THE AWAKENING
The sun had passed the meridian next day when Valiant awoke, from a
sleep as deep as Abou ben Adhem's, yet one crowded with flying tiptoe
dreams. Inchoate and of such flimsy material that the first whiff of
reality dissipated them like smoke, these nevertheless left behind them
a fragrance, a sensation of golden sweetness and delight. The one great
fact of Shirley's love had lain at the core of all these honied images,
and his mind was full of it as his eyes opened, wide all at once, to the
new day.
He looked at his watch and rolled from the bed with a laugh. "Past
twelve!" he exclaimed. "Good heavens! What about all the work I had laid
out for to-day?"
He went down the stair in his bath-robe. The walls were still
wreath-hung, but the rooms had been despoiled of their roses: only a
dozen vases of blooms still unwithered remained of the greater glory;
and in the yellow parlor--a great heap of shriveled petals, broken ivy
and dewy-blue cedar berries, sprinkled with wisps of feathers and
sequinned beads--lay the shattered remainders of last night's gaiety.
Presently he was splashing in the lake, shooting under his curved hand
unerring jets of water at Chum, who danced about the rim barking, now
venturing to wet a valorous paw, now scrambling up the bank to escape
the watery javelins.
It was another perfect day, though far on the mountainous horizon a
blue-black density promised otherwise for the morrow. The sun lay
golden-soft over the huddled hills. Birds darted hither and thither,
self-important bumble-bees boomed from vine to vine and the shady
lake-corners flashed with dragon-flies. The stately white swans turned
their arching necks interrogatively toward the splashing, and the brown
ducks, Peezletree and Pilgarlic, quacked and gobbled softly to each
other among the lily-pads.
Valiant came up the terraces with his blood bounding to a new rapture.
Crossing the garden, he ran quickly to the little close which held the
sun-dial and pulled a single great passion-flower. He stood a moment
holding it to his face, his nostrils catching its faint elusive perfume.
Only last night, under the moon, he had stood there with Shirley in his
arms. A gush of the unbelievable sweetness of that moment poured over
him. His face softened.
Standing with his sandaled feet deep in the white blossoms, the sun
on his damp hair and the loose robe clinging to his moist limbs, he
gave himself to a sudden day-dream. A wonderful waking dream of joy
overflooding years of ambitionless ease; of the Damory Court that
should be in days to come.
Summer would pass to autumn, with maple-foliage falling in golden rain,
and fawn-brown fields scattered with life-everlasting, with the wine-red
beauty of October, its purple pageant of crimsoning woods, its opal haze
of Indian summer, and scent of burning leaves. Frost would lay its
spectral stain over the old house like star-dew, and the scent of cider
would linger under the apple-trees. In his mind's eye he could see
Uncle Jefferson bent with the weight of hickory-logs for the eager
chimney-piece, deep as the casement of a fortress. Snow-sandaled winter
would lay its samite on the dark blue ramparts of the mountains, and
droop the naked boughs of the mock-orange bushes, dishevel the
evergreens like rough-and-tumble schoolboys, and cover the frosted ruts
of the Red Road. But in Damory Court would be cheerful warmth and
friendly noises, with a loved woman standing before the crackling
fireplace whose mottoed "_I clinge_" was for him written in her fringed
and gentian eyes. So he stood dreaming--a dream in the open sunlight, of
a future that should never end, of work and plan, of comradeship and
understanding, of cheer and tenderness and clasping hands and clinging
lips--of a woman's arms held out in that same adorable gesture of the
tourney field, to little children's uncertain footsteps across that
polished floor.
* * * * *
When he came from the little close there was a new mystery in the
sunshine, a fresh and joyous meaning in the intense blue overarching
of the imponderable sky. Every bird-note held its own love-secret. A
wood-thrush sang it from a silver birch beside the summer-house, and
a bob-white whistled it in the little valley beyond. Even the long
trip-hammer of a far-away woodpecker beat a radiant tattoo.
He paused to greet the flaming peacock that sent out a curdling screech,
in which the tentative _potterack! potterack!_ of a guinea-fowl tangled
itself softly. "Go on," he invited. "Explode all you want to, old
Fire-Cracker. Hang your purple-and-gold pessimism! You only make the
birds sound sweeter. Perhaps that's what you're for--who knows?"
He tried to work, but work was not for that marvelous afternoon. He
wandered about the gardens, planning this or that addition: a little
longer sweep to the pansy-bed--a clump of bull-rushes at the farther end
of the lake. He peered into the stable: a saddle horse stood there now,
but there should be more steeds stamping in those stalls one day, good
horse-flesh bought with sound walnut timber from the hillside. How he
and Shirley would go galloping over those gleaming roads, in that
roseate future when she belonged to him!
Uncle Jefferson, from the door of the kitchens, watched him swinging
about in the sunshine, whistling the _Indian Serenade_.
