TWO MONTHS LATER: THE QUICK AND THE DEAD
Neighbour, what doth thy husband when he cometh home from work?
He thinks of her he loved before he knew me
_Luteplayer's Song._
_February 18th._ Upon the 18th of January, 1815, did I commit that
most irreparable of all follies; then by my own hand I killed fair
Molly de Savenaye, who was so happy, so free, so much in love with
life, and whom I loved so dearly, and in her stead called into
existence Molly Landale, a poor-spirited miserable creature who has
not given me one moment's amusement. How could I have been so stupid?
Let me examine.
It is only a month ago, only a month, 4 weeks, 31 days, millions of
horrible dreary minutes, Oh, Molly, Molly, Molly! since you stood,
that snowy day, in the great drawing-room (_my_ drawing-room now, I
hate it), and vowed twice over, once before the Jesuit father from
Stonyhurst, once before jolly, hunting heretical parson Cochrane to
cleave to Adrian Landale till death bid you part! Brr--what ghastly
words and with what a light heart I said them, tripped them out, _ma
foi_, as gaily as "good-morning" or "good-night!" They were to be the
_open sesame_ to joys untold, to lands flowing with milk and honey, to
romance, adventure, splendour--and what have they brought me?
It is a cold day, sleeting, snowing, blowing, all that is abominable.
My lord and master has ridden off, despite it, to some distant farm
where there has been a fire. The "Good Sir Adrian," as they call him
now--he is _that_; but, oh dear me--there! I must yawn, and I'll say
no more on this head, at present, for I want to think and work my
wretched problem out in earnest, and not go to sleep.
It is the first time I have taken heart to write since yonder day of
doom, and God knows when I shall have heart again! Upon such an
afternoon there is nothing better to do, since Sir Adrian would have
none of my company--he is so precious of me that he fears I should
melt like sugar in the wet--he never guessed that it was just because
of the storm I wished the ride! Were we to live a hundred years
together--which, God forfend--he would never understand me.
Ah, lack-a-day, oh, misery me! (My lady, you are wandering; come back
to business.)
What, then, has marriage brought me? First of all a husband. That is
to say, another person, a man who has the right to me--to whom I
myself have given that right--to have me, to hold me, as it runs in
the terrible service, the thunders of which were twice rolled out upon
my head, and which have been ringing there ever since. And I, Molly,
gave of my own free will, that best and most blessed of all gifts, my
own free will, away. I am surrounded, as it were, by barriers; hemmed
in, bound up, kept in leading strings. I mind me of the seagull on the
island. 'Tis all in the most loving care in the world, of course, but
oh! the oppression of it! I must hide my feelings as well as I can,
for in my heart I would not grieve that good man, that _excellent_
man, that pattern of kind gentleman--oh, oh, oh--it will out--that
_dreary_ man, that dull man, that most melancholy of all men! Who
sighs more than he smiles, and, I warrant, of the two, his sighs are
the more cheerful; who looks at his beautiful wife as if he saw a
ghost, and kisses her as if he kissed a corpse!
There is a mate for Molly! the mate she chose for herself!
So much for the husband. What else has marriage brought her?
Briefly I will capitulate.
A title--I am _my lady_. For three days it sounded prettily in my
ears. But to the girl who refused a duchess' coronet, who was born
comtesse--to be the baronet's lady--Tanty may say what she likes of
the age of creation, and all the rest of it--that advantage cannot
weigh heavy in the balance. Again then, I have a splendid
house--which is my prison, and in which, like all prisoners, I have
not the right to choose my company--else would Sophia and Rupert still
be here? They are going, I am told occasionally; but my intimate
conviction is, however often they may be going, _they will never go_.
_Item four:_ I have money, and nothing to spend it on--but the poor.
What next? What next?--alas, I look and I find nothing! This is all
that marriage has brought me; and what has it not taken from me?
My delight in existence, my independence, my hopes, my belief in the
future, my belief in _love_. Faith, hope, and charity, in fact,
destroyed at one fell sweep. And all, to gratify my curiosity as to a
romantic mystery, my vanity as to my own powers of fascination! Well,
I have solved the mystery, and behold it was nothing. I have eaten of
the fruit of knowledge, and it is tasteless in my mouth.
I have made my capture with my little bow and spear, and I am as
embarrassed of my captive as he of me. We pull at the chain that binds
us together; nay, such being the law of this world between men and
women, the positions are reversed, my captive is now my master, and
Molly is the slave.
Tanty, I could curse thee for thy officiousness, from the tip of thy
coal black wig to the sole of thy platter shoe--but that I am too good
to curse thee at all!
Poor book of my life that I was so eager to fill in, that was to have
held a narrative all thrilling, and all varied, now will I set forth
in thee, my failure, my hopelessness, and after that close thee for
ever.
