PAVIA.
It is said, that when a man is struck blind by lightning, he never
forgets afterwards the minutest object on which his eyes rested when the
searing flash shot across them. Even so, when the crash of the great
misfortune is over, and we wake from dull, heavy insensibility to find
the light gone out of our life for ever, we remember with unnatural
distinctness the most trivial incidents of the last hours of sunshine;
we actually seem to see them over again sometimes, as we grope our way,
hopelessly and helplessly, through the darkness that will endure till it
is changed into night; for it may be, that from our spirit's eyes the
blinding veil will never be lifted, till they unclose in the dawn of the
Resurrection.
Both the cousins had good cause to treasure in their memories every word
and gesture that passed between them on one particular evening; for it
was the last--the very last--of pure, unalloyed happiness that either of
them ever knew. Years afterwards, Wyverne could have told you to a shade
the colour of the ribbons on Helen's dress, the fashion of the bracelets
on each of her wrists, the scent of the flowers she wore. She, too,
remembered right well his attitude when they parted; she could have set
her foot on the very square of marble on which his was planted; she
could recall the exact intonation of his gentle voice, as he bade her
farewell on the lowest step of the great staircase, for he was to start
very early the next morning. She remembered, too, how that night she
lingered before a tall pier-glass, passing her hands indolently through
her magnificent hair, while the light fell capriciously on the dark
shining masses, rejoicing in the contemplation of her surpassing
loveliness; she remembered how she smiled at her image in saucy triumph,
as the thought rose in her heart--that Nina Lenox's mirror held no
picture like this.
Ah, Helen, better it were the glass had been broken then; it may show
you, in after years, a face disdainful of its own marvellous beauty, or
tranquil in its superb indifference, according to your varying mood; but
a happy one--never any more.
The Squire had to go to town for a few days, and Alan, who had also
business there, accompanied him. They were to be back for
Christmas-day--the last in that week. Wyverne got through his affairs
quicker than he had anticipated, so he determined to return a day
sooner, without waiting for his uncle. His evil Genius was close to his
shoulder even here; for, if Hubert Vavasour had been present, it is just
possible, though not probable, that things might have gone differently.
Alan started by an early train, so that he arrived at Dene soon after
midday. Perhaps it was fancy, but he thought that the face of the Chief
Butler wore rather a curious and troubled expression; if it were
possible for that sublimely vacuous countenance to betray any human
emotion, something like a compassionate interest seemed to ruffle its
serenity. The letters of expected visitors were always placed on a
particular table in the great hall. Again--on the top of the pile
waiting for Alan, lay one in the well-known handwriting of Nina Lenox.
This time it was placed naturally, with the seal downwards.
The first, the very first imprecation that had ever crossed Wyverne's
lips in connexion with womankind, passed them audibly, when his eye
lighted on the fatal envelope. He knew right well that it held the
death-warrant of his love; but even now the curse was not levelled at
the authoress of his trouble, but at his own evil fortune. As he took up
the letters, he asked, half mechanically, where his aunt and cousin
were. The answer was ominous:
"My lady was exceedingly unwell, and confined to her room. Miss Vavasour
was somewhere in the Pleasance, but she wished to be sent for as soon as
Sir Alan arrived." He had written the night before, to say he was
coming.
Wyverne walked on into the library without another word. For the moment
he felt stupid and helpless, like a man just waking after an overdose of
narcotics. He sat down, and began turning the letter over and over as if
he were trying to guess at its contents. From its thickness it was
evidently a long one--two or three note-sheets at least. A very few
minutes, however, brought back his self-composure entirely, and he knew
what he had to do. It was clear the letter could not be burnt unopened,
this time. He drew his breath hard once, and set his teeth savagely;
then he tore the envelope and began to read deliberately.
