Halcyone: Chapter 25

Chapter 25

Grieving is such a satisfactory and dramatic thing when you can fling
yourself down upon the ground and cry aloud and tear your hair. But if
some great blow must be borne without a sign, then indeed it wrings the
heart and saps the forces of life.

When Halcyone got to her room, the housemaids were there beginning to
make her bed--so it was no refuge for her--and she was obliged to go
down again. The big drawing-rooms would be untenanted at this moment, so
she turned the handle of the door and crept in there. The modern
brightly gilt Louis XVI furniture glared at her, but she sank into a big
chair thankful to find any support.

What was this which had fallen upon her?--The winter, indeed--or, more
than that, not only the winter but the end of life, like the flash of
lightning which had struck the tree in the park the night before that
day which was to have seen her wedding?

And as she sat there in dumb, silent, hideous agony which crushed for
the moment belief and hope, a canary from the aviary beyond set up a
trilling song. She listened for a second; it seemed to hurt her more.
The poor bird was in captivity, as was her soul. And then, while the
little songster went on, undismayed by its cage, a reaction set in. If
the soft-feathered creature could sing there beyond the bars, what right
had she to doubt God for one second? No--there should never be any
disbelief. It was only the winter, after all. She was too young to die
like the tree which had been there for some hundreds of years, She would
be as brave as the bird, and those forces of nature which she had loved
and trusted so long, would comfort her.

She sat there for a quarter of an hour saying her prayers and stilling
the pain in her heart--and then she got up and deliberately went back to
the dining-room, where the family were all assembled now.

They chaffed about everything, and were boisterous and jovial as usual,
and when she asked if she might go and see her old master, should Mrs.
Anderton not wish especially for her company that morning, her
stepfather offered to drive her there in his phaeton on his way to the
city.

"She grows upon one, Lu," he said to his wife, when Halcyone had gone up
to put on her hat. "She is like some quiet, soothing book; she is a kind
of comfort--but she looks confoundedly pale to-day. Take her to the play
to-night, or ask some young fellows in to dinner, to cheer her up."

The drive did Halcyone good, and, to the astonishment of Cheiron who had
also read the news, she walked into his sitting-room with perfect calm.
He himself was raging with indignation and disgust.

But, when he looked into her deep eyes, his astonishment turned to pain,
for the expression in them as they burned from her lifeless face was so
pure, so pitiful and so tragic, that it left him without words for the
moment.

At last he said--when she had greeted him:

"I have been thinking, Halcyone, that I have not had a trip abroad for a
long time, but I am too old now to care about going alone. Do you think
that your aunts and these step-relations of yours would spare you to
accompany me, my dear?"

And Halcyone had to turn away to the window to hide the tears which
suddenly welled up; he was so kind and understanding always--her dear
old master!

"Yes, I am sure they would," she said in a very low voice. "How good of
you. And if we could start at once--that would be nice, would it not? I
suppose they would not let me go without Priscilla, though," she added;
"would that matter?"

"Not at all," said the Professor.

They neither of them mentioned John Derringham's engagement. They talked
long about the possibilities of their foreign journey, and Cheiron felt
himself repaid when he began to observe a look of returning life creep
into her white face.

"I will call and see your stepfather in the city directly after lunch,"
he said. "If you will write to your Aunts La Sarthe, I do not think
there can be any objection."

"We could take Aphrodite, could we not?" Halcyone asked. "She is very
heavy, I know, but I would carry her, and I do not think I would like to
leave her there in the dark away from me for all that time."

"We would certainly take her," said Cheiron.

Halcyone knew enough about London now to know where Kensington Gardens
were. Whenever she went to see Mr. Carlyon, it was an understood thing
he would bring her safely back, so no one would be sent to fetch her.
Might they not go to Kensington Gardens this morning, she asked. She
remembered to have noticed, when she had driven past with Mr. Anderton,
that there seemed to be big trees there. She wanted to get into some
open space, London was stifling her.

