NEW WAYS OF LIFE.
But no sooner had he torn open the envelope than his heart seemed to
stand still--with a sort of fear and amazement. For this was Maisrie's
own handwriting that he beheld--as startling a thing as if she herself
had suddenly appeared before him, after these long, voiceless months.
Be sure the worthy banker's accompanying letter did not win much regard:
it was this sheet of thin blue paper that he quickly unfolded, his eye
catching a sentence here and there, and eager to grasp all that she had
to say at once. Alas! there was no need for any such haste: when he
came to read the message that she had sent to Toronto, it had little to
tell him of that which he most wanted to know. And yet it was a
marvellous thing--to hear her speak, as it were! There was no date nor
place mentioned in the letter; but none the less had this actual thing
come all the way from her; her fingers had penned those lines; she had
folded up this sheet of paper that now lay in his hands. It appeared to
have been written on board ship: further than that all was uncertain and
unknown.
He went into the Library, and sought out a quiet corner; there was
something in the strange reticence of this communication that he wished
to study with care. And yet there was an apparent simplicity, too. She
began by telling Mr. Thompson that her grandfather had asked her to
write to him, merely to recall both of them to his memory; and she went
on to say that they often talked of him, and thought of him, and of
bygone days in Toronto. "Whether we shall ever surprise you by an
unexpected visit in Yonge-street," she proceeded, "I cannot tell; for
grandfather's plans seem to be very vague at present, and, in fact, I do
not think he likes to be questioned. But as far as I can judge be does
not enjoy travelling as much as he used; it appears to fatigue him more
than formerly; and from my heart I wish he would settle down in some
quiet place, and let me care for him better than I can do in long
voyages and railway-journeys. You know what a brave face he puts on
everything--and, indeed, becomes a little impatient if you show anxiety
on his behalf; still, I can see he is not what he was; and I think he
should rest now. Why not in his own country?--that has been his talk for
many a day; but I suppose he considers me quite a child yet, and won't
confide in me; so that when I try to persuade him that we should go to
Scotland, and settle down to a quiet life in some place familiar to him,
he grows quite angry, and tells me I don't understand such things. But
I know his own fancy goes that way. The other morning I was reading to
him on deck, and somehow I got to think he was not listening; so I
raised my head; and I saw there were tears running down his cheeks--he
did not seem to know I was there at all--and I heard him say to
himself--'The beech-woods of Balloray--one look at them--before I die!'
And now I never read to him any of the Scotch songs that mention
places--such as Yarrow, or Craigieburn, or Logan Braes--he becomes so
strangely agitated; for some time afterwards he walks up and down, by
himself, repeating the name, as if he saw the place before him; and I
know that he is constantly thinking about Scotland, but won't
acknowledge it to me or to any one.
"Then here is another piece of news, which is all the news one can send
from on board a ship; and it is that poor dear grandfather has grown
very _peremptory_! Can you believe it? Can you imagine him irritable
and impatient? You know how he has always scorned to be vexed about
trifles; how he could always escape from everyday annoyances and
exasperations into his own dream-world; but of late it has been quite
different; and as I am constantly with him, I am the chief sufferer. Of
course I don't mind it, not in the least; if I minded it I wouldn't
mention it, you may be sure; I know what his heart really feels towards
me. Indeed, it amuses me a little; it is as if I had grown a child
again, it is 'Do this' and 'Do that'--and no reason given. Ah, well,
there is not much amusement for either of us two: it is something." And
here she went on to speak of certain common friends in Toronto, to whom
she wished to be remembered; finally winding up with a very pretty
message from "Yours affectionately, Margaret Bethune."
Then Vincent bethought him of the banker; what comments had he to make?
"Dear sir, I enclose you a letter, received to-day, from the pernicious
little Omahussy, who says neither where she is nor where she is going,
gives no date nor the name of the ship from which she writes, and is
altogether a vexatious young witch. But I imagine this may be the old
gentleman's doing; he may have been 'peremptory' in his instructions;
otherwise I cannot understand why she should conceal anything from me.
