Chambers Robert William
Athalie

CHAPTER XXVIII

CLIVE'S enforced idleness had secretly humiliated him and made him restless. Athalie in her tender wisdom understood how it was with him before he did himself, and she was already deftly guiding his balked energy into a brand new channel, the same being a bucolic one.

At first he had demurred, alleging total ignorance of husbandry; and, seated on the sill of an open window and looking down at him in the garden, she tormented him to her heart's content:

"Ignorant of husbandry!" she mimicked, – "when any husband I ever heard of could go to school to you and learn what a real husband ought to be! Why will you pretend to be so painfully modest, Clive, when you are really secretly pleased with yourself and entirely convinced that, in you, the world might discover a living pattern of model domesticity!"

"I'm glad you think so – "

"Think! If I were only as certain of anything else! Never had I dreamed that any man could become so cowed, so spiritless, so perfectly house and yard broken – "

"If I come upstairs," he said, "I'll settle you!"

Leaning from the window overlooking the garden she lazily defied him; turned up her dainty nose at him; mocked at him until he flung aside the morning paper and rose, bent on her punishment.

"Oh, Clive, don't!" she pleaded, leaning low from the sill. "I won't tease you any more, – and this gown is fresh – "

"I'll come up and freshen it!" he threatened.

"Please don't rumple me. I'll come down if you like. Shall I?"

"All right, darling," he said, resuming his newspaper and cigarette.

She came, seated herself demurely beside him, twitched his newspaper until he cast an ominous glance at his tormentor.

"Dear," she said, "I simply can't let you alone; you are so bland and self-satisfied – "

"Athalie – if you persist in tormenting me – "

"I torment you? I? An humble accessory in the scenery set for you? I? – a stage property fashioned merely for the hero of the drama to sit upon – "

"All right! I'll do that now! – "

But she nestled close to him, warding off wrath with both arms clasping his, and looking up at him out of winning eyes in which but a tormenting glint remained.

"You wouldn't rumple this very beautiful and brand new gown, would you, darling? It was so frightfully expensive – "

"I don't care – "

"Oh, but you must care. You must become thrifty and shrewd and devious and close, or you'll never make a successful farmer – "

"Dearest, that's nonsense. What do I know about farming?"

"Nothing yet. But you know what a wonderful man you are. Never forget that, Clive – "

"If you don't stop laughing at me, you little wretch – "

"Don't you want me to remain young?" she asked reproachfully, while two tiny demons of gaiety danced in her eyes. "If I can't laugh I'll grow old. And there's nothing very funny here except you and Hafiz – Oh, Clive! You have rumpled me! Please don't do it again! Yes – yes —yes! I do surrender! I am sorry – that you are so funny – Clive! You'll ruin this gown!.. I promise not to say another disrespectful word… I don't know whether I'll kiss you or not —Yes! Yes I will, dear. Yes, I'll do it tenderly – you heartless wretch! – I tell you I'll do it tenderly… Oh wait, Clive! Is Mrs. Connor looking out of any window? Where's Connor? Are you sure he's not in sight?.. And I shouldn't care to have Hafiz see us. He's a moral kitty – "

She pretended to look fearfully around, then, with adorable tenderness, she paid her forfeit and sat silent for a while with her slim white fingers linked in his, in that breathless little revery which always stilled her under the magic of his embrace.

He said at last: "Do you really suppose I could make this farm-land pay?"

And that was really the beginning of it all.

Once decided he seemed to go rather mad about it, buying agricultural paraphernalia recklessly and indiscriminately for a meditated assault upon fields long fallow.

Connor already had as much as he could attend to in the garden; but, like all Irishmen, he had a cousin, and the cousin possessed agricultural lore and a pair of plough-horses.

So early fall ploughing developed into a mania with Clive and Athalie; and they formed a habit of sitting side by side like a pair of birds on fences in the early October sunshine, their fascinated eyes following the brown furrows turning where one T. Phelan was breaking up pasture and meadow too long sod-bound.

In intervals between tenderer and more intimate exchange of sentiments they discussed such subjects as lime, nitrogen, phosphoric acid, and the rotation of crops.

Also Athalie had accumulated much literature concerning incubators, brooders, and the several breeds of domestic fowl; and on paper they had figured out overwhelming profits.

The insidious land-hunger which attacks all who contemplate making two dozen blades of grass grow where none grew before, now seized upon Clive and gnawed him. And he extended the acreage, taking in woods and uplands as far as the headwaters of Spring Pond Brook, vastly to Athalie's delight.

