Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  The letter got written, and no word of tenderness or love appeared in it; it might have been penned by some fossil of a family friend and written in prehistoric ink, for if she had not written like that there was but one other way in which she could write to him, and she would have said, “I am coming to you.” The thinnest partition, but a partition the most impenetrable, insulated her from him. On this point her will stood utterly firm. In this short, dry note she did not attempt to argue the question; she merely told him that he must come down at once, and put an end to Edith’s intolerable suspicions. “But for you to break your engagement to her will not bring me one step nearer you,” were the concluding words. Whether she was acting wisely or not, whether there was not some step she could take later that would be cleverer, more tactful, she could not consider. The situation was simple enough, and they had to wait for Edith to decide its solution.

  The thing was done; that cold, hard little sentence that finished her letter was written. All this last week of his absence she had wondered whether her will would stand firm enough to enable her to tell him that, and to make no other answer to his pleading. She knew that when he came down, as he assuredly would on the next day, she would be obliged to see him, to let him in justice state the case for himself. But she had now her own word to bind her; she would be able, by memory, to recapture the spirit of the moment when she wrote it. It was her definite decision, and the knowledge of it would fortify her. She would need it, she felt, when she was face to face with him and her overwhelming need of him.

  A resolution taken and embedded in the mortar of fact always gives relief, even if a death-sentence is involved in it. The acute edge of suspense is removed, and when Elizabeth, having posted her letter, strolled out again into the garden, she was conscious of a certain tranquillity, to which for the last ten days she had been an utter stranger. She did not suppose that there was anything more than a lull in the tempest; she knew that it must again howl and buffet round her, but even as on the night after the opera, she had felt a momentary calm as she looked at the moonlit flood-tide, so now she was given another respite. But now she felt securer; she had gained a little ground, she could look out over the contention and estimate the odds against her as less desperate.

  It was just here she had walked on the dewy morning, in ecstasy of unreflecting happiness, when the instinct to give thanks to Some One first came to her. To-day she saw the triumphant riot of midsummer under a noonday sun, and she, no less than the garden, was surrounded by the burden and heat. The dew and freshness had faded from the cool petals, and the heavy heads of the roses drooped on their stems. But with brimming eyes and bitten lip she encouraged herself to exhibit a sturdier pluck than they. She would not yield, she would not hang her head, she would, whatever the issues might be, be grateful to the power that had come into her soul, the power to love. Ignorantly, ten days ago, she had thought that sufficient; now, with greater knowledge, she wondered whether her ignorance had not told her right, after all. Then it seemed to matter nothing so long as she loved; now, just for a little while, she knew it mattered nothing. She caught a glimpse, as of snow-peaks behind storm-clouds, of a reality so lofty, so serene, that she almost distrusted her eyes.

  Suddenly her mind sped on its magic flight to the low white house at Peshawar, from which so often she had lifted her eyes up through the heat-haze to the quivering lines of eternal snows, to the steadfast peaks that rose above all dust and storm-cloud, and she smiled as she recognized by what association of ideas her mind had winged its way thither. The gardens there would be withered in the heat, but she yearned for the scene where life had been so unperplexed. Above all, she yearned for her father, who even now retained the simplicity of youth; she yearned for his comradeship, his wisdom, his patience, his sympathy. She could have told him all the trouble so easily and confidently; she could hear him say, “Lizzie, dear, I am so sorry, but, of course, you had to do just what you did.” She could have argued with him, taking the side of her longing and love, telling him that nothing could be counted or reckoned with against the fact that she and Edward loved each other. And again she could hear him say, “My dear, I know you don’t think that really.” And then she could have said, “No, no, I don’t mean it,” and have sobbed her heart out against that rough homespun jacket which he wore in the garden.

  The garden! At the end was a low wall, over which one night she had vaulted, when, just outside, lay the dying Brahmin, to whom a beggar’s death by the wayside, needy, indigent, was a triumph that transcended all telling, was the finding of that which all his life he had sought. His eyes, already dim in death, were open not upon death, but life. He had renounced all the fair things that the world offered to find something infinitely fairer. Round him, tired, hungry, dying, the banner of some stupendous triumph waved.

  How had he reached that? By seeking.

  And how had he sought? By renunciation.

  And what had he found? Life.

  The moment had worn the vividness and splendour of a dream, and Elizabeth was again conscious of the heavy-headed flowers and the noonday heat. The wheels of the motor scraped on the gravel sweep at the other side of the house, and in another minute she would be plunged back in the deeds and the needs of every day. But she no longer felt so utterly alone and desolate; far behind the storm she had seen the snows, and for a moment the moonlight had shone on the face of the dying Brahmin. There was some tie between them all, something that expressed itself in the peace of the great silence, and in the vision of the dying eyes, and — was she not right in hoping? — in the choice she had just made. There was one thread running through them, there was a factor common to them all.

  And here was Mrs. Hancock coming into the garden.

  “My dear, is it wise to be out in this sun without a hat?” she asked. “You have had a nice quiet time for your practising, haven’t you? I was telling Edith that I felt sure Edward would think you had got on, when he comes down here again.”

