Complete Storyr. A Lady of Moods.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXIII, Issue XXIV, 10 December 1904, Page 53

Complete Storyr. A Lady of Moods.

By

GOUVERNEUR MORRIS.

“ Heart of my heart, she has broken the heart of me; Soul of my soul, she will never be part of me— She whom I love, but will never be love of me, Song of my Sorrows — My Lady of Moods.” Michael's death, in the season when his promise was being fulfilled, was a shocking loss to us who loved him; and a ten days’ wonder. In a land of plenty, with money in his purse, a friend by his side, and the earnests of an unparalleled success pouring in by every mail, the man to whose robust body and vitality there seemed to cling a suggestion of immortality, had died of what the doctor in attendance declared to have been physical exhaustion.

The scene of Michael’s death, and of his lonely burying, the Hill station of Nuwara Elya in Ceylon, was so far removed from the obliterating roar and change of New York that we, who were most interested and affected, despaired of receiving those particulars with which it is the touching custom of a man’s friends to busy their minds on the melancholy occasion of his dying. It was idle to speculate, and the tragedy, by degrees, fell away from thought and talk. But it was not one of those visitations which can be wholly forgotten, and when it was learned that Prince Laniaski, of Warsaw, Michael’s companion in Ceylon, had landed in America, there was a general reviving of interest. Prince Laniaski is a long, emaciated man, with the lofty forehead, the ivoryyellow colouring and the Virgilian profile of the early Florentine poets. He has singularly deep-set, light grey eyes and the poise of an Oriental. In speaking English it is by deliberateness and not accent or construction that he distinguishes himself a foreigner. “Michael,” he began suddenly, and breaking off abruptly an entirely different topie, “died of physical exhaustion brought on by a broken heart.” I recalled everything 1 knew about Michael, which was much, and could not find any grounds for entertaining such a theory. There were plenty of vivacious flirtations to which I could have sworn, and with equal readiness I could have taken oath that in and about his native city, and in all my long and intimate knowledge of him, he liad never been drawn by a serious inclination toward any woman. All this passed into my mind. Laniaski looked at me steadily as if I had spoken aloud, and immediately answered my scepticism. “You are are quite mistaken,” he said. “At once well known and quite unknown to his familiar friends, there was a woman —a young girl—here in the very midst of you, who brought this thing upon him.” “I cannot think who,” I said. “Do you know a—Mrs Jolyff?” he asked. “Certainly,” I said; “I have known her always. 1 was one of Jolyff’s ushers.” “Five years ago,” said the Prince—“precisely live years. She was a Miss Carr—Miss Evelyn Carr. Michael has been dead precisely five years.” “My dear sir,” I said, “there was nothing in little Miss Carr to attract such a man as Michael. She was a light-heart-ed, gay little flirt, of about as much use in the world as a butterfly, and just as charming to look at.” “Almost Michael’s words,” said Laniaski, “and yet he loved her in a way that is very difficult for you and me to comprehend.” , . “He saw very little of her,” I said? “I am sure of that.” “My dear fellow,” said the prince, “it Hoes not take long to set fire to a haystack. If yon like I will tell you the truth about the affair—all that Michael told mo when we were together there in Ceylon.” “Evelyn Carr!” I said. “I was never so astonished.”

“Seven years ago,” said Prince Laniaski, “she was not known to him. Me

was very busy hammering gold n thoughts into immortal shape. Do you recall his ‘Hymn in June’ —in which there is a description of a young girl among the roses ? “You do not like the piece? Nor do I. Nor does any reader of perspica ity. In it there is too little of the divine fire which so crackled among the lines of Michael’s later works. It is the composition of a youth maudlinly in love. But who else could have written it?

