The Far Horizon

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"And I am sure for my part I am very pleased to have you come," Mrs.
Lovegrove replied, leading the way towards the seat of honour upon the
Chesterfield sofa. "I always do hold with letting bygones be bygones,
particularly as between relatives, when there has been any little
unpleasantness. And perhaps your calling will cheer poor Georgie up. He is
very tenacious of your and Susan's affection, is Georgie."

Here the speaker proceeded to swallow rather convulsively, pressing her
handkerchief against her lips.

"Perhaps I should be wiser to keep it all to myself," she added, not
without agitation. "But the sight of you does bring up so much. And I am
sorry to tell you, Serena, things are not as happy as they used to be in
this house."

The office of ministering angel was not, it must be conceded, exactly
native to Serena, her sympathies being restricted, the reverse of acute.
But, at a push, "curiosity has been known to supply the place of sympathy
very passably; and of curiosity Serena had always a large stock at the
service of her friends and acquaintance.

"I wonder why," she therefore observed in reply to her hostess's
concluding remark--"I mean I wonder why things should not be as happy as
they used to be?"

"I trace the commencement of it all to the time when you were visiting
here last November--not that I mean you were in any way to blame--"

Serena interrupted with spirit:

"No, pray do not connect anything which occurred then with me, Rhoda. I
think it would be most misplaced. After all that I have had to go through
I really should have thought it only delicate on your part never to refer
to what took place during my visit. I certainly should have hesitated
about coming here to-day if I had supposed either you or George would have
referred to it.--What dreadfully bad taste of Rhoda!" she added mentally.
"I believe I had better go. That would mark my displeasure, and teach her
to be more guarded with me in future. But then perhaps she has something
to say which I really ought to know. Perhaps it would be a mistake to go.
Perhaps I had better stay. I do not want to be too harsh with Rhoda."

The truth being that she actually itched to hear more. For, to Serena, her
wholly imaginary love episode with Mr. Iglesias represented the most vivid
of all the very limited experiences of her life. Her affections had not
been engaged, since she possessed no affections in any vital sense of that
word. But she had been flattered and excited.

She had seemed to herself to occupy a most interesting position, demanding
infinite tact. During the months which had elapsed she had rehearsed the
history of every incident, of every hour of intercourse, with Dominic
Iglesias, a thousand times; weighing each word, discounting every look of
his, indulging in unlimited speculation and analysis, until the
proportions of that which had occurred were magnified beyond all
possibility of recognition, let alone of sane relation to fact. To
herself, therefore, Serena had become the heroine of an elaborate
intrigue. This greatly increased her importance in her own eyes; and,
though she was studiously silent regarding the subject save in indirect
allusion, the said self-importance, reacting upon those about her, gained
both for herself and her opinions a degree of consideration to which she
was unaccustomed and which she highly relished. Never had Serena presented
so bold a front to her philanthropic and very possessive elder sister.
Never had she enjoyed so much attention in the small and rigidly select
circle of Slowby society, in which she and Miss Susan moved. Serena spoke
with authority upon all subjects, on the strength of a purely fictitious
affair of the heart. She is not the first woman who has made capital out
of the non-existent in this kind, nor will she probably be the last!
Nevertheless, she was very far from admitting the great benefit which Mr.
Iglesias had so unconsciously conferred upon her. She regarded herself as
a deeply injured person--irreparably injured, but for her own diplomacy,
admirable caution, knowledge of the world and self-respect.

"I am well aware it is a trying subject to approach," Mrs. Lovegrove
replied, with praiseworthy mildness. "And I am far from blaming you for
turning from it, Serena. I am sure it has weighed sadly on my mind and on
George's, too. Not that he has said much, but I could see how he felt; and
then a great deal has come out since. That is why I am so gratified to
have you call here to-day, and so will Georgie be. He has taken it
dreadfully to heart finding how we have all been taken in, and seeing how
wrong it must put him with you and with Susan."

"It is very proper that you should say that, Rhoda," the other observed
with condescension. "I think you owe it to me to express regret. I should
have been sorry if George had proved indifferent, for I have been very
careful in what I have told Susan. Of course, I might have spoken
strongly. I think anyone would admit I should have been quite justified in
doing so. But I wished to spare George. Mamma was very much attached to
him, and of course he was constantly with us in old days, before his
marriage."

It was significant of the wife's humble state that she received this
thrust without a murmur.

"Poor Georgie was too upset to tell even me for a long time," she
continued somewhat irrelevantly, "and you may judge by that how badly he
felt. He knew how shocked I should be, and that I should take it as such
an insult to the dear vicar, after all his kindness, that any friend of
ours whom he had talked to in this house should turn Romanist."

