my hearts in these days--the wonderful long, swift days in which so many
thousand strange, sweet, shuddering thoughts storm and foam, and then
flow in strong deep tranquillity, like an impetuous mountain brook that
grows ever wider, till it becomes a river and loses itself in the sea.
But help me, little pen, to tell a few of these myriad fleeting thoughts
that will not let sleep come beyond the threshold. Is it true, then,
that this dear friend and I belong to each other for time and eternity?
That neither life nor death, nor principalities nor powers, can ever mar
the perfectness of our love? Is this true? Yes--yes--yes. Yesterday is
irrevocably ours, and to-day belongs to us, and to-morrow dawns that we
may still know how perfect life may be. Henceforth our lives are
double--one within the other, in heart and spirit--never to live apart,
even though seas may roll between and continents divide us.
'And can it be that from year to year the heavens will be so high and
golden, the earth so wide and loving, that the heart will thrill with a
power of loving which lifts the soul as on eagle pinions, till life and
death are but twin brothers, equally welcome so that we are undivided?
'Ah! what a strange thought, almost to wish for death now! Yes, would
it not be good to escape a possibility of the cruel ironies that Nature
keeps so often in store for the children of men? Can any mortal measure
the power which time has to bring in its train change and weariness?
What if the day should come when this love, so strong and ardent now,
should become one more of the beautiful illusions of life, a deserted
pavilion flecked through and through with the mildew of indifference?
Has my heart been too readily given? Is it not written in song and
story that men prize most what is won with difficulty? But as for me,
the first time we spoke to each other, did not my heart stir
tumultuously? Could I not have opened my eyes if I had willed that day
when the storm had raged so fiercely--was it not because I hungered to
hear him speak his love? ... Well, be it so. I am glad that I know the
truth--that it will be with me through these long months of separation,
like a nest of singing birds whose wings grow strong for flight, and who
yet, like doves that fly afar in the day-time, always return to their
dove-cotes before night falls.... Tell me of the gentle, tender thoughts
which cast out every lurking shadow of fear; of the new ties that may
arise to knit us ever closer, heart to heart, in the higher duties of
life, till we
"'Learn by a mortal yearning to ascend.
Seeking a higher object,'
till in imagination I draw near to the dim bourne without any
heart-quaking. Yes, even Death must doff his terrors when we know that
the infinitely beloved of our soul must pass through the shadow of the
dark valley. Ah! gentle, kindly Death, grant us that last favour of
life--not to be long apart after the last farewells are spoken. After
all, it is the might of love that takes the victory from Death and robs
the grave of its terror. We learn to know too well that not a clod can
ever touch the outer bark of the spirit's life. Abide with me, thoughts
of pensive gentleness, that fill the mind with calm till all forecasting
doubts and fears are swallowed in the azure of peace, like clouds that
wander on the wide horizon till they are spun into the flawless dome of
heaven....
'After all, little pen, there is a touch of the laity about you, so that
the heart cannot take you into its full confidence. But do not stand in
the outer court of the Gentiles--the dear friend for whom you are
writing loves our babbling. What other small broods of fancies do you
hear chirping out their slender roundelays? No, let us not speak of our
happiness. It is foolish to cut snippets out of so endless a theme.
What was that little whisper of fear or regret?--no, nothing so resolute
as these feelings, but a vagrant little misgiving, that trips so swiftly
before one looks it in the face. One cannot say whether it is a scout,
or a forerunner, or an idle little gad-about, who has nothing to do but
snatch an ear of corn, melting melodious airs to the most wayward
woodland fancies. Are you not afraid to marry when you are so
desperately in love? Ah, wicked little rover! I have caught you
merrily whistling your treasons. Now I have put the tip of my pen
through your errant fancy, and transfixed it for my friend. I should
not wonder if he would beat you as blue as a violet when he catches you.
But what treacherous little arrow have you let fly? Let me get at the
core of this half-jocund lay which leaves a sting behind. Youth, love
and marriage, are these the three fearful felicities of a woman's life,
and is the most fearful of these marriage? And love, the most exquisite
vision which life holds, is it in imminent peril when it is imprisoned
in the service of every-day life? ...
