He walked at a great pace--to keep thought away--till he reached the river close to Westminster, and, moved by sudden impulse, seeking perhaps an antidote, turned down into that little street under the big Wren church, where he had never been since the summer night when he lost what was then more to him than life.There SHEhad lived; there was the house--those windows which he had stolen past and gazed at with such distress and longing.Who lived there now? Once more he seemed to see that face out of the past, the dark hair, and dark soft eyes, and sweet gravity; and it did not reproach him.For this new feeling was not a love like that had been.Only once could a man feel the love that passed all things, the love before which the world was but a spark in a draught of wind; the love that, whatever dishonour, grief, and unrest it might come through, alone had in it the heart of peace and joy and honour.Fate had torn that love from him, nipped it off as a sharp wind nips off a perfect flower.This new feeling was but a fever, a passionate fancy, a grasping once more at Youth and Warmth.Ah, well! but it was real enough! And, in one of those moments when a man stands outside himself, seems to be lifted away and see his own life twirling, Lennan had a vision of a shadow driven here and there; a straw going round and round; a midge in the grip of a mad wind.Where was the home of this mighty secret feeling that sprang so suddenly out of the dark, and caught you by the throat? Why did it come now and not then, for this one and not that other? What did man know of it, save that it made him spin and hover--like a moth intoxicated by a light, or a bee by some dark sweet flower;save that it made of him a distraught, humble, eager puppet of its fancy? Had it not once already driven him even to the edge of death; and must it now come on him again with its sweet madness, its drugging scent? What was it? Why was it? Why these passionate obsessions that could not decently be satisfied? Had civilization so outstripped man that his nature was cramped into shoes too small--like the feet of a Chinese woman? What was it?
Why was it?
And faster than ever he walked away.
Pall Mall brought him back to that counterfeit presentment of the real--reality.There, in St.James's Street, was Johnny Dromore's Club; and, again moved by impulse, he pushed open its swing door.
No need to ask; for there was Dromore in the hall, on his way from dinner to the card-room.The glossy tan of hard exercise and good living lay on his cheeks as thick as clouted cream.His eyes had the peculiar shine of superabundant vigour; a certain sub-festive air in face and voice and movements suggested that he was going to make a night of it.And the sardonic thought flashed through Lennan: Shall I tell him?
"Hallo, old chap! Awfully glad to see you! What you doin' with yourself? Workin' hard? How's your wife? You been away? Been doin' anything great?" And then the question that would have given him his chance, if he had liked to be so cruel:
"Seen Nell?"
"Yes, she came round this afternoon."
"What d'you think of her? Comin' on nicely, isn't she?"That old query, half furtive and half proud, as much as to say: 'Iknow she's not in the stud-book, but, d--n it, I sired her!' And then the old sudden gloom, which lasted but a second, and gave way again to chaff.
Lennan stayed very few minutes.Never had he felt farther from his old school-chum.
No.Whatever happened, Johnny Dromore must be left out.It was a position he had earned with his goggling eyes, and his astute philosophy; from it he should not be disturbed.
He passed along the railings of the Green Park.On the cold air of this last October night a thin haze hung, and the acrid fragrance from little bonfires of fallen leaves.What was there about that scent of burned-leaf smoke that had always moved him so? Symbol of parting!--that most mournful thing in all the world.For what would even death be, but for parting? Sweet, long sleep, or new adventure.But, if a man loved others--to leave them, or be left!
Ah! and it was not death only that brought partings!
He came to the opening of the street where Dromore lived.She would be there, sitting by the fire in the big chair, playing with her kitten, thinking, dreaming, and--alone! He passed on at such a pace that people stared; till, turning the last corner for home, he ran almost into the arms of Oliver Dromore.
The young man was walking with unaccustomed indecision, his fur coat open, his opera-hat pushed up on his crisp hair.Dark under the eyes, he had not the proper gloss of a Dromore at this season of the year.
"Mr.Lennan! I've just been round to you."And Lennan answered dazedly:
"Will you come in, or shall I walk your way a bit?""I'd rather--out here, if you don't mind."So in silence they went back into the Square.And Oliver said:
"Let's get over by the rails."
They crossed to the railings of the Square's dark garden, where nobody was passing.And with every step Lennan's humiliation grew.
There was something false and undignified in walking with this young man who had once treated him as a father confessor to his love for Nell.And suddenly he perceived that they had made a complete circuit of the Square garden without speaking a single word.
"Yes?" he said.
Oliver turned his face away.
"You remember what I told you in the summer.Well, it's worse now.
I've been going a mucker lately in all sorts of ways to try and get rid of it.But it's all no good.She's got me!"And Lennan thought: You're not alone in that! But he kept silence.
His chief dread was of saying something that he would remember afterwards as the words of Judas.
Then Oliver suddenly burst out:
"Why can't she care? I suppose I'm nothing much, but she's known me all her life, and she used to like me.There's something--Ican't make out.Could you do anything for me with her?"Lennan pointed across the street.
"In every other one of those houses, Oliver," he said, "there's probably some creature who can't make out why another creature doesn't care.Passion comes when it will, goes when it will; and we poor devils have no say in it.""What do you advise me, then?"
Lennan had an almost overwhelming impulse to turn on his heel and leave the young man standing there.But he forced himself to look at his face, which even then had its attraction--perhaps more so than ever, so pallid and desperate it was.And he said slowly, staring mentally at every word:
"I'm not up to giving you advice.The only thing I might say is:
One does not press oneself where one isn't wanted; all the same--who knows? So long as she feels you're there, waiting, she might turn to you at any moment.The more chivalrous you are, Oliver, the more patiently you wait, the better chance you have."Oliver took those words of little comfort without flinching."Isee," he said."Thanks! But, my God! it's hard.I never could wait." And with that epigram on himself, holding out his hand, he turned away.
Lennan went slowly home, trying to gauge exactly how anyone who knew all would judge him.It was a little difficult in this affair to keep a shred of dignity.
Sylvia had not gone up, and he saw her looking at him anxiously.
The one strange comfort in all this was that his feeling for her, at any rate, had not changed.It seemed even to have deepened--to be more real to him.
How could he help staying awake that night? How could he help thinking, then? And long time he lay, staring at the dark.
As if thinking were any good for fever in the veins!
