“By Heaven!” he said softly, “A perfect woman! I should be a churl to withstand her,—or you, my good Geoffrey,”—and he regarded me earnestly—“I have led a very devil of a life since I saw you last,—it’s time I reformed,—upon my soul it is! The peaceful contemplation of virtuous marriage will do me good!—send for my luggage to the station, Geoffrey, and make the best of me,—I’ve come to stay!”

[p 342]
XXIX

A tranquil time now ensued; a time which, though I knew it not, was just that singular pause so frequently observed in nature before a storm, and in human life before a crushing calamity. I put aside all troublesome and harassing thoughts, and became oblivious of everything save my own personal satisfaction in the renewal of the comradeship between myself and Lucio. We walked together, rode together, and passed most of our days in each other’s company,—nevertheless though I gave my friend much of my closest confidence I never spoke to him of the moral obliquities and perversions I had discovered in Sibyl’s character,—not out of any consideration for Sibyl, but simply because I knew by instinct what his reply would be. He would have no sympathy with my feelings. His keen sense of sarcasm would over-rule his friendship, and he would retort upon me with the question—What business had I, being imperfect myself, to expect perfection in my wife? Like many others of my sex I had the notion that I, as man, could do all I pleased, when I pleased and how I pleased; I could sink to a level lower than that of the beasts if I chose,—but all the same I had the right to demand from my wife the most flawless purity to mate with my defilement. I was aware how Lucio would treat this form of arrogant egoism,—and with what mocking laughter he would receive any expression of ideas from me on the subject of morality in woman. So I was careful to let no hint of my actual position [p 343] escape me,—and I comported myself on all occasions to Sibyl with special tenderness and consideration, though she, I thought, appeared rather to resent my playing the part of lover-husband too openly. She was herself, in Lucio’s presence, strangely erratic of humour, by turns brilliant and mournful,—sometimes merry and anon depressed: yet never had she displayed a more captivating grace and charm of manner. How foolish and blind I was all the while!—how dead to any perception of the formation and sequence of events! Absorbed in gross material pleasures, I ignored all the hidden forces that make the history of an individual life no less than of a whole nation, and looked upon each day that dawned almost as if it had been my own creation and possession, to waste as I thought fit,—never considering that days are but so many white leaflets from God’s chronicle of human life, whereon we place our mark, good or bad, for the just and exact summing-up of our thoughts and deeds here after. Had any one dared to say this truth to me then, I should have bade him go and preach nonsense to children,—but now,—when I recall those white leaves of days that were unrolled before me fresh and blank with every sunrise, and with which I did nothing save scrawl my own Ego in a foul smudge across each one, I tremble, and inwardly pray that I may never be forced to send back my self-written record! Yet of what use is it to pray against eternal Law? It is eternal Law that we shall ourselves count up our own misdeeds at the final reckoning,—hence it is no wonder that many are found who prefer not to believe in a future after death. Rightly do such esteem it better to die utterly, than be forced to live again and look back upon the wilful evil they have done!

