"Do," he replied; "it is a relief to hear you talk."
"Well," I said, "may I ask one rather intimate question? Did you everbefore you were married sow what are known as wild oats?"
"Never," he answered indignantly, flashing for a moment.
"Well, you should have done," I said; "that's just the whole trouble.Wild oats will get sown some time, and one of the arts of life is tosow them at the right time,--the younger the better. Think candidlybefore you answer me."
"I believe you are right," he replied, after a long pause.
"You are a believer in theories," I continued, "and so am I; but youcan take my word that on these matters not all, but some, of the oldtheories are best. One of them is that the man who does not sow hiswild oats before marriage will sow them afterwards, with a whirlwindfor the reaping."
Orlando looked up at me, haggard with confession.
"You know the old story of the ring given to Venus? Well, it is theruin of no few men to meet Venus for the first time on their marriagenight. Their very chastity, paradoxical as it may seem, is theirdestruction. No one can appreciate the peace, the holy satisfaction ofmonogamy till he has passed through the wasting distractions, theunrest of polygamy. Plunged right away into monogamy, man,unexperienced in his good fortune, hankers after polygamy, as themonotheistic Jew hankered after polytheism; and thus the monogamicyoung man too often meets Aphrodite for the first time, and makesfuture appointments with her, in the arms of his pure young wife. Ifyou have read Swedenborg, you will remember his denunciation of thelust of variety. Now, that is a lust every young man feels, but it isone to be satisfied before marriage. Sylvia Joy has been such avariant for you; and I'm afraid you're going to have some littletrouble to get her off your nerves. Tell me frankly," I said, "haveyou had your fill of Aphrodite? It is no use your going back to yourwife till you have had that."
"I'm not quite a beast," he retorted. "After all, it was an experimentwe both agreed to try."
"Certainly," I answered, "and I hope it may have the result ofpersuading you of the unwisdom of experimenting with happiness. Youhave the realities of happiness; why should you trouble about itstheories? They are for unhappy people, like me, who must learn todistil by learned patience the aurum potabile from the husks of life,the peace which happier mortals find lying like manna each morn uponthe meadows."
"Well," I continued, "enough of the abstract; let us have anotherdrink, and tell me what you propose to do."
"Poor Sylvia!" sighed Orlando.
"Shall I tell you about Sylvia?" I said. "On second thoughts, I won't.It would hardly be fair play; but this, I may say, relying on yourhonour, that if you were to come to my hotel, I could show youindisputable proof that I know at least as much about Sylvia Joy aseven such a privileged intimate as yourself."
"It is strange, then, that she never recognised you just now," heretorted, with forlorn alertness.
"Of course she didn't. How young you are! It is rather too bad of awoman of Sylvia's experience."
"And I've bought our passages for to-morrow. I cannot let her gowithout some sort of good-bye."
"Give the tickets to me. I can make use of them. How much are they?Let's see."
The calculation made and the money passed across, I said abruptly,--
"Now supposing we go and see your wife."
"You have saved my life," he said hoarsely, pressing my hand as we rose.
"I don't know about that," I said inwardly; "but I do hope I have savedyour wife."
As I thought of that, a fear occurred to me.
"Look here," I said, as we strolled towards the Twelve Golden-Haired,"I hope you have no silly notions about confession, about telling theliteral truth and so on. Because I want you to promise me that you willlie stoutly to your wife about Sylvia Joy. You must swear the wholething has been platonic. It's the only chance for your happiness.Your wife, no doubt, will lure you on to confession by saying that shedoesn't mind this, that, and the other, so long as you don't keep itfrom her; and no doubt she will mean it till you have confessed. But,however good their theories, women by nature cannot help confusing bodyand soul, and what to a man is a mere fancy of the senses, to them is aspiritual tragedy. Promise me to lie stoutly on this point. It is, Irepeat, the only chance for your future happiness. As has been wiselysaid, a lie in time saves nine; and such a lie as I advise is but oneof the higher forms of truth. Such lying, indeed, is the art oftelling the truth. The truth is that you love her body, soul, andspirit; any accidental matter which should tend to make her doubt thatwould be the only real lie. Promise me, won't you?"
