Democratic Sentinel, Volume 9, Number 37, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 16 October 1885 — WHAT DID IT MEAN? [ARTICLE]

WHAT DID IT MEAN?

I9Y THK AUTHOH OF “THE PROBATION OF DOROTHY TRAVERS,” “I'AUDONED,” ETC. St. James’ Hall was crammed; stalls, balcony, orchestra seats, all were full; one vast mass of humanity; and yet it was only one of the ordinary Saturday Popular Concerts that was about to take place; those concerts that have taken such n hold on the hearts of the Loudou public, that they have but to be announced, and forthwith their success is insured. But this afternoon the hull was unusually full;, one of its old favorites—and the London public is very faithful to its favorites—was about to resume his violin after mouths of long and tedious illness, and was to bo greeted with that storm of applause such as the habitues of St. James’ Hall love to give to those who have ministered well and faithfully to their pleasure. Just as the clapping and cheering was at its very height, when the whole large room was vibrating from end to end with the sound, and the hero of the occasion was tossing back his long hair, that fell like a mane over his face as he bowed again and again in acknowledgment of the plaudits, a little old man, with quite white hair, frail, fragile, and well-dressed, walked noiselessly up the room, and took up his position in one of the outside stalls, sitting down quietly amid the tumult, and letting his bright keen old eyes rove as though in search of some one far over the head of the bowing violinist to the seats behind the orchestra. They were densely packed, as they usually are, with those lovers of good music who are content to wait patiently for an hour or more to hear the sounds their souls delight in for the model ate sum of one shilling. There was not much beauty among them—there seldom is among musical people -so that the one fyce for which the lithe old man was seeking so eagerly stood out among its surroundings as some beautiful picture in a crowd of commonplace mediocrities. It was a sweet, fair face, but with a depth of sadness in the large gray eyes, that looked out of place in one apparently so young She—for it was a woman—was dressed in mourning, and had just luid aside a book in which she had been absorbed when the great violinist came in. As she settled herself in her seat after the tumult had subsided, and the business of the afternoon was about to commence, she became aware of the gaze fixed so earnestly on her. She did not seem surprised; all last year at these same concerts, all this year up to the present time, she had fe;t those keen eyes riveted on her, until she began to look on them as a matter of course, having forgotten both the annoyance they had caused her at first and the amusement of a later period. Latterly, she had made up her mind that Ihe little old gentleman was an amiable lunatic, as time after time, in whatever part of the hall she chanced to be, his quick eyes found her out, and kept her in a full stare throughout the whole performance. But nothing more; no meeting her at the door, no following her as she walked home; no. She said to herself, he was a lunatic, but a gentleman, and with that reflection perhaps the music would begin, and she would forget ali about him. But to-day, as she smiled to see the face she had grown so used to that she missed it if by a rare chanoe she were absent, she could not but remark that it had. as it were, aged since the last week; the lines of age that formed a network over the delicate, sensitive old face seemed to have deepened and widened, the eyes to have lost somewhat of their bird-like brightness. “How my old gentleman has aged this last year!” she thought carelessly to herself, as. she drew in, With exquisile delight, the sweet wail of the violin, touched by a mas-ter-hand, that quickly drove all o.her thoughts out of her head. Two hours later the concert was all over, and Helen Spencer was descending th > somewhat breakneck staircase (hat leads from the orchestral seats, with her ears still ring ng v. ith Beethoven and Schumann, and a somewhat ea er smile of anticipation on her lips, utterly forgetful of her ittle o d gentlem m. She was in hurry, for she was not the mis ress of her own time, and was walking down Piccadilly as fast as conventionality will allow you to walk in a ciowded thoroughfare, when her pissagi across the street to the Green Park was s opped by a string of carriages. The brougham that halted immediately in front of her was small and perfectly appointed, and for ouo moment Helen cnight a glimpse of its occupant. It was her little old gentleman, but he did not see her; he lay back among the cushions, wi h his eyes shut and a look of dead y weariness on h<s pale, thin face. .Apangi.shpfe,through the girl’s heiir ; how ill he Mkrotoed, anid'fcjowi lonely he seemed! ahfebsifift Ittnety tESS 7 feM •'was. 1 ' «*> v i? o t *i And

