Collected Works of Algernon Blackwood

by Algernon Blackwood

  ‘It’s sweet,’ she said, ‘when real people come together — find each other.’

  ‘Again,’ he added. ‘You left that out. For I’ve never forgotten — all these years.’

  She laughed. ‘Well, I’ll tell you the truth,’ she confessed frankly. ‘I hadn’t forgotten either; I often thought of you and wondered — —’

  ‘What I was like now?’

  ‘What you were doing, where you were,’ she said. ‘I always knew what you were like. But I often wondered how far on you had got.’

  ‘You had no news of me?’

  ‘None. But I always believed you’d do something big in the world.’

  Something in her voice or manner made it wholly natural for him to tell her of his boyhood love. He mentioned the Wave and wavy feeling, the nightmare too, but when he tried to go beyond that, something checked him; he felt a sudden shyness. It ‘sounds so silly,’ was his thought. ‘But I always know a real person,’ he said aloud, ‘anybody who’s going to be real in my life; they always arrive on a wave, as it were. My wavy feeling announces them.’ And the interest with which she responded prevented his regretting having made his confession.

  ‘It’s an instinct, I think,’ she agreed, ‘and instincts are meant to be listened to. I’ve had something similar, though with me it’s not a wave.’ Her voice grew slower, she made a pause; when he looked up — her eyes were gazing across the lake as though in a moment of sudden absent-mindedness. . . . ‘And what’s yours?’ he asked, wondering why his heart was beating as though something painful was to be disclosed.

  ‘I see a stream,’ she went on slowly, still gazing away from him across the expanse of shining water, ‘a flowing stream — with faces on it. They float down with the current. And when I see one I know it’s somebody real — real to me. The unreal faces are always on the bank. I pass them by.’

  ‘You’ve seen mine?’ he asked, unable to hide the eagerness. ‘My face?’

  ‘Often, yes,’ she told him simply. ‘I dream it usually, I think: but it’s quite vivid.’

  ‘And is that all? You just see the faces floating down with the current?’

  ‘There’s one other thing,’ she answered, ‘if you’ll promise not to laugh.’

  ‘Oh, I won’t laugh,’ he assured her. ‘I’m awfully interested. It’s no funnier than my Wave, anyhow.’

  ‘They’re faces I have to save,’ she said. ‘Somehow I’m meant to rescue them.’ In what way she did not know. ‘Just keep them above water, I suppose!’ And the smile in her face gave place to a graver look. The stream of faces was real to her in the way his Wave was real. There was meaning in it. ‘Only three weeks ago,’ she added, ‘I saw you like that.’ He asked where it was, and she told him Warsaw. They compared notes; they had been in the town together, it turned out. Their outer paths had been converging for some time, then.

  ‘Why — did you leave?’ he asked suddenly. He wanted to ask why she was there at all, but something stopped him.

  ‘I usually come here,’ she said quietly, ‘about this time. It’s restful. There’s peace in these quiet hills above the town, and the lake is soothing. I get strength and courage here.’

  He glanced at her with astonishment a moment. Behind the simple language another meaning flashed. There was a look in the eyes, a hint in the voice that betrayed her.… He waited, but she said no more. Not that she wished to conceal, but that she did not wish to speak of something. Warsaw meant pain for her, she came here to rest, to recuperate after a time of stress and struggle, he felt. And looking at the face he recognised for the first time that behind its quiet strength there lay deep pain and sadness, yet accepted pain and sadness conquered, a suffering she had turned to sweetness. Without a particle of proof, he yet felt sure of this. And an immense respect woke in him. He saw her saving, rescuing others, regardless of herself: he felt the floating faces real; the stream was life — her life.… And, side by side with the deep respect, the bigger, higher impulse stirred in him again. Name it he could not: it just came: it stole into him like some rare and exquisite new fragrance, and it came from her.… He saw her far above him, stooping down from a higher level to reach him with her little hand.… He knew a yearning to climb up to her — a sudden and searching yearning in his soul. ‘She’s come back to fetch me,’ ran across his mind before he realised it; and suddenly his heart became so light that he thought he had never felt such happiness before. Then, before he realised it, he heard himself saying aloud — from his heart:

  ‘You do me an awful lot of good — really you do. I feel better and happier when I’m with you. I feel—’ He broke off, aware that he was talking rather foolishly. Yet the boyish utterance was honest; she did not think it foolish apparently. For she replied at once, and without a sign of lightness:

  ‘Do I? Then I mustn’t leave you, Tom!’

