Presently he spoke, with a certain irritability in his tone.
“Are you there? I wish you would come forward where I can see you!”
She laughed — a pretty rippling laugh of kindly amusement.
“Amadis! If you are a true Knight, it is you who should turn round and look at me for yourself!”
“But I am busy,” he said, with the same sharpness of voice— “Surely you see that?”
She made no answer, but moved quietly to a position where she stood facing him at about an arm’s length. Never had she made a prettier picture than in that attitude of charming hesitation, with a tender little smile on her pretty mouth and a wistful light in her eyes. He laid down his palette and brushes.
“I must give up work for to-day,” he said — and going to her he took her in his arms— “You are too great an attraction for me to resist!” He kissed her lightly, as he would have kissed a child. “You are very fascinating this afternoon! Are you bent on some new conquest?”
She gave him a sweet look.
“Why will you talk nonsense, my Amadis!” she said— “You know I never wish for ‘conquests’ as you call them, — I only want you! Nothing but you!”
With his arm about her he drew her to a corner of the studio, half curtained, where there was a double settee or couch, comfortably cushioned, and here he sat down still holding her in his embrace.
“You only want me! — Nothing but me!” he repeated, softly— “Dear little
Innocent! — Ah! — But I fear I am just what you cannot have!”
She smiled, not understanding.
“What do you mean?” she asked— “You always play with me! Are you not all mine as I am all yours?”
He was silent. Then he slowly withdrew his arm from her waist.
“Now, child,” he said— “listen to me and be good and sensible! You know this cannot go on.”
She lifted her eyes trustfully to his face.
“What cannot go on?” she queried, as softly as though the question were a caress.
He moved restlessly.
“Why — this — this love-making, of ours! We mustn’t give ourselves over to sentiment — we must be normal and practical. We must look the thing squarely in the face and settle on some course that will be best and wisest for us both—”
She trembled a little. Something cold and terrifying began to creep through her blood.
“Yes — I know,” she faltered, nervously— “You said — you said we would arrange everything together to-day.”
“True! So I did! Well, I will!” He drew closer to her and took her little hand in his own. “You see, dear, we can’t live on the heights of ecstasy for ever” and he smiled, — a forced, ugly smile— “We’ve had a very happy time together, haven’t we?” — and he was conscious of a certain nervousness as he felt her soft little body press against him in answer— “But the time has come for us to think of other things — other interests — your career, — my future—”
She looked up at him in sudden alarm.
“Amadis!” she said— “What is it? You frighten me! — you speak so strangely! What do you mean?”
“Now if you are unreasonable I shall go away!” he said, with sudden harshness, dropping her hand— “I shall leave you here by yourself without another word!”
She turned deathly pale — then flushed a faint crimson — a sense of giddy faintness overcame her, — she put up her hands to her head tremblingly, and loosening her hat took it off as though its weight oppressed her.
“I — I am not unreasonable, Amadis,” she faltered— “only — I don’t understand—”
“Well, you ought to understand,” he answered, heatedly— “A clever little woman like you who writes books should not want any explanation. You ought to be able to grasp the whole position at a glance!”
Her breath came and went quickly — she tried to smile.
“I’m afraid I’m very stupid then,” she answered, gently— “For I can only see that you seem angry with me for nothing.”
He took her hand again.
“Dear little goose, I am not angry,” he said— “If you were to make me a ‘scene’ I SHOULD be angry — very angry! But you won’t do that, will you? It would upset my nerves. And you are such a wise, independent little person that I feel quite safe with you. Well, now let us talk sensibly, — I’ve a great deal to tell you. In the first place, I’m going to Algiers.”
Her lips were dry and stiff, but she managed to ask —
“When?”
“Oh, any time! — to-morrow… next day — before the week is over, certainly. There are some fine subjects out there that I want to paint — and I feel I could do good work—”
Her hand in his contracted a little, — she instinctively withdrew it… then she heard herself speaking as though it were someone else a long way off.
