Читать книгу Splendid Joy - Marguerite Williams - Страница 10

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“YOU’RE not very sure-footed,” criticized Martyn, as he caught Clare’s hand and prevented her fall into a pool between the rocks.

“I know, but I’m always so thankful that the rocks are reliable,” she said laughing, as she regained her balance.

“You need a sure foot as well as a firm rock,” he expostulated. “That is—unless you’re going to have someone always by to hold you up.”

Clare laughed happily again as she looked at him. He seemed that afternoon like an irresponsible schoolboy on a holiday, and his gaiety was infectious.

“Let’s go and live right down under the sea,” he suggested persuasively, “where no one would intrude. There’s a lovely little world down there; waving forests of seaweed, beautiful green lawns that you’d love to walk on, and sunlight—sunlight shining on a palace—miles down! Shall we go?”

“Oh, I know that fairy palace—built by millions of tiny creatures in thousands of years! It must be beautiful. I’d love to explore. Did they give it an old-world garden?”

“Let’s go and find out.”

“But I’ve only human eyes.”

“I’ll take my microscope.”

“What fun! But if the news leaked out, other people would be sure to follow us.”

“But we could hide—like the fish. That’d be one of the delights of that wonder-world. Don’t you know that a trout makes himself dusky when he lies in a shady pool, and when he passes on to the sunny waters he shines again?”

“I’m afraid you want to keep your discoveries to yourself.”

“To ourselves. Shall we go?”

“Oh, yes—if we come back in time for tea.”

“Now you’ve spoiled it all, you prosaic woman.”

Clare sat down on a rock, trying to hide that she felt dangerously poetic. “Let’s investigate from above first,” she suggested. “Look at this lovely pool—do look!” He leaned down beside her. “Have you ever seen such beautiful shades of seaweed—purples and greens and browns!” She lifted the trailing weeds with her fingers. “And I never knew there were so many kinds of shell fish. Look! And beautiful wee pebbles.”

“That pool makes a lovely little world for fish and flower! Look at that miniature crab making his way between the bright green. I expect he thinks himself a man-of-the-world.”

“Just see how his shell glistens when the light catches it!” she responded vividly. “He’s a gay beau.”

“Those tiny creatures are having a jolly good time in the sunshine.” He looked down at her. “And so are we!” he added.

She drew a piece of the brilliant seaweed through her fingers. “So are we,” she agreed.

“O rich woman! Do you know your wealth?” demanded Martyn; hiding his splendid joy behind a voice of laughing raillery. “The sun is shining—for you. The wavelets are leaving soft kisses on the rocks—for you. Those hills are tossing a hundred sweet scents—to you. Do you know?”

Clare turned a flushed face away.

“These shining pools are singing that the world is very good,” she said, with a little tremulous laugh. “But—please—I’m not greedy. You may have a share.”

“To imitate you and be prosaic,” Martyn said a little later, “I’ll go along to a cottage that I know, and see if the woman there will get a good tea for us. Stay somewhere around till I come back.... But—don’t bother!—Wherever you are, I shall find you.”

He went, and Clare was left on the golden shore alone. In her eyes was the light of happiness; in her heart a great peace. The future had been robbed of its dread—the past of its power. The present was joy. An endless Hallelujah!

Grass-crowned, rocky cliffs shut in the narrow sandy cove on the landward side; but just in the centre, the line of the cliff was broken, and the broad white road beyond curved outward, making a path to the edge of the shore. As Clare sauntered along in the sunshine, pausing to enjoy rock and shell and sea-weed on her way, the stillness was broken by the sound of a motor horn. The girl looked towards the road with interest.

The car stopped and she watched the people get out. First an elderly gentleman, with kindly face and remote, scholarly air which attracted her. He turned and held out his hand to the handsome well-dressed lady who followed him. The plain, bright-faced girl who was evidently her daughter was too interested in the boy who was with her to want any chivalrous attention for herself. The lady turned and gave directions to the chauffeur. Clare decided that she was the owner of the car and that the gentleman was her guest; then she forgot them both as her eyes fell upon the child whom the girl was watching solicitously.

Clare never forgot that first sight of Jim Cavendish, for, all unheralded, he took her heart by storm.

