What a Man Wills

by Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey

That was the signing of the agreement which resulted in four years of ceaseless service. At the beginning Meriel had contemplated a stay of a few months; but with every week that passed she seemed more firmly riveted in her post. After each breakdown, Flora’s dread of being alone with her husband increased in violence, while he shrank more sensitively from the services of a hireling. They needed her, and she stayed on and on, at first provisionally; later, as a matter of course.

From the beginning Sterne had little hope of his wife’s reformation, for he realised that her weakness was of several years’ growth, and that the inherent instability of her character unfitted her for the prolonged struggle which lay ahead. As a matter of fact, after the first passion of remorse had worn itself out, the whole of Flora’s energies were expended in the attempt to deceive her companions, and to discover secret methods of indulging her craving. The history of those four years was one of recurrent disappointment. The last remnant of beauty died out of Flora’s face; Sterne’s dark hair was streaked with grey, Mend’s features were fined to a delicate sharpness; her eyes had the pathetic wistfulness of a dumb animal. From the first moment of meeting her heart had gone out to Geoffrey Sterne; before she had been three months under his roof she loved him with an absorbing passion, and for four long years she had stood by, watching his torture, holding her love in check. Surely no man and woman were ever thrown together in more intimate relationship. Night after night they wrestled together against the demon which destroyed their peace; week after week, month after month, they planned and consulted, toiled and failed, hoped and sorrowed,—together, always together; virtually alone, yet always with that pitiful presence holding them apart.

Sterne was as chivalrous to his friend as to his wife. Never by look or deed did he pass the borders of friendship. With one part of her nature Meriel was thankful for the fact. It would have marred her admiration of the man’s character if he had made love to the woman who was ministering to his wife. With another part of her nature she longed fiercely, hungrily, to feel the touch of his lips, the grasp of his arms. There were times when she was shaken with envy of the poor creature who still claimed his tenderness and his care, but she never deluded herself that Sterne returned her love. It seemed to her that her own near association with the tragedy of his life must in itself prevent such a possibility. In years to come, when poor Flora had found her rest, Sterne might meet some sweet woman who lived in the sunshine, and find happiness with her. “He will forget, and be comforted. He will love her the more for all he has suffered.” Meriel felt an anguish of envy for that other woman who would enjoy the happiness denied to herself, a bitter rebellion against her own fate.

“I have given my youth, my strength, my soul—and what have I gained in return? Emptiness and suffering!” she cried fiercely. Then added, with a sombre triumph, “But she can never help him as I have helped! He can never need her as he has needed me!”

The end of the four years found the three embarked for India to try the effect of “suggestion” under a famous professor of the East. It was a forlorn chance, as it was doubtful if Flora retained enough brain power to respond to the treatment; but something was hoped from the change of scene and the healthful effects of the voyage.

Meriel welcomed the change with relief. Flora’s increasing disability had of late thrown her husband and friend into what was practically a prolonged tête-à-tête, and the strain of constant self-repression had grown beyond endurance. In the turmoil of travelling such close intimacy would be impossible, and her own tired nerves would be refreshed.

For the first fortnight all went well. The Bay was smooth, the Mediterranean blue and smiling; even Flora herself was roused to a feeble admiration. She was so quiet and amenable that Meriel was able to leave her for hours together in the charge of her maid, while she herself lay on a deck chair, luxuriating in the peace and beauty of the scene. Sometimes Sterne would sit by her side, and they would talk together,—brief, disconnected fragments of talk, interrupted by intervals of silence. They spoke of happier days; of their youth, their dreams and ambitions, the glowing optimism of early hopes.

Sterne had started his career with the finest ambition which a writer can know: a passing popularity would not satisfy him, money was regarded merely as a means to live; his aim was to write words which should endure after he himself was laid to rest, and to that aim he had held fast, despite all the trials and discouragements of his life. To him, as to every writer, came the realisation that his power to help and uplift was measured by his own suffering. His readers were enriched by his poverty. There were times when the knowledge soothed, times again when the natural man rose in revolt, and demanded bread for his own soul.

“You tell me that I have succeeded,” he said bitterly to Meriel; “but I have never tasted the savour of success. I have no child to inherit my name, and my wife does not care—even in the early days she cared nothing for my work. Never in her life has she read an article of mine from beginning to end. When I told her of a fresh commission she asked always—‘How much will it be?’ After the first year I never mentioned my work. The poorest clerk hurrying home to tell his wife of a ten-pound rise, feeling sure of her sympathy and understanding, is richer than I. He has his reward!”

Meriel found courage to ask a question which had long hovered on her lips.