The Far Horizon

L >> Lucas Malet >> The Far Horizon

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27

"Miss Eliza Hart, if you please, ma'am," this from the house-parlourmaid.

In accordance with established precedent, Serena should have risen from
the place of honour, upon the sofa, making room for the newcomer. But she
defied precedent. Acknowledging the said newcomer with the stiffest of
bows, she sat tight. Her hostess, however, proved equal to the occasion.

"Dear me, Miss Hart," she began, "I am sure you are quite the stranger.
Take that chair, will you not? And how is Mrs. Porcher? The numbers, I
trust, filling up again at Cedar Lodge? Mr. Lovegrove and myself did
truly sympathise in Mrs. Porcher's trouble in the autumn. Such a terrible
occurrence to have in your house! Of course very damaging, for a time, to
all prospects. And I shall always believe it was the great exertions he
made then that broke down poor Mr. Iglesias' health.--Yes, indeed, Miss
Hart, I regret to say he does remain very ailing. Mr. Lovegrove sees him
almost daily. He has run round to Holland Street now, has Georgie; but I
expect him back any minute.--We were just speaking of Mr. Iglesias--were
we not, Serena?--and I was about to tell Miss Lovegrove what a sweet
pretty house he has. You have seen it often no doubt, Miss Hart."

But here Serena arose, with much dignity, and retired in the direction of
the window.

"Pray do not think about me, Rhoda," she said over her shoulder, "or let
me interrupt your and your friend's conversation. I am going to see if the
carriage is here. Lady Samuelson said she might be able to send it for me.
She could not be sure, but she might. And I told her I would be on the
watch, as she objects to the horses being kept standing in this weather.
But pray do not think about me. Until it comes I can quite well amuse
myself."

Holding aside the lace curtain she looked out. Upon the rawly green grass
remnants of discoloured snow lay in unsightly patches, while the bare
branches of the plane-trees and balsam-poplars shuddered in the harsh
blast. The prospect was far from alluring, and Serena surveyed it with a
wrathful eye.

"Really, Rhoda's behaviour to me is most extraordinary," she said to
herself. "I had to mark my displeasure. For poor George's sake she ought
not to be allowed to go too far. She has grown so very self-assertive.
Last year her manner was much better. I suppose she and George have made
it up again. People who are not really ladies, like Rhoda, are always so
very much nicer when they are depressed. I wonder what has happened to
make George make it up with her!"

And then she fell very furiously to listening.

"We did talk it over, did Peachie Porcher and myself," the great Eliza was
saying, "for I do not deny, at the time of our trouble, a certain
gentleman came out very well. He may have had his reasons, but I will not
go into that, Mrs. Lovegrove. I am all for giving everybody his due. But
Peachie felt when he left it would be better the connection should cease
as far as visiting went. 'Should Mr. Iglesias call here, dear Liz,' she
said to me, 'I should not refuse to see him. But, after what has passed
and situated as I am, I cannot be too careful. And calling on a bachelor
living privately, with whom your name has been at all associated, must
invite comment. Throughout all,' she said, 'my conscience tells me I have
done my duty, and in that I must find my reward.' Very affecting, was it
not?"

"Yes," the other lady admitted, candour and natural goodness of heart
getting the better alike of resentment and diplomacy. "I always have
maintained there were many sterling qualities in Mrs. Porcher."

"So there are, the sweet pet!" Eliza responded warmly. "And I sometimes
question, Mrs. Lovegrove, whether a certain gentleman, now that he has cut
himself adrift from her, may not be beginning to find that out and wish
he had been less stand-offish and stony. Not that it would be any use now.
For, if he did not appreciate Peachie Porcher, there are other and younger
gentlemen, not a thousand miles from here, who do. I am not at liberty to
speak more plainly at present, as the poor young fellow is very shy about
his secret. A long attachment, and some might think it rather derogatory
to Peachie's position to entertain it. But straws tell which way the wind
blows; and a little bird seems to twitter to me, Mrs. Lovegrove, that if
Charlie Farge did come to the point--why--"

Miss Hart shook her leonine mane and laid her finger on her lip in an arch
and playful manner. But before her hostess could rally sufficiently from
the stupor into which this announcement plunged her to make suitable
rejoinder, a fine booming clerical voice and large clerical presence
invaded the room.

"How d'ye do, Mrs. Lovegrove? I come unannounced but not unsanctioned. I
met with your good husband in the street just now, and he encouraged me to
look in on you. Good-day to you, Miss Hart. All is well, I trust, with our
excellent friend Mrs. Porcher.--Ah! and here is Miss Serena Lovegrove.--An
unexpected piece of good fortune."

