CHAPTER IV
A Retrospective Chapter. How Fortune's Toy and the Sport ofCircumstances fell in love with one of his Nurses. Prosecomposition. Lady Upwell's majesty, and the Queen's.No engagement. The African War, and JustifiableFratricide. Cain. Madeline's big dog Caesar. Cats. Ormuzdand Ahriman. A handy little Veldt. Madeline's Japanesekimono. A discussion of the nature of Dreams. Nevermind Athenaeus. Look at the Prophet Daniel. SirStopleigh's great-aunt Dorothea's twins. The CirculatingLibrary and the potted shrimps. How Madeline read themanuscript in bed, and took care not to set fire to thecurtains.
The story of Madeline, the young lady who is goingone day to inherit the picture Mr. Pelly thoughthe was talking to last night, along with the SurleyStakes property--for there is no male heir--is aneasy story to tell, and soon told. There were amany stories of the sort, just as the clock of lastcentury struck its hundred.
Whether the young Captain Calverley, whom thepicture alluded to, was a hero because, when, oneday in the hunting-field, our young heiress and herquadruped came to grief over a fence, he made hishorse swerve suddenly to avoid disastrous complications,and thereby came to greater grief himself,Mr. Pelly, at any rate, could form no judgment. Itwas out of his line, he said. So, according to him,was the sequel, in which the sadly mauled mortalportion of the young soldier, with a doubt if theimmortal portion was still in residence, was carriedto Surley Stakes and qualified--though ratherslowly--to resume active service, by the skill of thebest of surgeons and the assiduity of an army ofnurses. But, hero or not, he was credited withheroism by the young lady, with all the naturalconsequences. And no doubt his convalescencewas all the more rapid that he found himself, whenhe recovered his senses forty-eight hours after hishead struck the corner of a stone wall in hisinvoluntary dismount, in such very delightfulcompany, with such opportunities of improving hisrelations with it. In fact, the scheme for hisremoval must have developed very soon, to give hima text for a sermon to the effect that he wasFortune's Toy and the Sport of Circumstances, that heaccounted concussion of the brain and a fracturedthigh-bone the only real blessings his lot had evervouchsafed to him, and that happiness wouldbecome a Thing of the Past as soon as he rejoinedhis regiment. He would, however, devote theremainder of his life to treasuring the memories of thislittle hour of unalloyed bliss, and hoping that hischerished recollections would at almost the rarestpossible intervals find an echo somehow andsomewhere that his adoration--badly in love as hewas--failed in finding a description for, as the climax ofa long sentence. And perhaps it was just as wellthat his resources in prose composition gave outwhen they did, as nothing was left then but tobecome natural, and say, "You'll forget all aboutme, Miss Upwell, you know you will. That's whatI meant"--the last with a consciousness that whenwe are doing prose composition we are apt to sayone thing and mean another.
Madeline wasn't prepared to be artificial, withthis young dragoon or anyone else. She gave himthe full benefit of her large blue eyes--because, yousee, she had got him down, as it were, and he couldn'tpossibly become demonstrative with a half-healedfracture of the thigh--and said, "I hope I _shan't_.I shall try not to, anyhow." But this seemed notto give entire satisfaction, as the patient said, ratherruefully, "_You could_, if you tried, Miss Upwell!" Towhich the young lady, who was not without amischievous side to her character, answered, "Ofcourse I could!" but immediately repented, andadded. "One can do anything one likes, if one trieshard enough, you know!"
It would only be the retelling of a very oldstory, the retreading of very old ground, to followthese young people through the remainder of theirinterview, which was interrupted by the appearanceof Madeline's mamma; who, to say the truth, hadbeen getting apprehensive that so many _tetes-a-tete_with this handsome patient might end seriously.And though his family was good, he was only ayounger son; and she didn't want her daughter tomarry a soldier. Fancy "Mad" being carried offto India! For in the bosom of her family thismost uncomfortable of namelets had caught onnaturally, without imputation of Hanwell or ColneyHatch.
However, her ladyship was too late, this time. Noclinical practice of any Hospital includes kissing orbeing kissed by the patient, and "Mad" and herlover were fairly caught. Nothing was left for itbut confession at high tension, and throwingourselves on the mercy of the Court. But always withthe distinct reservation that neither of us couldever love another.
