PART I—SPRING

Produced by Donald Lainson; David Widger

THE DARK FLOWER

by John Galsworthy

“Take the flower from my breast, I pray thee,

Take the flower too from out my tresses;

And then go hence, for see, the night is fair,

The stars rejoice to watch thee on thy way.”

—From “The Bard of the Dimbovitza.”

CONTENTS

THE DARK FLOWER

PART I—SPRING

PART II—SUMMER

PART III—AUTUMN

THE DARK FLOWER

PART I—SPRING

I

He walked along Holywell that afternoon of early June with his short

gown drooping down his arms, and no cap on his thick dark hair. A youth

of middle height, and built as if he had come of two very different

strains, one sturdy, the other wiry and light. His face, too, was a

curious blend, for, though it was strongly formed, its expression was

rather soft and moody. His eyes—dark grey, with a good deal of light in

them, and very black lashes—had a way of looking beyond what they saw,

so that he did not seem always to be quite present; but his smile was

exceedingly swift, uncovering teeth as white as a negro's, and giving

his face a peculiar eagerness. People stared at him a little as he

passed—since in eighteen hundred and eighty he was before his time in

not wearing a cap. Women especially were interested; they perceived that

he took no notice of them, seeming rather to be looking into distance,

and making combinations in his soul.

Did he know of what he was thinking—did he ever know quite definitely

at that time of his life, when things, especially those beyond the

immediate horizon, were so curious and interesting?—the things he was

going to see and do when he had got through Oxford, where everybody

was 'awfully decent' to him and 'all right' of course, but not so very

interesting.

He was on his way to his tutor's to read an essay on Oliver Cromwell;

and under the old wall, which had once hedged in the town, he took out

of his pocket a beast. It was a small tortoise, and, with an extreme

absorption, he watched it move its little inquiring head, feeling it all

the time with his short, broad fingers, as though to discover exactly

how it was made. It was mighty hard in the back! No wonder poor old

Aeschylus felt a bit sick when it fell on his head! The ancients used

it to stand the world on—a pagoda world, perhaps, of men and beasts and

trees, like that carving on his guardian's Chinese cabinet. The Chinese

made jolly beasts and trees, as if they believed in everything having

a soul, and not only being just fit for people to eat or drive or make

houses of. If only the Art School would let him model things 'on his

own,' instead of copying and copying—it was just as if they imagined it

would be dangerous to let you think out anything for yourself!

He held the tortoise to his waistcoat, and let it crawl, till, noticing

that it was gnawing the corner of his essay, he put it back into his

pocket. What would his tutor do if he were to know it was there?—cock

his head a little to one side, and say: “Ah! there are things, Lennan,

not dreamed of in my philosophy!” Yes, there were a good many not

dreamed of by 'old Stormer,' who seemed so awfully afraid of anything

that wasn't usual; who seemed always laughing at you, for fear that you

should laugh at him. There were lots of people in Oxford like that. It

was stupid. You couldn't do anything decent if you were afraid of being

laughed at! Mrs. Stormer wasn't like that; she did things because—they

came into her head. But then, of course, she was Austrian, not English,

and ever so much younger than old Stormer.

And having reached the door of his tutor's house, he rang the bell....

II

When Anna Stormer came into the study she found her husband standing at

the window with his head a little on one side—a tall, long-legged figure

in clothes of a pleasant tweed, and wearing a low turn-over collar (not

common in those days) and a blue silk tie, which she had knitted, strung

through a ring. He was humming and gently tapping the window-pane with

his well-kept finger-nails. Though celebrated for the amount of work

he got through, she never caught him doing any in this house of theirs,

chosen because it was more than half a mile away from the College which

held the 'dear young clowns,' as he called them, of whom he was tutor.

He did not turn—it was not, of course, his habit to notice what was not

absolutely necessary—but she felt that he was aware of her. She came to

the window seat and sat down. He looked round at that, and said: “Ah!”

It was a murmur almost of admiration, not usual from him, since, with

the exception of certain portions of the classics, it was hardly his

custom to admire. But she knew that she was looking her best sitting

there, her really beautiful figure poised, the sun shining on her brown

hair, and brightening her deep-set, ice-green eyes under their black

lashes. It was sometimes a great comfort to her that she remained so

good-looking. It would have been an added vexation indeed to have felt

that she ruffled her husband's fastidiousness. Even so, her cheekbones

were too high for his taste, symbols of that something in her character

which did not go with his—the dash of desperation, of vividness, that

lack of a certain English smoothness, which always annoyed him.

“Harold!”—she would never quite flatten her r's—“I want to go to the

mountains this year.”

The mountains! She had not seen them since that season at San Martino di

Castrozza twelve years ago, which had ended in her marrying him.

“Nostalgia!”

“I don't know what that means—I am homesick. Can we go?”

“If you like—why not? But no leading up the Cimone della Pala for ME!”

She knew what he meant by that. No romance. How splendidly he had

led that day! She had almost worshipped him. What blindness! What

distortion! Was it really the same man standing there with those bright,

doubting eyes, with grey already in his hair? Yes, romance was over! And

she sat silent, looking out into the street—that little old street into

which she looked day and night. A figure passed out there, came to the

door, and rang.

She said softly: “Here is Mark Lennan!”

She felt her husband's eyes rest on her just for a moment, knew that he

had turned, heard him murmur: “Ah, the angel clown!” And, quite still,

she waited for the door to open. There was the boy, with his blessed

dark head, and his shy, gentle gravity, and his essay in his hand.

“Well, Lennan, and how's old Noll? Hypocrite of genius, eh? Draw up;

let's get him over!”

Motionless, from her seat at the window, she watched those two figures

at the table—the boy reading in his queer, velvety bass voice; her

husband leaning back with the tips of his fingers pressed together, his

head a little on one side, and that faint, satiric smile which never

reached his eyes. Yes, he was dozing, falling asleep; and the boy, not

seeing, was going on. Then he came to the end and glanced up. What eyes

he had! Other boys would have laughed; but he looked almost sorry. She

heard him murmur: “I'm awfully sorry, sir.”

“Ah, Lennan, you caught me! Fact is, term's fagged me out. We're going

to the mountains. Ever been to the mountains? What—never! You should

come with us, eh? What do you say, Anna? Don't you think this young man

ought to come with us?”

She got up, and stood staring at them both. Had she heard aright?

Then she answered—very gravely:

“Yes; I think he ought.”

“Good; we'll get HIM to lead up the Cimone della Pala!”

III

When the boy had said good-bye, and she had watched him out into the

street, Anna stood for a moment in the streak of sunlight that came in

through the open door, her hands pressed to cheeks which were flaming.

Then she shut the door and leaned her forehead against the window-pane,

seeing nothing. Her heart beat very fast; she was going over and over

again the scene just passed through. This meant so much more than it had

seemed to mean....

Though she always had Heimweh, and especially at the end of the summer

term, this year it had been a different feeling altogether that made her

say to her husband: “I want to go to the mountains!”

For twelve years she had longed for the mountains every summer, but had

not pleaded for them; this year she had pleaded, but she did not long

for them. It was because she had suddenly realized the strange fact that

she did not want to leave England, and the reason for it, that she

had come and begged to go. Yet why, when it was just to get away from

thought of this boy, had she said: “Yes, I think he ought to come!” Ah!

but life for her was always a strange pull between the conscientious

and the desperate; a queer, vivid, aching business! How long was it now

since that day when he first came to lunch, silent and shy, and suddenly

smiling as if he were all lighted up within—the day when she had said

to her husband afterwards: “Ah, he's an angel!” Not yet a year—the

beginning of last October term, in fact. He was different from all the

other boys; not that he was a prodigy with untidy hair, ill-fitting

clothes, and a clever tongue; but because of something—something—Ah!

well—different; because he was—he; because she longed to take his head

between her hands and kiss it. She remembered so well the day that

longing first came to her. She was giving him tea, it was quite early

in the Easter term; he was stroking her cat, who always went to him,

and telling her that he meant to be a sculptor, but that his guardian

objected, so that, of course, he could not start till he was of age. The

lamp on the table had a rose-coloured shade; he had been rowing—a very

cold day—and his face was glowing; generally it was rather pale. And

suddenly he smiled, and said: “It's rotten waiting for things, isn't

it?” It was then she had almost stretched out her hands to draw his

forehead to her lips. She had thought then that she wanted to kiss him,

because it would have been so nice to be his mother—she might just have

been his mother, if she had married at sixteen. But she had long known

now that she wanted to kiss, not his forehead, but his lips. He was

there in her life—a fire in a cold and unaired house; it had even become

hard to understand that she could have gone on all these years without

him. She had missed him so those six weeks of the Easter vacation,

she had revelled so in his three queer little letters, half-shy,

half-confidential; kissed them, and worn them in her dress! And in

return had written him long, perfectly correct epistles in her still

rather quaint English. She had never let him guess her feelings; the

idea that he might shocked her inexpressibly. When the summer term

began, life seemed to be all made up of thoughts of him. If, ten years

ago, her baby had lived, if its cruel death—after her agony—had not

killed for good her wish to have another; if for years now she had not

been living with the knowledge that she had no warmth to expect, and

that love was all over for her; if life in the most beautiful of all old

cities had been able to grip her—there would have been forces to check

this feeling. But there was nothing in the world to divert the current.

