The Dictator | Page 9

again very
affectionately.
'Why, you would be as bad as I used to be,' he said. 'I never was tired of
your sagas, and when one came to an end I wanted a new one at once,
or at least the old one over again.'
He looked away from her and all around the garden as he spoke. The
winds and rains and suns of all those years had altered it but little.
'We talk of the shortness of life,' he said; 'but sometimes life seems
quite long. Think of the years and years since I was a little fellow, and
sat here where I sit now, then, as now, by your side, and cried at the
deeds of my forbears and sighed for the gods of the North. Do you
remember?'
'Oh, yes; oh, yes. How could I forget? You, my dear, in your bustling
life might forget; but I, day after day in this great old garden, may be
forgiven for an old woman's fancy that time has stood still, and that you
are still the little boy I love so well.'
She held out her hand to him, and he clasped it tenderly, full of an
affectionate emotion that did not call for speech.
There were somewhat similar thoughts in both their minds. He was
asking himself if, after all, it would not have been just as well to remain
in that tranquil nook, so sheltered from the storms of life, so

consecrated by tender affection. What had he done that was worth
rising up to cross the street for, after all? He had dreamed a dream, and
had been harshly awakened. What was the good of it all? A melancholy
seemed to settle upon him in that place, so filled with the memories of
his childhood. As for his companion, she was asking herself if it would
not have been better for him to stay at home and live a quiet English
life, and be her help and solace.
Both looked up from their reverie, met each other's melancholy glances,
and smiled.
'Why,' said Miss Ericson, 'what nonsense this is! Here are we who have
not met for ages, and we can find nothing better to do than to sit and
brood! We ought to be ashamed of ourselves.'
'We ought,' said the Dictator, 'and for my poor part I am. So you want
to hear my adventures?'
Miss Ericson nodded, but the narrative was interrupted. The wide
French windows at the back of the house opened and a man entered the
garden. His smooth voice was heard explaining to the maid that he
would join Miss Ericson in the garden.
The new-comer made his way along the garden, with extended hand,
and blinking amiably. The Dictator, turning at his approach, surveyed
him with some surprise. He was a large, loosely made man, with a large
white face, and his somewhat ungainly body was clothed in loose light
material that was almost white in hue. His large and slightly surprised
eyes were of a kindly blue; his hair was a vague yellow; his large
mouth was weak; his pointed chin was undecided. He dimly suggested
some association to the Dictator; after a few seconds he found that the
association was with the Knave of Hearts in an ordinary pack of
playing-cards.
'This is a friend of mine, a neighbour who often pays me a visit,' said
the old lady hurriedly, as the white figure loomed along towards them.
'He is a most agreeable man, very companionable indeed, and learned,
too--extremely learned.'

This was all that she had time to say before the white gentleman came
too close to them to permit of further conversation concerning his
merits or defects.
The new-comer raised his hat, a huge, white, loose, shapeless felt, in
keeping with his ill-defined attire, and made an awkward bow which at
once included the old lady and the Dictator, on whom the blue eyes
beamed for a moment in good-natured wonder.
'Good morning, Miss Ericson,' said the new-comer. He spoke to Miss
Ericson; but it was evident that his thoughts were distracted. His vague
blue eyes were fixed in benign bewilderment upon the Dictator's face.
Miss Ericson rose; so did her nephew. Miss Ericson spoke.
'Good morning, Mr. Sarrasin. Let me present you to my nephew, of
whom you have heard so much. Nephew, this is Mr. Gilbert Sarrasin.'
The new-comer extended both hands; they were very large hands, and
very soft and very white. He enfolded the Dictator's extended right
hand in one of his, and beamed upon him in unaffected joy.
'Not your nephew, Miss Ericson--not the hero of the hour? Is it possible;
is it possible? My dear sir, my very dear and honoured sir, I cannot tell
you how rejoiced I am,