"Yes, I will lie," said Orlando.
"Well, there she is," I said; "and God bless you both."
CHAPTER X
IN WHICH ONCE MORE I BECOME OCCUPIED IN MY OWN AFFAIRS
During a pause in my matrimonial lecture, Orlando had written a littlefarewell note to Sylvia,--a note which, of course, I didn't read, butwhich it is easy to imagine "wild with all regret." This I undertookto have delivered to her the same night, and promised to call upon heron the morrow, further to illuminate the situation, and to offer herevery consolation in my power. To conclude the history of Orlando andhis Rosalind, I may say that I saw them off from Yellowsands by theearly morning coach. There was a soft brightness in their faces, asthough rain had fallen in the night; but it was the warm sweet rain ofjoy that brings the flowers, and is but sister to the sun. They are, atthe time of my writing, quite old friends of mine, and both have anexcessive opinion of my wisdom and good-nature.
"That lie," Orlando once said to me long after, "was the truest thing Iever said in my life,"--a remark which may not give the reader a veryexalted idea of his general veracity.
As the coach left long before pretty young actresses even dreamed ofgetting up, I had to control my impatient desire to call onMademoiselle Sylvia Joy till it was fully noon. And even then she wasnot to be seen. I tried again in the afternoon with better success.
Rain had been falling in the night with her too, I surmised, but it hadfailed to dim her gay eyes, and had left her complexion unimpaired. Ofcourse her little affair with Orlando had never been very serious onher side. She genuinely liked him. "He was a nice kind boy," was theheight of her passionate expression, and she was, naturally, a littledisappointed at having an affectionate companion thus unexpectedlywhisked off into space. Her only approach to anger was on the subjectof his deceiving her about his wife. Little Sylvia Joy had no verylong string of principles; but one generous principle she did holdby,--never, if she knew it, to rob another woman of her husband. Andthat did make her cross with Orlando. He had not played the game fair.
There is no need to follow, step by step, the progression by whichSylvia Joy and I, though such new acquaintances, became in the courseof a day or two even more intimate than many old friends. We took toeach other instinctively, even on our first rather difficult interview,and very gently and imperceptibly I bid for the vacant place in herheart.
That night we dined together.
The next day we lunched and dined together.
The next day we breakfasted, lunched, and dined together.
And on the next I determined to venture on the confession which, as youmay imagine, it had needed no little artistic control not to make onour first meeting.
She looked particularly charming this evening, in a black silk gown,exceedingly simple and distinguished in style, throwing up the lovelyfirm whiteness of her throat and bosom, and making a fine contrast withher lurid hair.
It was sheer delight to sit opposite her at dinner, and quietly watchher without a word. Shall I confess that I had an exceedingly boyishvanity in thus being granted her friendship? It is almost too boyish toconfess at my time of life. It was simply in the fact that she was anactress,--a real, live, famous actress, whose photographs made shopwindows beautiful,--come right out of my boy's fairyland of thetheatre, actually to sit eating and drinking, quite in a real way, atmy side. This, no d
oubt, will seem pathetically naive to most modernyoung men, who in this respect begin where I leave off. An actress!Great heavens! an actress is the first step to a knowledge of life.Besides, actresses off the stage are either brainless or soulful, andthe choice of evils is a delicate one. Well, I have never set up for aman of the world, though sometimes when I have heard the Lovelaces ofthe day hinting mysteriously at their secret sins or boasting of theirflorid gallantries, I have remembered the last verse of Suckling's"Ballad of a Wedding," which, no doubt, the reader knows as well as I,and if not, it will increase his acquaintance with our brave old poetryto look it up.
"You are very beautiful to-night," I said, in one of the meditativepauses between the courses.
"Thank you, kind sir," she said, making a mock courtesy; "but thecompliment is made a little anxious for me by your evident implicationthat I didn't look so beautiful this morning. You laid such a markedemphasis on to-night."
"Nay," I returned, "'for day and night are both alike to thee.' Ithink you would even be beautiful--well, I cannot imagine any moment orstation of life you would not beautify."
