Last night when I came away from Lizard Point without waiting for
Lessie, I knew that I loved her. That was why I did not stay. I have
sensed the coming of this affection for some time, and I have not set it
down before because I wanted to be sure. To-night I am sure. Last night
I was sure, but I wanted a little time in which to analyze this feeling,
and be positive of it. My sleep was peculiarly sweet and peaceful after
the day of trial. I do not know that I dreamed, but soothing waves of
rest permeated me entirely, and a number of times I was conscious just
enough to know that this unusual sensation possessed me. To-day I have
not touched a book--the first day in years! Think of it. Was not that
alone a portent? I got breakfast mechanically. The kitchen utensils
looked almost strange, and I would pick up a dish and turn it over, and
view it as though I had never seen such a thing befor. Queer, wasn't it?
I wonder if any other man in his senses has acted this way. If he has, I
venture to declare he wouldn't set it down for the world to read. But
why not? We are all children, playing our little games, which are the
same world-old games in different hands. And so, when I stopped and
stared at my skillet this morning as I was washing it--stared till it
turned to a beautiful, laughing, freckled face framed in gold, it was
nothing to shame me. I recall the fact now with the full assurance that
the big majority of my fellow men will not ascribe the action to lunacy.
When I stood in the front door the yard looked the same, but different,
too. The area which I had cleared for the garden was dry, and invited my
spade. Not now, Mr. Earth! You shall have another day's rest before I
drive the steel tines again into you! I walked about, this way and that;
thinking, not thinking. Sometimes I hummed; sometimes I smiled;
sometimes I stood still with open eyes which did not see. All the time I
was aware of some lack, but it was nine o'clock before I realized that I
had not tasted a whiff of smoke. The thought did not make me blush, nor
abash me. I went quietly in and found my pipe on the shelf where I kept
it. It did not stay alight more than two minutes. I was standing at the
place where the road went down when I realized that I was drawing the
atmosphere alone through the stem between my teeth. Then I walked down
to the bench under the pine, thrust my hands in my trousers pockets, sat
down and crossed my legs.
I have been a sane man all my life, except the day when I embraced the
business of literature for a living. I am not nervous; sudden events do
not startle me. I have taken life honestly and bravely, and I believe I
have faced all the conditions which mere living brings, with courage.
But to-night I have to relate that I sat on that hard bench without
changing my position until two in the afternoon, when I just happened to
drag my watch out. The mere position of the hands brought about a mental
reaction, or I should say served as a powerful mental stimulant, for up
to that hour I am not conscious of a single coherent thought. I had been
sitting all that time in mindless apathy. Then I began to think. My
first gleam of intelligence informed me that my watch must be wrong.
Then I gained sense enough to look at the sun, to find that it had
passed the meridian considerably. Followed at once a keen introspective
query, to which no answer was forthcoming. Then I am sure I breathed
gently, "You damn fool!" and became a man again.
I did not eat any dinner--punishing the body for a fault of the
mind--but smoked instead. My pipe did not go out a second time. Hour
after hour the black briar bowl stayed burning hot, and hour after hour
I drove my mind, now thoroughly aroused and under control, along the
various byways of thought, action and incident which had a common
meeting point at the feet of the Dryad. It required an effort for me to
do this--a great effort. Had I followed my inclination I would simply
have brought her before my eyes in retrospection, and gazed upon the
picture throughout the day. But she had ceased to be an incident. She
was a reality--an abiding reality--a concrete fact impinging sharply
upon the horizon of my life. I was not alarmed to know that I loved her,
and I wondered at this. Perhaps there really was no occasion for alarm,
but there were plenty of disturbing elements attending such a state of
feeling; a number of persons and things to be weighed and considered, to
be classified and given their relative places.
When all was summed up I was confronted with the result: Did I love her
well enough to marry her? I was of good family and had the highest
social standing. She was almost nameless. And here a sinister,
insinuating thought came stealing along a lower corridor in my brain; a
creeping, skulking, devilish thought which I caught and choked as I
would have a mad dog on my threshold. When I had killed the noxious
thing I knew that I did love her well enough to marry her.
What were her feelings toward me? She liked me, but I could not bring to
mind a single word or expression which would lead me to infer her heart
was touched, unless it was the incident on the log bridge, when she had
remained silent for such a long time, and her words when she finally
spoke. Surely her interest was more than casual to dictate a speech like
that. If Gran'fer had not come I think now I would have told her then,
for the simple sentence had set light to a powder train in my breast.
I believe in caste. I am something of a democrat, and much of a
socialist. While the dream of universal brotherhood in its broadest
meaning is Utopian from its very nature, yet all humankind has a claim
upon us, for the body of Socrates and the body of Lazarus were wrought
from the same material. Yet caste, if correctly applied, instead of
offensively and arrogantly, as it more often is, is almost indispensable
to society. You would not have your daughter marry a drayman, nor your
son marry a waiting-maid. That is what I mean when I say I believe in
caste. But while we draw and maintain the line of distinction, we can
still display a proper and becoming degree of courtesy.
I have said that I love Lessie well enough to marry her, but I have not
said that I love her well enough to marry her as she is. I know that
would be a mistake which I would regret were she to remain as she is.
But she does not belong in her present environment. I am as sure of that
as I am that I live. Fate has cheated her, has imposed upon her, has
grossly taken advantage of her helplessness. At the foundation of her
being are lying inert, but real, many wonderful and beautiful and
mysterious attributes and traits which go to make up the perfect,
polished character of refinement. This also I know, because I have
witnessed her pitiful strugglings against the degrading bonds of
ignorance which Life has tightened about her. She feels this better
part, which is unquestionably her true self, but she does not know what
it is; to her it is simply a hidden, powerful, inner force which
torments her with intangible, wordless protest and rebellion. She tries
to obey--she has told me so--but she does not know what to do, or say.
