CHAPTER XXI
Lily Herbert had accepted her fate—one must, no matter how rebellious the heart may be. The days were long and black and endless; the nights were worse, and full of spectres. The path of life behind her shone with the brilliancy of past happiness, which is often imaginary; before her the path was dark, with the gloom of hopelessness and despair.
Sylvia’s sympathy was a light to her. They frequently talked about Launa. How happy she was! How fortunate! Loved by the gods and by men. The love of men they put last; it was first in both their minds. The love of the gods is death, the love of man life. They had both wilfully thrown it away.
“Once he told me I should live with him as his sister,” said Sylvia. “I hated him for it. I would have been his mistress, but not his sister. He was too good, and I was willing to risk all for him. He gave me credit for so much goodness.”
“Why did you not try it?” asked Lily. “Men do not care for the brotherly pose very long. Their resolutions are momentary.”
Sylvia looked at her. Then she had felt sure men mean what they say after they have said it, as well as while they are saying it—she had changed her mind now.
“I see,” she replied, “and it is too late.”
There was a pause for some moments. Each woman was thinking of those things which usually intrude only at night, and which we push into their corner and avoid contemplating as much as possible.
“Launa is an angel,” said Lily. “She has been so good to me.”
“She has never loved any one,” said Sylvia.
“She would probably have married the other man for money, if she had,” said Lily.
“Her well-regulated affection for Mr. Wainbridge is like her engagement ring. A diamond between two sapphires—neat and even. Have you ever seen my locket?”
“No. I cannot help thinking, Sylvia, he meant to come back. He sent me a present on my birthday, a little locket of pearls. He would not have sent pearls if he thought me—bad—would he? Oh, Sylvia, how lovely!”
Sylvia had unbuttoned her dress and pulled out a locket. It was an opal in the shape of a heart, surrounded by diamonds. It gleamed and glowed with an unearthly radiance. It seemed a living thing emitting sparks of fire.
“How lovely!” repeated Lily.
Sylvia hid it again.
“It knew when he was dying, and grew so dull and pale. Now it burns brighter than ever.”
Then they parted. Sylvia went to the theatre, Lily sat by the fire. The day was cold and dark. She had cocoa instead of dinner, that was an ordeal she could not face alone. She sat and thought; she shut her eyes until she imagined he was there, she could almost feel his kisses, till a shuddering sob of the cold reality recalled her mind to the present. About nine o’clock her parlourmaid came in and told her Captain Carden wished to see her on important business.
“Very well,” said Lily, “I will see him.”
She disliked him—indifferently—and regarded a visit from him as she would one from the cabinet-maker or the plumber, so he was admitted, when to Mr. George or Sir Ralph she would have said “Not at home.”
Captain Carden’s face was red, he appeared excited.
“I have good news,” he said. “You dislike Launa almost as much as I do?”
“No, no, Launa and I are friends. She is one of the noblest women I have ever met.”
“You have changed. Would you not be glad to hear something which will give her trouble, which will be a blow to her? Women often are glad when such things happen.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you are telling me the truth I will not tell you what I mean. Are you not trying to deceive me by a pretence of virtue and friendship with Launa? You are slightly under a cloud now, will she know what gloom means soon?”
“Why?”
“I shall not tell you. I am waiting until—what day is she to be married to Wainbridge? On which day are they to be joined together, and never put asunder by man? When he can kiss her, touch her, and hold her—that is what men do.”
“Go away. Go at once, you have had too much to drink.”
“You do not want to hear? You do not—?”
“No; go!”
Left alone, Mrs. Herbert thought it all over. Captain Carden was mad with rage and jealousy.
Reflection during the night watches made her write to him, asking him to tea, and mentioning that she had changed her mind.
Captain Carden came. He spent the afternoon with her, and left in a rage because he had not been invited to Launa’s wedding on the 25th. He sent her a present—a chain supposed to possess power against the evil eye.
After this Carden visited Mrs. Herbert frequently. Launa spent the time in receiving presents, and trying on dresses, and in suffering the embraces of her future lord, who had grown more ardent and more reckless in his love-making. Paul came back from Norway, and Mr. George ordered a new frock-coat, and admired Sylvia more fervently in black than in any colour. He went every available night to see her act, and wished for Sunday evening performances in London, for on that evening they seldom met, and he had not the satisfaction of gazing at her. Launa announced her intention of going, soon after her marriage, to Norway, where her father was buried.
Mr. Wainbridge was jealous—jealous of the dead man.
He agreed to go. He reminded himself when he promised that he was merely a lover—when the promise was to be carried out he would be a husband. There is a difference between the doings of lovers and husbands; few people—especially women—realise this beforehand.
It was the twenty-sixth of October, and very cold. Launa had been for a long walk; the suspicion of frost was quite Canadian and exhilarating while it wearied her. She was staying at Shelton.
It was barely six. She was reading. She heard a carriage drive up and wondered who it could be.
The door opened, and announced by the new butler—Launa always had maids, but with the prospect of a husband she had engaged a butler—Mrs. Herbert and Captain Carden walked in.