"I must get you to write that down, and then I'll have it framed. Itwould cheer me of a morning when I curl my hair," laughed Sylvia.
"But you are beautiful," I continued, becoming quite impassioned.
"Yes, and as good as I'm beautiful."
And she was too, though perhaps the beauty occasionally predominated.
When the serious business of dining was dispatched, and we weretrifling with our coffee and liqueurs, my eyes, which of course hadseldom left her during the whole meal, once more enfolded her littleivory and black silk body with an embrace as real as though they hadbeen straining passionate arms; and as I thus nursed her in my eyes, Ismiled involuntarily at a thought which not unnaturally occurred to me.
"What is that sly smile about?" she asked. Now I had smiled to thinkthat underneath that stately silk, around that tight little waist, wasa dainty waistband bearing the legend "Sylvia Joy," No. 4, perhaps, or5, but NOT No. 6; and a whole wonderful underworld of lace and linenand silk stockings, the counterpart of which wonders, my clairvoyantfancy laughed to think, were at the moment--so entirely unsuspected oftheir original owner--my delicious possessions.
Everything a woman wears or touches immediately incarnates something ofherself. A handkerchief, a glove, a flower,--with a breath she enduesthem with immortal souls. How much, therefore, of herself must inherein a garment so confidential as a petticoat, or so close and constant acompanion as a stocking!
Now that I knew Sylvia Joy, I realised how absolutely true my instincthad been, when on that far afternoon in that Surrey garden I had said,"With such a petticoat and such a name, Sylvia herself cannot beotherwise than charming."
Indeed, now I could see that the petticoat was nothing short of aportrait of her, and that any one learned in the physiognomy of clotheswould have been able to pick Sylvia out of a thousand by that spirited,spoilt, and petted garment.
"What is that sly smile about?" she repeated presently.
"I only chanced to think of an absurd little fairy story I read theother day," I said, "which is quite irrelevant at the moment. You knowthe idle way things come and go through one's head."
"I don't believe you," she replied, "but tell me the story. I lovefairy tales."
"Certainly," I said, for I wasn't likely to get a better opportunity."There's nothing much in it; it's merely a variation of Cinderella'sslipper. Well, once upon a time there was an eccentric young princewho'd had his fling in his day, but had arrived at the lonely age ofthirty without having met a woman whom he could love enough to make hiswife. He was a rather fanciful young prince, accustomed to follow hiswhims; and one day, being more than usually bored with existence, hetook it into his head to ramble incognito through his kingdom in searchof his ideal wife,--'The Golden Girl,' as he called her. He had hardlyset out when in a country lane he came across a peasant girl hangingout clothes to dry, and he fell to talk with her while she went on withher charming occupation. Presently he observed, pegged on the line,strangely incongruous among the other homespun garments, a wonderfulpetticoat, so exquisite in material and design that it aroused hiscuriosity. At the same moment he noticed a pair of stockings, roundthe tops of which one of the daintiest artists in the land had wroughtan exquisite little frieze. The prince was learned in every form ofart, and had not failed to study this among other forms of decoration.No sooner did he see this petticoat than the whim seized him that hewould find and marry the wearer, whoever she might be--"
"Rather rash of him," interrupted Sylvia, "for it is usually old ladieswho have the prettiest petticoats. They can best afford them--"
"He questioned the girl as to their owner," I continued, "and aftervainly pretending that they were her own, she confessed that they hadbelonged to a young and beautiful lady who had once lodged there andleft them behind. Then the prince gave her a purse of gold in exchangefor the finery, and on the waistband of the petticoat he read abeautiful name, and he said, 'This and no other shall be my wife, thisunknown beautiful woman, and on our marriage night she shall wear thispetticoat.' And then the prince went forth seeking--"
"There's not much point in it," interrupted Sylvia.
"No," I said, "I'm afraid I've stupidly missed the point."
"Why, what was it?"
"The name upon the petticoat!"
"Why, what name was it?" she asked, somewhat mystified.
