Part 35

I have been staring dreamily and in a sort of stupefaction at the little poison-flask in my hand. _It is quite empty now._ I have swallowed every drop of the liquid it contained,--I took it quickly and determinately as one takes nauseous medicine, without allowing myself another moment of time for thought or hesitation. It tasted acrid and burning on my tongue,--but at present I am not conscious of any strange or painful result. I shall watch my face in the mirror and trace the oncoming of death,--this will be at any rate a new sensation not without interest!

* * * * *

My mother is here,--here with me in this room! She is moving about restlessly, making wild gestures with her hands and trying to speak. She looks as she did when she was dying,--only more alive, more sentient. I have followed her up and down, but am unable to touch her,--she eludes my grasp. I have called her 'Mother! Mother!' but no sound issues from her white lips. Her face is so appalling that I was seized with a convulsion of terror a moment ago and fell on my knees before her imploring her to leave me,--and then she paused in her gliding to and fro and--smiled! What a hideous smile it was! I think I lost consciousness, ... for I found myself lying on the ground. A sharp and terrible pain running through me made me spring to my feet, ... and I bit my lips till they bled, lest I should scream aloud with the agony I suffered and so alarm the house. When the paroxysm passed I saw my mother standing quite near to me, dumbly watching me with a strange expression of wonder and remorse. I tottered past her and back to this chair where I now sit,----I am calmer now, and I am able to realize that she is only the phantom of my own brain--that I _fancy_ she is here while _knowing_ she is dead.

* * * * *

Torture indescribable has made of me a writhing, moaning, helpless creature for the past few minutes. Truly that drug was deadly;--the pain is horrible ... horrible! ... it has left me quivering in every limb and palpitating in every nerve. Looking at my face in the glass I see that it has already altered. It is drawn and livid,--all the fresh rose-tint of my lips has gone,--my eyes protrude unnaturally, ... there are dull blue marks at the corners of my mouth and in the hollows of my temples, and I observe a curious quick pulsation in the veins of my throat. Be my torment what it will, now there is no remedy,--and I am resolved to sit here and study my own features to the end. 'The reaper whose name is Death' must surely be near, ready to gather my long hair in his skeleton hand like a sheaf of ripe corn, ... my poor beautiful hair!--how I have loved its glistening ripples, and brushed it, and twined it round my fingers, ... and how soon it will lie like a dank weed in the mould!

* * * * *

A devouring fire is in my brain and body,--I am burning with heat and parched with thirst,--I have drunk deep draughts of cold water, but this has not relieved me. The sun glares in upon me like an open furnace,--I have tried to rise and close the blind against it, but find I have no force to stand upright. The strong radiance blinds me:--the silver toilet boxes on my table glitter like so many points of swords. It is by a powerful effort of will that I am able to continue writing,--my head is swimming round,--and there is a choking sensation in my throat.

* * * * *

A moment since I thought I was dying. Torn asunder as it were by the most torturing pangs, I could have screamed for help,--and would have done so, had voice been left me. But I cannot speak above a whisper,--I mutter my own name to myself 'Sibyl! Sibyl!' and can scarcely hear it. My mother stands beside me,--apparently waiting;--a little while ago I thought I heard her say 'Come, Sibyl! Come to your chosen lover!' Now I am conscious of a great silence everywhere,--a numbness has fallen upon me, and a delicious respite from pain,--but I see my face in the glass and know it is the face of the dead. It will soon be all over,--a few more uneasy breathings,--and I shall be at rest. I am glad,--for the world and I were never good friends;--I am sure that if we could know, before we were born, what life really is, we should never take the trouble to live!