'Lovely as one of the muses, and crowned with the first violets of
spring, this vision loved to wander solitary on mountain peaks, when
they were first lightly touched with the vermilion of brightening day.
It came and went at will--this radiant dream, casting a glamour over the
world, like the reflection of a damask rose falling athwart the
half-opened chalice of a white magnolia. Dreams shun the glare of day;
but one morning the voice of him to whom this vision of right belonged
called to it to come from its lonely haunts, and abide by the altar
which he had dedicated to it in a secure dwelling-place--alas! is it too
secure, too untroubled? Who could believe that a little air of revelry,
whistled on an oaten pipe by the most _insouciant_ of wandering
minstrels, should awaken such qualms? Go on, little pen--an altar
fitted to guard the fairest dreams. Even Love's purple wings and golden
arrows are touched to finer issues when they are consecrated with
life-long vows. Yes, like other monarchs, he comes to his kingdom by
making covenants; and yet, and yet, we cannot give up the dream for the
reality without heart-quaking and doubt, and something of poignant
regret. Flashes of thought come like cloven tongues of fire, in whose
light the soul waxes faint and timorous and cries in anguish. Is it,
then, true that love's inmost life is rooted in the senses, are its
keenest aspirations to be tamed like caged birds, to be merged in the
commonness of every day content? Yet, for all possible fears and doubts
and questions there is an answer: Perfect love casteth out fear. Love,
the crowning felicity of life, that light of the world which shines more
unquenchably than the stars of heaven. It is strong, not only to bear
sorrow and anguish, but also to meet the common needs and common joys of
daily life, buoyant enough to sustain the secure happiness of wedded as
well as the despair of parted lovers.
'Dear friend, does this appear to you as the cloven foot of those
heretical images of marriage which haunt me so often? But who can go
through life with open eyes and not perceive that the average run of
married people seem to have but entered on business contracts, in which
anything like the ardour of love is absent as conspicuously as in any
huckster's bargain? Do you remember my telling you one day that I could
not be so very sorry for Romeo and Juliet? You asked me why, and a
coach-whip bird flew snapping by, and I followed it to make sure whether
it had a white spot above each eye. And then, though you may not think
it, ever belovedest friend, I often hesitated to say things because of
your calm, clear reasonableness. But now there is no coach-whip bird,
and you are three hundred miles away. Therefore do I thank the gods that
here and there we have the immortal story of lovers who died before
their hearts and lives were touched with the corrosion of life's
invading commonness. Why should we regret those who knew how to die so
well for dear love's sake? So many and so many live to bear false
witness to it--to sit under a ragged banner and eat garlic, nor ask to
be stayed with flagons and comforted with wine. But then, again, there
are the fortunate few. I must stop. I should have written to my mother
this evening, but I wrote to you instead, though I parted from you only
the day before yesterday. Oh, Anselm Langdale, do you not call this the
utmost peak to which ingratitude can climb? A mother's love; whose is
like it?--giving so much, asking so little! Do not pretend that you ask
little. History, poetry, the drama, your eyes, all betray you. But
this first tender love that enfolded us from the dawn of life, that bore
with all our waywardness, that watched over us in illness, that was with
us like the benediction of God when we first folded our hands in prayer.
And then, like long-legged, every-day chickens, we leave the loving
mother to scratch up the dust for ourselves, without the shadow of an
excuse that she pecks us away in favour of a younger brood. Don't I
know? Have I not watched my old hen, Augusta, rearing brood after
brood? And now I watch myself looking forward to the return of the
_Paquerette_ with hardly a pang. Hardly a pang? You hypocrite--with a
heart that keeps time to dance-music all day long; yes, and beats wide
awake at night to keep up the revel. Think of it--coldly to leave the
sweet mother when the night is drawing on apace, when all the vivid
personal gladness of being alive is over, to wander to the far ends of
the earth, perhaps to meet never again. Oh, infinite pathos and mystery
of our being! Life, hast thou never a draught of joy to offer that is
sparkling throughout? I am ashamed I did not write to my mother instead
of writing to you; and yet, no, because to-morrow is Friday, and I would
not write my first letter to you on that day for the world, it would be
a bad omen. Why do you smile so? I could prove to you that from the
first dawn of history until now, omens have played a strange part in the
life of man. Think how ominous of their future career it was that all
the Ten Commandments were broken even before they were given to mankind!
