A CRYSTAL AGE

PREFACE

Romances of the future, however fantastic they may be,
have for most of us a perennial if mild interest, since they
are born of a very common feeling—a sense of
dissatisfaction with the existing order of things, combined
with a vague faith in or hope of a better one to come. The
picture put before us is false; we knew it would be false
before looking at it, since we cannot imagine what is unknown
any more than we can build without materials. Our mental
atmosphere surrounds and shuts us in like our own skins; no
one can boast that he has broken out of that prison. The
vast, unbounded prospect lies before us, but, as the poet
mournfully adds, “clouds and darkness rest upon it.”
Nevertheless we cannot suppress all curiosity, or help asking
one another, What is your dream—your ideal? What is
your News from Nowhere, or, rather, what is the result of the
little shake your hand has given to the old pasteboard toy
with a dozen bits of colored glass for contents? And, most
important of all, can you present it in a narrative or
romance which will enable me to pass an idle hour not
disagreeably? How, for instance, does it compare in this
respect with other prophetic books on the shelf?

I am not referring to living authors; least of all to that
flamingo of letters who for the last decade or so has been a
wonder to our island birds. For what could I say of him that
is not known to every one—that he is the tallest of
fowls, land or water, of a most singular shape, and has
black-tipped crimson wings folded under his delicate
rose-colored plumage? These other books referred to, written,
let us say, from thirty or forty years to a century or two
ago, amuse us in a way their poor dead authors never
intended. Most amusing are the dead ones who take themselves
seriously, whose books are pulpits quaintly carved and
decorated with precious stones and silken canopies in which
they stand and preach to or at their contemporaries.

In like manner, in going through this book of mine after
so many years I am amused at the way it is colored by the
little cults and crazes, and modes of thought of the
‘eighties of the last century. They were so important then,
and now, if remembered at all, they appear so trivial! It
pleases me to be diverted in this way at “A Crystal
Age”—to find, in fact, that I have not stood still
while the world has been moving.

This criticism refers to the case, the habit, of the book
rather than to its spirit, since when we write we do, as the
red man thought, impart something of our souls to the paper,
and it is probable that if I were to write a new dream of the
future it would, though in some respects very different from
this, still be a dream and picture of the human race in its
forest period.

Alas that in this case the wish cannot induce belief! For
now I remember another thing which Nature said—that
earthly excellence can come in no way but one, and the ending
of passion and strife is the beginning of decay. It is indeed
a hard saying, and the hardest lesson we can learn of her
without losing love and bidding good-by forever to hope.

W. H. H.

A CRYSTAL AGE

Chapter 1

I do not quite know how it happened, my recollection of the
whole matter ebbing in a somewhat clouded condition. I fancy
I had gone somewhere on a botanizing expedition, but whether
at home or abroad I don’t know. At all events, I remember
that I had taken up the study of plants with a good deal of
enthusiasm, and that while hunting for some variety in the
mountains I sat down to rest on the edge of a ravine. Perhaps
it was on the ledge of an overhanging rock; anyhow, if I
remember rightly, the ground gave way all about me,
precipitating me below. The fall was a very considerable
one—probably thirty or forty feet, or more, and I was
rendered unconscious. How long I lay there under the heap of
earth and stones carried down in my fall it is impossible to
say: perhaps a long time; but at last I came to myself and
struggled up from the debris, like a mole coming to
the surface of the earth to feel the genial sunshine on his
dim eyeballs. I found myself standing (oddly enough, on all
fours) in an immense pit created by the overthrow of a
gigantic dead tree with a girth of about thirty or forty
feet. The tree itself had rolled down to the bottom of the
ravine; but the pit in which it had left the huge stumps of
severed roots was, I found, situated in a gentle slope at the
top of the bank! How, then, I could have fallen seemingly so
far from no height at all, puzzled me greatly: it looked as
if the solid earth had been indulging in some curious
transformation pranks during those moments or minutes of
insensibility. Another singular circumstance was that I had a
great mass of small fibrous rootlets tightly woven about my
whole person, so that I was like a colossal basket-worm in
its case, or a big man-shaped bottle covered with
wicker-work. It appeared as if the roots had grown
round me! Luckily they were quite sapless and brittle, and
without bothering my brains too much about the matter, I set
to work to rid myself of them. After stripping the woody
covering off, I found that my tourist suit of rough Scotch
homespun had not suffered much harm, although the cloth
exuded a damp, moldy smell; also that my thick-soled climbing
boots had assumed a cracked rusty appearance as if I had been
engaged in some brick-field operations; while my felt hat was
in such a discolored and battered condition that I felt
almost ashamed to put it on my head. My watch was gone;
perhaps I had not been wearing it, but my pocket-book in
which I had my money was safe in my breast pocket.

Glad and grateful at having escaped with unbroken bones from
such a dangerous accident, I set out walking along the edge
of the ravine, which soon broadened to a valley running
between two steep hills; and then, seeing water at the bottom
and feeling very dry, I ran down the slope to get a drink.
Lying flat on my chest to slake my thirst animal fashion, I
was amazed at the reflection the water gave back of my face:
it was, skin and hair, thickly encrusted with clay and
rootlets! Having taken a long drink, I threw off my clothes
to have a bath; and after splashing about for half an hour
managed to rid my skin of its accumulations of dirt. While
drying in the wind I shook the loose sand and clay from my
garments, then dressed, and, feeling greatly refreshed,
proceeded on my walk.

For an hour or so I followed the valley in its many windings,
but, failing to see any dwelling-place, I ascended a hill to
get a view of the surrounding country. The prospect which
disclosed itself when I had got a couple of hundred feet
above the surrounding level, appeared unfamiliar. The hills
among which I had been wandering were now behind me; before
me spread a wide rolling country, beyond which rose a
mountain range resembling in the distance blue banked-up
clouds with summits and peaks of pearly whiteness. Looking on
this scene I could hardly refrain from shouting with joy, so
glad did the sunlit expanse of earth, and the pure
exhilarating mountain breeze, make me feel. The season was
late summer—that was plain to see; the ground was
moist, as if from recent showers, and the earth everywhere
had that intense living greenness with which it reclothes
itself when the greater heats are over; but the foliage of
the woods was already beginning to be touched here and there
with the yellow and russet hues of decay. A more tranquil and
soul-satisfying scene could not be imagined: the dear old
mother earth was looking her very best; while the shifting
golden sunlight, the mysterious haze in the distance, and the
glint of a wide stream not very far off, seemed to
spiritualize her “happy autumn fields,” and bring them into a
closer kinship with the blue over-arching sky. There was one
large house or mansion in sight, but no town, nor even a
hamlet, and not one solitary spire. In vain I scanned the
horizon, waiting impatiently to see the distant puff of white
steam from some passing engine. This troubled me not a
little, for I had no idea that I had drifted so far from
civilization in my search for specimens, or whatever it was
that brought me to this pretty, primitive wilderness. Not
quite a wilderness, however, for there, within a short hour’s
walk of the hill, stood the one great stone mansion, close to
the river I had mentioned. There were also horses and cows in
sight, and a number of scattered sheep were grazing on the
hillside beneath me.

Strange to relate, I met with a little misadventure on
account of the sheep—an animal which one is accustomed
to regard as of a timid and inoffensive nature. When I set
out at a brisk pace to walk to the house I have spoken of, in
order to make some inquiries there, a few of the sheep that
happened to be near began to bleat loudly, as if alarmed, and
by and by they came hurrying after me, apparently in a great
state of excitement. I did not mind them much, but presently
a pair of horses, attracted by their bleatings, also seemed
struck at my appearance, and came at a swift gallop to within
twenty yards of me. They were magnificent-looking brutes,
evidently a pair of well-groomed carriage horses, for their
coats, which were of a fine bronze color, sparkled
wonderfully in the sunshine. In other respects they were very
unlike carriage animals, for they had tails reaching to the
ground, like funeral horses, and immense black leonine manes,
which gave them a strikingly bold and somewhat formidable
appearance. For some moments they stood with heads erect,
gazing fixedly at me, and then simultaneously delivered a
snort of defiance or astonishment, so loud and sudden that it
startled me like the report of a gun. This tremendous equine
blast brought yet another enemy on the field in the shape of
a huge milk-white bull with long horns: a very noble kind of
animal, but one which I always prefer to admire from behind a
hedge, or at a distance through a field-glass. Fortunately
his wrathful mutterings gave me timely notice of his
approach, and without waiting to discover his intentions, I
incontinently fled down the slope to the refuge of a grove or
belt of trees clothing the lower portion of the hillside.
Spent and panting from my run, I embraced a big tree, and
turning to face the foe, found that I had not been followed:
sheep, horses, and bull were all grouped together just where
I had left them, apparently holding a consultation, or
comparing notes.

The trees where I had sought shelter were old, and grew here
and there, singly or in scattered groups: it was a pretty
wilderness of mingled tree, shrub and flower. I was surprised
to find here some very large and ancient-looking fig-trees,
and numbers of wasps and flies were busy feeding on a few
over-ripe figs on the higher branches. Honey-bees also roamed
about everywhere, extracting sweets from the autumn bloom,
and filling the sunny glades with a soft, monotonous murmur
of sound. Walking on full of happy thoughts and a keen sense
of the sweetness of life pervading me, I presently noticed
that a multitude of small birds were gathering about me,
flitting through the trees overhead and the bushes on either
hand, but always keeping near me, apparently as much excited
at my presence as if I had been a gigantic owl, or some such
unnatural monster. Their increasing numbers and incessant
excited chirping and chattering at first served to amuse, but
in the end began to irritate me. I observed, too, that the
alarm was spreading, and that larger birds, usually shy of
men—pigeons, jays, and magpies, I fancied they
were—now began to make their appearance. Could it be,
thought I with some concern, that I had wandered into some
uninhabited wilderness, to cause so great a commotion among
the little feathered people? I very soon dismissed this as an
idle thought, for one does not find houses, domestic animals,
and fruit-trees in desert places. No, it was simply the
inherent cantankerousness of little birds which caused them
to annoy me. Looking about on the ground for something to
throw at them, I found in the grass a freshly-fallen walnut,
and, breaking the shell, I quickly ate the contents. Never
had anything tasted so pleasant to me before! But it had a
curious effect on me, for, whereas before eating it I had not
felt hungry, I now seemed to be famishing, and began
excitedly searching about for more nuts. They were lying
everywhere in the greatest abundance; for, without knowing
it, I had been walking through a grove composed in large part
of old walnut-trees. Nut after nut was picked up and eagerly
devoured, and I must have eaten four or five dozen before my
ravenous appetite was thoroughly appeased. During this feast
I had paid no attention to the birds, but when my hunger was
over I began again to feel annoyed at their trivial
persecutions, and so continued to gather the fallen nuts to
throw at them. It amused and piqued me at the same time to
see how wide of the mark my missiles went. I could hardly
have hit a haystack at a distance of ten yards. After half an
hour’s vigorous practice my right hand began to recover its
lost cunning, and I was at last greatly delighted when of my
nuts went hissing like a bullet through the leaves, not
further than a yard from the wren, or whatever the little
beggar was, I had aimed at. Their Impertinences did not like
this at all; they began to find out that I was a rather
dangerous person to meddle with: their ranks were broken,
they became demoralized and scattered, in all directions, and
I was finally left master of the field.

“Dolt that I am,” I suddenly exclaimed, “to be fooling away
my time when the nearest railway station or hotel is perhaps
twenty miles away.”

I hurried on, but when I got to the end of the grove, on the
green sward near some laurel and juniper bushes, I came on an
excavation apparently just made, the loose earth which had
been dug out looking quite fresh and moist. The hole or foss
was narrow, about five feet deep and seven feet long, and
looked, I imagined, curiously like a grave. A few yards away
was a pile of dry brushwood, and some faggots bound together
with ropes of straw, all apparently freshly cut from the
neighboring bushes. As I stood there, wondering what these
things meant, I happened to glance away in the direction of
the house where I intended to call, which was not now visible
owing to an intervening grove of tall trees, and was
surprised to discover a troop of about fifteen persons
advancing along the valley in my direction. Before them
marched a tall white-bearded old man; next came eight men,
bearing a platform on their shoulders with some heavy burden
resting upon it; and behind these followed the others. I
began to think that they were actually carrying a corpse,
with the intention of giving it burial in that very pit
beside which I was standing; and, although it looked most
unlike a funeral, for no person in the procession wore black,
the thought strengthened to a conviction when I became able
to distinguish a recumbent, human-like form in a shroud-like
covering on the platform. It seemed altogether a very unusual
proceeding, and made me feel extremely uncomfortable; so much
so that I considered it prudent to step back behind the
bushes, where I could watch the doings of the processionists
without being observed.

Led by the old man—who carried, suspended by thin
chains, a large bronze censer, or brazier rather, which sent
out a thin continuous wreath of smoke—they came
straight on to the pit; and after depositing their burden on
the grass, remained standing for some minutes, apparently to
rest after their walk, all conversing together, but in
subdued tones, so that I could not catch their words,
although standing within fifteen yards of the grave. The
uncoffined corpse, which seemed that of a full-grown man, was
covered with a white cloth, and rested on a thick straw mat,
provided with handles along the sides. On these things,
however, I bestowed but a hasty glance, so profoundly
absorbed had I become in watching the group of living human
beings before me; for they were certainly utterly unlike any
fellow-creatures I had ever encountered before. The old man
was tall and spare, and from his snowy-white majestic beard I
took him to be about seventy years old; but he was straight
as an arrow, and his free movements and elastic tread were
those of a much younger man. His head was adorned with a dark
red skull-cap, and he wore a robe covering the whole body and
reaching to the ankles, of a deep yellow or rhubarb color;
but his long wide sleeves under his robe were dark red,
embroidered with yellow flowers. The other men had no
covering on their heads, and their luxuriant hair, worn to
the shoulders, was, in most cases, very dark. Their garments
were also made in a different fashion, and consisted of a
kilt-like dress, which came half-way to the knees, a pale
yellow shirt fitting tight to the skin, and over it a loose
sleeveless vest. The entire legs were cased in stockings,
curious in pattern and color. The women wore garments
resembling those of the men, but the tight-fitting sleeves
reached only half-way to the elbow, the rest of the arm being
bare; and the outergarment was all in one piece, resembling a
long sleeveless jacket, reaching below the hips. The color of
their dresses varied, but in most cases different shades of
blue and subdued yellow predominated. In all, the stockings
showed deeper and richer shades of color than the other
garments; and in their curiously segmented appearance, and in
the harmonious arrangement of the tints, they seemed to
represent the skins of pythons and other beautifully
variegated serpents. All wore low shoes of an orange-brown
color, fitting closely so as to display the shape of the
foot.

From the moment of first seeing them I had had no doubt about
the sex of the tall old leader of the procession, his shining
white beard being as conspicuous at a distance as a shield or
a banner; but looking at the others I was at first puzzled to
know whether the party was composed of men or women, or of
both, so much did they resemble each other in height, in
their smooth faces, and in the length of their hair. On a
closer inspection I noticed the difference of dress of the
sexes; also that the men, if not sterner, had faces at all
events less mild and soft in expression than the women, and
also a slight perceptible down on the cheeks and upper lip.

After a first hasty survey of the group in general, I had
eyes for only one person in it—a fine graceful girl
about fourteen years old, and the youngest by far of the
party. A description of this girl will give some idea, albeit
a very poor one, of the faces and general appearance of this
strange people I had stumbled on. Her dress, if a garment so
brief can be called a dress, showed a slaty-blue pattern on a
straw-colored ground, while her stockings were darker shades
of the same colors. Her eyes, at the distance I stood from
her, appeared black, or nearly black, but when seen closely
they proved to be green—a wonderfully pure, tender
sea-green; and the others, I found, had eyes of the same hue.
Her hair fell to her shoulders; but it was very wavy or
curly, and strayed in small tendril-like tresses over her
neck, forehead and cheeks; in color it was golden
black—that is, black in shade, but when touched with
sunlight every hair became a thread of shining red-gold; and
in some lights it looked like raven-black hair powdered with
gold-dust. As to her features, the forehead was broader and
lower, the nose larger, and the lips more slender, than in
our most beautiful female types. The color was also
different, the delicately molded mouth being purple-red
instead of the approved cherry or coral hue; while the
complexion was a clear dark, and the color, which mantled the
cheeks in moments of excitement, was a dim or dusky rather
than a rosy red.

