in his power to secure his guest’s material comfort; but there, in his opinion, immediate obligation ceased. In thus remaining standing he had a quaint sense of safeguarding the sanctities of the place. The man’s tone was curiously offensive. Involuntarily Mr. Iglesias’ back stiffened a little.
“I took these rooms unfurnished,” he said. And then added: “May I ask what your business with me may be?”
Smyth had recourse to his tumbler again. His hand shook so that his teeth chattered against the edge of the glass.
“I am a fool,” he said sullenly. “But my nerves are all to pieces. I cannot control myself. I have come here to ask a favour of you, and yet some devil prompts me to insult you. I hate you because I am driven to make use of you. And this room, in its sober luxury, emphasises the indignity of the position, offering as it does so glaring a contrast to my own quarters–here under the same roof, only one flight of stairs above–that I can hardly endure it. Life is hideously unjust. For what have you done–you, a mere Canaanite, hewer of wood and drawer of water to some grossly Philistine firm of city bankers–to deserve this immunity from anxiety and distress; while I, with my superior culture, my ambition and talents, am condemned to that beastly squeaking wire-wove mattress upstairs, and a job-lot of furniture which some previous German waiter has ejected in disgust from his bedroom in the basement? But there–I beg your pardon. I ought to be accustomed to injustice. I have served a long enough apprenticeship to it. Only–partly, thanks to you, I own that–I have seemed to see the dawning of hope again–hope of success, hope of recognition, hope of revenge; and just on that account it becomes intolerable to run one’s head against this paralysing, stultifying dead wall of poverty and debt.”–He bowed himself together, and his voice broke.–“I owe Mrs. Porcher money for my miserable bedsitting-room and my board, and I am so horribly afraid she will turn me out. The place is detestable; unworthy of me–of course it is–but I am accustomed to it. And I am not myself. I am terrified at the prospect of any change. In short, I am worn out. And they see that, those beasts of editors. The _Evening Dally Bulletin_ has given me my _conge_. I have lost the last of my hack-work. It was miserable work, wholly beneath a man of my capacity; still it brought me in a pittance. Now it is gone. Practically I am a pauper, and I owe money in this house.”
“I am sorry, very sorry,” Iglesias said. “You should have spoken sooner. I could not force myself into your confidence; but, believe me, I have not been unmindful of my engagement. I have merely waited for you to speak.”
His manner was gentle, yet he remained standing, still possessed by an instinct to thus safeguard the sanctities of the place. He paused, giving the other man time to recover a measure of composure: then he asked kindly, anxious to conduct the conversation into a happier channel: “Meanwhile, how is the play advancing? Well, I hope–so that you find solace and satisfaction in the prosecution of it.”
Smyth moved uneasily, looking up furtively at his questioner.
“Oh! it is grand,” he said, “unquestionable it is grand. You need have no anxiety under that head. Pray understand that anything that you may do for me in the interim, before the play is produced, is simply an investment. You need not be in the least alarmed. You will see all your money back–see it doubled, certainly doubled, probably trebled.”
“I was not thinking of investments,” Iglesias put in quietly.
“But I am,” Smyth asserted. “Naturally I am. You do not suppose that I should accept, still less ask, you help, unless I was certain that in the end I should prove to be conferring, rather than incurring, a favour? You humiliate me by assuming this attitude of disinterested generosity. Let me warn you it does not ring true. Moreover, in assuming it you do not treat me as an equal; and that I resent. It is mean to take advantage of my sorrows and my poverty, and exalt yourself thus at my expense. Of course I understand your point of view. From your associations and occupations you must inevitably worship the god of wealth. One cannot expect anything else from a business man. You gauge every one’s intellectual capacity by his power of making money. Well, wait then– just wait; and when that play appears, see if I do not compel you to rate my intellectual capacity very highly. For there are thousands in that play, I tell you–tens of thousands. It is only in the interim that I am reduced to this detestable position of dependence. I know the worth of my work, if—-“
But Iglesias’ patience was beginning to wear rather thin. He interposed calmly, yet with authority.
“Pardon me,” he said, “but it is irrelevant to discuss my attitude of mind or my past occupations. It will be more agreeable for us, both now and in the future, to treat any matters that arise between us as impersonally as possible. Therefore, I will ask you to tell me, simply and clearly, how much you require to clear you from immediate difficulty; and I will tell you, in return, whether I am in a position to meet your wishes or not.”
For a moment Smyth sat silent, his hands working nervously along the arms of the chair.
“You understand it is merely a temporary accommodation?”
“Yes,” Iglesias answered. “I understand. And consequently it is superfluous to indulge in further discussion.”
“You want to get rid of me,” Smyth snarled. “Everyone wants to get rid of me; I am unwelcome. The poor and unsuccessful always are so, I suppose. But some day the tables will be turned–if I can only last.”
And Dominic Iglesias found himself called upon to rally all his humanity, all his faith in merciful dealing and the reward which goes along with it. For it was hard to give, hard to befriend, so thankless and ungracious a being. Yet, having put his hand to the plough, he refused to look back. He had inherited a strain of fanaticism which took the form of unswerving loyalty to his own word once given. So he spoke gravely and kindly, as one speaks to the sick who are beyond the obligation of showing courtesy for very suffering. And truly, as he reminded himself, this man was grievously sick; not only physically from insufficient food, but morally from disappointment and that most fruitful source of disease, inordinate and unsatisfied vanity.
“I do not wish to get rid of you; I merely wish to take the shortest and simplest way to relieve you of your more pressing anxieties, and so enable you to give yourself unreservedly to your work. Want may be a wholesome spur to effort at times; but it is difficult to suppose any really sane and well-proportioned work of art can be produced without a sense of security and of leisure.”
“How do you come to know that? It is not your province,” Smyth said sharply.
Mr. Iglesias permitted himself to smile and raise his shoulders slightly.
“I come of a race which, in the past, has given evidence of no small literary and artistic ability. The experience of former generations affects the thought of their descendants, I imagine, and illuminates it, even when these are not gifted individually with any executive talent.”
For some minutes Smyth sat staring moodily in front of him. At last he rose slowly from his chair.
“I am an ass,” he said, “a jealous, suspicious, ungrateful ass. It is more than ever hateful to me to ask a favour of you, just because you are forbearing and generous. I wish to goodness I could do without you help; but I can’t. So let me have twenty-five pounds. Less would not be of use to me. I should only have to draw on you again, and I do not care to do that. Look here, can I have it in notes?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Iglesias.
“I prefer it so. There might have been difficulties in cashing a cheque. Moreover, it is unpleasant to me that your name, that any name, should appear. It is only fair to save my self-respect as far as you can.”
Then, as Dominic put the notes into his hand, he added, and his voice was aggressive again and quarrelsome in tone: “I don’t apologise. I don’t explain. I do not even thank you. Why should I, since I simply take it as a temporary accommodation until my play is finished–my great play, which is going–I swear before God it is going–not only to cancel this paltry debt, but a far more important one, the debt I owe to my own genius, and justify me once and forever in the eyes of the whole English-speaking world.”
With that he shambled out of the room, letting the handle of the door slip so that it banged noisily behind him.
For a while Dominic Iglesias remained standing before the fireplace. He was sad at heart. He had given generously, lavishly, out of proportion, as most persons reckon charitable givings, to his means. But, though the act was in itself good, he was sensible of no responsive warmth, no glow of satisfaction. The transaction left him cold; left him, indeed, a prey to disgust. Not only were the man’s faults evident, but they were of so unpleasant a nature as to neutralise all gladness in relieving his distress. Mechanically Iglesias straightened the chair which his guest had so lately occupied, put away tumbler and spirit decanter, pulled up the blind and opened one of the tall narrow windows, set the door giving access to his bed-chamber wide, and opened a window there, too, so creating a draught right through the apartment from end to end. He desired to clean it both of a physical and a moral atmosphere which were displeasing to him. And, in so doing, he let in, not only the roar of London, borne in a fierce crescendo on the breath of the wind, but a strange multitudinous rustling from the sombre foliage and stiff branches of the lonely cedar tree. Two limbs, crossing, sawed upon one another as the wind took them, uttering at intervals a long-drawn complaint–not weakly, but rather with virility, as of a strong man chained and groaning against his fetters.
The sound affected Dominic Iglesias deeply, begetting in him an almost hopeless sense of isolation. The vapid talk at dinner, poor little Mrs. Porcher’s misplaced advances–the fact of which it appeared to him equally idle to deny and fatuous to admit–the dreary scene with his unhappy fellow-lodger, the good deed done which just now appeared fruitless–all these contributed to make the complaint of the exiled cedar’s tormented branches an echo of the complaint of his own heart. For a long while he listened to these voices of the night, the great city, the great tree, the wind and the wet; and listening, by degrees he rallied his patience in that he humbled himself.
“After all, I have been little else but self-seeking,” he said, half aloud. “For I gave not to the man, but to myself. I clutched at a personal reward, if not of spoken gratitude yet of subjective content. It has not come. I suppose I did not deserve it.”
And then, somehow, his thoughts turned to that other human creature who, though in a very different fashion to de Courcy Smyth the unsavoury, had claimed his help. He thought not of her over-red lips, but of her wise eyes; not of her irrepressible effervescence and patter, but of her serious moments and of the honesty and courage which at such moments appeared to animate her. About a fortnight ago he had called at the little flower-bedecked house on the confines of Barnes Common, but had obtained no response to his ringing. He supposed she was engaged, or possibly away. With a certain proud modesty he had abstained from renewing his visit. But now, listening to the roar of London and the complaint of the cedar tree, he turned to the thought of her as to something of promise, of possible comfort, of equal friendship, in which there should be not only help given, but help received.
CHAPTER XIII
Dominic Iglesias stood on Hammersmith Bridge looking upstream. The temperature was low for the time of year, the sky packed with heavy- bosomed indigo-grey clouds in the south and west, whence came a gusty wind chill with impending rain. The light was diffused and cold, all objects having a certain bareness of effect, deficient in shadow. The weather had broken in the storm of the preceding night; and, though it was but early September, summer was gone, autumn and the melancholy of it already present–witness the elms in Chiswick Mall splotched with raw umber and faded yellow. The tide had still about an hour to flow. The river was dull and leaden, save where, near Chiswick Eyot, the wind meeting the tide lashed the surface of it into mimic waves, the crests of which, flung upward, showed against the gloomy stretch of water beyond, like pale hands raised heavenward in despairing protest. Steam-tugs, taking advantage of the tide, laboured up-stream in the teeth of the wind, towing processions of dark floats and barges. Long banners of smoke, ragged and fleeting, swept wildly away from the mouths of the tall chimneys of Thorneycroft’s Works, which rose black into the low, wet sky. The roadway of the huge suspension bridge quivered under the grind of the ceaseless traffic, while the wind cried in the massive pea-green painted iron-gearing above. There was a sense of hardly restrained tumult, of conflict between nature and the multiple machinery of modern civilisation, the two in opposition, alike victims of an angry mood. And Iglesias stood watching that conflict among the crowd of children, and loafers, and decrepit, who to-day–as every day–thronged the foot-way of the bridge.
