The first crisis of her life was passed. She had met the shock of utter disillusion; her own perfect honesty now fathomed the black dishonesty of the man she had loved. Death had come with sorrow and unmerited shame. But an innate greatness, a deep courage supported her. Out of her wrongs and miseries now she made a path for her future, and in that path Philip’s foot should never be set. She had thought and thought, and had come to her decision. In one month she had grown years older in mind. Sorrow gave her knowledge, it threw her back on her native strength and goodness. Rising above mere personal wrongs she grew to a larger sense of womanhood, to a true understanding of her position and its needs. She loved no longer, but Philip was her husband by the law, and even as she had told him her whole mind and heart in the days of their courtship and marriage, she would tell him her whole mind and heart now. Once more, to satisfy the bond, to give full reasons for what she was about to do, she would open her soul to her husband, and then no more! In all she wrote she kept but two things back, her grandfather’s death—and one other. These matters belonged to herself alone.
No, Philip d’Avranche, [she wrote], your message came too late. All
that you might have said and done should have been said and done
long ago, in that past which I believe in no more. I will not ask
you why you acted as you did towards me. Words can alter nothing
now. Once I thought you true, and this letter you send would have
me still believe so. Do you then think so ill of my intelligence?
In the light of the past it may be you have reason, for you know
that I once believed in you! Think of it—believed in you!
How bad a man are you! In spite of all your promises; in spite of
the surrender of honest heart and life to you; in spite of truth and
every call of honour, you denied me—dared to deny me, at the very
time you wrote this letter.
For the hopes and honours of this world, you set aside, first by
secrecy, and then by falsehood, the helpless girl to whom you once
swore undying love. You, who knew the open book of her heart, you
threw it in the dust. “Of course there is no wife?” the Duc de
Bercy said to you before the States of Bercy. “Of course,” you
answered. You told your lie without pity.
Were you blind that you did not see the consequences? Or did you
not feel the horror of your falsehood?—to play shuttlecock with a
woman’s life, with the soul of your wife; for that is what your
conduct means. Did you not realise it, or were you so wicked that
you did not care? For I know that before you wrote me this letter,
and afterwards when you had been made prince, and heir to the duchy,
the Comtesse Chantavoine was openly named by the Duc de Bercy for
your wife.
Now read the truth. I understand all now. I am no longer the
thoughtless, believing girl whom you drew from her simple life to
give her so cruel a fate. Yesterday I was a child, to-day——Oh,
above all else, do you think I can ever forgive you for having
killed the faith, the joy of life that was in me! You have spoiled
for me for ever my rightful share of the joyous and the good. My
heart is sixty though my body is not twenty. How dared you rob me
of all that was my birthright, of all that was my life, and give me
nothing—nothing in return!
Do you remember how I begged you not to make me marry you; but you
urged me, and because I loved you and trusted you, I did? how I
entreated you not to make me marry you secretly, but you insisted,
and loving you, I did? how you promised you would leave me at the
altar and not see me till you came again to claim me openly for your
wife, and you broke that sacred promise? Do you remember—my
husband!
Do you remember that night in the garden when the wind came moaning
up from the sea? Do you remember how you took me in your arms, and
even while I listened to your tender and assuring words, in that
moment—ah, the hurt and the wrong and the shame of it! Afterwards
in the strange confusion, in my blind helplessness I tried to say,
“But he loved me,” and I tried to forgive you. Perhaps in time I
might have made myself believe I did; for then I did not know you as
you are—and were; but understanding all now I feel that in that
hour I really ceased to love you; and when at last I knew you had
denied me, love was buried for ever.
Your worst torment is to come, mine has already been with me. When
my miseries first fell upon me, I thought that I must die. Why
should I live on—why should I not die? The sea was near, and it
buries deep. I thought of all the people that live on the great
earth, and I said to myself that the soul of one poor girl could not
count, that it could concern no one but myself. It was clear to me
—I must die and end all.
But there came to me a voice in the night which said: “Is thy life
thine own to give or to destroy?” It was clearer than my own
thinking. It told my heart that death by one’s own hand meant
shame; and I saw then that to find rest I must drag unwilling feet
over the good name and memory of my dead loved ones. Then I
remembered my mother. If you had remembered her perhaps you would
have guarded the gift of my love and not have trampled it under your
feet—I remembered my mother, and so I live still.