The exquisite form and face of this young girl, from the
first moment of seeing her, produced a very deep impression;
and I continued watching her every movement and gesture with
an intense, even a passionate interest. She had a quantity of
flowers in her hand; but these sweet emblems, I observed,
were all gayly colored, which seemed strange, for in most
places white flowers are used in funeral ceremonies. Some of
the men who had followed the body carried in their hands
broad, three-cornered bronze shovels, with short black
handles, and these they had dropped upon the grass on
arriving at the grave. Presently the old man stooped and drew
the covering back from the dead one’s face—a rigid,
marble-white face set in a loose mass of black hair. The
others gathered round, and some standing, others kneeling,
bent on the still countenance before them a long earnest
gaze, as if taking an eternal farewell of one they had deeply
loved. At this moment the the beautiful girl I have described
all at once threw herself with a sobbing cry on her knees
before the corpse, and, stooping, kissed the face with
passionate grief. “Oh, my beloved, must we now leave you
alone forever!” she cried between the sobs that shook her
whole frame. “Oh, my love—my love—my love, will
you come back to us no more!”

The others all appeared deeply affected at her grief, and
presently a young man standing by raised her from the ground
and drew her gently against his side, where for some minutes
she continued convulsively weeping. Some of the other men now
passed ropes through the handles of the straw mat on which
the corpse rested, and raising it from the platform lowered
it into the foss. Each person in turn then advanced and
dropped some flowers into the grave, uttering the one word
“Farewell” as they did so; after which the loose earth was
shoveled in with the bronze implements. Over the mound the
hurdle on which the straw mat had rested was then placed, the
dry brushwood and faggots heaped over it and ignited with a
coal from the brazier. White smoke and crackling flames
issued anon from the pile, and in a few moments the whole was
in a fierce blaze.

Standing around they all waited in silence until the fire had
burnt itself out; then the old man advancing stretched his
arms above the white and still smoking ashes and cried in a
loud voice: “Farewell forever, O well beloved son! With deep
sorrow and tears we have given you back to Earth; but not
until she has made the sweet grass and flowers grow again on
this spot, scorched and made desolate with fire, shall our
hearts be healed of their wound and forget their grief.”

Chapter 2

The thrilling, pathetic tone in which these words were
uttered affected me not a little; and when the ceremony was
over I continued staring vacantly at the speaker, ignorant of
the fact that the beautiful young girl had her wide-open,
startled eyes fixed on the bush which, I vainly imagined,
concealed me from view.

All at once she cried out: “Oh, father, look there! Who is
that strange-looking man watching us from behind the bushes?”

They all turned, and then I felt that fourteen or fifteen
pairs of very keen eyes were on me, seeing me very plainly
indeed, for in my curiosity and excitement I had come out
from the thicker bushes to place myself behind a ragged,
almost leafless shrub, which afforded the merest apology for
a shelter. Putting a bold face on the matter, although I did
not feel very easy, I came out and advanced to them, removing
my battered old hat on the way, and bowing repeatedly to the
assembled company. My courteous salutation was not returned;
but all, with increasing astonishment pictured on their
faces, continued staring at me as if they were looking on
some grotesque apparition. Thinking it best to give an
account of myself at once, and to apologize for intruding on
their mysteries, I addressed myself to the old man:

“I really beg your pardon,” I said, “for having disturbed you
at such an inconvenient time, and while you are engaged in
these—these solemn rites; but I assure you, sir, it has
been quite accidental. I happened to be walking here when I
saw you coming, and thought it best to step out of the way
until—well, until the funeral was over. The fact is, I
met with a serious accident in the mountains over there. I
fell down into a ravine, and a great heap of earth and stones
fell on and stunned me, and I do not know how long I lay
there before I recovered my senses. I daresay I am
trespassing, but I am a perfect stranger here, and quite
lost, and—and perhaps a little confused after my fall,
and perhaps you will kindly tell me where to go to get some
refreshment, and find out where I am.”

“Your story is a very strange one,” said the old man in
reply, after a pause of considerable duration. “That you are
a perfect stranger in this place is evident from your
appearance, your uncouth dress, and your thick speech.”

His words made me blush hotly, although I should not have
minded his very personal remarks much if that beautiful girl
had not been standing there listening to everything. My
uncouth garments, by the way, were made by a
fashionable West End tailor, and fitted me perfectly,
although just now they were, of course, very dirty. It was
also a surprise to hear that I had a thick speech,
since I had always been considered a remarkably clear speaker
and good singer, and had frequently both sung and recited in
public, at amateur entertainments.

After a distressing interval of silence, during which they
all continued regarding me with unabated curiosity, the old
gentleman condescended to address me again and asked me my
name and country.

“My country,” said I, with the natural pride of a Briton, “is
England, and my name is Smith.”

“No such country is known to me,” he returned; “nor have I
ever heard such a name as yours.”

I was rather taken aback at his words, and yet did not just
then by any means realize their full import. I was thinking
only about my name; for without having penetrated into any
perfectly savage country, I had been about the world a great
deal for a young man, visiting the Colonies, India, Yokohama,
and other distant places, and I had never yet been told that
the name of Smith was an unfamiliar one.

“I hardly know what to say,” I returned, for he was evidently
waiting for me to add something more to what I had stated.
“It rather staggers me to hear that my name-well, you have
not heard of me, of course, but there have been a
great many distinguished men of the same name: Sydney Smith,
for instance, and—and several others.” It mortified me
just then to find that I had forgotten all the other
distinguished Smiths.

He shook his head, and continued watching my face.

“Not heard of them!” I exclaimed. “Well, I suppose you have
heard of some of my great countrymen: Beaconsfield,
Gladstone, Darwin, Burne-Jones, Ruskin, Queen Victoria,
Tennyson, George Eliot, Herbert Spencer, General Gordon, Lord
Randolph Churchill—”

As he continued to shake his head after each name I at length
paused.

“Who are all these people you have named?” he asked.

“They are all great and illustrious men and women who have a
world-wide reputation,” I answered.

“And are there no more of them—have you told me the
names of all the great people you have ever known or
heard of?” he said, with a curious smile.

“No, indeed,” I answered, nettled at his words and manner.
“It would take me until to-morrow to name all the
great men I have ever heard of. I suppose you have heard the
names of Napoleon, Wellington, Nelson, Dante, Luther, Calvin,
Bismarck, Voltaire?”

He still shook his head.

“Well, then,” I continued, “Homer, Socrates, Alexander the
Great, Confucius, Zoroaster, Plato, Shakespeare.” Then,
growing thoroughly desperate, I added in a burst: “Noah,
Moses, Columbus, Hannibal, Adam and Eve!”

“I am quite sure that I have never heard of any of these
names,” he answered, still with that curious smile.
“Nevertheless I can understand your surprise. It sometimes
happens that the mind, owing an an imperfect adjustment of
its faculties, resembles the uneducated vision in its method
of judgment, regarding the things which are near as great and
important, and those further away as less important,
according to their distance. In such a case the individuals
one hears about or associates with, come to be looked upon as
the great and illustrious beings of the world, and all men in
all places are expected to be familiar with their names. But
come, my children, our sorrowful task is over, let us now
return to the house. Come with us, Smith, and you shall have
the refreshment you require.”

I was, of course, pleased with the invitation, but did not
relish being addressed as “Smith,” like some mere laborer or
other common person tramping about the country.

The long disconcerting scrutiny I had been subjected to had
naturally made me very uncomfortable, and caused me to drop a
little behind the others as we walked towards the house. The
old man, however, still kept at my side; but whether from
motives of courtesy, or because he wished to badger me a
little more about my uncouth appearance and defective
intellect, I was not sure. I was not anxious to continue the
conversation, which had not proved very satisfactory;
moreover, the beautiful girl I have already mentioned so
frequently, was now walking just before me, hand in hand with
the young man who had raised her from the ground. I was
absorbed in admiration of her graceful figure,
and—shall I be forgiven for mentioning such a
detail?—her exquisitely rounded legs under her brief
and beautiful garments. To my mind the garment was quite long
enough. Every time I spoke, for my companion still maintained
the conversation and I was obliged to reply, she hung back a
little to catch my words. At such times she would also turn
her pretty head partially round so as to see me: then her
glances, beginning at my face, would wander down to my legs,
and her lips would twitch and curl a little, seeming to
express disgust and amusement at the same time. I was
beginning to hate my legs, or rather my trousers, for I
considered that under them I had as good a pair of calves as
any man in the company.

Presently I thought of something to say, something very
simple, which my dignified old friend would be able to answer
without intimating that he considered me a wild man of the
woods or an escaped lunatic.

“Can you tell me,” I said pleasantly, “what is the name of
your nearest town or city? how far it is from this place, and
how I can get there?”

At this question, or series of questions, the young girl
turned quite round, and, waiting until I was even with her,
she continued her walk at my side, although still holding her
companion’s hand.

The old man looked at me with a grave smile—that smile
was fast becoming intolerable—and said: “Are you so
fond of honey, Smith? You shall have as much as you require
without disturbing the bees. They are now taking advantage of
this second spring to lay by a sufficient provision before
winter sets in.”

After pondering some time over these enigmatical words, I
said: “I daresay we are at cross purposes again. I mean,” I
added hurriedly, seeing the inquiring look on his face, “that
we do not exactly understand each other, for the subject of
honey was not in my thoughts.”

“What, then, do you mean by a city?” he asked.

“What do I mean? Why, a city, I take it, is nothing more than
a collection or congeries of houses—hundreds and
thousands, or hundreds of thousands of houses, all
built close together, where one can live very comfortably for
years without seeing a blade of grass.”

“I am afraid,” he returned, “that the accident you met with
in the mountains must have caused some injury to your brain;
for I cannot in any other way account for these strange
fantasies.”

“Do you mean seriously to tell me, sir, that you have never
even heard of the existence of a city, where millions of
human beings live crowded together in a small space? Of
course I mean a small space comparatively; for in some cities
you might walk all day without getting into the fields; and a
city like that might be compared to a beehive so large that a
bee might fly in a straight line all day without getting out
of it.”

It struck me the moment I finished speaking that this
comparison was not quite right somehow; but he did not ask me
to explain: he had evidently ceased to pay any attention to
what I said. The girl looked at me with an expression of
pity, not to say contempt, and I felt at the same time
ashamed and vexed. This served to rouse a kind of dogged
spirit in me, and I returned to the subject once more.

“Surely,” I said, “you have heard of such cities as Paris,
Vienna, Rome, Athens, Babylon, Jerusalem?”

He only shook his head, and walked on in silence.

“And London! London is the capital of England. Why,” I
exclaimed, beginning to see light, and wondering at myself
for not having seen it sooner, “you are at present talking to
me in the English language.”

“I fail to understand your meaning, and am even inclined to
doubt that you have any,” said he, a little ruffled. “I am
addressing you in the language of human beings—that is
all.”

“Well, it seems awfully puzzling,” said I; “but I hope you
don’t think I have been indulging in—well,
tarradiddles.” Then, seeing that I was making matters no
clearer, I added: “I mean that I have not been telling
untruths.”

“I could not think that,” he answered sternly. “It would
indeed be a clouded mind which could mistake mere disordered
fancies for willful offenses against the truth. I have no
doubt that when you have recovered from the effects of your
late accident these vain thoughts and imaginations will cease
to trouble you.”

“And in the meantime, perhaps, I had better say as little as
possible,” said I, with considerable temper. “At present we
do not seem able to understand each other at all.”

“You are right, we do not,” he said; and then added with a
grave smile, “although I must allow that this last remark of
yours is quite intelligible.”

“I’m glad of that,” I returned. “It is distressing to talk
and not to be understood; it is like men calling to each
other in a high wind, hearing voices but not able to
distinguish words.”

“Again I understand you,” said he approvingly; while the
beautiful girl bestowed on me the coveted reward of a smile,
which had no pity or contempt in it.

“I think,” I continued, determined to follow up this new
train of ideas on which I had so luckily stumbled, “that we
are not so far apart in mind after all. About some things we
stand quite away from each other, like the widely diverging
branches of a tree; but, like the branches, we have a
meeting-place, and this is, I fancy, in that part of our
nature where our feelings are. My accident in the hills has
not disarranged that part of me, I am sure, and I can give
you an instance. A little while ago when I was standing
behind the bushes watching you all, I saw this young
lady——”

Here a look of surprise and inquiry from the girl warned me
that I was once more plunging into obscurity.

“When I saw you,” I continued, somewhat amused at her
manner, “cast yourself on the earth to kiss the cold face of
one you had loved in life, I felt the tears of sympathy come
to my own eyes.”

“Oh, how strange!” she exclaimed, flashing on me a glance
from her green, mysterious eyes; and then, to increase my
wonder and delight, she deliberately placed her hand in mine.

“And yet not strange,” said the old man, by way of comment on
her words.

“It seemed strange to Yoletta that one so unlike us outwardly
should be so like us in heart,” remarked the young man at her
side.

There was something about this speech which I did not
altogether like, though I could not detect anything like
sarcasm in the tone of the speaker.

“And yet,” continued the lovely girl, “you never saw him
living—never heard his sweet voice, which still seems
to come back to me like a melody from the distance.”

“Was he your father?” I asked.

The question seemed to surprise her very much. “He is
our father,” she returned, with a glance at the old
gentleman, which seemed strange, for he certainly looked aged
enough to be her great-grandfather.

He smiled and said: “You forget, my daughter, that I am as
little known to this stranger to our country as all the great
and illustrious personages he has mentioned are to us.”

At this point I began to lose interest in the conversation.
It was enough for me to feel that I held that precious hand
in mine, and presently I felt tempted to administer a gentle
squeeze. She looked at me and smiled, then glanced over my
whole person, the survey finishing at my boots, which seemed
to have a disagreeable fascination for her. She shivered
slightly, and withdrew her hand from mine, and in my heart I
cursed those rusty, thick-soled monstrosities in which my
feet were cased. However, we were all on a better footing
now; and I resolved for the future to avoid all dangerous
topics, historical and geographical, and confine myself to
subjects relating to the emotional side of our natures.

At the end our way to the house was over a green turf, among
great trees as in a park; and as there was no road or path,
the first sight of the building seen near, when we emerged
from the trees, came as a surprise. There were no gardens,
lawns, inclosures or hedges near it, nor cultivation of any
kind. It was like a wilderness, and the house produced the
effect of a noble ruin. It was a hilly stone country where
masses of stone cropped out here and there among the woods
and on the green slopes, and it appeared that the house had
been raised on the natural foundation of one of these rocks
standing a little above the river that flowed behind it. The
stone was gray, tinged with red, and the whole rock, covering
an acre or so of ground, had been worn or hewn down to form a
vast platform which stood about a dozen feet above the
surrounding green level. The sloping and buttressed sides of
the platform were clothed with ivy, wild shrubs, and various
flowering plants. Broad, shallow steps led up to the house,
which was all of the same material—reddish-gray stone;
and the main entrance was beneath a lofty portico, the
sculptured entablature of which was supported by sixteen huge
caryatides, standing on round massive pedestals. The building
was not high as a castle or cathedral; it was a
dwelling-place, and had but one floor, and resembled a ruin
to my eyes because of the extreme antiquity of its
appearance, the weather-worn condition and massiveness of the
sculptured surfaces, and the masses of ancient ivy covering
it in places. On the central portion of the building rested a
great dome-shaped roof, resembling ground glass of a pale
reddish tint, producing the effect of a cloud resting on the
stony summit of a hill.

I remained standing on the grass about thirty yards from the
first steps after the others had gone in, all but the old
gentleman, who still kept with me. By-and-by, withdrawing to
a stone bench under an oak-tree, he motioned to me to take a
seat by his side. He said nothing, but appeared to be quietly
enjoying my undisguised surprise and admiration.

