VIA OSCURA
The day that followed this quiet dawn marked the meridian of spring.
Thereafter the flush upon the blossoms would deepen; the yellow pass
out of the green; and a deeper green involve the shoreless emerald sea
of verdure which everywhere covered the brown earth, and swelled and
lapsed in endlessly receding billows of forest and woodland. Up to that
noon-tide height Spring had aspired, ever since she had shaken the dust
of snow from her primrose-sandals; now, looking upon the way she had
come, she took the hand of Summer--and both went forth as one, so that
none should tell which was still the guest of the greenness.
This was the day when Alan and Ynys walked among the green alleys of
the woods of Kerival, and when, through the deep gladness that was his
for all the strange, gnawing pain in his mind, in his ears echoed the
haunting line of Rimbaud, "Then, in the violet forest all a-bourgeon,
Eucharis said to me: 'It is Spring.'"
Through the first hours of the day Alan had been unwontedly silent.
Ynys had laughed at him with loving eyes, but had not shown any shadow
of resentment. His word to the effect that his journey had tired him,
and that he had not slept at all, was enough to account for his lack of
buoyant joy.
But, in truth, Ynys did not regret this, since it had brought a still
deeper intensity of love into Alan's eyes. When he looked at her, there
was so much passion of longing, so pathetic an appeal, that her heart
smote her. Why should she be the one chosen to evoke a love such as
this, she wondered; she, who was but Ynys, while Alan was a man whom
all women might love, and had genius that made him as one set apart
from his fellows, and was brow-lit by a starry fate?
And yet, in a sense she understood. They were so much at one, so like
in all essential matters, and were in all ways comrades. It would
have been impossible for each not to love the other. But, deeper than
this, was the profound and intimate communion of the spirit. In some
beautiful, strange way, she knew she was the flame to his fire. At that
flame he lit the torch of which Daniel Darc and others had spoken. She
did not see why or wherein it was so, but she believed, and indeed at
last realized the exquisite actuality.
In deep love, there is no height nor depth between two hearts, no
height nor depth, no length nor breadth. There is simply love.
The birds of Angus Ogue are like the wild-doves of the forest: when
they nest in the heart they are as one. And her life, and Alan's, were
not these one?
Nevertheless, Ynys was disappointed as the day went on, and her lover
did not seem able to rouse himself from his strange despondency.
Doubtless this was due largely to what was pending. That afternoon he
was to have his long anticipated interview with the Marquise, and
would perhaps learn what might affect his whole life. On the other
hand, each believed that nothing would be revealed which was not of the
past solely.
Idly, Ynys began to question her companion about the previous night.
What had he done, since he had not slept; had he read, or dreamed at
the window, or gone out, as had once been his wont on summer nights,
to walk in the cypress alley or along the grassy dunes? Had he heard
a nightingale singing in the moonlight? Had he noticed the prolonged
screaming of the peacocks--unusually prolonged, now that she thought of
it, Ynys added.
"I wonder, dear, if you would love me whatever happened--whatever I
was, or did?"
It was an inconsequent question. She looked up at him, half perturbed,
half pleased.
"Yes, Alan."
"But do you mean what you say, knowing that you are not only using a
phrase?"
"I have no gift of expression, dearest. Words come to me without their
bloom and their fragrance, I often think. But ... Alan, _I love you_."
"That is sweetest music for me, Ynys, my fawn. All words from you have
both bloom and fragrance, though you may not know it, shy flower. But
tell me again, do you mean what you say, _absolutely_?"
"Absolutely. In every way, in all things, at all times. Dear, how
could _any thing_ come between us? It is _possible_, of course, that
circumstances might separate us. But nothing could really come between
us. My heart is yours."
"What about Andrik de Morvan?"
"Ah, you are not in earnest, Alan!"
"Yes; I am more than half in earnest, Ynys, darling. Tell me!"
"You cannot possibly believe that I care, that I could care, for Andrik
as I care for you, Alan."
"Why not?"
