Part 28

"Stop there!" she said quickly, her eyes flashing as she spoke--"My ideas have been repugnant to you, you say? What have _you_ done, you as my husband, to change those ideas? Have you not the same base passions as I?--and do you not give way to them as basely? What have I seen in you from day to day that I should take you as an example? You are master here, and you rule with all the arrogance wealth can give,--you eat, drink and sleep,--you entertain your acquaintances simply that you may astonish them by the excess of luxury in which you indulge,--you read and smoke, shoot and ride, and there an end,--you are an ordinary, not an exceptional man. Do you trouble to ask what is wrong with _me_?--do you try, with the patience of a great love, to set before me nobler aims than those I have consciously or unconsciously imbibed?--do you try to lead me, an erring, passionate, misguided woman, into what I dream of as the light,--the light of faith and hope which alone gives peace?"

And suddenly, burying her head in the pillows of the couch on which she leaned, she broke into a fit of smothered weeping.

I drew my cigar from my mouth and stared at her helplessly. It was about an hour after dinner, and a warm soft autumnal evening,--I had eaten and drunk well, and I was drowsy and heavy-brained.

"Dear me!" I murmured--"you seem very unreasonable, Sibyl! I suppose you are hysterical...."

She sprang up from the couch,--her tears dried on her cheeks as though by sheer heat of the crimson glow that flushed them, and she laughed wildly.

"Yes, that is it!" she exclaimed--"Hysteria!--nothing else! It is accountable for everything that moves a woman's nature. A woman has no right to have any emotions that cannot be cured by smelling-salts! Heart-ache?--pooh!--cut her stay-lace! Despair and a sense of sin and misery?--nonsense!--bathe her temples with vinegar! An uneasy conscience?--ah!--for an uneasy conscience there is nothing better than sal volatile! Woman is a toy,--a breakable fool's toy;--and when she _is_ broken, throw her aside and have done with her,--don't try to piece together the fragile rubbish!"

She ceased abruptly, panting for breath,--and before I could collect my thoughts or find any words wherewith to reply, a tall shadow suddenly darkened the embrasure of the window, and a familiar voice enquired--

"May I, with the privilege of friendship, enter unannounced?"

I started up.

"Rimânez!" I cried, seizing him by the hand.

"Nay, Geoffrey, my homage is due here first,"--he replied, shaking off my grasp, and advancing to Sibyl, who stood perfectly still where she had risen up in her strange passion--"Lady Sibyl, am I welcome?"

"Can you ask it!" she said, with an enchanting smile, and in a voice from which all harshness and excitement had fled; "More than welcome!" Here she gave him both her hands which he respectfully kissed. "You cannot imagine how much I have longed to see you again!"

"I must apologise for my sudden appearance, Geoffrey,"--he then observed, turning to me--"But as I walked here from the station and came up your fine avenue of trees, I was so struck with the loveliness of this place and the exquisite peace of its surroundings, that, knowing my way through the grounds, I thought I would just look about and see if you were anywhere within sight before I presented myself at the conventional door of entrance. And I was not disappointed,--I found you, as I expected, enjoying each other's society!--the happiest and most fortunate couple existent,--people whom, out of all the world I should be disposed to envy, if I envied worldly happiness at all, which I do not!"

I glanced at him quickly;--he met my gaze with a perfectly unembarrassed air, and I concluded that he had not overheard Sibyl's sudden melodramatic outburst.

"Have you dined?" I asked, with my hand on the bell.

"Thanks, yes. The town of Leamington provided me with quite a sumptuous repast of bread and cheese and ale. I am tired of luxuries you know,--that is why I find plain fare delicious. You are looking wonderfully well, Geoffrey!--shall I offend you if I say you are growing--yes--positively stout?--with the stoutness befitting a true county gentleman, who means to be as gouty in the future as his respectable ancestors?"

I smiled, but not altogether with pleasure; it is never agreeable to be called 'stout' in the presence of a beautiful woman to whom one has only been wedded a matter of three months.

