by Unknown
When next he saw her face by the light of a window, she at the same instant turned her eyes on him; it was as if each wanted to know correctly how the other had been looking in the darkness, and the effect was a challenge.
Like one retreating a step, she lowered her eyes. “I am tired,” she said. “I shall go in.”
“Let us stroll round once more.”
“No, I am going in.”
“If you are afraid — —” he said, with a slight smile.
She took his arm again. “Though it is too bad of me to keep you out,” she said, as they went on, “for you are shivering. Is it the night air that makes you shiver?” she asked mockingly.
But she shivered a little herself, as if with a presentiment that she might be less defiant if he were less thoughtful. For a month or more she had burned to teach him a lesson, but there was a time before that when, had she been sure he was in earnest, she would have preferred to be the pupil.
Two ladies came out of an arbour where they had been drinking coffee, and sauntered towards the hotel. It was a tiny building, half concealed in hops and reached by three steps, and Tommy and his companion took possession. He groped in the darkness for a chair for her, and invited her tenderly to sit down. She said she preferred to stand. She was by the open window, her fingers drumming on the sill. Though he could not see her face, he knew exactly how she was looking.
“Sit down,” he said, rather masterfully.
“I prefer to stand,” she repeated languidly.
He had a passionate desire to take her by the shoulders, but put his hand on hers instead, and she permitted it, like one disdainful but helpless. She said something unimportant about the stillness.
“Is it so still?” he said in a low voice. “I seem to hear a great noise. I think it must be the beating of my heart.”
“I fancy that is what it is,” she drawled.
“Do you hear it?”
“No.”
“Did you ever hear your own heart beat, Alice?”
“No.”
He had both her hands now. “Would you like to hear it?”
She pulled away her hands sharply. “Yes,” she replied with defiance.
“But you pulled away your hands first,” said he.
He heard her breathe heavily for a moment, but she said nothing. “Yes,” he said, as if she had spoken, “it is true.”
“What is true?”
“What you are saying to yourself just now — that you hate me.”
She beat the floor with her foot.
“How you hate me, Alice!”
“Oh, no.”
“Yes, indeed you do.”
“I wonder why,” she said, and she trembled a little.
“I know why.” He had come close to her again. “Shall I tell you why?”
She said “No,” hurriedly.
“I am so glad you say No.” He spoke passionately, and yet there was banter in his voice, or so it seemed to her. “It is because you fear to be told; it is because you had hoped that I did not know.”
“Tell me why I hate you!” she cried.
“Tell me first that you do.”
“Oh, I do, I do indeed!” She said the words in a white heat of hatred.
Before she could prevent him he had raised her hand to his lips.
“Dear Alice!” he said.
“Why is it?” she demanded.
“Listen!” he said. “Listen to your heart, Alice; it is beating now. It is telling you why. Does it need an interpreter? It is saying you hate me because you think I don’t love you.”
“Don’t you?” she asked fiercely.
“No,” Tommy said.
Her hands were tearing each other, and she could not trust herself to speak. She sat down deadly pale in the chair he had offered her.
“No man ever loved you,” he said, leaning over her with his hand on the back of the chair. “You are smiling at that, I know; but it is true, Lady Disdain. They may have vowed to blow their brains out, and seldom did it; they may have let you walk over them, and they may have become your fetch-and-carry, for you were always able to drive them crazy; but love does not bring men so low. They tried hard to love you, and it was not that they could not love; it was that you were unlovable. That is a terrible thing to a woman. You think you let them try to love you, that you might make them your slaves when they succeeded; but you made them your slaves because they failed. It is a power given to your cold and selfish nature in place of the capacity for being able to be loved, with which women not a hundredth part as beautiful as you are dowered, and you have a raging desire, Alice, to exercise it over me as over the others; but you can’t.”
Had he seen her face then, it might have warned him to take care; but he heard her words only, and they were not at all in keeping with her face.
“I see I can’t,” was what she cried, almost in a whisper.
“It is all true, Alice, is it not?”
“I suppose so. I don’t know; I don’t care.” She swung round in her chair and caught his sleeve. Her hands clung to it. “Say you love me now,” she said. “I cannot live without your love after this. What shall I do to make you love me? Tell me, and I will do it.”
He could not stop himself, for he mistrusted her still.
“I will not be your slave,” he said, through his teeth. “You shall be mine.”
“Yes, yes.”
“You shall submit to me in everything. If I say ‘come,’ you shall come to wheresoever it may be; and if I say ‘stay,’ and leave you for ever, you shall stay.”
“Very well,” she said eagerly. She would have her revenge when he was her slave.
“You can continue to be the haughty Lady Disdain to others, but you shall be only obedient little Alice to me.”
“Very well.” She drew his arm towards her and pressed her lips upon it. “And for that you will love me a little, won’t you? You will love me at last, won’t you?” she entreated.
He was a masterful man up to a certain point only. Her humility now tapped him in a new place, and before he knew what he was about he began to run pity.
“To humiliate you so, Alice! I am a dastard. I am not such a dastard as you think me. I wanted to know that you would be willing to do all these things, but I would never have let you do them.”
“I am willing to do them.”
