COUNTRY AND TOWN.
On this Sunday morning, when all the good people had gone to church,
there was no sign of life on these far-stretching Winstead Downs. The
yellow roads intersecting the undulations of black-and-golden gorse were
undisturbed by even a solitary tramp; so that Lionel Moore and his
friend Mangan, as they idly walked along, seemed to be the sole
possessors of the spacious landscape. It was a beautiful morning, warm
and clear and sunny; a southerly breeze stirred the adjacent elms into a
noise as of the sea, caused the chestnuts to wave their great branches
bearing thousands of milky minarets, and sent waves of shadows across
the silken gray-green of a field of rye. There was a windmill on a
distant height, its long arms motionless. A strip of Scotch firs stood
black and near at one portion of the horizon; but elsewhere the
successive lines of wood and hill faded away into the south, becoming of
a paler and paler hue until they disappeared in a silvery mist. The air
was sweet with the resinous scent of the furze. In short, it was a
perfect day in early June, on a wide, untenanted, high-lying Surrey
common.
And Maurice Mangan, in his aimless, desultory fashion, was inveighing
against the vanity of the life led by certain classes in the great
Babylon out of which he had just haled his rather unwilling friend; and
describing their mad and frantic efforts to wrest themselves free of the
demon _ennui_; and their ceaseless, eager clamor for hurry and
excitement, lest, in some unguarded moment of silence, their souls
should speak.
"It is quite a fallacy," he was saying, as he walked carelessly onwards,
his head thrown forward a little, his hands clasped behind his back, his
stick trailing after him, "it is altogether a fallacy to talk of the
'complaining millions of men' who 'darken in labor and pain.' It is the
hard-working millions of mankind who are the happiest; their constant
labor brings content; the riddle of the painful earth doesn't vex
them--they have no leisure; they don't fear the hour of sleep--they
welcome it. It is the rich, who find time drag remorselessly on their
hands, who have desperately to invent occupations and a whirl of
amusements, who keep pursuing shadows they can never lay hold of, who
are really in a piteous case; and I suppose you take credit to yourself,
Linn, my boy, that you are one of the distractions that help them to
lighten the unbearable weariness of their life. Well," he continued, in
his rambling way, "it isn't quite what I had looked forward to; I had
looked forward to something different for you. I can remember, when we
used to have our long Sunday walks in those days, what splendid
ambitions you had for yourself, and how you were all burning to
begin--the organist of Winstead Church was to produce his Hallelujah
Chorus, and the nations were to listen; and the other night, when I was
in your room at the theatre, when I saw you smearing your face and
decking yourself out for exhibition before a lot of fashionable idlers,
I could not help saying to myself, 'And this is what Linn Moore has come
to!'"
"Yes, that is what Linn Moore has come to," the other said, with entire
good-nature. "And what has Maurice Mangan come to? I can remember when
Maurice Mangan was to be a great poet, a great metaphysician, a great--I
don't know what. Winstead was far too small a place for him; he was to
go up and conquer London, and do great and wonderful things. And what is
he now?--a reporter of the gabble of the House of Commons."
"I suppose I am a failure," said this tall, thin, contemplative-looking
man, who spoke quite dispassionately of himself, just as he spoke with a
transparent honesty and simplicity of his friend. "But at least I have
kept myself to myself. I haven't sold myself over to the Moloch of
fashion--"
"Oh, your dislike of fashionable people is a mere bundle of prejudice!"
Lionel cried. "The truth is, Maurice, you don't know those fashionable
people you seem to despise so heartily. If you did, you would discover
that they had the ordinary human qualities of other people--only that
they are better educated and more courteous and pleasant in manner. Then
their benevolence--if you knew how much they give away in charity--"
"Benevolence!" Mangan broke in, impatiently. "What is benevolence? It is
generally nothing more or less than an expression of your own
satisfaction with yourself. You are stuffed with food and wine; your
purse is gorged; 'here's a handful of sovereigns for you, you poor devil
crouching at the corner!' What merit is in that? Do you call that a
virtue? But where charity really becomes a heroism, Linn, is when a
poor, suffering, neuralgic woman, without any impulse from abundance of
health or abundance of comfort, sets laboriously to work to do what she
can for her fellow-creatures. Then that is something to regard--that is
something to admire--"
Lionel burst out laughing.
