These incessant solicitations affected his nerves. So much so, indeed, that he cursed the impudence of one woman and called her a rude name. She did not seem to mind. While he was still in the generous afterglow produced by a bit of plain-speaking, another one had taken her place.
With head high and shoulders squared he marched on, subject for some distance to a purely nervous irritation, together with a disagreeably potent memory of powdered cheeks, reddened lips, and a searching perfume.
Then he thought of his wife, and instantly he had so vivid a presentation of her image that it obliterated all newer visual records. What a lady she looked when bidding him farewell at the station. He had watched her till the train carried him out of sight—a slender graceful figure; pale face and sad eyes; a fluttering handkerchief and a waved parasol; then nothing at all, except a sudden sense of emptiness in his heart.
And once more he mused with gratitude on the things that Mavis had done for him. He thought of how she had saved him from the ugly imaginations of his youth. How marvelously she had purified and elevated him! He used to be afraid of himself, of all the potentialities for evil that one takes with one across the threshold of manhood.
The fantastic dread which recurred to his memory now, as he turned from Dean Street into Oxford Street, had been started when he first heard the legendary tale of Hadleigh Wood. It was said that seventy or a hundred years ago some louts had caught girls bathing in the stream and violated them. The legend declared that one of the offenders was executed and the rest were sent to prison for life. Perhaps it was all a myth, but it helped to give the upper wood a bad name; and out of these fabled materials William had built his fancy—dread and desire combining—a wish that, when he pushed the branches apart, he might see a lass bathing; and a fear that he would not be able to resist an impulse to plunge into the water and carry her off. As he walked through the shade cast by summer foliage, with a hot whisper of nascent virility tormenting his senses, the fancy was almost strong enough to be a hallucination. He could imagine that he saw female garments on the bank, petticoats fallen in a circle, boots and stockings hard by; he could hear the splashing of water on the other side of the holly bushes; he could feel the weight of the nude form slung across his shoulder as he galloped into the gloom with his prey. And later, under the increasing stress of his adolescence, he used to have a dread of realities—a conviction that he could not trust himself. He thought at this period not of legends, but of facts—of things that truly happened; of the brutality of hayfields; of a man full of beer dealing roughly with a woman-laborer who unluckily came in his way alone and defenceless at nightfall.
From all this kind of vague peril his wife had saved him. When in the course of his education he read of nymphs and satyrs, and was startled by what seemed a highly elaborated version of his own crude imaginings, he had already, through the influence of Mavis, attained to states of mind that rendered such suggestions powerless to stir his pulses or warm his blood; and now, as he recognized with proud satisfaction, he had reached a stage of development wherein the improper advances of a thousand houris would evoke merely indignation and repugnance. It was not a matter that one could boast about to anybody except one's self; but he wondered if Mr. Ridgett, or several other customers who might remain nameless, could say as much.
Thanks to Mav! Yes, he ought always let himself be guided by her.
And then, by a natural transition of ideas, he thought of that other great instinct of untutored man—the fighting instinct. When a person is rising in the social scale he should learn to govern that also. Although the nobs themselves do it when pushed to it, scrapping is not respectable. It is common. Nevertheless there must be exceptions to every rule: anger when justified by its provocation is not, can not be reprehensible.
But dimly he understood that with him cerebral excitement, when it reached a certain pitch, overflowed too rapidly into action. Whereas the gentry, after their centuries of repressive training, could always control themselves. They could fight, but they could wait for the appropriate moment. If you stung them with an insult, they resolved to avenge themselves—but not necessarily then and there; and their resolve deepened in every instant of delay, so that when the fighting hour struck, their heads worked with their arms, and they fought better than the hasty peasants.
And then he thought of the various advantages still possessed by gentlefolk. How unfairly easy is the struggle of life made for them, in spite of all the talk about equality; how difficult it still is for the humbly-born, in spite of Magna Chartas, habeas corpuses, and Houses of Commons! Finishing his long ramble, he remembered the biggest and grandest gentleman of his acquaintance, and wondered bitterly if the Right Honorable Everard Barradine had done so much as to raise a little finger on his behalf.
Five days had passed, and as yet not a single official at St. Martin's-le-Grand had learnt to know him by sight. Every morning he was forced to repeat the whole process of self-introduction.
"Dale? Rodchurch, Hants. Let's see. What name did you say? Dale! Superseded—eh?"
But on the sixth morning somebody knew all about him. It was quite a superior sort of clerk, who announced that Mr. Dale and all that concerned Mr. Dale had been transferred to other hands, in another part of the building. Dale gathered that something had happened to his case; it was as though, after lying dormant so long, it had unexpectedly come to life; and in less than ten minutes he was given a definite appointment. The interview would take place at noon on the day after to-morrow.
To-day was Saturday. The long quiescent Sunday must be endured—and then he would stand in the presence of supreme authority.
By the end of that Sunday his enervation was complete. The want of exercise, the want of fresh air, the want of Mavis, had been steadily weakening him, and now his anticipations as to the morrow produced a feverish excitement.
Throughout the day he rehearsed his speeches. He was still assuming—had always taken for granted—that the personage addressed would be the Postmaster-General, and he was sure of the correct mode of address. "Your Grace, I desire to respectfully state my position."... That was the start all right; but how did it go on? Again and again, before recovering the hang of it, he was confronted with a blank wall of forgetfulness.
And there was the bold flight that he had determined on for wind-up. This had come as an inspiration, down there at Rodchurch over a fortnight ago, and had been cherished ever since. "Your Grace, taking the liberty under this head of speaking as man to man, I ask: If you had been situated as I was, wouldn't you have done as I done?" That was to be the wind-up, and it had rung in his mind like a trumpet call, bold yet irresistible—"Duke you may be, but if also a man, act as a man, and see fair play." Now, however, the prime virtue of it seemed to be lessened: it was all muddled, unstimulating, and flat of tone.
How damnable if some insane nervousness should make him mix things up! Strong as his case was, it might be spoiled by ineffective argument. But was his case strong? Again the cruel twinge of doubt.
IV
The parquetry all around the square of carpet was so smooth that Dale had slipped a foot and nearly come down when he entered the room and bowed to his judges; and now he moved with extreme caution when they told him to withdraw to the window.
There were three seated at the table, and none of the three was the Postmaster-General. Two of them were obviously bigwigs—so big, at any rate, that his fate lay in their hands; and the other one was a secretary—not the General Secretary—not even a gentleman, if one could draw any inference from his deferential tone and the casual manner in which the others addressed him. He was a sandy person—not unlike Ridgett, but rather older and much fatter.