October ripened slowly and almost imperceptibly towards its end, and the trees put on their gorgeous autumnal tints of burning crimson and gold. The weather remained fine and warm, and what the French Canadians poetically term the ‘Summer of all Saints’ gave us bright days and cloudless moonlit evenings. The air was so mild that we were always [p 344] able to take our coffee after dinner on the terrace overlooking the lawn in front of the drawing-room,—and it was on one of these balmy nights that I was the interested spectator of a strange scene between Lucio and Mavis Clare,—a scene I should have thought impossible of occurrence had I not myself witnessed it. Mavis had dined at Willowsmere; she very rarely so honoured us; and there were a few other guests besides. We had lingered over the coffee longer than usual, for Mavis had given an extra charm to the conversation by her eloquent vivacity and bright humour, and all present were anxious to hear, see and know as much of the brilliant novelist as possible. But when a full golden moon rose in mellow splendour over the tree-tops, my wife suggested a stroll in the grounds, and everyone agreeing to the proposal with delight, we started,—more or less together,—some in couples, some in groups of three or four. After a little desultory rambling however, the party got separated in the rose-gardens and adjacent shrubberies, and I found myself alone. I turned back to the house to get my cigar-case which I had left on a table in the library, and passing out again in another direction I strolled slowly across the grass, smoking as I went, towards the river, the silver gleam of which could clearly be discerned through the fast-thinning foliage overhanging its banks. I had almost reached the path that followed the course of the winding water, when I was brought to a standstill by the sound of voices—one, a man’s, low and persuasive,—the other a woman’s, tender, grave and somewhat tremulous. Neither voice could be mistaken; I recognized Lucio’s rich penetrating tones, and the sweet vibrante accents of Mavis Clare. Out of sheer surprise I paused,—had Lucio fallen in love, I wondered, half-smiling?—was I about to discover that the supposed ‘woman-hater’ had been tamed and caught at last? By Mavis too!—little Mavis, who was not beautiful according to accepted standards, but who had something more than beauty to enravish a proud and unbelieving soul,—here, as my thoughts ran on, I was conscious of a foolish sense of jealousy,—why should he choose Mavis, I thought, out of all [p 345] women in the world? Could he not leave her in peace with her dreams, her books and her flowers?—safe under the pure, wise, impassive gaze of Pallas Athene, whose cool brows were never fevered by a touch of passion? Something more than curiosity now impelled me to listen, and I cautiously advanced a step or two towards the shadow of a broad elm where I could see without being seen. Yes, there was Rimânez,—standing erect with folded arms, his dark, sad, inscrutable eyes fixed on Mavis, who stood opposite to him a few paces off, looking at him in her turn with an expression of mingled fascination and fear.

“I have asked you Mavis Clare,”—said Lucio slowly—“to let me serve you. You have genius—a rare quality in a woman,—and I would advance your fortunes. I should not be what I am if I did not try to persuade you to let me help on your career. You are not rich,—I could show you how to become so. You have a great fame—that I grant; but you have many enemies and slanderers who are for ever trying to pull you down from the throne you have won. I could bring these to your feet, and make them your slaves. With your intellectual power, your personal grace and gifts of temperament, I could, if you would let me guide you, give you such far-reaching influence as no woman has possessed in this century. I am no boaster,—I can do what I say and more; and I ask nothing from you in return except that you should follow my advice implicitly. My advice, let me tell you is not difficult to follow; most people find it easy!”

His expression of face, I thought, was very singular as he spoke,—it was so haggard, dreary and woe-begone that one might have imagined he was making some proposal that was particularly repugnant to him, instead of offering to perform the benevolent action of helping a hard-working literary woman to achieve greater wealth and distinction. I waited expectantly for Mavis to reply.

“You are very good, Prince Rimânez,” she said, after a little pause—“to take any thought for me at all. I cannot [p 346] imagine why you should do so; for I am really nothing to you. I have of course heard from Mr Tempest of your great wealth and influence, and I have no doubt you mean kindly. But I have never owed anything to any one,—no one has ever helped me,—I have helped myself, and still prefer to do so. And really I have nothing to wish for,—except—when the time comes—a happy death. It is true I am not rich,—but then I do not want to be rich. I would not be the possessor of wealth for all the world! To be surrounded with sycophants and flatterers,—never to be able to distinguish false friends from true,—to be loved for what you have and not for what you are!—oh no, it would be misery to me. And I have never craved for power,—except perhaps the power to win love. And that I have,—many people love my books, and through my books love me,—I feel their love, though I may never see or know them personally. But I am so conscious of their sympathy that I love them in return without the necessity of personal acquaintance. They have hearts which respond to my heart,—that is all the power I care about.”

“You forget your numerous enemies!” said Lucio, still morosely regarding her.

“No, I do not forget them,”—she returned,—“But—I forgive them! They can do me no harm. As long as I do not lower myself, no one else can lower me. If my own conscience is clear, no reproaches can wound. My life is open to all,—people can see how I live, and what I do. I try to do well,—but if there are those who think I do ill, I am sorry,—and if my faults can be amended I shall be glad to amend them. One must have enemies in this world,—that is, if one makes any sort of position,—people without enemies are generally nonentities. All who succeed in winning some little place of independence must expect the grudging enmity of hundreds who cannot find even the smallest foothold, and are therefore failures in the battle of life,—I pity these sincerely, and when they say or write cruel things of me, I know it is only spleen and disappointment [p 347] that moves both their tongues and pens, and freely pardon them. They cannot hurt or hinder me,—in fact, no one can hurt or hinder me but myself.”