"A very pretty description of Francie Wright!" he cried. "Francie a
poor, suffering, wretched woman--because she happened to have a touch of
neuralgia the last Sunday you were down here! There's very little of the
poor and suffering about Francie; she's as contented and merry a lass as
you'd find anywhere."
Mangan was silent for a second or two; and then he said, with a little
hesitation,
"Didn't you tell me Miss Wright had not been up yet to see 'The Squire's
Daughter?'"
"No, she has not," Lionel answered, lightly. "I don't know whether you
have been influencing her, Maurice, or whether you have picked up some
of her highly superior prejudices; anyhow, I rather fancy she doesn't
quite approve of the theatre--I mean, I don't think she approves of the
New Theatre, for she'd go to any other one fast enough, I suppose, if
you could only get her away from her sick children. But not the New
Theatre, apparently. Perhaps she doesn't care to see me making myself a
motley to the view."
"She has a great regard for you, Linn. I wouldn't call her opinions
prejudices," Mangan said--but with the curious diffidence he displayed
whenever he spoke of Lionel's cousin.
"Oh, Francie should have lived in the fifteenth century--she would have
been a follower of Savonarola," Lionel said, with a laugh. "She's far
too exalted for these present days."
"Well, Linn," said his friend, "I'm glad you know at least one person
who has some notion of duty and self-sacrifice, who has some fineness of
perception and some standard of conduct and aim to go by. Why, those
people you associate so much with now seem to have but one pursuit--the
pursuit of pleasure, the gratification of every selfish whim; they seem
to have no consciousness of the mystery surrounding life--of the fact
that they themselves are inexplicable phantoms whose very existence
might make them pause and wonder and question. No, it is the amassing of
wealth, and the expending of it, that is all sufficient. I used to
wonder why God should have chosen the Jews, of all the nations of the
earth, for the revelation that there was something nobler than the
acquisition of riches; but I suppose it was because no race ever needed
it so much. And what new revelation--what new message is coming to the
multitudes here in England who are living in a paradise of sensual
gratification, blinded, besotted, their world a sort of gorgeous
pig-stye--"
"Oh, that's all right," Lionel said, cheerfully. "Octavius Quirk has
settled all that. The cure for everything is to be a blowing of the
whole social fabric to bits. Then we're going to begin again all over;
and the New Jerusalem will be reached when each man has to dig for his
own potatoes."
"Quirk!" said Maurice Mangan, contemptuously; and then he took out his
watch. "We'd better be getting back, Linn. We'll just be in time to meet
your people coming out of church."
So they turned and walked leisurely across the gorse-covered downs until
they reached the broad and dusty highway leading towards Winstead
village. And then again they struck into a by-lane with tall hedges, the
banks underneath which were bright with stitchwort and speedwell and
white dead-nettle. Now and again, through a gap or a gate, they caught a
glimpse of the lush meadows golden with buttercups; in one of them there
was a small black pony standing in the shadow of a wide-spreading elm.
They passed some cottages with pretty gardens in front; they stopped for
a second to look at the old-fashioned columbine and monkshood, the
none-so-pretty, the yellow and crimson wall-flower, the peony roses.
Then always around them was this gracious silence, which seemed so
strange after the roar of London; and if the day promised to become
still hotter, at least they had this welcome breeze, that rustled the
quick-glancing poplars, and stirred the white-laden hawthorns, and kept
the long branches of the wych-elms and chestnuts swaying hither and
thither. They were not talking much now; one of them was thinking of a
pair of gray eyes.
At last they came to a turnstile, and, passing through that, found
themselves in one of those wide meadows; at the farther side of it the
red-tiled roof, the gray belfry, and slated spire of Winstead Church
just showed above the masses of green foliage. They crossed the meadow
and entered the churchyard. A perfect silence reigned over the place;
they could not hear what was going on within the small building; out
here there was no sound save the chirping of the birds and the
continuous murmur of the trees. They walked about, looking thoughtfully
at the gravestones--many of them bearing names familiar enough to them
in bygone years. And perhaps one or other of them may have been fancying
that when the great, busy world had done with him--and used him up and
thrown him aside--here at least there would be peace preserved for
him--an ample sufficiency of rest under this greensward, with perhaps a
few flowers put there by some kindly hand. The dead did not seem to need
much pity on this tranquil day.
