"I sit beside the gate of the heartThat bars the soul of this woman from me;The little white soul, that dwelleth apart,Safe from temptation and evil dart,Nor one chink in the gate can I see."Would I could open this gate of the heart,Enter within, as a conqueror wild;Nay, but I see a sentinel start,To guard its treasure from earthly smart,Evil shrinks from this little white child."
"I sit beside the gate of the heartThat bars the soul of this woman from me;The little white soul, that dwelleth apart,Safe from temptation and evil dart,Nor one chink in the gate can I see.
"Would I could open this gate of the heart,Enter within, as a conqueror wild;Nay, but I see a sentinel start,To guard its treasure from earthly smart,Evil shrinks from this little white child."
It was summer down at Denfield, and the noble woods around Errington Hall were waving their heavily foliaged branches over the flower-pranked earth. The wayside hedges were gay with blossoms, the swallows wheeled aloft in the bright blue sky, the farmer looking over the green fields was calculating the promise of harvest, and there was sunshine throughout the land.
Sunshine from dawn till eve over the teeming earth: sunshine in the hearts of village maidens, thinking of plighted troths; sunshine in the stolid faces of farming lads, tramping beside their sleek horses; sunshine among the cronies, seated outside the alehouse, in the warm summer air, but, in the heart of Alizon Errington--ah, there was no sunshine there!
She was walking slowly up and down the terrace of the Hall, dividing her attention between her own sad thoughts, and the gambols of Sammy, who was rolling amid his toys on an outspread bearskin. Straight and slender as an arrow, in her clinging white dress, with a red cluster of summer roses at her throat, but in her face a stern look, which melted into an adoring smile when she looked upon the child.
Since her husband's departure, Lady Errington had not been happy. Perhaps she had been too hasty in judging him, perhaps she might have won him back from his evil ways by kindly words, but there, it was no use regretting the past, he was an exile on the Continent, and she was alone in her beautiful home. Not quite alone, however, for the child was there; her darling child, who was the joy of her life, the light of her eyes, and the comfort of her heart!
Still, she missed her husband, in spite of her self-congratulations that she had acted as she had done; she missed his kindly ways, his affectionate smile, his thousand little acts of tenderness, which had passed unnoticed when done, but now seemed to start out of the past like a reproach for her severity. Had she been too severe after all? He had sinned, it was true! She felt sure that his character, like that of all men, resembled that of her father, and yet--he had indignantly denied his fault; he had pleaded for one kind look, one parting word, and she had refused his prayer. If his heart was evil, would it not have been better for her to have striven to draw it closer to her by that one strand of affection than sever the strand altogether, and let it sink back into the gulf of iniquity from which it strove to emerge.
Alizon Errington was a good woman, who tried to do her best according to her lights, to whom the very thought of vice was utterly abhorrent, yet sometimes, as at this moment, unpleasant accusations of Pharisaism and self-righteousness were in her mind.
All the tenderness and dog-like fidelity of her husband had failed to touch her heart, but now that he had (as she verily believed) slighted her wilfully, and voluntarily left a life of purity for one of guilt, she felt that he was more to her than anyone else in the world, save his child. If his heart, if his instincts, were as evil as she believed, all the more credit to him for the way in which he strove to act honestly, but if on the other hand she had misjudged him and driven a good man into evil by cruel words and harsh looks, then indeed she was to blame. Either way she looked at things now it seemed to her that she was in the wrong, and yet she could not, would not, acknowledge that she had not acted justly.
"If he had only waited for a time," she told herself restlessly. "If he he had only shown by his actions that he desired to do right, I would have believed him in time. But to go back to that vile woman after what I said--no!--he is like all the rest--he makes evil his God, and would break my heart, and ruin his child's future, sooner than deny himself the gratification of his brutal instincts."
Strong words certainly, but then she felt strongly. She was not a broad-minded woman, for the horror with which her father had inspired her, had narrowed down her views of life to Puritanical exactness. She demanded from the world purity--absolute purity--which was an impossibility. What man could come to a woman and say, "I am as pure in my life as you are"? Not one. Why then did she demand it from her husband? but this was quite another view of the question. Her thoughts had gone from one thing to another, until they had become involved and complex.
With a weary sigh she shook her head, as though to drive away all those ideas, and sat down in a low chair, in order to play with the boy.
"Sammy! Sammy! You musn't put pitty things in mouse mouse."
"Mum! mum!" from Sammy, who was making a bold attempt to swallow his coral necklace. Finding this a failure he crawled quickly across the bearskin, drew himself up to his mother's knees, and stood grinning, in a self-congratulatory manner, on his unsteady little legs.
"Come, then," said Alizon, holding out her arms.
Frantic attempts on the part of Sammy to crawl up on her lap, ending with a fall, and then a quick catching up into the desired place under a shower of kisses.
They made a pretty picture, mother and son; the pale, sad-looking woman, with the fresh, rosy boy, and Eustace paused a moment, at the end of the terrace, to admire it. The boy had caught the tortoise-shell pin in his mother's hair with one chubby hand, and, before she could laughingly prevent him, had pulled it out, so that the fair ringlets came falling over her breast in a golden shower.
