AN IDEALIST IN LOVE.
"Whatever we gain, we gain by patience."
S. TERESA.
"Faith, thou hast some crotchets in thy head now."
_The Merry Wives of Windsor._
About three weeks after Christmas Althea was sitting alone in her
library.
The great room felt strangely empty that morning. There was no curly
head to be seen bending over the writing table in Cosy Nook; no girl
secretary to answer the silver chiming of Althea's little bell. Waveney
and Doreen had gone up to town for a day's shopping, leaving Althea to
enjoy the rest that she so sorely needed.
The severe round of Christmas feastings, the lavish dispensing of cakes
and ale, would have tried a robust constitution, and even Doreen
complained of unwonted fatigue; but Althea, highly strung and sensitive,
had to pay the usual penalty for over-exertion by one of her painful eye
attacks, which lasted for three or four days, leaving her weak and
depressed.
It is strange and sad how mind and body react on each other in these
attacks. A grey haze, misty and impalpable, seemed to veil Althea's
inner world, and blot out her cheerfulness. The free, healthy current of
her thoughts was checked by dimly discerned obstacles. A chilling sense
of self-distrust, of rashly undertaken work, made her heart heavy.
"It is brain-sickness," Doreen would say, to comfort her. "It will pass,
my dear."
"Yes, it will pass," returned Althea, with passive gentleness. "I know
that as well as you do, Dorrie; but for the time it masters me. Althea
ill and Althea well seem two different persons. Is it not humiliating,
dear, to think we are at the mercy of our over-wrought nerves? A
trifling ailment, a little bodily discomfort, and, if we are at heaven's
very gate, we drop to earth like the lark."
"Into our nest," returned Doreen, with a smile. "You have chosen too
cheerful a simile. Larks soar perpetually, and they sing as they soar."
"I think I am more like a blind mole at the present moment," replied
Althea, pushing up her shade a little, that she might see her sister's
face. "Dorrie, I am ashamed of myself. I deserve any amount of scolding.
I try to count up my blessings, to think of my girls' happy faces, but I
am fast in my Slough of Despond, and not all your efforts will pull me
out."
"Very well, then, we must leave you there," returned Doreen, composedly;
but she gave Althea's hand a loving little squeeze as she said this. Her
heart was full of tenderness and sympathy, but she was too sensible to
waste words fruitlessly.
These sick moods were purely physical, and would yield, she knew well,
to time and rest. They were trials to be borne--part of Althea's
life-discipline--the cloud that checkered their home cheerfulness; for
these melancholy moods seemed to pervade the whole house.
Althea felt much as usual that morning, though she had not quite
recovered her looks. Her face seemed longer and more sallow, and there
were tired lines round her eyes. When a woman has passed her youth,
mental suffering leaves an indelible mark; and Althea looked old and
worn that day, and more like Queen Elizabeth's Wraith than ever.
"I am very idle," she was saying to herself, "but I feel that not one of
the books that ever were written would interest me to-day. I have no
spirit or energy for travels, history is too full of war and bloodshed,
and biography would weary me; a novel--well, no I think not; I am not in
the mood for other people's love-stories. I wish some one would write a
novel about elderly people," she went on--"middle-aged, prosaic people,
who have outlived their romance. How soothing such a book would be! I
could almost write it myself. There should be plenty of incident, and
very little moralising; and it would be like one of those grey winter
days, when the sunlight is veiled in soft vapour, and every window one
passes is red with the firelight of home."
The fancy pleased her, and she smiled at her own conceit; but it faded
in a moment when the door-bell rang.
"A visitor at this time in the morning!" she thought, and a little frown
of annoyance gathered on her brow; but it vanished when Mitchell threw
open the door and announced Lord Ralston.
"Why, Moritz!" she exclaimed, and her voice was full of surprise and
pleasure, "this is indeed a welcome sight. How long is it since you last
honoured our poor abode? Draw that chair up to the fire and give some
account of yourself. Even Gwen seems to have forgotten our existence
since baby Murdoch made his appearance!"
"Ah, you may well say so," returned Moritz, with a dismal shake of his
head. "Gwen is incorrigible. I give you my word, Althea, that the
beatitude of that young woman is so excessive and so fatuous that it
resembles idiocy. She fairly drivels with sentiment over that infant,
and he is as ugly and snub-nosed a little chap as Gwen was herself. He
has even got her freckles; and she calls them beauty-spots;" and Lord
Ralston's voice expressed unmitigated disgust.
Althea laughed.
"I do not suppose that Madam endorses these sentiments. I should like to
hear Mrs. Compton's opinion of her grandson."