I spare you the rest. This in itself is an army set in array.
'Tell me if that poor splitter, who was so badly hurt, is better? Has
he anyone to look after him? Did you stay long? Did you see a lyre
bird standing on a little hillock showing off its tail-feathers like a
peacock? Did you set someone peeping from behind a window-blind after
you at daybreak yesterday morning when you rode away? And now not
another word. I am going to get you that keepsake I promised you on the
veranda of Peeloo station. Always your friend--likewise your sweet St.
Charity, and,
'THE INNERMOST-LITTLE-LEAFLET-OF-YOUR-HEART.'
When Stella finished, she rose and unfastened the coils of her hair,
which fell below her waist like a mantle of dead-leaf gold. She cut a
thick full-length lock, soft and silky, with a ripple in it as if it had
fallen out of curl. She folded it up in silver tissue-paper, which had
been wrapped round a small vial of attar of roses. Then she enclosed it
in the closely-written sheets, sealed and addressed the letter, and put
it on the hall-table in the receptacle for letters to be posted at ten.
*CHAPTER XXXVIII.*
A little afterwards, Laurette came out into the hall with some notes,
saw this letter, and regarded it as the answer to all her conjectures.
She took it up and looked at it with a strange expression on her face.
It was bulky, with double postage on it, and that Eastern fragrance
clung to it of a thousand rose-leaves crushed into a pin-point of
liquid, which had been dear to Stella from childhood. Laurette
remembered as a girl seeing some of the hermetically-sealed little vials
full of this essence, which some connection of the Courtlands sent to
the girls from Persia, where he was in the diplomatic service of his
country. Laurette could hardly have explained why the reminiscence
heightened that half-vindictive spite never very distant from the
feeling with which she regarded Stella. It was merely one of the
insignificant little events that is part of the life of a family whose
cadets have for generations pushed their way into every quarter of the
globe in the civil and military service of Britain. But such
circumstances had, to Laurette's sharp envious mind, marked the gulf
which, in the old country, had separated her own people from those to
whom the Courtlands belonged, though in Australia the position was in
some degree reversed. She held the letter a moment in her hand, then
put it back with the rest.
If any object could be gained by destroying or opening it, she would not
have hesitated to take either course. There would have been no
balancing of sentiments--no struggle between good and evil--but simply a
swift calculation as to the chances of detection, and if that could be
evaded, prompt action, as it would serve her interests. When men or
women have passed many years in an atmosphere of small habitual
duplicities, shifty meannesses, and unscrupulous self-seeking, all the
time tempered by a cunning caution, the nature becomes ingrained with a
moral imbecility that seems absolutely proof against any stirring of
conscience.
Laurette returned to the drawing-room, and shortly afterwards her
husband came home. His appearance at that early hour was a little shock
to her. Nor was it misplaced. He at once broached the subject which led
to his phenomenal movements.
'That Riverina fellow has seen me to-night again. He is willing to give
an advance of two hundred pounds for this place, on the rent we pay. I
have told him he may most likely have it at the end of this month.'
'Well, that was kind of you,' said Laurette, trying to laugh; but it was
an unsuccessful attempt, and her face had blanched. To this Tareling
made no reply.
'I am going to sleep at the club to-night, and make an early start to
Beechfield to-morrow about some land there. I thought I'd better tell
you as early as possible about giving up this place.'
'And going to Cannawijera with the children and the maids?'
'Precisely; unless your father wishes to have you at Godolphin House.
What the devil made them give the place such a name as that? It seems
like a bad joke.'
'Most things do in the Colonies, don't they?'
'Ah! I don't know that we need go into these details. You understand
about the house? I have not given an absolute promise.'
'No; and you must not!' said Laurette, suddenly rising with quivering
lips. 'If you suppose that I am going to bury myself in the heart of
the Mallee Scrub----'
Tareling shrugged his shoulders with such an imperturbable air that
Laurette at once checked herself.
'You have a good deal of temperament at times,' he said smoothly, after
a little pause; 'but if you think over it you will see that here it is
really worse than useless. I must have six or seven hundred pounds
early in October, and two hundred pounds clear is more than I can afford
to lose. Besides, you are only getting into debt every week.'
