Spring Days Part 28

Next morning he thought of her lightly, without bitterness and almost without desire; but after breakfast his heart began to ache again. He strove to read, he went to his studio, he went to Brighton; but he saw Maggie in all things. She was with him--a sort of vague pain that kept him strangely conscious of life.

Once convinced he was a lover he became the man with a mission; his heart swelled with mysterious promptings, and felt the spur of duty.

No longer was delay admissible. A day, an hour might involve the loss of all. Should he go round to the Manor House and tell Maggie of the message he had received to love her and save her? She would now be watering her flowers in the green-houses. But that other fellow might be there--he had heard something about an appointment. No, he had better write. If he wrote at once, absolutely at once, he would be in time for the six o'clock delivery. s.n.a.t.c.hing a sheet of paper he wrote:--

"DEAREST MAGGIE,--I have loved you a long while, I remember many things that make me think that I have always loved you; but to-day I have learnt that you are the one great and absorbing influence--that without you my life would be stupid and meaningless, whereas with you it shall be a joy, an achievement.

"I have frittered away much time; my efforts in painting and poetry have been lacking in strength and persistency. I have vacillated and wandered, and I did not know why; but now I know why--because you were not by me to encourage me, to help me by your presence and beauty. I will not speak of the position I offer you--I know it is unworthy of you. I would like to give you a throne; but, alas, I can but promise you a coronet."

His hand stopped and he raised his eyes from the paper. He recollected the day he saw her a child, the day they went blackberrying over the hills. He saw her again, she was older and prettier, and she wore a tailor-cut cloth dress. How pretty she looked that day, and also when she wore that summer dress, those blue ribbons. All the colour, innocence, and mirth of his childhood came upon him sweetly, like an odour that pa.s.ses and recalls. He sighed, and he murmured, "She is mine by right, all this could not have been if she were not for me."

Ah! how he longed to sit with her, even at her feet, and tell her how his life would be but worship of her. He regretted that he was not poor, for to unite himself more closely to her he would have liked to win her clothes and food by his labour; and hearing himself speaking of love and seeing her as a maiden with the May time about her, his dreams drifted until the ticking of the clock forced him to remember that he could tell her nothing now of all his romance, so with pain and despair at heart he wrote,

"Never before did I so ardently feel the necessity of seeing you, of sharing my soul with you, and yet now is the moment when I say, I must end. But let this end be the beginning of our life of love, devotion, and trust. I will come to-night to see you; I will not go into the billiard-room, but will walk straight to the drawing-room. Do be there. Dearest Maggie, I am yours and yours only."

He seized his hat and rushed to the post. He was in time, and now that the step had been taken, he walked back looking more than usually handsome and tall, pleased to see the children run out of school and roll on the gra.s.s, pleased to linger with the General.

"Where are you going, sir?" said the old man.

"I'm going to my studio to play the fiddle. Will you come? I'll give you a gla.s.s of sherry, and--"

"Never touch anything, except at meals. I used to when I was as young as you, but not now. But I will go and hear a little music."

Glad to have a companion, Frank took out the violin, and he played all the melodies he knew; and his mind ran chiefly on Schubert and Gounod.

The "Soir," the "Printemps," and "La Chanson du Printemps" carried his soul away, nor could he forbear to sing when he came to the phrase, "La Neige des Pommiers." When musical emotion ran dry he tried painting, but with poor result. During dinner he grew fevered and eager to see Maggie, and mad to tell her that he loved her, and could love none but her. At half-past eight the torture of suspense was more than he could endure, and he decided that he would go to the Manor House. He pa.s.sed round the block of cottages, and got into the path that between the palings led through the meadows. It was a soft summer evening--moonlight and sunset played in gentle antagonism, and in a garden hat he saw Maggie coming towards him. He noticed the pink shawl about her shoulders, and the thought struck him, "had she come to ask him to elope." She stopped, and she hesitated as if she were going to turn back again.

"Oh, I am so sorry," she said, speaking with difficulty, "but I wanted you to get this before nine."

"Never mind, darling," he answered, smiling; "you can tell me all about it--it will be sweeter to hear you talk. Which way shall we go?"

"I really don't think I can now; father doesn't know I am out. This letter will--"

"No, no; I cannot bear to part with you. How pretty you look in that hat! Come."

"No, Frank, I cannot now, and you had better leave me. I cannot walk with you to-night. Read this letter."

"Then am I--is it really so?" said Frank, growing suddenly pale. "You will not have me?"

"You must read this letter, it will tell you all. I am truly sorry, but I did not know you cared for me--at least not like that. I don't think I could, I really don't. But I don't know what I am saying. How unfortunate it was meeting you. I but thought to run round and leave the letter, it would have explained all better than I could. We have known you so long. You will forgive me?"

