CHAPTER XI.

New Zealand Illustrated Magazine, 1 May 1901, Page 599

CHAPTER XI.

GERALDINE

fERALDINE WARD sat in her drawiug-roora at her hotel that afternoon in a curious frame of mind. The satisfaction which the

artist feels when conscious of good work, had been her's all the morning, and had contented her.

She was honest to herself at all times ; always she wrested from the situation something that belonged specially to her own individuality, and had nothing to do with her position or reputation.

To the crowd she was a queen, and dispensed her smiles impartially, whatever impatience ov weariness she might feel. But if any fell into the mistake of confusing the actress with the woman, the mistake was fatal. She reserved for herself within her dominion a small place set apart where she held sacred court with her womanhood. No dominion, in her opinion, was too wide for the artist, no boundary, too exclusive for the woman. Of course she had made bitter enemies; equally of course, ardent friends, but of enemies or friends alike she was independent, for she had never been poor.

Her art had been her one passion ; its tyrannies, its limitations, its perceptions, despairs and triumphs had been her only thraldom ; the only master she had known. To her art she had knelt humbly subject to the brutalities and caresses from this hand, but any other passion had km passive. Howard Grey had just appealed to her through her artistic sense. Her meeting with him had been a unique experience to her, as the supposed sawmiller of an out-

of-the-world mill ; his personality hsul interested her, and ho was the only man who had known her in intimate converse apart from any social or artistic distinction whatever. The room in which she sat had been subjugated — as every room she inhabited — to her taste and personality. The friends who had smiled on her from the walls of v Ihe Whrire " were around her here. The subdued lights, the rose tints and a profusion of flowers robbed the hotel room of its luxurious crudeness. Every tint and rarity of Australian autumn blossom, from hothouse and winter garden, decorated and perfumed the room. But there were no briar roses, neither blue irises, (.'idled " flags," in Polly's garden at Pine Mill. Geraldine, in a tea-gown of soft billowy black, looked almost fragile. Her fairness of skin and the willowy grace of her figure gave a girlishness to her appearance, which the sadness of her mouth and the expression of her dark eyes corrected. She belonged to that rare type of women who subordinate their clothes to their personality. Few could tell what she wore, only how she looked. In the drowsy quiet of the afternoon the acclaim of last night, the congratulations of the morning were not so real to her as the recollection of that afternoon at Matamata when Howard had declared geniuses were better at a distance. Evidently that was his honest conviction. The dreamy softness of her eyes, the half smile of her lips testified to pleasant reverie; in memory she walked once more over the downs of Matamata in Howard Grey's

overcoat,, recipient of his blended homage and bruskness. Then with a sigh she roused to actual fact. She had put the very life of her art to the interpretation of an artist she admired — so she had believed — and found she had been enthusiastic for a stranger. It had upset her calculation. To cherish an enthusiasm, and find the object of it unaffected, is at all times dispiriting, to find one's force, misapplied is disconcerting. By all the ethics of art, devotion to art should have been its own reward. But there are times when even the artistic conscience is dead ; when truth and beauty of the ideal is subservient to the humanity which never has changed, spite of the temples of intellect and culture the brain has set up. And although all the city that day had talked itself hoai'se in admiration of her, Greraldine Ward sat alone in the small world of her own, without that aureole which illumined her in men's thoughts, feeling chilled and solitary among the .tributes of her success because she was bereft of an idea that had put zest — keen zest — into the past few months. And not the idea only — but the one man round which it had centred. The door opened, aud he was announced. Geraldine rose with instinctive greeting He saw the tall graceful form in the billowy trailing draperies, the whole throat uncovered, the rounded arms bare to the elbow, and paused in man's spontaneous homage to woman's beauty. She stood in a roseate hue of lamp and firelight, which gave a flush to her skin, and brought out the gleam of her bronze black hair. With that grace of movement that had enchanted some sense of his moi'e than the charm of her face, she went forward with outstretched hai\ds. " You ?" she said, and in her tone was mingled surprise and pleasure. As she approached him Ploward was conscious of a sudden desire to take her in his arms. To stop short at a hand clasp bereaved him of what in an instant seemed his right. His fingers closed over hers with a grip that gave her welcome pain, for it