Lady Upwell, a very beautiful woman in her day,was indulging in a beautiful sunset, and meant toremain fine till midnight. There was a gleam ofthe yellow silver of a big harvest moon in the hairthat had been gold. She was good, but verymajestic; in fact, _her_ majesty, when she presentedher daughter to her Queen, competed with that ofthe latter, which has passed into the language. Todo her justice, she let it lapse on hearing the fulldisclosure of these two culprits, and had the presenceof mind to ask them if they had no suspicion thatthey might be a couple of young fools, to fancy theycould know their own minds on so short an acquaintance,etc. For this was barely seven weeks afterthe hunting-field accident. "You silly geese!" shesaid. "Go your own way--but you'll quarrel ina fortnight. See if you don't!" _She_ knew allabout this sort of thing, though Mr. Pelly didn't.
The latter was right, however, and prudent, whenin his dream he laid stress on the wish of Madeline'sparents that there should be "no engagement." Thisstipulation seemed to be accounted by bothof them--but especially by the Baronet--as a sortof panacea for all parental responsibilities. It couldnot be reiterated too often. The consequence wasthat there were two concurrent determinations ofthe relative positions of Madeline and the Captain;one an esoteric one--a sort of sacramentalservice of perpetual vows of fidelity; the other theexoteric proclamations of a kind of many-headedtown-crier, who went about ringing his bell andshouting that it was "distinctly understood thatthere was no engagement." Mr. Pelly's repetitionof this in his dream may have had an intransitivecharacter; but he was good and prudent, just thesame. How we behave in dreams shows whetherthe high qualities we pride ourselves on are morethan skin-deep.
But all the efforts of the exoteric town-crier wereof no avail against the esoteric sacramental services.The most unsettling condition lovers can haveimposed upon them--that of being left entirely to theirown devices, and never stimulated by so much as ahint of a _chaperon_--failed to bring about a coolness.And when within a year after his accident JackCalverley was ordered away with his Company toSouth Africa, where war had all but broken out,the sacramental service the picture--or someone--hadwitnessed, just by the glass case with the bigfish in it, was the farewell of a couple ofheartbreaks, kept under by the upspring of Hope inyouth, that clings to the creed that the strickenclasses, the mourning classes, are Other People, andthat to them pity shall be given from within ourpale of well-fenced security. It was a wrench topart, certainly, but Jack would come back, and bea great soldier and wear medals. And the OtherPeople would die for their country.
And then came the war, and the many unpleasantdiscoveries that always come with a war,the most unpleasant of all being the discovery ofthe strength of the enemy. The usual recognitionsof the obvious, too late; and the usual denunciationsof everybody else for not having foreseen it all thetime. The usual rush to the money-chest ofunexhausted Credit, to make good with poundsdeficiencies shillings spent in time would havesupplied; the usual storms of indignation againstthe incompetence in high places that never spent,in time, the shillings we refused to provide. Theusual war-whoops from sheltered corners, safe outof gunshot; and the usual deaths by scores of menon both sides who never felt a pang of ill-feeling toeach other, or knew the cause of quarrel--yes, amany of whom, had they known a quarrel waspending, would have given their lives to avert it!The usual bearing, on both sides, of the brunt of thewhirlwind by those who never sowed a wind-seed,and the usual reaping of a golden harvest by theJudicious Investor, he who buys and sells, butmakes and meddles not with what he sells or buys,measuring its value alone by what he can get andmust give for it. And a very respectable personhe i
s, too.
The history of Madeline's next few months madeup for her a tale of anxious waitings for many mails;of pangs of unendurable tension over journals that,surrendered by the postman, would not open; that,opened at last, seemed nothing but advertisements;that, run to earth and convicted of telegrams, onlyyielded new food for anxiety. A tale of threeperiods of expectation of letters from Jack, by everymail. The first of expectation fulfilled; of letters fullof hope and confidence, of forecast of victories easilywon and a triumphant quick return. The secondof expectation damped and thwarted; of victoriesrevised; of Hope's rebukes to Confidence, thecoward who fails us at our need; of the slow dawnof the true horrors of war--mere death on thebattlefield the least of them--that will one day changethe reckless young soldier to an old grave man thathas learned his lesson, and knows that the curse ofCain is on him who stirs to War, and that half thegreat names of History have been borne by Devilsincarnate. And then the third--a weary time ofwaiting for a letter that came not, for only one littleword of news to say _yes_ or _no_ to the question wehardly dare to ask:--"Is he dead?" For our pooryoung friend, after distinguishing himself brilliantly,and yet coming almost scathless out of more thanone action, was _missing_. When the roll was calledafter a memorable action from which the twoopponent armies retreated simultaneously, able tobear the slaughter by unseen guns no longer, noanswer came to the name--called formally--ofCaptain Calverley. The survivors who still hadbreath to answer to their names already knew thathe was missing--knew that he was last seen apparentlycarried away by his horse, having lost controlover it--probably wounded, said report. That wasall--soon told! And then followed terrible hoursthat should have brought more news and did not.And the hearts of those who watched for it wentsick with the fear that no news would ever come,that none would ever know the end of that rideand the vanished rider. But each heart hid awayits sickness from its neighbour, and would not tell.
