The following day Clive replied to his wife by cable: "As it seems to
make no unpleasant difference to you I have concluded to remain in New
York. Please take whatever steps you may find most convenient and
agreeable for yourself."
And, following this he wrote her:
"I am inexpressibly sorry to cause you any new annoyance and
to arouse once more your just impatience and resentment. But
I see no use in a recapitulation of my shortcomings and of
your own many disappointments in the man you married.
"Please remember that I have always assumed all blame for our
marriage; and that I shall always charge myself with it. I
have no reply to make to your reproaches,--no defence; I was
not in love with you when I married you--which is as serious
an offence as any man can perpetrate toward any woman. And I
do not now blame you for a very natural refusal to tolerate
anything approaching the sympathy and intimacy that ought to
exist between husband and wife.
"I did entertain a hazy idea that affection and perhaps love
might be ultimately possible even under the circumstances of
such a marriage as ours; and in a youthful, ignorant, and
inexperienced way I attempted to bring it about. My notions
of our mutual obligations were very vague and indefinite.
"Please believe I did not realise how utterly distasteful any
such ideas were to you, and how deep was your personal
disinclination for the man you married.
"I understand now how many mistakes I made before I finally
rid you of myself, and gave you a chance to live your life in
your own way unharassed by the interference of a young,
ignorant, and probably aggressive man.
"Your aversion to motherhood was, after all, your own affair.
Man has no right to demand that of woman. I took a very
bullying and intolerant attitude toward you--not, as I now
realise, from any real conviction on the subject, but because
I liked and wanted children, and also because I was
influenced by the cant of the hour--the fashion being to
demand of woman, on ethical grounds, quantitative
reproduction as a marriage offering to the Almighty. As
though indiscriminate and wholesale addition to humanity were
an admirable and religious duty. Nothing, even in the Old
Testament, is more stupid than such a doctrine; no child
should ever be born unwelcome to both parents.
"I am sorry I could not find your circle of friends
interesting. I sometimes think I might have, had you and I
been mutually sympathetic. But the situation was impossible;
our ideas, interests, convictions, tastes, were radically at
variance; we had absolutely nothing in common to build on.
What marriage ties could endure the strain of such
conditions? The fault was mine, Winifred; I am sorry for
you.
"I don't know much about anything, but, thinking as clearly
and as impersonally as it is in me to think, I begin to
believe that divorce, far from deserving the stigma attached
to it, is a step forward in civilisation.
"Perhaps it may be only a temporary substitute for something
better--say for more wholesome and more honest social
conditions where the proposition for mating and the selection
of a mate may lie as freely with your sex as with mine.
"Until then I know of nothing more honest and more sensible
than to undo the wrong that ignorance and inexperience has
accomplished. No woman's moral or spiritual salvation is
dependent upon her wearing the fetters of a marriage
abhorred. Such a stupid sacrifice is unthinkable to modesty
and decency, and is repulsive to common sense. And any god
who is supposed to demand that of humanity is not the true
God, but is as grotesque and false as any African idol or any
deity ever worshipped by Puritan or Pagan or by any orthodox
assassin of free minds since the first murder was perpetrated
on account of creed.
"You are entitled to divorce. I don't know whether I am or
not, having done this thing. Nobody likes to endure unhappy
consequences. I don't. But it was my own doing and I have no
ground for complaint.
"You, however, have. You ought to be free of me. Of course,
I'd be very glad to have my freedom; I shall not lie about
it; but the difference is that you deserve yours and I don't.
But I'll be very grateful if you care to give it to me.
"Don't write any more bitterly than you can help. I don't
believe it really affords you any satisfaction; and it
depresses me more than you could realise. I know only too
well what I have been and wherein I have failed so miserably.
Let me forget it whenever I can, Winifred. And if, for me,
there remains any chance, any outlook, be generous enough to
let me try to take it.
"Your husband,
"C. BAILEY."
The consequences of this letter did not seem to be very fortunate.
There came a letter from her so bitter and menacing that a cleverer
man might have read in it enough of menace between the lines to
forearm him with caution at least.
But Clive merely read it once and destroyed it and tried to forget it.
* * * * *
It was not until some time afterward that, gradually, some instinct in
him awoke suspicion. But for a long while he was not perfectly sure
that he was being followed.
However, when he could no longer doubt it, and when the lurking
figures and faces of at least two of the men who dogged him everywhere
had become sufficiently familiar to him, he wrote a short note to his
wife asking for an explanation.