Once a quiet young gentleman—a real gentleman, although apparently acting just as a clerk—had been in and out of the room. He had given Dale a half smile, and it had been welcome as a ray of sunlight on the darkest day of winter. Instinct told Dale that this nice young man sympathized with him, as certainly as it told him that his judges were unsympathetic.
He stood now in the deep bay window, as far as possible from the table, pretending not to listen while straining every nerve to catch the words that were being spoken over there. His blood was hurrying thickly, his heart beat laboriously, his collar stuck clammily to his perspiring neck. His sense of bodily fatigue was as great as if he had run a mile race; and yet one might say that the interview had scarcely begun. What would he be like before it was over? He summoned all his courage in order to go through with it gamely.
... "You can't have this sort of thing." The words had reached him distinctly—spoken by the one they called Sir John; and the one that Sir John called "Colonel" said with equal distinctness, "Certainly not."
Dale's heart beat more easily. As he hoped and believed, they must be talking of the soldier. Then the heart-beats came heavy again. Were they talking of him and not of the soldier? He caught a few other broken phrases of enigmatic import—such as "storm in teacup," "trouble caused," "no complaints"—and then the voices were lowered, and he heard no more of the conversation at the table.
Presently he saw that the secretary was producing a fresh file of papers, and at the same moment, quite inexplicably, his attention wandered. He had brought out a handkerchief, and while with a slow mechanical movement he rubbed the palms of his hands, he noticed and thought about the furniture and decoration of the room. Clock, map, and calendar; some busts on top of a bookless bookcase; red turkey carpet, the treacherous parquetry, and these stiff-looking chairs—really that was all. The emptiness and tidiness surprised him, and he began to wonder what the Postmaster-General's room was like. Surely there would be richer furniture and more litter of business there. Then, with a little nervous jerk, as of his internal machinery starting again after a breakdown, he felt how utterly absurd it was to be thinking about chairs and desks at such a moment. He must pull himself together, or he was going to make an ass of himself.
"Now, if you please." They were calling him to the table. He slowly marched across to them, and stood with folded hands.
"Well now, Mr. Dale." The Colonel was speaking, while Sir John read some letters handed to him by the secretary. "We have gone into this matter very carefully, and I may tell you at once that we have come to certain conclusions."
"Yes, sir." Dale found himself obliged to clear his throat before uttering the two words. His voice had grown husky since he last spoke.
"You have caused us a lot of trouble—really an immense amount of trouble."
Dale looked at the Colonel unflinchingly, and his voice was all right this time. "Trouble, sir, is a thing we can't none of us get away from—not even in private affairs, much less in public affairs."
"No; but there is what is called taking trouble, and there is what is called making trouble."
"And the best public servants, Mr. Dale"—this was Sir John, who had unexpectedly raised his eyes—"are those who take most and make least;" and he lowered his eyes and went on reading the documents.
"First," said the Colonel, "there is your correspondence with the staff at Rodhaven. Here it is. We have gone through it carefully—and there's plenty of it. Well, the plain fact is, it has not impressed us favorably—that is, so far as you are concerned."
"No, I must say that the tone of your letters does not appear to be quite what it should be."
"Indeed, sir. I thought I followed the usual forms."
"That may be. It is not the form, but the spirit. There is an arrogance—a determination not to brook censure."
"No censure was offered, sir."
"No, but your tone implied that you would not in any circumstances accept it."
"Only because I knew I hadn't merited it, sir."
"But don't you see that subordination becomes impossible when each officer—"
Sir John interrupted his colleague.
"Mr. Dale, perhaps short words will be more comprehensible to you than long ones."
Dale flushed, and spoke hurriedly.
"I'm not without education, sir—as my record shows. I won the Rowland Hill Fourth Class Annual and the Divisional Prize for English composition."
Sir John and the Colonel exchanged a significant glance; and Dale, making a clumsy bow, went on very submissively. "However you are good enough to word it, sir, I shall endeavor to understand."
"Then," said Sir John, with a sudden crispness and severity, "the opinion I have derived from the correspondence is that you were altogether too uppish. You had got too big for your boots."
"Sorry that should be your opinion, sir."
"It is the opinion of my colleague too," said Sir John sharply. "The impudence of a little Jack in office. I'm the king of the castle."
"I employed no such expression, sir."
"No, but you couldn't keep your temper in writing to your superiors, any more than you could in managing the ordinary business of your office.
"Who makes the allegation?" Unconsciously Dale had raised his voice to a high pitch. "That's what I ask. Let's have facts, not allegations, sir."
"Or," said Sir John, calmly and gravely, "any more than you can keep your temper now;" and he leaned back in his chair and looked at Dale with fixed attention.
Dale's face was red. He opened and shut his mouth as if taking gulps of air.
Sir John smiled, and continued very quietly and courteously. "You must forgive me, Mr. Dale, if by my bruskness and apparent lack of consideration I put you to a little test. But it seemed necessary. You see, as to Rodhaven, the gravamen of their charge against you—"
"Charge!" Dale's voice had dropped to a whisper. "Do they lodge a charge against me, sir—in spite of my record?"
"Their report is of course strictly confidential, and it is not perhaps my duty to inform you as to its details."
"I thought if a person's accused, he should at least know his indictment, sir."
Sir John smiled, and nudged the Colonel's elbow. "Then, Mr. Dale, it merely amounts to this. They say you are unquestionably an efficient servant, but that your efficiency—at any rate, in the position you have held of late—has been marred by what seem to be faults of temperament. They believe—and we believe—that you honestly try to do your best; but, well, you do not succeed."
"I'd be glad to know where I've failed, sir. Mr. Ridgett, he said he found everything in apple-pie order. That was Mr. Ridgett's very own word."
"Who is Mr. Ridgett?"
"Your inspector, sir—what you sent to take over."
"Ah, yes. But he no doubt referred to the office itself. What I am referring to is a much wider question—the necessity of avoiding friction with the public. We have to remember that we are the servants of the public, and not its masters. Now in country districts—You were at Portsmouth, weren't you, before you went to Rodchurch?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, of course, in the poorer parts of big towns like Portsmouth, one has rather a rough crowd to deal with; good manners may not be required; a dictatorial method is not so much resented. But in a country village, in a residential neighborhood, where high and low are accustomed to live in amity—well, I must say candidly, a postmaster who adopts bullying tactics, and is always losing his temper—"
"Sir," said Dale earnestly, "I do assure you I am not a bully, nor one who is always losing his temper."
"Yet you gave me the impression of irascibility just now, when I drew you."
Dale inwardly cursed his stupidity in having allowed himself to be drawn. He had made a mistake that might prove fatal. He felt that the whole point of the affair was being lost sight of; they seemed to have drifted away into a discussion of good and bad manners, while he wanted to get back to the great issue of right and wrong, justice or injustice. And he understood the ever-increasing danger of being condemned on the minor count, with the cause itself, the great fundamental principle, remaining unweighed.
