A Change of Air. Hope Anthony
should that shock him?" asked Sir Harry, who knew very well. "By Jove, I wish I could write some like it!"
She turned to him with sudden interest.
"Do you admire Dale's writings?"
"Awfully," said Sir Harry. "Don't you?"
"Of course I do, but I didn't know whether you would. Do you know Miss Delane?"
"Yes, very well."
"Do you like her?"
"Oh, yes. I have known her all my life, and I like her. She frightens me a little, you know."
"Does she? How?"
"She expects such a lot of a fellow. Have you met her?"
"No. D – Mr. Bannister has. He likes her."
"I expect she blew him up, didn't she?"
"Oh, I shouldn't think so. Dale wouldn't like that."
"Depends how it's done," observed Sir Harry. "Don't you ever blow him up?"
"Of course not. I'm much too – I look up to him too much."
They were interrupted by the Colonel's voice. He was saying, with much energy:
"Ability we don't expect in a Government office, but honesty one might hope for."
"Just what Hodge used to say of old Pratt," said Mrs. Hodge.
"I beg pardon?" said the Colonel.
"Pratt was his manager, you know – my husband's."
"Oh, yes, of course."
"Nellie, you remember your father throwing down that two pound ten on the table, and saying, 'Well, I'm – '"
"No, mother, I don't. Do you think I could learn to hunt, Sir Harry?"
"Of course you could, in no time."
"Does Miss Delane?"
"And Pratt said that if Hodge couldn't play the king at two pound ten a week, – though that's hard living, my dear, – I beg pardon – Colonel – "
The Colonel bowed courteously. Nellie grew very red.
"Why, bantam-cocks had risen since his day, and that was all about it." And Mrs. Hodge emptied her glass and beamed pleasantly on the company.
Suddenly Dale Bannister began to laugh gently. Tora Smith turned an inquiring look in his direction.
"What is it, Mr. Bannister?"
"I saw your father's butler looking at my friend Mrs. Hodge."
"What nonsense! Simmons is not allowed to look at anyone."
"Isn't he? Why not?"
"No good servant does."
Dale smiled.
"I know what you mean," Tora continued; "but surely while they're actually waiting, Mr. Bannister, we can't treat them quite like ourselves? At any other time, of course – "
"You'd take a walk with them?"
"They'd be horribly uncomfortable if I did," she answered, laughing.
"That's the worst of it," said he.
"Do you think us great shams?"
"I have come to learn, not to criticise."
"We want a leader," said Tora, with pretty earnestness.
"Haven't you one?"
"Sir Harry Fulmer is our leader, but we're not contented with him. He's a very mild Radical. Won't you come to our help?"
"I expect I should be too extreme the other way."
"Oh, I love people who are extreme – in my direction, I mean."
"Well, then, try the Doctor."
"Mr. Roberts? Oh, he's hardly prominent enough; we must have somebody of position. Now, what are you laughing at, Mr. Bannister?"
The gentleman to whom they referred sat looking on at them with no great pleasure, though they found one another entertaining enough to prevent them noticing him. Dale Bannister said that his new friend took life seriously, and the charge was too true for the Doctor's happiness. Dale Bannister had taken hold of his imagination. He expected Dale to do all he would give his life to see done, but could not do himself. The effect of Dale was to be instantaneous, enormous, transforming Denborough and its inhabitants. He regarded the poet much as a man might look upon a benevolent volcano, did such a thing exist in the order of nature. His function was, in the Doctor's eyes, to pour forth the burning lava of truth and justice, wherewith the ignorance, prejudice, and cruelty of the present order should be consumed and smothered; let the flood be copious, scorching, and unceasing! The Doctor could do little more than hail the blessed shower and declare its virtues; but that he was ready to do at any cost. And the volcano would not act! The eruptions were sadly intermittent. The hero, instead of going forth to war, was capering nimbly in a lady's chamber, to the lascivious pleasing of a lute; that is to say, he was talking trifles to Tora Smith, with apparent enjoyment, forgetful of his mission, ignoring the powers of darkness around. No light-spreading saying, no swordflash had come from him all the evening. He was fiddling while Rome was – waiting for the burning it needed so badly.
Perhaps it was a woebegone look about the Doctor that made Philip Hume take the chair next him after dinner, while Dale was, still as if in play, emitting anarchist sparks for the Colonel's entertainment.
"Is it possible," asked the Doctor in low, half-angry tones, "that he thinks these people are any good – that they are sincere or thorough in the matter? He's wasting his time."
"Well, well, my dear fellow, we must all dine, whatever our opinions."
"Oh, yes; we must dine, while the world starves."
"The bow can't be always stretched," said Philip, with a slight smile.
"You don't think, Hume, do you, that he's getting any less – less in earnest, you know?"
"Oh, he wrote a scorcher this very morning."
"Did he? That's good news. Where is it to appear?"
"I don't know. He didn't write it on commission."
"His poems have such magnificent restlessness, haven't they? I can't bear to see him idle."
"Poor Dale! You must give him some holidays. He likes pleasure like the rest of us."
The Doctor sighed impatiently, and Philip looking at him anxiously, laid a hand on his arm.
"Roberts," he said, "there is no need that you should be ground to powder."
"I don't understand."
"I hope you never will. Your wife doesn't look very strong. Why don't you give her a change?"
"A change? How am I to afford a change? Besides, who wants a change? What change do most workers get?"
"Hang most workers! Your wife wants a change."
"I haven't got the money, anyhow."
"Then there's an end of it."
The Colonel rose, and they made for the drawing room.
Philip detained his companion for a moment.
"Well?" said the Doctor, feeling the touch on his arm.
"For God's sake, old fellow, go slow," said Philip, pressing his arm, and looking at him with an appealing smile.
CHAPTER VII.
"To a Pretty Saint."
When Mrs. Delane came back from London, she was met with a question of the precise kind on which she felt herself to be no mean authority. It was a problem of propriety, of etiquette, and of the usages of society, and Mrs. Delane attacked it with a due sense of its importance and with the pleasure of an expert. It arose out of Dale Bannister's call at the Grange. Dale had been accustomed, when a lady found favor in his eyes, to inform her of the gratifying news through the medium of a set of verses, more or less enthusiastic and rhapsodic in their nature. The impulse to follow his usual practice was