“When are you coming back?”
“Ah! — That’s my own affair!” he answered carelessly— “In the spring perhaps, — perhaps not for a year or two—”
“Amadis!”
The name sprang from her lips like the cry of an animal wounded to death. She rose suddenly from his side and stood facing him, swaying slightly like a reed in a cruel wind.
“Well!” he rejoined— “You say ‘Amadis’ as though it hurt you! What now?”
“Do you mean,” she said, faintly— “by — what — you — say, — do you mean — that we are — to part?”
The strained agony in her eyes compelled him to turn his own away. He got up from the settee and left her where she stood.
“We must part sooner or later,” he answered, lightly— “surely you know that?”
“Surely I know that!” she repeated, with a bewildered look, — then running to him, she caught his arm— “Amadis! Amadis! You don’t mean it! — say you don’t mean it! — You can’t mean it, if you love me! … Oh, my dearest! — if you love me! …”
She stopped, half choked by a throbbing ache in her throat, — and tottered against him as though about to fall. Alarmed at this he caught her round the waist to support her.
“Of course I love you!” he said, hurriedly— “When you are good and reasonable! — not when you behave like this! If I DON’T love you, it will be quite your own fault—”
“My own fault?” she murmured, sobbingly— “My own fault? Amadis! What have I done?”
“What have you done? It’s what you are doing that matters! Giving way to temper and making me uncomfortable! Do you call that ‘love’?”
She dropped her hand from his arm and drew herself away from him. She was trembling from head to foot.
“Please — please don’t misunderstand me!” she stammered, like a frightened child— “I — I have no temper! I — I — feel nothing — I only want to please you — to know what you wish—”
She broke off — her eyes, lifted to his, had a strange, wild stare, but he was too absorbed in his own particular and personal difficulty to notice this. He went on, speaking rapidly —
“If you want to please me you will first of all be perfectly normal,” he said— “Make up your mind to be calm and good-natured. I cannot stand an emotional woman all tantrums and tears. I like good sense and good manners. You ought to have both, with all the books you have read—”
She gave a sudden low laugh, empty of mirth.
“Books!” she echoed — and raising her arms above her head she let them drop again at her sides with a gesture of utter abandonment. “Ah yes! Books! Books by the Sieur Amadis de Jocelin!”
Her hair was ruffled and fell about her face, — her cheeks had flamed into a feverish red. The tragic beauty of her expression annoyed him.
“Your hair is coming down,” he said, with a coldly critical smile— “You look like a Bacchante!”
She paid no attention to this remark. She was apparently talking to herself.
“Books!” she said again— “Such sweet love-letters and poems by the
&nb
sp; Sieur Amadis de Jocelin!”
He grew impatient.
“You’re a silly child!” he said— “Are you going to listen to me or not?”
She gazed at him with an almost awful directness.
“I am listening!” she answered.
“Well, don’t be melodramatic while you listen!” he retorted— “Be normal!”
She was silent, still gazing fixedly at him.
He turned his eyes away, and taking up one of his brushes, dipped it in colour and made a great pretence of working in a bit of sky on his canvas.
“You see, dear child,” he resumed, with an unctuous air of patient kindness— “your ideas of love and mine are totally different. You want to live in a paradise of romance and tenderness — I want nothing of the sort. Of course, with a sweet caressable creature like you it’s very pleasant to indulge in a little folly for a time, — and we’ve had quite four months of the ‘divine rapture’ as the poets call it, — four months is a long time for any rapture to last! You have — yes! — you have amused me! — and I’ve made you happy — given you something to think about besides scribbling and publishing — yes — I’m sure I have made you happy — and, — what is much more to my credit — I have taken care of you and left you unharmed. Think of that! Day after day I have had you here entirely in my power! — and yet — and yet” — here he turned his cold blue eyes upon her with an under-gleam of mockery in their steely light— “you are still — Innocent!”
She did not move — she scarcely seemed to breathe.