Then into this universal silence came suddenly a low, booming sound that
caused Lionel Moore's heart to stand still: it was the church
organ--that awakened a multitude of associations and recollections, that
seemed to summon up the vanished years and the dreams of his youth, when
it was he himself who used to sit at the instrument and call forth those
massive chords and solemn tones. Something of his boyhood came back to
him; he seemed again to be looking forward to an unknown future;
wondering and eager, he painted visions; and always in them, to share
his greatness and his fame, there was some radiant creature,
smiling-eyed, who would be at his side in sorrow and in joy, through the
pain of striving and in the rapture of triumph. And now--now that the
years had developed themselves--what had become of these wistful hopes
and forecasts? Boyish nonsense, he would have said (except just at such
a moment as this, when the sudden sound of the organ seemed to call back
so much). He had encountered the realities of life since then; he had
chosen his profession; he had studied hard; he had achieved a measure of
fame. And the beautiful and wonderful being who was to share his
triumphs with him? Well, he had never actually beheld her. A glimmer
here and there, in a face or a form, had taken his fancy captive more
than once; but he remained heart-whole; he was too much occupied, he
laughingly assured Maurice Mangan again and again, to have the chance of
falling in love.
"Getting married?" he would say. "My dear fellow, I haven't time; I'm
far too busy to think of getting married."
So the radiant bride had never been found, even as the new Hallelujah
Chorus that was to thrill the hearts of millions had never been written;
and Linn Moore had to be content with the very pronounced success he had
attained in playing in comic opera, and with a popularity in the
fashionable world of London, especially among the women-folk therein,
that would have turned many a young fellow's head.
When they thought the service was about over they went round to the
porch and awaited the coming out of the congregation. And among the
first to make their appearance--issuing from the dusky little building
into this bewilderment of white light and green leaves--were old Dr.
Moore and his wife, and Miss Francie Wright, who passed for Lionel's
cousin, though the relationship was somewhat more remote than that.
Maurice Mangan received a very hearty welcome from these good people;
and then, as they set out for home, Lionel walked on with his father and
mother, while Lionel's friend naturally followed with the young lady.
She was not a distinctly beautiful person, perhaps, this slim-figured
young woman, with the somewhat pale face, the high-arched eyebrows, and
light-brown hair; but at least she had extremely pretty gray eyes, that
had a touch of shrewdness and humor in them, as well as plenty of
gentleness and womanliness; and she had a soft and attractive voice,
which goes for much.
"It is so kind of you, Mr. Mangan," said she, in that soft and winning
voice, "to bring Linn down. You know he won't come down by himself; and
who can wonder at it? It is so dull and monotonous for him here, after
the gay life he leads in London."
"Dull and monotonous!" he exclaimed. "Why, I have been preaching to him
all the morning that he should be delighted to come down into the
quietude of the country, as a sort of moral bath after the insensate
racket of that London whirl. But no one ever knows how well off he is,"
he continued, as they walked along between the fragrant hawthorn hedges;
"it's the lookers-on who know. Good gracious, what wouldn't I give to be
in Linn's place!"
"Do you mean in London, Mr. Mangan?" she asked, and for an instant the
pretty gray eyes looked up.
"Certainly not!" he said, with unnecessary warmth. "I mean here. If I
could run down of a Sunday to a beautiful, quiet, old-fashioned place
like this, and find myself in my own home, among my own people, I wonder
how many Sundays would find me in London? You can't imagine, you have no
idea, what it is to live quite alone in London, with no one to turn to
but club acquaintances; and I think Sunday is the worst day of all,
especially if it is fine weather, and all the people have gone to the
country or the seaside to spend the day with their friends."
"But, Mr. Mangan," said Miss Francie Wright, gently, "I am sure,
whenever you have a Sunday free like that, we should be only too glad if
you would consider us your friends--unless you think the place too
dreadfully tedious, as I'm afraid my cousin finds it."
"It is very kind of you--very," said he. "And I know the old doctor and
Mrs. Moore like to see me well enough, for I bring down their boy to
them; but if I came by myself, I'm afraid they wouldn't care to have an
idling, dawdling fellow like me lounging about the place of a Sunday
afternoon."
"Will you come and try, Mr. Mangan?" said she, quietly. "For Linn's sake
alone I know they would be delighted to have you here. And if it is rest
and quiet you want, can't we give you the garden and a book?"
"You mustn't put such visions before me," he said. "It's too good to be
true. I should be sighing for Paradise all through the week and
forgetting my work. And shouldn't I hate to wake up on Monday morning
and find myself in London!"
