No man ever lived and loved, that longed not,
Once, and only once, and for one only,--
Ah, the prize!--to give his love a language.
_One Word More._
At an earlier period in her career, the esoteric Buddhist would have
amused Wynifred beyond measure. She would have regarded him as material
for a sketch of character, and drawn him out with such intent; but she
was past this, to-night.
She had burst all barriers--all care for her professional career was
gone; she recked nothing of whether she ever again wrote a line, or not;
everything which made up the sum of her daily existence was forgotten,
or if remembered seemed poor, trivial, unimportant, beside the present
fact of Claud sitting at the foot of the table, with the spiritualist
poetess on his right and a lady politician on his left, each talking
across him without intermission, as it seemed, and sometimes evidently
amusing him, for he smiled a pre-occupied smile from time to time. But
ever his eyelids were lifted to where sat the pale girl in black
separated from him as far as circumstances permitted, eclipsed and
blotted out by the vivid color of the young actress who sat near her,
and by the regal beauty of Elsa opposite.
Usually, Wynifred easily held her own among women with twice
her charms, by the spell of her conversation; but to-night she was
silent--abstracted--trying to give her best attention to her neighbor,
but with ears stretched to catch the accents of the low, hearty Irish
voice at the end of the table. Lady Mabel, who had heard something of
the girl's brilliancy, was quite cast down. Wyn absolutely declined the
_role_ of Authoress to-night, and was almost stupid in some of her
answers, avowing that she did not believe in the astral fluid, and
getting hopelessly wrecked on the subject of Avatars, which dimly
recalled to her mind Browning's poem, "What's become of Waring?"
When the move was made, and the ladies rose from table, it was almost
with a pang that she left the room in which Claud remained. She dared
not lift her eyes to his, as he stood holding back the door for them to
file out, yet the bent, shy head inspired in him a hope unfelt before.
Was consciousness awake at last;--that consciousness which for his own
amusement he had tried to stir at Edge, and which had annoyed him so
greatly by falling to sleep again and declining to be roused? A dream of
utter personal happiness enfolded him, and made him a more negligent
host than was his wont; and, as Percivale too was aching to be in the
drawing-room, the male contingent soon made their appearance, to the
delight of the ladies and the chagrin of the professional gentlemen, who
most of them found a good deal of wine necessary to support their
enormous and continuous brain-efforts.
But no further word with Miss Allonby was possible for Claud.
A sudden suspicion had flashed across the mind of Lady Mabel--dismissed
as unlikely, but still leaving just enough weight to make her determine
that no unnecessary words should pass between them. She did not like
Wynifred, and she had never imagined for a moment that her brother did,
until to-night. Even now she was by no means sure of it; only Claud
seemed abstracted and unlike himself. She dexterously kept him employed
with first one person, then another, using the same tactics with the
girl, until the cruelly short evening was past, and Wynifred had to rise
and make her adieux, feeling something as if she had been through a
surgical operation--that it was over--and that she was living still.
Never would she visit that house again, she truly vowed, as she dragged
her tired limbs upstairs. This was the limit of her endurance. Not any
motive, whether of self-interest, or of foolish, worse than foolish
infatuation, should drag her there. As she came down Claud stood in the
hall at the foot of the staircase, waiting.
"Are you driving home alone, Miss Allonby?"
"Yes; I could not ask Osmond to fetch me from this house, could I? But I
am not nervous, thank you."
"But I am, for you. Will you not allow me to come with you?"
Now, if ever, must be the moment of strength--now one last effort of
self-command. Let the heart which is bleeding to cry, "Come!" be
silenced--let maidenly pride step in. What! allow Claud Cranmer to drive
home with you when you are in this mood--when one kind word would draw
the weak tears in floods--oh, never, never, never!
"Come with me, Mr. Cranmer? On no account, thank you,"--a chilly manner,
a spice of surprise at the offer. "It will break up your sister's party.
Good-night."
At the same moment the drawing-room door above opened quickly, and Lady
Mabel's voice was heard.
"Henry! is Mr. Cranmer there? I want him."
"You see," said Wynifred, with a little smile. "Good-night again."
She was gone.
A moment later, and the tears had come--had gushed freely as the rain.
Alone in the London cab, the girl bowed herself together in the
extremity of her pain. It was no use to argue or ask herself why; only
she felt as if all were over. Had she done right? Was it indeed wise to
be so proud? Was it possible that really, after all, he loved her as she
loved him? If so, how she must have hurt him by her cold refusal! And
yet--yet--the sons of earls do not marry girls in Wynifred's position.
Better a broken heart than humiliation, she cried bitterly. Did not the
warning of poor Osmond's hideous delusion loom up darkly before her?
Yet where was the comfort of right-doing? Nowhere. If this were right,
she had rather a thousand times that she had done wrong. Oh, to have him
there beside her, on any terms--recklessly to enjoy the delight of his
presence, caring not what came after. So low does love degrade? she
questioned.
After a few minutes, her wildness was a little calmed. An appeal had
gone up to the God Who, in Lady Mabel's creed, was powerless to save,
yet the thought of Whom seemed the only remedy for this misery; she felt
anew that she was in reality neither reckless nor degraded, only worn
out, mind and body.