“That is why I told you it would be a good thing for you if you accepted Lord Blythe’s offer, — in his great position he would be able to marry you well to some rich fellow with a title” — he went on, easily. “Now I am not a marrying man. Domestic bliss would not suit me. I have sometimes thought it would hardly suit YOU!”
She stirred slightly, as though some invisible creature had touched her, and held up one little trembling hand.
“Stop!” she said, and her voice though faint was clear and steady— “Do you think — can you imagine that I am of so low and common a nature as to marry any man, after—” She paused, struggling with herself.
“After what?” he queried, smilingly.
She shuddered, as with keenest cold.
“After your kisses!” she answered— “After your embraces which have held me away from everything save you! — After your caresses — oh God! — after all this, — do you think I would shame my body and perjure my soul by giving myself to another man?”
He almost laughed at her saintly idea of a lover’s chastity.
“Every woman would!” he declared— “And I’m sure every woman does!”
She looked straight before her into vacancy.
“I am not ‘every woman,’” she said, slowly— “I am only one unhappy girl!”
He was still dabbing colour on his canvas, but now threw down his brush and came to her.
“Dear child, why be tragic?” he said— “Life is such a pleasant thing and holds so much for both of us! I shall always love you — if you’re good!” and he laughed, pleasantly— “and you can always love ME — if you like! But I cannot marry you — I have never thought of such a thing! Marriage would not suit me at all. I know, of course, what YOU would like. You would like a grand wedding with lots of millinery and presents, and then a honeymoon at your old Briar Farm — in fact, I daresay you’d like to buy Briar Farm and imprison me there for life, along with the dust and ashes of my ancestor’s long-lost brother — but I shouldn’t like it! No, child! — not even you, attractive as you are, could turn me into a Farmer Jocelyn!”
He tried to take her in his arms, but she drew herself back from him.
“You speak truly,” she said, in a measured, lifeless tone— “Nothing could turn you into a Farmer Jocelyn. For he was an honest man!”
He winced as though a whip had struck him, and an ugly frown darkened his features.
“He would not have hurt a dog that trusted him,” she went on in the same monotonous way— “He would not have betrayed a soul that loved him!”
All at once the unnatural rigidity of her face broke up into piteous, terrible weeping, and she flung herself at his feet.
“Amadis, Amadis!” she cried. “It is not — it cannot be you who are so cruel! — no, no! — it is some devil that speaks to me — not you, not you, my love, my heart! Oh, say it isn’t true! — say it isn’t true! Have mercy — mercy! I love you, I love you! You are all my life! — I cannot live without you! Amadis!”
Vexed and frightened for himself at her sudden wild abandonment of grief, he stooped, and gripping her by the arm tried to draw her up from the floor.
“Be quiet!” he said, roughly— “I will not have a scandal here in my studio! You’ll bring my man-servant up in a moment with your stupid noise! I’m ashamed of you! — screaming and crying like a virago! If you make this row I shall go away!”
“Oh, no, no, no! — do not go away!” she moaned, sobbingly— “Have some little pity! Do not leave me, Amadis! Is everything forgotten so soon? Think for a moment what you have said to me! — what you have been to me! I thought you loved me, dear! — yes, I thought you loved me! — you told me so!” And she held up her little hands to him folded as in prayer, the tears raining down her cheeks— “But if for some fault of mine you do not love me any more, kill me now — here — just where I am! — kill me, Amadis! — or tell me to go away and kill myself — I will obey you! — but don’t — don’t send me into the empty darkness of life again all alone! Oh, no, no! Let me die rather than that! — you would not think unkindly of me if I were dead!”
He took her uplifted hands in his own — he began to be “artistically” interested, — with the same sort of interest Nero might have felt while watching the effects of some new poison on a tortured slave, — and a slight, very slight sense of regret and remorse tugged at his tough heart-strings.