But he got none--principally because his wife had already sailed.
The effect of Winifred's letters on an impressionable, sensitive, and
self-distrustful character, was never very quickly effaced.
Whatever was morbid in the man became apparent after he had received
such letters, and took the form of a quiet withdrawal from the circles
which he affected, until such time as mortification and shame had
subsided.
He had written briefly to Athalie saying that business would take him
out of town for a few weeks. Which it did as a matter of fact, landing
him at Spring Pond, Long Island, where he completed the purchase of
the Greensleeve tavern and took title in his own name.
Old Ledlie had died; his only heir appeared to be glad enough to sell;
the title was free and clear; the possibilities of the place
fascinating.
Clive prowled around the place in two minds whether he might venture
to call in a local builder and have him strip the protuberances from
the house, which was all that was necessary to restore it to its
original form; or whether he ought to leave that for Athalie to
manage.
But there remained considerable to be done; May was in full bud and
blossom already; and if Athalie was to enjoy the place at all that
summer it ought to be made livable.
So Clive summoned several people to his aid with the following quick
results: A New York general contractor took over the entire job
guaranteeing quick results or forfeiture. A local nurseryman and an
emergency gang started in. They hedged the entire front with privet
for immediate effect, cleared, relocated, and restored the ancient
flower garden on its quaint original lines; planted its borders
thickly with old time perennials, peonies, larkspurs, hollyhocks,
clove pinks, irises, and lilies; replanted the rose beds with
old-fashioned roses, set the wall beds with fruit trees and gay
annuals, sodded, trimmed, raked, levelled, cleaned up, and pruned,
until the garden was a charming and logical thing.
Fortunately the newness was not apparent because the old stucco walls
remained laden with wistaria and honeysuckle, and the alley of ancient
box trees required clipping only.
In the centre of the lawn he built a circular pool and piped the water
from Spring Brook. It fell in a slender jet, icy cold, powdering pool,
basin and grass with spray.
Where half-dead locust and cedar trees had to be felled Clive set tall
arbor vitæ and soft maples. He was an expensive young man where
Athalie's pleasure was concerned; and as he worked there in the lovely
May weather his interest and enthusiasm grew with every fresh fragrant
spadeful of brown earth turned.
The local building genius repainted the aged house after bay window and
gingerbread had been stripped from its otherwise dignified facade;
replaced broken slates on the roof, mended the great fat chimneys,
matched the traces of pale bluish-green that remained on the window
shutters, filled in the sashes with small, square panes, instituted
modern plumbing, drainage, sewage, and electric lights--all of which was
emergency work and not too difficult as the city improvements had now
been extended as far as the village a mile to the eastward. But it was
expensive.
At first Clive had decided to leave the interior to Athalie, but he
finally made up his mind to restore the place on its original lines
with the exception of her mother's room. This room he recognised from
her frequent description of it; and he locked it, pocketed the key,
and turned loose his men.
All that they did was to plaster where it was needed, re-kalsomine all
walls and ceilings, scrape, clean, mend, and re-enamel the ancient
woodwork. Trim, casings, wainscot, and stairs were restored to their
original design and finish; dark hardwood floors replaced the painted
boards which had rotted; wherever a scrap of early wall-paper remained
he matched it as closely as possible, having an expert from New York
to do the business; and the fixtures he chose were simple and graceful
and reflected the period as nearly as electric light fixtures can
simulate an era of candle-sticks and tallow dips.
He was tremendously tempted to go ahead, so fascinating had the work
become to him, but he realised that it was not fair to Athalie. All
that he could reasonably do he had done; the place was clean and
fresh, and restored to its original condition outside and in, except
for the modern necessities of lighting, heating, plumbing, and running
water in pantry, laundry, kitchen, and bathrooms. Two of the latter
had replaced two clothes-presses; the ancient cellar had been cemented
and whitewashed, and heavily stocked with furnace and kitchen coal and
kindling.
Also there were fire-dogs for the three fine old-fashioned fireplaces
in the house which had been disinterred from under bricked-in and
plastered surfaces where only the aged mantel shelves and a hole for a
stove pipe revealed their probable presence.
The carpets were too ragged and soiled to retain; the furniture too
awful. But he replaced the latter, leaving its disposition and the
pleasure of choosing new furniture and new floor coverings to Athalie.
