_Chapter 19_
The air was warm and sweet in the little lane, remote from the sea,which led them along their last walk. On either side the white path wasa grassy margin thickly woven with pink convolvuli. Some of the recklesslittle flowers, so gay and evanescent, had climbed the trunks of an oldyew tree, and were looking up pertly at their rough host.
Helena walked along, watching the flowers, and making fancies out ofthem.
'Who called them "fairies' telephones"?' she said to herself. 'They aretiny children in pinafores. How gay they are! They are children dawdlingalong the pavement of a morning. How fortunate they are! See how theytake a wind-thrill! See how wide they are set to the sunshine! And whenthey are tired, they will curl daintily to sleep, and some fairies inthe dark will gather them away. They won't be here in the morning,shrivelled and dowdy ... If only we could curl up and be gone, afterour day....'
She looked at Siegmund. He was walking moodily beside her.
'It is good when life holds no anti-climax,' she said.
'Ay!' he answered. Of course, he could not understand her meaning.
She strayed into the thick grass, a sturdy white figure that walked withbent head, abstract, but happy.
'What is she thinking?' he asked himself. 'She is sufficient toherself--she doesn't want me. She has her own private way of communingwith things, and is friends with them.'
'The dew has been very heavy,' she said, turning, and looking up at himfrom under her brows, like a smiling witch.
'I see it has,' he answered. Then to himself he said: 'She can'ttranslate herself into language. She is incommunicable; she can't renderherself to the intelligence. So she is alone and a law unto herself: sheonly wants me to explore me, like a rock-pool, and to bathe in me. Aftera while, when I am gone, she will see I was not indispensable....'
The lane led up to the eastern down. As they were emerging, they saw onthe left hand an extraordinarily spick and span red bungalow. The lowroof of dusky red sloped down towards the coolest green lawn, that wasedged and ornamented with scarlet, and yellow, and white flowersbrilliant with dew.
A stout man in an alpaca jacket and panama hat was seated on the barelawn, his back to the sun, reading a newspaper. He tried in vain toavoid the glare of the sun on his reading. At last he closed the paperand looked angrily at the house--not at anything in particular.
He irritably read a few more lines, then jerked up his head in suddendecision, glared at the open door of the house, and called:
'Amy! Amy!'
No answer was forthcoming. He flung down the paper and strode offindoors, his mien one of wrathful resolution. His voice was heardcalling curtly from the dining-room. There was a jingle of crockery ashe bumped the table leg in sitting down.
'He is in a bad temper,' laughed Siegmund.
'Breakfast is late,' said Helena with contempt.
'Look!' said Siegmund.
An elderly lady in black and white striped linen, a young lady inholland, both carrying some wild flowers, hastened towards the gardengate. Their faces were turned anxiously to the house. They were hot withhurrying, and had no breath for words. The girl pressed forward, openedthe gate for the lady in striped linen, who hastened over the lawn. Thenthe daughter followed, and vanished also under the shady veranda.
There was a quick sound of women's low, apologetic voices, overridden bythe resentful abuse of the man.
The lovers moved out of hearing.
'Imagine that breakfast-table!' said Siegmund.
'I feel,' said Helena, with a keen twang of contempt in her voice, 'asif a fussy cock and hens had just scuffled across my path.'
'There are many such roosts,' said Siegmund pertinently.
Helena's cold scorn was very disagreeable to him. She talked to himwinsomely and very kindly as they crossed the open down to meet the nextincurving of the coast, and Siegmund was happy. But the sense ofhumiliation, which he had got from her the day before, and which hadfixed itself, bled him secretly, like a wound. This haemorrhage ofself-esteem tortured him to the end.
Helena had rejected him. She gave herself to her fancies only. For sometime she had confused Siegmund with her god. Yesterday she had cried toher ideal lover, and found only Siegmund. It was the spear in the sideof his tortured self-respect.
'At least,' he said, in mortification of himself--'at least, someonemust recognize a strain of God in me--and who does? I don't believe init myself.'
And, moreover, in the intense joy and suffering of his realized passion,the island, with its sea and sky, had fused till, like a brilliant bead,all their beauty ran together out of the common ore, and Siegmund saw itnaked, saw the beauty of everything naked in the shifting magic of thisbead. The island would be gone tomorrow: he would look for the beautyand find the dirt. What was he to do?
'You know, Domine,' said Helena--it was his old nickname she used--'youlook quite stern today.'
'I feel anything but stern,' he laughed. 'Weaker than usual, in fact.'
'Yes, perhaps so, when you talk. Then you are really surprisinglygentle. But when you are silent, I am even afraid of you--you seemso grave.'
He laughed.
