The Quest Of The Golden Girl | ||
BOOK III
1. CHAPTER I: IN WHICH I RETURN TO MY RIGHT AGE AND ENCOUNTER A COMMON OBJECT OF THE COUNTRY
AND so when the days of my mourning for Nicolete were ended (and in this sentence I pass over letters to and fro, — letters wild from Nicolete, letters wise from Aucassin, letters explanatory and apologetic from the Obstacle — how the Major-General had suddenly come home quite unexpectedly and compelled her to explain Nicolete's absence, etc., etc. Dear Obstacle! I should rather have enjoyed a pilgrimage with her too) — I found myself one afternoon again upon the road. The day had been very warm and dusty, and had turned sleepy towards tea-time.
I had now pretty clearly in my mind what I wanted. This time it was, all other things
It was in this frame of mind that I came upon the following scene.
The lane was a very cloistral one, with a ribbon of gravelly road, bordered on each side with a rich margin of turf and a scramble
She was a pretty woman, of a striking modern type, tall, well-proportioned, strong, I should say, with a good complexion that had evidently been made just a little better. But her most striking feature was an opulent mass of dark red hair, which had fallen in some disorder and made quite a pillow for her head. Her hat was off, lying in its veil by her side, and a certain general abandon of her figure, — which was clothed in a short cloth skirt, cut with that unmistakable touch which we call style-betokened weariness that could no longer wait for rest.
Poor child! she was tired out. She must never be left to sleep on there, for she seemed good to sleep till midnight.
I turned to her bicycle, and, examining it with the air of a man who had won silver cups in his day, I speedily discovered what had been the mischief. The tire of the front wheel had been pierced, and a great thorn was protruding from the place. Evidently this had been too much for poor Rosalind, and it was not unlikely that she had cried herself to sleep.
I bent over her to look — yes, there were traces of tears. Poor thing! Then I had a kindly human impulse. I would mend the tire, having attended ambulance classes, do it very quietly so that she would+n't hear, like the fairy cobblers who used to mend people's boots while they slept, and then wait in ambush to watch the effect upon her when she awoke.
What do you think of the idea?
But one important detail I have omitted from my description of the sleeper. Her left hand lay gloveless, and of the four rings on her third finger one was a wedding-ring.
"Such red hair, — and a wedding-ring!'' I exclaimed inwardly. "How this woman must have suffered!''
2. CHAPTER II: IN WHICH I HEAL A BICYCLE AND COME TO THE WHEEL OF PLEASURE
MOVING the bicycle a little away, so that my operations upon it might not arouse her, I had soon made all right again, and when I laid it once more where she had left it, she was still sleeping as sound as ever. She had only to sleep long enough, a sly thought suggested, to necessitate her ending her day's journey at the same inn as myself, some five miles on the road. One virtue at least the reader will allow to this history, — we are seldom far away from an inn in its pages. When I thought of that I sat stiller than ever, hardly daring to turn over the pages of Apuleius, which I had taken from my knapsack to beguile the time, and, I confess, to give my eyes some other occupation than the dangerous one of gazing
"No! she must+n't waken before seven at the latest,'' I said to myself, holding my breath and starting in terror at every noise. Once a great noisy bee was within an ace of waking her, but I caught him with inspired dexterity, and he buzzed around her head no more.
But despite the providential loneliness of the road, there were one or two terrors that could not be disposed of so summarily. The worst of all was a heavy miller's cart which one could hardly crush to silence in one's handkerchief; but it went so slowly, and both man and horses were so sleepy, that they passed unheard and unnoticing.
A sprightly tramp promised greater difficulty, and nothing but some ferocious pantomime and a shilling persuaded him to forego a choice fantasia of cockney humour.
A poor tired Italian organ-grinder,
And then at last, just as my watch pointed to 6.50 (how well I remember the exact moment!) Rosalind awoke suddenly, as women and children do, sitting straight up on the instant, and putting up her hands to her tousled hair, with a half-startled "Where am I?'' When her hair was once more "respectable,'' she gave her skirts a shake, bent sideways to pull up her stockings and tighten her garters, looked at her watch, and then with an exclamation at the lateness of the hour, went over, with an air of desperate determination, to her bicycle.
"Now for this horrid puncture!'' were the first words I was to hear fall from her lips.
She sought for the wound in the india-rubber with growing bewilderment.
"Goodness!'' was her next exclamation, "why, there+'s nothing wrong with it. Can I have been dreaming?''
"I hope your dreams have been pleasanter than that,'' I ventured at this moment to stammer, rising, a startling apparition, from my ambush behind a mound of brambles; and before she had time to take in the situation I added that I hoped she+'d excuse my little pleasantry, and told her how I had noticed her and the wounded bicycle, et cetera, et cetera, as the reader can well imagine, without giving me the trouble of writing it all out.
She was sweetness itself on the instant.
"Excuse you!'' she said, "I should think so. Who would+n't? You can't tell the load you+'ve taken off my mind. I+'m sure I must have groaned in my sleep — for I confess I cried myself to sleep over it.''
"I thought so,'' I said with gravity, and eyes that did+n't dare to smile outright till they had permission, which, however, was not long withheld them.
"How did you know?''
"Oh, intuition, of course — who would+n't
"You+'re a nice sympathetic man, anyhow,'' she laughed; "what a pity you don't bicycle!''
"Yes,'' I said, "I would give a thousand pounds for a bicycle at this moment.''
"You ought to get a good one for that,'' she laughed, — "all bright parts nickel, I suppose; indeed, you should get a real silver frame and gold handle-bars for that, don't you think? Well, it would be nice all the same to have your company a few miles, especially as it+'s growing dark,'' she added.
"Especially as it's growing dark,'' I repeated.
"You won't be going much farther to-night. Have you fixed on your inn?'' I continued innocently. She had — but that was in a town too far to reach to-night, after her long sleep.
"You might have wakened me,'' she said.
"Yes, it was stupid of me not to have thought of it,'' I answered, offering no explanation of the dead bee which at the moment I espied a little away in the grass, and saying
Then we talked inns, and thus she fell beautifully into the pit which I had digged for her; and it was presently arranged that she should ride on to the Wheel of Pleasure and order a dinner, which she was to do me the honour of sharing with me.
I was to follow on foot as speedily as might be, and it was with a high heart that I strode along the sunset lanes, hearing for some time the chiming of her bell in front of me, till she had wheeled it quite out of hearing, and it was lost in the distance.
I never did a better five miles in my life.
3. CHAPTER III: TWO TOWN MICE AT A COUNTRY INN.
WHEN I reached the Wheel of Pleasure, I found Rosalind awaiting me in the coffee-room, looking fresh from a traveller's toilette, and with the welcome news that dinner was on the way. By the time I had washed off the day's dust it was ready, and a merry meal it proved. Rosalind had none of Alastor's objections to the wine-list, so we drank an excellent champagne; and as there seemed to be no one in the hotel but ourselves, we made ourselves at home and talked and laughed, none daring to make us afraid.
At first, on sitting down to table, we had grown momentarily shy, with one of those sudden freaks of self-consciousness which occasionally surprise one, when, midway in some slightly unconventional situation to which the innocence of nature has led us, we realise it — "for an instant and no more.''
Positively, I think that in the embarrassment of that instant I had made some inspired remark to Rosalind about the lovely country which lay dreamy in the afterglow outside our window. Oh, yes, I remember the very words. They were "What a heavenly landscape!'' or something equally striking.
"Yes,'' Rosalind had answered, "it is almost as beautiful as the Strand!''
If I+'d known her better, I should have exclaimed, "You dear!'' and I think it possible that I did say something to that effect, — perhaps "You dear woman!'' At all events, the veil of self-consciousness was rent in twain at that remark, and our spirits rushed together at this touch of London nature thus unexpectedly revealed.
London! I had+n't realised till this moment how I had been missing it all these days of rustication, and my heart went out to it with a vast homesickness.
"Yes! the Strand,'' I repeated tenderly, "the Strand — at night!''
"Indeed, yes! what is more beautiful in the whole world?'' she joined in ardently.
"The wild torrents of light, the passionate
"Don't speak of them or you+'ll make me cry,'' said Rosalind.
"The little suppers after the theatre — ''
"Please don't,'' she cried, "it is cruel;'' and I saw that her eyes were indeed glistening with tears.
"But, of course,'' I continued, to give a slight turn aside in our talk, "it is very wrong of us to have such sophisticated tastes. We ought to love these lonely hills and meadows far more. The natural man revels in solitude, and wants no wittier company than birds and flowers. Wordsworth made a constant companion of a pet daisy. He seldom went abroad without one or two trotting at his side, and a skylark would keep Shelley in society for a week.''
"But they were poets,'' retorted Rosalind; "you don't call poets natural. Why, they are the most unnatural of men. The natural person loves the society of his kind, whereas the poet runs away from it.''