Poppy St. John stood on the foot-way, too. She had crossed from the southern side. But, though by no means insensible to the spirit or the details of the scene around her, she was less engaged in watching the drama of the stormy afternoon than in watching Dominic Iglesias–as yet unconscious of her presence. His tall, spare, shapely figure, grave, clean-shaven face, and calm, self-recollected manner–which removed him so singularly from the purposeless neutral-tinted human beings close about him–delighted her artistic sense.
“If one had caught him young,” she said to herself, “if one had only caught him young, heavenly powers, what a time one might have had, and yet stayed good–oh! very quite good indeed!”
Then she made her way between much undeveloped and derelict humanity.
“Look at me, dear man,” she said, “look at me–really I am worth it. I got home late last night and I was possessed by a great longing to see you.–Excuse my shouting, but things in general are making such an infernal clatter.–I was determined to see you. I set my whole mind to making you come. And I felt so sure you must come that this afternoon I have journeyed thus far to meet you. And here you are, and here I am.”
Poppy stood before him bracing her back against the hand-rail of the bridge.
“Tell me, are you glad?” she said.
And Dominic Iglesias, surprised, yet finding the incident curiously natural, answered simply:
“Yes, I am, very glad.”
“That’s all right,” she rejoined; “because, after all, coming was a pretty lively act of faith on my part. I have superstitious turns at times; and the weather, and things that had happened, had made me feel pretty cheap somehow. I don’t mind telling you as you are here that if you’d failed me there would have been the devil to pay. I should have been awfully cut up.”
Iglesias still smiled upon her. Poppy presented herself under a new aspect to-day, and that aspect found favour in his sight. She was no longer the Lady of the Windswept Dust, arrayed in fantastic flowery hat and trailing skirts, but was clothed in trim black workman-like garments, which revealed the delicate contours of her figure and gave her an unexpected air of distinction. Yet, though charmed, the caution of pride–which, in his case, was also the caution of modesty–made him a trifle shy in addressing her. He paused before speaking, and then said, with a certain hesitancy:
“I fancy my attitude of mind last night was the complement of your own. I, too, had fallen on rather evil days. I wanted to see you. I came out this afternoon to find you. If I had failed to do so, it would have gone a little hard with me, too, I think.”
Poppy looked at him questioningly, intently, for a minute, her teeth set. Then she whirled round, leaned her elbows on the hand-rail, pulled her handkerchief out of the breast pocket of her smartly fitting coat and dabbed her eyes with it, finely indifferent to possible comment or observation.
Iglesias remained immediately behind her, but a little to the right, so as to save her from being jostled by the passers-by. He had a sense of being only the more alone with her because of the traffic and the crowd; a sense, moreover, of dependence on her part and protection on his; a sense, in a way, of her belonging to him and he to her. And this was very sweet to him, solemnly sweet, as are all things of beauty and moment holding in them the promise of enduring result. Old Age ceased to threaten and Loneliness to haunt. Over Iglesias’ soul passed a wave of thankful content.
Suddenly Poppy straightened herself up and faced him. Her lips laughed, but her eyes were wet.
“I’ll play fair,” she said; “by the honour of the mother that bore you, I’ll play fair.”
Then she laid her hand on his arm and pointed London-wards.
“Now, come along, dear man, for I have got to pull myself together somehow. Let us walk. Take me somewhere I’ve never been before, somewhere quiet–only let us walk.”
Therefore, desiring to meet her wishes, a little way up the broad straggling street Dominic Iglesias turned off to the left into the narrow old-world lanes and alleys which lie between the river frontage and King Street West. The district is a singular one, suggestive of some sleepy little dead-alive seaport town rather than of London. Quaint water-ways, crossed by foot-bridges, burrow in between small low cottages and warehouses. Some of these have overhanging upper stories to them, are half-timbered or yellow-washed. Some are built wholly of wood. There is an all-pervading odour of tar and hempen rope. Small industries abound, though without any self-advertisement of plate-glass shop fronts. Chimney-sweeps and cobblers give notice of their presence by swinging signs. Newsvendors make irruption of flaring boards upon the pavement. Little ground-floor windows exhibit attenuated stores of tinware, string, and sweets. Modest tobacconists mount the image of a black boy scantily clothed or of a Highlander in the fullest of tartans above their doors. Cats prowl along walls and sparrows rise in flights from off the ill-paved roadways. But of human occupants there appear to be but few, and those with an unusual stamp of individuality upon them; figures a trifle strange and obsolete–as of persons by choice hidden away, voluntarily self-removed from the levelling rush and grind of the monster city. The small heavy-browed houses are very secretive, seeming to shelter fallen fortunes, obscure and furtive sins, sorrows which resist alleviation and inquiry. Seen, as to-day, under the low-hanging sky big with rain, in the diffused afternoon light, the place and its inhabitants conveyed an impression low-toned, yet distinct, finished in detail, rich though mournful in effect as some eighteenth-century Dutch picture. A linnet twittered, flitting from perch to perch of its cage at an open window. A boy, clad in an old mouse-brown corduroy coat, passed slowly, crying “Sweet lavender” shrilly yet in a plaintive cadence. Occasionally the siren of a steam-tug tore the air with a long-drawn wavering scream. Otherwise all was very silent.
And, as they threaded their way through the maze of crooked streets, Dominic Iglesias and Poppy St. John were silent also; but with the silence of intimacy and good faith, rather than with that of embarrassment or indifference. Each was very fully aware of the presence of the other. So fully aware, indeed, that, for the moment, speech seemed superfluous as a vehicle for interchange of thought. Then, as they emerged on to the open gravelled space of the Upper Mall with its low red-brick wall and stately elm trees, Poppy held out her hand to Mr. Iglesias.
“You are beautifully clever,” she said. “You give me just what I wanted. I’m as steady as old Time now. But what a queer rabbit-warren of a place it is! How did you find your way?”
“I came here often, in the past,” he said, “at a time when I was suffering grave anxiety. I could not leave home, after my office work was over, for more than an hour together. And in the dusk or at night, with its twinkling and evasive lights, the place used to please me, leading as it does to the river bank, the mystery of the ebbing and flowing tide, the ceaseless effort seaward of the stream, and those low-lying spaces on the Surrey side. It was the nearest bit of nature, unharnessed, irresponsible nature, which I could get to; and it symbolised emancipation from monotonous labour and everlasting bricks and mortar. I could watch the dying of the sunset, and the outcoming of the stars, the tossing of the pale willows–there on the eyot–in the windy dusk, undisturbed. And so I have come to entertain a great fondness for it, since it tranquillised me and helped me to see life calmly and to bring myself in line with fact, to endure and to forgive.”
While he spoke Poppy’s hand continued to rest passively in his.
“You are a poet,” she said, “and you are very good.”
Dominic Iglesias smiled and shook his head.
“No,” he answered. “I am neither a poet nor am I very good. Far from that. I only tried to keep faith with the one clear duty which I saw.”
Poppy moved forward across the Mall and stood by the river wall, looking out over the flowing tide. It was high now, and washed and gurgled against the masonry.
“You did and suffered all that for some woman,” she said. “A man like you always breaks himself for some woman. I hope she was worth it– often they aren’t. Who was she? The woman you loved? Your wife?”
“The woman I loved,” Iglesias answered, “but not my wife.”
Poppy looked at him sharply, her eyes full of question and of fear, as though she dreaded to hear very evil tidings.
“Not your mistress?” she said. “Don’t tell me that. The Lord knows I’ve no right to mind. But I should mind. It would be like switching off all the lights. I couldn’t stand it. So, if it’s that, just let us part company at once. I’ve no more use for you.–I know where I am now. If I go up into St. Peter’s Square I can pick up a hansom and drive back home–I suppose I may as well call it home, as I have no other. And as for you, if you’ve any mercy in you, never let me see you again. Never come near me. I have no use for you, I tell you. So leave me to my own devices–what those devices are is no earthly concern of yours.”
She paused breathless, her eyes blazing, her face very white. She seemed to have grown tall, and there was a tremendous force in her of bitterness, repudiation, and regret.
“After all,” she cried, “I don’t so much as know your name; and so, thank heaven, it can’t be so very difficult to forget you.”
Her aspect moved Iglesias strangely, seeming as it did to embody the very spirit of the angry sky, of the gloomy river, all the sorrow of the dead summer and stormy autumn light. For a moment he watched her in silence. Then he took both her hands in his and held them, smiling at her again very gently.
“No, dear friend,” he said, “the woman was not my mistress. She was my mother.” His voice shook a little. “I never talk of her. But I think of her always. She was very perfect and very lovely. And she suffered greatly, so greatly that it unhinged her reason. Now do you understand? For years she was mad.”
CHAPTER XIV
In the month of October immediately following two events took place which, though of apparently very different magnitude and importance, intimately and almost equally–as it proved in the sequel–affected Dominic Iglesias’ life. The first was the declaration of war by the South African Republics. The second was the return of Miss Serena Lovegrove to town.
Now war is, unquestionably, not a little staggering to the modern civilised conscience; and this particular war possessed the additional unpleasantness of having in it, at first sight, an element of the grotesque. It is not too much to say that it struck the majority of the British public as being of the nature of a very bad joke. For it was as though a very small and very cheeky boy, after making offensive signs, had spat in the nation’s face. Clearly the boy deserved sharp chastisement for his impudence. Nevertheless, the position remained an undignified and slightly ridiculous one; and the British public proceeded to safeguard its proper pride by treating the matter as lightly as possible. It assured itself–and others–that, given a reasonable parade of strength, the small boy, blubbering, his fists in his eyes, would speedily and humbly beg pardon and promise to mind his manners in future. A few persons, it is true, remembered Majuba Hill, and doubted the small boy’s immediate reduction to obedience. A few others dared to suspect that English society was suffering from wealth apoplexy and the many unlovely symptoms which, in all ages of history, have accompanied that form of seizure, and to doubt whether blood- letting might not prove salutary. Dominic Iglesias was among these. His recent observations upon and excursions into the world of fashion, stray words let drop by Poppy St. John on the one hand, and by unhappy de Courcy Smyth on the other, had begotten in him the suspicion that the sobering and sorrowful influences of war might be healthful for the body politic, just as a surgical operation may be healthful for the individual body. Next to the Jew, the Dutchman is the most stubbornly tenacious of human creatures. He is a fighting man into the bargain. Iglesias could not flatter himself that the campaign would result in an easy walk-over for so much of the British army as a supine and annoyed Government condescended to place in the field. The whole affair lay heavy on his soul. It lay there all the heavier that a few days subsequent to the declaration of war Mr. Iglesias’ thought was unexpectedly swept back into the arena of speculative finance.
In the portion of his morning paper allotted to business subjects, he had lighted on a long and evidently inspired article dealing with the flotation of a company just now in process of acquiring control over extensive areas in Southeast Africa. The prospects held out to investors were of the most golden sort. The land was declared to be not only remarkably rich in precious stones and precious metals, but also adapted for corn-growing on a vast scale–thus, both above and below the surface, promising prodigious wealth were its resources adequately developed.
