“could love part thus? was it not well to speak?
to have spoken once? it could not but be well.
* * * * * *
o then like those, who clench their nerves to rush
upon their dissolution, we two rose,
there—closing like an individual life—
in one blind cry of passion and of pain,
like bitter accusation ev’n to death,
caught up the whole of love and utter’d it,
and bade adieu for ever.”
love and duty.
there was a terrible silence in the little arbour.
outside, in the garden, the sun and the flowers, the birds and the insects, went on with their song of rejoicing as before, but it reached no longer the ears of the two human beings who but now had re-echoed it in their hearts.
was it hours or only minutes that it lasted —this silence as of death.
at last ralph spoke, quietly—so very quietly, that though marion could not see his face, his voice made her start with a strange, unknown terror.
“and who did this thing?” he asked. “who forced you into this hideous mockery of a marriage?”
“no one,” she replied; “no one did it but myself. you can’t understand. ralph;” and the anguish of appeal and remorse in her voice made it sound like a wailing cry. “you can never know all i have endured. i was so wretched, so very wretched; so utterly, utterly desolate and alone. and then i heard that of you, and i lost my trust, and it nearly killed me. your own words had warned me not to build too securely on what might be beyond your power to achieve.” ralph ground his teeth, but she went on: “i thought i was going to die, and i was glad. but i did not die, and he was kind and gentle to me, and i was alone. and i thought—oh! i thought, ralph, till this very morning, that i had torn you out of my heart. the scar, i knew, would be always there, but the love itself, i thought it was dead and buried; and only just now i sat here thinking to myself in my blindness and folly, that i could even see the grass be ginning to grow on the grave.”
“and your husband?” ralph asked, in the same dead, hard, feelingless tone. “your husband—i forget the name you told me—do you then care for him? do you love him?”
“love him!” she exclaimed. “oh, ralph, have mercy! i did not mean to deceive him! i told him i could not give him what he gave me; for he, i know, loves me. he is good and true, and very kind to me. and he urged it very much, and said he was not afraid; he would be content with what i said, what i thought i could give him. for remember, ralph, that other i thought was dead—dead and buried for ever. i care for him too much to have yielded had i known it was not so. but ‘love him!’ when i think of the days when first i learnt what that word means, when you taught it me, ralph—you, and no other! and now you ask me, calmly, if i love him! you of all!” she stopped suddenly, as if horrified at herself; and then, her excitement changed to bitter shame and self-reproach, she cried in an anguish, “oh! what am i saying? why has it all come back when i thought it was gone? you are making me wicked to geoffrey. ralph! ralph! why do you mock me with these cruel questions? have mercy! have a little mercy!”
“mercy!” said ralph, turning from the door-post on which he had been leaning, and rising to his full height as he spoke. standing right in front of her, and with a strange change in his voice. “ ‘mercy!’ you ask? yes child, i will have mercy. mercy on you and on myself, who have done nothing, either of us, deserving of this hideous torment. you are ‘married’ you tell me—married to another man—but i tell you, you are not. that was a blasphemous mockery of a marriage! i am your husband, i, and no other! you are mine, marion, and no one else’s! my wife! my own! come away with me, child, now, this very moment, and have done at once and for ever with this horrible night-mare that is killing me. for i cannot lose you again! oh, my god! i cannot!” and as he spoke, he tried to draw her towards him, not gently, but roughly, violently almost, in sore passion of anguish which was enraging him.
hitherto, since he had begun to speak, marion had allowed him to hold her clasped hand in his. but now, as she felt the hold of his fingers tighten, and as the full meaning of his wild, mad words broke upon her, with a sudden movement she rose from the bench on which she was sitting, and tore herself from his grasp, growing at the same moment as if by magic, perfectly, icily calm.
but only for an instant did her instinct of indignation against him last. one glance at the dark, passionate, storm-tossed face beside her—so changed, so terribly, sadly changed in its expression from its usual calm, gentle kindliness—and her mood softened. she laid her hand trustingly on his arm.