Promptly Serena had emerged from her self-imposed exile; and it was with
an air of assured proprietorship that she greeted the clergyman.

"Mrs. Nevington heard from your kind sister only this morning," he
continued. "Full of active helpfulness as usual, Mrs. Lovegrove.--She
proposes that we should quarter ourselves upon you and her for a few days,
Miss Serena, while we are seeking a temporary residence. She kindly gives
us the names of several houses which she considers worth inspection."

Here by an adroit flank movement, rapidly executed, Serena managed to
possess herself once again of the seat of honour upon the sofa, thereby
interposing a thin but impenetrable barrier between her hostess and the
latter's own particular fetish, the bishop-designate.

"You have enough room? I do not crowd you, Rhoda?" she remarked
parenthetically. Then turning sideways, so as to present an expanse
of neatly clad back and shoulder to her outraged relative, she
continued:--"I wonder which, Dr. Nevington--I mean I wonder which houses
Susan has recommended. Of course there is the Priory. But nobody has lived
in it for ages and ages. It is in a very low neighbourhood, close to the
canal and brickfields on the Tullingworth Road. I should think it was
dreadfully damp and unwholesome. And there is old Mrs. Waghorn's in Abney
Park. That is well situated and the grounds are rather nice. But the
reception-rooms are poor, I always think. Susan was fond of Mrs. Waghorn.
I cannot say I ever cared for her myself; but there is a tower to it, of
course."

"Ah! we hardly need towers yet, Miss Lovegrove. A 'suffering bishop'--you
recall the well-worn joke?--such as myself, must not aspire to anything
approaching castles or palaces, but be content with a very modest place of
residence."

Here his unhappy hostess, sitting quite perilously near the edge of the
sofa, craned round the interposing barrier.

"But that is only a matter of time, Dr. Nevington," she said, "surely.
There is but one voice all round the Green, and through the parish
generally, that this is but the first step for you; and that it will lead
on--though I am far from wishing to hasten the death of the present
archbishop--to the primacy."

"Hardly that, hardly that," he rejoined with becoming modesty. Yet the
speech was not unpalatable to him. "Out of the mouth of babes," he said to
himself, leaning back in his chair, and eyeing--in imagination--the chaste
outline of an episcopal apron and well-cut black gaiter, while visions of
Lambeth and Canterbury floated enticingly before him.--"Hardly that. This
is little more than an embryo bishopric. Still, though it is a wrench to
leave my dear old congregation, here in this wonderful London of ours, I
cannot refuse the call to a wider sphere of usefulness. My views as a
churchman are well known. I have never, even though it might have been
professionally advantageous to me to do so, attempted any concealment."

"No, truly," Rhoda put in, still balancing and craning. "Everyone, I am
sure, must bear witness you have always been most nobly outspoken."

"I trust so," he returned. "I have never disguised the fact that I take my
stand upon the Reformation Settlement. Therefore I cannot but think it a
most hopeful sign of the times that I should receive this call to the
episcopate.--Ah, here is Lovegrove. You find us deep in matters
ecclesiastical. I only hope I am not taxing your ladies' patience too
heavily by talking on such serious subjects.--In Slowby itself that grand
old stalwart, the late Dr. Colthurst--a positively Cromwellian figure--has
left a sound Protestant tradition. But I hear--your good sister confirms
the rumour, Miss Serena--that there is a strong ritualistic party at
Tullingworth. I shall deal very roundly with persons of that persuasion.
My conviction is that we must suit our teaching to the progressive
spirit of this modern world of ours. Personally I am willing, if
necessary, to sacrifice very much so-called dogma to conciliate our worthy
Nonconformist brethren; while I shall lose no opportunity of cutting at
the roots of those Romanising tendencies which are so lamentably and
insidiously active in the very heart of our dear old National Church."

While the great drum-like voice was thus rolling and booming, George
Lovegrove had shaken hands with Serena. But there was none of the
accustomed respectful enthusiasm in his greeting. He wore a preoccupied
and dejected air. For once he looked upon that pearl of spinsterhood with
a lack-lustre and indifferent eye.

