HOW THE HON. PERCIVAL GAVE MISS DICKENSON HIS ACCOUNT OF THE BLIND
MAN. HOW THAT ANY YOUNG MAN SOEVER IS GLAD THAT ANY YOUNG LADY
SOEVER ISN'T _FIANCEE_, EXCEPT SHE BE UGLY. MISS DICKENSON'S
EFFRONTERY. HOW MR. PELLEW SAID "POOH!" IRENE'S ABSENCE, VISITING.
EVERYONE'S ELSE ABSENCE, EXCEPT THE BLIND MAN'S, GWEN'S, AND MRS.
BAILEY'S, WHO HAD A LETTER TO WRITE
The Hon. Percival Pellew had not been at the Towers continuously
throughout the whole three weeks following the accident. The best club
in London could not have spared him as long as that. He had returned to
his place in the House a day or two later, had voted on the Expenses at
Elections Bill, and had then gone to a by-election in Cornwall to help
his candidate to keep his expenses at a minimum. His way back to the
club did not lie near Ancester Towers, but he reconciled a renewal of
his visit there to his conscience by the consideration that an unusually
late Session was predicted. A little more country air would do him no
harm, and the Towers was the best club in the country.
He had had absolutely no motive whatever for going there, outside what
this implies. Unless, indeed, something else was implied by his pledging
his honour to himself that this was the case. Self-deception is an art
that Man gives a great deal of attention to, and Woman nearly as much.
The Countess said to him, on the evening of his reappearance in time to
dress for dinner:--"Everybody's gone, Percy--I mean everybody of your
lot a fortnight ago." Whereto he replied:--"How about the wounded man?"
and her ladyship said:--"Mr. Torrens? Oh yes, Mr. Torrens is here still
and his sister--they'll be here a few days longer.... There's nobody
else. Yes, there's Constance Dickenson. Norbury, tell them to keep
dinner back a little because of Mr. Pellew." This was all in one
sentence, chiefly to the butler. She ended:--"All the rest are new," and
the gentleman departed to dress in ten minutes--long ones probably. This
was two or three evenings before Miss Dickenson saw that glow-worm in
the garden. Perhaps three, because two are needed to account for the
lady's attitude about that cigar, and twelve hours for a coolness
occasioned by her ladyship's saying in her inconsiderate way:--"Oh, you
are quite old friends, you two, of course--I forgot." Only fancy saying
that a single lady and gentleman were "quite old friends"! Both parties
exhibited mature courtesy, enriched with smiles in moderation. But for
all that their relations painfully resembled civility for the rest of
that evening.
However, whatever they were then, they were reinstated by now; that is
to say, by the morning after Gwen's bad night. Eavesdrop, please, and
overhear what you can in the arbutus walk, half-way through the Hon.
Percival's first cigar.
The gentleman is accounting for something he has just said. "What made
me think so was his being so curious about our friend Cumberworld. As
for Gwen, I wouldn't trust her not to be romantic. Girls are."
The lady speaks discreetly:--"Certainly no such construction would have
occurred to me. One has to be on one's guard against romantic ideas.
She might easily be--a--_eprise_, to some extent--as girls are...."
"But spooney, no! Well--perhaps you're right."
"I don't know whether I ought to say even that. I shouldn't, only to
you. Because I know I can rely on your discretion...."
"Rather. Only you must admit that when she appeared this morning--and
last night--she was looking ..."
"Looking what?"
"Well ... rather too statuesque for jollity."
"Perhaps the heat. I know she complains of the heat; it gives her a
headache."
"Come, Miss Dickenson, that's not fair. You know it was what _you_ said
began it."
"Began what?"
"Madam, what I am saying arises naturally from ..."
"There!--do stop being Parliamentary and be reasonable. What you mean
is--have those two fallen head over ears in love, or haven't they?"
Discussions of this subject of Love are greatly lubricated by
exaggeration of style. It is almost as good as a foreign tongue. She
continued more seriously:--"Tell me a little more of what Mr. Torrens
said."
