Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  From somewhere came the mellow tinkle of cow-bells, which moved Athalie to speech; and she poured out her heart to Clive on the subject of domestic kine and of chickens and ducks.

  “I’m a country girl; there can be no doubt about it,” she admitted. “I do not think a day passes in the city but I miss the cock-crow and the plaint of barn-yard fowl, and the lowing of cattle and the whimper and coo of pigeons. And my country eyes grow weary for a glimpse of green, Clive, — and for wide horizons and the vast flotillas of white clouds that sail over pastures and salt meadows and bays and oceans. Never have I been as contented as I am at this moment — here — under the sky alone with you.”

  “That also is all I ask in life — the open world, and you.”

  “Maybe it will happen.”

  “Maybe.”

  “With everything — desirable—”

  She dropped her eyes and remained very still. For the first time in her life she had thought of children as her own — and his. And the thought which had flashed unbidden through her mind left her silent, and a little bewildered by its sweetness.

  He was saying: “You should, by this time, have the means which enable you to live in the country.”

  “Yes.”

  Cecil Reeve had advised her in her investments. The girl’s financial circumstances were modest, but adequate and sound.

  “I never told you how much I have,” she said. “May I?”

  “If you care to.”

  She told him, explaining every detail very carefully; and he listened, fascinated by this charming girl’s account of how in four years, she had won from the world the traditional living to which all are supposed to be entitled.

  “You see,” she said, “that gives me a modest income. I could live here very nicely. It has always been my dream.... But of course everything now depends on where you are.”

  Surprised and touched he turned toward her: she flushed and smiled, suddenly realising the naïveté of her avowal.

  “It’s true,” she said. “Every day I seem to become more and more entangled with you. I’m wondering whether I’ve already crossed the bounds of friendship, and how far I am outside. I can’t seem to realise any longer that there is no bond between us stronger than preference.... I was thinking — very unusual and very curious thoughts — about us both.” She drew a deep, unsteady, but smiling, breath: “Clive, I wish you could marry me.”

  “You wish it, Athalie?” he asked, profoundly moved.

  “Yes.”

  After a silence she leaned over and rested her cheek against his shoulder.

  “Ah, yes,” she said under her breath,— “that is what I begin to wish for. A home, and you.... And — children.”

  He put his arm around her.

  “Isn’t it strange, Clive, that I should think about children — at my age — and with little chance of ever having any. I don’t know what possesses me to suddenly want them.... Wouldn’t they be wonderful in that house? And they’d have that darling garden to play in.... There ought to be a boy — several in fact, and some girls.... I’d know what to do for them. Isn’t it odd that I should know exactly how to bring them up. But I do. I know I do.... I can almost see them playing in the garden — I can see their dear little faces — hear their voices—”

  His arm was clasping her slim body very tightly, but she suddenly sat upright, resting one slender hand on his shoulder; and her gaze became steady and fixed.

  Presently he noticed it and turned his head in the same direction, but saw nothing except the sunlight sifting through the trees and the golden half-light of the woods beyond.

  “What is it, Athalie?” he asked.

  She said in a curiously still voice: “Children.”

  “Where?”

  “Playing in the woods.”

  “Where?” he repeated; “I do not see them.”

  She did not answer. Presently she closed her eyes and rested her face against his shoulder again, pressing close to him as though lonely.

  “They went away,” she said in answer to his question.... “I feel a little tired, Clive.... Do you care for me a great deal?”

  “Can you ask?”

  “Yes.... Because of the years ahead of us. I think there are to be many — for us both. The future is so bewildering — like a tangled and endless forest, and very dim to see in.... But sometimes there comes a rift in the foliage — and there is a glimpse of far skies shining. And for a moment one— ‘sees clearly’ — into the depths — a little way.... And surmises something of what remains unseen. And imagines more, perhaps.... I wonder if you love me — enough.”

  “Dearest — dearest—”

  “Let it remain unsaid, Clive. A girl must learn one day. But never from the asking. And the same sun shall continue to rise and set, whatever her answer is to be; and the moon, too; and the stars shall remain unchanged — whatever changes us. How still the woods are — as still as dreams.”

  “She suddenly sat upright, resting one slender hand on his shoulder.”

  She lifted her head, looked at him, smiled, then, freeing herself, sprang to her feet and stood a moment drawing her slim hand across her eyes.

  “I shall have a tennis court, Clive. And a canoe on Spring Pond.... What kind of puppy was that I said I wanted?”

  “One which would grow up with proper fear and respect for Hafiz,” he said, smilingly, perplexed by the rapid sequence of her moods.

  “A collie?”

  “If you like.”

  “I wonder,” she murmured, “whether they are safe for children—” She looked up laughing: “Isn’t it odd! I simply cannot seem to free my mind of children whenever I think about that house.”

  As they moved along the path toward the new home he said: “What was it you saw in the woods?”

  “Children.”

  “Were they — real?”

  “No.”

  “Had they died?”

  “They have not yet been born,” she said in a low voice.

