By the time he returned from his room I had tea served in my boudoir,
and while we sat facing the open door to the balcony he told me about
his visit to his old school; how at the dinner on the previous night
the Principal had proposed his health, and after the lads had sung
"Forty Years On" he had told them yarns about his late expedition until
they made the long hiss of indrawn breath which is peculiar to boys when
they are excited; how they had followed him to his bedroom as if he had
been the Pied Piper of Hamelin and questioned him and clambered over him
until driven off by the house-master; and how, finally, before he was
out of bed this morning the smallest scholar in the junior house, a tiny
little cherub with the face of his mother, had come knocking at his door
to ask if he wanted a cabin boy.
Martin laughed as if he had been a boy himself (which he always was and
always will be) while telling me these stories, and I laughed too,
though with a certain tremor, for I was constantly remembering my
resolution and feeling afraid to be too happy.
After tea we went out on to the balcony, and leaned side by
side over the crumbling stone balustrade to look at the lovely
landscape--loveliest when the sun is setting on it--with the
flower-garden below and the headland beyond, covered with heather and
gorse and with a winding white path lying over it like the lash of a
whip until it dipped down to the sea.
"It's a beautiful old world, though, isn't it?" said Martin.
"Isn't it?" I answered, and we looked into each other's eyes and smiled.
Then we heard the light _shsh_ of a garden hose, and looking down saw an
old man watering the geraniums.
"Sakes alive! It's Tommy the Mate," cried Martin, and leaving me on the
balcony he went leaping down the stone stairway to greet his old
comrade.
"God bless me!" said Tommy. "Let me have a right look at ye. Yes, yes,
it's himself, for sure."
A little gale of tender memories floated up to me from my childhood at
seeing those two together again, with Martin now standing head and
shoulders above the old man's Glengarry cap.
"You've been over the highways of the sea, farther than Franklin
himself, they're telling me," said Tommy, and when Martin, laughing
merrily, admitted that he had been farther south at all events, the old
sailor said:
"Well, well! Think of that now! But wasn't I always telling the
omadhauns what you'd be doing some day?"
Then with a "glime" of his "starboard eye" in my direction he said:
"You haven't got a woman yet though? . . . No, I thought not. You're
like myself, boy--there's not many of them sorts _in_ for you."
After that, and a more undisguised look my way, the old man talked about
me, still calling me the "lil misthress" and saying they were putting a
power of gold on my fingers, but he would be burning candles to the
miracles of God to see the colour of it in my cheeks too.
"She's a plant that doesn't take kindly to a hot-house same as this,"
(indicating the house) "and she'll not be thriving until somebody's
bedding her out, I'm thinking."
It was Saturday, and after dinner Martin proposed that we should walk to
the head of the cliff to see Blackwater by night, which was a wonderful
spectacle, people said, at the height of the season, so I put a silk
wrap over my head and we set out together.
There was no moon and few stars were visible, but it was one of those
luminous nights in summer which never forget the day. Therefore we
walked without difficulty along the white winding path with its nutty
odour of the heather and gorse until we came near the edge of the cliff,
and then suddenly the town burst upon our view, with its promenades,
theatres, and dancing palaces ablaze with electric light, which was
reflected with almost equal brilliance in the smooth water of the bay.
We were five miles from Blackwater, but listening hard we thought we
could hear, through the boom of the sea on the dark cliffs below us, the
thin sounds of the bands that were playing in the open-air pavilions,
and looking steadfastly we thought we could see, in the black patches
under the white light, the movement of the thousands of persons who were
promenading along "the front."
This led Martin to talk of my father, saying as we walked back, with the
dark outlines of the sleeping mountains confronting us, what a
marvellous man he had been to transform in twenty years the little
fishing and trading port into a great resort for hundreds of thousands
of pleasure-seekers.
"But is he any better or happier for the wealth it has brought him, and
for the connections he has bought with it? Is anybody any better?" said
Martin.
"I know one who isn't," I answered.
I had not meant to say that. It had slipped out unawares, and in my
confusion at the self-revelation which it seemed to make, I tripped in
the darkness and would have fallen if Martin had not caught me up.
In doing this he had to put his arms about me and to hold me until I was
steady on my feet, and having done so he took my hand and drew it
through his arm and in this way we walked the rest of the way back.
It would be impossible and perhaps foolish to say what that incident
meant to me. I felt a thrill of joy, a quivering flood of delight which,
with all the raptures of my spiritual love, had never come to me before.
Every woman who loves her husband must know what it is, but to me it was
a great revelation. It was just as if some new passion had sprung into
life in me at a single moment. And it had--the mighty passion that lies
at the root of our being, the overwhelming instinct of sex which, taking
no account of religion and resolutions, sweeps everything before it like
a flood.
I think Martin must have felt it too, for all at once he ceased to
speak, and I was trembling so much with this new feeling of tenderness
that I could not utter a word. So I heard nothing as we walked on but
the crackle of our footsteps on the gravel path and the measured boom of
the sea which we were leaving behind us--nothing but that and the quick
beating in my own breast.
When we came to the garden the frowning face of the old house was in
front of us, and it was all in darkness, save for the light in my room
which came out on to the balcony. Everything was quiet. The air was
breathless. There was not a rustle in the trees.
We took two or three turns on the lawn in front of my windows, saying
nothing but feeling terribly, fearfully happy. After a few moments (or
they seemed few) a cuckoo clock on my desk struck eleven, and we went up
the stone stairway into my boudoir and parted for the night.
Even then we did not speak, but Martin took my hand and lifted my
fingers to his lips, and the quivering delight I had been feeling ever
since I slipped on the headland rushed through me again.
At the next moment I was in my room. I did not turn on the light. I
undressed in the darkness and when my maid came I was in bed. She
wanted to tell me about a scene with the housekeeper in the kitchen, but
I said:
"I don't want to talk to-night, Price."
I did not know what was happening to me. I only knew, for the first time
that night, that above everything else I was a woman, and that my
renunciation, if it was ever to come to pass, would be a still more
tragic thing than I had expected.
My grim battle had begun.