The Price of Things by Elinor Glyn
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Elinor Glyn >> The Price of Things
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John began to speak presently with a note of deep seriousness in his
voice. He talked of the war and of his Yeomanry's going out, and of
Denzil's regiment also. It was quite on the cards that they might both be
killed--then he spoke of Ferdinand, and the old story of the shame, and
he told Denzil of his boyhood and its great trials, and of his
determination to redeem the family home and of the great luck which had
befallen him in the city after the South African War--and how that the
thought of worthily handing on the inheritance in the direct male line
had become the dominating desire of his life.
At first his manner had been very restrained, but gradually the intense
feeling which was vibrating in him made itself known, and Denzil grew
to realise how profound was his love for Ardayre and how great his
family pride.
But underneath all this some absolute agony must be wringing his soul.
Denzil became increasingly interested.
At last John seemed to have come to a very difficult part of his
narration; he got up from his chair and walked rapidly up and down the
room, then forced himself to sit down again and resume his original calm.
"I am going to trust you, Denzil, with something which matters far more
than my life." John looked Denzil straight in the eyes. "And I will
confide in you because you are next in the direct line. Listen very
carefully, please, it concerns your honour in the family as well as mine.
It would be too infamous to let Ardayre go to the bastard, Ferdinand, the
snake-charmer's son, if, as is quite possible, I shall be killed in the
coming time."
Denzil felt some strange excitement permeating him. What did these words
portend? Beads of perspiration appeared on John's forehead, and his voice
sunk so low that his cousin bent forward to be certain of hearing him.
Then John spoke in broken sentences, for the first time in his life
letting another share the thoughts which tortured him, but the time was
not for reticence. Denzil must understand everything so that he would
consent to a certain plan. At length, all that was in John's heart had
been made plain, and exhausted with the effort of his innermost being's
unburdenment, he sank back in his chair, deadly pale. The quiet, waiting
attitude in Denzil had given way to keenness, and more than once as he
listened to the moving narration he had emitted words of sympathy and
concern, but when the actual plan which John had evolved was unfolded to
him, and the part he was to play explained, he rose from his chair and
stood leaning on the high mantelpiece, an expression of excitement and
illumination on his strong, good-looking face.
"Do not say anything for a little," John said. "Think over everything
quietly. I am not asking you to do anything dishonourable--and however
much I had hated his mother I would not ask this of you if Ferdinand were
my father's son. You are the next real heir--Ferdinand could not be; my
father had never met the woman until a month before he married her, and
the baby arrived five months afterwards, at its full time. There was no
question of incubators or difficulties and special precautions to rear
him, nor was there any suggestion that he was a seven months' child. It
was only after years that I found out when my father first saw the woman,
but even before this proof there were many and convincing evidences that
Ferdinand was no Ardayre."
"One has only to look at the beast!" cried Denzil. "If the mother was a
Bulgarian, he's a mongrel Turk, there is not a trace of English blood in
his body!"
"Then surely you agree with me that it would be an infamy if he should
take the place of the head of the family, should I not survive?"
Denzil clenched his hands.
"There is no moral question attached, remember," John went on anxiously
before he could reply. "There is only the question of the law, which has
been tricked and defamed by my father, for the meanest ends of revenge
towards me--and now we--you and I--have the right to save the family and
its honour and circumvent the perfidy and weakness of that one man.
Oh!--can't you understand what this means to me, since for this trust of
Ardayre that I feel I must faithfully carry on, I am willing to--Oh!--my
God, I can't say it. Denzil, answer me--tell me that you look at it in
the same way as I do! You are of the family. It is your blood which
Ferdinand would depose--the disgrace would be yours then, since if
Ferdinand reigned I would have gone."
The two men were standing opposite one another, and both their faces were
pale and stern, but Denzil's blue eyes were blazing with some wonderful
new emotion, as they looked at John.
"Very well," he said, and held out his hand. "I appreciate the tremendous
faith you have placed in me, and on my word of honour as an Ardayre, I
will not abuse it, nor take advantage of it afterwards. My regiment will
go out at once, I suppose, the chances are as likely that I shall be
killed as you--"
They shook hands silently.
"We must lose no time."
