FROM THE HUSBAND'S POINT OF VIEW.
"A statue cut in marble white
To me gives but a cold delight,
Although 'tis fair
I do not care,
For joy begins and ends with sight.
"A woman pure as virgin snows,
Within whose veins the life-blood flows,
Whose smile reveals
The love she feels,
Ah, such a one is Love's true rose."
The next morning Eustace made up his mind to go to Errington Hall in
the afternoon, and meanwhile amused himself in leisurely strolling
along the beach watching the waves rolling landward.
Behind him the sand hills rose in low mounds with their scanty
vegetation, shutting out the marshes beyond, then came the narrow
strip of sandy beach on which his footsteps left deeply imprinted
marks, and before him, sombre under the leaden coloured sky, stretched
the heaving ocean, with thin lines of white-crested waves breaking to
cold foam at his feet. The sky, filled with rain-charged clouds,
lowered heavily on the chill earth, and midway flew a wide-winged
sea-gull, uttering discordant cries.
It was a dreary scene, and Eustace, with his hands clasped behind him,
stared at the dismal prospect, which was quite in keeping with his own
disturbed feelings. He was meditating a dishonourable action, and he
knew it, so in spite of his determination to carry it through to the
bitter end, he felt oppressed by a vague feeling of dread that all his
villainy would be of no avail. In the course of his selfish life he
had done many foolish things, at which the world had looked askance,
but hitherto his pride had preserved him from dishonour, but now he
stood on the edge of an abyss into which he was about to plunge of his
own free will, and, in spite of his egotistical philosophy, he
trembled at the prospect before him.
Supposing he did induce Lady Errington to return his passion and leave
England with him, what benefit would it bring to him or to her? To her
a ruined home, the memory of a deserted child, the prospect of exile
from all social circles, and an endless regret for her fall; to him,
delighted companionship for a time, and then a sense of weary disgust,
of futile sorrow for a past that could not be undone, and constant
discord between himself and the partner of his shame.
Was it worth the risk he was running, for a chimera, a fanciful
creation of his own brain, a desire for a vision that might never be
realised? And all this time with characteristic selfishness, not a
thought for the deserted husband, for the motherless child.
"Hallo, Eustace! Where are you?"
Gartney arose to his feet with an ejaculation, the red blood rushing
to his face.
"Guy!"
It was Guy, his cousin, the man whose wife he loved, the man whose
home he intended to destroy, and, even wrapped as he was in his triple
armour of pride, egotism, and self-complacency, he felt the sting of
remorse. It was too late, however, to think of such things, he having
fully made up his mind to act; so he crushed down the feeling which
might have made him a better man, and went forward to meet his cousin,
who was walking smartly along the beach.
Eighteen months had not made much change in Errington, save that he
was a little stouter, but he looked as handsome as ever, only there
was a discontented look on his face, as if he were thoroughly
dissatisfied with his life, as indeed he was. He had evidently ridden
over, as he was in a riding dress, and he advanced towards Eustace
with one hand in his pocket, the other holding his hunting crop with
which he carelessly switched his boots.
"Well, dear old fellow, I am glad to see you again," he said, coming
to his cousin and holding out his hand.
"You are very kind, Guy," faltered Eustace, quietly shaking hands,
with the feeling of remorse again dominant in his breast. "I was going
over to see you this afternoon."
"Were you?" said Errington, listlessly. "Oh, yes!--of course, but I
heard at the village you had come to Castle Grim, so, as I was
mounted, I thought I'd come on here. I've left my horse with that old
Caliban of yours and came down to look you up."
"I'm very glad to see you," returned Eustace, turning away his head.
"Shall we go back to the house?"
"No, not yet," responded Errington, throwing himself down on the dry
sand. "Let us talk here. I want to speak to you privately, Eustace, and
this is the best place."
Gartney knew in his own mind that Errington wanted to speak about his
wife, so sat down near the recumbent form of his cousin, and waited
for him to begin the conversation.
Nothing was said, however, until, after a moment's silence, Guy looked
up at Gartney's face with a frown.
"Good Lord, man, have you left your tongue behind in Arabia?" he said
roughly, leaning his cheek on his hand.
Eustace laughed a little bitterly.
"Perhaps it would have been as well if I had done so," he said
deliberately, "it might save my soul the burden of many lies."
"As whimsical as ever!"
"Do you think so? No doubt! Solitude is rather apt to confirm a man in
his eccentric habits. By-the-way, you have not told me how your wife
is?"
"Quite well," replied Errington shortly.
"And the son and heir, on whose birth I must congratulate you?"
"Oh, he's all right."
Guy spoke this last sentence in such a bitter tone that Eustace could
not help turning round and looking at him. He was gazing moodily at
the sand, but glanced upward, as he felt rather than saw that Gartney
had turned round, and smiled ironically.
"You seem surprised?" he said at length.
