Your Heart’s Desire

The tents were in the little valley surrounded by hills. Right and left there were areas of brightgreen where the young corn was growing; farther away, on both sides, the valley was yellow with mustard-flower; but here it was empty and stony. A few thorny bushes pushed their way through the dry earth but they only made the emptiness of the land around the tents more obvious.

The hills were uninteresting; they had no majesty though in the morning and evening, the sun, like a great magician, clothed them with beauty. They had begun to change, to soften, in the evening light, when a woman came to the entrance of the largest of the tents and looked towards them.

The gentle breeze which had begun at sunset blew her soft brown hair. She stood very still, with her hands together in front of her. She was quiet. Her face, with its tightly closed lips, was calm, but when she raised her eyes they told a very different story. They were large grey eyes, unusually bright and rather startling, because they seemed the only live thing about her. They softened with a sudden pleasure as they rested on the green of the fields under the generous sunlight, and then wandered to where the pure vivid yellow of the mustard-flower spread to the hills. She stood motionless, watching.

Soon, in the distance, from the direction of the sunlit hills, a little group of men came in sight. Far off, the yellow jackets and the red turbans of the servants made vivid colours in the dull valley. As they came nearer, guns across their shoulders, the cases of mathematical instruments, the hammers and other heavy baggage they carried, became visible. A little in front, rode the head of the group, making notes in a book. The girl at the tent watched the little group indifferently, it seemed. Except for a slight hardening around her mouth, her face was unchanged.

While he was still a little distance away, the man with the notebook raised his head and smiled awkwardly as he saw her standing there. Awkwardness, perhaps, best describes the whole man. He was badly put together, unattractive. The fact that he was tall did not help, as it only made his clumsiness more obvious. His long pale face looked paler because of his coarse, yellow hair; even his eyes were colourless, though they were certainly the most interesting part of his face, because they at least had a little expression.

"Are you very tired?" asked his wife, gently, when he got off his horse.

"Well, no, my dear, not very," he replied slowly, after long consideration of the subject.

The girl glanced at the fading colours on the hills. "Come in and rest," she said, moving to let him pass.

She stood a moment after he entered the tent, as though she did not want to leave the air. Before she turned to follow him she breathed deeply, and her hand went for one second to her throat like she could not breathe.

Later on that evening, she sat in her tent, sewing by the light of the lamp that stood on her little table.

Opposite her, her husband looked through some official notes. Every now and then, her eyes wandered from the cover she was making to decorate the walls of the tent where their few belongings were crowded. Outside there was a deep hush. The silence of the empty valley seemed to work its way slowly towards the light in the middle. The girl felt it in every nerve; it was like some noiseless, shapeless animal was coming nearer. The heavy stillness outside was, in some ways, made more terrifying by the little sounds which from time to time came from her husband as he was reading. His wife's hand shook every time he murmured.

Suddenly, she threw her work on the table. "Please, John, talk!" she cried. Her eyes had a wild, hunted look, but it was gone almost before his slow brain had time to note that it had been there.

"Did I startle you? I'm sorry. I" – she laughed again – "I'm a little nervous. When I’m alone all day...." She paused without finishing the sentence. The man's face changed suddenly. Happiness shone in his pale eyes.

"Poor girl, are you really lonely?" he said. He got up awkwardly and moved to his wife's side.

She moved away a little, and the hand he had wanted to touch her hair with fell to his side. She recovered immediately and turned her face to his, though she did not raise her eyes; but he did not kiss her. Instead, he went back to his seat.

There was silence again. The man sat in his chair, gazing at his shoes while his wife worked.

"Don't let me stop you reading, John," she said, and her voice had regained its usual gentle tone.

"No, my dear. I'm just thinking of something to say to you, but I don't seem..."

She smiled a little. "Don't worry about it. It was stupid of me to expect it." She glanced at him, but his face was unmoved; clearly he had not noticed her comment, and she smiled faintly again.

"O Kathie, I knew there was something I'd forgotten to tell you. There's a man coming. I don't know if...."

She looked up. "A man coming here? What for?" she interrupted, breathlessly.

"He’s been sent to help me about this oil business, my dear."

