Robert Orange
instincts, help him in that matter--their one possibility of
estrangement. She lacked the knowledge which renders verbal confidences
unnecessary; she was too loving and too human to be happy as an
inspiration and an inspiration only; she also had a great desire to
give, to aid, to prove her devotion, to be the friend and the
fellow-pilgrim.
CHAPTER XII
Brilliant sunlight lit up the grey spires and threatening pinnacles of
St. Malo. The back of the ancient fortress was hidden in white mist, but
the houses which rose above the battlements facing the harbour, and the
shops and little taverns near the quay, shone out in brightness, their
windows glittering under the sky where straying clouds, driven by the
wind, were melting, as they fled, into the all-encompassing blue ether.
Some pigeons and wild gulls circled above the earthworks, darting down,
at times, between the massive oak piles which, forced deep into the
sand, were covered with shining seaweed. The piercing note of the
military bugle, the crack of the cabmen's long whips, the clatter of
wooden shoes, and the Angelus bells then chiming, made up a volume of
sound which fell on Robert's ears with all the poignant strangeness of
an old song heard again after many years. A hundred memories flocked
into his mind at the first distant view of that familiar scene: memories
of his boyhood, its errors, its visions, its ambitions; his revolt
against nature as he understood it, and his desire to keep his heart
and soul and senses for the service of God, and the custody of his own
ideals. The very centre of his thoughts was here: here he had found the
first beginnings of his faith and love. How often he had walked alone
upon those ramparts with his New Testament and the _Morte d'Arthur_,
striving, in the fervour of romantic sentiment, to combine the standards
of knightly chivalry with the austere counsels of the gospel. The
divinity of Christ is the object of eternal contemplations, and at every
age--not of the world only, but of the individual--His Humanity, under
our fresh knowledge, demands a different study and a fuller
understanding. What changes, therefore, experience and suffering had
wrought in those early, untried speculations! The ideals remained, but
they made for swords, not peace; the sweetness of the dream had become
an inflexible law of conscience; the doctrine of a transcendent disdain
of this world, accepted in solitude by the obscure youth brought up in a
provincial town, had exacted its tax to the uttermost farthing from the
man who struggled now with the rich and powerful in a great city of the
great universe of affairs.... He thought of his dead godmother, Madame
Bertin, with her still, pale face and beautiful hands--a cold, blameless
woman who had treated him kindly and misunderstood him always. She had
been his father's friend; she had loved him, in her own stern, silent
fashion, for his father's sake. O, if she might only know now how much
he treasured every impression he had formed of her strong character!
She had given him all the tenderness she had, and all the motherly
influence his childhood had received. What might his life have been
without that early association with a noble if somewhat restricted
nature? But these and similar thoughts, while they went deep, passed
swiftly and did not return again till a very different moment, when they
came with agony and remained for ever.
He and Brigit were the last to leave the boat. They had been so happy
there that, by an instinct, they lingered behind the others, unwilling
to break the enchantment of their isolation from the land, and
half-dreading the unknown trials, or joys, which awaited, surely enough,
their first steps upon the soil. As they crossed the plank they looked
back, obeying a common impulse, at the deserted deck. Their chairs had
already been moved away, and the leeward corner, which had seemed so
much their own, was filled up by a small group of sailors who were
quarrelling about the division of _pourboires_. The drive to Miraflores
is long and winding, past several small villages, and approached finally
through a large tract of fields and orchards. But for the changing
crimson of the vines, it might have been August weather. Robins,
however, were singing, and the golden, brown, and russet butterflies of
autumn were floating languidly above the wayside hedges. The cawing of
rooks, the cooing of wood-pigeons, and the hum of insects invaded the
stillness of the lonely farms which, at long distances, gave picturesque
evidence of the human toil expended on the careful, rather melancholy
charm of that northern landscape. The Villa Miraflores--an elaborate
reproduction of the celebrated Villa Madama near Rome--stood on a wooded
hill rising out of a river, facing the rocky sea-coast. Built by the
Archduke Charles of Alberia for his morganatic wife, Henriette Duboc,
and pulled down since for the erection of a convent, it is never
mentioned in history, and it has been long forgotten by the few
inhabitants of the neighbourhood. But as the young couple entered the
lodge gates that day, and drove along the stately avenue, the beautiful
ill-fated structure rose before them as some castle in the air brought
down to earth by a magician's wand. Was this their home? They dared not
speak lest the vision should fade too soon. But Orange remembered it
all--this was no dream. There were the winding alleys leading to peeps
of water, land and sky; there was the path which he had followed, years
before, in search of his destiny. He drew a long breath, drinking in the
intoxicating strength of the fresh sea air wafted through pine-trees.
