MISS GREY'S FIRST CALL.
Mr. Money's home, like Mr. Money himself, conveyed to the intelligent observer an idea of quiet, self-satisfied strength. Mr. Money had one of the finest and most expensive suites of rooms to be had in the great Victoria street buildings, and his rooms were furnished handsomely and richly. He had servants in sober livery, and a carriage for his wife and daughters, and a little brougham for himself. He made no pretence at being fashionable; rather indeed seemed to say deliberately, "I am a plain man and don't care twopence about fashion, and I despise making a show of being rich; but I am rich enough for all I want, and whatever money can buy for me I can buy." He would not allow his wife and daughters to aim at being persons of fashion had they been so inclined, but they might spend as much money as ever they pleased. He never made a boast of his original poverty, or the humbleness of his bringing up, nor put on any vulgar show of rugged independence. The impression he made upon everybody was that of a completely self-sufficing—we do not say self-sufficient—man. It was not very clear how he had made his money. He had been at the head of one of the working departments under the Government, had somehow fancied himself ill treated, resigned his place, and, it was understood, had entered into various contracts to do work for the governments of foreign States. It was certain that Mr. Money was not a speculator. His name never appeared in the directors' list of any new company. He could not be called a city man. But it was certain that he was rich.
Mr. Money was in Parliament. He was a strong radical in theory, and was believed to have much stronger opinions than he troubled himself to express. There was a rough, scornful way about him, as of one who dearly considered all our existing arrangements merely provisional, and who in the mean time did not care to occupy himself overmuch with the small differences between this legislative proposition and that. It was not on political subjects that he usually spoke. He was a very good speaker, clear, direct, and expressive in his language, always using plain, effective words, and always showing a perfect ease in the finishing of his sentences. There was a savor of literature about him, and it was evident in many indirect ways that he knew Greek and Latin much better than most of the university men. The impression he produced was that of a man who on most subjects knew more than he troubled himself to display. It seemed as if it would take a very ready speaker indeed to enter into personal contest with Mr. Money and not get the worst of it.
He was believed to be very shrewd and clever, and was known to be liberal of his money. People consulted him about many things, and to some extent admired him; some were a little afraid of him, and, in homely phrase, fought shy of him. Perhaps he was thought to be unscrupulous; perhaps his blunt way of going at the very heart of a scruple in others made them fancy that he rather despised all moral conventionalities. Whatever the reason was, a certain class of persons always rather distrusted Mr. Money, and held aloof even while asking his advice. No one who had come in his way even for a moment forgot him, or was confused as to his identity, or failed to form some opinion about or could have put clearly into words an exact statement of the opinion he had formed.
On this particular day of autumn Mr. Money was in his study reading letters. He was talking to himself in short, blunt sentences over each letter as he read it, and put it into a pigeonhole, or tore it and threw it into the waste-paper basket. His sentences were generally concise judgments pronounced on each correspondent. "Fool." "Blockhead." "Just so; I expected that of you!" "Yes, yes, he's all right." "That will do." Sometimes a comment, begun rather gruffly, ended in a good-natured smile, and sometimes Mr. Money, having read a letter to the close with a pleased and satisfied expression, suddenly became thoughtful, and leaned upon his desk, drumming with the finger tips of one hand upon his teeth.
A servant interrupted his work by bringing him a message and a name. Mr. Money looked up, said quickly, "Yes, yes; show him in!" and Mr. Victor Heron was introduced.
Mr. Money advanced to meet his visitor with an air of cordial welcome. One peculiarity of Mr. Money's strong, homely face was the singular sweetness of the smile which it sometimes wore. The full lips parted so pleasantly, the white teeth shone, and the eyes, that usually seemed heavy, beamed with so kindly an air, that to youth at least the influence was for the moment irresistible. Victor Heron's emotional face sparkled with responsive expression.
"Well, well; glad to see you, glad to see you. Knew you would come. Shove away those blue books and sit down. We haven't long got back; but I tried to find you, and couldn't get at your address. They didn't know at the Colonial Institute even. And how are you, and what have you been doing with yourself?"
"Not much good," Heron replied, thinking as usual of his grievance. "I couldn't succeed in seeing anybody."
"Of course not, of course not. I could have told you so. People are not yet coming back to town, except hard working fellows like me. Have you been cooling your heels in the antechambers of the Colonial office?"
