Читать книгу Splendid Joy - Marguerite Williams - Страница 3

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WILFRED CAVENDISH was finding life very delightful. After five years of lonely farming in the States, in a spot where beauty was generous but comradeship rare, it was good to be among men and women once more.

For the past five years Wilfred, so long sheltered and delicate, had lived a strenuous out-door life. With the help of one man, he had worked a poultry farm, planted and harvested crops, mown and cured and stacked hay, and managed ducks, pigs, cows, horses, dogs and sheep. He had felled and chopped trees. He had made chicken coops. He had failed with a garden. He had dug his way through snowdrifts that imprisoned him in his home. He had nursed his animals through illnesses that the bitter winters and isolating storms had brought.

In return for the labor and the endurance, Nature had transformed the lad’s delicate body into the strong healthy frame of a man; and she had given him, with the stronger body, senses more acute to feel the beauty of the world. Going across his meadows lush with wild flowers, and the fields carpeted with violets; standing beneath the massed white blossom of his cherry trees; looking across hill ranges that stretched for miles and miles between the sea and the great Hudson River; or coming back to his shack at night from a last visit to his “family”, he had known something of “the splendid joy of the stars: the joy of the earth,” and he had been, for the time, content.

But work and beauty could not wholly banish loneliness. Especially were the keen winter nights heavy with the ache of separation. He tried to fill the hours with the writing of letters, with the reading of books, and of papers that kept him in touch with the world. Sometimes he even defied the loneliness with hazy romantic dreams. But he never succeeded in finally conquering the ache and the hunger; for the passion of his young life was a man—and the man was far away.

Wilfred was still young and eager and unspoilt; and he had come back from his farming with a shy unblunted sensitiveness that might develop as a weakness or a strength. At present, simple everyday things held endless interest for him, and he found himself again in a society where life seemed in measure simple: the complicated machinery that made that simplicity possible was hidden out of sight.

In the England to which Wilfred had returned paper notes had not yet taken the place of gold; master and man had not yet exchanged ranks in a great national upheaval; mistresses were not yet deferential to their maids. The South African war had been forgotten—except by those whom it had bereaved. The Great War was still unimagined—except by the few who realised that the universal manufacture of gunpowder must inevitably be followed by a universal conflagration. It was an England of peace and prosperity. Nearly every man and woman in that luxurious drawing-room—well-housed, well-fed, well-served, well-entertained—was convinced that such peace and prosperity were for ever. Wilfred had returned to a happy world.

He found it funny, too. He chuckled inwardly at the pompous solemnity of the tall immaculate footman in silk knee-breeches—far more ludicrous to him than the awkward blunderings of his one helper on the farm, with whom he had democratically shared the warmth of the piled-up kitchen stove during bitter winter evenings, when the snow outside fell relentlessly, making them prisoners.

He found delight and amusement in studying the well-filled drawing-room, brilliant by comparison with his lonely shack. Had it not been for the man who made everything vital the comparison might have been in favor of the shack; but Martyn Royce gave life to the most conventional company, and charged the simplest situation with endless possibilities.

Wilfred watched Martyn as he talked with Lady Alwyn, and his dreamy brown eyes showed pride in this man who was his friend.

To his hostess Martyn Royce was just an interesting personality to be cultivated. At thirty-eight he had made a name, he had achieved a recognition in the literary world, for which he had tenaciously fought for seventeen years. Cavendish looked at the lean, intellectual face of the man who was more to him than any other—man or woman. Martyn was original, and, according to the verdict of the hour, a genius. But what mattered the world’s verdict? To Wilfred, who had so often been lonely, this man meant home.

Martyn Royce—then himself unknown—had befriended Wilfred when he was a shy delicate boy, plodding through studies that were distasteful to him, and envious of the boys who played games that he could not share. It was Martyn who had given to the lad a new standard of values; who had awakened his dormant powers, and had kindled in him an appreciation of things that many men miss. In return, Wilfred, who with plenty of money had but few friends, had given Martyn whole-hearted devotion. Now as he looked at Martyn he felt with pride that none knew his friend as he did.

Others saw the man who had attained; Wilfred knew the man who had struggled. They vied with each other for a man whom many sought; Wilfred held the secret of a man who had been often neglected and alone. These beautifully dressed women were flattered by an interest that disguised so much. Wilfred saw below the disguise and his eyes lit with laughter. They recognized the man of the world; he was seeing a wonderful friend.

Yes, it was good to be back once more, in a world of shaded lights and soft carpets, and noiseless servants; of well-dressed men, and beautiful women; a world of fragrance and harmony; a world where, best of all, his friend had come into his own....

The previous night Martyn had been Wilfred’s guest, in the old Jacobean house that had been the home of the Cavendish family for several generations. They had sat together on the terrace in the moonlight, smoking and talking of many things. When at last they rose to go in, Royce put his hand through his friend’s arm, with an affectionate touch no other—but Wilfred’s brother, Jim—had ever known, and said abruptly:

“You remember Iva, old man?”

“Iva Charteris? Rather! Fine girl that.”

Royce gave a short laugh. He stood a few moments in silence, looking out across the moonlit garden, then he added:

“It’s settled between us. The world’s outside at present, but I thought I’d let you know.”

Wilfred’s unselfishness rose to the unexpected occasion.

“Congratulations!” he cried. “You deserve all the luck you can get. When am I to see her?”

“She’ll be at Lord Alwyn’s tomorrow night.”

“I shan’t sleep for thinking of it! Bless you both!” ...