Hers also was to be the pleasure of re-stocking the house with linen;
of selecting upholstery and curtains and the requisites for pantry,
kitchen, and dining-room.
Once she told him what she had meant to do with the bar. And he took
the liberty of doing it, turning the place into a charming
sun-parlour, where, in a stone basin, gold-fish swam and a forest of
feathery and flowering semi-tropical plants spread a fretwork of blue
shadows over the cool stone floor.
But he left the big stove as it had been; and the rather quaint old
chairs with their rush-bottoms renovated and their lustrous wood
stained and polished by years of use.
Every other day he went to Spring Pond from his office in New York to
watch the progress of the work. The contractor was under penalty;
Clive had not balked at the expense; and the work was put through with
a rush.
In the meanwhile he called on Athalie occasionally, pretending always
whenever she spoke of it, that negotiations were still under way
concerning the property in question, and that such transactions
required patience and time.
One matter, too, was gradually effaced from his mind. The tall man and
the short man who had been following him so persistently had utterly
disappeared. And nobody else seemed to have taken their places.
Eventually he forgot it altogether.
Two months was the period agreed upon for the completion of Athalie's
house and garden, and the first week in July found the work done.
It had promised to be a hot week in the city: Athalie, who had been
nowhere except for an evening at some suburban restaurant, had begun
to feel fagged and listless and in need of a vacation.
And that morning she had decided to go away for a month to some quiet
place in the mountains, and she was already consulting various folders
and advertisements which she had accumulated since early spring, when
the telephone in her bedroom rang.
She had never heard Clive's voice so gay over the wire. She told him
so; and she could hear his quick and rather excited laugh.
"Are you very busy to-day?" he asked.
"No; I'm going to close up shop for a month, Clive. I'm hot and tired
and dying for a glimpse of something green. I was just looking over a
lot of advertisements--cottages and hotels. Come up and help me."
"I want you to spend the day with me in the country. Will you?"
"I'd love to. Where?"
"At Spring Pond."
"Clive! Do you really want to go there?"
"Yes. As your guest."
"What?"
"If you will invite me. Will you?"
"What do you mean? Have you bought the place for me?"
"I have the deed in my pocket, all ready to be transferred to you."
"You darling! Clive, I am so excited--"
"So am I. Shall I come for you in my brand new car? I've invested in
an inexpensive Stinger runabout. May I drive you down? It won't take
much longer than by train. And it will cool us off."
"Come as soon as you can get here!" she cried, delighted. "This is
going to be the happiest day of my entire life!"
* * * * *
And so it came about that Athalie in her pretty new gown and hat of
lilac lingerie, followed by a maid bearing three suit-cases, hat-box,
toilet satchel, and automobile coat, emerged from the main entrance of
the building where Clive sat waiting in a smart Stinger runabout. When
he saw her he sprang out and came forward, hat in hand.
"You darling," she said in a low, happy voice. "You've made me happier
than I ever dreamed of being. I don't know what to say to you; I
simply don't know how to thank you for doing this wonderful thing for
me."
He, too, was happier than he had ever been in all his life; and so
much in love that he found nothing to say for a moment save the few
trite phrases in which a man in love says many commonplaces, all of
which only mean, "I love you."
[Illustration: "When he saw her he sprang out and came forward."]
Doubtless she understood the complicated code, for she laughed and
blushed a trifle and looked around at her maid laden with luggage.
"Where can we put these, Clive?" she asked.
"What on earth is all that luggage?" he asked, surprised.
"I'm going to remain a few days," she explained, "so I've brought a
few things."
"But do you imagine there is anything to eat or anywhere to lay your
head in that tumble down old house?" he demanded, secretly enchanted
with her rash enthusiasm.
"I propose to camp. I can buy milk, crackers, and sardines at Spring
Pond village; also sufficient bathroom and bed linen. That is all I
require to be perfectly comfortable."
There was no rumble on the Stinger, only a baggage rack and boot. Here
he secured, covered, and strapped Athalie's impedimenta; the maid
slipped on her travelling coat; she sprang lightly into the seat; and
Clive went around and climbed in beside her, taking the wheel.
The journey downtown and across the Queensboro Bridge was the usual
uncomfortable and exasperating progress familiar to all who pilot cars
to Long Island. Brooklyn was negotiated prayerfully; they swung into
the great turnpike, through the ugliest suburbs this humiliated world
ever endured, on through the shabby, filthy, sordid environment of the
gigantic Burrough, past ignoble villages, desolate wastes, networks
of railway tracks where grade crossings menaced them, and on along the
purlieus of suburban deserts until the flat green Long Island country
spread away on either side dotted with woods and greenhouses and
quaint farm-houses and old-time spires.
