A week passed, and in the interval Tom and I made several discoveries. In the first place, to our great relief, we discovered that the bank-notes were received in Threadneedle Street without question or demur. Secondly, we found our present lodgings narrow, and therefore moved westward to St. James's. Further, it struck us that our clothes would have to conform to the "demands of more Occidental civilisation," as Tom put it, and also that unless we intended to be medical students for ever it was necessary to become medical men. Lastly, it began to dawn upon Tom that "Francesca: a Tragedy" was a somewhat turgid performance, and on me that a holiday on Sunday was demanded by six days of work.
I do not know that we displayed any remarkable interest in theMateria Medica, or that the authorities of Guy's looked upon us as likely to do them any singular credit. But Tom, who had now a writing-desk, made great alterations in "Francesca," while I consumed vast quantities of tobacco in the endeavour to reproduce a certain face in my note-book; and I am certain that the resolution to take a holiday on Sunday was as strong at the end of the first week as though I had wrought my faculties to the verge of brain fever.
I did not see her on that Sunday, or the next, though twice my boat explored the river between Goring and Pangbourne from early morning until nightfall. But let me hasten over heart-aching and bitterness, and come to the blessed Sunday when for a second time I saw my love.
Again the day was radiant with summer. Above, the vaulted blue arched to a capstone of noonday gold. Hardly a fleecy cloud troubled the height of heaven, or blotted the stream's clear mirror; save here and there where the warm air danced and quivered over the still meadows, the season's colour lay equal upon earth. Before me the river wound silently into the sunny solitude of space untroubled by sight of human form.
But what was that speck of white far down the bank—that brighter spot upon the universal brightness, moving, advancing? My heart gave one great leap; in a moment my boat's bows were high upon the crumbling bank, and I was gazing down the tow-path.
Yes, it was she! From a thousand thousand I could tell that perfect form as it loitered—how slowly—up the river's verge. Along heaven's boundary the day was lit with glory for me, and all the glory but a golden frame for that white speck so carelessly approaching. Still and mute I stood as it drew nearer—so still, so mute, that a lazy pike thrust out its wolfish jaws just under my feet and, seeing me, splashed under again in great discomposure; so motionless that a blundering swallow all but darted against me, then swept curving to the water, and vanished down the stream.
She had been gathering May-blossom, and held a cluster in one hand. As before, her gown was purest white, and, as before, a nodding hat guarded her fair face jealously.
Nearer and nearer she came, glanced carelessly at me who stood bare-headed in the sun's glare, was passing, and glanced again, hesitated for one agonising moment, and then, as our eyes met, shot out a kindly flash of remembrance, followed by the sweetest of little blushes.
"So you are here again," she said, as she gave her hand, and her voice made exquisite music in my ear.
"Again?" I said, slowly releasing her fingers as a miser might part with treasure. "Again? I have been here every Sunday since."
"Dear me! is it so long ago? Only three weeks after all. I remember, because—"
The fleeting hope possessed me that it might be some recollection in which I had place, but my illusion was swiftly shattered.
"Because," the pitiless sentence continued, "mother was not well that evening; in fact, she has been ill ever since. So it is only three weeks."
"Only three weeks!" I echoed.
"Yes," she nodded. "I have not seen the river for all that time. Is it changed?"
"Sadly changed."
"How?"
"Perhaps I have changed."
"Well, I hope so," she laughed, "after that wetting;" then, seeing an indignant flash in my eyes, she added quickly, "which you got by so kindly bringing back my boat."
"You have not been rowing to-day?"
"No; see, I have been gathering the last of the May-blossom. May is all but dead."
"And 'Flower of the May'?"
"Please do not remind me of that foolish song. Had I known, I would not have sung it for worlds."
"I would not for worlds have missed it."
Again she frowned and now turned to go. "And you, too, must make these speeches!"
The world of reproach in her tone was at once gall and honey to me. Gall, because the "you too" conjured up a host of jealous imaginings; honey, because it was revealed that of me she had hoped for better. And now like a fool I had flung her good opinion away and she was leaving me.
I made a half-step forward.
"I must go now," she said, and the little hand was held out in token of farewell.
"No! no! I have offended you."
No answer.
"I have offended you," I insisted, still holding her hand.
"I forgive you. But, indeed, I must go." The hand made a faint struggle to be free.
"Why?"
