'If you enter his house, his drawing-room, his library, you of
yourself say, This is not the dwelling of a common mind. There is
not a gem, a coin, a book thrown aside on his chimney-piece, his
sofa, his table, that does not bespeak an almost fastidious
elegance in the possessor.'--_Lord Byron's Journal._
I
Mr. Julius Gumberg was the last survivor of a type familiar in the
English, or rather in the London, society of the middle period of the
nineteenth century. In those days reticence, concerning one's own
affairs be it understood, was still the rule rather than the exception,
but there were a certain number of men, and a few women, to whom
everything seems to have been told, and whose advice on the more
delicate and difficult affairs of life, if not invariably followed--for
that would have been asking too much of human nature--was invariably
asked.
It has always been the case that to those, who know much shall more be
revealed, and Mr. Gumberg had forgotten more scandals than even the most
trusted of his contemporaries had ever told or been told. His assistance
was even invoked, it was whispered, by the counsellors of very great
people, and it was further added that he had been instrumental in
averting more than one morganatic alliance. That, like most of those who
enjoy power, he had sometimes chosen to exercise his prerogative by
upholding and shielding those to whom the rest of the world cried
'Haro!' was felt to be to his credit. He had not only never married,
but, so far as his acquaintances knew, never even set sail for 'le pays
du tendre' with any woman belonging to a circle which had been widening
as the years slipped by, and this added to his prestige and gave him
authority among those whose paths had diverged so widely from his own.
To all women, especially to those who sought his help when the
difficulty in which they found themselves had been caused rather by the
softness of their hearts than as the outcome of mere arid indiscretion,
he showed an indulgent, and, what was more to the point, a helpful
tenderness, which led to repeated confidences. 'The woman who has Mr.
Gumberg on her side can afford to postpone repentance,' a dowager who
was more feared than trusted was said to have exclaimed; but, like so
many bodily as well as moral physicians, he often felt that confidence,
when it was reposed in him, had been too long delayed. An intricate
problem, a situation to which there seemed no possible issue, was not,
he admitted to himself, without its special charm; but as he grew
older--indeed, into quite old age--he preferred exercising more subtle
arts in connection with the comparatively simpler stories of human life.
Unlike the poor French lady whose idle phrase has branded her throughout
the ages, Mr. Gumberg delighted in innocent pleasures, while he was
willing, notwithstanding, to make any effort and to exhume any
skeleton, however grim, from a friend's closet, if by so doing he could
prevent a scandal from crystallizing into a 'case.'
Still, it may be repeated that what he really enjoyed when he could do
so conscientiously, and even, indeed, when he found his conscience to be
in no sense on the side of the more worldly angels of his acquaintance,
was to place all his knowledge of the world at the disposal of two
youthful and good-looking lovers. No man, so it was said, knew more ways
of melting the heart of an obdurate father, or, what is of course far
more difficult, of changing the mind of a sensible mother. Of the
several sayings of which he was fond of making use, and which he found
applicable to almost every case, especially those of purely sentimental
interest, submitted to him, his favourite came to be, 'Heaven helps
those who help themselves'; but as he preferred to be the sole auxiliary
of Heaven, he seldom quoted the phrase to those who might really have
profited by it.
As young people sometimes found to their chagrin, Mr. Gumberg could not
always be trusted to see what he was fond of calling the syllabub side
of life; he occasionally took a parent's part, this especially when the
parent happened to be the mother of a young man. Thus, he was impatient
of the modern habit of _mésalliance_, and was old enough to remember the
days when divorce was the last resort of the wealthy, while yet
deploring the time when marriage was in truth an indissoluble bond.
Perhaps the only action which caused him ever-recurring astonishment was
the frivolity his young friends showed in entering a state of life
which, according to his old-fashioned views, should spell finality.