"It is pretty when you get here," he said, "but it's like climbing
over a mile of garbage to get out of one's front door. No European
city would endure being isolated by such a desert of squalor and
abominable desolation."
But Athalie merely smiled. She had been far too excited to notice the
familiar ugliness and filth of the dirty city's soiled and ragged
outskirts.
And now the car sped on amid the flat, endless acres of cultivated
land, and already her dainty nose was sniffing familiar but
half-forgotten odours--the faintest hint of ocean, the sun-warmed
scent of freshly cut salt hay; perfumes from woodlands in heavy
foliage, and the more homely smell from barn-yard and compost-heap;
from the sunny, dusty village streets through which they rolled; from
village lanes heavy with honeysuckle.
"I seem to be speeding back toward my childhood," she said. "Every
breath of this air, every breeze, every odour is making it more real
to me.... I wonder whatever became of my ragged red hood and cloak. I
can't remember."
"I'd like to have them," he said. "I'd fold them and lay them away
for--"
He checked himself, sobered, suddenly and painfully aware that the
magic of the moment had opened for him an unreal vista where, in the
false dawn, the phantom of Hope stood smiling. Her happy smile had
altered, too; and her gloved hand stole out and rested on his own for
a moment in silence. Neither said anything for a while, and yet the
sky was so blue, the wind so soft and aromatic, and the sun's
splendour was turning the very earth to powdered gold. And maybe the
gods would yet be kind. Maybe, one day, others, with Athalie's hair
and eyes, might smooth the faded scarlet hood and cloak with softly
inquiring fingers.
He spoke almost harshly from his brief dream: "There is the Bay!"
But she had turned to look back at the quiet little cemetery already
behind them, and a moment or two passed before she lifted her eyes and
looked out across the familiar stretch of water. Azure and silver it
glimmered there in the sun. Red-shouldered blackbirds hovered,
fluttered, dropped back into the tall reeds; meadow larks whistled
sweetly, persistently; a slow mouse-hawk sailed low over the fields,
his broad wings tipped up like a Japanese kite, the silver full-moon
flashing on his back as he swerved. And then the old tavern came into
sight behind its new hedge of privet.
Athalie caught sight of it,--of the tall hedge, the new posts of stone
through which a private road now curved into the grounds and around a
circle before the porch; saw the new stone wall inclosing it ablaze
with nasturtiums, the brilliant loveliness of the old and long
neglected garden beyond; saw the ancient house in all its quaint and
charming simplicity bereft of bow-window, spindle, and gingerbread
fretwork,--saw the white front of it, the green shutters, the big,
thick chimneys, the sunlight sparkling on small square panes, and on
the glass of the sun parlour.
The girl was trembling when he stopped the car at the front door,
sprang out, and aided her to descend.
A man in overalls came up, diffidently, and touched his broad straw
hat. To him Clive gave a low-voiced order or two, then stepped forward
to where the girl was standing.
"It is too beautiful--" she began, but her voice failed, and he saw
the sensitive lips tremulous in their silence and the eyes brilliant
with the menace of tears.
He drew her arm through his and they went in, moving slowly and in
silence from room to room. Only the almost convulsive pressure of her
arm on his told him of a happiness too deep for expression.
On the landing above he offered her the key to her mother's room.
"Nothing is changed there," he said; and, fitting the key, unlocked
the door, and turned away.
But the girl caught his hand in hers and drew him with her into the
faded, shabby room where her mother's chair stood in its accustomed
place, and the faded hassock lay beside it.
"Sit here," she said. And when he was seated she dropped on the
hassock at his feet and laid her cheek on his knees.
The room was very still and sunny; her lover remained silent and
unstirring; and the girl's eyes wandered from carpet to ceiling and
from wall to wall, resting on familiar objects; then, passing
dreamily, remained fixed on space--sweet, brooding eyes, dim with the
deepest emotion she had ever known.
A new, profound, and thrilling peace possessed her--a heavenly sense
of tranquillity and security, as though, somehow, all problems had
been solved for her and for him.
Presently in a low, hushed, happy voice she began to speak about her
mother. Little unimportant, unconnected incidents came to her
mind--brief moments, episodes as ephemeral as they had been
insignificant.
