—so that hour died
like odour rapt into the winged wind
borne into alien lands and far away.
—tennyson.
thus it was that this day, after maman had cleared the debris of dinner, and papa went downstairs to set the 'prentices to their afternoon's work, that no sooner had rose marie sat down to her harpsichord and begun to sing:
"la nuit écoute et se penche sur l'onde
pour y cueillir rien qu'un souffle d'amour,"
then maman gave a slight cry of surprise, and jumped to her feet exclaiming:
"oh, mon dieu! i had forgot the pot-au-feu—it must be boiling over," and incontinently ran out of the room.
rose marie continued her song. she was sitting with her back to the light, and my lord straight in front of her: and as her young voice rose and fell to the simple cadence of the old song, she was able to throw many a veiled look in his direction.
at first when maman ran away, he had made a movement as if he would follow her, then seeing that rose marie remained at the harpsichord, he seemed to think that mayhap courtesy compelled him to remain with her. he sat down again in the high-backed arm chair and rested his head in his hand. every time that rose marie looked up she caught his deep-set eyes fixed upon her.[160] strangely enough the look in them seemed quite sad—indeed if it were possible in one so rich and in so high-born a gentleman—rose marie would almost have imagined that my lord's whole attitude was one which made appeal to her tenderness and even to her pity.
then when the last note of her song died away in a soft murmur, my lord rose and came up to her.
"what a sweet voice you have, rose marie," he said in that even, gentle voice with which he usually addressed her and which seemed to her veiled with studied coldness, "and 'tis a tender song which you sang."
"it pleases me, my lord, that it should find favour with you," she replied demurely, the while she allowed her long lashes to veil the light of excitement which danced in her eyes.
"nay! who am i that you should try to please me, dear heart?" he said a trifle sadly, "rather is it i who with my whole mind and soul and strength should strive to make you happy."
"that were not very difficult, my lord."
she would then and there have liked to give her excitement fuller rein, to jump up, to clasp her hands together and to look up into his grave face and say: "only, only be kind and gentle to me, give me as much love as ever you can—i am prepared to be the truest, most devoted, most loving wife that e'er strove to be a joy to her lord. give me sunshine, and gaiety and laughter, and what meed of love you are able to give."
but she did not quite dare to say and do all that, for maman's admonitions were still fresh in her mind, and her guardian angel would of a surety have had to veil his face again before this unseemly behaviour on the part of his turbulent charge.
[161]
therefore she added somewhat tamely:
"i have been taught to be easily contented, and meseems that by honouring me with your love, you, my lord, would be doing all that god doth ask of you."
though she had spoken lightly, almost flippantly, for her heart was glad, and her mind free from any presage of sorrow, his face, which all along had been passing grave now looked deeply troubled at her words.
"doing all that god doth ask of me," he exclaimed with sudden vehemence, whilst a tone of bitterness, which she could not understand, rang through his usually clear and fresh voice. "nay, little snowdrop, therein you wrong divine justice—if indeed there be one. dear heart, were i from this time forth to shed drop by drop all the blood of my veins, were i to give my life inch by inch, my flesh piece by piece to secure your happiness, even then i would not be doing all that god would ask of me."
he had turned from her and while he spoke he paced up and down the narrow room like some untamed creature fretful of its cage; then he broke into a laugh—not the merry laugh which she had so oft heard ringing through the house, but a harsh outburst of passionate sarcasm, which had an undercurrent in it of deep and hidden sorrow. rose marie felt a wealth of pity surging in her heart, when she heard that mirthless laugh. yet was it not passing strange that she, an humble tradesman's daughter, with no knowledge of that great world in which lived my lord, that she should thus dare to pity this noble, high-born and rich english gentleman? but she could not combat the feeling and her innocent blue eyes watching his restless movements, and that troubled look on his face, were filled with the tears of womanly compassion.
she looked divinely pretty thus, sitting at the harpsi[162]chord, one delicate hand idly resting on the ivory keys, from which almost unconsciously she had just evoked one sweet and melancholy chord from out the soul of the old instrument, like a long-drawn-out sigh of unspoken sorrow. her young bosom rose and fell beneath the folds of the primly folded kerchief, and her upturned face showed the white column of her throat round which nestled a string of pearls, large and translucent—his bridal gift to her.
he paused beside her, and in his expressive face the signs of a great inward combat became strangely visible. then he knelt down, close to her, and with a curious gesture half masterful and half appealing he took both her hands and imprisoned them in his own. he looked straight into those tear-dimmed eyes, with a questioning look that seemed to probe the very depths of her soul.
"my lord you are troubled," she said gently.
