XXV
The days and weeks drifted into months, and John remained in London. Hiscircle of friends and his interests had widened. It was only hisrelations with Louise which remained still unchanged. Always charming tohim, giving him much of her time, favoring him, beyond a doubt, morethan any of her admirers, there was yet about her something elusive,something which seemed intended to keep him so far as possible at arm'slength.
There was nothing tangible of which he could complain, and thisprobationary period was of his own suggestion. He bore it grimly,holding his place, whenever it was possible, by her side with doggedpersistence. Then one evening there was a knock at his door, and StephenStrangewey walked in.
After all, this meeting, of which John had often thought, and whichsometimes he had dreaded a little, turned out to be a very ordinaryaffair. Stephen, although he seemed a little taller and gaunter thanever, though he seemed to bring into the perhaps overwarmed atmosphereof John's little sitting room something of the cold austerity of his owndomain, had evidently come in no unfriendly spirit. He took both hisbrother's hands in his and gripped them warmly.
"I can't tell you how glad I am to see you, Stephen!" John declared.
"It has been an effort to me to come," Stephen admitted. "But I had itin my mind, John, that we parted bad friends. I have come to see howthings are with you."
"Well enough," John answered evasively. "Sit down."
Stephen held his brother away from him, gripping his shoulders with bothhands. He looked steadily into his face.
"Well enough you may be, John," he said, "but your looks tell adifferent story. There's a look in your eyes already that they all gethere, sooner or later."
"Nonsense!" John protested cheerfully. "No one pretends that the lifehere is quite as healthy as ours, physically, but that isn't everything.I am a little tired to-day, perhaps. One spends one's time differentlyup here, you know, and there's a little more call upon the brain, alittle less upon the muscles."
"Give me an example," Stephen suggested. "What were you doing lastnight, for instance?"
John rang the bell for some tea, took his brother's hat and stick fromhis hand, and installed him in an easy chair.
"I went to a political meeting down in the East End," he replied. "Oneof the things I am trying to take a little more interest in up here ispolitics."
"No harm in that, anyway," Stephen admitted. "That all?"
"The meeting was over about eleven," John continued. "After that I cameup here, changed my clothes, and went to a dance."
"At that time of night?"
John laughed.
"Why, nothing of that sort ever begins until eleven o'clock," heexplained. "I stayed there for about an hour or so, and afterward Iwent round to a club I belong to, with the Prince of Seyre and someother men. They played bridge, and I watched."
"So that's one of your evenings, is it?" Stephen remarked. "No greatharm in such doings--nor much good, that I can see. With the Prince ofSeyre, eh?"
"I see him occasionally."
"He is one of your friends now?"
"I suppose so," John admitted, frowning. "Sometimes I think he is,sometimes I am not so sure. At any rate, he has been very kind to me."
"He is by way of being a friend of the young woman herself, isn't he?"Stephen asked bluntly.
"He has been a friend of Miss Maurel since she first went on the stage,"John replied. "It is no doubt for her sake that he has been so kind tome."
"And how's the courting getting on?" Stephen demanded, his steely eyessuddenly intent.
"None too well," John confessed.
"Are you still in earnest about it?"
"Absolutely! More than ever!"
Stephen produced his pipe from his pocket, and slowly filled it.
"She is keeping you dangling at her heels, and giving you no sort ofanswer?"
"Well, I wouldn't put it quite like that," John declared,good-humoredly. "I asked her to marry me as soon as I came up, and weboth agreed to wait for a time. You see, her life has been soextraordinarily different from mine. I have only half understood thethings which to her are like the air she breathes. She is a greatartist, and I scarcely ever leave her without feeling appallinglyignorant. Our life down in Cumberland, Stephen, is well enough in itsway, but it leaves us outside many of the great things of life."
"That may be true enough, boy," Stephen admitted, blowing out densevolumes of smoke from his pipe; "but are you sure that it's toward thosegreat things that she is pointing you?"
"I am sure of it," John answered earnestly. "I appreciate that in myheart. Let us talk together, Stephen, as we used. I will admit that Ihave found most of the time up here wearisome. On the other hand, I ambeginning to understand that I have been, and still am, very ignorant.There is so much in the world that one can only learn by experience."
"And what are you willing to pay for the knowledge?" Stephen asked."Your health, I suppose, your simple life, your love of the pureways--all these are to go into the melting-pot?"
"There's no such payment demanded for the things I am thinking of," Johnassured his brother. "Take art, for instance: We reach the fringe of itwith our books. There are pictures, even here in London, which when youlook at them, especially with one who understands, give a new vigor toyour understanding, a new resource to living. You become conscious of anew beauty in the world, a new garden, as it were, into which one canwander every day and yet not explore it in a lifetime. I have seenenough, Stephen, to make me want to go to Italy. It's a shameful thingto keep one's brain and taste unemployed!"
"Who takes you to see the pictures?" Stephen demanded.
"Miss Maurel, generally. She understands these things better than anyone I have ever talked with."
"Pictures, eh?" Stephen grunted.
"I mentioned pictures as an example," John continued; "but the love ofthem includes many other things."
"Theaters?"
"Of course," John assented. "It's no good being narrow about theaters,Stephen. You read books readily enough, and theaters are only livingbooks, after all. There is no real difference."
"There is a difference in plays, though, as there is a difference inbooks," Stephen reminded him. "What about the play Miss Maurel is actingin now? She's a man's mistress in it, isn't she, and glories in it?"
John, who had been walking about the room, came and sat down opposite tohis brother. He leaned a little forward.