“No, no.” It was he who had her hands now. “It was brutal, but I did it for you, Alice — for you. Don’t you see I was doing it only to make a woman of you? You were always adorable, but in a coat of mail that would let love neither in nor out. I have been hammering at it to break it only and free my glorious Alice. We had to fight, and one of us had to give in. You would have flung me away if I had yielded — I had to win to save you.”
“Now I am lost indeed,” he was saying to himself, even as it came rushing out of him, and what appalled him most was that worse had probably still to come. He was astride two horses, and both were at the gallop. He flung out his arms as if seeking for something to check him.
As he did so she had started to her feet, listening. It seemed to her that there was someone near them.
He flung out his arms for help, and they fell upon Lady Pippinworth and went round her. He drew her to him. She could hear no breathing now but his.
“Alice, I love you, for you are love itself; it is you I have been chasing since first love rose like a bird at my feet; I never had a passing fancy for any other woman; I always knew that somewhere in the world there must be you, and sometime this starless night and you for me. You were hidden behind walls of ice; no man had passed them; I broke them down and love leaped to love, and you lie here, my beautiful, love in the arms of its lover.”
He was in a frenzy of passion now; he meant every word of it; and her intention was to turn upon him presently and mock him, this man with whom she had been playing. Oh, the jeering things she had to say! But she could not say them yet; she would give her fool another moment — so she thou
ght, but she was giving it to herself; and as she delayed she was in danger of melting in his arms.
“What does the world look like to you, my darling? You are in it for the first time. You were born but a moment ago. It is dark, that you may not be blinded before you have used your eyes. These are your eyes, dear eyes that do not yet know their purpose; they are for looking at me, little Alice, and mine are for looking into yours. I cannot see you; I have never seen the face of my love — oh, my love, come into the light that I may see your face.”
They did not move. Her head had fallen on his shoulder. She was to give it but a moment, and then —— But the moment had passed and still her hair pressed his cheek. Her eyes were closed. He seemed to have found the way to woo her. Neither of them spoke. Suddenly they jumped apart. Lady Pippinworth stole to the door. They held their breath and listened.
It was not so loud now, but it was distinctly heard. It had been heavy breathing, and now she was trying to check it and half succeeding — but at the cost of little cries. They both knew it was a woman, and that she was in the arbour, on the other side of the little table. She must have been there when they came in.
“Who is that?”
There was no answer to him save the checked breathing and another broken cry. She moved, and it helped him to see vaguely the outlines of a girl who seemed to be drawing back from him in terror. He thought she was crouching now in the farthest corner.
“Come away,” he said. But Lady Pippinworth would not let him go. They must know who this woman was. He remembered that a match-stand usually lay on the tables of those arbours, and groped until he found one.
“Who are you?”
He struck a match. They were those French matches that play an infernal interlude before beginning to burn. While he waited he knew that she was begging him, with her hands and with cries that were too little to be words, not to turn its light on her. But he did.
Then she ceased to cower. The girlish dignity that had been hers so long came running back to her. As she faced him there was even a crooked smile upon her face.
“I woke up,” she said.
“I woke up,” she said, as if the words had no meaning to herself, but might have some to him.
The match burned out before he spoke, but his face was terrible. “Grizel!” he said, appalled; and then, as if the discovery was as awful to her as to him, she uttered a cry of horror and sped out into the night. He called her name again, and sprang after her; but the hand of another woman detained him.
“Who is this girl?” Lady Pippinworth demanded fiercely; but he did not answer. He recoiled from her with a shudder that she was not likely to forget, and hurried on. All that night he searched for Grizel in vain.
* * *
CHAPTER XXX
THE LITTLE GODS DESERT HIM
And all next day he searched like a man whose eyes would never close again. She had not passed the night in any inn or village house of St. Gian; of that he made certain by inquiries from door to door. None of the guides had seen her, though they are astir so late and so early, patiently waiting at the hotel doors to be hired, that there seems to be no night for them — darkness only, that blots them out for a time as they stand waiting. At all hours there is in St. Gian the tinkle of bells, the clatter of hoofs, the crack of a whip, dust in retreat; but no coachman brought him news. The streets were thronged with other coachmen on foot looking into every face in quest of some person who wanted to return to the lowlands, but none had looked into her face.
Within five minutes of the hotel she might have been on any of half a dozen roads. He wandered or rushed along them all for a space, and came back. One of them was short and ended in the lake. All through that long and beautiful day this miserable man found himself coming back to the road that ended in the lake.
There were moments when he cried to himself that it was an apparition he had seen and heard. He had avoided his friends all day; of the English-speaking people in St. Gian one only knew why he was distraught, and she was the last he wished to speak to; but more than once he nearly sought her to say, “Partner in my shame, what did you see? what did you hear?” In the afternoon he had a letter from Elspeth telling him how she was enjoying her holiday by the sea, and mentioning that David was at that moment writing to Grizel in Thrums. But was it, then, all a dream? he cried, nearly convinced for the first time, and he went into the arbour saying determinedly that it was a dream; and in the arbour, standing primly in a corner, was Grizel’s umbrella. He knew that umbrella so well! He remembered once being by while she replaced one of its ribs so deftly that he seemed to be looking on at a surgical operation. The old doctor had given it to her, and that was why she would not let it grow old before she was old herself. Tommy opened it now with trembling hands and looked at the little bits of Grizel on it: the beautiful stitching with which she had coaxed the slits to close again; the one patch, so artful that she had clapped her hands over it. And he fell on his knees and kissed these little bits of Grizel, and called her “beloved,” and cried to his gods to give him one more chance.
