"And then her hands were in his and she was looking into his beloved eyes once more.""And then her hands were in his and she was looking into his beloved eyes once more."
"Do you notice that the grapes on the trellis are turning dark? And the peaches are becoming so big and heavy and rosy. They will be ripe before very long."
"You must have a greenhouse," he said.
"Wemust," she admitted demurely.
He turned toward her with much of his old gaiety, laughing: "Do you know," he said, "I believe you are pretending to be in love with me!"
"That's all it is, Clive, just pretence, and the natural depravity of a flirt. When I go back to town I'll forget you ever existed—unless you go with me."
"I'm wondering," he said, "what we had better do in town."
"I'm not wondering; I know."
He looked at her questioningly. Then she told him about her visit to Michael and the apartment.
"There is no other place in the world that I care to live in—excepting this," she said. "Couldn't we live there, Clive, when we go to town?"
After a moment he said: "Yes."
"Would you care to?" she asked wistfully. Then smiled as she met his eyes.
"So I shall give up business," she said, "and that tower apartment. There's a letter here now asking if I desire to sublet it; and as I had to renew my lease last June, that is what I shall do—if you'll let me live in the place you made for me so long ago."
He answered, smilingly, that he might be induced to permit it.
Hafiz appeared, inquisitive, urbane, waving his snowy tail; but he was shy of further demonstrations toward the man who was seated beside his beloved mistress, and he pretended that he saw something in the obscurity of the flowering thickets, and stalked it with every symptom of sincerity.
"That cat must be about six years old," said Clive, watching him.
"He plays like a kitten, still."
"Do you remember how he used to pat your thread with his paws when you were sewing."
"I remember," she said, smiling.
A little later Hafiz regained confidence in Clive and came up to rub against his legs and permit caresses.
"Such a united family," remarked Athalie, amused by the mutual demonstrations.
"How is Henry?" he asked.
"Fatter and slower than ever, dear. He suits my unenterprising disposition to perfection. Now and then he condescends to be harnessed and to carry me about the landscape. But mostly he drags the cruel burden of Connor's lawn-mower. Do you think the place looks well kept?"
"I knew you wanted to be flattered," he laughed.
"I do. Flatter me please."
"It's one of the best things I do, Athalie! For example—the lawn, the cat, and the girl are all beautifully groomed; the credit is yours; and you're a celestial dream too exquisite to be real."
"I am becoming real—as real as you are," she said with a faint smile.
"Yes," he admitted, "you and I are the only real things in the world after all. The rest—woven scenes that come and go moving across a loom."
She quoted:
"Sun and Moon illume the RoomWhere the ceiling is the sky:Night and day the Weavers plyColour, shadow, hue, and dye,Where the rushing shuttles fly,Weaving dreams across the Loom,Picturing a common doom!"How, Beloved, canwedie—We Immortals, Thou and I?"
He smiled: "Death seems very far away," he said.
"Nothing dies.... If only this world could understand.... Did I tell you that mother has been with me often while you were away?"
"No."
"It was wonderfully sweet to see her in the room. One night I fell asleep across her knees."
"Does she ever speak to you, Athalie?"
"Yes, sometimes we talk."
"At night?"
"By day, too.... I was sitting in the living-room the other morning, and she came up behind me and took both my hands. We talked, I lying back in the rocking chair and looking up at her.... Mrs. Connor camein. I am quite sure she was frightened when she heard my voice in there conversing with nobody she could see."
Athalie smiled to herself as at some amusing memory evoked.
"If Mrs. Connor ever knew how she is followed about by so many purring pussies and little wagging dogs—I mean dogs and pussies who are no longer what we call 'alive,'—I don't know what she'd think. Sometimes the place is full of them, Clive—such darling little creatures. Hafiz sees them; and watches and watches, but never moves."
Clive was staring a trifle hard; Athalie, lazily stretching her arms, glanced at him with that humorous expression which hinted of gentlest mockery.
"Don't worry; nothing follows you, Clive, except an idle girl who finds no time for anything else, so busy are her thoughts with you."
He bent forward and kissed her; and she clasped both hands behind his head, drawing it nearer.
"Have you missed me, Athalie?"
"You could never understand how much."
"Did you find me in your crystal?"
