IN PARK LANE.
They found Mrs. Ross and her husband waiting in the corridor above.
"Well, how did you like it?" she said.
He could not answer offhand. He was afraid he might say too much.
"It is like her singing," he stammered, at length. "I am not used to
these things. I have never seen anything like that before."
"We shall soon have her in a better piece," Mrs. Ross said. "It is being
written for her, That is very pretty, but slight. She is capable of
greater things."
"She is capable of anything," said Macleod, simply, "if she can make you
believe that such nonsense is real. I looked at the others. What did
they say or do better than mere pictures in a book? But she--it is like
magic."
"And did Mr. Ogilvie give you my message?" said Mrs. Ross. "My husband
and I are going down to see a yacht race on the Thames to-morrow--we did
not think of it till this evening any more than we expected to find you
here. We came along to try to get Miss White to go with us. Will you
join our little party?"
"Oh, yes, certainly--thank you very much," Macleod said, eagerly.
"Then you'd better meet us at Charing Cross, at ten sharp," Colonel Ross
said; "so don't let Ogilvie keep you up too late with brandy and soda. A
special will take us down."
"Brandy and soda!" Mr. Ogilvie exclaimed. "I am going to take him along
for a few minutes to Lady Beauregard's--surely that is proper enough;
and I have to get down by the 'cold-meat' train to Aldershot, so there
won't be much brandy and soda for me. Shall we go now, Mrs. Ross?"
"I am waiting for an answer," Mrs. Ross said, looking along the
corridor.
Was it possible, then, that she herself should bring the answer to this
message that had been sent her--stepping out of the dream-world in which
she had disappeared with her lover? And how would she look as she came
along this narrow passage? Like the arch coquette of this land of
gaslight and glowing colors? or like the pale, serious, proud girl who
was fond of sketching the elm at Prince's Gate? A strange nervousness
possessed him as he thought she might suddenly appear. He did not listen
to the talk between Colonel Ross and Mr. Ogilvie. He did not notice that
this small party was obviously regarded as being in the way by the
attendants who were putting out the lights and shutting the doors of the
boxes. Then a man came along.
"Miss White's compliments, ma'am, and she will be very pleased to meet
you at Charing Cross at ten to-morrow."
"And Miss White is a very brave young lady to attempt anything of the
kind," observed Mr. Ogilvie, confidentially, as they all went
downstairs; "for if the yachts should get becalmed of the Nore, or off
the Mouse, I wonder how Miss White will get back to London in time?"
"Oh, we shall take care of that," said Colonel Ross. "Unless there is a
good steady breeze we sha'n't go at all; we shall spend a happy day at
Rosherville, or have a look at the pictures at Greenwich. We sha'n't get
Miss White into trouble. Good-bye, Ogilvie. Good-bye, Sir Keith.
Remember ten o'clock, Charing Cross."
They stepped into their carriage and drove off.
"Now," said Macleod's companion, "are you tired?"
"Tired? I have done nothing all day."
"Shall we get into a hansom and drive along to Lady Beauregard's?"
"Certainly, if you like. I suppose they won't throw you over again?"
"Oh no," said Mr. Ogilvie, as he once more adventured his person in a
cab. "And I can tell you it is much better--if you look at the thing
philosophically, as poor wretches like you and me must--to drive to a
crush in a hansom than in your own carriage. You don't worry about your
horses being kept out in the rain; you can come away at any moment;
there is no fussing with servants, and rows because your man has got out
of the rank--HOLD UP!"
Whether it was the yell or not, the horse recovered from the slight
stumble: and no harm befel the two daring travellers.
"These vehicles give one some excitement," Macleod said--or rather
roared, for Piccadilly was full of carriages. "A squall in Loch Scridain
is nothing to them."
"You'll get used to them in time," was the complacent answer.
They dismissed the hansom at the corner of Piccadilly, and walked up
Park Lane, so as to avoid waiting in the rank of carriages. Macleod
accompanied his companion meekly. All this scene around him--the
flashing lights of the broughams, the brilliant windows, the stepping
across the pavement of a strangely dressed dignitary from some foreign
land--seemed but some other part of that dream from which he had not
quite shaken himself free. His head was still full of the sorrows and
coquetries of that wild-spirited heroine. Whither had she gone by this
time--away into some strange valley of that unknown world?
He was better able than Mr. Ogilvie to push his way through the crowd of
footmen who stood in two lines across the pavement in front of
Beauregard House, watching for the first appearance of their master or
mistress; but he resignedly followed, and found himself in the avenue
leading clear up to the steps. They were not the only arrivals, late as
the hour was. Two young girls, sisters, clad in cream-white silk with a
gold fringe across their shoulders and sleeves, preceded them; and he
was greatly pleased by the manner in which these young ladies, on
meeting in the great hall an elderly lady who was presumably a person of
some distinction, dropped a pretty little old-fashioned courtesy as they
shook hands with her. He admired much less the more formal obeisance
which he noticed a second after. A royal personage was leaving; and as
this lady, who was dressed in mourning, and was leaning on the arm of a
gentleman whose coat was blazing with diamond stars, and whose breast
was barred across with a broad blue ribbon, came along the spacious
landing at the foot of the wide staircase, she graciously extended her
hand and said a few words to such of the ladies standing by as she knew.
