Chapter XXVII · (continued 2)

Towards the middle of April I rally a little, and an intense craving for air is ever on me. Down by the sea I wander daily, getting as close to it as my strength will allow, the mile that separates me from it being now looked upon as a journey by my impoverished strength. Somewhat nearer to me than the shore is a high, level plain of sand and earth and grass, that runs back inland from a precipice that overlooks the ocean. On this I sit, and drawing sometimes up to the edge, peer over, and amuse myself counting the waves as they dash on to the beach far, far below.

This plain, forming part of the grounds belonging to Hazelton, possesses the double charm of being easier of access than the strand, and of being strictly private.

It is the 17th of April—a cold day, but fresh, with little sunshine anywhere. I am sauntering along my usual path to my sandy plain, thoughtless of anything in the present, innocent of presentiments, when suddenly before me, as though arisen out of the earth, stands Sir Mark Gore.

How long is it since last I saw him?—not months surely?—it seems more like yesterday. Why do I feel no surprise, no emotion? Is the mind within me indeed dead? I am more puzzled by my own unnatural calmness at this moment than even by an event so unexpected as his presence here.

We both stand still and gaze at each other. As far as I am concerned, time dies; I forget these weary months at Hazelton. I think of our parting at Strangemore. His eyes are reading, examining with undisguised pain, the changes in my face and form. At length he speaks.

"I hardly thought to meet you here, Mrs. Carrington," he says, advancing slowly, and addressing me in the low, hushed tone one adopts towards the sick or dying. He appears agitated.

I regard him with fixed coldness.

"You, who know all," I say, with quiet emphasis, "why do you call me by that name? Call me Phyllis; that, at least still remains to me."

He flushes crimson, and a pained look comes into hie eyes.

"I suppose," I go on, curiously, "that last warning you gave Marmaduke at the library door at home—at Strangemore," correcting myself without haste, "had reference to—that woman? Am I right?"

"Yes; I regret now having ever uttered it."

"Regrets are useless, and your words did no harm. Thinking of things since, I knew they must have meant an allusion to her."

"How calmly you speak of it!" he says, amazed.

"I speak as I feel," I reply.

There is rather an awkward pause. Now that he is here, the question naturally presents itself—for what reason has he come? At length—-

"Will you not say you are glad to see me?" ventures Sir Mark, uneasily.

"I am neither glad nor sorry," is my unmoved return; "I have forgotten to be emotional. I believe my real feeling just now is indifference. Considering how unlooked-for is your presence here, it astonishes even myself that I can call up so little surprise. Curious, is it not? You look thin, I think, and older—not so well as when last we met."

He grows a shade paler.

"Do I?" Then, drawing a hard, quick breath—"And you, child, what have you been doing with yourself? Except for your eyes, it is hardly you I see. So white, so worn, so changed; this place is killing you."

"It is a very quiet place. It suits me better than any other could."

"I tell you it is killing you," he repeats, angrily. "Better to face and endure the world's talk at once, than linger here until body and soul part."

"I shall never face the world," return I, quietly. "Here is my convent; at least within its walls I find peace. I see no one, therefore hear no evil talk. I have no wish to be disturbed."

"So you think now; but as time goes on you must—you cannot fail to tire of it. Is it natural to one so young to lock herself voluntarily away from people of her own age? Why, how old are you, child?"

"Almost nineteen."

"Almost, nineteen!" cries he, with an unmirthful laugh, "and you may live for fifty years! Are you going to immure yourself within these same four walls for fifty years."

"I shall not live for fifty years."

"But you may; without excitement of any description I see no reason why you should not live for a century."

"I shall not live for two years," returned I, impressively.

"Phyllis what are you saying?" cries he, with a shudder.

"The truth. I am dying slowly, and I know it. I am glad of it. I have no energy, no hope, no wish for life. Do you wonder much? At times I have a strange fancy that I am already dead; and then—-" I break off dreamily.

"What abominable morbid fancy! It is horrible!" exclaims Sir Mark, excitedly. "You must see a doctor without delay; if you were well no such mournful ideas would occur to you."

"Mournful!" I smile a little. "Yes, perhaps so—when I wake again to—find I am alive."

"Nonsense," impatiently. "Why have your people left you so much alone? It is shameful, unheard of! Phyllis, promise me you will see a doctor if I send one."

