CHAPTER LIII
Spring was in the very act of birth when Lewis found himself once morein the old carryall threading the River Road. This time he sat besideOld William, and the horses plodded along slowly, tamed by the slackreins lying neglected on their backs. Old William was not driving. Hishands, loosely holding the lines, lay on his knees. Down his pink cheeksand into his white beard crawled tears from his wide blue eyes.
"Glen dead! Little Glen Leighton dead!" he said aloud from time to time,and Lewis knew himself forgotten. He forgave the old man for the sake ofthe picture he conjured--a picture of that other boyhood when "littleGlen Leighton" and the wood-cutter had hunted and fished and roamedthese crowding hills together.
The next day was one of pouring showers. Twice Lewis left the house,only to be turned back by the rain. He was not afraid of getting wet,but he was afraid of having to talk to Natalie indoors. He could notremember ever having talked to her hemmed in by four walls.
But on the morrow he awoke to clean-washed skies and a fuzzy pale-greencarpet that spread across the fields and rose in bumps and mounds overtrees and budding shrubs. He left the homestead early, and struck outfor Aunt Jed's. As he approached the house, a strange diffidence fellupon him. He was afraid to go in. For an hour he sat on the top rail ofa fence and watched.
At last Natalie came out. She started to walk toward him, but presentlyturned to the right. Lewis followed her. At first she walked fast, butsoon she began to pause beside some burst of green or tempting downymass of pussy-willow, as though she were in two minds whether to fillher arms and rush back, carrying spring into the house or to go on. Shewent on slowly until she reached the barrier of rails that closed theentrance to Leighton's land of dreams. Here Lewis came up with her.
"Nat," he said, "shall I help you over?"
Natalie whirled round at the sound of his voice. Just for a second therewas fright in her eyes; then color mounted swiftly into her pale cheeks,and her lips opened to speak, but she said nothing. There was somethingin Lewis's face that stopped her--a look of age and of hunger. Shewanted to ask him why he had come back, but her heart was beating sofast that she dared not trust her voice.
Lewis was frightened, too. He was frightened lest he should find thestrange woman when he needed just the oldest pal he had in the world.
"Nat," he blurted out, "dad is dead."
When a man thinks he is being clumsy and tactless with a woman, he isgenerally making a master stroke. At Lewis's words, so simple, sochild-like, the conscious flush died from Natalie's cheeks, her heartsteadied down, and her eyes filled with the sudden tears of sympathy.
"Dead, Lew? Your dad dead?"
She put her arms around him and kissed him softly; then she drew him toa low rock. They sat down side by side.
"Tell Natalie," she said.
Lewis could never remember that hour with Natalie except as a whole.Between the bursting of a dam and the moment when the pent-up watersstretch to their utmost level and peace there is no division of time. Heknew only that it was like that with him. He had come in oppression, hehad found peace.
Then he looked up into Natalie's speaking face and knew that he hadfound more. He had found again his old pal. "A pal is one who can't dowrong who can't go wrong, who can't grow wrong." Who had said that?H lne--H lne, who, never having seen Natalie save with the innervision, knew her for a friend. To Folly his body had cried, "Let us stayyoung together!" To Natalie his blood, his body, and his soul were readyto cry out, "Let us grow old together!"
Natalie had not followed the turn of his emotion. She broke in upon histhought and brought him back.
"I never talked to your dad, but--we knew each other, we liked eachother."
Lewis started.
"That's funny," he said.
"Is it?" said Natalie. "I suppose it sounds odd, but--"
"No," interrupted Lewis, "that's not what I mean. It's odd becauseH lne said just the same thing about you. She said you were greatfriends--that women didn't have to know each other to be friends."
"They don't have to know men to be friends, either," said Natalie,"unless--"
"Unless what?"
"Unless they love them. If they love them, they've got to know themthrough and through to be friends. Love twists a woman's vision. Lots ofwomen are ruined because they can't wait to see through and through."
"Why, Nat," said Lewis, "you're talking like dad. Dad nevertalks--talked--without turning on the light."
"Doesn't he?" said Natalie.
Lewis nodded.
"There are people that think of dad as a bad man. He has told me so. Buthe wasn't bad to me or to H lne or Nelton or Old William, and we're theones that knew him best."
For a time they were silent, then Natalie said: "Lew, you're older thanyou ever were before. Is it just losing your dad?"
Lewis shook his head.
"No," he said, "it wasn't that. I finished growing up just after I gotback to London. I'm not the only thing that has grown. My work--sometimeI'll show you my work before and after. I wish I could have shown it todad,--I wish I could have told him that I've said good-by to Folly."
"Good-by to Folly?" cried Natalie, with a leap of the heart. Then herheart sank back. "You mean you've said good-by to foolishness, tochildish things?"
"Both," said Lewis. "Folly Delaires and childish things."
"Why?" asked Natalie, shortly.
"Because," said Lewis, "it was given me to see her through and through."
"And now?" breathed Natalie, drawing slightly away from him lest he hearthe thumping of her heart.
Lewis turned his head and looked at her. The flush was back in hercheeks, her eyes were wide and staring far away, her moist lips werehalf open, and her bosom rose and fell in the long, halting swell oftremulous breath.
There is a beauty that transcends the fixed bounds of flesh, that leapsto the eye of love when all the world is blind. The flower that opensslowly, the face grown dear through half of life, needs no tenure inmemory. It lives. Tears can not dim its beauty nor age destroy itsgrace, for the vision is part of him who sees.
The vision came to Lewis. His arms trembled to grip Natalie, to outrageher trust, and seize too lightly the promise of the years.
"Now, Nat?" he said hoarsely. He raised his hands slowly, took off herhat, and tossed it aside. Then with trembling fingers he let down herhair. It tumbled about her shoulders in a gold and copper glory of lightand shade. Natalie did not stir. Lewis caught up a handful of her hairand held it against his cheek. "Now," he said, "I stay here. Since longbefore the day you said that you and I would sail together to thebiggest island you've held my hand, and I've held yours. Sometimes I'veforgotten, but--but I've never really let go. I'll not let go now. I'llcling to you, walk beside you, live with you, hand in hand, until theday you know me through and through.
"And then?" whispered Natalie.
"Then I'll love you," said Lewis, gravely. "For me you hold all theseven worlds of women. I've--I've been walking with my back to thelight."
Natalie laughed--the soft laughter with which women choke back tears.She put up her hands and drew Lewis's head against her breast.
THE END