XXV
hey were standing by a great rock at the foot of the cliff. The afternoon had slipped away and the harbor was full of changing light, but the artist’s back was turned to it. He was looking into two little round mirrors of light. Perhaps he saw the harbor reflected there. He saw everything else—the whole round world, swinging in space, and life and death. He bent closer to them. “Why did n’t you write?” reproachfully.
“Uncle William would n’t let me.”
“Uncle William!”
She nodded. “He told me not to write. He said you would get well faster if you had something to bother you.” The demure face was full of glinting lights. “He seemed to think that is what we are made for—mostly. He ’s an old dear!” she added.
“He is!” He had gained possession of the quick-moving hand. “I shall keep you now that I have you—”
“Yes.”
“—for that very purpose!”
She smiled quietly. “I ’ll try to live up to it. You took the prize, you know.”
He caged the other hand. “Bother the prize! There ’s only one thing I want.”
Her lip trembled a little.
He watched it jealously. He bent and touched the trembling line. The world was blotted out—sun and bay and wheeling sky. A new world was born—of two souls and swift desire. The heart of the universe opened to them. When they drew apart, her eyes were lighted with tears. He wiped them away slowly, holding the prisoned hands. “We will not wait,” he whispered.
“No,” half breathed.
“In a week?” insistently.
“Yes.”
“To-morrow?” imperiously.
The laughter had come back to her eyes. “To-day!” She freed her hands. “Come.”
He was searching her face. “You mean it?”
“Why not? They will be glad to get rid of us.” She lifted a laughing gesture to the cliff.
“They?”
“William and Benjamin.” She said the names with slow pleasure, smiling at his puzzled face. “It all came out when I told him that I knew you and that Uncle William lived here. He saw in a flash—everything! We started next day.”
He had put an arm about her, guardingly. “We ’ll go hunt up a priest,” he said.
“Now?”
“At once!” decisively. “Uncle William might think I needed more discipline.”
“You ’re looking very well.” She was gazing at him with fond eyes.
“I am well.” He stretched out his arms. “I could conquer the world.”
“We ’ll sail round it.” She nodded to the boat that was anchored off the island. “She is ours—for as long as we want her.”
He stared at the boat and raised a glance to the cliff. “And what will he do?”
“M. Curie? He builds for himself a house, for himself—and for us.” She half chanted the words in sheer delight.
“A house—here—for himself—and for us!” His glance took in the bare, stern grandeur. “It will be very near heaven.”
“Very near. Come, let us go.” They climbed the steep path, with many pauses to look back on the gleaming bay and the boat riding at anchor—the boat that was to carry them away to the ends of the earth.
“We will go to St. Petersburg,” said Sergia, watching the shining light.
“And Italy.”
“And build castles there.”
“Castles! And then we will come home at last—”
“Home!” He said the word under his breath. They had come close to the little house. Through the open door they saw the red room,—half in shadow, half in light,—and in the red room the two old men looking at each other.
Uncle William saw them first and got to his feet, his big face filled with welcome. “Come in, my dear.” He took the girl’s face between his hands, looking down into it with gentle delight. “We ’re glad you ’ve come,” he said slowly. “It was jest about time.” He studied the face. “We want you to feel to home,” he went on. “’Most everybody does feel to home, that comes here.” He bent and kissed the face with rough tenderness.
Juno, from her perch, jumped down and rubbed a sidewise welcome along the gray skirt.
The girl stooped to stroke her. When she looked up, her eyes were filled with tears. She brushed them hastily aside.
Uncle William, from his height, looked down on them benignly. “You need n’t mind those, my dear. Good salt water never hurt anybody yet—on sea or land. You do it all you want to.”
The girl laughed out. And the music of her laugh filled the room. The twilight was lighted with it. Down below the tide came in slowly, lapping the stones. Across the harbor a single star shone out.
Uncle William glanced across to it. “Time to light up,” he said. He took down the lantern from its place and lighted it with clumsy, careful fingers, setting it in the window. Then he surveyed the little room and his guests, a look of affection in his big face. “Must be ’most time for supper,” he said.