CHAPTER XII

Brilliant sunlight lit up the grey spires and threatening pinnacles of

St. Malo. The back of the ancient fortress was hidden in white mist, but

the houses which rose above the battlements facing the harbour, and the

shops and little taverns near the quay, shone out in brightness, their

windows glittering under the sky where straying clouds, driven by the

wind, were melting, as they fled, into the all-encompassing blue ether.

Some pigeons and wild gulls circled above the earthworks, darting down,

at times, between the massive oak piles which, forced deep into the

sand, were covered with shining seaweed. The piercing note of the

military bugle, the crack of the cabmen's long whips, the clatter of

wooden shoes, and the Angelus bells then chiming, made up a volume of

sound which fell on Robert's ears with all the poignant strangeness of

an old song heard again after many years. A hundred memories flocked

into his mind at the first distant view of that familiar scene: memories

of his boyhood, its errors, its visions, its ambitions; his revolt

against nature as he understood it, and his desire to keep his heart

and soul and senses for the service of God, and the custody of his own

ideals. The very centre of his thoughts was here: here he had found the

first beginnings of his faith and love. How often he had walked alone

upon those ramparts with his New Testament and the _Morte d'Arthur_,

striving, in the fervour of romantic sentiment, to combine the standards

of knightly chivalry with the austere counsels of the gospel. The

divinity of Christ is the object of eternal contemplations, and at every

age--not of the world only, but of the individual--His Humanity, under

our fresh knowledge, demands a different study and a fuller

understanding. What changes, therefore, experience and suffering had

wrought in those early, untried speculations! The ideals remained, but

they made for swords, not peace; the sweetness of the dream had become

an inflexible law of conscience; the doctrine of a transcendent disdain

of this world, accepted in solitude by the obscure youth brought up in a

provincial town, had exacted its tax to the uttermost farthing from the

man who struggled now with the rich and powerful in a great city of the

great universe of affairs.... He thought of his dead godmother, Madame

Bertin, with her still, pale face and beautiful hands--a cold, blameless

woman who had treated him kindly and misunderstood him always. She had

been his father's friend; she had loved him, in her own stern, silent

fashion, for his father's sake. O, if she might only know now how much

he treasured every impression he had formed of her strong character!

She had given him all the tenderness she had, and all the motherly

influence his childhood had received. What might his life have been

without that early association with a noble if somewhat restricted

nature? But these and similar thoughts, while they went deep, passed

swiftly and did not return again till a very different moment, when they

came with agony and remained for ever.

He and Brigit were the last to leave the boat. They had been so happy

there that, by an instinct, they lingered behind the others, unwilling

to break the enchantment of their isolation from the land, and

half-dreading the unknown trials, or joys, which awaited, surely enough,

their first steps upon the soil. As they crossed the plank they looked

back, obeying a common impulse, at the deserted deck. Their chairs had

already been moved away, and the leeward corner, which had seemed so

much their own, was filled up by a small group of sailors who were

quarrelling about the division of _pourboires_. The drive to Miraflores

is long and winding, past several small villages, and approached finally

through a large tract of fields and orchards. But for the changing

crimson of the vines, it might have been August weather. Robins,

however, were singing, and the golden, brown, and russet butterflies of

autumn were floating languidly above the wayside hedges. The cawing of

rooks, the cooing of wood-pigeons, and the hum of insects invaded the

stillness of the lonely farms which, at long distances, gave picturesque

evidence of the human toil expended on the careful, rather melancholy

charm of that northern landscape. The Villa Miraflores--an elaborate

reproduction of the celebrated Villa Madama near Rome--stood on a wooded

hill rising out of a river, facing the rocky sea-coast. Built by the

Archduke Charles of Alberia for his morganatic wife, Henriette Duboc,

and pulled down since for the erection of a convent, it is never

mentioned in history, and it has been long forgotten by the few

inhabitants of the neighbourhood. But as the young couple entered the

lodge gates that day, and drove along the stately avenue, the beautiful

ill-fated structure rose before them as some castle in the air brought

down to earth by a magician's wand. Was this their home? They dared not

speak lest the vision should fade too soon. But Orange remembered it

all--this was no dream. There were the winding alleys leading to peeps

of water, land and sky; there was the path which he had followed, years

before, in search of his destiny. He drew a long breath, drinking in the

intoxicating strength of the fresh sea air wafted through pine-trees.

