“Caderoussel he has a coat,All lined with paper brown;And only when it freezes hardHe wears it in the town.What do you think of Caderoussel?Ah, then, but list to me:Caderoussel is a bon e’fant—”
“Come, come, dirty-fingers,” she said. “Leave my work alone, and stop your chatter.”
The daft one held up his fingers, but to do so had to thrust a cake into his mouth.
“They’re as clean as a ha’pendy,” he said, mumbling through the cake. Then he emptied his mouth of it, and was about to place it with the others.
“Black beganne,” she cried; “how dare you! V’la—into your pocket with it!”
He did as he was bid, humming to himself again:
“M’sieu’ de la Palisse is dead,Dead of a maladie;Quart’ of an hour before his deathHe could breathe like you and melAh bah, the poor M’sieu’De la Palisse is dead!”
“Shut up! Man doux d’la vie, you chatter like a monkey!”
“That poor Maitre Ranulph,” said Dormy, “once he was lively as a basket of mice; but now—”
“Well, now, achocre?” she said irritably, stamping her foot.
“Now the cat’s out of the bag—oui-gia!”
“You’re as cunning as a Norman—you’ve got things in your noddee!” she cried with angry impatience.
He nodded, grinning. “As thick as haws,” he answered.
She heard behind her a laugh of foolish good-nature, which made her angry too, for it seemed to be making fun of her. She wheeled to see M. Savary dit Detricand leaning with both elbows on the little counter, his chin in his hand, grinning provokingly,
“Oh, it’s you!” she said snappishly; “I hope you’re pleased.”
“Don’t be cross,” he answered, his head swinging unsteadily. “I wasn’t laughing at you, heaven-born Jersienne. I wasn’t, ‘pon honour! I was laughing at a thing I saw five minutes ago.” He nodded in gurgling enjoyment now. “You mustn’t mind me, seraphine,” he added, “I’d a hot night, and I’m warm as a thrush now. But I saw a thing five minutes ago!”—he rolled on the stall. “‘Sh!” he added in a loud mock whisper, “here he comes now. Milles diables, but here’s a tongue for you, and here’s a royal gentleman speaking truth like a travelling dentist!”
Carterette followed his gesture and saw coming out of the Route es Couochons, where the brave Peirson issued to his death eleven years before, Maitre Ranulph’s father.
He walked with the air of a man courting observation. He imagined himself a hero; he had told his lie so many times now that he almost believed it himself.
He was soon surrounded. Disliked when he lived in Jersey before the invasion years ago, that seemed forgotten now; for word had gone abroad that he was a patriot raised from the dead, an honour to his country. Many pressed forward to shake hands with him.
“Help of heaven, is that you, m’sieu’?” asked one. “You owed me five chelins, but I wiped it out, O my good!” cried another generously.
“Shaken,” cried a tall tarter holding out his hand. He had lived in England, and now easily made English verbs into French.
One after another called on him to tell his story; some tried to hurry him to La Pyramide, but others placed a cider-keg near, and almost lifted him on to it.
“Go on, go on, tell us the story,” they cried. “To the devil with the Frenchies!”
“Here—here’s a dish of Adam’s ale,” cried an old woman, handing him a bowl of water.
They cheered him lustily. The pallor of his face changed to a warmth. He had the fatuousness of those who deceive with impunity. With confidence he unreeled the dark line out to the end. When he had told his story, still hungry for applause, he repeated the account of how the tatterdemalion brigade of Frenchmen came down upon him out of the night, and how he should have killed Rullecour himself had it not been for an officer who struck him down from behind.
During the recital Ranulph had drawn near. He watched the enthusiasm with which the crowd received every little detail of the egregious history. Everybody believed the old man, who was safe, no matter what happened to himself, Ranulph Delagarde, ex-artilleryman, ship-builder—and son of a criminal. At any rate the worst was over now, the first public statement of the lifelong lie. He drew a sigh of relief and misery in one. At that instant he caught sight of the flushed face of Detricand, who broke into a laugh of tipsy mirth when Olivier Delagarde told how the French officer had stricken him down as he was about finishing off Rullecour.
All at once the whole thing rushed upon Ranulph. What a fool he had been! He had met this officer of Rullecour’s these ten years past, and never once had the Frenchman, by so much as a hint, suggested that he knew the truth about his father. Here and now the contemptuous mirth upon the Frenchman’s face told the whole story. The danger and horror of the situation descended on him. Instantly he started towards Detricand.
