SHADOWS OF THE HEART OF YOUTH
Be mine a philosopher’s life in the quiet woodland ways,
Where, if I cannot be gay, let a passionless peace be my lot.
Far off from the clamour of liars, ...
And most of all would I flee from the cruel madness of love,
The poison of honey-flowers, and all the measureless ills!
—TENNYSON (_Maud_).
The moon, fulfilling its lower summer circuit, had moved already a
considerable span upon the wondrous measure that, to the watcher, seems
imperceptibly slow, and yet, like the passing of the hour, asserts
itself with such irrevocable swiftness. The night had deepened from pale
sapphire to dark amethyst. Below, all around, the great woods at Bindon,
silver-crested southwards, whispered; and the light airs that stirred
them gathered sweets from the rose-gardens and spices from the Herbary
before reaching the two on their tower. These airs, Ellinor thought,
must pass on their way again, heavy with the sighs of her heart!
“On such a night,” what might not have been this meeting! With life all
before them yet, what perversity was it to spend this silvery hour in
the story of old and ugly wrongs; when God had made a heaven so fair, an
earth so scented and a woman’s heart so true, to see all with distorted
vision and consort with the remembrance of injury until the voice of no
better comrade could make itself heard!
He told her with how high a heart he had set forth on life; and indeed
she well remembered his gallant figure in the pride of youth, his lofty
idealism and his fine intolerant scorn. She remembered, too, the witty
mocking countenance, the cold green eye, the dark, auburn head of the
Master of Lochore.—Lochore! Ellinor had instinctively dreaded and hated
him. But with David he had taken the lead in everything; the relentless
strength of the elder man’s nature had transformed him into a kind of
hero for the younger, at a time when student-brains are peopled with
ideals of the highest pitch in all things, be it love or sport, war or
friendship. David’s reflective temperament was fascinated by a spirit of
essential joyousness and fierceness.—In but a few words David touched on
his past romantic affection for this Cosmo Lochore. It was with a sneer,
as if the ghost of his own green youth had risen up before him and he
could have withered it for his contemptible folly.
“Then,” he went on, “came the long-promised month on the moors, at the
edge of the Lochore Forest. Cosmo, in his kilt, at early dawn ... to see
his crest of hair and his eagle feather flame in the first shaft of
light! I don’t suppose that any feelings can ever be quite so pure, so
strong, so ideal, as this sort of boy adoration for the man. Ideal!”
repeated David, and struck with his buckled shoe against a fernlet that
had found a home for itself between two stones of the tower flooring and
cast a little shadow in the moonlight.
Ellinor saw how he set his foot upon it, and thought the action
symbolic.
“Ideal!” cried he, gibing at himself. “That is my curse, you see, that I
cannot even now, accept life as it is! Fie! How ugly is all reality to
me! What is in the doom of corruption that we carry in the flesh
compared to the doom of corruption in the spirit? No! Rather this stone
at my feet and the stars above my head!” He lifted, as he spoke, his
face towards the sky; but it caught now no reflection of serenity, only
light upon its own trouble. “I was an idealiser in friendship—how much
more when it came to love!”
Impassively as she held herself, she could not control a slight start, a
quick look at him. He was gazing beyond her, as if out there, in the
night, the phantom of his first lost love had arisen before him. And
when he went on speaking after a pause, it was as if he were addressing
not Ellinor, but her—the Unknown—who had brought short joy and lasting
sorrow into his life. Oh! Ellinor had been a fool not to have known how
deep it had gone with him, since, after all these long years his every
word, every action, bore witness to it! And yet, as she now looked at
his face, she told herself she had not known it.
“A little creature—a kind of sprite, as light as a little brown bird, as
lissom, as hardy as a heather blossom!”
Thus, from the unknown past, Ellinor’s rival rose before her: to be
light, to be little, to be swift and lissom and brown—that was the way
into his heart!... In every inch of her own splendid frame the listening
woman felt great and massive, marble-white and still.