The former looked very handsome; her face was unusually pink; her crape bonnet and long veil thrown back suited her.
“Lily!” said Launa, “how kind of you! I am so very glad to see you. You will stay, of course.”
She avoided Captain Carden’s hand.
“How are you?” he asked. “Well, I hope?”
Launa had turned to Lily, and did not answer his inquiries.
“Where is—where are the others?” asked Lily.
“Are you alone already?” added Captain Carden.
Mr. Wainbridge came in and greeted them with a bored air.
“I have come on business,” said Captain Carden stiffly.
“And you, Lily, have come to stay,” said Launa.
“If you will have me I shall be very glad to stay.”
“I may as well tell you the object of my visit,” said Carden, with importance. “Mrs. Wainbridge, I—”
“Stop!” said Launa.
“Never mind,” said Lily, taking hold of her hand and almost crushing it. “Let him say what he has to say, and then go.”
“I did not tell you before, because I have always wanted to remind you of one day at Victoria Mansions—the day you turned me out. I loved you, and now I am quite willing to marry you, even after the disgrace of having lived for some days as this man’s mistress, for Wainbridge is married.”
A strange and awful silence settled on them. Mr. Wainbridge’s lips were parted, and trembled slightly as he made an effort to speak. Captain Carden looked supremely triumphant, and continued:
“I have proofs here. His wife lives in Edinburgh; he married her legally. You, Launa, are—what are you?”
“Not married, thank God; not married.”
Turning, she saw Paul behind her.
“Paul!” she cried, “help me!”
Paul remembered that this was the third time that she had turned to him in an uncertain situation. Was this the lucky time?
“Launa,” he said, “come away. Let me settle this for you.”
He was already her protector, and they both felt it.
“I must hear it all,” she answered.
“He has two children,” said Captain Carden. “One a son. Your child, Launa—”
“Stop,” interrupted Wainbridge. “If you insult Miss Archer again I shall kick you.”
“Miss Archer!” repeated Carden, with a laugh. “You give in very quickly—you acknowledge she has no right to your name.”
“Nor has she. We are not married.”
“Of course not,” said Captain Carden, with a laugh.
“No, not married!” said Launa.
“The 30th was to be the wedding day,” said Sylvia.
“Damn you,” shouted Carden, turning to Lily. “And you knew!”
“Yes. I have won.”
“Take the proofs. I don’t want them.” He threw down a bundle of letters and turned away. “Oh, that I had succeeded! That you, Launa, were shamed in the sight of all men and all women. When a man trusts a woman she always betrays him! Beaten by five days. Think of it—by five days.”
He rushed from the room like a whirlwind—if he had succeeded, and brought shame to a woman and guilt to a man, he would have faced them all bravely. The women followed him—Launa still stood by Paul, who held her hand. She even returned the pressure of his fingers. Mr. Wainbridge went towards her, and Paul left the room.
“Good-bye, Launa,” said Mr. Wainbridge. “Good-bye. I suppose it is all over; I suppose you could not forget.”
“Forget. Do not say what I never can forget.”
“And yet women have faced the Divorce Court for a man they love.”
“When a woman loves; but when she pities—no. I told you once—”
“I am not married to her,” he continued, with what he considered much passion. “You know I do not believe in marriage as a binding ceremony. Love only is binding. I went with her to a priest, and we signed our names. How can a priest—a mortal man—marry men and women for eternity?”
“Great Heaven!” said Launa, “and I meant to marry you. Thank God, I escaped.” Her piety would not have been so excessive had she loved him. “You would not have believed in your marriage with me?”
“No; but I had settled all I have or will have upon you by your name and on your children—I love you, but I see it is all over. . . . Good-bye. . . . Launa, my darling, wish me well.”
“I pray for that woman who is your wife, and I rejoice that I escaped. I thank Heaven—you told me lies, you wanted my pity, you—”
“Heaven had but little to do with this. Carden was the ruling spirit.”
“Go!” said Launa; “go before I say all I want to.”
The new butler helped him on with his overcoat—he had listened at the key-hole, and Mr. Wainbridge would be a lord some day. He was a religious man, and remembered the chief butler and Joseph, but no quotation occurred to him which would apply to the situation; besides, he was a good servant and knew his place.
Mr. Wainbridge had the satisfaction of driving away in the trap which had brought Captain Carden to Shelton—therefore Carden would have to walk to the station and miss his train—unless Launa had out her horses for him. The reflections of Mr. Wainbridge during his journey to Paddington were unpleasant. There was his uncle to face, and he must make explanations to him.
Nothing was so disquieting as Launa’s cry for help to Paul. Why Paul? Why not to Sylvia or Lily or anyone? And the sound of relief in her voice—relief—was there joy? She had never loved him; if she had, she would have loved him married or dead. She was the sort of woman who does not—who cannot change. Therefore if she had loved him she could have risked all for him.
His only consolation was Carden’s walk in the dark to the station, and journey by a slow train at 1 a.m. to town. Carden would swear; it stopped at every station.