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Crown Of Life

<h3> CHAPTER XXVII </h3> His manner was that to which she had grown accustomed, or differed so little from it that, in ordinary circumstances, she would have remarked no peculiarity. He might have seemed, perhaps, a trifle less matter-of-fact than usual, slightly more disposed to ironic playfulness. At ease in the soft chair, his legs extended, with feet crossed, he observed Irene from under humorously bent brows; watched her steadily, until he saw that she could bear it no longer. Then he spoke. "I thought we should get through without it." "Without what?" "This little reaction. It comes into the ordinary prognosis, I believe; but we seemed safe. Yet I can't say I'm sorry. It's better no doubt, to get this over before marriage." Irene flushed, and for a moment strung herself to the attitude of offended pride. But it passed. She smiled to his smile, and, playing with the tassel of her chair, responded in a serious undertone. "I hoped my letter could not possibly be misunderstood." "I understand it perfectly. I am here to talk it over from your own standpoint." Again he frowned jocosely. His elbows on the chair-arms, he tapped together the points of his fingers, exhibiting nails which were all that they should have been. Out of regard for the Derwents' mourning, he wore a tie of black satin, and his clothes were of dark-grey, a rough material which combined the effects of finish and of carelessness—note of the well-dressed Englishman. "We cannot talk it over," rejoined Irene. "I have nothing to say—except that I take blame and shame to myself, and that I entreat your forgiveness." Under his steady eye, his good-humoured, watchful mastery, she was growing restive. "I was in doubt whether to come to-day," said Jacks, in a reflective tone. "I thought at first of sending a note, and postponing our meeting. I understood so perfectly the state of mind in which you wrote—the natural result of most painful events. The fact is, I am guilty of bad taste in seeming to treat it lightly; you have suffered very much, and won't be yourself for some days. But, after all, it isn't as if one had to do with the ordinary girl. To speak frankly I thought it was the kindest thing to come—so I came." Nothing Arnold had ever said to her had so appealed to Irene's respect as this last sentence. It had the ring of entire sincerity; it was quite simply spoken; it soothed her nerves. "Thank you," she answered with a grateful look. "You did right. I could not have borne it—if you had just written and put it off. Indeed, I could not have borne it." Arnold changed his attitude; he bent forward, his arms across his knees, so as to be nearer to her. "Do you think I should have had an easy time?" "I reproach myself more than I can tell you. But you must understand—you must believe that I mean what I am saying!" Her voice began to modulate. "It is not only the troubles we have gone through. I have seen it coming—the moment when I should write that letter. Through cowardice, I have put it off. It was very unjust to you; you have every right to condemn my behaviour; I am unpardonable. And yet I hope—I do so hope—that some day you will pardon me." In the man's eyes she had never been so attractive, so desirable, so essentially a woman. The mourning garb became her, for it was moulded upon her figure, and gave effect to the admirably pure tone of her complexion. Her beauty, in losing its perfect healthfulness, gained a new power over the imagination; the heavy eyes suggested one knew not what ideal of painters and poets; the lips were more sensuous since they had lost their mocking smile. All passion of which Arnold Jacks was capable sounded in the voice with which he now spoke. "I shall never pardon you, because I shall never feel you have injured me. Say to me what you want to say. I will listen. What can I do better than listen to your voice? I won't argue; I won't contradict. Relieve your mind, and let us see what it all comes to in the end." Irene had a creeping sense of fear. This tone was so unlike what she had expected. Physical weakness threatened a defeat which would have nothing to do with her will. If she yielded now, there would be no recovering her self-respect, no renewal of her struggle for liberty. She wished to rise, to face him upon her feet, yet had not the courage. His manner dictated hers. They were not playing parts on a stage, but civilised persons discussing their difficulties in a soft-carpeted drawing-room. The only thing in her favour was that the afternoon drew on, and the light thickened. Veiled in dusk, she hoped to speak more resolutely. "Must I repeat my letter?" "Yes, if you feel sure that it still expresses your mind." "It does. I made a grave mistake. In accepting your offer of marriage, I was of course honest, but I didn't know what it meant; I didn't understand myself. Of course it's very hard on you that your serious purpose should have for its only result to teach me that I was mistaken. If I didn't know that you have little patience with such words, I should say that it shows something wrong in our social habits. Yet that's foolish; you are right, that is quite silly. It isn't our habits that are to blame but our natures—the very nature of things. I had to engage myself to you before I could know that I ought to have done nothing of the kind." She paused, suddenly breathless, and a cough seized her. "You've taken cold," said Jacks, with graceful solicitude. "No, no! It's nothing." Dusk crept about the room. The fire was getting rather low. "Shall I ring for lamps?" asked Arnold, half rising. Irene wished to say no, but the proprieties were too strong. She allowed him to ring the bell, and, without asking leave, he threw