"No; I saw only the sea and on the horizon a stain of smoke, and a gull flying."
He drew her closely into his arms: "God," he breathed, "if anything ever should happen to you!—and I—alone on earth—and blind—"
"Yes. That is the only anxiety I ever knew ... because you are blind."
"If you came to me I could not see you. If you spoke to me I couldnot hear. Could anything more awful happen?"
"Do you care for me so much?"
In his eyes she read her answer, and thrilled to it, closer in his arms; and rested so, her cheek against his, gazing at the sunset out of dreamy eyes.
They had been slowly pacing the garden paths, arm within arm, when Mrs. Connor came to summon them to dinner. The small dining-room was flooded with sunset light; rosy bars of it lay across cloth and fruit and flowers, and striped the wall and ceiling.
And when dinner was ended the pale fire still burned on the thin silk curtains and struck across the garden, gilding the coping of the wall where clustering peaches hung all turned to gold like fabled fruit that ripens in Hesperides.
Hafiz followed them out under the evening sky and seated himself upon the grass. And he seemed mildly to enjoy the robins' evening carolling, blinking benevolently up at the little vesper choristers, high singing in the sunset's lingering glow.
Whenever light puffs of wind set blossoms swaying, the jet from the fountain basin swerved, and a mellow raining sound of drops swept the still pool. The lilac twilight deepened to mauve; upon the surface of the pool a primrose tint grew duller. Then the first bat zig-zagged across the sky; and every clove-pink border became misty with the wings of dusk-moths.
On Athalie's frail white gown one alighted,—a little grey thing wearing a pair of peacock-tinted diamondson its forewings; and as it sat there, quivering, the iridescent incrustations changed from burnished gold to green.
"Wonders, wonders, under the moon," murmured the girl—"thronging miracles that fill the day and night, always, everywhere. And so few to see them.... Sometimes, to me the blindness of the world to all the loveliness that I 'see clearly' is like my own blindness to the hidden wonders of the night—where uncounted myriads of little rainbow spirits fly. And nobody sees and knows the living splendour of them except when some grey-winged phantom strays indoors from the outer shadows. And it astonishes us to see, under the drab forewings, a blaze of scarlet, gold, or orange."
"I suppose," he said, "that the unseen night world all around us is no more wonderful than what, in the day-world, the vast majority of us never see, never suspect."
"I think it must be so, Clive. Being accustomed to a more densely populated world than are many people, I believe that if I could see only what they see,—merely that small portion of activity and life which the world calls 'living things,' I should find the sunlit world rather empty, and the night but a silent desolation under the stars."
After a few minutes' thought he asked in a low voice whether at that moment there was anybody in the garden except themselves.
"Some people were here a little while ago, looking at the flowers. I think they must have lived here many, many years ago; perhaps when this old house was new."
"Could you not ask them who they were?"
"No, dear."
"Why?"
"If they were what you would call 'alive' I could not intrude upon them, could I? The laws of reticence, the respect for privacy, remain the same. I am conscious of no more impertinent curiosity concerning them than I am concerning any passer in the city streets."
"Have they gone?"
"Yes. But all the evening I have been hearing children at play just beyond the garden wall.... And, when I was a child, somebody killed a little dog down by the causeway. He is here in the garden, now, trotting gaily about the lawn—such a happy little dog!—and Hafiz has folded his forepaws under his ruff and has settled down to watch him. Don't you see how Hafiz watches, how his head turns following every movement of the little visitor?"
He nodded; then: "Do you still hear the children outside the wall?"
She sat listening, the smile brooding in her eyes.
"Can you still hear them?" he repeated, wistfully.
"Yes, dear."
"What are they saying?"
"I can't make out. They are having a happy time somewhere on the outer lawns."
"How many are there?"
"Oh, I don't know. Their voices make a sweet, confused sound like bird music before dawn. I couldn't even guess how many children are playing there."
"Are any among them those children you once saw here?—the children who pleaded with you—"
She did not answer. He tightened his arm around her waist, drawing her nearer; and she laid her cheek against his shoulder.
"Yes," she said, "they are there."
"You know their voices?"
"Yes, dearest."
"Will they come again into the garden?"
Her face flushed deeply:
"Not unless we call them."
"Call them," he said. And, after a silence: "Dearest, will you not call them to us?"
