Part 22 (1/2)
”You mustn't try and find out where I am going; I know you won't if I beg you, nor any one else. It would make everything so much harder for me.
”Angele knows; she has promised me not to tell. I should like to have a line from you very much. If you send it to her she will send it on to me.
”Dear Taffy, next to Little Billee, I love you and the Laird better than any one else in the whole world. I've never known real happiness till I met you. You have changed me into another person--you and Sandy and Little Billee.
”Oh, it _has_ been a jolly time, though it didn't last long. It will have to do for me for life. So good-bye. I shall never, never forget; and remain, with dearest love,
”Your ever faithful and most affectionate friend,
”TRILBY O'FERRALL.
”P.S.--When it has all blown over and settled again, if it ever does, I shall come back to Paris, perhaps, and see you again some day.”
The good Taffy pondered deeply over this letter--read it half a dozen times at least; and then he kissed it, and put it back into its envelope and locked it up.
He knew what very deep anguish underlay this somewhat trivial expression of her sorrow.
He guessed how Trilby, so childishly impulsive and demonstrative in the ordinary intercourse of friends.h.i.+p, would be more reticent than most women in such a case as this.
He wrote to her warmly, affectionately, at great length, and sent the letter as she had told him.
The Laird also wrote a long letter full of tenderly worded friends.h.i.+p and sincere regard. Both expressed their hope and belief that they would soon see her again, when the first bitterness of her grief would be over, and that the old pleasant relations would be renewed.
And then, feeling wretched, they went and silently lunched together at the Cafe de l'Odeon, where the omelets were good and the wine wasn't blue.
Late that evening they sat together in the studio, reading. They found they could not talk to each other very readily without Little Billee to listen--three's company sometimes and two's none!
Suddenly there was a tremendous getting up the dark stairs outside in a violent hurry, and Little Billee burst into the room like a small whirlwind--haggard, out of breath, almost speechless at first with excitement.
”Trilby? where is she?... what's become of her?... She's run away ...
oh! She's written me such a letter!... We were to have been married ...
at the Emba.s.sy ... my mother ... she's been meddling; and that cursed old a.s.s ... that beast ... my uncle!... They've been here! I know all about it.... Why didn't you stick up for her?...”
”I did ... as well as I could. Sandy couldn't stand it, and cut.”
”_You_ stuck up for her ... _you_--why, you agreed with my mother that she oughtn't to marry me--you--you false friend--you.... Why, she's an angel--far too good for the likes of _me_ ... you know she is. As ... as for her social position and all that, what degrading rot! Her father was as much a gentleman as mine ... besides ... what the devil do I care for her father?... it's _her_ I want--_her_--_her_--_her_, I tell you.... I can't _live_ without her.... I must have her _back_--I must have her _back_ ... do you _hear_? We were to have lived together at Barbizon ...
all our lives--and I was to have painted stunning pictures ... like those other fellows there. Who cares for _their_ social position, I should like to know ... or that of their wives? _d.a.m.n_ social position!... we've often said so--over and over again. An artist's life should be _away_ from the world--above all that meanness and paltriness ... all in his work. Social position, indeed! Over and over again we've said what fetid, b.e.s.t.i.a.l rot it all was--a thing to make one sick and shut one's self away from the world.... Why say one thing and act another?... Love comes before all--love levels all--love and art ... and beauty--before such beauty as Trilby's rank doesn't exist. Such rank as mine, too! Good G.o.d! I'll never paint another stroke till I've got her back ... never, never, I tell you--I can't--I won't!...”
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”'TRILBY! WHERE IS SHE?'”]
And so the poor boy went on, tearing and raving about in his rampage, knocking over chairs and easels, stammering and shrieking, mad with excitement.
They tried to reason with him, to make him listen, to point out that it was not her social position alone that unfitted her to be his wife and the mother of his children, etc.
It was no good. He grew more and more uncontrollable, became almost unintelligible, he stammered so--a pitiable sight and pitiable to hear.
”Oh! oh! good heavens! are you so precious immaculate, you two, that you should throw stones at poor Trilby! What a shame, what a hideous shame it is that there should be one law for the woman and another for the man!... poor weak women--poor, soft, affectionate things that beasts of men are always running after and pestering and ruining and trampling underfoot.... Oh! oh! it makes me sick--it makes me sick!” And finally he gasped and screamed and fell down in a fit on the floor.