“Michael composed that hymn of three hundred lines extempore, standing upon a beach and addressing his }>assion to the sea. That is why it is so powerless—so —so rank. It was a June night, on the midnight of the night he met her, that he stood upon the beach smoking his cigar, and crying aloud to the waves of the passion and longing that were his. But as a poem it is very rank—very maudlin. June roses, a young girl, love—and death to philosophy. “He met her at a dinner party in the country. He did not even sit next to her, he told me, but zigzng from her; she at one end of the table, himself at the other, and on opposite sides. She was then just cut of the schoolroom, and had indeed only taken the place at the table of an older sister confined suddenly to bed Lv a touch of bronchitis. She had had her hair done up for the first time, and wore her first low-necked dress. It was of white silk, printed like a wall paper, with immense pale pink roses. Michael told me all this—once. And I have remembered. “He said that when he took his seat at the dining-table he was a normal man of active habits, very hungry. He sat on the left of Mrs. Carr, the girl's mother, and begged her to forgive him for a few moments of gluttonous silence while he devoured his soup. ‘I am so hungry,’ he said, ‘and the soup is so good.’

“And then he became so interested in the topic which he had started, to wit, the necessity of hunger being satisfied

before conversation «nW begin, that his soup was taken from before him almost untasted. That was very Hke Michael. And then he looked up and to the left, and found that Evelyn Carr was looking at him. And he was the man to draw a girl’s eyes ont of her head—the lion face of him, the dancing, Saxon eyes, and the red glistening mane—the colour of the lighter markings in oki Domingo mahogany. He said that for some moments she would not lower her eyes nor he his; and that then, and at the same moment, as if by mutual agreement, both looked away. That episode was repeated several times dining dinner. With Michael it was a sudden call to his soul. But With the girl it was not that way at all. The first time she wished to see the effect of her eyes upon a man—any man. That is how I figure it. After that she felt a real attraction. But it was not of the soul.

‘When the men were left to themselves Michael said that it seemed to him as if the room had been darkened; and though there were only two lamps burning under soft shades in the drawing-room, where the ladies had gone, he said that when Im entered it it seemed bright like noon. He said further that this was not mere lover's talk, but an absolute, incomprehensible, physical illusion. He went, straight to where she sat and placed himself beside her. He said:

“ AVe were not introduced. My name is John Michael and you are Miss Carr. My dinner was spoiled because I wanted to sit by you. I have never in my life seen anyone like you—never. I think you are a very wonderful person.’ “Those were his first words to her—right there in the drawing room among all the chattering people—delivered in that quick, quiet way of speaking which was his when deeply in earnest. He said that she did not answer him, but looked straight in his eyes with a strange, questioning look, and that she moved uneasily. Then he said:

“ ‘You arc going to sec a great deal of me, Miss Can-, whether you want to or not. It is one of those things that can’t be helped. It is not your fault nor mine. lam going to know you very well.’ ’>

“His expression must have told her even more than his words. And her heart must have beaten gladly to have exercised so sudden an influence over the man whose genius was already beginning to thunder throughout the Eng-

Hah speaking world. But »be did not •ay anything to him.

“‘Mias Carr,’ he said, ‘wiH you come outside? I want to talk with you. I bare never wanted to talk with anyone bo much? •‘He stood by, expectantly. And after hesitation she stood up, too. “‘Outdoors’’ she asked. “Michael was never quite sure, but he thought these were the first words he had heard her speak. He suid, ‘\es, outdoors,’ and they walked over to ■where Mrs Carr was sitting, and Michael said: “ ‘Mrs Carr, your daughter and I are going to walk in the garden. It is June and there is a splendid moon? “Mrs Carr smiled and said something about not taking cold and not letting her little girl bore him, and they went out. “Michael sat up in his bed when he came to that part of the narration and cried, ‘Bore me! Bore me!—Holy Mother of God!’ “She started across the lawn to the rose garden, instead of going by the path, but Michael stooped and laid his hand on the grass and found that it was very wet, for there was a heavy dew. And he told her. “ ‘Does that matter?’ she said. “That was the second thing she ever Baid to him.

