NEIGHBOURS.
The young man whom Lord Musselburgh had hailed came into the middle of
the room. He was a handsome and well-made young fellow of about three
or four-and-twenty, with finely-cut and intelligent features, and clear
grey eyes that had a curiously straightforward and uncompromising look
in them, albeit his manner was modest enough. At the present moment,
however, he seemed somewhat perturbed.
"Who were those two?" he said, quickly.
"Didn't you listen while the old gentleman was declaiming away?" Lord
Musselburgh made answer. "An enthusiastic Scot, if ever there was one!
I suppose you never heard of the great Bethune lawsuit?"
"But the other--the girl?"
"His granddaughter, I think he said."
"She is the most beautiful human creature I ever beheld!" the young man
exclaimed, rather breathlessly.
His friend looked at him--and laughed.
"That's not like you, Vin. Take care. The Hope of the Liberal Party
enmeshed at four-and-twenty--that wouldn't do! Pretty--oh, yes, she was
pretty enough, but shy: I hardly saw anything of her. I dare say her
pretty face will have to be her fortune; I suspect the poor old
gentleman is not overburdened with worldly possessions. He has his
name, however; he seems proud enough of that; and I shouldn't wonder if
it had made friends for him abroad. They seem to have travelled a good
deal."
While he was speaking his companion had mechanically lifted from the
table the card which old George Bethune had sent up. The address in
Mayfair was pencilled on it. And mechanically the young man laid down
the card again.
"Well, come along, Vin--let's get to Victoria."
"No, if you don't mind, Musselburgh," said the other, with downcast
eyes, and something of embarrassment, "I would rather--not go down to
the Bungalow to-night. Some other time--it is so good of you to be
always asking me down----"
"My dear fellow," the young nobleman said, looking at his friend
curiously, "what is the matter with you? Are you in a dream? Are you
asleep? Haven't I told you that ---- is coming down by a late train
to-night; and isn't all the world envying you that the great man should
make such a protege and favourite of you? Indeed you must come down;
you can't afford to lose such a chance. We will sit up for him; and
you'll talk to him during supper; and you'll listen to him for hours
after if he is in the humour for monologues. Then to-morrow morning
you'll take him away bird's-nesting--he is as eager for any new
diversion as a school-boy; and you'll have him all to yourself; and one
of these days, before you know where you are, he'll hand you a Junior
Lordship. Or is it the Under-Secretaryship at the Home Office you're
waiting for? You know, we're all anxious to see how the new experiment
will come off. The young man unspoiled by Oxford or
Cambridge--untainted by landlord sentiment--trained for public life on
first principles: one wants to see how all this will work in practice.
And we never dictate--oh, no, we never dictate to the constituencies;
but when the public notice from time to time in the newspapers that Mr.
Vincent Harris was included in ----'s dinner-party on the previous
evening, then they think; and perhaps they wonder when that lucky young
gentleman is going to take his seat in the House of Commons. So really,
my dear Vin, you can't afford to throw away this chance of having ----
all to yourself. I suppose he quite understands that you are not
infected with any of your father's Socialistic theories? Of course it's
all very well for an enormously rich man like your father to play with
Communism--it must be an exciting sort of amusement--like stroking a
tiger's tail, and wondering what will happen in consequence; but you
must keep clear of that kind of thing, my boy. Now, come along----"
"Oh, thank you, Musselburgh," the young man said, in the same
embarrassed fashion, "but if you'll excuse me--I'd rather stay in town
to-night."
"Oh, very well," the other said, good-naturedly, "I shall be up in a day
or two again. By the way, the Four-in-Hand Club turns out on Saturday.
Shall I give you a lift--and we'll go down to Hurlingham for the polo?
Mrs. Ellison is coming."
"Oh, thanks--awfully good of you--I shall be delighted," the young man
murmured; and a few seconds thereafter the two friends had separated,
Lord Musselburgh driving off in a hansom to Victoria-station.
This young Vincent Harris who now walked away along Piccadilly towards
Hyde Park was in a sort of waking trance. He saw nothing of the people
passing by him, nor of the carriages, nor of the crowd assembled at the
corner of the Row, expecting the Princess. He saw a pale and pathetic
face, a dimly-outlined figure standing by a table, a chastened splendour
of girlish hair, an attitude of meekness and diffidence. Once only had
he caught a glimpse of the beautiful, clear, blue-grey eyes--when she
came in at the door, looking startled almost; but surely a man is not
stricken blind and dumb by a single glance from a girl's wondering or
enquiring eyes? Love at first sight?--he would have dismissed the
suggestion with anger, as an impertinence, a profanation. It was not
love at all: it was a strange kind of interest and sympathy she had
inspired--compassionate almost, and yet more reverent than pitiful.
