Spring came to Highlawns, Eden tinted with myriad tender greens.
Yellow-greens, like the beech boughs over the old wall, and gentle
blue-greens, like the turf; and the waters of the lake were blue and
white in imitation of the cloud-flecked sky. It seemed to Honora, as she
sat on the garden bench, that the yellow and crimson tulips could not
open wide enough their cups to the sun.
In these days she looked at her idol, and for the first time believed
it to be within her finite powers to measure him. She began by asking
herself if it were really she who had ruined his life, and whether he
would ultimately have redeemed himself if he had married a woman whom
the world would have recognized. Thus did the first doubt invade her
heart. It was of him she was thinking still, and always. But there was
the doubt. If he could have stood this supreme test of isolation, of the
world's laughter and scorn, although it would have made her own heavy
burden of responsibility heavier, yet could she still have rejoiced.
That he should crumble was the greatest of her punishments.
Was he crumbling? In these months she could not quite be sure, and
she tried to shut her eyes when the little pieces fell off, to
remind herself that she must make allowances for the severity of his
disappointment. Spring was here, the spring to which he had so eagerly
looked forward, and yet the listlessness with which he went about his
work was apparent. Sometimes he did not appear at breakfast, although
Honora clung with desperation to the hour they had originally fixed:
sometimes Mr. Manning waited for him until nearly ten o'clock, only to
receive curt dismissal. He went off for long rides, alone, and to the
despair of the groom brought back the horses in a lather, with drooping
heads and heaving sides; one of them he ruined. He declared there wasn't
a horse in the stable fit to give him exercise.
Often he sat for hours in his study, brooding, inaccessible. She had
the tennis-court rolled and marked, but the contests here were
pitifully-unequal; for the row of silver cups on his mantel, engraved
with many dates, bore witness to his athletic prowess. She wrote for
a book on solitaire, but after a while the sight of cards became
distasteful. With a secret diligence she read the reviews, and sent for
novels and memoirs which she scanned eagerly before they were begun with
him. Once, when she went into his study on an errand, she stood for a
minute gazing painfully at the cleared space on his desk where once
had lain the papers and letters relative to the life of General Angus
Chiltern.
There were intervals in which her hope flared, in which she tasted,
fearfully and with bated breath, something that she had not thought to
know again. It was characteristic of him that his penitence was never
spoken: nor did he exhibit penitence. He seemed rather at such times
merely to become normally himself, as one who changes personality,
apparently oblivious to the moods and deeds of yesterday. And these
occasions added perplexity to her troubles. She could not reproach
him--which perhaps in any event she would have been too wise to do;
but she could not, try as she would, bring herself to the point of a
discussion of their situation. The risk, she felt, was too great; now,
at least. There were instances that made her hope that the hour might
come.
One fragrant morning Honora came down to find him awaiting her, and
to perceive lying on her napkin certain distilled drops of the spring
sunshine. In language less poetic, diamonds to be worn in the ears. The
wheel of fashion, it appeared, had made a complete revolution since the
early days of his mother's marriage. She gave a little exclamation, and
her hand went to her heart.
“They are Brazilian stones,” he explained, with a boyish pleasure that
awoke memories and held her speechless. “I believe it's very difficult,
if not impossible, to buy them now. My father got them after the war and
I had them remounted.” And he pressed them against the pink lobes of her
ears. “You look like the Queen of Sheba.”
“How do you know?” she asked tremulously. “You never saw her.”
“According to competent judges,” he replied, “she was the most beautiful
woman of her time. Go upstairs and put them on.”
She shook her head. An inspiration had come to her.
“Wait,” she cried. And that morning, when Hugh had gone out, she sent
for Starling and startled him by commanding that the famous Lowestoft
set be used at dinner. He stared at her, and the corners of his mouth
twitched, and still he stood respectfully in the doorway.
“That is all, Starling.”