"Well, she vows he is a fine child, and he has got Jack's eyes. But, all
the same, I heard her tell Gwen that a plain baby often became a
handsome man. So we can make our own deductions from that. 'Murdoch has
his good points,' she went on, 'and he will improve.' And, would you
believe it? that idiotic Gwen became as red as a turkey-cock.
"'There is no improvement wanted,' she said, indignantly. 'My precious
baby is perfect. He is beautiful in his mother's eyes, whatever his
cross old grandmother chooses to say!' And then she hugged the little
chap and cried over him, and all the time Madam sat beaming on them
both, with her fine old face tremulous with happiness.
"It is Ruth and Naomi over again," finished Moritz. "Madam still finds
fault with Jack sometimes, but never with Gwen, and the way Gwen toadies
her passes belief."
"Gwendoline is very happy, certainly. Never was there a better-matched
couple than she and Jack Compton." Althea spoke in a tone of warm
interest. She had forgotten her distaste for other people's love-stories
at that moment, and the thought of her young cousin's happiness was
pleasant to her. "Dear Gwen, I am so fond of her. I am glad that one man
had the sense to fall in love with her, in spite of her plain face; but
you know, Moritz, that I always thought Gwen's ugliness quite charming."
"Yes, but I could not have done it in Jack's place," returned Moritz,
rather thoughtfully. "I am too great an admirer of beauty." And then he
changed the subject a little abruptly. "Jack and Gwen and their son and
heir have been staying with me at Brentwood. I had a house-party for
Christmas and the New Year, and I wanted Gwen to play hostess. It was an
awful bore, and I got pretty sick of it, but they had both been
lecturing me on the duties I owed to my fellow-creatures. Well, I have
played my Lord Frivol long enough, and now I am plain Mr. Ingram again."
"What, still masquerading? Isn't it time for you to unmask?" But he
shook his head.
"No, not yet; but there is method in my madness. We have not quite
completed our little comedy, but I think the closing scene will be
effective." He shut his eyes as though to picture the scene, and then
opened them abruptly. "I have not been to Cleveland Terrace for an age.
In fact, I only came up from Brentwood this morning, and on my way up
here I passed Doreen and Miss Ward."
"Oh, then you knew I was alone?"
"To be sure I did. That is why I appear in my true character. I
suppose"--his voice changing perceptibly--"that Miss Mollie and her
father and my friend the humourist are well?" But Moritz did not look at
Althea as he put this question, and so did not see the little smile on
her lips.
"They were quite well when Waveney went home on Sunday. She said Mollie
was a little pale and tired; but then, she had been taking too long a
walk. She spent a night here on the evening of our girls' entertainment.
It was quite amusing to see how they all admired her. She was the May
Queen in one of the _tableaux_. It was the prettiest thing imaginable."
"I wish I had seen it;" and Lord Ralston's eyes were dark and bright. If
Althea had not guessed his secret long ago, she would have guessed it
now. With one of those sudden impulses which were natural to her, she
put her hand gently on his arm.
"Moritz," she said, in her sweet, womanly way, "does Gwen know. Have you
made her your confidante?"
Just for a moment Moritz drew himself up a little stiffly--as though he
resented the question; but the kindness in Althea's eyes disarmed him,
and perhaps his need of sympathy was too great.
"There was no need to tell her," he returned, in a low voice; "she
found it out for herself. Gwen is very acute about such things."
"And she approves?"
"Oh, we have not come to that point yet"--speaking in his old, airy
manner--"but she was very much interested, and as good as gold. She
laughed at me a little for what she called my fantastic chivalry; but,
all the same, she seemed to like it."
"But, Moritz, why are you so afraid of appearing in your true colours? I
do not see that Viscount Ralston is a less interesting person than Mr.
Ingram."
"Perhaps not," he returned, drily; "but we all have our whims. I am an
Idealist, you must remember that, and I have a wish to stand on my own
merits as a man, and not to make myself taller by posing on my pedestal
of thirty thousand a year. It may be a foolish whimsie, but it is a
harmless one, and affords me plenty of innocent amusement."
Althea smiled, but she knew it was useless to pursue the argument.
Moritz and Gwendoline were both utterly unmanageable when they had a
crotchet in their head. They cared nothing about the world's opinion,
and as for Madam Grundy, or any other madam, they had simply no regard
for them. Already Viscount Ralston was considered a most eccentric
person, and sundry matrons had admonished their daughters on no account
to contradict him. "He is a little odd, certainly," one of them
remarked, "but I am told he is really clever and original, and that sort
of thing wears off after a time. Your father is very much taken with
him, so you may make yourself as agreeable as you like to Lord Ralston."
