by Lucas Malet
XXIII
Pulling out the heavy curtain, Laurence paused, for an unwonted soundsaluted his ears, to which, at first, they refused credence. He openedthe door quietly. The sound continued. The keys of the piano were struckso softly that they gave forth little more than the echo of a melody.His fairy-lady sat at the instrument; and, so absorbed was she in themaking of this dainty music, that the young man had crossed the room andleaned his elbows on the edge of the flat piano-case opposite to herbefore she looked up at him. Nor, meeting his eyes, did she leaveplaying, but let her fingers still draw forth that procession of slenderphrases from the discoloured, ivory notes--phrases not only exquisitelyrefined, but with a tremulous _coquetterie_ in them, the music of somepolite and graceful minuet, in which Boucher's fine fanciful, littlefigures of lover and mistress, courtier and prince, painted upon thesatin-wood escritoire, might have moved and postured, with a hundredpretty arts and invitations at the court of Louis the Fifteenth, over acentury ago.
The fine-drawn, little melody, and all its suggestions of pastintrigues, heart-burnings, elegant if questionable joys, and luxuriousliving, knocked at the door of the listener's heart with rather perilouspathos, notwithstanding his stern humour. Agnes Rivers's eyes too, asshe looked steadily at him, were at once grave with thought andbeseeching as those of a child, covetous of a possible pleasure, yetready to swallow its poor tears should that pleasure be denied. Her lipswere parted, but she did not speak. She only gazed and gazed athim--while still calling forth those frail and courteous harmonies--asthough she sought to penetrate the most hidden recesses of his nature.
And all this worked strongly upon Laurence, stirring in him memories ofjust such hot evenings, when, with windows set wide upon the fragrantgarden, and the wild brightness of the summer lightning pulsing--asnow--upon the far horizon, they had sat together making music, she andhe, nearly a hundred years back. That first love of theirs had beenshattered by cruel calamity of wounds and death. It had never found itsconsummation; and now the ache of its frustration was added to the acheof the present--of his passion so strongly held in check during the lastmany weeks; of his long-sustained effort, now touching on attainment; ofhis so recently made resolution to let honour go by the wall rather thanagain be defrauded of his love.
At length he could no longer endure the playful, yet in a way tragical,music, nor the sustained scrutiny of those grave yet wistful eyes.
"That's enough, Agnes; that's enough," he cried, and, leaning across thecase of the piano, laid hold on her hands and raised them off thekeyboard. And as he did so the blood leapt in his veins, for the factwas no longer open to question--those hands were firm and softly warm asa living woman's hand should be, and the clasp of them met and clung inhis. He drew her up, making the sweet musician stand opposite to him,while, bending down, he kissed and kissed those dear, warm hands,looking at her, his face on a level with hers. And as he did so hercheeks lost their waxen pallor and became beautifully flushed with clearcolour, while--so it seemed to him--he could hear the beating of herheart. And thus for a space they stood speechless, consumed by a veryecstasy of love.
Laurence was the first to break that enchanted silence. For he wasfeverish to complete the working of the miracle--to establish her inthis earthly life upon which she was re-entering, to chain her spirit tothis recovered human body by some corporeal act. He was feverish to seta seal upon her new condition, which it should not be possible for herto evade or to break.
"The perfect hour has come," he said, with fierce exultation. "Do youunderstand what has happened? You asked me once what was lacking. Well,that which was lacking has been restored to you. But it won't do to resthere. We must go on, go forward, so as to make security doubly secure."
Yet she sighed, turning her face away and gently releasing her handsfrom his grasp.
"Ah! the perfect hour has come--yes," she said. "But, dear Laurence, itcame once before, and, remember, along with it came the call for you todepart. Sorrow trod hard on the heels of joy; and I fear--how can I dootherwise?--lest it should do so again to-night."
Laurence felt his throat go dry and his lips stiffen, so that speech didnot come quite readily.
"It lies with you to prevent that catastrophe," he answered. "Only bebrave. Do as I ask you, and we can put all fear behind us for ever and aday. All the world may call me; I shall not go. It may howl at me, even,using foul names; but what does that matter? I have chosen. I abide bymy choice."
As he spoke she moved a little further from him, while the thundergrowled and muttered in the north, and the lightning showed fitfully, aswith the glare of a burning town, low down in the night sky.
"What has taken you, Laurence?" she asked. "You are strange in mannerand in voice. I hardly know you thus. Yet indeed I would do anything youask, however difficult, if that which you would have me do is not initself sinful or wrong."
