"Shall we sit it out--if you"ve no objection?" he suggested in the very instant that the same thought occurred to her. "The conservatory, among the flowers," he added, leading her to the corner among scented blooms and plants, exactly as she herself desired. There were leaves and ferns about them in the warm air. The light was dim. A streak of gold in the sky showed through the gla.s.s. But for one other couple they were alone.
"I have something to say to you," he began. "You must have thought it curious--I"ve been staring at you so. The whole evening I"ve been watching you."
"I--hadn"t noticed," she said truthfully, her voice, as it were, not quite her own. "I"ve not been dancing--only once, that is."
But her heart was dancing as she said it. For the first time she became aware of her partner more distinctly--of his deep, resonant voice, his soldierly tall figure, his deferential, almost protective manner. She turned suddenly and looked into his face. The clear, rather penetrating eyes reminded her of someone she had known.
At the same instant he used her thought, turning it in his own direction. "I can"t remember, for the life of me," he said quietly, "where I have seen you before. Your face is familiar to me, oddly familiar--years ago--in my first youth somewhere."
It was as though he broke something to her gently--something he was sure of and knew positively, that yet might shock and startle her.
The blood rushed from her heart as she quickly turned her gaze away. The wave of deep feeling that rose with a sensation of glowing warmth troubled her voice. "I find in you, too, a faint resemblance to--someone I have met," she murmured. Without meaning it she let slip the added words, "when I was a girl."
She felt him start, but he saved the situation, making it ordinary again by obtaining her permission to smoke, then slowly lighting his cigarette before he spoke.
"You must forgive me," he put in with a smile, "but your name, when you were kind enough to let me be introduced, escaped me. I did not catch it."
She told him her surname, but he asked in his persuasive yet somehow masterful way for the Christian name as well. He turned round instantly as she gave it, staring hard at her with meaning, with an examining intentness, with open curiosity. There was a question on his lips, but she interrupted, delaying it by a question of her own. Without looking at him she knew and feared his question. Her voice just concealed a trembling that was in her throat.
"My aunt," she agreed lightly, "is incorrigible. Do you know I didn"t catch yours either? Oh--I meant your surname," she added, confusion gaining upon her when he mentioned his first name only.
He became suddenly more earnest, his voice deepened, his whole manner took on the guise of deliberate intention backed by some profound emotion that he could no longer hide. The music, which had momentarily ceased, began again, and a couple, who had been sitting out diagonally across from them, rose and went out. They were now quite alone. The sky was brighter.
"I must tell you," he went on in a way that compelled her to look up and meet his intent gaze. "You really must allow me. I feel sure somehow you"ll understand. At any rate," he added like a boy, "you won"t laugh."
She believes she gave the permission and a.s.surance. Memory fails her a little here, for as she returned his gaze, it seemed a curious change came stealing over him, yet at first so imperceptibly, so vaguely, that she could not say when it began, nor how it happened.
"Yes," she murmured, "please----" The change defined itself. She stopped dead.
"I know now where I"ve seen you before. I remember." His voice vibrated like a wind in big trees. It enveloped her.
"Yes," she repeated in a whisper, for the hammering of her heart made both a louder tone or further words impossible. She knew not what he was going to say, yet at the same time she knew with accuracy. Her eyes gazed helplessly into his. The change absorbed her. Within his outline she watched another outline grow. Behind the immaculate evening clothes a ragged, unkempt figure rose. A worn, ravaged face with young burning eyes peered through his own. "Please, please," she whispered again very faintly. He took her hand in his.
His voice came from very far away, yet drawing nearer, and the scene about them faded, vanished. The lane that curved east and west now stretched behind him, and she sat gazing towards the sunrise end, as years ago when the girl pa.s.sed into the woman first.
"I knew--a friend of yours--d.i.c.k Messenger," he was saying in this distant voice that yet was close beside her, "knew him at school, at Cambridge, and later in Mexico. We worked in the same mines together, only he was contractor and I was--in difficulties. That made no difference. He--he told me about a girl--of his love and admiration, an admiration that remained, but a love that had already faded."
She saw only the ragged outline within the well-groomed figure of the man who spoke. The young eyes that gazed so piercingly into hers belonged to him, the seller of her dream of years before. It was to this ragged stranger in her lane she made her answer:
"I, too, now remember," she said softly. "Please go on."
"He gave me his confidence, asking me where his duty lay, and I told him that the real love comes once only; it knows no doubt, no fading. I told him this----"
"We both discovered it in time," she said to herself, so low it was scarcely audible, yet not resisting as he laid his other hand upon the one he already held.
"I also told him there was only one true dream," the voice continued, the inner face drawing nearer to the outer that contained it. "I asked him, and he told me--everything. I knew all about this girl. Her picture, too, he showed me."
The voice broke off. The flood of love and pity, of sympathy and understanding that rose in her like a power long suppressed, threatened tears, yet happy, yearning tears like those of a girl, which only the quick, strong pressure of his hands prevented.
"The--little painting--yes, I know it," she faltered.
"It saved me," he said simply. "It changed my life. From that moment I began--living decently again--living for an ideal." Without knowing that she did so, the pressure of her hand upon his own came instantly.