And why should he? There also I am in the dark; unless, indeed
(supposing him to have some wish to keep their whereabouts unknown to
you) he may have seen an announcement in the papers to the effect that
you were going to the United States and Canada, in which case he may
have guessed that you would probably call on one whose name they had
mentioned to you as a friend of theirs. And not a bad guess either:
George Bethune is long-headed--when he comes down from the clouds;
though why he should take such elaborate precautions to keep away from
you, I cannot surmise."
Vincent knew only too well! The banker proceeded:--
"I confess I am disappointed--for the moment. I took it for granted you
would have no difficulty in discovering where they were; but, of course,
if friend George is not going to give his address to anybody, for fear
of their communicating with you, some time may elapse before you hear
anything definite. I forgot to mention that the postmark on the
envelope was Port Said----"
Port Said! Had Maisrie been at Port Said--and not so long ago either?
Instantly there sprang into the young man's mind a vision of the place
as he remembered it--a poor enough place, no doubt, but now all lit up
by this new and vivid interest: he could see before him the rectangular
streets of pink and white shanties, the sandy roads and arid squares,
the swarthy Arabs and yellow Greeks and Italians, the busy quays and
repairing-yards and docks, the green water and the swarming boats. And
did Maisrie and her grandfather--while the great vessel was getting in
her coals, and the air was being filled with an almost imperceptible
black dust--did they escape down the gangway, and go ashore, and wander
about, looking at the strange costumes, and the sun-blinds, and the
half-burnt tropical vegetation? Mr. Thompson went on to say that he
himself had never been to Port Said; but that he guessed it was more a
calling-place for steamers than a pleasure or health resort; and no
doubt the Bethunes had merely posted their letters there en route. But
were they bound East or West? There was no answer to this question--for
they had not given the name of the ship.
So the wild hopes that had arisen in Vincent's breast when he caught
sight of Maisrie's handwriting had all subsided again; and the world was
as vague and empty as before. Sometimes he tried to imagine that the
big steamer which he pictured to himself as lying in the harbour at Port
Said was homeward-bound; and that, consequently, even now old George
Bethune and his granddaughter might have returned to their own country;
and then again something told him that it was useless to search papers
for lists of passengers--that the unknown ship had gone away down the
Red Sea and out to Australia or New Zealand, or perhaps had struck north
towards Canton or Shanghai. He could only wait and watch--and he had a
sandal-wood necklace when he wished to dream.
But the truth is he had very little time for dreaming; for Vin Harris
was now become one of the very busiest of the millions of busy creatures
crowding this London town. He knew his best distraction lay that way;
but there were other reasons urging him on. As it chanced, the great
statesman who had always been Vincent's especial friend and patron,
finding that his private secretary wished to leave him, decided to put
the office in commission; that is to say, he proposed to have two
private secretaries, the one to look after his own immediate affairs and
correspondence, the other to serve as his 'devil,' so to speak, in
political matters; and the latter post he offered to Vincent, he having
the exceptional qualification of being a member of the House. It is not
to be supposed that the ex-Minister was influenced in his choice by the
fact that the young man was now on the staff of two important papers,
one a daily journal, the other a weekly; for such mundane considerations
do not enter the sublime sphere of politics; nor, on the other hand, is
it to be imagined that Vincent accepted the offer with all the more
alacrity that his hold on those two papers might probably be
strengthened by his confidential relations with the great man. Surmises
and conjectures in such a case are futile--the mere playthings of one's
enemies. It needs only to be stated that he accepted the office with
every expectation of hard work; and that he got it. Such hunting up of
authorities; such verification of quotations; such boiling-down of
blue-books; such constant attendance at the House of Commons: it was all
hardly earned at a salary of L400 a year. But very well he knew that
there were many young men in this country who would have rejoiced to
accept that position at nothing a year; for it is quite wonderful how
private secretaries of Parliamentary chiefs manage, subsequently, to
tumble in for good things.
