Mary of Marion Isle

Chapter XI Temptation

By a kind of natural gravitation, for he never could remember how he got there, Andrew arrived at his old lodgings in Justice Street. Laurie, from her point of observation in the doorway, whence (during the summer months) she seemed to keep a watch as assiduous as that of Sister Anne in Bluebeard's tower, espied him while yet a long way off, and having screamed the glad news to her mother in the back premises, rushed down the road and cast herself panting into his arms.

"Oh! Mr. West, oh! Mr. West!" she exclaimed, "you've come back and it's—it's really summer–time."

She said this, not because the remark was particularly appropriate, but for the reason that joy bubbled up in her little heart, and in her short experience she associated joy and summer. Moreover, Andrew's quick and sympathetic nature appreciated her feelings and the manner of their expression and, what is more, reflected them. For some reason this common little girl's evident delight at his return touched him deeply. He had been through so much misery that morning. He had made acquaintance with the concentrated hate of a dead man, who had died doing his best to work him injury, and with the piercing treachery of a living woman. For the first he cared little, although it pained him because of its injustice. But the second had dealt him a mortal blow.

For in a way it was mortal, as such thrusts of Fate are apt to be when they pierce our hearts in youth. It is very common and very easy to laugh at the love–affairs of the young, but after all few others are real. Then it is that budding men and women give all they have, emptying the springs of faith and trust and affection, pouring them out as an offering upon the feet of mocking Aphrodite. And if it is but to see them swallowed in the sands of disillusion, oh! here is disaster irredeemable. Although they do not believe it, the spring will fill up again and there will be fresh outpourings. But the water of the offerings will be different, as the mocking Aphrodite knows well enough, salt, or bitter, or turbid, or whatever the added quality may be. Where is the beautiful faith? Where, where the lost ideals as to the infinitely superior nature of woman, and to what purpose was all that half–divine devotion? If death were the cause of the loss, or stern necessity, or self–sacrifice, or some sense of duty, it might be borne.

But when the theft is deliberate, above all, when it is venal—love and honour and physical purity, and the joy of life and the hope of eternal union sold for money, oh! then has disaster any deeper depths, at any rate to such a nature as that of Andrew?

Something of all this, although at the moment he did not express it to himself in so many words, burst upon the heart of that unfortunate young man, as the eager, loving, half–Eastern child leapt into his arms. Perhaps it was the contrast of her spontaneous, oriental adoration for the man who had saved her life and whom she worshipped as a father and a brother rolled into one, with the attitude of the guilty Rose trembling before him in the shadowed consulting–room, and thinking, not so much of the blackness of her own deliberate sin, which had no excuse in love or sudden passion, as of her shame at its discovery and her fear of the reproaches of him whom she had betrayed. Or it may have been because he felt that here was one who truly loved him, although she was but a Whitechapel Jewess, and remembered that he could not say as much of anyone else in the world, unless it chanced to be that child's cockney mother.

He kissed her and as he did so tears came to his eyes and he stifled a sob. Indeed, he was overcome, so much so that he dared not let the child see his emotion.

"Run to your mother, Laurie," he said somewhat huskily, "and tell her I want some lunch. I forgot to buy a pipe."

"There are six in your room, besides the broken one," ejaculated Laurie with painful accuracy.

"Never mind, dear. I want another of a new sort," answered Andrew, wishing that he had said he needed tobacco.

Laurie departed, evidently unconvinced, while turning, Andrew wandered for half an hour amidst the busy crowds of Whitechapel suffering like the damned, for all his loneliness had got a hold on him and now he understood the full measure of his disaster.

Recovering himself at length, he returned to Justice Street, having entirely forgotten to buy any sort of pipe.

This time Mrs. Josky was waiting for him as well as Laurie, and with a perfect torrent of words.

"So here you are at last, good lord—I mean, my lord!" she exclaimed, for the knowledge of his accession to rank though it escaped Rose, had reached Mrs. Josky, possibly through Sister Angelica. Or she may have read it in the weekly paper of which she was a student. "To think that I should have a real lord in this house, and one who has been to Egypt too! Why, it's enough to bring Josky back from the dead, for he did always love a title."

