Dawn
Page 88
CHAPTER LXXIV
About three o'clock that afternoon Arthur returned to the Quinta,having lunched on board the _Roman_. He found Mildred sitting in herfavourite place on the museum verandah. She was very pale, and, if hehad watched her, he would have seen that she was trembling all over,but he did not observe her particularly.
"Well," he said, "it is all nonsense about half the crew beingdrowned; only one man was killed, by the fall of a spar, poor chap.They ran into Vigo, as I thought. The other mail is just coming in--but what is the matter, Mildred? You look pale."
"Nothing, dear; I have a good deal to think of, that is all."
"Ah, yes! Well, my love, have you made up your mind?"
"Why did I refuse to marry you before; for your sake, or mine,Arthur?"
"You said--absurdly, I thought--for mine!"
"And what I said I meant, and what I meant, I mean. Look me in theface, dear, and tell me, upon your honour as a gentleman, that youlove me, really love me, and I will marry you to-morrow."
"I am very fond of you, Mildred, and I will make you a good and truehusband."
"Precisely; that is what I expected, but it is _not_ enough for me.There was a time when I thought that I could be well satisfied if youwould only look kindly upon me, but I suppose that _l'appetit vient enmangeant_, for, now you do that, I am not satisfied. I long to reignalone. But that is not all. I will not consent to tie you, who do notlove me, to my apron-strings for life. Believe me, the time is verynear when you would curse me, if I did. You say"--and she rose andstretched out her arm--"that you will either marry me or go. I havemade my choice. I will not beat out my heart against a stone. I will_not_ marry you. Go, Arthur, go!"
A great anxiety came into his face.
"Do you fully understand what you are saying, Mildred? Such ties asexist between us cannot be lightly broken."
"But I will break them, and my own heart with them, before they becomechains so heavy that you cannot bear them. Arthur"--and she came up tohim, and put her hands upon his shoulders, looking, with wild andsorrowful eyes, straight into his face--"tell me now, dear--do notpalter, or put me off with any courteous falsehood--tell me as trulyas you will speak upon the judgment-day, do you still love AngelaCaresfoot as much as ever?"
"Mildred, you should not ask me such painful questions; it is notright of you."
"It is right; and you will soon know that it is. Answer me."
"Then, if you must have it, _I do_."
Her face became quite hard. Slowly she took her hands from hisshoulders.
"And you have the effrontery to ask me to marry you with one breath,and to tell me this with the next. Arthur, you had better go. Do notconsider yourself under any false obligation to me. Go, and goquickly."
"For God's sake, think what you are doing, Mildred!"
"Oh! I have thought--I have thought too much. There is nothing leftbut to say good-bye. Yes, it is a very cruel word. Do you know thatyou have passed over my life like a hurricane, and wrenched it up bythe roots?"
"Really, Mildred, you mystify me. I don't understand you. What can bethe meaning of all this?"
She looked at him for a few seconds, and then answered, in a quiet,matter-of-fact voice.
"I forgot, Arthur; here are your English letters;" and she drew themfrom her bosom and gave them to him. "Perhaps they will explain thingsa little. Meanwhile, I will tell you something. Angela Caresfoot'shusband is dead; indeed, she was never _really_ married to him." Andthen she turned, and slowly walked towards the entrance of the museum.In the boudoir, however, her strength seemed to fail her, and she sankon a chair.
Arthur took the letter, written by the woman he loved, and warm fromthe breast of the woman he was about to leave, and stood speechless.His heart stopped for a moment, and then sent the blood boundingthrough his veins like a flood of joy. The shock was so great that fora second or two he staggered, and nearly fell. Presently, however, herecovered himself, and another and very different thought overtookhim.
Putting the letters into his pocket, he followed Mildred into theboudoir. She was sitting, looking very faint, upon a chair, her armshanging down helplessly by her side.
"Mildred," he said, hoarsely.
She looked up with a faint air of surprise.
