I knew that I could not be very far wrong when I said Bellwattle had
guessed I was in love. It is so like a woman. They are incapable of
climbing to the summit of any other conclusion save this; what is more,
they reach it where no foothold for conjecture seems possible.
Who but a woman, from such slender facts as Bellwattle has acquired
by dint of persevering curiosity, would ever imagine that I am in
love? Thank God, I am not so utterly in need of the mere rudiments of
understanding. I know the truth of all that she said to Cruikshank.
Women must know me well indeed before they can come to such tender
thought of me as to forget that I am ugly. It is true, moreover, that
no woman has ever taken the trouble. Why then should I be such a fool
as to plunge myself in love?
Yet, as I think over that statement of hers, true as it is, there
comes back into my mind that evening on the cliffs when first we met
Clarissa. In the look in Bellwattle's eyes, I said, I felt the touch of
her hand; what is more, it was only a moment later that she stretched
out her arm and held her fingers for an instant round my wrist. Had she
forgotten how ugly I was then? It almost seemed so. Then why did she
say that to Cruikshank? No--I do not understand women in the least.
Anyhow, she is wrong in all her deductions. I am not in love with
Clarissa. It was not with love, when this morning Bellwattle came down
the garden with a letter in her hand, it was not with love that I
felt a dryness in my throat, or my pulses stopped and, with a sudden
impetus, bounded on again.
I guessed it was the answer from Clarissa. Well--any fool might do
that. She would not be bringing me a letter arrived by post. Therefore,
my pulses quickened because I was on the eve of learning how my
adventure was to progress. The cry of "Land Ahead!" thrills the sailor
and sets his heart a-beating no more than did the sight of this letter
to me. He may not know what land it is, just as I was ignorant of her
answer; but that the answer had come and, to the sailor, that land is
in sight, is quite enough to stir the blood and start it racing.
Bellwattle knew well who the letter was from. Her manner, her step,
too, were of the lightest as she brought it down the garden to me. But
there was that faint look of watchfulness about her which no woman,
not even the cleverest, can shut out from her eyes. Could she have
seen how my heart was beating, I am sure it would have added no more
to her convictions. She knows I am in love, and there is no more to be
said about it. No doubt she read my casual way of taking it as proof
conclusive of my guilt. When, therefore, I slipped it unopened into my
pocket then, quite at her ease, with no show of curiosity, but just to
let her see that I must not suppose her completely without perception,
she said:
"A little girl brought it from the Miss Fennells."
"It's from Miss Fawdry," said I.
I think that must have surprised her. She was not quite prepared to
hear me admit it so casually as that. So surprised was she, in fact, to
hear my admission, that she almost forgot to show surprise at hearing
who it was from. But it came. It came tardily.
"From the little invalid?" said she, and her eye-brows lifted
obediently to her voice. I am not so sure I did not love her myself
just then.
I hid my smile, however, as I nodded my head.
"How funny!" she continued. "Fancy her writing! She's nice, isn't she?"
God bless all women!
"She's very nice," said I.
"I fancy she's too good for the man she's engaged to," she continued.
"Most women are that," said I.
She shook her head, and the smile in her eye was quite wonderful.
"_I_ was engaged to Cruikshank once," said she.
I wonder what it is in men to inspire such a smile as that. I think
I know why she said it though. Since the other day she has done a
thousand little things to please him. She said that to please him
then, even though he was not there. When, then, the moment of pleasure
had passed--for it had pleased her too to say it--she came back without
delay to her gentle inquisition.
"Did she tell you anything about herself the other evening?" she asked.
"What does a woman tell an utter stranger about herself in ten
minutes?" I replied. "For the matter of that what does she tell him in
ten years?"
She glanced at me sharply.
"Not much, certainly, to an utter stranger," said she.
I swear to Heaven, she believes I have met Clarissa before.
"Well, I take it," said I, "that even after ten years a man is little
better than that. How long have you been married to Cruikshank?"
"Seven."
"And do you think he knows you any better to-day?"
I watched with a smile the little frown that came wrinkling to her
forehead. This was not at all what she wanted to talk about. It did
not interest her in the least. From the moment that I had mentioned
Clarissa's name, she had hoped that I was about to confide in her the
whole story. To that end she had taken the conversation most gently by
the hand and was leading it persuasively as you lead a wilful child.