“A noble mansion!” I remarked at length to my venerable host,
feeling, Englishman-like, a sudden great access of respect
towards the owner of a big house. Men in such a position can
afford to be as eccentric as they like, even to the wearing
of Carnivalesque garments, burying their friends or relations
in a park, and shaking their heads over such names as Smith
or Shakespeare. “A glorious place! It must have cost a pot of
money, and taken a long time to build.”

“What you mean by a pot of money I do not know,” said
he. “When you add a long time to build, I am also
puzzled to understand you. For are not all houses, like the
forest of trees, the human race, the world we live in,
eternal?”

“If they stand forever they are so in one sense, I suppose,”
I answered, beginning to fear that I had already
unfortunately broken the rule I had so recently laid down for
my own guidance. “But the trees of the forest, to which you
compare a house, spring from seed, do they not? and so have a
beginning. Their end also, like the end of man, is to die and
return to the dust.”

“That is true,” he returned; “it is, moreover, a truth which
I do not now hear for the first time; but it has no
connection with the subject we are discussing. Men pass away,
and others take their places. Trees also decay, but the
forest does not die, or suffer for the loss of individual
trees; is it not the same with the house and the family
inhabiting it, which is one with the house, and endures
forever, albeit the members composing it must all in time
return to the dust?”

“Is there no decay, then, of the materials composing a
house?”

“Assuredly there is! Even the hardest stone is worn in time
by the elements, or by the footsteps of many generations of
men; but the stone that decays is removed, and the house does
not suffer.”

“I have never looked at it quite in this light before,” said
I. “But surely we can build a house whenever we wish!”

“Build a house whenever we wish!” he repeated, with that
astonished look which threatened to become the permanent
expression of his face—so long as he had me to talk
with, at any rate.

“Yes, or pull one down if we find it unsuitable—” But
his look of horror here made me pause, and to finish the
sentence I added: “Of course, you must admit that a house had
a beginning?”

“Yes; and so had the forest, the mountain, the human race,
the world itself. But the origin of all these things is
covered with the mists of time.”

“Does it never happen, then, that a house, however
substantially built—”

“However what! But never mind; you continue to speak in
riddles. Pray, finish what you were saying.”

“Does it never happen that a house is overthrown by some
natural force—by floods, or subsidence of the earth, or
is destroyed by lightning or fire?”

“No!” he answered, with such tremendous emphasis that he
almost made me jump from my seat. “Are you alone so ignorant
of these things that you speak of building and of pulling
down a house?”

“Well, I fancied I knew a lot of things once,” I answered,
with a sigh. “But perhaps I was mistaken—people often
are. I should like to hear you say something more about all
these things—I mean about the house and the family, and
the rest of it.”

“Are you not, then, able to read—have you been taught
absolutely nothing?”

“Oh yes, certainly I can read,” I answered, joyfully seizing
at once on the suggestion, which seemed to open a simple,
pleasant way of escape from the difficulty. “I am by no means
a studious person; perhaps I am never so happy as when I have
nothing to read. Nevertheless, I do occasionally look into
books, and greatly appreciate their gentle, kindly ways. They
never shut themselves up with a sound like a slap, or throw
themselves at your head for a duffer, but seem silently
grateful for being read, even by a stupid person, and teach
you very patiently, like a pretty, meek-spirited young girl.”

“I am very pleased to hear it,” said he. “You shall read and
learn all these things for yourself, which is the best
method. Or perhaps I ought rather to say, you shall by
reading recall them to your mind, for it is impossible to
believe that it has always been in its present pitiable
condition. I can only attribute such a mental state, with its
disordered fancies about cities, or immense hives of human
beings, and other things equally frightful to contemplate,
and its absolute vacancy concerning ordinary matters of
knowledge, to the grave accident you met with in the hills.
Doubtless in falling your head was struck and injured by a
stone. Let us hope that you will soon recover possession of
your memory and other faculties. And now let us repair to the
eating-room, for it is best to refresh the body first, and
the mind afterwards.”

Chapter 3

We ascended the steps, and passing through the portico went
into the hall by what seemed to me a doorless way. It was not
really so, as I discovered later; the doors, of which there
were several, some of colored glass, others of some other
material, were simply thrust back into receptacles within the
wall itself, which was five or six feet thick. The hall was
the noblest I had ever seen; it had a stone and bronze
fireplace some twenty or thirty feet long on one side, and
several tall arched doorways on the other. The spaces between
the doors were covered with sculpture, its material being a
blue-gray stone combined or inlaid with a yellow metal, the
effect being indescribably rich. The floor was mosaic of many
dark colors, but with no definite pattern, and the concave
roof was deep red in color. Though beautiful, it was somewhat
somber, as the light was not strong. At all events, that is
how it struck me at first on coming in from the bright
sunlight. Nor, it appeared, was I alone in experiencing such
a feeling. As soon as we were inside, the old gentleman,
removing his cap and passing his thin fingers through his
white hair, looked around him, and addressing some of the
others, who were bringing in small round tables and placing
them about the hall, said: “No, no; let us sup this evening
where we can look at the sky.”

The tables were immediately taken away.

Now some of those who were in the hall or who came in with
the tables had not attended the funeral, and these were all
astonished on seeing me. They did not stare at me, but I, of
course, saw the expression on their faces, and noticed that
the others who had made my acquaintance at the grave-side
whispered in their ears to explain my presence. This made me
extremely uncomfortable, and it was a relief when they began
to go out again.

One of the men was seated near me; he was of those who had
assisted in carrying the corpse, and he now turned to me and
remarked: “You have been a long time in the open air, and
probably feel the change as much as we do.”

I assented, and he rose and walked away to the far end of the
hall, where a great door stood facing the one by which we had
entered. From the spot where I was—a distance of forty
or fifty feet, perhaps—this door appeared to be of
polished slate of a very dark gray, its surface ornamented
with very large horse-chestnut leaves of brass or copper, or
both, for they varied in shade from bright yellow to deepest
copper-red. It was a double door with agate handles, and,
first pressing on one handle, then on the other, he thrust it
back into the walls on either side, revealing a new thing of
beauty to my eyes, for behind the vanished door was a window,
the sight of which came suddenly before me like a celestial
vision. Sunshine, wind, cloud and rain had evidently inspired
the artist who designed it, but I did not at the time
understand the meaning of the symbolic figures appearing in
the picture. Below, with loosened dark golden-red hair and
amber-colored garments fluttering in the wind, stood a
graceful female figure on the summit of a gray rock; over the
rock, and as high as her knees, slanted the thin branches of
some mountain shrub, the strong wind even now stripping them
of their remaining yellow and russet leaves, whirling them
aloft and away. Round the woman’s head was a garland of ivy
leaves, and she was gazing aloft with expectant face,
stretching up her arms, as if to implore or receive some
precious gift from the sky. Above, against the slaty-gray
cloud-wrack, four exquisite slender girl-forms appeared, with
loose hair, silver-gray drapery and gauzy wings as of
ephemerae, flying in pursuit of the cloud. Each carried a
quantity of flowers, shaped like lilies, in her dress, held
up with the left hand; one carried red lilies, another
yellow, the third violet, and the last blue; and the gauzy
wings and drapery of each was also touched in places with the
same hue as the flowers she carried. Looking back in their
flight they were all with the disengaged hand throwing down
lilies to the standing figure.

This lovely window gave a fresh charm to the whole apartment,
while the sunlight falling through it served also to reveal
other beauties which I had not observed. One that quickly
drew and absorbed my attention was a piece of statuary on the
floor at some distance from me, and going to it I stood for
some time gazing on it in the greatest delight. It was a
statue about one-third the size of life, of a young woman
seated on a white bull with golden horns. She had a graceful
figure and beautiful countenance; the face, arms and feet
were alabaster, the flesh tinted, but with colors more
delicate than in nature. On her arms were broad golden
armlets, and the drapery, a long flowing robe, was blue,
embroidered with yellow flowers. A stringed instrument rested
on her knee, and she was represented playing and singing. The
bull, with lowered horns, appeared walking; about his chest
hung a garland of flowers mingled with ears of yellow corn,
oak, ivy, and various other leaves, green and russet, and
acorns and crimson berries. The garland and blue dress were
made of malachite, lapis lazuli, and various precious
stones.

“Aha, my fair Phoenician, I know you well!” thought I
exultingly, “though I never saw you before with a harp in
your hand. But were you not gathering flowers, O lovely
daughter of Agenor, when that celestial animal, that
masquerading god, put himself so cunningly in your way to be
admired and caressed, until you unsuspiciously placed
yourself on his back? That explains the garland. I shall have
a word to say about this pretty thing to my learned and very
superior host.”

The statue stood on an octagonal pedestal of a highly
polished slaty-gray stone, and on each of its eight faces was
a picture in which one human figure appeared. Now, from
gazing on the statue itself I fell to contemplating one of
these pictures with a very keen interest, for the figure, I
recognized, was a portrait of the beautiful girl Yoletta. The
picture was a winter landscape. The earth was white, not with
snow, but with hoar frost; the distant trees, clothed by the
frozen moisture as if with a feathery foliage, looked misty
against the whitey-blue wintry sky. In the foreground, on the
pale frosted grass, stood the girl, in a dark maroon dress,
with silver embroidery on the bosom, and a dark red cap on
her head. Close to her drooped the slender terminal twigs of
a tree, sparkling with rime and icicle, and on the twigs were
several small snow-white birds, hopping and fluttering down
towards her outstretched hand; while she gazed up at them
with flushed cheeks, and lips parting with a bright, joyous
smile.

Presently, while I stood admiring this most lovely work, the
young man I have mentioned as having raised Yoletta from the
ground at the grave came to my side and remarked, smiling:
“You have noticed the resemblance.”

“Yes, indeed,” I returned; “she is painted to the life.”

“This is not Yoletta’s portrait,” he replied, “though it is
very like her;” and then, when I looked at him incredulously,
he pointed to some letters under the picture, saying: “Do you
not see the name and date?”

Finding that I could not read the words, I hazarded the
remark that it was Yoletta’s mother, perhaps.

“This portrait was painted four centuries ago,” he said, with
surprise in his accent; and then he turned aside, thinking
me, perhaps, a rather dull and ignorant person.

I did not want him to go away with that impression, and
remarked, pointing to the statue I have spoken of: “I fancy I
know very well who that is—that is Europa.”

“Europa? That is a name I never heard; I doubt that any one
in the house ever bore it.” Then, with a half-puzzled smile,
he added: “How could you possibly know unless you were told?
No, that is Mistrelde. It was formerly the custom of the
house for the Mother to ride on a white bull at the harvest
festival. Mistrelde was the last to observe it.”

“Oh, I see,” I returned lamely, though I didn’t see at all.
The indifferent way in which he spoke of centuries in
connection with this brilliant and apparently fresh-painted
picture rather took me aback.

Presently he condescended to say something more. Pointing to
the marks or characters which I could not read, he said: “You
have seen the name of Yoletta here, and that and the
resemblance misled you. You must know that there has always
been a Yoletta in this house. This was the daughter of
Mistrelde, the Mother, who died young and left but eight
children; and when this work was made their portraits were
placed on the eight faces of the pedestal.”

“Thanks for telling me,” I said, wondering if it was all
true, or only a fantastic romance.

He then motioned me to follow him, and we quitted that room
where it had been decided that we were not to sup.

Chapter 4

We came to a large portico-like place open on three sides to
the air, the roof being supported by slender columns. We were
now on the opposite side of the house and looked upon the
river, which was not more than a couple of hundred yards from
the terrace or platform on which it stood. The ground here
sloped rapidly to the banks, and, like that in the front, was
a wilderness with rock and patches of tall fern and thickets
of thorn and bramble, with a few trees of great size. Nor was
wild life wanting in this natural park; some deer were
feeding near the bank, while on the water numbers of wild
duck and other water-fowl were disporting themselves,
splashing and flapping over the surface and uttering shrill
cries.

The people of the house were already assembled, standing and
sitting by the small tables. There was a lively hum of
conversation, which ceased on my entrance; then those who
were sitting stood up and the whole company fixed its eyes on
me, which was rather disconcerting.

The old gentleman, standing in the midst of the people, now
bent on me a long, scrutinizing gaze; he appeared to be
waiting for me to speak, and, finding that I remained silent,
he finally addressed me with solemnity. “Smith,” he
said—and I did not like it—”the meeting with you
today was to me and to all of us a very strange experience: I
little thought that an even stranger one awaited me, that
before you break bread in this house in which you have found
shelter, I should have to remind you that you are now in a
house.”

“Yes, I know I am,” I said, and then added: “I’m sure, sir, I
appreciate your kindness in bringing me here.”

He had perhaps expected something more or something entirely
different from me, as he continued standing with his eyes
fixed on me. Then with a sigh, and looking round him, he said
in a dissatisfied tone: “My children, let us begin, and for
the present put out of our minds this matter which has been
troubling us.”

He then motioned me to a seat at his own table, where I was
pleased to have a place since the lovely Yoletta was also
there.

I am not particular about what I eat, as with me good
digestion waits on appetite, and so long as I get a
bellyful—to use a good old English word—I am
satisfied. On this particular occasion, with or without a
pretty girl at the table, I could have consumed a
haggis—that greatest abomination ever invented by
flesh-eating barbarians—I was so desperately hungry. It
was therefore a disappointment when nothing more substantial
than a plate of whitey-green, crisp-looking stuff resembling
endive, was placed before me by one of the picturesque
handmaidens. It was cold and somewhat bitter to the taste,
but hunger compelled me to eat it even to the last green
leaf; then, when I began to wonder if it would be right to
ask for more, to my great relief other more succulent dishes
followed, composed of various vegetables. We also had some
pleasant drinks, made, I suppose, from the juices of fruits,
but the delicious alcoholic sting was not in them. We had
fruits, too, of unfamiliar flavors, and a confection of
crushed nuts and honey.

We sat at table—or tables—a long time, and the
meal was enlivened with conversation; for all now appeared in
a cheerful frame of mind, notwithstanding the melancholy
event which had occupied them during the day. It was, in
fact, a kind of supper, and the one great meal of the day:
the only other meals being a breakfast, and at noon a crust
of brown bread, a handful of dried fruit, and drink of milk.

At the conclusion of the repast, during which I had been too
much occupied to take notice of everything that passed, I
observed that a number of small birds had flown in, and were
briskly hopping over the floor and tables, also perching
quite fearlessly on the heads or shoulders of the company,
and that they were being fed with the fragments. I took them
to be sparrows and things of that kind, but they did not look
altogether familiar to me. One little fellow, most lively in
his motions, was remarkably like my old friend the robin,
only the bosom was more vivid, running almost into orange,
and the wings and tail were tipped with the same hue, giving
it quite a distinguished appearance. Another small
olive-green bird, which I at first took for a green linnet,
was even prettier, the throat and bosom being of a most
delicate buff, crossed with a belt of velvet black. The bird
that really seemed most like a common sparrow was chestnut,
with a white throat and mouse-colored wings and tail. These
pretty little pensioners systematically avoided my
neighborhood, although I tempted them with crumbs and fruit;
only one flew onto my table, but had no sooner done so than
it darted away again, and out of the room, as if greatly
alarmed. I caught the pretty girl’s eye just then, and having
finished eating, and being anxious to join the conversation,
for I hate to sit silent when others are talking. I remarked
that it was strange the little birds so persistently avoided
me.

“Oh no, not at all strange,” she replied, with surprising
readiness, showing that she too had noticed it. “They are
frightened at your appearance.”

“I must indeed appear strange to them,” said I, with some
bitterness, and recalling the adventures of the morning. “It
is to me a new and very painful experience to walk about the
world frightening men, cattle, and birds; yet I suppose it is
entirely due to the clothes I am wearing—and the boots.
I wish some kind person would suggest a remedy for this state
of things; for just now my greatest desire is to be dressed
in accordance with the fashion.”

“Allow me to interrupt you for one moment, Smith,” said the
old gentleman, who had been listening attentively to my
words. “We understood what you said so well on this occasion
that it seems a pity you should suddenly again render
yourself unintelligible. Can you explain to us what you mean
by dressing in accordance with the fashion?”

