by Hugh Conway
I threw myself into my chair, cursing Italian guile; yet, as I thought of Italian cupidity, not altogether hopeless. Perhaps Teresa would write or come to me. I had not forgotten the eager looks she cast upon my money. But day after day passed without letter or message.
I spent those days, for the most part, wandering about the streets in the vain hope of encountering the fugitives. It was only after this second loss that I really knew the extent of my passion. I cannot describe the longing I had to see that fair face once more. Yet, I feared the love was all on my side. If Pauline had felt even a passing interest in me she could scarcely have left in this secret and mysterious manner. Her heart was yet to be won, and I knew that unless I won it no woman’s love would to me be worth having.
I should have returned to my old lodgings in Walpole Street had it not been that I feared to quit Maida Vale, lest Teresa, if she should be faithful to her engagements, might miss me. So I lingered on there until ten days went slowly by; then, just as I was beginning to despair, a letter came.
It was written in a delicate pointed Italian style and signed Manuel Ceneri. It simply said that the writer would have the honour of calling upon me about noon today.
Nothing was hinted at as to the object of the visit, but I knew it could be connected with only one thing—the desire of my heart. Teresa, after all, had not played me false. Pauline would be mine. I waited with feverish impatience until this unknown Manuel Ceneri should make his appearance.
A few minutes after twelve he was announced and shown into my room. I recognized him at once. He was the middle-aged man with rather round shoulders who had talked to Teresa under the shade of San Giovanni at Turin. Doubtless he was ‘il dottore’ spoken of by the old woman as being the arbiter of Pauline’s fate.
He bowed politely as he entered, cast one quick look at me as if trying to gather what he could from my personal appearance, then seated himself in the chair I offered him.
‘I make no apology for calling,’ he said; ‘you will no doubt guess why I come.’ His English was fluent, but the foreign accent very marked.
‘I hope I guess correctly,’ I replied.
‘I am Manuel Ceneri. I am a doctor by profession. My sister was Miss March’s mother. I have come from Geneva on your account.’
‘Then you know what the wish—the great wish of my life is?’
‘Yes, I know. You want to marry my niece. Now, Mr Vaughan, I have many reasons for wishing my niece to remain single, but your proposal has induced me to reconsider the matter.’
Pauline might have been a bale of cotton, so impassively did her uncle speak of her future.
‘In the first place,’ he went on, ‘I am told you are well born and rich. Is that so?’
‘My family is respectable. I am well connected and may be called rich.’
‘You will satisfy me on the latter point, I suppose.’
I bowed stiffly, and taking a sheet of paper wrote a line to my solicitors, asking them to give the bearer the fullest information as to my resources. Ceneri folded up the note and placed it in his pocket. Perhaps I showed the annoyance I felt at the mercenary exactness of his inquiries.
‘I am bound to be particular in this matter,’ he said, ‘as my niece has nothing.’
‘I expect nothing or wish for nothing.’
‘She had money once—a large fortune. It was lost long ago. You will not ask how or where?’
‘I can only repeat my former words.’
‘Very well—I feel I have no right to refuse your offer. Although she is half Italian, her manners and habits are English. An English husband will suit her best. You have not yet, I believe, spoken of love to her?’
‘I have had no opportunity. I should no doubt have done so, but as soon as our acquaintance commenced she was taken away.’
‘Yes, my instructions to Teresa were strict. It was only on condition she obeyed her that I allowed Pauline to live in England.’
Although this man spoke as one who had absolute authority over his niece, he had not said one word which evinced affection. So far as that went, she might have been a stranger to him.
‘But now, I suppose,’ I said, ‘I shall be allowed to see her?’
‘Yes—on conditions. The man who marries Pauline March must be content to take her as she is. He must ask no questions, seek to know nothing of her birth and family, nothing of her early days. He must be content to know that she is a lady, that she is very beautiful, and that he loves her. Will this suffice?
The question was such a strange one that even in the height of my passion I hesitated.
‘I will say this much,’ added Ceneri, ‘she is good and pure—her birth is equal to your own. She is an orphan and her only near relative is myself.’
‘I am content,’ I cried, holding out my hand to seal the compact. ‘Give me Pauline, I ask no more.’
Why should I not be content? What did I want to know about her family, her antecedents, or her history? So madly did I long to call that beautiful girl mine that, I believe, had Ceneri told me she was worthless and disgraced among women, I should have said, ‘Give her to me and let her begin life anew as my wife.’ Men do such things for love!
‘Now, Mr Vaughan,’ said the Italian, drawing his hand from mine; ‘my next question will astonish you. You love Pauline, and I believe she is not indifferent to you—’
He paused and my heart beat at the thought. ‘Will your arrangements permit of an early marriage—an immediate marriage? Can I upon my return to the Continent in a few days leave her future in your hands entirely?’
‘I would marry her today if it were possible,’ I cried.
‘We need not be so impetuous as that—but could you arrange for, say, the day after tomorrow?’
I stared at him—I could scarcely believe I heard correctly. To be married to Pauline within a few hours! There must be something in the background of such bliss! Ceneri must be a madman! Yet, even from the hands of a madman how could I refuse my happiness?