'And shall I not be brave?' he said. 'Can't you smell _Fumum et opesstrepitumque Romae_?' He turned quickly to Helena. 'I wonder if that'sright,' he said. 'It's years since I did a line of Latin, and I thoughtit had all gone.'
'In the first place, what does it mean?' said Helena calmly, 'for I canonly half translate. I have thrown overboard all my scrap-books ofsuch stuff.'
'Why,' said Siegmund, rather abashed, 'only "the row and the smoke ofRome". But it is remarkable, Helena'--here the peculiar look of interestcame on his face again--'it is really remarkable that I should havesaid that.'
'Yes, you look surprised,' smiled she.
'But it must be twenty'--he counted--'twenty-two or three years since Ilearned that, and I forgot it--goodness knows how long ago. Like adrowning man, I have these memories before....' He broke off, smilingmockingly, to tease her.
'Before you go back to London,' said she, in a matter-of-fact, almostironical tone. She was inscrutable. This morning she could not bear tolet any deep emotion come uppermost. She wanted rest. 'No,' she said,with calm distinctness, a few moments after, when they were climbing therise to the cliff's edge. 'I can't say that I smell the smoke of London.The mist-curtain is thick yet. There it is'--she pointed to the heavy,purple-grey haze that hung like arras on a wall, between the sloping skyand the sea. She thought of yesterday morning's mist-curtain, thick andblazing gold, so heavy that no wind could sway its fringe.
They lay down in the dry grass, upon the gold bits of bird's-foottrefoil of the cliff's edge, and looked out to sea. A warm, drowsy calmdrooped over everything.
'Six hours,' thought Helena, 'and we shall have passed the mist-curtain.Already it is thinning. I could break it open with waving my hand. Iwill not wave my hand.'
She was exhausted by the suffering of the last night, so she refused toallow any emotion to move her this morning, till she was strong.Siegmund was also exhausted; but his thoughts laboured like ants, inspite of himself, striving towards a conclusion.
Helena had rejected him. In his heart he felt that in this love affairalso he had been a failure. No matter how he contradicted himself, andsaid it was absurd to imagine he was a failure as Helena's lover, yet hefelt a physical sensation of defeat, a kind of knot in his breast whichneither reason, nor dialectics, nor circumstance, not even Helena, coulduntie. He had failed as lover to Helena.
It was not surprising his marriage with Beatrice should provedisastrous. Rushing into wedlock as he had done, at the ripe age ofseventeen, he had known nothing of his woman, nor she of him. When hismind and soul set to develop, as Beatrice could not sympathize with hisinterests, he naturally inclined away from her, so that now, aftertwenty years, he was almost a stranger to her. That was not verysurprising.
But why should he have failed with Helena?
The bees droned fitfully over the s
cented grass, aimlessly swinging inthe heat. Siegmund watched one gold and amber fellow lazily let go awhite clover-head, and boom in a careless curve out to sea, hummingsofter and softer as he reeled along in the giddy space.
'The little fool!' said Siegmund, watching the black dot swallowed intothe light.
No ship sailed the curving sea. The light danced in a whirl upon theripples. Everything else watched with heavy eyes of heat enhancement thewild spinning of the lights.
'Even if I were free,' he continued to think, 'we should only growapart, Helena and I. She would leave me. This time I should be thelaggard. She is young and vigorous; I am beginning to set.
'Is that why I have failed? I ought to have had her in love sufficientlyto keep her these few days. I am not quick. I do not follow her orunderstand her swiftly enough. And I am always timid of compulsion. Icannot compel anybody to follow me.
'So we are here. I am out of my depth. Like the bee, I was mad with thesight of so much joy, such a blue space, and now I shall find no footingto alight on. I have flown out into life beyond my strength to get back.When can I set my feet on when this is gone?'
The sun grew stronger. Slower and more slowly went the hawks ofSiegmund's mind, after the quarry of conclusion. He lay bare-headed,looking out to sea. The sun was burning deeper into his face and head.
'I feel as if it were burning into me,' thought Siegmund abstractedly.'It is certainly consuming some part of me. Perhaps it is making meill.' Meanwhile, perversely, he gave his face and his hot black hairto the sun.
Helena lay in what shadow he afforded. The heat put out all herthought-activity. Presently she said:
'This heat is terrible, Siegmund. Shall we go down to the water?'
They climbed giddily down the cliff path. Already they were somewhatsun-intoxicated. Siegmund chose the hot sand, where no shade was, onwhich to lie.
'Shall we not go under the rocks?' said Helena.
'Look!' he said, 'the sun is beating on the cliffs. It is hotter, moresuffocating, there.'
