CHAPTER IXKeith Athelstone goes home that night to his rooms, and feels in his heart that he has been a coward.He knows he has had no right to wring from a woman's weakness such a concession as that which he has won from Lauraine. She is not of the stuff that heroines are made of, and truly there is no "heroic" element about himself. It is a great mistake to fancy people are either very good or very bad in this world of ours. Only too often there is simply a mixture of both in their characters, and circumstances or strength of feeling alternately throw their weight into the balance.But alone to-night with his own thoughts, and with the fever-pulse of passion dying slowly back into its natural beat, Keith remembers what has passed, and has the grace to feel a little ashamed of it, even though he declares to himself over and over again that he would act in just the same way under similar circumstances.It is always hard for a second person to judge of our actions. No one can understand those secret springs—that inner mechanism which moves us to do certain things by certain impulses. That one mad moment had been to Keith Athelstone as the turning-point of his life. A fiery temptation had to be withstood, or yielded to. He had chosen to do the latter.With his hot-blooded, impetuous temperament—with the knowledge in his heart that he loved this woman beyond and above all others in the world, beyond all possibility of forgetfulness—he knew also that such a thing as mere cold, prosaic friendship was an utter impossibility. At some moment like to-night, when senses and heart thrilled with answering rapture, when passion ran riot in his veins, when the aching and longing of his life spoke one impetuous desire and hurled aside all scruples, as the strength of Samson rent asunder the withes that bound his mighty limbs—at some such moment as this, forms and ceremonies, right and wrong, all would be again forgotten, and those words of Lauraine's would be verified when she said "there can be no safety in such a compact."He paces to and fro his rooms—the rooms Lauraine's judgment and choice has selected and furnished—luxurious apartments that look out on St. James's Park.The radiance of the early summer dawn—beautiful even in a great city—is over all the sky. A faint breeze rustles the trees—the birds sing and chirp among boughs that are moist with the night's rain, just some tender freshening shower that had fallen scarce an hour before.Those young tired eyes of Keith Athelstone's look out on it all, and a sigh parts his lips."There are so many women in the world," he mutters, as he ceases his restless pacing, and leans against the open window. "So many that are beautiful and young, and easy to win, and yet all my life is but a longing for one who can be nothing to me. How hard fate is!"The cool, fresh air blows over his brow, but it does not still its aching. His whole soul is hardened, and bitterly ashamed. He has gained his will, he has forced Lauraine to say "Stay," but all the same his triumph brings no satisfaction. That she loves him he knows, but she is not a woman to lend herself to the base frailties of a lax morality, to sink to the low level that pursues its joys in secret, and smiles serenely on the face of society at large. There would be no playing at innocence with her, and she was too proud as well as too passionate not to suffer intensely in the struggle. And then, after all, how would it end—how do these poor pretences ever end? The barrier is so frail—a look, a word, a chance meeting, and it is overthrown, and then——He springs impetuously to his feet here. He dares not pursue that train of thought any further."I won't think of the end," he mutters. "I shall see her still, and sufficient unto the day is the—evil—thereof!"The evil?Might it come to that for Lauraine, and for himself!"My dear," says Lady Etwynde to Lauraine, as she sits in the boudoir of the latter, "your roses looked charming; there was something so simple and artistic in that arrangement; not like a regular florist's bouquet. But why did you leave them in the garden? I found them lying on the grass when I walked there this morning, and as I love roses, though they have not the subtle meaning of our own peculiar flowers, I brought them in and put them in water."Lauraine flushes hotly, and then grows as suddenly pale."I—I dropped them, I suppose," she says, bending over some crewels she is sorting. "It is of no consequence. I get so many flowers."Lady Etwynde glances quickly at the beautiful, troubled face. She has taken a warm liking to Lauraine, and when alone with her drops all her fantastic ways and conversation. She leans back now in her low chair, and looks long and thoughtfully