There appeared to be some mysterious and subtle appeal in her very
youth: why should one so young be so solitary, so timid, sheltering
herself, as it were, from the common gaze? Why that touch of pathos
about a mouth that was surely meant to smile?--why the lowered
eyelashes?--was it because she knew she was alone in this great
wilderness of strangers, in this teeming town? And he felt in his heart
that this was not the place for her at all. She ought to have been away
in sunny meadows golden with buttercups, with the laughter of young
children echoing around her, with the wide air fragrant with the
new-mown hay, with thrushes and blackbirds piping clear from amidst the
hawthorn boughs. Who had imprisoned this beautiful child, and made a
white slave of her, and brought her into this great roaring market of
the world? And was there no one to help?
But it was all a perplexity to him; even as was this indefinable concern
and anxiety about one to whom he had never even spoken a word. What was
there in that pensive beauty that should so strangely trouble him? She
had made no appeal to him; their eyes could scarcely be said to have
met, even in that brief moment; her cruel fate, the tyranny of her
surroundings, her pathetic resignation, were all part and parcel of a
distracted reverie, that seemed to tear his heart asunder with fears,
and indignation, and vows of succour. And then--somehow--amidst this
chaos and bewilderment--his one desire was that she should know he
wished to be her friend--that some day--oh, some wild white day of
joy!--he should be permitted to take her hand and say "Do not be so sad!
You are not so much alone. Let me be by your side for a little
while--until you speak--until you tell me what I can do--until you say
'Yes, I take you for my friend!'"
He had wandered away from the fashionable crowd--pacing aimlessly along
the unfrequented roadways of the Park, and little recking of the true
cause of the unrest that reigned in his bosom. For one thing,
speculations about love or marriage had so far concerned him but
slightly; these things were too remote; his aspirations and ambitions
were of another sort. Then again he was familiar with feminine society.
While other lads were at college, their thoughts intent on cricket, or
boating, or golf, he had been kept at home with masters and teachers to
fit him for the practical career which had been designed for him; and
part of the curriculum was that he should mix freely with his kind, and
get to know what people of our own day were thinking, not what people of
two thousand years ago had been thinking. One consequence of this was
that 'Vin' Harris, as he was universally called, if he did not know
everything, appeared to know everybody; and of course he was acquainted
with scores on scores of pretty girls--whom he liked to look at when,
for example, they wore a smart lawn tennis costume, and who interested
him most perhaps when they were saucy; and also he was acquainted with a
considerable number of young married ladies, who were inclined to pet
him, for he was good-natured, and easy-mannered, and it may be just a
little careless of their favour. But as for falling seriously in love
(if there were such a thing) or perplexing himself with dreams of
marriage--that was far from his scheme of life. His morning companions
were Spencer, Bain, John Mill, Delolme, Hallam, Freeman, and the like;
during the day he was busy with questions relating to food supply, to
the influence of climate on character, the effect of religious creeds on
mental development, the protection and cultivation of new industries,
and so forth; then in the evening he was down at the House of Commons a
good deal, especially when any well-known orator was expected to speak;
and again he went to all kinds of social festivities, particularly when
these were of a political cast, or likely to be attended by political
people. For Vin Harris was known to be a young man of great promise and
prospects; he was received everywhere; and granted a consideration by
his elders which was hardly justified by his years. That he remained
unspoiled--and even modest in a degree unusual at his age--may be put
down to his credit, or more strictly to the fortunate accident of his
temperament and disposition.