Poor little Dryad! How should she?
When I wrote to 'Crombie for the primer and the copybook I was moved
only by a sincere interest in a pretty ignoramus, seeing at the same
time an opportunity to relieve the tedium of long hours alone here. Now
that they have come, I know that I shall begin at once to loosen the
prisoned thoughts and emotions in my pupil for a different purpose. Will
she learn quickly? No fear of that. I think I shall write for the first
three readers when I have done my journal to-night. A long, loyal,
heart-felt letter came along with the books. I shall not transcribe it,
for it would fill up my pages without furthering my story, and this is
the reverse of craftsmanship, I am told. But I must say that 'Crombie
conceived the idea that I was going to open a school of two or three
pupils--a natural idea, by the way--and earnestly advised me not to, as
it would mean a degree of confinement which would work against me. He
also gave various instructions and suggestions, and insisted in
underscored lines that I pursue diligently my quest of the life-plant.
Who was Lessie's father? I do not doubt that this is the key to the
whole mystery of her paradoxical personality. He was not a dweller in
the wilderness of Hebron. He was a man of mental power; a man from the
higher world of action, advancement and achievement. Assuredly, he was
likewise a conscienceless knave. He had betrayed Araminta--Gran'fer's
Ar'minty; Lessie's mother. A man who would do that is the best qualified
candidate for hell imaginable. I am no hypocritical moralist, awaiting
my own opportunity to despoil. Very frequently it is one of this breed
of skunks who cries out the loudest against things of this sort. But I
trust I do recognize humanity's rights.
Does Lessie's unknown parentage present a barrier to the progress of my
love? No. That does not worry nor concern me in the least. It is true
she is--she must be, the fruit of a brief union unblessed by preacher or
priest. That does not make her the less charming, the less human, the
less lovable. She is as blameless, as natural, as inevitable, as any
other pure and stainless growth arising from baser elements. The fact
that Lessie would be unable to produce the marriage certificate of her
parents proved not the slightest obstacle to the current of my
affections. Indeed, when I dwelt upon this, I became aware of an added
tenderness; a desire to spread over her sunny head the shielding
strength of my arms. The world is so ready to mock at infirmities and to
reproach frailties. But I must discover her father's name, and what
became of him. I cannot present this subject to the two old people with
whom she lives.
Perhaps Father John would know. How long has he held this parish, I
wonder? Most likely for many years. In remote country places priests,
especially old ones, do not often change their field of labor. To-morrow
I shall go to the priest's house again, and ask him. I do not know that
he will tell me, but he holds the secret. If it came to him under seal
of the confessional, of course he will not reveal it. But I've a notion
it was countryside gossip at the time it occurred, and I will not be
asking Father John to betray any confidence when I seek him for this
information. Then, too, I have waited longer than I should to go and
inquire about Beryl Drane, the girl with a face of twenty and the
experience of a lifetime. Perhaps it would be better to see her first,
before accosting her uncle on the subject. I am not sure that I can do
this without arousing suspicion, for I am convinced Beryl Drane has a
mind capable of keen and clear deductions, and I have no desire that my
love for Lessie should become generally known yet. But I will try.
My love for Lessie! I look at that sentence written down on this white
paper with my own hand, and something goes radiating through every
cranny of me. I am in love--in love with an untamed Dryad of the oak
glade, the deep, clear pool, the sun-dappled spaces of the whispering
wood. Why do I love her? I ask myself. Why fares the bee to the flower,
the bird to his nest, the squirrel to his tree? I love her; let that
suffice. Alone here in my lodge on the lap of Old Baldy, beside my
table, I write these words in a mood which never before possessed me. I
am recklessly happy. I have--shall I write it--I have stayed my pen just
now long enough to sit dreamy eyed for a quarter of an hour; to imagine
that warm young body tight in my arms; those Irish gray eyes looking
long and deep into mine; those, red, red lips against my own, and the
blinding shimmer of her hair around and about my face and neck. God! My
pulses leap and thrum in my temples at the thought, and my throat feels
full and thick. My brother, have you never felt this way? Then you are
missing a large portion of your human heritage.
When shall I tell her? Not at once, I think. It will be better to school
her some first. And--Buck! By some strange chance I have not reckoned
with Buck to-day. Buck must be reckoned with. He will not efface
himself, and I respect him the more that he will not. Diplomacy and
arbitration and plain reason are all out of the question with Buck. When
I come to reckon with him it will be by the might of my good right arm.
It is the old, old method of medieval times of settling a difficulty
where the favor of a lady is involved, but it is an honorable one, if
conducted fairly, and I suspect as good as any. I must begin a system of
physical training, so that I may be fit for the final bout. That will be
some fight, my masters!
Eight weeks ago I dreaded the weary monotony which awaited me in this
forsaken spot!
Well, events yet unborn are on the knees of the gods. I intend to go as
straight to my destination as my judgment and will can carry me. I have
but written that I shall not tell the Dryad of my love yet. Now I should
like to modify that statement and say that I shall not tell her if I can
help it. For a sudden sense that my passion is broadening and
intensifying has come to me, and I shall make no promises--no, not one.
Now, this moment, I quiver at the recollection of her cadenced laugh; I
tremble as I see again the eyes which might craze a man of wood. Ah!
Dryad, if you were here to-night--if you were here--if you were here--