LOVE AND LOSS
All unaware that they had been seen and by no friendly eyes, Godfrey and
Isobel remained embracing each other for quite a long while. At length
she wrenched herself away and, sinking on to a chancel bench, motioned
to him to seat himself beside her.
“Let us talk,” she said in a new voice, a strange voice that was
low and rich, such as he had never heard her use, “let us talk, my
dear.”
“What of?” he asked almost in a whisper as he took his place, and
her hand, which he held against his beating heart. “My soul has been
talking to yours for the last five minutes, or is it five seconds or
five years? It does not seem to have anything more to say.”
“Yet I think there is plenty to be said, Godfrey. Do you know that
while we were kissing each other there some very queer ideas got hold
of me, not only of the sort which might be expected in our case? You
remember that Plantagenet lady who lies buried beneath where we were
standing, she whose dress I once copied to wear at the ball when I came
out.”
“Don’t speak of that,” he interrupted, “for then you
were kissing someone else.”
“It is not true. I never kissed anyone else in that way, and I do not
think I ever shall. I kissed a rose, that’s all, and I gather that you
have done as much and very likely a great deal more. But it is of the
lady I am speaking, not of the ball. She seemed to come up from her
grave and enter into me, and say something.”
“Well, what did she say, Isobel?” he asked dreamily.
“That’s it, I don’t know, although she talked to me as one
might to oneself. All I know is that it was of trouble and patience and
great joy, and war and tragedy in which I must be intimately concerned,
and—after the tragedy—of a most infinite rest and bliss.”
“I expect she was telling you her own story, which seems to have ended
well,” he replied in the same dreamy fashion.
“Yes, I think so, but also that she meant that her story would be my
story, copied you know, as I copied her dress. Of course it is all
nonsense, just the influence of the place taking hold of me when
overcome by other things, but at the time it seemed very real.”
“So does a bad dream,” said Godfrey, “but for all that it
isn’t real. Still it is odd that everything important seems to happen
to us within a few feet of that lady’s dust, and I can’t quite
disbelieve in spirits and their power of impressing themselves upon us;
I wish I could. The strange thing is that _you_ should put any faith in
them.”
“I don’t, though I admit that my views about such matters are
changing. You know I used to be sure that when we die everything is over
with us. Now I think differently, why I cannot say.”
Then the subject dropped, because really they were both wrapped in the
great joy of a glorious hour and disinclined to dwell upon fancies
about a woman who had died five hundred years ago, or on metaphysical
speculations. Also the fear of what might follow upon that hour haunted
them more vividly than any hovering ghost, if such there were.
“My dear,” said Isobel, “I am sorry, but I must say it; I am
sure that there will be trouble about this business.”
“No doubt, Isobel; there always is trouble, at least where I am
concerned; also one can’t be happy without paying. But what does it
matter so long as we stick to each other? Soon we shall both be of age
and can do what we like.”
“One always thinks that, Godfrey, and yet, somehow, one never can.
Free will is a fraud in that sense as in every other.”
“I have something, as you know, enough with my pay to enable us to get
on, even if you were disinherited, dear, though, of course, you could
not live as you have been accustomed to do.”
“Oh! don’t talk to me of money,” she said impatiently,
“though for the matter of that, I have something, too, a little that
comes to me from my mother. Money won’t divide us, Godfrey.”
“Then what will, Isobel?”
“Nothing in the long run,” she answered with conviction, “not
even death itself, since in a way we are one and part of each other and
therefore cannot be separated for always, whatever happens for a while,
as I am sure that something will happen which will make you leave
me.”
“I swear that I will never leave you, I will die with you first,”
he exclaimed, springing up.
“Such oaths have been made often and broken—before the dawn,”
she answered, smiling and shaking her head.
“I swear that I will always love you,” he went on.
“Ah! now I believe you, dear!” she broke in again. “However
badly you may behave, you will always love me because you must.”
“Well, and will you always love me however badly I behave?”