"Who? What?" cried Serena. She had determined to maintain a superior and
impassive attitude, but at this point curiosity became rampant, refusing
further circumlocution or delay.

"Why, Mr. Iglesias, to be sure," Mrs. Lovegrove answered, hardly
restraining evidences of satisfaction. The news was lamentable, no doubt;
but to have it miss fire in the recital of it would have made it ten times
more lamentable still. "And the worst of it was," she continued, refreshed
by the effect upon her hearer, "he kept it dark for we don't in the least
know how long. He mentioned no dates, and poor Georgie was too upset to
ask him. Of course it is well known how double Romanists are always taught
to be--not that I was ever acquainted with any. You never meet them out, I
am glad to think, where we visit. Still, that Mr. Iglesias, who was quite
one of ourselves, as you may say, so intimate and always appearing the
perfect gentleman, so open and honest--"

"Ah! there you are wrong, Rhoda," the other lady put in with decision,
while making a violent effort to recover her impassivity and superiority.
"You and George may be surprised, but I am not. I always had my suspicions
of Mr. Iglesias. I told you so more than once. At the time you and George
were annoyed. Now you see I was right. I am seldom mistaken. Even Susan
admits I am very observant. After his extraordinary behaviour to me I
should not be surprised at anything which Mr. Iglesias might do." She
paused, breathless but triumphant. "Have you seen him since all this came
out, Rhoda?"

"Oh, no. He has called twice, but fortunately Georgie was out walking. He
goes out walking a great deal now, does Georgie." The speaker heaved a
voluminous sigh. Her satisfaction had been short-lived. "And I told the
girl, if Mr. Iglesias asked for me, to say I was particularly engaged. He
has written to Georgie. I know that--a long letter--but I have not been
asked to read it."

Mrs. Lovegrove pressed her handkerchief against her lips again, agitation
gaining her.

"After all these years of marriage, you know, Serena, it is a very cutting
thing to have any concealment between me and Georgie. I should not mention
it to you but that you were here when it commenced. I never supposed--no,
never, never--there could be any coldness between him and me. When I have
heard others speak of trouble with their husbands, I have always pitied
the poor things from my heart, but held them mainly responsible. Now I
think differently--"

"Miss Eliza Hart, mum." This shrilly from the little house-parlourmaid.

Serena rose as well as her hostess. Superiority counselled departure;
curiosity urged remaining.

"Of course, I should feel justified in staying if Rhoda pressed me to do
so," she said to herself. And Rhoda, in the very act of greeting her new
guest, did press her to do so.

"Surely you are not leaving yet?" she said plaintively.

"It would hurt me not to have you stay to tea, and Georgie would be sadly
disappointed to think he had missed you."

Thus admonished, Serena graciously consented to remain Miss Hart, as last
arrival, being necessarily invited to assume the place of honour upon the
sofa, Serena selected a chair at as great a distance from that historic
article of furniture as the exigencies of conversation permitted. "I must
show her that I stay not to see her, but solely on Georgie's account," she
commented inwardly. "I have been very cold in manner. I think she must
have observed that."

But the great Eliza was in a militant humour, not easily abashed. She had
called with intentions, in the interests of which she plunged volubly into
talk.

"You will excuse my coming without Peachie Porcher, Mrs. Lovegrove," she
began. "She was all anxiety to come, too, fearing you might think her
neglectful. But I prevented it. She overrates her strength, does Peachie,
and to-day her neuralgia is cruel. 'I'll run across and account for you,'
I said to her. 'You just lie down and take a nap, and let the housemaid
bring you up a little something with your tea, and take it early.' 'It's
not more nourishment I require, but less worry, Liz dear,' she said. And
so it is, Mrs. Lovegrove."

"We all have our troubles, Miss Hart, and often unsuspected ones which
call for silence."

The wife's large cheeks quivered ominously, while Serena rustled--but
whether in sympathetic agreement with the sentiments expressed by the last
speaker, or in protest against the presence of the former one, it would be
difficult to determine.

"I wonder whether that is not best, Rhoda--I mean I wonder whether it is
not best to be silent," she remarked reflectively. "I think people are not
usually half cautious enough what they tell. So many disagreeables can be
avoided if you are really on your guard. Mamma impressed that upon us when
we were children. I am very careful, but I often think Susan is hardly
careful enough. Most troubles arise through trusting other people too
much."