He had lit his pipe, and was smoking quietly between his words.

"Well?" asked his wife impatiently, fixing her bright eyes on his face.

"Well.... that's all, my dear."

"But don't you know anything about him.... his name? Where he comes from? What he’s like?" She was sitting forward at the table, her needle in her hand. Her whole attitude was one of expectation.

The man took his pipe from his mouth deliberately, with a look of slow wonder.

"Why, Kathie, you seem quite anxious. I didn't know you'd be so interested, my dear. Well,".... another smoke of his pipe.... His name's Brook, Brookfield, I think." He paused again.

The woman put down her work.

"Go on, John," she said, in a tense voice; "His name is Brookfield. Well, where does he come from?"

"Straight from home, my dear." He pulled a pencil from his pocket and began to play with the tobacco in his pipe. There was another long pause. The woman went on working, or pretending to work.

After some moments she raised her head again. "John, please pay attention to me one moment and answer these questions as quickly as you can."

Her husband, looking up, met her clear gaze like a schoolboy.

"Where does 'from home' mean?" she asked.

"Well, from London," he replied, almost quickly for him. "He works at a university; I’ve heard he’s clever..."

"You’ve met him?"

"Yes, my dear. I went to school with him; but it's a long time ago. Brookfield.... yes, that must be his name."

She waited a moment; then, "When is he coming?" she asked, abruptly.

"Let me see... today's...."

"Monday" the word came quickly from between her teeth.

"Ah, yes.... Monday. Well, next Monday, my dear."

"How long have you known this?" she said, stopping suddenly. "O John, don’t think! It's a simple question. It's a simple question. Today? Yesterday?”

Her foot moved restlessly on the ground as she waited.

"I think it was the day before yesterday," he replied.

"Then why didn't you tell me before?" she asked, angrily.

"I forgot. If I'd thought you’d be interested...."

"Interested!" She laughed. "It’s rather interesting to hear that after six months of this" – she made a quick gesture with her hand around the tent – "I’ll have someone to speak to.... someone. It comes just in time to save me from...." She stopped herself.

He sat staring at her stupidly, without a word.

"It's all right, John," she said, with a quick change of tone, putting away her work quietly as she spoke. "I'm not mad... yet. I'm just tired, or it's the heat or.... something. No, don't touch me!" she cried, because he had got up slowly and was coming towards her.

She’d lost control of her voice, and the horror in it was unmistakable. The man heard it and also moved away.

"I'm so sorry, John," she murmured, raising her eyes to his face. They were full of tears. "I'm sorry, but I'm just nervous and stupid, and I can't bear anyone to touch me when I'm nervous."

Part 2

"Here's Broomhurst, my dear! I made a mistake with his name. I told you Brookfield, didn't I? Well, it isn't Brookfield, he says; it's Broomhurst."

"We’re very glad to see you," she said, with a quick glance at the newcomer's face.

As they walked together towards the tent, she felt his eyes on her before he turned to her husband.

"I'm afraid Mrs. Drayton finds the climate difficult?" he asked.

"Kathie is often pale. You do look white today, my dear," he commented, turning anxiously towards his wife.

"Do I?" she replied. The unsteadiness in her voice was hardly noticeable, but it was not lost on Broomhurst's quick ears.

"Oh, I don't think so. I feel very well."

"I'll come and see if they've fixed up your tent alright," said Drayton, following the newcomer.

"We’ll see you at dinner, then?" Mrs. Drayton answered in reply to Broomhurst's smile as they parted.

She entered the tent and, moving to the table already prepared for dinner, began to rearrange the things.

After a moment she sat down on a seat opposite the entrance and put her hand to her head.

"What’s the matter with me?" she thought, tiredly. "All week I've been looking forward to seeing this man — any man, anyone at all." She hesitated to analyse her feelings. "Well, he's here and I think I feel worse." Her eyes travelled towards the hills with a vague, unseeing gaze.

"Tired, Kathie? What are you thinking, my dear?" said her husband, coming in to find her still sitting there.

"I'm thinking what a strange world this is," she replied.

John looked puzzled.

