One day toward the end of August, Athalie, standing at the pier's end,
saw the huge incoming liner slowly warping to her berth; waited amid
the throngs in the vast sheds by the gangway, caught a glimpse of
Clive, lost him to view, then saw him again, very near, making his way
toward her. And then her hands were in his and she was looking into
his beloved eyes once more.
There were a few quick words of greeting spoken, tender, low-voiced;
the swift light of happiness made her blue eyes brilliant:
"You tall, sun-bronzed, lazy thing," she said; "I never told you what
a distinguished looking man you are, did I? Well I'll spoil you by
telling you now. No wonder everything feminine glances at you," she
added as he lifted his hat to fellow passengers who were passing.
And during the customs' examination she stood beside him, amused,
interested, gently bantering him when he declared everything; for even
in Athalie were apparently the ineradicable seeds of that original
sin--which is in all femininity--the paramount necessity for
smuggling.
Once or twice he spoke aside to the customs' officer; and Athalie
instantly and gaily accused him of attempted bribery.
But when they were on their way to Spring Pond in a hired touring car
with his steamer trunk and suit-cases strapped behind, he drew from
his pockets the articles he had declared and paid for; and Athalie
grew silent in delight as she looked down at the single and lovely
strand of pearls.
All the way to Spring Pond she held them so, and her enchanted eyes
reverted to them whenever she could bring herself to look anywhere
except at him.
"I wondered," she said, "whether you would come to the country or
whether you might think it better to remain in town."
"I shall go back to town only when you go."
"Dear, does that mean that you will stay with me at our own house?"
"If you want me."
"Oh, Clive! I was wondering--only it seemed too heavenly to hope for."
His face grew sombre for a moment. He said: "There is no other future
for us. And even our comradeship will be misunderstood. But--if you
are willing--"
"Is there any question in your mind as to the limit of my
willingness?"
He said: "You know it will mark us for life. And if we remain
guiltless, and our lives blameless, nevertheless this comradeship of
ours will mark us for life."
"Do you mean, brand us?"
"Yes, dear."
"Does that cause you any real apprehension?" she laughed.
"I am thinking of you."
"Think of me, then," she said gaily, "and know that I am happy and
content. The world is turning into such a wonderful friend to me; fate
is becoming so gentle and so kind. Happiness may brand me; nothing
else can leave a mark. So be at ease concerning me. All shall go well
with me, only when with you, my darling, all goes well."
He smiled in sympathy with her gaiety of heart, but the slight shadow
returned to his face again. Watching it she said:
"All things shall come to us, Clive."
"All things," he said, gravely,--"except fulfilment."
"That, too," she murmured.
"No, Athalie."
"Yes," she said under her breath.
He only lifted her ringless hand to his lips in hopeless silence; but
she looked up at the cloudless sky and out over sunlit harvest fields
and where grain and fruit were ripening, and she smiled, closing her
white hand and pressing it gently against his lips.
Connor met them at the door and shouldered Clive's trunk and other
luggage; then Athalie slipped her arm through his and took him into
the autumn glow of her garden.
"Miracle after miracle, Clive--from the enchantment of July roses to
the splendour of dahlia, calendula, and gladioluses. Such a
wonder-house no man ever before gave to any woman.... There is not one
stalk or leaf or blossom or blade of grass that is not my intimate
and tender friend, my confidant, my dear preceptor, my companion
beloved and adored.
[Illustration: "And then her hands were in his and she was looking
into his beloved eyes once more."]
"Do you notice that the grapes on the trellis are turning dark? And
the peaches are becoming so big and heavy and rosy. They will be ripe
before very long."
"You must have a greenhouse," he said.
"_We_ must," she admitted demurely.
He turned toward her with much of his old gaiety, laughing: "Do you
know," he said, "I believe you are pretending to be in love with me!"
"That's all it is, Clive, just pretence, and the natural depravity of
a flirt. When I go back to town I'll forget you ever existed--unless
you go with me."
"I'm wondering," he said, "what we had better do in town."
"I'm not wondering; I know."
He looked at her questioningly. Then she told him about her visit to
Michael and the apartment.
"There is no other place in the world that I care to live
in--excepting this," she said. "Couldn't we live there, Clive, when we
go to town?"
After a moment he said: "Yes."
"Would you care to?" she asked wistfully. Then smiled as she met his
eyes.
"So I shall give up business," she said, "and that tower apartment.
There's a letter here now asking if I desire to sublet it; and as I
had to renew my lease last June, that is what I shall do--if you'll
let me live in the place you made for me so long ago."
