by J. M. Barrie
CHAPTER XV
BY PROSEN WATER
That day by the banks of Prosen Water was one of Grizel's beautifulmemories. All the days when she thought he loved her became beautifulmemories.
It was the time of reds and whites, for the glory of the broom hadpassed, except at great heights, and the wild roses were trooping in.When the broom is in flame there seems to be no colour but yellow; butwhen the wild roses come we remember that the broom was flaunting. Itwas not quite a lady, for it insisted on being looked at; while theselight-hearted things are too innocent to know that there is anyone tolook. Grizel was sitting by the side of the stream, adorning her hatfantastically with roses red and white and some that were neither.They were those that cannot decide whether they look best in white orred, and so waver for the whole of their little lives between the twocolours; there are many of them, and it is the pathetic thing aboutwild roses. She did not pay much heed to her handiwork. What she wassaying to herself was that in another minute he and she would bealone. Nothing else in the world mattered very much. Every bit of herwas conscious of it as the supreme event. Her fingers pressed it uponthe flowers. It was in her eyes as much as in her heart. He went oncasting his line, moving from stone to stone, dropping down the bank,ascending it, as if the hooking of a trout was something to him. Washe feeling to his marrow that as soon as those other two figuresrounded the bend in the stream he and she would have the world tothemselves? Ah, of course he felt it, but was it quite as much to himas it was to her?
"Not quite so much," she said bravely to herself. "I don't want it tobe quite so much--but nearly."
She did not look up, she waited.]
And now they were alone as no two can be except those who love; forwhen the third person leaves them they have a universe to themselves,and it is closed in by the heavens, and the air of it is theconsciousness of each other's presence. She sat motionlessnow--trembling, exulting. She could no longer hear the talking of thewater, but she heard his step. He was coming slowly towards her. Shedid not look up--she waited; and while she waited time wasannihilated.
He was coming to her to treat her as if she were a fond child; thatshe, of all women, could permit it was still delicious to him, and amarvel. She had let him do it yesterday, but perhaps she had regainedher independence in the night. As he hesitated he became anotherperson. In a flood of feeling he had a fierce desire to tell her thetruth about himself. But he did not know what it was. He put aside hisrod, and sat down very miserably beside her.
"Grizel, I suppose I am a knave." His lips parted to say it, but nowords came. She had given him an adorable look that stopped them as ifher dear hand had been placed upon his mouth.
Was he a knave? He wanted honestly to know. He had not tried to makeher love him. Had he known in time he would even have warned heragainst it. He would never have said he loved her had she not first,as she thought, found it out; to tell her the truth then would havebeen brutal. He had made believe in order that she might remain happy.Was it even make-belief? Assuredly he did love her in his own way, inthe only way he was capable of. She was far more to him than anyother person except Elspeth. He delighted in her, and would havefought till he dropped rather than let any human being injure her. Allhis feelings for her were pure. He was prepared to marry her; but ifshe had not made that mistake, oh, what a delight it would have beento him never to marry anyone! He felt keenly miserable.
"Grizel, I seem to be different from all other men. There seems to besome curse upon me that makes me unable to love as they do. I want tolove you, dear one; you are the only woman I ever wanted to love; butapparently I can't. I have decided to go on with this thing because itseems best for you; but is it? I would tell you all and leave thedecision to you, were it not that I fear you would think I wanted youto let me off."
It would have been an honest speech, and he might have said it had hebegun at once, for it was in a passion to be out, so desirous was hethat dear Grizel should not be deceived; but he tried its effect firstupon himself, and as he went on the tragedy he saw mastered him. Heforgot that she was there, except as a figure needed to complete thepicture of the man who could not love. He saw himself a splendidlyhaggard creature with burning eyes standing aside while all the worldrolled by in pursuit of the one thing needful. It was a river, and hemust stand parched on the bank for ever and ever. Should he keep thatsorrowful figure a man or turn it into a woman? He tried a woman. Shewas on the bank now, her arms outstretched to the flood. Ah! she wouldbe so glad to drink, though she must drown.