Part 3

"I was fishing at Lynmouth this time last year," Broomhurst said at dinner. "You know Lynmouth, Mrs. Drayton? Do you never imagine you can hear the stream? I’m excited already by the sound of it in the beautiful green darkness of those woods – aren't they lovely? And I haven't been in this burnt-up place as many hours as you've had months of it."

She smiled a little.

"You must learn patience," she said, and glanced from Broomhurst to her husband and then dropped her eyes and was silent a moment.

John was obviously and audibly enjoying his dinner. He sat with his chair close to the table, drinking his soup greedily.

Her eyes wandered to Broomhurst's hands. They were well-shaped, though not small, she noticed. There was something different about his clean-shaven face. The suit Broomhurst wore also seemed to her smart and clean, especially compared to her husband’s.

Broomhurst's thoughts were about his hostess. She was pretty, he thought.

"The silence here seems rather strange, almost terrible at first, when one comes straight from a town," he said, after a moment's pause; "but I suppose you're used to it, eh, Drayton? How do you find life here, Mrs. Drayton?" he asked, curiously, turning to her as he spoke.

She hesitated a second. "Oh, much the same as I find it anywhere else," she replied; "After all, we carry the possibilities of a happy life about with ourselves, don't you think?"

Drayton raised his eyes from his plate with a smile of total incomprehension.

The two men went out together, Broomhurst holding the lamp, as the moon had not yet risen. Mrs. Drayton followed them to the doorway and stepped into the cool darkness.

"And I am his wife – I belong to him!" she cried, almost aloud.

She pressed both her hands together. "Oh, what a fool I am!" she whispered. She began to walk slowly up and down outside the tent. A moment later, Broomhurst came out of the darkness into the circle of light, and Mrs. Drayton raised her eyes from the pages she was turning.

"Are your things alright?"

"Oh, yes, more or less, thank you. I was a little concerned about a case of books, but it isn't much damaged fortunately. Perhaps I've some you’d like to look at?"

"The books will be heaven," she replied, her eyes brightening. "I was getting desperate.... for books."

"What are you reading now?" he asked, glancing at the book in her hand.

"It's poetry. I carry it about a lot. I think I like to have it with me, but I don't seem to read it much.

"There’s been no-one to talk to at all.... when John’s away, I mean."

"Ah, yes," Broomhurst said, with sudden seriousness; "it must be extremely boring for you alone here, with Drayton away all day."

"I don't mind the day so much; it's the evenings." She suddenly stopped talking. "I mean... I'm nervous, I think... even when John’s here. Oh, you have no idea of the awful silence of this place at night," she added, rising hurriedly from her seat, and moving closer to the doorway. There was silence for a minute.

Broomhurst's quick eyes noted the silent movement of her hands that hung at her side.

"But how stupid of me to give you such a bad impression of the camp.... the first evening, too!"

"Probably you will never notice that it’s lonely at all," she continued; "John likes it here. He’s very interested in his work, you know. I hope you are too. If you’re interested, it’s alright. Ah, here's John; he's been to the kitchen tent, I suppose."

Later, Broomhurst stood outside his own tent. He looked up at the starry sky and the heavy silence seemed to press upon him like a physical load.

"Considering she’s been alone with him here for six months, she controls herself very well," he said to himself.

Part 4

It was Sunday morning. John Drayton sat just inside the tent, enjoying his pipe before the heat of the day. His eyes followed his wife as she moved about, sometimes passing close to his chair to search for something she’d lost. There was colour in her cheeks; her eyes were bright; there was a lightness in her step and she sang a little song under her breath.

After a moment or two the song stopped. She began to move slowly and, as if cooled by a wind, the light faded from her eyes, when she turned towards her husband.

"Why are you looking at me?" she asked, suddenly.

"I don't know, my dear," he began slowly. "I was thinking how nice you looked – just now – much better; but somehow,"... he was smoking at his pipe, as usual, between each word, while she stood patiently waiting for him to finish,.... "somehow, you change so fast, my dear... you're quite pale again."

His eyes looked for something in her face. She noticed and stood in front of him, divided by different emotions, sympathy and disgust struggling in a hand-to-hand fight inside her.