That deep bending of the knee he considered to be less pretty than the
little courtesy performed by the young ladies in cream-white silk. He
intended to mention this matter to his cousin Janet.
Then, as soon as the Princess had left the lane, through which she had
passed closed up again, and the crowd became a confused mass of
murmuring groups. Still meekly following, Macleod plunged into this
throng, and presently found himself being introduced to Lady
Beauregard--an amiable little woman who had been a great beauty in her
time, and was pleasant enough to look at now. He passed on.
"Who is the man with the blue ribbon and the diamond star?" he asked of
Mr. Ogilvie.
"That is Monsieur le Marquis himself--that is your host," the young
gentleman replied--only Macleod could nor tell why he was obviously
trying to repress some covert merriment.
"Didn't you hear?" Mr. Ogilvie said at length. "Don't you know what he
called you? That man will be the death of me--for he's always at it. He
announced you as Sir Thief Macleod--I will swear he did."
"I should not have thought he had so much historical knowledge," Macleod
answered, gravely. "He must have been reading up about the clans."
At this moment Lady Beauregard, who had been receiving some other late
visitors, came up and said she wished to introduce him to--he could not
make out the name. He followed her. He was introduced to a stout elderly
lady, who still had beautifully fine features, and a simple and calm air
which rather impressed him. It is true that at first a thrill of
compassion went through him; for he thought that some accident had
befallen the poor lady's costume, and that it had fallen down a bit
unknown to herself; but he soon perceived that most of the other women
were dressed similarly, some of the younger ones, indeed, having the
back of their dress open practically to the waist. He wondered what his
mother and Janet would say to this style.
"Don't you think the Princess is looking pale?" he was asked.
"I thought she looked very pretty--I never saw her before," said he.
What next? That calm air was a trifle cold and distant. He did not know
who the woman was, or where she lived, or whether her husband had any
shooting, or a yacht, or a pack of hounds. What was he to say? He
returned to the Princess.
"I only saw her as she was leaving," said he. "We came late. We were at
the Piccadilly Theatre."
"Oh, you saw Miss Gertrude White," said this stout lady; and he was glad
to see her eyes light up with some interest. "She is very clever, is she
not--and so pretty and engaging. I wish I knew some one who knew her."
"I know some friends of hers," Macleod said, rather timidly.
"Oh, do you, really? Do you think she would give me a morning
performance for my Fund?"
This lady seemed to take it so much for granted that every one must have
heard of her Fund that he dared not confess his ignorance. But it was
surely some charitable thing; and how could he doubt that Miss White
would immediately respond to such an appeal?
"I should think that she would," said he, with a little hesitation; but
at this moment some other claimant came forward, and he turned away to
seek young Ogilvie once more.
"Ogilvie," said he, "who is that lady in the green satin?"
"The Duchess of Wexford."
"Has she a Fund?"
"A what?"
"A Fund--a charitable Fund of some sort."
"Oh, let me see. I think she is getting up money for a new training
ship--turning the young ragamuffins about the streets into sailors,
don't you know."
"Do you think Miss White would give a morning performance for that
Fund?"
"Miss White! Miss White! Miss White!" said Lieutenant Ogilvie. "I think
Miss White has got into your head."
"But the lady asked me."
"Well, I should say it was exactly the thing that Miss White would like
to do--get mixed up with a whole string of duchesses and
marchionessses--a capital advertisement--and it would be all the more
distinguished if it was an amateur performance, and Miss Gertrude White
the only professional admitted into the charmed circle."
"You are a very shrewd boy, Ogilvie," Macleod observed, "I don't know
how you ever got so much wisdom into so small a head."
And indeed, as Lieutenant Ogilvie was returning to Aldershot by what he
was pleased to call the cold-meat train, he continued to play the part
of mentor for a time with great assiduity, until Macleod was fairly
confused with the number of persons to whom he was introduced, and the
remarks his friend made about them. What struck him most, perhaps, was
the recurrence of old Highland or Scotch family names, borne by persons
who were thoroughly English in their speech and ways. Fancy a Gordon who
said "lock" for "loch;" a Mackenzie who had never seen the Lewis; a Mac
Alpine who had never heard the proverb, "The hills, the Mac Alpines, and
the devil came into the world at the same time!"