And she was so brimful of life, so conscious of vitality running to

sheer waste. Sometimes it had been terrific, that feeling within her,

of wanting to live—to find outlet for her energy. So many hundreds

of lonely walks she had taken during all these years, trying to lose

herself in Nature—hurrying alone, running in the woods, over the fields,

where people did not come, trying to get rid of that sense of waste,

trying once more to feel as she had felt when a girl, with the whole

world before her. It was not for nothing that her figure was superb, her

hair so bright a brown, her eyes so full of light. She had tried many

distractions. Work in the back streets, music, acting, hunting; given

them up one after the other; taken to them passionately again. They had

served in the past. But this year they had not served.... One Sunday,

coming from confession unconfessed, she had faced herself. It was

wicked. She would have to kill this feeling—must fly from this boy who

moved her so! If she did not act quickly, she would be swept away. And

then the thought had come: Why not? Life was to be lived—not torpidly

dozed through in this queer cultured place, where age was in the blood!

Life was for love—to be enjoyed! And she would be thirty-six next month!

It seemed to her already an enormous age. Thirty-six! Soon she would be

old, actually old—and never have known passion! The worship, which had

made a hero of the distinguished-looking Englishman, twelve years older

than herself, who could lead up the Cimone della Pala, had not been

passion. It might, perhaps, have become passion if he had so willed. But

he was all form, ice, books. Had he a heart at all, had he blood in his

veins? Was there any joy of life in this too beautiful city and these

people who lived in it—this place where even enthusiasms seemed to be

formal and have no wings, where everything was settled and sophisticated

as the very chapels and cloisters? And yet, to have this feeling for a

boy—for one almost young enough to be her son! It was so—shameless! That

thought haunted her, made her flush in the dark, lying awake at night.

And desperately she would pray—for she was devout—pray to be made pure,

to be given the holy feelings of a mother, to be filled simply with the

sweet sense that she could do everything, suffer anything for him, for

his good. After these long prayers she would feel calmed, drowsy, as

though she had taken a drug. For hours, perhaps, she would stay like

that. And then it would all come over her again. She never thought of

his loving her; that would be—unnatural. Why should he love her? She

was very humble about it. Ever since that Sunday, when she avoided the

confessional, she had brooded over how to make an end—how to get away

from a longing that was too strong for her. And she had hit on this

plan—to beg for the mountains, to go back to where her husband had come

into her life, and try if this feeling would not die. If it did not,

she would ask to be left out there with her own people, away from this

danger. And now the fool—the blind fool—the superior fool—with his

satiric smile, his everlasting patronage, had driven her to overturn her

own plan. Well, let him take the consequences; she had done her best!

She would have this one fling of joy, even if it meant that she must

stay out there, and never see the boy again!

Standing in her dusky hall, where a faint scent of woodrot crept out

into the air, whenever windows and doors were closed, she was all

tremulous with secret happiness. To be with him among her mountains, to

show him all those wonderful, glittering or tawny crags, to go with him

to the top of them and see the kingdoms of the world spread out below;

to wander with him in the pine woods, on the Alps in all the scent of

the trees and the flowers, where the sun was hot! The first of July; and

it was only the tenth of June! Would she ever live so long? They would

not go to San Martino this time, rather to Cortina—some new place that

had no memories!

She moved from the window, and busied herself with a bowl of flowers.

She had heard that humming sound which often heralded her husband's

approach, as though warning the world to recover its good form before

he reached it. In her happiness she felt kind and friendly to him. If

he had not meant to give her joy, he had nevertheless given it! He came

downstairs two at a time, with that air of not being a pedagogue, which

she knew so well; and, taking his hat off the stand, half turned round

to her.

“Pleasant youth, young Lennan; hope he won't bore us out there!”

His voice seemed to have an accent of compunction, to ask pardon for

having issued that impulsive invitation. And there came to her an

overwhelming wish to laugh. To hide it, to find excuse for it, she ran

up to him, and, pulling his coat lapels till his face was within reach,

she kissed the tip of his nose. And then she laughed. And he stood

looking at her, with his head just a little on one side, and his

eyebrows just a little raised.

IV

When young Mark heard a soft tapping at his door, though out of bed, he

was getting on but dreamily—it was so jolly to watch the mountains lying

out in this early light like huge beasts. That one they were going

up, with his head just raised above his paws, looked very far away out

there! Opening the door an inch, he whispered:

“Is it late?”

“Five o'clock; aren't you ready?”

It was awfully rude of him to keep her waiting! And he was soon down in

the empty dining-room, where a sleepy maid was already bringing in their

coffee. Anna was there alone. She had on a flax-blue shirt, open at the

neck, a short green skirt, and a grey-green velvety hat, small, with one

black-cock's feather. Why could not people always wear such nice things,

and be as splendid-looking! And he said:

“You do look jolly, Mrs. Stormer!”

She did not answer for so long that he wondered if it had been rude to

say that. But she DID look so strong, and swift, and happy-looking.

Down the hill, through a wood of larch-trees, to the river, and across

the bridge, to mount at once by a path through hay-fields. How could old

Stormer stay in bed on such a morning! The peasant girls in their

blue linen skirts were already gathering into bundles what the men had

scythed. One, raking at the edge of a field, paused and shyly nodded to

them. She had the face of a Madonna, very calm and grave and sweet, with

delicate arched brows—a face it was pure pleasure to see. The boy

looked back at her. Everything to him, who had never been out of England

before, seemed strange and glamorous. The chalets, with their long wide

burnt-brown wooden balconies and low-hanging eaves jutting far beyond

the walls; these bright dresses of the peasant women; the friendly

little cream-coloured cows, with blunt, smoke-grey muzzles. Even the

feel in the air was new, that delicious crisp burning warmth that lay so

lightly as it were on the surface of frozen stillness; and the special

sweetness of all places at the foot of mountains—scent of pine-gum,

burning larch-wood, and all the meadow flowers and grasses. But

newest of all was the feeling within him—a sort of pride, a sense

of importance, a queer exhilaration at being alone with her, chosen

companion of one so beautiful.

They passed all the other pilgrims bound the same way—stout square

Germans with their coats slung through straps, who trailed behind them

heavy alpenstocks, carried greenish bags, and marched stolidly at a pace

that never varied, growling, as Anna and the boy went by: “Aber eilen

ist nichts!”

But those two could not go fast enough to keep pace with their spirits.

This was no real climb—just a training walk to the top of the Nuvolau;

and they were up before noon, and soon again descending, very hungry.

When they entered the little dining-room of the Cinque Torre Hutte, they

found it occupied by a party of English people, eating omelettes,

who looked at Anna with faint signs of recognition, but did not cease

talking in voices that all had a certain half-languid precision, a

slight but brisk pinching of sounds, as if determined not to tolerate a

drawl, and yet to have one. Most of them had field-glasses slung round

them, and cameras were dotted here and there about the room. Their faces

were not really much alike, but they all had a peculiar drooping smile,

and a particular lift of the eyebrows, that made them seem reproductions

of a single type. Their teeth, too, for the most part were a little

prominent, as though the drooping of their mouths had forced them

forward. They were eating as people eat who distrust the lower senses,

preferring not to be compelled to taste or smell.

“From our hotel,” whispered Anna; and, ordering red wine and schnitzels,

she and the boy sat down. The lady who seemed in command of the English

party inquired now how Mr. Stormer was—he was not laid up, she hoped.

No? Only lazy? Indeed! He was a great climber, she believed. It seemed

to the boy that this lady somehow did not quite approve of them. The

talk was all maintained between her, a gentleman with a crumpled collar

and puggaree, and a short thick-set grey-bearded man in a dark Norfolk

jacket. If any of the younger members of the party spoke, the remark was

received with an arch lifting of the brows, and drooping of the lids, as

who should say: “Ah! Very promising!”