At that moment his father caught sight of Detricand also, saw the laugh, the sneer, and recognised him. Halting short in his speech he turned pale and trembled, staring as at a ghost. He had never counted on this. His breath almost stopped as he saw Ranulph approach Detricand.
Now the end was come. His fabric of lies would be torn down; he would be tried and hanged on the Mont es Pendus, or even be torn to pieces by this crowd. Yet he could not have moved a foot from where he was if he had been given a million pounds.
The sight of Ranulph’s face revealed to Detricand the true meaning of this farce and how easily it might become a tragedy. He read the story of the son’s torture, of his sacrifice; and his decision was instantly made: he would befriend him. Looking straight into his eyes, his own said he had resolved to know nothing whatever about this criminal on the cider-cask. The two men telegraphed to each other a perfect understanding, and then Detricand turned on his heel, and walked away into the crowd.
The sudden change in the old man’s appearance had not been lost on the spectators, but they set it down to weakness or a sudden sickness. One ran for a glass of brandy, another for cider, and an old woman handed up to him a mogue of cinnamon drops.
The old man tremblingly drank the brandy. When he looked again Detricand had disappeared. A dark, sinister expression crossed his face, an evil thought pulled down the corners of his mouth as he stepped from the cask. His son went to him and taking his arm, said: “Come, you’ve done enough for to-day.”
The old man made no reply, but submissively walked away into the Coin & Anes. Once however he turned and looked the way Detricand had gone, muttering.
The peasants cheered him as he passed. Presently, free of the crowd and entering the Rue d’Egypte, he said to Ranulph:
“I’m going alone; I don’t need you.”
“Where are you going?” asked Ranulph.
“Home,” answered the old man gloomily.
Ranulph stopped. “All right; better not come out again to-day.”
“You’re not going to let that Frenchman hurt me?” suddenly asked Delagarde with morose anxiety. “You’re going to stop that? They’d put me in prison.”
Ranulph stooped over his father, his eyes alive with anger, his face blurred with disgust.
“Go home,” said he, “and never mention this again while you live, or I’ll take you to prison myself.” Ranulph watched his father disappear down the Rue d’Egypte, then he retraced his steps to the Vier Marchi. With a new-formed determination he quickened his walk, ruling his face to a sort of forced gaiety, lest any one should think his moodiness strange. One person after another accosted him. He listened eagerly, to see if anything were said which might show suspicion of his father. But the gossip was all in old Delagarde’s favour. From group to group he went, answering greetings cheerily and steeling himself to the whole disgusting business.
Presently he saw the Chevalier du Champsavoys with the Sieur de Mauprat. This was the first public appearance of the chevalier since the sad business at the Vier Prison a fortnight before. The simple folk had forgotten their insane treatment of him then, and they saluted him now with a chirping: “Es-tu biaou, chevalier?” and “Es-tu gentiment, m’sieu’?” to which he responded with amiable forgiveness. To his idea they were only naughty children, their minds reasoning no more clearly than they saw the streets through the tiny little squares of bottle-glass in the windows of their homes.
All at once they came face to face with Detricand. The chevalier stopped short with pleased yet wistful surprise. His brow knitted when he saw that his compatriot had been drinking again, and his eyes had a pained look as he said eagerly:
“Have you heard from the Comte de Tournay, monsieur? I have not seen you these days past. You said you would not disappoint me.”
Detricand drew from his pocket a letter and handed it over, saying: “This comes from the comte.”
The old gentleman took the letter, nervously opened it, and read it slowly, saying each sentence over twice as though to get the full meaning.
“Ah,” he exclaimed, “he is going back to France to fight for the King!”
Then he looked at Detricand sadly, benevolently. “Mon cher,” said he, “if I could but persuade you to abjure the wine-cup and follow his example!”
Detricand drew himself up with a jerk. “You can persuade me, chevalier,” said he. “This is my last bout. I had sworn to have it with—with a soldier I knew, and I’ve kept my word. But it’s the last, the very last in my life, on the honour of—the Detricands. And I am going with the Comte de Tournay to fight for the King.”
