In a few days she returned to us, and we were amazed at the change in
her. Her voice was clear again, her step elastic, her complexion had
recovered some of its brilliancy; there was a light in her eyes that I
had never seen there before, and about her lips a perpetual smile
hovered. She was tranquil again, and self-possessed; but she was more
than that--she was happy. One could see it in the very poise of her
figure when she crossed the room.
"This is delightful, is it not?" Claudia whispered to me in the
drawing-room on the evening of her return.
"Delightful," I answered; but I was puzzled. Ideala's variableness was
all on the surface, and I felt sure that this sudden change, which
looked like ease after agony, meant something serious.
She did not keep me long in suspense. The next morning she came to my
studio door and looked in shyly.
"Come in," I said. "I have been expecting you," and then I went on with
my painting. I saw she had something to tell me, and thought, as she
was evidently embarrassed, it would be easier for her to speak if I did
not look at her. "I hope you are going to stay with us some time now,
Ideala," I added, glancing up at her as she came and looked over my
shoulder at the picture.
Her face clouded. "I--I am afraid not," she answered, hesitating, and
nervously fidgeting with some paint brushes that lay on a table beside
her.
"I am afraid you will not want me when you know what I am going to do.
I only came back to tell you."
My heart stood still. "To tell me! Why, what are you going to do?"
"It is very hard to tell you," she faltered. "You and Claudia are my
dearest friends, and I cannot bear to give you pain. But I must tell
you at once. It is only right that you should know--especially as you
will disapprove."
I turned to look at her, but she could not meet my eyes.
"Give us pain! Disapprove!" I exclaimed. "What on earth do you mean,
Ideala? What are you going to do?"
"An immoral thing," she answered.
"Good heavens!" I exclaimed, throwing down my palette, and rising to
confront her. "I don't believe it."
"I mean," she stammered--the blood rushing into her face and then
leaving her white as she spoke--"something which you will consider so.
"I cannot believe it," I reiterated.
"But it is true. He says so."
"_He_--who, in God's name?"
"Lorrimer."
"And who on earth is Lorrimer?"
"That is what I came to tell you," she answered, faintly.
I gathered up my palette and brushes, and sat down to my easel again.
"Tell me, then," I said, as calmly as I could.
I pretended to paint, and after a little while, still standing behind
me so that I could not see her face, she began in a low voice, and told
me, with her habitual accuracy, all that had passed between them.
"And what did you think when you found he was not there?" I asked, for
at that point she had stopped.
"At first I thought he did not want to see me, and had gone away on
purpose," she answered; "then I was ill; but after that, when I began
to get better, I was afraid I had been unjust to him. There might have
been some mistake, and I was half inclined to go and see, but I was
frightened. And every day the longing grew, and I used to sit and look
at my watch, and think--'I could be there in an hour;' or, 'I might be
with him in forty minutes.' But I never went. And after a while I
could not bear it any longer, and so I came to you. But the thought of
him came with me, and the desire to know the truth grew and grew,
until at last I could bear that no longer either, and then I wrote;
and day after day I waited, and no answer came; and then I was sure he
had done it on purpose, but yet I could not bear to think it of him.
And I began not to know what people said when they spoke to me, and I
think I should have killed myself; but I come of an old race, you
know, and none of us ever did a cowardly thing, and I would rather
suffer for ever than be the first--_noblesse oblige_. I don't deserve
much credit for that, though, for I knew I should die if I did not see
him again--die of grief, and shame, and humiliation because of what I
had written, for as the days passed, and no answer came, I was afraid
I had said too much, and he had misunderstood me, and would despise
me. If I had only been sure that he did not want to see me again, of
course I should never have written; but so many people have lost their
only chance of happiness because they had not the courage to find out
the truth in some such doubtful matter; and I _did_ believe in him so
--I could not think he would do a _low_ thing. I was in a difficult
position, and I did what I thought was right; but when no answer came
to my letter I began to doubt, and then in a moment of rage, feeling
myself insulted, I wrote again. Yet I don't know what made me write.
It was an impulse--the sort of thing that makes one scream when one is
hurt. It does no good, but the cry is out before you can think of
that. All I said was: 'I understand your silence. You are cruel and
unjust. But I can keep my word, and if I live for nothing else, I
promise that I will make you respect me yet.' I never expected him to
answer that second note, but he did, at once. And he offered to come
here and explain--he was dreadfully distressed. But I preferred to go
to him."
"And you went?"
"Yes. And I was frightened, and he was very kind."
By degrees she told me much of what had passed at that interview. She
seemed to have had no thought of anything but her desire to see him,
and have her mind set at rest, until she found herself face to face
with him, and then she was assailed by all kinds of doubts and fears;
but he had put her at her ease in five minutes--and in five minutes
more she had forgotten everything in the rapid change of ideas, the
delightful intellectual contest and communion, which had made his
companionship everything to her. She did just remember to ask him why
he had not answered her first letter.