“Nothing in my life has given me greater pain than to observe the

aptitude of human nature for becoming crystallized.” It was the lady in

command who spoke, and all the young people swayed their faces up

and down, as if assenting. How like they were, the boy thought, to

guinea-fowl, with their small heads and sloping shoulders and speckly

grey coats!

“Ah! my dear lady”—it was the gentleman with the crumpled collar—“you

novelists are always girding at the precious quality of conformity. The

sadness of our times lies in this questioning spirit. Never was there

more revolt, especially among the young. To find the individual judging

for himself is a grave symptom of national degeneration. But this is not

a subject—”

“Surely, the subject is of the most poignant interest to all young

people.” Again all the young ones raised their faces and moved them

slightly from side to side.

“My dear lady, we are too prone to let the interest that things arouse

blind our judgment in regard to the advisability of discussing them. We

let these speculations creep and creep until they twine themselves round

our faith and paralyze it.”

One of the young men interjected suddenly: “Madre”—and was silent.

“I shall not, I think”—it was the lady speaking—“be accused of licence

when I say that I have always felt that speculation is only dangerous

when indulged in by the crude intelligence. If culture has nothing to

give us, then let us have no culture; but if culture be, as I think it,

indispensable, then we must accept the dangers that culture brings.”

Again the young people moved their faces, and again the younger of the

two young men said: “Madre—”

“Dangers? Have cultured people dangers?”

Who had spoken thus? Every eyebrow was going up, every mouth was

drooping, and there was silence. The boy stared at his companion. In

what a strange voice she had made that little interjection! There seemed

a sort of flame, too, lighted in her eyes. Then the little grey-bearded

man said, and his rather whispering voice sounded hard and acid:

“We are all human, my dear madam.”

The boy felt his heart go thump at Anna's laugh. It was just as if she

had said: “Ah! but not you—surely!” And he got up to follow her towards

the door.

The English party had begun already talking—of the weather.

The two walked some way from the 'hut' in silence, before Anna said:

“You didn't like me when I laughed?”

“You hurt their feelings, I think.”

“I wanted to—the English Grundys! Ah! don't be cross with me! They WERE

English Grundys, weren't they—every one?”

She looked into his face so hard, that he felt the blood rush to his

cheeks, and a dizzy sensation of being drawn forward.

“They have no blood, those people! Their voices, their supercilious eyes

that look you up and down! Oh! I've had so much of them! That woman with

her Liberalism, just as bad as any. I hate them all!”

He would have liked to hate them, too, since she did; but they had only

seemed to him amusing.

“They aren't human. They don't FEEL! Some day you'll know them. They

won't amuse you then!”

She went on, in a quiet, almost dreamy voice:

“Why do they come here? It's still young and warm and good out here. Why

don't they keep to their Culture, where no one knows what it is to ache

and feel hunger, and hearts don't beat. Feel!”

Disturbed beyond measure, the boy could not tell whether it was in her

heart or in his hand that the blood was pulsing so. Was he glad or sorry

when she let his hand go?

“Ah, well! They can't spoil this day. Let's rest.”

At the edge of the larch-wood where they sat, were growing numbers

of little mountain pinks, with fringed edges and the sweetest scent

imaginable; and she got up presently to gather them. But he stayed where

he was, and odd sensations stirred in him. The blue of the sky, the

feathery green of the larch-trees, the mountains, were no longer to him

what they had been early that morning.

She came back with her hands full of the little pinks, spread her

fingers and let them drop. They showered all over his face and neck.

Never was so wonderful a scent; never such a strange feeling as they

gave him. They clung to his hair, his forehead, his eyes, one even got

caught on the curve of his lips; and he stared up at her through their

fringed petals. There must have been something wild in his eyes then,

something of the feeling that was stinging his heart, for her smile

died; she walked away, and stood with her face turned from him.

Confused, and unhappy, he gathered the strewn flowers; and not till he

had collected every one did he get up and shyly take them to her, where

she still stood, gazing into the depths of the larch-wood.

V

What did he know of women, that should make him understand? At his

public school he had seen none to speak to; at Oxford, only this one. At

home in the holidays, not any, save his sister Cicely. The two hobbies

of their guardian, fishing, and the antiquities of his native

county, rendered him averse to society; so that his little Devonshire

manor-house, with its black oak panels and its wild stone-walled park

along the river-side was, from year's end to year's end, innocent of

all petticoats, save those of Cicely and old Miss Tring, the governess.

Then, too, the boy was shy. No, there was nothing in his past, of not

yet quite nineteen years, to go by. He was not of those youths who are

always thinking of conquests. The very idea of conquest seemed to him

vulgar, mean, horrid. There must be many signs indeed before it would

come into his head that a woman was in love with him, especially the one

to whom he looked up, and thought so beautiful. For before all beauty

he was humble, inclined to think himself a clod. It was the part of life

which was always unconsciously sacred, and to be approached trembling.

The more he admired, the more tremulous and diffident he became. And so,

after his one wild moment, when she plucked those sweet-scented blossoms

and dropped them over him, he felt abashed; and walking home beside her

he was quieter than ever, awkward to the depths of his soul.

If there were confusion in his heart which had been innocent of trouble,

what must there have been in hers, that for so long had secretly desired

the dawning of that confusion? And she, too, was very silent.

Passing a church with open door in the outskirts of the village, she

said:

“Don't wait for me—I want to go in here a little.”

In the empty twilight within, one figure, a countrywoman in her black

shawl, was kneeling—marvellously still. He would have liked to stay.

That kneeling figure, the smile of the sunlight filtering through into

the half darkness! He lingered long enough to see Anna, too, go down on

her knees in the stillness. Was she praying? Again he had the turbulent

feeling with which he had watched her pluck those flowers. She looked so

splendid kneeling there! It was caddish to feel like that, when she was

praying, and he turned quickly away into the road. But that sharp, sweet

stinging sensation did not leave him. He shut his eyes to get rid of her

image—and instantly she became ten times more visible, his feeling ten

times stronger. He mounted to the hotel; there on the terrace was his

tutor. And oddly enough, the sight of him at that moment was no more

embarrassing than if it had been the hotel concierge. Stormer did not

somehow seem to count; did not seem to want you to count him. Besides,

he was so old—nearly fifty!

The man who was so old was posed in a characteristic attitude—hands in

the pockets of his Norfolk jacket, one shoulder slightly raised, head

just a little on one side, as if preparing to quiz something. He spoke

as Lennan came up, smiling—but not with his eyes.

“Well, young man, and what have you done with my wife?”

“Left her in a church, sir.”

“Ah! She will do that! Has she run you off your legs? No? Then let's

walk and talk a little.”

To be thus pacing up and down and talking with her husband seemed quite

natural, did not even interfere with those new sensations, did not in

the least increase his shame for having them. He only wondered a little

how she could have married him—but so little! Quite far and academic was

his wonder—like his wonder in old days how his sister could care to play

with dolls. If he had any other feeling, it was just a longing to get

away and go down the hill again to the church. It seemed cold and lonely

after all that long day with her—as if he had left himself up there,

walking along hour after hour, or lying out in the sun beside her. What

was old Stormer talking about? The difference between the Greek and

Roman views of honour. Always in the past—seemed to think the present

was bad form. And he said:

“We met some English Grundys, sir, on the mountain.”

“Ah, yes! Any particular brand?”

“Some advanced, and some not; but all the same, I think, really.”

“I see. Grundys, I think you said?”

“Yes, sir, from this hotel. It was Mrs. Stormer's name for them. They

were so very superior.”

“Quite.”

There was something unusual in the tone of that little word. And the boy

stared—for the first time there seemed a real man standing there. Then

the blood rushed up into his cheeks, for there she was! Would she come

up to them? How splendid she was looking, burnt by the sun, and walking

as if just starting! But she passed into the hotel without turning her

head their way. Had he offended, hurt her? He made an excuse, and got

away to his room.

In the window from which that same morning he had watched the mountains

lying out like lions in the dim light, he stood again, and gazed at the

sun dropping over the high horizon. What had happened to him? He felt

so different, so utterly different. It was another world. And the most

strange feeling came on him, as of the flowers falling again all over

his face and neck and hands, the tickling of their soft-fringed edges,

the stinging sweetness of their scent. And he seemed to hear her voice

saying: “Feel!” and to feel her heart once more beating under his hand.