She watched him come towards her along the golden sandy shore; just a boyish boy, in a red jersey and short serge knickerbockers, but beneath the boyishness Clare saw deeps. The clear blue eyes looked out from a beautiful face that was all too pale; the short thick hair that waved over the lovely head was tumbled gold in the sunshine.

His companion offered him her arm. He refused it promptly, with boyish independence, but Clare noticed that he limped. She read pain in his face, but his lips smiled. She heard his gay voice—without catching the words. They appeared to be a joke, for his companion echoed his laugh. Clare smiled in sympathy, but her eyes were moist.

She sat down under the shadow of a rock. The gentleman, the girl and the child went nearer the sea. The chauffeur came from the car with a tea basket, spread a dainty white cloth on the sand by the cliff, and lit the spirit lamp beneath the silver kettle.

“Picnicking in luxury!” said Clare to herself amusedly. “That isn’t the real game.”

The bright-faced girl had a book with her. She laid it on the sand while she dug out a seat for the boy with her hands. He saw what she was doing and promptly started digging, too. The gentleman picked up the book. He turned over the pages—his face lit with interest.

“You have the real thing here,” he remarked, after a few moments, looking up at the girl, who had completed her arrangements.

“It’s a remarkable book,” she agreed, with less enthusiasm,—“Jim, darling, don’t be so independent, that seat’s for you. I’m going to make another for myself. But rather too realistic—don’t you think? If he’d only be a little more tolerant—a little less scathing and satirical—”

The man’s eyes returned to the book. “It’s undiluted genius,” he pronounced with sure emphasis.

Clare heard. She looked across the sun-flecked sea, and her eyes held laughter. Undiluted genius! What remained for Shakespeare?

The lady, who had been talking to the chauffeur, joined her daughter and her guests.

“Personally I don’t like the man,” she volunteered, “and I don’t care for his writings. He’s wonderful in a way, of course. I know many women who absolutely rave over him. You are one of his admirers, Lord Alwyn?”

“He has a marvellous personality.”

“So had Mephistopheles! I always mix the two in my mind.”

“Oh come now!” exclaimed Lord Alwyn; “there isn’t much softness about him, I admit, but he’s as straight as they make them.”

Clare suddenly caught sight of Jim’s blue eyes. They were flashing indignation.

“He’s the most wonderful man in the world!” he cried, a rosy color flushing his cheeks, “and the best!”

The lady laughed. “I’m so sorry, Jim dear. I forgot our hero-worshipper. Of course he is a genius.”

“A genius!” the boy echoed. “But it isn’t that,” he protested. “Don’t you know there are men who would die for him!”

“He’s fortunate in having such a champion,” she responded smiling.

As Clare’s thoughts echoed her verdict, she saw Lord Alwyn put down the book with a sudden expression of surprise.

“Why—here’s the man himself!” he exclaimed; and Clare turned—to see Martyn coming down the shore, his hat in his hand.

She saw him shake hands with the two ladies and the gentleman who so appreciated him; she saw the worshipping admiration in Jim’s wonderful blue eyes—then she slipped away under cover of the rocks, so that none should see her wounds.

Undiluted genius.... A wonderful personality.... Women rave over him....

For radiant days Martyn Royce had belonged to her alone. She had imagined him lonely, and had given herself generously; but away in a world that she did not know, men and women were proud to call him friend. How blind she had been! The world knew a genius, while she had seen only—a man. She had never thought of his personality, and strangers could call it “marvellous”.... Women rave over him! and Clare had thought that the revelation of his charm was for her alone. Blind—blind!

She walked on alone among the rocks—but the splendor had faded.

Clare had loved before. She was far too liberal to live unloving. But the quality of a woman’s love depends upon the personality of the man who inspires it. Clare knew now that she had never loved with every faculty—of mind, body, and soul—as she loved this man; and the knowledge made her afraid. Truly, tyrannical love can afford to laugh the while he is ignored, for he knows surely that his turn will come.

Martyn would find her soon. She must turn from the light that Nature was flashing over a strange, unexplored region she had never suspected hidden within herself. Later—when night came kindly, and the heavens were lit with stars—she would be alone; then perhaps she would look at the love that was beautiful and terrible—a love of the depths and the heights. Now she must ignore it. And she must forget that she had been so blind.

At last Martyn found her. He was looking very happy.

“Your imagination spoke truly,” he cried gaily. “Others have discovered our Paradise.”