"No one," he said, humbly but firmly, "regrets it more than I do, gentlemen, if I spoke up too hot. But, sir," and he bowed to Sir John, "you were wishing to nettle me, and there's no question that for the moment I was nettled."
All three judges smiled; and Dale, accepting the smiles as a happy augury, went on with greater confidence.
"I'm sure I apologize. And I ask you not to turn it to more than its proper consequence—or to make the conclusion that I'm that way as a rule. With all respect, I'd ask you to think that this means a great deal to me—a very great deal; and that it has dragged on until—naturally—it begins to prey on one's mind. I am like to that extent shaken and off my balance; but I beg, as no more than is due, gentlemen, that you won't take me for quite the man up here, where all's strange, to what I am down there, where I'm in my element and on my own ground. And I would further submit, under the head of all parties at Rodhaven, that there may be a bit of malice behind their report."
"What malice could there possibly be? They appear to have shown an inclination to pass over the whole matter."
"Only if I took a black mark, sir. That's where the shoe pinched with me, sir—and perhaps with them too. They mayn't have been best pleased when I asked to have your decision over theirs."
Then the Colonel spoke instead of Sir John.
"But apart from Rodhaven, we have evidence against you from the village. Your neighbors, Mr. Dale, complain more forcibly than anybody else."
"Is that so?" Dale felt as if he had received a wickedly violent blow in the dark. "Of course," and he moved his hands spasmodically—"Of course I've long expected I'd enemies." Then he snorted. "But I suppose, sir, you're alluding now to a certain Member of Parliament whose name I needn't mention."
"Yes, I allude to him, and to others—to several others."
"If some have spoken against me, there's a many more would have spoken for me."
"But they have not done so," said the Colonel dryly.
For a moment Dale's mental distress was so acute that his ideas seemed to blend in one vast confused whirl. Some answer was imperatively necessary, and no answer could evolve itself. Hesitation would be interpreted as the sign of a guilty conscience. And in this dreadful arrest of his faculties, the sense of bodily fatigue accentuated itself till it seemed that it would absolutely crush him.
"Gentlemen, as I was venturing to say—" Really the pause had been imperceptible: "From the vicar downwards, there's many would have spoke to my credit—if I'd asked them. And I did not ask them—and for why?"
"Well, why?"
"Because," said Dale, with a brave effort, "I relied implicitly on the fair play that would be meted out here. From the hour I knew I was to be heard at headquarters, I said this is now between me and headquarters, and I don't require any one—be it the highest in the land—coming between us."
"Ah, I understand," said the Colonel, with great politeness.
"Such was my confident feeling, sir—my full confidence that, having heard me, you'd bear me out as doing my duty, and no more nor no less than my duty."
Yet, even as he said so, his whole brain seemed as if fumes from some horrid corrosive acid were creeping through and through it. In truth, all his confidence had gone, and only his courage remained. These men were hostile to him; they had prejudged him; their deadly politeness and their airs of suave impartiality could not conceal their abominable intentions. He had trusted them, and they were going to show themselves unworthy of trust.
"Gentlemen," he said the word very loudly, and again there came the check to the sequence of his ideas. In another whirl of thought he remembered those courtyards at the Abbey House, the loyal service of his wife's family, the great personage who might have spoken up for him. Oh, why hadn't he allowed Mavis to write a second time imploring aid? "Gentlemen—" He echoed the word twice, and then was able to go on. "My desire has ever bin to conduct the service smooth and expeditious, and in strict accordance with the regulations—more particularly as set out in the manual, which I can truly ass-ass-assev'rate that I read more constant and careful than what I do the Bible."
He knew that the crisis was close upon him. Now or never he must speak the words that should convince and prevail; and instinct told him that he would speak in vain. Nevertheless, he succeeded in stimulating himself adequately for the last great effort. He would fight game and he would die game.
"If," he said stoutly, "I am at liberty now to make my plain statement of the facts, I do so. It was seven-thirty-five P.M. Miss Yorke was at the instrument. I was here"—and he moved a step away. "The soldier was there;" and he pointed. "The soldier began his audacity by—"
"But, good gracious," said Sir John, "you are going back to the very beginning."
"For your proper understanding," said Dale, with determination, "I must commence at the commencement. If, as promised, I am to be heard—"
"But you have been heard."
"Your pardon, sir. You have examined me, but I have made no statement."
"Oh, very well." Sir John, as well as the other two, assumed an attitude of patient boredom. "Fire ahead, then, Mr. Dale."
And, bowing, Dale plunged into his long-pondered oration. Their three faces told him that he was failing. Not a single point seemed to score. He was muddled, hopeless, but still brave. He struggled on stanchly. With a throbbing at his temples, a prickly heat on his chest, a clammy coldness in his spine—with his voice sounding harsh and querulous, or dull and faint—with the sense that all the invisible powers of evil had combined to deride, to defeat, and to destroy him—he struggled on toward the bitterly bitter end of his ordeal.
He had nearly got there, was just reaching his man-to-man finale, when the judges cut him short.
"One moment, Mr. Dale."
The nice young man had come in, and was talking both to Sir John and the Colonel.
"Thank you. Just for a moment."
Of his own accord Dale had gone back to the window.
It was all over. Never mind about the end of the speech. Nothing could have been gained by saying it. The tension of his nerves relaxed, and a wave of sick despair came rolling upward from viscera to brain. He knew now with absolute certainty that right was going to count for nothing; no justice existed in the world; these men were about to decide against him.
"Yes,"—and the young man laughed genially—"he said I was to offer his apologies."
Dale listened to the conversation at the table without attempting to understand it. Somebody, as he gathered dully, was demanding an interview. But the interruption could make no difference. It was all over.
"He said he wouldn't take 'No' for an answer."
Then they all laughed; and Sir John said to the young man, "Very well. Ask him in."
The young man went out, leaving the door open; and Dale saw that the secretary had risen and brought another chair to the table. Then footsteps sounded in the corridor, and Sir John and the Colonel smilingly turned their eyes toward the open doorway. Dale, turning his eyes in the same direction, started violently.
The newcomer was Mr. Barradine.
He shook hands with the gentlemen at the table, who had both got up to receive him; he talked to them pleasantly and chaffingly, and there was more laughter; then he nodded to Dale; then he said he was much obliged to the secretary for giving him the chair, and then he sat down.
Dale's thoughts were like those of a drowning sailor, when through the darkness and the storm he hears the voice of approaching aid. He had been going down in the deep, cruel waters, with the longed-for lights of home, the adored face of his wife, the dreaded gates of hell, all dancing wildly before his eyes—and now. Breath again, hope again, life again.