"Oh, Clive! I have been calling. Now it remains with you."
"I did not hear you call them."
"Theyheard."
"Will they come?"
"I—think so."
"When?"
"Very soon—if you truly desire them," she whispered against his shoulder.
Somewhere within the house the hour struck. After a long while they rose, moving slowly, her head still lying on his shoulder. Hafiz watched them until the door closed, then settled down again to gaze on things invisible to men.
Hours of the night in dim processional passed the old house unlighted save by the stars. Toward dawn a sea-wind stirred the trees; the fountain jet rained onthe surface of the pool or, caught by a sudden breeze, drifted in whispering spray across the grass. Everywhere the darkness grew murmurous with sounds, vague as wind-blown voices; sweet as the call of children from some hill-top where the stars are very near, and the new moon's sickle flashes through the grass.
Athalie stirred where she lay, turned her head sideways with infinite precaution, and lay listening.
Through the open window beside her she saw a dark sky set with stars; heard the sea-wind in the leaves and the falling water of the fountain. And very far away a sweet confused murmuring grew upon her ears.
Silently her soul answered the far hail; her heart, responding, echoed a voiceless welcome till she became fearful lest it beat too loudly.
Then, with infinite precaution, noiselessly, and scarcely stirring, she turned and laid her lips again where they had rested all night long and, lying so, dreamed of miracles ineffable.
CLIVE'S enforced idleness had secretly humiliated him and made him restless. Athalie in her tender wisdom understood how it was with him before he did himself, and she was already deftly guiding his balked energy into a brand new channel, the same being a bucolic one.
At first he had demurred, alleging total ignorance of husbandry; and, seated on the sill of an open window and looking down at him in the garden, she tormented him to her heart's content:
"Ignorant of husbandry!" she mimicked,—"when any husband I ever heard of could go to school to you and learn what a real husband ought to be! Whywillyou pretend to be so painfully modest, Clive, when you are really secretly pleased with yourself and entirely convinced that, in you, the world might discover a living pattern of model domesticity!"
"I'm glad you think so—"
"Think!If I were only as certain of anything else! Never had I dreamed that any man could become so cowed, so spiritless, so perfectly house and yard broken—"
"If I come upstairs," he said, "I'll settleyou!"
Leaning from the window overlooking the garden shelazily defied him; turned up her dainty nose at him; mocked at him until he flung aside the morning paper and rose, bent on her punishment.
"Oh, Clive, don't!" she pleaded, leaning low from the sill. "I won't tease you any more,—and this gown is fresh—"
"I'll come up and freshen it!" he threatened.
"Please don't rumple me. I'll come down if you like. Shall I?"
"All right, darling," he said, resuming his newspaper and cigarette.
She came, seated herself demurely beside him, twitched his newspaper until he cast an ominous glance at his tormentor.
"Dear," she said, "I simply can't let you alone; you are so bland and self-satisfied—"
"Athalie—if you persist in tormenting me—"
"I torment you?I?An humble accessory in the scenery set for you? I?—a stage property fashioned merely for the hero of the drama to sit upon—"
"All right! I'll do that now!—"
But she nestled close to him, warding off wrath with both arms clasping his, and looking up at him out of winning eyes in which but a tormenting glint remained.
"You wouldn't rumple this very beautiful and brand new gown, would you, darling? It was so frightfully expensive—"
"I don't care—"
"Oh, but you must care. You mustbecomethrifty and shrewd and devious and close, or you'll never make a successful farmer—"
"Dearest, that's nonsense. What do I know about farming?"
"Nothing yet. But you know what a wonderful man you are. Never forget that, Clive—"
"If you don't stop laughing at me, you little wretch—"
"Don't you want me to remain young?" she asked reproachfully, while two tiny demons of gaiety danced in her eyes. "If I can't laugh I'll grow old. And there's nothing very funny here except you and Hafiz—Oh, Clive! Youhaverumpled me! Please don't do it again! Yes—yes—yes!I do surrender! Iamsorry—that you are so funny—Clive! You'll ruin this gown!... I promise not to say another disrespectful word.... I don't know whether I'll kiss you or not—Yes!Yes I will, dear. Yes, I'll do it tenderly—you heartless wretch!—I tell you I'll do it tenderly.... Oh wait, Clive! Is Mrs. Connor looking out of any window? Where's Connor? Are you sure he's not in sight?... And I shouldn't care to have Hafiz see us. He's a moral kitty—"
She pretended to look fearfully around, then, with adorable tenderness, she paid her forfeit and sat silent for a while with her slim white fingers linked in his, in that breathless little revery which always stilled her under the magic of his embrace.
