember its pompous, painted, faded extent and its magnificent terrace—was open to the public, and any lover of old Rome was grateful for a pretext for strolling in its picturesque, neglected, enchanted grounds. It had been a resource for all of us at Frascati, but Mrs. Rushbrook had not seen so much of it as the rest of us, or as she desired.
I may as well say at once that I shall not attempt to make my encounter with the terrible dowager a vivid scene to you, for to this day I see it only through a blur of embarrassment and confusion, a muddle of difficulties ​suspended like a sort of enlarging veil before a monstrous Gorgon face. What I had to say to Mrs. Goldie was in truth neither easy nor pleasant, and my story was so abnormal a one that she may well have been excused for staring at me, with a stony refusal to comprehend, while I stammered it forth. I was even rather sorry for her, inasmuch as it was not the kind of appeal that she had reason to expect, and as her imagination had surely never before been led such a dance. I think it glimmered upon her at first, from my strange manner, that I had come to ask for one of the other girls; but that illusion cannot have lasted long. I have no idea of the order or succession of the remarks that we exchanged; I only recall that at a given moment Mrs. Goldie rose, in righteous wrath, to cast me out of her presence. Everything was a part of the general agitation; for the house had been startled by the sudden determination of its mistress to return to Rome. Of this she informed me as soon as I presented myself, and she apprised me in the same breath, you may be sure, of the important cause. Veronica's engagement had altered all their plans; she was to be married immediately, absence and delay being incompatible with dear Henry's official work (I winced at "dear Henry"), and they had no time to lose for conference with dressmakers and shopkeepers. Veronica had gone out for a walk with dear Henry; and the other girls, with one of the maids, had driven to Rome, at an early hour, to see about putting to rights the apartment in Via Babuino. It struck me as characteristic of the Honourable Blanche that she had remained on the spot, as if to keep hold of dear Henry.
These announcements gave me, of course, my opening. "Can't you see he is only going through with it as a duty? Do you mean to say you were not ​very much surprised when he proposed?" I fearlessly demanded.
I maintained that it was not a duty—that Wilmerding had a morbid sense of obligation and that at that rate any one of us might be hauled up for the simple sociability, the innocent conviviality of youth. I made a clean breast of it and tried to explain the little history of my unhappy friend's mistake. I am not very proud of any part of my connection with this episode; but though it was a delicate matter to tell a lady that it had been a blunder to offer marriage to her daughter, what I am on the whole least ashamed of is the manner in which I fronted the Honourable Blanche. I was supported by the sense that she was dishonest in pretending that she had not been surprised—that she had regarded our young man as committed to such a step. This was rubbish—her surprise had been at least equal to her satisfaction. I was irritated by her quick assumption, at first, that if I wanted the engagement broken it was because I myself was secretly enamoured of the girl.
Before I went away she put me to the real test, so that I was not able to say afterwards to Mrs. Rushbrook that the opportunity to be fully heroic had not been offered me. She gave me the queerest look I had ever seen a worldly old woman give, and proffered an observation of which the general copious sense was this:
"Come, I do see what you mean, and though you have made a pretty mess with your French monkey-tricks, it may be that if dear Henry's heart isn't in it it simply isn't, and that my sweet, sensitive girl will in the long run have to pay too much for what looks now like a tolerably good match. It isn't so brilliant after all, for what do we really know about him or about his obscure relations in the impossible country to which he ​may wish to transplant my beloved? He has money, or rather expectations, but he has nothing else, and who knows about American fortunes? Nothing appears to be settled or entailed. Take her yourself and you may have her—I'll engage to make it straight with Mr. Wilmerding. You're impecunious and you're disagreeable, but you're clever and well-connected; you'll rise in your profession—you'll become an ambassador."
All this (it was a good deal), Mrs. Goldie communicated to me in the strange, prolonged, confidential leer with which she suddenly honoured me. It was a good deal, but it was not all, for I understood her still to subjoin: "That will show whether you are sincere or not in wishing to get your friend out of this scrape. It's the only condition on which you can do it. Accept this condition and I will kindly overlook the outrage of your present intrusion and your inexpressible affront to my child."
No, I couldn't tell Mrs. Rushbrook that I had not had my chance to do something fine, for I definitely apprehended this proposition, I looked it well in the face and I sadly shook my head. I wanted to get Wilmerding off, but I didn't want to get him off so much as that.
"Pray, is he aware of your present extraordinary proceeding?" Mrs. Goldie demanded, as she stood there to give me my congé.
"He hasn't the faintest suspicion of it."
"And may I take the liberty of inquiring whether it is your design to acquaint him with the scandalous manner in which you have betrayed his confidence?" She was wonderfully majestic and digne.
"How can I?" I asked, piteously. "How can I, without uttering words not respectful to the young lady he now stands pledged to marry? Don't you see how that has altered my position?" I wailed.
​"Yes, it has given you a delicacy that is wondrous indeed!" cried my hostess, with a laugh of derision which rang in my ears as I withdrew—which rings in my ears at this hour.
