Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini!
LOLITA
A LOVE EPISODE
GLORY — honour — love of the old Homeland!” - he said, pushing his hat from his brows, and gazing up into the deep turquoise blue of the tropical sky.
“Pooh!” exclaimed Lolita, and laughed. Her laugh was delicious — like that of a mirthful child, and her dark, passionate eyes flashed light with the laughter.
“Pooh!” she repeated, snapping a couple of little white fingers n her companion’s face, “I tell you, pooh! Poo-oo-ooh! Glory! This is glory, to be here together as we are to-day! Honour? I give it you!” and, leaning from the hammock in which she reclined, she flung an arm round his neck, pulled him close to her, and kissed him. “That is honour! — yes! For I never kissed any man but you! Love of the Homeland? What is the Homeland? Is it not here, where we were born? — where the sun shines all day? — where the beautiful flowers bloom and the palms grow, and where we are happy? Yet — you would go to fight for a country you never saw! Fie! And leave me!”
He looked at her with ardent, amorous tenderness.
She was well worth looking at. Lovely, with the voluptuous full-bosomed loveliness of Southern latitudes, and thoroughly prodigal in the exercise of her charms, she was an unspoilt masterpiece of nature. Her eyes were magnificent — softly glowing and wild, under long, silky lashes; and her hair, looped back in heavy, waving masses, was of a dense lustrous black, the beauty of its gloss and burnish being set off by the vivid scarlet flower thrust carelessly behind a small ear as white as pearl. Her face was a pure oval, of a complexion warm and bright as the hue of a ripening peach; and the smile which parted her full, red lips showed the prettiest little teeth like the tiny shells that gleam on the shores of a tropical ocean. And with all her physical attractions there was something still more alluring in her mentality — she seemed to exhale beauty and strength together.
“Lolita, Lolita!” he murmured, passionately. “How you tease and torture me! You know — you must know — what it will be for me to leave you! It will be worse than death, for I love you! — ah, how I love you!” — and rising from his chair, he bent over her in the hammock and twined his arms about her. “I want to be always with you — Lolita!”
“Good boy!” she smiled, lazily. “That is how you should behave! — that is how you look your best, with your eyes very blue and greedy! They are English eyes — rather cold! — but your lips are warm — they want another kiss! Ah, how good it is to be alive! And you want to die!”
He lifted her from her reclining position and held her against his heart.
“I do not want to die!” he said, half angrily. “How could I? Life holds everything good and beautiful for me! But see, Lolita — my father is an Englishman—”
“Do I not know it?” She laughed again. “Very stiff and very proper! — so afraid of himself sometimes, like so many Britishers who are over-anxious to be considered respectable! But they are not more respectable than other people for all that! Your dear good papa was a real man when he married your lovely Spanish mother.” She threw her head back against his breast and gazed up at him with languishing, sweet eyes. “He felt then what it was to love! — yes! not just to consider whether it would be ‘respectable’ to get married. He loved! — he loved! — the day was all gold! — the night all silver! — the flowers spoke — the trees danced — the world was fairyland — he loved! And you — Antonio! you love! you love me — and I — I love you!”
Oh, she was a dangerous siren! Anthony Graeme, the only and much-idolized son of one of the wealthiest British settlers in the Argentine, felt himself rapidly drifting away on a flood of passion to a land of dreams! Was there ever such a honey-voiced enchantress? — such a warm, glorious armful of pure womanhood fresh from God and Nature as Lolita? — this Spanish maiden, daughter of a proud race that traced their descent back to the days of Cortes and his conquering crew? The Graemes, though they could claim historical Scottish ancestors, were nothing compared to the lineage Lolita claimed from “Grandees of Spain,” and though she would give herself up to the pleasures of life and love with a joyous abandon which had nothing of the “fast” or vulgar in it, she was prouder than any empress of her exclusive and stately heritage of “the blue blood of Castile” as she would say, with a bewitching uplift of her chin and a flash of her dark eyes. Anthony Graeme and she had taken but a few moments to fall desperately in love — in a week they became engaged, with the consent of their respective families, and “the course of true love” for them ran smoothly under the splendour and fervour of that Southern sun which kindles the flame of life in human hearts as in the songs of birds and the blossoming of flowers. But now a shadow had fallen on the brightness — the shadow of the world’s Most Wicked War.
