|If Baptisto’s object in describing a dream so ominous was to attract
his master’s attention to the intimate relations between Mrs. Haldane
and the clergyman, he certainly succeeded. Once assured in this
direction, Haldane’s perceptions were keen enough. He noticed that
the mere mention of Santley’s name filled Ellen with a sort of nervous
constraint; that, although the clergyman’s visits were frequent,
they were generally made at times when Haldane himself was busy and
preoccupied--that is to say, during his well-known hours of work; and
that, moreover, Santley, however much he liked the society of the
lady, invariably avoided the husband, or, if they met, contrived to
frame some excuse for speedy parting. Now, Haldane trusted his wife
implicitly, and believed her incapable of any infidelity, even in
thought. Still, he did not quite like the aspect of affairs. Much as
he trusted his wife, he had a strong moral distrust for anything in
the shape of a priest; and he determined, therefore, to keep his eyes
upon the clergyman.
A few days after that curious physiological experiment, he had the
following conversation with Baptisto. It was the first day of the
week.
“Baptisto, I thought you were a good Catholic?”
“So I am, senor,” returned the Spaniard, smiling.
“Yet you went to an English church-yesterday, I hear?”
“Yes, senor. I go there very often.”
“Why, pray?”
“Simply out of curiosity. Mr. Santley is a beautiful preacher, and has
a silvery voice. While you were away, I went once, twice, three times.
There is a young senora there who plays sweetly upon the great organ;
I like to listen, to-watch the congregation.”
“Humph! By-the-bye, Baptisto, I have been thinking over the dream of
yours, when--when you were lying there.”
“Yes, senor?”
“Pray, what put such a foolish idea in your head?”
“I cannot tell, senor; all I know is, it came. A foolish dream, do you
say? I suppose it is because the clergyman was here so often, when you
were away. And madame is so devout! I trust, senor, my dream has not
given you offence; perhaps I was wrong to speak of it at all.”
Haldanes face had gone black as a thunder-cloud. Placing his hand on
the other’s shoulder, and looking firmly into his face, he said--
“Listen to me, Baptisto.”
“I am listening, senor.”
“If I thought you would come back to life to tell lies about your
mistress, I would have let you lie the other day and rot like a dead
dog, rather than have recovered you at all. You hear? Take care! I
know you do not love your mistress, but if you dare to whisper one
word against her, I will drive you for ever from my door.”
Baptisto bowed his head respectfully before the storm, but retained
his usual composure.
“Senor, may I speak?”
“Yes; but again, take care!”
“You should not blame me if I am jealous for your honour!”
Haldane started, and uttered an expletive.
“My honour, you dog? What do you mean?”
“This, senor. I would rather die than give you offence; and as for
the senora, I love her also, for is she not your wife? But will you be
angry still, when I tell you, when I warn you, to beware of that man,
that priest? He is a bad man, very bad. Ah, I have watched--and seen!”
“What have you seen?” cried Haldane, clutching him by the arm. “Come,
out with it!”
“Enough to show me that he is not your friend--that he is dangerous.”
“Bah! is that all? Now, listen to me, and be sure I mean what I say.
I will have no servant of mine spying upon my wife. I will have no
servant of mine insinuating that my honour is in danger. If I hear
another word of this, if you convey to me by one look the fact that
you are still prying, spying, and suspecting, I shall take you by the
collar and send you flying out of my house. Now, go!”
Baptisto, who knew his master’s temper perfectly, bowed and withdrew.
He had no wish to say one word more. He had thrown out a dark hint, a
black seed of suspicion, and he knew that he might safely let it work.
It did work, rapidly and terribly. Left alone, Haldane became a prey
to the wildest fears and suspicions. He remembered now that his wife
had been acquainted with this man in her girlhood; that there had even
been some passage of love between them. He remembered how eagerly
she had renewed the acquaintance, and with what admiring zeal the
clergyman had responded. He pictured to himself the sympathetic
companionship, the zealous meetings, the daily religious intercourse,
of these two young people, each full of the fervour of a blind
superstition. Could it be possible that they loved each other?
Questioning his memory, he recalled looks, words, tones, which,
although scarcely noticed at the time, seemed now of painful
significance. The mere thought was sickening. Already he realized the
terrible phrase-of the poet Young--“the jealous are the damned.”