"Well, of course, there are poets and poets, poets sociable and poets very
It will gratify my friend to learn that Rosalind had the verses I refer to by heart, and started off humming, — "Ah, London, London, our delight, Great flower that opens but at night, Great city of the midnight sun, Whose day begins when day is done . . . Like dragon-flies the hansoms hover With jewelled eyes to catch the lover;'' and so on, with a gusto of appreciation that must have been very gratifying to the author had he been present.
Thus perceiving a taste for a certain modern style of poetry in my companion, I bethought me of a poem which I had written on the roadside a few days before, and which, I confess, I was eager to confide to some sympathetic ear. I was diffident of quoting
it after such lines as Rosalind had recalled, but by the time we had reached our coffee, I plucked up courage to mention it. I had, however, the less diffidence in that it would have a technical interest for her, being indeed no other than a song of cycling a deux which had been suggested by one of those alarmist danger-posts always placed at the top of the pleasantest hills, sternly warning the cyclist that "this hill is dangerous,'' — just as in life there is always some minatory notice-board frowning upon us in the direction we most desire to take.
But I omit further preface and produce the poem: — "This hill is dangerous,'' I said, As we rode on together Through sunny miles and sunny miles Of Surrey heather; "This hill is dangerous — don't you think
We+'d better walk it?'' "Or sit it out — more danger still!'' She smiled — "and talk it?'' `Are you afraid?'' she turned and cried So very brave and sweetly, — Oh that brave smile that takes the heart Captive completely!
Rosalind smiled as I finished. "I+'m afraid,'' she said, "the song is as dangerous as the
"Perhaps two,'' I assented.
"And the second more important than the first.''
"Maybe,'' I smiled; "however, I hope you like it.''
Rosalind was very reassuring on that point, and then said musingly, as if half to herself, "But that hill is dangerous, you know; and young people would do well to pay attention to the danger-board!''
Her voice shook as she spoke the last two or three words, and I looked at her in some surprise.
"Yes, I know it,'' she added, her voice quite broken; and before I realised what was happening, there she was with her beautiful head down upon the table, and sobbing as if her heart would break.
"Forgive me for being such a fool,'' she managed to wring out.
Now, usually I never interrupt a woman when she is crying, as it only encourages her to continue; but there was something so unexpected and mysterious about Rosalind's
These tears proved, what certain indications of manner had already hinted to me, that Rosalind was more artless than I had at first supposed. She was a woman of the world, in that she lived in it, and loved its gaieties, but there was still in her heart no little of the child, as is there not in the hearts of all good women — or men?
And this you will realise when I tell you the funny little story which she presently confided to me as the cause of her tears.
4. CHAPTER IV: MARRIAGE A LA MODE
FOR Rosalind was no victim of the monster man, as you may have supposed her, no illustration of his immemorial perfidies. On the contrary, she was one half of a very happy marriage, and, in a sense, her sufferings at the moment were merely theoretical, if one may so describe the sufferings caused by a theory. But no doubt the reader would prefer a little straightforward narrative.
Well, Rosalind and Orlando, as we may as well call them, are two newly married young people who+'ve been married, say, a year, and who find themselves at the end of it loving each other more than at the beginning, — for you are to suppose two of the tenderest, most devoted hearts that ever beat as one. However, they are young people of the introspective modern type, with a new theory for everything.
About marriage and the law of happiness in that blessed estate, they boasted the latest philosophical patents. To them, among other matters, the secret of unhappy marriages was as simple as can be. It was in nothing more or less than the excessive "familiarity'' of ordinary married life, and the lack of personal freedom allowed both parties to the contract. Thus love grew commonplace, and the unhappy ones to weary of each other by excessive and enforced association. This was obvious enough, and the remedy as obvious, — separate bedrooms, and a month's holiday in each year to be spent apart (notoriously all people of quality had separate bedrooms, and see how happy they were!). These and similar other safeguards of individual liberty they had in mock-earnest drawn up and signed on their marriage eve, as a sort of supplemental wedding service.
It would not be seemly to inquire how far certain of these conditions had been kept, — how often, for example, Orlando's little hermit's bed had really needed remaking during those twelve months! Answer, ye
The condition with which alone we have here to concern ourselves was one which provided that each of the two lovers, hereafter to be called the husband of the one part and the wife of the other part, solemnly bound themselves to spend one calendar month of each year out of each other's society, with full and free liberty to spend it wheresoever, with whomsoever, and howsoever they pleased; and that this condition was rigidly to be maintained, whatever immediate effort it might cost, as the parties thereto believed that so would their love the more likely maintain an enduring tenderness and an unwearied freshness. And to this did Orlando and his Rosalind set their hands and hearts and lips.
Now, wisdom is all very well till the time comes to apply it; and as that month of June approached in which they had designed
And thus it had come about that Orlando had gone off for his month's holiday with a charming girl, who, with the cynic, will no doubt account for his stern adherence to duty; and Rosalind had gone off for hers with a pretty young man whom she+'d liked well enough to go to the theatre and to supper with, — a young man who was indeed a dear friend, and a vivacious, sympathetic
The upshot of the experiment, so far as she was concerned, was that she had quarrelled with her companion, and had gone off in search of her husband, on which search she was embarked at the moment of my encountering her. The tears, therefore, — that is, the first lot of tears by the roadside, — had not been all on account of the injured bicycle, you see.
Now the question was, How had Orlando been getting on? I had an intuition that in his case the experiment had proved more enjoyable, but I am not one to break the bruised reed by making such a suggestion. On the contrary, I expressed my firm conviction that Orlando was probably even more miserable than she was.
"Do you really think so?'' she asked eagerly, her poor miserable face growing bright a moment with hope and gratitude.
"Undoubtedly,'' I answered sententiously. "To put the case on the most general principles, apart from Orlando's great love for
"Are you quite sure?'' asked Rosalind, with an unconvinced half-smile.
"Absolutely.''
"I thought,'' she continued, "that it was just the other way about; that it was presence and not absence that made the heart of man grow fonder, and that if a man's best girl, so to say, was away, he was able to make himself very comfortable with his second-best!''
"In some cases, of course, it's true,'' I answered, unmoved; "but with a love like yours and Orlando's, it's quite different.''
"Oh, do you really mean it?''
"Certainly I do; and your mistake has been in supposing that an experiment which no few every-day married couples would be only too glad to try, was ever meant for two such love-birds as you. Laws and systems are meant for the unhappy and the untractable, not for people like you, for whom Love makes its own laws.''
"Yes, that is what we used to say; and
"But it was quite a mistake,'' I went on in my character as matrimonial oracle. "Love never made a law so cruel, a law that would rob true lovers of each other's society for a whole month in a year, stretching them on the rack of absence — '' There my period broke down, so I began another less ambitiously planned.
"A whole month in a year! Think what that would mean in a lifetime. How long do you expect to live and love together? Say another fifty years at the most. Well, fifty ones are fifty. Fifty months equal — four twelves are forty-eight and two over — four years and two months. Yes, out of the short life God allows even for the longest love you would voluntarily throw away four years and two months!''
This impressive calculation had a great effect on poor Rosalind; and it is a secondary matter that it and its accompanying wisdom may have less weight with the reader, as for the moment Rosalind was my one concern.
"But, of course, we have perfect trust in each other,'' said Rosalind presently, with charming illogicality.
"No doubt,'' I said; "but Love, like a good householder (ahem!), does well not to live too much on trust.''
"But surely love means perfect trust,'' said Rosalind.
"Theoretically, yes; practically, no. On the contrary, it means exactly the opposite. Trust, perfect trust, with loved ones far away! No, it is an inhuman ideal, and the more one loves the less one lives up to it. If not, what do these tears mean?''
"Oh, no!'' Rosalind retorted, with a flush, "you must+n't say that. I trust Orlando absolutely. It is+n't that; it+'s simply that I can't bear to be away from him.''
What women mean by "trusting'' might afford a subject for an interesting disquisition. However, I forbore to pursue the matter, and answered Rosalind's remark in a practical spirit.
"Well, then,'' I said, "if that+'s all, the thing to do is to find Orlando, tell him that
"That's what I thought,'' said Rosalind.
"Unfortunately,'' I continued, "owing to your foolish arrangement not to tell each other where you were going and not to write, as being incompatible with Perfect Trust, you don't know where Orlando is at the present moment.''
"No; but I have a good guess,'' said Rosalind. "There+'s a smart little watering-place, not so many miles from here, called Yellowsands, a sort of secret little Monaco, which not many people know of, a wicked-innocent gay little place, where we+'ve often talked of going. I think it's very likely that Orlando has gone there; and that+'s just where I was going when we met.''