My voice came hard and unnatural. I still held the fingers, and as I did so, felt the embarrassment of utter shyness pass over the bridge of our two hands and settle chokingly upon my heart.
"Why?" I repeated, more hoarsely yet.
"Because—because I must not neglect mother again. She is waiting."
"Then let me go with you."
"Oh, no! Some day—if we meet—I will introduce you."
"Why not now?"
"Because she is not well."
Even my lately-acquired knowledge of theMateria Medico, scarcely warranted me in offering to cure her. But I did.
She laughed shyly and said, "How, sir; are you a doctor?"
"Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, gentleman, apothecary," I said lightly, "neither one nor the other, but that curious compound of the two last—a medical student."
"Then I will not trust you," she answered, smiling.
"Better trust me," I said; and something in my words again made her look down.
"You will trust me?" I pleaded, and the something in my words grew plainer.
Still no answer.
"Oh, trust me!"
The hand quivered in mine an instant, the eyes looked up and laughed once more. "I will trust you," she said—"not to move from this spot until I am out of sight."
Then with a light "Good-bye" she was gone, and I was left to vaguely comprehend my loss.
Before long I had seen her a third time and yet once again. I had learnt her name to be Luttrell—Claire Luttrell; how often did I not say the words over to myself? I had also confided in Tom and received his hearty condolence, Tom being in that stage of youth which despises all of which it knows nothing—love especially, as a thing contrary to nature's uniformity. So Tom was youthfully cynical, and therefore by strange inference put on the airs of superior age; was also sceptical of my description, especially a certain comparison of her eyes to stars, though a very similar trope occurred somewhere in the tragedy. Indeed therein Francesca's eyes were likened to the Pleiads, being apparently (as I pointed out with some asperity) seven in number, and one of them lost.
I had also seen Mrs. Luttrell, a worn and timid woman, with weak blue eyes and all the manner of the professional invalid. I say this now, but in those days she was in my eyes a celestial being mysteriously clothed in earth's infirmities—as how should the mother of Claire be anything else? Somehow I won the favour of this faded creature— chiefly, I suspect, because she liked so well to be left alone. All day long she would sit contentedly watching the river and waiting for Claire, yet only anxious that Claire should be happy. All her heart centred on her child, and often, in spite of our friendliness, I caught her glancing from Claire to me with a jealous look, as though the mother guessed what the child suspected but dimly, if at all.
So the summer slipped away, all too fleetly—to me, as I look back after these weary years, in a day. But nevertheless much happened: not much that need be written down in bald and pitiless prose, but much to me who counted and treasured every moment that held my darling near me. So the Loves through that golden season wound us round with their invisible chains and hovered smiling and waiting. So we drifted week after week upon the river, each time nearer and nearer to the harbour of confession. The end was surely coming, and at last it came.
It was a gorgeous August evening. A week before she had told me that Saturday would be a holiday for her, and had, when pressed, admitted a design of spending it upon the river. Need it be confessed that Saturday saw me also in my boat, expectant? And when she came and feigned pretty astonishment at meeting me, and scepticism as to my doing any work throughout the week, need I say the explanation took time and seemed to me best delivered in a boat? At any rate, so it was; and somehow, the explanation took such a vast amount of time, that the sun was already plunging down the western slope of heaven when we stepped ashore almost on the very spot where first I had heard her voice.
As the first film of evening came creeping over earth, there fell a hush between us. A blackbird—the same, I verily believe—took the opportunity to welcome us. His note was no longer full and unstudied as in May. The summer was nearly over, and with it his voice was failing; but he did his best, and something in the hospitality of his song prompted me to break the silence.
"This is the very spot on which we met for the first time—do you remember?"
"Of course I remember," was the simple answer.
"You do?" I foolishly burned to hear the assurance again.
"Of course—it was such a lovely day."
"A blessed day," I answered, "the most blessed of my life."
There was a long pause here, and even the blackbird could hardly fill it up.
"Do you regret it?"
(Why does man on these occasions ask such a heap of questions?)
"Why should I?"
(Why does woman invariably answer his query with another?)
"I hope there is no reason," I answered, "and yet—oh, can you not see of what that day was the beginning? Can you not see whither these last four months have carried me?"
The sun struck slanting on the water and ran in tapering lustre to our feet. The gilded ripple slipped and murmured below us; the bronzed leaves overhead bent carefully to veil her answer. The bird within the covert uttered an anxious note.
"They have carried you, it seems," she answered, with eyes gently lowered, "back to the same place."