And Anthony Graeme felt the deepening of the shadow — the darkness of unexpressed and inexpressible evil creeping over the land he had been taught from childhood to love and to revere — England. England! — in which musical name one grasps all Britain! — the land from whence his father came and of which he ever spoke with love and longing.
“If I were not too old,” he had said one day when he first heard of “Kitchener’s Army,”
“I would give up all I possess to fight for the old country!”
“Would you give me?” his only son then asked him.
His eyes rested on the lithe, gracious form of the lad, the handsome face, the expression of hopeful and happy youth, and a slight tremor passed over him, but he replied:
“Yes — I would give you!”
“Then you shall!” said Anthony. “I’ll go!”
The father started up.
“No, Anthony, you are too quick, too impulsive — you have Lolita to think of.”
“I will not marry Lolita till I come back,” declared Anthony, resolutely. “She shall be free to choose another man if she likes — though I know she will not! But I’ll go! And I’ll tell her I’m going.”
Nothing would alter his determination, and he had told Lolita, but she would not hear of it, would not believe him.
“Why should you go?” she asked, plaintively.
“There are plenty of other men! You are not compelled!”
“No, that is just why!” he answered. “You sweet Lolita, don’t you see that I must make some voluntary sacrifice, or what is the good of service? I shall give up all I hold dearest — you, my father, mother, home!” — and his young voice trembled— “I shall give up more perhaps than many men — but Lolita! My conscience tells me it is the duty of every man to go.” She was silent, playing with the flower she had put in his buttonhole. After a pause she said:
“Duty is an ugly word, and it means different things in different countries. No! — I will not let you frown at me! Long ago in Old Spain it was Torquemada’s ‘duty’ to put his fellow-creatures on the rack and twist their limbs off! In old Mexico it was the people’s ‘duty’ to dash out other people’s brains and burn their bodies on altars to their dreadful gods. Among certain savage tribes it is a ‘duty’ to eat one’s grandparents! What would you? Now you say it is your ‘duty’ to fight for your father’s country which you never saw, and which does not care about you in the very least!”
He smiled.
“Darling, it may be so, but whether it cares or not, I care! I wish to prove myself the true son of a true Englishman!”
Lolita’s eyes flashed.
“And as the true son of a true Englishman you choose to marry a Spanish girl!” she said. “Are you sure that will suit you?”
“Quite sure!” he replied, smiling, and kissing her as she sprang lightly out of the hammock and stood beside him in the spacious court of her father’s beautiful villa, designed after the Spanish-Mauresque style, and surrounded by banks of flowers, cooled by a great central fountain in full play. “Very sure, indeed, that it will more than suit me to marry the sweetest Spanish girl in the world! — when I return!”
She gazed at him wistfully
.
“When you return!” she echoed, with a deep sigh. “Ah! you do not know your England!”
She went slowly and dispiritedly into the house; he followed, saddened, but none the less resolved.
Four months later he found himself where his “duty” called him — in the “old country.” Since he had entered “into training” he had scarcely seen the sun; rain and cloud, fog and damp had persistently done their best to depress his mentality. He longed, with an almost heartsick passion, for the brilliant light, the deep azure skies of the far South, and still more ardently did he long for a friend to whom he might sometimes unburden his soul. His fellow-officers were civil to him, of course; but somewhat fond of —
“Gorgonizing him from head to foot With a stony British stare.”
