CHAPTER XVI
Sylvia had become necessary to Launa, who had at first used her as a screen, for Mr. Wainbridge was there always, and with Sylvia present naturally there were no demonstrations.
Paul made his appearance only a degree less frequently—Launa did not mind being alone with him. He was waiting in London for her wedding day, for which no date was appointed, and Paul was not anxious to arrange this.
Sylvia talked to Paul when Mr. Wainbridge was in possession, and it occurred to Launa that Sylvia was very attractive—probably Paul thought this also.
In these days Launa felt that meditation and thought were unprofitable; she turned to Sylvia for something, not for protection, but for companionship. Sylvia was restless, Launa was restless also; the days were unsatisfactory if one hour were unoccupied. A day of inaction was Launa’s present idea of torment. Sylvia and she agreed on this subject.
One night Launa had come in very tired; too tired to eat. She drank some chocolate, and sat in the music-room.
Mr. Wainbridge appeared. It was late, and he had been at his uncle’s. The room was full of poppies; the heavy odour was oppressive, and the flowers were falling—slowly, slowly they tumbled down every few minutes.
“They are the ghosts of the past,” said Launa at last, as one or two flowers fell simultaneously, and yet as it were with reluctance. “Do you hear the slow sound they make as they fall? I am very tired.”
“Your tea-gown is like moonlight, and you look divine.”
“And unearthly? I would rather be human.”
“You are lovely.”
“Tell me something new,” she replied, with a laugh of confidence, and a look—“something that I do not already know.”
“What have you been doing to-day?” he asked, feeling the commonplace safe.
“I went with Sylvia to see a woman who is dying—and yet it is not certain she will die—to die is peace.”
“She was suffering. Why did you go, dearest? It is not fit for you to see such things.”
“That is the cry of the whole world,” she replied, getting up and moving the flowers near her. “Why go? Why see it? Peace, peace, and there is no peace.”
“You cannot help her.”
“You are right, I am powerless, and I have promised to send her jelly. Ridiculous! Jelly!”
“Who is she?”
“Her name was Bertram. She was once pretty and sang well. Sylvia knew her. Some man made love to her, and promised her the usual things. She left her work for him, and because of him, and he left her alone. She has starved, frozen, and been half-murdered, yet she lives.”
“I cannot help thinking, dear, that it was her fault, too. A woman does not—should not yield.”
“A woman wants to love and to be loved. . . . Then,” she added, “I could never love a man who would promise and never keep it.”
“To promise,” he repeated. “What is a promise? It is an impossibility. I promise to love someone for ever. You will some day—may it be soon?—promise to cleave to me only. I cease to love someone—the promise is broken. I am not responsible. Who is? You promised me once you would not go out alone when it is dark, and you do not keep it.”
“What is love? When I cannot keep my promise of cleaving to you, will you blame me? You say the keeping of promises is impossible. I never promised to love you.”
“Blame you? No. You love me—do you love me?—and women, thank God, are mostly constant.”
“Thank God,” she repeated.
She did not answer his question—to seek to acquire information was most simple.
“Love is all things—the joy of life—the sting of death,” he said.
“Friendship is a joy, too. It is like autumn after the midsummer heat is over. Do you not know the peace and stillness of a clear autumn day? There is a blue sky, and merely a suspicion of cold in the air. You know the air on a lake coming over a long sweep of country.”
She paused.
“There is a chill about autumn—a suspicion of indifference.”
“No, no,” she answered quickly. “What is the most perfect relationship in this world? Which is the happiest?”
“Who can tell? To me it is you; to you it is—I wish I could feel sure the stone of happiness you seek for is my love.”
She did not answer immediately.
“The stone of happiness when one finds it is still a stone. How can a stone bring happiness?”
“Your ring—to see the sapphire brings me happiness,” he answered.
He felt of late an intangible something between them—as if he were fighting with the powers of the air, with unknown forces—would he win, or they? The dead are quiet for ever, and yet something seemed to come between him and Launa. Do the dead watch over those they love? Mr. Wainbridge shivered; he was sometimes superstitious.
Paul was not an acquiescent lover, and since his day in the canoe with Launa he had pondered long and frequently. Was she happy? No; nor was he.
One afternoon when with her, like an inspiration it came to him that he was master. He would not give in, he loved her; love was power, and she did not love Mr. Wainbridge, of that he was sure.
Launa was alone.
They talked for some moments, the conversation was led by her to Newfoundland, but he took no interest in that.
“When are you going to be married?” he asked.
“When? I know not. Talk of something else.”
“I will talk about you. It is of no use for you to change the subject. I love you, love you, and you are mine. You have no right to marry anyone but me. You belong to me.”
Paul was as a god, knowing not merely good and evil, but love and light.
“It is my kisses you will long and hunger for, my arms which should be round you, not his.”
He looked at her. She had started when he began.
“His never are,” she said, while she longed to ask how he knew this, but she felt to acknowledge he knew was to acknowledge him right.