  “I did not know you could see such things.”

  “I am not sure that I can. It is very difficult for me, sometimes, to distinguish between vividly imaginative visualisation and — other things.”

  Walking back through the soft afternoon light the girl tried to tell him all that she knew about herself and her clairvoyance — strove to explain, to make him understand, and, perhaps, to understand herself.

  But after a while silence intervened between them; and when they spoke again they spoke of other things. For the isolation of souls is a solitude inviolable; there can be no intimacy there, only the longing for it — the craving, endless, unsatisfied.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  OVER the garden a waning moon silvered the water in the pool and picked out from banked masses of bloom a tall lily here and there.

  All the blossom-spangled vines were misty with the hovering wings of night-moths. Through alternate bands of moonlight and dusk the jet from the pool split into a thin shower of palely flashing jewels, sometimes raining back on the water, sometimes drifting with the wind across the grass. And through the dim enchantment moved Athalie, leaning on Clive’s arm, like some slim sorceress in a secret maze, silent, absent-eyed, brooding magic.

  Already into her garden had come the little fantastic creatures of the night as though drawn thither by a spell to do her bidding. Like a fat sprite a speckled toad hopped and hobbled and scrambled from their path; a tiny snake, green as the grass blades that it stirred, slipped from a pool of moonlight into a lake of shadow. Somewhere a small owl, tremulously melodious, called and called: and from the salt meadows, distantly, the elfin whistle of plover answered.

  Like some lost wanderer from the moon itself a great moth with nile-green wings fell flopping on the grass at the girl’s feet. And Clive, wondering, lifted it gingerly for her inspection.

  Together they examined the twin moons shining on its translucent wings, the furry, snow-white body and the six downy feet of palest rose. Then, at Athal
ie’s request, Clive tossed the angelic creature into the air; and there came a sudden blur of black wings in the moonlight, and a bat took it.

  But neither he nor she had seen in allegory the darting thing with devil’s wings that dashed the little spirit of the moon into eternal night. And out of the black void above, one by one, flakes from the frail wings came floating.

  To and fro they moved. She with both hands clasped and resting on his arm, peering through darkness down at the flowers, as one perfume, mounting, overpowered another — clove-pink, rocket, lily, and petunia, each in its turn dominant, triumphant.

  Puffs of fragrance from the distant sea stirred the garden’s tranquil air from time to time: somewhere honeyed bunches hung high from locust trees; and the salt meadow’s aromatic tang lent savour to the night.

  “I must go back to town,” he said irresolutely.

  He heard her sigh, felt her soft clasp tighten slightly over his arm. But she turned back in silence with him toward the house, passed in the open door before him, her fair head lowered, and stood so, leaning against the newel-post.

  “Good night,” he said in a low voice, still irresolute.

  “Must you go?”

  “I ought to.”

  “There is that other bedroom. And Mrs. Connor has gone home for the night.”

  “I told her to remain,” he said sharply.

  “I told her to go.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I wanted you to stay — this first night here — with me — in the home of my youth which you have given to me again.”

  He came to her and looked into her eyes, framing her face between his hands:

  “Dear, it would be unwise for me to remain.”

  “Because you love me?”

  “No.” He added with a forced smile: “I have put on armour in our behalf. No, that is not the reason.”

  “Then — may you not stay?”

  “Suppose it became known? What would you do, Athalie?”

  “Hold my head high ... guilty or not.”

  “You don’t know what you are saying.”

  “Not exactly, perhaps.... But I know that I have been changing. This day alone with you is finishing the transformation. I’m not sure just when it began. I realise, now, that it has been in process for a long, long while.” She drew away from him, leaned back on the banisters.

  “I may not have much time; — I want to be candid — I want to think honestly. I don’t desire to deny even to myself that I am now become what I am — a stranger to myself.”

  He said, still with his forced smile; “What pretty and unknown stranger have you so suddenly discovered in yourself, Athalie?”

  She looked up at him, unsmiling: “A stranger to celibacy.... Why do you not take me, Clive?”

  “Do you understand what you are saying!”

  “Yes. And now I can understand anything you may say or do ... I couldn’t, yesterday.” She turned her face away from him and folded her hands over the newel-post. And, not looking at him, she said: “Since we have been here alone together I have known a confidence and security I never dreamed of. Nothing now matters, nothing causes apprehension, nothing of fear remains — not even that ignorance of fear which the world calls innocence.

  “I am what I am; I am not afraid to be and live what I have become.... I am capable of love. Yesterday I was not. I have been fashioned to love, I think.... But there is only one man who can make me certain.... My trust and confidence are wholly his — as fearlessly as though he had become this day my husband....