Then John poured out two glasses of brandy, and the toast they drank was
unspoken. But suddenly Denzil remembered as a strange coincidence that he
was drinking it for the third time.
* * * * *
Amaryllis arrived from Ardayre the next afternoon, after John's medical
board had been squared into pronouncing him fit for active service--and
he met his wife at the station and was particularly solicitous of her
well-being. He seemed to be unusually glad to see her, and put his arm
round her in the motor driving to Brook Street. What would she like to
do? They could not, of course, go to the theatre, but if she would rather
they could go out to a restaurant to dine--there were going to be all
kinds of difficulties about food. Amaryllis, who responded immediately to
the smallest advance on his part, glowed now with fond sweetness. She had
been so miserable without him; so crushed and upset by the thought of
war, and his possible participation in it. All the long night, alone at
Ardayre, she had tried to realise what it all would mean. It was too
stupendous, she could not grasp it as yet, it was just a blank horror.
And now to be in the motor and close to him, and everything ordinary and
as usual seemed to drive the hideous fact further and further away. She
would not face it for to-night, she would try to be happy and banish the
remembrance. No one knew what was happening, nor if the Expeditionary
Force had or had not crossed to France. John asked her again what she
would like to do.
She did not want to go out at all, she told him; if the kitchenmaid and
Murcheson could find them something to eat she would much rather dine
alone with him, like a regular old Darby and Joan pair--and afterwards
she would play nice things to him, and John agreed.
When she came down ready for dinner, she was radiant; she had put on a
new and ravishing tea-gown and her grey eyes were shining with a winsome
challenge, and her beautiful skin was brilliant with health and
freshness. A man could not have desired a more delectable creature to
call his own.
John thought so and at dinner expanded and told her so. He was not a
practised lover; women had played a very small part in his life--always
too filled with work and the one dominating idea to make room for them.
He had none of the tender graciousness ready at his command which
Denzil would very well have known how to show. But he loved Amaryllis,
and this was the first time he had permitted the expression of his
emotion to appear.
She became ever more fascinating, and at length unconscious passion grew
in her glance. John said some rather clumsy but loving things, and when
they went back to the library he slipped his arm round her, and drew her
to his side.
"I love to be near you, John," she whispered; "I like your being so tall
and so distinguished-looking. I like your clothes--they are so well
made--" and then she wrinkled her pretty nose--"and I adore the smell of
the stuff you put on your hair! Oh! I don't know--I just want to be in
your arms!"
John kissed her. "I must give you a bottle of that lotion--it is supposed
to do wonders for the hair. It was originally made by an old housekeeper
of my mother's family in the still room, and I have always kept the
receipt--there are cloves in it and some other aromatic herbs."
"Yes, that is what I smell, like a clove carnation--it is divine. I
wonder why scents have such an effect upon one--don't you? Perhaps I am a
very sensuous creature--they can make me feel wicked or good--some
scents make me deliciously intoxicated--that one of yours does--when I
get near you--I want you to hold me and kiss me--John."
Every fibre of John Ardayre's being quivered with pain. The cruel,
ironical bitterness of things.
"I've never smelt this same scent on any one else," she went on, rubbing
her soft cheek up and down against his shoulder in the most alluring way.
"I should know it anywhere for it means just my dear--John!"
He turned away on the pretence of getting a cigarette; he knew that his
eyes had filled with tears.
Then Murcheson came into the room with the coffee, and this made a
break--and he immediately asked her to play to him, and settled
himself in one of the big chairs. He was too much on the rack to
continue any more love-making then; "what might have been" caused too
poignant anguish.
He watched her delicate profile outlined against the curtain of green
silk. It was so pure and young--and her long throat was white as milk. If
this time next year she should have a child--a son--and he, not killed,
but sitting there perhaps watching her holding it. How would he feel
then? Would the certainty of having an Ardayre carry on heal the wild
rebellion in his soul?
"Ah, God!" he prayed, "take away all feeling--reward this sacrifice--let
the family go on."
"You don't think you will have really to go to the war, do you, John?"
Amaryllis asked after she left the piano. "It will be all over, won't it,
before the New Year, and in any case the Yeomanry are only for home
defence, aren't they?" and she took a low seat and rested her head
against his arm.
