Rough-Hewn Part 60

CHAPTER LV

Neale could not sleep. Of course he could not sleep. Sleep was for fools with nothing to think about. But Neale had ... such things to think about!

She had let him in. She had let him in. He stood in the holy of holies and knew that he was welcome.

Now he knew the meaning of her look that first evening on the roof. Now he knew why, up there under the ilex trees that morning, her dear eyes had been for an instant wild as if with fright when he drew near. And yet, even before she had let him in, her eyes had softened from fright to quiet trust as he looked down at her, had softened to that look, _her_ look, which thrust him through and through with love for her.

He turned impatiently back and forth on his bed, seeing, everywhere he looked, those liquid dark eyes, that sweet, sweet mouth, till he held his empty arms out longingly in the dark. His desire was like a fire. He knew such pain as he had not dreamed of, and he would not for any price have lost an instant of that pain. Had he ever said he was an unlighted torch? He was flaming now, to his last fiber.

Presently he got up, lighted his candle and dressed. It was impossible to lie still with this fire of life blazing in him. He would be beside himself by dawn, if he had not worked some of it off. He let himself out carefully into the corridor, and walked down to her door. There, before it were her shoes, her little, dusty shoes which had brought her back to him. He picked one up and held it in his hand. He stroked it like something alive. The dust on it was dear to him.

When he stepped out into the silent, deserted piazza a church clock struck two, boomingly. The night air was cool on his cheek. The great, starlit dusky sky, s.p.a.cious over his head, was none too large to hold the greatness in his heart that night. It filled all s.p.a.ce to the last dim, s.h.i.+ning star. He set off at random, anywhere, not noticing where his feet took him, up one street and down another--blindly, as he had lived. And yet somehow he had found his goal.

The splash of water struck on his ear. He saw in the starlight the dim sheen and sparkle of a fountain--Trevi. He stood still to think of what it reminded him--Madison Square and Martha.

His heart went out to Martha as he stood there. He thought of her not with embarra.s.sment, as the woman he had loved before he met Marise. He had not loved her. He thought of Martha tenderly, calmly, with deep grat.i.tude. He owed all this to her. She had saved him from the second-rate, dingy life he had been so dingily ready to accept. She had somehow divined that there must be something else. Something else! Neale was shaken at the thought! Why, now, this instant, if some one struck him down dead as he stood there, he would have lived more, known more of the joy and sacredness of love than after forty years with Martha. He wished he knew how to pray, so that he could pray that Martha too might know it.

And then, with a rush, Martha was gone from his mind, and Marise stood there, Marise, looking up at him with piteous, frightened eyes that softened to trust, to quiet trust.

He set off swiftly, swinging his arms and talking to himself. How could he be worthy of such a trust! He _would_ be worthy of it. By G.o.d, he would give her a square deal. A square deal such as no other woman ever had! The whole of his heart, his respect, his honor. He would share his life with her loyally, as with an equal ... no hidden thoughts, no half-way openness, no dark corners of compromise, no secret chambers kept for himself. All the great gates flung open to welcome her into her own home.

He flung his arms wide, and looked up at the stars, which were beginning faintly to grow dim against the whitening sky.

His pa.s.sion seized on him now and shook him till he was faint with it.

When it pa.s.sed for a little, he turned back towards the east, towards the Pincian hill where he had so often walked with her, where he had seen her that morning. The shade of the ilex trees was full of her presence to him. He was far from there, half across the city. As if it were a goal he had set himself, he began to hasten, to lengthen his stride, to let out some of the strength that boiled up in him like a geyser.

It did him good to walk furiously fast, to tire himself a little. His thoughts grew less wild, his heart stopped leaping and pounding. She had looked frightened because she was afraid of love, poor darling, as she was of life. He would show her what love could be. He would wash all that old poison of doubt and distrust and fear out of her life with the ocean of his love. They would live together so openly, so honestly, so naturally, that she could forget wholly all the sick, morbid impressions that her life had left on her, that she would come to trust and love life and love and nature, with its serene progression of birth, growth, death, even the decay which is only preparation for another birth.

Why, that was something he could _do_ for her! He had something to give her, something she needed, something to match a little the golden treasure she poured out on him with her every glance. It was incredible good fortune! How under the sun could a man, a poor, plain, ordinary human being, live so that he might be worthy of such transcendent good fortune?

