Part 3 — CHAPTER VII ARCADIA

"Yes, it's very wonderful," said Rosemary. "Just like a dream—only I never dreamt of anything like this."

"One has to see it first," said the man beside her lazily.

He was lying stretched out at full length on the short grass with his hat so arranged over his face as to shield it from the hot sun and enable him to watch his companion at the same time.

She was not looking at him. Her eyes were fixed upon the almost indigo blue of the sea far below them. From somewhere in the magic distance there came the sound of mule-bells, tinkling fitfully along the precipitous road which wound above the shore but which was entirely hidden by cypress-trees from her high perch on the hill. Her blue eyes had a brooding intent look, as though they searched for something which they did not expect to find. She wore a broad-brimmed hat, and under it her face was deeply flushed with a peach-like bloom that intensified her beauty astoundingly. The Rosemary of Little Staple had been a vision to remember—exquisite as an opening bud; but the Rosemary who sat on the hill above the sunlit Italian shore glowed with a dazzling loveliness that was very near to perfection. The warm vitality of her was like an aura spreading outwards in sheer radiance. Yet her eyes gazed forth to the horizon as if they sought the unattainable.

On the dark face of the man who watched her there rested a whimsical half-speculative look. It held conscious power and yet a certain hesitancy. He might have been a hunter in possession of a priceless trophy which he preferred to tame rather than to destroy. It was always thus that he regarded her, sometimes appraisingly, sometimes even with compassion, but he never seemed to tire of the vision.

"I wonder what you are looking for," he said presently.

