'LOVE IS STRONG AS DEATH.'
Jerry Vane did not leave Carnaby Court at the time he intended to do;
with ulterior views in her kind heart, Clare pressed him to lengthen
his visit, and enjoy a few days' more shooting. She found but little
pressing requisite to influence Jerry's actions; yet ere long he had
cause greatly to deplore that he had not taken his departure earlier,
and he was again doomed to experience a bitter shock concerning his
rival--if rival, indeed, he had.
Daily and hourly intercourse afforded him all the facilities he could
wish for now; but it seemed as though Ida would never again receive
him or accept him as her lover, yet would permit him to be the slave
of her fascinations, and without the slightest symptoms of vanity or
coquetry. She knew all the simple and single-hearted fellow's love,
and yet, apparently, would not yield him hers.
Indeed, she had more than once hinted or said, he scarcely knew
which, as he declined to accept the proposition, that she wished his
regard for her to die away in silence. If so, why did she permit her
sister to urge that she should remain at Carnaby Court, where, in
virtue of her widowhood, she yet presided as matron, though some
change would assuredly take place on the return of Lady Evelyn to
England.
Whatever were her motives, he could not but give himself up blindly
and helplessly to the intoxication of the present time, to gaze upon
her face, to hear her voice, and conjure up the hope that a time
would come when she would love him better than ever. Besides, her
society was full of many charms. As in Clare, there was in Ida a
wonderful attraction to a companion. She had, though young,
travelled much in Europe, and seen all that was worth seeing. She
was thus familiar with many countries; and so far as their histories
and traditions went, together with a knowledge of literature that was
classic, refined, abstruse, and even mystic, as we have shown, she
was far beyond an everyday young Englishman like Jerry Vane.
'I am neither a boy nor a madman, yet I dream like both in hanging on
here as I do!' he would sometimes say in bitterness; and then he
would recall her remarkable words on that evening in town--'It may be
that we have only been in our hearts waiting for each other after
all.'
From what did these hopeful words spring?--coquetry, mockery,
reality, or what?
She was never known to coquet; she was too genuine a creature for
mockery; hence, they must have been reality, and, full of this
conviction, he resolved once more to put it to the issue on the first
opportunity, and one was secured on the very afternoon he made the
resolution.
He had not, that day, gone to shoot; the men were all abroad; nearly
all the ladies were out driving or riding, save Ida, whom he found in
the curtained oriel of the inner drawing-room, where she was standing
alone and gazing out on the far-stretching landscape, that was
steeped in the evening sunshine; the square spire of the village
church, the tossing arms of an old windmill, the yellow-thatched
roofs of white-walled cottages stood out strongly against the dark
green of the woodlands at the end of a long vista of the chase, and
made a charming picture. In the middle distance was some pasture
land, where several of Sir Carnaby's fierce little Highland cattle
and great fat brindled Alderneys stood knee-deep amid the rich grass.
Perhaps she was thinking of how often she had ridden there with
Beverley, and loved to hear him compliment her on the daring grace
and ease with which she topped her fences, and the lightness of hand
with which she lifted her bay cob's head; and Jerry feared that some
such thoughts might be passing through her mind as he paused
irresolutely and thought how beautiful was the outline and pose of
her darkly dressed figure against the flood of light that poured
through the painted oriel.
The dark shadow had been less upon her to-day than usual, and on
hearing his footstep on the soft carpet she turned and welcomed him
with a bright smile. Would that smile ever change again to coldness
and gloom? Would his hand ever again wander lovingly and half
fatuously among the richness of her auburn hair, that shone like
plaits of golden sheen in the light? Heaven alone knew.
'Dear Ida,' said he, longing, but not venturing to take her hand (he
had been on the point of saying 'darling'--had he not been privileged
once to do so?), 'I am so glad to find you thus alone, for I have
much to say, too, that cannot brook interruption.'
'Say on, then, Jerry,' said she, knowing too surely it would be 'the
old, old story,' while his devotion seemed to touch and pain her, for
she did honour and pity him, as she had already admitted.
'Ida, save on that night in the conservatory, I have hitherto, from
motives that you must be well aware of--motives most pure and
honourable--never spoken to you of the love that my heart has never,
never ceased to feel for you.'
'Love is no word for me to listen to now, Jerry.'
'Not from--from _me_?'
'Even from you, Jerry.'
'I implore you to be mine, Ida. Do not weep--do not turn away--you
stand alone now; this recent marriage has made your home a broken
one; I, too, am alone, and each needs the love of the other. Do not
trifle with me, Ida!'
'Trifle--I--oh, Jerry Vane.'
'You loved me once!' he urged, drawing very near.
'Yes--I loved you once,' she said, vaguely and wearily.
_Once!_ How cruel the speech sounded, though she did not mean it to
be so, of course; for as she turned to him, an infinite tenderness
filled her sparkling eyes of grey or violet blue--for times there
were when they seemed both; and his met them with something wistful
and pathetic in their gaze as he said:
'Ida, dearest Ida, time and separation--separation that seemed as if
it would be lifelong, have but strengthened the regard I bear you;
and now--now----'
'That I am free, you would say?'
'I entreat you to be mine. Your father would wish it, and I know
that dear Clare does. All my brightest hopes and associations, all
my fondest memories are of you; and all have been bound up now in the
hope that we might yet be so happy, beloved Ida.'
'Do not address me thus,' said she, imploringly, as she covered her
eyes with her slender fingers tightly interlaced.
'Ah--why?' he asked, entreatingly, and venturing to put a hand
lightly on each side of her little waist; but she stepped back, and
said in a low and concentrated voice:
'Because--how shall I say it? Each time you speak thus the strange
thrill I spoke of passes through me.'
