A week had passed away. It had been a time of cloudy mental weather to
Swithin and Viviette, but the only noteworthy fact about it was that what
had been planned to happen therein had actually taken place. Swithin had
gone from Welland, and would shortly go from England.
She became aware of it by a note that he posted to her on his way through
Warborne. There was much evidence of haste in the note, and something of
reserve. The latter she could not understand, but it might have been
obvious enough if she had considered.
On the morning of his departure he had sat on the edge of his bed, the
sunlight streaming through the early mist, the house-martens scratching
the back of the ceiling over his head as they scrambled out from the roof
for their day's gnat-chasing, the thrushes cracking snails on the garden
stones outside with the noisiness of little smiths at work on little
anvils. The sun, in sending its rods of yellow fire into his room, sent,
as he suddenly thought, mental illumination with it. For the first time,
as he sat there, it had crossed his mind that Viviette might have reasons
for this separation which he knew not of. There might be family
reasons--mysterious blood necessities which are said to rule members of
old musty-mansioned families, and are unknown to other classes of
society--and they may have been just now brought before her by her
brother Louis on the condition that they were religiously concealed.
The idea that some family skeleton, like those he had read of in memoirs,
had been unearthed by Louis, and held before her terrified understanding
as a matter which rendered Swithin's departure, and the neutralization of
the marriage, no less indispensable to them than it was an advantage to
himself, seemed a very plausible one to Swithin just now. Viviette might
have taken Louis into her confidence at last, for the sake of his
brotherly advice. Swithin knew that of her own heart she would never
wish to get rid of him; but coerced by Louis, might she not have grown to
entertain views of its expediency? Events made such a supposition on St.
Cleeve's part as natural as it was inaccurate, and, conjoined with his
own excitement at the thought of seeing a new heaven overhead, influenced
him to write but the briefest and most hurried final note to her, in
which he fully obeyed her sensitive request that he would omit all
reference to his plans. These at the last moment had been modified to
fall in with the winter expedition formerly mentioned, to observe the
Transit of Venus at a remote southern station.
The business being done, and himself fairly plunged into the
preliminaries of an important scientific pilgrimage, Swithin acquired
that lightness of heart which most young men feel in forsaking old love
for new adventure, no matter how charming may be the girl they leave
behind them. Moreover, in the present case, the man was endowed with
that schoolboy temperament which does not see, or at least consider with
much curiosity, the effect of a given scheme upon others than himself.
The bearing upon Lady Constantine of what was an undoubted predicament
for any woman, was forgotten in his feeling that she had done a very
handsome and noble thing for him, and that he was therefore bound in
honour to make the most of it.
His going had resulted in anything but lightness of heart for her. Her
sad fancy could, indeed, indulge in dreams of her yellow-haired laddie
without that formerly besetting fear that those dreams would prompt her
to actions likely to distract and weight him. She was wretched on her
own account, relieved on his. She no longer stood in the way of his
advancement, and that was enough. For herself she could live in
retirement, visit the wood, the old camp, the column, and, like OEnone,
think of the life they had led there-'Mournful OEnone, wandering forlorn
Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills,' leaving it entirely to his goodness whether he would come and claim her
in the future, or desert her for ever.
She was diverted for a time from these sad performances by a letter which
reached her from Bishop Helmsdale. To see his handwriting again on an
envelope, after thinking so anxiously of making a father-confessor of
him, started her out of her equanimity. She speedily regained it,
however, when she read his note.
'THE PALACE, MELCHESTER,
_July_ 30, 18--.
'MY DEAR LADY CONSTANTINE,--I am shocked and grieved that, in the
strange dispensation of things here below, my offer of marriage should
have reached you almost simultaneously with the intelligence that your
widowhood had been of several months less duration than you and I, and
the world, had supposed. I can quite understand that, viewed from any
side, the news must have shaken and disturbed you; and your
unequivocal refusal to entertain any thought of a new alliance at such
a moment was, of course, intelligible, natural, and praiseworthy.
At present I will say no more beyond expressing a hope that you will
accept my assurances that I was quite ignorant of the news at the hour
of writing, and a sincere desire that in due time, and as soon as you
have recovered your equanimity, I may be allowed to renew my
proposal.--I am, my dear Lady Constantine, yours ever sincerely,
C. MELCHESTER.'
She laid the letter aside, and thought no more about it, beyond a
momentary meditation on the errors into which people fall in reasoning
from actions to motives. Louis, who was now again with her, became in
due course acquainted with the contents of the letter, and was satisfied
with the promising position in which matters seemingly stood all round.
