Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  “But Aunt Julia wouldn’t like it,” she said.

  “I can’t help that!” said Edith. “I want it so much that I don’t care what mother would think. Besides, she won’t think anything. She will never know.” Edith paused a moment and flushed.

  “Besides, dear,” she said, “if I asked you and Edward, or even wanted you not to go, what reason could there be for it? It would appear so — so odious — as if —— I can’t say it! Oh, go and dress!”

  The unspoken word was clear enough, and it contained all that Elizabeth was conscious of. It would have been odious that either of them should harbour the thought that Edith could not put into words. It was sufficient.

  The two came back to dine at the end of the first act, full to the brim of music, intoxicated with the beady ferment of sound and drama, and both a little beside themselves with excitement. At present the music, and that alone, held them; in the flame of their common passion each as yet paid little heed to the other, except as a sharer in it. Elizabeth hardly touched any food; she was silent and bright-eyed, exploring her new kingdom. But with Edward, the return to the hotel, to the common needs of food and drink, above all, to Edith, took him poignantly back into the actual world again. Once again, more vividly than ever before, his choice which he told himself was already decided, was set before him as he sat with Elizabeth silent and strung-up on the one side, with Edith intelligently questioning him, with a view to subsequent catechism of herself on the other. Her questions seemed idiotic interruptions; he could barely make courteous narrative— “And then Mime told him about his youth. And then he began to forge the sword. Yes, it was Palstecher who played Siegfried — he was in excellent voice....”

  He did not revoke his choice, but he ceased to think of it. He wanted only, for the present, to hasten the tardy progress of the hands of the clock to the moment when it would be time for him to go away again alone with Elizabeth. But the aspect of this evening, as his farewell to her, was ousted in his mind by the prospect of the next hour or two. He thought less of what it symbolized; more and growingly more of what it was. But even as no thunderstorm bursts without the menace of gathering clouds, so the thickening intensity of his emotions warned him with utterly disregarded caution, that forces of savage import were collecting. Had a friend laid the facts, the possibilities, the danger before him, and asked his opinion as to what a man should do under such circumstances, unhesitatingly would he have advised, without regard to any other issue, that he should not go back alone with Elizabeth. Let him take a waiter from the hotel, a stranger out of the street, rather than trust himself alone to keep a steady head and a firm foot in those precipiced and slippery places. Had he believed that Elizabeth had no touch of more than pleasant friendly feelings towards him, he might have been justified in believing in himself. But — and this was the very spring and foundation of his excitement, his expectancy — he did not so believe. He fancied, rightly or wrongly, that she had shown signs of a warmer regard for him than that. But still, as unconvincingly as a parrot-cry, he kept saying to himself, “Edith trusts me, and therefore I trust myself.” He did not even feel he was doing a dangerous thing; he felt only that he had an irresistible need to be with Elizabeth in the isolation of the darkened house when Brunnhilde awoke.

  The performance, viewed artistically, was magnificent. From height to height mounted the second act, till the sounds of the noonday, the murmurs of the forest, grew from the scarcely audible notes to the full triumphant symphony of sunlight and living things, pervading, all-embracing, bringing the voice of all nature to endorse heroic deeds, and at the same time to bring to the hero the knowledge of his human needs. To him, even as to Siegfried, it woke in his heart the irresistible need of love, of the ideal mate, of the woman of his dreams, who sat beside him. Once only, as the clear call of the bird rang through the hushed house, did Elizabeth take her eyes off the stage, and turned them, dewy with tears and bright with wonder, on him. She said no word, but unconsciously moved her chair a little nearer his and laid her ungloved hand on his knee.

