MISS HOLMES
Two and a half hours passed by, most of which time I spent lying down
to rest and get rid of a headache caused by the continual, rapid firing
and the roar of the gale, or both; also in rubbing my shoulder with
ointment, for it was sore from the recoil of the guns. Then Scroope
appeared, as, being unable to find my way about the long passages of
that great old castle, I had asked him to do, and we descended together
to the large drawing-room.
It was a splendid apartment, only used upon state occasions, lighted, I
should think, with at least two or three hundred wax candles, which
threw a soft glow over the panelled and pictured walls, the priceless
antique furniture, and the bejewelled ladies who were gathered there.
To my mind there never was and never will be any artificial light to
equal that of wax candles in sufficient quantity. The company was
large; I think thirty sat down to dinner that night, which was given to
introduce Lord Ragnall’s future wife to the neighbourhood, whereof she
was destined to be the leader.
Miss Manners, who was looking very happy and charming in her jewels and
fine clothes, joined us at once, and informed Scroope that “she” was
just coming; the maid in the cloakroom had told her so.
“Is she?” replied Scroope indifferently. “Well, so long as you have
come I don’t care about anyone else.”
Then he told her she was looking beautiful, and stared at her with such
affection that I fell back a step or two and contemplated a picture of
Judith vigorously engaged in cutting off the head of Holofernes.
Presently the large door at the end of the room was thrown open and the
immaculate Savage, who was acting as a kind of master of the
ceremonies, announced in well-bred but penetrating tones, “Lady Longden
and the Honourable Miss Holmes.” I stared, like everybody else, but for
a while her ladyship filled my eye. She was an ample and, to my mind,
rather awful-looking person, clad in black satin—she was a widow—and
very large diamonds. Her hair was white, her nose was hooked, her dark
eyes were penetrating, and she had a bad cold in her head. That was all
I found time to notice about her, for suddenly her daughter came into
my line of vision.
Truly she was a lovely girl, or rather, young woman, for she must have
been two or three-and-twenty. Not very tall, her proportions were
rounded and exquisite, and her movements as graceful as those of a doe.
Altogether she was doe-like, especially in the fineness of her lines
and her large and liquid eyes. She was a dark beauty, with rich brown,
waving hair, a clear olive complexion, a perfectly shaped mouth and
very red lips. To me she looked more Italian or Spanish than
Anglo-Saxon, and I believe that, as a matter of fact, she had some
southern blood in her on her father’s side. She wore a dress of soft
rose colour, and her only ornaments were a string of pearls and a
single red camellia. I could see but one blemish, if it were a blemish,
in her perfect person, and that was a curious white mark upon her
breast, which in its shape exactly resembled the crescent moon.
The face, however, impressed me with other than its physical qualities.
It was bright, intelligent, sympathetic and, just now, happy. But I
thought it more, I thought it mystical. Something that her mother said
to her, probably about her dress, caused her smile to vanish for a
moment, and then, from beneath it as it were, appeared this shadow of
innate mysticism. In a second it was gone and she was laughing again;
but I, who am accustomed to observe, had caught it, perhaps alone of
all that company. Moreover, it reminded me of something.
What was it? Ah! I knew. A look that sometimes I had seen upon the face
of a certain Zulu lady named Mameena, especially at the moment of her
wonderful and tragic death. The thought made me shiver a little; I
could not tell why, for certainly, I reflected, this high-placed and
fortunate English girl had nothing in common with that fate-driven
Child of Storm, whose dark and imperial spirit dwelt in the woman
called Mameena. They were as far apart as Zululand is from Essex. Yet
it was quite sure that both of them had touch with hidden things.
Lord Ragnall, looking more like a splendid Van Dyck than ever in his
evening dress, stepped forward to greet his fiancée and her mother with
a courtly bow, and I turned again to continue my contemplation of the
stalwart Judith and the very ugly head of Holofernes. Presently I was
aware of a soft voice—a very rich and thrilling voice—asking quite
close to me:
“Which is he? Oh! you need not answer, dear. I know him from the
description.”
