Strong sunlight streamed across the foot of his bed. Below, in the quad, he could hear the clatter of breakfast-dishes being cleared away. Fumbling beneath his pillow, he pulled out his watch. Ten o’clock! Time he dressed and got to work! Less than a fortnight till his Finals, and he’d lost a day already!
A sound of running on the stairs! Someone was entering his outer room.
“Hulloa! I’m still in bed. Who is it?”
The bedroom door flew open. Harry stood panting on the threshold, holding a London paper in his hand. For all his haste, he didn’t say a word. He simply stared—stared rather weakly and stupidly, as though he’d forgotten what he’d come about. His lips quivered. The twitching of his fingers made the paper crackle.
Peter raised himself on his elbow. “Got back all right, old man. Why—.” He saw Harry’s face clearly; it was drawn and ghastly. “Don’t look like that. What is it? For God’s sake, tell me.”
“Dead.”
“Dead?”
He threw back the clothes, leapt out and snatched the paper. Standing in the sunlight he caught the head-line, TO SAVE OTHERS. His eyes skipped the matter below it, gathering the sense: “At the crowded hour—in Hyde Park yesterday afternoon—lost control of his horse, Satan—bolted to where children were playing—swerved aside—rode purposely into an iron fence—thrown and broke his neck.”
The paper fell from his hand. He picked it up and reread it. Some mistake! He wouldn’t believe it. The Faun Man dead! He’d been so brimming with life. Never again to hear his mandolin strumming! Never again to hear his gallant laughter! To walk through the roses at Tree-Tops—and he would not be there!
Peter sat down on the edge of the bed, clenching his forehead in his hands. The voice, the gestures, everything—everything that had been so essentially the Faun Man he wanted to recall before he could forget.
“If yer gal ain’t all yer thought ‘er
And for everyfing yer’ve bought ‘er
She don’t seem to care——-”
He could see him bending over the strings slyly smiling. He had been of such high courage that he could coin humor, out of his own unhappiness.
Then, like a minor air played softly, “Lorie, he loves you. If he asks you again—-” and the golden woman’s broken assent, “If he asks me.”
She had kept him waiting too long. He had asked her for the last time that morning. He couldn’t ask her again, however much she desired it—couldn’t. She’d blamed him for his first neglect of her—had made it an excuse for her own unfaithfulness. He hadn’t met her. His neglect of her had been simply that he was dead.
Word came two days later—they had brought him home to Tree-Tops. That evening Peter gained leave of absence.
Whitesheaves!The name was embroidered in geraniums on the velvet of the close-cut turf. The train halted long enough for him to alight, then pulled out puffing laboriously. It seemed an affront that people should be journeying when across the fields the Faun Man lay, his journey forever at an end. Only one other passenger got out—a young chap, in flannels and a straw-hat, who was instantly embraced by a radiant-faced girl. They sauntered arm-inarm to where a dog-cart was standing and drove away into the evening stillness, their heads bent together, their laughter floating back in snatches.
Peter set out reluctantly by a short-cut through wheat-fields. He didn’t want to prove to himself that it had happened. He was trying to imagine that he had come on one of his surprise visits. He would find the Faun Man dreaming, sprawled like a lean hound in the twilight of the terraced garden.
The sun hung large and low in the west. A breeze swept the country with a contented humming, bowing the heads of the corn. In the distance, above Curious Corner, chiseled in the greenness of the hill the white cross glistened. Through trees a spire shot up. Beneath boughs thatched roofs of the village showed faintly. He rounded a bend; the house to which he was going gazed down on him. It hadn’t the look of a house of death. Its windows shone valiantly above the pallor of the rose-garden, out-staring the splendor of the fading west.
He climbed the red-tiled path—came to the threshold. The door was hospitably open. Like birds hopping in and out of a hedge, the breeze and the fragrance of flowers came and went. He knocked. No one answered. He tiptoed in. A breathless silence! Mounting the stairs, he came to the door with the iron latch, which gave entrance to the Faun Man’s bedroom.
Flowers! He had always loved flowers. They were strewn on a bed unnaturally white and unruffled. An unnatural peace was everywhere. The sheet was turned back from the face; the brown slight hands stretched straightly down. Each was held by a woman who knelt beside him with her head bowed. The attitude of the women was tragic with jealousy.
How long and graceful he looked in death! How gaunt and tired! All the striving, the brave pretending, the famished yearning which he had disguised showed plainly now. A smile hung about the corners of his mouth—a little mocking perhaps, yet tender. A bruise was on his forehead. He had the look of one who, having been puzzled, understood life at last and was content.
Peter felt that he had intruded. He had no right to stay there. Those bowed heads reproached him. He felt what men often feel when death is present: the body had been put out to usury; at the end of the trafficking it belonged to women, as it had belonged to a woman before the trafficking commenced.
