IN THE HAZEL COPSE.
Mr. Tremain, after leaving Miss Darling in the safe custody of George
Newbold, walked hastily out of the theatre by a side entrance, and
making his way along a narrow and dimly lighted corridor, came to a
small door opening on to an outside terrace which ran beneath the
library windows, and from which a flight of steps led to the large
flower garden--Esther Newbold's particular hobby.
He stepped out on to the terrace, shutting the door behind him, and
drawing a deep breath of relief at being once more alone. It was a
charming night; the cool fresh west wind swept by him in fitful gusts,
touched with a warmer breath of the south, and laden with all the
mystery of the thousands of miles it had travelled ere it reached this
fair spot of God's creation. It could not linger to unfold its burden of
knowledge; it could but flutter its dark soft wings and pass on in the
orbit of its destiny, leaving its mystery unsolved, its secrets
unrevealed, and murmuring ever as it went, sweeping up amidst the tall,
waving trees, or bending low to caress the sleeping flowers, telling its
message always and ever--its message of the passing of Time, of the
coming of Eternity.
"The stars heard it, and the sea,
And the answering aisles of the dim woods."
Only man, whose ears are not as yet finely enough attuned to the music
of the spheres, heard no hidden meaning in its gentle voice, no
celestial trumpet-call in its rude blasts.
Why should Nature reveal her most priceless secrets to man, since as
yet, his highest attainment is a disbelief in all things beyond his
finite wisdom, and a cavilling at what he calls the useless machinery of
organic life? Nature is as shy as she is beautiful; generous when
trusted, but niggardly when discredited. How shall the wilfully blind
expect to see into her mysteries, or the wilfully deaf hear the lilt of
her charming?
Below the terrace lay the garden beds, wrapt about in a dreamy haze, out
of which the crescent moon, set high in the intense blue of the heavens,
evoked spectral gleams of gold and silver as it fell athwart the yellow
daffodils, hanging their heavy heads down to their shrouding green
sheath-like leaves; or where the sweet narcissus raised its white disk,
distilling its rich perfume far into the night, and recalling the
beautiful Boeotian youth, whose tragic fate seemed written on each
silver petal.
"Narcissi, fairest of them all,
Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess,
Till they die of their own dear loveliness."
Here, too, blossomed the luscious double violet, hidden beneath its
close growing leaves, mingling its dainty perfume with the more pungent
exhalations of the tiny musk plant and lily-of-the-valley, while the
pale blue-eyed forget-me-not was lost in the shadows, as were the star
of Bethlehem, and the delicate classic cups of the crocus, only their
bolder yellow rims catching, now and then, a fleeting moonbeam.
A grove of sycamore trees threw up their graceful branches against the
luminous darkness, while the chestnuts swayed their half-opened downy
pink and white buds, and the maples fluttered their long, tendril-like
pods, cased in verdant green, and as rhythmical as lightly strung
Eastern prayer-beads. The faint early verdure of the lilac was just
discernible, and in one of the dark oak-trees a little mother bird,
wakened by the brilliant moonlight, crooned out a plaintive note to her
mate, who answered her by the soft fluttering of his brown wings.
And then all was still, but not silent; for the great wonderful night is
filled with the sweet harmonies of the invisible world, whose cadences
are too faint and tender to be heard among the clarion chords of the
day, but which possess an infinitude of euphony that seems borrowed from
the heavenly choirs of the New Jerusalem.
Mr. Tremain coming suddenly--from the artificiality of the miniature La
Scala, with its rose-coloured hangings, its wax tapers, its atmosphere
laden with the manufactured perfumes of chypre, jockey-club, duchesse;
and its stage, on which the mimic actors travestied the passions of real
life; its audience, made up of fair women, whose costly robes were more
priceless in their eyes than the ruder virtues of truth and honour; of
men, whose natural abilities were buried beneath a fashionable languor,
and whose moral nature was stunted and undeveloped by the blighting
curse of their century, love of gold and desire of its possession--into
the immensity and candour of the night--felt as if dealt a blow, and
stopped involuntarily, swayed by some unknown emotion that strove
against the one influence and yearned towards the other.
