Mike was in his bath when Frank entered.
"What, not dressed yet?"
"All very well for you to talk. You left me at eleven to get the
paper out as best I could. I did not get away from the printer's
before half-past two."
"I'm very sorry, but you've no idea how ill I felt. I really couldn't
have stayed on. I heard you come in. You weren't alone."
The room was pleasant with the Eau de Lubin, and Mike's beautiful
figure appealed to Frank's artistic sense; and he noticed it in
relation to the twisted oak columns of the bed. The body, it was
smooth and white as marble; and the pectoral muscles were especially
beautiful when he leaned forward to wipe a lifted leg. He turned, and
the back narrowed like a leaf, and expanded in shapes as subtle. He
was really a superb animal as he stepped out of his bath.
"I wish to heavens you'd dress. Leave off messing yourself about.
I want breakfast. Lizzie's waiting. What are you putting on those
clothes for? Where are you going?"
"I am going to see Lily Young. She wrote to me this morning saying
she had her mother's permission to ask me to come."
"She won't like you any better for all that scent and washing."
"Which of these neckties do you like?"
"I don't know.... I wish you'd be quick. Come on!"
As he fixed his tie with a pearl pin he whistled the "Wedding March."
Catching Frank's eyes, he laughed and sang at the top of his voice as
he went down the passage.
Lizzie was reading in one of the arm-chairs that stood by the high
chimney-piece tall with tiles and blue vases. The stiffness and glare
of the red cloth in which the room was furnished, contrasted with the
soft colour of the tapestry which covered one wall. The round table
shone with silver, and an agreeable smell of coffee and sausages
pervaded the room. Lizzie looked up astonished; but without giving
her time to ask questions, Mike seized her and rushed her up and
down.
"Let me go! let me go!" she exclaimed. "Are you mad?"
Frank caught up his fiddle. At last Lizzie wrenched herself from
Mike.
"What do you mean? ... Such nonsense!"
Laughing, Mike placed her in a chair, and uncovering a dish, said--
"What shall I give you this happy day?"
"What do you mean? I don't like being pulled about."
"You know what tune that is? That's the 'Wedding March.'"
"Who's going to be married? Not you."
"I don't know so much about that. At all events I am in love. The
sensation is delicious--like an ice or a glass of Chartreuse. Real
love--all the others were coarse passions--I feel it here, the
genuine article. You would not believe that I could fall in love."
"Listen to me," said Lizzie. "You wouldn't talk like that if you were
in love."
"I always talk; it relieves me. You have no idea how nice she is; so
frail, so white--a white blonde, a Seraphita. But you haven't read
Balzac; you do not know those white women of the North. '_Plus
blanche que la blanche hermine_,' etc. So pure is she that I cannot
think of kissing her without sensations of sacrilege. My lips are not
pure enough for hers. I would I were chaste. I never was chaste."
Mike laughed and chattered of everything. Words came from him like
flour from a mill.
The _Pilgrim_ was published on Wednesday. Wednesday was the day,
therefore, for walking in the Park; for lunching out; for driving in
hansoms. Like a fish on the crest of a wave he surveyed
London--multitudinous London, circulating about him; and he smiled
with pleasure when he caught sight of trees spreading their summer
green upon the curling whiteness of the clouds. He loved the Park.
The Park had always been his friend; it had given him society when no
door was open to him; it had been the inspiration of all his
ambitions; it was the Park that had first showed him ladies and
gentlemen in all the gaud and charm of town leisure. There he had
seen for the first time the panorama of slanting sunshades, patent
leather shoes, horses cantering in the dusty sunlight, or proudly
grouped, the riders flicking the flies away with gold-headed whips.
He loved the androgynous attire of the horsewomen--collars, silk
hats, and cravats. The Park appealed to him intensely and strangely
as nothing else did. He loved the Park for the great pasture it
afforded to his vanity. It was in the Park he saw the fashionable
procuress driving--she who would not allow him to pay even for
champagne in her house; it was in the Park he met the little actress
who looked so beseechingly in his face; it was in the Park he met
fashionable ladies who asked him to dinner and took him to the
theatre; it was in the Park he had found life and fortune, and,
saturated with happiness, with health, tingling with consciousness of
his happiness, Mike passed among the various crowd, which in its
listlessness seemed to balance and air itself like a many-petalled
flower. But much as the crowd amused and pleased him, he was more
amused and pleased with the present vision of his own personality,
which in a long train of images and stories passed within him. He
loved to dream of himself; in dreams he entered his soul like a
temple, seeing himself in various environment, and acting in manifold
circumstances.