"When I saw him this morning?" Mr. Pellew looked thoughtfully at what
was left of his cigar, as if it would remind him if he looked long
enough, and then threw it abruptly away as though he gave it up as a bad
job. "No," he said, falling back on his own memory. "It wasn't what he
said. It was the way of saying it. Manner is incommunicable. And he said
so little about her. He talked a good deal about Philippa in a chaffy
sort of way--said she was exactly his idea of a Countess--why had one
such firm convictions about Countesses and Duchesses and Baronets and so
on? It led to great injustice, causing us to condemn nine samples out of
ten as Pretenders, not real Countesses or Duchesses or Baronets at all.
He was convinced his own dear dad was a tin Baronet; or, at best,
Britannia-metal. Alfred Tennyson had spoken of two sorts--little
lily-handed ones and great broad-shouldered brawny Englishmen. Neither
would eat the sugar nor go to sleep in an armchair with the _Times_ over
his head. _His_ father did both. I admitted the force of his criticism,
but could not follow his distinction between Countesses and Duchesses.
Duchesses were squarer than Countesses, just as Dukes were squarer than
Earls."
"I think they are," said Miss Dickenson. She shut her eyes a moment for
reflection, and then decided:--"Oh yes--certainly squarer--not a doubt
of it!" Mr. Pellew formed an image in his mind, of this lady fifteen
years ago, with its eyes shut. He did not the least know why he did so.
"Torrens goes on like that," he continued. "Makes you laugh sometimes!
But what I was going to say was this. When he had disposed of Philippa
and chaffed Tim a little--not disrespectfully you know--he became
suddenly serious, and talked about Gwen--spoke with a hesitating
deference, almost ceremoniously. Said he had had some conversation with
Lady Gwendolen, and been impressed with her intelligence and wit. Most
young ladies of her age were so frivolous. He was the more impressed
that her beauty was undeniable. The brief glimpse he had had of her had
greatly affected him artistically--it was an Aesthetic impression
entirely. He overdid this."
Miss Dickenson nodded slightly in confidence with herself. _Her_ insight
jotted down a brief memorandum about Mr. Pellew's, and the credit it did
him. That settled, she recalled a something he had left unfinished
earlier. "You were asking about Lord Cumberworld, Mr. Pellew?"
"Whether there was anything afoot in that quarter? Yes, he asked that,
and wanted to know if Mrs. Bailey, who had been retailing current
gossip, was rightly informed when she said that there was, and that it
was going to come off. He was very anxious to show how detached he was
personally. Made jokes about its 'coming off' like a boot...."
"Stop a minute to see if I understand.... Oh yes--I see. 'If there was
anything afoot.' Of course. Go on."
"It was a poor quip, and failed of its purpose. His relief was too
palpable when I disallowed Mrs. Bailey.... By-the-by, that's a rum
thing, Miss Dickenson,--that way young men have. I believe if I did it
once when I was a young fillah I did it fifty times."
"Did what?"
"Well--breathed free on hearing that a girl wasn't engaged. Doesn't
matter how doosid little they know of her--only seen her in the Park on
horseback, p'r'aps--they'll eat a lot more lunch if they're told she's
still in the market. Fact!"
Miss Dickenson said that no doubt Mr. Pellew knew best, and that it was
gratifying to think how many young men's lunches her earlier days might
have intensified without her knowing anything about it. The gentleman
felt himself bound to reassure and confirm, for was not the lady
_passee_? "Rather!" said he; this favourite expression this time
implying that the name of these lunches was no doubt Legion. An awkward
sincerity of the lady caused her to say:--"I didn't mean that." And
then she had to account for it. She was intrepid enough to venture on:
"What I meant was, never being engaged," but not cool enough to keep of
one colour exactly. It didn't rise to the height of embarrassment, but
something rippled for all that.
A cigar Mr. Pellew was lighting required unusual and special attention.
It had a mission, that cigar. It had to gloss over a slight flush on its
smoker's cheeks, and to take the edge off the abruptness with which he
said,--"Oh, gammon!" as he threw a Vesuvian away.
He picked up the lost thread at the point of his own indiscreet
excursion into young-manthropology--his own word when he apologized for
it. "Anyhow," said he, "it struck me that our friend upstairs was very
hard hit. He made such a parade of his complete independence. Of course,
I'm not much of a judge of such matters. Not my line. I understand that
he has been prorogued--I mean his departure has. He's to try his luck at
coming downstairs this evening after feeding-time. He funks finding the
way to his mouth in public. Don't wonder--poor chap!"