* * * * *

A horrible fear has suddenly beset me. What if death were not what the scientists deem it,--suppose it were another form of life? Can it be that I am losing reason and courage together? ... or what is this terrible misgiving that is taking possession of me? ... I begin to falter ... a strange sense of horror is creeping over me ... I have no more physical pain, but something worse than pain oppresses me ... a feeling that I cannot define. I am dying ... dying!--I repeat this to myself for comfort, ... in a little while I shall be deaf and blind and unconscious, ... why then is the silence around me now broken through by sound? I listen,--and I hear distinctly the clamour of wild voices mingled with a sullen jar and roll as of distant thunder! ... My mother stands closer to me, ... she is stretching out her hand to touch mine!

* * * * *

Oh God! ... Let me write--write--while I can! Let me yet hold fast the thread which fastens me to earth,--give me time--time before I drift out, lost in yonder blackness and flame! Let me write for others the awful Truth, as I see it,--there is No death! None--none!--_I cannot die._ I am passing out of my body,--I am being wrenched away from it inch by inch in inexplicable mystic torture,--but I am not dying,--I am being carried forward into a new life, vague and vast! ... I see a new world full of dark forms, half shaped yet shapeless!--they float towards me, beckoning me on. I am actively conscious--I hear, I think, I know! Death is a mere human dream,--a comforting fancy; it has no real existence,--there is nothing in the Universe but life! O hideous misery!--_I cannot die!_ In my mortal body I can scarcely breathe,--the pen I try to hold writes of itself rather than through my shaking hand,--but these pangs are the throes of birth--not death! ... I hold back,--with all the force of my soul I strive not to plunge into that black abyss I see before me--but--_my mother drags me with her_,--I cannot shake her off! I hear her voice now;--she speaks distinctly, and laughs as though she wept; 'Come Sibyl! Soul of the child I bore, come and meet your lover! Come and see upon WHOM you fixed your faith! Soul of the woman I trained, return to that from whence you came!' Still I hold back,--nude and trembling I stare into a dark void--and now there are wings about me,--wings of fiery scarlet!--they fill the space,--they enfold me,--they propel me,--they rush past and whirl around me, stinging me as with flying arrows and showers of hail!

* * * * *

Let me write on,--write on, with this dead fleshly hand, ... one moment more time, dread God! ... one moment more to write the truth,--the terrible truth of Death whose darkest secret, Life, is unknown to men! I live!--a new, strong, impetuous vitality possesses me, though my mortal body is nearly dead. Faint gasps and weak shudderings affect it still,--and I, outside it and no longer of it, propel its perishing hand to write these final words--_I live!_ To my despair and horror,--to my remorse and agony, I live!--oh the unspeakable misery of this new life! And worst of all,--God whom I doubted, God whom I was taught to deny, this wronged, blasphemed, and outraged God EXISTS! And I could have found Him had I chosen,--this knowledge is forced upon me as I am torn from hence,--it is shouted at me by a thousand wailing voices! ... too late!--too late!--the scarlet wings beat me downward,--these strange half-shapeless forms close round and drive me onward ... to a further darkness, ... amid wind and fire!

* * * * *

Serve me, dead hand, once more ere I depart, ... my tortured spirit must seize and compel you to write down this thing unnameable, that earthly eyes may read, and earthly souls take timely warning! ... I know at last WHOM I have loved!--whom I have chosen, whom I have worshipped! ... Oh God, have mercy! ... I know WHO claims my worship now, and drags me into yonder rolling world of flame! ... his name is ........"

Here the manuscript ended,--incomplete and broken off abruptly,--and there was a blot on the last sentence as though the pen had been violently wrenched from the dying fingers and hastily flung down.

