_Chapter 14_
In the garden of tall rose trees and nasturtiums Helena was againwaiting. It was past nine o'clock, so she was growing impatient. Toherself, however, she professed a great interest in a little book ofverses she had bought in St Martin's Lane for twopence.
A late, harsh blackbird smote him with her wings, As through the glade, dim in the dark, she flew....
So she read. She made a curious, pleased sound, and remarked to herselfthat she thought these verses very fine. But she watched the roadfor Siegmund.
And now she takes the scissors on her thumb ... Oh then, no more unto my lattice come.
'H'm!' she said, 'I really don't know whether I like that or not.'
Therefore she read the piece again before she looked down the road.
'He really is very late. It is absurd to think he may have got drowned;but if he were washing about at the bottom of the sea, his hair loose onthe water!'
Her heart stood still as she imagined this.
'But what nonsense! I like these verses _very_ much. I will read them asI walk along the side path, where I shall hear the bees, and catch theflutter of a butterfly among the words. That will be a very fitting wayto read this poet.'
So she strolled to the gate, glancing up now and again. There, sureenough, was Siegmund coming, the towel hanging over his shoulder, histhroat bare, and his face bright. She stood in the mottled shade.
'I have kept you waiting,' said Siegmund.
'Well, I was reading, you see.'
She would not admit her impatience.
'I have been talking,' he said.
'Talking!' she exclaimed in slight displeasure. 'Have you found anacquaintance even here?'
'A fellow who was quite close friends in Savoy days; he made me feelqueer-sort of _Doppelgaenger_, he was.'
Helena glanced up swiftly and curiously.
'In what way?' she said.
'He talked all the skeletons in the cupboard-such piffle it seems, now!The sea is like a harebell, and there are two battleships lying in thebay. You can hear the voices of the men on deck distinctly. Well, haveyou made the plans for today?'
They went into the house to breakfast. She watched him helping himselfto the scarlet and green salad.
'Mrs Curtiss,' she said, in rather reedy tone, 'has been very motherlyto me this morning; oh, very motherly!'
Siegmund, who was in a warm, gay mood, shrank up.
'What, has she been saying something about last night?' he asked.
'She was very much concerned for me-was afraid something dreadful hadhappened,' continued Helena, in the same keen, sarcastic tone, whichshowed she was trying to rid herself of her own mortification.
'Because we weren't in till about eleven?' said Siegmund, also withsarcasm.
'I mustn't do it again. Oh no, I mustn't do it again, really.'
'For fear of alarming the old lady?' he asked.
'"You know, dear, it troubles _me_ a good deal ... but if I were your_mother_, I don't know _how_ I should feel,"' she quoted.
'When one engages rooms one doesn't usually stipulate for a stepmotherto nourish one's conscience,' said Siegmund. They laughed, making jestof the affair; but they were both too thin-skinned. Siegmund writhedwithin himself with mortification, while Helena talked as if her teethwere on edge.
'I don't _mind_ in the least,' she said. 'The poor old woman has heropinions, and I mine.'
Siegmund brooded a little.
'I know I'm a moral coward,' he said bitterly.
'Nonsense' she replied. Then, with a little heat: 'But you _do_ continueto try so hard to justify yourself, as if _you_ felt you neededjustification.'
He laughed bitterly.
'I tell you--a little thing like this--it remains tied tight roundsomething inside me, reminding me for hours--well, what everybody else'sopinion of me is.'
Helena laughed rather plaintively.
'I thought you were so sure we were right,' she said.
He winced again.
'In myself I am. But in the eyes of the world--'
'If you feel so in yourself, is not that enough?' she said brutally.
He hung his head, and slowly turned his serviette-ring.
'What is myself?' he asked.
'Nothing very definite,' she said, with a bitter laugh.
They were silent. After a while she rose, went lovingly over to him, andput her arms round his neck.
'This is our last clear day, dear,' she said.
A wave of love came over him, sweeping away all the rest. He took her inhis arms....
'It will be hot today,' said Helena, as they prepared to go out.
'I felt the sun steaming in my hair as I came up,' he replied.
'I shall wear a hat--you had better do so too.'
'No,' he said. 'I told you I wanted a sun-soaking; now I think I shallget one.'
She did not urge or compel him. In these matters he was old enough tochoose for himself.
This morning they were rather silent. Each felt the tarnish on theirremaining day.
'I think, dear,' she said, 'we ought to find the little path thatescaped us last night.'
'We were lucky to miss it,' he answered. 'You don't get a walk like thattwice in a lifetime, in spite of the old ladies.'
She glanced up at him with a winsome smile, glad to hear his words.
They set off, Siegmund bare-headed. He was dressed in flannels and aloose canvas shirt, but he looked what he was--a Londoner on holiday. Hehad the appearance, the diffident bearing, and the well-cut clothes of agentleman. He had a slight stoop, a strong-shouldered stoop, and as hewalked he looked unseeing in front of him.
