Marianne hated him. She did not wish to spend her afternoon in the company of a middle-aged Irishman, no matter how charming and distinguished, she wanted to spend it with William.
“I shall have to obtain Mamma’s permission,” she said stiffly.
Her companion immediately led the way to Mamma and made the request himself, standing beside the Le Patourel chariot with Marianne upon his arm, her lips smiling but her dark eyes fixed upon her mother with that fixed and steely regard that Sophie recognized only too well; it was a command of some sort or another that must not be disregarded if there was to be domestic peace. But upon this occasion she misunderstood Marianne’s wishes. “I will be happy to trust my daughter to you for a short drive, sir,” she said sweetly. It was not perhaps quite comme il faut, but she had been hearing excellent reports of this Sir Charles Maloney, and he was not a young man, and Marianne was twenty-two and old for her age and impossible to live with if she did not get her own way. “It’s a lovely day for a drive,” she concluded, and smiling upon the distinguished stranger, she failed to notice the sudden anger in her daughter’s eyes.
2
William and Marguerite only walked until they were out of sight of the crowd upon the cliff top, then they ran. It was really too hot to run, but the instinct of escape was strong in them. They had not been alone together since William had come home.
“Here, I can’t run in a sword,” said William suddenly, and he took it off and hid it with his cocked hat behind a clump of ferns.
They were in one of the narrow water lanes for which the Island was famous. It was not more than a few feet wide and was paved with smooth stones, and down one side of it ran a small and merry stream. The steep banks upon either side were covered with ferns, and trees arched overhead, their branches intertwined to make of the place a small cool green tunnel. The sunlight pushing its fingers through the green leaves made a checkered pattern of delight all over Marguerite’s white dress, and William’s tawny eyes were just the color of the brown stream that tinkled over the stones. As they went down the lane the physical contact of their feet with the earth and their linked hands with each other seemed to make the three of them one entity, and they were as happy as two mortals can be.
“I haven’t been on this jolly, kind little Island very much really,” said William, “yet I’m happier here than anywhere else in the world.”
“You feel at home,” said Marguerite simply.
“We don’t understand what we mean when we talk about feeling at home,” said William. “It’s not just being in the place where your ancestors lived, or being with the people you love best, it’s more than that, because one feels at home sometimes in strange places and with strange people; if the places are kind and jolly and the people are good fun. . . . I don’t know what it is.”
“Someone once said to me,” said Marguerite, “that our home, our special country, is where we find liberation. I suppose she meant that it is where our souls find it easiest to escape from self, and it seems to me it is that way with us when what is about us echoes the best that we are. You feel at home in places that are kind and with people who are good fun because you’re kind and amusing yourself.”
“What’s your home like, Marguerite?” asked William.
“I can’t describe it exactly,” said Marguerite. “But when I am living in a particular sort of way I say to myself that now I am in my own country. It is when I am living very simply, and rather hardly, and the light is clear and the wind cold and there aren’t any lies or subterfuges. When I am there I have a feeling that a door opens out of it into yet another country where my soul has always lived, and that one day I shall find out how to unlock the door.”
“You are a queer girl,” said William. “One minute you’re a child and the next you’re being wiser than Marianne.”
“I could never be wiser than Marianne,” said Marguerite with awe.
“She’s deuced clever,” agreed William. “She frightens me to death. She frightens all the men to death. She’ll never get a husband.”
“Won’t she?” asked Marguerite, with something of dismay in her tone. “She’s very chic and fashionable. Surely a man who was cleverer than she is would not be frightened of her?”
“A man cleverer than she is never appears in this archipelago,” said William solemnly. “My word, Marguerite, but those lobster sandwiches were good. I’m glad we both like lobster.”
And then they laughed, and their conversation sank abruptly to the level of sheer frivolity. They always had great fun together. They liked the same sort of jokes and took the same sort of simple pleasure in all the good things of life.
