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Athalie, a novel by Robert W. Chambers |
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Chapter 27 |
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_ CHAPTER XXVII One day toward the end of August, Athalie, standing at the pier's end, saw the huge incoming liner slowly warping to her berth; waited amid the throngs in the vast sheds by the gangway, caught a glimpse of Clive, lost him to view, then saw him again, very near, making his way toward her. And then her hands were in his and she was looking into his beloved eyes once more. There were a few quick words of greeting spoken, tender, low-voiced; the swift light of happiness made her blue eyes brilliant: "You tall, sun-bronzed, lazy thing," she said; "I never told you what a distinguished looking man you are, did I? Well I'll spoil you by telling you now. No wonder everything feminine glances at you," she added as he lifted his hat to fellow passengers who were passing. And during the customs' examination she stood beside him, amused, interested, gently bantering him when he declared everything; for even in Athalie were apparently the ineradicable seeds of that original sin--which is in all femininity--the paramount necessity for smuggling. Once or twice he spoke aside to the customs' officer; and Athalie instantly and gaily accused him of attempted bribery. But when they were on their way to Spring Pond in a hired touring car with his steamer trunk and suit-cases strapped behind, he drew from his pockets the articles he had declared and paid for; and Athalie grew silent in delight as she looked down at the single and lovely strand of pearls. All the way to Spring Pond she held them so, and her enchanted eyes reverted to them whenever she could bring herself to look anywhere except at him. "I wondered," she said, "whether you would come to the country or whether you might think it better to remain in town." "I shall go back to town only when you go." "Dear, does that mean that you will stay with me at our own house?" "If you want me." "Oh, Clive! I was wondering--only it seemed too heavenly to hope for." His face grew sombre for a moment. He said: "There is no other future for us. And even our comradeship will be misunderstood. But--if you are willing--" "Is there any question in your mind as to the limit of my willingness?" He said: "You know it will mark us for life. And if we remain guiltless, and our lives blameless, nevertheless this comradeship of ours will mark us for life." "Do you mean, brand us?" "Yes, dear." "Does that cause you any real apprehension?" she laughed. "I am thinking of you." "Think of me, then," she said gaily, "and know that I am happy and content. The world is turning into such a wonderful friend to me; fate is becoming so gentle and so kind. Happiness may brand me; nothing else can leave a mark. So be at ease concerning me. All shall go well with me, only when with you, my darling, all goes well." He smiled in sympathy with her gaiety of heart, but the slight shadow returned to his face again. Watching it she said: "All things shall come to us, Clive." "All things," he said, gravely,--"except fulfilment." "That, too," she murmured. "No, Athalie." "Yes," she said under her breath. He only lifted her ringless hand to his lips in hopeless silence; but she looked up at the cloudless sky and out over sunlit harvest fields and where grain and fruit were ripening, and she smiled, closing her white hand and pressing it gently against his lips. Connor met them at the door and shouldered Clive's trunk and other luggage; then Athalie slipped her arm through his and took him into the autumn glow of her garden. "Miracle after miracle, Clive--from the enchantment of July roses to the splendour of dahlia, calendula, and gladioluses. Such a wonder-house no man ever before gave to any woman.... There is not one stalk or leaf or blossom or blade of grass that is not my intimate and tender friend, my confidant, my dear preceptor, my companion beloved and adored. [Illustration: "And then her hands were in his and she was looking into his beloved eyes once more."] "Do you notice that the grapes on the trellis are turning dark? And the peaches are becoming so big and heavy and rosy. They will be ripe before very long." "You must have a greenhouse," he said. "_We_ must," she admitted demurely. He turned toward her with much of his old gaiety, laughing: "Do you know," he said, "I believe you are pretending to be in love with me!" "That's all it is, Clive, just pretence, and the natural depravity of a flirt. When I go back to town I'll forget you ever existed--unless you go with me." "I'm wondering," he said, "what we had better do in town." "I'm not wondering; I know." He looked at her questioningly. Then she told him about her visit to Michael and the apartment. "There is no other place in the world that I care to live in--excepting this," she said. "Couldn't we live there, Clive, when we go to town?" After a moment he said: "Yes." "Would you care to?" she asked wistfully. Then smiled as she met his eyes. "So I shall give up business," she said, "and that tower apartment. There's a letter here now asking if I desire to sublet it; and as I had to renew my lease last June, that is what I shall do--if you'll let me live in the place you made for me so long ago." He answered, smilingly, that he might be induced to permit it. Hafiz appeared, inquisitive, urbane, waving his snowy tail; but he was shy of further demonstrations toward the man who was seated beside his beloved mistress, and he pretended that he saw something in the obscurity of the flowering thickets, and stalked it with every symptom of sincerity. "That cat must be about six years old," said Clive, watching him. "He plays like a kitten, still." "Do you remember how he used to pat your thread with his paws when you were sewing." "I remember," she said, smiling. A little later Hafiz regained confidence in Clive and came up to rub against his legs and permit caresses. "Such a united family," remarked Athalie, amused by the mutual demonstrations. "How is Henry?" he asked. "Fatter and slower than ever, dear. He suits my unenterprising disposition to perfection. Now and then he condescends to be harnessed and to carry me about the landscape. But mostly he drags the cruel burden of Connor's lawn-mower. Do you think the place looks well kept?" "I knew you wanted to be flattered," he laughed. "I do. Flatter me please." "It's one of the best things I do, Athalie! For example--the lawn, the cat, and the girl are all beautifully groomed; the credit is yours; and you're a celestial dream too exquisite to be real." "I am becoming real--as real as you are," she said with a faint smile. "Yes," he admitted, "you and I are the only real things in the world after all. The rest--woven scenes that come and go moving across a loom." "Sun and Moon illume the Room "How, Beloved, can _we_ die--
"Nothing dies.... If only this world could understand.... Did I tell you that mother has been with me often while you were away?" "No." "It was wonderfully sweet to see her in the room. One night I fell asleep across her knees." "Does she ever speak to you, Athalie?" "Yes, sometimes we talk." "At night?" "By day, too.... I was sitting in the living-room the other morning, and she came up behind me and took both my hands. We talked, I lying back in the rocking chair and looking up at her.... Mrs. Connor came in. I am quite sure she was frightened when she heard my voice in there conversing with nobody she could see." Athalie smiled to herself as at some amusing memory evoked. "If Mrs. Connor ever knew how she is followed about by so many purring pussies and little wagging dogs--I mean dogs and pussies who are no longer what we call 'alive,'--I don't know what she'd think. Sometimes the place is full of them, Clive--such darling little creatures. Hafiz sees them; and watches and watches, but never moves." Clive was staring a trifle hard; Athalie, lazily stretching her arms, glanced at him with that humorous expression which hinted of gentlest mockery. "Don't worry; nothing follows you, Clive, except an idle girl who finds no time for anything else, so busy are her thoughts with you." He bent forward and kissed her; and she clasped both hands behind his head, drawing it nearer. "Have you missed me, Athalie?" "You could never understand how much." "Did you find me in your crystal?" "No; I saw only the sea and on the horizon a stain of smoke, and a gull flying." He drew her closely into his arms: "God," he breathed, "if anything ever should happen to you!--and I--alone on earth--and blind--" "Yes. That is the only anxiety I ever knew ... because you are blind." "If you came to me I could not see you. If you spoke to me I could not hear. Could anything more awful happen?" "Do you care for me so much?" In his eyes she read her answer, and thrilled to it, closer in his arms; and rested so, her cheek against his, gazing at the sunset out of dreamy eyes. * * * * * They had been slowly pacing the garden paths, arm within arm, when Mrs. Connor came to summon them to dinner. The small dining-room was flooded with sunset light; rosy bars of it lay across cloth and fruit and flowers, and striped the wall and ceiling. And when dinner was ended the pale fire still burned on the thin silk curtains and struck across the garden, gilding the coping of the wall where clustering peaches hung all turned to gold like fabled fruit that ripens in Hesperides. Hafiz followed them out under the evening sky and seated himself upon the grass. And he seemed mildly to enjoy the robins' evening carolling, blinking benevolently up at the little vesper choristers, high singing in the sunset's lingering glow. Whenever light puffs of wind set blossoms swaying, the jet from the fountain basin swerved, and a mellow raining sound of drops swept the still pool. The lilac twilight deepened to mauve; upon the surface of the pool a primrose tint grew duller. Then the first bat zig-zagged