I will tell the reader more about Yellowsands in the next chapter. Meanwhile, let us complete Rosalind's arrangements. The result of our conversation was that she was to proceed to Yellowsands on the morrow, and that I was to follow as soon as possible, so as to be available should she chance to
This arranged, we said good-night, Rosalind with ever such a brightened-up face, of which I thought for half an hour and then fell asleep to dream of Yellowsands.
5. CHAPTER V: CONCERNING THE HAVEN OF YELLOWSANDS
ON the morrow, at the peep of day, Rosalind was off to seek her lord. An hour or so after I started in leisurely pursuit.
Yellowsands! I had heard in a vague way of the place, as a whim of a certain young nobleman who combined brains with the pursuit of pleasure. Like most ideas, it was simple enough when once conceived. Any one possessing a mile or two of secluded seaboard, cut off on the land side by precipitous approaches, and including a sheltered river mouth ingeniously hidden by nature, in the form of a jutting wall of rock, from the sea, might have made as good use of these natural opportunities as the nobleman in question, had they only been as wise and as rich. William Blake proposed to rebuild Jerusalem in this green and pleasant
land. My lord proposed to erect a miniature Babylon amid similar pleasant surroundings, a little dream-city by the sea, a home for the innocent pleasure-seeker stifled by the puritanism of the great towns, refugium peccatorum in this island of the saints.
"Once it was the Puritan Fathers who left our coasts,'' he is recorded to have said; "nowadays it is our Prodigal Sons.''
No doubt it was in further elaboration of this aphorism that the little steamboat that sailed every other day from Yellowsands to the beckoning shores of France was called "the Mayflower.''
My lord's plan had been simple. By the aid of cunning architects he had first blasted his harbour into shape, then built his hotels and pleasure-palaces, and then leased them to dependants of his who knew the right sort of people, and who knew that it was as much as their lease was worth to find accommodation for teetotal amateur photographers or wistful wandering Sunday-school treats. As, unfortunately, the Queen's highway ran down in tortuous descent to the handful of fishermen's cottages that had clung there
So much to give the reader some idea of the secret watering-place of Yellowsands, situated at the mouth of that romantic little torrent, the river Sly. Such further description as may be needed may be kept till we come within sight of its gilded roofs and marble terraces.
6. CHAPTER VI: THE MOORLAND OF THE APOCALYPSE
I RECKONED that it would take me two or three days, leisurely walking, to reach Yellowsands. Rosalind would, of course, arrive there long before me; but that I did not regret, as I was in a mood to find company in my own thoughts.
Her story gave me plenty to think of. I dwelt particularly on the careless extravagance of the happy. Here were two people to whom life had given casually what I was compelled to go seeking lonely and footsore through the world, and with little hope of finding it at the end; and yet were they so little aware of their good fortune as to risk it over a trumpery theory, a shadow of pseudo-philosophy. Out of the deep dark ocean of life Love had brought them his great moon-pearl, and they sat on the boat's
Would I ever find my Bath-bun? I
And oh, how I could love a girl, if she would only give me the chance, — that is, be the right girl! Oh, Sylvia Joy! where art thou? Why so long dost thou remain hidden "in shady leaves of destiny''? "Seest thou thy lover lowly laid, Hear'st thou the sighs that rend his breast?'' And then, as the novelists say, "a strange thing happened.''
The road I was tramping at the moment was somewhat desolate. It ran up from a small market town through a dreary undulating moorland, forking off here and there to unknown villages of which the horizon gave no hint. Its cheerless hillocks were all but naked of vegetation, for a never very flourishing growth of heather had recently
Suddenly I became aware of the fluttering of a grey dress a little ahead of me. Unconsciously I had been overtaking a tall young woman walking in the same direction as myself, with a fine athletic carriage of her figure and a noble movement of her limbs.
She walked manfully, and as I neared her I could hear the sturdy ring of her well-shod feet upon the road. There was an air of expectancy about her walk, as though she looked to be met presently by some one due from the opposite direction.
It was curious that I had not noticed her before, for she must have been in sight for some time. No doubt my melancholy abstraction accounted for that, and perhaps her presence there was to be explained by a London train which I had listlessly observed come in to the town an hour before. This surmise was confirmed, as presently, — over the
Distance had lent no enchantment which nearness did not a hundred times repay. The immediate impression of strength and distinction which the first glimpse of her had made upon me was more and more verified as I drew closer to her. The carriage of her head was no whit less noble than the queenly carriage of her limbs, and her glorious chestnut hair, full of warm tints of gold, was massed in a sumptuous simplicity above a neck that would have made an average woman's fortune. This glowing description, however, must be lowered or heightened in tone by the association of these characteristics with an undefinable simplicity of mien, a certain slight rusticity of effect. The town spoke in her well-cut gown and a few simple adornments, but the dryad still moved inside.
I suppose most men, even in old age, feel a certain anxiety, conscious or not, as they overtake a woman whose back view is in the least attractive. I confess that I felt a more than usual, indeed a quite irrational, perturbation of the blood, as, coming level with her, I dared to look into her face. As I did so she involuntarily turned to look at me — turned to look at me, did I say? "To look'' is a feeble verb indeed to express the unexpected shock of beauty to which I was suddenly exposed. I cannot describe her features, for somehow features always mean little to me. They were certainly beautifully moulded, and her skin was of a lovely pale olive, but the life of her face was in her great violet eyes and her wonderful mouth. Thus suddenly to look into her face was like unexpectedly to come upon moon and stars reflected in some lonely pool. I suppose the look lasted only a second or two; but it left me dazzled as that king in the Eastern tale, who seemed to have lived whole dream-lives between dipping his head into a bowl of water and taking it out again. Similarly in that moment I seemed
I+'ll tell you more about that look presently! Meanwhile the gig approached, and the two girls exchanged affectionate greetings.
"Tom has+n't come with you, then?'' said the other girl, who was evidently her sister, and who was considerably more rustic in style and accent. She said it with a curious mixture of anxiety and relief.
"No,'' answered the other simply, and I thought I noticed a slight darkening of her face. Tom was evidently her husband. So she was married!
"Yes!'' said a fussy hypocrite of reason within me, "and what+'s that to do with you?''
"Everything, you fool!'' answered a robuster voice in my soul, kicking the feeble creature clean out of my head on the instant.
For, absurd as it may sound, with that look into those Arabian Nights' eyes, had come somewhere out of space an overwhelming intuition, nay, an unshakable conviction, that the woman who was already being rolled away from me down the road in that Dis's car of a farmer's gig, was now and for ever and before all worlds the woman God had created for me, and that, unless I could be hers and she mine, there would be no home, no peace for either of us so long as we lived.
And yet she was being carried away further and further every moment, while I gazed after her, aimlessly standing in the middle of the road. Why did I not call to her, overtake her? In a few moments she would be lost to me for ever —
Though I was unaware of it, this hesitation was no doubt owing to a stealthy return of reason by the back-door of my mind. In fact, he presently dared to raise his voice again. "I don't deny,'' he ventured, ready
At that moment the gig was on the point of turning a corner into a dark pine-wood; but just ere it disappeared, — was it fancy? — I seemed to have caught the flash of a momentarily fluttering handkerchief. "Won't I? you fool!'' I exclaimed, savagely smiting reason on the cheek, as I sprang up wildly to wave mine; but the road was already blank.
At this a sort of panic possessed me, and like a boy I raced down the road after her. To lose her like this, at the very moment that she had been revealed to me. It was more than I could bear. Past the dreary lake, through the little pine-wood I ran, and then I was brought to a halt, panting, by
It never occurred to me till the following day that I might have been able to track her by the wheel-marks of the gig on the dusty summer road. Instead I desperately resorted to the time-honoured expedient of setting up a stick and going in the direction of its fall. Like most ancient guide-posts, it led me quite wrong, down into a pig's — trough of a hamlet whither I felt sure she could+n't have been bound. Then I ran back in a frenzy, and tried the other road, — as if it could be any use, with at least three quarters of an hour gone since I had lost sight of her. Of course I had no luck; and finally, hot and worn out with absurd excitement, I threw myself down in a meadow and called myself an ass, — which I undoubtedly was.
For of all the fancies that had obsessed
For I had one other reason than my own infatuation, or thought I had. Yes, brief and rapid as our glance at each other had been, I had fancied in her eyes a momentary kindling as they met mine, a warm summer-lightning which seemed for a second to light up for me the inner heaven of her soul.
Of one feeling, however, I was sure, — that on my side this apocalyptic recognition of her, as it had seemed, was no mere passionate correspondence of sex, no mere spell
But it was a fancy, for all that? Yes, one of those fancies that are fancies on earth, but facts in heaven. Perhaps you don't believe in them. Well, I+'m afraid that cannot be helped.