He paused. His mind was miles and years away. She caught her breath with
a sigh that sounded so loud in her own ears that she tried to cover it
with a laugh. Quickly the man wheeled round upon her.
“There is humour in my tale, is there not?” cried he, and his look and
tone cut like the lash of a whip. “But give me your patience—the cream
of the humour has yet to come!”
“Oh, David,” cried she in anger. “If I am not light of body, neither am
I light of mind!”
If one like Colonel Harcourt, who understood the ways of women, had
heard this cry, how knowing would have been his smile! What could David
see of the heart laid bare? He looked upon her face and marked it
scornful. The anger in her voice had struck him, but the wail of it had
passed him by.
“Do I accuse you women?” he exclaimed. “Why should I! Have you not been
made to match us men? The night that Lochore and I lost our way upon the
moor and found refuge under the roof where she dwelt was the beginning
of my instruction in life! Ah, God! The old story—I fell in love as I
had fallen in friendship. It had been sweet to me to look up and feel
myself protected by one like Lochore, stronger and better, as I thought,
than myself. I thought it was ineffably sweet to find something so much
weaker, so much smaller than I; something I could protect, something
that looked up to me; brown eyes that seemed as true as they were
deep—and scarlet lips that could kiss with such innocently ardent
kisses....”
A fresh wave of anger swept through Ellinor’s veins. There came to her
an almost overpowering impulse to spring to her feet, throw away her
cloak and stand forth in her scorn, in her pride of life, in her
wholesome humanity. Those unknown lips, those scarlet lips ... disowned
now as they were, had still power to sting her. But she sat immovable,
and let jealousy and love work their torture.
“You must think me mad,” cried David, with another abrupt change, “to
inflict the old story upon you, the trite old story all the world knows.
You know, Ellinor, you know.” He now addressed her with a personal,
almost violent, directness. The matter seemed once more to lie between
him and her alone. “I loved her, and she said she loved me. I was to
make her my wife—my wife! Lochore mocked first, then stormed. We had our
first quarrel; he swore he would prevent this madness. I was strong
against him with a new strength—the strength of love against
friendship.... Friendship! I forgave him, because I thought I must
forgive such friendship! I left her. She wrote tender letters. I was to
claim her in a few weeks. Suddenly I got a longing for her that could
not be denied: a poet’s longing—the poet that lies in the heart of every
lad of twenty! And then, do you need to be told how there was murder
done upon that poet, murder upon the dreamer! upon his trust and his
faith, upon his every hold on life? Had it been but on his wretched
flesh! But that they let live!”
He now bent over her, a bitter laugh upon his lips.
“There was a certain walk, Ellinor, sacred to our love. All those weeks
I had dreamed of it, of the primrose sky and the meeting of our lips—in
my ideal way!” He laughed aloud. “I ran to it straight. I had not gone
two steps when I heard there on that consecrated spot, a laugh. The
sound of her laughter so much more joyous than ever she had laughed for
me—the sound of her voice, high and bright. And mingling with it, in
familiar jests and tenderness the sound of a man’s voice——” He stopped,
and fixed her; then, once more drawing back, laughed again: “I had
thought it was consecrated ground, you see!”
His ironic fury, as yet contained, was so intently pointed at herself
that it could not but be revealing. The reproach of betrayal, then, was
not to the little brown thing of the moor, but to her—to the great white
woman!
Could it be possible? What insanity! And yet what sweetness! He had
known, then, of that infraction in their own Herb-Garden this morning!
Jealousy! There is no jealousy without love ... oh, then, she could
forgive him all!
She rose, drawing a deep, joyous breath, and answered the indictment as
she had taken it to herself.
“And what of it, David?” said she. Trembling upon her lips was almost
that surrender which it is a woman’s pride never to offer. “What of it?”
And she would have added—“A woman cannot always be guardian of the outer
world, however consecrated she may hold certain gardens. But so long as
her heart remains inviolate, so long as that remains consecrate, what
does anything else matter?” But he had quickly caught up her spoken word
with a fresh outburst of frenzy.