So they lay down in the glare, Helena watching the foam retreat slowlywith a cool splash; Siegmund thinking. The naked body of heatwas dreadful.
'My arms, Siegmund,' said she. 'They feel as if they were dipped infire.'
Siegmund took them, without a word, and hid them under his coat.
'Are you sure it is not bad for you--your head, Siegmund? Are you sure?'
He laughed stupidly.
'That is all right,' he said. He knew that the sun was burning throughhim, and doing him harm, but he wanted the intoxication.
As he looked wistfully far away over the sea at Helena's mist-curtain,he said:
'I _think_ we should be able to keep together if'--he faltered--'if onlyI could have you a little longer. I have never had you ...'
Some sound of failure, some tone telling her it was too late, some ringof despair in his quietness, made Helena cling to him wildly, with asavage little cry as if she were wounded. She clung to him, almostbeside herself. She could not lose him, she could not spare him. Shewould not let him go. Helena was, for the moment, frantic.
He held her safely, saying nothing until she was calmer, when, with hislips on her cheek, he murmured:
'I should be able, shouldn't I, Helena?'
'You are always able!' she cried. 'It is I who play with you at hiding.'
'I have really had you so little,' he said.
'Can't you forget it, Siegmund?' she cried. 'Can't you forget it? It wasonly a shadow, Siegmund. It was a lie, it was nothing real. Can't youforget it, dear?'
'You can't do without me?' he asked.
'If I lose you I am lost,' answered she with swift decision. She had noknowledge of weeping, yet her tears were wet on his face. He held hersafely; her arms were hidden under his coat.
'I will have no mercy on those shadows the next time they come betweenus,' said Helena to herself. 'They may go back to hell.'
She still clung to him, craving so to have him that he could not be reftaway.
Siegmund felt very peaceful. He lay with his arms about her, listeningto the backward-creeping tide. All his thoughts, like bees, were flownout to sea and lost.
'If I had her more, I should understand her through and through. If wewere side by side we should grow together. If we could stay here, Ishould get stronger and more upright.'
This was the poor heron of quarry the hawks of his mind had struck.
Another hour fell like a foxglove bell from the stalk. There were onlytwo red blossoms left. Then the stem would have set to seed. Helenaleaned her head upon the breast of Siegmund, her arms clasping, underhis coat, his body, which swelled and sank gently, with the quiet ofgreat power.
'If,' thought she, 'the whole clock of the world could stand still now,and leave us thus, me with the lift and fall of the strong body ofSiegmund in my arms....'
But the clock ticked on in the heat, the seconds marked off by thefalling of the waves, repeated so lightly, and in such fragile rhythm,that it made silence sweet.
'If now,' prayed Siegmund, 'death would wipe the sweat from me, and itwere dark....'
But the waves softly marked the minutes, retreating farther, leaving thebare rocks to bleach and the weed to shrivel.
Gradually, like the shadow on a dial, the knowledge that it was time torise and go crept upon them. Although they remained silent, each knewthat the other felt the same weight of responsibility, the shadow-fingerof the sundial travelling over them. The alternative was, not to return,to let the finger travel and be gone. But then ... Helena knew she mustnot let the time cross her; she must rise before it was too late, andtravel before the coming finger. Siegmund hoped she would not get up. Helay in suspense, waiting.
At last she sat up abruptly.
'It is time, Siegmund,' she said.
He did not answer, he did not look at her, but lay as she had left him.She wiped her face with her handkerchief, waiting. Then she bent overhim. He did not look at her. She saw his forehead was swollen andinflamed with the sun. Very gently she wiped from it the glisteningsweat. He closed his eyes, and she wiped his cheeks and his mouth. Stillhe did not look at her. She bent very close to him, feeling her heartcrushed with grief for him.
'We must go, Siegmund,' she whispered.
'All right,' he said, but still he did not move.
She stood up beside him, shook herself, and tried to get a breath ofair. She was dazzled blind by the sunshine.
Siegmund lay in the bright light, with his eyes closed, never moving.His face was inflamed, but fixed like a mask.
Helena waited, until the terror of the passing of the hour was toostrong for her. She lifted his hand, which lay swollen with heat on thesand, and she tried gently to draw him.
'We shall be too late,' she said in distress.
He sighed and sat up, looking out over the water.
Helena could not bear to see him look so vacant and expressionless. Sheput her arm round his neck, and pressed his head against her skirt.
Siegmund knew he was making it unbearable for her. Pulling himselftogether, he bent his head from the sea, and said:
'Why, what time is it?'
He took out his watch, holding it in his hand. Helena still held hisleft hand, and had one arm round his neck.
'I can't see the figures,' he said. 'Everything is dimmed, as if it werecoming dark.'
