THE BEAUTIFUL TWILIGHT
The first couple of days at Ambleside were a delight to Joy. In the
change from the roar and ceaseless whirl of London was such a sense of
peace that it influenced even the pain of her heart-hunger. Here in
this lovely place, where despite the life and movement of the little
town nature seemed to reign, was something to calm nerves overstrung
with waiting and apprehension. It was a relief to her at first, a
pleasure later, to walk about the pleasant roads with her father; to
take long drives beneath shady trees or up on the hillside where the
lake lay below like a panorama; to sit on the steamer’s deck and drift
along the beautiful lake.
Her father was now and again impatient, not with her but because of
the non-arrival of the motor which he had ordered in London. It had
not been quite ready when they left and so it was arranged that it
should follow them. He wanted to have it in possession so that they
could fly all over the region; the American in him was clamorous for
movement, for speed and progress! He kept up an endless telegraphing
with the motor people in London, and when at last they wired that the
car was nearly ready he got a map and traced out the route. Each day
he marked out a space that he thought it ought to have covered,
crediting it for every hour of daylight with top speed. After all, no
matter what our ages may be, we are but children and the new toy but
renews the old want and the old impatience; bringing in turn the old
disillusionment and the old empty-hearted discontent. And the new toy
may be of any shape: even that of a motor-car--or a beating human
heart.
Partly out of affection for her father and so from sympathy with him,
and partly as a relief to herself, Joy looked eagerly for the coming
of the car. She used to go with him to the post office when he was
sending his telegrams. Indeed she never left him; and be sure he was
glad of her companionship. Now and again would come over her an
overwhelming wave of disappointment--grief--regret--she knew not
what--when she thought of the friendship so romantically begun but
failing so soon. The letters from Aunt Judy used to worry and even
humiliate her. For Judy could not understand why there was no meeting;
and her questions, made altogether for the girl’s happiness but made
in the helplessness of complete ignorance, gave her niece new concern.
She had to give reasons, invent excuses. This in itself, for she was
defending the man, only added fuel to her own passion. Joy’s love was
ripening very fast; all her nature was yielding to it. Each day seemed
to make her a trifle thinner. Her eyes seemed to grow bigger and at
times to glow like lamps. Whenever she could, she kept looking out on
the road by which He might come. Walking or driving or in the hotel it
was all the same. In the sitting-room her seat was near the window,
her place at table where she could command a view. All this added to
her beauty and so her father took no concern from it. He thought she
was looking well; and as she was hearty and always, whilst with him,
in good spirits and vivacious and even eager in her movements, he was
more than satisfied.
One morning as she was sitting alone close to the window, presumably
reading for she had a book in her lap, she caught sight with the tail
of her eye of a figure that she knew. There was no mistaking on her
part that tall, upright man with the springy step; the image was too
deeply burned into her heart for that. For a fraction of a second her
heart stood still; and then the wave of feeling went over her.
Instinctively she drew back and kept her head low so that only her
eyes were over the line of the window sill. She did not wish to be
recognised--all at once. With the realisation of her woman’s wishes
came all the instinctive exercise of her woman’s wiles. He was walking
so slowly that she had time to observe him fully, to feast her eyes on
him. He was looking up at the hotel, not eagerly she thought, but
expectantly. This, though it did not chill her, somehow put her on
guard. She slipped behind the window curtain and peeped cautiously. As
he came closer to the hotel he went still more slowly. He did not come
to the door as she expected, but moved along the street.
This all puzzled her; puzzled her very much. She knew that Judy had
written to him of their coming to London, she had seen his reply to
her letter; and Judy with her usual thoughtful kindness had
mentioned--as though by chance, for she was the very soul of kindly
discretion--that when she knew what locality and hotel had been fixed
on for the visit to the Lakes she would tell him. It was evident, that
he knew they were there and in the hotel; why, then, did he not come
to see them. How she would have hurried, she thought, had she been the
man and loved as she did! She had no doubting whatever of his good
faith. “Perfect love casteth out fear.” And doubt is but fear in a
timid form. She accepted in simple good faith that he had some purpose
or reason of his own. Her manifest duty to him, therefore, was not to
let any wish or act of hers clash with it. So she set herself to think
it all out, feeling in reality far happier than she had done for many
weeks. It was not merely that she had, after long waiting, seen the
man; but she was now able to do something for him--if indeed it was
only the curbing of her own curiosity, her own desires.