"Mr. Broomhurst and I are going down by the well to sit. It's cooler there. Won't you come?" she said at last.

He did not reply for a moment; then he turned his head aside, quickly for him.

"No, my dear, thank-you. I'm comfortable enough here," he returned.

She stood by him, hesitating a second, then moved to the table, from which she took a book.

He had got up from his seat by the time she turned to go out, and he interrupted her shyly.

"Kathie, give me a kiss before you go," he whispered. "I... I don't often bother you."

She took a deep breath as he put his arms around her; but she stood still, and he kissed her on the forehead, and touched the little curls that fell across it with his big fingers.

When he let her go, she moved at once to the open door. She paused a moment, and then turned back.

"Shall I... does your pipe want filling, John?" she asked, softly.

"No, thank-you, my dear."

"Would you like me to stay, read to you, or anything?"

He looked up at her. "No, thank-you. I'm not much of a reader, you know, my dear... somehow."

She hated herself for knowing that there would be a "my dear," and probably a "somehow" in his reply.

There was a moment's hesitating silence, broken by the sound of quick footsteps outside. Broomhurst paused and looked into the tent.

"Aren't you coming, Drayton?" he asked, looking first at Drayton's wife and then quickly putting in her husband’s name. "Too lazy? But you, Mrs. Drayton?"

"Yes, I'm coming," she said.

They left the tent together and walked a few steps in silence.

Broomhurst glanced at her face.

"Anything wrong?" he asked.

Though the words were ordinary enough, the voice they were spoken in was different from the one he had used to her two months ago.

She answered quietly, "Nothing, thank-you."

They did not speak again till they reached the trees.

Broomhurst arranged their seats comfortably.

"Are we going to read or talk?" he asked, looking at her.

"Well, we generally talk most when we arrange to read, so shall we agree to talk today for a change, so I can get some reading done?" she answered, smiling. "You begin."

Broomhurst seemed in no hurry; he was watching the sunshine on Mrs. Drayton's white dress.

"Suppose you read, as usual, and let me interrupt, also as usual, after the first two lines."

He opened the book but turned the pages at random.

She watched him for a moment.

"It’s my turn now," she said, suddenly. "Is anything wrong?"

He raised his head, and their eyes met. There was a pause. "I’ll be more honest than you – yes, there is."

"What?"

"I've had orders to move to a new location."

"When?"

"On Wednesday."

There was silence again; the man still kept his eyes on her face.

"Kathleen!"

"Kathleen!" he whispered again.

She looked him full in the face.

"Will you fetch my work? I left it in the tent," she said, speaking clearly, "and then will you go on reading?"

She took the book from his hand, and he rose and stood before her in silence, and she raised her head slowly. Her face was white, but she looked at him bravely, and without a word he turned and left her.

Part 5

Mrs. Drayton was resting in the tent on Tuesday afternoon. She looked very tense, however, which showed she could not be asleep. Her face had sharpened during the last few days, and her cheeks were thin. She had been very ill for a long time. Suddenly, she turned her head and put her face in the cushions. She fell on her knees beside the sofa and put both hands over her mouth to stop the cry that was fighting its way to her lips.

It was not till it was very near that she heard the horse in the valley. She raised her head and listened. There was no mistake. The horseman was riding very fast. As Mrs. Drayton listened, her white face grew whiter and she began to shake. Slowly, she got up and walked to the entrance of the tent. By the time she reached it, Broomhurst was already there.

"I thought you... you are not..." she began. "I am so cold!" she said, in a little, weak voice.

Broomhurst took her hand and led her back into the tent.

"Don't be so frightened! I came to tell you first. I thought it wouldn't frighten you so much as... Your... Drayton is... very ill. They are bringing him. I..."

He paused. She gazed at him a moment. Then she gave a horrible laugh and stood holding the back of a chair.

"Do you understand what I mean?" he whispered. "Kathleen, don't! He is dead."

He looked over his shoulder as he spoke, her laughter in his ears. The white valley was before him, far off there were moving black specks, which he knew were the returning servants with the dead Drayton.

They were bringing him home.