“I woke up.” It was all that she had said. It was Grizel’s excuse for inconveniencing him. She had said it apologetically and as if she did not quite know how she came to be there herself. There was no look of reproach on her face while the match burned; there had been a pitiful smile, as if she was begging him not to be very angry with her; and then when he said her name she gave that little cry as if she had recognized herself, and stole away. He lived that moment over and over again, and she never seemed to be horror-stricken until he cried “Grizel!” when her recognition of herself made her scream. It was as if she had wakened up, dazed by the terrible things that were being said, and then, by the light of that one word “Grizel,” suddenly knew who had been listening to them.
Did he know anything more? He pressed his hands harshly on his temples and thought. He knew that she was soaking wet, that she had probably sought the arbour for protection from the rain, and that, if so, she had been there for at least four hours. She had wakened up. She must have fallen asleep, knocked down by fatigue. What fatigue it must have been to make Grizel lie there for hours he could guess, and he beat his brow in anguish. But why she had come he could not guess. “Oh, miserable man, to seek for reasons,” he cried passionately to himself, “when it is Grizel — Grizel herself — you should be seeking for!”
He walked and ran the round of the lake, and it was not on the bank that his staring eyes were fixed.
At last he came for a moment upon her track. The people of an inn six miles from St. Gian remembered being asked yesterday by an English miss, walking alone, how far she was from Bad-Platten. She was wearing something brown, and her boots were white with dust, and these people had never seen a lady look so tired before; when she stood still she had to lean against the wall. They said she had red-hot eyes.
Tommy was in an einspänner now, the merry conveyance of the country and more intoxicating than its wines, and he drove back through St. Gian to Bad-Platten, where again he heard from Grizel, though he did not find her. What he found was her telegram from London: “I am coming. GRIZEL.” Why had she come? why had she sent that telegram? what had taken her to London? He was not losing time when he asked himself distractedly these questions, for he was again in his gay carriage and driving back to the wayside inn. He spent the night there, afraid to go farther lest he should pass her in the darkness; for he had decided that, if alive, she was on this road. That she had walked all those forty miles uphill seemed certain, and apparently the best he could hope was that she was walking back. She had probably no money to enable her to take the diligence. Perhaps she had no money with which to buy food. It might be that while he lay tossing in bed she was somewhere near, dying for want of a franc.
He was off by morning light, and several times that day he heard of her, twice from people who had seen her pass both going and coming, and he knew it must be she when they said she rocked her arms as she walked. Oh, he
knew why she rocked her arms! Once he thought he had found her. He heard of an English lady who was lying ill in the house of a sawmiller, whose dog (we know the dogs of these regions, but not the people) had found her prostrate in the wood, some distance from the highroad. Leaving his einspänner in a village, Tommy climbed down the mountain-side to this little house, which he was long in discovering. It was by the side of a roaring river, and he arrived only an hour too late. The lady had certainly been Grizel; but she was gone. The sawyer’s wife described to him how her husband had brought her in, and how she seemed so tired and bewildered that she fell asleep while they were questioning her. She held her hands over her ears to shut out the noise of the river, which seemed to terrify her. So far as they could understand, she told them that she was running away from the river. She had been sleeping there for three hours, and was still asleep when the good woman went off to meet her husband; but when they returned she was gone.
He searched the wood for miles around, crying her name. The sawyer and some of his fellow-workers left the trees they were stripping of bark to help him, and for hours the wood rang with “Grizel, Grizel!” All the mountains round took up the cry; but there never came an answer. This long delay prevented his reaching the railway terminus until noon of the following day, and there he was again too late. But she had been here. He traced her to that hotel whence we saw her setting forth, and the portier had got a ticket for her for London. He had talked with her for some little time, and advised her, as she seemed so tired, to remain there for the night. But she said she must go home at once. She seemed to be passionately desirous to go home, and had looked at him suspiciously, as if fearing he might try to hold her back. He had been called away, and on returning had seen her disappearing over the bridge. He had called to her, and then she ran as if afraid he was pursuing her. But he had observed her afterwards in the train.
So she was not without money, and she was on her way home! The relief it brought him came to the surface in great breaths, and at first every one of them was a prayer of thankfulness. Yet in time they were triumphant breaths. Translated into words, they said that he had got off cheaply for the hundredth time. His little gods had saved him again, as they had saved him in the arbour by sending Grizel to him. He could do as he liked, for they were always there to succour him; they would never desert him — never. In a moment of fierce elation he raised his hat to them, then seemed to see Grizel crying “I woke up,” and in horror of himself clapped it on again. It was but a momentary aberration, and is recorded only to show that, however remorseful he felt afterwards, there was life in our Tommy still.