"And this is right," he declared; "incontestably, everlastingly right.Indeed, it is little more than bare justice--the restitution of thatwhich was once ours, the paying of a long-owed debt. In past yearshappiness was snatched from us by jealous fate. Fate hasrepented--though late--and gives us back our happiness. We should befools not to take it."
He stood by her holding out his hand, his eyes alight as with a dullflame, the determination of conquest very forceful in him.
"See," he said hoarsely, "I have loved you back into life again, Agnes;and so your life belongs to me as no woman's life has ever belonged to aman before. That which I ask, you must do; for, believe me, I comprehendthis matter and all the issues of it best."
He led her towards the door and she came meekly, yet with a certainwonder and reserve in her bearing, as one who ponders and questionssilently even while they obey. He threw the door wide open revealingthe back of the leather-lined curtain. But on the threshold shehesitated and drew back.
"I have never crossed this," she said with gentle decision. "I cannotcross it."
"But you must cross it," he answered, "or all is lost."
A strong shuddering ran through her. The corners of her sweet mouthturned down and quivered, while her hand grew very cold.
"Ah, me! ah, me! my love," she cried, "then I fear indeed all must needsbe lost. For to cross this threshold is to force some barrier which Ihave neither the strength or the right to force. I do not know its name,but it is ancient and venerable, and forbids my passage with authority."
"All the more shall you force it then," Laurence replied. "Just now,sweetheart, I tell you I admit no authority but my own. And barriers aremade to be forced, that's the use of them. The more apparently ancientand venerable, the more must they go; so that the new may supersede thedecrepit and old, truth may supersede superstition, hope fear, and theliving the dead."
He laughed a little, partly in defiance of that more sane and modestself of his, with whom for the time being he had parted company, partlyto rally his dear companion's courage, and compel her faltering steps.
"Come," he said; "don't I love you better than my own soul? Would I, ofall men, do you any injury, do you think? Surely you can trustme--come."
But still that strong shuddering ran through her and she hung back. ThenLaurence lost patience.
"You foolish child," he said, "you are very much a woman. Your words areso wise; yet you prove so weak in action and scare yourself withself-invented terrors."
He set his back against the heavy curtain, pushing it outward. Then hetook her delicate body in his arms, lifted her over the threshold, andset her feet on the crimson carpet of the sombre and stately corridorwithout. The curtain swept back into its place across the door with adull thud, which mingled ominously with the muttering thunder. Againstthe panes of the long range of windows the lightning peeped andflickered, as in malicious curiosity of that going forward within,while the Roman emperors looked on, supercilious, impassive, withsightless, marble eyes. His fairy-lady's delicate body had been light asa feather, so light that, lifting it, Laurence had trembled lest itshould slip out of his
encircling arms, as the little summer winds mightslip should one strive to embrace them; and yet that same lifting of herhad taxed every muscle in his frame, and set his heart thumping like asteam hammer. It was the very oddest sensation, suggesting that therewas something very much more than a narrow piece of polished, oakflooring and deep, pile carpet to lift her across. He stood now,breathless, singularly shaken by the effort, notwithstanding his naturalvigour and physical strength--shaken, yet triumphant.
"There, my beloved," he cried, "there! It's not such a very dangerousexperiment after all, you see, to go out at an open door!--And now youare redeemed from slavery, free to range the pleasant earth at will andaccept all the glad chances of it."
But she shrunk against him, trembling, all her pretty pride humbled,like that of a little child detected in a fault. Her countenance hadbecome shy and wild, moreover, and clear reason had ceased to sitenthroned in her serious and lovely eyes. She looked now, as she hadlooked on the night he first found her flitting to and fro in the yellowparlour, searching, searching, vainly and hopelessly, for the lost keyof the satin-wood escritoire. And Laurence, seeing her thus, was smittenwith self-reproach and alarm. Was it possible that, along with therestoration of her body, had returned that alienation of mind fromwhich--as he had learned from her own testimony, and from thewell-authenticated tradition of Armstrong, the agent--she had formerlyand so pitifully suffered? As more than once before, an immensecompassion filled the young man; so that, coaxing her, and using tenderand endearing names--such as even the wisest of lovers weakly declineupon at times--he half-led, half-carried her past the doorways of allthose brightly-lighted, silent rooms, through the square hall--itsflying staircase gleaming upward step above step--until finally thedining-room was reached.