She rose quietly and went to her bed-room which was at another side of
the house--on the side towards which He had passed. Her father was
writing letters and would not want her; he had said at breakfast that
he would not be able to go out for an hour or two. In her room she
went cautiously to her window and, again hiding behind the curtains,
glanced into the street. She felt quite sad when she only saw his back
as he walked slowly along. Every now and again he would stop and look
round him as though admiring the place and the views as the openings
between the houses allowed him to see the surrounding country. Once or
twice she could see him look out under his eyebrows as though watching
the hotel without appearing to do so. Presently he turned the corner
of the next street to the left, moving as though he wished to go all
round the hotel.
She sat down and thought, her heart beating hard. Her face was covered
with both her hands. Forehead and cheeks and neck were deeply flushed;
and when she took away her hands her eyes were bright and seemed to
glow. She seemed filled with happiness, but all the same looked
impossibly demure; as is woman’s nature, playing to convention even
when alone.
Before she left her room she had changed her clothes, putting on after
several experiments the frock which she thought the most becoming. She
did not send for her maid, but did everything for herself; even to
hanging up the discarded frocks. Then she went back to the sitting
room and took as before her seat at the window, keeping however a
little more in the background. She wanted to see rather than to be
seen. With her eyes seemingly on her book, but in reality sweeping
under her lashes the approaches to the hotel like searchlights, she
sat quite quietly for some time. At length the eyes suddenly fell for
an instant under an uncontrollable wave of diffidence; she had seen
Him pass into the garden opposite to the hotel and go secretively
behind some lilac bushes opposite the doorway. But after that one
droop of the eyes, there was scarce even the flicker of an eyelid; she
did not want to lose a single glimpse of him.
Sitting by the window, where he could see her, for a full hour until
her father appeared, she thought over the new phase of the matter. If
she had ever had any real doubt as to whether Mr. Richard Hardy loved
her it was all resolved now. For certain he loved her--and as much,
she hoped, as she loved him! He had sought her out at Ambleside; for
even in her own secret mind she never went through the pretence of
trying to persuade herself that it may have been some one else that he
was looking for.
But why was he so secret? Why did he not come at once into the hotel
and ask to see her father. He had been invited to come; he had been
made a welcome guest at the Holland. He knew their movements; he had
written to Judy. But why did he keep so aloof? If he wanted to avoid
them altogether he had only to keep away. Why then did he keep coming
round the house and looking at it secretively? She was absolutely at a
standstill every time her thinking led her to this _impasse_. But, all
the same, she never questioned or doubted the man. In her own mind she
was sure that he had some good reason for all he did; and it was her
duty not to thwart but to help him.
She had already accepted the position of a true wife, a true lover:
The man’s will was law!
Then her thoughts turned as to how best she could help him. Here all
her brains as well as all the instincts of her womanhood came into
play; and this is a strong combination in a man’s service. Her
arguments ran:
As he evidently wishes his presence to be unknown she must not seem to
know of it.
As he evidently wanted to know something about her she would take care
that he knew what he wished, so far as she could know or effect it.
As (perhaps) he wished to see her (from afar, or at all events without
proclaiming himself) she would take care that he would have plenty of
opportunities.
But as he did not want Daddy to see him--at present (this last
qualification she insisted on to herself) she would have to be careful
that her father did not notice his presence. This she felt would be
difficult, and might be dangerous; she feared that if the two men
should meet just at present (another qualification equally insisted
on) her father might make some quarrel or trouble.
As Daddy might make trouble this way, she must keep very close to him.
She might thus be able to smooth matters, or do _something_ if any
occasion came.
_And_ she must be careful that he did not notice that she saw him.
This argument came straight out of her sex-artfulness. Every instinct
of her being told her that such would be the most effective way of
bringing the man to her. And Oh! but she did long to see him, close to
her where they could see each other clearly. “Look at me!” seemed to
throb through her every nerve, and make a clang of great music in her
brain.
When presently Colonel Ogilvie, having finished his letters, asked her
what she would like to do that morning she said she would like to go
for a drive. She knew that there would be more security in the
isolation of a carriage than when walking, where a chance meeting
might occur at any moment.