VI

Alone with that black-shawled figure in the silent church, Anna did

not pray. Resting there on her knees, she experienced only the sore

sensation of revolt. Why had Fate flung this feeling into her heart,

lighted up her life suddenly, if God refused her its enjoyment? Some of

the mountain pinks remained clinging to her belt, and the scent of them,

crushed against her, warred with the faint odour of age and incense.

While they were there, with their enticement and their memories, prayer

would never come. But did she want to pray? Did she desire the mood

of that poor soul in her black shawl, who had not moved by one hair's

breadth since she had been watching her, who seemed resting her humble

self so utterly, letting life lift from her, feeling the relief of

nothingness? Ah, yes! what would it be to have a life so toilsome, so

little exciting from day to day and hour to hour, that just to kneel

there in wistful stupor was the greatest pleasure one could know? It was

beautiful to see her, but it was sad. And there came over Anna a longing

to go up to her neighbour and say: “Tell me your troubles; we are both

women.” She had lost a son, perhaps, some love—or perhaps not really

love, only some illusion. Ah! Love.... Why should any spirit yearn, why

should any body, full of strength and joy, wither slowly away for want

of love? Was there not enough in this great world for her, Anna, to have

a little? She would not harm him, for she would know when he had had

enough of her; she would surely have the pride and grace then to let

him go. For, of course, he would get tired of her. At her age she could

never hope to hold a boy more than a few years—months, perhaps. But

would she ever hold him at all? Youth was so hard—it had no heart!

And then the memory of his eyes came back—gazing up, troubled, almost

wild—when she had dropped on him those flowers. That memory filled her

with a sort of delirium. One look from her then, one touch, and he

would have clasped her to him. She was sure of it, yet scarcely dared

to believe what meant so much. And suddenly the torment that she must go

through, whatever happened, seemed to her too brutal and undeserved! She

rose. Just one gleam of sunlight was still slanting through the doorway;

it failed by a yard or so to reach the kneeling countrywoman, and Anna

watched. Would it steal on and touch her, or would the sun pass down

behind the mountains, and it fade away? Unconscious of that issue, the

black-shawled figure knelt, never moving. And the beam crept on. “If it

touches her, then he will love me, if only for an hour; if it fades out

too soon—” And the beam crept on. That shadowy path of light, with its

dancing dust-motes, was it indeed charged with Fate—indeed the augury

of Love or Darkness? And, slowly moving, it mounted, the sun sinking; it

rose above that bent head, hovered in a golden mist, passed—and suddenly

was gone.

Unsteadily, seeing nothing plain, Anna walked out of the church. Why she

passed her husband and the boy on the terrace without a look she could

not quite have said—perhaps because the tortured does not salute her

torturers. When she reached her room she felt deadly tired, and lying

down on her bed, almost at once fell asleep.

She was wakened by a sound, and, recognizing the delicate 'rat-tat' of

her husband's knock, did not answer, indifferent whether he came in or

no. He entered noiselessly. If she did not let him know she was awake,

he would not wake her. She lay still and watched him sit down astride of

a chair, cross his arms on its back, rest his chin on them, and fix

his eyes on her. Through her veil of eyelashes she had unconsciously

contrived that his face should be the one object plainly seen—the more

intensely visualized, because of this queer isolation. She did not feel

at all ashamed of this mutual fixed scrutiny, in which she had such

advantage. He had never shown her what was in him, never revealed what

lay behind those bright satiric eyes. Now, perhaps, she would see! And

she lay, regarding him with the intense excited absorption with which

one looks at a tiny wildflower through a magnifying-lens, and watches

its insignificance expanded to the size and importance of a hothouse

bloom. In her mind was this thought: He is looking at me with his real

self, since he has no reason for armour against me now. At first his

eyes seemed masked with their customary brightness, his whole face with

its usual decorous formality; then gradually he became so changed that

she hardly knew him. That decorousness, that brightness, melted off what

lay behind, as frosty dew melts off grass. And her very soul contracted

within her, as if she had become identified with what he was seeing—a

something to be passed over, a very nothing. Yes, his was the face of

one looking at what was unintelligible, and therefore negligible; at

that which had no soul; at something of a different and inferior species

and of no great interest to a man. His face was like a soundless avowal

of some conclusion, so fixed and intimate that it must surely emanate

from the very core of him—be instinctive, unchangeable. This was

the real he! A man despising women! Her first thought was: And he's

married—what a fate! Her second: If he feels that, perhaps thousands of

men do! Am I and all women really what they think us? The conviction in

his stare—its through-and-through conviction—had infected her; and she

gave in to it for the moment, crushed. Then her spirit revolted with

such turbulence, and the blood so throbbed in her, that she could

hardly lie still. How dare he think her like that—a nothing, a bundle of

soulless inexplicable whims and moods and sensuality? A thousand times,

No! It was HE who was the soulless one, the dry, the godless one; who,

in his sickening superiority, could thus deny her, and with her all

women! That stare was as if he saw her—a doll tricked out in garments

labelled soul, spirit, rights, responsibilities, dignity, freedom—all so

many words. It was vile, it was horrible, that he should see her thus!

And a really terrific struggle began in her between the desire to get

up and cry this out, and the knowledge that it would be stupid,

undignified, even mad, to show her comprehension of what he would never

admit or even understand that he had revealed to her. And then a sort of

cynicism came to her rescue. What a funny thing was married life—to have

lived all these years with him, and never known what was at the bottom

of his heart! She had the feeling now that, if she went up to him and

said: “I am in love with that boy!” it would only make him droop the

corners of his mouth and say in his most satiric voice: “Really! That

is very interesting!”—would not change in one iota his real thoughts

of her; only confirm him in the conviction that she was negligible,

inexplicable, an inferior strange form of animal, of no real interest to

him.

And then, just when she felt that she could not hold herself in any

longer, he got up, passed on tiptoe to the door, opened it noiselessly,

and went out.

The moment he had gone, she jumped up. So, then, she was linked to one

for whom she, for whom women, did not, as it were, exist! It seemed to

her that she had stumbled on knowledge of almost sacred importance,

on the key of everything that had been puzzling and hopeless in their

married life. If he really, secretly, whole-heartedly despised her,

the only feeling she need have for one so dry, so narrow, so basically

stupid, was just contempt. But she knew well enough that contempt would

not shake what she had seen in his face; he was impregnably walled

within his clever, dull conviction of superiority. He was for ever

intrenched, and she would always be only the assailant. Though—what did

it matter, now?

Usually swift, almost careless, she was a long time that evening over

her toilette. Her neck was very sunburnt, and she lingered, doubtful

whether to hide it with powder, or accept her gipsy colouring. She did

accept it, for she saw that it gave her eyes, so like glacier ice, under

their black lashes, and her hair, with its surprising glints of flame

colour, a peculiar value.

When the dinner-bell rang she passed her husband's door without, as

usual, knocking, and went down alone.

In the hall she noticed some of the English party of the mountain

hut. They did not greet her, conceiving an immediate interest in the

barometer; but she could feel them staring at her very hard. She sat

down to wait, and at once became conscious of the boy coming over from

the other side of the room, rather like a person walking in his sleep.

He said not a word. But how he looked! And her heart began to beat. Was

this the moment she had longed for? If it, indeed, had come, dared she

take it? Then she saw her husband descending the stairs, saw him greet

the English party, heard the intoning of their drawl. She looked up

at the boy, and said quickly: “Was it a happy day?” It gave her such

delight to keep that look on his face, that look as if he had forgotten

everything except just the sight of her. His eyes seemed to have in

them something holy at that moment, something of the wonder-yearning of

Nature and of innocence. It was dreadful to know that in a moment that

look must be gone; perhaps never to come back on his face—that look so

precious! Her husband was approaching now! Let him see, if he would! Let

him see that someone could adore—that she was not to everyone a kind

of lower animal. Yes, he must have seen the boy's face; and yet

his expression never changed. He noticed nothing! Or was it that he

disdained to notice?

VII

Then followed for young Lennan a strange time, when he never knew from

minute to minute whether he was happy—always trying to be with her,

restless if he could not be, sore if she talked with and smiled at

others; yet, when he was with her, restless too, unsatisfied, suffering

from his own timidity.