  CHAPTER X

  EDWARD’S RETURN

  Elizabeth’s letter to Edward had pressed upon him an immediate return to Heathmoor, at the cost of his week-end engagement, if such existed. To them both the desire of their hearts for each other had been revealed on that night of the opera, as chaos suddenly made manifest by a flash of lightning, and on all considerations it had been more decent and wise that he should absent himself. But, as Elizabeth had foreseen, this absence could not indefinitely continue, since it implied absence from Edith as well as herself, and was but of the nature of a temporary measure, to give breathing-space and time for reflection. She had told him, but not with confidence, that absence would restore his legitimate allegiance; poor girl, she had but little trust herself in the mildness of that prescription, which was, so to speak, but a dose where the knife was called for. In any case, Edith’s revealed suspicions had rendered his return necessary. Whatever the solution of that knot into which the heart-strings of three young folk were tangled, it must be dealt with by his presence here.

  For both girls the interval before he could answer, whether his reply was an argued negative to Elizabeth or an affirmative announcement to Edith, passed in acute discomfort, that rose and fell, like the ebb and flow of the physical pain of some deep-seated mischief, into crises of anguish and numb reactions. There was not an employment, there was scarcely a topic of conversation that did not conduct them sooner or later to an impassable road, where was a red flag and a danger signal. The hours passed in broken conversation and aching silences, with Edith sentinelled about by her fears and jealousies, Elizabeth torn with longings, and hearing amid the troubled peace of her renunciation voices that accused her of bitter cruelty to herself and to him and poured scorn on the tragic folly of her refusal. Twenty times that day she felt she could barely resist the need of telegraphing to him, cancelling her letter, and, acceding to his imperative desire, of simply taking the next train up to town, going to him, and saying, “I have come.” But her will renounced him st
ill, and her will still dominated her deeds. And all the time she knew that Edith watched her with sidelong glances that were quickly removed when her own eyes met them. Sometimes it seemed that Edith must speak, so intense was the miserable strain, but she always shied away at the last moment. Over those palpitating duellists, who never quite came to blows, presided Mrs. Hancock, unconscious and bland, foolish and voluble. She had experienced a moment’s discomfort this morning, when Edith spoke to her of Edward’s continued absence, but, as Mr. Martin would have her do, she dismissed it with complete success from her mind, telling herself that she had quite cleared it all up, and made Edith comfortable again. The obvious constraint that hung over the two girls she merely refused to admit into her mind. It might batter and ring at the door, and there was no need for her even to open that door a chink, and assert that she was out. She sat and knitted at her crossovers, and in the evening played patience, refusing to hear the signals of distress and trouble. Next day came a telegram from Edward to Edith announcing his arrival at half-past seven that evening, and asking, or rather supposing, that he might dine with them. It was delivered at lunch-time, and Edith, as she tore it open, glanced at Elizabeth opposite, and saw the sudden whiteness of her face, saw that she sat with her fork half-raised to her lips, then put it back on her plate again, that she waited with hand pressed to the table to control its trembling. His message gave rise to debate, for Mrs. Hancock and Edith were engaged to dine at the Vicarage that night, and a small solitary dinner had already, three hours before, been ordered for Elizabeth. There was to be a slip, a lamb cutlet — quite enough and not too much.

  “Of course, it would be natural,” said Mrs. Hancock, “to ask him to come and have a little dinner with you, dear Elizabeth, and then you could amuse yourselves by playing to each other afterwards till Edith and I returned. And then Edith and I could have made an excuse to get away perhaps at ten, or even five minutes before. But now your dinner is ordered; it is very provoking, and Mrs. Williams — —”

  Edith interrupted, watching Elizabeth narrowly. Her jealousy seemed to have divided itself into two camps. Part (and for the moment this was the stronger) allied itself with this scheme; if Elizabeth and Edward had an evening together, things (if there were things) would declare themselves; there would be an answer to that eternal question, “I want to know; I want to know!”

  “That’s a delightful plan, mother,” she said; “and surely Mrs. Williams has got some cold beef. Edward says nobody can need more than plenty of cold beef for dinner. He and Elizabeth will enjoy an evening together; they will talk over the opera and play. And we shan’t be obliged to hurry back from the Martins’.”

  This rather diabolical speech hit its mark. Elizabeth blushed furiously as she heard the yapping bitterness in Edith’s voice. And it was not only with the rush of the conscious blood that her face flared; anger flamed at the innuendo, the double meanings.

  “In fact, I needn’t reply to Edward’s telegram at all,” said Edith, “and he will naturally come here for dinner.”

  Elizabeth looked up at her cousin. At the moment she completely and fervently hated her.

  “Oh, that wouldn’t do, Edith!” she said. “Edward would come over here all anxiety to see you, and find only me. He would be horribly disappointed and make himself very disagreeable. I shouldn’t wonder if he went straight back to London again.”

  That was the first pass of the naked swords between them; yesterday they had not come to the touch of the steel, and the first bout was distinctly in Elizabeth’s favour. Elizabeth had not parried only, she had attacked. And yet it was only with foolish words that could not wound that she had thrust. Had Edith only known, her cousin was fighting for her with a loyalty that was as divine as it was human, and calling on the loyalty of her lover to be up in arms. But her assault, with its sharp double meaning, only gratified a moment’s laudable savagery and she instantly turned to her aunt.