Sitting on the faded hassock at his feet she lifted her head and
rested both arms across his knees.
"It is all so perfect now," she said,--"you here in mother's room, and
I at your feet: and the sunny world waiting for us outside. How mellow
is this light! Always in the demi-dusk of this house there seemed to
me to linger a golden tint--even on dark days--even at night--as
though somewhere a ray of sun had been lost and had not entirely faded
out."
"It came from your own heart, Athalie--that wonderful and golden heart
of yours where light and warmth can never die.... Dear, are you
contented with what I have ventured to do?"
She looked silently into his eyes, then with a little sigh dropped her
head on his knees again.
Far away somewhere in the depths of the house somebody was moving. And
presently she asked him who it was.
"Connor, the man of all work. I sent him to Spring Pond village to
buy bed linen and bath towels. I ventured to install a brass bed or
two in case you had thought of coming here with your maid. You see,"
he added, smiling, "it was fortunate that I did."
"You are the most wonderful man in the world, Clive," she murmured,
her eyes fixed dreamily on his face. "Always you have been making life
delightful for me; smoothing my path, helping me where the road is
rough."... She sighed: "Clive, you are very wonderful to me."
* * * * *
Mrs. Jim Connor had come to help; and now, at high noon, she sought
them where they were standing in the garden,--Athalie in ecstasy
before the scented thickets of old-fashioned rockets massed in a long,
broad border against a background of trees.
So they went in to luncheon, which was more of a dinner; and Mrs.
Connor served them with apology, bustle, and not too garrulously for
the humour they were in.
High spirits had returned to them when they stepped out of doors; and
they came back to the house for luncheon in the gayest of humour,
Athalie chattering away blithe as a linnet in a thorn bush, and Clive
not a whit more reticent.
"Hafiz is going to adore this!" exclaimed the girl. "My angel
pussy!--why was I mean enough to leave you in the city!... I'll have a
dog, too--a soft, roly-poly puppy, who shall grow up with a wholesome
respect for Hafiz. And, Clive! I shall have a nice fat horse, a safe
and sane old Dobbin--so I can poke about the countryside at my
leisure, through byways and lanes and disused roads."
"You need a car, too."
"No, no, I really don't. Anyway," she said airily, "your car is
sufficient, isn't it?"
"Of course," he smiled.
"I think so, too. I shall not require or desire a car unless you also
are to be in it. But I'd love to possess a Dobbin and a double
buckboard. Also I shall, in due time, purchase a sail-boat--" She
checked herself, laughed at the sudden memory, and said with
delightful malice: "I suppose you have not yet learned to sail a boat,
have you?"
He laughed, too: "How you scorned me for my ignorance, didn't you? Oh,
but I've learned a great many things since those days, Athalie."
"To sail a boat, too?"
"Oh, yes. I had to learn. There's a lot of water in the world; and
I've been very far afield."
"I know," she said. There was a subtle sympathy in her voice,--an
exquisite recognition of the lonely years which now seemed to lie far,
far behind them both.
She glanced down at her fresh plate which Mrs. Connor had just placed
before her.
"Clive!" she exclaimed, enchanted, "do you see! Peach turnovers!"
"Certainly. Do you suppose this housewarming could be a proper one
without peach turnovers?" And to Mrs. Connor he said: "That is all,
thank you. Miss Greensleeve and I will eat our turnovers by the stove
in the sun-parlour."
And there they ate their peach turnovers, seated on the old-time
rush-bottomed chairs beside the stove--just as they had sat so many
years ago when Athalie was a child of twelve and wore a ragged cloak
and hood of red.
Sometimes, leisurely consuming her pastry, she glanced demurely at her
lover, sometimes her blue eyes wandered to the sunny picture outside
where roses grew and honeysuckle trailed and the blessed green grass
enchanted the tired eyes of those who dwelt in the monstrous and arid
city.
Presently she went away to the room he had prepared for her; and he
lay back lazily in his chair and lighted a cigarette, and watched the
thin spirals of smoke mounting through the sunshine. When she returned
to him she was clad in white from crown to toe, and he told her she
was enchanting, which made her eyes sparkle and the dimples come.
"Mrs. Connor is going to remain and help me," she said. "All my things
are unpacked, and the bed is made very nicely, and it is all going to
be too heavenly for words. Oh, I _wish_ you could stay!"
"To-night?"