"I wonder what can have happened to George," the lady in question said
to herself, in high displeasure. "I think his manner is really very
odd--nearly as odd as Rhoda's. I wish I had not come. But then if I had
not come I should have had no opportunity of showing Rhoda what intimate
terms Susan and I are upon with the Nevingtons. And I think it is right
she should know.--Oh! that detestable Miss Hart is going. What a
dreadfully vulgar purple blouse she has on! And her hair is so unpleasant.
It always looks damp and shows the marks of the comb. I wonder why hair of
that particular colour always does look damp." Here she bowed stiffly
without rising.--"I shall simply ignore George, and not speak to him. I
think that will be sufficiently marked. But I shall stay as long as Dr.
Nevington does--I don't for one moment believe Miranda Samuelson really
intended to send the carriage--so I will just wait and go when he goes.
I think I owe it to myself to show George and Rhoda that they cannot drive
me away against my will, however much they may wish to do so."

Having come to which amiable decision Serena turned her mind and
conversation to questions of house-hunting in Slowby. The subject,
however, began to pall, before long, upon her companion. Dr. Nevington
changed his position more than once. His replies became vague and
perfunctory, while his attention evidently strayed to the conversation
taking place at the other end of the sofa.

"I fear you did not find Mr. Iglesias very bright then to-day?" the wife
was inquiring in her kindliest tones.

George Lovegrove shook his head sadly. "No, my dear, I am sorry to say
not. I have been rather broken up. I will tell you all later."

The clergyman had risen.

"Iglesias?--ah yes," he said. "I remember meeting a person of that name
here once, eh, Lovegrove? One of our parochial oversights, unfortunately.
He proved to be a dweller. His appearance pleased me and I proposed to
call on him; and then in the press of my many duties the matter was
forgotten."

Serena had risen likewise. A spot of colour burned on either of her
cheeks. Her eyes snapped. She carried her small head high. Her presence
asserted itself quite forcibly. Her skirts rustled. At that moment she was
young and very passably pretty--an elegant spirited Serena of eighteen,
rather than a faded and, alas! spiteful Serena of close upon fifty.

"Oh! really, I think it was just as well you did not call, Dr. Nevington,"
she cried. "I do not think it would have been in the least suitable. Of
course I may be wrong, but I do not think you would have found anything to
like in Mr. Iglesias. There was so much that was never really explained
about him.--You know you acknowledged that yourself at one time, Rhoda.
But now you and George seem to have gone round again completely.--One
cannot help knowing he associated with such very odd people; and then the
way in which he turned Roman Catholic, all of a sudden, really was
disgraceful."

Dr. Nevington's cold, watchful glance steadied on to the speaker, then
travelled to the two other members of the little company in sharp inquiry.
George Lovegrove's innocent countenance bore an expression of agonised
entreaty, of yearning, of apology, yet of defiance. The corners of Rhoda's
mouth drooped, her large soft cheeks shook; yet she stood firm, her sorrow
tempered, and her whole warm-hearted person rendered stubborn, by virtuous
indignation.

"You forget yourself greatly, Serena," she said, "and when you have time
to think it over will repent having passed such cruel remarks. They are
liable to create a very wrong impression, and cannot fail to cause severe
pain to others."

For an appreciable space the clergyman hesitated. But Slowby and the
bishopric were ahead of him; Trimmer's Green and all its quaint
unimportant little inhabitants behind. She was tedious, no doubt; but her
sister promised to be very useful, so he threw in his lot with Serena.

"Ah, well, ah, well, for I my part I admire zeal, I must confess, Mrs.
Lovegrove," he said. "No doubt these terrible lapses will occur.
Superstition and bigotry will claim their victims even in our enlightened
century, and this free England of ours. I would not judge the case of this
poor fellow, Iglesias, too harshly. Race influences are strong; and we of
the Anglo-Saxon stock, with our enormous advantages of brain, and grit,
and hard-headed manliness of character, can afford--deeply though we
deplore their weakness and errors--to be lenient toward the less favoured
foreigner. Our mission is to educate him.--And this I think you should not
have forgotten, Lovegrove. You should have acted upon it. You should have
brought your unfortunate friend to me. I should have been quite willing to
give him half an hour, or even longer. A few facts, a little plain
speaking, might have saved him from more than I quite care to contemplate,
both here and hereafter.--However, good-bye to you, Mrs. Lovegrove. You
are starting, too, Miss Serena? Assure your good, kind sister, when you
write, how gladly Mrs. Nevington and I shall avail ourselves of her
proffered hospitality."

