"There is no one,"--I said--"There never has been anyone." I paused; I
could almost feel the warmth of the strong hand that had held mine in
my dream of the past night. It was mere fancy, and I went on--"I should
not care for what modern men and women call love. It seems very
unsatisfactory."
She sighed.
"It is frequently very selfish,"--she said--"I want to tell you my
love-story--may I?"
"Why, of course!" I answered, a little wonderingly, for I had not
thought she had a love-story to tell.
"It's very brief,"--she said, and her lip quivered--"There was a man
who used to visit our house very often when I first came out,--he made
me believe he was very fond of me. I was more than fond of him--I
almost worshipped him. He was all the world to me, and though father
did not like him very much he wished me to be happy, so we were
engaged. That was the time of my life--the only time I ever knew what
happiness was. One evening, just about three months before we were to
be married, we were together at a party in the house of one of our
mutual friends, and I heard him talking rather loudly in a room where
he and two or three other men had gone to smoke. He said something that
made me stand still and wonder whether I was mad or dreaming. 'Pity me
when I'm married to Catherine Harland!' Pity him? I listened,--I knew
it was wrong to listen, but I could not help myself. 'Well, you'll get
enough cash with her to set you all right in the world, anyhow,'--said
another man, 'You can put up with a plain wife for the sake of a pretty
fortune.' Then he,--my love!--spoke again--'Oh, I shall make the best
of it,' he said--'I must have money somehow, and this is the easiest
way. There's one good thing about modern life,--husbands and wives
don't hunt in couples as they used to do, so when once the knot is tied
I shall shift my matrimonial burden off my shoulders as much as I can.
She'll amuse herself with her clothes and the household,--and she's
fond of me, so I shall always have my own way. But it's an awful
martyrdom to have to marry one woman on account of empty pockets when
you're in love with another.' I heard,--and then--I don't know what
happened."
Her eyes stared at me so pitifully that I was full of sorrow for her.
"Oh, you poor Catherine!" I said, and taking her hand, I kissed it
gently. The tears in her eyes brimmed over.
"They found me lying on the floor insensible,"--she went on,
tremulously--"And I was very ill for a long time afterwards. People
could not understand it when I broke off my engagement. I told nobody
why--except HIM. He seemed sorry and a little ashamed,--but I think he
was more vexed at losing my fortune than anything else. I said to him
that I had never thought about being plain,--that the idea of his
loving me had made me feel beautiful. That was true!--my dear, I almost
believe I should have grown into beauty if I had been sure of his love."
I understood that; she was perfectly right in what to the entirely
commonplace person would seem a fanciful theory. Love makes all things
fair, and anyone who is conscious of being tenderly loved grows lovely,
as a rose that is conscious of the sun grows into form and colour.
"Well, it was all over then,"--she ended, with a sigh, "I never was
quite myself again--I think my nerves got a sort of shock such as the
great novelist, Charles Dickens had when he was in the railway
accident--you remember the tale in Forster's 'Life'? How the carriage
hung over the edge of an embankment but did not actually fall,--and
Dickens was clinging on to it all the time. He never got over it, and
it was the remote cause of his death five years later. Now I have felt
just like that,--my life has hung over a sort of chasm ever since I
lost my love, and I only cling on."
"But surely,"--I ventured to say--"surely there are other things to
live for than just the memory of one man's love which was not love at
all! You seem to think there was some cruelty or unhappiness in the
chance that separated you from him,--but really it was a special mercy
and favour of God--only you have taken it in the wrong way."
"I have taken it in the only possible way,"--she said--"With
resignation."
"Oh, do you call it resignation?" I exclaimed--"To make a misery of
what should have been a gladness? Think of the years and years of
wretchedness you might have passed with a man who was a merely selfish
fortune-hunter! You would have had to see him grow colder and more
callous every day--your heart would have been torn, your spirit
broken--and God spared you all this by giving you your chance of
freedom! Such a chance! You might have made much of it, if you had only
chosen!"
She looked at me, but did not speak.
"Love comes to us in a million beautiful ways,"--I went on, heedless of
how she might take my words--"The ordinary love,--or, I would say, the
ordinary mating and marriage is only ONE way. You cannot live in the
world without being loved--if you love!"
She moved on her pillows restlessly.
"I can't see what you mean,"--she said--"How can I love? I have nothing
to love!"
"But do you not see that you are shutting yourself out from love?" I
said--"You will not have it! You bar its approach. You encourage your
sad and morbid fancies, and think of illness when you might just as
well think of health. Oh, I know you will say I am 'up in the air' as
your father expresses it,--but it's true all the same that if you love
everything in Nature--yes, everything!--sunshine, air, cloud, rain,
trees, birds, blossom,--they will love you in return and give you some
of their life and strength and beauty."
She smiled,--a very bitter little smile.
"You talk like a poet,"--she said--"And of all things in the world I
hate poetry! There!--don't think me cross! Go along and be happy in
your own strange fanciful way! I cannot be other than I am,--Dr. Brayle
will tell you that I'm not strong enough to share in other people's
lives and aims and pleasures,--I must always consider myself."
"Dr. Brayle tells you that?" I queried--"To consider yourself?"
"Of course he does. If I had not considered myself every hour and every
day, I should have been dead long ago. I have to consider everything I
eat and drink lest it should make me ill."