7. CHAPTER VII: "COME UNTO THESE YELLOW SANDS!''
NOTHING further happened to me till I reached Yellowsands, except an exciting ride on the mail-coach, which connected it with the nearest railway-station some twenty miles away. For the last three or four miles the road ran along the extreme precipitous verge of cliffs that sloped, a giant's wall of grassy mountain, right away down to a dreamy amethystine floor of sea, miles and miles, as it seemed, below. To ride on that coach, as it gallantly staggered betwixt earth and heaven, was to know all the ecstasy of flying, with an added touch of danger, which birds and angels, and others accustomed to fly, can never experience. And then at length the glorious mad descent down three plunging cataracts of rocky road, the exciting rattling of the harness, the grinding of the strong brakes, the driver's soothing calls to his
It was the golden end of afternoon as the coach stopped in front of the main hotel, The Golden Fortune; and for the benefit of any with not too long purses who shall hereafter light on Yellowsands, and be alarmed at the name and the marble magnificence of that delightful hotel, I may say that the charges there were surprisingly "reasonable,'' owing to one other wise provision of
I had as yet failed to catch any sight of Rosalind; so I sat alone, and so far as I had any thoughts or feelings, beyond a consciousness of heavenly harmony with my surroundings, they were for that haunting unknown face with the violet eyes and the heavy chestnut hair.
Presently, close by, the notes of a guitar came like little gold butterflies out of the twilight, and then a woman's voice rose like a silver bird on the air. It was a gay wooing measure to which she sang. I listened with ears and heart. "All ye,'' it went, — All ye who seek for pleasure, Here find it without measure —
"Bravo!'' I cried involuntarily, as the song ended amid multitudinous applause; and I thus attracted the attention of another who sat near me as lonely as myself, but evidently quite at home in the place.
"You have+n't heard our sirens sing before?'' he said, turning to me with a pleasant smile, and thus we fell into talk of the place and its pleasures.
"There+'s one feature of the place I might introduce you to if you care for a stroll,'' he said presently. "Have you heard of The Twelve Golden-Haired Bar-maids?'' I had+n't, but the fantastic name struck my
So, of course, we went.
8. CHAPTER VIII: THE TWELVE GOLDEN-HAIRED BAR-MAIDS.
NOW it was not without some boyish nervousness that I followed my newly made friend, for I confess that I have ever been a poor hand at talking to bar-maids. It is, I am convinced, an art apart, an art like any other, — needing first the natural gift, then the long patient training, and finally the courageous practice. Alas for me, I possessed neither gift, training, nor courage. Courage I lacked most of all. It was in vain that I said to myself that it was like swimming, — all that was needed was "confidence.'' That was the very thing I could+n't muster. No doubt I am handicapped by a certain respectful homage which I always feel involuntarily to any one in the shape of woman, for anything savouring of respect is the last thing to win the bar-maid heart divine. The man to win her is he who calls loudly for his drink, without
Now, I+'ve never been able to do this in the convincing grand manner of the British male; and whatever I have said, the effect has been the same. I+'ve talked about theatres and music-halls, of events of the day, I+'ve even — Heaven help me — talked of racing and football, but I might as well have talked of Herbert Spencer. I suppose I did+n't talk about them in the right way. I+'m sure it must be my fault somewhere, for certainly they seem easy enough to please, poor things! However, my failure remains, and sometimes even I find it extremely hard to attract their attention in the ordinary way of business. I don't mind my neighbour being preferred before me, but I do object to his being served before me!
So, I say, I could+n't but tremble at the vision of those golden-haired goddesses, standing with immobile faces by their awful altars.
Strange, in truth, are the ministrations to which Beauty is called. Out of the high heaven is she summoned, from mystic communion with her own perfection, from majestic labours in the Sistine Chapel of the Stars, — yea, she must put aside her gold-leaf and
As there were at least a score of "worshippers'' round each Circe, my nervousness became unimportant, and therefore passed. Thus, as my companion and I sat at one of the little tables, from which we might gaze upon the sea without and Aphrodite within, my eyes were able to fly like bees from one fair face to another. Finally, they settled upon a Circe less besieged of the hoarse and grunting mob. She was conspicuously less in height, her hair was rather bright red than golden, and her face had more meanings than the faces of her fellows.
"Why,'' in a flash it came to me, "it+'s Rosalind!'' and clean forgetting to be shy, or polite to my companion, I hastened across to her, to be greeted instantly in a manner so exclusively intimate that the little crowd about her presently spread itself among the other crowds, and we were left to talk alone.
"Well,'' I said, "you+'re a nice girl! Whatever are you doing here?''
"Yes, I+'m afraid you+'ll have but a strange opinion of me,'' she said; "but I love all experience, — it's such fun, — and when I heard that there was a sudden vacancy for a golden-haired beauty in this place, I could+n't resist applying, and to my surprise they took me — and here I am! Of course I shall only stay till Orlando appears — which,'' she added mournfully — "he has+n't done yet.''
Her hours were long and late, but she had two half-days free in the week, and for these of course I engaged myself.
Meanwhile I spent as much time as I decently could at her side; but it was impossible to monopolise her, and the rest of my time there was no difficulty in filling up, you may be sure, in so gay a place.
Two or three nights after this, a little before dinner-time, while I was standing talking to her, she suddenly went very white, and in a fluttering voice gasped, "Look yonder!'' I looked. A rather slight dark-haired young man was entering the bar, with a very stylish pretty woman at his side. As they sat down and claimed the waiter, some
"Oh!'' I said; "but that+'s no reason for your fainting. Pull yourself together. Take a drop of brandy.'' But woman will never take the most obvious restorative, and Rosalind presently recovered without the brandy. She looked covertly at her husband, with tragic eyes.
"He+'s much younger than I imagined him,'' I said, — reserving for myself the satisfaction which this discovery had for me.
"Oh, yes, he+'s really quite a boy,'' said Rosalind; adding under her breath, "Dear fellow! how I love him!''
"And hate him too!'' she superadded, as she observed his evident satisfaction with his present lot. Indeed the experiment appeared to be working most successfully with him; nor, looking at his companion, could I wonder. She was a sprightly young woman, very smart and merry and decorously voluptuous, and of that fascinating prettiness that wins the hearts of boys and storms the footlights. One of her characteristics soothed the heart of Rosalind. She had splendid red hair, almost as good as her own.
"He+'s been faithful to my hair, at all events,'' she said, trying to be nonchalant.
"And the eyes are not unlike,'' I added, meaning well.
"I+'m sorry you think so,'' said Rosalind, evidently piqued.
"Well, never mind,'' I tried to make peace, "she has+n't your hands,'' — I knew that women cared more about their hands than their faces.
"How do you know?'' she retorted; "you cannot see through her gloves.''
"Would any gloves disguise your hands?'' I persisted. "They would shine through the mittens of an Esquimau.''
"Well, enough of that! See — I know it+'s wickedly mean of me — but could+n't you manage to sit somewhere near them and hear what they are saying? Of course you need+n't tell me anything it would be mean to hear, but only what — ''
"You would like to know.''
But this little plot died at its birth, for that very minute the threatened couple arose, and went out arm in arm, apparently as absurdly happy as two young people can be.
As they passed out, one of Rosalind's fellow bar-maids turned to her and said, —
"You know who that was?''
"Who?'' said Rosalind, startled.
"That pretty woman who went out with that young Johnny just now?''
"No; who is she?''
"Why, that+'s'' — and readers with heart-disease had better brace themselves up for a great shock — "that+'s SYLVIA JOY, the famous dancer!''
9. CHAPTER IX: SYLVIA JOY
SYLVIA JOY! And I had+n't so much as looked at her petticoat for weeks! But I would now. The violet eyes and the heavy chestnut hair rose up in moralising vision. Yes! God knows, they were safe in my heart, but petticoats were another matter. Sylvia Joy! Well, did you ever? Well, I+'m d — — d! Sylvia Joy!
I should have been merely superhuman had I been able to control the expression of surprise which convulsed my countenance at the sound of that most significant name.
"The name seems familiar to you,'' said Rosalind, a little surprised and a little eagerly; "do you know the lady?''
"Slightly,'' I prevaricated.
"How fortunate!'' exclaimed Rosalind; "you+'ll be all the better able to help me!''
"Yes,'' I said; "but since things have turned out so oddly, I may say that our relations are of so extremely delicate a nature that I shall have very carefully to think out what is best to be done. Meanwhile, do you mind lending me that ring for a few hours?''
It was a large oblong opal set round with small diamonds, — a ring of distinguished design you could hardly help noticing, especially on a man's hand, for which it was too conspicuously dainty. I slipped it on the little finger of my left hand, and, begging Rosalind to remain where she was meanwhile, and to take no steps without consulting me, I mysteriously, not to say officiously, departed.
