Waiting Lady Claudia's Pleasure
Stafford had probably painted his state of mind in colors somewhat more
startling than the reality warranted. When a man is going to act against
his conscience, there is a sort of comfort in making out that the crime
has features of more striking depravity than an unbiased observer would
detect; the inclination in this direction is increased when it is a
question of impressing others. Sin seems commonplace if we give it no
pomp and circumstance. No man was more free than Stafford from any
conscious hypocrisy or posing, or from the inverted pride in immorality
that is often an affectation, but also, more often than we are willing
to allow, a real disease of the mind. But in his interview with Morewood
he had yielded to the temptation of giving a more dramatic setting and
stronger contrasts to his conviction and his action than the actual
inmost movement of his mind justified. It was true that he was
determined to set action and conviction in sharp antagonism, and to
follow an overpowering passion rather than a belief that he depicted as
no less dominant. Had his fierce words to Morewood reproduced exactly
what he felt, it may be doubted whether the resultant of two forces so
opposite and so equal could have been the ultimately unwavering
intention that now possessed him. In truth, the aggressive strength of
his belief had been sapped from within. His efforts after doubt,
described by himself as entirely unsuccessful, had not in reality been
without result. They had not issued in any radical or wholesale
alteration of his views. He was right in supposing that he would still
have given as full intellectual assent to all the dogmas of his creed as
formerly; the balance of probability was still in his view
overwhelmingly in their favor. But it had come to be a balance of
probability--not, of course, in the way in which a man balances one
account of an ordinary transaction against another, and decides out of
his own experience of how things happen--Stafford had not lost his
mental discrimination so completely--but in the sense that he had
appealed to reason, and thus admitted the jurisdiction of reason in
matters which he had formerly proclaimed as outside the province of that
sort of reasoning that governs other intellectual questions. In the
result, he was left under the influence of a persuasion, not under the
dominion of a command; and the former failed to withstand an assault
that the latter might well have enabled him to repulse. He found
himself able to forget what he believed, though not to disbelieve it;
his convictions could be postponed, though not expelled; and in
representing his mind as the present battle-ground of equal and opposite
forces, he had rather expressed what a preacher would reveal as the
inner truth of his struggle than what he was himself conscious of as
going on within him. It is likely enough that his previous experience
had made him describe his own condition rather in the rhetoric of the
pulpit than in the duller language of a psychological narrative. He had
certainly given Morewood one false impression, or rather, perhaps
Morewood had drawn one false though natural inference for himself. He
thought of Stafford, and his letter passed on the same view to Eugene,
as of a man suffering tortures that passed enduring. Perhaps at the
moment of their interview such was the case: the dramatic picture
Stafford had drawn had for the moment terrified afresh the man who drew
it. His normal state of mind, however, at this time was not unhappy. He
was wretched now and then by effort; he was tortured by the sense of sin
when he remembered to be. But for the most part he was too completely
conquered by his passion to do other than rejoice in it. Possessed
wholly by it, and full of an undoubting confidence that Claudia returned
his love, or needed only to realize it fully to return it fully, he had
silenced all opposition, and went forth to his wooing with an
exultation and a triumph that no transitory self-judgments could greatly
diminish. Life lay before him, long and full and rich and sweet. Let
trouble be what it would, and right be what it might, life and love were
in his own hands. The picture of a man giving up all he thought worth
having, driven in misery by a force he could not resist to seek a remedy
that he despaired of gaining--a remedy which, even if gained, would
bring him nothing but fresh pain--this picture, over which Eugene was
mourning in honest and perplexed friendship, never took form as a true
presentment of himself to the man it was supposed to embody. If Eugene
had known this, he would probably have felt less sympathy and more
rivalry, and would have assented to Ayre's view of the situation rather
than doubtingly maintained his own. A man may sometimes change himself
more easily than he can persuade his friends to recognize the change.
Stafford left the Retreat the morning after his meeting with Morewood,
feeling, he confessed to himself, as if he had taken a somewhat unfair
advantage of its hospitality. The result of his sojourn there, if known
to the Founder, might have been a trial of that enthusiast's consistency
to his principles, and Stafford was glad to be allowed to depart, as he
had come, unquestioned. He came straight to London, and turned at once
to the task of finding Claudia as soon as he could. The most likely
quarter for information was, he thought, Eugene Lane or his mother; and
on the afternoon of his arrival in town--on the same day, that is, as
Eugene had surprised Sir Roderick at breakfast--he knocked at the door
of Eugene's house in Upper Berkeley Street, and inquired if Eugene were
at home. The man told him that Mr. Lane had returned only that morning,
from America, he believed, and had left the house an hour ago, on his
way to Territon Park; he added that he believed Mr. Lane had received a
telegram from Lord Rickmansworth inviting him to go down. Mrs. Lane was
at Millstead Manor.