He wandered out into the garden. Twilight weakened into darkness. His feet were always coming back to the window; he stood beneath it, looking up to where she knelt. If it were only for a moment, surely she would come to him. Again he entered. No stir of life in the house. He peered into the bedroom. She had not moved since he left.
Beyond her was the door which led into the Faun Man’s study. Noiselessly he stole across to it and raised the latch.
The room was in darkness. Set against the open window was a desk. Moonlight drifted in on it. A chair was pushed back from it. A pen lay carelessly on the blotting-pad, waiting for the master to return. Here it was possible to believe that the mind still lived and worked.
A movement! He stretched out his hand. Someone rose. Into the shaft of moonlight came the face of a man. “Oh—oh, it’s you, Harry!”
He struck a match and lit the lamp. They talked softly, in short whispered sentences. On the floor, on tables, on chairs, books and manuscripts lay scattered. The breeze blowing in at the window turned pages, as though an invisible person were searching. A sheet of paper, lying uppermost on the desk, fluttered across the room to where Harry sat. He stooped, picked it up, ran his eye over it and handed it to Peter. “The last thing he wrote. Thinking of her to the end.”
Peter took it and read,
“She came to me and the world was glad—
‘Twas winter, but hedges leapt white with May;
With snow of flowers my fields were clad,
Madly and merrily passed each day,
And next day and next day—
While all around
By others naught but the ice was found.
‘O ungrateful heart, were you ever sad?
She was coming to you from the first,’ I said.
She turned to me her eager head,
Clutching at what my thoughts did say.
“She went from me and the world was sad—
‘Twas spring-time and hedges were all a-sway;
With snow of winter my fields were clad,
Darkly and drearily passed each day,
And next day and next day—
While all around
By others naught but spring-buds were found.
‘O foolish heart, were you ever glad?
She was going from you from the first,’ I said.
She turned to me her eager head,
Clutching at what my thoughts did say.”
“Like his life—an unfinished poem.” Peter leant out to return it to Harry, but found that he had fallen asleep in his chair.
The lamp burnt itself out. The chill of dawn was in the air. Through the window the sky was gathering color, like life coming back to the cheeks of the dead. The door opened slowly. Stiff with long sitting he staggered to his feet. “Cherry!”
Pressing her finger against her lips, she motioned him to be silent. Glancing at Harry she whispered, “The first sleep in two days, poor fellow.”
As he followed her across the dusk of the bed-chamber, a pool of gold caught his attention; it glittered on the pillow by the face of the Faun Man. The golden woman lay crouched like a pantheress beside the body, her eyes half-shut and heavy with watching.
In the pallor of the rose-garden Cherry halted. She gave him both her hands. “We can never be more to one another. Since this—I’m quite certain now. I always wanted to be only friends.”
The heart of the waking world stopped beating. His hope was ended. Clasping her hands against his breast, he drew her to him. She gave him her cold lips. “For the last time.” She turned. He heard her slow feet trailing up the stairs.
As he walked to the station through rustling wheat-fields the sun lifted up his scarlet head, shaking free his hair, like a diver coming to the surface at the end of a long plunge. Birds rose singing out of corn and hedges, proclaiming that another summer’s day had commenced. But Peter—he heard nothing, saw nothing of the gladness. He saw only the final jest—the smile, half-mocking, half-tender, that hung about the Faun Man’s mouth; and he heard Cherry’s words, “I always wanted to be only friends.”
To you I owns h’up; I ‘as me little failin’s, especially since Cat’s Meat———He could never mention Cat’s Meat without wiping his eyes. “But if I ‘as me little failin’s, that ain’t no reason for callin’ me Judas His Chariot and h’other scripture nimes. She’s a dustpot, that’s wot she is, my darter Grice.”
“A what?” asked Peter.
Mr. Grice was surprised that a man just down from Oxford shouldn’t know the word; he was flattered to find himself in a position to explain.
“A dustpot,” he repeated. “That means a child wot sits on ‘er father’s ‘ead.”
“Oh, a despot!”
Mr. Grace had learnt to be patient under correction. “Now, Master Peter, ain’t that wot I said? I sez, ‘She’s a dustpot’; then you sez, ‘Oh, a dustpot!’ ‘Owever yer calls it, that’s wot I calls ‘er.”
They were sitting in an empty cab in the stable from which Mr. Grice hired his conveyance. Peter touched the old man’s hand affectionately. “I’ve been wondering—thinking about you. You know, I’m going traveling with Kay. My friend, the Faun Man, left me a thousand pounds to buy what he called ‘a year of youngness.’ He was great on youngness, was the Faun Man.”
Mr. Grace nodded. His eyes twinkled. “Remember that night, Peter, and the song ‘e made h’up about yer?
