“The third night. She had been playing Rosalind. I could not help going round. I had thrown her some flowers, and she had looked at me—at least I fancied that she had. The old Jew was persistent. He seemed determined to take me behind, so I consented. It was curious my not wanting to know her, wasn’t it?”
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arm-chair, in the little library of Lord Henry’s house in Mayfair. It was, in its way, a very charming room, with its high panelled wainscoting of olive-stained oak, its cream-coloured frieze and ceiling of raised plasterwork, and its brickdust felt carpet strewn with silk, long-fringed Persian rugs. On a tiny satinwood table stood a statuette by Clodion, and beside it lay a copy of Les Cent Nouvelles, bound for Margaret of Valois by Clovis Eve and powdered with the gilt daisies that Queen had selected for her device. Some large blue china jars and parrot-tulips were ranged on the mantelshelf, and through the small leaded panes of the window streamed the apricot-coloured light of a summer day in London.
“Inglorious Argives! to your race a shame, And only men in figure and in name! Once from the walls your timorous foes engaged, While fierce in war divine Achilles raged; Now issuing fearless they possess the plain, Now win the shores, and scarce the seas remain.”
Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations’ behaviour to the remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however, could not be prevailed on to join in their censure of her, in spite of all Miss Bingley’s witticisms on fine eyes.
“Because they are so sentimental.”
“Say, chief, is all thy ancient valour lost? Where are thy threats, and where thy glorious boast, That propp’d alone by Priam’s race should stand Troy’s sacred walls, nor need a foreign hand? Now, now thy country calls her wonted friends, And the proud vaunt in just derision ends. Remote they stand while alien troops engage, Like trembling hounds before the lion’s rage. Far distant hence I held my wide command, Where foaming Xanthus laves the Lycian land; With ample wealth (the wish of mortals) bless’d, A beauteous wife, and infant at her breast; With those I left whatever dear could be: Greece, if she conquers, nothing wins from me; Yet first in fight my Lycian bands I cheer, And long to meet this mighty man ye fear; While Hector idle stands, nor bids the brave Their wives, their infants, and their altars save. Haste, warrior, haste! preserve thy threaten’d state, Or one vast burst of all-involving fate Full o’er your towers shall fall, and sweep away Sons, sires, and wives, an undistinguish’d prey. Rouse all thy Trojans, urge thy aids to fight; These claim thy thoughts by day, thy watch by night; With force incessant the brave Greeks oppose; Such cares thy friends deserve, and such thy foes.”
“Aye, aye, I thought so. Captain Ahab is the Captain of this ship.”
“How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of a year! Letters of business, too! How odious I should think them!”
“You are really very comforting,” warbled the duchess. “I have always felt rather guilty when I came to see your dear aunt, for I take no interest at all in the East End. For the future I shall be able to look her in the face without a blush.”
“I am afraid I must be going,” exclaimed Lady Henry, breaking an awkward silence with her silly sudden laugh. “I have promised to drive with the duchess. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Good-bye, Harry. You are dining out, I suppose? So am I. Perhaps I shall see you at Lady Thornbury’s.”
“That is the reason, I suppose, that you never dine with me now. I thought you must have some curious romance on hand. You have; but it is not quite what I expected.”
“Then commit them over again,” he said gravely. “To get back one’s youth, one has merely to repeat one’s follies.”
“You were quite right. There is always something infinitely mean about other people’s tragedies.”
“It must have been just like the palmy days of the British drama.”
“You will complete it,” answered the old gentleman with a courteous bow. “And now I must bid good-bye to your excellent aunt. I am due at the Athenaeum. It is the hour when we sleep there.”
“I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s height, or rather taller.”
“Too late, O friend! my rashness I deplore; These shafts, once fatal, carry death no more. Tydeus’ and Atreus’ sons their points have found, And undissembled gore pursued the wound. In vain they bleed: this unavailing bow Serves, not to slaughter, but provoke the foe. In evil hour these bended horns I strung, And seized the quiver where it idly hung. Cursed be the fate that sent me to the field Without a warrior’s arms, the spear and shield! If e’er with life I quit the Trojan plain, If e’er I see my spouse and sire again, This bow, unfaithful to my glorious aims, Broke by my hand, shall feed the blazing flames.”
He spoke: in still suspense on either side Each army stood: the Spartan chief replied:
“I dare say, my dear,” said Lord Henry, shutting the door behind her as, looking like a bird of paradise that had been out all night in the rain, she flitted out of the room, leaving a faint odour of frangipanni. Then he lit a cigarette and flung himself down on the sofa.
“What him say?” said Queequeg, as he mildly turned to me.