Then it is probable that his journalistic enterprises--which necessarily
became somewhat more intermittent after his acceptance of the
secretaryship--brought him in, on the average, another L400 a year. On
this income he set seriously to work to make himself a miser. His
tastes had always been simple--and excellent health may have been at
once the cause and the effect of his abstemiousness; but now the meagre
fare he allowed himself, and his rigidly economical habits in every way,
had a very definite aim in view. He was saving money; he was building
up a miniature fortune--by half-crowns and pence. Food and drink cost
him next to nothing; if he smoked at all, it was a pipe the last thing
in the morning before going to bed. Omnibusses served his turn unless
some urgent business on behalf of his chief demanded a hansom. He could
not give up his club; for that was in a way a political institution; and
oftentimes he had to rush up thither to find someone who was not in the
precincts of St. Stephen's; but then, on the other hand, in a good club
things are much cheaper than in any restaurant or in the members'
dining-room of the House of Commons. It was remarkable how the little
fortune accumulated; and it was a kind of amusement in a fashion. He
pinched himself--and laughed. He debated moral questions--for example
as to whether it was lawful to use club-stationery in writing articles
for newspapers; but he knew something of the ways of Government offices,
and perhaps his conscience was salved by evil example. What the manager
of the Westminster Palace Hotel thought of his manner of living can be
imagined--if so august an official cared to enquire into such details.
His solitary room, breakfast, and washing: no more: those were small
bills that he called for week by week. And so his little hoard of
capital gradually augmented--very gradually, it is true, but surely, as
the rate of interest on deposits rose and fell.
In the meanwhile Lord Musselburgh had not been very successful in his
endeavours to bring about a reconciliation between Vin Harris and his
family; nor had he been able to obtain the information that Vincent
demanded.
"You see, Vin," he said (they were again walking up and down the
lamp-lit Terrace, by the side of the deep-flowing river), "my wife is
awfully upset over this affair. She thinks it is entirely owing to her
mismanagement. She would never have told you about the L5,000 if she
had not been certain that that would be conclusive proof to you of the
character of those two people; and now that she sees what has come of
her telling you so much, she is afraid to tell you any more. Not that I
suppose there is much to tell. Mr. Bethune and Miss Bethune are no
longer in this country; but I doubt whether any one can say precisely
where they are----"
"Nonsense!" Vincent broke in, impatiently. "They're humbugging you,
Musselburgh. Consider this for a moment. Do you imagine that George
Morris handed over that L5,000, as a lump sum, without making
stipulations, and very definite stipulations? Do you imagine he would
be content to take the word of a man whom he considered a thief? It is
absurd to think so. _Do ut facias_ would be his motto; and he would
take precious good care to keep control over the money in case of
non-fulfilment----"
"But there is the receipt!" put in Lord Musselburgh.
"A receipt--for theatrical purposes!" said Vincent, with something of
contempt. "You may depend on it the money was not handed over in that
unconditional fashion: that is not the way in which George Morris would
do business. He has got some hold over Mr. Bethune; and he must know
well enough where he is. Supposing Mr. Bethune had that money in his
pocket, what is to prevent his returning to this country to-morrow?
Where would be the penalty for his breaking his covenant? You don't
trust a man whom you consider a swindler; you must have some guarantee;
and the guarantee means that you must be able to get at him when you
choose. It stands to reason!"
"Yes, I suppose so--it would seem so," said Lord Musselburgh, rather
doubtfully; "but at all events it isn't George Morris who is going to
open his mouth. I've been to him; he declines; refers me to your
family. And then, you see, Vin, I'm rather in an awkward position. I
don't want to take sides; I don't want to be a partisan; I would rather
act as the friend of all of you; but the moment I try to do anything I
am met by a challenge--and a particularly inconvenient challenge it is.
Do I believe with them, or do I believe with you? I told your aunt what
you said about Mr. Bethune--how you described his character, and all
that; but I didn't do it as well as you; for she remains unconvinced.
As you told the story, it seemed natural and plausible; but as I told
it--and I was conscious of it at the time--it was less satisfactory. And
mind you, if you stick to hard facts, and don't allow for any
interpretation----"
"If you look through the blue spectacles, in short----"
"Precisely. Well, then, you are confronted with some extremely awkward
things. I don't wonder that your aunt asks pertinently why, if you are
to begin and extend this liberal construction of conduct--this allowing
for motives--this convenient doctrine of forgiving everything to
self-deception--I don't wonder that she asks why anybody should be sent
to prison at all."