One wet morning, when she was playing the hotel piano, and he

listening, thinking to have her to himself, there came a young German

violinist—pale, and with a brown, thin-waisted coat, longish hair, and

little whiskers—rather a beast, in fact. Soon, of course, this young

beast was asking her to accompany him—as if anyone wanted to hear him

play his disgusting violin! Every word and smile that she gave him hurt

so, seeing how much more interesting than himself this foreigner was!

And his heart grew heavier and heavier, and he thought: If she likes

him I ought not to mind—only, I DO mind! How can I help minding? It was

hateful to see her smiling, and the young beast bending down to her.

And they were talking German, so that he could not tell what they were

saying, which made it more unbearable. He had not known there could be

such torture.

And then he began to want to hurt her, too. But that was mean—besides,

how could he hurt her? She did not care for him. He was nothing to

her—only a boy. If she really thought him only a boy, who felt so old—it

would be horrible. It flashed across him that she might be playing that

young violinist against him! No, she never would do that! But the young

beast looked just the sort that might take advantage of her smiles.

If only he WOULD do something that was not respectful, how splendid it

would be to ask him to come for a walk in the woods, and, having told

him why, give him a thrashing. Afterwards, he would not tell her, he

would not try to gain credit by it. He would keep away till she wanted

him back. But suddenly the thought of what he would feel if she really

meant to take this young man as her friend in place of him became so

actual, so poignant, so horribly painful, that he got up abruptly and

went towards the door. Would she not say a word to him before he got out

of the room, would she not try and keep him? If she did not, surely it

would be all over; it would mean that anybody was more to her than

he. That little journey to the door, indeed, seemed like a march

to execution. Would she not call after him? He looked back. She was

smiling. But HE could not smile; she had hurt him too much! Turning his

head away, he went out, and dashed into the rain bareheaded. The feeling

of it on his face gave him a sort of dismal satisfaction. Soon he would

be wet through. Perhaps he would get ill. Out here, far away from his

people, she would have to offer to nurse him; and perhaps—perhaps in

his illness he would seem to her again more interesting than that young

beast, and then—Ah! if only he could be ill!

He mounted rapidly through the dripping leaves towards the foot of the

low mountain that rose behind the hotel. A trail went up there to the

top, and he struck into it, going at a great pace. His sense of injury

began dying away; he no longer wanted to be ill. The rain had stopped,

the sun came out; he went on, up and up. He would get to the top quicker

than anyone ever had! It was something he could do better than that

young beast. The pine-trees gave way to stunted larches, and these to

pine scrub and bare scree, up which he scrambled, clutching at the tough

bushes, terribly out of breath, his heart pumping, the sweat streaming

into his eyes. He had no feeling now but wonder whether he would get

to the top before he dropped, exhausted. He thought he would die of

the beating of his heart; but it was better to die than to stop and be

beaten by a few yards. He stumbled up at last on to the little plateau

at the top. For full ten minutes he lay there on his face without

moving, then rolled over. His heart had given up that terrific thumping;

he breathed luxuriously, stretched out his arms along the steaming

grass—felt happy. It was wonderful up here, with the sun burning hot in

a sky clear-blue already. How tiny everything looked below—hotel, trees,

village, chalets—little toy things! He had never before felt the sheer

joy of being high up. The rain-clouds, torn and driven in huge white

shapes along the mountains to the South, were like an army of giants

with chariots and white horses hurrying away. He thought suddenly:

“Suppose I had died when my heart pumped so! Would it have mattered the

least bit? Everything would be going on just the same, the sun shining,

the blue up there the same; and those toy things down in the valley.”

That jealousy of his an hour ago, why—it was nothing—he himself nothing!

What did it matter if she were nice to that fellow in the brown coat?

What did anything matter when the whole thing was so big—and he such a

tiny scrap of it?

On the edge of the plateau, to mark the highest point, someone had

erected a rude cross, which jutted out stark against the blue sky. It

looked cruel somehow, sagged all crooked, and out of place up here; a

piece of bad manners, as if people with only one idea had dragged it

in, without caring whether or no it suited what was around it. One might

just as well introduce one of these rocks into that jolly dark church

where he had left her the other day, as put a cross up here.

A sound of bells, and of sniffing and scuffling, roused him; a large

grey goat had come up and was smelling at his hair—the leader of a

flock, that were soon all round him, solemnly curious, with their queer

yellow oblong-pupilled eyes, and their quaint little beards and tails.

Awfully decent beasts—and friendly! What jolly things to model! He lay

still (having learnt from the fisherman, his guardian, that necessary

habit in the presence of all beasts), while the leader sampled the

flavour of his neck. The passage of that long rough tongue athwart his

skin gave him an agreeable sensation, awakened a strange deep sense of

comradeship. He restrained his desire to stroke the creature's nose.

It appeared that they now all wished to taste his neck; but some were

timid, and the touch of their tongues simply a tickle, so that he was

compelled to laugh, and at that peculiar sound they withdrew and gazed

at him. There seemed to be no one with them; then, at a little distance,

quite motionless in the shade of a rock, he spied the goatherd, a boy

about his own age. How lonely he must be up here all day! Perhaps he

talked to his goats. He looked as if he might. One would get to have

queer thoughts up here, get to know the rocks, and clouds, and beasts,

and what they all meant. The goatherd uttered a peculiar whistle,

and something, Lennan could not tell exactly what, happened among the

goats—a sort of “Here, Sir!” seemed to come from them. And then the

goatherd moved out from the shade and went over to the edge of the

plateau, and two of the goats that were feeding there thrust their noses

into his hand, and rubbed themselves against his legs. The three looked

beautiful standing there together on the edge against the sky....

That night, after dinner, the dining-room was cleared for dancing, so

that the guests might feel freedom and gaiety in the air. And, indeed,

presently, a couple began sawing up and down over the polished boards,

in the apologetic manner peculiar to hotel guests. Then three pairs of

Italians suddenly launched themselves into space—twirling and twirling,

and glaring into each other's eyes; and some Americans, stimulated by

their precept, began airily backing and filling. Two of the 'English

Grundys' with carefully amused faces next moved out. To Lennan it seemed

that they all danced very well, better than he could. Did he dare ask

HER? Then he saw the young violinist go up, saw her rise and take his

arm and vanish into the dancing-room; and leaning his forehead against

a window-pane, with a sick, beaten feeling, he stayed, looking out into

the moonlight, seeing nothing. He heard his name spoken; his tutor was

standing beside him.

“You and I, Lennan, must console each other. Dancing's for the young,

eh?”

Fortunately it was the boy's instinct and his training not to show his

feelings; to be pleasant, though suffering.

“Yes, sir. Jolly moonlight, isn't it, out there?”

“Ah! very jolly; yes. When I was your age I twirled the light fantastic

with the best. But gradually, Lennan, one came to see it could not be

done without a partner—there was the rub! Tell me—do you regard women as

responsible beings? I should like to have your opinion on that.”

It was, of course, ironical—yet there was something in those

words—something!

“I think it's you, sir, who ought to give me yours.”

“My dear Lennan—my experience is a mere nothing!”

That was meant for unkindness to her! He would not answer. If only

Stormer would go away! The music had stopped. They would be sitting out

somewhere, talking! He made an effort, and said:

“I was up the hill at the back this morning, where the cross is. There

were some jolly goats.”

And suddenly he saw her coming. She was alone—flushed, smiling; it

struck him that her frock was the same colour as the moonlight.

“Harold, will you dance?”

He would say 'Yes,' and she would be gone again! But his tutor only made

her a little bow, and said with that smile of his:

“Lennan and I have agreed that dancing is for the young.”

“Sometimes the old must sacrifice themselves. Mark, will you dance?”

Behind him he heard his tutor murmur:

“Ah! Lennan—you betray me!”

That little silent journey with her to the dancing-room was the happiest

moment perhaps that he had ever known. And he need not have been so much

afraid about his dancing. Truly, it was not polished, but it could not

spoil hers, so light, firm, buoyant! It was wonderful to dance with her.

Only when the music stopped and they sat down did he know how his head

was going round. He felt strange, very strange indeed. He heard her say:

“What is it, dear boy? You look so white!”

Without quite knowing what he did, he bent his face towards the hand

that she had laid on his sleeve, then knew no more, having fainted.

VIII

Growing boy—over-exertion in the morning! That was all! He was himself

very quickly, and walked up to bed without assistance. Rotten of him!

Never was anyone more ashamed of his little weakness than this boy. Now

that he was really a trifle indisposed, he simply could not bear the

idea of being nursed at all or tended. Almost rudely he had got away.

