look towards the future without quailing. It was true that even under
happier circumstances there could be none of that delicate mental
companionship which springs from the mutual insight of affinity, none of
that spontaneous interchange of thought, of tender imaginative fancies
which are the aerial rootlets of the mind, and make the perennial charm
of close intimacy.... But life is, on the whole, a rough and ready
arrangement, essentially founded on and reinforced by exterior
realities, which make a wider claim on our nature than we are always
willing to allow.
And after all the young human heart does not doat on being a 'bleeding
pageant.' It is given, rather, to that homely habit known as 'making
the best of things,' of finding warmth in the drift-wood fire after the
great storms of life have wrecked the gallant barks that set out laden
with the fond dreams of youth. With Stella it is certain that her
profound capacity of suffering, and her deep tinge of constitutional
melancholy, were closely related to that large generosity of nature
which is rooted in the love of life. Her wide sympathies, vivid
insight, and keen interest in the manifold aspects of the human comedy,
could not long lie dormant, when the bitter languor which had for a time
overwhelmed her began slowly to be dissipated. She made no rapid
strides in recovery. Both sleep and appetite were errant and fitful.
In the week that followed Ritchie's departure, it often occurred to her
that there was wisdom in his advice that she should for a little time
keep to her bed, in the hope of getting rid of that haunting, nameless
malaise, which at her best seemed never far off.
Yet the worst seemed to be over. Those haunting, life-like visions of
the night, in which she saw Langdale as vividly as in life, in which the
sound of his voice and the touch of his hand thrilled her with
overmastering reality, became gradually less frequent, less absorbing.
And this on the whole reassured her. It enabled her to begin to look on
the past as inevitable and irrevocable--something that had gone for ever
from her--as far as that can be the case with any epoch which for good
or evil has left the deepest imprint on the heart. But one vision,
sleeping and waking, eluded all effort at dislodgment. Solemn, silent,
unpeopled, in the delicate rose twilight--the boundary of earth and sky
lost in limitless distance--overhead a few great white stars swimming
into the tender amethyst of the sky. Two riding side by side, without a
single circumscribing line to meet their eyes in the vast immensity that
lay around them. It was a picture that night and day would rise up
before her with incredible intensity of presence--blotting out for the
moment all other sights. Gradually she came to regard it as one of
those consecrated, ideal passages of life which, like the rapture evoked
by high imaginative poetry, mercifully steeps the mind in forgetfulness
of the bald, dreary stretches of existence that threaten at times to
paralyze action and even thought itself.
That happy girl, with low, fond laughter bubbling to her lips as lightly
as carols float from the throat of a bird, was she not as remote from
Stella's actual self as a scene in an old romance? Let them ride on in
the wistful light that clothes the great Australian plain--those two
whose happiness seemed so inviolable a possession. Let their hearts
beat at the sound of each other's voice as to the cadence of subtle
music. They have passed beyond the inexorable law of change. They
belong to a realm invulnerable to the tooth of Time, where neither moth
nor rust doth corrupt. Here, in the common life with which we have to
do, love and sorrow alike are blunted by the deadening march of
successive days. In place of vivid emotion there falls a coldness as on
the altar of a buried temple. Oh, life, life! is this the kernel of thy
happiness for so many souls--the anguished memories of hopes that fell
like grass before the scythe of the mower?
Thus would the sorrowful girl commune with herself. And yet day by day
the discipline of pain began to direct her thoughts into other channels.
The interest which the first spectacle of life in Berlin had awakened
grew deeper as she saw more of the struggle for existence around her,
more especially among the very poor. She formed new acquaintances
daily. Market-people, poor children, old men dragging burdens beyond
their strength, old women sweeping up leaves on the paths of the
Thiergarten, the halt and the maimed at street stalls with pitiful
little objects of merchandise--they were all ready in their intervals of
rest to respond with quick cordiality to her first timid overtures of
acquaintanceship. The grief that nestled close at her own heart
quickened her observation into an interpretative faculty. Her mind
became sensitive to the myriad forms of unhappiness around her, as
waters are to the movement of clouds.