"Here am I--a poor boy from the bogs of Ireland--poor people" (the
reflection was an unpleasant one, and he escaped from it); "at all
events a poor boy without money or friends. I have made myself what I
am.... I get the best of everything--women, eating, clothes; I live
in beautiful rooms surrounded with pretty things. True, they are not
mine, but what does that matter?--I haven't the bother of looking
after them.... If I could only get rid of that cursed accent, but I
haven't much; Escott has nearly as much, and he was brought up at an
English school. How pleasant it is to have money! Heigho! How
pleasant it is to have money! Six pounds a week from the paper, and I
could make easily another four if I chose. Sometimes I don't get any
presents; women seem as if they were going to chuck it up, and then
they send all things--money, jewelry, and comestibles. I am sure it
was Ida who sent that hundred pounds. What should I do if it ever
came out? But there's nothing to come out. I believe I am suspected,
but nothing can be proved against me.
"Why do they love me? I always treat them badly. Often I don't even
pretend to love them, but it makes no difference. Pious women, wicked
women, stupid women, clever women, high-class women, low-class women,
it is all the same--all love me. That little girl I picked up in the
Strand liked me before she had been talking to me five minutes. And
what sudden fancies! I come into a room, and every feminine eye fills
with sudden emotion. I wonder what it is. My nose is broken, and my
chin sticks out like a handle. And men like me just as much as women
do. It is inexplicable. True, I never say disagreeable things; and it
is so natural to me to wheedle. I twist myself about them like a
twining plant about a window. Women forgive me everything, and are
glad to see me after years. But they are never wildly jealous.
Perhaps I have never been really loved.... I don't know though--Lady
Seeley loved me. There was an old lady at Margate, sixty if she was a
day (of course there was nothing improper), and she worshipped me.
How nicely she used to smile when she said, 'Come round here that I
may look at you!'--and her husband was quite as bad; he'd run all
over the place after me. So-and-so was quite offended because I
didn't rush to see him; he'd put me up for six months.... Servants
hate Frank; for me they'd do anything. I never was in a lodging-house
in my life that the slavey didn't fall in love with me. People
dislike me; I speak to them for five minutes, and henceforth they run
after me. I make friends everywhere.
"Those Americans wanted me to come and stay six months with them in
New York. How she did press me to come! ... The Brookes, they want me
to come and stay in the country with them; they'd give me horses to
ride, guns to shoot, and I'd get the girls besides. They looked
rather greedily at me just now. How jealous poor old Emily is of
them! She says I'd 'go to the end of the earth for them'--and would
not raise a little finger for her. Dear old Emily, she wasn't a bit
cross the other night when I wouldn't go home with her. I must go and
see her. She says she loved me--really loved me! ... She used to lie
and dream of pulling me out of burning houses. I wonder why I am
liked! How intangible, and yet how real! What a wonderful character I
would make in a novel!"
At that moment he saw Mrs. Byril in the crowd; but notwithstanding
his kind thoughts of her, he prayed she might pass without seeing
him. Perceiving Lady Helen walking with her husband and Harding, he
followed her slim figure with his eyes, remembering what Seymour's
good looks had brought him, for he envied all love, desiring to be
himself all that women desire. Then his thoughts wandered. The
decoration of the Park absorbed him--the nobility of a group of
horses, the attractiveness of some dresses; and amid all this
elegance and parade he dreamed of tragedy--of some queen blowing her
brains out for him--and he saw the fashionable dress and the blood
oozing from the temple, trickling slowly through the sand. Then Lords
Muchross and Snowdown passed, and they passed without acknowledging
him!
"Cads, cads, damn them!" His face changed expression. "I may rise to
any height, queens may fall down and worship me, but I may never undo
my birth. Not to have been born a gentleman! That is to say, of a
long line--a family with a history. Not to be able to whisper, 'I may
lose everything, all troubles may be mine, but the fact remains that
I was born a gentleman!' Those two men who cut me are lords. What a
delight in one's life to have a name all to one's self!" And then
Mike lost himself in a maze of little dreams. A gleam of mail;
escutcheons and castles; a hawk flew from fingers fair; a lady
clasped her hands when the lances shivered in the tourney; and Mike
was the hero that persisted in the course of this shifting little
dream.
