The Redemption of Anthony/Chapter 10
CHAPTER X
PRISCILLA wandered aimlessly between the close-cut hedges of her garden; idly trailed her hand in the fountain where Aphrodite disported herself; took up her book and sat for a few moments on the terrace; gazed at the blue Italian sky, and sighed. "Oh, dear, I wish he would get through with it!"
"It" was Anthony's book, at which he was working heart and soul, early and late; and it was the only cloud in the clear sky of Priscilla's happiness. She called the book her rival, and sometimes openly rebelled at the time her husband spent with it and away from her. But he was so filled with it, and he made up to her for his neglect in so many gentle ways, that she bore it as patiently as possible even though the days were long and lonely.
The Drakes had been in Italy nearly a year now, delightfully situated in an old Italian palace, with a wonderful garden. Anthony called it "Priscilla's garden," and threatened to write a poem thereon. Priscilla, however, found herself rebelling sometimes at the very perfection of their life. Her young, restive spirit longed for change, or for the old conditions of life at home in America. Then, too, her mother's letters of late seemed to hint at a loneliness too deep for words, and a want which none but Tony and Priscilla could fill.
The year had brought slow but steady changes in Priscilla. The child whom Anthony Drake had married had blossomed into a woman during the days spent so much alone, and slowly into her life had come a love for Anthony so great and all-absorbing that it frightened her. She thought with wonder of the childish affection she had given him at the time of their marriage, and she shuddered away from the thought that she had married him mainly to please her mother, who had seemed to wish it so strongly.
A servant interrupted her thoughts. "Will you have the tea on the terrace, madame?"
"No, bring it to the pergola in fifteen minutes, please," she replied, and walked slowly down the steps and through the garden, She stood silently between the pillars of the pergola and waited. Anthony had a desk here in this quiet place, and here the book was being written. He worked now in a very fury of speed and excitement. He did not hear nor see Priscilla at all. Page after page was completed and tossed aside. The servant appeared with the tea, and she motioned him to set it down in silence. Anthony wrote in a very frenzy of effort; Priscilla thought she had never seen him so uncontrolled. At last he threw down the pencil and stretched his arms straight above his head, with a deep sigh, as of a man coming out of a trance.
"Thank Heaven!" he said, and then he saw his wife. "Dearest, it's finished, it's finished!" he said boyishly, coming to her. He took her in his arms, and she almost sobbed.
"Oh, Tony, I'm so glad! I'm so glad!"
He put her aside and began to pace up and down, in his excitement. "It's a big book, Priscilla; it's a great book!"
"Tony, I hate it!" she cried, and all the concentrated loneliness and jealousy of the last ten months came out in the outburst.
He turned suddenly and looked at her in astonishment—at her flushed face and tense body. He went to her quickly. "What is it, Priscilla? What is it you hate?"
"The book. It takes all your thoughts and time and hopes; there is no room for me."
"Priscilla!" he said, and drew her into his arms again. "Tell me what you mean."
"All day long I have to wait for you to be through with it. I sit and sit, and try to be patient, but I want you so, and I want to talk to you, and I'm so lonesome."
"Heart's dearest," he said, "I never knew, I never thought! To me the inspiration of the hours we spent together had to have its outlet; all that you awakened in me, dear, that I had never dreamed of, had to come to fruition, and it has blossomed in this book—this book that is you! Dear, I'll burn the book, if that will be atonement;" he said it solemnly, like a father offering to sacrifice his child.
"Oh, my dear, my heart of hearts, don't say such athing! Don't say anything more. I didn't mean it—it just came out in spite of me. Oh, Tony, it's just as I feared! I'm not worthy, I'm not worthy."
"Worthy, Priscilla? Don't!"
"I'm only a hindrance."
"Priscilla, you hurt me more than you know."
She drew his face down to her and kissed his forehead, his eyes, and, last of all, his lips. "Forgive me, and love me, Tony—love me half as well as I love you, and I'll be satisfied." She went to the tea-table, and motioned him to his place. "Come and get your tea—you're tired out."
"I feel as if something had burst in my head, and the relief—you've no idea how great it is!"
She passed him his tea and poured her own. "I'm so glad, dear, for you. And now I've a suggestion to make."
"I'm all ears, madame."
"I've had a letter from mother to-day."
"Did you? Good! Lord! if she were only here to-night!"
She glanced at him wistfully. "Yes, if she only were! It's a very ostensibly cheerful letter, but very lonely between the lines, and so I say, let's go home to mother."
"All right; there's no reason why we shouldn't—now," he said promptly.
She leaped to her feet. "Tony—really?" she cried joyously.
He looked at her curiously. "Has it been as bad as that, my wife?"
"Bad? No, it's perfect—almost. I'm just homesick and mother-sick."
"When shall we go?"
"Tony, you're such a dear! Let's go right away—next week—and surprise her."
"Whenever you say. I can scarcely wait to get the manuscript into her hands," he added.
While the shadows lengthened, and the sun went down behind the yew-trees in the garden, they sat hand in hand and planned their homeward journey.
"It's as good as planning our honeymoon, isn't it? I never knew before how much I could miss mother," Priscilla said.
"I never knew before how much I could miss her," Tony added.