AN ANDANTE OF HAYDN'S.
On admire les fleurs de serre,
Qui, loin de leur soleil natal,
Comme des joyaux mis sous verre,
Brillent sous un ciel de crystal.
--T. Gautier.
The carriage drove through the Place de la Concorde. The fountains were
tossing and splashing sunlight, the shadow of the Obelisk was travelling
across the pavement. The old palace still stood in its place, with its
high crowding roofs, and shadows, and twinkling vanes. The early green
was in every tree, lying bright upon avenues and slopes. It was all
familiar--every dazzle and echo brought back Dolly's youthful
remembrance. The merry-go-rounds were whirling under the trees.
'Tirez--tirez,' cried the ladies of the rouge-et-noir tables. 'For a
penny the lemonade,' sang an Assyrian-looking figure, with a very hoarse
voice, and a great tin box on his back. Then came Guignol's distant
shriek, the steady roll of the carriages, and a distant sound of music
as a regiment came marching across the bridge. The tune that they were
playing sounded like a dirge to poor Dolly's heart, and so she sank back
silently and let down her crape veil.
Meanwhile Rhoda and Robert were talking very happily together. They did
not see that Dolly was crying behind her veil.
The hospital is a tranquil little place at the end of long avenues of
plane-trees that run their dreary lengths for miles out of the gates of
Paris. A blouse, a heap of stones, a market cart--there is nothing else
to break the dreary monotone of straight pavement and shivering
plane-tree repeated many hundred times. Sometimes you reach a
cross-road: it is the same thing again. They came to the iron gates of
the hospital at last, and crossed the front garden, and looked up at the
open windows while they waited for admission. A nurse let them in
without difficulty, and opened the door of a great airy, tranquil ward,
where three or four invalids in cotton nightcaps were resting. The
windows opened each way into silent gardens. It was all still and hushed
and fresh; it must have seemed a strange contrast to some of the
inmates. A rough, battered-looking man was lying on his back on his bed,
listlessly tracing the lines of the ceiling with his finger. It was to
him that the nurse led Dolly. 'This is Smith,' she said; 'he is very
anxious to go home to England.'
The man hearing his name, sat up and turned a thin and stubbly-bearded
face towards Dolly, and as he looked at her he half rose to his feet and
stared at her hard: while she spoke to him, he still stared with an odd
frightened look that was not rude, but which Dolly found embarrassing.
She hastily gave him the money and the message from Mrs. Fane. He was to
come back to the home in ---- Street. The nurse who had nursed him in
the Crimea had procured his admission. He had been badly wounded; he was
better, and his one longing was to get to England again. He had a little
money, he said. He wanted to see his boy and give him the money. It was
prize-money--the nurse had it to take care of; and still he went on
staring at Dolly.
Dolly could not shake off the impression of that curious, frightened
look. She told the Squire about it when they met at the cafe that
evening, as they sat after dinner in the starlight at little tables with
coffee and ices before them, and cheerful crowds wandering round and
round the arcades--some staring at the glittering shops, others, more
sentimentally inclined, gazing at the stars overhead. Mrs. Palmer was
absorbed in an ice.
Voices change in the twilight as colours do, and it seemed to Dolly that
all their voices had the cadence of the night, as they sat there talking
of one thing and another. Every now and then came little bursts of
revelry, toned down and softened by the darkness. How clear the night
was! What a great peaceful star was pausing over the gable of the old
palace!
The Squire was giving extracts from his Yorkshire correspondence. 'Miss
Bell said nothing of a certain report which had got about, to the effect
that she was going to be married to Mr. Stock.' ('Pray, pray spare us,'
from Mrs. Palmer.) But Bell did say something of expecting to have some
news for the Squire on his return, if Norah did not forestall her with
it. 'Mr. Raban is always coming. He is out riding now with papa and
Norah; and we all think it an awfully jolly arrangement, and everybody
is making remarks already.'
'One would really think Joanna had brought up her girls in the stables,'
said Mrs. Palmer. 'I am sure I am very glad that Norah is likely to do
so well. Though I _must_ say I always thought Mr. Raban a poor creature,
and so did you, Dolly.'
'I think he is one of the best and kindest friends I ever had,' said
Dolly, abruptly.
'Nonsense, dearest,' said her mother. 'And so you really leave us,'
continued Mrs. Palmer, sipping the pink and green ice, with her head on
one side, and addressing Mr. Anley.
'I promised Miss Bell that I would ride with her on Thursday,' said the
Squire; 'and a promise, you know....'
'It is not every one who has your high sense of honour,' said Mrs.