"Oh, as for that," said Vincent, frankly, "I don't say it would be good
for the commonwealth if all of us were George Bethunes. Far from it. I
look upon him as a sort of magnificent lusus naturae; and I would not
have him other than he is--not in any one particular. But a nation of
George Bethunes?--it would soon strike its head against the stars."
"Very well, then," said his friend, "you are not contending for any
general principle. I don't see why you and your family shouldn't be
prepared to agree. You may both of you be right. You don't insist upon
having the justifications you extend to Mr. Bethune extended to everyone
else, or to any one else; you make him the exception; and you needn't
quarrel with those who take a more literal view of his character."
"Literal?" said Vincent, with a certain coldness. "Blindness--want of
consideration--want of understanding--is that to be literal? Perhaps it
is. But I thought you said something just now about Mr. Bethune and a
prison: will you tell me of any one action of his that would suggest
imprisonment?"
"Your aunt was merely talking of theories," said Musselburgh, rather
uneasily, for he had not intended to use the phrase. "What I urge is
this--why shouldn't both of you admit that there may be something in the
other's view of Mr. Bethune, and agree to differ? I stand between you:
I can see how much can be advanced on both sides."
"And so you would patch up a truce," said Vincent. "How long would it
last? Of course I do not know for what period of banishment my kind
relatives stipulated; L5,000 is a considerable sum to pay; I suppose
they bargained that Mr. Bethune and his granddaughter should remain away
from England for some time. But not for ever? Even then, is it to be
imagined that they cannot be found? Either in this country or abroad,
Miss Bethune and I meet face to face again; and she becomes my wife--I
hope. It is what I live for. And then? Where will your patched-up
truce be then? Besides, I don't want any sham friendships with people
who have acted as they have done----"
"It was in your interest, Vin," his friend again urged. "Why not give
them a little of the lenient judgment you so freely extend to those
others----"
"To those others?" replied Vincent, firing up hotly. "To whom?"
"To Mr. Bethune, then," was the pacific reply.
"I don't think Mr. Bethune ever consciously wronged any human being.
But they--were they not aware what they were doing when they played this
underhand trick?--sending that girl out into the world again, through
her devotion to her grandfather? I have told you before: there is no
use crying peace, peace, when there is no peace. Let them undo some of
the mischief they have done, first: then we will see. And look at this
silly affectation of secrecy! They told me too much when they told me
they had paid money to get George Bethune out of the country: then I
understood why Maisrie went: then I knew I must have patience until she
came back--in the same mind as when she left, that I know well. I was
puzzled before, and sometimes anxious; but now I understand; now I am
content to wait. And I have plenty to do in the meantime. I have to
gain a proper foothold--and make some provision for the future as well:
already I am independent of anybody and everybody. And perhaps, in time
to come, when it is all over, when all these things have been set right,
I may be able to forgive; but I shall not be able to forget."
This was all the message that Lord Musselburgh had to take home with
him, to his wife's profound distress. For she was very fond of her
nephew, and very proud of him, too, and of the position he had already
won for himself; and what she had done she had done with the best
intentions towards him. Once, indeed, she confessed to her husband that
in spite of herself she had a sort of sneaking admiration for Vincent's
obdurate consistency and faith; insomuch (she said) that--if only the
old man and all his chicaneries were out of the way--she could almost
find it in her heart to try to like the girl, for Vincent's sake.
"The real question," she continued, "the thing that concerns me most of
all to think of is this: can a girl who has been so dragged through the
mire have retained her purity of mind and her proper self-respect?
Surely she must have known that her grandfather was wheedling people out
of money right and left--and that he took her about with him to enlist
sympathy? Do you suppose she was not perfectly aware that Vincent
invariably paid the bills at those restaurants? When tradespeople were
pressing for money, do you fancy she was in ignorance all the time?