He listened, but did not trouble to understand. It was dreamlike, glorious, sublime. The illustrious visitor had alluded to the fact that Jack, the nice young man, was a connection of his; and had explained that, hearing from Jack of to-day's appointment, he determined to go right down there and beard the lions in their den. He had also spoken of a nephew of Sir John's, who was coming to have a bang at the Abbey partridges in September. He further reminded the Colonel that he did not consider himself a stranger, because they used to meet often at such and such a place. He also asked if the Colonel kept up his riding. Now, without any change of tone, he was talking of the case.
And Dale, watching, felt as if his whole heart had been melted, and as if it was streaming across the room in a warm vapor of gratitude.
"My interest," said Mr. Barradine, "is simply public spirit; although it is quite true that I know Mr. Dale personally. Indeed, he and his wife have been friends with me and my family for more years than I care to count."
Dale caught his breath and coughed. He was almost overwhelmed by the noble turn of that last phrase. Friends! Nothing more, and nothing less. Not patron and dependents, but friends.
"And, of course," Mr. Barradine was saying, "I want my friend to come out of it all right—as I honestly believe he deserves to come out of it."
Dale felt himself on the verge of breaking down and sobbing. His strength had gone long ago, and now all his courage went too. With his gratitude there mingled a cowardly joy that he had not been left to fight things out alone and be beaten, that succor had come at the supreme moment. Ardently admiring as well as fervently thanking, he watched the friend in need, the splendid ally, the only agent of Providence that could have saved him.
Who would not admire such a prince?
He was old and big, and though rather frail, yet so magnificently grand. His costume was of the plainest character—black satin neck-scarf tied negligently, with a pearl pin stuck through it anyhow, a queer sort of black pea-jacket with braid on its edges, square-toed patent-leather boots with white spats—and, nevertheless, he seemed to be dressed as sumptuously as if he had been wearing all the gold and glitter of his Privy Councilor's uniform. His face seemed to Dale like the mask of a Roman emperor—a high-bridged delicate nose, thin gray hair combed back from a low forehead, a ridge like a straight bar above the tired eyes and a puffiness of flesh below them, a moustache that showed the lose curves of the mouth, and a small pointed beard that perhaps concealed an unbeautiful protrusion of the chin. His voice, so calm, so evenly modulated, had been trained in the senate and the palace. His attitude, his manner, his freedom from gesture and emphasis, all indicated a born ruler as well as a born aristocrat. Was it likely that when he spoke he would fail?
Already he had swung the balance. Dale could see that he would not be resisted. And as the great man sat talking—chatting, one might almost term it—he seemed to be taking out of the atmosphere every element of discomfort, all the passionate excitement, the hot throbs of indignation, the cold tremors of fear. Dale felt his muscles recovering tone, his legs stiffening themselves, his blood circulating richly and freely.
"You have here," said Mr. Barradine, "a man of unblemished reputation, who, acting obviously from conscientious motives, has in the exercise of his judgment done so and so. Now, admitting for the sake of argument, that he has done wrong, are you to punish him for an error of judgment? We do not, however, admit that it was an error."...
Dale looked dogged and stern. He had been on the point of saying, "I never will admit it;" but the words would not come out. He must not interrupt. This was Heaven-sent advocacy.
Mr. Barradine went on quietly and grandly. In truth what he said now was almost what had been said by the authorities at Rodhaven—good intentions, over-zeal, a mistake, if you care to call it so;—but from these lips it fell on Dale's ear as soothing music. Mr. Barradine might say whatever he pleased: and the man he was defending would not object.
"And now if I show the edge of the little private ax that I myself have to grind!" Mr. Barradine laughed. They all laughed. "Our member—we agree in politics; but, well, you know, he and I do not altogether hit it off. We are both of us getting older than we were—and perhaps we both suffer from swollen head. It's the prevailing malady of the period."
Sir John laughed gaily. "I don't think you show any marked symptoms of it. But I can't answer for what's-his-name."
"Well;" and Mr. Barradine made his first gesture—just a wave of the right hand. "One can't have two kings at Brentford. And honestly I shall feel that you have given me a smack in the face, if—"
"Oh, my dear sir!"
Then they sent Dale out of the room. Really it seemed that they had forgotten his presence, or they might have banished him before. It was the Colonel who suddenly appeared to remember that he was still standing over there by the window.
He waited in a large empty room, and the time passed slowly. It was the luncheon hour, and far and near he heard the footsteps of clerks going to and coming from the midday meal. Bigwigs no doubt would take their luncheon privately, in small groups, here and there, all over the building. He too was getting very hungry.
An hour passed, an hour and a half, two hours; and then he was again summoned to the other room. There was no one in it except the secretary—looking hot and red after a copious repast, speaking jovially and familiarly, and seeming altogether more common and less important than when under the restraining influence of bigwigs.
"Ah, here you are." And he chuckled amicably, and gave Dale a roguish nod. "You've had your wires pulled A1 for you. It's decided to stretch a point in your favor. Not to make a secret, they don't wish to run counter to Mr. B.'s wishes. You have been lucky, Mr. Dale, in having him behind you."
Dale gulped, but did not say anything.
"Very well. I am to inform you that you will be reinstated; but—in order to allow the talk to blow over—you will not resume your duties for a fortnight. You will take a fortnight's holiday—from now—on full pay."
Dale said nothing. He could have said so much. At this moment he felt that his victory had been intrinsically a defeat. But the strength had gone from him; and in its place there was only joy—weak but immense joy in the knowledge that all had ended happily. And the world would say that he had won.
V
Outside in the streets his joy increased. Nothing had mattered. Beneath all surface sensations there was the deep fundamental rapture: as of a wild animal that has been caught, and is now loose and free—a squirrel that has escaped from the trap, and, whisking and bounding through sunlight and shadow, understands that its four paws are still under it, and that only a little of its fur is left in those iron teeth. Security after peril—articulate man or dumb brute, can one taste a fuller bliss?
But he must share and impart it. Mavis! He might not go dashing back to Hampshire—the fortnight's exile prevented him from joining her there. A broad grin spread across his face. What was that learned saying that his old schoolmaster, Mr. Fenley, used to be so fond of repeating? "If Mahomet can not go to the mountain, the mountain must come to Mahomet."
The memory of this classical quotation tickled him, and he went chuckling into the Cannon Street post office and wrote out a telegraph-form.
"Reinstatement. Come at once. Shall expect you this evening without fail."
Having sent off the telegram, he presently ordered his dinner in the grill-room of a Ludgate Hill restaurant.
