Grey Roses by Henry Harland
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Henry Harland >> Grey Roses
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He was surprised, and a little alarmed. 'Do you mean by that that you
think I'm a bad lot?' he asked.
'You said the other day--yesterday was it?--that you had made a fool
of yourself on various occasions.'
'Well?'
'Did the process not generally involve making a fool of a woman too?'
'Reciprocity? Perhaps.'
'And what was it you always said to them?'
'Oh, I suppose I did.'
'You told them you loved them?'
'I'm afraid so.'
'And was it true?'
'No.'
'Well, then!'
'Ah, but they weren't deceived; they never believed it. That's only a
convention of the game, a necessary formula, like the "Dear" at the
beginning of a letter.'
'You have "lived"; you have "lived." You'd have been so unique, so
rare, so much more interesting, if instead of going and "living" like
other men, you had remained true to the ideal passion of your
childhood.'
'I had the misfortune to be born into the world, and not into a fairy
tale, you see. But it's a perfectly gratuitous assumption, that I have
"lived."'
'Can you honestly tell me you haven't?' she asked, very soberly, with
something like eagerness; her pale face intent.
'As a matter of fact ... Oh, the worst of it is ... I can't honestly
say that I've never ... But then, what do you want to rake up such
matters for? It's not my fault if I've accepted the traditions of my
century. Well, anyhow, you see I can't lie to you.'
'You appear to find it difficult,' she assented, rising.
'Well, what do you infer from that?'
She blew her whistle. 'That--that you're out of training,' she said
lightly, as she mounted her horse.
'Oh,' he groaned, 'you're--'
'What?'
'You beggar language.'
She laughed and rode away.
'There, I've spoiled everything,' Paul said, and went home, and passed
a sleepless night.
XI.
'I'll bet you sixpence she won't turn up to-day,' he said to his
friend in the glass, next morning; nevertheless he went into the
forest, and there she was. But she did not offer to dismount.
'Isn't there another inference to be drawn from my inability to lie to
you?' he asked.
She smiled on him from her saddle. 'Oh, perhaps there are a hundred.'
'Don't you think a reasonable inference is that--I love you?'
She laughed.
'You know I love you,' he persisted.
'Oh, the conventions of the game! the necesary formula, like "Dear" at
the beginning of a letter!' she cried.
'You don't believe me?'
'_Qui m'aime me suive_,' she said, spurring Bezigue into a rapid trot.
XII.
But the next day he found her already installed in their nook among
the trees.
'I hate people who doubt my word,' he said.
'Oh, now you hate me?'
'I love you. I love you.'
She drew away a little.
'Oh, you needn't be afraid. I shan't touch you. Why won't you believe
me?'
'Do men always glare savagely like that at women they love?'
'Why won't you believe me?'
'How long have you known me?'
'All my life. A fortnight--three weeks. But that's a lifetime.'
'And what do you know about me?'
'Everything. I know that you're adorable. And I adore you.'
'Adorable--at moments. Do you know whether I am--married, for
example?'
'I know that if you are, I should like to kill your husband. Are you?
Tell me. Put me out of suspense. Let me go home and open a vein.'
'Have I the air of _a jeune fille_?'
'Thank goodness, no. But there are such things as widows.'
'And what more do you know about me?'
'Tell me--_are_ you married?'
'You may suppose that I'm a widow.'
'Thank God!'
She laughed.
'Will you marry me?' he asked.
'Oh, marriage is such a bore,' she reminded him.
'Will you marry me?'
'No,' she said. 'But you may give me a cigarette.'
And for a while they smoked without speaking.
'I hope at any rate you believe me now,' he said.
'Because you've offered to make the crowning sacrifice? By the bye,
what is my number?'
'Oh, don't,' he cried. 'You're the only woman I've ever cared a straw
for; and I care so much for you that I'd--I'd--' He stammered, seeking
for a thing to say he'd do.
'You'd go to the length of marrying me. Only fancy!'
'Oh, you may laugh. But I love you.'
'Do you love me as much as you used to love Helene?'
'I love you as much as it's possible for a man to love a woman.'
'Do you know what I think?'
'No. What?'
'If she were to send for you, one of these days, I think you'd forget
me utterly. Your old love would come back at sight of her. They say
she's very good-looking.'
'Nonsense.'
'I should like to try you.'
'I shouldn't fear the trial.'
'_Il ne faut jamais dire a la fontaine, je ne boirai pas de ton eau_.'
