March had come in like a lion. Even in the village of Dinas, sheltered
as it was, the east wind swept down the funnel of the valley and
through the very houses, as only an east wind in Wales can sweep,
bitter, absolutely unsparing of man or beast.
Alicia Edwards gathered her cross-over shawl closer to her as she
stood in her father's shop and listened for the click of the telegraph
instrument. It was almost the only amusement she had now, and any
moment might bring the wire for which Adam Bate and the housekeeper at
Cwmfaernog had been calling in vain these two days past.
It was becoming serious. They would have to bury the poor, dead
gentleman after all, if some one did not come to help them to
arrange--the other thing. For in this far away Welsh village, where
every boy and girl had been educated up to the standard set by the
most advanced progressivists of the day, the very idea of cremation
was absolute damnation. It could be nothing else, since how could the
Creator resurrect a body that did not exist? So half the village
thought it only right that such an atheist as Mr. Sylvanus Smith had
been in life should meet the fire without delay, and the other half,
more mercifully inclined, explained the difficulty in getting hold of
Mr. Cruttenden, the dead man's executor, as symptomatic of pity on the
part of Providence.
Alicia Edwards, thinking over this, sighed. It was only one more case
in which the teaching of school ran counter to the knowledge that was
necessary in daily life. For what would her father, the elder, what
would she herself say, if she was to allow even elementary science to
interfere with her belief? The world was a very confusing place. There
was but one certain thing in it for a woman, and that was love; but
every one could not get love. She thought of her own struggle for it
and her failure. Myfanwy had beaten her. She had reft Mervyn away even
from his great vocation, and rumour had it that, after a little longer
service in Williams and Edwards's shop, those two would be married and
set up in a small business of their own. In face of this, what did all
the rest matter? Despite all the talk in the village concerning
Mervyn's sudden departure and Morris Pugh's equally sudden resignation
of the pastorship of Dinas, she had held her tongue with fair
discretion, only allowing a few mysterious surmises to leak out. To
begin with, Myfanwy's last words had alarmed her, and then the
offenders had passed altogether from her control. What would it matter
to Mervyn, now employee in Williams and Edwards, if it was found out
that he had ruined half the girls in Dinas?
Besides, something new and stern in her father's attitude towards her
in regard to the revival made her suspect that he was not without his
suspicions. The less said about morals the better, especially since
the effect of those midnight meetings was already making itself felt
in the immediate neighbourhood. For Isaac Edwards was relentless on
this point. He had downright refused to let her go on with her sweet
singing now that all her companions had died or disappeared; so
having, of course, lost her post as pupil teacher, there was nothing
for it but to stop at home and prepare, so her father said, for a
normal college. The girl herself stiffened a sullen lip and looked
down the lane which led to the minister's house now occupied by the
Reverend Hwfa Williams; for he admired her. Of that there could be no
question. The possibility of marrying him, indeed, had become quite a
factor in her life, and she decided most points with a view to this
possibility. Small wonder then if Alicia Edwards's amicability and her
general desirability as a minister's wife had begun to strike Hwfa
Williams himself, while even Isaac Edwards was beginning to waver in
his insistance on Logarithms and the Science of Tuition.
"Put on your hat, Alicia," he said from his ledger, "and run down the
road. It will warm you up before you have to go to the Bible class."
And Alicia went, nothing loth. It was better battling with the wind
than watching for telegrams which never came, especially when there
was the chance of coming back with the wind and with a man whose pale,
heavy, dark-browed face was beginning to become to you, by diligent
care and concentration, the handsomest in the world.
So she fought her ground steadily against the swirling clouds of dust.
Had she only gone up the hill over the short, springy grass and the
broken brown bracken she would have enjoyed the wind, as Ned
Blackborough was enjoying it on his way to Cwmfaernog. For it was the
1st of March, the day on which he had promised Aura he would return
and ask her once more to marry him. He had come back from the East but
the day before, and being, so to speak, made up of impulses, moods,
fancies, in the indulgence of which he had of late sought his chief
pleasures, he had determined to find his way to her, as he had found
it that very first night, over the summit of Llwydd y Bryn, the "Eye
of the World."
