CHAPTER XIII
THE FEAST OF ST JOHN BAPTIST
“AS there’s a heaven above us,” wrote Lynborough that same night – having been, one would fain hope, telepathically conscious of the hand-kissing by the red lips, of the softly breathed “To-morrow!” (for if he were not, what becomes of Love’s Magic?) – “As there’s a heaven above us, I have succeeded! Her answer is more than a consent – it’s an appreciation. The rogue knew how she stood: she is haughtily, daintily grateful. Does she know how near she drove me to the abominable thing? Almost had I – I, Ambrose Caverly – issued a writ! I should never, in all my life, have got over the feeling of being a bailiff! She has saved me by the rightness of her taste. ‘Knightly’ she called it to old Cromlech. Well, that was in the blood – it had been my own fault if I had lost it, no credit of mine if to some measure I have it still. But to find the recognition! I have lit up the countryside to-night to celebrate that rare discovery.
“Rare – yes – yet not doubted. I knew it of her. I believe that I have broken all records – since the Renaissance at least. Love at first sight! Where’s the merit in that? Given the sight be fine enough (a thing that I pray may not admit of doubt in the case of Helena), it is no exploit; it is rather to suffer the inevitable than to achieve the great. But unless the sight of a figure a hundred yards away – and of a back fifty – is to count against me as a practical inspection, I am so supremely lucky as never to have seen her! I have made her for myself – a few tags of description, a noting of the effect on Roger and on Cromlech, mildly (and very unimaginatively) aided my work, I admit – but for the most part, and in all essentials, she, as I love her (for of course I love her, or no amount of Feasts of St John Baptist should have moved me from my path – take that for literal or for metaphorical as ye will!) – is of my own craftsmanship – work of my heart and brain, wrought just as I would have her – as I knew, through all delightful wanderings, that some day she must come to me.
“Think then of my mood for to-morrow! With what feelings do I ring the bell (unless perchance it be a knocker)! With what sensations accost the butler! With what emotions enter the presence! Because if by chance I am wrong – ! Upon which awful doubt arises the question whether, if I be wrong, I can go back. I am plaguily the slave of putting the thing as prettily as it can be put (Thanks, Cromlech, for giving me the adverb – not so bad a touch for a Man of Tombs!), and, on my soul, I have put that homage of mine so prettily that one who was prudent would have addressed it to none other than a married lady —vivente marito, be it understood. But from my goddess her mortal mate is gone – and to explain – nay, not to explain (which would indeed tax every grace of style) – but to let it appear that the homage lingers, abides, and is confined within the letter of the bond – that would seem scarce ‘knightly.’ Therefore, being (as all tell me) more of a fool than most men, and (as I soberly hope) not less of a gentleman, I stand thus. I love the Image I have made out of dim distant sight, prosaic shreds of catalogued description, a vividly creating mind, and – to be candid – the absolute necessity of amusing myself in the country. But the Woman I am to see to-morrow? Is she the Image? I shall know in the first moment of our encounter. If she is, all is well for me – for her it will be just a question of her dower of heavenly venturousness. If she is not – in my humble judgment, you, Ambrose Caverly, having put the thing with so excessive a prettiness, shall for your art’s sake perish – you must, in short, if you would end this thing in the manner (creditable to yourself, Ambrose!) in which it has hitherto been conducted, willy-nilly, hot or cold, confirmed in divine dreams or slapped in the face by disenchanting fact – within a brief space of time, propose marriage to this lady. If there be any other course, the gods send me scent of it this night! But if she should refuse? Reckon not on that. For the more she fall short of her Image, the more will she grasp at an outward showing of triumph – and the greatest outward triumph would not be in refusal.
“In my human weakness I wish that – just for once – I had seen her! But in the strong spirit of the wine of life – whereof I have been and am an inveterate and most incurable bibber – I rejoice in that wonderful moment of mine to-morrow – when the door of the shrine opens, and I see the goddess before whom my offering must be laid. Be she giant or dwarf, be she black or white, have she hair or none – by the powers, if she wears a sack only, and is well advised to stick close to that, lest casting it should be a change for the worse – in any event the offering must be made. Even so the Prince in the tales, making his vows to the Beast and not yet knowing if his spell shall transform it to the Beauty! In my stronger moments, so would I have it. Years of life shall I live in that moment to-morrow! If it end ill, no human being but myself shall know. If it end well, the world is not great enough to hold, nor the music of its spheres melodious enough to sound, my triumph!”
It will be observed that Lord Lynborough, though indeed no novice in the cruel and tender passion, was appreciably excited on the Eve of the Feast of St John Baptist. In view of so handsome a response, the Marchesa’s kiss of the hand and her murmured “To-morrow” may pass excused of forwardness.
