Part 23 (1/2)
On the winding road no one was in sight, and from our elevation a view of the tiny town below could be glimpsed through the bare branches of the trees of the little mountain we were ascending; and about us was no sound save the crunch of the buggy-wheels on the gravel road, and the tread of the slow-moving horse. It was a new world we were in--a kindly, simple, strifeless world of peace and plenty, and calm and content, and the crowded quarters close to Scarborough Square, with their poignant problems of sin and suffering, of scant beauty and weary joy, seemed a life apart and very far away. And the world of the Avenue, the world of handsome homes and deadening luxuries, of social exactions and selfish indulgence, of much waste and unused power, seemed also far away, and just Selwyn and I were together in a little world of our own.
”We might as well have this out, Danny.” An arm on the back of the buggy, Selwyn looked at me, and in his eyes was that which made me understand he was right. We might as well have it out. ”For three years you have refused to marry me, and now you say you are more alone than I. We've been beating the air, been evading something; refusing to face the thing that is keeping us apart. What is it?
You know my love for you. But yours for me-- You have never told me that you loved me. Look at me, Danny.” He turned my face toward him. ”Tell me. Is it because you do not love me that you will not marry me?”
”No.” A bird on a bough ahead of us piped to another across the road, and as mate to mate was answered. ”It is not because I do not love you--Selwyn. I do--love you.” The crus.h.i.+ng of my hands hurt, but he said nothing. ”I shall never marry unless I marry you--but I am not sure--we should be happy.”
”Why not? Is there anything that man could do I would not do to make you happy? All that I am or may be, all that I have to give--and of love I have much--is for you. What is it, then, you fear? Your freedom? I should never interfere with that.”
I shook my head. ”It is not my freedom. What I fear is our lack of sympathy with, our lack of understanding of, certain points of view.
We look at life so differently.”
”But certainly a woman doesn't expect a man to think just as she thinks, to feel as she feels, to see as she sees, nor does he expect her to see and feel and think his way in all things. As individuals they--”
”Of course I wouldn't expect, wouldn't want my husband to feel toward all things as I feel. I would not want a stupid husband with no mind of his own! You know very well it is nothing of that sort. If, however, we cared not at all for the same sort of books; if we saw little alike in art and literature, in music or morals, in science or religion; if the same interests did not appeal; if to the same impulse there was no response--we could hardly hope for genuine comrades.h.i.+p. In most of those things we are together, but life is so much bigger than things, and in our ideas of life and what to do with it we are pretty far apart.”
”Are we? Are you very sure? Are you perfectly sure, Danny, that we are so very far apart?”
Something warm and sweet, so tempestuously sweet that it terrified, for a moment surged, and, half-blinded, I looked up at him. ”Do you mean--?” My fingers interlocked with his.
”That I would like to live in Scarborough Square?” He smiled unsteadily and shook his head. ”No, I wouldn't know how to live there. I wouldn't fit in. I am just myself. You are a dozen selves in one. But I am beginning to see dimly what you see clearly.
Concerning my selfishness there is certainly nothing hazy. The walls around my house have been pretty high, and perhaps they should come down. You have much to teach me. I have a habit of questioning--”
”So have I. All thinking people question. But in spite of my questioning, perhaps because of it, I know now that my life--must count. It isn't mine to use just for myself, or in the easiest way.
If there's anything to it, I've got to share it. Down in Scarborough Square I've been seeing myself in the old life, and when I go back to it I cannot--keep silent concerning what I have learned. I think perhaps we've failed--the men and women of our world even more discouragingly than the men and women of the worlds I've learned to know. As your wife you might not care to have me say--”
I stopped, silenced by the view which lay revealed before us, then I gave a little cry. Peak after peak of tree-filled mountains raised their heads to a sky of brilliant blue whose foam-clouds curled and tumbled in fantastic shapes, and in the valley below was the silence and peace of a place unpeopled. I turned to Selwyn, and long resistance yielding to that for which there was no words, I let him see the fulness of surrender. For a long moment we did not speak, then I drew away from his arms. ”We must get out. It is a heavenly vision. I want--”
Getting down from the high, old-fas.h.i.+oned buggy, Selwyn held his arms out to me, lifted me in them to the ground. ”I, too, want here--my heavenly vision.” It was difficult to hear him. Drawing my face to his, he kissed me again. ”You have told me that you loved me. _You are mine and I am going to marry you_.”
He turned his head and listened, in his face something of the old impatience. The soft whir of an automobile broke the silence of the sun-filled, breeze-blown air, and I made effort to draw away from Selwyn's arms. ”Some one is coming,” I said, under my breath.
”Shall we go on or stay here?”
”Stay here. Why not?” Frowningly, Selwyn for a moment waited, then, with his hand holding mine, we walked nearer the edge of the mountain's plateau and looked at the ribbon-like road that wound up to its top. The noise of the engine was more distinct than the car, but gradually the latter could be seen clearly, and presently three figures were distinguished in it.
”They'll have to pa.s.s us. There's no other way.” Words not utterable were smothered under Selwyn's breath. ”A few more minutes and they'll be going down the mountain, however, and will soon be out of sight. Are you cold? Do you mind staying up here for a little while--with all the world away?”
”No. I want to stay.” I leaned forward. In the machine, now near enough to see that two people were in its back seat and the driver alone in front, there was also leaning forward; then hurried movement, then the man behind got up and waved his hat, and the girl beside him got up also.
Slowly Selwyn turned to me, in his eyes rebellious protest. ”It is Mr. and Mrs. Cressy, and there's no way of getting rid of them.
They've motored over instead of waiting for the train. Have they no sense, no understanding?”
”And they think they've been so considerate in hurrying to us!” The tone of my voice was that of Selwyn's. ”Is there nothing we can do?”
”Nothing--unless we tell them to wait here while we go over to Shelby. The reward of virtue was never to my taste! Our one day together--”
He turned away, but quickly I followed him; in his hand slipped mine.
”I'm sorry, Selwyn--but there will be another day--be many days.”