inclemency of autumn with bastions of love: pretty looks, tender words and devoted self-involvement. All former distresses were forgotten, and all hint of any discord in the world was ignored, slipping ineffectually from their notice, like the hoarsalt wind from the slate roof tiles. They were benign and blissful, and on the first day of winter he proposed marriage at last, with a romantic flourish, and she gleefully accepted. He wrote a verse on the occasion and read it sweetly; she caught every word with enthusiasm and answered his rhymes with couplets of kisses. They fixed the date for the following spring.
And if he was ever tired of her, or grew fretful of her company, it was only that he was glutted with love; and if he was cross with her, or stern and moody, it was only that he thought he did not love her enough; and if he snapped at her and they quarrelled, then it was only that they might have the pleasure of making up— really, all his ill humour, dissatisfaction and temper were the happy effect of being helplessly in love.
But perhaps, sometimes, when walking pensively along the shingle beach, indifferent to the stinging wind and spray, his mind was not always entirely occupied by his bride-to-be. Perhaps he would wish she were somewhere else, or something different; and returning from these lone excursions, perhaps the protestations of adoration he would make were a little too anxious, too eager, though she took them all in earnest.
Perhaps, sometimes, he would stop short a poem of love abruptly in its composition, deciding it to be too flat, too similar, too hackneyed, not heartfelt. However, at other times, perhaps he would surprise himself by jotting down lines that seemed urgent, fervent, inspired— but which he would not allow to be read, and would destroy immediately. But then, perhaps he would regret their loss, and find himself repeating those taboo refrains under his breath, though knowing he should not, must not, recall them.
And perhaps again, sometimes, he would have dreams— drowsy, drunken dreams, in which his life transpired differently, in which he felt relaxed and fulfilled, while being teased or provoked by some person who, perhaps, he would forget on waking. Perhaps these dreams would seem to infiltrate into his waking day too, suppress them how he may. Perhaps, sometimes, they would distract him from his happy devotions to love.
Once he dreamt that he was swimming in the sea off Hurlevor Point, sliding through the grey waters without restraint. He swam out to the sunken ruins and dived beneath the surface, plunging downwards until he could see the murky forms of the green walls, the stacks and shapes of reefish ruins. As he swam down to the old house, he saw that through the gaping holes of windows and fractured doorways there were lamps and lights; yes, the whole place was lit up as if for some fairy masquerade.
He slipped nearer, to glide between the broken walls, where all was brilliant and bright with delicate lanterns. They gleamed upon things he had never found before, lying stacked amongst the ruins: polished tables, pier glasses, furnishings; here, a great sea-bass perused the music stood upon a gilt harpsichord; here, two starfish manoeuvred around a marble chess-board, set against a bust of Nero at a jaunty angle; and here a troupe of eels danced minuets on the lid of a Japan-lacquer cabinet. Intrigued, he swam closer, and saw a rakish door among the weeds. He wondered what was behind it, and reached out to take the handle— when suddenly the door jolted, about to spring open— a flurry of bubbles bewildered, and a nightmare horror gripped him: he kicked and flailed, swallowing water, as all became a confusion of froth, and he thought he was drowning. But then, amongst the commotion and foam, he glimpsed a form gliding through the water, a mermaid. He heard her singing softly to him, and felt he was drawing to the surface. The water grew calmer as he rose, and he saw the lovely mermaid again, with the face of Ravella, before he broke the waves and woke up.
Now, this dream unsettled him no end, and he could not be quiet all the day for humming Ravella’s tune. Often and often Clare asked him what he was singing, and he said he did not know; but all the same he knew why he was singing it. He needs must admit to himself, if not aloud, that Ravella’s claws were still in his heart, and that the best part of his love for his fiancée, and all the engagement together, was a charade. Naturally, this was an idea to drive out all his happiness, so he dreaded to think it for the damage it might do; and yet it is always the way with thoughts we try to deny, that it is these our minds ever return to, and find ways of expressing.