The atmosphere was charged with the very madness of youth and joy. Who
could have hoped for such a miracle as this? Had the whole course of
fate a like to show? Did it not seem a triumph over life and its
threatened deceptions? His own servant and Brigit's maid--whom they had
sent there some days before--were watching for them at the open door,
and the sight of those well-known faces gave him a still further
assurance of the scene's actuality. They crossed the hall without
noticing a small blue telegram on one of the malachite tables. They
walked together through every room, wondering at their treasures,
looking out of the windows, amazed, bewitched, gradually becoming used
to the fact of each other's company in such a solitude. What were the
woes and cryings of the outer world to them, lost in the impenetrable
silence of that retreat? A strange, double sensation of delight and
forgetfulness surged in them both. All knowledge of disturbing human
influences, of the fret, and discord, and inquietude of common existence
seemed trivial and even false. They looked with confidence into each
other's eyes, as though they were the sole inhabitants of some
brilliant, inaccessible star set far above the earth and its evil. They
were to remain there a month--one month at least--and after that would
trials, or labour, or sorrow deluge in bitterness the sweet, eternal
recollection of such days? A table had been set for them in one of the
small pavilions leading on to a balcony. The scent of flowers, mingling
with the sunlight, came in through the open windows, bringing the
garden's freshness to the faded lilacs on the carpet and tapestry.
Brigit went to the looking-glass, took off her hat, and apologised for
her "frightful appearance." She had thrown her veil and gloves on the
sofa, and the mere sight of them there gave a homeliness to that
forsaken room which, with its rococo decorations, painted ceilings, and
gilded doors, had something of the dead gaiety of an empty theatre.
Brigit made the tea, following the English custom taught her by Pensee.
Was the water boiling? Did he like sugar? How absurd not to know whether
one's husband took cream! The two had seen so little of each other in
domestic surroundings that this little commonplace intimacy had an
intoxicating charm.
"Are you happy?" she asked suddenly. "Do you know that you are all I
love in the world, and I am yours for ever and ever?"
"Yes, I know."
"And how much do you love me?"
"I shall never be able to say how much."
She took his hand, kissed it, pressed it to her heart, then asked him,
with some confusion, if he liked grapes better than pears.
"You are so beautiful," he replied.
"Not to-day," she answered; "to-day I am quite dull. But you are
handsome. I saw them looking at you on the boat. And I was proud--oh, so
proud to think that you were mine."
When they had finished their meal, she opened the piano and struck out
some chords, which echoed with a kind of wail through the long corridors
outside. The instrument was out of tune, and the strings seemed
muffled.
"Something is inside," she said.
They looked and discovered a few sheets of music which had slipped down
upon the wires. The sheets were dusty, stained with age, blurred by
damp, but one bore the name "Henriette" written in the corner in a
large, defiant hand. Joining the fragments, they found it was an
arrangement in manuscript of Poe's ballad, "Annabel Lee."
_"It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me._
_But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those that were older than we--
Of many far wiser than we--
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee."_
As Brigit read aloud these words of haunting pathos, the very trees,
rustling outside in the October wind, the far-away sound of the waves
beating upon the sand, seemed to Robert an ominous accompaniment--half a
warning, half a promise.
"I wonder," he said, "I wonder why that was there?"
He was uneasy, he could not say why. He was conscious of some influence
in the room. He felt, unaccountably, that they were not alone. Looking
round for some confirmation of this strange instinct his eyes fell on
the small blue envelope which had been placed on the mantelpiece by his
servant. It was addressed to himself. Fortunately, whilst he was opening
it, Brigit's attention was still riveted on the old song which she was
humming over at the piano. She spoke to him three times before he
answered.
"This telegram," he said, at last, trying to control his voice, "is from
Reckage. He is on his way now to see me."
"He is coming here? Why is he coming here?"
He put his arm round her, in a desperate, long embrace, kissing her
face, her eyes, her hair.
"What is it, Robert?" she said, clinging to him, for she heard something
like a sob under his breath. "You have had bad news. You must tell me."
"It may not be so serious ... perhaps it is badly worded ... but Pensee
is coming with him and he says quite plainly that there is some legal
difficulty about our marriage."
"Some legal difficulty!" she repeated. "What is the use of that now? I
can't leave you again. I'll die first. I can't bear it. O, Robert, I am
so tired of the law. There are no laws for the birds, or for the
flowers, or for the trees, or for any thing that is happy! Why should we
be made so miserable--just to please the magistrates and mayors!"
"But it is more than that--I am certain. Suppose it has something to do
with Parflete?"
"With Wrexham? How could that be? He is dead."
"He may not be dead."
She sank down to the floor on her knees.
"O my God! You know that he is living."
"Reckage doesn't say so. But would he and Pensee come unless they felt
we should need them?"
"I need no one except you. I don't want to see them. I don't want to