An Opera and Lady Grasmere/Book 1/Chapter 12

OR the present, Merceron had dismissed Hutchinson's message and the light it seemed to throw upon his mysterious visitor of the night before, upon the unexplained disappearance of the score and libretto of his opera, Isabella, and the damage done to the violated cabinet. He was dressing with all possible haste, yet not too speedily to admit of the immaculate, spoiling two bows and a collar before criticism was satisfied and he at liberty to proceed. Hancock, his man, assisted, blazing with surprise and suppressed joyfulness, scenting perquisites tenfolded. What ailed his master?

"It's them women," said he, when all was over. "That there Hutchinson looks a bad lot!"

Harvey's appearance was really worthy of the locality as he sauntered forth into Piccadilly and hailed a passing cab. Even the driver of the hansom, an expert and difficult, felt fully satified [sic] as to his fare's distinction.

Before returning to Albert Gate, Merceron looked in at his club and took down Debrett, first making sure that Carter-Page was nowhere In the vicinity.

"It may be foolish, but it saves trouble," said Harvey, as he turned up "Grasmere."

He discovered that the Countess was widow to the seventh Earl, who had died three years ago and eighteen months after marriage, without issue and aged sixty-two; that the present holder of the title was a nephew, a boy of sixteen. Harvey also searched for and found Sir Horace Waring, evidently one of two brothers, both baronets. He then rejoined his hansom and called at a florist's, arriving at the house with a carefully-selected button-hole in his coat and a big handful of roses for Lady Grasmere.

The Countess was not quite ready, and for some minutes Harvey had to twirl his thumbs in an unfamiliar drawing-room; a new apartment this, hung with exquisite water-colour drawings—Fred Walkers, Pinwells, Gregorys and Smythes,—which he fitfully examined till his hostess welcomed him, superb and dazzling in creamy satin and diamonds.

"I've left a note for Mrs. Hodgson; we 're deserting her this evening," she said, smiling. "We are dining in town—where?"

Harvey suggested the place on the Embankment, beloved of Hutchinson, and the Countess acquiesced. Outside, the horses waited, impatient for exercise.

The rain had long since ceased, and now the sky was clear—a blue new-washed, though bordered by heavy banks of cloud that smouldered a dun orange where the sun was sinking. They drove down Piccadilly in the open carriage, side by side, with London, crowded and astir, swarming to right and to left of them, enclosing them with a changing wall of flesh and blood. Merceron had found his starting-point at last, had indeed begun to share that brilliant Life of which but yesterday he had stood a fevered spectator. He leaned back for a moment with lowered eyelids, so as the better to drink in the melody of it all, so as the better to feel the rousing embrace of this sea whose dancing waters he was cleaving—on and onward. With the evening his former exultation had returned. At this festive hour illusion and fancy came closer, played their parts with fuller voice and eyes more eloquent, warmed by the uncertain light, the oncoming dusk.

Their dinner was rather ideal than real. In the place of Hutchinson sat this woman whose every word was quick and tingling, aglow with music; whose person was composed of so subtle a compounding of flesh and spirit as to have escaped the material. Merceron, radiant, lived with every nerve—and, womanlike, she reflected his ecstasy, joyed with him in all the fulness of this new existence.

"When were you born?" she had asked, wondering at his delight, "and where?"

"In Piccadilly, last night, when we met."

"I 've half a mind to believe you," she replied; "but what happened before?"

"There was no before."

"You have told me nothing of that," she urged.

"Like Minerva, I sprang fully armed out of the brow of Jove!" he laughed back, "and before"

"You made his august head ache?"

"Rather, my own."

"You worked?"

"Pursued a phantom, had ambitions, and now," he lingered on her eyes, "it is all changed," he finished slowly.

"What were you doing?" she persisted.

"Mistaking a duckpond for the ocean, a backwater for the river!"

"Backwaters are nice," mused her ladyship; "one is undisturbed, and there is usually shade and cushions."

"I was undisturbed and there were cushions—but I was alone."

"So are most of us," she sighed.

"There were no problems," he returned, "only work—and such empty work! And I growing old all the time, without ever having known you! "

She could not doubt his sincerity as his words flashed across—its sheer strength was drawing her to his side. She felt her weakness, and her head fought with her heart.

"You would make an ardent lover," she lightly replied; "I shall have to introduce you to some nice girls."

"After knowing you!" he retorted.

"I said 'nice girls,'" answered the Countess.

"Lady Mays?" he asked glibly; and they both laughed.

"You are killing!" she interspersed.

"Rather, the victim."

"Poor boy—only a day old, and you dare attack!"

"You are mocking my inexperience?"

She nodded. "In self-defence—in self-defence!" said her head to her heart.

"You mistake me," he continued: "is not every face an open book to those who read?—and I have lived in London!"

"Theory—bald theory!" she returned.

"The theorist is at least disinterested!"

"But uninteresting," she drawled back: "he lacks the very weakness that makes experience strong."

"Humanity?" asked Merceron. "I am human?"

She did not answer, and Merceron was left facing a blank wall—the position of the theorist. He said so.

"I am on the other side," she tossed back.

"I am climbing."

"I am years ahead—you cannot even see me," she crowed.

"Inspiration has placed me at your side!"

She shook her head dubiously. "Wait—I am out of breath." Then again, "Wait!"—this time to herself; for her heart beat rapidly, and she knew its tenor. Some of the roses that he had brought were in her corsage. She hid her face in them.

Merceron ordered coffee.

"Would you like to hear an act or two of Siegfried?" she asked, as he lit a cigarette. "I have a box, you know."

"It would be rather jolly."

The carriage had waited, and was dismissed at Covent Garden with orders for a later hour; and again Merceron found himself an integral part of what last night had been but panoramic.

Mrs. Hodgson rose as they entered the box, and the Countess sat down between her and Harvey.

The dragon was in its death throes when they arrived, a most plaintive worm. They laughed at it. But their chatter ceased when the note of the Waldvogel smote their hearts with its ethereal sweetness. Visitors broke the spell that had crept over them. The lights were raised, before them the curtain. In the tier below and opposite they could see the Marchioness of Stoke and Lady May. The Marquis was eating sandwiches, with the score open in front of him. Merceron admired his enthusiasm.

"Shall we stay for the end?" asked Lady Grasmere as the conductor stepped into his place for the third act.

Harvey was more than willing. "Listening is the wiser part," he murmured, more to himself than to her. Some fugitive thread of his old ambitions had tugged at his heart, and he had broken this last strand.

The performance was over at last. Brunnhilde had surrendered, had relinquished her divinity for terrestrial love. The eyes in the box met with more than common understanding.

"Brave old world!" said Lady Grasmere, "I'd sooner be there than in the Royal box!"

"You are not afraid of dragons?" asked Merceron, smiling into the lovely face.

"Is not the Marchioness below?" she asked; and Mrs. Hodgson laughed reproval.

"I had forgotten," said Harvey. "And yet the present has its moments," he added, bending over her with opera-cloak in hands that testified.

Together they went out into the vestibule where Hutchinson and he had stood the night before. Now he was looking for Lady Grasmere's man. The world had undergone considerable change during the intervening hours—belonged to him at last, as he to it. He was no longer a spectator, a sightseer, no longer aloof; he had thrown in his stake with the rest, and the game prospered.

He put the ladies into their carriage.

"I am going on to Gaunt House and the Faucits," said the Countess; "it will be dull, so I'm not going to take you—good-night!"

"Till to-morrow," said he.

She was off—a wave of a dainty hand, and he was alone.

Merceron walked home that night. The new life was greater than its promise.