THE DREAM AND THE DREAMERS
Soon after supper Annaik withdrew. Ynys and Alan were glad to be alone,
and yet Annaik's absence perturbed them. In going she bade good-night
to her cousin, but took no notice of her sister.
At first the lovers were silent though they had much to say, and in
particular Alan was anxious to know what it was that Ynys had alluded
to in her letter when she warned him that unforeseen difficulties were
about their way.
It was pleasant to sit in that low-roofed, dark old room, and feel the
world fallen away from them. Hand in hand they looked at each other
lovingly, or dreamed into the burning logs, seeing there all manner of
beautiful visions. Outside, the wind still moaned and howled, though
with less of savage violence, and the rain had ceased.
For a time Ynys would have no talk of Kerival; Alan was to tell all
he could concerning his life in Paris, what he had done, what he had
dreamed of, and what he hoped for now. But at last he laughingly
refused to speak more of himself, and pressed her to reveal what had
been a source of anxiety.
"You know, dear," she said, as she rose and leaned against the
mantel-piece, her tall figure and dusky hair catching a warm glow from
the fire--"you know how pitiable is this feud between my father and
mother--how for years they have seen next to nothing of each other;
how they live in the same house and yet are strangers? You know, too,
how more than ever unfortunate this is, for themselves, and for Annaik
and me, on account of our mother being an invalid, and of our father
being hardly less frail. Well, I have discovered that the chief, if not
indeed the only abiding source of misunderstanding is _you_, dear Alan!"
"But why, Ynys?"
"Ah, why? That is, of course, what I cannot tell you. Have you no
suspicion, no idea?"
"None. All I know is that M. de Kerival allows me to bear his name,
but that he dislikes, if, indeed, he does not actually hate me."
"There is some reason. I came upon him talking to my mother a short
time ago. She had told him of your imminent return.
"'I never wish to see his face,' my father cried, with fierce
vehemence; then, seeing me, he refrained."
"Well, I shall know all the day after to-morrow. Meanwhile, Ynys, we
have the night to ourselves. Dear, I want to learn one thing. What
does Annaik know? Does she know that we love each other? Does she know
that we have told each other of this love, and that we are secretly
betrothed?"
"She _must_ know that I love you; and sometimes I think she knows that
you love me. But ... oh, Allan! I am so unhappy about it.... I fear
that Annaik loves you also, and that this will come between us all. It
has already frozen her to me and me to her."
Alan looked at Ynys with startled eyes. He knew Annaik better than
any one did; and he dreaded the insurgent bitterness of that wild
and wayward nature. Moreover, in a sense he loved her, and it was for
sorrow to him that she should suffer in a way wherein he could be of no
help.
At that moment the door opened, and Matieu, a white-haired old servant,
bowing ceremoniously, remarked that M. le Marquis desired to see
Mamzelle Ynys immediately.
Ynys glanced round, told Matieu that she would follow, and then turned
to Alan. How beautiful she was! he thought; more and more beautiful
every time he saw her. Ah! fair mystery of love, which puts a glory
about the one loved; a glory that is no phantasmal light, but the
realized beauty evoked by seeing eyes and calling heart. On her face
was a wonderful color, a delicate flush that came and went. Again and
again she made a characteristic gesture, putting her right hand to her
forehead and then through the shadowy, wavy hair which Alan loved so
well and ever thought of as the fragrant dusk. How glad he was that she
was tall and lithe, graceful as a young birch; that she was strong and
kissed brown and sweet of sun and wind; that her beauty was old as the
world, and fresh as every dawn, and new as each recurrent spring! No
wonder he was a poet, since Ynys was the living poem who inspired all
that was best in his life, all that was fervent in his brain.
Thought, kindred to this, kept him a long while by the fire in deep
revery, after Ynys had thrilled him by her parting kisses and had gone
to her father. He realized, then, how it was she gave him the sense of
womanhood as no other woman had done. In her, he recognized the symbol
as well as the individual. All women shared in his homage because of
her. His deep love for her, his ever growing passion, could evoke from
him a courtesy, a chivalry, toward all women which only the callous or
the coarse failed to note. She was his magic. The light of their love
was upon every thing: everywhere he found synonyms and analogues of
"Ynys." Deeply as he loved beauty, he had learned to love it far more
keenly and understandingly, because of her. He saw now through the
accidental, and everywhere discerned the eternal beauty, the echoes of
whose wandering are in every heart and brain, though few discern the
white vision or hear the haunting voice.