‘Oh, Peter wuz ‘is nime,
So Peterish wuz ‘e,
‘E wept the sun’s h’eye back agen,
Lest ‘e should never see.‘=
H’I orften ‘um it ter the ‘osses when h’I’m a-groomin’ of ‘em. Sorter soothes ‘em—maikes ‘em stand quiet.”
“I remember,” said Peter; “but here’s what I was going to say: you hav’n’t had an awful lot of youngness in your life and yet you’re—how old, Mr. Grace? Seventy? I should have guessed sixty. Well, it doesn’t seem fair that I——.”
“Nar then, Master Peter! H’it’s fair enough. Don’t you go a-wastin’ o’ yer h’imagination. I don’t need no pityin’.”
“But it doesn’t seem fair, really; so I’m going to make you an offer—a very queer offer. How’d you like to live in the country and get away from Grace?”
“‘Ow’d I like it? ‘Ow’d a fly like ter git h’out o’ the treacle? ‘Ow’d a dawg like ter find ‘isself rid o’ fleas? ‘Ow’d a——? Gawd bless me soul—meanin’ no prefanity —wot a bloomin’ silly quesching!” He paused reflectively. “But a dawg, Master Peter, gits sorter useter ‘is fleas, and a fly might kinder miss the treacle. H’I’d like it well enough; but if there warn’t nothink ter taik me thoughts h’orf o’ meself, I’d feel lonesome wivout ‘er naggin’.”
Peter laughed. “I’ll give you something to do with your thoughts. My Uncle Ocky——.”
Mr. Grace woke up, turned ponderously and surveyed Peter. “That’s h’it, is h’it? That awright. Rum old card, yer uncle! H’I never fancied as h’I’d let h’anyone taik the plaice wot Cat’s Meat ‘eld in me h’affections. ‘E ‘as. Tells me h’all ‘is troubles, ‘e does. Life’s gone ‘ard wiv ‘im since Mr. Widder sent ‘im packin.’ My fault—I’m not denyin’ h’it. We ‘as our glass tergether and we both ‘ates wimmen—or sez we does. ‘E borrers a bit from me nar and then. Mr. Waffles and me is good pals—we ‘as lots in common. You, for h’instance.”
Peter inquired from Mr. Grace where he would be likeliest to find his uncle.
“Likeliest! H’if yer puts it that waie, h’I should saie yer’d be likeliest ter find ‘im in a pub.”
Out of the tail of his eye Ocky saw Peter entering.
“Horrid stuff,” he said loudly; then in a whisper to the barmaid, “Give me another three penn’orth.—— Why, hulloa, old son!”
Peter led him into a private room and said he’d pay for it. “D’you remember that night at the Trocadero—you know, when Glory was with us. I told you what I’d do for you if I ever had money. Suppose I could give you a chance to pull straight, what would you do with it?”
Tears came into Ocky’s eyes; he’d grown unused to kindness. “Is it the truth you’re wanting, Peter?—— If you gave me the chance to pull straight, I’d do what I’ve always done—mess it.”
Peter shook his head incredulously and smiled. “Don’t believe you. You’d pull straight fast enough if you knew that anyone cared for you.”
“No one does, except you, Peter.”
“Oh yes, there’s someone—someone whom you and I, yes, and I believe all of us, are always forgetting.”
0457m
Ocky looked up slowly. “You mean Glory.” He leant across the table, tapping with his trembling fingers. “Know why I went to hell?—it sounds weak to say it. I went to hell because I had no woman to hold me back with love. If I could have Glory—-. But she’ll be thinking of marrying. I’ve spoilt her chances enough already.”
“If you could have Glory,” Peter insisted, “and if you were to have, say, five hundred pounds, what would you do then?”
“The truth again?”
“Nothing else would be of any use, would it?”
“If I had five hundred pounds and Glory, I’d move into the country and buy a pub. I’ve lived to be over fifty, I’ve learnt only one bit of knowledge from life.”
“What is it?”
Ocky flushed. “To you I’m ashamed to say it.”
“Never mind. Say it.”
Ocky twirled his mustaches, covering his confusion, “To know good beer when I taste it.”
Peter leant back laughing, “That’s something to start on, isn’t it?”
Next day he told Glory, “They’re willing—both of ‘em.”
In searching the papers for advertisements, he came upon an announcement.
Near Henley, The Winged Thrush. Comfortable riverside hostelry; pleasantly situated; suitable for artist or poet, desirous of combining lucrative business with pleasure, etc. A bargain. Reason for selling, going to Australia.
He remembered—that last night of the regatta, the sun-swept morning, the glittering river, and the breakfast in the arbor with Cherry.