Here the musky odour of the tiger-coloured orchids met them, with theeffect, as it seemed, of a presence rather than a scent. It was full ofsubtle suggestions, that seeming presence, wooing them with insidiousprovocations of sense to partake of the mysterious, sacramental feastset out before them--a feast designed to wed, irrevocably, the sweetspirit to its so lately recovered body, and rivet upon it once again notonly the natural joys, but the inevitable cares and pains, all thegrievous burdens of mortal life.
The cloth had been withdrawn and upon the dark surface of the baretable, doubled by vertical reflections, a service of costly china,antique silver, and fine glass, was spread. Rare wines filled thelong-necked bottles and quaint high-shouldered decanters; while thepainted and gilded dishes held velvet-skinned, hot-house peaches,red-gold nectarines, little black Italian figs, and pyramids of fragrantstrawberries set in a fringe of fresh and lustrous leaves. The loaf ofwhite bread was there also, a simple and humble item offering somethingof contrast to its ornate surroundings.
Laurence placed his fairy-lady in the carven armchair at the head of thetable. Seated there, her slight figure, in its high-waisted, rose-red,silken gown and transparent lace and muslin cape, looked singularlyyouthful and fragile. Her graceful head and white throat showed upagainst the dark panelling of the wall. Her hands rested languidly uponthe arms of her chair. The corners of her mouth still quivered, and hereyes were wide with inarticulate distress. And all the while, oppositeto her, in at the windows at the far end of the room, the lightning,away there in the north, peeped evilly and flickered, and sometimesglared, a broad sheet of pale flame, behind the blackness of the distantwoods crowning the rounded hills.
Laurence stood close beside her. He filled her glass with wine andplaced fruit upon her plate, speaking to her very gently; possessed,meanwhile, by an adoration of her extreme and pensive beauty, a greatresolution to complete his work in respect of her, and a distrust lestthat work was going sorely amiss. But though he did his best to secureher attention, for many minutes she neither moved nor uttered any sound.
"See, dear love," the young man pleaded--"see, I have made you a daintysupper. Remember, this is the first time I ask you to eat a meal in myhouse. You were Dudley's guest often enough in old days, and did notrefuse what was set before you. Surely it is pleasanter to you to be myguest than his? So do not wander off, even for a little while, to walkthose dim and dreary interspaces between two worlds. All that is over.Don't become intangible and remote, or yield yourself to maligninfluences which would enthrall you and draw you away. Lay hold of yourwomanhood, sweetheart; and let human love wrap you about, and keep yousafe and warm. There is nothing, nothing in all this to fear, if youwill but believe me. Eat, my beloved, you have fasted long. You havecome from very far--how far heaven only knows! You are faint and wearywith the length of the way. Therefore eat, drink--let your body berefreshed and let your heart grow glad."
And presently, while he thus encouraged her, slowly, as one who shakesoff the torpor of exhaustion, she stretched, sitting very upright in thegreat, high-backed chair. The distress and desolation of her expressionbegan to give place to a gentle curiosity. She looked at the costlyfurnishings of the table, the dancing, golden figures in their flowingrobes, the fantastic flowers, the delicious fruits; fingered a silverspoon, and seeing her own reflection in the bowl of it, quaintlydistorted, smiled. Then suddenly putting up both hands and covering herface she gave a quick, little sneeze--sign in the East of Life, but inthe West precursor of Death. Of whichever the sign in the present case,incontestible it was, that, with this same little sneeze a change wasperceptible in her, which her lover noting, hailed as indicative ofsuccess. So he urged her yet more.
"Yes, my beloved, you are tired," he said; "and it is so long since youhave sat at table in this room, that very simple things appearperplexing to you. But that's a small matter. The old habits will soonre-assert themselves, and all be natural and obvious enough. For in thecoming days I intend we shall very constantly sit here together, you andI; and perhaps others will sit here with us as time goes on"--Laurencepaused, his voice shook a little--"our children, fair girls and handsomelads, whom we shall greatly love, and in whose youth our own youth willlive again. But to secure all that, Agnes, you must eat and drink now inplain, honest fashion, sleep sound of nights, wake in the kindlysunshine, put morbid fears and fancies far from you and grow strong. Youare compounded of too tenuous and sublimated stuff for motherhood asyet. Therefore eat, dear love. Delay no longer. The hours run on towardsthe morning and this matter must be assured before the morning comes. Donot be wayward. In the name of your love for me, and of all yoursorrows, I entreat you, eat and be strong!"
Once again she covered her face with her hand and gave a quick, littlesneeze. Then looking full at him, she smiled, though somewhat sadly.
"Let it be even as you wish," she said very meekly. "Give me bread."
