The Gateless Barrier

by Lucas Malet

  XVII

  The afternoon was fair and mild, a pensive charm upon it of mistysunshine and light fugitive shadows--one of those tender, silveryafternoons very characteristic of an English spring. It was as thoughnature, repentant of the violence of the past night, would disarmresentment by softness of mood, pretty invitations, and all manner ofinsinuating caresses. Thrushes piped among the high branches, and on thehouse-roofs starlings whistled and chattered, their crops filled withsucculent comfort of worms and slugs. Upon the wide lawns two pairs ofgrey wag-tails scampered, with interludes of love-making and rapidupward flutterings after young gnats and flies--born out of due time andpaying speedy and final penalty of too precocious an advent. The yearhad fairly turned its back on winter at last, and a promise of genialdays, warm, lingering twilights, and tranquil nights was in the air.

  Yet the late storm had not departed altogether without witness. ForLaurence, pacing the broad walk from the last steps of the Italiangarden to the confines of the lime-grove, could hear the hushing ofbirch-brooms and the ring of an axe. One of the tall cypresses hadfallen right across the central alley, and gardeners were still busychopping it up, carting away blocks of red wood and barrow-loads ofscented branches, and obliterating the traces of its downfall.

  Laurence paced the walk in a state of dreamy abstraction. The influencesof the hour and the place were soothing to him. Their last interview andthe final scene in his uncle's bed-chamber had affected him deeply.To-day had been full of detail. He had spent great part of the morningat the little, grey, Norman church, in company with Armstrong, Mr. Beal,and the estate mason, superintending the opening of the Rivers's vault,and such alteration of the position of the coffins it contained as torender possible the addition of another to their number. Upon thecoffin-plates he read the names of many members of his family--of DudleyRivers and others; and that of his own father, Denbigh Rivers, who haddied on foreign service in Malta, when he--Laurence--was a child, andwhose body had been sent home, not without cost and difficulty, to lieamong his kindred in this quiet place. Of Agnes Rivers's coffin--thoughhe closely examined all such as were still intact--he discovered notrace.

  "There won't be room for me or mine down there, Armstrong," he said tothe agent, as the two stood in the sunny churchyard, flicking theclinging cobwebs of the vault from off their clothes. "Not that I'mparticularly sorry for that. Look here, you see the vacant space thereby the chancel wall? Just try if you can arrange to have it staked outand reserved, without encroaching on the rights or hurting the feelingsof any of the parishioners. I rather fancy lying there--unless I'm luckyenough to die at sea, and be dropped over the ship's side into theclear, blue water, with a shot at my feet."

  "Every man to his humour, no doubt, Mr. Rivers," the other answered, inhis slow sing-song. "Though I could find it in my heart to wish you aless uneasy resting-place than the swaying deeps of the ocean. Yet Isuppose it was just there, and in the manner you have indicated, thatyour namesake and great-uncle, Laurence Rivers, found burial after theglorious battle of Trafalgar."

  Laurence had stopped beating the clinging cobwebs from his sleeve, andturned to the speaker with a look of quick intelligence.

  "Why, of course it was," he said, presently adding--"Upon my word, Iwonder--will history repeat itself in that particular also!"

  Subsequently, there had been letters to write, telegrams to despatch,the disorganised household gently, but firmly, to lay hold on. And nowhe paced the broad walk in an interval of leisure, listening till thegrinding of carriage-wheels upon the gravel of the chestnut avenueshould advise him that Mr. Wormald, his uncle's lawyer--whom he hadsummoned from town--had arrived at Stoke Rivers Road, and completed thetransit from that station. And as he thus paced, while the silverysunshine and shadow gently followed one another across the face of thefair, woodland landscape, a little of the pride of possession awoke inthe young man. He had hardly had time to think of that before; nor didit seem quite fitting or seemly to do so when the breath had but solately left the body lying in that stately room upstairs. Yet it wasindisputable, this was precisely the event which, consciously orunconsciously, he had waited for ever since his boyhood. The prospect ofone day succeeding to this property had handicapped him; he felt that.It had placed him in a position, socially, slightly beyond his means. Ithad taken from him the incentive and inclination to carve out anindependent career. So far it had been the reverse of an advantage, fromthe more serious standpoint. But now all that was changed. He had a verydefinite "name and local habitation." He was absolutely his ownmaster--no longer heir-apparent, but recognised owner and ruler of a byno means contemptible territory. This was as the step from boyhood tomanhood--from the last of a public school to the freedom and personalresponsibility of youth no longer subject to tutelage. Laurence smiledto himself. It occurred to him he had really got to grow up at last.Well--he had been a precious long time about it! And then, somehow, itoccurred to him that this change in his fortunes altered and modifiedhis relation to Virginia. He had lived in Virginia's country, and amongher friends, almost exclusively, since his marriage. He had, he wasaware, ranked somewhat as Virginia's husband. Now the state of affairswas reversed. He was in a position to claim full masculineprerogatives--those of an old country, of a ripe and finishedcivilisation, well understood. In future Virginia--she was verycharming, very, he'd no quarrel with her of course--only, in future,Virginia would have to rank as his wife.

