[p 300]
XXVI

I cannot now trace the slow or swift flitting by of phantasmal events, ... wild ghosts of days or weeks that drifted past, and brought me gradually and finally to a time when I found myself wandering, numb and stricken and sick at heart, by the shores of a lake in Switzerland,—a small lake, densely blue, with apparently a thought in its depths such as is reflected in a child’s earnest eye. I gazed down at the clear and glistening water almost unseeingly,—the snow-peaked mountains surrounding it were too high for the lifting of my aching sight,—loftiness, purity, and radiance were unbearable to my mind, crushed as it was beneath a weight of dismal wreckage and ruin. What a fool was I ever to have believed that in this world there could be such a thing as happiness! Misery stared me in the face,—life-long misery,—and no escape but death. Misery!—it was the word which like a hellish groan, had been uttered by the three dreadful phantoms that had once, in an evil vision, disturbed my rest. What had I done, I demanded indignantly of myself, to deserve this wretchedness which no wealth could cure?—why was fate so unjust? Like all my kind, I was unable to discern the small yet strong links of the chain I had myself wrought, and which bound me to my own undoing,—I blamed fate, or rather God,—and talked of injustice, merely because I personally suffered, never realizing that what I considered unjust was but the equitable measuring forth of that Eternal Law which is carried out with as mathematical an exactitude [p 301] as the movement of the planets, notwithstanding man’s pigmy efforts to impede its fulfilment. The light wind blowing down from the snow peaks above me ruffled the placidity of the little lake by which I aimlessly strolled,—I watched the tiny ripples break over its surface like the lines of laughter on a human face, and wondered morosely whether it was deep enough to drown in! For what was the use of living on,—knowing what I knew! Knowing that she whom I had loved, and whom I loved still in a way that was hateful to myself, was a thing viler and more shameless in character than the veriest poor drab of the street who sells herself for current coin,—that the lovely body and angel-face were but an attractive disguise for the soul of a harpy,—a vulture of vice, ... my God!—an irrepressible cry escaped me as my thoughts went on and on in the never-ending circle and problem of incurable, unspeakable despair,—and I threw myself down on a shelving bank of grass that sloped towards the lake and covered my face in a paroxysm of tearless agony.

Still inexorable thought worked in my brain, and forced me to consider my position. Was she,—was Sibyl—more to blame than I myself for all the strange havoc wrought? I had married her of my own free will and choice,—and she had told me beforehand—“I am a contaminated creature, trained to perfection in the lax morals and prurient literature of my day.” Well,—and so it had proved! My own blood burned with shame as I reflected how ample and convincing were the proofs!—and, starting up from my recumbent posture I paced up and down again restlessly in a fever of self-contempt and disgust. What could I do with a woman such as she to whom I was now bound for life? Reform her? She would laugh me to scorn for the attempt. Reform myself? She would sneer at me for an effeminate milksop. Besides, was not I as willing to be degraded as she was to degrade me?—a very victim to my brute passions? Tortured and maddened by my feelings I roamed about wildly, and started as if a pistol-shot had been fired near me when the plash of oars sounded on the silence [p 302] and the keel of a small boat grated on the shore, the boatman within it respectfully begging me in mellifluous French to employ him for an hour. I assented, and in a minute or two was out on the lake in the middle of the red glow of sunset which turned the snow-summits to points of flame, and the waters to the hue of ruby wine. I think the man who rowed me saw that I was in no very pleasant humour, for he preserved a discreet silence,—and I, pulling my hat partly over my eyes, lay back in the stern, still busy with my wretched musings. Only a month married!—and yet,—a sickening satiety had taken the place of the so-called ‘deathless’ lover’s passion. There were moments even, when my wife’s matchless physical beauty appeared hideous to me. I knew her as she was,—and no exterior charm could ever again cover for me the revolting nature within. And what puzzled me from dawn to dusk was her polished, specious hypocrisy,—her amazing aptitude for lies! To look at her,—to hear her speak,—one would have deemed her a very saint of purity,—a delicate creature whom a coarse word would startle and offend,—a very incarnation of the sweetest and most gracious womanhood,—all heart and feeling and sympathy. Everyone thought thus of her,—and never was there a greater error. Heart she had none; that fact was borne in upon me two days after our marriage while we were in Paris, for there a telegram reached us announcing her mother’s death. The paralysed Countess of Elton had, it appeared, expired suddenly on our wedding-day, or rather our wedding night,—but the Earl had deemed it best to wait forty-eight hours before interrupting our hymeneal happiness with the melancholy tidings. He followed his telegram by a brief letter to his daughter, in which the concluding lines were these—“As you are a bride and are travelling abroad, I should advise you by no means to go into mourning. Under the circumstances it is really not necessary.”

