The weather, for this time of year, was unusually bright in Paris. Each
morning glistened with hoar-frost; by noon the sky shone blue over
clean, dry streets, and gardens which made a season for themselves,
leafless, yet defiant of winter's melancholy. Lilian saw it all with
the eyes of a stranger, and often was able to forget her anxiety in the
joy of wonderful, new impressions.
One afternoon she was resting in the room at the hotel, whilst Quarrier
went about the town on some business or other. A long morning at the
Louvre had tired her, and her spirits drooped. In imagination she went
back to the days of silence and solitude in London; the memory affected
her with something of homesickness, a wish that the past could be
restored. The little house by Clapham Common had grown dear to her; in
its shelter she had shed many tears, but also had known much happiness:
that sense of security which was now lost, the hope that there she
might live always, hidden from the world's inquisitive gaze, justified
to her own conscience by love and calm. What now was before her? Not
only the elaborate deceit, the perpetual risk, weighed upon her heart;
she was summoned to a position such as she had never foreseen, for
which she had received no training. When Denzil revealed to her his
real standing in the world, spoke laughingly of the wealth he had
inherited, and of his political ambitions, her courage failed before
the prospect. She had not dared to let him see all her despondency, for
his impatient and sanguine temper would have resented it. To please him
and satisfy his utmost demands was the one purpose of her life. But the
task he had imposed seemed to her, in these hours of faintness, no less
than terrible.
He entered, gay as usual, ready with tender words, pet names and
diminutives, the "little language" of one who was still a lover. Seeing
how things were with her, he sat down to look over an English
newspaper. Presently his attention strayed, he fell into reverie.
"Well," he exclaimed at length, rousing himself, "they have the news by
now."
She gave no answer.
"I can imagine how Mary will talk. 'Oh, nothing that Denzil does can
surprise me! Whoever expected him to marry in the ordinary way?' And
then they'll laugh, and shrug their shoulders, and hope I mayn't have
played the fool--good, charitable folks!"
Still she said nothing.
"Rather out of sorts to-day, Lily?"
"I wish we were going to stay here--never to go back to England."
"Live the rest of our lives in a Paris hotel!"
"No, no--in some quiet place--a home of our own."
"That wouldn't suit me, by any means. Paris is all very well for a
holiday, but I couldn't make a home here. There's no place like
England. Don't you ever think what an unspeakable blessing it is to
have been born in England? Every time I go abroad, I rejoice that I am
not as these foreigners. Even my Scandinavian friends I can't help
despising a little--and as for Frenchmen! There's a great deal of the
old island prejudice in me."
Lilian smiled, raising herself slightly upon the sofa.
"These old Latin nations have had their day," he continued, with a wave
of the arm. "France, Italy, Spain--they have played their part in
civilization, and have nothing left now but old relics and modern
bluster. The future's with us Teutons. If I were not an Englishman, I
would be an American. The probability is that we shall have a hard
fight one of these days with the Slavs--and all the better, perhaps; I
don't think the world can do without fighting yet awhile."
"I should be sorry to hear you teaching people that," said Lilian.
"Oh," he laughed, "it wouldn't fit into our electoral campaign! No
danger of my preaching bloodthirstiness. But how I shall enjoy the
bloodless fight down at Polterham! I want you to look forward to it in
the same way. Do cheer up, Lily!--you see I have been gradually moving
in this direction. When I found myself a man of means, I knew that the
time had come for stirring. Writing about the Sea-Kings is all very
well in its way, but I am no born literary man. I must get that book
finished and published, though. It might help me with the constituency.
A book gives a man distinction."
"You seem to me to have changed very much."
"No; it's only that you didn't know me thoroughly. To tell you the
truth, that life of hiding away in London wasn't a very good thing for
me. I lived too much to myself. The half-dozen acquaintances I had were
not the kind of men to profit me. Glazzard--well, Glazzard is an odd
sort of fellow--helpful now and then, but on the whole musty. He has no
ambition, thinks it enough to doze on among his pictures, and that kind
of thing. The fact is, such companionship has made me conceited. I want
to get among my equals and my superiors--as I shall do if I become a
Member of Parliament."
"Your equals--perhaps."
"Confound it! _Your_ influence has tended the same way. You spoil
me--make me think myself a fine fellow. I suppose one's wife ought to
talk like that--I don't dislike it, you know; but if I end by never
doing anything at all, I should be confoundedly ashamed of myself. But
the more I think of it, the better satisfied I am that a political
career is the best thing for me. You see, this is the age of political
progress--that before everything. We English are working out our
revolution in a steady and sensible way,--no shrieking and
slaughtering--we leave that to people who don't really know what they
want, and will never get much to speak of. We go ahead soberly on the
constitutional highway--with a little hearty swearing to clear the air
now and then."