'Heaven,' he would murmur to the afflicted mother of a misguided youth
who only asked to be allowed to contract honourable matrimony with the
humble object of his choice--'Heaven helps those who help themselves:
therefore beware of the virtuous ballet-girl and of the industrious
barmaid; rather persuade your Augustus to cultivate more closely the
acquaintance of his cousin, a really agreeable widow, for jointures
should be induced to remain in the family when this can be done without
any serious sacrifice of feeling.'
Mr. Gumberg's enemies--and, of course, like most people who live the
life that suits them best, and who are surrounded by a phalanx of
attached and powerful friends, he had enemies--were able to point to one
very serious blemish on his otherwise almost perfect advisory character.
With the approach of age he had become garrulous; he talked not only
freely, but with extraordinary, amazing freedom to those--and they were
many--who cheered him with their constant visits, and on whom he could
depend to give him news of the world he loved so well, but which for
many years past he had only been able to see poised against the limited
background of his fine library, of his cheerful breakfast-room, of his
delightful garden.
Perhaps the fact that he was acquainted with so many of their own
secrets made him the more trust the discretion of his friends, and even
of his acquaintances. They on their side were always ready to urge in
exculpation of their valued mentor that the old man never discussed a
scandal, or indeed a secret, that was in the making. While always eager
to hear any story, or any addition to a story, then amusing the circle
with which he kept in close touch, he never added by so much as a word
to the swelling tale; on the contrary the more intimate his knowledge of
the details, the less he admitted that he knew, and his garrulity was
confined to events which had already become, from the point of view of
the younger generation, ancient history. The mere mention of a
name--even more, a passing visit from some acquaintance long lost sight
of--would let loose on whoever had the good fortune to be present a
flood of amusing, if sometimes very muddy, reminiscence. 'My way,' he
would say quaintly, and in half-shamed excuse, 'of keeping a diary! and
as the circulation is necessarily so very limited, I can note much which
it would be scarcely fair to publish abroad.'
Thus it was that Mr. Gumberg was seldom without the company of at least
one friend old enough to enjoy the real answers to long-forgotten social
riddles, while the more thoughtful of his younger acquaintances
recognized that some of his old stories were better worth hearing than
those which they in their turn came to tell.
II
When Sir George Downing, after having returned from his excursion into
the past, sought out his host in the book-lined octagon room, looking
out on the Italian garden, where Mr. Julius Gumberg had established
himself for the evening, it was not because he expected to learn much of
interest unknown to him before, but because, though he felt half ashamed
of it, he longed intensely both to speak and to hear spoken a certain
name. With an abruptness which took the old man by surprise, Downing
asked him: 'Among your many charming friends, I wonder if you number a
certain Mrs. Robinson, the daughter, I believe, of the late Lord
Wantley?'
Mr. Gumberg's reply was not long in coming.
'Perdita,' he said briskly, 'is on the whole the most beautiful young
woman I know; I don't say, mind you, the most beautiful creature I have
ever known, but at the present time I cannot call to mind any of my
friends with whom I can compare her.' He tucked the rug in which he was
muffled up more tightly across his knees, and continued, with manifest
enjoyment: 'Doubtless you have noticed, George, even in the short time
you have been at home, that nowadays all our women claim to be
beauties--and the remarkable thing about it is that they succeed, the
hussies!'
He gave a loud, discordant chuckle, and the pause enabled the other to
throw in the words:
'Mrs. Robinson's name is, I believe, Penelope.'
He spoke quickly, fearing a full biography of the fair stranger by whose
beauty Mr. Gumberg set so much store.
'They succeed, and yet they fail,' continued the old man, ignoring the
interruption. 'They aim--it's odd they should do so--at being as like
one another as peas in a pod. Our beauties don't give each other room.
Ah! you should have seen, George, the women of my youth. The plain ones
kept their places--and very good places they were, too--but the others!
Now scarce a week goes by but some kind lady comes to me with, "Oh, Mr.