The little chevalier’s lips trembled, and taking the young man by the collar of his coat, he stood tiptoed, and kissed him on both cheeks.
“Will you accept something from me?” asked M. de Mauprat, joining in his friend’s enthusiasm. He took from his pocket a timepiece he had worn for fifty years. “It is a little gift to my France, which I shall see no more,” he added. “May no time be ill spent that it records for you, monsieur.”
Detricand laughed in his careless way, but the face, seamed with dissipation, took on a new and better look, as with a hand-grasp of gratitude he put the timepiece in his pocket.
“I’ll do my best,” he said simply. “I’ll be with de la Rochejaquelein and the army of the Vendee to-morrow night.”
Then he shook hands with both little gentlemen and moved away towards the Rue des Tres Pigeons. Presently some one touched his arm. He looked round. It was Ranulph.
“I stood near,” said Ranulph; “I chanced to hear what you said to them. You’ve been a friend to me today—and these eleven years past. You knew about my father, all the time.”
Before replying Detricand glanced round to see that no one was listening.
“Look you, monsieur, a man must keep some decencies in his life, or cut his own throat. What a ruffian I’d be to do you or your father harm! I’m silent, of course. Let your mind rest about me. But there’s the baker Carcaud—”
“The baker?” asked Ranulph dumfounded. “I thought he was tied to a rock and left to drown, by Rullecour’s orders.”
“I had him set free after Rullecour had gone on to the town. He got away to France.”
Ranulph’s anxiety deepened. “He might come back, and then if anything happened to him—”
“He’d try and make things happen to others, eh? But there’s little danger of his coming back. They know he’s a traitor, and he knows he’d be hung. If he’s alive he’ll stay where he is. Cheer up! Take my word, Olivier Delagarde has only himself to fear.” He put out his hand. “Good-bye. If ever I can do anything for you, if you ever want to find me, come or send to—no, I’ll write it,” he suddenly added, and scribbling something on a piece of paper he handed it over.
They parted with another handshake, Detricand making his way into the Rue d’Egypte, and towards the Place du Vier Prison.
Ranulph stood looking dazedly at the crowd before him, misery, revolt, and bitterness in his heart. This French adventurer, Detricand, after years of riotous living, could pick up the threads of life again with a laugh and no shame, while he felt himself going down, down, down, with no hope of ever rising again.
As he stood buried in his reflections the town crier entered the Vier Marchi, and, going to La Pyramide, took his place upon the steps, and in a loud voice began reading a proclamation.
It was to the effect that the great Fishing Company trading to Gaspe needed twenty Jersiais to go out and replace a number of the company’s officers and men who had been drowned in a gale off the rock called Perch. To these twenty, if they went at once, good pay would be given. But they must be men of intelligence and vigour, of well-known character.
The critical moment in Maitre Ranulph’s life came now. Here he was penned up in a little island, chained to a criminal having the fame of a martyr. It was not to be borne. Why not leave it all behind? Why not let his father shift for himself, abide his own fate? Why not leave him the home, what money he had laid by, and go-go-go where he could forget, go where he could breathe. Surely self-preservation, that was the first law; surely no known code of human practice called upon him to share the daily crimes of any living soul—it was a daily repetition of his crime for this traitor to carry on the atrocious lie of patriotism.
He would go. It was his right.
Taking a few steps towards the officer of the company standing by the crier, he was about to speak. Some one touched him.
He turned and saw Carterette. She had divined his intention, and though she was in the dark as to the motive, she saw that he meant to go to Gaspe. Her heart seemed to contract till the pain of it hurt her; then, as a new thought flashed into her mind, it was freed again and began pounding hard against her breast. She must prevent him from leaving Jersey, from leaving her. What she might feel personally would have no effect upon him; she would appeal to him from a different stand-point.
“You must not go,” she said. “You must not leave your father alone, Maitre Ranulph.”
For a minute he did not reply. Through his dark wretchedness one thought pierced its way: this girl was his good friend.
“Then I’ll take him with me,” he said.
“He would die in the awful cold,” she answered. “Nannin-gia, you must stay.”
“Eh ben, I will think!” he said presently, with an air of heavy resignation, and, turning, walked away. Her eyes followed him. As she went back to her booth she smiled: he had come one step her way. He would not go.