Haldane was not habitually a violent man. Though passionate and
headstrong by temperament, he had schooled himself to gentleness after
a stormy youth, and the chilly waters of philosophy, at which he drank
daily, kept his head cool and his pulses calm. But the stormy spirit,
though hushed, was not altogether dead within him, and under his
habitual reticence and good-humoured cynicism, there lay the most
passionate idolatry for his beautiful wife. He had set her up in his
heart of hearts, with a faith too perfect for much expression; and it
had not occurred to him, in his remotest dreams, that any other man
could ever come between them.
And now, suddenly as a lightning flash illumining a dark landscape,
the fear came upon him that perhaps he had been unwary and unwise. Was
it possible, he asked himself, that he had’ been too studious and too
book-loving, too reticent also in all those little attentions
which by women, who always love sweetmeats, are so tenderly prized?
Moreover, he was ten years his wife’s, elder--was that disparity of
years also a barrier between their souls? No; he was sure it was not.
He was sure that she was not hypocritical, and that she loved him.
Wherever the blame might be, if blame there were, it was certainly not
hers. She had been in all respects, a tender and a sympathetic wife;
encouraging his deep study of science, even when she most distrusted
its results; proud of his attainments, and eager for his success; in
short, a perfect helpmate, but for her old-fashioned prejudices in
the sphere of religion. Ah, _religion!_ There was the one word which
solved the enigma, and aroused in our philosopher’s bosom that fierce
indignation which long ago led Lucretius into such passionate hate
against the Phantom,=
```"Which with horrid head
```Leered hideously from all the gates of heaven!”=
It needed only this to complete his loathing for the popular theology,
for all its teachers. Yes, he reflected, religion only was to blame.
In its name, his wife’s sympathies had been tampered with, her spirit
more or less turned against himself; in its name, his house had been
secretly invaded, his domestic happiness poisoned, his peace of
mind destroyed. It was the old story! Wherever this shadow of
superstition crawled, craft and dissimulation began. Now, as in the
beginning, it came between father and child, sister and brother, man
and wife.
It so happened that when George Haldane came forth from having his
dark hour alone, he rather avoided meeting his wife at once, and,
taking his hat, stepped out from the laboratory on to the shrubbery
path. He had scarcely done so, when his eye fell upon two figures
standing together in the distance, upon the terrace of the house. One
was Mrs. Haldane, wearing her garden hat and a loose shawl thrown over
her shoulders. The other was the clergyman of the parish.
Haldane drew back, and watched. In that moment he knew the extent of
his humiliation; for never before had he been a spy upon his wife’s
actions.
Their backs were towards him. Santley was talking eagerly; Ellen was
looking down. Presently they began to move slowly along the terrace,
side by side.
Haldane watched them gloomily. The sunlight fell brightly upon them,
and on the old Manor house, with its brilliant creepers and glittering
panes, while the old chapel, with the watcher in its ruined porch,
remained in shadow. It seemed like an omen. In the darkness of his
hiding-place, Haldane felt satanic. Yes, there they walked--children
of God, as they called themselves--in God’s sunlight; and he, the
searcher for light, the unbeliever, was forgotten.
Presently Santley paused again, and, with an impassioned gesture,
pointed upward. Ellen raised her head, and looked upward too,
listening eagerly to his words. Haldane laughed fiercely to himself,
with all the ugliness of his jealousy upon him.
Presently they disappeared into the house. A little afterwards Santley
emerged from the front door, and came walking rapidly down the avenue.
His manner was eager and happy, almost jubilant, and Haldane saw, when
he approached, that his face looked positively radiant.
He was passing, when Haldane stepped out and confronted him. He
started, paused, and a shadow fell instantaneously upon his handsome
face. Recovering himself, he held out his hand. Haldane did not seem
to see the gesture, but, nodding a careless greeting, said, with his
habitual _sang froid_--
“Well met, Mr. Santley. Here I am again, you see, hard at work. Have
you come from the house?”
“Yes,” answered Santley.
“On some new message of Christian charity and beneficence, I suppose?
Ah, my dear sir, you are indefatigable. And the old women of the parish
must indeed find you a Good Shepherd. Did you find my wife at home?”
“Yes.”
“And zealous, as usual, I suppose?’ Ah, what a thing it is to be
pious! But let me beg you not to encourage her too much. Charity
begins at home; and what with soup-kitchens, offertories,
subscriptions for church repairs, and societies for the gratuitous
distribution of flannel waistcoats, I am in a fair way of being
ruined.”