She stood with the letter in her hand. He s.n.a.t.c.hed it a little theatrically and tore it open. She watched, striving to read the effect of her words in his face. They dealt in regrets. There was an exasperating allusion to engaged affections. There was a long and neatly-worded conclusion suggesting friendship. She had taken a great deal of trouble with the composition, and was very fearful as to the result. She felt she could not marry him--at least, not just at present, she didn't know why. Altogether Frank's proposal had puzzled and distressed her. She felt she must see her flirtation out with Charlie, but at the same time she did not want to utterly lose Frank, or worse still, perhaps, to hand him over to Sally. She was determined that Sally should not be Lady Mount Rorke, and she thrilled a little when she saw he would not give her up easily, and her heart sank when she thought of the difficulty of continuing her intrigue without prejudicing her future. If Frank would only leave Southwick for a little while.

"Is this all? The meaning is clear enough; it means that you love the man I saw yesterday at the Manor House. But he shall not have you; I will save you from him. Listen to me--I swear he shall not have you; I will strive to outwit him by every means in my power. If I don't get you, none shall. I will shoot the man rather than he should get you."

"O Frank, you wouldn't commit murder!"

"I would, for you; but it will not be necessary. I can challenge him to fight a duel, and if he is cowardly enough to refuse, I will horsewhip him before your face, and I don't suppose you will marry him after that."

Maggie struggled with feelings of laughter, fear, and delight; delight overpowered laughter, for Frank was young and handsome, and full of what he said. It was quite romantic to be talked to like that. She would like to see the men threaten each other. But then--the scandal-- father might never get over it. And if he married again? Speaking slowly, and in an undertone so as not to betray herself, she said: "O Frank, I'm sure you would not do anything that would injure me."

"My darling, I love you better than the whole world. My whole life, if you will, shall be spent in striving to make you happy."

"You are very good." She took his hand and squeezed it; he returned the pressure with rapturous look and motion. She drew from him a little, for there were some people coming towards them, and she said: "Take care." When the fisher folk had pa.s.sed, she looked at him stealthily. She had always liked him in that necktie, and those cloth shoes were perfect. Had she never known Charlie, or if she had not gone so far with him!--There was something in Frank that was very nice--she could like the two. What a pity the two were not one! "If he were always as nice as he is now, and not lecture me!" Then she remembered she must return home. "I must really go home; I can't go any farther--"

"No, no, I cannot leave you. I must see and hear you now. If you knew what I have endured waiting for you, you would not be so cruel. Come and let us sit on the beach."

"I couldn't. I must go back; father will miss me. Besides, what have we to say? If I were only free and could tell you that I loved you, it would be different."

"Free! then you regret; if a woman wills it she can always free herself."

"No, it is harder than you think for a girl to get out of an engagement she has entered into, even if no absolute promise has been given."

"What do you mean? If you have entered into no formal engagement you are surely free."

"I don't know. Do you think so? I am afraid men think that a promise may be broken after marriage as well as before."

"You are wrong. Women who are jealous, who are old, tell girls that men are always unfaithful, but I'm sure that if I loved a girl I could never think of another. Do you really think I could think of any girl but you?"

"I don't know. I wonder if all you say is true."

"Do you think me different from other men?"

"Yes, but I cannot go on the beach; some other evening I will walk there with you."

"No, now, now--I want to tell you how and when I began to love. Do you remember when I used to spend part of my holidays at the Manor House when I was only so high, and you were all in short frocks? Come, there is much I want to say to you; I cannot part with you. Come, and let us sit on the shingle. Oh, the beautiful evening!"

She could love him a little when she looked at him, but when he talked she lost interest in him. She had allowed him to take her hand, he had bent towards her, and she had let him kiss her; and then they talked of love--she of its bitterness and disappointments; he of its aspirations, and gradually their souls approached like shadows in the twilight, paused for a few vague moments, seemed as if lost in dreams.

"I shall never forget this night! O my love, tell me one day you will be mine!"

"I cannot promise, you must not ask me."

"We are meant for each other. It was not blind fate that cast us together. Does no voice tell you this? I hear it in my heart."

The abandonment, the mystery of the gathering dusk, touched Maggie's fancy. They were alone in the twilight, and it was full of the romance of a rising tide.

"Never did I know such happiness; I am supremely happy, alone with you beneath this sky, listening to the vague, wild voice of the sea. It would be bitter sweet to die in such a triumphant hour. Supposing wewere to lie here and allow the sea to take us away."

"No, I don't want to die. I want to live and enjoy my life."

The answer fell a little chillingly on Frank's rapture. Then after a pause, Maggie said: "I think I have read of that somewhere--in anovel-- lovers caught by the tide."

"Yes, I daresay you have. I was thinking of two lovers who were so overcome with happiness that they decided that they would not trust themselves again to the waves and storms of life, but would let the calm, slow tide of death take them away with all their happiness una.s.soiled."

Maggie did not answer. The double fear had come upon her--first, that the tide might rise higher than usual and cut off their retreat.

Secondly, that Frank--he was a poet--might insist on remaining there and being drowned. Getting up, she said: "I do not know what father will say when I get home, really it is quite dark. Come, Frank."

"Death is better than a life of abomination--loss of innocence, and of delight in simple things. I ask you," he said, stopping her suddenly.

"Yes, no doubt it is so; but I want to get home. Do go on, Frank."