  “Oh, Aunt Julia,” she said, “I should so like an evening alone. Do tell Edward you are out; he can be here all Sunday. I want to write to Daddy and I want to practise. Not play, but practise.”

  “Well, it would put Mrs. Williams out,” said Mrs. Hancock, “to know that she had to provide dinner for Edward as well, for as for letting him eat nothing but cold beef, I think she would sooner leave my service than do that. Edward is a great favourite with Mrs. Williams. Indeed, where she would get provisions I don’t know, for it’s early closing, and even such shops as we have here are shut. I think your plan is the best, dear, and your father wouldn’t like not to hear from you, and then there’s your practice as well. I’ll write a note to him. Has everybody finished? And which of you would like to drive with me this afternoon?”

  Elizabeth, conscious of her own loyalty, did not in the least mind having another thrust at her cousin. Edith had provoked her; Edith should take the consequences — the superficial ones. She turned to her.

  “It will be a good punishment for Edward,” she said, “to find that you are out. You will be paying him back in his own coin for keeping away so long. Perhaps he will come round after you get back. If I were you I should say I was tired and would not see him.”

  Edith looked at her with her real anxiety, making anxious, imploring signals. Elizabeth saw and disregarded them.

  “Of course, it would be the worst punishment of all for him,” she said, “if you let him come round expecting to find you and he found only me alone with my lamb-cutlet. But you mustn’t punish him as much as that, Edith. It would be too cruel.”

  Mrs. Hancock had passed out of the dining-room on the quest for the longer paragraphs in the Morning Post, and for a moment the two girls faced each other. Elizabeth was still quivering with indignation at Edith’s first wanton attack, the attack which sounded so friendly and pleasant a salutation and which both knew was so far otherwise. And if Edith only knew what wrestlings, what blind strivings after light Elizabeth had undergone for her....

  “Don’t scold him too much,” she said. “He is so nice. I love Edward! Shall I drive with Aunt Julia this afternoon, or would you like to?”

  Elizabeth ran upstairs to her room and locked herself in. Already she was sick at heart for her barren dexterity. She had pricked Edith with her point, made her wince, startled her into miserable silence. And what was the good of it all? It did not even for the moment allay the savage anguish of her own wound. She threw herself on her bed and sobbed.

  By soon after eight she had finished her dinner and was sitting in the drawing-room, neither writing to her father nor practising. For the last half-hour she had had one overpowering sensation in her mind, which absorbed the active power of thought, and spread itself like a dense enveloping mist, obscuring all other perceptions — namely, the knowledge that in the house next door Edward sat alone, or perhaps walked in the garden, longing to catch sight of her over the low brick wall. She, too, would have spent this hour of darkening twilight outside but for fear of seeing him, or more exactly but for the longing to see him which she must starve and deny. No doubt she would have to see him, have to listen to his pleading; but it was part of her resolve that she would use all her will to hold herself apart. But the thought of him possessed her, and she could not concentrate her mind enough even to attempt to practise or to write her overdue letter. It had taken all her nervous force to arrive where she was; now, like a bird after the flight of migration, she had to rest, to let the time go by, without stirring up her activities; for any activity she roused seemed to be directed from the cause of purpose that excited it, and to be sucked into the mill-race that but ran the swifter for an added volume of awakened perception.

  Soon mere inactivity became even more impossible than employment, and she opened the piano. The wonder of music, which his love had so magically quickened in her, perhaps would not desert her even now, and she set herself to study the intellectual as well as the technical intricacies of Brahms’ variations on the Handel themes. If she could give them any attention at all,
she felt she could give them her whole attention; it was impossible merely to paddle knee-deep in that profound and marvellous sea; you had either to swim, or not enter it at all. She bent her mind to her work, as a man bends the resisting strength of a bow. She would string it; she willed that it should bend itself to its task.

  How marvellous was this artistic vision! To the composer, the theme was like some sweet, simple landscape, a sketch of quiet country with a stream, perhaps, running through it. Then he set himself to see it in twenty different ways. He saw it with gentle morning sunshine asleep over it; he saw it congested with winter, green with the young growth of spring, triumphant in the blaze of summer, and gorgeous with the flare of the dying year. He saw it with rain-clouds lowering on its hills and swelling its streams with gathered waters; he saw it underneath the lash of rain, and echoing to the drums of thunder; he saw it beneath the moonlight, and white with starshine on snow.

  Suddenly Elizabeth held her hands suspended over the keys, and in her throat a breath suspended. Through the maze of melody she had heard another sound, faint and tingling, that pierced through the noise of the vibrating strings. A bell had rung. Hearing it, she knew that unconsciously she had been listening for it with the yearning with which the eyes of the shipwrecked watch for a sail.

  There were steps in the hall, a few words of indistinguishable talk, and she turned round on her music-stool and faced the door. It opened, whispering on the thick carpet, and Edward stood there.