How long he walked, and whither he walked, on this particular evening,
he hardly knew; but as daylight waned he found himself in Oxford-street,
and over there was Park-street. Well enough he remembered the address
pencilled on the visiting-card; and yet he was timorous about seeking it
out; he passed and went on--came back again--glanced nervously down the
long thoroughfare--and then resumed his aimless stroll, slowly and
reluctantly. To these indecisions and hesitations there came the
inevitable climax: with eyes lowered, but yet seeming to see everything
around him and far ahead of him, he went down Park-street until he came
to the smaller thoroughfare named on the card; and there, with still
greater shamefacedness, he paused and ventured to look at the house that
he guessed to be the abode of the old man and his granddaughter. Well,
it was a sufficiently humble dwelling; but it was neat and clean; and in
the little balcony outside the first floor were a number of pots of
flowers--lobelias, ox-eye daisies, and musk. The window was open, but
he could hear nothing. He glanced up and down the small street. By this
time the carriages had all been driven away to dinner-party and theatre;
a perfect silence prevailed everywhere; there was not a single
passer-by. It was a quiet corner, a restful haven, these two lonely
creatures had found, after their varied buffetings about the world. And
to this young man, who had just come away from the roar of Oxford-street
and its surging stream of human life, there seemed something singularly
fascinating and soothing in the stillness. He began to think that he,
too, would like to escape into this retreat. They would not object to a
solitary companion?--to a neighbour who would be content to see them,
from the other side of the way, at the window now and again, or perhaps
to say "Good morning!" or "Good evening!" as they passed him on the
pavement? He could bring his books; here would be ample opportunity for
study; there were far too many distractions and interruptions at his
father's house. And then--after weeks and weeks of patient
waiting--then perhaps--some still evening--he might be invited to cross
over? In the hushed little parlour he would take his seat--and--oh! the
wonder and enhancement of it--be privileged to sit and listen, and hear
what the wanderers, at rest at last, had to say of the far and outer
world they had left behind them. He did not know what she was called;
but he thought of several names; and each one grew beautiful--became
possessed of a curious interest--when he guessed that it might be hers.
Suddenly the silence sprung into life; some one seemed to speak to him;
and then he knew that it was a violin--being played in that very room.
He glanced up towards the open window; he could just make out that the
old man was sitting there, within the shadow; therefore it must be the
girl herself who was playing, in the recess of the chamber. And in a
sort of dream he stood and listened to the plaintive melody--hardly
breathing--haunted by the feeling that he was intruding on some sacred
privacy. Then, when the beautiful, pathetic notes ceased, he
noiselessly withdrew with bowed head. She had been speaking to him, but
he was bewildered; he hardly could tell what that trembling, infinitely
sad voice had said.
He walked quickly now; for in place of those vague anticipations and
reveries, a more definite purpose was forming in his brain; and there
was a certain joyousness in the prospect. The very next morning he
would come up to this little thoroughfare, and see if he could secure
lodgings for himself, perhaps opposite the house where the old man and
his granddaughter lived. It was time he was devoting himself more
vigorously to study; there were too many people calling at the big
mansion in Grosvenor Place; the frivolities of the fashionable world
were too seductive. But in the seclusion of that quiet little quarter
he could give himself up to his books; and he would know that he had
neighbours; he might get a glimpse of them from time to time; that would
lighten his toil. Then when Mary Bethune--he had come to the conclusion
that Mary was her name, and had made not such a bad guess, after
all--when Mary Bethune played one of those pathetic Scotch airs, he
would have a better right to listen; he would contentedly put down
Seaman's "Progress of Nations," and go to the open window, and sit
there, till the violin had ceased to speak. It was a most excellent
scheme; he convinced himself that it would work right well--because it
was based on common sense.
When he arrived at the great house in Grosvenor Place, he went at once
into the dining-room, and found, though not to his surprise, that dinner
was just about over. There were only three persons seated at the long
table, which was sumptuously furnished with fruit, flowers, and silver.
At the bead was Vin Harris's father, Mr. Harland Harris, a stout,
square-set, somewhat bourgeois-looking man, with a stiff, pedantic, and
pompous manner, who nevertheless showed his scorn of conventionalities
by wearing a suit of grey tweed; on his right sate his sister-in-law,
Mrs. Ellison, a remarkably pretty young widow, tall and elegant of
figure, with wavy brown hair, shrewd blue eyes, and a most charming
smile that she could use with effect; the third member of the group
being Mr. Ogden, the great electioneerer of the north, a big and heavy
man, with Yorkshire-looking shoulders, a bald head, and small, piggish
eyes set in a wide extent of face. Mr. Ogden was resplendent in evening
dress, if his shining shirt-front was somewhat billowy.
"What's this now?" said the pretty Mrs. Ellison to the young man, as he
came and pulled in a chair and sate down by her. "Haven't you had any
dinner?"
