II
That September, I was dining at the Reform Club, to which I had been elected a few years previously, when I was delighted to recognize my old friend John Kenyon at a nearby table. We arranged to take a glass of claret afterwards in the gallery on the first floor. His large, stout figure was soon seated opposite me. A half-bottle decanter of the wine arrived and we filled and raised our glasses.
After we had exchanged one or two trifles of family news, he asked after Elizabeth, with whom as I have said he was remotely connected, his great-grandmother having been the sister of Elizabeth’s great-grandfather. Kenyon had been most kind and helpful to her in the past, encouraging her in her poetical work, visiting her frequently and introducing her to Wordsworth, an old man then though not yet Poet Laureate, and to Miss Mary Russell Mitford, authoress of that famous book, Our Village.
‘Elizabeth is well,’ I told Kenyon in answer to his inquiry. ‘Her cough is always diminished in the warmer weather, indeed this summer it appears to have vanished completely.’
‘Let us hope its absence continues,’ he said.
‘Indeed we must.’
‘To make that happy sequel more likely, it’s much to be desired that she goes somewhere more clement than England for the winter.’
‘Yes, Malta seems for the moment to be the favourite, at your suggestion, I’m informed. As I said to the dear girl’s aunt the other day, if she does go I’ll consider very seriously a visit to Jamaica.’
‘Your and my ancestral home.’
‘Just so. And the seat of substantial business interests of mine, at which a closer look might be valuable.’
I was about to elaborate this point when it was borne in upon me that Kenyon was hardly listening. His attention seemed to have settled on something or someone at the far end of the gallery where we sat. What it was I could not see. Turning back to me he said, his kindly florid face showing animation,
‘Elizabeth still receives letters from the poet Browning and exchanges letters with him.’
‘So she does,’ said I, somewhat amused at the confidence with which he made this statement.
‘But when you and I last talked, you and he had yet to meet.’
‘That is still a pleasure deferred.’
‘It need be deferred no longer, I think, or perhaps only for a few more minutes. Robert Browning has this moment joined a small company up there. He’s not the chap to stand on ceremony, and I’ve no doubt he would welcome the chance of making your acquaintance.’
‘My dear Kenyon, I hardly feel—’
‘Surely a golden opportunity, here on neutral ground.’
‘I must ask you to excuse me. But I will, if I may, satisfy my curiosity about how the fellow looks. The cut of his jib, as I believe it’s called. Which is he?’
‘He’s not in our view, but he took the chair nearest to the corner, facing this way. A small man, dark, impeccably dressed.’
Kenyon looked at me in some wonderment as I rose to my feet and strolled away along the gallery. I had very little idea of what had sent me on this slightly whimsical errand, until for a matter of a few seconds, and for the first and last time, I had sight of Robert Browning. His glance at me was brief, without hostility and without interest. Before I was past him his face grew lively at some remark from one of his party and he laughed and quickly answered. I moved on at the same pace and had soon completed the circuit back to my seat.
‘You saw him, then?’ asked Kenyon, alert for my answer.
‘Yes. As clearly as I see you.’
‘And you’re satisfied he has no horns sprouting from his forehead.’
‘Completely.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. But he has a very dark complexion, didn’t you think?’
‘I suppose it might be called that.’ Perhaps I spoke somewhat mechanically.
‘So much so that I’ve heard it said he has Creole or coloured blood.’
‘What an absurd suggestion.’
‘Is it not, of one of the most cultivated men one is likely to meet? If required I could testify that, on the best authority, there’s no truth in the tale. But, by an odd coincidence, it is true that Browning’s family, like ours, has connections with the West Indies. More particularly, his paternal grandmother came from a family with extensive plantations and many slaves in St Kitts in the Leeward Islands, on the far side of the Caribbean. You must know that Browning senior, Robert’s father, became a clerk at the Bank of England and is far from wealthy, though he seems content to support his son’s poetry. The son and his sister grew up in New Cross, south of the… But whatever is the matter, my dear fellow? Are you unwell?’
‘I beg your pardon,’ I said as best I could. ‘You’re aware of my asthmatic tendency — I fear I’m suffering a mild attack, nothing for serious concern… perhaps the ventilation in this part of the building…’
‘Of course we must get you home at once. I’ll summon the porter and get him to go out and secure a cab to convey us.’
Over the next few days, giving out that I was indisposed, I kept to my room when at 50 Wimpole Street, leaving the house from time to time to make certain inquiries. At the end of this period, about the middle of the month, I went to Elizabeth’s room about midday, having first made certain we should not be interrupted.
She greeted me amiably enough, though with something less than the warmth I had long grown to expect. ‘Dearest papa! Are you quite recovered from your disorder?’
I thanked her for her solicitude, assured her I was myself again, and thereafter came straight to the point. ‘I regret I must inform you, Elizabeth, that it will not after all be possible for you to spend the coming winter abroad.’
From her reception of that announcement, I could see easily enough that its drift came as no great surprise to her, though her disappointment was as evident. ‘May I know your reason for this decree?’
‘I am not bound to furnish a reason, but I will do so. My advice is that the discomfort and strain of the double journey would probably more than undo any beneficial effect of a few weeks in a warmer climate, not to speak of the various dangers attendant upon any foreign travel and sojourn.’
‘I am willing to take that risk.’
‘I am unwilling that a daughter of mine should do so.’
‘I am of age, papa.’
‘While you reside here and remain unmarried you will continue to be bound by your father’s wishes.’
‘Those conditions may not obtain for ever,’ she said with a show of resolution.
‘Indeed they may not. Is this a warning that they’re about to end?’
She hesitated, then shook her head firmly but with despondency. ‘No.’
‘In that case I’ll repeat that I sincerely wish things could have been otherwise touching your visit abroad, and I bid you good day.’
‘Oh, papa.’ With one of her nimble movements, Elizabeth barred my path to the door. ‘Please, dear papa, will you not be open with me and tell me the whole truth?’
Now I hesitated. ‘I very well remember,’ I said, ‘discussing with Mr Kenyon, your friend Mrs Jameson and yourself the possibility of your wintering on the Continent, this on more than one occasion, and your taking my side against the proposal, declaring you were just as well off in your own warm room, and the upheaval would not be worth while. Suddenly, the upheaval has become worth while. Why?’
She made no answer, but her cheeks flushed.
‘When you’re ready to answer that question,’ I said as gently as I could, ‘I will answer yours, and speak plain. I can only hope that day soon comes.’