But it had struggled free, and with my assistance had set off in an
utterly unexpected direction. She was standing there, watching it, as
it wandered out of sight. No wonder she was annoyed. For that matter,
no wonder I smiled. I had done it, and nothing but force could bring
it back again into the path where most she needed it. Now, force is no
argument with a woman. She only makes use of it when everything else
fails; then she breaks into tears or fans the storm of her anger till
the clouds are heavy in her face, and the flashes of her eyes are more
dangerous than any lightning.
But everything had not failed her. If she had lost in her first
endeavor, I am perfectly sure she felt confident of ultimate victory.
The frown soon faded from her forehead and, in another moment, I found
it hard to believe that I had secured a victory at all.
"Cruikshank's not a person who knows much about women in any case,"
said she at length. "I think you understand women better than any man
I've ever met."
Well--there was my victory gone from me for ever. It was the delivering
up of her sword, of course, but she had sharpened her dagger on it
before she placed it in my hands.
"But Cruikshank understands flowers," she went on, "and they are better
than any woman. Come and see the cottage I told you about with the bit
of field he's going to make into a garden. Or--I'm sorry--perhaps you
want to read your letter!"
"That can wait," said I. "I'd sooner see the cottage." At which, both
knowing it to be a most excellent lie, we smiled each to the other and
set off through the garden.
Up a narrow boreen, banked on each side by low walls of grass-sod and
stone where grew violets and primroses in the company of moss and
ladder fern, we made our way to Cruikshank's little cottage on the high
land above Ballysheen. Here there are fields of young wheat, breaking
in brilliant green through the stony, unpromising ground. There are
fields of pasture, too, that stretch away to the sheer cliff's edge
where the sheep browse and the gulls go circling all day long. So high
are you there, that only a mere ribbon strip of the far sea is visible,
but the muted sound of it as it swells upon the rocks, comes to your
ears in a sonorous sibilant note, which grows and grows into the very
music of the place. So swiftly do your ears become attuned to it,
that soon you hear no sound of it at all; it is all one motive of the
great, still symphony of Silence which Nature is forever playing on her
thousand instruments of string and reed.
We had walked some distance without exchanging a word, when Bellwattle
stopped and pointed to a small thatched roof that rose above a hollow
in the undulating land.
"That's the place," said she.
I stood awhile and looked at it from there. It was the only habitation
within sight. Great lines of gorse bushes clustered all around it,
dipping down out of view into the hollow below. High above it in the
clear air a kestrel hawk hung poised upon the wind and far away along
the near line of the land's horizon a man was driving a team of horses
with his harrow, while in his wake there followed a glittering white
mass of hungry sea-birds, twisting and turning in the air like myriads
of paper pieces tossing in the wind.
"Is it always like this?" I asked presently. "Always as big and broad
and grand?"
"Always."
"What a brave blast of yellow there will be when the gorse is out!"
"But has color got sound?" said she.
"Sound! Why, when that gorse is all in blossom, it'll be like a
thousand silver trumpets ringing their voices all day long."
"And the heather--when that's out? All this place is one mass of
purple. What sound has that?"
I shook my head and laughed. It is the habit I have noticed in her
before, that habit of taking one too literally when one's mood is
serious.
"You're asking me more than I can tell you," said I. "I'm no expert in
the classification of colors with the sound of instruments. You'll hear
the note of it in your own heart if you listen well enough."
A pensive look came into her eyes. I thought she was trying to see
the heather in bloom, to hear in the heart of her that deep warm note
of sound which the wealth of its color plays into one's ears. She was
endeavoring nothing of the kind; for suddenly she turned to me and,
in the most ingenuous way in the world, she asked me why I had never
married.
"In the name of God!" said I, "what's that got to do with it?"
"You ought to have married," she continued. "If women have heard you
talk about things like that--the heather and the gorse--they must have
wanted to marry you."
"I'll try to see the logic of that," I replied, laughing. "I'll try,
during the next few days, and then I'll tell you why no woman has ever
entertained such feelings of regard for me. Let's go on to the cottage."
Now, how is one to reconcile that with what she said to Cruikshank? I
give it up. I shall make no further effort to understand her.
At the end of the boreen there was a gate. Its rusty hinges whistled
the lilt of an air as I swung it open--that air which is a part of
the great symphony we hear all round us. Then we were out in the open
fields; the springy sea-turf was bending beneath our feet. Far on
and away the rugged curves of the coast-line wound themselves to the
horizon, with here and there a sleepy headland dipping its nose into
the glittering sea. For a moment or two the sheep turned their heads
to look at us, then, moving away with slowly wandering steps, they
continued their browsing.
