II
At almost the same moment that Olivia and Sabine entered the old house to lunch, the figures of Sybil and Jean appeared against the horizon on the rim of the great, bald hill crowned by the town burial-ground. Escaped at length from the eye of the curious, persistent Thérèse, they had come to the hill to eat their lunch in the open air. It was a brilliantly clear day and the famous view lay spread out beneath them like some vast map stretching away for a distance of nearly thirty miles. The marshes appeared green and dark, crossed and recrossed by a reticulation of tidal inlets frequented at nightfall by small boats which brought in whisky and rum from the open sea. There were, distantly visible, great piles of reddish rock rising from the endless white ribbon of beach, and far out on the amethyst sea a pair of white-sailed fishing-boats moved away in the direction of Gloucester. The white sails, so near to each other, carried a warm friendliness in a universe magnificent but also bleak and a little barren.
Coming over the rim of the hill the sudden revelation of the view halted them for a moment. The day was hot, but here on the great hill, remote from the damp, low-lying meadows, there was a fresh cool wind, almost a gale, blowing in from the open sea. Sybil, taking off her hat, tossed it to the ground and allowed the wind to blow her hair in a dark, tangled mass about the serious young face; and at the same moment Jean, seized by a sudden quick impulse, took her hand quietly in his. She did not attempt to draw it away; she simply stood there quietly, as if conscious only of the wild beauty of the landscape spread out below them and the sense of the boyвАЩs nearness to her. The old fear of depression and loneliness seemed to have melted away from her; here on this high brown hill, with all the world spread out beneath, it seemed to her that they were completely aloneвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ the first and the last two people in all the world. She was aware that a perfect thing had happened to her, so perfect and so far beyond the realm of her most romantic imaginings that it seemed scarcely real.
A flock of glistening white gulls, sweeping in from the sea, soared toward them screaming wildly, and she said, вАЬWeвАЩd better find a place to eat.вАЭ
She had taken from the hands of Sabine the task of showing Jean this little corner of his own country, and today they had come to see the view from the burial-ground and read the moldering queer old inscriptions on the tombstones. On entering the graveyard they came almost at once to the little corner allotted long ago to immigrants with the name of PentlandвБ†вАФa corner nearly filled now with neat rows of graves. By the side of the latest two, still new and covered with fresh sod, they halted, and she began in silence to separate the flowers she had brought from her motherвАЩs garden into two great bunches.
вАЬThis,вАЭ she said, pointing to the grave at her feet, вАЬis his. The other grave is Cousin Horace PentlandвАЩs, whom I never saw. He died in Mentone.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ He was a first cousin of my grandfather.вАЭ
Jean helped her to fill the two vases with water and place the flowers in them. When she had finished she stood up, with a sigh, very straight and slender, saying, вАЬI wish you had known him, Jean. You would have liked him. He was always good-humored and he liked everything in the worldвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ only he was never strong enough to do much but lie in bed or sit on the terrace in the sun.вАЭ
The tears came quietly into her eyes, not at sorrow over the death of her brother, but at the pathos of his poor, weak existence; and Jean, moved by a quick sense of pity, took her hand again and this time kissed it, in the quaint, dignified foreign way he had of doing such things.
They knew each other better now, far better than on the enchanted morning by the edge of the river; and there were times, like this, when to have spoken would have shattered the whole precious spell. There was less of shyness between them than of awe at the thing which had happened to them. At that moment he wanted to keep her forever thus, alone with him, on this high barren hill, to protect her and feel her always there at his side touching his arm gently. Here, in such a place, they would be safe from all the unhappiness and the trouble which in a vague way he knew was inevitably a part of living.
As they walked along the narrow path between the rows of chipped, worn old stones they halted now and then to read some half-faded, crumbling epitaph set forth in the vigorous, Biblical language of the first hardy settlersвБ†вАФsometimes amused, sometimes saddened, by the quaint sentiments. They passed rows of Sutherlands and Featherstones and Canes and Mannerings, all turned to dust long ago, the good New England names of that little corner of the world; and at length they came to a little colony of graves with the name Milford cut into each stone. Here there were no new monuments, for the family had disappeared long ago from the Durham world.
In the midst of these Jean halted suddenly and, bending over one of the stones, said, вАЬMilfordвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ Milford.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ ThatвАЩs odd. I had a great-grandfather named Milford who came from this part of the country.вАЭ
вАЬThere used to be a great many Milfords here, but there havenвАЩt been any since I can remember.вАЭ
вАЬMy great-grandfather was a preacher,вАЭ said Jean. вАЬA Congregationalist. He led all his congregation into the Middle West. They founded the town my mother came from.вАЭ
For a moment Sybil was silent. вАЬWas his name Josiah Milford?вАЭ she asked.