'But when one's thirst is for wine?'
'It shows that there's some relation between psychology and geography,
after all,' she said.
'What do you mean?'
'Oh, the influence of places. It is here that you and she used to
play a fugue on each other's names. The spot raises ghosts. Ghosts of
your old emotions. And I'm conveniently at hand.'
'If you could see yourself, you'd understand that the influence of
places is superfluous. If you could look into my heart you'd recognise
that my emotion is scarcely a ghost.'
'There's one thing I _should_ like to see,' she said. 'I should very
much like to look into your garden at Saint-Graal.'
'Would you?' he cried eagerly. 'When will you come?'
'Whenever you like?'
'Now. At once.'
'No. To-morrow.'
'To-morrow morning?'
'Yes. You can await me at your park-gates at eleven.'
'Then you'll lunch with me?'
'No.... Perhaps.'
'You're an angel!'
And he trudged home on the air. 'If a woman will listen!' his heart
sang. 'If a woman will come to see your garden!'
XIII.
That evening a servant handed him a letter.
'A footman has brought it from Granjolaye, and is waiting for an
answer.'
The letter ran thus:--
'Monsieur:
'I am directed by Her Majesty the Queen Helene to request
the pleasure of your company at the Chateau de Granjolaye
to-morrow at eleven. Her Majesty desires me to add that she
has only to-day learned of your presence in the country.
'Agreez, Monsieur, l'assurance de mes sentiments distingues,
'CTSSSE. DE WOLFENBACH.'
'Oh, this is staggering,' cried Paul. 'What to do?' He walked
backwards and forwards, pondering his reply. 'I believe the only
excuse that will pass with Royalty is illness or death. Shall I send
word that I died suddenly this morning? Ah, well, here goes for a
thumping lie.'
And he wrote: 'Madame, I am unspeakably honoured by her Majesty's
command, and in despair that the state of my health makes it
impossible for me to obey it. I am confined to my bed by a severe
attack of bronchitis. Pray express to her Majesty my most respectful
thanks as well as my profound regret. I shall hope to be able to leave
my room at the week's end, when, if her Majesty can be prevailed upon
again to accord me an audience, I shall be infinitely grateful.'
'There!' he muttered. 'I have perjured my soul for you, and made
myself appear ridiculous into the bargain. _Bronchitis_! But--_a
demain_! Good--good Lord! if she shouldn't come?'
XIV.
She came, followed by a groom. She greeted Paul with a smile that made
his heart leap with a wild hope. Her groom led Bezigue away to the
stables.
'Thank you,' said Paul.
'For what?'
'For everything. For coming. For that smile.'
'Oh.'
They walked about the garden. 'It is lovely. The prettiest garden of
the neighbourhood,' she said. 'Show me where the irises grow, by the
pond.' And when they had arrived there, 'They do look like princesses,
don't they? Your little friend had some perceptions. Show me where you
and she used to sit down. I am tired.'
He led her into a corner of the rosery. She sank upon the turf.
'It is nice here,' she said, 'and quite shut in. One would never know
there was a house so near.'
She had taken off one of her gloves. Her soft white hand lay languidly
in her lap. Suddenly Paul seized it, and kissed it--furiously--again
and again. She yielded it. It was sweet to smell, and warm. 'My God,
how I love you, how I love you!' he murmured.
When he looked up, she was smiling. 'Oh, you are radiant! You are
divine!' he cried. And then her eyes filled with tears. 'What is it?
What is it? You are unhappy?'
'Oh, no,' she said. 'But to think--to think that after all these years
of misery, of heartbreak, it should end like this, here.'
'Here?' he questioned.
'I am glad your bronchitis is better, but you _can_ invent the most
awful fibs,' she said.
He looked at her, while the universe whirled round him.
'Helene!'
'Paul!'
XV.
Her divorce didn't carry with it the right to marry again. But she
said, 'We can go on making believe we're married. Things one does in
play are always so much nicer than real things.' And when he spoke of
the 'world,' she answered, 'I have nothing to fear or to hope from the
world. It has done its worst by me already.'
As they walked back to the house for luncheon, Paul looked into her
face, and said, 'I can't believe my eyes, you know.'
She smiled and took his arm. 'J' t'aime tant,' she whispered.
'And now I can't believe my ears!'
And this would appear to be the end, but I suppose it can't be, for
everybody says nowadays that nothing ever ends happily here below.
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