"Don't fret, don't take it too much to heart, Georgie dear," the wife said
soothingly later. "The vicar did seem very stern, but that was owing to
Serena. I am afraid she's a terrible mischief-maker, is Serena. She turns
things inside out so in saying them, that you do not recognise your own
words again. All this afternoon she was most trying. If Dr. Nevington
heard the real story, he would never blame you. You must not fret."

"I am not fretting about Dr. Nevington," he answered, "but about Dominic.
I am afraid we shall not have him with us very much longer, Rhoda."

"Oh! dear, oh! dear, you don't mean it? Never!" she cried in accents of
genuine distress. "Did you see him, Georgie?"

"No, Miss St. John was there."

The wife's large cheeks shook again.

"You know," she said, "I am never very partial to hearing anything about
that Miss St. John. Actresses are all very well in the theatre, I daresay,
but they are out of place in private houses. And from what I hear, though
there may be nothing really wrong with many of them, they are all sadly
free in their manners. I should be very hurt if you got into the habit of
frequenting their society much, Georgie.--But there, I'm sure I cannot
tell what is coming to all the women nowadays! You don't seem as if you
could be safe with any one of them. To think of a middle-aged person like
Mrs. Porcher, for instance, taking up with that little snip of a Farge,
and she old enough to be his mother!"

The wife bustled about the room straightening the chairs, patting cushions
into place, folding up the handkerchief which, in the interests of human
conversation, had been thrown over the cage of the all-too-articulate
parrot.

"I feel terribly stirred up somehow," she said, "what with the vicar, and
Serena, and all the talk about Roman Catholics and Protestants, and Mrs.
Porcher's engagement, too, and then this bad news of Mr. Iglesias--not but
that I am sure enough we shall meet him in heaven some day, if we can ever
contrive to get there ourselves in all this chatter and worry--"

She laid the handkerchief away in the drawer of the work-table.

"Such an afternoon," she declared, "what with one thing and another! I
always do say there's nothing for making unpleasantnesses like religion
and marriages.--But, thank God, through all of it you are spared to me,
Georgie."

CHAPTER XXXVIII

Outside, the slanting spring sunshine visited the sheltered strip of
garden in clear lights and transparent shadows. The small grass-plat
surrounding the rockery was brightly green. In the stone basin the surface
of the water trembled, glistening in broken curves of silver white. Along
the narrow border, beneath the soot-stained eastern wall, yellow and mauve
crocuses and yellow aconites opened wide, greeting the gentle warmth.
Trees in the neighbouring gardens were thick with bud. Busily the sparrows
and starlings came and went.

Within, the house--though not uncheerful, thanks to a scrupulous
cleanliness, warm colourings, and the peculiar mellowness which comes to
rooms and furnishings that, through prolonged association, have grown in a
great mutual friendliness of aspect--was very still, with the strange,
almost eerie, stillness which seems to listen and to wait.--A singular
stillness, from which the rough utilitarian activities of ordinary life
are banished, the rude noise of them suspended, while spiritual presences,
rare apprehensions, exquisite memories and hopes, mysterious invitations
of mingled alarm and ecstasy, come forth, taking on form and voice,
passing lightly to and fro--an enchantment, yet in a manner fearful from
the subtlety of their being and piercing intimacy of their speech.
Personality, that supreme moral and emotional factor in human life, must
of necessity create an atmosphere about it, permeated with its individual
tastes and mental attributes, distinct and powerful in proportion to its
individual distinction and its strength. And, without being overfanciful,
it may be confidently asserted that, for some weeks now, ever since indeed
the specialists--summoned in consultation at the good Lovegroves' and the
Lady of the Windswept Dust's urgent request--had pronounced the cardiac
affection, from which Dominic Iglesias suffered, likely to terminate
fatally in the near future, this living stillness, this alert
tranquillity, had been more or less sensible to all those who entered the
house, offering an arresting contrast to the multitudinous rush and
clamour of London without. But to-day the impression was no longer an
intermittent and fugitive one, as heretofore. It was constant and
complete, those spiritual visitants being, as it would seem, in full
possession; so that the hours appeared to move reluctantly, and as though
enjoining watchfulness, a carefulness and economy even in prevailing
repose, lest any remaining moment and the message of it should be
overlooked and lost.

