_Chapter 15_
The afternoon of the blazing day passed drowsily. Lying close togetheron the beach, Siegmund and Helena let the day exhale its hours likeperfume, unperceived. Siegmund slept, a light evanescent sleep irisedwith dreams and with suffering: nothing definite, the colour of dreamswithout shape. Helena, as usual, retained her consciousness much moreclearly. She watched the far-off floating of ships, and the near wadingof children through the surf. Endless trains of thoughts, like littlewaves, rippled forward and broke on the shore of her drowsiness. Buteach thought-ripple, though it ran lightly, was tinged withcopper-coloured gleams as from a lurid sunset. Helena felt that the sunwas setting on her and Siegmund. The hour was too composed, spell-bound,for grief or anxiety or even for close perception. She was merely awarethat the sun was wheeling down, tangling Siegmund and her in the traces,like overthrown charioteers. So the hours passed.
After tea they went eastwards on the downs. Siegmund was animated, sothat Helena caught his mood. It was very rare that they spoke of thetime preceding their acquaintance, Helena knew little or nothing ofSiegmund's life up to the age of thirty, whilst he had never learnedanything concerning her childhood. Somehow she did not encourage him toself-discovery. Today, however, the painful need of lovers forself-revelation took hold on him.
'It is awfully funny,' he said. 'I was _so_ gone on Beatrice when Imarried her. She had only just come back from Egypt. Her father was anarmy officer, a very handsome man, and, I believe, a bit of a rake.Beatrice is really well connected, you know. But old FitzHerbert ranthrough all his money, and through everything else. He was too hot forthe rest of the family, so they dropped him altogether.
'He came to live at Peckham when I was sixteen. I had just left school,and was to go into father's business. Mrs FitzHerbert left cards, andvery soon we were acquainted. Beatrice had been a good time in a Frenchconvent school. She had only knocked about with the army a little while,but it had brought her out. I remember I thought she was miles aboveme--which she was. She wasn't bad-looking, either, and you know men alllike her. I bet she'd marry again, in spite of the children.
'At first I fluttered round her. I remember I'd got a little, silkymoustache. They all said I looked older than sixteen. At that time I wasmad on the violin, and she played rather well. Then FitzHerbert went offabroad somewhere, so Beatrice and her mother half lived at our house.The mother was an invalid.
'I remember I nearly stood on my head one day. The conservatory openedoff the smoking-room, so when I came in the room, I heard my two sistersand Beatrice talking about good-looking men.
'"I consider Bertram will make a handsome man," said my younger sister.
'"He's got beautiful eyes," said my other sister.
'"And a real darling nose and chin!" cried Beatrice. "If only he wasmore _solide_! He is like a windmill, all limbs."
'"He will fill out. Remember, he's not quite seventeen," said my eldersister.
'"Ah, he is _doux_--he is _calin_," said Beatrice.
'"I think he is rather _too_ spoony for his age," said my elder sister.
'"But he's a fine boy for all that. See how thick his knees are," myyounger sister chimed in.
'"Ah, _si, si_!" cried Beatrice.
'I made a row against the door, then walked across.
'"Hello, is somebody in here?" I said, as I pushed into the littleconservatory.
'I looked straight at Beatrice, and she at me. We seemed to have formedan alliance in that look: she was the other half of my consciousness, Iof hers. Ha! Ha! there were a lot of white narcissus, and little whitehyacinths, Roman hyacinths, in the conservatory. I can see them now,great white stars, and tangles of little ones, among a bank of green;and I can recall the keen, fresh scent on the warm air; and the look ofBeatrice ... her great dark eyes.
'It's funny, but Beatrice is as dead--ay, far more dead--than Dante's.And I am not that young fool, not a bit.
'I was very romantic, fearfully emotional, and the soul of honour.Beatrice said nobody cared a thing about her. FitzHerbert was alwaysjaunting off, the mother was a fretful invalid. So I was seventeen,earning half a guinea a week, and she was eighteen, with no money, whenwe ran away to Brighton and got married. Poor old Pater, he took itawfully well, I have been a frightful drag on him, you know.
'There's the romance. I wonder how it will all end.'
Helena laughed, and he did not detect her extreme bitterness of spirit.
They walked on in silence for some time. He was thinking back, beforeHelena's day. This left her very much alone, and forced on her the ideathat, after all, love, which she chose to consider as single andwonderful a thing in a man's life as birth, or adolescence, or death,was temporary, and formed only an episode. It was her hour ofdisillusion.
'Come to think of it,' Siegmund continued, 'I have always shirked.Whenever I've been in a tight corner I've gone to Pater.'