He had said it to her before and she had not answered. A certain reticence had developed in her since that night, now three weeks ago, when the gates of childhood had closed behind her and she had fared forth into an unknown world with an unknown companion to guide her. She had never asked to go back or spoken of that which lay behind. But the wistfulness had begun to grow in her eyes of late, and there were times when she seemed to withdraw into herself as if she would fain hide her soul from the scrutiny of those eyes which so perpetually watched her. Her instinct was to avoid all intimate talk, and during their travels she had no difficulty in doing so. It was only when they came to a halting-place, as now, that she was aware of any effort on his part to draw nearer to her. He had never attempted to make love to her since that night that she had thrown herself upon his mercy. And yet she knew with an odd certainty that he was merely biding his time. His absolute and unvarying self-control did not deceive her on that point. She realized that some day, when he judged the right moment to have arrived, he would demand more of her, and that she would have no choice but to yield. Sometimes the thought brought a knocking of fear to her heart, but she always put it from her. For she had taken her own road and there could be no return. And even yet the glamour had not wholly faded. His personality had a dominant quality which held her as it were in spite of herself. He was not the prince of her dreams, as for a very brief period she had imagined. He was Aunt Bobby's rejected lover. Yet by a strange magnetism he still held her. On the night of the ball she had been dazzled, and to a certain extent she was dazzled yet, just as the mind may remain affected by a dream in waking hours. But he did not stand for romance in her soul. The Dick Dynamo of other days—the man she had pictured long ago—was of a very different type, though in some respects possessing the same characteristics. There had been no cynical disillusionment about him. He had been of a fiery and ardent temperament, and capable of kindling ardour in others. This man was world-weary and inclined to sneer at life. She even pitied him at times; he seemed to have missed so much. He never talked freely of the years that lay behind him. Yes, he had been in Mexico, had dabbled in politics and been badly stung on one or two occasions. Yes, there had been a few breezes. The Mexican climate was given to that sort of thing. One lived by one's wits more or less. Sometimes one was in irons and sometimes in clover. That old scar of his? Oh yes, that had been quite a decent wound once. He had been able to show his back teeth like a dog. It had been just one of their little shows, and he flattered himself he had come out of it rather well. Anyhow the feminine element had not seemed to consider his charms greatly impaired thereby. He always spoke of women with a sort of scoffing indulgence, much as one might speak of jewels of trumpery value; never with bitterness. The only woman of whom he had uttered a word of disparagement was Bobby, and since that first night he had never mentioned her name. The door of memory which had then been opened for the first time in many years had been closed again and sealed. And Rosemary would not have dared to tamper with that door even had she so desired. But her own inclination also was to hold her peace on that subject, though she sometimes felt as if her heart were bleeding beneath her silence now that the novelty of this strange wandering life had begun to wear away. The dream was passing and reality was coming upon her. Kind as was her new guardian, he did not fill those inner spaces in which Bobby's tenderness had flourished. She did not find herself fondly cherished and sheltered on every side from the faintest shadow of harm. The utter devotion upon which she had thrived from babyhood was lacking now. He did not pretend to be in love with her, this care-worn, cynical man of the world. There might be passion somewhere locked behind that mask-like front, but not the pure white flame of Love. Aunt Bobby had loved her, had prayed for her, was probably praying still. This was a thought which always wrenched at Rosemary's heart. For she had wholly ceased to pray herself since those gates had closed behind her. All the foundations of her inner life had seemed to give way when her faith in Bobby had been shattered. Her dependence upon her had been as vital to her as the blood in her veins. That Bobby could possibly be other than she had always professed to be was so amazing, so staggering, a thought that she had gone down before it. But for the novelty of her present experiences, there would have been nothing left to her. The world for Rosemary had become a place of terrible possibilities and she dared not let herself think too much. She was as one adrift in great waters, no longer attempting to steer a course, merely clinging to her raft with a frantic hope that by some means she might eventually succeed in reaching safety. She fought desperately to keep herself from thinking of the one beloved who had so cruelly failed her, but often the result of her efforts was a despairing flood of tears as soon as she was alone. She would lie in the dark at night and writhe in bitterness of soul, trying to stem those tears of agony, fighting as it were for her very life against the overwhelming grief that could not always be kept at bay. It was like a gnawing hunger within her, sapping youth and vitality alike—a hunger that nothing could ever satisfy. She had begun to face the fact that the sheer unsullied joy of life could never be hers again. The power of enjoyment seemed to have gone from her, her sky to be permanently overcast. And so she sat in the radiant Italian sunshine and brooded, with her eyes upon the horizon. She had given herself into the hands of a stranger, but everyone—even Aunt Bobby—had become a stranger to her now. It was useless to attempt to scan the future. All was dark before her. Equally useless to look back along the course she had traversed—that course over which there could be no return! She could only cling to her spar and float till another storm should arise and—perchance—overwhelm her utterly. It was a desperate predicament and she tried not to contemplate it too closely. He had been kind to her hitherto; perhaps he would continue to be kind. But all feeling of security was gone, and only her homesick longing for Bobby remained—a tragic sense of loss which haunted her like a spectre that none other could see.

She became aware that her companion had spoken to her for the third time, and almost guiltily she turned her eyes away from the glittering stretch of deep blue sea.

"I am not looking for anything," she said.

"You look like a ship-wrecked mariner on a desert island," he said, with lazy humour, "searching the skyline for a sail."

She suppressed a shiver. He had an uncanny fashion of expressing her feelings at times which made her feel like an open book, the pages of which he turned idly and at random for his own private amusement.

He saw her momentary discomfiture and smiled. "A bull's eye, was it? Well, after all, the desert island isn't such a bad place. Some people even might call it Arcadia. And it seems to suit you all right. You get lovelier every day."

He proffered this compliment much as an indulgent nurse might dangle a sugar-plum in front of a child who showed signs of fractiousness. A vague impatience stirred within Rosemary. Why did he always treat her as a child?

"You don't think much of women, do you?" she said, almost in spite of herself.

"Nothing whatever," said Dick Dynamo; and then he laughed. There was something disarming about his laugh which comforted her. "It doesn't matter what I think, does it?" he said.

"I suppose it does to you," said Rosemary.

"Oh, to me!" She was aware of an edge in his words which made them less reassuring than his laugh had been. "No, quite honestly, I don't think anything matters very much to me—not even my own opinion. It's the penalty of age, you know, Rosemary. You'll come to it one day."

