CHAPTER XXI.

FROM THE HUSBAND'S POINT OF VIEW.

"A statue cut in marble white To me gives but a cold delight, Although 'tis fair I do not care, For joy begins and ends with sight.

"A woman pure as virgin snows, Within whose veins the life-blood flows, Whose smile reveals The love she feels, Ah, such a one is Love's true rose."

The next morning Eustace made up his mind to go to Errington Hall in the afternoon, and meanwhile amused himself in leisurely strolling along the beach watching the waves rolling landward.

Behind him the sand hills rose in low mounds with their scanty vegetation, shutting out the marshes beyond, then came the narrow strip of sandy beach on which his footsteps left deeply imprinted marks, and before him, sombre under the leaden coloured sky, stretched the heaving ocean, with thin lines of white-crested waves breaking to cold foam at his feet. The sky, filled with rain-charged clouds, lowered heavily on the chill earth, and midway flew a wide-winged sea-gull, uttering discordant cries.

It was a dreary scene, and Eustace, with his hands clasped behind him, stared at the dismal prospect, which was quite in keeping with his own disturbed feelings. He was meditating a dishonourable action, and he knew it, so in spite of his determination to carry it through to the bitter end, he felt oppressed by a vague feeling of dread that all his villainy would be of no avail. In the course of his selfish life he had done many foolish things, at which the world had looked askance, but hitherto his pride had preserved him from dishonour, but now he stood on the edge of an abyss into which he was about to plunge of his own free will, and, in spite of his egotistical philosophy, he trembled at the prospect before him.

Supposing he did induce Lady Errington to return his passion and leave England with him, what benefit would it bring to him or to her? To her a ruined home, the memory of a deserted child, the prospect of exile from all social circles, and an endless regret for her fall; to him, delighted companionship for a time, and then a sense of weary disgust, of futile sorrow for a past that could not be undone, and constant discord between himself and the partner of his shame.

Was it worth the risk he was running, for a chimera, a fanciful creation of his own brain, a desire for a vision that might never be realised? And all this time with characteristic selfishness, not a thought for the deserted husband, for the motherless child.

"Hallo, Eustace! Where are you?"

Gartney arose to his feet with an ejaculation, the red blood rushing to his face.

"Guy!"

It was Guy, his cousin, the man whose wife he loved, the man whose home he intended to destroy, and, even wrapped as he was in his triple armour of pride, egotism, and self-complacency, he felt the sting of remorse. It was too late, however, to think of such things, he having fully made up his mind to act; so he crushed down the feeling which might have made him a better man, and went forward to meet his cousin, who was walking smartly along the beach.

Eighteen months had not made much change in Errington, save that he was a little stouter, but he looked as handsome as ever, only there was a discontented look on his face, as if he were thoroughly dissatisfied with his life, as indeed he was. He had evidently ridden over, as he was in a riding dress, and he advanced towards Eustace with one hand in his pocket, the other holding his hunting crop with which he carelessly switched his boots.

"Well, dear old fellow, I am glad to see you again," he said, coming to his cousin and holding out his hand.

"You are very kind, Guy," faltered Eustace, quietly shaking hands, with the feeling of remorse again dominant in his breast. "I was going over to see you this afternoon."

"Were you?" said Errington, listlessly. "Oh, yes!--of course, but I heard at the village you had come to Castle Grim, so, as I was mounted, I thought I'd come on here. I've left my horse with that old Caliban of yours and came down to look you up."

"I'm very glad to see you," returned Eustace, turning away his head. "Shall we go back to the house?"

"No, not yet," responded Errington, throwing himself down on the dry sand. "Let us talk here. I want to speak to you privately, Eustace, and this is the best place."

Gartney knew in his own mind that Errington wanted to speak about his wife, so sat down near the recumbent form of his cousin, and waited for him to begin the conversation.

Nothing was said, however, until, after a moment's silence, Guy looked up at Gartney's face with a frown.

"Good Lord, man, have you left your tongue behind in Arabia?" he said roughly, leaning his cheek on his hand.

Eustace laughed a little bitterly.

"Perhaps it would have been as well if I had done so," he said deliberately, "it might save my soul the burden of many lies."

"As whimsical as ever!"

"Do you think so? No doubt! Solitude is rather apt to confirm a man in his eccentric habits. By-the-way, you have not told me how your wife is?"

"Quite well," replied Errington shortly.

"And the son and heir, on whose birth I must congratulate you?"

"Oh, he's all right."

Guy spoke this last sentence in such a bitter tone that Eustace could not help turning round and looking at him. He was gazing moodily at the sand, but glanced upward, as he felt rather than saw that Gartney had turned round, and smiled ironically.

"You seem surprised?" he said at length.

