Arthur’s memory—sparked by
Bertram’s near-flirtatious manner with Lady Lydden—that Bertram had strongly
implied a desire to marry and a dissatisfaction with his present situation in
life, that hurried exit had awakened in Arthur a dreadful suspicion.
After Eustace, Bertram was heir to the Lydden wealth and
property if Lady Lydden’s son should die, and Bertram was not only extremely
clever, Arthur knew, but he had an extraordinarily devious mind. If Eustace
could somehow be accused and adjudged guilty of Victor’s death, Bertram would
inherit. As the thought clarified out of a vague, general uneasiness, Arthur
saw that Lady Lydden was looking at him with growing puzzlement and realized
that he had neither rung the bell nor replied to her remark. Not surprisingly,
the only part of it that stuck in his mind was the comment about coffee.
“If it isn’t just like an American,” he said lightly, “to
want something that will throw an English household into confusion and create a
dreadful difficulty.”
“I do not happen to be an American,” Abigail replied, much
surprised. “My parents were British, and my birth was duly registered with the
proper authorities here by my uncle.” Then she recalled being told by Baring of
Sir Arthur’s absorption in politics, and because she could think of no reason
for his abstraction, she assumed that his attention had, after all, not been
centered on her, but on her background rather than her person. “Besides,” she
added aggressively, “I cannot see why you should connect Americans with making
difficulties.”
“I was only joking,” Arthur said apologetically. “I knew you
were British, of course, but I see that my remark was in bad taste. Do forgive
me.”
“Oh, I knew you were joking,” Abigail answered. “I was not
offended, but I am curious. A joke like that carries a hard core of the
truth. I have always found most Americans to be sober, practical and clear
thinking, most unlikely to create difficulties deliberately.”
For a moment longer Arthur stood with his hand on the bell
cord, fighting what he knew was an unreasonable irritation. He realized that,
despite her claim to British nationality, Lady Lydden must have strong
sympathies for the American point of view, owing to living all her life in the
United States. Normally, that knowledge would have induced in him a desire to
exhort and explain—and perhaps use those explanations and exhortations to
generate an intimacy, for she was very beautiful. But if she preferred Bertram…
Arthur pulled the bell cord with unnecessary force and turned to face Abigail
fully.
“You do not consider giving aid to Bonaparte when we are
locked in a life-and-death struggle with him a creation of difficulties?” he
asked sharply.
“What aid?” Abigail snapped back. “Who do you think
has been feeding the British armies in Spain and Portugal if it was not the
Americans? Does that sound like giving aid to Bonaparte?”
“No, it sounds like a fine nose for profit,” Arthur riposted
superciliously.
“And what is wrong with that?” Abigail’s voice bristled with
resentment. She was about to defend the profit motive even more vociferously
when she remembered her mother’s bitter remarks about how any personal
connection with a commercial enterprise could make one déclassé. “You seem to
forget the profit might have been even better if the trade had been with the
French,” she said instead.
Arthur uttered a single mirthless bark of laughter. “On the
contrary, there would have been no profit, since all American ships would have
been stopped or sunk.”
There was more truth in that statement than Abigail wanted
to admit, so she shrugged indifferently and said, “You would have to catch them
first. H.M.S. Africa and five other ships couldn’t outsail the poor
little Constitution, and she outfought the Guerrière and the Java —”
“They were half her size,” Arthur sputtered. Then he drew a
breath,
Bertram’s near-flirtatious manner with Lady Lydden—that Bertram had strongly
implied a desire to marry and a dissatisfaction with his present situation in
life, that hurried exit had awakened in Arthur a dreadful suspicion.
After Eustace, Bertram was heir to the Lydden wealth and
property if Lady Lydden’s son should die, and Bertram was not only extremely
clever, Arthur knew, but he had an extraordinarily devious mind. If Eustace
could somehow be accused and adjudged guilty of Victor’s death, Bertram would
inherit. As the thought clarified out of a vague, general uneasiness, Arthur
saw that Lady Lydden was looking at him with growing puzzlement and realized
that he had neither rung the bell nor replied to her remark. Not surprisingly,
the only part of it that stuck in his mind was the comment about coffee.
“If it isn’t just like an American,” he said lightly, “to
want something that will throw an English household into confusion and create a
dreadful difficulty.”
“I do not happen to be an American,” Abigail replied, much
surprised. “My parents were British, and my birth was duly registered with the
proper authorities here by my uncle.” Then she recalled being told by Baring of
Sir Arthur’s absorption in politics, and because she could think of no reason
for his abstraction, she assumed that his attention had, after all, not been
centered on her, but on her background rather than her person. “Besides,” she
added aggressively, “I cannot see why you should connect Americans with making
difficulties.”
“I was only joking,” Arthur said apologetically. “I knew you
were British, of course, but I see that my remark was in bad taste. Do forgive
me.”
“Oh, I knew you were joking,” Abigail answered. “I was not
offended, but I am curious. A joke like that carries a hard core of the
truth. I have always found most Americans to be sober, practical and clear
thinking, most unlikely to create difficulties deliberately.”
For a moment longer Arthur stood with his hand on the bell
cord, fighting what he knew was an unreasonable irritation. He realized that,
despite her claim to British nationality, Lady Lydden must have strong
sympathies for the American point of view, owing to living all her life in the
United States. Normally, that knowledge would have induced in him a desire to
exhort and explain—and perhaps use those explanations and exhortations to
generate an intimacy, for she was very beautiful. But if she preferred Bertram…
Arthur pulled the bell cord with unnecessary force and turned to face Abigail
fully.
“You do not consider giving aid to Bonaparte when we are
locked in a life-and-death struggle with him a creation of difficulties?” he
asked sharply.
“What aid?” Abigail snapped back. “Who do you think
has been feeding the British armies in Spain and Portugal if it was not the
Americans? Does that sound like giving aid to Bonaparte?”
“No, it sounds like a fine nose for profit,” Arthur riposted
superciliously.
“And what is wrong with that?” Abigail’s voice bristled with
resentment. She was about to defend the profit motive even more vociferously
when she remembered her mother’s bitter remarks about how any personal
connection with a commercial enterprise could make one déclassé. “You seem to
forget the profit might have been even better if the trade had been with the
French,” she said instead.
Arthur uttered a single mirthless bark of laughter. “On the
contrary, there would have been no profit, since all American ships would have
been stopped or sunk.”
There was more truth in that statement than Abigail wanted
to admit, so she shrugged indifferently and said, “You would have to catch them
first. H.M.S. Africa and five other ships couldn’t outsail the poor
little Constitution, and she outfought the Guerrière and the Java —”
“They were half her size,” Arthur sputtered. Then he drew a
breath,
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