Only when he was in bed did he remember the look on her face as he left

her. How wistful and unhappy, seeming to implore him to forgive her! As

if there were anything to forgive! As if she had not made him perfectly

happy when she danced with him! He longed to say to her: “If I might be

close to you like that one minute every day, then I don't mind all the

rest!” Perhaps he would dare say that to-morrow. Lying there he still

felt a little funny. He had forgotten to close the ribs of the blinds,

and moonlight was filtering in; but he was too idle, too drowsy to get

up now and do it. They had given him brandy, rather a lot—that perhaps

was the reason he felt so queer; not ill, but mazy, as if dreaming, as

if he had lost the desire ever to move again. Just to lie there, and

watch the powdery moonlight, and hear faraway music throbbing down

below, and still feel the touch of her, as in the dance she swayed

against him, and all the time to have the scent about him of flowers!

His thoughts were dreams, his dreams thoughts—all precious unreality.

And then it seemed to him that the moonlight was gathered into a single

slip of pallor—there was a thrumming, a throbbing, and that shape of

moonlight moved towards him. It came so close that he felt its warmth

against his brow; it sighed, hovered, drew back soundless, and was gone.

He must have fallen then into dreamless sleep....

What time was it when he was awakened by that delicate 'rat-tat' to see

his tutor standing in the door-way with a cup of tea?

Was young Lennan all right? Yes, he was perfectly all right—would be

down directly! It was most frightfully good of Mr. Stormer to come! He

really didn't want anything.

Yes, yes; but the maimed and the halt must be attended to!

His face seemed to the boy very kind just then—only to laugh at him a

very little—just enough. And it was awfully decent of him to have come,

and to stand there while he drank the tea. He was really all right, but

for a little headache. Many times while he was dressing he stood still,

trying to remember. That white slip of moonlight? Was it moonlight?

Was it part of a dream; or was it, could it have been she, in her

moonlight-coloured frock? Why had he not stayed awake? He would not dare

to ask her, and now would never know whether the vague memory of warmth

on his brow had been a kiss.

He breakfasted alone in the room where they had danced. There were two

letters for him. One from his guardian enclosing money, and complaining

of the shyness of the trout; the other from his sister. The man she

was engaged to—he was a budding diplomat, attached to the Embassy at

Rome—was afraid that his leave was going to be curtailed. They would

have to be married at once. They might even have to get a special

licence. It was lucky Mark was coming back so soon. They simply MUST

have him for best man. The only bridesmaid now would be Sylvia....

Sylvia Doone? Why, she was only a kid! And the memory of a little girl

in a very short holland frock, with flaxen hair, pretty blue eyes, and

a face so fair that you could almost see through it, came up before

him. But that, of course, was six years ago; she would not still be in

a frock that showed her knees, or wear beads, or be afraid of bulls that

were never there. It was stupid being best man—they might have got

some decent chap! And then he forgot all—for there was SHE, out on

the terrace. In his rush to join her he passed several of the 'English

Grundys,' who stared at him askance. Indeed, his conduct of the night

before might well have upset them. An Oxford man, fainting in an hotel!

Something wrong there! . . .

And then, when he reached her, he did find courage.

“Was it really moonlight?”

“All moonlight.”

“But it was warm!”

And, when she did not answer that, he had within him just the same

light, intoxicated feeling as after he had won a race at school.

But now came a dreadful blow. His tutor's old guide had suddenly turned

up, after a climb with a party of Germans. The war-horse had been

aroused in Stormer. He wished to start that afternoon for a certain hut,

and go up a certain peak at dawn next day. But Lennan was not to go. Why

not? Because of last night's faint; and because, forsooth, he was not

some stupid thing they called 'an expert.' As if—! Where she could go he

could! This was to treat him like a child. Of course he could go up this

rotten mountain. It was because she did not care enough to take him!

She did not think him man enough! Did she think that he could not climb

what—her husband—could? And if it were dangerous SHE ought not to be

going, leaving him behind—that was simply cruel! But she only smiled,

and he flung away from her, not having seen that all this grief of his

only made her happy.

And that afternoon they went off without him. What deep, dark thoughts

he had then! What passionate hatred of his own youth! What schemes he

wove, by which she might come back, and find him gone-up some mountain

far more dangerous and fatiguing! If people did not think him fit to

climb with, he would climb by himself. That, anyway, everyone admitted,

was dangerous. And it would be her fault. She would be sorry then. He

would get up, and be off before dawn; he put his things out ready, and

filled his flask. The moonlight that evening was more wonderful than

ever, the mountains like great ghosts of themselves. And she was up

there at the hut, among them! It was very long before he went to sleep,

brooding over his injuries—intending not to sleep at all, so as to be

ready to be off at three o'clock. At NINE o'clock he woke. His wrath was

gone; he only felt restless and ashamed. If, instead of flying out, he

had made the best of it, he could have gone with them as far as the hut,

could have stayed the night there. And now he cursed himself for being

such a fool and idiot. Some little of that idiocy he could, perhaps,

retrieve. If he started for the hut at once, he might still be in time

to meet them coming down, and accompany them home. He swallowed his

coffee, and set off. He knew the way at first, then in woods lost it,

recovered the right track again at last, but did not reach the hut till

nearly two o'clock. Yes, the party had made the ascent that morning—they

had been seen, been heard jodelling on the top. Gewiss! Gewiss! But they

would not come down the same way. Oh, no! They would be going home down

to the West and over the other pass. They would be back in house before

the young Herr himself.

He heard this, oddly, almost with relief. Was it the long walk alone, or

being up there so high? Or simply that he was very hungry? Or just these

nice friendly folk in the hut, and their young daughter with her fresh

face, queer little black cloth sailor hat with long ribbons, velvet

bodice, and perfect simple manners; or the sight of the little

silvery-dun cows, thrusting their broad black noses against her hand?

What was it that had taken away from him all his restless feeling, made

him happy and content?... He did not know that the newest thing always

fascinates the puppy in its gambols! ... He sat a long while after

lunch, trying to draw the little cows, watching the sun on the cheek of

that pretty maiden, trying to talk to her in German. And when at last he

said: “Adieu!” and she murmured “Kuss die Hand. Adieu!” there was quite

a little pang in his heart.... Wonderful and queer is the heart of

a man!... For all that, as he neared home he hastened, till he was

actually running. Why had he stayed so long up there? She would be

back—she would expect to see him; and that young beast of a violinist

would be with her, perhaps, instead! He reached the hotel just in time

to rush up and dress, and rush down to dinner. Ah! They were tired,

no doubt—were resting in their rooms. He sat through dinner as best he

could; got away before dessert, and flew upstairs. For a minute he stood

there doubtful; on which door should he knock? Then timidly he tapped

on hers. No answer! He knocked loud on his tutor's door. No answer! They

were not back, then. Not back? What could that mean? Or could it be

that they were both asleep? Once more he knocked on her door; then

desperately turned the handle, and took a flying glance. Empty, tidy,

untouched! Not back! He turned and ran downstairs again. All the guests

were streaming out from dinner, and he became entangled with a group of

'English Grundys' discussing a climbing accident which had occurred in

Switzerland. He listened, feeling suddenly quite sick. One of them, the

short grey-bearded Grundy with the rather whispering voice, said to him:

“All alone again to-night? The Stormers not back?” Lennan did his best

to answer, but something had closed his throat; he could only shake his

head.

“They had a guide, I think?” said the 'English Grundy.'

This time Lennan managed to get out: “Yes, sir.”

“Stormer, I fancy, is quite an expert!” and turning to the lady whom the

young 'Grundys' addressed as 'Madre' he added:

“To me the great charm of mountain-climbing was always the freedom from

people—the remoteness.”

The mother of the young 'Grundys,' looking at Lennan with her

half-closed eyes, answered:

“That, to me, would be the disadvantage; I always like to be mixing with

my own kind.”

The grey-bearded 'Grundy' murmured in a muffled voice:

“Dangerous thing, that, to say—in an hotel!”

And they went on talking, but of what Lennan no longer knew, lost in

this sudden feeling of sick fear. In the presence of these 'English

Grundys,' so superior to all vulgar sensations, he could not give vent

to his alarm; already they viewed him as unsound for having fainted.

Then he grasped that there had begun all round him a sort of luxurious

speculation on what might have happened to the Stormers. The descent was

very nasty; there was a particularly bad traverse. The 'Grundy,' whose

collar was not now crumpled, said he did not believe in women climbing.