The purchase was arranged. Ocky, Glory and Mr. Grace went down to see the place. Mr. Grace was to look after the ‘osses—if there were any; if there weren’t, he was to help in serving customers. For a reason which he would not explain, Peter refused to accompany them on their tour of inspection.
During those last days, before he and Kay set out on their year of youngness, he saw Glory often. From her he learnt of Riska and her many love-affairs; how they always fell short of marriage because she carried on two at once or because of the deceit concerning her father. She was getting desperate; she had been taught that the sole purpose of her being was to catch a man—so far she had failed. She still had hope—there was Hardcastle. In a sly way, she saw a good deal of him. Exactly how and where, she had pledged Glory not to divulge.
And Peter learnt of Eustace. Eustace had gone to Canada, to take up farming with money lent by Barrington. Jehane, with her tragic knack of hanging her expectations on loosened nails, boasted that Eustace was to be her salvation. Perhaps he was careless, perhaps he had gained a distaste for the atmosphere of falsity which had formed his home environment; in any case, he wrote more and more rarely, and showed less and less desire for his mother to join him as the period of his absence lengthened. Jehane, as she had done with his father before him, invented good news when good news was lacking, bolstering her pride in public. Her children, despite her sacrifices for them, watched her with judging eyes and, directly they arrived at a reasoning age, began to detect her hollowness. Eustace was gone. Glory was going. Riska, failing another accident, would soon be married to Hardcastle. Only Moggs, Ma’s Left Over as they had called her because of her tininess, remained. She was a child of twelve, submissive in her ways, colorless in character and with Ocky’s weak affectionateness of temperament.
It was the morning of Kay’s and Peter’s departure. During breakfast, the last meal together, Barrington had sat looking at the landscape by Cuyp, as he always did in moments of crisis. The cab was at the door; the luggage had been carried out. The adventure in search of youngness had all but begun. The door bell rang and the knocker sounded. A telegram was handed in. Barrington opened it—glanced at the signature. “Ah, from Jehane!”
As he read it, his face grew grave. He passed it to Nan and led Peter aside. “Don’t tell Kay. It’s about Riska. She’s run off with that fellow Hardcastle. Whether she’s married to him or——. It doesn’t say.”
His own rendering of the situation was plain—“Ripe fruit, ready to fall to the ground.”
They entered the cab, driving into the great worldwideness. And Riska, with her impatient mouth and pretty face, she also, in her stormy way, had gone in quest of youngness.
The castle stood like a gleaming skull, balancing on the edge of a precipice. The centuries had picked it clean. Through empty sockets, about which moss gathered, it watched white wings of shipping flit mothlike across the blue waters of the Gulf of Spezia. It had been the terror of sailors once—a stronghold of pirates, Saracens and Genoese, fierce men who had built the hunchback town that huddled against the rocks behind it. Now it was nothing but a crumbling shell, picturesque and meaningless save to tourists and artists. The tourists came because Byron had writtenThe Corsairin its shadow, and the artists——.
One of them had left his canvas on an easel in a broken archway. Kay tripped across and looked at it—a wild piece of composition, all white and green and orange, splashed in with vigor, with the fierce Italian sky above it. It interpreted the spirit of the place—its loneliness, its lawless past, its brooding sense of unsatisfied passion. She turned away, awed by its power, a little frightened by its intensity. It made her feel that, from behind tumbled mastery, eyes were gazing at her. Climbing the splintered tower, she watched the sunset. In the great stillness she could hear stones dropping down the sheer cliff into the racing tide beneath.
She had forgotten how time was passing. That low bass humming! It was the voice of the sea; it seemed as though the sun’s voice spoke to her. Across the blue of the Mediterranean a golden track led up to the horizon. At its end a fiery disc hung, like a gong against which the waves tapped gently.
It had been a tumultuous day—a day of excited fears, winged hopes and strategies. Harry was coming. Peter had received the astounding telegram that morning.
“Queer chap! This was sent off from Genoa. He’s almost here by now. Why on earth didn’t he let us know earlier?”
Why hadn’t he? Kay knew—because, if he had, there would have been still time for her to turn him back. The persistent mouth-organ boy, he was always quite certain that he had only to make up his mind and he’d get his desire. She didn’t like him any the less for that, but——.
No, she wouldn’t be there to meet him. She had excused herself to Peter and had accompanied him to the sun-baked pier, at which the steamer called on its way from Lerici to Spezia. She had waved and waved till he was nearly out of sight—then she had fled.
Why? She couldn’t say—couldn’t say exactly, but very nearly. She had forbidden her mouth-organ boy to come—and he was coming. She was secretly elated to find herself defied. After all, she didn’t own Italy, and——. But Harry wasn’t making the journey to see Italy, nor to see Peter. She was well aware of that—Peter wasn’t.