He began to catch himself before calling Clare Ravella, and whenever this happened took such a jolt of fear that he would redouble his affections, which only pleased Clare all the more, though the closer he held her, the more distant she seemed. Furthermore, the taboo he set upon his own mind brought out other, stranger effects. For example, on idly glancing from a window or through a doorway, he often fancied he caught a glimpse of a lithe figure darting into the woods, or behind a rock on the beach; and though it might be the most fleeting impression, he always supposed it was Ravella. He even began to think that she was watching the house; but then, on reflection or investigation, it often transpired that some trick of the light, or the movements of a seagull, or a branch, had fooled him, and never a person at all. Nevertheless, the frequency of this delusion fairly maddened him with seeing, and half-seeing, and not seeing, the object that he most desired, and yet dreaded, to really see before him.
Imagine his surprise, then, when this had become a commonplace fixation, to walk into his kitchen one day to discover the actual Ravella stood there.
He started as though she were a ghost, as he instantly supposed she must be— the figment of his dreams grown bold and apparent before his eyes; but then, surmising his mistake, he was utterly confounded, and stopped short.
Then Clare joined them, full of gaiety, and quickly explained this unusual appearance, a guest in the house. She had gone for a walk, anxious for some exercise on such a bright, crisp day; but concerned for the damage the salt-air might render to her hair, had steered her steps away from the shore, and strolled instead through the woodland park that surrounded the house on the landward side. It was here that she had unexpectedly encountered Ravella, who was engaged in a similar pursuit, it seems. Immediately greeting her with great enthusiasm, Clare declared that they had been too remiss in not having met sooner, though so nearby.
‘I wouldn’t have dreamt of it!’ laughed Ravella. ‘As soon as I concluded that all had gone well between you two, I knew I could do you the best favour of friendship by leaving you be.’
‘Oh, but how are you, Ravella, how have you been?’ asked Clare. ‘I’m so hopeless, I’m always neglecting you!’
‘Not at all. And I’m very happy, because you’re so obviously happy too.’
Clare embraced her excitedly. ‘Oh Ravella, it’s all so wonderful! James proposed at last— and we’re going to be married in the spring!’
At this ebullient news Clare was embraced in her turn, and the friends soon fell into a discussion of the details, until the happy fiancée insisted on inviting her friend back to the house.
Thus was Ravella able to smile benignly at Trevick in his own kitchen, while Clare made tea. And she smiled quietly again as the gay hostess blithely asserted that, now she had found Ravella, she would be sure not to lose her again.
Trevick, withdrawn into silence, did not relinquish it throughout the visit, which Clare fondly excused as his poetic character, given to spells of profundity. Meanwhile Ravella was at her most bright, lively, and, to him, lovely, though she took no notice of him whatever, and between the women he was not missed. He only sat, rapt in a kind of stupor, too embarrassed to move, and yet anxious to be gone, while the whole day flew away in merry conversation.
He occupied the time in admiring and admonishing by turns, inwardly, forcing himself to remember the ill opinion he had conceived of Ravella, and chastising himself for liking her. He could not deny that he hated the lovely object of his love, for her deceptions and falsity; but while this argument swayed his head, his heart rebelled against his own logic. He spent the last hour attempting to speak, but could not conj
ure any phrase that would both suppress his tender feelings and hide his resentment at once, and still be worth the saying.
Eventually, though, he opened his mouth to voice some harmless word, when Ravella jumped up to say that she must dash back to her dear aunt, who would wonder where she was. He stood up too, and immediately forgot his prepared remark as she turned full upon him and smiled.
‘Well, congratulations, Mr. Trevick.’
‘Oh, dear Ravella, we’re all friends,’ said Clare. ‘You must call him James.’
‘No, but I like “Trevick”,’ she returned. ‘I’m very pleased with it, and you should be too, Clare. You ought to practice writing it. Yes, I’d almost like to have Trevick myself.’ —whereupon she smiled winningly and departed.
Having rediscovered her favourite, Clare Belmont made Ravella her constant companion. Although she had been perfectly content to forget her friend entirely for months, she now needed a little relief from the magnetism of her fiancé— which only goes to demonstrate that, though a lover may seem the all-in-all, yet our friends afford a pleasure that cannot be done without. She apologised blithely for the neglect, while Ravella, to cover her
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