"And when may I ask him to marry me?" returned the daughter, to whom
this Machiavellian speech had been addressed; for Lady Ginevra had
plenty of spirit, and was clever enough to read between the lines.
"Mother was terribly put out," she informed her younger sister
afterwards. "She lectured me for ten minutes on what she called my
coarseness and vulgarity; but, as I told her, I prefer vulgarity to
hypocrisy. 'You and father want me to marry Viscount Ralston,' I told
her, 'because he has Brentwood Hall and a fine house in town and thirty
thousand a year, and it does not matter one bit if I care for him or
not; if he holds out the sceptre to me I am to touch it.' But, thank
heavens, Jenny, these are not the Dark Ages, and though mother frowned
and stamped her foot, there was no 'Get thee to a nunnery!'" And Lady
Ginevra laughed and went off to put on her habit, for it was the hour
when she and her father rode in the park.
Althea had a word to say before she let the subject drop.
"At the theatre you spoke of needing my help, Moritz. I hope you will
let me know when my assistance is wanted."
"Oh, I was going to speak to you about that," he returned, quickly. "You
see, my dear cousin, that there are circumstances in which a man is
bound not to be selfish. Miss Mollie"--how his voice always softened as
he said the name!--"is so simple and childlike; she knows so little of
the world, and her life has been so retired, that I dare not hurry
matters. She must learn to know and trust me before I can venture to
make my meaning plain."
"Yes, I can understand that."
"Gwen quite agrees with me, but all the same I think--at least, I
hope--that Monsieur Blackie's probation will soon be over, but Gwen and
I have all our plans in readiness. What do you say to a picnic party at
Brentwood about the middle of next month?"
"My dear Moritz, are you crazy? Really, an Idealist in love is a
terrible being. A picnic in the middle of February! Do you want the
three grim sisters, snow and hail and frost, to be among your guests?"
"Pshaw! nonsense!" he replied, impatiently. "There are lovely
spring-like days in February. Besides, with the sort of picnic I mean,
weather will not signify. You had better hear my programme first,
Althea."
"Oh, go on," she returned, in a resigned voice. "I will try to forget my
common-sense while I listen to you."
But he only twirled his moustache triumphantly.
"The party will be small and select; just you and the two Misses Ward
and Gwen and myself."
"And not Noel?" in some surprise.
"Noel! Oh, dear, no! My friend the humourist would be decidedly _de
trop_. He is too acute and wide-awake a youth, and Monsieur Blackie
would be found out in a moment."
"But I thought Lord Ralston was to be our host!" Althea spoke in a
puzzled tone. Then Moritz patted her in a soothing manner.
"Keep calm, I entreat you," he said, gently. "In the presence of great
thoughts we should always keep calm. Lord Ralston is my intimate friend,
please understand that. We are like brothers, he and I, and it is for
the corner of his picture-gallery, at Brentwood, that King Canute was
bought; Miss Ward and her sister will be interested to see it again. And
as Brentwood Hall, with its Silent Pool, is a show place--a picnic there
will be the most natural thing in the world."
"And the master is absent."
"Yes, he is absent--but he may return at any moment;" and here there was
a strange glow in Moritz's eyes. "We must leave town early," he went on,
briskly, after a moment's pause--"and I think we could reach Brentwood
by midday. Gwen has promised to meet us at the Hall, and we shall have
plenty of time to see the picture-gallery, and more of the rooms before
luncheon. I shall coach the servants carefully, so there will be no
_contretemps_. After luncheon there will be the conservatories and the
Silent Pool, and then tea in the blue drawing-room; it will be light
until half-past five, so you may as well tell Doreen not to expect you
home until eight. Oh, I forgot one important part of the programme: Gwen
means to carry you off to Kingsdene, either before or after tea, to see
baby Murdoch and Madam; she is staying with them at present."
It was evident, from Althea's amused look, that the picnic at Brentwood
would meet with her approval, and she was just about to give a cordial
assent when Mitchell entered to tell her that luncheon was ready; and at
the same time she handed her a telegram.
"It is for Miss Ward, ma'am," she said; "and the boy is waiting."
"Then I suppose I had better open it," returned Althea. "There was some
talk of their going to Cleveland Terrace to have tea with Mollie, if
they finished their shopping in time. Perhaps this is to say that she is
out or engaged." And then Althea opened the yellow envelope. But her
countenance changed as she read the telegram.
"Do not come," was all it said. "Mollie is ill--will write." It was from
Everard Ward.