18
AMBROSE went down to the lake in the tremulous mists of daybreak. He pushed his way in waist-deep among reeds, noiselessly, to observe the habits of water-fowl.
Presently, without surprise, for she had the same early morning habits as himself, he saw the mist-white figure of Lychnis, with her skirt gathered in her hands, on one of the many little islets of rock scattered along the shore. She was bending forward, parting the water-lily leaves, gazing intently into the depths. He liked to see her once again in her own clothes, unswathed, a slender, air-loving Lychnis.
He whistled. She turned and waved—negatively, as it were—but after a minute she turned round again, and slowly began to make her way back, stepping and leaping and splashing from stone to stone, as if she walked on the water; and sometimes she swayed and balanced among the broad leaves, herself an unfolding white lily.
She came to him in the reeds and took his hand. “I didn’t want to see you at first. I thought it was Fulke or someone. But you looked so funny, waist-deep in the reeds and all thoughtful, and I thought I’d come. Let’s go, a long way—at once, in case any of the others come. I want to go miles this morning, exploring. Shall we?”
She was enchanting, in her slip of a dress and white stockings and delicate shoes. “How can you run and explore in shoes like those?” he asked.
“Fast-running things don’t have big hooves,” she replied.
“Quite true. Come on, then, Fawnsfeet.”
“My skirt’s not very wide,” she said, stepping out. It was a very slight affair, a mere shift, caught in on her right flank, so that the movement of side and hip was seen, to give the eye an unsatiable satisfaction. And one observed the moulding of shoulders and bust, and the young mounds that, as one supposed, a lover should one day cup with his hands and put his lips upon—a thought to make a man such as Quentin swoon. And the torso is incomparable, Ambrose observed to himself.
“I felt I couldn’t bear those other clothes any longer,” she explained—“except sometimes, to dress up. Ruby, on the other hand, likes them.”
“She’s asleep?”
“Fat with it, the pig. She woke up when I was having a bath out of a basin and thanked God that she was not a fool. The basin has a design of willow-trees done on it, and someone fishing. Do you fish?”
“Indeed, yes. Nothing I like better on a summer or autumn afternoon.”
“Well, I’ll fish with you. We’ll go right to the other end of the Lake by ourselves and fish all the afternoon. There’s some beauties in here. I saw them swimming past the rock I was standing on. It’s very deep, too—quite black with depth, and clear—like a black crystal. I sometimes think it looks more interesting under water, among water-plants, than above it. Don’t you?”
They made their way along the shore of the Lake, talking hard and laughing, smelling the water-smell and the early-morning smell. Sometimes they went on lawns, crossing the deep red or bright emerald bridges that spanned the rivulets; sometimes they trod among pebbles at the water’s edge; and sometimes, where the quaint hills came right down to the Lake, they had to scramble round sheer cliffs, jumping over the deep water from fragment to fragment of broken rock. At one place they had to creep under the bend of a slender, splashing cataract; at another they passed a man fishing. He took no notice of them.
Gently the air filled with the delicate splendours of the risen sun, and the steep island of rock out in the middle stood clearly to view. A breeze stirred the water.
“When the wind ruffles the Lake it looks like a meadow of snowdrops and violets,” said Lychnis. “I don’t see a sign of life on the island, do you?”
“Nothing but the foliage and the flowers.”
They had come now to a bay with a lawn shelving to the water. Lychnis stood with her hands behind her, looking seriously at the Rock. “Oh,” she exclaimed abruptly, “look at the swans!”
A noble flotilla, led by a god-like bird with frowning brows, swam royally towards them.
“How they stare!” She seemed fascinated. “Are they so different from us—in their lives, I mean, in their thoughts and feelings? Are we related to swans, Ambrose? I feel that I know them. I think I know them as well as I know people. Ambrose”—she bent her brows on him—“I think I shall ask you questions soon—to-day, perhaps. May I?”
“But yes, my silver birch.”
She considered. “Last night, Ambrose, Quentin kissed me!”
“Oh yes?”
She glanced at him, but her eyes were full of her thoughts. “Yes, he kissed me. I went back to him after you’d gone. The night was so strange and exciting. It was full of some promise. The night was full of some dark, passionate flower, waiting to open if I had the secret. I tried.”
“And you found it?”
“No; it was nothing to be kissed by Quentin—no more than my father’s kiss, or Ruby’s, or the peck of a bird—except that his beard was prickly and he smelt a good deal of wine. That’s why I must ask you questions. I don’t ask for facts. I know facts. I want to know how it can ever become so that they don’t obtrude rather unpleasantly on one’s consciousness. Do they ever stand out of the way of passion, Ambrose? Is there a desire that burns them all up into nothing?”
He was silent.
“It is possible that you do not know,” she said slowly.
“You must give me time, if I am to answer you fully. The subject is important, and wide.”
“Do you mean to write me an essay?”
“Not precisely.” He, too, considered. “It will take me some little while to arrange the logic, the perspective, of my reply.”
“Oh, well; take time over it, if you must. But I’m not often in the mood to ask you things.”
“In the meantime, I take it you have been disappointed?”
“I only hope Quentin was as disappointed as I was.”
“You won’t be ashamed with him? You don’t mind meeting him again?”
“But why? After all, I disappointed him. It’s for him to be ashamed if he can’t do better than that. He got nothing from me but my will to experiment, and I easily made it seem as if he was in fault. He went off feeling ridiculous, I fancy. But look! they’re asking for bread.”
There was always bread in her pockets. The splendid birds were clustered at the edge of the lawn, and she ran down and fed them, and put her slender white hands among their plumage. The god-like leader dug at her with his beak.
“How he stares! How insolent he is!” she exclaimed. “He pesters me—like Quentin.”
She retired a little. The great bird followed, bridling and opening his wings and frowning on her like a Jupiter. She stood still and taut, fascinated. Suddenly he spread his huge wings about her and laid his scarlet beak on her breast. She stood in his embrace for a moment, with thrown-back head, and his beak moved on the slender stalk of her throat. Then, swiftly and calmly, she disengaged herself and ran to Ambrose. The swan seemed quite crestfallen. “Look! I’ve disappointed him,” she said. “For my part, I prefer him to Quentin, but not very much.”
“You are a great mystery, my water-lily,” Ambrose replied.
They made their way back along the sides of the hills.