“We went back to London the next day; we lived quite close to the
school, and about five days a week Dalton came to dine with us. He would
have come every day, if he had not been the sort of man who refuses to
consult his own pleasure. We had more pupils than ever. In my leisure I
taught my wife to fence. I have never seen any one so lithe and quick;
or so beautiful as she looked in her fencing dress, with embroidered
shoes.
“I was completely happy. When a man has obtained his desire he becomes
careless and self-satisfied; I was watchful, however, for I knew that
I was naturally a selfish man. I studied to arrange my time and save my
money, to give her as much pleasure as I could. What she loved best in
the world just then was riding. I bought a horse for her, and in the
evenings of the spring and summer we rode together; but when it was too
dark to go out late, she would ride alone, great distances, sometimes
spend the whole day in the saddle, and come back so tired she could
hardly walk upstairs—I can't say that I liked that. It made me nervous,
she was so headlong—but I didn't think it right to interfere with her.
I had a good deal of anxiety about money, for though I worked hard and
made more than ever, there never seemed enough. I was anxious to save—I
hoped, of course—but we had no child, and this was a trouble to me. She
grew more beautiful than ever, and I think was happy. Has it ever struck
you that each one of us lives on the edge of a volcano? There is, I
imagine, no one who has not some affection or interest so strong that he
counts the rest for nothing, beside it. No doubt a man may live his life
through without discovering that. But some of us—! I am not complaining;
what is—is.” He pulled the cap lower over his eyes, and clutched his
hands firmly on the top of his stick. He was like a man who rushes his
horse at some hopeless fence, unwilling to give himself time, for fear
of craning at the last moment. “In the spring of '78, a new pupil came
to me, a young man of twenty-one who was destined for the army. I took
a fancy to him, and did my best to turn him into a good swordsman; but
there was a kind of perverse recklessness in him; for a few minutes
one would make a great impression, then he would grow utterly careless.
'Francis,' I would say, 'if I were you I should be ashamed.' 'Mr.
Brune,' he would answer, 'why should I be ashamed? I didn't make
myself.' God knows, I wish to do him justice, he had a heart—one day he
drove up in a cab, and brought in his poor dog, who had been run over,
and was dying: For half an hour he shut himself up with its body, we
could hear him sobbing like a child; he came out with his eyes all red,
and cried: 'I know where to find the brute who drove over him,' and
off he rushed. He had beautiful Italian eyes; a slight figure, not very
tall; dark hair, a little dark moustache; and his lips were always a
trifle parted—it was that, and his walk, and the way he drooped his
eyelids, which gave him a peculiar, soft, proud look. I used to tell him
that he'd never make a soldier! 'Oh!' he'd answer, 'that'll be all
right when the time comes! He believed in a kind of luck that was to
do everything for him, when the time came. One day he came in as I was
giving Eilie her lesson. This was the first time they saw each other.
After that he came more often, and sometimes stayed to dinner with us.
I won't deny, sir, that I was glad to welcome him; I thought it good for
Eilie. Can there be anything more odious,” he burst out, “than such a
self-complacent blindness? There are people who say, 'Poor man, he had
such faith!' Faith, sir! Conceit! I was a fool—in this world one pays
for folly....
“The summer came; and one Saturday in early June, Eilie, I, and
Francis—I won't tell you his other name—went riding. The night had been
wet; there was no dust, and presently the sun came out—a glorious day!
We rode a long way. About seven o'clock we started back-slowly, for it
was still hot, and there was all the cool of night before us. It was
nine o'clock when we came to Richmond Park. A grand place, Richmond
Park; and in that half-light wonderful, the deer moving so softly, you
might have thought they were spirits. We were silent too—great trees
have that effect on me....
“Who can say when changes come? Like a shift of the wind, the old
passes, the new is on you. I am telling you now of a change like that.
Without a sign of warning, Eilie put her horse into a gallop. 'What are
you doing?' I shouted. She looked back with a smile, then he dashed past
me too. A hornet might have stung them both: they galloped over fallen
trees, under low hanging branches, up hill and down. I had to watch that
madness! My horse was not so fast. I rode like a demon; but fell far
behind. I am not a man who takes things quietly. When I came up with
them at last, I could not speak for rage. They were riding side by side,
the reins on the horses' necks, looking in each other's faces. 'You
should take care,' I said. 'Care!' she cried; 'life is not all taking
care!' My anger left me. I dropped behind, as grooms ride behind their
mistresses... Jealousy! No torture is so ceaseless or so black.... In
those minutes a hundred things came up in me—a hundred memories, true,
untrue, what do I know? My soul was poisoned. I tried to reason with
myself. It was absurd to think such things! It was unmanly.... Even
if it were true, one should try to be a gentleman! But I found myself
laughing; yes, sir, laughing at that word.” He spoke faster, as if
pouring his heart out not to a live listener, but to the night. “I could
not sleep that night. To lie near her with those thoughts in my brain
was impossible! I made an excuse, and sat up with some papers. The
hardest thing in life is to see a thing coming and be able to do nothing
to prevent it. What could I do? Have you noticed how people may become
utter strangers without a word? It only needs a thought.... The very
next day she said: 'I want to go to Lucy's.' 'Alone?' 'Yes.' I had made
up my mind by then that she must do just as she wished. Perhaps I acted
wrongly; I do not know what one ought to do in such a case; but before
she went I said to her: 'Eilie, what is it?' 'I don't know,' she
answered; and I kissed her—that was all.... A month passed; I wrote to
her nearly every day, and I had short letters from her, telling me very
little of herself. Dalton was a torture to me, for I could not tell him;
he had a conviction that she was going to become a mother. 'Ah, Brune!'
he said, 'my poor wife was just like that.' Life, sir, is a somewhat
ironical affair...! He—I find it hard to speak his name—came to the
school two or three times a week. I used to think I saw a change, a
purpose growing up through his recklessness; there seemed a violence in
him as if he chafed against my blade. I had a kind of joy in feeling I
had the mastery, and could toss the iron out of his hand any minute
like a straw. I was ashamed, and yet I gloried in it. Jealousy is a low
thing, sir—a low, base thing! When he asked me where my wife was, I told
him; I was too proud to hide it. Soon after that he came no more to the
school.
“One morning, when I could bear it no longer, I wrote, and said I was
coming down. I would not force myself on her, but I asked her to meet me
in the orchard of the old house we called the Convent. I asked her to
be there at four o'clock. It has always been my belief that a man must
neither beg anything of a woman, nor force anything from her. Women
are generous—they will give you what they can. I sealed my letter, and
posted it myself. All the way down I kept on saying to myself, 'She must
come—surely she will come!'”