AN INVOCATION.
All his vague, wild, impracticable hopes and schemes had suddenly
received their death-blow; but there was nothing worse than that; he
himself (as he imagined) had been dealt no desperate wound. For one
thing, flattered and petted as this young man had been, he was neither
unreasoning nor vain; that a woman should have refused to marry him did
not seem to him a monstrous thing; she was surely within her right in
saying no; while, on the other hand, he was neither going to die of
chagrin nor yet to plan a melodramatic revenge. But the truth was that
he had never been passionately in love with Honnor Cunyngham. Passionate
love he did not much believe in; he associated it with lime-light and
crowded audiences and the odor of gas. Indeed, it might almost be said
that he had been in love not so much with Honnor Cunyngham as with the
condition of life which she represented. He had grown restless and
dissatisfied with his present state; he had been imagining for himself
another sort of existence--but always with her as the central figure of
those fancied realms; he had been dreaming dreams--of which she had
invariably formed part. And now he had been awakened (somewhat abruptly,
perhaps, but that may have been his own fault); and there was nothing
for it but to summon his common-sense to his aid, and to assure himself
that Honnor Cunyngham, at least, was not to blame.
And yet sometimes, in spite of himself, as he smoked a final cigarette
at midnight in those rooms in Piccadilly, a trace of bitterness would
come into his reveries.
"I have been taught my place, that's all," he would say to himself.
"Maurice was right--I had forgotten my catechism. I wanted to play the
gardener's son, or Mordaunt to Lady Mabel; and I can't write poetry, and
I'm not in the House of Commons. I suppose my head was a little
bewildered by the kindness and condescension of those excellent people.
They are glad to welcome you into their rooms--you are a sort of
curiosity--you sing for them--they're very civil for an hour or two--but
you must remember to leave before the footmen proceed to shut the
hall-door. Well, what's to be done? Am I to rush away to the wars, and
come back a field-marshal? Am I to make myself so obnoxious in
Parliament that the noble earl will give me his daughter in order to
shut my mouth? Oh, no; they simplify matters nowadays; 'as you were' is
the word of command; go back to the theatre; paint your face and put on
your finery; play the fool along with the rest of the comic people, and
we'll come and look at you from the stalls; and if you will marry, why,
then, keep in your own sphere, and marry Kate Burgoyne!"
For now--when he was peevish and discontented and restless, or even sick
at heart, he hardly knew why--there was no Nina to solace and soothe him
with her gentle companionship, her wise counsel, her bright and cheerful
and wayward good-humor. Apparently he had as many friends and
acquaintances as before, and yet he was haunted by a curious sense of
solitude. Of a morning he would go out for a stroll along the familiar
thoroughfares--Bond Street, Conduit Street, Regent Street, where he knew
all the shops at which Nina used to linger for a moment, to glance at a
picture or a bonnet--and these seemed altogether different now. He could
not have imagined he should have missed Nina so much. Instead of dining
in his rooms at five o'clock and thereafter walking down to Sloane
Street to have a cup of tea with Nina and Mlle. Girond before they all
three set out for the theatre, he spent most of his afternoons at the
Garden Club, where there was a good deal of the game of poker being
played by young gentlemen in the up-stairs rooms. And sometimes he
returned thither after the performance, seeking anew the distraction of
card-playing and betting, until he became notorious as the fiercest
plunger in the place. Nobody could "bluff" Lionel Moore; he would "call"
his opponent if he himself had nothing better than a pair of twos; and
many a solid handful of sovereigns he had to pay for that privilege of
gazing.
Day after day went by, and still there was no word of Nina; at times he
was visited by sudden sharp misgivings that terrified him. The heading
of a paragraph in a newspaper would startle his eyes; and then he would
breathe again when he found that this poor wretch who had grown weary of
the world was unknown to him. Every evening, when Mlle. Girond came into
the theatre, she was met by the same anxious, wondering question; and
her reply was invariably the same.
"Don't you think it very strange?" he asked of Estelle. "Nina said she
would write to you or send you a message--I suppose as soon as all her
plans were made. I hope nothing has happened to her," he added, as a
kind of timid expression of his own darker self-questionings.
"Something--something terrible?" said Estelle. "Ah, no. We should hear.
