Before my experience at Venice the world had consisted for me of Vi,
myself, and other people; now it was only myself and Vi. I spent my days
in shadowy unreality; just as a child, waking from a bad dream, sees
one face he can trust gazing over the brink of his horror, so out of the
blurred confusion of my present I saw the face of Vi.
Fiesole had not shown me love in its purity, but she certainly had
taught me something of its courage and selfishness. She had disabused
my mind forever of the thought that it was a polite, intensified form
of liking. A blazing ship, she had met me in mid-ocean and had set
my rigging aflame. I had turned from her, but not in time to get off
scatheless. Her wild unrestraint had accustomed my imagination to phases
of desire which had before seemed abnormal and foreign to my nature.
When I missed her at Milan, I abandoned my pursuit of her. Now that the
temptation was over, I realized how near we had come to wrecking each
other’s lives. Physical lassitude overtook me. Because I had withstood
Fiesole, I thought myself safe in indulging my fancy with more intimate
thoughts of Vi. I excused myself for so doing, by telling myself that
it was her memory that had made me strong to escape. It was like saying
that because water had rescued me from fire it could no longer drown me.
I traveled northwards into the mountains to Raveno. Each morning I rowed
across Maggiore to the island of Isola Madre. Lying beneath the camphor
trees, watching the turquoise of the lake filling in the spaces between
the yellowing bamboo canes, I gave rein to my longing. Shadowy foliage
dripped from shadowy trees, curtaining the glaring light; down spy-hole
vistas of overgrown pathways I watched the lazy world drift by. I numbed
my cravings with the opiate of voluptuous beauty.
I had been there a fortnight when a letter from home arrived. With its
confident domestic chatter, it brought a message of trust. It took from
me my sense of isolation. One of them would understand.
Slowly the thought had taken shape within me that I must go to Vi. If I
saw her only once again, I believed that I would be satisfied. It would
not be necessary to speak to her--that would be unsportsmanlike if she
had managed to forget me. All I asked was to be allowed just once to
look upon her face. She should not know that I was near her; I would
look at her and go away. With that strange sophistry that we practise
on ourselves, I tried to be persuaded that, were I to see her in her own
surroundings with her husband and Dorrie, it would be a lesson to me
of how little share I had in her life. Perhaps I had even idealized her
memory; seeing her might cure me. So I reasoned, but I was conscious
that my own judgment on the wisdom of such a step was not to be trusted.
Ruthita was too young to tell. My father, though I admired him, was not
the man to whom a son would willingly betray a weakness. I would speak
to the Snow Lady.
As I drove from the station through London, old scenes and memories woke
to life. The city had spread out towards Stoke Newington, so that it
had lost much of its quaintness; but it retained enough of its old-world
quiet to put me in touch with my childhood.
I alighted at the foot of Pope Lane. The wooden posts still stood there
to shut out traffic. I walked quickly up the avenue of fragrant limes
with the eager expectancy of one who had been years absent instead of
days. In the distance I heard the rumble of London. The golden August
evening lay in pools upon the pathway. Sensations of the happy past came
back. Dead memories stirred, plucking at my heartstrings. I thought of
how Ruthita and I had bowled hoops and played marbles on that same gray
pavement, making the air ring with our childish voices. I thought of
those rare occasions when the Spuffler had carried me away with him into
a boy’s world of mysterious small things, which he knew so well how to
find. All the comings and goings of school-days, immense exaltations
and magnified tragedies, rose before me--Ruthita waiting to catch first
sight of me, and Ruthita running beside the dog-cart, with flushed
cheeks and hair flying, to share the last of me as I drove away. What
had happened since then seemed for the moment but an interlude in the
momentous play.
Passing between the steeply-rising red-brick walls, dotted with gates,
I came to the door through which I had been so eager to escape when it
had been locked against me. I reflected that I had not gained much from
the new things which I had dragged into my life. The narrowness which
I had once detested as imprisoned dullness I now coveted as peaceful
security.