‘But I don’t know if she loves me—would she consent?’ I stammered,
‘Pauline is obedient and will do as I wish. You can woo her after her marriage instead of before it.’
‘But can it be done on so short a notice?’
‘I believe there are such things as special licences to be bought. You are wondering at my suggestion. I am bound to return to Italy almost at once. Now, I put it to you—can I, in the present circumstances, leave Pauline here with only a servant to look after her? No, Mr Vaughan, strange as it may seem, I must either see her your wife before I leave or I must take her back with me. The latter may be unfortunate for you, as here I have only myself to consider, whilst abroad there may be others to consult, and perhaps I must change my mind.’
‘Let us go to Pauline and ask her,’ I said, rising impatiently.
‘Certainly,’ said Ceneri, gravely, ‘we will go at once.’
Till now I had been sitting with my back to the window. As I faced the light I noticed the Italian doctor look very straight at me.
‘Your face seems quite familiar to me, Mr Vaughan, although I cannot recall where I have seen you.’
I told him he must have seen me outside San Giovanni while he was talking to old Teresa. He remembered the occurrence and appeared satisfied. Then we called a cab and drove to Pauline’s new abode.
It was not so very far away. I wondered I had not encountered either Pauline or Teresa in my rambles. Perhaps they had both kept to the house to avoid the meeting.
‘Would you mind waiting in the hall a minute?’ asked Ceneri as we entered the house. ‘I will go and prepare Pauline for your coming.’
I would have waited a month in a dungeon for the reward in prospect; so I sat down on the polished mahogany chair and wondered if I was in my right senses.
Presently old Teresa came to me. She looked scarcely more amiable than before.
‘Have I done well?’ she whispered in Italian.
‘You have done well—
I will not forget.’
‘You will pay me and blame me for nothing. But listen—once more I say it—the Signorina is not for love or marriage.’
Superstitious old fool! Were Pauline’s charms to be buried in a nunnery?
Then a bell rang and Teresa left me. In a few minutes she reappeared and conducted me upstairs to a room in which I found my beautiful Pauline and her uncle. She raised her dark dreamy eyes and looked at me—the most infatuated man could not have flattered himself that the light of love was in them.
I fully expected that Doctor Ceneri would have left us to arrange matters alone; but no—he took me by the hand and in a stately manner led me to his niece.
‘Pauline, you know this gentleman.’
She bowed. ‘Yes, I know him.’
‘Mr Vaughan,’ continued Ceneri, ‘does us the honour of asking you to be his wife.’
I could not permit all my wooing to be done by proxy, so I stepped forward and took her hand in mine.
‘Pauline,’ I whispered, ‘I love you—since first I saw you I have loved you—will you be my wife?’
‘Yes, if you wish it,’ she replied softly, but without even changing colour.
‘You cannot love me now, but you will by and by—will you not, my darling?’
She did not respond to my appeal, but then she did not repulse me, neither did she strive to withdraw her hand from mine; she remained calm and undemonstrative as ever; but I threw my arm round her, and, in spite of Ceneri’s presence, kissed her passionately. It was only when my lips touched her own that I saw the colour rise to her cheek and knew that she was moved.
She disengaged herself from my embrace, glanced at her uncle, who stood impassive as if he had witnessed nothing out of the common, and then she fled from the room.
‘I think you had better go now,’ said Ceneri. ‘I will arrange everything with Pauline. You must do on your part all that is necessary for the day after tomorrow.’
‘It is very sudden,’ I said.
‘It is, but it must be so—I cannot wait an hour longer. You had better leave me now and return tomorrow.’
I went away with my head in a whirl—I was uncertain what to do. The temptation to call Pauline my own in so short a time was great; but I could not deceive myself by thinking that she cared for me at all, as yet. But, as Ceneri said, I could do my wooing after marriage. Still I hesitated. The hurried proceeding was so strange. Ardently as I desired to wed Pauline I wished I could have first won her. Would it not be better to let her uncle take her to Italy, then to follow her and learn if she could love me? Against this prudent course came Ceneri’s vague threat, that in such an event his mind might be changed—and more than all, I was desperately in love. Although it could only be for her beauty that I loved her, I was madly in love. Fate had thrown us together. She had escaped me twice—now the third time she was offered to me unreservedly. I was superstitious enough to think that if I rejected or postponed accepting the gift, it would be withdrawn forever. No—come what will, in two days’ time Pauline shall be my wife!
I saw her the next day, but never alone. Ceneri was with us all the time. Pauline was sweet, silent, shy and languid. I had much to do—much to see to. Never was a wooing so short or so strange as mine. By the evening all arrangements were made, and by ten o’clock the next morning Gilbert Vaughan and Pauline March were man and wife—those two who had not in their lifetime even conversed for a time amounting, say, to three hours, were linked together for better or worse till death should part them!
Ceneri left immediately the ceremony was over, and, to my astonishment, Teresa announced her intention of accompanying him. She did not fail to wait on me for the promised reward, which I gave her freely and fully. My heart’s desire was to wed Pauline, and by her aid it had been compassed.