"You might wake up on Monday morning, and find yourself in Winstead,"
said she, "if you would take Linn's room for the night."
"Ah, no," he said, "it isn't for the like of me to try to take Linn's
place in any way whatever. He has always had everything--everything
seemed to come to him by natural right; and then he has always been such
a capital fellow, so modest and unaffected and generous, that nobody
could ever grudge him his good-fortune. Prince Fortunatus he always has
been."
"In what way, Mr. Mangan?" his companion asked, rather wonderingly.
"In every way. People are fond of him; he wins affection without trying
for it; as I say, it all comes to him as if by natural right."
"Yes, they say he is very popular in London, among those fine folk,"
observed Miss Francie, quite good-naturedly.
"Oh, I wasn't thinking of his fashionable friends," Mangan rejoined.
"Being made much of by those people doesn't seem to me one of the great
gifts of fortune. And yet I wonder it hasn't spoiled him. He doesn't
seem the least bit spoiled, does he?"
"Really, I see so little of him," Miss Francie said, with a smile, "he
honors us with so few visits, that I can hardly tell."
"No, he is not spoiled--you may take my word for it," her companion
said, with decision. And then he added, "I suppose he gets too much of
that petting; he is kept in such a turmoil of gayety that its evil
effects have no time to sink into him. He is too busy--as he said this
morning about marrying."
"What was that, Mr. Mangan?" she asked.
"He said he was too busy to think of getting married."
"Oh, indeed?" she said, with her eyes directed towards the ground.
"We--we have always been expecting to hear of his being engaged to some
young lady--seeing he is made so much of in London--" She could say no
more, for now they were arrived at the doctor's house, which was
separated from the highway by a little strip of front garden. They
passed in through the gate and found the door left open for them.
"Well, Miss Savonarola," said Lionel, as he hung up his hat in the hall
and turned to address her, "how have you been all this time?"
"I have been very well, Mr. Pagan," said she, smiling.
"And how are all those juvenile Londoners that you've planted about in
the cottages?"
"They're getting on nicely, every one of them," said she, with quite an
air of pride; and then she added, "When is your Munificence going to
give me another subscription?"
"Just now, Francie," was the instant reply. "How much do you want?"
"As much as ever you can afford," said she.
He pulled from his pocket a handful of loose coin, and began to pick out
the sovereigns. But Miss Francie, with a little touch of her fingers,
put the money away.
"No, Linn, not from you. You've given me too much already. You give too
freely; I like to have a little difficulty in obtaining subscriptions;
it feels nicer somehow. But if my funds should run very low, then I'll
come to you, Linn."
"Whenever you like, Francie," said he, carelessly; he poured the money
into his pocket again and bade Maurice Mangan come up to his room, to
get the dust of travel removed from his hands and face before going in
to luncheon.
Then while Mangan was busy with his ablutions in this small upper
chamber, Lionel drew a chair to the open window and gazed absently
abroad on the wide stretch of country visible from the doctor's house.
It was a familiar view; yet it was one not easy to get tired of; and of
course on such a morning as this it lost none of its charm. Everywhere
in the warm breeze and the sunshine there was a universal rustling and
trembling and glancing of all beautiful things--of the translucent
foliage of the limes, the pendulous blossoms of lilacs and laburnums,
the swaying branches of the larch, and the masses of blue
forget-me-nots in the garden below. Then there were all the hushed
sounds of the country: the distant, quick footfall of a horse on some
dusty road; the warning cluck of a thrush to her young ones down there
among the bushes; the glad voices and laughter of some girls in an
adjacent garden--they, too, likely to be soon away from the maternal
nest; the crow of a cock pheasant from the margin of the wood; the
clear, ringing melody of an undiscoverable lark. Everywhere white light,
blue skies, and shadows of great clouds slow-sailing over the young
green corn and over the daisied meadows in which the cows lay
half-asleep. And when he looked beyond that low green hill, where there
were one or two hares hopping about on their ungainly high haunches, and
past that great stretch of receding country in which strips of
red-and-white villages peeped here and there from the woods, behold! a
horizon as of the sea, faint and blue and far, rising and ever rising in
various hues and tones, until it was lost in a quivering mist of heat;
and he could only guess that there, too, under the glowing sky, some
other fair expanse of our beautiful English landscape lay basking in the
sunlight and sweet air of the early summer.
