Standing on a tidal river, it harboured the vessels of all nations and
the peculiar vices of each; there were, besides, barracks in the town,
which brought their special dangers. High wages and a high standard of
living prevailed: the head of one family would be calling for green
peas in April, while the head of another, discharged from the same
position, perhaps for drunkenness, would send his children, filthy,
barefoot, and famishing, into the street to beg. That popular vice,
drunkenness, flourished like a green bay-tree. A public-house blossomed
at every street’s corner, and its devotees lounged in its shade with
their hands in their holey pockets. Passing one such palace as a youth
pushed open the door, Dolly had a view of the crowded bar, and breathed
in a puff of hot vapour wherein the scents of tobacco and gin and old
clothes contended for the mastery.
“There are too many of those places!” she exclaimed, averting her
offended face.
“There are,” Lal answered her, rather bitterly.
“I cannot see why the licenses are renewed.”
“Can you not? Every English government lives by this traffic; do you
expect pious sons to commit parricide?”
“You feel very strongly about it,” said Dolly, wondering.
“I see the results of the present system.”
“Then do you believe in Prohibition or in Local Option?”
“I? I believe in putting the whole trade under public control, in
reducing the number of licenses, and in giving the publicans a fixed
salary independent of the number of men they turn into drunkards.”
“But those are not Miss Laurenson’s views, surely?” asked Dolly,
somewhat taken aback. Lal was already repenting of his candour.
“It’s one of the questions of principle on which we differ,” he said,
in his soft, lazy voice. “Don’t betray me, Miss Fane; it will be time
for me to reveal my heresies when Prohibition comes down out of the
clouds. Angela herself is not where her theories are; she does plenty
of practical hard work.”
“Mr. Laurenson, what practical hard work do you do?”
“I?”
“You. I know you do something.”
“Who told you anything about me?”
“No one. I gathered it from the way you speak.”
“Oh, I see.” Lal was unmistakably relieved.
“I wish you would tell me how you set about it.”
“I’d rather not discuss the question.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Dolly. Twice, now, had he shut up like an
oyster and pinched her fingers; and she was half angry, until she
recognised that he meant no rudeness. To this conclusion was she
brought by the study of his face. Lal, when he spoke of himself, had a
trick of drooping his eyelids, so that, as the lashes were long, his
eyes were hidden completely; he was foolish enough to be modest. The
compression of his sensitive lips notified Dolly of another extenuating
circumstance: namely, that he was uncomfortable to the point of frenzy.
In escaping her inquiries he was ready to leap clear over the bars
of politeness; surely, then, since he so valorously defended their
privacy, his convictions must be very dear to him. As she was musing
thus, the drooped lids were raised with disconcerting abruptness, and
Lal’s beautiful dark-grey eyes looked down appealingly.
“I did not mean to be rude. I would rather be rude to any one than
you,” he said.
Dolly’s breathing quickened; a warm spring rose in her heart. “I had
no business to ask you; but I thought perhaps I might do something
myself,” she said.
“It is only that I—” Here Lal stopped. “I don’t think—” he began
again; and finally clothed his thought in a general law, altogether
eliminating the painful personal pronoun _I_. “An amateur’s private
opinion is never very interesting.”
“And you would rather not talk about your private opinions.”
“I’m not very good at it,” Lal admitted. “In fact, I generally make a
fool of myself when I try—as on the present occasion.” The victim of
aphasia had put off his apology until they were close to the hall, and
further conversation was stopped by their arrival at the door.
“You’re coming in?” said Dolly, as he paused.
He shook his head.
“Don’t you approve of _this_?”
“I’m afraid I don’t like religion when it’s vulgar,” said Lal. He
raised his hat and walked off down the street, and Dolly and her
friends went in.
No cause needs salvation from its friends as does this of temperance.
Intolerance, exaggeration, bad logic, bad taste, and bad grammar have
all supported and do support it still, estranging men who would be
content to work with the reformers if they took their stand on the
noble charter given them by St. Paul: “_If meat make my brother to
offend, I will eat no flesh while the world standeth._” At Swanborough
there were two evangelists, whose names appeared on the programme as
Rev. Dr. Brown and Rev. S. Jones, for your true temperance evangelist
eschews the adjective _the_ as rigidly as temperance in his speeches.
The one spoke on “Gospel Dynamics”; the other proved the Bible a
total-abstinence book and, incidentally, himself no orator. Angela
found it hard to feel pleased; she looked at Bernard, and saw him
yawning undisguisedly, and then at Dolly, who sat with hands folded,
inattentive but composed.