He was British himself on his father’s side, but his mother’s Spanish blood also ran warmly in his veins — moreover, he was young and in love with one of the most fascinating maidens in the world, from whom he was now parted by immense distances of sea and land. Her face was ever before him — her dark, luminous eyes flashed their tender appeal on him in his dreams, and though he saw many typically fair English girls, he found them colourless, cold, and without a touch of that indefinable physical grace which made the beauty of Lolita as exquisite as that of a rose swaying in the sunlight. And he often felt a great loneliness; though he fought against this desolate impression, combating it with a sense of pride that at any rate he was in the “Mother” country, and one of the self-sacrificing sons of “Britain Overseas” who had come to defend her in her need. He was grateful, too, for numerous kindnesses shown him by pleasant English women, and though he did not care for the soot and smoke of London, his heart went out to the green loveliness of rural haunts and river nooks far from the great city, where peace seemed to sit smiling, regardless of war, and it was in such moments as these when his eyes rested on the fair smoothness of the fields and the pastoral landscape that he was glad to be a “Britisher.”
“Yes,” he said, inwardly. “There’s no doubt about it! It’s a grand thing, and I’ll fight for England and die for it, if die I must! It’s better than living for any other country!”
And he was glad, when, his training finished, he got his chance, and was ordered to the front. In the very first attack in which he was engaged against the foe he distinguished himself by an act of brilliant courage, and was called by his Colonel to receive a word of praise. The unexpected kindness confused him — he sought no distinction, no honour, and his courage was merely the result of never imagining himself to be courageous. Nevertheless, the little “uplift” of appreciation given by his superior officer spurred him on to fresh effort, and he soon became almost notorious among his men for the reckless dash and daring of many of his actions in the field. One day, however, there came an end to his adventures and hopes as far as his fighting “for England” was concerned. Storming an enemy position and leading his comrades “over the top” there was a sudden roar as of splitting rocks in his ears, and with a last cry of “Forward!” he fell into abysmal darkness and silence — the darkness and silence of what seemed to be the very pit of death. How long he lay there he never knew, but when again he awoke to dreamy consciousness he found himself in a narrow white bed, one of many such beds ranged in orderly rows, and someone was bending over him — someone who asked him if he felt easier. He essayed to answer — to smile.
“I’m all right!” he murmured, faintly. “I can’t think what happened—”
“Don’t worry!” said a gentle voice. “Try and keep quite quiet! You’re much better — I’ll send a sister to you.”
He drew a long sigh and closed his eyes. The reality of his surroundings gradually began to steal in upon his consciousness — he was in hospital, evidently wounded, but how and where? He wondered vaguely, but was too exhausted to pursue the mental inquiry. His thoughts, gathering clearness, reverted to the central star of his life, which had become eclipsed to sight and sense by the blackness of battle — and Lolita’s face, fair and sweet and provocative, shone upon him with that Southern brilliancy and charm which is all unknown to Northern climes. The vision was so entrancing that he kept his eyes fast closed — to open them would be to see the long ward of the hospital, the little beds, the sad array of wounded, and so be reminded of all he sought for the moment to forget. And presently he drifted away into a sound sleep, and when he awoke, it was night. The lights in the ward were turned low, and there was silence, broken only by a weary sigh or moan from some brave lad struggling against restlessness and pain.
A woman sat beside his bed — her figure indistinctly outlined seemed young and graceful; she wore the nursing sister’s white cap and apron, and on her breast was the Red Cross. Her hands were busy with some knitting, and it was on these hands that his gaze became fixed. Very pretty hands they were — very white and dainty. He moved restlessly; some bandages held him, as it were, imprisoned; he tried to turn his head on the pillow.
“You must not move,” said a quiet voice beside him, the sweet, low voice of the nursing sister. “You are badly wounded. Please keep as still as you can.”
He strove to see her face, but it was averted, and bent over her knitting, and the lamps in the ward were all turned very low.
Presently he essayed to speak:
“What is wrong with me? Am I dying?”
