VIII
And at the gate in the wall Fallaray held Lola close in his arms and kissed her, again and again.
“My little Lola,” he said softly, “how wonderful you are,—how wonderful all this is. You had been in the air all round me for weeks. I used to see your eyes among the stars looking down at me when I left the House. I used to wake at night and feel them upon me all warm about my heart. Lots of times, like the wings of a bird, they flashed between me and my work. And the tingle of your hand that never left me ran through my veins like fire. I could have stopped dead that night at the Savoy and followed you away. And when I found you weeping in the corridor in Dover Street I was confused and bewildered because then I was old and I was fighting against you for the cause. De Brézé, de Brézé,—the name used to come to me, suddenly, like the forerunner of rain to a dried-up plant. And at last I got away and came down here, as I know now, to throw off my useless years and go back, past all the milestones on a long road, and wait for you. And then you heard my cry and opened the gate and walked among those stone figures of my life and gave me back my youth.”
“With love and adoration and long-deferred hope,” she said and crept closer to his heart. “I love you. I love you. I’ve always loved you. And if I’d never found you, I should have waited for you on the other side of the Bridge,—loving you still.”
“My dear—who am I to deserve this?”
“You are Fallaray. Who else?”
And he laughed at that and held up her face and kissed her lips and said, “No. I’m no longer Fallaray, that husk of a man, emptying his energy on the ribs of chaos. I’m Edmund the boy, transformed to adolescence. I’m Any Man in love.”
And again she went closer, feeling the far-off shudder of thunder, with a new-born fear of opening the gate in the wall. “Who was that man who came to see you?”
“Young Lochinvar,—Lytham. He’s interested in politics.”
“What did he want to see you about?”
“Nothing.” And he brushed away the lingering recollection with his hand.
“No. Tell me. I want to know.”
“I forget.” And he laughed and kissed her once again.
“But in any case you have to go back to-morrow?”
He shook his head and ran his fingers over her hair.
“But you said you’d have to,—that night.”
“Did I? I forget.” And he put his hand over her heart and held it there.
And again there came that thunder shudder, and she eyed the gate with fear. “Did he want you to go back to-night? Tell me; I’ve got to know.” And she drew away a little—a very little—in order to force her point.
But he drew her back and kissed her eyes. “Don’t look like that,” he said. “What’s it matter? Let him want. I’m not going back. I’m never going back. If George Lytham were multiplied by a hundred thousand and they all landed on my island with grappling irons, I’d laugh them back to sea. They shan’t have me. I’ve given them all I had. I’ve found my youth and I’ll enjoy it, here, anywhere, with you.” He stretched out and opened the gate. “And now, I must let you go, my sweet. But don’t be longer than you can help. Get dinner over quickly and come back to me again. Wear that silver frock and I’ll wait for you on the terrace, as I did before. I want to be surprised again as you shimmer among those cold stones.” He let her go.
And she went through the gate and stood irresolute, as the shudder came again. With a little cry she turned and flung her arms round his neck as though she were saying, “Good-by.”
And yet there was only a cloud as big as a man’s hand in that clear sky.