"_You_ have not put on any extra flesh;--" I said, by way of feeble retort.

"No"--he admitted, as he disposed his slim elegant figure in an arm-chair near my own--"The necessary quantity of flesh is a bore to me always,--extra flesh would be a positive infliction. I should like, as the irreverent though reverend Sidney Smith said, on a hot day, 'to sit in my bones,' or rather, to become a spirit of fine essence like Shakespeare's Ariel, if such things were possible and permissible. How admirably married life agrees with _you_, Lady Sibyl!"

His fine eyes rested upon her with apparent admiration,--she flushed under his gaze I saw, and seemed confused.

"When did you arrive in England?" she inquired.

"Yesterday,"--he answered,--"I ran over Channel from Honfleur in my yacht,--you did not know I had a yacht, did you Tempest?--oh, you must come for a trip in her some day. She is a quick vessel, and the weather was fair."

"Is Amiel with you?" I asked.

"No. I left him on board the yacht. I can, as the common people say, 'valet myself' for a day or two."

"A day or two?" echoed Sibyl--"But you surely will not leave us so soon? You promised to make a long visit here."

"Did I?" and he regarded her steadily, with the same languorous admiration in his eyes--"But, my dear Lady Sibyl, time alters our ideas, and I am not sure whether you and your excellent husband are of the same opinion as you were when you started on your wedding-tour. You may not want me now!"

He said this with a significance to which I paid no heed whatever.

"Not want you!" I exclaimed--"I shall always want you Lucio,--you are the best friend I ever had, and the only one I care to keep. Believe me!--there's my hand upon it!"

He looked at me curiously for a minute,--then turned his head towards my wife.

"And what does Lady Sibyl say?" he asked in a gentle, almost caressing tone.

"Lady Sibyl says," she answered with a smile, and the colour coming and going in her cheeks--"that she will be proud and glad if you will consider Willowsmere your home as long as you have leisure to make it so,--and that she hopes,--though you are reputed to be a hater of women,--" here she raised her beautiful eyes and fixed them full upon him--"you will relent a little in favour of your present châtelaine!"

With these words, and a playful salutation, she passed out of the room into the garden, and stood on the lawn at a little distance from us, her white robes shimmering in the mellow autumnal twilight,--and Lucio, springing up from his seat, looked after her, clapping his hand down heavily on my shoulder.

"By Heaven!" he said softly, "A perfect woman! I should be a churl to withstand her,--or you, my good Geoffrey,"--and he regarded me earnestly--"I have led a very devil of a life since I saw you last,--it's time I reformed,--upon my soul it is! The peaceful contemplation of virtuous marriage will do me good!--send for my luggage to the station, Geoffrey, and make the best of me,--_I've come to stay!_"