"Who shall minister to a mind diseased?" say I, still smiling. "No, I will not see your doctor. My ailment has no name; I do not suffer; quiet is my best medicine."

We walk on a little way in silence.

"You do not ask after your friends," says he, abruptly.

"Have I still any left? Well, tell me. I should like to know how is Marmaduke? and where?"

"Do you not hear from him, then?" turning to gaze suspiciously in my face.

"No; why should I? We parted forever when he brought me here. Oh," with a sudden, sharp uplifting of my voice—"how long ago it seems! what years, and years, and years! Tell me you—where is he?"

"Abroad somewhere; we none of us know where. You think of him incessantly?" still with his eyes searching and reading my face; "it is for him the color has left your cheeks, the light has died from your eyes? Is it the old life, or is it merely him you regret?"

"I think I regret nothing but my youth," return I, wearily.

"Had you never, at any time, any idea of the truth?" asks he, in a low tone, presently.

"Never. How should I. He kept it from me, fearing it would cause me pain."

"He deceived you grossly."

"Yes but, as he thought, for my good. Where was the use of enlightening me? The story was told; the woman was dead—or so he believed. He chose to hide it from me."

"Yes, he hid it from you."

"Well, what of that?" I cry, impatiently; "it was a mistake, I think, but a kindly one. He was always thinking of my happiness. It was perhaps a worse shock to him than it was to me. He had no faintest thought of her being alive until she stood before him."

He is silent. Something in his manner, in the very way he keeps his eyes bent resolutely upon the ground, chills me. Upon his face a curiously determined expression has gathered and grown.

"No faintest thought," I repeat, sharply, watching him now as keenly as he watched me before; "of course he had not. He had heard of her death years before he ever met me. Had he even doubted on the subject, his treachery would have been unequalled. But you cannot think that: it is impossible you can think it: therefore say so!"

Still he is silent—ominously so, as it seems to me. His eyes are still downcast; the evil determination in his face is stronger; his cane is digging deep furrows in the sandy loam.

"Why don't you speak," cried I, fiercely; "what do you mean by standing there silent, with that hateful expression upon your face? Do you mean to insinuate that there was a doubt in his mind? Look at me, and answer truly. Do you believe Marmaduke knew that woman to be living when he married me?"

I am half mad with suspense and fear. Placing both my hands upon his arm, I put forth all my puny strength, and actually compel him, strong man as he is, to meet my gaze.

For a moment he hesitates—a long moment—and then the right triumphs. Though in his own mind he is firmly convinced that can he but endue my mind with this doubt of Marmaduke's integrity he will substantially aid his own cause, still, being a gentleman born and bred, he finds a difficulty in bringing his lips to utter the miserable falsehood.

"No: I don't believe he did know," he answers, doggedly.

"You are sure of this?" I ask, feverishly.

"I would give my oath of it," he replies, with increased sullenness.

"Coward!" murmur I bitterly, taking my hands from his arm, and turning away.

The excitement of the past few minutes has been terrible to my weakened frame; I feel a vague dizziness, a coldness creeping over me. I am a good half-mile from home: should I faint, there will be nothing for it but for Sir Mark to carry me there, and to have that man's arms round me for so long a time is more than I could endure. The bare thought of it nerves me to action.

Hurriedly drawing a pin from some secret fold of my dress, I press it deep into my arm, so deep that presently I feel a warm sluggish drop ooze out and trickle slowly down my flesh, Until it sinks into the lining of my sleeve. The little dull pain that follows rouses me, and puts an end to all fear of my becoming insensible.

I draw a long breath and gradually awaken to the fact that my companion is again speaking.

"In spite of all that, he has wronged you horribly," he is saying with much deliberation. "What has he made you? A woman without a name—one whom the virtuous world would not recognize. He has driven you to bury yourself in this remote corner of the earth, cut off from all that makes life acceptable. He has destroyed your youth, and ruined your health: this is all you have to thank him for."

"The undeniable truth of your words renders them all the more pleasing." I say, bitterly. "Have you come all the way down here to tell me what I know so well already?"

"Yes, and for something more, to ask you to be my wife. Hush! let me speak. I know the answer you would make me, but I do not think you have fully weighed everything. Were you to endure this life you are now leading but for a season, for a year, even for several years, I would say nothing; but until this woman, this Carlotta, dies, you can never be his wife. Remember that. And who ever knew any one to die quickly whose death was longed for? Look at annuitants, for instance; they live forever: therefore this isolation of yours will know no end."