Laurence, mightily rejoicing, cut the loaf, and placed the bread uponher plate. Tremblingly, as though putting a great force upon herself,she broke it into little pieces, carried one to her lips, then laid itback beside the others on her plate; next stretched out her hand forthe glass of wine her lover held towards her, but shook her head, andset it down untasted. While he, eager to the point of desperation, yetdreading in any way to affright her and so defeat his own ends, fell tocoaxing her once more, with a certain playful seriousness.
"See here," he said, "learn by experience. The threshold which youdeclared impassable was very easily crossed. And this affair of yourlittle supper is exactly parallel. You are the victim of your ownimagination. What after all holds you back?"
Once more she essayed valiantly to obey him; but once more laid themorsel of bread down on her plate. The thunder rolled from east to westalong the northern heights, and the lightning flickered; but both hadgrown faint and very distant, while a soft, cool air wandered in at theopen window, dispelling the clinging and insidious odour of the orchids,purifying the heavy atmosphere of the room, and lightly stirring thelittle lace frills of Agnes Rivers's muslin cape.
"What after all holds you back?" he demanded, with some agitation. Forthat cool draw of air, though pleasant, affected him unexpectedly. Itappeared to blow across the valley from
Stoke Rivers churchyard, where,in the spring morning three months before, he had watched the littleshadows cast by the feathery branches of the age-old yew-trees dance andbeckon among the grass-grown graves.
But his fairy-lady pushed her plate aside. All her gentle dignity hadreturned to her, and a wisdom born of knowledge more profound than thatgranted to most human creatures sat once again enthroned in her eyes.There was an effulgence in her loveliness which almost awed him, yet shedid that which during all their intercourse she had never done before.Calmly, fearlessly, and as of right, she put up her sweet lips andkissed him.
"This holds me back," she said, "that at last all the confusion whichoppressed my mind is gone, and that I understand who and what I am. Ihave striven, and ah! how gladly would I have proved victorious in thatstrife, for all my heart goes forth in natural desire, not only to obeyyour dear wishes, but to secure to myself those things which your wisheswould bring. I perceive that to eat is to live, not the shadowy,unrelated life of a disembodied spirit, divorced from the activities ofearth, yet--by some inherent wilfulness--still so wedded to earth thatit cannot enter the peaceful regions of the Faithful Departed. To eat isto live, as you live--and rightly--in the shock and tumult of the world;to love as you love--needs must, dear heart--with all the passions ofthe unstable flesh, as well as the pure and immutable passion of thesoul. I have dallied too long with temptation, and in my weaknessbrought sorrow on you--perhaps worse than sorrow, disgrace. But thetemptation was so potent, the promise of it so enchanting, that, untilto-night, I had not grasped its full significance and scope. As to ourfirst mother Eve, ages back, in the mystic garden, so to me to-night toeat, O my love, is sin!"
Laurence straightened himself up, and all the fierceness, therelentlessness of his race, stiffened itself within him; yet he kepthimself in hand because love still was paramount to all other emotions.
"And if it be sin, it is too late to vex ourselves about that. You haveforced the barrier after all. The curtain, which closes the entrance toyour not very cheerful Eden, has swung back into place. I have you, andI keep you. I have fought for you, won you, not wholly without personalloss. So you are to me as the spoils of battle, which a man havingtaken, is very certainly in no humour hurriedly to give up. And evenwere this so, had I not these claims on your obedience, to eat, my dear,couldn't be sin. On the contrary, it is bare common-sense--just the nextmove, logically necessary, in the particularly delicious game which youand I, for cause unknown, are ordained to play together. With logic andcommon-sense as backers, how can sin have a word to say in the matter?"
"Thus," she answered--"because now as once before, when the perfect hourhad come, and things showed so fair that to better them appeared almostimpossible, the call has come for you to leave me, and leave me yousurely must."
"You are mistaken," Laurence answered hoarsely. "You confuse both theevents and obligations of the past with those of the present. The callhas not come."
Then Agnes Rivers rose up, pushing the carven chair away from her, andstanding with a certain graceful independence before the sumptuouslyspread table, in the centre of the highly-lighted room, between the openwindow and the open door. Her person, thus seen, suggested some clearjewel of infinite value in a dark and heavy though splendid setting; orsome tender, solitary flower amid the lifeless magnificence of a desertcity, rich with the tombs of long-dead kings. A gentle daring, aself-assertion strong as steel yet soft as a silken thread, seemed toanimate her whole being.
