И. Маевская - Лучшие истории о любви / Best love stories

“Now, then, we shall have to save your life at any time; that’s settled. Can I have another cup, Stella?” Tea was resumed, and Ashurst, folding up the paper, put it in his pocket. The talk turned on the advantages of measles, tangerine oranges, honey in a spoon, no lessons, and so forth. Ashurst listened, silent, exchanging friendly looks with Stella, whose face was again of its normal sun-touched pink and white. It was soothing to be so taken to the heart of this jolly family, fascinating to watch their faces. And after tea he talked to Stella in the window seat and looked at her water-colour sketches. The whole thing was like a pleasurable dream; importance and reality suspended. Tomorrow he would go back to Megan, with nothing of all this left save the paper with the blood of these children, in his pocket. Children! Stella was not quite that – as old as Megan! Her talk was quick, rather shy, yet friendly, and about her there was something cool and virginal. At dinner, to which Halliday, who had swallowed too much sea-water, did not come, Sabina said:

“I’m going to call you Frank.”

Freda echoed:

“Frank, Frank, Franky.”

Ashurst grinned and bowed.

“Every time Stella calls you Mr. Ashurst, she’s got to pay a forfeit. It’s ridiculous.”

Ashurst looked at Stella, who grew slowly red. Sabina giggled; Freda cried:

“She’s ‘smoking [89]’ – ‘smoking!’ – Yah!”

Ashurst reached out to right and left, and grasped some fair hair in each hand.

“Look here,” he said, “you two! Leave Stella alone, or I’ll tie you together!”

Freda gurgled:

“Ouch! You are a beast!”

Sabina murmured cautiously:

“You call her Stella, you see!”

“Why shouldn’t I? It’s a jolly name!”

“All right; we give you leave to!”

Ashurst released the hair. Stella! What would she call him – after this? But she called him nothing; till at bedtime he said, deliberately:

“Good-night, Stella!”

“Good-night, Mr. – Good-night, Frank! It was jolly of you, you know!”

“Oh-that! Bosh!”

Her quick, straight handshake tightened suddenly, and as suddenly became slack.

Ashurst stood motionless in the empty sitting-room. Only last night, under the apple tree and the living blossom, he had held Megan to him, kissing her eyes and lips. And he panted, swept by that rush of remembrance. Tonight it should have begun – his life with her who only wanted to be with him! And now, twenty-four hours and more must pass, because of not looking at his watch! Why had he made friends with this family of innocents just when he was saying good-bye to innocence, and all the rest of it? ‘But I mean to marry her,’ he thought; ‘I told her so!’

He took a candle, lighted it, and went to his bedroom, which was next to Halliday’s. His friend’s voice called, as he was passing:

“Is that you, old chap? I say, come in.”

He was sitting up in bed, smoking a pipe and reading.

“Sit down a bit.”

Ashurst sat down by the open window.

“I’ve been thinking about this afternoon, you know,” said Halliday rather suddenly. “They say you go through all your past. I didn’t. I suppose I wasn’t far enough gone.”

“What did you think of?”

Halliday was silent for a little, then said quietly.

“Well, I did think of one thing – rather odd – of a girl at Cambridge that I might have – you know; I was glad I hadn’t got her on my mind. Anyhow, old chap, I owe it to you that I’m here; I should have been in the big dark by now. No more bed, or baccy; [90]no more anything. I say, what do you suppose happens to us?”

Ashurst murmured:

“Go out like flames, I expect.”

“Phew!”

“We may flicker, and cling about a bit, perhaps.”

“Hm! I think that’s rather gloomy. I say, I hope my young sisters have been decent to you?”

“Awfully decent.”

Halliday put his pipe down, crossed his hands behind his neck, and turned his face towards the window.

“They’re not bad kids!” he said.

Watching his friend, lying there, with that smile, and the candle-light on his face, Ashurst shuddered. Quite true! He might have been lying there with no smile, with all that sunny look gone out for ever! He might not have been lying there at all, but “sanded” at the bottom of the sea, waiting for resurrection on the ninth day, was it? And that smile of Halliday’s seemed to him suddenly something wonderful, as if in it were all the difference between life and death – the little flame – the all! He got up, and said softly:

“Well, you ought to sleep, I expect. Shall I blow out? [91]”

Halliday caught his hand.

“I can’t say it, you know; but it must be rotten to be dead. Good-night, old boy!”

Ashurst squeezed the hand, and went downstairs. The hall door was still open. The stars were bright in a very dark blue sky, and by their light some lilacs had that mysterious colour of flowers by night which no one can describe. Ashurst pressed his face against a spray; and before his closed eyes Megan started up, with the tiny brown spaniel pup against her breast. “I thought of a girl that I might have – you know. I was glad I hadn’t got her on my mind!” He jerked his head away from the lilac, and began walking up and down over the grass, a grey phantom coming to substance for a moment in the light from the lamp at either end. He was with her again under the living, breathing whiteness of the blossom, the stream chattering by, the moon glinting steel-blue on the bathing-pool; back in the rapture of his kisses on her upturned face of innocence and humble passion, back in the suspense and beauty of that pagan night. He stood still once more in the shadow of the lilacs. Here the sea, not the stream, was Night’s voice; the sea with its sigh and rustle; no little bird, no owl, no nightjar called; but a piano tinkled, and the white houses cut the sky with solid curve, and the scent from the lilacs filled the air. A window of the hotel, high up, was lighted; he saw a shadow move across the blind. And most queer sensations stirred within him, a sort of twining and turning of a single emotion on itself, as though spring and love, bewildered and confused, seeking the way, were baffled. This girl, who had called him Frank, whose hand had given his that sudden little clutch, this girl so cool and pure – what would she think of such wild, unlawful loving? He was sitting on the grass cross-legged, with his back to the house, motionless as some carved Buddha. Was he really going to break through innocence? Sniff the scent out of a wild flower, and – perhaps – throw it away? “Of a girl at Cambridge that I might have – you know!” He put his hands to the grass, one on each side, palms downwards, and pressed; it was just warm still – the grass, soft and firm and friendly. ‘What am I going to do?’ he thought. Perhaps Megan was at her window, looking out at the blossom, thinking of him! Poor little Megan! ‘Why not?’ he thought. ‘I love her! But do I really love her? or do I only want her because she is so pretty, and loves me? What am I going to do?’ The piano tinkled on, the stars flickered; and Ashurst stared before him at the dark sea, as if spell-bound. He got up at last, rather chilly. There was no longer light in any window. And he went in to bed.

Out of a deep and dreamless sleep he was awakened by the sound of thumping on the door. A shrill voice called:

“Hi! Breakfast’s ready.”

He jumped up. Where was he —? Ah!

He found them already eating marmalade, and sat down in the empty place between Stella and Sabina, who, after watching him a little, said:

“I say, do hurry up; we’re going to start at half-past nine.”

“We’re going to Berry Head, old chap; you must come!”