Death the Knight and the Lady/Chapter 17

at nine o'clock. Someone had knocked at my door. It was only the maid-servant with hot water.

I had gone to sleep at six o'clock with the vision of that strange grey dawn in my head, and now at nine—I can never account for my motives, I seem built up of perversities—at nine o'clock I woke, and my first sensation was one of irritation. I was irritated with myself, and I was irritated with the thoughts of the old butler. I was irritated with the window-blind which I had drawn down all crooked. I was in a sulk with Geraldine.

I looked at my face in the looking-glass. I was a fright. My eyes were red. I dressed, and I actually did not care what dress I put on. It did not matter; all my dresses were hideous, every woman's dress was hideous, except Geraldine's, she alone knew how to dress.

Really never before had I been in such a vile and senseless humour. It seemed to take in the whole world. I passed in review all the men I had ever known. They were all about equally detestable; they seemed all so like one another, more or less hair on their faces, that was all, and yet women fall in love with these creatures; but then, what were women? I passed in review all the women I had ever known, and all the women I had ever heard of—they all had to stand for inspection beside the strange figure of Geraldine. Oh, what fools they looked, what dummies, what empty-headed apes, tricked out in borrowed feathers, full of spiteful tricks, and tricks to draw the attention of those other apes, the ones with beards.

I thought of the school-girls at the boarding-school,—those virgins so full of suppressed vice, their finnikin manners, their whispers, and their sniggers. I never thought that I too had been one of those vicious virgins.

I pricked myself with a pin, and that brought me back from my thoughts. Then I went down to breakfast. One place as usual. Old James the butler seemed grown ten years younger since that night so long ago when he let me in first, that night so long ago, the night before last. He darted about so quick that he upset a plate of muffins on the floor. Then bang! my bad humour changed suddenly to good.

What did this little wretch mean by breakfasting alone at unearthly hours? Did she have strange people out of the garden to breakfast with her? people with feet like roots, and faces like flowers. I had seen this Geraldine looking at the chrysanthemums with an expression of face as if she knew more about them than a mortal ought to know. Last night a great moth flew in from the garden, and rested quite familiarly on her hair, just above her ear. She treated the snails just as if they were kinsfolk. I felt sure that to her breakfast-table guests came who would have flown, or run, or crawled, from my presence.

Then, like a sombre note of music, came the recollection of my dream. I heard the mad galloping of the horses, and my good humour turned to sadness. You must think me a very changeable person, but that is just what I am. I am jotting down all my feelings as they came, so you can see that it takes very little to move me from sorrow to laughter.

I have written seventy-three pages! almost a little book. To think that I should ever have written a book, no matter how small!

Well, when breakfast was over I sat for awhile making up my mind that Geraldine might come to me before I came to her; then I got up and did exactly what I had determined not to do. I came down the toy-house corridor. I knocked at the right hand door; no answer. I pushed the door open and peeped in; no one. I knocked at the bedroom door; no answer, but I did not go in, I felt somehow afraid. Then I turned to the left hand door. I opened it. It was a strangely pretty room, but it did not contain Geraldine. It looked like an oratory; the roof was arched, and at the far end the daylight through a stained glass window shone glimmering down on the polished oak floor. A silver lamp swung from the ceiling, and an oak table, plain and rather severe looking, stood in the centre. This was where she probably dined, if she ever dined, and breakfasted all alone.

What a life this strange being must have led, just like a nun, and many a morning she must have sat here all alone whilst I was—where?

Do you know that all the sermons ever preached would have had less effect upon me than the sight of this room? I suddenly saw the beastliness of the world we all live in, just as plainly as if it had been some vile reptile crawling from under that oak table; but we never see sights like that for long, just half a second or so, and then we forget. I looked for a moment, then I turned away. Where had she gone to? was she hiding? could she be in the garden?

No, she was not in the garden; the chrysanthemums all looked as if they knew but would not tell. Oh, those chrysanthemums, how they haunt my dreams, actually haunt me; they are all dead and forgotten, but their faces seem to haunt me. Geraldine made them human when she walked amongst them, she touched their faces as if they were faces of brothers and sisters. I saw her smile at one once, and once I saw her actually frown at one of them, and now they come and haunt me as if to say, "What have you done to Geraldine?"

Then I began to feel uneasy. Where could this strange child be? had any accident befallen her? I remembered my dream, and hurried back to the house. Old James, the butler, was crossing the hall, a tray of glasses in his hands. I asked him had he seen the child, did he know where she was hiding?