It was characteristic of Iglesias that learning, in as far as the
consultant doctors could diagnose it, the exact conditions of his physical
state, he should refuse all experiment, however humane in intention or
plausible in theory. For he had no sympathy with the modern greediness and
worship of physical life, which is willing to sacrifice the decencies and
dignities of it to its possible prolongation. Courteously but plainly he
bade his advisers depart. The body, though an excellent servant, is a
contemptible master; and Iglesias proposed that, while his soul continued
to inhabit it, it should, as always before, be kept very much in its
place. It must remain unobtrusive, obedient, not daring to usurp, in its
present hour of failure and impediment, an interest and consideration to
which, in its full usefulness and vigour, it had not presumed to aspire.
Therefore Dominic Iglesias held calmly on his way, seeing the circle
of his occupations, pleasures, and activities dwindle and decrease,
yet maintaining not only his serenity of mind, but his accustomed
self-respecting outward refinement of bearing and habit. To meet death
with a gracious stoicism, well-dressed and standing upright, is, rightly
considered, a very fine art, reflecting much credit upon the successful
professor of it.

And it was thus that, on the day in question, Mr. Iglesias sat waiting, in
the quaint irregularly shaped drawing-room of the old house in Holland
Street, himself the centre of that peopled stillness, that alert
tranquillity, which so strangely and sensibly filled it. Looking out of
the low window, he could see the shadow of the houses shrink and the light
broaden in the little garden below, as the sun travelled westward. Looking
into the room itself, the many familiar objects and rich sober colours of
it, quickened by a flickering of fire-light, were pleasant to his sense.
The images which passed before him, whether actually visible or not he
hardly knew, appeared beautiful. Words and phrases which occurred to him
were beautiful likewise. But all were seen and heard remotely, as through
some softly dazzling medium which, while heightening the charm of them,
produced a delicate confusion leaving him uncertain whether he really
slept or woke. More than once, not without effort, he roused himself; but
only to slip back again into the same state of fair yet gently distracted
vision.

At last the sound of opening casements in the dining-room underneath and
of a voice, touched with laughter, reached him.

"There, you absurdities--skip, scuttle, take exercise, catch birds,
improve your figures!" Poppy cried, clapping her hands encouragingly as
she stood at the head of the flight of iron steps down which, with her
foot, she shot the toy spaniels unceremoniously into the sunny garden
below.

The little creatures, welcoming their freedom, forgetful for once of their
languid overbred airs, scampered away yapping and skirmishing in the
merriest fashion about the grass-plat and flower-beds. The window closed
again and there followed a sound of voices, interjectional on Poppy's
part, low and continuous on that of Mrs. Peters, the house-keeper. Then a
pause, so prolonged that Iglesias, who had rallied all his energy and
prepared to rise and to go forward to meet his guest, sank away once more
into half-consciousness which neither actually sleeps or wakes. When he
came fully to himself Poppy was sitting on the low window-seat close
beside him. Her back was to the light and his sight was somewhat clouded,
so that at first he failed to see her clearly; but he knew that her mood
had changed and her laughter departed, through the sympathy of her touch,
she holding his hand as it lay along the arm of the chair. He would have
spoken, but she stopped him.

"No, dear man, don't hurry," she said. "I know already. Peters has just
told me, now, downstairs, that you received the Last Sacraments this
morning. That's why I didn't come up sooner. I couldn't see you directly,
somehow. I had--well, I had to get my second wind, dearly beloved, so to
speak. You see it's such a heavenly day that I couldn't help feeling
happier about you. I had persuaded myself those doctors were a pack of
croaking old grannies whose collective wisdom had eventuated in a wild
mistake, and that, given time and summer weather, you would be better
again--you know you have had ups and downs lots of times before--and that
then, when the theatre closes and I have my holiday, I'd carry you off,
somewhere, anywhere, back to your own fierce, passionate Spain, perhaps,
and nurse and coax and care for you till living grew so pretty a business
you really wouldn't have the conscience to quit."

Poppy's voice was sweet with caressing tones, sympathetic in quality as
her lingering touch.

"Haven't you, perhaps, been a little premature after all?" she said. "Has
it really and truly come to that? Mightn't you have put off those last
grim ceremonies a trifle longer, and let them wait?"

"They are not grim, dearest friend, but full of strong consolation,"
Iglesias answered, smiling. He began to see her face more clearly. Her
expression was tragic, a world of anguish in it, for all the restraint of
her manner and playful glibness of her speech. "Nor, in any case," he
added, "can they hasten the event."

"I'm not altogether sure of that," Poppy declared rebelliously.

"I could not quite trust myself as to what the day might bring forth,"
Iglesias continued. "In point of fact, I have gained strength as it has
gone on.--And so it seemed wisest and most fitting to ask for the
performance of those sacred rites while I was still of sound mind, and
ready in my perception of that in which I was taking part."

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27