I left the twelfth Golden-Haired Bar-maid not too late to stalk her husband and her under-study to their hotel, where they evidently proposed to dine. There was, therefore, nothing left for me but to dine also. So I dined; and when the courses of my dining were ended, I found myself in a mellow twilight at the Café du Ciel. And it was about the hour of the sirens' singing.
As I have a partiality for her songs, I transcribe this Hymn of the Daughters of Aphrodite, which you must try to imagine transfigured by her voice and the sunset. Queen Aphrodite's Daughters are we, She that was born Of the morn And the sea; White are our limbs As the foam on the wave, Wild are our hymns And our lovers are brave! Queen Aphrodite, Born of the sea, Beautiful dutiful daughters Are we! You who would follow, Fear not to come, For love is for love As dove is for dove; The harp of Apollo Shall lull you to rest, And your head find its home On this beautiful breast.
When I alighted once more upon the earth from the heaven of this song, who should I find seated within a table of me but the very couple I was at the moment so unexpectedly interested in? But they were far too absorbed in each other to notice me, and consequently I was able to hear all of importance that was said. I regret that I cannot gratify the reader with a report of their conversation, for the excuse I had for listening was one that is not transferable. A woman's happiness was at stake. No other consideration
Having, as the reader has long known, a warm personal interest in his attractive companion, and desiring, therefore, to think as well of her as possible, I was pleased to deduce, negatively, from their conversation, that Sylvia Joy knew nothing of Rosalind, and believed Orlando to be a free, that is, an unmarried man. From the point of view, therefore, of her code, there was no earthly reason why she should not fall in with Orlando's proposal that they should leave for Paris by the "Mayflower'' on the following morning. Orlando, I could hear, wished to make more extended arrangements,
"Wherever did you get that?'' he gasped, no little surprised and agitated.
"From your wife,'' I answered, rapidly moving away. "Be sure to be here at eleven.''
I slipped away into the crowd, and spent my hour and a half in persuading Rosalind that her husband was no doubt a little infatuated, but nevertheless the most faithful husband in the world. If she would only leave all to me, by this time to-morrow night, if not a good many hours before, he should be in her arms as safe as in the Bank. It did my heart good to see how happy this artistic adaptation of the truth made her; and I must say that she never had a wiser friend.
When eleven came, I was back in my seat at the Café du Ciel. Orlando too was excitedly punctual.
"Well, what is it?'' he hurried out, almost before he had sat down.
"What will you do me the honour of drinking?'' I asked calmly.
"Oh, drink be d — — d!'' he said; "what have you to tell me?''
"I+'m glad to hear you rap out such a good honest oath,'' I said; "but I should like a drink, for all that, and if I may say so, you would be none the worse for a brandy and soda, late as it is.''
When the drinks had come, I remarked to him quietly, but not without significance: "The meaning of this ring is that your wife is here, and very wretched. By an accident I have been privileged with her friendship; and I may say, to save time, that she has told me the whole story.
"What happily she has not been able to tell me, and what I need hardly say she will never know from me, I overheard, in the interests of your joint happiness, an hour or so ago.''
The man who is telling the story has a proverbial great advantage; but I hope the reader knows enough of me by this to believe that I am far from meanly availing myself of it in this narrative. I am well and gratefully aware that in this interview with Orlando my advantages were many and fortunate. For example, had he been bigger and older, or had he not been a gentleman, my task had been considerably more arduous, not to say dangerous.
But, as Rosalind had said, he was really quite a boy, and I confess I was a little ashamed for him, and a little piqued, that
"I love my wife all the same.''
"Of course you do,'' I answered, eagerly welcoming the significant announcement; "and if you+'ll allow me to say so, I think I understand more about the whole situation than either of you, bachelor though unfortunately I am. As a famous friend of mine is fond of saying, lookers-on see most of the game.''
Then I rapidly told him the history of my meeting with his wife, and depicted, in harrowing pigments of phrase, the distress of her mind.
"I love my wife all the same,'' he repeated, as I finished; "and,'' he added, "I love Sylvia too.''
"But not quite in the same way?'' I suggested.
"I love Sylvia very tenderly,'' he said.
"Yes, I know; I don't think you could do anything else. No man worth his salt could be anything but tender to a dainty little woman like that. But tenderness, gentleness, affection, even self-sacrifice, — these may be parts of love; but they are merely the crude untransformed ingredients of a love such as you feel for your wife, and such as I know she feels for you.''
"She still loves me, then,'' he said pitifully; "she has+n't fallen in love with you.''
"No fear,'' I answered; "no such luck for me. If she had, I+'m afraid I should hardly have been talking to you as I am at this moment. If a woman like Rosalind, as I call her, gave me her love, it would take more than a husband to rob me of it, I can tell you.''
"Yes,'' he repeated, "on my soul, I love her. I have never been false to her, in my heart; but — ''
"I know all about it,'' I said; "may I tell you how it all was, — diagnose the situation?''
"Do,'' he replied; "it is a relief to hear you talk.''
"Well,'' I said, "may I ask one rather intimate question? Did you ever before you were married sow what are known as wild oats?''
"Never,'' he answered indignantly, flashing for a moment.
"Well, you should have done,'' I said; "that+'s just the whole trouble. Wild oats will get sown some time, and one of the arts of life is to sow them at the right time, — the younger the better. Think candidly before you answer me.''
"I believe you are right,'' he replied, after a long pause.
"You are a believer in theories,'' I continued, "and so am I; but you can take my word that on these matters not all, but some, of the old theories are best. One of them is that the man who does not sow his wild oats before marriage will sow them afterwards, with a whirlwind for the reaping.''
Orlando looked up at me, haggard with confession.
"You know the old story of the ring given to Venus? Well, it is the ruin of no few men to meet Venus for the first time on
"I+'m not quite a beast,'' he retorted. "After all, it was an experiment we both agreed to try.''
"Certainly,'' I answered, "and I hope it may have the result of persuading you of the unwisdom of experimenting with happiness. You have the realities of happiness; why should you trouble about its theories? They are for unhappy people, like me, who must learn to distil by learned patience the aurum potabile from the husks of life, the peace which happier mortals find lying like manna each morn upon the meadows.''
"Well,'' I continued, "enough of the abstract; let us have another drink, and tell me what you propose to do.''
"Poor Sylvia!'' sighed Orlando.
"Shall I tell you about Sylvia?'' I said. "On second thoughts, I won't. It would hardly be fair play; but this, I may say, relying on your honour, that if you were to come to my hotel, I could show you indisputable proof that I know at least as much about Sylvia Joy as even such a privileged intimate as yourself.''
"It is strange, then, that she never recognised you just now,'' he retorted, with forlorn alertness.
"Of course she did+n't. How young you
"And I+'ve bought our passages for tomorrow. I cannot let her go without some sort of good-bye.''
"Give the tickets to me. I can make use of them. How much are they? Let+'s see.''
The calculation made and the money passed across, I said abruptly, —
"Now supposing we go and see your wife.''
"You have saved my life,'' he said hoarsely, pressing my hand as we rose.
"I don't know about that,'' I said inwardly; "but I do hope I have saved your wife.''
As I thought of that, a fear occurred to me.
"Look here,'' I said, as we strolled towards the Twelve Golden-Haired, "I hope you have no silly notions about confession, about telling the literal truth and so on. Because I want you to promise me that you will lie stoutly to your wife about Sylvia Joy. You must swear the whole thing has been platonic. It+'s the only chance for your happiness. Your wife, no doubt, will
"Yes, I will lie,'' said Orlando.
"Well, there she is,'' I said; "and God bless you both.''
10. CHAPTER X: IN WHICH ONCE MORE I BECOME OCCUPIED IN MY OWN AFFAIRS
DURING a pause in my matrimonial lecture, Orlando had written a little farewell note to Sylvia, — a note which, of course, I did+n't read, but which it is easy to imagine "wild with all regret.'' This I undertook to have delivered to her the same night, and promised to call upon her on the morrow, further to illuminate the situation, and to offer her every consolation in my power. To conclude the history of Orlando and his Rosalind, I may say that I saw them off from Yellowsands by the early morning coach. There was a soft brightness in their faces, as though rain had fallen in the night; but it was the warm sweet rain of joy that brings the flowers, and is but sister to the sun. They are, at the time of my writing, quite
"That lie,'' Orlando once said to me long after, "was the truest thing I ever said in my life,'' — a remark which may not give the reader a very exalted idea of his general veracity.
As the coach left long before pretty young actresses even dreamed of getting up, I had to control my impatient desire to call on Mademoiselle Sylvia Joy till it was fully noon. And even then she was not to be seen. I tried again in the afternoon with better success.