He said at last: "Do you really suppose I could make this farm-land pay?"
And that was really the beginning of it all.
Once decided he seemed to go rather mad about it, buying agriculturalparaphernalia recklessly and indiscriminately for a meditated assault upon fields long fallow.
Connor already had as much as he could attend to in the garden; but, like all Irishmen, he had a cousin, and the cousin possessed agricultural lore and a pair of plough-horses.
So early fall ploughing developed into a mania with Clive and Athalie; and they formed a habit of sitting side by side like a pair of birds on fences in the early October sunshine, their fascinated eyes following the brown furrows turning where one T. Phelan was breaking up pasture and meadow too long sod-bound.
In intervals between tenderer and more intimate exchange of sentiments they discussed such subjects as lime, nitrogen, phosphoric acid, and the rotation of crops.
Also Athalie had accumulated much literature concerning incubators, brooders, and the several breeds of domestic fowl; and on paper they had figured out overwhelming profits.
The insidious land-hunger which attacks all who contemplate making two dozen blades of grass grow where none grew before, now seized upon Clive and gnawed him. And he extended the acreage, taking in woods and uplands as far as the headwaters of Spring Pond Brook, vastly to Athalie's delight.
So the October days burned like a procession of golden flames passing in magic sequence amid yellowing woods and over the brown and spongy gold of salt meadows which had been sheared for stable bedding. Andeverywhere over their land lay the dun-coloured velvet squares of freshly ploughed fields awaiting unfragrant fertilizer and the autumn rains.
The rains came heavily toward the end of October; and November was grey and wet and rather warm. But open fires became necessary in the house, and now they regularly reddened the twilight in library and living-room when the early November dusk brought Athalie and Clive indoors.
Hither they came, the fire-lit hearth their trysting place after they had exchanged their rain-drenched clothes for something dry; and there they curled up on the wide sofas and watched the swift darkness fall, and the walls and ceiling redden.
It was an hour which Athalie had once read of as the "Children's Hour" and now she understood better its charming significance. And she kept it religiously, permitting herself to do nothing, and making Clive defer anything he had to do, until after dinner. Then he might read his paper or book, and she could take up her sewing if she chose, or study, or play, or write the few letters that she cared to write.
Clive wrote no more, now. In this first year together they desired each other only, indifferent to all else outside.
It was to her the magic year of fulfilment; to him an enchanted interlude wherein only the girl beside him mattered.
Athalie sewed a great deal on odd, delicate, sheer materials where narrowness and length ruled proportions, and where there seemed to be required much lace andmany little ribbons. Also she hummed to herself as she sewed, singing under her breath endless airs which had slipped into her head she scarce knew when or how.
An odd and fragrant freshness seemed to cling to her making her almost absurdly youthful, as though she had suddenly dropped back to her girlhood. Clive noticed it.
"You look about sixteen," he said.
"My heart is younger, dear."
"How young?"
"You know when it was born, don't you? Very well, it is as many days old as I have been in love with you. Before that it was a muscle capable merely of sturdy friendship."
One day a packet came from New York for her. It contained two rings, one magnificent, the other a plain circlet. She kissed him rather shyly, wore both that evening, but not again.
"I am not ashamed," she explained serenely. "Folkways are now a matter of indifference to me. Civilisation must offer me a better argument than it has offered hitherto before I resign to it my right in you, or deny your right to me."
He knew that civilisation would lock them out and remain unconcerned as to what became of them. Doubtless she knew it too, as she sat there sewing on the frail garment which lay across her knee and singing blithely under her breath some air with cadence like a berceuse.
During the "Children's Hour" she sat beside him, always quiet; or if stirred from her revery to a briefexchange of low-voiced words, she soon relapsed once more into that happy, brooding silence by the firelight.
Then came dinner, and the awakened gaiety of unquenched spirits; then the blessed evening hours with him.