“I should think of you exactly as I do now,” he said, resolutely— “If you were to kill yourself I should not pity you in the least! I should say that though you were a bit of a clever woman, you were much more of a fool! So you would gain nothing that way! You see, I’m sane and sensible — you are not. You are excited and hysterical — and don’t know what you are talking about. Yes, child! — that’s the fact!” He patted the hands he held consolingly, and then let them go. “I wish you’d get up from the floor and be reasonable! The position is quite simple and clear. We’ve had an ideal time of it together — but isn’t it Shakespeare who says ‘These violent delights have violent ends’? My work calls me to Algiers — yours keeps you in London — therefore we must part — but we shall meet again — some day — I hope…”
She slowly rose to her feet, — her sobbing ceased.
“Then — you never loved me?” she said— “It was all a lie?”
“I never lie,” he answered, coldly— “I loved you — for the time being.
You amused me.”
“And for your ‘amusement’ you have ruined me?”
“Ruined you?” He turned upon her in indignant protest— “You must be mad! You have been as safe with me as in the arms of your mother—”
At this she laughed, — a shrill little laugh with tears submerging it.
“You may laugh, but it is true!” he went on, in a righteously aggrieved tone— “I have done you no harm, — on the contrary, you have to thank me for a great deal of happiness—”
She gave a tragic gesture of eloquent despair.
“Oh, yes, I have to thank you!” she said, and her voice now vibrated with intense and passionate sorrow— “I have to thank you for so much — for so very much indeed! You have been so kind and good! Yes! And you have never thought of yourself or your own pleasure at all — but only of me! And I have been as safe with you as in my mother’s arms, … yes! — you have been quite as careful of me as she was!” And a wan smile flitted over her agonised face— “All this I have to than
k you for! — but you have ruined me just the same — not my body, but my soul!”
He looked at her, — she returned his gaze unflinchingly with eyes that glowed like burning stars — and he thought she was, as he put it to himself, “calming down.” He laughed, a little uneasily.
“Soul is an unknown quantity,” he said— “It doesn’t count.”
She seemed not to hear him.
“You have ruined my soul!” she repeated steadily— “You have stolen it from God — you have made it all your own — for your ‘amusement’! What remainder of life have you left to me? Nothing! I have no hope, no faith, no power to work — no ambition to fulfil — no dreams to realise! You gave me love — as I thought! — and I lived; you take love from me, and I die!”
He bent his eyes upon her with a kind, almost condescending gentleness, — his personal vanity was immense, and the utter humiliation of her love for him flattered the deep sense he had of his own value.
“Dear little goose, you will not die!” he said— “For heaven’s sake have done with all this sentimental talk! — I am not a man who can tolerate it. You are such a pleasant creature when you are cheerful and self-possessed, — so bright and clever and companionable — and there is no reason why we shouldn’t make love to each other again as often as we like, — but change and novelty are good for both of us. Come! — kiss me! — be a good child — and let us part friends!”
He approached her, — there was a smile on his lips — a smile in which lurked a suspicion of mockery as well as victorious self-satisfaction. She saw it — and swiftly there came swooping over her brain the horrible realisation of the truth — that it was all over! — that never, never again would she be able to dwell on the amorous looks and words and love-phrases of HER “Amadis de Jocelyn!” — that no happy future was in store for her with him — that he had no interest whatever in her cherished memories of Briar Farm, and that he would never care to accept the right of dwelling there even if she secured it for him, — moreover, that he viewed her very work with indifference, and had no concern as to her name or fame — so that everything — every pretty fancy, every radiant hope, every happy possibility was at an end. Life stretched before her dreary as the dreariest desert — for her, whose nature was to love but once, there was no gleam of light in all the world’s cruel darkness! A red mist swam before her eyes — black clouds seemed descending upon her and whirling round about her — she looked wildly from right to left, as though seeking to escape from some invisible pursuer. Startled at her expression Jocelyn tried to hold her — but she shook him off. She made a few unsteady steps along the floor.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 829