He stepped down from the terrace, and wandered aimlessly along the broad
garden paths, his hands clasped loosely behind him, his bare head bent
forward, the April wind stirring the short brown locks that fell over
his forehead. Now and then he stooped down and looked carefully at some
half-hidden blossom, drawing back the leaves with heedful fingers, and
smiling at his own childishness as he passed on, not rifling even one
bud from the parent stem.
The garden paths were all broad and straight, and Philip walked on,
unheeding his steps and unmindful of his course. He was very deep in
thought, so deep that presently he forgot to notice the flowers on
either side, passing on without halting at any favoured one. Dick
Darling's bald news--that Mdlle. Lamien had left the Folly--and her
apparent ignorance as to her return, had opened Philip's eyes with a
start, and revealed to him the distance he had already travelled in the
primrose path of dalliance and uncertainty.
He acknowledged to himself, with a twinge of mortification, that her
leaving the house in such a manner, and without any word to him as to
her intention, was a wound to his self-love and self-esteem. Though,
indeed, why Mdlle. Lamien should have confided her plans to him was an
open question. He had met her but once face to face since the accident,
and that opportunity had resolved itself into the unsatisfactory
interview in the corridor, when she had scorned his hand, and swept by
him down the stairs without a word.
Poor Philip! it was rather rough treatment, as he said to himself, to
have his hand refused twice in the same evening by two different women!
A smile of self-scorn and amusement came to his lips as he recalled the
incident; fate was not usually so unkind, he was not accustomed to such
churlish treatment at her hands, and the very novelty set him
speculating as to the motives that incited two such opposite natures to
a similarity of action.
Self analysis is a very deceitful occupation, and Mr. Tremain, who had
set about an interior examination as to his own feelings and intentions
regarding Mdlle. Lamien, was soon wandering far afield in the realms of
speculation regarding the ulterior motives of these two women, comparing
their various attributes, contrasting their characteristics, finding
subtle likenesses between them, and antagonistic points of approachment.
Then he recalled the little pink note, and the bouquet of jacque roses,
and Dick Darling's sarcastic criticism upon them. Why should Mdlle.
Lamien use coroneted note-paper if it was not her own? And why should
Mimi's governess waste her scanty substance upon hot-house flowers for
Esther Newbold, who certainly could better afford the luxury than her
paid dependent? And did not Mdlle. Lamien know the meaning hidden in the
blossoms? Had she some reason for selecting red roses and white
hyacinths, or was it only a coincidence, an accident?
"Were I a little more of a fatalist," thought Philip, "I should answer
my own question by reminding myself that nothing is accident in life. In
their cult, _kismet_ overrules and becomes destiny."
Meantime, taking no heed to his steps, Mr. Tremain was surprised into
consciousness by a sharp blow in the face, which recalled him to a
survey of his surroundings. He found he had wandered far beyond the
garden precincts, down a gentle declivity ending in a lightly-wooded
copse, to which a low-hanging hazel-tree branch barred his entrance.
Putting this aside, he entered the small enclosure; it was not more than
an acre in extent, the trees with which it was planted being still
young, and standing rather wide apart. The ground beneath was of
yielding though uneven turf, and quite at the far end of the tiny wood a
rustic bench was placed near a small fountain with a marble basin, into
which the water, trickling from a vase held in the marble boy
Narcissus's uplifted hands, made a pleasant murmur in the stillness of
the night.
A gleam of white drapery falling across the bench warned Philip that he
was trespassing upon a rendezvous, that had all the recognised
characteristics of an assignation. He had gone too far, however, to
retreat, since his presence must have been already announced by the
harsh crackling of the offending hazel-bough, some of the twigs having
broken in his hand as he pushed it back.