"Yes, I have been there a little; not much. I saw it was no use just yet, and that isn't a kind of occupation I delight in." The young man's face reddened with the bare memory of his vexation. "I hate that sort of thing."
"To go where you know people don't want to see you? Yes, it tries young and sensitive people a good deal. They've put you off?"
"As I told you, I have seen nobody yet. But I mean to persevere. They shall find I am not a man to be got rid of in that way."
Mr. Money made no observation on this, but went to a drawer in his desk and took out a little book with pages alphabetically arranged.
"I have been making inquiries about you," he said, "of various people who know all about the colonies. Would you like to hear a summary description of your personal character? Don't be offended—this is a way I have; the moment a person interests me and seems worth thinking about, I enter him in my little book here, and sum up his character from my own observation and from what people tell me. Shall I read it for you? I wouldn't, you may be sure, if I thought you were anything of a fool."
This compliment, of course, conquered Heron, who was otherwise a good deal puzzled. But there was something in Mr. Money's manner with those in whom he took any interest, that prevented their feeling hurt by his occasional bluntness.
"I don't know myself," Heron said.
"Of course you don't. What busy man, who has to know other people, could have time to study himself? That work might do for philosophers. I may teach you something now, and save you the trouble."
"I suppose I ought to make my own acquaintance," said Heron resignedly, while much preferring to talk of his grievance.
"Very good. Now listen.
"Heron, Victor.—Formerly in administration of St. Xavier's settlements. Got into difficulty; dropped down. Education good, but literary rather than businesslike. Plenty of pluck, but wants coolness. Egotistic, but unselfish. Good deal of talent and go. Very honest, but impracticable. A good weapon in good hands, but must take care not to be made a plaything."
Heron laughed. "It's a little like the sort of thing phrenologists give people," he said, "but I think it's very flattering. I can assure you, however, no one shall make a plaything of me," he added with emphasis.
"So we all think, so we all think," Mr. Money said, putting away his book. "Well, you are going on with this then?"
"I am going to vindicate my conduct, and compel them to grant me an inquiry, if you mean that. Nothing on earth shall keep me from that."
"So, so. Very well. We'll talk about that another time—many other times; and I may give you some advice, which you needn't take if you don't like, and I shan't be offended. Now, I want to introduce you to my wife and my girls, and you must have a cup of tea. Odd, isn't it, to find men drinking tea at five o'clock in the afternoon? Up at the club, any day about that hour, you might think we were a drawing-room full of old spinsters, to hear the rattling of teacups that goes on all around."
He took Heron's arm in a friendly, dictatorial way, and conducted him to the drawing-room on the same floor.
The drawing-room was entered, not by opening a door, but by withdrawing some folds of a great, heavy, dark-green curtain. Mr. Money drew aside part of the curtain to make way for his friend; and they both stopped a moment on the threshold. A peculiar, sweet, half melancholy smile gave a strange dignity for the moment to Mr. Money's somewhat rough face, and he gently let the curtain fall.
"Wasn't there some great person, Mr. Heron—Burke, was it?—who used to say that whatever troubles he had outside all ceased as he stood at his own door? Well, I always feel like that when I lift this curtain."
It was a pretty sight, as he again raised the curtain and led Heron in. The drawing-room was very large, and was richly, and, as it seemed to Heron, somewhat oddly furnished. The light in the lower part was faint and dim, a sort of yellowish twilight, procured by softened lamps. The upper extremity was steeped in a far brighter light, and displayed to Heron, almost as on a stage, a little group of women, among whom his quick eye at once saw the girl who had come up to the door at the same time with him. She was, indeed, a very conspicuous figure, for she was seated on a sofa, and one girl sat at her feet, while another stood at the arm of the sofa and bent over her. An elderly lady, with voluminous draperies that floated over the floor, was reclining on a low arm-chair, with her profile turned to Heron. On a fancy table near, a silver tea-tray glittered. A daintily dressed waiting-maid was serving tea.
"Take care of the floors as you come along," said Money. "We like to put rugs, and rolls of carpet, and stools now in all sorts of wrong places, to trip people up. That shows how artistic we are! Theresa, dear, this is my friend, Mr. Heron."
