Chapter VII: By the Marble Cliffs

Iris Dearn and Rees were seated on a flat rocky ledge overlooking a tremendous precipice at the bottom of which flowed a gleaming, silvery stream. They were gazing across the gorge at the great Marble Cliffs rising in majestic splendour on the other side of the river. The warm afternoon sunshine poured its glinting radiance on the colossal mass of stone, making its peculiar dull pallor glitter with a ghost-like whiteness. The rocks rose from the edge of the water in perpendicular, undeviating straightness. They seemed to have stepped out from the tangled background of thickly wooded hills with uncompromising boldness. There was an air of lofty decision about them, an almost grim, relentless purpose in their stately, imposing immensity.

Iris and her companion sat a little distance apart, and were for a time silenced by the solemn grandeur before them. The cliffs always awed and overwhelmed.

A flock of black cockatoos flew shrieking across the deep ravine, and, as they fluttered past the rocks, small dark shadows flickered for a moment over their dead white surface.

“Isn’t it wonderful to have such cliffs so far inland!” said Iris, without removing her gaze from the monstrous erection of stone. “I suppose the sea was here once.”

“I suppose so.”

“What do you think the cliff looks like?” asked Miss Dearn after another pause.

“To me it seems like a tremendous tombstone,” he replied, with significant seriousness.

Iris shuddered slightly. “What a mournful comparison. But,” she continued turning to him a little, “what grave would have such a monument?”

He reflected a moment. “The things that might have been; all the beautiful, warm, joyous things which might have been within our reach, and after all can never be ours.”

The girl breathed a little fluttering sigh. “I wonder if we shall ever know what these things were.”

“We shall never know all, of course. But sometimes we have dreams. A beautiful vision comes to us and we long with all the force of our nature to reach out and capture the lovely thing, and yet, because of circumstances, we cannot, we dare not, make it ours.”

“But do you think it could ever be wrong to reach out after the things we want?”

“Perhaps our hands are tied.”

“But surely, if our desire to possess the delightful things was strong enough, we should burst the restraining bonds?”

“Even then we might not be able to break the fetters.”

“Then our desire cannot be strong enough,” commented his companion with youthful certainty.

Rees had been looking at the cliffs all the time he had been speaking, now he suddenly turned to Miss Dearn and there was a curious expression in his grey eyes as he said: “Some chains are never broken.”

“Marriage chains,” suggested Iris lightly, a sudden fear blanching her cheeks.

“No, I was not referring to those,” he said steadily; “there are others equally relentless.”

She drew a quick breath of relief and the colour leapt into her cheeks again. “I don’t think any others could bind irrevocably.”

“No, you may not think so; all the same, they do.”

He had been speaking with a quiet significance, and she knew he wanted her to understand his underlying meaning. Yesterday they had been drifting towards each other. Iris had realised this. She knew that, though the driver had made no advances, though his manner had been very much the same as usual, a wonderful new intimacy had sprung up between them. The nature of this bond was as yet unrealised by her. She only knew it was something intangible, but warm and strong; something which had lifted her out of ordinary life into a sphere of strange, exultant emotions, tremulous joy, exuberant gladness, at the same time slipping soft, delicious chains about her which bound her in an exquisite, sweet captivity.

Had Rees also felt this great magic something drawing them together? Yes, he must have been aware of it; some beautiful vision had come to him of all it might bring into his sad, humble life, and he had let her know that he considered he had no right to such bliss. She liked him for feeling like that, and yet why should he not try to gain what he desired? Surely, there could be no serious obstacle to the intimacy between them, except his position? For one instant a terrible fear of a possible marriage hidden somewhere in the background of his life had paled her cheeks. But he had immediately removed her trepidation on that score. The sudden terror should have opened her eyes at once to the nature of the emotions drawing her to him. But she was so much occupied by their effect upon herself, that she did not stop to investigate their cause.

Yet, what could he mean by the binding chains he had referred to? There was only one probable answer--his circumstances. From the world’s point of view, of course, it would be most incongruous that any friendship should exist between a London society beauty and a poor, insignificant driver. Her mother would be appalled at the thought of such a thing. But Rees was the finest, the most attractive, man she had ever met, and he was unmistakably a gentleman; so did position matter?

In the world she had left behind it would matter greatly--vitally. But in free, delightful, sun-kissed Australia, where man was linked to man, where barriers had been overthrown, and people were unhampered by old-world traditions of rank, blood and social distinction--here in this glad liberty--such a relationship might surely be possible between them. Suddenly Iris Dearn determined that she would not return to London. Her lot should be cast in Australia.

“I wonder what you are thinking about?” said her companion at length, gazing at her from under well-marked, dark brows. “You look as if you were solving big problems.”