at her friend."I had not much time to speak to you last night," she says presently; "and you left so suddenly. I was afraid you were ill.""Oh no—I was only tired," answers Lauraine. "How charming your evening was. I rarely hear such music as at your house.""Yes; Signor Alfieri was delightful," agrees Lady Etwynde. "Did you like his new song, by the way?""Do you mean the English one?" asks Lauraine, feeling an odd little thrill at her heart as she remembers the passionate melody which had so moved and stirred her. "It was perfectly exquisite.""I wrote him the words," says Lady Etwynde calmly."You!" exclaims Lauraine, in surprise."Not that I believe in such sentiments," continues her friend, smiling. "For the matter of that, I suppose no poet is quite idiot enough to believe what he writes, unless they are things like the 'Boudoir Ballads.' But it sounds well to talk of love being all in all, though no one believes it is—or, indeed, wants it to be. Moonlight and kisses are all very well, but we want some more substantial food in life than that.""You don't believe in love, then?" questions Lauraine."Not much. I have outlived that faith. Most women do. At sixteen, you know, we believe in all men; at twenty inone; at thirty in none. I believe in none. I have given myself up to the pleasures of the mind, and they suit me much better. I am a disciple of culture.""I know," smiles Lauraine. "But you might find a kindred spirit even there. What then?""Well, I have not much fear of that," says Lady Etwynde gravely. "You see, the men I meet and associate with are more or less hobby-riders. They each have a special subject, and devote themselves to it—almost too much so, in fact. But I suppose it is difficult to draw the line. A fair and adequate amount of culture is delightful, but it leads people on to wild lengths sometimes. I am wondering in my own mind how far the desire for its acquisition will lead me. Still, one must have some object in life—especially if one is a woman and not married; and I shall never be that.""Why is it so improbable?" asks Lauraine."Why? Oh, because I don't care for such a prosaic termination to my liberty for one thing, and I don't believe in men for another. And society—society as it is now—has really very little interest for me. It bores me, in point of fact. All the same, my dear, the men I meet and whose society I cultivate are not at all the sort of men to inspire romantic sentiments—do you think so?""Candidly, I do not," smiles Lauraine."And as a woman—however hard she strives to cultivate her mental power—must also have some outlet for the weaker and more sentimental portion of her nature, I take refuge in writing poetry. It is very safe, and does no one either good or harm, which is more than we can say of some of our modern poets. I have never shaped my actions by what people think or believe, and I am not going to begin now. I am called eccentric, but I would rather be that than commonplace. You, now, are very different. You are full to the brim with romance, and you still believe in 'moonlight and kisses.' Unfortunately, I can't preach a mission to you, for you are married; and as for art and culture, well, your position demands incessant sacrifices, and the higher good must suffer. Perhaps, after all, it is best to live for the life about one, not some abstract thing that only has interest for a few. The one owns a wider range of sympathy, and has at least the advantage of being understood.""I think no amount of learning or mental culture—to use your favourite expression—should destroy one's sympathy with the common joys, and needs, and sorrows around us," says Lauraine thoughtfully. "Life has to be lived; we can't get over that fact, and to shut ourselves apart in the selfish absorption of one special idea, and sneer at all who cannot understand or cannot pause to investigate it, is really a sort of sin against ourselves and our fellow-beings.""Do you mean that I do that?" asks Lady Etwynde."Oh, no; you have plenty of sympathy even for those outside the pale of 'culture.' But a great many of those who surround and flatter you at your æsthetic court are the most prejudiced and narrow-minded individuals it has ever been my lot to meet.""Ah," sighs Lady Etwynde. "I suppose you are right—it is a case of 'a little knowledge is a dangerous thing.' I often wonder whether it is best to take life very seriously, or laugh at it as a good joke.""I should think our own natures could alone make either case possible," says Lauraine."But the greatest mistake is to put your heart into it," continues Lady Etwynde. "It is like giving a licence to your friends and enemies alike. The purely selfish people are the only class who