"I am glad to see you, Mr. Heron," said a full, deep, melancholy voice, and a tall, slender lady partly rose from her chair, then sank again amid her draperies, bowed a head topped by a tiny lace cap, and held out to Heron a thin hand covered with rings, and having such bracelets and dependent chainlets that when Heron gave it even the gentlest pressure, they rattled like the manacles of a captive.
"We saw you in Paris, Mr. Heron," the lady graciously said, "but I think you hardly saw us."
"These are my daughters, Mr. Heron, Theresa and Lucy. I think them good girls, though full of nonsense," said Mr. Money.
Lucy, who had been on a footstool at Miss Grey's feet, gathered herself up, blushing. She was a pretty girl, with brown, frizzy hair, and wore a dress which fitted her so closely from neck to hip that she might really have been, to all seeming, melted or moulded into it. The other young lady, Theresa, slightly and gravely inclined her head to Mr. Heron, who at once thought the whole group most delightful and beautiful, and found his breast filled with a new pride in the loved old England that produced such homes and furnished them with such women.
"Dear, darling papa," exclaimed the enthusiastic little Lucy, swooping at her father, and throwing both arms round his neck, "we have had such a joy to-day, such a surprise! Don't you see anybody here? Oh, come now, do use your eyes."
"I see a young lady whom I have not yet the pleasure of knowing, but whom I hope you will help me to know, Lucelet."
Mr. Money turned to Miss Grey with his genial smile. She rose from the sofa and bowed and waited. She did not as yet quite understand the Money family, and was not sure whether she ought to like them or not. They impressed her at first as being far too rich for her taste, and odd and affected, and she hated affectation.
"But this is Nola Grey, papa—my dearest old schoolfellow when I was at Keeton; you must have heard me talk of Nola Grey a thousand times."
So she dragged her papa up to Nola Grey, whose color grew a little at this tempestuous kind of welcome.
"Dare say I did, Lucelet, but Miss Grey, I am sure will excuse me if I have forgotten; I am very glad to see you, Miss Grey—glad to see any friend of Lucelet's. So you come from Keeton? That's another reason why I should be glad to see you, for I just now want to ask a question or two about Keeton. Sit down."
Miss Grey allowed herself to be led to a sofa a little distance from where she had been sitting. Mr. Money sat beside her.
"Now, Lucelet, I want to ask Miss Grey a sensible question or two, which I don't think you would care twopence about. Just you go and help our two Theresas to talk to Mr. Heron."
"But, papa darling, Miss Grey won't care about what you call sensible subjects any more than I. She won't know anything about them."
"Yes, dear, she will; look at her forehead."
"Oh, I have looked at it! Isn't it beautiful?"
"I didn't mean that," Mr. Money said with a smile; "I meant that it looked sensible and thoughtful. Now, go away, Lucelet, like a dear little girl."
Miss Grey sat quietly through all this. She was not in the least offended. Mr. Money seemed to her to be just what a man ought to be—uncouth, rough, and domineering. She was amused meanwhile to observe the kind of devotion and enthusiasm with which Mr. Heron was entering into conversation with Mrs. Money and her elder daughter. That, too, was just what a man ought to be—a young man—silly in his devotion to women, unless, perhaps, where the devotion was to be accounted for otherwise than by silliness, as in a case like the present, where the unmarried women might be presumed to have large fortunes. So Miss Grey liked the whole scene. It was as good as a play to her, especially as good as a play which confirms all one's own theories of life.
"England, Mr. Heron," said Mrs. Money in her melancholy voice, "is near her fall."
"Oh, Mrs. Money, pray pardon me—England! you amaze me—I am surprised—do forgive me—to hear an Englishwoman say so; our England with her glorious destiny!" The young man blushed and grew confused. One might have thought his mother had been called in question or his sweetheart.
Mrs. Money shook her head and twirled one of her bracelets.
"She is near her fall, Mr. Heron! You cannot know. You have lived far away, and do not see what we see. She has proved faithless to her mission."
"Something—yes—there I agree," Mr. Heron eagerly interposed, thinking of the St. Xavier's settlements.
"She was the cradle of freedom," Mrs. Money went on. "She ought to have been always its nursery and home. What have we now, Mr. Heron? A people absolutely in servitude, the principle of caste everywhere triumphant—corruption in the aristocracy—corruption in the city. No man now dares to serve his country except at the penalty of suffering the blackest ingratitude!"