When Athlyne, who was watching the hotel from the garden where the
shrubs gave him cover, saw the landau at the door he thought he would
wait and see if by any chance it might be for the Ogilvies’ use. His
hopes were justified when he saw Joy follow her father from the
doorway. She looked radiantly beautiful; so beautiful that all his
love and passion surged up in him till he felt almost suffocated. He
had quite a good view of her, for she stood for a minute or two in
front of the horses giving them lumps of sugar and stroking their
noses. He heard the voices of both father and daughter. Colonel
Ogilvie’s was strong and resonant; Joy’s was sweet and clear.
Moreover, she spoke on purpose a little more loudly than usual; she
knew that He was listening and would like to hear her voice.
“Tell him where you would like to go, little girl.”
“Anywhere you think best, coachman; provided we get a good view. We
had better be back here in about an hour. Then, Daddy, we shall keep
quiet after lunch--if that will suit you, dear. After tea we can go
out again and have a long drive and come back in the lovely English
twilight. Of course if you would like to, Daddy. I must say there is
one institution that I wish we had in America.”
“And what is that daughter?”
“The twilight! Since I have seen it, our own night seems very cruel!
It shuts down too fast. For my own part if ever I fall in love----”
here the words became indistinct; she was entering the carriage.
She had chosen her words on purpose. She wished to let Him know the
plans for the day. She knew well that at the end of the hour he would
be waiting, hidden in the garden, to see their return. Thus he would
see her again, and she by going quickly to the window would perhaps
see him again. She had spoken of not going out again till after tea,
because she did not wish to keep him all day at his post; she knew
that this would happen if he were in ignorance of her movements. He,
poor fellow! would have to get lunch. … She was exercising for him
already the solicitude of a wife for a husband. As to the remarks
about twilight, that had a double origin. Firstly it was quite true;
she had long had it in her mind. Secondly it was a sort of _ballon
d’essai_; it might point or lead somewhere. Where that might be she
knew not; but she had a vague hopeful feeling that there was an
answer--somewhere.
As to the remark about ever loving. Well! she could not have explained
that herself. All she knew was that she had a sudden desire to mention
the word. …
Athlyne profited by the lesson; but his acts were not quite what Joy
had anticipated. She, thinking from the feminine standpoint, had taken
it that he would remain at his post until the return and then avail
himself of the longer period for rest and food. But Athlyne was a
soldier and had as such long ago learned the maxim that in route
marching the camp should be set beyond the bridge. Moreover in the
strenuous life of the Boer war he had superadded the wisdom of taking
his meal at the first opportunity. As soon as the carriage had
disappeared from view he went straight into the hotel and ordered his
lunch in the Coffee-room. He was really hungry, and the lamb and salad
were excellent; but had he not been hungry, and had the food been
poor, he would have enjoyed it without knowing its inferiority.
Everything was good to him this morning; he had seen Joy!
He was out in the garden in good time. Fortunately so, from his point
of view. For Joy, believing that he would be still waiting, kept the
coachman up to time. It might well have been that they had met in the
hall.
The drive had increased the girl’s loveliness, if such were possible.
Her eyes were bright, there was fine colour in her cheeks, and her
voice and manner were full of vivacity. The bright sun and the sweet,
strong air had braced her; and perhaps some inward emotion had
exercised the same effect. One quick glance under her eyelashes as
they drove towards the hotel had shewn her the outline of a tall
figure close to the lilacs in the garden. As her father helped her
from the carriage with all his habitual gallantry of manner she said
in a clear voice--Athlyne across the street heard every word:
“That drive was exquisite! Wasn’t it Daddy? Thank you so much for it!
The lights and shadows on the hills were simply divine. It would be
nice to go again to-morrow in something of the same direction. We
might go about the same hour, if it would suit you, and see the same
effects again!”
When they had gone in Athlyne waited a little while in the garden. He
sat in the sunshine on a garden seat placed in the centre of the grass
plot. He was not afraid of being seen at present, and as he knew that
Joy and her father were in the house he did not even try to look for
them. Had he chosen a position for the purpose of giving Joy pleasure
he could not have done better than this. From behind her window
curtain she could see him plainly. To her he made a beautiful picture,
of which the natural setting was complete: the background of sweet
pale lilac, the dropping gold of the laburnum and the full red of
scarlet hawthorn; his feet in the uncut grass starred with daisies.
She had a long, long view of him, watching every movement and
expression with eager eyes. One thing he did which she could not
understand. He took from his breast pocket an envelope; this he opened
and took from it a letter. Instead of reading it, however, he sat for
a long time with it in his hand. Then with a quick movement he put it
back in the envelope, moistened the flap with his lips and closed it.