across the sky; and every clove-pink border became misty with the wings of dusk-moths. On Athalie's frail white gown one alighted,--a little grey thing wearing a pair of peacock-tinted diamonds on its forewings; and as it sat there, quivering, the iridescent incrustations changed from burnished gold to green. "Wonders, wonders, under the moon," murmured the girl--"thronging miracles that fill the day and night, always, everywhere. And so few to see them.... Sometimes, to me the blindness of the world to all the loveliness that I 'see clearly' is like my own blindness to the hidden wonders of the night--where uncounted myriads of little rainbow spirits fly. And nobody sees and knows the living splendour of them except when some grey-winged phantom strays indoors from the outer shadows. And it astonishes us to see, under the drab forewings, a blaze of scarlet, gold, or orange." "I suppose," he said, "that the unseen night world all around us is no more wonderful than what, in the day-world, the vast majority of us never see, never suspect." "I think it must be so, Clive. Being accustomed to a more densely populated world than are many people, I believe that if I could see only what they see,--merely that small portion of activity and life which the world calls 'living things,' I should find the sunlit world rather empty, and the night but a silent desolation under the stars." After a few minutes' thought he asked in a low voice whether at that moment there was anybody in the garden except themselves. "Some people were here a little while ago, looking at the flowers. I think they must have lived here many, many years ago; perhaps when this old house was new." "Could you not ask them who they were?" "No, dear." "Why?" "If they were what you would call 'alive' I could not intrude upon them, could I? The laws of reticence, the respect for privacy, remain the same. I am conscious of no more impertinent curiosity concerning them than I am concerning any passer in the city streets." "Have they gone?" "Yes. But all the evening I have been hearing children at play just beyond the garden wall.... And, when I was a child, somebody killed a little dog down by the causeway. He is here in the garden, now, trotting gaily about the lawn--such a happy little dog!--and Hafiz has folded his forepaws under his ruff and has settled down to watch him. Don't you see how Hafiz watches, how his head turns following every movement of the little visitor?" He nodded; then: "Do you still hear the children outside the wall?" She sat listening, the smile brooding in her eyes. "Can you still hear them?" he repeated, wistfully. "Yes, dear." "What are they saying?" "I can't make out. They are having a happy time somewhere on the outer lawns." "How many are there?" "Oh, I don't know. Their voices make a sweet, confused sound like bird music before dawn. I couldn't even guess how many children are playing there." "Are any among them those children you once saw here?--the children who pleaded with you--" She did not answer. He tightened his arm around her waist, drawing her nearer; and she laid her cheek against his shoulder. "Yes," she said, "they are there." "You know their voices?" "Yes, dearest." "Will they come again into the garden?" Her face flushed deeply: "Not unless we call them." "Call them," he said. And, after a silence: "Dearest, will you not call them to us?" "Oh, Clive! I have been calling. Now it remains with you." "I did not hear you call them." "_They_ heard." "Will they come?" "I--think so." "When?" "Very soon--if you truly desire them," she whispered against his shoulder. * * * * * Somewhere within the house the hour struck. After a long while they rose, moving slowly, her head still lying on his shoulder. Hafiz watched them until the door closed, then settled down again to gaze on things invisible to men. * * * * * Hours of the night in dim processional passed the old house unlighted save by the stars. Toward dawn a sea-wind stirred the trees; the fountain jet rained on the surface of the pool or, caught by a sudden breeze, drifted in whispering spray across the grass. Everywhere the darkness grew murmurous with sounds, vague as wind-blown voices; sweet as the call of children from some hill-top where the stars are very near, and the new moon's sickle flashes through the grass. Athalie stirred where she lay, turned her head sideways with infinite precaution, and lay listening. Through the open window beside her she saw a dark sky set with stars; heard the sea-wind in the leaves and the falling water of the fountain. And very far away a sweet confused murmuring grew upon her ears. Silently her soul answered the far hail; her heart, responding, echoed a voiceless welcome till she became fearful lest it beat too loudly. Then, with infinite precaution, noiselessly, and scarcely stirring, she turned and laid her lips again where they had rested all night long and, lying so, dreamed of miracles ineffable. _ |
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