Mavis gave a little cry as of pain, and sat down white and trembling.
“You can read quickly, I am sure,”—I went on. “Part of the profession of literature is the ability to skim books and manuscripts rapidly, and grasp the whole gist of them in a few minutes;—read this—” and I handed her the rolled-up pages of Sibyl’s dying declaration—“Let me stay here, while you learn from that what sort of a woman she was, and judge whether, despite her beauty, she is worth a regret!”
“Pardon me,—” said Mavis gently—“I would rather not read what was not meant for my eyes.”
“But it is meant for your eyes,”—I retorted impatiently—“It is meant for everybody’s eyes apparently,—it is addressed to nobody in particular. There is a mention of you in it. I beg—nay I command you to read it!—I want your opinion on it,—your advice; you may possibly suggest, after perusal, the proper sort of epitaph I ought to inscribe on the monument I am going to build to her sacred and dear memory!”
I covered my face with one hand to hide the bitter smile which I knew betrayed my thoughts, and pushed the manuscript towards her. Very reluctantly she took it,—and slowly unrolling it, began to read. For several minutes there was a silence, broken only by the crackling of the logs on the fire, and the regular breathing of the dogs who now both lay stretched comfortably in front of the wood blaze. I looked covertly at the woman whose fame I had envied,—at the slight figure, the coronal of soft hair,—the delicate, drooping sensitive face,—the small white classic hand that held the written sheets of paper so firmly, yet so tenderly,—the very hand of the Greek marble Psyche;—and I thought what short-sighted asses some literary men are who suppose they can succeed in shutting out women like Mavis Clare from winning everything that fame or fortune can offer. Such a head as hers, albeit covered with locks fair and caressable, [p 431] was not meant, in its fine shape and compactness, for submission to inferior intelligences whether masculine or feminine,—that determined little chin which the firelight delicately outlined, was a visible declaration of the strength of will and the indomitably high ambition of its owner,—and yet, ... the soft eyes,—the tender mouth,—did not these suggest the sweetest love, the purest passion that ever found place in a woman’s heart? I lost myself in dreamy musing,—I thought of many things that had little to do with either my own past or present. I realized that now and then at rare intervals God makes a woman of genius with a thinker’s brain and an angel’s soul,—and that such an one is bound to be a destiny to all mortals less divinely endowed, and a glory to the world in which she dwells. So considering, I studied Mavis Clare’s face and form,—I saw her eyes fill with tears as she read on;—why should she weep, I wondered, over that ‘last document’ which had left me unmoved and callous? I was startled almost as if from sleep when her voice, thrilling with pain, disturbed the stillness,—she sprang up, gazing at me as if she saw some horrible vision.
“Oh, are you so blind,” she cried, “as not to see what this means? Can you not understand? Do you not know your worst enemy?”
“My worst enemy?” I echoed amazed—“You surprise me, Mavis,—what have I, or my enemies or friends to do with my wife’s last confession? She raved,—between poison and passion, she could not tell, as you see by her final words, whether she was dead or alive,—and her writing at all under such stress of circumstances was a phenomenal effort,—but it has nothing to do with me personally.”
“For God’s sake do not be so hard-hearted!”—said Mavis passionately—“To me these last words of Sibyl’s,—poor, tortured, miserable girl!—are beyond all expression horrible and appalling. Do you mean to tell me you have no belief in a future life?”
“None.” I answered with conviction.
“Then this is nothing to you?—this solemn assurance of [p 432] hers that she is not dead, but living again,—living too, in indescribable misery!—you do not believe it?”