But the lady who had mentioned Brainard Macauley cried indignantly: "You
try to change the subject the moment it threatens to be interesting. They
were together everywhere until the day she went away; they danced and 'sat
out' together through the whole of one country-club party; they drove
every afternoon; they took long walks, and he was at the Sherwoods' every
evening of her last week in town. 'That is a mistake!'"
"I'm afraid it looks rather bleak for Wetherford," said the widower. "I
went up to the 'Journal' office on business, one day, and there sat Miss
Sherwood in Macauley's inner temple, chatting with a reporter, while
Brainard finished some work."
"Helen is eccentric," said the former speaker, "but she's not quite that
eccentric, unless they were engaged. It is well understood that they will
announce it in the fall."
Miss Hinsdale kindly explained to Harkless that Brainard Macauley was the
editor of the "Rouen Morning Journal"--"a very distinguished young man,
not over twenty-eight, and perfectly wonderful." Already a power to be
accounted with in national politics, he was "really a tremendous success,"
and sure to go far; "one of those delicate-looking men, who are yet so
strong you know they won't let the lightning hurt you." It really looked
as if Helen Sherwood (whom Harkless really ought to meet) had actually
been caught in the toils at tet, those toils wherein so many luckless
youths had lain enmeshed for her sake. He must meet Mr. Macauley, too, the
most interesting man in Rouen. After her little portrait of him, didn't
Mr. Harkless agree that it looked really pretty dull for Miss Sherwood's
other lovers?
Mr. Harkless smiled, and agreed that it did indeed. She felt a thrill of
compassion for him, and her subsequent description of the pathos of his
smile was luminous. She said it was natural that a man who had been
through so much suffering from those horrible "White-Cappers" should have
a smile that struck into your heart like a knife.
Despite all that Meredith could do, and after his notorious effort to
shift the subject he could do very little, the light prattle ran on about
Helen Sherwood and Brainard Macauley. Tom abused himself for his wild
notion of cheering his visitor with these people who had no talk, and who,
if they drifted out of commonplace froth, had no medium to float them
unless they sailed the currents, of local personality, and he mentally
upbraided them for a set of gossiping ninnies. They conducted a
conversation (if it could be dignified by a name) of which no stranger
could possibly partake, and which, by a hideous coincidence, was making
his friend writhe, figuratively speaking, for Harkless sat like a fixed
shadow. He uttered scarcely a word the whole evening, though Meredith knew
that his guests would talk about him enthusiastically, the next day, none
the less. The journalist's silence was enforced by the topics; but what
expression and manner the light allowed them to see was friendly and
receptive, as though he listened to brilliant suggestions. He had a nice
courtesy, and Miss Hinsdale felt continually that she was cleverer than
usual this evening, and no one took his silence to be churlish, though
they all innocently wondered why he did not talk more; however, it was
probable that a man who had been so interestingly and terribly shot would
be rather silent for a time afterward.