WHAT ALICE COULD SAY.
The letter which Mr. Longcluse held before his eyes was destined to
throw a strong light upon the character of Alice Arden's feelings
respecting himself. After a few lines, it went on to say:--"And,
darling, about going to you this evening, I hardly know what to say, or,
I mean, I hardly know how to say it. Mr. Longcluse, you know, may come
in at any moment, and I have quite made up my mind that I cannot know
him. I told you all about the incredible scene in the garden at
Mortlake, and I showed you the very cool letter with which he saw fit to
follow it--and yesterday the scene at the races, by which he contrived
to make everything so uncomfortable--so, my dear creature, I mean to be
cruel, and cut him. I am quite serious. He has not an idea how to behave
himself; and the only way to repair the folly of having made the
acquaintance of such an ill-bred person is, as I said, to cut him--you
must not be angry--and Richard thinks exactly as I do. So, as I long to
see you, and, in fact, can't live away from you very long, we must
contrive some way of meeting now and then, without the risk of being
disturbed by him. In the meantime, you must come more to Mortlake. It is
too bad that an impertinent, conceited man should have caused me all
this very real vexation."
There was but little more, and it did not refer to the only subject that
interested Longcluse just then. He would have liked to read it through
once more, but he thought he heard a step. He let it fall where he had
found it, and walked to the window. Perhaps, if he had read it again, it
would have lost some of the force which a first impression gives to
sentences so terrible; as it was, they glared upon his retina, through
the same exaggerating medium through which his excited imagination and
feelings had scanned them at first.
Lady May entered, and Mr. Longcluse paid his respects, just as usual.
You would not have supposed that anything had occurred to ruffle him.
Lady May was just as affable as usual, but very much graver. She seemed
to have something on her mind, and not to know how to begin.
At length, after some little conversation, which flagged once or twice--
"I have been thinking, Mr. Longcluse, I must have appeared very stupid,"
says Lady May. "I did not ask you to be one of our party to the Derby:
and I think it is always best to be quite frank, and I know you like it
best. I'm afraid there has been some little misunderstanding. I hope in
a short time it will be all got over, and everything quite pleasant
again. But some of our friends--you, no doubt, know more about it than I
do, for I must confess, I don't very well understand it--are vexed at
something that has occurred, and----"
Poor Lady May was obviously struggling with the difficulties of her
explanation, and Mr. Longcluse relieved her.
"Pray, dear Lady May, not a word more; you have always been so kind to
me. Miss Arden and her brother choose to visit me with displeasure. I
have nothing to reproach myself with, except with having misapprehended
the terms on which Miss Arden is pleased to place me. She may however,
be very sure that I sha'n't disturb her happy evenings here, or anywhere
assume my former friendly privileges."
"But Mr. Longcluse, I'm not to lose your acquaintance," said kindly Lady
May, who was disposed to take an indulgent and even a romantic view of
Mr. Longcluse's extravagances. "Perhaps it may be better to avoid a risk
of meeting, under present circumstances; and, therefore, when I'm quite
sure that no such awkwardness can occur, I can easily send you a line,
and you will come if you can. You will do just as it happens to answer
you best at the time."
"It is extremely kind of you, Lady May. My evenings here have been so
very happy that the idea of losing them altogether would make me more
melancholy than I can tell."
"Oh, no, I could not consent to lose you, Mr. Longcluse, and I'm sure
this little quarrel can't last very long. Where people are amiable and
friendly, there may be a misunderstanding, but there can't be a real
quarrel, I maintain."
With this little speech the interview closed, and the gentleman took a
very friendly leave.
Mr. Longcluse was in trouble. Blows had fallen rapidly upon him of late.
But, as light is polarised by encountering certain incidents of
reflection and refraction, grief entering his mind changed its
character.
The only articles of expense in which Mr. Longcluse indulged--and even
in those his indulgence was very moderate--were horses. He was something
of a judge of horses, and had that tendency to form friendships and
intimacies with them which is proper to some minds. One of these he
mounted, and rode away into the country, unattended. He took a long
ride, at first at a tolerably hard pace. He chose the loneliest roads he
could find. His exercise brought him no appetite; the interesting hour
of dinner passed unimproved. The horse was tired now. Longcluse was
slowly returning, and looking listlessly to his right, he thus
soliloquised:--
"Alone again. Not a soul in human shape to disclose my wounds to, not a
soul. This is the way men go mad. He knows too well the torture he
consigns me to. How often has my hand helped him out of the penalties of
the dice-box and betting-book! How wildly have I committed myself to
him!--how madly have I trusted him! How plausibly has he promised. The
confounded miscreant! Has he good-nature, gratitude, justice, honour?
Not a particle. He has betrayed me, slandered me fatally, where only on
earth I dreaded slander, and he knew it; and he has ruined the only good
hope I had on earth. He has launched it: sharp and heavy is the curse.
Wait: it shall find him out. And _she_! I did not think Alice Arden
could have written that letter. My eyes are opened. Well, she has
refused to hear my good angel; the other may speak differently."
He was riding along a narrow old road, with palings, and quaint old
hedgerows, and now and then an old-fashioned brick house, staid and
comfortable, with a cluster of lofty timber embowering it, and chimney
smoke curling cosily over the foliage; and as he rode along, sometimes a
window, with very thick white sashes, and a multitude of very small
panes, sometimes the summit of a gable appeared. The lowing of unseen
cows was heard over the fields, and the whistle of the birds in the
hedges; and behind spread the cloudy sky of sunset, showing a peaceful
old-world scene, in which Izaak Walton's milkmaid might have set down
her pail, and sung her pretty song.
Not another footfall was heard but the clink of his own horse's hoofs
along the narrow road; and, as he looked westward, the flush of the sky
threw an odd sort of fire-light over his death-pale features.
"Time will unroll his book," said Longcluse, dreamily, as he rode
onward, with a loose bridle on his horse's neck, "and my fingers will
trace a name or two on the pages that are passing. That sunset, that
sky--how grand, and glorious, and serene--the same always. Charlemagne
saw it, and the Cæsars saw it, and the Pharaohs saw it, and we see it
to-day. Is it worth while troubling ourselves here? How grand and quiet
nature is, and how beautifully imperturbable! Why not we, who last so
short a time--why not drift on with it, and take the blows that come,
and suffer and enjoy the facts of life, and leave its dreadful dreams
untried? Of all the follies we engage in, what more hollow than
revenge--vainer than wealth?"
Mr. Longcluse was preaching to himself, with the usual success of
preachers. He knew himself what his harangue was driving at, although it
borrowed the vagueness of the sky he was looking on. He fancied that he
was discussing something with himself, which, nevertheless, was
settled--so fixed, indeed, that nothing had power to alter it.