“My meaning is, that I simply desire to dress like one of
yourselves, to see the last of these uncouth
garments.” I could not help putting a little vicious emphasis
on that hateful word.

He inclined his head and said, “Yes?”

Thus encouraged, I dashed boldly into the middle of matter;
for now, having dined, albeit without wine, I was inflamed
with an intense craving to see myself arrayed in their rich,
mysterious dress. “This being so,” I continued, “may I ask
you if it is in your power to provide me with the necessary
garments, so that I may cease to be an object of aversion and
offense to every living thing and person, myself included?”

A long and uncomfortable silence ensued, which was perhaps
not strange, considering the nature of the request. That I
had blundered once more seemed likely enough, from the
general suspense and the somewhat alarmed expression of the
old gentleman’s countenance; nevertheless, my motives had
been good: I had expressed my wish in that way for the sake
of peace and quietness, and fearing that if I had asked to be
directed to the nearest clothing establishment, a new fit of
amazement would have been the result.

Finding the silence intolerable, I at length ventured to
remark that I feared he had not understood me to the end.

“Perhaps not,” he answered gravely. “Or, rather let me say, I
hope not.”

“May I explain my meaning?” said I, greatly distressed.

“Assuredly you may,” he replied with dignity. “Only before
you speak, let me put this plain question to you: Do you ask
us to provide you with garments—that is to say, to
bestow them as a gift on you?”

“Certainly not!” I exclaimed, turning crimson with shame to
think that they were all taking me for a beggar. “My wish is
to obtain them somehow from somebody, since I cannot make
them for myself, and to give in return their full value.”

I had no sooner spoken than I greatly feared that I had made
matters worse; for here was I, a guest in the house, actually
offering to purchase clothing—ready-made or to to
order—from my host, who, for all I knew, might be one
of the aristocracy of the country. My fears, however, proved
quite groundless.

“I am glad to hear your explanation,” he answered, “for it
has completely removed the unpleasant impression caused by
your former words. What can you do in return for the garments
you are anxious to possess? And here, let me remark, I
approve highly of your wish to escape, with the least
possible delay, from your present covering. Do you wish to
confine yourself to the finishing of some work in a
particular line—as wood-carving, or stone, metal, clay
or glass work; or in making or using colors? or have you only
that general knowledge of the various arts which would enable
you to assist the more skilled in preparing materials?”

“No, I am not an artist,” I replied, surprised at his
question. “All I can do is to buy the clothes—to pay
for them in money.”

“What do you mean by that? What is money?”

“Surely——” I began, but fortunately checked
myself in time, for I had meant to suggest that he was
pulling my leg. But it was really hard to believe that a
person of his years did not know what money was. Besides, I
could not answer the question, having always abhorred the
study of political economy, which tells you all about it; so
that I had never learned to define money, but only how to
spend it. Presently I thought the best way out of the muddle
was to show him some, and I accordingly pulled out my big
leather book-purse from my breast pocket. It had an ancient,
musty smell, like everything else about me, but seemed pretty
heavy and well-filled, and I proceeded to open it and turn
the contents on the table. Eleven bright sovereigns and three
half-crowns or florins, I forget which, rolled out; then,
unfolding the papers, I discovered three five-pound Bank of
England notes.

“Surely this is very little for me to have about me!” said I,
feeling greatly disappointed. “I fancy I must have been
making ducks and drakes of a lot of cash
before—before—well, before I was—I don’t
know what, or when, or where.”

Little notice was taken of this somewhat incoherent speech,
for all were now gathering round the table, examining the
gold and notes with eager curiosity. At length the old
gentleman, pointing to the gold pieces, said: “What are
these?”

“Sovereigns,” I answered, not a little amused. “Have you
never seen any like them before?”

“Never. Let me examine them again. Yes, these eleven are of
gold. They are all marked alike, on one side with a
roughly-executed figure of a woman’s head, with the hair
gathered on its summit in a kind of ball. There are also
other things on them which I do not understand.”

“Can you not read the letters?” I asked.

“No. The letters—if these marks are letters—are
incomprehensible to me. But what have these small pieces of
metal to do with the question of your garments? You puzzle
me.”

“Why, everything. These pieces of metal, as you call them,
are money, and represent, of course, so much buying power. I
don’t know yet what your currency is, and whether you have
the dollar or the rupee”—here I paused, seeing that he
did not follow me. “My idea is this,” I resumed, and coming
down to very plain speaking: “I can give one of these
five-pound notes, or its equivalent in gold, if you prefer
that—five of these sovereigns, I mean—for a suit
of clothes such as you all wear.”

So great was my desire to possess the clothes that I was
about to double the offer, which struck me as poor, and add
that I would give ten sovereigns; but when I had spoken he
dropped the piece he held in his hand upon the table, and
stared fixedly at me, assisted by all the others. Presently,
in the profound silence which ensued, a low, silvery gurgling
became audible, as of some merry mountain burn—a sweet,
warbling sound, swelling louder by degrees until it ended in
a long ringing peal of laughter.

This was from the girl Yoletta. I stared at her, surprised at
her unseasonable levity; but the only effect of my doing so
was a general explosion, men and women joining in such a
tempest of merriment that one might have imagined they had
just heard the most wonderful joke ever invented since man
acquired the sense of the ludicrous.

The old gentleman was the first to recover a decent gravity,
although it was plain to see that he struggled severely at
intervals to prevent a relapse.

“Smith,” said he, “of all the extraordinary delusions you
appear to be suffering from, this, that you can have garments
to wear in return for a small piece of paper, or for a few
bits of this metal, is the most astounding! You cannot
exchange these trifles for clothes, because clothes are the
fruit of much labor of many hands.”

“And yet, sir, you said you understood me when I proposed to
pay for the things I require,” said I, in an aggrieved tone.
“You seemed even to approve of the offer I made. How, then,
am I to pay for them if all I possess is not considered of
any value?”

“All you possess!” he replied. “Surely I did not say
that! Surely you possess the strength and skill common to all
men, and can acquire anything you wish by the labor of your
hands.”

I began once more to see light, although my skill, I knew,
would not count for much. “Ah yes,” I answered: “to go back
to that subject, I do not know anything about wood-carving or
using colors, but I might be able to do something—some
work of a simpler kind.”

“There are trees to be felled, land to be plowed, and many
other things to be done. If you will do these things some one
else will be released to perform works of skill; and as these
are the most agreeable to the worker, it would please us more
to have you labor in the fields than in the workhouse.”

“I am strong,” I answered, “and will gladly undertake labor
of the kind you speak of. There is, however, one difficulty.
My desire is to change these clothes for others which will be
more pleasing to the eye, at once; but the work I shall have
to do in return will not be finished in a day. Perhaps not
in—well, several days.”

“No, of course not,” said he. “A year’s labor will be
necessary to pay for the garments you require.”

This staggered me; for if the clothes were given to me at the
beginning, then before the end of the year they would be worn
to rags, and I should make myself a slave for life. I was
sorely perplexed in mind, and pulled about this way and that
by the fear of incurring a debt, and the desire to see myself
(and to be seen by Yoletta) in those strangely fascinating
garments. That I had a decent figure, and was not a
bad-looking young fellow, I was pretty sure; and the hope
that I should be able to create an impression (favorable, I
mean) on the heart of that supremely beautiful girl was very
strong in me. At all events, by closing with the offer I
should have a year of happiness in her society, and a year of
healthy work in the fields could not hurt me, or interfere
much with my prospects. Besides, I was not quite sure that my
prospects were really worth thinking about just now.
Certainly, I had always lived comfortably, spending money,
eating and drinking of the best, and dressing well—that
is, according to the London standard. And there was my dear
old bachelor Uncle Jack—John Smith, Member of
Parliament for Wormwood Scrubbs. That is to say, ex-Member;
for, being a Liberal when the great change came at the last
general election, he was ignominiously ousted from his seat,
the Scrubbs proving at the finish a bitter place to him. He
was put out in more ways than one, and tried to comfort
himself by saying that there would soon be another
dissolution—thinking of his own, possibly, being an old
man. I remembered that I had rather looked forward to such a
contingency, thinking how pleasant it would be to have all
that money, and cruise about the world in my own yacht,
enjoying myself as I knew how. And really I had some reason
to hope. I remember he used to wind up the talk of an evening
when I dined with him (and got a check) by saying: “My boy,
you have talents, if you’d only use ’em.” Where were those
talents now? Certainly they had not made me shine much during
the last few hours.

Now, all this seemed unsubstantial, and I remembered these
things dimly, like a dream or a story told to me in
childhood; and sometimes, when recalling the past, I seemed
to be thinking about ancient history—Sesostris, and the
Babylonians and Assyrians, and that sort of thing. And,
besides, it would be very hard to get back from a place where
even the name of London was unknown. And perhaps, if I ever
should succeed in getting back, it would only be to encounter
a second Roger Tichborne case, or to be confronted with the
statute of limitations. Anyhow, a year could not make much
difference, and I should also keep my money, which seemed an
advantage, though it wasn’t much. I looked up: they were all
once more studying the coins and notes, and exchanging
remarks about them.

“If I bind myself to work one year,” said I, “shall I have to
wait until the end of that time before I get the clothes?”

The reply to this question, I thought, would settle the
matter one way or the other.

“No,” said he. “It is your wish, and also ours, that you
should be differently clothed at once, and the garments you
require would be made for you immediately.”

“Then,” said I, taking the desperate plunge, “I should like
to have them as soon as possible, and I am ready to commence
work at once.”

“You shall commence to-morrow morning,” he answered, smiling
at my impetuosity. “The daughters of the house, whose
province it is to make these things, shall also suspend other
work until your garments are finished. And now, my son, from
this evening you are one of the house and one of us, and the
things which we possess you also possess in common with us.”

I rose and thanked him. He too rose, and, after looking round
on us with a fatherly smile, went away to the interior of the
house.

Chapter 5

When he was gone, and Yoletta had followed, leaving some of
the others still studying those wretched sovereigns, I sat
down again and rested my chin on my hand; for I was now
thinking—deeply: thinking on the terms of the
agreement. “I daresay I have succeeded in making a precious
ass of myself,” was the mental reflection that occurred to
me—one I had not infrequently made, and, what is more,
been justified in making on former occasions. Then,
remembering that I had come to supper with an extravagant
appetite, it struck me that my host, quietly observant, had,
when proposing terms, taken into account the quantity of food
necessary for my sustenance. I regretted too late that I had
not exercised more restraint; but the hungry man does not and
cannot consider consequences, else a certain hairy gentleman
who figures in ancient history had never lent himself to that
nefarious compact, which gave so great an advantage to a
younger but sleek and well-nourished brother. In spite of all
this, I felt a secret satisfaction in the thought of the
clothes, and it was also good to know that the nature of the
work I had undertaken would not lower my status in the house.

Occupied with these reflections, I had failed to observe that
the company had gradually been drifting away until but one
person was left with me—the young man who had talked
with me before. On his invitation I now rose, put by my
money, and followed him. Returning by the hall we went
through a passage and entered a room of vast extent, which in
its form and great length and high arched roof was like the
nave of a cathedral. And yet how unlike in that something
ethereal in its aspect, as of a nave in a cloud cathedral,
its far-stretching shining floors and walls and columns, pure
white and pearl-gray, faintly touched with colors of
exquisite delicacy. And over it all was the roof of white or
pale gray glass tinged with golden-red—the roof which I
had seen from the outside when it seemed to me like a cloud
resting on the stony summit of a hill.

On coming in I had the impression of an empty, silent place;
yet the inmates of the house were all there; they were
sitting and reclining on low couches, some lying at their
ease on straw mats on the floor; some were reading, others
were occupied with some work in their hands, and some were
conversing, the sound coming to me like a faint murmur from a
distance.

At one side, somewhere about the center of the room, there
was a broad raised place, or dais, with a couch on it, on
which the father was reclining at his ease. Beside the couch
stood a lectern on which a large volume rested, and before
him there was a brass box or cabinet, and behind the couch
seven polished brass globes were ranged, suspended on axles
resting on bronze frames. These globes varied in size, the
largest being not less than about twelve feet in
circumference.

I noticed that there were books on a low stand near me. They
were all folios, very much alike in form and thickness; and
seeing presently that the others were all following their own
inclinations, and considering that I had been left to my own
resources and that it is a good plan when at Rome to do as
the Romans do, I by-and-by ventured to help myself to a
volume, which I carried to one of the reading-stands.

Books are grand things—sometimes, thought I, prepared
to follow the advice I had received, and find out by reading
all about the customs of this people, especially their ideas
concerning The House, which appeared to be an object
of almost religious regard with them. This would make me
quite independent, and teach me how to avoid blundering in
the future, or giving expression to any more “extraordinary
delusions.” On opening the volume I was greatly surprised to
find that it was richly illuminated on every leaf, the middle
only of each page being occupied with a rather narrow strip
of writing; but the minute letters, resembling Hebrew
characters, were incomprehensible to me. I bore the
disappointment very cheerfully, I must say, for I am not
over-fond of study; and, besides, I could not have paid
proper attention to the text, surrounded with all that
distracting beauty of graceful design and brilliant coloring.

After a while Yoletta came slowly across the room, her
fingers engaged with some kind of wool-work as she walked,
and my heart beat fast when she paused by my side.

“You are not reading,” she said, looking curiously at me. “I
have been watching you for some time.”

“Have you indeed?” said I, not knowing whether to feel
flattered or not. “No, unfortunately, I can’t read this book,
as I do not understand the letters. But what a wonderfully
beautiful book it is! I was just thinking what some of the
great London book-buyers—Quaritch, for
instance—would be tempted to give for it. Oh, I am
forgetting—you have never heard his name, of course;
but—but what a beautiful book it is!”

She said nothing in reply, and only looked a little
surprised—disgusted, I feared—at my ignorance,
then walked away. I had hoped that she was going to talk to
me, and with keen disappointment watched her moving across
the floor. All the glory seemed now to have gone out of the
leaves of the volume, and I continued turning them over
listlessly, glancing at intervals at the beautiful girl, who
was also like one of the pages before me, wonderful to look
at and hard to understand. In a distant part of the room I
saw her place some cushions on the floor, and settle herself
on them to do her work.

The sun had set by this time, and the interior was growing
darker by degrees; the fading light, however, seemed to make
no difference to those who worked or read. They appeared to
be gifted with an owlish vision, able to see with very little
light. The father alone did nothing, but still rested on his
couch, perhaps indulging in a postprandial nap. At length he
roused himself and looked around him.

“There is no melody in our hearts this evening, my children,”
he said. “When another day has passed over us it will perhaps
be different. To-night the voice so recently stilled in death
forever would be too painfully missed by all of us.”

Some one then rose and brought a tall wax taper and placed it
near him. The flame threw a little brightness on the volume,
which he now proceeded to open; and here and there, further
away, it flashed and trembled in points of rainbow-colored
light on a tall column; but the greater part of the room
still remained in twilight obscurity.

He began to read aloud, and, although he did not seem to
raise his voice above its usual pitch, the words he uttered
fell on my ears with a distinctness and purity of sound which
made them seem like a melody “sweetly played in tune.” The
words he read related to life and death, and such solemn
matters; but to my mind his theology seemed somewhat
fantastical, although it is right to confess that I am no
judge of such matters. There was also a great deal about the
house, which did not enlighten me much, being too
rhapsodical, and when he spoke about our conduct and aims in
life, and things of that kind, I understood him little
better. Here is a part of his discourse:—

“It is natural to grieve for those that die, because light
and knowledge and love and joy are no longer theirs; but they
grieve not any more, being now asleep on the lap of the
Universal Mother, the bride of the Father, who is with us,
sharing our sorrow, which was his first; but it dims not his
everlasting brightness; and his desire and our glory is that
we should always and in all things resemble him.

“The end of every day is darkness, but the Father of life
through our reason has taught us to mitigate the exceeding
bitterness of our end; otherwise, we that are above all other
creatures in the earth should have been at the last more
miserable than they. For in the irrational world, between the
different kinds, there reigns perpetual strife and bloodshed,
the strong devouring the weak and the incapable; and when
failure of life clouds the brightness of that lower soul,
which is theirs, the end is not long delayed. Thus the life
that has lasted many days goes out with a brief pang, and in
its going gives new vigor to the strong that have yet many
days to live. Thus also does the ever-living earth from the
dust of dead generations of leaves re-make a fresh foliage,
and for herself a new garment.