"Young mars' feel 'way up in de clouds _dis_ day," he said to Aunt
Daphne. "He wake up ez glad ez ef he done 'fessed 'ligion las' night.
Well, all de folkses cert'n'y 'joyed deyselves. Ol' Mistah Fargo done
eat 'bout forty uh dem jumbles. Ah heah him talkin' ter Mars' John.
'Reck'n yo' mus' hab er crackahjack cook down heah,' he say. Hyuh,
hyuh!"
"G'way wid yo' blackgyardin'!" sniffed Aunt Daphne, delighted. "Don'
need ter come eroun' honey-caffuddlin' _me_!"
"Dat's whut he say," insisted Uncle Jefferson; "he did fo' er fac'!"
She drew her hands from the suds and looked at him anxiously.
"Jeffe'son, yo' reck'n Mars' John gwineter fetch dat Yankee 'ooman heah
ter Dam'ry Co'ot, ter be ouah mistis?"
"Humph!" scoffed her spouse. "Dat high-falutin' gal whut done swaller de
ramrod? No suh-ree-bob-tail! De oldah yo' gits, de mo' foolishah yo'
citations is! Don' yo' tek no mo' trouble on yo' back den yo' kin keek
off'n yo' heels! _She_ ain' gwineter run _dis_ place, er ol' Devil-John
tuhn ovah in he grave!"
Sunset found Valiant sitting in the music-room before the old square
piano. In the shadowy chamber the keys of mother-of-pearl gleamed with
dull colors under his fingers. He struck at first only broken chords,
that became finally the haunting barcarole of _Tales of Hoffmann_. It
was the air that had drifted across the garden when he had stood with
Shirley by the sun-dial, in the moment of their first kiss. Over and
over he played it, improvising dreamy variations, till the tender melody
seemed the dear ghost of that embrace. At length he went into the
library and in the crimsoning light sat down at the desk, and began to
write:
"_Dear Bluebird of mine_:
"I can't wait any longer to talk to you. Less than a day has
passed since we were together, but it might have been eons, if
one measured time by heart-beats. What have you been doing and
thinking, I wonder? I have spent those eons in the garden, just
wandering about, dreaming over those wonderful, wonderful
moments by the sun-dial. Ah, dear little wild heart born of the
flowers, with the soul of a bird (yet you are woman, too!) that
old disk is marking happy hours now for me!
"How have I deserved this thing that has come to me?--sad
bungler that I have been! Sometimes it seems too glad and
sweet, and I am suddenly desperately afraid I shall wake to
find myself facing another dull morning in that old, useless,
empty life of mine. I am very humble, dear, before your love.
"Shall I tell you when it began with me? Not last night--nor
the day we planted the ramblers. (Do you know, when your little
muddy boot went trampling down the earth about their roots, I
wanted to stoop down and kiss it? So dear everything about you
was!) Not that evening at Rosewood, with the arbor fragrance
about us. (I think I shall always picture you with roses all
about you. Red roses the color of your lips!) No, it was not
then that it began--nor that dreadful hour when you fought with
me to save my life--nor the morning you sat your horse in the
box-rows in that yew-green habit that made your hair look like
molten copper. No, it began the first afternoon, when I sat in
my motor with your rose in my hand! It has never left me since,
by day or by night. And yet there are people in this age of
airships and honking highways and typewriters who think
love-at-first-sight is as out-of-date as our little
grandmothers' hoops rusting in the garret. Ah, sweetheart, I,
for one, know better!
"Suppose I had not come to Virginia--and known _you_! My heart
jumps when I think of it. It makes one believe in fate. Here at
the Court I found an old leaf-calendar--it sits at my elbow
now, just as I came on it. The date it shows is May 14th, and
its motto is: _Every man carries his fate upon a riband about
his neck_. I like that.
"That first Sunday at St. Andrew's, I thought of a day--may it
be soon!--when you and I might stand before that altar, with
your people (my people, too, now) around us, and I shall hear
you say: 'I, Shirley, take thee, John--' And to think it is
really to come true! Do you remember the text the minister
preached from? It was 'But all men perceive that they have
riches, and that their faces shine as the faces of angels.' I
think I shall go about henceforth with my face shining, so that
all men will see that _I_ have riches--your love for me, dear.
"I am so happy I can hardly see the words--or perhaps it is
that the sun has set. I am sending this over by Uncle
Jefferson. Send me back just a word by him, sweetheart, to say
I may come to you to-night. And add the three short words I am
so thirsty to hear over and over--one verb between two
pronouns--so that I can kiss them all at once!"
He raised his head, a little flushed and with eyes brilliant, lighted a
candle, sealed the letter with the ring he wore and despatched it.
Thereafter he sat looking into the growing dusk, watching the pale lamps
of the constellations deepen to green gilt against the lapis-lazuli
of the sky, and listening to the insect noises dulling into the woven
chorus of evening. Uncle Jefferson was long in returning, and he grew
impatient finally and began to prowl through the dusky corridors like a
leopard, then to the front porch and finally to the driveway, listening
at every turn for the familiar slouching step.