"Why not? Oh, have you so little belief, then, in women--in me? Alan,
do you not know that what is perhaps possible for a man, though I
cannot conceive it, is _impossible_ for a woman. That is the poorest
sophistry which says a woman may love two men at the same time. That
is, if by love is meant what you and I mean. Affection, the deepest
affection, is one thing; the love of man and woman, as _we_ mean it, is
a thing apart!"
"You love Andrik?"
"Yes."
"Could you wed your life with his?"
"I could have done so ... but for you."
"Then, by your true heart, is there no possibility that he can in any
way ever come between us?"
"None."
"Although he is nominally your betrothed, and believes in you as his
future wife?"
"That is not my fault. I drifted into that conditional union, as you
know. But after to-day he and every one shall know that I can wed no
man but you. But why do you ask me these things, Alan?"
"I want to know. I will explain later. But tell me; could you be happy
with Andrik? You say you love him?"
"I love him as a friend, as a comrade."
"As an intimately dear comrade?"
"Alan, do not let us misunderstand each other. There can only be
one supreme comrade for a woman, and that is the man whom she loves
supremely. Every other affection, the closest, the dearest, is as
distinct from that as day from night."
"If by some malign chance you and Andrik married--say, in the event of
my supposed death--would you still be as absolutely true to me as you
are now?"
"What has the accident of marriage to do with truth between a man and a
woman, Alan?"
"It involves intimacies that would be a desecration otherwise. Oh,
Ynys, do you not understand?"
"It is a matter of the inner life. Men so rarely believe in the hidden
loyalty of the heart. It is possible for a woman to fulfil a bond and
yet not be a bondswoman. Outer circumstances have little to do with the
inner life, with the real self."
"In a word, then, if you married Andrik you would remain absolutely
mine, not only if I were dead, but if perchance the rumor were untrue
and I came back, though too late?"
"Yes."
"Absolutely?"
"Absolutely."
"And you profoundly know, Ynys, that in no conceivable circumstances
can Andrik be to you what I am, or any thing for a moment approaching
it?"
"I do know it."
"Although he were your husband?"
"Although he were my husband."
The worn lines that were in Alan's face were almost gone. Looking into
his eyes Ynys saw that the strange look of pain which had alarmed her
was no longer there. The dear eyes had brightened; a new hope seemed to
have arisen in them.
"Do you believe me, Alan, dear?" she whispered.
"If I did not, it would kill me, Ynys."
And he spoke truth. The bitter sophistications of love play lightly
with the possibilities of death. Men who talk of suicide are likely to
be long-livers; lovers whose hearts are easily broken can generally
recover and astonish themselves by their heroic endurance. The human
heart is like a wave of the sea; it can be lashed into storm, it can
be calmed, it can become stagnant--but it is seldom absorbed from the
ocean till in natural course the sun takes up its spirit in vapor.
Yet, ever and again, there is one wave among a myriad which a spiral
wind-eddy may suddenly strike. In a moment it is whirled this way and
that; it is involved in a cataclysm of waters; and then cloud and sea
meet, and what a moment before had been an ocean wave is become an idle
skyey vapor.
Alan was of the few men of whom that wave is the symbol. To him, death
could come at any time, if the wind-eddy of a certain unthinkable
sorrow struck him at his heart.
In this sense, his life was in Ynys's hands as absolutely as though he
were a caged bird. He knew it, and Ynys knew it.
There are a few men, a few women, like this. Perhaps it is well that
these are so rare. Among the hills of the north, at least, they may
still be found; in remote mountain valleys and in lonely isles, where
life and death are realized actualities and not the mere adumbrations
of the pinions of that lonely fugitive, the human mind, along the
endless precipices of Time.
Alan knew well that both he and Ynys were not so strong as each
believed. Knowing this, he feared for both. And yet, there was but
one woman in the world for him--Ynys; as for her, there was but one
man--Alan. Without her, he could do nothing, achieve nothing. She was
his flame, his inspiration, his strength, his light. Without her, he
was afraid to live; with her, death was a beautiful dream. To her, Alan
was not less. She lived in him and for him.
But we are wrought of marsh-fire as well as of stellar light. Now, as
of old, the gods do not make of the fairest life a thornless rose. A
single thorn may innocently convey poison; so that everywhere men and
women go to and fro perilously, and not least those who move through
the shadow and shine of an imperious passion.