"I am surprised," answered Eustace deliberately. "When I saw you in
Italy, you spoke very differently--very differently indeed."
"Ah, but you see that was in my character of a newly-married man,"
sneered Guy, picking up a handful of sand and letting it stream
through his fingers. "All that sort of thing is over."
"And why is it over?" asked Eustace, coldly. "Eighteen months can
scarcely make so much difference----"
"It makes every difference--in my case."
"Why?"
Guy sat up suddenly, clasped his hands round his knees, and staring at
the ocean, answered in a dreary voice utterly devoid of any feeling:
"I daresay it will sound ridiculous to a man like yourself, Eustace,
and no doubt you and the world will laugh at me when you know my
reason. But I cannot help it. I've fought against the feeling, as much
as ever I could. I've made all sorts of excuses for my wife, but it's
all of no use."
"I'm quite in the dark as to what you are talking about."
"I'm talking about my wife," said Guy deliberately. "You know how much
in love I was with her when we married?"
"And are you not in love with her now?"
"Yes, I am!"
"Then what have you to complain of?"
"Complain of!" echoed Errington with a bitter laugh. "I have nothing
to complain of, according to the views of the world. Alizon is a
perfect wife, a perfect mother, a perfect woman in every way. In fact,
that is what I do complain of! She's too perfect."
"Good Heavens, man!" cried Eustace, now thoroughly exasperated. "I
don't understand a word you are saying. If Alizon is perfect, both as
wife and mother, what more do you want?"
"I want love," returned Guy, in a low, deep voice, the blood rushing
to his face. "I want love and affection. I'm starving for one kind
word and I cannot obtain it. It sounds ridiculous, does it not, for a
man of my years to whimper about love like a silly schoolboy? But I
cannot help it. I married Alizon in order to have a true and loving
wife, and I find I am tied to a statue."
"But I cannot understand----"
"Of course, you can't," cried Errington vehemently, leaping to his
feet, "how could you? a cold-blooded man, who can do without love and
affection, who doesn't care two straws about any human being, and only
adores the phantom creations of his own brain. Great Heaven!" said the
unfortunate young man, staring wildly up at the leaden-coloured sky,
"if I were only a man like that how happy I should be. But I'm not,
I'm only a fellow who wants to be loved by his wife, but even that is
denied me. I married Alizon for love. I loved her then, I love her
now, and she cares no more for me than she does for yonder ocean."
"But surely the child is a bond of union between you?"
"The child!" repeated Errington fiercely, "no! the child, which should
have drawn us closer together, has put us farther asunder than ever. I
longed for a child to succeed me in the estates, and, now I have
obtained my desire, I wish it had never been born. I hate the child!
It seems horrible, Eustace, but I do. I hate it."
"Don't talk like that, Guy," cried Eustace, springing to his feet, and
laying his hand on his cousin's arm, "it's terrible--your own child!"
"My own child! my own child," repeated Guy with senseless reiteration.
"Yes! my own child."
He thrust his hands into his pockets, and abruptly turning away,
walked a short distance in order to conceal his emotion, while Eustace
stood silently in the same place, wondering at his cousin's grief over
what appeared to him to be such a trivial matter. It might seem so to
him, but it certainly was not to Guy, whose whole nature was smarting
under a sense of neglect and injury.
After a few moments Errington returned, with a hard look on his face,
and a cynical laugh on his lips.
"I beg your pardon, Eustace," he said ceremoniously, "for troubling
you about these affairs, but if I hadn't someone to talk to about it,
I believe I should go mad. I went up to Aunt Jelly the other day, and
told her what I am now telling you, but she didn't seem to think much
of it."
"You make a mistake there," said Gartney, quickly. "Aunt Jelly thought
a great deal about it. In fact, it is because she urged me to see what
I could do, that I am down here."
"You can't do anything," replied Errington listlessly, "no one can do
anything. Alizon and myself are an ill-wedded pair. The quick coupled
with the dead. She is a perfect wife, a perfect mother, and I, in the
eyes of the world possessing a treasure in the matrimonial way, am the
most miserable devil alive."
Eustace felt a sudden pang of compunction at the idea of the misery he
proposed to add to the unhappy young man's life, and after a short
struggle between the generous and selfish instincts of his nature, the
former triumphed, and he determined to do his best to reconcile
husband and wife. With this new resolve in his mind, he approached
Guy, and taking him by the arm, walked slowly across the beach with
him towards Castle Grim.
"Come to the house, old fellow," he said kindly. "You are working
yourself into a perfect state over nothing. Have luncheon with me, and
then we'll drive over together, and I'll do my best to put things
right."
"Impossible," said Guy, gloomily, "quite impossible."
"How so?"