“We only, of all things having life, being like the Father,
slay not nor are slain, and are without enemies in the earth;
for even the lower kinds, which have not reason, know without
reason that we are highest on the earth, and see in us, alone
of all his works, the majesty of the Father, and lose all
their rage in our presence. Therefore, when the night is
near, when life is a burden and we remember our mortality, we
hasten the end, that those we love may cease to sorrow at the
sight of our decline; and we know that this is his will who
called us into being, and gave us life and joy on the earth
for a season, but not forever.

“It is better to lay down the life that is ours, to leave all
things—the love of our kindred; the beauty of the world
and of the house; the labor in which we take delight, to go
forth and be no more; but the bitterness endures not, and is
scarcely tasted when in our last moments we remember that our
labor has borne fruit; that the letters we have written
perish not with us, but remain as a testimony and a joy to
succeeding generations, and live in the house forever.

“For the house is the image of the world, and we that live
and labor in it are the image of our Father who made the
world; and, like him, we labor to make for ourselves a worthy
habitation, which shall not shame our teacher. This is his
desire; for in all his works, and that knowledge which is
like pure water to one that thirsts, and satisfies and leaves
no taste of bitterness on the palate, we learn the will of
him that called us into life. All the knowledge we seek, the
invention and skill we possess, and the labor of our hands,
has this purpose only: for all knowledge and invention and
labor having any other purpose whatsoever is empty and vain
in comparison, and unworthy of those that are made in the
image of the Father of life. For just as the bodily senses
may become perverted, and the taste lose its discrimination,
so that the hungry man will devour acrid fruits and poisonous
herbs for aliment, so is the mind capable of seeking out new
paths, and a knowledge which leads only to misery and
destruction.

“Thus we know that in the past men sought after knowledge of
various kinds, asking not whether it was for good or for
evil: but every offense of the mind and the body has its
appropriate reward; and while their knowledge grew apace,
that better knowledge and discrimination which the Father
gives to every living soul, both in man and in beast, was
taken from them. Thus by increasing their riches they were
made poorer; and, like one who, forgetting the limits that
are set to his faculties, gazes steadfastly on the sun, by
seeing much they become afflicted with blindness. But they
know not their poverty and blindness, and were not satisfied;
but were like shipwrecked men on a lonely and barren rock in
the midst of the sea, who are consumed with thirst, and drink
of no sweet spring, but of the bitter wave, and thirst, and
drink again, until madness possesses their brains, and death
releases them from their misery. Thus did they thirst, and
drink again, and were crazed; being inflamed with the desire
to learn the secrets of nature, hesitating not to dip their
hands in blood, seeking in the living tissues of animals for
the hidden springs of life. For in their madness they hoped
by knowledge to gain absolute dominion over nature, thereby
taking from the Father of the world his prerogative.

“But their vain ambition lasted not, and the end of it was
death. The madness of their minds preyed on their bodies, and
worms were bred in their corrupted flesh: and these, after
feeding on their tissues, changed their forms; and becoming
winged, flew out in the breath of their nostrils, like clouds
of winged ants that issue in the springtime from their
breeding-places; and, flying from body to body, filled the
race of men in all places with corruption and decay; and the
Mother of men was thus avenged of her children for their
pride and folly, for they perished miserably, devoured of
worms.

“Of the human race only a small remnant survived, these being
men of an humble mind, who had lived apart and unknown to
their fellows; and after long centuries they went forth into
the wilderness of earth and repeopled it; but nowhere did
they find any trace or record of those that had passed away;
for earth had covered all their ruined works with her dark
mold and green forests, even as a man hides unsightly scars
on his body with a new and beautiful garment. Nor is it known
to us when this destruction fell upon the race of men; we
only know that the history thereof was graven an hundred
centuries ago on the granite pillars of the House of Evor, on
the plains between the sea and the snow-covered mountains of
Elf. Thither in past ages some of our pilgrims journeyed, and
have brought a record of these things; nor in our house only
are they known, but in many houses throughout the world have
they been written for the instruction of all men and a
warning for all time.

“But to mankind there shall come no second darkness of error,
nor seeking after vain knowledge; and in the Father’s House
there shall be no second desolation, but the sounds of joy
and melody, which were silent, shall be heard everlastingly;
since we had now continued long in this even mind, seeking
only to inform ourselves of his will; until as in a clear
crystal without flaw shining with colored light, or as a
glassy lake reflecting within itself the heavens and every
cloud and star, so is he reflected in our minds; and in the
house we are his viceregents, and in the world his
co-workers; and for the glory which he has in his work we
have a like glory in ours.

“He is our teacher. Morning and evening throughout the
various world, in the procession of the seasons, and in the
blue heavens powdered with stars; in mountain and plain and
many-toned forest; in the sounding walls of the ocean, and in
the billowy seas through which we pass in peril from land to
land, we read his thoughts and listen to his voice. Here do
we learn with what far-seeing intelligence he has laid the
foundations of his everlasting mansion, how skillfully he has
builded its walls, and with what prodigal richness he has
decorated all his works. For the sunlight and moonlight and
the blueness of heaven are his; the sea with its tides; the
blackness and the lightnings of the tempest, and snow, and
changeful winds, and green and yellow leaf; his are also the
silver rain and the rainbow, the shadows and the many-colored
mists, which he flings like a mantle over all the world.
Herein do we learn that he loves a stable building, and that
the foundations and walls shall endure for ever: yet loves
not sameness; thus, from day to day and from season to season
do all things change their aspect, and the walls and floor
and roof of his dwelling are covered with a new glory. But to
us it is not given to rise to this supreme majesty in our
works; therefore do we, like him yet unable to reach so great
a height, borrow nothing one from the other, but in each
house learn separately from him alone who has infinite
riches; so that every habitation, changeless and eternal in
itself, shall yet differ from all others, having its own
special beauty and splendor: for we inhabit one house only,
but the Father of men inhabits all.

“These things are written for the refreshment and delight of
those who may no longer journey into distant lands; and they
are in the library of the house in the seven thousand volumes
of the Houses of the World which our pilgrims have visited in
past ages. For once in a lifetime is it ordained that a man
shall leave his own place and travel for the space of ten
years, visiting the most famous houses in every land he
enters, and also seeking out those of which no report has
reached us.

“When the time for this chief adventure comes, and we go
forth for a long period, there is compensation for every
weariness, with absence of kindred and the sweet shelter of
our own home: for now do we learn the infinite riches of the
Father; for just as the day changes every hour, from the
morning to the evening twilight, so does the aspect of the
world alter as we progress from day to day; and in all places
our fellow-men, learning as we do from him only, and seeing
that which is nearest, give a special color of nature to
their lives and their houses; and every house, with the
family which inhabits it, in their conversation and the arts
in which they excel, is like a round lake set about with
hills, wherein may be seen that visible world. And in all the
earth there is no land without inhabitants, whether on wide
continents or islands of the sea; and in all nature there is
no grandeur or beauty or grace which men have not copied;
knowing that this is pleasing to the Father: for we, that are
made like him, delight not to work without witnesses; and we
are his witnesses in the earth, taking pleasure in his works,
even as he also does in ours.

“Thus, at the beginning of our journey to the far south,
where we go to look first on those bright lands, which have
hotter suns and a greater variety than ours, we come to the
wilderness of Coradine, which seems barren and desolate to
our sight, accustomed to the deep verdure of woods and
valleys, and the blue mists of an abundant moisture. There a
stony soil brings forth only thorns, and thistles, and sere
tufts of grass; and blustering winds rush over the
unsheltered reaches, where the rough-haired goats huddle for
warmth; and there is no melody save the many-toned voices of
the wind and the plover’s wild cry. There dwell the children
of Coradine, on the threshold of the wind-vexed wilderness,
where the stupendous columns of green glass uphold the roof
of the House of Coradine; the ocean’s voice is in their
rooms, and the inland-blowing wind brings to them the salt
spray and yellow sand swept at low tide from the desolate
floors of the sea, and the white-winged bird flying from the
black tempest screams aloud in their shadowy halls. There,
from the high terraces, when the moon is at its full, we see
the children of Coradine gathered together, arrayed like no
others, in shining garments of gossamer threads, when, like
thistle-down chased by eddying winds, now whirling in a
cloud, now scattering far apart, they dance their moonlight
dances on the wide alabaster floors; and coming and going
they pass away, and seem to melt into the moonlight, yet ever
to return again with changeful melody and new measures. And,
seeing this, all those things in which we ourselves excel
seem poor in comparison, becoming pale in our memories. For
the winds and waves, and the whiteness and grace, has been
ever with them; and the winged seed of the thistle, and the
flight of the gull, and the storm-vexed sea, flowering in
foam, and the light of the moon on sea and barren land, have
taught them this art, and a swiftness and grace which they
alone possess.

“Yet does this moonlight dance, which is the chief glory of
the House of Coradine, grow pale in the mind, and is speedily
forgotten, when another is seen; and, going on our way from
house to house, we learn how everywhere the various riches of
the world have been taken into his soul by man, and made part
of his life. Nor are we inferior to others, having also an
art and chief excellence which is ours only, and the fame of
which has long gone forth into the world; so that from many
distant lands pilgrims gather yearly to our fields to listen
to our harvest melody, when the sun-ripened fruits have been
garnered, and our lips and hands make undying music, to
gladden the hearts of those that hear it all their lives
long. For then do we rejoice beyond others, rising like
bright-winged insects from our lowly state to a higher life
of glory and joy, which is ours for the space of three whole
days. Then the august Mother, in a brazen chariot, is drawn
from field to field by milk-white bulls with golden horns;
then her children are gathered about her in shining yellow
garments, with armlets of gold upon their arms; and with
voice and instruments of forms unknown to the stranger, they
make glad the listening fields with the great harvest melody.

“In ancient days the children of our house conceived it in
their hearts, hearing it in all nature’s voices; and it was
with them day and night, and they whispered it to one another
when it was no louder than the whisper of the wind in the
forest leaves; and as the Builder of the world brings from an
hundred far places the mist, and the dew, and the sunshine,
and the light west wind, to give to the morning hour its
freshness and glory; and as we, his humbler followers, seek
far off in caverns of the hills and in the dark bowels of the
earth for minerals and dyes that outshine the flowers and the
sun, to beautify the walls of our house, so everywhere by
night and day for long centuries did we listen to all sounds,
and made their mystery and melody ours, until this great song
was perfected in our hearts, and the fame of it in all lands
has caused our house to be called the House of the Harvest
Melody; and when the yearly pilgrims behold our procession in
the fields, and listen to our song, all the glory of the
world seems to pass before them, overcoming their hearts,
until, bursting into tears and loud cries, they cast
themselves upon the earth and worship the Father of the whole
world.

“This shall be the chief glory of our house for ever; when a
thousand years have gone by, and we that are now living, like
those that have been, are mingled with the nature we come
from, and speak to our children only in the wind’s voice, and
the cry of the passage-bird, pilgrims shall still come to
these sun-bright fields, to rejoice, and worship the Father
of the world, and bless the august Mother of the house, from
whose sacred womb ever comes to it life and love and joy, and
the harvest melody that shall endure for ever.”

Chapter 6

The reading went on, not of course “for ever,” like that
harvest melody he spoke of, but for a considerable time. The
words, I concluded, were for the initiated, and not for me,
and after a while I gave up trying to make out what it was
all about. Those last expressions I have quoted about the
“august Mother of the house” were unintelligible, and
appeared to me meaningless. I had already come to the
conclusion that however many of the ladies of the
establishment might have experienced the pleasures and pains
of maternity, there was really no mother of the house in the
sense that there was a father of the house: that is to say,
one possessing authority over the others and calling them all
her children indiscriminately. Yet this mysterious
non-existent mother of the house was continually being spoken
of, as I found now and afterwards when I listened to the talk
around me. After thinking the matter over, I came to the
conclusion that “mother of the house” was merely a convenient
fiction, and simply stood for the general sense of the
women-folk, or something of the sort. It was perhaps stupid
of me, but the story of Mistrelde, who died young, leaving
only eight children, I had regarded as a mere legend or fable
of antiquity.

To return to the reading. Just as I had been absorbed before
in that beautiful book without being able to read it, so now
I listened to that melodious and majestic voice, experiencing
a singular pleasure without properly understanding the sense.
I remembered now with a painful feeling of inferiority that
my thick speech had been remarked On earlier in the
day; and I could not but think that, compared with the speech
of this people, it was thick. In their rare physical beauty,
the color of their eyes and hair, and in their fascinating
dress, they had struck me as being utterly unlike any people
ever seen by me. But it was perhaps in their clear, sweet,
penetrative voice, which sometimes reminded me of a
tender-toned wind instrument, that they most differed from
others.

The reading, I have said, had struck me as almost of the
nature of a religious service; nevertheless, everything went
on as before—reading, working, and occasional
conversation; but the subdued talking and moving about did
not interfere with one’s pleasure in the old man’s musical
speech any more than the soft murmur and flying about of
honey bees would prevent one from enjoying the singing of a
skylark. Emboldened by what I saw the others doing, I left my
seat and made my way across the floor to Yoletta’s side,
stealing through the gloom with great caution to avoid making
a clatter with those abominable boots.

“May I sit down near you?” said I with some hesitation; but
she encouraged me with a smile and placed a cushion for me.

I settled myself down in the most graceful position I could
assume, which was not at all graceful, doubling my
objectionable legs out of her sight; and then began my
trouble, for I was greatly perplexed to know what to say to
her. I thought of lawn-tennis and archery. Ellen Terry’s
acting, the Royal Academy Exhibition, private theatricals,
and twenty things besides, but they all seemed unsuitable
subjects to start conversation with in this case. There was,
I began to fear, no common ground on which we could meet and
exchange thoughts, or, at any rate, words. Then I remembered
that ground, common and broad enough, of our human feelings,
especially the sweet and important feeling of love. But how
was I to lead up to it? The work she was engaged with at
length suggested an opening, and the opportunity to make a
pretty little speech.

“Your sight must be as good as your eyes are pretty,” said I,
“to enable you to work in such a dim light.”

“Oh, the light is good enough,” she answered, taking no
notice of the compliment. “Besides, this is such easy work I
could do it in the dark.”

“It is very pretty work—may I look at it?”

She handed the stuff to me, but instead of taking it in the
ordinary way, I placed my hand under hers, and, holding up
cloth and hand together, proceeded to give a minute and
prolonged scrutiny to her work.

“Do you know that I am enjoying two distinct pleasures at one
and the same time?” said I. “One is in seeing your work, the
other in holding your hand; and I think the last pleasure
even greater than the first.” As she made no reply, I added
somewhat lamely: “May I—keep on holding it?”

“That would prevent me from working,” she answered, with the
utmost gravity. “But you may hold it for a little while.”

“Oh, thank you,” I exclaimed, delighted with the privilege;
and then, to make the most of my precious “little while,” I
pressed it warmly, whereupon she cried out aloud: “Oh, Smith,
you are squeezing too hard—you hurt my hand!”

I dropped it instantly in the greatest confusion. “Oh, for
goodness sake,” I stammered, “please, do not make such an
outcry! You don’t know what a hobble you’ll get me into.”

Fortunately, no notice was taken of the exclamation, though
it was hard to believe that her words had not been overheard;
and presently, recovering from my fright, I apologized for
hurting her, and hoped she would forgive me.

“There is nothing to forgive,” she returned gently. “You did
not really squeeze hard, only my hand hurts, because to-day
when I pressed it on the ground beside the grave I ran a
small thorn into it.” Then the remembrance of that scene at
the burial brought a sudden mist of tears into her lovely
eyes.

“I am so sorry I hurt you, Yoletta—may I call you
Yoletta?” said I, all at once remembering that she had called
me Smith, without the customary prefix.

“Why, that is my name—what else should you call me?”
she returned, evidently with surprise.

