GOOD-BYE.
On that same day, at a little after four o'clock in the afternoon, Mrs.
Kingston might have been seen--she _was_ seen, in fact--going into the
Town Hall by herself, having left her carriage in the street below. She
mounted the stone steps lightly, with the train of her dress held up in
her hand, looking exquisitely fresh and dainty in the dusty sultriness
that everywhere prevailed; and she glided through the vestibule as if
time were precious, paid her sixpence, and entered the hall, where she
took a solitary seat under the shadow of the gallery at the lower end.
The organist was interpreting Mozart to some hundreds of receptive
citizens, making the great organ sing like a choir of angels in the
"Gloria" of the Twelfth Mass, "_et in terra pax, pax, pax hominibus;
bonae, bonae voluntatis_." All the spacious place was flooded with the
impassioned harmonies of that inspired theme.
Rachel was not what is popularly called musical, but in the dulness of
her empty life her soul slacked its thirst in this way, as a soul of a
lower order, which had been denied its natural nourishment, might have
found comfort in the emotional stimulus of champagne or brandy.
She could not play well herself, but she was like a fine instrument to
be played upon; not one sweet phrase of melody passed from her listening
ear to her sensitive heart without wakening an echo that had the very
divine afflatus in it in response. And in this resonance of enthusiasms
and aspirations, dumb and suffocated in the bondage of her artificial
life--in the sense of breathing spiritual air, and freedom, though with
a passion of enjoyment that filled her with far more pain than
peace--she found the one true luxury of her much-envied lot.
Long ago--oh, so long ago!--the music of a violin had led her into
enchantment, as the Pied Piper of Hamelin led away the children. To-day
the music of the Town Hall organ, speaking now in Mozart's dramatic
choruses, and again in Baptiste's Andante in G, was a similar but a
sadder incantation.
She sat solitary in her far-away chair, with her feet on the rung of the
one in front of her, her hands, gloved to perfection, folded in her lap,
her delicate, neat dress daintily adjusted, much as she might have sat
in the pew at church, a model of matronly grace and propriety.
But who could tell, from the expression of her quiet _pose_ and her
dreamy eyes, what ineffable raptures and fancies, what infinite longings
and yearnings--nameless, even to her own consciousness, but all
reminiscent of the blessed past--soared out of captivity on the wings of
those alluring harmonies!
Who could see that in her heart she was crying--crying bitterly--for
the poetry and the beauty that were lost out of her life!
There was an interval of silence, during which she sat quite still,
looking at the great organ-pipes, and seeing nothing; and then there
grew out of the hush the delicious rhythm of the "Faust" waltz, beating
like a soft pulse through the summer air.
What spell is there in the "Faust" waltz, or in any waltz, for one whose
heart is capable of receiving and responding to the inspired message of
Mozart?
How can we tell? But this we know, that those whose hearts are warm and
young--who understand how to love and how to dance, and have done the
two things at the self-same moment--have seldom any more power than they
have honest inclination to resist the subtle wiles of this simple
measure.
There is a vox humana stop out in whatever organ plays it, magnetic to
the human passions that memory and imagination keep. Rachel did not ask
why it was, but she felt, as soon as the air began to unwind itself from
a confusion of sweet sounds, and she heard the slow time throbbing
softly in her ears, that she did not know how to bear it.
It filled her soul with a great wave of suffocating emotion--it ran like
an electric current over all her sensitive nerves--it contracted her
white throat with a choking pain that was like incipient hysteria--it
set abnormal pulses bounding in her brain. She did not think of
Adelonga, and the hour when she and her true love had their first and
last waltz together.
No definite picture of the past arose at the magician's bidding, or if
it did, she shut her eyes to it. But she could not help the forlorn
rapture of longing for that nameless something that was the most
precious of her woman's rights, which fate and fraud had taken from her,
when the notes of this dreamy waltz measure, so charged with passionate
and poetic associations, pulsed from the heart of the organ into her
warm young blood.
"Oh, my love! my love!"--that was the burden of the music which was not
set to words.