No; Nina will make sure we cannot reach her--that she is not to be seen
by you or me--then perhaps I have a message. Oh, she is very proud; she
will make sure; the pain in her heart, she will hide it and hide
it--until some time goes, and she can hold up her head, with a brave
face. Poor Nina!--she will suffer--for she will not speak, no, not to
any one."
"But look here, Miss Girond," he exclaimed, "if she has gone back to her
friends in Italy, that's all right; but if she is in this country,
without any occupation, her money will soon be exhausted--she can't have
had so very much. What will become of her then? Don't you think I should
put an advertisement in the papers--not in my name, but in yours--your
initials--begging her at least to let you know where she is?"
Estelle shook her head.
"No, it is useless. Perhaps I understand Nina a little better than you,
though you know her longer. She is gentle and affectionate and very
grateful to her friends; but under that there is firmness--oh, yes. She
has firmness of mind, although she is so loving; when she has decided to
go away and remain, you will not draw her back, no, not at all! She will
remain where she wishes to be; perhaps she decides never to see any of
us again. Well, well, it is pitiable, but for us to interfere, that is
useless."
"Oh, I am not so sure of that," he said. "As you say, I have known Nina
longer than you have; if I could only learn where she is, I am quite
sure that I could persuade her to come back."
"Very well--try!" said Estelle, throwing out both hands. "I say
no--that she will not say where she is. And your London papers, how will
they find her? Perhaps she is in a small English village--perhaps in
Paris--perhaps in Naples--perhaps in Malta. For me, no. She said, 'If
you are my friend, you will not seek to discover where I have gone.' I
am her friend; I obey her wish. When she thinks it is right, she will
send me a message. Until then, I wait."
But if Nina had gone away--depriving him of her pleasant
companionship, her quick sympathy, her grave and almost matron-like
remonstrances--there was another quite ready to take her place. Miss
Burgoyne did not at all appear to regret the disappearance from the
theatre of Antonia Rossi. She was kinder to this young man than ever;
she showered her experienced blandishments upon him, even when she
rallied him about his gloomy looks or listless demeanor. All the time he
was not on the stage, and not engaged in dressing, he usually spent in
her sitting-room; there were cigarettes and lemonade awaiting him; and
when she herself could not appear, at all events she could carry on a
sort of conversation with him from the inner sanctuary; and often she
would come out and finish her make-up before the large mirror while she
talked to him.
"They tell me you gamble," she said to him on one occasion, in her blunt
way.
"Not much," he said.
"What good do you get out of it?" she asked again.
"Oh, well, it is a sort of distraction. It keeps people from thinking."
"And what have you to think about?" continued Grace Mainwaring,
regarding herself in the glass. "What dreadful crimes have you to
forget? You want to drown remorse, do you? I dare say you ought; but I
don't believe it all the same. You men don't care what you do, and poor
girls' hearts get broken. But gambling! Well, I imagine most men have
one vice or another, but gambling has always seemed to me the stupidest
thing one could take to. Drink kills you, but I suppose you get some fun
out of it. What fun do you get out of gambling? Too serious, isn't it?
And then the waste of money. The fact is, you want somebody to take care
of you, Master Lionel; and a fine job she'll have of it, whoever
undertakes it!"
"Why should it be a she," he asked, "assuming that I am incapable of
managing my own affairs?"
"Because it is the way of the world," she answered, promptly. "And you,
of all people, need somebody to look after you. Why should you have to
take to gambling, at your time of life? You're not shamming _ennui_, are
you, to imitate your swell acquaintances? _Ennui!_ I could cure their
_ennui_ for them, if they'd only come to _me_!" she added, somewhat
scornfully.
"A cure for _ennui_?" he said. "That would be valuable; what is it?"
"I'd tell them to light a wax match and put it up their nostril and hold
it there till it went out," she answered, with some sharpness.
"It would make them jump, anyway, wouldn't it?" he said, listlessly.
"It would give them something to claim their very earnest attention for
at least a fortnight," Miss Burgoyne observed, with decision; and then
she had to ask him to open the door, for it was time for her to get up
to the wings.
Christmas was now close at hand, and one evening when Harry Thornhill,
attired in his laced coat and ruffles, silken stockings and buckled
shoes, went as usual into Miss Burgoyne's room, he perceived that she
had, somewhere or other, obtained a piece of mistletoe, which she had
placed on the top of the piano. As soon as Grace Mainwaring knew he was
there, she came forth from the dressing-room and went to the big mirror,
kicking out her resplendent train of flounced white satin behind her,
and proceeding to judge of the general effect of her powder and patches
and heavily-pencilled eyebrows.