“Of course,” she answered simply, “because I must. Oh!
whatever we may hear about each other, we may be quite certain that we
still love each other—because we must—and all your heaven and hell
cannot make any difference, no, not if they were both to join forces
and try their best. But that does not mean that necessarily we shall
marry each other, for I think that people who love like that rarely do
marry, because, you see, they would be too happy, which something is
always trying to prevent. It may mean, however,” she added
reflectively, “that we shall not marry anybody else, though even that
might happen in your case—not in mine. Always remember, Godfrey, that
I shall never marry anybody else, not even if you took three wives one
after the other.”
“Three wives!” gasped Godfrey.
“Yes, why not? It would be quite natural, wouldn’t it, if you
wouldn’t marry me, and even proper. Only I should never take
one—husband, I mean—not from any particular virtue, but just
because I couldn’t. You see, it would make me ill. And if I tried I
should only run away.”
“Oh! stop talking nonsense,” said Godfrey, “when so soon you
will have to go to see about those people,” and he held out his arms.
She sank into them, and for a little while they forgot their doubts and
fears.
The rain had ceased, and the triumphant sun shining gloriously through
the west window of stained glass, poured its rays upon them, dyeing
them all the colours of an angel’s wings. Also incidentally it made
them extremely conspicuous in that dusky church, of which they had all
this while forgotten to shut the door.
“My word!” said Sir John to Mr. Knight in tones of savage sarcasm
as they surveyed the two through this door. “We’ve got here just at
the right time. Don’t they look pretty, and don’t you wish that you
were his age and that was someone else’s daughter? I tell you, I
do.”
Mr. Knight gurgled something in his inarticulate wrath, for at that
moment he hated Isobel’s father as much as he did Isobel, which was
saying a great deal.
“Well, my pretty pair of cooing turtle-doves,” went on Sir John in
a sort of shout, addressing himself to them, “be so good as to stop
that, or I think I shall wring both your necks, damn you.”
“Not in this Holy House, which these infamous and shameless persons
have desecrated with their profane embraces,” interrupted Mr. Knight.
“Yes, according to your ideas it will be almost a case of
re-consecration. You’ll have to write to the bishop about it, Mr.
Parson. Oh! confound you. Don’t stand there like a couple of stuck
pigs, but come out of that and let us have a little chat in the
churchyard.”
Now, at the first words that reached their ears Godfrey and Isobel had
drawn back from each other and stood side by side quite still before
the altar, as a pair about to be married might do.
They were dumbfounded, and no wonder. As might be expected Isobel was
the first to recover herself.
“Come, my dear,” she said in a clear voice to Godfrey, “my
father and yours wish to speak to us. I am glad we have a chance of
explaining matters so soon.”
“Yes,” said Godfrey, but in a wrathful voice, for he felt anger
stirring in him. Perhaps it was excited by that ancient instinct which
causes the male animal to resent the spying upon him when he is
courting his female as the deadliest of all possible insults, or
perhaps by some prescience of affronts which were about to be offered
to him and Isobel by these two whom he knew to be bitterly hostile. At
least his temper was rising, and like most rather gentle-natured men
when really provoked and cornered, he could be dangerous.
“Yes,” he repeated, “let us go out and see this matter
through.”
So they went, Sir John and Mr. Knight drawing back a little before them,
till they were brought to a halt by the horrible memorial which the
former had erected over his wife’s grave. Here they stood, prepared
for the encounter. Sir John was the first to take the lists, saying:
“Perhaps you will explain, Isobel, why I found you, as I thought,
kissing this young fellow—like any village slut beneath a hedge.”
Isobel’s big eyes grew steely as she answered:
“For the same reason, Father. Like your village slut, I kissed this
man because he is my lover whom I mean to marry. If, as I gather, you
are not certain as to what you saw, I will kiss him again, here in
front of you.”
“I have no doubt you will; just like your cheek!” ejaculated Sir
John, taken a little aback.
Then Mr. Knight took up the ball, addressing himself to his son:
“Could you find no other place for your immoral performances except
the church, Godfrey, and my chancel too?”
“No,” answered Godfrey, “because it was raining and we
sheltered there. And what do you mean by your talk about immorality? Is
it not lawful for a man to love a woman? I should have thought that the
Bible, which you are always quoting, would have taught you otherwise.