The Brookes--Sally and Maggie--stopped to speak to him, and he went
to lunch with them. His interest in all they did and said was
unbounded, and that he might not be able to reproach himself with
waste of time, he contrived by hint and allusion to lay the
foundation for a future intrigue with one of the girls.
Lily Young, however, had never been forgotten; she had been as
constantly present in his mind as this sense of the sunshine and his
own happy condition. She had been parcel of and one with these but
now; as he drove to see her, he separated her from the morning
phenomena of his life, and began to think definitely of her.
Smiling, he called himself a brute, and regretted his failure. But in
her presence his cynicism was evanescent. She sat on a little sofa,
covered with an Indian shawl; behind her was a great bronze, the
celebrated gift of a celebrated Rajah to her mother. Mrs. Young had
been on a tour in the East with her husband, and ever since her house
had been frequented by decrepit old gentlemen interested in Arabi,
and other matters which they spoke of as Eastern questions.
Lily looked at Mike under her eyes as she passed across the room to
get him some tea, and they talked a little while. Then some three or
four great and very elderly historians entered, and she had to leave
him; and feeling he could not prolong his visit he went, conscious of
sensations of purity and some desire of goodness, if not for itself,
for the grace that goodness brings. He paid many visits in this
house, but conversations with learned Buddhists seemed the only
result; a _tête-à-tête_ with Lily seemed impossible. To his surprise
he never met her in society, and his heart beat fast when one evening
he heard she was expected; and for the first time forgetful of the
multitude, and nervous as a school-boy in search of his first love,
he sought her in the crowd. He feared to remain with her, and it
seemed to him he had accomplished much in asking her to come down to
supper. When talking to others his thoughts were with her, and his
eyes followed her. An inquisitive woman noted his agitation, and
suspecting the cause, said, "I see, I see, and I think something may
come of it." Even when Lily left he did not recover his ordinary
humour, and about two in the morning, in sullen weariness and
disappointment, he offered to drive Lady Helen home.
Should he make love to her? He had often wished to. Here was an
opportunity.
"You did not see that I was looking at you tonight; you did not guess
what I was thinking of?"
"Yes, I did; you were looking at and thinking of my arms."
Should he pass his arm round her? Lady Helen knew Lily, and might
tell; he did not dare it, and instead, spoke of her contributions to
the paper. Then the conversation branched into a description of the
Wednesday night festivities in Temple Gardens--the shouting and
cheering of the lords, the comic vocalists, the inimitable Arthur,
the extraordinary Bessie. He told, with fits of laughter, of
Muchross's stump speeches, and how he had once got on the
supper-table and sat down in the very centre, regardless of plates
and dishes. Mike and Lady Helen nearly died of laughter when he
related how on one occasion Muchross and Snowdown, both crying drunk,
had called in a couple of sweeps. "You see," he said, "the look of
amazement on their faces, and the black 'uns were forced into two
chairs, and were waited upon by the lords, who tucked their napkins
under their arms."
"Oh don't, oh don't!" said Lady Helen, leaning back exhausted.
But Mike went on, though he was hardly able to speak, and told how
Muchross and Snowdown had danced the can-can, kicking at the
chandelier from time to time, the sweeps keeping time with their
implements on the sideboard; the revel finishing up with a wrestling
match, Muchross taking the big sweep, and Snowdown the little one.
"You should have seen them rolling over under the dining-room table;
I shall never forget Snowdown's shirt."
"I should like to see one of these entertainments. Do you ever have a
ladies' night? If you do, and the ladies are not supposed to wrestle
with the laundresses in the early light, I should like to come."
"Oh, yes, do come; Frank will be delighted. I'll see that things are
kept within bounds." The conversation fell, and he regretted he must
forego this very excellent opportunity to make love to her.
Next day, changed in his humour, but still thinking of Lily, he went
to see Mrs. Byril, and he stopped a few days with her. He was always
strict in his own room, and if Emily sought him in the morning he
reprimanded her.
She was one of those women who, having much heart, must affect more;
a weak intelligent woman, honest and loyal--one who could not live
without a lover. And with her arms about his neck, she listened to
his amours, and learnt his poetry by heart. Mike was her folly, and
she would never have thought of another if, as she said, he had only
behaved decently to her. "I am sorry, darling, I told you anything
about it, but when I got your beastly letter I wrote to him. Tell me
you'll come and stay with me next month, and I'll put him off.... I
hate this new girl; I am jealous because she may influence you, but
for the others--the Brookes and their friends--the half-hours spent
in summer-houses when the gardener is at dinner, I care not one jot."
