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think my time is come, I donā€™t know how it may appear to you, Sally, butā€”ā€

Insensibility fell upon him for a few minutes; he emerged from it once more.

ā€œā€”I donā€™t know how it may appear to you, Sally, but so it appears to me.ā€

When he had thus conscientiously finished his favourite sentence, his time came, and he died.

ACT IIā€”VENDALE MAKES LOVE

The summer and the autumn passed. Christmas and the New Year were at hand.

As executors honestly bent on performing their duty towards the dead, Vendale and Bintrey had held more than one anxious consultation on the subject of Wildingā€™s will. The lawyer had declared, from the first, that it was simply impossible to take any useful action in the matter at all. The only obvious inquiries to make, in relation to the lost man, had been made already by Wilding himself; with this result, that time and death together had not left a trace of him discoverable. To advertise for the claimant to the property, it would be necessary to mention particularsā€”a course of proceeding which would invite half the impostors in England to present themselves in the character of the true Walter Wilding. ā€œIf we find a chance of tracing the lost man, we will take it. If we donā€™t, let us meet for another consultation on the first anniversary of Wildingā€™s death.ā€ So Bintrey advised. And so, with the most earnest desire to fulfil his dead friendā€™s wishes, Vendale was fain to let the matter rest for the present.

Turning from his interest in the past to his interest in the future, Vendale still found himself confronting a doubtful prospect. Months on months had passed since his first visit to Soho Squareā€”and through all that time, the one language in which he had told Marguerite that he loved her was the language of the eyes, assisted, at convenient opportunities, by the language of the hand.

What was the obstacle in his way? The one immovable obstacle which had been in his way from the first. No matter how fairly the opportunities looked, Vendaleā€™s efforts to speak with Marguerite alone ended invariably in one and the same result. Under the most accidental circumstances, in the most innocent manner possible, Obenreizer was always in the way.

With the last days of the old year came an unexpected chance of spending an evening with Marguerite, which Vendale resolved should be a chance of speaking privately to her as well. A cordial note from Obenreizer invited him, on New Yearā€™s Day, to a little family dinner in Soho Square. ā€œWe shall be only four,ā€ the note said. ā€œWe shall be only two,ā€ Vendale determined, ā€œbefore the evening is out!ā€

New Yearā€™s Day, among the English, is associated with the giving and receiving of dinners, and with nothing more. New Yearā€™s Day, among the foreigners, is the grand opportunity of the year for the giving and receiving of presents. It is occasionally possible to acclimatise a foreign custom. In this instance Vendale felt no hesitation about making the attempt. His one difficulty was to decide what his New Yearā€™s gift to Marguerite should be. The defensive pride of the peasantā€™s daughterā€”morbidly sensitive to the inequality between her social position and hisā€”would be secretly roused against him if he ventured on a rich offering. A gift, which a poor manā€™s purse might purchase, was the one gift that could be trusted to find its way to her heart, for the giverā€™s sake. Stoutly resisting temptation, in the form of diamonds and rubies, Vendale bought a brooch of the filagree-work of Genoaā€”the simplest and most unpretending ornament that he could find in the jewellerā€™s shop.

He slipped his gift into Margueriteā€™s hand as she held it out to welcome him on the day of the dinner.

ā€œThis is your first New Yearā€™s Day in England,ā€ he said. ā€œWill you let me help to make it like a New Yearā€™s Day at home?ā€

She thanked him, a little constrainedly, as she looked at the jewellerā€™s box, uncertain what it might contain. Opening the box, and discovering the studiously simple form under which Vendaleā€™s little keepsake offered itself to her, she penetrated his motive on the spot. Her face turned on him brightly, with a look which said, ā€œI own you have pleased and flattered me.ā€ Never had she been so charming, in Vendaleā€™s eyes, as she was at that moment. Her winter dressā€”a petticoat of dark silk, with a bodice of black velvet rising to her neck, and enclosing it softly in a little circle of swansdownā€”heightened, by all the force of contrast, the dazzling fairness of her hair and her complexion. It was only when she turned aside from him to the glass, and, taking out the brooch that she wore, put his New Yearā€™s gift in its place, that Vendaleā€™s attention wandered far enough away from her to discover the presence of other persons in the room. He now became conscious that the hands of Obenreizer were affectionately in possession of his elbows. He now heard the voice of Obenreizer thanking him for his attention to Marguerite, with the faintest possible ring of mockery in its tone. (ā€œSuch a simple present, dear sir! and showing such nice tact!ā€) He now discovered, for the first time, that there was one other guest, and but one, besides himself, whom Obenreizer presented as a compatriot and friend. The friendā€™s face was mouldy, and the friendā€™s figure was fat. His age was suggestive of the autumnal period of human life. In the course of the evening he developed two extraordinary capacities. One was a capacity for silence; the other was a capacity for emptying bottles.

