Book: The Far Horizon

L >> Lucas Malet >> The Far Horizon




Rhoda Lovegrove, however, was very far from being among the detractors.
She relished this gracious speech enormously. She also approved the
attitude of her husband at this juncture; since, with praiseworthy tact,
he engaged the attention of her two other guests, a Mrs. Ballard and her
daughter. These ladies were rich, the younger had pretensions both to
beauty and fashion; but their present was, alas! stained by
Noncomformity, their past contaminated by association with retail trade.
At the entrance of the vicar, remembering these sad defects, George
Lovegrove rose to the occasion. Gently, but firmly, he pranced round them
heading them towards the doorway.

"Who are those?" Dr. Nevington inquired, with some interest. "Not
parishioners, I fancy."

"Not in any true sense," Mrs. Lovegrove replied. "Dissenters, and I am
sorry to say rather spiteful against the Church."

The clergyman leaned back and crossed his legs comfortably.

"Ah! well, poor human nature! A touch of jealousy perhaps," he remarked.

Mrs. Lovegrove beamed.

"Very likely--still I should be just as well pleased not to continue
their acquaintance. I don't like to hear things that are disrespectful. I
should have ceased to call, but relatives of theirs are old friends of
Mr. Lovegrove's mother's family."

"Quite so, quite so," the other returned. Even when silent the sound of
him seemed to encompass him, as the roll of a drum seems to salute you
when merely beholding that instrument. His speech filled all the room,
flowing forth into every corner, sweeping upward in waves to the very
cornice. The feminine members of his congregation found this most
beautiful; having, indeed, been known to declare that did he preach in
Chinese, they would still receive edification and spiritual benefit.--
"Quite so," he repeated, "the breaking of old family ties is certainly to
be avoided. And then, moreover, we should always guard against any
appearance of harshness or illiberality in dealing with Christians from
whom we have reason to differ in minor questions of doctrine or practice.
We must never forget that the Nonconformists, though they went out from
us, do remain the brethren of all right-minded Churchmen in a very
special sense, since they have the great lessons of the Reformation at
heart. I could wish that certain parties within the Church were animated
by the same manly and intelligent intolerance of idolatry and
superstition as the majority of the dissenters whom I meet. Personally I
should welcome greater freedom of intercourse, and a frequent interchange
of pulpits."

"We know who'd be the gainers," Mrs. Lovegrove put in gracefully.

"Ah! well, I am prepared to believe that the gain might not be
exclusively on one side."

Mrs. Lovegrove folded her fat hands, purring almost audibly. He seemed to
her so very wise and good.

"That's so like you, Dr. Nevington," she said. "As I always tell Mr.
Lovegrove, we have a great responsibility in having you for our pastor
and friend. You are a standing rebuke to many of us, being so wide-minded
yourself."

"Hardly that, hardly that," he answered with becoming modesty. "In my
humble way I do strive towards unity, that is all. Even towards the
Church of Rome I would extend a friendly and helpful hand. We cannot, of
course, go to her, yet she should never be discouraged from coming to
us.--But here is your good husband back again--ceased to be unevenly
yoked with the unbeliever, eh, Lovegrove?"

"I was glad you took them away, Georgie," Mrs. Lovegrove put in. "Still
I'm sorry for you, for the vicar's been talking so nobly. You've missed
such a lot."

"Ah, hardly that. I have merely been giving your dear good wife a little
lecture on Christian charity. How is Mrs. Nevington? Thank you,
wonderfull well, earnest and energetic as ever. I do not know how I could
meet the demands of this large parish without her."

"A true helpmeet," purred Mrs. Lovegrove.

"Truly so--and specially in all questions of organisation. She is
altogether my superior in administrative capacity. Indeed, it is an
understood thing between us that I relieve her of what may be called the
bad third of her marriage vow. If she will love and honour, I assure her
I am ready to obey. A capital working rule for husbands--eh, Lovegrove?--
always supposing they have found the right woman, as you and I have."

In the midst of this delicious badinage the hostess had to rise to
receive further guests. Conflicting emotions struggled within her ample
bosom--namely, regret at leaving that thrice happy sofa, and
satisfaction that others should behold the glory thereon so visibly
enthroned.

"How d'ye do, Mrs. Porcher? How d'ye do, Miss Hart?" she said. "Very kind
of you to come and call. Only a few friends as yet, but perhaps that's
just as pleasant this warm afternoon. Dr. Nevington, as you see, and at
his very best"--she lowered her voice discreetly. "So at home, so full
of great thoughts, and yet so comical--quite a privilege for all to hear
him talk."

