Part 81 (1/2)

”Toast till the day of my death--tell your mistress that!” he replied; and partly from shame at his unaccountable vehemence, he paused in his sponging, meditated, and chilled. An a.s.sociation of toast with spectral things grew in his mind, when presently the girl's voice was heard: ”Please, sir, did say you'd have toast, or not, this morning?” It cost him an effort to answer simply, ”Yes.”

That she should continue, ”Not sir?” appeared like perversity. ”No aig?”

was maddening.

”Well, no; never mind it this morning,” said he.

”Not this morning,” she repeated.

”Then it will not be till the day of your death, as you said,” she is thinking that, was the idea running in his brain, and he was half ready to cry out ”Stop,” and renew his order for toast, that he might seem consecutive. The childishness of the wish made him ask himself what it mattered. ”I said 'Not till the day;' so, none to-day would mean that I have reached the day.” s.h.i.+vering with the wet on his pallid skin, he thought this over.

His landlady had used her discretion, and there was toast on the table.

A beam of Spring's morning sunlight illuminated the toast-rack. He sat, and ate, and munched the doubt whether ”not till” included the final day, or stopped short of it. By this the state of his brain may be conceived. A longing for beauty, and a dark sense of an incapacity to thoroughly enjoy it, tormented him. He sent for his landlady's canary, and the ready shrill song of the bird persuaded him that much of the charm of music is wilfully swelled by ourselves, and can be by ourselves withdrawn: that is to say, the great chasm and spell of sweet sounds is a.s.sisted by the force of our imaginations. What is that force?--the heat and torrent of the blood. When that exists no more--to one without hope, for instance--what is music or beauty? Intrinsically, they are next to nothing. He argued it out so, and convinced himself of his own delusions, till his hand, being in the sunlight, gave him a pleasant warmth. ”That's something we all love,” he said, glancing at the blue sky above the roofs. ”But there's little enough of it in this climate,”

he thought, with an eye upon the darker corners of his room. When he had eaten, he sent word to his landlady to make up his week's bill. The week was not at an end, and that good woman appeased before him, astonished, saying: ”To be sure, your habits is regular, but there's little items one I'll guess at, and how make out a bill, Sir Purcy, and no items?”

He nodded his head.

”The country again?” she asked smilingly.

”I am going down there,” he said.

”And beautiful at this time of the year, it is! though, for market gardening, London beats any country I ever knew; and if you like creature comforts, I always say, stop in London! And then the policemen!

who really are the greatest comfort of all to us poor women, and seem sent from above especially to protect our weakness. I do a.s.sure you, Sir Purcy, I feel it, and never knew a right-minded woman that did not. And how on earth our grandmothers contrived to get about without them! But there! people who lived before us do seem like the most uncomfortable!

When--my goodness! we come to think there was some lived before tea!

Why, as I say over almost every cup I drink, it ain't to be realized.

It seems almost wicked to say it, Sir Purcy; but it's my opinion there ain't a Christian woman who's not made more of a Christian through her tea. And a man who beats his wife my first question is, 'Do he take his tea regular?' For, depend upon it, that man is not a tea-drinker at all.”

He let her talk away, feeling oddly pleased by this mundane chatter, as was she to pour forth her inmost sentiments to a baronet.

When she said: ”Your fire shall be lighted to-night to welcome you,”

the man looked up, and was going to request that the trouble might be spared, but he nodded. His ghost saw the burning fire awaiting him. Or how if it sparkled merrily, and he beheld it with his human eyes that night? His beloved would then have touched him with her hand--yea, brought the dead to life! He jumped to his feet, and dismissed the worthy dame. On both sides of him, 'Yes,' and 'No,' seemed pressing like two hostile powers that battled for his body. They shrieked in his ears, plucked at his fingers. He heard them hus.h.i.+ng deeply as he went to his pistol-case, and drew forth one--he knew not which.

CHAPTER LVI

On a wild April morning, Emilia rose from her bed and called to mind a day of the last year's Spring when she had watched the cloud streaming up, and felt that it was the curtain of an unknown glory. But now it wore the aspect of her life itself, with nothing hidden behind those stormy folds, save peace. South-westward she gazed, eyeing eagerly the struggle of twisting vapour; long flying edges of silver went by, and mounds of faint crimson, and here and there a closing s.p.a.ce of blue, swift as a thought of home to a soldier in action. The heavens were like a battle-field. Emilia shut her lips hard, to check an impulse of prayer for Merthyr fighting in Italy: for he was in Italy, and she once more among the Monmouth hills: he was in Italy fighting, and she chained here to her miserable promise! Three days after she had given the promise to Wilfrid, Merthyr left, shaking her hand like any common friend.

Georgiana remained, by his desire, to protect her. Emilia had written to Wilfrid for release, but being no apt letter-writer, and hating the task, she was soon involved by him in a complication of bewildering sentiments, some of which she supposed she was bound to feel, while perhaps one or two she did feel, at the summons. The effect was that she lost the true wording of her blunt pet.i.tion for release: she could no longer put it bluntly. But her heart revolted the more, and gave her sharp eyes to see into his selfishness. The purgatory of her days with Georgiana, when the latter was kept back from her brother in his peril, spurred Emilia to renew her appeal; but she found that all she said drew her into unexpected traps and pitfalls. There was only one thing she could say plainly: ”I want to go.” If she repeated this, Wilfrid was ready with citations from her letters, wherein she had said 'this,'

and 'that,' and many other phrases. His epistolary power and skill in arguing his own case were creditable to him. Affected as Emilia was by other sensations, she could not combat the idea strenuously suggested by him, that he had reason to complain of her behaviour. He admitted his special faults, but, by distinctly tracing them to their origin, he complacently hinted the excuse for them. Moreover, and with artistic ability, he painted such a sentimental halo round the 'sacredness of her pledged word,' that Emilia could not resist a superst.i.tious notion about it, and about what the breaking of it would imply. Georgiana had removed her down to Monmouth to be out of his way. A constant flight of letters pursued them both, for Wilfrid was far too clever to allow letters in his hand-writing to come for one alone of two women shut up in a country-house together. He saw how the letterless one would sit speculating shrewdly and spitefully; so he was careful to amuse his mystified Dragon, while he drew nearer and nearer to his gold apple.

Another object was, that by getting Georgiana to consent to become in part his confidante, he made it almost a point of honour for her to be secret with Lady Charlotte.

At last a morning came with no Brookfield letter for either of them. The letters stopped from that time. It was almost as if a great buzzing had ceased in Emilia's ears, and she now heard her own sensations clearly.

To Georgiana's surprise, she manifested no apprehension or regret. ”Or else,” the lady thought, ”she wears a mask to me;” and certainly it was a pale face that Emilia was beginning to wear. At last came April and its wild morning. No little female hypocrisies pa.s.sed between them when they met; they shook hands at arm's length by the breakfast-table. Then Emilia said: ”I am ready to go to Italy: I will go at once.”

Georgiana looked straight at her, thinking: ”This is a fit of indignation with Wilfrid.” She answered: ”Italy! I fancied you had forgotten there was such a country.”

”I don't forget my country and my friends,” said Emilia.