XLIVTHE EVERYDAY RITUAL
ADELE and Paul spent much time together wandering about exploring the Cathedral. Adele said she heard sermons in stones, and voices in running brooks, and all that sort of thing. Paul hurled stones down precipices, and said he didn’t care much for sermons, anyway. Adele laughed when he stopped her at a spring in the woods and insisted upon her tasting the water when he himself enjoyed it freely.
“It goes all through me,” said Paul. “Delicious, the best mountain spring I ever found.”
“Of course it goes all through you; such pure cold water exhilarates as if giving a new life.”
“Oh, if you put it that way—why, of course. I know what you mean; but what is life, anyway? No fellow can find out; nobody knows much about it.”
“Well I do, and I intend to enjoy it,” and she filled her lungs with the mountain air, which gave her such buoyancy that she took off her hat, and shook back her hair to be en rapport with her own ideal.
“That’s all right, while you feel like it.” To Paul she looked like the personification of New Life for him; and he came near kissing her to assure himself she was not a wood-nymph who might vanish in a tree.
“People are not so stupid as you think,” said Adele.
“Well, what do they really know?” asked Paul, his double-self amused to hear a girl assume that she knew more of life than he, a man.
Their attention was distracted for a moment.
On the road close by they heard the tramp of feet approaching, and they were near enough to speak if it proved to be anyone they knew. A dandy, a variety of palanquin, was passing, and inside was a woman of the English Colony. The livery of her bearers was rather conspicuous, being yellow with blue trimmings, yet not in bad taste for that region. The toilet of the beauty inside the dandy was decidedly “chic,” and the pose between the curtains drawn aside was certainly most captivating. Many had said of her: “Thy bright smile haunts me still.”
Paul recognized the occupant at a glance; to Adele she was a stranger. Paul had met her accidentally and incidentally; and upon so slight an acquaintance had received an invitation to join a card-party at her apartments. The invitation had been sent him before the soi-disant widow knew that Paul was there a member of a family party, or she would have known it was useless to waste a thought on him.
Not being a man who played cards for money, and for some other reasons, Paul had sent a polite regret; after acknowledging to himself with a laugh that he had been innocently caught by that sort of thing once before, and didn’t intend to be again. But the fellows persisted that he was “a fool not to go and see the fun,” as the fair creature was only one of many birds of passage stranded in India, and “devilish amusing” when sitting at the head of her own table.
Paul preferred not to sit at that sort of a table; and when this dashing woman of the world, a notable representative of her set, thus appeared on the public road in her dandy state-conveyance, so very near Adele, he instinctively stepped between them; and became so much engrossed with Adele’s wraps and her comfort, getting her things all mixed up when no attention was necessary, that the fair one had passed without receiving the slightest sign of recognition from either of them.
Paul flattered himself he had disguised the situation fairly well, and so he had from a man’s point of view, but not from a woman’s. Adele at once spoke up:
“Don’t you know that lady, Paul? Why didn’t you speak to her?”
Paul turned aside after his fashion, to avoid meeting Adele’s eyes, but promptly answered:
“Yes, slightly—very slightly.”
“Then why not speak to her? A gentleman never cuts a lady; never.”
“No, of course,” remarked Paul. “It’s the lady’s prerogative to do the snubbing; some women seem to think men enjoy being snubbed.”
“A well-bred woman always protects herself,” said Adele briskly. “If I had been in that dandy, and you had turned your back on me, that would not have been the end of it.”
Paul laughed, incredulous.
“No, Paul, I should not permit any acquaintance to treat me so cavalierly. I should demand an explanation.”
“My dear Adele, no one would ever treat you that way,” said Paul, rather surprised at her vehemence. “That sort of thing is not apt to happen to you.”
“No, I suppose not, but I should resent it if it did. Now tell me, Paul, frankly, why did you avoid speaking to that lady?”
Paul pulled himself together as best he could and tried to explain.
“Adele, you saw her yourself; you had a good look at her, did you not?”
“Yes, I glanced at her, slightly—very slightly;” using inadvertently Paul’s own words, which still rung in her ears.
“I think you must have seen her better than I did, for I did not look at her at all. I was looking at you.”
“Well, perhaps I did.”
“Then we both know her slightly—very slightly.”
“Paul, don’t be evasive; I don’t like it. You were introduced, I was not.”
“Well to be frank, Adele, I was introduced; yet I wasn’t.”
“Explain!”
“She introduced herself, and that’s not woman’s prerogative.”
“It might be, under some circumstances,” said Adele with some asperity. “I know what you mean, however; go on.”
“I thought she held herself very cheap,” said Paul. “I never could recognize, as a friend, one who undervalued herself.”