'Yes,' replied Helena, in that reedy, painful tone of hers. 'My eyeswere the same. It is the strong sunlight.'
'I can't,' he repeated, and he was rather surprised--'I can't see thetime. Can you?'
She stooped down and looked.
'It is half past one,' she said.
Siegmund hated her voice as she spoke. There was still sufficient timeto catch the train. He stood up, moved inside his clothing, saying: 'Ifeel almost stunned by the heat. I can hardly see, and all my feeling inmy body is dulled.'
'Yes,' answered Helena, 'I am afraid it will do you harm.'
'At any rate,' he smiled as if sleepi
ly, 'I have had enough. If it's toomuch--what _is_ too much?'
They went unevenly over the sand, their eyes sun-dimmed.
'We are going back--we are going back!' the heart of Helena seemed torun hot, beating these words.
They climbed the cliff path toilsomely. Standing at the top, on the edgeof the grass, they looked down the cliffs at the beach and over the sea.The strand was wide, forsaken by the sea, forlorn with rocks bleachingin the sun, and sand and seaweed breathing off their painful scent uponthe heat. The sea crept smaller, farther away; the sky stood still.Siegmund and Helena looked hopelessly out on their beautiful,incandescent world. They looked hopelessly at each other, Siegmund'smood was gentle and forbearing. He smiled faintly at Helena, thenturned, and, lifting his hand to his mouth in a kiss for the beauty hehad enjoyed, '_Addio_!' he said.
He turned away, and, looking from Helena landwards, he said, smilingpeculiarly:
'It reminds me of Traviata--an "_Addio_" at every verse-end.'
She smiled with her mouth in acknowledgement of his facetious irony; itjarred on her. He was pricked again by her supercilious reserve.'_Addi-i-i-i-o, Addi-i-i-o_!' he whistled between his teeth, hissing outthe Italian's passion-notes in a way that made Helena clench her fists.
'I suppose,' she said, swallowing, and recovering her voice to checkthis discord--'I suppose we shall have a fairly easy journey--Thursday.'
'I don't know,' said Siegmund.
'There will not be very many people,' she insisted.
'I think,' he said, in a very quiet voice, 'you'd better let me go bythe South-Western from Portsmouth while you go on by the Brighton.'
'But why?' she exclaimed in astonishment.
'I don't want to sit looking at you all the way,' he said.
'But why should you?' she exclaimed.
He laughed.
'Indeed, no!' she said. 'We shall go together.'
'Very well,' he answered.
They walked on in silence towards the village. As they drew near thelittle post office, he said:
'I suppose I may as well wire them that I shall be home tonight.'
'You haven't sent them any word?' she asked.
He laughed. They came to the open door of the little shop. He stoodstill, not entering. Helena wondered what he was thinking.
'Shall I?' he asked, meaning, should he wire to Beatrice. His manner wasrather peculiar.
'Well, I should think so,' faltered Helena, turning away to look at thepostcards in the window. Siegmund entered the shop. It was dark andcumbered with views, cheap china ornaments, and toys. He asked for atelegraph form.
'My God!' he said to himself bitterly as he took the pencil. He couldnot sign the abbreviated name his wife used towards him. He scribbledhis surname, as he would have done to a stranger. As he watched theamiable, stout woman counting up his words carefully, pointing with herfinger, he felt sick with irony.
'That's right,' she said, picking up the sixpence and taking the form tothe instrument. 'What beautiful weather!' she continued. 'It will bemaking you sorry to leave us.'
'There goes my warrant,' thought Siegmund, watching the flimsy bit ofpaper under the post-mistress's heavy hand.
'Yes--it is too bad, isn't it,' he replied, bowing and laughing to thewoman.
'It is, sir,' she answered pleasantly. 'Good morning.'
He came out of the shop still smiling, and when Helena turned from thepostcards to look at him, the lines of laughter remained over his facelike a mask. She glanced at his eyes for a sign; his facial expressiontold her nothing; his eyes were just as inscrutable, which made herfalter with dismay.
'What is he thinking of?' she asked herself. Her thoughts flashed back.'And why did he ask me so peculiarly whether he should wire themat home?'
'Well,' said Siegmund, 'are there any postcards?'
'None that I care to take,' she replied. 'Perhaps you would like one ofthese?'
She pointed to some faded-looking cards which proved to be imaginaryviews of Alum Bay done in variegated sand. Siegmund smiled.
'I wonder if they dribbled the sand on with a fine glass tube,' he said.
'Or a brush,' said Helena.
'She does not understand,' said Siegmund to himself. 'And whatever I doI must not tell her. I should have thought she would understand.'
As he walked home beside her there mingled with his other feelingsresentment against her. Almost he hated her.