Stafford was annoyed at missing Eugene, but not surprised or disturbed
to hear of his visit to Territon Park. Eugene did not strike him as a
possible rival. It may be doubted whether in his present frame of mind
he would have looked on any man's rivalry as dangerous, but of course he
was entirely ignorant of the new development of affairs, and supposed
Eugene to be still the affianced husband of Miss Bernard. The only way
the news affected him was by dispelling the slight hope he had
entertained of finding that Claudia had already returned to London.
He went back to his hotel, wrote a single line to Eugene, asking him to
tell him Claudia's address, if he knew it, and then went for a walk in
the Park to pass the restless hours away. It was a dull evening, and the
earliest of the fogs had settled on the devoted city. A small drizzle
of rain and the thickening blackness had cleared the place of
saunterers, and Stafford, who prolonged his walk, apparently unconscious
of his surroundings, had the dreary path by the Serpentine nearly to
himself. As the fog grew denser and night fell, the spot became a
desert, and its chill gloom began to be burdensome even to his
prepossessed mind. He stopped and gazed as far as the mist let him over
the water, which lay smooth and motionless, like a sheet of opaque
glass; the opposite bank was shrouded from his view, and imagination
allowed him to think himself standing on the shore of some almost
boundless lake. Seen under such conditions, the Serpentine put off the
cheerful vulgarity of its everyday aspect, and exercised over the spirit
of the watcher the same fascination as a mountain tarn or some deep,
quick-flowing stream. "Come hither and be at rest," it seemed to
whisper, and Stafford, responsive to the subtle invitation, for a moment
felt as if to die in the thought of his mistress would be as sweet as to
live in her presence, and, it might be, less perilous. At least he could
be quiet there. His mind traveled back to a by-gone incident of his
parochial life, when he had found a wretched shop-boy crouching by the
water's edge, and trying to screw his courage up for the final plunge.
It was a sordid little tragedy--an honest lad was caught in the toils of
some slatternly Jezebel; she had made him steal for her, had spent his
spoil, and then deserted him for his "pal"--his own familiar friend.
Adrift on the world, beggared in character and fortune, and sore to the
heart, he had wandered to the edge of the water, and listened to its
low-voiced promises of peace. Stafford had stretched forth his hand to
pluck him from his doom and set him on his feet; he prevailed on the lad
to go home in his company, and the course of a few days proved once
again that despair may be no more enduring than delight. The incident
had almost faded from his memory, but it revived now as he stood and
looked on the water, and he recognized with a start the depths to which
he was in danger of falling. The invitation of the water could not draw
him to it till he knew Claudia's will. But if she failed him, was not
that the only thing left? His desire had swallowed up his life, and
seemed to point to death as the only alternative to its own
satisfaction. He contemplated this conclusion, not with the personal
interest of a man who thought he might be called to act upon
it,--Claudia would rescue him from that,--but with a theoretical
certainty that if by any chance the staff on which he leant should
break, he would be in no other mind than that from which he had rescued
his miserable shop-boy. Death for love's sake was held up in poetry and
romance as a thing in some sort noble and honorable; as a man might die
because he could not save his country, so might he because he could not
please his lady-love. In old days, Stafford, rigidly repressing his
aesthetic delight in such literature, had condemned its teaching with
half-angry contempt, and enough of his former estimate of things
remained to him to prevent him regarding such a state of mind as it
pictured as a romantic elevation rather than a hopeless degradation of a
man's being. But although he still condemned, now he understood, if not
the defense of such an attitude, at least the existence of it. He might
still think it a folly; it no longer appeared a figment. A sin it was,
no doubt, and a degradation, but not an enormity or an absurdity; and
when he tried again to fancy his life without Claudia, he struggled in
vain against the growing conviction that the pictures he had condemned
as caricatures of humanity had truth in them, and that it might be his
part to prove it.
With a shiver he turned away. Such imaginings were not good for a man,
nor the place that bred them. He took the shortest cut that led out of
the Park and back to the streets, where he found lights and people, and
his thoughts, sensitive to the atmosphere round him, took a brighter
hue. Why should he trouble himself with what he would do if he were
deceived in Claudia? He knew her too well to doubt her. He had pushed
aside all obstacles to seek her, and she would fly to meet him; and he
smiled at himself for conjuring up fantasies of impossible misfortune,
only to enjoy the solace of laying them again with the sweet confidence
of love. He passed the evening in the contemplation of his happiness,
awaiting Eugene's reply to his note with impatience, but without
disquiet.
This same letter was, however, the cause of very serious disquiet to the
recipient, more especially as it came upon the top of another
troublesome occurrence. Rickmansworth had welcomed Eugene to Territon
Park with his usual good nature and his usual absence of effusion. In
fact, he telegraphed that Eugene could come if he liked, but he,
Rickmansworth, thought he'd find it beastly slow. Eugene went, but
found, to his dismay, that Claudia was not there. Some mystery hung over
her non-appearance; but he learned from Bob that her departure had been
quite impromptu,--decided upon, in fact, after his telegram was
received,--and that she was staying some five miles off, at the Dower
House, with her aunt, Lady Julia, who occupied that residence.
