Peter Ibbetson Part 22

And yet there must be a bad Mary now and then, here or there, and even an ugly one. Indeed, there was once a b.l.o.o.d.y Mary who was both! It seems incredible!

Mary, indeed! Why not Hecuba? For what was I to the d.u.c.h.ess of Towers?

When I was alone again I went to bed, and tried to sleep on my back, with my arms up, in the hope of a true dream; but sleep would not come, and I pa.s.sed a white night, as the French say. I rose early and walked about the park, and tried to interest my self in the stables till it was breakfast-time. n.o.body was up, and I breakfasted alone with Lady Cray, who was as kind as she could be. I do not think she could have found me a very witty companion. And then I went back to the stables to think, and fell into a doze.

At about twelve I heard the sound of wooden b.a.l.l.s, and found a lawn where some people were playing "croquet." It was quite a new game, and a few years later became the fas.h.i.+on.

[Ill.u.s.tration: SWEET AND BITTER MUSIC.]

I sat down under a large weeping-ash close to the lawn; it was like a tent, with chairs and tables underneath.

Presently Lady Cray came there with the d.u.c.h.ess of Towers. I wanted to fly, but was rooted to the spot.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Introduction.]

Lady Cray presented me, and almost immediately a servant came with a message for her, and I was left with the One Woman in the World! My heart was in my mouth, my throat was dry, my pulse was beating in my temples.

She asked me, in the most natural manner, if I played "croquet."

"Yes--no--at least, sometimes--that is, I never of it--oh--I forget!" I groaned at my idiocy and hid my face in my hands. She asked if I were still unwell, and I said no; and then she began to talk quite easily about anything, everything, till I felt more at my ease.

Her voice! I had never heard it well but in a dream, and it was the same--a very rich and modulated voice--low--contralto, with many varied and delightful inflexions; and she used more action in speaking than the generality of Englishwomen, thereby reminding me of Madame Seraskier. I noticed that her hands were long and very narrow, and also her feet, and remembered that Mimsey's were like that--they were considered poor Mimsey's only beauty. I also noticed an almost imperceptible scar on her left temple, and remembered with a thrill that I had noticed it in my dream as we walked up the avenue together. In waking life I had never been near enough to her to notice a small scar, and Mimsey had no scar of the kind in the old days--of that I felt sure, for I had seen much of Mimsey lately.

I grew more accustomed to the situation, and ventured to say that I had once met her at Lady Cray's in London.

"Oh yes; I remember. Giulia Grisi sand the 'Willow Song.'" And then she crinkled up her eyes, and laughed, and blushed, and went on: "I noticed you standing in a corner, under the famous Gainsborough. You reminded me of a dear little French boy I once knew who was very kind to me when I was a little girl in France, and whose father you happen to be like. But I found that you were Mr. Ibbetson, an English architect, and, Lady Cray tells me, a very rising one"

"I _was_ a little French boy once. I had to change my name to please a relative, and become English--that is, I was always _really_ English, you know."

"Good Heavens, what an extraordinary thing! What _was_ your name, then?"

"Pasquier-Gogo Pasquier!" I groaned, and the tears came into my eyes, and I looked away. The d.u.c.h.ess made no answer, and when I turned and looked at her she was looking at me, very pale, her lips quite white, her hands tightly clasped in her lap, and trembling all over.

I said, "You used to be little Mimsey Seraskier, and I used to carry you pickaback!"

"Oh don't! oh don't!" she said, and began to cry.

I got up and walked about under the ash-tree till she had dried her eyes. The croquet-players were intent upon their game.

I again sat down beside her; she had dried her eyes, and at length she said--

"What a dreadful thing it was about your poor father and mother, and _my_ dear mother! Do you remember her? She died a week after you left. I went to Russia with papa--Dr. Seraskier. What a terrible break-up it all was!"