get any real enjoyment out of life, after all.""It can scarcely be enjoyment," says Lauraine. "A life apart from love—from sympathy—from the interests of others—can never be an entirely happy one, though it may be in a sense untroubled.""We are having a very grave conversation for a morning call," says Lady Etwynde; "and it all came about the flowers. Was that your own idea, my love?""No—Keith—Mr. Athelstone suggested it," Lauraine answers, with again that burning blush on her delicate cheek."You and he are very good friends, I suppose," remarks Lady Etwynde, rising to make her adieux. "But all the same, my dear, I should suggest to him to get married. A rich young man knocking about town is sure to get into mischief. Yes, he'd be much better off married, and there's that pretty American girl—whatever her name is; you know her, don't you?—well, absolutely dying for love of him.""Indeed?" says Lauraine coldly; "I should scarcely think she was the sort of girl he would admire.""I never said he admired her. Only I suppose there was something or other between them in New York. At least they met there, and her aunt is so awfully thick with him.""He has never mentioned her name to me," answers Lauraine, wondering why that sudden, sharp pain is at her heart—why the bare idea of Keith Athelstone's marriage should be so hateful."Ah!—well, I suppose there is nothing in it but talk," says Lady Etwynde. "You and he are just like brother and sister. He would be sure to have told you."Brother and sister! A hot, shamed flush creeps to Lauraine's brow, and spreads itself over her face and down to the milk-white throat. Brother and sister!—and on her lips still burns, and in her heart still lives the memory of that kiss of last night.Lady Etwynde goes, and Lauraine sits there alone, and thinks with shame and terror of what she has weakly yielded—permission for his visits, his presence, his old accustomed privileges that the world deems so natural—that she knows to be so wrong now. At the bottom of her heart lies a bitter contempt of herself and her folly—it stings her to hot anger with him—to a haunting dread that will ever pursue her. And yet ... and yet ...
Keith Athelstone goes home that night to his rooms, and feels in his heart that he has been a coward.
He knows he has had no right to wring from a woman's weakness such a concession as that which he has won from Lauraine. She is not of the stuff that heroines are made of, and truly there is no "heroic" element about himself. It is a great mistake to fancy people are either very good or very bad in this world of ours. Only too often there is simply a mixture of both in their characters, and circumstances or strength of feeling alternately throw their weight into the balance.
But alone to-night with his own thoughts, and with the fever-pulse of passion dying slowly back into its natural beat, Keith remembers what has passed, and has the grace to feel a little ashamed of it, even though he declares to himself over and over again that he would act in just the same way under similar circumstances.
It is always hard for a second person to judge of our actions. No one can understand those secret springs—that inner mechanism which moves us to do certain things by certain impulses. That one mad moment had been to Keith Athelstone as the turning-point of his life. A fiery temptation had to be withstood, or yielded to. He had chosen to do the latter.
With his hot-blooded, impetuous temperament—with the knowledge in his heart that he loved this woman beyond and above all others in the world, beyond all possibility of forgetfulness—he knew also that such a thing as mere cold, prosaic friendship was an utter impossibility. At some moment like to-night, when senses and heart thrilled with answering rapture, when passion ran riot in his veins, when the aching and longing of his life spoke one impetuous desire and hurled aside all scruples, as the strength of Samson rent asunder the withes that bound his mighty limbs—at some such moment as this, forms and ceremonies, right and wrong, all would be again forgotten, and those words of Lauraine's would be verified when she said "there can be no safety in such a compact."
He paces to and fro his rooms—the rooms Lauraine's judgment and choice has selected and furnished—luxurious apartments that look out on St. James's Park.
The radiance of the early summer dawn—beautiful even in a great city—is over all the sky. A faint breeze rustles the trees—the birds sing and chirp among boughs that are moist with the night's rain, just some tender freshening shower that had fallen scarce an hour before.
Those young tired eyes of Keith Athelstone's look out on it all, and a sigh parts his lips.