She was, during these first days in Berlin, continually on the alert to
observe, to sympathize and to help. And with this came something of
that renovation of spirit which comes with work and interests that lead
the mind away from its own sorrows and ailments.
Ted wrote frequently. His uncle had rallied a little, but the end could
not be far off. It seemed he had various reasons for wishing his
nephew's presence. 'He is a great deal richer than we any of us knew,
and he fancies he owes a good deal to the six thousand pounds I sent
when my Uncle Christopher died and left me Strathhaye. You know the two
quarrelled so out-and-out when they were young men that they never spoke
or wrote to each other for thirty-two years. I did hear something about
the reason, that both were in love with Aunt Polly. Lord, how stupid
men would feel for quarrelling about a woman if they could see her
thirty-two years afterwards!
'The Avenells are here just now. I go a good deal with them to the
theatres, etc.... I have been twice to see the Lillimores. They came
to town lately, and are as kind as they can be. Lady Lillimore is very
anxious to know you. Talbot, she says, has told her about you. She is
one of the kindest old ladies--something like your mother. I suppose
it's the old man Talbot took after. Not that a fellow need take after
anyone but himself to turn out pretty crooked. But Tareling seems, at
one time or other, to have got into every possible sort of
scrape--except work. I suppose he'd think that the biggest misfortune
of all. Certainly Larry got a pig in a poke when she married him. But
I expect when she's ladyshipped all day long, and has a string of
flunkeys to look on when she eats her dinner, she'll be quite pleased
with herself. Why don't you write longer letters? I would like to get
one every day. You make them just like talking. Hetty and Jemima send
their love. They swallowed the yarn about your crying to come with me,
and they think if I have to stay much longer you'll come after me. Will
you ever want to, Stella? The thought of it makes me go queer all over.
It's a week yesterday since I left--but it seems more like a month. The
Agent-General is very kind. I met several Americans at his house the
other evening. I tell you what, Stella--I feel quite green with
jealousy when I meet Americans. We must have a country of our own,
governed by ourselves, and not have the name of being ruled by fellows
sent out of the heart of London, to do no good but set people by the
ears with their twopenny-ha'penny Government House cliques. In England,
unless people know something of racing, they have a notion that
Australia is a poky island full of mosquitoes and a few niggers. "_Our_
colonies," they say, as if we were bad figs they bought at fourpence a
box. I hope that shell-parrot gave me the straight-tip about living to
be seventy-six, if only to live to see Australia a properly independent
country.... I went to Westminster Abbey the other day, but it's so full
of graven images I couldn't see a mortal thing.'
This letter reached Stella as she was about to set out to pay two
visits. The first was to Mrs. Schulz, the next to Professor Kellwitz,
the Berlin savant she had seen at Dr. Stein's early in the year. They
met in the Thiergarten two days previously, much to the Professor's
delight. He had just received a letter from his Adelaide friends in
which mention was made of Stella's marriage. He had to admit a similar
indiscretion on his own part. But his wife was just then in Dresden,
having been summoned there on account of the dangerous illness of a
married daughter. 'Do not wait till she returns before coming in a
neighbourly way to look over my books, and carry away any you want to
read,' urged the Professor. 'Come on Wednesday, and I shall then be
able to show you the last volume published on "Comparative Ethnology,"
by an old University comrade of Dr. Stein's. This is the number of our
house. Your pension is within ten minutes' walk of it.'
This was Wednesday, and Stella accordingly made the visit. The
Professor had been unexpectedly called out that afternoon, but left a
message to say he hoped to be back before Mrs. Ritchie left. She was
shown into the library and study, where, on the centre of the pedestal
table, in its paper binding and uncut leaves, fresh from the printer's,
lay the last profound contribution to ethnological science. The library
was a large apartment overlooking the Thiergarten, and lined with books
from floor to ceiling on all sides except one, which was covered with
engravings and photographs, a large proportion being reproductions of
the most ancient and primitive human dwellings of which any record or
traces have been discovered. On top of the bookshelves were ranged
busts of the immortals. There were tables piled high with books, others
with magazines and pamphlets. And even the chairs were not in all cases
kept free. But close to the centre pedestal table there was a deep,
hospitable-looking couch, to which a long placid career had given a
specially alluring aspect. Stella took possession of it, and looked
round the room with that quick response to the mere presence of books
instinctive to those who love them.