XXIX

A tranquil time now ensued; a time which, though I knew it not, was just that singular pause so frequently observed in nature before a storm, and in human life before a crushing calamity. I put aside all troublesome and harassing thoughts, and became oblivious of everything save my own personal satisfaction in the renewal of the comradeship between myself and Lucio. We walked together, rode together, and passed most of our days in each other's company,--nevertheless though I gave my friend much of my closest confidence I never spoke to him of the moral obliquities and perversions I had discovered in Sibyl's character,--not out of any consideration for Sibyl, but simply because I knew by instinct what his reply would be. He would have no sympathy with my feelings. His keen sense of sarcasm would over-rule his friendship, and he would retort upon me with the question--What business had I, being imperfect myself, to expect perfection in my wife? Like many others of my sex I had the notion that I, as man, could do all I pleased, when I pleased and how I pleased; I could sink to a level lower than that of the beasts if I chose,--but all the same I had the right to demand from my wife the most flawless purity to mate with my defilement. I was aware how Lucio would treat this form of arrogant egoism,--and with what mocking laughter he would receive any expression of ideas from me on the subject of morality in woman. So I was careful to let no hint of my actual position escape me,--and I comported myself on all occasions to Sibyl with special tenderness and consideration, though she, I thought, appeared rather to resent my playing the part of lover-husband too openly. She was herself, in Lucio's presence, strangely erratic of humour, by turns brilliant and mournful,--sometimes merry and anon depressed: yet never had she displayed a more captivating grace and charm of manner. How foolish and blind I was all the while!--how dead to any perception of the formation and sequence of events! Absorbed in gross material pleasures, I ignored all the hidden forces that make the history of an individual life no less than of a whole nation, and looked upon each day that dawned almost as if it had been my own creation and possession, to waste as I thought fit,--never considering that days are but so many white leaflets from God's chronicle of human life, whereon we place our mark, good or bad, for the just and exact summing-up of our thoughts and deeds here after. Had any one dared to say this truth to me then, I should have bade him go and preach nonsense to children,--but _now_,--when I recall those white leaves of days that were unrolled before me fresh and blank with every sunrise, and with which I did nothing save scrawl my own Ego in a foul smudge across each one, I tremble, and inwardly pray that I may never be forced to send back my self-written record! Yet of what use is it to pray against eternal Law? It is eternal Law that we shall ourselves count up our own misdeeds at the final reckoning,--hence it is no wonder that many are found who prefer not to believe in a future after death. Rightly do such esteem it better to die utterly, than be forced to live again and look back upon the wilful evil they have done!

October ripened slowly and almost imperceptibly towards its end, and the trees put on their gorgeous autumnal tints of burning crimson and gold. The weather remained fine and warm, and what the French Canadians poetically term the 'Summer of all Saints' gave us bright days and cloudless moonlit evenings. The air was so mild that we were always able to take our coffee after dinner on the terrace overlooking the lawn in front of the drawing-room,--and it was on one of these balmy nights that I was the interested spectator of a strange scene between Lucio and Mavis Clare,--a scene I should have thought impossible of occurrence had I not myself witnessed it. Mavis had dined at Willowsmere; she very rarely so honoured us; and there were a few other guests besides. We had lingered over the coffee longer than usual, for Mavis had given an extra charm to the conversation by her eloquent vivacity and bright humour, and all present were anxious to hear, see and know as much of the brilliant novelist as possible. But when a full golden moon rose in mellow splendour over the tree-tops, my wife suggested a stroll in the grounds, and everyone agreeing to the proposal with delight, we started,--more or less together,--some in couples, some in groups of three or four. After a little desultory rambling however, the party got separated in the rose-gardens and adjacent shrubberies, and I found myself alone. I turned back to the house to get my cigar-case which I had left on a table in the library, and passing out again in another direction I strolled slowly across the grass, smoking as I went, towards the river, the silver gleam of which could clearly be discerned through the fast-thinning foliage overhanging its banks. I had almost reached the path that followed the course of the winding water, when I was brought to a standstill by the sound of voices--one, a man's, low and persuasive,--the other a woman's, tender, grave and somewhat tremulous. Neither voice could be mistaken; I recognized Lucio's rich penetrating tones, and the sweet _vibrante_ accents of Mavis Clare. Out of sheer surprise I paused,--had Lucio fallen in love, I wondered, half-smiling?--was I about to discover that the supposed 'woman-hater' had been tamed and caught at last? By Mavis too!--little Mavis, who was not beautiful according to accepted standards, but who had something more than beauty to enravish a proud and unbelieving soul,--here, as my thoughts ran on, I was conscious of a foolish sense of jealousy,--why should he choose Mavis, I thought, out of all women in the world? Could he not leave her in peace with her dreams, her books and her flowers?--safe under the pure, wise, impassive gaze of Pallas Athene, whose cool brows were never fevered by a touch of passion? Something more than curiosity now impelled me to listen, and I cautiously advanced a step or two towards the shadow of a broad elm where I could see without being seen. Yes, there was Rimânez,--standing erect with folded arms, his dark, sad, inscrutable eyes fixed on Mavis, who stood opposite to him a few paces off, looking at him in her turn with an expression of mingled fascination and fear.