"He--he gave it to me," the voice went on, "to keep. He said he could neither keep it himself nor destroy it. It was the day before he sailed.
I remember it as yesterday. I said I must give him something in return, or it would cut friendship. But I had nothing in the world to give. We were in the hills. I picked a leaf of fern instead. "Fern-seed," I told him, "it will make you see the fairies and find your true dream." I remember his laugh to this day--a sad, uneasy laugh. "I shall give it to her," he told me, "when I give her my difficult explanation." But I said, "Give it with my love, and tell her that I wait." He looked at me with surprise, incredulous. Then he said slowly, "Why not? If--if only you hadn"t let yourself go to pieces like this!""
An immensity of clear emotion she could not understand pa.s.sed over her in a wave. Involuntarily she moved closer against him. With her eyes unflinchingly upon his own, she whispered: "You were hungry, thirsty, you had no clothes.... You waited!"
"You"re reading my thoughts, as I knew one day you would." It seemed as if their minds, their bodies too, were one, as he said the words. "You, too--you waited." His voice was low.
There came a glow between them as of hidden fire; their faces shone; there was a brightening as of dawn upon their skins, within their eyes, lighting their very hair. Out of this happy sky his voice floated to her with the blackbird"s song:
"And that night I dreamed of you. I dreamed I met you in an English country lane."
"We did," she murmured, as though it were quite natural.
"I dreamed I gave you the fern leaf--across a wicket-gate--and in front of a little house that was our home. In my dream--I handed to you--a dream----"
"You did." And as she whispered it the two figures merged into one before her very eyes. "See," she added softly, "I have it still. It is in my locket at this moment, for I have worn it day and night through all these years of waiting." She began fumbling at her chain.
He smiled. "Such things," he said gently, "are beyond me rather. I have found you. That"s all that matters. That"--he smiled again--"is real at any rate."
"A vision," she murmured, half to herself and half to him, "I can understand. A dream, though wonderful, is a dream. But the little fern you gave me," drawing the fine gold chain from her bosom, "the actual leaf I have worn all these years in my locket!"
He smiled as she held the locket out to him, her fingers feeling for the little spring. He shook his head, but so slightly she did not notice it.
"I will prove it to you," she said. "I must. Look!" she cried, as with trembling hand she pressed the hidden catch. "There! There!"
With heads close together they bent over. The tiny lid flew open. And as he took her for one quick instant in his arms the sun flashed his first golden shaft upon them, covering them with light. But her exclamation of incredulous surprise he smothered with a kiss. For inside the little locket there lay--nothing. It was quite empty.
XV
"VENGEANCE IS MINE"
1
An active, vigorous man in Holy orders, yet compelled by heart trouble to resign a living in Kent before full middle age, he had found suitable work with the Red Cross in France; and it rather pleased a strain of innocent vanity in him that Rouen, whence he derived his Norman blood, should be the scene of his activities.
He was a gentle-minded soul, a man deeply read and thoughtful, but goodness perhaps his out-standing quality, believing no evil of others.
He had been slow, for instance, at first to credit the German atrocities, until the evidence had compelled him to face the appalling facts. With acceptance, then, he had experienced a revulsion which other gentle minds have probably also experienced--a burning desire, namely, that the perpetrators should be fitly punished.
This primitive instinct of revenge--he called it a l.u.s.t--he sternly repressed; it involved a descent to lower levels of conduct irreconcilable with the progress of the race he so pa.s.sionately believed in. Revenge pertained to savage days. But, though he hid away the instinct in his heart, afraid of its clamour and persistency, it revived from time to time, as fresh horrors made it bleed anew. It remained alive, unsatisfied; while, with its a.n.a.lysis, his mind strove unconsciously. That an intellectual nation should deliberately include frightfulness as a chief item in its creed perplexed him horribly; it seemed to him conscious spiritual evil openly affirmed. Some genuine worship of Odin, Wotan, Moloch lay still embedded in the German outlook, and beneath the veneer of their pretentious culture. He often wondered, too, what effect the recognition of these horrors must have upon gentle minds in other men, and especially upon imaginative minds. How did they deal with the fact that this appalling thing existed in human nature in the twentieth century? Its survival, indeed, caused his belief in civilization as a whole to waver. Was progress, his pet ideal and cherished faith, after all a mockery? Had human nature not advanced...?
His work in the great hospitals and convalescent camps beyond the town was tiring; he found little time for recreation, much less for rest; a light dinner and bed by ten o"clock was the usual way of spending his evenings. He had no social intercourse, for everyone else was as busy as himself. The enforced solitude, not quite wholesome, was unavoidable.
He found no outlet for his thoughts. First-hand acquaintance with suffering, physical and mental, was no new thing to him, but this close familiarity, day by day, with maimed and broken humanity preyed considerably on his mind, while the fort.i.tude and cheerfulness shown by the victims deepened the impression of respectful, yearning wonder made upon him. They were so young, so fine and careless, these lads whom the German l.u.s.t for power had robbed of limbs, and eyes, of mind, of life itself. The sense of horror grew in him with c.u.mulative but unrelieved effect.