вАЬYes.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ That was his name.вАЭ
вАЬHe came from Durham. And after he left, the church died slowly. ItвАЩs still standingвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ the big white church with the spire, on High Street. ItвАЩs only a museum now.вАЭ
Jean laughed. вАЬThen weвАЩre not so far apart, after all. ItвАЩs almost as if we were related.вАЭ
вАЬYes, because a Pentland did marry a Milford once, a long time agoвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ more than a hundred years, I suppose.вАЭ
The discovery made her happy in a vague way, perhaps because she knew it made him seem less what they called an вАЬoutsiderвАЭ at Pentlands. It wouldnвАЩt be so hard to say to her father, вАЬI want to marry Jean de Cyon. You know his ancestors came from Durham.вАЭ The name of Milford would make an impression upon a man like her father, who made a religion of names; but, then, Jean had not even asked her to marry him yet. For some reason he had kept silent, saying nothing of marriage, and the silence clouded her happiness at being near him.
вАЬItвАЩs odd,вАЭ said Jean, suddenly absorbed, in the way of men, over this concrete business of ancestry. вАЬSome of these Milfords must be direct ancestors of mine and IвАЩve no idea which ones they are.вАЭ
вАЬWhen we go down the hill,вАЭ she said, вАЬIвАЩll take you to the meetinghouse and show you the tablet that records the departure of the Reverend Josiah Milford and his congregation.вАЭ
She answered him almost without thinking what she was saying, disappointed suddenly that the discovery should have broken in upon the perfection of the mood that united them a little while before.
They found a grassy spot sheltered from the August sun by the leaves of a stunted wild-cherry tree, all twisted by the sea winds, and there Sybil seated herself to open their basket and spread the lunchвБ†вАФthe chicken, the crisp sandwiches, the fruit. The whole thing seemed an adventure, as if they were alone on a desert island, and the small act gave her a new kind of pleasure, a sort of primitive delight in serving him while he stood looking down at her with a frank grin of admiration.
When she had finished he flung himself down at full length on the grass beside her, to eat with the appetite of a great, healthy man given to violent physical exercise. They ate almost in silence, saying very little, looking out over the marshes and the sea. From time to time she grew aware that he was watching her with a curious light in his blue eyes, and when they had finished, he sat up cross-legged like a tailor, to smoke; and presently, without looking at her he said, вАЬA little while ago, when we first came up the hill, you let me take your hand, and you didnвАЩt mind.вАЭ
вАЬNo,вАЭ said Sybil swiftly. She had begun to tremble a little, frightened but wildly happy.
вАЬWas it becauseвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ because.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶вАЭ He groped for a moment for words and, finding them, went quickly on, вАЬbecause you feel as I do?вАЭ
She answered him in a whisper. вАЬI donвАЩt know,вАЭ she said, and suddenly she felt an overwhelming desire to weep.
вАЬI mean,вАЭ he said quietly, вАЬthat I feel we were made for each otherвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ perfectly.вАЭ
вАЬYesвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ Jean.вАЭ
He did not wait for her to finish. He rushed on, overwhelming her in a quick burst of boyish passion. вАЬI wish it wasnвАЩt necessary to talk. Words spoil everything.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ They arenвАЩt good enough.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ No, you must take me, Sybil. Sometimes IвАЩm disagreeable and impatient and selfishвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ but you must take me. IвАЩll do my best to reform. IвАЩll make you happy.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ IвАЩll do anything for you. And we can go away together anywhere in the worldвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ always together, never aloneвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ just as we are here, on the top of this hill.вАЭ
Without waiting for her to answer, he kissed her quickly, with a warm tenderness that made her weep once more. She said over and over again, вАЬIвАЩm so happy, JeanвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ so happy.вАЭ And then, shamefacedly, вАЬI must confess something.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ I was afraid youвАЩd never come back, and I wanted you alwaysвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ from the very beginning. I meant to have you from the beginningвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ from that first day in Paris.вАЭ
He lay with his head in her lap while she stroked the thick, red hair, in silence. There in the graveyard, high above the sea, they lost themselves in the illusion which overtakes such young loversвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ that they had come already to the end of lifeвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ that, instead of beginning, it was already complete and perfect.
