As Brigit read aloud these words of haunting pathos, the very trees, rustling outside in the October wind, the far-away sound of the waves beating upon the sand, seemed to Robert an ominous accompaniment--half a warning, half a promise.
"I wonder," he said, "I wonder why that was there?"
He was uneasy, he could not say why. He was conscious of some influence in the room. He felt, unaccountably, that they were not alone. Looking round for some confirmation of this strange instinct his eyes fell on the small blue envelope which had been placed on the mantelpiece by his servant. It was addressed to himself. Fortunately, whilst he was opening it, Brigit"s attention was still riveted on the old song which she was humming over at the piano. She spoke to him three times before he answered.
"This telegram," he said, at last, trying to control his voice, "is from Reckage. He is on his way now to see me."
"He is coming here? Why is he coming here?"
He put his arm round her, in a desperate, long embrace, kissing her face, her eyes, her hair.
"What is it, Robert?" she said, clinging to him, for she heard something like a sob under his breath. "You have had bad news. You must tell me."
"It may not be so serious ... perhaps it is badly worded ... but Pensee is coming with him and he says quite plainly that there is some legal difficulty about our marriage."
"Some legal difficulty!" she repeated. "What is the use of that now? I can"t leave you again. I"ll die first. I can"t bear it. O, Robert, I am so tired of the law. There are no laws for the birds, or for the flowers, or for the trees, or for any thing that is happy! Why should we be made so miserable--just to please the magistrates and mayors!"
"But it is more than that--I am certain. Suppose it has something to do with Parflete?"
"With Wrexham? How could that be? He is dead."
"He may not be dead."
She sank down to the floor on her knees.
"O my G.o.d! You know that he is living."
"Reckage doesn"t say so. But would he and Pensee come unless they felt we should need them?"
"I need no one except you. I don"t want to see them. I don"t want to hear their news. They are killing you. You seem calm, but your face! you have never looked like this before. O, darling, it can"t be what you think it is."
He lifted her from the ground and took her in his arms again, as though he could defy the cruel, invisible fate which had decreed their separation.
"In any case," he said, "I won"t give you back--I cannot. It is too much to ask. You are mine--you were never his--never. G.o.d is not unjust, and this is unjust. As for other people and outside opinion, they have not mattered to me at any time, and least of all can they matter now. I won"t give you back."
She held him closer, already feeling, in spite of his words, the first agony of their inevitable farewell.
"You love me!" she said, "you must never leave me. Kiss me, and promise me that you will never leave me."
Grief and horror had broken down every barrier of reserve between them.
The pent-up pa.s.sion on his side, the intense unconscious tenderness on hers seemed to meet and blend in the one consuming thought that they belonged to each other--that, in the awful struggle between the force of circ.u.mstances and the force of life--they might have to part.
"Why should we two matter in so large a world?" she cried. "Surely we need not suffer so much just for the discipline of our own souls? I cannot, cannot, cannot go away. I can"t live without you. I can"t die without you. I am tired of being alone. I am tired of trying to forget you. And I have tried so hard."
Her face, from which all colour and joy and animation had departed, seemed like a June rose dead, in all its perfection, on the tree. One may see many such in a garden after a sudden frost.
"You mustn"t leave me. They all frighten me. I have no one but you," she continued; "G.o.d will understand. He doesn"t ask any one to be alone. He wasn"t even crucified--alone. He didn"t enter into Paradise--alone. Ask me to do anything, but don"t ask me to go away--to go back to Wrexham.
You are much stronger than I am. If you thought you ought to cut out your heart by little pieces, you would do it. But you must think of me.
They may have all my money--that is all they care for. But I must have you."
Although she made the appeal, he had resolved, in silence, long before, that, come what might, he would not give her back. The decision rose on the instant, without hesitation, doubt, or misgiving--a deliberate choice between two courses.
"You cannot return to Parflete," he said quietly. "Don"t despair. Your marriage with him may be annulled. That aspect of the question is revolting, abominable; but we are both in such a false position now that we owe it as much to other people as we do to ourselves to put everything in a true light. You are so brave, Brigit----"
"I am tired of being brave."
Her slender arms tightened about his neck; he could feel, from the whole abandonment of her att.i.tude and the slight weight of her childish form, how little fitted she was physically for the squalid ordeal of the law-courts. If she could live at all through horrors of the kind, it would have to be by a miracle. And has one the right to hope for miracles where the question of happiness or unhappiness in human love is the egoistic point at stake? But, right or no right, there was in them both that supreme and fatal force of affection which, if it be unusual, is at least usual enough to be at the root of most mortal tragedies.
"I am tired or being brave," she repeated. "I want to rest."