“Yes,” replied Lord Ragnall to Miss Holmes—for it was she—“you are
quite right. I will introduce you to him presently. But, love, whom do
you wish to take you in to dinner? I can’t—your mother, you know; and
as there are no titles here to-night, you may make your choice. Would
you like old Dr. Jeffreys, the clergyman?”
“No,” she replied, with quiet firmness, “I know him; he took me in once
before. I wish Mr. Allan Quatermain to take me in. He is interesting,
and I want to hear about Africa.”
“Very well,” he answered, “and he _is_ more interesting than all the
rest put together. But, Luna, why are you always thinking and talking
about Africa? One might imagine that you were going to live there.”
“So I may one day,” she answered dreamily. “Who knows where one has
lived, or where one will live!” And again I saw that mystic look come
into her face.
I heard no more of that conversation, which it is improbable that
anyone whose ears had not been sharpened by a lifetime of listening in
great silences would have caught at all. To tell the truth, I made
myself scarce, slipping off to the other end of the big room in the
hope of evading the kind intentions of Miss Holmes. I have a great
dislike of being put out of my place, and I felt that among all these
local celebrities it was not fitting that I should be selected to take
in the future bride on an occasion of this sort. But it was of no use,
for presently Lord Ragnall hunted me up, bringing the young lady with
him.
“Let me introduce you to Miss Holmes, Quatermain,” he said. “She is
anxious that you should take her in to dinner, if you will be so kind.
She is very interested in—in——”
“Africa,” I suggested.
“In Mr. Quatermain, who, I am told, is one of the greatest hunters in
Africa,” she corrected me, with a dazzling smile.
I bowed, not knowing what to say. Lord Ragnall laughed and vanished,
leaving us together. Dinner was announced. Presently we were wending in
the centre of a long and glittering procession across the central hall
to the banqueting chamber, a splendid room with a roof like a church
that was said to have been built in the times of the Plantagenets. Here
Mr. Savage, who evidently had been looking out for her future ladyship,
conducted us to our places, which were upon the left of Lord Ragnall,
who sat at the head of the broad table with Lady Longden on his right.
Then the old clergyman, Dr. Jeffreys, a pompous and rather frowsy
ecclesiastic, said grace, for grace was still in fashion at such feasts
in those days, asking Heaven to make us truly thankful for the dinner
we were about to consume.
Certainly there was a great deal to be thankful for in the eating and
drinking line, but of all I remember little, except a general vision of
silver dishes, champagne, splendour, and things I did not want to eat
being constantly handed to me. What I do remember is Miss Holmes, and
nothing but Miss Holmes; the charm of her conversation, the light of
her beautiful eyes, the fragrance of her hair, her most flattering
interest in my unworthy self. To tell the truth, we got on “like fire
in the winter grass,” as the Zulus say, and when that dinner was over
the grass was still burning.
I don’t think that Lord Ragnall quite liked it, but fortunately Lady
Longden was a talkative person. First she conversed about her cold in
the head, sneezing at intervals, poor soul, and being reduced to send
for another handkerchief after the entrées. Then she got off upon
business matters; to judge from the look of boredom on her host’s face,
I think it must have been of settlements. Three times did I hear him
refer her to the lawyers—without avail. Lastly, when he thought he had
escaped, she embarked upon a quite vigorous argument with Dr. Jeffreys
about church matters—I gathered that she was “low” and he was “high”—in
which she insisted upon his lordship acting as referee.
“Do try and keep your attention fixed, George,” I heard her say
severely. “To allow it to wander when high spiritual affairs are under
discussion (sneeze) is scarcely reverent. Could you tell the man to
shut that door? The draught is dreadful. It is quite impossible for you
to agree with both of us, as you say you do, seeing that metaphorically
Dr. Jeffreys is at one pole and I am at the other.” (Sneeze.)
