by Lucas Malet
XXI
Days multiplied into weeks, March passed into April, April into May,June came with all its roses, the lime-trees flowered once again, andthe scent of them was wafted across the broad lawns and in at the openwindows, yet Laurence stayed on at Stoke Rivers. He had ceased toapologise for, or seek to justify his action. The fanatical, extravagantelement of his character was fully in the ascendant, and it wasconveniently contemptuous of criticism. He had become a law untohimself. He stayed because he intended to stay--there was the beginningand end of the matter. Meanwhile, he made discovery of pleasures subtleand subjective, hitherto unimagined. Living the life of the recluse, heenjoyed that sense of inward harmony and freedom of spirit known only tothose who dare divorce themselves from society, with its many tyrannies,and from familiar commerce with their fellowmen. He experienced thesensible increase of will-power, and the mental elation, that are bornof solitude, silence, and whole-hearted devotion to a single idea. Thevalues shifted, and many worldly matters, many amusements, which hadformerly appeared to him of vital importance, now began to appearslightly absurd. He ate and drank sparingly, since meat and liquor tendto render the action of the brain sluggish, and the imagination somewhatgross. His dear fairy-lady should regain the completeness of herhumanity; but he would fit himself to meet her half way on hermysterious return journey from the regions of the dead, by purginghimself of all superfluous animality.
And his environment lent itself to these practices and experiments. Thehousehold had settled back into its accustomed decorum and regularity.It asked no questions, it obeyed in respectful silence. And, if certaintremors shook it at times in face of its new master's supposed dealingswith things occult and supernatural, it accepted them as a necessarypart of its service. Indeed, it may be questioned whether Lowndes, thegrey-faced, long-armed valet, Renshaw, and Watkins, irreproachablycorrect of demeanour, would not have suffered far greater inconvenienceand perturbation had they been called upon to adapt themselves to theordinary ways of the ordinary, English country-gentleman. Their pridewould have suffered likewise, since eccentricity had been so longenthroned in their midst, that its absence would have seemed a loss of_prestige_, a regrettable coming down in the social scale. Theydisplayed much solicitude for Laurence's comfort, and much grim alacrityin turning guests from his door. Captain Bellingham's fears that hisfriend might develop into a crank appeared to be in very fair road tofulfilment; but the household rejoiced silently and grimly thereat.
So did not Armstrong, the shrewd and kindly Scotch agent.
"Whether the place induces a whimsicality in the family, or the familyin the place, I would not presume to declare," he lamented one day, whenhaving a crack with a trusted friend and fellow-countryman. "It is likethe matter of priority between the owl and the egg, a hidden thing,transcending human wit. But a certain impracticability is assuredly bredin their bones, poor bodies, which needs must eventually come out in theflesh of every one of them. They're over proud of the intelligence ofwhich it has pleased the Almighty to bestow on them so handsome aportion--as the intelligence of Saxons and Southerners go, youunderstand. And being puffed up with conceit of themselves they proceedto apply their bit of unusual reason in wild and impolitic speculations,to the endangering of their own and other persons' peace and security. Asair pity, a sair pity! Not that I would deny degrees in the naturalwrong-headedness of the poor, misguided creatures. The presentrepresentative of the family is a young man of excellent parts andpractical ability; and though I fear he is going astray in someparticulars, I find in him a praiseworthy application to business, bytimes."
For in good truth, notwithstanding the dominion of his fixed idea,Laurence was determined on the improvement of his somewhat neglectedestate. Every afternoon saw him ride forth to visit farm or distanthamlet, to superintend operations of fencing, draining, or building, tomark wood and copse-land for future cutting. Specially was he interestedin the construction of a light railway from Stoke Rivers Road to somegypsum quarries at Hazledown, about three miles distant, the worth ofwhich would be doubled by direct and permanent means of transport.Silent and self-absorbed for the most part, he rode about the charmingSussex country while the gay, spring weather matured into the glow andheat of summer. And all the while against his heart lay the poignantdelight of a great romance, and in his eyes sat the light of a greatadventure. He was very happy, so happy that, while he longed for theattainment of his purpose and strained every nerve to accomplish it, healmost dreaded that accomplishment since it must rob him of the sweetand gracious present.
And that such accomplishment drew on as the summer went forward he couldnot doubt. For his fairy-lady had grown less timid than of old, bravingnow the earlier dusk, now the later dawn, as the fancy took her; while averitable shadow clung unquestionably to her little feet, and lengthenedbehind or beside her. Though no less slender and graceful than before,her person was less ethereal. It appeared to gain a certain substance, agreater opacity; while her movements were more measured. Once or twiceLaurence had fancied he saw her pale face flush under sudden emotion, asthough blood once more began to course beneath the clear, smooth skin.Her talk, moreover, was less of the past than of the present. At timesshe would ask questions, not wholly easy for him to answer withoutrevealing those things regarding which he had agreed with himself tokeep silence. But on many matters he had come to speak to her freely,telling her of his daily occupations and affairs, of the books he read,even of passing events of public interest. And to all his talk shelistened now thoughtfully, now with pretty mirth, offering not onlysympathy, but discreet counsel, while sometimes a touch of far-reachingand singularly mature wisdom gave a significant value to her speech.There were moments, indeed, when Laurence gazed at her in wonder, forshe betrayed a depth and daring of thought impossible to a young girl,however good her training and notable her natural talents--thought onlypossible to one who had discounted the many subterfuges and illusions oflife, as most mortals see and live it, by apprehension of thingssupramundane, eternal, and so of infinite moment to the conscience andthe heart.