'And you? what will you do?'
'Oh, I shall manage, thanks,' answered Tareling, examining his
watch-chain critically.
'Yes; you will manage to get into debt.'
'Probably; but there will be compensations.'
'And then my father will have to pay another thou----'
'You are developing a remarkable turn for figures, and I notice you do
not mix up amounts like some women. I wish you had been as accurate
when we first met, and you dropped those artless hints about being
heiress to the tune of five or six thousand a year.'
'Oh, good heavens! if I had only known; if I could have foreseen!'
'Ah, exactly. If we could both have foreseen; but as that was a gift
denied to us, we married. But if you will excuse me----' Tareling
stood up, taking his watch out.
'Well, Talbot, I'll excuse you if you excuse me,' said Laurette, with a
sudden change of tone and manner. 'I should have told you before that
Ted is going to give me another fifteen hundred pounds at the end of
this month--only I must not leave Melbourne at the latest till the
season is quite over.'
'Why didn't you tell me this before--when I first spoke of re-letting
the house?'
'Well, you see, I thought I would keep all this second cheque for
current expenses and the most pressing bills--as you had nearly half of
the first lot; but you can have what you need early in October.'
'Oh, well, I suppose I had better tell this fellow circumstances have
turned up that prevent our letting the Lodge.'
And with a nod the Honourable Talbot Tareling left the domestic hearth.
For some time after he was gone Laurette sat sunk in reflections. Early
in October. Yes, that was about the time that the company to which
Mademoiselle de Melier belonged was to leave for San Francisco.
Laurette had known for some time that her husband contemplated a change
of scene. People who had known him intimately before his marriage were
amazed that he had remained in the Colonies so long. Countries in which
work is the paramount social factor are always more or less crude in
their resources of amusement. And then the Ritchie family was cutting
up so confoundedly rough about money matters. Laurette had long
recognised that there was nothing in her husband's nature to which any
appeal could successfully be made that clashed with his own ideas of
enjoyment. His intrigue with this wretched little singing actress
affected Mrs. Tareling little, if at all, from an ethical point of view.
As she had once said in a burst of confidence to an old school friend:
'When a girl marries into the British nobility she must give up
bourgeoise notions of morality.' Neither could she be deeply wounded
through the affections. But there is always a vulnerable spot--and that
with Laurette was her social success. If Talbot worked out his present
plans, Laurette's prospects centred not only in social extinction in the
Mallee Scrub, but something also of social disgrace. Laurette rose up
almost gasping at the prospect.
She did not in the least expect the second munificent cheque from Ted,
knowing too well the tissue of deceit by which she had secured the
first. But then, this Riverina family was choked off, and every week
made it less likely that anyone else would make as good an offer for
Monico Lodge--and she gained time. To leave Melbourne at this juncture
would be to give up all. She regretted not having opened Stella's
letter. Was it not possible she was dallying with a new admirer--yet
unable to commit the extravagant folly of resigning a man with fifteen
thousand a year for love of one who had not half as many hundreds? She
had written to Julia urging her to find out by all means in her power
what this sudden departure of Langdale's portended. She must somehow
find out the truth of affairs before telegraphing for Ted, as she had
promised to do on Stella's arrival. In fact, it might be necessary to
prevent their meeting at all under her roof. She reflected that if one
is called to account for conflicting statements it is always easier to
explain by letter. 'My anxiety for your success, dear Ted, may have led
me to exaggerate in your favour,' etc. As for Stella, she would be too
happy and self-absorbed to care about such trifles. 'But "there's many
a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip,"' thought Laurette vindictively.
Next morning's first post brought letters to Stella from Lullaboolagana,
and one in a hand strange to Laurette, bearing the Minjah-Millowie
post-mark. But there was not much room left to her for speculation as
to the writer. The moment Stella saw this letter her face was suffused
with happy blushes, and she presently made some excuse to escape with it
to her own room--actually leaving the rest behind. Laurette herself had
a note from Julia. 'I have fished it out of Nell,' she wrote, 'that
Louise _knows_ Dr. L. has not yet been accepted, but hopes to be on his
return. He is to be back in three or four months. What can be taking
him away? Perhaps you will see him in a day or two. Mrs. Morrison told
me yesterday that a Dr. Grey, a friend of her husband's, has come out by
the last P. and O. steamer, and is most likely coming to practise here
in partnership with Morrison.'