"Oh, naughty Sammy," she said, gaily tossing him in the air with her two hands. "Look at poor mother's hair--bad child!"
Sammy, however, appeared to have a different opinion, and chuckled indistinctly to himself, until he caught sight of Eustace, of whom he was very fond, and stretched out his arms with a merry crow.
"Mr. Gartney,' said Lady Errington, flushing a rosy red at the disorder of her hair, just see what this scamp has done."
"Young Turk!" said Eustace, taking the boy with a smile, while Alizon hastily twisted up her hair into a loose knot. "How are you, to-day, Lady Errington?"
"Quite well, thank you," she replied quietly, as he sat down near her, with Sammy still on his knee. "I thought you were up in town?"
"So I was. Came down last night," answered Gartney, while the baby made futile grabs at his watch chain. "Well, my prince, and how are you?"
"He's never ill," said the young mother, with great pride. "I never saw such a healthy child. Not an illness since his birth."
"Lucky Sammy! if his future life is only as pleasant as the first year of it, what a delightful time he will have."
Lady Errington's face had grown very grave during this speech, as she had caught sight of the crape on his arm, and suddenly remembered why he had gone up to town.
"You went to the funeral?" she asked, the colour flushing in her face.
"Yes!" he replied, smoothing the child's fair curls with gentle hand. "I went to the funeral. Poor Aunt Jelly! I don't think she was sorry to die."
Alizon made no reply, but sat perfectly still, looking steadily at him with a questioning look on her face. He knew what she so much desired to know, and broke the bad news to her as gently as he was able.
"I heard the will read," he said awkwardly, reddening a little through the bronze of his complexion, "and she has left all her property to me."
"To you?"
"Believe me, I neither expected nor desired it," he cried hastily. "I have got plenty of money, without wishing more, and I thought she was going to leave it to Guy. I really thought she intended to do so."
"My poor child!"
That was all she said--not a thought, not a word of pity for her absent husband. All her sorrow was for the unconscious child playing on Gartney's knee.
"I assure you," began Eustace, feeling like a robber, "that I----"
"That you could not help it," she answered quietly. "I know that perfectly well. Who can be accountable for such things? But I am thinking of the future of my son. This property is deeply mortgaged, and most of the income goes to pay the interest. If Guy lived with me here we might save during the boy's minority, but he is far away spending the money that is to be his son's. I thought Aunt Jelly would have left the boy something, if she did not the father, and now he will be a pauper when he comes of age. This place will have to be sold, and my poor lad will never be Errington of the Hall--Oh, poor soul!--poor soul!"
Her voice ended in a tragic wail, and it was with difficulty that she restrained her tears. Eustace never felt so awkward in his life, as he did not know what to say in excuse for having unwittingly thwarted her hopes. Sammy had clambered down off his knee, and was now contentedly covering his toys with his mother's handkerchief, while she, poor woman, was sitting looking at him silently, with an expression of mute misery on her face.
"Lady Errington," said Eustace earnestly after a pause, "believe me, I am as sorry as you are, but I do not know how to act. I wrote to Guy, offering him half the property by deed of gift, and he refused to take it."
"He could do no less," she answered dully. "What right have we to rob you?"
"It's not robbery," he replied vehemently. "I have more money than I want. Whenever Guy likes to accept, he shall have half the property."
Without answering his question, she looked down at the baby playing at her feet, and then glanced at him keenly. "Where is my husband?" she asked quickly.
"On the Continent--at San Remo."
"With!--with that woman?"
"I!--I don't know," replied Eustace in a low voice, turning his face away.
"Mr. Gartney?"
"Yes, Lady Errington."
"Look me in the face."
He did so unwillingly, and found her eyes fastened on his with a determined expression.
"Is my husband with that woman?"
"No! I don't think so, but I certainly heard she was at San Remo," he answered evasively.
"Ah!" she drew a long breath, and a look of anger swept across her pale face. "He is with her then. I thought so."
"You must not be too hard on Guy," said Eustace, very feebly it must be confessed.
"Hard on Guy," she repeated scornfully. "Hard on a man who leaves his wife and child for a vile woman like that. You, of course, take his side."
"Why should I?" demanded Eustace hotly, "because I am his cousin?"
"No, because you are a man. Men always stand up for one another. It's a kind ofesprit du corpswith them I suppose. It is no wrong to betray a woman in their eyes."
"I don't know why you expect me to stand up for my sex, I'm sure," said Eustace cynically. "I think very little of them I assure you, and am quite incompetent to undertake the Herculean task of defending their failings. I've got too many of my own to account for."
"I've no doubt," replied Lady Errington bitterly. "You men are all the same."
"I sincerely hope not," retorted Eustace imperturbably. "I've no desire to resemble certain fools of my acquaintance. My character is no better nor no worse than my fellow-creatures', and had some good woman like yourself taken charge of my life I might have improved."
"You ought to get married."
"Do you think so--from your own experience?"
She flushed crimson, and in order to hide her confusion stooped down to pick up the child.
"Marriages are made in heaven," she said, trying to pass the thing off lightly.
"I understand there's a tradition to that effect," responded Eustace, indolently. "If that is the case, it is a pity Heaven gives a woman to one man who doesn't care about her, instead of bestowing her on another who cannot be happy without her."