'A thrill?'
'A shudder!' she answered,
'What causes it?'
'I cannot, cannot tell'
'My poor Ida! your nerves are all unstrung, and that absurd book of
Reichenbach's has made you worse. Promise to marry me, Ida, and we
will go to Switzerland, to Scotland, or anywhere that the breezes of
mountains or the sea may restore you to what you once were, even as
fate has restored you to me!'
But the lovely head was shaken sadly, and the pale face was turned to
the distant landscape. The passion with which he loved her was of a
quality certainly very rare in the world of 'society,' she knew that.
'Your wants are very simple, as your tastes are, Ida, and my fortune
is more than equal to your own--in worldly matters there can be
nothing wanting.'
'I know, Jerry, that a devotion such as yours deserves all the love I
could and ought to give it; and yet----'
She paused, and permitted him to retain her hand. Was she, in spite
of her asseverations to the contrary, about to love him after all?
The heart of Vane beat wildly amid the dawn of fresh hope.
'Many men have loved, Ida,' he urged, in a soft, low, passionate
tone; 'but it seems to me that I love you as few men have ever loved
before. From the first moment I met you I loved
you--and--and--surely circumstances have tested and tried that love
to the uttermost.'
'Most true, Jerry.'
'I ask not of what your--your regard has been for another since we
parted; I ask you only to love me as you did before that time, if you
can.'
The words that Vane spoke came from the depth of the honest fellow's
heart, in the full tide of emotion, and Ida could not fail to be
touched; and as she gave him one of her profound yet indefinable
glances of pity, the light in her beautiful eyes seemed to brighten
as her lashes drooped, and Jerry read in them an expression he had
not seen there since the happy time that was past.
In fact, Ida seemed to be trembling in her heart to think how
dear--was it indeed so?--how dear Jerry Vane was becoming to her
again, and how necessary to her his society was daily becoming, and
how like the old time it was--more like than, with all her past love
for Jack Beverley and her strange dreams and hauntings, she dared to
acknowledge to herself!
'Say, Ida, that the gap in my life is to be forgotten--filled up it
can never be!'
'Jerry, Jerry,' she urged, 'do not press me so--at present, at least!'
She was yielding after all.
'May I hope that you will accept me yet?' he said, pressing her hand
caressingly between both of his.
'A heart is not worth having, Jerry, that accords to pity only what
it should accord to love. You have all my esteem, and, perhaps, in
time, Jerry----'
She paused and shuddered visibly, and sank back with eyes half closed
and a hand pressed on her bosom as if about to faint or fall, but
Jerry's arm supported her.
'Good heavens, that sensation again!' he exclaimed.
'I must struggle against it, or it will conquer me,' she said,
suddenly regaining her firmness and striving to crush or shake off
the nervous emotion that shook her fragile form and gentle spirit.
'My darling, I am to blame; oh, pardon me, if I, at a time when your
health--your nervous system, at least--so selfishly urge my claim
upon your heart, for a strong and tender claim I have, indeed, Ida.'
There was in this an eloquence greater than more florid phrases could
express, as he spoke, for it seemed as if Jerry's very soul was spent
in what he said. After a pause, he said, with an arm still round her:
'I will not press you to answer me now, dearest Ida; you are pale and
seem so weary. I will go, but ere I do so, give me one kiss in
memory of the past, if not to encourage hope for the future.'
She lifted her sweet face to his, and there was infinite tenderness,
but no passion in the kiss she accorded him so frankly; and Vane was
but too sensible of that; while a sound like a deep sigh fell at the
same moment on the ears of both.
'Who sighed?' she asked, startled, in the fear that they were
overseen or overheard; 'did you, Jerry?'
'No; yourself, perhaps, darling.'
'Nay--I sigh often enough, but I did not do so now, Jerry.'
'Most strange! We must have deceived ourselves, for here are people
coming,' he added, as steps were heard in the outer drawing-room.
'You will give me a final answer, then?' he urged, in a deep, soft
whisper.
'Yes.'
'When?'
'This evening.'
'Bless you, darling Ida. Where?
'After dinner--we dine at six--say eight o'clock, in the rhododendron
walk.'
And as she left him, on her pouting lip and in her grey-blue
eyes--eyes that seemed black at night--Jerry thought that the sadness
was gone, and replaced by the beautiful smile of old. Unheard by
both, the dressing-bell for dinner had already rung, and several of
the sportsmen, Sir John Oriel, Colonel Rakes, and others, entered the
room. Among them was Major Desmond, the languid, irrepressible, and
imperturbable Desmond--who, en route from town, had turned up for a
single day's cover shooting at Carnaby Court.
Overcome by the new tide of his own thoughts, Jerry Vane hurriedly
left them to talk over their hits, misses, experiences, and exploits
of the day, the results of which had filled a small-sized pony cart.
He retired to his room to dress, and threw open the window to admit
the autumn breeze, that it might cool his flushed cheeks and
throbbing temples. The kiss of that beloved lip--albeit one so
coldly given--yet seemed to linger on his, and all nature around him
seemed to grow lighter now that hope had swelled in his heart.
Lit by the evening sun, the leaves of the masses of wild roses and
other creepers that clambered round the mullioned window of his room,
seemed to murmur pleasantly on the passing breeze, that brought also
the chimes of the village spire, the voices of the exulting birds,
and the pleasant rustle of the old oak trees in the chase. To the
ear of Jerry Vane there seemed to be a melody in all the voices of
nature now, for his own heart was all aglow with joy.