I pass over all the details of polite "shock," affected sorrow, and
feigned sympathy of society at my wife's sudden death. No one was really
grieved about it,--men raised their eyebrows, shrugged their shoulders,
lit extra cigarettes and dismissed the subject as too unpleasant and
depressing to dwell upon,--women were glad of the removal of a too
beautiful and too much admired rival, and the majority of fashionable
folk delighted in having something "thrilling" to talk about in the
tragic circumstances of her end. As a rule, people are seldom or never
unselfish enough to be honestly sorry for the evanishment of some
leading or brilliant figure from their midst,--the vacancy leaves room
for the pushing in of smaller fry. Be sure that if you are unhappily
celebrated for either beauty, wit, intellect, or all three together,
half society wishes you dead already, and the other half tries to make
you as wretched as possible while you are alive. To be missed at all
when you die, some one must love you very deeply and unselfishly; and
deep unselfish love is rarer to find among mortals than a pearl in a
dust-bin.
Thanks to my abundance of cash, everything concerning Sibyl's suicide
was admirably managed. In consideration of her social position as an
Earl's daughter, two doctors certified (on my paying them very handsome
fees) that hers was a 'death by misadventure,'--namely, through taking
an accidental overdose of a powerful sleeping draught. It was the best
report to make,--and the most respectable. It gave the penny press an
opportunity of moralizing on the dangers that lurked in sleeping
draughts generally,--and Tom, Dick, and Harry all wrote letters to their
favorite periodicals (signing their names in full) giving _their_
opinions as to the nature of sleeping draughts, so that for a week at
least the ordinary dullness of the newspapers was quite enlivened by
ungrammatical _gratis_ 'copy.' The conventionalities of law, decency and
order were throughout scrupulously observed and complied
with,--everybody was paid (which was the chief thing), and everybody
was, I believe, satisfied with what they managed to make out of the
death-payment. The funeral gave joy to the souls of all undertakers,--it
was so expensive and impressive. The florist's trade gained something of
an impetus by the innumerable orders received for wreaths and crosses
made of the costliest flowers. When the coffin was carried to the grave,
it could not be seen for the load of blossoms that covered it. And amid
all the cards and 'loving tokens' and 'farewell dearests' and
'not-lost-but-gone-befores'--that ticketed the white masses of lilies,
gardenias and roses which were supposed to symbolize the innocence and
sweetness of the poisoned corpse they were sent to adorn, there was not
one honest regret,--not one unfeigned expression of true sorrow. Lord
Elton made a sufficiently striking figure of dignified parental woe, but
on the whole I think he was not sorry for his daughter's death, since
the only opposing obstacle to his marriage with Diana Chesney was now
removed. I fancy Diana herself was sorry, so far as such a frivolous
little American could be sorry for anything,--perhaps, however it would
be more correct to say that she was frightened. Sibyl's sudden end
startled and troubled her,--but I am not sure that it grieved her. There
is such a difference between unselfish grief, and the mere sense of
nervous personal shock! Miss Charlotte Fitzroy took the news of her
niece's death with that admirable fortitude which frequently
characterizes religious spinsters of a certain age. She put by her
knitting,--said 'God's will be done!' and sent for her favorite
clergyman. He came, stayed with her some hours drinking strong
tea,--and the next morning at church administered to her communion.
This done, Miss Fitzroy went on the blameless and even tenor of her way,
wearing the same virtuously distressed expression as usual, and showed
no further sign of feeling. I, as the afflicted millionaire-husband, was
no doubt the most interesting figure on the scene; I was, I know very
well got up, thanks to my tailor, and to the affectionate care of the
chief undertaker who handed me my black gloves on the day of the funeral
with servile solicitude, but in my heart I felt myself to be a far
better actor than Henry Irving, and if only for my admirable mimicry of
heart-break, more fully worthy of the accolade. Lucio did not attend the
obsequies,--he wrote me a brief note of sympathy from town, and hinted
that he was sure I could understand his reasons for not being present. I
did understand, of course,--and appreciated his respect, as I thought,
for me and my feelings,--yet strange and incongruous as it may seem, I
never longed so much for his company as I did then! However,--we had a
glorious burial of my fair and false lady,--prancing horses drew
coroneted carriages in a long defile down the pretty Warwickshire lanes
to the grey old church, picturesque and peaceful, where the clergyman
and his assistants in newly-washed surplices, met the flower-laden
coffin, and with the usual conventional mumblings, consigned it to the
dust. There were even press-reporters present, who not only described
the scene as it did _not_ happen, but who also sent fancy sketches, to
their respective journals, of the church as it did _not_ exist. I
mention this simply to show how thoroughly all "proper forms" were
carried out and conceded to. After the ceremony all we "mourners" went
back to Willowsmere to luncheon, and I well remember that Lord Elton
told me a new and _risqué_ joke over a glass of port before the meal was
finished. The undertakers had a sort of festive banquet in the servants'
hall,--and taking everything into due consideration, my wife's death
gave a great deal of pleasure to many people, and put useful money into
several ready pockets. She had left no blank in society that could not
be easily filled up,--she was merely one butterfly out of thousands,
more daintily coloured perhaps and more restless in flight,--but never
judged as more than up to the butterfly standard. I said no one gave her
an honest regret, but I was wrong. Mavis Clare was genuinely, almost
passionately grieved. She sent no flowers for the coffin, but she came
to the funeral by herself, and stood a little apart waiting silently
till the grave was covered in,--and then, just as the "fashionable"
train of mourners were leaving the churchyard, she advanced and placed a
white cross of her own garden-lilies upon the newly-turned brown mould.
