Goose of Hermogenes (5 page)

One hesitates to use the phrase ‘love at first sight;’ and not merely on account of its triteness, for the attenuated skein linking them was untouched by that tragic tension which, until this time at least, has always in the West been associated with romantic love. Indeed, it is doubtful whether even the Orient could provide a counterpart to this strange ‘elective affinity;’ though its origin may be sought in that hidden impact of the Levant on Europe, from which the Magian consciousness arises. Plato, perhaps, was looking eastward when he wrote of two beings contained in a single sphere to form a hermaphrodite whole, the androgynous egg. It seemed that Oriole and Corolla were in some sense the same person, a kind of Euphorion, and for this reason their link was without passion, a vegetative growth; or as if two clouds floating towards one another should coalesce-yet with something of apocalypse, as though mutually and for each, the other side of the moon were suddenly revealed. And since this was so, no intrigue however persistent, and no convention however strict, could finally keep them apart.

Corolla had not come to this visit primed with the well-defined ambitions of many of the other guests, and had no thought of attempting to make herself particularly alluring, still less of monopolising the Duke’s attention. Yet the bond of sympathy was immediately established between them; though she could only guess at what formed it – whether the fact that they were both orphans and both of the same age, and that they shared some unexpected facial resemblance, had anything to do with it, she could not tell. She only knew that when she saw him, his rank and possessions meant nothing to her – she forgot all about them; and would equally have forgotten their lack, had she met him, a forlorn beggar, on some outlandish shore.

The celebrations at the Hall were not only social in the strict sense but religious also, and on Sunday morning the private chapel was full. Corolla sensed a certain tension in the atmosphere which she could neither define nor explain; Aunt Augusta seemed to be in her most dictatorial mood; and an instance occurred to justify the priest’s apprehension of her, for on his making a slight slip in the ritual, she had no hesitation in loudly correcting him before the assembled company. Cousin Alicia, also, gave Corolla a very hard look as they were coming out of the chapel; and this was one of the first intimations she received that the Duke’s preference for her was not approved. She realised, of course, that it could not have gone unremarked; no doubt there had already been some gossiping in boudoirs; perhaps she had been branded as ‘scheming’ or ‘a dark horse’, as the saying goes, when in fact she had done nothing but flow unresisting with the tide of fate. There may even have been established overnight two rival camps – one composed of Alicia, her mother the Countess Astarte and their supporters; the other, of those, who, though envious of Alicia yet had little chance themselves, and so were inclined to side with Corolla against her from sheer desperation.

Meanwhile, the companionship of Corolla had become Oriole’s chief delight, and they would roam together for hours through his extensive grounds, or go exploring in the ancient passages and chambers of his mighty mansion. Separate from the main building, but not far away, was a church of fair size, though not now in use, since the family preferred the more convenient chapel which had recently been built into the fabric of the house itself. The interior of this abandoned fane was very beautiful, and not neglected, but kept clean and in good repair. Oriole particularly loved the place, as he could be alone there to muse for hours without being disturbed; and to Corolla he displayed enthusiastically all its beauties and curiosities, telling her legends of the saints and heroes, many of them connected with the family, whose images appeared in stained-glass, carved wood or painted ceiling.

Some of the upper panes of the windows and the carvings in the roof could not be seen clearly from the ground, so Oriole proposed that they should fly up and look at them. Corolla demurred, thinking she would be unable to leave the floor, or would become giddy after a few feet; but Oriole said he would teach her. Hand in hand they rose into the air, through pallid beams of sunshine which poured across the spaces of the interior, gilding their suspended dust. It was with a sense of great elation that they floated about near the roof, examining its treasures one by one; but as Oriole was telling her the story of some coloured figure in the great east window, the young girl suddenly realised how far below her was the ground, and lost confidence in her power of being upborne. She began to tremble and lose her balance; but Oriole steadied her, and they sank to earth gently, hand in hand as they had risen.

It did not occur to Corolla as strange that they should be able to fly, though she dimly perceived that, had they demonstrated their power before the other guests, profound disquiet would have resulted. She felt that Oriole would not wish them to use this faculty unless they were by themselves; also, that it was perhaps primarily the intuition of such latent gift which had attracted him to her. It was a delightful secret between them; and after their first flight she knew that they were affianced.

However, her visit was by no means entirely filled with such enchanting episodes as this; as already related, by Sunday morning Corolla had begun to sense that her behaviour was being looked at askance, and by the afternoon she had definite proof of it. She was strolling in the garden, alone for the moment (though she had no doubt but that Oriole would soon join her) near some magnificent yew hedges fully twenty feet in height and almost as thick, when she heard, muffled by these multitudinous twigs and leaflets, the sound of voices.

‘Come here, Oriole,’ she heard Aunt Augusta say. ‘There is something I want to tell you.’

‘What is it, Aunt?’ Oriole’s crystalline voice responded. He did not wish to be delayed.

‘My dear, I had rather you did not see too much of your cousin Corolla; you have other guests to consider, and she cannot be helpful to you.’

‘But I must be with her, I like no one so much.

She is quiet and makes me feel serene.’

‘Listen to me, Oriole; this cannot continue. There is something you must know about her. A few years ago she was married secretly and has since been divorced in very shameful circumstances. She was living abroad at the time and I have only just heard the story from Aunt Astarte. Had I known of it before I should not, of course, have invited Corolla here.’

‘I can’t believe it,’ was Oriole’s stunned reply.

‘It is true, none the less,’ corroborated the voice of the Countess Astarte. ‘The fact is, that though she masquerades as an innocent young girl, she is, I need hardly say, the very reverse.’