And she turned her face a little, and saw Roden Dalrymple standing in
the doorway. He had come in quietly, and was waiting, with his hat in
his hand, apparently for a pause in the performance, which he did not
wish to interrupt, but really until he could find where some one whom he
was looking for was sitting.
It was the first time she had seen him since that October night when
they had parted in the moonlight under the walls of the house that was
now her home; but she had been, unknown to herself, expecting him, and
there was no shock in her surprise.
She knew that he was looking for her, when she saw his eyes travelling
over the rows of occupied chairs in the upper division of the hall, and
she longed to call out to him,
"Roden, Roden, here I am!"
But not a dozen seconds passed before he saw her far away from him in
her shadowy corner; and when he saw her, with that solemn eagerness in
her face, he knew--but he said to himself he had already known--that,
though she had forsaken him, she had never done him wrong.
Of course before the day was over it was reported in various circles,
more or less select, that pretty Mrs. Kingston, who had married an old
fogey for his money, was in the habit of coming to the organ recitals
alone and unbeknown to her husband, in order to enjoy clandestine
flirtations with younger and more fascinating men.
It was also darkly whispered that the favoured individual was a person
who made it his constant practice to run away with married women, and to
murder their lawful spouses in sham duels afterwards if they ventured
to make any objections.
But of all the human beings collected in the Town Hall that afternoon,
perhaps no two were less capable of violating the spirit of the moral
and social law whereof the letter is so sacred to the ubiquitous and
lynx-eyed Mrs. Grundy, who persists in suspecting everyone of a desire
to evade or infringe it, simply for the sake of doing so, whenever he or
she is presented with an opportunity.
That they loved one another as much as it was possible for sympathetic
hearts to love, and that they seized one brief half-hour out of a
lifetime of separation in which to say farewell, might have been
reprehensible from the conventional point of view; but then the
conventional point of view does not embrace the universe, by a very long
way.
He came down the hall, and round to her chair, and she drew her dress
close that he might sit down beside her. She was too innately pure to
make any mere outward and artificial demonstrations of modesty in such a
moment as this; and she trusted him too well to be afraid of him.
She put out her hand, and he took it in a long, close clasp; and they
looked at one another the while with loving, despairing eyes, which
said, "Oh, Rachel, why _did_ you?" and "Oh, Roden, forgive me!" and
bridged the only gulf that could be bridged between them, without any
help of words.
And then, though the organ began to fill the air with the sonorous
crash and thunder of Bach's great pedal fugue in D, they heard nothing
but the beating of their hearts, and the memories that called to them
from their brief past, vibrating through the void and silence of a world
in which they were alone together.
When the music ceased for an interval, Mr. Dalrymple rested his arm on
the back of the chair which had served Rachel for a footstool, and
looking into her face, said under his breath,
"Gordon gave me your message--I came down to thank you--and I thought we
should get on better if we could see each other just once. Dear, we must
try and comfort ourselves with knowing that neither of us played the
other false."
"_I_ did--_I_ did," she whispered hurriedly. "I ought to have trusted
you, Roden."
"Yes--that was a mistake. But you did not know any better, poor child.
And they were too many for you, those people. Gordon ought to have
insisted on seeing you, himself, or getting some message to you, and not
have left you in their hands. But he did his best, he says. He was too
anxious to get back to me to have much patience over it, and he didn't
bargain for being told lies of that magnitude in cold blood.
However,--however----"
He broke off and looked at her with a passion of love and grief in his
eyes that he dared not trust to speech. And she looked back at him, with
her simple soul laid bare--longing to make him know, if they were never
to be together like this again, how absolutely in her heart she had been
true to him. _She_ would not tell him a lie, at any rate.
"Oh," he said in a sort of groaning whisper, drawing a long hard breath,
"oh, my little one, isn't it hard lines!"
"Don't," she gasped, feeling that clutch on her throat tighten with a
sudden spasm; "oh, Roden, don't!"
And he straightened himself quickly, and sat back in his chair. And the
organ began to play again--a stately march of Schubert's, which acted
like a tonic on her disordered nerves, and as a sedative to the
hysterical excitement that for a moment had threatened to overmaster
her.