"I have asked you Mavis Clare,"--said Lucio slowly--"to let me serve you. You have genius--a rare quality in a woman,--and I would advance your fortunes. I should not be what I am if I did not try to persuade you to let me help on your career. You are not rich,--I could show you how to become so. You have a great fame--that I grant; but you have many enemies and slanderers who are for ever trying to pull you down from the throne you have won. I could bring these to your feet, and make them your slaves. With your intellectual power, your personal grace and gifts of temperament, I could, if you would let me guide you, give you such far-reaching influence as no woman has possessed in this century. I am no boaster,--I can do what I say and more; and I ask nothing from you in return except that you should follow my advice implicitly. My advice, let me tell you is not difficult to follow; most people find it easy!"

His expression of face, I thought, was very singular as he spoke,--it was so haggard, dreary and woe-begone that one might have imagined he was making some proposal that was particularly repugnant to him, instead of offering to perform the benevolent action of helping a hard-working literary woman to achieve greater wealth and distinction. I waited expectantly for Mavis to reply.

"You are very good, Prince Rimânez," she said, after a little pause--"to take any thought for me at all. I cannot imagine why you should do so; for I am really nothing to you. I have of course heard from Mr Tempest of your great wealth and influence, and I have no doubt you mean kindly. But I have never owed anything to any one,--no one has ever helped me,--I have helped myself, and still prefer to do so. And really I have nothing to wish for,--except--when the time comes--a happy death. It is true I am not rich,--but then I do not want to be rich. I would not be the possessor of wealth for all the world! To be surrounded with sycophants and flatterers,--never to be able to distinguish false friends from true,--to be loved for what you _have_ and not for what you _are_!--oh no, it would be misery to me. And I have never craved for power,--except perhaps the power to win love. And that I have,--many people love my books, and through my books love me,--I feel their love, though I may never see or know them personally. But I am so conscious of their sympathy that I love them in return without the necessity of personal acquaintance. They have hearts which respond to _my_ heart,--that is all the power I care about."

"You forget your numerous enemies!" said Lucio, still morosely regarding her.

"No, I do not forget them,"--she returned,--"But--I forgive them! They can do me no harm. As long as I do not lower myself, no one else can lower me. If my own conscience is clear, no reproaches can wound. My life is open to all,--people can see how I live, and what I do. I try to do well,--but if there are those who think I do ill, I am sorry,--and if my faults can be amended I shall be glad to amend them. One must have enemies in this world,--that is, if one makes any sort of position,--people without enemies are generally nonentities. All who succeed in winning some little place of independence must expect the grudging enmity of hundreds who cannot find even the smallest foothold, and are therefore failures in the battle of life,--I pity these sincerely, and when they say or write cruel things of me, I know it is only spleen and disappointment that moves both their tongues and pens, and freely pardon them. They cannot hurt or hinder me,--in fact, no one can hurt or hinder me but myself."

I heard the trees rustle slightly,--a branch cracked,--and peering through the leaves, I saw that Lucio had advanced a step closer to where Mavis stood. A faint smile was on his face, softening it wonderfully and giving an almost supernatural light to his beautiful dark features.

"Fair philosopher, you are almost a feminine Marcus Aurelius in your estimate of men and things!"--he said; "But--you are still a woman--and there is one thing lacking to your life of sublime and calm contentment--a thing at whose touch philosophy fails, and wisdom withers at its root. Love, Mavis Clare!--lover's love,--devoted love, blindly passionate,--this has not been yours as yet to win! No heart beats against your own,--no tender arms caress you,--you are alone. Men are for the most part afraid of you,--being brute fools themselves, they like their women to be brute fools also,--and they grudge you your keen intellect,--your serene independence. Yet which is best?--the adoration of a brute fool, or the loneliness pertaining to a spirit aloft on some snowy mountain-peak, with no companions but the stars? Think of it!--the years will pass, and you must needs grow old,--and with the years will come that solitary neglect which makes age bitter. Now, you will doubtless wonder at my words--yet believe me I speak the truth when I say that I can give you love,--not _my_ love, for I love none,--but I can bring to your feet the proudest men in any country of the world as suitors for your hand. You shall have your choice of them, and your own time for choosing,--and whomsoever you love, him you shall wed, ... why--what is wrong with you that you shrink from me thus?"