The water lane ran out of its tunnel of green leaves and became the main street of the village of St.-Pierre-du-Bois, a small hamlet at the edge of a wood. A more modern road skirted the village upon the other side of the wood, but the paved lane with the stream running beside it was the original village street, and a small stone bridge spanned the stream before each arched cottage doorway. The cottages were built of whitewashed grey granite, with thatched roofs and small diamond-paned windows. On most days in the year St.-Pierre-du-Bois would have looked empty and deserted, for the men would have been working in the fields or away fishing, and the women busy indoors; but today chattering groups of men and women and children, bright as butterflies in scarlet petticoats, chintz gowns, blue coats with brass buttons, and jean trousers, the men carrying bunches of flowers, were going from house to house in laughing excitement, trying to decide which cottage had the prettiest jonquière. Unseen, William and Marguerite stood for a little and watched the pretty scene. They had watched it many times before upon Midsummer Day, but it was a sight of which one could not tire, for it was like a scene in a fairy story. The gay, beautiful clothes, many of them of a great age, handed down from father to son and from mother to daughter and treasured between festivals in the old carved chest that each bride brought to her home with her bridal linen, the centuries-old cottages of white and gold with their little bridges across the singing stream, the sunshine and the flowers, the bright blue sky overhead, and near at hand the cool green whispering wood, all had a bright and fragile beauty that was like the beauty of a rainbow soap bubble. William and Marguerite felt that it had drifted to their feet from another age, and they dared not move lest their clumsy feet smash it to pieces.
Then the laughing crowd drifted into a pool of color that spread itself before the arched doorway of a house a little larger than the others, more of a farmhouse than a cottage, and from inside came a burst of cheering whose robustness was certainly of today. The spell was broken. William seized Marguerite’s hand and pulled her forward. “They’ve chosen!” he cried.
They ran across the little bridge and joined the group that was surging in through the opened half door, the hecq. Inside was a typical Island kitchen, cool and dim, the earth floor covered with clean sand, with a low oak ceiling crossed by a huge oak beam, the poûtre from which hung a rack where the bacon was kept, and the grease for the soupe à la graisse. There was a huge chimney beautifully carved. Inside its enclosure were stone seats, a large bread oven built in the thickness of the wall, and the crâset lamp hanging from its hook. The furniture of the room, the long table and forms, the spinning wheel and the oak chest, had been pushed against the farthest wall to keep a clear space before the jonquière, which stood in its recess between the hearth and the window.
It was raised about eighteen inches from the ground and thickly strewn with fresh fern, and in the fern brilliant flowers, marigolds and veronica, camomile daisies and tamarisk, roses and passion flowers, pansies and mignonettes, had been arranged in a formal pattern to make a tapestry of flower petals lovelier than any that had ever been woven from silk and wool. Over the jonquière was a canopy decorated with the pink and white trumpet-shaped Island lilies, and upon the fresh sand before the jonquière had been scattered the plucked petals of the gorse
that the Islanders call the fairies’ gold. No queen could ever have had a lovelier seat. It was so perfect that after the first burst of cheering there was silence, for the love of flowers was a passion with the Islanders, and the sight of them never failed to move both men and women to an emotion akin to worship.
Then, that their worship might have expression, the men looked about them for the prettiest girl to play the part of La Môme. The method of choosing was for each man to fling a flower at the girl he thought the prettiest, and she who caught the greatest number was La Môme, and it was for this purpose that each man carried a bunch of flowers. Yet the moment was one of some delicacy, for all the girls were pretty, and each man thought the one he loved the prettiest of all; and there had been occasions in the past when hotblooded youths had refused to abide by the decision of the flowers, and the ceremony had ended with a bloody battle in the village street. Great tact was required, and if the maid was of such outstanding beauty that there could be no question as to her superiority, then everyone was heartily thankful. But among the village girls such was not the case today, and there was a certain atmosphere of strain in the room.