The echoes of that march rang in her ears, when Roden was gone back to
Queensland and this chapter of her life was finished, for many a long
day.
And then at last the thunders of the National Anthem brought the
performance to a close, and the audience trooped out, casting curious
glances as they went at the distinguished-looking couple standing
conspicuously apart--the tall stranger with the peculiar moustache, who
had soldier and gentleman written on him from head to foot, and the
graceful young lady with the lovely complexion and the irreproachable
French dress, whom nobody "who was anybody" failed to recognise.
The two were left together amongst all the empty chairs, in a silence
that was hardly broken by the organist's movements at the far end of
the hall, closing the stops and keys of his enormous instrument.
"Well," said Mr. Dalrymple, looking down upon his companion, who lifted
to his sombre eyes a pale but solemn face, "well--so this is all, I
suppose!"
Her lips twitched a little; she could not answer him.
"You are not sorry that I came, are you, Rachel? It will not make it
harder for you, will it?"
"Oh, _no_, Roden! But it is _you_ on whom it is so hard--you will be so
lonely without me! I can't bear to think what I have brought on you--and
you had so many troubles already!"
"Not you, dear--not you. And I can bear all my part of it, if only
things go well with you."
"Why did you break that trace?" she exclaimed, with a touch of bitter
passion. "But for that--but for two minutes lost--you would never have
seen me, and then I should never have spoiled your life like this."
"But, dear, we are not going to regret _that_, I hope. We have got
something 'saved from chance and change,' if not much, that to me at any
rate--yes and to you too, I know--is worth even this heavy price that we
are paying for it now. It need not spoil our lives, Rachel, to
know--what we know. It is an agonising thing to see how blessed it
_might_ have been for us, and to be obliged to give it all up; but I
shall never think of those two hours, when we belonged entirely to each
other--only two hours, Rachel, out of our whole lives!--without being
thankful for the chance which gave them to us. Yes, and I think we shall
be the better for them--I don't say happier, because I really don't know
what that word means--but I think life will somehow have a finer quality
henceforth, whatever happens, on account of those two hours. Dear, I am
forcing myself to give in to the hard fate that has done us out of our
inheritance; but there is one thing that I don't think I _could_ get
reconciled to--and that is to thinking that you would ever live to wish
that we had never known each other."
"I could not wish it," she whispered; "I could only try to persuade
myself that I did."
"Do not try. You are under no obligation of duty to do that. Try to be
happy with your husband--try not to fret over what is irrevocable, and
not to hanker after what is hopeless. But don't try to turn me out of
the only place in your life where I have a corner of my own. Let me keep
the little of you that I have got--it is little enough! Do you remember
what you said to me that night?--you said you had no rights in my past.
_He_ has no rights in our past. Keep it sacred, Rachel, for my sake.
That will not hurt anybody. You are not afraid that such remembrances,
if you shut them away in your heart, will militate against your efforts
to do what is right by him? And you are not afraid that _I_ will ever
tempt or trouble you?"
"Oh, Roden, I am not afraid of you--you well know that!"
"Treat me as if I were dead," he said gently. "If I had been killed that
time when I was thrown--if I were in my grave now--I know how you would
think of me. You would not wish you had never seen me then. That is how
I _want_ you to think of me, Rachel."
"I know," she said, drawing a deep breath. "But to me--even if you _had_
killed yourself--to me you could never be dead."
By this time they had sauntered slowly out of the deserted hall and
through the empty vestibules, and were standing in the doorway, looking
out upon the street below them.
The storm that had threatened in the morning was gathering up. Heavy
clouds weighed upon the sultry air, and gusts of wind were beginning to
blow the dust about ominously. Pedestrians were hurrying to gain shelter
before the rain came on, but, as they passed, they took note of the
lingering pair, who were apparently heedless of the warnings of the
elements, with more or less curious eyes. Neither of them, it is
needless to say, minded in the least who saw them. They had no desire to
take even this last good-bye clandestinely.
