'The robin has fled from the wood
To the snug habitation of man.'
This performance apparently attracted but little attention from the
child's companion, for the young voice suggested, as a new form of
entertainment, 'Shall I say my prayers?'
'Yes,' replied one whom Swithin had begun to recognize.
'Who shall I pray for?'
No answer.
'Who shall I pray for?'
'Pray for father.'
'But he is gone to heaven?'
A sigh from Viviette was distinctly audible.
'You made a mistake, didn't you, mother?' continued the little one.
'I must have. The strangest mistake a woman ever made!'
Nothing more was said, and Swithin ascended, words from above indicating
to him that his footsteps were heard. In another half-minute he rose
through the hatchway. A lady in black was sitting in the sun, and the
boy with the flaxen hair whom he had seen yesterday was at her feet.
'Viviette!' he said.
'Swithin!--at last!' she cried.
The words died upon her lips, and from very faintness she bent her head.
For instead of rushing forward to her he had stood still; and there
appeared upon his face a look which there was no mistaking.
Yes; he was shocked at her worn and faded aspect. The image he had
mentally carried out with him to the Cape he had brought home again as
that of the woman he was now to rejoin. But another woman sat before
him, and not the original Viviette. Her cheeks had lost for ever that
firm contour which had been drawn by the vigorous hand of youth, and the
masses of hair that were once darkness visible had become touched here
and there by a faint grey haze, like the Via Lactea in a midnight sky.
Yet to those who had eyes to understand as well as to see, the chastened
pensiveness of her once handsome features revealed more promising
material beneath than ever her youth had done. But Swithin was
hopelessly her junior. Unhappily for her he had now just arrived at an
age whose canon of faith it is that the silly period of woman's life is
her only period of beauty. Viviette saw it all, and knew that Time had
at last brought about his revenges. She had tremblingly watched and
waited without sleep, ever since Swithin had re-entered Welland, and it
was for this.
Swithin came forward, and took her by the hand, which she passively
allowed him to do.
'Swithin, you don't love me,' she said simply.
'O Viviette!'
'You don't love me,' she repeated.
'Don't say it!'
'Yes, but I will! you have a right not to love me. You did once. But
now I am an old woman, and you are still a young man; so how can you love
me? I do not expect it. It is kind and charitable of you to come and
see me here.'
'I have come all the way from the Cape,' he faltered, for her insistence
took all power out of him to deny in mere politeness what she said.
'Yes; you have come from the Cape; but not for me,' she answered. 'It
would be absurd if you had come for me. You have come because your work
there is finished. . . . I like to sit here with my little boy--it is a
pleasant spot. It was once something to us, was it not? but that was
long ago. You scarcely knew me for the same woman, did you?'
'Knew you--yes, of course I knew you!'
'You looked as if you did not. But you must not be surprised at me. I
belong to an earlier generation than you, remember.'
Thus, in sheer bitterness of spirit did she inflict wounds on herself by
exaggerating the difference in their years. But she had nevertheless
spoken truly. Sympathize with her as he might, and as he unquestionably
did, he loved her no longer. But why had she expected otherwise? 'O
woman,' might a prophet have said to her, 'great is thy faith if thou
believest a junior lover's love will last five years!'
'I shall be glad to know through your grandmother how you are getting
on,' she said meekly. 'But now I would much rather that we part. Yes;
do not question me. I would rather that we part. Good-bye.'
Hardly knowing what he did he touched her hand, and obeyed. He was a
scientist, and took words literally. There is something in the
inexorably simple logic of such men which partakes of the cruelty of the
natural laws that are their study. He entered the tower-steps, and
mechanically descended; and it was not till he got half-way down that he
thought she could not mean what she had said.
Before leaving Cape Town he had made up his mind on this one point; that
if she were willing to marry him, marry her he would without let or
hindrance. That much he morally owed her, and was not the man to demur.
And though the Swithin who had returned was not quite the Swithin who had
gone away, though he could not now love her with the sort of love he had
once bestowed; he believed that all her conduct had been dictated by the
purest benevolence to him, by that charity which 'seeketh not her own.'
Hence he did not flinch from a wish to deal with loving-kindness towards
her--a sentiment perhaps in the long-run more to be prized than lover's
love.
Her manner had caught him unawares; but now recovering himself he turned
back determinedly. Bursting out upon the roof he clasped her in his
arms, and kissed her several times.
'Viviette, Viviette,' he said, 'I have come to marry you!'
She uttered a shriek--a shriek of amazed joy--such as never was heard on
that tower before or since--and fell in his arms, clasping his neck.
There she lay heavily. Not to disturb her he sat down in her seat, still
holding her fast. Their little son, who had stood with round conjectural
eyes throughout the meeting, now came close; and presently looking up to
Swithin said--
'Mother has gone to sleep.'
Swithin looked down, and started. Her tight clasp had loosened. A wave
of whiteness, like that of marble which had never seen the sun, crept up
from her neck, and travelled upwards and onwards over her cheek, lips,
eyelids, forehead, temples, its margin banishing back the live pink till
the latter had entirely disappeared.
Seeing that something was wrong, yet not understanding what, the little
boy began to cry; but in his concentration Swithin hardly heard it.
'Viviette--Viviette!' he said.
The child cried with still deeper grief, and, after a momentary
hesitation, pushed his hand into Swithin's for protection.
'Hush, hush! my child,' said Swithin distractedly. 'I'll take care of
you! O Viviette!' he exclaimed again, pressing her face to his.
But she did not reply.
'What can this be?' he asked himself. He would not then answer according
to his fear.
He looked up for help. Nobody appeared in sight but Tabitha Lark, who
was skirting the field with a bounding tread--the single bright spot of
colour and animation within the wide horizon. When he looked down again
his fear deepened to certainty. It was no longer a mere surmise that
help was vain. Sudden joy after despair had touched an over-strained
heart too smartly. Viviette was dead. The Bishop was avenged.