Palmer, bitterly. 'Some promises--those made before the altar, for
instance--seem only made to be broken.'
'Those I have never pledged myself to, Madam,' said the Squire, rubbing
his hands.
'If some people only had the frankness to promise to neglect, to rob and
to ill-use their wives, one could better understand their present
conduct,' Mrs. Palmer continued, with a raised voice.
'A promise--what is a promise?' Rhoda asked in her clear soft flute;
'surely people change their minds sometimes, and then no one would wish
to keep another person bound.'
'That is a very strange doctrine, my dear young lady,' said Mr. Anley,
abruptly. 'Forgive me, if I say it is a ladies' doctrine. I hope I
should not find any price too dear for my honour to pay. I am sure
Henley agrees with me.'
Robert felt the Squire's eyes upon him: he twirled his watch-chain. 'I
don't think it is a subject for discussion,' he said, impatiently. 'A
gentleman keeps his word, of course, at a--every inconvenience.'
'Surely a mosquito?' exclaimed Mrs. Palmer. As she spoke, a sudden flash
of zigzag light from some passage overhead suddenly lighted up the table
and the faces of the little party assembled round it; it lit up one face
and another, and flickered for an instant upon Rhoda's dark head: it
flashed into Robert's face, and vanished.
And in that instant Dolly, looking up, had seen Rhoda, as she had never
seen her before, leaning forward breathless, with one hand out, with
beautiful gloomy eyes dilating and fixed upon Robert; but the light
disappeared, and all was dark again.
They were all silent. Robert was recovering his ruffled temper. Mr.
Anley was calling for the bill. Dolly was still following that zigzag
ray of light in the darkness. Had it flashed into her dreams? had it
revealed their emptiness and that of my poor Dolly's shrine? Even Frank
Raban was gone then. A painful incident came to disturb them all as they
were still sitting there. The noise in the room overhead had been
getting louder and louder. Mr. Anley suggested moving, and went to hurry
the bill. Presently this noisy window was flung open wide, with a sudden
loud burst of shrieks and laughter, and remonstrance, and streams of
light--in the midst of which a pistol-shot went off, followed by a loud
scream and a moment's silence. Mrs. Palmer shrieked. Robert started up
exclaiming. Then came quick confusion, rising, as confusion rises, no
one knows how nor from whence: people rushed struggling out of the cafe,
hurrying up from the four sides of the quadrangle: a table was
overturned. Rhoda flung herself upon Robert's arm, clinging to him for
protection. Dolly caught hold of her mother's hand. 'Hush, mamma, don't
be frightened,' she said, and she held her fingers tight. In all the
noise and flurry and anxiety of that moment, she had again seen Robert
turn to Rhoda with undisguised concern. He seemed to have forgotten that
there was any one else in all that crowd to think of. The Squire, who
had been but a few steps away, came hurrying back, and it was he who now
drew Dolly and her mother safe into the shelter of an archway.
The silence of the summer night was broken, the placid beam of the stars
overhead put out by flaring lights--and anxious, eager voices, that were
rung on every side. 'He has killed himself--'He wounded her,' said some.
'Wounded three,' said others. 'She shot the pistol,' cried others. Then
came a man pushing through the crowd--a doctor. 'Let him pass, let him
pass!' said the people, surging back to make way. Squire Anley looked
very grave as he stood between the two ladies and the crowd: every
minute it grew more dense and more confused. Robert and Rhoda had been
swept off in a different direction.
Afterwards they learnt that some unhappy wretch, tired of life and
ashamed of his miserable existence, had drawn out a pistol and attempted
to shoot himself that night as they were sitting under the window. His
companions had thought he was in fun, and only laughed until he had
drawn the trigger. They were thankful to escape from the crowd, and to
walk home through the cheerful streets, rattling and flaring among these
unnumbered tragedies.
The pistol-shot was still in Dolly's ears, and the ray of light still
dazzling in her eyes, as she walked home, following her mother and the
Squire.
As she threaded her way step by step, she seemed to be in a sort of
nightmare, struggling alone against the overwhelming rush of
circumstances, the remorseless partings and histories of life--threading
her way alone through the crowds. The people seemed to her absorbed and
hurrying by. Were they too alone in the world? Had that woman passing by
been deceived in her trust? Dolly was surprised at the throb in her
heart, at the curious rush of emotions in her mind. They were unlike
those to which she was used. 'Your part is played,' said some voice
dinning in her ears. 'For him the brand of faithless coldness of heart;
for him the discredit, for him the shame of owning to his desertion. You
are not to blame. You have kept your word; you have been faithful. He
has failed. Explanations cannot change the truth of facts. Even
strangers see it all. Mr. Anley sees it. Now at last you are convinced.'