“I saw them; and saw that you knew them,” she confessed.

“You’d never have suspected that I wished them at the Antipodes, would you? I can be a first-rate hypocrite on occasion.”

“I’m sure they didn’t suspect it,” she admitted, resolutely forgetting that the world claimed the man she loved.

“I’m a pretty good actor when I like. But I’m awfully sorry I had to keep you waiting. They wanted me to join their precious picnic. I had to make up no end of a yarn.”

“But why make up?”

He laughed. “Why bother to explain? I’ve told them of unknown beauties ahead which they will go and seek, while we’re left in peace. Now for tea! Are you ready?”

“We shan’t run into them?”

He looked at her—his eyes dancing. “Trust me!” he said; and she remembered—“women rave over him.”

“Did you notice them?” he asked, as they sat under the mulberry tree, in the cottage garden on the cliff.

Clare began to pour out tea.

“Yes,” she said, trying to speak naturally. “I was watching them before you came. Then I fled.”

“That’s rather a fine man,” he explained, passing the bread and butter. “I don’t know what he’s done that they should have made him a lord, but fortunately it doesn’t seem to have upset him. He still quietly enjoys spending his wealth for his fellows—according to his lights. But he manages to keep plenty of leisure for enjoying his rare collection of pictures, and reading the books he really loves—which shows him to be uncommonly wise.”

Clare put strawberry jam on a corner of her bread and butter.

“Tell me about that delicate-looking child,” she asked. “I’ve never seen such a lovely boy-face before. Is he lame?”

Martyn’s eyes grew grave.

“Not always,” he said. “He has a fiendish disease that no doctor can understand or cure.”

“He looks as if he suffered, but he looks so happy too.”

“He’s the happiest and pluckiest little fellow I’ve ever met. He’s one of the very few people in the world I care for.”

“He cares for you,” said Clare—remembering Jim’s eyes.

Martyn smiled; and a phrase stabbed Clare’s memory:—“A marvellous personality.”

“So you found that out!” he said. “I’ve never heard him speak evil of anyone. He has a quaint genius for finding the good.”

“That is genius worth having.”

“Yes; it’s rare. I know one other who has it.” He looked at Clare. Clare was looking across the sea.

“Of course, Jim won’t be here many years,” he went on. “I suppose that’s why he’s getting so much into his life. I always think that fine description, attributed to the wise king of old, applies to him,—‘He being made perfect in a short time fulfilled a long time.’”

Then he smiled again.

“He’s not in such a hurry as you were to be off; but I think he has your feeling that heaven and earth are hardly as far away from each other as the drops of the ocean. He talks about the one as matter-of-factly as the other. He informed me one day—‘I suppose Heaven must be fine, but I’m not in a hurry to see it, because it’s so jolly here!’ He’s got plenty of commonsense, and no cheap sentimentality. Once he confessed—‘I do love this earth although it’s my enemy!’ When I asked—why his enemy? he reminded me—‘The world, the flesh, and the devil, you know.’ Then we had a bit of a talk, and the enemy was transformed into a friend—no less loved.”

Undiluted genius!... Clare wished that she could have heard that talk.

“Tell me more about him,” she asked, moving the plate of home-made cakes out of the way of his arm.

“There’s so much—I couldn’t tell you a fraction. You must meet him one day.” Then he laughed delightedly. “I’d like him to tell me about it afterwards!”

“Why—is he very observant?”

“Yes—very. But only communicative about his observations when they are favorable. He’d like you. You have so much in common. You both have the faculty of making one feel that the spiritual is man’s natural atmosphere.”

Clare flushed, but Martyn was voicing his thoughts in all simplicity.

“I can just imagine him telling me exactly what your mouth is like, and where your special charm lies,” he added appreciatively. “I shouldn’t dare to confess that I hadn’t noticed. He thinks too highly of my judgment.”

“What would he talk to me about?” Clare asked.

“I can’t tell at all what he’ll be most interested in, a week—a month—ahead. It may be cricket—or football—or the organ—or aeroplanes; It may be calvinism—or dreadnoughts—or verbal inspiration. Perhaps it’ll be motor cars—or the Irish question—or the infallibity of the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Those and a hundred-and-one other subjects have their turn. He grows enthusiastic about them all.”

“I wonder what he’ll become,” she said, thoughtfully.

