A LIGHT ON THE WATER.
I.
A sulky winter came hard upon November, and the war of armies was
succeeded by the war of diplomats.
One day in January the same vehicle that had driven Selwyn to Roselawn
deposited another visitor there. He was a sturdy, well-set-up fellow,
but a thinness and a certain pallor in the cheeks conflicted with their
natural weather-beaten texture.
The morose driver helped him to alight, and handed him his crutches,
which he took with a snort of disapproval. He made his way at a
dignified pace around the drive, pausing _en route_ to look at the
gables and wings of Roselawn as one who returns to familiar scenes
after a long absence.
Without encountering any one he reached the stables, and opening a
door, mounted the stairs that led to the dwelling-quarters above.
There was no one in the cosy dining-room, and sitting down, he hammered
the floor with his crutch. The homely sound of dishes being washed
ceased suddenly in the adjoining room, and Mrs. Mathews threw open the
door.
'Who is it?' she cried.
'Me,' said Mathews.
Uttering a pious exclamation that reflected both doubt and confidence
in the all-wise workings of Providence, his wife fell heavily upon him,
with strong symptoms of hysteria.
'Heavenly hope!' she cried, after her exuberance permitted of speech;
'so you've come home?'
'I hev,' said her husband solemnly; 'and I'm werry pleased to observe
you so fit, m'dear. Is the offspring a-takin' his oats reg'lar?'
'Lord!' said Mrs. Mathews irrelevantly, subsiding into a chair, 'I
thought you was dead. You never writ.'
'That,' said Mathews, 'was conseckens of a understanding clear and
likewise to the point, atwixt me and Mas'r Dick. "Mum's the word," sez
he. "Mum's the word," sez I. And that there was as it should be, no
argifyin' provin' contrairiwise. But Milord he found me out, and sez
as how he knows it all, and would I come home?--which, bein' free from
horspital, I likewise does. Now, m' dear, if you will proceed with any
nooz I would be much obliged to draw up a little forrader, as it were.'
'Did Milord tell you about Miss Elise?' said his wife, after much
thought. 'She's gone and got herself engaged.'
'To who?'
'Captain Selwyn. Him as was visiting here when the war begun.'
'Now that there,' said Mathews, nodding his head slowly and admiringly,
'_is_ nooz. That there is what a feller likes to hear from his old
woman. You're a-doin' fine.'
'The wedding,' went on his wife, her eyes sparkling with the universal
feminine excitement about such matters, 'is next week, and Wellington
is bespoke for to pump the organ. Ain't that wonderful grand?'
'That,' said Mathews with great dignity, 'is werry gratifyin' to a
parent, that is. Pump the organ at a weddin'! I hopes he won't go for
to do nothing to give inconwenience to the parties concerned. Where is
he, old girl?'
'Upstairs in bed, daddy, with the whooping-cough something horrid.'
'Wot a infant!' commented the groom proudly. 'I never see such a
offspring for his age--never. Whoopin'-cough something horrid? Well,
well!'
For a full minute he reflected with such apparent satisfaction on his
son and heir's vulnerability to human ailments that there is no telling
when he would have left off, if his reverie had not been broken by his
wife placing a pipe in his hands and a bowl on the table.
'It was always waiting on you, daddy,' said the good woman. 'I sez to
Wellington, "That's his favourite, it is, and we'll always have it
ready for him when he comes home."'
Without any display of emotion or undue haste, the old groom filled the
pipe, lit it, drew a long breath of smoke, and slowly blew it into the
air, regarding his good partner throughout with a look that clearly
showed the importance he attached to the experiment.
He took a second puff, raised his eyes from hers to the ceiling, and
his broad face crinkled into a grin, the like of which his wife had
never seen before on his countenance.
'Old girl,' he said, 'when I sees you first I sez, "There's the filly
for my money;" and so you was. And, by Criky! you and me hevn't
reached the last jump yet--no, sir. Give me a kiss. . . .
Thar--that's werry "bon," as them queer-spoke Frenchies would say. M'
dear, I hev some nooz for _you_ now.'
He puffed tantalisingly at the pipe, and surveyed his wife's intense
curiosity with studied approbation.
'When Milord come to see me last week,' he said, measuring the words
slowly, 'he tells me as how he won't go for to hev no more hosses, and
conseckens o' me bein' all bunged up by them sausage-eaters, he sez as
how would I like to be the landlord o' "The Hares and Fox" in the
village, him havin' bought the same, and would I go for to tell you as
a surprise, likewise and sim'lar?'