"Stephen," he confessed, "I loathed that play the first night I saw it.I sha'n't forget how miserable I was. Louise was so wonderful that Icould see how she swayed all that audience just by lifting or droppingher voice; but the story was a horror to me. The next day--well, shetalked to me. She was very kind and very considerate. She explained manythings. I try my best, now, to look at the matter from her point ofview."
Stephen's eyes were filled for a moment with silent scorn. Then heknocked out the ashes from his pipe.
"You're content, then, to let the woman you want to make your wife showherself on the stage and play the wanton for folks to grin at?" heasked.
John rose once more to his feet.
"Look here, Stephen," he begged, a little wistfully, "it isn't any usetalking like that, is it? If you have come here with evil things in yourmind about the woman I love, we had better shake hands and partquickly. She'll be my wife some day, or I shall count my life a failure,and I don't want to feel that words have passed between us--"
"I'll say no more, John," Stephen interrupted. "I was hoping, when Icame, that there might be a chance of seeing you back home again soon.It's going to be an early spring. There was June sunshine yesterday. Itlay about the hillsides all day and brought the tender greens out of theearth. It opened the crocuses, waxy yellow and white, all up the gardenborder. The hedgerows down in the valley smelled of primrose andviolets. Art and pictures! I never had such schooling as you, John, butthere was old Dr. Benson at Clowmarsh--I always remember what he saidone day, just before I left
. I'd been reading Ruskin, and I asked himwhat art was and what it meant. 'My boy,' he answered, 'art simplyrepresents man's passionate desire to drag the truth out of life in halfa dozen different ways. God does it for you in the country!' They calledhim an ignorant man, old Benson, for a schoolmaster, but when I'dstruggled through what I could of Ruskin, I came to the conclusion thathe and I were something of the same mind."
"It's good to hear you talk like that, Stephen," John said earnestly."You're making me homesick, but what's the sense of it? For good or forevil, I am here to wrestle with things for a bit."
"It's no easy matter for me to open out the things that are in myheart," Stephen answered. "I am one of the old-fashioned Strangeweys.What I feel is pretty well locked up inside. The last time you and I metperhaps I spoke too much; so here I am!"
"It's fine of you," John declared. "I remember nothing of that day. Wewill look at things squarely together, even where we differ. I'm--"
He broke off in the middle of his sentence. The door had been suddenlyopened, and Sophy Gerard made a somewhat impetuous entrance.
"I'm absolutely sick of ringing, John," she exclaimed. "Oh, I beg yourpardon! I hadn't the least idea you had any one with you."
She stood still in surprise, a little apologetic smile upon her lips.John hastened forward and welcomed her.
"It's all right, Sophy," he declared. "Let me introduce my brother, mayI? My brother Stephen--Miss Sophy Gerard."
Stephen rose slowly from his place, laid down his pipe, and bowedstiffly to Sophy. She held out her hand, however, and smiled up at himdelightfully.
"How nice of you to come and see your poor, lonely brother!" she said."We have done our best to spoil him, but I am afraid he is very homesicksometimes. I hope you've come to stay a long time and to learn all aboutLondon, as John is doing. If you are half as nice as he is, we'll giveyou such a good time!"
From his great height, Stephen looked down upon the girl's upturned facea little austerely. She chattered away, entirely unabashed.
"I do hope you're not shocked at my bursting in upon your brother likethis! We really are great pals, and I live only just across the way. Weare much less formal up here, you know, than you are in the country.John, I've brought you a message from Louise."
"About to-night?"
She nodded.
"Louise is most frightfully sorry," she explained, "but she has to godown to Streatham to open a bazaar, and she can't possibly be back intime to dine before the theater. Can you guess what she dared tosuggest?"
"I think I can," John replied, smiling.
"Say you will, there's a dear," she begged. "I am not playing to-night.May Enser is going on in my place. We arranged it a week ago. I had twofines to pay on Saturday, and I haven't had a decent meal this week. ButI had forgotten," she broke off, with a sudden note of disappointment inher tone. "There's your brother. I mustn't take you away from him."
"We'll all have dinner together," John suggested. "You'll come, ofcourse, Stephen?"
Stephen shook his head.
"Thank you," he said, "I am due at my hotel. I'm going back toCumberland to-morrow morning, and my errand is already done."
"You will do nothing of the sort!" John declared.
"Please be amiable," Sophy begged. "If you won't come with us, I shallsimply run away and leave you with John. You needn't look at yourclothes," she went on. "We can go to a grill-room. John sha'n't dress,either. I want you to tell me all about Cumberland, where this brotherof yours lives. He doesn't tell us half enough!"
John passed his arm through his brother's and led him away.
"Come and have a wash, old chap," he said.
They dined together at Luigi's, a curiously assorted trio--Sophy,between the two men, supplying a distinctly alien note. She was alwaysgay, always amusing, but although she addressed most of her remarks toStephen, he never once unbent. He ate and drank simply, seldom speakingof himself or his plans, and firmly negativing all their suggestionsfor the remainder of the evening. Occasionally he glanced at the clock.John became conscious of a certain feeling of curiosity, which in asense Sophy shared.
"Your brother seems to me like a man with a purpose," she said, as theystood in the entrance-hall on their way out of the restaurant. "Like aprophet with a mission, perhaps I should say."
John nodded. In the little passage where they stood, he and Stephenseemed to dwarf the passers-by. The men, in their evening clothes andpallid faces, seemed suddenly insignificant, and the women like dolls.
"For the last time, Stephen," John said, "won't you come to a music-hallwith us?"
"I have made my plans for the evening, thank you," Stephen replied,holding out his hand. "Good night!"
He left them standing there and walked off down the Strand. John,looking after him, frowned. He was conscious of a certain foreboding.