Also, once you were married yourself else I should not be here, for
which I am not sure that I thank you; at least, I shouldn’t were it
not for Isobel.”
For a moment Mr. Knight could think of no answer to these arguments, but
Sir John having recovered his breath, attacked again:
“Look here, young fellow, I have no time to listen to jaw about the
Bible and moral and immoral and all that bosh, which you can have out
with your reverend parent afterwards. I am a plain man, I am, and want
a plain answer to a plain question. Do you think that you are going to
marry my daughter, Isobel?”
“Such is my desire and intention,” replied Godfrey, with vague
recollections of the baptismal service, though of these at the moment he
was not aware.
“Oh, is it? Then you are jolly well mistaken in your desire and
intention. Let’s make things clear. You are a beggarly youngster who
propose to enter the army at some future date, which you may or may not
do. And you have the impudence to wish to marry one of the biggest
heiresses in England against my will.”
“And against mine,” burst in Mr. Knight, “who consider her a
most pernicious young woman, one who rejects the Christian faith and
will lead you to perdition. That is why, when I chanced to espy you in
such a compromising position, I hastened to inform the lady’s
father.”
“Oh! you did that, did you?” interposed Isobel, contemplating him
steadily. “Well, I am glad to know who could have been so
cowardly,” she added with withering contempt. “Now I begin to
wonder whether a letter which some years ago, I brought to the Abbey
House to be forwarded to Godfrey, was ever posted to him who did not
receive it, or whether, perhaps, it fell into the hands of—someone
like you.”
“It did,” said Mr. Knight. “I read it and have it to this
day. In my discretion as a father I did not consider it desirable that
my young son should receive that letter. What I have witnessed this
afternoon shows me how right was my judgment.”
“Thank you so much,” said Isobel. “That takes a great weight
off my mind. Godfrey, my dear, I apologise to you for my doubts. The
truth did occur to me, but I thought it impossible that a clergyman,”
here she looked again at Mr. Knight, “could be a thief also who did
not dare to own to his theft.”
“Never mind all that,” went on Sir John in his heavy, masterful
voice. “It stands like this. You,” and he pointed a fat finger at
Godfrey, “are—well, I’ll tell you what you
are—you’re just a cunning young fortune-hunter. You found out that
this property and a good bit besides are coming to Isobel, and you want
to collar the sag, like you did that of the old woman out in Lucerne.
Well, you don’t do it, my boy. I’ve other views for Isobel. Do you
think I want to see her married to—to—the son of a fellow like
that—a canting snuffler who prigs letters and splits on his own
son?” and swinging the fat finger round he thrust it almost into the
face of Mr. Knight.
“What did you say?” gasped Godfrey. “That I am a
fortune-hunter?”
“Yes, that’s what I said, and I’ll repeat it if you
like.”
“Then,” went on Godfrey, speaking in a thick, low voice, for now
his temper had mastered him thoroughly, “I say that you are a liar. I
say that you are a base and vulgar man who has made money somehow and
thinks that this justifies him in insulting those who are not base or
vulgar, because they have less money.”
“You infernal young scamp,” shouted Sir John in a roar like to that
of an angry bull. “Do you dare to call me a liar? Apologise at once,
or——” and he stopped.
“I do not apologise. I repeat that you are a liar, the greatest liar I
ever met. Now—or what?”
Thus spoke Godfrey, drawing up his tall, slim young form to its full
height, his dark eyes flashing, his fine face alight with righteous
rage. Isobel, who was standing quite still and smiling a little, rather
contemptuously, looked at him out of the corners of her eyes and
thought that anger became him well. Never before had he seemed so
handsome to her approving judgment.
“Or this,” bellowed Sir John, and, lifting the tightly rolled
umbrella he carried, he struck Godfrey with all his strength upon the
side of the head.
Godfrey staggered, but fortunately the soft hat he was wearing, upon the
brim of which the stroke fell, broke its weight to some extent, so that
he was not really hurt. Only now he went quite mad in a kind of icy
way, and, springing at Sir John with the lightness of a leopard, dealt
him two blows, one with his left hand and the next with his right.