Grizel saw how mournful he had become as he gazed upon her. In hisface she had been seeing all the glories that can be given to mortals.Thoughts had come to her that drew her nearer to her God. Her trust inhim stretched to eternity. All that was given to her at that momentshe thought was also given to him. She seemed to know why, with lovelighting up their souls to each other, he could yet grow mournful.
"Oh," she cried, with a movement that was a passionate caress, "do youindeed love me so much as that? I never wanted you to love me quite somuch as that!"
It brought him back to himself, but without a start. Those suddenreturns to fact had ceased to bewilder him; they were grown so commonthat he passed between dreams and reality as through tissue-paper.
"I did not mean," she said at last, in a tremor, "that I wanted you tolove me less, but I am almost sorry that you love me quite so much."
He dared say nothing, for he did not altogether understand. "I havethose fears, too, sometimes," she went on; "I have had them when I waswith you, but more often when I was alone. They come to me suddenly,and I have such eager longings to run to you and tell you of them, andask you to drive them away. But I never did it; I kept them tomyself."
"You could keep something back from me, Grizel?"
"Forgive me," she implored; "I thought they would distress you, and Ihad such a desire to bring you nothing but happiness. To bear them bymyself seemed to be helping you, and I was glad, I was proud, to feelmyself of use to you even to that little extent. I did not know youhad the same fears; I thought that perhaps they came only to women;have you had them before? Fears," she continued, so wistfully, "thatit is too beautiful to end happily? Oh, have you heard a voice crying,'It is too beautiful; it can never be'?"
He saw clearly now; he saw so clearly that he was torn with emotion."It is more than I can bear!" he said hoarsely. Surely he loved her.
"Did you see me die?" she asked, in a whisper. "I have seen you die."
"Don't, Grizel!" he cried.
But she had to go on. "Tell me," she begged; "I have told you."
"No, no, never that," he answered her. "At the worst I have had onlythe feeling that you could never be mine."
She smiled at that. "I am yours," she said softly; "nothing can takeaway that--nothing, nothing. I say it to myself a hundred times a day,it is so sweet. Nothing can separate us but death; I have thought ofall the other possible things, and none of them is strong enough. Butwhen I think of your dying, oh, when I think of my being left withoutyou!"
She rocked her arms in a frenzy, and called him dearest, darlingest.All the sweet names that had been the child Grizel's and the olddoctor's were Tommy's now. He soothed her, ah, surely as only a lovercould soothe. She was his Grizel, she was his beloved. No mortal couldhave been more impassioned than Tommy. He must have loved her. Itcould not have been merely sympathy, or an exquisite delight in beingthe man, or the desire to make her happy again in the quickest way, orall three combined? Whatever it was, he did not know; all he knew wasthat he felt every word he said, or seemed to feel it.
"It is a punishment to me," Grizel said, setting her teeth, "forloving you too much. I know I love you too much. I think I love youmore than God."
She felt him shudder.
"But if I feel it," she said, shuddering also, yet unable to deceiveherself, "what difference do I make by saying it? He must know it isso, whether I say it or not."
There was a tremendous difference to Tommy, but not
of a kind he couldexplain, and she went on; she must tell him everything now.
"I pray every night and morning; but that is nothing--everyone doesit. I know I thank God sincerely; I thank Him again and again andagain. Do you remember how, when I was a child, you used to behorrified because I prayed standing? I often say little prayersstanding now; I am always thanking Him for giving me you. But all thetime it is a bargain with Him. So long as you are well I love Him, butif you were to die I would never pray again. I have never said it inwords until to-day, but He must know it, for it is behind all myprayers. If He does not know, there cannot be a God."
She was watching his face, half wofully, half stubbornly, as if,whatever might be the issue of those words, she had to say them. Shesaw how pained he was. To admit the possible non-existence of a Godwhen you can so easily leave the subject alone was horrible to Tommy.
