An Opera and Lady Grasmere/Book 2/Chapter 1

HE summer had gone by, autumn had merged into winter, and now some faint signs of returning foliage showed on tree and hedge as Harvey Merceron progressed homewards from Dover. Eight months had elapsed since last we saw him, handing the Countess of Grasmere and Mrs. Hodgson into their carriage after the curtain had fallen upon the third act of Siegfried. Eight months had passed since that eventful morning whereon Harvey Merceron had put Art aside, resolved to play no more for the dancers but himself to dance—he who 'had ten times more music in him than all the other dancers together!'

It is doubtful whether either Sopwith or even Hutchinson would, at a first glance, have recognised in the young gentleman of fashion who had just landed at the Admiralty Pier the Harvey Merceron of a year ago; as, perfectly dressed, he chose a first-class carriage and a cigar as though the whole business of his life had consisted in similar selections. The musician had disappeared in the man of leisure, and only the too thoughtful eyes, set somewhat incongruously amid more placid features, betokened the youthful enthusiast who, for three long, arduous years, had grappled doggedly with the composition of Isabella—now, alas, an episode almost unsubstantial, of such stuff as those fugitive incidents of childhood that we turn back to and smile upon in warm moments of reminiscence. Isabella, her making and her sensational exit, were alike relegated to this same shadowy background.

Merceron, true to his resolve, had conquered all impulse of curiosity, of ownership, had dropped the clue which Hutchinson had placed within his hands. The affair of Isabella's disappearance was no longer his. He was no musician, therefore he had composed no opera, therefore no opera of his could have been stolen. That Isabella had passed out of his life—were she burnt or the white elephant of an unknown thief, it mattered little which—had been the one consideration.... And now eight months had closed upon her, had passed, lightning-like, varied, in an increasing succession of new scenes, new faces, and new experiences; more filled with the Life for which he had thirsted than all foregoing years.

The old quiet of his aloofness in Down Street, with Sopwith for sole distraction, music as sole topic, had ceased. Of Down Street he had caught but fugitive glimpses, of Sopwith he had heard nothing save that his opera was making progress. He had had no time for further contact with his old surroundings; indeed he hardly wished for more than this. His life had been full, full to overflowing, as things were. A breathless fortnight in London had succeeded upon the masked ball and its ensuing presentations. An easy-going swarm of butterflies, who demanded of man nothing more than that he should be well-dressed, cleanly, and fitly introduced, of agreeable aspect and bearing, had welcomed friend Merceron to common flights.

The London season over, there had followed the Warings' Goodwood party; a full house and an excited crowd all intent on winners. By day, the Downs, a gay mob picnicing in the open, blazing sunshine and deep blue skies, the hubbub of the ring, interrupted by the mad rush, the break-neck scramble of straining horseflesh; by night, the same company discussing the day's hazards, the flower-like toilettes of the women as they dined under the shaded candles, a stroll in the grounds, now with a brother cigar, genial with perfect health and unimpaired digestive organs, or else Lady Grasmere, the hand on his arm more eloquent than speech, to the accompaniment of song and music from open drawing-room windows.

Only once had the Countess appeared contrite, questioned the impulse which had led her to launch her companion upon this blissful sea.

"You have never told me what you think of me for it all," she had asked, almost shame-facedly, "of my behaviour?"

"I have left off thinking," Harvey had decisively replied, "and my actions are transparent,"—with a gentle pressure of his arm upon her hand.

"You should despise me, should you not?" she had questioned. smiling.

"Myself—if anybody?"

"A very Christian view."

"But I am proud—er, devilish proud!"

She dropped him a curtsey upon the spot.

From Goodwood, Harvey had gone on to Lady Grasmere's place in Kent, to join in the robuster pleasures of the Canterbury week. Here was another houseful of visitors: and the days sped fast in the cricket field, where the whole county had assembled to encourage its champions; dispensing bounteous hospitality from gaily decorated tents, and turning out of nights for a full succession of concerts, dances, and theatricals.

He had gone abroad after these festivities, to Ostend, up the Rhine, gradually drifting to Nuremberg on his way to Bayreuth, where he had promised to join the Countess and Sir Horace and Lady Waring. The Marquis of Stoke was also of their party. He was to meet Lady May and the Marchioness later on, at Venice. They were yachting in the Mediterranean; and, meanwhile, the Marquis was free to pursue his beloved Wagner without fear of disorganising the family dining arrangements, and with no special necessity for munching ham sandwiches between the acts.