Helena belonged to the unclassed. She was not ladylike, nor smart, norassertive. One could not tell whether she were of independent means or aworker. One thing was obvious about her: she was evidently educated.
Rather short, of strong figure, she was much more noticeably a_concentree_ than was Siegmund. Unless definitely looking at somethingshe always seemed coiled within herself.
She wore a white voile dress made with the waist just below her breasts,and the skirt dropping straight and clinging. On her head was a large,simple hat of burnt straw.
Through the open-worked sleeves of her dress she could feel the sun bitevigorously.
'I wish you had put on a hat, Siegmund,' she said.
'Why?' he laughed. 'My hair is like a hood,' He ruffled it back with hishand. The sunlight glistened on his forehead.
On the higher paths a fresh breeze was energetically chasing thebutterflies and driving the few small clouds disconsolate out of thesky. The lovers stood for some time watching the people of the farm inthe down below dip their sheep on this sunny morning. There was a raggednoise of bleating from the flock penned in a corner of the yard. Twored-armed men seized a sheep, hauled it to a large bath that stood inthe middle of the yard, and there held it, more or less in the bath,whilst a third man baled a dirty yellow liquid over its body. The whitelegs of the sheep twinkled as it butted this way and that to escape theyellow douche, the blue-shirted men ducked and struggled. There was afaint splashing and shouting to be heard even from a distance. Thefarmer's wife and children stood by ready to rush in with assistance ifnecessary.
Helena laughed with pleasure.
'That is really a very quaint and primitive proceeding,' she said. 'Itis cruder than Theocritus.'
'In an instant it makes me wish I were a farmer,' he laughed. 'I thinkevery man has a passion for farming at the bottom of his blood. It wouldbe fine to be plain-minded, to see no farther than the end of one'snose, and to own cattle and land.'
'Would it?' asked Helena sceptically.
'If I had a red face, and went to sleep as soon as I sat comfortable, Ishould love it,'he said.
'It amuses me to hear you long to be stupid,' she replied.
'To have a simple, slow-moving mind and an active life is thedesideratum.'
'Is it?' she asked ironically.
'I
would give anything to be like that,' he said.
'That is, not to be yourself,' she said pointedly.
He laughed without much heartiness.
'Don't they seem a long way off?' he said, staring at the bucolic scene.'They are farther than Theocritus--down there is farther than Sicily,and more than twenty centuries from us. I wish it weren't.'
'Why do you?' she cried, with curious impatience.
He laughed.
Crossing the down, scattered with dark bushes, they came directlyopposite the path through the furze.
'There it is!' she cried, 'How could we miss it?'
'Ascribe it to the fairies,' he replied, whistling the bird music out of_Siegfried_, then pieces of _Tristan_. They talked very little.
She was tired. When they arrived at a green, naked hollow near thecliff's edge, she said:
'This shall be our house today.'
'Welcome home!' said Siegmund.
He flung himself down on the high, breezy slope of the dip, looking outto sea. Helena sat beside him. It was absolutely still, and the wind wasslackening more and more. Though they listened attentively, they couldhear only an indistinct breathing sound, quite small, from the waterbelow: no clapping nor hoarse conversation of waves. Siegmund lay withhis hands beneath his head, looking over the sparkling sea. To put herpage in the shadow, Helena propped her book against him and beganto read.
Presently the breeze, and Siegmund, dropped asleep. The sun was pouringwith dreadful persistence. It beat and beat on Helena, gradually drawingher from her book in a confusion of thought. She closed her eyeswearily, longing for shade. Vaguely she felt a sympathy with Adam in'Adam Cast Forth'. Her mind traced again the tumultuous, obscurestrugglings of the two, forth from Eden through the primitivewildernesses, and she felt sorrowful. Thinking of Adam blackened withstruggle, she looked down at Siegmund. The sun was beating him upon theface and upon his glistening brow. His two hands, which lay out on thegrass, were full of blood, the veins of his wrists purple and swollenwith heat. Yet he slept on, breathing with a slight, panting motion.Helena felt deeply moved. She wanted to kiss him as he lay helpless,abandoned to the charge of the earth and the sky. She wanted to kisshim, and shed a few tears. She did neither, but instead, moved herposition so that she shaded his head. Cautiously putting her hand on hishair, she found it warm, quite hot, as when you put your hand under asitting hen, and feel the hot-feathered bosom.
'It will make him ill,' she whispered to herself, and she bent over tosmell the hot hair. She noticed where the sun was scalding his forehead.She felt very pitiful and helpless when she saw his brow becominginflamed with the sun-scalding.
Turning weariedly away, she sought relief in the landscape. But the seawas glittering unbearably, like a scaled dragon wreathing. The houses ofFreshwater slept, as cattle sleep motionless in the hollow valley. GreenFarringford on the slope, was drawn over with a shadow of heat andsleep. In the bay below the hill the sea was hot and restless. Helenawas sick with sunshine and the restless glitter of water.