Encouraged by recent commendation, George Lovegrove again rose with
praiseworthy tact to the occasion. It may be stated in passing that, in
person, he was below the middle height, a thick oblong man, his figure,
indeed, not unsuggestive of a large carapace, from the four corners of
which sprouted short arms and legs. His face was round, fresh-coloured,
and clean to the point of polish. His yellowish grey hair, well flattened
and shining, grew far back on his forehead. And this, combined with small
blue eyes, clear as a child's, a slight inward squint to them, produced
an effect of permanent and innocent surprise not devoid of pathos. In
character he was guileless and humble-minded. The spectacle of cruelty or
injustice would, however, rouse him to the belligerent attitude of the
proverbial _brebis enragé_. He believed himself to be very happy--an
added touch of pathos perhaps--and was pained and surprised if it was
brought home to him that others found life a less comfortable and kindly
invention than he himself did. Hence reports of suicides worried him
sadly. He would always have returned a verdict of temporary insanity,
this being to him the only explanation conceivable of a voluntary exit
from our so excellent present form of existence. Yet George Lovegrove was
not without his little secret sorrow--who indeed is? A deep-seated regret
for nonexistent small Lovegroves possessed him, the instinct of paternity
being strong in him. He loved children, and, when alone, often lingered
beside perambulators in Kensington Gardens fondly observing their
contents. Yet not for ten thousand pounds sterling would he have admitted
this weakness, lest in doing so he should hurt "the wife's feelings." And
it was in obedience to consideration for the said feelings that he now
threw himself gallantly into the breach. For, after acting as
appreciative chorus to an interlude of sonorous trifling on the part of
the clergyman with the newcomers, he adroitly--under promise of showing
her recent additions to his collection of picture postcards--detached
Miss Eliza Hart from the neighbourhood of the sofa and conveyed her to
the farther side of the room. Mrs. Porcher, neat, pensive, and
sentimental, could be trusted to play the part of attentive listener; but
the great Eliza, as he knew by experience, was liable to develop
dangerous energy, to get a little above herself, shake her leonine mane
of upstanding sandy hair, and become altogether too talkative, not to say
loud, for such distinguished company. Personally he had a soft spot in
his heart for Eliza. But, if she put herself forward, he feared for "the
wife's feelings," therefore did he skilfully detach her.

And he had reason to congratulate himself on this manoeuvre, for Eliza
undoubtedly was in a frolicsome humour.

"Yes," she remarked, contemplating the portrait of a celebrated actress.
"That is very taking and stylish; and it is just what I should like to
have done with my Peachie." This graceful _sobriquet_ was generally
understood to bear testimony to the excellence of Mrs. Porcher's
complexion. "Now, if we wanted a gentleman guest or two more at any time,
a picture postcard of her like this, just slightly tinted, in answer to
inquiries?"

Miss Hart, her head on one side, looked playfully at Mr. Lovegrove.

"What about a subsequent summons for over-crowding?" he chuckled. The
whole breadth of the room, well understood, was between him and the
wife's feelings, not to mention the august presence beside her upon the
sofa.

"No doubt that has to be thought of!" Eliza nodded sagely. "But is she
not looking sweeter than ever to-day? Do not pretend you have not noticed
it, Mr. Lovegrove. There's no deceiving me! I know you."

Like all mild and moral men, Lovegrove flushed with delight at any
suggestion that he was a gay dog, a dashing blade. His good, honest face
took on a higher polish than ever.

"You are too clever by half, Miss Hart."

"Well, somebody has to keep their wits about them, with such a love as
Peachie to care for. I dressed her myself to-day. 'The pearl-grey gown if
you like,' I said, 'but not a scrap of black with it. Just a touch of
colour at the throat, please.' 'No, dear Liz,' she said, 'it would call
for remark, since I have never done so since I lost Major Porcher.' But
there, Mr. Lovegrove, I insisted. For why she should go on wearing
complimentary mourning all her life for a wretch that nearly broke her
heart and ruined her, passes me. 'Forget the serpent,' I said, 'and put
on a little turquoise tulle pompom.' Now just look at her!"

"Rather dangerous for some people, is it not?" Lovegrove inquired quite
slyly.

"Hard on our gentlemen, you mean? Well, perhaps it is. But then they
always have the sight of me to put up with.--No compliments, thank you. I
have my eyesight and my toilet-glass, and they have let me know I was no
Venus ever since I can remember. It would not do to depress our gentlemen
too much. They might leave, and then wherever would Cedar Lodge be?"

