“Cook asks if you would like sweetbreads for luncheon, madame,” Weston said when she rose.
“Very nice,” she murmured, not caring, and she went away to her desk in the library and drew from a pigeonhole the plans for the house by the sea, a house that might someday be built, or might not. How could she know? Everything depended on the woman who would live in it, alone or not alone.
She spent the morning over the plans, finishing them to the last detail of door and window. Then, since the day continued fine, she ordered her luncheon served on the terrace and there in the shelter of the tall evergreens which hid her even from Amelia’s sharp eyes next door, she sat in quiet thought while she ate, pausing now and then to toss a bit of bread to a squirrel gazing at her with sharp black eyes. When she had finished a slice of melon for dessert she rose and having made up her mind, she gave her orders.
“Weston, please have the chauffeur bring the car in half an hour. I am going to Red Hills, in Jersey,”
“Yes, madame,” he said.
…By the sea, the air was still cool. She had left chauffeur and car at the road and had walked across the dunes to the top of the cliff where the gray rock began. Here she seated herself upon a weathered log, a twisted pine which a storm had once uprooted and left. The sea was moving in mild waves, rippling into edges of white under the blue sky. The sea was blue over green depths here at the shore but deepening to purple on the horizon. Now here she was alone, and let her savor her loneliness, plumb it to its depth, its bottomless depth. For this was the evil of loving a man as she knew she now loved Jared. Love made the lover lonely without the beloved, an eternal loneliness which nothing could mend until the beloved was here again. She shrank from any other presence. How long had it been since she had sought out her old friends? Even Amelia she had not seen for weeks. She had refused all invitations, she had answered telephone calls with impatience, she had immured herself in her own obsession of love. But last night had forced her to realization. She could not continue as she was. Yet to what was she now to move for change? A question without answer!
She sighed and rose to her feet. Suddenly she wanted to descend from this height. This was too lonely a spot, poised between sky and sea. She would descend from it. She would go down the rickety steps and lie on the white sand of the beach below. Peering over the edge of the cliff, she saw a small cave under the overhanging rock. The tide was out, and the sand lay dry and warm, doubtless, from the sun. There she would hide herself, there she would escape. She glanced at the car on the road. The chauffeur was asleep behind the wheel, his cap slipping from his head and his mouth ajar. Even he would not see where she was going.
She went down the steps, clinging to the shaky rail, and stepped into the soft white sand. The cave was raised a few inches above the beach and she went to it, a place sheltered from the wind. She took off her coat and folded it into a pillow and lay down on the sand warmed by the sun. The overhanging rock made only enough shade to protect her head and shoulders, but the air was cool so that the warmth of the sun on her body was pleasant. She sighed and relaxed and felt calmed and hidden. An hour of rest would do her good. She had slept fitfully last night, had waked often. Before she was aware, she escaped now into deep sleep, soothed by the lap-lap-lapping of the waves.
…And was suddenly awakened by hearing her name called again and again.
“Edith—Edith—Edith!”
She opened her eyes slowly and stared up at the overhanging rock and could not imagine where she was.
“Edith—Edith!”
She sat up and shook the sand out of her hair. Her feet were wet, they were in water. And it was Jared’s voice shouting at her. He was racing down the steps.
“The tide has turned, you darling idiot! I couldn’t see you until you moved. Oh, how could you! How did you get here all alone? Where’s your car?”
He was rolling up his trousers and preparing to wade to her.
“Take off your shoes and stockings,” he commanded. “The water is only about to your knees, but a few more minutes—lucky it’s a calm day! But the tide is rolling in, the cave would have filled—”
She was peeling off her stockings and now, shoes in her hand, she began to walk through the water toward him. He met her before she had reached halfway, and, his arm about her, he led her to the steps.
“Up with you as fast as possible,” he scolded. “No, I’ll wait until you reach the top. These steps won’t bear the weight of both of us, and I don’t care to scale the cliff.”
He waited, the incoming tide swelling about him, until she had reached the top and stood upon firm ground. Then he swung himself up the steps, socks and shoes in hand, and faced her. He was pale and angry.
“You might have been caught there,” he shouted.
“I can swim,” she said mildly and sitting on a rock she began to put on her stockings while he watched her, still angry.
“I went to your house,” he said. “Weston told me where you were. Where is that damned chauffeur of yours?”
“He’s probably wondering where I am and has gone to report me lost or something.”
“You have very pretty legs and feet,” he said suddenly as though he had not heard her.
“I’ve been told that before,” she said. Then, clothed, she rearranged her hair. “I lost my hat,” she continued.
“What’s a hat—” he grumbled.
“Nothing, under the circumstances,” she agreed, “especially as it’s gone. The tide carried it away.”
They were interrupted by the return of her car and with it a police car.
“She’s come back,” the chauffeur shouted to the policeman. The two cars pulled up, and the officer stepped out and came toward them.
“I’m sorry,” she told him with her best smile. “I was stupid and fell asleep on the beach. My friend, Mr. Barnow, came along and rescued me.”
“Before she drowned,” Jared put in.