Lilian laughed.
"Well, I was saying it is a political age, and I think a man ought to
go in for the first interest of his time. What have we to do just now
with artistic aims? The English, at any time, care little or nothing
for art; one has to recognize that. Our task in the world is
practical--to secure all men a sufficiency of beef and beer, and honest
freedom. I like to feel that I am on the advancing wave; I don't care
for your picturesque ponds; they generally have a bad smell."
The effect of his vigorous talk was manifest in Lilian's face. She
yielded her spirit to his, was borne whither he would.
"You talk of living in Paris--why, if you really knew Paris, you would
hate the place. Underneath all this show of civilization, refinement,
brilliancy--I'm glad to say you can't even guess what it covers. The
town reeks with abominations. I'm getting sick of it."
The sincerity of his moral disgust was obvious. No one knew so well as
Lilian the essential purity--even the puritanism--of Quarrier's temper.
"For all that," he added, merrily, "we'll go and dine at the
restaurant, and then look in at the Francais. They know how to cook
here, and they know how to play the fool--no denying it."
When Lilian went forth with him she had once more succeeded in
overcoming her despondent mood. The lights of the Boulevard exercised
their wonted effect--cheering, inspiring. She pressed his arm, laughed
at his mirthful talk; and Denzil looked down into her face with pride
and delight in its loveliness. He had taken especial care to have her
dressed in the manner that became his wife; Parisian science had gone
to the making of her costume, and its efforts were not wasted. As they
entered the restaurant, many eyes were turned with critical
appreciation upon the modest face and figure, as undeniably English, in
their way, as Quarrier's robust manhood.
Denzil's French was indifferently good, better perhaps than his
capacity for picking out from the bill of fare a little dinner which
should exalt him in the eyes of waiters. He went to work, however, with
a noble disregard for consequences, whether to digestion or pocket.
Where Lilian was concerned there could be no such thing as
extravagance; he gloried in obtaining for her the best of everything
that money could command. The final "_Bien, monsieur_," was, after all,
sufficiently respectful, and our friend leaned back with the pleasant
consciousness of duty performed.
He drank a good deal of wine, and talking with a spontaneity beyond the
ordinary Briton. Towards the close of dinner his theme was the coming
electoral contest.
"You know," he said, bending over the table, "you will be able to give
me important help. The wife of a candidate--especially of a Radical
candidate--can find plenty of work, if she knows how to go about it. As
little humbug as possible; and as little loss of self-respect, but we
shall have to shake a good many dirty hands. Your turn for 'slumming'
will serve us well, but I know the dangers of it. You'll be coming home
_éplorée_, as they say here. I hope you'll grow stronger in that
respect. One has to harden one's heart a little."
"I know it is wiser to do so."
"Of course! It's not only that you are constantly imposed upon; the
indulgence of universal sympathy is incompatible with duty to one's
self--unless you become at once a sister of mercy. One is bound, in
common sense, to close eyes and ears against all but a trifling
fraction of human misery. Why, look, we sit here, and laugh and talk
and enjoy ourselves; yet at this instant what horrors are being enacted
in every part of the world! Men are perishing by every conceivable form
of cruelty and natural anguish. Sailors are gurgling out their life in
sea-storms; soldiers are agonizing on battle-fields; men, women, and
children are being burnt, boiled, hacked, squashed, rent, exploded to
death in every town and almost every village of the globe. Here in
Paris, and over there in London, there is no end to the forms of misery
our knowledge suggests--all suffered while we eat and talk. But to sit
down and think persistently of it would lead to madness in any one of
imagination like yours. We have to say: It doesn't concern us! And no
more it does. We haven't the ordering of the world; we can't alter the
vile course of things. I like to swear over it now and then (especially
when I pass a London hospital), but I soon force myself to think of
something else. You must do the same--even to the swearing, if you
like. There's a tendency in our time to excess of humanitarianism--I
mean a sort of lachrymose habit which really does no good. You
represent it in some degree, I'm afraid--eh? Well, well, you've lived
too much alone--you've got into the way of brooding; the habit of
social life will strengthen you."
"I hope so, Denzil."
"Oh, undoubtedly! One more little drop of wine before the coffee.
Nonsense! You need stimulus; your vitality is low. I shall prescribe
for you henceforth. Merciful heavens! how that French woman does talk!
A hundred words to the minute for the last half hour."
A letter had arrived for him at the hotel in his absence. It was from
Mr. Hornibrook's agent, announcing that the house at Polterham was now
vacated, and that Mr. Quarrier might take possession just as soon as he
chose.
"_That's_ all right!" he exclaimed, after reading it to Lilian. "Now
we'll think of getting back to London, to order our furniture, and all
the rest of it. The place can be made habitable in a few weeks, I
should say."