HAROLD had a note written to Mrs. Lampson, begging her to invite his
friend, Mr. Archie Brown, to join her party at Abbeylands, almost before
Mr. Playdell had left the street. He knew that his sister would be very
glad to have Archie. All the world had a general notion of Archie’s
millions; and Abbeylands was one of those immense houses that can
accommodate a practically unlimited number of guests. The property
had been bought from a nobleman, who had been brought to the verge of
bankruptcy by trying to maintain it. Mr. Lampson, a patriotic American,
had come to his relief, and had taken the place off his hands.
That is what all truly patriotic Americans do when they have an
opportunity.
The new-world democracy comes to the rescue of the old-world
aristocracy, and thus a venerable institution is preserved from
annihilation.
Harold posted his letter as he went out to dine with a man who was a
member of the Carlton Club, and zealous in heating up recruits for the
Conservative party. He thought that Harold might possibly be open to
conviction, not, of course, on the question of the righteousness of
certain principles, but on the question of the direction in which the
cat was about to jump. The jumping cat is the dominant power in modern
politics.
Harold ate his dinner, and listened patiently to the man whose
acquaintance with the tendencies of every genus of the political _felis_
was supposed to be extraordinary. He said little. Before he had gone to
Castle Innisfail the subject would have interested him greatly, but now
he thought that Archie Brown’s inanities were preferable to those of the
politician.
He was just enough to acknowledge, however, that the cigar with which he
left the Carlton was as good a one as he had ever smoked. So that there
was some advantage in being a Conservative after all.
He walked round St. James’s Square, for the night was warm and fine. His
mind was not conscious of having received anything during the previous
two hours upon which it would be profitable to ponder. He thought over
the question which he had put to himself previously--the question of how
he could bind Beatrice to him--how he could make her certainly his own,
and thus banish that cold distrust of which he now and again became
aware--no, it was not exactly distrust, it was only a slightly defective
link in the chain of complete trust.
She loved him and she promised to love him. He reflected upon this, and
he asked himself what more could he want. What bond stronger than her
word could he desire to have?
“Oh, I will trust her for ever--for ever,” he murmured. “If she is not
true, then there never was truth on earth.”
He fancied that he had dismissed the matter from his mind with this
exorcism.
And so he had.
But it so happens that some persons are so constituted that there is but
the slenderest connection between their mind and their heart. Something
that appeals very forcibly to their mind will not touch their heart in
the least. They are Nature’s “sports.”
Harold Wynne was one of these people. He had made up his mind that, on
the question of implicitly trusting Beatrice, nothing more remained to
be said. There was still, however, that cold finger upon his heart.
But having made up his mind that nothing more remained to be said on the
question, he was logical enough--for logic is also a mental attribute,
though by no means universally distributed--to think of other matters.
He began to think about Mr. Playdell, and his zeal for the reform of
Archie. Harold’s respect for Mr. Playdell had materially increased since
the morning. At first he had been inclined to look with suspicion upon
the man who had, by the machinery of the Church, been prohibited from
discharging the functions of a priest of that Church, though, of course,
he was free to exercise that unimportant function known as preaching. He
could not preach within a church, however. If he wished to try and save
souls by preaching, that was his own business. He would not do so with
the sanction of the Church. He was anxious to save the soul of Archie
Brown, at any rate. He assumed that Archie had a soul in embryo, ready
to be hatched, and it was clear to Harold that Mr. Playdell was anxious
to save it from being addled before it had pecked its way out of its
shell. Therefore Harold had a considerable respect for Mr. Playdell,
though he had been one of the unprofitable servants of the Church.
He thought of the earnest words of the man--of the earnest way in which
he had begged to be given the chance of returning the service, which he
believed was about to be done to him by Harold.
He had been greatly in earnest; but that fact only made his words the
more ridiculous.
“What service could he possibly do me?” Harold thought, when he had
had his laugh, recalling the outstretched hand of Mr. Playdell, and his
eager eyes. “_What service could he possibly do me? What service?_”
He was rooted to the pavement. The driver of a passing hansom pulled
up opposite him, taking the fact of his stopping so suddenly as an
indication that he wanted a hansom.
He took no notice of the hansom, and it passed up the square.
He remained so long lost in thought, that his cigar, so strongly
impregnated with sound Conservative principles, went out like any
Radical weed, or the penny Pickwick of the Labour Processionist.
He dropped the unsmoked end, and felt for his pocket-handkerchief. He
raised his hat and wiped his forehead.
Then he took a stroll into Piccadilly and on to Knightsbridge. He went
down Sloane Street, and into Chelsea, returning by the Embankment to
Westminster--the clock was chiming the hour of 2 a.m. as he passed.
But the same clock had struck three before he got into bed, and five
before he fell asleep.
END OF VOL. II.
A GRAY EYE OR SO
By Frank Frankfort Moore
In Three Volumes--Volume III
SIXTH EDITION
London
HUTCHINSON & CO., 34 PATERNOSTER ROW
1893
[Illustration: 0007]
A GRAY EYE OR SO.