Iris felt her cheeks grow warm. “I was--I have just made up my mind not to go back to England--I want to stay out here,” she said, evading his eyes.

“Is that a wise decision?”

“I am sure it is. But,” she went on as if anxious to change the subject, “you were going to sing to me, you know.”

He looked carefully up the steep, ledge-like track by which they had descended to their present rocky seat. It was a very dangerous path, hanging over a drop of many hundred feet. Few people ventured down unless the guide accompanied them; all the same his eyes scanned the zigzag path to where it disappeared over the brow of the tree-covered hill.

There was no one in sight.

“I wonder what you would like me to sing?” he asked after he was satisfied that no one else was within ear-shot.

“What do you feel in the mood to sing?”

“Do you think it is safe to indulge one’s moods?”

“Why not--where music is concerned?”

“Because music has such terrible power to reveal secrets--to those who should know least about them.”

THE ALUM CLIFFS, MERSEY RIVER.]

“I am afraid you are too sensitive on that point,” said Miss Dearn lightly. “You are so reserved that I believe it is positively painful to you to show your fellow-beings that you have any feelings at all. You would like us all to think that you are a cold, callous thing who has no interest except in beauty spots, and no heart for any one except dumb animals and people in trouble,” she laughed with a teasing, tender look in her eyes.

“My fellow-beings would be wise if they thought so.”

“How correctly I have guessed,” said the girl triumphantly. “You would like to drive us all to this conclusion.”

“And won’t you be driven?” A bright light sprang for a moment into his grey eyes.

“I should think not! We have taken you too long at your own valuation, now I shall form my own estimate of you.”

“An estimate which will be quite wrong, I am afraid, so you had better keep to mine.”

“Very well, then, if you are so insistent that we shall regard you as an iceberg, I shall begin to treat you like one straight away,” she said with playful dignity.

He smiled, and there was less sadness in his face than she had ever seen there.

She sat leaning lightly against the rock behind her. She had taken off her hat and glinting sunbeams played indulgently with the thick golden-brown waves of her hair. Her large blue eyes smiled at him from behind their enchanting lashes, her red lips were slightly parted and he caught a flash of her snowy, even teeth. The vermilion in her cheeks was dazzling. She looked bewilderingly beautiful, and for a moment an almost dazed look came into the driver’s face. After a pause he said with a show of emotion: “Miss Dearn, you are too kind to me.”

“Do you call it kind to promise to treat you as an iceberg?” she laughed again.

“I was not referring to that. But such kindness is too good for me--it would be as well to remember that I am only a driver and----”

She interrupted him hastily; this was his sore point: she must show him at once that his position did not affect her, so she said lightly: “And couldn’t a driver by any chance be manly enough, honourable enough to be worthy of a woman’s trust--a woman’s friendship?”

“Some might be,” he admitted.

“In spite of being drivers?” The blue velvet of her eyes held smiling banter.

“Yes,” he replied, watching her for some seconds. “If a man is worthy in himself, I don’t think any position could make him less a man.”

“You are right,” said Miss Dearn with sudden seriousness. Then she went on more playfully: “And now that we both agree on this subject, we can let it drop once and for all.”

“I think not.” He spoke as one determined to be honest at all costs.

“Why not?” There was deep surprise in her voice.

“Because some drivers cannot lay claim to manliness.”

Miss Dearn laughed suddenly. “Do you mean to imply that you are not manly--and you are the manliest man I have ever known!”

“God help the rest!” he said, with quick vehemence.

“What a strange mood you are in to-day,” observed the girl, regarding him from under half-closed lids. “A little while ago you were afraid to sing in case your music might give me a glimpse of what is below the surface, and here you are telling me in plain words some of the things your reserve generally hides--truly men are enigmas!”

“I was not afraid of that kind of revelation.”

“I don’t believe you want to sing,” said Miss Dearn, changing her tactics.

He jumped to the bait instantly. “If only you knew how much! I will start at once if I may sing what I like,” he said, with a tense question in his gaze.

“Yes,” she replied softly, surveying the rocky ledge with minute interest.

He moved a little nearer and began to sing--

“The white sea mist rolls up to the sand
And sorrow they say is over the land.
But little they know that behind the mist
The sea and the land have softly kissed.”

Iris listened with bated breath.

He sang with a tenderness which was moving, with a sweetness inexpressible.

Then followed the second verse--

“And I who sit and sorrow apart,
Am dying they say of a broken heart;
Ah, little they know that behind the mist
I live in a dream of the day we--kissed.”

The pathos in his voice hurt her and brought stinging tears to her eyes. They had never kissed, but somehow he conveyed to her that for the future he would live in the day he had held her to his heart in the caves.

“How exquisite--but--how sad! Why did you sing such a pathetic song?”

“You said I might sing according to my mood.”

“Why are you so sad?” Her eyes were upon his face almost demanding an answer.

