"You certainly were very brave about it," she said, in the most friendly way; "you never once grumbled when the sandwiches got damp--not once."

And so the three of them kept gayly and carelessly talking and chatting together, as the long train thundered away to the south; while ever and anon they could turn their eyes to that changing phantasmagoria of the outer world that went whirling by the windows. It was rather a wild-looking day, sometimes brightening with a wan glare of sunlight, but more often darkening until the country looked like a French landscape, in its sombre tones of gray and black and green. Yet, nevertheless, there was a sort of picturesqueness in the brooding sky, the russet woods, the purple hedges, and the new-ploughed furrows; while now and again a distant mansion, set on a height, shone a fair yellow above its terraced lawn. Scattered rooks swept down the wind and settled in a field. The moorhens had forsaken the ruffled water of the ponds and sought shelter among the withered sedge. Puffs of white steam from the engine flew across and were lost in the leafless trees. Embankments suddenly showed themselves high in the air, and as suddenly dipped again; then there were long stretches of coppice, with red bracken, and a sprinkling of gold on the oaks. To Lionel the time went by all too quickly; before he had said the half of what he wanted to say, behold!

here they were at Preston Park.

"You are at least remaining over until to-morrow?" Lady Cunyngham asked him.

"Well, no," said he, "I did not think of coming down until this morning, and so I had made no arrangements. I should think it hardly likely there would be a vacant bedroom at the Orleans Club at this time of year--no, in any case, I must get back by the 8.40 to-night."

"And in the meantime," she asked again, "have you any engagement?"

"None. I dare say I shall have a stroll along the sea-front, and then drop in for lunch at the Orleans."

"You might as well come down now and lunch with us," said she, simply.

Lionel's face brightened up amazingly; he had been looking forward to saying good-bye at the station with anything but joy.

"I should be delighted--if I am not in the way," was his prompt answer.

"Oh, Honnor and I are entirely by ourselves at present," said this elderly lady with the silver-white hair. "We are expecting Lady Adela and her sisters this week, however; and perhaps my son will come down later on."

"Are they back from Scotland?"

"They arrive to-morrow, I believe."

"And Lady Adela's novel?"

"Oh, I don't know anything about that," said she, with a good-humored smile. "Surely she can't have written another novel already!"

When they got into the station, a footman was awaiting them, but they had no bags or baggage of any description; they walked a little way along the platform and entered the carriage; presently they were driving away down to the sea-front. What Honnor Cunyngham thought of the arrangement, it is impossible to say, but the invitation was none of her giving: no doubt it was merely a little compliment in acknowledgment of Mr. Moore's kindness of the preceding night. However, when the barouche pulled up in front of a house in Adelaide Crescent, Mr. Moore had his own proposal to make.

"It seems so pleasant down there," said he, looking towards the wide stretches of greensward and the promenade along the sea-wall, where the people, just come out of church, were strolling to and fro; "every one appears to be out--don't you think we should have a little walk before going in?"

Honnor Cunyngham said nothing; it was her mother who at once and good-naturedly a.s.sented; and when they had descended from the carriage they forthwith made their way down to mix in this idle throng. It was quite a bright and pleasant morning here--a stiff southwesterly breeze blowing--a considerably heavy sea thundering in and springing with jets of white spray into the air--the sunlight shining along the yellow houses of Brunswick Terrace, where there were cheerful bits of green here and there in the balconies. Then the crowd was rather more gayly dressed than an English crowd usually is; for women allow themselves a little more lat.i.tude in the way of color during the Brighton season, and on such a morning there was ample excuse for a display of sunshades. And was it merely a wish to breathe the fresh-blowing wind and to listen to the hissing withdrawal and recurrent roar of the waves that had induced Lionel to ask his two companions to join in this slow march up and down?

Young men have their little vanities and weaknesses, like other folk.

Rumor had on more than one occasion coupled his name with that of some fair damsel; what if he were to say now, "Well, if you will talk, here is one worth talking about." He was conscious on this shining morning that Miss Cunyngham--the more beautiful daughter of a beautiful mother--was looking superb; he remembered what Miss Georgie had said about Honnor's proud and graceful carriage. He knew a good many of the people in this slow-moving a.s.semblage; and he was not sorry they should see him talking to this tall and handsome young Englishwoman--who also appeared to have a numerous acquaintanceship.