“ralph,” she said, “poor ralph, hush! if you are for a moment weak, i must be strong for both. this is terrible that has come upon us—so terrible that just now i do not see that i can bear it and live. for you know all my heart, and you can judge if it is not to the full as terrible for me as for you.” (this she said in her innocent instinct of appealing to his pity for her.) “you at least are alone—are bound by no vows to another, and that other, alas, so good and kind. i had rather, ten thousand times rather, he were hard and unloving and cruel! but though just now i can see nothing else, this one thing i see plainly—you must go ralph, you must leave me now at once, and we must never, never see each other again. there is just one little glimpse of light left in the thought that hitherto we have neither of us done anything to forfeit the other’s respect—unless indeed that deceit of mine?—but no,” she added, glancing at his face, “i know you have not thought worse of me for that. do not let us destroy this poor little rag of comfort left us, ralph. let me still think of you as good and brave—yes, as the best and bravest. and do not tempt me, ralph, to say at this terrible moment what in calmer times might cause me shame and remorse to remember.” and she raised her face to his with a very agony of appeal in the grey eyes he loved so fervently.
“child,” he said, still with the hard look on his face, “child, are you an angel or a stone? have you a heart or have you none? if after all you are just like other women; utterly incapable of entering into the depths a man’s one love; at least you should pity what you cannot understand, instead of maddening me with that conventional humbug about mutual respect and so on. who but a woman would talk so at such a time? but i will do as you wish,” he went on, lashing himself into fury against her, “i will not stay here longer to tempt you by my evil presence to outrage your delicate sense of propriety, or to say one word which hereafter you might consider it had not been perfectly ‘correct’ or ‘ladylike’ to utter. good god! what a fool i have been! i had imagined you somewhat different from other women, but i see my mistake. it shall be as you wish. good bye. you shall not again be distressed by the sight of me. truly you do well to despise me.”
and with a bitter sneer in his voice, he turned away. it was at last too much. the girl threw herself down recklessly on the rough garden-seat. she shed no tears, she was not the sort of woman to weep in such dire extremity of anguish. she shook and quivered as she lay there, but that was all.
but soon the thought came over her “was it not better so?” better that ralph should thus cruelly misjudge her, for in the end it might help him to forget her. forget her—yes. this was what she must now pray for, if her love for him were worthy of the name.
“ah but he might have said good-bye gently,” broke forth again from the over-charged heart. “he might have spoken kindly when it was for the last, last time.”
as the wish crossed her thoughts, and she half unconsciously murmured it in words, she felt that some one was beside her. an arm raised her gently and replaced her on the seat. it was ralph again. something in his touch soothed and quieted her. she did not this time shrink from him in alarm, but for a moment leant her throbbing head restfully on his shoulder.
“marion, my poor child. marion, my lost darling, forgive me.”
“forgive you, ralph? yes, a thousand times, yes,” she replied. “but do not so grievously misjudge me. it is no conventional humbug, as you call it. it is the old plain question of right and wrong.”
as she said the words there flashed across her mind—or was it some mocking imp that whispered it?—the remembrance of some other scene, when this same phrase, “a plain question of right and wrong,” had been used by herself or another. when was it? ah yes! long, long ago, the first morning in the little house at altes. she recalled it all perfectly. the room in which they sat, the position of their chairs. and she heard cissy’s voice saying, timidly, “i don’t pretend to be as wise as you, may, but are you quite sure there is not a plain question of right and wrong in the matter?” and, to add to her misery, the thought darted into her mind—what if she had then allowed herself to see it thus? if instead of acting as she had done to screen him, she had encouraged harry bravely to appeal to her father, how different might all have been? this terrible complication avoided, her life and ralph’s saved from this irremediable agony? could it indeed be that this terrible punishment had come upon her for this?
well for us is it, truly, that our sins and mistakes are not judged as in such times of morbid misery and exaggerated self reproach we are apt to imagine!
the remembrance of that bygone scene at altes flashed through marion’s mind in an instant, but not too quickly to add its sting to her suffering. and, half mechanically, she repeated:
“yes, the old plain question of right and wrong.”