I went to the Villa Mondragone, and there, at the end of a quarter of an hour's quest, I saw three persons—two ladies and a gentleman—coming toward me in the distance. I recognised them in a moment as Mrs. Rushbrook, Veronica Goldie, and Wilmerding. The combination amused and even gratified me, as it fell upon my sight, for it immediately suggested that, by the favour of accident, Mrs. Rushbrook would already have had the advantage of judging for herself how little one of her companions was pleased with his bargain, and be proportionately stimulated to come to his rescue. Wilmerding had turned out to spend a perfunctory hour with his betrothed; Mrs. Rushbrook, strolling there and waiting for me, had met them, and she had remained with them on perceiving how glad they were to be relieved of the grimness of their union. I pitied the mismated couple, pitied Veronica almost as much as my more particular victim, and reflected as they came up to me that unfortunately our charming friend would not always be there to render them this delicate service. She seemed pleased, however, with the good turn she had already done them and even disposed to continue the benevolent work. I looked at her hard, with a perceptible headshake, trying to communicate in this way the fact that nothing had come of my attack on Mrs. Goldie; and she smiled back as if to say: "Oh, no matter; I dare say I shall think of something now."
Wilmerding struck me as rather less miserable than I had expected; though of course I knew that he was the man to make an heroic effort not to appear miserable. ​He immediately proposed that we should all go home with him to luncheon; upon which Veronica said, hesitating with responsibility: "Do you suppose, for me, mamma will mind?" Her intended made no reply to this; his silence was almost a suggestion that if she were in doubt she had perhaps better go home. But Mrs. Rushbrook settled the question by declaring that it was, on the contrary, exactly what mamma would like. Besides, was not she, Mrs. Rushbrook, the most satisfactory of duennas? We walked slowly together to Wilmerding's villa, and I was not surprised at his allowing me complete possession of Veronica. He fell behind us with Mrs. Rushbrook and succeeded, at any rate, in shaking off his gloom sufficiently to manifest the proper elation at her having consented to partake of his hospitality. As I moved beside Veronica I wondered whether she had an incipient sense that it was to me she owed her sudden prospect of a husband. I think she must have wondered to what she owed it. I said nothing to awaken that conjecture: I didn't even allude to her engagement—much less did I utter hollow words of congratulation. She had a right to expect something of that sort, and my silence disconcerted her and made her stiff. She felt important now, and she was the kind of girl who likes to show the importance that she feels. I was sorry for her—it was not her fault, poor child—but I couldn't flatly lie to her, couldn't tell her I was "delighted." I was conscious that she was waiting for me to speak, and I was even afraid that she would end by asking me if I didn't know what had happened to her. Her pride, however, kept her from this, and I continued to be dumb and to pity her—to pity her the more as I was sure her mystification would not be cleared up by any revelation in regard to my visit to her mother. Mrs. Goldie would never tell her of that. ​Our extemporised repast at Wilmerding's was almost merry; our sociability healed my soreness and I forgot for the moment that I had grounds of discomposure. Wilmerding had always the prettiest courtesy in his own house, with pressing, preoccupied, literal ways of playing the master, and Mrs. Rushbrook enjoyed anything that was unexpected and casual. Our carriage was in waiting, to convey us back to Albano, and we offered our companions a lift, as it was time for Wilmerding to take Veronica home. We put them down at the gate of Mrs. Goldie's villa, after I had noticed the double-dyed sweetness with which Mrs. Rushbrook said to Veronica, as the carriage stopped: "You must bring him over to Albano to return my visit." This was spoken in my interest, but even then the finished feminine hypocrisy of it made me wince a little. I should have winced still more had I foreseen what was to follow.
Mrs. Rushbrook was silent during much of the rest of our drive. She had begun by saying: "Now that I see them together I understand what you mean"; and she had also requested me to tell her all I could about poor Wilmerding—his situation in life, his character, his family, his history, his prospects—since, if she were really to go into the matter, she must have the facts in her hand. When I had told her everything I knew, she sat turning my instructions over in her mind, as she looked vaguely at the purple Campagna: she was lovely with that expression. I intimated to her that there was very little time to lose: every day that we left him in his predicament he would sink deeper and be more difficult to extricate.
"Don't you like him—don't you think he's worthy to marry some woman he's really fond of?" I remember asking.
​Her answer was rather short: "Oh yes, he's a good creature." But before we reached Albano she said to me: "And is he really rich?"
"I don't know what you call 'really'—I only wish I had his pocket-money."
"And is he generous—free-handed?"
"Try him and you'll see."
"How can I try him?"
"Well then, ask Mrs. Goldie."
"Perhaps he'd pay to get off," mused Mrs. Rushbrook.
"Oh, they'd ask a fortune!"
"Well, he's perfect to her." And Mrs. Rushbrook repeated that he was a good creature.
That afternoon I rode back to Rome, having reminded my friend at Albano that I gave her carte-blanche and that delay would not improve matters. We had a little discussion about this, she maintaining, as a possible view, that if one left the affair alone a rupture would come of itself.
"Why should it come when, as you say, he's perfect?"
"Yes, he's very provoking," said Mrs. Rushbrook: which made me laugh as I got into the saddle.