A tranquil time now ensued; a time which, though I knew it not, was just that singular pause so frequently observed in nature before a storm, and in human life before a crushing calamity. I put aside all troublesome and harassing thoughts, and became oblivious of everything save my own personal satisfaction in the renewal of the comradeship between myself and Lucio. We walked together, rode together, and passed most of our days in each other’s company,—nevertheless though I gave my friend much of my closest confidence I never spoke to him of the moral obliquities and perversions I had discovered in Sibyl’s character,—not out of any consideration for Sibyl, but simply because I knew by instinct what his reply would be. He would have no sympathy with my feelings. His keen sense of sarcasm would over-rule his friendship, and he would retort upon me with the question—What business had I, being imperfect myself, to expect perfection in my wife? Like many others of my sex I had the notion that I, as man, could do all I pleased, when I pleased and how I pleased; I could sink to a level lower than that of the beasts if I chose,—but all the same I had the right to demand from my wife the most flawless purity to mate with my defilement. I was aware how Lucio would treat this form of arrogant egoism,—and with what mocking laughter he would receive any expression of ideas from me on the subject of morality in woman. So I was careful to let no hint of my actual position October ripened slowly and almost imperceptibly towards its end, and the trees put on their gorgeous autumnal tints of burning crimson and gold. The weather remained fine and warm, and what the French Canadians poetically term the ‘Summer of all Saints’ gave us bright days and cloudless moonlit evenings. The air was so mild that we were always “I have asked you Mavis Clare,”—said Lucio slowly—“to let me serve you. You have genius—a rare quality in a woman,—and I would advance your fortunes. I should not be what I am if I did not try to persuade you to let me help on your career. You are not rich,—I could show you how to become so. You have a great fame—that I grant; but you have many enemies and slanderers who are for ever trying to pull you down from the throne you have won. I could bring these to your feet, and make them your slaves. With your intellectual power, your personal grace and gifts of temperament, I could, if you would let me guide you, give you such far-reaching influence as no woman has possessed in this century. I am no boaster,—I can do what I say and more; and I ask nothing from you in return except that you should follow my advice implicitly. My advice, let me tell you is not difficult to follow; most people find it easy!” His expression of face, I thought, was very singular as he spoke,—it was so haggard, dreary and woe-begone that one might have imagined he was making some proposal that was particularly repugnant to him, instead of offering to perform the benevolent action of helping a hard-working literary woman to achieve greater wealth and distinction. I waited expectantly for Mavis to reply. “You are very good, Prince RimÂnez,” she said, after a little pause—“to take any thought for me at all. I cannot “You forget your numerous enemies!” said Lucio, still morosely regarding her. “No, I do not forget them,”—she returned,—“But—I forgive them! They can do me no harm. As long as I do not lower myself, no one else can lower me. If my own conscience is clear, no reproaches can wound. My life is open to all,—people can see how I live, and what I do. I try to do well,—but if there are those who think I do ill, I am sorry,—and if my faults can be amended I shall be glad to amend them. One must have enemies in this world,—that is, if one makes any sort of position,—people without enemies are generally nonentities. All who succeed in winning some little place of independence must expect the grudging enmity of hundreds who cannot find even the smallest foothold, and are therefore failures in the battle of life,—I pity these sincerely, and when they say or write cruel things of me, I know it is only spleen and disappointment I heard the trees rustle slightly,—a branch cracked,—and peering through the leaves, I saw that Lucio had advanced a step closer to where Mavis stood. A faint smile was on his face, softening it wonderfully and giving an almost supernatural light to his beautiful dark features. “Fair philosopher, you are almost a feminine Marcus Aurelius in your estimate of men and things!”—he said; “But—you are still a woman—and there is one thing lacking to your life of sublime and calm contentment—a thing at whose touch philosophy fails, and wisdom withers at its root. Love, Mavis Clare!