"I don't doubt Him," she continued. "I have believed in Him ever sincethe time when I was such a lonely child that I did not know His name.I shall always believe in Him so long as He does not take you from me.But if He does, then I shall not believe in Him any more. It may bewrong, but that is what I feel.
"It makes you care less for me!" she cried in anguish.
"No, no, dear."
"I don't think it makes God care less for me," she said, veryseriously. "I think He is pleased that I don't try to cheat Him."
Somehow Tommy felt uncomfortable at that.
"There are people," he said vaguely, like one who thought it best tomention no names, who would be afraid to challenge God in that way."
"He would not be worth believing in," she answered, "if He could berevengeful. He is too strong, and too loving, and too pitiful forthat." But she took hold of Tommy as if to protect him. Had they beenin physical danger, her first impulse would have been to get in frontof him to protect him. The noblest women probably always love in thisway, and yet it is those who would hide behind them that men seem tolove the best.
"I always feel--oh, I never can help feeling," she said, "that nothingcould happen to you, that God Himself could not take you from me,while I had hold of you."
"Grizel!"
"I mean only that He could not have the heart," she said hastily."No, I don't," she had to add. "I meant what you thought I meant. Thatis why I feel it would be so sweet to be married, so that I could beclose to you every moment, and then no harm could come to you. I wouldkeep such a grip of you, I should be such a part of you, that youcould not die without my dying also.
"Oh, do you care less for me now?" she cried. "I can't see things asclearly as you do, dearest, darlingest. I have not a beautiful naturelike yours. I am naturally rebellious. I have to struggle even to beas good as I am. There are evil things in my blood. You remember howwe found out that. God knew it, too, and He is compassionate. I thinkHe makes many pitying allowances for me. It is not wicked, is it, tothink that?"
"You used to know me too well, Grizel, to speak of my beautifulnature," he said humbly.
"I did think you vain," she replied. "How odd to remember that!"
"But I was, and am."
"I love to hear you proving you are not," said she, beaming upon him."Do you think," she asked, with a sudden change of manner to thechildish, like one trying to coax a compliment out of him, "that Ihave improved at all during those last days? I think I am not quitesuch a horrid girl as I used to be; and if I am not, I owe it to you.I am so glad to owe it to you." She told him that she was trying tomake herself a tiny bit more like him by studying his book. "It is notexactly the things you say of women that help me, for though they arelovely I am not sure that they are quite true. I almost hope they arenot true; for if they are, then I am not even an average woman." Sheburied her face in his coat. "You say women are naturally purer thanmen, but I don't know. Perhaps we are more cunning only. Perhaps it isnot even a thing to wish; for if we were, it would mean that we aregood because there is less evil in us to fight against. Dear, forgiveme for saying that; it may be all wrong; but I think it is what nearlyall women feel in their hearts, though they keep it locked up tillthey die. I don't even want you to believe me. You think otherwise ofus, and it is so sweet of you that we try to be better than we are--toundeceive you would hurt so. It is not the book that makes me a betterwoman--it is the man I see behind it."
He was too much moved to be able to reply--too much humbled. He vowedto himself that, whether he could love or not, he would be a goodhusband to this dear woman.
"Ah, Grizel," he declared, by and by, "what a delicious book you are,and how I wish I had written you! With every word you say, somethingwithin me is shouting, 'Am I not a wonder!' I warned you it would beso as soon as I felt that I had done anything really big, and I have.I have somehow made you love me. Ladies and gentlemen," he exclaimed,addressing the river and the trees and the roses, "I have somehow madeher love me! Am I not a wonder?"
Grizel clapped her hands gaily; she was merry again. She could alwaysbe what Tommy wanted her to be. "Ladies and gentlemen," she cried,"how could I help it?"
David had been coming back for his fly-book, and though he did nothear their words, he saw a light in Grizel's face that suddenly sethim thinking. For the rest of the day he paid little attention toElspeth; some of his answers showed her that he was not even listeningto her.