So she spoke as she lay upon his knees in the black satin arm-chair
in the drawing-room.
But her presence at breakfast--that invasion of the morning
hours--was irritating; he hated the request to be in to lunch, and
the duty of spending the evening in her drawing-room, instead of in
club or bar-room. He desired freedom to spend each minute as the
caprice of the moment prompted. Were he a rich man he would not have
lived with Frank; to live with a man was unpleasant; to live with a
woman was intolerable. In the morning he must be alone to dream of a
book or poem; in the afternoons, about four, he was glad to
æstheticize with Harding or Thompson, or abandon himself to the charm
of John's aspirations.
John and he were often seen walking together, and they delighted in
the Temple. The Temple is escapement from the omniscient domesticity
which is so natural to England; and both were impressionable to its
morning animation--the young men hurrying through the courts and
cloisters, the picturesqueness of a wig and gown passing up a flight
of steps. It seemed that the old hall, the buttresses and towers, the
queer tunnels leading from court to court, turned the edge of the
commonplace of life. Nor did the Temple ever lose for them its quaint
and primitive air, and as they strolled about the cloisters talking
of art or literature, they experienced a delight that cannot be quite
put into words; and were strangely glad as they opened the iron
gates, and looked on all the many brick entanglements with the tall
trees rising, spreading the delicate youth of leaves upon the weary
red of the tiles and the dim tones of the dear walls.
"A gentel Manciple there was of the Temple
Of whom achatours mighten take ensample
For to ben wise in bying of vitaille."
The gentle shade of linden trees, the drip of the fountain, the
monumented corner where Goldsmith rests, awake even in the most
casual and prosaic a fleeting touch of romance. And the wide steps
with balustrades sweeping down in many turnings to the gardens, cause
vagrant and hurrying steps to pause, and wander about the library and
through the gardens, which lead with such charm of way to the open
spaces of the King's Bench walk.
There, there is another dining-hall and another library. The clock is
ringing out the hour, and the place is filled with young men in
office clothes, hurrying on various business with papers in their
hands; and such young male life is one of the charms of the Temple;
and the absence of women is refreshment to the eye wearied of their
numbers in the streets. The Temple is an island in the London sea.
Immediately you pass the great doorway, studded with great nails, you
pass out of the garishness of the merely modern day, unhallowed by
any associations, into a calmer and benigner day, over which floats
some shadow of the great past. The old staircases lighted by strange
lanterns, the river of lingering current, bearing in its winding so
much of London into one enchanted view. The church built by the
Templars more than seven hundred years ago, now stands in the centre
of the inn all surrounded, on one side yellowing smoke-dried
cloisters, on another side various closes, feebly striving in their
architecture not to seem too shamefully out of keeping with its
beauty. There it stands in all the beauty of its pointed arches and
triple lancet windows, as when it was consecrated by the Patriarch of
Jerusalem in the year 1185.
But in 1307 a great ecclesiastical tribunal was held in London, and
it was proved that an unfortunate knight, who had refused to spit
upon the cross, was haled from the dining-hall and drowned in a well,
and testimony of the secret rites that were held there, and in which
a certain black idol was worshipped, was forthcoming. The Grand
Master was burnt at the stake, the knights were thrown into prison,
and their property was confiscated. Then the forfeited estate of the
Temple, presenting ready access by water, at once struck the
advocates of the Court of Common Pleas at Westminster, and the
students who were candidates for the privilege of pleading therein,
as a most desirable retreat, and interest was made with the Earl of
Lancaster, the king's first cousin, who had claimed the forfeited
property of the monks by escheat, as the immediate lord of the fee,
for a lodging in the Temple, and they first gained a footing there as
his lessees.
Above all, the church with its round tower-like roof was very dear to
Mike and John, and they often spoke of the splendid spectacle of the
religious warriors marching in procession, their white tunics with
red crosses, their black and white banner called Beauseant. It is
seen on the circular panels of the vaulting of the side aisles, and
on either side the letters BEAUSEANT. There stands the church of the
proud Templars, a round tower-like church, fitting symbol of those
soldier monks, at the west end of a square church, the square church
engrafted upon the circular so as to form one beautiful fabric. The
young men lingered around the time-worn porch, lovely with foliated
columns, strange with figures in prayer, and figures holding scrolls.