then there was a move; the carriages had jrassed on, and the policeman was motioning to her to take advantage of her chance of crossing. Another ten minutes brought her to her destination, a house in Grosvenor place, and as the door was opened to her by a solemn butler, she asked nervously, “Is Mrs. Fane come in yet?” “No, miss,” he answered, and with a lightened heart the girl ran quickly up the staircase, and entered the drawing-room almost as though afraid to pause. Swift as a flash of lightning there passed over her face a smile of intense pleasure, to be succeeded at once by her usual serene gravity, as she perceived that the room was not untenanted; a tall, fair-haired mau sat in one of the arm-chairs, reading the day’s paper, and by his side the tea-table, with its inviting load. Helen had thought of retiring, but the sight of ihe tea was too much for he. She was so tired—music always exhausted her, because she loved it so well: there could be no harm in sitting down for five minutes, even if he was there, and drinking a cup of tea in his company; so she advanced into the room. The fair-haired man jumped up at once. “Been to your beloved ‘ Popular,’ Miss Spencer?” he asked. “Then you must be tired;” and almost before she tould answer him, he had poured out a cup of tea and placed it in her unresisting hand. How angry she was wilh herself! Why could she not speak? Why did she feel inclined to cry? Why was she so foolish as to enter the room at all? “Yes,” she said, with an effort; “I have been to the ‘Popular,’ and—are you come up from Woolwich?” “I suppose so,” ho answered, with an amused smile; “and this time for a fort night. ” “For a fortnight?” “Yes. Does that displease you?” gently. She gathered her senses together. “It can be nothing to me either one way or another,” she answered rather bitterly, and put her cup down t He looked at her in amazement, and was about to speak, when a loud knock at the door caused him to go to the window. “It is my mother,” he said, ns ho turned toward the room again, and then perceived that he was alone. Miss Spencer had fled. Before he had time to more than give way to a muttered exclamation there was a rustle on the staircase, a rustling of silk and satin, heralding the approach of a person full of her own importance. It was Mr. Fauo’s mother. She came into the room: large, handsome, moneyed, arrogant—one glance at her told you ail this. A strange contrast to the slim, quiet man whom she called her son, and whom she looked at suspiciously. “You are alone, Edward?” she asked. “It appears so, mother,” he answered, with his quiet smile, as he kissed her and put a chair for her. “I was afrai l that designing girl had raced home from her concert to be alone with you, for Jones tells me she is come in. ” Edward Fane frowned. “The designing girl in a lady, mother,” he said. "So she may be, hut she is a penniless one, a. i would, no doubt, .ike to marry my son, forgetting what I have striven to impress on Her, that unless you marry with my full approval, not one ” " I have heard that before, mother; there is no necessity to repeat the lesson,” he said gravely; and Mrs. Fane for once felt the rebuke, and changed the subject. Meanwhile, up-stairs in her bed-room, Helen Spencer was walking up and down, in a state of agitation: that her afternoon’s employment hardly warranted. Poor filing! hers was a very sad though, alas! common enough position. Well born and once rich, moving in better society than the lady to whom she now acted as companion, she was now an orphan, reduced by a series of misfortunes to destitution. Forced by these circumstances to earn her. bread as either a governess or companion, she had chosen the latter alternative, attracted by the high salary offered her by Mrs. Fane, although by no means attracted by the lady herself. It did not require any very great astuteness to find out that Mrs. Fane had not only an arrogant, imperious temper of her own, but that she was a very vulgar woman. It was a well-known fact that good-natured, extravagant Charlie Fane had m irried her for her money, and had met with his punishment in bei g worried and irritated into a premature grave. His son Edward was a d fferent kind of man; but he too was at his mother’s mercy, in so far that she held the purse-strings, and never failed to remind him of the important fact And this son, who was destined by his mother to make some brilliant and aristocratic marriage, Helen Spencer loved. She did not deny it; alas! she knew it but too well; but to-diy was the first time she had allowed it even to .herself—she • loved him, and she must go away. She 1 said it over and over again, in a soft, despairing voice: and then a feverish haste over