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The next evening Alexander dined alone at a club, and at about nine
o'clock he dropped in at the Duke of York's. The house was sold out and he
stood through the second act. When he returned to his hotel he examined
the new directory, and found Miss Burgoyne's address still given as off
Bedford Square, though at a new number. He remembered that, in so far as
she had been brought up at all, she had been brought up in Bloomsbury. Her
father and mother played in the provinces most of the year, and she was
left a great deal in the care of an old aunt who was crippled by
rheumatism and who had had to leave the stage altogether. In the days when
Alexander knew her, Hilda always managed to have a lodging of some sort
about Bedford Square, because she clung tenaciously to such scraps and
shreds of memories as were connected with it. The mummy room of the
British Museum had been one of the chief delights of her childhood. That
forbidding pile was the goal of her truant fancy, and she was sometimes
taken there for a treat, as other children are taken to the theatre. It
was long since Alexander had thought of any of these things, but now they
came back to him quite fresh, and had a significance they did not have
when they were first told him in his restless twenties. So she was still
in the old neighborhood, near Bedford Square. The new number probably
meant increased prosperity. He hoped so. He would like to know that she
was snugly settled. He looked at his watch. It was a quarter past ten; she
would not be home for a good two hours yet, and he might as well walk over
and have a look at the place. He remembered the shortest way.
It was a warm, smoky evening, and there was a grimy moon. He went through
Covent Garden to Oxford Street, and as he turned into Museum Street he
walked more slowly, smiling at his own nervousness as he approached the
sullen gray mass at the end. He had not been inside the Museum, actually,
since he and Hilda used to meet there; sometimes to set out for gay
adventures at Twickenham or Richmond, sometimes to linger about the place
for a while and to ponder by Lord Elgin's marbles upon the lastingness of
some things, or, in the mummy room, upon the awful brevity of others.
Since then Bartley had always thought of the British Museum as the
ultimate repository of mortality, where all the dead things in the world
were assembled to make one's hour of youth the more precious. One trembled
lest before he got out it might somehow escape him, lest he might drop the
glass from over-eagerness and see it shivered on the stone floor at his
feet. How one hid his youth under his coat and hugged it! And how good it
was to turn one's back upon all that vaulted cold, to take Hilda's arm and
hurry out of the great door and down the steps into the sunlight among the
pigeons—to know that the warm and vital thing within him was still
there and had not been snatched away to flush Caesar's lean cheek or to
feed the veins of some bearded Assyrian king. They in their day had
carried the flaming liquor, but to-day was his! So the song used to run in
his head those summer mornings a dozen years ago. Alexander walked by the
place very quietly, as if he were afraid of waking some one.
He crossed Bedford Square and found the number he was looking for. The
house, a comfortable, well-kept place enough, was dark except for the four
front windows on the second floor, where a low, even light was burning
behind the white muslin sash curtains. Outside there were window boxes,
painted white and full of flowers. Bartley was making a third round of the
Square when he heard the far-flung hoof-beats of a hansom-cab horse,
driven rapidly. He looked at his watch, and was astonished to find that it
was a few minutes after twelve. He turned and walked back along the iron
railing as the cab came up to Hilda's number and stopped. The hansom must
have been one that she employed regularly, for she did not stop to pay the
driver. She stepped out quickly and lightly. He heard her cheerful
"Good-night, cabby," as she ran up the steps and opened the door with a
latchkey. In a few moments the lights flared up brightly behind the white
curtains, and as he walked away he heard a window raised. But he had gone
too far to look up without turning round. He went back to his hotel,
feeling that he had had a good evening, and he slept well.