"Where are you going for Christmas?" she asked.
"Into the country," he answered.
"That's no good," said the brilliant-eyed white little bride, still
contemplating herself in the glass, and giving a finishing touch here
and there. "The country's too horrid at this time of year. We are going
to Brighton, some friends and I, a rather biggish party; and a whole
heap of rooms have been taken at a hotel. That will be fun, I promise
you. A dance in the evening. You'd better come; I can get you an
invitation."
"Thanks, I couldn't very well. I am going to play the good boy, and
pass one night under the parental roof. It isn't often I get the
chance."
"I wish you would tell me where to hang up that piece of mistletoe," she
said, presently.
"I know where I should like to hang it up," he made answer, with a sort
of lazy impertinence.
"Where?"
"Just over your head."
"Why?"
"You would see."
She made a little grimace.
"Oh, no, I shouldn't see anything of the kind," she retorted,
confidently. "I should see nothing of the kind. You haven't acquired the
right, young gentleman. On the stage Harry Thornhill may claim his
privileges--or make believe; but off the stage he must keep his
distance."
That significant phrase about his not having acquired the right was
almost a challenge. And why should he not say, "Well, give me the
right!" What did it matter? It was of little concern what happened to
him. As he lay back in his chair and looked at her, he guessed what she
would do. He imagined the pretty little performance. "Well, give me the
right, then!" Miss Burgoyne turns round from the mirror. "Lionel, what
do you mean?"
"You know what I mean: let us be engaged lovers off the stage as well as
on." She hangs down her head. He goes to her and kisses her--without any
mistletoe; she murmurs some doubt and hesitation, in her maiden shyness;
he laughingly reassures her; it is all over, in half a dozen seconds.
And then? Why, then he has secured for himself a sufficiently
good-natured life-companion; it will be convenient in many ways,
especially when they are engaged at the same theatre; he will marry in
his own sphere, and everybody be satisfied. If he has to give up his
bachelor ways and habits, she will probably look after a little
establishment as well as another; where there is no frantic passion on
either side, there will be no frantic jealousy; and, after all, what is
better than peace and quiet and content?
Was he too indolent, then, to accept this future that seemed to be
offered to him?
"Isn't it rather odd to go to a Brighton hotel for Christmas?" he said,
at random.
"It's the swagger thing to do, don't you know?" said Miss Burgoyne,
whose phraseology sometimes made him wince. "It's the latest fad among
people who have no formal family ties. I can imagine it will be the
jolliest thing possible. Instead of the big family gathering, where half
the relations hate the sight of the other half, you have all nice
people, picked friends and acquaintances; and you go away down to a
place where you can have your choice of rooms, where you have every
freedom and no responsibility, where you can have everything you want
and no trouble in getting it. Instead of foggy London, the sea; and at
night, instead of Sir Roger de Coverley with a lot of hobbledehoys, you
have a charming little dance, on a good floor, with capital partners.
Come, Master Lionel, change your mind; and you and I will go down
together on Christmas morning in the Pullman. Most of the others are
there already; it's only one or two poor professionals who will have to
go down on Christmas-day."
But Lionel shook his head.
"Duty--duty," he murmured.
"Duty!" said she, contemptuously. "Duty is a thing you owe to other
people, which no one ever thinks of paying to you." And therewith this
profound moralist and epigrammatist tucked up her white satin train and
waited for him to open the door, so that she might make her way to the
stage, he humbly following.
On the Christmas morning the display of parcels, packets, and envelopes,
large and small, spread out on the side-table in his sitting-room was
simply portentous; for the fashionable world of London had had no
intimation yet that their favorite singer was ill-disposed towards them,
and had even at times formed sullen resolutions of withdrawing
altogether from their brilliant rooms. As he quite indifferently turned
the packages and letters over, trying to guess at the name of the sender
by the address, he said to himself,
"They toss you those things out of their bounty as they fling a shilling
to a crossing-sweeper because it is Christmas-day."
But here was one that he opened, recognizing the handwriting of his
cousin Francie; and Francie had sent him a very pretty pair of blue
velvet slippers, with his initials worked by herself in thread of gold.
That was all right, for he had got for Miss Francie a little present
that he was about to take down with him--a hand-bag in green lizard-skin
that might be useful to her when she was going on her numerous errands.