'I think,' she said, 'marriage has been a tight corner you couldn't getout of to go to anybody.'
'Yet I'm here,' he answered simply.
The blood suffused her face and neck.
'And some men would have made a better job of it. When it's come tosticking out against Beatrice, and sailing the domestic ship in spite ofher, I've always funked. I tell you I'm something of a moral coward.'
He had her so much on edge she was inclined to answer, 'So be it.'Instead, she ran back over her own history: it consisted of pettydiscords in contemptible surroundings, then of her dreams and fancies,finally--Siegmund.
'In my life,' she said, with the fine, grating discord in her tones, 'Imight say _always_, the real life has seemed just outside--browniesrunning and fairies peeping--just beyond the common, ugly place where Iam. I seem to have been hedged in by vulgar circumstances, able toglimpse outside now and then, and see the reality.'
'You are so hard to get at,' said Siegmund. 'And so scornful of familiarthings.'
She smiled, knowing he did not understand. The heat had jaded her, sothat physically she was full of discord, of dreariness that set herteeth on edge. Body and soul, she was out of tune.
A warm, noiseless twilight was gathering over the downs and risingdarkly from the sea. Fate, with wide wings, was hovering just over her.Fate, ashen grey and black, like a carrion crow, had her in its shadow.Yet Siegmund took no notice. He did not understand. He walked beside herwhistling to himself, which only distressed her the more.
They were alone on the smooth hills to the east. Helena looked at theday melting out of the sky, leaving the permanent structure of thenight. It was her turn to suffer the sickening detachment which comesafter moments of intense living.
The rosiness died out of the sunset as embers fade into thick ash. Inherself, too, the ruddy glow sank and went out. The earth was a colddead heap, coloured drearily, the sky was dark with flocculent grey ash,and she herself an upright mass of soft ash.
She shuddered slightly with horror. The whole face of things was to herlivid and ghastly. Being a moralist rather than an artist, coming offervent Wesleyan stock, she began to scourge herself. She had done wrongagain. Looking back, no one had she touched without hurting. She had adestructive force; anyone she embraced she injured. Faint voices echoedback from her conscience. The shadows were full of complaint againsther. It was all true, she was a harmful force, dragging Fate to petty,mean conclusions.
Life and hope were ash in her mouth. She shuddered with discord. Despairgrated between her teeth. This dreariness was worse than any her dreary,lonely life had known. She felt she could bear it no longer.
Siegmund was there. Surely he could help? He would rekindle her. But hewas straying ahead, carelessly whistling the Spring Song from _DieWalkuere_. She looked at him, and again shuddered with horror. Was thatreally Siegmund, that stooping, thick-shouldered, indifferent man? Wasthat the Siegmund who had seemed to radiate joy into his surroundings,the Siegmund whose coming had always changed the whole weather of hersoul? Was that the Siegmund whose touch was keen with bliss for her,whose face was a pa
norama of passing God? She looked at him again. Hisradiance was gone, his aura had ceased. She saw him a stooping man, pastthe buoyancy of youth, walking and whistling rather stupidly--in short,something of the 'clothed animal on end', like the rest of men.
She suffered an agony of disillusion. Was this the real Siegmund, andher own only a projection of her soul? She took her breath sharply. Washe the real clay, and that other, her beloved, only the breathing of hersoul upon this. There was an awful blank before her.
'Siegmund!' she said in despair.
He turned sharply at the sound of her voice. Seeing her face pale anddistorted in the twilight, he was filled with dismay. She mutely liftedher arms to him, watching him in despair. Swiftly he took her in hisarms, and asked in a troubled voice:
'What is it, dear? Is something wrong?'
His voice was nothing to her--it was stupid. She felt his arms roundher, felt her face pressed against the cloth of his coat, against thebeating of his heart. What was all this? This was not comfort or love.He was not understanding or helping, only chaining her, hurting. She didnot want his brute embrace--she was most utterly alone, gripped so inhis arms. If he could not save her from herself, he must leave her freeto pant her heart out in free air. The secret thud, thud of his heart,the very self of that animal in him she feared and hated, repulsed her.She struggled to escape.
'What is it? Won't you tell me what is the matter?' he pleaded.
She began to sob, dry wild sobs, feeling as if she would go mad. Hetried to look at her face, for which she hated him. And all the time heheld her fast, all the time she was imprisoned in the embrace of thisbrute, blind creature, whose heart confessed itself in thud, thud, thud.
'Have you heard anything against us? Have I done anything? Have I saidanything? Tell me--at any rate tell me, Helena.'