"And that's poor darling Peachie all over," Miss Hart declared, with a
fine appreciation of opportunity. "Too great trustfulness has been her
worst fault, as I always tell her, the generous pet. Not that all our
gentlemen are ungrateful, Mrs. Lovegrove. I would not have you suppose
that. Poor Mr. Smyth, for instance, whom I'm afraid I have accused of
being very surly and bearish at times, has come out wonderfully lately.
But it must be a hard nature, indeed, which Peachie's influence would not
soften. One such nature I am acquainted with." Eliza paused, looking from
one to other of her hearers with much meaning. "But it is not the case
with poor Mr. Smyth. He has yielded. Then there is the tie of an
unfortunate domestic past between him and Peachie, which helps to bring
them together.--Of course that means nothing to you, Mrs. Lovegrove."

The lady addressed swallowed convulsively.

"But all are not blessed with such good fortune as yours," the great Eliza
continued. "Mr. Smyth has been very open with Peachie recently. He has
some surprising tales to tell, knowing very well all that is going on in
society. And that reminds me of a certain gentleman who does not live a
thousand miles from here. Mr. Smyth has hinted at much that is very
startling in that direction."

The speaker paused again.

"Would it be intrusive to ask whether you have been favoured with much of
Mr. Iglesias' company during the last few weeks, Mrs. Lovegrove?" she
added.

Ruddy mottlings bespread the wife's kindly countenance. Serena moved
slightly upon her chair. She was conscious, of growing excitement.

"Perhaps not quite so much as formerly; but then Mr. Lovegrove has been
out walking most evenings. The warmer weather always causes him to feel
the need of exercise," the excellent woman returned, putting heroic
restraint upon herself. "And I have been very occupied with the spring
cleaning. I make it a duty to look into everything myself, you know, Miss
Hart. Not but what my girls are very good. I think all the talk about
trouble with the servants is very much exaggerated. Our cook, Fanny, has
been with us quite a number of years. Still, I hold it is well for them to
have a mistress's supervision if the cleaning is to be thorough. If you
see to it yourself, then you can have nobody to blame. And so I have had
frequently to deny myself to visitors."

She gave a sigh of relief, trusting she had loyally steered the
conversation into safer channels. But the great Eliza was not thus to be
thwarted.

"I asked on Peachie Porcher's account," she declared, "not on my own, Mrs.
Lovegrove. It is all of less than no consequence to me, except for the
sake of Cedar Lodge, how a certain gentleman spends his time. But
Peachie's interests must be protected. With an establishment such as ours
a good name is everything. 'You cannot be too particular; for any talk of
fastness, and the place must go down,' as she says to me--"

But here, the wife's natural rectitude and sense of justice triumphed over
prejudice and wounded sensibilities.

"I am sure I could never believe anyone would have occasion to accuse Mr.
Iglesias of fastness," she said. "Of course, the change of religion is
dreadful, particularly in one who should have known better, though a
foreigner, having had the advantage of being brought up in England. Nobody
can be more aware of that than myself and Mr. Lovegrove. It has been a
sad grief to us"--her voice quavered--"and no doubt early rising and fish
meals do make a lot of work and unpleasantness in a house-hold. But as to
fastness, well, Miss Hart, I cannot find it in my conscience to agree to
anything as bad as that."

With preternatural solemnity the great Eliza shook her head.

"Seeing is believing, Mrs. Lovegrove," she replied. "And when ladies call,
dressed in the tiptop of the fashion! Very stylish, no doubt, but not
quite the style Peachie Porcher can countenance, circumstanced as we are
with our gentlemen guests. Then there is what Mr. Smyth hinted at
subsequently, just in a friendly way. He did not say he was actually
acquainted with the lady, but intimated that he could say very much more
if he chose. No, Mrs. Lovegrove, I regret to speak, knowing how long you
and a certain gentleman have been acquainted, but there can be no question
Peachie Porcher's interests have been trifled with, and her affections
also."

Here aggressive rustlings on the part of Serena arrested the flow of Miss
Hart's eloquence.

"You spoke, I believe, Miss Lovegrove?" she inquired.

"No, I did not speak," Serena cried.--"Vulgar, designing person, what
presumption!" she cried to herself. "Anyone would feel insulted by her
manner. She thinks she has put me at a disadvantage. But she is mistaken.
I know more than she supposes." She was greatly enraged; for, unreasonable
though it may appear, if trifling were about on the part of Dominic
Iglesias, Serena reserved to herself a monopoly in respect of it. Few
things, perhaps, are more galling to a woman than the assertion that a
Lovelace has been guilty of misleading attentions to others besides
herself. If she is not the solitary object of his affections, let her at
least be the solitary victim of his perfidy. And that Mrs. Porcher should
aspire to share her _role_ of betrayed one was, to Serena, a piece of
unheard-of impertinence. She refused to bestow further attention upon Miss
Hart, and turned haughtily to her hostess.