Of course Lionel was the hero of the hour when they were all assembled
in the dining-room--at a very sumptuously furnished board, by the way,
for the hale old doctor was fond of good living and a firm believer in
the virtues of port wine. Moreover, the young man had an attentive
audience; for the worthy old lady at the head of the table never took
her admiring eye's off this wonderful boy of hers; and Miss Francie
Wright meekly listened too; while as for Maurice Mangan, who was he in
his humble station to interrupt this marvellous tale of great doings and
festivities? Not that Lionel magnified his own share in these things;
nay, he modestly kept himself out altogether; it was merely to interest
these simple country folk that he described the grand banquets, the
illuminated gardens, the long marquees, and told them how the princess
looked, and who it was who had the honor of taking her in to supper. But
when he came, among other things, to speak of the rehearsal of the
little pastoral comedy, in the clear light of the dawn, by Lady Adela
Cunyngham and her friends, he had to admit that he himself was present
on that occasion; and at once the fond mother took him to task.
[Illustration: "_They passed in through the gate, and found the door
left open for them._"]
"It's wicked, Lionel," she said, severely; "it's downright wicked to
keep such hours. Look at the result of it all. You can't eat
anything--you're not taking a mouthful!"
"But, you know, mother, I'm not used to luncheon," he said, cheerfully
enough. "I have to dine at five every day--and I've no time to bother
with luncheon, even if I could eat it."
"Take a glass of port, my lad," the old doctor said. "That will put some
life into you."
"No, thanks," he said, indifferently, "I can't afford to play tricks. I
have to study my throat."
"Why, what better astringent can you have than tannic acid?" the old
gentleman called down the table. "I suppose you drink those washy
abominations that the young men of the day prefer to honest wine; what's
that I hear about lemonade? Lemonade!" he repeated, with disgust.
"It's home-brewed--it's wholesome enough; Miss Burgoyne makes some for
me when she is making it for herself," the young man said; and then he
turned to his mother: "Mother, I wish you would send her something from
the garden--"
"Who, Lionel?"
"Miss Burgoyne--at the theatre, you know. She's very good to me--lends
me her room if I have any swell friends who want to come behind--and
makes me this lemonade, which is better than anything else on a hot
night. Couldn't you send her something from the garden?--not
flowers--she gets too many flowers, and doesn't care for them; but if
you had some early strawberries or something of that kind, she would
take them as a greater compliment, coming from you, than if some idiot
of a young fool spent guineas on them at a florist's. And when are you
coming up to see 'The Squire's Daughter,' Francie? The idea that you
should never have been near the place, when I hear people confessing to
each other that they have been to see it eight and ten, or even a dozen
times!"
"But I am so busy, Lionel!" she said; and then perhaps an echo of
something that had been said in the morning may have recurred to her
mind; for she seemed a trifle confused, and kept her eyes downcast,
while Lionel went on to tell them of what certain friends of his were
going to do at Henley Regatta.
After luncheon they went out into the garden, and took seats in the
shade of the lilac-trees, in the sweet air. Old Mrs. Moore had for
form's sake brought a book with her; but she was not likely to read much
when the pride of her eyes had come down on a visit to her, and was now
talking to her, in his off-hand, light-hearted way. Maurice Mangan had
followed the doctor's example and pulled out his pipe--which he forgot
to light, however. He seemed dissatisfied. He kept looking back to the
house from time to time. Was there no one else coming out? There was the
French window of the drawing-room still open; was there no glimmer of a
gray dress anywhere--with its ornamentation of a bunch of scarlet
geraniums? At last he made bold to say to the doctor:
"Where has Miss Francie gone to? Isn't she coming out too?"
"Oh, she's away after those London brats of hers, I have no doubt," the
old gentleman said. "You won't see her till teatime, if even then."
Whereupon Mangan lit his pipe, and proceeded to smoke in silence,
listening at times and absently to Lionel's vivacious talking to his
mother.
In fact, before Miss Francie Wright returned that afternoon, Lionel
found that he had to take his departure, for there are no trains to
Winstead on Sunday, and he would have to walk some three miles to the
nearest station. When he declared he had to go, the old lady's protests
and entreaties were almost piteous.
"You come to see us so seldom, Lionel! And of course we thought you'd
dine with us, at the very least; and if you could stay the night as
well, you know there's a room for Mr. Mangan too. And we were looking
forward to such a pleasant evening."