"Then it's more than I do, Mrs. Josky. What I should love is some lunch, for I hadn't much breakfast."

"It is ready," she answered. "Laurie, go and fetch the fried sole, and bring the chop five minutes later, and if you upset anything, I'll smack you."

So, convoyed by Mrs. Josky, he went upstairs to the familiar room and sank into a chair.

"Where's your luggage?" she asked. "You don't mean to say you've been and lost it?"

"I forget," answered Andrew. "Oh! I know. In the cloak–room at Charing Cross. I'll fetch it afterwards."

"No, I'll do that. But whatever is the matter with you?"

Then an idea striking her, she added:

"It isn't that false–hearted hussy, is it? Oh! I've known all about it from the beginning, though you never guessed," and setting her arms akimbo she stared at him inquiringly.

Andrew groaned, because he could not help it, and she went on:

"I was in the church, I was, and when I saw her smiling there like a pretty dressed–up doll and fingering those big pearls, why, for sixpence I could have torn them off her neck, although that fat old doctor was staring at her as though he would like to eat her, the silly fool."

"Don't!" said Andrew. "Please don't, here's Laurie and I want my lunch. Go away, please, and let me eat."

So Mrs. Josky went, looking unutterable things, and somehow Andrew got through that meal. Afterwards, to escape from his landlady's overwhelming kindness, he went to Charing Cross to fetch his luggage which, Mrs. Josky being out marketing for his dinner, he unpacked himself. In it were some presents that he had brought for Rose, costly gold and silver embroideries such as are sold in the bazaar in Cairo, on which he had spent quite as much as he could afford; also an Egyptian necklace. He looked at these things and at an envelope containing such notes as she had written to him, and that pressed rose which she gave him on the day when he had kissed her first, the same day on which she met Dr. Black.

What was he to do with these things? Give them to some one else? He could not. A kind of rage seized him. A small fire burned in the grate of his sitting–room, for it had come on to rain and the afternoon was chilly. He made it up. Then, with an exclamation, or rather a curse, he cast those valuable articles to the flames. When it came to the letters he paused a while and looked at them, till his eye fell upon a sentence which ran: "Dear Andrew, I am looking forward to your return, and I think about you such a lot that I am afraid I forget other things."

After this he crumpled up the letters and threw them on to the fire with the rest; also another envelope containing the cherished lock of golden hair, which first he kissed wildly. They caught, and the draught being strong, floated, still burning, up the chimney as foreign paper will. Andrew laughed when he saw it and reflected to himself that there were his illusions gone back to their home in heaven withered in a flame of agony. Over the rose, that same rose which had been crushed in a medical work just where appeared the heart of a dissected "subject," he hesitated a little. Who does not, when it comes to cutting the last link? In the end, however, convoyed by a still bitterer curse, it followed the rest into the fire, and all was done. Only the lock of hair, when at length it felt the heat, came out of the burning envelope and withered and twisted like a thing alive, till it, too, shrivelled in the flame. Also it gave out a strong and acrid smell, as human hair does even when it has been cut off for many years, an odour which Andrew never forgot.

During the next few weeks Andrew was a supremely unhappy man. So unhappy was he that he even contemplated the possibility of suicide. At least it is a fact that one night, being unable to sleep, he slipped from the house and making his way to a bridge over the Thames, looked down at the darkling waters beneath and thought how good it would be to end his pain amidst their swirling eddies, where perhaps oblivion might be found. As it happened an observant policeman put a period to this dangerous contemplation as to the advantages of oblivion over memory, if such were to be won which remained doubtful, and in an effectual fashion, as very politely he saw him off the bridge. But that even the idea should have occurred to a person of religious tendencies, for in his way Andrew was religious, suffices to show how keenly he suffered at this period of his life.