Iglesias did not dispute the truth of these statements. The data quoted appeared trustworthy enough. Moreover, he was already fairly conversant with the enterprise, since Mr. Reginald Barking–that junior member of the great banking firm whose name has been mentioned in connection with strenuous modern business methods–was, to his knowledge, deeply interested in the promotion of it. That which troubled him, striking him as unsound and misleading, was the fact that the profits, as set forth in the newspaper article, were calculated–so at least it was evident to Iglesias–on the results of such development when completed, irrespective of the lapse of time required for such development; irrespective of possible and arresting accident; irrespective, too, of immediate and even protracted loss by the tying-up of huge sums of money which could yield but little or no return until the said process of development was an accomplished fact. To Iglesias’ clear-seeing and logical mind the enterprise, therefore, presented itself as one of those gigantic modern gambles of which the incidental risks are emphatically too heavy, since they more often than not make rich men poor, and poor men paupers, before they come through–if, indeed, they even come through at all.
Reginald, in virtue of his youth, his energy, and relentless concentration of purpose, had rapidly become the ruling spirit of the house of Barking Brothers & Barking. Iglesias had no cause to love him, since to him he owed his dismissal. But that fact failed to colour his present meditations. Under the influence of his cherished and new-found charity, Dominic had little time or inclination for personal resentment. Too, the habits of the best part of a lifetime cannot be thrown aside in a day. Directly he touched business on the large scale, it became to him serious and imposing. And so the future of the firm and the issue of its operations, in face of current events, concerned him deeply, all the more that he gauged Reginald Barking’s temper of mind and proclivities.
The young man’s father–now happily deceased–had offered an instructive example of social and religious survival–survival, to be explicit, of the once famous Clapham Sect, and that in its least agreeable aspect. His theology was that of obstinately narrow misinterpretation of the Scriptures; his piety that of self-invented obligations; his virtue that of unsparing condemnation of the sins of others. His domestic morality was Hebraic–death kindly playing into his hands in regard of it. He married four times–Reginald, the only child of his fourth marriage, having the further privilege of being his only son. The boy was delicate and of a strumous habit. This fact, combined with his parents’ ingrained conviction that a public school is synonymous, morally speaking, with a common sewer, caused his education to be conducted at home by a series of tutors as undistinguished by birth as by scholarship–tentative apologetic young men, the goal of whose ambitions was a wife and a curacy, failing which they resigned themselves to the post of usher in some ultra- Protestant school. Sport in all its forms, art and literature, being alike forbidden, the boy’s hungry energy had found no reasonable outlet. He had been miserable, peevish, ailing, until at barely eighteen–after a discreditable episode with a scullery-maid–he had been shipped off to New York to learn business in the house of certain brokers and bill-discounters with whom Messrs. Barking Brothers had extensive financial relations. Life in the land of the Puritans was not, even at that time of day, inevitably immaculate. Freedom from parental supervision and the American climate went to the lad’s head. He passed through a phase of commonplace but secret vice, emerging there-from with an unblemished social reputation; a blank scepticism in matters religious, combined with bitter animosity against the Deity whom he declared non-existent; and a fiercely driving ambition, not so much for wealth in itself, as for that control ever the destinies of men, and even of nations, with which wealth under modern conditions endows its possessor. He was a pale, dry, lizard-like young man, suggesting light without heat, and excitement without emotion. Early in his career he recognised that the great sources of wealth and power lie with the younger countries, in the development of their natural and industrial resources, of their railways and other forms of transport. The phenomenal advance of America, for example, was due to her enormous territory and the opportunities of expansion, with the bounds of nationality, which this afforded her people. But he also recognised that America was essentially for the Americans, and that it was useless for an outsider, however skilful, however even unscrupulous, to pit his business capacity against that of the native born. His dreams of power and speculative activity directed themselves, consequently, to the British Colonies, and to those as yet unappropriated spaces of the earth’s surface where British influence is still only tentatively present.
Meanwhile he had espoused Miss Nancy Van Reenan, daughter of a famous transatlantic merchant prince, first cousin, it may be added, to the beautiful Virginia Van Reenan whose marriage with Lawrence Rivers, of Stoke Rivers in the county of Sussex, so fluttered the smartest section of New York society a few years ago. He returned to England in the spring of 1897, convinced that America had taught him, commercially speaking, all there was to know. This knowledge he prepared to apply to waking up the venerable establishment in Threadneedle Street, while employing the unimpeachable respectability and solvency of the said establishment as a lever towards the realisation of his own far-reaching ambitions. He brought with him from the United States, in addition to his elegant wife, two dry, pale children, whose contours were less Raphaelesque than gnat-like, and the acuteness of whose critical faculty was very much more in evidence than that of their affections. These bright little results of modernity and applied science–in the shape of the incubator–took their place in the social movement, at the ages of three and five respectively, with the hard and chilling assurance of a world-weary man and woman. They never exhibited surprise. They rarely exhibited amusement. They were radically disillusioned. They frequently referred to their nerves and their digestions, in the interests of which they consistently repudiated every form of excess.
With these rather terrible little gentry Dominic Iglesias was, happily for himself, unacquainted; but with their father he was very well acquainted, as has already been stated. Hence his fears. Folding his newspaper together, he laid it on the table and proceeded to walk meditatively up and down his sitting-room. The morning was keen with sunshine, the leaves of the planes and balsam-poplars fell in brown and yellow showers upon the Green, on the further side of which the details of the red and yellowish grey houses stood out in high relief of sharp-edged light and shadow. Mr. Iglesias had risen in a hopeful frame of mind. Of late it had become his habit to call weekly on Poppy St. John. Today was the one appointed for his visit. Since he had spoken to her about his mother his friendship with Poppy St. John had entered upon a new phase. It was no longer experimental, but absolute, the more so that she had in no way presumed upon his confidence. He felt very safe with her–safe to tell or safe to withhold as inclination should move him. And in this there was a strange and delicate lessening of the burden of his loneliness, without any encroachment on his pride. He had found, moreover, that behind her patter lay an unexpected acquaintance with public affairs and the tendencies of current events, so that it was possible to talk on subjects other than personal with her. He was coming to have much faith in her judgment as well as in her sincerity of heart. And, so, with the prospect of seeing her before him, Dominic had risen in the happiest disposition, had so remained till the newspaper article disturbed his mind. For what, as he asked himself, did it portend, this extravagant puff of the company’s lad and the company’s prospects, at this particular juncture? Why was it so urgently and eloquently forced upon the market just now? Was it but another proof of the contemptuous attitude adopted by Englishmen of all classes towards the Boer Republics? Or did it take its origin very much elsewhere–namely, in the fact that Reginald Barking had so deeply involved the capital and pledged the credit of the firm that it became necessary to make violent and doubtfully honest bid for popular support before the position of the said firm, through difficulty and accident induced by war, became desperate?
This last solution of the perplexing question aroused all Mr. Iglesias’ loyalty towards his old employers. He saw before them the ugly possibility of failure and disgrace. The mere phantom of the thing hurt him as unseemly, as a shame and dishonour to those who in their corporate capacity had benefited him, and therefore as a shame and dishonour, at least indirectly, to himself. The thought agitated him. He needed to take council with someone; and so, pushed by a necessity of immediate action uncommon to him, he laid hands on hat and coat and set forth to talk matters over with his old friend and former colleague, George Lovegrove.
Out of doors the air was stimulating. The voice of London had a tone of urgency in it, as the voice of the young and strong who court the coming of stirring events.
“The moods of the monstrous mother are inexhaustible,” Iglesias said to himself. “She is changeful as the great ocean. To-day she is virile, and shouts for battle–. well, it may be she will get her fill of that before many months are out!”
Then the thought of his afternoon visit returned upon him. If the air would remain as exhilarating, the sunshine as daring as now, these would heighten enjoyment.
Mr. Iglesias smiled to himself, an emotion of tenderness mingling with his anxiety. He felt very much alive, very ready to meet any demand which the future might make on him–battle for him, too, perhaps, and at this moment he welcomed the thought of it! Thus, a little exalted in spirit, Dominic walked on rapidly across the Green between the iron railings, conscious of colour, of light, and of sound; but unobservant of the details of his immediate surroundings, until a drifting female figure barred his path, undulating uncertainly before him. He moved to the right to let it pass. It moved to the right also. He moved to the left, it did so, too.
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
“Oh!” cried Serena Lovegrove.
“I beg your pardon,” Iglesias repeated, raising his hat. “Excuse me, I did not see who it was.”
“How very odd!” Serena remarked. She stood still in the middle of the path. Her eyes snapped. Her silk petticoat rustled. Serena was very particular about her petticoats. It gave her great moral and social support to hear them rustle. “How very odd!” she said again. “Did you not know that I had come back?”
Dominic might truthfully have replied that he did not know that she had ever gone away; but he abstained.
“It must be a great pleasure to your cousins to have you with them,” he said courteously.
Serena looked at the falling leaves.
“I wonder whether it is–I mean I wonder whether it is a pleasure to them, or whether they ask me out of a sense of duty.” She paused, gazing at Mr. Iglesias. “Of course, I know George has a strong regard for me, and for Susan. It is only natural, as we are first cousins. But I am not sure about Rhoda. Of course we never heard of Rhoda until she married George.”
“She has made him an excellent wife,” Iglesias put in.
“I suppose she has,” Serena said reflectively. “But I sometimes wonder whether, if George had married somebody else, it might not have been more satisfactory in some ways.”
Serena felt very proud in making this remark. It elicited no reply, however, from Mr. Iglesias.
“I wonder if he really sees that Rhoda is on a different level from us, and won’t admit it; or whether he doesn’t see. If he doesn’t see, of course that means a good deal.”
“Do you usually go out walking in the morning?” Dominic inquired. The silence was becoming protracted. Courtesy demanded that he should break it.
Serena looked at him with heightened intelligence.
“We were always brought up to take a walk twice a day. Mamma was very particular about it. She believed that health had so much to do with regular exercise. Sometimes I wonder whether she did not carry that too far. But, of course, Susan is very strong, much stronger than I am. I believe she would have been strong in any case, even if mamma had not insisted on our taking so much exercise.” Serena paused. “But I did not know you went out in the morning. That is, I mean I have never seen you go out before.”
“Indeed,” Iglesias exclaimed, a little startled at the close observation of his habits implied by this remark.
“No,” she said; “of course one can see Cedar Lodge very plainly from George’s house, and I often look out of window. I think it among the pleasures of London to look out of window. I have never seen you go out in the morning before.” Again she paused, adding reflectively: “It really seems rather odd that neither George nor Rhoda should have told you that I had come back.”
To this remark no suitable answer suggested itself. Moreover, Mr. Iglesias was growing slightly impatient. He wished she would see fit to move aside and let him pass.
“You will get cold standing here,” he said. “You must not let me detain you any longer.”
Serena’s eyes snapped. She was excited. She was also slightly offended. “He is very abrupt,” she said to herself; but she did not move aside and let him pass. “Yes, he is abrupt,” she repeated; “still, he has a very good manner. If one didn’t know that he had been a bank clerk, I wonder if one would detect it. I don’t think it would be a thing that need be mentioned, for instance, at Slowby. Only Susan would be sure to make a point of mentioning it. Susan has an idea she owes it to herself to be truthful. Of course, it would be wrong to deny that anyone had been a bank clerk; but that is different from telling everybody. I wonder if Susan would feel obliged to tell everybody.”
