HE had searched the farmhouse, calling her name softly. He had peered
into the lumber-room, where shadows were gathering. He had looked
everywhere indoors. Now he stepped into the orchard and called more
loudly, “Desire. Desire. Princess.”
Leaves shuddered. Across moss-grown paths slugs crawled. Everything
betokened rain; all live things were hurrying for shelter. Behind high
red walls, where peach-trees hung crucified, the end of day smoldered.
The west was a vivid saffron. To the southward black clouds wheeled
like vultures. The beauty of the garden shone intense. The greenness of
apple-trees had deepened. Nasturtiums blazed like fire in the borders of
box. The air was full of poignant fragrances: of lavender, of roses, and
of cool, dean earth.
To-morrow night all that he was at present feeling would have become a
memory. He called her name again and renewed his search. To-morrow
night would she, too, have become a memory? How loud the whisper of
his footsteps sounded I And if she had become a memory, would she
forget--would the future prove faithless to the past?
The garden would not remember. The brook would babble no less
contentedly because he was gone. All these flowers which shone so
bravely--within a week they, too, would have vanished. The birds in
the early morning would Scarcely notice his absence. In the autumn they
would fly away; in the spring, when they returned, they would think no
more of the boy who had parted the leaves so gently that a little girl
might peep into their nests. And would the little girl remember? Even
now, when he called, she did not answer.
In an angle of the garden, most remote from the farmhouse, he espied
her. Something in her attitude made him halt Her head was thrown back;
she was staring into a chestnut which tumbled its boughs across the
wall. Her lips were moving. She seemed to be, talking; nothing
reached him of what was said. At first he supposed she was acting a
conversation.
“Desire,” he shouted. “Princess.”
She glanced across her shoulder and distinctly gave a warning. The
chestnut quivered. He was certain some one was climbing down. She kissed
her hand. The bough was still trembling when he reached her.
“Who was it?”
She pressed a finger to her lips.
“Was it Ruddy? But it couldn’t have been Ruddy unless----”
Beyond the wall he heard the sound of footsteps. They were stealing away
through grass.
When he turned to her, she was smiling with mysterious tenderness.
“Who was it?”
She slipped her hand into his. “I _am_ fond of you, dear Teddy, but I
mustn’t, mustn’t tell.”
They walked in silence. Rain began to patter. They could hear it hiss as
it splashed against the sunset.
“Best be getting indoors,” he said.
In the lumber-room, where so many happy hours had been spent, they sat
with their faces pressed against the window.
“Do you want to play?”
He shook his head.
“You’re not sulky with me, Teddy, are you? It would be unkind if you
were. I’m so happy.” She flung her arms about his neck, coaxing him to
look at her. “What shall I do to make you glad? Shall I make the babies
come into my eyes?”
He brushed his face against her carls. “It isn’t that. It’s not that
I’m sulky.” Her hands fluttered to his lips that he might kiss them.
“It’s--it’s only that I want you, and I’m afraid I may lose you.”
She laughed softly. “But I wouldn’t lose you. I wouldn’t let anybody,
not even my beautiful mother, make me lose you. I would worry and worry
and worry, till she brought me back.” She lowered her face and looked
up at him slantingly. “I can make people do most anything when I worry
badly.”
He smiled at her exact self-knowledge. She knew that she was forgiven
and wriggled into his arms. “Why do you want me? I’m so little and not
nice always.”
“I don’t know why I want you, unless----”
“Unless?” she whispered.
“Unless it’s because I’ve been always lonely.”
She frowned, so he hastened to add, “But I know I do want you.”
“When I’m a big lady do you think you’ll still want me?”
“Ah!” He tried to imagine her as a big lady. “You’ll be proud then, I
expect. I once knew a big lady and she wasn’t--wasn’t very kind. I think
I like you little best.” Outside it was growing dark. The rain beat
against the window. The musty smell of old finery in boxes fitted with
the melancholy of the sound.
“I’m glad you like me little best, because,” she drew her fingers down
his cheek, “because, you see, I’m little now. But when I’m a big lady, I
shall want you to like me best as I am then.”
He laughed. “I wonder whether you will--whether you’ll care.”
“You say all the wrong things.” She struggled to free herself. “You’re
making me sad.”
“D’you know what you’ll be when you grow up?”
She ceased struggling; she was tremendously interested in herself.
“What?”
“A flirt.”
“What is a flirt?” she asked earnestly.
“A flirt’s a----” He puzzled to find words. “A flirt’s a very beautiful
woman who makes every one love her especially, and loves nobody in
particular herself.”
She clapped her hands. “Oh, I hope I shall.”
Outside her bedroom at parting she stopped laughing. “I _am_ fond of
you, dear Teddy.”
“Of course you are.”
She pouted. “Oh, no, not of course. I’m not fond of everybody.”
He had set too low a value on her graciousness. He had often done it
wilfully before for the fun of seeing her give herself airs. “I didn’t
mean ‘of course’ like that,” he apologized; “I meant I didn’t doubt it.”