In the mirror opposite them he saw the reflection of the bright garden outside. How calm and still it seemed! Had he wandered there, years before, with a beating heart, in search of his destiny, merely to find it at last after the humiliation of a public scandal? Had his idyllic, almost mystical romance, with all its aspirations, grace, and unspeakable strength, been given to him just to be called from the house-tops and discussed in the streets? Was this the end of all sublime ideals? Did every delicate, secret sentiment have to endure, soon or late, the awful test of degradation and mockery? Did it have to come--this terrible day of trial when the Love which moves the sun and the other stars had to pa.s.s through the common sieve with dust, ashes, and much that was infinitely viler? No, he told himself, no: ten thousand times, no.
"Listen," he said, "listen. You need not go back to him: he knows--every one knows now that we love each other. We can"t live together because our marriage is not a marriage. Your marriage with Parflete was not a marriage, but it appears so to the world. Is it worth while to undeceive the world? When I think of the cost of such a proof--I say it is too great. But if you are courageous--and you will be for my sake--we can defy every one--on one condition. We must be sure of _ourselves_. We must know that we can depend on ourselves. We may have to separate now for some months--perhaps a year--perhaps longer; we must school ourselves to look upon each other as friends--friends, nothing more. It will be very hard--for me, and it is on my account only that we must separate now. But you will accept this, even if you cannot understand it, because my life here depends on you. I don"t say anything about my happiness. I leave that out of the reckoning. But if I am to live--to get through the day"s work, I must love you and I must see you. Later on, we may be able to meet quite often. This will be something to which I can look forward. All this has been in my mind always--ever since I first met you. I feel now as though every thought, every hour, every event of the last five months has been a preparation for this moment. On one point, however, I have never wavered. We can"t desecrate our love by some odious law-suit. If this life were all, it would be different. But it isn"t all. It seems as though we are not to be everything to each other. Yet we can be more than everything--we can be one existence even if we cannot be man and wife. We can help each other, we may see each other--in time."
"In time?" she repeated. The certainty that she would have to be deprived of his presence for the greater part, at all events, of her life came over her with intolerable anguish, and with it she felt a presentiment of the future struggle to be waged against the profound instinct which drew them, with all the strength of a river"s current, toward each other.
"No, no," she said, "if you send me away, I shall die. They frighten me; they tell me lies. My mother is dead; my father is dead. I have no one but you. You can"t forsake me. You love me too much. I know you won"t leave me."
Her innocence made the recklessness of her appeal the more compelling.
The beseeching, intense affection of her soul transfigured her face with an almost unearthly sweetness. White, trembling, and despairing she laid her head upon his shoulder, holding him with both arms, and swaying from the agony of a grief without hope and without tears.
"You must try to understand," he said, "you must try. You are so young--such a child, but you do know that we can"t live together, in the same house, if our marriage is not valid. That would compromise your honour. How else can I say what I must say?"
"I shouldn"t mind. G.o.d would understand."
"But the world wouldn"t understand. And one has to avoid the appearance of evil."
"They may say anything they please. I should be very proud if they misjudged me for your sake."
Then a thought suddenly pierced her. What would they say about his honour? Would the world misjudge him? Her weakness became strength under coercion of this new possibility; her cheeks burned at the light thrown upon her first selfish impulse.
"O, why have I said such things?" she said, tearing herself away from him, "and I used to think once that women like me were too bad to live.
I used to wonder how they could be so evil. That was because I had never been tempted. And now I see how hard it is--how hard to fight. It is so easy to judge others when you are married to some one you love.
But I begin to understand now--I ought to hide myself in a cell and pray till I die for women who are unhappy."
She pushed back the soft golden hair which had fallen a little over her face, brightening its sorrow. Every feature quivered under the invisible cutting hand of cruel experience. In those last sharp moments of introspection she had gained such a knowledge of suffering that a fire seemed to have consumed her vision of life, reducing it to a frightful desert of eternal woe and unavailing sacrifice. Partially stunned, and partially blinded by misery, she felt the awful helplessness and pain of what is sometimes called the second birth, a crisis in all human development when the first true realisation comes that the soul is a stranger, a rebel, strong as eternity, weak as the flesh, free as the illimitable air.
"O, I do understand!" she said. "I have been pretending to myself that we could do impossible things. But I didn"t want to speak my own death-warrant. No, don"t come to me. Don"t say one word to me. I know so well now what must be done. We mustn"t hesitate--we mustn"t think. It is something to know where you can"t trust yourself. I can"t trust my heart at this moment. So I must just depend on the things I have been taught--things which I accepted, oh, so easily, when I applied them to other people. You must go away. You must leave me here with the servants. Esther is good and kind. Pensee chose her for me. You can leave me with her."
She supported herself by holding, in a desperate grasp, the heavy silk draperies by the window. The image of her, leaning against the faded scarlet curtain, tall, fragile, yet resolute, with heaving breast, closed eyes, and pallid lips, remained before him night and day for months, and though, in the process of time, the vividness of the picture waned, it lived always among his unforgettable impressions.
"You must leave me," she said again.
"Yes, but I will come in the morning."
"You will rest, you will try to sleep--for my sake."
This time she lifted her head, and, turning towards him, met once more the glance which she felt must have called her to life had she been dead.