For the next few days Alexander was very busy. He took a desk in the
office of a Scotch engineering firm on Henrietta Street, and was at work
almost constantly. He avoided the clubs and usually dined alone at his
hotel. One afternoon, after he had tea, he started for a walk down the
Embankment toward Westminster, intending to end his stroll at Bedford
Square and to ask whether Miss Burgoyne would let him take her to the
theatre. But he did not go so far. When he reached the Abbey, he turned
back and crossed Westminster Bridge and sat down to watch the trails of
smoke behind the Houses of Parliament catch fire with the sunset. The
slender towers were washed by a rain of golden light and licked by little
flickering flames; Somerset House and the bleached gray pinnacles about
Whitehall were floated in a luminous haze. The yellow light poured through
the trees and the leaves seemed to burn with soft fires. There was a smell
of acacias in the air everywhere, and the laburnums were dripping gold
over the walls of the gardens. It was a sweet, lonely kind of summer
evening. Remembering Hilda as she used to be, was doubtless more
satisfactory than seeing her as she must be now—and, after all,
Alexander asked himself, what was it but his own young years that he was
He crossed back to Westminster, went up to the Temple, and sat down to
smoke in the Middle Temple gardens, listening to the thin voice of the
fountain and smelling the spice of the sycamores that came out heavily in
the damp evening air. He thought, as he sat there, about a great many
things: about his own youth and Hilda's; above all, he thought of how
glorious it had been, and how quickly it had passed; and, when it had
passed, how little worth while anything was. None of the things he had
gained in the least compensated. In the last six years his reputation had
become, as the saying is, popular. Four years ago he had been called to
Japan to deliver, at the Emperor's request, a course of lectures at the
Imperial University, and had instituted reforms throughout the islands,
not only in the practice of bridge-building but in drainage and
road-making. On his return he had undertaken the bridge at Moorlock, in
Canada, the most important piece of bridge-building going on in the world,—a
test, indeed, of how far the latest practice in bridge structure could be
carried. It was a spectacular undertaking by reason of its very size, and
Bartley realized that, whatever else he might do, he would probably always
be known as the engineer who designed the great Moorlock Bridge, the
longest cantilever in existence. Yet it was to him the least satisfactory
thing he had ever done. He was cramped in every way by a niggardly
commission, and was using lighter structural material than he thought
proper. He had vexations enough, too, with his work at home. He had
several bridges under way in the United States, and they were always being
held up by strikes and delays resulting from a general industrial unrest.
Though Alexander often told himself he had never put more into his work
than he had done in the last few years, he had to admit that he had never
got so little out of it. He was paying for success, too, in the demands
made on his time by boards of civic enterprise and committees of public
welfare. The obligations imposed by his wife's fortune and position were
sometimes distracting to a man who followed his profession, and he was
expected to be interested in a great many worthy endeavors on her account
as well as on his own. His existence was becoming a network of great and
little details. He had expected that success would bring him freedom and
power; but it had brought only power that was in itself another kind of
restraint. He had always meant to keep his personal liberty at all costs,
as old MacKeller, his first chief, had done, and not, like so many
American engineers, to become a part of a professional movement, a
cautious board member, a Nestor de pontibus. He happened to be engaged in
work of public utility, but he was not willing to become what is called a
public man. He found himself living exactly the kind of life he had
determined to escape. What, he asked himself, did he want with these
genial honors and substantial comforts? Hardships and difficulties he had
carried lightly; overwork had not exhausted him; but this dead calm of
middle life which confronted him,—of that he was afraid. He was not
ready for it. It was like being buried alive. In his youth he would not
have believed such a thing possible. The one thing he had really wanted
all his life was to be free; and there was still something unconquered in
him, something besides the strong work-horse that his profession had made
of him. He felt rich to-night in the possession of that unstultified
survival; in the light of his experience, it was more precious than honors
or achievement. In all those busy, successful years there had been nothing
so good as this hour of wild light-heartedness. This feeling was the only
happiness that was real to him, and such hours were the only ones in which
he could feel his own continuous identity—feel the boy he had been
in the rough days of the old West, feel the youth who had worked his way
across the ocean on a cattle-ship and gone to study in Paris without a
dollar in his pocket. The man who sat in his offices in Boston was only a
powerful machine. Under the activities of that machine the person who, in
such moments as this, he felt to be himself, was fading and dying. He
remembered how, when he was a little boy and his father called him in the
morning, he used to leap from his bed into the full consciousness of
himself. That consciousness was Life itself. Whatever took its place,
action, reflection, the power of concentrated thought, were only functions
of a mechanism useful to society; things that could be bought in the
market. There was only one thing that had an absolute value for each
individual, and it was just that original impulse, that internal heat,
that feeling of one's self in one's own breast.
When Alexander walked back to his hotel, the red and green lights were
blinking along the docks on the farther shore, and the soft white stars
were shining in the wide sky above the river.
The next night, and the next, Alexander repeated this same foolish
performance. It was always Miss Burgoyne whom he started out to find, and
he got no farther than the Temple gardens and the Embankment. It was a
pleasant kind of loneliness. To a man who was so little given to
reflection, whose dreams always took the form of definite ideas, reaching
into the future, there was a seductive excitement in renewing old
experiences in imagination. He started out upon these walks half guiltily,
with a curious longing and expectancy which were wholly gratified by
solitude. Solitude, but not solitariness; for he walked shoulder to
shoulder with a shadowy companion—not little Hilda Burgoyne, by any
means, but some one vastly dearer to him than she had ever been—his
own young self, the youth who had waited for him upon the steps of the
British Museum that night, and who, though he had tried to pass so
quietly, had known him and come down and linked an arm in his.
It was not until long afterward that Alexander learned that for him this
youth was the most dangerous of companions.