  He had one moment’s hesitation — one moment in which it was in his power to check himself. There was just one branch of a tree, so to speak, hanging above the rapids down which he was hurrying, and it was just possible, with an effort, to grasp it. He made no such effort. Deliberately, if anything in this fervour of growing madness could be called deliberate, he let that moment go by; deliberately he rejected the image of Edith awaiting their return, and, all aflame, acquiesced with his will in anything that should happen. Deliberately he cast the reins on the backs of his flying steeds, and not again did the sense that he had any choice in the matter come to him. The last atom of his manliness was absorbed in his manhood. Elizabeth’s hand lay on his knee, the fingers bending over it inwards. Gently he pressed them with his other knee, and he felt her response. She had but sought that touch to assure herself she was in tune with him, one with him over this miracle that she was looking at; but on the moment she felt there was more than that both in that pressure of her hand and her own response to it. But she was too absorbed, too rapt to care; nothing mattered except Siegfried, and the fact that she and Edward were together and beating with one heart’s-blood about it.

  And presently afterwards Brunnhilde lay beneath the pines in her shining armour, and through the flames, the vain obstacle that barred his approach to her, came Siegfried. Of no avail to her was the armour of her maidenhood, for while she slept he loosened it, and of no avail to stay his approach was the fierceness of the flames that girt her resting-place. At his kiss — the kiss that sealed her his — the strong throb of her blood beat again in her body; the eyes that had so long been shut in her unmolested sleep were unclosed, and she sat up and saluted the sun, and she saluted the day and the earth and all the myriad sounds and sights and odours that told her she was born into life again. Siegfried had stood back in awe at the wonder and holiness of her awakening, and she turned and saw him. And once more Elizabeth turned to Edward, and their eyes met in a long glance.

  To each, at that moment, to her no less than to him, it was the drama of their own souls that was unfolding in melody and love-song before them. She needed to look at him but for that one glance of recognition, for there on the stage she learned, as she saw the immortal lovers together, the immortality of love. The whole air rang with this supreme expression of it, the violins and the flutes and that glorious voice of Brunnhilde spoke for her, and it was her companion, here in the box with her, who bore the rapture higher, who completed it, made it perfect. Indeed, there was greeting in the farewell; if he said “vale” to her he sang “ave” also. But his “vale” was less now than a mutter below his breath.

  She sat with her arms resting on the front of the box till the last triumphant notes rang out, and through the applause that followed she still sat there, unmoving. There was no before or after for her then; her consciousness moved upon a limitless, an infinite plane. He had left his place, and when she turned he was standing close behind her. Again their eyes met in that long look, and the question that was in his saw itself answered by the smile, shy and solemn, that shone in hers. Then, still in silence, they went out into the crowd that filled the passages.

  The entrance porch was crowded with the efflux of the house, waiting for their carriages to arrive, and Elizabeth saw the surging, glittering scene with a strange, hard distinctness; but it all seemed remote from her, as if it was enclosed in walls of crystal. The crowd was no more to her than a beehive of busy, moving little lives, altogether sundered in intelligence and interests from herself and Edward. The whole world had receded on to the insect-plane; it crawled and skipped and jostled about her, but he and she were infinitely removed from it, and it aroused in her just the vague wonder of a man idly gazing at a disturbed ant-hill, hardly wondering what all the bustle was about. Here and there stood members of this throng, waiting quietly in corners, taking no part in the movement, and it just occurred to her that in a room in the Savoy Hotel ther
e was another such member of this queer, busy little race waiting their return. But even the thought of Edith barely found footing in her mind; she was but another specimen under glass.

  The night was quite fine, and in a moment or two they had made their way out of the doors and were walking down the queue of carriages to find their motor. He had suggested that she should wait while he hunted it and brought it up, but she preferred to go out of this crowded insect-house to look for it with him. The street was full also of the vague throng, that also seemed utterly unreal, utterly without significance; she would scarcely have been surprised if the lights and the people and the houses and the high-swung moon had all collapsed and melted away, leaving only a mountain-top girt with flames that rose and fell with gusts of sparkling melody. She would not be alone there; her whole self, her completed self, at least would be there — the self which she had seen so often, had criticized and belittled, which, till this evening, she had never known to be herself. Now she knew nothing else. All the rest was a mimic world, full of busy little insects.