“It is a pretty name, and so sweet on the lips that I should
like to be repeating it continually,” I answered. “But it is
only right that you should have a pretty name,
because—well, if I may tell you, because you are so
very beautiful.”

“Yes; but is that strange—are not all people
beautiful?”

I thought of certain London types, especially among the
“criminal classes,” and of the old women with withered,
simian faces and wearing shawls, slinking in or out of
public-houses at the street corners; and also of some people
of a better class I had known personally—some even in
the House of Commons; and I felt that I could not agree with
her, much as I wished to do so, without straining my
conscience.

“At all events, you will allow,” said I, evading the
question, “that there are degrees of beauty, just as
there are degrees of light. You may be able to see to work in
this light, but it is very faint compared with the noonday
light when the sun is shining.”

“Oh, there is not so great a difference between people as
that,” she replied, with the air of a philosopher.
“There are different kinds of beauty, I allow, and some
people seem more beautiful to us than others, but that is
only because we love them more. The best loved are always the
most beautiful.”

This seemed to reverse the usual idea, that the more
beautiful the person is the more he or she gets loved.
However, I was not going to disagree with her any more, and
only said: “How sweetly you talk, Yoletta; you are as wise as
you are beautiful. I could wish for no greater pleasure than
to sit here listening to you the whole evening.”

“Ah, then, I am sorry I must leave you now,” she answered,
with a bright smile which made me think that perhaps my
little speech had pleased her.

“Do you wonder why I smile?” she added, as if able to read my
thoughts. “It is because I have often heard words like yours
from one who is waiting for me now.”

This speech caused me a jealous pang. But for a few moments
after speaking, she continued regarding me with that bright,
spiritual smile on her lips; then it faded, and her face
clouded and her glance fell. I did not ask her to tell me,
nor did I ask myself, the reason of that change; and
afterwards how often I noticed that same change in her, and
in the others too—that sudden silence and clouding of
the face, such as may be seen in one who freely expresses
himself to a person who cannot hear, and then, all at once
but too late, remembers the other’s infirmity.

“Must you go?” I only said. “What shall I do alone?”.

“Oh, you shall not be alone,” she replied, and going away
returned presently with another lady. “This is Edra,” she
said simply. “She will take my place by your side and talk
with you.”

I could not tell her that she had taken my words too
literally, that being alone simply meant being separated from
her; but there was no help for it, and some one, alas! some
one I greatly hated was waiting for her. I could only thank
her and her friend for their kind intentions. But what in the
name of goodness was I to say to this beautiful woman who was
sitting by me? She was certainly very beautiful, with a far
more mature and perhaps a nobler beauty than Yoletta’s, her
age being about twenty-seven or twenty-eight; but the divine
charm in the young girl’s face could, for me, exist in no
other.

Presently she opened the conversation by asking me if I
disliked being alone.

“Well, no, perhaps not exactly that,” I said; “but I think it
much jollier—much more pleasant, I mean—to have
some very nice person to talk to.”

She assented, and, pleased at her ready intelligence, I
added: “And it is particularly pleasant when you are
understood. But I have no fear that you, at any rate, will
fail to understand anything I may say.”

“You have had some trouble to-day,” she returned, with a
charming smile. “I sometimes think that women can understand
even more readily than men.”

“There’s not a doubt of it!” I returned warmly, glad to find
that with Edra it was all plain sailing. “It must be patent
to every one that women have far quicker, finer intellects
than men, although their brains are smaller; but then quality
is more important than mere quantity. And yet,” I continued,
“some people hold that women ought not to have the franchise,
or suffrage, or whatever it is! Not that I care two straws
about the question myself, and I only hope they’ll never get
it; but then I think it is so illogical—don’t you?”

“I am afraid I do not understand you, Smith,” she returned,
looking much distressed.

“Well, no, I suppose not, but what I said was of no
consequence,” I replied; then, wishing to make a fresh start,
I added: “But I am so glad to hear you call me Smith. It
makes it so much more pleasant and homelike to be treated
without formality. It is very kind of you, I’m sure.”

“But surely your name is Smith?” said she, looking very much
surprised.

“Oh yes, my name is Smith: only of course—well, the
tact is, I was just wondering what to call you.”

“My name is Edra,” she replied, looking more bewildered than
ever; and from that moment the conversation, which had begun
so favorably, was nothing but a series of entanglements, from
which I could only escape in each case by breaking the
threads of the subject under discussion, and introducing a
new one.

Chapter 7

The moment of retiring, to which I had been looking forward
with considerable interest as one likely to bring fresh
surprises, arrived at last: it brought only extreme
discomfort. I was conducted (without a flat candlestick)
along an obscure passage; then, at right angles with the
first, a second broader, lighter passage, leading past a
great many doors placed near together. These, I ascertained
later, were the dormitories, or sleeping-cells, and were
placed side by side in a row opening on the terrace at the
back of the house. Having reached the door of my box, my
conductor pushed back the sliding-panel, and when I had
groped my way to the dark interior, closed it again behind
me. There was no light for me except the light of the stars;
for directly opposite the door by which I had entered stood
another, open wide to the night, which was apparently not
intended ever to be closed. The prospect was the one I had
already seen—the wilderness sloping to the river, and
the glassy surface of the broad water, reflecting the stars,
and the black masses of large trees. There was no sound save
the hooting of an owl in the distance, and the wailing note
of some mournful-minded water-fowl. The night air blew in
cold and moist, which made my bones ache, though they were
not broken; and feeling very sleepy and miserable, I groped
about until I Was rewarded by discovering a narrow bed, or
cot of trellis-work, on which was a hard straw pallet and a
small straw pillow; also, folded small, a kind of woolen
sleeping garment. Too tired to keep out of even such an
uninviting bed, I flung off my clothes, and with my moldy
tweeds for only covering I laid me down, but not to sleep.
The misery of it! for although my body was warm—too
warm, in fact—the wind blew on my face and bare feet
and legs, and made it impossible to sleep.

About midnight, I was just falling into a doze when a sound
as of a person coming with a series of jumps into the room
disturbed me; and starting up I was horrified to see, sitting
on the floor, a great beast much too big for a dog, with
large, erect ears. He was intently watching me, his round
eyes shining like a pair of green phosphorescent globes.
Having no weapon, I was at the brute’s mercy, and was about
to utter a loud shout to summon assistance, but as he sat so
still I refrained, and began even to hope that he would go
quietly away. Then he stood up, went back to the door and
sniffed audibly at it; and thinking that he was about to
relieve me of his unwelcome presence, I dropped my head on
the pillow and lay perfectly still. Then he turned and glared
at me again, and finally, advancing deliberately to my side,
sniffed at my face. It was all over with me now, I thought,
and closing my eyes, and feeling my forehead growing
remarkably moist in spite of the cold, I murmured a little
prayer. When I looked again the brute had vanished, to my
inexpressible relief.

It seemed very astonishing that an animal like a wolf should
come into the house; but I soon remembered that I had seen no
dogs about, so that all kinds of savage, prowling beasts
could come in with impunity. It was getting beyond a joke:
but then all this seemed only a fit ending to the perfectly
absurd arrangement into which I had been induced to enter.
“Goodness gracious!” I exclaimed, sitting bolt upright on my
straw bed, “am I a rational being or an inebriated donkey, or
what, to have consented to such a proposal? It is clear that
I was not quite in my right mind when I made the agreement,
and I am therefore not morally bound to observe it. What! be
a field laborer, a hewer of wood and drawer of water, and
sleep on a miserable straw mat in an open porch, with wolves
for visitors at all hours of the night, and all for a few
barbarous rags! I don’t know much about plowing and that sort
of thing, but I suppose any able-bodied man can earn a pound
a week, and that would be fifty-two pounds for a suit of
clothes. Who ever heard of such a thing! Wolves and all
thrown in for nothing! I daresay I shall have a tiger
dropping in presently just to have a look round. No, no, my
venerable friend, that was all excellent acting about my
extraordinary delusions, and the rest of it, but I am not
going to be carried so far by them as to adhere to such an
outrageously one-sided bargain.”

Presently I remembered two things—divine Yoletta was
the first; and the second was that thought of the rare
pleasure it would be to array myself in those same “barbarous
rags,” as I had blasphemously called them. These things had
entered into my soul, and had become a part of
me—especially—well, both. Those strange garments
had looked so refreshingly picturesque, and I had conceived
such an intense longing to wear them! Was it a very
contemptible ambition on my part? Is it sinful to wish for
any adornments other than wisdom and sobriety, a meek and
loving spirit, good works, and other things of the kind?
Straight into my brain flashed the words of a sentence I had
recently read—that is to say, just before my
accident—in a biological work, and it comforted me as
much as if an angel with shining face and rainbow-colored
wings had paid me a visit in my dusky cell: “Unto Adam also,
and his wife, did the Lord God make coats of skin and clothed
them. This has become, as every one knows, a custom among the
race of men, and shows at present no sign of becoming
obsolete. Moreover, that first correlation, namely,
milk-glands and a hairy covering, appears to have entered the
very soul of creatures of this class, and to have become
psychical as well as physical, for in that type, which is
only for a while inferior to the angels, the fondness
for this kind of outer covering is a strong, ineradicable
passion!” Most true and noble words, O biologist of the fiery
soul! It was a delight to remember them. A “strong and
ineradicable passion,” not merely to clothe the body, but to
clothe it appropriately, that is to say, beautifully, and by
so doing please God and ourselves. This being so, must we go
on for ever scraping our faces with a sharp iron, until they
are blue and spotty with manifold scrapings; and cropping our
hair short to give ourselves an artificial resemblance to old
dogs and monkeys—creatures lower than us in the scale
of being—and array our bodies, like mutes at a funeral,
in repulsive black—we, “Eutheria of the Eutheria, the
noble of the noble?” And all for what, since it pleases not
heaven nor accords with our own desires? For the sake of
respectability, perhaps, whatever that may mean. Oh, then, a
million curses take it—respectability, I mean; may it
sink into the bottomless pit, and the smoke of its torment
ascend for ever and ever! And having thus, by taking thought,
brought my mind into this temper, I once more finally
determined to have the clothes, and religiously to observe
the compact.

It made me quite happy to end it in this way. The hard bed,
the cold night wind blowing on me, my wolfish visitor, were
all forgotten. Once more I gave loose to my imagination, and
saw myself (clothed and in my right mind) sitting at
Yoletta’s feet, learning the mystery of that sweet, tranquil
life from her precious lips. A whole year was mine in which
to love her and win her gentle heart. But her hand—ah,
that was another matter. What had I to give in return for
such a boon as that? Only that strength concerning which my
venerable host had spoken somewhat encouragingly. He had also
been so good as to mention my skill; but I could scarcely
trade on that. And if a whole year’s labor was only
sufficient to pay for a suit of clothing, how many years of
toil would be required to win Yoletta’s hand?

Naturally, at this juncture, I began to draw a parallel
between my case and that of an ancient historical personage,
whose name is familiar to most. History repeats
itself—with variations. Jacob—namely,
Smith—cometh to the well of Haran. He taketh
acquaintance of Rachel, here called Yoletta. And Jacob kissed
Rachel, and lifted up his voice and wept. That is a touch of
nature I can thoroughly appreciate—the kissing, I mean;
but why he wept I cannot tell, unless it be because he was
not an Englishman. And Jacob told Rachel that he was her
father’s brother. I am glad to have no such startling piece
of information to give to the object of my affections: we are
not even distant relations, and her age being, say, fifteen,
and mine twenty-one, we are so far well suited to each other,
according to my notions. Smith covenanted! for Yoletta, and
said: “I will serve thee seven years for Yoletta, thy younger
daughter”; and the old gentleman answered: “Abide with me,
for I would rather you should have her than some other
person.” Now I wonder whether the matter will be complicated
with Leah—that is, Edra? Leah was considerably older
than Rachel, and, like Edra, tender-eyed. I do not aspire or
desire to marry both, especially if I should, like Jacob,
have to begin with the wrong one, however tender-eyed: but
for divine Yoletta I could serve seven years; yea, and
fourteen, if it comes to it.

Thus I mused, and thus I questioned, tossing and turning on
my inhospitable hard bed, until merciful sleep laid her
quieting hands on the strings of my brain, and hushed their
weary jangling.

Chapter 8

Fortunately I woke early next morning, for I was now a member
of an early-rising family, and anxious to conform to rules.
On going to the door I found, to my inexpressible disgust,
that I might easily have closed it in the way I had seen the
other door closed, by simply pulling a sliding panel. There
was ventilation enough without having the place open to
prowling beasts of prey. I also found that if I had turned up
the little stray bed I should have had warm woolen sheets to
sleep in.

I resolved to say nothing about my nocturnal visitor, not
wishing to begin the day by furnishing fresh instances of
what might seem like crass stupidity on my part. While
occupied with these matters I began to hear people moving
about and talking on the terrace, and peeping out, I beheld a
curious and interesting spectacle. Down the broad steps
leading to the water the people of the house were hurrying,
and flinging themselves like agile, startled frogs on the
bosom of the stream. There, in the midst of his family, my
venerable host was already disporting himself, his long,
silvery beard and hair floating like a foam on the waves of
his own creating. And presently from other sleeping-rooms on
a line with mine shot forth new bewitching forms, each
sparsely clothed in a slender clinging garment, which
concealed no beauteous curve beneath; and nimbly running and
leaping down the slope, they quickly joined the masculine
bathers.

Looking about I soon found a pretty thing in which to array
myself, and quickly started after the others, risking my neck
in my desire to imitate the new mode of motion I had just
witnessed. The water was delightfully cool and refreshing,
and the company very agreeable, ladies and gentlemen all
swimming and diving about together with the unconventional
freedom and grace of a company of grebes.

After dressing, we assembled in the eating-room or portico
where we had supped, just when the red disk of the sun was
showing itself above the horizon, kindling the clouds with
yellow flame, and filling the green world with new light. I
felt happy and strong that morning, very able and willing to
work in the fields, and, better than all, very hopeful about
that affair of the heart. Happiness, however, is seldom
perfect, and in the clear, tender morning light I could not
help contrasting my own repulsively ugly garments with the
bright and beautiful costumes worn by the others, which
seemed to harmonize so well with their fresh, happy morning
mood. I also missed the fragrant cup of coffee, the streaky
rasher from the dear familiar pig, and, after breakfast, the
well-flavored cigar; but these lesser drawbacks were soon
forgotten.

After the meal a small closed basket was handed to me, and
one of the young men led me out to a little distance from the
house, then, pointing to a belt of wood about a mile away,
told me to walk towards it until I came to a plowed field on
the slope of a valley, where I could do some plowing. Before
leaving me he took from his own person a metal dog-whistle,
with a string attached, and hung it round my neck, but
without explaining its use.