"They have carried me," I echoed, "from spring to summer. If they have brought me back to this spot, it is because the place and I have changed—Claire!"
As I called her by her Christian name she gave one quick glance, and then turned her eyes away again. I could see the soft rose creeping over her white neck and cheek. Had I offended? Between hope and desperation, I continued—
"Claire—I will call you Claire, for that was the name you told me just four months ago—I am changed, oh, changed past all remembrance! Are you not changed at all? Am I still nothing to you?"
She put up her hand as if to ward off further speech, but spoke no word herself.
"Answer me, Claire; give me some answer if only a word. Am I still no more than the beggar who rescued your boat that day?"
"Of course, you are my friend—now. Please forget that I took you for a beggar."
The words came with effort. Within the bushes the blackbird still chirped expectant, and the ripple below murmured to the bank, "The old story—the old story."
"But I am a beggar," I broke out. "Claire, I am always a beggar on my knees before you. Oh, Claire!"
Her face was yet more averted—the sun kissed her waving locks with soft lips of gold, the breeze half stirred the delicate draperies around her. The blackbird's note was broken and halting as my own speech.
"Claire, have you not guessed? will you never guess? Oh, have pity on me!"
I could see the soft bosom heaving now. The little hand was pulling at the gown. Her whole sweet shape drooped away from me in vague alarm—but still no answer came.
"Courage! Courage!" chirped the bird, and the river murmured responsive, "Courage!"
"Claire!"—and now there was a ring of agony in the voice; the tones came alien and scarcely recognised—"Claire, I have watched and waited for this day, and now that it has come, for good or for evil, answer me—I love you!"
O time-honoured and most simple of propositions! "I love you!" Night after night had I lain upon my bed rehearsing speeches, tender, passionate and florid, and lo! to this had it all come—to these three words, which, as my lips uttered them, made my heart leap in awe of their crude and naked daring.
And she? The words, as though they smote her, chased for an instant the rich blood from her cheek. For a moment the bosom heaved wildly, then the colour came slowly back, and ebbed again. A soft tremor shook the bending form, the little hand clutched the gown, but she made no answer.
"Speak to me, Claire! I love you! With my life and soul I love you. Can you not care for me?" I took the little hand. "Claire, my heart is in your hands—do with it what you will, but speak to me. Can you not—do you not—care for me?"
The head drooped lower yet, the warm fingers quivered within mine, then tightened, and—
What was that whisper, that less than whisper, for which I bent my head? Had I heard aright? Or why was it that the figure drooped closer, and the bird's note sprang up jubilant?
"Claire!"
A moment—one tremulous, heart-shaking moment—and then her form bent to me, abandoned, conquered; her face looked up, then sank upon my breast; but before it sank I read upon it a tenderness and a passion infinite, and caught in her eyes the perfect light of love.
As the glory of delight came flooding on my soul, the sun's disc dropped, and the first cold shadow of night fell upon earth. The blackbird uttered a broken "Amen," and was gone no man knew whither. The golden ripple passed up the river, and vanished in a leaden grey. One low shuddering sigh swept through the trees, then all was dumb. I looked westward. Towards the horizon the blue of day was fading downwards through indistinguishable zones of purple, amethyst, and palest rose, the whole heaven arching in one perfect rainbow of love.
But while I looked and listened to the beating of that beloved heart girdled with my arm, there grew a something on the western sky that well-nigh turned my own heart to marble. At first, a lightest shadow—a mere breath upon heaven's mirror, no more. Then as I gazed, it deepened, gathering all shadows from around the pole, heaping, massing, wreathing them around one spot in the troubled west—a shape that grew and threatened and still grew, until I looked on—what?
Up from the calm sea of air rose one solitary island, black and looming, rose and took shape and stood out—the very form and semblance of Dead Man's Rock! Sable and real as death it towered there against the pale evening, until its shadow, falling on my heart itself and on the soft brown head that bent and nestled there, lay round us clasped so, and with its frown cursed the morning of our love.
Something in my heart's beat, or in the stiffening of my arm, must have startled my darling, for as I gazed I felt her stir, and, looking down, caught her eyes turned wistfully upwards. My lips bent to hers.
"Mine, Claire! Mine for ever!"
And there, beneath the shadow of the Rock, our lips drew closer, met, and were locked in their first kiss.
When I looked up again the shadow had vanished, and the west was grey and clear.