'"And there shall be no more sea,"' she quoted to herself, she knew notwherefrom.
'No more sea, no more anything,' she thought dazedly, as she sat in themidst of this fierce welter of sunshine. It seemed to her as if all thelightness of her fancy and her hope were being burned away in thistremendous furnace, leaving her, Helena, like a heavy piece of slagseamed with metal. She tried to imagine herself resuming the oldactivities, the old manner of living.
'It is impossible,' she said; 'it is impossible! What shall I be when Icome out of this? I shall not come out, except as metal to be cast inanother shape. No more the same Siegmund, no more the same life. Whatwill become of us--what will happen?'
She was roused from these semi-delirious speculations in the sun furnaceby Siegmund's waking. He opened his eyes, took a deep breath, and lookedsmiling at Helena.
'It is worth while to sleep,' said he, 'for the sake of waking likethis. I was dreaming of huge ice-crystals.'
She smiled at him. He seemed unconscious of fate, happy and strong. Shesmiled upon him almost in condescension.
'I should like to realize your dream,' she said. 'This is terrible!'
They went to the cliff's edge, to receive the cool up-flow of air fromthe water. She drank the travelling freshness eagerly with her face, andput forward her sunburnt arms to be refreshed.
'It is really a very fine sun,' said Siegmund lightly. 'I feel as if Iwere almost satisfied with heat.'
Helena felt the chagrin of one whose wretchedness must go unperceived,while she affects a light interest in another's pleasure. This time,when Siegmund 'failed to follow her', as she put it, she felt she mustfollow him.
'You are having your satisfaction complete this journey,' she said,smiling; 'even a sufficiency of me.'
'Ay!' said Siegmund drowsily. 'I think I am. I think this is aboutperfect, don't you?'
She laughed.
'I want nothing more and nothing different,' he continued; 'and that'sthe extreme of a decent time, I should think.'
'The extreme of a decent time!' she repeated.
But he drawled on lazily:
'I've only rubbed my bread on the cheese-board until now. Now I've gotall the cheese--which is you, my dear.'
'I certainly feel eaten up,' she laughed, rather bitterly. She saw himlying in a royal ease, his eyes naive as a boy's, his whole beingcareless. Although very glad to see him thus happy, for herself she feltvery lonely. Being listless with sun-weariness, and heavy with a senseof impending fate, she felt a great yearning for his sympathy, hisfellow-suffering. Instead of receiving this, she had to play to hisbuoyant happiness, so as not to shrivel one petal of his flower, orspoil one minute of his consummate hour.
From the high point of the cliff where they stood, they could see thepath winding down to the beach, and broadening upwards towards them.Slowly approaching up the slight incline came a black invalid's chair,wheeling silently over the short dry grass. The invalid, a young man,was so much deformed that already his soul seemed to be wilting in hispale sharp face, as if there were not enough life-flow in the distortedbody to develop the fair bud of the spirit. He turned his pain-sunkeneyes towards the sea, whose meaning, like that of all things, was halfobscure to him. Siegmund glanced, and glanced quickly away, before heshould see. Helena looked intently for two seconds. She thought of thetorn, shrivelled seaweed flung above the reach of the tide--'the lifetide,' she said to herself. The pain of the invalid overshadowed her owndistress. She was fretted to her soul.
'Come!' she said quietly to Siegmund, no longer resenting thecompleteness of his happiness, which left her unnecessary to him.
'We will leave the poor invalid in possession of our green hollow--soquiet,' she said to herself.
They sauntered downwards towards the bay. Helena was brooding on her ownstate, after her own fashion.
'The Mist Spirit,' she said to herself. 'The Mist Spirit draws a curtainround us--it is very kind. A heavy gold curtain sometimes; a thin, torncurtain sometimes. I want the Mist Spirit to close the curtain again, Ido not want to think of the outside. I am afraid of the outside, and Iam afraid when the curtain tears open in rags. I want to be in our ownfine world inside the heavy gold mist-curtain.'
As if in answer or in protest to her thoughts, Siegmund said:
'Do you want anything better than this, dear? Shall we come here nextyear, and stay for a whole month?'
'If there be any next year,' said she.
Siegmund did not reply.
She wondered if he had really spoken in sincerity, or if he, too, weremocking fate. They walked slowly through the broiling sun towardstheir lodging.
'There will be an end to this,' said Helena, communing with herself.'And when we come out of the mist-curtain, what will it be? Nomatter--let come what will. All along Fate has been resolving, from thevery beginning, resolving obvious discords, gradually, by unfamiliarprogression; and out of original combinations weaving wondrous harmonieswith our lives. Really, th
e working out has been wondrous, is wondrousnow. The Master-Fate is too great an artist to suffer an anti-climax. Iam sure the Master-Musician is too great an artist to allow a batheticanti-climax.'