"Why, you seem to know everybody, Mr. Moore?" she said to him, with a smile.

"You would think all London was here this morning--it's really astonishing!" he made answer.

Occasionally they stopped to have a chat with more particular friends; and then Lionel would remain a little bit aside; though once or twice Lady Cunyngham chose to introduce him, and that pleased him, he hardly knew why. But at last she said,

"Well, I think we must be getting home. Properly speaking we have no right to be in the prayer-book brigade at all, for we have not been to church this morning."

Not unlikely the squire of these two ladies was rather loath to leave this gay a.s.semblage; but he was speedily consoled, for, to his inexpressible joy, he found, when they got in-doors, that there was no one else coming to lunch--these three were to be quite by themselves.

And of what did they not talk during this careless, protracted, idling meal? Curiously enough, it was Nina, not Miss Burgoyne, who appeared to have chiefly impressed the two visitors on the preceding evening; and when Lady Cunyngham discovered that she was an old companion and fellow-student of Lionel's, she was much interested, and would have him tell her all about his experiences in Naples. And again Miss Honnor recurred to the difference between amateur and professional acting, that seemed to have struck her so forcibly the previous night.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "_'Why, you seem to know everybody, Mr. Moore!' she said to him, with a smile._"]

"Really, Mr. Moore," said she, "you must have an astonishing amount of good-nature and tolerance. If I had complete command of any art, and saw a band of amateurs attempting something in it and not even conscious of their own amateurishness, I don't know whether I should be more inclined to laugh or to be angry. I used to be amused, up there in Strathaivron, with the confidence Georgie Lestrange showed in singing a duet with you--"

"Ah, but Miss Lestrange sings very well," said he. "And, you know, if Lady Adela and her sisters perform a piece like "The Chaplet"--well, that is a Watteau-like sort of thing--Sevres china--force or pa.s.sion of any kind isn't wanted--it's all artificial, and confessedly so. And then, when the professional actor finds himself acting with amateurs, I dare say he modifies himself a little--"

"Becomes an amateur, in short," she said.

"In a measure. Otherwise he would be a regular bull in a china shop. And surely, when you get a number of people in a remote place like Strathaivron, the efforts of amateurs to amuse them should be encouraged and approved. I thought it was very unselfish of them--very kind--though they generally succeeded in sending Lord Fareborough to bed. By the way, Miss Cunyngham, did Lord Fareborough ever get a stag?"

For it was observable that this young man, whenever he got the chance, was anxious to lead away the conversation from the theatre and all things pertaining thereunto, and would rather talk about Strathaivron and salmon-fishing and Miss Honnor's plans with regard to the coming year.

"Oh, no," she said, "he never went out but that once, and then he nearly killed himself, according to his own account. We never quite knew what happened; there was some dark mystery that Roderick wouldn't explain; and, you know, Lord Fareborough himself is rather short-tempered. He ought not to have gone out--a man who has imagined himself into that hypochondriacal state. However, it has given him an excuse for thinking himself a greater invalid than ever; and he has got it into his head now that we all of us persuaded him to try a day's stalking--a conspiracy, as it were, to murder him. There was some accident at one of the fords, I believe. He came home early. I never heard of his having fired at a stag at all." And then she added, with a smile. "Mr. Moore, what made you send me such a lot of salmon-flies?"

"Oh, well," he said, "I thought you ought to have a good stock." How could he tell her of his vague hope that the Jock Scotts and Blue Doctors might serve for a long time to recall him to her memory?

"I suppose you have got the stag's head by now?" she asked.

"Oh, yes, indeed; and tremendously proud of it I am," he responded, eagerly. "You know I should never have gone deer-stalking but for you. I made sure I was going to make a fool of myself--"

"I remember you were rather sensitive, or anxious not to miss, perhaps,"

she said, in a very gentle way. "I thought of it again last night, when I saw you so completely master in your own sphere--so much at home--with everything at your command--"

"Oh, yes, very much at home," he answered her, with just a touch of bitterness. "Perhaps it is easy to be at home--in harlequinade--though you may not quite like it." And then once more he refused to talk of the theatre. "I am going to send old Robert some tobacco at Christmas," said he.