But the last hour of these she calledherhour; and always laid aside her book or sewing, and slipped from the couch to the floor at his feet, laying her head against his knees.
Snow came in December; and Christmas followed. They kept the mystic festival alone together; and Athalie had a tiny tree lighted in the room between hers and Clive's, and hung it with toys and picture books.
It was very pretty in its tinsel and tinted globes; and its faint light glimmered on the walls and dainty furniture of the dim pink room.
Afterward Athalie laid away tinsel and toy, wrapping all safely in tissue, as though to be kept secure and fresh for another Christmas—the most wonderful that any girl could dream of. And perhaps it was to be even more wonderful than Athalie had dreamed.
December turned very cold. The ice thickened; and she skated with Clive on Spring Pond. The ice also remained through January and February that winter; but after December had ended Athalie skated no more.
Clive, unknown to her, had sent for a Shaker cloak and hood of scarlet; and when it arrived Athalie threw back her lovely head and laughed till the tears dimmed her eyes.
"All the same," he said, "you don't look much older in it than you looked in your red hood and cloak the first day I ever set eyes on you."
"You poor darling!—as though even you could push back the hands of Time! It's the funniest and sweetest thing you ever did—to send for this red, hooded cloak."
However she wore it whenever she ventured out with him on foot or in the sleigh which he had bought. Once, coming home, she was still wearing it when Mrs. Connor brought to them two peach turnovers.
A fire had been lighted in the ancient stove; and they went out to the sun-parlour,—once the bar—and sat in the same old arm-chairs exactly as they had been seated that night so long ago; and there they ate their peach turnovers, their enchanted eyes meeting, striving to realise it all, and the intricate ways of Destiny and Chance and Fate.
February was a month of heavy snows that year; great drifts buried the fences and remained until well into March. April was April,—and very much so; but they saw the blue waters of the bay sometimes; and dogwood and willow stems were already aglow with colour; and a premature blue-bird sang near Athalie's garden. Crocuses appeared everywhere with grape hyacinths and snow-drops. Then jonquil and narcissus opened in all their loveliness, and soft winds stirred the waters of the fountain.
May found the garden uncovered, with tender amber-tinted shoots and exquisite fronds of green whereverthe lifted mulch disclosed the earth. Also peonies were up and larkspur, and the ambitious promise of the hollyhocks delighted Athalie.
Pink peach buds bloomed; cherry, pear, and apple covered the trees with rosy snow; birds sang everywhere; and the waters of the pool mirrored a sky of purest blue. But Athalie now walked no further than the garden seat,—and walked slowly, leaning always on Clive's arm.
In those days throughout May her mother was with her in her room almost every night. But Athalie did not speak of this to Clive.
SPRING ploughing had been proceeding for some time now, but Athalie did not feel equal to walking cross-lots over ploughed ground, so she let Clive go alone on tours of inspection.
But these absences were brief; he did not care to remain away from Athalie for more than an hour at a time. So, T. Phelan ploughed on, practically unmolested and untormented by questions, suggestions, and advice. Which liberty was to his liking. And he loafed much.
In these latter days of May Athalie spent a great deal of her time among her cushions and wraps on the garden seat near the fountain. On his return from prowling about the farm Clive was sure to find her there, reading or sewing, or curled up among her cushions in the sun with Hafiz purring on her lap.
And she would look up at Clive out of sleepy, humorous eyes in which glimmered a smile of greeting, or she would pretend surprise and disapproval at his long absence of half an hour with: "Well, C. Bailey, Junior! Where doyoucome from now?"
The phases of awakening spring in the garden seemed to be an endless source of pleasure to the girl; she would sit for hours looking at the pale lilac-tinted wistaria clusters hanging over the naked wall andwatching plundering bumble-bees scrambling from blossom to blossom.
And when at the base of the wall, the spiked buds of silvery-grey iris unfolded, and their delicate fragrance filled the air, the exquisite mingling of the two odours and the two shades of mauve thrilled her as no perfume, no colour had ever affected her.
The little colonies of lily-of-the-valley came into delicate bloom under the fringing shrubbery; golden bell flower, pink and vermilion cydonia, roses, all bloomed and had their day; lilac bushes were weighted with their heavy, dewy clusters; the sweet-brier's green tracery grew into tender leaf and its matchless perfume became apparent when the sun fell hot.