"What, are you not gone?"
"Mildred, beyond what you have just said I know nothing of thecontents of these letters; but whatever they may be, here and now,before I read them, I again offer to marry you. I owe it to you and tomy own sense of what is right that I should marry you."
He spoke calmly, and with evident sincerity.
"Do you know that I read your letter just now, and had half a mind toburn it; that I am little better than a thief?"
"I guessed that you had read it."
"And do you understand that your Angela is unmarried, that she wasnever really married at all--and that she asks nothing better than tomarry you?"
"I understand."
"And you still offer to make me your wife?"
"I do. What do you say?"
A flood of light filled Mildred's eyes as she rose and confronted him.
"I say, Arthur, that you are a very noble gentleman, and, that thoughfrom this day I must be a miserable woman, I shall always be proud tohave loved you. Listen, my dear. When I read that letter, I felt thatyour Angela towered over me like the Alps, her snowy purity stainedonly by the reflected lights of heaven. I felt that I could notcompete with such a woman as this, that I could never hope to hold youfrom one so calmly faithful, so dreadfully serene, and I knew that shehad conquered, robbing me for Time, and, as I fear, leaving mebeggared for Eternity. In the magnificence of her undying power, inthe calm certainty of her command, she flings me your life as thoughit were nothing. 'Take it,' she says; 'he will never love you--he ismine; but I can afford to wait. I shall claim him before the throne ofGod.' But now, look you, Arthur, if you can behave like the generous-hearted gentleman you are, I will show you that I am not behind you ingenerosity. I will _not_ marry you. I have done with you; or, to bemore correct," and she gave a hard little laugh, "you have done withme. Go back to Angela, the beautiful woman with inscrutable grey eyes,who waits for you, clothed in her eternal calm, like a mountain in itssnows. I shall send her that tiara as a wedding-present; it willbecome her well. Go back, Arthur; but sometimes, when you are cloyedwith unearthly virtue and perfection, remember that a _woman_ lovedyou. There, I have made you quite a speech; you will always think ofme in connection with fine words. Why don't you go?"
Arthur stood utterly confused.
"And what will you do, Mildred?"
"I!" she answered, with the same hard laugh. "Oh, don't troubleyourself about me. I shall be a happy woman yet. I mean to see lifenow--go in for pleasure, power, ritualism, whatever comes first.Perhaps, when we meet again, I shall be Lady Minster, or some othergreat lady, and shall be able to tell you that I am very, very happy.A woman always likes to tell her old lover that, you know, though shewould not like him to believe it. Perhaps, too"--and here her eyesgrew soft, and her voice broke into a sob--"I shall have a consolationyou know nothing of."
He did not know what she meant; indeed, he was half-distracted withgrief and doubt.
For a moment more they stood facing each other in silence, and thensuddenly she flung her arms above her head, and uttering a low cry ofgrief, turned, and ran swiftly down the stone passage into the museum.Arthur hesitated for a while, and then followed her.
A painful sight awaited him in that silent chamber; for there--stretched on the ground before the statue of Osiris, like somehopeless sinner before an inexorable justice, with her brown hairtouched to gold by a ray of sunlight from the roof--lay Mildred, asstill as though she were dead. He went to her, and tried to raise her,but she wrenched herself loose, and, in an abandonment of misery,flung herself upon the ground again.
"I thought it was over," she said, "and that you were gone. Go, dear,or this will drive me mad. Perhaps, sometimes, y
ou will write me."
He knelt beside her and kissed her, and then he rose and went.
But for many a year was he haunted by that scene of human miseryenacted in the weird chamber of the dead. Never could he forget thesight of Mildred lying in the sunlight, with the marble face ofmocking calm looking down upon her, and the mortal frames of thosewho, in their day, had suffered as she suffered, and ages since hadfound the rest that she in time would reach, scattered all around--fitemblems of the fragile vanity of passions which suck their strengthfrom earth alone.