“You child,” she gasped, “you don’t understand, you can’t understand—God help me, I love you!” And now she had the girl in her arms and was kissing her eyes and her mouth: “Mary … Mary. …”
They stood there lost to all sense of time, to all sense of reason, to all things save each other, in the grip of what can be one of the most relentless of all the human emotions.
Then Stephen’s arms suddenly fell to her sides: “Stop, stop for God’s sake—you’ve got to listen.”
Oh, but now she must pay to the uttermost farthing for the madness that had left those words unspoken—even as her father had paid before her. With Mary’s kisses still hot on her lips, she must pay and pay unto the uttermost farthing. And because of an anguish that seemed past endurance, she spoke roughly; the words when they came were cruel. She spared neither the girl who must listen to them, nor herself who must force her to stand there and listen.
“Have you understood? Do you realize now what it’s going to mean if you give yourself to me?” Then she stopped abruptly … Mary was crying.
Stephen said, and her voice had grown quite toneless: “It’s too much to ask—you’re right, it’s too much. I had to tell you—forgive me, Mary.”
But Mary turned on her with very bright eyes: “You can say that—you, who talk about loving! What do I care for all you’ve told me? What do I care for the world’s opinion? What do I care for anything but you, and you just as you are—as you are, I love you! Do you think I’m crying because of what you’ve told me? I’m crying because of your dear, scarred face … the misery on it. … Can’t you understand that all that I am belongs to you, Stephen?”
Stephen bent down and kissed Mary’s hands very humbly, for now she could find no words any more … and that night they were not divided.
XXXIX
I
A strange, though to them a very natural thing it seemed, this new and ardent fulfilment; having something fine and urgent about it that lay almost beyond the range of their wills. Something primitive and age-old as Nature herself, did their love appear to Mary and Stephen. For now they were in the grip of Creation, of Creation’s terrific urge to create; the urge that will sometimes sweep forward blindly alike into fruitful and sterile channels. That well-nigh intolerable life force would grip them, making them a part of its own existence; so that they who might never create a new life, were yet one at such moments with the fountain of living. … Oh, great and incomprehensible unreason!
But beyond the bounds of this turbulent river would lie gentle and most placid harbours of refuge; harbours in which the body could repose with contentment, while the lips spoke slow, indolent words, and the eyes beheld a dim, golden haze that blinded the while it revealed all beauty. Then Stephen would stretch out her hand and touch Mary where she lay, happy only to feel her nearness. The hours would slip by towards dawn or sunset; flowers would open and close in the bountiful garden; and perhaps, if it should chance to be evening, beggars would come to that garden, singing; ragged fellows who played deftly on their guitars and sang songs whose old melodies hailed from Spain, but whose words sprang straight from the heart of the island:
“Oh, thou whom I love, thou art small and guileless;
Thy lips are as cool as the sea at moonrise.
But after the moon there cometh the sun;
After the evening there cometh the morning.
The sea is warmed by the kiss of the sun,
Even so shall my kisses bring warmth to thy lips.
Oh, thou whom I love, thou art small and guileless.”
And now Mary need no longer sigh with unrest, need no longer lay her cheek against Stephen’s shoulder; for her rightful place was in Stephen’s arms and there she would be, overwhelmed by the peace that comes at such times to all happy lovers. They would sit together in a little arbour that looked out over miles upon miles of ocean. The water would flush with the afterglow, then change to a soft, indefinite purple; then, fired anew by the African night, would gleam with that curious, deep blue glory for a space before the swift rising of the moon. “Thy lips are as cool as the sea at moonrise; but after the moon there cometh the sun.”
And Stephen as she held the girl in her arms, would feel that indeed she was all things to Mary; father, mother, friend and lover, all things; and Mary all things to her—the child, the friend, the beloved, all things. But Mary, because she was perfect woman, would rest without thought, without exultation, without question; finding no need to question since for her there was now only one thing—Stephen.
II
Time, that most ruthless enemy of lovers, strode callously forward into the spring. It was March, so that down at the noisy Puerto the bougainvilleas were in their full glory, while up in the old town of Orotava bloomed great laden bushes of white camellias. In the garden of the villa the orange trees flowered, and the little arbour that looked over the sea was covered by an ancient wisteria vine whose mighty trunk was as thick as three saplings. But in spite of a haunting shadow of regret at the thought of leaving Orotava, Stephen was deeply and thankfully happy. A happiness such as she had never conceived could be hers, now possessed her body and soul—and Mary also was happy.
Stephen would ask her: “Do I content you? Tell me, is there anything you want in the world?”
Mary’s answer was always the same; she would say very gravely: “Only you, Stephen.”
Ramon had begun to speculate about them, these two Englishwomen who were so
