Читать книгу The White Reef - Martha Ostenso - Страница 5

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“Let’s take the lane up to Quilchina Road, Ivar,” Nona suggested when they had come into the street. “It’s still light—and I don’t want to see anyone, just yet.”

She laid a hand on his arm and laughed a little. The laugh fell in an alien way on Ivar’s ears, used as they were only to the plain sounds of joy or woe. In Nona’s laughter there was something new and disturbing. He permitted her to lead him up that tree-tunneled way that came out suddenly upon a bald and rock-bare headland above the world and more than the world.

Here, on Sleeping Chief Rock, at this time of year, the last gleam of a day forever gone had not yet been swallowed up by the Pacific. Here, Ivar felt, at the ebb of twilight you stole something off the inflow of a dawn in Kamchatka, or some uncharted island that lay between. You could see the last narrow gold fillet of the sunset here, long after it had gone from the Cove.

They stood together for a moment and looked backward to where the inland mountains reared themselves against the coming night, their snowy peaks catching the last reflected rays of the sun that had already dropped below the horizon. The fleece of a cloud was gathered snugly about the shoulders of one sleeping giant. The valleys lay deep in darkness.

Nona seated herself on the rock and cupped her chin in her hands. Ivar squatted down beside her on the lichen and rough grass and waited for her to speak. She had said so little on the way up the cliff road that he felt an apprehensiveness now for what she had to tell him. He knew intuitively that she meant to unburden herself to him, as she had done ever since she had been a little girl, in a sort of rehearsal before she went to her father with her story.

But when he found her looking at him with wide, tear-darkened eyes, he flushed with embarrassment. Impulsively, awkwardly, he laid his hand upon her knee.

“You don’t have to tell me about it tonight, Nona,” he stammered, “—or any night, unless you want to.”

She huddled forward then into such convulsive sobbing that Ivar drew her, unresisting, down against the hollow of his shoulder. For a long time then she wept without restraint, wept so terribly that he began to be alarmed. In panic, he knew that her heart was breaking beneath those shattering spasms of grief. While his arms closed more tightly about her, as though he would keep that slender body from flying into a hundred pieces from the force of its passion, the thought came oddly to him that he had never been in love with Nona Darnell. Even before his worship of Julie Cartaret, and afterwards when his belief in beauty had gone crashing to atoms, he had been too much like another brother to Nona for any stronger feeling to take possession of him. Now, as he wondered desperately how to quiet her, and as he beat back the thought of Julie, so sordidly lost to him, a notion sane and tolerable took hold of his mind.

“Nona—Nona!” he pleaded, raising her chin firmly with his hand. “You can’t go on like this. You’ll make yourself sick. Nothing is worth it. Believe me, kid—I know!”

He was not sure that what he had said made sense, but it had its immediate effect. Nona sat upright, away from him, and drew her beautifully shaped hands down over her tear-streaked face. Then, without a word, she fumbled in her pocket for her handkerchief, blew her nose and wiped her eyes as angrily as any man might have done.

“I’m through crying!” she said, and sat back on her slim round haunches, her eyes fixed upon the darkening bay, and down it to the just visible thread of white that marked the Reef. “I had to do it somewhere—with someone who would know about it—not just alone at night. I guess I’ll never cry again—about anything.”

Ivar laughed out of relief. “Sure you will! You’ll cry about lost baby seals caught in nets—and about the tinkle of a cow-bell in the sunset—and—”

She looked at him gratefully. “Not even about that. Anyhow, that’s a different kind of crying.” She looked out across the Inlet to where the Wingate Island lay, its lodge half hidden among the trees. Near it, almost obscured by the darkness, lay the rounded black rock with three or four grotesquely twisted trees bending low above the water—the Ant Hill. She drew her eyes away from it and turned again to Ivar. “Shall we go back? Maybe your mother will be wondering.”

“Mother’ll be all right,” Ivar said. “But if you want to go back, it’s all right with me.”

“I don’t want to go back, just yet. I felt I had to get away from them—except Pa, of course. Besides, I wanted to tell you about it, Ivar—before I told anyone else. We’ve always—”

“I’ll listen,” Ivar said.

She pulled her short skirt down below her knees and folded her arms about them.

