A Modern Lover — Volume 3 Chapter 4

London: Tinsley Brothers, 1 June 1883, pages 54-72, 3,390 words

CHAPTER IV.

THE HONEYMOON CONTINUED.

Next morning she was down a few minutes before Lewis. As she lingered in the breakfast room she noticed, with surprise, that it was only laid for two, and then she smiled at her mistake; she had forgotten that they were living together. As she passed through the drawing-room she stopped to look at the pretty furniture. The Italian glass over the chimney attracted her; she examined the tiny cups and vases with which it was covered, and catching sight of herself in the glass, she wondered why she had done her hair that way. She was in a grey peignoir, and her pale hair was tied into a knot upon her neck. Then she blushed, remembering that it was Lewis who had wished it so. She poked at herself attentively; the peignoir amused her, she had never come down to breakfast so before, and she thought she had never looked so handsome.

Her eyes were bright as the morning skies, and the clear skin was rimmed with a somewhat deeper blue, and her lips looked like flowers of blood. Elated with a thousand thoughts, she passed into the garden, and breathed with delicate gourmandise the large air. Picking a red rose, she placed it in her bosom, and started back, frightened by a chattering blackbird that dived into a thicket on the other side. The weir roared loudly; and she caught sight of the river glittering through the leaves of the willows. The garden tempted her on, and she held up her peignoir, but drew back, for the cold dew, which lay heavily on the grass, pierced the satin shoe. Then, hearing Lewis’ voice, she hastily plucked a rose for him and ran back.

The servant had brought up the tea and coffee, and she took her place at the head of the table. Feeling a little nervous, she cast a rapid glance to see that the butler was not looking, and asked Lewis with a sign which he would take. The man seemed to her to fidget about the room an interminable time, but when at last he did go, it was delightful to attend on Lewis, to coax him, to talk, to ask him a hundred times if he loved her, and to hear him say that he did, fifty times more than ever.

They passed the morning dreaming in the verandah. Lady Helen lay back in a long cane chair. A light air floated through the garden, the shadows of leaves trembled on the pavement, and wings were heard vaguely in the trees.

Lewis sat at Lady Helen’s feet, and they murmured for hours the softest words and phrases.

Still, it was not for a few days that she appreciated the whole luxury of living en ménage. At first there was a slight sense of weariness, but this wore off; every hour brought new pleasures, little surprises, which offered her the most exquisite delight. Once, it was running from the housekeeper’s room to the verandah, where Lewis was smoking his morning cigar, to ask him which he would like better for dessert, a cream or an ice. Another time, it was sewing a button on his glove, but, above all, it was an exquisite satisfaction to write "my husband" to Lady Marion.

“Yes," she thought, as she paused after she had written it, "it was I who won him away from all the others. Yes, I am his little wife, whom he loves better than all the world, and he is my little husband, whom I love better than all the world.”

Smiling, she repeated the words over, half conscious of but fascinated by their childishness, letting, all the while, her thoughts drift back to some little remembrance of a day or two, or perhaps only an hour or two old; something she had said to him, something he had said to her of their love, or of love in general, was sufficient matter for an hour’s reflection.

In the afternoon they would go for long drives, or else they would take the boat and row to some shady place, where Lewis would sketch, while she talked or read to him gently. Once or twice she had a headache, and she sent Lewis off to paint whilst she went to lie down. These were the only moments they were separated. They were pauses in her life of love, which gave her time to become more distinctively conscious of her happiness, for as her headache grew better, she wondered if any other man were as nice as he, as full of delicate attentions, as sweet a companion.

Lewis had a knack of rendering himself so wonderfully intimate that she soon had no secrets from him, and was less reserved with him than with her mother or aunt. These intimacies fascinated her. Quite naturally, he would take up the dress she had taken off, turn it inside out, and hang it up; he could lace the body of her dress far better than her maid, and, as if by instinct, his fingers divined the use of the pins and the hooks and eyes.

As the days went by, Lady Helen grew to love Lewis more and more; and hourly his companionship grew more necessary to her.

She felt that to lose him would be like losing part of herself, so completely in unison were their tastes and sentiments. Yet, notwithstanding, Fate managed to extend her crooked hand, and tear away some of their illusions before the end of the honeymoon.

One evening, it was a little chilly, and for sociability they had ordered a fire in the drawing-room.

Lady Helen was glad of this, for she had often thought how delicious it would be to sit dreamily looking into the embers, with Lewis’ head resting against her knees, and she had almost hated the fine days for what they deprived her of.

The lovers were sitting in this much-longed-for position when the dressing bell rang for dinner. They had just come in from a long drive, and to go down to sit in a cold dining-room would be hateful, just as they were beginning to feel comfortable; and to exchange the sweet words of endearment for a lot of conventionalities would be detestable. Lady Helen felt her heart sink at the thought.

Guessing what was passing in her mind, Lewis proposed that they should have dinner brought up to the drawing-room. The tea table would be quite big enough for their two plates.

It was just what Lady Helen felt she would like, and as she kissed him for the idea, she wondered how he always thought of things so utterly fascinating.

The dinner passed off delightfully. They waited on each other, and they had exchanged glasses a dozen times.