When Detricand left the Vier Marchi he made his way along the Rue d’Egypte to the house of M. de Mauprat. The front door was open, and a nice savour of boiling fruit came from within. He knocked, and instantly Guida appeared, her sleeves rolled back to her elbows, her fingers stained with the rich red of the blackberries on the fire.
A curious shade of disappointment came into her face when she saw who it was. It was clear to Detricand that she expected some one else; it was also clear that his coming gave no especial pleasure to her, though she looked at him with interest. She had thought of him more than once since that day when the famous letter from France to the chevalier was read. She had instinctively compared him, this roystering, notorious fellow, with Philip d’Avranche, Philip the brave, the ambitious, the conquering. She was sure that Philip had never over-drunk himself in his life; and now, looking into the face of Detricand, she could tell that he had been drinking again. One thing was apparent, however: he was better dressed than she ever remembered seeing him, better pulled together, and bearing himself with an air of purpose.
“I’ve fetched back your handkerchief—you tied up my head with it, you know,” he said, taking it from his pocket. “I’m going away, and I wanted to thank you.”
“Will you not come in, monsieur?” she said.
He readily entered the kitchen, still holding the handkerchief in his hand, but he did not give it to her. “Where will you sit?” she said, looking round. “I’m very busy. You mustn’t mind my working,” she added, going to the brass bashin at the fire. “This preserve will spoil if I don’t watch it.”
He seated himself on the veille, and nodded his head. “I like this,” he said. “I’m fond of kitchens. I always was. When I was fifteen I was sent away from home because I liked the stables and the kitchen too well. Also I fell in love with the cook.”
Guida flushed, frowned, her lips tightened, then presently a look of amusement broke over her face, and she burst out laughing.
“Why do you tell me these things?” she said. “Excuse me, monsieur, but why do you always tell unpleasant things about yourself? People think ill of you, and otherwise they might think—better.”
“I don’t want them to think better till I am better,” he answered. “The only way I can prevent myself becoming a sneak is by blabbing my faults. Now, I was drunk last night—very, very drunk.”
A look of disgust came into her face.
“Why do you relate this sort of thing to me, monsieur? Do—do I remind you of the cook at home, or of an oyster-girl in Jersey?”
She was flushing, but her voice was clear and vibrant, the look of the eyes direct and fearless. How dared he hold her handkerchief like that!
“I tell you them,” he answered slowly, looking at the handkerchief in his hand, then raising his eyes to hers with whimsical gravity, “because I want you to ask me never to drink again.”
She looked at him scarce comprehending, yet feeling a deep compliment somewhere, for this man was a gentleman by birth, and his manner was respectful, and had always been respectful to her.
“Why do you want me to ask you that?” she said. “Because I’m going to France to join the war of the Vendee, and—”
“With the Comte de Tournay?” she interrupted. He nodded his head. “And if I thought I was keeping a promise to—to you, I’d not break it. Will you ask me to promise?” he persisted, watching her intently.
“Why, of course,” she answered kindly, almost gently; the compliment was so real, he could not be all bad.
“Then say my name, and ask me,” he said.
“Monsieur—”
“Leave out the monsieur,” he interrupted.
“Yves Savary dit Detricand, will you promise me, Guida Landresse—”
“De Landresse,” he interposed courteously.
“—Guida Landresse de Landresse, that you will never again drink wine to excess, and that you will never do anything that”—she paused confused. “That you would not wish me to do,” he said in a low voice.
“That I should not wish you to do,” she repeated in a half-embarrassed way.
“On my honour I promise,” he said slowly.
A strange feeling came over her. She had suddenly, in some indirect, allusive way, become interested in a man’s life. Yet she had done nothing, and in truth she cared nothing. They stood looking at each other, she slightly embarrassed, he hopeful and eager, when suddenly a step sounded without, a voice called “Guida!” and as Guida coloured and Detricand turned towards the door, Philip d’Avranche entered impetuously.
He stopped short on seeing Detricand. They knew each other slightly, and they bowed. Philip frowned. He saw that something had occurred between the two. Detricand on his part realised the significance of that familiar “Guida!” called from outside. He took up his cap.
“It is greeting and good-bye, I am just off for France,” he said.
Philip eyed him coldly, and not a little maliciously, for he knew Detricand’s reputation well, the signs of a hard life were thick on him, and he did not like to think of Guida being alone with him.