“They walked across the lawn very slowly, without speaking. Michael was unsteady with nervousness, and she, too, must have been in a state of nerves, for as they walked they occasionally swayed and came into contact, with each other. She had not even put a'lace over her bare neck and shoulders. And Michael said that in the moonlight they were wonderfully smooth and white, though in the house they had looked over-slender and girlish. He said that he could hear only the sound of his own feet on the grass; that her steps were so light as to make no sound. ‘She drifted at my side,’ he said, ‘like a little cloud?

“The night was hot and sultry, and the rose garden was full of fireflies that sparkled here and there among the sleeping roses. They walked up and down the little grave! paths, and every How and then would come into contact with each other; her shoulder touching his . upper arm, Iris fingers brushing against her dress. They came to the end of the garden and Michael stopped and looked at her for a long time, she meeting his eyes without flinching. He said that he began to speak fhen, and that he did not know the sound of his own voice.

‘two hours ago? he said, ‘I was my own man. Now I am yours. You ean* do with me what you please. All the way to this place I kept telling myself that 1 must not speak. .That- was whv I. said nothing to you all the way. *1 was giving myself orders. And now I am breaking them because I cannot help it. I did not believe that things could happen so quickly. But now I know. And you know. Are you going to say anythingto me?” . .

‘ He said that she looked down then and answered that she did not know what to say. “ ‘kou may call it little more than an hour,' Michael said to her. ‘But I tell you it began longer ago than that—in Babylon, perhaps—or longer, when men

lived in caves. You don’t say anything to me; but why do you stand there and listen if you aren’t going to care back?' “‘I don’t know what to say to you,’ she said. ‘Nobody ever told me that they loved me before?

“ ‘Whenever I see you I shall tell you? Michael said. ‘When I can’t see you I shall write it to you, until finally you are compelled to love me back? “ ‘But? she said, ‘supposing it doesn’t come to me, too?' And Michael told me that she had the expression of a little child who is puzzled—deeply puzzled about something or other. He stepped backward three steps deliberately and she stayed as she was. “ ‘lf you stay where you are? he said, T am going to take you in my arms and kiss you. But I am giving you a chance to get away? “She did not move. “Michael told me that when little more than a boy he had nearly died of thirst somewhere in one of the great American deserts, and that water, when at length he found it, had not seemed so sweet to him as kissing that girl. At first, she stood passive while he held her to his breast and kissed her, but after a time she began to cry and to kiss him back, and at the same time to struggle and push against him with her hands. Then he let her go. “She retreated a few steps and stood looking at him. ‘‘He could not, he said, for some time see her distinctly. She was vague and diaphanous to his eyes, like an object seen under water by a diver. And he said that it did not seem to him possible to draw sufficient air into his lungs to fill them. When this passed he went to her and took one of her hands in both Ids.

“ ‘God knows? he said, ‘that I didn’t go for to make you cry? Tears filled his own eyes as he spoke. ‘My girl mustn’t be afraid of me. I love her too much —that’s all—too much?

"After that they walked up and down in the rose garden for awhile with their arms about each other. And every now and then they stopped, and he would strain her against his breast and kips her and be kissed back. Then they went back to the house——”

.‘‘Prince,” I said, “do you know that I was at that very dinner party of the Carrs’? And I remember, though I had forgotten,, that Michael and Evelyn did go for a walk. .And I remember them as they came. in. Did Michael throw any light on that phase?” “No,” said the prince. “How was it they came in?”

“They looked bored,” I said. “Her hair was not even rumpled-—Jove, how it all comes back!—her dress —the white one with the wall-paper pattern —was heavy about the bottom from the dew and stained with green from dragging over the grass. They were the most self-possessed young people you ever saw. And do you mean to tell me all that—(hat business had been going on outside?” “It was exactly as I have told you,” said the prince, “it was later on that very night that he stood upon the beach under the starry sky, and chanted his ‘Hymn in June’ extempore to the sea. The man must have' been half mad with passion and joy—but the hymn, after all, is very youthful and rank.” “But who else could have made it?”