Gumberg, I'm going to bring you the new beauty. I'm sure you will be
charmed!" But I've given up expecting anything out of the common. When I
was a young man a new beauty was something to look at: she had hair,
teeth, eyes--not always _mind_, I grant you: but she was there to be
looked at, not talked at! I'm told that now a pretty woman hasn't a
chance unless she's clever. And that's the mischief, for the clever ones
can always make us believe that they're the pretty ones, too. Give me
the yellow-haired, pink-cheeked kind, out of which one could shake the
sawdust, eh?' Then he sighed a little ghostly sigh, and added: 'Yes, her
name's Penelope, of course--I was going to tell you so--but she's
Perdita, too, obviously.'
'And has there been a Florizel?' Downing's question challenged a reply,
and Mr. Gumberg looked at him inquiringly as well as thoughtfully, as he
answered in rather a softer tone:
'God bless my soul, no! That's to say, a dozen, more or less! But I
don't see, and I doubt if Perdita sees, a Prince Charming among 'em. As
for Robinson, poor fellow!'--Mr. Gumberg hesitated; words sometimes
failed him, but never for long--'all I can say is he was the first of
those I was the first to dub the Sisyphians. I used to feel quite
honoured when he came to breakfast. People enjoyed meeting him. I never
could see why; but you know how they all--especially the women--run
after any man that is extraordinarily ordinary. Melancthon Wesley
Robinson--what a handicap, eh? And yet I'm bound to say one felt
inclined to forgive him even his name, even his good looks, even his
marriage to Penelope Wantley, for he had the supreme and now rare charm
of youth. You had it once, George; that was why we were all so fond of
you.'
Mr. Gumberg got up from his chair, pushed the rug off his shrunken legs,
and slowly walked round the room till he reached one of the two
cupboards which filled up the recess on either side of the fireplace.
From its depths he brought out a small portfolio. Downing had started
up, but his host motioned him back to his seat with a certain
irritation, and then, as he made his way again to his own blue leather
armchair, he went on:
'Those for whom I invented the name of Sisyphians--there are plenty of
'em about now--well, I divide 'em into two sets, both, I need hardly
say, equally distasteful to me. The one kind cultivates platonic
friendships with the women'--Mr. Gumberg made a slight grimace. 'Their
arguments appeal to feminine sensibility; "Make yourself happier by
making others happy," that's the notion, and I understand that they're
fairly successful as regards the primary object, but there seems some
doubt as to how far they succeed in the other--eh? I should hate to be
made happy myself. That sort of fellow is the husband's best friend.
Not only does he keep the wife out of mischief, but he will act as
special constable on occasion, and when everything else fails he's
always there, ready to put his arm round the dear erring creature's
waist and implore her to remember her duties! The other set undertake a
more difficult task, and they don't find it so easy. That sort don't put
their arms round even their own wives' waists; their dream is to embrace
Humanity. She's a jealous mistress, and, from all I hear, I doubt if
she's as grateful as some of 'em make out!'
The old man sat down again. He drew the rug over his knees, and propped
up the small portfolio on a sloping mahogany desk which always stood at
his elbow. With a certain eagerness he turned over its contents, still
talking the while.
'Young Robinson was their founder, their leader. He built the first of
the palaces in the slums. I'm told they call the place the Melancthon
Settlement. I'm bound to say that he took it--and himself--quite
seriously, lived down there, and, what was much more strange, persuaded
Penelope to live there, too. Oh, not for long. She would soon have tired
of the whole business!' He added in a lower tone, his head bent over the
open portfolio: 'I don't find things as easily as I used to do. Yet I
know it's here.' Then he cried eagerly, 'I've found it!' and held up
triumphantly a rudely-coloured print of which the reverse side was
covered with much close writing.
Downing put out his hand with a certain excitement; he knew that what
the old man was about to show him had a bearing on the story he was
being told.
