THE PARK
There comes a day each year in May when Hyde Park is possessed. A cool
wind swings the leaves; a hot sun glistens on Long Water, on every
bough, on every blade of grass. The birds sing their small hearts out,
the band plays its gayest tunes, the white clouds race in the high blue
heaven. Exactly why and how this day differs from those that came before
and those that will come after, cannot be told; it is as though the Park
said: 'To-day I live; the Past is past. I care not for the Future!'
And on this day they who chance in the Park cannot escape some measure
of possession. Their steps quicken, their skirts swing, their sticks
flourish, even their eyes brighten--those eyes so dulled with looking at
the streets; and each one, if he has a Love, thinks of her, and here and
there among the wandering throng he has her with him. To these the Park
and all sweet-blooded mortals in it nod and smile.
There had been a meeting that afternoon at Lady Malden's in Prince's
Gate to consider the position of the working-class woman. It had
provided a somewhat heated discussion, for a person had got up and
proved almost incontestably that the working-class woman had no position
whatsoever.
Gregory Vigil and Mrs. Shortman had left this meeting together, and,
crossing the Serpentine, struck a line over the grass.
“Mrs. Shortman,” said Gregory, “don't you think we're all a little mad?”
He was carrying his hat in his hand, and his fine grizzled hair, rumpled
in the excitement of the meeting, had not yet subsided on his head.
“Yes, Mr. Vigil. I don't exactly----”
“We are all a little mad! What did that woman, Lady Malden, mean by
talking as she did? I detest her!”
“Oh, Mr. Vigil! She has the best intentions!”
“Intentions?” said Gregory. “I loathe her! What did we go to her stuffy
drawing-room for? Look at that sky!”
Mrs. Shortman looked at the sky.
“But, Mr. Vigil,” she said earnestly, “things would never get done.
Sometimes I think you look at everything too much in the light of the
way it ought to be!”
“The Milky Way,” said Gregory.
Mrs. Shortman pursed her lips; she found it impossible to habituate
herself to Gregory's habit of joking.
They had scant talk for the rest of their journey to the S. R. W. C.,
where Miss Mallow, at the typewriter, was reading a novel.
“There are several letters for you, Mr. Vigil”
“Mrs. Shortman says I am unpractical,” answered Gregory. “Is that true,
Miss Mallow?”
The colour in Miss Mallow's cheeks spread to her sloping shoulders.
“Oh no. You're most practical, only--perhaps--I don't know, perhaps you
do try to do rather impossible things, Mr. Vigil.”
“Bilcock Buildings!”
There was a minute's silence. Then Mrs. Shortman at her bureau beginning
to dictate, the typewriter started clicking.
Gregory, who had opened a letter, was seated with his head in his hands.
The voice ceased, the typewriter ceased, but Gregory did not stir.
Both women, turning a little in their seats, glanced at him. Their eyes
caught each other's and they looked away at once. A few seconds later
they were looking at him again. Still Gregory did not stir. An anxious
appeal began to creep into the women's eyes.
“Mr. Vigil,” said Mrs. Shortman at last, “Mr. Vigil, do you think---”
Gregory raised his face; it was flushed to the roots of his hair.
“Read that, Mrs. Shortman.”
Handing her a pale grey letter stamped with an eagle and the motto
'.trenuus aureaque penna' he rose and paced the room. And as with his
long, light stride he was passing to and fro, the woman at the bureau
conned steadily the writing, the girl at the typewriter sat motionless
with a red and jealous face.
Mrs. Shortman folded the letter, placed it on the top of the bureau, and
said without raising her eyes--
“Of course, it is very sad for the poor little girl; but surely, Mr.
Vigil, it must always be, so as to check, to check----”
Gregory stopped, and his shining eyes disconcerted her; they seemed to
her unpractical. Sharply lifting her voice, she went on:
“If there were no disgrace, there would be no way of stopping it. I know
the country better than you do, Mr. Vigil.”
Gregory put his hands to his ears.
“We must find a place for her at once.”
The window was fully open, so that he could not open it any more, and he
stood there as though looking for that place in the sky. And the sky he
looked at was very blue, and large white birds of cloud were flying over
it.
He turned from the window, and opened another letter.
“LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS,
“May 24, 1892.
“MY DEAR VIGIL,
“I gathered from your ward when I saw her yesterday that she has
not told you of what, I fear, will give you much pain. I asked her
point-blank whether she wished the matter kept from you, and her answer
was, 'He had better know--only I'm sorry for him.' In sum it is this:
Bellow has either got wind of our watching him, or someone must have
put him up to it; he has anticipated us and brought a suit against your
ward, joining George Pendyce in the cause. George brought the citation
to me. If necessary he's prepared to swear there's nothing in it. He
takes, in fact, the usual standpoint of the 'man of honour.'