Lady Constantine went her mournful ways as she had planned to do, her
chief resort being the familiar column, where she experienced the
unutterable melancholy of seeing two carpenters dismantle the dome of its
felt covering, detach its ribs, and clear away the enclosure at the top
till everything stood as it had stood before Swithin had been known to
the place. The equatorial had already been packed in a box, to be in
readiness if he should send for it from abroad. The cabin, too, was in
course of demolition, such having been his directions, acquiesced in by
her, before he started. Yet she could not bear the idea that these
structures, so germane to the events of their romance, should be removed
as if removed for ever. Going to the men she bade them store up the
materials intact, that they might be re-erected if desired. She had the
junctions of the timbers marked with figures, the boards numbered, and
the different sets of screws tied up in independent papers for
identification. She did not hear the remarks of the workmen when she had
gone, to the effect that the young man would as soon think of buying a
halter for himself as come back and spy at the moon from Rings-Hill
Speer, after seeing the glories of other nations and the gold and jewels
that were found there, or she might have been more unhappy than she was.
On returning from one of these walks to the column a curious circumstance
occurred. It was evening, and she was coming as usual down through the
sighing plantation, choosing her way between the ramparts of the camp
towards the outlet giving upon the field, when suddenly in a dusky vista
among the fir-trunks she saw, or thought she saw, a golden-haired,
toddling child. The child moved a step or two, and vanished behind a
tree. Lady Constantine, fearing it had lost its way, went quickly to the
spot, searched, and called aloud. But no child could she perceive or
hear anywhere around. She returned to where she had stood when first
beholding it, and looked in the same direction, but nothing reappeared.
The only object at all resembling a little boy or girl was the upper tuft
of a bunch of fern, which had prematurely yellowed to about the colour of
a fair child's hair, and waved occasionally in the breeze. This,
however, did not sufficiently explain the phenomenon, and she returned to
make inquiries of the man whom she had left at work, removing the last
traces of Swithin's cabin. But he had gone with her departure and the
approach of night. Feeling an indescribable dread she retraced her
steps, and hastened homeward doubting, yet half believing, what she had
seemed to see, and wondering if her imagination had played her some
trick.
The tranquil mournfulness of her night of solitude terminated in a most
unexpected manner.
The morning after the above-mentioned incident Lady Constantine, after
meditating a while, arose with a strange personal conviction that bore
curiously on the aforesaid hallucination. She realized a condition of
things that she had never anticipated, and for a moment the discovery of
her state so overwhelmed her that she thought she must die outright.
In her terror she said she had sown the wind to reap the whirlwind. Then
the instinct of self-preservation flamed up in her like a fire. Her
altruism in subjecting her self-love to benevolence, and letting Swithin
go away from her, was demolished by the new necessity, as if it had been
a gossamer web.
There was no resisting or evading the spontaneous plan of action which
matured in her mind in five minutes. Where was Swithin? how could he be
got at instantly?--that was her ruling thought. She searched about the
room for his last short note, hoping, yet doubting, that its contents
were more explicit on his intended movements than the few meagre
syllables which alone she could call to mind. She could not find the
letter in her room, and came downstairs to Louis as pale as a ghost.
He looked up at her, and with some concern said, 'What's the matter?' 'I am searching everywhere for a letter--a note from Mr. St.
Cleeve--just a few words telling me when the _Occidental_ sails, that I think he goes
in.' 'Why do you want that unimportant document?' 'It is of the utmost importance that I should know whether he has actually sailed or not!' said she in agonized tones. 'Where _can_ that
letter be?' Louis knew where that letter was, for having seen it on her desk he had,
without reading it, torn it up and thrown it into the waste-paper basket,
thinking the less that remained to remind her of the young philosopher
the better.
'I destroyed it,' he said.
'O Louis! why did you?' she cried. 'I am going to follow him; I think it
best to do so; and I want to know if he is gone--and now the date is
lost!' 'Going to run after St. Cleeve? Absurd!' 'Yes, I am!' she said with vehement firmness. 'I must see him; I want to speak to him as soon as possible.' 'Good Lord, Viviette! Are you mad?' 'O what was the date of that ship! But it cannot be helped. I start at once for Southampton. I have made up my mind to do it. He was going to his uncle's solicitors in the North first; then he was coming back to Southampton. He cannot have sailed yet.' 'I believe he has sailed,' muttered Louis sullenly.
She did not wait to argue with him, but returned upstairs, where she rang
to tell Green to be ready with the pony to drive her to Warborne station
in a quarter of an hour.