And Sibyl had readily accepted his suggestion, keeping generally however to white and pale mauve colourings in her numerous and wonderful toilettes, in order not to outrage the [p 303] proprieties too openly in the opinions of persons known to her, whom she might possibly meet casually in the foreign towns we visited. No word of regret passed her lips, and no tears were shed for her mother’s loss. She only said,

“What a good thing her sufferings are over!”

Then, with a little sarcastic smile, she had added—

“I wonder when we shall receive the Elton-Chesney wedding cards!”

I did not reply, for I was pained and grieved at her lack of all gentle feeling in the matter, and I was also, to a certain extent, superstitiously affected by the fact of the death occurring on our marriage-day. However this was now a thing of the past; a month had elapsed,—a month in which the tearing-down of illusions had gone on daily and hourly,—till I was left to contemplate the uncurtained bare prose of life and the knowledge that I had wedded a beautiful feminine animal with the soul of a shameless libertine. Here I pause and ask myself,—Was not I also a libertine? Yes,—I freely admit it,—but the libertinage of a man, while it may run to excess in hot youth, generally resolves itself, under the influence of a great love, into a strong desire for undefiled sweetness and modesty in the woman beloved. If a man has indulged in both folly and sin, the time comes at last, when, if he has any good left in him at all, he turns back upon himself and lashes his own vices with the scorpion-whip of self-contempt till he smarts with the rage and pain of it,—and then, aching in every pulse with his deserved chastisement, he kneels in spirit at the feet of some pure, true-hearted woman whose white soul, like an angel, hovers compassionately above him, and there lays down his life, saying “Do what you will with it,—it is yours!” And woe to her who plays lightly with such a gift, or works fresh injury upon it! No man, even if he has in his day, indulged in ‘rapid’ living, should choose a ‘rapid’ woman for his wife,—he had far better put a loaded pistol to his head and make an end of it!

The sunset-glory began to fade from the landscape as the little boat glided on over the tranquil water, and a great shadow [p 304] was on my mind, like the shadow of that outer darkness which would soon be night. Again I asked myself—Was there no happiness possible in all the world? Just then the Angelus chimed from a little chapel on the shore, and as it rang, a memory stirred in my brain moving me well-nigh to tears. Mavis Clare was happy!—Mavis, with her frank fearless eyes, sweet face and bright nature,—Mavis, wearing her crown of Fame as simply as a child might wear a wreath of may-blossom,—she, with a merely moderate share of fortune which even in its slight proportion was only due to her own hard incessant work,—she was happy. And I,—with my millions,—was wretched! How was it? Why was it? What had I done? I had lived as my compeers lived,—I had followed the lead of all society,—I had feasted my friends and effectually ‘snubbed’ my foes,—I had comported myself exactly as others of my wealth comport themselves,—and I had married a woman whom most men, looking upon once, would have been proud to win. Nevertheless there seemed to be a curse upon me. What had I missed out of life? I knew,—but was ashamed to own it, because I had previously scorned what I called the dream-nothings of mere sentiment.