[p 356]
XXX

The very next night but one after Lucio’s strange interview with Mavis Clare, the thunderbolt destined to wreck my life and humiliate me to the dust, fell with appalling suddenness. No warning given!—it came at a moment when I had dared to deem myself happy. All that day,—the last day I was ever to know of pride or self-gratulation,—I had enjoyed life to the full; it was a day too in which Sibyl had seemed transformed to a sweeter, gentler woman than I had hitherto known her,—when all her attractions of beauty and manner were apparently put forth to captivate and enthrall me as though she were yet to be wooed and won. Or,—did she mean to bewitch and subjugate Lucio? Of this I never thought,—never dreamed:—I only saw in my wife an enchantress of the most voluptuous and delicate loveliness,—a woman whose very garments seemed to cling to her tenderly as though proud of clothing so exquisite a form,—a creature whose every glance was brilliant, whose every smile was a ravishment,—and whose voice, attuned to the softest and most caressing tones appeared in its every utterance to assure me of a deeper and more lasting love than I had yet enjoyed. The hours flew by on golden wings,—we all three,—Sibyl, myself and Lucio,—had attained, as I imagined, to a perfect unity of friendship and mutual understanding,—we had passed that last day together in the outlying woods of Willowsmere, under a gorgeous canopy of autumn leaves, through which the sun shed mellow beams of rose and gold,—we [p 357] had had an al fresco luncheon in the open air,—Lucio had sung for us wild old ballads and love-madrigals till the very foliage had seemed to tremble with joy at the sound of such entrancing melody,—and not a cloud had marred the perfect peace and pleasure of the time. Mavis Clare was not with us,—and I was glad. Somehow I felt that of late she had been more or less a discordant element whenever she had joined our party. I admired her,—in a sort of fraternal half-patronizing way I even loved her,—nevertheless I was conscious that her ways were not as our ways,—her thoughts not as our thoughts. I placed the fault on her of course; I concluded that it was because she had what I elected to call ‘literary egoism,’ instead of by its rightful name, the spirit of honourable independence. I never considered the inflated quality of my own egoism,—the poor pride of a ‘cash and county’ position, which is the pettiest sort of vain-glory anyone can indulge in,—and after turning the matter over in my mind, I decided that Mavis was a very charming young woman with great literary gifts, and an amazing pride, which made it totally impossible for her to associate with many ‘great’ people, so-called,—as she would never descend to the necessary level of flunkeyish servility which they expected, and which I certainly demanded. I should almost have been inclined to relegate her to ‘Grub Street,’ had not a faint sense of justice as well as shame held me back from doing her that indignity even in my thoughts. However I was too much impressed with my own vast resources of unlimited wealth, to realize the fact that anyone who, like Mavis, earns independence by intellectual work and worth alone, is entitled to feel a far greater pride than those who by mere chance of birth or heritage become the possessors of millions. Then again, Mavis Clare’s literary position was, though I liked her personally, always a kind of reproach to me when I thought of my own abortive efforts to win the laurels of fame. So that on the whole I was glad she did not spend that day with us in the woods;—of course, if I had paid any attention to the “trifles which make up the sum of life” I should have remembered [p 358] that Lucio had told her he would “meet her no more on earth,”—but I judged this to be a mere trifle of hasty and melodramatic speech, without any intentional meaning.

So my last twenty-four hours of happiness passed away in halcyon serenity,—I felt a sense of deepening pleasure in existence, and I began to believe that the future had brighter things in store for me than I had lately ventured to expect. Sibyl’s new phase of gentleness and tenderness towards me, combined with her rare beauty, seemed to augur that the misunderstandings between us would be of short duration, and that her nature, too early rendered harsh and cynical by a ‘society’ education would soften in time to that beautiful womanliness which is, after all, woman’s best charm. Thus I thought, in blissful and contented reverie, reclining under the branching autumnal foliage, with my fair wife beside me, and listening to the rich tones of my friend Lucio’s magnificent voice pealing forth sonorous, wild melodies, as the sunset deepened in the sky and the twilight shadows fell. Then came the night—the night which dropped only for a few hours over the quiet landscape, but for ever over me!