Santley forced a laugh.
“Don’t be afraid. My errand to-day was not a begging one, I assure
you.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“I was merely bringing Mrs. Haldane a book I promised to lend her. To
tell the truth, she finds your library rather destitute of works of a
religious nature.”
“Do you really think so?” exclaimed Haldane, drily. “Why, I thought
it unusually well provided in that respect. Let me see! There are
Volney’s ‘Ruins of Empire,’ Monboddo’s ‘Dissertations,’ Drummond’s
‘Academical Questions,’ excellent translations of Schopenhauer and
Hartmann, not to speak of thirty-six volumes of Diderot, and fifty of
Arouet.”
Santley opened his eyes in horror and astonishment.
“Arouet!” he ejaculated. “Do you actually mean to call Voltaire a
religious writer?”
“Highly so. There is religion even in ‘La Pucelle,’ but it reaches its
culmination in the ‘Philosophical Dictionary.’”
“And you would actually let Mrs. Haldane read such works as those?”
“Certainly; though, am sorry to say, she prefers ‘The Old Helmet’ and
the ‘Heir of Redclyffe.’ May I ask the name of the work you have been
good enough to lend her?”
“It is a book from which I myself have received great benefit--Père
Hyacinthes ‘Sermons.’”
“Père Hyacinthe?” repeated Haldane. “Ah! the jolly priest who
reverenced celibacy, and proclaimed himself the father of a strapping
boy. Well, the man was at least honest. I think all clergymen should
marry, and at as early an age as possible. What is your opinion?”
Santley flushed to the temples, while Haldane watched him with a
gloomy smile.
“I think--I am sure,” he stammered, “that the married state is the
happiest--perhaps the holiest.”
“With these sentiments, of which I cordially approve, why the deuce
are you a bachelor?”
The clergyman winced at the question, and his colour deepened; then,
as if musing, he glanced round towards the house--a look which was
observed and fully appreciated by his tormentor.
“I am sure my wife would encourage you to change your condition. Like
most women, she is by instinct a matchmaker.”
Santley did not seem to hear; at any rate, he made no reply, but,
holding out his hand quickly, exclaimed--
“I must go now. I am rather in haste.”
Haldane did not take the hand, but put his arm upon the clergyman’s
shoulder.
“Well, good day,” he said. “Take my advice, though, and get a sensible
wife as soon as possible.”
Santley tried to smile, but only succeeded in looking more pale and
nervous than usual. With a few murmured words of adieu, he moved
rapidly away.
Haldane watched him thoughtfully until he disappeared down the avenue.
“I wonder if that man can smile?” he said to himself. “No; I am afraid
he is too horribly in earnest. I suppose, the women would call
him handsome--_spiritual_; but I hate such pallid, waxen-featured,
handsome dolls. A pretty shepherd, that, for a Christian flock to
follow; a fellow who makes his very ignorance of this world constitute
his claim to act as cicerone to the next. Fancy being jealous,
actually _jealous_, of such a thing as that!”
He turned back into his laboratory and tried to dismiss Baptisto’s
suggestion from his mind; but it was impossible. He could not disguise
from himself that Santley, with his seraphic face and sad, earnest
eyes, was the kind of creature whom the weaker sex adore, and that he
was rendered doubly dangerous to women by the radiant mesmerism of a
fascinating and voluptuous celestial superstition.
CHAPTER XXVI. FIRST LEAVES FROM A PHILOSOPHER NOTE-BOOK.
|I am about to set down, in as concise a manner as possible, and at
present solely for my private edification (some day, perhaps, another
eye may read the lines, but not yet), certain events which have
lately influenced my domestic life. Were it not that even a professed
scientist might decline to publish experiments affecting his own
private happiness, the description of the events to which I allude
might almost form a chapter in my slowly progressing “Physiology of
Ethics,” and the description would be at least as interesting as
many of Ferriers accounts of vivisection on dumb animals. But,
unfortunately, I am unable, in this case, to apply the dissecting
knife to my neighbours heart, without laying bare the ugly wound in my
own.