“Perhaps it won’t seem so much, after all,” she began.

“It never does, when you’ve told it once,” he encouraged her. “Keeping it to yourself—that’s the worst.”

He waited for her to go on.

“You know where those funny redwoods lean down, almost breaking over the water—on the Ant Hill?” she said at last.

Ivar nodded his head toward them. “You can see them from here,” he said.

“That’s where I met him first,” Nona went on. “I had seen him, of course, off and on through the winter, when he was working at his father’s packing plant over there on the north side, and living at the lodge on the island. But I had never spoken to him—except sometimes when we happened to meet in Bjork’s store or on the street.”

“We all did that,” Ivar said. “Quentin Wingate wasn’t stuck-up, even if he was a swell.”

No, that was true, Nona reflected, though it might have been better if he had been stuck-up. But that didn’t matter now. “I met him, really, the night you and I and Jorgen and Lydie Thorpe came back from our hike—on Victoria Day. You remember, it was still lightish when we got back.”

“I remember,” Ivar said.

“A lot of people had come up from the city to visit Quentin Wingate over the week-end. I don’t know what made me think of it, but I thought it would be fun to row over and hide somewhere near the lodge and listen to what people like Quentin’s friends might have to talk about. I know it was silly, but the Inlet was calm and the tide hadn’t begun to move out yet and I knew the moon would be up in a few minutes and—I don’t know—I just felt like it, I guess. I got into my skiff and rowed across. When I got as far as the Ant Hill, I pulled in under one of the overhanging trees and listened. It was almost dark and I could hear their voices coming from the lodge on the island. All of a sudden I felt a jerk at the skiff—and then someone laughed. It was him—Quentin Wingate.”

She paused and for a moment Ivar was afraid that her swift recounting of events would be broken by another torrent of tears.

“I could just make out his face and hands as he clung to the side of the boat,” she went on steadily. “I liked the way he laughed. I laughed, too. He said, ‘You’re Nona, aren’t you?’ And I said, ‘Of course, but what in the world are you doing out here?’ He said he had left the gang back at the lodge, drinking highballs, and had come out for a swim and to watch the moon rise. I said he might get into the skiff and we’d watch it together, but he said he couldn’t—but wouldn’t I hop in and take a swim with him? When I told him I had no bathing suit with me, he laughed again and said he hadn’t either, and that was the reason he couldn’t come into the skiff, but what did that matter? He dared me to come in and I told him to turn his back for a minute. I undressed and dove over the side of the skiff. When I turned to come back up again, he was beside me and caught my hand. We came up together, right beside the boat, and I put out my hand and grabbed the edge. Then, before I could pull myself up, he kissed me. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong about it at the time, Ivar. It was just—just eerie—and he said something about mermaids—and then I got a little bit scared and I said I ought to be getting back home. And he said, yes, it would be better if I did go back, but that I must let him see me again soon. I promised to meet him a week from that day, at the same place.”

Ivar, visualizing the romance of Nona and Quentin Wingate, had been reliving in a slightly different setting his own ill-starred love for Julie Cartaret. Now, as Nona paused, he sat with his fists clenched between his knees.

“Go on,” he said dully, despite his effort to make his voice sympathetic. “You might as well tell the rest of it.”

“We met twice and swam—and never went ashore. But the third time we met we went over to the lodge together. After that, I could think of nothing but our meetings. We were in love, Ivar, and we forgot everything else. I think I knew even then that nothing could come of it. We belonged in different worlds. But I didn’t care—I was quite selfish about it. I wanted him—and when I knew he wanted me—I didn’t even think of what it might mean.”

“He should have thought, then,” Ivar said fiercely.

Nona laid her hand on his knee. “Wait, Ivar,” she begged. “Quentin wasn’t all to blame. One afternoon when I was with him on the island, his foreman came over from the plant with a message from Quentin’s father. Mr. Wingate was ordering the yacht brought back to the city. When he told me about it, I said he’d have to go, of course. And then he said, ‘Will you come with me and marry me, after you’ve met my people?’ I told him I would. While he got ready, I rowed across home. There was no one in the house, so I left a note for Pa and hurried away before anyone would come in. I thought it was all so romantic—and I was so sure everything would turn out all right.”