He answered that she had gone out for a drive; she went at eight.

I could have boxed the old fellow's ears.

Was she in the habit of going out for drives so early in the day?

Oh, yes, several times a week the horses were ordered early. That exasperated me. So it was a habit not to be broken through on my account. Just because it was her habit, she had gone out and left me all alone, knowing very well that I would be hunting for her. Then I remembered the absurd fright I had been in about my dream, and I remembered the strange and passionate parting of the night before, and now this cold creature had gone out for a drive; no wonder she was so fond of snails.

Where was the use of loving a creature like this? it would build a house for itself of your dreams and sighs and groans, and then crawl off with its house on its back. All my waking irritation returned. I told the old butler to bring me my luncheon to my room when luncheon-time came, for I felt ill—so I did—and would not come down again that day.

Then I went upstairs to my bedroom utterly determined to give Geraldine a lesson that she would never forget. She might wait for me, but I would not come, not I.

Up in my bedroom I fell into one of those stupid fits in which we—at least I do—take a tremendous amount of interest in nothing. I looked at my rings and at my hair brushes. I looked at myself in the glass. I stood with my head against the pane, looking out at the garden. The weather had not altered, still moist and warm and autumny; all these three days seemed carven out of the same kind of weather so that they might last for ever as one piece, all the same, beautiful, sorrowful, and dark. "For ever" I say, for I am sure I shall see them even when I am dead: perhaps they will be for me the only solatium through eternity, given me to look at, like some gloomy but beautiful jewel to a sick and sorry child.

After a while I grew tired of taking an interest in nothing. I fell to wondering what Geraldine would do or say if I killed myself or was killed. She would go out for a drive very likely. Then I thought what a fool I had been to prison myself up in my bedroom and give out to the old butler that I was ill. I smoked a cigarette as I thought, and then I determined on an expedition: I would go for a prowl.

At the end of the corridor on which my bedroom opened there was a door. Yesterday morning I had opened this door to see what was behind, and had seen a staircase, a spiral staircase, that had somehow an elfish look. I told you before, I think, that on my first arrival at this house everything except the dining-room seemed familiar. Well, that feeling had utterly vanished, yet still everything remained familiar. I don't exactly know how to explain my meaning fully, unless I can make you understand that the ghostly part of the familiar feeling was gone.

Well, the little staircase cropped up in my mind just as I finished my cigarette, and I determined on exploring it. I looked out of my room to see that no one was about, then I came along the corridor, softly. I opened the door, and there was the little spiral staircase all covered with dust. I shut the door behind me, and I can tell you it required some courage to shut that door and remain alone in the dark with that ugly little staircase. Then up the staircase I went, feeling my way by the cold little bannister rail, till suddenly my head came bump against something. I put my hand up and felt a trap door. I pushed it, and it fell back. What a strange room I entered, perfectly square, and lit by one dusty window. The walls were hung with arras, and the only piece of furniture was a large black oak chest, carved all over with foliage and figures. It stood opposite the window.

Somehow this room had a strangely forlorn and melancholy appearance, it had also a vague and musty smell. The arras looked ghostly. Perhaps it was the perfect silence, but it appeared to me that here a horse and there a stag seemed ready to jump from the canvas.

I sat down on the oak chest, and began to observe the tapestry more attentively. Beginning at the window, my eye ran along it. Here was a hunting scene—a meet evidently—ever so many horsemen surrounding a man on a white horse, he seemed the chief; he was dressed as a cavalier, his hair was black and flowing. Beyond, in the distance, lay a castle, a castle on a green hill, with a white pathway running down it. I knew that castle was meant to represent Castle Sinclair. A little further on another scene. The same cavalier, riding, and by his side a lady on a brown horse; how proudly the horses stepped. A little further on another scene, love this time, and the same man and the same woman; they were kissing.

Then I knew by a kind of intuition that this tapestry was meant to represent the connection of the houses of Wilder and Sinclair, worked, probably, through long generations by the pious hands of Wilder women.

Suddenly I got up and looked at the tapestry just behind me. Yes, the same man and the same woman—she on a couch, he on the floor, perhaps dead, a broken glass beside him. Was that the poison running on the tapestry-wrought floor?—perhaps. The next scene was a funeral procession; black nodding plumes and bowed heads.

I looked no more; that tapestry gave me the shivers.

