“I wonder, now! Why, that must be the woman I heard at Warsaw two years ago—or three,” said young Lord Witlow. “It was at Count Siloszech’s. He’d heard her sing in the streets, with a tall, black-bearded ruffian, who accompanied her on a guitar, and a little fiddling gypsy fellow. She was a handsome woman, with hair down to her knees, but stupid as an owl. She sang at Siloszech’s, and all the fellows went mad and gave her their watches and diamond studs and gold scarf-pins. By gad! I never heard or saw anything like it. I don’t know much about music myself—couldn’t tell ‘God Save the Queen’ from ‘Pop Goes the Weasel,’ if the people didn’t get up and stand and take their hats off; but I was as mad as the rest—why, I gave her a little German silver vinaigrette I’d just bought for my wife; hanged if I didn’t—and I was only just married, you know! It’s the peculiar twang of her voice, I suppose!”
And hearing all this, Little Billee made up his mind that life had still something in store for him, since he would some day hear la Svengali. Anyhow, he wouldn’t shoot himself till then!
Thus the night wore itself away. The Prinzessen, Comtessen, and Serene English Altessen (and other ladies of less exalted rank) departed home in cabs and carriages; and hostess and daughters went to bed. Late sitters of the ruder sex supped again, and smoked and chatted and listened to comic songs and recitations by celebrated actors. Noble dukes hobnobbed with low comedians; world-famous painters and sculptors sat at the feet of Hebrew capitalists and aitchless millionaires. Judges, cabinet ministers, eminent physicians, and warriors and philosophers saw Sunday morning steal over Campden Hill and through the many windows of Mechelen Lodge, and listened to the pipe of half-awakened birds, and smelled the freshness of the dark summer dawn. And as Taffy and the Laird walked home to the Old Hummums by daylight, they felt that last night was ages ago, and that since then they had foregathered with “much there was of the best in London.” And then they reflected that “much there was of the best in London” were still strangers to them—except by reputation—for there had not been time for many introductions: and this had made them feel a little out of it; and they found they hadn’t had such a very good time after all. And there were no cabs. And they were tired, and their boots were tight.
And the last they had seen of Little Billee before leaving was a glimpse of their old friend in a corner of Lady Cornelys’s boudoir, gravely playing cup-and-ball with Fred Walker for sixpences—both so rapt in the game that they were unconscious of anything else, and both playing so well (with either hand) that they might have been professional champions!
And that saturnine young sawbones, Jakes Talboys (now Sir Jakes, and one of the most genial of Her Majesty’s physicians), who sometimes after supper and champagne was given to thoughtful, sympathetic, and acute observation of his fellow-men, remarked to the Laird in a whisper that was almost convivial: “Rather an enviable pair! Their united ages amount to forty-eight or so, their united weights to about fifteen stone, and they couldn’t carry you or me between them. But if you were to roll all the other brains that have been under this roof tonight into one, you wouldn’t reach the sum of their united genius. … I wonder which of the two is the most unhappy!”
The season over, the songbirds flown, summer on the wane, his picture, the Moon-Dial, sent to Moses Lyon’s (the picture-dealer in Conduit Street), Little Billee felt the time had come to go and see his mother and sister in Devonshire, and make the sun shine twice as brightly for them during a month or so, and the dew fall softer!
So one fine August morning found him at the Great Western Station—the nicest station in all London, I think—except the stations that book you to France and far away.
It always seems so pleasant to be going west! Little Billee loved that station, and often went there for a mere stroll, to watch the people starting on their westward way, following the sun towards Heaven knows what joys or sorrows, and envy them their sorrows or their joys—any sorrows or joys that were not merely physical, like a chocolate drop or a pretty tune, a bad smell or a toothache.
And as he took a seat in a second-class carriage (it would be third in these democratic days), south corner, back to the engine, with Silas Marner, and Darwin’s Origin of Species (which he was reading for the third time), and Punch, and other literature of a lighter kind, to beguile him on his journey, he felt rather bitterly how happy he could be if the little spot, or knot, or blot, or clot which paralyzed that convolution of his brain where he kept his affections could but be conjured away!
The dearest mother, the dearest sister in the world, in the dearest little seaside village (or town) that ever was! and other dear people—especially Alice, sweet Alice with hair so brown, his sister’s friend, the simple, pure, and pious maiden of his boyish dreams: and himself, but for that wretched little