Rain had been falling in the night with her too, I surmised, but it had failed to dim her gay eyes, and had left her complexion unimpaired. Of course her little affair with Orlando had never been very serious on her side. She genuinely liked him. "He was a nice kind boy,'' was the height of her passionate expression, and she was, naturally, a little disappointed at having an affectionate companion thus unexpectedly whisked off into space. Her only approach to anger was on the subject of his deceiving her about
There is no need to follow, step by step, the progression by which Sylvia Joy and I, though such new acquaintances, became in the course of a day or two even more intimate than many old friends. We took to each other instinctively, even on our first rather difficult interview, and very gently and imperceptibly I bid for the vacant place in her heart.
That night we dined together.
The next day we lunched and dined together.
The next day we breakfasted, lunched, and dined together.
And on the next I determined to venture on the confession which, as you may imagine, it had needed no little artistic control not to make on our first meeting.
She looked particularly charming this evening, in a black silk gown, exceedingly
It was sheer delight to sit opposite her at dinner, and quietly watch her without a word. Shall I confess that I had an exceedingly boyish vanity in thus being granted her friendship? It is almost too boyish to confess at my time of life. It was simply in the fact that she was an actress, — a real, live, famous actress, whose photographs made shop windows beautiful, — come right out of my boy's fairyland of the theatre, actually to sit eating and drinking, quite in a real way, at my side. This, no doubt, will seem pathetically naïve to most modern young men, who in this respect begin where I leave off. An actress! Great heavens! an actress is the first step to a knowledge of life. Besides, actresses off the stage are either brainless or soulful, and the choice of evils is a delicate one. Well, I have never set up for a man of the world, though sometimes when I have heard the Lovelaces of the day hinting mysteriously at
"You are very beautiful to-night,'' I said, in one of the meditative pauses between the courses.
"Thank you, kind sir,'' she said, making a mock courtesy; "but the compliment is made a little anxious for me by your evident implication that I did+n't look so beautiful this morning. You laid such a marked emphasis on to-night.''
"Nay,'' I returned, " `for day and night are both alike to thee.' I think you would even be beautiful — well, I cannot imagine any moment or station of life you would not beautify.''
"I must get you to write that down, and then I+'ll have it framed. It would cheer me of a morning when I curl my hair,'' laughed Sylvia.
"But you are beautiful,'' I continued, becoming quite impassioned.
"Yes, and as good as I+'m beautiful.''
And she was too, though perhaps the beauty occasionally predominated.
When the serious business of dining was dispatched, and we were trifling with our coffee and liqueurs, my eyes, which of course had seldom left her during the whole meal, once more enfolded her little ivory and black silk body with an embrace as real as though they had been straining passionate arms; and as I thus nursed her in my eyes, I smiled involuntarily at a thought which not unnaturally occurred to me.
"What is that sly smile about?'' she asked. Now I had smiled to think that underneath that stately silk, around that tight little waist, was a dainty waistband bearing the legend "Sylvia Joy,'' No. 4, perhaps, or 5, but not No. 6; and a whole wonderful underworld of lace and linen and silk stockings, the counterpart of which wonders, my clairvoyant fancy laughed to think, were at the moment — so entirely unsuspected of their original owner — my delicious possessions.
Everything a woman wears or touches
Now that I knew Sylvia Joy, I realised how absolutely true my instinct had been, when on that far afternoon in that Surrey garden I had said, "With such a petticoat and such a name, Sylvia herself cannot be otherwise than charming.''
Indeed, now I could see that the petticoat was nothing short of a portrait of her, and that any one learned in the physiognomy of clothes would have been able to pick Sylvia out of a thousand by that spirited, spoilt, and petted garment.
"What is that sly smile about?'' she repeated presently.
"I only chanced to think of an absurd little fairy story I read the other day,'' I said, "which is quite irrelevant at the moment. You know the idle way things come and go through one's head.''
"I don't believe you,'' she replied, "but tell me the story. I love fairy tales.''
"Certainly,'' I said, for I was+n't likely to get abetter opportunity. "There's nothing much in it; it's merely a variation of Cinderella's slipper. Well, once upon a time there was an eccentric young prince who+'d had his fling in his day, but had arrived at the lonely age of thirty without having met a woman whom he could love enough to make his wife. He was a rather fanciful young prince, accustomed to follow his whims; and one day, being more than usually bored with existence, he took it into his head to ramble incognito through his kingdom in search of his ideal wife, — `The Golden Girl,' as he called her. He had hardly set out when in a country lane he came across a peasant girl hanging out clothes to dry, and he fell to talk with her while she went on with her charming occupation. Presently he observed, pegged on the line, strangely incongruous among the other homespun garments, a wonderful petticoat, so exquisite in material and design that it aroused his curiosity. At the same moment he noticed a pair of stockings,
"Rather rash of him,'' interrupted Sylvia, "for it is usually old ladies who have the prettiest petticoats. They can best afford them — ''
"He questioned the girl as to their owner,'' I continued, "and after vainly pretending that they were her own, she confessed that they had belonged to a young and beautiful lady who had once lodged there and left them behind. Then the prince gave her a purse of gold in exchange for the finery, and on the waistband of the petticoat he read a beautiful name, and he said, `This and no other shall be my wife, this unknown beautiful woman, and on our marriage night she shall wear this petticoat.' And then the prince went forth seeking — ''
"There's not much point in it,'' interrupted Sylvia.
"No,'' I said, "I+'m afraid I+'ve stupidly missed the point.''
"Why, what was it?''
"The name upon the petticoat!''
"Why, what name was it?'' she asked, somewhat mystified.
"The inscription upon the petticoat was, to be quite accurate, `Sylvia Joy, No. 6.' ''
"Whatever are you talking about?'' she said with quite a stormy blush. "I+'m afraid you+'ve had more than your share of the champagne.''
As I finished, I slipped out of my pocket a dainty little parcel softly folded in white tissue paper. Very softly I placed it on the table. It contained one of the precious stockings; and half opening it, I revealed to Sylvia's astonished eyes the cunning little frieze of Bacchus and Ariadne, followed by a troop of Satyrs and Bacchantes, which the artist had designed to encircle one of the white columns of that little marble temple which sat before me.
"You know,'' I said, "how in fairy tales,
"Why, wherever did you come across them? And what a mad creature you must be! and what an odd thing that you should really meet me, after all!'' exclaimed Sylvia, all in a breath. "Of course, I remember,'' she said frankly, and with a shade of sadness passing over her face. "I was spending a holiday with Jack Wentworth, — why, it must be nearly two years ago. Poor Jack! he was killed in the Soudan,'' and poor Jack could have wished no prettier
"I+'m so sorry,'' I said. "Of course I did+n't know. Let+'s come for a little stroll. There seems to be a lovely moon.''
"Of course you did+n't, she said, patting my cheek with a kind little hand. "Yes, do let us go for a stroll.''
11. CHAPTER XI: "THE HOUR FOR WHICH THE YEARS DID SIGH''
THIS unexpected awakening of an old tenderness naturally prevented my speaking any more of my mind to Sylvia that evening. No doubt the reader may be a little astonished to hear that I had decided to offer her marriage, — not taking my serious view of a fanciful vow. Doubtless Sylvia was not entirely suitable to me, and to marry her was to be faithless to that vision of the highest, that wonderful unknown woman of the apocalyptic moorland, whose face Sylvia had not even momentarily banished from my dreams, and whom, with an unaccountable certitude, I still believed to be the woman God had destined for me; but, all things considered, Sylvia was surely as pretty an
So, after dinner the following evening, I suggested that we should for once take a little walk up along the river-side; and when we were quiet in the moonlight, dappling the lovers' path we were treading, and making sharp contrasts of ink and silver down in the river-bed, — I spoke.
"Sylvia,'' I said, plagiarising a dream which will be found in Chapter IV., — "Sylvia, I have sought you through the world and found you at last; and with your gracious permission, having found you, I mean to stick to you.''
"What do you mean, silly boy?'' she said, as an irregularity in the road threw her soft weight the more fondly upon my arm.
"I mean, dear, that I want you to be my wife.''
"Your wife? Not for worlds! — no, forgive me, I did+n't mean that. You+'re an awful dear boy, and I like you very much, and I think you+'re rather fond of me; but —
"You mean,'' I said, "that you are fortunate in living in a society where, as in heaven, there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage, where in fact nobody minds whether you+'re married or not, and where morals are very properly regarded as a personal and private matter — ''
"Yes, that's what I mean,'' said Sylvia; "the people I care about — dear good people — will think no more of me for having a wedding-ring, and no less for my being without; and why should one put a yoke round one's neck when nobody expects it? A wedding-ring is like a top-hat, — you only wear it when you must — But it's very sweet of you, all the same, and you can kiss me if you like. Here's a nice sentimental patch of moonlight.''
I really felt very dejected at this not of course entirely unexpected rejection, — if one might use the word for a situation on which had just been set the seal of so unmistakable a kiss; but the vision in my heart seemed to
"At all events, we can go on being chums, can't we?'' I said.