So she had persuaded one of her fishermen friends to sail her across the gulf to Porto Venere. Down there in the sleepy harbor he was waiting, his brown eyes lazily watching, his ear-rings glittering, his fingers rolling cigarettes, not at all perturbed but wondering, with a shrug of his shoulders, why she so long delayed.
And Harry, he too would be wondering, thinking her unkind. Peter had probably brought him back to San Terenzo by now. They would have been on the lookout for her directly the steamer rounded the cypressed headland. When they hadn’t found her on the pier, they would have made haste to the yellow villa in which they lived, which had been Shelley’s. And again, they hadn’t found her. She could imagine it all—just what had happened: Peter’s discreet apologies, and Harry’s amused suspicion that he was being punished. His laughter—she could imagine that as well; he always laughed when he was hurt or annoyed.
Kay clasped her hands. It was rotten of her not to go to him. All day she had wanted to be with him. He had traveled all the way from London to get a glimpse of her. And yet, knowing that, she sat on in the ruined castle, while the reluctant day, like a naughty child at bed-time, saffron skirts held high, stepped lingeringly down the purple hills, keeping the sun waiting.
She was trying to arrive at a conclusion. To Peter she was everything—more than ever this past year had taught her that. He made no plans for the future in which she was not to share. It was just as it had been when they were girl and boy—he seemed to take it for granted that they were always to live together. The thought that she should marry never entered his head. Save for the mouth-organ boy, it would not have entered hers.
But the mouth-organ boy! Long ago, when she couldn’t see him, she had heard him playing in the tree-tops. It was something like that now. Since she had left England, his letters had followed her. Sometimes she hadn’t answered them. Sometimes she had answered them casually. Sometimes she had had fits of contrition and had written him volumes—compact histories of her thoughts and doings. It made no difference whether she was punctual or neglectful; like a familiar friend in unfamiliar places, his handwriting was always ahead of her travels, waiting to greet her.
“What does he say?” Peter would ask her.
Then she would read him carefully edited extracts—nice polite information, entirely innocuous. Peter hadn’t guessed. He mustn’t.
How preposterous it had seemed when Harry had first written her that he loved her! She hadn’t regarded him in the aspect of a lover—didn’t want to. It had seemed almost treachery to Peter. But now——. Now it didn’t seem at all preposterous—only wonderful, and true, and puzzling.
How long ago was it? Eight months since he had told her. She had been a child then—seventeen, with cornflower eyes and blowy daffodil hair. The knowledge that she was loved had startled her into womanhood.
She ought to be getting back. But Peter, Peter from whom she had no secrets, didn’t know. She dared not tell him—and Harry was there. Peter had given her so much—this year of romance; and yet, with all his giving——.
He might give her his whole life; he couldn’t give her this different thing that Harry offered.
She rose to go. Her attention was arrested. It couldn’t be! Gazing sheer down, she leant out across the broken parapet. In the racing tide, through its treacherous whirlpools, a man was swimming. She could see his reddish hair and beard shine as they caught the sunset. As he lunged forward, they sank beneath the surface. She held her breath.
He was keeping near in to the rocks—so near that, had she dropped a stone, it would have struck him. With all his fighting, he was making little progress. It was too far to the town to run for help—moreover, none of the fishing-boats ever ventured there. She wanted to cry out encouragement; she feared to distract him from his effort. Now, in rounding a bend, he was lost to sight. Ah! There he was again. She saw where he was going—to the weather-beaten steps which wound down the precipice. He stretched out his hand and pulled himself up, dragging his body across the rocks like a fly which had been all but drowned. He stood up, white and magnificent, squeezing the water from his beard and hair. As he commenced to climb the stair in the cliff-front, he vanished.
She couldn’t go now. Her curiosity was roused. What kind of a man could be so foolhardy as to do a thing like that? Drawing back into the shadow of the tower, she waited.
Whistling—faint at first! It was a gay little Neapolitan air. Singing for a stave or two! It broke off—the whistling took up the air. Gulls flew up, circling and screaming. Above the moldering ramparts, red and gold against the red and gold of the sunset, came the valiant head of a man who might have been the last of the pirates. His eyes shone like blue fire. The wind was in his beard and hair. When he had lifted himself on to the wall, he stood there, on the very edge, looking back perilously. He was of extraordinary height and strength. The teeth, through which he whistled, were strong and white—everything about him was powerful, his hands, his shoulders, his courageous face. He seemed a survival of ancient deity—a sea-god who, thinking himself unobserved, had landed at the spot where, centuries ago, Venus had been worshiped by a forgotten world. He looked solitary and irresponsible—a law to himself. Because of his size and the remoteness of the place, Kay was filled with lonely terror.