I noticed her action, and determined that before I left Willowsmere for
the East with Lucio (for my journey had only been postponed a week or
two on account of Sibyl's death) she should know all.
The day came when I carried out this resolve. It was a rainy and chill
afternoon, and I found Mavis in her study, sitting beside a bright log
fire with her small terrier in her lap and her faithful St Bernard
stretched at her feet. She was absorbed in a book,--and over her watched
the marble Pallas inflexible and austere. As I entered she rose, and
putting down the volume and her pet dog together, she advanced to meet
me with an intense sympathy in her clear eyes, and a wordless pity in
the tremulous lines of her sweet mouth. It was charming to see how sorry
she felt for me,--and it was odd that I could not feel sorry for myself.
After a few words of embarrassed greeting I sat down and watched her
silently, while she arranged the logs in the fire to make them burn
brighter, and for the moment avoided my gaze.
"I suppose you know,"--I began with harsh abruptness--"that the
sleeping-draught story is a polite fiction? You know that my wife
poisoned herself intentionally?"
Mavis looked at me with a troubled and compassionate expression.
"I feared it was so--" ... she began nervously.
"Oh there is nothing either to fear or to hope"--I said with some
violence--"_She did it._ And can you guess why she did it? Because she
was mad with her own wickedness and sensuality,--because she loved with
a guilty love, my friend Lucio Rimânez."
Mavis gave a little cry as of pain, and sat down white and trembling.
"You can read quickly, I am sure,"--I went on. "Part of the profession
of literature is the ability to skim books and manuscripts rapidly, and
grasp the whole gist of them in a few minutes;--read _this_--" and I
handed her the rolled-up pages of Sibyl's dying declaration--"Let me
stay here, while you learn from that what sort of a woman she was, and
judge whether, despite her beauty, she is worth a regret!"
"Pardon me,--" said Mavis gently--"I would rather not read what was not
meant for my eyes."
"But it _is_ meant for your eyes,"--I retorted impatiently--"It is meant
for everybody's eyes apparently,--it is addressed to nobody in
particular. There is a mention of you in it. I beg--nay I command you to
read it!--I want your opinion on it,--your advice; you may possibly
suggest, after perusal, the proper sort of epitaph I ought to inscribe
on the monument I am going to build to her sacred and dear memory!"
I covered my face with one hand to hide the bitter smile which I knew
betrayed my thoughts, and pushed the manuscript towards her. Very
reluctantly she took it,--and slowly unrolling it, began to read. For
several minutes there was a silence, broken only by the crackling of the
logs on the fire, and the regular breathing of the dogs who now both lay
stretched comfortably in front of the wood blaze. I looked covertly at
the woman whose fame I had envied,--at the slight figure, the coronal of
soft hair,--the delicate, drooping sensitive face,--the small white
classic hand that held the written sheets of paper so firmly, yet so
tenderly,--the very hand of the Greek marble Psyche;--and I thought what
short-sighted asses some literary men are who suppose they can succeed
in shutting out women like Mavis Clare from winning everything that fame
or fortune can offer. Such a head as hers, albeit covered with locks
fair and caressable, was not meant, in its fine shape and compactness,
for submission to inferior intelligences whether masculine or
feminine,--that determined little chin which the firelight delicately
outlined, was a visible declaration of the strength of will and the
indomitably high ambition of its owner,--and yet, ... the soft
eyes,--the tender mouth,--did not these suggest the sweetest love, the
purest passion that ever found place in a woman's heart? I lost myself
in dreamy musing,--I thought of many things that had little to do with
either my own past or present. I realized that now and then at rare
intervals God makes a woman of genius with a thinker's brain and an
angel's soul,--and that such an one is bound to be a destiny to all
mortals less divinely endowed, and a glory to the world in which she
dwells. So considering, I studied Mavis Clare's face and form,--I saw
her eyes fill with tears as she read on;--why should she weep, I
wondered, over that 'last document' which had left me unmoved and
callous? I was startled almost as if from sleep when her voice,
thrilling with pain, disturbed the stillness,--she sprang up, gazing at
me as if she saw some horrible vision.
"Oh, are you so blind," she cried, "as not to see what this means? Can
you not understand? Do you not know your worst enemy?"
