'I sometimes wonder how you really feel upon this matter'
'What matter?'
'On the difference of opinion, in political matters, which exists
between your father and myself. I am conscious that Mr Lindon
regards my action as a personal question, and resents it so
keenly, that I am sometimes moved to wonder if at least a portion
of his resentment is not shared by you.'
'I have explained; I consider papa the politician as one person,
and papa the father as quite another.'
'You are his daughter.'
'Certainly I am;—but would you, on that account, wish me to share
his political opinions, even though I believe them to be wrong?'
'You love him.'
'Of course I do,—he is the best of fathers.'
'Your defection will be a grievous disappointment.'
I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. I wondered what was
passing through his mind. The subject of my relations with papa
was one which, without saying anything at all about it, we had
consented to taboo.
'I am not so sure. I am permeated with a suspicion that papa has
no politics.'
'Miss Lindon!—I fancy that I can adduce proof to the contrary.'
'I believe that if papa were to marry again, say, a Home Ruler,
within three weeks his wife's politics would be his own.'
Paul thought before he spoke; then he smiled.
'I suppose that men sometimes do change their coats to please
their wives,—even their political ones.'
'Papa's opinions are the opinions of those with whom he mixes. The
reason why he consorts with Tories of the crusted school is
because he fears that if he associated with anybody else—with
Radicals, say,—before he knew it, he would be a Radical too. With
him, association is synonymus with logic.'
Paul laughed outright. By this time we had reached Westminster
Bridge. Standing, we looked down upon the river. A long line of
lanterns was gliding mysteriously over the waters; it was a tug
towing a string of barges. For some moments neither spoke. Then
Paul recurred to what I had just been saying.
'And you,—do you think marriage would colour your convictions?'
'Would it yours?'
'That depends.' He was silent. Then he said, in that tone which I
had learned to look for when he was most in earnest, 'It depends
on whether you would marry me.'
I was still. His words were so unexpected that they took my breath
away. I knew not what to make of them. My head was in a whirl.
Then he addressed to me a monosyllabic interrogation.
'Well?'
'I found my voice,—or a part of it.
'Well?—to what?'
He came a little closer.
'Will you be my wife?'
The part of my voice which I had found, was lost again. Tears came
into my eyes. I shivered. I had not thought that I could be so
absurd. Just then the moon came from behind a cloud; the rippling
waters were tipped with silver. He spoke again, so gently that his
words just reached my ears.
'You know that I love you.'
Then I knew that I loved him too. That what I had fancied was a
feeling of friendship was something very different. It was as if
somebody, in tearing a veil from before my eyes, had revealed a
spectacle which dazzled me. I was speechless. He misconstrued my
silence.
'Have I offended you?'
'No.'
I fancy that he noted the tremor which was in my voice, and read
it rightly. For he too was still. Presently his hand stole along
the parapet, and fastened upon mine, and held it tight.
And that was how it came about. Other things were said; but they
were hardly of the first importance. Though I believe we took some
time in saying them. Of myself I can say with truth, that my heart
was too full for copious speech; I was dumb with a great
happiness. And, I believe, I can say the same of Paul He told me
as much when we were parting.
It seemed that we had only just come there when Paul started.
Turning, he stared up at Big Ben.
'Midnight!—The House up!—Impossible!'
But it was more than possible, it was fact. We had actually been
on the Bridge two hours, and it had not seemed ten minutes. Never
had I supposed that the flight of time could have been so entirely
unnoticed. Paul was considerably taken aback. His legislative
conscience pricked him. He excused himself—in his own fashion.
'Fortunately, for once in a way, my business in the House was not
so important as my business out of it.'
He had his arm through mine. We were standing face to face.
'So you call this business!'
He laughed.
