Part 27 (1/2)

One day there arrived a letter from Va.s.sie--a letter written in superlatives, a letter that made Ishmael and John-James both feel relief in their different ways and that made the Parson very glad. Va.s.sie had achieved her end, the great end of mid-Victorian womanhood, and more vital to her even than most--she was engaged to be married, and to a man whose social position seemed, as far as her judgment could be trusted, satisfactory. Mr. Daniel O'Connell Flynn was, according to Va.s.sie, more than she could have dared hope for, and if she said little as to any personal feelings for him, Ishmael knew how unimportant that would be to her compared with the satisfaction of her ambitions. For, as his name denoted, he was engaged in politics--an Irish-Canadian, a Free Trader, a Home Ruler, perhaps even a Chartist, for all Va.s.sie said to the contrary. The third Derby Ministry was in power, and Mr. Flynn was for the time agitating in the Opposition; but at least he was a member of Parliament, and what glory that was to Va.s.sie.

Poor Va.s.sie! What, after all, was her ambition but to attain what should have come to her by right as daughter of the Squire of Cloom? She had had to make it the end of her desires, for it she had had to appear what she was not--what she ought to have been without any striving. If Mr.

Flynn were a man to whom Va.s.sie's beauty outweighed her defects, and if it were nothing but that with him, then was the outlook for her ultimate happiness poor; but she was her own mistress and had to be judge of that. At least she had not deceived him, for there came a postscript to the rather worldly raptures. ”P.S.--He knows about it all, and says it does not matter; what he wants is me.”

After Ishmael, the person most affected by the news, both in herself and her prospects, would be Phoebe. Ishmael put the letter in his pocket, though he guessed she too would have had one, and went over to Vellan-Clowse, Wanda at his heels.

As he went the realisation of how this would affect him grew upon him; losing Va.s.sie, his life at Cloom would not only be lonely, but, without her resolute insistence on the niceties, might all too easily slip into some such slough of boorishness as had overtaken it in his father's day.

If Blanche had only been different, if she had been the Blanche he once thought her, how sweetly would the whole problem--of loneliness and a standard of decency and of this tormenting thing that p.r.i.c.ked at him--have been solved. Even the removal of his mother, though a relief, added to the sense of total disruption which weighed on him. Cloom, the old Cloom that had been so jolly in spite of everything, the Cloom of the first three contested, arduous years, then the delightful Cloom glorified by that summer of Blanche and Killigrew and Va.s.sie and little Judith, was dead, and everyone else had flown to other fields while he alone was left among the ruins. Of all the old atmosphere Phoebe was the only one remaining--little, soft, admiring Phoebe, whom he had hardly noticed all this past winter.

Ishmael was one of those to whom the ending even of a not altogether congenial atmosphere was fraught with sadness; had he been left to himself he would probably never have moved far out of an accustomed circle, thus much of the peasant was potent in his blood. Now he felt, with the finality of youth, that everything had been stripped from around him, and that no new scheme of life formed itself before his eyes.

When he came to the top of the cliff above his plateau he turned off down the narrow goat-track that led to it, and when there flung himself on his face upon the turf, chin on hands, and brooded. His thoughts took no definite shape; rather were they the vague unsettled desires for he knew not what. Just that ”something,” anything, would happen.

He lay staring at the gra.s.s, covered with tiny blossoms of self-heal and rest-harrow: behind and a hundred feet below him the sea swirled, its deep peac.o.c.k hue patterned with milky wreaths of foam; half around him reared a semi-circle of pale cliff. He stared at the miniature forest of blade and leaf beneath his eyes, and could hear faint rustlings as tiny insects thrust their way through it or climbed aimlessly up stalks that only led them into air. On the fragile curve of a feathery bent a pair of Spotted Burnet moths were at their mating--lovely creatures of the iridescent green of lapis-lazuli, their folded wings of greyer green decorated with splashes of purest crimson, their long glossy antennae s.h.i.+ning in the sunlight. Immobile they clung together for what must have been, in their measuring of time, hours of love. Beyond them, on other gra.s.s-stems, orange-hued flies took their pleasure, and the whole air was quick with the wings of b.u.t.terflies and moths. The quiet little circle of turf was athrill with life; the air, the warm soil, the clumps of bracken whence the hidden crickets shrilled, the pinkish gra.s.ses which bore the tiny interlocked bodies of the mating flies--everything told of life, life, life. This place seemed an amphitheatre for the display of the secret of Nature--life, and yet more life, in splendid prodigality. Ishmael watched and wondered. Was this, then, the blind end of creation--to create again? If life were only valuable for the production of more, then what it created was not valuable either, and the whole thing became an illogical absurdity. There must be some definite value in each life apart from its reproductive powers, or the reproductions were better left in the void. Blind pleasure, like blind working, was not a possible solution to one of his blood and habit of mind.

Yet he knew as he lay there that not for ever would he be able to go on as so far he had. He told himself that if it were possible to stamp on desire now it would continue to be possible; that if one were not put into the world to get what one wanted at least it should be possible to grit the teeth on the fact. It was childish enough to cry for the moon--it was pitiable to hanker after its reflection in a cesspool.