The white figure neither moved nor showed any knowledge of his approach,
but remained absolutely motionless, the head and shoulders in deep
shadow, only the gloved hands and the sweeping draperies catching
reflections from the fitful moonlight. If it was an assignation, the
lady apparently was the only one faithful to the tryst, for there was no
manly form beside her, nor manly accents raised in pleading or caress;
indeed, voices of any _timbre_ there were not. A silence, deep and
profound, held the little wood as in a spell, and the white-robed figure
with the folded hands might have been the enchanted Princess, and Philip
the Prince who was to wake her with a kiss, whose very sweetness would
open the door once again to the outside world of romance, and passion,
and disappointment.
Poor Princess! let her dream on a little longer, wrapped in her
unconscious, visionless slumber; the malignant fairy's curse of a
hundred years ago is fast wearing itself away, and with love's awakening
who can banish the twin sisters of jealousy and suspicion? Does not the
fairest rose of all the garden fair bear within its flushing bosom the
canker worm of deceit and decay?
Treading noiselessly upon the short turf, Mr. Tremain came close upon
the fair intriguer before she heard his footsteps, or was aware of his
presence. The moon, which had been slightly obscured by the passing of
some hazy clouds, now broke forth and shone down full upon the slight
upright figure that had arisen hastily, and taken a forward step or two,
as Philip's approach became known. The silver rays touched with seeming
tenderness the dark hair rolled high upon the little head, and fell
across the white neck, half concealed by a fleecy drapery, gathered
together carelessly, and held by one slender hand in a long loose glove;
they struck cool and sharp on the sweeping lines of the dress,
accentuating each fold of the silken texture, and threw into bold relief
the soft pallor of the delicately-rounded face, lingering longest where
the dark brows made a mystery of the eyes, and kissing the curved lips
that now were set and defiant; illuminating and defining each gracious
curve and outline of the graceful form, with the same ethereal
brilliancy that transformed the trickling fountain into an elixir of
life, and awakened the boy-god Narcissus into perennial youthfulness.
Mr. Tremain stopped spell-bound; and for a moment's space, in the hush
that fell between them, each could hear the quick-drawn breath of the
other, while the tinkling drops from Narcissus's vase became a Niagara
in sound and volume. Then the spell was broken, as both, with
involuntary impulse, spoke the other's name.
"Patricia!"
"Philip!"
The woman was the first to recover her composure; with a nervous laugh,
that rang a little untrue, and in a slightly strained voice, she broke
the embarrassment of the moment.
"So you, too, have caught the fever of unrest, Mr. Tremain, and become
moon-struck under the influence of Luna's fool's month. For myself, I
have always asserted that the blood of the wandering tribes flows in my
veins, the night-time and the dark hours have always been my favourite
times for----"
"A rendezvous," struck in Philip, sharply. "I have not forgotten any of
your pet peculiarities, you see. Perhaps I intrude, however; the hour
and scene demand a Romeo for your Juliet, and I can scarcely hope to
fill the part to your liking."
She started as though he had struck her, but made answer calmly enough:
"You are too modest, Mr. Tremain, by far; it is a new development in
your character, pardon me if it strikes me as somewhat ludicrous." And
she laughed lightly and coldly, though with a ring of bitterness below
the mocking notes.
But Philip was not angered by her words or her laughter; he scarcely
heard the latter, so eagerly were his eyes devouring each feature and
line of the once dearly worshipped face and form.
Surely the cheeks were a trifle more wan and hollow than in the old
days, despite the delicate rouge tinting that lay upon them; and the
eyes were deeper set, the shadows beneath them darker, their expression
more weary and unsatisfied than when last he had looked into their
violet depths; and had not the perfect modelling of her figure grown
somewhat thinner and more shrunken?
He, who remembered her in the full glory and pride of her youthful
beauty, and who had loved her in it, noted now with keenest vision each
change that time had wrought upon it. And as he gazed the old old
passion leapt into life again; his heart grew tender and longing, his
love of ten years ago awoke from its long slumber, and clamoured for its
resurrection. And yet, mingling with this tumult of emotion,
overweighing it, and pressing it back, was a strange, intangible,
inexplicable power that evolved itself out of a future of unknown
presentiment, even as it seemed but the forecast of a dread calamity.