The print, obviously a caricature, represented a horsewoman sitting a
huge roan and clad in the long riding-habit, almost touching the ground,
which women wore in the twenties and thirties of last century. A large
black hat shaded, and almost entirely concealed, the oval face beneath.
In one hand the horsewoman held a hunting crop, with the other she
reined in her horse, presenting a dauntless front to some twenty couple
of yelping and snarling foxhounds. The colour was crude, but the drawing
clear, and full of rough power.
Downing suddenly realized that each hound had the face of a man; also
that the countenance of the foremost dog was oddly familiar: he seemed
to have seen it looking down on him from innumerable engravings, in
particular from one which had hung in the hall of his parents' town
house. This dog, almost alone clean-shaven among its companions, held
between its paws the baton of a field-marshal. Below the print was
engraved in faded gilt letters the words 'The Lady and her Pack.'
'A valuable and very rare family portrait,' said Mr. Gumberg grimly.
'The lady is Penelope's grandmother, Lady Wantley's mother, and the
Pack----' He checked himself, surprised at the look which passed over
the other's face.
'Her grandmother?' Downing interrupted almost roughly. 'Why, you showed
me that print years ago, when I was a boy. I have never forgotten it.'
Then, in a more natural tone, he added: 'I suppose it's really unique?'
'As far as I know, absolutely unique, but such odious surprises are
nowadays sprung upon collectors! I believe this copy is the only one
which has survived the many determined efforts to destroy the whole
edition, which was never at any time a large one. I fancy such things
were produced speculatively, you understand, doubtless with a view to
the pack. These good people'--Mr. Gumberg pointed with his long, lean
finger to the human-faced dogs--'were naturally quite ready to buy up
all the available copies, and then, later, John Oglethorpe, after he had
become the fair huntswoman's husband, also most naturally made it his
business to get hold of the few which had found their way into
collections. I've been told also that Lord Wantley during many years
made a point of keeping his eye on one copy, which finally disappeared,
no one knows how, just on the eve of its being safely stored in the
British Museum! I got mine in Paris quite thirty years ago by an
extraordinary bit of good fortune. And so I showed it you, did I? I
wonder why. I so seldom show it, unless, of course, there's some special
reason why I should do so.'
Mr. Gumberg stopped and thought for a few minutes. 'Let me see,' he
added thoughtfully, 'the last person who saw it was old Mrs. Byng. It
was the day of Penelope's marriage. It's a good way from Hanover Square,
and the old lady never takes a cab--too stingy. I knew how a sight of
this picture would revive her, poor old soul! One of my very few
remaining contemporaries, George.' Mr. Gumberg sighed a little heavily;
then, with a certain regret, 'So you know all about that strange
creature, Rosina Bellamont?'
Again he took up the print between his lean fingers. He hated being done
out of telling a story, and Downing, well aware of this peculiarity,
smiled and said kindly enough: 'When you showed me this thing before,
you told me more of the pack than of the lady. In fact, if I remember
rightly, it was just after the death----'
Mr. Gumberg again interrupted with returning good-humour: 'Of course I
remember: it was just after the death of poor Jack Storks. You came in
as I was reading his obituary in the _Times_, and I showed you the print
to prove that he had not always been the grave and reverend signior they
made him out to have been!'
'And Lady Wantley's mother, what of her?' Downing feared once more that
his venerable friend would start off on a reminiscent excursion of more
general than particular interest.
'She was a very remarkable woman,' answered Mr. Gumberg, 'and I will
tell you how and where I first made her acquaintance and that of her
daughter.'
III
'When I was a lad of fifteen,' began the old man, with a marked change
of tone and even of manner, 'my uncle, who was, as you are aware, a
Russia merchant, the kindest and wisest man I have ever known, and the
most delightful of companions, took me a walking tour through the
Yorkshire dales. Now, those were the days when all inns were bad and all
houses hospitable. We walked miles without meeting a living creature,
being the more solitary that my uncle preferred the bridle-paths to the
highroads, but he generally contrived that we should find a kind welcome
and comfortable quarters at the end of each day.