She grew in womanhood, and she grew in the charm of distinction and of afine equality. Yet the mystery surrounding her was to Laurence in nowise lessened. For he began to perceive that, if he held back somewhatfrom her knowledge concerning himself, she, notwithstanding hertransparent sincerity and the perfection of her love, held back somewhatfrom him. She played with him, she eluded him; and he perceived that herlovely soul--did he dwell with her for a thousand years--would stillhave its surprises for him, and its secret places, adorably difficult ofaccess. Then, too, for all her increasing humanity, the way of hercoming at sundown, and going at sunrise remained unexplained as ever.
One morning in late June, standing in the bay-window, with the fragranceof the blossoming garden and the songs of awakening birds saluting them,he questioned her on this matter. Her hand rested in his--no longerperceptible as a mere pulsation, such as might be caused by thefluttering wings of a captive butterfly. It had substance now, actual,though very delicate, weight. And feeling this, amazement and ecstasyinvaded Laurence. His eyes were alight and his blood hot.
"You are going?" he asked. "But why should you go? Stay and see the dayin its beauty."
But she smiled on him, a serious and enigmatic smile, though very fullof tenderness.
"The day does not belong to me yet," she answered. "I cannot take thatwhich is not mine."
"Everything is ours if we dare take it," Laurence said. "Possession isin the act, not in the fact. You create law by believing in andsubmitting to it. Cease to believe, cease to submit, the prohibition,the obligation, vanishes into fine air. The day is yours, dear love, andall the vigorous life and joy of it, if you will but venture. Have justa little courage. Try--"
But she shook her pretty head, still smiling, though, as it seemed toLaurence, rather mournfully.
"Then tell me where you go," he said. "Tell me where you pass all thehours when you are not here? See, I have been very patient, I haveas
ked you no questions. And yet, loving you as I do, I have a right tohear."
"Ah!" she answered playfully, though with a touch of sadness--"what animportunate being you have suddenly become! Yet why?--Half your life ishidden from me, dear Laurence, and I do not ask to have it otherwise.Why, then, should not half of mine be hidden from you? Indeed, it isalways so between man and woman, I think, whether they know it--as wedo--or know it not."
But Laurence was not in the humour to have his inquiry put aside thuslightly.
"Still tell me--tell me," he insisted. "Look here, really I am notunreasonable." He laughed a little, looking at her very charmingly inmingled eagerness and command,--"For your exits and entrances are not asthose of other women, Agnes, so tell me. Or let me go with youwheresoever you go. Or just--it is very simple--don't go--stay righthere, and brave the glory of the sunrise. Stay!--"
As he spoke, long shafts of pale, golden light shot through the openingsbetween the high-standing trees of the eastern woodland, and lay inmisty radiance along the dewy lawns, touching the heads of thecypresses, and flashing upon the upspringing waters of the fountains.
"Ah, have patience--but a little trifle of patience yet, dearest love,"Agnes Rivers pleaded. "Only wait, and that which is to be will surelydeclare itself. I would so gladly stay--or gladly take you with me,going; but I can do neither, though why, I do not at present fullycomprehend."
She turned, and for a moment stood facing the sunlight, bright in itsroyal brightness, looking out on the fair, summer landscape, an infinitehope and yearning in her lovely face. Then she folded her hands highupon her bosom--slightly ruffling the smooth surface of her dainty,muslin cape--bowed her head meekly as in worship, and moved away. As shepassed, Laurence--standing a little behind her--for the first time heardthe soft sound of her rapid footfall, and the whisper of her silkengown.
The young man, too, worshipped the rising sun after his manner--amanner, it must be admitted, by no means of the meekest. The room wasempty, but he did not greatly care, for his great purpose seemed soclose upon consummation. The crisis was very near now. Before thatsplendid, June sun rose to-morrow--so he told himself--his work would becomplete. She was so nearly human, his dear fairy-lady; her pure spiritso strangely, yet sensibly, in process of clothing itself with sweet,living flesh. He would set bread and wine before her, in the small hourswhen this bright day was dead. She should eat and drink of a sacramentalfeast, designed to secure, not eternal life to the soul, in this case,but mortal life to the beautiful, young body which he so desired andloved.
Thus did Laurence Rivers hail the sunrise, filled with an immense prideof his own action, his own will, and the powers of his race, deeminghimself a worker of miracles and equal of the immortal gods.