But Philip was not one to be swayed by unseen influences; he shook off
the impression of supernatural agencies and resolved to snatch at this
one hour, which chance had thrown in his way, and wring from it whatever
of joy or sweetness could be gathered from the withered blossoms and
crushed buds of the past.
He stood face to face with Patricia once more; might not he, remembering
Esther Newbold's pleadings, even now after ten long years of separation,
gather sufficient fruit from off the golden trees of past youth and
love, to make happy and contented the downward years of life? Could a
man stand thus, looking into the eyes of the woman of his life-long
devotion, and remain indifferent? Would not any sop from out that gilded
past, if thrown to him by her hand, prove of sufficient value to be
worth his glad acceptance?
All this time his eyes had never left her face, and she grew restive
under the intensity of his scrutiny, flushing and paling, while the
hand that held the fleecy drapery about her throat and neck trembled.
"Patty," he said at last, in a voice set in a lower key than usual.
"Patty, it is ten long years since we stood thus, alone together. Do you
remember the last time we met and--parted?"
She did not answer him at first, but moved away from him some paces, and
halted beside the fountain; the marble rim that surrounded the basin was
broad and high, she seated herself upon it, and turning her face looked
upward at Philip, who had followed her.
Not more cold, or hard, or irresponsive was the face of the boy
Narcissus behind her, than was the fair impassive beauty of her face.
The springing jet of water had ceased to flow, and only a few drops fell
now and then from the upheld vase; they seemed like echoes from the past
years falling slowly, slowly, one by one.
When she spoke her voice was calm and composed, though Philip,
accustomed to its fuller cadences, caught here and there a flat note in
its ebb and flow.
"I find you are as inconsequent and as tactless as ever, Philip," she
said; and though she dropped her previous formality of address, his name
gained nothing in her using of it. "You were always a sad bungler; fancy
reminding a woman of her existence ten years ago! And then expecting her
to remember her words and actions at that time! My dear Philip you are
speaking of ancient history; why not tell me at once that Queen Anne is
dead, and expect me to be astonished? A woman remembers nothing of her
past, save her conquests and her gowns. The one tells upon her vanity,
the other tells upon her purse."
She laughed again, lightly; and drawing off her glove dipped one hand in
the dark water, stirring its surface into a hundred rippling smiles, and
scattering the drops in a shower of prismatic spherules.
"I know it is the fashion of your world, Patricia," Philip replied,
quietly, "to scoff at all things; so narrow are the limits of this
nineteenth-century philosophy that what we cannot understand we
disbelieve, what we do not wish to recall we deny, and what we are
forced to accept we despise. It is a cruel creed even for men, on the
lips of a woman it becomes detestable. You may scoff as you please,
Patricia, you cannot change or alter the old laws of God; as long as man
is man and woman, woman, memory and remorse must have a place within
their consciousness; and no matter how hard or callous you may have
grown, or how learned in the world's theology, you cannot entirely
quench the attributes bestowed upon you, when you became not only a
beautiful creation, but a woman of soul and reason. The last ten years
cannot be a blank to you, any more than our last meeting and parting can
be."
Miss Hildreth laughed again, and wiping her slender finger-tips upon a
tiny square of lace and muslin, from whose folds an odour of violets
stole forth, she answered in an even lighter tone:
"My dear Philip, let me recommend to you a certain essay on the 'Art of
Forgetting,' if you have not already read it. It is written by a modern
philosopher, it is true, but nevertheless, he sounds the heights and
depths of our social system, and evolves a theory therefrom for which he
should receive an universal peerage, bestowed upon him by his indebted
fellow-sufferers. In the art of forgetting lies one's only chance of
freedom from remorse for the past, and the inconveniences of the future.
Believe me, if we can only master thoroughly this hitherto neglected
art, we need have no further fears either for our digestions or
complexions. It was, I think, old Sir Piers who said that all one's
nightmares, physical or moral, arose from one of two causes, an unruly
liver, or a too vivid memory; let us give the old man the credit of the
aphorism, in any case."