To begin then, I, George Haldane, recluse, pessimist, moral
physiologist, and would-be moral philosopher, have discovered, at
forty years of age, that I am capable of the most miserable of all
human passions; worse, that this said ignoble passion of jealousy has
a certain rational foundation. For ten years I have been happy with
a wife who seemed the perfection of human gentleness and beauty; who,
although unfortunately we have been blest with no offspring, has shown
the tenderest solicitude and sympathy for the children of my brain;
and who, in her wifely faith and sanctity, seemed to be the sole link
still holding me to a church whose history has always filled me with
abhorrence, and a religion whose infantine theology I despise. Well,
_nous avons changé tout cela_. My mind is no longer peaceful, my
hearth no longer sacred; and the woman I love seems slowly drifting
from me on a stream of sensuous spiritualism--another name for a
religious rehabilitation of the flesh.
If any other man were the victim, I should think the situation highly
absurd. Here, on the one hand, is a fanatical Protestant priest, with
the face of a seraphic monk, the experience of a schoolgirl, and the
_gaucherie_ of a country chorister who has never grown a beard; a
fellow whose sole claims to notice are his white hands, his clean
linen, and his function as a silly shepherd; a man fresh from college,
ignorant of the world. Here, on the other hand, am I, physically and
intellectually his master, knowing almost every creed beneath the
sun, and the slave of none; indifferent to vulgar human passions, and
disposed to disintegrate them one and all with the electric current of
a negative philosophy. Between us both, trembling this way and that,
is that fair thing of flesh and blood, my wife, zealous to save her
own soul alive, and fearful at times, I fancy, that I have sold mine
to the Prince of Darkness. It is another version of science against
superstition, common sense against a lie; and Ellen Haldane is the
prize. A fiery Spaniard, like Baptisto yonder, would end the affair
with a stiletto-thrust; but I, of colder blood, am not likely to do
anything so courageous or so foolish, but am content to watch and
watch, and to feel the sick contamination of my suspicion creeping
over me like an unwholesome mildew. A stiletto thrust? Why, the mere
tongue, a less fatal weapon, would do it all. If I could only summon
up the courage to say to my wife, “I know your secret; choose between
this man and me, between his creed and mine, between your duty as a
wife and your zeal as a Christian,” I fancy there would be an end
to it all. But I am too timorous; I suppose, too ashamed of my
suspicions, too proud to acknowledge so contemptible a rival. As
a Spaniard covers his face with his mantle, I veil my soul with my
pride; and, under the mantle of unsuspicion, rest irresolute, while
the thing grows.
Once or twice, I have thought of another way--of taking my wife by the
hand and saying, “To-morrow, my dear, we shall leave this place, and
return to Spain or Italy--some quiet place abroad.” I could easily
find an excuse for the migration, which, once effected, would make an
end of the affair. But that, in my opinion, would be too cowardly. It
would, indeed, be an admission that the danger was real and imminent;
that, in other words, the fight for honour could only be saved by an
ignominious retreat. No; Ellen Haldane must take her chance. If she is
not strong enough to hold out against evil, then let her go--_au bon
Dieu_ or _au bon diable_, as either leads.
Yet what am I saying? It is precisely because I have the utmost
faith in her purity of heart that I watch the struggle with a certain
patience. I believe there will be a victim, but not my Ellen. Surely,
if there is a good woman in the world, she is that woman. As for the
other, every day, every hour, brings the cackling creature further
and further into my decoy. Even if he tried to turn back now, I do
not think I should let him. No; let him swim in and on, and in and on,
till he reaches the place where I, like the decoy man, can catch him
fluttering, and--wring his neck? Perhaps.
It is quite clear that the man takes me for an idiot. At first he used
precautions, invented subterfuges; latterly, certain of my stupidity
or indifference, he comes and goes without disguise. When I meet him
driving side by side of my wife in the phaeton, on some pretended
errand of mercy, he gives me a careless bow, a nod. As he goes by my
den, on his way to invite her out to visit his sister or his church,
he makes no excuse, but passes jauntily, with a conversational pat for
the stupid watch-dog: that is all. It would be amusing, I say, if it
were not almost insufferable.
This afternoon, as Ellen was going out, I blankly suggested that she
should stay at home.
“But you are busy,” she said--“always busy with your books and
experiments.”
“Not too busy, my dear Nell, for a _tête-à-tête_ with you. Where are
you going? To the Vicarage?”
“Yes.”
“To see the parson, or his sister?”
“Both. We have a great deal to discuss, about the designs for the new
stained-glass windows, which have just come from London.”
“Very interesting; but they will keep for a day. I fancy I could show
you something quite as interesting, in my laboratory.”
“I hate the laboratory,” she cried, “and those horrible experiments.”