I turned to the oak chest and raised the lid; an odour of rosemary filled the air. I peeped in. Down at the bottom lay some clothes, carefully folded, on the clothes a sword, and on the sword a great cavalier's hat with a magnificent black feather; I took out the hat and sword, and laid them on the floor, then I took out a most exquisite amber satin doublet, and the other parts of a man's dress. Down at the bottom still there lay a pair of long buff-coloured boots, with silver spurs, and a great glittering silver trumpet, to which was attached a long crimson silk cord.

I would have clapped my hands, only my arms were so full; here was everything I wanted. That little Puritan with the pale face would whimper no more for jingling spurs and a sword on her lover. Oh! the good sword! I drew it from its sheath, and looked at its broad, strong blade, all damascened near the hilt, then I popped it back in its sheath, and kicked off my shoe. I wanted to see if the boots would fit; I tried one on, it fitted to perfection. This cavalier, whoever he was, must have had an amazingly small foot. Perhaps he was Gerald Wilder. Nothing more likely, for this room seemed dedicated to him, and these things were possibly his relics; any way, they were mine for the present, and I promised myself a fine masquerade.

What would Geraldine say when she saw me?

I took out the trumpet; it looked like a battle-trumpet; there was a dint upon it as if from a blow. It was solid silver, and was marked near the mouthpiece with a little tiger and a P surmounted by a tiny star. It was evidently intended to be slung round the back by the silken cord, so I slung it round my back, and taking all the other things, I left the room, laden like an old clothes man. I had fearful work shutting the trap door with all the things in my arms, but I managed it at last, and got safely back to my bedroom without having been seen.

On the dressing-table stood a silver tray with some luncheon and a decanter of sherry; so the old butler had been. I shut the door and locked it, then I placed all my booty on the bed, and sat down to eat what the old fellow had brought me.

As I ate I thought how fortunate it was that there were so few servants. The only ones I had seen indoors were the butler and the sour-faced maid. There must have been a cook, and a very good one, hidden down stairs somewhere, but she, or he, was never visible. How, thought I, do these two manage to keep this great house in order? they are always working like galley slaves, I suppose, and Wilder pays them like princes; anyhow I am very glad, two are quite enough, almost two too many.

Then I rose and placed the luncheon things on the floor out of my way, and then I took all the hairpins out of my hair and let it fall as it always wants to fall, right round my shoulders in black, curling locks. Then I undressed. I laughed as I put on the man's things, but my heart was fluttering fearfully lest they shouldn't fit. I shall never forget the perfume of rosemary from the amber satin doublet as I drew it on. Then the boots, how the spurs jingled; but I would not look at myself in the glass yet, I was not perfect, for the sword still lay on the bed, and the trumpet. I buckled the sword-belt and swung the trumpet behind me, then with one hand on the hilt of my sword and one hand on my hip I whirled round on my heel to face my image in the cheval glass. I can never tell you, nor could you ever imagine, the deep, the furious pride that filled me as I gazed at the glorious-looking man who faced me in the mirror. Can you imagine an eagle condemned into being a sparrow; can you imagine the feelings of that eagle should it find itself once more an eagle royal and splendid? So great, so overmastering was this feeling, that I utterly forgot Geraldine and the whole world that held her.

I was myself again, yet I was completely changed. All my waywardness and woman's pettinesses seemed vanished and drowned. As I looked at the cavalier with black flowing hair, I smiled, and he smiled. How gloomy and stern was that smile. What a graceful, and strange, and poetic-looking man he was; one could imagine him riding through a battle with his face unmoved, one could imagine him terrible in love.

And he was I.

Then I turned and threw myself into an arm-chair. Geraldine had just entered my mind, and the stern cavalier, who would have laughed in the face of a battle, became like a child. Do men turn weak like this before the image of their love? I veritably believe they do.

"Geraldine," I thought, "she went out; ah, yes, this morning. I shall go to her when it is dusk. Will she smile, or will she frown, and my white rose will she wear it?" Then I found myself wondering what rose. I could not remember actually that I had given her a rose, yet a vague impression filled my mind that I had. Somewhere long ago I had given her a rose, and my fate seemed to depend on whether she would wear this rose, now, this evening.

Oh, I tell you, on that afternoon, ay, and ever since I put on the dress of the cavalier, I was not and am not—what I was. That dress seemed to seal a compact, and I was, and am still, partly drunk with the remembrance of a dim and shadowy past.

I sat in the arm-chair thinking; time must have flown as it never flew before.

I would go to her with the dusk and behold it was dusk!

And the wind had risen with the dusk and was sighing amidst the garden trees like a ghost.