And when Rachel, to whom it had not occurred to wonder why her carriage
was not in attendance, saw it thundering along the street towards her,
it was with as much relief as surprise that she recognised her husband
in it, looking out of the window for her.
"We have said nothing," said Mr. Dalrymple, who perceived the approach
of his old rival and enemy; "and we had so much to say."
"Perhaps it is better not to say much," said Rachel.
"Perhaps so. But one thing you must not mind my asking you--and I know
you will tell me truly--are you getting along pretty well? Do you think
you will be able to make anything of a happy life out of it? That is my
great anxiety."
"Do not be anxious about me," she replied. "I shall get along. I know
that you forgive me--that will help me more than anything."
"Don't talk about forgiveness, child--it implies a wider separation
than I think has ever been between us. There can be no forgiveness in
the case of people who never knowingly do one another wrong."
The carriage, with its high stepping, showy horses, began to slacken
speed, and they descended the long flight of steps quietly, side by
side.
"Is he good to you?" inquired Roden, quickly.
"Very," she replied; "very, indeed."
And then they reached the pavement, and the person referred to got out
of the carriage and came to meet them.
It must be recorded, to Mr. Kingston's credit, that he behaved like a
gentleman on this occasion. He was a little acid and supercilious, and
not as composed as he assumed to be; but otherwise he conducted himself
with propriety. "I took the carriage for half an hour," said he loudly.
"I hope I haven't kept you waiting, my dear. Ah, Mr. Dalrymple, how do
you do? I did not know you were in town. I hope you are quite well.
Making a long stay?"
"A day or two only," said Roden, who stiffened in spite of himself, but
spoke with studied courtesy. "I shall be starting back to Queensland
to-night. I am glad to have had the opportunity of meeting Mrs.
Kingston, and to see her looking well."
"Oh, yes, she is very well, I hope. Travelling did her good--it does
everybody good. I felt quite set up by it myself. Dear me, was that a
drop of rain? I think you had better be getting home, Rachel. There is
a heavy storm coming directly. Good day, Mr. Dalrymple, good day. We
can't set you down anywhere, I suppose?"
Mr. Dalrymple declined a seat in the carriage with thanks, and he held
out his hand to Rachel.
"Good-bye," he said quietly.
"Good-bye," she replied, with an ash-white face. They looked at one
another for a second; and then, lifting his hat gravely, Mr. Dalrymple
turned and walked away down the street, and Mr. Kingston gave his arm to
his wife, and led her to her carriage. Poor Rachel! she did not ask
herself what would happen next--she did not wonder nor care whether she
was to be scolded or not. For a few bitter, lonely moments, she had no
recognisable future.
Then she turned to her husband, who was fanning the fuel of his wrath in
silence, laid her hand on his arm, and said softly, "Graham?"
"Well--what?" he inquired, roughly.
"Do not be angry. I am never going to see him again."
"It's to be hoped not," he snarled, "if you have any regard for your
reputation. Standing up there with him, in that public way, for all
Melbourne to see!"
"You would not have wished me to meet Mr. Dalrymple in any way that was
_not_ public," she said, drawing herself up. "And I should be very sorry
to do anything that all Melbourne might not see."
The rain began to sweep down heavily, and he turned to put up the window
nearest him with an energy that threatened destruction to the glass.
And he said no more about Mr. Dalrymple.
Disturbed as he was, he was greatly relieved that the meeting he had
always dreaded was over, and had taken place so quietly; and poor as was
his estimation of the abstract woman, he had the most implicit faith in
his wife's sincerity.
When she told him that she had bidden her old lover a final farewell, he
believed her; and, though the sight and thought of the man made him
ferocious, he was quite aware that difficulties were adjusting
themselves more satisfactorily than he could have expected.
He did not feel that he had any excuse for upbraiding Rachel now, and he
did not do it. But he had to put great restraint upon himself not to do
it.
He got out of the carriage at his club, shutting the door with a bang
behind him, and while his wife drove home by herself in a state of
semi-consciousness, he went in to quarrel with some of his old friends
who chanced to require his opinion upon the political situation.