Then this lady had a fit of contrition about the way in which she had
been gossiping, and tried to back out. She had the loathsome meanness to
pretend that she herself had been entirely passive, a mere listener to
an indiscreet and fanciful companion. "What gossips you men are!" said
she, rushing the position boldly. "Fancy cooking up a romance about this
Mr. Torrens and Gwen, when they've hardly so much as," she had nearly
said, "set eyes on each other"; but revised it in time for press. It
worked out "when she has really only just set eyes on him, and chatted
half an hour."
Mr. Pellew's indignation found its way through a stammer which expressed
the struggle of courtesy against denunciation. "Come--hang it all!" said
he. "It wasn't _my_ romance.... Oh, well, perhaps it wasn't yours
either. Only--play fair, Miss Dickenson. Six of the one and half a dozen
of the other! Confess up!"
The lady assumed the tone of Tranquillity soothing Petulance. "Never
mind, Mr. Pellew!" she said. "You needn't lie awake about it. It doesn't
really matter, you know.... _Have_ you got the right time? Because I
have to be ready at half-past eleven to drive with Philippa. I
promised.... What!--a quarter past? I must run." She looked back to
reassure possible perturbation. "It really does _not_ matter between
_us_," said she, and vanished down the avenue.
The Hon. Percival Pellew walked slowly in the opposite direction in a
brown study, leaving his thumbs in his armholes, and playing _la ci
darem_ with his fingers on his waistcoat. He played it twice or thrice
before he stopped to knock a phenomenal ash off his cigar. Then he
spoke, and what he said was "Pooh!"
The story does not know why he said "Pooh!" It merely notes, apropos of
Miss Dickenson's last words, that the first person plural pronoun, used
as a dual by a lady to a gentleman, sometimes makes hay of the thirdness
of their respective persons singular. But if it had done so, this time,
"Pooh!" was a weak counter-blast against its influence.
* * * * *
Irene's friend Gretchen von Trendelenstein had written that morning that
she was coming to stay with the Mackworth Clarkes at Toft, only a couple
of miles off. She would only have two days, and could not hope to get as
far as Pensham, but couldn't Irene come to _her_? She was, you see,
Irene's bosom friend. The letter had gone to Pensham and been forwarded,
losing time. This was the last day of visiting-possibility at Toft. So
Irene asked to be taken there; and, if she stayed, would find her way
back somehow. Mr. Norbury, however, after referring to Archibald, the
head of the stables, made _dernier ressorts_ needless, and Irene was
driven away behind a spirited horse by the young groom, Tom Kettering.
Her brother would have devolved entirely on Mrs. Bailey and chance
visitors, if he had not struck vigorously against confinement to his
room, after a recovery of strength sufficient to warrant his removal to
his home eighteen miles away. If he was strong enough for that, he was
strong enough for an easy flight of stairs, down and up, with tea
between. Mrs. Bailey, the only obstacle, was overruled. Indeed, that
good woman was an anachronism by now, her only remaining function being
such succour as a newly blinded man wants till he gets used to his
blindness. Tonics and stimulants were coming to an end, and her
professional extinction was to follow. Nevertheless, Mr. Torrens held
fast to dining in solitude until he recovered his eyesight, or at least
until he had become more dexterous without it.
Now, it happened that on this day of all others three attractive events
came all at once--the Flower Show at Brainley Thorpe, the Sadleigh
Races, and a big Agricultural Meeting at King's Grantham, where the
County Members were to address constituents. The Countess had promised
to open the first, and the absence of the Earl from the second would
have been looked upon as a calamity. All the male non-coronetted members
of the company of mature years were committed to Agriculture or
Bookmaking, and the younger ones to attendance on Beauty at the Flower
Show. Poor Adrian Torrens!--there was no doubt he had been forgotten.
But he was not going to admit the slightest concern about that. "Go away
to your Von, darling Stupid!" said he. "And turn head over heels in her
and wallow. Do you want to be the death of me? Do you want to throw me
back when I'm such a credit to Mrs. Bailey and Dr. Nash?" Irene had her
doubts--but there!--wasn't Gretchen going to marry an Herr Professor and
be a Frau when she went back to Berlin, and would she ever see her
again? Moreover, Gwen said to her:--"He won't be alone if he's
downstairs in the drawing-room. Some of the women are sure to stop. It's
too hot for old Lady Cumberworld to go out. I heard her say so."