“i know it is,” said ralph, “and i knew it in my heart when you just now said it. i was mad, i think, doubly mad. first, to torture you with my wild, wicked words, and then to turn upon you with my sneers. so i have come back to you for a moment, just for one little last moment, child, to ask you to forgive me and say goodbye. look up at me, dear, and let me see that you forgive me.”
she looked up at him; looked with her true, clear eyes into his, while he gazed down on her—oh, with what an agony of earnestness, as if he would burn her face into his brain for ever!
for a moment neither spoke.
then he said:
“it is as if one of us were dying, marion, though that i think would be easy to bear compared with this. ‘the bitterness of death’ they talk of! all, they little know! good-bye, my own true darling. my one love, my life’s love—goodbye.” and as he said the words he stooped and kissed her—gently, but long and fervently, on the forehead.
poor ralph! it was the first time.
was it wrong of her to allow it? those who think so may judge her, and i for one shall not argue it with them.
she stood with bent head, motionless, staring at the ground, but seeing nothing. then she looked up hastily, with eyes for the first time blinded with burning, slow-coming tears. tears that bring no relief, wrung from the sore agony of a bleeding heart.
but he was gone!
and so “the old, old story” was over for ever for these two; as for how many others, whose suffering is never suspected!
ralph walked back slowly to the inn, along the very garden path which half-an-hour before, half a lifetime it seemed to him, he had paced so light-heartedly. the same little stiff box-edging he had noticed before, the same scent from the roses and honeysuckle, the same sun and sky and air. then, he remembered he had said to himself, it was all sweet and bright and fair. could he have said so? was the change in himself only? “could it indeed be,” he asked, as we all do at these awful times, beating our poor bruised wings against the bars of the inexorable “it is”—“could it be that nature should remain thus unmoved and indifferent when human beings were riven in agony?”
and a feeling of intensest disgust, amounting almost to rage, seized him at the sight of the hateful, heartless, beautiful world! but when he found this mood coming over him he checked it violently.
“i shall go mad,” he thought, “if i yield to this just now. i must not think of my part of it yet. time enough for that soon— time enough, surely, in the desolation of the long years stretching away before me.” and he writhed at the thought. “what can i do?” he asked himself, “what can i do to lighten it to her, or to strengthen her to bear it? oh, my darling, my darling. i that would have sheltered you from sorrow as never yet woman was sheltered. and to think that of all living beings on this earth, i am the one who must ever to you be less than nothing! but i am maddening myself again.”
a sudden idea struck him.
“yes,” he thought. “i should like to see him. one glance at his face would give me a better notion of him than anything i could gather by hearsay. and it will be a sort of satisfaction to know in whose hands my poor child’s future lies.”
but on thinking it over he remembered that actually he had heard and asked nothing about this same “him.” in the absorbing personal interest of his interview with marion he had forgotten all but themselves.
whom she had married, what his station, where they had met—was utterly unknown to him. nor, indeed, if she had attempted to tell would he have cared to listen. all, in that first bitter, bewildering agony, was to him comprised in the fact that she did in truth belong to another.
he walked on slowly through the garden, the hot sun beating on his head, trying as he went to recall the name which he half fancied had been once mentioned by marion. but in vain. when he got to the house he was seized upon by the landlord and obliged to listen to a long string of apologies for the over-done state of the unfortunate chop. various emissaries had been despatched, it appeared, to inform him that his “something in the way of lunch” was ready, but had all failed in their mission. “not expectin’, sir, as you would have strolled beyond the garden, which as being so you must please excuse.”