‘Whatever she may have done since,’ continued the voice of Aunt Augusta, ‘she is still, according to our views, the wife of the man who married her; so I beg, Oriole, that however charming she seems, you will try to put all thought of her out of your mind. Her influence cannot be other than corrupting; and though, since she is our guest, we must be polite to her during the rest of her stay, we need not show her more than courtesy; and we must not expect to see her here again.’

‘I understand,’ replied Oriole, all the lustre gone from his voice. ‘But please, Aunt Augusta, don’t ask me to do anything or see anyone for an hour or so.’

While the two dowagers remained seated in an alcove of the yews, Oriole wandered sadly away. Corolla silently kept pace with his footsteps, following the line of the massive hedge, until a break occurred in its vegetal symmetry, when, taking the turning thus offered, she came upon him face to face.

‘Oriole,’ she cried in a reproachful tone, ‘I heard all that your Aunt has just said to you, and I want to assure you that it is untrue. If she will not take my word, I can give her proof. But what hurts me far more than her injustice, is that even you seem to doubt me.’

‘Then all those stories are lies?’ he cried in relief.

‘Yes, whatever their source. Decide for yourself what to do. I only want you to know that I have never been married, never even had a sweetheart, except you; and you, I think I have always known, though I did not meet you until two days ago.’

Oriole’s face brightened.

‘I knew I was not deceived!’ he exclaimed. ‘Nothing shall spoil our happiness now.’

They floated together like motes drawn by an aery tide in some celestial beam.

‘Let’s lie down here,’ said Oriole, and hand in hand they sought a mossy incline which, sheltered with scented shrubs, made a rustic couch; and there they lay in tranced embrace, one cannot tell how long. Their dream was broken by a sound of retreating footsteps, and of voices in which were mingled anger and frustration. They knew that they had been not only seen but resentfully observed. They lay however a little longer; and then, walking with arms still entwined, returned to the Hall.

That evening their engagement was announced; and when, next day, most of the other guests took their leave, Oriole insisted that Corolla should remain; should stay, indeed, until they could be married. Aunt Augusta, though scarcely cordial, was obliged to accept the situation with what grace she could. She had even, since the outfacing of the Countess Astarte, reacted a little in the young orphan’s favour.

Another and sadder consideration was the health of the Duke, for the excitement of the last few days seemed to have been more than his fragile constitution could bear. He now alternated between periods of lassitude, in which, lying on a sofa, his hands between Corolla’s, he could do nothing but muse, as they looked out from a lofty window on the green and dusky stretches of the park; and bouts of feverish coughing, in which he was ever bordering on delirium. It soon became plain that the only hope of saving his life, or even of prolonging it a little, was to grant his every desire, chief of which was, of course, his bride’s constant presence. He could not attend to the affairs of his vast estate, nor had he any wish to do so; it was obvious that he would never be able to assume the responsibilities suitable to his rank, nor lead the life appropriate to a wealthy and respected landowner. He was made for an idyll, and beyond this his powers could not reach.

One unforeseen result of Oriole’s illness was the loss of his faculty of flight, so that his enchanting aery excursions with Corolla came to an end. This was a great grief to both, but more poignant perhaps to Corolla, since a veil, only half-transparent, had descended over Oriole, and his days and nights passed in a daze, now torpid, now lurid, which blurred the acuity of all his ideas and sensations. She did not care to fly alone, for it was an activity that, for her, would be incomplete without Oriole; nor did she have much opportunity to do so, even had she desired, since the patient was in constant need of her attentions.

But one evening when the weather was particularly cool and still, he grew more lucid and became almost as he had been when she first met him. She even had hope, as she sat beside him, her arm around his shoulders, of his complete recovery. His couch was placed close under a widely-opened window, from which they could look down upon the tranquil waters of a lake in the grounds, which darkly reflected its wooded nearer shores. This stretch of water wound in such a way as to look, from their viewpoint, almost like a river, and towards its far end the grassy verge was so low that there seemed little solid earth to divide the gleaming western clouds from their image in the mere.

Suddenly, from the air above, they heard a cry that made them both start. It was like the call of a bird, but sounding at the same time a note that was almost human. They listened, and thought they could discern a noise like the rhythmic shuffle of enormous wings planing over the mansion. They leaned out of the window and saw, flying now above the middle of the lake, a bird in shape like a swan, but so huge that it might have been an albatross. The span of its wings showed white against the shadowy woodlands; then as it sank towards the furtherest water, it skimmed the surface for a little, and came to rest, making a closed silhouette on the double of the glowing sky.

Oriole had followed all the bird’s movements entranced; but it only floated in suspense, still as the waters themselves, and seemed to be waiting. Suddenly, as though unknown to them some signal of departure had been given, it rose into the empyrean, spreading its magnificent pinions now against the sunset.

Oriole had arisen trembling, and was climbing out upon the window-sill. The sky’s roseate reflection lent his pallid skin a glow almost of health, and his eyes burned with excitement as he looked back, inviting Corolla to follow him. Scrambling out beside him, she took his hand as she had often done before, and they launched themselves into the air. This flight seemed even more easy and natural than their previous ones, for they had not even to make the effort of ascension, being already far above the ground. They floated on, gently at first, then more rapidly so as not to lose sight of the bird. As they flew, leaving the mansion and its grounds far behind, they became permeated with light and colour; and their blood, always a single stream, now pulsed back and forth along the rays of the sun, as from some magnetic heart. The bird, too, must have felt a link with the fiery west, for it sailed on as though drawn without volition to plunge into that flaming core; and with this creature of air for guide, the two sailed effortlessly on, desiring no return.