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 soirees.
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
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,