He walked slowly over to the easel in the broken archway. He was bare-armed and bare-footed; his shirt was collarless and turned back at the neck. Still whistling, he picked up the palette, pushed his thumb through it, glanced across his shoulder seaward and commenced touching in streaks of color. He worked carelessly, yet with rapid intensity. Sometimes he left ofif whistling, stepped back from the canvas, his head on one side, and surveyed his handiwork. The light was failings Kay prayed that he had finished—but no. Driven to desperation, she thought she could creep by him. Harry and Peter would be getting nervous.
She had drawn level with him. A stone turned beneath her foot. His head twisted sharply. She commenced to run. Glancing back, she saw his eyes following—he was laying down his brushes and palette. In her panic, she had chosen the wrong direction; a wall rose in front, blocking her exit. He was coming—she could hear his bare feet overtaking her. She climbed the wall; below lay the sea, now orange, now sullen in patches. There was no way of escape; she looked down. The space made her dizzy; she groped with her hands as if to push back the distance. She felt like a bird with its wings folded, falling, falling. Everything had gone black.
For a moment she was held out above the sea, her flight arrested. Blue eyes bent over her laughing. She was swung back. She found herself lying on the sun-scorched turf. The man was kneeling beside her, chafing her hands and forehead. Her faintness left her. As she gazed up at him, he smiled and said something in an unintelligible language. She sat up bewildered, trying to appear brave. “I’m—I’m all right, thank you. I’ll go now.”
“Ah, a little English girl!” His voice was deep and pleasant.
She surveyed him with growing confidence. How concerned and gentle he was for so large a creature! She scrambled to her feet. He was quick to take her hand, but she withdrew it from him. “I’m really all right. It was only dizziness. Good-by, Mr.—Mr. Neptune.”
“Mr. Neptune!” He plucked at his red beard and planted himself in front of her. His eyes twinkled. “Strange little English girl, why do you call me that?”
“Because you came out of the sea. And d’you know, before I go I want to tell you—I was awfully afraid you’d get drowned. Do you always swim when you come to the castle?”
Mr. Neptune placed his hands on her slight shoulders. They were large and masterful hands, barbaric with vivid smudges of the colors he had been using. She was conscious that, in his artist’s way, he was looking not so much at her as at her body.
“Always swim to the castle! No. It was the first time. Your poet, Byron, was the last to do it. Thought I’d try just for sport, as you English call it.”
“I wouldn’t do it again,” she said wisely; “and now I must really go.”
He didn’t budge from her path. She waited. He regarded her with amusement. “Going! Not till you’ve promised to let me paint your portrait.”
Kay was astounded and—yes, and flattered. He might be a great artist; he had the air of a man who was important. But she was more frightened than flattered: he looked so huge standing there in the yellow twilight.
“Please, please,” she said, “you must let me go. My brother’s waiting for me and he’ll be nervous.”
He made no sign that he had heard, but gazed down at her intently with his bare arms folded. She hesitated. A sob rose in her throat. “Why—why should you want to paint me?”
“Because,” he said, “you are beautiful. What is beautiful dies, but I—I make it last for always.” Then, in a gentler voice, “Because, little English girl, if I don’t paint you, we may never meet again.”
It was the way in which he said it—the thrilling sadness of his tone. She felt that she was flushing, and laughed to disguise her embarrassment. “But, Mr. Neptune, I’ve thanked you and—and it was your fault that we met—and isn’t it rather rude of you to prevent me from——?”
“No,” he spoke deliberately, “not rude. You’re adorable—too good to die. I want to make you live forever. If I were Mr. Neptune, d’you know what I’d do? I’d swim off with you, earth-maiden.”
Her words came quickly; she was afraid of what he might say or do. “I promise. You shall paint me.”
She tried to pass him. He put his arm before her as a barrier. His eyes flashed down on her, gladly and gravely. “When the English promise anything, they shake hands on it. Is that not so?”
She slipped her small hand into his great one. She heard a footstep behind; it was her fisherman who had at last come in search of her. She nodded to let him know that she was coming. Now that she was not alone, she lost her fear of the giant. She became interested in him. She almost liked him.
“Where will you paint me?” she asked.
“Here, against the sky. It’s the color of your eyes. We’re going to be friends—is it so?” He stepped aside. “Then, little English girl, good-night.”
As she passed under the broken archway, she turned and waved. His blue eyes still followed her through the yellow twilight.
Down through the hunchback town she went. Its streets were deformed, steeply descending, scarcely more than a yard wide. It was eloquent with memories of unrecorded fights, in which a handful had held Porto Venere against armies. Beneath its close-packed roofs it was already night. Before little shrines in the walls candles glistened. Sailor-men, with gaudy sashes round their waists, bowed their heads and crossed themselves reverently as they passed. In crooked doorways mothers sat suckling their babies—madonnas with the oval faces and kind eyes that Raphael loved to paint. To them the mystery of love was divulged; many of them no older than Kay.
