to be – I WILL be, if you will be my wife.’
His companion looked at him long.
‘Think what a short way out of your difficulty this would be,’ he continued. ‘No bother about aunts, no fetching home by an angry father.’
It seemed to decide her. She yielded to his embrace.
‘How long will it take to marry?’ Miss Bencomb asked by-and-by, with obvious self-repression.
‘We could do it to-morrow. I could get to Doctors’ Commons by noon to-day, and the licence would be ready by to-morrow morning.’
‘I won’t go to my aunt’s, I will be an independent woman! I have been reprimanded as if I were a child of six. I’ll be your wife if it is as easy as you say.’
They stopped the cab while they held a consultation. Pierston had rooms and a studio in the neighbourhood of Campden Hill; but it would be hardly desirable to take her thither till they were married. They decided to go to an hotel.
Changing their direction, therefore, they went back to the Strand, and soon ensconced themselves in one of the venerable old taverns of Covent Garden, a precinct which in those days was frequented by West-country people. Jocelyn then left her and proceeded on his errand eastward.
It was about three o’clock when, having arranged all preliminaries necessitated by this sudden change of front, he began strolling slowly back; he felt bewildered, and to walk was a relief. Gazing occasionally into this shop window and that, he called a hansom as by an inspiration, and directed the driver to ‘Mellstock Gardens.’ Arrived here, he rang the bell of a studio, and in a minute or two it was answered by a young man in shirt-sleeves, about his own age, with a great smeared palette on his left thumb.
‘O, you, Pierston! I thought you were in the country. Come in. I’m awfully glad of this. I am here in town finishing off a painting for an American, who wants to take it back with him.’
Pierston followed his friend into the painting-room, where a pretty young woman was sitting sewing. At a signal from the painter she disappeared without speaking.
‘I can see from your face you have something to say; so we’ll have it all to ourselves. You are in some trouble? What’ll you drink?’
‘Oh! it doesn’t matter what, so that it is alcohol in some shape or form… Now, Somers, you must just listen to me, for I HAVE something to tell.’
Pierston had sat down in an arm-chair, and Somers had resumed his painting. When a servant had brought in brandy to soothe Pierston’s nerves, and soda to take off the injurious effects of the brandy, and milk to take off the depleting effects of the soda, Jocelyn began his narrative, addressing it rather to Somers’s Gothic chimneypiece, and Somers’s Gothic clock, and Somers’s Gothic rugs, than to Somers himself, who stood at his picture a little behind his friend.
‘Before I tell you what has happened to me,’ Pierston said, ‘I want to let you know the manner of man I am.’
‘Lord – I know already.’
‘No, you don’t. It is a sort of thing one doesn’t like to talk of. I lie awake at night thinking about it.’
‘No!’ said Somers, with more sympathy, seeing that his friend was really troubled.
‘I am under a curious curse, or influence. I am posed, puzzled and perplexed by the legerdemain of a creature – a deity rather; by Aphrodite, as a poet would put it, as I should put it myself in marble. … But I forget – this is not to be a deprecatory wail, but a defence – a sort of Apologia pro vita mea.’
‘That’s better. Fire away!’
VII. HER EARLIER INCARNATIONS
‘You, Somers, are not, I know, one of those who continue to indulge in the world-wide, fond superstition that the Beloved One of any man always, or even usually, cares to remain in one corporeal nook or shell for any great length of time, however much he may wish her to do so. If I am wrong, and you do still hold to that ancient error – well, my story will seem rather queer.’
‘Suppose you say the Beloved of some men, not of any man.’
‘All right – I’ll say one man, this man only, if you are so particular. We are a strange, visionary race down where I come from, and perhaps that accounts for it. The Beloved of this one man, then, has had many incarnations – too many to describe in detail. Each shape, or embodiment, has been a temporary residence only, which she has entered, lived in awhile, and made her exit from, leaving the substance, so far as I have been concerned, a corpse, worse luck! Now, there is no spiritualistic nonsense in this – it is simple fact, put in the plain form that the conventional public are afraid of. So much for the principle.’
‘Good. Go on.’
‘Well; the first embodiment of her occurred, so nearly as I can recollect, when I was about the age of nine. Her vehicle was a little blue-eyed girl of eight or so, one of a family of eleven, with flaxen hair about her shoulders, which attempted to curl, but ignominiously failed, hanging like chimney-crooks only. This defect used rather to trouble me; and was, I believe, one of the main reasons of my Beloved’s departure from that tenement. I cannot remember with any exactness when the departure occurred. I know it was after I had kissed my little friend in a garden-seat on a hot noontide, under a blue gingham umbrella, which we had opened over us as we sat, that passers through East Quarriers might not observe our marks of affection, forgetting that our screen must attract more attention than our persons.
‘When the whole dream came to an end through her father leaving the island, I thought my Well-Beloved had gone for ever (being then in the unpractised condition of Adam at sight of the first sunset). But she had not. Laura had gone for ever, but not my Beloved.
‘For some months after I had done crying for the flaxen-haired edition of her, my Love did not reappear. Then she came suddenly, unexpectedly, in a situation I should never have predicted. I was standing on the kerbstone of the pavement in Budmouth-Regis, outside the Preparatory School, looking across towards the sea, when a middle-aged gentleman on horseback, and beside him a young lady, also mounted, passed down the street. The girl turned her head, and – possibly because I was gaping at her in awkward admiration, or smiling myself – smiled at me. Having ridden a few paces, she looked round again and smiled.
‘It was enough, more than enough, to set me on fire. I understood in a moment the information conveyed to me by my emotion – the Well-Beloved had reappeared. This second form in which it had pleased her to take up her abode was quite a grown young woman’s, darker in complexion than the first. Her hair, also worn in a knot, was of an ordinary brown, and so, I think, were her eyes, but the niceties of her features were not to be gathered so cursorily. However, there sat my coveted one, re-embodied; and, bidding my schoolmates a hasty farewell as soon as I could do so without suspicion, I hurried along the Esplanade in the direction she and her father had ridden. But they had put their horses to a canter, and I could not see which way they had gone. In the greatest misery I turned down a side street, but was soon elevated to a state of excitement by seeing the same pair galloping towards me. Flushing up to my hair, I stopped and heroically faced her as she passed. She smiled again, but, alas! upon my Love’s cheek there was no blush of passion for me.’
Pierston paused, and drank from his glass, as he lived for a brief moment in the scene he had conjured up. Somers reserved his comments, and Jocelyn continued —
‘That afternoon I idled about the streets, looking for her in vain. When I next saw one of the