"I heard of what you did already in that way," she said, smiling. "Do you know that you may spoil a place by your extravagance? I should think all the keepers and gillies in Strathaivron were blessing your name at this very moment."

"And you go up in the spring, you said?"

"Yes. That is the real fishing-time. My brother Hugh and I have it all to ourselves then; Lady Adela and the rest of them prefer London."

And then it was almost in his heart to cry out to her, "May not I, too, go up there, if but for a single week--for six clear-shining days in the springtime?" Ben More, Suilven, Canisp--oh, to see them once again!--and the windy skies, and Geinig thundering down its rocky chasm, and Aivron singing its morning song along the golden gravel of its shoals! what did he want with any theatre?--with the harlequinade in which he was losing his life? Could he not escape? Euston station was not so far away--and Invershin? It seemed to him as though he had already shaken himself free--that a gladder pulsation filled his veins--that he was breathing a sweeter air. The white April days shone all around him; the silver and purple clouds went flying overhead; here he was by the deep, brown pools again, with the gray rocks and the overhanging birch-woods and the long shallows filling all the world with that soft, continuous murmur. As for his singing?--oh, yes, he could sing--he could sing, if needs were,

"O lang may his lady-love Look frae the Castle Doune, Ere she see the Earl o' Moray Come sounding through the toun"--

but there is no gaslight here--there are no painted faces--he has not to look on at the antics of a clown, with shame and confusion in his heart--

The wild fancy was suddenly snapped in twain; Lady Cunyngham rose; the two younger people did likewise.

"Now, I know you gentlemen like a cigar or cigarette after luncheon,"

she said to Lionel, "and we are going to leave you quite by yourself--you will find us in the drawing-room when you please."

Of course he would not hear of such a proposal; he opened the door for them, and followed them up-stairs; what were cigars or cigarettes to him when he had such a chance of listening to Honnor Cunyngham's low, modulated voice, or watching for a smile in the calmly observant hazel eyes? Indeed, in the drawing-room, as Miss Honnor showed him a large collection of a.s.siout ware which had been sent her by an English officer in Egypt (by what right or t.i.tle, Lionel swiftly asked himself, had any English officer made bold to send Miss Cunyngham a hamperful of these red-clay idiotcies?), this solitary guest had again and again to remind himself that he must not outstay his welcome. And yet they seemed to find a great deal to talk about; and the elder of the two ladies was exceedingly kind to him; and there was a singular fascination in his finding himself entirely _en famille_ with them. But alas! Even if he or they had chosen to forget, the early dusk of the November afternoon was a sufficient warning; the windows told him he had to go. And go he did at last. He bade them good-bye; with some friendly words still dwelling in his ears he made his way down the dim stairs and had the door opened for him; then he found himself in this now empty and hopeless town of Brighton, that seemed given over to the low, mult.i.tudinous murmur of that wide waste of waves.

He did not go along to the Orleans Club; his heart and brain were too busy to permit of his meeting chance acquaintances. He walked away towards Sh.o.r.eham till a smart shower made him turn. When he got back to the town the lamps were lit, throwing long, golden reflections on the wet asphalt, but the rain had ceased; so he continued to pace absently along through this blue twilight, hardly noticing the occasional dark figures that pa.s.sed. What was the reason, then, of this vague unrest--this unknown longing--this dissatisfaction and almost despair?

Had he not been more fortunate than he could have hoped for? He had met Miss Honnor and her mother in the morning, and had been with them all the way down; they had been most kind to him; he had spent the best part of the day with them; they had parted excellent friends; looking back, he could not recall a single word he would have liked unsaid. Then a happy fancy struck him: the moment he got up to town he would go and seek out Maurice Mangan. There was a wholesome quality in Mangan's saturnine contempt for the non-essential things of life; Mangan's clear penetration, his covert sympathy, his scorn or mock-melancholy, would help him to get rid of these vapors.

When Lionel returned to town a little after ten o'clock that night he walked along to Mangan's rooms in Victoria Street, and found his friend sitting in front of the fire alone.