"_She'll_ be no consolation for him," said Irene.
"No--that she won't! But unless there's someone else there she'll have
Inez--you've seen the Spanish _dame-de-compagnie_?--and _she'll_ enjoy a
flirtation with your brother. He'll speak Spanish to her, and she'll
sing Spanish songs. _He_ won't hurt for a few hours."
So Tom Kettering drove Irene away in the gig, and Adrian was guided
downstairs to an empty hall by Mrs. Bailey at four o'clock, so as to get
a little used to the room before anyone should return. Prophecy depicted
Normal Society coming back to tea, and believed in itself. Achilles
sanctioned his master's new departure by his presence, accompanying him
to the drawing-room. This dog was not only tolerated but encouraged
everywhere. Dogs are, when their eyes are pathetic, their coats
faultless, and their compliance with household superstitions
unhesitating.
"Anybody in sight, Mrs. Bailey?"
"Nobody yet, Mr. Torrens."
"_Speriamo!_ Perhaps there's a piano in the room, Mrs. Bailey?"
"There's two. One's stood up against the wall shut. The other's on three
legs in the middle of the room." That one was to play upon, she
supposed, the other to sing to.
"If you will be truly obliging--you always are, you know--and conduct me
to the one on three legs in the middle of the room, I will play you an
air from Gluck's 'Orfeo,' which I am sure you will enjoy.... Oh yes--I
can do without any music-books because I have played it before, not
infrequently...."
"I meant to set upon." In fact, Mrs. Bailey regarded this as the primary
purpose of music-books; and so it was, at the home of her niece, who
could play quite nicely. There was only two and they "just did." She
referred to this while Mr. Torrens was spinning the music-stool to a
suitable height for himself. He responded with perfect gravity--not a
fraction of a smile--that books were apt to be too high or too low. It
was the fault of the composers clearly, because the binders had to
accept the scores as they found them. If the binders were to begin
rearranging music to make volumes thicker or thinner, you wouldn't be
able to play straight on. Mrs. Bailey concurred, saying that she had
always said to her niece not to offer to play a tune till she could play
it right through from beginning to end. Mr. Torrens said that was
undoubtedly the view of all true musicians, and struck a chord,
remarking that the piano had been left open. "How ever could you tell
_that_ now, Mr. Torrens?" said Mrs. Bailey, and felt that she was in the
presence of an Artist.
Nevertheless, she seemed to be lukewarm about _Che faro_, merely
remarking after hearing it that it was more like the slow tunes her
niece played than the quick ones. The player said with unmoved gravity
this was _andante_. Mrs. Bailey said that her niece, on the contrary,
had been christened Selina. She could play the Polka. So could Mr.
Torrens, rather to the good woman's surprise and, indeed, delight. He
was so good-humoured that he played it again, and also the
_Schottische_; and would have stood Gluck over to meet her taste
indefinitely, but that voices came outside, and the selection was
interrupted.
The voice of Lady Ancester was one, saying despairingly:--"My dear, if
you're not ready we must go without you. I _must_ be there in time."
Miss Dickenson's was another, attesting that if the person addressed did
not come, sundry specified individuals would be in an awful rage.
"Well, then, you must go without me. Flower shows always bore me to
death." This was a voice that had not died out of the blind man's ears
since yesterday; Lady Gwendolen's, of course. It added that its owner
must finish her letter, or it would miss the six o'clock post and not
catch the mail; which would have, somehow, some disastrous result. Then
said her mother's voice, she should have written it before. Then
justification and refutation, and each voice said its say with a
difference--more of expounding, explaining--with a result like in Master
Hugues of Saxe-Gotha's mountainous fugue, that one of them, Gwen's,
stood out all the stiffer hence. No doubt you know your Browning. Gwen
asserted herself victor all along the line, and remonstrance died a
natural death. But what was she going to do all the afternoon? A wealth
of employments awaited her, she testified. Rarely had so many arrears
remained unpaid. Last and least she must try through that song, because
she had to send the music back to the Signore. So the Countess supposed
she must go her own way, and presently Adrian Torrens was conscious that
her ladyship had gone hers, by the curt resurrection of sounds in
abeyance somewhile since; sounds of eight hoofs and four wheels;
suddenly self-assertive, soon evanescent.