A tall young fisherman with a white rose in his hand stepped first into the center of the floor and looked about him. He had been chosen to throw the first flower because the girl he loved had died two months ago and so he could be trusted to show no favoritism. His dark eyes were somber as they passed from one pretty face to another that meant nothing to him, and at that moment a white summer cloud that had been obscuring the face of the sun drifted away and a beam of light shone straight through the window beside the jonquière and lit like a pointing finger upon Marguerite where she stood beside William at the door, watching the scene, with a grave face and steady eyes. She had no part in this ceremony, she thought, and her lovely serenity was unruffled by any desire. She had taken off her bonnet, and her hair was lit to a mop of gold by the sun. And she, among all the girls, was the only one who was dressed in white. She looked like a visitant from another world, a happy spirit come back from the fields of Paradise to see how it fared with those she had loved on earth. The young man caught his breath and flung the white rose to Marguerite.
She did not understand at first, and she let it fall at her feet, but when the flowers came at her thick and fast she understood that she was La Môme, and she gathered them up with delight. For it was fun, oh, it was fun! She had never expected that she would be La Môme in an Island village! And catching the infection of her pleasure, everyone else was soon laughing too; and the girls as well as the men pelted her with flowers, for the choice of a stranger for La Môme, and a fine lady too, did away with all jealousy and spite.
When her arms could hold no more, they picked her up and carried her to the jonquière, and sat her down on the tapestry of flowers with her feet upon the petals of the gorse. And then, as the master of the house came forward with a chaplet of white lilies, a sudden silence fell, a strange silence that reached back into the primeval age where this ceremony had had its birth. In silence he crowned her and bent the knee to her, and in silence each man and woman and child came and knelt before her and laid caressing hands upon her feet. She sat still and straight beneath her canopy of flowers and her eyes were like stars. She was not herself only at this moment, William thought, as he watched her wonderingly from the door. Something possessed her, something divine that men would always worship, the selflessness of woman who gives her body to man to ensure his immortality on the earth, as divine Demeter bares her bosom to the sun and rain that the seed within it may have life. William’s heart constricted painfully as he looked at the transfigured girl on the jonquière, and his throat felt tight and his eyes hot as the flame of desire surged for the first time through his body. Then, brushing his hand across his eyes he came to himself again and found that all the men were looking at him. This was the moment for the accepted lover of La Môme to go to her and give her the kiss that should both set the seal upon her womanhood and bring her back again as a mortal girl into the world of mortals. Though he had taken no part in the proceedings so far, William did not hesitate now. He went to Marguerite, lifted her to her feet and kissed her beneath the canopy of the pink and white lilies. He too was something more than himself at this moment, and with his own small personality lost in something larger, he had no sense of embarrassment that so many eyes should be watching as he gave Marguerite the first kiss of his manhood. They had kissed only once before, years ago on the rock of Le Petit Aiguillon, and that had been the kiss of childhood, giving the sense of security that children crave. This kiss neither promised nor gave security, it was rather a dedication of themselves in comradeship to the danger and pain of living. And living is another word for creation; they knew that as for one short moment they clung to each other; creation by body and mind and soul for a future of humanity whose nature cannot even be guessed at. “I love you,” whispered the man to the woman. “Forever and ever and ever.” But he was speaking as man, not as William, and afterward he did not remember what he had said.
Marguerite burst into a sudden peal of laughter and pushed him away. Her queer exaltation had fallen from her and she was Marguerite again, and Marguerite Le Patourel always saw the funny side of things. And it was funny that she and William should be kissing solemnly like this before all these peasants. And William laughed too, like an amiable lion roaring, and an answering roar of delighted laughter swept through the whole room.
But there was one who did not laugh, a woman in a smart green gown who with her companion had entered from the sunshine outside some minutes before William look Marguerite in his arms. She stood now erect in the doorway, her cold still little face giving no sign of the rage and despair that seemed to herself to be tearing her to pieces.
“Marianne!” cried Marguerite in delight when she saw her sister, and she ran to her and kissed her impulsively, because she was looking so odd and so cold. “They chose me for La Môme! Isn’t it fun? I’m La Môme! Whatever will Mamma and Papa say?”