Very well: what a life for any one to lead! How could she hold up her
head amongst ordinarily honest and solvent people? Even supposing that
she herself was all she ought to be, the humiliation must have sunk
deep. And even if one were to try to like her, there would always be
that consciousness between her and you. You might be sorry for her, in a
kind of way; but you would be still sorrier for Vincent; and that would
be dreadful."
"My dear Madge," her husband said--in his character of mediator and
peacemaker, "you are arguing on a series of assumptions and prejudices.
If Vin does hold on to his faith in those two--and if he does in the end
marry Miss Bethune--I shall comfort myself with the conviction that he
was likely to know more about them than anybody else. He and they have
been on terms of closest intimacy, and for a long time; and you may be
pretty sure that the girl Vin wants to marry is no tarnished kind of a
person--in his eyes."
"Ah, yes--in his eyes!" said Lady Musselburgh, rather sadly.
"Well, his eyes are as clear as most folks'--at least, I've generally
found them so," her husband said--trying what a little vague optimism
would do.
One afternoon Vincent was walking along Piccadilly--and walking rapidly,
as was his wont, for the twin purposes of exercise and economy--when he
saw, some way ahead of him, Lady Musselburgh crossing the pavement to
her carriage. She saw him, too, and stopped--colour mounting to her
face. When he came up he merely lifted his hat, and would have kept on
his way but that she addressed him.
"Vincent!" she said, in an appealing, half-reproachful fashion.
And then she said--
"I want you to come into the house for a few minutes--I must speak with
you."
"Is there any use?" he asked, rather coldly.
However, she was very much embarrassed, as her heightened colour showed;
and he could not keep her standing here in Piccadilly; he said 'Very
well,' and followed her up the steps and into the house. When they had
got into the drawing-room she shut the door behind them, and began at
once--with not a little piteous agitation in her manner.
"Vin, this is too dreadful! Can nothing be done? Why are you so
implacable? I suppose you don't understand what you have been to me,
always, and how I have looked to your future as something almost
belonging to me, something that I was to be proud of; and now that it is
all likely to come true, you go and make a stranger of yourself! When I
see your name in the papers, or hear you spoken of at a dinner-table--it
is someone who is distant from me, as if I had no concern with him any
longer. People come up to me and say 'Oh, I heard your nephew speak at
the Mansion House the other afternoon,' or 'I met your nephew at the
Foreign Office last night;' and I cannot say 'Don't you know; he has
gone and made himself a stranger to us--?'"
"I wonder who it was who made a stranger of me!" he interposed--but
quite impassively.
"I can only say, again and again, that it was done for the best, Vin!"
she answered him. "The mistake I made was in letting you know. But I
took it for granted that as soon as you were told that those people had
accepted money from us to go away--"
"Those people? What people?" he demanded, with a sterner air.
"Oh, I meant only Mr. Bethune himself," said she, hastily. "Oh, yes,
certainly, only him; there were no negotiations with any one else."
"Negotiations!" he said, with a touch of scorn. "Well, perhaps you can
tell me what those negotiations were? How long did Mr. Bethune
undertake to remain out of this country?"
"Three years, Vin," said she, timidly regarding him.
"Three years?" he repeated, in an absent way.
"But there is no reason," she added quickly, "why he should not return
at any moment if he wishes: so I understand: of course, I did not make
the arrangement--but I believe that is so."
"Return at any moment?" he said, slowly. "Do you mean to tell me that
you put L5,000 into that old man's hands, on condition he should leave
the country for three years, and that all the same you left him free to
return at any moment?"
"Of course he would forfeit the money," said she, rather nervously.
"But how could he forfeit the money if he already has it? He has got
the money: you showed me the receipt. Come, aunt," said he, in quite a
different tone, "Let us be a little more honest and above-board. Shall
I tell you how I read the whole situation? You can contradict me if I
am wrong. But that receipt you showed me: wasn't it produced for merely
theatrical purposes? Wasn't it meant to crush and overwhelm me as a
piece of evidence? The money wasn't handed over like that, was it?
Supposing I were to conjecture that somebody representing you or
representing my father has still got control over that money; and that
it is to be paid in instalments as it is earned--by absence? Well isn't
that so?"