"Rather is it you that are mistaken," she answered; "but whether withyour consent or against it, I cannot tell. It is you that dream justnow, my love, and suffer, perhaps subscribe to, delusion--strong manthough you are--and I that wake. For the call has come to you; andthough you should employ all the eloquence of all the sages to convinceme it is otherwise, I could not be convinced."
"You are very stubborn," he said.
"And yet, I spare you," she replied, in a tone of half mirthful, halftender, reproach; "for I only assert the fact. The exact nature of thecall I do not know, and I do not ask you to tell it me. I amsufficiently human--you have brought me so far on the backward road,which my naughty feet were only too willing to tread--to greatly long toknow the exact nature of that call. Yet, did I know it, I fear it mightprovoke a wicked spirit of jealousy in me, and of envy towards one whohas, in the natural sequence of things, that which I have not, yet fainwould have. Therefore do not try me too far, lest my courage fail and Idecline from right, and break the perfect circle of our dealings withone another, so painting both past and future with the ugly colours ofremorseful regret. You told me you would never leave me again unless Ibade you do so. Well, now, the time has come. Redeem your word."
Laurence would have spoken; but, still with that air of almost heavenlymirth, she laid her hand upon his mouth. There was hardly perceptiblesubstance or weight in it; and once again--now with despair, though thesensation was in itself delicious--he felt that fluttering, as of thewings of a captive butterfly, against his lips.
"No, no," she protested, "do not speak, for I am woman enough to beresolved to have the last word. Put away delusion and allextravagance.--Think, after all, what do you leave? Not much, believeme. For I am but a ghost. I have no right to any earthly dwelling-place,no right to lie in the arms of living man. It would be monstrous, athing abhorrent to nature, an insult to the awful and unbroken order ofcause and effect that has operated from the beginning of being and oftime, that I should force the barrier completely, and project myself, atonce unburied and unborn, for a second time into the arena of earthlylife. It would be an act of rebellion, of self-seeking, beside whichthat of Lucifer grows pale--for he at least was an archangel, whichmight give reasonable cause of pride--whereas I?--No, God in Hisinfinite mercy has granted me fulness of understanding just in time; andI have no fear but that, since I voluntarily resign myself, curb myimperious will and forego the desire of my heart, He will further grantme access to that place of refreshment, light, and peace, in which soulswait until their final beatitude. In God's hands are all things, and Inow see that behind the loves of earth, just in proportion as thoseloves are noble and have in them a seed of permanence, stands for everthe love of God Himself, sure and faithful, full of a satisfaction thatcan never lessen or pass away. I have been blind and very wilful, lovingHim too little, loving you too much. But He who made all men and seeshow beautiful they are, so that in loving them--they being made in Hisimage--we unconsciously all the while but love His image evident inthem--He will surely understand me and forgive."
There Laurence broke in madly--"Ah, stop talking, stop talking! What arewords at such a time as this? You are mine by right of conquest, as Ihave already told you. For God and the eternities I care not, just now,one little bit. You belong to me. I have bought you at a great price. Ilove you and will enter into possession of my own."
And he essayed to lay hold of her, his blood on fire, for the moment,with frustrated pride, the agony of relinquishment, and passion baulked.
"And I love you too," she answered fearlessly, "so greatly, soabsorbingly, that I have broken all bonds of time and space, and defiedall laws of life and death, to find you, and behold you, and speak withyou again--"
Yet even as she made this declaration, she slipped away from his urgentembrace, even as a rosy snow-wreath slips from the cliff edge, when thesun climbs high in heaven, drawing back to itself, by the power of itsstrength and heat, snow and vapours, dews and fair, dissolving mists,such as cling at dawn along the water-courses and haunt the quietunderspaces of the woods. There were tears in her sweet eyes, and thatairy frame of hers was shaken by sobs; yet her face very brave and of amarvellous brightness.
"Go back to the world, dear love," she said, "and play your part in thegreat game finely to the close. Let no shame touch you, or breath ofdishonour smirch any page of your record. I will go back too--yet rathergo forward--reaching a fairer world than yours, a world which in myfolly I disdained, being blinded by the things of sense. There I shallaw
ait your coming; and we shall be one at last, being one with Almightyand Eternal God."
She passed from the room; but, though Laurence followed her swiftly, hefound the corridor empty. The yellow drawing-room, when he entered it,was vacant too, though retaining its gracious and friendly aspect. Acool wind blew through it, laden with the scent of the rose borders ofthe Italian garden. The storm was over, and the night sky was clear andvery full of stars.