So in the tranquil evening we rowed homewards, our hearts too full for speech. The wan moon rose and trod the waters, but we had no thoughts, no eyes for her. Our eyes were looking into each other's depths, our thoughts no thoughts at all, but rather a dazzled and wondering awe.
Only as a light or two gleamed out, and Streatley twinkled in the distance, Claire said—
"Can it be true? You know nothing of me."
"I know you love me. What more should I know, or wish to know?"
The red lips were pursed in a manner that spoke whole tomes of wisdom.
"You do not know that I work for my living all the week?"
"When you are mine you shall work no more."
"'But sit on a cushion and sew a gold seam'? Ah, no; I have to work. It is strange," she said, musingly, "so strange."
"What is strange, Claire?"
"That you have never seen me except on my holidays—that we have never met. What have you done since you have been in London?"
I thought of my walks and tireless quest in Oxford Street with a kind of shame. That old life was severed from the present by whole worlds.
"I have lived very quietly," I answered. "But is it so strange that we have never met?"
She laughed a low and musical laugh, and as the boat drew shoreward and grounded, replied—
"Perhaps not. Come, let us go to mother—Jasper."
O sweet sound from sweetest lips! We stepped ashore, and hand-in-hand entered the room where her mother sat.
As she looked up and saw us standing there together, she knew the truth in a moment. Her blue eyes filled with sudden fear, her worn hand went upwards to her heart. Until that instant she had not known of my presence there that day, and in a flash divined its meaning.
"I feared it," she answered at length, as I told my story and stood waiting for an answer. "I feared it, and for long have been expecting it. Claire, my love, are you sure? Oh, be quite sure before you leave me."
For answer, Claire only knelt and flung her white arms round her mother's neck, and hid her face upon her mother's bosom.
"You love him now, you think; but, oh, be careful. Search your heart before you rob me of it. I have known love, too, Claire, or thought I did; and indeed it can fade—and then, what anguish, what anguish!"
"Mother, mother! I will never leave you."
Mrs. Luttrell sighed.
"Ah, child, it is your happiness I am thinking of."
"I will never leave you, mother."
"And you, sir," continued Mrs. Luttrell, "are you sure? I am giving you what is dearer than life itself; and as you value her now, treat her worthily hereafter. Swear this to me, if my gift is worth so much in your eyes. Sir, do you know—"
"Mother!"
Claire drew her mother's head down towards her and whispered in her ear. Mrs. Luttrell frowned, hesitated, and finally said—
"Well, it shall be as you wish—though I doubt if it be wise. God bless you, Claire—and you, sir; but oh, be certain, be certain!"
What incoherent speech I made in answer I know not, but my heart was sore for this poor soul. Claire turned her eyes to me and rose, smoothing her mother's grey locks.
"We will not leave her, will we? Tell her that we will not."
I echoed her words, and stepping to Mrs. Luttrell, took the frail, white hand.
"Sir," she said, "you who take her from me should be my bitterest foe. Yet see, I take you for a son."
Still rapt with the glory of my great triumph, and drunk with the passion of that farewell kiss, I walked into our lodgings and laid my hand on Tom's shoulder.
"Tom, I have news for you."
Tom started up. "And so have I for you."
"Great news."
"Glorious news!"
"Tom, listen: I am accepted."
"Bless my soul! Jasper, so am I."
"You?"
"Yes."
"When? Where?"
"This afternoon. Jasper, our success has come at last: for you the Loves, for me the Muses; for you the rose, for me the bay. Jasper, dear boy, they have learnt her worth at last."
"Her! Who?"
"Francesca. Jasper, in three months I shall be famous; for next November 'Francesca: a Tragedy' will be produced at the Coliseum."
Again my story may hurry, for on the enchanted weeks that followed it would weary all but lovers to dwell, and lovers for the most part find their own matters sufficient food for pondering. Tom was busy with the rehearsals at the Coliseum, and I, being left alone, had little taste for theMateria Medica. On Sundays only did I see Claire; for this Mrs. Luttrell had stipulated, and my love, too, most mysteriously professed herself busy during the week. As for me, it was clear that before marriage could be talked of I must at least have gained my diplomas, so that the more work I did during the week the better. The result of this was a goodly sowing of resolutions and very little harvest. In the evenings, Tom and I would sit together—he tirelessly polishing and pruning the tragedy, and I for the most part smoking and giving advice which I am bound to say in duty to the author ("Francesca" having gained some considerable fame since those days) was invariably rejected.
