XXI

Days multiplied into weeks, March passed into April, April into May,

June came with all its roses, the lime-trees flowered once again, and

the scent of them was wafted across the broad lawns and in at the open

windows, yet Laurence stayed on at Stoke Rivers. He had ceased to

apologise for, or seek to justify his action. The fanatical, extravagant

element of his character was fully in the ascendant, and it was

conveniently contemptuous of criticism. He had become a law unto

himself. He stayed because he intended to stay--there was the beginning

and end of the matter. Meanwhile, he made discovery of pleasures subtle

and subjective, hitherto unimagined. Living the life of the recluse, he

enjoyed that sense of inward harmony and freedom of spirit known only to

those who dare divorce themselves from society, with its many tyrannies,

and from familiar commerce with their fellowmen. He experienced the

sensible increase of will-power, and the mental elation, that are born

of solitude, silence, and whole-hearted devotion to a single idea. The

values shifted, and many worldly matters, many amusements, which had

formerly appeared to him of vital importance, now began to appear

slightly absurd. He ate and drank sparingly, since meat and liquor tend

to render the action of the brain sluggish, and the imagination somewhat

gross. His dear fairy-lady should regain the completeness of her

humanity; but he would fit himself to meet her half way on her

mysterious return journey from the regions of the dead, by purging

himself of all superfluous animality.

And his environment lent itself to these practices and experiments. The

household had settled back into its accustomed decorum and regularity.

It asked no questions, it obeyed in respectful silence. And, if certain

tremors shook it at times in face of its new master's supposed dealings

with things occult and supernatural, it accepted them as a necessary

part of its service. Indeed, it may be questioned whether Lowndes, the

grey-faced, long-armed valet, Renshaw, and Watkins, irreproachably

correct of demeanour, would not have suffered far greater inconvenience

and perturbation had they been called upon to adapt themselves to the

ordinary ways of the ordinary, English country-gentleman. Their pride

would have suffered likewise, since eccentricity had been so long

enthroned in their midst, that its absence would have seemed a loss of

_prestige_, a regrettable coming down in the social scale. They

displayed much solicitude for Laurence's comfort, and much grim alacrity

in turning guests from his door. Captain Bellingham's fears that his

friend might develop into a crank appeared to be in very fair road to

fulfilment; but the household rejoiced silently and grimly thereat.

So did not Armstrong, the shrewd and kindly Scotch agent.

"Whether the place induces a whimsicality in the family, or the family

in the place, I would not presume to declare," he lamented one day, when

having a crack with a trusted friend and fellow-countryman. "It is like

the matter of priority between the owl and the egg, a hidden thing,

transcending human wit. But a certain impracticability is assuredly bred

in their bones, poor bodies, which needs must eventually come out in the

flesh of every one of them. They're over proud of the intelligence of

which it has pleased the Almighty to bestow on them so handsome a

portion--as the intelligence of Saxons and Southerners go, you

understand. And being puffed up with conceit of themselves they proceed

to apply their bit of unusual reason in wild and impolitic speculations,

to the endangering of their own and other persons' peace and security. A

sair pity, a sair pity! Not that I would deny degrees in the natural

wrong-headedness of the poor, misguided creatures. The present

representative of the family is a young man of excellent parts and

practical ability; and though I fear he is going astray in some

particulars, I find in him a praiseworthy application to business, by

times."

For in good truth, notwithstanding the dominion of his fixed idea,

Laurence was determined on the improvement of his somewhat neglected

estate. Every afternoon saw him ride forth to visit farm or distant

hamlet, to superintend operations of fencing, draining, or building, to

mark wood and copse-land for future cutting. Specially was he interested

in the construction of a light railway from Stoke Rivers Road to some

gypsum quarries at Hazledown, about three miles distant, the worth of

which would be doubled by direct and permanent means of transport.

Silent and self-absorbed for the most part, he rode about the charming

Sussex country while the gay, spring weather matured into the glow and

heat of summer. And all the while against his heart lay the poignant

delight of a great romance, and in his eyes sat the light of a great

adventure. He was very happy, so happy that, while he longed for the

attainment of his purpose and strained every nerve to accomplish it, he

almost dreaded that accomplishment since it must rob him of the sweet

and gracious present.

And that such accomplishment drew on as the summer went forward he could

not doubt. For his fairy-lady had grown less timid than of old, braving

now the earlier dusk, now the later dawn, as the fancy took her; while a

veritable shadow clung unquestionably to her little feet, and lengthened

behind or beside her. Though no less slender and graceful than before,

her person was less ethereal. It appeared to gain a certain substance, a

greater opacity; while her movements were more measured. Once or twice

Laurence had fancied he saw her pale face flush under sudden emotion, as

though blood once more began to course beneath the clear, smooth skin.