Of what use indeed to chronicle, when there is nought to tell but
flatness, chill monotony, on every side; when even the workings of my
soul cannot interest me to follow, since they can now foreshadow
nothing, lead to nothing but fruitless struggle or tame resignation!
I discovered my mistake--not the whole of it, but enough to give me a
dreadful foreboding of its hideousness, not two hours after the
nuptial ceremony.
Adrian had borne himself up to that with the romantic, mysterious
dignity of presence that first caught my silly fancy; behind which I
had pictured such fascinating depths of passion--of fire--Alas! When
he looked at me it was with that air of wondering, almost timid,
affection battling with I know not what flame of rapture, with which
look I have become so fatally familiar since--without the flame of
rapture, be it understood, which seems to have rapidly burnt away to a
very ash of grey despondency and self-reproach. I could have sworn
even as he gave me his arm to meet and receive the congratulations of
our guests, that the glow upon his cheek, the poise of his head
denoted the pride any man, were he not an idiot nor a brute, must feel
in presenting his bride--such a bride!--to the world. Then we went in
to the great dining hall where the wedding feast, a very splendid one,
was spread. All the gentlemen looked with admiration at me; many with
envy at Adrian. I knew that I was beautiful in my fine white satin
with my veil thrown back, without the flattering whispers that reached
me now and again; but these were sweet to hear nevertheless. I knew
myself the centre of all eyes, and it elated me. So too did the
tingling flavour of the one glass of sparkling wine I drank to my
fortunes. Immediately upon this silent toast of Lady Landale to
herself, Rupert rose and in choice words and silver-ringing voice
proposed the health of the bride and bridegroom. There was a merry
bustling pause while the glasses were filled; then rising to their
feet as with one man, all the gentlemen stood with brimming goblets
one instant extended, the next emptied to the last drop; and then the
cheers rang out, swelling up the rafters, three times three, seeming
to carry my soul along with them. I felt my heart expand and throb
with an emotion I never knew in it before, which seemed to promise
vast future capacities of pain and delight. I turned to my husband
instinctively; looking for, expecting, I could not explain why, an
answering fire in his eyes. This was the last moment of my illusions.
From thence they began to shrivel away with a terrifying rapidity.
Adrian sat with a face that looked old and lined and grey; with
haggard unseeing eyes gazing forth into space as though fixing some
invisible and spectre show. He seemed as if wrapt in a world of his
own, to which none of us had entrance; least of all, I, his wife.
The shouts around us died away, there were cries upon him for
"Speech--speech," then playful queries--"How is this, Sir Adrian? So
bashful, egad!" next nudges were exchanged, looks of wonder, and an
old voice speaking broadly:
_"Yes, by George,"_ it was saying, _"I remember it well, by George, in
this very room, now twenty years ago, 'Here, gentlemen,' says old Sir
Tummas, 'Here's to Madam de Savenaye,' and gad, ma'am, we all
yelled,--she was a lovely creature--Eh--Eh?"_
"Hush," said some one, and there was a running circle of frowns and
the old voice ceased as abruptly as if its owner had been seized by
the weasand. In the heavy embarrassed silence, I caught Tanty's red
perturbed look and Rupert's smile.
But Adrian sat on--like a ghost among the living, or a live man among
the dead. And this was my gallant bridegroom! I seized him by the
hand--"Are you ill, Adrian?"
He started and looked round at me--Oh that look! It seemed to burn
into my soul, I shall never forget the hopelessness, the dull sadness
of it, and then--I don't know what he read in my answering glance--the
mute agonised question, followed by a terror.
"They want you to speak," I whispered, and shook the cold hand I held
in a fury of impatience.
His lips trembled: he stared at me blankly. "My God, my God, what have
I done?" he muttered to himself, "Cecile's child--Cecile's child!"
I could have burst out sobbing. But seeing Rupert's face bent down
towards his plate, demure and solemn, yet stamped, for all his
cleverness, with an almost devilish triumph, my pride rose and my
courage. Every one else seemed to be looking towards us: I stood up.
"Good friends," I said, "I see that my husband is so much touched by
the welcome that you are giving his bride, the welcome that you are
giving him after his long exile from his house, that he is quite
unable to answer you as he would wish. But lest you should
misunderstand this silence of his, I am bold enough to answer you in
his name, and--since it is but a few moments ago that you have seen us
made one, I think I have the right to do so.... We thank you."
My heart was beating to suffocation--but I carried bravely on till I
was drowned in a storm of acclamations to which the first cheers were
as nothing.
They drank my health again, and again I heard the old gentleman of the
indiscreet voice--I have learned since he is stone deaf, and I daresay
he flattered himself he spoke in a whisper--proclaim that I was _my
mother all over again: begad--so had she spoken to them twenty years
ago in this very room!_
Here Tanty came to the rescue and carried me off.
I dared not trust myself to look at Adrian as I left, but I knew that
he followed me to the door, from which I presumed that he had
recovered his presence of mind in some degree.