Tom had been growing silent and moody of late—a change for which I could find no cause. He would answer my questions at random, pause in his work to gaze long and intently on the ceiling, and altogether behave in ways unaccountable and strange. The play had been written at white-hot speed: the corrections proceeded at a snail's pace. The author had also fallen into a habit of bolting his meals in silence, and, when rebuked, of slowly bringing his eyes to bear upon me as a person whose presence was until the moment unsuspected. All this I saw in mild wonder, but I reflected on certain moods of my own of late, and held my peace.
The explanation came without my seeking. We were seated together one evening, he over his everlasting corrections, and I in some especially herbaceous nook of theMateria Medica, when Tom looked up and said—
"Jasper, I want your opinion on a passage. Listen to this."
Sick of my flowery solitude, I gave him my attention while he read:—
"She is no violet to veil and hideBefore the lusty sun, but as the flower,His best-named bride, that leaneth to the lightAnd images his look of lordly love—Yet how I wrong her. She is more a queenThan he a king; and whoso looks must kneelAnd worship, conscious of a SovrantyUndreamt in nature, save it be the HeavenThat minist'ring to all is queen of all,And wears the proud sun's self but as a gemTo grace her girdle, one among the stars.Heaven is Francesca, and Francesca Heaven.Without her, Heaven is dispossessed of Heaven,And Earth, discrowned and disinherited,Shall beg in black eclipse, until her eyes—"
"She is no violet to veil and hideBefore the lusty sun, but as the flower,His best-named bride, that leaneth to the lightAnd images his look of lordly love—Yet how I wrong her. She is more a queenThan he a king; and whoso looks must kneelAnd worship, conscious of a SovrantyUndreamt in nature, save it be the HeavenThat minist'ring to all is queen of all,And wears the proud sun's self but as a gemTo grace her girdle, one among the stars.Heaven is Francesca, and Francesca Heaven.Without her, Heaven is dispossessed of Heaven,And Earth, discrowned and disinherited,Shall beg in black eclipse, until her eyes—"
"She is no violet to veil and hideBefore the lusty sun, but as the flower,His best-named bride, that leaneth to the lightAnd images his look of lordly love—Yet how I wrong her. She is more a queenThan he a king; and whoso looks must kneelAnd worship, conscious of a SovrantyUndreamt in nature, save it be the HeavenThat minist'ring to all is queen of all,And wears the proud sun's self but as a gemTo grace her girdle, one among the stars.Heaven is Francesca, and Francesca Heaven.Without her, Heaven is dispossessed of Heaven,And Earth, discrowned and disinherited,Shall beg in black eclipse, until her eyes—"
"Stay," I interrupted, "unless I am mistaken her eyes are like the Pleiads, a simile to which I have more than once objected."
"If you would only listen you would find those lines cut out," said Tom, pettishly.
"In that case I apologise: nevertheless, if that is your idea of a Francesca, I confess she seems to me a trifle—shall we say?— massive."
"Your Claire, I suppose, is stumpy?"
"My Claire," I replied with dignity, "is neither stumpy nor stupendous."
"In fact, just the right height."
"Well, yes, just the right height."
Tom paid no attention, but went on in full career—
"I hate your Griseldas, your Jessamys, your Mary Anns; give me Semiramis, Dido, Joan of—"
"My dear Tom, not all at once, I hope."
"Bah! you are so taken up with your own choice, that you must needs scoff at anyone who happens to differ. I tell you, woman should be imperial, majestic; should walk as a queen and talk as a goddess. You scoff because you have never seen such; you shut your eyes and go about saying, 'There is no such woman.' By heaven, Jasper, if you could only see—"
At this point Tom suddenly pulled up and blushed like any child.
"Go on—whom shall I see?"
Tom's blush was beautiful to look upon.
"The Lambert, for instance; I meant—"
"Who is the Lambert?"
"Do you mean to say you have never heard of Clarissa Lambert, the most glorious actress in London?"
"Never. Is she acting at the Coliseum?"
"Of course she is. She takes Francesca. Oh, Jasper, you should see her, she is divine!"
Here another blush succeeded.
"So," I said after a pause, "you have taken upon yourself to fall in love with this Clarissa Lambert."
Tom looked unutterably sheepish.
"Is the passion returned?"