"Yes, let's see your notion of a well-cooked rumpsteak. And I'll try some of the famous lager beer.... Oh, bottle or draught's all one to me;" and he snapped his fingers and laughed. "Now, sharp's the word, Mister waiter. I'm fairly famished."
The lager beer, served in a glass vase, was delicious—sunbeams distilled to make a frothing and unheady nectar. The grilled steak and the fried potatoes could not have been better done at the Buckingham Palace kitchens. Never for three weeks had food tasted like this. All had been dust and ashes in his mouth since the row began.
Then with appetite satisfied and digestion beginning, he smoked.
"If you've anything in the shape of a really good threepenny cigar, I can do with it. But don't fob me off with any poor trash. For I've my pipe in my pocket."
The waiter said he had a truly splendid threepenny; and Dale, enjoying it, talked to the waiter. He could not help talking; he could not help laughing. After so much silence it was a treat to hear the sound of his own loud, jolly voice, and he gave himself the treat freely.
"You're from the country, sir," said the waiter, politely.
"Yes, bull's eye," said Dale, with boisterous good-humor. "Hand him out a cokernut. But may I ask how you guessed my place of origin so pat?"
"Well, sir. I don't know, sir. Haven't had you here before, I think."
"Oh, you're very clever, you Londoners. I don't doubt you can all see through a brick wall. Yes, I'm from the country—but I'm beginning to know my way about the town too. Ever bin on a steamboat to Rodhaven?"
"Rodhaven? No, sir."
Then Dale told the waiter about the heaths and downs and woods that lie between Rodhaven and Old Manninglea.
"Prettiest part of the world that I know of," he said proudly. "You spend your next holiday there. Take the four-horse sharrybank from Rodhaven pier—and when you get to the Roebuck at Rodchurch, you get off of the vehicle and ask for the Postmaster."
"Yes, sir?"
"He won't eat you," and Dale laughed with intense enjoyment of his humor. "He's not a bad chap really, though his neighbors say he's a bit of a Tartar. I give you my word he'll receive you, decently, and stand you dinner into the bargain. I know he will—and for why? Because I am that gentleman myself."
He could not resist the pleasure of rounding off his sentence with the grand word "Gentleman," and he was gratified by the waiter's meekly obsequious reception of the word.
"Thank you, sir. Much obliged, sir."
When leaving, he gave the waiter a generous tip.
To-day his walk through the gaily-crowded streets was sweet to him as a lazy truant ramble in the woods during church-time. Everything that he looked at delighted him—the richness of shop-windows, showing all the expensive useless goods that no sensible person ever wants; the liveries worn by pampered servants standing at carriage wheels; the glossy coats of mettlesome, prancing horses; the extravagant dresses of fine ladies mincingly walking on the common public pavement; the stolid grandeur of huge policemen, and the infinite audacity of small newspaper boys; the life, the color, the noise. It seemed as if the busy city and the pleasure-loving West-end alike unfolded themselves as a panorama especially arranged for one's amusement; and his satisfaction was so great that it mutely expressed itself in words which he would have been quite willing to shout aloud. Such as: "Bravo, London! You aren't a bad little place when one gets to know you. There's more in you than meets the eye, first view."
And because he was so happy himself, he could sympathize with the happiness of everybody else. He was glad that the rich people were so rich and the poor people so contented; he admired a young swell for buying flowers from a woman with a shawl over her head; he mused on all the honest, well-paid toil that had gone to the raising of the grapes and peaches at a Piccadilly fruiterer's. "Live, and let live"—that's a good motto all the world over. When he saw babies in perambulators, he would have liked to kiss them. When he saw an elderly man with a pretty young woman, he wanted to nudge him and say jocosely, "You're in luck, old chap, aren't you?" When couples of boy and girl lovers went whispering by, he smiled sentimentally. "That's right. You can't begin too soon. Never mind what Ma says. If you like him, stick to him, lassie."
And though still alone, he felt no loneliness. His own dear companion was soon coming to him. Throughout the walk the only thoughts tinged with solemnity were those which sprang from his always deepening gratitude to Mr. Barradine. He wanted to pay a ceremonious call for the purpose of expressing his thanks, and he felt that he should do this immediately; but for the life of him he could not remember whether the great man's London house was situated in Grosvenor Square or Grosvenor Place. Mavis of course would know. Or he could find out from one of these policemen. He hesitated, and it was the state of his collar that decided him. He would postpone the visit of gratitude, and do it first thing to-morrow morning in a clean collar.
The hall clock at his lodgings announced the hour as close on five, and he mentally noted that the timepiece was inaccurate—three and a half minutes behind Greenwich. As usual, the hall was untenanted, with no servant to answer questions. He searched the dark recesses of a dirty letter-rack, on the chance that he might find a telegram from his wife waiting for him. Then he went gaily up the interminable staircase, making nothing now of its five flights, enjoying their steepness as productive of agreeable exercise.
"Hulloa!" he muttered. "What's this?"
A woman's hat and parasol were lying on a chair, and there was a valise on the floor by the chest of drawers. Turning, he gave a cry of delight. Mavis was stretched on the bed, fast asleep.
She woke at the sound of his voice, scrambled down, and flung herself into his arms.
"Will, oh, Will. My dearest Will!
"My darling—my little sweetheart. But how have you come to me—have you flown?"
"Don't be silly."
He was devouring her face with his kisses, straining her to his breast in a paroxysm of pleasure, almost suffocating himself and her in the ardor of the embrace, and jerking out his words as though they were gasps for breath.
"When did you get my wire? Why, it's impossible. I on'y wired two-forty-three. Is it witchcraft or just a dream?"
"Did you wire? I never got it. I was so anxious that I couldn't stay there any longer without news. So I just packed and came. Will—be sensible. Tell me everything."
"Best of news! Reinstated!" He bellowed the glad tidings over her head. She was all warm and palpitating in his arms, her dear body so delicate and fragile and yet so round and firm, her dear face soft and smooth, with lips that trembled and smelled like garden flowers.
"Did you come up by the nine o'clock train? How long have you been waiting here?"
"Oh, don't bother about me. I'm nothing. It's you I want to hear about."
Then they sat side by side on the narrow little bed, he with his arm firmly clasped round her waist, and she nestling against him with her face hidden on his breast.
"Mav, my bird, I can't never leave you again. I've bin just a lost dog without you. Did you start before you got my Sunday letter?"
"Yes."
"Every day I wrote—didn't I?—just like the old time. But I've a bone to pick with you, young lady. What d'ye mean by not writing to me more regular? Not even so much as a post-card these last three days!"
"Will—I, I couldn't. I was too anxious while it all remained in suspense."
"Yes, but you might have sent me a card. I told you cards would satisfy me. I was thinking of you off and on all yesterday. I can tell you it was just about the longest day of my life. Did you and Auntie go to church?"