The atmosphere was charged with the very madness of youth and joy. Who

could have hoped for such a miracle as this? Had the whole course of

fate a like to show? Did it not seem a triumph over life and its

threatened deceptions? His own servant and Brigit's maid--whom they had

sent there some days before--were watching for them at the open door,

and the sight of those well-known faces gave him a still further

assurance of the scene's actuality. They crossed the hall without

noticing a small blue telegram on one of the malachite tables. They

walked together through every room, wondering at their treasures,

looking out of the windows, amazed, bewitched, gradually becoming used

to the fact of each other's company in such a solitude. What were the

woes and cryings of the outer world to them, lost in the impenetrable

silence of that retreat? A strange, double sensation of delight and

forgetfulness surged in them both. All knowledge of disturbing human

influences, of the fret, and discord, and inquietude of common existence

seemed trivial and even false. They looked with confidence into each

other's eyes, as though they were the sole inhabitants of some

brilliant, inaccessible star set far above the earth and its evil. They

were to remain there a month--one month at least--and after that would

trials, or labour, or sorrow deluge in bitterness the sweet, eternal

recollection of such days? A table had been set for them in one of the

small pavilions leading on to a balcony. The scent of flowers, mingling

with the sunlight, came in through the open windows, bringing the

garden's freshness to the faded lilacs on the carpet and tapestry.

Brigit went to the looking-glass, took off her hat, and apologised for

her "frightful appearance." She had thrown her veil and gloves on the

sofa, and the mere sight of them there gave a homeliness to that

forsaken room which, with its rococo decorations, painted ceilings, and

gilded doors, had something of the dead gaiety of an empty theatre.

Brigit made the tea, following the English custom taught her by Pensee.

Was the water boiling? Did he like sugar? How absurd not to know whether

one's husband took cream! The two had seen so little of each other in

domestic surroundings that this little commonplace intimacy had an

intoxicating charm.

"Are you happy?" she asked suddenly. "Do you know that you are all I

love in the world, and I am yours for ever and ever?"

"Yes, I know."

"And how much do you love me?"

"I shall never be able to say how much."

She took his hand, kissed it, pressed it to her heart, then asked him,

with some confusion, if he liked grapes better than pears.

"You are so beautiful," he replied.

"Not to-day," she answered; "to-day I am quite dull. But you are

handsome. I saw them looking at you on the boat. And I was proud--oh, so

proud to think that you were mine."

When they had finished their meal, she opened the piano and struck out

some chords, which echoed with a kind of wail through the long corridors

outside. The instrument was out of tune, and the strings seemed

muffled.

"Something is inside," she said.

They looked and discovered a few sheets of music which had slipped down

upon the wires. The sheets were dusty, stained with age, blurred by

damp, but one bore the name "Henriette" written in the corner in a

large, defiant hand. Joining the fragments, they found it was an

arrangement in manuscript of Poe's ballad, "Annabel Lee."

_"It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me._

_But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those that were older than we--

Of many far wiser than we--

And neither the angels in heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the sea,

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee."_

As Brigit read aloud these words of haunting pathos, the very trees,

rustling outside in the October wind, the far-away sound of the waves

beating upon the sand, seemed to Robert an ominous accompaniment--half a

warning, half a promise.

"I wonder," he said, "I wonder why that was there?"

He was uneasy, he could not say why. He was conscious of some influence

in the room. He felt, unaccountably, that they were not alone. Looking

round for some confirmation of this strange instinct his eyes fell on

the small blue envelope which had been placed on the mantelpiece by his

servant. It was addressed to himself. Fortunately, whilst he was opening

it, Brigit's attention was still riveted on the old song which she was

humming over at the piano. She spoke to him three times before he

answered.

"This telegram," he said, at last, trying to control his voice, "is from

Reckage. He is on his way now to see me."

"He is coming here? Why is he coming here?"

He put his arm round her, in a desperate, long embrace, kissing her

face, her eyes, her hair.

"What is it, Robert?" she said, clinging to him, for she heard something

like a sob under his breath. "You have had bad news. You must tell me."

"It may not be so serious ... perhaps it is badly worded ... but Pensee

is coming with him and he says quite plainly that there is some legal

difficulty about our marriage."

"Some legal difficulty!" she repeated. "What is the use of that now? I

can't leave you again. I'll die first. I can't bear it. O, Robert, I am

so tired of the law. There are no laws for the birds, or for the

flowers, or for the trees, or for any thing that is happy! Why should we

be made so miserable--just to please the magistrates and mayors!"

"But it is more than that--I am certain. Suppose it has something to do

with Parflete?"

"With Wrexham? How could that be? He is dead."

"He may not be dead."

She sank down to the floor on her knees.

"O my God! You know that he is living."

"Reckage doesn't say so. But would he and Pensee come unless they felt

we should need them?"

