The Gateless Barrier

  XVIII

  For some moments the young man dared not move. The anguish of hisshattered ribs, the choking up-rush of blood from his lungs, was sopresent to him, that he turned deadly faint. By degrees he realised thatall these sensations were illusory; or rather memory of that which had,long ago, befallen him. Then he asked himself--was the cry which hadjust now answered his cry illusory, a matter of memory, likewise? Thishe must ascertain. He began speaking slowly and softly; and theconviction of his identity with that other Laurence Rivers, hisnamesake, was so complete, that in speaking as he did he had no sense ofpractising any deceit upon his hearer.

  "Agnes," he said, "do you remember the summer morning when, like a lazyfellow, I fell asleep under the lime-trees, and how you came to me justas I woke up, and how we spoke to one another, and how my brother Dudleyinterrupted our conversation."

  A pause followed, during which he listened with almost feverish anxiety,looking up into the sweet, dimly-seen face. Was it possible that shehad already gained in physical attributes and powers to the point ofaudible speech? He almost prayed it might be so; and yet what tremendousissues such development opened up!

  At last the low, far-away voice began to answer him. The words camelispingly, at first, with a pathetic effort and hesitancy. It was as theutterance of a baby child but just learning to articulate.

  "How could I fail to remember that morning, since the joy of it provedthe prelude to the sorrow of your departure?"

  Laurence could barely control his excitement; but he just managed toremain very still and to continue speaking slowly and softly.

  "Was that so?" he said. "I had forgotten."

  "Surely it was so," she answered. "For Dudley brought you the orders,which had just been delivered by a despatch-rider, requiring yourimmediate return to your ship."

  "Yes, yes--of course. I begin to recollect," he rejoined. "Lord Nelsonhad news of the whereabouts of the French fleet, and we put to sea at afew hours' notice. Recollect, dear me, I should rather think I did! Itwas an awful rush to get one's kit together, and get through, and therewas no end of a bother about post-horses."

  Laurence rose to his feet. It was impossible to him to sit still anylonger. This strange awakening of memory, and the miracle of his sweet,phantom companion's recovered speech, moved him too deeply. He wentacross to the escritoire.

  "Come here, Agnes," he said. "I want to look at you. I must see youclearly. And I--I want you to look at me. Come."

  While speaking he struck a match, and lighted, first the tall waxcandles standing upon the escritoire, and then those in the candelabraupon the chimney-piece. Beheld in their mellow light, the room assumed amore than ever familiar and friendly aspect. Laurence felt that he wasat home--at home, consciously, and with a security and content upon himsuch as he had never experienced before. It was singularly pleasant tofeel thus. Moving back he stood in front of the slender, rose-cladfigure. His manner was serious, though very gentle, and his voicesomewhat broken by the emotion under which he laboured.

  "See, I have opened your little treasure-chest for you," he said. "And Ihave read your dear letters--that constituted no breach of faith, or actof presumption, considering how often I have read them already. I haveput everything carefully back in its place, save our two miniatures,which lie here side by side. I tell you honestly, I am perplexed. Ican't fit in the bits of the puzzle, or piece out the story as yet; butthat, to my mind, doesn't matter very much. For we are here together,once again, you and I."

  He shifted the position of the candles so that their full light shouldfall upon her.

  "Now let me look at you," he said.

  And as he looked his eyes grew somewhat moist, for he perceived thatwhich he had blindly desired, blindly sought all his days, that whichhad been as an ache at his heart even in his gayest hours, because heneeded it and had it not--though he had had no knowledge of what indeedit was he needed--now stood visibly before him. Sweet phantom, old-timelove, exquisite companion--having found her, how could he ever again lether go? Listening to her pretty, halting speech the flattering beliefhad once more grown strong in him that he had the power--had he also thewill--to restore her to complete and living womanhood. The ambition ofso doing possessed him with redoubled force; and the love of her, rootedso deeply in that mysterious former life and former personality of his,possessed him too. Considerations of right and wrong, of duty, even ofhonour, he brushed aside. The peace and content of the present, thedaring effort, the triumph and delight of the future should that effortsucceed, rendered him callous to all things beside. Then a touch ofself-distrust took him. Did he please, as he was pleased? He wondered.

  "Agnes," he asked her almost wistfully, "tell me, have I changed verymuch?"

  Her eyes, which had grown somewhat shy beneath his searching scrutiny,regained their serenity. She replied more readily, and in more assuredaccents, while a gentle playfulness was perceptible in her bearing.

  "You appear older," she said; "but I will not reproach you with that,since I think you have matured in character rather than greatlyincreased in years. I could fancy you taller, were not such asupposition absurd. The fashion of your clothes is much altered--youaffect very sober colours now."

  But suddenly her expression changed. A wide-eyed, haunting sadness cameback into her lovely face, and she spread abroad her hands in mingledapology and appeal.