  ‘Never!’ he exclaimed impetuously.

  ‘Until I’ve saved you.’ And this time she did not laugh.

  She was still looking away from him across the water, and the tone was quiet and unaccented. But the words rang like a clarion in his mind. He turned; she turned too: their eyes met in a brief but penetrating gaze. And for an instant he caught an expression that frightened him, though he could not understand its meaning. Her beauty struck him like a sheet of fire — all over. He saw gold about her like the soft fire of the southern stars. With any other woman, at any other time, he would — but the thought utterly denied itself before it was half completed even. It sank back as though ashamed. There was something in her that made it ugly, out of rhythm, undesirable, and undesired. She would not respond — she would not understand.

  In its place another blazed up with that strange, big yearning at the back of it, and though he gazed at her as a man gazes at a woman he needs and asks for, her quiet eyes did not lower or turn aside. The cheaper feeling ‘I’m not worthy of you,’ took in his case a stronger form: ‘I’ll be better, bigger, for you.’ And then, so gently it might have been a mother’s action, she put her hand on his with firm pressure, and left it lying there a moment before she withdrew it again. Her long white glove, still fastened about the wrist, was flung back so that it left the palm and fingers bare, and the touch of the soft skin upon his own was marvellous; yet he did not attempt to seize it, he made no movement in return. He kept control of himself in a way he did not understand. He just sat and looked into her face. There was an entire absence of response from her — in one sense. Something poured from her eyes into his very soul, but something beautiful, uplifting. This new yearning emotion rose through him like a wave, bearing him upwards.… At the same time he was vaguely aware of a lack as well… of something incomplete and unawakened.…

  ‘Thank you — for saying that,’ he was murmuring; ‘I shall never forget it,’; and though the suppressed passion changed the tone and made it tremble even, he held himself as rigid as a statue. It was she who moved. She leaned nearer to him. Like a flower the wind bends on its graceful stalk, her face floated very softly against his own. She kissed him. It was all very swift and sudden. But, though exquisite, it was not a woman’s kiss.… The same instant she was sitting straight again, gazing across the blue lake below her.

  ‘You’re still a boy,’ she said, with a little innocent laugh, ‘still a wonderful, big boy.’

  ‘Your boy,’ he returned. ‘I always have been.’

  There was deep, deep joy in his heart, it lifted him above the world — with her. Yet with the joy there was this faint touch of disappointment too.

  ‘But, I say — isn’t it awfully strange?’ he went on, words failing him absurdly. ‘It’s very wonderful, this friendship. It’s so natural.’ Then he began to flush and stammer.

  In an even tone of voice she answered: ‘It’s wonderful, Tom, but it’s not strange.’ And again he was vaguely aware that something which might have made her words yet more convincing was not there.

  ‘But I’ve got that curious feeling — I could swear it’s all happened
before.’ He moved closer as he spoke; her dress was actually against his coat, but he could not touch her. Something made it impossible, wrong, a false, even a petty thing. It would have taken away the kiss. ‘Have you?’ he asked abruptly, with an intensity that seemed to startle her, ‘have you got that feeling of familiarity too?’

  And for a moment in the middle of their talk they both, for some reason, grew very thoughtful.…

  ‘It had to be — perhaps,’ she answered simply a little later. ‘We are both real, so I suppose — yes, it has to be.’