testified to his want of her. Their eyes met for an asking second, then she withdrew her glance. Howard's moment was at an end. It had had no past or future : it was hallowed, set apart from rancour, from disgrace, from failure, question, apprehension, loss. All torment and conflict had been absent from it. With a quickening of the spirit he understood just what he had hungered for all his manhood — the deep comprehension of a woman's heart. He was not aware that he had not spoken; he seemed to have said so much, to have told her that, he had come out of jangling into harmony — out of emptiness into rich possession. What he might have said in the strength of his passion's first truth was not permitted him, for other callers were announced, men and women of his world, a.nd Gerald ine Ward, her great eyes shining, the white fairness of her face slightly flushed with pleasure or hidden excitement, with the air ot gracious distinction that set her apart, listened and smiled, and with a sort of queenly toleration accepted the adulation proffered. To Howard the charm was broken. He stood apart in a jealous sullenness, claiming attention neither by glance nor word. The intei'vention of these men and women had separated them, introduced the conventional — and fact. With recollection, bitterness surged up all the fiercer for the moment's forgetful ness, for his realisation of what he must pay for his dishonesty. A damnable price, he called it. The paying usually is. The usui-er knows that the devil loans out indulgences smilingly, but when the account is rendered the interest generally exceeds the amount, borrowed, or the borrower thinks so. Cake eaten rarely seems worth its price, and Howard Grey felt his slice had been i*uinous. When a gushing, fair-haired little belle approached with a smiling inanity, the harshness and snarl of his reply caused him to be struck off her visiting list, and Geraldine to glance in his direction with a query in her eyes.

She singled him out presently by a glance and tone that "were specially for him. " Won't you let me give you some tea, Mr. Grey ?" He crossed to her instantly. How exquisite of her ! he thought, with a rush of that gratitude every large-hearted man feels for the favoui's of the woman he loves. How exquisite to put him in touch with that past time ! He bent down to take the cup from her hand with a movement of almost worship. He was no longer quite contemptible in his own eyes since she coupled him with a remembered episode. He shared that memory with her alone — their tea together at Pine Mill. She meant him to recollect, he knew. That day she had belonged to him ; her beauty, her intellect, her womanly grace, he had held her thought, dominated her. He had crushed memory of her, denied her right, put the temptation of her presence sternly on one side for duty's sake — for his wife's sake — and his wife had mocked his conception of man's love, laughed at his hunger and thirst for affection ! Well, that one day had been his, at lesst. Let him be grateful for it. It had been given him by a woman whom many worshipped — it had been adorable of her just to be a woman to him alone, and not (xeraldine Ward, who belonged to the world. His face grew soft as he looked at her. For a time he had lest his bearings — he would not lose them again. In his new mood he read new meaning into the circumstance : the little court about her did not exclude him — he had a place none of these had had. She was the artist to them — to him she had been the woman. He surprised Geraldine by his sudden animation. Again she was interested, charmed, gratified by his power to dominate. A woman likes to know that the man who holds her thoughts can rule others — likes better to see that the man, who is humble to her, commands humility from others. In the hour that followed Howard held attention, then when her pride in him was at its height, when she expected momentarily

to be alone with him, he left her with her last, remaining guest. At this hour Melbourne was luxurious and at ease. Carriages rumbled along the broad road with fur-clad occupants hastening home to dine, cabs and trams were invitingly near, but Howard was in no haste lo get out to Toorak. He turned into Collins Street, and walked at a brisk pace towards the Treasury Gardens. The stir and life of the streets, the cool clear air revived and inspirited him after the enervation of the last twenty-four hours. His old resistance was coming to the foro ; his mouth took on its most dogged expression ; ho looked so hard that several beggars on the pavement were astonished when the least likely man of the hurrying stroani of men and women stopped to tender unsolicited alms. "Poor defeated devils!" he thought. Defeat was at all times more pitiable to him than death ; it was especially painful to contemplate just now. He turned into the gardens out of the noise of the traffic. Ho wanted to be alone to think, and walked along the avenue of elms, between the winter branches of which the clear frosty sky shone with silver stars. The white statues on either side of the path, gods and goddesses of myth gleamed whitely among the trees; broken patches of light between the tracery of leaves linked him with the city beyond, else he was alone save for the hurried contact of a passer-by. Ho walked to the bridge, and stood looking down into the quiet water flowing boneath as though he sought some solution in its depths. He tried deliberately to face himself, to face the future. At all costs he determined Caroline must not suffer. Any martyrdom must be endured by himself first.