John stroked her hair.
"I am afraid it will not be over for a long time, Amaryllis. Yes, I
think we shall go out and pretty soon. You would not wish to stop
me, child?"
Amaryllis looked straight in front of her.
"What is this thing in us, John, which makes us feel that--yes, we
would give our nearest and dearest, even if they must be killed? When
the big thing comes even into the lives which have been perhaps all
frivolous like mine--it seems to make a great light. There is an
exaltation, and a pity, and a glory, and a grief, but no holding back.
Is that patriotism, John?"
"That is one name for it, darling."
"But it is really beyond that in this war, because we are not going to
fight for England, but for right. I think that feeling that we must give
is some oblation of the soul which has freed itself from the chains of
the body at last. For so many years we have all been asleep."
"This is a rude awakening."
They were silent for a little while, each busy with unusual thoughts.
There was a sense of nearness between them--of understanding, new and
dangerously sweet.
Amaryllis felt it deliciously, sensuously, and took joy in that she was
touching him.
John thrust it away.
"I must get through to-night," he thought, "but I cannot if this hideous
pain of knowledge of what I must renounce conquers me--I must be strong."
He went on stroking her hair; it made her thrill and she turned and bit
one of his fingers playfully with a wicked little laugh.
"I wish I knew what I am feeling, John," she whispered, and her eyes were
aflame, "I wish I knew--"
"I must teach you!" and with sudden fierceness he bent down and
kissed her lips.
Then he told her to go to bed.
"You must be tired, Amaryllis, after your journey. Go like a good child."
She pouted. She was all vibrating with some totally new and overmastering
emotion. She wanted to stay and be made love to. She wanted--she knew not
what, only everything in her was thrilling with passionate warmth.
"Must I? It is only ten."
"I have a frightful lot of business things to write tonight, Amaryllis.
Go now and sleep, and I will come and wake you about twelve!" He looked
lover-like. She sighed.
"Ah! if you would only come now!"
He kissed her almost roughly again and led her to the door. And he stood
watching her with burning eyes as she went up the stairs.
Then he came back and rang the bell.
"I shall be very late, Murcheson--do not sit up, I will turn out the
lights. Good-night."
"Very good, Sir John."
And the valet left the room.
But John Ardayre did not write any business letters; he sank back into
his great leather chair--his lips were trembling, and presently sobs
shook him, and he leaned forward and buried his face in his hands.
Just before twelve had struck, he went out into the hall, and turned off
the light at the main. The whole house would now be in absolute darkness
but for an electric torch he carried. He listened--there was not a sound.
Then he crept quietly up to his dressing room and returned with a bottle
of the clove-scented hair lotion.
"What a mercy she spoke of it," his thoughts ran. "How sensitive women
are--I should never have remembered such a thing."
Yes--now there was a sound.
* * * * *
Midnight had struck--and Amaryllis, sleeping peacefully, had been
dreaming of John.
"Oh! dearest," she whispered drowsily, as but half awakened, she felt
herself being drawn into a pair of strong arms--"Oh!--you know I love
that scent of cloves--Oh!--I love you, John!"
CHAPTER IX
When Amaryllis awoke in the morning her head rested on John's breast, and
his arm encircled her. She raised herself on her elbow and looked at him.
He was still asleep--and his face was infinitely sad. She bent over and
kissed him with shy tenderness, but he did not move, he only sighed
heavily as he lay there.
Why should he look so sad, when they were so happy?
She thought of loving things he had said to her at dinner--and then the
afterwards!--and she thrilled with emotion. Life seemed a glorious thing
and--But John was sad, of course, because he must go away. The
recollection of this fact came upon her suddenly like a blast of cold
air. They must part. War hung there with its hideous shadow, and John
must be conscious of it even in his dreams, that was why he sighed.
The irony of things--now--when--Oh! how cruel that he must go.
Then John awoke with a shudder, and saw her there leaning over him with a
new soft love light in her eyes, and he realised that the anguish of his
calvary had only just begun.
She was perfectly exquisite at breakfast, a fresh and tender graciousness
radiated in her every glance; she was subtle and captivating, teasing him
that he had been so silent in the night. "Why wouldn't you talk to me,
John? But it was all divine, I did not mind." Then she became full of
winsome ways and caresses, which she had hitherto been too timid to
express; and every fond word she spoke stabbed John's heart.