“Then I wish I were at the Tropic of Cancer,” I heard him mutter with a
groan.
In vain; he had to keep his “attention fixed” on this point for the
next three-quarters of an hour. So as Miss Manners was at the other
side of me, and Scroope, unhampered by the presence of any prospective
mother-in-law, was at the other side of her, for all practical purposes
Miss Holmes and I were left alone.
She began by saying:
“I hear you beat Sir Junius Fortescue out shooting to-day, and won a
lot of money from him which you gave to the Cottage Hospital. I don’t
like shooting, and I don’t like betting; and it’s strange, because you
don’t look like a man who bets. But I detest Sir Junius Fortescue, and
that is a bond of union between us.”
“I never said I detested him.”
“No, but I am sure you do. Your face changed when I mentioned his
name.”
“As it happens, you are right. But, Miss Holmes, I should like you to
understand that you were also right when you said I did not look like a
betting man.” And I told her some of the story of Van Koop and the
£250.
“Ah!” she said, when I had finished, “I always felt sure he was a
horror. And my mother wanted me, just because he pretended to be low
church—but that’s a secret.”
Then I congratulated her upon her approaching marriage, saying what a
joyful thing it was now and again to see everything going in real,
happy, storybook fashion: beauty, male and female, united by love, high
rank, wealth, troops of friends, health of body, a lovely and an
ancient home in a settled land where dangers do not come—at
present—respect and affection of crowds of dependents, the prospect of
a high and useful career of a sort whereof the door is shut to most
people, everything in short that human beings who are not actually
royalty could desire or deserve. Indeed after my second glass of
champagne I grew quite eloquent on these and kindred points, being
moved thereto by memories of the misery that is in the world which
formed so great a contrast to the lot of this striking and brilliant
pair.
She listened to me attentively and answered:
“Thank you for your kind thoughts and wishes. But does it not strike
you, Mr. Quatermain, that there is something ill-omened in such talk? I
believe that it does; that as you finished speaking it occurred to you
that after all the future is as much veiled from all of us as—as the
picture which hangs behind its curtain of rose-coloured silk in Lord
Ragnall’s study is from you.”
“How did you know that?” I asked sharply in a low voice. For by the
strangest of coincidences, as I concluded my somewhat old-fashioned
little speech of compliments, this very reflection had entered my mind,
and with it the memory of the veiled picture which Mr. Savage had
pointed out to me on the previous morning.
“I can’t say, Mr. Quatermain, but I did know it. You were thinking of
the picture, were you not?”
“And if I was,” I said, avoiding a direct reply, “what of it? Though it
is hidden from everybody else, he has only to draw the curtain and
see—you.”
“Supposing he should draw the curtain one day and see nothing, Mr.
Quatermain?”
“Then the picture would have been stolen, that is all, and he would
have to search for it till he found it again, which doubtless sooner or
later he would do.”
“Yes, sooner or later. But where? Perhaps you have lost a picture or
two in your time, Mr. Quatermain, and are better able to answer the
question than I am.”
There was silence for a few moments, for this talk of lost pictures
brought back memories which choked me.
Then she began to speak again, low, quickly, and with suppressed
passion, but acting wonderfully all the while. Knowing that eyes were
on her, her gestures and the expression of her face were such as might
have been those of any young lady of fashion who was talking of
everyday affairs, such as dancing, or flowers, or jewels. She smiled
and even laughed occasionally. She played with the golden salt-cellar
in front of her and, upsetting a little of the salt, threw it over her
left shoulder, appearing to ask me if I were a victim of that ancient
habit, and so on.
But all the while she was talking deeply of deep things, such as I
should never have thought would pass her mind. This was the substance
of what she said, for I cannot set it all down verbatim; after so many
years my memory fails me.
“I am not like other women. Something moves me to tell you so,
something very real and powerful which pushes me as a strong man might.