“France should offer a wide field for your talents just now,” he answered drily; “they seem wasted here.” Detricand’s eye flashed, but he answered coolly: “It wasn’t talent that brought me here, but a boy’s folly; it’s not talent that’s kept me from starving here, I’m afraid, but the ingenuity of the desperate.”
“Why stay here? The world was wide, and France but a step away. You would not have needed talents there. You would no doubt have been rewarded by the Court which sent you and Rullecour to ravage Jersey—”
“The proper order is Rullecour and me, monsieur.” Detricand seemed suddenly to have got back a manner to which he had been long a stranger. His temper became imperturbable, and this was not lost on Philip; his manner had a balanced serenity, while Philip himself had no such perfect control; which made him the more impatient. Presently Detricand added in a composed and nonchalant tone:
“I’ve no doubt there were those at Court who’d have clothed me in purple and fine linen, and given me wine and milk, but it was my whim to work in the galleys here, as it were.”
“Then I trust you’ve enjoyed your Botany Bay,” answered Philip mockingly. “You’ve been your own jailer, you could lay the strokes on heavy or light.” He moved to the veille, and sat down. Guida busied herself at the fireplace, but listened intently.
“I’ve certainly been my own enemy, whether the strokes were heavy or light,” replied Detricand, lifting a shoulder ironically.
“And a friend to Jersey at the same time, eh?” was the sneering reply.
Detricand was in the humour to tell the truth even to this man who hated him. He was giving himself the luxury of auricular confession. But Philip did not see that when once such a man has stood in his own pillory, sat in his own stocks, voluntarily paid the piper, he will take no after insult.
Detricand still would not be tempted out of his composure. “No,” he answered, “I’ve been an enemy to Jersey too, both by act and example; but people here have been kind enough to forget the act, and the example I set is not unique.”
“You’ve never thought that you’ve outstayed your welcome, eh?”
“As to that, every country is free to whoever wills, if one cares to pay the entrance fee and can endure the entertainment. One hasn’t to apologise for living in a country. You probably get no better treatment than you deserve, and no worse. One thing balances another.”
The man’s cool impeachment and defence of himself irritated Philip, the more so because Guida was present, and this gentlemanly vagrant had him at advantage.
“You paid no entrance fee here; you stole in through a hole in the wall. You should have been hanged.”
“Monsieur d’Avranche!” said Guida reproachfully, turning round from the fire.
Detricand’s answer came biting and dry. “You are an officer of your King, as was I. You should know that hanging the invaders of Jersey would have been butchery. We were soldiers of France; we had the distinction of being prisoners of war, monsieur.”
This shot went home. Philip had been touched in that nerve called military honour. He got to his feet. “You are right,” he answered with reluctant frankness. “Our grudge is not individual, it is against France, and we’ll pay it soon with good interest, monsieur.”
“The individual grudge will not be lost sight of in the general, I hope?” rejoined Detricand with cool suggestion, his clear, persistent grey eye looking straight into Philip’s.
“I shall do you that honour,” said Philip with mistaken disdain.
Detricand bowed low. “You will always find me in the suite of the Prince of Vaufontaine, monsieur, and ready to be so distinguished by you.” Turning to Guida, he added: “Mademoiselle will perhaps do me the honour to notice me again one day?” then, with a mocking nod to Philip, he left the house.
Guida and Philip stood looking after him in silence for a minute. Suddenly Guida said to herself: “My handkerchief—why did he take my handkerchief? He put it in his pocket again.”
Philip turned on her impatiently.
“What was that adventurer saying to you, Guida? In the suite of the Prince of Vaufontaine, my faith! What did he come here for?”
Guida looked at him in surprise. She scarcely grasped the significance of the question. Before she had time to consider, he pressed it again, and without hesitation she told him all that had happened—it was so very little, of course—between Detricand and herself. She omitted nothing save that Detricand had carried off the handkerchief, and she could not have told, if she had been asked, why she did not speak of it.
Philip raged inwardly. He saw the meaning of the whole situation from Detricand’s stand-point, but he was wise enough from his own stand-point to keep it to himself; and so both of them reserved something, she from no motive that she knew, he from an ulterior one. He was angry too: angry at Detricand, angry at Guida for her very innocence, and because she had caught and held even the slight line of association Detricand had thrown.