It was a pretty scene: and he was young, and eager, and curious, and he
enjoyed it. After standing about for half an hour or so, he got into a
corner from which, in quiet, he could better see the brilliant picture
as a whole: the bright, harmonious dresses; the glimpses of beautiful
eyes and blooming complexions; the masses of foxgloves which Lady
Beauregard had as the only floral decoration of the evening; the pale
canary-colored panels and silver-fluted columns of the walls; and over
all the various candelabra, each bearing a cluster of sparkling and
golden stars. But there was something wanted. Was it the noble and
silver-haired lady of Castle Dare whom he looked for in vain in that
brilliant crowd that moved and murmured before him? Or was it the
friendly and familiar face of his cousin Janet, whose eyes he knew,
would be filled with a constant wonder if she saw such diamonds, and
silks and satins? Or was it that _ignis fatuus_--that treacherous and
mocking fire--that might at any time glimmer in some suddenly presented
face with a new surprise? Had she deceived him altogether down at
Prince's Gate? Was her real nature that of the wayward, bright,
mischievous, spoiled child whose very tenderness only prepared her
unsuspecting victim for a merciless thrust? And yet the sound of her
sobbing was still in his ears. A true woman's heart beat beneath that
idle raillery: challenged boldly, would it not answer loyally and
without fear?
Psychological puzzles were new to this son of the mountains; and it is
no wonder that, long after he had bidden good bye to his friend
Ogilvie, and as he sat thinking alone in his own room, with Oscar lying
across the rug at his feet, his mind refused to be quieted. One picture
after another presented itself to his imagination: the proud-souled
enthusiast longing for the wild winter nights and the dark Atlantic
seas; the pensive maiden, shuddering to hear the fierce story of Maclean
of Lochbuy; the spoiled child, teasing her mamma and petting her canary;
the wronged and weeping woman, her frame shaken with sobs, her hands
clasped in despair; the artful and demure coquette, mocking her lover
with her sentimental farewells. Which of them all was she? Which should
he see in the morning? Or would she appear as some still more elusive
vision, retreating before him as he advanced?
Had he asked himself, he would have said that these speculations were
but the fruit of a natural curiosity. Why should he not be interested in
finding out the real nature of this girl, whose acquaintance he had just
made? It has been observed, however, that young gentlemen do not always
betray this frantic devotion to pyschological inquiry when the subject
of it, instead of being a fascinating maiden of twenty, is a
homely-featured lady of fifty.
Time passed; another cigar was lit; the blue light outside was becoming
silvery; and yet the problem remained unsolved. A fire of impatience and
restlessness was burning in his heart; a din as of brazen
instruments--what was the air the furious orchestra played?--was in his
ears; sleep or rest was out of the question.
"Oscar!" he called. "Oscar, my lad, let us go out!"
When he stealthily went downstairs, and opened the door and passed into
the street, behold! the new day was shining abroad--and how cold, and
still, and silent it was after the hot glare and whirl of that
bewildering night! No living thing was visible. A fresh, sweet air
stirred the leaves of the trees and bushes in St. James's Square. There
was a pale lemon-yellow glow in the sky, and the long, empty
thoroughfare of Pall Mall seemed coldly white.
Was this a somnambulist, then, who wandered idly along through the
silent streets, apparently seeing nothing of the closed doors and the
shuttered windows on either hand? A Policeman, standing at the corner of
Waterloo Place, stared at the apparition--at the twin apparition, for
this tall young gentleman with the light top-coat thrown over his
evening dress was accompanied by a beautiful collie that kept close to
his heels. There was a solitary four-wheeled cab at the foot of the
Haymarket; but the man had got inside and was doubtless asleep. The
embankment?--with the young trees stirring in the still morning air; and
the broad bosom of the river catching the gathering glow of the skys. He
leaned on the gray stone parapet, and looked out on the placid waters of
the stream.
Placid, indeed, they were as they went flowing quietly by; and the young
day promised to be bright enough; and why should there be aught but
peace and goodwill upon earth toward all men and women? Surely there was
no call for any unrest, or fear, or foreboding? The still and shining
morning was but emblematic of his life--if only he knew, and were
content. And indeed he looked contented enough, as he wandered on,
breathing the cool freshness of the air, and with a warmer light from
the east now touching from time to time his sun-tanned face. He went up
to Covent Garden--for mere curiosity's sake. He walked along
Piccadilly, and thought the elms in the Green Park looked more beautiful
than ever. When he returned to his rooms he was of opinion that it was
scarcely worth while to go to bed; and so he changed his clothes, and
called for breakfast as soon as some one was up. In a short time--after
his newspaper had been read--he would have to go down to Charing Cross.
What of this morning walk? Perhaps it was unimportant enough. Only, in
after-times, he once or twice thought of it; and very clearly indeed he
could see himself standing there in the early light, looking out on the
shining waters of the river. They say that when you see yourself too
vividly--when you imagine that you yourself are standing before
yourself--that is one of the signs of madness.