The reading went on, not of course "for ever," like that harvest melody
he spoke of, but for a considerable time. The words, I concluded, were
for the initiated, and not for me, and after a while I gave up trying to
make out what it was all about. Those last expressions I have quoted
about the "august Mother of the house" were unintelligible, and appeared
to me meaningless. I had already come to the conclusion that however
many of the ladies of the establishment might have experienced the
pleasures and pains of maternity, there was really no mother of the
house in the sense that there was a father of the house: that is to say,
one possessing authority over the others and calling them all her
children indiscriminately. Yet this mysterious non-existent mother of
the house was continually being spoken of, as I found now and afterwards
when I listened to the talk around me. After thinking the matter over, I
came to the conclusion that "mother of the house" was merely a
convenient fiction, and simply stood for the general sense of the
women-folk, or something of the sort. It was perhaps stupid of me, but
the story of Mistrelde, who died young, leaving only eight children, I
had regarded as a mere legend or fable of antiquity.
To return to the reading. Just as I had been absorbed before in that
beautiful book without being able to read it, so now I listened to that
melodious and majestic voice, experiencing a singular pleasure without
properly understanding the sense. I remembered now with a painful
feeling of inferiority that my _thick_ speech had been remarked On
earlier in the day; and I could not but think that, compared with the
speech of this people, it was thick. In their rare physical beauty, the
color of their eyes and hair, and in their fascinating dress, they had
struck me as being utterly unlike any people ever seen by me. But it was
perhaps in their clear, sweet, penetrative voice, which sometimes
reminded me of a tender-toned wind instrument, that they most differed
from others.
The reading, I have said, had struck me as almost of the nature of a
religious service; nevertheless, everything went on as before--reading,
working, and occasional conversation; but the subdued talking and moving
about did not interfere with one's pleasure in the old man's musical
speech any more than the soft murmur and flying about of honey bees
would prevent one from enjoying the singing of a skylark. Emboldened by
what I saw the others doing, I left my seat and made my way across the
floor to Yoletta's side, stealing through the gloom with great caution
to avoid making a clatter with those abominable boots.
"May I sit down near you?" said I with some hesitation; but she
encouraged me with a smile and placed a cushion for me.
I settled myself down in the most graceful position I could assume,
which was not at all graceful, doubling my objectionable legs out of her
sight; and then began my trouble, for I was greatly perplexed to know
what to say to her. I thought of lawn-tennis and archery. Ellen Terry's
acting, the Royal Academy Exhibition, private theatricals, and twenty
things besides, but they all seemed unsuitable subjects to start
conversation with in this case. There was, I began to fear, no common
ground on which we could meet and exchange thoughts, or, at any rate,
words. Then I remembered that ground, common and broad enough, of our
human feelings, especially the sweet and important feeling of love. But
how was I to lead up to it? The work she was engaged with at length
suggested an opening, and the opportunity to make a pretty little
speech.
"Your sight must be as good as your eyes are pretty," said I, "to enable
you to work in such a dim light."
"Oh, the light is good enough," she answered, taking no notice of the
compliment. "Besides, this is such easy work I could do it in the dark."
"It is very pretty work--may I look at it?"
She handed the stuff to me, but instead of taking it in the ordinary
way, I placed my hand under hers, and, holding up cloth and hand
together, proceeded to give a minute and prolonged scrutiny to her work.
"Do you know that I am enjoying two distinct pleasures at one and the
same time?" said I. "One is in seeing your work, the other in holding
your hand; and I think the last pleasure even greater than the first."
As she made no reply, I added somewhat lamely: "May I--keep on holding
it?"
"That would prevent me from working," she answered, with the utmost
gravity. "But you may hold it for a little while."
"Oh, thank you," I exclaimed, delighted with the privilege; and then, to
make the most of my precious "little while," I pressed it warmly,
whereupon she cried out aloud: "Oh, Smith, you are squeezing too
hard--you hurt my hand!"
I dropped it instantly in the greatest confusion. "Oh, for goodness
sake," I stammered, "please, do not make such an outcry! You don't know
what a hobble you'll get me into."
Fortunately, no notice was taken of the exclamation, though it was hard
to believe that her words had not been overheard; and presently,
recovering from my fright, I apologized for hurting her, and hoped she
would forgive me.
"There is nothing to forgive," she returned gently. "You did not really
squeeze hard, only my hand hurts, because to-day when I pressed it on
the ground beside the grave I ran a small thorn into it." Then the
remembrance of that scene at the burial brought a sudden mist of tears
into her lovely eyes.