The cause of her wild longing for Claud was as much the feminine desire
to rest on the strength of a masculine nature as the weaker yearning to
be loved. With Osmond she had been always the supporter, never the
supported; to the girls she had been forced to stand in the light of
father and mother, as well as sister; and it had come to be a family
tradition that Wyn was indifferent to anything in the shape of a
love-affair--impervious as far as she herself was concerned, though
sympathetic enough in the vicissitudes of others.
It seemed, indeed, a hard dispensation both for brother and sister that,
when at last their jealously-guarded and seldom-spent store of sentiment
found an object, it should be in each case an object out of reach.
It seemed to Wynifred as if to-night a climax was reached. The point had
come when she could bear no more; she could do nothing but sit and
suffer, with a keenness of which a year ago she had not deemed herself
capable.
Mansfield Road was reached at last.
Somewhat to her surprise, lights were in the dining-room window, and, as
the wheels of her vehicle stopped, a hand drew aside the blind, and,
some one looked eagerly out. Almost at once the hall door was flung
open, and Wynifred painfully conscious of red and swollen eyelids,
walked slowly in.
Osmond was holding back the door with such a pleasant, happy smile, as
drove a fresh knife into her heart. Was she to be the messenger to dash
his cup of joy from his lips, and tell him that his hopes lay in ruins
all around him? She felt that it was impossible--at least, yet; and,
before she had time to think more, Hilda's voice broke in from the
dining-room:
"Is that you, Wyn? Do come in--there's some news--guess what has
happened! Osmond and I waited up to tell you."
She walked in, feeling stiff, mazed, and as though the familiar room was
strange to her. Sally, who was also standing by, participating in the
general excitement, burst out--
"Bless me, Miss Wyn, whatever is the matter? You look like a ghost!"
"I am tired, Sally--dead beat--that is the only expression that conveys
my meaning. I told you I was done up before I started, did I not?... I
shall be--well again to-morrow. What is the news?"
Hilda's eyes were soft and almost tearful.
"Can't you guess?" she said.
Wyn flashed a look round, noting Jac's absence.
"Jac!" she said, involuntarily.
"She would not stay up to tell you herself," smiled Hilda.
"Not--oh, Hilda, not--Mr. Haldane?"
"Yes; they are engaged," said Osmond, brightly. "It will be a wrench, at
first, to lose Jacqueline out of the house; but think what a match it
will be for her! Such a delightful fellow! Ah, Wyn, I am not too selfish
to be able to rejoice in their happiness. They have nothing to wait for!
He can well afford to be married to-morrow, if it please him. She is a
fortunate girl!"
"She deserves it!" cried Hilda, loyally. "Oh, Wyn, they are so
deliciously in love with one another!"
In the midst of this family sensation, Wyn could not bear to launch her
thunderbolt. To destroy, at a word, all Osmond's peace was more than she
felt herself equal to. The little drop of balm seemed to blunt for a few
minutes the keen edge of her own pain.
In Jac's little room, with her arms about the pliant young form, and the
blooming head hidden in her neck, she could feel for the time almost
happy in the hushed intensity of the girl's love.
It was what the others had longed for, but scarcely dared to hope. In
fact, much as she liked young Haldane, Wynifred had never encouraged his
visits much, for fear of breaking Jacqueline's heart. But now all was
right. The young man had chosen for love, and not for gain. Jacqueline
would be a member of one of the oldest county families in England. No
wonder that the engagement shed a treacherous beam of unfounded hope
over Osmond's path. If Ted Haldane could marry for love, other people
equally exalted might do the same.
For a few hours he must go on in his fool's Paradise. Wynifred _could
not_ speak the words which should wake him from his dream.
All night long she lay with eyes wide open to the winter moonlight,
watching the pale stars hang motionless in the dark soft sky, bright
things which every eye may gaze upon, but no man may approach. Their
measureless distance weighed upon her as if to crush her. A leaden clamp
seemed bound round her aching temples. To live was to suffer, yet the
relief of sleep was unattainable. Faster and faster the thoughts whirled
through her tortured brain. There was no power to stop them. Over and
over again she lived through the events of last evening; over and over
again she heard each word that Claud had uttered; again she saw the open
doorway, the regal girl with her flowers, her lips curved with laughter,
her lover attendant at her side. One after the other the pictures chased
each other through her mind, in never-ending succession, till it seemed
as if she must go mad. There was no respite, no moment of blissful
unconsciousness till the laggard January dawn had come, and Sally was
filling her bath with the customary morning splash.
It seemed a bitter irony. Was this morning, then, like any other
morning, that the habits and customs of the house were to go on as
usual?
"Am I to get up?" asked she, in a dazed way. "Why yes, of course. I must
get up, I suppose."
"Ain't you well, Miss Wyn?" queried Sally, in a doubtful voice.
"Not quite, Sal. I have been working too hard, I think. But now I
remember, I must get up, for my proofs are not corrected. When they are
finished, I think--I think that I must take a little rest."