And Dolly was composed, though she was conscious of a strange
exaltation which rosed her cheek and set her heart throbbing and pulses
beating in time with it in every finger. A well-spring of soft warmth
suffused her frame; she shut her eyes and saw visions, she who was no
dreamer—visions in which one figure alone was constant. She owned the
truth. “I love him,” she told herself. Shame she did not feel; she
believed that Lal loved her back, and even if he did not there was
no humiliation, since her gift was voluntary, since she was proud of
her love. He won her by being better than herself. Dolly was a little
pagan; her love was wild as a bird; but in it ran a puritan strain
which claimed an answering purity in the man she loved. Irreproachable
though he was, Noel Farquhar could not give her that, nor yet could
Lucian, though he was nearer to her ideal. But in Dolly’s room at home
she had an engraving of Watts’s fine picture of Sir Galahad; and the
artist might have drawn his young knight’s face from Lal as he looked
on a Sunday morning in church, when he sat in his corner behind a
pillar which hid him from sight, as he thought. Had he known that Dolly
had a clear though narrow view of his profile against the black marble
of a mural tablet, it would have made him retrospectively very unhappy.
Love left Dolly the same girl as before, save that it illumined a side
of her nature which had been hidden, as the sunlight, creeping across
from the first faint rim of the crescent, slowly enlightens the disk
of the moon. True, she now felt quite charitable towards Angela; but
Angela was Lal’s sister. She was also more lenient to the ungrammatical
orators on the platform; for the excellent reason that she did not
listen to them. These were accidents of circumstance. But when a stout
lady in front ecstatically planted the hind-leg of her chair upon
Dolly’s instep and sat heavily down, the ennobling power of love did
not hold her back from feeling annoyed.
When they came out Dolly listened to a discussion of the meeting, and
herself added her word with moderate indifference. They walked together
to the station, but Dolly, whose mood was dreamy, soft, and languorous,
dissociated herself from the others and walked alone. As she passed the
Sailors’ Arms, which seemed a popular hostelry, the door again stood
open, and again Dolly glanced in, and again saw the crowded bar; but
this time Sir Galahad was leaning across the counter conversing with
the bar-maid.
XV
COLLOQUIES WITH AN OUTSIDER
Dolly did her best to get Bernard away from the station before Lal came
up; but as she had only that morning been preaching the duties of man
to unprotected females, and as Bernard’s desires went wholly along with
his duty, she could not detach him from Angela. She went away herself,
on the pretext of ordering the dog-cart, met Lal in the station yard,
looked full in his face, and refused to know him.
Angela was waiting impatiently; Lal had promised to meet her at six
o’clock, their train went at six-fifteen, and it was now five minutes
past. Lal was always exact in keeping his engagements. Angela felt
uneasy, and was cross. Bernard stayed with her till ten minutes after
the hour, and then hurried off to consult his sister. Dolly was quite
ready to drive back alone; perhaps because the route through Hungrygut
Bottom was in her mind as the best way home, and to it Bernard might
have demurred on the horse’s account, for it was steep and stony, the
roads having been recently repaired. She had an idea that Lal might be
waiting in the high-road to see her pass. Bernard, having her consent,
hurried back; he was just in time to install Angela in a first-class
carriage, with himself as guardian for their half-hour’s journey. Then
Angela, discovering that she was shut up alone with Bernard Fane, began
to wish herself idiotic, dead, buried, anywhere out of the world, and
plunged into a fresh discussion of temperance.
* * * * *
Lal had stood like a statue till Dolly was out of sight, and then tried
to follow her. He had not seen which road she took, and his wanderings
led him far from the station. At last he bethought him that the horse
must be stabled somewhere, and began to inquire; and half an hour later
tracked her down at the Railway Hotel. While he was still questioning
the waiter, a man passed through the hall and would have gone out had
not Lal interrupted himself and sprang forward, crying out, “Meryon!”
The gambler turned round, colouring with pleasure. “I didn’t know you
were home!” he said. “I heard you’d got no end of stars and orders,
but I didn’t know you were home! I’m so awfully glad.”
“I’m staying with the Mertons; what are you doing?”
“I’m here for the night. Come to my room, will you? There’s heaps I
want to know.”
Lal, who had just heard that Dolly had departed full half an hour ago,
abandoned his quest for the nonce, and went. Meryon and he had been
friends for years, though the guardian angel knew it not; she would
have feared the effect of pitch on Lal’s innocence if she had. They
met rarely; in the intervals their friendship hibernated, coming out
unspoiled when times of refreshing arrived. Meryon wrote never, Lal
rarely, and when he did his stiff little letters were mere catalogues
of events. But friendship, like the python, can live for years unfed.