"Is that your case?"
"Yes."
There was a pause, during which she looked at him curiously. He met her gaze calmly, and not an idea of his meaning crossed her mind.
"So you love a married woman?"
"I do, and therefore no doubt am an object of horror in your eyes?"
The child had fallen asleep on her breast, and rising to her feet she walked slowly to and fro, rocking him in her arms.
"I have no right to judge you," she said evasively, "but you can hardly expect me--a wife and a mother--to say that I approve of such a dishonourable passion."
Eustace winced at the scorn of the last words.
"No, I cannot," he answered slowly, "but let me put the case before you in another way. Suppose a woman is married to a man who cares absolutely nothing about her, neglects her in every way, insults her by his passion for another woman----"
"Oh!" she cried, shrinking as if he had struck her a blow.
"I am putting a supposititious case, remember," he said hastily. "Well, this woman has a lover who adores her, but who has never ventured to express this passion, which the world calls dishonourable. The woman returns that passion and has only to say one word to the lover in order to be released from the curse of a loveless marriage, a neglectful husband, an unhappy home. What should that woman do in such a case?"
"Remain true to her marriage vows," she said grandly.
"But if the husband is not true."
"Is she to sink to the level of the husband? No, Mr. Gartney. Let the wife shame the husband by her fidelity to the vows which he has broken."
"And the lover?"
"Is not a true lover, or he would not wish to drag the woman he professes to love through the mud of the world."
"So you would condemn two lives to perpetual misery for the sake of one man, who does not appreciate the sacrifice?"
"Not for the sake of the one man, but for the sake of virtue, of honour, of uprightness."
Eustace was silent under the cold purity of her look. This woman was no dreamer as he had thought, but had a soul like that Roman Lucrece, who preferred death to dishonour.
"Your creed is severe," he said at last, with a frown on his strongly marked features.
"My creed is right," she replied simply.
"Yes! according to the world."
"No! according to God."
As a rule, Gartney was not to be daunted by any woman, but there was something about Alizon Errington that made him afraid to talk in his usual cynical vein. Standing a short distance away, with the child in her arms and the golden glory of the sunshine behind her, this young mother looked like the realisation of the Madonna. So pure, so calm, so lovely, with the look of motherhood in her eyes that he involuntarily turned away his head, as though he was not worthy to profane such purity even by a glance.
"You talk above my head," he said at length, rising to his feet, "it is the language of an ideal world, not to be realized in this matter-of-fact century. But if you will forgive me, Lady Errington----"
"Why not call me Alizon?" she said cordially. "We are cousins, you know, and titles are so formal--Eustace."
"It's very kind of you to grant me such permission," replied Gartney frankly, taking the hand she held out to him. "Goodbye--Alizon."
"Not goodbye, butau revoir."
"May I come over again?" he asked eagerly.
"Of course. I am always glad to see you, besides Sammy loves his kind friend who plays with him."
"And you?"
Their eyes met, a wave of crimson passed over her face, and with an air of displeasure, she turned away coldly, without answering his question.
"Goodbye, Mr. Gartney."
Seeing that his freedom had offended her, he was too wise to make any further remark, but bowing slightly walked slowly away.
At the end of the terrace he looked back, and saw she was bending over the sleeping child, crooning some cradle-song to soothe his slumbers.
"The castle is well defended," he said bitterly, as he resumed his walk. "I will never succeed in entering that heart, for the child stands ever as sentinel."
He mounted his horse and rode slowly down the avenue into the green arcade of trees, through the boughs of which came golden shafts of sunlight.
"A saint! a saint!" he cried, touching his horse with the spur. "And yet the saint drove her husband to evil."
"I'll look my dear boy in the faceIn after years,Without the shadow of disgraceOr shameful tears."Oh, folly did I sin with you,And cause him pain,If hands are clean, and hearts are true,His is the gain."Through future days of toil and fret,Come dull or fair,Dear God, ah, let him ne'er forgetHis mother's care!"
"I'll look my dear boy in the face
In after years,
Without the shadow of disgrace
Or shameful tears.
"Oh, folly did I sin with you,
And cause him pain,
If hands are clean, and hearts are true,
His is the gain.
"Through future days of toil and fret,
Come dull or fair,
Dear God, ah, let him ne'er forget
His mother's care!"
It was very dull down at Castle Grim, for even the bright sunshine of summer could not lift the shadow which seemed to lower over the place. Eustace amused himself as well as he could, strolling on the lonely beach, reading his books, playing his piano, and occasionally visiting at Errington Hall, which he did about three times a week.
Alizon was genuinely glad to see him, as in spite of her desire not to do so she missed her husband more than she cared to say, and Gartney's bright, cheerful talk was a great pleasure to her. Besides, the child was fond of him, and that counted for a great deal in the eyes of the young mother, who was never tired of telling her complaisant visitor about the pretty ways and infantile tricks of her treasure.
As a rule, he rode over in the afternoon and stayed to dinner, after which, he returned to Castle Grim in the shadows of the summer twilight. What long conversations they used to have on the terrace in the gloaming, talks about books, and the burning questions of the day, and travels in far distant lands. Eustace found his companion singularly charming from an intellectual point of view, as, during her lonely girlhood, she had read a great deal, and moreover, remembered what she had read.
