by Fiona Hill
Upstairs, Daphne was in an agony of indecision. It happened that her bed-chamber was fixed just above the entrance to the Abbey. Looking down on the previous day, she had seen Christian enter. The knowledge that he was so close to her—even though made inaccessible by her own scruples—filled her with a strange jubilance, then an uncontrollable trembling. She was astonished to find, as she stood at the window and watched him disappear into the house, that her heart actually hurt—indeed, ached. It was dreadful to know that the mere sight of him could affect her so deeply, in spite of all her resolutions, in spite of the pain she had undergone since their last meeting, in spite of her illness, and in spite of having cut him dead at Vauxhall. What was it? Her mind freely admitted that she knew little of him indeed, yet her body seemed to strain towards his, and her spirit—this was worst of all—still had not learnt to blush at this most uninvited passion. She did not feel, nor had she ever felt, any shame in her love for him. In vain the remonstrances of conscience; in vain the arguments of reason…“Le coeur a ses raisons, que la raison ne connaît point,” says Pascal, and Daphne’s heart during the long night of Christian’s arrival proved much wiser than the discourse of her logic. She did not come down to breakfast because she wished to meet him alone, and when she did appear at last it was to gaze at him across the empty drawing-room with eyes heavy from sleeplessness and a heart weary with mute conflict.
He was playing the Andante movement of a sonata he had composed himself; his eyes, which had been straying blindly towards the French doors of the drawing-room, caught her movement as she entered and came to rest on her. For a moment his fingers slowed on the ivory keys; then he returned his attention to them and completed the remaining measures of the Andante. It was a sweet, sad melody, with a melancholy theme which echoed and reechoed through many variations. She closed the doors soundlessly behind her and crossed the room to him, as if drawn by the rich, sombre music. When he had done he took his hands from the keys and gave them to her, and for a long moment they looked at one another in silence.
A thousand phrases passed through her mind. She wanted to apologise for having doubted him, for having cut him, for being unable even now to forgive him fully. His long, slender fingers entwined with hers, and she said nothing. At last he bent his gleaming blond head to her hands, held them within his, and kissed them. Lifting his liquid green eyes to her own dark ones, he stood and kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her lips. He kissed her as one plucks petals from a flower: delicately, indolently, with a tremor as if stealing from the gods. She returned his embrace and felt his heart beat against hers.
“You are tired,” he whispered, noticing her pale cheeks and the shadows beneath her eyes. “Are you ill again? I was worried.”
“No, Christian,” she replied. “I think I shall be well now.”
He smiled and they stood a little apart from one another, their hands still joined. “You are brave to come to me here, but it is not wise.”
“I do not care.”
“But you must care.”
She sighed. “Very well then, I will begin to care.”
“Say you will meet me in the farthest garden, by the pool, at four o’clock. We may slip into the woods beyond it, and no one will see us. Here, any one may walk in.”
“How practised you are in these arrangements,” she said.
“How cruel you are to remark upon it.”
“How hard we have both been to one another,” she said in a low voice.
“We will make up for it.”
She did not answer—merely bowed her head and quitted the room—but at four o’clock she met him by the still pool. He had gone there earlier, and awaited her.
“Did you have much trouble in slipping away?” he asked.
“No.” She had been obliged to lie to Latimer in order to leave the Abbey, but it pained her so much even to think of this that she did not wish to mention it.
Christian looked round. A few figures were visible in the garden plot closest to the building, but they were too distant for him to make out their identities. Satisfied that they were not observed, he took Daphne’s hand and led her towards the small spinney. To leave the garden it was necessary to cross over the low border of shrubbery which enclosed it; Daphne tripped on the hem of her skirt as she reached the far side. He caught her, saying, “You are not hurt?”
“No.” It was a second falsehood: in fact, she had twisted her ankle and would have liked to sit down. Instead she followed him across the narrow strip of lawn to the edge of the pathless copse. The floor of the wood was fragrant and moist with the humidity of summer; the leaves sighed in the slight wind.
“You are very grave this afternoon,” he remarked, when they had proceeded a little ways.
She smiled, forcing herself. “I was thinking…”
“Thinking?” he echoed, kissing the top of her head.
“Yes; thinking how little we have to say to one another. I do not know you at all, Christian. Tell me what your family is, where you were born, how you came to be what you are.”
“I am always astonished at the interest of women in such things,” said he.
“How many others have asked you?” she demanded in spite of herself.
“Ah, that I will not say.” He smiled down at her. “Enough to know how to appreciate you; that is all.”
She considered this for a moment. “I suppose I must be satisfied with that,” she said at last. “Christian, how very odd it is! Every other word you say grates upon me. I do not think we share a single principle—and yet I know you do have principles…don’t you?”
He laughed. “Still uncertain? Of course I have principles,” he said. “I never force myself upon any one; I never condemn any person whom I believe to be sincere; I take every one at his word, but act only upon his behaviour; I accept, in so far as I am able, every good thing which any one presents to me; and I never speak to one lady of another. All that on principle.”
She had listened to every word, but it was the last bit of his code which interested her most. “I suppose you would not marry me if you could,” she said calmly. “Tell me the truth; it will make no difference, but I must know.”
