Complete Works of Bram Stoker (269 page)

‘Don’t ask me, Stephen!  Won’t you understand that I want to do what is best for you?  Won’t you trust me?’  Her answer came harshly.  A more experienced man than Harold, one who knew women better, would have seen how overwrought she was, and would have made pity the pivot of his future bearing and acts and words while the interview lasted; pity, and pity only.  But to Harold the high ideal was ever the same.  The Stephen whom he loved was no subject for pity, but for devotion only.  He knew the nobility of her nature and must trust it to the end.  When her silence and her blazing eyes denied his request, he answered her query in a low voice:

‘I did!’  Even whilst he spoke he was thankful for one thing, he had not been pledged in any way to confidence.  Leonard had forced the knowledge on him; and though he would have preferred a million times over to be silent, he was still free to speak.  Stephen’s next question came more coldly still:

‘Did he tell you of his meeting with me?’

‘He did.’

‘Did he tell you all?’  It was torture to him to answer; but he was at the stake and must bear it.

‘I think so!  If it was true.’

‘What did he tell you?  Stay!  I shall ask you the facts myself; the broad facts.  We need not go into details . . . ‘

‘Oh, Stephen!’  She silenced his pleading with an imperious hand.

‘If I can go into this matter, surely you can.  If I can bear the shame of telling, you can at least bear that of listening.  Remember that knowing  —  knowing what you know, or at least what you have heard  —  you could come here and propose marriage to me!’  This she said with a cold, cutting sarcasm which sounded like the rasping of a roughly-sharpened knife through raw flesh.  Harold groaned in spirit; he felt a weakness which began at his heart to steal through him.  It took all his manhood to bear himself erect.  He dreaded what was coming, as of old the once-tortured victim dreaded the coming torment of the rack.

CHAPTER XV  —  THE END OF THE MEETING

Stephen went on in her calm, cold voice:

‘Did he tell you that I had asked him to marry me?’  Despite herself, as she spoke the words a red tide dyed her face.  It was not a flush; it was not a blush; it was a sort of flood which swept through her, leaving her in a few seconds whiter than before.  Harold saw and understood.  He could not speak; he lowered his head silently.  Her eyes glittered more coldly.  The madness that every human being may have once was upon her.  Such a madness is destructive, and here was something more vulnerable than herself.

‘Did he tell you how I pressed him?’  There was no red tide this time, nor ever again whilst the interview lasted.  To bow in affirmation was insufficient; with an effort he answered:

‘I understood so.’  She answered with an icy sarcasm:

‘You understood so!  Oh, I don’t doubt he embellished the record with some of his own pleasantries.  But you understood it; and that is sufficient.’  After a pause she went on:

‘Did he tell you that he had refused me?’

‘Yes!’  Harold knew now that he was under the torture, and that there was no refusing.  She went on, with a light laugh, which wrung his heart even more than her pain had done . . . Stephen to laugh like that!

‘And I have no doubt that he embellished that too, with some of his fine masculine witticisms.  I understood myself that he was offended at my asking him.  I understood it quite well; he told me so!’  Then with feminine intuition she went on:

‘I dare say that before he was done he said something kindly of the poor little thing that loved him; that loved him so much, and that she had to break down all the bounds of modesty and decorum that had made the women of her house honoured for a thousand years!  And you listened to him whilst he spoke!  Oh-h-h!’ she quivered with her white-hot anger, as the fierce heat in the heart of a furnace quivers.  But her voice was cold again as she went on:

‘But who could help loving him?  Girls always did.  It was such a beastly nuisance!  You “understood” all that, I dare say; though perhaps he did not put it in such plain words!’  Then the scorn, which up to now had been imprisoned, turned on him; and he felt as though some hose of deathly chill was being played upon him.

‘And yet you, knowing that only yesterday, he had refused me  —  refused my pressing request that he should marry me, come to me hot-foot in the early morning and ask me to be your wife.  I thought such things did not take place; that men were more honourable, or more considerate, or more merciful!  Or at least I used to think so; till yesterday.  No! till to-day.  Yesterday’s doings were my own doings, and I had to bear the penalty of them myself.  I had come here to fight out by myself the battle of my shame . . . ‘

Here Harold interrupted her.  He could not bear to hear Stephen use such a word in connection with herself.

