"I am not going to let you leave me. I absolutely forbid it. Don"t let us talk about it any more or speak of it again unless you are ready to tell me your reason."
There was a long silence, broken only by her sobs.
"Viola."
"Yes."
"Did you hear what I said?"
"Yes."
"Well, do not worry any more. You can"t go, so it is settled. Nothing can hurt us while we remain together."
Viola did not say anything, but she ceased to cry and kissed me and lay still in my arms.
There was some minutes" silence, then I said:
"Let"s go up to bed. Sleep will do you good. You look tired and exhausted to the last degree."
We went upstairs, and that night she seemed to fall asleep in my arms quickly and easily. I lay awake, as hour after hour pa.s.sed, wondering what this strange fancy could be that was torturing her.
At last, between three and four in the morning, I fell asleep and did not wake again till the clock struck nine on the little table beside me.
The sun was streaming into the room, and I sat up wide awake. The place beside me was empty. I looked round the room. I was quite alone.
Remembering our conversation of last night and Viola"s strange manner, a vague apprehension came over me, and my heart beat nervously. It was very unusual for Viola to be up first. She generally lay in bed till the last moment, and always dissuaded me from getting up till I insisted on doing so. I sprang up now and went over to the toilet-table. On the back of her brushes lay a note addressed to me in her handwriting. Before I took it up I felt instinctively she had left me. For a moment I could not open it. My heart beat so violently that it seemed impossible to breathe, a thick mist came over my eyes. I took up the note and paced up and down the room for a few minutes before I could open it.
A suffocating feeling of anger against her raged through me. The sight of the bed where she had so lately lain beside me filled me with a resentful agony. She had gone from me while I slept. To me, in those first blind moments of rage, it seemed like the most cruel treachery.
After a minute I grew calm enough to tear open the note and read it.
"My very dearest one,
"Forgive me. This is the first time I have disobeyed you in anything in all the time we have been together And now [Greek: baino. to gar chren mou te kai theon kratei....]
"I must go from you, and you yourself will see in the future the necessity that is ruling me now. Do not try to find me or follow me, as I cannot return to you yet. Do believe in me and trust me and let me return to you at the end of this miserable year which stretches before me now a desert of ashes and which seems as if it would never pa.s.s over, as if it would stretch into Eternity. But my reason tells me that it will pa.s.s, and then I shall come back to you and all my joy in life; for there is no joy anywhere in this world for me except with you--if you will let me come back.
"No one will know where I am. I shall see no one we know. Say what you wish about me to the world.
"Don"t think I do not know how you will suffer at first; but you would have suffered more if I had stayed. While I am away from you, think of your life as entirely your own; do not hesitate to go to Suzee, if you wish. I feel somehow that Fate has designed you for me, not for her, and that she will not hold you for long, but that, whatever happens, you will always remember
"VIOLA."
I crushed this letter in my hand in a fury of rage when I had read it, and threw it from me. Anger against her, red anger in which I could have killed her, if I could in those moments have followed and found her, swept over me.
I looked round the room mechanically. She had dressed in the clothes she had been wearing yesterday apparently, and taken one small handbag, for I missed that from where it had stood on a chest of drawers.
Her other luggage was there undisturbed. I saw her evening and other dresses hanging in the half-open wardrobe opposite me.
The only thing that had gone from the toilet-table was the little frame with my photo in it.
A sickening sense of loss, of despair came over me, mingling with the savage anger and hatred surging within me.
After a time I rose from my chair and began to dress.
I had made up my mind as to my own actions. To stay here without Viola, where the whole place spoke to me of her, was impossible. As soon as I could get everything packed I would go up to London and stay at my club. She would not come back.
No, it was no use my waiting with that hope.
Her mad scheme, whatever it was, I felt was planted deeply, her resolve fixed. It was true that three months before, after just such a cruel letter, she had come suddenly back to me, having failed in her resolution. I remembered that, and paused suddenly at the recollection. But then that was different. Then, infidelity to me had been in the question. Now I knew that wherever she was going it was not to another lover.
Whatever her foolish idea was, some benefit to me was mixed up with it in her mind.
And then, suddenly, in a tender rush of pa.s.sionate reminiscence that would not be denied, the knowledge came home to me that, whatever her faults might be, however foolish and maddening her actions, no one had ever loved me as she had done, as unselfishly, with the same abandonment of self.
The hot tears came scalding up under my lids. I picked up the little crumpled sheet of paper I had so savagely crushed, smoothed it out, folded it, and put it in my breast pocket.
Then I turned to my packing. We had only taken rooms here. By paying I was free to leave at any moment.
Her things? What should I do with them? Keep them with me or send them away to her bankers?
I thought the latter, and turned to gather up her clothes and put them in her portmanteau. My brain seemed bursting with a wild agony of resentment as I took up first one thing and then another: the touch of them seemed to burn me. Then, when I was half-way through a trunk; I stopped short. Was I wise to accept the situation at all? Perhaps I could follow her and find out, after all, what this mystery meant.
We were in a small country place, but there was a fairly good service of trains to town; one I knew left in the morning at seven, she might have taken that. I could go to the station and find out.
Filled suddenly with that heart-rending longing for the sight and touch of the loved one again that is so unendurable in the first hours of separation, I thought I would do that, and I left the half-filled trunk and went downstairs to the hall.
The two maids were standing there waiting, and they stared at me as I pa.s.sed and put on my hat.
"Please, sir, are you ready for breakfast? It"s gone half-past ten."
"No," I said shortly. "I am going out first."
"Will Mrs. Lonsdale be coming down, sir?"
I stopped short.
"No, Mrs. Lonsdale has gone out already," I answered, and went on through the door.
I didn"t care what they thought. When one is in great pain, physical or mental, nothing seems to matter except that pain.
I walked fast to the station, about a mile distant, and made enquiries as discreetly as I could.
"No," was the unanimous answer. Mrs. Lonsdale had certainly not left there by any train that morning, nor been there at all, nor hired a fly from there. They were all quite sure of that.