And with his love had come knowledge of many things hidden from him
before. Sequences were revealed, where he had perceived only blind
inconsequence. Nature became for him a scroll, a palimpsest with daily
mutations. With each change he found a word, a clew, leading to the
fuller elucidation of that primeval knowledge which, fragmentarily,
from age to age has been painfully lost, regained, and lost again,
though never yet wholly irrecoverable.
Through this new knowledge, too, he had come to understand the supreme
wonder and promise, the supreme hope of our human life in the mystery
of motherhood. All this and much more he owed to Ynys, and to his love
for her. She was all that a woman can be to a man. In her he found
the divine abstractions which are the beacons of the human soul in
its obscure wayfaring--Romance, Love, Beauty. It was not enough that
she gave him romance, that she gave him love, that she was the most
beautiful of women in his eyes. When he thought of the one, it was to
see the starry eyes and to hear the charmed voice of Romance herself,
in the voice and in the eyes of Ynys: when he thought of Love it was to
hear Ynys's heart beating, to listen to the secret rhythms in Ynys's
brain, to feel the life-giving sun-flood that was in her pure but
intense and glowing passion.
Thus it was that she had for him that immutable attraction which a
few women have for a few men; an appeal, a charm, that atmosphere of
romance, that air of ideal beauty, wherein lies the secret of all
passionate art. The world without wonder, the world without mystery!
That, indeed, is the rainbow without colors, the sunrise without living
gold, the noon void of light.
To him, moreover, there was but one woman. In Ynys he had found her.
This exquisite prototype was at once a child of nature, a beautiful
pagan, a daughter of the sun; was at once this and a soul alive with
the spiritual life, intent upon the deep meanings lurking everywhere,
wrought to wonder even by the common habitudes of life, to mystery
even by the familiar and the explicable. Indeed, the mysticism which
was part of the spiritual inheritance come with her northern strain was
one of the deep bonds which united them.
What if both at times were wrought too deeply by this beautiful dream?
What if the inner life triumphed now and then, and each forgot the
deepest instinct of life, that here the body is overlord and the soul
but a divine consort? There are three races of man. There is the myriad
race which loses all, through (not bestiality, for the brute world is
clean and sane) perverted animalism; and there is the myriad race which
denounces humanity, and pins all its faith and joy to a life the very
conditions of whose existence are incompatible with the law to which we
are subject--the sole law, the law of Nature. Then there is that small
untoward clan, which knows the divine call of the spirit through the
brain, and the secret whisper of the soul in the heart, and forever
perceives the veils of mystery and the rainbows of hope upon our human
horizons; which hears and sees, and yet turns wisely, meanwhile,
to the life of the green earth, of which we are part; to the common
kindred of living things, with which we are at one--is content, in a
word, to live, because of the dream that makes living so mysteriously
sweet and poignant; and to dream, because of the commanding immediacy
of life.
As yet, of course, Alan and Ynys had known little of the vicissitudes
of aroused life. What they did know, foresee, was due rather to
the second-sight of the imagination than to the keen knowledge of
experience.
In Alan Ynys found all that her heart craved. She discovered this
nearly too late. A year before this last home-coming of her cousin,
she had been formally betrothed to Andrik de Morvan, the friend of her
childhood and for whom she had a true affection, and in that betrothal
had been quietly glad. When, one midwinter day, she and Alan walked
through an upland wood and looked across the snowy pastures and the
white slopes beyond, all aglow with sunlight, and then suddenly turned
toward each other, and saw in the eyes of each a wonderful light, and
the next moment were heart to heart, it was all a revelation.
For long she did not realize what it meant. On that unforgettable day,
when they had left the forest ridge and were near Kerival again, she
had sat for a time on one of the rude cattle-gates which are frequent
in these woodlands, while Alan had leant beside her, looking up
with eyes too eloquent, and speaking of what he dreamed, with sweet
stammering speech of new found love.
How she had struggled, mentally, with her duty, as she conceived it,
toward Andrik. She was betrothed to him; he loved her; she loved him
too, although even already she realized that there is a love which is
not only invincible and indestructible but that comes unsought, has no
need for human conventions, is neither moral nor immoral but simply
all-potent and thenceforth sovereign. To yield to that may be wrong;
but, if so, it is wrong to yield to the call of hunger, the cry of
thirst, the whisper of sleep, the breath of ill, the summons of death.
It comes, and that is all. The green earth may be another Endymion,
and may dream that the cold moonshine is all in all; but when the sun
rises, and a new heat and glory and passion of life are come, then
Endymion simply awakes.