"Since you are so willingly blind, Patricia," cried Philip, roused from
his apparent calm by the cool impertinence of her replies, "it seems a
pity to force you to recall a past that dates back ten years. And yet I
fear I must do so, for there are certain things that had better be
explained between us now. Who knows but twice ten years may come and go
before we meet again?"
He paused for a moment, but she made him no reply; her face and slim
graceful figure were thrown into high relief against the dark
hazel-trees, her silks and laces lay about her feet in careless
profusion across the short green turf, her hands were folded in the lace
scarf that wrapped her neck in its fleecy folds. Afar off in the
darkness of the drooping branches, an owl hooted, and a bird or two
answered in sleepy half-notes.
"It is not so very long ago," Philip continued, "since a letter came to
me from you."
She shivered a little and drew her laces about her more closely.
"In that letter, Patricia, you had forgotten nothing; not one detail of
the dream we dreamed together ten years ago. You wrote from your heart
then; your heart that will sometimes make its cry heard, despite the
crust of worldly artifice and selfishness you have built up upon it, and
you appealed to me to recall the old days, 'to fold back the cere-cloth
from the face of our dead past,' and see if something of beauty and
sentiment did not still cling to its memory."
She put up one hand to her face and passed it hurriedly across her
trembling lips; she did not speak, but her eyes grew large and dark in
their entreaty. Mr. Tremain continued, unheeding either her eyes or
gesture.
"I am not going to quote further from that letter, Patricia, and I will
only tax your patience a very little longer, while I describe to you two
visions conjured up by your appeal. I saw once more you, in your first
fresh loveliness and beauty, radiant with youth, transformed by love;
and I saw myself, as yet a raw, unfinished, unformed specimen of
manhood; the Creighton of a suburban society, it is true, but
nevertheless the veriest tyro in the affectations and niceties of town
etiquette. You came within my circle, and you charmed me by the sweet
graciousness of your beauty, the blue fire of your eyes, the frank
candour of your witcheries. And you--you were content to let me play
Strephon to your Chloe. And so that vision faded; and when next I saw
you in fancy, you came towards me, from out a world of light beyond,
from whence came also the echo of gay laughter and light jest; the silks
and laces of your dress fell about you jealously, I remember their
colour and their sheen, as you crept up to me, trembling. There was no
glad exclamation on your lips, no joy in your eyes, no hand held out in
welcome; hesitating and uncertain you stood before me, looking at me
from under your downcast lids, and drawing one hand slowly over the
other. And I, loving and eager, I, a very fool in love, never dreamed
the reason of your changed demeanour; no, not until hours afterwards,
when the night and the falling rain had cooled my passion. You were
ashamed of me, Patty, ashamed of your rustic lover, who came into your
presence with a heart on fire, but wearing an ill-fitting coat, and with
manners more pronounced and enthusiastic than those of your little court
in the room beyond."
He stopped and walked away from her a few paces. The woman thus left
alone seated on the marble fountain rim, never moved or spoke; only a
low cry burst from her lips, smothered as soon as born, otherwise she
remained as still and silent as the Boeotian marble god behind her,
whose prototype had lived out all the passion and the pain of loving so
many centuries ago.
The moon above drifted from cloud to cloud, flinging its silver fire
down recklessly upon the sheltered nook, and upon the fair woman
miserable in the midst of her loveliness. Mr. Tremain turned and came
back, he drew close to her and stood silent for some moments; the pity
that filled his soul, revealed in his eyes down bent upon her. After a
time he spoke, and his voice had regained its usual level tones.
"That was all, Patty, a very commonplace ending. You were ashamed of me;
ashamed of my outward appearance, which lacked the correct finish of a
Bond Street tailor; ashamed of my eagerness and my passion, and my open
adoration; ashamed of my poverty, and afraid of it. Poor pretty Patty!
poor little butterfly of fashion! What should it know of the coarser
insects of creation, whose existence was as necessary perhaps, but less
ornamental, than its own? Why should it break its pretty painted wings
in trying to soar above the sunshine of the hour? You rejected me,
Patricia, that was the end of our last interview; you rejected me and
scorned me, and cast me from you when tired of your toy, and when you
had wounded me beyond healing, and flouted my love and constancy. You
asked me to kiss you for good-bye; I think that was the bitterest moment
of all my life, Patty, it was such wanton cruelty, such selfish
triumphing. And I went from you with all the love and hope and trust and
belief of youth crushed out of my heart by your two soft little hands.