Miss Hart became suddenly serious and confidential. "And that reminds me,"
she went on. "I wanted to have a private word with you to-day about a
certain gentleman."

"Who may be?" the good George inquired.

"You can guess, can't you? Your own candidate."

"Mr. Iglesias?"

The lady nodded.

"Peachie must be spared anxiety, therefore I speak, Mr. Lovegrove.
Something is going on, and she is getting worried. You cannot approach
the person to whom we are alluding as you can either of our others.
Rather stand-offish, even now after nearly eight years that he has been
with us. Between you and me and the bedpost, Mr. Lovegrove, I am just a
wee bit nervous of that person. So if you could hint, quite in
confidence, what his plans may be for the future it would' be really
friendly."

"Dear me, dear me! Plans? I do not quite follow you, Miss Hart. Nothing
wrong with him, I trust?"

"That is just what we cannot find out. No spying, of course, Mr.
Lovegrove. Neither Peachie nor I would descend to such meanness. Our
gentlemen have perfect liberty. We would scorn to put questions. But it
is close on a week now since the person we are alluding to has been to
the City."

"Bless me! You surprise me. He cannot have left Barking Brothers &
Barking?"

The great Eliza shook her leonine mane.

"I believe that is just exactly what he has done."

"You do surprise me. I can hardly credit it. Nearly a week, and he as
punctual and regular as clockwork! I must run over this evening and catch
him. Something must be wrong. And yet why has he not been here? Dear me.
Miss Hart, you----"

But the end of the sentence was lost in the bass notes issuing from the
presence upon the sofa.

"Truly, the prosperity of the nation," Dr. Nevington was saying, "of this
dear old England of ours that we so love, is wholly bound up with the
prosperity of her national Church. I use the word prosperity in a plain,
manly, straightforward sense. Personally I should rejoice to see the
bonds of Church and State drawn closer. It could not fail to make for the
welfare of both. Then, among other benefits, we should see the poverty of
many members of my cloth, which is now a crying scandal--"

"You do hear very sad tales from the country districts, certainly,"
sighed Mrs. Lovegrove.

"The state of affairs is more than sad, it is iniquitous. And therefore
the Church must assert herself. The individual minister must assert
himself, and claim a higher scale of remuneration. Help yourself, show
push and principle, cultivate practical aims--that is what I preach to
young men reading for Holy Orders. We have no place in these days for
visionaries and dreamers. We want men who march with the times, who are
interested in politics, and can make themselves felt."

So did the great voice roll on and outward. Very beautiful to the
listeners in sound--though, in sense, it may be questioned whether it
conveyed very definite ideas to them--but highly embarrassing to the
house-parlourmaid, whose feminine tones quite failed to make headway
against the volume of it. With the consequence that Dominic Iglesias was
left standing in the shadow of the doorway unheeded.

He was aware, and that not without surprise, how much these few days of
freedom and leisure had quickened his perceptions. His mental attitude
had changed. His demand had ceased to be moderate. Hence he suffered a
hundred offences to taste and sensibility hitherto unknown, or at least
unregistered. He knew when a woman was plain, when a conversation was
vapid or vulgar, a manner pretentious, a speech lacking in sincerity.
Consciously he stood aside, no longer out of humility or indifference,
but critically observant, challenging things however familiar, and
passing judgment upon them. For example, the unlovely character of Mrs.
Lovegrove's drawing-room engrossed his attention--the dirty-browns and
tentative watery blues of it, the multiplicity of flimsy, worthless,
little ornaments revealing a most lamentable absence of artistic
perception. In that fine booming clerical voice he detected a kindred
absence of delicate perception, a showiness born of very inadequate
conception of relative values. Indeed, the voice and the sentiments given
forth by it, in as far as he caught the drift of them, raised a definite
spirit of antagonism in him. The voice seemed to trample. Dominic
Iglesias was taken with an inclination--very novel in him--to trample,
too. He crossed the room, an added touch of gravity and dignity in his
aspect and manner.

The clergyman gazed at him with some curiosity, while Mrs. Lovegrove
surged up off the sofa.

"Mr. Iglesias! Well, of all people! Whoever would have expected to see
you at this early hour of the day?"

"Talk of a certain gentleman and that gentleman appears," Miss Eliza Hart
whispered. Then wagging her finger at her host, "Now don't you forget
that little question of mine. Find out his intentions, just, as you may
say, under the rose. But there's Peachie signalling to go."