The clock in the west room again chimed the hour. I rose stiffly from my chair, trembling,--my self-possession was giving way, and I began to feel at last unnerved. I looked askance at my dead wife,--she, who with a superhuman dying effort had declared herself to be yet alive,--who, in some imaginable strange way had seemingly written _after_ death, in a frantic desire to make some appalling declaration which nevertheless remained undeclared. The rigid figure of the corpse had now real terrors for me,--I dared not touch it,--I scarcely dared look at it, ... in some dim inscrutable fashion I felt as if "scarlet wings" environed it, beating me down, yet pressing me on,--me too, in my turn! With the manuscript gathered close in my hand, I bent nervously forward to blow out the wax lights on the toilet table, ... I saw on the floor the handkerchief odorous with the French perfume the dead woman had written of,--I picked it up and placed it near her where she sat, grinning hideously at her own mirrored ghastliness. The flash of the jewelled serpent round her waist caught my eyes anew as I did this, and I stared for a moment at its green glitter, dumbly fascinated,--then, moving stealthily, with the cold sweat pouring down my back and every pulse in me rendered feeble by sheer horror, I turned to leave the room. As I reached the portiére and lifted it, some instinct made me look back at the dread picture of the leading "society" beauty sitting stark and livid pale before her own stark and livid-pale image in the glass,--what a "fashion-plate" she would make now, I thought, for a frivolous and hypocritical "ladies' paper!"

"You say you are not dead, Sibyl!" I muttered aloud--"Not dead, but living! Then, if you are alive, where are you, Sibyl?----where are you?"

The heavy silence seemed fraught with fearful meaning,--the light of the electric lamps on the corpse and on the shimmering silk garment wrapped round it appeared unearthly,--and the perfume in the room had a grave-like earthy smell. A panic seized me, and dragging frantically at the portiére till all its velvet folds were drawn thickly together, I made haste to shut out from my sight the horrible figure of the woman whose bodily fairness I had loved in the customary way of sensual men,--and left her without so much as a pardoning or pitying kiss of farewell on the cold brow. For, ... after all I had Myself to think of, ... and She was dead!

XXXVII

I pass over all the details of polite "shock," affected sorrow, and feigned sympathy of society at my wife's sudden death. No one was really grieved about it,--men raised their eyebrows, shrugged their shoulders, lit extra cigarettes and dismissed the subject as too unpleasant and depressing to dwell upon,--women were glad of the removal of a too beautiful and too much admired rival, and the majority of fashionable folk delighted in having something "thrilling" to talk about in the tragic circumstances of her end. As a rule, people are seldom or never unselfish enough to be honestly sorry for the evanishment of some leading or brilliant figure from their midst,--the vacancy leaves room for the pushing in of smaller fry. Be sure that if you are unhappily celebrated for either beauty, wit, intellect, or all three together, half society wishes you dead already, and the other half tries to make you as wretched as possible while you are alive. To be missed at all when you die, some one must love you very deeply and unselfishly; and deep unselfish love is rarer to find among mortals than a pearl in a dust-bin.