Who could have thought they had the strength to deal one such a coward's
blow?"
Again he stopped, but still she remained still and silent, the whiteness
of her face growing strange and unfamiliar in the fitful moonbeams.
"That was our last meeting and parting, Patricia, and it happened ten
years ago. And you would have me believe that you have so mastered the
art of forgetting as to make of it all only a blank chaos!"
He came nearer to her, and moving with careful hand the folds of her
dress sat down beside her on the broad marble brim. Seated thus, side by
side, his eyes were on a level with hers, and he read within their
depths so great a misery as to call forth a fuller pity in his own.
"Patty," he said, very quietly, "Patty, my answer to your letter was
cold and hard, unworthy of me. Will you forget it, my dear, and let me
give you my true answer now, with your head upon my heart, and my lips
on yours, as in the old days, Patty? The old beautiful days when the
world and our love was young. Patty, my little wayward Patty, come back
to my love and to me."
He held out his arms and would have drawn her to him, so sure was he of
her answer. But she, springing up, stood tall and dignified before him,
her bosom, from which the lace wrap had fallen, heaving with her
hurriedly drawn breath, the whiteness of her uncovered neck and arms
gleaming like alabaster, as she stood silhouetted against the sombre
boughs of the hazel-trees behind her. Her eyes flashed with their old
fire, she raised one hand in her old favourite imperious gesture, and
when she spoke the tones of her voice had grown round and full and
musical.
"No, Philip," she cried, "you come too late. What! you think you have
but to throw the handkerchief and I will run gladly to pick it up? You
are willing to accept me now, because for some concealed reason of your
own, I appear more desirable in your eyes, better worth the having, and
so you read me a long monologue on your constancy and love, and my
faithlessness and cruelty. But you forget to put in the finer shading to
the picture, Philip; you forget the part _you_ played in our drama _à
deux_; you forget how eagerly you snatched at the freedom I offered;
you forget your harsh words, your rough manners, your imperious demands,
your impatient flying to conclusions. You wilfully misunderstood me
then, Philip, you wilfully misread a girl's most natural shrinking from
the unknown and the untried, and put it down to heartless coquetry and
deceit. Was it for me to set you right? Was I to plead my own cause? No,
Philip, you have scorned me twice; once when you refused my kiss, ten
years ago, and again when you refused my offer in my letter. I will not
accept now a love born out of pity, an interest created by desire. I
will have all or nothing; pity shall have nothing to say or plead on my
behalf."
She threw out her hands passionately.
"Take back your offer, Philip; make it to some less jealous, less wise
woman. I will have none of it. I have seen many strange things in my
wanderings of ten years, gained many bitter experiences, mingled with
many strange people, touched close on terrible tragedies; but one thing
I have never lost throughout all--my pride and my freedom. Go, Philip,
you have your answer in my farewell words of ten years ago. I have no
room to remember. I have mastered the art of forgetfulness and
oblivion."
With one quick movement she stooped, drew the long folds of her shining
draperies about her, gathering her laces in one hand, and swept by him
swiftly; the moonlight clinging to her as she moved, surrounded her as
with a halo, and lighted up the fine scorn that curved her lips and
glowed in her deep eyes.
In another moment the elastic swaying hazel-boughs parted to receive
her, and then springing back, hid the slight graceful figure from
Philip's sight.
And still the drops falling from the vase, held high in the hands of the
boy-god Narcissus, counted out the moments, and the moonbeams fell
straight and long, in narrow shafts, across the spot where Patricia had
leant her fair form, stirring to sudden life with her jewelled fingers
the water's placid dark surface.
Now she was gone, and the radiance departed with her.
END OF VOL. I.
* * * * *
CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS, CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS.