The Far Horizon

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"I can easily go," Iglesias remarked gravely.

"No, no, no," she replied, "why should you hurry? I'm sure those two
freaks you're herding--the beetle turned hind-side before and the
withered leaf--can't be frantically interesting. And I like to look at
you. I never saw you before in evening dress, and you're more _grand
seigneur_ than ever. But something's happened to you. I can't tell
off-hand what it is, whether you've come on or gone back. But you're
altered."

"I have had an illness," Iglesias said simply; "and I have been very
unhappy."

"Neither of those are good enough," Poppy answered. "The alteration is
right inside you, in your soul. But you're well again now?" she added.

"Yes, I am well again now."

"And you're no longer unhappy?"

"No," he said. "I am sad, for life is sad; but I am no longer
unhappy."

"That's a nice distinction," Poppy put in, with a rather scornful
inflection. "What's cured your unhappiness? Not an affair of the
heart? Please don't tell me it's anything to do with a woman, for I
warn you I'm awfully off the affections to-night."

"You can make yourself quite easy on that point," Dominic said with a
lift of the head, his native pride asserting itself.

"Ah! that's more like old times!" Poppy's voice softened again, so did
the expression of her face. "Suppose you sit down, dear lunatic. This
wait is a long one, I know. Dot Parris told me it was. Let the freaks
play about together for a little. It will do them good. And I find I
wanted you rather more than I knew at first. I'm beginning to have
something to say after all. Words, only words, perhaps; still it's a
_soulagement_ to sit here with you like this." The corners of
Poppy's mouth drooped and quivered. "I'm having an infernally bad
time; and there's worse ahead."

"I am sorry. I am grieved," Iglesias said. For the charm had begun to
work again, and friendship, as he began to know, although broken-
winged, was very far from dead.

"We won't talk about that," she put in, "or I might make a fool of
myself. Dear man, I think I'd better go home. I'm awfully tired.
Still, I'm better for seeing you." She stood up. "Just help me on with
my coat. Thanks--that's right. Oh! I say, there are the freaks on the
prowl, looking for you!" Poppy's tragic eyes turned naughty,
malicious, gay even for a moment. "What sport!" she said--"unhappy
freaks! The withered leaf has intentions. I see that. She'd like to
eat me without salt. Don't marry her--promise me you won't. Ah!
heavenly, heavenly," she cried. "I need no promises, bless you. Your
face is quite enough. Wretched withered leaf! But look here," she went
on, as she gathered the soft warm garment about her, "I'm tired of
your incognito. Give me your card. I may want you again. So let me
have your name and address."

And Iglesias giving it to her as she requested, she studied it for a
minute silently. Then she turned away.

"I want nothing more. Don't come down with me. One of the boys will
get me a hansom. I'd rather be alone; so just go back to your
flabbergasted freaks, beloved and no-longer-nameless one," she said.

CHAPTER XXI

Thin sunshine slanted in through the lace curtains of the dining-room
window. Encouraged thereby, the parrot preened its feathers, making
little snapping and clicking noises meanwhile with its tongue and
beak. The grass of the Green, seen between the black stems of the
encircling trees, glittered with hoarfrost, while the houses on the
opposite side of it looked flat and featureless owing to the
interposing veil of bluish mist. Tradesmen's carts clattered by at a
sharp trot, the defined sound of them breaking up the all-pervading
murmur of London, and dying out into it again as they passed. At the
street corner, some twenty yards away, a German band discoursed
doubtfully sweet music, the trombone making earnest efforts to keep
the rest of the instruments up to their work by the emission of loud
and reproachful tootings. It was a pleasant and cheery morning as
December mornings go, yet constraint reigned at the Lovegrove
breakfast-table.

The day of Serena's oft-discussed departure had dawned. A few hours
hence she would remove herself and her boxes to her cousin Lady
Samuelson's residence in Ladbroke Square. This should have proved a
source of regret to her host and hostess; and they were conscience-
stricken, confessing to themselves--though not to one another, since
each accredited the other with more laudable sentiments than his or
her own--that relief rather than regret did actually possess them. A
secret from one another, and that a slightly discreditable one, was so
foreign to the experience of the excellent couple that it lay heavy
upon their hearts. Each, moreover, was aware of shame in the presence
of Serena, as in that of a person upon whom they had inflicted an
injury. Hence constraint, which the sunshine was powerless to
dissipate.

"May I pass you the eggs, or bacon, or both, Serena?" George Lovegrove
inquired, his childlike blue eyes meanwhile humbly imploring pardon
for his lack of sorrow at her impending departure. Serena's manner was
stiff and abstracted. This, combined with the rustling of her
petticoats, filled him with anxiety. Was it possible that she knew?

"Thank you, George, only an egg. Not that one, please, it is much too
large. I prefer the smallest. I am not feeling hungry."

"I should never call you much of a breakfast-eater, Serena," Mrs.
Lovegrove observed in her comfortable purring voice, from behind the
tea urn. She was desirous to pacify her guest. "Now I am rather hearty
myself in the morning, always have been so. I do not know whether it
is a good thing or not, as a habit. Still, I think to-day you should
force yourself a little. You should always make provision against a
journey. And then no doubt you are rather fatigued with packing and
getting home so late from the theatre. I am pleased to think you had
an outing your last night here, Serena. Georgie tells me the play was
very comical."

"I dare say it was," Serena replied. "Of course George would be a much
better judge of that than I am. Mamma was always very particular what
we heard and saw when we were children, and I know I am inclined to
think things vulgar which other people only find amusing."

"I did not remark any vulgarity, and do not think Mr. Iglesias would
countenance anything of that kind in the presence of a lady. He would
ascertain beforehand the nature of the piece to which he invited any
lady"--this from George Lovegrove tentatively.

"Oh! of course I don't say there was anything vulgar. I should not
like to commit myself to an opinion. I really have been to the theatre
very seldom. Mamma never encouraged our going. And then, of course,
old Dr. Colthurst, the rector of St. Jude's at Slowby, whose church we
always attended, disapproved of the theatre. He had great influence
with mamma. And he thought it wicked."

"Indeed," Mrs. Lovegrove commented. "I should be sorry to think that,
as so many go. But he may have come across the evils of it personally.
He had a son, an artist, who was very wild, I believe. And I remember
to have heard our dear vicar speak of Dr. Colthurst as stern, but a
true Protestant and a very grand preacher."

"I dare say he was--I don't mean that his son was wild--I know nothing
about that, of course, but that Dr. Colthurst was a great preacher."

Serena spoke abstractedly, inspecting the yolk of her poached egg
meanwhile as though on the watch for unpleasant foreign bodies.

"But," she continued, "I cannot, of course, be expected to remember
his sermons, though I may have been taken to hear him. I suppose I
certainly was taken, but I was quite too much of a child to remember.
Susan remembers them, but then Susan was so very much older."

She ceased to contemplate her egg, and looked up at her hostess.

"Susan must be very nearly your age, Rhoda; or she may be a year or
eighteen months younger. Yes, judging by the difference between her
age and mine, she must be quite eighteen months younger. Of course,
now, Susan thinks going to the play wicked. I often wonder whether
that is not partly because she dislikes sitting still and listening
when other people are doing something. Susan likes to take part in
everything herself. I often wonder what she would do in church if it
was not for the responses and the singing. I am sure she would never
sit out a service where the congregation did not join in. Susan cannot
bear a choral service. She calls it un-English and Romanising. I do
not dislike it--I mean I do not dislike a choral service. But then I
do not consider the theatre wicked. I am not prejudiced against it, as
Susan is. Still, I cannot deny that I think you do hear very odd
things and see very over-dressed people at the theatre."

Serena looked severely at her host, thereby heightening the anxiety
which possessed him. For once again, as so often during the past eight
or ten hours, a picture presented itself perplexing and fascinating to
his mental vision--namely, that of his dear and honoured friend, the
grave and stately Dominic Iglesias, helping an unknown lady, of
remarkably attractive personal appearance, on with a wonderful black
velvet garment--doing so in the calmest way in the world, too, as
though it were an event of chronic occurrence--while the frills and
furbelows of her voluminous skirts flowed in rosy billows about his
feet. What did the picture portend, George Lovegrove asked himself,
and still more, what did Serena suppose it portended?

"Do you, indeed?" Mrs. Lovegrove put in, in amiable response to her
guest's last remark. She was sensible of being hurt by the allusion to
her age. But then Serena was going, and she knew that fact did not
distress her as deeply as it might have done. She therefore rose
superior to wounded feelings. "It's many years since I've been much of
a playgoer," she continued, "and people tell me it's all a good deal
changed, and not for the better. I suppose the dressing nowadays is
sadly extravagant. I am sure I don't know, and I should always be
timid of condemning anybody or their amusements. But there, as I
always do say, if you want to keep a happy mind there is so much it is
well to be ignorant of."

"I wonder if it is--I mean I wonder if it is well to be ignorant of
things," Serena said reflectively. "Of course, if people think you are
willing to be ignorant, it encourages them in deceiving you. I think
it is very wrong to be deceitful. Sooner or later it is sure to come
out, and then it is very difficult to forgive people. Indeed, I am not
sure it is right to forgive them."

With difficulty George Lovegrove restrained a groan. His food was as
ashes in his mouth; his tea as waters of bitterness.

"Oh! I should be sorry to go as far as that, Serena," Mrs. Lovegrove
remonstrated. "If you give way to unforgiving feelings you can never
tell quite where they may carry you. But as I was going to say, though
I am not much of a playgoer, I was very pleased to have Mr. Iglesias
invite me. Only, as I explained to him, I am very liable to find the
seats too narrow for comfort in places of amusement, and the
atmosphere is often so very close, too. He was most polite and
sympathising; but then that's Mr. Iglesias all over. He always is the
perfect gentleman."

Serena paused, her fork arrested in mid-transit to her mouth.

"I am not sure that I agree with you, Rhoda," she said. "I am not sure
whether I think Mr. Iglesias is really polite, or whether he only
appears to be so because it suits his purpose. Of course you and
George know him far better than I do. Perhaps you understand--I cannot
pretend that I understand him. I may be wrong, but I often wonder
whether there is not a good deal which is rather insincere about Mr.
Iglesias."

After throwing which bomb, Serena gave her whole attention to her
breakfast. Usually George Lovegrove would have waxed valiant in
defence of his friend, but a guilty conscience held him tongue-tied.
Not so Rhoda; strive as she might, those allusions to her age still
rankled. And, under cover of protest against injustice to the absent,
she paid off a little of her private score, to her warm satisfaction.

"Well, I am sure," she cried, "I never could have credited that
anybody could question Mr. Iglesias's genuineness! I would sooner
doubt Georgie, that I would, and fear him deceitful."

Again the good man came near groaning. It was as though the wife
planted a poignard in his heart.

"And after you playing the piano to him so frequently the few days Mr.
Iglesias stopped here, and seeming so comfortable together and
friendly, and his inviting us all to the theatre! Really, I must say I
do think you sadly changeable, Serena, that I do."

"No, I am not changeable, Rhoda," the other lady declared, both voice
and colour rising slightly. "Nobody ever accused me of being
changeable before, and I do not like it. I do not think you are at all
justified in making such an accusation. But I am observant. I always
have been so. Even Susan allows that I am very observant. I cannot
help being so, and I do not wish to help it. I think it is much safer.
It helps you to find out who you can really trust. And, of course, I
observed a great deal that happened last night. I felt from the first
that I owed it to myself to be particularly on my guard, because
certain insinuations had been made--you know, Rhoda, you have made
them more than once yourself--and some people might have thought that
things had gone rather far when Mr. Iglesias was stopping here. I
believe Mrs. Porcher and that dreadful Miss Hart did think it. I do
not say that things did go far; I only say that people might naturally
think that they had. On several occasions Mr. Iglesias' conduct did
seem very marked. And, of course, nothing could be more odious to me
than to be placed in a false position. One cannot be too careful,
especially with foreigners. Mamma always warned us against foreigners
when we first came out. I never had any experience of foreigners until
I met Mr. Iglesias, here at your house. But, I am sorry to say, I
believe now mamma was perfectly right."

As she ended her harangue, Serena with a petulant movement of her thin
hands pushed her plate away from the table edge, leaving a vacant
space before her. This was as a declaration of war. She scorned
further subterfuge. She announced a demonstration. A bright spot of
colour burned on either cheek, her small head, on its long stalk of
neck, was carried very erect. It was one of those pathetic moments
when--the merciless revelations of the morning sunshine
notwithstanding--this slim, faded, middle-aged spinster appeared to
recapture, and that very effectively, the charm and promise of her
vanished youth. Excited by foolish anger, animated by a sense of
insult wholly misplaced and imaginary, she became a very passably
pretty person, the immature but hopeful Serena of eighteen looking
forth from the eyes of the narrow-souled disappointed Serena of eight-
and-forty.

"Of course, George may have some explanation of what happened last
night," she went on, speaking rapidly. "If he has, I think it would be
only fair that he should offer it to me. I took for granted he would
do so this morning as soon as we met; or that he would send you to me,
Rhoda, to explain if he felt too awkward about speaking himself. But
as you both are determined to ignore what happened, I am forced to
speak. I dare say it would be much more convenient to you, knowing you
have made a mistake, to pass the whole thing over in silence. But I
really cannot consent to that. If Mr. Iglesias meant nothing all
along, then I think he has behaved disgracefully. If he did mean
something at first, and then"--the speaker gasped--"changed his mind,
he might at least have given some hint. He ought to have refused to
stop here, of course."

"He did refuse," George Lovegrove faltered. This was really dreadful,
far worse than anything he had anticipated--and he had not a notion
what it was safe to say. "I do wish females' minds were a little less
ingenious," he commented to himself. "They see such a lot which would
never have entered my head, for instance."

"Still, Mr. Iglesias came," cried the belligerent Serena.

"Yes, I over-persuaded him. He was very unwilling, very so indeed,
saying that staying out was altogether foreign to his practice. But I
pointed out to him that you and the wife might feel rather mortified
if he omitted to come, having taken such an interest in his illness
and--"

If you made use of my name, George, you took a great liberty."

"I am very distressed to hear you say that, Serena. Both the wife and
I certainly supposed you wished him to come."

He looked imploringly at his spouse, asking support. But for once the
large kindly countenance failed to beam responsive. A plaintive
expression overspread its surface. Then the unhappy man stared
despondently out into the misty morning sunshine, plastering down his
shiny hair with a moist and shaky hand. Even the wife turned against
him, making him feel an outcast at his own breakfast-table. He could
have wept.

"I have been so very guarded throughout," Serena resumed, "that it is
impossible you should have the slightest excuse for using my name.
But, of course, if you have done so, my position is more than ever
odious. There is nothing for me to do but to go. Fortunately I am
going--and I am thankful. If I had followed my own inclinations, I
should have gone long ago. Then I should have been spared all this,
and nothing would have been said. Now all sorts of things may be said,
because, of course, it must all look very odd. It shows how foolish it
is to allow one's judgment to be overruled. I stayed entirely to
oblige Rhoda. And I cannot but see I have been trifled with."

"No, no, Serena, not that--never that," her host cried distractedly.
"If I have been in the wrong, I apologise from my heart. But trifling
never entered my thoughts. How could it do so, with all the respect I
have for you and Susan? I may have been clumsy, but I acted for the
best."

"I am afraid I cannot agree," she retorted. "It is useless to
apologise. I am sorry to tell you so, George, for I have trusted you
until now; but I do feel, and I am afraid I always shall feel, I have
been very unkindly treated by you and Rhoda."

She rose, rustling as she spoke, the parrot, meanwhile, leaving off
preening its feathers, regarding her, its head very much on one side,
with a wicked eye.

"No, please leave me to myself," she said. "I do not want anybody to
help me, and if I do I shall ring for the maids. I want to compose
myself before I go to Lady Samuelson's. After all this unpleasantness,
it is much better for me to be alone."

"Good-bye, girlie, poor old girlie. Hi! p'liceman, bring a four-
wheeler," shrieked the parrot, as Serena opened and closed the dining-
room door, flapping wildly in the sunshine till the sand and seed
husks on the floor of its cage arose and whirled upwards in a crazy
little cloud.

George Lovegrove, who had risen to his feet, sank back into his chair,
resting his elbows on the table and covering Ids face with his hands.

"I would rather have forfeited my pension," he murmured. "I would
rather have lost a hundred pounds."

Then raising his head he gazed imploringly at his wife. And this time
her tender heart could not resist the appeal. He had not been open
with her, but she relented, giving him opportunity to retrieve his
error. Moreover--but that naturally was a very minor consideration--
she was bursting with curiosity.

"Georgie," she asked solemnly, "whatever did happen last night?"

"Mr. Iglesias met a lady friend. She sent for him to talk to her, in
the lobby, between the acts," he answered, the red deepening in his
clean fresh-coloured face.

"Not any of that designing Cedar Lodge lot?"

"Oh! dear no, not all," he replied, his childlike eyes full of
gratitude. He blessed the magnanimity of the wife. But speedily
embarrassment supervened. He found this subject singularly difficult
to deal with. "Not at all of their class. I confess it did surprise
me, for though I have always taken it for granted Dominic belonged to
a higher circle by birth than that in which we have known him, I had
no idea he had such aristocratic acquaintances. His looks and manner
in public, last night, made him seem fitted for any company. Still, I
was surprised."

"Did he not introduce you?"

"No. I cannot say he had a convenient opportunity, and the lady may
not have wished it. I could fancy she might hold herself a little
above us. But, between ourselves, I believe that was what so upset
Serena."

"I am of opinion Mr. Iglesias is just as well without Serena," Mrs.
Lovegrove declared. "I suppose she cannot help it, but her temper is
sadly uncertain. I begin to fear she would be very exacting in
marriage. But was the lady young, Georgie?"

The good man blushed furiously.

"Yes, under thirty, I should suppose, and very striking to look at.
Serena had called my attention to her already. She thought her over-
dressed. I am no judge of that, but I could see she was very
beautiful."

"Oh! Georgie dear!" This in high protest. For the speaker belonged to
that section of the British public in which puritanism is even yet
deeply ingrained, with the dreary consequence that beauty, whether of
person or in art, is suspect. To admit its existence trenches on
immodesty; to speak of it openly is to skirt the edges of licence.

George Lovegrove, however, had developed unaccustomed boldness.

"So she was, my dear," he repeated, not squinting in the least for
once. "She was beautiful, dark and splendid, with eyes that looked
right through you, mocking and yet mournful. They made a noble couple,
she and Dominic, notwithstanding the disparity of age. As they stood
there together I felt honoured to see them both. And if Dominic
Iglesias is to have friends with whom we are unacquainted--though I
do not deny the thing hurt me a little at first--I am glad they should
be so handsome and fine. It seems to me fitting, and as if he was in
his true sphere at last."

A silence followed this profession of faith, during which Mrs.
Lovegrove's face presented a singular study. She stared at her husband
in undisguised amazement, while the corners of her mouth and her large
soft cheeks quivered.

"Well, I should never have expected to hear you talk so, Georgie," she
said huskily. "It seems unlike you somehow, almost as though you were
despising your own flesh and blood."

"No, no," he answered, "I could never do that. I could never be so
forgetful of all I owe to my own family and to yours, Rhoda. I am
under deep obligations to both. But it would be dishonest to deny that
I set a wonderfully high value on Dominic Iglesias' regard, and have
done so ever since we were boys together at school. To me Dominic has
always stood by himself, I knowing how superior he was to me in mind
and in all else, so that it has been my truest honour and privilege to
be admitted to intimacy with him. But the difference between us never
came home to me as it did when I saw him in other company last night.
He is fitted for a higher position than he has ever filled yet--we all
used to allow that in old days at the bank--or for any society we can
offer him. So, though I felt humiliated in a measure, I felt glad. For
I can grudge him nothing in the way of new friends, even though they
may be differently placed to ourselves and should come between him and
me a little, making our intercourse less frequent and easy than in the
past. From my heart I wish him the very best that is going, although
it should be rather detrimental to myself."

Mrs. Lovegrove's cheeks still quivered, but the expression of her face
was unresponsive once more, not to say obstinate. Jealousy, indeed,
possessed her. For the first time in her whole experience she realised
her husband as an individual, as a human entity independent of
herself. To contemplate him otherwise than in the marital relation was
a shock to her. She felt deserted, a potential Ariadne on Naxos. Hence
jealousy, resentment, cruel hurt.

"Well, to be sure, what a long story!" she cried, in tones approaching
sarcasm, "and all about someone who is no relation, too! Whatever
possesses you, Georgie? You aren't a bit like yourself. It seems to me
this morning everybody's bewitched." She heaved herself up out of her
chair. "I shall go and try to make it up with Serena," she continued.
"It is only Christian charity to do so; and, poor thing, I can well
understand she may have had cause enough for mortification now I have
made out what really did take place last night."

Usually, left alone in the dining-room, George Lovegrove would have
proceeded methodically to do a number of neat little odd jobs, humming
softly the while funny, shapeless little tunes to himself in the
fulness of his guileless content. He would have piled up the fire with
small coal and dust, thus keeping it alight but saving fuel till
luncheon-time, when one skilful stir with the poker would produce a
cheerful blaze. Then he would have proceeded to the little
conservatory opening off his box of a sanctum at the back of the
house--containing his roller-top desk, his papers, Borough Council and
parish reports, his magazines, his best and second-best overcoats hung
on pegs against the wall along with his silk hat. In the conservatory,
still humming, he would have smoked his morning pipe, feeding the
gold-fish in the small square glass tank--a tiny fountain in the
centre of which it pleased him to set playing--and later carefully
examining the ferns and other pot-plants in search of green-fly,
scale, or blight. But to-day the innocent routine of his life was
rudely broken up. He had no heart for his accustomed tidy potterings,
but lingered aimlessly, fingering the gold watch-chain strained across
the convex surface of his waistcoat, sand looking pitifully enough
between the lace curtains out on to the Green.

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