TEMPERED WINDS.
Oh, all comforters,
All soothing things that bring mild ecstasy,
Came with her coming.
--G. Eliot.
Frank Raban arrived that evening. The fires were burning a cheerful
greeting; the table was laid in the library; his one plate, his one
knife and fork, were ready. After all, it was home, though there was no
one to greet him except the two grinning maidens. The dogs were both up
at the lodge. As Frank was sitting down to dinner he saw something black
lying in one of the windows. He picked it up. It was a glove. Becky
roared with laughter when Frank asked her if it was hers; she was
setting down a huge dish with her honest red hands. _Her_ gloves! 'They
were made o' cotton,' she said; 'blue, wi' red stitchens'.' She
suggested that 'this might be t' young lady's; t' gentleman and t' young
lady had come and had walked about t' house wi' James Brand.'
'What gentleman?--what young lady?' asked Raban.
'A pale-faced young lady in bla-ack cloathes,' said Becky. 'T' gentleman
were called Sir Tummas. James Brand, he knawed.'
'Sir Thomas! A pale young lady in black!'
Frank stuck the little glove up on the tall chimney. It seemed a
welcoming hand put out to greet him on his return. He had guessed to
whom the glove belonged even before he saw a little inky D marked in the
wrist.
'So she had been there!' While he had been away life in its fiercest
phases had met him, and at such times people's own feelings and
histories seem to lose in meaning, in vividness, and importance. When
whole nations are concerned, and the life of thousands is the stake by
which the game is played; then each private story seems lost, for a
time, in the great rush of fate. Frank had been twice to the East during
that winter. He had seen Jonah, he had disposed of his stores. The
little yacht had done her work bravely, and was now cruising in summer
seas, and Raban had come home to his sheep and his furrows--to his old
furrows of thought; how curiously the sight of that little glove brought
it all back once more.
As Frank rode along the lanes, it was difficult to believe that all was
tranquil as it seemed. That no ambush was lurking behind the hedges;
that the rumble of carts travelling along with their load from the
quarry was no echo of distant guns; that no secret danger was to be
dreaded. This was the second morning after his arrival. The sunshine
which Dolly had liked seemed to him also of good omen. The lilacs were
coming into flower, the banks were sparkling with flowers: primroses and
early hyacinths, summer green and summer light were brightening along
the road. Frank rode quietly along on his way to the Court, sure of a
welcome from Lady Henley, for had he not seen Jonah? Bloom, little
flowers, along the path; sing, little birds, from overarching boughs;
beat, honest heart, along the road that leads to the goal of thy life's
journey!
Lady Henley was the first person he saw when he rode into the park.
Sunshiny though it was, she was tucked up in some warm furs and sitting
on the lawn in front of the house.
'How do you do?' said Lady Henley. 'My husband told me you were expected
back. I hoped you might come. Well, have you brought me any news?'
When Lady Henley heard that Jonah was looking well, that Frank had seen
him ten days before, had dined with him in his hut, she could not make
enough of the messenger of good tidings. He must stay to luncheon; he
must come to dinner: he must see the girls. The luncheon bell rang
double-loud in Frank's honour, and Frank was ushered in; Norah and Bell
bounced in almost immediately; an extra plate was set for Frank. The
butler appeared and the page with some smoking dishes on a tray. That
was all. Frank looked up in vain, hoping to see the door open once more.
'I am so sorry Sir Thomas is gone up to town with Mr. Anley,' said Lady
Henley. 'It is some tiresome business of my sister-in-law's. My niece
started with them this morning. We have had her all the winter, poor
thing. It is really most provoking about the property, and how Philippa
can have made it up with that Parnell girl I cannot imagine. They are
inseparable, I hear. Just like Philippa. Dolly is going on to Paris
immediately with the Squire to join her mother--quite unnecessary. Have
you heard that Robert Henley is expected back? It seems to me every one
is gone mad,' said Lady Henley. 'He has only been out six months....'
Frank asked how Miss Vanborough was looking.
Bell immediately volunteered a most dismal account.
'I am sure Dolly will go into a decline if some one does not cheer her
up. Norah and I have done our best. We wanted to take her to the York
ball, and we wanted to take her to Lynn Grill, and across the moor to
Keithburn, and we tried to get her to come out huntin' one day. What she
wants is stirring up, and so I told papa; and, for my part, I'm not at
all sorry Robert is to come home,' says Bell.
Mamma was evidently very much annoyed.
'What is the use talking nonsense, Bell? Robert would have done much
better if he had stayed where he was, and Dolly too,' said Lady Henley.
'Everybody seems to have lost their head. Here is a letter from the
Admiral. He is in town, on his way to America. He wants to meet Dolly;
he will just miss her. As for Hawtry, I think he is possessed. Not that
I am at all surprised, poor fellow,' said Lady Henley, expressively. 'We
know what he finds at home....'
