When Lavirotte got to Charterhouse Square there was little time to
lose. Already the hearse and two mourning coaches were there. To
himself he seemed not more than half awake. He went about the place
like a man in a dream. He saw certain things occur, and he knew they
were incidental to a funeral, but he made no connection between them
and Dora, between them and his own heart. He was a shadow attending
the obsequies of a wraith. He was now connected with nothing material,
and nothing connected with matter was now going forth.
There was in his mind a formula which he adopted from others--namely,
Dora Harrington was about to be buried, but this had no relation to
his past, his present, or his future.
The events of all that day were to him, afterwards, no more than a
half-forgotten dream. He was conscious of having felt weary, tired,
worn out. He was conscious of being in a kind of vicarious way, on his
own behalf, present at a gloomy ceremonial. He was conscious that
sadness was the leading characteristic of that ceremonial, and he was
conscious of little else.
When all was over he remembered getting back to the tower, clambering
up with difficulty, mounting into the loft which had been his sleeping
room, taking off his clothes (the first time for days), and lying down
in an unmade bed.
He remembered the sense of peace and quiet which had come over him in
that bed, and the gradual approach of sleep, until at last all was
blank. And then he remembered nothing until he saw the early light of
the next day.
He lay a long time looking at the light as it slowly descended on the
wall. His mind became a sluggish whirlpool of memory. He could now see
clearly all the events which had marked recent years. It may be said
his life had not begun until he had met Dora Harrington in London; and
from that point downward, to the hurry and whirl and abysm of to-day,
he saw everything clearly, sharply.
"I meant to be faithful to her," he thought. "I swore it, and I meant
it, my dear, dead Dora. What first made me miss a letter to you? Let
me see. Ah, yes! I remember. I was to have written from Glengowra on
Saturday, and on Friday Eugene O'Donnell asked me to go for a long
walk with him next day. We went inland, towards the mountains, and in
the mountains we lost ourselves and did not get home until midnight,
when it was too late to keep my promise to you, my darling.
"That was the first letter I ever missed. Ah, how many have I missed
since?
"Then what happened? She who is now O'Donnell's wife came between me
and Dora. Her beauty carried me away. I was infatuated, fascinated,
mad, and I forgot my dear girl for an empty dream; an idle, empty
dream that no sane man would have heeded for a moment. Then came
Eugene; and she who could not love me could love him, and I felt that
I had lost both. This made me worse. I lost all command of reason, and
tried to kill him.
"Then came that time at Glengowra when we were both lying hurt, and
the old man, her grandfather, came and induced me to take an interest
in that phantom treasure; and all at once it occurred to me that if
this treasure were found, I could be of the greatest service to the
O'Donnells, whom I had so deeply injured.
"I came to London, to this very place, with the sole object of getting
money to relieve the O'Donnells. All was now right with Dora. We were
on as affectionate terms as ever we had been. But as time went on, and
the days between the O'Donnells and ruin became fewer, I gradually
became more deeply absorbed in the work here, I gradually visited Dora
less frequently. I almost deserted her, for a second time, and
although no estrangement ever arose between her and me, I felt guilty
towards her. But I was carried away headlong by my passionate desire
to rescue the O'Donnells.
"Often as I worked, I knew I was overstraining my constitution; and
when the supreme moment arrived, the urgent letter from Eugene, and
the absolute necessity for immediate success or failure, I broke down
in my lodgings and returned here, only to find that I had been wasting
my time and risking my life in a wild-goose chase.
"Then came the climax, and the narrow escape from sudden death.
"All this seems strangely mixed up with the O'Donnells--all my
misfortune! Then I go away; I go south with the O'Donnells. I go south
to study for the career which would enable me to marry Dora, and I go
south with the O'Donnells. It appears I was fated never to be free
from their presence, from their influence, once I met them, and that
the presence and the influence were to have disastrous effects on my
life.
"I am awhile in Milan when I meet Luigia, who is light-haired, and
red-cheeked, and blue-eyed, and tall and slender and lithe, like the
other, who is now his wife. And first, out of a mere surprise, and a
desire to know how far this likeness went, I took an interest in the
child; an interest, a perfectly innocent interest, I swear to heaven.
"I found her like the other in many ways--in gait, in carriage, in the
bright liveliness of her expression, in the clear simplicity of her
nature, in the straightforward unsuspiciousness of her regard.