Rosemary nodded understanding. She felt near to it already. "I expect I shall," she said. "One lives and learns."

"One does indeed," said Dick Dynamo; and added the next moment, still half-laughing, "I wonder how much you have learnt in the past three or four weeks that you never wot of before."

The colour rose in her face. "I don't know," she said, as he waited for a reply. "It's hard to realize how ignorant I used to be."

"Which do you find the most blissful," he asked, "ignorance or knowledge?"

"I don't know," she said again. "But one's got to have knowledge, hasn't one?"

He made a wry face. "Applied with the rod of adversity, eh?"

"I don't suppose all knowledge is like that," said Rosemary.

"Oh no, there is the pleasant variety," he assured her. "Italy for instance! You are learning Italy under conditions that you never dreamed of. You can't say that Italy is an altogether unpleasant proposition."

"Oh no!" said Rosemary, and she spoke with emphasis. "I love Italy. I wish—I wish I had been born here."

"You wouldn't be nearly so attractive if you had been," he said.

"I should have been much happier," declared Rosemary.

"Ah! You are not very happy now, are you?" he said.

Her colour deepened under his eyes. "That isn't your fault," she murmured almost under her breath.

"Are you sure it isn't?" he said.

She avoided his look for a moment or two; then with resolution she met it. "Quite sure," she said.

"Does that mean it isn't in my power to give you happiness?" he questioned.

She hesitated.

"Don't mind me!" he urged gently. "I haven't started in to try very hard yet, you know."

Something in his tone moved her. Her eyes filled with tears and she turned her face away. "It isn't you," she said.

She was bitterly ashamed of her emotion and fought to control it. He had been kindness itself to her and she felt it was rank ingratitude to suffer him to imagine that he had not succeeded in giving her happiness. But for some reason the tears persisted, and in a moment she got up and moved away, realizing that they must be conquered in solitude.

He made no attempt to follow her, and though she was thankful that he did not, she wondered if it meant that he was offended.

The brilliant sunshine seemed to mock her as she wandered down the hill. The dancing water might have been a mirage. She came to a spot where the rocky path took a sharp curve, and here in the corner were some trodden uneven steps that led up to a shrine. Within the niche was a crucifix rudely carved. Before it was a small pitcher containing roses. They had evidently been placed there in the early morning, and now they were wilting in the noonday heat. Their scent came to her as she paused.

Something drew her, she knew not what. As though a Hand had been laid upon her, she moved towards that roughly-fashioned shrine. Reaching the steps, she paused again. This was where the peasants knelt to pray. Did they go empty away, she wondered? She wished again, passionately, that she were as one of them. At least they had a measure of faith. A sudden agony caught at her heart. Why had she lost hers? In the old days, kneeling by Aunt Bobby's side, no troublous questionings had ever arisen within her. In a fashion Bobby's faith had seemed to suffice for them both. She had been so sure that Bobby's pure spirit was safely anchored in reality. But now all that was gone, since Bobby had cheated her. She was left stranded and alone in a world of unimaginable desolation, a world in which only evil flourished.

Yet still she stood before the Shrine of Suffering, waiting—waiting for a sign.

She never knew afterwards how it happened. There was no visible influence at work. No voice or touch or vision came to her. But after a space of which she had no reckoning, she suddenly found herself kneeling on the stone. The pitcher was pushed aside, the roses were fallen from it, and she was bowed forward, weeping, her two hands clutching desperately at the base of the Cross.

Words—words which Aunt Bobby had tenderly taught her long ago—fell piteously from her lips. She did not know why she uttered them.

The Cross! The Cross! This was what it meant then to be made perfect through suffering. Kneeling there in utter helplessness, it came to her as by a great flash of illumination.

And something else came to her also—something that she had never known before—was it an actual Presence by her side?—or a still small Voice that spoke within?

She knew not. Only—when It was past—she lifted her face in wonderment and knew that the ground whereon she knelt was holy.

Later she picked up the fallen roses and replaced them in their jar,—smelt them—kissed them—and softly went away.