“I cannot imagine,” said Marianne with icy disapproval. “I think it would be better not to tell them what has happened today.”
“Oh, don’t be such a prude!” flashed Marguerite in sudden exasperation. “Don’t be such a disapproving old maid. It was only fun. Can’t one have a little fun sometimes?”
William looked at her with astonishment, for never before had he heard Marguerite speak with such sharpness. He could not know how Marianne’s sudden burning hatred for her sister had seared across Marguerite’s sensitive soul and caused the inevitable flash-back of anger, for which she was no more responsible than a dog is responsible for the snarl that follows a blow.
And then the sudden painful tension snapped, for they had been carried by the happy crowd out into the village street and away toward the clearing in the wood where an old fiddler already sat on a fallen tree trunk tuning his chifournie.
The Irishman, who had left the curricle tied to a gate upon the other side of the wood where the main road ran and had persuaded Marianne to walk with him through the wood to the village, was delighted with the success of his afternoon’s adventure. He would never forget the lovely ceremony of the crowning of La Môme. He would never forget the picture that Marguerite had made as she sat in her bower of flowers, or the look on her face when young William had lifted her in his arms and kissed her. He had lost all interest in Marianne now. Her brilliance had attracted him for the moment, but it could not compare with her sister’s natural grace and gift of laughter. He could not take his eyes off Marguerite as she went swaying round the circle of men and girls in the lovely old country dance of Mon Beau Laurier, arms akimbo, sunlight and shade flickering over her white gown, her feet making no sound on the soft earth. She was utterly oblivious of herself, lost in the joy of rhythmic movement, yet to each man as he joined her in the center of the revolving circle she gave a friendly smile, and when he had twirled her about and turned to go back to his
place she parted from him with a little gesture of courtesy. Charles Maloney was infatuated and made haste to claim her as his partner when Mon Beau Laurier ended and the dancers swung two by two to the tune of an ancient roundelay.
William acquiesced good-humoredly in the loss of Marguerite and put a willing arm round Marianne’s tiny waist. He considered her a damn good dancer, but in any case he would have wanted to dance with her, because his instinct told him that she was vexed about something and his kindness longed to apply what balm he could. He was deuced fond of her, even though her brilliance did terrify him into the middle of next week. He had reason to be, he told himself. When he thought of what he owed to her, he was more or less deprived of breath.
So as he danced with her, his clear kind hazel eyes beamed affectionately into hers, and he cursed himself volubly for a clumsy oaf every time he trampled on her tiny feet. This cursing of himself always formed a large part of his conversation when he was with Marianne. Somehow she always made him feel very conscious of his failings, even though nowadays she never reproved him for them and only smiled the more sweetly the more he made a fool of himself.
“You’re an angel, Marianne,” he said. “Anybody would think you liked having a clumsy ass treading on your feet.”
“I do,” she whispered softly, looking up at him with a smiling gentleness that was the achievement of nothing less than a genius for deception. For gentle was the very last thing she felt. Her dream world had tumbled into fragments about her, and the reaction of her strong temperament was neither sorrow nor self-pity but a boiling fury that was being slowly tempered by resolve. Marianne had something of her father in her and was capable of deluding herself as well as others, but it was self-deception with a difference. Octavius’ conviction that his affairs could not turn out in any way contrary to his desires was rooted in his conceit, that expected all things to work together for good for such a high-minded creature as himself, but Marianne’s was rooted in her faith in her own strong will. Up till now she had got all that she wanted, and she had not believed that what she wanted most of all, William, she would not be able to get too. She had spun all her dreams about the love that she would win from him and had seen them as reality. And now she saw them for the fantasies that they were. When she had seen William and Marguerite together just now, she had no longer been able to deceive herself; it had been obvious to the dullest sight that their love was the authentic mutual fairy-tale love between man and woman that was breathed into the world as the germ of its life; and Marianne’s sight was not dull.