  The motor was soon found, and she stepped in, followed by Edward. She had heard him give some directions to the chauffeur about driving down to the Embankment, and going to that entrance of the hotel, and they slid out of the queue and turned. So intensely did she feel his presence that it seemed to bring him no nearer to her when he took her hand in his, when she heard him whisper —

  “Brunnhilde — you awoke!”

  “Yes, Siegfried,” she answered.

  And his arms were round her, and for one second she clung close to him as he kissed her.

  Then, even while his fire burned close to her, so that it mingled with her own blaze, and while the ringing of the music that was mystically one with it drowned all other sound, the real world, the actual world, which had quite vanished from her consciousness, stood round her again, menacing, reminding, appalling. Her real self, her integrity, her honour pointed at her in amazement, in horror, so that through their eyes, and not through the eyes of her passion, she saw herself and what she was doing, and what she was permitting, and what she was rapturously welcoming. Memory, loyalty, honesty cried aloud at her, and though it seemed that she was tearing part of herself away she wrenched herself free.

  “Oh, what are we doing?” she cried. “We are both mad! And you —— Oh, why did you let me? Why did you make it possible for me? Let me go, Edward!”

  He had seized her again.

  “I can’t!” he said. “You are mine, and you know it! It’s you that I have dreamed of all my life! We both dreamed, and we have awoke to-night to find it is true!”

  Again, and this time easily, she shook herself free of him, for that in him which had struggled before, which had planned this evening as a farewell to her, came to her aid. For the moment, Elizabeth, far stronger than he in will, was wholly against him, and against him he had honourable traitors in his own house.

  “We dreamed to-night of impossible things,” she said; “and I have awoke again.”

  She began to tremble violently as the struggle to maintain that first flush of true vision seized her. It had come to her with the flashing stroke of impulse; now — and here was the difficulty — she had to keep hold of it.

  “Edward, you see it as I do really!” she said. “You know we’ve been mad, mad! Ah, thank God, here we are!”

  The motor had stopped by the hotel door, and already a porter was coming across the pavement to it.

  “No, we can’t leave it like this,” he said. “Let’s drive on for a little. Just for ten minutes, Elizabeth.” He was on the near side of the carriage and tried to prevent her getting up.

  “Come to your senses!” she said.

  “But it is impossible to meet Edith like this!” he said. “She will see — —”

  He considered that for a moment. What if she did see? Was not that exactly what he desired? But Elizabeth interrupted him.

  “She won’t, because she mustn’t,” she said. “I can do my share, you must do yours. Get out, please!”

  Next moment he followed her into the hotel. At the door of the sitting-room she paused a moment, feeling suddenly tired and incapable, and she looked appealingly at him as he joined her.

  “Edward, do help me!” she said. “I rely on you!”

  The tremendous pressure at which she had been living all day helped Elizabeth now, for reaction had not come yet, and whatever at that moment she had been set to do she would have done it with ten thousand horse-power. She made a rush of it across the room to where Edith lay, dropping fan, gloves, handkerchief on her way, and it seemed that Edward’s help would chiefly consist in listening.

  “Oh, my dear,” she cried, “we’ve gone quite mad, both Edward and I! There is nothing in the world but Brunnhilde and Siegfried!”

  She kissed Edith, and went on breathlessly, turning the deep tumult of her soul into the merest froth.

  “Siegfried and Brunnhilde, Brunnhilde and Siegfried! I felt I was Brunnhilde, darling, and I was rather surprised that Edward did not kiss me!”

  “I will now, if you like!” remarked Edward, taking his cue unerringly.