“Before I drowned,” she repeated.
The officer turned to the chauffeur. “You might have looked over the cliff!”
“I never took thought,” the chauffeur said.
Jared lost patience suddenly. “While you two decide what should have been done, I will drive Mrs. Chardman home in my car. Come along, Mrs. Chardman.”
She rose in a mood of strange peace and followed him and they drove away, together.
…“Why don't you ask me why I came?” Jared asked.
They had maintained a long silence during an early dinner at a wayside inn, a silence she had not wished to break. Indeed, she had nothing to say. The warmth of the sun, now near setting, the mild air, flowing in through the open window, the sea air, fragrant and moist, the happiness of being with him, whatever the reason, induced a profound contentment.
“Why did you come?” she asked, almost idly.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “I had to—I couldn’t do anything else—properly, that is. You’ve upset me. I can’t do my work—since last night. I do nothing but think about you, how you look, the sound of your voice, the way you walk. You dance better than anyone I’ve ever known—more gracefully. I can’t tell you—it’s a yielding sort of grace. I can’t forget it. I’ve never felt like this before. Aren’t you going to say anything?”
“What can I say? Except that I’m happy, wonderfully happy. I—I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy before in my life—not in this way.” Her voice drifted off in a whisper.
“In what way?” he demanded.
“If I knew, I would tell you,” she said simply.
They were silent again after that. In the car the miles sped by. What he was thinking she did not know, his handsome profile stern and set, his eyes ahead on the road. But she did not know, either, what she herself was thinking. Perhaps it was not even thought, only feeling.
It was long after sunset, the darkness falling, when at last he pulled up in front of her house. Weston, hovering near the door, opened it when he heard the car.
&n
bsp; “I didn’t know what to do about dinner, madame, not hearing from you.”
“We’ve dined,” she said, “and Mr. Barnow will be staying the night—at least, I suppose so?”
She turned to Jared and he nodded.
“If you will have me—”
“Of course.”
She turned to Weston. “You might bring us coffee and liqueurs in the library. I’ll just go up and change.”
She went upstairs exultant and afraid. Whatever was to happen would happen. She could not stay the inevitable, though she did not know what it was. She would yield, she would yield. Whatever he offered, she would take; whatever the cost, she would pay. Then upon an impulse she did not understand, she made no effort to look younger than she was. She twisted her hair carelessly upon her head, she put no makeup on her face, the sun and sea air had burned her fair skin and she let it be. She chose an old green frock and slipped it over her head and did not pause to look in the mirror. This was she, this flushed, sunburned woman with careless hair and bare feet thrust into silver sandals. She was forty-three years old and let him see her as such a woman. If he drew back, then it was her fate. But if he did not draw back? She refused the possibility. Why plan that which she could not know? She had a perverse instinct, lasting no more than a moment, when she wished that he would reject her and thus take from her the necessity for decision. She hesitated at the door, then opened it and went downstairs.
…He was waiting for her in the library. At the door she had hesitated again, longing and yet in dread. Then she opened it gently and only a little, but he was watching. He came swiftly across the room, he shut the door and standing with his back to it he took her in his arms and kissed her impetuously again and again.
“When I think what might have happened,” he muttered.
She stood within his embrace, yielding to it, accepting, her whole body responding. Then, after a moment, she drew back. “I wasn’t meant to die, it seems.”
“Not if I could prevent it.”
They moved hand in hand toward a sofa before which Weston had placed a small table with the liqueurs and coffee. She poured coffee, her hands shaking slightly, which he observed. “You are trembling,” he said.
“I suppose it’s something of a shock,” she said.
“I’m certainly shaken.” He tasted neither coffee nor liqueur. Instead he began abrupt talk.
“I must tell you—I’m completely confused. I’m facing an entirely new situation. I’m committed to you. I’m not a free man any more. I’ve never committed myself in my life before. I’ve never been possessed. But now I am. I’m not even sure I like it. What does a man do when he’s possessed by a woman? I only know I’d marry you tonight—if I could!”
She listened, her eyes fixed upon him. He was not thinking of her, and she realized it. He was thinking of himself, caught in a web of desire for her, resenting her because he was beginning to know how deeply he loved her. He wanted her physically and was horrified at himself. Yet if she put out her hand, if she touched him, she could have him. If she smoothed the back of his head, if she laid her hand in the curve of his arm, if she so much as looked at the slimness of waist and thigh, she could have him. She held her eyes steadfastly downcast, she refused her own desire and for reasons she did not understand except that they had nothing to do with her, but only with him, she began almost incoherently to speak out of some part of herself which, although she did not understand, she wanted him to know.