When she reached the near side of the Green, Serena looked back. Mr. Iglesias was in the act of entering the Lovegroves’ front door, which the worthy George held open for him. Serena stood transfixed.
“So he was going there!” she said to herself. “How extraordinary not to mention it to me. What could have been his object in not mentioning it? I wonder if he has only gone to see George, or to see Rhoda as well. If he has gone to see Rhoda, then I think he has been exceedingly rude to me. And he has been very short-sighted, too, if he didn’t want me to know, for he might have taken it for granted that of course I should look back. Unless he did do it on purpose, meaning to be rude. But–“
Serena resumed her walk. She was very much excited.
“Of course he may have done it on purpose that I should see, and understand that he meant something special–that he was going to speak to George and Rhoda about something in particular, which he could not say before me. He may have wanted to sound them. But then it is so very odd that he should have said that George had never told him I had come back. But I don’t believe he ever did say that.” Serena was growing more and more excited. She drifted along the pavement, in her rustling petticoats, with the most unusually animated expression of countenance.
“I remember–of course he did not say it. He avoided the question each time. How very extraordinary! I think he must mean me to understand something by that. I wonder if George will refer to it at luncheon. If he does I must find out from Rhoda, but without letting her suspect that I observed anything, of course.”
Serena had quite ceased to be offended. Her fancy, indeed, had taken a most wildly ingenious flight. She felt very remarkable, very acute, quite dangerous, in short–and these sensations, however limited their justification by fact, were highly agreeable to her.
CHAPTER XV
The heavens remained clear, the air exhilarating, and Iglesias set forth on his weekly pilgrimage in a serene frame of mind. George Lovegrove’s view had been reassuring.
“I know you are much more far-sighted than I am,” he had said, his honest face beaming with combined cleanliness and affection, “so I always hesitate to set up my opinion against yours. It would be presumptuous. Still, you do surprise me. I never had an inkling of anything of the sort; and between ourselves–for I should never hint at the subject before the wife, you know–it might upset her, females are so sensitive–but between ourselves it would fairly unman me to think there could be any unsoundness in Barking Brothers & Barking. You know the phrase current in the city about them–‘as safe as the Bank of England’? And I have always believed that. I know I left before Mr. Reginald had any active share in the business, and I never have cared about American speculation. It is all beyond me. Still I cannot suppose the senior partners would let him have too much his own way. Depend upon it, Sir Abel keeps an eye on him. And then as to this war, of course you have studied it all more deeply than I have the power to do; still I cannot help thinking you distress yourself unnecessarily. As I said to the wife when I first heard of it, it’s suicidal. One can only feel pity for such poor ignorant creatures, rushing headlong on their ruin. Depend upon it, they will very soon come to their senses and deplore their own rash action. A very few weeks will see the finish of it all. I only hope there will not be much bloodshed first, for of course they couldn’t stand up against English troops for an hour, poor things.”
Encouraged by which cheerful optimism Dominic Iglesias began to think his fears exaggerated, as he descended from an omnibus top at Hammersmith Bridge that afternoon, crossed the river, and walked on down the long suburban road. The sky was sharply blue. Multicoloured leaves danced down from the trees in the villa gardens. Gaily clad children, pursued by anxious mothers and nursemaids, ran and shouted, the sunshine and fresh air having gone to their heads. Perched on the brick pier of an entrance gate, a robin uplifted its voice in piercingly sweet song. Autumn wore her fairest face, speaking of promise rather than of decay. It was good to be alive. Even to Mr. Iglesias’ sober and chastened spirit horror of war, disgrace of financial failure, seemed remote and inconsiderable things, morbid delusions such as sane men brush aside scorning to give them harbourage so much as of thought.
Poppy was mirthful, too, in her greeting of him.
“My dear man,” she cried, “the house is out of windows! You find us in the throes of a great domestic event. Cappadocia has done her duty by posterity. She has been brought to bed, if you’ll excuse my mentioning it, of four puppies. Perfect little lambs, not a white hair among them. And she shows true maternal feeling, does Cappadocia. Whenever you go near her she tries to bite.”
Poppy spoke very fast, holding his hand, looking him full in the face, her singular eyes very gentle in expression, yet all alight.
“Ah! it’s good to see you. My stars, but it is good to see you,” she said.
And Dominic, moved beyond his wont, stood silent for a space.
“You’re not offended? Surely, at this time of the day, you’re not going to stiffen up?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“No, no, dear friend,” he said; “but this greeting is a little wonderful to me. Except my mother, years ago, nobody has ever cared whether I came or went.”
“More fools they,” Poppy answered, with a fine disregard of grammar. “But all that’s over now. You know it’s over. All the same I can’t be altogether sorry it was so, because it gives me my chance.–Sit down; I’ll expound to you. Let us talk.–You see, my beautiful innocent, with most men worth knowing–I am not talking about boys running about with the shell still on their heads and more affections to place than they can find a market for, but men. Well then, with most all of them, when one comes to discuss matters, one finds one’s had such an awful lot of predecessors. At best one comes in a bad third–more often a bad three-and-twentieth–I mean nothing risky. Don’t be nervous. But they have romantic memories of half-a-dozen women. And so, though they are no end nice and kind to one, play up and give one a good time and have a jolly good one themselves–trust ’em to take care of that–one knows all the while, if one knows anything, that the whole show’s merely a _rechauffe_. Visions of Clara and Gladys, and dear little Emily, and Rosina, and Beatrice, and the lovely Lucinda– angels, every one of them, if you haven’t seen them for ten years, and wouldn’t know them again if you met them in the street–haunt the background of every man’s mind by the time he’s five-and-thirty, and cut entrancing capers against the sky-line, so that–when one comes to thrash the matter out–one finds the actually present woman, here in the foreground, hasn’t really any look-in at all.”
Poppy threw her head back against the yellowish red cushions of the settee, her teeth showing white as she laughed.
“Boys aren’t worth having. They’re too crude, too callow. Moreover, it isn’t playing the game. One doesn’t want to make a mess of their futures, poor little chaps. And grown men, except as I say of the very preengaged sort, are not to be had. So don’t you understand, most delightful lunatic, how it comes to pass that you and your friendship are precious to me beyond words? When you go I could cry. When you come I could dance.”
Her tone changed, becoming defiant, almost fierce.
“And it is all right,” she said, “thank heaven, right,–right, clean, and honest, and good for one’s soul. Now I’ve done. Only we are very happy in our own quaint way, aren’t we? And we can leave it at that. Oh, yes, we can very well leave it at that if”–she looked sideways at Mr. Iglesias, her expression half-humorous, half-pathetic–“if only it will stay at that and not play the mischief and scuttle off into something quite else.”
She got up quickly, with a little air of daring and bravado.
“I must move about. I must do something–there, I’ll make up the fire. No, sit still, dear man”–as Dominic prepared to rise also–“I like doing little odd jobs with you here. It takes off the company feeling, and makes it seem as if you belonged, and like the bicycle, had ‘come to stay.'”
Poppy threw a couple of driftwood logs upon the smouldering fire. Around them sharp tongues of flame–rose and saffron, amber, sea- green, and heliotrope, glories as of a tropic sunset–leaped upward. She stood watching these, her left hand resting on the edge of the mantelpiece, her right holding up the front of her black skirt. Her right foot rested on the fender curb, thereby displaying a discreet interval of openwork silk stocking and a neatly cut steel-buckled shoe. The many-hued firelight flickered over her dark figure; over the soft lace jabot at her throat and ruffles at her wrists; over her pale profile; and glinted in the heavy masses of her hair. The room, facing east, was cold with shadow, which the thin fantastic colours of the flames appeared to emphasise rather than to relieve. And Iglesias, obedient to her entreaty, sat quietly waiting until it should again please her to speak. For he had begun to accept her many changes of mood as an integral element of her personality–a personality rich in rapid and subtle contradictions. Often he had no clue to the meaning of these many changes. But he did not mind that. Not absence of vulgar curiosity alone, but an unwilling sub-conscious shrinking from any too close acquaintance with the details of her life contributed to render him passive. He had a conviction, though he had never formulated it even in thought, that ignorance in relation to her made for security and content. And there was a refined charm in this–namely, that each to the other, even while friendship deepened, should remain something of an undiscovered country. Moreover, had she not told him that he rested her? To ask questions, however sympathetic, to volunteer consolation, however delicately worded, is to risk being officious; and to be officious, in however mild a degree, is to drive away the shy and illusive spirit of rest. And so Dominic Iglesias was coming, in the good nautical reading of that phrase, simply “to stand by” and wait where this woman was concerned. After all, it was but the reapplication of a lesson learned long ago for the support and solace of another woman, by him supremely loved. To act thus was, therefore, not only natural but poignantly sweet to him, as a new and gentle offering laid upon the dear altar of his dead. It rejoiced him to find that now, as of old, the demand created a supply of silent but sustaining moral force, ready to pass into the sphere of active help should necessity arise.
Nevertheless as the minutes passed, while daylight and firelight alike began to fade, Dominic Iglesias grew somewhat troubled and sad. And it was with a distinct movement of relief that he, at last, saw Poppy draw herself up, push the soft masses of her hair back from her forehead with a petulant gesture, and turn towards him. As she did so she let her hands drop at her sides, as though she had finished with and dismissed some unwelcome form of thought, while her face showed wan, and her eyes large and vague, as though they saw beyond and through all that which they actually looked on.
“There, there,” she said harshly, with an angry lift of her head, “what a silly fool I am, wasting time like this when you are here. But my soul went out of my body; and I could afford to let it go, just because you were here, and I felt safe.” Her tone softened. “Sure I don’t bore you?” she asked.
Dominic shook his head, smiling.
“Very sure,” he said.
“Bless you, then that’s all right.” Poppy strolled back and sat down languidly. “I’ve gone confoundedly tired,” she said. “You see, I sat up half the night acting Gamp to Cappadocia–if you excuse my again alluding to the domestic event.–Oh! my being tired doesn’t matter. My dear man, I’m never ill. I’m as strong as a horse. Let’s talk of something more interesting–let’s review the topics of the hour–only for the life of me I can’t remember what the topics of the hour are! Yes, I know though–the management of the Twentieth Century Theatre has given Dot Parris a leading part. Does that leave you cold? Impossible! Why, in theatrical circles it’s a world-shaking event. I own I’m curious to see how she does in legitimate drama, after her career in musical comedy and at the halls, myself. I’m really very fond of her, poor little Dot. She’s going to call herself Miss Charlotte Colthurst in the future, I understand. Did you ever hear such cheek? But then she always had the cheek of the old gentleman himself, and that makes for success. Cheek does go an awfully long way towards bringing you through, don’t you think so?”
“Probably,” Dominic said. “My opportunities of exercising that particular form of virtue have been so limited that I am quite prepared to accept your ruling on the point.”
Poppy laughed softly, looking at him with a great friendliness.