It is odd, because I have never spoken to anyone else like that, not to
my mother for instance, or even to Lord Ragnall. They would neither of
them understand, although they would misunderstand differently. My
mother would think I ought to see a doctor—and if you knew that doctor!
He,” and she nodded towards Lord Ragnall, “would think that my
engagement had upset me, or that I had grown rather more religious than
I ought to be at my age, and been reflecting too much—well, on the end
of all things. From a child I have understood that I am a mystery set
in the midst of many other mysteries. It all came to me one night when
I was about nine years old. I seemed to see the past and the future,
although I could grasp neither. Such a long, long past and such an
infinite future. I don’t know what I saw, and still see sometimes. It
comes in a flash, and is in a flash forgotten. My mind cannot hold it.
It is too big for my mind; you might as well try to pack Dr. Jeffreys
there into this wineglass. Only two facts remain written on my heart.
The first is that there is trouble ahead of me, curious and unusual
trouble; and the second, that permanently, continually, I, or a part of
me, have something to do with Africa, a country of which I know nothing
except from a few very dull books. Also, by the way—this is a new
thought—that I have a great deal to do with _you_. That is why I am so
interested in Africa and you. Tell me about Africa and yourself now,
while we have the chance.” And she ended rather abruptly, adding in a
louder voice, “You have lived there all your life, have you not, Mr.
Quatermain?”
“I rather think your mother would be right—about the doctor, I mean,” I
said.
“You _say_ that, but you don’t _believe_ it. Oh! you are very
transparent, Mr. Quatermain—at least, to me.”
So, hurriedly enough, for these subjects seemed to be uncomfortable,
even dangerous in a sense, I began to talk of the first thing about
Africa that I remembered—namely, of the legend of the Holy Flower that
was guarded by a huge ape, of which I had heard from a white man who
was supposed to be rather mad, who went by the name of Brother John.
Also I told her that there was something in it, as I had with me a
specimen of the flower.
“Oh! show it me,” she said.
I replied that I feared I could not, as it was locked away in a safe in
London, whither I was returning on the morrow. I promised, however, to
send her a life-sized water-colour drawing of which I had caused
several to be made. She asked me if I were going to look for this
flower, and I said that I hoped so if I could make the necessary
arrangements. Next she asked me if there chanced to be any other
African quests upon which I had set my mind. I replied that there were
several. For instance, I had heard vaguely through Brother John, and
indirectly from one or two other sources, of the existence of a certain
tribe in East Central Africa—Arabs or semi-Arabs—who were reported to
worship a child that always remained a child. This child, I took it,
was a dwarf; but as I was interested in native religious customs which
were infinite in their variety, I should much like to find out the
truth of the matter.
“Talking of Arabs,” she broke in, “I will tell you a curious story.
Once when I was a little girl, eight or nine years of age—it was just
before that kind of awakening of which I have spoken to you—I was
playing in Kensington Gardens, for we lived in London at the time, in
the charge of my nurse-governess. She was talking to some young man who
she said was her cousin, and told me to run about with my hoop and not
to bother. I drove the hoop across the grass to some elm trees. From
behind one of the trees came out two tall men dressed in white robes
and turbans, who looked to me like scriptural characters in a
picture-book. One was an elderly man with flashing, black eyes, hooked
nose, and a long grey beard. The other was much younger, but I do not
remember him so well. They were both brown in colour, but otherwise
almost like white men; not Negroes by any means. My hoop hit the elder
man, and I stood still, not knowing what to say. He bowed politely and
picked it up, but did not offer to return it to me. They talked
together rapidly, and one of them pointed to the moon-shaped birthmark
which you see I have upon my neck, for it was hot weather, and I was
wearing a low-cut frock. It was because of this mark that my father
named me Luna. The elder of the two said in broken English:
“‘What is your name, pretty little girl?’
“I told him it was Luna Holmes. Then he drew from his robe a box made
of scented wood, and, opening it, took out some sweetmeat which looked
as if it had been frozen, and gave me a piece that, being very fond of
sweet, I put into my mouth. Next, he bowled the hoop along the ground
into the shadow of the trees—it was evening time and beginning to grow
dark—saying, ‘Run, catch it, little girl!’