"There are so many women in the world," he mutters, as he ceases his restless pacing, and leans against the open window. "So many that are beautiful and young, and easy to win, and yet all my life is but a longing for one who can be nothing to me. How hard fate is!"
The cool, fresh air blows over his brow, but it does not still its aching. His whole soul is hardened, and bitterly ashamed. He has gained his will, he has forced Lauraine to say "Stay," but all the same his triumph brings no satisfaction. That she loves him he knows, but she is not a woman to lend herself to the base frailties of a lax morality, to sink to the low level that pursues its joys in secret, and smiles serenely on the face of society at large. There would be no playing at innocence with her, and she was too proud as well as too passionate not to suffer intensely in the struggle. And then, after all, how would it end—how do these poor pretences ever end? The barrier is so frail—a look, a word, a chance meeting, and it is overthrown, and then——
He springs impetuously to his feet here. He dares not pursue that train of thought any further.
"I won't think of the end," he mutters. "I shall see her still, and sufficient unto the day is the—evil—thereof!"
The evil?
Might it come to that for Lauraine, and for himself!
"My dear," says Lady Etwynde to Lauraine, as she sits in the boudoir of the latter, "your roses looked charming; there was something so simple and artistic in that arrangement; not like a regular florist's bouquet. But why did you leave them in the garden? I found them lying on the grass when I walked there this morning, and as I love roses, though they have not the subtle meaning of our own peculiar flowers, I brought them in and put them in water."
Lauraine flushes hotly, and then grows as suddenly pale.
"I—I dropped them, I suppose," she says, bending over some crewels she is sorting. "It is of no consequence. I get so many flowers."
Lady Etwynde glances quickly at the beautiful, troubled face. She has taken a warm liking to Lauraine, and when alone with her drops all her fantastic ways and conversation. She leans back now in her low chair, and looks long and thoughtfully at her friend.
"I had not much time to speak to you last night," she says presently; "and you left so suddenly. I was afraid you were ill."
"Oh no—I was only tired," answers Lauraine. "How charming your evening was. I rarely hear such music as at your house."
"Yes; Signor Alfieri was delightful," agrees Lady Etwynde. "Did you like his new song, by the way?"
"Do you mean the English one?" asks Lauraine, feeling an odd little thrill at her heart as she remembers the passionate melody which had so moved and stirred her. "It was perfectly exquisite."
"I wrote him the words," says Lady Etwynde calmly.
"You!" exclaims Lauraine, in surprise.
"Not that I believe in such sentiments," continues her friend, smiling. "For the matter of that, I suppose no poet is quite idiot enough to believe what he writes, unless they are things like the 'Boudoir Ballads.' But it sounds well to talk of love being all in all, though no one believes it is—or, indeed, wants it to be. Moonlight and kisses are all very well, but we want some more substantial food in life than that."
"You don't believe in love, then?" questions Lauraine.
"Not much. I have outlived that faith. Most women do. At sixteen, you know, we believe in all men; at twenty inone; at thirty in none. I believe in none. I have given myself up to the pleasures of the mind, and they suit me much better. I am a disciple of culture."
"I know," smiles Lauraine. "But you might find a kindred spirit even there. What then?"
"Well, I have not much fear of that," says Lady Etwynde gravely. "You see, the men I meet and associate with are more or less hobby-riders. They each have a special subject, and devote themselves to it—almost too much so, in fact. But I suppose it is difficult to draw the line. A fair and adequate amount of culture is delightful, but it leads people on to wild lengths sometimes. I am wondering in my own mind how far the desire for its acquisition will lead me. Still, one must have some object in life—especially if one is a woman and not married; and I shall never be that."
"Why is it so improbable?" asks Lauraine.
"Why? Oh, because I don't care for such a prosaic termination to my liberty for one thing, and I don't believe in men for another. And society—society as it is now—has really very little interest for me. It bores me, in point of fact. All the same, my dear, the men I meet and whose society I cultivate are not at all the sort of men to inspire romantic sentiments—do you think so?"