In the warm air there seemed to brood the exquisite hesitation of happy suspense,—a delicious and breathless sense of waiting for something still more wonderful to come.
And when Athalie felt it stealing over her she looked at Clive and knew that he also felt it. Then her slim hand would steal into his and nestle there, content, fearless, blissfully confident of what was to be.
But it was subtly otherwise with Clive. Once or twice she felt his hand tremble slightly as though a slight shiver had passed over him; and when again she noticed it she asked him why.
"Nothing," he said in a strained voice; "I am very, very happy."
"I know it.... There is no fear mingling with your happiness; is there, Clive?"
But before he replied she knew that it was so.
"Dearest," she murmured, "dearest! You must not be afraid for me."
And suddenly the long pent fears strangled him; he could not speak; and she felt his lips, hot and tremulous against her hand.
"My heart!" she whispered, "all will go well. There is absolutely no reason for you to be afraid."
"Do youknowit?"
"Yes, Iknowit. I am certain of it, darling. Everything will turn out as it should.... I can't bear to have the most beautiful moments of our lives made sad for you by apprehension. Won't you believe me that all will go well?"
"Yes."
"Then smile at me, Clive."
His under lip was still unsteady as he drew nearer and took her into his arms.
"God wouldn't do such harm," he said. "Hecouldn't! All must go well."
She smiled gaily and framed his head with her hands:
"You're just a boy, aren't you, C. Bailey, Junior?—just a big boy, yet. As though the God we understand—you and I—could deal otherwise than tenderly with us.Heknows how rare love really is. He will not disturb it. The world needs it for seed."
The smile gradually faded from Clive's face; he shook his head, slightly:
"If I had known—if I had understood—"
"What, darling?"
"The hazard—the chances you are to take—"
But she laughed deliciously, and sealed his mouthwith her fragrant hand, bidding him hunt for other sources of worry if he really was bent on scaring himself.
Later she asked him for a calendar, and he brought it, and together they looked over it where several of the last days of May had been marked with a pencil.
As she sat beside him, studying the printed sequence of the days, a smile hovering on her lips, he thought he had never seen her so beautiful.
A soft wind blew the bright tendrils of her hair across her cheeks; her skin was like a little girl's, rose and snow, smooth as a child's; her eyes clearly, darkly blue—the hue and tint called azure—like the colour of the zenith on some still June day.
And through the glow of her superb and youthful symmetry, ever, it seemed to him, some inward radiance pulsated, burning in her golden burnished hair, in scarlet on her lips, making lovely the soft splendour of her eyes. Hers was the fresh, sweet beauty of ardent youth and spring incarnate,—neither frail and colourlessly spiritual, nor tainted with the stain of clay.
Sometimes Athalie lunched there in the garden with him, Hafiz, seated on the bench beside them, politely observant, condescending to receive a morsel now and then.
It was on such a day, at noon-tide, that Athalie bent over toward him, touched his hair with her lips, then whispered something very low.
"Sometimes Athalie lunched there in the garden with him.""Sometimes Athalie lunched there in the garden with him."
His face went white, but he smiled and rose,—came back swiftly to kiss her hands—then entered the house and telephoned to New York.
When he came back to her she was ready to rise, lean on his arm, and walk leisurely to the house.
On the way she called his attention to a pale blue sheet of forget-me-nots spreading under the shrubbery. She noticed other new blossoms in the garden, lingered before the bed of white pansies. "Like little faces," she said with a faint smile.
One silvery-grey iris he broke from its sheathed stem and gave her; she moved slowly on with the scented blossom lifted to her lips.
In the hall a starched and immaculate nurse met her with a significant nod of understanding. And so, between Clive and the trained nurse she mounted the stairs to her room.
Later Clive came in to sit beside her where she lay on her dainty bed. She turned her flushed face on the pillow, smiled at him, and lifted her neck a little; and he slipped one arm under it.
"Such a wonderful pillow your shoulder makes," she murmured.... "I am thinking of the first time I ever knew it.... So quiet I lay,—such infinite caution I used whenever I moved.... That night the air was musical with children's voices—everywhere under the stars—softly garrulous, laughing, lisping, calling from the hills and meadows.... That night of miracles and of stars—my dear—my dearest!—"
Close to her cheek he breathed: "Are you in pain?"