Chast.i.ty to Ishmael, by the nature of his training and his circ.u.mstances, was a vital thing; the ever-present miseries of home resulting from his father's offence, the determination to keep clean himself and bring clean children to the inheritance, had grown with him.

If he lost it he lost far more than most men, because to him it had been more.

Not for the first time some words of the Parson's came back to him: ”Casual encounters where no such question arises ...” That seemed to him more horrible, more unsound, now, as he lay looking at the inevitable matings of the winged creatures, than ever before; something ages old in him revolted at the fruitless squandering.

The fact remained that there was no one he wanted to marry, that he no longer wanted to marry at all; his wish to marry Blanche had been an exigency of the situation; in himself his instinct against inroads on privacy would never have inclined him towards it. Also there was no one girl he wanted, and he told himself there never would be again; all personal emotion was drained away from him. The only girl he even knew at all was Phoebe, and at the idea of her in connection with himself he smiled. That would indeed be giving the lie to all he had struggled after--to the vision of the Cloom to be that he had built up with much work and many dreams.

Suddenly as he lay on the gra.s.s he felt tired, so tired that it seemed to him he did not so very much want anything after all, and that a leaden weariness was the worst thing he would have to fight against. He laid his face in the warm fragrant gra.s.s and let his hands lie out on either side of him, then stretched to the extent of his limbs, and rolled on his back. Wanda, eager to be bounding on once more, licked his cheek with her warm, quick-moving tongue, and he rubbed her head against him and told her she was becoming a fussy old lady. Still, it was time he went on to Vellan-Clowse; the sun was near the rim of the burning sea, and far below the foam was tinged with fire. He scrambled to his feet and went on.

At the mill he found he had been wrong in his conjecture and Phoebe had not yet heard from Va.s.sie. She was looking pale and thin; there were shadows under her soft eyes, and her mouth drooped at the corners.

Ishmael's news stung her to interest and to enthusiasm for Va.s.sie, but seemed, when she had cooled down, only to make her melancholy deeper. At supper--to which Ishmael needed little pressing to stay, for in talk and companions.h.i.+p he forgot his vacant house--she was obviously trying to make herself pleasant and bright; she would not have been Phoebe if she had allowed her own comfort to come before that of others.

Phoebe was changed in this past year; she was no longer so sprightly in her little flirtations, her tongue had lost its rustic readiness, her eyes held a furtive something, as though she were always watching some memory. Her prettiness had gained in quality however, and her charm, though more conscious, was more certain. Curiously enough, the charm struck Ishmael for the first time now that he saw her subdued, not troubling to exert it save mechanically. He was sorry for that la.s.situde of hers, and after supper, walking under the elms down the lush valley, he tried to fathom it.

”It's nothing,” said Phoebe. ”I'm lonely, I suppose. You know, there's no one I'm really friends with, only Va.s.sie and you, and I shan't see her any more now. And you never come near me....”

Ishmael felt a guilty pang as he realised this was true; he cast about to lead the talk elsewhere.

”You were great friends with Archelaus while he was at Botallack last autumn, I've heard,” he said teasingly. ”Indeed, I did think that even when I lost Va.s.sie I might have another sister....”

”Him ...!” cried Phoebe; ”never, never! You're being cruel to me, Ishmael, so you are! If you've only come to tease me you can go home to your old manor-house again!”

”Why--Phoebe! What's the matter; what have I said to hurt you?” asked Ishmael. ”Why, I wouldn't do that for the world! Phoebe, dear, tell me what it is that's the matter. Surely you can trust me! Is it because Archelaus has gone?”

Phoebe burst into tears. Ishmael was alarmed, embarra.s.sed, even irritated, yet somehow she was nestling against him and his arms were holding her while he consoled her. She sobbed on, her warm little body pressed convulsively against him; his words ”surely you can trust me ...”

had caught at her heart. After months of furtive meetings with Archelaus, after being drawn into a whirlpool of pa.s.sion which she could not resist and yet always resented, hating something in Archelaus even when his ardour pursued her most, hating the thought of him at every moment before and after, when his lips were not actually upon hers--after all this she felt she wanted nothing but to fling herself on this quieter, kinder, younger man, on whom she still felt the freshness she had lost. It was only fair, she told herself; if Ishmael had cared for her a year ago she would have been armed against Archelaus and her own nature. Slowly her sobs grew less frequent--they became the faint sniffs of a tired child; but she still lay in his arms, snuggling closer, one hand, very small and smooth, creeping up to lie against his neck. Ishmael looked down, and through the dusk he could see how wet were the lashes on her pale cheek; the curve of her throat and bosom was still troubled by sobbing breaths. He drew her closer; then his clasp of her began to change, grow fiercer; she felt it and thrilled to it, lifted her mouth that looked so childish, and which he told himself through the clamour of his pulses there would be no harm in kissing, as though she were the child she looked. But it was not a child's kiss he gave her; nor, as he could but feel, was it a child's return she tendered.

”Phoebe ...!” he began; ”Phoebe ...!” He never knew himself what he was trying to say, whether it were protest or excuse or a mere stammer of pa.s.sion. She interrupted him with a low cry.

”Oh, Ishmael! it was always you--really, always you ... I didn't know.

It'll be always you...!”