Mr. Heron was startled. He did not know that Mrs. Money was arguing only from the assumption that her husband was a very great man, who would have done wonderful things for England if a perverse and base ruling class had not thwarted him, and treated him badly.
"England," Theresa Money said, smiling sweetly, but with a suffusion of melancholy, "can hardly be regenerated until she is once more dipped in the holy well."
"You see we all think differently, Mr. Heron," said the eager Lucy. "Mamma thinks we want a republic. Tessy is a saint, and would like to see roadside shrines."
"And you?" Heron asked, pleased with the girl's bright eyes and winning ways.
"Oh—I only believe in the regeneration of England through the renaissance of art. So we all have our different theories, you see, but we all agree to differ, and we don't quarrel much. Papa laughs at us all when he has time. But just now I am taken up with Nola Grey. If I were a man, I should make an idol of her. That lovely, statuesque face, that figure—like the Diana of the Louvre!"
Mr. Heron looked and admired, but one person's raptures about man or woman seldom awaken corresponding raptures in impartial breasts. He saw, however, a handsome, ladylike girl, who conveyed to him a sort of chilling impression.
"She was my schoolfellow at Keeton," Lucy went on, "and she was so good and clever that I adored her then, and I do now again. She has come to London to live alone, and I am sure she must have some strange and romantic story."
Meanwhile Mr. Money, who prefaced his inquiries by telling Miss Grey that he was always asking information about something, began to put several questions to her concerning the local magnates, politics, and parties of Keeton. Minola was rather pleased to be talked to by a man as if she were a rational creature. Like most girls brought up in a Nonconformist household in a country town, she had been surrounded by political talk from her infancy, but unlike most girls, she had sometimes listened to it and learned to know what it was all about. So she gave Mr. Money a good deal of information, which he received with an approbatory "Yes, yes" or an inquiring "So, so" every now and then.
"You know that there's likely to be a vacancy soon in the representation-member of Parliament," he added by way of explanation.
"I know what a vacancy in the representation means," Miss Grey answered demurely, "but I didn't know there was likely to be one just now. I don't keep up much correspondence with Keeton. I don't love it."
"Why not?"
"Oh, I don't know."
He smiled.
"You are smiling because you think that a woman's answer? So it is, Mr. Money, and I am afraid it isn't true; but I really didn't think of what I was saying. I do know why I don't care much about Keeton."
"Yes, yes; well, I dare say you do. But to return, as the books say—do you know a Mr. Augustus Sheppard?"
She could not help coloring slightly. "Yes, I know him," and a faint smile broke over her face in spite of herself.
"Is he strong in Keeton?"
"Strong?"
"Well liked, respectable, a likely kind of man to get good Conservative support if he stood for Keeton? You don't know, perhaps?"
"Yes, I think I do know. I believe he wishes to get into Parliament, and I am sure he is thought highly of. He is a very good man—a man of very high character," she added emphatically, anxious to repair the mental wrong doing of thinking him ridiculous and tiresome.
Just at this moment Mr. Heron rose to take his leave, and Mr. Money left the room with him, so that the conversation with Miss Grey was broken off. Then Lucy came to Nola again, and Nola was surrounded by the three women, who began to lay out various schemes for seeing her often and making London pleasant to her. Much as our lonely heroine loved her loneliness, she was greatly touched by their spontaneous kindness, but she was alarmed by it too.
A card was brought to Mrs. Money, who passed it on to Lucy.
"Oh, how delightful!" Lucy exclaimed. "So glad he has come, mamma. Nola, dear, a poet—a real poet!"
But Nola would not prolong her visit that day even for a poet. A very handsome, tall, dark-haired man, who at a distance seemed boyishly young, and when near looked worn and not very young, was shown in. For the moment or two that she could see him, Minola thought she had never seen so self-conceited and affected a creature. She did not hear his name nor a word he said, but his splendid, dark eyes, deeply set in hollows, took in every outline of her face and form. She thought him the poet of a schoolgirl's romance made to order.