It had been a sadness to her to have to tell Andrik she no longer loved
him as he was fain to be loved. He would have no finality, then; he
held her to the bond--and in Brittany there is a pledge akin to the
"hand-fast" of the north, which makes a betrothal almost as binding as
marriage.
Andrik de Morvan had gone to the Marquis de Kerival, and told him what
Ynys had said.
"She is but a girl," the seigneur remarked coldly. "And you are wrong
in thinking she can be in love with any one else. There is no one for
whom she can care so much as for you; no one whom she has met with whom
she could mate; no one with whom I would allow her to mate."
"But that matters little, if she will not marry me!" the young man had
urged.
"My daughter is my daughter, De Morvan. I cannot compel her to marry
you. I know her well enough to be sure that she would ignore any
command of this kind. But women are fools; and one can get them to do
what one wants, in one way if not in another. Let her be a while."
"But the betrothal!"
"Let it stand. But do not press it. Indeed, go away for a year. You are
heir to your mother's estates in Touraine. Go there, work, learn all
you can. Meanwhile, write occasionally to Ynys. Do not address her as
your betrothed, but at the same time let her see that it is the lover
who writes. Then, after a few months, confide that your absence is due
solely to her, that you cannot live without her; and that, after a
vain exile, you write to ask if you may come and see her. They are all
the same. It is the same thing with my mares, for which Kerival is so
famous. Some are wild, some are docile, some skittish, some vicious,
some good, a few flawless--but.... Well, they are all mares. One knows.
A mare is not a sphinx. These complexities of which we hear so much,
what are they? Spindrift. The sea is simply the sea, all the same. The
tide ebbs, though the poets reverse nature. Ebb and flow, the lifting
wind, the lifted wave; we know the way of it all. It has its mystery,
its beauty; but we don't really expect to see a nereid in the hollow of
the wave, or to catch the echo of a triton in the call of the wind. As
for Venus Anadyomene, the foam of which she was made is the froth in
poets' brains. Believe me, Annaik, my friend, women are simply women;
creatures not yet wholly tamed, but tractable in the main, delightful,
valuable often, but certainly not worth the tribute of passion and pain
they obtain from foolish men like yourself."
With this worldly wisdom Andrik de Morvan had gone home, unconvinced.
He loved Ynys; and sophistries were an ineffectual balm.
But as for Ynys, she had long made up her mind. Betrothal or no
betrothal, she belonged now only to one man, and that man, Alan de
Kerival. She was his and his alone, by every natural right. How could
she help the accident by which she had cared for Andrik before she
loved Alan? Now, indeed, it would be sacrilege to be other than wholly
Alan's. Was her heart not his, and her life with her heart, and with
both her deathless devotion?
Alan, she knew, trusted her absolutely. Before he went back to Paris,
after their love was no longer a secret, he had never once asked her to
forfeit any thing of her intimacy with Andrik, nor had he even urged
the open cancelling of the betrothal. But she was well aware his own
absolute loyalty involved for him a like loyalty from her; and she knew
that forgiveness does not belong to those natures which stake all upon
a single die.
And so the matter stood thus still. Ynys and Andrik de Morvan were
nominally betrothed; and not only the Marquis and the Marquise de
Kerival, but Andrik himself, looked upon the bond as absolute.
Perhaps Lois de Kerival was not without some suspicion as to how
matters were between the betrothed pair. Certainly she knew that Ynys
was not one who would give up any real or imagined happiness because of
a conventional arrangement or on account of any conventional duty.
In Alan, Ynys found all that he found in her. When she looked at him,
she wondered how she could ever have dreamed of Andrik as a lover,
for Alan was all that Andrik was not. How proud and glad she felt
because of his great height and strength, his vivid features with their
gray-blue eyes and spirituel expression, his wavy brown hair, a very
type of youthful and beautiful manhood! Still more she revered and
loved the inner Alan whom she knew so well, and recognized with a proud
humility that this lover of hers, whom the great Daniel Darc had spoken
of as a man of genius, was not only her knight, but her comrade, her
mate, her ideal.
Often the peasants of Kerival had speculated if the young seigneur
would join hands with her or with Annaik. Some hoped the one, some the
other; but those who knew Alan otherwise than merely by sight felt
certain that Ynys was the future bride.
"They are made for each other," old Jeanne Mael, the village authority,
was wont to exclaim; "and the good God will bring them together soon or
late. 'Tis a fair, sweet couple they are; none so handsome anywhere.
That tall, dark lass will be a good mother when her hour comes; an' the
child o' him an' her should be the bonniest in the whole wide world."
With that all who saw them together agreed.