Could she not come and stay somewhere near so as to be with him while he
was in training? It was unbearable to remain alone.
But he told her that this would be impossible and that she must go back
to Ardayre.
"I will get leave, if there is a chance, dear little girl."
"Oh! John, you must indeed."
After he had gone out to the War Office, she sang as she undid a bundle
of late roses he had sent her from Soloman's, on his way.
She must herself put them in water; no servant should have this pleasing
task. Was it the thought of the imminence of separation which had altered
John into so dear a lover? She went over his words there in the library.
She relived the joy of his sudden fierce kiss, when he had said that he
must teach her as to what her emotions meant.
Ah! how good to learn, how all glorious was life and love!
"Sweetheart," the word rang in her ears. He had never called her that
before! Indeed, John rarely ever used any term of endearment, and never
got beyond "Dear" or "Darling" before. But now it was an exquisite
remembrance! Just the murmured word "Sweetheart!" whispered softly again
and again in the night.
John came back to lunch, but two of the de la Paule family dropped in
also, and the talk was all of war, and the difficulty of getting money at
the banks, and how food would go on, and what the whole thing would mean.
But over Amaryllis some spell had fallen--nothing seemed a reality, she
could not attend to ordinary things, she felt that she but moved and
spoke as one still in a dream.
The world, and life, and death, and love, were all a blended mystery
which was but beginning to unravel for her and drew her nearer to John.
The days went on apace.
John in camp thanked God for the strenuous work of his training that it
kept him so occupied that he had barely time to think of Amaryllis or the
tragedy of things. When he had left her on the following afternoon, the
seventh of August, she had returned to Ardayre alone and began the
knitting and shirt-making and amateurish hospital committees which all
well-meaning English women vaguely grasped at before the stern
necessities brought them organised work to do. Amaryllis wrote constantly
to John--all through August--and many of the letters contained loving
allusions which made him wince with pain.
Then the awful news came of Mons, then the Marne--and the Aisne--awful
and glorious, and a hush and mourning fell over the land, and Amaryllis,
like every one else, lost interest in all personal things for a time.
A young cousin had been killed and many of her season's partners and
friends, and now she knew that the North Somerset Yeomanry would shortly
go out and fight as they had volunteered at once. She was very
miserable. But when September grew, in spite of all this general sorrow,
a new horizon presented itself, lit up as if by approaching dawn, for a
hope had gradually developed--a hope which would mean the rejoicing of
John's heart.
And the day when first this possibility of future fulfilment was
pronounced a certainty was one of almost exalted beatitude, and when
Doctor Geddis drove away down the Northern Avenue, Amaryllis seized a
coat from the folded pile of John's in the hall, and walked out into the
park hatless, the wind blowing the curly tendrils of her soft brown hair,
a radiance not of earth in her eyes. The late September sun was sinking
and gilding the windows of the noble house, and she turned and looked
back at it when she was far across the lake.
And the whole of her spirit rose in thankfulness to God, while her soul
sang a glad magnificat.
She, too, might hand on this great and splendid inheritance! She, too,
would be the mother of Ardayres!
And now to write to John!
That was a fresh pleasure! What would he say? What would he feel? Dear
John! His letters had been calm and matter of fact, but that was his way.
She did not mind it now. He loved her, and what did words matter with
this glorious knowledge in her heart?
To have a baby! Her very own--and John's!
How wonderful! How utterly divine--!
Her little feet hardly touched the moss beneath them, she wanted to
skip and sing.
Next May! Next May! A Spring flower--a little life to care for when
war, of course, would have ended and all the world again could be happy
and young!
And then she returned by the tiny ancient church. She had the key of it,
a golden one which John had given her on their first coming down. It hung
on her bracelet with her own private key.
The sun was pouring through the western window, carpeting the altar steps
in translucent cloth of gold.
Amaryllis stole up the short aisle, and paused when she came between the
two tall canopied tombs of recumbent sixteenth century knights, which
made so dignified a screen for the little side aisles--and then she moved
on and knelt in the shaft of the sunlight there at the carved rails.
