HILARY HEARS THE CUCKOO SING
It was not left to Cecilia alone to remark how very white Mr. Stone
looked in these days.
The wild force which every year visits the world, driving with its soft
violence snowy clouds and their dark shadows, breaking through all crusts
and sheaths, covering the earth in a fierce embrace; the wild force which
turns form to form, and with its million leapings, swift as the flight of
swallows and the arrow-darts of the rain, hurries everything on to sweet
mingling--this great, wild force of universal life, so-called the Spring,
had come to Mr. Stone, like new wine to some old bottle. And Hilary, to
whom it had come, too, watching him every morning setting forth with a
rough towel across his arm, wondered whether the old man would not this
time leave his spirit swimming in the chill waters of the Serpentine--so
near that spirit seemed to breaking through its fragile shell.
Four days had gone by since the interview at which he had sent away the
little model, and life in his household--that quiet backwater choked with
lilies--seemed to have resumed the tranquillity enjoyed before this
intrusion of rude life. The paper whiteness of Mr. Stone was the only
patent evidence that anything disturbing had occurred--that and certain
feelings about which the strictest silence was preserved.
On the morning of the fifth day, seeing the old man stumble on the level
flagstones of the garden, Hilary finished dressing hastily, and followed.
He overtook him walking forward feebly beneath the candelabra of
flowering chestnut-trees, with a hail-shower striking white on his high
shoulders; and, placing himself alongside, without greeting--for forms
were all one to Mr. Stone--he said:
"Surely you don't mean to bathe during a hail storm, sir! Make an
exception this once. You're not looking quite yourself."
Mr. Stone shook his head; then, evidently following out a thought which
Hilary had interrupted, he remarked:
"The sentiment that men call honour is of doubtful value. I have not as
yet succeeded in relating it to universal brotherhood."
"How is that, sir?"
"In so far," said Mr. Stone, "as it consists in fidelity to principle,
one might assume it worthy of conjunction. The difficulty arises when we
consider the nature of the principle .... There is a family of young
thrushes in the garden. If one of them finds a worm, I notice that his
devotion to that principle of self-preservation which prevails in all low
forms of life forbids his sharing it with any of the other little
thrushes."
Mr. Stone had fixed his eyes on distance.
"So it is, I fear," he said, "with 'honour.' In those days men looked on
women as thrushes look on worms."
He paused, evidently searching for a word; and Hilary, with a faint
smile, said:
"And how did women look on men, sir?"
Mr. Stone observed him with surprise. "I did not perceive that it was
you," he said. "I have to avoid brain action before bathing."
They had crossed the road dividing the Gardens from the Park, and, seeing
that Mr. Stone had already seen the water where he was about to bathe,
and would now see nothing else, Hilary stopped beside a little lonely
birch-tree. This wild, small, graceful visitor, who had long bathed in
winter, was already draping her bare limbs in a scarf of green. Hilary
leaned against her cool, pearly body. Below were the chilly waters, now
grey, now starch-blue, and the pale forms of fifteen or twenty bathers.
While he stood shivering in the frozen wind, the sun, bursting through
the hail-cloud, burned his cheeks and hands. And suddenly he heard,
clear, but far off, the sound which, of all others, stirs the hearts of
men: "Cuckoo, cuckoo!"
Four times over came the unexpected call. Whence had that ill-advised,
indelicate grey bird flown into this great haunt of men and shadows? Why
had it come with its arrowy flight and mocking cry to pierce the heart
and set it aching? There were trees enough outside the town, cloud-swept
hollows, tangled brakes of furze just coming into bloom, where it could
preside over the process of Spring. What solemn freak was this which
made it come and sing to one who had no longer any business with the
Spring?
With a real spasm in his heart Hilary turned away from that distant bird,
and went down to the water's edge. Mr. Stone was swimming, slower than
man had ever swum before. His silver head and lean arms alone were
visible, parting the water feebly; suddenly he disappeared. He was but a
dozen yards from the shore; and Hilary, alarmed at not seeing him
reappear, ran in. The water was not deep. Mr. Stone, seated at the
bottom, was doing all he could to rise. Hilary took him by his
bathing-dress, raised him to the surface, and supported him towards the
land. By the time they reached the shore he could just stand on his
legs. With the assistance of a policeman, Hilary enveloped him in
garments and got him to a cab. He had regained some of his vitality, but
did not seem aware of what had happened.
"I was not in as long as usual," he mused, as they passed out into the
high road.
"Oh, I think so, sir."
Mr. Stone looked troubled.
