wessex tales-第6章

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and　hour。

It　was　about　five　in　the　afternoon　when　she　heard　a　ring　at　the　door
and　the　editor's　brother's　voice　in　the　hall。　　Poetess　as　she　was；
or　as　she　thought　herself；　she　had　not　been　too　sublime　that　day　to
dress　with　infinite　trouble　in　a　fashionable　robe　of　rich　material；
having　a　faint　resemblance　to　the　chiton　of　the　Greeks；　a　style　just
then　in　vogue　among　ladies　of　an　artistic　and　romantic　turn；　which
had　been　obtained　by　Ella　of　her　Bond　Street　dressmaker　when　she　was
last　in　London。　　Her　visitor　entered　the　drawing…room。　　She　looked
towards　his　rear；　nobody　else　came　through　the　door。　　Where；　in　the
name　of　the　God　of　Love；　was　Robert　Trewe？

'O；　I'm　sorry；'　said　the　painter；　after　their　introductory　words　had
been　spoken。　　'Trewe　is　a　curious　fellow；　you　know；　Mrs。　Marchmill。
He　said　he'd　come；　then　he　said　he　couldn't。　　He's　rather　dusty。
We've　been　doing　a　few　miles　with　knapsacks；　you　know；　and　he　wanted
to　get　on　home。'

'Hehe's　not　coming？'

'He's　not；　and　he　asked　me　to　make　his　apologies。'

'When　did　you　p…p…part　from　him？'　she　asked；　her　nether　lip　starting
off　quivering　so　much　that　it　was　like　a　tremolo…stop　opened　in　her
speech。　　She　longed　to　run　away　from　this　dreadful　bore　and　cry　her
eyes　out。

'Just　now；　in　the　turnpike　road　yonder　there。'

'What！　he　has　actually　gone　past　my　gates？'

'Yes。　　When　we　got　to　themhandsome　gates　they　are；　too；　the　finest
bit　of　modern　wrought…iron　work　I　have　seenwhen　we　came　to　them　we
stopped；　talking　there　a　little　while；　and　then　he　wished　me　good…
bye　and　went　on。　　The　truth　is；　he's　a　little　bit　depressed　just
now；　and　doesn't　want　to　see　anybody。　　He's　a　very　good　fellow；　and
a　warm　friend；　but　a　little　uncertain　and　gloomy　sometimes；　he
thinks　too　much　of　things。　　His　poetry　is　rather　too　erotic　and
passionate；　you　know；　for　some　tastes；　and　he　has　just　come　in　for　a
terrible　slating　from　the　　Review　that　was　published　yesterday；　he
saw　a　copy　of　it　at　the　station　by　accident。　　Perhaps　you've　read
it？'

'No。'

'So　much　the　better。　　O；　it　is　not　worth　thinking　of；　just　one　of
those　articles　written　to　order；　to　please　the　narrow…minded　set　of
subscribers　upon　whom　the　circulation　depends。　　But　he's　upset　by
it。　　He　says　it　is　the　misrepresentation　that　hurts　him　so；　that；
though　he　can　stand　a　fair　attack；　he　can't　stand　lies　that　he's
powerless　to　refute　and　stop　from　spreading。　　That's　just　Trewe's
weak　point。　　He　lives　so　much　by　himself　that　these　things　affect
him　much　more　than　they　would　if　he　were　in　the　bustle　of
fashionable　or　commercial　life。　　So　he　wouldn't　come　here；　making
the　excuse　that　it　all　looked　so　new　and　moniedif　you'll　pardon'

'Buthe　must　have　knownthere　was　sympathy　here！　　Has　he　never
said　anything　about　getting　letters　from　this　address？'

'Yes；　yes；　he　has；　from　John　Ivyperhaps　a　relative　of　yours；　he
thought；　visiting　here　at　the　time？'

'Did　helike　Ivy；　did　he　say？'

'Well；　I　don't　know　that　he　took　any　great　interest　in　Ivy。'

'Or　in　his　poems？'

'Or　in　his　poemsso　far　as　I　know；　that　is。'

Robert　Trewe　took　no　interest　in　her　house；　in　her　poems；　or　in
their　writer。　　As　soon　as　she　could　get　away　she　went　into　the
nursery　and　tried　to　let　off　her　emotion　by　unnecessarily　kissing
the　children；　till　she　had　a　sudden　sense　of　disgust　at　being
reminded　how　plain…looking　they　were；　like　their　father。

The　obtuse　and　single…minded　landscape…painter　never　once　perceived
from　her　conversation　that　it　was　only　Trewe　she　wanted；　and　not
himself。　　He　made　the　best　of　his　visit；　seeming　to　enjoy　the
society　of　Ella's　husband；　who　also　took　a　great　fancy　to　him；　and
showed　him　everywhere　about　the　neighbourhood；　neither　of　them
noticing　Ella's　mood。

The　painter　had　been　gone　only　a　day　or　two　when；　while　sitting
upstairs　alone　one　morning；　she　glanced　over　the　London　paper　just
arrived；　and　read　the　following　paragraph：…