In the end, recognizing an interposition of Providence on his behalf, he presented the worthy policeman with half a sovereign as a kind of thank–offering, and went back to bed. Fortunately, next day he found himself involved in a great deal of business connected with his succession to the title which, although it bored him, served to occupy his mind. In the issue he discovered that in addition to that titular ornament, he might count on a clear income of about £1500 a year, or say £2000 if the London house were sold satisfactorily, which was quite as much or more than he wanted.

For the rest, he did not know what to do with his life. It was suggested to him that he should take his seat in the House of Lords, but for Andrew the House of Lords had no attractions. Indeed hitherto one of his chief objects had been to secure its total abolition; that is to say, he had attended Socialistic meetings where this was urged and even made fiery speeches in favour of such a change in the Constitution. So it happened that only once did he appear there to take the accustomed oath, after which he shook its gilded dust from off his feet for quite a long while, although Clara, whom he saw occasionally, was very indignant on the subject.

In truth, Andrew's only real ambition was to continue the practice of medicine and he made several attempts in this direction by entering into negotiations for partnerships. On each occasion, however, so soon as his identity was disclosed, those concerned treated the matter as a joke and with much politeness and many "my lord's," bowed him off the premises. Evidently a practising peer was considered impossible.

At length, in despair, he determined to find out whether his old friend, Dr. Watson, would not take him back under an alias, say as Brother West, and one evening about half–past six when, knowing the doctor's habits, he thought that he would find him disengaged, he went to Red Hall to discuss the matter. Receiving no answer to his ring, as the door was open he entered and walked into the sitting–room to await the doctor's arrival. At this time of day the room, of which the windows were not large, was in shadow, so much so indeed that Andrew thought that it was empty. Not until he had closed the door behind him and advanced half of its length towards the windows, did he observe that it had an occupant. Then he saw a lady seated upon one of the doctor's principle treasures, a beautiful, double–ended couch of the Jacobean period, which stood against the wall opposite to the famous Elizabethan table. The lady did not see him, for the reason that her face was buried in her hands, and she did not hear him either because his step was very light, or her own thoughts absorbed her.

There she sat and there was an air of pathos, even of desolation, in her attitude, all alone in that large, dusky room which struck him at once, although he could see so little of her. He paused in his advance and in so doing knocked the stick he carried against the side of the table, making a noise which caused the lady to drop her hands from her face and glance up. Then he saw that it was Rose, looking, as he thought, more beautiful than she had ever done before.

His first thought was of flight; indeed, he turned to go. But it was too late, she had recognized him.

"Am I so dreadful, Lord Atterton," she said sadly in her soft voice, "that you wish to run away from me? Once—once―" and with a catch of the breath she stopped.

He stood irresolute, hesitating, and while he hesitated this fair woman's mastery of him reasserted itself. His heart began to beat, the blood rushed through his veins and made him giddy. He remembered that often he had kissed her on that couch, and now he longed to kiss her again. Everything else was forgotten except this overmastering impulse of nature which told him that she was his and that he should kiss her again. Yes, even her sin and treachery were forgotten; only the madness of his burning love remained. How beautiful she looked there, seated with bent head, like to a drooping lily, her delicate hands pressed together as though in prayer.

By instinct, as it were, she read what was passing in his mind. Although she might be shallow, Rose had all a woman's faculties and insight. With a quick little motion she pointed to the sofa beside her and, accepting the invitation, he sat down, but at a distance from her.

"I know that I have behaved badly to you," she went on in that soft voice which always thrilled his nerves like music, "but I am not—not a leper that you should avoid me. For whatever I have done, I have paid, and am paying. Perhaps you won't believe me, but I did not really understand what I was doing. Young girls don't always, you know. I was tempted and flattered and I did so long to be rich, who had been poor all my life."

"I suppose that if you had known that I had what are called prospects, it might have made a difference," he said bitterly.

