“It is as if he read their thoughts, and perceived their intentions at a distance.”
Her brows knitted frowningly, and she seemed for some time absorbed in gloomy meditation. But I did not pursue [p 337] the subject,—I was too intent on my own fussy preparations for the Prince’s arrival to care about anything else.
And, as I have said, Royalty, in the person of one of the most genial of men, came and went through the whole programme devised for his entertainment, and then departed again with his usual courteous acknowledgments for the hospitality offered and accepted,—leaving us, as he generally leaves everybody, charmed with his good-humour and condescension, provided his temper has not been ruffled. When, with his exit from the scene, the whole party broke up, leaving my wife and me to our own two selves once more, there came a strange silence and desolation over the house that was like the stealthy sense of some approaching calamity. Sibyl seemed to feel it as much as I did,—and though we said nothing to each other concerning our mutual sensations, I could see that she was under the same cloud of depression as myself. She went oftener to Lily Cottage, and always from these visits to the fair-haired student among the roses, came back, I hopefully fancied in softer mood,—her very voice was gentler,—her eyes more thoughtful and tender. One evening she said—
“I have been thinking, Geoffrey, that perhaps there is some good in life after all, if I could only find it out and live it. But you are the last person to help me in such a matter.”
I was sitting in an arm-chair near the open window, smoking, and I turned my eyes upon her with some astonishment and a touch of indignation.
“What do you mean, Sibyl?” I asked—“Surely you know that I have the greatest desire to see you always in your best aspect,—many of your ideas have been most repugnant to me....”
“Stop there!” she said quickly, her eyes flashing as she spoke—“My ideas have been repugnant to you, you say? What have you done, you as my husband, to change those ideas? Have you not the same base passions as I?—and do you not give way to them as basely? What have I seen in you from day to day that I should take you as an [p 338] example? You are master here, and you rule with all the arrogance wealth can give,—you eat, drink and sleep,—you entertain your acquaintances simply that you may astonish them by the excess of luxury in which you indulge,—you read and smoke, shoot and ride, and there an end,—you are an ordinary, not an exceptional man. Do you trouble to ask what is wrong with me?—do you try, with the patience of a great love, to set before me nobler aims than those I have consciously or unconsciously imbibed?—do you try to lead me, an erring, passionate, misguided woman, into what I dream of as the light,—the light of faith and hope which alone gives peace?”
And suddenly, burying her head in the pillows of the couch on which she leaned, she broke into a fit of smothered weeping.
I drew my cigar from my mouth and stared at her helplessly. It was about an hour after dinner, and a warm soft autumnal evening,—I had eaten and drunk well, and I was drowsy and heavy-brained.
“Dear me!” I murmured—“you seem very unreasonable, Sibyl! I suppose you are hysterical....”