  There was the definite feeling that both spoke of a bigger thing that neither quite understood. Their eyes searched, but their hearts searched too. There was a gap in her that somehow must be filled, Tom felt.… They stared long at one another. He was close upon the missing thing — when suddenly she withdrew her eyes. And with that, as though a wave had swept them together and passed on, the conversation abruptly changed its key. They fell to talking of other things. The man in him was again aware of disappointment.

  The change was quite natural, nothing forced or awkward about it. The significance had gone its way, but the results remained. They were in the ‘sea’ together. It ‘had to be.’ As from the beginning of the world they belonged to one another, each for the other — real. There was nothing about it of a text-book ‘love affair,’ absolutely nothing. Deeper far than a passional relationship, guiltless of any fruit of mere propinquity, the foundations of the sudden intimacy were as ancient as immovable. The inevitable touch lay in it. And Tom knew this partly confirmed, at any rate, by the emotion in him when she said ‘my boy,’ for the term woke no annoyance, conveyed no lightness. Yet there was a flavour of disappointment in it somewhere — something of necessary value that he missed in her.… To a man in love it must have sounded superior, contemptuous: whereas to him it sounded merely true. He was her boy. This mother-touch was in her. To care, to cherish, somehow even to rescue, she had come to find him out — again. She had come back.… It was thus, at first, he felt it. From somewhere above, beyond the place where he now stood in life, she had ‘come back, come down, to fetch him.’ She was further on than he was. He longed to stand beside her. Until he did so… this gap in her must prevent absolute union. On both sides it was not entirely natural as yet.… Thought grew confused in him.

  And, though he could not understand, he accepted it as inevitable. The joy, moreover, was so urgent and uprising, that it smothered a delicate whisper that yet came with it — that the process involved also — pain. Though aware, from time to time, of this vague uneasiness, he easily brushed it aside. It was the merest gossamer-thread of warning that with each recurrent appearance became more tenuous, until finally it ceased to make its presence felt at all.…

  In the entire affair of this sudden intercourse he felt the Wave, yet the Wave, though steadily rising, ceased to make its presence too consciously known; the Whiff, the Sound, the Eyes seemed equally forgotten: that is, he did not realise them. He was living now, and introspection was a waste of time, living too intensely to reflect or analyse. He felt swept onwards upon a tide that was greater than he could manage, for instead of swimming consciously, he was borne and carried with it. There was certainly no attempt to stem. Life was rising. It rushed him forwards too deliciously to think.…

  He began asking himself the old eternal question: ‘Do I love? Am I in love — at last, then?’… Some time passed, however, before he realised that he loved, and it was in a sudden, curious way that this realisation came. Two little words conveyed the truth — some days later, as they were at tea on the verandah of her hotel, watching the sunset behind the blue line of the Jura Mountains. He had been talking about himself, his engineering prospects — rather proudly — his partnership and the letter he expected daily from Sir William. ‘I hope it will be Assouan,’ he said, ‘I’ve never been in Egypt. I’m awfully keen to see it.’ She said she hoped so too. She knew Egypt well: it enchanted, even enthralled her: ‘familiar as though I’d lived there all my life. A change comes over me, I become a different person — and a much older one; not physically,’ she explained with a curious shy gaze at him, ‘but in the sense that I feel a longer pedigree behind me.’ She gave the little laugh that so often accompanied her significant remarks. ‘I always think of the Nile as the ‘stream’ where I see the floating faces.’

  They went on chatting for some minutes about it. Tom asked if she had met his cousin out there; yes, she remembered vaguely a Mr. Winslowe coming to tea on her dahabieh once, but it was only when he described Tony more closely that she recalled him positively. ‘He interested me,’ she said then: ‘he talked wildly, but rather picturesquely, about what he called the ‘spiral movement of life,’ or something.’ ‘He goes after birds,’ Tom mentioned. ‘Of course,’ she replied, ‘I remember distinctly now. It was something about the flight of birds that introduced the spiral part of it. He had a good deal in him, that man,’ she added, ‘but he hid it behind a lot of nonsense — almost purposely, I felt.’