"It is odd," he said. "I do not recollect leaving the water."
He did not speak again till he was being assisted from the cab.
"I wish to recompense the man. I have half a crown indoors."
"I will get it, sir," said Hilary.
Mr. Stone, who shivered violently now that he was on his feet, turned his
face up to the cabman.
"Nothing is nobler than the horse," he said; "take care of him."
The cabman removed his hat. "I will, sir," he answered.
Walking by himself, but closely watched by Hilary, Mr. Stone reached his
room. He groped about him as though not distinguishing objects too well
through the crystal clearness of the fundamental flux.
"If I might advise you," said Hilary, "I would get back into bed for a
few minutes. You seem a little chilly."
Mr. Stone, who was indeed shaking so that he could hardly stand, allowed
Hilary to assist him into bed and tuck the blankets round him.
"I must be at work by ten o'clock," he said.
Hilary, who was also shivering, hastened to Bianca's room. She was just
coming down, and exclaimed at seeing him all wet. When he had told her
of the episode she touched his shoulder.
"What about you?"
"A hot bath and drink will set me right. You'd better go to him."
He turned towards the bathroom, where Miranda stood, lifting a white
foot. Compressing her lips, Bianca ran downstairs. Startled by his
tale, she would have taken his wet body in her arms; if the ghosts of
innumerable moments had not stood between. So this moment passed too,
and itself became a ghost.
Mr. Stone, greatly to his disgust, had not succeeded in resuming work at
ten o'clock. Failing simply because he could not stand on his legs, he
had announced his intention of waiting until half-past three, when he
should get up, in preparation for the coming of the little girl. Having
refused to see a doctor, or have his temperature taken, it was impossible
to tell precisely what degree of fever he was in. In his cheeks, just
visible over the blankets, there was more colour than there should have
been; and his eyes, fixed on the ceiling, shone with suspicious
brilliancy. To the dismay of Bianca--who sat as far out of sight as
possible, lest he should see her, and fancy that she was doing him a
service--he pursued his thoughts aloud:
"Words--words--they have taken away brotherhood!" Bianca shuddered,
listening to that uncanny sound. "'In those days of words they called it
death--pale death--mors pallida. They saw that word like a gigantic
granite block suspended over them, and slowly coming down. Some, turning
up their faces at the sight, trembled painfully, awaiting their
obliteration. Others, unable, while they still lived, to face the
thought of nothingness, inflated by some spiritual wind, and thinking
always of their individual forms, called out unceasingly that those
selves of theirs would and must survive this word--that in some fashion,
which no man could understand, each self-conscious entity reaccumulated
after distribution. Drunk with this thought, these, too, passed away.
Some waited for it with grim, dry eyes, remarking that the process was
molecular, and thus they also met their so-called death.'"
His voice ceased, and in place of it rose the sound of his tongue
moistening his palate. Bianca, from behind, placed a glass of
barley-water to his lips. He drank it with a slow, clucking noise; then,
seeing that a hand held the glass, said: "Is that you? Are you ready for
me? Follow. 'In those days no one leaped up to meet pale riding Death;
no one saw in her face that she was brotherhood incarnate; no one with a
heart as light as gossamer kissed her feet, and, smiling, passed into the
Universe.'" His voice died away, and when next he spoke it was in a
quick, husky whisper: "I must--I must--I must---" There was silence;
then he added: "Give me my trousers."
Bianca placed them by his bed. The sight seemed to reassure him. He was
once more silent.
For more than an hour after this he was so absolutely still that Bianca
rose continually to look at him. Each time, his eyes, wide open, were
fixed on a little dark mark across the ceiling; his face had a look of
the most singular determination, as though his spirit were slowly,
relentlessly, regaining mastery over his fevered body. He spoke suddenly:
"Who is there?"
"Bianca."
"Help me out of bed!"
The flush had left his face, the brilliance had faded from his eyes; he
looked just like a ghost. With a sort of terror Bianca helped him out of
bed. This weird display of mute white will-power was unearthly.
When he was dressed in his woollen gown and seated before the fire, she
gave him a cup of strong beef-tea, with brandy. He swallowed it with
great avidity.
"I should like some more of that," he said, and fell asleep.
While he was asleep Cecilia came, and the two sisters watched his
slumber, and, watching it, felt nearer to each other than they had for
many years. Before she went away Cecilia whispered--
"B. if he seems to want that little girl while he's like this, don't you
think she ought to come?"
Bianca answered: "I don't know where she is."
"I do."
"Ah!" said Bianca; "of course!" And she turned her head away.
