the dark flower-第38章
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spirit passing out； as all might wish to pass； in the hour of
happiness。
PART III
AUTUMN
I
When on that November night Lennan stole to the open door of his
dressing…room； and stood watching his wife asleep； Fate still
waited for an answer。
A low fire was burningone of those fires that throw faint shadows
everywhere； and once and again glow so that some object shines for
a moment； some shape is clearly seen。 The curtains were not quite
drawn； and a plane…tree branch with leaves still hanging； which had
kept them company all the fifteen years they had lived there； was
moving darkly in the wind； now touching the glass with a frail tap；
as though asking of him； who had been roaming in that wind so many
hours； to let it in。 Unfailing comradesLondon plane…trees！
He had not dared hope that Sylvia would be asleep。 It was merciful
that she was； whichever way the issue wentthat issue so cruel。
Her face was turned towards the fire； and one hand rested beneath
her cheek。 So she often slept。 Even when life seemed all at sea；
its landmarks lost； one still did what was customary。 Poor tender…
hearted thingshe had not slept since he told her； forty…eight
hours； that seemed such years； ago！ With her flaxen hair； and her
touching candour； even in sleep； she looked like a girl lying
there； not so greatly changed from what she had been that summer of
Cicely's marriage down at Hayle。 Her face had not grown old in all
those twenty…eight years。 There had been till now no special
reason why it should。 Thought； strong feeling； suffering； those
were what changed faces； Sylvia had never thought very deeply；
never suffered much； till now。 And was it for him； who had been
careful of hervery careful on the whole； despite man's
selfishness； despite her never having understood the depths of him
was it for him of all people to hurt her so； to stamp her face
with sorrow； perhaps destroy her utterly？
He crept a little farther in and sat down in the arm…chair beyond
the fire。 What memories a fire gathered into it； with its flaky
ashes； its little leaf…like flames； and that quiet glow and
flicker！ What tale of passions！ How like to a fire was a man's
heart！ The first young fitful leapings； the sudden； fierce；
mastering heat； the long； steady sober burning； and thenthat last
flaming…up； that clutch back at its own vanished youth； the final
eager flight of flame； before the ashes wintered it to nothing！
Visions and memories he saw down in the fire； as only can be seen
when a man's heart； by the agony of long struggle； has been
stripped of skin； and quivers at every touch。 Love！ A strange
haphazard thing was loveso spun between ecstacy and torture！ A
thing insidious； irresponsible； desperate。 A flying sweetness；
more poignant than anything on earth； more dark in origin and
destiny。 A thing without reason or coherence。 A man's love…life
what say had he in the ebb and flow of it？ No more than in the
flights of autumn birds； swooping down； alighting here and there；
passing on。 The loves one left behindeven in a life by no means
vagabond in love； as men's lives went！ The love that thought the
Tyrol skies would fall if he were not first with a certain lady。
The love whose star had caught in the hair of Sylvia； now lying
there asleep。 A so…called lovethat half…glamorous； yet sordid
little meal of pleasure； which youth； however sensitive； must eat；
it seems； some time or other with some young light of lovea
glimpse of life that beforehand had seemed much and had meant
little； save to leave him disillusioned with himself and sorry for
his partner。 And then the love that he could not； even after
twenty years； bear to remember； that all…devouring summer passion；
which in one night had gained all and lost all terribly； leaving on
his soul a scar that could never be quite healed； leaving his
spirit always a little lonely； haunted by the sense of what might
have been。 Of his share in that night of tragedythat 'terrible
accident on the river'no one had ever dreamed。 And then the long
despair which had seemed the last death of love had slowly passed；
and yet another love had been bornor rather born again； pale；
sober； but quite real； the fresh springing…up of a feeling long
forgotten； of that protective devotion of his boyhood。 He still
remembered the expression on Sylvia's face when he passed her by
chance in Oxford Street； soon after he came back from his four
years of exile in the East and Romethat look； eager； yet
reproachful； then stoically ironic； as if saying： 'Oh； no！ after
forgetting me four years and moreyou can't remember me now！' And
when he spoke； the still more touching pleasure in her face。 Then
uncertain months； with a feeling of what the end would be； and then
their marriage。 Happy enoughgentle； not very vivid； nor
spiritually very intimatehis work always secretly as remote from
her as when she had thought to please him by putting jessamine
stars on the heads of his beasts。 A quiet successful union； not
meaning； he had thought； so very much to him nor so very much to
heruntil forty…eight hours ago he told her； and she had shrunk；
and wilted； and gone all to pieces。 And what was it he had told
her？
A long storythat！
Sitting there by the fire； with nothing yet decided； he could see
it all from the start； with its devilish； delicate intricacy； its
subtle slow enchantment spinning itself out of him； out of his own
state of mind and body； rather than out of the spell cast over him；
as though a sort of fatal force； long dormant； were working up
again to burst into dark flower。 。 。 。
II
Yes； it had begun within him over a year ago； with a queer unhappy
restlessness； a feeling that life was slipping； ebbing away within
reach of him； and his arms never stretched out to arrest it。 It
had begun with a sort of long craving； stilled only when he was
working harda craving for he knew not what； an ache which was
worst whenever the wind was soft。
They said that about forty…five was a perilous age for a man
especially for an artist。 All the autumn of last year he had felt
this vague misery rather badly。 It had left him alone most of
December and January； while he was working so hard at his group of
lions； but the moment that was finished it had gripped him hard
again。 In those last days of January he well remembered wandering
about in the parks day after day； trying to get away from it。 Mild
weather； with a scent in the wind！ With what avidity he had
watched children playing； the premature buds on the bushes；
anything； everything youngwith what an ache； too； he had been
conscious of innumerable lives being lived round him； and loves
loved； and he outside； unable to know； to grasp； to gather them；
and all the time the sands of his hourglass running out！ A most
absurd and unreasonable feeling for a man with everything he
wanted； with work that he loved； quite enough money； and a wife so
good as Sylviaa feeling that no Englishman of forty…six； in
excellent health； ought for a moment to have been troubled with。 A
feeling such as； indeed； no Englishman ever admitted havingso
that there was not even； as yet； a Society for its suppression。
For what was this disquiet feeling； but the sense that he had had
his day； would never again know the stir and fearful joy of falling
in love； but only just hanker after what was past and gone！ Could
anything be more reprehensible in a married man？
It wasyesthe last day of January； when； returning from one of
those restless rambles in Hyde Park； he met Dromore。 Queer to
recognize a man hardly seen since school…days。 Yet unmistakably；
Johnny Dromore； sauntering along the rails of Piccadilly on the
Green Park side； with that slightly rolling gait of his thin；
horseman's legs； his dandified hat a little to one side； those
strange； chaffing； goggling eyes； that look； as if making a
perpetual bet。 Yesthe very same teasing； now moody； now
reckless； always astute Johnny Dromore； with a good heart beneath
an outside that seemed ashamed of it。 Truly to have shared a room
at schoolto have been at College together； were links
mysteriously indestructible。