"Have you any idea when George will be in, Rhoda? I am quite willing to
wait a reasonable time for him, but I cannot be expected to wait
indefinitely. I must consider Lady Samuelson. It is a long distance to
Ladbroke Square--of course Trimmer's Green is very far out--and I have
to dress for dinner. Everything is very well done at Lady Samuelson's, and
she makes a great point of punctuality. Of course it is no difficulty to
me to be punctual. I was brought up to be so. Mamma was always extremely
particular about our being in time. She said it was very rude to be late.
I think it is rude, and so, of course, punctuality is quite natural to me.
But I do object to being hurried; and so, unless George is likely to be in
almost directly, I really must go, Rhoda."

"I should be very mortified to have you leave before he comes back. It
would be a sore disappointment to Georgie to find you had been here and he
had missed you," the good creature pleaded.

"And it's something quite new for Mr. Lovegrove to be out on your at-home
day, isn't it?" Eliza put in, not without covert sarcasm. "I never
remember to have known it happen before."

"Mrs. and Miss Ballard, please, mum"--this from the house-parlourmaid.

Mrs. Lovegrove arose with alacrity, retail trade and nonconformity alike
forgiven.

"I am afraid Miss Hart grows very spiteful," she said to herself. "I wish
she would go. I should be vexed to have her outsit Serena.--Well, Mrs.
Ballard, very pleased, I am sure, to see you"--this aloud--"and your
daughter, too. The spring is coming on nicely, is it not? Quite warm this
afternoon, walking? I dare say it is. You and my husband's cousin, Miss
Lovegrove, have met, I believe? Miss Ballard, Miss Lovegrove.--Are you
going, Miss Hart? Kind regards to Mrs. Porcher, and sincere hopes she may
soon lose her neuralgia. Very trying complaint, Mrs. Ballard, is it
not?--and very prevalent, so they tell me, this year.--Why, you're never
going to leave, too, Serena? You'll come again, or Georgie will be so
troubled."

But Serena held out small hope of her reappearance.

"Of course I should be glad to see George, but I could not bind myself to
anything, Rhoda. You see, Lady Samuelson"--the Ballard ladies, mother and
daughter, looked at one another, fluttered and impressed--"Lady
Samuelson," Serena repeated, her voice rising a little, "has such a number
of engagements, and of course if she wishes to take me with her I cannot
refuse. At home she always likes me to help entertain. I really have very
little time to call my own, and so I should not feel justified in making
any promise. Of course it was just a chance my being able to come to-day.
You can tell George I am sorry not to have seen him. I should like him to
know that I am sorry."

"You are very kind, Serena," the other said humbly.

"I think Rhoda has improved," Serena said to herself, as she walked across
Trimmer's Green between the black iron railings. "I think she has more
sense of my position than she did. I wonder whether she thinks that if Mr.
Iglesias had proposed I should have accepted him. Of course she thinks I
was very badly treated. I think her manner shows that. Certainly she took
his part rather against that odious Miss Hart. But I don't believe she
really sided with him. I think she only appeared to do so to snub Miss
Hart. Of course if she had stayed, I should have had to stay, too. I
should have owed it to myself to do so. But, as she went, there was no
object in staying; and it was wiser to seem quite indifferent about seeing
George. I hope he won't attempt to call upon me at Lady Samuelson's! I
should hardly think he would presume to do that. I must tell the butler,
if a gentleman calls, to say I am not at home. If it was only George it
would not so much matter, but I could not run the chance of having Lady
Samuelson and Rhoda meet. It would not do at all to have Rhoda climbing
into society through me. I think it is too bad to have people make use of
you like that. And Rhoda has no tact. I see I must be on my guard with
George and Rhoda. I wonder whether I had better tell Susan Mr. Iglesias
has become a Roman Catholic? Of course she would think I had had a great
escape; but in any case that does not excuse him. He behaved very badly.
I don't believe for an instant he ever took any notice of Mrs. Porcher. I
believe that is an entire invention. I wonder if the lady who called is
the same lady we saw at the theatre--"

And so on, and so on, all the way home by the Uxbridge Road, and Netting
Hill, and then northward to the august retirement of Lady Samuelson's
large corner house in Ladbroke Square. For a deeply injured person Serena
had really enjoyed herself very much.