"No. Oh, don't ask questions about me—when I'm dying for a full account of it."
He asked no more questions. After stooping to kiss the fragrant coil of hair above her forehead, he burst out into his joyous tale of triumph.
"It was Mr. Barradine that did the trick for me;" and with enthusiasm he narrated the gloriously opportune arrival of "the friend at court." Indeed his enthusiasm was so great that he could not keep still while speaking. He got off the bed, and walked about the room, brandishing his arms. "He's just a tip-topper. If you could have been there to hear him, you wouldn't 'a' left off crying yet. I tell you I was fairly overcome myself. It was the way he did it. 'Of course,' he said, 'I want my friend to come out of it as I honestly believe he deserves.' They couldn't stand up against him half a minute. But, mind you, Mav;" and Dale stopped moving, and spoke solemnly, "he's aged surprising these last few years. He's more feeble like than ever one would think, seeing him on his horse. I mean, his bodily frame. The int'lect's more powerful, I should make the guess, than ever it was.... And mind you, here's another thing, Mav;" and he spoke even more solemnly. "All this is going to be a lesson to me. I've worn my considering cap most of the time I've been away from you—and, Mav, I'm going to lay to heart the fruits of my experience. All's well that ends well, old lady. But once bit, twice shy; and in the future I'm going to trim my sails so's to avoid another such an upset." He came back to the bed, and sat beside her again. "I shan't be too proud to say the gray mare's the better horse when it comes to steering through the etiquette book, and I mean to mend my manners by Mav's advice."
"My dear Will—my true husband—I'm so glad to think it's ended as we wished."
Her joy in his joy was beautiful to see. Though her pretty eyes were flooded by sudden tears, her whole face was shining with happiness; and she pressed both her hands against him, and raised her lips to his lips with the rapid movements of a child that craves a caress from its loved and venerated guardian.
"There," he said, after a long hug. "Now use your hanky, and let's be jolly—and begin to enjoy ourselves. You and I are going to have the best treat this evening that London can provide. But I think that, now you've come, I'll do my duty first, and then throw myself into the pleasure without alloy. What's his address?"
"Whose address?"
"Mr. Barradine's."
"How do you mean? His address here, in London?"
Yes."
"Number 181, Grosvenor Place."
"Ah, I thought it was the Place—and yet I couldn't feel sure it wasn't the Square. Now you shall tie my tie for me."
And, getting out a new collar, he told her that he would go to thank Mr. Barradine there and then. He would be less than no time fulfilling this act of necessary politeness, and while he was away she was to see the people of the house and get a proper married couple's bedroom in lieu of this bachelor's crib. Mavis, however, thought that Dale was mistaken in supposing the ceremonious call necessary or even advisable, and she gently tried to dissuade him from carrying out his purpose. She considered that a carefully written letter would be a better method of communication to employ in thanking their grand ally. But Dale was obstinate. He said that in this one matter he knew best. It was between him and Mr. Barradine now—a case of man to man.
"He'll look for it, Mav, and would take a very poor opinion of me if I hadn't the manhood to go straight and frank, and say 'I thank you.' Trust your old William for once more, Mav;" and he laughed merrily. "I tell you what I felt I wanted to do at the G.P.O. was a leaf out of the Roman history—that is, to kneel down to him and say, 'Put your hand on William Dale's head, sir, for sign and token, and take his service from this day forward as your bondsman and your slave.' But I shan't say that;" and again he laughed. "I shall simply say, 'Mr. Barradine, sir, I thank you for what you've done for me and for the kind and open way you done it.' So much he will expect, and the rest he will understand."
He was equally determined to despatch a telegram giving the good news to Mrs. Petherick at North Ride Cottage, and he became almost huffy when Mavis again suggested that a letter would meet the case.
"I don't understand you, Mav. You seem now as if you were for belittling everything. I'm not going to spare sixpence to keep your aunt on tenterhooks for course of post."
Mr. Barradine's town mansion stood in a commanding corner position, with its front door in the side street; and from the glimpse that Dale obtained of its hall, its staircase, and its vast depth, he judged that it was quite worthy of the owner of that noble countryseat, the Abbey House.
The servants were at first doubtful as to the propriety of admitting him. They said their master was at home, but they did not know if he could receive visitors.
"He won't refuse to see me," said Dale confidently. "Tell him it's Mr. Dale of Rodchurch, and won't detain him two minutes."
"Very good," said the principal servant gravely. "But I can't disturb him if he's resting."
"Oh, if he's resting," said Dale, "I'll wait. I'll make my time his time—whether convenient to me or not." Then they led him down a passage, past a cloak-room and a lavatory, to a small room right at the back of the house.
Perhaps the room seemed small only by reason of its great height. Dale, waiting patiently, examined his surroundings with curious interest. There were two old-fashioned writing-tables—one looking as if it was never used, and the other looking busy and homelike, with a cabinet full of every conceivable sort of notepaper, trays full of pens, and little candles to be lighted when one desired to affix seals. On a roundabout conveniently near there were books of reference that included the current volume of the London Post Office Directory. The sofas and chairs were upholstered in dark green leather, the chimney-piece was of carved marble, a few ancient and rather dismal pictures hung almost out of sight on the walls; and generally, the room would have produced an impression of a repellent and ungenial kind of pomp, if it had not been for the extremely human note struck by the large assortment of photographs.
These were dabbed about everywhere—in panels above the chair rail, in screens and silver frames, on the writing-table, and loose and unframed on the mantel-shelf. They were nearly all portraits of women—and some nice attractive bits among them, as Dale thought; young and cheeky ones, too, that he guessed were actresses and not nieces or cousins. He smiled tolerantly. These photographs brought to his mind a nearly forgotten fancy of his own, together with echoes of the local gossip. Round Rodchurch the talk ran that the Right Honorable gentleman was still a rare one for the ladies. "And why not?" thought Dale. A childless old widower may keep up that sort of game as long as he likes, or as long as he can, without wounding any one's feeling. It wasn't as if her ladyship had been still alive.
"Sir, I hope I have not disturbed you; but I couldn't be easy till I'd cordially and heartily thanked you." Mr. Barradine had come in, and Dale fired off his brief set speeches. But instinct almost immediately told him that once more Mavis had been right and he wrong. Mr. Barradine was not expecting or desiring a personal call.
"Not worth mentioning. Nothing at all." He said these things courteously, but there was a coldness in his tone that quite froze the visitor. He seemed to be saying really: "Now look here, I have had quite enough bother about you; and please don't let me have any more of it."
"Then, sir, I thank you—and—er—that's all."