'Heavenly hope!' cried the good woman, bursting into tears; 'if that
ain't marvellous grand!'
'That,' said Mathews, beckoning for her to hand him his crutches, 'is
what Milord has done for you and me. And, missus, as long as there's a
drop in the cellar none o' the soldier-lads in the village will go for
to want a pint o' bitter nohow. Now, old girl, if you'll give a leg up
we'll go and see how the infant is lookin'.'
II.
A few days later, in the chapel decked with flowers, the marriage of
Selwyn and Elise took place.
In spite of her disappointment that Elise was not marrying a title,
Lady Durwent rose superbly to the occasion. She led the weeping and
the laughing with the utmost heartiness, and recalled her own wedding
so eloquently and vividly that those who didn't know about the
Ironmonger supposed she must have been the daughter of a marchioness at
least, and was probably related to royalty.
Just before the ceremony itself the youthful Wellington, who had
confounded science by a remarkable recovery from his ailment, was
confronted with the offer of half-a-crown if he acquitted himself well,
and threatened with corporal punishment if he didn't. With this double
stimulus, he pumped without cessation and with such heartiness that the
rector's words were at times hardly audible above the sound of air
escaping from the bellows--necessitating a punitive expedition on the
part of the sexton, and engendering in Wellington a permanent mistrust
in the justice of human affairs.
Late in the afternoon bride and groom left for London, on their way to
America.
When the train came in and they had entered their compartment, Selwyn,
with feelings that left him dumb, looked out at the little group who
had come to say farewell.
Lord Durwent stood with his unchangeable air of gentleness and
courtesy, but in his eyes there was the look of a man for whom life
holds only memories. Lady Durwent alternated dramatically between
advice and tears; and Mathews stood proudly beside his wife (whose hat
was of most marvellous size and colours), nodding his head sagaciously,
and uttering as much philosophy in five minutes as falls to the lot of
most men in a decade.
And so, with his wife's hand trembling on his arm, Austin Selwyn leaned
from the window and waved good-bye to the little English village.
III.
A year went by, and, with the passing of winter, Selwyn and Elise, in
their home at Long Island, watched the budding promise of another
spring.
Their home was by the sea, and in the presence of that great majestic
force they had lived as man and wife, taking up the broken threads of
life, and knitting them together for the future.
The task of resuming his literary work had been next to impossible for
Selwyn. He had tried to mould the destinies of nations--and they had
fallen back upon him, crushing him. His thoughts cried out for
utterance, but self-distrust robbed him of courage. Months went by,
and his chafing, restless longing for self-expression grew more intense
and more intolerable.
And then the woman who was his wife lost her own yoke of self-restraint
in solicitude for him. Timidly, hesitatingly at first, she invaded the
precincts of his mind. With subtle persistence, yet never seeming to
force her way, she wove her personality about his like a web of silken
thread. Her purity of thought, her innate artistry, her depth of
feeling, played on his spirit like dew upon the parched earth.
As the passing hours took their course, each nature unconsciously gave
to the other the freedom that comes only with surrender. His strength
and his care for her liberated her womanhood, and, like a flower that
has lived in shadow, her soul blossomed to fullness in that warmth.
And his troubled mind, directionless, yet rebellious of inaction, found
again the meaning and the hidden truths of life, then gained the
courage to be life's interpreter.
Once more Austin Selwyn wrote.
One evening towards the summer Elise was sitting on the veranda, when
he came from his study and joined her. The first pale stars were
shining through a sheen of blue that rose from the horizon in an
encircling, shimmering mist.
'Are you through with your writing?' she said.
'Not yet,' he answered, sitting beside her; 'but I could not resist the
call of you and this wonderful night.'
'Isn't it glorious?' she said softly, taking his hand in hers. 'I
think that blue over the sea must be like the Arabian desert at night
when the camel-trains rest on their way. Don't you love the sound of
the waves?'
With a little sigh she leaned her head on his shoulder, and he held her
close to him.
'Happy, Elise?'
'So happy,' she whispered, 'that I am afraid some day I shall find it
isn't true.'
He laughed gently, and for a few moments neither spoke, held by the
wonderful intimacy of the spirit that does not need words for
understanding.
'Austin dear,' she said at length, 'before you came out I was counting
the stars--and playing with dreams. Don't think me silly, will you?
But I was planning, if we have a son, what I should like to call him.'