He answered, smilingly, that he might be induced to permit it.
Hafiz appeared, inquisitive, urbane, waving his snowy tail; but he was
shy of further demonstrations toward the man who was seated beside his
beloved mistress, and he pretended that he saw something in the
obscurity of the flowering thickets, and stalked it with every symptom
of sincerity.
"That cat must be about six years old," said Clive, watching him.
"He plays like a kitten, still."
"Do you remember how he used to pat your thread with his paws when you
were sewing."
"I remember," she said, smiling.
A little later Hafiz regained confidence in Clive and came up to rub
against his legs and permit caresses.
"Such a united family," remarked Athalie, amused by the mutual
demonstrations.
"How is Henry?" he asked.
"Fatter and slower than ever, dear. He suits my unenterprising
disposition to perfection. Now and then he condescends to be harnessed
and to carry me about the landscape. But mostly he drags the cruel
burden of Connor's lawn-mower. Do you think the place looks well
kept?"
"I knew you wanted to be flattered," he laughed.
"I do. Flatter me please."
"It's one of the best things I do, Athalie! For example--the lawn, the
cat, and the girl are all beautifully groomed; the credit is yours;
and you're a celestial dream too exquisite to be real."
"I am becoming real--as real as you are," she said with a faint smile.
"Yes," he admitted, "you and I are the only real things in the world
after all. The rest--woven scenes that come and go moving across a
loom."
She quoted:
"Sun and Moon illume the Room
Where the ceiling is the sky:
Night and day the Weavers ply
Colour, shadow, hue, and dye,
Where the rushing shuttles fly,
Weaving dreams across the Loom,
Picturing a common doom!
"How, Beloved, can _we_ die--
We Immortals, Thou and I?"
He smiled: "Death seems very far away," he said.
"Nothing dies.... If only this world could understand.... Did I tell
you that mother has been with me often while you were away?"
"No."
"It was wonderfully sweet to see her in the room. One night I fell
asleep across her knees."
"Does she ever speak to you, Athalie?"
"Yes, sometimes we talk."
"At night?"
"By day, too.... I was sitting in the living-room the other morning,
and she came up behind me and took both my hands. We talked, I lying
back in the rocking chair and looking up at her.... Mrs. Connor came
in. I am quite sure she was frightened when she heard my voice in
there conversing with nobody she could see."
Athalie smiled to herself as at some amusing memory evoked.
"If Mrs. Connor ever knew how she is followed about by so many purring
pussies and little wagging dogs--I mean dogs and pussies who are no
longer what we call 'alive,'--I don't know what she'd think. Sometimes
the place is full of them, Clive--such darling little creatures. Hafiz
sees them; and watches and watches, but never moves."
Clive was staring a trifle hard; Athalie, lazily stretching her arms,
glanced at him with that humorous expression which hinted of gentlest
mockery.
"Don't worry; nothing follows you, Clive, except an idle girl who
finds no time for anything else, so busy are her thoughts with you."
He bent forward and kissed her; and she clasped both hands behind his
head, drawing it nearer.
"Have you missed me, Athalie?"
"You could never understand how much."
"Did you find me in your crystal?"
"No; I saw only the sea and on the horizon a stain of smoke, and a
gull flying."
He drew her closely into his arms: "God," he breathed, "if anything
ever should happen to you!--and I--alone on earth--and blind--"
"Yes. That is the only anxiety I ever knew ... because you are blind."
"If you came to me I could not see you. If you spoke to me I could
not hear. Could anything more awful happen?"
"Do you care for me so much?"
In his eyes she read her answer, and thrilled to it, closer in his
arms; and rested so, her cheek against his, gazing at the sunset out
of dreamy eyes.
* * * * *
They had been slowly pacing the garden paths, arm within arm, when
Mrs. Connor came to summon them to dinner. The small dining-room was
flooded with sunset light; rosy bars of it lay across cloth and fruit
and flowers, and striped the wall and ceiling.
And when dinner was ended the pale fire still burned on the thin silk
curtains and struck across the garden, gilding the coping of the wall
where clustering peaches hung all turned to gold like fabled fruit
that ripens in Hesperides.
Hafiz followed them out under the evening sky and seated himself upon
the grass. And he seemed mildly to enjoy the robins' evening
carolling, blinking benevolently up at the little vesper choristers,
high singing in the sunset's lingering glow.