Alan once said, when he happened to be discussing feminine ethics--"I
can conceive women affecting one with any amount of pain or pleasure;
but I don't think anything they could do would ever _surprise_ me." Rash
words those--perhaps they deserved confutation; at any rate the speaker
was thoroughly astounded now. He knew that no look or syllable had ever
passed between himself and Nina Lenox that could be tortured into
serious love-making; yet this letter of hers was precisely such as might
have been written by a passionate, sinful woman, to the man for whom she
had sacrificed enough to make her desertion almost a second crime. There
was nothing of romance in it--nothing that the most indulgent judge
could construe into Platonic affection--it was miserably _practical_
from end to end. No woman alive, reading such words addressed to her
husband or her lover, could have doubted, for a second, what his
relations with the writer had been, even if they were ended now.
Griselda herself would have risen in revolt. It is needless to give even
the heads of that delectable epistle. Mrs. Lenox acknowledged that she
wrote in despite of Alan's repeated prohibition; but--_c'etait plus fort
qu'elle_, and all the rest of it. One point she especially insisted on.
However _he_ might scorn her, surely he would not give _others_ the
right to do so? He would burn the letter, she knew he would, without
speaking of it, far less showing it to any human being; she suffered
enough, without having her miserable weakness betrayed for the amusement
of Miss Vavasour.
Every line that Alan read increased his bewilderment. Was it possible
that dissipation, and trouble, and intrigue had told at last on the busy
brain, so that it had utterly given way? Such things had been; there was
certainly something strange and unnatural in the character of the
writing, sometimes hurried till the words ran into each other, sometimes
laboured and constrained as if penned by a hand that hesitated and
faltered. He knew that Nina was rash beyond rashness, and would indulge
her sudden caprices at any cost, without reckoning the sin or even the
shame, but he could not believe in such a wild _velleite_ as this.
"She must be mad."
Wyverne spoke those words aloud; they were answered by a sigh, or
rather a quick catching of the breath, close to his shoulder; he started
to his feet, and stood face to face with Helen Vavasour, who had entered
unobserved while he sat in his deep reverie.
Helen was still in her walking-dress; a fall of lace slightly shaded her
brow and cheeks, but it could not dissemble the bright feverish flush
that made the white pallor of all the lower part of the face more
painfully apparent; the pupils of her great eyes were contracted, and
they glittered with the strange _serpentine_ light which is one of the
evidences of poison by belladonna; but neither cheeks nor eyes bore
trace of a tear. She had schooled herself to speak quite deliberately
and calmly; the effect was apparent, not only in the careful
accentuation of each syllable, but in her voice--neither harsh nor
hollow, yet utterly changed.
"Mad, Alan? Yes, we have all been mad. It is time that this should come
to an end. You think, so, too, I am sure."
Wyverne had known, from the first moment that he saw the letter, how it
would fare with him; but the bitter irritation which had hardened his
heart on a former occasion was not there now; he could not even be angry
with those who had brought him to this pass; all other feelings were
swallowed up in an intense, half-unselfish sorrow.
"Dear child, it _is_ more than time that you should be set free from me
and my miserable fortunes. We will drift away, alone, henceforth, as we
ought always to have done. It was simply a sin, ever to have risked
dragging you down with the wreck; it must founder soon. Ah, remember, I
said so once, and you--never mind that--I'll make what amends I can; but
I have done fearful harm already. Three months more of this, would wear
you out in mind and body; even now they will tell in your life like
years. We most part now. Darling, try to forget, and to forgive,
too--for you have much to forgive."
He stopped for a moment, but went on quickly, answering the wild,
haggard question of her startled eyes; she had understood those last
words wrongly.
"No--not that;" he struck the letter he still held, impatiently, with a
finger of the other hand. "I told you once, I would never ask you to
believe me again as you did then. I don't ask you to act as if you
believed, now. But, Helen, you will know one day before we die, whether
I have been sinned against or sinning in this thing; I feel sure of it,
or--I should doubt the justice of God."
The soft, sad voice quite broke down the calmness it had cost Helen so
much to assume; she could not listen longer, and broke in with all her
own impetuosity--
"Ah, Alan! don't ask it; it is not right of you. You know I _must_
believe whatever you tell me, and I dare not--do you hear--I dare not,
now. It is too late. I have promised--" and she stopped, shivering.