It was different with the next packet he opened (also recognizing the
writing), for this was a paper-weight--an oblong slab of crystal set in
silver, with a photograph of the sender showing through, and the
inscription at the foot, "To Lionel Moore, from his sincere friend,
K.B." And he had never thought of getting anything for Miss Burgoyne!
Well, it was too late now; he would have to atone for his neglect of her
when he returned to town. Meanwhile he recollected that just about now
she would be getting down to Victoria station _en route_ to Brighton;
and, indeed, had it not been for the duty he owed the old people, he
would have been well content to be going with her. The last time he had
been in a Pullman car on the way to Brighton it was with other
friends--or acquaintances; he knew his place now, and was resigned. So
he continued opening these parcels and envelopes carelessly and somewhat
ungratefully, merely glancing at the various messages, until it was time
to bethink him of setting forth.
But first of all, when the cab had been summoned and his portmanteau put
on the top, he told the man to drive to a certain number in Sloane
Street; he thought he would call for a minute on Mrs. Grey and Miss
Girond and wish them a pleasant Christmas. Estelle, when she made her
appearance, knew better what had brought him hither.
"Ah, it is so kind of you to send me the pretty work-case--thank you,
thank you very much; and Mrs. Grey is so proud of the beautiful
lamp--she will tell you in a moment when she comes in. And if there is
something we might have liked better--pardon, it is no disfavor to the
pretty presents, not at all--it is what you would like, too, I am
sure--it is a message from Nina. Yes, I expected it a little--I was
awake hour after hour this morning--when the postman came I ran down the
stairs--no! no word of any kind."
He stood silent for a minute.
"I confess I had some kind of fancy she might wish to send you just a
line or a card--any sort of reminder of her existence--on
Christmas-day; for she knows the English custom," he said, rather
absently. "And there is nothing--nothing of any kind, you say. Well, I
have written to Pandiani."
"Ah, the _maestro_?--yes?"
"You see, I knew it was no use writing to her friends," he continued,
"for, if she were with them, she would tell them not to answer. But it
is different with Pandiani. If she has got any musical engagement in
Naples, or if she has gone to Malta, he would know. It seems hard that
at Christmas-time we should be unable to send a message to Nina."
"Perhaps she is sure that we think of her," Estelle said, rather sadly.
"I did not know till she was gone that I loved her so much and would
miss her so much; because sometimes--sometimes she reproved me--and we
had little disagreements--but all the same she was so kind--and always
it was for your opinion I was corrected--it was what you would think if
I did this or that. Ah, well, Nina will take her own time before she
allows us to know. Perhaps she is not very happy."
Nor had Mrs. Grey any more helpful counsel or conjecture to offer; so,
rather downheartedly, he got into the hansom again and set out for
Victoria station, where he was to meet Maurice Mangan.
Maurice he found in charge of a bewildering number of variously sized
packages, which seemed to cause him some anxiety, for there was no sort
of proper cohesion among them.
"Toys for Francie's children, I'll bet," said Lionel.
"Well, how otherwise could I show my gratitude?" Mangan said. "You know
it's awfully good of your people, Linn, to ask a poor, solitary devil
like me to join their Christmas family party. It's almost too much--"
"I should think they were precious glad to get you!" Lionel made answer,
as he and his friend took their seats in one of the carriages.
"And I've got a little present for Miss Francie herself," continued
Mangan, opening his bag, and taking therefrom a small packet. He
carefully undid the tissue-paper wrappers, until he could show his
companion what they contained; it was a copy of "Aurora Leigh,"
bound in white vellum, and on the cover were stamped two tiny
violets,-green-stemmed and purple-blossomed.
"'Aurora Leigh,'" said Lionel--not daring, however, to take the dainty
volume in his hands. "That will just suit Miss Savonarola. And what are
the two violets, Maurice--what do they mean?"
"Oh, that was merely a little device of my own," Mangan said, evasively.
"You don't mean to say that these are your handiwork?" Lionel asked,
looking a little closer.
"Ob, no. I merely drew them, and the binder had them stamped in color
for me."
"And what did that cost?"
"I don't know yet."
"And don't care--so long as it's for Francie. And yet you are always
lecturing me on my extravagance!"