"I am surprised," answered Eustace deliberately. "When I saw you in Italy, you spoke very differently--very differently indeed."

"Ah, but you see that was in my character of a newly-married man," sneered Guy, picking up a handful of sand and letting it stream through his fingers. "All that sort of thing is over."

"And why is it over?" asked Eustace, coldly. "Eighteen months can scarcely make so much difference----"

"It makes every difference--in my case."

"Why?"

Guy sat up suddenly, clasped his hands round his knees, and staring at the ocean, answered in a dreary voice utterly devoid of any feeling:

"I daresay it will sound ridiculous to a man like yourself, Eustace, and no doubt you and the world will laugh at me when you know my reason. But I cannot help it. I've fought against the feeling, as much as ever I could. I've made all sorts of excuses for my wife, but it's all of no use."

"I'm quite in the dark as to what you are talking about."

"I'm talking about my wife," said Guy deliberately. "You know how much in love I was with her when we married?"

"And are you not in love with her now?"

"Yes, I am!"

"Then what have you to complain of?"

"Complain of!" echoed Errington with a bitter laugh. "I have nothing to complain of, according to the views of the world. Alizon is a perfect wife, a perfect mother, a perfect woman in every way. In fact, that is what I do complain of! She's too perfect."

"Good Heavens, man!" cried Eustace, now thoroughly exasperated. "I don't understand a word you are saying. If Alizon is perfect, both as wife and mother, what more do you want?"

"I want love," returned Guy, in a low, deep voice, the blood rushing to his face. "I want love and affection. I'm starving for one kind word and I cannot obtain it. It sounds ridiculous, does it not, for a man of my years to whimper about love like a silly schoolboy? But I cannot help it. I married Alizon in order to have a true and loving wife, and I find I am tied to a statue."

"But I cannot understand----"

"Of course, you can't," cried Errington vehemently, leaping to his feet, "how could you? a cold-blooded man, who can do without love and affection, who doesn't care two straws about any human being, and only adores the phantom creations of his own brain. Great Heaven!" said the unfortunate young man, staring wildly up at the leaden-coloured sky, "if I were only a man like that how happy I should be. But I'm not, I'm only a fellow who wants to be loved by his wife, but even that is denied me. I married Alizon for love. I loved her then, I love her now, and she cares no more for me than she does for yonder ocean."

"But surely the child is a bond of union between you?"

"The child!" repeated Errington fiercely, "no! the child, which should have drawn us closer together, has put us farther asunder than ever. I longed for a child to succeed me in the estates, and, now I have obtained my desire, I wish it had never been born. I hate the child! It seems horrible, Eustace, but I do. I hate it."

"Don't talk like that, Guy," cried Eustace, springing to his feet, and laying his hand on his cousin's arm, "it's terrible--your own child!"

"My own child! my own child," repeated Guy with senseless reiteration. "Yes! my own child."

He thrust his hands into his pockets, and abruptly turning away, walked a short distance in order to conceal his emotion, while Eustace stood silently in the same place, wondering at his cousin's grief over what appeared to him to be such a trivial matter. It might seem so to him, but it certainly was not to Guy, whose whole nature was smarting under a sense of neglect and injury.

After a few moments Errington returned, with a hard look on his face, and a cynical laugh on his lips.

"I beg your pardon, Eustace," he said ceremoniously, "for troubling you about these affairs, but if I hadn't someone to talk to about it, I believe I should go mad. I went up to Aunt Jelly the other day, and told her what I am now telling you, but she didn't seem to think much of it."

"You make a mistake there," said Gartney, quickly. "Aunt Jelly thought a great deal about it. In fact, it is because she urged me to see what I could do, that I am down here."

"You can't do anything," replied Errington listlessly, "no one can do anything. Alizon and myself are an ill-wedded pair. The quick coupled with the dead. She is a perfect wife, a perfect mother, and I, in the eyes of the world possessing a treasure in the matrimonial way, am the most miserable devil alive."

Eustace felt a sudden pang of compunction at the idea of the misery he proposed to add to the unhappy young man's life, and after a short struggle between the generous and selfish instincts of his nature, the former triumphed, and he determined to do his best to reconcile husband and wife. With this new resolve in his mind, he approached Guy, and taking him by the arm, walked slowly across the beach with him towards Castle Grim.

"Come to the house, old fellow," he said kindly. "You are working yourself into a perfect state over nothing. Have luncheon with me, and then we'll drive over together, and I'll do my best to put things right."

"Impossible," said Guy, gloomily, "quite impossible."

"How so?"