What was to be done ? the point was this. It was too late to contemplate what might have been done. His irritation had died, defiance slain by a word of kindness. He stretched out his hand yearningly to the vision of his mind, which possessed the best he had to give. Every line, every curve of Geraldioe's figure stood out distinctly to

him in the darkness, the expression of her eyes, her face as they had stood that moment alone. The force of passion that surpi'ised him then swept over him again. He made a step to return. He would go to the theatre, endure last night's scathing, live through the hell of her scorn for his prototype all over again for the joy of her glance, her voice ! No, it must not be ! Once before he had given way to a terrible temptation. This was part of the price he owed for his fame ! He had drilled himself to denial and negation in the past to some purpose, for he put a strong hand on himself now ; his passion must not be petted and humoured. It had come to him too late. He t'aised his head, and went off at a quick pace to the extreme end of the gardens. In the street he looked cityward again. He was torn with the conflict : should he gaze on her once more, or go home ? He hailed a passing cab. For a moment he hesitated on the pavement before he instructed the man. Was it to be " The Princess " or Toorak ? " Toorak !" he said, as he sprang in. ***** All that morning Ruth Opie had sat in the shop of " The Little Dustpan," wearing her afternoon gown of black. "Tez ole right," she informed any objecting pow«r. She knew what she was about. She wasn't going to demean " the lad." For the first time in her life she felt pity for " they poor things " whose life was made up chiefly of housework, and had no great glory on which to gaze. " But don't Ec go a-thinkin', dear Lord, that I dedun fancy that theer life was 'ard. I've taasted ct — and aafter bit ay wile et dedun smill so good." She sat directly in front of the stall, swelling with communicativeness. Chinamen went by stolidly as though nothing unusual had transpired. Draggled women passed, news boys, dingy vehicles, the odds and ends of Melbourne. A street band

stopped opposite and played " I Dreamt that I Dwelt in Marble Halls " and " When Other Lips and Other Hearts." When regular or chance customers came she had always the some question : " Dedun cc go see play laast night ? Anyhow, I do wish cc had. Aw, my dear, 'twer heaven sure 'nuff." She had talked herself hoarse. Her little maid had swept the hearth and piled up the fire, and taken her departure for the day, when with the lighting of the lamps and the hour for tea she began to feel lonely. The table was spread as for a festival. She went back into the parlour and still waited, hoping that Frank would come. Tea drinking without him was a poor sort of business. She peeped under the cover at the hot tea-cakes, then went back to the shop to look out anxiously. A carriage drew up to the door, and Frank alighed and handed out a lady. Ruth's sudden joy at sight of him was chilled. It had come, then, the bereavement she had feared ? The lady, a vision in violet and fur, was standing before her with tremulous lips and shining eyes. " Dear Ruth," said Fi^ank, taking her hand, " this is my sister. Caroline, this is my dear adopted mother." Caroline's gloved hand closed over the shaking hands stretched out. There was appeal in the faded face. " You must let me be your daughter. My brother has told me of the past two years." "Iss. It be no good hummin' and haain' 'bout et. I ded feel et a blessed time, plaise sure." The two women looked at one another in silence for a moment, then Caroline bent forward and kissed her. This old Cornishwoman had memory in her love but for what she had received. Of the spending she had taken no account. Instinctively Caroline understood how her coming might seem to claim Frank from Ruth's affection. But she put forth no claim, but tactfully gave the loving heart its place. She made a favour of being asked

