Wanderfoot (The Dream Ship)
tears, she said:
"Is there anything you would like, Joe?"
"No, thank you, dear ... I have you!" He spoke gently, and put out his
hand to her without opening his eyes. A moment later his sombre thought
escaped from him almost involuntarily.
"I have you--though God knows for how long!" Then he waited for the
touch of her lips on his, the rush of tender reproach for his unfaith.
He did not indeed know how passionately hungry he was for those
words--until they did not come! Nor how his lips ached for the touch of
hers--until that long, still moment of waiting! Nothing happened;
nothing came. No kiss, no word of protest. He could scarcely believe it
at first. If he had not still been holding her hand, he might have
supposed that she had risen and gone away. For he had not opened his
eyes, but lay waiting as sometimes one waits with eyes closed for the
coming of a beautiful thing. The knowledge flashed upon him suddenly
that it was a long while since Val had kissed him. So long, that he
could scarcely remember when. Was it before his illness? No: looking
back down the vista of burning days of fever and discomfort, he could
remember that before unconsciousness came upon him her fresh mouth was
often laid like a rose upon his dry one and at the memory he longed
again for its fragrance as a thirsty man in the desert longs for a cup
of cold water. He was aware that when at last she did bend over him he
would bind his arms round her, and holding her fast to his heart devour
and consume her, and never let her go from him again. But in the same
moment he was seized with the torment all true lovers know, the
agonising knowledge that however much the lips may devour and the arms
bind, and the heart strain to hold there is a limit to the reach of
human love, a door to which the key will never be found, a barrier
beyond which the aloof and lonely soul of the beloved sits stern and
contemplative, for ever lonely in its secret place. This is the torment
of all earthly love. No true lovers but have sought in each other's
eyes the key of that implacable door, striven to drag the secret from
each other's lips, known the darkness and desolation of that outer
place! Lying there, waiting for his wife's kiss, Garrett Westenra
suffered this torment for the first time.
It was characteristic of him that when at last he understood that she
meant to make no response either by word or deed to the cry of his heart
so thinly veiled beneath the sadness of his words, he did not question
or upbraid her. He only lay very still, turning over and over in his
mind the cruel fact that she was weary of him and of their life
together. Between his half-closed lids he observed her, silent and
white, looking down at the hand which, tightly held by his, lay on her
knee. He realised then how fierce his grip had been, and relaxing it
gently drew away his hand. What good to grip the casket so close when
the jewel it had held for him was gone!
"What do you think we had better do, Val?" he said at last, speaking out
of his pain, and meaning "with the rest of life." He did not expect so
quick and definite a response as she made.
"I think that as soon as you feel well enough to travel you should go
out West, and stay until you are quite strong again."
"You and the children too?"
"Oh! no, no!" she cried hastily--too hastily with so keen a listener
intent on her. She saw her mistake and tried to cover it with calm
reasoning words. "What change would it be for you with us everlastingly
at your heels? Bran rampaging, Haidee worrying--and I--oh, of course,
it would not do at all. You must see that." Her arguments might have
sounded silly but for their urgency to convince, and her pleading eyes.
He stared straight before him, but missed no single shade of her face or
voice.
"We will stay at home and mind things," she continued, "and be quite all
right, until----"
"Until?"
"Until you come back...."
"And then?"
She knew she ought not to let him draw her on, that it would be better
to wait until he returned, but she was an honest creature by nature, and
though circumstances were plunging her deep in duplicity, she had not
yet learned to conceal and wait. Besides, she wanted to get the pain
over, the thing settled and done with, past recanting. If he were cold
and angry so much the better for her. It would be easier to bear than
if he tried to detain her with kind words.
"Then," she stammered, "Garrett, I think, we--the children and I--ought
to go away for awhile ... to England, or France perhaps--some place
where living is more reasonable than here, and I can get strong again,
and be of some use to you...."
No word from him. He did not even raise his eyes. So she stumbled on
hopelessly, embittered by his silence and misunderstanding, longing to
have him see how much she cared, how it broke her heart to make such a
suggestion, yet fearing that he would combat it.
"You know, Garrett, that I am no good in this place ... never have been.
Later perhaps when I am strong again I may be of some use ... when Bran
is older.... You must see for yourself ... I cannot manage the house at
present--(I have always mismanaged it)--with Bran wanting so much
attention. It would be best to get one of your good nurses to take
charge ... anybody could do it better than I...."
So she had it all planned out! She had arranged for "the rest of life"
without consulting him! All the time he lay sick she had been plotting
to escape. Small wonder he felt the return of her old elusiveness, had
become aware of distance between them.