'I think I know,' he said, pressing his lips against her hair. 'Dick?'
'And Gerard for his second name. I should want him to be strong and
true like Gerard--but he must have Dick's eyes and Dick's smile. But,
then, I want so much for this dream-boy of ours--for, most of all, he
must be like my husband.'
With a sudden shyness she hid her face against his breast, and he ran
his hand caressingly over her arm, which was like cool velvet to the
touch.
The glimmering stars grew stronger, and a breeze from the sea crept
murmuringly over the spring-scented fields.
'There are times,' he said, 'when I long for the power to reach out for
the great truths that lie hidden in space and in the silence of a night
like this--to put them in such simple language that every one could
read and understand. If I could only translate the wonder of you and
the spirit of the sea into words.'
She looked up into his face, and something of the mystic blue of the
skies lay in the depths of her eyes.
IV.
Late that night he resumed work in his study, but a thousand memories
and fancies came crowding to his mind. He tried to shake them off, but
they clung to him--memories of the war--memories of the times when the
world was drunk with passion. He heard, as if afar off, the whine and
shriek of shells, and he saw the dead--grotesque, silent, horrible.
That was the great absurdity--_the dead_.
It was hopeless to write. He was no longer pilot of his thoughts.
He rose to his feet and threw open the door with an impatient desire
for fresh air. Though the cool breeze refreshed his temples, the
restlessness of his mind was only increased by the hush of nature's
nocturne, through which the sound of the sea came like a drone.
Beneath the canopy of that same sky the dead were lying. Across the
seas a breeze of spring was stealing about the graves, as now it played
about his face.
What was his part towards them--to mourn, and fill his life with
useless melancholy? To forget, and turn his face towards the future?
Forget . . . ?
'There are times'--he found himself repeating mechanically the words
which, a few hours before, he had spoken to Elise--'when I long for the
power to reach out for the great truths--hidden in space--and in the
silence of the night.'
Suddenly his brow grew calm. The baffled, questioning look left his
eyes, and he smiled strangely.
Closing the door, he turned back to his desk, and taking the pen,
looked for a full minute at the paper before him.
'_To My Unborn Son_.'
He gazed at what he had written as though the words had appeared of
their own volition.
'_To My Unborn Son_.'
With a far-away dreaminess in his eyes he dipped his pen in the ink and
commenced to write:
'Somewhere beyond the borders of life you are waiting. I cannot speak
to you, nor look on your face, but the love of a father for his child
can penetrate the eternal mysteries of the unknown. To those who love
there is no death; and in the hearts of parents, children live long
before they are born.
'My son, this letter that I write now to you will lie hidden and unseen
by other eyes until the time when you alone shall read it. I shall be
changed by then: like the world, I may forget; but you, my son, must
read these words, and know that they are truth--truth as unchangeable
as the tides of the sea, or the hours of dawn and sunset.
'_Civilisation has murdered ten million men_.
'The human mind cannot encompass that. It is beyond its comprehension,
so it is trying to forget.
'Ten million men--murdered.
'Read these words, my son, written in the hush of night, when men's
souls stand revealed.
'Nearly six years ago there came the war. History will prove this or
that responsibility for it, but the civilisation that made war possible
is itself responsible. The nations sprang to arms; but soon, by that
strange destiny which seems to guide mankind, the issue was one not of
nations against nations, but of Humanity against Germany. Do not ask
me how the land of Goethe, Schiller, and Beethoven became so vile. I
only know that Germany was the champion of evil, and on Britain and
France men's hopes were rested.
'America held aloof. When this is read by you, my son, you will have
known the noble thrill of patriotism, the pride of race and
citizenship. But it is because of that that you must read what I write
now about the country I love best.
'Less than any other nation, America is to be blamed for the war. Her
life was separate from the older world, and the spoils of victory made
no appeal. Yet this great Republic, born of man's desire for freedom,
remained silent even when the whole world saw that the war was one of
Justice against Evil. Men, like myself, were blind, and fed the flames
of ignorance with ignorance. Others knew we were not ready, and called
upon us to prepare; and others made great fortunes while Youth went to
its Cross.
'Month after month passed by, and Britain and her Allies fought
Humanity's fight; and the murder of men went on.
'At last we came of age, and our young men stormed across the seas, not
to save America--for we had nothing to fear--but to rid the world of an
intolerable curse. Look fearlessly at the truth, but do not forget
that when we went it was for an ideal--just as years before, when North
and South fought the issue of preserving the Union, the impulse that
drove our fathers on to their deaths was their souls' demand of freedom
for the negro. By her delay was America defamed; by the spirit of her
coming was she great.'