“You have not forgot Madame des Fîmes, have you?” he said shrewdly.
“No I have not,” she cried. “Christian, what is she to you?”
“How pretty you look, with the sunlight dappling your hair,” he replied. He caught at her wrists and she tried to pull away. For some minutes they struggled, almost in earnest but always with the consciousness that it was better to struggle with one another than to agree with any one else. At last Daphne found herself backed up against an oak, the bark rough on her bare shoulders. Christian had got hold of her wrists again, and he held her hands above her head, pinned against the tree. He kissed her mouth.
“I thought you never forced yourself on any one?” she said, when she could speak.
“I must have lied,” he answered.
“Christian, you are abominable!”
“And you incorrigible. Now promise that if I let you go you will put your fair arms round me and embrace me for what I am. I feel like a satyr chasing a nymph, and it is very humiliating.”
It was difficult for her to do so, but she promised. He released her wrists and she put her arms round him, kissing his neck despondently and hearing his heart beat again. “What are you drawn to in me?” she asked at length.
He paused before speaking. “A different honesty than my own,” he said finally. “We will do very well together.”
“I think we will quarrel all the time,” said she.
“That is precisely what I mean.”
They stood together a little while longer, drifting gradually into accord. Daphne left the copse first and walked back through the gardens to the Abbey. Christian followed a few moments later, and returned to the pianoforte. The celebration was to begin at nine.
Chapter X
“Mesdames, Messieurs,” called Sir Andrew Ballard lou
dly from the improvised platform on which he stood, “my good friends, my dear family—a word.” He paused to smile benignly as the assembled company quieted, until there was only a low murmur heard here and there. Some hundred persons were present in the enormous Hall, which had once served as the monks’ refectory, and had now been converted to a sort of ball-room. To command their attention even for a moment was a feat, but Sir Andrew was accustomed to command, and had that confidence in his public speaking which belongs to all men who are inflated with self-consequence. “First, I must reiterate the welcome which, though I have tried to convey it to each of you severally, yet flows through my grateful and delighted consciousness tonight with such a warmth and a sincerity—and, I may almost say, a passion—that I am obliged, though I fear to presume yet once more on your patience, to speak it again when I find you all standing, with such evident kindness and good-will, gathered before me. The occasion which brings us all together, as you must all know by now—and if you do not, I hasten to tell you—is one of two-fold gladness to me, my Lady, and our friends—among whom, I trust, I may number all of you, as well as so many more good people who, though I am certain their absence tonight pains them as much as it does me, could not join us here—and the sort of events which happen once, and once only I am afraid, in a young life-time, and must therefore be celebrated both with joy at their actuality and regret at their fleeting nature—which is, moreover, the nature of all good things in this sorrowful, yet joyous, world. A foreign gentleman of my acquaintance—and who, perhaps, is among the acquaintance of certain of the kind and illustrious persons assembled here, yet whose name I shall omit to mention, since he is a man of reserved, even humble, disposition, and would doubtless desire to remain anonymous—once remarked to me, with that brevity, precision, and directness which belongs alone to the Frenchman—and I do disclose that he is French, yet say no more of his identity—that the moment of a boy’s coming into his majority, of his attaining manhood and ceasing to be a child, of that turning-point when he is no longer protected, but protects, no longer receives, but gives, no longer is governed, but governs, is, or might well be considered (since few other occasions can boast such a variety of crucial and irrevocable transformations) the single most noteworthy, most advantageous, to himself and to his society, in fine, the most important achievement of all his young life.” There was a rustle among the company as they stirred, and the restless murmur of voices grew somewhat louder. Sir Andrew prosed on in this way for a good half-hour, during which time no one understood, or even attempted to understand, a word that he said; in fact the Hall was so large, and the murmur of the audience grew to such a pitch, that a large portion of the enforced listeners could not have heard him if they had wanted to. Of course, nobody did particularly want to, so it hardly mattered.
The celebration was roundly judged to have been a great success—with the exception, that is, of Sir Andrew’s wordy oration. Mr. Livingston played perfectly, as always, and the dancing went on well past three o’clock in the morning. Lady Ballard, whose entertainments in London were generally agreed to be exquisite gems of hospitality, was felt by most of the guests to have outdone even herself: the sweets served after supper were delectable cakes of marchpane, fashioned skilfully into the shapes of various fruits, as delicious to look upon as to taste. Sir Andrew produced, from his capacious cellars, a Spanish sherry sweet and smooth as nectar, and the guests drank, supped, and danced until they could do so no more. Those who lived nearby enough to travel to their homes that evening began to depart at about one o’clock, but the visitors who were to stop the whole night were many, and the Abbey was not silent until five. Lady Ballard was extremely satisfied with herself—with good cause, for once—when she set her competent head to her silken pillow.