They were good, straight blows, for boxing had been his favourite
amusement at Sandhurst where he was a middleweight champion. The first
caught Sir John upon his thick lips which were badly cut against the
teeth, causing him to stagger; while the second, that with the right,
landed on the bridge of his nose and blacked both his eyes. This, so
strong and heavy was it, notwithstanding Sir John’s great weight,
knocked him clean off his feet. Back he went, and in his efforts to
save himself gripped Mr. Knight with one hand and with the other the
legs of the early Victorian angel that surmounted Lady Jane’s grave
against which they were standing. Neither of these could withstand the
strain. The angel, which was only pinned by lead-coated rivets to its
base and the column behind, flew from its supports, as did Mr. Knight
from his, so that in another second, the men having tripped against the
surround of the grave, all three rolled upon the path, the marble
luckily falling clear of both of them.
“Now I’ve done it,” said Godfrey in a reflective voice as he
contemplated the tangled ruin.
“Yes,” exclaimed Isobel, “I think you have.”
Then they remained grim and silent while the pair, who were not really
much injured, picked themselves up with groans.
“I am sorry that I knocked you down, since I am young and you are
not,” said Godfrey, “but I repeat that you are a liar,” he
added by an afterthought.
Sir John spat out a tooth, and began to mop the blood from his nose with
a silk pocket-handkerchief.
“Oh! you do, do you?” he said in a somewhat subdued voice.
“Well, you’ll find out that I’m other things too before
I’m done with you. And I repeat that you are a fortune-hunting young
rascal and that I would rather see my daughter dead than married to
you.”
“And I say, Godfrey, I would rather see you dead than married to
her!” broke in Mr. Knight, spitting out his words like an angry cat.
“I don’t think that you need be afraid, Father,” answered
Godfrey quietly, although his rage burned as fiercely as ever. “You
have worked this business well, and it seems a little impossible now,
doesn’t it? Listen, Sir John Blake. Not even for the sake of Isobel
will I submit to such insults. I will not give her up, but I swear by
God that while you are alive I will not marry Isobel, nor will I write
to her or speak to her again. After you are dead, which I dare say will
be before so very long,” and he surveyed the huge, puffy-fleshed
baronet with a critical eye, “then—if she cares to wait for me—I
will marry her, hoping that in the meanwhile you may lose your money or
dispose of it as you like.”
Sir John stared, still mopping his face, but finding no words. He feared
death very much and this prophecy of it, spoken with such a ring of
truth, as though the speaker knew, frightened him. At that moment in
his heart he cursed the Reverend Mr. Knight and his tale-bearing, and
wished most earnestly that he had never been led into interference with
this matter. After all Godfrey was a fine young man whom his daughter
cared for, and might do well in life, and he had struck him first after
offering him intentional and pre-arranged insult. Such were the
thoughts that flashed through his somewhat muddled brain. Also another,
that they were too late. The evil was done and never could be undone.
Then Isobel spoke in cold, clear tones, saying:
“Godfrey is quite right and has been right all through. Had you,
Father, and that man,” and she pointed contemptuously at Mr. Knight,
“left us alone we should have come and told you what had happened
between us, and if you disapproved we would have waited until we were
of full age and have married as we should have been free to do. But now
that is impossible, for blows have passed between you. After slandering
him vilely, you struck Godfrey first, Father, and he would not have
been a man if he had not struck you back; indeed I should have thought
little of him afterwards. Well, he has made an oath, and I know that he
will keep it. Now I, too, make an oath which certainly I shall keep. I
swear in the presence of both of you, by myself and by Godfrey, that
neither in this world or in any other, should I live again and have
remembrance, will I marry any man or exchange tendernesses with any man,
except himself. So all your plans come to nothing; yes, you have
brought all this misery upon us for nothing, and if you want to found a
great family, as I know you do, you had better marry again yourself and
let me go my way. In any case, if I should survive you and should
Godfrey live, I will marry him after your death, even if we have to
wait until we are old to do so. As to your fortune, I care nothing for
it, being quite ready to work in the world with the help of the little
I have.”
She paused as though for an answer, but none came, for if Sir John had
been frightened before, now he was terrified of this outraged young
woman who, tall, commanding and stern-eyed, looked to him like an
avenging angel.