"But I have a long-standing engagement, mother; a dinner engagement--I
could not get out of it."
"And you are dragging Mr. Mangan away up to town again, on a beautiful
afternoon like this, when we know he is so fond of the country and of a
garden--"
"Not at all," Lionel said. "I need not spoil Maurice's day, if I have to
spoil my own; he'll stay, of course; and I suppose Francie will be back
directly."
"I'm sure, Mr. Mangan," the old lady said, turning at once to her other
guest, "if Lionel must really go, we shall be delighted if you will
remain and dine with us--I hope you will--and you can have Lionel's room
if you will stay the night as well."
"Thank you, I couldn't do that," said he, very gratefully, "but if you
will have me, I shall be very glad to stay on, and go up by a late
train. In the meantime, I think I'll walk to the station with Linn."
"And come back with a good appetite for dinner," said the doctor,
calling after him. "We'll have something better than lemonade, I warrant
ye!"
They have slow trains on these Surrey lines on Sunday; by the time that
Lionel had got up to town and driven to his rooms and dressed, it was
very near the hour at which he was due at the Lansdowne Gallery, where
Lord Rockminster was giving a dinner-party, as a preliminary to the
concert and crush that were to follow. And no sooner had he alighted
from his hansom, and entered the marble vestibule of the gallery, than
whom should he descry ascending the stairs in front of him but Mr.
Octavius Quirk.
"Lady Adela hasn't let the grass grow under her feet," he said to
himself. "Captured her first critic already!"
Lady Adela was at the head of the stairs receiving her brother's guests;
and the greeting that she accorded to Mr. Octavius Quirk was of a most
special and gracious kind. She was very complaisant to Lionel also, and
bade him go and see if the place they had given him at dinner was to his
liking. He took this as a kind of permission to choose what he wanted
(within discreet limits); and as he just then happened to meet Miss
Georgie Lestrange, he proposed to that smiling and ruddy-haired damsel
that they should go and examine for themselves--and perhaps alter the
dispositions a little. So they passed away through those brilliantly lit
galleries (which served as a picture-exhibition on week-days), and at
the farther end of the largest room they found the oblong dinner-table,
which was brilliant with flowers and fruit, with crystal and silver. Of
course Lionel and his companion had to be content with very modest
places, for this was a highly distinguished company which Lord
Rockminster had invited; but at all events they made sure they were to
sit together, and that arrangement seemed to be satisfactory to them
both.
This was rather a magnificent little banquet; and Lionel, looking down
the long, richly colored table, may once or twice have thought of the
quiet, small dining-room at Winstead (perhaps with the curtains still
undrawn, and the evening light shining blue in the panes), and of the
solitary guest whom he had left to talk to those good people; but
indeed he was not permitted much time for reverie, for the young lady
with the _pince-nez_ was a most lively chatterer; she knew everything
that was going on in London, and seemed to take a particularly active
interest therein. Among other solemn items of information which she
communicated to her companion, she mentioned that the issue of Lady
Adela's novel had been postponed.
"Yes, it's quite ready, you know," she continued, in her blithe,
discursive, happy-go-lucky fashion; "all quite ready; but she doesn't
want it to go before the public until there has been a little talk about
it, don't you understand? She wants some of the society papers to
mention it; but she isn't quite sure how to get that done, and nobody
seems able to help her--it's really distressing. Do you see that hideous
creature down there at the corner?"
"Yes."
"He's a writer," observed this artless maiden, in mysterious tones.
"You don't say so!"
"Yes, he is--writes in all kinds of places. Why, now I think of it, Lady
Adela said he was a friend of yours! I'm sure she did. So you pretend
not to know him--is that on account of his complexion? Have you any more
such _beauties_ among your acquaintances, Mr. Moore? I thought he might
be taking me in to dinner; and that's why I was so glad you brought me
to look at the cards. Very rude, wasn't it? but you had permission,
hadn't you? And there's another one coming to-night."
"Another what?"
"A writing man. But this other one is an American. Of course Lady Adela
wants to have the curiosity of the American public excited just as well
as the English. Have you heard Lady Sybil's marching-song yet?"
"No."
"Well, I think it is charming--really charming. Rockminster was dining
with the officers of the Coldstream Guards the other evening, and he
promised to send a copy to the bandmaster as soon as it is published.