“My dear, you should not hate what your husband loves.”
“I don’t mean that I hate them, quite; but I think them so useless!”
“More useless than stained-glass windows?”
“It is certainly not useless to beautify the House of God. Oh, I do
so wish you could feel as I do about these things! What is the world
without them?”
“Without stained-glass windows?” I suggested sarcastically.
She flushed impatiently.
“George, why have you such a dislike for religion? Why do you hate
everything I love?”
“Pardon me, my dear Nell, it was _you_, not I, that spoke of hating.
Philosophers never hate.”
“But you do worse; you despise it. Thank God we have no children. It
would be horrible to tell them that their father forbade them to go to
church, or pray!”
It was like a stab into my heart of hearts, that cry of thanks to God.
Despite myself, I lost my composure. She saw it instantly, and in the
manner of her sex, encroached.
“Oh, George, do try to think sometimes of these things, for my sake!
You would be so much happier, you surely would have so much more
blessing, if you sometimes prayed.”
“How do you know that I do not pray?”
“Because you do not believe.”
“I do not believe precisely as your priest believes, that is all.”
She looked at me eagerly; then, after a moments hesitation, cried--
“George, if I asked a favour, would you grant it?”
“Try.”
“Let Mr. Santley come sometimes, and speak with you about God!”
This was too much, almost, for even me to bear with equanimity. I am
afraid I did not look particularly amiable as I answered, sharp and
short, turning from her--
“After all, I think you had better go and look at those designs.”
“There, you are angry again!” she cried; and I knew by the sound of
her voice that her throat was choked with tears. “You are always angry
when I touch upon religion.”
“You were not talking of religion,” I retorted; “you were talking of
that man.”
“Why do you dislike him so? Because he is a preacher of the Word?”
“Because he is a canting hypocrite, like all his tribe,” I cried.
She saw that I had lost my temper, as was inevitable, and, sighing
deeply, moved to the door. I followed her with my eyes. I would have
given the world to call her back; to clasp her in my arms; to tell her
my aching fears; to promise her I would worship any God she choose, in
any place, in any way, so long as she would only be true, and answer
my eager impulse with a little love. But I was too proud for that.
“Then you are going?” I said.
She turned, looking at me very sadly.
“Yes, if you do not mind.”
I shrugged my shoulders, and after another sad, reproachful look,
she left the room. A minute afterwards, she drove her ponies past the
window, without looking up.
_Thursday, September_ 15.--A golden autumn day, so warm and still
that it reminded me of the Indian summer. Not a leaf stirred, but the
insects in the air were like floating blossoms, and seemed to sleep
upon their wings. Even all round my den the shadows were sultry, and
intertangled with slumberous shafts of light.
This fine weather rather disappointed me, for I had arranged for
a day’s recreation. In my youth, before I was caught myself in the
tedious snares of speculation, I used to be an ardent fisherman, and
I still retain sufficient knowledge of the gentle craft to cast a fly
tolerably. So, tired of work, and a little weary of my own thoughts, I
determined, for the first time, to take advantage of the permission my
neighbour, Lord --------, has given me, and spend a day upon the river
banks.
Despite the sunshine, and the absence of even a breath of wind, I
shouldered my basket, lifted my rod, and set off. Ellen was already
out and about; so I did not see her before I started. Taking a short
cut through the shrubberies, I soon came to the banks of the Emmet--as
pretty a little stream as ever rippled over golden sands, or reached
out an azure arm to turn some merry watermill. Arrived there, I soon
saw that it would be useless to try a cast till there was a little
wind; so, without putting my rod together, I strolled on along the
river-side, till I was several miles away from the Manor house.
The stream was rather low, but here and there were good deep pools,
but so calm, so sunny, that every overhanging tree, every finger of
fern, every blade of grass, was reflected in them as in a mirror.
Still, as the time was, the waters were full of life. Over the pools
hung clusters of flies like glittering spiders’ webs, scarcely moving
in the sunshine; and when, from time to time, a trout rose, he leaped
a full foot into the golden air above him, and sank back to coolness
beneath an ever-widening ring of light. Sometimes from the grassy edge
of the bank a water-rat would slip, swimming rapidly across, with his
nose just lifted above the water, and his tail leaving a thin, bright
trail. Water-ouzels rose at every curve, following swiftly the winding
of the stream; and twice past my feet flashed a kingfisher, like an
azure ray.
