ISABEL CALLING
If women were thus henceforth to influence Theophil, why might not
Isabel, the woman whom Jenny had loved, be counted amongst them?
Isabel was the one woman in the whole world whom Theophil's faithfulness
could not transform into Jenny. That it had been his fatal love for her
that had brought Jenny to her death, his reason, except in moments of
self-injustice, was robust enough to put aside.
There are excuses that we owe to ourselves, and we have a right to
expect justice even from our own consciences. A sentimental conscience
is the most tiresome of all altruists, and wilfully to indulge in
remorse that we have not justly incurred is to blunt our consciences
for real offences. The best repentance for our sins is a clear-eyed
recognition of their nature, and the temptation in some flurry of
feeling to take on our shoulders the mistakes of destiny with which we
chance to have been involuntarily associated, is one to be resisted in
the interests of that self-knowledge which is the beginning of
self-development. Before we take the scourge in hand for our own
shoulders let us be quite sure that we have sinned.
There were hours, particularly those hours of sudden wakefulness in the
middle of the night when our minds lose their sense of proportion, in
which Theophil agonised beyond endurance, and, as on that afternoon when
he had found Jenny's diary, said to himself with merciless reiteration,
"She seems to have had a shock"--"It was you who killed Jenny."
These hours had to be supported as we support hours of purely physical
pain. The morning brought a saner, larger view. The tragedy of Jenny's
death was not to be so easily explained. In it were implicated more
august responsible causes, it was part of a more general tragedy; as the
original instinct to blame himself and Isabel was part of man's ancient
theological habit of making man the scapegoat of the universe.
But as the thought of Isabel thus became bearable once more, it became
for that very reason a thought the more faithfully to be resisted.
It might become sweet.
It was sweet!
One day the casuistry of grief brought Theophil the reflection that, as
Isabel was the only woman he knew whom Jenny had known too, and that as
Jenny had loved her also, she was thus destined for him even by Jenny
herself. Besides, as he had realised no unfaithfulness to Jenny in his
love for Isabel during Jenny's life, there could equally be no
unfaithfulness now that she was dead. Moreover, if Jenny still in some
mysterious way kept watch over his life, she would understand his heart
as she could never have understood it when she was alive...
These thoughts brought deep sorrow to him for many days, during which
once more he rebuked himself as "a base person," but, curiously enough,
in one who so despised the world and its opinion, it was an apparently
superficial consideration that was the mainstay of his faithfulness,
against these disloyal suggestions of a life that was thus reawakening
in spite of himself.
There were moments when he could conceive his going to Isabel, and
asking her to share his life with him; but never could he endure the
thought of her bearing that name which seemed so inviolably Jenny's.
Even though Jenny had come to him in a dream and asked him to give her
name to Isabel, there was still the world. Though Jenny might
understand, the world would think he had forgotten Jenny. The minority
of faithful hearts would grow sadder by his seeming apostasy, and the
cynic would strengthen his pessimism by one more illustration of human
inconstancy. The world might hear that he was loving Isabel in some
Aegean isle, and still deem him faithful; for grief is allowed
mistresses, but with a wife it is understood to die.
No! so long as the world lasted no other woman should steal her name
from Jenny's grave.
And this was an unassailable symbol. Here the vital principle of his
faithfulness was entrenched as in an impregnable fortress. He would see
Isabel's heart break ere she should bear Jenny's name.
Yet while he made the vow, his love for Isabel was musical as spring
within his soul, and he dared to tell himself that in God's sight he was
still Isabel's as well as Jenny's.
Thus it came about that one autumn day, when Isabel's letters had lain
unopened through spring and summer, in one sudden impulse of mere
desire he had opened and read them,--not as Jenny's letters, but as
messages for which he himself was hungering. He had released the
incense, and as he kissed the dear writing, he momentarily forgot that
it was written to Jenny, and only remembered that it had come from
Isabel. In the snare of the incense he even accused himself for having
left them unread so long, and then to think that nearly six months had
gone by since the second letter had brought its half-playful reproach
for forgetfulness.... "Ah! Jenny, I'm afraid you're a fickle little
person, after all."
How strange it seemed to hear Jenny talked to like that--now.... Yes, of
course, Jenny was dead. Jenny was dead ... and Isabel was calling.