It was Lady Grasmere who had drawn Merceron to Bayreuth—his second visit, by-the-by. Both she and Lady Horace were more than ordinarily devoted to music, displayed even a technical understanding of harmony and orchestration that caused Harvey considerable surprise. More often than not they sat beside him in the long intervals between act and act, discussing an open score and following with apparent ease intricate combinations, subtle manipulations of themes and counter-themes. Harvey surmised a deal of unsuspected earnestness behind such facility.

He, for his part, was content to listen, attempted neither analysis nor synthesis, tabooed even that perpetual and ubiquitous tri-syllable—Leit-motif.

Once, indeed, he had been surprised into helping the ladies over a peculiarly difficult passage, a jumble of apparently discordant discords which even the Marquis could not adequately interpret.

"I didn't think you knew so much about it," said Lady Horace, when Harvey finished. The Countess was silently astonished; even his careless disclaimer hardly contented her.

"Oh, a musical fellow told me," he had replied. Nor was the response altogether fiction, albeit the "musical fellow" was none other than his own discarded self.

Not even to Lady Grasmere had he spoken of his old ambitions. His school and Oxford she knew about, also that his mother and sisters lived in a biggish house in Hertfordshire, and that they were spending the summer in Switzerland. He had also spoken of Sopwith, but not as of a fellow, one with whom he had shared a common pursuit, a common art; merely as a musical friend who was working upon an. opera dealing with Francesca of Rimini.

The Countess knew some of his songs. "Feeble—very feeble," was her description of them.

"Pot-boilers, I believe," said Harvey; "but the opera's serious. I suggested Francesca; it's rather a good subject, don't you think so?"

The Countess agreed, after which both Sopwith and his doings were laid aside in favour of matters more personal and pressing.

From Bayreuth the party had descended into the Tyrol, had separated there to meet once more upon the Warings' grouse-moor. Harvey went up to Scotland with the rest, and, at the close of his visit, recrossed the Channel, Italy his new destination. There he again encountered the Marquis, this time accompanied by Lady Stoke and their daughter, also a dozen other of his new acquaintances, bent on escaping the rigours of the frozen North.

The Marquis gave Harvey an unexpectedly warm welcome, had evidently taken a great liking to him during their week at Bayreuth, and was doubtless glad to have captured someone capable of sharing in the musical speculations which he was constantly formulating, asserting with all the assurance and dogmatism of the amateur. He was, as Harvey soon discovered, an amiable bore, with lofty ideals, whose expression, however, he left to poorer men.

Merceron was not ill-pleased at this meeting and its entailments; for the Marchioness could be very gracious, knew, besides, all the best people, and even Lady May, following in the wake of her father, had grown quite respectful. It was on the Stoke yacht that Harvey made the voyage from Naples to Alexandria; arriving in Cairo just in time to spend Christmas with Lady Grasmere, her nephew, the present Earl, and Lady Mountjoy, his mother.

These months sped rapidly enough, a constant flight of novel experience and emotion, insight, action and reaction, amid changing soil, faces, races, and scenery; a movement so sustained, varied, coloured, material and abstract, that Merceron was left no opportunity for weariness—nor overlong meditations either. The child within him, the instinct that had first prompted him to intrude at Stoke House, that had so disarmed the Countess and then irresistibly attracted her, this joyous ingenuousness of his remained almost intact, winning for him even more friends than his evident means and handsome presence. Women were especially delighted with him; he had individuality and that without aggressive advertisement. Several of them said as much, with more to follow; but Lady Grasmere apart, Harvey was in no mood to seek alliances.

Towards the Countess, he was ever the same devoted cavalier; although the ardour of his first attack had abated with a conviction of the security of his position, a recognition of the wisdom of her parryings. She was evidently widow enough to foresee the danger of such breathless carryings by assault. Now he was steadily gaining her confidence as well as her love, a quieter process, yet one recommended by all praise-worthy counsel.

"You are not fit to be trusted out alone," she had once laughingly declared. "Lady Horace, please take him away—he is turning my head." This, during the first week of their friendship.

Lady Horace had played lightning-conductor with some success; and Merceron, gathering the "true word" behind the jest, had henceforth resolved to move by the measure of their surroundings. So that at Bayreuth, in Scotland, and later in Egypt and at Cannes, a softer mood had prevailed, and one more in unison with the tempo of the rest of life.

From the Riviera Merceron had gone to Paris, and the Countess home to her house in Kent. Now Harvey too was on English soil; a week with his people in Hertfordshire, and he would join a party that Lady Grasmere was entertaining over Easter.