“Ah! but it wouldn’t have been cheek in your case, anyhow. It would merely have been that you stepped into your right place, ascended any throne that happened to be right divine. I can see you doing it, so statelily and yet so innocently. It would be a perfectly delicious sight. I believe you will do it yet, some day, somehow, and make a lot of people sit up. But that reminds me, joking apart, there is a topic of the hour I wanted to ask you about. Tell me what you think of this war.”
And Dominic Iglesias, once more obedient to her changing mood, replied with quiet sincerity:
“I am told I am an alarmist. I hope I may prove to be so, for in this matter I should much prefer the optimists to be in the right. But I confess I do not like the outlook. Both on public and private grounds this war makes me anxious.”
Poppy’s languor had vanished. She had grown very much alive again. Now she leaned forward, pressing her hands together, palm to palm, between her knees, and making herself small, as a child does when it is deeply in earnest and wants to think.
“You’re right,” she assented. “I’m perfectly certain all this cocksure Johnny-head-in-air business, ‘sail to-day and see you again at tea tomorrow, so it’s not worth while saying good-by’–you know the style?–is fatuous and idiotic. It is not bluff, because the English officer-man doesn’t bluff. He hasn’t the brains, to begin with, and then he is a very sound sort of an animal. He doesn’t need to hide his fright for the simple reason that he’s not frightened. A friend of mine was talking about it all yesterday. He thinks as you do, and he’s no silly, though he is a member of the House of Lords.–After all, he can’t help that, poor dear old chap,” she added apologetically, looking sideways at Mr. Iglesias. “But there, you’ve seen him, I believe. You met him the first time you came here. Don’t you remember, I had to turn you out because I had to see him on business, and you ran across him in the hall as you were going?”
“I remember meeting someone,” Dominic said, rather loftily. He did not want to hear any more. The conversation had become displeasing to him, though he could have given no reason for his displeasure. But Poppy suddenly turned mischievous and naughty. She patted her hands gently together between her knees and swayed with rather impish merriment.
“Ah, of course you were much too grand to take any particular notice of him, poor brute. But he wasn’t a bit too grand to take a lot of notice of you. He was fearfully impressed. Yes, I tell you he was. Don’t be cross. I am speaking the veracious truth. I give you my word I’m not gassing. He was awfully keen to know who you were, and where you came from, and how I met you. And it was the sweetest thing out to be able to reply that I’d been introduced to you on a bench–a mighty uncomfortable one, too, with no back to it!–on Barnes Common by Cappadocia; and that as to your name and local habitation I hadn’t the faintest ghost of a notion what they were. Are you cross? Don’t be cross,” Poppy pleaded.
“No, no, of course not,” Mr. Iglesias answered, goaded from his habitual calm and speaking almost sharply.
Poppy patted her palms together again, swaying backwards and forwards. Her eyes were dancing.
“Oh! but you are, though,” she cried. “You’re just a wee bit jealous. You are–you know you are, and I’m not a scrap sorry. On the contrary, I’m enchanted. For it shows that you are human after all, and must have a name and address tucked away somewhere about you. I don’t want to know what they are, but it’s comfortable to be assured of their existence. It shows you don’t drop straight down from heaven–as I was beginning to be afraid you did–once a week, into the Mortlake Road, and then go straight up again. It shows that I could get on to you by post, or telephone, or other means of communication common to mortals, if I was in a tight place and really wanted you, without walking as far as Hammersmith Bridge and waiting in the wind and the wet on the bare chance you might take it into your august head to materialise, and break out of paradise, and take a little stroll round our sublunary sphere.”
For a moment Poppy laid her hand lightly on Mr. Iglesias’ shoulder.
“Yes, be cross,” she repeated. “Just as cross as ever you like, so long as you don’t keep it up too protractedly. It’s the most engaging piece of flattery I’ve come across for a month of Sundays. Only you needn’t worry in this particular instance, dear man, I give you my word you needn’t. It’s a sheer waste of feeling. For Fallowfeild’s always been perfectly decent with me. I know people think him an awfully risky lot, but they’re noodles. He’s racketed in his day–of course he has. But if he’d been more of a hypocrite, people would have talked less. As the man says in the play, it’s not the sin but the being found out which makes the scandal. And Fallowfeild was too honest. He never pretended to be better than he was. He is a man of good nature who has done wrong things, which is quite different to being a man of bad nature who does wrong things, and still more different to being a man of weak nature who pretends to do right things. That last is the sort I hate most, and I speak out of beastly intimate experience.”
She made a most expressive grimace, as though she had a remarkably disagreeable taste in her mouth.
“No salvation for that sort, I believe,” she went on, “either here or hereafter. Now, are you better? You do believe it has always been perfectly square and above-board between Fallowfeild and me, don’t you?”
“Unquestionably, I believe it,” Dominic answered. He spoke slowly.
Poppy turned her head sharply and looked hard at him.
“Ah! but I don’t quite like that,” she said. “I’ve muddled it somehow –I see I have. I’ve hurt and offended you. You’re farther off than you were ten minutes ago. In spirit you’ve got up and gone away. I have muddled it. I have made you distrust me.”
“No,” Dominic answered, “you have not made me distrust you; but you have perplexed me. It is the result of my own dulness, no doubt. My imagination is not agile enough to follow you, and so–“
He hesitated. That which he had in his mind was not easy to put into words without discourtesy. He would far rather have left it unsaid; but to do so would have been, in truth, to stand farther off, to erect a barrier which might prove insuperable to happy companionship in the future.
“Yes?” Poppy queried. Her voice shook just perceptibly. In the deepening dusk neither could see the other distinctly, and this contributed to Dominic’s decision to speak.
“It pains me,” he said at last, “if you will pardon my frankness, that you should think it necessary to account for yourself and justify yourself as you often appear to do.”
“Yes?” Poppy queried again.
“That you should do so distresses and disturbs me.”
“Yes,” Poppy murmured.
“I am afraid I grow selfish,” Iglesias went on gently; “but you have been good enough to tell me that my poor friendship is of value to you. Does it not occur to you that yours is of far greater value to me? And that for many and obvious reasons–these among others, that while you are young, and have a wide circle of acquaintances, and in a future to which, brilliant as you are, you may look forward with hope and assurance, I am absolutely alone in the world. Save for one old school-fellow, who has been very faithful to me, there is no one to whom it matters, except in the most superficial degree, whether I live or die.”
“Ah!” Poppy said softly.
“Do not misunderstand me, I do not complain,” Iglesias added. “I entertain no doubt but that the circumstances in which I find myself are the right and profitable ones for me, if I only lay to heart the lessons they teach, and use the opportunities which they afford me.”
“I don’t know about that–I doubt that,” Poppy put in hastily.
“You doubt it because you are young,” he answered, “and your circumstances are capable of alteration and development. Except under very exceptional conditions, resignation is no virtue in the young. It is more often an excuse for cowardice and sloth. But at my age the world changes its complexion. My circumstances are incapable of alteration and development. They are final. Therefore I do well to accept them unreservedly. The work of my life is done. I do not say that it has been a failure, for I fulfilled the main object I had in view. But it has certainly been obscure and inglorious. The sun will sink dimly enough into a bank of fog. My present is meagre in interest and activity. My future, a brief enough one in all probability, must of necessity be meagre likewise. Therefore your friendship is of supreme importance to me.”
Iglesias paused. His voice was grave, distinct, weighted with feeling. He did not look at his companion; he could not trust himself to do so, for he had discovered in himself unexpected depths of emotion.
“And just on that account,” he went on, “I grow childishly nervous, childishly apprehensive if anything arises which seems to cloud or, in however small a measure, to endanger the serenity of our intercourse.”
He turned and looked at her.
“This constitutes no slight to you, dear friend.”
“No,” she said, “very certainly it is no slight. On the contrary, it is very beautiful; but it’s an awful responsibility, too.”
She sat quite still, her head carried high, her hands clasped in her lap.
“I’ve underrated the position, I see. I’ve only thought of myself so far and how you pleased me. But though I’m pretty cheeky, too–almost as cheeky as little Dot–I never had the presumption to put the affair the other way about.”
Poppy began to sway slightly again and pat the palms of her hands together between her knees.
“It’s been a game, the finest game I’ve ever played; and I swore by all my gods to play fair. But, as you look at it, our friendship amounts to a good deal more than a game. It goes very deep. And I’m not sure–. no, I’m not–whether I’m equal to it.”
She glanced at Iglesias strangely through the clinging grey of the dusk.
“Dear unknown,” she said, “I give you my word I’m frightened–I who’ve never been frightened at any man yet. In my own little way I’ve played pitch and toss with their hearts and made footballs of them–except that poor young fellow–I told you about him the first time we met– who gave me the scarf, and whose people wouldn’t let him marry me. But this affair with you is different. It goes very far, it means–it means nothing short of revolution for me, of putting away and renouncing very much.”
Poppy got up, stood pushing her hair back with both hands from her forehead. Then she moved across to the further side of the fireplace. Dominic had risen also. He stood on the near side of the hearth. He was penetrated with the conviction that a crisis was upon them both, involving all the happiness of their future relation to one another.
“You don’t understand,” Poppy cried passionately. “And I don’t want you to understand–that’s half the trouble. I want to keep you. Your friendship’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever had. And yet I don’t know. For I’m not one woman–I’m half-a-dozen women, and they all pull all sorts of ways so that I daren’t trust myself. I want to keep you, I tell you, I want horribly to keep you. Yet I’m ghastly afraid I’m not equal to it. The price is too big.”
As she spoke Poppy dashed her hand against the push of the electric bell, and held it there, ringing a prolonged alarum, in quick response to which Phillimore, the respectable elderly parlour maid, appeared, bearing two rose-shaded lamps. Noiselessly and deftly–as one accustomed to agitations, whose eyes did not see or ears hear if it should be unadvisable to permit them to do so–she drew the curtains, made up the fire, set out the tea-table. And with that change of scene and shutting out of the dusk, Poppy seemed to change also; gravity and strength of purpose departing from her, and leaving her– notwithstanding her sober dress–unreal, fictitious, artificial, the red-lipped carmine-tinted lady of the footlights, of the windswept dust and embroidered dragons again. She chattered, moreover, ceaselessly, careless of interruption, and of criticism alike.
“Here, let’s hark back to the ordinary conduct of material existence,” she said. “Tea? Won’t you sit down? No–well, just as you like best. Take it standing. Let me see, what were we discussing when we got switched on to unexpectedly personal lines of conversation? The war– yes, I remember. I was just going to tell you that Fallowfeild believes it’s going to be a nasty dragging unsatisfactory business. Everyone gasses about the Boers being a simple pastoral people. But Fallowfeild says their simplicity is just another name for guile, and that he anyway can’t conceive a more disconcerting job than fighting a nation of farmers and huntsmen and gamekeepers in their own country, every inch of which they know. People say they’ve no military science. But so jolly much the better for them. They can be unfettered opportunists, with nothing to think of but outwitting the enemy and saving their property and their skins. The poor British Tommy will be no match for them; nor will the British officer-man either, till he’s unlearned his parade-ground etiquette, and his haw-haw red-tape methods and manner, and learned their very primitive but very cute and foxy ones. By which time, Fallowfeild says, the mourning warehouses here at home will have made a record turnover, and there will be altogether too many new graveyards for comfort in South Africa.”