"I dare say; at any rate it was foolish of you not to tell me, and as for the others who knew and held their tongues, I will never forgive them. I don't try to make out any case for myself, Andrew; I have none. I have been a wicked and foolish girl, and the worst of it is that I who thought that I should not mind, mind horribly. No, there is a worse behind the worst. I believed that you were only flirting with me, as you would with any pretty girl who came your way, that you would get over it in a month or so. But now it seems that you really cared and that I have done you a great injury—and oh! it breaks my heart."

"Then there are two broken hearts," replied Andrew in the same bitter voice, "for I shall never get over it—quite. You have not only robbed me of what I desired more than anything on the earth, you have destroyed my belief in woman. I do not suppose that I shall ever again quite believe in any woman. If you had fallen in love with another man, I should not have minded so much, I should have lost the race, that is all. But, as it is, according to your own story—well, things are very dreadful."

He paused, and she sat looking at him, twisting those beautiful hands of hers one over the other, until suddenly she caught sight of her wedding–ring and ceased, hiding it from view. Andrew too, saw that wedding–ring and it warned him, causing him to remember.

"However," he went on, "it is all done with now and you have your husband to think of, who is a very good fellow, a man I respect and do not wish to harm."

"My husband," she broke in. "Oh! yes, he is good, though sometimes I think otherwise. He is hard in his way, you know. He has cut himself off from me entirely. I don't mind that, indeed I am glad, but I have to bear his jokes, each of them with a sting in it—even his laughter has a sting. Then in a fashion he mocks me. He knows that I like fine dresses and jewels and there is scarcely a day passes but he brings me something fresh, not to give me pleasure, but to hurt me. I have more necklaces and bracelets and rings than I know what to do with—and I tell you, Andrew, I hate the sight of them. I would like to throw them out of the window. Only to–day, when he gave me the last thing, a ruby heart with a diamond arrow through it, he told me some dreadful story about a king called Croesus who loved gold and whose enemies when they caught him gave him gold to eat and drink. I know it was to torment me in some way, although I am not clever. I tell you, Andrew," she went on with gathering passion, "that I should value a broken sixpence that you had given me, more than all these jewels that are worth thousands."

"I brought you some presents from Egypt," said Andrew confusedly, for he felt his head swimming, "but I burned them that day after we met—with your letters and the lock of hair." Then he stopped, shuddering at the memory of that writhing hair of which the odour rose suddenly in his nostrils.

"You burned them all? Is there nothing left which I can keep in memory of you? What is that ring upon your finger? The blue thing, shaped like a beetle. Unless it was a present from some one else, will you not give it to me? Don't be afraid, I shouldn't wear it except perhaps when I am asleep and no one sees."

"It is a scarabæus," he said, "and it came off a mummy. I bought it in Egypt with a piece of a dead lady's finger in it. Well," he added grimly, "in a way I am a mummy too, so you may as well have it," and drawing it from his finger he threw it into her lap, whence it rolled on to the floor. Stopping, she picked it up humbly enough and hid it away somewhere in the bosom of her dress.

"Thank you," she said. "I cannot tell you how much I shall value something that reminds me of happier days. They are done with, you know," she added in another little outburst which he felt to be very genuine. "Oh! Andrew, Andrew, I am so wretched that sometimes I feel as though I should like to make away with myself. Indeed, I think I would if I wasn't afraid, not only of dying, but of all the dreadful things which they say may happen to one afterwards."

"Yes," interrupted Andrew hastily. "I have thought of that too, but it is almost as bad to murder oneself as to murder anyone else, and murder is a horrible crime."

"You! Why should you dream of such a thing? You are not—stained as I am. You are a man with rank and fortune, and all the world before you. There's hardly a woman in London who wouldn't give you her love if you asked her for it. Oh! whatever you may feel, remember that I suffer a hundred times more."

"Your bargain does not seem to have come off," remarked Andrew, speaking more to himself than to her.