‘No!  You must not say “shame.”  There is no shame to you, Stephen.  There can be none, and no one must say it in my presence!’  In her secret heart of hearts she admired him for his words; she felt them at the moment sink into her memory, and knew that she would never forget the mastery of his face and bearing.  But the blindness of rage was upon her, and it is of the essence of this white-hot anger that it preys not on what is basest in us, but on what is best.  That Harold felt deeply was her opportunity to wound him more deeply than before.

‘Even here in the solitude which I had chosen as the battleground of my shame you had need to come unasked, unthought of, when even a lesser mind than yours, for you are no fool, would have thought to leave me alone.  My shame was my own, I tell you; and I was learning to take my punishment.  My punishment!  Poor creatures that we are, we think our punishment will be what we would like best: to suffer in silence, and not to have spread abroad our shame!’  How she harped on that word, though she knew that every time she uttered it, it cut to the heart of the man who loved her.  ‘And yet you come right on top of my torture to torture me still more and illimitably.  You come, you who alone had the power to intrude yourself on my grief and sorrow; power given you by my father’s kindness.  You come to me without warning, considerately telling me that you knew I would be here because I had always come here when I had been in trouble.  No  —  I do you an injustice.  “In trouble” was not what you said, but that I had come when I had been in short frocks.  Short frocks!  And you came to tell me that you loved me.  You thought, I suppose, that as I had refused one man, I would jump at the next that came along.  I wanted a man.  God! God! what have I done that such an affront should come upon me?  And come, too, from a hand that should have protected me if only in gratitude for my father’s kindness!’  She was eyeing him keenly, with eyes that in her unflinching anger took in everything with the accuracy of sun-painting.  She wanted to wound; and she succeeded.

But Harold had nerves and muscles of steel; and when the call came to them they answered.  Though the pain of death was upon him he did not flinch.  He stood before her like a rock, in all his great manhood; but a rock on whose summit the waves had cast the wealth of their foam, for his face was as white as snow.  She saw and understood; but in the madness upon her she went on trying new places and new ways to wound:

‘You thought, I suppose, that this poor, neglected, despised, rejected woman, who wanted so much to marry that she couldn’t wait for a man to ask her, would hand herself over to the first chance comer who threw his handkerchief to her; would hand over herself  —  and her fortune!’

‘Oh, Stephen!  How can you say such things, think such things?’  The protest broke from him with a groan.  His pain seemed to inflame her still further; to gratify her hate, and to stimulate her mad passion:

‘Why did I ever see you at all?  Why did my father treat you as a son; that when you had grown and got strong on his kindness you could thus insult his daughter in the darkest hour of her pain and her shame!’  She almost choked with passion.  There was now nothing in the whole world that she could trust.  In the pause he spoke:

‘Stephen, I never meant you harm.  Oh, don’t speak such wild words.  They will come back to you with sorrow afterwards!  I only meant to do you good.  I wanted . . . ‘  Her anger broke out afresh:

‘There; you speak it yourself!  You only wanted to do me good.  I was so bad that any kind of a husband . . . Oh, get out of my sight!  I wish to God I had never seen you!  I hope to God I may never see you again!  Go!  Go!  Go!’

This was the end!  To Harold’s honest mind such words would have been impossible had not thoughts of truth lain behind them.  That Stephen  —  his Stephen, whose image in his mind shut out every other woman in the world, past, present, and future  —  should say such things to any one, that she should think such things, was to him a deadly blow.  But that she should say them to him! . . . Utterance, even the utterance which speaks in the inmost soul, failed him.  He had in some way that he knew not hurt  —  wounded  —  killed Stephen; for the finer part was gone from the Stephen that he had known and worshipped so long.  She wished him gone; she wished she had never seen him; she hoped to God never to see him again.  Life for him was over and done!  There could be no more happiness in the world; no more wish to work, to live! . . .

He bowed gravely; and without a word turned and walked away.