Meryon’s room was full of untidy properties tidily arranged. A
discreditable old Collard & Collard was its only luxury. He had been
playing patience, and the cards were scattered about the table; Lal sat
down on a bedroom chair, leaning his elbow on the wash-stand and his
chin on his hand, and watched Meryon gather them up.
“You haven’t given up playing, then?” he said.
“No, I never shall now—the cards have got their grip on me. You’re
looking sick, Lal,” said the elder man, earnestly; “what’s the matter?”
“I got hurt, you know.”
“Oh yes, I heard about that in the papers. You came back in a regular
blaze of glory; I was awfully proud of knowing you. Is your sister all
right?”
“Angela? Perfectly—about to marry, I fancy.”
“Is the man a good sort?”
“Oh, very. I think she will be happy.”
“Been doing any more of your own work?”
“At intervals. When the chance comes.”
Meryon jerked the bottom of the pack down on the table, and pressed
and patted it straight between his palms. “Try a game of écarté?” he
suggested.
Lal shook his head.
“I’ll play without stakes, for once.”
“No. I never play.”
“I don’t see why not. Even father used to play whist in the evenings,
he and mother and two of the canons, awfully decent old chaps; and I
used to stand behind mother and give her tips. Father was no end of
a good player. I don’t see why you won’t, Lal. It’s wonderful how it
takes you out of yourself.”
Lal shook his head again. “I never have played and never shall.”
“Are you afraid?”
“Perhaps.”
Meryon looked at him earnestly. “You’re very queer, Lal,” he said. “I
believe you’ve got heaps of things in you that no one ever suspects. I
believe you’re a born gambler—I hope you won’t mind my saying so. But
there’s no harm; you aren’t like me, you’d never give way to it.”
“If I once began I should never stop,” Lal took him up, swiftly.
“You’re right; I’m not like you, Meryon. I haven’t your pluck. I had to
give up motoring because I could not keep my head while I was driving.
I’m as weak as water.”
“But you never do the things, you only want to and don’t let yourself.
I call that being strong, not weak. That’s just what I like. You’re so
excitable, you have to keep tight hold of yourself for fear you should
go to the bad, and yet you never do anything you shouldn’t.”
Lal only shrugged his shoulders. Meryon, who was still standing,
dropped the cards and put his hand on Lal’s arm. “What _is_ the
matter?” he said, tenderly. “What’s worrying you, old fellow?”
Lal did not answer, because he was incapable of explaining. It was
necessary for his interlocutor to drag the truth out of him by
questions. Dolly had found out this; but whereas Lal’s desire had been
to escape from her, he was anxious to make confession to Meryon.
“I say, old fellow, is it a girl?” questioned the gambler.
“Yes.”
“Then, of course, it’s serious; it would be with you. Won’t she have
you?”
“I haven’t asked her.”
“Have you had a quarrel?”
“I have just met her, and she cut me dead. Heaven knows why; I don’t.”
Meryon, by a string of questions, contrived to elicit the story of
Lal’s courtship. The cause of Dolly’s coldness puzzled him, as it had
puzzled Lal, but after several abortive inquiries he hit at last on the
right track.
“I don’t see what could have happened while the meeting was going on to
make her change so. What were you doing all the time?”
“Business.”
“What, your own sort of business?”
Lal nodded.
“Whereabouts?”
“Oh, in the town.”
“Tell me where, old fellow—that is, if you don’t mind me meddling.”
“At the Sailors’ Arms; you know the place.”
“It’s a hell of a hole,” said Meryon, soberly. “Did you go in?”
“For a few minutes.”
“I say, it’s on the way from the Corn Exchange to the station. I say,
do you think she could have seen you?”
Lal was silent. Remembering that Dolly had noticed the place before, he
thought it possible.
“It’s all very well to say girls don’t mind that sort of thing—like a
man to sow his wild oats, and all that; but they do mind, the nicest of
them. And she’d think you must be such an awful humbug, too. You know,
old fellow, the thing for you to do is to go and ask her, and tell her
right away.”
“I could not possibly do it, and I would not for the world if I could,”
said Lal, with great decision.
“Why not?”
Lal shrugged his shoulders.
“I expect you mean you’re too shy, and don’t like talking about that
sort of thing to a girl. Is that it?”
“I dare say.”
“Old fellow, can’t you get over that?”
“I _cannot_,” said Lal, impatiently. “What, tell Miss Fane that I—that
the girl—Besides, she doesn’t care a straw for me. I shall ask her if
she’ll have me, and then go. Angela, at least, will be heartily glad.”
“Is her name Fane? Not Dolly Fane, by any chance?”
“Yes, it is. Do you know her?”