Madame Dor was not in the room. Neither was there any visible place reserved for her when they sat down to table. Obenreizer explained that it was ā€œthe good Dorā€™s simple habit to dine always in the middle of the day. She would make her excuses later in the evening.ā€ Vendale wondered whether the good Dor had, on this occasion, varied her domestic employment from cleaning Obenreizerā€™s gloves to cooking Obenreizerā€™s dinner. This at least was certainā€” the dishes served were, one and all, as achievements in cookery, high above the reach of the rude elementary art of England. The dinner was unobtrusively perfect. As for the wine, the eyes of the speechless friend rolled over it, as in solemn ecstasy. Sometimes he said ā€œGood!ā€ when a bottle came in full; and sometimes he said ā€œAh!ā€ when a bottle went out emptyā€”and there his contributions to the gaiety of the evening ended.

Silence is occasionally infectious. Oppressed by private anxieties of their own, Marguerite and Vendale appeared to feel the influence of the speechless friend. The whole responsibility of keeping the talk going rested on Obenreizerā€™s shoulders, and manfully did Obenreizer sustain it. He opened his heart in the character of an enlightened foreigner, and sang the praises of England. When other topics ran dry, he returned to this inexhaustible source, and always set the stream running again as copiously as ever. Obenreizer would have given an arm, an eye, or a leg to have been born an Englishman. Out of England there was no such institution as a home, no such thing as a fireside, no such object as a beautiful woman. His dear Miss Marguerite would excuse him, if he accounted for HER attractions on the theory that English blood must have mixed at some former time with their obscure and unknown ancestry. Survey this English nation, and behold a tall, clean, plump, and solid people! Look at their cities! What magnificence in their public buildings! What admirable order and propriety in their streets! Admire their laws, combining the eternal principle of justice with the other eternal principle of pounds, shillings, and pence; and applying the product to all civil injuries, from an injury to a manā€™s honour, to an injury to a manā€™s nose! You have ruined my daughterā€”pounds, shillings, and pence! You have knocked me down with a blow in my faceā€”pounds, shillings, and pence! Where was the material prosperity of such a country as THAT to stop? Obenreizer, projecting himself into the future, failed to see the end of it. Obenreizerā€™s enthusiasm entreated permission to exhale itself, English fashion, in a toast. Here is our modest little dinner over, here is our frugal dessert on the table, and here is the admirer of England conforming to national customs, and making a speech! A toast to your white cliffs of Albion, Mr. Vendale! to your national virtues, your charming climate, and your fascinating women! to your Hearths, to your Homes, to your Habeas Corpus, and to all your other institutions! In one wordā€”to England! Heep-heep-heep! hooray!

Obenreizerā€™s voice had barely chanted the last note of the English cheer, the speechless friend had barely drained the last drop out of his glass, when the festive proceedings were interrupted by a modest tap at the door. A woman-servant came in, and approached her master with a little note in her hand. Obenreizer opened the note with a frown; and, after reading it with an expression of genuine annoyance, passed it on to his compatriot and friend. Vendaleā€™s spirits rose as he watched these proceedings. Had he found an ally in the annoying little note? Was the long-looked-for chance actually coming at last?

ā€œI am afraid there is no help for it?ā€ said Obenreizer, addressing his fellow-countryman. ā€œI am afraid we must go.ā€

The speechless friend handed back the letter, shrugged his heavy shoulders, and poured himself out a last glass of wine. His fat fingers lingered fondly round the neck of the bottle. They pressed it with a little amatory squeeze at parting. His globular eyes looked dimly, as through an intervening haze, at Vendale and Marguerite. His heavy articulation laboured, and brought forth a whole sentence at a birth. ā€œI think,ā€ he said, ā€œI should have liked a little more wine.ā€ His breath failed him after that effort; he gasped, and walked to the door.

Obenreizer addressed himself to Vendale with an appearance of the deepest distress.

ā€œI am so shocked, so confused, so distressed,ā€ he began. ā€œA misfortune has happened to one of my compatriots. He is alone, he is ignorant of your languageā€”I and my good friend, here, have no choice but to go and help him. What can I say in my excuse? How can I describe my affliction at depriving myself in this way of the honour of your company?ā€

He paused, evidently expecting to see Vendale take up his hat and retire. Discerning his opportunity at last, Vendale determined to do nothing of the kind. He met Obenreizer dexterously, with Obenreizerā€™s own weapons.

ā€œPray donā€™t distress yourself,ā€ he said. ā€œIā€™ll wait here with the greatest pleasure till you come back.ā€

Marguerite blushed deeply, and turned away to her embroidery-frame in a corner by the window. The film showed itself in Obenreizerā€™s eyes, and the smile came something sourly to Obenreizerā€™s lips. To have told Vendale that there was no reasonable prospect of his coming back in good time, would have been to risk offending a man whose favourable opinion was of solid commercial importance to him. Accepting his defeat with the best possible grace, he declared himself to be equally honoured and delighted by Vendaleā€™s proposal. ā€œSo frank, so friendly, so English!ā€ He bustled about, apparently looking for something he wanted, disappeared for a moment through the folding-doors communicating with the next room, came back with his hat and coat, and protesting that he would return at the earliest possible moment, embraced Vendaleā€™s elbows, and vanished from the scene in company with the speechless friend.

Vendale turned to the corner by the window, in which Marguerite had placed herself with her work. There, as if she had dropped from the ceiling, or come up through the floorā€”there, in the old attitude, with her face to the stoveā€”sat an

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