So the October days burned like a procession of golden flames passing in magic sequence amid yellowing woods and over the brown and spongy gold of salt meadows which had been sheared for stable bedding. And everywhere over their land lay the dun-coloured velvet squares of freshly ploughed fields awaiting unfragrant fertilizer and the autumn rains.

The rains came heavily toward the end of October; and November was grey and wet and rather warm. But open fires became necessary in the house, and now they regularly reddened the twilight in library and living-room when the early November dusk brought Athalie and Clive indoors.

Hither they came, the fire-lit hearth their trysting place after they had exchanged their rain-drenched clothes for something dry; and there they curled up on the wide sofas and watched the swift darkness fall, and the walls and ceiling redden.

It was an hour which Athalie had once read of as the "Children's Hour" and now she understood better its charming significance. And she kept it religiously, permitting herself to do nothing, and making Clive defer anything he had to do, until after dinner. Then he might read his paper or book, and she could take up her sewing if she chose, or study, or play, or write the few letters that she cared to write.

Clive wrote no more, now. In this first year together they desired each other only, indifferent to all else outside.

It was to her the magic year of fulfilment; to him an enchanted interlude wherein only the girl beside him mattered.

Athalie sewed a great deal on odd, delicate, sheer materials where narrowness and length ruled proportions, and where there seemed to be required much lace and many little ribbons. Also she hummed to herself as she sewed, singing under her breath endless airs which had slipped into her head she scarce knew when or how.

An odd and fragrant freshness seemed to cling to her making her almost absurdly youthful, as though she had suddenly dropped back to her girlhood. Clive noticed it.

"You look about sixteen," he said.

"My heart is younger, dear."

"How young?"

"You know when it was born, don't you? Very well, it is as many days old as I have been in love with you. Before that it was a muscle capable merely of sturdy friendship."

One day a packet came from New York for her. It contained two rings, one magnificent, the other a plain circlet. She kissed him rather shyly, wore both that evening, but not again.

"I am not ashamed," she explained serenely. "Folkways are now a matter of indifference to me. Civilisation must offer me a better argument than it has offered hitherto before I resign to it my right in you, or deny your right to me."

He knew that civilisation would lock them out and remain unconcerned as to what became of them. Doubtless she knew it too, as she sat there sewing on the frail garment which lay across her knee and singing blithely under her breath some air with cadence like a berceuse.

During the "Children's Hour" she sat beside him, always quiet; or if stirred from her revery to a brief exchange of low-voiced words, she soon relapsed once more into that happy, brooding silence by the firelight.

Then came dinner, and the awakened gaiety of unquenched spirits; then the blessed evening hours with him.

But the last hour of these she called her hour; and always laid aside her book or sewing, and slipped from the couch to the floor at his feet, laying her head against his knees.

Snow came in December; and Christmas followed. They kept the mystic festival alone together; and Athalie had a tiny tree lighted in the room between hers and Clive's, and hung it with toys and picture books.

It was very pretty in its tinsel and tinted globes; and its faint light glimmered on the walls and dainty furniture of the dim pink room.

Afterward Athalie laid away tinsel and toy, wrapping all safely in tissue, as though to be kept secure and fresh for another Christmas – the most wonderful that any girl could dream of. And perhaps it was to be even more wonderful than Athalie had dreamed.

December turned very cold. The ice thickened; and she skated with Clive on Spring Pond. The ice also remained through January and February that winter; but after December had ended Athalie skated no more.

Clive, unknown to her, had sent for a Shaker cloak and hood of scarlet; and when it arrived Athalie threw back her lovely head and laughed till the tears dimmed her eyes.

"All the same," he said, "you don't look much older in it than you looked in your red hood and cloak the first day I ever set eyes on you."

"You poor darling! – as though even you could push back the hands of Time! It's the funniest and sweetest thing you ever did – to send for this red, hooded cloak."

However she wore it whenever she ventured out with him on foot or in the sleigh which he had bought. Once, coming home, she was still wearing it when Mrs. Connor brought to them two peach turnovers.

A fire had been lighted in the ancient stove; and they went out to the sun-parlour, – once the bar – and sat in the same old arm-chairs exactly as they had been seated that night so long ago; and there they ate their peach turnovers, their enchanted eyes meeting, striving to realise it all, and the intricate ways of Destiny and Chance and Fate.