“I took her in to dinner once at the Mertons,” said Meryon. After a
pause he went on: “Do you know, Lal, there’s two other men after her.
De Saumarez, who I’ve told you about, is one, and Farquhar, the M.P.”
“Of course she likes one of them,” said Lal, after another pause. “I
hope it isn’t Farquhar. I dislike that fellow.”
“I thought he was all that’s virtuous. You never caught him out in any
tricks, did you?”
“Not I! But I’d rather she married a gentleman.”
“I always thought he was an awful swell,” said Meryon, meekly.
Lal coloured and laughed, and glanced up through his eyelashes. “I am a
conceited, dogmatic prig; how can you possibly tolerate me, Meryon?” he
said. “I’ve talked about myself long enough; now let’s hear what you’ve
been doing.”
They talked on for an hour or more, and then Meryon persuaded Lal to
play to him, listening the while in quiet, uncritical enjoyment, and
caressing the black kitten asleep on his knee. Meryon always stipulated
for a piano in his room when his resources could be stretched to
cover such a luxury. He was very fond of strumming out airs from the
overtures and selections which he heard from bands at casinos; he had
an ear for melody, but had never learned music. Lal, on the contrary,
was a practised pianist; he played correctly, an achievement rare in
these days; his execution was sure and delicate, his touch very clear,
bright, and firm. He was very careful to hide this talent of his in a
napkin. Meryon had come to hear of it by accident. Lal sat down and
very quietly played through first a sonata by Mozart, then a _courante_
of Bach’s. His taste was for the orderly, old-fashioned music; he hated
Wagner, and thought even Mendelssohn too fond of innovations. Did
not he say of himself that he was dogmatic? But he gave Meryon great
pleasure.
Later, Lal went home; and Meryon, after seeing him off by one train,
waited on the platform and himself followed by the next. From Monkswell
station he walked to Fanes, but Dolly had not yet come in, nor had
Bernard. Meryon would not wait; he strolled up the Swanborough road
in the hope of meeting her. Nor was he disappointed. A mile up the
road he saw a girl leading a horse down the hill, and by her supple,
slim young figure and the brightness of her hair he recognised Miss
Fane. The steepness of Hungrygut Bottom plus the violent snortings
of a steam-roller had again proved too much for the nerves of the
chestnut; he bolted down the hill and almost kicked the cart to pieces
before Dolly, who had jumped out, could catch and quell him. She left
the dog-cart for repair at Dove Green, the next village, and led
Vronsky home. Her dark cloth dress had a long skirt, which she held up
gracefully, like a French girl, with curved wrist and prettily bent
hand. She came on, looking straight before her; her lips were hard and
her face was hard; no melting mood was hers. Irony, and a stiff-necked
refusal to bend before the blast were Dolly’s armour against trouble;
she was bitterly humiliated, and would not cede an inch to humiliation.
Certain constricting bands seemed to have closed round her heart; she
had not spent so long a day since she was seven and waited outside her
mother’s room for the news of her death.
“Let me lead the horse, won’t you?” said Meryon, turning to walk with
her. Meryon was polite by instinct, as Dolly was graceful.
“Thanks, no; he bites.”
“I suppose you got smashed up. I hope you weren’t hurt.”
“Not in the least, thank you.”
This was unpromising. Meryon despaired of introducing his subject
tactfully; he was not, therefore, discouraged, but plunged straight
into it.
“I’ve just been seeing Lal Laurenson,” he said. “I beg your pardon, I
hope you won’t think it awful cheek of me to shove my oar in, but I
can’t help it. I’ve been friends with Laurenson ever since we were at
Eton together. He’s been so awfully good to me, I can’t help speaking
now. You cut him in Swanborough this afternoon.”
“I did.”
“What for?”
“I am not going to tell you. I mean,” said Dolly, “I don’t want to be
rude, but I can’t explain my reason. I had one.”
“Was it because you saw him in at the Sailors’ Arms?”
Dolly hesitated for a minute; then she answered: “Yes.”
“I’m awfully glad—I thought that was it. I can explain why he was
there.”
“Wait,” said Dolly. “Who told you this?”
“I got it out of Laurenson. I met him at the Railway Hotel, where he
was asking for you.”
“Does he know you have come to me?”
“Him? Rather not; I came right away without telling; he wouldn’t have
let me if he’d known. He said he’d never explain, himself, and he
wouldn’t; he can’t bear talking about it.”
“I can believe it.”
“No, really you’re quite wrong, you are indeed, Miss Fane. Laurenson
isn’t like that. He went there after a girl. She had run away from her
home and he wanted her to go back. He goes in for that kind of thing.
