Chapter XI: At the Shrine

Iris and Justin were together in the deserted old garden. They walked on the velvet grass amid a wilderness of flowers and fruit. There were great rosebushes covered with golden, pink and crimson blooms; clusters of purple clematis, honeysuckle, and white, starry jasmine climbed broken arches and dilapidated trellis; long spires of yellow and red hollyhocks reared stately heads amid banks of mignonette, blue-eyed forget-me-not and mauve and snow-white stock. Old moss-green apple-trees laden with half ripe fruit stretched protecting arms over the profusion of flowers, gooseberry and currant bushes. The garden was ablaze with colour. The air was weighted with the heavy perfume of many blooms, and everywhere there was an exuberant wild beauty which made Iris catch her breath and look up at her companion with large, shiny eyes. Nature ruled in this forsaken spot. Man’s restraining hand had not clipped, pruned and trained into monotonous, civilised neatness.

“This is my dream-garden,” said Justin, standing under an ancient, gnarled apple-tree and facing Iris. “Don’t you think it is an ideal place for saying what I am going to say to-night?”

“Yes,” she replied, the tint in her cheeks deepening. Her light, graceful form stood against the coloured background of flowers and deep, rich greens, her lovely face framed by the moss-tinted branches.

He came a little nearer. “Iris, this is just how I picture you in my dreams, standing here under these dear, friendly trees, and in my dreams we----”

His eyes told her the rest and her white, heavily fringed lids dropped before his gaze.

“But that part of my dream may not come true,” he continued, a plaintive sadness creeping into his voice. “Such things only happen in fancy, and perhaps once--just once, as it happened in--the cave.” His tones were low and not quite steady.

Iris looked up quickly. “Oh, Justin, why do you talk like that? I can’t bear it!” she said, her delicate nostrils suddenly dilating.

“I only say it because--it must be so. I am going to open my heart to you to-night--that privilege is granted me; but I may not tell you in the way I should like best.”

She did not speak, but she looked intensely vivid, as if she were struggling with some overwhelming emotion.

After a short silence he went on: “I am going to make two confessions to you to-night. One you know about already, and yet I long with all the strength of my being to put it into words; the other--” his voice dropped--“if I possessed worlds I would gladly give every one if I might be spared making that.”

“In that case don’t make it. I don’t want you to tell me anything which will give you pain,” she said, finding her voice.

“I _must_,” he answered regretfully. Then, changing his tones, he continued: “But we won’t talk about that yet. For a little while let us revel in all this beauty and--in each other.”

“Why not do that all the time and leave the rest for another night?” suggested the girl very softly.

“No, that will not do--we have gone too far to put off my confession any longer.”

The setting sun had been hidden behind large masses of purple cloud; now it suddenly shone out from a fraying rift, its golden rays wedging their way in between the trees like gleaming swords cutting into the fragrant stillness.

“How lovely!” murmured Iris in hushed tones. “Doesn’t this make you feel as if you were kneeling at some great illumined shrine?”

“Yes,” he replied as softly as she had spoken. “That is just how I feel. For I am kneeling at a sacred shrine to-night--at the great shrine of Love. Iris--” he turned to her now--“are you kneeling there too?”

“Yes,” she breathed, her sea-blue eyes shining tremulously under their shadowy lashes.

Rees regarded her for a moment as he would have regarded some wonderful vision which had come to him while wrapt in devoted worship. Then he said suddenly and with great simplicity: “Iris, how beautiful you are--how beautiful! I do believe you have been created from tall, stately flowers, fresh waves from the sea, and shining stars.”

She glanced up at him, smiling tenderly.

“What about yourself--what were you made from?”

Instantly a change came over his face. “I was made from the dry sand of the desert.”

A low, silvery laugh rippled over her parted red lips. “What a humble-minded dear you are! No, you are not made of sand; there is plenty of grit in you, but sand--no! However, I will tell you what you were made of, if you like?”

The same tenderness which had shone in her eyes softened his. “Yes, tell me, Sweetheart.”

It was the first time he had called her by this endearing term, and the word and its meaning thrilled her with its exquisite sweetness.

“You must have been made of that high peak which catches the sunset on that far-away, rugged mountain I long to explore. You were made at the time when the roseate sunbeams tint the rocks and turn the peak into a crimson jewel. Then you were made, too, from the deep pools of marshes, when the sky is overcast and each little lagoon lies like a great solitary tear.”

He moved nearer to her and his voice was a little uneven as he said: “Iris, what makes you think I was made of such beautiful things?”

“Because there is such a lofty strength about you, a strength which could only come from the great exalted mountains. But it is not a cold strength, it is deliciously warm--just like the crimson shafts of a summer sunset. And then there is your sadness--that is really like the big tears which have dropped from the sky on the marshes.”

“Iris,” Rees began in tones shaking slightly, “when I have told you all I am going to tell you, you will never talk like that again. You will turn from me and say that I was only a strip of desert on which you for a moment saw a mirage created entirely by your own sweet fancy.”