February was a month of heavy snows that year; great drifts buried the fences and remained until well into March. April was April, – and very much so; but they saw the blue waters of the bay sometimes; and dogwood and willow stems were already aglow with colour; and a premature blue-bird sang near Athalie's garden. Crocuses appeared everywhere with grape hyacinths and snow-drops. Then jonquil and narcissus opened in all their loveliness, and soft winds stirred the waters of the fountain.

May found the garden uncovered, with tender amber-tinted shoots and exquisite fronds of green wherever the lifted mulch disclosed the earth. Also peonies were up and larkspur, and the ambitious promise of the hollyhocks delighted Athalie.

Pink peach buds bloomed; cherry, pear, and apple covered the trees with rosy snow; birds sang everywhere; and the waters of the pool mirrored a sky of purest blue. But Athalie now walked no further than the garden seat, – and walked slowly, leaning always on Clive's arm.

In those days throughout May her mother was with her in her room almost every night. But Athalie did not speak of this to Clive.

CHAPTER XXIX

SPRING ploughing had been proceeding for some time now, but Athalie did not feel equal to walking cross-lots over ploughed ground, so she let Clive go alone on tours of inspection.

But these absences were brief; he did not care to remain away from Athalie for more than an hour at a time. So, T. Phelan ploughed on, practically unmolested and untormented by questions, suggestions, and advice. Which liberty was to his liking. And he loafed much.

In these latter days of May Athalie spent a great deal of her time among her cushions and wraps on the garden seat near the fountain. On his return from prowling about the farm Clive was sure to find her there, reading or sewing, or curled up among her cushions in the sun with Hafiz purring on her lap.

And she would look up at Clive out of sleepy, humorous eyes in which glimmered a smile of greeting, or she would pretend surprise and disapproval at his long absence of half an hour with: "Well, C. Bailey, Junior! Where do you come from now?"

The phases of awakening spring in the garden seemed to be an endless source of pleasure to the girl; she would sit for hours looking at the pale lilac-tinted wistaria clusters hanging over the naked wall and watching plundering bumble-bees scrambling from blossom to blossom.

And when at the base of the wall, the spiked buds of silvery-grey iris unfolded, and their delicate fragrance filled the air, the exquisite mingling of the two odours and the two shades of mauve thrilled her as no perfume, no colour had ever affected her.

The little colonies of lily-of-the-valley came into delicate bloom under the fringing shrubbery; golden bell flower, pink and vermilion cydonia, roses, all bloomed and had their day; lilac bushes were weighted with their heavy, dewy clusters; the sweet-brier's green tracery grew into tender leaf and its matchless perfume became apparent when the sun fell hot.

In the warm air there seemed to brood the exquisite hesitation of happy suspense, – a delicious and breathless sense of waiting for something still more wonderful to come.

And when Athalie felt it stealing over her she looked at Clive and knew that he also felt it. Then her slim hand would steal into his and nestle there, content, fearless, blissfully confident of what was to be.

But it was subtly otherwise with Clive. Once or twice she felt his hand tremble slightly as though a slight shiver had passed over him; and when again she noticed it she asked him why.

"Nothing," he said in a strained voice; "I am very, very happy."

"I know it… There is no fear mingling with your happiness; is there, Clive?"

But before he replied she knew that it was so.

"Dearest," she murmured, "dearest! You must not be afraid for me."

And suddenly the long pent fears strangled him; he could not speak; and she felt his lips, hot and tremulous against her hand.

"My heart!" she whispered, "all will go well. There is absolutely no reason for you to be afraid."

"Do you know it?"

"Yes, I know it. I am certain of it, darling. Everything will turn out as it should… I can't bear to have the most beautiful moments of our lives made sad for you by apprehension. Won't you believe me that all will go well?"

"Yes."

"Then smile at me, Clive."

His under lip was still unsteady as he drew nearer and took her into his arms.

"God wouldn't do such harm," he said. "He couldn't! All must go well."

She smiled gaily and framed his head with her hands:

"You're just a boy, aren't you, C. Bailey, Junior? – just a big boy, yet. As though the God we understand – you and I – could deal otherwise than tenderly with us. He knows how rare love really is. He will not disturb it. The world needs it for seed."

The smile gradually faded from Clive's face; he shook his head, slightly:

"If I had known – if I had understood – "

"What, darling?"