  And, thereupon, involuntarily his eyes sought the bay-window of theyellow drawing-room. At the foot of the semicircular stone steps, on towhich that window opened, the gardeners still moved to and fro--slow,brown-clad figures--collecting and wheeling away the _debris_ of thefallen cypress. Laurence refused to formulate further the thoughts thatarose in his mind. Only one thing was clear to him--clear as the songsand whistlings of the birds, clear as the tinkle and plash of thefountains, the spray of which glittered so brightly silver in thesilvery light--Virginia could not come to Stoke Rivers just yet. It wasbetter--better in every way--that her coming should be postponed for awhile--till the period of mourning for his uncle was over--till he,Laurence, had mastered all the business, and organised the existentmasculine household upon a new basis--till he had thoroughly acquaintedhimself not only with the working of this, but of the Scotchestate--till he and Virginia were free to keep open house--till--till--

  At that moment, perhaps fortunately, the dogcart emerged from theshelter of the great chestnut-trees, and swung round the carriage sweepto the front door. Laurence crossed the lawns and the angle of theItalian garden quickly.--What a pity that cypress had fallen! It brokethe line, destroying the symmetry of the garden; and it was almost thetallest and finest grown of the lot.

  In the hall Mr. Wormald discoursed affably with the men-servants, whilethe latter divested him of more than one overcoat. He was a small,withered man, his back bowed and his hands sadly crippled by rheumaticgout, by much handling of pens, and leaning over lengthy legaldocuments; yet his movements were noticeably alert. His clean-shaven,busy, little face was enlightened by nimble, red-brown, squirrel-likeeyes.

  "Thank ye, Renshaw," he said. "Gently--ah, yes, you remember! Thesedamp, spring days get into my joints, I promise you. Ah! there you are,Watkins. Yes, sad affair this, and sudden. Great shock to you all, nodoubt. Quite so--but I observe that so frequently is the case. Alingering illness, the termination of which grows to seem more and moreremote, and then the end with unlooked-for rapidity. Yes, very sad."

  Disengaging himself from the sleeves of his second coat, he perceivedLaurence's arrival, and his squirrel-like eyes scampered, so to speak,over the young man from head to foot. Like the agent, he appeared toreceive an agreeable impression, for he gave a subdued squeak evidentlyindicative of satisfaction.

  "Ah! Mr. Rivers," he exclaimed, "you will not remember me. It is manyyears since we met. You were a little shaver in an Eton-jacket and roundcollar. And your poor uncle passed away quite suddenly at last?--Not amatter for regret, I venture to think. Few
men would have been morefretted by a consciousness of failing powers. Remarkable intellect"--Mr.Wormald keckled softly, as he passed with the young man into thelibrary--"quite beyond me, out of my humble range altogether, you know,Mr. Rivers. I admired his conversation; yet I cannot venture to pretendI attached any intelligible meaning to one-half of what your uncle said.But our business relations were very simple. He disliked business toomuch to wish to prolong the discussion of it. You will find all legalarrangements very direct. The death duties will be heavy; but, otherwisethere are no deductions, I believe, save one or two small legacies tothe servants.--Dinner, yes, Mr. Rivers, the earlier the better for me. Ishould be glad to put in a long evening with Armstrong; then we willhave everything ready for you in the morning. I have an appointment witha client at five to-morrow afternoon, so I will ask you to let me go upby the two o'clock. I shall not need to encroach on your time to-night."

  Therefore it happened, that, comparatively early Laurence found himselffree to go down the red-carpeted corridor, pull back the heavy,leather-lined curtain, and enter the room of strange and delectablemeetings once again. What fortune, good or bad, awaited him, he couldnot even surmise. He had learned one thing at least, that, in thisconnection, nothing was certain save the unforeseen. Nevertheless, hewas sensible of slight surprise on finding the room shrouded in vaguegloom. By some oversight the electric light had not been turned on. Butthe March evenings were long, and he had come to the trysting-placebefore the accustomed hour. The day was not wholly dead yet, andtwilight lingered in the neighbourhood of the bay-window. After hisfirst movement of surprise, Laurence found a restful charm in the softobscurity surrounding him. Once again the room had resumed its effect offriendliness; and if his fairy-lady was not there as yet, no more weremalign and opposing powers. The place was kindly and peaceful. It, likethe weather, had settled back into a mild and engaging mood.

  The young man felt his way across to the window, and sat down in one ofthe gilt-framed, brocade-covered armchairs on the right of the bay.There he waited, looking out now at the garden, growing mysterious andshadowy in the deepening dusk; now at the tall, satin-wood escritoire,the highly polished surfaces of which, reflecting the expiring light,glistened so that the shape of it remained visible after surroundingobjects had faded from sight.

  How long he waited Laurence did not know, nor did he greatly care. Hehad been very actively employed for the better part of the lastsix-and-thirty hours, and both as to mind and body he was in anunusually quiescent state. His energies were in pleasant suspension. Thedimly seen room swam before his eyes. He made no effort of resistance. Amist clouded his vision, clouded all his faculties, and he slept.