"Very glad if—" Mr. Barradine made the same gesture that Dale had seen a few hours ago: a wave of the right hand. But to Dale it seemed that it was different now, that it indicated languor and haughtiness; indeed, it seemed that the whole man was different. Could this be the advocate who had spoken up so freely for a friend in trouble? All the majesty and the force, as well as the generous friendliness, had disappeared. The face, the voice, the whole bearing belonged to another man. The tired eyes had not a spark of fire in them; those puffy bags of loose flesh, that hung between the outer corners of the cheekbones and the thin birdlike nose, were so ugly as to be disfiguring; the mouth, instead of looking soft and kind, although proud, now appeared to close in the unbending lines of a very obdurate self-esteem. This new aspect of his patron made Dale stammer uncomfortably; and he felt something akin to humiliation in lieu of the fine glow of gratitude with which he had come hurrying from the Euston Road.
"Then my duty—and my thanks—and I'll say good afternoon, sir."
He had pulled himself together and spoken these last words ringingly, and now grasping Mr. Barradine's hand he gave it a mercilessly severe squeeze.
"Damnation!" Under the horny grip, Mr. Barradine emitted a squeal of pain. "Confound it—my good fellow—why the deuce can't you be careful what you're doing?"
Mr. Barradine, very angry, was ruefully examining his hand; and Dale, apologizing profusely, stared at it too. It was limp in texture, yellowish white of color, with bluish swollen veins, some darkish brown patches here and there, and slight glistening protuberances at the knuckle joints-an old man's hand, so feeble that it could not bear the least pressure, and yet decorated with a young man's fopperies. Dale noticed the three rings on the little finger-one of gold, one of silver, one of black metal, each with tiny colored gems in it—and while heartily ashamed of his rustic violence, he felt a secret contempt for its victim.
"That's all right." Mr. Barradine, although still wincing, had recovered composure, and what he said now appeared to be an implied excuse for the sharpness of his protest. "When you get to my time of life, you'll perhaps know what gout means."
"Sorry you should be afflicted that way, sir," said Dale contritely.
Mr. Barradine had rung a bell, and a servant was standing at the door.
"Good day to you, Mr. Dale. You're going home, I suppose?"
"Not for a fortnight, sir."
"Ah! I hope to return to the Abbey on Thursday morning;" and quite obviously Mr. Barradine now intended to gratify Dale by a few polite sentences of small talk, and thus show him that his offense had been pardoned. "Yes, I soon begin to pine for my garden. Friday, at latest, sees me home again. I always call the Abbey home. No place like home, Dale."
Dale going out, through the long passage to the hall, felt momentarily depressed by a sense of humiliating failure in the midst of his apparent success. If only he could have fought them and beaten them alone, as a strong man fighting unaided, instead of being pulled through the battle by that veinous, blotchy, ringed hand! However, he promptly tried to banish all such vague discomfort from his mind.
All of it was gone when he got back to the lodging-house, and found his wife established in their new room.
VI
"The Acadia Theater! So be it. They're all one to me."
Mavis had chosen this famous music hall because, as she explained, Chirgwin was performing at it, and her aunt had always said that Chirgwin was the most excruciatingly funny of all music-hall artists.
"So be it. Half a minute, though." Dale counting his money, dolefully discovered that it had run very low indeed. "I begin to think we shall have to cut down our treat a bit."
But Mavis swept away all difficulties. She had brought money—her very own money—her little emergency hoard; and opening her handbag, and tumbling inside it, she produced a five-pound note, and smilingly put it on the dressing-table.
"Hulloa! There's more where that comes from." His quick ear had caught the rustling sound inside the handbag. "There's other notes in there, old lady;" and, laughing, he tried to snatch the bag from her. "How much? Here's a miser, and no mistake."
"Never you mind how much your miser's got." Her lips were smiling, her eyes shining, and with a happy laugh she sprang away from him. "Now, no nonsense. Take me out, and make a fuss of me."
For a moment he stood still, admiring her. She was dressed in her very best Sunday clothes, and, to his eye at least, she looked quite entrancingly nice. Her straw hat was full of artificial roses that any one might have sworn were real; her unbuttoned jacket disclosed the delicate finery of a muslin blouse; her long skirt, held up so gracefully by the unoccupied hand, was made of veritable silk. She just looked tip-top—a picture—to the full as much a lady as the young dames he had been lately observing; and yet, wonder of wonders, she was his property.
"By Jupiter, I must have another hug—and then off we go."
"No," she said archly, and yet decidedly. "No more kisses till bedtime. I'm all ready to show myself to company, and I don't wish to be rumpled."
They rode like a gentleman and a lady in a hansom cab; they dined like a duke and a duchess at the Criterion restaurant; and they were both as happy and light-hearted as schoolboys on the first day of their holidays. Like children they made silly little jokes which would have been jokes to no one but themselves. He caused immoderate laughter in her by assuming the airs of a man about town, by affecting a profound knowledge of the French names for all the dishes on the table d'hote menu, and by describing how offended he would now be if any one should detect that he was not a regular London swell; and she, by whispered criticism of a stout party at a distant table, sent such a convulsion of mirth through him that he choked badly while drinking wine. He had insisted on ordering the wine, and in making Mav take her share of it, although she vowed that the unaccustomed stimulant would fly to her head.
"Rot, old girl. You dip your beak in it—it's mostly froth and fizz, and no more strength than the lager beer, as far as I can make out."
"How much does it cost?"
"Shan't tell. Yes, I will," and he roared with laughter, "since it's you that's paying for it. Best part of seven shillings."
"Oh, Will, it's wicked!"
"Bosh! This is the time of our lives;" and he chaffed her again about being a secret capitalist. "Blow the expense. Let the money fly. And, Mav, I on'y borrow it. This is all my affair really."
"No, no. You'll spoil half my pleasure if you don't let me pay."
But his money or her money—what did it matter? They two were one, reunited after a cruel, most bitterly cruel separation; her face was flushed with joy more than with wine, and her love poured out of her eyes like a stream of light.
They walked from the restaurant to Leicester Square, arm in arm, proud and joyous, enjoying the lamplight and noise, not minding the airless heat; but when they reached the entrance of the music hall—where he had stood gaping, solitary and sad, a few nights ago—Mavis met with disappointment.
"Oh," she said, "what a shame! They've changed the bill. Chirgwin's name is gone. He was acting here Friday night."
"How d'you know that?"
She followed him into the vestibule, and he asked her again while they waited in the crowd by the ticket office.
"I read it in the paper. Aunt and I were talking of him; and I—I had the curiosity to look at the advertisements—not dreaming that I should come so near seeing him."
"Never mind," cried Dale, in his jovial, far-carrying voice; "there'll be a many as good as him."
