A WEEK OF LOVE LIFE.
Seymour waited awhile in the hall, afraid to present that scared face
before his wife. He turned to Alice, and, lifting the hat from his head,
questioned her.
“Do I look ill? Do I look wild?”
Great drops of perspiration stood on his forehead and upper lip; his
whole face was fearfully pale, his eyes unnaturally bright.
“Yes, monsieur,” answered the woman. “Monsieur is pale and wild. Let me
bring monsieur some wine.”
“Wine!—No, no, bring me brandy. Tell Lubin to send the decanter.”
Seymour went into the parlor and threw himself on a couch, wiping the
moisture from his face as he waited for the brandy. It was the couch on
which he and Cora had seated themselves after the ceremony that had made
them man and wife. This came to his mind, and tears sprang to his eyes.
“Poor girl—poor, unhappy girl—had I known this, I would have died rather
than drag you down with me,” he muttered.
Alice came in with the brandy and a goblet. Seymour seized the decanter
and filled the glass half full, dashing the brandy over his unsteady
hands as he did it. He drank eagerly, set the glass down on a Mosaic
table, leaving a broad stain, and starting up, would have gone in search
of his wife, but she met him at the door with a white heat of anger on
her face and a smile upon her lips.
By this time Seymour’s face was flushed with color, and a gleam of red
stained the pure white of his eyes. She thought that he was intoxicated,
and for the moment loathed him; for Cora was as fastidious as she was
unprincipled. Drinking was sure to imperil the grace that she was so
proud of and stain the noble beauty of his features. This was why she
recoiled from it with such terror.
“What is the matter, have you been ill?” she demanded, in a low,
constrained voice.
“Yes, darling, I have been very ill.”
“In the street?”
“Yes, something seized me in the street—a vertigo.”
“It seems more like a panic,” she said, looking keenly in his face.
“I—yes, I suppose it must be like a panic. Being so ill, I was afraid of
terrifying you—the very thought made me a coward.”
“Was that all? Well, you see that I am not frightened.”
“That is a brave girl. Kiss me, dear, for I am almost heart-broken.”
She kissed him upon the forehead. His lips were moist with brandy; she
could not have forced herself to touch them, with all her self-control.
“What is it about, Seymour? What is it that is breaking your heart?” she
asked, softly, thinking of her own secret with dread.
“Breaking my heart? Did I say that? What nonsense! I was only afraid
that you would think me worse than I really was. See, I am well again;
give me a few moments to dress for dinner, and I shall be gay as a
lark.”
He ran up stairs laughing rather loudly, and, entering his
dressing-room, fell upon his knees by the couch, and struggled with his
grief till the frail structure shook under him.
“What can I do? What shall I do? No deer was ever run to covert so
closely as I am. She will hate me, or it will be her death. Better the
last—better death a thousand times! One look of hate on that face would
be such punishment as no other human being has power to give. Oh! my
God! my God! how I love her! Will she believe it? Can I convince her
that it was this craving affection, this intense love that drove me on?
Oh! if I had told her that day in the little cabin, when the subject
came up so naturally! She would have forgiven me then, I am sure of
it—forgiven me and saved me—but now I dare not tell her. There was
something in her eye and the touch of her lip that froze me. Can she
suspect?”
He started up while these thoughts were flashing through his mind,
bathed his face in cold water over and over again, and began to brush
his hair violently. The exercise did him good; he tore away at his black
curls like a tiger.
“If I could tear them out! If I could only change this mass of black
waves, all might yet be saved. But with her eyes upon me there can be no
change. Oh! if she would but go away for a month or two, or let me.
Perhaps she will. Yet how can I live without her, my wife—my dear, dear
wife!”
He sat down on the couch now, with the hair-brush in his hand, gazing
past it on the floor, in deep thought. All at once he started up and
began to dress himself more rationally. His face cleared, his lips
parted and lost the iron tension of nerves that had strained them
together when he attempted to speak cheerfully. An important idea had
come into his mind—an idea that drove away all the excitement from his
brain and left him with the face of a man who had indeed been ill.
When Seymour went down stairs all the wildness had left his eyes. He was
calm and thoughtful, but apparently suffering from past or present pain.