"ay, little snowdrop," he replied, "deeply troubled at sight of the exquisite purity which speaks to me with such mute eloquence from out the depths of your blue eyes. how dare i, miserable wretch, drag you from out that secluded garden of innocence wherein you have grown to such perfect beauty. how dare i with impious hand guide you toward that great outer world which lies so far beyond the glorious land of your girlish dreams? it is a world, dear heart, wherein great monsters dwell, pollution, sin and evil and that canker of corruption which will inevitably mar the calyx of the snowdrop and cause her white petals to droop at its touch."
"i have no fear of that great world, my lord," she rejoined simply, "since i will enter it in your company."
"no, no, you must not talk like that, dear heart," he said with strange persistence, "you must not trust me so.[163] what do you know of me or of my life? you so young, so pure, so exquisite, and i—"
he paused and pushing her hands away with a rough, impetuous movement he jumped to his feet and once more resumed his restless wanderings up and down the room.
"have you ever wandered, little one, in the forests round cluny," he asked with one of those sudden transitions in voice and manner which puzzled her so, "and paused beside that pool which the country folk about there call the lake of sighs? yes, i see from your telltale eyes that you do remember it. well then, you must oft have seen it lying silent and stagnant beneath the shades of the overhanging willows, whilst on its smooth, dark surface water lilies as white as snowdrops rear their stately heads in june. you should see these in the spring tall and majestic, with graceful upright stems and fragrant, wide-open buds, which seem to invite with a kind of cold aloofness the rough caresses and kisses of the bee. tall and majestic like you, dear heart, pure and coldly innocent like your soul—the spring, coy and cool, smiles and passes by, leaving those lilies to face the scorching breath of awakened summer. have you stood beside the lake of sighs, little one, when dying a summer draws out her last sigh of agony? when rank weeds and poisonous plants begin to grow apace from out the slimy ooze which encircles the pool, and throw out sinewy, death-dealing arms along its peaceful surface? then noisome trails of slugs and grime skim the once pure waters of the pond and rank growths of coarse weeds cover the slender stems of the lilies, and drag them down, down until the stately flowers, weighted with mud-scattering rain bend their proud heads to the mire, the while in their slimy hovels, loathsome toads croak their chorus in unison. the world to which i must take you, little snow[164]drop, is just such another pool, you the lily and i the weed—and men and women the loud-voiced croakers who are always ready to proclaim triumphantly the pollution of a work of god."
whilst he spoke he halted opposite to her and looking down into her face he studied every line of it, watching for the first look of horror which would mar its perfect peace. he was conscious of a strange desire to see her afraid of him, to feel that at his words her innocence would rebel, that if after what he had said he attempted to touch her, she would shrink away in unexplainable horror.
now that he was alone with her for the first time, and could study at leisure every line of her graceful form, the perfect shell which contained a perfect soul, the first poisoned fangs of remorse fastened themselves into his heart, and impatient of the monster's attack, he strove to smother it, and thus longed to see her less trustful, less innocent, even—god help him—less pure!
already he was searching for justification for that great wrong which he was about to commit, nay which he did commit with every word of gentleness which he spoke to her, with every moment that he spent in her company. therefore he tried to make his voice harsh and rough, he did not want the child's regard, her trust, her allegiance. he would have had her ambitious, sordid and grasping for in this he could satisfy her by and bye, when he had all the promised riches in his hands, and had made her countess of stowmaries. he would have had her look on him as a necessary means to her own ends, as a man who would at best be wholly indifferent to her, or if that could not be, then as a man whom she would hate.
but in spite of all he said, in spite of his harsh words, and strange imageries, the meaning of which she scarce un[165]derstood, yet almost feared to guess, her face remained perfectly calm, and her eyes—still tender and compassionate—met his in absolute, childlike serenity.
"i am not afraid of entering that world, my lord," she said, "with you to guide me."
"what a brave snowdrop," he said, "nay, you foolish little daughter of the frosts, you'll want an angel to guard you and to stand 'twixt you and me. i begin to think that cold ice-maiden though you be, you must at some time of your brief terrestrial existence have offended the god who made you, since he has thought fit to punish you so severely by giving you for husband the most abandoned sinner that ever defiled his earth. or was it in a former existence, dear heart, when you dwelt amidst the snows that you roused the ire of devils to such an extent that they swore to be revenged on you, once you were a woman and could understand and feel. 'twas a cowardly revenge of a surety, for there were other men—less vile, less corrupt, less contemptible than he in whose hand you so trustfully place yours. god forgive me, but meseems that i do feel tempted to draw aside the veil of ignorance which lies before your blue eyes, and to show you pictures of evil and of wretchedness from which your calm soul would shrink in horror, and even your serene virginity would recoil in fear. see the abandoned wretch that i am! i would rouse terror in those eyes—which hitherto have been the blue and opaque windows through which a placid soul hath gazed upon the devilries of mankind—and gazing hath not seen. dear heart, how will you bear it, this first contact with pollution, and with sin; my hand to guide you, my finger to be the one to point the hideous way?—broad the priests call it, and an easy descent to hell, lined with the grinning faces of monstrous ghouls, one[166] of which is called drunkenness, the other licentiousness, whilst blasphemy is the constant companion of both—and right and left from the road itself stand those hideous booths where poverty and degradation shrink out of sight in the dark hours of the evening gloom, and where hovers—like a gigantic bat with black and loathsome wings outspread and claw-like feet that grip and tear—that cruel titan, called remorse. little snowdrop, snow-white and so pure, how will you trust after that, the hand that would guide you still further on the way, the voice that in its agony of shame would yet murmur in your ears promises of a turning out of the hideous road, a turning which leads to happiness and peace?"
