I consented to go with him, and hurried back to the cottage, where I found my host busy over my portmanteau. I told him my friend was coming with me too, upon which he scrutinised my face mildly, and, I thought, with satisfaction. He strapped the portmanteau, and remarked in a dry tone: ‘That, too, is as it should be, and I am glad there is no quarrel.’ Taking no note of my astonishment at his incredible discernment, he added: ‘You’ll drink a last drop of the mountain dew to your success and happiness in another spot, sir, where the girls, God bless them! are fresh and pretty and plentiful as the flowers in May.’
He went into the kitchen, and I stood at the window watching light chase shadow over the bold visage of a reek, and assured myself gloomily that there were a thousand ways, after all, of threading a path through despair. Whose life is crowned with happiness?—and hope of it must come to an end sooner or later. Pleasure still remains when we have shed the last tear, and whatever may be said to the contrary in pessimistic moments, pleasure to the last peeps out at us through the thorniest brambles, with its varied allurements. This I told myself, and though I could think of no possible pleasure at the time, or compensation for the miserable duty of facing life, I drearily supposed I would come, like another, to find my round of petty joys and mean delights. There was something to be done even by a fellow so sick at heart as I: books to be written, books to be read, people to see, and people to avoid, countries to travel in, and women to criticise. My host stood at the top of the path, bareheaded, cheering me on with his gracious ‘God speed ye, sir!’ until the bend of the hill hid his honest friendly face from me. I sought Trueberry in his room, and saw his gloves, and hat, and portmanteau on the table. I wandered about the house, through unfamiliar chambers, till, on lifting a curtain, a picture arrested me with a curdling thrill. The blood flowed from heart to brain on a dizzy wave, where it surged, so that I had some knowledge of the sensation of insanity. This explains my sin against honour in standing there. I could not have left the spot by any imperative order of conscience. I stood as immovable as a hypnotised figure. Like a spectator of the drama, with feelings unconcerned, I was quick to note the searching pathos and beauty of the picture.
They two stood together in the middle of the room, she with her hands on his shoulders, he with an arm round her waist, holding one of her little hands clasped above. The passionate gaze of both was matchless in its eloquence. Both faces were white and luminous, as if touched with a ray from heaven, anguish adequately mixed with transport. Such a look from a woman’s eyes was surely worth dying for.
‘Brases, must I go away?’ Trueberry asked brokenly.
She moved a little in his embrace, and pressed her face against his breast, then recovered herself, and said firmly—
‘You must, dear friend.’
‘Think of it, beloved,’ he cried, holding her closer to him. ‘Such links as chain us. We two as one, is it not madness to dream of living apart? Every beat of life within you, Brases, must cry out against this parting. It is murder of our souls. Go, I may, but with you, Brases.’
‘Don’t make me go over it again,’ she pleaded, in a tired voice, ‘it was so hard before. While a man lives who calls me wife, can I come to you with a tarnished name?’
‘Tarnished!’ The smile he shed upon her was convincing enough to redeem a fallen angel, it was so warm, and soft, and indulgent, with all love’s sweetness and shelter. ‘The stain is on his name, and that you would drop. The law will release you. Come, come. You cannot live alone now, any more than I can. Think of what it means—craving light and love and happiness, all within reach, and we dying apart on the brink.’
‘No, no, don’t tempt me. Your desire is my weakness. Your voice draws my being from its roots, and my pulses beat to the rhythm of yours. See how much I confess, and then be merciful, and go.’