Mr. Carlyon put on his hat, and prepared to accompany her. They drove to
the first gate and got out, neither having spoken a word, as was their
habit when both were thinking.

They wandered in among the trees and found two chairs and sat down.

These were real trees, Halcyone felt. And, although she would have
preferred to be alone to-day without even Cheiron, the great trunks and
vast leafy canopy above them comforted her.

She would not permit herself to think, the beauty of the summer day must
just saturate her, and soothe the cold, sick ache in her heart. And,
presently, when she was strengthened, she would face it all and see what
it could mean, and what would be best to do to bear the blow as a La
Sarthe should, and show nothing of the anguish.

And, as she mused, her eyes absently wandered to a couple under a tree
some twenty yards beyond them. There was something familiar in the
girl's graceful back, and, as she turned her fresh face to look at her
companion, Halcyone saw that it was Cora Lutworth.

Some magnetic spark seemed to connect them, for the pretty American girl
turned completely round in her chair, and catching sight of the two
jumped up and came towards them--with glad, laughing eyes and
out-stretched hands.

"To see you!" she exclaimed. "That is so good! There is no Styx here,
and we must have some fun together!"

She sat down upon a chair which Lord Freynault dragged up for her, and
he himself took another beyond the Professor--so the two girls could
talk together.

"I am going to be married--you know!" Cora announced gayly. "Freynie and
I settled it at a ball last night, but we haven't told anyone yet! Isn't
it lovely? We just slipped out here for a little quiet talk."

"I am so glad. I hope you will be very happy," Halcyone said, and tried
not to let the contrast of Cora's joyous prospect make her wince.

"I am always happy," Cora returned, "and it's dear of you to wish me
nice things."

Halcyone attracted her immensely, her quite remarkable personal
distinction was full of charm, and, now in fresh and pretty modern
clothes, to Cora's eyes she looked almost beautiful; but why so very
pale and quiet, she wondered; and then, with a flash, she remembered the
news she too had read in the paper that morning. Perhaps Halcyone minded
very much. She decided rapidly what to do. If she did not mention it at
all, she reasoned, this finely strung girl would know that she guessed
it would be painful to her--and that might hurt her pride. It was kinder
to plunge in and get it over.

"Isn't it wonderful about Mr. Derringham and Cecilia Cricklander?" she
said, pretending to be busy untangling her parasol tassel. "She always
intended to marry him--and she is so rich I expect he felt that would be
a good thing. Freynie says he is very much harder up then anyone knows."

Her kind, common sense told her that a man's doing even a low thing for
expediency would hurt a woman who loved him, less than that the motive
for his action should have been one of inclination.

Halcyone came up to the scratch, although a fierce pain tightened her
heart afresh.

"Yes," she said, "I suppose no one was surprised to read of the
engagement in the papers to-day. I can imagine that a man requires a
great deal of money to support the position in the government which Mr.
Derringham has, and no doubt Mrs. Cricklander is glad to give it to
him--he is so clever and great." And not a muscle of her face quivered
as she spoke.

"If it does hurt--my goodness! she is game!" Cora thought, and aloud she
went on, "Cecilia isn't a bad sort--a shocking snob, as all of us are
who are not the real thing and want to be--like your own common pushers
over here. We used to laugh at her awfully when she first came from
Pittsburgh and tried to cut in before she married my cousin. Poor old
Vin! He was crazy about her." Then she went on reflectively, as Halcyone
did not answer. "We often think you English people are so odd--the way
you can't distinguish between us! You receive, with open arms, the most
impossible people if they are rich, that we at home would not touch with
a barge pole, and you say: 'Oh, they are just American,' as if we were
all the same! And then we are so awfully clever as a nation that in a
year or two these dreadful vulgarians, as we would call them in New
York, have picked up all _your_ outside polish, and pass as _our_ best!
It makes lots of the really nice old gentle-folk at home perfectly
mad--but I can't help admiring the spirit. That is why I have stuck to
Cis, though the rest of the family have given her the cold shoulder. It
is such magnificent audacity--don't you think so?"