"Yes. But I suppose it would ruin us if anybody knew."
He said nothing as they walked back into the main hallway.
"What a charming old building it is!" she exclaimed. "Isn't it odd
that I never before appreciated the house from an esthetic angle? I
don't suppose you'd call this architecture, but whatever else it may
be it certainly is dignified. I adore the simplicity of the rooms;
don't you? I shall have some pretty silk curtains made; and, in the
bedrooms, chintz. And maybe you will help me hunt for furniture and
rugs. Will you, dear?"
"We'll find some old mahogany for this floor and white enamel for the
bedrooms if you like. What do you say?"
"Enchanting! I adore antique mahogany! You know how crazy I am about
the furniture of bygone days. I shall squander every penny on things
Chippendale and Sheraton and Hepplewhite. Oh, it is going to be a
darling house and I'm the happiest girl in the world. And you have
made me so!--dearest of men!"
She caught his hand to her lips as he bent to kiss hers, and their
faces came together in a swift and clinging embrace. Which left her
flushed and wordless for the moment, and disposed to hang her head as
she walked slowly beside him to the front door.
Out in the sunshine, however, her self-possession returned in a pretty
exclamation of delight; and she called his attention to a tiny rainbow
formed in the spray of the garden hose where Connor was watering the
grass.
"Symbol of hope for us," he said under his breath.
She nodded, and stood inhaling the fragrance of the garden.
"I know a path--if it still exists--where I used to go as a child.
Would you care to follow it with me?"
So they walked down to the causeway bridge spanning the outlet to
Spring Pond, turned to the right amid a tangle of milk-weed in heavy
bloom, and grapevines hanging in festoons from rock and sapling.
The path had not changed; it wound along the wooded shore of the pond,
then sloped upward and came out into a grassy upland, where it
followed the woods' edge under the cool shadow of the trees.
And as they walked she told him of her childish journeys along this
path until it reached the wooded and pebbly height of land beyond,
which is one of the vertebræ in the backbone of Long Island.
To reach that ridge was her ultimate ambition in those youthful days;
and when on one afternoon of reckless daring she had attained it, and
far to the northward she saw the waters of the great Sound sparkling
in the sun, she had felt like Balboa in sight of the Pacific, awed to
the point of prayer by her own miraculous achievement.
Where the path re-entered the woods, far down the slope, they could
hear the waters of Spring Brook flowing; and presently they could see
the clear glint of the stream; and she told him tales of alder-poles
and home-made hooks, and of dusky troutlings that haunted the woodland
pools far in the dusk of leafy and mysterious depths.
On the brink of the slope, but firmly imbedded, there had been a big
mossy log. She discovered it presently, and drew him down to a seat
beside her, taking possession of one of his arms and drawing it
closely under her own. Then she crossed one knee over the other and
looked out into the magic half-light of a woodland which, to her
childish eyes, had once seemed a vast and depthless forest. A bar of
sunlight fell across her slim shoe and ankle clothed in white, and
across the log, making the moss greener than emeralds.
From far below came pleasantly the noise of the brook; overhead leaves
stirred and whispered in the breezes; shadows moved; sun-spots waxed
and waned on tree-trunk and leaf and on the brown ground under foot. A
scarlet-banded butterfly--he they call the Red Admiral--flitted
persistently about an oak tree where the stain of sap darkened the
bark.
From somewhere came the mellow tinkle of cow-bells, which moved
Athalie to speech; and she poured out her heart to Clive on the
subject of domestic kine and of chickens and ducks.
"I'm a country girl; there can be no doubt about it," she admitted. "I
do not think a day passes in the city but I miss the cock-crow and the
plaint of barn-yard fowl, and the lowing of cattle and the whimper and
coo of pigeons. And my country eyes grow weary for a glimpse of green,
Clive,--and for wide horizons and the vast flotillas of white clouds
that sail over pastures and salt meadows and bays and oceans. Never
have I been as contented as I am at this moment--here--under the sky
alone with you."
"That also is all I ask in life--the open world, and you."
"Maybe it will happen."
"Maybe."
"With everything--desirable--"
She dropped her eyes and remained very still. For the first time in
her life she had thought of children as her own--and his. And the
thought which had flashed unbidden through her mind left her silent,
and a little bewildered by its sweetness.
He was saying: "You should, by this time, have the means which enable
you to live in the country."
"Yes."