CHAPTER XXXI

The burden of August, dense and heavy, lay upon London. Radiating outward
in lifeless and dull-glaring sunshine, it involved the nearer suburbs; so
that Dominic Iglesias, sitting on a bench beside the roadway crossing
Barnes Common, notwithstanding the hour--past six o'clock--and the open
space surrounding him, found the atmosphere hardly less oppressive than
that of the streets. The great world, which plays, had departed. The
little world, outnumbering the great by some five or six millions, which
works, remained. And Dominic Iglesias, since he too worked, remained
likewise, sharing with it the burden of the August heat and languor; and
sharing also, to-day being Sunday, its weekly going forth over the face of
the scorched and sun-seared land seeking rest, and, too often, finding
none.

For the past two months he had seen Poppy St. John but seldom, nor had he
heard from her. Whether by accident or by design he knew not, she had
rarely been at home on those occasions when he had been free to call. For
the last three weeks she had been away up the river, so he understood,
with her friend Dot Parris--_alias_ Miss Charlotte Colthrust. A
blight seemed to Iglesias to have fallen upon his and her friendship, ever
since the day of his return to Messrs. Barking Brothers & Barking; and his
discovery, or rather divination, of the relation in which de Courcy Smyth
stood to her. While her husband remained nameless, an unknown quantity,
Dominic deplored the fact of her marriage, but as an abstraction. So soon
as that fact had acquired in his mind--whether rightly or wrongly--a
name and local habitation, now that he was liable to meet it daily
incarnate--and that in most unsavoury shape--liable to be constantly
reminded of its near neighbourhood, to witness a thousand and one
unpleasing peculiarities of speech, habit, and manner, unlooked-for
emotions arose in Iglesias, and those of a character of which he was by no
means proud. Resentment took him, indignation, strange movements of
jealousy and hatred; all very natural, no doubt, but decidedly bad for the
soul. It was idle for him to remind himself that his belief regarding
de Courcy Smyth was based upon supposition, upon circumstantial evidence
which might prove merely coincident. He could not rid himself of that
belief, nor of the emotional consequences of it; and these so vexed him
that he questioned whether it would not be better to remove from Cedar
Lodge and seek a domicile uninfected by the perpetual provocation of
the man's presence. But it was not easy to give a plausible reason to
his hostess for any immediate change of residence; nor was it easy, in
the present stress of business at the bank, to find time or energy for
house-hunting. The atmosphere of Cedar Lodge had become inimical. His
rooms had ceased to be a place of security and repose. Yet whither should
he go? The great wilderness of London seemed vastly inhospitable when it
came to the question of selecting a new dwelling-place.

Meanwhile, he was grievously conscious of the growing estrangement between
himself and Poppy St. John, which he connected, in some way, with this
haunting yet unspoken suspicion of her relation to de Courcy Smyth--a
suspicion which tended to rob intercourse of all spontaneity by
introducing into it a spirit of embarrassment and constraint. He would
have given so very much to know the truth and be able to reckon finally
with it; but he judged it unpermissible that he should approach the ugly
subject first. It was Poppy's affair, her private and unlovely property.
While she elected to keep silence, therefore, it would be disloyal for him
to speak. Still it distressed him, adding to his mental and emotional
unrest. The happiness might have gone out of their intercourse, yet there
were times when he wearied for sight and for speech of her more than he
quite cared to admit. George Lovegrove still held aloof. Dominic rallied
his faith in the divine purpose, rallied his obedience to the divine
ruling, fixed his eyes more patiently upon the promise of the far horizon;
yet it must be owned he felt very friendless and sad at heart.

To-day, driven in part by that friendliness, he had come out on the chance
of gaining some news of Poppy. Disappointment, however, awaited him. For
the discreet Phillimore, though receiving him graciously, reported her
mistress resident at home again, it is true, but gone into town on
business, probably theatrical, and unlikely to return until late.
Therefore Dominic had walked on to Barnes Common, and finding the
uncomfortable bench by the roadside--whereon Cappadocia, the toy spaniel,
had sought his protection more than a year ago--untenanted, had sat down
there to meditate. Cedar Lodge was no longer a refuge. He preferred to
keep away from it as long as might be. Perhaps, too, as the sun dropped
the air would grow cooler, and the southeasterly draught, parched and
scorching as from the mouth of a furnace, which huffled at times only to
fall dead, might shift to some more merciful quarter. A coppery haze hung
over London, above which the rusty white summits of a range of cumulus
cloud towered into the thick grey-blue of the upper sky. Possibly the
cloud harboured thunder and the refreshment of rain amid its giant crags
and precipices. On the chance of such refreshment he would stay.

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