EVEN before he slept, Harold Wynne found that he had a good many
matters to think about, in addition to the exquisitely natural poises of
Mrs. Mowbray’s shapely head.
It was apparent to him that Mrs. Mowbray had somehow obtained a
circumstantial account of the appearance of Beatrice Avon at the Irish
Castle, and of the effect that had been produced, in more than one
direction, by her appearance.
But the most important information that he had derived from Mrs. Mowbray
was that which had reference to the attitude of Edmund Airey toward
Beatrice.
Undoubtedly, Mrs. Mowbray had, by some means, come to be possessed of
the truth regarding the apparent fascination which Beatrice had for
Edmund Airey. It was a trick--it was the result of a conspiracy between
Helen Craven and Edmund, in order that he, Harold, should be prevented
from even telling Beatrice that he loved her. Helen had felt certain
that Beatrice, when she fancied--poor girl!--that she had produced so
extraordinary an impression upon the wealthy and distinguished man,
would be likely to treat the poor and undistinguished man, whose name
was Harold Wynne, in such a way as would prevent him from ever telling
her that he loved her!
And Edmund had not hesitated to play the part which Helen had assigned
to him! For more than a moment did Harold feel that his friend had
behaved in a grossly dishonourable way. But he knew that his friend,
if taxed with behaving dishonourably, would be ready to prove--if he
thought it necessary--that, so far from acting dishonourably, he had
shown himself to be Harold’s best friend, by doing his best to prevent
Harold from asking a penniless girl to be his wife. Oh, yes, Mr.
Edmund Airey would have no trouble in showing, to the satisfaction of
a considerable number of people--perhaps, even to his own
satisfaction--that he was acting the part of a truly conscientious;
and, perhaps, a self-sacrificing friend, by adopting Helen Craven’s
suggestion.
Harold felt very bitter toward his friend Edmund Airey; though it was
unreasonable for him to do so; for had not he come to precisely the same
conclusion as his friend in respect of Beatrice, this conclusion being,
of course, that nothing but unhappiness could be the result of his
loving Beatrice, and of his asking Beatrice to love him?
If Edmund Airey had succeeded in preventing him from carrying out his
designs, Harold would be saved from the necessity of having with
Beatrice that melancholy interview to which he was looking forward;
therefore it was unreasonable for him to entertain any feeling of
bitterness toward Edmund.
But for all that, he felt very bitterly toward Edmund--a fact which
shows that, in some men as well as in all women, logic is subordinate to
feeling.
It was also far from logical on his part to begin to think, only after
he had accused his friend of dishonourable conduct, of the source whence
the evidence upon which he had founded his accusation, was derived.
How had Mrs. Mowbray come to hear how Edmund Airey had plotted with
Helen Craven, he asked himself. He began to wonder how she could have
heard about the gray eyes of Beatrice, to which she had alluded more
than once, with such excellent effect from the standpoint of art. From
whom could she have heard so much?
She certainly did not hear it from Mr. Durdan, even if she was
acquainted with him, which was doubtful; for Mr. Durdan was discreet.
Besides, Mr. Durdan was rarely eloquent on any social subject. He was
the sort of man who makes a tour on the Continent and returns to tell
you of nothing except a flea at Bellaggio.
Was it possible that some of the fishing men had been taking notes
unknown to any of their fellow guests, for the benefit of Mrs. Mowbray?
Harold did not think so.
After some time he ceased to trouble himself with these vain
speculations. The fact--he believed it to be a fact--remained the same:
someone who had been at Castle Innisfail had given Mrs. Mowbray a highly
circumstantial account of certain occurrences in the neighbourhood of
the Castle; and if Mrs. Mowbray had received such an account, why might
not anyone else be equally favoured?
Thus it was that he strayed into new regions of speculation, where
he could not possibly find any profit. What did it matter to him if
everyone in London knew that Edmund Airey had plotted with Helen Craven,
to prevent an impecunious man from marrying a penniless girl? All that
remained for him to do was to go to the girl, and tell her that he
had made a mistake--that he would be asking her to make too great a
sacrifice, were he to hold her to her promise to love him and him only.