Was Gwen really going to come to sing at this piano? _That_ was
something worth living for, at least. But no!--conclusions must not be
jumped in that fashion. Perhaps she had a piano in her own room. Nothing
more likely.
Achilles had stepped out, hearing sounds as of a departure; and now
returned, having seen that all was in satisfactory order. He sighed over
his onerous responsibilities, and settled down to repose--well-earned
repose, his manner suggested.
"I suppose I shall have to clear out when her young ladyship comes in to
practise," said Mrs. Bailey. Mr. Torrens revolted inwardly against
ostracising the good woman on social grounds; but then, _did_ he want
her to remain if Gwen appeared? Just fancy--to have that newcomer all to
himself for perhaps an hour, as he had her for five minutes yesterday!
Too good to be true! He compromised with his conscience about Mrs.
Bailey. "Don't go away till she does, anyhow," said he. And then he sang
Irish Melodies with Tom Moore's words, and rather shocked his hearer by
the message the legatee of the singer received about his heart. She
preferred the Polka.
It chanced that Mrs. Bailey also had weighty correspondence on hand,
relating to an engagement with a new patient; and, with her,
correspondence was no light matter. Pride had always stood between Mrs.
Bailey and culture, ever since she got her schooling done. Otherwise she
might have acquired style and a fluent caligraphy. As it was, her style
was uncertain and her method slow. Knowing this--without admitting
it--she was influenced by hearing a six o'clock post referred to, having
previously thought her letters went an hour later. So she developed an
intention of completing her letter, of which short instalments had been
turned out at intervals already, as soon as ever the advent of a guest
or visitor gave her an excuse for desertion. Of course a member of the
household was better than either; so she abdicated without misgiving
when--as she put it--she heard her young ladyship a-coming.
Her young ladyship was audible outside long enough for Mrs. Bailey to
abdicate before she entered the room. They met on the stairs and spoke.
Was that Mr. Torrens at the piano?--asked Gwen. Because if it was she
mustn't stop him. She would cry off and try her song another time.
But Mrs. Bailey reassured her, saying:--"He won't go on long, my lady.
You'll get your turn in five minutes," in an undertone. She added:--"He
won't see your music-paper. Trust him for that." These words must have
had a new hope in them for the young lady, for she said quickly: "You
think he _does_ see _something_, then?" The answer was ambiguous.
"Nothing to go by." Gwen had to be content with it.
* * * * *
Is there any strain of music known to man more harrowingly pathetic than
the one popularly known as _Erin go bragh_? Does it not make hearers
without a drop of Erse blood in their veins thrill and glow with a
patriotism that complete ignorance of the history of Ireland never
interferes with in the least? Do not their hearts pant for the blood of
the Saxon on the spot, even though their father's name be Baker and
their mother's Smith? Ours does.
Adrian Torrens, though his finger-tips felt strange on the keys in the
dark, and his hands were weak beyond his own suspicion of their
weakness, could still play the Polka for Mrs. Bailey. When his audience
no longer claimed repetition of that exciting air, he struck a chord or
two of some Beethoven, but shook his head with a sigh and gave it up.
However, less ambitious attempts were open to him, and he had happened
on Irish minstrelsy; so, left to himself, he sang _Savourneen Dheelish_
through.
Gwen, entering unheard, was glad she could dry her eyes undetected by
those sightless ones that she knew showed nothing to the singer--nothing
but a black void. The pathos of the air backed by the pathos of a voice
that went straight to her heart, made of it a lament over the blackness
of this void--over the glorious bygone sunlight, never a ray of it to be
shed again for him! There was no one in the room, and it was a relief to
her to have this right to unseen tears.