"Jasper, don't talk like that and don't be a fool. Of course I have never breathed a word to her. Why, she hardly knows me, has hardly spoken to me beyond a few simple sentences. How should I, a miserable author without even a name, speak to her? Jasper, do you like the name Clarissa?"
"Not half so well as Claire."
"Nonsense; Claire is well enough as names go, but nothing to Clarissa. Mark how the ending gives it grace and quaintness; what a grand eighteenth-century ring it has! It is superb—so sweet, and at the same time so stately."
"And replaces Francesca so well in scansion."
Tom's face was confession.
"You should see her, Jasper—her eyes. What colour are Claire's?"
"Deep grey."
"Clarissa's are hazel brown: I prefer brown; in fact I always thought a woman should have brown eyes: we won't quarrel about inches, but you will give way in the matter of eyes, will you not?"
"Not an inch."
"It really is wonderful," said Tom, "how the mere fact of being in love is apt to corrupt a man's taste. Now in the matter of voice—I dare wager that your Claire speaks in soft and gentle numbers."
"As an Aeolian harp," said I, and I spoke truth.
"Of course, unrelieved tenderness and not a high note in the gamut. But you should hear Clarissa; I only ask you to hear her once, and let those glorious accents play upon your crass heart for a moment or two. O Jasper, Jasper, it shakes the very soul!"
Tom was evidently in a very advanced stage of the sickness; I could not find it in my heart to return his flouts of a month before, so I said—
"Very well, my dear Tom, I shall look upon your divinity in November. I do not promise you she will have the effect that you look forward to, but I am glad your Francesca will be worthily played; and, Tom, I am glad you are in love; I think it improves you."
"It is hopeless—absolutely hopeless; she is cold as ice."
"What, with that voice and those eyes? Nonsense, man."
"She is cold as ice," groaned poor Tom; "everyone says so."
"Of course everyone says so; you ought to be glad of that, for this is the one point on which what everyone says must from the nature of things be false. Why, man, if she beamed on the whole world, then I might believe you."
From which it will be gathered that I had learned something from being in love.
So sad did I consider Tom's case, that I spoke to Claire about it when I saw her next.
"Claire," I said, "you have often heard me speak of Tom."
"Really, Jasper, you seldom speak of anybody else. In fact I am growing quite jealous of this friend."
After the diversion caused by this speech, I resumed—
"But really Tom is the best of fellows, and if I talk much of him it is because he is my only friend. You must see him, Claire, and you will be sure to like him. He is so clever!"
"What is the name of this genius—I mean the other name?"
"Why, Loveday, of course—Thomas Loveday. Do you mean to say I have never told you?"
"Never," said Claire, meditatively. "Loveday—Thomas Loveday—is it a common name?"
"No, I should think not very common. Don't you like it?"
"It—begins well."
Here followed another diversion.
"But what I was going to say about Tom," I continued, "is this—he has fallen in love; in fact, I have never seen a man so deeply in love."
"Oh!"
"Anyone else," I corrected, "for of course I was quite as bad; you understand that."
"We were talking of Thomas Loveday."
"Oh, yes, of Tom. Well, Tom, you know—or perhaps you do not. At any rate, Tom has written a tragedy."
"All about love?"
"Well, not quite all; though there is a good deal in it, considering it was written when the author had no idea of what the passion was like. But that is not the point. This tragedy is coming out at the Coliseum in November. Are you not well, Claire?"
"Yes, yes; go on. What has all this to do with Tom's love?"
"I am coming to that. Tom, of course, has been attending the rehearsals lately. He will not let me come until the piece is ready, for he is wonderfully nervous. I am to come and see it on the first night. Well, as I was saying, Tom has been going to rehearsals, and has fallen in love with—guess with whom."
Claire was certainly getting very white.
"Are you sure you are well, Claire?" I asked, anxiously.
"Oh, yes; quite sure. But tell me with whom—how should I guess?"
"Why, with the leading actress; one Clarissa Lambert, is it not?"
"Clarissa—Lambert!"
"Why, Claire, what is the matter? Are you faint?" For my love had turned deathly pale, and seemed as though she would faint indeed.
We were in the old spot so often revisited, though the leaves were yellowing fast, and the blackbird's note had long ceased utterly. I placed my arm around her for support, but my darling unlocked it after a moment, struggled with her pallor, and said—
"No, no; I am better. It was a little faintness, but is passing off. Go on, and tell me about Mr. Loveday."
