Where was he to fly for relief from such new memories as these, which would never cease; and the old memories, and all the glamour and grace of them that had been so suddenly called out of the grave? And how could he escape, now that he felt the sight of her face and the sound of her voice would be a craving—a daily want—like that of some poor starving outcast for warmth and meat and drink?
And little innocent, pathetic, ineffable, well-remembered sweetnesses of her changing face kept painting themselves on his retina; and incomparable tones of this new thing, her voice, her infinite voice, went ringing in his head, till he all but shrieked aloud in his agony.
And then the poisoned and delirious sweetness of those mad kisses,
“by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others”!
And then the gruesome physical jealousy, that miserable inheritance of all artistic sons of Adam, that plague and torment of the dramatic, plastic imagination, which can idealize so well, and yet realize, alas! so keenly. After three or four hours spent like this, he could stand it no longer; madness was lying his way. So he hurried on a garment, and went and knocked at Taffy’s door.
“Good God! what’s the matter with you?” exclaimed the good Taffy, as Little Billee tumbled into his room, calling out:
“Oh, Taffy, Taffy, I’ve g‑g‑gone mad, I think!” And then, shivering all over, and stammering incoherently, he tried to tell his friend what was the matter with him, with great simplicity.
Taffy, in much alarm, slipped on his trousers and made Little Billee get into his bed, and sat by his side holding his hand. He was greatly perplexed, fearing the recurrence of another attack like that of five years back. He didn’t dare leave him for an instant to wake the Laird and send for a doctor.
Suddenly Little Billee buried his face in the pillow and began to sob, and some instinct told Taffy this was the best thing that could happen. The boy had always been a highly strung, emotional, over-excitable, oversensitive, and quite uncontrolled mammy’s-darling, a crybaby sort of chap, who had never been to school. It was all a part of his genius, and also a part of his charm. It would do him good once more to have a good blub after five years! After a while Little Billee grew quieter, and then suddenly he said: “What a miserable ass you must think me, what an unmanly duffer!”
“Why, my friend?”
“Why, for going on in this idiotic way. I really couldn’t help it. I went mad, I tell you. I’ve been walking up and down my room all night, till everything seemed to go round.”
“So have I.”
“You? What for?”
“The very same reason.”
“What!”
“I was just as fond of Trilby as you were. Only she happened to prefer you.”
“What!” cried Little Billee again. “You were fond of Trilby?”
“I believe you, my boy!”
“In love with her?”
“I believe you, my boy!”
“She never knew it, then!”
“Oh yes, she did.”
“She never told me, then!”
“Didn’t she? That’s like her. I told her, at all events. I asked her to marry me.”
“Well—I am damned! When?”
“That day we took her to Meudon, with Jeannot, and dined at the Garde Champêtre’s, and she danced the cancan with Sandy.”
“Well—I am—And she refused you?”
“Apparently so.”
“Well, I—Why on earth did she refuse you?”
“Oh, I suppose she’d already begun to fancy you, my friend. Il y en a toujours un autre!”
“Fancy me—prefer me—to you?”
“Well, yes. It does seem odd—eh, old fellow? But there’s no accounting for tastes, you know. She’s built on such an ample scale herself, I suppose, that she likes little uns—contrast, you see. She’s very maternal, I think. Besides, you’re a smart little chap; and you ain’t half bad; and you’ve got brains and talent, and lots of cheek, and all that. I’m rather a ponderous kind of party.”
“Well—I am damned!”
“C’est comme ça! I took it lying down, you see.”
“Does the Laird know?”
“No; and I don’t want him to—nor anybody else.”
“Taffy, what a regular downright old trump you are!”
“Glad you think so; anyhow, we’re both in the same boat, and we’ve got to make the best of it. She’s another man’s wife, and probably she’s very fond of him. I’m sure she ought to be, cad as he is, after all he’s done for her. So there’s an end of it.”
“Ah! there’ll never be an end of it for me—never—never—oh, never, my God! She would have married me but for my mother’s meddling, and that stupid old ass, my uncle. What a wife! Think of all she must have in her heart and brain, only to sing like that! And, O Lord! how beautiful she is—a goddess! Oh, the brow and cheek and chin, and the way her head’s put on! did you ever see anything like it! Oh, if only I hadn’t written and told my mother I was going to marry her! why, we should have been man and wife for five years by this time—living at Barbizon—painting away like mad! Oh, what a heavenly life! Oh, curse all officious meddling with other people’s affairs! Oh! oh! …”
“There you go again! What’s the good? and where do I come in, my friend? I should have been no better off, old fellow—worse than ever, I think.”
Then there was a long silence.
At length Little Billee said:
“Taffy, I can’t tell you what a trump you are. All I’ve ever thought of you—and God knows that’s enough—will be nothing to what I shall always think of you after this.”
“All right, old chap.”
“And now I think I’m all right again, for a time—and I shall cut back to bed. Good night!