"Good little children come in with dessert," said he, as he carelessly
helped himself to some olives and a glass of claret. "It's too hot to
eat food--unusual for May, isn't it? Besides I had a late luncheon with
Lord Musselburgh."
"Lord Musselburgh?" put in Mr. Ogden. "I wonder when his lordship is
going to tell us what he means to be--an owner of racehorses, or a
yachtsman, or a statesman? It seems to me he can't make up his own
mind; and the public don't know whether to take him seriously or not."
"Lord Musselburgh," said Vincent, firing up in defence of his friend,
"is an English gentleman, who thinks he ought to support English
institutions:--and I dare say that is why he does not find saving grace
in the caucus."
Perhaps there was more rudeness than point in this remark; but Mrs.
Ellison's eyes laughed--decorously and unobserved. She said aloud--
"For my part, I consider Lord Musselburgh a very admirable young man: he
has offered me the box-seat on his coach at the next Meet of the
Four-in-Hand Club."
"And are you going, aunt?" her nephew asked.
"Yes, certainly."
"Rather rash of Musselburgh, isn't it?" he observed, in a casual sort of
way.
"Why?"
"What attention is he likely to pay to his team, if you are sitting
beside him?"
"None of your impertinence, sir," said she (but she was pleased all the
same). "Boys must not say such things to their grandmothers."
Now the advent of Master Vin was opportune; for Mr. Harris, finding that
his sister-in-law had now some one of like mind to talk to, left those
two frivolous persons alone, and addressed himself exclusively to his
bulky friend from the north. And his discourse took the form of pointing
out what were the practical and definite aims that Socialism had to
place before itself. As to general principles, all thinking men were
agreed. Every one who had remarked the signs of the times knew that the
next great movement in modern life must be the emancipation of the
wage-slave. The tyranny of the capitalist--worse than any tyranny that
existed under the feudal system--must be cribbed and confined: too long
had he gorged himself with the fruits of the labours of his
fellow-creatures. The most despicable of tyrants, he; not only robbing
and plundering the hapless beings at his mercy, but debasing their
lives, depriving them of their individualism, of the self-respect which
was the birthright of the humblest handicraftsman of the middle ages,
and making of them mere machines for the purpose of filling his pockets
with useless and inordinate wealth. What was to be done, then?--what
were the immediate steps to be taken in order to alter this system of
monstrous and abominable plunder. It was all very well to make
processions to Pere Lachaise, and wave red flags, and wax eloquent over
the graves of the Communists; but there was wanted something more than
talk, something more than a tribute to the memory of the martyrs,
something actual to engage our own efforts, if the poor man was not to
be for ever ground to the dust, himself and his starving family, by the
relentless plutocrat and his convenient freedom of contract. Let the
State, then--that engine of oppression which had been invented by the
rich--now see whether it could not do something for all classes under
its care: let it consider the proletariat as well as the unscrupulous
landlords and the sordid and selfish bourgeoisie. Already it was
working the Telegraphs, the Post Office, the Parcels Post, the
Dockyards, and Savings Banks; and if it regulated the wages it paid by
the wage-rate of the outside market, that was because it followed the
wicked old system of unequal distribution of profit that was soon to be
destroyed. That would speedily be amended. What further, then? The
land for the people, first of all. As clear as daylight was the right
of the people to the land: let the State assume possession, and manage
it--its mines and minerals, its agriculture, its public grounds and
parks--for the benefit of all, not for the profit of a pampered few.
The State must buy and own the railways, must establish Communal centres
of distribution for the purchase and exchange of goods, must establish
systems of credit, must break down monopoly everywhere, and the iron
power of commercialism that was crushing the life out of the masses of
the population. The State must organise production, so that each man
shall do his share of work demanded by the community, and no more----
But here Mrs. Ellison, who had doubtless heard or read all this before,
turned away altogether. She asked her nephew to give her some more
strawberries.
"I say, Vin," she remarked, incidentally, "what very beautiful
dessert-plates these are. I don't remember them. Where did you get
them?"
"I thought you would admire them," said he. "They are my father's own
design."
"Really! I call them very handsome--and so quaint and unusual. He must
tell me where I can get some of them: when I go back to Brighton I
should like to take a few with me for my small establishment."
"But you can't, aunt," he said.
"Why?"