It was here I stood still again. The kestrel had dropped down the wind
and was vanished out of sight. Only the gulls were left, sweeping
their endless circles against the blue radiance of the sky. Here and
there a frightened sand-martin, darting swiftly through the light,
hurried over the edge of the cliff to his home, as though he knew a
hawk were near at hand.
After a long silence, I turned to Bellwattle and confessed that she was
right.
"Right? About what?" she asked.
"All that you have said when you talked about living in
cities--compared to this. This is where to live--fair weather and foul,
this is the only sort of place to solve the riddle."
"What riddle?"
"Of why it should be that we must live at all. In a place like this,
everything answers it. You're quite right; it's not worth living when
you only live to forget that you're alive. Here everything calls to you
to remember. 'Remember' is the word. Being conscious is only a stock
phrase. People use it in little art circles in London. 'Remember' is
the word. Listen to that gull--that's calling to you; listen to the
sea--every time a wave breaks, it's the world drawing in its breath.
Pavements and houses aren't alive like that. I try in London sometimes
to think that the houses talk to each other--but how can they talk if
they never draw a breath! Look at the sky! Look at the sea! You're
absolutely right--it's impossible to forget here. I'd give all I know
to live in that little cottage there in the hollow and remember the
whole day long, the whole year round. But--"
"But what?"
She laid her hand on my arm again.
"It's not to be thought of," said I.
"But Cruikshank does it," said she. "Why shouldn't you? Is the cottage
too small for your fifteen hundred a year? It has four rooms in it.
We'd let you have it. You could make the garden instead of Cruikshank.
Things would grow in that hollow--I'm sure they would. Why is it not to
be thought of?"
I had the temerity to lay my hand on hers, which still was resting on
my arm.
"Cruikshank does it," said I; "but then, have you forgotten--"
"Forgotten what?"
"'It is not good for man to live alone.'"
She looked at me long and earnestly. I could see it in her eyes that
she would offer to help me by every means within her power. But the
futility of it must have been as apparent to her as it was to me, for
though her eyes were full of eloquence, she said nothing.
"Now do you understand why I live in London?" I continued. "Why I find
company and humanity in crowds? Nearly every morning I sit in the Park
and make up stories about the different people who pass by." Suddenly,
again, I thought of my electrician and his little nursery maid.
"Sometimes," I added, "they make them up for me. I have nothing to do
but sit there and look on. It's better than theatres or restaurants.
You mustn't think I find them the only resources of life in a city.
Certainly restaurants are my theatres sometimes. The whole business
is very much like a 'Punch and Judy' show. You can set it up at the
corner of any street you like. When you come over to London--if you
ever do--I'll take you round and show you some of my little theatres.
They are all over the place. Charing Cross Gardens when the band
plays--that's one of the best I know; or any A.B.C. shop at lunch time."
I looked at her and laughed. I could not help it. Her face was so
serious.
"Well--now do you see?" I concluded; "when you're alone, forgetting is
probably the best thing to do, and some ways of doing it are better
than others."
For a moment she answered my look, then my laughter, after which, a
notion suddenly seizing her, she left me.
"I'm just going into the cottage," said she. "No--you stay there. Sit
down on the grass and read your letter," and she was gone.
My obedience was not implicit. I did not sit down. Instead I walked
to the cliff's edge, and there, with all the steep fortresses of rock
below me, shelving down battlement by battlement to the sea, I took
Clarissa's letter from my pocket and read it.
They may have taught her many things, those two old maiden aunts, but
they have not yet taught her to write or spell. It was the quaintest
letter I think I have ever seen.
"_Dear mister Bellairs_," it ran. And how it ran! A spider's legs
dipped well in ink would scarcely run more wild.
"_Theer is a place out on the clifs ware I went wunse with him. I
shall be theer on friday at twelve o'clock. the miss Fennells are
going into yawl it is past the furst hed of the clifs. Clarissa._"
That was all; but it was enough. It was more than enough. I had not
hoped for so much. And yet, as I thought of her readiness to comply
with my request, I realized how greatly it proved her love for that
worthless young cub in London. For her, a prisoner, she was risking
much, just to hear word of him.
"Will she ever listen to what I have to tell her?" said I, and, hearing
my voice, Dandy came out of a rabbit-hole and looked up into my face.
"There's a rabbit hiding down there," said he.
"I don't care a damn about your rabbit," I exclaimed. "Will she listen
to me--that's what I want to know?"