Whenever light puffs of wind set blossoms swaying, the jet from the
fountain basin swerved, and a mellow raining sound of drops swept the
still pool. The lilac twilight deepened to mauve; upon the surface of
the pool a primrose tint grew duller. Then the first bat zig-zagged
across the sky; and every clove-pink border became misty with the
wings of dusk-moths.
On Athalie's frail white gown one alighted,--a little grey thing
wearing a pair of peacock-tinted diamonds on its forewings; and as it
sat there, quivering, the iridescent incrustations changed from
burnished gold to green.
"Wonders, wonders, under the moon," murmured the girl--"thronging
miracles that fill the day and night, always, everywhere. And so few
to see them.... Sometimes, to me the blindness of the world to all the
loveliness that I 'see clearly' is like my own blindness to the hidden
wonders of the night--where uncounted myriads of little rainbow
spirits fly. And nobody sees and knows the living splendour of them
except when some grey-winged phantom strays indoors from the outer
shadows. And it astonishes us to see, under the drab forewings, a
blaze of scarlet, gold, or orange."
"I suppose," he said, "that the unseen night world all around us is no
more wonderful than what, in the day-world, the vast majority of us
never see, never suspect."
"I think it must be so, Clive. Being accustomed to a more densely
populated world than are many people, I believe that if I could see
only what they see,--merely that small portion of activity and life
which the world calls 'living things,' I should find the sunlit world
rather empty, and the night but a silent desolation under the stars."
After a few minutes' thought he asked in a low voice whether at that
moment there was anybody in the garden except themselves.
"Some people were here a little while ago, looking at the flowers. I
think they must have lived here many, many years ago; perhaps when
this old house was new."
"Could you not ask them who they were?"
"No, dear."
"Why?"
"If they were what you would call 'alive' I could not intrude upon
them, could I? The laws of reticence, the respect for privacy, remain
the same. I am conscious of no more impertinent curiosity concerning
them than I am concerning any passer in the city streets."
"Have they gone?"
"Yes. But all the evening I have been hearing children at play just
beyond the garden wall.... And, when I was a child, somebody killed a
little dog down by the causeway. He is here in the garden, now,
trotting gaily about the lawn--such a happy little dog!--and Hafiz has
folded his forepaws under his ruff and has settled down to watch him.
Don't you see how Hafiz watches, how his head turns following every
movement of the little visitor?"
He nodded; then: "Do you still hear the children outside the wall?"
She sat listening, the smile brooding in her eyes.
"Can you still hear them?" he repeated, wistfully.
"Yes, dear."
"What are they saying?"
"I can't make out. They are having a happy time somewhere on the outer
lawns."
"How many are there?"
"Oh, I don't know. Their voices make a sweet, confused sound like bird
music before dawn. I couldn't even guess how many children are playing
there."
"Are any among them those children you once saw here?--the children
who pleaded with you--"
She did not answer. He tightened his arm around her waist, drawing her
nearer; and she laid her cheek against his shoulder.
"Yes," she said, "they are there."
"You know their voices?"
"Yes, dearest."
"Will they come again into the garden?"
Her face flushed deeply:
"Not unless we call them."
"Call them," he said. And, after a silence: "Dearest, will you not
call them to us?"
"Oh, Clive! I have been calling. Now it remains with you."
"I did not hear you call them."
"_They_ heard."
"Will they come?"
"I--think so."
"When?"
"Very soon--if you truly desire them," she whispered against his
shoulder.
* * * * *
Somewhere within the house the hour struck. After a long while they
rose, moving slowly, her head still lying on his shoulder. Hafiz
watched them until the door closed, then settled down again to gaze on
things invisible to men.
* * * * *
Hours of the night in dim processional passed the old house unlighted
save by the stars. Toward dawn a sea-wind stirred the trees; the
fountain jet rained on the surface of the pool or, caught by a sudden
breeze, drifted in whispering spray across the grass. Everywhere the
darkness grew murmurous with sounds, vague as wind-blown voices; sweet
as the call of children from some hill-top where the stars are very
near, and the new moon's sickle flashes through the grass.
Athalie stirred where she lay, turned her head sideways with infinite
precaution, and lay listening.
Through the open window beside her she saw a dark sky set with stars;
heard the sea-wind in the leaves and the falling water of the
fountain. And very far away a sweet confused murmuring grew upon her
ears.
Silently her soul answered the far hail; her heart, responding, echoed
a voiceless welcome till she became fearful lest it beat too loudly.
Then, with infinite precaution, noiselessly, and scarcely stirring,
she turned and laid her lips again where they had rested all night
long and, lying so, dreamed of miracles ineffable.