"Because my father had the moulds broken."
She looked at him for a moment and then sniggered--yes, sniggered, but
discreetly, so that the two perfervid politicians should not see.
"That is pretty well," she observed in an undertone, "for a Socialist
and Communist--to have the moulds broken so that nobody else should have
any!"
Presently she said, in the same undertone--
"I'm going to catch your eye in a minute, Vin. Are you coming upstairs
to the drawing-room with me?"
"Yes, of course, aunt," said he, instantly. "Get up now, and let's be
off."
She rose: so did her brother-in-law. Mr. Ogden remained in his
chair--perhaps through inattention, or perhaps he was bewildered by the
consciousness that he ought to make, as a relic of his ancient worship
of _laissez faire_, some protest against this wholesale intervention of
the State. Then Vincent opened the door for the tall and bright-eyed
young widow; and he and she passed out and went upstairs together.
When they entered the spacious and richly-furnished room, the atmosphere
of which was heavy with the scent of flowers, Mrs. Ellison seated
herself in a low lounging-chair, while her nephew stood some little way
off, his hands behind his back, his eyes absently staring into a
rose-shaded lamp as if he could see pictures there. When she spoke, no
doubt he heard; but he did not answer or interrupt: he allowed her to
ramble on. And she was in a talkative and vivacious mood.
"I'm going to the Drawing Room to-morrow, Vin," said she, "to present
Louie Drexel; and if you were kind and civil you would come down to St.
James's Park and find out our brougham and talk to us while we are
waiting. I do so want you to get to know Miss Drexel well; it would be
worth your while, I can tell you. You see, those American girls have
such excellent good sense. This evening, before you came in, your
father was treating us to a dissertation on the iniquity of riches--or
rather the absurdity of people revelling in wealth, and at the same time
professing to be Christians. He asked--and I'm sure I couldn't answer
him--how a Bishop can reconcile his enjoyment of L10,000 a year with
Christ's plain injunction, 'Sell all that thou hast and distribute unto
the poor.' And while I was listening to the sermon, I was thinking of
you, Vin. I don't know how far you have accepted your father's
theories--which he himself takes precious good care not to put into
practice. But some day--for young men are so impulsive and wilful and
uncertain--you might suddenly take it into your head to do some wild
thing of that kind; and then don't you see how well it would be for you
to be married to a sensible American girl; for if you were to sell all
that you have and give to the poor, she would make pretty certain you
didn't sell all that she had--so long as the Married Women's Property
Act was in force. There's no mad Quixotism about a girl like
that--level-headed, isn't that what they call it over there? Then think
what a help such a wife as that would be to you in public life. Think
of an election, for example--why, Louie Drexel could talk the voters out
of their five senses--bamboozle the women, and laugh the men into good
humour. I wonder you didn't pick up one of those bright American girls
when you were over in the States: I suppose you were too busy examining
the political machine, and the machinists. But I'm glad you didn't; I
couldn't trust you; and I'm going to do it for you myself. You are my
boy: I'm going to provide for you. And I haven't fixed on Louie Drexel
yet; but at the same time you might come down to-morrow to St. James's
Park and talk to her."
He withdrew his eyes from the crimson lamp, and came and took a chair
near her.
"I am thinking of making a little change in my arrangements," said he.
"There is too much distraction here; especially at this time of the
year, when everybody's in town. I am going to take rooms elsewhere."
"Oh, ho!" exclaimed the pretty young widow, with a smile. "Is that it?
The restraint of home has been found too much at last--we must have
freedom, and wine-parties, and cards? Well, who can wonder at it? I
warned your father years ago of the folly of not sending you to college;
you would have had all that over by this time, like other young men; but
no, the future Champion of the Proletariat was not to have his mind
contaminated by the sons of squires. Well, and where have the princely
apartments been chosen? In Piccadilly, of course--yellow satin and
golden goblets."
"You are quite mistaken, aunt," he said, simply. "The rooms I hope to
get to-morrow are in a quiet little street that I dare say you never
heard of: if you saw it, you might probably call it shimmy."
"Oh, is that it?" she said again, for her brain was nimble and swift in
the construction of theories. "Then you are really going to put some of
your father's principles into practice, and to consort with the masses?
