Lord Hunsdon had already bought an album in Charlestown, and after
copying the sonnet several times to practise his chirography, he
inscribed it upon the first page--a pink one--signing it "Your most
obedient Hunsdon," with an austere flourish. Then he carefully wrapped
the album in tissue paper and sent it to Anne's room, with strict
orders to his man not to leave it unless she were quite alone. The
best of men have their vanities; the idea that the superior Mary
Denbigh or the satirical Miss Bargarny might witness the offering's
arrival was insupportable.
Anne was alone and unfolded the large square package with much
curiosity. It was one of those albums that the young ladies of her day
loved to possess; indeed, so far, she had been the only girl in Bath
House without one, and had read the flattering verses in several with
some envy. This tribute was sumptuously bound in brown calf embossed
with gold, and all the leaves were delicately tinted. She turned over
the pale greens and pinks, blues and canaries, with that subtle
indefinable pleasure that colour gives to certain temperaments. She
had not glanced at the servant, and fancied the album a present from
Lady Constance. When she saw the signature on the first page she
stared, for Lord Hunsdon was the last person she would have suspected
of cultivating the muse. She began the sonnet with a ripple of
laughter, but paled before she finished. Trifling as it was she
recognised it as the work of Byam Warner. She could never be mistaken
there. It resembled nothing of his that she knew, but the grace of the
verse, the fine instinctive choice of words, the glitter and sweep of
phrase, belonged to him and none other. Her heart leaped as she
wondered if it were not the first bit of verse he had ever written
while sober. And she had inspired it! The thought brought another in
its train and she went suddenly to her window and stared through the
jalousies at the dazzling sunlight on the palms, for the first time
seeing nothing of the beauty of Nevis.
The poem had been written from himself to her. A phrase or two not
intended for Hunsdon's unsuspecting eye assured her of that. It was
not an old sonnet furbished up to fit the purpose of a friend. And
fragile as the thing was, still it was poetry--and he had written it
when sober--and to her----
She repeated this discovery many times before she could give shape to
the greater thought building in her brain. It was a beginning, a
milestone. Might it not be within her compass to influence him so
indelibly that his muse would continue to wake at her call, at the
mere thought of her, with no aid from that foul hag of drink, which
of late had almost made her hate his poetry as the work of a base
alliance? She believed that if he did not love her he was yet so deep
in admiration that she could inspire him with a profound attachment if
she chose. And the result? If only she were a seer, as certain of her
Scotch kin claimed to be. A hopeless love might inspire him to the
greater work the world expected of him; she had read of the flowering
of genius in the strong soil of misery. But he had suffered enough
already, poor devil! The result of loving for the last time, with no
hope of possession, might fling him from Parnassus into the Inferno,
where he would roast in unproductive torment for the rest of his
mortal span. Even that might not be for long. He looked frail enough
beside these fresh young English sportsmen, or even the high-coloured
planters, burnt without and within.
It was a terrible question for any woman to be forced to ask,
particularly were she honest enough to confess that no woman should
ask it. What right had she to put her finger into any man's destiny
unless she were willing to take the consequences and share that
destiny if invited? But that no woman could be expected to do. Why
could he not have realised her mental picture of him: that glorified
being with whom she had dwelt so long? She sighed as she recalled her
many disillusionments of the past few weeks. Bath House was the world
in little. It seemed years since she had left Warkworth Manor. She
found that world a somewhat mean and sordid place. She still loved the
gaiety and sumptuousness of her new life, for it appealed to inherited
instincts. But she had not found a responsive spirit. The young
married women were absorbed in their children or their flirtations.
The girls were superficially read, "accomplished," conceited,
insincere, with not an aspiration above getting a husband of fortune.
Lady Mary, alarmed at last, was become cool and spiteful. Lady Hunsdon
was almost an enemy. Lady Constance seemed to have more heart than
most of her ilk in spite of her caustic tongue, but she hardly made a
sympathetic companion for a romantic young girl brought up in the
country. It was true that she had recently made an interesting
acquaintance in Miss Medora Ogilvy, the clever daughter of one of the
planters, who vowed she loved her and swore undying friendship; but
Anne needed more time to reciprocate feelings so ardent, particularly
in her present state of mind.