Was Jenny losing her power in this intoxicating fragrance of Isabel's
words--as though for once the cross should lose its virtue in some
subtle air of hellish sweetness?
O lilies from Jenny's white coffin, O little chrysanthemum that lay in
her bosom, O violets from Jenny's tomb, pierce with your faithful breath
this cloud of incense that is enwrapping Jenny's lover.
Alas! the power of the dead is but the power of the ideal, at once the
strongest and the weakest force in the world,--a power, indeed, that
prevails, but which may in some moments be shattered by the frailest
whisper of the real.
Isabel was calling, and Theophil was mad to go. Come back he might, but
go he must, he would. Yes! he was going.
There was only one possible way of spending that fevered night--in the
train; and it was in the train, speeding on to London and to Isabel, his
heart on fire, his eager eyes wasting themselves on the flying darkness,
that Theophil spent it. Purposes he had none, only a desire,--just to
see Isabel again. That immediate future was too effulgent for him to
think of anything beyond it.
He would see Isabel again!
From a distant starry name, withdrawn into the abysses of heaven, she
would turn again to woman and a wonderful nearness.
The thought of being once again in a little room together enveloped him
in a cloud of sweetness, as though the train were passing through
hidden orchards.
Isabel! Isabel! don't you hear love's wings beating towards you across
the night? Have you not just awakened suddenly from your first sleep in
the rosebush where you lie, and said: "Surely out there across the
silent woods and meadows, where the night swallows London like a
camp-fire, a train, a moving street of lighted windows, is speeding
through the darkness and the dew, and in one of those little travelling
rooms sits Theophil with his eyes fixed on me"?
Was it Jenny's name that Theophil was thus taking to Isabel?
No, not Jenny's name. Never Jenny's name!
He was going to look on Isabel again--that was all. Perhaps he would die
with the mere joy of seeing her again--and then he would not need to
think of the future. Yes! the deeps of his soul had wanted her as
much as that.
It was about half-past six as he reached London; and though it was
impossible to call on her for some hours yet, Theophil drove straight to
Isabel's little square, shuttered and still in the early-risen London
morning. His eyes chose the second storey for hers, and picked out two
dainty windows as her rooms. He half expected to see the blind suddenly
drawn aside and her face, a sleepy flower, bloom through the curtains.
He lingered awhile, loving each individual brick of the house with his
eyes, and then, kissing his hands to the sleeping windows, he rejoined
his cab, which he had left at the street corner, shy of awaking the
hushed square with its clatter.
He gave Isabel till ten o'clock, which was perhaps hardly enough for a
young London lady's toilette and breakfast, and then called. A pleasant
housemaid answered the bell, and told him that Miss Strange was away,
and was not expected till to-morrow.
Here was a surprise. He had never even thought of that possibility.
Begging leave to write Miss Strange a note, he presently found himself
in Isabel's room. It was the same his eyes had blessed from the street.
So this was Isabel's room! So evidently hers, her very self!
Isabel pictures, Isabel wall-paper, Isabel chairs, Isabel cushions,
Isabel desk, Isabel books, Isabel bibelots, Isabel litter,--all Isabel.
And there hung an arras portière over a doorway to the right of the
fireplace. That was her bedroom! Dare he peep in? That was her little
bed. Would the housemaid catch him if he slipped in and left a kiss on
her pillow? By the mirror was a grotesque little china monster with his
mouth full of hat-pins. He stole one for a memory. Over a chair lay a
little dressing-jacket. He took it up and kissed it.
Then he sat down to write to her. What a tidy, methodical little desk!
Everything in its place. Dear, business-like, sea-witch Isabel! Here was
her engagement book. He mustn't begin reading her letters!
After his first disappointment, he was half-glad he would have to wait
till to-morrow to see her,--for, of course, he would wait. To have thus
sat in her room was almost enough for a first meeting. It was like
stealing upon her while she slept.
Then he began a letter; but as he wrote, who was this suddenly standing
at his side? Was it Isabel? No...it was a little sobbing body quite near
to his, crying as if its heart would break...
Oh, Jenny, Jenny--God forgive me!
The spell was broken, the fit was over. Theophil left no letter for
Isabel, and no message, and the same evening he was once more back in
his little study in Zion Place, wild with remorse. O for the scourge and
the fire! But what penance shall avail to ease that poor little
creature's broken-hearted crying?
"She seems to have had a shock!--She seems to have had a shock!"