ook her, a desire to fly and hide her he d somewhere, where she might weep out all the sorrow tflat was oppressing her, and feel that she had done rightly. For to-day the danger flag had floated before her eyes, and something had told her that her love was in a faint measure reciprocated. She went down to dinner with her usually pale face lighted up by two vivid spots of color, and her eves soft and heavy from tears. Conversation did not flow very freely, as far as the youug people were concerned; Mrs. Fane too was preoccupied, and Edward had ample timo to reflect on Helen’s charms, which to him seemed redoubled to-night, and to smile bitterly as he thought of his mother s menacing words to him. it was Saturday, so Mrs. Fane was not going out, and her tone was extra | imperious ns she bade Helen come and j write some letters for her. She had been I exasperated at dinner by Edward's absurd ! politeness and deference to a “companion,” 1 and by Helen’s implied acquaintance witn people who did not care to visit herself. Moreover she suspected an attachment between the two young people, and yet had no grounds on which to frame a definito accusation. There was no help for it, she must get rid of Mss Spencer, and that, without delay. Sh > was about to launch upon the subject with lier usual ruthless abruptness, when sue was spared ihe trouble by Helen announcing to her that she was very sorry, but if she wa< not caus ng Mrs. Fane any inconvenience she would like to leave her soon —very soon—in fact, as ear y a. ‘possib e. ■ Did Mrs. Fa e desire anything better? I “You sh tlgo o i Monday, Miss Spencer,” she said mi estically, eyeing he girl suspiciously, a d wouder ng why she was falling iu with her own plans in this ex* traordinary manner. Was she doing so in order to have, moie freedom to see Edward? If so she should And herself grievili^terMWiPomted.

The evening wore away. Mr. Fane yame up stairs, but neither his mother nor Helen said one word to him of the latter’s j departure; and when, on Monday morning, ! he went out, he had not the slightest idea j but that he should find Miss Spencer in | Grosvenor place on his return some time in the afternoon. It was late ! when he did come back, and as he walked ! up to the door a cab, with two boxes on it, j was just driving away. Carelessly he asked Jones who it was that was going to the sta ion, and started, electrified, when that functionary, with outward gravity but with some inward chuckling, responded that it was Miss Spencer who was departing—“for good,” he added, after a pause. “Where is she gone to?” • But, alas! Jones did not know. To step into a hansom and promise a double fare if the luggage- laden cab were caught up and followed to its destination was the work of a minute, and soon Edward Fane found himself driving close behind Helen Spencer through a network of streets and thoroughfares that led to that far-famed region—the East of London. Fast Shpreditch Station, the Bethnal Green Museum, clown the Hackney Hoad, skirting the Victoria Park, until th’a cab stopped at one of those little houses with bow windows, which in their dreary uniformity form the staple habitations in that part of London. As Helen stepped out of her cab, Edward did the same from his; and as she turned to speak about her boxes he advanced to address her. He had meant to upbraid her, but the sight of her pale, sad face disarmed him, and he was only anxious for the time to find out that she had come to some sort of comfort. “Oh, yes,” she answered, feverishly, after she had got over the first start of surprise at seeing him; “Mrs. Abbott is an old servant of ours, she is sure to make me comfortable, and the clergyman’s wife here is a great friend of mine. Good-by, Mr. Fane. ” But Mr. Fane had no intention of being thus summarily dismissed. He followed her into the house, where Mrs. Abbott was fussing about, into the little sitting-room, all smothered in antimacassars, seating himself on the faded green rep sofa, with a judicial aspect that was almost too much for poor Helen’s overwrought nerves. Bat it did not last long, giving way very soon to a gentle tenderness that was still more trying, and to resist which the girl had to summon all her courage. Still Edward sat on and on; Mis. Abbott looked in from time to time, hut her woman’s instinct had put her on the right track, and she did not intrude unnecessarily. It ended at last in the young man, overwhelmed with pity and shame for his mother's unkind conduct, declaring his love, and asking her to be his wife. At this Helen rose from her seat, and, assuming all the dignity she possessed, although she was trembling from head to foot with suppressed emotion, assured him emphatically that she could never consent to such a proposal, begging him to leave her, and excitedly reiterating that he ought