One Sunday evening, at Lady Walford's, Alexander did at last meet Hilda
Burgoyne. Mainhall had told him that she would probably be there. He
looked about for her rather nervously, and finally found her at the
farther end of the large drawing-room, the centre of a circle of men,
young and old. She was apparently telling them a story. They were all
laughing and bending toward her. When she saw Alexander, she rose quickly
and put out her hand. The other men drew back a little to let him
"Mr. Alexander! I am delighted. Have you been in London long?"
Bartley bowed, somewhat laboriously, over her hand. "Long enough to have
seen you more than once. How fine it all is!"
She laughed as if she were pleased. "I'm glad you think so. I like it.
Won't you join us here?"
"Miss Burgoyne was just telling us about a donkey-boy she had in Galway
last summer," Sir Harry Towne explained as the circle closed up again.
Lord Westmere stroked his long white mustache with his bloodless hand and
looked at Alexander blankly. Hilda was a good story-teller. She was
sitting on the edge of her chair, as if she had alighted there for a
moment only. Her primrose satin gown seemed like a soft sheath for her
slender, supple figure, and its delicate color suited her white Irish skin
and brown hair. Whatever she wore, people felt the charm of her active,
girlish body with its slender hips and quick, eager shoulders. Alexander
heard little of the story, but he watched Hilda intently. She must
certainly, he reflected, be thirty, and he was honestly delighted to see
that the years had treated her so indulgently. If her face had changed at
all, it was in a slight hardening of the mouth—still eager enough to
be very disconcerting at times, he felt—and in an added air of
self-possession and self-reliance. She carried her head, too, a little
When the story was finished, Miss Burgoyne turned pointedly to Alexander,
and the other men drifted away.
"I thought I saw you in MacConnell's box with Mainhall one evening, but I
supposed you had left town before this."
She looked at him frankly and cordially, as if he were indeed merely an
old friend whom she was glad to meet again.
"No, I've been mooning about here."
Hilda laughed gayly. "Mooning! I see you mooning! You must be the busiest
man in the world. Time and success have done well by you, you know. You're
handsomer than ever and you've gained a grand manner."
Alexander blushed and bowed. "Time and success have been good friends to
both of us. Aren't you tremendously pleased with yourself?"
She laughed again and shrugged her shoulders. "Oh, so-so. But I want to
hear about you. Several years ago I read such a lot in the papers about
the wonderful things you did in Japan, and how the Emperor decorated you.
What was it, Commander of the Order of the Rising Sun? That sounds like
`The Mikado.' And what about your new bridge—in Canada, isn't it,
and it's to be the longest one in the world and has some queer name I
Bartley shook his head and smiled drolly. "Since when have you been
interested in bridges? Or have you learned to be interested in everything?
And is that a part of success?"
"Why, how absurd! As if I were not always interested!" Hilda exclaimed.
"Well, I think we won't talk about bridges here, at any rate." Bartley
looked down at the toe of her yellow slipper which was tapping the rug
impatiently under the hem of her gown. "But I wonder whether you'd think
me impertinent if I asked you to let me come to see you sometime and tell
you about them?"
"Why should I? Ever so many people come on Sunday afternoons."
"I know. Mainhall offered to take me. But you must know that I've been in
London several times within the last few years, and you might very well
think that just now is a rather inopportune time—"
She cut him short. "Nonsense. One of the pleasantest things about success
is that it makes people want to look one up, if that's what you mean. I'm
like every one else—more agreeable to meet when things are going
well with me. Don't you suppose it gives me any pleasure to do something
that people like?"
"Does it? Oh, how fine it all is, your coming on like this! But I didn't
want you to think it was because of that I wanted to see you." He spoke
very seriously and looked down at the floor.
Hilda studied him in wide-eyed astonishment for a moment, and then broke
into a low, amused laugh. "My dear Mr. Alexander, you have strange
delicacies. If you please, that is exactly why you wish to see me. We
understand that, do we not?"
Bartley looked ruffled and turned the seal ring on his little finger about
Hilda leaned back in her chair, watching him indulgently out of her shrewd
eyes. "Come, don't be angry, but don't try to pose for me, or to be
anything but what you are. If you care to come, it's yourself I'll be glad
to see, and you thinking well of yourself. Don't try to wear a cloak of
humility; it doesn't become you. Stalk in as you are and don't make
excuses. I'm not accustomed to inquiring into the motives of my guests.
That would hardly be safe, even for Lady Walford, in a great house like
"Sunday afternoon, then," said Alexander, as she rose to join her hostess.
"How early may I come?"
She gave him her hand and flushed and laughed. He bent over it a little
stiffly. She went away on Lady Walford's arm, and as he stood watching her
yellow train glide down the long floor he looked rather sullen. He felt
that he had not come out of it very brilliantly.