I said.- “And then what happened?" -'“After that?’ said the prince, “the most interesting phase began. We are confronted with the problem of a young girl who. to all intents and purposes, has given herself to a certain man. who loves him, who desires him—and who avoids him. You have remarked that Michael saw very little of her. That is quite true. She would not let him. He ✓ wrote to her every day—sometimes many times in one day—for nearly two years. I would like to have those letters. But it seefns she destroyed them—after, I dare say, showing a few to Iter most, intimate friends. She was capable of that. She destroyed them—she destroyed the glory of a mighty heart as it has never before been expressed. She destroyed the letters—and in due time Michael. I. have seen some of the little notes which she addressed to him at this time —careless scrawls full of excuses. For the most part they were written on rough bluish paper, often blotted; and when I saw them they were stained by the sweat of the man above whose heart they had lain day and night. Such phrases as these ran through them, much underlined: ‘I am terribly sorry, but mama positively says that ’ I must go to Boston with her*; ‘Your letter must have gone astray, because I never got it, or 1 surely would have been at home when you called’; ‘Please don’t be angry with me, but I honestly couldn’t be there; after all!’

“For the most part she dodged him, as you might say, but now and again there were meetings between them; quite often, indeed, in public; but rarely alone. Yet. when.they were alone she was all that she had been to him in the rose garden, and Michael has told me he believed she might have been more. Yes; once they were somewhere —I have forgotten where — alone, in some woodland by the sea, I think, late in the afternoon, and Michael was pleading with her to say on what day •she would marry him. But she would not say on what day. Then Michael took her in his arms and kissed her, and she kissed him baek, many, many times.

“Michael kept saying, ‘I want you so—l w ant' von so! ’

“And suddenly she hid her face in his breast, and trembled violently and said, •Then for God s sake take me!”’ “In the name of everything.” I broke in. “why wouldn’t the 'little fool name a day and have done with it?”

Because, ’ said I.aniaski, with more than liis usual deliberation and with a ring of bitterness in his voice, “it seemed in those days that our poor friend was destined to become immortal rather than—rich.”

“He became both,” I objected. But not in time. Listen, my friend. That girl was a devil. She was the worst kind of a devil that is known. She loved our friend passionately, and she would not marry him because she feared to be poor. ' She kept away from him lest her very love for him should prevent her from making a rich marriage. That day, in the Wood, was the only time that she said or meant a generous thing. For his own sake it is the greatest pity in the world that Michael was a gentleman; otherwise she would have been obliged to marry him.”

be desd 1 said » ‘Tor him to “I think not?.’ said the prince. “It may sotind strange to you after what I have said, but I think she would hive made him a good wife. She loved hiin; of that there is no doubt. It was not a spiritual love, but lei the tertn pass. She loved him. If she had marriM hnn then and there, I think all Would have been well, for it was not long before money began to come to Michael in whole showers—literally in showers.

‘ But you can see why she was afraid to be with Him, that is, from her point of view, having no wish to marry hint. The end came like this. One day Michael, without sending word that he was coming, called at the Carrs’ house in the country, and the maid told hiin that Miss Carr was somewhere in the garden; but she did not tell him that she was not alone. You have guessed, of course, that she was with Joiyff ? Yes, in a sequestered nook of the rose garden. And what do you think she was doing? She was returning something that Jolyflf had just given her—putting it exactly where it had come from—on his lins. <

Michael walked right up to them. “ ‘I had understood that you were

•Jone,’ -he said to. Miss Carr. . .‘lt waa quite,.by accident that .1 saw what happened just now—but I thought it better to let you know that I had seen. Are you and Mr Jolyff going to be married ?”

"She looked him straight in the eyes. And I will say that she was no coward to say what she did—and so proudly.

“'I would hardly, Mr Michael,’ she Baid, ‘kiss a man that I did not intend to marry.’ "Come, now, my friend, ean you believe that?” said the prince. “Yet 1 have Michael’s word for it, and, as we both know, he never lied.” "What did Michael do?”