Thanks to my abundance of cash, everything concerning Sibyl's suicide was admirably managed. In consideration of her social position as an Earl's daughter, two doctors certified (on my paying them very handsome fees) that hers was a 'death by misadventure,'--namely, through taking an accidental overdose of a powerful sleeping draught. It was the best report to make,--and the most respectable. It gave the penny press an opportunity of moralizing on the dangers that lurked in sleeping draughts generally,--and Tom, Dick, and Harry all wrote letters to their favorite periodicals (signing their names in full) giving _their_ opinions as to the nature of sleeping draughts, so that for a week at least the ordinary dullness of the newspapers was quite enlivened by ungrammatical _gratis_ 'copy.' The conventionalities of law, decency and order were throughout scrupulously observed and complied with,--everybody was paid (which was the chief thing), and everybody was, I believe, satisfied with what they managed to make out of the death-payment. The funeral gave joy to the souls of all undertakers,--it was so expensive and impressive. The florist's trade gained something of an impetus by the innumerable orders received for wreaths and crosses made of the costliest flowers. When the coffin was carried to the grave, it could not be seen for the load of blossoms that covered it. And amid all the cards and 'loving tokens' and 'farewell dearests' and 'not-lost-but-gone-befores'--that ticketed the white masses of lilies, gardenias and roses which were supposed to symbolize the innocence and sweetness of the poisoned corpse they were sent to adorn, there was not one honest regret,--not one unfeigned expression of true sorrow. Lord Elton made a sufficiently striking figure of dignified parental woe, but on the whole I think he was not sorry for his daughter's death, since the only opposing obstacle to his marriage with Diana Chesney was now removed. I fancy Diana herself was sorry, so far as such a frivolous little American could be sorry for anything,--perhaps, however it would be more correct to say that she was frightened. Sibyl's sudden end startled and troubled her,--but I am not sure that it grieved her. There is such a difference between unselfish grief, and the mere sense of nervous personal shock! Miss Charlotte Fitzroy took the news of her niece's death with that admirable fortitude which frequently characterizes religious spinsters of a certain age. She put by her knitting,--said 'God's will be done!' and sent for her favorite clergyman. He came, stayed with her some hours drinking strong tea,--and the next morning at church administered to her communion. This done, Miss Fitzroy went on the blameless and even tenor of her way, wearing the same virtuously distressed expression as usual, and showed no further sign of feeling. I, as the afflicted millionaire-husband, was no doubt the most interesting figure on the scene; I was, I know very well got up, thanks to my tailor, and to the affectionate care of the chief undertaker who handed me my black gloves on the day of the funeral with servile solicitude, but in my heart I felt myself to be a far better actor than Henry Irving, and if only for my admirable mimicry of heart-break, more fully worthy of the accolade. Lucio did not attend the obsequies,--he wrote me a brief note of sympathy from town, and hinted that he was sure I could understand his reasons for not being present. I did understand, of course,--and appreciated his respect, as I thought, for me and my feelings,--yet strange and incongruous as it may seem, I never longed so much for his company as I did then! However,--we had a glorious burial of my fair and false lady,--prancing horses drew coroneted carriages in a long defile down the pretty Warwickshire lanes to the grey old church, picturesque and peaceful, where the clergyman and his assistants in newly-washed surplices, met the flower-laden coffin, and with the usual conventional mumblings, consigned it to the dust. There were even press-reporters present, who not only described the scene as it did _not_ happen, but who also sent fancy sketches, to their respective journals, of the church as it did _not_ exist. I mention this simply to show how thoroughly all "proper forms" were carried out and conceded to. After the ceremony all we "mourners" went back to Willowsmere to luncheon, and I well remember that Lord Elton told me a new and _risqué_ joke over a glass of port before the meal was finished. The undertakers had a sort of festive banquet in the servants' hall,--and taking everything into due consideration, my wife's death gave a great deal of pleasure to many people, and put useful money into several ready pockets. She had left no blank in society that could not be easily filled up,--she was merely one butterfly out of thousands, more daintily coloured perhaps and more restless in flight,--but never judged as more than up to the butterfly standard. I said no one gave her an honest regret, but I was wrong. Mavis Clare was genuinely, almost passionately grieved. She sent no flowers for the coffin, but she came to the funeral by herself, and stood a little apart waiting silently till the grave was covered in,--and then, just as the "fashionable" train of mourners were leaving the churchyard, she advanced and placed a white cross of her own garden-lilies upon the newly-turned brown mould. I noticed her action, and determined that before I left Willowsmere for the East with Lucio (for my journey had only been postponed a week or two on account of Sibyl's death) she should know all.

The day came when I carried out this resolve. It was a rainy and chill afternoon, and I found Mavis in her study, sitting beside a bright log fire with her small terrier in her lap and her faithful St Bernard stretched at her feet. She was absorbed in a book,--and over her watched the marble Pallas inflexible and austere. As I entered she rose, and putting down the volume and her pet dog together, she advanced to meet me with an intense sympathy in her clear eyes, and a wordless pity in the tremulous lines of her sweet mouth. It was charming to see how sorry she felt for me,--and it was odd that I could not feel sorry for myself. After a few words of embarrassed greeting I sat down and watched her silently, while she arranged the logs in the fire to make them burn brighter, and for the moment avoided my gaze.

"I suppose you know,"--I began with harsh abruptness--"that the sleeping-draught story is a polite fiction? You know that my wife poisoned herself intentionally?"