Such fancies hurt no one, but he was beginning to realise that in them
lay all the salt of life. What was it to the world, absorbed
conventionally in the sordid sleep which follows perforce on sordid
money grubbing, if he found the highest rhythm of life in the quiver
of the moonlit woods? Nothing. Let those see who had the eyes to see.
So when, a bit wearied with his climb, he sat down where he had
carelessly put out his hand to catch the flying footsteps of day, it
struck him now, thoughtfully, that, in truth, it was all a man's life,
all he could do towards gaining happiness. He must just catch at the
flying footsteps of something unseen. Ever since the day when death
had so nearly overtaken him while he was studying life in a black drop
of water, he had been haunted at times by that feeling of
sightlessness, touchlessness, soundlessness which had come to him
then.
It came to him now on the top of Llwydd y Bryn, though before his
bodily eyes lay half the principality of Wales, spread out as if it
were a map. Surpassingly beautiful too. In its way as beautiful as
that island in the AEgean, now waiting ready for its mistress, for he
was quite prepared to follow Aura into the wilderness if needs be. He
had thought much concerning her and concerning himself during the last
six weeks, and he had begun to recognise that in some ways she was
right in shrinking from what she called love, as a desecration of
herself and of him. The feeling, however, was due to the absolutely
unnatural association in marriage of the MIND with the body. An
association which was simply an attempt to find a mental fig-leaf for
what either required none, or was beyond decent cover. One thing,
however, seemed to him certain. Aura must both love him and also
desire to marry him. Yes, she loved him, or thought she did, which to
her was the same thing.
He sprang to his feet, that thought being enough to start him on any
path, and, ere leaving the summit, cast one look round it, remembering
gladly that it might be the last time he should see it.
All was as his recollection held it. Just a brown, peaty, stone-strewn
rise, and beyond, on all sides, an immensity of sea and sky and land.
Only the placard on the shieling had been damaged by the winter
storms. The ultimate 6d. was gone and "ginger beer" stood alone,
vaunting itself free like the nectar of the gods.
Ginger beer! That was about what it came to for the million.
With an amused shrug of the shoulders he began the descent, every step
of which was beautiful, every sight in which brought to him the
feeling as if he trod on air, as if nothing in heaven or earth could
trammel him again.
As he crossed the stream above the farm buildings, where on that night
nine months ago they had stood and shouted, the whole steading struck
him as looking forlorn and deserted, but, being sure of finding Martha
in the kitchen, he went boldly through the cottage and passed through
the door that was like a coal cellar's to the garden room. But this
time there was no flash of blinding sunlight to dazzle him. It was
almost dark, for the green sun-blinds on either side were drawn down;
that, however, was surely a figure by the window.
"At last!" came Aura's voice, full of infinite relief. "I am so glad."
Swept away by the whole-heartedness of his welcome he went forward
swiftly and had her in his arms, but his first touch was enough; she
shrank back with a half-articulate cry of surprise and thrust him from
her by force.
"Aura!" he said almost incredulously, "and you sounded--so--so glad."
"I thought--I thought you were Ted," she explained with a little sob.
"I've been expecting him so long, you see."
"Ted!" he echoed, "you have been expecting him? I don't understand."
"No," she replied hurriedly in a low voice. "Of course, I forgot you
couldn't." There was a faint pause, then she collected herself.
"We--we were married----" This time the pause remained unbroken until
coolly, almost sarcastically, the question came.
"You were married! May I ask--when?"
The darkness of those drawn down blinds was in a way a godsend to them
both. It hid all expression, and it seemed to Ned Blackborough in his
incredulous dismay as if he were speaking to a disembodied spirit; was
he also, by some chance, a disembodied spirit?
"I--I don't remember," came her voice, all strained and curiously
weary. "Oh, yes; of course I do. It was on the 14th of February." She
was just beginning to remember dates, and to recollect that this must
be the 1st of March. Everything seemed to have been blotted out by her
grandfather's sudden death two days before, and the impossibility of
getting any answer to her telegram from Ted, Ted on whom she had
learnt to rely.
Ned laughed suddenly. "St. Valentine's Day," he echoed. "So I sent you
my valentine as a wedding present. If I had only known, I mightn't
have taken so much--trouble--to send it off. I expect I was pretty
near death when you were getting married, young lady, and I compliment
you on the quickness----"
"But we were engaged, quite a long time before," she said in idle
protest, for something in her seemed hammering at her head, beating
into it the knowledge that she had been mean.