He not only saw me into a cab, but he saw me home in it. And in
the cab he kissed me. I fancy I was a little out of sorts that
night. My nervous system was, perhaps, demoralised. Because, when
he kissed me, I did a thing which I never do,—I have my own
standard of behaviour, and that sort of thing is quite outside of
it; I behaved like a sentimental chit. I cried. And it took him
all the way to my father's door to comfort me.
I can only hope that, perceiving the singularity of the occasion,
he consented to excuse me.
Sydney Atherton has asked me to be his wife. It is not only
annoying; worse, it is absurd.
This is the result of Paul's wish that our engagement should not
be announced. He is afraid of papa;—not really, but for the
moment. The atmosphere of the House is charged with electricity.
Party feeling runs high. They are at each other, hammer and tongs,
about this Agricultural Amendment Act. The strain on Paul is
tremendous. I am beginning to feel positively concerned. Little
things which I have noticed about him lately convince me that he
is being overwrought. I suspect him of having sleepless nights.
The amount of work which he has been getting through lately has
been too much for any single human being, I care not who he is. He
himself admits that he shall be glad when the session is at an
end. So shall I.
In the meantime, it is his desire that nothing shall be said about
our engagement until the House rises. It is reasonable enough.
Papa is sure to be violent,—lately, the barest allusion to Paul's
name has been enough to make him explode. When the discovery does
come, he will be unmanageable,—I foresee it clearly. From little
incidents which have happened recently I predict the worst. He
will be capable of making a scene within the precincts of the
House. And, as Paul says, there is some truth in the saying that
the last straw breaks the camel's back. He will be better able to
face papa's wild wrath when the House has risen.
So the news is to bide a wee. Of course Paul is right. And what he
wishes I wish too. Still, it is not all such plain sailing for me
as he perhaps thinks. The domestic atmosphere is almost as
electrical as that in the House. Papa is like the terrier who
scents a rat,—he is always sniffing the air. He has not actually
forbidden me to speak to Paul,—his courage is not quite at the
sticking point; but he is constantly making uncomfortable
allusions to persons who number among their acquaintance
'political adventurers,' 'grasping carpet-baggers,' 'Radical riff-
raff,' and that kind of thing. Sometimes I venture to call my soul
my own; but such a tempest invariably follows that I become
discreet again as soon as I possibly can. So, as a rule, I suffer
in silence.
Still, I would with all my heart that the concealment were at an
end. No one need imagine that I am ashamed of being about to marry
Paul,—papa least of all. On the contrary, I am as proud of it as
a woman can be. Sometimes, when he has said or done something
unusually wonderful, I fear that my pride will out,—I do feel it
so strong within me. I should be delighted to have a trial of
strength with papa; anywhere, at any time,—I should not be so
rude to him as he would be to me. At the bottom of his heart papa
knows that I am the more sensible of the two; after a pitched
battle or so he would understand it better still. I know papa! I
have not been his daughter for all these years in vain. I feel
like hot-blooded soldiers must feel, who, burning to attack the
enemy in the open field, are ordered to skulk behind hedges, and
be shot at.
One result is that Sydney has actually made a proposal of
marriage,—he of all people! It is too comical. The best of it was
that he took himself quite seriously. I do not know how many times
he has confided to me the sufferings which he has endured for love
of other women—some of them, I am sorry to say, decent married
women too; but this is the first occasion on which the theme has
been a personal one. He was so frantic, as he is wont to be, that,
to calm him, I told him about Paul,—which, under the
circumstances, to him I felt myself at liberty to do. In return,
he was melodramatic; hinting darkly at I know not what, I was
almost cross with him.
He is a curious person, Sydney Atherton. I suppose it is because I
have known him all my life, and have always looked upon him, in
cases of necessity, as a capital substitute for a brother, that I
criticise him with so much frankness. In some respects, he is a
genius; in others—I will not write fool, for that he never is,
though he has often done some extremely foolish things. The fame
of his inventions is in the mouths of all men; though the half of
them has never been told. He is the most extraordinary mixture.