Frank went back very much dispirited after his luncheon. It was later in
the day, and the flowers and the sunshine seemed to have lost their
brightness; but when he got home the little glove was still on the
chimney-piece, with limp fingers extended.
* * * * *
The Hotel Molleville stands in one of the back streets near the English
Embassy at Paris. One or two silent streets run out of the Faubourg St.
Honore, and cross and recross each other in a sort of minuet, with a
certain stately propriety that belongs to tall houses, to closed gates,
enclosed courtyards, and high roofs. There is a certain false air of the
Faubourg St. Germain about this special quarter. Some of the houses
appear to have drifted over by mistake to the wrong side of the Seine.
They have seen many a dynasty go by, heard many a shriek of liberty;
they stand a little on one side of the march of events, that seem to
prefer the main thoroughfares.
The Hotel Molleville is somewhat less stately than its companions. The
gates are not quite so lofty; the windows have seen less of life, and
have not been so often broken by eager patriotism. It belongs to a noble
family that is somewhat come down in the world. The present marquis, a
stout, good-humoured man, had been in the navy in his youth, and there
made friends with the excellent Admiral Pallmere, at whose suggestion he
had consented to let a little apartment on the first floor to his lady,
who had elected to reside in Paris during her husband's absence.
Paris comes with a cheerful flash of light, a sudden multitudinous
chorus. The paved streets rattle, the voices chatter, the note is not so
deep as the hollow London echo that we all know, that slow chord of a
great city.
Dolly and the Squire come driving along from the station with many
jingles and jolts. Little carriages rattle past. It is evening playtime
for those in the street. The shops are not yet closed; there is a lady
sitting in every little brilliant shrine along the way. They drive on;
they see long rivers of lamps twinkling into far vistas; they cross a
great confluence of streams of light, of cries of people.
'Here we are at the Madeleine,' says Mr. Anley, looking out.
In another ten minutes they have driven on and reached the English
Embassy. Then, with a sudden turn that sends old Marker with her parcels
tumbling into Dolly's lap, they drive up a side street and stop at the
door of the house where Mrs. Palmer is living.
'I shall call and see how you are in the morning,' says Mr. Anley,
helping Dolly out. He would have accompanied her upstairs, but she
begged him to go on.
The door of the house opens; Dolly and Marker come into a
_porte-cochere_ pervaded with a smell of dinner that issues from an open
door that leads into a great lighted kitchen, where brazen covers and
dials are shining upon the wall, where a dinner is being prepared, not
without some excitement and clanking of saucepans. The cook comes to the
door to see Dolly go by. A _concierge_ comes forward, and Dolly runs up
the polished stairs. It all returns to her with strange vividness.
Dolly rang at the bell, and waited on the first landing, as she had been
desired. A man in a striped waistcoat opened the door, and stared in
some surprise at the young lady with her parcels and wraps, and at the
worthy Marker, also laden with many bags, who stood behind her young
mistress.
'Does Mrs. Palmer live here?' Dolly said, speaking English.
The man in stripes, for all answer, turned, drew a curtain that hid an
inner hall, and stood back to let them pass. The hall was carpeted,
curtained, lighted with hanging lamps. Dolly had not expected anything
so luxurious. Her early recollections did not reach beyond the bare
wooden floors and the china stoves in the old house in the Champs
Elysees. She looked round wondering, and she was still more surprised
when the servant flung open two folding-doors and signed to her to pass.
She entered, silently treading on the heavy carpet. The place was dim,
warm with a fragrant perfume of flowers: a soft lamplight was
everywhere, a fragrant warmth. There was a sense of utter comfort and
luxury: tall doors fast closed, draperies shining with dim gold gleams,
pictures on the walls, couches, lace cushions; some tall glasses in
beautiful old frames repeated it all--the dim light, the flowers' golden
atmosphere. In the middle of the room a lamp hung over a flower-table,
of which the tall pointed leaves were crimsoning in the soft light, the
ferns glittering, a white camelia head opening to this alabaster moon.
The practical Dolly stopped short. There must be some mistake she
thought. A lady in a white dress was standing by the chimney, leaning
against the heavy velvet top; a gentleman also standing there was
listening with bent head to something she was saying. The two were
absorbed. They did not notice her, they were so taken up with one
another. Dolly had expected to find her mother and the Admiral. She had
come to some wrong place. For an instant she vaguely thought of
strangers. Then her heart gave a warning thump before she had put words
to her thoughts. She was standing under the lamp by the great spiked
leaves, and she suddenly caught hold of the marble table, for the room
seemed to shake.
'Who is it, Casimir?' said the lady, impatiently, as the servant came up
to her.
The tall gentleman also looked up.
Dolly's dazzled eyes were gazing at him in bewildered amazement. He had
quickly stepped back when the man approached, and he now turned his full
face and looked at Dolly, who could not speak. She could only stand
silent, holding out her trembling hands, half happy, half incredulous.