I've often wondered when he was going to begin himself. You know how he
declares it to be monstrous that there should be people of your own
race, and colour, and religion, whom you would hesitate to ask to sit
down at the same table as yourself; but I have not heard him as yet
invite Jack the crossing-sweeper or Tom from the stable-yard to come in
and dine with him. And if they came in without an invitation, taking
him at his word, as it were, I'm afraid their reception wouldn't be
warm--yes, it would be remarkably warm--they'd be thrown out of the
front-door in a couple of seconds. So you are going slumming, is that
it? You want to understand the great heart of the people--before you
lead them on to anarchy and universal plunder?"
"Aunt," said he, with a smile, "you mustn't say such things to me; you
mustn't pour reactionary poison into my young mind. No; I am going to
retire into that quiet little corner of London simply to get on with my
books; and as I shan't let anybody know where it is, I can't be
disturbed."
"Do you mean to live there altogether?" she asked, glancing quickly at
him. "Shall you sleep there?"
"Oh, no. I shall come home here each evening."
"To dinner? But it is no use asking you that; for you never seem to
care where you dine, or whether you dine at all. Have you told your
father of this scheme?"
"No, not yet," he made answer; and he could say nothing further just
then, for at this moment Harland Harris and his guest came upstairs from
the dining-room, and Mr. Ogden proceeded to engage the young widow in
ponderous conversation.
As good luck would have it, when Vincent went up next morning to the
little thoroughfare leading from Park-street, he found exactly the rooms
he wanted, and engaged them there and then, paying a fortnight's rent in
advance in order to calm the good landlady's mind, for he had not a
scrap of luggage with him. The sitting-room was all he really required,
to be sure; but he did not wish to be disturbed by having the adjoining
bedroom occupied; so he took that too, money not being of much
consequence to this young man. And then, when the landlady left, he sate
down to look at his new possessions. The apartments must have looked
poorly furnished to eyes familiar with the splendour of Grosvenor Place;
but at all events they seemed clean. Cheap German lithographs adorned
the walls; the fireplace was gay with strips of pink paper. But when he
approached the window--which he did stealthily--there was more to
interest him: the opposite two windows, behind the balcony filled with
flowers, were both open: at any moment a figure might appear
there--perhaps looking out absently and vaguely with those beautiful and
wistful eyes. Or perchance he might hear the tender strains of the
unseen violin? He remained there for some time, rather breathless and
nervous, until he recollected that he had come hither for the purposes
of study; and then he thought he would go away down to Grosvenor Place
and seek out such books and writing-materials as he might want, and
bring them along forthwith.
He went downstairs and was just about to step outside when he caught
sight of something across the way which caused him instantly to shrink
back and shelter himself within the shadow of the door--his heart
beating quickly. He had nearly been face-to-face with the pensive-eyed
young girl, for she had come forth from the opposite house, and was
waiting for her grandfather to follow. He remained concealed--fearful
of being seen, and yet scarcely knowing why. Then, when he heard the
door on the other side shut, and when he had allowed them a few seconds'
grace, he stepped forth from his hiding, and saw that they were just
turning the corner into Park-street.
Why this perturbation that caused his hands to tremble, that caused his
eyeballs to throb, as he looked and looked, and yet hardly dared to
look? He was doing no harm--he was thinking no harm. These thoroughfares
were open to all; the May morning was warm and fine and clear; why
should not he take his way to Hyde Park as well as another? Even in
furtively watching whither they went--in keeping a certain distance
between them and him--there was no sort of sacrilege or outrage. If
they had turned and confronted him, they could not have recognised him:
it was almost impossible they could have observed the young man who was
half concealed by the curtains of the room in Musselburgh House. And
yet--yet--there was some kind of tremulous wonder in his being so near
her--in his being allowed, without let or hindrance, to gaze upon the
long-flowing masses of hair, that caught a sheen of light here and
there, and stirred with the stirring of the wind. And then the simple
grace and ease of her carriage: she held her head more erect in these
quiet thoroughfares; sometimes she turned a little to address the old
man, and then her refined and sensitive profile became visible, and also
the mysterious charm of the long and drooping lashes. He noticed that
she never looked at any passer-by; but she did not seem so sad on this
fresh morning; she was talking a good deal--and cheerfully, as he hoped.
He wished for more sunlight--that the day might brighten all around
her--that the warm airs might be sweet with the blossoms of the opening
summer.