Wyverne's look was keen and searching; but it was not at _her_ that his
brows were bent. He took the little trembling hand in his own, and tried
to quiet the leaping pulses, and his tones were more soothing than ever.
"I know it all, darling; I know how bravely you have tried to keep your
faith with me; I shall thank you for it to my life's end, not the less
because neither you nor I were strong enough to fight against fate,
and--Aunt Mildred. I cannot blame her: if I could, _you_ should not hear
me. She was right to make you promise before you came here. It was
unconditionally, of course?"
The girl's cheek flushed painfully.
"There was a condition," she murmured under her breath; "but I hardly
dare. Yes; I dare say anything--to you. Mamma sent for me when that
letter came, or I should never have heard of it. She did not say how
_she_ knew. You cannot think how determined she is. I _was_ angry at
first; but when I saw how hard she was, I was frightened; and, Alan,
indeed, indeed I did all I could to soften her. At last she said that
she would not insist on my giving you up, if--if you would show me that
letter. Ah, Alan--what have _I_ done?"
He had dropped her hand before she ended, and stood looking at her with
an expression that she had never dreamt could dwell in his
eyes--repellant to the last degree, too cold and contemptuous for anger.
It softened, though, in a second or two at the sight of Helen's
distress.
"Did you doubt what my answer would be? I am very sure your mother never
doubted: she knew me better."
No answer; but she bowed her beautiful head till it could rest on his
arm; a stormy sob or two made her slender frame quiver down to the feet;
and then, with a rush like that of Undine's unlocked well, the pent-up
tears came. The passion-gust soon passed away; and her cousin kept
silence till Helen was calm again; then he spoke very gently and
gravely.
"Do forgive me; I did not mean to be harsh. You only gave your message,
I know; but it was like a stab to hear your lips utter it. Child, look
up at me, and listen. I need not tell you I am speaking God's truth--you
feel it. You know what I have done to stop these accursed letters. I
believe the writer to be mad; but that will not help us. I think I would
stand by and see her burned at the stake, as better women have been
before her, if by that sacrifice I could keep your love. But--if I knew,
that by this one act I could make you my very own, so that nothing but
the grave could part us--I would not show you a line of her letter. It
may be, that there are higher duties which justify the betrayal of an
unhappy woman, when her very confidence is a sin. I dare say I am wrong
in my notions of honour, as well as in other things; but, such as they
are, I'll stand by them to the death, and--to what I think must be
harder to bear than death. I don't hesitate, because I have no choice. I
know that I am casting, this moment, my life's happiness away:
Helen--see--my hand does not tremble."
He tossed the letter as he spoke into the wood fire blazing beside them;
it dropped between two red logs, and, just flashing up for a second,
mingled with the heap of ashes.
Now, Wyverne's conduct will appear to many absurdly Quixotic, and some
will think it deserves a harsher name than folly. I decline to argue
either point. It seems to me--when one states fairly at the beginning of
a story, "that it has no Hero"--the writer is by no means called upon to
identify himself with the sentiments of his principal character, much
less to defend them. I have not intended to hold up Alan Wyverne either
as a model or a warning. He stands there for what he is worth--a man not
particularly wise or virtuous or immaculate, but frank and affectionate
by nature, with firmness enough to enable him to act consistently
according to the light given him. Whether that light was a false one or
no, is a question that each particular reader may settle _a son gre_.
Purely on the grounds of probability, I would suggest that others have
sacrificed quite as much for scruples quite as visionary. Putting aside
the legions of lives that have been thrown away on doubtful points of
social professional honour, have not staid and grave men submitted to
the extremes of penury, peril, and persecution, because they would not
give up some favourite theory involving no question of moral right or
wrong? The _Peine forte et dure_ could scarcely have been an agreeable
process; yet a Jesuit chose to endure it, and died under the iron press,
rather than plead before what he held to be an incompetent tribunal. You
constantly say of such cases, "One can't help respecting the man, to a
certain extent." Now, I don't ask you to respect Alan Wyverne: it is
enough, if you admit that his folly was not without parallels.