“certainly,” replied poor ralph, feeling that indeed his cup had not been full if he were now to be called upon to partake of this wretched chop in the presence of landlord, waiters, and stable boys, as appeared to be their intention. but he succeeded in dismissing them; and, thankful for silence and solitude, sat down to his semblance of a meal in the little parlour opening out of the hall.
while eating, or making a pretence of so doing, he kept his mind directed to the consideration of his present object; a sight for himself of the “him,” the husband who possessed for him so strange an interest. after a time he rang the bell, intending to enter into conversation with the waiter, and to gather from him indirectly the information he sought. in the meantime, however, a new arrival had distracted the attention of the household of the peacock, and his summons was not at once obeyed. while waiting he turned to the window and stared out vacantly, as we so often do when utterly indifferent to all passing around us. but ralph’s indifference was not of long duration. a carriage drove into the little court-yard, drew up at the door, and a gentleman alighted—jumped out in a light-hearted, boyish fashion, hardly waiting till the horse had stopped. he was smoking, and had several letters in his hand, one of which he appeared to be in the act of reading. he stood still for a moment, then sauntered leisurely into the porch and remained there while he finished the perusal of his letter. it was geoffrey.
from where ralph stood at the parlour window, he had an excellent view of the young man, whom he no sooner caught sight of than he felt an intuitive conviction that here before him was marion’s husband.
geoffrey for a wonder was in a thoughtful mood, or looked so at least, as he stood there reading his letter under the shade of the honeysuckle and clematis climbing over the porch, the sunlight between the branches falling softly on his bright brown hair. a pleasant picture truly; and so ralph owned to himself as he looked at him. the tall, manly figure, the fair, almost boyish face, made an attractive whole. it was a strange position. the two men, as to years nearly of an age, but in all else so marvellously dissimilar. and yet though utter strangers to each other, with the one absorbing interest in common. ralph, from his concealment, gazed at the young man, standing in perfect unconsciousness full in his view, as if he would read every smallest characteristic, every hidden feeling of his heart. never did anxious mother scan more narrowly the man to whom she was asked to confide her darling’s happiness, than did ralph the countenance of his unconscious rival, the being who had robbed him of all that made life worth having.
just then some one from within came to the door and spoke to geoffrey. it was only a servant with some trivial message, but ralph, still watching earnestly, noticed the gentle courtesy, the smile sunnying over the clear, honest eyes and mouth, the frank, bright readiness with which the young man looked up and answered. then refolding the letter he had been reading, replaced it in his pocket, and sauntered away in an opposite direction.
“yes,” thought ralph, “i am satisfied she spoke truly. he is ‘good and true and kind.’ and attractive too, personally, very. most women would not find it difficult to love that man. but then, alas, my poor child is not like most women! come what may however, i don’t think that man will ever be unkind to her. heaven knows i am not vain, but it would be nonsense to pretend to myself that i think she will ever come to feel for him, good fellow though i don’t doubt he is, what i know she has felt for me. but yet, in time and when totally separated from all associations connected with me, i trust a sort of moonlight happiness may yet be in store for her.”
here ralph’s reflections were interrupted by the tardy entrance of the servant, who waited to receive his orders.
“how soon will the horses be ready?” asked he.
“whenever you please, sir,” replied the man. “in a quarter of an hour at most your carriage can be round.”
“very well,” said ralph, “you can order it to come round in twenty minutes from now. in the meantime, bring me pens and ink and paper, as i have a letter to write,” adding as the man was leaving the room, “by-the-by, who is the gentleman that drove in just now?”
“mr. baldwin, sir. comes from brentshire, i believe. least-ways the lady’s maid does. mrs. baldwin is here too, sir. a walkin’ in the garden she is, i believe. were you wishing to speak to mr. baldwin, sir? he has just stepped round to look at a horse which the ostler was thinking might carry the lady while here, but i can run after him if so be you wish to see him, sir.”
“i; oh dear no, not at all,” replied ralph, who began to think a more appropriate sign for the little inn would have been “the magpie.” “only be so good as bring in the writing materials at once.”
when they were brought, he sat down and wrote; quickly and unhesitatingly, as if perfectly prepared with what he had to say. his letter folded and directed, he sauntered out into the garden again.