“What of it?” he echoed. “You may well ask the question. Is it not a
thing that happens every day? You are right, the man who would live in
the world must close his ears to what is not meant for them; as he must
shut his eyes, no matter how flagrant the treachery, that is spread out
before him. And then, no doubt, he may find the world a vastly pleasant
place. That is the proper doctrine. Oh, and ’tis the natural one, for we
are all made cowards? I myself, when I heard, I ran from the sound. I
threw myself upon the moor that evening. I thrust my fingers into my
ears. I reasoned with myself against what I knew was the truth—that is
what people call reason. And I said what you have said: What of it!”
There was a moment’s silence. Then his voice rang out once more:
“But I could not!” He struck his breast. “I could not. There is
something here even now in this dead heart of mine that must live in me
as long as the spirit is in me. The truth, the truth! I cannot lie to
myself, I cannot believe in another’s lies—I had heard, I must see. I
rose from the ground, it was drenched with dew. It was night. Something
led me, angel or demon. There was fire-light leaping up against the
window. I looked in—I saw. Oh, you woman, turn away your false,
compassionate eyes, for one thing I have sworn that I will never look on
a woman’s treachery again!”
“David,” cried Ellinor again, “remember that I am of your blood!”
“Aye, of my blood. The mockery of fate is complete: betrayed by
friendship, betrayed by love, betrayed by my own blood——!”
“David!”
“Yes—Maud, my sister, that is my own blood, is it not? Maud laughed, oh,
she laughed! She came and sat by the side of my bed, the wound that
Lochore’s bullet had made was yet green in my lung—for the memory of our
old friendship he could not even do me the mercy to shoot straight—and
she, my own sister ... my blood! She was to marry the man whose hand was
red and whose soul was black, the man who had openly flaunted about
Town, as the latest Corinthian, the girl that was to have been his
friend’s bride, and boasted that he had done me what he called the best
service one man could do another. ‘Why, fool, you owe him eternal
gratitude,’ said Maud. It was a huge joke!”
Terrified, Ellinor stood looking at him. If her pride had allowed her to
reason with him earlier, perhaps it might have availed. Now she felt
that any words of hers would be worse than useless. As well try to
reason away ague or delirium.
“My friend, my love, my kin, you see!” he cried. “History repeats
itself. You, you,” he came close to her with a frenzied gesture as if to
overwhelm her with reproach, “you, my kin, you who came into my solitude
as my friend, you whom some blind madness has kept whispering to me was
to be my love, you would combine in your single person the three
traitors that stabbed my youth!”
She never knew if she had screamed, or if it was only the cry of her
heart that suddenly rang in her ears. But she seized and clung to his
descending hand as it would have waved her from him for ever.
“Ah, no, David, no!” she repeated, the denegation in a voice as frenzied
as his own. And suddenly her ice of pride melted and the tears came
streaming from her eyes. At the sight the man seemed to come back in
some way to his senses. The cold hand she held became more human warm.
“Tears?” he said in an altered voice. “Have I caused you tears? Ah,
don’t cry, Ellinor! I must not blame you; it is only that the world is
not made for me, nor I for the world. Forgive me and forget. You are
what you are. I am what I am.” He drew his hand from hers, turned his
glance away. “To-night, as you sat, so resplendent, so pleased with the
flattery and the admiration of these ... these creatures; so decked out,
so different, the scales fell away from my eyes. I saw the new course of
self-deception I had entered upon; and it was very bitter. I have had no
sleep this month. The past has been brought back upon me. I knew that it
would be so—and dreaded it. Forgive me, Ellinor!”
He took her hand and led her, as he spoke, back into the observatory and
towards the stairs. She felt she was being dismissed from her high place
in his life.
When they reached the tower stair he said again: “Forgive me, forget.”
And as he spoke he dropped her hand. And she ran from him into the
shelter of the darkness.
She wept through the night. But, heavy as was the darkness about her
soul, in it shone one star at least. Jealous! He was jealous ... and
without love there is no jealousy.