He and Miss Laurenson have got a Home in London which they run out of
their own money, but it’s Lal that has to do with working it; he’s
better than a parson, for he doesn’t ever preach, he just lives. If
he’d been anywhere in Europe that time I had to break my promise, I’d
never have given way as I did and become the beast I am. He’d have seen
me through. He respects you, and you simply can’t help being what he
thinks. He never told me about that Home, I just found it out. I’ve
been over it with him. I never shall forget it.”
“Do you know the name of the girl he saw at the Sailors’ Arms?”
“Hilda Davis. She comes from here.”
“I see. Thank you,” said Dolly. “Yes; I am glad to know.”
Meryon stopped. “I’m glad you don’t think it was cheek of me. I’d
better go back now; I’ll just catch my train.”
“Did you come here simply to tell me this?” said Dolly. “You’re a good
friend.”
“There wasn’t anything in it. I didn’t think you’d snub me; and if you
had I’d have been bound to tell you just the same. Laurenson’s been no
end good, being friends with an outsider like me,” said Meryon, with
simplicity.
Poor outsider! From a great way off his tired eyes had seen the bright
circle of happiness; he came to the light, passed through it, and so
out into the cold and lonely twilight, where his own lot was cast. He
was made for the life of a home: sociable, contented, affectionate,
fond of quiet pleasures, a lover of little children. But the tyrannous
demon who had ruled him would grant no peace; Meryon was driven out
into the wilderness, where he lived and where he died.
XVI
A NIGHT-PIECE
It might have been supposed that Dolly would be anxious to make amends
for her injustice. When Bernard came in, saying that Mrs. Merton had
invited them both to dinner the next day but one, and that he had
accepted her kindness, she should have been pleased; in place of which
she declared that she could not go. She had no dress, she said. Bernard
pointed out that she had dined with the Mertons before. “Oh yes,” said
Dolly; “but one can’t wear the same thing twice over,” and she stood
upon her argument till Bernard calmly told her that he should go and
she could stay. Dolly came near to a quarrel with him; she did actually
provoke one with her father; and then she went to bed.
In the morning she awoke reasonable and sweeter-tempered, and begged
her father’s pardon in words, and Bernard’s in deeds by making hot
cakes for breakfast. Peace reigned over the house of Fanes, except in
Dolly’s mind, which was still disturbed. For yesterday, in the flush
of her indignation and reasonable anger, she had taken a step that she
could not retrace. Waiting under the white sign-post at Dove Green
for the smith’s report on her shattered dog-cart, Dolly had made up
her mind upon one point, and had clinched the matter at once in the
post-office adjoining the smithy; and now the contemplation of the
consequences filled her with lively discomfort. She calculated that
these consequences could not arrive for two days, or possibly three;
she had two days to prepare; but how she was to do so presented a
problem of weight. Dolly felt that she had made a fool of herself, a
sensation disagreeable to a girl so proud as she; of all troubles she
could least stomach humiliation. Then, also, she knew that her blunder
would bring distress on Lucian, and was heartily sorry, for she loved
him dearly. But there was another, darker thought which would stay in
her mind, despite of reason and despite of resolution. Dolly had felt
the merciless power of Farquhar’s strength; she feared his jealousy,
cruel as the grave. Vainly she told herself that he was Lucian’s
friend; he was her lover, but that had not shielded her. Imagination
offered lurid pictures of a battle to the death between the rivals.
Vague ideas of sending Bernard out to Petit-Fays as peace-maker crossed
her mind, but the irrepressible voice of common-sense pointed out
that her brother’s attitude towards Noel Farquhar was not usually
conciliatory; also that, even if she sent him at once, he could not
possibly get there in time to do any good. In view of this last
consideration, Dolly let the matter drop; but her mind was ill at ease.
Next evening when Bernard came down into the hall he found her waiting,
muffled in a big white shawl. Bernard’s hands and head were too fully
occupied with his white kid gloves to allow him to draw deductions, and
he discerned nothing until she walked out in front of him; then he said:
“Thought you weren’t coming?”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
Z-z-p, a button jumped off. “Oh, dash the thing!” said Bernard,
disgusted.
“I’ll do it,” said Dolly, taking his wrist. “What a pity it is your
hands are so large. Mine are at least small, though I’ve spoiled the
skin with hard work. What did you talk about in the train yesterday?”
“That temperance rot, most of the time.”
“You do waste your chances, Bernard.”
“Well, she seemed to like it.”
“Why didn’t you ask her to marry you? You mean to, don’t you?”
“All in good time; I’m in no such mighty hurry.”
“I know _I_ wouldn’t take you,” said Dolly, viciously linking the final
button.