Dolly followed her mother and Mr. Anley upstairs. Rhoda and Robert were
not come in. Mr. Anley, looking very grave, said he would go and look
for them. Philippa flung herself wearily upon the drawing-room sofa: the
fire was burning, and the little log of wood crumbling in embers. Dolly
raked the embers together, and then came and stood by her mother.
'Good-night, mamma,' she said. 'I am tired; I am going to bed,'she said,
in a sort of fixed, heavy way.
'It is your own fault,' answered her mother, bursting out in vague
answer to her own thoughts. 'Mr. Anley says that Robert is behaving very
strangely. If you think he is too attentive to Rhoda, you should tell
him so, instead of looking at me in that heavy, disagreeable way. You
know as well as I do that he means nothing; and you are really so
depressed, dearest, that it is no wonder a young man prefers joking and
flirting with an agreeable girl,' and Mrs. Palmer thumped the cushions.
'Give me a kiss, Dolly,' she said. To do her justice, she was only
scolding her daughter out of sympathy, and because she did not know what
other tone to take.
Dolly did not answer. She felt hard and fierce; a sort of scorn had come
over her. There seemed no one to go to now--no, not one. If George had
been there, all would have been so different, she thought; and then his
warning words came back to her once more.
Dolly put her hand to her heart and stood silent until her mother had
finished. There was pain and love and fire in a heart like poor Dolly's,
humble and passionate, faithful and impressionable, and sadly tried just
now by one of the bitter trials that come to young lives--blows that
seem to jar away the music for ever. Later comes the peaceful possession
of life, which is as a revelation when the first flare of youth has
passed away; but for Dorothea that peaceful time was not yet. Everything
was sad. She was not blind. She could understand what was passing before
her eyes. She seemed to read Robert's secret set plainly before her. She
had stopped Miss Rougemont more than once when she had begun some
mysterious word of warning; but she knew well enough what she would have
said.
'A man must keep his word, at every inconvenience,' said Robert.
Perhaps if Frank had never spoken, never revealed his story, Dolly might
still have been unconscious of the meaning of the signs and words and
symbols that express the truth.
Marker asked no questions. She brushed Dolly's long tawny mane, and left
her at last in her white wrapper sitting by the bed.
'Are you well, my dearie?' said the old woman, coming back and stroking
her hair with her hand.
Dolly smiled, and answered by holding up her face to be kissed, and
Marker went away more happy.
Whatever she felt, whatever her secret determination may have been,
Dolly said not one word neither to her mother nor to her friend the
Squire. She avoided Miss Rougemont's advances with a sort of horror. To
Robert and Rhoda she scarcely spoke, although she did not avoid them.
Robert thought himself justified in remonstrating with her for her
changed manner.
'I am waiting until I know what my manner should be, Robert,' said
Dolly, bitterly.
Robert thought Dolly very much altered indeed. As Dolly shrank back more
and more into herself, Rhoda seemed to bloom and brighten--she thought
of everybody and everything, she tried in a hundred ways to please her
friend. Dolly, coming home lonely and neglected, would find, perhaps,
fresh roses on her toilet. 'Miss Rhoda put them there,' Marker would
say, grimly, and Dolly would laugh a hard sort of laugh. But all this
time she said no word, gave no sign. 'For _them_ should be the shame of
confessing their treachery,' said this angry sullen demon that seemed to
have possessed the poor child. And all the while Robert, serene in his
ultimate intentions and honourable sentiments, came and went, and Rhoda
put all disagreeable thoughts of the future away. She had never
deliberately set herself to supplant her friend, but she had
deliberately set herself to win over Henley, and, if possible, to gain
his support to her claims. It had seemed an impossible task. Rhoda was
surprised, flattered, and bewildered to find how easily she had gained
her wish, how soon her dream had come true. There it stood solid and
complacent before her, laughing at one of her sallies; Rhoda began to
realise that this was, of all dreams, the one she believed in most. It
was something for Rhoda to have found a faith of any sort. At all
events, there was now one other person besides herself in Rhoda's world.
If Dolly was cross, it was her own fault. Miss Rougemont, too, had been
disagreeable and prying of late--she must go. And as for Uncle John, if
he wrote any more letters like that last one which had come, she should
burn them unread.