It was somewhat curious that his resolution in this matter should be
strengthened by the fact of his having learned that Edmund Airey had not
been in earnest, in what was generally regarded at Castle Innisfail as
an attitude of serious, and not merely autumn, love-making, in respect
of Beatrice.
He did not feel at all annoyed to learn that, if he were to withdraw
from the side of Beatrice, his place would not be taken by that wealthy
and distinguished man, Edmund Airey. When he had at first made up his
mind to go to Beatrice and ask her to forget that he had ever told her
that he loved her, he had had an uneasy feeling that his friend might
show even a greater interest than he had done on the evening of the
_tableaux_ at the Castle, in the future movements of Beatrice.
At that time his resolution had not been overwhelming in its force. But
now that Mrs. Mowbray had made that strange communication--it almost
amounted to a revelation--to him, he felt almost impatient at the delay
that he knew there must be before he could see the girl and make his
confession to her.
He had two more days to think over his resolution, in addition to his
sleepless night after receiving Mrs. Mowbray’s confidences; and the
result of keeping his thoughts in the one direction was, that at last he
had almost convinced himself that he was glad that the opportunity had
arrived for him to present himself to the girl, in order to tell her
that he would no longer stand in the way of her loving someone else.
When he found himself in her presence, however, his convictions on this
particular point were scarcely so strong as they might have been.
She was sitting in front of the fire in the great drawing-room that
retained all the original decorations of the Brothers Adam, and she was
wearing something beautifully simple--something creamy, with old lace.
The furniture of the room also belonged to the period of the Adams, and
on the walls were a number of coloured engravings by Bartolozzi after
Cipriani and Angelica Kauffmann.
She was in his arms in a moment. She gave herself to him as naturally
and as artlessly as though she were a child; and he held her close to
him, looking down upon her face without uttering a word--kissing her
mouth conscientiously, her shell-pink cheeks earnestly, her forehead
scrupulously, and her chin playfully.
This was how he opened the interview which he had arranged to part them
for ever.
Then they both drew a long breath simultaneously, and both laughed in
unison.
Then he held her away from him for a few seconds, looking upon her
exquisite face. Again he kissed her--but this time solemnly and with
something of the father about the action.
“At last--at last,” he said.
“At last,” she murmured in reply.
“It seems to me that I have never seen you before,” said he. “You seem
to be a different person altogether. I do not remember anything of your
face, except your eyes--no, by heavens! your eyes are different also.”
“It was dark as midnight in the depths of that seal-cave,” she
whispered.
“You mean that--ah, yes, my beloved! If I could have seen your eyes at
that moment I know I should have found them full of the light that I
now see in their depths. You remember what I said to you on the morning
after your arrival at the Castle? Your eyes meant everything to me
then--I knew it--beatitude or doom.”
“And you know now what they meant?”
He looked at her earnestly and passionately for some moments. Then his
hands dropped suddenly as though they were the hands of a man who had
died in a moment--his hands dropped, he turned away his face.
“God knows, God knows,” he said, with what seemed like a moan.
“Yes,” she said; “God knows, and you know as well as God that in my
heart there is nothing that does not mean love for you. Does love mean
blessing or doom?”
“God knows,” said he again. “Your love should mean to me the most
blessed thing on earth.”
“And your love makes me most blessed among women,” said she.
This exchange of thought could scarcely be said to make easier the task
which he had set himself to do before nightfall.
He seemed to become aware of this, for he went to the high mantelpiece,
and stood with his hands upon it, earnestly examining the carved marble
frieze, cream-tinted with age, which was on a level with his face.
She knew, however, that he was not examining the carving from the
standpoint of a critic; and she waited silently for whatever was coming.
It came when he ceased his scrutiny of the classical figures in high
relief, that appeared upon the marble slab.
“Beatrice, my beloved,” said he, and her face brightened. Nothing that
commenced with the assumption that she was his beloved could be very
bad. “I have been in great trouble--I am in great trouble still.”
She was by his side in a moment, and had taken one of his hands in hers.
She held it, looking up to his face with her eyes full of sympathy and
concern.