"I am so sorry I hurt you, Yoletta--may I call you Yoletta?" said I, all
at once remembering that she had called me Smith, without the customary
prefix.
"Why, that is my name--what else should you call me?" she returned,
evidently with surprise.
"It is a pretty name, and so sweet on the lips that I should like to be
repeating it continually," I answered. "But it is only right that you
should have a pretty name, because--well, if I may tell you, because you
are so very beautiful."
"Yes; but is that strange--are not all people beautiful?"
I thought of certain London types, especially among the "criminal
classes," and of the old women with withered, simian faces and wearing
shawls, slinking in or out of public-houses at the street corners; and
also of some people of a better class I had known personally--some even
in the House of Commons; and I felt that I could not agree with her,
much as I wished to do so, without straining my conscience.
"At all events, you will allow," said I, evading the question, "that
there are _degrees_ of beauty, just as there are degrees of light.
You may be able to see to work in this light, but it is very faint
compared with the noonday light when the sun is shining."
"Oh, there is not so great a difference between people as _that_,"
she replied, with the air of a philosopher. "There are different kinds
of beauty, I allow, and some people seem more beautiful to us than
others, but that is only because we love them more. The best loved are
always the most beautiful."
This seemed to reverse the usual idea, that the more beautiful the
person is the more he or she gets loved. However, I was not going to
disagree with her any more, and only said: "How sweetly you talk,
Yoletta; you are as wise as you are beautiful. I could wish for no
greater pleasure than to sit here listening to you the whole evening."
"Ah, then, I am sorry I must leave you now," she answered, with a bright
smile which made me think that perhaps my little speech had pleased her.
"Do you wonder why I smile?" she added, as if able to read my thoughts.
"It is because I have often heard words like yours from one who is
waiting for me now."
This speech caused me a jealous pang. But for a few moments after
speaking, she continued regarding me with that bright, spiritual smile
on her lips; then it faded, and her face clouded and her glance fell. I
did not ask her to tell me, nor did I ask myself, the reason of that
change; and afterwards how often I noticed that same change in her, and
in the others too--that sudden silence and clouding of the face, such as
may be seen in one who freely expresses himself to a person who cannot
hear, and then, all at once but too late, remembers the other's
infirmity.
"Must you go?" I only said. "What shall I do alone?".
"Oh, you shall not be alone," she replied, and going away returned
presently with another lady. "This is Edra," she said simply. "She will
take my place by your side and talk with you."
I could not tell her that she had taken my words too literally, that
being alone simply meant being separated from her; but there was no help
for it, and some one, alas! some one I greatly hated was waiting for
her. I could only thank her and her friend for their kind intentions.
But what in the name of goodness was I to say to this beautiful woman
who was sitting by me? She was certainly very beautiful, with a far more
mature and perhaps a nobler beauty than Yoletta's, her age being about
twenty-seven or twenty-eight; but the divine charm in the young girl's
face could, for me, exist in no other.
Presently she opened the conversation by asking me if I disliked being
alone.
"Well, no, perhaps not exactly that," I said; "but I think it much
jollier--much more pleasant, I mean--to have some very nice person to
talk to."
She assented, and, pleased at her ready intelligence, I added: "And it
is particularly pleasant when you are understood. But I have no fear
that you, at any rate, will fail to understand anything I may say."
"You have had some trouble to-day," she returned, with a charming smile.
"I sometimes think that women can understand even more readily than
men."
"There's not a doubt of it!" I returned warmly, glad to find that with
Edra it was all plain sailing. "It must be patent to every one that
women have far quicker, finer intellects than men, although their brains
are smaller; but then quality is more important than mere quantity. And
yet," I continued, "some people hold that women ought not to have the
franchise, or suffrage, or whatever it is! Not that I care two straws
about the question myself, and I only hope they'll never get it; but
then I think it is so illogical--don't you?"
"I am afraid I do not understand you, Smith," she returned, looking much
distressed.
"Well, no, I suppose not, but what I said was of no consequence," I
replied; then, wishing to make a fresh start, I added: "But I am so glad
to hear you call me Smith. It makes it so much more pleasant and
homelike to be treated without formality. It is very kind of you, I'm
sure."
"But surely your name is Smith?" said she, looking very much surprised.
"Oh yes, my name is Smith: only of course--well, the tact is, I was just
wondering what to call you."
"My name is Edra," she replied, looking more bewildered than ever; and
from that moment the conversation, which had begun so favorably, was
nothing but a series of entanglements, from which I could only escape in
each case by breaking the threads of the subject under discussion, and
introducing a new one.