'One afternoon, when climbing a stiff hillside not far from the place
whence five dales can be seen stretching fanstickwise, we came on two
figures standing against the skyline, a lady and a young girl, hand in
hand, curiously dressed--for those were the days of the crinoline--in
long, straight grey gowns and circular cloaks. Their faces, the one
pale, the other fresh and rosy, were framed by unbecoming close bonnets,
each lined with a frill of stiff white stuff. Even I, foolish boy that I
was, and while considering the strange pair most inelegantly dressed,
saw that they were in a sense distinguished, utterly unlike the often
oddly-gowned country wives and maids we met now and again trudging past
us.
'To my surprise, my uncle, when he had become aware of their presence,
quickened his steps, and when we had reached the lonely stretch of grass
on which they were standing--that is, when we were close to the singular
couple, mother and daughter or grandmother and granddaughter; I could
not help wondering what relationship existed between them--he bowed,
saying: "Have I the honour of greeting Mrs. Oglethorpe?" The elder
lady's cheek turned as rosy, but only for a moment, as that of the girl
by her side, and as she answered, "Yes," the colour receding seemed to
leave her cheek even paler than before. "That is my name," she said; and
then looking, or so it seemed to me, very pleadingly at my uncle, she
added quickly: "This is my young daughter. Adelaide, curtsey to the
gentleman." "Your father and I, young lady," said my uncle, again
bowing, "have had business dealings together for many years, and I am
honoured to meet his daughter."
'Well, George, we followed them, retracing our steps down the dale, and
there, hidden in a park surrounded by high walls, we came at last on a
fine old house of grey stone. Our approach brought no sign of life or
animation. The formal gardens lacked the grace and brilliancy afforded
by flowers, and yet were in no sense neglected. Mrs. Oglethorpe turned
the handle of the front-door, and we passed into a large hall, where we
were greeted with great civility by an elderly man, whom I supposed,
rightly, to be our host, though, to be sure, his dress differed in no
way from that of those who passed silently backwards and forwards
through the hall, and who were apparently his servants.
'Dear me, how strange everything seemed to my young eyes! In particular,
I was amazed to notice that a row of what were apparently family
portraits were all closely shrouded with some kind of white linen, while
below them, painted on the oak panelling, was the following
sentence'--Mr. Gumberg turned the print he still held in his hand, and
peered closely at the writing with which the back of it was
covered--'"_Forsake all, and thou shall possess all. Relinquish desire,
and thou shalt find rest._" The hall was overlooked by what had
evidently been a music-gallery, and, glancing up there, I saw that the
carved oak railing had been partly covered in with deal boards, on which
was written in very large letters another strange saying: "_Esteem and
possess naught, and thou shalt enjoy all things._" I tried, I trust
successfully, to imitate my uncle, the most courteous of men, in showing
nothing of the astonishment that these things caused me, the more so
that Mr. Oglethorpe treated us with the greatest consideration, himself
fetching bread, cheese, and beer for our entertainment.
'After we had refreshed ourselves, a pretty young woman, dressed in what
appeared to be a modified copy of the curious straight garments worn by
our hostess and her daughter, led us to a bedchamber, the walls of which
were hung, as I now judge, looking back, with some fine French tapestry.