In the ensuing interval of farewells, which were slightly protracted
owing to friskiness on the part of the fair Eliza, Iglesias found himself
standing beside the clergyman. The latter still regarded him with
curiosity. But, whatever his faults, not his worst enemy could accuse Dr.
Nevington of being a respecter of persons unless he was well assured
beforehand whom such persons might be. He therefore turned to Iglesias
with the easy air of patronage not uncommon to his cloth, as one who
should say: "My good sir, don't be afraid. I am a man of the world as
well as a Christian. I will handle you gently. I won't hurt you."

"I think I caught a foreign name," he remarked. "You are paying a visit
to London? I hope our capital makes an agreeable impression upon you."

"The visit has been of such long duration," Iglesias answered, "that
impressions have, I am afraid, become slightly blurred by usage."

"Ah! indeed--no doubt that happens in some measure to all of us. I am to
understand that you are a resident?"

Iglesias assented.

"In this district?"

Again he assented.

"Indeed. Really, I wish I had known it sooner. It always gives me
pleasure to meet persons of another nationality than my own. Intercourse
with them makes for liberality of view. It often dispels anti-English
prejudice. I am always glad to be helpful to strangers."

"You are very kind," Iglesias said with gravity.

"Not at all--not at all. I hold very practical views not only regarding
the duties of the Englishman to the alien, but of the pastor towards his
flock. But I find it almost impossible, I regret to say, to become
personally acquainted with all my parishioners. My curates are capital
young fellows--earnest, active, go-ahead. But in a large area such as
this there is always a shifting population with which the clergy, however
energetic, find it difficult to keep in touch. We are obliged to
discriminate between dwellers and sojourners. As soon as any person is
proved to be a _bona fide_ dweller my curates pass his or her name on to
me, and either I or my wife call in due course."

Dominic Iglesias permitted himself to smile.

"An excellent system, no doubt," he remarked.

"I find it works very well on the whole. But no system is infallible.
There must be occasional oversights, and you have been the victim of one.
I mention this to disabuse your mind of the idea of any intentional
neglect. Well, Mrs. Lovegrove, and so our good friends Mrs. Porcher and
Miss Hart have gone--estimable women both of them in their own line. I
ought to be running away, too, and I have just been having a word with
your other guest here, Mr.----"

"Iglesias," Dominic put in coldly. He was in a state of pretty high
displeasure. To hear his name mispronounced might, he felt, precipitate a
catastrophe.

"Iglesias?--ah! yes, thank you--I have been explaining to Mr. Iglesias
our system of parochial visiting and quoting our well-known joke about
the dwellers and sojourners. You remember it? He has, I regret to find,
been counted among the latter, while he has qualified as one of the
former. The mistake must be remedied. Well, good-by to you, Mrs.
Lovegrove; I shall see your good husband on my way downstairs. Good-day
to you, Mr. Iglesias. I shall hope to meet you again."

And with that he, and the encompassing sound of him, moved towards the
door. Mrs. Lovegrove subsided upon the sofa. The supreme glory had
departed, yet an afterglow from the effulgence of it remained in her
beaming face as she looked up at Mr. Iglesias.

"It was a good fairy that brought you in so early to-day," she said.
"Really, I am pleased you should have had the chance to meet Dr.
Nevington. And I could see he was quite taken with you, by the way he
began to talk before I had the chance to introduce you. But that's the
vicar all over! He never is one to stand upon ceremony."

"So I can believe," Dominic said.

"You saw it? Ah, part of his thoughtfulness, wanting to put everybody at
their ease. And I'm sure if there's one thing more disheartening than
another, it is to have two of your friends standing up side by side, as
stiff as a couple of pokers, without so much as a word. I know I am too
ready to enter into conversation with strangers; but if there is a thing
I cannot bear, it's any appearance of coolness."

She passed her handkerchief round her forehead and across her lips. She
was marshalling her energies for a daring effort.

"Very warm, is it not?" she remarked, perhaps superfluously. Then she
came to the point. "I know you are not very much of a churchgoer, Mr.
Iglesias."

"I am afraid not"--he paused a moment. "You see, I was born and brought
up in another faith."

"Yes--so George has told me. But I am sure none of us would ever be so
illiberal as to throw that up against you. The vicar has been talking so
beautifully about Christian charity; and we all know it was a thing you
could not help. It was your misfortune, anybody would understand that,
not your fault. Too, it's all over long ago and forgotten."