He searched about amongst a pile of newly-arrived documents on his
writing table. "There it is," he said, showing her the letter covered
with stamps and postmarks. "It only arrived this morning--just in time,
though, to speak for itself. I was abroad when you wrote, and it was
sent after me, and has followed me from place to place as you see, so
that I got your second letter first. You might have known there was
some mistake."
"Pardon me," Ideala answered. "I ought to have known."
And then she had looked up at him and smiled, and never another doubt
had occurred to her.
"But, Ideala," I said to her, "you used the word 'immoral' just now.
You were talking at random, surely? You are nervous. For heaven's sake
collect yourself, and tell me what all this means."
"No, I am not nervous," she answered. "See! my hand is quite steady. It
is you who are trembling. I am calm now, and relieved, because I have
told you. But, oh! I am so sorry to give you pain."
"I do not yet understand," I answered, hoarsely.
"He wants me to give up everything, and go to him," she said; "but he
would not accept my consent until he had explained, and made me
understand exactly what I was doing. 'The world will consider it an
immoral thing,' he said, 'and so it would be if the arrangement were
not to be permanent. But any contract which men and women hold to be
binding on themselves should be sufficient now, and will be sufficient
again, as it used to be in the old days, provided we can show good
cause why any previous contract should be broken. You must believe
that. You must be thoroughly satisfied now. For if your conscience were
to trouble you afterwards--your troublesome conscience which keeps you
busy regretting nearly everything you do, but never warns you in time
to stop you--if you were to have any scruples, then there would be no
peace for either of us, and you had better give me up at once.'"
"And what did you say, Ideala?"
"I said, perhaps I had. I was beginning to be frightened again."
"And how did it end?"
"He made me go home and consider."
"Yes. And what then?" I demanded impatiently.
"And next day he came to me--to know my decision--and--and--I was
satisfied. I cannot live without him." I groaned aloud. What was I to
say? What could I do? An arrangement of this sort is carefully
concealed, as a rule, by the people concerned, and denied if
discovered; but here were a lady and gentleman prepared, not only to
take the step, but to justify it--under somewhat peculiar
circumstances, certainly--and carefully making their friends acquainted
with their intention beforehand, as if it were an ordinary engagement.
I knew Ideala, and could understand her being over-persuaded. Something
of the kind was what I had always feared for her. But, Lorrimer--what
sort of a man was he? I own that I was strongly prejudiced against him
from the moment she pronounced his name, and all she had told me of him
subsequently only confirmed the prejudice.
"Why was he not there that day to receive you?" I asked at last.
"I don't know," she said. "I quite forgot about that. And I suppose he
forgot too," she added, "since he never told me."
"Oh, Ideala!" I exclaimed, "how like you that is! It is most important
that you should know whether he intended to slight you on that occasion
or not. It is the key to his whole action in this matter."
"But supposing he did mean to be rude? I should have to forgive him,
you know, because I have been rude to him--often. He does not approve
of my conduct always, by any means," she placidly assured me.
"And does he, of all people in the world, presume to sit in judgment
on you?" I answered, indignantly. "I always thought _you_ the most
extraordinary person in the world, Ideala, until I heard of this--
_gentleman_."
"Hush!" she protested, as if I had blasphemed. "You must not speak of
him like that. He _is_ a gentleman--as true and loyal as you are
yourself. And he is everything to me."
But these assurances were only what I had expected from Ideala, and in
no way altered my opinion of Mr. Lorrimer. I knew Ideala's peculiar
conscience well. She might do what all the world would consider wrong
on occasion; but she would never do so until she had persuaded herself
that wrong was right--for _her_ at all events.
"He may be everything to you, but he has lowered you, Ideala," I
resumed, thinking it best not to spare her.
"I was degraded when I met him."
"Circumstances cannot degrade us until they make us act unworthily," I
rejoined.
"Oh, no, he has not lowered me," she persisted; "quite the contrary. I
have only begun to know the difference between right and wrong since I
met him, and to understand how absolutely necessary for our happiness
is right-doing, even in the veriest trifle. And there is one thing that
I must always be grateful to him for--I can pray now. But I belied
myself to him nevertheless. He asked me if I ever prayed, and I was
shy; I could not tell him, because I only prayed for him. It was easier
to say that sometimes I reviled. Ah! why can we not be true to
ourselves?"
"But I can't always pray," she went on sorrowfully; "only sometimes;
generally when I am in church. The thought of him comes over me then,
and a great longing to have him beside me, kneeling, with his heart
made tender, and his soul purified and uplifted to God as mine is,
possesses me--a longing so great that it fills my whole being, and
finds a voice: 'My God! my God! give him to me!'"
"'Angels of God in heaven! give him to me! give him to me!'" I
answered, bitterly.
"Yes, I remember," she rejoined, "I said it in my arrogant ignorance. I
did not understand, and this is different."