The feverish excitement of her sleepless night had subsided, but the
memory of a strange resolve clung to her, a resolution to do a thing
that then seemed practicable, reasonable, right; that had seemed since,
more than once, insurmountable--yes! Insane--yes! But _wrong_--no! Now,
hard hit by _Savourneen Dheelish_, the strength to think she might cross
the barriers revived, and the insanity of the scheme shrank as its
rightness grew and grew. After all, did she not belong to herself? To
whom else, except her parents? Well--her duty to her parents was clear;
to ransom their consciences for them; to enable them to say "We
destroyed this man's eyesight for him, but we gave him Gwen." If only
this pianist could just manage to love her on the strength of Arthur's
Bridge and that rainbow gleam! But how to find out? She could see
herself in a mirror near by as she thought it, and the resplendent
beauty that she could not handle was a bitterness to her; she gazed at
it as a warrior might gaze at his sword with his hands lopped off at the
wrists. Still, he _had_ seen her; that was something! She would not have
acknowledged later, perhaps, that at this moment her mind was running on
a foolish thought:--"Did I, or did I not, look my best at that moment?"
She never noticed the curious _naivete_ which left unquestioned her
readiness to play the part she was casting for herself--the _role_ of an
eyeless man's mate for life--yet never taxed her with loving him.
Perhaps it was the very fact that the circumstances of the case released
her from confessing her love, that paved the way for her to action that
would else have been impossible. "By this light," said Beatrice to
Benedick, "I take thee for pure pity." It was a vast consolation to
Beatrice to say this, no doubt.
Achilles stopped _Savourneen Dheelish_ by his welcome to the newcomer.
To whom Gwen said:--"Oh, you darling!" But to his master she said:--"Go
on, it's me, Mr. Torrens. Gwen."
"I know--'Gwen or Gwendolen.'" How easy it would have been for this
quotation from yesterday's postscript to seem impertinent! This man had
just the right laugh to put everything in its right place, and this time
it disclaimed audacious Christian naming. He went on:--"I mustn't
monopolize your ladyship's piano," and accommodated this mode of address
to the previous one by another laugh, exactly the right protest against
misinterpretation.
"My ladyship doesn't want her piano," said Gwen. "She wants to hear you
go on playing. I had no idea you were so musical. Say good-evening, and
play some more."
He went his nearest to meeting her hand, and his guesswork was not much
at fault. A galvanic thrill again shot through him at her touch, and
again neither of them showed any great alacrity to disconnect. "You are
sorry for me," said he.
"Indeed I am. I cannot tell you how much so." She seemed to keep his
hand in hers to say this, and the action and the word were mated, to his
mind. She could not have done this but for my misfortune, thought he to
himself. But oh!--what leagues apart it placed them, that this
semi-familiarity should have become possible on so short an
acquaintance! Society reserves would have kept him back still in the
ranks of men. This placed him among cripples, a disqualified ruin.
His heart sank, for he knew now that she had no belief that this awful
darkness would end. So be it! But, for now, there was the pure joy of
holding that hand for a moment! Forget it all--forget everything!--think
only of this little stolen delirium I can cheat the cruelty of God out
of, before I am the forsaken prey of Chaos and black Night. That was his
thought. He said not a word, and she continued:--"How much can you play?
I mean, can you do the fingering in spite of your eyes? Try some more."
She had barely withdrawn her hand even then.
"I only make a very poor business of it at present," he said. "I shall
have to practise under the new circumstances. When the music jumps half
a mile along the piano I hit the wrong note. Anything that runs easy I
can play." He played the preliminary notes of the accompaniment of _Deh
vieni alla finestra_. "Anything like that. But I can't tackle anything
extensive. My hands haven't quite got strong again, I suppose. Now you
come!"
He was beginning a hesitating move from the music-stool with a sense of
the uncertainty before him when his anchorage was forsaken, but
postponed it as a reply to his companion's remark:--"I'm not coming yet.
I'll play presently.... You were accompanying yourself just now. I was
listening to you at the end of the piano."
"Anybody can accompany himself; he's in his own confidence." He struck a
chord or two, of a duet, this time, and she said:--"Yes--sing that. I
can recollect it without the music. I've sung it with the Signore no end
of times." They sang it together, and Gwen kept her voice down. She was
not singing with the tenor known all over Europe, this time; nor was the
room at any time, big as it was, more than large enough for this young
lady _a pleine voix_. Besides, Mr. Torrens was not in force, on that
score. In fact, at the end of this one song he dropped his fingers on
his knees from the keyboard, and said in a tone that professed amusement
at his own exhaustion: "That's all I'm good for. Funny, isn't it?"