But Sybil wants more than that, of course; she wants to see whether the
commander-in-chief wouldn't recommend it, so that it could be taken up
by all the regiments. Wouldn't that be splendid?--to think that Sybil
should provide a marching-song for the whole British army!"
"Yes, indeed," said he, with great politeness. "And why shouldn't the
commander-in-chief recommend it? A marching-song is as important as a
new button. But I must get a look at the music, if we are all to join in
the chorus."
The dinner was not long-protracted, for there was to be a concert during
the evening; and, indeed, people began to arrive early--strolling
through the galleries, looking at the pictures, or talking together in
small groups. It was during this promiscuous assembling that Octavius
Quirk got hold of Lionel, and, with savage disgust, drew his attention
to a hostler-looking person who had just come into the room.
"Do you see that ill-conditioned brute; what's he doing here?"
Lionel glanced in the direction indicated.
"I don't know who he is."
"Don't you know Quincey Hooper? the correspondent of the _Philadelphia
Roll-Call_--a cur who toadies every Englishman he meets, and at the same
time sneers at everything English in his wretched Philadelphia rag."
Then Lionel instantly bethought him of Miss Lestrange's hint; was this
the correspondent who was to arouse the interest of the great American
Continent in Lady Adela's forthcoming novel, even as Octavius Quirk was
expected to write about it in England? But surely, with the wide
Atlantic lying between their respective spheres of operation, there was
no need for rivalry? Why did Mr. Quirk still glare in the direction of
the new-comer with ill-disguised, or rather with wholly undisguised,
disdain?
"Why," said he, in his tempestuously frothy fashion, "I've heard that
creature actually discussing with another American what sort of air a
man should assume in entering a drawing-room! Can you conceive of such a
thing? Where _did_ all that alarmed self-consciousness of the modern
American come from--that unceasing self-consciousness that makes the
American young man spend five sixths of his waking time in asking
himself if he is a gentleman? Not from the splendid assurance, the
belief in himself, the wholesome satisfaction of old John Bull. It's no
use for the modern American to say he is of English descent at all!"
continued this boisterous controversialist, who was still glaring at
the hapless mortal at the door, as if every windy sentence was being
hurled at his head. "Not a bit! there's nothing English about him, or
his ways, or his sympathies, or character. Fancy an Englishman
considering what demeanor he should assume before entering a
drawing-room! The modern American hasn't the least idea from whom he is
descended; what right has he to claim anything of our glorious English
heritage?--or to say there is English blood in him at all? Why, as far
back as the Declaration of Independence, the people of English birth or
parentage in the Eastern States were in a distinct minority! And as to
the American of the future--look at the thousands upon thousands of
Germans pouring into the country as compared with the English
immigration. That is the future American--a German; and it is to be
hoped he will have some back-bone in him, and not alarm himself about
his entering a drawing-room! America for the Americans?--it's America
for the Germans! I tell you this: in a generation or two the great
national poet of America will be--Goethe!"
Happily, at this moment, Lady Adela came up, and Lionel most gladly
turned aside, for she had evidently something to say to him privately.
"Mr. Moore, I want to introduce you to Mr. Hooper--to Mr. Quincey
Hooper--he doesn't seem to know anybody, and I want you to look after
him a little--"
"No, no, Lady Adela, you must really excuse me," said he, in an
undertone, but he was laughing all the same. "I can't, really. I beg
your pardon, but indeed you must excuse me. I've just had one dose of
literature--a furious lecture about--about I don't know what--oh, yes,
immigration into America. And do you know this--that in a generation or
two the great national poet of America will be Goethe?"
"What?" said she.
He repeated the statement; and added that there could be no doubt about
it, for he had it on Mr. Octavius Quirk's authority.
"Well, it's a good thing to be told," she said, sweetly, "for then you
know." And therewithal, as there was a sudden sound of music issuing
from the next gallery, she bade Lionel take her to see who had begun--it
was Lady Sybil, indeed, who was playing a solo on the violin to an
accompaniment of stringed instruments, while all the crowd stood still
and listened.