No one ever knew the struggle that went on in Dolly's mind all through
these bright spring days, while Rhoda was dreaming her tranquil little
visions, while Robert was agreeably occupied, flirting with Rhoda, while
they were all coming and going from one pleasant scene to another, and
the roses were blooming once more in the garden at All Saints', while
Signor Pappaforte was warbling to Mrs. Palmer's accompaniment, and Frank
Raban, riding across the moors, was hard at work upon one scheme and
another. He did not know it, but the crisis had come.
* * * * *
It was a crowded hall, a thousand people sitting in silent and
breathless circles. An andante of Haydn's was in the air. It was a sweet
and delicate music, both merry and melancholy, tripping to a sunshiny
measure that set everybody's heart beating in time. There was a childish
grace about the strain that charmed all the listeners to a tender
enthusiasm. It made them cry and laugh at once; and though many sat
motionless and stolid, you might see eyes shining and dilating, as
mothers' eyes dilate sometimes when they watch their children at play.
The childless were no longer childless while that gentle, irresistible
music shook from the delicate strings of the instruments; the lonely and
silent had found a voice; the hard of heart and indifferent were moved
and carried away; pent-up longings were set free. Other strings were
sounding with the Haydn; and it was not music, though it was harmony, of
some sort that struck and shook those mysterious fibres that bind men
and women to life. The hopelessness of the lonely, the mad longings of
the parted, the storm of life, all seemed appeased. To Dolly, it was
George's voice that was speaking once again. 'Peace, be still,' said the
music, and a divine serenity was in the great hall where the little tune
was thrilling.
In former times men and women assembled in conclave to see wild beasts
tearing their prey; to-day it was to listen to a song of Haydn's--a
little song, that did not last five minutes.
It had not ended when Rhoda whispered something into Robert's ear.
While the music was lasting Dolly was transported; as it ended her mind
seemed clear. She was at peace, she understood it all, all malice and
uncharitableness seemed _dissolved_--I know no better word--pangs of
wounded pride, bitterness of disappointed trust, shame of unfulfilled
promise--such things were, but other things, such as truth, honest
intention, were beyond them, and Dolly felt at that moment as if she
could rise above her fate, above her own faults, beyond her own
failures. She would confess the truth to Robert: she had meant to be
faithful to him; she had failed; she would take what blame there was
upon herself, and that should be her punishment. She was too
keen-sighted not to understand all that had been passing before her
eyes. At first wounded and offended, and not unjustly pained, she had
determined to wait in silence, to let Henley explain his own intentions,
acknowledge his own short-comings.
But something more generous, more truthful, impelled her now to speak.
Rhoda and Robert were whispering. 'Hush,' Dolly said, and she laid her
hand upon Robert's arm. He started a little uncomfortably, and then
began suddenly to nod his head and to twirl his umbrella in time. Rhoda
buttoned her long gloves and leant back in a pensive attitude. Dolly sat
staring at the violins, of which the bows were flowing like the waves of
a spring-tide on either side of the circle: beyond the violins were the
wind instruments and the great violoncellos throbbing their full hearts.
There was instant silence, then a clapping of hands and a sort of murmur
and sigh coming from a hundred breasts. As it all died away, Dolly stood
up and turned to Robert: an impulse came to her to do now what was in
her heart, to wait no longer.
'Robert----' her voice sounded so oddly that he started and half rose,
looking down at her upturned face. 'Robert, I want you to listen to me,'
said Dolly. 'I must tell you now when I can speak. I see it all. You
were right to doubt me. I know it now. I have not been true to you. You
must marry Rhoda,' she said; then, stopping short, 'I'm not jealous,
only I am bewildered.... I am going home.... Don't come with me; but you
forgive me, don't you, Robert?'
There was a sudden burst from some overture--the music was beginning
again. Before Robert could stop her, Dolly was gone; she had started up,
she had left her seat, her gloves were lying on the ground, her veil was
lying on the bench, but it was too late to follow or to call her back;
the people, thinking she was ill, had made way for her, and closed in
round the door.
'What has happened?' said Rhoda. 'Is she ill or angry? is she gone? Oh,
what has happened? Don't leave me here alone, let me come too.
Robert flushed up. 'The eyes of the whole place are upon us,' he
muttered: then came something like an oath.
'Hush, silence,' said the people behind.
Robert bit his lip and sat staring at the conductor's rod; every now and
then he gave a little impatient jerk of the head.
Rhoda waited her time; he had not followed Dolly. The music went on; not
one note did she hear; the time seemed interminable. But Robert, hearing
a low sigh, turned at last; he did not speak, but he looked at her.
'You are angry?' whispered Rhoda.
'Why should I be angry with you?' he answered, more gently.