When at length the old negro appeared, Valiant took the note he
brought, his heart beating rapidly, and carried it hastily in to the
candle-light. He did not open it at once, but sat for a full minute
pressing it between his palms as though to extract from the delicate
paper the beloved thrill of her touch. His hand shook slightly as he
drew the folded leaves from the envelope. How would it begin? "My Knight
of the Crimson Rose?" or "Dear Gardener?" (She had called him Gardener
the day they had set out the roses) or perhaps even "Sweetheart"? It
would not be long, only a mere "Yes" or "Come to me," perhaps; yet even
the shortest missive had its beginning and its ending.
He opened and read.
For an instant he stared unbelievingly. Then the paper crackled to a
ball in his clutched hand, and he made a hoarse sound which was half
a cry, then sat perfectly still, his whole face shuddering. What he
crushed in his hand was no note of tender love-phrases; it was an abrupt
dismissal. The staggering contretemps struck the color from his face and
left every nerve raw and quivering. To be "nothing to her, as she could
be nothing to him"? He felt a ghastly inclination to laugh. Nothing to
her! The meaning of the lines was monstrous. It was inconceivable.
Presently, his brows frowning heavily, he spread out the crumpled paper
and reread it with bitter slowness, weighing each phrase. "Something
which she had learned since she last saw him, which lay between them."
She had not known it, then, last night, when they had kissed beside the
sun-dial! She had loved him then! What could there be that thrust them
irrevocably apart?
He sprang up and paced the floor in a blinding passion of resentment and
revolt. "You _shall!_ you _shall_!" he said between his set teeth. "We
belong to each other! There can be nothing, nothing to separate us!"
Again he pored over the page. "She could not see him again, could not
even explain." The words seemed to echo themselves, bleak as hail on a
prison pane. "If he went to St. Andrew's, he might find the reason why."
What could she mean by the reference to St. Andrew's? He caught at that
as a clue. Could the old church tell him what had reared itself in such
dismal fashion between them?
Without stopping to think of the darkness or that the friendly doors of
the edifice would be closed, he caught up his hat and went swiftly down
the drive to the road, along which he plunged breathlessly. The blue
star-sprinkled sky was now streaked with clouds like faded orchids, and
the shadows on the uneven ground under his hurried feet made him giddy.
Through the din and hurly-burly of his thoughts he was conscious of
dimly-moving shapes across fences, the sweet breath of cows, and a negro
pedestrian who greeted him in passing. He was stricken suddenly with
the thought that Shirley was suffering, too. It seemed incredible that
he should now be raging along a country road at nightfall to find
something that so horribly hurt them both.
It was almost dark--save for the starlight--when he saw the shadow of
the square ivy-grown spire rearing stark from its huddle of foliage
against the blurred background. He pushed open the gate and went slowly
up the worn path toward the great iron-bound and hooded door. Under the
larches on either hand the outlines of the gravestones loomed pallidly,
and from the bell-tower came the faint inquiring cry of a small owl.
Valiant stood still, looking about him. What could he learn here? He
read no answer to the riddle. A little to one side of the path something
showed snow-like on the ground, and he went toward it. Nearer, he
saw that it was a mass of flowers, staring up whitely from the
semi-obscurity from within an iron railing. He bent over, suddenly
noting the scent; it was cape jessamine.
With a curious sensation of almost prescience plucking at him, he took a
box of vestas from his pocket and struck one. It flared up illuminating
a flat granite slab in which was cut a name and inscription:
_EDWARD SASSOON_
"Forgive us our trespasses."
The silence seemed to crash to earth like a great looking-glass and
shiver into a million pieces. The wax dropped from his fingers and in
the supervening darkness a numb fright gripped him by the throat.
Shirley had laid these there, on the grave of the man his father had
killed--the cape jessamines she had wanted that day, _for her mother_!
He understood.
* * * * *
It came to him at last that there was a chill mist groping among the
trees and that he was very cold.
He went back along the Red Road stumblingly. Was this to be the end of
the dream, which he had fancied would last forever? Could it be that she
was not for him? Was it no hoary lie that the sins of the fathers were
visited upon the third and fourth generation?
When he reentered the library the candle was guttering in the burned
wings of a night-moth. The place looked all at once gaunt and desolate
and despoiled. What could Virginia, what could Damory Court, be to him
without her? The wrinkled note lay on the desk and he bent suddenly with
a sharp catching breath and kissed it. There welled over him a wave of
rebellious longing. The candle spread to a hazy yellow blur. The walls
fell away. He stood under the moonlight, with his arms about her, his
lips on hers and his heart beating to the sound of the violins behind
them.
He laughed--a harsh wild laugh that rang through the gloomy room. Then
he threw himself on the couch and buried his face in his hands. He was
still lying there when the misty rain-wet dawn came through the
shutters.