“Oh, dear, I never would have thought it! was she that sort of person?” exclaimed Adele. “She didn’t look at all commonplace, not with that stylish turn-out and liveried bearers.”
Paul laughed again; he couldn’t help it.
“I don’t see anything funny,” said Adele, as they moved towards an old stump, took a seat under the trees, and sat looking forward between the crimson rhododendrons, towards the Celestial scenery beyond.
“Adele, unfortunately she didn’t pay for the style herself,” remarked Paul, sub rosa; then correcting himself: “Yes, she did, too!—no! she didn’t, either!—oh, bosh! you know what I mean.”
This only made Adele more pointedly inquisitive.
“What are you talking about? Who did? her husband, I suppose.”
“No, luckily she has none.”
“Paul, you’re outrageous to say that; who did?”
“I don’t know. I only know what a cruel, unkind world says.”
“I’m sure you do know; tell me.”
“You’re extremely inquisitive, Adele—excruciatingly so; you’re just as bad as Elsa.”
“Who’s Elsa?”
“In Lohengrin, but never mind her or him; if you mustknow now, if you insist about this woman, why, then—some other fellow, or other’s husband, has paid for it,” said Paul reluctantly.
Adele was confused, and her manner showed it. She felt uneasy, and her words told on what account. “Oh, Paul, that is terrible—poor woman—poor soul!” and Adele turned her head away to avoid Paul’s eyes—her heart sensitive—pained at the thought of the poor soul.
Paul drew Adele to him and placed her head on his shoulder.
“Now, my darling, you do know why I could not recognize that woman.”
“Why you came between us?” whispered Adele.
“Yes. I couldn’t help it.”
“To shield me—you felt that way?”
“H’m—but it isn’t necessary to say so.”
“I understand—only do it,” and she took the hand of him who thus loved her, in her own, and pressed it to her, her heart going out to him in tenderness.
A thrill of blissful content passed through Paul’s innermost being. He knew her in whom he had believed; and she had faith and trust in her protector for life. They were truly happy.
The dandy had passed—gone forever—a mere episode in their experience.
Their lives were thus becoming as one.
“I shall never forget our walks in this Cathedral,” said Adele.
“I hope not,” said Paul, laconic, and not nearly so enthusiastic as Adele had anticipated.
“You hope not? Why, what on earth is to prevent our remembering?”
At this point Paul’s natural tendency to tease a little got the better of him; but Adele also by this time had had enoughexperience to recognize his moods, and to meet him on his own ground.
“I should like to clinch it,” said he, “so that we couldn’t forget.”
“I’ll remind you if I see your memory weakening,” said Adele.
Paul’s countenance exhibited that sort of smile usually described as capacious. “I should like something to happen before we left,” and he looked doubtfully at her. Being a man of normal growth, the masculine desire for actual possession of his future wife had grown upon Paul recently in a marked degree; and the incidents of that particular day led him to speak out. He felt sure Adele would be sincere with him in response.
Adele as natural as he was, woman’s instinct told her to be cautious, in fact shy; and her intellect suggested that she act upon what she had just heard Paul say about people who undervalued themselves. Of course, Adele suspected at once what Paul hoped would happen; but she took her own way to make him ask for it.
“What’s going to happen?” said Adele, leading him on. “I mean what do you hope for?”
“It’s just this way; let me tell you.”
“I’m listening.”
“You call this a Cathedral, don’t you? I think it a first-rate place, myself.”
“Admirable for a short sojourn.”
“And more, it’s very suitable for something special—something for us two.”
“Not to live in; it’s too breezy.”
“I don’t mind a breeze, if it don’t result in something worse—a squall.”
“Squalls! I don’t permit squalls,” said Adele.
“No, nor I, either; especially when another fellow tells you squarely to ‘forever after hold your peace.’”
Adele did not quite enjoy this turn in the conversation, so changed it a little.
“But you missed seeing the Lepcha ritual; you should see how the natives make their sacrifices.”
“Sacrifices? God forbid, my dear. No! it’s all gain for us here; please don’t even think of sacrificing anything.”
“Then we can attend some other ritual,” said Adele; which remark was so very much of an acknowledgment on her part that Paul imagined she would consent at once.
“All right!” said he. “There is a Church of England curate in the village—I’m not particular.”
“Also Taoist monks with masks and wheels. I’m not so very particular myself about the form,” quizzed Adele.
“Don’t keep me on the rack, my dear; just tell me which you prefer.”
“Well, the Taoist ritual is the most spectacular, the Lepcha the most thrilling, and the Church of England the most serious—probably, but I have my doubts.”
“I never was more serious in my life,” said Paul. “The English will do; that is, if it suits you?”