Since that day we have been like two who walk along on opposite banks
of a widening stream--ever more and more divided.
I have told no one of my despair. It is curious, but, little wifely as
I feel towards him, there is something in me that keeps me back from
the disloyalty of discussing my husband with other people.
And it is not even as it might have been--this is what maddens me. _We
are always at cross purposes._ Some wilful spirit wakes in me, at the
very sound of his voice (always gentle and restrained, and echoing of
past sadness); under his mild, tender look; at the every fresh sign of
his perpetual watchful anxiety--I give him wayward answers, frowning
greetings, sighs, pouts; I feel at times a savage desire to wound, to
anger him, and as far as I dare venture I have ventured, yet could not
rouse in him one spark, even of proper indignation.
The word of the riddle lay in that broken exclamation of his at our
wedding feast.
"Cecile's child!"
His wife, then, is only Cecile's child to him. I have failed when I
thought to have conquered--and with the consciousness of failure have
lost my power, even to the desire of regaining it. My dead mother is
my rival; her shade rises between me and my husband's love. Could he
have loved me, I might perhaps have loved him--and now--now I,
_Molly_, I, shall perhaps go down to my grave without having known
_love_.
I thought I had found it on that day when he took me in his arms in
that odious library--my heart melted when he so tenderly kissed my
lips. And now the very remembrance of that moment angers me.
Tenderness! Am I only a weak, helpless child that I can arouse no
more from the man to whom I have given myself! I thought the gates of
life had been opened to me--behold, they led me to a warm comfortable
prison! And this is Molly's end!
There is a light in Madeleine's eyes, a ring in her voice, a smile
upon her lip. She has bloomed into a beauty that I could hardly have
imagined, and this is because of this unknown whom she _loves_. She
breathes the fulness of the flower; and by-and-by, no doubt, she will
taste the fulness of the fruit; she will be complete; she will be fed
and I am to starve. What is coming to me? I do not know myself. I feel
that I could grudge her these favours, that I _do_ grudge them to her.
I am sick at heart.
And she--even she has proved false to me. I know that she meets this
man. Adrian too knows it, and more of him than he will tell me; and he
approves. I am treated like a child. The situation is strange upon
every side; Madeleine loving a plebeian--a sailor, not a king's
officer--stooping to stolen interviews! Adrian the punctilious, in
whose charge Tanty solemnly left her, pretending ignorance, virtually
condoning my sister's behaviour! For though he has distinctly refused
to enlighten me or help me to enlighten myself, he could not, upon my
taxing him with it, deny that he was in possession of facts ignored by
me.
Then there is Rupert paying now open court to this sly damsel--for the
sake of her beautiful eyes, or for the beautiful eyes of her casket?
And last and strangest, the incongruous friendship struck up this week
between her and that most irritating of melancholy fools, Sophia. The
latter bursts with suppressed importance, she launches glances of
understanding at my sister; sighs, smiles (when Rupert's eye is not on
her), starts mysteriously. One would say that Madeleine had made a
confidant of her--only that it would be too silly. What? Make a
confidant of that funereal mute and deny _me_ the truth! If I had the
spirit for it I would set myself to discovering this grand mystery;
and then let them beware! They would have none of Molly as a friend:
perhaps she will yet prove one too many upon the other side.
If I have grown bitter to Madeleine, it is her own fault; I would have
been as true as steel to her if she had but trusted me. Now and
again, when a hard word and look escape me, she gives me a great
surprised, reproachful glance, as of a petted child that has been
hurt; but mostly she scarcely seems to notice the change in
me--Moonlike in dreamy serenity she sails along, wrapt in her own
thoughts, and troubles no more over Molly's breaking her heart than
over Rupert's determined suit. To me when she remembers me, she gives
the old caresses, the old loving words; to him smiles and pretty
courtesy. Oh, she keeps her secret well! But I came upon her in the
woods alone, last Friday, fresh, no doubt, from her lover's arms;
tremulous, smiling, yet tearful, with face dyed rose. And when to my
last effort to attain the right of sisterhood she would only stammer
the tell-tale words: _she had promised!_ and press her hot cheeks
against mine, I thrust her from me, indignant, and from my affections
for ever. Yet I hold her in my power, I could write to Tanty, put
Rupert on the track.... Nay, I have not fallen so low as to become
Rupert's accomplice yet!
And so the days go on. Between my husband's increasing melancholy, my
own mad regrets, Rupert's watchfulness, Madeleine's absorption and
Sophia's twaddle, my brain reels. I feel sometimes as if I could
scream aloud, as we all sit round the table, and I know that _this_ is
the life that I am doomed to, and that the days may go on, go on thus,
till I am old. Poor Murthering Moll the second! Why even the convent,
where at least I knew nothing, would have been better! No, it is not
possible! Something is still to come to me. Like a bird, my heart
rises within me. I have the right to my life, the right to my
happiness, say what they may.