I found the bell beneath the Virginia creeper. The door was opened by
Hetty. Hetty had grown buxom and middle-aged. Her sweetheart had never
come for her. The tradesmen no longer made love to her; they left their
goods perfunctorily and went out in search of younger faces. Her hips
had broadened. The curve between her bust and her waist had vanished.
The dream of love was all that she had gained from life. I wondered
whether she still told herself impossible stories of the deliverance
wrought by marriage. If she did, no signs of her romantic tendencies
revealed themselves in her face. Her expression had grown vacantly
kind and stolid. To me she was respectful nowadays, and seemed even
distressed by the immodesty of the memory that I had once been the
little boy whom she had spanked, spoilt, bathed, and dried.
She gave a quick cry at catching sight of me, for I had warned no one of
my coming.
“Sh! where are they?” I asked her.
She told me that the master was at work in his study, and that Miss
Ruthita and her ma were in the garden.
I walked round the house slowly, lasting out the pleasure of their
surprise. Nothing seemed to have changed except we people. Sunflowers
kept guard in just the same places, like ranks of lean soldiers wearing
golden helmets. Along the borders scarlet geraniums flared among the
blue of lobelia and the white of featherfew, just as they had when I was
a boy. Pigeons, descendants of those whose freedom I had envied, perched
on the housetops opposite, or wheeled against the encrimsoned sky.
I stole across the lawn to where two stooping figures sat with their
backs towards me. Halfway across I halted, gazing over my shoulder.
Through the study-window, with ivy aslant the pane, I saw my father. His
hair was white. In the stoop of his shoulders was the sign of creeping
age. He did not look up to notice me; he had never had time. As the
years went by I grew proudly sorry for him. I saw him now, as I had
seen him so many times when I paused to glance up from my play. He was
cramped above his desk, writing, writing. His face was turned away. His
head was supported on his hand as though weary. _He_ was the prisoner
now; it was I who held the key of escape. How oddly life had changed!
Ruthita saw me. Her sewing fell from her lap. In a trice she was racing
towards me.
“You! You!” she cried.
Her thin arms went round me. Suddenly I felt miles distant from her
because I was unworthy.
“Why did you come back?” she asked me. There was a note of anxiety in
her voice. She searched my bronzed face.
“To see you, chickabiddy.”
“No, no. That’s not true,” she whispered; but she pressed her cheek
against my shoulder as though she were willing to distrust her own
denial. “You can get on quite well without me, Dannie; you would never
have come back to see me only.”
The Snow Lady touched me on the elbow. Her eyes were excited and full
of questioning. She gazed quickly from me to Ruthita. With a
self-consciousness which was foreign to both of us, we dropped our eyes
under her gaze and separated. Ruthita excused herself, saying that she
would go and tell my father.
The Snow Lady offered me her cheek; it was soft and velvety. Slipping
her arm through mine, she led me away to the apple-tree under which
they had been sitting. She was still the frail little Madam Favart,
half-frivolous, half-saintly; my father’s intense reticence had subdued,
but not quite silenced her gaiety. Her silver hair was as abundant as
ever and her figure as girlish; but her face had tired lines, especially
about the eyes. I sat myself on the grass at her feet.
“How is he?” I asked.
“Your father?”
“Yes.”
“Much the same. He doesn’t change.”
“Is he still at the same old grind?”
She nodded. “But, Dante,” she said, “you look thinner and older.”
“That’s the heat and the rapid traveling. A day or two’s rest’ll put me
right.”
She dropped her sewing into her lap and, pressing her cool hand against
my forehead, drew me back against her. It was a mothering love-trick of
hers that had lasted over from my childhood.
“What brought you home so suddenly, laddie?”
Her hand slipped to my shoulder. I bent aside and kissed it. “To see
you and Ruthie. I had something to tell you.” She narrowed her eyes
shrewdly. “You’ve been worried for nearly a year now. I’ve noticed it.”
“Have I shown it so plainly?”
“Plainly enough for me to notice. Is it something to do with a woman?
But of course it is--at your age only a woman could make you wear a
solemn face.”