It was, nevertheless, a gentleman to all seeming most cool and calm who presented himself at the doors of Nab Grange at eleven fifty-five the next morning. His Ambassadors had come in magnificence; humbly he walked – and not by Beach Path, since his homage was not yet paid – but round by the far-stretching road and up the main avenue most decorously. Stabb and Roger had cut across by the path – holding the Marchesa’s leave and licence so to do – and had joined an excited group which sat on chairs under sheltering trees.
“I wish she hadn’t made the audience private!” said Norah Mountliffey.
“If ever a keyhole were justifiable – ” sighed Violet Dufaure.
“My dear, I’d box your ears myself,” Miss Gilletson brusquely interrupted.
The Marchesa sat in a high arm-chair, upholstered in tarnished fading gold. The sun from the window shone on her hair; her face was half in shadow. She rested her head on her left hand; the right lay on her knee. It was stripped of any ring – unadorned white. Her cheeks were pale – the olive reigned unchallenged; her lips were set tight, her eyes downcast. She made no movement when Lord Lynborough entered.
He bowed low, but said nothing. He stood opposite to her some two yards away. The clock ticked. It wanted still a minute before noon struck. That was the minute of which Lynborough had raved and dreamed the night before. He had the fruit of it in full measure.
The first stroke of twelve rang silvery from the clock. Lynborough advanced and fell upon his knee. She did not lift her eyes, but slowly raised her hand from her knee. He placed his hand under it, pressing it a little upwards and bowing his head to meet it half-way in its ascent. She felt his lips lightly brush the skin. His homage for Beach Path and his right therein was duly paid.
Slowly he rose to his feet; slowly her eyes turned upwards to his face. It was ablaze with a great triumph; the fire seemed to spread to her cheeks.
“It’s better than I dreamed or hoped,” he murmured.
“What? To have peace between us? Yes, it’s good.”
“I have never seen your face before.” She made no answer. “Nor you mine?” he asked.
“Once on Sandy Nab you passed by me. You didn’t notice me – but, yes, I saw you.” Her eyes were steadily on him now; the flush had ceased to deepen, nay, had receded, but abode still, tingeing the olive of her cheeks.
“I have rendered my homage,” he said.
“It is accepted.” Suddenly tears sprang to her eyes. “And you might have been so cruel to me!” she whispered.
“To you? To you who carry the power of a world in your face?”
The Marchesa was confused – as was, perhaps, hardly unnatural.
“There are other things, besides gates and walls, and Norah’s head, that you jump over, Lord Lynborough.”
“I lived a life while I stood waiting for the clock to strike. I have tried for life before – in that minute I found it.” He seemed suddenly to awake as though from a dream. “But I beg your pardon. I have paid my dues. The bond gives me no right to linger.”
She rose with a light laugh – yet it sounded nervous. “Is it good-bye till next St John Baptist’s day?”
“You would see me walking on Beach Path day by day.”
“I never call it Beach Path.”
“May it now be called – Helena’s?”
“Or will you stay and lunch with me to-day? And you might even pay homage again – say to-morrow – or – or some day in the week.”
“Lunch, most certainly. That commits me to nothing. Homage, Marchesa, is quite another matter.”
“Your chivalry is turning to bargaining, Lord Lynborough.”
“It was never anything else,” he answered. “Homage is rendered in payment – that’s why one says ‘Whereas.’ ” His keen eager eyes of hazel raised once more the flood of subdued crimson in her face. “For every recognition of a right of mine, I will pay you homage according to the form prescribed for St John Baptist’s Feast.”
“Of what other rights do you ask recognition?”
“There might be the right of welcoming you at Scarsmoor to-morrow?”
She made him a little curtsey. “It is accorded – on the prescribed terms, my lord.”
“That will do for the twenty-fifth. There might be the right of escorting you home from Scarsmoor by the path called – Helena’s?”
“On the prescribed terms it is your lordship’s.”
“What then of the right to see you daily, and day by day?”
“If your leisure serves, my lord, I will endeavour to adjust mine – so long as we both remain at Fillby. But so that the homage is paid!”
“But if you go away?”
“I’m bound to tell you of my whereabouts only on St John Baptist’s Feast.”
“The right to know it on other days – would that be recognised in return for a homage, Marchesa?”
“One homage for so many letters?”
“I had sooner there were no letters – and daily homages.”
“You take too many obligations – and too lightly.”
“For every one I gain the recognition of a right.”
“The richer you grow in rights then, the harder you must work!”
“I would have so many rights accorded me as to be no better than a slave!” cried Lynborough. “Yet, if I have not one, still I have nothing.”
She spoke no word, but looked at him long and searchingly. She was not nervous now, but proud. Her look bade him weigh words; they had passed beyond the borders of merriment, beyond the bandying of challenges. Yet her eyes carried no prohibition; it was a warning only. She interposed no conventional check, no plea for time. She laid on him the responsibility for his speech; let him remember that he owed her homage.