The way lay sometimes through deep grassy meadows, sometimes by
the sides of corn-fields where the sheaves were already slanted,
oftentimes through thick shrubberies and woods already yellow with
the withering leaf. From time to time I passed a farm, with orchards
sloping down to the very water’s edge, or pastures slanting down to
shallows where the cattle waded, breaking the water to silver streaks
and whisking their tails against the clustering swarms of gnats. It
was very pleasant and very still, but, from a fishing point of view,
exceedingly absurd.
By-and-by, however, a faint breeze began to touch the pools, and
putting my rod together, and selecting my finest casting-line and two
tiny flies, I tried a cast. Fortunately the wind was blowing
sunward, and as I faced the light, the shadow fell behind me; but,
nevertheless, the shadow of my rod flitted about at every cast, and
threatened to spoil my sport. My first catch was an innocent baby-fish
as big as my thumb, who came at the fly with a rush, and fought
desperately when hooked. When I had disengaged him, and put him back
into the water, he simply gave a flip of his little tail, and sailed
contemptuously and quite leisurely out of sight, making me call to
mind, with unusual humiliation, the well-known definition which Dr.
Johnson gave of angling--“a fish at one end of the line, and a fool at
the other,” I had tried a good many, casts before I took my first
respectable fish--a trout of about half a pound. I caught him in a nice
broken bit of water, just below a quaint old water-mill; and just as I
put him into the basket, the portly miller came out to the granary
door, and looked at me with a dusty smile. He evidently thought me a
lunatic, to be out with a fishing-rod on such a day.
Half a mile further on I landed another glittering picture of at least
a quarter of a pound; after that, another of half a pound; then my
luck ceased, the wind fell, and it was full sunshine. By this time I
had wandered a good many miles from home, and reached the spot where
the river plunges into the Great Omberley woods. Here the stream was
so rapid and the boughs so thick, that it was useless to think of
casting; so I put up my rod, and, leaping over a fence, rambled away
into the woods.
How strange and dark and still it was, passing out of the sunshine
into those shadows, deep and cool as the bottom of the sea! The oak
trees stretched their gnarled boughs into the air, and all around them
were the lesser trees of the wood-willow, elder, blackthorn, ash, and
hazel. The ground beneath was carpeted with moss and grass as thick
and soft as velvet, with thick clusters of fern and bluebells round
the tree roots, and creepers dangling from every bough. And the wood,
like the river, was all alive! Conies tumbled across the patches of
light, and flitted in the shadow, like very elves of the woodland;
squirrels ran up the gnarled tree trunks; harmless silver snakes
glided along the moss; but here and there, swift and ominous, ran a
weazel, darting its head this way and that, and fiercely scenting the
air, in one eternal glitter and hurry of bloodthirsty emotion. Thrush,
blackbird, finch, birds without number, sang overhead; save when the
shadow of the wind-hover or the sparrow-hawk passed across the topmost
branches, when there was a sudden and respectful silence, to be
followed by a precipitate hurry of exultation, as the enemy passed
away.
If I had been a moralist, I might have seen in this wood a microcosm
of the world, with its abundant happiness, its beauty, and its dark
spots of moral ugliness and cruelty. In you, Signor Weazel (who
came so near that I touched you with my rod, which you snapped at
ferociously, before bolting swiftly into the deep grass), I might
have seen the likeness of a certain sleek creature of my own sex and
species, who dwells not very far away. Nevertheless, I let you go in
peace; which was no mercy to the conies, I suppose.
So I entered the Forest Primaeval--or such it seemed to me, as the
blaze of sunshine faded, the boughs thickened, the air became full of
dark shadows and ominous silence. My steps were now deep in grass and
fern, and the scent of flowers and weeds was thick in my nostrils,
but I chose a path where the boughs were thinnest, and quietly pushed
through. While thus I rambled, I suppose that I fell, philosopher
like, into a dream; at any rate, I seemed to lose all count of time.=
```"The world, the life of men, dissolved away
```Into a sense of dimness,"=
as some poet sings. I felt primaeval--archetypal so to speak, till a
sudden’ shifting of the vegetable kaleidoscope recalled from thoughts
of Plato and the Archetype to a cruel consciousness of self.
I was moving slowly on, when I heard the sound of voices quite close
to me. I paused, listening, and only just in time, for in another
moment I should have been visible to the speakers. Well shrouded in
deep foliage, I looked out to discover what sylvan creatures were
disporting themselves in that lonely place; and I saw--what shall I
say? A nymph and a satyr? a dryad and a goatfooted Faun?