Dominic looked rather hard at her; but it was clear her words were
innocent of any intention of offence.

"I suppose it is," he said sadly, Old Age and Loneliness laying their
hands upon him, for some reason, very sensibly once again.

"Not that that's anything to be otherwise than thankful for," she added,
with a slightly misplaced effort at consolation. "Of course anyone must
feel how providential it is to be saved from all those terrible false
doctrines and practices--not that I know anything about them. There's so
much, don't you think, it is so much better not to know anything about.
Then one feels more at liberty to speak."

Mr. Iglesias smiled.

"I am not sure that the matter had occurred from exactly that point of
view before."

"Really now, and a clever person like you!" Mrs. Lovegrove passed her
handkerchief across her forehead again. "George has a wonderful opinion
of your cleverness, you know. And that is why I have always wished you
and the vicar could be brought together. I have--yes, I own to it--I have
been afraid sometimes you were a little unsettled about religion, and
that it might unsettle Georgie, too. But I knew if you once met the vicar
that would all be set right. As I often say to George, let anybody just
_see_ Dr. Nevington and then they will begin to have an inkling of all
they miss in not hearing him in the pulpit."

But here, perhaps fortunately, the master of the house trotted back. He,
too, beamed. He was filled with innocent rejoicing. Had he not
successfully protected the wife's feelings, and was not Iglesias--who
remained to him a wonderful being, stirring whatever element of romance
might be resident in his guileless nature--present in person?

"Why, what's the meaning of this, Dominic?" he chuckled. "You've turned
over a new leaf, gadding round to at-home days! Where's Threadneedle
Street? What's come over you?"

"Threadneedle Street and I have agreed to part company."

"What, for good? Never?" this from both husband and wife.

"Yes, for good," Iglesias said.

Mr. Lovegrove ceased to beam. He became anxious again, and consequently
solemn.

"Well, you do surprise me," he said. "Nothing gone wrong, I trust? Not
any unpleasantness happened?"

"None," Iglesias answered. In breaking the news to these kindly but
rudimentary souls he had determined to treat it very lightly. "I have
come to the conclusion that I have worked long enough. It is a mistake to
risk dying in harness. You retired, Lovegrove, three years ago. I am
going to look about me a little and see what the rest of the world is
doing."

"You'll miss the bank, and feel a little strange at first. Georgie did,
though he had his home to interest him," Mrs. Lovegrove remarked.

"Undoubtedly George was more fortunate than I am," Iglesias replied, in
his most courtly manner.

"Not but that all that could be easily remedied," she added, with a touch
of archness. Then Mr. Iglesias thought it time to depart. In the hall his
host held him, literally by the buttonhole, looking up with squinting
blue eyes into his face.

"It's all rather sudden, Dominic," he said. "I do not want to intrude
upon your confidence; but if there is anything behind, anything in which
I can help?"

Mr. Iglesias shook his head.

"Nothing, my good old friend," he said.

"The wife's right, you know. You'll miss the bank, the regular hours, and
the occupation. She's quite right. I did at first."

"I know. But already I have pretty well got through that phase, I think."

"Ah, you have a bigger mind than mine. You can rise to a wider view.
Change affects a commonplace man like myself most. I was dreadfully lost
at first--more than the wife knew. Females are very sensitive, and it
would have hurt her to know all I felt. If the Almighty is good enough to
give a man a faithful woman to look after him, he can't be too scrupulous
in sparing her pain--at least, so I think." Suddenly his tone changed.
"But you are not going to leave us, Dominic?--you are not going to move,
I do hope?"

He was mindful of his promise to Eliza Hart, but he was also mindful of
himself. It had occurred to him for how very much in the interest and
pleasure of his life Dominic Iglesias really stood.

"Why, should you regret my going? Should you miss me?" the other asked,
struck by his tone.

"Miss you," he said, "and after a friendship covering forty years! I know
you are my superior in every way. I know I am not on your level. All the
advantage is on my side in our friendship, always has been. But that is
just where it is. Why, you know, Dominic--next to the wife of course--all
along you have been the best thing I had."

Then it came to Iglesias, looking down at him, that among the many
millions of his fellow-mortals, this whimsical childlike being stood
nearest to him in sympathy and in love. The thought moved him strangely,
at once deepening his sense of isolation and lessening the load of it.

"In that case I will not move. I will stay here, at Trimmer's Green," he
said.

When Mr. Lovegrove reentered the sun-faded drawing-room his wife greeted
him in these words:

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