"Oh, well, it's Christmas-time," Mangan said; "and I confess I like
Christmas and all its ways. I do. I seem to feel the general excitement
throughout the country tingling in me too; I like to see the children
eagerly delighted, and the houses decorated with evergreens, and the old
folk pleased and happy with the enthusiasm of the youngsters. If I've
got to drink an extra glass of port, I'm there; if it's Sir Roger de
Coverley, I'm there; I'll do anything to add to the general
_Schwärmerei_. What the modern _littérateur_ thinks it fine to write
about Christmas being all sham sentiment is simply insufferable bosh.
Christmas isn't in the least bit played out--though the magazinist may
be, or may pretend to be. I think it's a grand thing to have a season
for sending good wishes, for recollection of absent friends, for letting
the young folk kick up their heels. I say, Linn, I hope there's going to
be some sunlight down there. I am longing to see a holly-tree in the
open air--the green leaves and scarlet berries glittering in the
sunlight. Oh, I can tell you an autumn session of Parliament is a
sickening thing--when the interminable speeches and wranglings drag on
and on until you think they're going to tumble over into Christmas-day
itself. There's fog in your brain as well as in your throat, and you
seem to forget there ever was an outer world; you get listless and
resigned, and think you've lived all your life in darkness. Well, just a
glimmer of sunshine, that's all I bargain for--just a faint glimmer--and
a sight of the two holly-trees by the gate of the doctor's house."
What intoxication had got into the head of this man? Whither had fled
his accustomed indifference and indolence, his sardonic self-criticism?
He was like a school-boy off for the holidays. He kept looking out of
the window--with persistent hope of the gray sky clearing. He was
impatient of the delay at the various stations. And when at length they
got out and found the doctor's trap awaiting them, and proceeded to get
up the long and gradual incline that leads to Winstead village, he
observed that the fat old pony, if he were lent for a fortnight to a
butcher, would find it necessary to improve his pace.
When they reached the doctor's house and entered, they found that only
the old lady was at home; the doctor had gone to visit a patient; Miss
Francie was, as usual, away among her young convalescents.
"It has been a busy time for Francie," Mrs. Moore said. "She has been
making so many different things for them. And I don't like to hear her
sewing-machine going so late at night."
"Then why do you let her do it?" Lionel said, in his impetuous way. "Why
don't you get in somebody to help her? Look here, I'll pay for that. You
call in a seamstress to do all that sewing, and I'll give her a
sovereign a week. Why should Francie have her eyes ruined?"
"Lionel is like the British government, Mrs. Moore," Mangan said, with a
smile. "He thinks he can get over every difficulty by pulling out his
purse. But perhaps Miss Francie might prefer carrying out her charitable
work herself."
So Maurice Mangan was arrogating to himself, was he, the right of
guessing Francie's preferences?
"Well, mother, tell me where I am likely to find her. I am going to pull
her out of those fever-dens and refuges for cripples. Why, she ought to
know that's all exploded now. Slumming, as a fad, had its day, but it's
quite gone out now--"
"Do you think it is because it is fashionable, or was fashionable, that
Miss Francie takes an interest in those poor children?" Maurice asked,
gently.
Lionel was nearly telling him to mind his own business; why should he
step in to defend Cousin Francie?
"She said she was going across the common to old Widow Jackson's," his
mother answered him, "and you may find her either there or on the way to
the village."
"Widow Jackson's?" he repeated, in doubt.
"Oh, I know it," Mangan said, cheerfully. And again Lionel was somewhat
astonished. How had Maurice Mangan acquired this particular knowledge of
Francie's surroundings? Perhaps his attendance at the House of Commons
had not been so unintermittent as he had intimated?
There were still further surprises in store for Master Lionel. When at
length they encountered Miss Francie--how pretty she looked as she came
along the pathway through the gorse, in her simple costume of dark gray,
with a brown velvet hat and brown tan gloves!--it was in vain that he
tried to dissuade her from giving up the rest of the afternoon to her
small _protégés_. In the most natural way in the world she turned to
Maurice Mangan--and her eyes sought his in a curiously straightforward,
confiding fashion that caused Lionel to wonder.
"On Christmas-day, of all the days of the year!" she said, as if
appealing to Maurice. "Surely, surely, I must give up Christmas-day to
them! Oh, do you know, Mr. Mangan, there never was a happier present
than you thought of for the little blind boy who got his leg broken--you
remember? He learned almost directly how to do the puzzle; and he gets
the ring off so quickly that no one can see how it is done; and he
laughs with delight when he finds that any neighbor coming in can only
growl and grumble--and fail. I'm going there just now; won't you come?