After her great fear she was strangely elated. She had seen admiration in a man’s eyes. “Why should you want to paint me?” She could hear his deep voice replying, “Because you are beautiful.” Then came the wistful knowledge of life’s brevity, “What is beautiful dies.” She had never thought of that—that she and Harry and Peter, and all this world which was hers to-day must die. The old town with its defaced magnificence, its battered heraldry, its generations of lover-adventurers who had left not even their names behind them—everything reminded her, “What is beautiful dies.” She was consumed with a desire she had never known before—to experience the rage of life.
Why was it? What had made her waken? Was it contact with a primitive and virile personality? She had gained a new understanding of manhood. Would Harry be like that, if he lived to-day as though it were a thousand years ago?
She stepped into the boat, curling herself in the prow among nets where she would be out of the way of the sail. Darkness was stealing across the sky, a monstrous shadow-bird whose wings roofed in the gulf from shore to shore. The sail began to bulge; the boat lay over on its side. Outlines of wooded hills grew vague. To the north Spezia lay, a blazing jewel. At the mast-heads of anchored men-of-war lanterns twinkled faintly. She trailed her hand, watching how the water ran phosphorescent through her fingers. A fisher-boat crept out of the dusk. A guitar was being played. A man’s voice and a girl’s, singing full-throatedly! They faded voluptuously into silence.
“Because you are beautiful.” Her young heart beat flutteringly. Had others thought it and been afraid to tell her? She leant back her head; stars gazed down on her, approvingly and placid-eyed. All sounds and sights were touched with poetry. The whole of life before her! Peter and Harry waiting! So much of youth to spend; so many choices! Yet, only one choice—Peter.
A voice hailed her. “Hulloa! Is that you, Kay?”
So soon! She sat up. San Terenzo with its golden eyes! On the crazy quay she made out two blurs of white.
“Yes, Peter, it’s Kay. Is Harry with you?”
Before the boat had stopped, as it nosed its way along the side, Harry leapt in. “At last! It’s you.”
His voice was strained and impetuous. For eight months he had waited; he had been kept waiting an extra day—the longest of them all.
“Hush!” she whispered. “Peter—— I’ve told him nothing. You shouldn’t have come, Harry; you really shouldn’t.”
She took a hand of each as they helped her to land. Walking back to the villa, she gave them laughing glimpses of her adventure, “So it’s not such a bad day’s work; he’s going to make me live forever in a portrait.”
Good-nights had been said. From her window Kay had seen the lights blown out in other bedrooms. The fishing-village, fringing the shore, had been in darkness for two hours. She leant out, gazing across the bay to where the headland of Lerici curved in like a horn. Life—that was what she thought about. It was in this very room that Shelley had wakened and recognized the cowled figure of his soul, and had heard it question, “Art thou satisfied?” It was the same question that she asked herself.
A knock upon the door! She started from the window and looked back. It came again, so lightly that it seemed to say, “Only you and I are meant to hear me.”
She threw a wrapper about her; her long bright hair fell shining across her shoulders. It might be Peter. Again it came.
On the threshold Harry was standing.
“Let me speak to you.”
She hesitated.
“You gave me no chance to say anything. Am I to stay or—or to go to-morrow?”
He ought to go. She knew that. And yet——.
“I can wait, Kay. Though you send me away, I shall wait forever for you.”
She was sorry for him—and more than sorry. This pleading of the living voice was different—so different from the pleading of letters. Dimly she heard within herself the echo of his clamor stirring.
“Dear Harry, I want you to stay—but to stay just as you were always.”
He caught his breath. It was almost as though he laughed in the darkness. “It was always as it is now. You didn’t know; it began that first day when I fought Peter, showing off like a boy. So if it’s to be as it was always——-.”
He looked so lonely standing there. He oughtn’t to be sad with her—it hurt; they’d always been glad together. She took his hands tremblingly, “Stay and be—be the mouth-organ boy. We’ll have such good times, Harry, we three together. Don’t be my—anything else. I’m too young for that, and——
“And?”
“Peter hasn’t learnt to do without me. Lorie was the same with you—you understand. So Harry, promise me that you won’t let Peter know—won’t do anything to make him know, or to make him unhappy.”
He put his arms about the narrow shoulders, stooping his head. “Trust me.”
She leant her face aside sharply. “Not on my lips. They’re for the man I marry.”
“But one day I——.”
She freed herself from him gently. “Neither of us can tell.”
