Love, in its only and ultimate meaning, in the sense of the mystery of this world, of Jordan morning, of the Holy Ghost, could only reach me, I saw once again, through one human being on earth, Robbie of Christmas Night. Who, where, how, what was he now?
My spirit would flag a little, and sink from the uttermost heights. Once below the level of that very highest heaven of all, Love the Madness passed, and the saner, warmer adoration for the Stranger returned.
What were his feelings? I was not sure. The kindness of his eyes, what was it? A kindness like that must be for every one, must hold a universal message. No, must be for one person alone, could be lighted only by the human soul he loved. Who? Had he his Robbie-girl? There were moments when I knew he loved me. More often and more surely, I felt there was a sentiment and a sympathy akin to my own, but quieter, nearer earth, less likely to stray up the steep Robbie-closed path to LOVE.
Yet I would play with fire, and, on the level where Robbie was not remembered, visualize myself loved by, wooed by, married by the Stranger. Swiftly I was on a lower level still, where Snob-Mary could wallow. To become a Peeress! "Not so very absurd," others might think. "After all, they were cousins, his mother and her father were first cousins, you know—though she was, of course, brought up rather differently, with some Nonconformist (sic) relations on her mother's side. However, blood will tell!" I knew better, knew that common Bear Lawn Mary was the real Me. Or was it? Except for the kinship of memory, how was she me at all? She was but a poor remembered Mary: what the I of today would be to the person inhabiting this body ten years ahead. There was no such thing as permanence of personality, there was no such thing as anybody. Ever-different souls inhabit the same body; memory alone connects them with their predecessors, instinct alone makes them work for their successors. I must work for mine. I must try to deserve well of the coming Marys, seek to marry them well. Lady Tawborough!
His talk, far beyond Elise's even, was a high delight. He spoke of life, books, travels; of the South, which he knew the best, of the seven cities of Italy, the seven hills of Rome. Of his plans and hopes: how he would soon end his wandering and go back to Devonshire for good. Of his schemes for his estates, the work he hoped to do in the country, the book he might write, the position he might win for himself in the House of Lords. Always there was something he did not say, seemed to shrink from saying. Was it that he thought I was fond of him and did not like to wound me by telling me there was some one else: his girl-Robbie? Or was it—?
Those convalescent weeks rank among the gentlest memories of my life. My French friends were kind to me beyond deserts or hopes. I was restored to health in the daily companionship of a Vision of goodness and delight. My chief Revenge had been achieved. The nightmare life was away beyond the nightmare illness. Hate was now for ever behind me. I was a tenderer Mary.
CHAPTER XXXVII: WAY OF A SHIP IN THE MIDST OF THE SEA
Villebecq Mademoiselle, who would play melodrama, was achieving much less in her chosen way of business than still slumbering Bear Lawn Mary, who had played at life. And now, in these last days (as they were to prove) of the Villebecq existence as I had known it, she was to shew herself quite unequal to a rôle of garish prominence she was suddenly called upon to play. She quitted the stage, unaccompanied by plaudits or pity, and died of an empty heart.