VI
Probably for the first time in his life Wynne felt the need of fine linen. It is a sorry happening to lay choice dishes on a bare board. A flash of memory provided an alternative, and he unearthed a roll of white wallpaper from a cupboard. Mindful of a trick performed by small boys at gallery doors, he folded and tore the paper to a rough presentment of a lace cloth. Quite imposing it looked upon the black surface of the old oak table.
To the rim of a fine, but much-riveted blue-and-white plate he waxed the twenty-one candles, and in the centre, pedestalled upon an inverted soap-dish, he stood the birthday cake. The champagne and some glasses were placed on one side of this setpiece, the grapes on the other, while before it, squarely and precisely laid, were the two beautifully tied parcels of soap and scent.
So wrapped up was he in the exquisite pleasure of his preparations that he was quite insensible to the deliberate symmetry he had brought about—a circumstance which may prove a great deal, or nothing at all. When he had done he fell back and surveyed his handiwork as an artist before a masterpiece.
And outside rumbled the voices of the clocks saying the hour was eleven.
“Eleven! She will be here in a moment,” he thought. A sudden nervousness seized him. He did not know why or what it was about. He touched his pocket to be sure the matches were there. He wondered if she were all right, and had crossed Long Acre and Oxford Street safely—they were busiest in theatre traffic at that hour, and private cars and taxis paid little heed to pedestrians. It would be so easy for her to be knocked down and run over. He could picture the curious, jostling crowds that would gather round, the blue helmets of the police in the centre—and the gaunt ambulance which would appear from nowhere.
“God! What a fool I am,” he exclaimed. “She’s all right—of course she is.”
Yet, despite this guarantee of her safety, thoughts of possible disaster raced across his mind. Memory of his visit to the Morgue in Paris arose and would not be banished. He recalled what he had said that day: “Death is so horribly conclusive.” Conclusive! Suppose it were visited upon her?—something would die in him, too. He asked himself what that something would be, but could find no answer. It would be something so lately come to life that he did not know it well enough to name.
Once more his eyes fell upon the table, and the fears vanished. Of course she would come—of course nothing would happen to her. Even though it were against her will, she would be drawn by what he had prepared.
He blew out the lamp, and crossing the room opened the window and leant over the sill to wait.
It was a sweet night, starred and silent. Smoke rose ghostily from the silhouetted stacks, and a faint, murmurous wind, which seemed to have stolen from a Devon lane, touched his hair to movement. North, south, east, and west stretched the roofs of London, and in imagination he could hear the soft rustle as the dwellers beneath tucked themselves in for the night.
A hundred times before he had leant out, as now, with thoughts which ran on the groundlings who ate and slept and worked and squabbled beneath that army of stacks and slates; and how, one day, his name should come to be as familiar with them as the pictures hanging on their walls. But tonight his feelings were different. He conceived these people in their relation to each other and not to himself. In each and all those myriad abiding-places there would be folk with gentle thoughts and kindly desires, even as his were then. They would be linked together by the common tie of doing something to please. Never before had it occurred to him that in pleasing another happiness was born in oneself. Hitherto he had only thought to please by the nimbleness of his artistry—the perfection of a style, the ability to express; but now he saw the surer way was to appeal to the heart—to minister to the true sentiment—to hand over sincerity from one’s simple best.
A footfall below, and the glimpse of a grey figure in the light of the street-lamp, brought him to immediate action. He drew back from the window, and, trembling with excitement, put a match to the circle of coloured candles.
A ring of fire leapt into being—a tiny flame for every year of her in whose honour they were burnt in offering.
Standing behind the lights, and almost invisible in the twinkling glare, Wynne waited breathlessly for the door to open.
She was drawing off her gloves as she came into the room, but she stopped, and her hands fell gently to her sides. Her eyes rested on every detail of the little scene, hovering over it with an exquisite increase of lustre. And slowly her lips broke into a smile of the purest child-happiness, as, with a little catch in her voice, she breathed:
“How lovely and dear of you.”
It was hard to find a reply.
“You’re pleased?” he said. “I’m glad.”
“Pleased! Look! there are two presents for me—real champagne, with its livery all bright and goldy—and the bloom on the grapes, it’s—that’s a proper birthday cake, with ‘marzi’ inside—and twenty-one candles because I am twenty-one years old today.”
She held out her hand, and he came to her and took it in one of his. For quite a while they stood in silence.
“This is my first real birthday, and you’ve thought of it all for me. Oh, it is wonderful, you know.”
“You have done something more wonderful for me,” he said, in a voice that seemed unlike his own.
“I?”
“You smiled for me.”
“Because you made me utterly happy.”
“D’you think—I could—go on making you happy?”
For the first time she raised her eyes from the fairy candles to meet his.
“Do you want to?”
His reply was characteristic.
“Yes—for I am happier now than I have ever been.”
She laughed understandingly, and caressed his hand.
“Oh, here!” he said. “Sit down, I want to talk.” He almost thrust her into the chair and settled himself upon the arm. “All of a sudden you have become something that I want—must have. Spiritually I want you near me—you’re—you’re essential. Without you I am incomplete. If I lost you I should lose more than you—far more. D’you understand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Together we could reach any heights, you and I, for you give me the atmosphere I need—the right essence. I used to believe the line, ‘He travels fastest who travels alone,’ but now I scout it—it’s lost its truth for me. I believe you are wrapped up in my happiness and my success; I believe without you they would be in jeopardy—in danger. D’you care for me well enough to take me on those terms?”
Very slowly she replied:
“I want you to have your happiness, Wynne, and your success—I want that to be a true dream.”
“Then—?”
“I’ll accept your spiritual offer—and give you all in return. But won’t you say just one thing more?”
“What have I left unsaid?”
“Did you say you loved me?”
“No,” he replied; “but, in God’s name, I believe I do.”
“My dear,” she said, with a mother’s voice.
He broke away from her and started to pace the room feverishly.
“Come back,” she pleaded. “I am so proud of that belief.”
He threw up his head.
“I was honest enough to offer all I possessed,” he cried. “A man would have taken you in his arms. God! I’m only half a man—a starveling—! You are beautiful—beautiful to me—beautiful—subtle—desirable—but I haven’t a shred of passion in my half-starved body.”
“Yours is the better half, dear. The spirit counts, and the greatest possession a woman can have is all that her man can give. Let us keep our spirits bright together.” She rose, and he came toward her, and suddenly his face lost its tragic look, and the lines at the corners of his mouth pulled down in a whimsical smile.
“What a triumph for Plato!” he said. “When shall it be?”
She smiled back at him. “Whenever you wish.”
Very delicious she looked in the dancing fairy light. A strangely new and elemental impulse seized him, and he gripped her shoulders fiercely.
“You are wonderful,” he said. “We’ll work together for the Day. The Day shall be our real wedding; till then—partners.”
“Partners.”
“You shall help to make a success, and—a man; and when I’m a man I shall seek a man’s reward. We’ll pledge that! Come, let’s feast before the candles burn low.”
The tiny bottle of champagne popped bravely, and the wine tinkled against the glass.