“I began to run, but something in the taste of that sweet caused me to
drop it from my lips. Then all grew misty, and the next thing I
remember was finding myself in the arms of the younger Eastern, with
the nurse and her ‘cousin,’ a stalwart person like a soldier, standing
in front of us.
“‘Little girl go ill,’ said the elder Arab. ‘We seek policeman.’
“‘You drop that child,’ answered the ‘cousin,’ doubling his fists. Then
I grew faint again, and when I came to myself the two white-robed men
had gone. All the way home my governess scolded me for accepting sweets
from strangers, saying that if my parents came to know of it, I should
be whipped and sent to bed. Of course, I begged her not to tell them,
and at last she consented. Do you know, I think you are the first to
whom I have ever mentioned the matter, of which I am sure the governess
never breathed a word, though after that, whenever we walked in the
gardens, her ‘cousin’ always came to look after us. In the end I think
she married him.”
“You believe the sweet was drugged?” I asked.
She nodded. “There was something very strange in it. It was a night or
two after I had tasted it that I had what just now I called my
awakening, and began to think about Africa.”
“Have you ever seen these men again, Miss Holmes?”
“No, never.”
At this moment I heard Lady Longden say, in a severe voice:
“My dear Luna, I am sorry to interrupt your absorbing conversation, but
we are all waiting for you.”
So they were, for to my horror I saw that everyone was standing up
except ourselves.
Miss Holmes departed in a hurry, while Scroope whispered in my ear with
a snigger:
“I say, Allan, if you carry on like that with his young lady, his
lordship will be growing jealous of you.”
“Don’t be a fool,” I said sharply. But there was something in his
remark, for as Lord Ragnall passed on his way to the other end of the
table, he said in a low voice and with rather a forced smile:
“Well, Quatermain, I hope your dinner has not been as dull as mine,
although your appetite seemed so poor.”
Then I reflected that I could not remember having eaten a thing since
the first entrée. So overcome was I that, rejecting all Scroope’s
attempts at conversation, I sat silent, drinking port and filling up
with dates, until not long afterwards we went into the drawing-room,
where I sat down as far from Miss Holmes as possible, and looked at a
book of views of Jerusalem.
While I was thus engaged, Lord Ragnall, pitying my lonely condition, or
being instigated thereto by Miss Holmes, I know not which, came up and
began to chat with me about African big-game shooting. Also he asked me
what was my permanent address in that country. I told him Durban, and
in my turn asked why he wanted to know.
“Because Miss Holmes seems quite crazy about the place, and I expect I
shall be dragged out there one day,” he replied, quite gloomily. It was
a prophetic remark.
At this moment our conversation was interrupted by Lady Longden, who
came to bid her future son-in-law good night. She said that she must go
to bed, and put her feet in mustard and water as her cold was so bad,
which left me wondering whether she meant to carry out this operation
in bed. I recommended her to take quinine, a suggestion she
acknowledged rather inconsequently by remarking in somewhat icy tones
that she supposed I sat up to all hours of the night in Africa. I
replied that frequently I did, waiting for the sun to rise next day,
for that member of the British aristocracy irritated me.
Thus we parted, and I never saw her again. She died many years ago,
poor soul, and I suppose is now freezing her former acquaintances in
the Shades, for I cannot imagine that she ever had a friend. They talk
a great deal about the influences of heredity nowadays, but I don’t
believe very much in them myself. Who, for instance, could conceive
that persons so utterly different in every way as Lady Longden and her
daughter, Miss Holmes, could be mother and child? Our bodies, no doubt,
we do inherit from our ancestors, but not our individualities. These
come from far away.
A good many of the guests went at the same time, having long distances
to drive on that cold frosty night, although it was only just ten
o’clock. For as was usual at that period even in fashionable houses, we
had dined at seven.