Across the surface of this ran the words, each letter cut out of white
linen stitched on to the tapestry: "_Foxes have holes, and the birds of
the air have nests; but the Son of Man hath not where to lay His
head._"'
Mr. Gumberg paused a moment, and then continued his story: 'The
dining-room, to which we were bidden by the ringing of a bell, must have
been once, from its appearance, the scene of many great banquets; but I
noted that it only contained two long tables, composed of unpainted
boards set on rough trestles, while the walls, hung with maroon Utrecht
velvet, presented to my eyes an extraordinary appearance, each
picture--and there were many--being hidden from sight, as were those in
the hall, while on a long strip of white cloth, which ran right round
the room above the wainscotting, was written: "_Self-denial is the basis
of spiritual perfection. He that truly denies himself is arrived at a
state of great freedom and safety._"
'I noticed that the tables were laid for a considerable company, and
soon there walked slowly in some forty men and women, all dressed in
what seemed to me a very peculiar manner. There were many more women
than men, and they sat at separate tables, Mrs. Oglethorpe taking the
head of the one, while her husband, with my uncle at his right hand,
presided over the other. The food was plain, but of good quality; it was
eaten in silence, and while we ate the daughter of the house, Adelaide
Oglethorpe, sat on a high rostrum and read aloud from a book which I
have since ascertained to have been Mr. William Law's "Serious Call to a
Devout and Holy Life."
'This reading surprised me very much, and, boy-like, I wondered
anxiously whether the girl was to be deprived of her evening meal; but
after we had finished supper she put a mark in the book she had been
reading, and, as the others all walked out, took her place at a little
table I had before scarcely noticed, and there, waited on most
assiduously by her father, she enjoyed a meal rather more dainty in
character than that which the rest of us had eaten. Looking back,
George,' observed Mr. Gumberg thoughtfully, 'I think I may say that this
was the first time in my life that I realized how even the most rigid
human beings sometimes fall away, and this almost unconsciously, from
their own standards.
'We only stayed at Oglethorpe one night, and perhaps that is why I
recollect so well all that took place. Before we left, my uncle, to the
evident gratification of our host, advised me to copy the various
inscriptions about the house, notably one which had greatly taken his
fancy, and which was inscribed above the writing-table where Mrs.
Oglethorpe apparently spent many of the earlier hours of each day. This
saying ran: "_Charity is the meed of all; familiarity the right of
none._" Our hostess, of whom I stood in great awe, bade her little
daughter show me the schoolroom, observing that there I should most
probably notice texts and inscriptions more suited to my understanding.
Miss Oglethorpe's room was strangely different from the others I had
seen; and, with a surprise which I was unable to conceal, I saw hanging
in a prominent place over the mantelpiece a painting of a beautiful
young woman pressing a little child to her bosom, while below the gold
frame was written the familiar verse: "_Suffer little children to come
unto Me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven._"
Adelaide Oglethorpe evidently noticed my surprise, for she explained
diffidently that this painting represented her father's mother and
himself as a child: further, that this lady having been a most virtuous
and excellent wife and mother, Mr. Oglethorpe had not dealt with her
portrait as he had done with those of his own and his daughter's less
reputable forebears.'
Mr. Gumberg ceased speaking. Downing's eyes were still fixed on the
rudely coloured caricature of Rosina Bellamont and her admirers.
'And so this woman,' he said, 'became a mother in Israel? Well, I
suppose such things do happen now and then.'
'Rather more often now than then,' Mr. Gumberg declared briskly. 'My
uncle used to describe to me, when I had come to a riper age, what a
stir the marriage made. Why, they even said the King--William IV., you
know--sent for Oglethorpe and remonstrated with him. Of course, a
Bellamont can always find a man to make an honest woman of her, but she
seldom has the good fortune to bear off such a prize as was John
Oglethorpe. That wasn't, however, the most amazing part of the story.
Within a few months of her marriage Mrs. Oglethorpe fell under the
influence of a preacher--a second Fletcher of Madeley. But she was
evidently not the woman to rest content with being a mere disciple, and
so, with the active help of her husband, she set herself to build up
that strange kind of religious phalanstery which I have described to
you, and in which the future Lady Wantley was born and bred. Rosina
Bellamont was one of those women who are born to good fortune as the
sparks fly upward, and her luck did not desert her in the one matter in
which she could hardly have counted on it----'
Downing looked up. 'You mean the marriage of her daughter?' he said.