And mind you be very angry when you can't get the ring off; you may use
any language you like about your clumsiness--poor little chap, he has
heard plenty of that in his time."
Maurice needed no second invitation; this was what he had come for; he
had found the sunlight to lighten up the Christmas-day withal; his face,
that was almost beautiful in its fine intellectuality, showed that
whenever she spoke to him. Lionel, of course, went with them.
And again it was Maurice Mangan whom Miss Francie addressed, as they
walked along to the village.
"Do you know, in all this blessed place, I can't find a copy of Mrs.
Hemans's poems; and I wanted you to read 'The Arab to his Horse'--is
that the title?--at my school-treat to-morrow. They would all understand
that. Well, we must get something else; for we're to make a show of
being educational and instructive before the romping begins. I think
the 'Highland Schottische' is the best of any for children who haven't
learned dancing; they can all jump about somehow--and the music is
inspiriting. The vicar's daughters are coming to hammer at the piano.
Oh, Mr. Mangan," she continued, still appealing to him, "do you think
you could tell them a thrilling folk-story?--wouldn't that be better?"
"Don't you want me to do something, Francie?" said Lionel, perhaps a
little hurt.
"Do you mean--"
"The only thing I'm fit for--I'll sing them a song, if you like. 'My
Pretty Jane'--no, that would hardly do--'The Death of Nelson' or 'Rule
Britannia'--"
"Wouldn't there be rather a risk, Lionel? If you were to miss your
train--and disappoint a great audience in London?" she said, gently.
"Oh, I'll take my chance of that? I'm used to it," he said, "I'll have
Dick and the pony waiting outside. Oh, yes, I'll sing something for
them."
"It will be very kind of you," she said.
And again, as they went to this or that cottage, to see that the small
convalescent folk were afforded every possible means of holding high
holiday (how fortunate they were as compared with thousands of similar
unfortunates, shivering away the hopeless hours in dingy courts and
alleys, gin clutching at every penny, that might have got food for their
empty stomachs or rags for their poor shrunken limbs!), it was to
Maurice Mangan that Francie chiefly talked, and, indeed, he seemed to
know all about those patient little sufferers, and the time they had
been down here, and when they might have to be sent back to London to
make way for their successors. There was also a question as to which of
their toys they might be permitted to carry off with them.
"Oh, I wouldn't deprive them of one," Mangan said, distinctly. "I've
brought down a heap more this morning."
"Again--again?" she said, almost reproachfully; but the gentle gray eyes
looked pleased, notwithstanding.
Well, that Christmas evening was spent in the doctor's house with much
quiet enjoyment; for the old people were proud to have their only son
with them for so long a time; and Francie seemed glad to have the
various labors of the day over; and Maurice Mangan, with quite unwonted
zest, kept the talk flowing free. Next morning was chiefly devoted to
preparations for the big entertainment to be given in the school-room;
and in due course Lionel redeemed his promise by singing no fewer than
four songs--at the shyly proffered request of the vicar's pretty
daughters; thereafter, leaving Maurice to conduct the gay proceedings to
a close, he got out and jumped into the trap and was driven off to the
station. He arrived at the New Theatre in plenty of time; the odor of
consumed gas was almost a shock to him, well as he was used to it, after
the clear air of Winstead.
And did he grudge or envy the obvious interest and confidence that
appeared to have sprung up between his cousin and his friend? Not one
bit. Maurice had always had a higher appreciation of Francie and her
aims and ideals than he himself had, much as he liked her; and it was
but natural she should turn to the quarter from which she could derive
most sympathy and practical help. And if Maurice's long-proclaimed
admiration for Miss Savonarola should lead to a still closer bond
between those two--what then?
It was not jealousy that had hold of Lionel Moore's heart just at this
time; it was rather a curious unrest that seemed to increase as day by
day went by without bringing any word of Nina. Had she vouchsafed the
smallest message, to say she was safe and well, to give him some notion
of her whereabouts, it might have been different; but he knew not which
way to turn, north, south, east, or west; at this season of kindly
remembrance he could summon up no sort of picture of Nina and her
surroundings. If only he had known, he kept repeating to himself. He had
been so wrapped up in his idle dreams and visions that, all unwittingly,
he had spurned and crushed this true heart beating close to his side.