The poor kid, Ivar thought to himself, but said nothing.

“Well, we had a marvellous trip, with only the engineer and one other man on board the yacht with us. The engineer doted on Quentin, because Quentin knew so much about navigation. When we landed in Vancouver, Quentin telephoned home. He came away from the telephone and I knew something was wrong. I asked him what it was and he told me his father had had a stroke and was in a very serious condition. I said perhaps I shouldn’t go with him to the house right away, but he said, ‘Never mind—it’ll be all right,’ and we drove out in a taxi. Quentin scarcely spoke—all the way out.”

Nona drew her breath sharply. There was no longer any light from the west, but the stars budding in a luminous sky gave her face a reflected tranquil beauty.

“I can’t tell you much about what happened there, Ivar,” she went on. “It’s all like a jumbled nightmare. Quentin introduced me to his mother and his sister Nancy and they looked at me as though I were some unheard-of animal. Then he left me with them and went upstairs to see his father. Nancy asked me right away why I had come with Quentin and I—I told her. If they had laughed, I suppose I would have stood my ground against them. But they didn’t. They were very polite. They made it clear to me that Quentin couldn’t marry me for the very good reason that he was engaged to marry another girl. Eunice Derringer was her name. I refused to believe them, of course, but when Quentin came down a few minutes later, looking very pale, I was sure it was true. I didn’t ask him about it at once. I wanted him to speak about it himself. When his mother and Nancy left the room, he came over to me and said he was sorry, but we couldn’t be married right away—we’d have to wait for some time, perhaps.”

Ivar made a rough sound in his throat, but the rage he felt would not issue in words.

“Then I asked him if it was true—that he was engaged to marry Eunice Derringer. He just looked at his hands and the sweat came out on his forehead. Then he stepped close to me and tried to take me in his arms. I stood away from him—I knew then it was true—and I think I hated him more than I had ever loved him. I wouldn’t let him touch me. I didn’t want him to speak to me. I told him he would have to lend me enough money to get home—and he gave me a bill—a twenty-dollar bill. I don’t think he knew what he gave me. I didn’t either, till later. Just then the door opened and Nancy came into the room. Quentin started to say something, but I ran out before he could speak. I picked up my valise in the hall—a grand hall, Ivar, with two marble statues and a beautiful winding staircase of some dark polished wood—and a man who must have been the butler opened the door and let me out with a bow that made me laugh out loud. It had begun to rain a little and I just stood out there under the trees and laughed till I felt sick. Then I walked away—and got to the boat just before it sailed for Victoria.”

She fell back against the rock. It was better, Ivar thought, not to touch her just now or to offer her any sympathy. But he was close to tears himself. Lovely, warm Nona, with whom he had made sand houses on the beach when they were both kids ...

“You’re well out of it,” he said at last. “You knew they weren’t our kind. I’m not strong on ghost stories, but I sometimes wonder if there isn’t a curse on anyone who tries to get away from the Cove—to something bigger outside, I mean. Julie Cartaret tried it, for one.”

“But she’s married to some rich—”

“She is not!” Ivar said sharply. “I met her on the street in Vancouver when I was down there last February.”

“You saw her—and were talking to her?”

Ivar smiled bitterly. “Yes—I saw her. She was wearing red open-work shoes—the kind Marie Ashe used to wear, only hers were black. She didn’t know me at first. Not until she came up and spoke to me and I said, ‘Hello, Julie!’ Then she almost ran—”

Nona sat upright. “That couldn’t have been Julie, Ivar!”

With a sigh, Ivar fished a package of cigarettes from his pocket and lighted one. “It was Julie, all right. I didn’t make any mistake about that.” He inhaled deeply and sat looking at the glowing tip of the cigarette. “We just can’t turn our backs on the Cove, it seems, and get away with it. Why, it was the same with—”

“That’s just nonsense, Ivar!” Nona cried with such vehemence that he glanced at her in astonishment.

“Well—you tried it, didn’t you?”

For several seconds Nona regarded him silently. “That is probably the first unkind thing you have ever said to me, Ivar.”