  When he awoke it was high noon. He lay on the stone bench beneath thelime-trees, the innumerable leaves of which rustled and danced in thewarm, summer wind. He awoke laughing from a wholly delicious dream--ayoung man's dream of very lovely love, which after long denial and delayhad found perfect fulfilment. He felt very light and content. Life wassweet, this smiling, summer world infinitely hopeful and sympathetic.Then he stretched himself, smoothed the revers of his flowered, silkwaistcoat, and straightened his lawn cravat, which had been somewhatdisplaced during the pleasant relaxation of slumber. He rubbed a trifleof dust, too, from the knee of his plumb-coloured breeches with hishandkerchief. Then he stood up still laughing, yet with a growing hungerin his heart, since he began to realise that those delights were his, asyet, only within the gates of sleep and of dreams. He stretched again, asigh mingling with his laughter; and then discovered that through theshifting, dappled sunlight and shadow Agnes Rivers approached him withher pretty, flitting, bird-like grace. To-day she wore a pale,lemon-yellow, India-muslin dress, spotted with cinnamon-coloured sprigs,and a white and cinnamon coloured waist ribbon embroidered in blownroses and tiny buds. A black, velvet work-bag, with long yellow andblack strings to it, hung upon her arm; while her charming head and neckshowed up in high relief against the open blue-grey sunshade shecarried tilted over her right shoulder. Laurence went forward to meether, all aglow from his recent sleep and from the fond imaginations ofthat delicious dream. Half playfully, half in sharp desire of mastery,he took away her sunshade and work-bag, and threw them down upon theturf. Then grasping both her hands in his, he kissed and kissed them,holding them high and bending his head so that his eyes were on a levelwith hers. And there must have been something in his eyes fearful,though enchanting, to her perfect maidenliness, for she flushed andtried to withdraw her hands, moving back a step from him with an air ofquestioning and innocent dignity.

  "Laurence, Laurence," she said chidingly, "what does this mean? What hastaken you?"

  "Only happiness," he answered, "of which, having seen the dear vision, Ivery badly need the still dearer reality."

  "Ah!" she said, "and yet you will go away--how soon we do not know--tothis most unhappy war, and leave me desolate."

  "Yes, and it is best so, sweetheart," he replied; serious, though stillsmiling--she was so pure, so trustful, and so very fair. Her gentlebeauty racked him--"Best so," he repeated--"best pass the timehonourably, fighting for king and country, until your twenty-firstbirthday is past, and Dudley can no longer forbid our marriage, and Ican claim you, make and keep you mine forever and a day--"

  And thereupon he stopped abruptly, for his elder brother had come uponthem unperceived--Dudley, thin and tall, clothed in sad-coloured,brown-grey coat and vest, the locks of his long, pale hair stirred bythe summer wind, in his hand a bundle of papers--Dudley, whose high,narrow head, refined features, and deep-set, fanatical eyes remindedLaurence strangely of his uncle, Montagu Rivers, lying upstairs in thecarven, ebony bed, with the crystal _memento mori_ and the silver bellof the elegantly poised Mercury handle on the table beside him.--But howwas that? How could it be? He confused two generations. Dudley Rivers'scoffin he had seen, in the vault of the little, Norman church, only thismorning. The dust lay thick on it. For more than half a century it hadreposed there undisturbed; whereas his uncle, Montagu Rivers, died butlast night!

  Yet even while he thus reasoned, the scene suffered change. All aroundhim was the roar of cannon; and beneath him the screaming of two ships,grinding into one another, side to side, upon the lift and fall of theAtlantic, where the sea grows short towards Gibraltar and the Straits.They screamed, those ships, as fighting stallions scream--a fierce andterrible sound. And all their decks were slippery with blood, throughwhich half-naked men ran red-footed, or falling, wallowed, while theyell of battle went up hoarse from many hundred throats. The whitesails, torn and streaming, were dyed wild, lurid colours by the flash ofmusketry and up-rolling volumes of smoke from the heavy guns. It was ashell let loose. Yet discipline prevailed, as did a desperate andpersistent purpose, through all the tumult and slaughter. Laurencehimself felt cool, light-hearted even, as he shouted orders and ralliedhis men in no mild language. His courage was high and his life strongin him. He laughed, notwithstanding the murderous noise, the sickeningand brutal sights. But, to his fury, just in the turn of the engagement,when victory seemed assured at last, he felt a shattering blow at thetop of his chest, and the blood welled up from his pierced lungs, andall the world about him grew black. He staggered back against thesplintered bulwarks, putting his left hand upon the thin packet ofletters buttoned inside his uniform against his heart, and calledaloud--"Agnes, Agnes."

  And out of the blackness a sweet voice, speaking as from some fardistance, answered, crying--"Laurence, Laurence"--in accents oftremulous but very exquisite joy. Then within his palm he felt once morethat just perceptible pulsation, as of the fluttering wings of a captivebutterfly; while, in the ghostly twilight still glimmering in throughthe great bay-window, he beheld the slender form and rose-red, silkendress of his sweet fairy-lady, there, close at his side.