Separation! That was to be the end of the voyage in the dream ship--of
his life with the dream woman. Had it all been a dream perhaps? ... a
dream full of dark places, with thorns for the flesh and pits for the
feet ... but always--that was good to remember in this dark hour--always
stars overhead. The stars had never before failed though they were
dying out now. So she was a quitter after all! A deserter! Unfaithful
to the post she had chosen. Somehow he could never have believed it
except from her lips. It was hard to believe, looking at that face
softly hollowed by weariness and worry, the faithful deep eyes, the
tender lips, the hands grown diaphanous in his service. Nothing had
been too hard or base in his household for those hands to strive with,
he knew that. And how she had nursed him! That he owed his life to her
was certain. And now, so soon, so soon, she nullified all, her
tenderness and devotion, the precious unhappiness, the sacred
sacrifices--the wonderful bonds that trouble shared can make, everything
was broken and rendered void by this act of desertion!
It must be remembered that he came of a race of women who had, so to
speak, habitually lived heroic lives. The men of his family, never able
to offer ease to their women folk, expected heroism and self-sacrifice
of them, and no Westenra woman had ever failed the expectation--_until
now_! Yes, that was a thought that hurt. That ate like acid in an open
wound. Val was not one of _them_! His wife, the woman on whom he had
staked his honour and belief, was not of the stuff of which Westenra
wives were made! Until that hour, spite of failure, trouble, and
disappointment, he could have sworn away his soul on her loyalty--what
did the mere failure of plans, or lack of money matter, when they had
each other, were content to tread the same road together, the same
ideals in their hearts, their eyes fixed on the same stars! And by God
he could have sworn ... but what was the use! She had proved his
judgment wrong, that was all. She was just the ordinary woman, sick of
her job, anxious to get away from it. "Lots of women like her in
America," he reflected sardonically. No one who knew the circumstance
could blame her. He least of all would blame her. Only--his soul was
sick within him! But, as always, he hid his wound from her. Not a sign
of what he felt when at last he spoke, quietly, reflectively, almost it
sounded to her, approvingly.
"No doubt it would be a very wise arrangement."
She had been twisting her hands in nervous agitation, her beautiful,
strange eyes full of the ardour that had always been like wine to him,
though he had never told her so. Now a rush of words came from her
lips, she was almost incoherent in her gratitude.
"Oh, Joe! ... if you think so ... if you won't mind ... it will not be
for long ... only six months or so--a year perhaps."
He stared at her in bitter astonishment. (Only a year perhaps! Why not
ten years--twenty years--the rest of life?)
"I will take such care of your Brannie for you.... I 'll never let him
forget you for a moment ... and I 'll come back so different ... ready
to tackle any problem ... you 'll see what a clever housewife I will
be."
(He did n't want a clever housewife. He had believed he did, but now he
knew that all he wanted was Val. He had arrived at desiring nothing
better than her fantastic housekeeping and gipsy camping-out methods.
She had spoilt him for comfort and set rule.)
"We must get some one to take charge of the place ... Miss Holland is a
splendid woman.... I know she will make a success of it ... and before I
go I will find you a good housekeeper who will look after you well."
(Before she went! Oh! damn it, why should she look at him like that, as
though it were for his happiness she was arranging instead of her own?
As though planning loyalty instead of desertion--treachery! How could
she smile--gladly, gratefully, when she was taking herself out of his
life, robbing him of the light of his son's golden head!)
"And if you will let me have Haidee? ..." she spoke more diffidently
now. "I fear she will be a care to you. I would do my best for
her----"
"No!" he interrupted sharply, "if you take Bran I must console myself
with Haidee. I should think you could spare me her, at least!"
She turned white as death. Haidee to take Bran's place with him! Their
son--her love-baby--to be exiled from his father's heart as well as from
his home! Of what use then all her plotting, her secret grief and
suffering endured, that father and son might be spared.
"Oh, Joe! Oh, Joe!" was all she could say.
He stared at her incredulously. He had no idea she was so fond of
Haidee. It seemed indeed as if she could be fond of any one but
himself! He was thankful that Haidee herself made an end to the
miserable discussion by bounding in at the moment and embracing him
boisterously.
"And can I bring Bran in?" she cried, as soon as she had finished
hugging him. "He 's just on the stairs. Nurse has brought him home
from his walk ... he looks such a duck in his new pink pelisse."
"Yes, bring him in," said Westenra, heavily, but a moment later, when
his son was sprawling on the bed thrusting fat fists into his father's
eyes, exploring his father's nose and ears, moodiness departed from that
father, and he began to laugh like a boy.
"Just feel that leg, Haidee ... muscle--sheer muscle. I tell you this
fellow is a hot number. He 's going to make the athletes sit up and take
notice; are n't you, old man? Hi! that's my nose!"
"He smells like a nice ripe peach! Oh, would n't I love to eat him!"
shrieked Haidee, and hugged him until Val had to call out a warning not
to crack his ribs. She stood watching them, unshed tears scorching her
eyes. They were so dear, so very dear, that man and child; and Haidee
too was dear for loving them so well. It was pain even to look at them.
Their dearness burnt like flame. She felt that if she stayed in the
room a moment longer she must fling herself down by them, cry out the
truth to Westenra, tell him she could never leave him, nor rob him of