The things which most people would like to have proclaimed in the
street, he keeps tightly locked in his own bosom; while those
which the same persons would be only too glad to conceal, he
shouts from the roofs. A very famous man once told me that if Mr
Atherton chose to become a specialist, to take up one branch of
inquiry, and devote his life to it, his fame, before he died,
would bridge the spheres. But sticking to one thing is not in
Sydney's line at all. He prefers, like the bee, to roam from
flower to flower.
As for his being in love with me; it is ridiculous. He is as much
in love with the moon. I cannot think what has put the idea into
his head. Some girl must have been ill-using him, or he imagines
that she has. The girl whom he ought to marry, and whom he
ultimately will marry, is Dora Grayling. She is young, charming,
immensely rich, and over head and ears in love with him;—if she
were not, then he would be over head and ears in love with her. I
believe he is very near it as it is,—sometimes he is so very rude
to her. It is a characteristic of Sydney's, that he is apt to be
rude to a girl whom he really likes. As for Dora, I suspect she
dreams of him. He is tall, straight, very handsome, with a big
moustache, and the most extraordinary eyes;—I fancy that those
eyes of his have as much to do with Dora's state as anything. I
have heard it said that he possesses the hypnotic power to an
unusual degree, and that, if he chose to exercise it, he might
become a danger to society. I believe he has hypnotised Dora.
He makes an excellent brother. I have gone to him, many and many a
time, for help,—and some excellent advice I have received. I
daresay I shall consult him still. There are matters of which one
would hardly dare to talk to Paul. In all things he is the great
man. He could hardly condescend to chiffons. Now Sydney can and
does. When he is in the mood, on the vital subject of trimmings a
woman could not appeal to a sounder authority. I tell him, if he
had been a dressmaker, he would have been magnificent. I am sure
he would.
This morning I had an adventure.
I was in the breakfast-room. Papa, as usual, was late for
breakfast, and I was wondering whether I should begin without him,
when, chancing to look round, something caught my eye in the
street. I went to the window to see what it was. A small crowd of
people was in the middle of the road, and they were all staring at
something which, apparently, was lying on the ground. What it was
I could not see.
The butler happened to be in the room. I spoke to him.
'Peter, what is the matter in the street? Go and see.'
He went and saw; and, presently, he returned. Peter is an
excellent servant; but the fashion of his speech, even when
conveying the most trivial information, is slightly
sesquipedalian. He would have made a capital cabinet minister at
question time,—he wraps up the smallest petitions of meaning in
the largest possible words.
'An unfortunate individual appears to have been the victim of a
catastrophe. I am informed that he is dead. The constable asserts
that he is drunk.'
'Drunk?—dead? Do you mean that he is dead drunk?—at this hour!'
'He is either one or the other. I did not behold the individual
myself. I derived my information from a bystander.'
That was not sufficiently explicit for me. I gave way to a,
seemingly, quite causeless impulse of curiosity, I went out into
the street, just as I was, to see for myself. It was, perhaps, not
the most sensible thing I could have done, and papa would have
been shocked; but I am always shocking papa. It had been raining
in the night, and the shoes which I had on were not so well suited
as they might have been for an encounter with the mud.
I made my way to the point of interest.
'What's the matter?' I asked.
A workman, with a bag of tools over his shoulder, answered me.
'There's something wrong with someone. Policeman says he's drunk,
but he looks to me as if he was something worse.'
'Will you let me pass, please?'
When they saw I was a woman, they permitted me to reach the centre
of the crowd.
A man was lying on his back, in the grease and dirt of the road.
He was so plastered with mud, that it was difficult, at first, to
be sure that he really was a man. His head and feet were bare. His
body was partially covered by a long ragged cloak. It was obvious
that that one wretched, dirt-stained, sopping wet rag was all the
clothing he had on. A huge constable was holding his shoulders in
his hands, and was regarding him as if he could not make him out
at all. He seemed uncertain as to whether it was or was not a case
of shamming.