'SUICIDE　OF　A　POET

'Mr。　Robert　Trewe；　who　has　been　favourably　known　for　some　years　as
one　of　our　rising　lyrists；　committed　suicide　at　his　lodgings　at
Solentsea　on　Saturday　evening　last　by　shooting　himself　in　the　right
temple　with　a　revolver。　　Readers　hardly　need　to　be　reminded　that　Mr。
Trewe　has　recently　attracted　the　attention　of　a　much　wider　public
than　had　hitherto　known　him；　by　his　new　volume　of　verse；　mostly　of
an　impassioned　kind；　entitled　〃Lyrics　to　a　Woman　Unknown；〃　which　has
been　already　favourably　noticed　in　these　pages　for　the　extraordinary
gamut　of　feeling　it　traverses；　and　which　has　been　made　the　subject
of　a　severe；　if　not　ferocious；　criticism　in　the　　Review。　　It　is
supposed；　though　not　certainly　known；　that　the　article　may　have
partially　conduced　to　the　sad　act；　as　a　copy　of　the　review　in
question　was　found　on　his　writing…table；　and　he　has　been　observed　to
be　in　a　somewhat　depressed　state　of　mind　since　the　critique
appeared。'


Then　came　the　report　of　the　inquest；　at　which　the　following　letter
was　read；　it　having　been　addressed　to　a　friend　at　a　distance：…


'DEAR　…；Before　these　lines　reach　your　hands　I　shall　be　delivered
from　the　inconveniences　of　seeing；　hearing；　and　knowing　more　of　the
things　around　me。　　I　will　not　trouble　you　by　giving　my　reasons　for
the　step　I　have　taken；　though　I　can　assure　you　they　were　sound　and
logical。　　Perhaps　had　I　been　blessed　with　a　mother；　or　a　sister；　or
a　female　friend　of　another　sort　tenderly　devoted　to　me；　I　might　have
thought　it　worth　while　to　continue　my　present　existence。　　I　have
long　dreamt　of　such　an　unattainable　creature；　as　you　know；　and　she；
this　undiscoverable；　elusive　one；　inspired　my　last　volume；　the
imaginary　woman　alone；　for；　in　spite　of　what　has　been　said　in　some
quarters；　there　is　no　real　woman　behind　the　title。　　She　has
continued　to　the　last　unrevealed；　unmet；　unwon。　　I　think　it
desirable　to　mention　this　in　order　that　no　blame　may　attach　to　any
real　woman　as　having　been　the　cause　of　my　decease　by　cruel　or
cavalier　treatment　of　me。　　Tell　my　landlady　that　I　am　sorry　to　have
caused　her　this　unpleasantness；　but　my　occupancy　of　the　rooms　will
soon　be　forgotten。　　There　are　ample　funds　in　my　name　at　the　bank　to
pay　all　expenses。　　R。　TREWE。'


Ella　sat　for　a　while　as　if　stunned；　then　rushed　into　the　adjoining
chamber　and　flung　herself　upon　her　face　on　the　bed。

Her　grief　and　distraction　shook　her　to　pieces；　and　she　lay　in　this
frenzy　of　sorrow　for　more　than　an　hour。　　Broken　words　came　every　now
and　then　from　her　quivering　lips：　　'O；　if　he　had　only　known　of　me
known　of　meme！　。　。　。　O；　if　I　had　only　once　met　himonly　once；　and
put　my　hand　upon　his　hot　foreheadkissed　himlet　him　know　how　I
loved　himthat　I　would　have　suffered　shame　and　scorn；　would　have
lived　and　died；　for　him！　　Perhaps　it　would　have　saved　his　dear　life！
。　。　。　But　noit　was　not　allowed！　　God　is　a　jealous　God；　and　that
happiness　was　not　for　him　and　me！'

All　possibilities　were　over；　the　meeting　was　stultified。　　Yet　it　was
almost　visible　to　her　in　her　fantasy　even　now；　though　it　could　never
be　substantiated　…


'The　hour　which　might　have　been；　yet　might　not　be；
Which　man's　and　woman's　heart　conceived　and　bore；
Yet　whereof　life　was　barren。'


She　wrote　to　the　landlady　at　Solentsea　in　the　third　person；　in　as
subdued　a　style　as　she　could　command；　enclosing　a　postal　order　for　a
sovereign；　and　informing　Mrs。　Hooper　that　Mrs。　Marchmill　had　seen　in
the　papers　the　sad　account　of　the　poet's　death；　and　having　been；　as
Mrs。　Hooper　was　aware；　much　interested　in　Mr。　Trewe　during　her　stay
at　Coburg　House；　she　would　be　obliged　if　Mrs。　Hooper　could　obtain　a
small　portion　of　his　hair　before　his　coffin　was　closed　down；　and
send　it　her　as　a　memorial　of　him；　as　also　the　photograph　that　was　in
the　frame。

By　the　return…post　a　letter　arrived　containing　what　had　been
requested。　　Ella　wept　over　the　portrait　and　secured　it　in　her
private　drawer；　the　lock　of　hair　she　tied　with　white　ribbon　and　put
in　her　bosom；　whence　she　drew　it　and　kissed　it　every　now　and　then　in
some　unobserved　nook。

'What's　the　matter？'　said　her　husband；　looking　up　from　his　newspaper
on　one　of　these　occasions。　　'Crying　over　something？　　A　lock　of　hair？
Whose　is　it？'

'He's　dead！'　she　murmured。