Her sobbing was like the chattering of dry leaves. She grew frantic tobe free. Stifled in that prison any longer, she would choke and go mad.His coat chafed her face; as she struggled she could see the strongworking of his throat. She fought against him; she struggled in panicto be free.
'Let me go!' she cried. 'Let me go! Let me go!' He held her inbewilderment and terror. She thrust her hands in his chest and pushedhim apart. Her face, blind to him, was very much distorted by hersuffering. She thrust him furiously away with great strength.
His heart stood still with wonder. She broke from him and dropped down,sobbing wildly, in the shelter of the tumuli. She was bunched in asmall, shaken heap. Siegmund could not bear it. He went on one kneebeside her, trying to take her hand in his, and pleading:
'Only tell me, Helena, what it is. Tell me what it is. At least tell me,Helena; tell me what it is. Oh, but this is dreadful!'
She had turned convulsively from him. She shook herself, as if besideherself, and at last covered her ears with her hands, to shut out thisunreasoning pleading of his voice.
Seeing her like this, Siegmund at last gave in. Quite still, he knelt onone knee beside her, staring at the late twilight. The intense silencewas crackling with the sound of Helena's dry, hissing sobs. He remainedsilenced, stunned by the unnatural conflict. After waiting a while, heput his hand on her. She winced convulsively away.
Then he rose, saying in his heart, 'It is enough,' He went behind thesmall hill, and looked at the night. It was all exposed. He wanted tohide, to cover himself from the openness, and there was not even a bushunder which he could find cover.
He lay down flat on the ground, pressing his face into the wiry turf,trying to hide. Quite stunned, with a death taking place in his soul, helay still, pressed against the earth. He held his breath for a long timebefore letting it go, then again he held it. He could scarcely bear,even by breathing, to betray himself. His consciousness was dark.
Helena had sobbed and struggled the life animation back into herself. Atlength, weary but comfortable, she lay still to rest. Almost she couldhave gone to sleep. But she grew chilly, and a ground insect tickled herface. Was somebody coming?
It was dark when she rose. Siegmund was not in sight. She tidiedherself, and rather frightened, went to look for him. She saw him like athick shadow on the earth. Now she was heavy with tears good to shed.She stood in silent sorrow, looking at him.
Suddenly she became aware of someone passing and looking curiously atthem.
'Dear!' she said softly, stooping and touching his hair. He began tostruggle with himself to respond. At that minute he would rather havedied than face anyone. His soul was too much uncovered.
'Dear, someone is looking,' she pleaded.
He drew himself up from cover. But he kept his face averted. They walkedon.
'Forgive me, dear,' she said softly.
'Nay, it's not you,' he answered, and she was silenced. They walked ontill the night seemed private. She turned to him, and 'Siegmund!' shesaid, in a voice of great sorrow and pleading.
He took her in his arms, but did not kiss her, though she lifted herface. He put his mouth against her throat, below the ear, as she offeredit, and stood looking out through the ravel of her hair, dazed, dreamy.
The sea was smoking with darkness under half-luminous heavens. Thestars, one after another, were catching alight. Siegmund perceived firstone, and then another dimmer one, flicker out in the darkness over thesea. He stood perfectly still, watching them. Gradually he rememberedhow, in the cathedral, the tapers of the choir-stalls would tremble andset steadily to burn, opening the darkness point after point with yellowdrops of flame, as the acolyte touched them, one by one, delicately withhis rod. The night was religious, then, with its proper order ofworship. Day and night had their ritual, and passed in uncouth worship.
Siegmund found himself in an abbey. He looked up the nave of the night,where the sky came down on the sea-like arches, and he watched the starscatch fire. At least it was all sacred, whatever the God might be.Helena herself, the bitter bread, was stuff of the ceremony, which hetouched with his lips as part of the service.
He had Helena in his arms, which was sweet company, but in spirit he wasquite alone. She would have drawn him back to her, and on her woman'sbreast have hidden him from Fate, and saved him from searching theunknown. But this night he did not want comfort. If he were 'an infantcrying in the night', it was crying that a woman could not still. He wasabroad seeking courage and faith for his own soul. He, in loneliness,must search the night for faith.
'My fate is finely wrought out,' he thought to himself. 'Even damnationmay be finely imagined for me in the night. I have come so far. Now Imust get clarity and courage to follow out the theme. I don't want tobotch and bungle even damnation.'
But he needed to know what was right, what was the proper sequence ofhis acts. Staring at the darkness, he seemed to feel his course, thoughhe could not see it. He bowed in obedience. The stars seemed to swingsoftly in token of submission.