“Me! suits me!” she exclaimed, but her expression told him well enough his allusions were clearly understood.
“Yes, of course, you have the final say.”
“To decide what? It was you who spoke about something you hoped would happen before we left. You haven’t told me what it is, have you?”
“But you guessed it at once, Adele, I’m sure; and better than I can tell you. Would not this be an ideal place for our marriage? Just arrange it to suit yourself.”
Adele turned her face away—a little embarrassed, rather confused.
“Oh, don’t be in such a hurry, Paul. I really must think.”
“I am not, my dear. I’ve thought of it for a week,” said the ardent lover.
“A week! you don’t call that much time to decide for life!” Adele was now as serious as her lover was ardent.
“I decided at Olympus—oh, months ago,” said Paul, a little nervous. “Didn’t you?”
“Yes, but this is like a surprise, after all, when it comes to the actual. I must have some time. Oh, Paul, you’re so—impatient; just like a boy.”
“Why shouldn’t I be? I feel as if we were really married that evening when under the brow of Olympus”—and in one sense this was true; Paul had felt so, conscientiously, as to the bond between them.
“Do you? I don’t,” said Adele.
“Why you must have thought so,” said Paul, very inconsiderate in his ardor.
Adele thought him too harsh to her, at such a time; and her manner showed how uncomfortable he had made her feel.
It took Paul some little time to quiet his own ardor, and appreciate things from her point of view; finally he succeeded.
“Adele, I suppose it is sudden; I had a wrong notion, an idea that the suddenness was only read about in novels of impulse, written to pass the time quickly. I know differently now; you see I never did it before. Forgive me now, Adele; I never dreamed of hurting you in any way—it is too serious.” Paul’s ardor had only taken another form.
“Yes, this is real life; sudden and serious,” said Adele, “more serious than when we were at Olympus.”
“Tell me why you think so?”
“A betrothal is truth in words; marriage is truth in deeds.”
Paul put his arm around her and told her again how he felt and thought and wished to act for the very best, for both of them. His manner changed, however. It was less ardent and more devout. He held her hand as if it were very precious to him, that to touch her was a sacred privilege. Never before had she a realizing sense so intense, of that manly virtue, which she then recognized in her future husband; and for thefirst time she noticed he used a new expression. His words were forcible, indeed.
“Adele, I love you with all my soul and strength.” Then he bowed his head as if overcome.
From that moment Adele knew he was her husband both in spirit and in truth. It was a complete answer to her prayers for Paul’s good, when she had prayed in spirit and in truth for him; the natural consequence of her prayers, her belief in Paul, and her sincerity towards him. She might have reasonably called him her husband in her own mind, in the presence of the Holy Spirit of truth in nature and in religion; but she did not. If Paul had died suddenly, however, before their marriage, she no doubt would have done so—in spirit—and it would have been the truth.
A pause, yet not a rest. Thoughts active, although neither could speak. There was nothing more Paul could say. He had spoken the whole truth, in love—an ineffable divine experience. Youth’s foretaste of “Love divine, all love excelling.”
Adele was meditating as never before. Her thoughts flew as a bird flies hither and thither, from possibilities to other probabilities, future plans, future joys; flew outwards, then inwards, as a bird among the branches of the Tree of Life; seeking to know the good from the evil, the best from the better; wishing to pluck fruit from the Tree of Life, and yet preserve the integrity of her own conscious-self, her conscientious-self, as to what she ought to do.
Conscience flew to her mother to throw her arms around her mother’s neck and find sympathy, while mother’s love told the truth in maternal affection into her daughter’s ear; conscience flew to her father for consent and advice, to sit on his knee once more, and look in his face, and press his cheek, and run her fingers through his hair, and be caressed as “father’slittle girl.” The thought of separation from loved ones, in any degree, what might it mean?—a leap in the dark?
No, not into the dark. She could see that, positively, in Paul’s character: then what?—a rising upwards, an ascension into the brighter light of a new life.
Nature indeed took its course, and with the experience came the comforting voice speaking in nature where the Tree of Life grows.
She looked towards the chancel of her Cathedral; and how exquisitely beautiful was the scene! The place was decorated as for a wedding; and she saw spiritually, “as in a dream,” Paul standing at the chancel rail, waiting for her to come to him.
That was enough—the dream became real.
She looked up, to speak to Paul; putting her arm on his shoulder their faces met. Like as a bird, which had flown from branch to branch in the springtime of existence, returns to build a nest of its own among the beautiful foliage of life, so she returned in spirit and in truth to him who loved her and was willing to give himself for her.
Only a word was uttered:
“I am ready; I will go with you, Paul;” and in her own thoughts, “I am yours.”