to tea, showed interest in the funny old shop, said she believed she was a little inclined to be envious she might not live there too — but that she never would have been clever enough to carry on a business, and finally told her that last night at the theatre she had wished to know " the sweet woman in the lilac gown." When Frank returned to the parlour from dressing he found the two sitting at the tire absorbed in one another. But on Frank's entrance Ruth, with a certain little air of propi'ietorship, put one or two little finishing pats to his attire, Caroline looking on with smiling acquiescence. When she rose Ruth asked jealously : " Must 'cc go ?" " Not if I may stay." Then it was agreed that Frank should send a cab to take her home in an hour, and Ruth was spared seeing them go out together. As they sat opposite at the hearth Ruthlooked at her visitor searchingly. Now that Caroline was not smiling the young face looked pale and tired with the emotions of the day. The gentle strength of her countenance brought the fading blue eyes to it in long scrutiny. At length Ruth said abruptly : "Tedun easy waiting, tedun easy toal." She spoke from her ancient pain. She thought Caroline had suffered while she had feasted. Caroline looked up startled. Her thought was of a different man. "Yes, an offul thing for be kip waiting, my dear. To my mind it does passel mischief. A woman do be fritened. But 'cc ded have thy husband, dedun cc now ?" Caroline understood. Yes, he was hers, her husband. Suddenly into the difficult part came hope, relief, thankfulness — he was hers. Difficult, incomprehensible as he was, should she repudiate love's obligation ? Witb tender sympathy for the woman who had lived so long alone, she bent forward and took her hands. " Dear," she said, her beautiful eyes full of tears, "I am a wife; do you think I grudge you the love that has comforted

your great loss ? 0, you poor thing 1 ! Ido not know how you found courage to hour it!" Ruth stood helplessly, at a loss for a word. She had forgotten that she wa.s a widow ! She withdrew her hands from the soft clasp of the white fingers, and turning away murmured something about " Troubles an' trials, riff-raff an' sharpers, never no forwarder! Fightin's without an' within, failin's an' the old Tempter," which Caroline found incoherent. " I was a star gaazy maid most of while," she concluded. v 'Twar fiekshun not fact I ded want, and so 1 tell 'cc. 1 dedun knaw what the Lord meant when Eo gave us fact, nor what do weth et. An' I couldn't kip my eyes off star gaazin'. 1 glaazcd upon un till I most feered 1 wild go craazy. Hut I'm an ould wommou now, and I haven't time to glaaze upon stars — 1 be so much plaised with company." Caroline drew the old head to her shoulder. " Thank you," she said, " 1 also have stumbled, star gazing." * * * * * With the departure of her last caller Gerald ino Ward gave a sigh of relief. The fragrance of the flowers in the warm atmosphere seemed oppressive and stifling. She threw a window wide open and stood near the balcony. The subdued sounds of life from the street brought back the memory of London with an acute longing for homo. Her head was heavy as lead. For threo more months she was bound, and for the first time she fretted in bondage. She felt strangely alone, and pined for her old associations. Twenty-four hours had fixed a gulf between the idea of the man who had so strongly affected her and the man himself. She had lost the enthusiasm which had electrified the air for her. Under existing circumstances the thought of the three months ahead made her tired. How had she made such a mistake, how confused the author of Under the Goad with Convict 99 ?

There was the same scathing of smallness, the same sweetness, and love of strength and faith in love, the very phrases and touch. Well, she had been self-deceived. She was not given to emotion and romance, and her first essay had been a failui-e. She had spent herself for three months in effort for the brother of his wife ! She laughed in self-mockery. How casually he had made the statement that Frank Osmond was the brother of his wife, and her guests had appeared to be acquainted with the wife. Of course she might have known if she had cared to talk of him — but she had lived with an idea of him. It was odd that she should be obliged to reconstruct that idea in this commonplace way. It was as though she had lost a part of herself. Anyhow she had learnt a good deal in a few hours, one thing among others to build your ideals from fact and not from supposition. She began to walk about restlessly. What had that wife of his been about to make it possible for him to look as though he had descended into hell ? She put her hand over her eyes as though to shut out thought of him, but she saw his eyes more distinctly in the darkness with the passion of their appeal. She drew in her breath, the memory hurt her. Was the wife anything like the dark-eyed hunted-looking man who had thanked her last night ? Why, of course, Howard Grey had her with him ; she was that cold stillfaced woman who sat beside him in the box, whom she had never once seen addi'ess him the .whole evening ! Her pale insignificance had not drawn a second glance ; she had been too conscious of that other stronger presence. Again Geraldine laughed. The episode had been rather unusual. Well, why think about it ? There was her work to do, although the rejoicing had gone out of it. Nobody had deceived her — she had deceived herself ! Nevertheless self-deception is not always satisfactory, and Gwaldine, while she played brilliantly, felt the loneliness of Howard's empty box.