"Yes, indeed," agreed Halcyone. "All people have a right to obtain what
they aspire to if they fit themselves for it."

"That is one of Mr. Derringham's pet theories," Cora laughed. "He held
forth one night, when I was staying at Wendover at Easter, about it--and
it was such fun. Cis did not really understand a single thing of the
classical allusions he was making--but she got through. I watch her with
delight. Men are sweetly simple bats, though, aren't they? Any woman can
take them in--" and Cora laughed again joyously. "I have sat sometimes
in fits to hear Cis keeping a whole group of your best politicians
enthralled, and not one seeing she is just repeating parrot sentences.
You have only to be rich and beautiful and look into a man's eyes and
flatter him, and you can make him believe you are what you please. Now
Freynie thinks I am absolutely perfect when I am really being a horrid
little capricious minx--don't you, Freynie, dear!" and she leaned over
and looked at her betrothed with sweet and tender eyes--and Lord
Freynault got up and moved his chair round, so that the four were in a
circle.

"What preposterous thing is Cora telling you?" he laughed, with an
adoring glance at her sparkling face. "But I am getting jealous, and
shall take her away because I want to talk to her all to myself!"

And, when they had settled that the two girls should meet at tea the
following day in Cora's sitting-room at Claridge's, where she was
staying with a friend, the newly engaged pair went off together beaming
with joy and affection.

And Halcyone gazed after them with a wistful look in her sad eyes, which
stabbed the old Professor's heart.

She was remembering the morning under their tree, when she and her lover
had sat and made their plans, and he had asked her if she had any fear
at the thought of giving him her future.

It was only three weeks ago. Surely everything was a dream. How much he
had seemed to love her. And then unconsciously she started to her feet,
and strode away among the trees, forgetful of her companion--and Cheiron
sat and watched her, knowing she would come back and it was better to
let her overcome alone the agony which was convulsing her.

Yes, John Derringham had seemed to love her--not seemed--no--it was
real--he _had_ loved her. And she would never believe but that he loved
her still. This was only a wicked turn of those bad forces which she
knew were abroad in the world. Had she not seen evil once in a man's
face crouching in the bracken, as he set a trap for some poor hare one
dark and starry night? And she had passed on, and then, when she thought
he would be gone, she had returned and loosened the spring before it
could do any harm. That poacher had evil forces round him. They were
there always for the unwary, and had fastened upon John. She would never
doubt his love, and she herself could never change, and she would pour
upon him all her tender thoughts, and call to the night winds to help
her to do her duty.

So presently she remembered Cheiron, and turned round to see him far
away still, sitting quietly beneath a giant elm stroking his long,
silver beard.

"My dear, kind master!" she exclaimed to herself, and went rapidly back
to him.

"That is a charming girl--your young friend," he said to her, as he got
up to stroll to the gate; "full of life and common sense. There is
something wonderful in the vitality of her nation. They jar dreadfully
upon us old tired peoples in their worst aspects--but in their best we
must recognize a new spring of life and youth for the world. Yonder
young woman is not troubling about a soul, if she has one; she is a
fountain of living water. She has not taken on the shadows of our
crowded past. Halcyone, my dear, you and I are the inheritance of too
much culture. When I see her I want to cry with Epicurus: 'Above all,
steer clear of Culture!'" And then he branched from this subject and
plunged into a learned dissertation upon the worship of Dionysus, and
how it had cropped up again and again with wild fervor among the ancient
worlds whose senses and brains were wearied with the state religions,
and he concluded by analogy that this wild longing to return to youth's
follies and mad ecstasies, to get free from restraints, to seek
communion with the spiritual beyond in some exaltation of the
emotions--in short, to get back to nature--was an instinct in all human
beings and all nations, when their zeniths of art and cultivation had
come.

And Halcyone, who had heard it all before and knew the subject to her
finger tips, wandered dreamily into a shadowland where she felt she was
of these people--those far back worshipers--and this was her winter when
Dionysus was dead, but would live again when the spring came and the
flowers.

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