And so the days passed, and each day's end wasthe grafting of a fresh despair in the tree nourishedin the soil of buried hopes; and each morningMadeline would try to reason it away and discoversome new calendar rule, bringing miscalculation tobook--always cutting short the tale of days, neverlengthening them. She talked very little toanyone about it, for fear her houses of cards should beshaken down by stern common sense; or, worsestill, that she should be chilled by the hesitatingsympathy of half-hearted Hope. But her speechwas free to her great dog Caesar, when they werealone together.
Caesar was about the size of a small cart-horse,and when he had a mind--and he often had--to lieon the hearthrug, and think with his eyes shut, hewas difficult to move. Not that he had an opposiveor lazy disposition, but that it was not easy to makehim understand. The moment he knew what waswanted of him he was only too anxious to comply.As, for instance, if he could be convinced of Cats,he would rise and leave the room abruptly, knockingseveral persons down, and leaving behind him thetrail of an earthquake. But his heart was good andpure, and he impressed his admirers somehow thathe was always on the side of Ormuzd againstAhriman: he always took part with the Right.
So Madeline, when she found herself alone withCaesar, in those days, would cry into his fur as helay on the rug, and would put sentiments ofsympathy and commiseration into his mouth, whichmay have been warranted by the facts, only reallythere was nothing to show it. In these passagesshe alleged kinship with Caesar, claiming him as herson.
"Was he," she would say, "his own mamma'sprecious Angel? And the only person in the housethat had any real feeling! All the other nastypeople keep on being sorry for her, and he says heknows Jack's coming back, and nobody need besorry at all. And when Jack comes home safe andwell, his mamma's own Heavenly Angel shall runwith the horses all over Household Common--heshall! And he shall catch a swallow at last, heshall, and bring it to his own mamma. Bless him!Only he mustn't scratch his darling head toosuddenly; at least, not till his mamma can get her ownout of the way, because she's not a bull or anelephant, and able to stand anything.... That'sright, my pet! Now he shall try and get a littlesleep, he shall." This was acknowledgment of adeep sigh, as of one who had at last deservedlyfound rest. But it called for a recognition of itsunselfish nature, too. "And he never so much asthought of going to sleep till he'd consoled his poormamma--the darling!" And really her interviewswith Caesar grew to be almost Madeline's only speechabout her lost lover; for her father and mother,though they talked to each other, scarcely daredto say a word to her, lest their own disbeliefin the possibility of Jack's return should show itself.
And so the hours passed and passed, and the daysgrew to weeks, and the weeks to months; and now, atthe time of the cold January night when Mr. Pellydreamed the picture talked, the flame of Hope wasdying down in the girl's tired heart like the embershe sat by, and none came bringing fuel and a newlease of life.
But the way she nursed the flame that flickeredstill was brave. She kept up her spirits entirelyon the knowledge that there was no direct proof ofJack's death. She fostered a conception in hermind of a perfectly imaginary Veldt, about the sizeof Hyde Park, and carefully patrolled day andnight. They would have been certain to findhim if he were dead--was her thought. Whata handy little Veldt that was!--and, oh, theintolerable leagues of the reality! But it didhelp towards keeping her spirits up, somehow orother.
Her father and mother ascribed more than a fairshare of these kept-up spirits to their great panacea.They laid to their souls the flattering unction thatif there _had_ been a regular engagement their daughterwould have given way altogether. Think what adifference it would have made if she had had to gointo mourning! Lady Upwell took exception tothe behaviour of Jack's family at Calverley Court,who had rushed into mourning six weeks after hisdisappearance, and advertised their belief in hisdeath, really before there was any need for it. Herdaughter, on the contrary, rather made a parade ofbeing out of mourning. Perhaps it seemed to herto emphasize and consolidate her own hopes, aswell as to rebuke dispositions towards prematuredespair in others.
Therefore, when this young lady came upon oldMr. Pelly, just aroused from his dream, she wascertainly not clad in sackcloth and ashes. She hadon her rose colour _voile de soie_; only, of course,Mr. Pelly didn't see it until she took off her seal-colourmusquash wrap, which was quite necessary becauseof the cold. And the third evening after that,which was to be a quiet one at home for Mr. Pellyto read them the memoranda of his dream in theLibrary, she put on her Jap kimono with theembroidered storks, which was really nearly as smartas the _voile de soie_; and, of course, there was no needto fig up, when it was only Mr. Pelly. Andwhatever tale her looks might tell, no one could haveguessed from her manner she had such a sorrow atheart, so successfully did she affect, from fear ofit, a cheerfulness she was far from feeling; knowingperfectly well that if she made any concession, shemust needs break down altogether.