He was swinging up the long steps now, the dawn white and clear about him. Here was where he had turned that morning and saw her standing afar off, bright under the black shade, come back to him! Here was where he had been near enough to see her face, her brows drawn together, the seeking look in her eyes. He had always thought Marise's eyes seemed to be looking for something. Here was where he had seen that they looked frightened. And now he stood on the very spot where she had stood, and he saw again her eyes soften into quiet trust.

If somehow she might find in him what she was looking for! His heart stood still in awe.

He looked out over the sleeping city, its roofs and domes and towers coming palely into the new day; and he saw her dark eyes soften from fright to quiet trust.

G.o.d! Suppose he had never lived, never known Marise! The sweat stood out on him at the thought.

If she could ... if she could look into his face and find that life had put there what she sought.

The sun rose magnificently and cast over all the world a flood of golden light.

Neale stood in it, praising and magnifying G.o.d, who had sent him into life.

CHAPTER LVI

They were on their way to hear a Palestrina ma.s.s in a chapel at St.

Peter's, and stopped beside one of the great fountains rus.h.i.+ng with a leap into the brilliant air and falling in white clouds of spray.

"I've heard," said Livingstone, "that if you get at the right angle to the sun, you can see a million little rainbows."

They began to walk here and there over the wet, moss-grown paving-stones around the base of the fountain, looking up at the glittering splendor of the upward plunging water, their ears filled with the liquid silver plas.h.i.+ng and dripping of its fall. "Perhaps this isn't the right fountain, with the sun where it is," suggested Livingstone. He and Eugenia walked off across the wide piazza towards the other fountain.

Neale turned towards Marise. She was standing on the other side of the basin, and as he looked at her the wind flung the huge white veil of spray over her. She stood in its midst like a novice in her white robes ... or like a bride. Her eyes were lifted to the great plume of the leaping water.

He sprang toward her, crying jealously, "What do you think of when you look like that?" He raised his voice to drown out the shouting uproar of the water.

The wind caught the spray and cast it away to the other side.

She answered him, dreamily, "I was wondering how we could ever know what we are made for?"

The wind s.h.i.+fted and for an instant cast the white veil over them both.

Through it he called to her, "_I_ know! I know what I was made for! To love you all the days of my life."

The wind whirled away the sparkling curtain of water. They stood in the quiet golden suns.h.i.+ne. His ears rang in the silence. Had he really at last cried it out to her? Or was it only one more of the thousand times when he had cried it soundlessly to his own heart? Eugenia and Livingstone had come back, were beside them now, between them; carrying them along up the endless steps to the church door. It was like walking in a dream. Neale tried to see Marise's face, but it was hidden by the broad-brimmed droop of her hat. Only the sweet, sweet lines of her lips....

No, it could not be that he had spoken. It had been only another of those blinding moments when his heart flung itself up, shouting, into the suns.h.i.+ne of her look.

They stepped silently into the dusky, incense-perfumed chapel. Ma.s.s had begun. Eugenia and Marise sank to their knees, Livingstone standing on one side, Neale on the other, the crowd pressing thick and close about them.

From the choir came a long, sonorous chant, and then a silence, in which Neale's thoughts, pounding and hammering in his head, were stilled to one great, solemn pet.i.tion.

The priest turned and pa.s.sed from one side of the altar to the other. He raised his hands over the heads of the kneeling people and chanted the "Pax vobisc.u.m."

"Et c.u.m spiritu tuo," responded the choir, on three long, sighing notes that brought peace with them.

Standing there, upright, looking over the heads of the densely packed crowd, his eyes fixed on the steady yellow flame of the altar-candles, Neale felt a touch on his hand. His heart stopped beating. He knew the lightest touch of that hand, as he knew the lightest sound of that voice.

He stood motionless, not breathing ... waiting.

He felt Marise slip her hand into his, and hold it fast in a close, close clasp. But not so firm as his own on hers. Through the dear flesh of that dear hand he felt her pulse beating against his own, as if he held her in his arms.

The yellow flames of the altar-candles flickered and blurred before his eyes.

A great "Hosanna!" burst from the choir. Or was it in his heart?

CHAPTER LVII

How suddenly it had all broken up, Livingstone thought forlornly, their pleasant little quartet of walks and talks. He had the sensation of being left stranded by the ebbing of a tide which had seemed to buoy him up on great depths. With the disappearance of Miss Mills back to her Paris apartment, the very light had gone out of everything. Miss Allen never had had the social grace and ease of Miss Mills, and now she ate her meals silently and vanished immediately, and Crittenden, not being a social light on any occasion, was of less than no use in saving the situation.