Poppy paused in her harangue, for Dominic Iglesias had set down his cup, its contents untasted. He was sad at heart.
“Are you going?” she asked.
“Yes,” he answered. “It grows late. It’s time I went, I think.”
“Perhaps it is.” Poppy’s eyes had become inscrutable. “I really ought to attend to my Gamping, and pass the time of day with Cappadocia. Her snappishness has scared the maids. They refuse to go within a measured furlong of her.”
Poppy bent down over the tea-table, arranging the teacups with elaborate neatness.
“Good-by,” she said. “I don’t quite know when we shall meet again.”
“Why?” Iglesias asked. The muscles of his throat were rigid. He had much ado to speak plainly and naturally. “Are you leaving home?”
“Home?” she answered. “Yes, I’m leaving it. Good-by again. Don’t let me keep you. Certainly I’m leaving home. Indeed, I believe I have left it already–for good.”
And she threw back her head and laughed.
Upon the doorstep a cold rush of air met Mr. Iglesias. Above, the sky was blue-black and very clear. The road was vacant and grey with frost. The flame of the gaslamps quivered, giving off a sharp brightness in the keen atmosphere. Mr. Iglesias turned up the collar of his coat and descended the steps. Just then a hansom emerged from the distance and drew up with a rattle and grind against the curb some twenty paces ahead. The occupant, a young man, flung back the doors with a thud, and stood a moment on the footboard paying the driver, who raised himself, leaning forward with outstretched hand across the glistening black roof of the cab. Then the young man turned round, swung himself down on to the asphalt pavement, and came forward as rapidly as a long motor-coat, reaching to his heels, would permit. He was tall and fair, well-favoured, preoccupied, not to say morose. He did not vouchsafe Mr. Iglesias so much as a glance as he brushed past him. The road was still vacant, and in the frosty air sounds carried. Mr. Iglesias distinctly heard him race up a neighbouring flight of steps, heard the click and turn of a latchkey in a lock, heard the slam of a front door pulled to violently. And so doing Dominic turned cold and a little faint. He would not condescend to look back; but he had recognised Alaric Barking, and was in no doubt which house he had entered.
“Keb, sir? ‘Ere yer are, sir,” the cabby called cheerily. “Very cold night. Just set one gentleman down, and ‘appy to tike another up. Want to get back to my comfy little West End shelter, so I’ll tike yer for ‘alf fares, sir, though we are outside the blooming radius.”
But Iglesias shook his head. The horse stood limply in a cloud of steam. Alaric Barking had evidently pushed the pace. But even had the animal been in better condition, Iglesias had no desire to drive in that particular cab. He would rather have walked the whole way to Cedar Lodge.
Opposite the Bell Inn, where the roads fork–one turning away through Mortlake, the other leading to Barnes Common, Roehampton, and Sheen– the row of smart little houses degenerates into shops. By the time he reached these Mr. Iglesias discovered that he was unaccountably tired. The keen air oppressed his chest, making his breath come short. It was useless to attempt to go home on foot. Then, with a sense of relief, he saw that on the far side of the road a couple of omnibuses stood, the horses’ heads turned Londonwards. He crossed, climbed the stairway of the leading vehicle slowly, and sank into a seat. The ‘bustop was unoccupied, yet Dominic was not by himself. Two companions had climbed the winding stairway with him and taken their places beside him, Old Age on his left hand, Loneliness on his right. All up the long suburban road, while the omnibus bumped and jolted and the fallen leaves whirled and scurried before the searching breath of the night wind Iglesias’ two companions seemed to lean across him, talking. There were tones of mockery in their talk, while behind and through it, as some discordant refrain, he heard the ring of a young man’s eager footsteps, the click and turn of a latchkey, and the slam of a door as it shut. On nearing the river the cold grew intense. Crossing the bridge, the waterside lights were reflected in the surface of the stream, which ran full and strong from the autumn rains, swirling seaward with an ebbing tide. To Iglesias’ eyes the reflections converted themselves into fiery dragons, writhing in the heat of deadly conflict, as upon Poppy St. John’s oriental scarf. A glare hung over London, palpitating as with multitudinous and angry life; and when the omnibus slowed up in Hammersmith Broadway the voice of the streets grew loud–the monstrous city, so it seemed to Dominic Iglesias, shouting defiance to the majestic calm and solemnity of the eternal stars.
CHAPTER XVI
“He says it is nothing serious, only a slight chill; and sends kind regards and many thanks for kind inquiries, and hopes to be out in a day or two, when he will call and thank you in person.”
This from George Lovegrove to his wife, the latter arrayed in garments of ceremony and seated upon the Chesterfield sofa awaiting guests. It was her afternoon at-home.
“Well, I’m sure I hope it is no more than that, Georgie,” she answered comfortably. “Chills are always going about in November, and very often gentlemen encourage them–especially bachelors–by not changing into their winter vests and pants early enough. A great deal of illness is contracted that way.”
Here Serena rustled audibly. She stood by the window, holding the lace curtain just sufficiently aside to get a narrow and attenuated view of the fog-enshrouded Green. The outlook was far from inspiriting, and Serena was keenly interested in the conversation going forward between her host and hostess. But it was not in her programme to let this appear. She, while straining her ears to listen, therefore maintained an air of detachment. The word “pants” was, however, too much for her fortitude, and she rustled. “Really, Rhoda does use the most dreadfully unladylike expressions sometimes,” she commented inwardly. “She never seems to remember that everyone is not married, though even if they were I should hope they would not mention those sort of things. Rhoda is wanting in refinement. I wonder if George notices that and feels it. If he does notice it, I think he ought to tell her about it, because–“
But here she fell to listening again, since the said George took up his parable once more.
“Still, I own I don’t like his looks somehow. His face is so thin and drawn. It reminds me of the time his mother, poor Mrs. Iglesias, died. I told him, just jocularly, that his appearance surprised me, but he put it all aside–you know he has a very high aristocratic manner at times that makes you feel you have been intrusive–and then talked of other things.”
“He has lived too solitary,” Mrs. Lovegrove said judicially, “too solitary, and that tells on any one in middle life. I should never forgive myself if we left him to mope. You must just try to coax him over here to stay, Georgie, and I’ll nurse him up and humour him, and fortunately Serena’s here, you see, for pleasant company.”
Mrs. Lovegrove looked meaningly at her spouse, while the figure at the window again rustled.
“I am sure you would exert yourself to help cheer poor Mr. Iglesias up, if he came over to stay, would you not now, Serena?” she inquired insinuatingly.
“Are you speaking to me, Rhoda?”
“Yes, about Mr. Iglesias coming here to stay.”
Serena turned her head and answered over her shoulder.
“Of course you and George are quite at liberty to ask anyone here whom you like. And if Mrs. Iglesias came I should be perfectly civil to him. But I should not care, Rhoda, to bind myself to anything more than that, because I do not find him an easy person to get on with.”
She turned to her contemplation of the fog with a renewed assumption of indifference. George Lovegrove’s shiny forehead puckered into little lines. He looked anxiously at his wife. The good lady, however, laid a fat forefinger upon her lips and nodded her head at him in the most archly reassuring manner.
“That’s funny,” she said, “because Mr. Iglesias is quite the cleverest of all Georgie’s gentlemen friends–except, of course, the dear vicar –and so I always took for granted anyone like yourself was sure to get on nicely with him, Serena. Even I hardly ever find him difficult to talk with.”
“I never talk easily to strangers,” Serena put in loftily.
“Oh! but you’d hardly call Mr. Iglesias a stranger.”
“Yes, I should,” Serena declared with emphasis. “I should certainly call him a stranger. I always call everyone a stranger till I know them intimately. It is much safer to do so. And it would be absurd to pretend that I know Mr. Iglesias intimately. You, of course, do, but I do not. You and George may have seen him frequently since I have been here, but I have really seen him very seldom, four or five times at the outside. He has generally appeared to call when I was likely to be out. I could not help observing that. It may be a coincidence, of course. But I cannot pretend that I have not thought it rather marked.”
Serena had advanced into the centre of the room. She held herself erect. She enjoyed making a demonstration. “Rhoda may think I am a cipher,” she said to herself, “but she is mistaken. She may think I can be hoodwinked and used as a mere tool, but I will let her see that I cannot.” She felt daring and dangerous, and her eyes snapped. The rustling of her skirts and the emphatic tones of her voice aroused the parrot, which had been dosing on its perch, its head sunk between its shoulders and its breast-feathers fluffed out into a little green apron over its grey claws.
“Pollie’s own pet girlie,” it murmured drowsily, with dry clickings of its tongue against its beak, the words jolting out in foolish twos and threes. “Hi! p’liceman–murder! fire! thieves!–there’s another jolly row downstairs.”
Poor George Lovegrove gazed in bewilderment from Serena to the parrot, from the parrot to his wife, and then back to Serena again.
“You do surprise me! And I am more mortified than I can say that you should have the most distant reason, Serena–or Susan either–ever to feel the least slighted in this house. You do surprise me–I can’t believe it has been the least intentional on Iglesias’ part. But I would not have had anything of the kind happen for twenty pounds.”
“Pray don’t apologise, George,” Serena cried, “or I shall feel quite annoyed. Of course everyone has a right to their own preferences; but I had been led to expect something different. As I say, it may only be a coincidence. Nothing may have really been meant. Only it has seemed rather marked. But in any case it has not been your fault, George.”
“I am very glad you allow that, Serena,” the good creature said humbly.
“Oh! yes. I quite excuse you of any intentional slight, George. I quite trust you. Still, nothing could be more unpleasant than for me to feel that my being here put any restriction upon your friends coming to the house. Of course I know Susan and I move in rather different society from Rhoda and yourself.”
“Yes,” he assented hurriedly, agonised as to the wife’s feelings– “yes, yes.”
“And so it is quite possible that I may not suit some of your acquaintances.”
“Excuse me,” he panted–“no, Serena, I cannot think that.”
“I am not sure,” she returned argumentatively. “Not at all sure, George. And nothing could be more unpleasant to me than to feel I was the least in the way. Of course, I should never have come back if I had supposed I should be in the way; but Rhoda made such a point of it.”
Here the parrot broke forth into prolonged and earpiercing shriekings, flapping its wings violently and nearly tumbled backwards off its perch.
“Throw a handkerchief over the poor bird’s cage, Georgie dear,” cried Mrs. Lovegrove from the sofa. Her face was red. She had become distressingly hot and flustered.–“And just as I was flattering myself it was all turning out so nicely, too,” she said to herself.–“No, not your own, Georgie dear”–this aloud–“you may need it later. The red bandana out of the right-hand corner of the top drawer of the work- table.”
“I think it would be much simpler for me to go,” Serena continued, her voice pitched in a high key to combat the cries of the parrot and the rattle of the table drawer, which George Lovegrove in his present state of agitation found it impossible to shut with accuracy and despatch.
