The Gateless Barrier

by Lucas Malet

  XX

  The funeral was over. Those few gentlemen of the neighbourhood who hadfelt it incumbent upon them to appear in person, had departed. So hadthe empty broughams of their more numerous neighbours, who proposed tooffer a maximum of respect to the dead with a minimum of trouble tothemselves. The Archdeacon also had started on his homeward journey toBishop's Pudbury. At Mr. Beal's earnest entreaty he had been invited byLaurence Rivers to take part in the function. The young clergyman hadbeen sadly exercised by scruples regarding the propriety of consigningthe mortal remains of an admitted sceptic and scoffer to the grave, withwords of Christian hope and blessing. What was left for believers ifunbelievers thus benefited? The conscience of his superior officer washappily of less flabby texture.

  "Charity before all things, my dear Walter," the latter had said, in hisfull, sonorous voice, when the ingenuous young man had unfolded hisdifficulties. "It is not for you, or even for me, to judge and condemna fellow-creature. If not an active churchman, remember Mr. Riversdisplayed no leanings towards Rome or any other schismatic body. Forthis we must be very thankful. There are occasions, moreover, as youwill learn in time, when the purely ecclesiastical attitude may fitly bemodified by the knowledge of the man of the world. We yield no point,mark you; but we abstain from pressing a wrong point at a wrong time.Judgment, statesmanship--therein lies the practical application of thesacred injunction, 'Be ye wise as serpents and harmless as doves.' Toraise objections in the present case would be to increase rather thanmitigate the possibility of scandal--probably, moreover, it would be toalienate the sympathies of young Mr. Rivers. We must learn never tosacrifice the future to the present, my dear Walter. To do so is to fallinto errors of misplaced zeal--a very dangerous thing. Much, I cannotbut think, may be done with young Mr. Rivers. Wisely handled, he shouldprove of considerable local service to the Church."

  So the good young man's soul received comfort.

  "What a privilege it is to talk with you, sir!" he said. "I always learnso much."

  Last to go, as he had been first to arrive at Stoke Rivers, was CaptainBellingham.

  "Poor old chap, I tell you, I've had him very much on my mind, Louise,these last few days," he had said to his wife, that morning, atbreakfast. "It's only decent charity to see him through. I hear he'slooking uncommonly hipped. You thought him rather queer, you know, theday he had luncheon here. Mercy for him the old gentleman died as soonas he did--perfectly mad, too, I hear, and an infernal temper. It'senough to make any one jumpy to be dancing attendance on such a deathbedas that day after day; and in that gloomy, ghostly house too. I couldn'thave done it, I know, without getting most frightfully broken up. Wemust try to get him over here for a day or two. Write him a nice note,will you, Louise; it would be awfully good of you, and I will do my bestto bring him back with me to-night. Ought to be quiet to-morrow, Isuppose, for the sake of appearances; but the day after let's haveGeneral Powys and the Westons to dinner. I want to rattle him up a bit."

  But neither Mrs. Bellingham's neatly worded note, nor her husband'shospitable entreaties, moved Laurence Rivers. He had quite other fish tofry. All he asked for was solitude and sunset; and his courtesy wasslightly perfunctory and formal in consequence--so much so, indeed, thaton his return Jack Bellingham remarked to his wife:--

  "Rivers always was such a good-hearted, sensible sort of fellow, thatit's hardly likely coming into this property would turn his head. He'sabove any vulgarity of that kind. All the same, he really was curiouslystand-offish to everybody to-day. The Archdeacon meant to make anafternoon of it, and was a little bit huffed, I think. Rivers wasperfectly civil, only he gave us pretty clearly to understand there wasno call for any of us to dawdle. I don't know, but somehow I tell you,Louise, I don't quite like his look. We shall see. It would be an awfulpity if he followed in the footsteps of the late lamented and turned outa crank."

  "I know it," Mrs. Bellingham replied calmly. "But you omit Virginia. Ihave never seen a woman less likely to tolerate a crank as her husbandthan Virginia."