They grew curious and restless on the lawn; the private audience lasted long, the homage took much time in paying.
“A marvellous thing has come to me,” said Lynborough, speaking slower than his wont, “and with it a great courage. I have seen my dream. This morning I came here not knowing whether I should see it. I don’t speak of the face of my dream-image only, though I could speak till next St John’s Day upon that. I speak to a soul. I think our souls have known one another longer, ay, and better than our faces.”
“Yes, I think it is so,” she said quietly. “Yet who can tell so soon?”
“There’s a great gladness upon me because my dream came true.”
“Who can tell so soon?” she asked again. “It’s strange to speak of it.”
“It may be that some day – yes, some day soon – in return for the homage of my lips on your hand, I would ask the recognition of my lips’ right on your cheek.”
She came up to him and laid her hand on his arm. “Suffer me a little while, my lord,” she said. “You’ve swept into my life like a whirlwind; you would carry me by assault as though I were a rebellious city. Am I to be won before ever I am wooed?”
“You sha’n’t lack wooing,” he said quickly. “Yet haven’t I wooed you already – as well in my quarrel as in my homage, in our strife as in the end of it?”
“I think so, yes. Yet suffer me a little still.”
“If you doubt – ” he cried.
“I don’t think I doubt. I linger.” She gave her hand into his. “It’s strange, but I cannot doubt.”
Lynborough sank again upon his knee and paid his homage. As he rose, she bent ever so slightly towards him; delicately he kissed her cheek.
“I pray you,” she whispered, “use gently what you took with that.”
“Here’s a heart to my heart, and a spirit to my spirit – and a glad venture to us both!”
“Come on to the lawn now, but tell them nothing.”
“Save that I have paid my homage, and received the recognition of my right?”
“That, if you will – and that your path is to be – henceforward – Helena’s.”
“I hope to have no need to travel far on the Feast of St John!” cried Lynborough.
They went out on the lawn. Nothing was asked, and nothing told, that day. In truth there appeared to be no need. For it seems as though Love were not always invisible, nor the twang of his bow so faint as to elude the ear. With joyous blood his glad wounds are red, and who will may tell the sufferers. Sympathy too lends insight; your fellow-sufferer knows your plight first. There were fellow-sufferers on the lawn that day – to whom, as to all good lovers, here’s Godspeed!
She went with him in the afternoon through the gardens, over the sunk fence, across the meadows, till they came to the path. On it they walked together.
“So is your right recognised, my lord,” she said.
“We will walk together on Helena’s Path,” he answered, “until it leads us – still together – to the Boundless Sea.”
MRS THISTLETON’S PRINCESS
I
THE Great Ones of the Earth do not come our way much down at Southam Parva. Our Member’s wife is an “Honourable,” and most of us, in referring to her, make express mention of that rank; moreover she comes very seldom. In the main our lot lies among the undistinguished, and our table of precedence is employed in determining the dividing lines between “Esquire,” “Mr,” and plain “John Jones” – a humble, though no doubt a subtle, inquiry into the gradations of Society. So I must confess to feeling a thrill when I read Mrs Thistleton’s invitation to dinner at the Manor. Thistleton is lord of the manor – by purchase, not by inheritance – and lives in the old house, proceeding every day to town, where he has a fine practice as a solicitor (Bowes, Thistleton, & Kent) in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Mrs Thistleton and the children (there are eight, ranging from Tom, nineteen, to Molly, seven, so that the practice needs to be fine), are, however, quite country folk. Indeed, Mrs Thistleton comes of a county family – in a county situated, I must not say judiciously but perhaps luckily, at the other end of England from ours; distance prevents cavil in such matters, and, practically speaking, Mrs Thistleton can say what she pleases about her parental stock, besides exhibiting some highly respectable coat-of-armoured silver to back her discreet vaunts. Mrs Thistleton is always discreet; indeed, she is, in my opinion, a woman of considerable talent, and the way in which she dealt with the Princess – with the problem of the Princess – confirmed the idea I had of her.
The mention of the Princess brings me back to the card of invitation, though I must add, in a minor digression, that the Thistletons are the only people in Southam Parva who employ printed cards of invitation – the rest of us would not get through a hundred in a lifetime, and therefore write notes. The invitation card, then, sent to me by Mrs Thistleton was headed as follows: – “To have the honour of meeting Her Royal Highness the Princess Vera of Boravia.” Subsequent knowledge taught me that the “Royal” was an embellishment of Mrs Thistleton’s – justifiable for aught I know, since the Princess had legitimate pretensions to the throne, though her immediate line was not at this time in occupation of it – but never employed by the Princess herself. However, I think Mrs Thistleton was quite right to do the thing handsomely, and I should have gone even without the “Royal,” so there was no real deception. All of us who were invited went: the Rector and his wife, the Doctor and his wife, old Mrs Marsfold (the Major-General had, unfortunately, died the year before), Miss Dunlop (of the Elms), and Charley Miles (of the Stock Exchange).