It was one of the signs of the times that he most deplored. The mother

of the young 'Grundys' countered him at once: In practice she agreed

that they were out of place, but theoretically she could not see

why they should not climb. An American standing near threw all into

confusion by saying he guessed that it might be liable to develop their

understandings. Lennan made for the front door. The moon had just come

up over in the South, and exactly under it he could see their mountain.

What visions he had then! He saw her lying dead, saw himself climbing

down in the moonlight and raising her still-living, but half-frozen,

form from some perilous ledge. Even that was almost better than this

actuality of not knowing where she was, or what had happened. People

passed out into the moonlight, looking curiously at his set face staring

so fixedly. One or two asked him if he were anxious, and he answered:

“Oh no, thanks!” Soon there would have to be a search party. How soon?

He would, he must be, of it! They should not stop him this time. And

suddenly he thought: Ah, it is all because I stayed up there this

afternoon talking to that girl, all because I forgot HER!

And then he heard a stir behind him. There they were, coming down

the passage from a side door—she in front with her alpenstock and

rucksack—smiling. Instinctively he recoiled behind some plants. They

passed. Her sunburned face, with its high cheek-bones and its deep-set

eyes, looked so happy; smiling, tired, triumphant. Somehow he could not

bear it, and when they were gone by he stole out into the wood and threw

himself down in shadow, burying his face, and choking back a horrible

dry sobbing that would keep rising in his throat.

IX

Next day he was happy; for all the afternoon he lay out in the shade of

that same wood at her feet, gazing up through larch-boughs. It was so

wonderful, with nobody but Nature near. Nature so alive, and busy, and

so big!

Coming down from the hut the day before, he had seen a peak that looked

exactly like the figure of a woman with a garment over her head, the

biggest statue in the world; from further down it had become the figure

of a bearded man, with his arm bent over his eyes. Had she seen it? Had

she noticed how all the mountains in moonlight or very early morning

took the shape of beasts? What he wanted most in life was to be able to

make images of beasts and creatures of all sorts, that were like—that

had—that gave out the spirit of—Nature; so that by just looking at them

one could have all those jolly feelings one had when one was watching

trees, and beasts, and rocks, and even some sorts of men—but not

'English Grundys.'

So he was quite determined to study Art?

Oh yes, of course!

He would want to leave—Oxford, then!

No, oh no! Only some day he would have to.

She answered: “Some never get away!”

And he said quickly: “Of course, I shall never want to leave Oxford

while you are there.”

He heard her draw her breath in sharply.

“Oh yes, you will! Now help me up!” And she led the way back to the

hotel.

He stayed out on the terrace when she had gone in, restless and unhappy

the moment he was away from her. A voice close by said:

“Well, friend Lennan—brown study, or blue devils, which?”

There, in one of those high wicker chairs that insulate their occupants

from the world, he saw his tutor leaning back, head a little to one

side, and tips of fingers pressed together. He looked like an idol

sitting there inert, and yet—yesterday he had gone up that mountain!

“Cheer up! You will break your neck yet! When I was your age, I remember

feeling it deeply that I was not allowed to risk the lives of others.”

Lennan stammered out:

“I didn't think of that; but I thought where Mrs. Stormer could go, I

could.”

“Ah! For all our admiration we cannot quite admit—can we, when it comes

to the point?”

The boy's loyalty broke into flame:

“It's not that. I think Mrs. Stormer as good as any man—only—only—”

“Not quite so good as you, eh?”

“A hundred times better, sir.”

Stormer smiled. Ironic beast!

“Lennan,” he said, “distrust hyperbole.”

“Of course, I know I'm no good at climbing,” the boy broke out again;

“but—but—I thought where she was allowed to risk her life, I ought to

be!”

“Good! I like that.” It was said so entirely without irony for once,

that the boy was disconcerted.

“You are young, Brother Lennan,” his tutor went on. “Now, at what age

do you consider men develop discretion? Because, there is just one thing

always worth remembering—women have none of that better part of valour.”

“I think women are the best things in the world,” the boy blurted out.

“May you long have that opinion!” His tutor had risen, and was

ironically surveying his knees. “A bit stiff!” he said. “Let me know

when you change your views!”

“I never shall, sir.”

“Ah, ah! Never is a long word, Lennan. I am going to have some tea;”

and gingerly he walked away, quizzing, as it were, with a smile, his own

stiffness.

Lennan remained where he was, with burning cheeks. His tutor's words

again had seemed directed against her. How could a man say such things

about women! If they were true, he did not want to know; if they were

not true, it was wicked to say them. It must be awful never to have

generous feelings; always to have to be satirical. Dreadful to be like

the 'English Grundys'; only different, of course, because, after all,

old Stormer was much more interesting and intelligent—ever so much more;

only, just as 'superior.' “Some never get away!” Had she meant—from

that superiority? Just down below were a family of peasants scything and

gathering in the grass. One could imagine her doing that, and looking

beautiful, with a coloured handkerchief over her head; one could imagine

her doing anything simple—one could not imagine old Stormer doing

anything but what he did do. And suddenly the boy felt miserable,

oppressed by these dim glimmerings of lives misplaced. And he resolved

that he would not be like Stormer when he was old! No, he would rather

be a regular beast than be like that! . . .

When he went to his room to change for dinner he saw in a glass of water

a large clove carnation. Who had put it there? Who could have put it

there—but she? It had the same scent as the mountain pinks she had

dropped over him, but deeper, richer—a scent moving, dark, and sweet. He

put his lips to it before he pinned it into his coat.

There was dancing again that night—more couples this time, and a violin

beside the piano; and she had on a black frock. He had never seen her

in black. Her face and neck were powdered over their sunburn. The first

sight of that powder gave him a faint shock. He had not somehow thought

that ladies ever put on powder. But if SHE did—then it must be right!

And his eyes never left her. He saw the young German violinist hovering

round her, even dancing with her twice; watched her dancing with others,

but all without jealousy, without troubling; all in a sort of dream.

What was it? Had he been bewitched into that queer state, bewitched by

the gift of that flower in his coat? What was it, when he danced with

her, that kept him happy in her silence and his own? There was no

expectation in him of anything that she would say, or do—no expectation,

no desire. Even when he wandered out with her on to the terrace, even

when they went down the bank and sat on a bench above the fields where

the peasants had been scything, he had still no feeling but that quiet,

dreamy adoration. The night was black and dreamy too, for the moon was

still well down behind the mountains. The little band was playing the

next waltz; but he sat, not moving, not thinking, as if all power of

action and thought had been stolen out of him. And the scent of the

flower in his coat rose, for there was no wind. Suddenly his heart

stopped beating. She had leaned against him, he felt her shoulder press

his arm, her hair touch his cheek. He closed his eyes then, and turned

his face to her. He felt her lips press his mouth with a swift, burning

kiss. He sighed, stretched out his arms. There was nothing there but

air. The rustle of her dress against the grass was all! The flower—it,

too, was gone.

X

Not one minute all that night did Anna sleep. Was it remorse that kept

her awake, or the intoxication of memory? If she felt that her kiss had

been a crime, it was not against her husband or herself, but against the

boy—the murder of illusion, of something sacred. But she could not help

feeling a delirious happiness too, and the thought of trying to annul

what she had done did not even occur to her.

He was ready, then, to give her a little love! Ever so little, compared

to hers, but still a little! There could be no other meaning to that

movement of his face with the closed eyes, as if he would nestle it down

on her breast.

Was she ashamed of her little manoeuvres of these last few days—ashamed

of having smiled at the young violinist, of that late return from the

mountain climb, of the flower she had given him, of all the conscious

siege she had laid since the evening her husband came in and sat

watching her, without knowing that she saw him? No; not really ashamed!

Her remorse rose only from the kiss. It hurt to think of that, because

it was death, the final extinction of the mother-feeling in her; the

awakening of—who knew what—in the boy! For if she was mysterious to

him, what was he not to her, with his eagerness, and his dreaminess,

his youthful warmth, his innocence! What if it had killed in him trust,

brushed off the dew, tumbled a star down? Could she forgive herself for

that? Could she bear it if she were to make him like so many other boys,

like that young violinist; just a cynical youth, looking on women as

what they called 'fair game'? But COULD she make him into such—would

he ever grow like that? Oh! surely not; or she would not have loved

him from the moment she first set eyes on him and spoke of him as 'an

angel.'