—lover’s love,—devoted love, blindly passionate,—this has not been yours as yet to win! No heart beats against your own,—no tender arms caress you,—you are alone. Men are for the most part afraid of you,—being brute fools themselves, they like their women to be brute fools also,—and they grudge you your keen intellect,—your serene independence. Yet which is best?—the adoration of a brute fool, or the loneliness pertaining to a spirit aloft on some snowy mountain-peak, with no companions but the stars? Think of it!—the years will pass, and you must needs grow old,—and with the years will come that solitary neglect which makes age bitter. Now, you will doubtless wonder at my words—yet believe me I speak the truth when I say that I can give you love,—not my love, for I love none,—but I can bring to your feet the proudest men in any country of the world as suitors for your hand. You shall have your choice of them, and your own time for choosing,—and whomsoever you love, him you shall wed, ... why—what is wrong with you that you shrink from me thus?” For she had retreated, and was gazing at him in a kind of horror. “You terrify me!” she faltered,—and as the moonlight She trembled violently, and caught at the branch of a tree to steady herself,—RimÂnez stood immovably still, regarding her with a fixed and almost mournful gaze. “You say my life is lonely,”—she went on reluctantly and with a note of pathos in her sweet voice—“and you suggest love and marriage as the only joys that can make a woman happy. You may be right. I do not presume to assert that you are wrong. I have many married women-friends—but I would not change my lot with any one of them. I have dreamed of love,—but because I have not realized my dream I am not the less content. If it is God’s will that I should be alone all my days, I shall not murmur, for my solitude is not actual loneliness. Work is a good comrade,—then I have books, and flowers and birds—I am never really lonely. And that I shall fully realize my dream of love one day I am sure,—if not here, then hereafter. I can wait!” As she spoke, she looked up to the placid heavens where one or two stars twinkled through the arching boughs,—her face expressed angelic confidence and perfect peace,—and RimÂnez advancing a step or two, fully confronted her with a strange light of exultation in his eyes. “True,—you can wait, Mavis Clare!” he said in deep clear tones from which all sadness had fled—“You can afford to wait! Tell me,—think for a moment!—can you remember me? Is there a time on which you can look back, and looking, see my face, not here but elsewhere? Think! I listened, petrified with amazement. Could this be Lucio?—the mocking, careless, cynical scoffer I knew, as I thought, so well?—was it really he who knelt thus like a repentant sinner, abasing his proud head before a woman? I saw Mavis release her hand from his, the while she stood looking down upon him in alarm and bewilderment. Presently she spoke in sweet yet tremulous accents— “Since you desire it so earnestly, I promise,”—she said—“I will pray that the strange and bitter sorrow which seems to consume you may be removed from your life——” “But why?” asked Mavis gently, approaching him now as she spoke, with a soft grace of movement, and laying her hand on his arm—“Why do you speak with such a passion of self-reproach? What dark cloud is on your mind? Surely you have a noble nature,—and I feel that I have wronged you in my thoughts, ... you must forgive me—I have mistrusted you—” “You do well to mistrust me!” he answered, and with these He loosened his grasp of her,—she fell back from him pale and terrified,—for there was something now in the dark beauty of his face that was unnatural and appalling. A sombre shadow clouded his brows,—his eyes had gleams in them as of fire,—and a smile was on his lips, half tender, half cruel. His strange expression moved even me to a sense of fear, and I shivered with sudden cold, though the air was warm and balmy. Slowly retreating, Mavis moved away, looking round at him now and then as she went, in wistful wonder and alarm,—till in a minute or two her slight figure in its shimmering silken white robe, had vanished among the trees. I lingered, hesitating and uncertain what to do,—then finally determining to get back to the house if possible without being noticed, I made one step, when Lucio’s voice, scarcely raised, addressed me— “Well, eavesdropper! Why did you not come out of the Surprised and confused, I advanced, mumbling some unintelligible excuse. “You saw a pretty bit of acting here,” he went on, striking a match and lighting a cigar the while he regarded me coolly, his eyes twinkling with their usual mockery—“you know my theory, that all men and all women are purchaseable for gold? Well, I wanted to try Mavis Clare. She rejected all my advantageous offers, as you must have heard, and I could only make