"I need no one except you. I don't want to see them. I don't want to

hear their news. They are killing you. You seem calm, but your face! you

have never looked like this before. O, darling, it can't be what you

think it is."

He lifted her from the ground and took her in his arms again, as though

he could defy the cruel, invisible fate which had decreed their

separation.

"In any case," he said, "I won't give you back--I cannot. It is too much

to ask. You are mine--you were never his--never. God is not unjust, and

this is unjust. As for other people and outside opinion, they have not

mattered to me at any time, and least of all can they matter now. I

won't give you back."

She held him closer, already feeling, in spite of his words, the first

agony of their inevitable farewell.

"You love me!" she said, "you must never leave me. Kiss me, and promise

me that you will never leave me."

Grief and horror had broken down every barrier of reserve between them.

The pent-up passion on his side, the intense unconscious tenderness on

hers seemed to meet and blend in the one consuming thought that they

belonged to each other--that, in the awful struggle between the force of

circumstances and the force of life--they might have to part.

"Why should we two matter in so large a world?" she cried. "Surely we

need not suffer so much just for the discipline of our own souls? I

cannot, cannot, cannot go away. I can't live without you. I can't die

without you. I am tired of being alone. I am tired of trying to forget

you. And I have tried so hard."

Her face, from which all colour and joy and animation had departed,

seemed like a June rose dead, in all its perfection, on the tree. One

may see many such in a garden after a sudden frost.

"You mustn't leave me. They all frighten me. I have no one but you," she

continued; "God will understand. He doesn't ask any one to be alone. He

wasn't even crucified--alone. He didn't enter into Paradise--alone. Ask

me to do anything, but don't ask me to go away--to go back to Wrexham.

You are much stronger than I am. If you thought you ought to cut out

your heart by little pieces, you would do it. But you must think of me.

They may have all my money--that is all they care for. But I must have

you."

Although she made the appeal, he had resolved, in silence, long before,

that, come what might, he would not give her back. The decision rose on

the instant, without hesitation, doubt, or misgiving--a deliberate

choice between two courses.

"You cannot return to Parflete," he said quietly. "Don't despair. Your

marriage with him may be annulled. That aspect of the question is

revolting, abominable; but we are both in such a false position now that

we owe it as much to other people as we do to ourselves to put

everything in a true light. You are so brave, Brigit----"

"I am tired of being brave."

Her slender arms tightened about his neck; he could feel, from the whole

abandonment of her attitude and the slight weight of her childish form,

how little fitted she was physically for the squalid ordeal of the

law-courts. If she could live at all through horrors of the kind, it

would have to be by a miracle. And has one the right to hope for

miracles where the question of happiness or unhappiness in human love is

the egoistic point at stake? But, right or no right, there was in them

both that supreme and fatal force of affection which, if it be unusual,

is at least usual enough to be at the root of most mortal tragedies.

"I am tired or being brave," she repeated. "I want to rest."

In the mirror opposite them he saw the reflection of the bright garden

outside. How calm and still it seemed! Had he wandered there, years

before, with a beating heart, in search of his destiny, merely to find

it at last after the humiliation of a public scandal? Had his idyllic,

almost mystical romance, with all its aspirations, grace, and

unspeakable strength, been given to him just to be called from the

house-tops and discussed in the streets? Was this the end of all sublime

ideals? Did every delicate, secret sentiment have to endure, soon or

late, the awful test of degradation and mockery? Did it have to

come--this terrible day of trial when the Love which moves the sun and

the other stars had to pass through the common sieve with dust, ashes,

and much that was infinitely viler? No, he told himself, no: ten

thousand times, no.

"Listen," he said, "listen. You need not go back to him: he knows--every

one knows now that we love each other. We can't live together because

our marriage is not a marriage. Your marriage with Parflete was not a

marriage, but it appears so to the world. Is it worth while to undeceive

the world? When I think of the cost of such a proof--I say it is too

great. But if you are courageous--and you will be for my sake--we can

defy every one--on one condition. We must be sure of _ourselves_. We

must know that we can depend on ourselves. We may have to separate now

for some months--perhaps a year--perhaps longer; we must school

ourselves to look upon each other as friends--friends, nothing more. It

will be very hard--for me, and it is on my account only that we must

separate now. But you will accept this, even if you cannot understand

it, because my life here depends on you. I don't say anything about my

happiness. I leave that out of the reckoning. But if I am to live--to

get through the day's work, I must love you and I must see you. Later

on, we may be able to meet quite often. This will be something to which

I can look forward. All this has been in my mind always--ever since I

first met you. I feel now as though every thought, every hour, every

event of the last five months has been a preparation for this moment. On

one point, however, I have never wavered. We can't desecrate our love by

some odious law-suit. If this life were all, it would be different. But

it isn't all. It seems as though we are not to be everything to each

other. Yet we can be more than everything--we can be one existence even

if we cannot be man and wife. We can help each other, we may see each

other--in time."