For answer Sylvia hummed the first verse of that famous song writ by Kit Marlowe.
"Yes!'' she said presently. "I will sing for you, dance for you, and — perhaps — flirt with you; but marry you — no! it+'s best not, for both of us.''
"Well, then,'' I said, "dance for me! You owe me some amends for an aching heart.'' As I said this, the path suddenly broadened into a little circular glade into which the moonlight poured in a silver flood. In the centre of the space was a boulder some three or four feet high, and with a flat slab-like surface of some six feet or so.
"I declare I will,'' said Sylvia, giving me an impulsive kiss, and springing on to the stone; "why, here is a ready-made stage.''
"And there,'' I said, "are the nightingale and the nightjar for orchestra.''
"And there is the moon,'' said she, "for lime-light man.''
"Yes,'' I said; "and here is a handful of glow-worms for the footlights.''
Then lifting up her heavy silk skirt about her, and revealing a paradise of chiffons, Sylvia swayed for a moment with her face full in the moon, and then slowly glided into the movements of a mystical dance.
It was thus the fountains were dancing to the moon in Arabia; it was thus the Nixies shook their white limbs on the haunted banks of the Rhine; it was thus the fairy women flashed their alabaster feet on the fairy hills of Connemara; it was thus the Houris were dancing for Mahomet on the palace floors of Paradise.
"It was over such dancing,'' I said, "that John the Baptist lost his head.''
"Give me a kiss,'' she said, nestling exhausted in my arms. "I always want some one to kiss when I have danced with my soul as well as my body.''
"I think we always do,'' I said, "when we+'ve done anything that seems wonderful, that gives us the thrill of really doing — ''
"And a poor excuse is better than none, is+n't it, dear?'' said Sylvia, her face full in the cataract of the moonlight.
As a conclusion for this chapter I will copy out a little song which I extemporised for Sylvia on our way home to Yellowsands — too artlessly happy, it will be observed, to rhyme correctly: —
Like a star in water;
Sylvia 's dancing to a tune
Fairy folk have taught her.
In her fairy theatre;
Oh, but Sylvia is sweet!
Tell me who is sweeter!
12. CHAPTER XII: AT THE CAFÉ DE LA PAIX
As love-making in which we have no share is apt to be either tantalising or monotonous, I propose to skip the next fortnight and introduce myself to the reader at a moment when I am once more alone. It is about six o'clock on a summer afternoon, I am in Paris, and seated at one of the little marble tables of the Café de la Paix, dreamily watching the glittering tide of gay folk passing by, — "All happy people on their way To make a golden end of day.'' Meditatively I smoke a cigarette and sip a pale greenish liquor smelling strongly of aniseed, which is+n't half so interesting as a commonplace whiskey and soda, but which, I am told, has the recommendation of being ten times as wicked. I sip it with a delicious thrill of degeneration, as though I were Eve tasting the apple for the first time, — for "such a
It will readily be surmised from this exordium that — incredible as it may seem in a man of thirty — this was my first visit to Paris. You may remember that I had bought Orlando's tickets, and it had occurred to Sylvia and me to use them. Sylvia was due in London to fulfil a dancing engagement within a fortnight after our arrival; so after a tender good-bye, which there was no earthly necessity to make final, I had remained behind for the purposes of study. Though, logically, my pilgrimage had ended with the unexpected discovery of Sylvia Joy, yet there were two famous feminine types of which, seeing that I was in Paris, I thought I might as well make brief studies, before I returned to London and finally resumed the bachelorhood from which I had started. These were the
A city! How much more it was than that! Was it not the most portentous symbol of modern history? Think what the word "Paris'' means to the emancipated intellect, to the political government, to the humanised morals, of the world; not to speak of the romance of its literature, the tradition of its manners, and the immortal fame of its women. France is the brain of the world, as England is its heart, and Russia its fist. Strange is the power, strange are the freaks and revenges, of association, particularly perhaps of literary association. Here pompous official representatives may demur; but who can doubt that it is on its literature that a country must rely for its permanent representation? The countries that are forgotten, or are of no importance in the councils of the world, are countries without literature. Greece and Rome are more real in print than ever they were in marble. Though, as we know, prophets are not without honour save in their own countries and among their own kindred,
Similarly, everything, however trifling, that has been written about, so long as it has been written about sufficiently well, becomes relatively enduring and representative of the country in which it is found. To an American, for example, the significance of a skylark is that Shelley sang it to skies where even it could never have mounted; and any one who has heard the nightingale must, if he be open-minded, confess its tremendous debt to Keats: a tenth part genuine song, the rest moon, stars, silence, and John Keats, — such is the nightingale. The real truth about a country will never be known till every representative type and condition in it have found their inspired literary mouthpiece. Meanwhile one country takes its opinion of another from the aperççus of a few brilliant but often irresponsible or prejudiced writers, — and really it is rather in what those writers leave out
A quaint example of association occurs to me from the experience of a friend of mine, "rich enough to lend to the poor.'' Having met an American friend newly landed at Liverpool, and a hurried quarter of an hour being all that was available for lunch, "Come let us have a pork-pie and a bottle of Bass'' he had suggested.
"Pork-pies!'' said the American, with a delighted sense of discovering the country, — "why, you read about them in Dickens!'' Who shall say but that this instinctive association was an involuntary severe, but not inapplicable, criticism? A nightingale suggests Keats; a pork-pie, Dickens.
Similarly with absinthe, grisettes, the Latin Quarter, and so on. Why, you read about them in Murger, in Musset, in Balzac, and in Flaubert; and the fact of your having read about them is, I may add, their chief importance.
So rambled my after-dinner reflections as I sat that evening smoking and sipping, sipping and smoking, at the Café de la Paix.
Presently in my dream I became aware of English voices near me, one of which seemed familiar, and which I could+n't help overhearing. The voice of the husband said, — you can never mistake the voice of the husband, — 'T was the voice of the husband, I heard him complain, — the voice of the husband said: "Dora, I forbid you! I will not allow my wife to be seen again in the Latin Quarter. I permitted you to go once, as a concession, to the Café d'Harcourt; but once is enough. You will please respect my wishes!''
"But,'' pleaded the dear little woman, whom I had an immediate impulse, Perseus-like, to snatch from the jaws of her monster, and turning to the other lady of the party of four, — "but Mrs. — — has never been, and she cannot well go without a chaperone. Surely it cannot matter for once. It is+n't as if I were there constantly.''
"No!'' said the husband, with the absurd pomposity of his tribe. "I+'m very sorry. Mrs. — — will, of course, act as she pleases; but I cannot allow you to do it, Dora.''
At last the little wife showed some spirit.
"Don't talk to me like that, Will,'' she said. "I shall go if I please. Surely I am my own property.''
"Not at all!'' at once flashed out the husband, wounded in that most vital part of him, his sense of property. "There you mistake. You are my property, my chattel; you promised obedience to me; I bought you, and you do my bidding!''
"Great heavens!'' I ejaculated, and, springing up, found myself face to face with a well-known painter whom you would have thought the most Bohemian fellow in London. And Bohemian he is; but Bohemians are seldom Bohemians for any one save themselves. They are terrible sticklers for convention and even etiquette in other people.
We recognised each other with a laugh, and presently were at it, hammer and tongs. I may say that we were all fairly intimate friends, and thus had the advantage of entire liberty of speech. I looked daggers at the husband; he looked daggers at me, and occasionally looking at his wife, gave her a
I told him so.
"You are,'' I said, — "and you will forgive my directness of expression, — you are the Primeval Male! You are the direct descendant of those Romans who carried off the Sabine women. Nay! you have a much longer genealogy. You come of those hairy anthropoid males who hunted their mates through the tangle of primeval forests, and who finally obtained their consent — shall we say? — by clubbing them on the head with a stone axe. You talk a great deal of nonsense about the New Woman, but you, Sir, are The Old Male; and,'' I continued, "I have only to obtain your wife's
Curiously enough, "The Old Male,'' as he is now affectionately called, became from this moment quite a bosom friend. Nothing would satisfy us but that we should all lodge at the same pension together, and there many a day we fought our battles over again. But that poor little wife never, to my knowledge, went to the Café d'Harcourt again.
13. CHAPTER XIII: THE INNOCENCE OF PARIS
THIS meeting with William and Dora was fortunate from the point of view of my studies; for that very night, as I dined with them en pension, I found that providence, with his usual foresight, had placed me next to a very charming American girl of the type that I was particularly wishful to study. She seemed equally wishful to be studied, and we got on amazingly from the first moment of our acquaintance. By the middle of dinner we were pressing each other's feet under the table, and when coffee and cigarettes had come, we were affianced lovers. "Why should I blush to own I love?'' was evidently my quaint little companion's motto; and indeed she did+n't blush to own it to the whole table, and publicly to announce that I was the dearest boy, and absolutely the most lovable man she had
Nothing is more absurd and unjust than those crude labels of national character which label one country virtuous and another vicious, one musical and another literary. Thus France has an unjust reputation for vice, and England an equally unjust reputation for virtue.