Among those who could blame or despise him, Helen Vavasour was not
numbered: she never felt more proud of her lover than at that moment
when his own act had parted them irrevocably. She was not of the
"weeping willow" order, you know; the tears still hanging on her
eyelashes were the first she had shed since childhood in serious sorrow.
Quick and impetuous enough in temper, she was so unaccustomed to indulge
any violent demonstration of feeling, that she felt somewhat ashamed of
having yielded to it now. But the brief outbreak did her good; it
lightened her brain and brought back elasticity to her nerves. There is
nothing like a storm for clearing the atmosphere. Nevertheless, the
haughty, bold spirit was for the moment thoroughly beaten down. There
was something in her accent piteous beyond the power of words to
describe, as she whispered half to herself,
"Yes, we must part; but it is too, too hard."
"Hardest of all," he said, "to part on a pretext like this. There is
either madness or magic, or black treachery against me, I swear. Some
day we shall know. But, darling, sooner or later it must have come. I
have felt that for weeks past, though I tried hard to delude myself. I
must say good-bye to Dene in an hour. When shall I see the dear old
house again? I am so sorry for Uncle Hubert, too. If he had been
here--no, perhaps it is best so--there would have been more wounded, and
we could never have won the day."
"Don't go yet; ah, not yet"--the sweet voice pleaded--all its dangerous
melody had stolen back to it now, and lithe fingers twined themselves
round Alan's, as though they would never set him free.
But Wyverne was aware that the self-control which had carried him
through so far, was nearly exhausted. He had to think for _both_, you
see; and it was the more trying, because the part of Moderator was so
utterly new to him; nevertheless, he played it honestly and bravely.
"I dare not stay. I _must_ see Uncle Hubert before I sleep; and it is
only barely possible, if I leave Dene in half an hour. Listen, my Helen:
I am not saying good-bye to _you_, though I say it to our past. I lose
my wife; but I do not intend to lose my cousin. I will see you again as
soon as I can do so safely. A great black wall is built up now, between
the future, and all that we two have said and done: I will never try to
pass it again by thought or word. You will forget all this. Hush, dear.
You think it impossible at this moment, but _I_ know better. You will
play a grand part in the world one of these days, and perhaps you may
want a friend--a real friend. Then you shall think of me. I will help
you with heart and hand as long as life lasts; and I will do so in all
truth and honour--as I hope to meet my dead mother, and Gracie, and you,
in heaven."
She did not answer in words. The interview lasted about a hundred
seconds longer, but I do not feel called upon to chronicle the last
details. Writers, as well as narrators, have a right to certain
reserves.
Alan Wyverne was away from Dene before the half hour was out; but he
left a sealed note behind him for his aunt. "My lady" was waiting the
issue somewhat anxiously; it is needless to say, her health was the
merest pretext. She read the note through, calmly enough; but, when she
opened her escritoire to lock it up safely, her hands shook like
aspen-leaves, and she drank off eagerly the strongest dose of "red
lavender" that had passed her lips for many a day.
Does not that decisive interview seem absurdly abrupt and brief? It is
true that I have purposely omitted many insignificant words and
gestures; but if all these had been chronicled, it would still have been
disappointingly matter-of-fact and meagre.
Nevertheless--believe it--to build up a life's happiness is a work of
time and labour, aided by great good fortune: to ruin and shatter it
utterly is a question of a short half hour, even where no ill luck
intervenes. It took months of toil to build the good ship Hesperus,
though her timbers were seasoned and ready to hand; it took hours of
trouble to launch her when thoroughly equipped for sea; but it took only
a few minutes of wave-and-wind-play, to shiver her into splinters, when
her keel crushed down on the reef of Norman's Woe.