The Raft
when he had opened his eyes to hear the river tapping, had looked out
of his window to see the breeze whipping the water and the plumed trees
nodding, there had been no rest in the day's gladness till he had heard
her tripping footsteps. She had crept into his blood. All past things
were unremembered--past ambitions and past loyalties. Every beauty
grouped itself about her. The grayness of her eyes drew his soul out.
The soft, slurring notes of her voice were for him the finest music. Had
he been offered the joy of one month with her, for which all the years
of his life should be forfeit, he would willingly have accepted. The
thought of marriage had already occurred to him. That he should be only
nineteen was a tragedy. Would she wait for him? With no more than a
week's acquaintance by which to judge he knew that she would wait for no
one. She was elusive--one moment a child, the next a woman. And she sat
there gazing at him through the shadows, her hands folded meekly on her
breast--a nunlike trick which she had learnt at the convent. It gave
her an appearance of piety, which the red defiance of her mouth and gray
challenge of her eyes negatived. She was the first woman he had loved.
He loved her uncalculatingly, with his soul and body, as a man loves but
once, when he is young.
They had passed _The Skylark_ and were nearing the island. All the other
boats were left behind. Her voice came to him throbbingly, like a
harp fingered softly. “You're disappointed in me. You'll often be
disappointed.”
He could not bear that she should blame herself. He drew in his paddle.
“I'm not, only----”
“Only what? A man always says 'only' when he's trying to deceive
himself.”
“Only, why did you do it?”
She didn't answer his question. How could she tell why? Because she was
young; because she knew that she was pretty. “You looked splendid,”
she said, “when you struck him.” And then she mentioned the one thing
concerning which he, as a man, would have kept silent. “You kissed me,
Peter.”
His blood quickened. Was she reproaching him or simply saying, “You love
me; we're alone together?” She was leaning forward now, looking away
from him, her throat resting against the back of her hand. He crept
toward her, knelt at her feet and pressed his lips against her dress.
Her eyes came back to him. “You'd better go away and forget me.”
He slipped his arm about her body, drawing her to him. “Do you want me
to go away--to go out of your life forever?”
“No.” The word was whispered and slowly uttered. She touched him gently,
patting his hand. “Peter, I'm not your sort. You know that.”
“But you are my sort, or else how could I feel--feel what I am feeling?
You'll learn to love me, Cherry.”
She took it without a tremor, this declaration which had cost him such
effort. She shook her head. “The Faun Man tells Eve that every time
they're together. I wonder how many men have said it. Love comes in an
instant. You can't learn it.”
“But why not?”
She bent over him like a mother. Her mouth was rounded; no wonder they
called her Cherry. She was adorable in compassion. “You don't know me.
I'm not at all what you think. Ask the Faun Man. Don't you remember at
the Happy Cottage? It wasn't for breaking his pictures that he sent me
to the convent.”
“But I'll make you love me,” he insisted. “You don't know what I'd do
for you. I'd die for you, Cherry. There's nothing about you that I don't
worship. You're so long and sweet--and------” He laid his face against
her cold, white cheek and caught his breath. She was like marble; he
could feel no stir in her--and his every nerve was throbbing. “Don't you
like to be loved?”
She seemed to marvel at his passion, as if it were a thing which she did
not understand, by which she was puzzled. Oddly, to his way of thinking,
she showed no terror of him. Her eyes dwelt on him with clear and kindly
interest. “Every girl likes to be loved. But that's different. I don't
think you'll ever teach me, Peter. And yet----. Hadn't we better be
getting back?”
“Oh, not yet.” He felt that he was going to lose her--lose her forever.
Surely, surely he could rouse her to a sense of the poetry and drama
which was burning in his blood. It was impossible that she should not
feel it. She had been sleeping, as he had been sleeping, letting love
go by with its banners and drums. “Oh, not yet,” he pleaded; “all these
years we've lived--we've hardly ever been together.”
She broke the suspense by laughing. “What's your favorite hymn, Peter?”
He was puzzled. “Haven't got one. Never thought about it. What makes you
ask?”
She wriggled her shoulders. “Because mine's 'Yield not to temptation.'”
He didn't catch the significance of her remark. She saw that. “Still
a little boy, aren't you? A little boy of nineteen, who thinks he's in
love. There are heaps of other girls in the world.--Yes, I'll come.”
He piled the cushions for her; then took the paddle and seated himself
so he could face her. Their conversation was carried on by fits and
starts, with long pauses.
“He was a beast.” She spoke reflectively.
“Who was?”
“Hardcastle.”
“But I thought--I was afraid you liked him.”
She trailed her hand in the black water, watching how it slipped through
her fingers. “I did like him for the moment. That proves I'm not nice.
Women often like men who are beasts.”
“But you don't like him now?”
She teased him, keeping him waiting. “I'm glad you struck him.”
Presently she said, “Peter, I've been thinking, why can't we have good
times together? We could be friends and--nothing serious, but more than
exactly friends. Lots of girls do it.”
Peter stopped paddling. “I should have to love you. I should be always
hoping that----”
“Then it wouldn't be fair to you,” she said.
He had been silent for some minutes. “Where did you learn so much about
men? I know nothing about women.”