“No!” the gentle voice answered him. “No, please God you will not die! You are doing very well. But — you have lost your right arm. Oh, don’t mind it” — this, as a faint exclamation of distress came from his lips— “you can do ever so many things with your left!”
A silence followed. His thoughts began to buzz in his head like bees, and swarmed round that honey-flower of the South, Lolita. She, so perfect and gracious in her loveliness, must never marry a disabled man! His eyes smarted with a weak sense of tears — his lips were dry. After a pause he asked:
“May I have a drop of water? I am so sorry to trouble you!”
She rose, turning her back to him, and put aside her knitting. Then she came forward, carrying a feeding-cup full of lemon water, and passing her arm under his pillow, lifted his head, pillow and all, so that his lips might reach the cooling draught. He drank gratefully, and as he sank back again in his former recumbent position he suddenly opened his eyes wide, more conscious of actual sight than before. A thrill of wild, lightning-like ecstasy sent a shock of new life through him from head to foot.
“Lolita!” he cried out, in amazement. “Lolita!”
She kept her arm about him, and knelt by his bed, smiling.
“Hush! — hush!” she said. “Naughty boy, to make such a noise! You will disturb the other patients! Yes — Lolita! Whom else did you expect to see? You left me in Buenos Ayres? Oh, yes, dearest! You think so? Ah, so stupid are men! I came over to your ‘Homeland’ with you — only how should you know it? The captain of your ship is my father’s friend — he took me with him, hidden away — he understood the heart of a Spanish girl!”
With a look beyond all words he moved his head to lay it more closely on her breast. She rocked him as though he were a child.
“La-la-la, Tonin!” she crooned, and her glorious dark eyes against the white frame of the hospital cap showed a bright sparkle of tears. “Lolita has been with you all the time! While you were trained to fight I was trained to save! I would have sought you out in black London, for I felt you were lonely in your ‘Homeland’ — only I knew you would never have let me go on with my work. I came to France at the same time as you did — with an ambulance corps — and one of the sisters here in this field hospital heard my story and gave up her place to me. So here I am! and here I stay! — till we go together!”
A great sigh broke from him.
“Oh, my Lolita!” he murmured. “My beautiful angel! What you have done for me!”
“For king and country!” she answered, kissing him. “For my king! — for nobody else’s! — for my country, which is your life! — I have
done and will do all that is possible for a woman! And you have given your ‘Homeland’ your right arm — you will give me your left one!”
The light of a youthful spirit of fun danced in her eyes, and he smiled — he felt almost strong and well.
“Lolita!” he murmured. “Lolita, you are a darling, but you must not marry a disabled, useless fellow like me. I cannot fight any more—”
“Oh, silly boy! Is that your only use? — to fight? So like a man! Can you not love?” she asked, bending the glamour of her sweet eyes upon him. “Will not the left arm embrace me quite easily? — as well as if it were the right? Ah, you almost laugh! And must I not marry you? — Oh, Dios! But I shall marry you, and as soon as you are strong enough there is a good little priest here who will finish the affair! Yes, indeed! And what a good thing your father has remained true to his long-ago Jacobite King, Prince Charlie! For so we are both Catholics, and there is no trouble! Do you see this?”
She pulled a chain from under her bodice and showed a small silver figure of the Virgin attached to it.
“This is my little Mother!” she said. “I have talked to her often and told her she must look after you. And she has been a good little Mother — she has presented your best arm to ‘King and Country’ — so that they cannot ask any more from you, and she has given to me all the rest of yourself. That is kind of her and she is a good little Mother!” Here she kissed the image lightly, without any touch of irreverence, and was about to slip it back into its warm hiding place when he said softly:
“Let me kiss it, too!”
The loveliest rose blush flew over her soft cheeks, as she held it to his lips. Then, as she replaced it in her bosom, he whispered:
“Darling!”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 962
