A quarter-mile range of high unpainted oak paling, well seasoned, well
carpentered, innocent of chink or shrinkage, impervious to the human
eye. Visible above it the domed heads of enormous elm trees steeped in
sunshine, rising towards the ample curve of the summer sky. At
intervals, with tumultuous rush and scurry, the thud of the hoofs of
unseen horses, galloping for all they are worth over grass. The suck
and rub of breeches against saddle-flaps, the rattle of a curb chain or
the rings of a bit. A call, a challenge, smothered exclamations. The
long-drawn swish of the polo stick through the air, and the whack of
the wooden head of it against ball, or ground, or something unluckily
softer and more sentient. A pause, broken only by distant voices, and
the sound, or rather sense, of men and horses in quiet and friendly
movement; followed by the tumultuous rush and scurry, and all the
moving incidents of the heard, yet unwitnessed, drama over again.
For here it was that gallant and costly game beloved of Oriental
princes--rather baldly described to Mr. Iglesias yesterday by the
driver of the Hammersmith 'bus as a "kind of hockey on horseback"--in
very full swing no doubt. Only unfortunately Iglesias found himself on
the wrong side of the palings. And, since he had learned, indirectly,
from the observations of the monumental police-sergeant--directing the
stream of carriages at the entrance gates--to other would-be
spectators, that to the polo ground, as to so much else obviously
desirable in this world, there is "no admission except by ticket," on
the wrong side of these same palings he recognised he was fated to
stay. It was a disappointment, not to say an annoyance. For he had come
forth, in accordance with his determination, to make observations and
inquiries regarding that same matter of amusement. And, since the
influence of that which is to be acts upon us almost, if not quite, as
strongly as the influence of that which has been, the handsome, eager
countenance of young Alaric Barking and the graceful figure of his fair
companion, as seen from the 'bustop, occurred very forcibly in this
connection to Dominic Iglesias' mind. He would go forth and behold that
which they had gone forth to behold. He would witness the sports of the
well-born and rich. From these he elected, somewhat proudly, to take
his first lessons in the fine art of amusement. So here he was; and
here, too--very much here--were the palings, spelling failure and
frustration of purpose.
Fortunately unwonted exercise and the pure invigorating atmosphere
tended to generate placidity, and agreeable harmony of the mental and
physical being. It followed that active annoyance was short-lived. For
a minute or two Mr. Iglesias loitered, listening to the moving music of
the unseen game. Then, walking onward to the end of the enclosure,
where the palings turn away sharply at the left, he crossed the road
and made for a wooden bench just there amiably presenting itself. It
was pleasant to rest. The walk had been a long one; but it now appeared
to him that the labour of it had not been wholly in vain. For around
him stretched a breezy common, broken by straggling bramble and furze
brakes, and dotted with hawthorn bushes, upon the topmost branches of
which the crowded pinkish-white blossoms still lingered. From one to
another small birds flitted with a pretty dipping flight, uttering
quick detached notes as in merry question and answer. Through the rough
turf the bracken pushed upward, uncurling sturdy croziers of brownish
green. Away to the right, beyond the railway line, rose the densely
wooded slopes of Roehampton and Sheen; while, against the purple-green
gloom of them, the home signals of Barnes Station--hard white lines and
angles tipped with scarlet and black--stood out in high relief like the
gigantic characters of some strange alphabet. Down the wide road motors
ground and snorted; and carriages moved slowly, two abreast, the
menservants sitting at ease, talking and smoking while waiting to take
up at the police-guarded gate, back there towards the heat and smoke of
London, when the polo match should be played out.
But immediately London, the heat, and smoke, and raucous voice of it,
seemed far enough away, the wholesome charm of the country very
present. For a while Dominic Iglesias yielded himself up to it.
Receptive, quiescent, contented, he basked in the sunshine, his mind
vacant of definite thought. But for a while only. For as physical
fatigue wore off, definite thought returned; and with it the sense of
his own loneliness, the oppression of a future empty of work, the
bitterness of this enhanced by the little disappointment he had lately
suffered. He leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees,
looking at the bracken croziers pushing bravely upward through the
rough turf to air and light. Even these blind and speechless things
worked, in a sense, fulfilling the law of their existence. He went back
on the dream of last night, on his own childhood, the happiness, yet
haunting unspoken anxiety of it, his father's fanaticism, fierce
revolutionary propaganda, and mysteriously uncertain fate.
"And to think that was the pit out of which I, of all men, was digged!"
he said to himself. "Have I done something to restore the family
balance in respect of right reason, or is the shame of incapacity upon
me? Have I sacrificed myself, or cowardly have I merely shirked living?
Heaven knows--I don't, only----"
But here his uncheerful meditations were broken in on by a voice,
imperative in tone, yet perceptibly shaken by laughter.
"Cappadocia!" it called. "Cappadocia! Do you hear? Come here, you
little reprobate."