Joy’s idea had been that it might have been Judy’s letter which he had
intended to re-read; but this could not be. For an instant a spasm of
pain had gripped her heart as the thought came that it might have been
from some other woman. But that idea she swept aside imperiously. Now
she knew that it was some letter of his own, and the questioning of
her brain began to assail her heart:
Whom could he be writing to? What could he be writing about? Why did
he have a finished letter in his pocket, not even sealed up?
If she had known the truth she would have sat quiet, not with
perturbation but in a silent ecstasy. Athlyne had made up his mind
that if occasion did not serve for his seeing Joy alone he would send
the letter to Colonel Ogilvie and risk being refused. In such case he
would have to take another course, and try to obtain her consent in
spite of her father’s wishes. He did not, however, intend to send the
letter yet. His first hope was too sweet to abandon without good
cause. His closing the letter was but an impulsive expression of his
feeling.
Suddenly he stood up and moved out of the garden. This did not puzzle
her, but awoke all her curiosity. She had a wild desire to see where
he was going; but as she could not follow him she made up her mind to
present patience. She watched from her window till he had passed out
of sight. She was glad that she was concealed behind the curtain when
she saw him at the furthest point of sight turn and give a long look
back at the hotel. Then she went to her room to get ready for lunch.
Athlyne felt that he must do something to let off steam. Movement of
some kind was necessary in his present frame of mind. For his pleasure
was not unmixed. He had seen Joy, and she was looking more radiantly
beautiful than ever. But she had said one thing that sent a pang
through him: “if I ever fall in love.” There could hardly be any doubt
of her sincerity; she was talking to her father quite alone and
unconscious that he of all men was within earshot. “If I ever fall in
love,” that meant that she had not yet done so. It would be wise to
wait before sending the letter so that he might see if that happy time
had come or had even begun to peep above the horizon. Unconsciously he
took from his pocket the letter and his pocket-book, put the former
into the latter and returned it to its place.
Athlyne was no fool; but he was only a man, and as such took for
gospel every word spoken by the woman he loved. Had Joy been present
and known his difficulty, and had cared to express herself then as she
would have done later, she would have smiled at him as she said:
“Why you dear old goose how could I fall in love with you when I had
done that already!”
Had Aunt Judy been commenting on the comment she would have said in
her genial cynicism:
“A woman--or a man either--can only fall in love once in a life time;
with the same person!”
Athlyne telephoned his chauffeur to whom he had already sent a wire to
be prepared, and in a time to be computed by minutes met him outside
Ambleside. There he took the wheel himself, telling the man to meet
him a little before five o’clock. He felt that he must be alone. He
went slowly so long as he was near the town; but when he found himself
on a clear road, over which he could see for a long way ahead, the
index went round to “speed” and as the car swept over the ground its
rush kept pace with his own thoughts.
He went about a hundred miles before he regained anything like calm.
Trying afterwards to recall the sequence of his thoughts he never
could arrive at any sort of conclusion regarding them.
The only thing definite in his mind was that he wanted to see Joy
again, and soon. He knew they would be starting out after tea time
which meant, he knew, something after five o’clock; and not for a
world of chrysolite would he miss being there. Outside Ambleside he
met the chauffeur whom he sent back to Bowness; he did not want his
car to be too much _en evidence_ at Ambleside at present. He had a
wash and a cup of tea at another hotel; and at five strolled back to
his nook in the garden.
By this time Joy had made up her mind that he _might_ come back that
evening though--with still her protective instinct, partly for herself
but more for him--she had quite made up her mind that even if he
should not come she would not be disappointed. He was not to be blamed
in any way, now or hereafter. How could he be? It would not be fair. A
few minutes before five she took her place at the window, but sitting
so far back this time that she could not be seen from without. She
herself could see out, but only by raising her head high. This she did
now and again, but very cautiously. She felt a sort of diffidence, a
certain measure of shamefacedness lest he should see her again and
suspect anything. We are very sensitive as to the discovery of truth
by others when we are ourselves trying to deceive ourselves! The few
minutes passed slowly, very slowly. Then when once more she looked out
a great thrill of joy shook her. He _had_ come. If doubt there had
been, it could no longer exist. Her heart beat, her face flushed, she
trembled with a sort of ecstasy; the waves of high passion swept her.
She was half inclined to stand boldly in the window and let him see
her; to let him see that she saw him; to run out to him and fall into
his arms. There is no boldness that love will not commit when it is
true! She felt this, though not consciously. There was no need for
consciousness, for thought, for argument. She knew!