Lord Midlake had been called upon to make a speech at supper, and had done so with mumbling good-humour, and convenient terseness. India kept close by him all night, promising herself that she should never do so again once their wedding was behind them, and even pulled teasingly upon his left ear several times. All his younger brothers had come, and none had had the daring to dislike her openly, so she judged herself well on her way to a life of liberal pleasure and easy serenity. William had played his role with perfect form, and had acquitted himself admirably. The nuptials which he hoped to share with Daphne were not referred to publicly, but he did find time and place to approach her privately on that head. She had left the improvised ball-room to catch her breath in the library, which had no official function that evening and was consequently empty of people. She had vague hopes that Christian might find a means to follow her—though she knew this was unlikely, since supper was over and he would be expected to play continuously now. Still, when she heard some one enter the library behind her, her heart leapt a little inside her; turning, she was something more than merely disappointed to find it was William Ballard who had seen her slip away, and had pursued.
“I hope I do not intrude, Miss Keyes,” he said with a low bow.
“No; of course you do not.”
“You are weary of dancing?” he asked.
“Yes—a little—the incessant noise and movement…” Her voice trailed off.
He sat beside her on the full, round-shouldered sofa which stood before the rows of high, book-lined shelves. “I have endeavoured to keep away from you,” he said, “so that you might consider my offer in peace; but you must know how difficult it is for me. I would not have you believe that I avoid you for any other reason.”
“No,” she replied, with a tired smile.
“It has been so long, so long! since we have been alone together.”
Daphne murmured agreement, supposing that it must have seemed a long while to him, though it was all too recent for her. “I know you dislike to be pressed, my dear one,” he continued in a whisper, “but the celebration is yet in progress…if only you could answer me tonight, think how the announcement would perfect the festivity of the evening!”
Daphne noticed that he still assumed her reply would be in the affirmative, but she said nothing. Sitting there in the dark, quiet library, with Christian so close to her and yet so painfully inaccessible, hearing William’s proposal repeated so coaxingly—a proposal which, if accepted and consummated, would free her to know Christian as she wished to know him—she thought for a moment, and for the first time, of accepting him. It would not be so terrible: the marriage might be accomplished quickly; William’s amorous fever to possess her would be cooled as soon as she became his wife; the honeymoon would suffice to convince him of their fundamental differences; and then…a town-house in London with Christian living nearby; discreet rendez-vous in unfrequented places; William in love with another girl, an actress perhaps, younger and less familiar than herself…it was possible. For the first time her imagination grasped it as distinctly possible—and yet some part of her shrank from it. She shook her head, smiled dolefully, and said, “Not yet.”
“No?” cried he. “Then I must wait longer. I am all patience in service to you; you see, I do not push.”
“You are very good, sir,” she replied. It was odd: in an oblique manner, she felt it was true. He was very good, only very foolish; he lived a dream and invited her into it. She felt a beginning of tenderness towards him, and did not resent his presumptuousness so much. A moment later she rose to return to the company; he stood too, bestowed a kiss upon her hand, and escorted her back to the great Hall.
Carwaith Abbey did not return to its habitual serenity for many days. Though most of the guests took their leave the following day, a number of them lingered on. Among the latter were Lord and Lady Frane, Lady Ballard’s cousin Clarissa, two or three of Midlake’s numerous brothers, and of course Mr. Christian Livingston. The original house-party stopped on too, and he performed for them nearly every evening as well as some afternoons, filling the Abbey with Handel, with Scarlatti, with Mozart, and with himself. Daphne listened by the hour to the sweet, sober, ceaseless music—listened while La
dy Ballard poured tea as the twilight gathered, while Dorothea Frane murmured pretty nonsense to her betrothed during the long evenings, while responding with half a mind to some question of Latimer’s. Now and then Christian would interrupt his absent gaze at the French doors and the velvet hangings to glance at her, meeting her eyes with dreamy languor. The mid-summer days floated past one by one, filled with walks, and riding, and drives to pretty prospects and interesting churches, until almost a se’ennight had gone by since the great celebration. William Ballard had not repeated his offer since then, but Daphne felt he would soon, and she began to think of leaving—though it meant the end of the brief, intimate interchanges she shared almost daily with Christian. She suggested departure tentatively to her brother, who said that he was content either to go or to stay, and so the idyllic interlude drifted on.
It was interrupted with a rude jolt by a letter.
Dome House, in Berkeley Square, London, was about to close its doors for a long, long time—though Daphne did not know it yet. The knocker had already been removed from the front entry-way, and its proprietess stood in the middle of the drawing-room, one hot July morning, reading over a note she had just written. Satisfied that it expressed what she intended, she folded, sealed, and handed it to a footman to be sent. The furniture amid which she stood was shrouded in Holland; the fireplace had been swept bare and its brass fixtures gleamed dully; the carpets had been rolled up and the hangings removed to prevent their fading. When Hastings entered the room, as he did a moment later, she took his arm and—looking round one last time to be certain all was as it should be—descended the front steps of Dome House into an unlozenged coach laden with baggage.
“Is Madam quite ready?” Hastings inquired through a window on the coach.
“Madam is quite ready,” she said, with a decisive nod of her powdered head, and an utterly delicious smile.
“Then by all means, let us be off at once,” said he. He gave an appropriate command to the boy who held the heads of the horses, climbed into the carriage himself, and sat back as the coachman drove out into the street.