In any case, Detricand was going to-morrow, and to-day-to-day should decide all between Guida and himself. Used to bold moves, in this affair of love he was living up to his custom; and the encounter with Detricand here added the last touch to his resolution, nerved him to follow his strong impulse to set all upon one hazard. A month ago he had told Guida that he loved her; to-day there should be a still more daring venture. A thing not captured by a forlorn hope seemed not worth having. The girl had seized his emotions from the first moment, and had held them. To him she was the most original creature he had ever met, the most natural, the most humorous of temper, the most sincere. She had no duplicity, no guile, no arts.
He said to himself that he knew his own mind always. He believed in inspirations, and he would back his knowledge, his inspiration, by an irretrievable move. Yesterday had come an important message from his commander. That had decided him. To-day Guida should hear a message beyond all others in importance.
“Won’t you come into the garden?” he said presently.
“A moment—a moment,” she answered him lightly, for the frown had passed from his face, and he was his old buoyant self again. “I’m to make an end to this bashin of berries first,” she added. So saying, she waved him away with a little air of tyranny; and he perched himself boyishly on the big chair in the corner, and with idle impatience began playing with the flax on the spinning-wheel near by. Then he took to humming a ditty the Jersey housewife used to sing as she spun, while Guida disposed of the sweet-smelling fruit. Suddenly she stopped and stamped her foot.
“No, no, that’s not right, stupid sailor-man,” she said, and she sang a verse at him over the last details of her work:
“Spin, spin, belle Mergaton!The moon wheels full, and the tide flows high,And your wedding-gown you must put it onEre the night hath no moon in the sky—Gigoton Mergaton, spin!”
She paused. He was entranced. He had never heard her sing, and the full, beautiful notes of her contralto voice thrilled him like organ music. His look devoured her, her song captured him.
“Please go on,” he said, “I never heard it that way.” She was embarrassed yet delighted by his praise, and she threw into the next verse a deep weirdness:
“Spin, spin, belle Mergaton!Your gown shall be stitched ere the old moon fade:The age of a moon shall your hands spin on,Or a wife in her shroud shall be laid—Gigoton Mergaton, spin!”
“Yes, yes, that’s it!” he exclaimed with gay ardour. “That’s it. Sing on. There are two more verses.”
“I’ll only sing one,” she answered, with a little air of wilfulness.
“Spin, spin, belle Mergaton!The Little Good Folk the spell they have cast;By your work well done while the moon hath shone,Ye shall cleave unto joy at last—Gigoton Mergaton, spin!”
As she sang the last verse she seemed in a dream, and her rich voice, rising with the spirit of the concluding lines, poured out the notes like a bird drunk with the air of spring.
“Guida,” he cried, springing to his feet, “when you sing like that it seems to me I live in a world that has nothing to do with the sordid business of life, with my dull trade—with getting the weather-gauge or sailing in triple line. You’re a planet all by yourself, Mistress Guida! Are you ready to come into the garden?”
“Yes, yes, in a minute,” she answered. “You go out to the big apple-tree, and I’ll come in a minute.” The apple-tree was in the farthest corner of the large garden. Near it was the summer-house where Guida and her mother used to sit and read, Guida on the three-legged stool, her mother on the low, wide seat covered with ferns. This spot Guida used to “flourish” with flowers. The vines, too, crept through the rough latticework, and all together made the place a bower, secluded and serene. The water of the little stream outside the hedge made music too.
Philip placed himself on the bench beneath the appletree. What a change was all this, he thought to himself, from the staring hot stones of Malta, the squalor of Constantinople, the frigid cliffs of Spitzbergen, the noisome tropical forests of the Indies! This was Arcady. It was peace, it was content. His life was sure to be varied and perhaps stormy—here would be the true change, the spirit of all this. Of course he would have two sides to his life like most men: that lived before the world, and that of the home. He would have the fight for fame. He would have to use, not duplicity, but diplomacy, to play a kind of game; but this other side to his life, the side of love and home, should be simple, direct—all genuine and strong and true. In this way he would have a wonderful career.
He heard Guida’s footstep now, and standing up he parted the apple boughs for her entrance. She was dressed all in white, without a touch of colour save in the wild rose at her throat and the pretty red shoes with the broad buckles which the Chevalier had given her. Her face, too, had colour—the soft, warm tint of the peach-blossom—and her auburn hair was like an aureole.