“Of course, it may inconvenience Susan to have me return sooner than she expected. She is away speaking at a number of missionary meetings in the North. And the maids will be on board wages, and the drawing- room furniture will have been put into holland covers. She counted on my staying here till I go to my cousin, Lady Samuelson, in Ladbroke Square, the third week in December. But, of course, all that must be arranged. I can give up my visit. Lady Samuelson will be annoyed, and I don’t know what excuse I can make to her. Still, I think I had really much better go; and then you can have Mr. Iglesias, or any other of your and Rhoda’s friends, to stop here without my feeling that I am in the way. Nothing could be more odious to me than feeling I was encroaching or forcing myself upon you. Mamma would never have countenanced such behaviour. It is the sort of thing we were always brought up to have the greatest horror of. It is a thing I never have done and never could do. I hope you understand that, George. Nothing could be further from my thoughts when I accepted Rhoda’s invitation to—-“
“Miss Hart, please, ma’am,” the little house-parlour-maid trumpeted, her face very pink from the exertion of attracting her mistress’s attention and making herself heard. Mrs. Lovegrove bounced up from the sofa. Usually, it must be allowed, the great Eliza was rather at a discount. Now she was astonishingly welcome. Her hostess’s greeting, though silent, was effusively cordial. She clutched at her guest’s hand as one in imminent risk of drowning at a lifebelt. The said guest was in her sprightliest humour. She was also in a scarlet flannel blouse thickly powdered with gradated black discs. This, in conjunction with purple chrysanthemums in a black hat, her tawny hair and freckled complexion, did not constitute a wholly delicious scheme of colour; but to this fact Mrs. Lovegrove was supremely indifferent.
“Good-afternoon,” Miss Hart said in a stage whisper, glancing towards Serena, still bright-eyed and erect. “Don’t let me interrupt, pray. My conversation will keep. I will just sit and listen.”
“Listen to what?” Serena cried, almost inarticulate with indignation.
“Why, to your recitation. Our gentlemen often treat us to a little in that line of an evening, Mrs. Lovegrove, after dinner. I dote on recitation. Pieces of a comic nature specially, when well delivered.”
“I should never dream of reciting,” Serena declared heatedly.
“No, really now,” Miss Hart returned. “That seems quite a pity. It is such a pleasant occupation for a dull afternoon like this, do you not think so, Miss Lovegrove? I declare I was quite sure, from the moment I came into the hall–while I was taking off my waterproof–that your cousin was giving you a little entertainment of that kind, Mr. Lovegrove. Her voice was running up and down in such a very telling manner.”
If glances could scorch, Miss Hart would unquestionably have been reduced to a cinder, for rage possessed Serena. She had worked herself up into a fine fume of anger over purely imaginary injuries. And now, that Eliza Hart, of all people in the world, should intervene with suggestions of comic recitations!
“Detestable person!” Serena said to herself. “Her conduct is positively outrageous. Of course she knew perfectly well I was doing nothing of the kind. Really, I believe anybody would feel her manner quite insulting. I wonder how George and Rhoda can tolerate her. It shows George has deteriorated much that he should tolerate her. I am not so surprised at Rhoda. Of course she never had good taste. I think I ought to go to my room. That would mark my displeasure. But then she may have come on purpose to say something particular. I wonder if she has done so? Of course if she has, she wants to get rid of me. That is her object. But she is mistaken if she thinks that I shall gratify her. I think I owe it to myself to make sure exactly what is going on. I will certainly stay. That will show her I am on the watch.”
During this protracted, though silent, colloquy, Serena had remained standing in the middle of the room. Now she rustled back to the window, held aside the lace curtain and resumed her contemplation of the fog-enshrouded Green. Good George Lovegrove gazed after her in deep dejection and perplexity. Somebody, it appeared to him, had been extremely unreasonable and disagreeable; but who that somebody was for the very life of him he could not tell. The wife was out of the question; while to suppose it Serena approached high treason. Still he was very sure it could not be that most scrupulously courteous personage Dominic Iglesias. There remained himself–“Yet I wouldn’t knowingly vex a fly,” he thought, “and as to vexing Serena! Sometimes ones does wish females were not quite so sensitive.”
Miss Hart, meanwhile, had taken the unaccustomed post of honour beside her hostess upon the sofa. She was enjoying herself immensely. She had a conviction of marching to victory.
“Yes,” she said, “Mrs. Lovegrove, dear Peachie Porcher asked me just to run across as she has missed your last two afternoons, lest you should think her neglectful. I am well aware I am but a poor substitute for Peachie–no compliments now, Mr. Lovegrove, if you please!”
“Mrs. Porcher is in good health, I trust”–this from Rhoda.
“At present, yes, I am happy to say, thank you. But how long it will continue,” Miss Hart spoke impressively–“at this rate I am sure I cannot tell.”
“Indeed,” George Lovegrove inquired anxiously. “You don’t tell me so? Nothing wrong, I trust.”
“Well, as I always tell her, her sense of duty amounts almost to a fault–so unselfish, so conscientious, it brings tears to my eyes often at times. I hope it is appreciated in the right quarter–I do hope that, Mr. Lovegrove.”
Here Rhoda’s bosom heaved with a generous sigh.
“There is much ingratitude in the world, Miss Hart, I fear,” she said pensively.
Her husband looked at her in an anguish of apology–whether for his own sins or those of others he knew not exactly.
“So there is, Mrs. Lovegrove,” Eliza responded warmly. “And nobody is a more speaking example of that truth than Peachie Porcher. When I think of all she went through during her married life, and yet so unsuspicious, so trusting–it is enough to melt an iceberg, that it is, Mrs. Lovegrove. Now, as I was saying to her only this morning, ‘You must study yourself a little, get out in the air, take a peep at the shops, and have some amusement.’ But her reply is always the same.–‘No, Liz, dear,’ she says, ‘not at the present time, thank you. I know the duties of my position as mistress of Cedar Lodge. When any one of our gentlemen is ailing, my place is at home. I must remain in the house in case of a sudden emergency. I should not have an easy moment away from the place,’ she says.”
Miss Hart looked around upon her hearers demanding approbation and sympathy.
“Very affecting, is it not?” she inquired.
After a moment’s embarrassed silence, George Lovegrove murmured a suitable, if timid, assent. His wife assumed a bolder attitude. Goaded by provocations recently received, she went over–temporarily–to the side of the enemy.
“I always have maintained Mrs. Porcher was full of heart,” she declared, throwing the assertion across the room, much as though it was a stone, in the direction of the figure at the window.
Serena drew herself up with a rustle.
“I wonder exactly what Rhoda means by that?” she commented inwardly. “I think it very odd. Of course, she must have some meaning, and I wonder what it is. She seems to be changing her line. I am glad I stayed. I am afraid Rhoda is rather deceitful. I excuse George of deceit. I believe George to be true; but he is sadly influenced by Rhoda. I am rather sorry for George.”
“So she is, Mrs. Lovegrove,” Eliza Hart resumed–“Peachie’s too full of heart, as I tell her. She is forever thinking of others and their comforts. She grudges neither time nor money, does not Peachie. There is nothing calculating or cheese-paring about her–not enough, I often think. Fish, sweetbreads, game, poultry, and all of the very best– where the profits are to come from with a bill of fare like that passes my powers of arithmetic, and so I point out to her. I hope it is appreciated–yes, I do hope that, Mr. Lovegrove”–there the speaker became extremely coy and playful. “A little bird sometimes seems to twitter to me that it is. And yet I am sure I don’t know. The members of your sex are very misleading, Mr. Lovegrove. Do not perjure yourself now. You cannot take me in. And a certain gentleman is very close, you know, and stand-offish. It is not easy to get at his real sentiments, is it, now?”
Serena laid back her ears, so to speak. “I was quite right to stay,” she reflected wrathfully.
“I think Mr. Iglesias is unusually considerate, Miss Hart,” George Lovegrove said tentatively. “He is quite sensible of Mrs. Porcher’s kind attentions. But naturally he is very tenacious of upsetting her household arrangements and giving additional trouble.”
“And then the position of a bachelor is delicate, Miss Hart, you must admit,” Mrs. Lovegrove chimed in. “That’s what I always tell Georgie. It may do all very well in their younger days to be unattached, but as gentlemen get on in life they do need their own private establishments. I am sure I am sorry for them in chambers, or even in good rooms like those at Cedar Lodge. For it is not the same as a home, Miss Hart, and never can be. There must be awkwardnesses on both sides at times, especially when, it comes to illness.”
Then the great Eliza gathered herself together, for it appeared to her her forecast had been just and that she was indeed marching to victory.
“Yes, there is no denying all that,” she said, “and I am more than glad you see it in that light, Mrs. Lovegrove. Between ourselves, I have more and more ever since a certain gentleman gave up work in the City. It would be premature to speak freely; but, just between friends and under the rose, you being interested in one party and I in the other, there can be no harm in dropping a hint and ascertaining how the land lies. Of course if it came to pass, it would be to my own disadvantage, for I do not know how I should ever bear to part with Peachie Porcher. Still, I could put myself aside, if I felt it was for her happiness.”
“You do surprise me,” George Lovegrove exclaimed. He was filled with consternation, his hair nearly rising on his head. “I had no notion. Dear me, you fairly take away my breath.” He could almost have wept. “To think of it!” he repeated. “Only to think of it! Miss Hart, you do surprise me.”
“Oh! you must not run away with the notion anything is really settled yet,” she replied. “And I could not say Mrs. Porcher really would, when it came to the point, after the experiences she had in her first marriage. She is very reserved, is Peachie. Still, she might. And very fortunate a certain gentleman would be if she did–it does not take more than half an eye to see that.”
“Dr. Nevington, please, ma’am,” announced the parlour-maid, and the fine clerical voice and clerical presence filled all the room. Thereupon Serena graciously joined the circle. She was unusually self- possessed and definite. She embarked in a quite spirited conversation with the newcomer. And when Eliza Hart, after a few pleasantries of a parochial tendency with the said newcomer–in whose favour she had vacated the place of honour upon the sofa–rose to depart, Serena bowed to her in the most royally distant and superior manner. Her amiability remained a constant quantity during the rest of the evening; and when an opportunity occurred of speaking in private to her cousin, she did so with the utmost cordiality.
“I do hope, George,” she said, “you will not think any more of our little unpleasantness. I can truly say I never bear malice. I own I was annoyed, for I felt I had not been quite fairly treated by Rhoda. But, of course, I may have been mistaken. I am quite willing to believe so and to let bygones be bygones, and stay, as Rhoda pressed me to do, until I go to my cousin, Lady Samuelson, in December. Of course it would be more convenient to me in some ways. But I am not thinking of that. I am thinking of you and Rhoda. I should not like to disappoint her by leaving her when she wants me to help entertain your friend, Mr. Iglesias. Of course, I cannot pretend I take easily to strangers. Mamma was very particular whom we associated with, and so I have always been unaccustomed to strangers, and I cannot pretend I am partial to making new acquaintances. Still, I should be very sorry to seem unaccommodating, or to hurt you and Rhoda by refusing to stay and assist you.”
“Thank you truly, Serena; I am sure you are very kind,” the good man answered. And the best, or the worst, of it was he actually believed he was speaking the truth!
