IN LONDON AGAIN.
On through the sleeping counties rushed the train--passing woods,
streams, fertile valleys, and clustering villages, all palely shrouded
in the faint morning mist that had a sort of suffused and hidden
sunlight in it; the world had not yet awoke. But Macleod knew that, ere
he reached London people would be abroad; and he almost shrank from
meeting the look of those thousands of eager faces. Would not some of
them guess his errand? Would he not be sure to run against a friend of
hers--an acquaintance of his own? It was with a strange sense of fear
that he stepped out and on to the platform at Euston Station; he glanced
up and down; if she were suddenly to confront his eyes! A day or two ago
it seemed as if innumerable leagues of ocean lay between him and her, so
that the heart grew sick with thinking of the distance; now that he was
in the same town with her, he felt so close to her that he could almost
hear her breathe.
Major Stuart has enjoyed a sound night's rest, and was now possessed of
quite enough good spirits and loquacity for two. He scarcely observed
the silence of his companion. Together they rattled away through this
busy, eager, immense throng, until they got down to the comparative
quiet of Bury Street; and here they were fortunate enough to find not
only that Macleod's old rooms were unoccupied, but that his companion
could have the corresponding chambers on the floor above. They changed
their attire; had breakfast; and then proceeded to discuss their plans
for the day. Major Stuart observed that he was in no hurry to
investigate the last modifications of the drying-machines. It would be
necessary to write and appoint an interview before going down into
Essex. He had several calls to make in London; if Macleod did not see
him before, they should meet at seven for dinner. Macleod saw him depart
without any great regret.
When he himself went outside it was already noon, but the sun had not
yet broken through the mist, and London seemed cold, and lifeless, and
deserted. He did not know of any one of his former friends being left in
the great and lonely city. He walked along Piccadilly, and saw how many
of the houses were shut up. The beautiful foliage of the Green Park had
vanished; and here and there a red leaf hung on a withered branch. And
yet, lonely as he felt in walking through this crowd of strangers, he
was nevertheless possessed with a nervous and excited fear that at any
moment he might have to quail before the inquiring glance of a certain
pair of calm, large eyes. Was this, then, really Keith Macleod who was
haunted by these fantastic troubles? Had he so little courage that he
dared not go boldly up to her house and hold out his hand to her? As he
walked along this thoroughfare, he was looking far ahead; and when any
tall and slender figure appeared that might by any possibility be taken
for hers, he watched it with a nervous interest that had something of
dread in it. So much for the high courage born of love!
It was with some sense of relief that he entered Hyde Park, for here
there were fewer people. And as he walked on, the day brightened. A
warmer light began to suffuse the pale mist lying over the black-green
masses of rhododendrons, the leafless trees, the damp grassplots, the
empty chairs; and as he was regarding a group of people on horseback
who, almost at the summit of the red hill, seemed about to disappear
into the mist, behold! a sudden break in the sky; a silvery gleam shot
athwart from the south, so that these distant figures grew almost black;
and presently the frail sunshine of November was streaming all over the
red ride and the raw green of the grass. His spirits rose somewhat. When
he reached the Serpentine, the sunlight was shining on the rippling blue
water; and there were pert young ladies of ten or twelve feeding the
ducks; and away on the other side there was actually an island amidst
the blue ripples; and the island, if it was not as grand as Staffa nor
as green as Ulva, was nevertheless an island, and it was pleasant enough
to look at, with its bushes, and boats, and white swans. And then he
bethought him of his first walks by the side of this little lake--when
Oscar was the only creature in London he had to concern himself
with--when each new day was only a brighter holiday than its
predecessor--when he was of opinion that London was the happiest and
most beautiful place in the world; and of that bright morning, too, when
he walked through the empty streets at dawn, and came to the peacefully
flowing river.