his voice broke in a sigh which was almost a sob. gradually as he spoke he had drawn nearer to her, until his knee touched the ground, and his head was bowed in his hands. but had he looked at her face even now he would not on any line of it have seen the slightest sign of the fear which he wished to evoke, nor of the loathing which he would have conjured up, yet would dread to see.
only her eyes as pure, as childlike as before, were veiled in the tears of infinite pity. there was silence for awhile in the little parlour, her hands had fallen away from the keys of the harpsichord. only the old clock ticked solemnly on, marking the brief minutes wherein these two souls met each other in this their first communion. then as she did not speak, his whole soul recoiled at thought of losing her and a great dread seized him, lest after all she had understood, and in understanding, turned away from him in fear.
and humbly, gently, not daring to look up, and murmuring scarce above a whisper, he said:
"little snowdrop, would you trust me still?"
[167]
and whilst despite iron will, obstinacy and pride hot tears would surge to his eyes and sear his aching lids, he suddenly felt a light touch, soft and cool as a snowflake, a tiny hand resting upon his shoulder.
"i trusted you ere this, my lord," she said simply, "trusted and honoured you, mayhap a little feared you as my lord and master. but now, methinks that a great sorrow lies buried in your heart—you choose to call it sin—mayhap it is—that i do not know—i am a woman—soon to be your wife, but never your judge, my lord. and if you have sinned, then you stand nearer to me, who am so far from that perfection which, alas! you see in me. if i feared you before, my lord—meseems that i could love you now."
to michael kestyon, with a life of insubordination behind him, a life of debauchery, of loneliness and lovelessness, it seemed as if some unknown heaven had opened and he had his first vision of what paradise might be. a paradise wherein voices of angels spoke to him of love, and cool white hands, cold as snowflakes yet infinitely gentle, led him towards that open door. that tiny snowflake fell from his shoulder onto his own burning hands, and to his vague astonishment it did not melt at the contact, but lay there cool and soft, mayhap a little trembling, having suddenly changed into some fairy bird.
michael pressed his hot forehead against it, his eyes and then his lips. his whole soul cried out mutely now in a passionate longing for happiness. womanly tenderness, womanly pity awaited him in that paradise, the door of which stood open, and if honour long since dormant called out loudly against treachery and against a trick, who shall pronounce judgment on this man, if he had not the strength at this moment to respond to that call?
[168]
with his own hands now, with one word spoken by his own lips, he could shut against himself those glorious gates of heaven, and deliberately turn his back on that brief vision of paradise, and walk once more down that hideous path which leads straight to hell.
there were but the two courses open to him. the one was to take this trusting, loving woman to his heart, to guard and keep her in happiness and peace, whilst showering on her all the gifts which her weaker nature might desire. he was rich now, would be richer still, he could satisfy her ambition, and by constant love and tender care, he could win her heart and her inner self in time, even though he had won her person by a trick.
the other course was the rugged path to which the inexorable hand of almost barbaric honour pointed relentlessly, to tell her all and to lose her forever. to throw back in his kinsman's face the price of this girl's innocence, and then to go back to that life in london, the drinking booths, the degrading hovels, the propinquity of abandoned reprobates as despicable as he had been himself before he met her.
pity him if you can!—judge him not if you've never been tempted to chose 'twixt life and living death, 'twixt happiness and degradation, 'twixt the hand of an angel and the gripping tentacles of devils.
pity him for he was only a man, with a burning thirst for happiness, a mad longing for love and for peace.
michael kestyon kissed the little hand which had confirmed the promise of love spoken by the girl's pure lips. he looked up then and met her eyes. heaven alone knows what he would have said or done the next moment. the fates who in their distant, rock-bound cavern spin the threads of destiny decreed that these two people should[169] —ere another word was spoken between them—be incontinently hurled from out the realms of romance wherein they had wandered hand in hand for over ten minutes.
for that—as we know—was the time limit set by maman, for allowing her daughter to be alone in the company of my lord. and michael had only just time to free the small imprisoned hand so that it might wander back to the keys of the harpsichord ere mme. legros—rubicund, fussy and prosy—made irruption into the room.
thus it was that for michael kestyon the gates of paradise remained for the nonce invitingly open, nor did the fates give him another chance to close them against his own happiness.
