Diogenes of London (collection)/Don Quixote

LEFT the ship at the nearest port and went direct to London with my mind full of her. It was odd that throughout my long absence I had thought of her but little (the life had been crowded with distractions), and yet as I drew home her face came nearest from the past, remitting the vivid impressions of my voyage into an obscure background. It was her eyes I watched in the blue waves; her frown clouded the skies; her smile danced in the ripples. To love her was no shame, I thought, though to proclaim that love had been dishonour. The touch of that land that contained her gracious body thrilled me as no fervour for my country had been able; to stand upon English soil was to be within the precincts of her worship. The folly blazed in my blood; I could no more withhold myself than my thoughts; hot-foot I drew into the town, with my unruly fever in my eyes. I meant no harm; I had even an inner joy of self-sacrifice; to see her was to put me to a new martyrdom, and yet I had pleasure in my torture. The Day of Judgment could not have stayed me from her. She had slipped out of my hands long since, but I was mad enough to take delight, as it were, in a dream of visiting her face anew; I should see once more the lines of intimate grace I carried in my soul, and, masking my memory, go strutting upon my stilts into a wonderful vainglory. She had never been nearer me than now, remote as she was by three wild years of wandering.

She stood with one foot upon the fender as I entered, her forehead bent upon an open hand, and, as it seemed to me, her face had been worn with tears. But at my approach, starting from her abstraction, she took a step or two to meet me, held out her hand, and gave me her gayest welcome.

'You!' she said: 'you! Heaven grant us these surprises! I had thought you in Japan, in Patagonia, in Manicaland.' A little trembling laugh broke from her. 'What brings you here? Is it peace, or is it war?' And she turned swiftly to the fire again.

She had, I thought, run through a dozen moods in the greeting; and, acquainted as I was with her fickle habit of mind, the transition puzzled me. She was white to the verge of her red lips.

'I am straight from the ship,' I told her. 'I came out of a desirewell, we have been old friends, and three years is a long track in a man's life.'

I laughed myself; but it was a laugh betwixt pleasure in her presence and fear of my own actions. At the moment I felt I was best at a distance.

'You have not called at your club?' said she slowly.

'No,' said I, in wonder at her tone.

She smiled, and dropped into a chair with her individual grace. With her eyes she bade me sit, and leaning to me stared gaily in my face.

'No,' said she, 'three years—is it?—have left no mark on you. You were always handsome,' she said roguishly.

'And you,' I answered, catching her airy manner—'you are as God made you: not a shade less lovely.'

She put her head back with her old gesture; her eyes danced.

'You would have done much for me once,' she said archly.

'Not once,' said I simply.

Her eyes dropped; her face shadowed; she rose and moved slowly to the window by which the street was roaring. Something in her gait struck me as most desolate. She stood drumming her fingers on the pane, and watching the traffic without attention. I too rose and followed her.

'I had forgotten,' I said: 'I should have asked you, I have been out of touch with life. I have heard nothing,' She turned upon me eyes of sudden terror. 'Your husband is living?' I asked.

She passed her hand over her brow, 'O yes,' said she; 'he is living.'

Her misery went through me like a knife; I was within reach of her golden hair, upon which the sunlight rested. Had I met her gaze I think I should have taken her in my arms; as it was, I could not keep my passion out of my voice.

'But yourself,' I murmured, 'yourself, dear: you are happy? There is nothing to regret?'

She sighed and tossed her head. 'O no,' said she with a show of petulance; 'what should there be, my dear stranger?' She walked back to her seat with an indifferent air. 'Come,' she went on more pleasantly, when we were seated again, 'tell me of your doings. The world has not stood still for you, I suppose.'

My tongue was clumsy enough in her company, but I traversed with her my adventures in rude places. She heard me, smiling with her eyes, put in a question to exhibit me her interest, laughed with me at my dragoman's extravagances, stared in distressful sympathy with my dangers; and presently, as though with a slow ebbing of her curiosity, drew off into a silent reticence from which my greatest sensations might not disturb her. She sat back in her lounge, regarding me with tacit, restless eyes, as if my voice were merely the chatter of a phantom; and ever and anon would start, and, clutching at the arms of her chair, glance to the window with a scared face. The comedy, if such it was, had no attraction for me. My narrative lost heart, my tongue halted; she came out of herself and looked at me piteously. I was unable to refrain my pardon; I smiled, and dipping into my pocket drew forth a string of pearls and dangled them before her. She brightened at the sight, and catching them in her hands appraised their beauty.

'Of your own fishing? she asked prettily.

I nodded. 'They fit with your white neck,' I said.

Her glance fell shyly upon me; she threw them round her throat, rose, and, turning to the mirror over the mantel, laughed and looked at me.

'Once,' said she, smiling, 'these would have been for me.'