"It is always _different_ in our own case," I answered. "Do you
remember that passage Ralph Waldo Emerson quotes from Lord Bacon:
'Moral qualities rule the world, but at short distances the senses are
despotic'? it seems to me that when you call upon God in that spirit
you are worshipping Him with your senses only."
"Then I believe it is possible to make the senses the means of saving
the soul at critical times," she answered; "and at all events I know
this, that I more earnestly desire to be a good woman now than I ever
did before."
"It would be a dangerous doctrine," I began.
"Only in cases where the previous moral development had not been of a
high order," she interrupted. I felt it was useless to pursue that part
of the subject, so I waited a little, and then I said: "Am I to
understand, then, that you are going to give up your position in
society, and all your friends, for the sake of this one man, who
probably does not care for you, who certainly does not respect you, and
of whom you know nothing? Verily, he has gained an easy victory! But,
of course, you know now what his object has been from the first."
"I know what you mean," she answered, indignantly; "but you are quite
wrong; he does care for me. And if I give up my position in society for
his sake, he is worth it, and I am content. And it is my own doing,
too. I know that there cannot be one law for me and another for all the
other women in the world, and if I break through a social convention I
am prepared to abide by the consequences. Do you want to make me
believe that his sympathy was pretended, that he deliberately planned--
something I have no word to express--and would have carried out his
plan absolutely in cold blood, without a spark of affection for me? It
would be hard to believe it of any man; it is impossible to believe it
of him. He is a man of strong passions, if you will, but of noble
purpose; and if I make a sacrifice for him, he will be making one for
me also. He may have been betrayed at times by grief, or other mental
pain, which weakened his moral nature for the moment, and left him at
the mercy of bad impulses; but I can believe such impulses were
isolated, and any action they led him into was bitterly repented of;
and no one will ever make me alter my conviction that I wronged him
when I doubted him, even for a moment."
"This is all very well, Ideala," I said, trying not to irritate her by
direct opposition, "if you appeared to him as you appear to me. Do you
think you did? Was there anything in your conduct that might have given
him a low estimate of your character to begin with? Anything that might
have led him to doubt your honesty, and think, when you made your
confession, that you were trying to get up a little play in which you
intended him to take a leading part? That you merely wished to ease
your mind from some inevitable sense of shame in wrong-doing by finding
an excuse for yourself to begin with--an excuse by which you would
excite his interest and sympathy, and save yourself from his contempt?"
"Oh!" she exclaimed, "could he--could any one--think such a thing
possible?"
"Such things are being done every day, Ideala, and a man of the world
would naturally be on his guard against deception. If he thought he was
being deceived, do you think it likely he would feel bound to be
scrupulous?"
"But he _did_ believe in me," she declared, passionately.
"He pretended to; it was part of the play. You see he only kept it up
until he thoroughly understood you, and then his real feelings
appeared, and he was rude to you. For I call his absence on that
occasion distinctly rude, and intentionally so too, since he sent no
apology."
"He was only rude to me to save me from myself, then, as Lancelot was
rude to Elaine," she answered.
"Or is it not just possible that he was disappointed when he found you
better than he had supposed? that he felt he had wasted his time for
nothing, and was irritated----"
She interrupted me. "I forgive you," she said, "because you do not know
him. But I shall never convince you. You are prejudiced. You do not
think ill of me: why do you think ill of him?"
I made no answer, and she was silent for a little. Then she began
again, recurring to the point at issue:
"If he did slight me on that occasion," she said--"and I maintain that
he did not--but if he did, it was accidentally done."
"The evidence is against him," I answered, drily.
"Many innocent persons have suffered because it was," she said, with
confidence.
"You are infatuated," I answered, roughly. And then my heart sent up an
exceeding great and bitter cry: "Ideala! Ideala! how did it ever come
to this?"
She was silent. But her eyes were bright once more, her figure was
erect, there was new life in her--I could see that--and never a doubt.
She was satisfied. She was happy.
"Must I give you up?" she said at last, tentatively.
"No, you must give him up," I answered.
"Ah, that is impossible!" she cried. "We were made for each other. We
cannot live apart."
"Ideala," I exclaimed, exasperated, "he never believed in you. He
thought you were as so many women of our set are, and he showed it, if
only you could have understood, when you saw him at the Hospital on
that last occasion. You felt that there was some change, as you say
yourself, and that was it. You talked to him of truth then, and it
irritated him as the devil quoting Scripture might be supposed to
irritate; and when you went back again he showed what he thought of you
by his unexplained absence. He thought you were not worth
consideration, and he gave you none."
"It would have been paying himself a very poor compliment if he had
thought that only a corrupt woman could care for him," she answered,
confidently. "But, I tell you, I am sure there is some satisfactory
explanation of that business. I only wish I had remembered to ask for
it, that I might satisfy you now. And, at any rate," she added,
"whatever he may have thought, he knows better by this time."
I could say no more. Baffled and sick at heart, I left her, wondering
if some happy inspiration would come before it was too late, and help
me to save her yet.