From what I have said already it will be evident that I am no authority, yet I feel safe in declaring that never was etiquette more elaborately observed at any party – I don’t care where. One of Thistleton’s clients was old Lord Ogleferry, and at Lord Ogleferry’s he had once met a real princess (I apologise to Princess Vera for stumbling, in my insular way, into this invidious distinction, but, after all, Boravia is not a first-class Power). Everything that Lord and Lady Ogleferry had done and caused to be done for the real – the British – princess, Thistleton and Mrs Thistleton did and caused to be done for Princess Vera; uncomfortable things some of them seemed to me to be, but Thistleton, over the wine after dinner, told us that they were perfectly correct. He also threw light on the Princess’s visit. She had come to him as a client, wishing him to recover for her, not, as Charley Miles flippantly whispered to me, the throne of Boravia by force of arms, but a considerable private fortune at present impounded – or sequestrated, as Thistleton preferred to call it – by the de facto monarch of Boravia. “It’s the case of the Orleans Princes over again,” Thistleton observed, as he plied a dignified toothpick in such decent obscurity as his napkin afforded. This parallel with the Orleans Princes impressed us much – without, perhaps, illuminating all of us in an equal degree; and we felt that Charley betrayed a mercantile attitude of mind when he asked briefly —
“What’s the figure?”
“Upwards of two million francs,” answered Thistleton.
I think we all wished we had pencil and paper; the Rector scribbled on the menu – I saw him do it – and got the translation approximately accurate. Imagination was left to play with the “upwards.”
“How much would you take for it – cash?” asked sceptical Charley.
“The matter is hardly as simple as that,” said Thistleton, with a slight frown; and he added gravely: “We mustn’t stay here any longer.”
So we went upstairs, where Her Royal Highness sat in state, and we all had a word with her. She spoke just a little English, with a pretty, outlandish accent, but was not at all at home in the language. When my turn came – and it came last – I ventured to reply to her first question in French, which I daresay was a gross breach of etiquette. None the less, she was visibly relieved; indeed she smiled for the first time and chatted away for a few minutes quite merrily. Then Thistleton terminated my audience. He used precisely this expression. “I’m afraid I must terminate your audience,” he said. Against any less impressive formula I might have rebelled; because I liked the Princess.
And what was she like? Very small, very slight, about half the size of bouncing Bessie Thistleton, though Bessie was not yet seventeen, and the Princess, as I suppose, nineteen or twenty. Her face was pale, rather thin, a pretty oval in shape; her nose was a trifle turned up, she had plentiful black hair and large dark eyes. In fact, she was a pretty timid little lady, sadly frightened of us all, and most of all of Mrs Thistleton. I don’t wonder at that; I’m rather frightened of Mrs Thistleton myself.
Before I went, I tried to get some more information out of my hostess, but mystery reigned. Mrs Thistleton would not tell me how the Princess had come to put her affairs in Thistleton’s hands, who had sent her to him, or how he was supposed to be going to get two million francs out of the de facto King of Boravia. All she said was that Her Royal Highness had graciously consented to pay them a visit of a very few days.
“Very few days indeed,” she repeated impressively.
“Of course,” I nodded with a sagacious air. Probably Her Royal Highness was due at Windsor the day after to-morrow; at any rate, that was the sort of impression Mrs Thistleton gave.
“I wonder if the money’s genuine!” said Charley Miles as we walked home.
“Is she genuine herself?” I asked.
“Well, there’s a girl corresponding to her description, anyhow. I went to the club to-day and looked her up. Ought to be Queen, too, if she ’ad ’er rights. (Here he was quoting). Oh yes, she’s all correct. But I wouldn’t care to say as much for the fortune. Wonder if old Thistleton’s taken it up on commission!”
“I hope she’ll get it. I liked the little thing, didn’t you, Charley?”
He cocked his hat rather more on one side and smiled; he is a good-natured young man, and no fool in his own business. “Yes, I did,” he answered. “And what the dickens must she have thought of us?”
I couldn’t reply to that, though I entertained the private opinion that I, at least, had made a good impression.
So much for the introduction of the Princess. And now comes, of necessity, a gap in my story; for the next day I went to Switzerland on my annual holiday, and was absent from Southam Parva for two full months. Not seeing the English papers during most of that period, I was unable to learn whether Her Royal Highness Princess Vera of Boravia had proceeded from the Manor House, Southam Parva, to the Castle, Windsor, or anywhere else.