never to have followed her. After such an appeal he could not stay, but he went away, promising to himself that not many hours should elapse before he again fouud himself in her presence. When, the following morning, he came down to breakfast, Jo les, who liked his mister, blit cordially detested his mistress, brought him a letter, wi h th 9 simple communication that it had arrived by the first post, for Miss Spencer. Edward took it with simu'ated carelessness, that did not for one instant deceive the butler, and after a hasty breakfast, stepped into a bansom and once more drove down to Hackney. His mother had been at an evening party the night before, and had not yet made her appearance. He would be back in Grosvenor place before she came down-stairs, and she would suspect nothing. When he at last reached his destination, so comparatively early was it in the day, that Helen, shrinking from the task, had not yet instructed Mrs. Abbott not to admit him should he call, and that worthy woman at once introduced him into her young mistress’ presence. He found hor busy writing. She started up with a flushed, almost angry face when she saw him. "Mr. Fane,” she said, “I did not expect this from you. It is not kind of you to come. ” "This is my excuse.” he replied, holding out her letter, "though I own it a poor one. This document which came for you this morning looked to me so like business, that, fancying it might be important, I brought it myself. ” "There is the post,” she said coldly, and then fell to blushing in a manner that was anything but cold. "Will you excuse me?” she. continued, opening her let er to hide her contusion. As fell on its contents she uttered an exclamation of amazement. "Oh!” she cried, “what does it mean? it Can’t be me; it is a mistake; read it, Mr. Fane, and see what it means. ” Edward took the letter and read it. It was perfectly plain and to the point. Messrs. Farley &, Smith begged to inform Miss Spencer that, according to the will of their late client, Mr. Frederick Paley, she, with the exception of a few legacies, was the sole inheritor of his large fortune, his house in Cuzmn street, his carriages, horses, etc., etc., and that they would be happy ta receive her instructions as to the same. “Mr. Frederick Paley!” exclaimed Helen, “who is he? I have never heard of him in my'life, much less seen him; it must be a mistake, and intended for some other Miss Spencer. ” “We shall see,” said Edward. “Your best plan will be to go at once to Farlev & Smith, and ask for further explanations. I will go with you. ” "Oh! thank you,” said Helen, as she rapidly disappeared up-stairs to dress, absolutely forgetful that not five nrnutes ago she was meditating the dismissal of Edward Fane. Arrived at Messrs. Farley & Smith’s Helen found that the letter was no mistake. Mr. Paley had left his money to her, and to no other; and very little light con'd the lawyers throw on the subject, beyond the f. ct that their client had been decidedly eccentric, his eccentricity taking a benevolent and musical turn; that he had mentioned that he was much interested in Miss Spencer; that she was a beautiful girl, a brave girl, and a great lover of music, and’that fir theso three reason; he hid chos -u her for his heiress, and once lie had let drop that he had known her mother intimately many years ago. He had d.ed the previous morn ng almost suddenly. Helen was in despair. “If I could but know who it is who has been so good to ' me!” she exclaime.l. | “Let us go to Curzon street,” sug ested Edward; then in a lower voice: "Perhaps | you may be allowed to see him."

“I Chink that would be best,* said Mr. Farley, “and I will give yon a letter, explaining who you are. to the housekeeper, who has lived there many years. The poor old man has no relatious.” So they drove to Curzon street, Edward waiting outside in the cab while Helen went into the bouse. Did it not seem as though she were already his affianced wife? And yet had not a new barrier arise i between them? He waited patiently enough, too absorbed in his own thoughts to co int the minutes ti 1 Helen cam a oat. Wbeu after some time she did appear, her eyes were full of tears. “It is my little old gentleman,” she said to Edward, in alow, awe-stricken voice. “Whit, of the Saturday Popular?” She nodded her head; she could not speak. He, too, was silent, thinking of the wonderful change that had come to her whom he loved, till recalled to his senses by the cabman inquiring where he should drive to next. Turning to Helen, he asked with a sudden inspiration; “Where shall I say? to Hackney or to Grosvenor place?” She looked at him with a deep blush. “I am so lonely,” she said falteringly. “Perhaps—your mother would like to know. Let it be to Grosvenor place." * * * 3ft * * * Six months afterward Edward and Helen were married.