"I am afraid I bored you. But that is all. Do you know this Clarissa Lambert? Have you seen her?"
"Yes—I have seen her."
"I suppose she is very famous; at least, Tom says so. He also says she is divine; but I expect, from his description, that she is of the usual stamp of Tragedy Queen, tall and loud, with a big voice."
"Did he tell you that?"
"No, of course Tom raves about her. But there is no accounting for what a lover will say." This statement was made with all the sublime assurance of an accepted man. "But you have seen her," I went on, "and can tell me how far his description is true. I suppose she is much the same as other actresses, is she not?"
"Jasper," said Claire, very gently, after a pause, "do you ever go to a theatre?"
"Very seldom; in fact, about twice only since I have been in London."
"I suppose you were taught as a boy to hate such things?"
"Well," I laughed, "I do not expect Uncle Loveday would have approved of Tom's choice, if that is what you mean. But that does not matter, I fear, as Tom swears that his case is hopeless. He worships from afar, and says that she is as cold as ice. In fact, he has never told his love, but lets concealment like a—"
"That is not what I meant. Do you—do you think all actors and actresses wicked?"
"Of course not. Why should I?"
"You are going to see—"
"'Francesca'? Oh, yes, on the opening night."
"Then possibly we shall meet. Will you look out for me?"
"Let me take you, Claire. Oh, I am glad indeed! You will see Tom there, and, I hope, be able to congratulate him on his triumph. So let me take you."
She shook her head.
"No, no."
"Why?"
"Because that is impossible—really. I shall see you there, and you will see me. Is not that enough?"
"If you say so, it must be," I answered sadly. "But—"
"'But me no buts,'" she quoted. "See, it is getting late; we must be going."
A most strange silence fell upon us on the way back to Streatley. Claire's face had not yet wholly regained its colour, and she seemed disinclined to talk. So I had to solace myself by drinking in long draughts of her loveliness, and by whispering to my soul how poorly Tom's Queen of Tragedy would show beside my sweetheart.
O fool and blind!
Presently my love asked musingly—
"Jasper, do you think that you could cease to love me?"
"Claire, how can you ask it?"
"You are quite sure? You remember what mother said?"
"Claire, love is strong as death. How does the text run? 'Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it: if a man would give all the substance of his house for love, it would utterly be contemned.' Claire, you must believe that!"
"'Strong as death,'" she murmured. "Yes, I believe it. What a lovely text that is!"
The boat touched shore at Streatley, and we stepped out.
"Jasper," she said again at parting that night, "you have no doubt, no grain of doubt, about my question, and the answer? 'Strong as death,' you are sure?"
For answer I strained her to my heart.
O fool and blind! O fool and blind!
The night that was big with Tom's fate had come. The Coliseum was crowded as we entered. In those days the theatre had no stalls, so we sat in the front row of the dress circle, Tom having in his modesty refused a box. He was behind the scenes until some five minutes before the play began, so that before he joined me I had ample time to study the house and look about for some sign of Claire.
Certainly, the sedulous manner in which the new tragedy had been advertised was not without result. To me, unused as I was to theatre-going, the host of people, the hot air, the glare of the gas-lights were intoxicating. In a flutter of anxiety for Tom's success, of sweet perturbation at the prospect of meeting Claire, at first I could grasp but a confused image of the scene. By degrees, however, I began to look about me, and then to scan the audience narrowly for sight of my love.
Surely I should note her at once among thousands. Yet my first glance was fruitless. I looked again, examined the house slowly face by face, and again was baffled. I could see all but a small portion of the pit, the upper boxes and gallery. Pit and gallery were out of the question. She might, though it was hardly likely, be in the tier just above, and I determined to satisfy myself after the end of Act I. Meantime I scanned the boxes. There were twelve on either side of the house, and all were full. By degrees I satisfied myself that strangers occupied all of them, except the box nearest the stage on the right of the tier where I was sitting. The occupants of this were out of sight. Only a large yellow and black fan was swaying slowly backwards and forwards to tell me that somebody sat there.
Somehow, the slow, ceaseless motion of this pricked my curiosity. Its pace, as it waved to and fro, was unaltered; the hand that moved it seemingly tireless; but even the hand was hidden. Not a finger could I gain a glimpse of. By some silly freak of fancy I was positively burning with eagerness to see the fan's owner, when Tom returned and took his seat beside me.
"It begins in five minutes; everything is ready," said he, and his voice had a nervous tremor which he sought in vain to hide.