“He felt for a moment as if spiders were stringing cobwebs in his head, and then his brain got wonderfully clear and full of notions. He turned to Jolyff and smiled. “ ‘Mr Jolyff,’ he said, ‘would you like to see something really quite remarkable?’ '“Jolyff stammered and blushed ns a man will who has just been caught behind a hedge kissing a girl. ’ “Michael made one stride to Miss Carr, crushed her to his breast, and kissed her over and over on the mouth. At first she struggled. Then she begat, to kiss him back. Between kisses he commanded. her to say that she loved him, and she said: T love you—l love you.’ ” "I'm damned,” said I, and could hardly • keep' from laughing-, “and what m Heaven’s name did Jolyff do?” “Jolyff?” said the prince. “Why he kept say, man, what are you doing?* over-anti over, he kept saying that.” •♦But he married her after all?” “He did,” jsaid the prince. “She was very clever. ‘ But it is easy- to sec why Jolyff . has never thrown any light on Michael’s broken heart.” ’‘And do you mean to tell me, ’ I said, “that I was an usher at—at that weds'! have your own word for it,” su'd the prince. ...... “I lied,” I said. . "I bed. “Six months after they were man red. Mqst of that time 1 was with Michael in Sumatra and the Straits Settlements. During that period- —at the very' beginning of it -lilS' ‘Cod- in Heaven’ was published. By every mail eame fabulous royalties, and -letters of .fabulous adulation from nil sorts and conditions of men among whom the English-tongue is .spoken. God’ How that,poem thunders! . . .for the ages of ages! .

“Boor Michael! He is dead and we are alive—sipping our tea, watching the traffic of the Avenue, discussing affairs of the heart. ~ To-night we are to dine and go to Hie play. And Michael lies there in Ceylon upon the top of si hill above the ecads, deep in his grave, covered with rocks lest the wild dogs <sfiould dig him up—'lead, decaying, pass'iag back into-the womb of the great mother—and yet living with a glory -which comes to but one man in hundreds, of a life that is. to this existence of- yours and mine as flame is to ashes. . . . “Adulation and royalties were not. tvhat the poor fellow needed. He, became emaciated. — thinner even than I. 'and I weigh-less than a. hundred and twenty pounds for all my height and

endurance. 1 thought his trouble organic at first. Mis appetite was good, but food did not seem to nourish him. I thought that his stomach needed attention. But it was his heart.

"I persuaded him out of that rank, stenciling island of Sumatra, and got him with me to Ceylon—to Nuwara Elya in the hills. There was a good doctor in that place, very gentle ami wise—for a wonder an Englishman—and he tested and examined our poor friend, but there was nothing to ascertain. His heart was broken, that was all. The involuntary act of keeping it at work pumping was exhausting him—exhausting him and starving him. His room was next to mine. Often I went and sat with him in the night, and piece by piece he told me why he was dying. “ ‘But,’ 1 would say, ‘that girl did enough to bring any sane man to his senses, let alone you, my dear friend. Forget her—the*littfe cat!’

“Even that did not comfort, him. He would tap on the sheet—he was covered only by a sheet, and the contours which his body gave to it were the contours of bones—knees, ribs; all very shocking—he would tap on the sheet with his poor wasted fingers, and smile into my face. ‘Larii,’ he would say; ‘dear, simple old Jami!’

“During those last days he sang a great deal, propped up in his bed. He would have his lied wheeled to the window—his room was on the ground floor, and there was a double hedge, half calls, lilies, half heliotrope, as high as a man, that looked in at him through the window. And he would sit there and look out and sometimes sing. You remember how loud and sweet a voice he had—like —yes, something like a negro’s? God, how he could sing! "One night I was wakened by the sound of his singing, and T said to myself, ‘Good, he is amusing himself,’ and turned half over, the better to listen. He was singing a canticle out of some church service—-that which comes at the very end. How do you call it?” “The Doxology?” I suggested. “Yes; that was it. And it seemed io ‘me in my drowsy state that nothing ever could have sounded so loud and beautiful and sweet.