Her talk, moreover, was less of the past than of the present. At times

she would ask questions, not wholly easy for him to answer without

revealing those things regarding which he had agreed with himself to

keep silence. But on many matters he had come to speak to her freely,

telling her of his daily occupations and affairs, of the books he read,

even of passing events of public interest. And to all his talk she

listened now thoughtfully, now with pretty mirth, offering not only

sympathy, but discreet counsel, while sometimes a touch of far-reaching

and singularly mature wisdom gave a significant value to her speech.

There were moments, indeed, when Laurence gazed at her in wonder, for

she betrayed a depth and daring of thought impossible to a young girl,

however good her training and notable her natural talents--thought only

possible to one who had discounted the many subterfuges and illusions of

life, as most mortals see and live it, by apprehension of things

supramundane, eternal, and so of infinite moment to the conscience and

the heart.

She grew in womanhood, and she grew in the charm of distinction and of a

fine equality. Yet the mystery surrounding her was to Laurence in no

wise lessened. For he began to perceive that, if he held back somewhat

from her knowledge concerning himself, she, notwithstanding her

transparent sincerity and the perfection of her love, held back somewhat

from him. She played with him, she eluded him; and he perceived that her

lovely soul--did he dwell with her for a thousand years--would still

have its surprises for him, and its secret places, adorably difficult of

access. Then, too, for all her increasing humanity, the way of her

coming at sundown, and going at sunrise remained unexplained as ever.

One morning in late June, standing in the bay-window, with the fragrance

of the blossoming garden and the songs of awakening birds saluting them,

he questioned her on this matter. Her hand rested in his--no longer

perceptible as a mere pulsation, such as might be caused by the

fluttering wings of a captive butterfly. It had substance now, actual,

though very delicate, weight. And feeling this, amazement and ecstasy

invaded Laurence. His eyes were alight and his blood hot.

"You are going?" he asked. "But why should you go? Stay and see the day

in its beauty."

But she smiled on him, a serious and enigmatic smile, though very full

of tenderness.

"The day does not belong to me yet," she answered. "I cannot take that

which is not mine."

"Everything is ours if we dare take it," Laurence said. "Possession is

in the act, not in the fact. You create law by believing in and

submitting to it. Cease to believe, cease to submit, the prohibition,

the obligation, vanishes into fine air. The day is yours, dear love, and

all the vigorous life and joy of it, if you will but venture. Have just

a little courage. Try--"

But she shook her pretty head, still smiling, though, as it seemed to

Laurence, rather mournfully.

"Then tell me where you go," he said. "Tell me where you pass all the

hours when you are not here? See, I have been very patient, I have

asked you no questions. And yet, loving you as I do, I have a right to

hear."

"Ah!" she answered playfully, though with a touch of sadness--"what an

importunate being you have suddenly become! Yet why?--Half your life is

hidden from me, dear Laurence, and I do not ask to have it otherwise.

Why, then, should not half of mine be hidden from you? Indeed, it is

always so between man and woman, I think, whether they know it--as we

do--or know it not."

But Laurence was not in the humour to have his inquiry put aside thus

lightly.

"Still tell me--tell me," he insisted. "Look here, really I am not

unreasonable." He laughed a little, looking at her very charmingly in

mingled eagerness and command,--"For your exits and entrances are not as

those of other women, Agnes, so tell me. Or let me go with you

wheresoever you go. Or just--it is very simple--don't go--stay right

here, and brave the glory of the sunrise. Stay!--"

As he spoke, long shafts of pale, golden light shot through the openings

between the high-standing trees of the eastern woodland, and lay in

misty radiance along the dewy lawns, touching the heads of the

cypresses, and flashing upon the upspringing waters of the fountains.

"Ah, have patience--but a little trifle of patience yet, dearest love,"

Agnes Rivers pleaded. "Only wait, and that which is to be will surely

declare itself. I would so gladly stay--or gladly take you with me,

going; but I can do neither, though why, I do not at present fully

comprehend."

She turned, and for a moment stood facing the sunlight, bright in its

royal brightness, looking out on the fair, summer landscape, an infinite

hope and yearning in her lovely face. Then she folded her hands high

upon her bosom--slightly ruffling the smooth surface of her dainty,

muslin cape--bowed her head meekly as in worship, and moved away. As she

passed, Laurence--standing a little behind her--for the first time heard

the soft sound of her rapid footfall, and the whisper of her silken

gown.

The young man, too, worshipped the rising sun after his manner--a

manner, it must be admitted, by no means of the meekest. The room was

empty, but he did not greatly care, for his great purpose seemed so

close upon consummation. The crisis was very near now. Before that

splendid, June sun rose to-morrow--so he told himself--his work would be

complete. She was so nearly human, his dear fairy-lady; her pure spirit

so strangely, yet sensibly, in process of clothing itself with sweet,

living flesh. He would set bread and wine before her, in the small hours

when this bright day was dead. She should eat and drink of a sacramental

feast, designed to secure, not eternal life to the soul, in this case,

but mortal life to the beautiful, young body which he so desired and

loved.

Thus did Laurence Rivers hail the sunrise, filled with an immense pride

of his own action, his own will, and the powers of his race, deeming

himself a worker of miracles and equal of the immortal gods.