"The inscription upon the petticoat was, to be quite accurate, 'SylviaJoy, No. 6.'"
"Whatever are you talking about?" she said with quite a stormy blush."I'm afraid you've had more than your share of the champagne."
As I finished, I slipped out of my pocket a dainty little parcel softlyfolded in white tissue paper. Very softly I placed it on the table.It contained one of the precious stockings; and half opening it, Irevealed to Sylvia's astonished eyes the cunning little frieze ofBacchus and Ariadne, followed by a troop of Satyrs and Bacchantes,which the artist had designed to encircle one of the white columns ofthat little marble temple which sat before me.
"You know," I said, "how in fairy tales, when the wandering hero or themaiden in distress has a guiding dream, the dream often leavessomething behind on the pillow to assure them of its authenticity.'When you wake up,' the dream will say, 'you will find a rose or anoak-leaf or an eagle's feather, or whatever it may be, on your pillow.'Well, I have brought this stocking--for which, if I might but use them,I have at the moment a stock of the most appropriately endearingadjectives--for the same purpose. By this token you will know that thefairy tale I have been telling you is true, and to-morrow, if you will,you shall see your autograph petticoat."
"Why, wherever did you come across them? And what a mad creature youmust be! and what an odd thing that you should really meet me, afterall!" exclaimed Sylvia, all in a breath. "Of course, I remember," shesaid frankly, and with a shade of sadness passing over her face. "Iwas spending a holiday with Jack Wentworth,--why, it must be nearly twoyears ago. Poor Jack! he was killed in the Soudan," and poor Jackcould have wished no prettier resurrection than the look of tendermemory that came into her face as she spoke of him, and the soft babytears filled her eyes.
"I'm so sorry," I said. "Of course I didn't know. Let's come for alittle stroll. There seems to be a lovely moon."
"Of course you didn't," she said, patting my cheek with a kind littlehand. "Yes, do let us go for a stroll."
CHAPTER XI
"THE HOUR FOR WHICH THE YEARS DID SIGH"
This unexpected awakening of an old tenderness naturally prevented myspeaking any more of my mind to Sylvia that evening. No doubt thereader may be a little astonished to hear that I had decided to offerher marriage,--not taking my serious view of a fanciful vow. DoubtlessSylvia was not entirely suitable to me, and to marry her was to befaithless to that vision of the highest, that wonderful unknown womanof the apocalyptic moorland, whose face Sylvia had not even momentarilybanishe
d from my dreams, and whom, with an unaccountable certitude, Istill believed to be the woman God had destined for me; but, all thingsconsidered, Sylvia was surely as pretty an answer to prayer as a mancould reasonably hope for. Many historic vows had met with sadly lesslucky fulfilment.
So, after dinner the following evening, I suggested that we should foronce take a little walk up along the river-side; and when we were quietin the moonlight, dappling the lovers' path we were treading, andmaking sharp contrasts of ink and silver down in the river-bed,--Ispoke.
"Sylvia," I said, plagiarising a dream which will be found in ChapterIV.,--"Sylvia, I have sought you through the world and found you atlast; and with your gracious permission, having found you, I mean tostick to you."
"What do you mean, silly boy?" she said, as an irregularity in the roadthrew her soft weight the more fondly upon my arm.
"I mean, dear, that I want you to be my wife."
"Your wife? Not for worlds!--no, forgive me, I didn't mean that.You're an awful dear boy, and I like you very much, and I think you'rerather fond of me; but--well, the truth is, I was never meant to bemarried, and don't care about it--and when you think of it, why shouldI?"
"You mean," I said, "that you are fortunate in living in a societywhere, as in heaven, there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage,where in fact nobody minds whether you're married or not, and wheremorals are very properly regarded as a personal and private matter--"
"Yes, that's what I mean," said Sylvia; "the people I care about--deargood people--will think no more of me for having a wedding-ring, and noless for my being without; and why should one put a yoke round one'sneck when nobody expects it? A wedding-ring is like a top-hat,--youonly wear it when you must--But it's very sweet of you, all the same,and you can kiss me if you like. Here's a nice sentimental patch ofmoonlight."