'No doubt there are countless theories and systems reposing in some of
these tomes to which time has brought utter ruin,' she thought. 'But
all the great brain-nourishers are here--the men whose thoughts "wander
through eternity," and pierce windows in the souls of successive
generations. How even to think of them seems to woo one into a
sanctuary where the vehement emotions and storms of life are left behind
like a conquered fortress invested with a force which keeps the old
rebels in subjection!'
The air of the room, so suggestive of detachment from the ebb and flow
of obdurate tides of passionate regret, of revolt and grief, of
apathetic indifference, appealed to her, and seemed to carry a message
of consolation, of peace. She tried to believe that the vulture-grip of
passion had loosened its hold on her. After all, life was not a tale to
be cast aside when it does not fulfil its early promises of
enchantment--not a harp that is worthless because one string is
silenced. The work of the world is carried on mostly by disillusioned
men and women. Yes, and by those who throw the whole strength of their
lives into action for the common weal. She took up the ethnological
work and turned over its pages curiously. But when she tried to read
the words swam before her, and her temples throbbed heavily. This was
not a new experience, for so much of the invalid still clung to her that
any prolonged exertion induced a creeping exhaustion which made thought
and action alike difficult. She leant back on the wide yielding couch,
saying to herself she would rest a little and then read. In a few
moments she was fast asleep.
*CHAPTER XLIX.*
She seemed to have slept but a few moments, when a dream of
extraordinary vividness took entire possession of her. Langdale was
quito near her; he had suddenly entered the room.... 'Stella, Stella,
my beloved!' he murmured in a hushed voice, looking at her. She would
not move, lest she would waken. It was long since she had seen Anselm
so clearly; and now, when she saw him, she knew that she had been
famishing for a sight of his face. And how close and real his voice
sounded with its deep, tender intonations!
He trod gently so as not to waken her. He stood over her, his hand
resting on the back of the couch. Her heart began to beat wildly. Ah,
would that she might never waken from this vision! It was so
palpable--so much part of herself. It throbbed in every vein of her
body. Why had she struggled against this communion as if it were an
evil infatuation? It was the saving element left, to steady reason in
the wreck that had overtaken her. She knew his face was near hers; she
heard herself repeating his name once and again. And then his arms were
round her--his breath came in quick pants as he held her to him. She
would not open her eyes lest this dream should dissolve.
Dream! Could this be a dream? Could imagination, aided by all the
ingenuity of sleep, feign the life-like ecstasy of the kisses softly
imprinted on her face?
'Darling, you called me. Are you still asleep?'
In this bewildering dream, which copied life with invincible fidelity,
she seemed to open her eyes--and, lo! there he was, close beside her,
his face irradiated with joy. 'Oh, Anselm, let me sleep on!' she said
faintly. And the dream went on; for he sat beside her, and drew her
close to him, so that her weary head lay upon his breast. And so she
remained for a little with closed eyes; but at last she began to gather
up proofs of being awake. She heard the ticking of a timepiece, the
sound of a military band, the muffled roll of carriages. Then timidly
she touched the hands that clasped her in so strong and unrelaxing a
way.
'Dear little Australian dormouse, does this heavy atmosphere make you so
drowsy?' he said with a happy laugh.... It was no dream. She gave a low
cry of joy, and threw her arms around him. For a few bewildered moments
a merciful oblivion overtook her. All the misery and humiliation and
endless moral conflict of the past weeks were swept from her. How is
one to account for the convictions that suddenly lodge in the heart
without a spoken word? The first collected thought which came to Stella
was that the dream she dreamt on the morning of her wedding-day was
true. No woman stood between her and Langdale--no shadow on his past
life divided them; she knew it well, as he drew her close against his
heart, murmuring incoherent endearments, and feasting his eyes on her
face.