We had dined late, and, pleasantly fatigued with our day in the open air, had retired early. I had latterly grown a heavy sleeper, and I suppose I must have slumbered some hours, when I was awakened suddenly as though by an imperative touch from some unseen hand. I started up in my bed,—the night-lamp was burning dimly, and by its glimmer I saw that Sibyl was no longer at my side. My heart gave one bound against my ribs and then almost stood still—a sense of something unexpected and calamitous chilled my blood. I pushed aside the embroidered silken hangings of the bed and peered into the room,—it was empty. Then I rose hastily, put on my clothes and went to the door,—it was carefully shut, but not locked as it had been when we retired for the night. I opened it without the least noise, and looked out into the long passage,—no one there! Immediately opposite the bedroom door there was a winding oak staircase leading down to a broad corridor, which in former times had been used as a [p 359] music-room or picture-gallery,—an ancient organ, still sweet of tone, occupied one end of it with dull golden pipes towering up to the carved and embossed ceiling,—the other end was lit by a large oriel window like that of a church, filled with rare old stained glass, representing in various niches the lives of the saints, the centre subject being the martyrdom of St Stephen. Advancing with soft caution to the balustrade overlooking this gallery, I gazed down into it, and for a moment could see nothing on the polished floor but the criss-cross patterns made by the moonlight falling through the great window,—but presently, as I watched breathlessly, wondering where Sibyl could have gone to at this time of night, I saw a dark tall Shadow waver across the moonlit network of lines, and I heard the smothered sound of voices. With my pulses beating furiously, and a sensation of suffocation in my throat,—full of strange thoughts and suspicions which I dared not define, I crept slowly and stealthily down the stair, till as my foot touched the last step I saw—what nearly struck me to the ground with a shock of agony—and I had to draw back and bite my lips hard to repress the cry that nearly escaped them. There,—there before me in the full moonlight, with the colours of the red and blue robes of the painted saints on the window glowing blood-like and azure about her, knelt my wife,—arrayed in a diaphanous garment of filmy white which betrayed rather than concealed the outline of her form,—her wealth of hair falling about her in wild disorder,—her hands clasped in supplication,—her pale face upturned; and above her towered the dark imposing figure of Lucio! I stared at the twain with dry burning eyes,—what did this portend? Was she—my wife—false? Was he—my friend—a traitor?

“Patience——patience!——” I muttered to myself—“This is a piece of acting doubtless——such as chanced the other night with Mavis Clare!——patience!——let us hear this——this comedy!” And, drawing myself close up against the wall, I leaned there, scarcely drawing breath, waiting for her voice,—for his;—when they spoke I should know,——yes, [p 360] I should know all! And I fastened my looks on them as they stood there,—vaguely wondering even in my tense anguish, at the fearful light on Lucio’s face,—a light which could scarcely be the reflection of the moon, as he backed the window,—and at the scorn of his frowning brows. What terrific humour swayed him?—why did he, even to my stupefied thought appear more than human?—why did his very beauty seem hideous at that moment, and his aspect fiendish? Hush—hush! She spoke,—my wife,—I heard her every word—heard all and endured all, without falling dead at her feet in the extremity of my dishonour and despair!

“I love you!” she wailed—“Lucio, I love you, and my love is killing me! Be merciful!—have pity on my passion!—love me for one hour, one little hour!—it is not much to ask, and afterwards,—do with me what you will,—torture me, brand me an outcast in the public sight, curse me before Heaven—I care nothing—I am yours body and soul—I love you!”

Her accents vibrated with mad idolatrous pleading,—I listened infuriated, but dumb. “Hush,—hush!” I told myself “This is a comedy—not yet played out!” And I waited, with every nerve strained, for Lucio’s reply. It came, accompanied by a laugh, low and sarcastic.

“You flatter me!” he said—“I regret I am unable to return the compliment!”

My heart gave a throb of relief and fierce joy,—almost I could have joined in his ironical laughter. She—Sibyl—dragged herself nearer to him.