Minola tore herself from the clinging embraces of Lucy, with less difficulty, perhaps, because of the poet's arrival, to whose society Lucy was clearly anxious to hasten back. It so happened that Mr. Money had kept Mr. Heron for a few minutes in talk, and the result was that exactly as Miss Grey reached the door Mr. Heron arrived there too. They both came out together, and in a moment they were in the gray atmosphere, dun lines of houses, and twinkling gaslights of Victoria street. Minola would much rather have been there alone.
Victor Heron, however, was full of the antique ideas of man's chivalrous duty and woman's sweet dependence, which still lingered in the out-of-the-way colony where he had spent so much of his time. Also, it must be owned that he had not yet quite got rid of the sense of responsibility and universal dictatorship belonging to the chief man in a petty commonwealth. For some time after his return to London he could hardly see an omnibus horse fall in the street without thinking it was an occasion which called for some intervention on his part. Therefore, when Miss Grey and he stood in the street together Mr. Heron at once assumed that the young woman must, as a matter of course, require his escort and protection.
He calmly took his place at her side. Miss Grey was a little surprised, but said nothing, and they went on.
"Do you live far from this, Miss Money?" he began.
"I am not Miss Money. My name is Grey."
"Of course, yes—I beg your pardon for the mistake. It was only a mistake of the tongue, for I knew very well that you were not Miss Money."
"Thank you."
"And your first name is so very pretty and peculiar that I could not have easily forgotten it."
"I am greatly obliged to my godfathers and godmothers."
"Did you say that you lived in this quarter, Miss Grey?"
"No—I did not make any answer; I had not time."
"I hope you do not live very near," the gallant Heron observed.
"Why do you hope that?" Miss Grey said, turning her eyes upon him with an air of cold resolution, which would probably have proved very trying to a less sincere maker of compliments, even though a far more dexterous person than Mr. Heron.
"Of course, because I should have the less of your company."
"But there is no need of your coming out of your way for me. I don't require any escort, Mr. Heron."
"I couldn't think of letting a lady walk home by herself. That would seem very strange to me. Perhaps you think me old-fashioned or colonial?"
"I have heard that you are from the colonies. In London people have not time to keep up all these pretty forms and ceremonies. We don't any longer pretend to think that a girl needs to be defended against giants, or robbers, or mad bulls, when crossing two or three streets in open day."
"Well, it is hardly open day now; it is almost quite dark."
"The lamps are lighted," Miss Gray observed.
"Yes, if you call that being lighted! You have such bad gas in London. Why does not somebody stir up people here, and put things to rights? You seem to me the most patient people in all the world. I wish they would give me the ruling of this place for about a twelvemonth."
"I wish they would."
"Do you?" and he looked at her with a glance of genuine gratitude in his dark eyes, for he thought she meant to express her entire confidence in his governing power, and her wish to see him at the head of affairs. Miss Grey, however, only meant that if he were engaged in directing the municipal government of London he probably would be rather too busy to walk with her.
"Yes," he went on, "you should soon see a change. For instance"—they were now at the end of Victoria street, near the Abbey—"I would begin by having a great broad street, like this, running right up from here to the British Museum. You know where the British Museum is, of course?"
"Yes; I live near it."
"Do you really? I am so glad to hear that. I have been there lately very often. How happy you Londoners are to have such glorious places. In that reading-room I felt inclined to bless England."
Miss Grey was now particularly sorry that she had said anything about her place of residence. Still it did not seem as if much would have been gained by any reticence unless she could actually dismiss her companion peremptorily. Mr. Heron was evidently quite resolved to be her escort all the way along. He was clearly under the impression that he was making himself very agreeable. The good-natured youth believed he was doing quite the right thing, and meant it all for the very best, and therefore could not suppose that any nice girl could fail to accept his attendance in a kindly spirit. That Miss Grey must be a nice girl he was perfectly certain, for he had met her at Mr. Money's, and Money was evidently a fine fellow—a very fine fellow. Miss Grey was very handsome too, but that did not count for very much with Heron. At least he would have made himself just as readily, under the circumstances, the escort of little Miss Blanchet.
So he talked on about various things—the Moneys, and what charming people they were! the British Museum, what a noble institution! the National Gallery, how hideous the building!—why on earth didn't anybody do something?—the glorious destiny of England—the utter imbecility of the English Government.