These idle meditations were suddenly interrupted. Away along the bank
of the lake his keen eye could make out a figure, which, even at that
distance, seemed so much to resemble one he knew, that his heart began
to beat quick. Then the dress--all of black, with a white hat and white
gloves; was not that of the simplicity that had always so great an
attraction for her? And he knew that she was singularly fond of
Kensington Gardens; and might she not be going thither for a stroll
before going back to the Piccadilly Theater? He hastened his steps. He
soon began to gain on the stranger; and the nearer he got the more it
seemed to him that he recognized the graceful walk and carriage of this
slender woman. She passed under the archway of the bridge. When she had
emerged from the shadow, she paused for a moment or two to look at the
ducks on the lake; and this arch of shadow seemed to frame a beautiful
sunlit picture--the single figure against a background of green bushes.
And if this were indeed she, how splendid the world would all become in
a moment! In his eagerness of anticipation he forgot his fear. What
would she say? Was he to hear her laugh once more, and take her hand?
Alas! When he got close enough to make sure, he found that his beautiful
figure belonged to a somewhat pretty, middle-aged lady, who had brought
a bag of scraps with her to feed the ducks. The world grew empty again.
He passed on, in a sort of dream. He only knew he was in Kensington
Gardens; and that once or twice he had walked with her down those broad
alleys in the happy summer-time of flowers, and sunshine, and the scent
of limes. Now there was a pale blue mist in the open glades; and a
gloomy purple instead of the brilliant green of the trees; and the cold
wind that came across rustled the masses of brown orange leaves that
were lying scattered on the ground. He got a little more interested when
he neared the Round Pond; for the wind had freshened; and there were
several handsome craft out there on the raging deep, braving well the
sudden squalls that laid them right on their beam-ends, and then let
them come staggering and dripping up to windward. But there were two
small boys there who had brought with them a tiny vessel of home-made
build, with a couple of lugsails, a jib, and no rudder; and it was a
great disappointment to them that this nondescript craft would move, if
it moved at all, in an uncertain circle. Macleod came to their
assistance--got a bit of floating stick, and carved out of it a rude
rudder, altered the sails, and altogether put the ship into such
sea-going trim that, when she was fairly launched, she kept a pretty
good course for the other side, where doubtless she arrived in safety,
and discharged her passengers and cargo. He was almost sorry to part
with the two small ship-owners. They almost seemed to him the only
people he knew in London.
But surely he had not come all the way from Castle Dare to walk about
Kensington Gardens! What had become of that intense longing to see
her--to hear her speak--that had made his life at home a constant
torment and misery? Well, it still held possession of him; but all the
same there was this indefinable dread that held him back. Perhaps he was
afraid that he would have to confess to her the true reason for his
having come to London. Perhaps he feared he might find her something
entirely different from the creature of his dreams. At all events as he
returned to his room and sat down by himself to think over all the
things that might accrue from this step of his, he only got farther and
farther into a haze of nervous indecision. One thing only was clear to
him: with all his hatred and jealousy of the theatre, to the theatre
that night he would have to go. He could not know that she was so near
to him--that at a certain time and place he would certainly see her and
listen to her--without going. He bethought him, moreover, of what he had
once heard her say--that while she could fairly well make out the people
in the galleries and boxes, those who were sitting in the stalls close
to the orchestra were, by reason of the glare of the foot-lights, quite
invisible to her. Might he not, then, get into some corner where,
himself unseen, he might be so near to her that he could almost stretch
out his hand to her and take her hand, and tell, by its warmth and
throbbing, that it was a real woman, and not a dream, that filled his
heart?
Major Stuart was put off by some excuse, and at eight o'clock Macleod
walked up to the theatre. He drew near with some apprehension; it almost
seemed to him as though the man in the box-office recognized him, and
knew the reason for his demanding one of those stalls. He got it easily
enough; there was no great run on the new piece, even though Miss
Gertrude White was the heroine. He made his way along the narrow
corridors; he passed into the glare of the house; he took his seat with
his ears dinned by the loud music, and waited. He paid no heed to his
neighbors; he had already twisted up the programme so that he could not
have read it if he had wished; he was aware mostly of a sort of
slightly choking sensation about the throat.