They never touched on the subject of their first conversation, however, as Alizon entrenched herself within her reserve, and refused to be drawn into further argument in the matter. Under these circumstances, Eustace was unable to tell whether he had made any impression upon her, and was forced to play the part of an ordinary friend, arôlenot at all to his liking.
After all, it was very questionable whether this platonism would change to a warmer feeling, as the cold demeanour of Alizon entirely forbade, in a tacit manner, any over-stepping of the limit of friendship. Eustace, owing to his inherent cynicism, and peculiar mode of life, had not much belief in woman, but this time he was obliged to confess to himself that he had not entirely mastered the feminine sex.
He loved her devotedly--the actual woman this time--for the pale, virginal vision which had haunted his brain during his travels in Arabia had entirely vanished, and in place of this unsatisfying dream, he adored the living, breathing woman herself. Doubtless he invested the reality with many of the attributes of the ideal, but, at the same time, he found in Alizon Errington the first companion of the other sex, who satisfied his artistic eye and his intellectual desires. Could he have married her, he would have been perfectly happy, and forgotten the old, empty, aimless existence of the past, but, as it was impossible, seeing she was the wife of another man, he could only stand outside the gates of the Paradise he could never hope to enter, and envy the impossible.
All idea that his passion was dishonourable had now vanished, and his dearest hope was that she should divorce her present husband, in order to become his wife. Although he did not understand the actual circumstances of the case, he was well aware that Alizon considered herself outraged by her husband's companionship with Mrs. Veilsturm. He knew that Guy had shown a marked preference for the society of Cleopatra, and, as he had followed his charmer over to the Continent, Eustace began to actually believe that Errington was in love with the beautiful Creole.
"Small blame to him," thought Eustace to himself as he drove over to the Hall one evening. "She set her mind upon making a conquest of him, and when a woman does that, a man may as well give in to the inevitable with a good grace. At all events it's not my fault. I never spoke to Mrs. Veilsturm in any way. I never told his wife about the affair, it's Fate and nothing else, and seeing that he has forgotten all a husband's duties, they will never come together again, so I don't see why I should not profit by the occasion."
In this way did Eustace pacify his conscience to his own satisfaction, although at times he had an uneasy feeling that a good deal of hard, bitter truth underlay all this sophistry. A good many weeks had gone by, and Lady Errington had come to look upon him as a firm friend. Still, not being satisfied with this, and suffering all the tortures of a restless mind, he determined, as soon as possible, to find out if she was prepared to divorce her husband for his infidelity, and, if so, thought he would plead his own cause.
"If there's a chance for me, I'll stay in England and try my hardest," he said to himself as he alighted from the dog-cart at the Hall. "If not, I'll go out to Africa with Laxton."
Javelrack drove the dog-cart off in the direction of the stables, and Eustace, after one look at the opaline evening sky, in which glimmered a pale star over the treetops, went inside, where Lady Errington was expecting him to dinner.
She was in the little Dutch room, which was her favourite, and when Eustace was announced by the servant, was standing by the table tossing Sammy in the air, while Tasker, well pleased, waited to bear off the young gentleman to bed.
"See my treasure?" she cried, as Gartney approached her, "he has come to say good-night. Excuse me shaking hands, Eustace."
"Certainly, I yield to stronger claims," said Gartney, looking at the laughing child, and at the happy young mother, in her long, white, dinner-dress. "You ought to be in your nursery, you young scamp."
"So he ought," laughed Lady Errington, devouring the baby face with kisses, "but he cried for me so much that Nurse had to bring him down."
"He hollered, sir," confirmed Mrs. Tasker, placidly. "I never did see sich a child for his mother."
"The sweetest, dearest treasure in the world!" said Alizon taking Sammy across to his nurse, "here, Nurse, take him--oh! he's got my flowers, naughty boy."
And indeed, Master Errington, crowing with delight, carried off a mangled geranium in triumph to his nursery, kicking vigorously in Mrs. Tasker's strong arms.
"How you idolize that child, Alizon," said Eustace enviously.
"He is all I have in the world," she replied with a sigh. "I don't know what I should do without him."
"Don't inspire the angels with envy," murmured Gartney, a little cruelly, "it might be dangerous for him."
"Oh!"
She laid her hand on her heart with a cry, and a pallor over-spread her face.
"It is cruel to talk like that," she said hurriedly; "you don't think he looks ill, do you? He's such a strong child. There's no chance of his dying. Oh, Eustace, you don't think that, do you?"
"No! no! of course I don't," he replied, soothingly. "Don't get these foolish fancies into your head. Sammy will live to be a great trouble to you I've no doubt."
"He'll never be that," answered Lady Errington, recovering herself. "Ah! there's the gong."
"Dinner is served, my lady," announced a servant at the door, and taking Gartney's arm, she went with him into the dining-room.
It was "Alizon" and "Eustace" with them now, for after all, they were cousins, if only by marriage, and it was so disagreeable to constantly use the formality of titles. Still, there was always that indefinable barrier between them, which kept Eustace within the limits of kindly friendship, and on her part, Alizon never forgot her dignity as a married woman.