“Justin, I shall never say that, no matter what you tell me,” she said with decision.

“We shall see.”

They walked away from the apple-trees to a huge blossom-laden rosebush under which was a little rustic seat, and there they sat down under the crimson blooms.

The sun was just sinking behind the hills, and it seemed to have become strangely entangled in tree trunks, foliage and branches. It hung shimmering, trembling, then gradually disappeared behind the confusion of trees.

There were no golden shafts piercing the deserted garden now; but a rosy twilight crept caressingly over the earth, folding all things in its soft, warm embrace.

They sat for some time without speaking, Justin gazing with rapt, sad eyes at the lovely girl beside him. She had turned her head away, looking into the roseate shadows. He saw the soft contour of her regal head, the fine oval of her cheek, the soft whiteness of her neck where little golden-brown curls rested in alluring innocence. She looked so splendid, so enchanting, so radiant in her youthful beauty!

As he watched her the sad look in his grey eyes brightened. After all, he still had that delicious revelation to make--the revelation she already knew about, yet wished to have put into words. How open she had been with him from the first, and yet at times how shy! She had not attempted to hide her feelings from him, and he blessed her in his heart for her sweet candour. They had met under such unusual circumstances; love had caught them unawares in the cave. He had felt her thrill to his song--ah, how she had quivered in his arms as his music saturated her soul! She did not understand her own emotions then--he had hardly understood his at first, but he had watched hers deepen as she had laid them bare to him again and again. It was so apparent she had not been in love before, and she believed in him with an abandonment of trust which often brought a blinding mist to his eyes. His heart beat fast as he thought of it now. He knew hers was not a weak nature; there was a certain hauteur about her; an air of fine, proud strength. She had met many men, known admiration and homage all her life, yet no passion had been able to stir her before. She had walked through her London season heart-whole, and he was evidently the first man who had awakened the slumbering woman within her. He _had_ awakened the slumbering woman within her, he knew that. But he was not sure if she had discovered this in its wide, deep reality for herself. To-night his confession would open her eyes.

The rosy twilight grew purple--the colour of the trailing clematis which swayed for ever softly to and fro in the stirring shades of coming night.

“Iris, are you ready to listen to me?” Rees began a little unsteadily, after a lengthy pause.

She turned to him rather shyly. “Yes,” she said in a low voice.

“Dearest, you already know what I want to tell you--that I--_love_ you.”

He heard her draw a quick, fluttering breath.

“It all began that afternoon in the cave,” he continued unevenly. “Of course, I had admired you before--who could help it? Iris, I wonder if you have any idea how dazzling you are! Often when I sat beside you driving, and you turned and looked suddenly up at me with those wonderful eyes of yours, it made me feel quite bewildered for a time; but there was no love--no, not then, not till that afternoon in the cave----”

She started slightly, but she did not speak, so he went on in lower tones: “But that afternoon when I held you in my arms, when you were pressed against my breast and I felt your heart throb against mine; when your soft hair brushed my face, and just once your velvet cheek touched mine--oh, Iris, how could any man resist such sweetness! I thought all love within me dead, all emotions in my being slain; but that afternoon it seemed as if there was a resurrection of all I thought vanished and gone. It was when I sang the second time that I felt the power stirring in me. At first I only wanted to comfort and soothe you, but as you lay in my arms and I felt your quivering form against mine--Iris, I, who admired you, who had been with you daily, exposed to your charms--Iris, can’t you understand that I couldn’t resist--that I was swept off my feet? Of course, I had no right to love you--no one knows that better than I--but it was all no use, no reasoning could make any difference--I simply couldn’t help myself.”

He stopped and waited for her to make some reply. She had sat very still with closed eyes while he was speaking; she was still now; only her white hands moved nervously.

“Iris, I have told you; but I dare not ask if you--care--it is not for a poor driver to ask Lord Dearn’s daughter such a question----” He stopped for she had stirred quickly. In the tumult of her emotions she wondered what this man could know about her father; neither she nor her cousin had ever mentioned him. But her surprise soon passed in the turmoil of other and stronger feelings.

If her companion had said more than he intended, he was not aware of it just then. “Darling,” he went on, “I may not ask you this great question, and yet all my soul is crying out for your answer.”

“Justin,” the girl began, her proud head bent low, “you need not ask, for you already know that--I _do_.”

He made a sudden movement towards her--then checked himself. “Iris, I never knew before how strange and wonderful this life can be,” he murmured huskily.

There was a throbbing, tumultuous silence, in which the music of their hearts seemed to find an echo in the music palpitating in the wild heart of Nature. Moths and insects had come out from the dusk and brushed cobweb wings against the clusters of crimson roses. The air was atune with the hum of fluttering life awakened by the shadows of night.

A large dark moth lighted on Iris’s shoulder, flapping velvet wings as it crept towards her soft white throat. Justin picked it off quickly and let it fly. It made a big swerve in the shadows, then returned almost to the same spot.