  “Yes, do; you’re such a dear for having taken me! Perhaps you had better not, though. It’s a little late; you should have done it earlier, and besides, Edith might not like it. We must consider Edith now, after thinking about our own enjoyment all the evening. How is the ankle? I ask out of politeness, dear; I don’t really care in the least how your ankle is! I only care for Siegfried! Oh, do let’s have supper at once. I had no dinner to mention, and I am brutally hungry. That is the effect of emotion. After daddy was charged out pig-sticking, and was nearly killed, I ate the largest lunch I ever remember. Ah, they are bringing it! I shall never go on hunger-strike whatever happens to me! Siegfried! That wasn’t quite in tune. Oh, Edith! Now help me to pull her sofa up to the table, Edward. Then she needn’t move at all. And how is your ankle? I do care, really!”

  This remarkable series of statements and questions could hardly be called conversation, but it served its purpose in starting social intercourse again.

  Edith turned to Edward.

  “Is she mad?” she asked. “And are you mad, too?”

  “Yes, he has got dumb madness,” said Elizabeth. “He hasn’t said a word all the evening. Occasional sighs. Oh, I wish you had been there, Edith! Yes, certainly soup! For the third time I inquire about your ankle!”

  Looking up, she caught Edward’s eye for a moment. He was eagerly gazing at her, as Siegfried gazed at Brunnhilde — that was in some opera she had once seen in remote ages ago, in some dim land of dreams, in —— And as she looked at him the stream of her babbling talk froze on her lips and her heart beat quick, and she was back again in the darkness of the motor, and she was saying to him, “Yes, Siegfried!” without thought of anything but the present moment, and of her love. Then, with a sense of coming from some infinite distance, she was back in this sitting-room again, conscious that Edith had said something, and that she had not the remotest notion what it was.

  But Edward answered.

  “That is capital!” he said. “I am glad it is better. Of course, you and Elizabeth will drive down in the motor to-morrow morning, so that you needn’t walk at all. When will you go? I must tell Joynes at what time he is to come round.”

  So he, Edward, also belonged to his world, not to the world of the mountain-top and the ring of flame. Of course he did; he was going to marry Edith on October 8th, and it was not yet certain if she herself would be there or not. She would be leaving about then for India — it depended on whether she could get a passage by the boat that left Marseilles on the 15th. She felt like a child saying over to itself some absurd nonsense rhyme. July, August, September, then October— “Thirty days hath October.” It did not sound right. Quail — yes, why not quail? So little while ago she lay on her mountain-top, and Siegfried loosed her armour and kissed her.

  Supper was over, and Edith was saying something to her about her looking v
ery tired. She was suggesting that she should go to bed. For herself, she was going to sit up a little longer and have a chat with Edward, for he had to coach her thoroughly in the opera, since Mrs. Hancock was never to know — at least, not at present — the true history of the evening.

  Elizabeth found herself laughing at that; it seemed so unnecessary to say that Mrs. Hancock must never know the true history of the evening. Nor must Edith herself ever know the true history of the evening — never, never. There was no question of “not for the present” about that. But that Mrs. Hancock should not know the mere fact that she and Edward went to the opera alone seemed a ludicrous stratagem, laughable.

  “What a tangled web we are going to weave all about nothing,” she said. “I warn you, Edith, I shall be sure to forget, and let it out!”

  “Oh, mother would be horrified!” said Edith. “You must take care!”

  Elizabeth sat down and took one of Edward’s cigarettes. Somehow, her revulsion of feeling against him had altogether vanished, and her yearning for him was stealing back again like pain that has been temporarily numbed and begins to reassert itself. The dream, the impossibility was that on October 8th he was going to marry Edith. It was quite incredible, a mere piece of nonsense that she had heard down at some dream-place called Heathmoor, where everybody was fast asleep. It was just part of the dreams of one of them, of Aunt Julia, perhaps, who certainly had no pains or joys, only comforts. She herself had to humour the dream-people, saying things to those drowsy people (of whom Edith was one) which really had a meaning, but not for them.