It was much paler than formerly; and surely it was worn,
sorrow-stricken, with dark circles round the large eyes, more wistful
and _spirituelle_ than ever. And those drawn lines round the mouth?
She must have suffered much since they parted. The thought sobered the
transports of his joy.
'Has my sweet Herzblaettchen been ill?'
'Oh, Anselm, Anselm!' was all she could say. And then she screened her
face from his sight, hiding it against his breast. All that had
happened since they parted in the light of the mystical rose twilight
that stole in through the tangled clusters of leaves and purple and
scarlet passion-flowers, enclosing the wide veranda of the peaceful home
on the borders of the great Australian plain, had for a few tumultuous
moments been whirled from her consciousness. And now that the reality,
like a hideous nightmare, began once more to reassert itself, she
struggled to keep it at bay.
'So you came after all, as you threatened you would; and we have found
each other once more--once more!' he said, stroking her hair fondly.
She did not look up, but drew a long, low, shuddering sigh, like a child
which has been wearied with wandering, but is once more safe in its
mother's arms.
'Yes, Stella, we have found each other; this time never to lose one
another again--never, till death us do part!'
Oh, merciful Heaven! how the phantom of her wrecked life began to rise
and float before her, vivid and pitiful as the wave-washed form of a
broken ship that comes with shattered masts and dragging anchors to a
wild waste island, in which never a creature of God has lodged and found
shelter.
'You got my letter all safe, Liebe. Was it a great shock to you, that
enclosure, telling the cause of my visit to England?'
A shudder passed over her, and she moaned a little, but made no reply.
Then the reflection dawned on him that, in truth, the news had wounded
her cruelly, coming so unexpectedly in the midst of her great happiness.
Her face as he had last seen it--the large, radiant eyes, now thrilling
him with their steady gaze, then softly veiled with their long dark
lashes; the warm, tender damask in her cheeks--her voice, like a hidden
bird that sang, had been with him through the weary weeks of separation
like a vision of gladness, untroubled by one pang of doubt. Only in the
past week or two, when no letters reached him, he had been tormented
with fears lest she had fallen ill.
Had this, after all, been the case? She was so wan and silent--so
unlike the picture that had been with him day and night. The smiles
that rose in her eyes and lingered in them while her face was grave, her
low, glad peals of laughter, her quick, imperious gestures, her troops
of fancies, blithe and suggestive as the carols of birds in spring, what
had become of all these? But he reminded himself that under all the
gaiety and quick ardour of her nature there had ever been a strong
under-current of almost sombre melancholy. In their separation this had
evidently gained the upper hand. Her face would soon resume its old
fascinating changefulness--cold, almost hard, one would say, at times,
then soft and bright--luminously tender like a wind-flower pearled with
dew and softly stirred by the morning air.
In the rush of his sudden joy on seeing her fast asleep in his
stepfather's house, Langdale had scarcely wondered at Stella's
unexpected presence in the Old World. Those who have been in Australia
know that people of means there may at any moment embark on a voyage to
the Old World--Australia, that vast island-continent, so remote from all
the great international centres of activity, is yet in such curiously
close touch with all the far ends of the earth. One of the last things
Stella had said to him at parting was, 'You know, Anselm, if you are
detained in England, just say "Hey presto!" one morning, and there I
shall be at your door with a wreath of eucalyptus-blossoms in my hair
all ready to go to church. Oh, there are scores of people with whom I
could go--Esther to begin with----' Had she perhaps fallen ill and set
out with her sister or some friend directly after getting his Mauritius
letter, in which he told her of his mother's second marriage, and asked
her to address his letters after the beginning of November to No. --,
Thiergarten Strasse? Or was she one of the Adelaide friends of whom the
Professor spoke so warmly? But it mattered not how she had come: here
she was, and soon she would be her old joyous self again. She had
somehow suffered keenly, but the reaction would soon set in. He would
not worry her with questions or exclamations over her altered looks.