In the days that followed, when they walked and swam and sailed together, Harry recognized what Kay had meant when she said that Peter hadn’t learnt to do without her. With the end of his hope of Cherry, all his affections had flown homeward and had concentrated on the love of his sister. It seemed as though he made an effort to find her sufficient for his heart’s cravings. To all other women his eyes were blind. The thought that any other woman should come into his life seemed never to occur to him.
Glory—she wrote to him, as Harry had written to Kay, with conscientious regularity. But he read her letters aloud, obviously without editing; they were serious letters like her eyes, searching and quiet, with a hint of need behind them, and with bursts of fun when she told of the struggles of her stepfather and Mr. Grace to run The Winged Thrust both genially and for profit.
And the man who lived to-day as though it were a thousand years ago—a week after Kay had first met him, they sailed across the gulf to discover him. They found him in the castle painting.
“Ha! The little English girl!”
He threw down his brushes and came toward her with his arms extended. He gathered her hands together into his own and bent over her intently with his eyes of blue fire, “I thought I’d lost my earth-maiden.”
That was all. So long as Harry and Peter were present he was no more than a shaggy artist, a little self-important, a little shy. When they had walked off to explore the town it was different.
He picked her up as though she were a child, and sat her on the broken wall, where the blue sea swept behind her shoulders and the white clouds raced through her corn-colored hair. For a while he was utterly silent, touching in sketches of her, testing various poses. The smell of wild thyme mingled with that of flowers, fermenting in the sunshine. From far below the wash of waves rose coolly.
Presently he spoke. “You stopped a long while away. Every day I’ve been here watching for you. I don’t often watch for anybody. If people don’t come——,” he snapped his fingers, “I begin again. I begin with someone who won’t keep me waiting.”
His egotism seemed not conceit, but justified consciousness of power. Kay was beginning to explain; he cut in upon her. “It’s all right. For you I’d wait till—oh, till there wasn’t any castle—till it was all swept into the sea by rain. But only for you—for other people life’s too short.” He stopped sketching and looked up at her. “Little English girl, life is very short. Phew!” He blew out his cheeks. “Like that, and you are old. All the lovers are gone. No one cares whether you live or die. With us men it’s the same, only we—we search for the great secret. You have it in your face. There’s so much to do; it’s not kind to keep us waiting.”
“The great secret! What is it?”
He appeared to take no notice of her question. Picking up his pencil, he went back to his sketching. Then, while he worked, glancing occasionally to her face where the radiance of the sunshine fell against her profile, “The great secret! It’s hard to say. It’s why we’re here, and from where we come, and where we go. It’s the knowledge of life and the meaning of death; it’s everything that we call beauty. I see it in your face. I paint it. How it came there, neither you nor I can say.”
Next day he set to work on canvas. The picture grew. It wasn’t for the picture that Kay went to him; it was for the things he said in the loneliness, lifted high between the waste of tossing sea and restless sky. He set her thinking; he made life more glad, more eager and, because of its mystery, more poignant. The great secret! He didn’t hope to find it; but he told her of the men who had sought.
In telling her, he brought the soul into her eyes and set it down on canvas. A young girl with blowy hair, perched among things ancient, her white hands folded, patient for the future, with the pain of joy in her wide child’s eyes! That was what he painted.
And she—she was stirred by him. He gave her the freedom of his mind. He treated her as a woman, teaching her knowledge and the sorrow of knowledge—from all suspicion of which she had been guarded. She was as much repelled as attracted by him; through him she learnt to love Harry. She began to understand the suffering of love that is kept hungry. She began to understand its urgency. At last she understood that such love as Harry brought her must always stand first, sacrificing every other affection. It was this that gave pain to her joy.
One day in early June, the man laid aside his brushes. “The last touch. It’s finished.”
He lifted her down very gently and watched her as she stood before it. Clasping and unclasping her hands, she gazed at her own reflection with an odd mixture of wonder and ecstacy. “But—but it’s beautiful.”
He put his arm about her shoulder, speaking softly, “And so are you.”
“But not so beautiful.”
“More. I couldn’t paint your voice.”
She stretched out her hands toward it. “Oh, I wish—I wish I could have it.”
He tilted up her face. “Little English girl, it’s yours. I did it for you. You’ll know now how you looked when your beauty dies.”
Tears came. It was like the world complaining against God’s injustice. “But I don’t want it to die.”
He drew her head against him. “Kay—what an English name! Little Kay, one thing will keep it alive.” She waited. “The great secret,” he whispered; “it lies behind all life. For other people your beauty will have vanished; a man who loves you will always see it.”
Before she was aware, he had touched her lips. If was as though he had stained her purity.
On the sail back to San Terenzo, as the darkness drew about them, she crept closer to Harry. He felt her hand groping for his own. “Kiddy, you’re burning—as hot as a coal. What is it? A touch of fever?”
She spoke chokingly. “Harry, my lips. They’re yours.”