[p 426]
XXXVII
I pass over all the details of polite “shock,” affected sorrow, and feigned sympathy of society at my wife’s sudden death. No one was really grieved about it,—men raised their eyebrows, shrugged their shoulders, lit extra cigarettes and dismissed the subject as too unpleasant and depressing to dwell upon,—women were glad of the removal of a too beautiful and too much admired rival, and the majority of fashionable folk delighted in having something “thrilling” to talk about in the tragic circumstances of her end. As a rule, people are seldom or never unselfish enough to be honestly sorry for the evanishment of some leading or brilliant figure from their midst,—the vacancy leaves room for the pushing in of smaller fry. Be sure that if you are unhappily celebrated for either beauty, wit, intellect, or all three together, half society wishes you dead already, and the other half tries to make you as wretched as possible while you are alive. To be missed at all when you die, some one must love you very deeply and unselfishly; and deep unselfish love is rarer to find among mortals than a pearl in a dust-bin.
Thanks to my abundance of cash, everything concerning Sibyl’s suicide was admirably managed. In consideration of her social position as an Earl’s daughter, two doctors certified (on my paying them very handsome fees) that hers was a ‘death by misadventure,’—namely, through taking an accidental overdose of a powerful sleeping draught. It was the best report to make,—and the most respectable. It gave the [p 427] penny press an opportunity of moralizing on the dangers that lurked in sleeping draughts generally,—and Tom, Dick, and Harry all wrote letters to their favorite periodicals (signing their names in full) giving their opinions as to the nature of sleeping draughts, so that for a week at least the ordinary dullness of the newspapers was quite enlivened by ungrammatical gratis ‘copy.’ The conventionalities of law, decency and order were throughout scrupulously observed and complied with,—everybody was paid (which was the chief thing), and everybody was, I believe, satisfied with what they managed to make out of the death-payment. The funeral gave joy to the souls of all undertakers,—it was so expensive and impressive. The florist’s trade gained something of an impetus by the innumerable orders received for wreaths and crosses made of the costliest flowers. When the coffin was carried to the grave, it could not be seen for the load of blossoms that covered it. And amid all the cards and ‘loving tokens’ and ‘farewell dearests’ and ‘not-lost-but-gone-befores’—that ticketed the white masses of lilies, gardenias and roses which were supposed to symbolize the innocence and sweetness of the poisoned corpse they were sent to adorn, there was not one honest regret,—not one unfeigned expression of true sorrow. Lord Elton made a sufficiently striking figure of dignified parental woe, but on the whole I think he was not sorry for his daughter’s death, since the only opposing obstacle to his marriage with Diana Chesney was now removed. I fancy Diana herself was sorry, so far as such a frivolous little American could be sorry for anything,—perhaps, however it would be more correct to say that she was frightened. Sibyl’s sudden end startled and troubled her,—but I am not sure that it grieved her. There is such a difference between unselfish grief, and the mere sense of nervous personal shock! Miss Charlotte Fitzroy took the news of her niece’s death with that admirable fortitude which frequently characterizes religious spinsters of a certain age. She put by her knitting,—said ‘God’s will be done!’ and sent for her favorite clergyman. He came, stayed with her some hours drinking strong tea,—and [p 428] the next morning at church administered to her communion. This done, Miss Fitzroy went on the blameless and even tenor of her way, wearing the same virtuously distressed expression as usual, and showed no further sign of feeling. I, as the afflicted millionaire-husband, was no doubt the most interesting figure on the scene; I was, I know very well got up, thanks to my tailor, and to the affectionate care of the chief undertaker who handed me my black gloves on the day of the funeral with servile solicitude, but in my heart I felt myself to be a far better actor than Henry Irving, and if only for my admirable mimicry of heart-break, more fully worthy of the accolade
. Lucio did not attend the obsequies,—he wrote me a brief note of sympathy from town, and hinted that he was sure I could understand his reasons for not being present. I did understand, of course,—and appreciated his respect, as I thought, for me and my feelings,—yet strange and incongruous as it may seem, I never longed so much for his company as I did then! However,—we had a glorious burial of my fair and false lady,—prancing horses drew coroneted carriages in a long defile down the pretty Warwickshire lanes to the grey old church, picturesque and peaceful, where the clergyman and his assistants in newly-washed surplices, met the flower-laden coffin, and with the usual conventional mumblings, consigned it to the dust. There were even press-reporters present, who not only described the scene as it did not happen, but who also sent fancy sketches, to their respective journals, of the church as it did not exist. I mention this simply to show how thoroughly all “proper forms” were carried out and conceded to. After the ceremony all we “mourners” went back to Willowsmere to luncheon, and I well remember that Lord Elton told me a new and risqué joke over a glass of port before the meal was finished. The undertakers had a sort of festive banquet in the servants’ hall,—and taking everything into due consideration, my wife’s death gave a great deal of pleasure to many people, and put useful money into several ready pockets. She had left no blank in society that could not be easily filled up,—she was merely one butterfly [p 429] out of thousands, more daintily coloured perhaps and more restless in flight,—but never judged as more than up to the butterfly standard. I said no one gave her an honest regret, but I was wrong. Mavis Clare was genuinely, almost passionately grieved. She sent no flowers for the coffin, but she came to the funeral by herself, and stood a little apart waiting silently till the grave was covered in,—and then, just as the “fashionable” train of mourners were leaving the churchyard, she advanced and placed a white cross of her own garden-lilies upon the newly-turned brown mould. I noticed her action, and determined that before I left Willowsmere for the East with Lucio (for my journey had only been postponed a week or two on account of Sibyl’s death) she should know all.
The day came when I carried out this resolve. It was a rainy and chill afternoon, and I found Mavis in her study, sitting beside a bright log fire with her small terrier in her lap and her faithful St Bernard stretched at her feet. She was absorbed in a book,—and over her watched the marble Pallas inflexible and austere. As I entered she rose, and putting down the volume and her pet dog together, she advanced to meet me with an intense sympathy in her clear eyes, and a wordless pity in the tremulous lines of her sweet mouth. It was charming to see how sorry she felt for me,—and it was odd that I could not feel sorry for myself. After a few words of embarrassed greeting I sat down and watched her silently, while she arranged the logs in the fire to make them burn brighter, and for the moment avoided my gaze.
“I suppose you know,”—I began with harsh abruptness—“that the sleeping-draught story is a polite fiction? You know that my wife poisoned herself intentionally?”
Mavis looked at me with a troubled and compassionate expression.
“I feared it was so—” ... she began nervously.
“Oh there is nothing either to fear or to hope”—I said with some violence—“She did it. And can you guess why she did it? Because she was mad with her own wickedness [p 430] and sensuality,—because she loved with a guilty love, my friend Lucio Rimânez.”