"It's very kind of you, Alizon, to take pity on a poor hermit," said Gartney, towards the end of the meal, "but I don't know what the county will say at thistête-à-têtedinner."
"The county can hardly complain, seeing we are cousins."
"By marriage."
"Yes, by marriage," she assented, changing the conversation from such a distasteful subject, which reminded her of Guy. "By the way, Eustace, I want you to sing to me this evening."
"I think I do that pretty nearly every time I come over," replied Eustace, smiling. "Is there anything special you want?"
"I remember your improvisation at Como about the fairy and the nightingale. It was very charming."
"Ah! you remember that?" he cried, his face lighting up. "It was too delightful to forget."
Eustace laughed a trifle disbelievingly.
"Is that genuine, or a society romance?"
"I always say what I mean," she answered, with cold dignity.
"I'm glad everybody else does not," retorted Gartney fervently. "What a disagreeable world it would be, if that was the case."
"A very honest world, at all events."
"And therefore disagreeable--the two are inseparable."
"Why should they be?"
"Ah! why shouldn't they?" said Eustace meaningly. "If the truth was pleasant, nobody would mind hearing it, but then the truth is not always pleasant."
"That is the fault of the person spoken of."
"I daresay, but he doesn't look at it in that philosophical light."
"You are as cynical as ever," she said with a sigh, as she arose to leave the table.
"The fault of the world, as I said before," he responded, opening the door. "I would like to believe in my fellow-creatures, only they won't let me."
When she had vanished, he returned to his wine, and began to ponder over her words. He saw plainly enough that she did not care about him at all, but with ingrained vanity and egotism would not admit the coldness to himself.
"I'll try what a song can do," he thought, as he followed her to the drawing-room. "I can say in a song what I dare not say in plain words."
Of course, Lady Errington had run up to the nursery to take a look at the baby, but shortly afterwards came down with an apology, to find Eustace seated at the piano.
Outside was the luminous twilight of July, with a pale, starlit sky, arched over the prim Dutch garden. The windows were open, and a warm breath of summer, heavy with the perfume of flowers, floated into the room. The sombre trees stood black and dense against the clear sky, the garden was filled with wavering shadows, and a nightingale was singing deliciously in the heart of the still leaves as the bats glided like ghosts through the air. Lady Errington established herself in a comfortable chair near the open window, with a white wrap as a protection against the falling dews, and Eustace, sitting at the Erard, in the bright light of the lamp, ran his fingers delicately over the keys.
"What can I do against that immortal music?" he said absently, alluding to the nightingale.
"Hark how the bursts come crowding through the trees.What passion, and what pain."
"Hark how the bursts come crowding through the trees.What passion, and what pain."
"You don't know Matthew Arnold's poems, I suppose, Lady Errington?"
"Ah! you are wrong there," she replied quietly. "I am very fond of his melancholy verse."
"Very melancholy," he answered musingly. "I agree with you there. I wonder, if in the whole range of English literature, there is a more bitterly true line than that famous one:
"'We mortal millions live alone.'"
"'We mortal millions live alone.'"
"That is not my favourite," said Alizon dreamily, "I like that couplet:
"'And bade betwixt their shores to beThe unplumb'd salt estranging sea.'"
"'And bade betwixt their shores to beThe unplumb'd salt estranging sea.'"
"It means very much the same thing," observed Eustace after a pause, "and it's in the same poem, I think. But how true it is! Lovers, friends, married or single, we all live alone, isolated by the 'estranging sea.' No one really knows the heart of a fellow-creature."
"But surely if a perfect harmony exists----"
"There is always a something," said Gartney decisively, "like the perfume of a flower, the sigh of a wind, the throb of joy in the voice of a bird, that escapes us utterly. It is felt, but cannot be communicated."
"A sad idea."
"Very sad, but alas, very true."
There was a silence between them for a few minutes, only broken by the song of the hidden bird and the ripple of notes from the piano, and then Eustace, with a deep sigh, shook off his sombre thoughts and spoke cheerfully.
"I must sing you something, Lady Errington," he said lightly, "all this conversation will make you melancholy."
"I like to feel melancholy. It's suitable to the hour."
"Then I must make my song the same," he observed gaily, and thereupon played a soft dreamy prelude, at the end of which his sweet, sympathetic voice arose tenderly on the still air:
I."I love a star that shines aboveWhen day is blending with the night,Alas, what pain this foolish love,Such worship brings but cold delight.I cannot scale the twilight sky,My love to tell in accents sweet;It comes not down altho' I sigh,And So my star I ne'er can meet.II."Oh foolish heart! oh cruel star!Your love I dare not hope to gain;Yet still you shine each night afar,To mock my anguish and my painAnd yet thou art so sweet, so pure,I may not--dare not thee forsake;For tho' this pain for aye endureI'll love thee--but my heart will break."
"I love a star that shines above
When day is blending with the night,
Alas, what pain this foolish love,
Such worship brings but cold delight.
I cannot scale the twilight sky,
My love to tell in accents sweet;
It comes not down altho' I sigh,
And So my star I ne'er can meet.
"Oh foolish heart! oh cruel star!
