Trilby · Part 4 (3/5)

“Oh, Mrs. Bagot, there’s no question of forgiveness. Good heavens! it is all so unfortunate, you know! Nobody’s to blame that I can see. Goodbye, Mrs. Bagot; goodbye, sir,” and so saying, he saw them down to their remise, in which sat a singularly pretty young lady of seventeen or so, pale and anxious, and so like Little Billee that it was quite funny, and touched big Taffy’s heart again.

When Trilby went out into the courtyard in the Place St. Anatole des Arts, she saw Miss Bagot looking out of the carriage window, and in the young lady’s face, as she caught her eye, an expression of sweet surprise and sympathetic admiration, with lifted eyebrows and parted lips⁠—just such a look as she had often got from Little Billee! She knew her for his sister at once. It was a sharp pang.

She turned away, saying to herself: “Oh no; I will not separate him from his sister, his family, his friends! That would never do! That’s settled, anyhow!”

Feeling a little dazed, and wishing to think, she turned up the Rue Vieille des Mauvais Ladres, which was always deserted at this hour. It was empty but for a solitary figure sitting on a post, with its legs dangling, its hands in its trousers-pockets, an inverted pipe in its mouth, a tattered straw hat on the back of its head, and a long gray coat down to its heels. It was the Laird.

As soon as he saw her he jumped off his post and came to her, saying: “Oh, Trilby⁠—what’s it all about? I couldn’t stand it! I ran away! Little Billee’s mother’s there!”

“Yes, Sandy dear, I’ve just seen her.”

“Well, what’s up?”

“I’ve promised her never to see Little Billee any more. I was foolish enough to promise to marry him. I refused many times these last three months, and then he said he’d leave Paris and never come back, and so, like a fool, I gave way. I’ve offered to live with him and take care of him and be his servant⁠—to be everything he wished but his wife! But he wouldn’t hear of it. Dear, dear Little Billee! he’s an angel⁠—and I’ll take precious good care no harm shall ever come to him through me! I shall leave this hateful place and go and live in the country: I suppose I must manage to get through life somehow. I know of some poor people who were once very fond of me, and I could live with them and help them and keep myself. The difficulty is about Jeannot. I thought it all out before it came to this. I was well prepared, you see.”

She smiled in a forlorn sort of way, with her upper lip drawn tight against her teeth, as if someone were pulling her back by the lobes of her ears.

“Oh! but Trilby⁠—what shall we do without you? Taffy and I, you know! You’ve become one of us!”

“Now how good and kind of you to say that!” exclaimed poor Trilby, her eyes filling. “Why, that’s just all I lived for, till all this happened. But it can’t be any more now, can it? Everything is changed for me⁠—the very sky seems different. Ah! Durien’s little song⁠—‘Plaisir d’amour⁠—chagrin d’amour!’ it’s all quite true, isn’t it? I shall start immediately, and take Jeannot with me, I think.”

“But where do you think of going?”

“Ah! I mayn’t tell you that, Sandy dear⁠—not for a long time! Think of all the trouble there’d be⁠—Well, there’s no time to be lost. I must take the bull by the horns.”

She tried to laugh, and took him by his big side-whiskers and kissed him on the eyes and mouth, and her tears fell on his face.

Then, feeling unable to speak, she nodded farewell, and walked quickly up the narrow winding street. When she came to the first bend she turned round and waved her hand, and kissed it two or three times, and then disappeared.

The Laird stared for several minutes up the empty thoroughfare⁠—wretched, full of sorrow and compassion. Then he filled himself another pipe and lit it, and hitched himself on to another post, and sat there dangling his legs and kicking his heels, and waited for the Bagots’ cab to depart, that he might go up and face the righteous wrath of Taffy like a man, and bear up against his bitter reproaches for cowardice and desertion before the foe.

Next morning Taffy received two letters: one, a very long one, was from Mrs. Bagot. He read it twice over, and was forced to acknowledge that it was a very good letter⁠—the letter of a clever, warmhearted woman, but a woman also whose son was to her as the very apple of her eye. One felt she was ready to flay her dearest friend alive in order to make Little Billee a pair of gloves out of the skin, if he wanted a pair; but one also felt she would be genuinely sorry for the friend. Taffy’s own mother had been a little like that, and he missed her every day of his life.

Full justice was done by Mrs. Bagot to all Trilby’s qualities of head and heart and person; but at the same time she pointed out, with all the cunning and ingeniously casuistic logic of her sex, when it takes to special pleading (even when it has right on its side), what the consequences of such a marriage must inevitably be in a few years⁠—even sooner! The quick disenchantment, the lifelong regret, on both sides!

He could not have found a word to controvert her arguments, save perhaps in his own private belief that Trilby and Little Billee were both exceptional people; and how could he hope to know Little Billee’s nature better than the boy’s own mother!