'Not once,' I murmured—a second time that day. I strove to move my eyes from her, fearful what they might reveal; but, meeting hers, I saw therein a strange look that set the pulses beating in my body. Her cheeks were drawn as with pain, but her full orbs seemed to yearn towards me. My voice trembled.

'They are yours,' I said; 'I have loved you, as you know, for years.'

Suddenly she sprang to me, and put her arms about me.

'Take me away,' she cried, 'take me away. Let me go with you. Take me away!' and her weeping face was lifted to mine in a passion of entreaty.

The thing passed in a flash. I had scarce realised her arms were round me (so staggered was I by her movement) when she was gone from me, and leaned against the fireplace sobbing. I leapt to her; she stepped aside and burst into laughter.

'I was born for the stage,' she said. 'My dear traveller, was it not wonderful? What did you think? Don't speak of proprieties,' she cried waving her hand fantastically, and showing her white teeth in her laughter: 'I know they were round your neck. But it is art—it is art;' and her merriment rang through the room. She finished with a little gasp that left her red mouth open.

I had not recovered from my wonder, and my heart ached with bitterness. I took my hat and moved towards the door.

'I am sorry,' I said, and my voice was low—'I am sorry not to have played up to you more worthily. I have the misfortune to feel and not to simulate. On the stage I had been useless save in loving you.' I paused near the door. 'Forgive my sincerity,' I said.

'Are you going?' she asked indifferently. My answer was to turn the handle; for my limbs were trembling with the stress of that interview. Suddenly she was beside me, her back against the door.

'You shall not go,' she panted. 'I will not have you go. Stay! Stay!' she pleaded earnestly. 'You do not understand. I will tell you—I will tell you,' she gasped. 'You think me mad. You shall know this afternoon.'

I could not doubt the reality of her emotion. I turned and went back; and for a time neither of us spoke.

'You think me mad,' she repeated presently, as though the silence were too much for her. 'I could not bear you to leave me;' and, with a little hysterical laugh, 'yours is not the only neck I have clasped,' she said.

Utterly bewildered at the remarkable turn in our intercourse, I went mechanically to the window without reply. In an instant the street filled with howling news-boys. There was a sharp cry; I felt a hand on my shoulder, and, turning, found her white face near me.

'Come to the fire,' she whispered hoarsely. 'Don't stay here. Come to the fire.'

I was so lost in my amazement that I could do nothing but obey her, and was on the point of moving, when as quickly she stopped me.

'No, no,' she said. 'I have no right. You shall know. The window,' she cried; 'the news-boys! It is all come at last,' and buried her face in her hands.

I looked out into the street. The tide ran full along the roadway; cabs rattled and carts rolled; a flowing stream of passengers went by. A boy flashed into sight, and paused, trailing a news-bill. There was a deathly quiet in the room; then suddenly I turned, stricken with a sickly dread. Her eyes were upon me as the eyes of a hunted creature; she crouched in her chair; a sob broke from her.

'I said you should know,' she whispered, so lowly that I could barely hear her.

'It is you?' I asked, and scarce knew my own voice. The dishonour of this fair woman so publicly proclaimed touched me to the quick. She made no answer. The frail body seemed to shrink, looked wan and pitiful; the white bosom rose and fell in a tumult; the eyes were wide and wild upon me, 'What is this you have done?' I cried.

'Had it been for you' she whispered.

'My God!' I said. Her words choked back my scorn and indignation. Had it been for me she had sinned, I had forgiven her for her great temptation.

'I was so lonely,' she whispered. 'He left me to myself, used me unkindly. One must have distractions. You too had forsaken me, and were half the world away. The Devil tempted me, not love.'

I held my peace.

'My God!' she cried, 'I have had no love but for you.'

'This man?' I said.

'I hate him,' she flashed forth; 'oh, I hate him.'

At that moment the door opened. I know not what instinct proclaimed to me his identity, and at this point of time I can hardly recall the exact sequence of the next events. But in that instant I knew him. Her face, with its craven fear and hatred, shrank from him. He made towards her, not noticing my presence. With her eyes she repulsed him, but he only grinned.

'The Devil take these lawyers,' said he. 'My dear, we have crossed the Rubicon, as you may know from the streets. Let us make as comfortable a bargain as possible.'

Her eyes burned; her voice rebelled in her throat; she leaned away spasmodically. A thousand times had those lustrous eyes, that graceful form, that dainty head, risen into my mind and dwelt in my dreams. And now she lay there pitiful and shrunken, her lovely face aghast with the horror of this approach, mutely calling for protection, so humble, so hopeless, and so lovely still. Something rose within me and surged into my throat; my brain went round in a whirl and settled. I strode out of my corner into the light.

'Sir,' said I, 'whatever is your business with this lady, it shall be with me, who am her future husband.'