Your love I dare not hope to gain;
Yet still you shine each night afar,
To mock my anguish and my pain
And yet thou art so sweet, so pure,
I may not--dare not thee forsake;
For tho' this pain for aye endure
I'll love thee--but my heart will break."
"The story of an impossible love," said Lady Errington when he ended.
"Yes! It is called 'My Star in Heaven.'"
"As if any man loved so hopelessly and purely--absurd!"
"There are more varieties of the human race than you know of, Alizon."
"No doubt. But I'm not particularly impressed with those I have met with."
"You are talking of me."
"I am talking of my husband."
Eustace left the piano and stepped outside into the beautiful still night. The moon was looking over the fantastic gables of the hall, and filled the garden with trembling shadows. It was exquisitely beautiful, but human beings bring the prose of life into all the poetry of Nature. Eustace did so now.
"May I smoke a cigarette, Alizon?"
"Certainly!"
He lighted a cigarette and leaned against the wall of the house, watching the ghostly curls of smoke melting in the moonshine. Both were silent for a few minutes, occupied with their own thoughts, and then Eustace spoke.
"Why don't you divorce your husband?"
Lady Errington started violently, for, strange to say, she was thinking of the same thing. She felt inclined to resent Gartney's plain speaking, but the light from the lamp was striking full on his grave face, and, seeing how much in earnest he was, she changed her mind.
"I shall never do that," she replied quietly, with a slight shiver. It might have been the night air or the idea of divorce, but she shivered as she spoke.
"Why not?"
"Can you ask? Think of the disgrace it would be to the child."
It was all over. Eustace had an intuitive feeling that the last word had been said on the subject. She would never divorce her husband, she would never listen to his offers of affection, for the child was at once her safeguard and her idol.
Had he been wise he would have said nothing more. Not being wise, however, he did.
"You have been very kind to me, Alizon," he said slowly, "very--very kind, and I shall treasure your kindness in my heart when I leave you."
"Where are you going?" she asked in a startled tone.
"I am going to Africa."
"Have you any reason?"
"The best of all possible reasons. I love you too well for my own peace of mind."
Lady Errington arose, with a slight cry, from her chair, and stood looking at him with wild eyes.
"Are you mad?"
"I have been," he answered sadly, "but I am mad no longer."
She put out her hand to grasp the back of the chair and steady herself, still looking at him in amazement. She was not indignant--she was not angered--she was simply bewildered.
"I don't understand you," she said at length, in a dull tone. "What are you saying to me? What do you mean?"
"I mean that I love you too well for my own peace of mind," he said steadily.
"Love me?--the wife of another man!"
"Will you sit down, Lady Errington?" observed Eustace, in a measured tone; "I will tell you all."
"I cannot listen. Such words from you are an insult."
"You will not say so when you hear what I have to tell."
Alizon sat down again in her chair, clasped her slender hands together, then, looking steadily at his face, made a sign for him to go on, but otherwise gave no token of emotion.
"When I met you at Como," said Eustace, his usually slow enunciation quickened by a powerful emotion, "I fell in love with you. Ah, you need not make that gesture of indignation--the passion was none of my seeking. The most virtuous woman could take no exception to such unrequited homage. I always was a strange man in my likes and dislikes, as you have no doubt heard. Never before had I met a woman I cared about. They tired me with their falseness and follies, but in you I saw for the first time an ideal which had been in my mind for many years. I dared not speak, as you were the wife of my cousin, and it would have been dishonourable, therefore I went away, and for many months strove to forget. Nature, however, was stronger than I was, and when I came back and saw you again, I found that I was more in love than ever. Still I said nothing, and kept out of your presence as much as I was able. Through the difference between yourself and Guy, I was unavoidably forced to see you often. What could I do? A man's passions are not always under his control. All women are not as pure and cold as you. I was afraid of myself, I was afraid of you, and in order to solve the difficulty I did my best to bring you and Guy together. I spoke to you--I spoke to Guy--but all was useless. He has gone back to Mrs. Veilsturm, and forgets with her all his duties to you. I do not say he is right, but I say he is much to be pitied. Still, whatever my feelings may be towards him, the actual facts remain the same. He is with another woman, and you are left alone in the world. I foolishly dreamed that it might be my fate to release you from this unhappy position. I thought you might divorce the husband who has wronged you, but you refuse to do so, for the sake of the child. Ah, that is the god of your idolatry--you care for nothing in the world save your child. It is the selfish passion of motherhood--pure, good, elevating --but still selfish. It is the child that came between you and your husband--it is the child who comes now between you and me. My love remains unaltered--it will always be the same--and had you been free I might have spoken to you without dishonour. You refuse to loosen the bonds of your loveless marriage, and as I cannot be your lover or your husband, I dare not be your friend. Your husband is parted from you--he will never return. I am going away on a perilous journey--I will never return. Therefore you will be alone with what you love best in the world--your child."
With her clear eyes fixed steadily on his face she heard him to the end of this long speech without a quiver of the eyelids--without the trembling of her lip--and when he finished:
"So I am the married woman you said you loved?" she asked coldly.
"Yes! and you say----"
"I say now what I said then," she answered sternly, "no man can be a true lover if he would wish to drag the woman he loves through the mud of the world."
Eustace flushed deeply.