On the whole she liked the young men better, as they were less
spiteful and petty, but they had read little and the only subject of
which, barring sport and society, they had any real knowledge, was
politics, and this they vowed too fatiguing for the tropics. They
preferred the language of compliment, they loved to dawdle, to hold a
skein of worsted, to read a novel aloud, or "The Yellowplush Papers"
or selections from "Boz"; when tired of female society, or when it
was too hot to hunt or fish, they retired to the gaming tables. Anne
had never dreamed that the genus man could be so little stirring, and
although she was flattered by their attentions, particularly by those
of Mr. Abergenny, and her natural coquetry was often responsive, for
mere youth must have its way, she was appalled by her general sense of
disappointment and wondered what her future was to be. She had no
desire to return to her manor, and for a season in London she cared as
little. She would have been glad to remain on Nevis, but to this she
knew that Mrs. Nunn would not hearken. London was inevitable; and
possibly she would meet some intelligent and interesting man who would
help her to bury romance and fulfil the proper destiny of woman.
She wondered to-day as she had wondered once or twice before, could
she have loved Byam Warner in spite of his unlikeness to her
exaggerated ideal had she found him a normal member of society, as
fine in appearance as his years and his original endowment deserved.
It was a question to which she could find no answer, but certainly his
conversation, could she but permit herself to enjoy it, must be far
superior to that of anyone else on Nevis. And a flirtation with the
poet of the day would have been exciting, something to remember, a
feather in her cap. She had her share of feminine vanity--it grew
daily, she fancied--and it was by no means unfed by the manifest
admiration, possibly love, of this great poet in his ruin. Whatever
his tribute might be worth, it was offered to none but herself, and if
the man were beneath consideration the poet was of a radiance
undimmed.
Suddenly it occurred to her that did he tread his present straight and
hygienic path for a full year he might indeed be his old self when
next she came to Nevis. The island was healthy at all seasons, those
who lived on it were immune from fever. Nature would remake what
Warner had unmade too early to have destroyed root and sap. Many a man
had sown his wild oats and lived to a hale old age. Would that mean
that next winter Byam Warner would be handsome, attractive, confident?
She often heard the good looks of his youth referred to, and there
certainly were the remains of beauty in that wrecked countenance. His
eyes were sunken, but they were still of a deep black gray, and they
daily gained in brightness. His hair was almost black, and abundant.
The shape of his head and brow and profile were above reproach, for
dissipation had never grossened him. But his face, although improving,
was still haggard and lined and stamped with satiety; his mouth
betrayed the wild passions that had wrecked him, and was often drawn
in lines of bitterness and disgust. There was nothing commanding in
his carriage, such as women love, and his manners were too reserved,
too shy, to fascinate her sex apart from the halo of his fame. A
return to health and vigour might improve him vastly, but nothing
could ever make him a dashing romantic figure; and although sometimes
a light came into his face that revealed the poet, commonly he
betrayed not an inkling of his gifts. But even so he might be more
worth while than any man she had met so far, whatever the great world
might have in store; and she wished that his reformation had been
accomplished the winter before and she were now in enjoyment of the
result. Then she found distaste in the thought that she might have
had no hand in his reclamation, and was glad to recall his hint that
but for her he would never have crossed the threshold of Bath House.
And then she was overwhelmed with the sense of her responsibility. It
was not for the first time, but not until to-day had she faced the
question of how far she ought to go. And even to-day she did not feel
up to reasoning it out. She knew too little of the world, of men;
there was no one to whom she could go for advice. She re-read the
sonnet, determined to be guided by events, registered a vow that in no
case would she shirk what she might believe to be her duty; and then
wrote a prim little note of acknowledgment to Lord Hunsdon.