Far away from wild, craggy Baluchistan her thoughts went back. A chance call, a chance introduction in a room full of people. A few minutes of ordinary conversation as between strangers who met for the first time, and—she had learned the mystery of life when life is young—though not always then—had gazed within the golden gates of love; had trodden the flower-springing sod of that radiant and mystic realm; and not only that, but she had known, with a wondrous magnetic instinct, that in the same moment of time another had learned that mystery too. Then she had begun to live; then she had begun to realise what life could contain.
Other scenes rose before her as she sat here thinking—a vision of the Park corner, in all the joyous glow and brilliancy of the London season at its height—with one ever at her side—one who there in the midst of all the varied types of beauty, and style and attractiveness of the kingdom collected together, never—as she used to tell him half playfully, but all proudly—never had eyes for any but herself. Ah, it was something to be loved like that; and yet this was not the perfervid enthusiasm, the red-hot glow of youthful adoration, but the love of one considerably past that illusive stage; whose experiences had been multifold, and frequently bitter. Again, she saw the green glories of the Cliveden woods, mirrored in the broad placid surface, as she and one other floated down that loveliest of lovely reaches in the fire-path of the westering sunlight, alone together, the murmur of their voices and the dipped wing of the hovering swallow blending with the lazy splash of the sculls. Again, in the opera box, while the most splendid staging perhaps that “Faust” had ever been put on with, held the entranced and densely packed multitude in the lowered light, she dwelt in a paradise all her own, for had she not the presence, even the contact of that one? Many and many a scene came before her now. Ah, that year! It had been indeed a year of love. And in every such scene, in every such recollection he had been ever the same. Never a moment of time that he could spare but had been spent with her—indeed not a few also that he could not—and throughout it all how perfectly free and happy together, how thoroughly at home with each other they had been.
Why, then, had such a state of things been allowed to come to a close? Heavens! It is a rare—well nigh unique—one, in all conscience. Had he deceived her—disappointed her? Not any. But there had come stalking along that goggle-eyed, sheet-and-turnip bogey hight Duty—that Juggernaut which has crushed far more lives than it has ever fortified, and now, in her retrospect, Vivien Wymer realised, not for the first time, and no less bitterly, that this is just what it had done for hers. For at the period to which her thoughts went back, she owned a mother—and a selfish one, as mothers now and again are, all cant to the contrary notwithstanding—and this devoted parent could not do without her daughter, although she had another. Here was the jagged rock beneath the surface of their unruffled sea, and upon it their freight of happiness had been wrecked and cast away.
At the time Vivien had thought herself passing strong, and the consciousness of this had done much to buoy her up amid such an experience of agony and heartbreak that even now she hardly cares to look back to. That had been five years ago. She was young then, and now that she is nearer thirty than twenty she is able to realise that she acted insanely; is able to realise that the love which that one had lavished upon her was worth more than that of all the kindred in the world ten times over, let alone such a consideration as an imaginary duty towards a thoroughly selfish and exacting woman, merely because the latter happened to be her nearest relation. She has come to realise the absolute truth of his words, and the realisation brings with it no solace, for, like most other experiences worth gaining, it has come too late. Her mother has been dead for three years past, and her younger sister, now married, is not eager to see too much of her; and to Duty, as represented by these, Vivien has sacrificed her life.
But he—will he not relent and return? Can he live without her? Well, five years have passed since they parted, and he has kept to their agreement. She knows his nature—unswerving, vindictive—indeed the very contrast afforded between this and the completeness of his love for herself had not a little to do with drawing her to him. His words during that awful parting had been few, and their raging bitterness to some degree suppressed, and that he should come second to anything or anybody, was what he never could and never would forgive.
Would he relent? Never. She went back to their chance meeting in the markhôr cave but a few hours ago, recalled every word of their conversation. The very tone of his voice had never swerved. Her ear, quick to detect any change, had detected none—not even by the smallest inflection. His manner had been kind, friendly, full of a certain modicum of regard—but that was all. Had he not often told her that a lost illusion was gone for ever? Never could it be set up again. His love was dead, and she had killed it.
But—was it? Surely not. It was only sleeping, deeply perhaps, but would re-awaken. She would re-awaken it. It was impossible that such a love as theirs had been could die in either of them as long as life should last. Then a blank misgiving seized her. They had not met for five years. Then she was twenty-three. What changes had the intervening period effected in her?
She gazed into her mirror long and steadily. Yes, she was growing old—old and plain, decidedly, she told herself with an aching bitterness of heart. The soft sprightliness of five years earlier was no longer in her face. It had gone. Alone with herself she need not dissimulate. In those days the bright and sunny spirits of rejoicing youth had radiated from her eyes; now, though her eyes were as lustrous and brilliant as ever, their glance was a tired one, reflecting but the sadness of a lonely and disappointed woman. Undoubtedly the change had struck him, and with startling force. No; his love would never re-awaken now. Why should it? In the day of her power she had let it go; now her power had departed.
Then another thought came to her. That blue-eyed girl staying with the Upwards—she was wondrously pretty. Vivien had seen her once in Shâlalai. The two would be thrown together day after day, and all day long—had been so thrown together. They had even shared a common peril. And she had youth on her side. What sort of tone would his voice have taken while talking to her, Vivien wondered, again recalling the perfect composure of his conversation but an hour or two ago in the cave. No reference—not even a veiled one—to the past; no remark upon the unexpectedness of their first meeting. True, he had seemed a trifle disconcerted on the occasion of that meeting; but that was only natural—and momentary. Yes, Nesta Cheriton was wonderfully pretty and taking. Thus she tortured herself.
But while she could do that alone and with her own thoughts, Vivien would rather have died than have allowed any glimmering of their gist to be so much as suspected by any living soul, let alone the object of them. She forgot to wonder at her own self-possession on the occasion of that first meeting; and indeed on that of the subsequent one. It had proved even more complete than his own, and she forgot to speculate as to whether he might not be taking his cue from her and playing up to her lead. That is the worst of introspection of the vehement kind, it is absolutely blinding as regards the attitude towards the object which inspires it.