Wood and Stone: A Romance

by John Cowper Powys

And then, as he stared at the three girlish figures on the beach, there came over him the strange illusion that both Vennie and Lacrima were only dream-people—unreal and fantastic—and that the true living persons of his drama were himself and his little Neapolitan waif.

Suppose the three girls were to take a boat—one of those boats whose painted keels he saw glittering now so pleasantly on the beach—and row out into the water. And suppose the boat were upset and both Vennie and Lacrima drowned? Would he be so sad to have to live the rest of his life alone with the little Dolores?

Perhaps it would be better if this event occurred after Vennie had helped him to secure some work to do—some not too hard work! Well—Vennie, at any rate, was going to be drowned in a certain sense, at least she was meditating entering a convent, and that was little different from being drowned, or being buried in yellow clay, like James Andersen!

But Lacrima was not meditating entering a convent. Lacrima was meditating being married to him, and being a mother to their adopted child. He hoped she would be a gentle mother. If she were not, if she ever spoke crossly to Dolores, he would lose his temper. He would lose his temper so much that he would tremble from head to foot! He called up an imaginary scene between them, a scene so vivid that he found himself trembling now, as his hand rested upon the paper parcel.

But perhaps, if by chance they left England and went on a journey,—Witch-Bessie had found a journey, “a terrible journey,” in the lines of his hand,—Lacrima would catch a fever in some foreign city, and he and Dolores would be left alone, quite as alone as if she were drowned today!

But perhaps it would be he, Maurice Quincunx, who would catch the fever. No! He did not like these “terrible journeys.” He preferred to sit on a seat on Weymouth Esplanade and watch Dolores laughing and running into the sea and picking up shells.

The chief thing was to be alive, and not too tired, or too cold, or too hungry, or too harassed by insolent aggressive people! How delicious a thing life could be if it were only properly arranged! If cruelty, and brutality, and vulgarity, and office-work, were removed!

He could never be cruel to anyone. From that worst sin,—if one could talk of such a thing as sin in this mad world,—his temperament entirely saved him. He hoped when they were married that Lacrima would not want him to be too sentimental about her. And he rather hoped that he would still have his evenings to himself, to turn over the pages of Rabelais, when he had kissed Dolores good night.

His meditations were interrupted at this point by the return of his companions, who came scrambling across the shingle, threading their way among the boats, laughing and talking merrily, and trailing long pieces of sea-weed in their hands.