"In time?" she repeated. The certainty that she would have to be

deprived of his presence for the greater part, at all events, of her

life came over her with intolerable anguish, and with it she felt a

presentiment of the future struggle to be waged against the profound

instinct which drew them, with all the strength of a river's current,

toward each other.

"No, no," she said, "if you send me away, I shall die. They frighten me;

they tell me lies. My mother is dead; my father is dead. I have no one

but you. You can't forsake me. You love me too much. I know you won't

leave me."

Her innocence made the recklessness of her appeal the more compelling.

The beseeching, intense affection of her soul transfigured her face with

an almost unearthly sweetness. White, trembling, and despairing she laid

her head upon his shoulder, holding him with both arms, and swaying from

the agony of a grief without hope and without tears.

"You must try to understand," he said, "you must try. You are so

young--such a child, but you do know that we can't live together, in the

same house, if our marriage is not valid. That would compromise your

honour. How else can I say what I must say?"

"I shouldn't mind. God would understand."

"But the world wouldn't understand. And one has to avoid the appearance

of evil."

"They may say anything they please. I should be very proud if they

misjudged me for your sake."

Then a thought suddenly pierced her. What would they say about his

honour? Would the world misjudge him? Her weakness became strength under

coercion of this new possibility; her cheeks burned at the light thrown

upon her first selfish impulse.

"O, why have I said such things?" she said, tearing herself away from

him, "and I used to think once that women like me were too bad to live.

I used to wonder how they could be so evil. That was because I had

never been tempted. And now I see how hard it is--how hard to fight. It

is so easy to judge others when you are married to some one you love.

But I begin to understand now--I ought to hide myself in a cell and pray

till I die for women who are unhappy."

She pushed back the soft golden hair which had fallen a little over her

face, brightening its sorrow. Every feature quivered under the invisible

cutting hand of cruel experience. In those last sharp moments of

introspection she had gained such a knowledge of suffering that a fire

seemed to have consumed her vision of life, reducing it to a frightful

desert of eternal woe and unavailing sacrifice. Partially stunned, and

partially blinded by misery, she felt the awful helplessness and pain of

what is sometimes called the second birth, a crisis in all human

development when the first true realisation comes that the soul is a

stranger, a rebel, strong as eternity, weak as the flesh, free as the

illimitable air.

"O, I do understand!" she said. "I have been pretending to myself that

we could do impossible things. But I didn't want to speak my own

death-warrant. No, don't come to me. Don't say one word to me. I know so

well now what must be done. We mustn't hesitate--we mustn't think. It is

something to know where you can't trust yourself. I can't trust my heart

at this moment. So I must just depend on the things I have been

taught--things which I accepted, oh, so easily, when I applied them to

other people. You must go away. You must leave me here with the

servants. Esther is good and kind. Pensee chose her for me. You can

leave me with her."

She supported herself by holding, in a desperate grasp, the heavy silk

draperies by the window. The image of her, leaning against the faded

scarlet curtain, tall, fragile, yet resolute, with heaving breast,

closed eyes, and pallid lips, remained before him night and day for

months, and though, in the process of time, the vividness of the picture

waned, it lived always among his unforgettable impressions.

"You must leave me," she said again.

"Yes, but I will come in the morning."

"You will rest, you will try to sleep--for my sake."

This time she lifted her head, and, turning towards him, met once more

the glance which she felt must have called her to life had she been

dead.

"You will come in the morning?"

"Yes."

Once more she held out her arms. He kissed her mouth, and eyes, and hair

once more. Neither could speak, and both were tearless. Then she went

with him to the door, opened it, and seemed to lead the way through the

long corridor, down some stone steps to the garden. She knew that he

would not leave the spot while she was in sight. So she walked back to

the house alone and mounted the steps, turning at each one to wave her

hand. He saw her enter at last, and close the window. Then she fell and

was helpless till she was found by Esther. Robert watched till the

lights were lit, and for some hours after they were finally

extinguished. The stars came out, and the moon made the languid night

seem white with beauty. Orange walked toward the town and the small

cemetery where Madame Bertin was buried. Then he threw himself by the

lonely grave which held the one creature on earth whom he seemed to have

a right to love without scruple and without restraint. And there he

remained till daybreak, weeping.