“I beg pardon, madam. How--how many will there be at the table?”
“Just Mr. Chiltern and I,” she replied. But she did not look at him.
It was superstition, undoubtedly. She was well aware that Starling had
not believed that the set would be used again. An extraordinary order,
that might well have sent him away wondering; for the Lowestoft had been
reserved for occasions. Ah, but this was to be an occasion, a festival!
The whimsical fancy grew in her mind as the day progressed, and she
longed with an unaccustomed impatience for nightfall, and anticipation
had a strange taste. Mathilde, with the sympathetic gift of her nation,
shared the excitement of her mistress in this fete. The curtains in the
pink bedroom were drawn, and on the bed, in all its splendour of lace
and roses, was spread out the dinner-gown-a chef-d'oeuvre of Madame
Barriere's as yet unworn. And no vulgar, worldly triumph was it to
adorn.
Her heart was beating fast as she descended the stairway, bright spots
of colour flaming in her cheeks and the diamonds sparkling in her ears.
A prima donna might have guessed her feelings as she paused, a little
breathless on the wide landing under the windows. She heard a footstep.
Hugh came out of the library and stood motionless, looking up at her.
But even those who have felt the silence and the stir that prefaces the
clamorous applause of the thousands could not know the thrill that swept
her under his tribute. She came down the last flight of steps, slowly,
and stopped in front of him.
“You are wonderful, Honora!” he said, and his voice was not quite under
control. He took her hand, that trembled in his, and he seemed to be
seeking to express something for which he could find no words. Thus may
the King have looked upon Rosamond in her bower; upon a beauty created
for the adornment of courts which he had sequestered for his eyes alone.
Honora, as though merely by the touch of his hand in hers, divined his
thought.
“If you think me so, dear,” she whispered happily, “it's all I ask.”
And they went in to dinner as to a ceremony. It was indeed a ceremony
filled for her with some occult, sacred, meaning that she could not put
into words. A feast symbolical. Starling was sent to the wine-cellar to
bring back a cobwebbed Madeira near a century old, brought out on rare
occasions in the family. And Hugh, when his glass was filled, looked at
his wife and raised it in silence to his lips.
She never forgot the scene. The red glow of light from the shaded
candles on the table, and the corners of the dining room filled with
gloom. The old butler, like a high priest, standing behind his master's
chair. The long windows, with the curtains drawn in the deep, panelled
arches; the carved white mantelpiece; the glint of silver on' the
sideboard, with its wine-cooler underneath,--these, spoke of generations
of respectability and achievement. Would this absorbed isolation, this
marvellous wild love of theirs, be the end of it all? Honora, as one
detached, as a ghost in the corner, saw herself in the picture with
startling clearness. When she looked up, she met her husband's eyes.
Always she met them, and in them a questioning, almost startled look
that was new. “Is it the earrings?” she asked at last. “I don't know,”
he answered. “I can't tell. They seem to have changed you, but perhaps
they have brought out something in your face and eyes I have never seen
before.”
“And--you like it, Hugh?”
“Yes, I like it,” he replied, and added enigmatically, “but I don't
understand it.”
She was silent, and oddly satisfied, trusting to fate to send more
mysteries.
Two days had not passed when that restlessness for which she watched so
narrowly revived. He wandered aimlessly about the place, and flared up
into such a sudden violent temper at one of the helpers in the fields
that the man ran as for his life, and refused to set foot again on any
of the Chiltern farms. In the afternoon he sent for Honora to ride with
him, and scolded her for keeping him waiting. And he wore a spur,
and pressed his horse so savagely that she cried out in remonstrance,
although at such times she had grown to fear him.
“Oh, Hugh, how can you be so cruel!”
“The beast has no spirit,” he said shortly. “I'll get one that has.”