"Hush," she whispered. "If you talk like that, they'll know we come from the country;" and she squeezed his arm affectionately. "I don't mind a bit, dear—but there's no one so clever as Chirgwin. Really there isn't."
She at once forgot her trifling disappointment. Placed side by side in extravagantly expensive seats of the stately circle, surrounded by ladies and gentlemen in evening dress, they both gave themselves wholly to the pleasure of this unparalleled treat. All the early items of a long program astounded or charmed him; and her enjoyment was enhanced by recognizing how completely he had thrown off the narrowness or prejudice of village life. Listening to his laughter at almost indecent jokes, his ejaculations of wonder when conjurers showed their skill, his enthusiastic clappings after acrobats had proved their strength, she understood that all his natural sternness was temporarily relaxed; he would not allow himself to be disturbed by any semi-religious notions of propriety or impropriety; he was just a jolly comrade for an evening's sport.
"Brayvo! Brayvo! By Jupiter—wouldn't 'a' credited it without the evidence of my own eyes." The gorgeous curtains had just descended upon a narrow parlor, which a Japanese necromancer had literally filled to overflowing with colored cardboard boxes produced from the interior of one single top hat. "See! Watch 'em, Mav." Footmen were coming in front of the curtains to remove the plethora of cardboard boxes. "They're real boxes, Mav."
Sweet music, happy laughter, brilliant light—the evening glided entrancingly, like a dream in which neither Greenwich nor any other time is kept.
During the interval before the ballet he took her out of the circle, strolled with her up and down the promenade, and gave her an American drink in a refreshment saloon. It was appallingly hot, and they were both longing to quench their thirst with something big and cold. A magnificent waiter brought them bigness and coldness in tall tumblers with straws, and they sat on a velvet divan and sucked rapturously.
Standing or seated at tables, there were young bloods with white waistcoats and cigarettes, and young ladies with rich gowns and made-up faces; through a gilded doorway one had a vista of the thronged promenade; the air was hot, exhausted, pungent with tobacco smoke; and amid the chatter of voices, the clink of glasses, the rustle of petticoats, one could only just hear the great orchestra playing chords of some fantastic march.
Suddenly Mavis felt a vaguely pleasant confusion of mind, as though the icily cold liquid, as she slowly absorbed it through the straw, was freezing her intelligence. She could not for a few moments understand what Dale was whispering at her ear.
"Between you and me and the post, Mav"—And he told her that, according to his opinion, all these women parading up and down were no better than they ought to be. They were of course, socially, much higher than the common women of the streets, but he considered them to be, morally, on the same level: although they did not accost strangers, they were all willing to scrape acquaintance with any one who looked as if he had money in his pocket. "Yes, London's a bit of an eye-opener, old girl." Then he laughed behind his hand, and said that she was probably the only respectable woman and virtuous wife in the whole of the theater.
Mavis, although trying to listen, answered at random.
"Will, I do believe there's spirits in this stuff—yes, and strong spirits too."
"Oh, bosh. It's just a refresher. Mostly crushed ice, and a few drops of sirup."
Mavis, however, was quite correct. At the bottom of the glass, and below the light sirupy mixture, there lurked liqueurs of which the potency was only rendered doubtful because of their low temperature. The beginning of the long drink was absolutely delicious, so soothing and so cooling; but at the end of it was as if one had filled one's self with insidious quick-running flame.
Mavis put down her empty tumbler, and looked at it reproachfully.
"Will, it has made me come over all funny. My head's swimming."
When they got back to their seats and were watching the ballet, he too felt the consequences of guileless straw-sucking; but with him the after effects were entirely pleasurable. He felt invigorated, peaceful, massively grand.
He sat placidly enjoying the beauty of the scene, the grace of the dancers, the vibrations of the music. The stage was dark at first, and one could merely make out that it pictured a wildly-imagined grove in the land of dreams; then it grew brighter, and one saw preposterous giant-flowers—foxgloves so big that when they opened there was a human face in each quivering bell. And the flowers came out of the earth and danced; children dressed up as birds, brown boys like beetles, slim girls like butterflies, all came dancing, dancing; with more light every moment, till the dazzle and the blaze seemed to drive away the little people;—and then quite glorious forms appeared, pirouetting, almost flying—pink-limbed houris, fairies, nymphs—"call 'em what you please—a fair knock-out."
"It makes me go round and round," whispered Mavis.
He sat grave and silent—just nodding his head in approval of all he saw, not troubling to applaud any further, impassive as some Eastern sultan for whom slaves and courtiers had made a mask.
Then gradually his mind seemed half to detach itself from the thraldom of external objects. These novel sense impressions, pouring into him, joined themselves to old memories, and, mingling, made up a fuller stream of joy. He seemed to be able to think of five or six things at once; but, as the undercurrent of every thought, there was the same deep-flowing comfort, of which the source lay in his relief at the escape from danger. Those fairies flashing about under the branches of sham trees momentarily evoked the ancient haunting distress of his youth, and out of this thought came the lofty conception of Mavis as his guardian angel. How persistently the first of those fancies lingered—after so many years! Bother the fairies or nymphs, or whatever they were. Household angels are what a man wants to bring him contentment; and keep him straight, day by day, and week by week.
Before the ballet was over, he became bored with it. Too long! Enough is as good as a feast. They were singing now as well as dancing.
The massive, voluminously quiescent sensation induced by the liqueurs had passed away, and in its place came increased weariness of the spectacular entertainment. The light, and the music, and the half-naked women, who still danced and pranced, were affecting his nerves unpleasantly now. He looked away from the stage, and stared at the audience. Behind him, as he knew, there were all those hussies with painted faces offering themselves for hire. And wherever he looked, he seemed to see evidences of amorous traffic. When you examined it attentively, the entire audience seemed to resolve itself into an endless repetition of the same small group of two persons of two sexes, each soliciting the other's favor; a man and a woman sitting close together, the couple, the factorial two—everywhere, all round the circle, along the three visible rows of stalls, and again in the private boxes. Those wealthy men in the boxes were unquestionably accompanied by their mistresses and not by their wives or sisters. Through the vibrating music and the super-heated atmosphere, on a river of vivid light, they were all drifting fast toward the night of love that each pair had arranged for itself.
And they too would have their night of love. He looked at his wife, and felt his pulses stirred as much now as in the far-off days of courtship—more, because then there was no experience of facts to strengthen his imagination. He gently pressed her arm, and thrilled at the mere contact. She was leaning back, fanning herself with her program, and he observed the roundness and whiteness of her neck, the flesh of her shoulder showing through the transparent sleeve of her blouse, the moistness and warmth of her open lips.
Yet she had told him at Rodchurch Road Station that she was attractive only to his eyes, and that she could never again arouse desire in other men. What utter nonsense! She was simply adorable.