For she had retreated, and was gazing at him in a kind of horror.

"You terrify me!" she faltered,--and as the moonlight fell upon her I could see that she was very pale--"Such promises are incredible--impossible! You speak as if you were more than human! I do not understand you, Prince Rimânez,--you are different to anyone I ever met, and ... and ... something in me stronger than myself warns me against you. What are you?--why do you talk to me so strangely? Pardon me if I seem ungrateful ..., oh, let us go in--it is getting quite late I am sure, and I am cold ..."

She trembled violently, and caught at the branch of a tree to steady herself,--Rimânez stood immovably still, regarding her with a fixed and almost mournful gaze.

"You say my life is lonely,"--she went on reluctantly and with a note of pathos in her sweet voice--"and you suggest love and marriage as the only joys that can make a woman happy. You may be right. I do not presume to assert that you are wrong. I have many married women-friends--but I would not change my lot with any one of them. I have dreamed of love,--but because I have not realized my dream I am not the less content. If it is God's will that I should be alone all my days, I shall not murmur, for _my_ solitude is not actual loneliness. Work is a good comrade,--then I have books, and flowers and birds--I am never really lonely. And that I shall fully realize my dream of love one day I am sure,--if not here, then hereafter. I can wait!"

As she spoke, she looked up to the placid heavens where one or two stars twinkled through the arching boughs,--her face expressed angelic confidence and perfect peace,--and Rimânez advancing a step or two, fully confronted her with a strange light of exultation in his eyes.

"True,--you can wait, Mavis Clare!" he said in deep clear tones from which all sadness had fled--"You can afford to wait! Tell me,--think for a moment!--can you remember me? Is there a time on which you can look back, and looking, see my face, not here but elsewhere? Think! Did you ever see me long ago--in a far sphere of beauty and light, when you were an Angel, Mavis,--and I was--not what I am now! How you tremble! You need not fear me,--I would not harm you for a thousand worlds! I talk wildly at times I know;--I think of things that are past,--long long past,--and I am filled with regrets that burn my soul with fiercer heat than fire! And so neither world's wealth, world's power, nor world's love will tempt you, Mavis!--and you,--a woman! You are a living miracle then,--as miraculous as the drop of undefiled dew which reflects in its tiny circumference all the colours of the sky, and sinks into the earth sweetly, carrying moisture and refreshment where it falls. I can do nothing for you--you will not have my aid--you reject my service? Then as I may not help you, you must help _me_!"--and dropping before her, he reverently took her hand and kissed it--"I ask a very little thing of you,--pray for me! I know you are accustomed to pray, so it will be no trouble to you,--_you_ believe God hears you,--and when I look at you, _I_ believe it too. Only a pure woman can make faith possible to man. Pray for me then, as one who has fallen from his higher and better self,--who strives, but who may not attain,--who labours under heavy punishment,--who would fain reach Heaven, but who by the cursëd will of man, and man alone, is kept in Hell! Pray for me, Mavis Clare! promise it!--and so shall you lift me a step nearer the glory I have lost!"

I listened, petrified with amazement. Could this be Lucio?--the mocking, careless, cynical scoffer I knew, as I thought, so well?--was it really he who knelt thus like a repentant sinner, abasing his proud head before a woman? I saw Mavis release her hand from his, the while she stood looking down upon him in alarm and bewilderment. Presently she spoke in sweet yet tremulous accents--

"Since you desire it so earnestly, I promise,"--she said--"I will pray that the strange and bitter sorrow which seems to consume you may be removed from your life----"