"Oh, Clive! I am so happy. I love you so—I love you so."
Then nurse and physician came in and the latter took him by the arm and walked out of the room with him. For a long while they paced the passage-way together in whispered conversation before the nurse came to the door and nodded.
Both went in: Athalie laughed and put up her arms as Clive bent over her.
"All will be well," she whispered, kissed him, then turned her head sharply to the right.
When he found himself in the garden, walking at random, the sun hung a hand's breadth over the woods. Later it seemed to become entangled amid new leaves and half-naked branches, hanging there motionless, blinding, glittering through an eternity of time.
And yet he did not notice when twilight came, nor when the dusk's purple turned to night until he saw lights turned up on both floors.
Nobody summoned him to dinner but he did not notice that. Connor came to him there in the darkness and said that two other physicians had arrived with another nurse. He went into the library where they were just leaving to mount the stairs. They looked at him as they passed but merely bowed and said nothing.
A steady, persistent clangour vibrated in his brain, dulling it, so that senses like sight and hearing seemed slow as though drugged.
Suddenly like a sword the most terrible fear he ever knew passed through him.... And after a while the dull, ringing clangour cameback, dinning, stupefying, interminable. Yet he was conscious of every sound, every movement on the floor above.
One of the physicians came halfway down the stairs, looked at him; and he rose mechanically and went up.
He saw nothing clearly in the room until he bent over Athalie.
Her eyes unclosed. She whispered: "It is all right, beloved."
Somebody led him out. He kept on, conscious of the grasp on his arm, but seeing nothing.
He had been walking for a long while, somewhere between light and darkness,—perhaps for hours, perhaps minutes. Then somebody came who laid an arm about his shoulder and spoke of courage.
Other people were in the room, now. One said:
"Don't go up yet."... Once he noticed a woman, Mrs. Connor, crying. Connor led her away.
Others moved about or stood silent; and some one was always drawing near him, speaking of courage. It was odd that so much darkness should invade a lighted room.
Then somebody came down the stairs, noiselessly. The house was very still.
And at last they let him go upstairs.
LIGHTS yet burned on the lower floors and behind the drawn blinds of Athalie's room. The night was quiet and soft and lovely; the moon still young in its first quarter.
There was no wind to blow the fountain jet, so that every drop fell straight back where the slim column of water broke against a strip of stars above the garden wall. Somewhere in distant darkness the little owl trilled.
If he were walking or motionless he no longer knew it; nor did he seem to be aware of anything around.
Hafiz came up to him through the dusk with a little mew of recognition or of loneliness. Afterward the cat followed him for a while and then settled down upon the grass intent on the invisible stirring stealthily in obscurity.
The fragrance of the iris grew sweeter, fresher. Many new buds had unfolded since high noon. One stalk had fallen across the path and Clive's dragging feet passed over it where he moved blindly, at hazard, with stumbling steps along the path—errant, senseless, and always blind.
For on the garden bench a young girl sat, slender, exquisite, smiling as he approached. But he could notsee her, nor could he see in her arms the little flower-like face, and the tiny hands against her breast.
"Clive!" she said. But he could not hear her.
"Clive," she whispered; "my beloved!"
But he could neither see nor hear. His knees, too, were failing; he put out one hand, blindly, and sank down upon the garden bench.
All night long she sat beside him, her head against his shoulder, sometimes touching his drawn face with warm, sweet lips, sometimes looking down at the little face pressed to her quiet breast.
And all night long the light burned behind the closed blinds of her room; and the little silvery dusk-moths floated in and out of the rays. And Hafiz, sitting on the grass, watched them sometimes; sometimes he gazed at his young mistress out of wide, unblinking eyes.
"Hafiz," she murmured lazily in her sweetly humorous way.
The cat uttered a soft little mew but did not move. And when she laid her cheek close to Clive's whispering,—"I love you—I love you so!"—he never stirred.
Her blue eyes, brooding, grew patient, calm, and tender; she looked down silently into the little face close cradled in her arms.
Then the child's eyes opened like two blue stars; and she bent over in a swift ecstasy of bliss, covering the flower-like face with kisses.