Stephen saw him go, his tall form moving amongst the tree trunks till finally it was lost in their massing.  She was so filled with the tumult of her passion that she looked, unmoved.  Even the sense of his going did not change her mood.  She raged to and fro amongst the trees, her movements getting quicker and quicker as her excitement began to change from mental to physical; till the fury began to exhaust itself.  All at once she stopped, as though arrested by a physical barrier; and with a moan sank down in a helpless heap on the cool moss.

* * * * *

Harold went from the grove as one seems to move in a dream.  Little things and big were mixed up in his mind.  He took note, as he went towards the town by the byroads, of everything around him in his usual way, for he had always been one of those who notice unconsciously, or rather unintentionally.  Long afterwards he could shut his eyes and recall every step of the way from the spot where he had turned from Stephen to the railway station outside Norcester.  And on many and many such a time when he opened them again the eyelids were wet.  He wanted to get away quickly, silently, unobserved.  With the instinct of habitual thought his mind turned London-ward.  He met but few persons, and those only cottiers.  He saluted them in his usual cheery way, but did not stop to speak with any.  He was about to take a single ticket to London when it struck him that this might look odd, so he asked for a return.  Then, his mind being once more directed towards concealment of purpose, he sent a telegram to his housekeeper telling her that he was called away to London on business.  It was only when he was far on his journey that he gave thought to ways and means, and took stock of his possessions.  Before he took out his purse and pocket-book he made up his mind that he would be content with what it was, no matter how little.  He had left Normanstand and all belonging to it for ever, and was off to hide himself in whatever part of the world would afford him the best opportunity.  Life was over!  There was nothing to look forward to; nothing to look back at!  The present was a living pain whose lightest element was despair.  As, however, he got further and further away, his practical mind began to work; he thought over matters so as to arrange in his mind how best he could dispose of his affairs, so to cause as little comment as might be, and to save the possibility of worry or distress of any kind to Stephen.

Even then, in his agony of mind, his heart was with her; it was not the least among his troubles that he would have to be away from her when perhaps she would need him most.  And yet whenever he would come to this point in his endless chain of thought, he would have to stop for a while, overcome with such pain that his power of thinking was paralysed.  He would never, could never, be of service to her again.  He had gone out of her life, as she had gone out of his life; though she never had, nor never could out of his thoughts.  It was all over!  All the years of sweetness, of hope, and trust, and satisfied and justified faith in each other, had been wiped out by that last terrible, cruel meeting.  Oh! how could she have said such things to him!  How could she have thought them!  And there she was now in all the agony of her unrestrained passion.  Well he knew, from his long experience of her nature, how she must have suffered to be in such a state of mind, to have so forgotten all the restraint of her teaching and her life!  Poor, poor Stephen!  Fatherless now as well as motherless; and friendless as well as fatherless!  No one to calm her in the height of her wild abnormal passion!  No one to comfort her when the fit had passed!  No one to sympathise with her for all that she had suffered!  No one to help her to build new and better hopes out of the wreck of her mad ideas!  He would cheerfully have given his life for her.  Only last night he was prepared to kill, which was worse than to die, for her sake.  And now to be far away, unable to help, unable even to know how she fared.  And behind her eternally the shadow of that worthless man who had spurned her love and flouted her to a chance comer in his drunken delirium.  It was too bitter to bear.  How could God lightly lay such a burden on his shoulders who had all his life tried to walk in sobriety and chastity and in all worthy and manly ways!  It was unfair!  It was unfair!  If he could do anything for her?  Anything!  Anything! . . . And so the unending whirl of thoughts went on!

The smoke of London was dim on the horizon when he began to get back to practical matters.  When the train drew up at Euston he stepped from it as one to whom death would be a joyous relief!

He went to a quiet hotel, and from there transacted by letter such business matters as were necessary to save pain and trouble to others.  As for himself, he made up his mind that he would go to Alaska, which he took to be one of the best places in the as yet uncivilised world for a man to lose his identity.  As a security at the start he changed his name; and as John Robinson, which was not a name to attract public attention, he shipped as a passenger on the
Scoriac
from London to New York.