“Where did I learn?” she laughed. “Girls know without learning. Until
to-night no man ever kissed me--not the way you kissed me. So you
needn't be jealous.”
The punt nosed its way among rushes and came to rest. He crouched
against her feet, holding her hands, trembling at her nearness. The deep
stillness of the night enfolded them. Reeds stood up tall on every
side, shutting out the world. Above their heads a flock of fleecy clouds
wandered, with unseen shepherds swinging stars for lanterns. The man in
the moon looked out of his window with a tolerant smile on his mouth.
She lay against the cushions, white and impassive, her long, fine throat
stretched back.
“Peter,” she said, “look up there; those clouds, they don't know where
they're going. Someone's driving them from one world to another, like
sheep to pasture. We're like that; someone's driving us--and we
don't know where we're going.” And then, “You love me, with all your
heart--yes, I believe that; and I--I love someone else. We each love
someone who doesn't care; and I have to let you do it--I, who know the
pain of it. Poor Peter, what a pity God didn't make us so that we could
love each other.”
And again, “I don't know any man in the world with whom I'd trust myself
to do what we're doing. Oh, I don't want to hurt you, Peter. If ever I
should hurt you, you'll remember?”
He couldn't speak--didn't want to speak. He and she were awake and
together, while all the world slept--that was sufficient.
How still it was! He could hear the soft intake of her breath and the
rustle of her dress. “So this is love!” he kept saying to himself. It
wasn't at all what he had expected. It wasn't a wild rush of words and
an eager clutching of hands. It wasn't an extravagance of actions and
language. It was just tenderness. He unbent her fingers, marveling at
their frailness. He pressed the palm of her hand against his mouth. He
felt like a little child as he sat beside this silent girl.
Cherry lifted herself on the cushions. She gave him both her hands.
“What is it?”
She seemed afraid. When she spoke, her voice trembled. “When two people
are married, is it always one who allows and one who loves? You don't
know; you can't tell me. If both don't love it must be terrible. I
couldn't bear only to give everything; and only to take everything, that
would be worse. Oh, Peter, I have to tell you. It was like that with my
mother. She couldn't give everything to my father, and then--she found
someone else. My father worshiped her--just as you'd worship me, Peter;
when he knew that she was going away from him he--he kept her.” She
covered her face. “He was hanged for it. And that's why the Faun
Man----. He was his friend. Oh, I'm afraid of myself; I almost wish we'd
never met.”
He held her to him; she was shaken with sobbing. Suddenly he recalled
how he had first seen her, rushing out of the Happy Cottage, with her
brown-black hair tumbled about her white face and her gray eyes wide
with tragedy. She was so wilful, and she so needed protection.
“Cherry, Cherry. Don't be frightened. Don't cry, dear. I love you.
Nothing like that could ever happen to us.”
She stared at him. “Nothing like that could ever happen! I expect they
said that.”
_They! They!_ And was it they who had called her Cherry, because her
lips were red?
Her eyes closed. Her lashes were wet; beneath them were shadows.
He gazed on her, clasping her to him tenderly, as though she were a
bewildered bird which had flown blindly into his breast. Her breath came
softly. He thought her sleeping and kissed her mouth; her hand sought
his and lay there trustingly.
What pictures he had of her! He saw her dancing before the flushed and
foolish faces of those men; he saw her as he had met her on the bridge
in her cool, blowy summer dress; he saw her in the Haunted Wood, where
the little river ran, bidding him turn back. Because of what she had
just told him, he felt that he had never loved her until now.
Like a counterpane tucking in the sleepy stars, the mist of dawn crept
up. Near into the bank, behind the wall of rushes, a moor-hen was
splashing. The countryside whispered with creature sounds. A bird was
calling. How long had it been calling? An owl flew over his head, in
haste to keep pace with the retreat of darkness. Along the east, above
the spears of the reeds, a little redness spread. A thrush tried over
a few staves. Before he had burst in song a perky blackbird was piping
valiantly. The fields fluttered, as though a messenger ran through them,
telling wild-flowers to raise their heads. The east smoldered higher;
conflagration smoked sideways and upward. A door opened in a cloud;
the sun stepped out. Like the unhurried crash of an orchestra the
world shouted. It happened every morning while men slept. It was
stupendous--appalling.
How white she was! He bent over her. Her eyes opened. She gave his arm
a little hug. “Were you kissing me, Peter? You mustn't, mustn't love me
like that.”
Ah, mustn't! It was too late to forbid him. The insanity of the night
was all forgotten; only its sweetness was left. From his window the man
in the moon looked down; his mouth seemed to droop at the corners. He
would watch for them next night, and they would not come. He might never
know the end of their story. He was despondent; he had to go to bed.
Peter was chafing her hands.
“How good you are!”
“Not good. Only in love.”
And she, “I dreamt of you. We were in the Haunted Wood. My feet were
bare, and----”
He held her eyes earnestly. “I wish I had been there. All these years
it was the grayness of your eyes and--and something else that I
remembered.”
“What else? No, tell me.”
“The whiteness of your feet,” he whispered.
Again they were in fairyland. Yellow as a topaz set in turquoise the
sun stood free in the heavens. Inhabitants of the fearless morning