Part 6

One afternoon, some months later, Broomhurst walked up the road to the hills of a little English village by the sea. He had already been shown the house where Mrs. Drayton was staying.

The lady was out, but the gentleman would probably find her if he walked towards the hills.

She turned when she heard his footsteps. Then she got up slowly and stood waiting for him. He came to her without a word and took both her hands. Something he saw in her pushed him away. Slowly he let her hands fall, still looking at her silently. "You aren’t glad to see me but I’ve counted the hours," he said, at last.

"Don't be angry with me... I can't help it... I'm not glad or sorry for anything now," she answered.

They sat down together. Before them was the wide sea. It was a soft, grey day. Pale sunlight moved at moments far out on the water. Broomhurst thought suddenly of hot eastern sunshine, of the noise of insect wings on the still air. He turned and looked at his companion.

"I’ve come thousands of miles to see you," he said. "Aren't you going to speak to me now I’m here?"

"Why did you come? I told you not to come," she answered.

"And I replied that I’d follow you... if you remember," he answered quietly. "I came because I wouldn’t listen to what you said then, at that awful time. You didn't know yourself what you were saying. I’ve given you some months and now I’ve come."

There was silence between them. Broomhurst saw she was crying. Her face, he noticed, was thin and tired.

Very gently he put his arm round her shoulders. It seemed she did not notice and his arm dropped to his side.

"You asked me why I’d come. You think three months can change you completely, then?" he said coldly.

"I have proved it," she replied tiredly.

He turned round and faced her.

"You did love me, Kathleen! You never said so in words, but I know it."

"Yes, I did."

"And you mean that you don't now?"

"I can't help it," she answered; "It has gone... totally. Don’t you think it’s worse for me? I wish I loved you! Perhaps it would make me forget I am a murderer.”

Broomhurst looked into her wide, despairing eyes with amazement and, then, slow comprehension.

"So that’s it? You’re worrying about that? You who were as loyal as..."

She stopped him.

"Don't! Don't! If you only knew! Let me try to tell you, will you? It may be better if I tell someone, if I don't keep it all to myself and think and think."

She waited for a moment and began to speak in a low, hurried voice:

"It began before you came. I know now the feeling I was afraid of. I used to repeat things to myself all day – poems, anything to stop my thoughts – but I hated John before you came! We’d been married nearly a year then. I never loved him. Of course you’re going to say, 'Why did you marry him?'" She looked over the grey sea. "Why did I marry him? I don't know. For the reason that hundreds of inexperienced girls marry, I suppose. My home wasn't a happy one. I was miserable and restless. I wonder if men know what it feels like to be restless? Sometimes I think they can't even guess. John wanted me very badly; nobody wanted me at home particularly. There didn't seem to be any point in my life.

"Do you understand? . . . Of course, being alone with him in that little camp in that silent valley made things worse. Everything he said, his voice, his accent, his walk, the way he ate, irritated me so that I wanted to rush out sometimes and scream. Does it sound ridiculous to you to go mad because of such tiny things? I only know I used to get up from the table sometimes and walk outside, with both hands over my mouth to keep myself quiet. And all the time I hated myself... how I hated myself! I never had a word from him that wasn't gentle and kind. He loved me. Oh, it’s awful to be loved like that when you... It made me sick for him to come near me, to touch me." She stopped a moment.

Broomhurst gently laid his hand on her arm. "Poor little girl!" he murmured.

"Then you came," she said, "and before long I had another feeling to fight against. At first I thought it couldn't be true that I loved you. I think I was frightened of the feeling; I didn't know it hurt so much to love anyone."

Broomhurst moved a little. "Go on," he said.

"But it didn't die," she continued, in a whisper, "and the other awful feeling grew stronger and stronger... hatred. I fought against it. I fought it with all my strength and reasoned with myself, and... oh, I did everything, but..." Her tears made speech difficult.

"Kathleen, you couldn't help it, you poor child. You say yourself you fought against your feelings. You were always gentle. Perhaps he didn't know."

"But he did... he did," she cried; "It’s just that. I hurt him a hundred times a day. He never said so, but I knew it; and yet I couldn't be kind to him, and he understood. And after you came it was worse because he knew... I felt he knew... that I loved you. His eyes used to follow me like a dog's and I tried to be good to him but I couldn't."

