After years spent as he had spent them among the conditions of
primitive lands, Dick Eliot came back with his ‘uncivilised’ wife,
to find that with the old established values of English ‘County’
existence they had little or nothing in common. Their ostracism by the
neighbourhood has no place in this story, except to show how it threw
them back intensely into the little property he had inherited. They
lived there a dozen years, isolated, childless, knowing that solitude
in a crowd which yet is never loneliness.
The ‘Place,’ as they always called it, took them, and welcome, to
itself. The land, running to several hundred acres, was comparatively
worthless, mere jumbled stretch of sand and pines and heathery hills;
too remote from any building centre to be easily sold, and of no avail
for agricultural purposes. For which, since he had just enough to live
on quietly, both were grateful: they could keep it lovely and unspoilt.
All round it, however, was an opulent, over-built-upon country that
they loathed, since they felt that its quality, once admitted, would
cause the Place to wither and die. The gross surfeit of prosperous
houses, preserved woods, motoring hotels, and the rest would settle on
its virgin face. Builders and business men would commercially appraise
it, financiers undress it publicly so that it would know itself naked
and ashamed. Deep down its soul would turn weakly and diseased, then
disappear, and their own assuredly go with it.
For both had loved the Place at sight. She in particular loved it--with
a kind of rude enthusiasm she forced, as it were, upon his gentler
character. Its combination of qualities fascinated her--the old-world
mellowness with the unkempt, untidy wildness. The way it kept alive
that touch of the wilderness she had known from childhood, set in the
midst of so much over-civilised country all about, gave her the feeling
of having a little, precious secret world entirely to herself. She
forced this view with all the vigour of her primitive poetry upon her
husband till he accepted it as his own. It became his own; only she
realised it more vitally than he did. The contrast laid a spell upon
her, and she would not hear of going away. They lived there, in this
miniature world, until they knew it with such close intimacy that it
became identified with their very selves. She made him see it through
her eyes, so that the place was haunted, saturated, invested with their
moods of worship, love, and wonder. It became a little mystery-world
that their feelings had turned living.
* * * * *
Thus when, after twelve years’ happiness together, she died there, he
stayed on, sole guardian as it were of all she had loved so dearly.
Too vital a man to permit the slightest morbid growth which comes from
brooding, he yet lived among fond memories, aware of her presence in
every nook and glade, in every tree, her voice in the tinkle of the
stream, new values everywhere. Each ridge and valley, made familiar
by her step and perfume, strengthened recollection, and more than
ever before the Place seemed interwoven with herself and him, subtle
expression of vanished joys. The Past stayed on in it; it did not move
away; it remained the Present. Her death had doubly consecrated the
little estate, making it, so to speak, a sacrament of dear communion.
The only change, it seemed, was that he identified it with her being
more than with himself or with the two of them. He guarded it unspoilt
and sweet because of her who held it once so dear--as another man might
have kept a flower she had touched, a picture, or a dress that she had
worn. Now it was doubly safe from the damage she had feared--commercial
spoliation. ‘Keep the Place as it is, Dick,’ she had so often said with
a vehemence that belonged to her vigorous type, ‘I’d hate to see it
dirtied!’ For her the civilised country round had always been ‘dirty.’
And he did so, almost with the feeling that he was keeping her person
clean at the same time; for what a man thinks about is real, and he had
come to regard the Place and herself as one.
Throwing himself into definite work to occupy his mind, he kept it
as the apple of his eye, living in solitude, and cared for only by a
motherly old housekeeper (years ago his mother’s maid) whose services
he had by fortunate chance secured. He spent his leisure time in
writing--studies of obscure periods in forgotten history that, when
published, merely added to the clutter of the world’s huge mental
lumber-room, to judge by the reviews. Once he made a journey to
his haunts of youth, _their_ youth, in Arizona, but only to return
dissatisfied, with added pain. He settled down finally then, throwing
himself with commendable energy into his studies, till the hurrying
years brought him thus to forty-five. Rarely he went to London and
pored over musty volumes in the British Museum Reading-room, but after
a day or two would hear the murmur of the mill-wheel singing round that
portentous, dreary dome, and back he would come again, post-haste.
And perhaps he chose his line of study, rather than more imaginative
work, because it reasonably absorbed him, while yet it stole no single
emotion from his past with her, nor trespassed upon the walking of one
dear faint ghost.