And no one ever raised to God a purer or more fervent prayer.
She stayed until the sun sunk below the window, and then she rose and
went back to the house, and up to her cedar room. And now she must
write to John!
She began--once--twice--but tore up each sheet. Her news was a supreme
happiness, but so difficult to transmit!
At last she finished three sides of her own rather large sized
note-paper, but as she read over what she had written, she was not quite
content; it did not express all that she desired John to know.
But how could a mere letter convey the wordless gladness in her heart?
She wanted to tell him how she would worship their baby, and how she
would pray that they should be given a son--and how she would remember
all his love words spoken that last time they were together, and weave
the joy of them round the little form, so that it should grow strong and
beautiful and radiant, and come to earth welcomed and blessed!
Something of all this finally did get written, and she concluded thus:
"John, is it not all wonderful and blissful and mysterious, this coming
proof of our love? And when I lie awake I say over and over again the
sweet name you called me, and which I want to sign! I am not just
Amaryllis any longer, but your very own 'Sweetheart'!"
John received this letter by the afternoon post in camp. He sat down
alone in his tent and read and re-read each line. Then he stiffened and
remained icily still.
He could not have analysed his emotions. They were so intermixed with
thankfulness and pain--and underneath there was a fierce, primitive
jealousy burning.
"Sweetheart!" he said aloud, as though the word were anathema! "And must
I call her that 'Sweetheart'! Oh! God, it is too hard!" and he clenched
his hands.
By the same post came a letter from Denzil, of whose movements he had
asked to be kept informed, saying that the 110th Hussars were going out
at once, so that they would probably soon meet in France.
Then John wrote to Amaryllis. The very force of his feelings seemed to
freeze his power of expression, and when he had finished he knew that it
was but a cold, lifeless thing he had produced, quite inadequate as an
answer to her tender, exalted words.
"My poor little girl," he sighed as he read it. "I know this will
disappoint her. What a hideous, sickening mockery everything is."
He forced himself to add a postscript, a practice very foreign
to his usual methodical rule. "Never forget that I love you,
Amaryllis--Sweetheart!" he said.
And then he went to his Colonel and asked for two days' leave, and when
it was granted for the following Saturday and Monday he wired to his wife
asking her to meet him in Brook Street.
"I must see her--I cannot bear it," he cried to himself.
And late at night he wrote to Denzil--it was just that he should do this.
"My wife is going to have a baby--if only it should be a son, then it
will not so much matter if both of us are killed, at least the family
will be saved, and be able to carry oh."
He tried to make the letter cordial. Denzil had behaved with the most
perfect delicacy throughout, he must admit, and although they had met
once and exchanged several letters, not the faintest allusion to the
subject of their talk in the library at Brook Street had ever been
made by him.
Denzil had indeed acted and written as though such knowledge between
them did not exist. He--Denzil--in these last seven weeks had been
extremely occupied, and while his forces were concentrated upon the
exhilarating preparations for war, it would happen in rare moments
before sleep claimed him at night that he would let his thoughts conjure
a waking dream, infinitely, mystically sweet. And every pulse would
thrill with ecstasy, and then his will would banish it, and he would
think of other subjects.
He could not face the marvel of his emotions at this period, nor dwell
upon the romantically exciting aspect of some things.
He was up in London upon equipment business on the very Saturday that
John got leave, and he was due to dine at the Carlton with Verisschenzko
who had that day arrived on vital matters bent.
As they came into the hall, a man stopped to talk to the Russian, and
Denzil's eyes wandered over the unnumerous and depressed looking company
collected waiting for their parties to arrive. War had even in those
early Autumn days set its grim seal upon this festive spot. People looked
rather ashamed of being seen and no one smiled. He nodded to one or two
friends, and then his glance fell upon a beautiful, slim, brown-haired
girl, sitting quietly waiting in an armchair by the restaurant steps.
She wore a plain black frock, but in her belt one huge crimson clove
carnation was unostentatiously tucked.
"What a lovely creature!" his thoughts ran, and Verisschenzko
turning from his acquaintance that moment, he said to him as they
started to advance:
"Stepan, if you want to see something typically English and perfectly
exquisite, look at that girl in the armchair opposite where the band used
to be. I wonder who she is?"
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