"But he trusted you," began Broomhurst. "He had every reason. No woman was ever so loyal, so..."

"Quiet!" she almost screamed. "Loyal! It was the least I could do... to stop you, I mean... when you... After all, I knew it without you telling me. I had deliberately married him without loving him. It was my own fault. I felt it. Even if I couldn't stop him knowing that I hated him, I could prevent that. It was my punishment. I deserved it for marrying without love," she added, bitterly.

"He knew what I felt towards him; I don't think he cared about anything else. You say I mustn't blame myself? When I went back to the tent that morning... when you... when I stopped you from saying you loved me, he was sitting at the table with his head in his hands; he was crying. I saw him – it’s terrible to see a man cry – and I crept away gently, but he saw me. But I couldn't go to him. I knew he would kiss me, and it made me sick to think of it. It seemed worse than ever that he should do that... when I knew you loved me."

"Kathleen," cried Broomhurst again, "don't think about it all so much... don't..."

"How can I forget?" she answered. "And then," – she lowered her voice – "all the time, at the back of my mind somewhere, there was a burning wish that he might die. I used to lie awake at night and that thought used to burn in me, I wished it so much. Do you believe that by wanting something, you can make it happen?" she asked, looking at Broomhurst with feverish eyes.

"No? Well, I don't know. I tried to stop it – I really tried – but it was always there. Then, when I heard the horse coming across the valley that morning, I had a sick fear that it was you. I knew something had happened, and my first thought when I saw you alive and well, and knew it was John, was that it was too good to be true. I believe I laughed like a mad woman, didn't I? Not to blame? If it hadn't been for me he wouldn't have died. The men say they saw him sitting with his head uncovered in the burning sun, his face in his hands, just as I’d seen him the day before. He didn't try to be careful; he was too miserable."

She paused and Broomhurst began to walk up and down the little hillside path where they were sitting.

Soon he came back to her.

"Kathleen, let me take care of you. We only have ourselves to consider. Will you come?"

She shook her head sadly.

"My love," he said, still gently, though his voice showed he was controlling himself with an effort, "you’ve been alone too much; you’re ill. Let me take care of you. I can, Kathleen, and I love you. You are not responsible for Drayton's death. You can't bring him back to life, and..."

"No, and if I could, nothing would change. Though I am mad with blaming myself, I feel that it was inevitable. If he were alive and well before me this moment, my feeling towards him wouldn't have changed. If he spoke to me he would say 'my dear' and I would hate him. Oh, I know! It is that which makes it so awful."

"But if you know that," Broomhurst interrupted, "will you destroy both our lives for useless regrets?"

He waited for her answer.

"I won't destroy both our lives by marrying again without love on my side," she replied, firmly.

"I’ll take the risk," he said. "You have loved me; you will love me again. You are broken now but this trouble..."

"But I will not allow you to take the risk," Kathleen answered. "What sort of woman would I be to live again with a man I don't love? I’ve learnt there are things I owe to myself. Self-respect is one of them. I don't know how, but all my old feeling for you has gone. It’s as if it had burnt itself out. I won’t offer ashes to any man."

Broomhurst, looking up at her pale face, knew that her words were final.

"Ah," cried Kathleen, "Go away and be happy and strong, and all that I loved in you. I am so sorry, so sorry to hurt you. I only bring trouble to people."

There was a long pause.

"It’s a mistake to think our prayers are not answered... they are. In due time, we get our heart's desire, when we no longer care for it."

"I haven't yet got mine," Broomhurst answered, "and I shall never stop caring for it."

She smiled a little, with infinite sadness.

"Listen, Kathleen," he said. They had both got up and he stood looking down at her. "I will go now, but in a year's time I shall come back. I will not give you up. You’ll love me."

"Perhaps. I don't think so," she answered.

Broomhurst looked at her lips a moment in silence; then he kissed both her hands instead.

"I will wait till you tell me you love me," he said.

She stood watching him out of sight. He did not look back, and she turned with swimming eyes to the grey sea and the sunlight that moved like gentle smiles across its face.