Politics, he promptly gave them to understand, were beneath his notice,
likewise the people who concerned themselves therein. He wouldn't touch
one of them with a pair of tongs. It wasn't for gentlemen and clubmen to
mix themselves up with a lot of rogues and vagabonds. Let them alone and
be hanged to them. That was what respectable people did in America. If
Americans didn't care what riff-raff represented them, why should they?
As for the colony, if it liked to be dragged in the dirt--if it
preferred, of its own free will, to go to the devil--let it, for all to
him.
And so he worked off his savage temper harmlessly, and appeared in his
own drawing-room at seven o'clock, irreproachably spruce, and with a
flower in his button-hole, looking jaunty and amiable, as if nothing had
happened.
Rachel, when he arrived, was sitting alone in the midst of her wealth
and splendour, waiting for him.
She rose as he entered and went to meet him, looking lovely in her
favourite black velvet, with red geraniums in her hair; and she laid
her hand on his sleeve, and lifted a sad but peaceful face. "Kiss me,
Graham," she said gently.
He put his arms round her at once.
"Dear little woman!" he responded. "I understand. I am not angry with
you. It's all right. We won't say any more about it."
And he led her to the dining-room and placed her "at the head of the
table," which was her social throne; and he plied her with dainty viands
and rare wines with a fussy solicitude that was highly edifying to the
servants who waited upon them, by way of showing her that he forgave
her.
He was much impressed by his own large magnanimity; and what was more
to the purpose, so in her unselfish heart, was she. They spent the
evening together, _tete-a-tete_ by the fireside (for it was cold when
the storm was over), in the most domestic manner, planning new schemes
for the garden and for the arrangement of a pet cabinet of blue china;
and when Rachel went to bed, lighting her way about the great corridors
and staircases with a candle that her husband had lit for her, she felt
that he was helping her to make a fair start upon the weary road which
stretched, plain and straight--but, oh, so flat and bare!--before her.
And she was very grateful to him.
Mr. Dalrymple, meanwhile left town by an evening train, and travelled
night and day until he reached his home in the Queensland wilderness,
where, being human--and very much so, too--he unloosed his heart from
the restraints that he had put upon it, and railed at ease over the
injustices of fate in the very strongest language.
"Why should I have done it?" he demanded of his ancient friend and
comrade as they lounged in restful attitudes under the grass-thatched
verandah of their humble little house, smoking the pipe of peace in the
cool of the summer day. "Why should I have given her up to him? What
right has he to keep her, while I am lonely for the rest of my days? He
has not the shadow of a right. She doesn't belong to him, and she never
will. There is no binding force in any other contract that is entered
into by fraud and false pretences; why should there be in this which she
has been dragged into, and which deprives her as well as me, of all the
flower and sweetness of her life? It is a monstrous sacrifice--and as
immoral as it is monstrous.
"It isn't as if we had no end of years, no end of lives to throw away.
Suppose, ages hence, if we should survive, with our human nature, and I,
for one, don't want to survive without it--and we look back upon this
precious bit of certain happiness that we _might_ have had, and see that
we voluntarily gave up the whole of it merely because of a wretched
little paper law--a miserable little conventional prejudice--what shall
we think of ourselves then? We shall say that we did not deserve a gift
that we did not know how to value."
"Rave away," said Mr. Gordon. "It will do you good. All the same, you
know, as well as I do, that it would be impossible for you to do less or
more than you have done."
Of course it was impossible. Few people are better than they profess to
be, but he was one of those few. And if he had had the happiness of
twenty lives to lose, he would have lost it all twice over rather than
have kept it at any cost of peace or honour to the woman he loved. He
allowed himself the right to love her still, which, as he justly
remarked, couldn't hurt anybody.
He thought of her as he rode about his lonely plains, looking after
black boys and cattle, and dreamt of her as he lay out in the starlight
nights, with a saddle for his pillow, and the red light of the camp-fire
flickering through the darkness upon his face; and always with a sense
that, spiritually and morally, she belonged, before all the world to
him.
But he never at heart regretted either that he had seen her that day at
the Town-hall, or that he had elected to see her no more. He had done
the only thing that it had been in him to do.