It was not always quite easy to keep up with his talk, for the streets were crowded and noisy, and Mr. Heron talked right on through every interruption. When they came to crossings where the perplexed currents and counter-currents of traffic on wheels would have made a nervous person shudder, Mr. Heron coolly took Miss Grey's hand and conducted her in and out, talking all the while as if they were crossing a ball-room floor. Minola made it a point of honor not to hesitate, or start, or show that she had nerves. But when he began to run into politics he always pulled himself up, for he politely remembered that young ladies did not care about politics, and so he tried to find some prettier subject to talk about. Miss Grey understood this perfectly well, and was amused and contemptuous.
"I suppose this man must be a person of some brains and sense," she thought. "He was in command of something somewhere, and I suppose even the Government he calls so imbecile would not have put him there if he were a downright fool. But because he talks to a woman, he feels bound only to talk of trivial things."
At last the walk came to an end. "Ah, I beg pardon. You live here," Mr. Heron said. "May I have the honor of calling on your family? I sometimes come to the Museum, and if I might call, I should be delighted to make their acquaintance."
"Thank you," Miss Grey said coldly. "I have no family. My father and mother are dead."
"Oh, I am so sorry! I wish I had not asked such a question." He looked really distressed, and the expression of his eyes had for the first time a pleasing, softening effect upon Miss Grey.
"We lodge here all alone—a lady—an old friend of mine—and I. We have no acquaintances, unless Lucy Money's family may be called so. We read and study a great deal, and don't go out, and don't see any one."
"I can quite understand," Mr. Heron answered with grave sympathy. "Of course you don't care to be intruded on by visitors. I thank you for having allowed me the pleasure of accompanying you so far."
He spoke in tones much more deferential than before, for he assumed that the young lady was lonely and poor. There was something in his manner, in his eyes, in his grave, respectful voice, which conveyed to Minola the idea of genuine sympathy, and brought to her, the object of it, a new conviction that she really was isolated and friendless, and the springs of her emotions were touched in a moment, and tears flashed in her eyes. Perhaps Mr. Heron saw them, and felt that he ought not to see them, for he raised his hat and instantly left her.
Minola lingered for a moment on the doorstep, in order that she might recover her expression of cheerfulness before meeting the eyes of Miss Blanchet. But that little lady had seen her coming to the door, and seen and marvelled at her escort, and now ran herself and opened the door to receive her.
"My dear Minola, do tell me who that handsome young man was! What lovely dark eyes he had! Where did you meet him? Is he young Mr. Money?"
The poetess's susceptible bosom still thrilled and throbbed at the sight, or even the thought, of a handsome young man. She could not understand how anybody on earth could avoid liking handsome young men. But in this case a certain doubt and dissatisfaction suddenly dissolved away into her instinctive gratification at the sight of Minola's escort. A handsome and young Mr. Money might prove an inconvenient visitor just at present.
Minola briefly told her when they were safe in their room. Miss Blanchet was relieved to find that he was not a young Mr. Money, for a young Mr. Money, if there were one, would doubtless be rich.
"Isn't he wonderfully handsome! Such a smile!"
"I hardly know," Minola said distressedly; "perhaps he is. I really didn't notice. He goes to the Museum, and I must exile myself from the place for evermore, or I shall be always meeting him, and be forced to listen politely to talk about nothing. Mary Blanchet, our days of freedom are gone! We are getting to know people. I foresaw it. What shall we do? We must find some other lodgings ever so far away."
"Do you like Miss Money, dear?" Mary Blanchet asked timidly.
"Lucy? Oh, yes, very much. But there is Mr. Money; and they are going to be terribly kind to us; and they have all manner of friends; and what is to become of my independence? Mary Blanchet, I will not bear it! I will be independent!"
"I have news for you, dear," Miss Blanchet said.
"If it please the destinies, not news of any more friends! Why, we shall be like the hare in Gay's fable if we go on in this way."
"Not of any more friends, darling, but of one friend. My brother has been here."
"Oh!"
"Yes; and he is longing to see you."
Minola sincerely wished she could say that she was longing to see him. But she could not say it, even to please her friend and comrade.
"You don't want to see him," said Mary Blanchet in piteous reproach.
"But you do, dear," Miss Grey said; "and I shall like to see any one, be sure, who brightens your life."
This was said with full sincerity, although at the very moment the whimsical thought passed through her, "We only want Mr. Augustus Sheppard now to complete our social happiness."