Selwyn put down his pen, and rested his head between his hands. Ten
minutes passed before he looked up and began to write again.
'The war is over. _America is debtor to the world_. Read this, my
son, with both humility and pride--humility that it is so, pride that
we yet can pay.
'Those awful years while we stood apart, the homes of Britain gave
their sons--the sons for whom their parents yearned, as I am yearning
now for you. Through Britain's broken hearts, and through the grief of
women throughout the world, the youth of America were saved. I know
that we have our thousands of stricken homes and ruined lives, but the
end of the war left America debtor to civilisation, even though she
gave the strength which brought the war to an end.
'Faced with our indebtedness, what did we do?
'Europe lay stricken. The spectres of ruin, starvation, anarchy,
hovered about her form. The world was through with war; men groped for
light; and from the peoples of the earth a universal cry went up that
these things must not be.
'It was our chance. We still were strong. We held the charter of
mankind within our hands, and men looked to us. Over prostrate Europe
the conquering nations gathered, and men in all the distant corners of
the earth listened for the voice of him who would cry in the wilderness
that a new age was born.
'Vital days went by. At last the man who spoke for us outlined his
plan that all the Powers of the world should join together in a
covenant that war should be no more.
'Men waited, and still waited. The plan was argued, ridiculed,
applauded--and sucked of its inspiration by talk. Already the agony of
Man was hardening into the cynicism of despair. Nations that had bled
together grew wary and drew apart.
'And still men waited, for they knew that only America's voice could
allay the clamour. Then we spoke. Angered by the methods of our
leader, angered by the spirit of revenge that was settling over Europe,
angered by delay, once more we failed to see the great truths written
across the face of the sun.
'America--debtor to the world--America cried out that she alone of all
the nations would stand aloof. Let history gloss it over as it will,
we held back the hand of succour that Europe craved for.
'From the land of scented mists came the Japanese; from Greece, that
once was first in all the arts; from South America and the countries of
Europe, men gathered to the League of Nations, hoping, groping for the
light--_and we were not there_.
'As I write to you, my son, the League is an impotent, powerless thing,
at which the men who know only nationality and not humanity sneer and
make jest. The body is there--America alone could be the heart.
'Bloodless, helpless, it is in semblance a living thing, but all men
know it has no life, and already the diplomats who have no other way
are using it as a shield for their methods that cannot bear the light.
'My son, in the hush and loneliness of night, ponder over these words.
Because of those things, avoidable and unavoidable, that kept us
silent; because so many of us were false to the trusteeship that fell
on our generation; because we had not learned that America was greater
than Americans, but tried to imprison the spirit of the Republic within
the little confines of our souls--because of these things thousands of
men were foully done to death. How many Miltons, how many Lincolns,
were crucified in that army of the young?
'_We must repay_. Our destiny is clear, and no people can thwart its
destiny without the gravest danger. Our duty is to restore. Whatever
our resources, in things material or of the spirit, this generation and
yours and the generation to follow must give unsparingly. Our minds
and hearts must turn to Europe, for only in service to mankind can
America fulfil that for which she was created.
'Across the seas lies England. She has done much that is unworthy of
her in the past; she has much to teach and much to learn; but within
the heart of Old England there is majestic grandeur and great
mercifulness, and with that heart ours must beat in unison. The solemn
splendour of Britain's sacrifice must never be forgotten.
'Believe in life, my son. Believe in men. Take on my charge and fight
the flames of Ignorance, not as I did, but with the power of Reason and
of Right. The universal mind is still alive. Trust in it as Wagner
when he wrote his music, as Shelley when he sang of beauty, as
Washington when he founded this great Republic. Men speak through
their nationalities, but in every country of the world there is an
aristocracy of thought; and if you have the power, I charge you work
towards the end when that great aristocracy will flood the earth with
splendour and Ignorance will be no more.
'These words I leave with you, my son, on this silent night in May.
Perhaps you will never read them. Perhaps you will live only in our
two hearts. But on the borders of life we reach out for you, praying
that you may come to stay the hunger of our hearts, to be our living
son.'
Selwyn dropped his pen and rose slowly from his chair. Passing his
hand across his brow, he went to the door, and opening it, looked out.
From the thin crescent of a waning moon, a narrow path of light was
glimmering on the water.