"You misunderstand me," he said hurriedly; "I do not want to drag you down. I would not have spoken, only I thought a divorce----"
"A divorce!" she echoed, rising to her feet, "and what is that but dishonour to me and to the child?"
"Always the child," he said sullenly.
"And why not? The only pure thing in the world I have to love. My husband has deceived me. You have changed from a friend to a lover. I cannot listen to you without dishonour. What you said was perfectly true--my love for the child is the selfish passion of motherhood. I pardon the words which you have spoken to me to-night, but we must never meet again."
"We will not," he muttered hoarsely, "I leave England for ever."
"Then we understand each other, and nothing now remains but to say goodbye."
"Have you no word of pity?"
"I am sorry for your foolish passion," she said gently, "but can I say more without lowering myself in your eyes?
"No--you are right. It is best for me to go. The star will never come down from Heaven for me, but it will always shine there."
He caught her hand and touched it with his hot lips.
"Goodbye, Alizon. God--God bless you, my dearest!"
Was it a fancy that a burning tear had fallen on her chill hand? She looked, and lo! her hand was wet. The door had closed--she was alone in the room, deserted both by husband and lover.
"Poor Eustace," she said softly, "I am sorry for his madness; but if he is unhappy I also am miserable. My husband and friend have both left me, but I have always my child."
"Dead! Deed!His soul hath sped,The turf lies over his golden head."Cold! Cold!In churchyard mould,And just one stroke hath the death-bell tolled."Child! Child!The angels smiled,Then carried thee heavenward undefiled."
"Dead! Deed!His soul hath sped,The turf lies over his golden head.
"Cold! Cold!In churchyard mould,And just one stroke hath the death-bell tolled.
"Child! Child!The angels smiled,Then carried thee heavenward undefiled."
After the departure of Eustace, life went on in the same old fashion at the Hall. Alizon passed her days and nights with Sammy, received the few visitors that called, and was as happy as she could be under the circumstances. She deeply regretted the kind friend who had been such a comfort to her in her loneliness, but looking back on what she had done, could not wish things otherwise. True, he had spoken most delicately, and in such a way as could offend no woman, still she was glad that he had gone, as his presence would have been a perpetual reminder to her of his unhappy passion.
"If I had married him," she thought sometimes, "perhaps he would have made me a better husband than Guy. But no! his love was a mere passion of envy, wishing for what he could not obtain. Had I been single, very probably he would not have spoken to me as he did. The fact that I am the wife of another man is the true reason of his desire that I should love him. Ah! these men, they are all the same. Eustace is a poet, and his pleading was more delicate than another man's would have been, but his instincts resemble those of the rest of his sex."
Thus she talked to herself, trying to harden her heart against the misery of the man who loved her so devotedly and hopelessly. He was going away from England, to exile, perhaps to death, and all for her sake; even the least vain of woman could not but feel a thrill of responsive feeling to such unutterable worship. But whenever she found herself thinking in this dangerous fashion, she tried to change the current of her thoughts. She was the wife of Guy Errington, and, little as he deserved it, he had a right to expect entire purity of thought and deed in his wife, yet, in spite of her Puritanical nature, she dreamed at times of the unhappy exile whose love she had rejected.
Guy never wrote to his wife, nor gave any sign of existence, and she, on her part, acted in the same way, so it seemed as if their lives were parted for ever. Yet she frequently thought about him and began to believe that she had been too harsh in her judgment. If such was the case, let him come back and ask her forgiveness. If he did so--well she might pardon him, and then--but no, there could never be any trust or affection between them. The phantom of the past would always come between them; so far as she could see, nothing remained to make her life happy but the child.
Sammy was the idol of her heart. She forgot everything when she had him in her arms, and she felt that the whole world might go to ruin as long as this blue-eyed darling was left untouched, safe on the tender bosom of his mother. In her daily life she adapted all things to suit the living of her child, and never knew a happy moment when she was away from his side.
The first thing in the morning the child was brought down to her bedroom, and sprawled on the coverlet, while she lay looking at him with happy eyes, babbling fond nonsense suited to his baby understanding. When he slept in the morning she sat beside his crib watching the flushed little face, the tangled golden curls, and the tiny dimpled hands. She went out with him for his daily drive, accompanied by Mrs. Tasker, and would hardly let that worthy woman touch him, so jealous she was of his liking for anyone save herself. He played at her feet for hours, and she sat beside him in a low chair singing tender little songs, playing baby games, amusing him with his toys, and when he grew fretful with wakefulness, lulled him to sleep on her breast. Every hour of the day she found some new perfection in him, she was never tired of talking about his clever ways, his infantile wisdom, his loving disposition, and when he was laid to rest at night, she hung over him like an enamoured lover breathing blessings on his unconscious head.
The world will doubtless laugh at such tender devotion, at such intense absorption in an unformed infant, but no one but a woman, no one but a mother, can understand the wondrous power of maternal love that dominates every other feeling in the feminine heart. All the passion of lovers, the ecstacies of poets, the blind adoration of men for those they love, pale before this strongest of all feelings implanted in the human breast. Perhaps some will say that self-preservation is stronger, but this is not so, as a mother in an extreme case will sacrifice her life for that of her child, thereby proving the superiority of the maternal feeling.