For a time, thereafter, Alan and Ynys walked slowly onward, hand in
hand, each brooding deep over the thoughts their words had stirred.
"Do you know what Yann says, Alan?" Ynys asked in a low voice, after
both had stopped instinctively to listen to a thrush leisurely
iterating his just learned love carol, where he swung on a greening
spray of honeysuckle under a yellow-green lime. "Do you know what Yann
says?... He says that you have a wave at your feet. What does that
mean?"
"When did he tell you that, Ynys, mo-chree?"
"Ah, Alan, dear, how sweet it is to hear from your lips the dear Gaelic
we both love so well! And does that not make you more than ever anxious
to learn all that you are to hear this afternoon?"
"Yes ... but that, that Ian Macdonald said; what else did he say?"
"Nothing. He would say no more. I asked him in the Gaelic, and he
repeated only, 'I see a wave at his feet.'"
"What Ian means by that I know well. It means I am going on a far
journey."
"Oh, no, Alan, no!"
"He has the sight upon him, at times. Ian would not say that thing, did
he not mean it. Tell me, my fawn, has he ever said any thing of this
kind about _you_?"
"Yes. Less than a month ago. I was with him one day on the dunes near
the sea. Once, when he gave no answer to what I asked, I looked at him,
and saw his eyes fixt. 'What do you see, Yann?' I asked.
"'I see great rocks, strange caverns. Sure, it is well I am knowing
what they are. They are the Sea-caves of Rona.'
"There were no rocks visible from where we stood, so I knew that Ian
was in one of his visionary moods. I waited, and then spoke again,
whisperingly:
"'Tell me, Ian MacIain, what do you see?'
"'I see two whom I do not know. And they are in a strange place, they
are. And on the man I see a shadow, and on the woman I see a light. But
what that shadow is, I do not know; nor do I know what that light is.
But I am for thinking that it is of the Virgin Mary, for I see the
dream that is in the woman's heart, and it is a fair wonderful dream
_that_.'
"That is all Yann said, Alan. As I was about to speak, his face changed.
"'What is it, Ian?' I asked.
"At first he would answer nothing. Then he said: 'It is a dream. It
means nothing. It was only because I was thinking of you and Alan
MacAlasdair.'"
"Oh, Ynys!"--Alan interrupted with an eager cry--"that is a thing
I have long striven to know; that which lies in the words 'Alan
MacAlasdair.' My father, then, was named Alasdair! And was it Rona, you
said, was the place of the Sea-caves? Rona ... that must be an island.
The only Rona I know of is that near Skye. It may be the same. Now,
indeed, I have a clew, lest I should learn nothing to-day. Did Ian say
nothing more?"
"Nothing. I asked him if the man and woman he saw were you and I,
but he would not speak. I am certain he was about to say yes, but
refrained."
For a while they walked on in silence, each revolving many speculations
aroused by the clew given by the words of "Yann the Dumb." Suddenly
Ynys tightened her clasp of Alan's hand.
"What is it, dear?"
"Alan, some time ago you asked me abruptly what I knew about the
forester, Judik Kerbastiou. Well, I see him in that beech-covert
yonder, looking at us."
Alan started. Ynys noticed that for a moment he grew pale as foam. His
lips parted, as though he were about to call to the woodlander: when
Judik advanced, making at the same time a sign of silence.
The man had a wild look about him. Clearly, he had not slept since he
and Alan had parted at midnight. His dusky eyes had a red light in
them. His rough clothes were still damp; his face, too, was strangely
white and dank.
Alan presumed that he came to say something concerning Annaik. He did
not know what to do to prevent this, but while he was pondering, Judik
spoke in a hoarse, tired voice:
"Let the Lady Ynys go back to the château at once. She is needed there."
"Why, what is wrong, Judik Kerbastiou?"
"Let her go back, I say. No time for words now. Be quick. I am not
deceiving you. Listen ..." and with that he leaned toward Alan, and
whispered in his ear.
Alan looked at him with startled amaze. Then, turning toward Ynys, he
asked her to go back at once to the château.