“Yes. It’s a woman. And I want you to help me, Snow Lady, just as you
used to long ago when I couldn’t make things go right.”
The slow tears clouded her eyes; yet my news seemed to make her happy.
“When I was as old as you, Ruthie had been long enough with me to grow
long curls.” She smiled inscrutably.
From where we sat we could watch the house. While we had been talking,
I had seen through the study-window how Ruthita stole to my father’s
chair. He looked up irritably at being disturbed. Her attitude was all
meekness and apology as she explained her intrusion. He seemed to
sigh at having to leave his work. She withdrew while he completed his
sentence. He laid his pen carefully aside, glanced out into the garden
shortsightedly, rose, and melted into the shadows at the back of his
cave. The door at the top of the steps opened. He descended slowly and
gravely, as though his brain was still tangled in the web of thought it
had been weaving.
We sat together beneath the apple-tree while the light faded. Little
ovals of gold, falling flaky through leaves on the turf, paled
imperceptibly into the twilight grayness. My father’s voice was worn
and unsteady. It came over me that he had aged; up till now I had
not noticed it. Beyond the wall in a neighboring garden children were
playing; a woman called them to bed; a lawn-mower ran to and fro across
the silence. He questioned me eagerly as to where I had been in Italy,
punctuating my answers and descriptions with such remarks as, “I always
wanted to go there--never had time--always felt that such a background
would have made all the difference.”
It was noticeable that Ruthita and the Snow Lady suppressed themselves
in his presence; if they ventured anything, it was only to keep him
interested or to lead his thoughts in happier directions. Presently he
told them that they would be tired if they sat up later. Taking the hint
as a command, they bade us good-night.
Darkness had gathered when they left us; to the southward London waved
a torch against the clouds. We watched the lights spring up in the
bedrooms, and saw Ruthita and then the Snow Lady step to their windows
and draw down their blinds. Presently the lights went out.
“Lord Halloway’s been here again.” When I waited for further explanation
my father added, “Didn’t like the fellow at first; he improves on
acquaintance.”
Then I spoke. “Depends how far you carry his acquaintance.”
My father fidgeted in his chair. “He’s got flaws in his character,
but he’s honest in keeping back nothing. Most people in our position
wouldn’t hesitate two minutes over such a match.” Then, after a long
pause, “And what’s to become of Ruthita when I die?”
I took him up sharply. I was young enough to fear the mention of death.
“You’ll live for many years yet. After that, I’ll take care of her if
she doesn’t marry.”
My father sat upright. I wondered how I had hurt him. He spoke stiffly.
“You’ll inherit Sir Charles’s money. When I married a first and a second
time, I didn’t consult his convenience, and the responsibilities I
undertook are mine. Ruthita’s only your sister by accident; already
you’ve been too much together. We must consider this offer apart from
sentiment. He’s sowed his wild oats--well, he’s sorry. And he’ll be the
Earl of Lovegrove by and by. To stand in her way would be selfishness.”
His argument took me by surprise. “Is Ruthita anxious for it? What does
she say?”
“She knows nothing of the world. She takes her coloring from you. She’s
afraid to speak out her mind. She thinks you would never forgive her.”
His voice was high-strung and challenging.
“I don’t believe it,” I said quietly. “She doesn’t love him--she’d be
selling herself for safety.”
In the interval that followed I could feel the grimness of his
expression which the darkness hid from my eyes. “You’re young; you don’t
understand. For years I’ve had to struggle to make ends meet. I’m about
done--I’m tired. If Ruthita were settled, I could lie down with an easy
mind. There’s enough saved to see me and her mother to our journey’s
end.”
He rose to his feet suddenly. “You think I’m acting shabbily.
Good-night.”
He walked away, a gaunt shadow moving through the silver night. The awe
I had of him kept me from following. I sat there and tried to puzzle out
how this thing might be avoided. I could help financially; but my help
would be refused because it was Sir Charles’s money.
Next morning I woke at six and dressed. Dew was on the turf; it sparkled
in the gossamer veils of spider-webs caught among the bushes. Blackbirds
and thrushes in trees were calling. A cock crew, and a cock in the
distance echoed. The childish thought came back to me--how much
grown-ups miss of pleasure in their anxiety for the morrow. There is so
much to be enjoyed for nothing!