  And so at length the accustomed quiet settled down on Stoke Rivers.Dinner was over, and the unwelcome daylight fairly flown. Abstinence hadgone to sharpen the edge of hunger, and Laurence made his way down thecorridor, pulled the curtain towards him, and entered the room ofmysterious meetings in a humour to venture much. At the escritoire stoodhis fairy-lady, and at the sound of the closing door she turned andextended her arms, a world of delicate welcome in her gesture and herface. Then, as he came towards her, she drew back a little, as thoughpenitent of the fervour of her greeting. Her lips moved, but no soundissued from them; and a quick fear went through the young man that,through the action of some malign influence, she had declined upon herformer condition and once again become dumb. This raised the spirit ofbattle in him, and reinforced his resolution to effect her emancipationfrom the control of whatever opposing power--physical orspiritual--might hold her in its grasp. The more so that, for all hergladness, there was a hint of trouble, a little cloud of distress uponher face, which provoked him to indignation. He hated that--be it whatit might--which held her sweet being in thrall.

  "Agnes, why is this? Why don't you speak to me?" he demanded.

  Whereat she smiled, as one who loves yet deprecates another'sunreasoning heat.

  "How can I speak," she asked, "until you have first spoken to me?"

  "But why not? I don't understand," he said.

  "Nor I," she answered; "only I know that so it is. I cannot explain thewhy and wherefore of this, or of much besides, to myself. I am to myselfat once real and unreal--as an echo, a shadow, the reflection in amirror, is at once real and unreal."

  She looked at him seriously, wonderingly, as though trying to takecounsel with him against herself.

  "I see with your eyes, I speak with your voice, I comprehend with yourmind when you are present. When you are absent, I become as the echounevoked by any sound, as the shadow when neither sun or moon lookforth to cast it, as the reflection in the mirror when that of which itwas the image has moved away. Only my heart remains to me; and it, whenyou are absent, longs and searches, journeying from place to place,formless, wordless, and blind, sensible only of its own infelicity,while seeking that which alone can bring it ease and light."

  "My poor love!" Laurence said gently, greatly moved; "my poor love!"

  For a space he was silent, pondering upon her words, almost staggered bythe intensity of her innocent passion. He was not worthy to inspire suchdevotion. Had that other Laurence Rivers, his predecessor and namesake,been more worthy, he wondered. Shame covered him in face of thedeception he was in process of practising upon her. But he put thethought of that from him fiercely. For was he not prepared to take allthe risks? Surely his action was justified--was it not a work of mercyto rescue and restore this gentle and homeless ghost? And then, sincethe air was mild and the young moon lent an added charm to the formalalleys of the Italian garden, Laurence, hoping thereby both to allay hisown perturbation of spirit and dissipate the melancholy which still satin the clear depths of Agnes Rivers's lovely eyes, engaged her to comeout, once more, and walk. But though the charm of the garden was great,he almost regretted that he had invited her to leave the shelter of thehouse, she appeared so anxiously elusive and fragile a creature.Watching her, though his courage was stubborn and his will fiercely set,the task he had undertaken appeared hopeless of accomplishment. But ifthe task was hopeless, all the more must it be fulfilled--that had beenthe way of his people, and henceforth it was to be his way. And so hetalked to her with a certain lightness, looking at her and smiling.

  "Are you happy, Agnes?" he asked her at last.

  And she answered with a return to her daintily demure and old-worldmanner--

  "I should, indeed, be ungrateful were I not so, dear Laurence. Yet,since you question me, I must own a distrust of the future works a blackthread through all the glad pattern of the present."

  She paused, glancing back somewhat timidly at the house. Every window ofit was lighted
, save those of Mr. Rivers's bed-chamber. These last weredark and blank, producing an arresting effect, and recalling to Laurencethe empty eye-sockets of the crystal _memento mori_.

  "You are here with me," she continued, "and again I taste happiness. YetI am oppressed by the persuasion that, as before, in some hour ofpeculiar promise and security you will be called from my side. And thatthis time--ah! I fear you may justly reproach my weakness and deride myfar-fetched alarms--this time, going, you will not return; or returning,you will no longer find me here to greet you."