Basket in hand I went away, over the dewy grass, whistling
light-heartedly, and after half an hour’s walk found the spot
indicated, where about an acre and a half of land had been
recently turned; there also, lying in the furrow, I found the
plow, an implement I knew very little about. This particular
plow, however, appeared to be a simple, primitive thing,
consisting of a long beam of wood, with an upright pole to
guide it; a metal share in the center, going off to one side,
balanced on the other by a couple of small wheels; and there
were also some long ropes attached to a cross-stick at the
end of the beam. There being no horses or bullocks to do the
work, and being unable to draw the plow myself as well as
guide it, I sat down leisurely to examine the contents of my
basket, which, I found, consisted of brown bread, dried
fruit, and a stone bottle of milk. Then, not knowing what
else to do, I began to amuse myself by blowing on the
whistle, and emitted a most shrill and piercing sound, which
very soon produced an unexpected effect. Two noble-looking
horses, resembling those I had seen the day before, came
galloping towards me as if in response to the sound I had
made. Approaching swiftly to within fifty yards they stood
still, staring and snorting as if alarmed or astonished,
after which they swept round me three or four times, neighing
in a sharp, ringing manner, and finally, after having
exhausted their superfluous energy, they walked to the plow
and placed themselves deliberately before it. It looked as if
these animals had come at my call to do the work; I therefore
approached them, with more than needful caution, using many
soothing, conciliatory sounds and words the while, and after
a little further study I discovered how to adjust the ropes
to them. There were no blinkers or reins, nor did these
superb animals seem to think any were wanted; but after I had
taken the pole in my hand, and said “Gee up, Dobbin,” in a
tone of command, followed by some inarticulate clicks with
the tongue, they rewarded me with a disconcerting stare, and
then began dragging the plow. As long as I held the pole
straight the share cut its way evenly through the mold, but
occasionally, owing to my inadvertence, it would go off at a
tangent or curve quite out of the ground; and whenever this
happened the horses would stop, turn round and stare at me,
then, touching their noses together seem to exchange ideas on
the subject. When the first furrow was finished, they did not
double back, as I expected, but went straight away to a
distance of thirty yards, and then, turning, marched back,
cutting a fresh furrow parallel with the first, and as
straight as a line. Then they returned to the original
starting-point and cut another, then again to the new furrow,
and so on progressively. All this seemed very wonderful to
me, giving the impression that I had been a skillful plowman
all my life without knowing it. It was interesting work; and
I was also amused to see the little birds that came in
numbers from the wood to devour the worms in the fresh-turned
mold; for between their fear of me and their desire to get
the worms, they were in a highly perplexed state, and
generally confined their operations to one end of the furrow
while I was away at the other. The space the horses had
marked out for themselves was plowed up in due time,
whereupon they marched off and made a fresh furrow as before,
where there was nothing to guide them; and so the work went
on agreeably for some hours, until I felt myself growing
desperately hungry. Sitting down on the beam of the plow, I
opened my basket and discussed the homely fare with a keen
appetite.

After finishing the food I resumed work again, but not as
cheerfully as at first: I began to feel a little stiff and
tired, and the immense quantity of mold adhering to my boots
made it heavy walking; moreover, the novelty had now worn
off. The horses also did not work as smoothly as at the
commencement: they seemed to have something on their minds,
for at the end of every furrow they would turn and stare at
me in the most exasperating manner.

“Phew!” I ejaculated, as I stood wiping the honest sweat from
my face with my moldy, ancient, and extremely dirty
pocket-handkerchief. “Three hundred and sixty-four days of
this sort of thing is a rather long price to pay for a suit
of clothes.”

While standing there, I saw an animal coming swiftly towards
me from the direction of the forest, bounding along over the
earth with a speed like that of a greyhound—a huge,
fierce-looking brute; and when close to me, I felt convinced
that it was an animal of the same kind as the one I had seen
during the night. Before I had made up my mind what to do, he
was within a few yards of me, and then, coming to a sudden
halt, he sat down on his haunches, and gravely watched me.
Calling to mind some things I had heard about the terrifying
effect of the human eye on royal tigers and other savage
beasts, I gazed steadily at him, and then almost lost my fear
in admiration of his beauty. He was taller than a boarhound,
but slender in figure, with keen, fox-like features, and very
large, erect ears; his coat was silvery-gray, and long; there
were two black spots above his eyes; and the feet, muzzle,
ear-tips, and end of the bushy tail were also velvet-black.
After watching me quietly for two or three minutes, he
started up, and, much to my relief, trotted away towards the
wood; but after going about fifty yards he looked back, and
seeing me still gazing after him, wheeled round and rushed at
me, and when quite close uttered a sound like a ringing,
metallic yelp, after which he once more bounded away, and
disappeared from sight.

The horses now turned round, and, deliberately walking up to
me, stood still, in spite of all I could do to make them
continue the work. After waiting a while they proceeded to
wriggle themselves out of the ropes, and galloped off, loudly
neighing to each other, and flinging up their disdainful
heels so as to send a shower of dirt over me. Left alone in
this unceremonious fashion, I presently began to think that
they knew more about the work than I did, and that, finding
me indisposed to release them at the proper moment, they had
taken the matter into their own hands, or hoofs rather. A
little more pondering, and I also came to the conclusion that
the singular wolf-like animal was only one of the house-dogs;
that he had visited me in the night to remind me that I was
sleeping with the door open, and had come now to insist on a
suspension of work.

Glad at having discovered all these things without displaying
my ignorance by asking questions, I took up my basket and
started home.

Chapter 9

When I arrived at the house I was met by the young man who
had set me the morning’s task; but he was taciturn now, and
wore a cold, estranged look, which seemed to portend trouble.
He at once led me to a part of the house at a distance from
the hall, and into a large apartment I now saw for the first
time. In a few moments the master of the house, followed by
most of the other inmates, also entered, and on the faces of
all of them I noticed the same cold, offended look.

“The dickens take my luck!” said I to myself, beginning to
feel extremely uncomfortable. “I suppose I have offended
against the laws and customs by working the horses too long.”

“Smith,” said the old man, advancing to the table, and
depositing thereon a large volume he had brought with him,
“come here, and read to me in this book.”

Advancing to the table, I saw that it was written in the same
minute, Hebrew-like characters of the folio I had examined on
the previous evening. “I cannot read it; I do not understand
the letters,” I said, feeling some shame at having thus
publicly to confess my ignorance.

“Then,” said he, bending on me a look of the utmost severity,
“there is indeed little more to be said. Nevertheless, we
take into account the confused state of your intellect
yesterday, and judge you leniently; and let us hope that the
pangs of an outraged conscience will be more painful to you
than the light punishment I am about to inflict for so
destestable a crime.”

I now concluded that I had offended by squeezing Yoletta’s
hand, and had been told to read from the book merely to make
myself acquainted with the pains and penalties attendant on
such an indiscretion, for to call it a “detestable crime”
seemed to me a very great abuse of language.

“If I have offended,” was my answer, delivered with little
humility, “I can only plead my ignorance of the customs of
the house.”

“No man,” he returned, with increased severity, “is so
ignorant as not to know right from wrong. Had the matter come
to my knowledge sooner, I should have said: Depart from us,
for your continued presence in the house offends us; but we
have made a compact with you, and, until the year expires, we
must suffer you. For the space of sixty days you must dwell
apart from us, never leaving the room, where each day a task
will be assigned to you, and subsisting on bread and water
only. Let us hope that in this period of solitude and silence
you will sufficiently repent your crime, and rejoin us
afterwards with a changed heart; for all offenses may be
forgiven a man, but it is impossible to forgive a lie.”

“A lie!” I exclaimed in amazement. “I have told no lie!”

“This,” said he, with an access of wrath, “is an aggravation
of your former offense. It is even a worse offense than the
first, and must be dealt with separately—when the sixty
days have expired.”

“Are you, then, going to condemn me without hearing me speak,
or telling me anything about it? What lie have I told?”

After a pause, during which he closely scrutinized my face,
he said, pointing to the open page before him: “Yesterday, in
answer to my question, you told me that you could read. Last
evening you made a contrary statement to Yoletta; and now
here is the book, and you confess that you cannot read it.”

“But that is easily explained,” said I, immensely relieved,
for I certainly had felt a little guilty about the
hand-squeezing performance, although it was not a very
serious matter. “I can read the books of my own country, and
naturally concluded that your books were written in the same
kind of letters; but last evening I discovered that it was
not so. You have already seen the letters of my country on
the coins I showed you last evening.”

And here I again pulled out my pocket-book, and emptied the
contents on the table.

He began to pick up the sovereigns one by one to examine
them. Meanwhile, finding my beautiful black and gold
stylograph pen inserted in the book, I thought I could not do
better than to show him how I wrote. Fortunately, the fluid
in it had not become dry. Tearing a blank page from my book I
hastily scribbled a few lines, and handed the paper to him,
saying: “This is how I write.”

He began studying the paper, but his eyes, I perceived,
wandered often to the stylograph pen in my hand.

Presently he remarked: “This writing, or these marks you have
made on the paper, are not the same as the letters on the
gold.”

I took the paper and proceeded to copy the sentence I had
written, but in printing letters, beneath it, then returned
it to him.

He examined it again, and, after comparing my letters with
those on the sovereigns, said: “Pray tell me, now, what you
have written here, and explain why you write in two different
ways?”

I told him, as well as I could, why letters of one form were
used to stamp on gold and other substances, and of a
different form for writing. Then, with a modest blush, I read
the words of the sentence: “In different parts of the world
men have different customs, and write different letters; but
alike to all men in all places, a lie is hateful.”

“Smith,” he said, addressing me in an impressive manner, but
happily not to charge me with a third and bigger lie, “I have
lived long in the world, and the knowledge others possess
concerning it is mine also. It is common knowledge that in
the hotter and colder regions men are compelled to live
differently, owing to the conditions they are placed in; but
we know that everywhere they have the same law of right and
wrong inscribed on the heart, and, as you have said, hate a
lie; also that they all speak the same language; and until
this moment I also believed that they wrote in similar
characters. You, however, have now succeeded in convincing me
that this is not the case; that in some obscure valley, cut
off from all intercourse by inaccessible mountains, or in
some small, unknown island of the sea, a people may
exist—ah, did you not tell me that you came from an
island?”

“Yes, my home was on an island,” I answered.

“So I imagined. An island of which no report has ever reached
us, where the people, isolated from their fellows, have in
the course of many centuries changed their customs—even
their manner of writing. Although I had seen these gold
pieces I did not understand, or did not realize, that such a
human family existed: now I am persuaded of it, and as I
alone am to blame for having brought this charge against you,
I must now ask your forgiveness. We rejoice at your
innocence, and hope with increased love to atone for our
injustice. My son,” he concluded, placing a hand on my
shoulder, “I am now deeply in your debt.”

“I am glad it has ended so happily,” I replied, wondering
whether his being in my debt would increase my chances with
Yoletta or not.

Seeing him again directing curious glances at the stylograph,
which I was turning about in my fingers, I offered it to him.

He examined it with interest.

“I have only been waiting for an opportunity,” he said, “to
look closely at this wonderful contrivance, for I had
perceived that your writing was not made with a pencil, but
with a fluid. It is black polished stone, beautifully
fashioned and encircled with gold bands, and contains the
writing-fluid within itself. This surprises me as much as
anything you have told me.”

“Allow me to make you a present of it,” said I, seeing him so
taken with it.

“No, not so,” he returned. “But I should greatly like to
possess it, and will keep it if I may bestow in return
something you desire.”

Yoletta’s hand was really the only thing in life I desired,
but it was too early to speak yet, as I knew nothing about
their matrimonial usages—not even whether or not the
lady’s consent was necessary to a compact of the kind. I
therefore made a more modest request. “There is one thing I
greatly desire,” I said. “I am very anxious to be able to
read in your books, and shall consider myself more than
compensated if you will permit Yoletta to teach me.”

“She shall teach you in any case, my son,” he returned.
“That, and much more, is already owning to you.”

“There is nothing else I desire,” said I. “Pray keep the pen
and make me happy.”

And thus ended a disagreeable matter.

The cloud having blown over, we all repaired to the
supper-room, and nothing could exceed our happiness as we sat
at meat—or vegetables. Not feeling so ravenously hungry
as on the previous evening, and, moreover, seeing them all in
so lively a mood, I did not hesitate to join in the
conversation: nor did I succeed so very badly, considering
the strangeness of it all; for like the bee that has been
much hindered at his flowery work by geometric webs, I began
to acquire some skill in pushing my way gracefully through
the tangling meshes of thought and phrases that were new to
me.

The afternoon’s experiences had certainly been
remarkable—a strange mixture of pain and pleasure, not
blending into homogeneous gray, but resembling rather a
bright embroidery on a dark, somber ground; and of these
surprising contrasts I was destined to have more that same
evening.

We were again assembled in the great room, the venerable
father reclining at his ease on his throne-like couch near
the brass globes, while the others pursued their various
occupations as on the former evening. Not being able to get
near Yoletta, and having nothing to do, I settled myself
comfortably in one of the spacious seats, and gave up my mind
to pleasant dreams. At length, to my surprise, the father,
who had been regarding me for some time, said: “Will you
lead, my son?”

I started up, turning very red in the face, for I did not
wish to trouble him with questions, yet was at a loss to know
what he meant by leading. I thought of several
things—whist, evening prayers, dancing, etc.; but being
still in doubt, I was compelled to ask him to explain.

“Will you lead the singing?” he returned, looking a little
surprised.

“Oh yes, with pleasure,” said I. There being no music about,
and no piano, I concluded naturally that my friends amused
themselves with solo songs without accompaniment of an
evening, and having a good tenor voice I was not unwilling to
lead off with a song. Clearing my rusty throat with a
ghrr-ghrr-hram which made them all jump, I launched
forth with the “Vicar of Bray”—a grand old song and a
great favorite of mine. They all started when I commenced,
exchanging glances, and casting astonished looks towards me;
but it was getting so dusky in the room that I could not feel
sure that my eyes were not deceiving me. Presently some that
were near me began retiring to distant seats, and this
distressed me so that it made me hoarse, and my singing
became very bad indeed; but still I thought it best to go
bravely on to the end. Suddenly the old gentleman, who had
been staring wildly at me for some time, drew up his long
yellow robe and wrapped it round his face and head. I glanced
at Yoletta, sitting at some distance, and saw that she was
holding her hands pressed to her ears.

I thought it about time to leave off then, and stopping
abruptly in the middle of the fourth stanza I sat down,
feeling extremely hot and uncomfortable. I was almost
choking, and unable to utter a word. But there was no word
for me to utter: it was, of course, for them to thank me for
singing, or to say something; but not a word was spoken.
Yoletta dropped her hands and resumed her work, while the old
man slowly emerged with a somewhat frightened look from the
wrappings; and then the long dead silence becoming
unendurable, I remarked that I feared my singing was not to
their taste. No reply was made; only the father, putting out
one of his hands, touched a handle or key near him, whereupon
one of the brass globes began slowly revolving. A low murmur
of sound arose, and seemed to pass like a wave through the
room, dying away in the distance, soon to be succeeded by
another, and then another, each marked by an increase of
power; and often as this solemn sound died away, faint
flute-like notes were heard as if approaching, but still at a
great distance, and in the ensuing wave of sound from the
great globes they would cease to be distinguishable. Still
the mysterious coming sounds continued at intervals to grow
louder and clearer, joined by other tones as they progressed,
now altogether bursting out in joyous chorus, then one purest
liquid note soaring bird-like alone, but whether from voices
or wind-instruments I was unable to tell, until the whole air
about me was filled and palpitating with the strange,
exquisite harmony, which passed onwards, the tones growing
fewer and fainter by degrees until they almost died out of
hearing in the opposite direction. That all were now taking
part in the performance I became convinced by watching in
turn different individuals, some of them having small,
curiously-shaped instruments in their hands, but there was a
blending of voices and a something like ventriloquism in the
tones which made it impossible to distinguish the notes of
any one person. Deeper, more sonorous tones now issued from
the revolving globes, sometimes resembling in character the
vox humana of an organ, and every time they rose to a certain
pitch there were responsive sounds—not certainly from
any of the performers—low, tremulous, and Aeolian in
character, wandering over the entire room, as if walls and
ceiling were honey-combed with sensitive musical cells,
answering to the deeper vibrations. These floating aerial
sounds also answered to the higher notes of some of the
female singers, resembling soprano voices, brightened and
spiritualized in a wonderful degree; and then the wide room
would be filled with a mist, as it were, of this floating,
formless melody, which seemed to come from invisible harpers
hovering in the shadows above.

Lying back on my couch, listening with closed eyes to this
mysterious, soul-stirring concert, I was affected to tears,
and almost feared that I had been snatched away into some
supra-mundane region inhabited by beings of an angelic or
half-angelic order—feared, I say, for, with this new
love in my heart, no elysium or starry abode could compare
with this green earth for a dwellingplace. But when I
remembered my own brutal bull of Bashan performance, my face,
there in the dark, was on fire with shame; and I cursed the
ignorant, presumptuous folly I had been guilty of in roaring
out that abominable “Vicar of Bray” ballad, which had now
become as hateful to me as my trousers or boots. The composer
of that song, the writer of the words, and its subject, the
double-faced Vicar himself, presented themselves to my mind
as the three most damnable beings that had ever existed. “The
devil take my luck!” I muttered, grinding my teeth with
impotent anger; for it seemed such hard lines, just when I
had succeeded in getting into favor, to go and spoil it all
in that unhappy way. Now that I had become acquainted with
their style of singing, the supposed fib, about which there
had been such a pother, seemed a very venial offense compared
with my attempt to lead the singing. Nevertheless, when the
concert was over, not a word was said on the subject by any
one, though I had quite expected to be taken at once to the
magisterial chamber to hear some dreadful sentence passed on
me; and when, before retiring, anxious to propitiate my host,
I began to express regret for having inflicted pain on them
by attempting to sing, the venerable gentleman raised his
hands deprecatingly, and begged me to say no more about it,
for painful subjects were best forgotten. “No doubt,” he
kindly added, “when you were lying there buried among the
hills, you swallowed a large amount of earth and gravel in
your efforts to breathe, and have not yet freed your lungs
from it.”

