Opposite St. Mary Abbott's church Mr. Iglesias lighted down from the
'bustop. His eyes were still dazzled by those flaming bills.--Lionel
Gordon was advertising handsomely. The knife-board of every second
omnibus displayed them, now he came to look.--His thought turned in
quickened interest towards the Lady of the Windswept Dust and all that
the said advertisements stood for in her case. He had seen her a few
days ago, after rehearsal, and she had warned him off being present
tonight.
"It's all going like hot cakes, dear man," she had said gaily, "still,
as you love me, don't come. I should be more nervous of you than ninety
dozen critics. I shall want you badly, all the same, don't doubt that;
and I shall play to you, all the while, though you're not there.
But--don't you understand?--if I actually saw you it might come between
me and my part. I shouldn't be sure who I really was, and that would
make me as jumpy as a sick cat. You shall know--I'll wire to you
directly the show's over; but I'd best have my first round quite alone
with the public. And then a first night is always a bit jungly--not
quite fair on the play or the company, or the audience either for that
matter. A play's the same as a ship, if there's any real art in it. It
needs time to find itself. So just wait, like a lamb, till we've all
shaken into place, and I'm quite at home in the saddle."
And in truth Dominic Iglesias had plenty to occupy his time and
attention at this particular juncture, irrespective of Poppy's _debut_
at the Twentieth Century Theatre. For tomorrow would close his
connection with Cedar Lodge, as to-day had closed his connection with
Messrs. Barking Brothers & Barking. The mind in hours of fatigue, when
vitality is low and the power of concentration consequently deficient,
has a tendency to work in layers, so to speak, one strain of thought
overlying another. Hence it was that Iglesias' contemplation of those
gaudy advertisements, and of their bearing upon Poppy's fortunes,
failed to oust the premonitions of finality which had come to and
somewhat perturbed him as he looked upon the pensive tearwashed face of
London-penitent, cleansed by the breath of the wistful far-hailing
autumn wind. Involuntarily, and notwithstanding his repudiation of
them, he continued to question those premonitions and the clinging
melancholy of them, asking whether they bore relation merely to the two
not wholly unwelcome partings above indicated; or whether the
foreboding induced by them did not find its source in some sentiment,
some intuition of approaching change, far more intimate and profound
than cessation of employment or alteration of dwelling-place. Then, as
he walked on up Church Street another layer of thought presented
itself. For he could not but call to mind how many hundred times he had
trodden that pavement before close against the close-packed traffic,
the high barrack-wall on the right hand, the row of modest shop-fronts
on the left, on his way home to the little house in Holland Street.
Once more that house was home to him. He would cross its familiar
threshold to-day as master. Yet how differently to of old! How steep
the hill was! How languid and spent he became in ascending it--slowly,
deliberately, instead of with light-footed energy and indifference! And
this made him ask himself, what if these premonitions of finality, of
impending farewells, of compulsory relinquishment, had indeed a very
special and definite significance, being sent to him as heralds of the
approach of a common yet--to each individual being--unique and
altogether tremendous change? What if that haunting curiosity of the
unknown--concerning which he had spoken with Poppy St. John amid the
white magic of the moonlight during the enchanted hour of his and her
friendship--was to be satisfied very soon?
Iglesias drew himself up to his full height, fatigue and bodily
weakness alike forgotten, and stood for a little space at the turn into
Holland Street, hat in hand, facing the delicately chill wind and
looking away into the fine perspective of sky overspread by shoals and
islands of pale luminous cloud. Calmly--yet with the sharp amazement
inevitable when things taken for granted, tacitly and nominally
accepted throughout a lifetime, suddenly advance into the immediate
foreground, becoming actual, tangible, imperative--he asked himself,
was death so very near, then? At the church of the Carmelite Priory
just above--the high slated roofs and slender iron crockets of which
overtopped the parapets of the intervening houses--a bell tolled as the
officiating priest, in giving the Benediction, elevated the sacred
Host. And that note, at once austere and plaintive, striking across the
hoarse murmur and trample of the streets, was very grateful to Dominic
Iglesias. For it assured him of this, at least, that when for him the
supreme hour did indeed strike and he was called upon to go forth
alone--as every soul must go--to meet the impenetrable mystery which
veils the close of the earthly chapter, he would not go forth
unbefriended, but absolved, anointed, fortified, made ready--in so far
as readiness for so stupendous an ordeal is possible--by the rites of
Holy Church.
"_Fiat misericordia tua Domine super nos: quemad-modum speravimus te.
In te Domine speravi: non confundar in aeternum,_" he quoted half aloud.
And then could not forbear to smile, gravely and somewhat sadly,
registering the deep pathos of the fact that the majestic hymn of
praise and thanksgiving, dedicated by the use of Christendom throughout
centuries to the celebration of highest triumph, still ends brokenly
with a childlike sob of shrinking, of entreaty, and very human pain.