'Of course I do,' returned the old man vigorously. 'In those days peers
didn't hold forth at Exeter Hall--in fact, Wantley was the first of that
breed; and by great good fortune, chance--I suppose it _was_ chance, eh,
George?--brought him to Oglethorpe. The odd thing was his going there at
all; once there, 'twas natural he should feel attracted.'
'I suppose Lady Wantley is like her daughter?' said Downing.
'God bless my soul, no! Lady Wantley's an Oglethorpe. Penelope's a----'
The old man did not finish his sentence, but turned it off with: 'She's
quite unlike her mother. Pity she wasn't a boy. The present man's no
good to 'em--I mean to Lady Wantley and Penelope. Why should he be? He
wasn't fairly treated. Of course he got Marston Lydiate, for that's
entailed; but the place in Dorset, Monk's Eype, and all the money, were
left away to the girl, although I did my best for him. Wantley spoke to
me about it, but I couldn't move him; and then he was hardly cold before
Penelope married her millionaire! A marriage, George, a marriage----'
Words failed Mr. Gumberg. For the third time he repeated, 'A
marriage'--his old eyes gleamed maliciously--'which was no marriage! You
understand, eh? _Mensa non thorus_--that was the notion. Common among
the early Christians, I believe. Well, no one can say what the end of it
would have been, for nature abhors a vacuum; but the poor monkish
creature died, caught small-pox from a foreign sailor, and the
bewitching girl was left all the Robinson millions!'
'Then I suppose you advised restitution to young Lord Wantley?'
Mr. Gumberg chuckled. He evidently thought his guest intended a grim
joke. 'The sort of thing a trustee would suggest, eh, George?' But
Downing was apparently quite serious.
'I don't see why not,' he said. 'Do you mean that Lord Wantley is
penniless?'
Mr. Gumberg nodded. 'Something very like it,' he declared. 'Of course,
the old man--though he was twenty years younger than I am now when he
died--had some show of reason for the unfair thing he did. People always
have. When he, and I suppose Lady Wantley, realized that they were not
likely to have a son, he gave his heir--his third cousin, I fancy--the
family living of Marston Lydiate, and years afterwards the man became a
Romanist! Wantley chose to consider himself very much injured. He never
saw his cousin again, and for years never took any notice of the boy--in
fact, not till the ex-parson was dead.'
'Is young Lord Wantley a Roman Catholic?' asked Downing indifferently.
'No, he's not,' said Mr. Gumberg. 'The other day I heard him described
as "a stickit Papist," and I suppose that's about what he is. But
where's your interest in these people, George?' Mr. Gumberg asked
suddenly. 'You don't know 'em, do you?'
Downing hesitated. He was in the mood in which men feel almost compelled
to make unexpected and amazing confidences, but the words which were so
nearly being said were never uttered.
Cutting across his hesitation, his half-formed impulse of taking his old
friend into his confidence, came the exclamation: 'Why, of course!
You've met her! When I heard from you at Pol les Thermes I felt sure
there was someone else there that I knew, but I couldn't think who it
was at the moment. However, that don't matter now, for it seems you've
found each other out! I didn't say too much, George, did I? She _is_ a
beautiful creature?'
Mr. Gumberg's assertion was not without a note of interrogation. He
sometimes felt an uneasy suspicion that his standards, especially in the
matter of feminine loveliness, were not always blindly accepted by the
generations that had succeeded his own. But Downing's answer reassured
him.
'I agree with you absolutely,' he said very gravely. 'I do not remember
a more beautiful woman, even in the old days.'
This tribute to his taste sent Mr. Gumberg to bed in high good-humour;
and as he made his slow progress along the passage, leaning on Downing's
friendly arm, he kept muttering, 'Glad you met her--glad you met her.'
So often are we inclined to rejoice at happenings which, if we knew
more, we might regard as calamities.