Their road wound through the western side of the estate towards misty
rolling country, in the folds of which lay countless lakes, and at
length they caught sight of an unpainted farmhouse set amidst a white
cloud of apple trees in bloom. On the doorstep, whittling, sat a
bearded, unkempt farmer with a huge frame. In answer to Hugh's question
he admitted that he had a horse for sale, stuck his knife in the step,
rose, and went off towards the barn near by; and presently reappeared,
leading by a halter a magnificent black. The animal stood jerking his
head, blowing and pawing the ground while Chiltern examined him.
“He's been ridden?” he asked.
The man nodded.
Chiltern sprang to the ground and began to undo his saddle girths. A
sudden fear seized Honora.
“Oh, Hugh, you're not going to ride him!” she exclaimed.
“Why not? How else am I going to find out anything about him?”
“He looks--dangerous,” she faltered.
“I'm tired of horses that haven't any life in them,” he said, as he
lifted off the saddle.
“I guess we'd better get him in the barn,” said the farmer.
Honora went behind them to witness the operation, which was not devoid
of excitement. The great beast plunged savagely when they tightened the
girths, and closed his teeth obstinately against the bit; but the farmer
held firmly to his nose and shut off his wind. They led him out from the
barn floor.
“Your name Chiltern?” asked the farmer.
“Yes,” said Hugh, curtly.
“Thought so,” said the farmer, and he held the horse's head.
Honora had a feeling of faintness.
“Hugh, do be careful!” she pleaded.
He paid no heed to her. His eyes, she noticed, had a certain feverish
glitter of animation, of impatience, such as men of his type must wear
when they go into battle. He seized the horse's mane, he put his foot
in the stirrup; the astonished animal gave a snort and jerked the bridle
from the farmer's hand. But Chiltern was in the saddle, with knees
pressed tight.
There ensued a struggle that Honora will never forget. And although she
never again saw that farm-house, its details and surroundings come back
to her in vivid colours when she closes her eyes. The great horse in
every conceivable pose, with veins standing out and knotty muscles
twisting in his legs and neck and thighs. Once, when he dashed into the
apple trees, she gave a cry; a branch snapped, and Chiltern emerged,
still seated, with his hat gone and the blood trickling from a scratch
on his forehead. She saw him strike with his spurs, and in a twinkling
horse and rider had passed over the dilapidated remains of a fence
and were flying down the hard clay road, disappearing into a dip. A
reverberating sound, like a single stroke, told them that the bridge at
the bottom had been crossed.
In an agony of terror, Honora followed, her head on fire, her heart
pounding faster than the hoof beats. But the animal she rode, though a
good one, was no match for the great infuriated beast which she pursued.
Presently she came to a wooded corner where the road forked thrice, and
beyond, not without difficulty,--brought her sweating mare to a stand.
The quality of her fear changed from wild terror to cold dread. A hermit
thrush, in the wood near by, broke the silence with a song inconceivably
sweet. At last she went back to the farm-house, hoping against hope
that Hugh might have returned by another road. But he was not there. The
farmer was still nonchalantly whittling.
“Oh, how could you let any one get on a horse like that?” she cried.
“You're his wife, ain't you?” he asked.
Something in the man's manner seemed to compel her to answer, in spite
of the form of the question.
“I am Mrs. Chiltern,” she said.
He was looking at her with an expression that she found
incomprehensible. His glance was penetrating, yet here again she seemed
to read compassion. He continued to gaze at her, and presently, when he
spoke, it was as though he were not addressing her at all.
“You put me in mind of a young girl I used to know,” he said; “seems
like a long time ago. You're pretty, and you're young, and ye didn't
know what you were doin,' I'll warrant. Lost your head. He has a way of
gittin' 'em--always had.”
Honora did not answer. She would have liked to have gone away, but that
which was stronger than her held her.
“She didn't live here,” he explained, waving his hand deprecatingly
towards the weather-beaten house. “We lived over near Morrisville
in them days. And he don't remember me, your husband don't. I ain't
surprised. I've got considerable older.”
