HOW, IN PLACE OF DEATH, I FOUND THE FULNESS OF LIFE
She came in swiftly, closing the door behind her, found and lighted a
candle, and, setting it upon the table between us, put back the hood of
her cloak, and looked at me, while I stood mute before her, abashed by
the accusation of her eyes.
"Coward!" she said, and, with the word, snatched the neckerchief from
my grasp, and, casting it upon the floor, set her foot upon it.
"Coward!" said she again.
"Yes," I muttered; "yes, I was lost—in a great darkness, and full of a
horror of coming nights and days, and so—I would have run away from it
all—like a coward—"
"Oh, hateful—hateful!" she cried, and covered her face as from some
horror.
"Indeed, you cannot despise me more than I do myself," said I, "now, or
ever; I am a failure in all things, except, perhaps, the making of
horseshoes—and this world has no place for failures—and as for
horseshoes—"
"Fool," she whispered. "Oh, fool that I dreamed so wise! Oh, coward
that seemed so brave and strong! Oh, man that was so gloriously young
and unspoiled!—that it should end here—that it should come to this."
And, though she kept her face hidden, I knew that she was weeping. "A
woman's love transforms the man till she sees him, not as he is, but as
her heart would have him be; the dross becomes pure gold, and she
believes and believes until—one day her heart breaks—"
"Charmian!—what—what do you mean?"
"Oh, are you still so blind? Must I tell you?" she cried, lifting her
head proudly. "Why did I live beside you here in the wilderness? Why
did I work for you—contrive for you—and seek to make this desolation a
home for you? Often my heart cried out its secret to you—but you
never heard; often it trembled in my voice, looked at you from my
eyes—but you never guessed—Oh, blind! blind! And you drove me from
you with shameful words—but—oh!—I came back to you. And now—I know
you for but common clay, after all, and—even yet—" She stopped,
suddenly, and once more hid her face from me in her hands.
"And—even yet, Charmian?" I whispered.
Very still she stood, with her face bowed upon her hands, but she could
not hide from me the swift rise and fall of her bosom.
"Speak—oh, Charmian, speak!"
"I am so weak—so weak!" she whispered; "I hate myself."
"Charmian!" I cried "—oh, Charmian!" and seized her hands, and,
despite her resistance, drew her into my arms, and, clasping her close,
forced her to look at me. "And even yet?—what more—what more—tell
me." But, lying back across my arm, she held me off with both hands.
"Don't!" she cried; "don't—you shame me—let me go."
"God knows I am all unworthy, Charmian, and so low in my abasement that
to touch you is presumption, but oh, woman whom I have loved from the
first, and shall, to the end, have you stooped in your infinite mercy,
to lift me from these depths—is it a new life you offer me—was it for
this you came to-night?"
"Let me go—oh, Peter!—let me go."
"Why—why did you come?"
"Loose me!"
"Why did you come?"
"To meet—Sir Maurice Vibart."
"To meet Sir Maurice?" I repeated dully—"Sir Maurice?" And in that
moment she broke from me, and stood with her head thrown back, and her
eyes very bright, as though defying me. But I remained where I was, my
arms hanging.
"He was to meet me here—at nine o'clock."
"Oh, Charmian," I whispered, "are all women so cruel as you, I wonder?"
And, turning my back upon her, I leaned above the mantel, staring down
at the long-dead ashes on the hearth.
But, standing there, I heard a footstep outside, and swung round with
clenched fists, yet Charmian was quicker, and, as the door opened and
Sir Maurice entered, she was between us.
He stood upon the threshold, dazzled a little by the light, but
smiling, graceful, debonair, and point-device as ever. Indeed, his
very presence seemed to make the mean room the meaner by contrast, and,
as he bent to kiss her hand, I became acutely conscious of my own rough
person, my worn and shabby clothes, and of my hands, coarsened and
grimed by labor; wherefore my frown grew the blacker and I clenched my
fists the tighter.
"I lost my way, Charmian," he began, "but, though late, I am none the
less welcome, I trust? Ah?—you frown, Cousin Peter? Quite a ghoulish
spot this, at night—you probably find it most congenial, good cousin
Timon of Athens—indeed, cousin, you are very like Timon of Athens—"
And he laughed so that I, finding my pipe upon the mantelshelf, began
to turn it aimlessly round and round in my twitching fingers.
"You have already met, then?" inquired Charmian, glancing from one to
the other of us.
"We had that mutual pleasure nearly a week ago," nodded Sir Maurice,
"when we agreed to—disagree, as we always have done, and shall
do—with the result that we find each other agreeably disagreeable."
"I had hoped that you might be friends."
"My dear Charmian—I wonder at you!" he sighed, "so unreasonable. Would
you have us contravene the established order of things? It was
preordained that Cousin Peter should scowl at me (precisely as he is
doing), and that I should shrug my shoulders, thus, at Cousin Peter—a
little hate with, say, a dash of contempt, give a zest to that dish of
conglomerate vapidity which we call Life, and make it almost palatable.
"But I am not here on Cousin Peter's account," he went on, drawing a
step nearer to her, "at this moment I heartily wish him—among his
hammers and chisels—I have come for you, Charmian, because I love you.
I have sought you patiently until I found you—and I will never forego
you so long as life lasts—but you know all this."
"Yes, I know all this."
"I have been very patient, Charmian, submitting to your whims and
fancies—but, through it all; I knew, and in your woman's heart—you
knew, that you must yield at last—that the chase must end—some day;
well—let it be to-night—my chaise is waiting—"
"When I ran away from you, in the storm, Sir Maurice, I told you, once
and for all, that I hated you. Have you forgotten?—hated you!—always
and ever! and tried to—kill you—"
"Oh, Charmian! I have known such hate transfigured into love, before
now—such love as is only worth the winning. And you are mine—you
always were—from the first moment that our eyes met. Come, my chaise
is waiting; in a few hours we can be in London, or Dover—"
"No—never!"
"Never is a long time, Charmian—but I am at your service—what is your
will?"
"I shall remain—here."
"Here? In the wilderness?"
"With my—husband."
"Your—husband?"
"I am going to marry your cousin—Peter Vibart."
The pipe slipped from my fingers and shivered to pieces on the floor,
and in that same fraction of time Sir Maurice had turned and leapt
towards me; but as he came I struck him twice, with left and right, and
he staggered backwards to the wall. He stood for a moment, with his
head stooped upon his hands. When he looked up his face was dead
white, and with a smear of blood upon it that seemed to accentuate its
pallor; but his voice came smooth and unruffled as ever.
"The Mind Feminine is given to change," said he softly, "and—I shall
return—yes, I shall come back. Smile, madam! Triumph, cousin! But I
shall come between you yet—I tell you, I'll come between you—living
or dead!"
And so he turned, and was gone—into the shadows.
But as for me, I sat down, and, leaning my chin in my hand, stared down
at the broken fragments of my pipe.
"Peter?"
"You are safe now," said I, without looking up, "he is gone—but, oh,
Charmian! was there no other way—?"
She was down beside me on her knees, had taken my hand, rough and grimy
as it was, and pressed it to her lips, and so had drawn it about her
neck, holding it there, and with her face hidden in my breast.
"Oh—strong man that is so weak!" she whispered. "Oh—grave
philosopher that is so foolish! Oh—lonely boy that is so helpless! Oh,
Peter Vibart—my Peter!"
"Charmian," said I, trembling, "what does it mean?"
"It means, Peter—"
"Yes?"
"That—the—Humble Person—"
"Yes?"
"Will—marry you—whenever you will—if—"
"Yes?"
"If you will—only—ask her."