Then, with my beautiful bride, I started for the Scottish lochs, to begin the wooing which should have been completed before the final step had been taken.
CHAPTER V
BY LAW, NOT LOVE
PROUD and happy as I felt when seated side by side with Pauline in the railway carriage which was taking us to the north; fortunate as I told myself I was to have won such a fair bride; great as my love was for the sweet girl who had just vowed herself mine forever, Ceneri’s extraordinary stipulation kept recurring to my mind—the man who marries Pauline March must be content to take her as she is; to wish to know nothing of her past.
Not for one moment did I think such a contract could be enforced. As soon as I had succeeded in making Pauline love me, she would surely wish to tell me all her history—there would be no need to ask for it—the confidence would then be given as a matter of course. When she had learned the secret of love, all other secrets would cease between us.
My wife looked very beautiful as she sat with her head leaning against the dark cloth of the carriage. Her clear-cut refined features showed in that position advantageously. Her face, as usual, was pale and calm; her eyes were cast down. A woman to be indeed proud of, to worship, to cherish, and—how sweet it seemed to whisper the word to myself—my wife!
Yet I suspect none would have taken us for a newly married couple. At any rate there were no nudgings and sly glances among our fellow passengers. The ceremony had been so hurried on that no attempt had been made to invest Pauline with the usual bridal accessories. Her dress, although becoming and fashionable, was the one in which I had seen her several times. Neither of us had any brand new belongings to stamp us as being bound for a honeymoon; so the only notice we attracted was the notice which was due to my wife’s great and uncommon beauty.
The carriage was nearly full when we started from London, and as the strangeness of our new relations prevented our conversing in an ordinary way, by mutual consent we were all but silent; a few soft words in Italian were all I could trust myself to speak until we were alone.
At the first important station, the first place at which the train stopped for any time worth mentioning, I exercised a little diplomatic bribery, and changing our carriage we were installed in a compartment, the windows of which bore the magic word ‘engaged’. Pauline and I were alone. I took her hand in mine.
‘My wife!’ I said, passionately, ‘mine, only mine, for ever!’
Her hand lay listless and unresisting in my own. I pressed my lips to her cheek. She shrank not from my kiss, neither did she return it—she simply suffered it.
‘Pauline!’ I whispered, ‘say once, “Gilbert, my husband”.’
She repeated the words like a child learning a new lesson. My heart sank as her emotionless accents fell on my ears. I had a hard task before me!
I could not blame her. Why should she love me yet? Me, whose Christian name, I think, she heard yesterday for the first time? Better, far better, indifference than simulated love. She had become my wife simply because her uncle wished it. I could at least comfort myself by thinking the marriage had not been forced upon her; also that, so far as I could see, she entertained no dislike to me. I did not for one moment despair. I must now woo her humbly and reverently, as every man should woo his love. Certainly, as her husband, I did not stand in a worse position than when I was her fellow lodger and old Teresa was following my every movement with her black suspicious eyes.
I would win her, but until I could claim the rights which love would give, I resolved to take none of those with which the law had invested me. None save this, and this only once:
‘Pauline,’ I said, ‘will you kiss me? Only once I ask it. It will make me happier; but if you would rather wait until we are better acquainted, I shall not complain.’
She leaned forward and kissed my forehead. Her young lips were red and warm, but they chilled me—in that kiss there was not a suspicion of the passion which was thrilling me.
I drew my hand from hers, and, still sitting beside her, began to do my best to make myself agreeable to the woman I loved. If I felt distressed and somewhat disappointed, I concealed it and strove to talk pleasantly and naturally—tr
ied to ascertain what manner of woman I had married—to get at her likes and dislikes—to study her disposition—to determine her tastes—learn her wishes—read her thoughts, and eventually to make her regard me as one who would spend his life in rendering her happy.
When was it the idea first struck me—the horrible idea that even the peculiarity and novelty of situation could not altogether account for Pauline’s apathy and lack of animation—that shyness alone could not be entirely responsible for the difficulty I experienced in making her talk to me, even in inducing her to answer my questions? I made every excuse for her. She was tired; she was upset; she could think of nothing else save the rash and sudden step taken today—more rash for her than for me—as I, at least, knew that I loved her. At last I, too, sank into silence, and miles and hours went by, whilst the bride and bridegroom sat side by side without exchanging a word, much less a caress. It was a strange situation—a strange journey!
And on and on the train rushed northwards—on and on until the dusk began to creep over the flying country; and I sat and looked at the listless but beautiful girl at my side, and wondered what our future life would be; but I did not despair, although the rattle of the train as it whirred along seemed to resolve itself into a dreamy rhythm, and reiterated without ceasing old Teresa’s sullen words, ‘She is not for love or marriage—not for love or marriage.’
Darker and darker it grew outside, and as the carriage light fell on the pure, white face of the girl beside me; as I watched its never changing expression; its beautiful but never varying pallor, a strange fear came over me—a fear lest she was wrapped in an armour of ice which no love would ever thaw. Then tired, weary and almost dispirited I sank into a kind of sleep. The last thing I could remember before my eyes closed was that, in spite of my resolution, I took that white, well-shaped, unresisting hand in my own, and slept still holding it.