He fixed his eyes on her; she hesitated--and was a little confused.
"I tell you, Vin," she said, "I had personally nothing to do with making
the arrangement; all that was left in George Morris's hands; and of
course he would take whatever precautions he thought necessary. And why
should you talk about theatrical purposes? I really did think that when
I could show you Mr. Bethune was ready to take money from strangers to
go away from England you would change your opinion of him. But
apparently, in your eyes, he can do no wrong. He is not to be judged by
ordinary rules and standards. Everything is to be twisted about on his
behalf, and forgiven, or even admired. Nobody else is allowed such
latitude of construction; and everything is granted to him--because he
is George Bethune. But I don't think it is quite fair: or that you
should take sides against your own family."
This was an adroit stroke, following upon a very clever attempt to
extricate herself from an embarrassing position; but his thoughts were
otherwise occupied.
"I should like you to tell me," said he, "if you can, what moral wrong
was involved in Mr. Bethune consenting to accept that money. Where was
the harm--or the ignominy? Do you think I cannot guess at the
representations and inducements put before him, to get him to stay
abroad for three years? Why, I could almost tell you, word for word,
what was said to him! Here was an arrangement that would be of
incalculable benefit to everybody concerned. He would be healing up
family dissensions. He would be guarding his granddaughter from a
marriage that could only bring her disappointment and humiliation.
Three years of absence and forgetfulness would put an end to all those
projects. And then, of course, you could not ask him to throw up his
literary engagements and incur the expense of travel, without some
compensation. Here is a sum of L5,000, which will afford him some kind
of security, in view of this disturbance of his engagements. A receipt?
oh, yes, a receipt, if necessary! But then, again, on second thoughts,
wouldn't it only be prudent to lodge this L5,000 with some third person,
some man of position whom all could trust, and who would send it in
instalments, to avoid the risk of carrying so large a sum about with
one? There might be a little harmless condition or two attached,
moreover. You undertake, for example, that the young people shall not
have communication with each other; you say your granddaughter will do
as you wish in all things. Very well, take her away: disappear, both of
you; you are doing us an immense kindness, and you are acting in the
best interests of all concerned. Never mind a little misery here or
there, or the risk of a broken heart; we can afford to pay for such
things; we can afford to have the moulds of a dessert service
destroyed--and a little matter of L5,000 is not much, when we have
plans.... And so those two go out into the world again." He paused for
a second. "Well, aunt, you've had your way; and there's no more to be
said, except this, perhaps, that you don't seem to realise the greatest
of all the mistakes you have made. Your three years, even if they
should be three years of absence, will not be years of forgetfulness on
either Maisrie Bethune's part or mine. Oh, no; nothing of the kind;
don't cherish any illusions on that score. It happened curiously that
just before they left Brighton she and I had a little talk over one or
two things; and she asked me for a promise, which I gave her, and which
I mean to keep."
Well, the handsome lad now standing before her had a great hold on her
affection; and she even admired, in a covert way, this very bigotry of
constancy and unswerving faith of his, so that for an instant her head
swam, and she was on the point of crying out 'Vincent--Vincent--go and
bring her to me--and I will take her to my heart--for your sake!' But
the next moment she had recovered from that mad impulse: she saw that
what had been done was not to be undone in that happy-go-lucky fashion,
even if it could be undone at all; and she was silent and embarrassed.
It was he who spoke.
"Well, you must excuse me, aunt; I've to be down at the House by
question time."
"You're not going like that, Vin!" she exclaimed.
"What do you want of me?" he asked in a coldly civil way.