The evening passed pleasantly enough. There were one or two courageous
amateurs who now and again ventured on a song; but for the most part the
music was instrumental. A young lady, standing with her hands behind her
back, gave a recitation, and attempted to draw pathetic tears by
picturing the woes of a simple-minded chimney-sweep who accidentally
killed his tame sparrow, and who never quite held up his head
thereafter; he seemed to pine away somehow, until one morning they found
him dead, his face downward on the tiny grave in which he had buried his
little playfellow. Another young lady performed a series of brilliant
roulades on a silver bugle, which seemed to afford satisfaction. A
well-known entertainer sat down to the piano and proceeded to give a
description of a fashionable wedding; and all the people laughed merrily
at the clever and sparkling way in which he made a fool of--not
themselves, of course, but their friends and acquaintances. And then
Lionel Moore went to his hostess.
"Don't you want me to do anything?" he said.
"You're too kind," Lady Adela made answer, with grateful eyes. "It's
hardly fair. Still, if I had the courage--"
"Yes, you have the courage," he said, smiling.
"If I had the courage to ask you to sing Sybil's song for her?"
"Of course I will sing it," he said.
"Will you? Will you really? You know, I'm afraid those two girls will
never give enough force to it. And it is a man's song--if you wouldn't
mind, Mr. Moore."
"Where can I get the music? I'll just look it over."
Quite a little murmur of interest went through the place when it was
rumored that Lionel Moore was about to sing Lady Sybil's "Soldiers'
Marching Song," and when he stepped on to the platform at the upper end
of the gallery, people came swarming in from the other rooms. Lady Sybil
herself was to play the accompaniment--the grand piano being fully
opened so as to give free egress to the marshalled chords; and when she
sat down to the keyboard, it was apparent that the tall, pale, handsome
young lady was not a little tremulous and anxious. Indeed, it was a very
good thing for the composer that she had got Lionel Moore to sing the
song; for the quite trivial and commonplace character of the music was
in a large measure concealed by the fine and resonant quality of his
rich baritone notes. The chorus was not much of a success--Lady Sybil's
promised accomplices seemed to have found their courage fail them at the
critical moment; but as for the martial ditty itself, it appeared to
take the public ear very well; and when Lionel finally folded the music
together again, there was quite a little tempest of clapping of hands.
Here and there a half-hearted demand for a repetition was heard; but
this was understood to be merely a compliment to Lady Sybil; and indeed
Lionel strolled out of the room as soon as his duties were over.
Fortunately no one was so indiscreet as to ask him what he privately
thought of the "Soldiers' Marching Song," or of its chances of being
recommended to the British Army by his royal highness the
commander-in-chief.
When at length Lionel thought it was about time for him to slip away
quietly from these brilliant, busy, murmuring rooms, he went to bid his
hostess privately good-night.
"It was so awfully kind of you, Mr. Moore," she said, graciously, "to
give us the chance of making Mr. Quirk's acquaintance. He is so
interesting, you know, so unconventional, so original in his
opinions--quite a treat to listen to him, I assure you. I've sent him a
copy of my poor little book; some time or other I wish you could get to
know what he thinks of it?"
"Oh, yes, certainly. I will ask him," Lionel said; and again he bade her
good-night, and took his leave.
But as he was going by the entrance into a smaller gallery, which had
been turned into a sort of supper-room (there was a buffet at one end,
and everywhere a number of small tables at which groups of friends could
sit down, the gentlemen of the party bringing over what was wanted) he
happened to glance in, and there, occupying a small table all by
himself, was Mr. Octavius Quirk, Lionel at once made his way to him. He
found him with a capacious plate of lobster-salad before him, and by the
side of that was a large bottle of champagne.
"Going to sit down?" Quirk asked--but with no great cordiality; it was
for one person, not for two, that he had secured that bottle.
"No; I dined here," said Lionel, with innocent sarcasm.
"My dear fellow," observed the other, earnestly, "a good dinner is the
very best preparation in the world for a good supper."
"I hear Lady Adela has sent you her book; have you looked at it?" Lionel
asked.
"Yes, I have," said the other, with his mouth full of lobster-salad.
"Capital! I call it capital! Plenty of _verve_ and go--knowledge of
society--nobody can do that kind of thing like the people who are
actually living in it. Her characters are the people one really meets,
you know--they are in the world--they belong to life. Oh, yes, a capital
novel! Light, airy, amusing, sparkling--I tell you it will be the book
of the season!"
"Oh, I'm very glad to hear that," said Lionel, thoughtfully; and then he
went and got his light overcoat and crush-hat, and descended the wide
stone-steps, and made his way home to his rooms in Piccadilly.