"Candidly, I do not," smiles Lauraine.
"And as a woman—however hard she strives to cultivate her mental power—must also have some outlet for the weaker and more sentimental portion of her nature, I take refuge in writing poetry. It is very safe, and does no one either good or harm, which is more than we can say of some of our modern poets. I have never shaped my actions by what people think or believe, and I am not going to begin now. I am called eccentric, but I would rather be that than commonplace. You, now, are very different. You are full to the brim with romance, and you still believe in 'moonlight and kisses.' Unfortunately, I can't preach a mission to you, for you are married; and as for art and culture, well, your position demands incessant sacrifices, and the higher good must suffer. Perhaps, after all, it is best to live for the life about one, not some abstract thing that only has interest for a few. The one owns a wider range of sympathy, and has at least the advantage of being understood."
"I think no amount of learning or mental culture—to use your favourite expression—should destroy one's sympathy with the common joys, and needs, and sorrows around us," says Lauraine thoughtfully. "Life has to be lived; we can't get over that fact, and to shut ourselves apart in the selfish absorption of one special idea, and sneer at all who cannot understand or cannot pause to investigate it, is really a sort of sin against ourselves and our fellow-beings."
"Do you mean that I do that?" asks Lady Etwynde.
"Oh, no; you have plenty of sympathy even for those outside the pale of 'culture.' But a great many of those who surround and flatter you at your æsthetic court are the most prejudiced and narrow-minded individuals it has ever been my lot to meet."
"Ah," sighs Lady Etwynde. "I suppose you are right—it is a case of 'a little knowledge is a dangerous thing.' I often wonder whether it is best to take life very seriously, or laugh at it as a good joke."
"I should think our own natures could alone make either case possible," says Lauraine.
"But the greatest mistake is to put your heart into it," continues Lady Etwynde. "It is like giving a licence to your friends and enemies alike. The purely selfish people are the only class who get any real enjoyment out of life, after all."
"It can scarcely be enjoyment," says Lauraine. "A life apart from love—from sympathy—from the interests of others—can never be an entirely happy one, though it may be in a sense untroubled."
"We are having a very grave conversation for a morning call," says Lady Etwynde; "and it all came about the flowers. Was that your own idea, my love?"
"No—Keith—Mr. Athelstone suggested it," Lauraine answers, with again that burning blush on her delicate cheek.
"You and he are very good friends, I suppose," remarks Lady Etwynde, rising to make her adieux. "But all the same, my dear, I should suggest to him to get married. A rich young man knocking about town is sure to get into mischief. Yes, he'd be much better off married, and there's that pretty American girl—whatever her name is; you know her, don't you?—well, absolutely dying for love of him."
"Indeed?" says Lauraine coldly; "I should scarcely think she was the sort of girl he would admire."
"I never said he admired her. Only I suppose there was something or other between them in New York. At least they met there, and her aunt is so awfully thick with him."
"He has never mentioned her name to me," answers Lauraine, wondering why that sudden, sharp pain is at her heart—why the bare idea of Keith Athelstone's marriage should be so hateful.
"Ah!—well, I suppose there is nothing in it but talk," says Lady Etwynde. "You and he are just like brother and sister. He would be sure to have told you."
Brother and sister! A hot, shamed flush creeps to Lauraine's brow, and spreads itself over her face and down to the milk-white throat. Brother and sister!—and on her lips still burns, and in her heart still lives the memory of that kiss of last night.
Lady Etwynde goes, and Lauraine sits there alone, and thinks with shame and terror of what she has weakly yielded—permission for his visits, his presence, his old accustomed privileges that the world deems so natural—that she knows to be so wrong now. At the bottom of her heart lies a bitter contempt of herself and her folly—it stings her to hot anger with him—to a haunting dread that will ever pursue her. And yet ... and yet ...