And if he had been the boy’s elder brother in blood, as he already was in art and affection, would he, should he, could he have given his fraternal sanction to such a match?

Both as his friend and his brother he felt it was out of the question.

The other letter was from Trilby, in her bold, careless handwriting, that sprawled all over the page, and her occasionally imperfect spelling. It ran thus:

“My dear, dear Taffy⁠—This is to say goodbye. I’m going away, to put an end to all this misery, for which nobody’s to blame but myself.

“The very moment after I’d said yes to Little Billee I knew perfectly well what a stupid fool I was, and I’ve been ashamed of myself ever since. I had a miserable week, I can tell you. I knew how it would all turn out.

“I am dreadfully unhappy, but not half so unhappy as if I married him and he were ever to regret it and be ashamed of me; and of course he would, really, even if he didn’t show it⁠—good and kind as he is⁠—an angel!

“Besides⁠—of course I could never be a lady⁠—how could I?⁠—though I ought to have been one, I suppose. But everything seems to have gone wrong with me, though I never found it out before⁠—and it can’t be righted!

“Poor papa!

“I am going away with Jeannot. I’ve been neglecting him shamefully. I mean to make up for it all now.

“You mustn’t try and find out where I am going; I know you won’t if I beg you, nor anyone else. It would make everything so much harder for me.

“Angèle knows; she has promised me not to tell. I should like to have a line from you very much. If you send it to her she will send it on to me.

“Dear Taffy, next to Little Billee, I love you and the Laird better than anyone else in the whole world. I’ve never known real happiness till I met you. You have changed me into another person⁠—you and Sandy and Little Billee.

“Oh, it has been a jolly time, though it didn’t last long. It will have to do for me for life. So goodbye. I shall never, never forget; and remain, with dearest love,

“Your ever faithful and most affectionate friend,

The good Taffy pondered deeply over this letter⁠—read it half a dozen times at least; and then he kissed it, and put it back into its envelope and locked it up.

He knew what very deep anguish underlay this somewhat trivial expression of her sorrow.

He guessed how Trilby, so childishly impulsive and demonstrative in the ordinary intercourse of friendship, would be more reticent than most women in such a case as this.

He wrote to her warmly, affectionately, at great length, and sent the letter as she had told him.

The Laird also wrote a long letter full of tenderly worded friendship and sincere regard. Both expressed their hope and belief that they would soon see her again, when the first bitterness of her grief would be over, and that the old pleasant relations would be renewed.

And then, feeling wretched, they went and silently lunched together at the Café de l’Odéon, where the omelets were good and the wine wasn’t blue.

Late that evening they sat together in the studio, reading. They found they could not talk to each other very readily without Little Billee to listen⁠—three’s company sometimes and two’s none!

Suddenly there was a tremendous getting up the dark stairs outside in a violent hurry, and Little Billee burst into the room like a small whirlwind⁠—haggard, out of breath, almost speechless at first with excitement.

“Trilby? where is she?⁠ ⁠… what’s become of her?⁠ ⁠… She’s run away⁠ ⁠… oh! She’s written me such a letter!⁠ ⁠… We were to have been married⁠ ⁠… at the Embassy⁠ ⁠… my mother⁠ ⁠… she’s been meddling; and that cursed old ass⁠ ⁠… that beast⁠ ⁠… my uncle!⁠ ⁠… They’ve been here! I know all about it.⁠ ⁠… Why didn’t you stick up for her?⁠ ⁠…”

“I did⁠ ⁠… as well as I could. Sandy couldn’t stand it, and cut.”

“You stuck up for her⁠ ⁠… you⁠—why, you agreed with my mother that she oughtn’t to marry me⁠—you⁠—you false friend⁠—you.⁠ ⁠… Why, she’s an angel⁠—far too good for the likes of me⁠ ⁠… you know she is. As⁠ ⁠… as for her social position and all that, what degrading rot! Her father was as much a gentleman as mine⁠ ⁠… besides⁠ ⁠… what the devil do I care for her father?⁠ ⁠… it’s her I want⁠—her⁠—her⁠—her, I tell you.⁠ ⁠… I can’t live without her.⁠ ⁠… I must have her back⁠—I must have her back⁠ ⁠… do you hear? We were to have lived together at Barbizon⁠ ⁠… all our lives⁠—and I was to have painted stunning pictures⁠ ⁠… like those other fellows there. Who cares for their social position, I should like to know⁠ ⁠… or that of their wives? Damn social position!⁠ ⁠… we’ve often said so⁠—over and over again. An artist’s life should be away from the world⁠—above all that meanness and paltriness⁠ ⁠… all in his work. Social position, indeed! Over and over again we’ve said what fetid, bestial rot it all was⁠—a thing to make one sick and shut one’s self away from the world.⁠ ⁠… Why say one thing and act another?⁠ ⁠… Love comes before all⁠—love levels all⁠—love and art⁠ ⁠… and beauty⁠—before such beauty as Trilby’s rank doesn’t exist. Such rank as mine, too! Good God! I’ll never paint another stroke till I’ve got her back⁠ ⁠… never, never, I tell you⁠—I can’t⁠—I won’t!⁠ ⁠…”

And so the poor boy went on, tearing and raving about in his rampage, knocking over chairs and easels, stammering and shrieking, mad with excitement.