It was Robert--Robert, whom she had thought miles away--Robert, whose
letter had come only the day before--Robert, who had been there with
Rhoda, so absorbed that even now he scarcely seemed to recognise Dolly
in her travel-worn black clothes, looking like a blot upon all this
splendour.
This, then, was the moment for which she had waited, and thought to wait
so long. He had come back to her. 'Robert!' she cried at last.
Perhaps if they had been alone, the course of their whole lives might
have been changed; if their meeting had been unwitnessed, if Casimir had
not been there, if Rhoda had not come up with many an exclamation of
surprise, if all those looking-glasses and chairs and tables had not
been in the way.... Robert stood looking down from the length of his six
feet. He held a cold hand in his. He did not kiss Dolly, as he had done
when he went away. He spoke to her, but with a slight constraint. He
seemed to have lost his usual fluency and presence of mind. He was
shocked at the change he saw. Those few months had worn her radiant
beauty. She was tired by the journey, changed in manner. All her sweet
faith and readiness to believe, and all her belief in Henley, had not
made this meeting, to which she had looked forward as 'her one bright
spot,' anything like that which she had expected. Something in Robert's
voice, his slight embarrassment, something in the attitude of the two as
she had seen them when she first came in and thought them strangers,
something indefinite, but very present, made her shy and strange, and
the hand that held her cold fingers let go as Rhoda flung her arms
affectionately round her. Then with gentle violence Dolly was led to the
fire and pushed down into a satin chair.
'I only came last night,' said Henley. 'I was afraid of missing you, or
I should have gone to meet you.'
'We expected you to-morrow, Dolly,' interrupted Rhoda, in her sweet
voice: 'we were so surprised to see _him_ walk in;' and she quietly
indicated Henley with a little motion of the head.
'Everybody seems to have been running after everybody else. I am ashamed
of myself for startling you all,' said Robert, jerking his watch-chain.
'It is a whole series of changes. I will tell you all about it, Dolly,
when you are rested. I found I could get leave at the very last instant,
and I came off by the steamer. I wrote from Marseilles, but you must
have missed my letter. This is altogether a most fortunate, unexpected
meeting,' he added, turning to Rhoda.
Henley's utter want of tact stood him in good service, and made it
possible for him to go on talking. Dolly seemed frozen. Rhoda was very
much agitated. There seemed to be a curious understanding and sympathy
between Robert and Miss Parnell.
'Have you seen your mother?' said Rhoda, putting her white hand upon
Dolly's shoulder. 'How cold and tired you must be? Who did you come
with, after all?'
'I came with--I forget,' said Dolly. 'Where is mamma?' and she started
up, looking still bewildered.
'Your mother lives next door. I myself made the same mistake last
night,' said Robert, and he picked up Dolly's bags and shawls from the
floor, where she had dropped them. Rhoda started up to lead the way.
'You may as well come through my room,' she said, opening a door into a
great dim room scented with verbena, and all shining with lace frills
and satin folds. A middle-aged lady in a very smart cap, who was reading
the paper by the light of a small lamp, looked up as they passed. Rhoda
carelessly introduced her as Miss Rougemont.
'My companion,' she said, in a low voice, as she opened another door.
'She is very good-natured and is never put out by anything.'
Dolly followed straight on over the soft carpets, on through another
dark room, and then another, to a door from whence came a gleam of
light.
As Rhoda opened the door there came the sudden jingling of music and a
sound of voices; a man met them carrying a tray of refreshments; a
distant voice was singing to the accompaniment of a piano. Julie stood
at a table pouring out coffee; she put down the pot with an exclamation:
'Good heavens, mademoiselle! Who ever would have thought----?' Some one
came up to ask for coffee, and Julie took up her pot again.
'How stupid of me to forget!' said Rhoda. 'It is your mother's day at
home, Dolly. I will send her to you. Wait one minute.'
Poor Dolly, it was a lesson to her not to come unexpectedly.
'Madame _will_ be distressed,' said Julie, coming forward, 'to receive
Mademoiselle in such a confusion! The gentlemen all came; they brought
music; they want coffee at every instant, or _the a l'Anglaise_.'
As she spoke a little fat man came up to the table, and Julie darted
back to her post.
Meanwhile the music went on.
'Petits, petits, petits oiseaux!
sang a tenor voice--
'Jolis, jolis, jolis, petits!'
sang a bass--
'Jolis, petits, cheris!'
sang the two together.
But at that instant, with a rush, with a flutter, with her hair dressed
in some strange new style, Mrs. Palmer at last appeared and clasped
Dolly, with many reproaches.
'You naughty child, who _ever_ expected you to-day! and the Admiral
started off to meet you! How provoking. A wreck! utterly tired out! Come
to your room directly, dearest. It is quite ready, only full of cloaks
and hats. Here, Rhoda, cannot you take her in?'
'Never mind the cloaks and hats, mamma,' said Dolly, with a smile. 'I
had rather stay here; and Julie will give me and Marker some coffee.'
'Marker! Good gracious! I had forgotten all about Marker,' exclaimed
Mrs. Palmer.