“My dearest,” he said, “you are all that is good and gracious. We must
part, and for ever.”
She laughed, still looking at his face. There really was something
laughable in the sequence of his words. But her laugh did not make his
task any easier.
“When I told you that I loved you, Beatrice, I told you the truth,” said
he. “If I were to tell you anything else now it would be a falsehood.
But I had no right ever to speak to you of love. I am absolutely
penniless.”
“That is no confession,” said she. “I knew all along that you were
dependent upon your father for everything. I felt for you--so did Mr.
Airey.”
“Mr. Airey?” said he. “Mr. Airey mentioned to you that I was a beggar?”
“Oh, he didn’t say that. He only said--what did he say?--something about
the affairs of the world being very badly arranged, otherwise you should
have thousands--oh, he said he felt for you with all his heart.”
“‘With all his appreciation of the value of an opportunity,’ he should
have said. Never mind Edmund Airey. You, yourself, can see, Beatrice,
how impossible it would be for any man with the least sense of honour,
situated as I am, to ask you to wait--to wait for something indefinite.”
“You did not ask me to wait for anything. You did not ask me to wait
for your love--you gave it to me at once. There is nothing indefinite in
love.”
“My Beatrice, you cannot think that I would ask you for your love
without hoping to marry you?”
“Then let us be married to-morrow.”
She did not laugh, speaking the words. He could see that she would not
hesitate to marry him at any moment.
“Would to heaven that we could be, my dearest! But could there be
anything more cruel than for a penniless man, such as I am, to ask a
girl, such as you are, to marry him?”
“I cannot see where the cruelty would be. People have been very happy
together before now, though they have had very little money between
them.”
“My dear Beatrice, you were not meant to pass your life in squalid
lodgings, with none of the refinements of life around you; and I--well,
I have known what roughing it means; I would face the worst alone; but
I am not selfish enough to seek to drag you down to my level--to ask you
to face hardship for my sake.”
“But I----”
“Do not say anything, darling: anything that you may say will only make
it the harder to part. I can do it, Beatrice; I am strong enough to say
good-bye.”
“Then say it, Harold.”
She stood facing him, with her wonderful eyes looking steadily into his.
The message that they conveyed to him was such as he could not fail to
read aright. He knew that if he had said goodbye, he would never have a
chance of looking into those eyes again.
And yet he made the attempt to speak--to say the word that she had
challenged him to utter. His lips were parted for more than a moment.
He suddenly dropped her hand--he had been holding it all the time--and
turned away from her with a passionate gesture.
“I cannot say it--God help me! I cannot say good-bye,” he cried.
He had flung himself into a sofa and had buried his face in his hands.
For a short time he had actually felt that he was desirous to part from
her. For some minutes he had been quite sincere. The force of the words
he had made use of to show Beatrice how absolutely necessary it was that
they should part, had not been felt by her; those words had, however,
affected him. He had felt--for the first time, in spite of his previous
self-communing--that he must say good-bye to her, but he found that he
was too weak to say it.
He felt a hand upon his shoulder. He could feel her gracious presence
near to him, before her voice came.
“Harold,” she said, “if you had said it, I should never have had an
hour’s happiness in my life. I would never have seen you again. I felt
that all the happiness of my life was dependent upon your refraining
from speaking those words. Cannot you see, my love, that the matter
has passed out of our hands--that it is out of our power to part now?
Harold, cannot you see that, let it be for good or evil--for heaven or
doom--we must be together? Whatever is before us, we are not two but
one--our lives are joined beyond the power of separation. I am yours;
you are mine.”
He sprang to his feet. He saw that tears were in her eyes. “Let it be
so,” he cried. “In God’s name let it be so. Whatever may happen, no
suggestion of parting shall come from me. We stand together, and for
ever, Beatrice.”
“For ever and ever,” she said.
That was how their interview came to a close.
Did he know when he had set out for her home that this would be the
close of their interview--this clasping of the hands--this meeting of
the lips?
Perhaps he did not. But one thing is certain: if it had not had this
ending, he would have been greatly mortified.
His vanity would have received a great blow.