CHAPTER XVII
The easterly wind blew strong and shattering, bleak and dreary, against the windows of the bedchamber at the back of the house. The complaint of the cedar tree, as the branches sawed upon one another, was long-drawn and loud. These sounds reached Iglesias in the sitting- room, where he sat, alone and unoccupied, before the fire. For more than a week now he had been confined to the house. He had set the door of communication between the two rooms open, so as to gain a greater sense of space and that he might take a little exercise by walking the whole length of them. The cry of the wind and the moan of the sawing branches was very comfortless, yet he made no effort to shut it out. To begin with, he was so weak that it was too much trouble to move. To go on with, the melancholy sounds were not ill-suited to his present humour. For a great depression was upon him, a weariness of spirit which might be felt. Out of doors London shivered, houses and sky and the expanse of Trimmer’s Green, with its leafless trees and iron railings, livid, a greyness upon them as of fear. Dominic had no quarrel with this either. Indeed it gave him a certain bitter satisfaction, as offering a not inharmonious setting to his own thought.
Though not robust he was tough and wiry, so that illness of such a nature as to necessitate his remaining within doors was a new and trying experience. Crossing Hammersmith Bridge on the ‘bustop ten days previously, the chill of the river had struck through him. Yet this, in all reasonable probability, would merely have resulted in passing physical discomfort, but for the moral and spiritual hurt immediately preceding it. How far the mind has power to cure the body is still an open question. But that the mind can actively predispose the body to sickness is indubitable. To realise and analyse, in their several bearings, the causes and consequences of that same moral hurt Iglesias’ pride and loyalty alike refused. In respect of them he set his jaw and sternly averted his eyes. Yet, though the will may be steady to resist and to abstain, the tides of feeling ebb and flow, contemptuous of control as those of some unquiet sea. They defy volition, notably in illness when vitality is low. Refuse as he might to go behind the fact, it remained indisputable that the Lady of the Windswept Dust had given him his dismissal. Out of his daily life a joy had gone, a constant object of thought and interest. Out of his heart a living presence had gone, leaving a void more harsh than death. And all this had happened in a connection peculiarly painful and distasteful to him; so that it was as though a foul miasma had arisen, and, drifting across the face of his fair friendship, distorted its proportions, rendering all his memories of it suspect. Further, in this discrediting of friendship his hope of the discovery of that language of the soul which can alone effect a true adjustment between the exterior and interior life had suffered violent eclipse. He had been thrown back into the prison-house of the obvious and the material. The world had lost its poetry, had grown narrow, sordid, dim, and gross. His own life had grown more than ever barren of opportunity and inept. In short, Dominic Iglesias had lost sight of the far horizon which is touched by the glory of the Uncreated Light; and, so doing, dwelt in outer darkness once again, infinitely desolate.
On the afternoon in question he had reached the nadir of disillusion and distrust. He leaned back in the red-covered chair, his shapely hands lying, palms downward, along the two arms of it, his vision of the room and its familiar contents blurred by unshed tears. It was an hour of supreme discouragement.
“Nothing is left,” he said, half aloud, “nothing. The future is as blank as the present. If this is to grow old, then indeed those whom the gods love have need enough to die young.”
For a space he listened to the shattering wind as it cried in the window-sashes, to the branches of the cedar sawing upon one another and moaning as in self-inflicted pain. Newsboys were calling early specials. The coarse cockney voices, strangled by the easterly blast, met and crossed one another, died away in a side street, to emerge again and again encounter. Such words as were distinguishable seemed of sinister import, agitating to the imagination. Then de Courcy Smyth’s shuffling footsteps crossed the floor of the room overhead. The wire-wove mattress of his bed creaked as he sat on the edge of it, kicking off his slippers and putting on walking boots, as might be gathered from floppings followed by an equally nerveless but heavier tread. A door opened, closed, and the footsteps descended the stairs. On the landing without they paused for an appreciable time; but, to Mr. Iglesias’s great relief, deciding against attempt of entry, continued their cheerless progress down to the hall below. Yet, just now Iglesias could have found it in his heart to envy the man, notwithstanding his unsavouriness of attitude and aspect. For in him ambition still stirred. He had still definite work to do, and the hope of eventual fame to support him during the doing of it; had the triumph of the theatre, the applause of an audience in the white heat of enthusiasm to dream of and strive after.
“But, for me, nothing,” Iglesias repeated, “whether vital as of those far-away southern battle-fields, or fictitious and close at hand as of the stage. Not even the sting of poverty to whet appetite and give an edge to bodily hunger. Nothing, either of fear or of hope. The measure of my obscurity is the measure of my immunity from change of fortune, bad or good. I am worthless even as food for powder. Danger herself will have none of me, and passes me by.”
With that he raised his hands and let them drop despairingly along the arms of the chair again, while the unbidden tears overflowed. For a minute or more he remained thus, weeping silently with bowed head. Then, a movement of self-contempt taking him, he regained his calm, sat upright, brushing away the tears.
And it was as though, in thus regaining a clearer physical vision, he regained a clearer mental vision likewise. Purpose asserted itself as against mere blind acquiescence. Iglesias looked up, demanding as of right some measure of consolation, some object promising help. So doing, his eyes sought a certain carven oak panel set in an ebony frame. From his earliest childhood he remembered it, for it had hung in his mother’s bedchamber; and in those far-away years, while she still had sufficient force to disregard opposition and make an open practice of prayer, she had kneeled before it when engaged in her devotions. Waking at night–when as a baby-child, during his father’s long absences, he slept in her room–Dominic had often seen the delicate kneeling figure, wrapped in some loose-flowing garment, the hands outstretched in supplication. Even then, in the first push of conscious intelligence, the carven picture had spoken to him as something masterful, for all its rigidity and sadness, and very strong to help. It had given him a sense of protection and security, so that his little soul was satisfied; and he could go to sleep again in peace, sure that his mother was in safe keeping while–as he said–she “talked to it.” In the long interval which had elapsed since then he had lost touch with the spirit of it, though preserving it as among the most cherished of his family relics. His appreciation of it had become aesthetic rather than religious. But now, as it hung on the dimly white wall above his writing-table on the window side of the fireplace, the dreary London afternoon light took the surface of it, bringing all the details of the scene into prominence. Suddenly, unexpectedly, the old power declared itself. The picture came alive as to the intention and meaning of it. It spoke to him once again, and that with no uncertain voice.
Three tall narrow crosses uplifted against a cloudless sky. Below, a multitude of men, women, and horses, carved in varying degrees of relief. Some starting into bold definiteness, some barely indicated and as though imprisoned in the thickness of the wood; but all grave, energetic, and, whether inspired by compassion or by mockery, fierce. These grouped around a great web of linen–upheld by some of them at the four corners, hammock-wise, high at the head, low at the foot– wherein lay the corpse of a man in the very flower of his age, of heroic proportions, spare yet muscular, long and finely angular of limb, the articulations notably slender, the head borne proudly though bent, the features severely beautiful, the whole virile, indomitable even in the physical abjection of death.
In this Spanish presentment of the closing act of the Divine Tragedy the sensuous pagan element, which mars too many otherwise admirable works of religious art, was absent. Its appeal was to the intellect rather than to the emotions, inculcating effort rather than inviting any sentimental passion of pity. Its message was that of conquest, of iron self-mastery and self-restraint. This was bracing and courage- begetting even when viewed from the exclusively artistic standpoint. But now not merely the presentment of the event held Iglesias’ attention, but the event presented, the thing in itself. His heart and intelligence grasped the meaning of it, not only as a matter of supreme historic interest in view of its astonishing influence upon human development during the last two thousand years; but as an ever- present reality, as an exposition of the Absolute, of that which everlastingly has been, and everlastingly will be, and hence of incalculable and immediate importance to himself. It spoke to him of no vague and general truth; but of a truth intimate and individual, coming to him as the call to enter upon a personal inheritance. Of obedience to the dictates of natural religion, and faithful practice of the pieties of it, Dominic Iglesias had, all his life, been a remarkable if unconscious exponent. But this awakening of the spirit to the actualities of supernatural religion, this crossing of that dark immensity of space which appears to interpose between Almighty God and the mind of man, was new to him. He had sought a language of the soul which might effect an adjustment between the exterior and interior life. Here, in the Word made Flesh, with reverent amazement he found it. He had sought it through the instrumentality of the things of time and sense; and they, though full with promise, had proved illusory. He had fixed his hope on relation to the creature. But here, all the while, close beside him, waiting till the scales should fall from his eyes and he should see and understand, had stood the Creator. Fair, very fair–while it lasted–was human friendship. But here, had he but strength and daring to meet it, was a friendship infinitely fairer, immutable, eternal–namely, the friendship of Almighty God.
The easterly wind still cried in the window-sashes, harsh and shattering. The branches of the exiled cedar tree sawed upon one another, uttering their long-drawn complaint. The voices of the newsboys, hoarse and raucous, shouting their sinister message, still came and went. The livid light of the winter afternoon grew more dreary as it sank into, and was absorbed by, the deepening dusk. But to Dominic Iglesias these things had ceased to matter. Dazzled, enchanted, confounded, alike by the magnitude and the simplicity of his discovery, he remained gazing at the carven panel; gazing through and beyond it to that of which it was the medium and symbol, gazing, clear-eyed and fearlessly, away to the far horizon radiant with the surpassing glory of the Uncreated Light.
CHAPTER XVIII
The Black Week had just ended; but the humiliation of it lay, as a dead weight, upon the heart of London. Three crushing reverses in eight days–Stormberg, Magersfontein, and finally Colenso! There was no getting rid of the facts, or the meaning of them in respect of incapacity, blundering, and reckless waste of personal valour. It was a sorry tale, and one over which Europe at large chuckled. It has been universally assumed that the English are a serious nation. This is an error. They are not serious, but indifferent, a nation of individualists, each mainly, not to say exclusively, occupied with his own private affairs. With the vast majority unity of sentiment is suspect, and patriotism a passive rather than an active virtue. But at this juncture, under the stress of repeated disaster, unity of sentiment and patriotism–that is, a sense of the national honour and necessity for the vindication of it–became strongly evident. London was profoundly and visibly moved. Not with excitement–that came later, manifesting itself in hysterical outcries of relief–but with a grim anger and sadness of astonishment that such things could indeed be. Strangers, passing in the street, looked one another in the eyes questioningly, a common anxiety forging unexpected bonds of kinship. The town was curiously hushed, as though listening, always listening, for those ugly messages rushed so perpetually by cable from overseas. Men’s faces were strained by the effort to hear, and, hearing, to judge justly the extent and the bearings of both national and individual damage. Already mourning struck a sensible note in women’s dress. If the Little Englander capered, he was careful to do so at home, or in meeting-places frequented only by persons likeminded with himself. It may be questioned whether he is not ever most courageous when under covert thus; since shooting out of windows or from behind hedges would appear to be his inherent, and not particularly gallant, notion of sport. The newsboys alone openly and blatantly rejoiced, dominating the situation–as on Derby Day or Boat-race Night–and putting a gilded dome to the horror by yelling highly seasoned lies when truth proved insufficiently evil to stimulate custom to the extent of his desires. Depression, as of storm, permeated the social atmosphere. Churches were full, places of amusement comparatively empty. To laugh seemed an indiscretion trenching on indecency.