Philip’s eyes gleamed. He stretched out both his hands in greeting and tenderness. “Guida—sweetheart!” he said.
She laughed up at him mischievously, and put her hands behind her back.
“Ma fe, you are so very forward,” she said, seating herself on the bench. “And you must not call me Guida, and you’ve no right to call me sweetheart.”
“I know I’ve no right to call you anything, but to myself I always call you Guida, and sweetheart too, and I’ve liked to think that you would care to know my thoughts,” he answered.
“Yes, I wish I knew your thoughts,” she responded, looking up at him intently; “I should like to know every thought in your mind.... Do you know—you don’t mind my saying just what I think?—I find myself feeling that there’s something in you that I never touch; I mean, that a friend ought to touch, if it’s a real friendship. You appear to be so frank, and I know you are frank and good and true, and yet I seem always to be hunting for something in your mind, and it slips away from me always—always. I suppose it’s because we’re two different beings, and no two beings can ever know each other in this world, not altogether. We’re what the Chevalier calls ‘separate entities.’ I seem to understand his odd, wise talk better lately. He said the other day: ‘Lonely we come into the world, and lonely we go out of it.’ That’s what I mean. It makes me shudder sometimes, that part of us which lives alone for ever. We go running on as happy as can be, like Biribi there in the garden, and all at once we stop short at a hedge, just as he does there—a hedge just too tall to look over and with no foothold for climbing. That’s what I want so much; I want to look over the Hedge.”
When she spoke like this to Philip, as she sometimes did, she seemed quite unconscious that he was a listener, it was rather as if he were part of her and thinking the same thoughts. To Philip she seemed wonderful. He had never bothered his head in that way about abstract things when he was her age, and he could not understand it in her. What was more, he could not have thought as she did if he had tried. She had that sort of mind which accepts no stereotyped reflection or idea; she worked things out for herself. Her words were her own, and not another’s. She was not imitative, nor yet was she bizarre; she was individual, simple, inquiring.
“That’s the thing that hurts most in life,” she added presently; “that trying to find and not being able to—voila, what a child I am to babble so!” she broke off with a little laugh, which had, however, a plaintive note. There was a touch of undeveloped pathos in her character, for she had been left alone too young, been given responsibility too soon.
He felt he must say something, and in a sympathetic tone he replied:
“Yes, Guida, but after a while we stop trying to follow and see and find, and we walk in the old paths and take things as they are.”
“Have you stopped?” she said to him wistfully. “Oh, no, not altogether,” he replied, dropping his tones to tenderness, “for I’ve been trying to peep over a hedge this afternoon, and I haven’t done it yet.” “Have you?” she rejoined, then paused, for the look in his eyes embarrassed her.... “Why do you look at me like that?” she added tremulously.
“Guida,” he said earnestly, leaning towards her, “a month ago I asked you if you would listen to me when I told you of my love, and you said you would. Well, sometimes when we have met since, I have told you the same story, and you’ve kept your promise and listened. Guida, I want to go on telling you the same story for a long time—even till you or I die.”
“Do you—ah, then, do you?” she asked simply. “Do you really wish that?”
“It is the greatest wish of my life, and always will be,” he added, taking her unresisting hands.
“I like to hear you say it,” she answered simply, “and it cannot be wrong, can it? Is there any wrong in my listening to you? Yet why do I feel that it is not quite right?—sometimes I do feel that.”
“One thing will make all right,” he said eagerly; “one thing. I love you, Guida, love you devotedly. Do you—tell me if you love me? Do not fear to tell me, dearest, for then will come the thing that makes all right.”
“I do not know,” she responded, her heart beating fast, her eyes drooping before him; “but when you go from me, I am not happy till I see you again. When you are gone, I want to be alone that I may remember all you have said, and say it over to myself again. When I hear you speak I want to shut my eyes, I am so happy; and every word of mine seems clumsy when you talk to me; and I feel of how little account I am beside you. Is that love, Philip—Philip, do you think that is love?”
They were standing now. The fruit that hung above Guida’s head was not fairer and sweeter than she. Philip drew her to him, and her eyes lifted to his.
“Is that love, Philip?” she repeated. “Tell me, for I do not know—it has all come so soon. You are wiser; do not deceive me; you understand, and I do not. Philip, do not let me deceive myself.”