Disconcerted by that sarcastic little speech, Cecilia was silent; then,
summoning all her courage, she said:
"Here's the address, B. I've written it down for you;" and, with puckers
of anxiety in her face, she left the room.
Bianca sat on in the old golden chair, watching the deep hollows beneath
the sleeper's temples, the puffs of breath stirring the silver round his
mouth. Her ears burned crimson. Carried out of herself by the sight of
that old form, dearer to her than she had thought, fighting its great
battle for the sake of its idea, her spirit grew all tremulous and soft
within her. With eagerness she embraced the thought of self-effacement.
It did not seem to matter whether she were first with Hilary. Her spirit
should so manifest its capacity for sacrifice that she would be first
with him through sheer nobility. At this moment she could almost have
taken that common little girl into her arms and kissed her. So would all
disquiet end! Some harmonious messenger had fluttered to her for a
second--the gold-winged bird of peace. In this sensuous exaltation her
nerves vibrated like the strings of a violin.
When Mr. Stone woke it was past three o'clock and Bianca at once handed
him another cup of strong beef-tea.
He swallowed it, and said: "What is this?"
"Beef-tea."
Mr. Stone looked at the empty cup.
"I must not drink it. The cow and the sheep are on the same plane as
man."
"But how do you feel, dear?"
"I feel," said Mr. Stone, "able to dictate what I have already
written--not more. Has she come?"
"Not yet; but I will go and find her if you like."
Mr. Stone looked at his daughter wistfully.
"That will be taking up your time," he said.
Bianca answered: "My time is of no consequence."
Mr. Stone stretched his hands out to the fire.
"I will not consent," he said, evidently to himself, "to be a drag on
anyone. If that has come, then I must go!"
Bianca, placing herself beside him on her knees, pressed her hot cheek
against his temple.
"But it has not come, Dad."
"I hope not," said Mr. Stone. "I wish to end my book first."
The sudden grim coherence of his last two sayings terrified Bianca more
than all his feverish, utterances.
"I rely on your sitting quite still," she said, "while I go and find
her." And with a feeling in her heart as though two hands had seized and
were pulling it asunder, she went out.
Some half-hour later Hilary slipped quietly in, and stood watching at the
door. Mr. Stone, seated on the very verge of his armchair, with his
hands on its arms, was slowly rising to his feet, and slowly falling back
again, not once, but many times, practising a standing posture. As
Hilary came into his line of sight, he said:
"I have succeeded twice."
"I am very glad," said Hilary. "Won't you rest now, sir?"
"It is my knees," said Mr. Stone. "She has gone to find her."
Hilary heard those words with bewilderment, and, sitting down on the
other chair, waited.
"I have fancied," said Mr. Stone, looking at him wistfully, "that when we
pass away from life we may become the wind. Is that your opinion?"
"It is a new thought to me," said Hilary.
"It is not tenable," said Mr. Stone. "But it is restful. The wind is
everywhere and nowhere, and nothing can be hidden from it. When I have
missed that little girl, I have tried, in a sense, to become the wind;
but I have found it difficult."
His eyes left Hilary's face, whose mournful smile he had not noticed, and
fixed themselves on the bright fire. "'In those days,"' he said, "'men's
relation to the eternal airs was the relation of a billion little
separate draughts blowing against the south-west wind. They did not wish
to merge themselves in that soft, moon-uttered sigh, but blew in its face
through crevices, and cracks, and keyholes, and were borne away on the
pellucid journey, whistling out their protests.'"
He again tried to stand, evidently wishing to get to his desk to record
this thought, but, failing, looked painfully at Hilary. He seemed about
to ask for something, but checked himself.
"If I practise hard," he murmured, "I shall master it."
Hilary rose and brought him paper and a pencil. In bending, he saw that
Mr. Stone's eyes were dim with moisture. This sight affected him so that
he was glad to turn away and fetch a book to form a writing-pad.
When Mr. Stone had finished, he sat back in his chair with closed eyes.
A supreme silence reigned in the bare room above those two men of
different generations and of such strange dissimilarity of character.
Hilary broke that silence.
"I heard the cuckoo sing to-day," he said, almost in a whisper, lest Mr.
Stone should be asleep.
"The cuckoo," replied Mr. Stone, "has no sense of brotherhood."
"I forgive him-for his song," murmured Hilary.
"His song," said Mr. Stone, "is alluring; it excites the sexual
instinct."
Then to himself he added:
"She has not come, as yet!"
Even as he spoke there was heard by Hilary a faint tapping on the door.
He rose and opened it. The little model stood outside.