“there’s just a chance,” he thought, “that i may get it unobserved into her own hands, otherwise i must post it, which, however, i would much prefer not to risk.”
looking about he spied a small boy busy weeding. he called the child to him and led him, to the top of the long narrow path, at the end of which was the green with the peacock bush in the centre, and the old arbour at the side. he felt no doubt that marion was still there, her husband fortunately having gone to the stables.
“now, my boy,” said he, “run as fast as you can to the summer-house down there and give this letter to the lady you’ll see there. if she is gone bring it back to me. be as quick as you can and i’ll have a shilling ready for you when you come back.”
the child was soon back again.
“was the lady still there?” asked ralph.
“yes, sir,” said the little messenger, glowing with delight at the thought of a day’s wages so easily earned. “yes, sir, the young lady were there, and she said, ‘thank you, and would i give this to the gentleman,’ ” holding out a little turquoise ring, as he spoke. a simple, common little ring enough. she had had it from childhood. he had often seen it on her little finger. he seized it eagerly, and turned away. then recollecting himself, he gave the boy the promised reward, thanked him quietly, and returned to the house.
at the door the post-chaise stood waiting, and in another minute he was gone, thankful at last to feel free to think over, as he phrased it, his part of the day’s tragedy. think of it! did he ever not think of it during that weary day and night, and many a weary day and night to come? women say men do not know what it is to be broken-hearted! that little turquoise ring might have told a different tale.
“i wonder,” thought ralph as he drove along on his solitary hopeless journey. “i wonder what she will think it right to do. she said her part was the worse to bear. i fear it is. she is stronger and more unselfish than most women, but, on the other hand, she is truthful and ingenuous. will she be strong enough for his sake to leave things as they are, to let him think that at least she is giving him no less than she promised? or will it be impossible for her to live with him without to some extent confiding in him, even though by so doing she wrecks, for the time at least, his happiness, poor fellow, and what chance she has of any herself? i see no distinct right or wrong in the case, but i wonder what she will do. oh, if i could have saved her this! suffering for myself i can bear. if only i could have borne it all, my burden would have seemed lighter!”
he caught the express at bexley and went on in it to london. for no reason, with no object, save that he felt it would be a relief to him to escape the unendurable cross-questioning which would certainly have awaited him, had he returned straight to friar’s springs.
late in the evening, as he travelled on through the twilight into the intense darkness of a moon-less midsummer night, a strange feeling came over him, bringing with it a faint, slight breath of consolation.
“she said truly,” he thought, “that i was more fortunate than she in that i am free and unfettered, bound by no uncongenial ties to another. for me at least it is no sin to love her still, for i know it is not in my nature ever to replace her by any other woman. and who knows but what some day in the far future, though i may never see her again, i may in some way be able to serve her, to lighten the lot it is so bitter to me to think i have been the means of darkening.” and somehow there came into his mind the remembrance of a well-known, simple little german ballad, that years and years ago, as a mere boy, he had liked and been struck by. for he had been peculiar as a boy—dreamy, morbid and sentimental. the two last verses rang in his ears that night, over and over again he heard them. and ever after they were associated with what this bitter day had brought to pass. and the face of the dead maiden on the bier grew to him like that of his own lost love.
these were the words that thus haunted him—
“der dritte hub ihn wieder sogleich
und kusste sie an den mund so bleich.”
“dich liebt’ ich immer, dich lieb ich noch heut,
und werde dich lieben in ewigkeit.”
from london a day or two later he wrote to his mother, telling her simply, and in as few words as possible, that the hopes he had confided to her, were utterly and for ever at an end. he begged her to spare him the pain of entering into useless particulars, and enjoined her never, if she valued his peace and comfort, to allude to the affair directly or indirectly to him or anyone else.
lady severn obeyed him implicitly, and only in the recesses of her own heart, as i said, abused “sir archibald’s niece” for the sorrow she had brought upon her son.
late in the autumn, after seeing his mother and nieces comfortably re-established at medhurst, and assisting at the gorgeous nuptials of florence vyse and mr. chepstow, sir ralph left england for an indefinite time: to travel in strange and distant lands, in search—not of happiness—but of interest and occupation sufficient to make life endurable.