Cecil Reeve had advised her in her investments. The girl's financial
circumstances were modest, but adequate and sound.
"I never told you how much I have," she said. "May I?"
"If you care to."
She told him, explaining every detail very carefully; and he listened,
fascinated by this charming girl's account of how in four years, she
had won from the world the traditional living to which all are
supposed to be entitled.
"You see," she said, "that gives me a modest income. I could live here
very nicely. It has always been my dream.... But of course everything
now depends on where you are."
Surprised and touched he turned toward her: she flushed and smiled,
suddenly realising the naïveté of her avowal.
"It's true," she said. "Every day I seem to become more and more
entangled with you. I'm wondering whether I've already crossed the
bounds of friendship, and how far I am outside. I can't seem to
realise any longer that there is no bond between us stronger than
preference.... I was thinking--very unusual and very curious
thoughts--about us both." She drew a deep, unsteady, but smiling,
breath: "Clive, I wish you could marry me."
"You _wish_ it, Athalie?" he asked, profoundly moved.
"Yes."
After a silence she leaned over and rested her cheek against his
shoulder.
"Ah, yes," she said under her breath,--"that is what I begin to wish
for. A home, and _you_.... And--children."
He put his arm around her.
"Isn't it strange, Clive, that I should think about children--at my
age--and with little chance of ever having any. I don't know what
possesses me to suddenly want them.... Wouldn't they be wonderful in
that house? And they'd have that darling garden to play in.... There
ought to be a boy--several in fact, and some girls.... _I'd_ know what
to do for them. Isn't it odd that I should know exactly how to bring
them up. But I do. I know I do.... I can almost see them playing in
the garden--I can see their dear little faces--hear their voices--"
His arm was clasping her slim body very tightly, but she suddenly sat
upright, resting one slender hand on his shoulder; and her gaze became
steady and fixed.
Presently he noticed it and turned his head in the same direction, but
saw nothing except the sunlight sifting through the trees and the
golden half-light of the woods beyond.
"What is it, Athalie?" he asked.
She said in a curiously still voice: "Children."
"Where?"
"Playing in the woods."
"Where?" he repeated; "I do not see them."
She did not answer. Presently she closed her eyes and rested her face
against his shoulder again, pressing close to him as though lonely.
"They went away," she said in answer to his question.... "I feel a
little tired, Clive.... Do you care for me a great deal?"
"Can you ask?"
"Yes.... Because of the years ahead of us. I think there are to be
many--for us both. The future is so bewildering--like a tangled and
endless forest, and very dim to see in.... But sometimes there comes a
rift in the foliage--and there is a glimpse of far skies shining. And
for a moment one--'sees clearly'--into the depths--a little way....
And surmises something of what remains unseen. And imagines more,
perhaps.... I wonder if you love me--enough."
"Dearest--dearest--"
"Let it remain unsaid, Clive. A girl must learn one day. But never
from the asking. And the same sun shall continue to rise and set,
whatever her answer is to be; and the moon, too; and the stars shall
remain unchanged--whatever changes us. How still the woods are--as
still as dreams."
[Illustration: "She suddenly sat upright, resting one slender hand on
his shoulder."]
She lifted her head, looked at him, smiled, then, freeing herself,
sprang to her feet and stood a moment drawing her slim hand across her
eyes.
"I shall have a tennis court, Clive. And a canoe on Spring Pond....
What kind of puppy was that I said I wanted?"
"One which would grow up with proper fear and respect for Hafiz," he
said, smilingly, perplexed by the rapid sequence of her moods.
"A collie?"
"If you like."
"I wonder," she murmured, "whether they are safe for children--" She
looked up laughing: "_Isn't_ it odd! I simply cannot seem to free my
mind of children whenever I think about that house."
As they moved along the path toward the new home he said: "What was it
you saw in the woods?"
"Children."
"Were they--real?"
"No."
"Had they died?"
"They have not yet been born," she said in a low voice.
"I did not know you could see such things."
"I am not sure that I can. It is very difficult for me, sometimes, to
distinguish between vividly imaginative visualisation and--other
things."
Walking back through the soft afternoon light the girl tried to tell
him all that she knew about herself and her clairvoyance--strove to
explain, to make him understand, and, perhaps, to understand herself.
But after a while silence intervened between them; and when they spoke
again they spoke of other things. For the isolation of souls is a
solitude inviolable; there can be no intimacy there, only the longing
for it--the craving, endless, unsatisfied.