Meditating upon which, and upon much implied by it, not only of sorrow
but of consolation for whoso is not afraid to understand, Iglesias
moved onward. But so closely do things absurd and trivial jostle things
august and of profound significance in daily happenings--he was
speedily aroused from meditation and his attention claimed by example
of quite another order of pathos to that suggested by the concluding
verses of the _Te Deum_. Some little way ahead a brown-painted
furniture van was backed against the curb. From the cave-like interior
of it coatless white-aproned men bore a miscellaneous collection of
goods--among others a battered dapple-grey rocking-horse with flowing
mane and tail--across the yard-wide strip of garden, and in at the
front door of a small old-fashioned house. Bass mats were strewn upon
the pavement. Sheets of packing paper pirouetted down the roadway
before the wind. While, standing in the midst of the litter, watching
the process of unloading with perplexed and even agitated interest, was
a whimsical figure--large of girth, short of limb, convex where the
accredited lines of beauty demand, if not concavity, at least a refined
flatness of surface.
The Latin, unlike the Anglo-Saxon, does not consider it necessary as
soon as adolescence is past to extirpate his heart; or, failing
successful performance of that heroic operation, strictly to limit the
activities of it to his amours, legitimate or otherwise. Hence Dominic
Iglesias felt no shame that the sight of his old plaything, or of his
old school-fellow--now unhappily estranged from and suspicious of
him--should provoke in him a great tenderness. Upon the battered
rocking-horse his heart rode away to the dear sheltered happiness of
childhood, while towards his former school-fellow it went forth in
unmixed kindliness. For it appeared to him that for one who had so
lately held converse with approaching death, it would be a very scandal
of light-minded pettiness to nourish resentment against any fellow
creature. In near prospect of the eternal judgment, private and
temporal judgment can surely afford to declare a universal amnesty in
respect of personal slights and injuries. Therefore, after but a
moment's hesitation, he went on, laid his hand upon George Lovegrove's
shoulder, and called him affectionately by name.
"Dominic!" the latter cried, and stood staring. "Well to be sure--you
did surprise me! To think of meeting you just by accident to-day, like
this!"
He grew furiously red, gladness and embarrassment struggling within
him. Conscientiously he strove to be faithful to the menagerie of
ignorances and prejudices which he misnamed his convictions. For here
was the representative of the Accursed Thing--persecutor, enemy of
truth, of patriotism, of marriage, worshipper of senseless idols; but,
alas! how he loved that representative! How he honoured his
intelligence, admired his person, coveted his companionship! Beholding
Iglesias once again, George Lovegrove rejoiced as at the finding of
lost treasure. Hence, perplexed, perspiring, lamentably squinting, yet
with the innocent half-shy ecstasy of a girl looking upon her recovered
lover, he gazed up into Mr. Iglesias' face.
"I give you my word I was never more taken aback in my life," he
protested. "As it happened I was just thinking about old times,
observing that some family is moving into your former house. But I had
no notion of meeting you. Positively I am unable to grasp the fact. I
have not a word to say to you, because I require to say so much. I know
there is a great deal which needs explanation on my part. And then your
calling me by my name, too! I declare it went right through me, as a
voice from the grave might."
"Put aside explanations," Iglesias replied indulgently. "You are not
going to quarrel with me any more--let that suffice."
"No, I cannot quarrel with you any more. I am sure I don't know whether
it is unprincipled or not, but I cannot do it."
Regardless of observation, he pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his
face.
"If it is unprincipled I must just let it go." he said, quite
recklessly. "I cannot help myself. I give you my word, Dominic, I have
held out as long as I could."
This appeal to Iglesias, as against himself, appeared to him abundantly
unaffected and ingenuous.
"I cannot but believe you will find the consequences of renewed
intercourse with me less damaging than you suppose," he answered,
smiling.
"That is what the wife says," the other man stated. "She has veered
round completely in her opinion, has the wife. I do not understand why,
except that Mrs. Porcher and Miss Hart and she seem to have fallen out.
The workings of females' minds are very difficult to follow, even after
years of marriage, you know, Dominic. Opposition to one of their own
sex will make them warmly embrace opinions you supposed were just those
which they most strongly condemned. She has taken a very high tone, for
some time past, about the Cedar Lodge ladies, has the wife. And when I
came in, the evening of her last at-home day, I found her sadly upset
at having heard from one of them that you were about to leave. She
implied that I was to blame; whereas I can truthfully say my conduct
throughout has been largely influenced by the fear of hurting her
feelings." The speaker looked helplessly at Mr. Iglesias. "Of course we
do not expect the same reticence in speech from females we require of
ourselves. Still, such unfounded accusations are rather galling."