When Gertrude White did appear--she came in unexpectedly--he almost
uttered a cry: and it would have been a cry of delight. For there was a
flesh and blood woman, a thousand times more interesting, and beautiful,
and lovable than all his fancied pictures of her. Look how she
walks--how simply and gracefully she takes off her hat and places it on
the table! Look at the play of light, and life, and gladness on her
face--at the eloquence of her eyes! He had been thinking of her eyes as
too calmly observant and serious: he saw them now, and was amazed at the
difference--they seemed to have so much clear light in them, and
pleasant laughter. He did not fear at all that she should see him. She
was so near--he wished he could take her hand and lead her away. What
concern had these people around with her? This was Gertrude White--whom
he knew. She was a friend of Mrs. Ross's; she lived in a quiet little
home, with an affectionate and provoking sister; she had a great
admiration for Oscar the collie; she had the whitest hand in the world
as she offered you some salad at the small, neat table. What was she
doing here--amidst all this glaring sham--before all these people?
"_Come away quickly!_" his heart cried to her. "_Quick--quick--let us
get away together: there is some mistake--some illusion: outside you
will breathe the fresh air, and get into the reality of the world again;
and you will ask about Oscar, and young Ogilvie: and one might hold your
hand--your real warm hand--and perhaps hold it tight, and not give it up
to any one whatsoever!_" His own hand was trembling with excitement. The
eagerness of delight with which he listened to every word uttered by the
low-toned and gentle voice was almost painful; and yet he knew it not.
He was as one demented. This was Gertrude White--speaking, walking,
smiling, a fire of beauty in her clear eyes; her parted lips when she
laughed letting the brilliant light just touch for an instant the
milk-white teeth. This was no pale Rose Leaf at all--no dream or
vision--but the actual laughing, talking, beautiful woman, who had more
than ever of that strange grace and witchery about her that had
fascinated him when first he saw her. She was so near that he could have
thrown a rose to her--a red rose, full blown and full scented. He
forgave the theatre--or rather he forgot it--in the unimaginable delight
of being so near her. And when at length she left the stage, he had no
jealousy of the poor people who remained there to go through their
marionette business. He hoped they might all become great actors and
actresses. He even thought he would try to get to understand the
story--seeing he should have nothing else to do until Gertrude White
came back again.
Now Keith Macleod was no more ignorant or innocent than anybody else;
but there was one social misdemeanor--mere peccadillo, let us say--that
was quite unintelligible to him. He could not understand how a man could
go flirting after a married woman; and still less could he understand
how a married woman should, instead of attending to her children and her
house and such matters, make herself ridiculous by aping girlhood and
pretending to have a lover. He had read a great deal about this, and he
was told it was common; but he did not believe it. The same authorities
assured him that the women of England were drunkards in secret; he did
not believe it. The same authorities insisted that the sole notion of
marriage that occupied the head of an English girl of our own day was as
to how she should sell her charms to the highest bidder; he did not
believe that either. And indeed he argued with himself, in considering
to what extent books and plays could be trusted in such matters, that in
one obvious case the absurdity of these allegations was proved. If
France were the France of French playwrights and novelists, the whole
business of the country would come to a standstill. If it was the sole
and constant occupation of every adult Frenchman to run after his
neighbor's wife, how could bridges be built, taxes collected,
fortifications planned? Surely a Frenchman must sometimes think, if only
by accident, of something other than his neighbor's wife? Macleod
laughed to himself in the solitude of Castle Dare, and contemptuously
flung the unfinished paper-covered novel aside.
