Hagar 56

Hagar 56

"Yes, I know."

 

"If you could--"

 

"I want," said Hagar, "more time. Will you let it all rest for a little

longer? I don't think I could tell you truly to-day."

 

"As long as you wish," he said, "if only, in the end--"

 

Two days after this they went out in the afternoon in the boat. It had

been a warm day, with murk in the air. At the little landing-place Fay,

after a glance at the dim, hot arch of the sky, asked the boatman if

bad weather might be brewing. But the Breton was positive.

 

"Nothing to-day--nothing to-day! To-morrow, perhaps, m'sieu."

 

They went sailing far out, until the land sunk from sight. An hour or

two passed, pleasantly, pleasantly. Then suddenly the wind, where they

were, dropped like a stone. They lay for an hour with flapping sail

and watched the blue sky grow pallid and then darken. A puff of wind,

hot and heavy, lifted the hair from their brows. It increased; the sky

darkened yet more; with an appalling might and swiftness the worst

storm of the half-year burst upon them. The wind blew a hurricane; the

sea rose; suddenly the mast went. Fay and the Breton battled with the

wreckage, cut it loose--the boat righted. But she had shipped water

and her timbers were straining and creaking. The wind was whipping her

away to the open sea, and the waves, continually mounting, battered her

side. There was a perceptible list. Night was oncoming, and the fury

above increasing.

 

Hagar braided her long hair that the wind had loosened from its

fastening. "We are in danger," she said to Fay.

 

"Yes. Can you swim?"

 

"Yes. But there would be no long swimming in this sea."

 

They sat in the darkness of the storm. When the lightnings flashed each

had a vision of the other's face, tense and still. There was nothing

that could be done. The sailor, who was hardy enough, now muttered

prayers and now objurgations upon the faithless weather. He tried to

assure his passengers that not St. Anne herself could have foreseen

what was going to occur that afternoon. Certainly Jean Gouillou had

not. "That's understood," said Hagar, smiling at him in a flash of

lightning; and, "Just do your best now," said Fay.

 

The wild storm continued. Wind and wave tossed and drove the helpless

boat. Now it laboured in the black trough of the waves, now it

staggered upon the summits; and always it laboured more heavily, and

always it was more laggard in rising. The Breton and Fay took turns in

bailing the water out. It was now, save for the lightning, dark night.

At last it was seen--though still they worked on--that there was little

use in bailing. The boat grew heavier, more distressed. The sea was

running high.

 

"Some wave will swamp us?"

 

"Yes. It is a matter of time--and not long time, I think."

 

Hagar put out her hands to him. "Then I will tell you now--"

 

He took her hands. "Is it your answer?"

 

"Yes, my dear.... Yes, my dear."

 

They bent toward each other--their lips met. "Now, whether we live or

whether we die--"

 

The wild storm continued. The slow sands of the night ran on, and

still the boat lived, though always more weakly, with the end more

certainly before her. The Breton crossed himself and prayed. Hagar and

Fay sat close together, hand in hand. After midnight the storm suddenly

decreased in force. The lightning and thunder ceased, the clouds began

to part. In another hour there would be a sky all stars. The wind that

had been so loud and wild sank to a lingering, steady moaning. There

was left the tumultuous, lifted sea, and the boat sunken now almost to

her gunwales.

 

Fay spoke in a low voice. "Are you afraid of death?"

 

"No.... You cannot kill life."

 

"It will not be painful, going as we shall go--if it is to happen. And

to go together--"

 

"I am glad that we are going together--seeing that we are to go."

 

"Do you believe that--when it is over--we shall be together still?"

 

"Consciously together?"

 

"Yes."

 

"I do not know. No one knows. No one can know--yet. But I have faith

that we shall persist, and that intelligently. I do not think that

we shall forget or ignore our old selves. And if we wish to be

together--and we do wish it--then I think we may have power to compass

it."

 

"It has sometimes seemed to me," said Fay, "that After Death may prove

to be just Life with something like fourth dimensional powers. All

this life a memory as of childhood, and a power and freedom and scope

undreamed of now--"

 

"It is possible. All things are possible--save extinction.--I think,

too, it will be higher, more spiritual.... At any rate, I do not fear.

I feel awe as before something unknown and high."

 

"And I the same."

 

Off in the east the stars were paling, there was coming a vague and

mournful grey. The boat was sinking. The two men had torn away the

thwarts and with a piece of rope lashed them together. It would be

little more than a straw to cling to, in the turbulent wide ocean,

miles from land. All were cold and numbed with the wind and the rain

and the sea.

 

Purple streaks came into the east, a chill and solemn lift to all the

sea and air and the roofless ether. Hagar and Fay looked at the violet

light, at the extreme and ghostly calm of the fields of dawn. "It is

coming now," said Fay, and put his arm around her. The boat sank.

 

The three, clinging to the frail raft they had provided, were swung

from wave to wave beneath the glowing dawn.... The wind was stilled

now, the water, under the rising sun, smoothed itself out. They

drifted, drifted; and now the sun was an hour high.... "Look! look!"

cried the Breton, and they looked and saw a red sail coming toward

them.

 

A day or two later Hagar and Fay met at the gate of the curé's widow,

and climbing through the grey town came out upon the heath above. It

was a high, clear afternoon, with a marvellous blue sky. They walked

until they came to a circle of stones, raised there in the immemorial,

dark past. When they had wandered among them for a while, they rested,

leaning against the greatest menhir, looking out over the grey-green,

far-stretching heath to a line of sapphire sea. "It grows like a

dream," said Hagar. "Death, life--life, death.... I think we are

growing into something that transcends both ... as we have known both."

 

"Hagar, do you love me?"

 

"Yes, I love you.... It's a quiet love, but it's deep."

 

They sat down in the warm grass by the huge stone, and now they talked

and now they were silent and content. Little by little they laid their

plans.

 

"Let us go to London. I will go to Roger Michael's. We will marry

quietly there."

 

"Lily and Robert will want to come from Scotland."

 

"Well, we'll let them." Hagar laughed, a musical, sweet laugh. "Thomson

is in London with Mr. Greer. Dear old Thomson! I think he'll have to

come."

 

"Couldn't we have," said Fay, "a month in some old, green, still,

English country place?"

 

"With roses to the eaves and a sunken lane to wander in and at night a

cricket chirping on the hearth.... We'll try."

 

"And in October sail for home."

 

"And in October sail for home."

 

She looked at him with eyes that smiled and yet were grave. "You're

aware that you're marrying a working-woman, who intends to continue to

work?"

 

"I'm aware."

 

Her candid eyes continued to meet his. "I wish a child. While it needs

me and when it needs me, I shall be there."

 

His hand closed over hers. "Is it as though I did not know that--"

 

She kissed him on the lips. "And you're aware that I shall work on

through life for the fairer social order? And that, generally speaking,

the Woman Movement has me for keeps?"

 

"I'm aware. I'm going to help you."

 

"South America--"

 

"I'm not wedded," said Fay, "to South American governments. There are

a plenty of bridges to be built in the United States."