“There doesn’t seem much more to say, does there?” she went
on, “except that I think, Father, you had better telegraph to your
guests that you are not well and cannot receive them, for I won’t. So
good-bye, dearest Godfrey. I shall remember all that you have said, and
you will remember all that I have said, and as I believe, we shall live
to meet again one day. Meanwhile, don’t think too bitterly of my
father, or of your own, because they have acted according to their
natures and lights, though where these will lead them I am sure I do
not know. Good-bye, dearest, dearest Godfrey. Do your best in the world
and keep out of troubles if you can. Oh! what a lot we shall have to
tell each other when we meet again.”
Then before them both she kissed him, and he kissed her back, saying:
“I will remember. I am glad you think there was nothing else to be
done. God bless you, Isobel. Make the best of your life, as I will try
to do with mine. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, dear,” she answered, “think of me always when you
wake and before you go to sleep, as I will think of you.”
Then she turned and went, never looking behind her.
Godfrey watched her tall form vanish through the churchyard gate and
over the slope of a little hill that lay between it and Hawk’s Hall,
and that was the last sight he had of her for many a year. When she was
quite lost to view, he spoke to the two men who still stood irresolute
before him.
“Isobel I shall meet again,” he said, “but not either of you,
for I have done with you both. It is not for me to judge you. Judge
yourself and be judged.”
Then he turned, too, and went.
“It’s all right,” said Sir John to Mr. Knight, “that
is, he won’t marry her, at any rate at present, so I suppose that we
should both be pleased, if anyone can be pleased with cut lips and two
black eyes. And yet somehow we seem to have made a mess of it,” and
he glanced at the shattered marble statue of the Victorian angel of
which both the wings were broken off.
“We have done our duty,” replied Mr. Knight, pursing up his thin
lips, “and at least Godfrey is freed from your daughter.”
“I’m not so sure of that, my reverend friend. But of one thing I am
sure, that I am freed from her also, or rather that she is freed from
me. Also you are freed from him. Don’t you understand, you vicious
little viper, that you will never see that young man again, and that
thanks to your cursed advice I shall never see my daughter again, at
least not really? What devil was it that sent you to play upon my
weaknesses and ambition? If you had left things alone and they had come
to me in a natural way there would have been a row, of course, but I
dare say it would have ended all right. But you told me how to work on
him and I overdid the part. Now nothing can ever be all right for
either of us, or for them either, until we are both dead. Do you
understand also that we have made two young people who should have been
the supports of our old age desire above everything our deaths because
we have given them cause to hate us, and since they are of the sort
that keep their word, only by our deaths can they become free, or, at
any rate, by mine? Well, it doesn’t matter what you understand, you
little bigot, but I know what I do.”
“I have done my duty,” repeated Mr. Knight sullenly, “and I
don’t care what happens afterwards. ‘_Fiat justitia ruat
coelum_,’” he added in the Latin tag.
“Oh, yes. Justice may say fie and the sky may be rude, and anything
else may happen, but we’ve dished our lives and theirs, my friend,
and—damn you! get out of my sight. Rows I am accustomed to with Isobel
and others, but this isn’t a row, it’s an earthquake; it’s a
catastrophe, for which I have to thank you. Lord! how my mouth hurts,
and I can’t see out of my right eye. Talk of a mailed fist, that
young beggar has one like a pole-axe. Now I must go to telegraph to all
those people. Temporary indisposition, yes—temporary indisposition,
that’s it. Good-bye, my holy friend. You won’t do as much mischief
in one day again in a hurry, spy as hard as you like.”
Then Sir John departed, nursing his cut lips with one hand and his
broken umbrella with the other.
Mr. Knight watched him go, and said to himself:
“I thought that I disliked the daughter, but the father is worse.
Offensive, purse-proud, vulgar beast! How dare he speak to me like that!
I’m glad, yes, I’m glad Godfrey knocked him down, though I suppose
there will be a scandal. Well, my hands are clean; I have done my duty,
and I must not complain if it is unpleasant, since I have dragged
Godfrey back from the mouth of the pit. I think I’ll take a walk to
steady my nerves; it may be as well not to meet Godfrey again just
now.”