"The hazard – the chances you are to take – "

But she laughed deliciously, and sealed his mouth with her fragrant hand, bidding him hunt for other sources of worry if he really was bent on scaring himself.

Later she asked him for a calendar, and he brought it, and together they looked over it where several of the last days of May had been marked with a pencil.

As she sat beside him, studying the printed sequence of the days, a smile hovering on her lips, he thought he had never seen her so beautiful.

A soft wind blew the bright tendrils of her hair across her cheeks; her skin was like a little girl's, rose and snow, smooth as a child's; her eyes clearly, darkly blue – the hue and tint called azure – like the colour of the zenith on some still June day.

And through the glow of her superb and youthful symmetry, ever, it seemed to him, some inward radiance pulsated, burning in her golden burnished hair, in scarlet on her lips, making lovely the soft splendour of her eyes. Hers was the fresh, sweet beauty of ardent youth and spring incarnate, – neither frail and colourlessly spiritual, nor tainted with the stain of clay.

Sometimes Athalie lunched there in the garden with him, Hafiz, seated on the bench beside them, politely observant, condescending to receive a morsel now and then.

It was on such a day, at noon-tide, that Athalie bent over toward him, touched his hair with her lips, then whispered something very low.

His face went white, but he smiled and rose, – came back swiftly to kiss her hands – then entered the house and telephoned to New York.

When he came back to her she was ready to rise, lean on his arm, and walk leisurely to the house.

On the way she called his attention to a pale blue sheet of forget-me-nots spreading under the shrubbery. She noticed other new blossoms in the garden, lingered before the bed of white pansies. "Like little faces," she said with a faint smile.

One silvery-grey iris he broke from its sheathed stem and gave her; she moved slowly on with the scented blossom lifted to her lips.

In the hall a starched and immaculate nurse met her with a significant nod of understanding. And so, between Clive and the trained nurse she mounted the stairs to her room.

Later Clive came in to sit beside her where she lay on her dainty bed. She turned her flushed face on the pillow, smiled at him, and lifted her neck a little; and he slipped one arm under it.

"Such a wonderful pillow your shoulder makes," she murmured… "I am thinking of the first time I ever knew it… So quiet I lay, – such infinite caution I used whenever I moved… That night the air was musical with children's voices – everywhere under the stars – softly garrulous, laughing, lisping, calling from the hills and meadows… That night of miracles and of stars – my dear – my dearest! – "

Close to her cheek he breathed: "Are you in pain?"

"Oh, Clive! I am so happy. I love you so – I love you so."

Then nurse and physician came in and the latter took him by the arm and walked out of the room with him. For a long while they paced the passage-way together in whispered conversation before the nurse came to the door and nodded.

Both went in: Athalie laughed and put up her arms as Clive bent over her.

"All will be well," she whispered, kissed him, then turned her head sharply to the right.

When he found himself in the garden, walking at random, the sun hung a hand's breadth over the woods. Later it seemed to become entangled amid new leaves and half-naked branches, hanging there motionless, blinding, glittering through an eternity of time.

And yet he did not notice when twilight came, nor when the dusk's purple turned to night until he saw lights turned up on both floors.

Nobody summoned him to dinner but he did not notice that. Connor came to him there in the darkness and said that two other physicians had arrived with another nurse. He went into the library where they were just leaving to mount the stairs. They looked at him as they passed but merely bowed and said nothing.

A steady, persistent clangour vibrated in his brain, dulling it, so that senses like sight and hearing seemed slow as though drugged.

Suddenly like a sword the most terrible fear he ever knew passed through him… And after a while the dull, ringing clangour came back, dinning, stupefying, interminable. Yet he was conscious of every sound, every movement on the floor above.

One of the physicians came halfway down the stairs, looked at him; and he rose mechanically and went up.

He saw nothing clearly in the room until he bent over Athalie.

Her eyes unclosed. She whispered: "It is all right, beloved."

Somebody led him out. He kept on, conscious of the grasp on his arm, but seeing nothing.

He had been walking for a long while, somewhere between light and darkness, – perhaps for hours, perhaps minutes. Then somebody came who laid an arm about his shoulder and spoke of courage.

Other people were in the room, now. One said:

"Don't go up yet."… Once he noticed a woman, Mrs. Connor, crying. Connor led her away.

Others moved about or stood silent; and some one was always drawing near him, speaking of courage. It was odd that so much darkness should invade a lighted room.

Then somebody came down the stairs, noiselessly. The house was very still.

And at last they let him go upstairs.