"Courage!" I said; "at least the numbers here should flatter you."
"They frighten me! What shall I do if it fails?"
The overture was drawing to its close. Tom looked anxiously around the house.
"Yes," he said, "it is crowded, indeed. By the way, was not Claire to have been here? Point her out to me."
"She was; but I cannot see her anywhere. Perhaps she is late."
"If so, I cannot see where she is to find a place. Hush! they are ending."
As he spoke, the last strains of the orchestra died slowly and mournfully away, and the curtain rose upon "Francesca: a Tragedy."
This play has since gained such a name, not only from its own merits (which are considerable), but in consequence also of certain circumstances which this story will relate, that it would be not only tedious but unnecessary to follow its action in detail. For the benefit, however, of those who did not see it at the Coliseum, I here subjoin a short sketch of the plot, which the better-informed reader may omit.
Francesca is the daughter of Sebastian, at one time Duke of Bologna, but deposed and driven from his palace by the intrigues of his younger brother Charles. At the time when the action begins, Sebastian is chief of a band of brigands, the remains of his faithful adherents, whom he has taken with him to the fastnesses of the Apennines. Charles, who has already usurped the duchy for some sixteen years, is travelling with his son Valentine, a youth of twenty, near the haunt of his injured brother. Separated from their escort, they are wandering up a pass, when Valentine stops to admire the view, promising his father to join him at the summit. While thus occupied, he is startled by the entrance of Francesca, and, struck with her beauty, accosts her. She, sympathising for so noble a youth, warns him of the banditti, and he hastens on only to find his father lying at the foot of a precipitous rock, dead. He supposes him to have fallen, has the body conveyed back to Bologna, and having by this time fallen deeply in love with Francesca, prevails on her to leave her father and come with him. She consents, and flies with him, but after some time finds that he is deserting her for Julia, daughter of the Duke of Ferrara. Slighted and driven to desperation, she makes her way back to her father, is forgiven, and learns that Charles' death was due to no accident, but to her father's hand. No sooner is this discovery made than Valentine and Julia are brought in by the banditti, who have surprised and captured them, but do not know their rank. The deposed duke, Sebastian, does not recognise Valentine, and consigns him, with his wife, to a cave, under guard of the brigands. It is settled by Sebastian that on the morrow Valentine is to go and fetch a ransom, leaving his wife behind. Francesca, having plied the guards with drink, enters by night into the cave where they lie captive, is recognised by them, and offers to change dresses with Julia in order that husband and wife may escape. A fine scene follows of insistence and self-reproach, but ultimately Francesca prevails. Valentine and Julia pass out in the grey dawn, and Francesca, left alone, stabs herself. The play concludes as her father enters the cave and discovers his daughter's corpse.
The first scene (which is placed at the court of Bologna) passed without disaster, and the curtain fell for a moment before it rose upon the mountain pass. Hitherto the audience had been chilly. They did not hiss, but neither did they applaud; and I could feel, without being able to give any definite reason for the impression, that so far the play had failed. Tom saw it too. I did not dare to look in his face, but could tell his agony by his short and laboured breathing. Luckily his torture did not last long, for the curtain quickly rose for Scene 2.
The scene was beautifully painted and awakened a momentary enthusiasm in the audience. It died away, however, as Sebastian and Valentine entered. The dialogue between them was short, and Valentine was very soon left alone to a rather dull soliloquy (since shortened) which began to weary the audience most unmistakably. I caught the sound of a faint hiss, saw one or two people yawning; and then—
Stealing, rising, swelling, gathering as it thrilled the ear all graces and delights of perfect sound; sweeping the awed heart with touch that set the strings quivering to an ecstasy that was almost pain; breathing through them in passionate whispering; hovering, swaying, soaring upward to the very roof, then shivering down again in celestial shower of silver—there came a voice that trod all conceptions, all comparisons, all dreams to scorn; a voice beyond hope, beyond belief; a voice that in its unimaginable beauty seemed to compel the very heaven to listen.
And yet—surely I knew—surely it could not be—
I must be dreaming—mad! The bare notion was incredible—and even as my heart spoke the words, the theatre grew dim and shadowy; the vast sea of faces heaved, melted, swam in confusion; all sound came dull and hoarse upon my ear; while there—there—
There, in the blaze of light, radiant, lovely, a glorified and triumphant queen, stepped forward before the eyes of that vast multitude—my love, my Claire!