"It's easy enough explained! When I married my wife, I thought her coldness would wear off, but it did not. To all my love and tenderness, she was as cold as ice. Kind enough in a cold-blooded sort of way, but as far as any answering tenderness or feeling of sympathy, she might as well have been a statue. That was hard enough to bear, as you may imagine, but when the child was born it was much worse. She isn't a statue now, by any means, but her whole soul is wrapped up in the child. She's never away from him, she never stops talking about him, she lives in the nursery, and never comes near me. If I offer to caress her, she frowns and resents any display of affection. All her love, all her heart, is given to the child, and I've got to be content with cold looks, and about five minutes' conversation a day. I hardly ever see her, sometimes she doesn't even come to meals, and when I remonstrated with her, she turned on me in a cold fury, and asked me if I wanted her to neglect the child. What am I to do, Eustace? I can't force her to love me against her will. I can't keep her from the child. There seems nothing for me to do, but to be satisfied with the life I am leading now, and it's Hell, Eustace, Hell. It's a big word to describe a little thing, isn't it? The world would laugh at me if they heard me talk, but no one can understand it, unless they undergo it."

He spoke with great emotion, and although Eustace failed in a great measure to understand his deep feelings on the subject, he could not but see that his cousin had great cause to speak. A young man of ardent nature, to whom love is a necessity, finding himself tied to a woman who chilled every demonstration of affection, and lavished all her adoration on the child of which he was the father--it was truly a pitiable situation, and yet one at which the world would laugh, because the tragic elements therein were so simple.

Gartney listened in silence to the long speech, and saying nothing in reply, made his cousin have some luncheon, while he thought over the whole affair.

"I won't speak to Mrs. Veilsturm," he thought to himself, pouring out Guy a glass of wine, "if I can I'll bring them together again and then leave England for ever."

During the luncheon, he talked gaily enough to Errington, cheering him up by every means in his power, making up his mind in the meantime as to what was the best course to pursue.

When the meal was finished, he ordered Javelrack to bring round a horse, and, with Sir Guy, was soon trotting along the road on the way to Errington Hall.

"Now, listen to me, Guy," he said, when they were some distance on their journey. "I think you exaggerate a good deal of this thing. It's not half so bad as you make out. Alizon is a young mother, and you know they always adore their first-born to the exclusion of everything else. I don't think she is naturally of a cold nature, and when her first outburst of joy on the child is exhausted, she will, doubtless, give you that love which is your due, and which you so much need. But, in the meantime, it is foolish of you to remain at the Hall, as you will only work yourself up into a frenzy over nothing. Solitude is the worst thing in the world for a man in your condition, so the best thing you can do is to come up to town with me for a week or so."

"But I cannot leave Alizon alone," objected Errington in perplexity.

"Why not? She won't be lonely, as she has the child, and besides, if she neglects you as you say, it is because you are always near her. A few weeks' absence would make a wonderful change in her demeanour, I can tell you."

"Do you really think so?" asked poor Guy, his face lighting up.

"I'm certain of it. In spite of your years, my dear boy, I'm afraid you don't know much about feminine nature. Learn then, that to make a woman value a thing truly, it is necessary to put it out of her reach. Immediately it is in that position, then she'll strain every nerve to get it back again. Therefore, if you leave your wife, and neglect her for a time, she will begin to grow jealous, and see how wrongly she has treated you. When you come back again, she will alter her conduct, and things will be all right."

"I don't believe in that prescription," retorted Guy, sharply.

"Don't you? It does sound rather difficult of belief, but it's true for all that. And I can tell you of a case in question, that of Victoria Sheldon and Macjean."

"I don't understand----"

"No! then I'll explain. If you will carry your memory back to the time we were in Italy, you will remember that Otterburn was very much in love with Victoria Sheldon."

"To tell you the truth, I've almost forgotten Otterburn himself. Was he not your companion then?"

"Yes!--we parted at Venice, and I saw him again for the first time last week. Well, Otterburn was so much in love with Victoria that he proposed. She refused him, so Otterburn, having a spirit of his own, departed, and has never seen her since. Finding, therefore, that he stood on his dignity, she fell in love with him, and I feel certain, that if Otterburn chooses to ask her again, she will say yes."

"But will he choose?"

"He will! They love one another devotedly, and each is ignorant of the other's feelings, but when they meet everything will be arranged satisfactorily. So you see, my dear Guy, the value of absence, for if Otterburn hadn't gone away, he certainly would not have won the heart of Victoria Sheldon."

"And you advise me to do the same?"

"I do, decidedly! Leave your wife for a few weeks, and if she has any love for you--which she must have, or else she would not have married you--she will miss you hourly, and when you come back--well the game will be in your own hands."

Guy did not reply for a few minutes, but urged his horse into a canter, and the two rode along for some distance in silence. When nearing Denfield, however, Errington suddenly drew his horse up, and turned his head towards Eustace.

"I will take your advice," he said abruptly, "it can do no harm, and it may do good."