Once more he laughed. "May I ask how long?"
"On--on New Year's Day." He could scarcely hear what she said.
"On New Year's Day," he echoed incredulously, "impossible!" Then the
conviction that, if this were so, Ted Cruttenden had--well! almost
lied to him came to rouse his anger to the uttermost, and he strode
towards her shadow. "But this is foolishness," he exclaimed, "You know
you love me--you know you do----"
"Hush!" she cried, interrupting his swift rise in tone, "Remember,
please, that my grandfather lies dead upstairs."
"Dead!" he said stupidly after a pause, "Dead! I--I didn't know. I--I
am very sorry." The conventional words of sympathy came slowly as he
stood, feeling baulked indescribably, done out, as it were, of his
just claim to anger.
"Are there any more terrors to tell?" he asked at last recklessly. "Do
you happen to be dead yourself, or has the 'coo' been killed? I beg
your pardon--you won't understand the allusion----" he added hastily,
"but I must be excused; there are limits! So, I see; you took me for
Ted--for your husband, save the mark! Why isn't he here?--where he
ought to be?"
The sudden blame, following her own thought so closely, took Aura all
unprepared. The dull grievance which had been hers all those long
hours of vain waiting became suddenly acute. She dissolved into young
self-pitying tears.
"I don't know," she murmured, strangling her sobs, "and I don't in the
least know what to do."
For an instant Ned Blackborough felt inclined to arraign high heaven
for thus robbing him of righteous wrath.
But he was a gentleman, his heart was soft, so there was nothing for
it save to accept the situation with the best grace he could. And the
grace came, to his surprise, with such exceeding ease, despite his
ill-usage, that he had to drive himself not towards patience, but to
impatience, as he listened to Aura's tale of ignorance and loneliness.
A man with money behind him, or rather money with a man behind it, can
do all things save avoid vulgarity, ensure happiness, or escape death.
By the evening, therefore, Ned Blackborough was able to give Aura a
most sympathetic and affectionate telegram from her husband.
"We ran him to earth in Vienna, where he had gone on business," said
Ned, refraining, why he scarcely knew, from saying also that Ted had
been found in a Biergarten, and that he had left strict orders that
telegrams were not to be forwarded. "I got him through Hirsch, but he
again was unfortunately in Paris; they have some big scoop on hand.
But it is all right now, and he should be home to-morrow. As for the
rest, you need not bother. It is all settled, and I will tell Martha
what to expect. So I will say good-bye."
She could not stifle down the quick appeal, "Must you go?"
"Of course, I must go," he replied roughly, "I ought never to have
come, and I am sorry I did, even though I have helped you. Good-bye."
She watched him put on his greatcoat without another word, almost
angry with herself for feeling so inexpressibly mean. She would have
liked to tell him that she had been unable to wait, that even if she
had waited her answer would have been the same; but she felt that all
this must come afterwards when he had had time.
And then suddenly he turned to her again.
"I'll leave this here, I think," he said, putting a flat parcel he had
taken out from his pocket on the piano, "you might while an hour or so
by looking at them. It--it isn't all cussedness, Mrs. Cruttenden; I
should like you to see them. I should like you to know _something_ of
it, once! Good-bye; throw them into the fire when you have done with
them. I shall not want them again."
When he had gone she went over to the piano, and taking the packet
crouched down with it beside the fading fire-light, which she stirred
into a blaze. To other eyes the room might have looked inexpressibly
dreary, large, bare, empty, even the very sofa, imported into it for
the old man's invalid use, taken away for him when the stairs became
too much for his strength. But Aura was accustomed to the bareness; it
had been part of her life always.
They were sketches evidently, and on the fold of white paper, which
was their last covering, Ned had written one word.
"Avilion."
She sat looking at them all, these plans and sketches of the island in
the southern sea, that was to have been that Island of the Blessed, of
which a glimpse only can be seen by mortals, when at sunset time the
golden sea fades into the golden sky, and far away--is it land or is
it cloud?--a purple shadow, tipped with rosy light into distant peaks,
fades with the sky into the grey of night.