I had always, I confess, been brought up to think of Paris as a sort of Sodom and Gomorrah in one. Good Americans might go to Paris, according to the American theory of a future state; but, certainly I had thought, no good Englishman ever went there — except, maybe, on behalf of the Vigilance Society. Well, it may sound an odd thing to say, but what impressed me most of all was the absolute innocence of the place.
I mean this quite seriously. For surely one important condition of innocence is unconsciousness of doing wrong. The poor despised Parisian may be a very wicked and depraved person, but certainly he goes about with an absolute unconsciousness of it upon his gay and kindly countenance.
"Seeing the world'' usually means seeing everything in it that most decent people won't look at; but when you come to look at these terrible things and places, what do you find? Why, absolute disappointment!
Have you ever read that most amusing book, "Baedeker on Paris''? I know nothing more delightful than the notes to the Montmartre and Latin Quarters. The places to which you, as a smug Briton, may or may not take a lady! The scale of wickedness allowed to the waxwork British lady is most charmingly graduated. I had read that the café where we were sitting was one of the most terrible places in Paris, — the Café d'Harcourt, where the students of the Latin Quarter take their nice little domestic mistresses to supper. But Baedeker was dreadfully Pecksniffian about these poor
I looked around me. Where were those terrible things I had read of? Where was this hell which I had reasonably expected would gape leagues of sulphur and blue flame beneath the little marble table? I mentally resolved to bring an action against Baedeker for false information. For what did I see? Simply pairs and groups of young men and women chattering amiably in front of their "bocks'' or their "Américains.'' Here and there a student would have his arm round a waist every one else envied him. One student was prettily trying a pair of new gloves upon his little woman's hand. Here and there blithe songs would spring up, from sheer gladness of
On our way home Semiramis was so sweet to me, in her innocent, artless frankness, that I went to bed with an intoxicating feeling that I must be irresistible indeed, to have so completely conquered so true a heart in so few hours. I was the more flattered because I am not a vain man, and am not, like some, accustomed to take hearts as the Israelites took Jericho with the blast of one's own trumpet.
But, alas! my dream of universal irresistibility was but short-lived, for next afternoon, as William and I sat out at some café together, I found myself the object of chaff.
"Well,'' said William, "how goes the love-affair?''
I flushed somewhat indignantly at his manner with sanctities.
"I see!'' he said, "I see! You are already corded and labelled, and will be
shipped over by the next mail, — `To Miss Semiramis Wilcox, 1001 99th St., Philadelphia, U. S. A. Man with care.' Well, I did think you'd got an eye in your head. Look here, don't be a fool! I suppose she said you were the first and last. The last you certainly were. There are limits even to the speed of American girls; but the first, my boy! You are more like the twelfth, to my ocular knowledge. Here comes Dubois the poet. He can tell you something about Miss Semiramis. Eh! Dubois, you know Miss Semiramis Wilcox, don't you?''
The Frenchman smiled and shrugged.
"Un peu,'' he said.
"Don't be an ass and get angry,'' William continued; "it+'s all for your own good.''
"The little Semiramis has been seducing my susceptible friend here. Like many of us, he has been captivated by her naturalness, her naïveté, her clear good eyes, — that look of nature that is always art! May I relate the idyl of your tragic passion, dear Dubois, as an object lesson?''
The Frenchman bowed, and signed William to proceed.
"You dined with us one evening, and you thus met for the first time. You sat together at table. What happened with the fish?''
"She swore I was the most beautiful man she had ever seen, — and I am not beautiful, as you perceive.''
If not beautiful, the poet was certainly true.
"What happened at the entrée?''
"Oh, long before that we were pressing our feet under the table.''
"And the coffee — ''
"Mon Dieu! we were Tristram and Yseult, we were all the great lovers in the Pantheon of love.''
"And what then?''
"Oh, we went to the Café d'Harcourt — mon ami.''
"Did she wear a veil?'' I asked.
"Oui, certainement!''
"And did you say, `Why do you wear a veil, — setting a black cloud before the eyes and gates of heaven'?''
"The very words,'' said the Frenchman.
"And did she say, `Yes, but the veil can be raised?' ''
"She did, mon pauvre ami,'' said the poet.
"And did you raise it?''
"I did,'' said the poet.
"And so did I,'' I answered. And as I spoke, there was a crash of white marble in my soul, and lo! Love had fallen from his pedestal and been broken into a thousand pieces, — a heavy, dead thing he lay upon the threshold of my heart.
We had appointed a secret meeting in the salon of the pension that afternoon. I was not there! (Nor, as I afterwards learnt, was Semiramis.) When we did meet, I was brutally cold. I evaded all her moves; but when at last I decided to give her a hearing, I confess it needed all my cynicism to resist her air of innocence, of pathetic devotion.
If I could+n't love her, she said, might she go on loving me? Might she write to me sometimes? She would be content if now and again I would send her a little word. Perhaps in time I would grow to believe in her love, etc.
The heart-broken abandonment with which she said this was a sore trial to me; but
"Nonsense,'' said William, "if she really cared, would+n't she have been up to bid you good-bye?''
The words were hardly gone from his lips when there came a little knock at the door. It was Semiramis; she had come to say good-bye. Was it in nature not to be touched? "Good-bye,'' she said, as we stood a moment alone in the hall. "I shall always think of you; you shall not be to me as a ship that has passed in the night, though to me you have behaved very like an iceberg.''
We parted in tears and kisses, and I lived for some weeks with that sense of having been a Nero, till two months after I received a
And so I ceased to repine for the wound I had made in the heart of Semiramis Wilcox.
Of another whom I met and loved in that brief month in Paris, I cherish tenderer memories. Prim little Pauline Deschapelles! How clearly I can still see the respectable brass plate on the door of your little flat — "Mademoiselle Deschapelles — Modes et Robes;'' and indeed the "modes et robes'' were true enough. For you were in truth a very hard-working little dressmaker, and I well remember how impressed I was to sit beside you, as you plied your needle on some gown that must be finished by the evening, and meditate on the quaint contrast between your almost Puritanic industry and your innocent love of pleasure. I don't think I ever met a more conscientious little woman than little Pauline Deschapelles.
There was but one drawback to our intercourse. She did+n't know a word of English, and I could+n't speak a word of French. So we had to make shift to love without either language. But sometimes Pauline would
It was French! I know. Among the bric-a-brac of my heart I still cherish some of those little slips of paper with which we made international love — question and answer.
"Vous allez m'oublier, et ne plus penser a moi — ni me voir. Les hommes — égoïstes — menteurs, pas dire la vérité . . .'' so ran the questions, considerably devoid of auxiliary verbs and such details of construction.
"Je serais jamais t'oublier,'' ran the frightful answers!
Dear Pauline! Shall I ever see her again? She was but twenty-six. She may still live.
14. CHAPTER XIV: END OF BOOK THREE
SO ended my pilgrimage. I had wandered far, had loved many, but I came back to London without the Golden Girl. I had begun my pilgrimage with a vision, and it was with a vision that I ended it. From all my goings to and fro upon the earth, I had brought back only the image of a woman's face, — the face of that strange woman of the moorland, still haunting my dreams of the night and the day.
It was autumn in my old garden, damp and forsaken, and the mulberry-tree was hung with little yellow shields. My books looked weary of awaiting me, and they and the whole lonely house begged me to take them where sometimes they might be handled by human fingers, mellowed by lamplight, cheered by friendly laughter.
The very chairs begged mutely to be sat upon, the chill white beds to be slept in. Yes,
So I took heed of their dumb appeal.
"I know,'' I answered them tenderly, — "I too, with you, have looked on better days, I too have been where bells have knoll'd to church, I too have sat at many a good man's feast, — yes! I miss human society, even as you, my books, my bedsteads, and my side-boards, — so let it be. It is plain our little Margaret is not coming back, our little Margaret, dear haunted rooms, will never come back; no longer shall her little silken figure flit up and down your quiet staircases, her hands filled with flowers, and her heart humming with little songs. Yes, let us go, it is very lonely; we shall die if we stay here all so lonely together; it is time, let us go.''
So thereon I wrote to a furniture-remover, and went out to walk round the mossy old garden for the last time, and say good-bye to the great mulberry, under whose Dodonaesque shade we had sat half frightened on starry nights, to the apple-trees whose blossom had seemed like fairy-land to Margaret and me, town-bred folk, to the apricots and the peaches
Well, well, good-bye, — tears are foolish things. They will not bring Margaret back. Good-bye, old garden, good-bye, I shall never see you again, — good-bye.
The Quest Of The Golden Girl | ||