matters smooth by asking her to pray for me. That I did this very melodramatically I hope you will admit? A woman of that dreamy idealistic temperament always likes to imagine that there is a man who is grateful for her prayers!” “You seemed very much in earnest about it!” I said, vexed with myself that he had caught me spying. “Why, of course!” he responded, thrusting his arm familiarly through mine—“I had an audience! Two fastidious critics of dramatic art heard me rant my rantings,—I had to do my best!” “Two critics?” I repeated perplexedly. “Yes. You on one side,—Lady Sibyl on the other. Lady Sibyl rose, after the custom of fashionable beauties at the opera, before the last scene, in order to get home in good time for supper!” He laughed wildly and discordantly, and I felt desperately uncomfortable. “You must be mistaken Lucio—” I said—“That I listened I admit,—and it was wrong of me to do so,—but my wife would never condescend ...” “Ah, then it must have been a sylph of the woods that glided out of the shadow with a silken train behind her and diamonds in her hair!” he retorted gaily—“Tut Geoffrey!—don’t look so crestfallen. I have done with Mavis Clare, and she with me. I have not been making love to her,—I have simply, just to “Upon my word, Lucio,” I said with some irritation—“Your disposition seems to grow more and more erratic and singular every day!” “Does it not!” he answered with a droll affectation of interested surprise in himself—“I am a curious creature altogether! Wealth is mine and I care not a jot for it,—power is mine and I loathe its responsibility;—in fact I would rather be anything but what I am! Look at the lights of your ‘home, sweet home’ Geoffrey!” this he said as we emerged from among the trees on to the moonlit lawn, from whence could be seen the shining of the electric lamps in the drawing-room—“Lady Sibyl is there,—an enchanting and perfect woman, who lives but to welcome you to her embracing arms! Fortunate man!—who would not envy you! Love!—who would, who could exist without it—save me! Who, in Europe at least, would forego the delights of kissing,—(which the Japanese by-the-by consider a disgusting habit),—without embraces,—and all those other endearments which are supposed to dignify the progress of true love! One never tires of these things,—there is no satiety! I wish I could love somebody!” “So you can, if you like,”—I said, with a little uneasy laugh. “I cannot. It is not in me. You heard me tell Mavis Clare as much. I have it in my power to make other people fall in love, somewhat after the dexterous fashion practised by match-making mothers,—but for myself, love on this planet is too low a thing—too brief in duration. Last night, in a dream,—I have strange dreams at times,—I saw one whom possibly I could love,—but she was a Spirit, with eyes more lustrous than the morning, and a form as transparent as flame;—she could sing sweetly, and I watched her soaring upward, and listened to her song. It was a wild song, and to many mortal ears meaningless,—it Into the Light, Into the heart of the fire! To the innermost core of the deathless flame I ascend,—I aspire! Under me rolls the whirling Earth With the noise of a myriad wheels that run Ever round and about the sun,— Over me circles the splendid heaven Strewn with the stars of morn and even, And I a queen Of the air serene, Float with my flag-like wings unfurled, Alone—alone—’twixt God and the world! Here he broke off with a laugh. “She was a strange Spirit,”—he said—“because she could see nothing but herself ‘’twixt God and the world.’ She was evidently quite unaware of the numerous existing barriers put up by mankind between themselves and their Maker. I wonder what unenlightened sphere she came from!” I looked at him in mingled wonder and impatience. “You talk wildly,”—I said—“And you sing wildly. Of things that mean nothing, and are nothing.” He smiled, lifting his eyes to the moon, now shining her fullest and brightest. “True!” he replied—“Things which have meaning and are valuable, have all to do with money or appetite, Geoffrey! There is no wider outlook evidently! But we were speaking of love, and I hold that love should be eternal as hate. Here you have the substance of my religious creed if I have any,—that there are two spiritual forces ruling the universe—love and hate,—and that their incessant quarrel creates the general confusion of life. Both contend one against the other,—and only at Judgment-Day will it be proved which is the strongest. I am on the side of Hate myself,—for at present Hate has At that moment my wife’s figure appeared at the drawing-room window, and Lucio threw away his half-smoked cigar. “Your guardian-angel beckons!” he said, looking at me an odd expression of something like pity mingled with disdain,—“Let us go in.” |