"I cannot be otherwise than very grateful to Mrs. Lovegrove for
espousing my cause, you see," Iglesias replied. This confused and
gentle being, struggling with the complexities of friendship, religious
prejudice, and feminine methods and amenities, was wholly moving.
"Circumstances have arisen which have made me decide to give up my
rooms at Cedar Lodge. To-night is the last upon which I shall occupy
them. But I do not wish Mrs. Lovegrove to be under any misapprehension
regarding my hostess and her companion. I have nothing to complain of.
During my long residence they have treated me with courtesy and
consideration. I wish them nothing but good. Still the time has come, I
feel, for leaving Cedar Lodge."
Here the worthy George's imagination indulged in wild flights. Visions
of a hideous and rugged cell--of the sort known exclusively to serial
melodrama--and of a beautiful woman, in voluminous rose-red skirts and
a costly overcoat, presented themselves to him in amazing juxtaposition.
"Of course, I have forfeited all right to question you as to your
plans, Dominic," he said hurriedly and humbly. "I quite realise that. I
believed I was acting on principle in keeping away from you, all the
more because it pained me terribly to do so. I believed I was being
consistent. Now I begin to fear I was only obstinate and cowardly. Your
kindness of manner has completely unmanned me. I see how superior you
are in liberality to myself. And so it cuts me to the quick, more than
ever, to part from you."
"Why should we part?" Iglesias asked.
"But you are going away. The wife told me she heard you were leaving
London altogether; whether to--I hardly like to mention the
supposition--to join some brotherhood or--or, to be married, she did
not know."
Mr. Iglesias shook his head, smiling sweetly and bravely.
"Oh! no, no, my dear fellow," he answered. "Rumour must have been
rather unpardonably busy with my name. I fear I am about equally
ill-fitted for monastic and for married life. The day of splendid
ventures, whether of religion or of love, is over for me; and I shall
die, as I have lived, a bachelor and a layman. Nor shall I cease to be
your neighbour, for I am only returning here"--he pointed to the open
door, in at which coatless white-aproned men carried that miscellaneous
collection of furniture--"to the little old Holland Street house.
Lately I have had a great craving upon me to be at home again--alone,
save for one or two precious friendships; with leisure to read and to
think; and, in as far as my poor mental powers permit, to become a
humble student of the awe-inspiring philosophy--reconciling things
natural and supernatural--of which the Catholic Church is the exponent,
her creeds its textbook, her ceremonies and ritual the divinely
appointed symbols of its secret truths." Iglesias' expression was
exalted, his speech penetrated by enthusiasm. "It would be profitable
and happy," he said, "before the final auditing of accounts, to be a
little better versed in this wonderful and living wisdom."
And George Lovegrove stood watching him, bewildered, agitated, full of
doubt and inquiry.
"Ah! it is all beyond me, quite beyond me," he exclaimed presently.
"Mistaken or not, I see you are in touch with thoughts altogether
outside my experience and comprehension. I supposed Romanism could only
be held by uneducated and superstitious persons. I see I was wrong. I
ask your pardon, Dominic. I see I quite undervalued it." Then his
manner changed, quick perception and consequent distress seizing him.
"Ah! but you are ill. That is the meaning of it all. You are ill. Now I
come to observe you, I see how thin and drawn your face is. How shall I
ever forgive myself for not finding that out sooner! I have differed
from you and blamed you. I have sulked, and thought bitterly of you,
and avoided you. I have even been envious, hearing how successfully you
carried through affairs this anxious time at the bank. I have been a
contemptibly mean-spirited individual. No, I can never forgive myself.
I have found you again, only to lose you. You are in bad health. You
have been suffering, and I never thought to inquire about that. I never
knew it."
But Dominic Iglesias made effort to comfort him, speaking not
uncheerfully, determining even to fight the fatigue and weakness which,
as he could not but own, daily increased on him, if only for the sake
of this faithful and simple adherent.
"Perhaps the sands are running rather low," he said; "but that does not
greatly matter. The conditions are in process of alteration. Now that I
am free of my City work, the strain is practically over. With care and
quiet, the sands that remain in the glass may run very slowly. I have a
peaceful time in prospect, here in my old home. When I left here, eight
years ago, I could not make up my mind to part with any of our family
belongings, so I warehoused all the contents of the house, save those
which I took to furnish my rooms at Cedar Lodge. Now these
half-forgotten possessions see the light once more. This in itself
should constitute a staying of the running sands, a putting back of the
hands of the clock. Then I have two good servants to care for me. I am
fortunate in that. And your friendship is restored to me. I should be
ungrateful if I did not live on for a while to enjoy all this kindly
circumstance. So do not grieve. There are many after-dinner pipes to be
smoked, many talks to be talked yet.--Come into the house, and see it
as you used to know it when we both were young. Surely it is a good
omen that you, my earliest friend, should be my first visitor when I
come home?"