They tried to reason with him, to make him listen, to point out that it was not her social position alone that unfitted her to be his wife and the mother of his children, etc.

It was no good. He grew more and more uncontrollable, became almost unintelligible, he stammered so⁠—a pitiable sight and pitiable to hear.

“Oh! oh! good heavens! are you so precious immaculate, you two, that you should throw stones at poor Trilby! What a shame, what a hideous shame it is that there should be one law for the woman and another for the man!⁠ ⁠… poor weak women⁠—poor, soft, affectionate things that beasts of men are always running after and pestering and ruining and trampling underfoot.⁠ ⁠… Oh! oh! it makes me sick⁠—it makes me sick!” And finally he gasped and screamed and fell down in a fit on the floor.

The doctor was sent for; Taffy went in a cab to the Hôtel de Lille et d’Albion to fetch his mother; and poor Little Billee, quite unconscious, was undressed by Sandy and Madame Vinard and put into the Laird’s bed.

The doctor came, and not long after Mrs. Bagot and her daughter. It was a serious case. Another doctor was called in. Beds were got and made up in the studio for the two grief-stricken ladies, and thus closed the eve of what was to have been poor Little Billee’s wedding-day, it seems.

Little Billee’s attack appears to have been a kind of epileptic seizure. It ended in brain-fever and other complications⁠—a long and tedious illness. It was many weeks before he was out of danger, and his convalescence was long and tedious too.

His nature seemed changed. He lay languid and listless⁠—never even mentioned Trilby, except once to ask if she had come back, and if anyone knew where she was, and if she had been written to.

She had not, it appears. Mrs. Bagot had thought it was better not, and Taffy and the Laird agreed with her that no good could come of writing.

Mrs. Bagot felt bitterly against the woman who had been the cause of all this trouble, and bitterly against herself for her injustice. It was an unhappy time for everybody.

There was more unhappiness still to come.

One day in February Madame Angèle Boisse called on Taffy and the Laird in the temporary studio where they worked. She was in terrible tribulation.

Trilby’s little brother had died of scarlet-fever and was buried, and Trilby had left her hiding-place the day after the funeral and had never come back, and this was a week ago. She and Jeannot had been living at a village called Vibraye, in la Sarthe, lodging with some poor people she knew⁠—she washing and working with her needle till her brother fell ill.

She had never left his bedside for a moment, night or day, and when he died her grief was so terrible that people thought she would go out of her mind; and the day after he was buried she was not to be found anywhere⁠—she had disappeared, taking nothing with her, not even her clothes⁠—simply vanished and left no sign, no message of any kind.

All the ponds had been searched⁠—all the wells, and the small stream that flows through Vibraye⁠—and the old forest.

Taffy went to Vibraye, cross-examined everybody he could, communicated with the Paris police, but with no result, and every afternoon, with a beating heart, he went to the Morgue.⁠ ⁠…

The news was of course kept from Little Billee. There was no difficulty about this. He never asked a question, hardly ever spoke.

When he first got up and was carried into the studio he asked for his picture The Pitcher Goes to the Well, and looked at it for a while, and then shrugged his shoulders and laughed⁠—a miserable sort of laugh, painful to hear⁠—the laugh of a cold old man, who laughs so as not to cry! Then he looked at his mother and sister, and saw the sad havoc that grief and anxiety had wrought in them.

It seemed to him, as in a bad dream, that he had been mad for many years⁠—a cause of endless sickening terror and distress; and that his poor weak wandering wits had come back at last, bringing in their train cruel remorse, and the remembrance of all the patient love and kindness that had been lavished on him for many years! His sweet sister⁠—his dear, long-suffering mother! what had really happened to make them look like this?

And taking them both in his feeble arms, he fell a-weeping, quite desperately and for a long time.

And when his weeping-fit was over, when he had quite wept himself out, he fell asleep.

And when he awoke he was conscious that another sad thing had happened to him, and that for some mysterious cause his power of loving had not come back with his wandering wits⁠—had been left behind⁠—and it seemed to him that it was gone forever and ever⁠—would never come back again⁠—not even his love for his mother and sister, not even his love for Trilby⁠—where all that had once been was a void, a gap, a blankness.⁠ ⁠…

Truly, if Trilby had suffered much, she had also been the innocent cause of terrible suffering. Poor Mrs. Bagot, in her heart, could not forgive her.

I feel this is getting to be quite a sad story, and that it is high time to cut this part of it short.