вАЬI meant to have you alwaysвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ Jean. And after you came here and didnвАЩt come over to see meвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ I decided to go after youвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ for fear that youвАЩd escape again. I was shamelessвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ and a fraud, too.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ That morning by the riverвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ I didnвАЩt come on you by accident. I knew you were there all the while. I hid in the thicket and waited for you.вАЭ
вАЬIt wouldnвАЩt have made the least difference. I meant to have you, too.вАЭ A sudden impatient frown shadowed the young face. вАЬYou wonвАЩt let anything change you, will you? Nothing that anyone might sayвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ nothing that might happenвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ not anything?вАЭ
вАЬNot anything,вАЭ she repeated. вАЬNot anything in the world. Nothing could change me.вАЭ
вАЬAnd you wouldnвАЩt mind going away from here with me?вАЭ
вАЬNo.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ IвАЩd like that. ItвАЩs what I have always wanted. IвАЩd be glad to go away.вАЭ
вАЬEven to the Argentine?вАЭ
вАЬAnywhereвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ anywhere at all.вАЭ
вАЬWe can be married very soonвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ before I leaveвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ and then we can go to Paris to see my mother.вАЭ He sat up abruptly with an odd, troubled look on his face. вАЬSheвАЩs a wonderful woman, darlingвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ beautiful and kind and charming.вАЭ
вАЬI thought she was lovelyвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ that day in ParisвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ the most fascinating woman IвАЩd ever seen, Jean dear.вАЭ
He seemed not to be listening to her. The wind was beginning to die away with the heat of the afternoon, and far out on the amethyst sea the two sailing ships lay becalmed and motionless. Even the leaves of the twisted wild-cherry tree hung listlessly in the hot air. All the world about them had turned still and breathless.
Turning, he took both her hands and looked at her. вАЬThereвАЩs something I must tell youвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ SybilвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ something you may not like. But you mustnвАЩt let it make any difference.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ In the end things like that donвАЩt matter.вАЭ
She interrupted him. вАЬIf itвАЩs about womenвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ I donвАЩt care. I know what you are, Jean.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ IвАЩll never know any better than I know now.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ I donвАЩt care.вАЭ
вАЬNoвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ what I want to tell you isnвАЩt about women. ItвАЩs about my mother.вАЭ He looked at her directly, piercingly. вАЬYou seeвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ my mother and my father were never married. Good old Monsieur de Cyon only adopted me.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ IвАЩve no right to the nameвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ really. My name is really John Shane.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ They were never married, only itвАЩs not the way it sounds. SheвАЩs a great lady, my mother, and she refused to marry my father becauseвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ she saysвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ she says she found out that he wasnвАЩt what she thought him. He begged her to. He said it ruined his whole lifeвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ but she wouldnвАЩt marry himвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ not because she was weak, but because she was strong. YouвАЩll understand that when you come to know her.вАЭ
What he said would have shocked her more deeply if she had not been caught in the swift passion of a rebellion against all the world about her, all the prejudices and the misunderstandings that in her young wisdom she knew would be ranged against herself and Jean. In this mood, the mother of Jean became to her a sort of heroic symbol, a woman to be admired.
She leaned toward him. вАЬIt doesnвАЩt matterвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ not at all, JeanвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ things like that donвАЩt matter in the end.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ All that matters is the future.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶вАЭ She looked away from him and added in a low voice, вАЬBesides, what I have to tell you is much worse.вАЭ She pressed his hand savagely. вАЬYou wonвАЩt let it change you? YouвАЩll not give me up? Maybe you know it alreadyвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ that I have a grandmother who is mad.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ SheвАЩs been mad for yearsвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ almost all her life.вАЭ
He kissed her quickly. вАЬNo, it wonвАЩt matter.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ Nothing could make me think of giving you upвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ nothing in the world.вАЭ
вАЬIвАЩm so happy, JeanвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ and so peacefulвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ as if you had saved meвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ as if youвАЩd changed all my life. IвАЩve been frightened sometimes.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶вАЭ
But a sudden cloud had darkened the happinessвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ the cloud that was never absent from the house at Pentlands.
вАЬYou wonвАЩt let your father keep us apart, Sybil.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ He doesnвАЩt like me.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ ItвАЩs easy to see that.вАЭ
вАЬNo, I shanвАЩt let him.вАЭ She halted abruptly. вАЬWhat I am going to say may sound dreadful.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ I shouldnвАЩt take my fatherвАЩs word about anything. I wouldnвАЩt let him influence me. HeвАЩs spoiled his own life and my motherвАЩs too.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ I feel sorry for my father.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ HeвАЩs so blindвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ and he fusses soвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ always about things which donвАЩt matter.вАЭ
For a long time they sat in silence, Sybil with her eyes closed leaning against him, when suddenly she heard him saying in a fierce whisper, вАЬThat damned Th√©r√®se!вАЭ and looking up she saw at the rim of the hill beyond the decaying tombstones, the stocky figure of Th√©r√®se, armed with an insect-net and a knapsack full of lunch. She was standing with her legs rather well apart, staring at them out of her queer gray eyes with a mischievous, humorous expression. Behind her in a semicircle stood a little army of dirty Polish children she had recruited to help her collect bugs. They knew that she had followed them deliberately to spy on them, and they knew that she would pretend blandly that she had come upon them quite by accident.
вАЬShall we tell her?вАЭ asked Jean in a furious whisper.
вАЬNoвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ never tell anything in Durham.вАЭ
The spell was broken now and Jean was angry. Rising, he shouted at Th√©r√®se, вАЬGo and chase your old bugs and leave us in peace!вАЭ He knew that, like her mother, Th√©r√®se was watching them scientifically, as if they were a pair of insects.