Just beyond me, there was a broad-green road through the woodland,
deeply carpeted with soft grass, but marked here and there with the
broad track of a wood-waggon; and on the side of this solitary road,
on a rude seat fashioned of two oaken stumps and a rough plank, the
nymph was sitting. She wore a light dress of some soft material,
a straw hat, a country cloak, and gloves of Paris kid--a civilized
nymph, as you perceive! To complete her modern appearance, she carried
a closed parasol, and a roll which looked like music.
How pretty she looked, with the warm light playing upon her delicate
features, and suffusing her form in its delicate drapery; with the
semi-transparent branches behind her, and flowers of the woodland at
her feet!
CHAPTER XXVII. THE NOTE-BOOK CONTINUED NYMPH AND SATYR.
|And the satyr? Ah! I knew him at a glance, despite the elegant modern
boots used to disguise the cloven foot.
He wore black broadcloth and snowy linen, too, and a broad-brimmed
clerical hat. His face was seraphically pale, but I saw (or fancied
I saw) the twinkle of the hairy ears of the ignoble, sensual,
nymph-compelling, naiad-pursuing breed.
He was talking earnestly, with gestures of eager entreaty; for the
nymph was crying, and he was offering her some kind of consolation.
Presently he sat down by her side, and threw his arms around her. She
disengaged herself from his embrace, and rose trembling to her feet.
“Don’t touch me!” she cried. “That is all over now. I cannot bear it!”
He rose also, and stood regarding her, not with the rapturous eyes’
of a lover, but with a dark and gloomy gaze. Then he said, in a low
voice, something which I could not catch. But I heard her passionate
reply.
“No, it is all over,” she cried; “and I shall never be at peace again.
Even, if you kept your word, it would be the same. You do not love me;
you never loved me--never!”
I crept a little closer, for I was anxious to hear his answer.
“I do love you, Edith; and after what has passed between us----”
She shrank away with a faint, despairing cry, and put her hand to her
face.
“After what has passed between us, do you think that my love can
change? But you are unjust to me, to yourself; too violent and too
hard to please. I do not like to be suspected, to be watched; and it
is painful to me, very painful, to be constantly called to an account
by you. It is not reasonable. Even as your husband, I would not bear
it; it would poison the peace between us, and convert our married life
into a simple hell!”
He paused; but her only answer was a sob of pain. So he sermonized on:
“Between man and woman, Edith, there should be solemn confidence and
trust. When that ceases, love is sure to cease. Why, look at me! My
trust in you is so absolute that no action of yours could shake it;
no matter how peculiar were the circumstances, I should be certain of
your faith, your goodness. That is true love--absolute, implicit faith
in the beloved object. I wish I could persuade you to imitate it.”
“You know that you can trust me,” sobbed the poor child, “because I
have: _proved_ my love.”
“Have I not proved mine?” he cried, with irritation. “Have I not made
sacrifice upon sacrifice for your sake? Have I not remained here, in
this wretched country place, when I could have been promoted to other
and greater spheres of action? Have I not made you my companion, my
confidante, my nearest and dearest friend? Edith, why do you persist
in such accusations? What must I do to signify our attachment? Shall I
marry you at once? Speak the word, and although, as you know, it would
involve the ruin of all my worldly projects, I will do as you desire.”
I had-heard enough to convince me that the affair under discussion
was no affair of mine, and that I had no right to continue playing the
spy; so I was drawing back as gently as possible, and about to return
the way I came, when I was suddenly arrested by the next words spoken.
“Give up Mrs. Haldane!”
I The nymph was the speaker. She stood with her wild eyes fixed upon
the other’s face, which did not improve in beauty of expression. For
myself, I started, stung to the quick; then I returned, trembling, to
my place of espionage.
“Give up Mrs. Haldane!” repeated the girl. “I ask nothing more than
that. I will not force you to marry me, Charles, till it is for your
good; indeed, if I did, I know that we should be unhappy, and that you
would never forgive me. But you can at least cease to be so familiar
with Mrs. Haldane.”
He had discovered by this time, I suppose, that the pleading mood
availed him little; at all events, he suddenly changed his tone, and
with a cry of angry indignation, he exclaimed--
“Edith, take care! I have told you that I will not suffer it! How dare
you suspect that lady! How dare you!”