“I know—and I didn’t mean it like that, either. It just gets me a little when I think we haven’t the sense to know where we belong. We’re just dumb, I guess.” He was silent for a moment. “Look here, Nona,” he said at last. “I’ve been thinking. Why don’t we get married—you and I?”

“Are you taking pity on me, Ivar?” she asked him then.

“I’m asking you to marry me,” he retorted. “We’ve been together ever since we were kids—we understand each other—we like each other—and I know we could make a go of it.”

With sudden tenderness he took her hand and turned it palm upward within his own. She sat curiously still for a long time. “I couldn’t marry you now, Ivar,” she said at last.

“Couldn’t? Why couldn’t you?”

“You know how fond I am of you. I might have married you once—and I’d have been proud of you, too. And we might have been very happy together. But after what has happened to me—”

“You’re still Nona!” he said.

“Yes—but a different Nona from the one you knew. I didn’t want to tell you, Ivar—but I may be—I may have Quentin’s baby.”

His shoulders squared. “I thought of that,” he said abruptly. “That’s all the more reason we should be married right away.”

She shook her head. “No, Ivar,” she said. “If that happens—I’d want to be alone with it.”

Ivar stood up, tall as fury above her. “Damn Wingate!” he muttered.

She raised her dark, bare head and looked at him levelly in the starlight. “I know—you’d like to kill him, wouldn’t you, Ivar? But that isn’t done any more.”

He grew hot under her taunt. “I never thought you’d be such a fool! After what he has done to you, you’re still in love with him. You can’t forget him. Isn’t that true?”

She sprang up and stood before him. Then she threw back her head and laughed bewilderingly. “Oh, Ivar! If you had any sense, you’d understand that the reason I can’t marry you, really, is that I could never love you—or anyone else—as long as I hate Quentin Wingate the way I do!”

It frightened him a little then, when she ran away from him down the steep winding road. But with his long strides he overtook her easily and Nona walked beside him quietly enough.

A kind of shamed dismay filled him now. Tonight, for the first time, Nona had become desirable to him—perhaps because someone else had not only desired her but possessed her. Tonight, for the first time in his imagination, she had run a bright parallel to the tormenting beauty of Julie Cartaret, and in his simple way he had thought to supplant the one with the other.

“All right, Nona,” he said heavily, “I know I shouldn’t have spoken to you about it tonight. I ought to have known how you would take it. But I meant what I said, anyhow. And if you ever change your mind—”

“I’ll tell you,” she said shortly, and her profile was very clear and straight-lifted against the pale, cool evening. Nothing was breaking within her now, Ivar thought, rebuffed; it was Nona Darnell, within herself, complete and proud—the Cove and him outside.

The stars in this latitude in late June, Ivar thought in his way, were only a slightly more concentrated silver-blue than the sky itself, so that upon looking upward you were perplexed by an indiscriminate panoply of brilliance for which there was no immediate cause. Upon looking about you, you found unaccountable thin light falling upon leaves and twigs and white stones, rendering them large in wonder, removed from their familiar smallness. To meet anyone you knew under this light was to experience a change in him, no matter how commonplace he might ordinarily be.

Nona and Ivar had proceeded only a short distance down the road when out of the dusk the curiously stooped, awkward figure of a man came toward them. It was Ethan Ashe, his hair straggling half way to his shoulders, his black, restless eyes giving Nona and Ivar a sort of imperious recognition while he was still some paces away.

He stood stock still in the road and waited until they had come up to him. Then he looked from one to the other with his piercing stare. “The moon will rise in half an hour,” Ethan Ashe intoned. “Go down to the shore and see. There may be dancing in the moonlight. There was dancing last night. Go down and see.”

Then instantly he plunged past them up the road and Nona stood looking vacantly before her. Ivar looked back at Ethan’s uncouth, vanishing figure and laughed brusquely.

“The poor old loon!” he remarked and took Nona’s arm stoutly in his hand. “He doesn’t scare you, does he?”

Nona laughed lightly. “You don’t understand him,” she said. “Ethan is a poet—he sees the Spaniards dancing down there. We ought to be sorry we don’t.”

They had come to a turn in the road where the trees receded and revealed to them a fan-shaped device of the bay under the wakeful transparency of the sky. And upon the glassy floor of water, like spilled red wine, lay the mark of the rising moon.