Neighbours Part 36

"We'll have to go in," I whispered. "Are you game?"

I felt the pressure of her free hand upon my arm.

"Anywhere--with you."

So we stepped quietly but boldly into the water. It came to the ankles, the calves, the knees. Then we were through the reeds and the lake lay before us, dim and misty, like a sheet of frosted gla.s.s.

"We'll wait here. If we're lucky they'll come our way."

Out of the air came a rushing. Great wings beat almost upon our heads.

But they came and were gone before we knew it.

"Just a couple of strays beating around the lake," I explained. "We'll wait for the waders."

Presently, and without notice save the soft splashing of water, they came wading down the shallows close to where we stood, their great bodies dim and dark against the frosted gla.s.s; their long necks stretched high, or grubbing in the reeds beside them.

One--two--three--four--five--six; on they came.

"Take the first two; I'll take the next."

Our guns came to our shoulders in the darkness; we looked, rather than sighted, at the great birds scarce a rod away; then--right barrel!--left barrel!--we woke the echoes of the lake and filled the air with tempestuous noises. From every side came the splash of water and the rush of wings. The stillness, the gentleness of the night in a moment became the wildest babel of confusion.

But we had no thought for that. Splashing right before us were great forms; flapping, struggling, eddying about. I would have held Jean back but she rushed ahead of me into the melee. She had one by the neck; the l.u.s.t of killing was upon her; it was a fight to a finish. . . .

Afterwards we dragged them out--three of them. Jean declared there had been another, but he managed to hide himself in the rushes.

Then we built a fire beside the willow and warmed ourselves.

Before the water was warm enough for bathing I sent to Regina for a bathing suit. "The gaudiest thing you have," I said, and they took me at my word. It was a great day when I made my appearance in it. In the evenings, after a day of dust in the fields, we revelled in the cool waters of our pond. Jean would race me from end to end, but she was much too good a swimmer for me.

Then came one of those rare summer nights--rare on the prairies--when the air does not cool off with the approach of evening, and all the heat of day seems hemmed in by black clouds crowding overhead. I had gone to bed, but not to sleep. The far away flashing of heat lightning continuously lit my room with a vague twilight; my blankets had become unbearable, and I threw them off. The silence was intense; the very night seemed to brood over me; the perspiration stood out upon me. It took me back to the hot nights of the East, so little known with us, and from that starting point my mind went wandering down through old ways, down to the dam and the mill-wheel and the little boy and girl who were the starting point of all my recollections. Jean it had been then; Jean it was, with whom all my thoughts were linked; Jean was still the innermost hope of my heart. I had waited, patiently as I could, and the spring and summer months had seen arise between us an affection deeper, vaster, wider than anything I had known in those days when we had talked of love together. Our world had grown and we had grown with it. Ours was continually the spirit of the new adventure; continually a faring forth into the unknown.

But I had not talked of love. It had been my conception of artistry to speak no more of love, daring all my hope on the prospect that the fires which I guessed had been rekindled in Jean's heart would in time burst all her womanly restraint. Then she would come to me. Jean was big enough for that.

I had tried to follow her in spirit through the torment of those days after Spoof's revelation. I had guessed how hard it had been for her, and I kept silence. I conceived that that was artistry.

But there must be an end sometime--sometime soon. I was not all artist, like Jean. Artistry was my means to an end. There must be an end. . . .

Which would be the beginning. . . .

Came a tapping on my window. I sat up quickly.

"Frank?"

"Yes?"

"Asleep?"

"Not within miles of it. Whew! Ever see a night like this?" I had thrust my head through the open window and could see her form dimly outlined against the night.

"Used to be the usual thing, down East," she answered. "But we get out of the way of them, here. Get up and let's go for a swim."

A flash of lightning revealed her in her bathing suit. I was soon out of bed and into mine.

"Beat you to the other end of the pond," she said, as we threaded our way down the well-worn path.

"You always beat me," I confessed. "But I'm game; I'll try again."

We took the water together; its comforting tide wrapped us about as we swung through it with long, easy strokes. Jean suited her pace to mine; her body was a rhythmic machine, lithe, supple, almost serpentine in its movements. Her hair was down. When a glow of distant lightning fell about us her face was ivory white, cameo-like, against the black water.

At the far end was a small beach of sand, and we drew ourselves up upon it. Jean drew her feet up tailor-wise, shook out her hair; traced idly with her fingers in the sand.

"I had a dream, Frank," she said at length. "I dreamed you were wrecked on a lonely island, where you seemed doomed to spend all your days. But one night when you were sleeping a nymph of the wilderness stole up and whispered something in your ear. And this is what she said: 'Go down to the beach at midnight and light a fire on the sand, and a beautiful maiden shall come up out of the sea. Take her; she is yours.'

"And you turned in your sleep and said, 'Mine--forever?' And the nymph said, 'Forever, if you will obey the law.'

"And you said, 'What law?' And the nymph said, 'The law of romance, which is the law of imagination, which is the law of beauty, which is the law of love, which is the law of life. If you are true to that law she shall be yours not only now, but forever, and this shall no longer be a lonely island, but a place called Paradise.' And then I woke up.

"That was a very wonderful dream, Jean," I said. "A very wonderful dream."

"And I have been wondering, Frank," she continued, her liquid voice dropping very low and soft, "I have been wondering if you were to light a fire on this beach--what would happen."

"It would be an interesting experiment," I agreed, "but I have no matches."

"I have provided against that. See, on this stone are matches, and beside it wood for a fire.''

"Jean!" I exclaimed, a great light breaking about me. I extended my arms toward her; I would have rushed to her, but she evaded me in the darkness.

"Suppose you try the experiment, Frank," she said. "Let us see if there is anything in dreams."

I found the stone with the matches; I struck one; its light glowed genially in my face. I found the little pile of dry wood which she had gathered together; I knelt and set my match to it. I think in that moment I felt somewhat like a G.o.d before an altar; a whiff of fragrant willow smoke filled my nostrils like incense. Then I stood up and looked around for Jean. She was gone.

My little fire crackled and burned up merrily, sending its shaft of pale blue smoke heavenward in the night. The distant clouds still heliographed each other across the sky; their flashlights blinked on the surface of our pond from time to time.

Then I sat down and tried to recall what Jean had said. "A beautiful maiden shall come up . . . Take her. . . . She is yours--forever--if you obey the law."

"I will--I will obey!" I breathed.

Out on the dark water glowed a phosph.o.r.escent point. It drew steadily, straight toward me. It was the ripple of white water as a silent graceful figure cleft the tide in two. Onward she came, steadily, stroke by stroke. A flash of distant lightning lit her face cameo-like against the depths behind. She had touched the sand; she drew up from the water; she stood before me. I took her in my arms.

"Dreams _do_ come true, if they're properly staged," she said when she could speak.

THE END.