But what was his surprise and indignation--his shame, even--on finding
that this very piece in which Gertrude White was acting was all about a
jealous husband, and a gay and thoughtless wife, and a villain who did
not at all silently plot her ruin, but frankly confided his aspirations
to a mutual friend, and rather sought for sympathy; while she, Gertrude
White herself, had, before all these people, to listen to advances
which, in her innocence, she was not supposed to understand. As the play
proceeded, his brows grew darker and darker. And the husband, who ought
to have been the guardian of his wife's honor? Well, the husband in
this rather poor play was a creation that is common in modern English
drama. He represented one idea at least that the English playwright has
certainly not borrowed from the French stage. Moral worth is best
indicated by a sullen demeanor. The man who has a pleasant manner is
dangerous and a profligate; the virtuous man--the true-hearted
Englishman--conducts himself as a boor, and proves the goodness of his
nature by his silence and his sulks. The hero of this trumpery piece was
of this familiar type. He saw the gay fascinator coming about his house;
but he was too proud and dignified to interfere. He knew of his young
wife becoming the byword of his friends; but he only clasped his hands
on his forehead, and sought solitude, and scowled as a man of virtue
should. Macleod had paid but little attention to stories of this kind
when he had merely read them; but when the situation was visible--when
actual people were before him--the whole thing looked more real, and his
sympathies became active enough. How was it possible, he thought, for
this poor dolt to fume and mutter, and let his innocent wife go her own
way alone and unprotected, when there was a door in the room, and a
window by way of alternative? There was one scene in which the faithless
friend and the young wife were together in her drawing-room. He drew
nearer to her; he spake softly to her; he ventured to take her hand. And
while he was looking up appealingly to her, Macleod was regarding his
face. He was calculating to himself the precise spot between the eyes
where a man's knuckles would most effectually tell; and his hand was
clinched, and his teeth set hard. There was a look on his face which
would have warned any gay young man that when Macleod should marry, his
wife would need no second champion.
But was this the atmosphere by which she was surrounded? It is needless
to say that the piece was proper enough. Virtue was triumphant; vice
compelled to sneak off discomfited. The indignant outburst of shame, and
horror, and contempt on the part of the young wife, when she came to
know what the villain's suave intentions really meant, gave Miss White
an excellent opportunity of displaying her histrionic gifts; and the
public applauded vehemently; but Macleod had no pride in her triumph. He
was glad when the piece ended--when the honest-hearted Englishman so far
recovered speech as to declare that his confidence in his wife was
restored, and so far forgot his stolidity of face and demeanor as to
point out to the villain the way to the door instead of kicking him
thither. Macleod breathed more freely when he knew that Gertrude White
was now about to go away to the shelter and quiet of her own home. He
went back to his rooms, and tried to forget the precise circumstances in
which he had just seen her.
But not to forget herself. A new gladness filled his heart when he
thought of her--thought of her not now as a dream or a vision, but as
the living and breathing woman whose musical laugh seemed still to be
ringing in his ears. He could see her plainly--the face all charged with
life and loveliness; the clear bright eyes that he had no longer any
fear of meeting; the sweet mouth with its changing smiles. When Major
Stuart came home that night he noticed a most marked change in the
manner of his companion. Macleod was excited, eager, talkative; full of
high spirits and friendliness; he joked his friend about his playing
truant from his wife. He was anxious to know all about the major's
adventures, and pressed him to have but one other cigar, and vowed that
he would take him on the following evening to the only place in London
where a good dinner could be had. There was gladness in his eyes, a
careless satisfaction in his manner; he was ready to do anything, go
anywhere. This was more like the Macleod of old. Major Stuart came to
the conclusion that the atmosphere of London had had a very good effect
on his friend's spirits.
When Macleod went to bed that night there were wild and glad desires and
resolves in his brain that might otherwise have kept him awake but for
the fatigue he had lately endured. He slept, and he dreamed; and the
figure that he saw in his dreams--though she was distant, somehow--had a
look of tenderness in her eyes, and she held a red rose in her hand.