Harriet Hume: A London Fantasy Read Free Page A

thing, as one has seen in a hundred prints, for thinking about politics in a park under thunderclouds; and he had to a T that ample, marbly Romanness of profile which, would make them think he had written his speech in the library of his place, beneath the cold eyes of the third earl, a bust, and Cicero, a remarkably fine tern. It was a type that would have its day again. People were growing tired of the serviceability that had been the only temperamental wear for young politicians during the war. They were ready now to be entertained by wit and floridity; and once they looked to one for entertainment what one would produce in the way of sense had the dramatic power of the unexpected; and if one could enact at will the romantic gesture, so endearing to the populace, of burning one’s boats behind one because of an inflaming principle, one would be safe for life. He pursed his lips, which were full, firm, and discreetly red, ending in two small vertical creases in handsome flesh, as do the cupid’s bows of all the Elgin Marbles; and faced the glass indifferently, not caring if it were there, as five years ahead he would face the Opposition Benches, not caring if they were there. “Oh, I am fortunate!” he thought in a drawl; and suddenly his mask cracked and showed his real face, that was as young as his real years. He reflected how fortunate he had been to gain Harriet, how nearly he had not met her, how kindly she had bent herself to his will, and how little he deserved her.
    Tears stood in his eyes. He could no longer see anything in the glass. He told himself that though he had but little money to spend just then he could go out next morning and buy her a ring, and would not need to feel ashamed however modest it was, as her heart would understand how much he loved her and refer its modesty to the proper cause. Not in the least would he mind that she should know how little a way he had travelled on his path to fame and fortune; he could even imagine owning to her how ridiculously few dress-shirts were in his wardrobe. Sweet Harriet, she would take any secret he gave her, fold it neatly as if it were a fine linen handkerchief, and pop it inside her bodice between the little mounts that were indubitably a woman’s breasts yet did not prevent her form being very childish, and there it would lie, safe as a packet at the Mint; and while she wore it so her face would look at the world with an expression of the most nearly universal benevolence and the most gallant obstinacy, as if she were saying that she would give it anything it wished save only that. And at the thought of how pretty she would look then, and of how little the ring would have to be to fit her finger, he felt a serene contraction of the throat, and two tears had to be dealt with by his forefinger. “Dear Harriet! Dear Harriet!” he muttered, and liked to see his handsomeness taking the words out of his mouth in the mirror. Yes, he was fortunate in that his handsomeness saved him from being too painfully outstripped by her in beauty. Yet still she was too good for him. He choked, thinking of ways he might try to deserve her.
    It was then that the whine, of the hinge grew loud enough for him to hear; and on turning his head he saw that Harriet was standing still in the doorway with a tray in her arms, and had, he guessed, from something rigid in her attitude, been rooted there for more than an instant. Immediately he felt, perhaps because there was something witch-like in the stooping of her slenderness over the weight of the tray, the coldest apprehension regarding the feeling which had held her so and lit a most perplexing brilliance in her face. She was, of course, as blooming as every woman is when a man has just proved that he loves her; that is to say, a fairy masseuse had patted her flesh into delicious infant contours on the cheekbones and had shaped her lips into a smile suited to approval of nothing less than divine conditions and left them bright