And then we gradually fell to talking quite naturally about old times, and dear dead people. She never took her eyes off mine. After a while I said--

"I went to Pa.s.sy, and found everything changed and built over. It nearly drove me mad to see. I went to St. Cloud, and saw you driving with the Empress of the French. That night I had such an extraordinary dream! I dreamed I was floundering about the Rue de la Pompe, and had just got to the avenue gate, and you were there."

"Good heavens!" she whispered, and turned white again, and trembled all over, "what do you mean?"

"Yes," I said, "you came to my rescue. I was pursued by gnomes and horrors."

_She._ "Good heavens! by--by two little jailers, a man and his wife, who danced and were trying to hem you in?"

It was now my turn to e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.e "Good heavens!" We both shook and trembled together.

I said: "You gave me your hand, and all came straight at once. My old school rose in place of the jail."

_She._ "With a yellow omnibus? And boys going off to their _premiere communion?_"

_I._ "Yes; and there was a crowd--le Pere et la Mere Francois, and Madame Liard, the grocer's wife, and--and Mimsey Seraskier, with her cropped head. And an organ was playing a tune I knew quite well, but cannot now recall." ...

_She._ "Wasn't it 'Maman, les p't.i.ts bateaux?'"

_I._ Oh, of _course!_

_"'Maman, les p't.i.ts bateaux Qui vont sur l'eau, Ont-ils des jambes?'"_

_She_. "That's it!"

_"'Eh oui, pet.i.t beta!

S'ils n'avaient pas Ils n'march'raient pas!'"_

She sank back in her chair, pale and prostrate. After a while--

_She_. "And then I gave you good advice about how to dream true, and we got to my old house, and I tried to make you read the letters on the portico, and you read them wrong, and I laughed."

_I_. "Yes; I read 'Tete Noire.' Wasn't it idiotic?"

_She_. "And then I touched you again and you read 'Parvis Notre Dame.'"

_I_. "Yes! and you touched me _again_, and I read 'Parva sed Apta'--small but fit."

_She_. "Is _that_ what it means? Why, when you were a boy, you told me _sed apta_ was all one word, and was the Latin for 'Pavilion.' I believed it ever since, and thought 'Parva sed Apta' meant _pet.i.t pavillon_!"

_I_. "I blush for my bad Latin! After this you gave me good advice again, about not touching anything or picking flowers. I never have. And then you went away into the park--the light went out of my life, sleeping or waking. I have never been able to dream of you since. I don't suppose I shall ever meet you again after to-day!"

After this we were silent for a long time, though I hummed and hawed now and then, and tried to speak. I was sick with the conflict of my feelings. At length she said--

"Dear Mr. Ibbetson, this is all so extraordinary that I must go away and think it all over. I cannot tell you what it has been to me to meet you once more. And that double dream, common to us both! Oh, I am dazed beyond expression, and feel as if I were dreaming now--except that this all seems so unreal and impossible--so untrue! We had better part now. I don't know if I shall ever meet you again. You will be often in my thoughts, but never in my dreams again--that, at least, I can command--nor I in yours; it must not be. My poor father taught me how to dream before he died, that I might find innocent consolation in dreams for my waking troubles, which are many and great, as his were. If I can see that any good may come of it, I will write--but no--you must not expect a letter. I will now say good-bye and leave you. You go to-day, do you not? That is best. I think this had better be a final adieu. I cannot tell you of what interest you are to me and always have been. I thought you had died long ago. We shall often think of each other--that is inevitable--_but never, never dream. That will not do._

"Dear Mr. Ibbetson, I wish you all the good that one human being can wish another. And now goodbye, and may G.o.d in heaven bless you!"

She rose, trembling and white, and her eyes wet with tears, and wrung both my hands, and left me as she had left me in the dream.

The light went out of my life, and I was once more alone--more wretchedly and miserably alone than if I had never met her.

I went back to Pentonville, and outwardly took up the thread of my monotonous existence, and ate, drank, and worked, and went about as usual, but as one in an ordinary dream. For now dreams--true dreams--had become the only reality for me.