Delphi Works of Ford Madox Ford (Illustrated) (65 page)

‘Why, Ju, how quiet you are. I believe you must have been crossed in love.’

To her surprise, instead of turning off her remark with a jest, Julia flushed angrily and kept silence, a sign, as Edith well knew, that she was repressing a tumult of wrath. Moreover, for the rest of the afternoon Julia was excessively bad-tempered and gloomy, hardly saying a word. This turned Edith’s thoughts inwards, and weak as she was she had little trouble in making up her mind to a desperate step. When Edith had once evolved a resolution upon any subject there was no hesitation left in her mind as to its advisability — a characteristic she had inherited from her father. As chance would have it, Julia left the room in search of a pair of scissors that had got lost, after the peculiar habit of scissors, and once having gone, she seemed to be in no hurry to return. During her absence Hollebone entered on his professional visit, and thus for the first time they were alone together. He had expected to find Julia or someone in the room with her, and in a listless way would have preferred it. He had by this time reconciled himself to the fact that he still loved her, in spite of everything that had passed; but although he perforce admitted
that
, perhaps more from habit than for any other reason, he had no particular desire to be near her, or even to see her. Having become an unwitting disciple of Berlioz’s system of philosophy, the system of ‘Absolute Indifferentism in Universal Matter,’ he had no wish to enter another phase of philosophic psychology, to have his ‘Indifferentism’ overcome by a passion. Moreover, he felt uneasy in his mind when in the presence of Edith, even when she was lying unconscious on her bed — she and his ‘System’ seemed so incongruous. Therefore he felt awkward at entering a room in which she was alone. She had been brooding over the fire, and her face was slightly scorched by the heat.

‘Oh, it is you,’ she said softly, with a happy smile.

Hollebone, in desperation, adopted his
most
professional manner.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I have looked in to see how you were. You are getting along famously.

I sha’n’t be of any use soon.’

She said, —

‘Oh, Clem,’ with an unhappy little sigh, just to steel herself, and then, ‘sit down — please do — I want to speak to you.’ At which her fortitude deserted her, and she began to weep softly.

He sat looking at her without so much as feeling awkward. The shock he had sustained, and was still labouring under, had driven out all sense of pity, for anyone or anything, from his mind.

‘Oh, Clem,’ she said suddenly, ‘you are very cruel — or no, it’s not that, only I am very miserable. But you are quite right to despise me — only when I did it, I didn’t see that I was doing wrong. I meant it for your good, I did, really. I thought you were ruined, and it would be a noble thing to sacrifice myself to get a little money for you. It was very wicked of me. I can see it now. Oh, Clem, Clem, can’t you forgive me for it? Is it to separate us
for ever.
I — I love you as much as I ever did.’

He answered nothing, but a great desire was entering into his heart, the ‘Indifferentism to Universal Matter’ was crumbling away, or at least he was trying to assimilate it to his love, and failed dismally. He could not make the two run in harness together.

‘I know I have wronged you very deeply, Clem. But I was only a child then, and did not see it in the right light.’ She was crying softly all the while. ‘
Can’t
you forgive me? I am so very miserable. I can’t make you any amends, but — but I can throw myself on your mercy. It is all I can do, and it is a hard thing for a woman to do. I love you, Clem, as well as I ever did. Oh! have pity on me. Give me a little of your love — a very little.’

Hollebone trembled for a moment — it was the defeat of ‘Indifferentism’ that caused it, as it took wings and fled.

‘Oh, my darling,’ he said, ‘I love you more than all the world,’ and with a little sigh, like a happy child, she threw her arms round his neck, and clinging to him, closed her eyes, while he kissed her again and again. For her it was a paradise of utter joy, and she wept softly and happily, with her head pillowed on his shoulder, silent in a joyful delirium of restful ecstasy.

And he was in hell, and not a hell like M. Rénan’s ideal place of future abode, for into the void that the departure of his ‘Indifferentism’ had created conscience rushed in, and the last state of the man was seven times seven worse than the former. He felt her kisses showering on his cheeks, as though a rose were shaking its blood-red petals on to his face — and yet, and yet she was a murderess that gave them, and it was by murder she had gained the right and the power to give them, and yet her kisses were so sweet, and fell so softly, like summer rain on parched ground, and he had been yearning for them so long. How could he throw away the power to possess them for ever? And after all — But suddenly the fire shifted and made him start.

‘I — I
must
go now,’ he said uneasily.

She gave a little moan of discontent.

‘Oh, don’t,’ she said reluctantly. ‘You
do
love me, don’t you?’

And for answer he kissed her again.

‘But do you love me as much as you used to — a year ago?’

‘My darling,’ he said, ‘I love you infinitely more. More than I could have dreamt of then.’

She took her arms lingeringly and wistfully from round his neck.

‘Oh, Clem, I am so glad. You’ll come again soon, won’t you? Because last time when you said you would come again on the next day it — it was a whole year, and everything happened in between. But that is all over and gone, like a nightmare. Oh, Clem, it is so good of you to love me, after I was so wicked — it is so noble!’

He could not trust himself to answer anything, only he kissed her once again and left her. She was almost glad to be alone with her new-found joy, and sat looking happily in the fire, with nothing to mar the full conviction that her grief was now for ever at an end.

In the meanwhile Hollebone was in an agony of mental conflict. Going down the stairs Julia met him, her face flushed and a new light in her eyes.

