Courtier sat in Hyde Park waiting for five o'clock. The day had
recovered somewhat from a grey morning, as though the glow of that long
hot summer were too burnt-in on the air to yield to the first assault.
The sun, piercing the crisped clouds, those breast feathers of heavenly
doves, darted its beams at the mellowed leaves, and showered to the
ground their delicate shadow stains. The first, too early, scent from
leaves about to fall, penetrated to the heart. And sorrowful sweet birds
were tuning their little autumn pipes, blowing into them fragments of
Spring odes to Liberty.
Courtier thought of Miltoun and his mistress. By what a strange fate had
those two been thrown together; to what end was their love coming? The
seeds of grief were already sown, what flowers of darkness, or of tumult
would come up? He saw her again as a little, grave, considering child,
with her soft eyes, set wide apart under the dark arched brows, and the
little tuck at the corner of her mouth that used to come when he teased
her. And to that gentle creature who would sooner die than force anyone
to anything, had been given this queer lover; this aristocrat by birth
and nature, with the dried fervent soul, whose every fibre had been bred
and trained in and to the service of Authority; this rejecter of the
Unity of Life; this worshipper of an old God! A God that stood, whip
in hand, driving men to obedience. A God that even now Courtier could
conjure up staring at him from the walls of his nursery. The God his
own father had believed in. A God of the Old Testament, knowing neither
sympathy nor understanding. Strange that He should be alive still; that
there should still be thousands who worshipped Him. Yet, not so very
strange, if, as they said, man made God in his own image! Here indeed
was a curious mating of what the philosophers would call the will to
Love, and the will to Power!
A soldier and his girl came and sat down on a bench close by. They
looked askance at this trim and upright figure with the fighting face;
then, some subtle thing informing them that he was not of the disturbing
breed called officer, they ceased to regard him, abandoning themselves
to dumb and inexpressive felicity. Arm in arm, touching each other, they
seemed to Courtier very jolly, having that look of living entirely in
the moment, which always especially appealed to one whose blood ran too
fast to allow him to speculate much upon the future or brood much over
the past.
A leaf from the bough above him, loosened by the sun's kisses, dropped,
and fell yellow at his feet. The leaves were turning very soon?
It was characteristic of this man, who could be so hot over the lost
causes of others, that, sitting there within half an hour of the final
loss of his own cause, he could be so calm, so almost apathetic.
This apathy was partly due to the hopelessness, which Nature had long
perceived, of trying to make him feel oppressed, but also to the habits
of a man incurably accustomed to carrying his fortunes in his hand, and
that hand open. It did not seem real to him that he was actually going
to suffer a defeat, to have to confess that he had hankered after this
girl all these past weeks, and that to-morrow all would be wasted, and
she as dead to him as if he had never seen her. No, it was not exactly
resignation, it was rather sheer lack of commercial instinct. If only
this had been the lost cause of another person. How gallantly he would
have rushed to the assault, and taken her by storm! If only he himself
could have been that other person, how easily, how passionately could
he not have pleaded, letting forth from him all those words which had
knocked at his teeth ever since he knew her, and which would have seemed
so ridiculous and so unworthy, spoken on his own behalf. Yes, for that
other person he could have cut her out from under the guns of the
enemy; he could have taken her, that fairest prize. And in queer,
cheery-looking apathy—not far removed perhaps from despair—he sat,
watching the leaves turn over and fall, and now and then cutting with
his stick at the air, where autumn was already riding. And, if in
imagination he saw himself carrying her away into the wilderness, and
with his devotion making her happiness to grow, it was so far a flight,
that a smile crept about his lips, and once or twice he snapped his
jaws.
The soldier and his girl rose, passing in front of him down the Row. He
watched their scarlet and blue figures, moving slowly towards the sun,
and another couple close to the rails, crossing those receding forms.
Very straight and tall, there was something exhilarating in the way this
new couple swung along, holding their heads up, turning towards each
other, to exchange words or smiles. Even at that distance they could be
seen to be of high fashion; in their gait was the almost insolent poise
of those who are above doubts and cares, certain of the world and of
themselves. The girl's dress was tawny brown, her hair and hat too
of the same hue, and the pursuing sunlight endowed her with a hazy
splendour. Then, Courtier saw who they were—that couple!
Except for an unconscious grinding of his teeth, he made no sound or
movement, so that they went by without seeing him. Her voice, though
not the words, came to him distinctly. He saw her hand slip up under
Harbinger's arm and swiftly down again. A smile, of whose existence he
was unaware, settled on his lips. He got up, shook himself, as a dog
shakes off a beating, and walked away, with his mouth set very firm.