“As the Judgment of Life is before us, I believe you love me, Guida—though I don’t deserve it,” he answered with tender seriousness.
“And it is right that you should love me; that we should love each other, Philip?”
“It will be right soon,” he said, “right for ever. Guida mine, I want you to marry me.”
His arm tightened round her waist, as though he half feared she would fly from him. He was right; she made a motion backward, but he held her firmly, tenderly. “Marry—marry you, Philip!” she exclaimed in trembling dismay.
“Marry—yes, marry me, Guida. That will make all right; that will bind us together for ever. Have you never thought of that?”
“Oh, never, never!” she answered. It was true, she had never thought of that; there had not been time. Too much had come all at once. “Why should I? I cannot—cannot. Oh, it could not be—not at least for a long, long time, not for years and years, Philip.”
“Guida,” he answered gravely and persistently, “I want you to marry me—to-morrow.”
She was overwhelmed. She could scarcely speak. “To-morrow—to-morrow, Philip? You are laughing at me. I could not—how could I marry you to-morrow?”
“Guida, dearest,”—he took her hands more tightly now—“you must indeed. The day after to-morrow my ship is going to Portsmouth for two months. Then we return again here, but I will not go now unless I go as your husband!”
“Oh, no, I could not—it is impossible, Philip! It is madness—it is wrong. My grandfather—”
“Your grandfather need not know, sweetheart.”
“How can you say such wicked things, Philip?”
“My dearest, it is not necessary for him to know. I don’t want any one to know until I come back from Portsmouth. Then I shall have a ship of my own—commander of the Araminta I shall be then. I have word from the Admiralty to that effect. But I dare not let them know that I am married until I get commissioned to my ship. The Admiralty has set its face against lieutenants marrying.”
“Then do not marry, Philip. You ought not, you see.”
Her pleading was like the beating of helpless wings against the bars of a golden cage.
“But I must marry you, Guida. A sailor’s life is uncertain, and what I want I want now. When I come back from Portsmouth every one shall know, but if you love me—and I know you do—you must marry me to-morrow. Until I come back no one shall know about it except the clergyman, Mr. Dow of St. Michael’s—I have seen him—and Shoreham, a brother officer of mine. Ah, you must, Guida, you must! Whatever is worth doing is better worth doing in the time one’s own heart says. I want it more, a thousand times more, than I ever wanted anything in my life.”
She looked at him in a troubled sort of way. Somehow she felt wiser than he at that moment, wiser and stronger, though she scarcely defined the feeling to herself, though she knew that in the end her brain would yield to her heart in this.
“Would it make you so much happier, Philip?” she said more kindly than joyfully, more in grave acquiescence than delighted belief.
“Yes, on my honour—supremely happy.”
“You are afraid that otherwise, by some chance, you might lose me?” she said it tenderly, yet with a little pain.
“Yes, yes, that is it, Guida dearest,” he replied. “I suppose women are different altogether from men,” she answered. “I could have waited ever so long, believing that you would come again, and that I should never lose you. But men are different; I see, yes, I see that, Philip.”
“We are more impetuous. We know, we sailors, that now-to-day-is our time; that to-morrow may be Fate’s, and Fate is a fickle jade: she beckons you up with one hand to-day, and waves you down with the other to-morrow.”
“Philip,” she said, scarcely above a whisper, and putting her hands on his arms, as her head sank towards him, “I must be honest with you—I must be that or nothing at all. I do not feel as you do about it; I can’t. I would much—much—rather everybody knew. And I feel it almost wrong that they do not.” She paused a minute, her brow clouded slightly, then cleared again, and she went on bravely: “Philip, if—if I should, you must promise me that you will leave me as soon as ever we are married, and that you will not try to see me until you come again from Portsmouth. I am sure that is right, for the deception will not be so great. I should be better able then to tell the poor grandpethe. Will you promise me, Philip-dear? It—it is so hard for me. Ah, can’t you understand?”
This hopeless everlasting cry of a woman’s soul!
He clasped her close. “Yes, Guida, my beloved, I understand, and I promise you—I do promise you.” Her head dropped on his breast, her arms ran round his neck. He raised her face; her eyes were closed; they were dropping tears. He tenderly kissed the tears away.