I must go on alone, with naught of what makes life bearable; you
will keep climbing higher by your vanity, your strength, and your
deceit. But yet I know however high you climb you will never find
peace. You will remember me, and your spirit will seek in vain for
rest. You will not exist for me, you will not be even a memory; but
even against your will I shall always be part of you: of your brain,
of your heart, of your soul—the thought of me your torment in your
greatest hour. Your passion and your cowardice have lost me all;
and God will punish you, be sure of that.
There is little more to say. If it lies in my power I shall never
see you again while I live. And you will not wish it. Yes, in
spite of your eloquent letter lying here beside me, you do not wish
it, and it shall not be. I am not your wife save by the law; and
little have you cared for law! Little, too, would the law help you
in this now; for which you will rejoice. For the ease of your mind
I hasten to tell you why.
First let me inform you that none in this land knows me to be your
wife. Your letter to my grandfather never reached him, and to this
hour I have held my peace. The clergyman who married us is a
prisoner among the French, and the strong-box which held the
register of St. Michael’s Church was stolen. The one other witness,
Mr. Shoreham, your lieutenant—as you tell me—went down with the
Araminta. So you are safe in your denial of me. For me, I would
endure all the tortures of the world rather than call you husband
ever again. I am firmly set to live my own life, in my own way,
with what strength God gives. At last I see beyond the Hedge.
Your course is clear. You cannot turn back now. You have gone too
far. Your new honours and titles were got at the last by a
falsehood. To acknowledge it would be ruin, for all the world knows
that Captain Philip d’Avranche of the King’s navy is now the adopted
son of the Duc de Bercy. Surely the house of Bercy has cause for
joy, with an imbecile for the first in succession and a traitor for
the second!
I return the fifty pounds you sent me—you will not question why
....And so all ends. This is a last farewell between us.
Do you remember what you said to me on the Ecrehos? “If ever I
deceive you, may I die a black, dishonourable death, abandoned and
alone. I should deserve that if ever I deceived you, Guida.”
Will you ever think of that, in your vain glory hereafter?
GUIDA LANDRESSE DE LANDRESSE.
IN JERSEY FIVE YEARS LATER
CHAPTER XXIX
On a map the Isle of Jersey has the shape and form of a tiger on the prowl.
The fore-claws of this tiger are the lacerating pinnacles of the Corbiere and the impaling rocks of Portelet Bay and Noirmont; the hind-claws are the devastating diorite reefs of La Motte and the Banc des Violets. The head and neck, terrible and beautiful, are stretched out towards the west, as it were to scan the wild waste and jungle of the Atlantic seas. The nose is L’Etacq, the forehead Grosnez, the ear Plemont, the mouth the dark cavern by L’Etacq, and the teeth are the serried ledges of the Foret de la Brequette. At a discreet distance from the head and the tail hover the jackals of La Manche: the Paternosters, the Dirouilles, and the Ecrehos, themselves destroying where they may, or filching the remains of the tiger’s feast of shipwreck and ruin. In truth, the sleek beast, with its feet planted in fearsome rocks and tides, and its ravening head set to defy the onslaught of the main, might, but for its ensnaring beauty, seem some monstrous foot-pad of the deep.
To this day the tiger’s head is the lonely part of Jersey; a hundred years ago it was as distant from the Vier Marchi as is Penzance from Covent Garden. It would almost seem as if the people of Jersey, like the hangers-on of the king of the jungle, care not to approach too near the devourer’s head. Even now there is but a dwelling here and there upon the lofty plateau, and none at all near the dark and menacing headland. But as if the ancient Royal Court was determined to prove its sovereignty even over the tiger’s head, it stretched out its arms from the Vier Marchi to the bare neck of the beast, putting upon it a belt of defensive war; at the nape, a martello tower and barracks; underneath, two other martello towers like the teeth of a buckle.
The rest of the island was bristling with armament. Tall platforms were erected at almost speaking distance from each other, where sentinels kept watch for French frigates or privateers. Redoubts and towers were within musket-shot of each other, with watch-houses between, and at intervals every able-bodied man in the country was obliged to leave his trade to act as sentinel, or go into camp or barracks with the militia for months at a time. British cruisers sailed the Channel: now a squadron under Barrington, again under Bridport, hovered upon the coast, hoping that a French fleet might venture near.