In this worship of the child she forgot earth, she forgot heaven, she forgot God.
And God punished her.
Sammy was cutting his teeth, and was feverish and fretful for some days, but although every care was lavished upon him neither Alizon nor Mrs. Tasker deemed the illness to be anything worse than a slight infantile malady. But one evening, Alizon bending over his sleeping form, saw his face grow black, his little limbs begin to twitch, and in a moment the poor child was in strong convulsions. Pale with terror, she shrieked for Mrs. Tasker and sent off a groom at once for the village doctor who had attended to Sammy since his birth. Mrs. Tasker, terribly anxious, yet restraining herself so as not to affright the agonised mother, did what she could under the circumstances and placed the child in a hot bath. The doctor arrived as quickly as possible, but he was too late--the child was dead.
Dead!
When the doctor told her, she could not believe it, and throwing herself on her knees beside the tiny corpse, tried in vain to see some sign of life. Alas it was all in vain, and after an hour of agonising dread she was obliged to accept the inevitable.
She did not lament, she did not weep, but only sat in dumb tearless silence by the side of her dead child. One thing only she muttered, with ashen lips, and restless hands plucking at her dress.
"It is the judgment of God, because I loved His creature better than Himself."
There is no grief so terrible as that silent, self-concentrated agony which gives no sign. All through the lonely hours of the night she sat beside the crib, where all that she held dearest and best was lying stiff and cold, the tiny hands crossed on the breast, a smile on the placid little face. They tried in vain to persuade her to go to bed, to take some refreshment, to leave the room where the dead child lay, but all in vain, for rejecting all offers of consolation and kindness, she sat frozen with grief in the darkened room.
The morning came, the time that she had been accustomed to hear the merry little voice and see the happy face, but the voice was silent now for evermore, and the face--could that still, white mask be the face she had seen smiling in her own, the face that she had covered so often with kisses? She could not cry, although tears would have been a relief, she could not talk, although it would have eased her pain, she could only sit in a trance of speechless, thoughtless horror beside her dead.
Mrs. Tasker, wise old woman that she was, knew that unless something was done, and that speedily, to rouse her mistress from this apathetic state, there would be danger of the mind becoming unhinged, so finding out Mr. Gartney's address in London, which she obtained by sending over to Castle Grim, sent a telegram and afterwards a letter to him urging him to bring the husband, the father, to the stricken mother.
Eustace was leading an aimless life in Town, when he received the news, and was terribly grieved about it. Without delay, he wired to Errington at San Remo, and then wrote to Victoria at Dunkeld Castle, asking her to come at once to the unhappy woman. Mrs. Macjean, much moved by the intelligence, came south without delay, in company with her husband, and went down to the Hall. The sight of the young bride's kind face did more good to Lady Errington than anything else, and after all the apathy and horror of those dark days succeeding the death, the blessed tears came to relieve her overburdened heart. The two women wept in one another's arms, and hand in hand stood by the little coffin wherein lay the tiny body of the child. Otterburn kept out of their way as much as he could, feeling that his rough masculine nature was but ill-suited to this house of mourning, but attended to all the details of the funeral pending the arrival of Errington.
And Guy?
Surely he would come over now that his child was dead, come over to bury his first-born and console the afflicted mother! Eustace waited hopefully for a telegram saying that he was on his way, but at length received a wire asking him to come over to San Remo and see his cousin there. He crushed the telegram up in his hand with an oath.
"Good God!" he said to himself in dismay, "surely that woman cannot have besotted him so far that he cannot come to the funeral of his own child."
He did not hesitate a moment, but wrote a letter to Otterburn at the Hall, telling him he was going over to San Remo to bring back Errington, and then, hastily packing a few things, started from Victoria Station for the Continent.
During the last few weeks since his departure from Castle Grim, he had arranged all his affairs prior to his departure for Africa. Laxton was still in Town as, Otterburn being married, he had not been able to find anyone to go with him as a companion, so when Eustace offered himself, he was greatly delighted. It had been Laxton's intention to go down to Cape Town, but Gartney persuaded him to alter his destination to the Nile, and, go far up into Nubia, in order to follow in the footsteps of Speke and Bruce. This arrangement was satisfactory, and Eustace and his friend began to arrange everything for their trip, which now began to assume more the appearance of an exploring expedition than a mere shooting excursion.
When he had to go to San Remo in order to bring back Guy, all the preparations were left in Laxton's hands, which did not, by any means, prove irksome to that young man, as he was going in heart and soul for the business.
Eustace, as he stood on the deck of a Channel steamer in the dark night, drinking in the sea breezes, thought all the time of the woman he loved kneeling beside the open coffin.
"She has nothing to care for now," he said to himself. "God has taken away her idol, so if I bring back Guy with me, she will forgive and love him for coming to her in her sorrow."
The fact was, that for the first time in his life Gartney was sacrificing self for the benefit of other people. Hitherto he had gratified without scruple all his egotistical desires, but the hopeless love he cherished for Alizon Ellington had brought to light the nobler traits of his nature, and probably he was never a better man than now, when he was striving to bring wife and husband together for their mutual happiness before leaving his native country for an everlasting exile, and perchance death in a savage land.