“But--but,” she sighed, “you don’t say the right things, Teddy--no,
never. You don’t understand.”
What did she want him to say, this little girl who was alternately a
baby and a woman? When he had puzzled his brain and had failed to guess,
he stooped to kiss her good-night She turned her face away petulantly;
the next moment she had turned it back and was clinging to him
desperately. “I don’t want to leave you. I don’t want to leave you.”
“You shan’t.” He had caught something of her passion. “Mrs. Sheerug
has promised. She lives quite near our house, and you’ll be my little
sister. You shall come and feed my pigeons, and see my father paint
pictures. My mother’s called Dearie--did I tell you that? Don’t be
frightened; I’ll lie awake all to-night in case you call.”
“No, sleep.” She drew her fingers down his face caressingly. “Sleep for
my sake, Teddy.”
He tried to keep awake, but his eyes grew heavy. Farmer Joseph and
Mrs. Sarie came creaking up the stairs. The house was left to shadows.
Several times he slipped from his bed and tiptoed to the door. More
than once he fancied he heard sounds. They always stopped the second he
stirred. The monotonous dripping of rain lulled him. It was like an
army of footsteps which advanced and halted, advanced and halted. Even
through his sleep they followed.
It seemed the last notes of a dream. He sat up and rubbed his eyes.
Where was he? In his thoughts he had gone back years. He ought to have
been in Mrs. Sheerug’s bedroom, with the harp standing thinly against
the panes and the kettle purring on the fire. He was confused at finding
that the room was different. While that voice sang on, he had no time for
puzzling.
It came from outside in the darkness, where trees knelt beneath the
sky like camels. Sometimes it seemed very far away, and sometimes just
beneath his window. It made him think of faeries dancing by moonlight
It was like the golden hair of the Princess Lettice lowered from her
casement to her lover. It was like the silver feet of laughter twinkling
up a Beanstalk ladder to the stars. It was like spread wings, swooping
and drifting over a faery-land of castellated tree-tops. It grew
infinitely distant. He strained his ears; it was almost lost It kept
calling and calling to his heart.
Something was moving. A shadow stole across his doorway. It was gone in
an instant--gone so quickly that, between sleeping and waking, it might
have been imagined. His heart was pounding.
In her room he saw the white blur of her bed. Timid lest he should
disturb her, he groped his hand across her pillow. It was still warm.
As he ran down the passage a cold draught met him. The door into the
farmyard was open. He hesitated on the threshold, straining his
eyes into the dusk of moonlight that leaked from under clouds. As he
listened, he heard Desire’s laugh, low and secret, and the whisper of
departing footsteps. Barefooted he followed. In the road, the horses’
beads turned towards the wood, a carriage was standing with its lamps
extinguished. The door opened; there was the sound of people entering;
then it slammed.
“Desire! Desire!”
The driver humped his shoulders, tugged at the reins, and lashed
furiously; the horses leapt forward and broke into a gallop. From
the window Vashti leant out. A child’s hand fluttered. He ran on
breathlessly.
Under the roof of the woods all was blackness. The sounds of travel grew
fainter. When he reached the meadows beyond, there was nothing but the
mist of moonlight on still shadows--he heard nothing but the sullen
weeping of rain-wet trees and grass. He threw himself down beside the
road, clenching his hands and sobbing.
Next day Hal arrived to fetch him back to London. The wagonette was
already standing at the door. He thought that he had said all his
farewells, fixed everything indelibly on his memory, when he remembered
the lumber-room. Without explanation, he dashed into the house and
climbed the stairs.
Pushing open the door, he entered gently. It was here, if anywhere,
that he might expect to find her--the last place in which they had
been together. Old’ finery, dragged from boxes by her hands, lay
strewn about. The very sunshine, groping across the floor, seemed to be
searching for her. He was going over to the place by the window where
they had sat, when he halted, bending forward. Scrawled dimly in the
dust upon the panes, in childish writing, were the words, “I love you.”
And again, lower down, “I love you.”
His heart gave a bound. That was what she had been trying to make him
say last night, “I love you.” He hadn’t said it--hadn’t realized or
thought it possible that two children could love like that. He knew now
what she had meant, “You don’t say the right things, Teddy--no, never.
You don’t understand.” He knew now that from the first he had loved her;
his boyish fear of ridicule had forbidden him to own it. There on the
panes, like a message from the dead, soon to be overlaid with dust, was
her confession.
Voices called to him, bidding him hurry. Footsteps were ascending. Some
one was coming along the passage. The writing was sacred. It was meant
for his eyes alone. No one should see it but himself. He stooped his
lips to the pane. When Hal entered the writing had vanished.
“You--you played here,” he said. All day he had been white and silent
“I’m sorry, but we really must be going now, old chap.”
On the stairs, where it was dark, he laid an arm on the boy’s shoulder.
“You got to be very fond of her? We were both fond of her and--and we’ve
both lost her. I think I understand.”