coals upon the fire. For five minutes their dialogue suffered interruption; when it began again, the curtains were drawn, and warm rays succeeded to turbid twilight. "I had better explain to you," said Arnold, in a tone of delicacy overcome, "this state of mind in which you find yourself. It is perfectly natural; one has heard of it; one sees the causes of it. You are about to take the most important step in your whole life, and, being what you are, a very intelligent and very conscientious girl, you have thought and thought about its gravity until it frightens you. That's the simple explanation of your trouble. In a week—perhaps in a day or two—it will have passed. Just wait. Don't think of it. Put your marriage—put me—quite out of your mind. I won't remind you of my existence for—let us say before next Sunday. Now, is it agreed?" "I should be dishonest if I pretended to agree." "But—don't you think you owe it to me to give what I suggest a fair trial?" The words were trenchant, the tone was studiously soft. Irene strung herself for contest, hoping it would come quickly and undisguised. "I owe you much. I have done you a great injustice. But waiting will do no good. I know my mind at last. I see what is possible and what impossible." "Do you imagine, Irene, that I can part with you on these terms? Do you really think I could shake hands, and say good-bye, at this stage of our relations?" "What can I do?" Her voice, kept low, shook with emotion. "I confess an error—am I to pay for it with my life?" "I ask you only to be just to yourself as well as to me. Let three days go by, and see me again." She seemed to reflect upon it. In truth she was debating whether to persevere in honesty, or to spare her nerves with dissimulation. A promise to wait three days would set her free forthwith; the temptation was great. But something in her had more constraining power. "If I pretended to agree, I should be ashamed of myself. I should have passed from error into baseness. You would have a right to despise me; as it is, you have only a right to be angry." As though the word acted upon his mood, Arnold sprang forward from the chair, fell upon one knee close beside her, and grasped her hands. Irene instinctively threw herself back, looking frightened; but she did not attempt to rise. His face was hot-coloured, his eyes shone unpleasantly; but before he spoke, his lips parted in a laugh. "Are you one of the women," he said, "who have to be conquered? I didn't think so. You seemed so reasonable." "Do you dream of conquering a woman who cannot love you?" "I refuse to believe it. I recall your own words." He made a movement to pass one arm about her waist. "No! After what I have said——!" Her hands being free, she sprang up and broke away from him. Arnold rose more slowly, his look lowered with indignation. Eyes bent on the ground, hands behind him, he stood mute. "Must I leave you?" said Irene, when she could steady her voice. "That is my dismissal?" "If you cannot listen to me, and believe me—yes." "All things considered, you are a little severe." "You put yourself in the wrong. However unjust I have been to you, I can't atone by permitting what you call conquest. No, I assure you, I am not one of those women." His eyes were now fixed upon her; his lips announced a new determination, set as they were in the lines of resentful dignity. "Let me put the state of things before you," he said in his softest tones, just touched with irony. "The fact of our engagement has been published. Our marriage is looked for by a host of friends and acquaintances, and even by the mere readers of the newspapers. All but at the last moment, on a caprice, an impulse you do not pretend to justify to one's intelligence, you declare it is all at an end. Pray, how do you propose to satisfy natural curiosity about such a strange event?" "I take all the blame. I make it known that I have behaved—unreasonably; if you will disgracefully." "That word," replied Jacks, faintly smiling, "has a meaning in this connection which you would hardly care to reflect upon. Take it that you have said this to your friends: what do I say to mine?" Irene could not answer. "I have a pleasant choice," he pursued. "I can keep silence—which would mean scandal, affecting both of us, according to people's disposition. Or I can say with simple pathos, 'Miss Derwent begged me to release her.' Neither alternative is agreeable to me. It may be unchivalrous. Possibly another man would beg to be allowed to sacrifice his reputation, to ensure your quiet release. To be frank with you, I value my reputation, I value my chances in life. I have no mind to make myself appear worse than I am." Irene had sunk into her chair again. As he talked, Jacks moved to a sofa near her, and dropped on to the end of it. "Surely there is a way," began the girl's voice, profoundly troubled. "We could let it be known, first of all, that the marriage was postponed. Then—there would be less talk afterwards." He leaned towards her, upon his elbow. "It interests me—your quiet assumption that my feelings count for nothing." Irene reddened. She was conscious of having ignored that aspect of the matter, and dreaded to have to speak of it. For the revelation made to her of late taught her that, whatever Arnold Jacks' idea of love might be, it was not hers. Yet perhaps in his way, he loved her—the way which had found expression a few minutes ago. "I can only repeat that I am ashamed." "If you would grant me some explanation," Jacks resumed, with his most positive air, that of the born man of business. "Don't be afraid of hurting my sensibilities. Have I committed myself in any way?" "It is a change in myself—I was too hasty—I reflected afterwards instead of before——" "Forgive me if I make the most of