"My worst enemy?" I echoed amazed--"You surprise me, Mavis,--what have
I, or my enemies or friends to do with my wife's last confession? She
raved,--between poison and passion, she could not tell, as you see by
her final words, whether she was dead or alive,--and her writing at all
under such stress of circumstances was a phenomenal effort,--but it has
nothing to do with me personally."
"For God's sake do not be so hard-hearted!"--said Mavis
passionately--"To me these last words of Sibyl's,--poor, tortured,
miserable girl!--are beyond all expression horrible and appalling. Do
you mean to tell me you have no belief in a future life?"
"None." I answered with conviction.
"Then this is nothing to you?--this solemn assurance of hers that she
is not dead, but living again,--living too, in indescribable
misery!--you do not believe it?"
"Does anyone believe the ravings of the dying!" I answered--"She was, as
I have said, suffering the torments of poison and passion,--and in those
torments wrote as one tormented...."
"Is it impossible to convince you of the truth?" asked Mavis
solemnly,--"Are you so diseased in your spiritual perceptions as not to
_know_, beyond a doubt, that this world is but the shadow of the Other
Worlds awaiting us? I assure you, as I live, you will have that terrible
knowledge forced upon you some day! I am aware of your theories,--your
wife had the same beliefs or rather non-beliefs as yourself,--yet _she_
has been convinced at last! I shall not attempt to argue with you. If
this last letter of the unhappy girl you wedded cannot open your eyes to
the eternal facts you choose to ignore, nothing will ever help you. You
are in the power of your enemy!"
"Of whom are you speaking, Mavis?" I asked astonished, observing that
she stood like one suddenly appalled in a dream, her eyes fixed musingly
on vacancy, and her lips trembling apart.
"Your Enemy--your Enemy!" she repeated with energy--"It seems to me as
if his Shadow stood near you now! Listen to this voice from the
dead--Sibyl's voice!----what does she say?----'_Oh God, have mercy!----I
know who claims my worship now and drags me into yonder rolling world of
flame ... his name is--_'" ...
"Well!" I interrupted eagerly----"She breaks off there; his name is----"
"Lucio Rimânez!" said Mavis in a thrilling tone--"I do not know from
whence he came,--but I take God to witness my belief that he is a worker
of evil,--a fiend in beautiful human shape,--a destroyer and a
corrupter! The curse of him fell on Sibyl the moment she met him,--the
same curse rests on you! Leave him if you are wise,--take your chance of
escape while it remains to you,--and never let him see your face
again!"
She spoke with a kind of breathless haste as though impelled by a force
not her own,--I stared at her amazed, and in a manner irritated.
"Such a course of action would be impossible to me, Mavis,"--I said
somewhat coldly--"The Prince Rimânez is my best friend--no man ever had
a better;--and his loyalty to me has been put to a severe test under
which most men would have failed. I have not told you all."
And I related in a few words the scene I had witnessed between my wife
and Lucio in the music-gallery at Willowsmere. She listened,--but with
an evident effort,--and pushing back her clustering hair from her brows
she sighed heavily.
"I am sorry,--but it does not alter my conviction!"--she said--"I look
upon your best friend as your worst foe. And I feel you do not realize
the awful calamity of your wife's death in its true aspect. Will you
forgive me if I ask you to leave me now?----Lady Sibyl's letter has
affected me terribly--I feel I cannot speak about it any more.... I wish
I had not read it...."
She broke off with a little half-suppressed sob,--I saw she was
unnerved, and taking the manuscript from her hand, I said
half-banteringly--
"You cannot then suggest an epitaph for my wife's monument?"
She turned upon me with a grand gesture of reproach.
"Yes I can!"--she replied in a low indignant voice--"Inscribe it
as--'From a pitiless hand to a broken heart!' That will suit the dead
girl,--and you, the living man!"
Her rustling gown swept across my feet,--she passed me and was gone.
Stupefied by her sudden anger, and equally sudden departure, I stood
inert,--the St Bernard rose from the hearth-rug and glowered at me
suspiciously, evidently wishing me to take my leave,--Pallas Athene
stared, as usual, through me and beyond me in a boundless scorn,--all
the various objects in this quiet study seemed silently to eject me as
an undesired occupant. I looked round it once longingly as a tired
outcast may look on a peaceful garden and wish in vain to enter.
"How like her sex she is after all!" I said half aloud--"She blames _me_
for being pitiless,--and forgets that Sibyl was the sinner,--not I! No
matter how guilty a woman may be, she generally manages to secure a
certain amount of sympathy,--a man is always left out in the cold."
A shuddering sense of loneliness oppressed me as my eyes wandered round
the restful room. The odour of lilies was in the air, exhaled, so I
fancied, from the delicate and dainty personality of Mavis herself.
"If I had only known her first,--and loved her!" I murmured, as I turned
away at last and left the house.
But then I remembered I had hated her before I ever met her,--and not
only had I hated her, but I had vilified and misrepresented her work
with a scurrilous pen under the shield of anonymity, and out of sheer
malice,--thus giving her in the public sight, the greatest proof of her
own genius a gifted woman can ever win,--man's envy!