Eugene was much annoyed and rather uneasy.
"It looks as if she didn't want to see me," he said to Bob.
"It does, almost," replied Bob cheerfully. "Perhaps she don't."
"Well, I'll go over and call to-morrow."
"You can if you like. _I_ should let her alone."
Very likely Bob's words were the words of wisdom, but when did a
lover--even a tolerably cool-headed lover like Eugene--ever listen to
the words of wisdom? He went to bed in a bad temper. Then in the morning
came Stafford's letter, and of course Eugene had no kind of doubt as to
the meaning of it. Now, it had been all very well to be magnanimous and
propose to give his friend a chance when he thought the pear was only
waiting to drop into his hand; magnanimity appeared at once safe and
desirable, and there was no strong motive to counteract Eugene's love
for Stafford. Matters were rather different when it appeared that the
pear was not waiting to drop--when, on the contrary, the pear had
pointedly removed itself from the hand of the plucker, and seemed, if
one may vary the metaphor, to have turned into a prickly pear. Eugene
still believed that Claudia loved him; but he saw that she was stung by
his apparent neglect, and perhaps still more by the idea that in his
view he had only to ask at any time in order to have. When ladies gather
that impression, they think it due to their self-respect to make
themselves very unpleasant, and Eugene did not feel sure how far this
feeling might not carry Claudia's quick, fiery nature, more especially
if she were offered a chance of punishing Eugene by accepting a suitor
who was in many ways an object of her admiration and regard, and came to
her with an indubitable halo of romance about him. Eugene felt that his
consideration for Stafford might, perhaps, turn out to be more than a
graceful tribute to friendship; it might mean a real sacrifice, a
sacrifice of immense gravity; and he did what most people would do--he
reconsidered the situation.
The matter was not, to his thinking, complicated by anything approaching
to an implied pledge on his part. Of course Stafford had not looked upon
him as a possible rival; his engagement to Kate Bernard had seemed to
put him _hors de combat_. But he had been equally entitled to regard
Stafford as out of the running; for surely Stafford's vow was as binding
as his promise. They stood on an equality: neither could reproach the
other--that is to say, each had matter of reproach against the other,
but his mouth was closed. There was then only friendship--only the old
bond that nothing was to come between them. Did this bond carry with it
the obligation of standing on one side in such a case as this? Moreover,
time was precious. If he failed to seek out Claudia that very day, she,
knowing he was at Territon Park, would be justly aggrieved by a new
proof of indifference or disrespect. And yet, if he were to wait for
Stafford, that day must go by without his visit. Eugene had hitherto
lived pleasantly by means of never asking too much of himself, and in
consequence being always tolerably equal to his own demands upon
himself. Quixotism was not to be expected of him. A nice observance of
honor was as much as he would be likely to attain to; and friendship
would be satisfied if he gave the doubtful points against himself.
He sat down after breakfast, and wrote a long letter to Stafford.
After touching very lightly on Stafford's position, and disclaiming not
only any right to judge, but also any inclination to blame, he went on
to tell in some detail the change that had occurred in his own
situation, avowed his intention of gaining Claudia's hand if he could,
clearly implied his knowledge that Stafford's heart was set on the same
object, and ended with a warm declaration that the rivalry between them
did not and should not alter his love, and that, if unsuccessful, he
could desire to be beaten by no other man than Stafford. He added more
words of friendship, told Stafford that he should try his luck as soon
as might be, and that he had Rickmansworth's authority to tell him that,
if he saw proper to come down for the same purpose, his coming would not
be regarded as an intrusion by the master of the house.
Then he went and obtained the authority he had pledged, and sent his
servant up to London with the letter, with instructions to deliver it
instantly into Stafford's own hand. His distrust in the integrity of the
postmaster's daughter in such a matter prevented his sending any further
message by the wires than one requesting Stafford to be at home to
receive his letter between twelve and one, when his messenger might be
expected to arrive.
With a conscience clear enough for all practical purposes, he then
mounted his horse, rode over to the Dower House, and sent in his card to
Lady Julia Territon. Lady Julia was probably well posted up; at any
rate, she received him with kindness and without surprise, and, after
the proper amount of conversation, told him she believed he would find
Claudia in the morning-room. Would he stay to lunch? and would he excuse
her if she returned to her occupations? Eugene prevaricated about the
lunch, for the invitation was obviously, though tacitly, a contingent
one, and conceded the lady's excuses with as respectable a show of
sincerity as was to be expected. Then he turned his steps to the
morning-room, declining announcement, and knocked at the door.
"Oh, come in," said Claudia, in a tone that clearly implied, "if you
won't let me alone and stay outside."
"Perhaps she doesn't know who it is," thought Eugene, trying to comfort
himself as he opened the door.