For now they were nearing Hyde Park; and away before them stretched the
pale blue vistas of atmosphere under the wide-swaying branches of the
maples. They crossed to Grosvenor Gate; they left the dull roar of Park
Lane behind them; they passed beneath the trees; and emerged upon the
open breadths of verdure, intersected by pale pink roads. Though summer
had come prematurely, this was almost an April-like day: there was a
south-west wind blowing, and flattening the feathery grasses; there were
shafts of misty sunlight striking here and there; while a confusion of
clouds, purple and grey and silver, floated heavily through the
surcharged sky. The newly-shorn sheep were quite white--for London. A
smart young maidservant idly shoving a perambulator had a glory of
Spring flowers in her bonnet. The mild air blowing about brought
grateful odours--was it from the green-sward all around, or from the
more distant masses of hawthorn white and red?
The old man, marching with uplifted head, and sometimes swinging the
stick that he carried, was singing aloud in the gaiety of his heart,
though Vincent, carefully keeping at a certain distance, could not make
out either the words or the air. The young girl, on the other hand, was
simply looking at the various objects, animate and inanimate, around
her--at the birds picking up straws or shreds of wool for the building
of their nests, at the wind shivering through the grey spikelets of the
grass, at the ever-changing conformation of the clouds, at the swaying
of the branches of the trees; while from time to time there came
floating over from Knightsbridge the sound of a military band. No, she
did not appear so sad as she had done the day before; and there was
something cheerful, too, about her costume--about the simple dress of
dark blue-and-white-striped linen and the sailor's hat of cream-white
with a dark blue band. Mary, he made sure her name was--Mary Bethune.
Only a name to him; nothing more: a strange, indefinable, immeasurable
distance lay between them; not for him was it to draw near to her, to
breathe the same air with her, to listen to the low tones of her voice,
to wait for the uplifting of the mysteriously shaded eyes. And as for
fancies become more wildly audacious?--what would be the joy of any
human being who should be allowed to touch--with trembling
fingertips--with reverent and almost reluctant fingertips--the soft
splendour of that shining and beautiful hair?
George Bethune and his granddaughter made their way down to the
Serpentine, and took their places on a bench there, while the old man
proceeded to draw from his pocket a newspaper, which he leisurely began
to read. The girl had nothing to do but sit placidly there and look
around her--at the shimmering stretch of water, at the small boys
sailing their mimic yachts, at the quacking ducks and yelping dogs, at
the ever-rustling and murmuring trees. Vincent Harris had now dared to
draw a little nearer; but still he felt that she was worlds and worlds
away. How many yards were there between him and her?--not yards at all,
but infinities of space! They were strangers to each other; no spoken
word was possible between them; they might go through to the end of life
with this impalpable barrier for ever dividing them. And yet it seemed
a sort of miraculous thing that he was allowed to come so close--that he
could almost tell the individual threads of that soft-shining hair.
Then, more than once, too, he had caught a glimpse of her raised eyes,
as she turned to address her grandfather; and that was a startling and
bewildering experience. It was not their mere beauty; though, to be
sure, their clear and limpid deeps seemed all the more clear and limpid
because of the touch of sun-tan on her complexion; it was rather that
they were full of all ineffable things--simplicity, submission,
gratitude, affection, and even, as he rejoiced to think, some measure of
mild enjoyment. For the moment there was little of that pensive and
resigned look that had struck him in the figure standing with bowed head
at Lord Musselburgh's table. She appeared to be pleased with the
various life around her and its little incidents; she regarded the
sailing of the miniature yachts with interest. When a brace of duck went
whirring by overhead, she followed their flight until they were lost to
view; she watched two small urchins furtively fishing for minnows, with
an eye on the distant park-keeper. There was a universal rustling of
leaves in the silence; and sometimes, when the wind blew straight
across, the music of the military band became more distinct.
How long they remained there, the young man did not know; it was a
golden morning, and all too brief. But when at last they did rise to go
he was very nearly caught; for instead of returning by the way they had
come, they struck westward; and he suddenly saw with alarm that there
was no time for him to get behind one of the elms. All he could do was
to turn aside, and lower his eyes. They passed within a few yards of
him; he could distinctly hear the old man singing, with a fine note of
bravado in his voice, "The standard on the braes o' Mar, is up and
streaming rarely"; then, when he was sure they were some way off, he
made bold to raise his eyes again. Had she taken any notice of him? He
hoped not. He did not wish her to think him a spy; he did not wish to
be known to her at all. He should be her constant neighbour, her
companion almost, without any consciousness on her part. And again and
again he marvelled that the landlady in the little thoroughfare should
have given him those treasures of rooms--should have put such happiness
within his reach--for so trivial a sum. Seventeen shillings a
week!--when each moment would be a diamond, and each evening hour a
string of diamonds!