‘Why, whatever is the matter, Mr Hollebone?’ she asked. ‘You look ghastly.’

‘I — I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Look here, Julia, do come in next door, I want to speak to you; I must speak to someone or I shall go mad. Please come — I know it will look funny, but what does
that
matter.’

And Julia, after a moment’s hesitation, said, —

‘Very well, I will come. Does Edie want looking after?’

‘No, not directly,’ he answered. ‘Look here, put on a hat and cloak; it’s rather cold outside.” Well, well,’ she said, with a smile, ‘I suppose I must obey you.’

In a moment they were out in the open air. ‘Look here, Julia,’ he said, ‘do you mind walking a little way up the road with me? I am afraid to say what I have got to say in the house for fear someone should overhear it.’ For a time they walked on in silence. The evening was coming on wearily, with a drizzling rain from over the sea, and from the naked branches of the trysting-tree, under which they halted, great drops of water fell heavily into the mud under foot. In momentary silence he nursed his misery of soul, and she her dread of what he was about to say. A raven that sat at the tree-top above put his head on one side curiously and surveyed them microscopically, seeking for any sign of a gun in his hands, but he felt reassured on seeing that neither of them was carrying so much as a stick. Without a gun a human being is a person to be despised. And the raven sat quietly wondering what kept his mate so late on the seashore. ‘I wish one of these two would speak; this silence is trying to my nerves,’ the raven said to himself, with a gape of its bill. Suddenly, so suddenly that the raven started in surprise, Hollebone said, —

‘Oh, Julia, I am the most miserable fellow in the world.’

‘Oh, come,’ she said, ‘what nonsense. Whatever is the matter with you now? Has Edith been blowing you up? It would serve you right if she did.’

‘No — oh, no. It’s not that,’ he answered, shivering in spite of himself.

‘Well, then, what is it?’ Julia said, and feeling herself giving way rapidly, she went on almost hysterically. ‘Now, look here, Clement Hollebone. I think you are behaving — and have behaved — like a blackguard. You ought to be proud that Edith should condescend to love a vain, worthless man like yourself. She sacrificed herself for you in a way that no other woman would have dreamt of — and you, like a — well, never mind — you allow your petty self-love to be wounded, and taunt her while her husband was alive, and now when he is dead you are villain enough to triumph over her love, so that in her nobleness of character she believes that she is the guilty party, that she has wronged
you
— you who are not worthy to be trodden on by her.’

‘But, good God, Julia, she murdered her husband — and with
my
poison. God help me!’ Julia started. (The raven in the tree had been joined by his mate, and they were both on the alert, wondering what she would answer.) She had been dreading lest he should say this — dreading with her whole soul — and she echoed his last words to gain a moment of time before pouring forth her answer like a torrent.

‘God help you! Yes, go to Him for help — for if ever man stood in need of His mercy you do — you dastard; and if ever man has committed murder — yes,
murder
— and broken a true woman’s heart, through his own petty vanity, it was you, Clement Hollebone. To flatter yourself with sham ideas of fortitude you abandoned that poor child — for she was a child then — abandoned her when she stood most in need of you, instead of going to her and comforting her in her distress when you were ruined, or supposed to be. Instead of comforting her in spite of her parents you write to her coldly and give her permission to break off the engagement. Do you think that a woman such as Edith is, cared for your money? Is that the sort of love you expected from her? You did it in order to vaunt your honourable character, to flatter your own vanity, in fact, by proving to yourself what a very honourable gentleman you were. And you left her to herself, to pine with a half broken heart, instead of coming to comfort her in spite of her parents. That is your honour again. And then in her great chivalrous love she sacrifices herself to gain money for you — and you, instead of wondering at her love, so far above your own, your petty vanity is wounded, and you scorn her and taunt her until, in despair at your hardness of heart, she murders her senile, villainous husband. What other woman would have had the courage? She chains herself to this old devil, and undergoes a terrible servitude, and then even risks her own life — all out of her great love for you — and you, instead of rejoicing to have won so great and noble a love, go about wringing your hands, saying you are the most miserable fellow alive. Oh, if ever man was wicked it was you. You have made Edith go so far as to imperil her own life for the sake of you. You have ruined her life — and even now you can dare to hesitate about the
one
step that can make some small amends to her.’

And Hollebone was so broken down with the new light that Julia had thrown upon Edith’s character and upon his own that he could only answer, —

‘Thank you, Julia. I will marry her as soon as she will have me.’

And Julia said, —

‘You had better be quick, then, or something else will get her. You know that as well as I, although you shut your eyes to it.’ Hollebone shuddered, —

‘Oh God, Julia,’ he said, ‘why do you torment in this heartless manner? You know how I love her. I will take her off to Italy at once — but, oh God! I
couldn’t
lose her now.’

They turned homewards in silence.

(But the ravens in the tree shook their heads. ‘What shocking ideas that woman had about morals,’ they said one to the other.

And the male said to his mate, —

‘H’m. It seems to me that the best thing I can do to show my love for you, my dear, if the winter is at all severe, will be to peck you to death and then eat you. In that way you will be saved the pain of seeing me starve, and I shall be able to live through the winter — that is, if it is at all severe.’

But his mate objected very strongly to this way of proving her lord’s affection.

‘Besides,’ she said reassuringly, ‘the winter is sure to be mild, there are so very few berries on the trees; and as the finches say, God always sends great store of hips and haws if the winter is to be long or severe.’