“Let it stay,” said the girl; “it can do me no harm--you will hurt its wings if you touch it again.”

He picked it off and set it free once more. This time it did not dart into the air as it had done before, but dropped into the grass a little distance away.

“You have hurt the soft little, persistent thing,” she said reproachfully, looking in the direction it had fallen to see if it would fly up again. But there was no stirring of the furry wings.

“Yes,” he said regretfully; “I am afraid I have--but it was only for your sake. Iris,” he continued, the regret in his voice deepening, “do you know our love is like that moth, and I must with ruthless hands fling it away so that it cannot hurt you?”

“Justin, you cannot mean that?” There was sudden fear in her tones.

“I do, Iris--I do.”

“Are you really going to--to--make us--part?” she faltered incredulously.

“In God’s Name, what else can I do?”

“Oh, Justin--surely you know.”

“Iris, do you know what you are saying?” He spoke with strange tenseness.

Her splendid head dropped lower. “Oh, Justin, you must think me horribly bold--I suppose I must be bold--but----”

“No, no! You are not that--sweetest, you are not!” He was bending over her now, his head so close to hers he felt her hair brush his cheek. “You are only too generous, too amazingly good! But can’t you see that I am racked already by the desire to be with you always and for ever, and unless you are less kind I may not be able to hold out against it----”

There was no response from his companion, but he felt her quiver from head to foot.

“Iris,” he said, like one in torture, “don’t you want me to--hold out against it?”

“It is cruel--cruel,” she said brokenly.

“What is cruel, Sweetheart?”

There was no answer.

He watched her through the gathering gloom a moment, then said in a curious, quiet voice: “You don’t mean to say that you--that you would really--_marry_ me?”

She made a slight movement towards him. “Of course I would,” she whispered.

He drew a hard breath. “Do you mean to say that _you_--you would marry a nobody, a poor driver and guide?”

“I would not marry a driver and guide, but I _am_ willing to marry the man I love. I think I have told you this before.”

“Yes, I know you have fine ideals; but it seems too miraculous that you should be willing to marry--_me_!”

“Why not? Oh, Justin, why do you make it so hard for me?”

“I don’t want to make it hard, but it seems too extraordinary that a girl in your position should be willing to marry a man in mine--it is amazing!”

She looked up at him now. “Why so amazing? I know you are a gentleman by birth and education, and doesn’t love count for more than position, money--all?”

“Yes, Iris, it does.” He spoke with deep conviction now. “But it seems too incredible that any one could care as much as that--for me.”

“Oh, Justin,” she whispered under her breath; then she leant her head back against the remnant of the archway which had once stretched over the seat, and shut her eyes, and Rees saw that she was white to the lips.

“Iris--Iris,” he cried hoarsely, “I would give the rest of my life if I might take what you are willing to give and hold it just for a little while!”

She moved her head towards him, but she did not open her eyes; in her lashes hung heavy tears.

He gripped the bench hard.

“I don’t think you can care very much, after all, if you allow your pride to come between us,” she said, trying to steady her quivering lips.

“Not care much! Good Heavens! Iris, you can’t know what you are saying. Not love you, when I am swept with a furious tide of longing to take you to my heart and have you always! Why, it is only my great love for you which keeps my own yearnings in check, which makes me think of your happiness first--it is only my deep love for you which makes me put this restraint upon myself. Iris, don’t you understand what it means to be so close to you, feel you so near me, yet not be able to--fold you in my arms and overwhelm you with this torrent of desperate love?”

The anguish in his voice made her glance up at him quickly. He was ashen grey and the muscles of his face worked. She forgot herself in her desire to comfort him.

“You poor boy,” she whispered, bending towards him. “Yes, I do believe you care; it was cruel of me to say what I did, only I was so hurt that I did not know what I was saying--please forgive me.”

“You dear little girl; and I have brought all this trouble into your life; and, Iris--I have to make you sadder still; there is something else which I must tell you--it is about the past----”

She interrupted him. “Please don’t tell me if it makes you unhappy--the past doesn’t matter.”

“But I _have_ to tell you; in this case the past does matter, for it affects the future--in fact, it is the past which will blight the future for us. At present you think it is merely pride which is coming between us; but it is not that--there is another and far more vital thing which blocks the way. If you and I really cared for each other, position could not keep us apart; believe me, I should not let that alone separate us, though I should never have expected a girl like you to stoop to make such a sacrifice; and oh, Iris, no matter what the future may bring, it is lovely to know that you were ready to marry me, the poor, insignificant driver! But,” he added in a different voice, “there is something else--much worse----” He stopped, as if to gain strength to proceed.

“Is it another----?”

“No, it is not. I thought I told you that afternoon by the Marble Cliffs--no woman has ever come into my life as you have done. But it is something equally irrevocable.” He breathed hard, then went on bravely, “I am a--a----drunkard----”