But nevertheless there were his studies to be thought of; so now he
walked away down to Grosvenor Place, gathered his books together, and
took them up in a hansom to his newly-acquired lodgings. That afternoon
he did loyally stick to his work--or tried to do so, though, in fact,
his ears were alert for any sound coming from the other side of the way.
He had left his window open; one of the windows of the opposite house
was also left open. Occasionally he would lay down Draper's Civil War in
America, and get up and stretch his legs, and from a convenient shelter
send a swift glance of scrutiny across the street. There was no sign.
Perhaps they had gone out again, shopping, or visiting, or, as likely as
not, to look at the people riding and driving in the Park. He returned
to Draper, and to President Jackson's Proclamation--but with less of
interest: his annotations became fewer. He was listening as well as
reading.
Then all of a sudden there flashed into his brain a suggestion--a
suggestion that had little to do with Clay's Compromise, or the project
to arrest Mr. Calhoun. On the previous evening it had seemed to him as
though the unseen violinist were speaking to him: why, then, should he
not answer, in the same language? There could be no offence in that--no
impertinence: it would be merely one vague voice responding to the
other, the unknown communicating in this fleshless and bloodless way
with the unknown. And now he was abundantly grateful to his aunt for
having insisted on his including music among his various studies and
accomplishments: a use had come for his slight proficiency at last: most
modern languages he knew, but he had never expected to be called upon to
speak in this one. And yet what more simple, as between neighbours? He
was not thrusting his society on any one; he was invading no privacy; he
was demanding no concession of friendship or even acquaintance. But at
least the dreadful gulf of silence would be bridged over by this mystic
means.
It was nearly six o'clock; London was busy when he went out on this hot
evening. He walked along to a music-publisher's place in Regent-street;
and hired a piano on the express stipulation that it was to be in his
rooms within one hour. Then, as he had only had a biscuit for lunch,
and wished to leave himself untrammelled later on, he turned into a
restaurant, and dined there, simply enough, and had a cigarette and a
look at the evening papers. Thereafter he strolled back to his lodgings,
and took to his book, though his thoughts were inclined to wander now
and again.
Twilight had fallen; but he did not light the gas. Once, for a brief
second or two, he had quietly run his fingers over the keys of the
piano, to learn if it was tolerably in tune; then the room relapsed into
silence again. And was there to be silence on the other side as well?
He waited and listened, and waited and listened, in vain. Perhaps,
while he was idling away his time in the Regent-street restaurant, they
had come out from the house and gone off to some theatre. The street
was so still now that he could almost have heard any one speaking in
that room on the other side; but there was no sound.
Then his heart leapt and his brain grew giddy. Here was that
low-breathing and vibrating wail again:--and was she alone now?--in the
gathering darkness? He recognised the air; it was "Auld Robin Gray;"
but never before had he known that it was so beautiful and so ineffably
sad as well. Slowly she played and simply; it was almost like a human
voice; only that the trembling strings had a penetrating note of their
own. And when she ceased, it seemed to him that it would be profanation
to break in upon the hushed and sacred stillness.
And yet was he not to answer her, in the only speech that could not
offend? Was he to act the coward, when there offered a chance of his
establishing some subtle link with, her, of sending a message, of
declaring his presence in this surely unobtrusive fashion? Quickly he
sat down to the piano; and, in rather a nervous and anxious fashion,
began. He was not a brilliant performer--anything but that; but he had
a light touch and a sensitive ear; and he played with feeling and grace.
It was "Kathleen Mavourneen"--and a sort of appeal in its way, did she
but remember the words. He played the melody over only once, slowly and
as sympathetically as he could; then he rose and retired from the piano;
and stood in the darkness, listening.
Alas! there was no response. What had he done? He waited, wondering;
but all was still in the little street. It was as if some bird, some
mellow-throated thrush or nightingale, had been warbling to itself in
the dim security of the leaves, and been suddenly startled and silenced
by an alien sound, not knowing what that might portend.