He went up to Cora and kissed her tenderly upon the forehead; she had
shrunk from meeting his lips with hers once, and he would not offer them
again.
“Did I frighten you, darling?” he said, smoothing the bands of her hair
with one hand. “Forgive it; I was really ill. But for the brandy, I must
have fainted—see how my hand trembles now.”
She looked up at him,—the beautiful dissembler—and touched his trembling
hand with her lips very lightly, but the gesture was playful, and she
smiled one of her sweetest smiles.
“I am so unaccustomed to sickness that it frightens me. Come, now let us
go to dinner—I, for one, am hungry. Aunt Lander has gone up the river,
and I shall be my own mistress till she chooses to come back.”
Seymour tried to express his happiness, but the words stopped in his
throat. She looked at him earnestly.
“My husband does not seem so glad as I had expected,” she said,
laughing.
“Not glad, Cora! If there is a joy on earth for Alfred Seymour, it is
the presence of his wife. Never on this earth was a woman so beloved—so
worshipped.”
“Is this real, my friend? Am I indeed so dear to you yet?”
“Ask your own heart, Cora. It shall answer you.”
It did answer her, and truly. Yet she was not satisfied. What was it
that had begun to alienate her from the man she had loved so
passionately? Who can tell the exact time when the ripe leaves change
and fall? When I say that Cora Lander’s love for her husband, from the
first, had been an unreasoning passion, those of my readers who know
anything of the human heart must have expected the change that was
creeping upon her.
“Shall I drink wine?” said Seymour, laughing pleasantly. “Or will you
shrink from the flavor on my lips, Cora?”
“Wine—oh, I will pledge you in champagne with all my heart,” she
answered; “but brandy, I detest that; you never drank it before.”
“Because I was never so ill before, Cora.”
“And now, dear, you eat nothing.”
“I have no appetite.”
He did indeed seem ill, and it was true that he could not taste the food
she placed before him.
“Do try something; I have a horror of sickness. It puts me in mind of
death,” she said, seriously disturbed. “I would not have you really ill
for the world.”
Seymour leaned back in his chair and covered his face for a moment with
one hand.
“It is this confinement, Cora. What if I take a little trip somewhere?
That will set me up, I dare say.”
She looked at him a moment, and then answered in her usual clear, calm
voice:
“It may come to that, but let us hope not. I cannot spare you yet,
Seymour.”
The words were affectionate enough, but there was something in her
manner which broke the harmony.
“Well,” he said, “we need not talk about that just now. I am already
enough of an invalid to keep me indoors for some days.”
Cora had spoken the truth; she did hate sickness, and had no patience
with it in any one. Her own abounding health was perfect, and she was
always tempted to consider indisposition in others a pretence. That
Seymour could be feverish and complain took away from his perfection
with her. The man she loved should have been lifted far away from
infirmities like that. But she had some sympathy in her nature, and was
just then disposed to take a romantic view of any question that
presented itself.
“That will not be so very unpleasant,” she said; “you shall lie upon the
couch and listen to me while I read.”
“And will you stay with me, Cora?”
His voice trembled with tender thankfulness, which surprised her.
“Why that was exactly what made me rejoice when my aunt took her
departure. It left me at liberty. The people at the hotel think that we
have gone up the river in company.”
“So my bird of Paradise has flown to her cage.”
His words were forced, and she felt it, but answered lightly:
“To find her mate sick on the perch.”
They both laughed at this, and she arose from the table. “Come, Alfred,
if you are going to play invalid, let us begin.”
He followed her up stairs wearily and with an oppressive weight on his
mind.
“Lie down upon the couch, I will search for your dressing-gown and
slippers. Here they are—now see what a capital nurse I shall make.”
He took the dressing-gown and put it on, thrusting his feet at the same
time into a pair of Damascus slippers which she had given him. Cora
brought a pillow from the bed and laid it on the couch.
“There, everything is ready. Lie down and tell me what book I shall
read.”
“Anything you like, Cora.”
He lay down wearily on the couch and curved one arm over his eyes, as if
the light disturbed him. Cora got a book and began to read, but his
immovable position annoyed her.