“I went at once to see your ward. She admitted that the charge is true.
I asked her if she wished the suit defended, and a counter-suit brought
against her husband. Her answer to that was: 'I absolutely don't care.'
I got nothing from her but this, and, though it sounds odd, I believe
it to be true. She appears to be in a reckless mood, and to have no
particular ill-will against her husband.
“I want to see you, but only after you have turned this matter over
carefully. It is my duty to put some considerations before you. The
suit, if brought, will be a very unpleasant matter for George, a still
more unpleasant, even disastrous one, for his people. The innocent in
such cases are almost always the greatest sufferers. If the cross-suit
is instituted, it will assume at once, considering their position in
Society, the proportions of a 'cause celebre', and probably occupy the
court and the daily presses anything from three days to a week, perhaps
more, and you know what that means. On the other hand, not to defend the
suit, considering what we know, is, apart from ethics, revolting to my
instincts as a fighter. My advice, therefore, is to make every effort to
prevent matters being brought into court at all.
“I am an older man than you by thirteen years. I have a sincere regard
for you, and I wish to save you pain. In the course of our interviews
I have observed your ward very closely, and at the risk of giving
you offence, I am going to speak out my mind. Mrs. Bellew is a rather
remarkable woman. From two or three allusions that you have made in
my presence, I believe that she is altogether different from what you
think. She is, in my opinion, one of those very vital persons upon whom
our judgments, censures, even our sympathies, are wasted. A woman
of this sort, if she comes of a county family, and is thrown by
circumstances with Society people, is always bound to be conspicuous.
If you would realise something of this, it would, I believe, save you
a great deal of pain. In short, I beg of you not to take her, or her
circumstances, too seriously. There are quite a number of such men and
women as her husband and herself, and they are always certain to be more
or less before the public eye. Whoever else goes down, she will swim,
simply because she can't help it. I want you to see things as they are.
“I ask you again, my dear Vigil, to forgive me for writing thus, and
to believe that my sole desire is to try and save you unnecessary
suffering.
“Come and see me as soon as you have reflected:
“I am,
“Your sincere friend,
“EDMUND PARAMOR.”
Gregory made a movement like that of a blind man. Both women were on
their feet at once.
“What is it, Mr. Vigil? Can I get you anything?”
“Thanks; nothing, nothing. I've had some rather bad news. I'll go out
and get some air. I shan't be back to-day.”
He found his hat and went.
He walked towards the Park, unconsciously attracted towards the biggest
space, the freshest air; his hands were folded behind him, his head
bowed. And since, of all things, Nature is ironical, it was fitting
that he should seek the Park this day when it was gayest. And far in the
Park, as near the centre as might be, he lay down on the grass. For a
long time he lay without moving, his hands over his eyes, and in
spite of Mr. Paramor's reminder that his suffering was unnecessary, he
suffered.
And mostly he suffered from black loneliness, for he was a very lonely
man, and now he had lost that which he had thought he had. It is
difficult to divide suffering, difficult to say how much he suffered,
because, being in love with her, he had secretly thought she must love
him a little, and how much he suffered because his private portrait of
her, the portrait that he, and he alone, had painted, was scored through
with the knife. And he lay first on his face, and then on his back, with
his hand always over his eyes. And around him were other men lying on
the grass, and some were lonely, and some hungry, and some asleep, and
some were lying there for the pleasure of doing nothing and for the sake
of the hot sun on their cheeks; and by the side of some lay their girls,
and it was these that Gregory could not bear to see, for his spirit and
his senses were a-hungered. In the plantations close by were pigeons,
and never for a moment did they stop cooing; never did the blackbirds
cease their courting songs; the sun its hot, sweet burning; the clouds
above their love-chase in the sky. It was the day without a past,
without a future, when it is not good for man to be alone. And no man
looked at him, because it was no man's business, but a woman here and
there cast a glance on that long, tweed-suited figure with the hand over
the eyes, and wondered, perhaps, what was behind that hand. Had they but
known, they would have smiled their woman's smile that he should so have
mistaken one of their sex.
Gregory lay quite still, looking at the sky, and because he was a loyal
man he did not blame her, but slowly, very slowly, his spirit, like a
spring stretched to the point of breaking, came back upon itself, and
since he could not bear to see things as they were, he began again to
see them as they were not.
'.he has been forced into this,' he thought. 'It is George Pendyce's
fault. To me she is, she must be, the same!'
He turned again on to his face. And a small dog who had lost its master
sniffed at his boots, and sat down a little way off, to wait till
Gregory could do something for him, because he smelled that he was that
sort of man.