Now as Wilfred watched his friend, he found himself growing eager to meet the girl whom he had always thought “jolly pretty”. He was generous with his homage to every pretty woman, and he had been as ready to fall in love as to cut his way through a snowdrift, or break-in an untamed colt. The only reason why the falls had been infrequent was that opportunities had been rare.

Again he looked round the beautiful room, with its softened lights, and its massed flowers; at the people who were to him but the setting for one man. How jolly life was!

Then Iva came....

Wilfred had been so long away from the world that pretends, that he was taken unaware. He caught his breath. Was this the girl Martyn loved! This exquisite fulfilment of a “jolly pretty” childhood. The boy looked at Iva with wonder in his eyes. She was his fireside dreams come true!

The exquisitely fair skin was faintly freckled; masses of auburn hair wreathed a shapely head; light blue-grey eyes were redeemed by dark brows and lashes. The soft white shoulders, the glorious hair, the shapely throat, the dainty figure, took Wilfred’s senses by storm. The rich gown of pale gold satin which was cut so low, the golden shoes and dainty silk stockings, the high arched instep, the shapely arms, were all vivid parts of a picture that set every dream and memory picture in the shade.

He found himself shaking hands. Iva Charteris looked up at him with a pleased smile. She loved admiration.

“I’ve heard about your picturesque shack, Wilf; and your cherry trees; and the all sorts of wonderful things you’ve done in the wilds. I’m wanting to hear heaps more!”

He looked at her—conscious of no one else.

“I haven’t done anything exciting,” he confessed, rather jerkily, “but perhaps ... after dinner....”

She smiled, half understanding.

“Perhaps—after dinner—” she echoed.

Then they parted.

All through the long dinner Wilfred kept getting glimpses of her. He could not keep his eyes away, though he tried hard. He could not forget those white shoulders and the exquisite throat.

He drank champagne without noticing that he did so. He had never touched it before. What a wonderful place the world was. “Perhaps—after dinner—” ... What an interminable time these dinners took!... Martyn was a lucky chap! Wilfred looked across the table again, then he raised his glass to his lips....

At last he could go to her, finding her where the wonderful moonlight lured them both. Martyn was talking to Lord Alwyn and the Chancellor. For a little while the boy might have this vision all to himself. It was a heavenly night.

Iva had on a light wrap, but she had let it fall from her shoulders, and the moonlight glistened on the exquisite skin as she leaned back in the chair and looked at her companion. This handsome boy was very entertaining. She had always found him so, and five strenuous, dream-full years had vastly improved him. Of course he seemed youthfully unpractised by the side of Martyn—Martyn whom she was going to marry; but Martyn was not handsome, and this boy had such delightful eyes.

Had Martyn told him? she wondered. Should she tell him? She looked up with a contemplative smile. Wilfred was gripping the reins of a passion that threatened to master him; for the wine was in his blood and the moonlight was magic.

“My congratulations, Iva,” he ventured, rather unsteadily. “Martyn’s a lucky chap. He told me last night.”

“I wondered,” she said slowly. Then—“Thanks very much. You’ve always been fond of Martyn, Wilf?”

For a moment the hand on the reins seemed unneeded. “I owe him more than any man living,” he answered soberly.

He looked across to the lake where the moonbeams danced. Then he turned.

“Shall we go down there?” he suggested, with half-veiled eagerness. “It looks so jolly like fairy-land. Let’s go and find the little chaps. I like to believe in them still.”

Iva rose and put her hand on his arm without speaking, and in silence they went down the broad stone steps and across the silvered lawn.

But the wine was in his blood, the moonlight was magic, and the woman....

Abruptly he freed his arm. Then he turned and looked at her.

“Put that wrap thing round you, Iva,” he commanded curtly. “You’ll be cold.”

The girl tossed the flimsy scarf farther back with a little laugh.

“I’m never cold,” she retorted, and she put her hand on his arm again.

With a fierce movement he took her hands and imprisoned them.

“Why are you so beautiful?” he panted. “So devilishly beautiful? Don’t you know that you are?”

“Don’t swear at me,” she said with a nervous laugh—but she did not free herself.

He took no notice of her words.

“I don’t care what happens, I’ll have one kiss,” he vowed, with the recklessness of newly awakened passion.

Iva looked at his flushed, eager face. She was a vain woman, but she no more understood the forces she was playing with than the child who puts his hand on the electrified rail knows that the imprisoned lightning there has power to kill.

“Well, perhaps there’s no harm in just one,” she said, with an excited catch in her voice. “We are—”

Before she realized what she had done, the boy had taken her in his arms. His hands were on her soft white shoulders, his lips were pressed passionately against her own.

Suddenly he freed her. Trembling, excited, she looked up at him, but he was looking beyond her, and all the fire had died out of his eyes.

Iva turned to see what Wilfred saw, and her excitement was charged with fear. Martyn Royce stood beside them. His face was ugly in his fury. Into the midst of the commonplace, the conventional, the humdrum, there had come once more the old, old problem of the woman and the man; the old primitive passion, and with it the old primitive instinct of revenge.

Royce did not speak. His arm shot out with cruel strength, and without a sound the boy who had worshipped him went down under the blow.

“Come,” Martyn said briefly.

The woman shivered.

“You may have killed him,” she faltered, trembling.

“I’m afraid not,” he said brutally. “Come, I will take you home—and then I shall not see you again.”

It was not the first time that Iva had feared this man. She hesitated for a moment, but his strong will dominated. She turned at his side, and in silence they went back across the silvered lawn, leaving the boy alone by the moonlit lake—where he had gone to find the fairies.