  "Ah! indeed," she cried, "I fear a long, long period has elapsed duringmy illness and alienation of mind. You have had time and to spare inwhich to grow older, to acquire new habits of thought, perchance--butthat idea I cannot tolerate--to form fresh ties. I bitterly deplore myweakness, but they assured me of your death. Their purpose was notcruel, I am sure; but when I refused to believe their statements, yourbrother Dudley and Mrs. Lambart sent for our rector, Mr. Burkinshaw, totalk with me and preach resignation. He preached to deaf ears, poor man!How could I be resigned to see all the joy of my life cut down as grassunder the sweep of a scythe? I did not believe them, yet theirreiterated assertions so worked on me that they killed hope in me, and,in so doing, killed reason likewise. Yet in my heart of hearts,Laurence, I have always known that you would come again."

  She clasped her hands high on her bosom and smiled upon him.

  "And you have come, oh! my love," she said; "you have come!"

  "Yes, in good truth," he answered, while a sense of fear took him--"Ihave come."

  For he was filled with pity and with wonder concerning the end of thisadventure; while her innocent passion softened his whole nature to agreat tenderness, as the sun softens the frozen earth in spring. Then heheld out his hand to her in invitation, and led her across to thebrocade-covered sofa, set corner-wise between the piano and thefireplace, and for a while they both remained silent, sitting there sideby side. And as the minutes slid away, the young man's fears departed,and content returned to him. It was so natural to sit with her thus! Yethis content had an underlying pathos in it, since their situation--hisand hers--though immediately happy was so very strange.

  At last he asked her:--"Did you know me from the first?"

  And she replied with an air of gracious diffidence infinitelyengaging:--"I can hardly tell you. For so long confusion has reigned inmy poor mind that all had become to me vague and undetermined. I was sovery tired that even that which I most craved, I, in a measure, shrankfrom. I seemed to wander everlastingly in blank and desolate places. Iseemed to move in an interspace between the confines of two worlds, toneither of which could I gain admittance. I could not go forward,neither could I go back. Everything baffled me; everything was sodifficult to understand."

  "But now you have left those blank and desolate places? Now youunderstand?" Laurence asked, keenly interested in, yet a little dreadingher answer.

  "I think so. Still joy has been too long a stranger, for me wholly totrust it even yet. And I fear there are still lapses and deficiencies inmy intelligence. I could fancy--but doubtless these are but sillyfancies, born of illness--that I am not as I used
to be, and that Ifeel the miss of much I once had and now have not."

  She looked up at him, her eyes troubled once more to their very depths.

  "In what am I lacking, Laurence?" she inquired piteously. "I feel that Iam lacking, and I tremble lest I should disappoint you. Indeed, I willstrive to remedy my fault, whatever it may be, if you will but bepatient with me and tell me plainly of it, and give me opportunity toeffect a cure."

  But he answered her soothingly, stung by the humility and innocence ofher attitude.

  "You are wanting in nothing that time will not set right. But we mustmake haste slowly, sweetheart. So put all these sick fancies out of yourhead. We will worry neither about past or future; but, like trueeconomists, will enjoy the present. Now let us talk of the time before Ileft you to rejoin my ship. Of that other melancholy time, after I leftyou and before I came back, and of the changes it has brought along withit, we will talk some other day--I trust there are many days for usahead."

  And so they remained speaking of the incidents of that mysterious formerlife, of which Laurence's recollection became momentarily morecircumstantial and coherent--speaking of little things, merry andtender, such as lovers love--until, more than once, gusts of gentlelaughter swept through the yellow drawing-room, which, for such a lengthof years, had been empty of all sound of human mirth. And not until therose-red fingers of the dawn--in colour matching his fairy-lady'srose-red gown--first touched the eastern sky above the dome of the limegrove and the broken outline of the woods, did Laurence and Agnes Riverscease to talk. Then she got up from her place in pretty haste.

  "Ah!" she said, smiling, "I must go. Good Mrs. Lambart will reprove myindiscretion in having remained here so late."

  But Laurence was bound to ask her one question, which had been in hismind during the whole course of their interview, yet had not so fardared put to her.

  "Tell me," he said, "I waited for you--why did you not meet me here lastnight?"

  "Ah!" she replied, "do not let us closely inquire into that. Somethingterrible was abroad in the house. I think it was the Shadow of Death. Itstood between us--or I dreamed it did so.--But we fought against it. Weconquered it--at least I dreamed that we did. And it is gone.--But now,dear love, indeed I too must go. Good-night, or rather good-morrow.Carry happy thoughts away with you, even as I do, to sweeten rest."

  And, without more ado, she flitted across the room, as though her littlefeet in their diamond-powdered slippers could not go soberly, but mustdance for very joy, and, passing behind the tall escritoire, Laurenceonce again was aware that she had disappeared and left no trace.