It was perhaps just as well that her father came into the room. He
brought a sense of sanity with him; she felt that consciously enough.
Her mere faint sigh of regret was sufficient proof.
Joy did not walk down the staircase; she floated, as though matter had
ceased to exist and the soul was free. She stood for a minute on the
step looking out at the view; but presently kept changing her pose so
that her face might be seen with both profiles, as well as the full
face. If He had come there to see her He should not be
disappointed--if she could help it.
That drive was a dream, an ecstasy. At first there was a miserable
sense that each turn of the wheels took them farther apart; but
shortly this was lost in the overwhelming sense of gladness. She could
have sung--danced--shouted. She wanted some physical expression of her
feeling. Then the excitement settled down to a quiet tingling
happiness, a sense of peace which was ineffable and complete.
“… if that all of animated nature
Be but organic harps diversely framed
That tremble into thought as o’er them sweeps
Plastic and vast one intellectual breeze
At once the soul of each and God of all.”
So sung, a century before, a poet of that sweet cult of the school
centred in the very area in which she moved; and if his thoughts were
true there was a true act of worship that sunny afternoon on the
rising hills beyond the lakehead. For happiness is not merely to be at
rest. It is to be with God, to carry out to the full His wish that His
children should appreciate and enjoy the powers and good things given
them by His hands. And when that happiness is based on love--and there
is no true happiness on aught that is not high--the love itself is of
the soul and quivers with the flapping of its wings. Then indeed can
we realize that marvellous promise of the words of the Master:
“Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God.” Wordsworth and
those who held with him saw God and worshipped Him in those myriad
beauties of the lake they loved; and as the beauty and its immortal
truth soothed and purified their souls, so was the spirit of the
love-sick girl cleansed of all dross. How at such a time, when the
soul swam free in grateful worship, was there place for anything that
was not clean? Her father thought, as he looked at her and heard the
ring of her voice, that he had never seen her look better or happier.
She was full of spirits, gay, sweet, tender; and yet there was over
her such a grace of gentle gravity that the old man felt himself
saying to himself:
“My little girl is a woman!”
That mellow afternoon was to her lovely; the trees and shrubs, the
flowers, the fields. The singing of the birds was ethereal music; the
lights and shadows were the personal manifestation of Nature’s God.
Her heart, her sympathy, her nature were at full tide; all overflowing
and in their plenitude full.
The long summer afternoon faded into the softness of twilight during
the homeward journey. Perhaps it was the yielding to its mysterious
influence which made Joy so still; perhaps it was that she was drawing
nearer to the man whom she adored. Her father neither knew nor took
note of it. He saw that his little girl was silent in an ecstasy of
happiness in that soft twilight of which she had spoken so tenderly;
and he was content. He too sat silent, yielding himself to the
influence of the beauty around him.
When they reached the hotel Joy seemed to wake from a dream; but she
lost none of her present placidity, none of her content. One form of
happiness had given way to another, that was all. As she stood on the
steps, waiting whilst her father was giving the coachman his
instructions for the morrow, she tried to peer into the lilac bushes
in the garden. She had a sort of intuition--nay more that an
intuition, an actual certainty--that He was again behind them. And
once more she so stood and moved that he might see her face as he
would. When her father turned to come in she took his arm and pointed
to the sky:
“Oh look, Daddy, the beautiful twilight! Is it not exquisite!” Then
impulsively she put her hand to her lips and threw a kiss to it--over
the square by way of the lilacs. Her voice was languishing music as
she said softly, but clearly enough to heard in the garden:
“Good night; Good night beloved! Good night! Good night!”
And Athlyne peering through the bushes heard the words with a beating
of his heart which made his temples throb. His only wish at the moment
was that it might have been that the words had been addressed to him.
That evening before going to dress for dinner Joy went to the window
and pulled aside the blind so that she stood outside it. The dusk was
now thick; the day had gone, but the moon had not yet risen. It was
impossible to see much; only the outline of the trees, and out on the
grass the shadowy form of a man seated. There was one faint red spark
of brightness, face high, such as might be the tip of a cigar.
When she came back into the room her father raised his face from his
book:
“Why how pale you are little girl. I am afraid that long drive must
have tired you. You were quite rosy when we arrived home. You had
better sleep it out in the morning. If mother sees you pale she will
blame me, you know. And Judy--well Judy will be Judy in her own way.”