Then Rose broke down, honestly enough, poor girl. She looked at him with her big pathetic eyes and by degrees he saw them fill with tears. They filled till they seemed like blue flowers brimming with dew, and at last began to overflow. It was too much for him. It would have been too much for any man so situated. His head went entirely. He lost himself in a mist of unreason, all he knew was that there before him sat the lovely woman whom he had loved and still loved, notwithstanding the woes she had brought upon his head. These he forgave since love forgives everything, and for the rest—there she sat!

There is a Paulian saying, not always confirmed by experience, to the effect that we are never tempted beyond our strength of resistance, though doubtless this is true when we are normal and have the opportunity of weighing matters. Probably, indeed, the axiom refers to such conditions and not to those which are abnormal, when the reason is in abeyance. Now, at the moment, Andrew's case fell within this second category; in short, he no more knew what he was doing than a madman does. So, very deliberately, he bent towards Rose and stretched out his arms with the object of embracing her, while for her part she sighed and sat quite still.

It was at this moment, most fortunately for both of them, that they heard voices in the passage, and into the room walked Dr. Watson and Arabella.

Even in his own confusion, with a kind of sixth sense Andrew noticed at once that the pair seemed rather disturbed, or at any rate elated. Obviously, too, they were thinking so much about something else, that it did not strike them as in the least odd that they should find him and Rose seated there upon the couch, if indeed either of them observed that they were so seated before he rose to greet them.

"How do you do, Brother Andrew, or Brother Atterton, I ought to say," said the doctor when he recognized him. "Come to tea, I suppose. How do you do, Rose, my dear? Looking prettier than ever, I see. Marriage has certainly agreed with her, hasn't it, Arabella?"

"I don't know," answered Arabella, as she shook hands with Rose rather stiffly, "but it hasn't agreed with my father. I think he looks ten years older."

"At all events," interrupted Andrew, nervously anxious to change the subject, "the doctor here looks ten years younger, and so do you—oh! I shouldn't say that to you. But what has happened to him?"

"I think I may as well tell you," replied Dr. Watson, looking shy as a schoolgirl. "It is a good opportunity, isn't it, Arabella?"

That classical–looking young woman turned her head away as though to avoid the sight of Rose who, forgetting her own griefs, sat mildly expectant on the sofa, as with a furtive hand she rubbed a tear–drop from the front of her dress.

"Well, my dear," went on the doctor effusively, as is the manner of nervous men who desire to get something off their minds, "you know since you determined to get married in that sudden fashion―" here he looked at Andrew and some idea seemed to strike him which caused his thoughts to wander for a moment. Recovering, he continued, "Since that event, which surprised me very much, naturally this house has been very lonesome. So—well, to cut it short, I have determined to follow your excellent example and been fortunate enough to find a lady who—shares my views on the subject," and with a quite youthful playfulness, he patted Arabella on the head, adding, "don't you, Arabella my love?"

"Yes, I suppose so," replied that lady frigidly, "but please be careful of my hair."

Then followed a silence, in the midst of which Rose uttered one of her long–drawn "oh's." As for Andrew, his nerves, already screwed almost to breaking–point, he now gave way entirely, with the result that he burst into a fit of unseemly giggling.

"What do you find so amusing, Lord Atterton?" asked Arabella, with cold yet rather anxious interest.

"Nothing, nothing," he said, trying to stifle his paroxysm, "but it is rather funny, isn't it? The doctor's daughter marries your father, and her father is going to marry his daughter—a kind of Cox and Box arrangement. Well, I am sure I hope you will all be very happy and Mrs. Black will have something to tell her husband when she gets home."

"Thank you," said Arabella, "but I think that I will inform my father myself of a matter that concerns me more than anyone else."

"Of course," ejaculated Andrew, "that's most natural. I wonder what he will say? Well, good–bye. I have an appointment with a lawyer—no, I mean I have to go down to the House of Lords to pay some fees. Good–bye, Brother Watson. Good–bye, Miss Black. Good–bye, Mrs. Black," and he was gone.

Next morning Andrew started suddenly for the North to visit his estates and stopped there for three months, fishing and making the acquaintance of the tenantry and neighbourhood.