Then Dominic Iglesias perceived that he had ceased to be sole occupant
of the bench. A dog, a tiny toy spaniel, sat beside him. It sidled very
close, gazing at him with foolishly prominent eyes. Its ears, black
edged with tan, soft and lustrous as floss silk, hung down in long
lappets on either side its minute and melancholy face. The tip of its
red tongue just showed. It was abnormally self-conscious and solemn. It
planted one fringed paw upon Iglesias' arm and it snored.
"Cappadocia!--well, of all the cheeky young beggars----"
This time the voice broke in unmistakable merriment, wholly
spontaneous, as of relief, even of mischievous triumph; and Mr.
Iglesias, looking up, found himself confronted by a young woman. She
advanced slowly, her trailing string-coloured lace skirts gathered up
lazily in one hand. About her shoulders she wore a long blue-purple
silk scarf, embroidered with dragons of peacock, and scarlet, and gold.
These rather violent colours found repetition in the nasturtium leaves
and flowers that crowned her lace hat, the wide brim of which was tied
down with narrow strings of purple velvet, gipsy fashion, beneath her
chin. Under her arm she carried another tiny spaniel, the creature's
black morsel of a head peeping out quaintly from among the forms of the
embroidered dragons, which last appeared to writhe, as in the heat of
deadly conflict, as their wearer moved. Her face was in shadow owing to
the breadth of the brim of her hat. Otherwise the sunshine embraced her
whole figure, conferring on it a glittering yet singularly
unsubstantial effect, as though a column of pale windswept dust were
overlaid, here and there, with splendour of rich enamel.
And it was just this effect of something unsubstantial, in a way
fictitious and out of relation to sober fact, which struck Dominic
Iglesias, robbing him for the moment of his dignified courtesy. Frankly
he stared at this appearance, so strangely at variance with the
realities of his own melancholy thought. Meanwhile the little dog
snuggled up yet closer against him.
"Yes--pray don't disturb yourself," the young lady went on volubly
"It's too bad, I know, to intrude on you like this. But as Cappadocia
refuses to come to me, it is clear I have to come after Cappadocia.
It's simply disgraceful the way she carries on when one takes her out,
making acquaintances like this, casually, all over the place. The maids
flatly refuse to air her, even on a string. They say it becomes a
little too compromising. But, as I explain to them, she's not a bit the
modern woman. She belongs to a stage of social development when pretty
people infinitely preferred being compromised to being squelched." The
speaker laughed again quietly. "I'm not altogether sure they weren't
right. When you are squelched, finished, done for, it matters precious
little whether you've been compromised first or not. Don't you agree?
Any way, Cappadocia's not going to be squelched if she can help it.
She's horribly scared, or pretends to be, at motors. Let one toot and
she forgets all her fine-lady manners, and just skips to anybody for
protection. She'll take refuge in the most unconventional places to
escape."
The part of wisdom, in face of this very forthcoming young person,
would have been no doubt to arise and withdraw. But to Dominic
Iglesias, just then, dogs, woman, conversation, were alike so remote
and unreal, part merely of the scene which he had been contemplating,
that he failed to take them seriously. Divorced from routine, he was
divorced, in a way, from habitual modes of mind and conduct. He neither
consented nor refused, but just let things happen, attaching little or
no meaning to them. If this feminine being chose to prattle--well, let
her do so. Really he did not care.
"I am not very modern myself," he said, with a shade of weariness. "So
perhaps your small dog had some intuition of a kindred spirit when
taking refuge with me."
"All the same, you hardly date from the social era of Charles II., I
fancy," the young lady answered quickly.
As she spoke she raised her chin with a slightly impudent movement,
thus bringing her countenance into the sunlight. For the first time
Iglesias clearly saw her face. It was small, the features
insignificant, the skin smooth and fine in texture, but sallow. Her
hair, black and very massive, was puffed out and dressed low, hiding
her ears. Her lips were rather positively red, and the tinge of colour
on either cheek, though slight, was not wholly convincing in tone. Even
to a person of Mr. Iglesias' praiseworthy limitation of experience in
such matters, her face was vaguely suggestive of the footlights--would
have been distinctly so but for her eyes. These were curiously at
variance with the rest of her appearance. They belonged to a quite
other order of woman, so to speak--a woman of finer physique, of higher
intelligence, possibly of nobler purposes. They were arrestingly large
in size, thereby helping to dwarf the proportions of her face. In
colour they were a rather light warm hazel, with a slight film over
both iris and pupil, and a noticeably bluish shade in the whites of
them. In these last particulars they were like a baby's eyes; but very
unlike in the reflective intensity of their observation as she fixed
them upon Dominic Iglesias.
"Cappadocia may be a fool about motors," she remarked, "but she's
uncommonly shrewd in reading character. She seems to like you, to have
taken you on, don't you know; and she's generally right. So I'll sit
down, please. Oh! no, no, come along now"--this as Mr. Iglesias rose
and made a movement to depart--"why, dear man, the very point of the
whole show is that you should sit down, too."