She had looked so much more like her old self when she had been asleep,
with a soft flush mantling in her cheeks.
'The moment I got your precious letter I felt I must tell you all before
I went away, darling,' he said, in a low, soothing voice. 'Your beloved
letter, which I have read till it is almost worn out, and this great
lovely lock of your hair--I have kissed it night and morning.'
He had taken the letter out of his pocket-book, and when she caught
sight of the closely-written pages and the warm-tinted coiled lock of
her hair, the thought of all that lay between them and that happy night,
on which she had written with gleeful rapture her first love-letter,
made her suddenly turn faint and chill. He saw this, and drawing her
nearer to him once more he said:
'Now we need only speak of our joy--of our happiness, without one cloud
lingering from the past. It was, as the lawyer said, a false
signature.... She died a few months after I left England.'
He felt her trembling, and he stroked her face, calling her by all the
old fond names.
'Let me take off your bonnet, Blaettchen, and your gloves. I want to see
and feel your hands in mine.'
She hurriedly removed her gloves, intentionally slipping off the fatal
wedding-ring and leaving it in the glove finger. She dared not let the
truth come upon him so abruptly. She must somehow tell him--but in what
words? After all, Dante showed some inflexibility of imagination in
depicting the tortures of the damned. Life furnishes many more terrible
situations than those depicted in the circles of the Inferno.
'I will tell you all there is to tell, Stella, and then we need not
return to this. I went from London direct to Brussels, and found the
woman who had forged the signature. She admitted the imposition, and I
have the needful vouchers in my possession. She was poor, and I knew
what _einziges Herz_ would wish--I have provided for her. Oh yes, you
came and bade me do so. Did you know that you were with me all the
time? Your precious little soul came fluttering with me all the way.'
Every word he spoke fell on her now like knotted thongs. But she still
clung to him, half hiding her face from his, while the deep, regular
beating of his heart seemed to her to measure the moments that lay
between her and eternal death.
'Now speak to me a little, my darling. Do you know, I feel as if you
would vanish out of my sight! Your presence is so wonderful--so
incredible! And I was almost frantic because no letter came.'
'I cannot speak just now, Anselm.'
'My beloved! you have suffered cruelly. Then I will speak till the dear
old gaiety and laughter come back. Let me look into your face.
Geliebte, you have been ill. I dreamt you were--over and over again the
same dream. Always I wanted to come to you, and always there was some
terrible obstacle in the way. I used to set out, and suddenly find
myself wandering in unknown places with thick darkness falling, and then
there would be great cataracts tumbling over in my path. When I woke up
I used to try and laugh at myself. But I was like Macbeth, who couldn't
say "Amen!" when he most sorely needed a word of prayer. I used to
think, "After all, that gay, laughing, yet melancholy little witch
Blaettchen has cunningly infected me with a strain of her Keltic
superstition. She is rooted in two nationalities, both a little eerie."
Do you remember that tragic dream you had of joining the throng who were
in sorrow? Now, confess, beloved, that foolish vision made you a little
afraid? But after this you cannot believe in evil dreams. I give you
notice that from this day out you must get back all your old mockeries
and mischief, and quips and cranks and wreathed smiles. As for me, I
foresee that I shall be a dreadful Philistine--as happy as the day is
long! "To be happy at home is the ultimate result of all ambition--the
end to which every enterprise and labour tends." Dr. Johnson must have
known people like me when he said that. Of course, I don't mean only
ourselves, Liebe. I have planned every room in the house, and trained
creeping laburnum over the front of it, and as for roses, they grow
round it like weeds.'
O God! how his words beat upon her heart! Her lips and throat were so
parched that she could not speak.
'Ach Himmel,' he went on, 'what a wretched, downcast creature I was
yesterday, when I arrived here and found not a word from you awaiting
me!'
'Did you expect me to write?' she asked slowly and with an effort, as
she recalled word by word of that abrupt, short letter in which there
had been no hint of any future communications.
Surely he forgot how cruelly he had for the time been deceived by that
fatal letter, a portion of which he had enclosed to her.