Mavis looked at me with a troubled and compassionate expression.

"I feared it was so--" ... she began nervously.

"Oh there is nothing either to fear or to hope"--I said with some violence--"_She did it._ And can you guess why she did it? Because she was mad with her own wickedness and sensuality,--because she loved with a guilty love, my friend Lucio Rimânez."

Mavis gave a little cry as of pain, and sat down white and trembling.

"You can read quickly, I am sure,"--I went on. "Part of the profession of literature is the ability to skim books and manuscripts rapidly, and grasp the whole gist of them in a few minutes;--read _this_--" and I handed her the rolled-up pages of Sibyl's dying declaration--"Let me stay here, while you learn from that what sort of a woman she was, and judge whether, despite her beauty, she is worth a regret!"

"Pardon me,--" said Mavis gently--"I would rather not read what was not meant for my eyes."

"But it _is_ meant for your eyes,"--I retorted impatiently--"It is meant for everybody's eyes apparently,--it is addressed to nobody in particular. There is a mention of you in it. I beg--nay I command you to read it!--I want your opinion on it,--your advice; you may possibly suggest, after perusal, the proper sort of epitaph I ought to inscribe on the monument I am going to build to her sacred and dear memory!"

I covered my face with one hand to hide the bitter smile which I knew betrayed my thoughts, and pushed the manuscript towards her. Very reluctantly she took it,--and slowly unrolling it, began to read. For several minutes there was a silence, broken only by the crackling of the logs on the fire, and the regular breathing of the dogs who now both lay stretched comfortably in front of the wood blaze. I looked covertly at the woman whose fame I had envied,--at the slight figure, the coronal of soft hair,--the delicate, drooping sensitive face,--the small white classic hand that held the written sheets of paper so firmly, yet so tenderly,--the very hand of the Greek marble Psyche;--and I thought what short-sighted asses some literary men are who suppose they can succeed in shutting out women like Mavis Clare from winning everything that fame or fortune can offer. Such a head as hers, albeit covered with locks fair and caressable, was not meant, in its fine shape and compactness, for submission to inferior intelligences whether masculine or feminine,--that determined little chin which the firelight delicately outlined, was a visible declaration of the strength of will and the indomitably high ambition of its owner,--and yet, ... the soft eyes,--the tender mouth,--did not these suggest the sweetest love, the purest passion that ever found place in a woman's heart? I lost myself in dreamy musing,--I thought of many things that had little to do with either my own past or present. I realized that now and then at rare intervals God makes a woman of genius with a thinker's brain and an angel's soul,--and that such an one is bound to be a destiny to all mortals less divinely endowed, and a glory to the world in which she dwells. So considering, I studied Mavis Clare's face and form,--I saw her eyes fill with tears as she read on;--why should she weep, I wondered, over that 'last document' which had left me unmoved and callous? I was startled almost as if from sleep when her voice, thrilling with pain, disturbed the stillness,--she sprang up, gazing at me as if she saw some horrible vision.

"Oh, are you so blind," she cried, "as not to see what this means? Can you not understand? Do you not know your worst enemy?"

"My worst enemy?" I echoed amazed--"You surprise me, Mavis,--what have I, or my enemies or friends to do with my wife's last confession? She raved,--between poison and passion, she could not tell, as you see by her final words, whether she was dead or alive,--and her writing at all under such stress of circumstances was a phenomenal effort,--but it has nothing to do with me personally."

"For God's sake do not be so hard-hearted!"--said Mavis passionately--"To me these last words of Sibyl's,--poor, tortured, miserable girl!--are beyond all expression horrible and appalling. Do you mean to tell me you have no belief in a future life?"

"None." I answered with conviction.

"Then this is nothing to you?--this solemn assurance of hers that she is not dead, but living again,--living too, in indescribable misery!--you do not believe it?"

"Does anyone believe the ravings of the dying!" I answered--"She was, as I have said, suffering the torments of poison and passion,--and in those torments wrote as one tormented...."