And often without formulating their intentions in words they entered
the church. Beneath the groined ribs of the circular tower lie the
mail-clad effigies of the knights, and through beautiful gracefulness
of grouped pillars the painted panes shed bright glow upon the
tesselated pavement. The young men passed beneath the pointed arches
and waited, their eyes raised to the celestial blueness of the
thirteenth-century window, and then in silence stole back whither the
knights sleep so grimly, with hands clasped on their breasts and
their long swords.
And seeing himself in those times, clad in armour, a knight Templar
walking in procession in that very church, John recited a verse of
Tennyson's _Sir Galahad_--
"Sometimes on lonely mountain meres
I find a magic bark;
I leap on board; no helmsman steers:
I float till all is dark.
A gentle sound, an awful light!
Three angels bear the holy Grail;
With folded feet, in stoles of white,
On sleeping wings they sail.
Ah, blessed vision! blood of God!
My spirit beats her mortal bars,
As down dark tides the glory slides,
And star-like mingles with the stars."
"Oh! very beautiful. 'On sleeping wings they sail.' Say it again."
John repeated the stanza, his eyes fixed upon the knight.
Mike said--
"How different to-day the girls of the neighbourhood, their
prayer-books and umbrellas! Yet I don't think the anachronism
displeases me."
"You say that to provoke me; you cannot think that all the dirty
little milliners' girls of the neighbourhood are more dignified than
these Templars marching in procession and taking their places with
iron clangour in the choir."
"So far as that is concerned," said Mike, who loved to "draw" John,
"the little girls of the neighbourhood in all probability wash
themselves a great deal oftener than the Templars ever did. And have
you forgotten the accusations that were brought against them before
the ecclesiastical tribunal assembled in London? What about the black
idol with shining eyes and gilded head?"
"Their vices were at least less revolting than the disgustful
meanness of to-day; besides, nothing is really known about the
reasons for the suppression of the Templars. Men who forswear women
are open to all contumely. Oh! the world is wondrous, just wondrous
well satisfied with its domestic ideals."
The conversation came to a pause, and then Mike spoke of Lily Young,
and extolled her subtle beauty and intelligence.
"I never liked any one as I do her. I am ashamed of myself when I
think of her purity."
"The purity of ... Had she been pure she would have remained in her
convent."
"If you had heard her speak of her temptations...."
"I do not want to hear her temptations. But it was you who tempted
her to leave her convent. I cannot but think that you should marry
her. There is nothing for you but marriage. You must change your
life. Think of the constant sin you are living in."
"But I don't believe in sin."
With a gesture that declared a non-admission of such a state of soul,
John hesitated, and then he said--
"The beastliness of it!"
"We have to live," said Mike, "since nature has so willed it, but I
fully realize the knightliness of your revolt against the principle
of life."
John continued his admonitions, and Mike an amused and appreciative
listener.
"At all events, I wish you would promise not to indulge in improper
conversation when I am present. It is dependent upon me to beg of you
to oblige me in this. It will add greatly to your dignity to refrain;
but that is your concern; I am thinking now only of myself. Will you
promise me this?"
"Yes, and more; I will promise not to indulge in such conversation,
even when you are not present. It is, as you say, lowering.... I
agree with you. I will strive to mend my ways."
And Mike was sincere; he was determined to become worthy of Lily. And
now the best hours of his life--hours strangely tense and strangely
personal--were passed in that Kensington drawing-room. She was to him
like the light of a shrine; he might kneel and adore from afar, but
he might not approach. The goddess had come to him like the moon to
Endymion. He knew nothing, not even if he were welcome. Each visit
was the same as the preceding. A sweet but exasperating
changelessness reigned in that drawing-room--that pretty drawing-room
where mother and daughter sat in sweet naturalness, removed from the
grossness and meanness of life as he knew it. Neither illicit
whispering nor affectation of reserve, only the charm of strict
behaviour; unreal and strange was the refinement, material and
mental, in which they lived. And for a time the charm sufficed;
desire was at rest. But she had been to see him, however at variance
such a visit, such event seemed with her present demeanour. And
she must come again! In increasing restlessness he conned all the
narrow chances of meeting her, of speaking to her alone. But no
accident varied the even tenor of their lives, the calm lake-like
impassibility of their relations, and in last resort he urged Frank
to give a dance or an At Home. And how ardently he pleaded, one
afternoon, sitting face to face with mother and daughter. Inwardly
agitated, but with outward calm, he impressed upon them many reasons
for their being of the party. The charm of the Temple, the river, and
glitter of light, the novel experience of bachelors' quarters....
They promised to come.