An Opera and Lady Grasmere/Book 2/Chapter 3

HE walk from the house to the post office was barely a matter of ten minutes. When Lady Grasmere and Harvey came out at the lodge gates they had only a few hundred yards of roadway to traverse before they reached the footpath that led across the rectory-field to the churchyard; another hundred yards or so, and they would pass the pond that marked the near end of the village street.

It was close on midnight when they set out. The Countess had taken Harvey's arm, ahead ran the dim roadway, and the darkness closed in on them as they trod, cutting them off the more and more from the consciousness of a gregarious world.

Never before had Lady Grasmere seemed so near to Merceron as on this night. They had often been together at a similar hour: in Cairo, under the heavy stars; at Cannes, watching the moonlight tremble on the idle waves. But these Southern nights held none of the intimacy of the present excursion. They had been too exotic—were almost part of a routine, like the table d'hôte and the after-dinner band; they lacked all familiar appeal, were rather a spectacle than an atmosphere. To-night, this darkness of an English springtide was Merceron's own and hers; no foreign savour distracted them with a heaven and an earth, so multiplied by art and convention as to partake of the theatric.

As they stepped along the world seemed to have dwindled to some desert island where only they two stirred, a personal belonging; every clod of soil, every fold of the darkness, their very own. Thought made an epic of each minute, so close were they, so eloquent the night! The silent stars and the mysterious distances unshrouded nocturnes rarer than any known of musician.

Through Harvey's heart these melodies whispered and melted, equally elusive, equally vague, deep as the night.

The dun outline of a horse showed, black on black, as they struck across the footpath through the rectory-field; the vicarage was in darkness. Around them they could hear the persistent munch of browsing sheep.

The churchyard was heavily silent, the shadowy building in its centre singularly impressive. As they entered at the little swing-gate Harvey felt the arm within his own tighten. He returned the pressure, and they passed down this place of modest sepulture without word, heart and brain the busier for uninterruption.

"You were thinking of Gray and the Elegy?" she whispered as they skirted the pond.

"Yes—and you?"

"Of course."

But a single light burned in the sleeping village, illuminating a low window in the upstairs room of a cottage.

"Poor Tom Martin! Doctor Small says he's dying—and his mother's such a dear. The boy's all she has, too," said Lady Grasmere as they passed.

Harvey's thoughts went back to the churchyard.

They reached the post office, and he dropped the letters into the box. The object of their adventure was accomplished. They turned, walking more slowly than before.

The letters were forgotten, and thought, fully freed, now centered entirely on the personal. The village clock began to strike the hour as they reached the churchyard. Harvey's hand was on the gate. He paused and waited, his eyes on her face, white in that darkness, the spirit looking out on him, paling the night. Twelve! The hour had passed.

"Ghosts!" she whispered, with a nervous little laugh.

His arm went round her.

"No, darling—not yet!"

It was, indeed, no ghostly arm that encircled her, no illusive shape that was encircled.

"I love you—I have always loved you," he breathed.

"And I" Her voice was glorious with perfect happiness.



Through the dark his eyes called to her. She raised her lips to his.

"My queen... My queen!"—his kisses covered her face—"you love me—you love me!" Half in triumph, half questioning, his words came to her.

"I dare not say—how much," she had answered.

Her height was near to his, her upturned face but just below his own. Time swooned as he held her in his arms, breast to breast, the perfume of her hair invading him.

The half-hour chimed on the night. The dead generations below the sod had known no love as this, the barred church no such union. The village slept, wrapped in a stubborn torpor, man beside wife, parent and child. Only the one light burned, in the cottage window where Love and Death were watching. And here in the churchyard stood Love and Life.

The hour struck, a single note that spoke to them of countless hours, a forerunner—so young is Love! A drop in an ocean was this hour, a blade of grass, a grain of sand; and they were treading summer meadows, golden shores!

Tears stirred through Merceron's heart. In that hour he first tasted of the fruit of the tree of Perfect Knowledge, attained to the Open Secret—and Earth held no further veil. The Past, with its near horizons, incomplete emotions, had dwindled, then vanished, in this newer light. At first the old selves had obtruded, had dared dispute the Present—to be found wanting, turned utterly adrift. The Present was built to a larger scale! And amid this débris, this crackling of discarded works, Isabella had once more reappeared, this opera that his unformed manhood had wrought out of its inexperience; a tattered thing, abortive, and piteous in its strained assumption of maturity. Its laboured mewlings, its flagrant shallownesses, now smote him—him who knew. The woman in his arms, the heart that swelled to hers, knew love; and love was a fuller, a deeper melody... Poor Isabella! Poor everything! All, all was poor beside such wealth!

Another half-hour chimed. The dead underfoot had not stirred, nor shaken their worn bones—an antic chorus.

The village was dumb; only its dogs bayed aimlessly at nothings, or a challenging circle of cockerels crowed from farmyard to farmyard. The light behind the one yellow window-pane had vanished. Perhaps Life had surrendered the dying man, had cast its eye over this still churchyard, sure of succession; while Love sobbed through the dark.

"Home, darling—we must go home," they whispered at last.

Their path was strewn with kisses; the April air was warm as the breath of June.

The lodge gates were reached, and they passed down the avenue and on to the lawn. The low lights of the drawing-room glowed soft. They entered and closed the French windows with hands caressing hands.

"Good-night," he said. She was once more in his arms.

"Good-night," she whispered; then, holding him from her, so as the better to see the loved face. "This was the ninth of April."

"I shall always remember."

"It will be my next birthday—and the next."

Her hands fell, and he took them both and covered them with kisses.

"Good -night—good-night," he said.

These words, so fervently repeated, were love-vows. They followed him to his room as he left her.

The whole world whispered, "Good-night!"