“Praise God from whom, all blessings flowj Praise Him, all creatures here below; Praise Him above, ye heavenly host ; Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost.”

"Then the house became quiet, but presently I lieard-footsteps in the hall. They stopped before Michael’s door, and I lieard a sound of knocking and the whining voice of our landlord. “ ‘Mr. Michael,’ he said. ‘Um very sorry, sir, but it’s after hours, sir. and there’s a lady in the ’cuse as says she can’t -sleep for the racket, sir.’

“It was after hours, my. friend; and John Michael lay dead in his l>ed. —At about that -time,” said , the prinee, lowering -his voice, ‘‘sixteen thousand miles away,. Mrs Jolyff and her husband were starting cn. fhiir honeymoon. ... 1. hope tliat some time while 1 am in town you will pi'n. her out to me.

’"'“We could not get a coffin up to that high station in time, and so we buried Michael as he was, in his sleeping suit, and covered him with rocks so that the wild does should not dig him up. He had told me that, like Stevenson, Irs

wished to be buried ou the tep of a high hill—on the top of Pedro, that tali mbuntiTin wlffch overlooks nearly -the whole of Ceylon, and is so often above the clouds. It was a long day’s work. “As he lay by the side of the grave which we had caused to be dug, V.is hair, that gorgeous mahogany-led hair of his, touched by the sun, crowned his wh te face like an aureole,•amt it seemed to me that we were about to consign to the earth—a martyr.”

A victoria had drawn up in front of the Holland House, and a lady was giving cards and directions to a smart little tiger in dashing livery. The lady had a child with her in the victoria—a tiny mannikin of about two years. "Prince,” 1 said, “your wish to fee Mrs Jolyff is easily granted. She’s calling on somebody in the hotel at this moment, and is sitting outside in her vii-tcr a.' “So that-is she,” eaid the print-. “Will you present me?’ ' We went out barelieaded.

“Mrs Jolyff,” 1 said, “may I pre cut Prince Laniaski? He was with our old friend Michael in Cc-yl in when he < ied. ’ “Truly?” said Mrs Jolyff. "Were joi really, prince?” The prinee bowed mechanically, lie was not looking at Iter. but at tin- child, who for some unaccountable reason appeared almost to be attracting th? <y s out of his head. 1 have never se n a gentleman—nor indeed anyone —-ti;e so at anything. He turned to Mrs Jolyff with a start. “Yes,” he said, “I was with him.” “You must dine with us some night," she said, “and tell us about him. Will you ?” “Madame,” said the prne-, “I have travelled a great many thous.ind m'lcs to tell you that twmilil-iather inter the den of a rattlesnake.” He bowed, and with one hist look at the child went back into the hotel. ' “You presented that man to me?” s nd

Mrs Jolyff, very white about the lips. “Yes. l I mid.- "Forg.ve me—b didn't know that he was ever-taken like that — but he has had strange i xperhmeca-and has listened te stranger stories. Good bye.”

The prince was Lack nt our table, sitting with his ehin between his hands. 1 sat down facing him. At first ho did not ■ecm to see me. Then lie drew a long breath. "My friend,” be raid, “that woman looks like n woman who-—who is on her honeymoon.” “That was almost the last thing that I would have expec ed hint to say. “How long.” he went on. “has Michael been dead? It is five years, is it not?” “Yes,” I said. “How-old is that little boy of liers?” “About two.” "Have thev ethers?” "No.”

"Strange,’* said the prinee, "very strange, for it. passes all reason.” "What is so strange?” I asked. ‘ ‘The chilli—‘.he child,” sai I Ihe prince, with some show of impatience. “Did you notice nothing peculiar about the ehßd?” "No,” 1 said. “What?” “Man,’’ said Hie prince, “he has Michael’s eyes and hair!”