that admission. Your hastiness was certainly not my fault. I did not unduly press you; there was no importunity. Such being the case, don't you think I may suggest that you ought to bear the consequences? I can't—I really can't think them so dreadful." Irene kept silence, her face bent and averted. "Many a girl has gone through what you feel now, but I doubt whether ever one before acted like this. They kept their word; it was a point of honour." "I know; it is true." She forced herself to look at him. "And the result was lives of misery—dishonour—tragedies." "Oh, come now——" "You dare not contradict me!" Her eyes flashed; she let her feeling have its way. "As a man of the world, you know the meaning of such marriages, and what they may, what they do often, come to. A girl hears of such facts—realises them too late. You smile. No, I don't want to talk for effect; it isn't my way. All I mean is that I, like so many girls who have never been in love, accepted an offer of marriage on the wrong grounds, and came to feel my mistake—who knows how?—not long after. What you are asking me to do, is to pay for the innocent error with my life. The price is too great. You speak of your feelings; they are not so strong as to justify such a demand—And there's another thought that surely must have entered your mind. Knowing that I feel it impossible to marry you, how can you still, with any shadow of self-respect, urge me to do so? Is your answer, again, fear of what people will say? That seems to me more than cowardice. How strange that an honourable man doesn't see it so!" Jacks abandoned his easy posture, sat straight, and fixed upon her a look of masculine disdain. "I simply don't believe in the impossibility of your becoming my wife." "Then talk is useless. I can only tell you the truth, and reclaim my liberty." "It's a question of time. You wouldn't—well, say you couldn't marry me to-morrow. A month hence you would be willing. Because you suffer from a passing illusion, I am to unsettle all my arrangements, and face an intolerable humiliation. The thing is impossible." With vast relief Irene heard him return upon this note, and strike it so violently. She felt no more compunction. The man was finally declared to her, and she could hold her own against him. Her headache had grown fierce; her mouth was dry; shudders of hot and cold ran through her. The struggle must end soon. "I am forgetting hospitality," she said, with sudden return to her ordinary voice. "You would like tea." Arnold waved his hand contemptuously. "No?—Then let us understand each other in the fewest possible words." "Good." He smiled, a smile which seemed to tighten every muscle of his face. "I decline to release you from your promise." She could meet his gaze, and did so as she answered with cold collectedness: "I am very sorry. I think it unworthy of you." "I shall make no change whatever in my arrangements. Our marriage will take place on the day appointed." "That can hardly be, Mr. Jacks, if the bride is not there." "Miss Derwent, the bride will be there!" He was not jesting. All the man's pride rose to assert dominion. The prime characteristic of his nation, that personal arrogance which is the root of English freedom, which accounts for everything best, and everything worst, in the growth of English power, possessed him to the exclusion of all less essential qualities. He was the subduer amazed by improbable defiance. He had never seen himself in such a situation it was as though a British admiral on his ironclad found himself mocked by some elusive little gunboat, newly invented by the condemned foreigner. His intellect refused to acknowledge the possibility of discomfiture; his soul raged mightily against the hint of bafflement. Humour would not come to his aid; the lighter elements of race were ousted; he was solid insolence, wooden-headed self-will. Irene had risen. "I am not feeling quite myself. I have said all there is to be said, and I must beg you to excuse me." "You should have begun by saying that. It is what I insisted upon." "Shall we shake hands, Mr. Jacks?" "To be sure!" "It is good-bye. You understand me? If, after this, you imagine an engagement between us, you have only yourself to blame." "I take the responsibility." He released her hand, and made a stiff bow. "In three days, I shall call." "You will not see me." "Perhaps not. Then, three days later. Nothing whatever is changed between us. A little discussion of this sort is all to the good. Plainly, you have thought me a much weaker man than I am: when that error of judgment is removed, our relations will be better than ever." The temptation to say one word more overcame Irene's finer sense of the becoming. Jacks had already taken his hat, and was again bowing, when she spoke. "You are so sure that your will is stronger than mine?" "Perfectly sure," he replied, with superb tranquillity. No one had ever seen, no one again would ever see, that face of high disdainful beauty, pain-stricken on the fair brow, which Irene for a moment turned upon him. As he withdrew, the smile that lurked behind her scorn glimmered forth for an instant, and passed in the falling of a tear. She went to her room, and lay down. The sleep she had not dared to hope for fell upon her whilst she was trying to set her thoughts in order. She slept until eight o'clock; her headache was gone. Neither with her father, nor with Olga, did she speak of what had passed. Before going to bed, she packed carefully a large dress-basket and a travelling-bag, which a servant brought down for her from the box-room. Again she slept, but only for an hour or two, and at seven in the morning she rose. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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