Part 53 (2/2)
The chasm in the ordinary level surface of things which had yawned for a moment and given Burrell a glimpse of the pit where misery gnawed had closed up.
”We will join my wife,” said Rames. He stopped at the door.
”Were you ever at Toulon?”
”No.”
”There's a statue on the quay there, at the water's edge, overlooking the harbor. A great bronze figure, extraordinarily alert, with a light upon its forehead, the Genius of the Sea. And on the open pages of a bronze book in the front of the pedestal, the names of the great sailors are engraved. Cook and the rest of them. The list ends with D'Urville, I remember. I only saw the statue once. My father showed it to me when I was a boy. I don't suppose that I have ever thought of it until to-day.” He repeated softly as though speaking to himself:
”Yes the list ends with D'Urville.” Then he roused himself. ”Bring your cigar in. Cynthia doesn't mind. By the way,” and a smile of tenderness transfigured his face, ”not a word of this to her. She thinks I am going to be a great man. She's wrong, but I don't want her to know before she needs must.” Burrell consented at once. He followed Rames from the room with all joy in his victory quite overcast. He looked beyond the surprising revelations of his host and obtained a glimpse into a new side of life. He was the spectator of one of the grim comedies of marriage. Here was the wife--so it seemed to him--believing joyfully in the great destiny of her husband; and the husband laboring in torment to sustain her belief, while all the while he knew that his destiny was thwarted and that the true current of his life ran through other fields.
They went along the pa.s.sage into the drawing-room. It was a warm night of September and the windows stood open upon the garden. Cynthia was not in the room. Harry stepped out onto the lawn. The night was dark and he could see no one. But the light in the drawing-room had revealed him as he stepped out, and whilst he was standing peering into the darkness Cynthia came softly over the gra.s.s to his side.
”You'll catch cold,” he said. ”The dew's heavy.”
Cynthia took his arm. ”Hush,” she said. ”Listen!” and through the still air the chimes of the great clock in Ludsey steeple floated with a silvery and melodious sound to their ears. A tune was struck out by the bells, then another.
”I heard that,” said Cynthia in a whisper, ”on the night my father died. I was sitting alone with him in the darkness while his life drifted away. It was winter.”
Harry put his arm about her and pressed her to his side.
”I heard them again,” she continued, ”one night when I was waiting for you to telephone to me, Harry. Do you remember?”
”Yes.”
”I waited a long time for you that night, Harry,” and there was a catch in her voice. ”Ludsey chimes have meant very much to us. Let us hear them out!”
They stood together in the darkness until the last distant note had died away. It seemed to Rames that Cynthia listened as though she were taking a farewell of them.
CHAPTER x.x.xVI
THE TELEGRAM
Harry Rames and Cynthia travelled up to London the next day. Cynthia was restless and excited.
”Let us dine at a restaurant and go to a theatre, Harry,” she said. ”I can't sit still and stay at home to-night.”
”Very well. What shall we go and see?”
”Oh, something with bright colors and movement and music.”
But there ran through the piece she chose a melody of a haunting wistfulness and Harry Rames, happening to glance at his wife in the darkness of the auditorium, saw that the tears were raining silently down her cheeks.
”What's the matter, Cynthia?” he asked in a whisper.
Cynthia smiled at him through her tears and laid a hand upon his arm.
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