 | XII. The thief in the night |  |
12. XII.
The winter days went slipping by, and Beaudesfords
still kept the place filled with guests, and
Catherine still kept her room. Beaudesfords
would have recalled his invitations and dismissed
his friends, but Catherine would not listen to it:
she had double reason indeed to wish his house
and his hands full, just now, that he might be
diverted from too close attention on her retirement.
One would have thought that, having
tried that experiment of seclusion in the early
days of her return home, its failure would have
answered. But she had no option about it; for
Dr. Ruthven, though small in body, was the
greatest tyrant that ever ruled. She was not
obliged to complain of any symptoms, — Dr. Ruthven
did that for her: he made her walk up and
down in the open air on her high balcony, that
commanded such a wide outlook of country; took
care that her diet was all as it should be; and by
darkened rightly, all in an unostentatious way,
and as a physician is wont to do, he invited up
one guest and another to wile away an hour, to
let her know the gossip below; while Beaudesfords
had a company of musicians brought from
a distant city, that, stationed in the hall, made
delicious murmuring of violin and flute, not for
Catherine alone, but for every one that chose to
listen. Gaston threw open his doors sometimes,
and suffered the spell of music to work, if perchance
it might cast out his devils; but it needed
a mightier magician even than music to effect so
much as that.
Gaston, meanwhile, had shut himself up during
these three weeks in his own apartments as
well: it seemed possible that he intended to return
only when Catherine herself returned; and
as Caroline and Mamma Stanhope plied her with
the details of all transactions below, so at least
Catherine interpreted it. He did not choose to be
eluded by any such evasion as her mock illness:
he meant to force her back by staying away himself
till she came. It seemed to Catherine cruel,
even then, cruel on Gaston's part, to stand so
between her and safety, — safety, which meant
much feigning in his meddlesome and benevolent
device; for the conflict of feeling left Catherine
every day more pale and worn, every night more
feverish and impatient.
She was just stepping in one evening from the
balcony, that opened from her sitting-room and
extended far enough down one side of the house,
blank just there of windows, to allow her a sort
of promenade, and Olympe had removed her
wrappings and carried them away, when Beaudesfords
tapped upon the door, peered in, and then
put his head and hand back in the hall, and drew
in Gaston after him.
“She doesn't look like a martyr to disease,
does she, Gaston, with such a rose-petal of a
cheek? Dr. Ruthven is a tyrant. Death to all
tyrants, say I! I shall have you downstairs to-morrow,
my lady. Good heavens, how cold
your hands are!”
“I have just come in from the balcony,” said
Catherine, losing the color the wind had fanned
up on her cheek. But she did not tell him that
when she came in her hands were warm and well.
Tea was served for the three; and Rose flitted
in and made them four. Catherine leaned back
while Rose and Beaudesfords fenced out their gay
dialogue, gave no response of word or smile.
It seemed to her as if fate were fighting against
her, — as if she felt the game go on between good
angels and bad, herself the stake; and when she
glanced up, and Gaston stood before her and bent
from his height and said some gentle thing in a
tone whose tenderness was all the more enhanced
because that tone was usually so haughty and so
brief, she shuddered to think she saw the dark
angel in person, to think how he possessed her;
and then she thrilled and thrilled to look at him,
all her soul seemed welling up into her eyes, she
could not move them from their fascinated gaze,
her hands trembled and her lips, her head fell on
one side, and she would have swooned had not
Gaston himself caught her, and had not the knowledge
of his touch acted like an electric stroke to
call her back to herself, to this strange being of
hers, half-filled with such wild joy as she looked at
him, half with as wild abhorrence of herself, and
bathed, besides, all through and through with
pity for Beaudesfords, and sorrow. She used to
think she was insane, that some evil spirit acted
through her, since she found it so impossible to
passion of her senses and her heart, to understand
why in herself alone the flesh and the spirit so
contended. She ought to scorn him, she said,
since he betrayed her; she ought to hate him
that he lingered here to torment her; and instead
— but she would not utter to herself that
pitiful instead. Only she had not the strength to
forbid Beaudesfords to bring Gaston any more
to the room, to keep her eyes off him with their
greedy gaze when he was there. Only all the
time she hated bitterly those honest, happy Beaudesfords
women on the wall! It was a kind of
rapt and trance-like happiness while he remained:
after he was gone, came the misery and shame.
Once it occurred to her to ask herself what had
become of her resolve of that bright Christmas
morning, the resolve that she would conquer or
she would die. Well, she answered, she could
not conquer, but perhaps she could die! Heaven
help her and let her die!
Gaston came now with Beaudesfords every
evening. Dr. Ruthven knew nothing about it.
He sat opposite Catherine, the little tea-table
between them: he waited on her in a dozen
trivial ways, and the blind Beaudesfords felt
between his friend and his wife was springing up
so sweet and strong. Every night Gaston brought
some large and lovely flower, freshly full-blown,
from the green-house, and gave it to her: their
hands touched as they gave and took, loitered
perhaps one trembling moment; and while she held
it and gazed down upon it and caressed its petals,
it half seemed to her that it still was Gaston's
hand she held. She was weak and pale, tender
and appealing: a man's heart would have been
stone which in some way in those days she did
not touch. And yet she could hardly hold herself
to be like any polluted thing; for Gaston's very
tenderness was so lofty; he never used word or
expression beyond that silent manner, in appearance
so full of deep respect; yet, for all that,
she knew the truth, — his tone told it, his delaying
eyes enforced it. In fact, she was ceasing
already to make any effort, fancying herself
controlled by some fatal charm, questioning if she
should not take what bliss she found, shutting
her eyes and glad to be drifting — drifting.
| XII. The thief in the night | |