And he stood towering over her (the satyr!) in the fulness of his
snowy shirtfront and the whiteness of his moral indignation.
“It is no use being angry,” she returned, with a certain stubbornness,
though I could see that she was cowed, in the manner of gentle women,
by his violent physical passion. “After what you have told me, after
what I have seen----”
“Edith, again, take care!”
“You are always with her,” she continued, “night-time and day-time. I
am amazed that Mr. Haldane does not notice it. It is the talk of the
place.”
With another exclamation, he turned his back and walked rapidly away.
“Come back!” she cried hysterically. “If you leave like that, I will
drown myself in the river.”
He returned and faced her.
“You will drive me mad!” he said. “I am sick of it. I am more like a
slave than a free man. You will not suffer me even to have a friend.”
“She is more than a friend. You have told me yourself, that you loved
her.”
“And so I did,” he answered, “though of course she is nothing to me
_now_.”
“Why are you always with her?”
“I am interested in her, deeply interested. She is unhappy with her
husband, and as a minister of the gospel----”
With her tearful, truthful eyes, fixed so earnestly upon him, no
wonder he paused and blushed.
“Charles, do not be a hypocrite! At least be honest. She is more to
you than a friend.”
He raised his hands heavenward, in pulpit fashion, and protested.
“Edith, I swear to you before God, that there is nothing whatever
between us. She is a stainless lady, her husband does not understand
her, I am her spiritual friend and guide.”
“Yes, Charles; I understand,” she said, still earnestly watching him.
“_Justus you were mine!_”
I think it worth while to put that little sentence in italics. It was
a home stroke, and took away the satyr’s breath.
“Edith, for shame!” he cried. “You know you do not mean what you say.
If I thought you meant it, I should break with you for ever. I
tell you again, Mrs. Haldane is above reproach, and it is simply
disgraceful to couple her name, in such a manner, with mine. And you
would infer, now, that I have influenced your own life for evil;
you would mock at my spiritual pretensions, and brand me as a base,
unworthy creature. Well, Edith, perhaps you are right. Perhaps I have
given you cause. I have shown you that I love you, beyond position,
beyond the world, beyond even my own self-respect, and this is my
return.”
I could have sprung out and strangled the fellow, he was so cruel
and yet so plausible, so superbly selfish and yet so completely
self-deceiving; and I saw that with every word he uttered he gained a
fresh hold over the heart of the pretty fool who was listening. While
he spoke, she sobbed as if her little heart was ready to break; and
when he ceased, she eagerly held out her arms.
“Oh, Charles, don’t say that! Don’t say that my love has been a curse
to you!”
“You drive me to say it,” he answered moodily; “you make me miserable
with your jealousy, your suspicion.”
“Don’t say that I make you miserable--don’t!” she sobbed.
“You used to be so different,” he continued, still preserving his tone
of moral injury; “you used to be so interested in my work, my daily
duties. Now, you do nothing but reproach me; and why? Because I have
found an old friend, who happens to be of your own sex, but who is far
above the folly of a meaningless flirtation, and who little deserves
the cruel slur you cast upon her. Am I, then, to have no friends, no
acquaintances? Is every step I take to be measured by the unreasoning
suspicion of a jealous woman?”
By this time she had put her arms about his neck, and was sobbing on
his breast.
“Oh, Charles, don’t be so hard with me! It is all because I love
you--ah, so much!”
“But you should conquer these wicked feelings----”
“I try! I try!”
“You should have more confidence, more faith. You know how much I
care for you.”
“Yes; but sometimes I feel afraid. Mrs. Haldane is so much cleverer,
so much more beautiful, than I am, and she was your first love. They
say men never love twice.”
“That is nonsense, Edith.”
“But you do love me, dear? you do?”
Ugh, the satyr! He answered her with kisses, straining her to his
heart and she, sobbing and clinging round him, was quite conquered.
I felt sick to see her at his mercy. Then their voices sank, and he
whispered, and I saw the bright blood mount to her cheek and brow.
But, alas! she did not shrink away any more.
Then whispering and kissing, with eyes of passion fixed upon one
another, they moved away, taking a lonely path into the woods beyond
me. My first impulse was to follow them, and to tear them asunder.
But after all, I reflected it was no affair of mine, and I knew now,
moreover, that nothing in the world would save her from him--or from
herself. .
END OF VOL. II.