“Because of what might have been--because of what I must bury under those great cliffs and never uncover again.”

His words brought a quick pain to her heart. “What might have been--” she repeated as one stunned by a blow.

“Yes, what might have been, and never can be.” His face had all at once blanched and his eyes had a haunted look in them. “The White Sea Mist has blotted out all sunshine,” he added as something irrevocable and final.

“Yet the Sea and the Land met behind the mist,” Iris murmured scarcely audibly.

“Only for a time. Then came the bitter parting and the bare after-life with its blinding memory.”

“Yet it was worth all to have that memory.”

“Do you think it is better to have a memory which blinds, or to have no pain and no--memory?”

“I would rather have the pain and--the memory.”

“Would you really?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, I think so. The memory means that one has something to look back upon.”

“It would be worth all just to have that.”

“Are you positively sure?” He still spoke as one a little uncertain, who wanted a definite understanding.

She met his eyes unflinchingly. “I am,” she said slowly, and after she had said the words, she knew that she had made a compact with the man beside her.

He rose to his feet, stood for some minutes looking into the terrible gully below, then he came and sat down closer to her.

“I am going to sing now--not anything which will remind you of the monument over there, but something which will bring back to you--other things.”

She waited in breathless anticipation, and thrilled visibly when he began to sing--

“I’ll sing thee songs of Araby.”

Suddenly she was back in the cave. She felt his arms holding her, she was pressed against his heart. The song and the way he sang it made her feel this. Every note was a caress, every word a vibrant sigh from his soul. It seemed as if his voice folded her to him with arms which would not let her go; and when he came to the words--

“And all my soul shall strive to wake
Sweet wonder in thine eyes,”

she knew he was striving with all the force of his strong nature to awaken in her an answering emotion.

She sat listening with closed eyes, face pale, lips trembling and her soft bosom heaving.

When he had finished she bent forward and said brokenly: “Oh, don’t sing like that to me again, I cannot bear it--how can I?” And her voice was choked by a great, dry sob.

“I only sang from my heart,” he said quietly: his face white and set, his hands gripping each other. “I thought you gave me permission?”

“Yes, I know I did, but it simply--it makes me--I can’t bear it, unless----”

“Unless what?” he demanded breathlessly.

“Don’t ask, please don’t!”

“Perhaps I can guess--I, too, am thinking of the--cave.”

She started. He was speaking plainly now, but she had given him permission. She did not blame him; her own heart was crying out wildly, as his cried out! It was not his fault that this terrible love had come to him as it had come to her: the keen, piercing love which had been born in their hearts while she lay softly pressed against his breast.

Now she suddenly understood the nature of the emotion which had drawn her to him--it was love--love--love! Oh, the power of it! the beauty of it! the force of it! She could cry out with its fierce excruciating sweetness!

She sat helpless, overwhelmed by the vehemence of her feelings.

“Can’t you make it easier?” she faltered tremulously.

“There are only two ways: either to stay here as our hearts tell us, or--go back to the cottage quickly.”

He waited for her reply. “What is it to be?” he asked, as no answer came.

“Whichever you think is right,” she whispered at last.

Her utter trust and abandonment touched him.

“Then let me take you up to your cousin at once,” he said hurriedly.

He helped her to her feet, and they began to climb the precipitous path.

They reached the top of the hill breathless and hot, then they stopped and looked down once more on the wonderful white cliffs. The path turned at this point and the great rocks would soon be lost to view.

They stood gazing down, as if saying good-bye.

“Thank you for helping me,” said Iris in an undertone; “but I knew I could trust you always to do the right thing.”

“I should not have sung what I did; such things reveal too much.” He spoke remorsefully and all the sadness had returned to his face.

“Don’t say that,” she pleaded softly. “I would not have had it any different--not for the world!”

“Wouldn’t you really?”

“No, for now we shall have this to look back upon in the future when you have buried everything under that huge, unrelenting tombstone.”

“You say when _I_ have buried everything. Do you mean to say that _you_ would not?”

She met his eyes bravely. “No, I should not--I couldn’t,” she said simply.

He drew a hard breath. “_I_ must do it then,” he said, deep shadows gathering in his eyes.

The pain in his face hurt her. She wanted to comfort him. “We won’t think of that just now, this is the time to gather the memories, isn’t it?”

He smiled gravely. “Yes, let us gather the sweetness now.” He glanced once more down towards the great towering stones. “That cliff is not to be our tombstone yet--what shall it be to us for the present?”

Iris lifted her face suddenly and there was a wonderful light in her splendid eyes. “I think it is a monument Nature has erected to commemorate the purest and brightest thing which has ever come into our lives,” she said.

He looked at her with deep reverence. “God grant that you may always regard what is between us in that light,” he said huskily, baring his head.