A window-sash was raised sharply. Looking up I saw Ruthita in her white
night-gown, with her hair tumbled like a cloud about her breast. I
watched her, thinking her lovely--so timid and small and delicate. I
called to her softly; she started and drew back. I waited. Soon she came
down to me in the garden. I must have eyed her curiously.
“You’ve heard?”
She held out her hand pleadingly, afraid that I would judge her.
“They’re making me,” she cried, “and I don’t--don’t want to, Dannie.”
I led her away behind the tool-shed at the bottom of the garden; it was
the place where I had discovered Hetty in her one flirtation.
“I’m not wanted,” moaned Ruthita; “I cost money. So they’re giving me to
a man I don’t love.”
“They shan’t,” I told her, slipping my arm about her. “You shall come to
me--I don’t suppose I shall ever marry.”
She nestled her head against my shoulder, saying, “You were always good
to me; I don’t know why. I’m not much use to anybody.”
“Rubbish!” I retorted. “None of us could get along without you.”
Then I told her that if the pressure became unbearable she must come to
me. She promised.
The Snow Lady found us sitting there together; we made room for her
beside us. Shortly after her coming Ruthita made an excuse to vanish.
I turned to the Snow Lady abruptly. “She’s not going to marry Halloway.”
She raised her brows, laughing with her eyes. “Why not? Why so
positive?”
“Because it’s an arranged marriage.”
“Mine with her father was arranged; it was very happy.”
Somehow I knew she was not serious.
“You don’t want it?” I challenged.
“No, I don’t want it; but Ruthita’s growing older. No one else has asked
for her. It would be a shame if she became an old maid.”
“She won’t.”
“She won’t, if you say so,” said the Snow Lady.
During breakfast my father was silent. He seemed conscious of a
conspiracy against him. When the meal was ended, he retired to
his study, where he shut himself up, working morosely. I sought
opportunities to tell the Snow Lady what I had come to say, but I could
never find an opening to introduce the name of Vi. Whenever we were
alone together she insisted on discussing Ruthita’s future, stating
and re-stating the reasons for and against the proposed match.
The atmosphere was never sympathetic for the broaching of my own
perplexities. Gradually I came to see that I must make my decision
unaided; then I knew that I should decide in only one way. I engaged
a passage to Boston provisionally, telling myself that it could be
canceled. That I think was the turning-point, though I still pretended
to hesitate.
The day before the boat sailed, my father announced at table, avoiding
my eyes, that Lord Halloway had written that he would call next day. I
went to my bedroom and commenced to pack. Ruthita followed.
“You’re going?”
“Yes.”
“Because he’s coming?”
“Partly.”
Her eyes were blinded with tears; she sank against the wall in a fit of
sobbing. “Oh, I wish you could take me--I wish you could take me!” she
cried.
I comforted her, telling her to be brave, reminding her of her promise
to come to me if they used pressure. She dabbed her eyes. “You and I’ve
always stood together, little sister; you mustn’t be afraid,” I told
her.
I carried my bags downstairs into the hall. The Snow Lady met me.
“What’s this? You’re going?” Her voice reflected dismay and
bewilderment.
“Yes, going.”
“But not for long! You’ll be back shortly?”
“That depends.”
I entered my father’s study. He looked up from his writing. “I’m going
away.”
He held my hand in silence a moment; his throat was working; he would
not look me in the eyes. “Won’t you stay?” he asked hoarsely.
I shook my head.
“Good-by,” he muttered. “Don’t judge us harshly. Come back again.”
Ruthita accompanied me to the end of the lane. She did not come further;
she was grown up now and ashamed to be seen crying. At the last minute
I wanted to tell her. I realized that she would understand--she was
a woman. The knowledge came too late. She said she would write me at
Oxford, and I did not correct her. I looked back as I went down the road
and waved. I turned a corner; she was lost to sight.
Next day I sailed.