And as for making amends, what amends could now be made; He only wanted
to know that Nina was alive--and could forgive.
As he sat by himself in the still watches of the night, plunged in
silent reverie, strange fancies began to fill his brain. He recalled
stories in which he had read of persons separated by great distances
communicating with each other by some species of spiritual telegraphy;
and a conviction took possession of him that now, if ever--now as the
old year was about to go out and the new year come in--he could call to
Nina across the unknown void that lay between them, and that she would
hear and perchance respond. Surely, on New-Year's Eve, Nina would be
thinking of her friends in London; and, if their earnest and anxious
thoughts could but meet her half-way, might there not be some sudden
understanding, some recognition, some glad assurance that all was well?
This wild fancy so grew upon him that when the last day of the year
arrived it had become a fixed belief; and yet it was with a haunting
sense of dread--a dread of he knew not what--that he looked forward to
the stroke of twelve.
He got through his performance that night as if he were in a dream, and
hurried home; it was not far from midnight when he arrived. He only
glanced at the outside of the letters awaiting him; there was no one
from her; not in that way was Nina to communicate with him, if her hopes
for the future, her forgiveness for what lay in the past, were to reach
him at all. He drew a chair to the table and sat down, leaving the
letters unheeded.
The slow minutes passed; his thoughts went wandering over the world,
seeking for what they could not find. And how was he to call to Nina
across the black gulf of the night, wheresoever she might be? Suddenly
there leaped into his recollection an old German ballad he used to sing.
It was that of the three comrades who were wont to drink together, until
one died, and another died, and nevertheless the solitary survivor kept
the accustomed tryst, and still, sitting there alone, he had the three
glasses filled, and still he sang aloud, "_Aus voller Brust._" There
came an evening; as he filled the cups, a tear fell into his own; yet
bravely he called to his ghostly companions, "I drink to you, my
brothers--but why are you so mute and still?" And behold! the glasses
clinked together; and the wine was slowly drunk out of all the three,
"_Fiducit! du wackerer Zecher!_"--it was the loyal comrade's last
draught. And now Lionel, hardly knowing what he was doing--for there
were such wild desires and longings in his brain--went to a small
cabinet hard by and brought forth the loving-cup he had given to Nina.
They two were the last who had drunk out of it. And if now, if once
again, on this last night of all the nights of the year, he were to
repeat his challenge, would she not know? He cared not in what form she
might appear--Nina could not be other than gentle--silent she might be,
but surely her eyes would shine with kindness and forgiveness. He was
not aware of it, but his fingers were trembling as he took the cup in
twain, and put the two tiny goblets on the table and filled them with
wine. Nay, in a sort of half-dazed fashion he went and opened the door
and left it wide--might there not be some shadowy footfall on the empty
stair! He returned to the table and sat down; it was almost twelve; he
was shivering a little--the night was cold.
All around him the silence appeared to grow more profound; there was
only the ticking of a clock. As minute after minute passed, the suspense
became almost unendurable; something seemed to be choking him; and yet
his eyes would furtively and nervously wander from the small goblets
before him to the open door, as if he expected some vision to present
itself there, from whatsoever distant shore it might come.
The clock behind him struck a silver note, and instantly this vain
fantasy vanished; what was the use of regarding the two wine-filled cups
when he knew that Nina was far and far away? He sprang to his feet and
went to the window, and gazed out into the black and formless chaos
beyond.
"Nina!" he called, "Nina!--Nina!" as if he would pierce the hollow
distance with this passionate cry.
Alas! how could Nina answer? At this moment, over all the length and
breadth of England, innumerable belfries had suddenly awakened from
their sleep, and ten thousand bells were clanging their iron tongues,
welcoming in the new-found year. Down in the valleys, where white mists
lay along the slumbering rivers; far up on lonely moorlands, under the
clear stars; out on the sea-coasts, where the small red points of the
windows were face-to-face with the slow-moaning, inarticulate main;
everywhere, over all the land, arose this clamor of joy-bells; and how
could Nina respond to his appeal? If she had heard, if she had tried to
answer, her piteous cry was swallowed up and lost; heart could not speak
to heart, whatever message they might wish to send, through this
universal, far-pulsating jangle and tumult.
But perhaps she had not heard at all? Perhaps there was something more
impassable between her and him than even the wide, dark seas and the
night?
He turned away from the window. He went back to the chair; he threw his
arms on the table before him--and hid his face.