After that kiss—that crime, if it were one—in the dark she had not known

what he had done, where gone—perhaps wandering, perhaps straight up to

his room. Why had she refrained, left him there, vanished out of his

arms? This she herself hardly understood. Not shame; not fear; reverence

perhaps—for what? For love—for the illusion, the mystery, all that made

love beautiful; for youth, and the poetry of it; just for the sake of

the black still night itself, and the scent of that flower—dark flower

of passion that had won him to her, and that she had stolen back, and

now wore all night long close to her neck, and in the morning placed

withered within her dress. She had been starved so long, and so long

waited for that moment—it was little wonder if she did not clearly know

why she had done just this, and not that!

And now how should she meet him, how first look into his eyes? Would

they have changed? Would they no longer have the straight look she so

loved? It would be for her to lead, to make the future. And she kept

saying to herself: I am not going to be afraid. It is done. I will take

what life offers! Of her husband she did not think at all.

But the first moment she saw the boy, she knew that something from

outside, and untoward, had happened since that kiss. He came up to her,

indeed, but he said nothing, stood trembling all over and handed her

a telegram that contained these words: “Come back at once Wedding

immediate Expect you day after to-morrow. Cicely.” The words grew

indistinct even as she read them, and the boy's face all blurred. Then,

making an effort, she said quietly:

“Of course, you must go. You cannot miss your only sister's wedding.”

Without protest he looked at her; and she could hardly bear that look—it

seemed to know so little, and ask so much. She said: “It is nothing—only

a few days. You will come back, or we will come to you.”

His face brightened at once.

“Will you really come to us soon, at once—if they ask you? Then I don't

mind—I—I—” And then he stopped, choking.

She said again:

“Ask us. We will come.”

He seized her hand; pressed and pressed it in both his own, then stroked

it gently, and said:

“Oh! I'm hurting it!”

She laughed, not wishing to cry.

In a few minutes he would have to start to catch the only train that

would get him home in time.

She went and helped him to pack. Her heart felt like lead, but, not

able to bear that look on his face again, she kept cheerfully talking

of their return, asking about his home, how to get to it, speaking of

Oxford and next term. When his things were ready she put her arms round

his neck, and for a moment pressed him to her. Then she escaped.

Looking back from his door, she saw him standing exactly as when she

had withdrawn her arms. Her cheeks were wet; she dried them as she went

downstairs. When she felt herself safe, she went out on the terrace. Her

husband was there, and she said to him:

“Will you come with me into the town? I want to buy some things.”

He raised his eyebrows, smiled dimly, and followed her. They walked

slowly down the hill into the long street of the little town. All the

time she talked of she knew not what, and all the time she thought: His

carriage will pass—his carriage will pass!

Several carriages went jingling by. At last he came. Sitting there, and

staring straight before him, he did not see them. She heard her husband

say:

“Hullo! Where is our young friend Lennan off to, with his

luggage—looking like a lion cub in trouble?”

She answered in a voice that she tried to make clear and steady:

“There must be something wrong; or else it is his sister's wedding.”

She felt that her husband was gazing at her, and wondered what her face

was like; but at that moment the word “Madre!” sounded close in her ear

and they were surrounded by a small drove of 'English Grundys.'

XI

That twenty mile drive was perhaps the worst part of the journey for the

boy. It is always hard to sit still and suffer.

When Anna left him the night before, he had wandered about in the dark,

not knowing quite where he went. Then the moon came up, and he found

himself sitting under the eave of a barn close to a chalet where all was

dark and quiet; and down below him the moon-whitened valley village—its

roofs and spires and little glamorous unreal lights.

In his evening suit, his dark ruffled hair uncovered, he would have made

a quaint spectacle for the owners of that chalet, if they had chanced

to see him seated on the hay-strewn boards against their barn, staring

before him with such wistful rapture. But they were folk to whom sleep

was precious....

And now it was all snatched away from him, relegated to some immensely

far-off future. Would it indeed be possible to get his guardian to ask

them down to Hayle? And would they really come? His tutor would surely

never care to visit a place right away in the country—far from books

and everything! He frowned, thinking of his tutor, but it was with

perplexity—no other feeling. And yet, if he could not have them down

there, how could he wait the two whole months till next term began! So

went his thoughts, round and round, while the horses jogged, dragging

him further and further from her.

It was better in the train; the distraction of all the strange crowd of

foreigners, the interest of new faces and new country; and then sleep—a

long night of it, snoozed up in his corner, thoroughly fagged out. And

next day more new country, more new faces; and slowly, his mood changing

from ache and bewilderment to a sense of something promised, delightful

to look forward to. Then Calais at last, and a night-crossing in a wet

little steamer, a summer gale blowing spray in his face, waves leaping

white in a black sea, and the wild sound of the wind. On again to

London, the early drive across the town, still sleepy in August haze;

an English breakfast—porridge, chops, marmalade. And, at last, the train

for home. At all events he could write to her, and tearing a page out of

his little sketch-book, he began:

“I am writing in the train, so please forgive this joggly writing—”

Then he did not know how to go on, for all that he wanted to say was

such as he had never even dreamed of writing—things about his feelings

which would look horrible in words; besides, he must not put anything

that might not be read, by anyone, so what was there to say?

“It has been such a long journey,” he wrote at last, “away from the

Tyrol;” (he did not dare even to put “from you,”) “I thought it would

never end. But at last it has—very nearly. I have thought a great deal

about the Tyrol. It was a lovely time—the loveliest time I have ever

had. And now it's over, I try to console myself by thinking of the

future, but not the immediate future—THAT is not very enjoyable. I

wonder how the mountains are looking to-day. Please give my love

to them, especially the lion ones that come and lie out in the

moonlight—you will not recognize them from this”—then followed a sketch.

“And this is the church we went to, with someone kneeling. And this is

meant for the 'English Grundys,' looking at someone who is coming in

very late with an alpenstock—only, I am better at the 'English Grundys'

than at the person with the alpenstock. I wish I were the 'English

Grundys' now, still in the Tyrol. I hope I shall get a letter from

you soon; and that it will say you are getting ready to come back. My

guardian will be awfully keen for you to come and stay with us. He

is not half bad when you know him, and there will be his sister, Mrs.

Doone, and her daughter left there after the wedding. It will be simply

disgusting if you and Mr. Stormer don't come. I wish I could write all I

feel about my lovely time in the Tyrol, but you must please imagine it.”

And just as he had not known how to address her, so he could not tell

how to subscribe himself, and only put “Mark Lennan.”

He posted the letter at Exeter, where he had some time to wait; and his

mind moved still more from past to future. Now that he was nearing home

he began to think of his sister. In two days she would be gone to

Italy; he would not see her again for a long time, and a whole crowd of

memories began to stretch out hands to him. How she and he used to

walk together in the walled garden, and on the sunk croquet ground; she

telling him stories, her arm round his neck, because she was two years

older, and taller than he in those days. Their first talk each holidays,

when he came back to her; the first tea—with unlimited jam—in the old

mullion-windowed, flower-chintzed schoolroom, just himself and her and

old Tingle (Miss Tring, the ancient governess, whose chaperonage would

now be gone), and sometimes that kid Sylvia, when she chanced to be

staying there with her mother. Cicely had always understood him when

he explained to her how inferior school was, because nobody took any

interest in beasts or birds except to kill them; or in drawing, or

making things, or anything decent. They would go off together, rambling

along the river, or up the park, where everything looked so jolly and

wild—the ragged oak-trees, and huge boulders, of whose presence old

Godden, the coachman, had said: “I can't think but what these ha'

been washed here by the Flood, Mast' Mark!” These and a thousand other

memories beset his conscience now. And as the train drew closer to their

station, he eagerly made ready to jump out and greet her. There was

the honeysuckle full out along the paling of the platform over the

waiting-room; wonderful, this year—and there was she, standing alone on

the platform. No, it was not Cicely! He got out with a blank sensation,

as if those memories had played him false. It was a girl, indeed, but

she only looked about sixteen, and wore a sunbonnet that hid her hair

and half her face. She had on a blue frock, and some honeysuckle in her

waist-belt. She seemed to be smiling at him, and expecting him to smile

at her; and so he did smile. She came up to him then, and said:

“I'm Sylvia.”

He answered: “Oh! thanks awfully—it was awfully good of you to come and

meet me.”

“Cicely's so busy. It's only the T-cart. Have you got much luggage?”

She took up his hold-all, and he took it from her; she took his bag,

and he took it from her; then they went out to the T-cart. A small groom

stood there, holding a silver-roan cob with a black mane and black swish

tail.

She said: “D'you mind if I drive, because I'm learning.”

And he answered: “Oh, no! rather not.”