Part 20 (1/2)
All the magic sweetness and sadness of Ireland was in his words. But he did not expect the slightest result from this impa.s.sioned entreaty, for he had long ago made up his mind that this strange witch of the night, who could throw the thrush's note into her voice, and quote Voltaire, and daintily but cynically suggest that he was drunk, was no simple maid to be beguiled by the tongue. This was a woman who knew her world and all the moves in the great game, and as a man who had played that same game often and well, and could appreciate a clever opponent, he awaited her next move, secure in the thought that it would not fail to be an interesting one.
What he was wholly unprepared for was a glimmering fragrant presence beside him on the gra.s.s. The breath of her mouth was so close that he could feel it in little waves across his face. In the purple darkness he descried her white gown, and down each shoulder of it a long, long rope of blackness. The thought of a woman's hair had always some sorcery for him. He could never look at beautiful hair, even in the most conventional surroundings, without turmoil of flesh and spirit, inward curses at his own base nature, and revilings of all things feminine formed to lure the brain and bind the soul of man.
At this moment every instinct of his being, every desire of his nature, fought with his self-control, desiring, inciting, almost compelling him to stretch out his hands to this witch-woman's hair and draw her nearer.
Little beads broke out on his forehead; he dug his hands into the earth beside him. He could hear her breathing. A perfumed warmth came out of her and stole to him. He desired greatly that she should speak; but she did not; only sat there giving out perfume and weaving G.o.d knew what Ephesian spells to bind him. At about this time it seemed to him that this was a very fine dream and that a fine thing to do would be to get up and go hence before the dream could break. But that mood was soon inconstant. Silence enfolded them--a silence that was mutable and disquieting. At last he leaned towards her and spoke, dry-throated:
”You win!” His voice was very low, and jarred like a fine instrument that has been struck.
”Victory is to you! Tell me to go--or stay!”
The girl, glowing and swaying beside him, could not speak; but her hands made some little motion to him that he interpreted as he wished. He grasped them in his, which were broad and powerful, but had eyes in the fingers: hands with the gift of discovery by touch. In that moment his heart and his purpose changed. At the greatest of all games he was no novice; but he had always played honestly as far as in him lay. It was his principle not to gamble unless the chances were equal for both players. As if they ever can be between a man and a woman! But, strangely enough, all honest men honestly believe it possible. By the feel of those soft hands quivering and burning in his, he had reason to believe that he had made a mistake--with regard to his opponent, at least.
His head was far from clear that night in any case, and sitting there, with those hands in his, that fragrance ... those ensnaring plaits of hair ... was not conducive to coolness and sanity. It should be written down to him that he made an enormous effort to fight the sweet fumes that pressed upon him to cloud his brain and slacken his moral muscles.
”Tell me something about yourself, Carissima,” he said softly. ”Tell me that you are married, and that your husband is a brute!”
She drew her hands away swiftly. This was a jarring note that broke _her_ dream at least. What could he mean? How strange he was! Was it possible that he was mad? Was it at the bidding of a madman that the little cold stone in her breast was turning into something living--something that felt like a sweet red rose bursting into blossom?
”Of course I am not married!” she said slowly and clearly. ”I am only a girl of eighteen ... I do not understand why you say such things.”
He made a sound which might have been a groan.
”My dear little girl, you must forgive me.... I believe I am ill to-night.... _Of course_ you are only a girl ... a good girl! ... gates and girls! ... gates!...” Suddenly he leaned closer to her and peered into her face, striving to distinguish the features he instinctively knew were lovely. ”Who are you? What are you?” he strangely asked.
”I am a poppy ... a poppy growing in Africa,” said she, smiling subtly to herself, but trembling--trembling.
”A poppy! ... then that is why your hair has that mystic odour!... 'Give me of poppy and mandragora.'... Poppies give sleep ... I believe that is what I want ... I am a sick man ... like Peter's wife's mother, I am sick of a fever ... and you are--a girl ... O Lord G.o.d!”
”Oh, you really are ill!” she cried ”Let me go to the house and get you something--some brandy. Rest here a while----”
”Rest here, by St. Anthony!... No, no, nothing, it's nothing ... I'll go.” He sprang up and stood at his full height above her. She, too, rose on her feet. She put out her hands to him, but he did not take them.
”Good-night, Carissima ... I'll go home ... be good.... Girls should always be good ... and gates ... I must find the gate----”
Strangely he went, striding away as silently as he had come through the darkness, and leaving her standing there on the gra.s.s. Later, she flung herself down and burst into bitter crying.
”Oh, what a brute!... how I hate him!... how my heart hurts!... O G.o.d!
what shall I do?... where has he gone?... I shall never see him again ... I wish to die! I wish to die!... Does he love some other woman?... Oh, I cannot live any longer ... he despises me because I am a girl.... How my heart hurts!... There is a knife in it.... If I could only hear him speak again!... I shall never see him again!”
Suddenly she sprang up and ran swiftly across the gra.s.s, in the direction he had gone--the direction of the gate. But the gate was a long way off, and the way was dim. She ran into trees, and hurt her feet on stones and thorns, and presently, as she ran, she stumbled and fell over something or someone lying p.r.o.ne on the gra.s.s. In horror and fear she sprang away, but the figure did not move, only breathed heavily. She stole closer and peered down. It was he. She recognised the tall figure, the pale-grey clothes, the faint aroma she had recently known.
”Oh, what has happened to you?” she tearfully cried, leaning over him.
”Are you dead; are you dead?” Using her utmost strength she lifted his head and leaned it against herself as she half kneeled, half sat upon the gra.s.s. He was leaden-limbed as the dead, but his loud breathing rea.s.sured her; peering into his face she could see that his eyes were closed. She considered swiftly what thing she could do that would be best, presently resolving to run to the house and get brandy and restore him; and quinine, too, as he had asked for it--she knew that Abinger always kept a supply in his room. But first she would try and prop him against this tree-trunk. She dragged and strained at his arms, trying to move him, but he was a dead-weight. Tears of terror and distress streamed down her face and fell hot on his.
”My dear! my dear!” she cried. ”What is it with you?” Just as she made to let his head gently to the ground again, he stirred, and his breathing changed to that of a conscious, wakened man. In a moment he had dragged himself up into a sitting pose, with the tree-trunk at his back. She still remained kneeling by him--breathless, glad, afraid, and he leaned his handsome head against the laces of her bosom.
”Are you better?” she whispered tremulously, joyously. ”I am going to fetch you some restorative if you will let me leave you an instant.”
”You must never leave me again, dearest of all women,” he said, and flung his arm about her. ”I love you! Give me your lips.” He slewed his head round suddenly and his mouth was hard on hers, dragging terrible kisses from it--kisses that shook her through and through as with some strange ague. He felt the trembling of her and laughed with his hand on her heart to still its loud beating.
”'Your mouth is as sweet as bracket,'” he said, quoting some old song that sang in his brain, and kissed her again; then took her hair in his hand and wound it round his throat, holding the long plaits across his face and smelling them as though they were wonderful flowers.