How beautiful they were! And in every one of them, in front, even of
the foreground, looking out, as the painter himself must have looked
out, over the blue ripples, down into the pellucid cave depths where
strange fish showed in flashes of colour, towards the leafy contours
of the ilex woods, along the flower-decked lawns, or through the
fluted columns of marble pavilions, stood the filmy diaphanous figure
of a woman, white, immobile, mist-like with averted face.
But she knew who it was, and a lump rose in her throat as she
recognised it as his dream of her.
She was not worth it! No! Behind his dream of her stood a reality that
had nothing to do with her. He was seeking, and she was seeking
something that had nothing to do with manhood or womanhood.
The fire blazed up fiercely, fitfully, as one by one in obedience to
his request, those dreamful figures caught, flared up for a space, and
then died down into little trembling sparks.
Behind them all lay Darkness and Peace. So to her as she sat holding
the Dream of a Man's Love in her hands, came for the first time a
glimpse of the sightlessness and soundlessness, and touchlessness,
which lie beyond all earthly things.
Ned meanwhile was giving his orders to Martha in the kitchen. She was
taking them, as usual, with many subservient bobs, but with a certain
waveringness of voice, and an unsteadiness of eye which augured ill
for her calm of mind.
"I'll do my best, your lordship," she said finally with an odd little
sniff, half tears, half anger. "But what with folks going away as shud
'ave stayed, an' them as might a-gone away an' welcome stoppin' on,
an' both together comin' back an' staying away, I'm like a o-ven with
the door bein' open constant--not fit to bake a penny-piece."
Ned looked at her, for a wonder, distastefully.
"Do you mean," he said, "that you didn't expect to see me again?"
Martha grew red, then white. "So sure as my name's Martha Higgins,"
she began tearfully, "If I'd expected your lordship wasn't playin' the
back-step----"
He interrupted her calmly. "I'm sorry to say it, Martha, but I think
you are a fool," he said calmly, and left her collapsed in a chair
crying silently, not so much for herself as for him; since she had
seen the tragedy of his face.
Adam Bate, coming in ten minutes later, found her so, and being
diffident of his power to console, crept away again to administer
comfort to a newly calved cow who was lowing for her young one.
"Coo-up, Coo-ep, m'dear," he said, wisping its back with a handful of
straw, "th' shallt 'ave it for sure when th' bags full, so set th'
mind to the makin' o' milk. See! there's a bit o' mangle fur 'ee, but
mind 'ee 'to whom much is given of them shall much be requir-ed,' as
passon says. So--'pail-full, cauf-full.' Think o' that an' dinnot
squander God's strength on booin'."
He felt inclined to read some such moral lesson to Martha when he
returned to find her in no better case, the fire dwindling and no sign
of tea; but, as has been said, he felt diffident. So he contented
himself with laying the tea, poking up the fire and putting on the
kettle, accompanying these unwonted actions with the hissing noise
which grooms use, apparently as an encouragement to their own ardour.
Perhaps this aided him to courage; perhaps the presence of death in
the house taking him back to fundamentals roused in him a revolt of
vitality, a desire to secure safety in equilibrium; anyhow, after a
time, he sat himself down in a kitchen chair, and scrooped it by
excruciating half-inches towards Martha's, until they almost touched.
"Martha, woman!" he said tentatively, "If this sort o' thing's goin'
on--If you 'urns goin' to be taken, this no supper, no tea way, as you
'urn bin doin' o' late--why there ain't nothin' for it but ter marry
me, as doan't forgit them things."
Martha shook her head forlornly. "It--it'll have to come to that in
the end, I sippose," she sobbed.
You might have knocked Adam down with a feather. After all these
fourteen years to be even so grudgingly accepted as this, made him
feel that the round world was no longer sure. He sat with his mouth
wide open, wondering what topic of conversation would in the future
take the place of unending proposal and refusal. Then the sense that
he must leave such dark things to Providence, and do his duty in the
present by himself, and Martha made him ask tremulously--
"Will you name the yappy day, my darlin'? Will you, my darlin', name
the yappy day?"
Martha wiped her eyes and became more composed. "Some time afore we
dies, I suppose," she said with a disconsolate whimper, "I can't
promise more'n that, Adam Bate--an' don't ee see the kettle bilin'."