  “And if he will stay, here under this roof which is not mine unless it is his also — here in this house where, within the law or without it, nevertheless everything is his — then he enters into possession of what is his own. And I at last receive my birthright, — which is to serve where I am served, love where love is mine — with gratitude, and unafraid—”

  Her voice trembled, broke; she covered her face with her hands; and when he took her in his arms she leaned her forehead against his breast:

  — “Oh, Clive — I can’t deny them! — How can I deny them? — The little flower-like faces, pleading to me for life! — And their tender arms — around my neck — there in the garden, Clive! — The winsome lips on mine, warm and heavenly sweet; and the voices calling, calling from the golden woodland, calling from meadow and upland, height and hollow! — And sometimes like far echoes of wind-blown laughter they call me — gay little voices, confident and sweet; and sometimes, winning and shy, they whisper close to my cheek — mother! — mother—”

  His arms fell from her and he stepped back, trembling.

  She lifted her pale tear-stained face. And, save for the painted Virgins of an ancient day he never before had seen such spiritual passion in any face — features where nothing sensuous had ever left an imprint; where the sensitive, tremulous mouth curved with the loveliness of a desire as innocent as a child’s.

  And he read there no taint of lesser passion, nothing of less noble emotion; only a fearless and overwhelming acknowledgment of her craving to employ the gifts with which her womanhood endowed her — love and life, and service never ending.

  In her mother’s room they sat long talking, her hands resting on his, her fresh and delicate face a pale white blur in the dusk.

  It was very late before he went to the room allotted him, knowing that he could not hope for sleep. Seated there by his open window he heard the owl’s tremolo rise, quaver, and die away in the moonlight; he heard the murmuring plaint of marsh-fowl, and the sea-breeze stirring the reeds.

  Now, in this supreme crisis of his life, looking out into darkness he saw a star fall, leaving an incandescent curve against the heavens which faded slowly as he looked.

  Into an obscurity as depthless, his soul was peering, now, naked, unarmoured, clasping hands with hers. And every imperious and furious tide that sweeps the souls and bodies of men now mounted overwhelmingly and set toward her. It seemed at moments as though their dragging was actually moving his limbs from where he sat; and he closed his eyes and his strong hand fell on the sill, grasping it as though for anchorage.

  Now, — if there were in him anything higher than the mere clay that clotted his bones — now was the moment to show it. And if there were a diviner armour within reach of his unsteady hand, he must don it now and rivet it fast in the name of God.

  Darkness is a treacherous councillor; he rose heavily, and turned the switch, flooding the room with light, then flung himself across the bed, his clenched fists over his face.

  In his ears he seemed to hear the dull roar of the current which, so far through life, had borne him on its crest, tossing, hurling him whither it had listed.

  It should never again have its will of him. This night he must set his course forever.

  “Clive!”

  But the faint, clear call was no more real, and no less, than the voice which was ringing always in his ears, now, — no softer, no less winning.

  “Clive!”

  After a moment he raised himself to his elbows and gazed, half-blinded, toward the door. Then he got clumsily to his feet, stumbled across the floor, and opened it.

  She stood there in her frail chamber robe of silk and swansdown, smiling, forlornly humorous, and displaying a book as symbol of her own insomnia.

  “Can’t you sleep?” she asked. “We’ll both be dead in the morning. I thought I’d better tell you to go to sleep when I saw your light break out.... So I’ve come to tell you.”

  “How could you see that my window was lighted?”

  “I was leaning out of my window listening to the little owl, and suddenly I saw the light from yours fall criss-cross across the grass.... Can’t you sleep?”

  “Yes. I’ll turn out the light. Will you promise to go to sleep?”

  “If I can. The night is so beautiful—”

  With a gay little smile and gesture she turned away; but halfway down the corridor she hesitated and looked back at him.

 
; “If you are sleepless,” she called softly, “you may wake me and I’ll talk to you.”

  There was a window at the end of the corridor. He saw her continue on past her door and stand there looking out into the garden. She was still standing there when he closed his door and went back to his chair.

  The night seemed interminable; its moonlit fragrance unendurable. With sleepless eyes he gazed into the darkness, appalled at the future — fearing such nights to come — nights like this, alone with her; and the grim battle to be renewed, inexorably renewed until that day should come — if ever it was to come — when he dared take in the name of God what Destiny had already made his own, and was now clamouring for him to take.

  After a long while he rose from the window, went to his door again, opened it and looked out. And saw her still leaning against the window at the corridor’s dim end.

  She looked around, laughing softly as he came up: “All this — the night, the fragrance, and you, have hopelessly bewitched me. I can’t sleep; I don’t wish to.... But you, poor boy — you haven’t even undressed. You look very tired and white, Clive. Why is it you can’t sleep?”

  He did not answer.

  “Shall I get my book and read aloud to you? It’s silly stuff — love, and such things. Shall I?”

  “No — I’m going back,” he answered curtly.

  She glanced around at him curiously. For, that day, a new comprehension of men and their various humours had come to enlighten her; she had begun to understand even where she could not feel.

  And so, tenderly, gently, in shy sympathy with the powerful currents that swept this man beside her, — but still herself ignorant of their power, she laid her cool cheek against his, drawing his head closer.

  “Dearest — dearest—” she murmured vaguely.

  His head turned, and hers turned instinctively to meet it; and her arms crept up around his neck.