  ‘That’s Tony all over,’ Tom assented, ‘but he’s a rare good sort and I’m awfully fond of him. He’s ‘real’ in our sense too, I think.’

  She said then very slowly, as though her thoughts were far away in Egypt at the moment: ‘Yes, I think he is. I’ve seen his face too.’

  ‘Floating down, you mean — or on the bank?’

  ‘Floating,’ she answered. ‘I’m sure I have.’

  Tom laughed happily. ‘Then you’ve got him to rescue too,’ he said. ‘But, remember, if we’re both drowning, I come first.’

  She looked into his face and smiled her answer, touching his fingers with her hand. And again it was not a woman’s touch.

  ‘He was in Warsaw, too, a few weeks ago,’ Tom went on, ‘so we were all three there together. Rather odd, you know. He was ski-ing with me in the Carpathians,’; and he described their meeting at Zakopané after the long interval since boyhood. ‘He told me about you in Egypt, too, now I come to think of it. He mentioned the dahabieh, but called you a Russian — yes, I remember now, — and a Russian Princess into the bargain. Evidently you made less impression on Tony than — —’

  It was then he stopped as though he had been struck. The idle conversation changed. He heard her interrupting words from a curious distance. They fell like particles of ice upon his heart.

  ‘Polish, of course, not Russian,’ she mentioned casually, ‘but the rest is right, though I never use the title. My husband, in his own country, is a Prince, you see.’

  Something reeled in him, then instantly righted itself. For a moment he felt as though the freedom of their intercourse had received a shock that blighted it. The words, ‘my husband,’ struck chill and ominous into his heart. The recovery, however, — almost simultaneous — showed him that both the freedom and the intercourse were right and unashamed. She gave him nothing that belonged to any other: she was loyal and true to that other as she was loyal and true to himself. Their relationship was high above mere passional intrigue; it could exist — in the way she knew it, felt it — side by side with that other one, before that other one’s very eyes, if need be.… He saw it true: he saw it innocent as daylight.… For what he felt was somehow this: the woman in her was not his, but more than that — it was not any one’s. It still lay dormant.…

  If there was a momentary confusion in his own mind, there was none, he felt positive, in hers. The two words that struck him such a blow, she uttered as lightly, innocently, as the rest of the talk between them. Indeed, had that other — even in thought Tom preferred the paraphrase — been present, she would have introduced them to each other then and there. He heard her saying the little phrases even: ‘My husband,’ and, ‘This is Tom Kelverdon whom I’ve loved since childhood.’

  Nothing brought more home to him the high innocence, the purity and sweetness of this woman than the reflections that flung after one another in his mind as he realised that his hope of her being a widow was not justified, and at the same moment that
he desired exclusive possession of her — that he was definitely in love.

  That she was unaware of any discovery, even if she divined the storm in him at all, was clear from the way she went on speaking. For, while all this flashed through his mind, she added quietly: ‘He is in Warsaw now. He — lives there. I go to him for part of every year.’ To which Tom heard his voice reply something as natural and commonplace as ‘Yes — I see.’

  Of the hundred pregnant questions that presented themselves, he did not ask a single one: not that he lacked the courage so much as that he felt the right was — not yet — his. Moreover, behind her quiet words he divined a tragedy. The suffering that had become sweetness in her face was half explained, but the full revelation of it belonged to ‘that other’ and to herself alone. It had been their secret, he remembered, for at least fifteen years.

  CHAPTER X.

  Yet, knowing himself in love, he was able to set his house in order. Confusion disappeared. With the method and thoroughness of his character he looked things in the face and put them where they belonged. Even to wake up to an untidy room was an affliction. He might arrive in a hotel at midnight, but he could not sleep until his trunks were empty and everything in its place. In such outer details the intensity of his nature showed itself: it was the intensity, indeed, that compelled the orderliness.