"At first I had merely stopped and spoken to the girl, and bought the
flowers she had to sell. Then I began a little chat now and then,
until at last we met alone. But still there was nothing but a kind of
Bohemian friendship between us. I never said any words of love to her
beyond the endearing words of her country, which have no meaning of
love. Still, in some way, the memory of that old infatuation I had for
her who is now his wife came back upon me, and dulled the thought of
Dora; until at last, I do not know how, owing to some queer twist or
turn of the brain, I seemed to think Dora would not miss my letters,
and that it was only a kind of puerile foolishness to write. And so my
letters dropped. And so my girl, my Dora, my darling, died.
"Here again is the inextricable thread, held by the O'Donnells, bound
up in my fate. There must be something in it. All this cannot be for
nothing. I think it would be wisest for me to sever this connection
with the O'Donnells for ever. So far it has brought no good to either
side.
"For a long time I have been thinking of giving up all idea of singing
in public, and turning to medicine. Medicine is a fascinating study,
and I'm sure I have a speciality that way. It runs in my blood; I was
born with it. My celebrated ancestor, Louis Anne Lavirotte, born at
Nolay, in the diocese of Autun, founded what I may call our house, in
so far as it has been distinguished by familiarity with great cerebral
questions. It is true that none of his immediate relatives has proved
as great as he, but still several have devoted themselves to medicine,
and several have made a mark in mental pathology. His 'Observations on
Symptoms of Hydrophobia, following the Mania,' may not be the greatest
work of the kind, but it deserves a prominent place on the shelves of
anyone investigating this mysterious form of disease, which has
baffled man from the earliest records down to now.
"I think I am myself peculiarly qualified to take up inquiry into
particular forms of mental callousness or intensity, for I have what
I believe to be a peculiar faculty of thrusting forth a portion of
my mind into certain and limited psychological regions, into which I
can find no one able to follow me.
"I have often thought that in these moments of uncontrollable, mental
crassness, I am suffering from merely an undue prolongation of a
portion of my mind into unfamiliar regions, where it is surrounded by
isolated and combined images, invisible to others, and to me at normal
times, and then and there illumined by lights and affected by
considerations which have no place in my own normal state, or in the
regard of others.
"The question of the difference between mind and mind, between the
sane and the insane, the man with a fad and the man with a delusion,
the man with a hallucination and the idiot, admits of such subtleties
of thought and delicacies of definition, that I know of nothing more
fascinating to the psychologist.
"The study of the sane mind is in itself an unexplored continent, of
which only the coast line is known. But when we reach the region of
insanity, we are on the confines of an unexplored universe, from
which, as yet, no light has reached us but nebulous blurs of doubt.
"Ay, upon the whole, I think it would be better to abandon all thought
of the glitter and glory of the stage, which is but the glitter and
glory compassable within four walls built by human hands. Whereas, the
glories of research in mental pathology are as infinite as the flight
of thought itself, as incompassable as the fields of reason.
"I'll do it. I am yet young enough, and now there is no hurry; no
hurry, for she is dead. I have my life now before me. It is, after
all, a paltry thing for a man to devote all the years of his manhood
to posturing on a stage, and uttering notes which, once uttered, will
be lost for ever. The voice of the poet is immortal. The voice of the
singer dies with the breath that leaves him. The fame of one is
momently recreated; the fame of the other momently dies for eternity.
What man of ambition would pause to choose between the two? I will
not. I will not abandon the substance for the shadow, the actual for
the dream. My resolve is taken, and I will abide by it, come what
may."
Lavirotte rose and went out. He had no fixed purpose as to what he
should do with himself that day. He had no address in London. He had
said nothing to O'Donnell about leaving. When he found himself in the
busy streets he felt lonely, desolate, derelict. There was not now
even the dead to visit and despair over. No one in the world now had
any interest in him. He was as much alone as any man ever on desert
island. No point of contact connected him with the world around him,
with the world abroad. He had told his landlady at Milan that he was
coming to London. That was all. No one else knew from him whither he
had fled. She would not think of him. And yet it would be a ray in the
dark vault of his solitude if one soul should think of him, and
address him by name, followed by the most commonplace of words. It
would be like touching the hand of a friend if his Milanese landlady
had written him a letter.
He turned his steps towards the Post Office. He entered the place for
strangers' letters. He advanced towards the counter. Then, with a
sardonic smile, he remembered that his Milanese landlady was
illiterate.
Never mind. She might have got someone to write for her. He asked if
there were any letters for him. He was handed one.
Ah, she had.
No, this was from O'Donnell.