On Monday Stella went to stay for a day and a half with the Carters. An
hour after she had driven away with her brother a servant brought a card
to Laurette. It was Dr. Langdale's, and he was waiting to see her. Was
he going by the French steamer which sailed in the afternoon? Could she
prevent him from seeing Stella, or would this do any good? He would
have had her letter on Friday night, while his must have been written on
Thursday. A hundred thoughts flew through Laurette's mind, but she felt
the impossibility of seeing her way far ahead before she knew what
Langdale's plans were. Only she decided if he were really leaving by
the _Salagie_ she would say Stella had gone--where? Some place not to
be reached in a few hours. But lovers were such awful fools--they would
attempt the most imbecile feats. Well, to avoid all rash venturing she
would state Stella was on her way to Mount Macedon by an uncertain
route.
Who that saw this pretty, fair woman in her fresh blue morning dress
greeting her visitor with an amiable smile could have dreamt what her
resolves had been a moment before? Langdale apologized for his early
call. He had arrived by the morning train, and was to sail by the
_Salagie_ that afternoon, and being anxious to see Miss Courtland before
leaving----
'Oh, had she any idea you were coming?' broke in Laurette.
'No,' Dr. Langdale answered, smiling; 'he himself had not known till six
hours before he left Minjah-Millowie.'
'Oh, a thousand pities,' said Laurette, in a sympathetic voice. 'Miss
Courtland is now on her way to Mount Macedon. I cannot even say by what
route, or whether she will reach her destination this evening. She may
stay with friends on the way. Your woods seem to have spoiled Stella
for town life.'
This was said with an arch smile, and Laurette was quick to note the
awakened look, the swift flash, with which Langdale heard this.
'Miss Courtland is well, I hope,' he said a little anxiously.
'Oh yes, radiantly well; but more addicted to silence than formerly,'
returned Laurette meaningly. She thought if she were sufficiently
cordial and encouraging, if she comported herself as if she were quite
behind the scenes, she might glean a little more intelligence. At any
rate, such a manner would be likely to inspire confidence. And nothing
was more valuable than confidence when you were bent on thwarting the
confidee's little plans. 'But, after all, perhaps you need not go
to-day?' added Laurette.
'I must,' he answered--and he went on to say that his passage had been
booked in the _Salagie_ by telegram, that she sailed at seven in the
evening. And then he asked leave to call later with a letter for Miss
Courtland.
'Well,' thought Laurette, as the door closed behind him, 'this looks
like the finger of Providence.' She seemed to hold possibilities in her
grasp that would be valuable, and yet Stella was so unmalleable in some
respects, and Laurette divined, even from her brief interview with
Langdale, that one who knew him, much less one who loved him, would not
be easily duped into doubting the man. But Laurette was content to take
short views. He was going to the other end of the world, and to entrust
a letter to her care. Yes, people often wrote on the way, but on a
French boat one could not write earlier than from Mauritius--five or six
weeks ahead at the least; while what Laurette was scheming for was to
get that other fifteen hundred pounds at the end of September on the
plea of serving Ted's cause so well.
She did not stir out of the house till Langdale came and left the
letter. She took it at once to her own room and locked the door. She
opened the letter carefully, and it yielded under her supple fingers
without a tear. Of course, if nothing could be gained by destroying it,
she would close it up again and deliver it. But a glance served to show
her that it placed undreamt-of opportunities in her hand, if only she
could devise means of putting them to use. There was a long letter with
a separate enclosure. It was this that first caught her eye, and
brought the blood into her face, while her heart beat tumultuously.
Then she read the letter:
'SWEET ST. CHARITY,
'Your first letter reached me an hour ago. Will you ever know the
extreme joy it gave me? And the great lovely lock of hair it contained!
I drew it to its full length, and laid it against my cheek. But
Blaettchen knows the fatuity of pens in speaking of things so far beyond
their reach. How shabby my letter was compared to yours! But, if I do
not take care, I shall not remember to answer one of your questions.