"It's easy enough explained! When I married my wife, I thought her
coldness would wear off, but it did not. To all my love and
tenderness, she was as cold as ice. Kind enough in a cold-blooded sort
of way, but as far as any answering tenderness or feeling of sympathy,
she might as well have been a statue. That was hard enough to bear, as
you may imagine, but when the child was born it was much worse. She
isn't a statue now, by any means, but her whole soul is wrapped up in
the child. She's never away from him, she never stops talking about
him, she lives in the nursery, and never comes near me. If I offer to
caress her, she frowns and resents any display of affection. All her
love, all her heart, is given to the child, and I've got to be content
with cold looks, and about five minutes' conversation a day. I hardly
ever see her, sometimes she doesn't even come to meals, and when I
remonstrated with her, she turned on me in a cold fury, and asked me
if I wanted her to neglect the child. What am I to do, Eustace? I
can't force her to love me against her will. I can't keep her from the
child. There seems nothing for me to do, but to be satisfied with the
life I am leading now, and it's Hell, Eustace, Hell. It's a big word
to describe a little thing, isn't it? The world would laugh at me if
they heard me talk, but no one can understand it, unless they undergo
it."
He spoke with great emotion, and although Eustace failed in a great
measure to understand his deep feelings on the subject, he could not
but see that his cousin had great cause to speak. A young man of
ardent nature, to whom love is a necessity, finding himself tied to a
woman who chilled every demonstration of affection, and lavished all
her adoration on the child of which he was the father--it was truly a
pitiable situation, and yet one at which the world would laugh,
because the tragic elements therein were so simple.
Gartney listened in silence to the long speech, and saying nothing in
reply, made his cousin have some luncheon, while he thought over the
whole affair.
"I won't speak to Mrs. Veilsturm," he thought to himself, pouring out
Guy a glass of wine, "if I can I'll bring them together again and then
leave England for ever."
During the luncheon, he talked gaily enough to Errington, cheering him
up by every means in his power, making up his mind in the meantime as
to what was the best course to pursue.
When the meal was finished, he ordered Javelrack to bring round a
horse, and, with Sir Guy, was soon trotting along the road on the way
to Errington Hall.
"Now, listen to me, Guy," he said, when they were some distance on
their journey. "I think you exaggerate a good deal of this thing. It's
not half so bad as you make out. Alizon is a young mother, and you
know they always adore their first-born to the exclusion of everything
else. I don't think she is naturally of a cold nature, and when her
first outburst of joy on the child is exhausted, she will, doubtless,
give you that love which is your due, and which you so much need. But,
in the meantime, it is foolish of you to remain at the Hall, as you
will only work yourself up into a frenzy over nothing. Solitude is the
worst thing in the world for a man in your condition, so the best
thing you can do is to come up to town with me for a week or so."
"But I cannot leave Alizon alone," objected Errington in perplexity.
"Why not? She won't be lonely, as she has the child, and besides, if
she neglects you as you say, it is because you are always near her. A
few weeks' absence would make a wonderful change in her demeanour, I
can tell you."
"Do you really think so?" asked poor Guy, his face lighting up.
"I'm certain of it. In spite of your years, my dear boy, I'm afraid
you don't know much about feminine nature. Learn then, that to make a
woman value a thing truly, it is necessary to put it out of her reach.
Immediately it is in that position, then she'll strain every nerve to
get it back again. Therefore, if you leave your wife, and neglect her
for a time, she will begin to grow jealous, and see how wrongly she
has treated you. When you come back again, she will alter her conduct,
and things will be all right."
"I don't believe in that prescription," retorted Guy, sharply.
"Don't you? It does sound rather difficult of belief, but it's true
for all that. And I can tell you of a case in question, that of
Victoria Sheldon and Macjean."
"I don't understand----"
"No! then I'll explain. If you will carry your memory back to the time
we were in Italy, you will remember that Otterburn was very much in
love with Victoria Sheldon."
"To tell you the truth, I've almost forgotten Otterburn himself. Was
he not your companion then?"
"Yes!--we parted at Venice, and I saw him again for the first time
last week. Well, Otterburn was so much in love with Victoria that he
proposed. She refused him, so Otterburn, having a spirit of his own,
departed, and has never seen her since. Finding, therefore, that he
stood on his dignity, she fell in love with him, and I feel certain,
that if Otterburn chooses to ask her again, she will say yes."
"But will he choose?"
"He will! They love one another devotedly, and each is ignorant of the
other's feelings, but when they meet everything will be arranged
satisfactorily. So you see, my dear Guy, the value of absence, for if
Otterburn hadn't gone away, he certainly would not have won the heart
of Victoria Sheldon."
"And you advise me to do the same?"
"I do, decidedly! Leave your wife for a few weeks, and if she has any
love for you--which she must have, or else she would not have married
you--she will miss you hourly, and when you come back--well the game
will be in your own hands."
Guy did not reply for a few minutes, but urged his horse into a
canter, and the two rode along for some distance in silence. When
nearing Denfield, however, Errington suddenly drew his horse up, and
turned his head towards Eustace.
"I will take your advice," he said abruptly, "it can do no harm, and
it may do good."