Honora was trembling from head to foot, and her hands were cold.
“I've got her picture in there, if ye'd like to look at it,” he said,
after a while.
“Oh, no!” she cried. “Oh, no!”
“Well, I don't know as I blame you.” He sat down again and began to
whittle. “Funny thing, chance,” he remarked; “who'd a thought I should
have owned that there hoss, and he should have come around here to ride
it?”
She tried to speak, but she could not. The hideous imperturbability
of the man's hatred sickened her. And her husband! The chips fell in
silence until a noise on the road caused them to look up. Chiltern was
coming back. She glanced again at the farmer, but his face was equally
incapable, or equally unwilling, to express regret. Chiltern rode into
the dooryard. The blood from the scratch on his forehead had crossed his
temple and run in a jagged line down his cheek, his very hair (as she
had sometimes seen it) was damp with perspiration, blacker, kinkier; his
eyes hard, reckless, bloodshot. So, in the past, must he have emerged
from dozens of such wilful, brutal contests with man and beast. He had
beaten the sweat-stained horse (temporarily--such was the impression
Honora received), but she knew that he would like to have killed it for
its opposition.
“Give me my hat, will you?” he cried to the farmer.
To her surprise the man obeyed. Chiltern leaped to the ground.
“What do you want for him?” he demanded.
“I'll take five hundred dollars.”
“Bring him over in the morning,” said Chiltern, curtly.
They rode homeward in silence. Honora had not been able to raise her
voice against the purchase, and she seemed powerless now to warn her
husband of the man's enmity. She was thinking, rather, of the horror of
the tragedy written on the farmer's face, to which he had given her the
key: Hugh Chiltern, to whom she had intrusted her life and granted her
all, had done this thing, ruthlessly, even as he had satisfied to-day
his unbridled cravings in maltreating a horse! And she thought of that
other woman, on whose picture she had refused to look. What was the
essential difference between that woman and herself? He had wanted them
both, he had taken them both for his pleasure, heedless of the pain
he might cause to others and to them. For her, perhaps, the higher
organism, had been reserved the higher torture. She did not know. The
vision of the girl in the outer darkness reserved for castaways was
terrible.
Up to this point she had, as it were, been looking into one mirror. Now
another was suddenly raised behind her, and by its aid she beheld not
a single, but countless, images of herself endlessly repeated. How
many others besides this girl had there been? The question gave her
the shudder of the contemplation of eternity. It was not the first time
Honora had thought of his past, but until today it had lacked reality;
until to-day she had clung to the belief that he had been misunderstood;
until to-day she had considered those acts of his of the existence of
which she was collectively aware under the generic term of wild oats.
He had had too much money, and none had known how to control him. Now,
through this concrete example of another's experience, she was given to
understand that which she had strangely been unable to learn from her
own. And she had fancied, in her folly, that she could control him!
Unable as yet to grasp the full extent of her calamity, she rode on by
his side, until she was aware at last that they had reached the door of
the house at Highlawns.
“You look pale,” he said as he lifted her off her horse. The demon in
him, she perceived, was tired.
“Do I?”
“What's the matter?”
“Nothing,” she answered.
He laughed.
“It's confoundedly silly to get frightened that way,” he declared. “The
beast only wants riding.”
Three mornings later she was seated in the garden with a frame of fancy
work. Sometimes she put it down. The weather was overcast, langourous,
and there was a feeling of rain in the air. Chiltern came in through the
gaffe, and looked at her.
“I'm going to New York on the noon train,” he said.
“To New York?”
“Yes. Why not?”
“There's no reason why you shouldn't if you wish to,” she replied,
picking up her frame.
“Anything I can get you?” he asked.
“No, thank you.”
“You've been in such a deuced queer mood the last few days I can't make
you out, Honora.”
“You ought to have learned something about women by this time,” she
said.
“It seems to me,” he announced, “that we need a little livening up.”