The sole au gratin Lady Helen declared was the most delicious she had ever tasted; the cutlets perfect; not to be bothered by the servants, they had had the dinner brought up at once. There was a riz de veau inside the fender, and a dish of asparagus, and behind Lewis’s arm-chair a bottle of champagne stood in its silver bucket of ice. The windows were shut, and the roar of the river was only heard vaguely.

Lady Helen slowly picked the bone of the lamb cutlet with her white teeth; and her yellow hair, which had fallen down her back, glittered in the light of the reading lamp like corn under a setting sun. Both their faces were flushed with the glare of the fire.

"Well, Helen, what do you think of being married? ’Tis nicer dining like this than with my mother-in-law, isn't it?”

Lady Helen replied with a superb gesture of disgust, and Lewis helped her to some strawberries and some more champagne. They had finished a bottle between them.

"Oh, Lewis, you don’t know how my mother annoyed me at times; it was quite impossible to live with her.”

"I hope it wasn’t for that only that you married me; you are not complimentary,” he said, laughing.

She squeezed his foot in reply. The table being small, they could not move without kicking each other, and to prevent any more accidents, Lady Helen held Lewis' foot between hers. Then for a few moments the lovers ate their strawberries in silence, until Lewis, amused at the idea of a tête-à-tête dinner with Lady Granderville, burst out laughing, and said he would make a sketch. He wanted to fetch a piece of paper, but Lady Helen held his foot tightly, declaring that he should not spoil their tête-à-tête with his tiresome sketching; she complained that it was always the way, that she could not say a word but that he wanted to illustrate it. At last, on his promising not to fetch a pencil, she allowed him to get up, and get the coffee. They had no cups, and hating to ring, they chose a couple from the Venetian mirror, and after rinsing them in the champagne bucket, they resumed their seats.

Their little dinner had been a complete success; it had had a quaint charm of its own, and was a refinement of pleasure as subtle as it had been unexpected.

Helen looked at her husband, her eyes were luminous with love. Then, as her thoughts detached themselves, she remembered the time when she did not possess him, and she wondered how she had lived through those cold, bleak years full of febrile aspirations and irritating deceptions. She recalled everything, from the first waltz to the time when they knelt at the altar together.

Then, at last she said, half to Lewis, who sat blowing his smoke into rings, half to herself:

“You don’t know how hard I fought for you, how difficult my position was with my mother.”

“Well, I hope you are not dissatisfied with your bargain," replied Lewis, laughing.

It irritated her to hear him laugh; he constantly did so at the wrong times; but she pretended not to hear him, and continued to sip her coffee; her white cheeks blazing with two red spots. Then, after a pause, she continued:

“You don’t know how afraid I was of losing you; I thought the days would never go by; even in church I thought something might happen to take you from me.”

"Not half so much afraid as I was,” thought Lewis, and he chuckled inwardly.

“But, suppose anything had happened, and we had been for ever separated," she murmured, looking at him intently; “what should we have done? Do you know it frightens me!”

"What a foolish baby you are to think of such disagreeable things," replied Lewis, throwing himself down on the white rug, and drawing his wife’s arms round his neck.

He continued to smoke his cigarette. Lady Helen had finished her coffee, and, absently, they listened to the weir, which enveloped the windows with a murmur of vague sound. The light of the lamp fell on the long grey peignoir and Lewis’ upturned face, whilst out of the large deep of purple shadow which filled both sides of the room there seemed to rise a dreamy languor, a desire for infinite rest. They remained silent until, at last, Lady Helen said, speaking very slowly:

"You know, Lewis, I have never seen such beautiful hands as yours; I can scarcely look at them without trembling.”

Lewis laughed softly, and blew his cigarette smoke into wreaths. Neither of them spoke again for some moments, and Lady Helen continued to caress Lewis’ hand which she held between hers. At last the glitter of a diamond awoke her from her reveries, and she examined a ring he wore. Then, seeing it was a lady’s, she drew it off his finger before he was aware.

"Why, Lewis!" she said, in a tone of voice indicative at once of surprise and suspicion.

Lewis looked up puzzled. It was a ring that Mrs. Liston had sent him, and having found it that morning in one of his pockets, he had slipped it, without thinking, on his finger. Lady Helen’s eyes were beginning to flash with anger, and fearing a scene, he told her that he had bought it for her, and had forgotten to give it to her. The lie was not ingenious, but he had no time to think of a better one. Anyhow, it seemed to answer as well as the best, for Lady Helen, remembering how he had bought her a hat in the same way, brightened up, and the look of distrust faded from her face. Seeing that the story succeeded, he resolved to brave it out; so, putting his arm round her waist, he said, in his most coaxing voice:

"I thought it would please you, baby, and that it would be sweet on those white, oh, the very whitest of fingers in the world.”

There were some words engraved on the inside, but he trusted that Lady Helen would not think of examining the ring that night, and that he would be able before long to find an opportunity of stealing it.

Lady Helen smiled with pleasure, and she leant over the table, holding the ring under the lamplight. Lewis kissed her, and whispered in her ear softly, trying to attract her attention. But suddenly, as she turned the ring over, she noticed there was something written inside. Lewis saw the movement, and turned pale. It was all up with him; the truth must come out.