“Does you head ache badly?” she inquired.
“Yes, it aches; I ache all over;” he replied, turning his face to the
wall; “but go on, I am listening.”
Cora went on with her book, and Seymour lay perfectly still. At last a
slight noise, something like a broken sob, disturbed her. His hand was
over his eyes, but she saw by the crimson strain on his forehead and the
quiver about his mouth that he was crying.
“Why, Seymour, what on earth is the matter with you? This is
intolerable! I hate tears; especially in a man.”
He dashed the drops from his face and turned suddenly.
“You will soon begin to hate me—I feel it—I know it!”
Cora looked at him steadily. It was true she had no sympathy with grief.
What business had he to bring sickness and tears into that chamber?
“Do not let your prophecy work out its own fulfilment,” she said. “The
great charm of our love was that no disagreeable thing ever came near
it.”
He lay quite still, gazing at her from under those long, moist
eyelashes.
“In sorrow or humiliation you would not love me, then?” he said, with a
keen interest in the question that convulsed all his features.
“I don’t know,” she answered thoughtfully, as if the question had
presented itself for the first time to her mind. “To me love is only
perfect with pleasant surroundings. Now, sorrow and tears are not
pleasant, take them from any point of view one will; and sickness—when
real and in earnest, is simply revolting.”
Seymour got up from the couch with a pitiful attempt at playfulness.
“Then I must be making myself very disagreeable,” he said.
“You might be, Seymour, if the fever did not make your cheeks so red,
and if that quick fire had not driven the tears from your eyes. So lie
down again. I rather like you in that dress, it puts me in mind of the
Orient.”
Seymour lay down again with a heavy sigh, and she went on reading. After
awhile her voice became low and drowsy; she read on brokenly, then
making long pauses. At length the book fell into her lap, and, with her
red lips parted as the last word had left them, she fell into a slumber
so profound that she scarcely seemed to breathe.
Then Seymour turned upon his couch and gazed upon her with indescribable
mournfulness, which changed after awhile to an expression of such pain
as seldom visits an innocent man’s face.
“It is enough,” he thought, “she would not overlook it. That which
wounded her delicacy or stung her pride would kill all love. She has no
patience with sickness or sorrow. Well, be it so; I can bury my secret
here like the Spartan boy, till it eats my heart out. Expose it, I never
will.”
Seymour arose carefully from the couch and went into his own room. With
eager and trembling hands he put on his coat and boots, brushed his hair
and went softly into the next room. Cora was sleeping sweetly, and
dreaming of something very pleasant. Her lips parted in a smile, and her
cheeks were two sleeping roses. Seymour loved the woman and could not
keep his lips from her forehead, but they touched it lightly as rose
leaves fall, afraid that a touch would disturb her, and stole out of the
room again, holding his breath as if it had been sacrilegious to kiss
his own wife in her beautiful sleep. It was dark now, he looked out of
the window to make sure of this, and left the house, with the latch-key
in his pocket.
First he went to the hotel, where Brian Nolan still kept his room. Brian
met him with an anxious face, for he saw at once that there was
something wrong. With him sympathy was intuitive; he could not look on
his master’s face without knowing of the pain that was consuming him.
“Brian,” said Seymour, sitting down on the boy’s bed panting for breath.
“Sir, I am here,” answered the boy, lifting his great, loving eyes to
the young man’s face.
Seymour drew Brian close to him and took his head between both his
hands. Thus holding him fast, he looked earnestly into that young face.
“Brian, do you love me?”
“Love you?” answered the boy with a quick heave of the chest. “Yes, I do
love you.”
“But if I were a bad man—if I were wicked, could you love me then?”
“I don’t know, because that would make you another person.”
“But if I had, under great temptation, done a wrong thing, could you
love me then?”
“Yes; it would break my heart, but I should love you all the same.”
Tears stood in the boy’s eyes; he looked wistfully in Seymour’s face.
“You are only saying these things to try me, sir,” he faltered out.
“Yes, I am saying them to try you, Brian. God forbid that I am ever
compelled to put such affection to the test. But it is a great thing to
know that it exists; I shall not feel quite friendless or alone in the
world now.”
