Part 14 (1/2)

The young man thought of her feelings no longer. His heart throbbed louder and louder, and seemed to shake him to pieces. ”Rickie!”

She was calling from the dell. For an answer he sat down where he was, on the dust-bespattered margin. She could call as loud as she liked. The devil had done much, but he should not take him to her.

”Rickie!”--and it came with the tones of an angel. He drove his fingers into his ears, and invoked the name of Gerald. But there was no sign, neither angry motion in the air nor hint of January mist. June--fields of June, sky of June, songs of June. Gra.s.s of June beneath him, gra.s.s of June over the tragedy he had deemed immortal. A bird called out of the dell: ”Rickie!”

A bird flew into the dell.

”Did you take me for the Dryad?” she asked. She was sitting down with his head on her lap. He had laid it there for a moment before he went out to die, and she had not let him take it away.

”I prayed you might not be a woman,” he whispered.

”Darling, I am very much a woman. I do not vanish into groves and trees.

I thought you would never come.”

”Did you expect--?”

”I hoped. I called hoping.”

Inside the dell it was neither June nor January. The chalk walls barred out the seasons, and the fir-trees did not seem to feel their pa.s.sage.

Only from time to time the odours of summer slipped in from the wood above, to comment on the waxing year. She bent down to touch him with her lips.

He started, and cried pa.s.sionately, ”Never forget that your greatest thing is over. I have forgotten: I am too weak. You shall never forget.

What I said to you then is greater than what I say to you now. What he gave you then is greater than anything you will get from me.”

She was frightened. Again she had the sense of something abnormal. Then she said, ”What is all this nonsense?” and folded him in her arms.

VIII

Ansell stood looking at his breakfast-table, which was laid for four instead of two. His bedmaker, equally peevish, explained how it had happened. Last night, at one in the morning, the porter had been awoke with a note for the kitchens, and in that note Mr. Elliot said that all these things were to be sent to Mr. Ansell's.

”The fools have sent the original order as well. Here's the lemon-sole for two. I can't move for food.”

”The note being ambiguous, the Kitchens judged best to send it all.”

She spoke of the kitchens in a half-respectful, half-pitying way, much as one speaks of Parliament.

”Who's to pay for it?” He peeped into the new dishes. Kidneys entombed in an omelette, hot roast chicken in watery gravy, a glazed but pallid pie.

”And who's to wash it up?” said the bedmaker to her help outside.

Ansell had disputed late last night concerning Schopenhauer, and was a little cross and tired. He bounced over to Tilliard, who kept opposite.

Tilliard was eating gooseberry jam.

”Did Elliot ask you to breakfast with me?”

”No,” said Tilliard mildly.

”Well, you'd better come, and bring every one you know.”

So Tilliard came, bearing himself a little formally, for he was not very intimate with his neighbour. Out of the window they called to Widdrington. But he laid his hand on his stomach, thus indicating it was too late.