Thinking it was one of the little surprises he was so fond of playing upon her, Lady Helen eagerly held it closer to the light, and read:

"From Lily to Lewis.”

In the silence of the room her astonished voice sounded like a bell. She did not understand, and she looked to her husband for an explanation, but seeing his embarrassed look, the truth began to strike her.

"So, then, this is some woman’s present to you; and you are wearing it even now," she said, through her teeth.

“My dear Helen, just listen, and I’ll explain," he said, trembling.

The scene was very short. Her white skin grew ghastly white with rage; she stammered for lack of passionate words to express her disgust; he pleaded to be heard, but, unable to contain herself, she threw the ring in his face, and walked upstairs.

So taken aback was he, that he did not at first attempt to follow, but stood looking into space; then, suddenly darting forward, he hurried upstairs after her, but he was too late, she had locked herself in her room. He knocked at the door, but receiving no answer, went down to the drawing-room and walked up and down excitedly.

"What cursed luck!" he thought; "what the deuce did that confounded woman mean by sending me her ring? Just because I took it off her finger once, and said it was a pretty one. And I never made love to her!"

And with a grave look he concluded with this phrase, full of unconscious cynicism:

"That’s just the way people get into rows, not for what they do, but for what they don’t do.”

He looked round vacantly, and his eyes fell upon the ring; it lay in the fender amid the fire-irons. He picked it up, and not knowing what to do with it, put it in his pocket. Then he listened, as if he expected some one, and finally sat down in the largest and most comfortable chair. After cursing Mrs. Liston and her presents, he got up, drank some wine, pushed the debris of the dinner out of the way, lit a cigar, and waited for his wife. The hours went by slowly; he sat smoking, inventing excuse after excuse, trying to think of the best way out of the difficulty.

At last the clock struck eleven, and the servant came to take away the lights. Lewis dismissed him, saying that he was going to sit up a little longer, but that he had no further need of him, that he would turn the lights out himself before going to bed. The man offered to remove the plates and dishes, but Lewis, who was irritated to the last degree, told him he could not be bothered by the clattering, that it could be done in the morning.

The butler went out wondering. Lewis smoked on. The lamp burnt out, and in the gathering gloom the crimson ash of his cigar made one fiery point, which at every respiration illumined the thinking face. He still expected his wife to come downstairs, and he waited listening nervously to the footsteps that approached, and then died away at the end of the passages, to the locking of doors, the shutting of shutters, and the different noises attendant on the fastening up of a house for the night.

At last the servants ceased to go to and fro, and he ventured to creep up the dark stairs and knock again at his wife’s door. Once, twice, he knocked, but got no answer; he pleaded and grew seriously alarmed, and wondered what Helen intended to do. Then he went down to the drawing-room, lit some candles, and thought the matter over, after which he unbarred the window and took a turn in the garden. He watched his wife’s window, and called her by name, and wondered if he could climb to her window by the ivy that glistened in the moonlight; then he went back, piled some more coal on the fire, smoked a cigarette, abused Mrs. Liston for having dared to send him the confounded ring, and finally went upstairs and pleaded piteously again for admittance. But his prayers were unheeded, and seeing at last that there was no chance of obtaining even an answer, he got a rug out of the hall and went to sleep on the sofa in the drawing-room.

In the morning he was awakened by the arrival of the housemaid with the dustpan. The situation was embarrassing; he mumbled something about having overslept himself, fetched his hat, and went down to the river, looking very foolish, and cursing Mrs. Liston more than ever. The time went dreadfully slowly, and everything was unpleasant. The grass was dripping wet, the willows were weeping in every sense of the word, and he wandered about feeling most wretchedly miserable. He considered the desirability of packing up his easel, and going off to paint. It would be, he thought, an excellent way of paying his wife out; but his courage failed him at the last, and he loitered about waiting for the time when Lady Helen would ring for her maid.

At last his patience was rewarded, and, seizing the opportunity when Gwynnie was going down for some hot water, he pushed past her, rushed into his wife’s room and locked the door after him, determined that she should at least hear him.

Lady Helen had just taken her hands out of the basin and was drying them slowly with a towel; her hair was tied loosely like a sheaf of corn, her face was haggard, and Lewis saw that she had been crying.

"Oh, Helen," he said, "you must listen; I can explain everything if you will only hear me.”

She said nothing, but stood waiting. This somewhat disconcerted him; he had expected her to assail him with indignant words, and to push him, with her long, white hands out of the room. He hesitated a moment, and then volubly explained the story of the ring, adhering strictly to the truth, which for once in a way he was unable to amend.

Lady Helen looked at him fixedly, and the tears glistened in her eyes.

“Is this really true?" she murmured.

He advanced towards her, and strove to take her in his arms. She resisted a moment, and then suddenly he felt warm tears on his cheek, and moist hands clasped round his neck. The lovers kissed, vowed, pleaded, and were reconciled. She loved him again, and more passionately than ever, not because she either believed or disbelieved him, but because she had been miserable, and felt that she could not live without his love.