“Ah, sir, how can you be alone?”
Seymour smiled but gave no answer. He could not tell that boy of the
speeches his wife had just made, and of the anguish with which they had
filled his heart. He had evidently called on the boy with some definite
purpose, but a change had been wrought by those few words of simple
affection, and requesting Brian to be sure and keep within his room all
the evening, he let the boy go.
“No, no; better run some risk myself than mix him up with the affair.
Danger—I cannot avoid that, but it must be braved rather than imperil
him. What a grand heart the lad has. Let me get through this tight
place, and he shall be lifted out of this menial position. It is a shame
to keep a lad of his parts among such associations, but at present I can
do no better. When our marriage is made known, then indeed—”
Seymour was in the street as these thoughts ran through his mind.
Whatever enterprise had brought him forth, he was evidently resolved on
pursuing it alone. Following a well-formed purpose, he entered a
hair-dresser’s establishment.
Wigs—certainly. Light brown—then the gentleman did not want one for
himself?
No, it was for a friend—an actor going his theatrical rounds in the
west. A moustache too—his friend would want a moustache certainly,
something heavy, to match. Were they certain to compare well by
daylight? No, he would not have time in the morning, they must be ready
for the express.
So the wig was purchased, and on the next block a pair of light steel
glasses, fanciful affairs, such as young men sometimes wear who effect
short-sightedness. With these done up in a parcel and held tightly in
his hand, Seymour walked home in haste, hoping to find his wife still
asleep. Cautiously he turned the latch-key in its lock—more cautiously
still he went up stairs, thankful for the thickness of the carpet, which
rendered his footsteps noiseless. Cora was asleep exactly as he had left
her, except that the heavy hair at the back of her head had partly
broken loose and coiled down to her shoulder. He had walked rapidly,
and, though it seemed an age to him, the real time of his absence had
been brief.
Seymour was scarcely a minute changing his dress and locking up his
purchases. The gas had been lighted early but burned low; he turned it
on more powerfully under its Parian shades, flooding the chamber with
moonlight. Still Cora slept, enjoying her slumber, as she did every
other physical indulgence. In her very dreams she always had a glowing
sense of life, which made her sleep delicious. Sickness really would
have been a terrible calamity to this woman.
Seymour kissed her upon the lips now, and attempted to twist her hair
into place. This awoke her, and she started up, rubbing her eyes open
with both hands, like a sleepy child. Then she opened them wide and
wonderingly on her husband.
“Dear me, I must have fallen away reading; and you, I will wager
anything, dearest, that you set me a naughty example. After all, this
‘Enoch Arden’ does not stand a second reading; the story looms out of
the verse a little too broadly after you have had time to think it over.
What business had this Enoch to let his wife live with another man? It
made him the chief sinner.”
“You would have had him claim his wife, then?” said Seymour.
“Yes; was not his happiness worth as much as that of the other man? She
was his wife.”
“Yes, but she was prosperous and happy with the other man, innocent of
all wrong.”
“What then? He, her husband, was miserable, and had a right to her.”
“You would not have given her up, then?”
“Not if I loved the woman still—that is, supposing myself a man. Could
you have given me up so?”
She asked this, laughing; but he answered in fiery earnest.
“Give you up, Cora? No, no, a thousand times no! The man who takes you
from me must give his life or take mine.”
“But if I loved him?”
“Then I would kill you.”
“Dear me, what a blood-thirsty old darling it is,” cried Cora, who had
just re-arranged the hair in a sumptuous twist behind her head. “But it
is very pleasant to be loved in this brigand fashion, so long as one
loves back, you know.”
“You speak as if change were possible, Cora.”
“Well, all things are possible in this world, I suppose.”
She said this roguishly, looking at him over her shoulder as she thrust
a golden arrow through her hair.
“Cora!”
“Don’t speak so—I am loving you desperately this minute; only don’t talk
of being sick again and spoil it all.”
“But one cannot always be well—”
“What nonsense! of course you can. Come, take your place again, and I
will go over that scene in the woods where the children go a nutting.
That is beautiful!”