I am motionless, speechless, from rage and amazement.

"Then by your own words and actions," he goes on in the same measured fashion, suppressing forcibly the fire and agitation that lie beneath his cold exterior, "I have seen a hundred times how little real affection you entertain for Carrington; therefore you are not bound to him by the ties of love. Will you not consider for your own sake? I offer you my name, my rank, everything that I possess. Few men would be tempted to do as much, perhaps."

"Sir," say I, feeling half choked, "believe me, I fully appreciate all the sacrifices you would make for my sake. Pray spare both me and yourself the recital of them."

"Sacrifices?" interrupts he, eagerly: "no, indeed! I never thought of it in that light. I only meant to put the case clearly before you exactly as it is, without any false lights. I tell you that so far from my present proposition to you being a sacrifice on my part, I would gladly go on my knees to you this moment, if by doing so I could gain your consent to my plans. I will take you to any part of the world you may choose to name, at home or abroad. I shall be prouder, more blest than I can say, if you will consent to be my wife."

"Have you quite done?" say I, in a tone treacherously calm. "Have you anything more to say? No? Are you sure? Now listen to me. Even if the circumstances were totally different—if I were free as air—if you were the last man on earth I would not marry you. Whether I do or do not love Marmaduke, is a question I decline to answer to you. At all events, to my own way of thinking, I am his wife now, and shall ever remain so—until death divides us. But as to whether or not I love you, I feel no hesitation about answering that. I look upon you as the lowest, the meanest of men, to come here behind your friend's back to traduce him, and insinuate lies about him, so as to do him injury in the eyes of the woman he loves. I loathe and detest you, with all my heart."

I am staring him valiantly in the face as I utter these denunciations. My cheeks are crimson with rage, my eyes are flashing; for the moment all my old strength, and more than my old spirit have returned to me. I have worked myself through the force of my eloquence into such a passion that I literally tremble from head to foot. I feel humbled and insulted in my own eyes. All these months of lonely weariness have failed to bring home to me the fact that I am not a married woman. This man's complete acceptance of it has maddened me.

"Thank you," says he, slowly; "but pray do not stop yet. There must be something more you wish to say. Don't mind me; don't take my feelings into consideration."

"I don't," I reply, viciously stamping my foot. "But, as it happens, I have said all I ever wish to say to you. You may take from my lips now the very last words I shall condescend to utter to you. Leave me; I hate and despise you!"

"I will," cries he, furiously, losing sight of all the self-imposed restraint that has bound him daring the last fifteen minutes. "But I shall take something else too. As you decree we shall part here never to meet again, I shall at least kiss you in farewell, for the insolence you have shown me."

His face is full of anger and settled purpose; he is white to the lips; his eyes gleam steadily. There is no sign of wavering or relenting about him.

Oh, how I regret my intemperate speech. An awful fear seizes hold of me. I can almost fancy his committing murder with that look in his eyes. I forget all but a wild desire to escape, and, breaking from him, I rush madly towards the bare, unwalled cliff that overhangs the sea.

But a very little space divides me from the edge, as his hand catches and closes on my arm and drags me roughly backwards.

"Are you mad?" he pants hoarsely, all the passion gone from his face, leaving only cold horror in its place. "Are you out of your senses? Come home directly. What! would you prefer death to a kiss from me? At last you have effectually put an end to my absurd infatuation. I have no great fancy for any woman's loathing."

So saying, he leads me homewards, tired, worn out with conflicting emotions. His hand still clutches my arm, as though he fears I will again break loose and try to accomplish my wicked purpose.

Silent and obedient I go with him, until we reach the small gate by which I generally leave and return.

Here he stops, and, putting me inside, shuts the wicket again between us, he being on the outside.

"Now go home," he says, sternly, "and go to bed. You are as white as death. Do you hear me?"

I answer, "Yes," very meekly, feeling somewhat frightened and subdued.

"As I shall take very good care not to put myself in your way again," he goes on, in the same tone, "I would wish to say, before leaving, that in the future, when you stigmatize me as mean and dishonorable, I would have you also remember that to-day I came to do you the kindest turn any man could do you under the circumstances."

After this remark, without further glance or gesture he turns and leaves me.