Man Of War

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?’

‘That is to distort what I said. Once we are married—’