"Fancy your being able to remember it all, andwrite it out like that!" said she to Mr. Pelly whenthey adjourned into the Library after dinner.
"We must bear in mind," he replied, "that thestory is a figment of my own mind, and thereforeeasier to recall than a communication from anotherperson. Athenaeus refers to an instance of..."
"Never mind Athenaeus! How do you know itis a figment of your imagination?"
"What else can it be?"
"Lots of things. Besides, it doesn't matter.Look here, now, you say it was a dream, don't you?"
"I certainly think so."
"Well!--and aren't dreams the hardest things torecollect there are? Look at the Prophet Daniel,and Nebuchadnezzar." Mr. Pelly thought tohimself that he would much sooner look at the speaker.But he only said, "Suppose we do!" To whichthe reply was, "Well, then--of course!..."
"Of course what?"
"Why--of course when you can recollect thingsthat proves they're not dreams."
"Then, when Daniel recollected--or, I shouldrather say, recalled his dream to Nebuchadnezzar--didthat prove that it wasn't a dream?"
"Certainly not, because he was a Proph
et. TheChaldeans _couldn't_ recollect, and that proved thatit was."
The Baronet and his Lady remained superiorlysilent, smiling over the heads of the discussion.The attitude of Debrett towards human weaknesses--suchas Philosophical Speculation, or the Use ofthe Globes--was indicated.
When Mr. Pelly had finished reading his accountof the dream--on which our relation of it, alreadygiven, was founded--discussion ensued. Itembodied, intelligently enough, all the things that itis dutiful to say when we are disconcerted at theinscrutable.
The Baronet said we must guard ourselvescarefully against being carried away by two or threethings; superstition was one of them. It did notrequire a Scientific Eye to see that there was nothingin this narrative which might not be easily ascribedto the subconscious action of Mr. Pelly's brain.It was quite otherwise in such a case as that of hisgreat-aunt, Dorothea, whose wraith undoubtedlyappeared and took refreshment at KnaresboroughCopping at the very time that she was confined oftwins here in this house. The testimony to thetruth of this had never been challenged. But whenpeople came and told him stories of substantialtables floating in the air and accordions beingplayed, he always asked this one question, "Wasit in the dark?" That question always proved aposer, etc., etc.--and so forth. From which itwill be seen that Sir Stopleigh belonged to thatnumerous class of persons which, when its attentionturns towards wondermongering of any sort, losesits heads promptly, and runs through the nearestavailable gamut of accepted phrases.
Her ladyship said she was not the least surprisedat anything happening in a dream. She herselfdreamed only the other night that Lady Pirbrighthad gone up in a balloon shaped like a gridiron, andthe very next day came the news that old CanonPirbright, at Trenchards Plaistowe, had had aparalytic stroke. It was impossible to account forthese things. The only wonder to her was thatMr. Pelly should have recollected the whole so plainly,and been able to write it down. She would giveanything to recollect that dream about theCirculating Library and the potted shrimps. Herladyship discoursed for some time about her owndreams.
Mr. Pelly entirely concurred in the view that thewhole thing was a dream. In fact, it would beabsurd to suppose it anything else. When he gotan opportunity to read Professor Schrudengesser'stranslation of the Italian MS. to his friends, theywould readily see the source of most of the eventshis mind had automatically woven into acontinuous narrative for the picture-woman to tell.He would rather read it to them himself than leavethem the MS. to read, as there were points thatwould require explanation. He could not offer todo so till he came back from his great-grandnieceConstance's wedding at Cowcester. A little delaywould not matter. They would not have forgottenthe dream-story in a fortnight. To this, assent wasgiven in chorus.
But Madeline was not going to have the storypooh-poohed and made light of. "I believe it wasa _ghost_, Uncle Christopher," said she. "The ghostof the woman in the picture. And you christenedher after me by subconscious thingummy. _Maddalena's_Italian for Madeline. But they never givetheir names right. Ask anyone that hasphenomena." Then she lit candles for all parties togo to bed, and kissed them all, including her allegeduncle, who laid stress on his claim for this grace induplicate, as he had no one to kiss him at home."Poor Uncle Christopher," said she, "he's been shutup in the dark with a ghost.... Oh yes!--I'm inearnest, and you're all a parcel of sillies." Thenshe borrowed his written account of the dream tore-read in bed, and take care the lamp didn't setfire to the curtains. She said she particularlywanted to look at that last sentence or two, aboutwhen the picture was in Chelsea.
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