“You won’t let him now, but his arms will be round you. There is no escape from them once you are married. Think how you will feel when he is with you always, and you can never get away. You will see my face when his is close to you, you will feel—”
“Paul! Paul!”
“You would like to say, ‘Why persecutest thou me?’ They say girls often marry from ignorance and wish they had not. Launa, you will not be ignorant. Without love marriage is a loathsome Hell; with it, darling, it is Heaven. Such a Heaven! You are mine, as much mine as if five priests had read hundreds of words over us. Give him up! give him up!”
“I wish I could die, knowing you love me.”
“I would rather see you dead than his wife.”
“Paul, I love you.”
She held out her hands.
“My darling; my darling. How I love you. And you will give him up?”
She stood still, her eyes raised to his; hers were full of trouble, his full of love. He would face the world and count the loss of all things nothing for her. His was a love worth having, and he was brave and true, worthy of love. He came nearer. He had not touched her.
“Come to me, Launa.”
She turned and let him fold her in his arms, such strong arms.
“You take away my individuality. You are a brute, Paul. Let me look into your eyes; they are true. It is your eyes I see when I talk to him, your voice I hear, your kisses I feel. . . . Paul, don’t tempt me. I have degraded myself enough. Leave me—go. I am wicked, I am wrong.”
“Tempt you? My God, Launa! Am I not tempted?”
“When you hold me I am strong. A woman loves a man who has a strong arm for her.”
He bent down and kissed her face, then her lips, a long, long kiss.
“Launa, can you marry any other man? Be true, dear.”
“Sit down, Paul, by me. Let me hold your hand. I feel so weak and so afraid. And when you have gone and I am alone with him. . . . You know I love you. . . . But I have promised myself to him. I cannot break my word. I can ask him to give me up. I will do that.”
“You must tell him you cannot marry him. Why should one man insist on making three people miserable? For he will not be happy. I shall not leave you now until you have promised to marry me. I kiss you, I hold you, I take you.”
He lifted her in his arms and carried her to a sofa.
He put pillows under her head and knelt beside her.
“You cannot get up. I will not let you go—you must rest.”
“Paul!”
He kissed her.
“Launa, if you could know, could guess how I hunger for you. How I dream of you and long for you until the day is a long dreary reality, and night is life when I see you and hear your voice—gentle and soft—I love your voice. In my dreams I hold you in my arms.”
“Paul, you forget that I have promised. I have given myself to him.”
“You mean?”
“My word to him. How can I take it back?”
“Easily; by not keeping it.”
They both laughed, and so Mr. Wainbridge found them when he entered the room.
“Is Launa ill?” he asked, in well-bred tones of surprise.
She felt she hated him; his upper lip was too long, his manner too unctuous, and his shoulders were so round.
He glanced from Paul to Launa, and it seemed to him as if his appearance were just what was required to turn the scale in his own favour. She sat up. Paul put a cushion behind her and kissed her hand. Mr. Wainbridge advanced with disapproval and another cushion, which Launa refused with mild gratitude.
The men glared at each other. Mr. Wainbridge was uneasy, Paul triumphant.
“Shall I stay, Launa?” said Paul.
“No; I have a headache,” she said.
Paul left the room, and Mr. Wainbridge waited in silence.
“I hope you are better,” he said, at last.
“I have something to tell you.”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“You must hear it.”
“Look here, Launa, I know what you are going to say. You are going to say . . . what you will regret. Something about Mr. Harvey. I mean to marry you; you have promised. That is all.”
“You do not consider me responsible for my feelings; you have said it.”
“For your feelings, no; but for your promises, yes.”
“Suppose I have changed?”
“Suppose you never felt what you promised; suppose it was merely a refuge from loneliness, from—”
“Well, suppose it was,” she answered. “But I never promised to feel anything—simply to marry you.”
“What do you want me to do now?” he asked.
“I want you to set me free.”
“Never, never. To do that would be ruin for me.”
They faced each other; she was excited, flushed—with a new look of a half-born, half-understood joy. He was sullen.
“Why—tell me why? You could not hold me to my bargain—unwillingly.”
“It would be ruin for me to release you. My uncle would cut me off—leave me nothing, and give me nothing, if you or I break off our engagement. He has heard several things about me—things which—well, I have told you enough. Darling, you would not, you could not ruin me. I love you so intensely. Think of my life, my prospects, without you!”
“To live without me.”
“What could I do?”
The joy had left her face—the flush was gone. She was pale, and her face looked haggard.
“Go, go. I will not ruin your prospects and devastate your life—go. But you must leave me alone now. Yes, I hate you.”
He went to his Club. On the way he meditated writing a novel or a play—his inventive powers were so great. He had impressed Launa—she believed him. He had constructed the first chapter when he reached his Club.
Launa went for a long drive.
Paul was defeated. That night he received this note.
“We have made a mistake, you and I.
Forget it. It is too late. Remember only
your promise to stay until my wedding.
“L.”