“Yesterday was such a wonderful day, Jared! I saw you as I hadn’t seen you before. And I thought I knew you! We’ve really been together a good deal, haven’t we? And yet it took yesterday, and seeing you with that amputee, to show me what you really are—a scientist, yes, and much more—a man brilliant but compassionate, strong but gentle. I love you—of course I love you—how can I help it? But it was only yesterday that made me know I love you. I shall always love you. I’m so grateful that I do. Once long ago—or it seems very long ago—a dear old man, a very great man he was, too, loved me. And he paid me a high honor. He told me that his love for me kept him alive—not only living but alive, so that his brain could stay clear and he could do his work. That, he taught me, was the great service of love—that it gives life to the lover as well as to the beloved. I’ve never forgotten what he taught me—about love.” She was silent for a moment. Then she repeated softly what Edwin once had said. “Love keeps me not only living but alive.”
He got up and walked to the tall windows and stared moodily into the shadowy gardens. A young moon rose over the pointed evergreens at the far end.
She continued, as though she talked to herself.
“I’m old enough to know that your loving me is—a miracle. I don’t understand it—I can only accept it and be grateful for it. It makes my own life beautiful. It makes me want to be useful to you in any way I can. I want to pour my life into yours, so that you’ll be all you dream of being—do all you dream of doing—which you would be and do without me, of course, but perhaps my loving you, as I do, will bring you more belief in yourself than you might have had alone—I mean, without me at this moment of your life, for of course there will be many others, many people, certainly one above all—”
She broke off lest she weep. Instead she smiled at him. She lifted the small glass of benedictine and took one sip and put it down again. The words had poured forth, from what source in her being she did not know, nor did she know why she had thought of Edwin. But she was herself again, her true self, and this, too, she must wait to understand, and be content to wait.
He came back to her slowly, pausing on his way to look at a bookshelf, to examine a painting on the wall. Then he returned to her side.
“Tell me,” he said. “Why was yesterday so important?”
“Because I saw the man you are meant to be,” she told him. “And I will do nothing to prevent that man.”
…When she was alone again, when she was upstairs in her own room, she felt dazed and yet at rest. She did not know how the words had been spoken, but they had come from a hidden part of her being. Yet now, as she recalled the moments, she realized that for a brief instant as though in a vision, she had seen side by side the man he had been only yesterday, the assured absorbed man, knowing what his work was and doing it well and finding content therein, and the man he had been today, distraught, bewildered, overwhelmed by discovering that he loved her. These two men, both of which he was, had drawn from her the words she had not known were in her, yet they were waiting to be spoken, and spoken they shaped the decision she had not known how to make. Between the two she must choose and she had chosen.
They had parted almost immediately, aware of a mutual exhaustion, and though at her bedroom door he had taken her in his arms again and kissed her, which kiss she had returned, it had been gently done, both in the giving and taking, and she knew that tonight she would open no door between them, nor would he. What she had now to do was to determine what was her place in his life. For she would love him forever. That she knew. So, knowing, what was the fulfillment of supreme love? What could it be except the fulfillment of the beloved?
She slept well that night, her inner tension released, and woke to find herself calm and rested. She lay for a while, watching the rays of the morning sun fall across the floor through the windows opening to the eastern sky. She had no sense of haste, the urgency in her was gone, and when at last she rose and made herself ready for the day, she was instinctively not surprised that Weston stood at the foot of the stairs.
“Mr. Barnow went away early this morning, madame. He left this note for you.”
“I hope you gave him his breakfast,” she said, with a serenity that surprised her.
“He would only have coffee, madame,” Weston replied, and led the way to the breakfast room.
She followed, but not directly, pausing to go out on the terrace and breathe deeply of the fragrant morning air. The locust trees were in bloom and their fragrance had attracted the bees. Long ago,
when she was a child, her father had ordered hives to be set in the far end of the garden on the theory that honey was the most healthy sweet for children and then had planted young locust trees, now grown to these giants, their rugged trunks black under the branches heavy with white blossoms. Out of tender memory she had kept the hives and each autumn the gardener removed boxes of clear white honey, still fragrant with the scent of locust.
She stood for a few minutes, looking down the aisle of trees, at the far end of which was the pool and in the pool the white marble statue of the woman standing on a rock. The scene, so familiar to her that she seldom saw it, was today as freshly beautiful as though she had been away to some far place and only now had come home again. Peace pervaded her, an inner peace which enabled her to contemplate her surroundings, yes, and even her life, with new appreciation. She had made her choice and it was a right choice and she was at peace with herself.
Alone at the breakfast table and facing the southern windows, she saw the grape arbors in full leaf, the gardener was there with a stepladder and he was trimming the vines so that the strength of the vines might produce a richer fruit. Alone, she wondered that she was not lonely. She had been so often restless without Jared. When he was not with her she listened for the telephone, she listened for the opening of a door, the sound of a voice. His habit of appearing without telling her that he was coming was exasperating but exciting and kept her tense. Yet she had never said “Let me know,” for she valued his sudden need of her and his impulse to go at once to find her. When a difficulty arose in his laboratory, a technical problem or a disagreement with his superior, his recourse was to come to her and talk, until in talking he found solution, his own solution at that, for what she might say seemed to her of no importance. His lucid mind could provide its own solutions. And all this while she was holding in her hand the envelope he had left with Weston to give to her. She tore it open and drew out the single sheet it contained.
The Goddess Abides: A Novel Page 14