“A musician, perhaps—but not in this life,” he responded.

Clare was following the dancing shadows on the cloth with her fingers. “That was not his mother or sister?” she asked.

“Oh, no, Jim’s just spending a week with them. He lost his parents some years ago. He was quite an afterthought of theirs. In this case second—or third—thoughts were certainly the best. I’m not sure whether it was kind to Jim to bring him into the world, but it was certainly kind to the world. His eldest brother inherited the beautiful old place that has belonged to the family for generations. Jim lived on in the old house with him and his wife. Mr. and Mrs. Gerald didn’t get on very well. They would have been happy enough if only they could have thought so, but she began to make a fool of herself about another man.”

“Were there any children?”

“No. But motherhood wouldn’t have altered her character. Anyway her fooling was stopped. I think she really cared for her husband. They were crossing the Atlantic some months ago, on their way home from a long holiday. The liner was wrecked. They went down together.”

“Perhaps they found each other then.”

His eyes met hers. “I knew that you’d want to think that.... Perhaps you’re right.”

“And Jim?” she asked. “Is he the only one left?”

“He has a brother,” Martyn said shortly—throwing cake to the birds. Then he added more communicatively:—

“There’s a very good family nurse who married the butler. She’s hospital trained, and a fine woman. Of course she adores Jim.”

“Everyone must love him. Is his brother like him?”

There was a moment’s pause, then Martyn said curtly,—

“Not at all! Jim has strength of character for the two of them.”

Clare caught his changed expression. What comparison had that lady used?... She stopped her thoughts.

He smiled again as he met her eyes, and the softness came back to his own.

“If you’ve finished, we’ll give the birds free access. Let’s go across the common you love; the common that leads right to the heart of the setting sun.”

They went together through the gold of the ripened cornfield, where the poppies were sleeping—through the radiance of the gorse and the heather, towards the glory of the western sun.

Twilight fell. Together they watched the first stars come out—clear and beautiful—in a cloudless sky. Clare told herself that she would forget her fears—until the night came, and she would be alone. For a little while longer yet the man she loved was beside her, and the world was theirs.

Suddenly—as on that day when she had watched his boat come home—she felt his hand against hers; her fingers were captured in a strong clasp. She looked up at him—and everything else was forgotten.

“What has been the matter?” he asked gently.

Again he was surprising her.

“What do you mean?” she questioned.

“You’re doubting me,” he suggested gravely.

“No!” she said with sudden vehemence. “No! I couldn’t.”

“Then—” he persisted.

“Only—I thought I knew you. Those people—your friends—showed me that I didn’t.”

He faced her, imprisoning her hands in his.

“It is only you who do know me,” he said, and his eyes held a wonderful light. “It’s only you I want to know me.” Still above his passion ruled his hard-won self-control. “I’ve tried to be honest, little one. You know I’m not a saint.... I’ve done things I’ve despised. I’ve lied. I’ve been a brute. But....”

He raised her hands to his shoulders as he drew her closer, and she felt the hard beating of his heart.

“I love you,”—and passion thrilled in his voice. “I love you—Clare. This one bit of me is wholly clean—I love you.”

Did Adam whisper those words to Eve as they walked together beneath the splendid stars? Did the shepherd breathe them to the Shulamite as they went home across the hills together? Perhaps the great confession is nearly as old as man, but the ages have not robbed it of its power to make a new heaven and a new earth for every man and woman who loves. It may be that its power will outlive the last daybreak—when the shadows flee away.

Martyn’s hands on Clare’s were strong and virile. She felt his power. He had won what he had waited for. In her soul there burned the pure white flame that answered to his own. His eyes tried to read hers, for as yet he did not know.

“I love you with all the best that is in me, Clare.” His voice was broken by his deep, controlled emotion. “All that I am is yours.... Beloved.”

Still he waited for her response. Even through the passion of his desire he must guard her freedom. He could hardly see her eyes in the twilight, but he felt the thrill in the hands beneath his own. Then she spoke, and at last for him the heavens were opened.

“Mine”—she breathed wonderingly.... “And I am yours. Didn’t you know, dear man?”.... His fingers tightened on hers. “I love you—love you.... Didn’t you know! I am yours—altogether—for ever.”

The beauty of the soul Clare saw that night was the lover’s clear vision of the Real.