1
A strange, though to them a very natural thing it seemed, this new and
ardent fulfilment; having something fine and urgent about it that lay
almost beyond the range of their wills. Something primitive and age-old
as Nature herself, did their love appear to Mary and Stephen. For now
they were in the grip of Creation, of Creation’s terrific urge to
create; the urge that will sometimes sweep forward blindly alike into
fruitful and sterile channels. That well-nigh intolerable life force
would grip them, making them a part of its own existence; so that they
who might never create a new life, were yet one at such moments with the
fountain of living. . . . Oh, great and incomprehensible unreason!
But beyond the bounds of this turbulent river would lie gentle and most
placid harbours of refuge; harbours in which the body could repose with
contentment, while the lips spoke slow, indolent words, and the eyes
beheld a dim, golden haze that blinded the while it revealed all beauty.
Then Stephen would stretch out her hand and touch Mary where she lay,
happy only to feel her nearness. The hours would slip by towards dawn or
sunset; flowers would open and close in the bountiful garden; and
perhaps, if it should chance to be evening, beggars would come to that
garden, singing; ragged fellows who played deftly on their guitars and
sang songs whose old melodies hailed from Spain, but whose words sprang
straight from the heart of the island:
‘Oh, thou whom I love, thou art small and guileless;
Thy lips are as cool as the sea at moonrise.
But after the moon there cometh the sun;
After the evening there cometh the morning.
The sea is warmed by the kiss of the sun,
Even so shall my kisses bring warmth to thy lips.
Oh, thou whom I love, thou art small and guileless.’
And now Mary need no longer sigh with unrest, need no longer lay her
cheek against Stephen’s shoulder; for her rightful place was in
Stephen’s arms and there she would be, overwhelmed by the peace that
comes at such times to all happy lovers. They would sit together in a
little arbour that looked out over miles upon miles of ocean. The water
would flush with the after-glow, then change to a soft, indefinite
purple; then, fired anew by the African night, would gleam with that
curious, deep blue glory for a space before the swift rising of the
moon. ‘Thy lips are as cool as the sea at moonrise; but after the moon
there cometh the sun.’
And Stephen as she held the girl in her arms, would feel that indeed she
was all things to Mary; father, mother, friend and lover, all things;
and Mary all things to her—the child, the friend, the belovèd, all
things. But Mary, because she was perfect woman, would rest without
thought, without exultation, without question; finding no need to
question since for her there was now only one thing—Stephen.
2
Time, that most ruthless enemy of lovers, strode callously forward into
the spring. It was March, so that down at the noisy Puerto the
bougainvilleas were in their full glory, while up in the old town of
Orotava bloomed great laden bushes of white camellias. In the garden of
the villa the orange trees flowered, and the little arbour that looked
over the sea was covered by an ancient wisteria vine whose mighty trunk
was as thick as three saplings. But in spite of a haunting shadow of
regret at the thought of leaving Orotava, Stephen was deeply and
thankfully happy. A happiness such as she had never conceived could be
hers, now possessed her body and soul—and Mary also was happy.
Stephen would ask her: ‘Do I content you? Tell me, is there anything you
want in the world?’
Mary’s answer was always the same; she would say very gravely: ‘Only
you, Stephen.’
Ramon had begun to speculate about them, these two Englishwomen who were
so devoted. He would shrug his shoulders—Dios! What did it matter? They
were courteous to him and exceedingly generous. If the elder one had an
ugly red scar down her cheek, the younger one seemed not to mind it. The
younger one was beautiful though, as beautiful as the santa noche . . .
some day she would get a real man to love her.
As for Concha and the cross-eyed Esmeralda, their tongues were muted by
their ill-gotten gains. They grew rich thanks to Stephen’s complete
indifference to the price of such trifles as sugar and candles.
Esmeralda’s afflicted eyes were quite sharp, yet she said to Concha: ‘I
see less than nothing.’
And Concha answered: ‘I also see nothing; it is better to suppose that
there is nothing to see. They are wealthy and the big one is very
careless—she trusts me completely and I do my utmost. She is so taken
up with the amighita that I really believe I could easily rob her! Quien
sabe? They are certainly queer those two—however, I am blind, it is
better so; and in any case they are only the English!’
But Pedro was very sorely afflicted, for Pedro had fallen in love with
Mary, and now he must stay at home in the garden when she and Stephen
rode up to the mountains. Now they wished to be all alone it seemed, and
what food they took would be stuffed into a pocket. It was spring and
Pedro was deeply enamoured, so that he sighed as he tended the roses,
sighed and stubbed the hard earth with his toes, and made insolent faces
at the good-tempered Ramon, and killed flies with a kind of grim
desperation, and sang songs of longing under his breath: ‘A-a-a-y! Thou
art to me as the mountain. Would I could melt thy virginal snows. . . .’
‘Would I could kick thy behind!’ grinned Ramon.
One evening Mary asked Pedro to sing, speaking to him in her halting
Spanish. So Pedro went off and got his guitar; but when he must stand
there and sing before Mary he could only stammer a childish old song
having in it nothing of passion and longing:
‘I was born on a reef that is washed by the sea;
It is a part of Spain that is called Teneriffe.
I was born on a reef. . . .’
sang the unhappy Pedro.
Stephen felt sorry for the lanky boy with the lovesick eyes, and so to
console him she offered him money, ten pesetas—for she knew that these
people set much store by money. But Pedro seemed to have grown very tall
as he gently but firmly refused consolation. Then he suddenly burst into
tears and fled, leaving his little guitar behind him.
3
The days were too short, as were now the nights—those spring nights of
soft heat and incredible moonlight. And because they both felt that
something was passing, they would turn their minds to thoughts of the
future. The future was drawing very near to the present; in less than
three weeks they must start for Paris.
Mary would suddenly cling to Stephen: ‘Say that you’ll never leave me,
belovèd!’
‘How could I leave you and go on living?’
Thus their talk of the future would often drift into talk of love, that
is always timeless. On their lips, as in their hearts, would be words
such as countless other lovers had spoken, for love is the sweetest
monotony that was ever conceived of by the Creator.
‘Promise you’ll never stop loving me, Stephen.’
‘Never. You know that I couldn’t Mary.’
Even to themselves their vows would sound foolish, because so inadequate
to compass their meaning. Language is surely too small a vessel to
contain those emotions of mind and body that have somehow awakened a
response in the spirit.
And now when they climbed the long hill to the town of old Orotava on
their way to the mountains, they would pause to examine certain flowers
minutely, or to stare down the narrow, shadowy bystreets. And when they
had reached the cool upland places, and their mules were loosed and
placidly grazing, they would sit hand in hand looking out at the Peak,
trying to impress such pictures on their minds, because all things pass
and they wished to remember. The goat-bells would break the lovely
stillness, together with the greater stillness of their dreaming. But
the sound of the bells would be lovely also, a part of their dreaming, a
part of the stillness; for all things would seem to be welded together,
to be one, even as they two were now one.
They no longer felt desolate, hungry outcasts; unloved and unwanted,
despised of the world. They were lovers who walked in the vineyard of
life, plucking the warm, sweet fruits of that vineyard. Love had lifted
them up as on wings of fire, had made them courageous, invincible,
enduring. Nothing could be lacking to those who loved—the very earth
gave of her fullest bounty. The earth seemed to come alive in response
to the touch of their healthful and eager bodies—nothing could be
lacking to those who loved.
And thus in a cloud of illusion and glory, sped the last enchanted days
at Orotava.
BOOK FIVE