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Figure in the Carpet

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<h2>CHAPTER IX.</h2> It was impossible not to be moved with the strongest sympathy for her, and on my return to England I showed her every kindness in my power.  Her mother’s death had made her means sufficient, and she had gone to live in a more convenient quarter.  But her loss had been great and her visitation cruel; it never would have occurred to me moreover to suppose she could come to feel the possession of a technical tip, of a piece of literary experience, a counterpoise to her grief.  Strange to say, none the less, I couldn’t help believing after I had seen her a few times that I caught a glimpse of some such oddity.  I hasten to add that there had been other things I couldn’t help believing, or at least imagining; and as I never felt I was really clear about these, so, as to the point I here touch on, I give her memory the benefit of the doubt.  Stricken and solitary, highly accomplished and now, in her deep mourning, her maturer grace and her uncomplaining sorrow, incontestably handsome, she presented herself as leading a life of singular dignity and beauty.  I had at first found a way to persuade myself that I should soon get the better of the reserve formulated, the week after the catastrophe in her reply to an appeal as to which I was not unconscious that it might strike her as mistimed.  Certainly that reserve was something of a shock to me—certainly it puzzled me the more I thought of it and even though I tried to explain it (with moments of success) by an imputation of exalted sentiments, of superstitious scruples, of a refinement of loyalty.  Certainly it added at the same time hugely to the price of Vereker’s secret, precious as this mystery already appeared.  I may as well confess abjectly that Mrs. Corvick’s unexpected attitude was the final tap on the nail that was to fix fast my luckless idea, convert it into the obsession of which I’m for ever conscious. But this only helped me the more to be artful, to be adroit, to allow time to elapse before renewing my suit.  There were plenty of speculations for the interval, and one of them was deeply absorbing.  Corvick had kept his information from his young friend till after the removal of the last barrier to their intimacy—then only had he let the cat out of the bag.  Was it Gwendolen’s idea, taking a hint from him, to liberate this animal only on the basis of the renewal of such a relation?  Was the figure in the carpet traceable or describable only for husbands and wives—for lovers supremely united?  It came back to me in a mystifying manner that in Kensington Square, when I mentioned that Corvick would have told the girl he loved, some word had dropped from Vereker that gave colour to this possibility.  There might be little in it, but there was enough to make me wonder if I should have to marry Mrs. Corvick to get what I wanted.  Was I prepared to offer her this price for the blessing of her knowledge?  Ah that way madness lay!—so I at least said to myself in bewildered hours.  I could see meanwhile the torch she refused to pass on flame away in her chamber of memory—pour through her eyes a light that shone in her lonely house.  At the end of six months I was fully sure of what this warm presence made up to her for.  We had talked again and again of the man who had brought us together—of his talent, his character, his personal charm, his certain career, his dreadful doom, and even of his clear purpose in that great study which was to have been a supreme literary portrait, a kind of critical Vandyke or Velasquez.  She had conveyed to me in abundance that she was tongue-tied by her perversity, by her piety, that she would never break the silence it had not been given to the “right person,” as she said, to break.  The hour however finally arrived.  One evening when I had been sitting with her longer than usual I laid my hand firmly on her arm.  “Now at last what is it?” She had been expecting me and was ready.  She gave a long slow soundless headshake, merciful only in being inarticulate.  This mercy didn’t prevent its hurling at me the largest finest coldest “Never!” I had yet, in the course of a life that had known denials, had to take full in the face.  I took it and was aware that with the hard blow the tears had come into my eyes.  So for a while we sat and looked at each other; after which I slowly rose, I was wondering if some day she would accept me; but this was not what I brought out.  I said as I smoothed down my hat: “I know what to think then.  It’s nothing!” A remote disdainful pity for me gathered in her dim smile; then she spoke in a voice that I hear at this hour: “It’s my life!”  As I stood at the door she added: “You’ve insulted him!” “Do you mean Vereker?” “I mean the Dead!” I recognised when I reached the street the justice of her charge.  Yes, it was her life—I recognised that too; but her life none the less made room with the lapse of time for another interest.  A year and a half after Corvick’s death she published in a single volume her second novel, “Overmastered,” which I pounced on in the hope of finding in it some tell-tale echo or some peeping face.  All I found was a much better book than her younger performance, showing I thought the better company she had kept.  As a tissue tolerably intricate it was a carpet with a figure of its own; but the figure was not the figure I was looking for.  On sending a review of it to The Middle I was surprised to learn from the office that a notice was already in type.  When the paper came out I had no hesitation in attributing this article, which I thought rather vulgarly overdone, to Drayton Deane, who in the old days had been something of a friend of Corvick’s, yet had only within a few weeks made the acquaintance of his widow.  I had had an early copy of the book, but Deane had evidently had an earlier.  He lacked all the same the light hand with which Corvick had gilded the gingerbread—he laid on the tinsel in splotches. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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