  "Then very certainly I will never go--that is unless you yourself sendme," Laurence said. He walked on a few paces, and then added, speakingalmost sullenly, answering his own thoughts rather than herwords--"Thank Heaven, I am my own master at last. No one can compel me.I can do as I think fit; and since I think fit to stay, stay I mostassuredly will, here among my own people, and in my own house."

  He looked at his companion, instinctively desiring to read approval inher eyes; but her expression was one of startled inquiry.

  "Forgive me," she said, "either Mrs. Lambart has omitted to tell me,fearing to shock me, or in my heedlessness I have forgotten. Are youindeed master here, dear Laurence? How is that? Can it be that yourbrother Dudley is dead?"

  "Yes," he answered, "the old order has changed--and yet not changedperhaps so very much after all, for it appears the owners of StokeRivers, ancient and modern, are very much of one blood. But, in truth,Dudley is gone, and others have gone--God rest both him and them--and Ireign in their stead."

  "Yes, God rest his soul," she said; and then repeated softly--"PoorDudley! poor unhappy Dudley!"

  But Laurence, noting her pensive bearing, and hearing the gentlyregretful tones of her voice, was pricked pretty sharply by a point ofjealousy from out the long past.

  "Is it a matter of so very much grief to you, Agnes," he asked, "to hearthe news of your cousin Dudley's death?"

  Whereupon she turned on him eyes very reassuringly full of love;while--after a little space--her lips curved into a delicious and almostsaucy smile.

  "Ah! I feared you had grown old and wise," she exclaimed. "I was foolishto vex myself. I see you are indubitably the same Laurence as ever."

  She laughed very sweetly, sweeping him a delicate curtsey.

  "The very same Laurence as ever," she repeated exultingly.

  Then she flitted away--as though, child-like, joy of heart must needsfind relief in movement--down the long alley across the oblique shadowscast by the sentinel cypresses, until she reached the great, stone basinof the terminal fountain. Here she paused, gazing down at the smooth,slow movements of the sleepless fish.

  The borders on either side the walk were set out with bulbs and earlyflowering plants. As yet the majority of these showed but bud, orupstanding sheaths of leaf. The gilly-stocks only were fully in blossom.The clean, homely fragrance of them hung in the still air; but themoonlight had bleached their honest orange and russet faces, makingthem, like all else of the scene, but varying degrees of light and dark.Alone in this colourless world, frail though it was and ethereal, hadthe sweet figure of Agnes Rivers retained its actual hues. The brown ofher hair, the warm pallor of her skin, the blue of her profound and nowlaughing eyes, the soft rose-red of her silken gown, defied the chill ofthe moonlight. And this, as Laurence moved towards her, deepened alikethe charm and the mystery of her appearance. It captivated hisimagination. It stimulated his ambition. It challenged the deep placesof his love. The hopeless task must indeed be accomplished. Theimpossible must come to pass. Daring that which no other man had dared,he would earn a reward such as no other man had dreamed. But he must becautious, and discreet, and very gentle. The diplomatist, for a longwhile to come, must hold the lover in check if the end was to be gained.

  And just then Agnes Rivers's voice broke into a little song, hardlyarticulate, but clear and instinct with delight, even as the songs ofbirds, very early in spring, when pairing time has but just begun. Yetenchanting as the tones were, there was in them something remote andbeyond the compass of human thought, piercing the young man to the veryheart, so that he cried to her--

  "Ah! my dear, come down, come near. Leave your singing, it is too sweet.It has too much to do with spirit and too little with flesh. It cutslike a knife. There--there--I am not blaming you, God forbid. Only, youhave lived so long on the borderland between those two worlds, of whichyou once spoke, that you have a little lost touch with ordinary mortalssuch as I. Come down, come near. Don't you see what I mean? Don't youknow what I want?"

  And after gentle converse, when that morning the dawn broke and withwords of tender farewell, his fairy-lady crossed the yellow drawing-roomand passed at the back of the outstanding satin-wood escritoire, as herhabit was, it appeared to Laurence that, for the first time, a faintshadow followed her little feet. And this filled him with great andfar-reaching hope--as the first dim greyness of land along the horizonfills the sailor after long voyaging upon the open sea. Nevertheless,she vanished as before, leaving him solitary, while of the manner of hergoing there remained no sign.