"I--I--want you to be as you once were, to all of us," she cried, rather
incoherently. "I want you to go back to Grosvenor Place; and to accept
the allowance your father has made you ever since you came of age; and
to resume the old bygone relations with us. Surely it might be
possible, with a little consideration on both sides. What we have done
was done entirely out of thoughtfulness for you; and if we have made a
mistake--we are only human beings! And remember, it is quite possible
that you may be mistaken too, Vin; you may be mistaken just as much as
we--and--and--"
"What you propose, aunt," said he (for time was precious with him) "even
if it were practicable, would only be temporary. I am looking forward
to marrying Maisrie Bethune--in spite of your three years of
forgetfulness!--and when that happens, your patched-up state of affairs
would all come to bits again. So what is the use of professing a sort
of sham reconciliation? I have no wish to return to Grosvenor Place. I
have taken some rooms at the foot of Buckingham-street; and I have a key
that lets me through by the Embankment Gardens into Villiers-street; it
will be convenient for getting to the House. And I can tide along
pretty well without any allowance from my father; in fact, I'm saving a
little money in a quiet way--"
"But at what a cost, Vincent--at what a cost!" she protested. "I wish
you could see how worn and ill you are looking--
"Well, I've had some things to think of lately--thanks to my kind
relatives!" said he. "But really I must be off--"
"Vincent," she said, making one last despairing effort to bring things
back to their former footing, "when are you going to ask Louie Drexel
and me to dine with you at the House?"
"I'm so busy, aunt, just now," said he, as he opened the door for her.
Then he saw her into her carriage; and she drove away--a most perplexed
and unhappy woman.
These rooms that Vincent had taken at the foot of Buckingham-street were
right up at the top of the building; and commanded a spacious prospect
of the river, the Embankment gardens, the bridges, the great dusky world
of London lying all around, and the dome of St. Paul's rising dim and
phantasmal in the east. They were bachelor chambers, that had doubtless
seen many tenants (the name of one, George Brand, was still over the
door, and Vincent did not think it worth while to change it), but the
young man had no sooner entered into possession than he began a series
of alterations and improvements that bachelor chambers did not seem to
demand. Not in any hurry, however; nor perhaps with any fixed intent;
it was a kind of amusement for this or that odd half-hour he could
snatch from his multifarious duties. To begin with, he had the woodwork
painted a deep Indian red, and the walls a pearly-blue grey: while the
former colour was repeated in the Japanese window-curtains, and the
latter by the great world outside, on the lambent moonlight nights, or
sometimes in the awakening of the dawn, as he lay in a low easy-chair,
and watched the vast, silent city coming out of its sleep. This
top-floor was a very still place, except for the early chattering of the
tree-sparrows, into whose nests, swaying on the branches just beneath
him, he could have tossed a biscuit. And then his peregrinations
through London, rapid though they were as a rule, occasionally brought
him face-to-face with a bric-a-brac shop; and from time to time he
picked up one thing or another, just as it happened to strike his fancy.
Perhaps these modest purchases were just a trifle too elegant for a
bachelor's apartments; the sitting-room away up in that lofty situation
came to look rather like a boudoir; for example, there was a music-stand
in rosewood and ormulu--a tall stand it was, as if for a violin
player--which he himself never used. Pictures he could not afford; but
books he could; and the volumes which were one by one added to those
shelves were of a more graceful and literary stamp than you would have
expected to find in the library of a young and busy member of
Parliament. It was not a lordly palace of art, this humble suite of
apartments in the neighbourhood of the Strand; but there was a
prevailing air of selection and good taste; perhaps, one ought to say,
of expectancy, also, in the presence of things not yet in use. Then the
two large and low windows of the sitting-room were all surrounded with
ivy, of long training; but besides that, there were flower-boxes; and at
a moment's notice, and at small expense, these could be filled with
potted geraniums, if one wished to be gay. And always outside was the
varied panorama of the mighty city; the wide river and the bridges, the
spires and the towers, the far masses of buildings becoming more and
more spectral as they receded into the grey and wavering mist.
Sometimes the rose and saffron of the dawn were there, ascending with a
soft suffusion behind the purple dome of St. Paul's; sometimes there
were blown and breezy days, with flying showers and watery gleams of
sunlight; and sometimes the night lay blue and still and clear, the
Surrey side in black and mysterious shadow, the white moon high in the
south. These silent altitudes were a fine place for dreaming, after all
the toil and moil of the working-hours were over; and a fine place for
listening, too; sometimes, towards the morning, just as the leaves began
to stir, you could fancy the wind was bringing a message with it--it
seemed, coming from far away, to say something about _Claire Fontaine_.