This was the most charitable view he could take of the
matter, and I was thankful that no worse result followed.

Chapter 10

At length the joyful day arrived when I was to cease, in
outward appearance at all events, to be an alien; for
returning at noon from the fields, on entering my cell I
beheld my beautiful new garments—two complete suits,
besides underwear: one, the most soberly colored, intended
only for working hours; but the second, which was for the
house, claimed my first attention. Trembling with eagerness,
I flung off the old tweeds, the cracked boots, and other
vestiges of a civilization which they had perhaps survived,
and soon found that I had been measured with faultless
accuracy; for everything, down to the shoes, fitted to
perfection. Green was the prevailing or ground tint—a
soft sap green; the pattern on it, which was very beautiful,
being a somewhat obscure red, inclining to purple. My delight
culminated when I drew on the hose, which had, like those
worn by the others, a curious design, evidently borrowed from
the skin of some kind of snake. The ground color was light
green, almost citron yellow, in fact, and the pattern a
bright maroon red, with bronze reflections.

I had no sooner arrayed myself than, with a flushed face and
palpitating heart, I flew to exhibit myself to my friends,
and found them assembled and waiting to see and admire the
result of their work. The pleasure I saw reflected in their
transparent faces increased my happiness a hundredfold, and I
quite astonished them with the torrent of eloquence in which
I expressed my overflowing gratitude.

“Now, tell me one secret,” I exclaimed, when the excitement
began to abate a little. “Why is green the principal color in
my clothes, when no other person in the house wears more than
a very little of it?”

I had no sooner spoken than I heartily wished that I had held
my peace; for it all at once occurred to me that green was
perhaps the color for an alien or mere hireling, in which
light they perhaps regarded me.

“Oh, Smith, can you not guess so simple a thing?” said Edra,
placing her white hands on my shoulders and smiling straight
into my face.

How beautiful she looked, standing there with her eyes so
near to mine! “Tell me why, Edra?” I said, still with a
lingering apprehension.

“Why, look at the color of my eyes and skin—would this
green tint be suitable for me to wear?”

“Oh, is that the reason!” cried I, immensely relieved. “I
think, Edra, you would look very beautiful in any color that
is on the earth, or in the rainbow above the earth. But am I
so different from you all?”

“Oh yes, quite different—have you never looked at
yourself? Your skin is whiter and redder, and your hair has a
very different color. It will look better when it grows long,
I think. And your eyes—do you know that they never
change! for when we look at you closely they are still
blue-gray, and not green.”

“No; I wish they were,” said I. “Now I shall value my clothes
a hundred times more, since you have taken so much pains to
make them—well, what shall I say?—harmonize, I
suppose, with the peculiar color of my mug. Dash it all, I’m
blundering again! I mean—I mean—don’t you
know——”

Edra laughed and gave it up. Then we all laughed; for now
evidently my blundering did not so much matter, since I had
shed my outer integument, and come forth like a snake (with a
divided tail) in a brand new skin.

Presently I missed Yoletta from the room, and desiring above
all things to have some word of congratulation from her lips,
I went off to seek her. She was standing under the portico
waiting for me. “Come,” she said, and proceeded to lead me
into the music-room, where we sat down on one of the couches
close to the dais; there she produced some large white
tablets, and red chalk pencils or crayons.

“Now, Smith, I am going to begin teaching you,” said she,
with the grave air of a young schoolmistress; “and every
afternoon, when your work is done, you must come to me here.”

“I hope I am very stupid, and that it will take me a long
time to learn,” said I.

“Oh”—she laughed—”do you think it will be so
pleasant sitting by me here? I am glad you think that; but if
you prefer me for a teacher you must not try to be stupid,
because if you do I shall ask some one else to take my
place.”

“Would you really do that, Yoletta?”

“Yes. Shall I tell you why? Because I have a quick, impatient
temper. Everything wrong I have ever done, for which I have
been punished, has been through my hasty temper.”

“And have you ever undergone that sad punishment of being
shut up by yourself for many days, Yoletta?”

“Yes, often; for what other punishment is there? But oh, I
hope it will never happen again, because I think—I know
that I suffer more than any one can imagine. To tread on the
grass, to feel the sun and wind on my face, to see the earth
and sky and animals—this is like life to me; and when I
am shut up alone, every day seems—oh, a year at least!”
She did not know how much dearer this confession of one
little human weakness made her seem to me. “Come, let us
begin,” she said. “I waited for your new clothes to be
finished, and we must make up for lost time.”

“But do you know, Yoletta, that you have not said anything
about them? Do I look nice; and will you like me any better
now?”

“Yes, much better. You were a poor caterpillar before; I
liked you a little because I knew what a pretty butterfly you
would be in time. I helped to make your wings. Now, listen.”

For two hours she taught me, making her red letters or marks,
which I copied on my tablet, and explaining them to me; and
at the conclusion of the lesson, I had got a general idea
that the writing was to a great extent phonographic, and that
I was in for rather a tough job.

“Do you think that you will be able to teach me to sing
also?” I asked, when she had put the tablets aside.

The memory of that miserable failure, when I “had led the
singing,” was a constant sore in my mind. I had begun to
think that I had not done myself justice on that memorable
occasion, and the desire to make another trial under more
favorable circumstances was very strong in me.

She looked a little startled at my question, but said
nothing.

“I know now,” I continued pleadingly, “that you all sing
softly. If you will only consent to try me once I promise to
stick like cobbler’s wax—I beg your pardon, I mean I
will endeavor to adhere to the morendo and perdendosi
style—don’t you know? What am I saying! But I promise
you, Yoletta, I shan’t frighten you, if you will only let me
try and sing to you once.”

She turned from me with a somewhat clouded expression of
face, and walked with slow steps to the dais, and placing her
hands on the keys, caused two of the small globes to revolve,
sending soft waves of sound through the room.

I advanced towards her, but she raised her hand
apprehensively. “No, no, no; stand there,” she said, “and
sing low.”

It was hard to see her troubled face and obey, but I was not
going to bellow at her like a bull, and I had set my heart on
this trial. For the last three days, while working in the
fields, I had been incessantly practicing my dear old master
Campana’s exquisite M’appar sulla tomba, the only
melody I happened to know which had any resemblance to their
divine music. To my surprise she seemed to play as I sang a
suitable accompaniment on the globes, which aided and
encouraged me, and, although singing in a subdued tone, I
felt that I had never sung so well before. When I finished, I
quite expected some word of praise, or to be asked why I had
not sung this melody on that unhappy evening when I was asked
to lead; but she spoke no word.

“Will you sing something now?” I said.

“Not now—this evening,” she replied absently, slowly
walking across the floor with eyes cast down.

“What are you thinking of, Yoletta, that you look so
serious?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she returned, a little impatiently.

“You look very solemn about nothing, then. But you have not
said one word about my singing—did you not like it?”

“Your singing? Oh no! It was a pleasant-tasting little kernel
in a very rough rind—I should like one without the
other.”

“You talk in riddles, Yoletta; but I’m afraid the answers to
them would not sound very flattering to me. But if you would
like to know the song I shall be only too glad to teach it to
you. The words are in Italian, but I can translate them.”

“The words?” she said absently.

“The words of the song,” I said.

“I do not know what you mean by the words of a song. Do not
speak to me now, Smith.”

“Oh, very well,” said I, thinking it all very strange, and
sitting down I divided my attention between my beautiful hose
and Yoletta, still slowly pacing the floor with that absent
look on her face.

At length the curious mood changed, but I did not venture to
talk any more about music, and before very long we repaired
to the eating-room, where, for the next two or three hours,
we occupied ourselves very agreeably with those processes
which, some new theorist informs us, constitute our chief
pleasure in life.

That evening I overheard a curious little dialogue. The
father of the house, as I had now grown accustomed to call
our head, after rising from his seat, stood for a few minutes
talking near me, while Yoletta, with her hand on his arm,
waited for him to finish. When he had done speaking, and
turned to her, she said in a low voice, which I, however,
overheard: “Father, I shall lead to-night.”

He put his hand on her head, and, looking down, studied her
upturned face. “Ah, my daughter,” he said with a smile,
“shall I guess what has inspired you to-day? You have been
listening to the passage birds. I also heard them this
morning passing in flocks. And you have been following them
in thought far away into those sun-bright lands where winter
never comes.”

“No, father,” she returned, “I have only been a little way
from home in thought—only to that spot where the grass
has not yet grown to hide the ashes and loose mold.” He
stooped and kissed her forehead, and then left the room; and
she, never noticing the hungry look with which I witnessed
the tender caress, also went away.

That some person was supposed to lead the singing every
evening I knew, but it was impossible for me ever to discover
who the leader was; now, however, after overhearing this
conversation, I knew that on this particular occasion it
would be Yoletta, and in spite of the very poor opinion she
had expressed of my musical abilities, I was prepared to
admire the performance more than I had ever done before.

It commenced in the usual mysterious and indefinable manner;
but after a time, when it began to shape itself into
melodies, the idea possessed me that I was listening to
strains once familiar, but long unheard and forgotten. At
length I discovered that this was Campana’s music, only not
as I had ever heard it sung; for the melody of M’appar
sulla tomba had been so transmuted and etherealized, as
it were, that the composer himself would have listened in
wondering ecstasy to the mournful strains, which had passed
through the alembic of their more delicately organized minds.
Listening, I remembered with an unaccountable feeling of
sadness, that poor Campana had recently died in London; and
almost at the same moment there came to me a remembrance of
my beloved mother, whose early death was my first great grief
in boyhood. All the songs I had ever heard her sing came back
to me, ringing in my mind with a wonderful joy, but ever
ending in a strange, funereal sadness. And not only my
mother, but many a dear one besides returned “in beauty from
the dust” appeared to be present—white-haired old men
who had spoken treasured words to me in bygone years;
schoolfellows and other boyish friends and companions; and
men, too, in the prime of life, of whose premature death in
this or that far-off region of the world-wide English empire
I had heard from time to time. They came back to me, until
the whole room seemed filled with a pale, shadowy procession,
moving past me to the sound of that mysterious melody.
Through all the evening it came back, in a hundred
bewildering disguises, filling me with a melancholy
infinitely precious, which was yet almost more than my heart
could bear. Again and yet again that despairing
Ah-i-me fell like a long shuddering sob from the
revolving globes, and from voices far and near, to be taken
up and borne yet further away by far-off, dying sounds, yet
again responded to by nearer, clearer voices, in tones which
seemed wrung “from the depths of some divine despair”; then
to pass away, but not wholly pass, for all the hidden cells
were stirred, and the vibrating air, like mysterious,
invisible hands, swept the suspended strings, until the
exquisite bliss and pain of it made me tremble and shed
tears, as I sat there in the dark, wondering, as men will
wonder at such moments, what this tempest of the soul which
music wakes in us can mean: whether it is merely a growth of
this our earth-life, or a something added, a divine hunger of
the heart which is part of our immortality.

Chapter 11

It seemed to me now that I had never really lived before so
sweet was this new life—so healthy, and free from care
and regret. The old life, which I had lived in cities, was
less in my thoughts on each succeeding day; it came to me now
like the memory of a repulsive dream, which I was only too
glad to forget. How I had ever found that listless, worn-out,
luxurious, do-nothing existence endurable, seemed a greater
mystery every morning, when I went forth to my appointed task
in the fields or the workhouse, so natural and so pleasant
did it now seem to labor with my own hands, and to eat my
bread in the sweat of my face. If there was one kind of work
I preferred above all others, it was wood-cutting, and as a
great deal of timber was required at this season, I was
allowed to follow my own inclination. In the forest, a couple
of miles from the house, several tough old
giants—chiefly oak, chestnut, elm, and beech—had
been marked out for destruction: in some cases because they
had been scorched and riven by lightnings, and were an
eyesore; in others, because time had robbed them of their
glory, withering their long, desolate arms, and bestowing on
their crowns that lusterless, scanty foliage which has a
mournful meaning, like the thin white hairs on the bowed head
of a very old man. At this distance from the house I could
freely indulge my propensity for singing, albeit in that
coarser tone which had failed to win favor with my new
friends.

Among the grand trees, out of earshot of them all, I could
shout aloud to my heart’s content, rejoicing in the
boisterous old English ballads, which, like John Peele’s
view-hallo,

   “Might awaken the dead
   Or the fox from his lair in the morning.”

Meanwhile, with the frantic energy of a Gladstone out of
office, I plied my ax, its echoing strokes making fit
accompaniment to my strains, until for many yards about me
the ground was littered with white and yellow chips; then,
exhausted with my efforts, I would sit down to rest and eat
my simple midday fare, to admire myself in my deep-green and
chocolate working-dress, and, above everything, to think and
dream of Yoletta.

In my walks to and from the forest I cast many a wistful look
at a solitary flat-topped hill, almost a mountain in height,
which stood two or three miles from the house, north of it,
on the other side of the river. From its summit I felt sure
that a very extensive view of the surrounding country might
be had, and I often wished to pay this hill a visit. One
afternoon, while taking my lesson in reading, I mentioned
this desire to Yoletta.

“Come, then, let us go there now,” said she, laying the
tablets aside.

I joyfully agreed: I had never walked alone with her, nor, in
fact, with her at all, since that first day when she had
placed her hand in mine; and now we were so much nearer in
heart to each other.

She led me to a point, half a mile from the house, where the
stream rushed noisily over its stony bed and formed numerous
deep channels between the rocks, and one could cross over by
jumping from rock to rock. Yoletta led the way, leaping
airily from stone to stone, while I, anxious to escape a
wetting, followed her with caution; but when I was safe over,
and thought our delightful walk was about to begin, she
suddenly started off towards the hill at a swift pace, which
quickly left me far behind. Finding that I could not overtake
her, I shouted to her to wait for me; then she stood still
until I was within three or four yards Of her, when off she
fled like the wind once more. At length she reached the foot
of the hill, and sat down there until I joined her.

“For goodness sake, Yoletta, let us behave like rational
beings and walk quietly,” I was beginning, when away she went
again, dancing up the mountain-side with a tireless energy
that amazed as well as exasperated me. “Wait for me just once
more,” I screamed after her; then, half-way up the side, she
stopped and sat down on a stone.

“Now my chance has come,” thought I, ready to make up for
insufficient speed and wind by superior cunning, which would
make us equal. “I will go quietly up and catch her napping,
and hold her fast by the arm until the walk is finished. So
far it has been nothing but a mad chase.”

Slowly I toiled on, and then, when I got near her and was
just about to execute my plan, she started nimbly away, with
a merry laugh, and never paused again until the summit was
reached. Thoroughly tired and beaten, I sat down to rest; but
presently looking up I saw her at the top, standing
motionless on a stone, looking like a statue outlined against
the clear blue sky. Once more I got up and pressed on until I
reached her, and then sank down on the grass, overcome with
fatigue.

“When you ask me to walk again, Yoletta,” I panted, “I shall
not move unless I have a rope round your waist to pull you
back when you try to rush off in that mad fashion. You have
knocked all the wind out of me; and yet I was in pretty good
trim.”

She laughed, and jumping to the ground, sat down at my side
on the grass.

I caught her hand and held it tight. “Now you shall not
escape and run away again,” said I.

“You may keep my hand,” she replied; “it has nothing to do up
here.”

“May I put it to some useful purpose—may I do what I
like with it?”

“Yes, you may,” then she added with a smile: “There is no
thorn in it now.”

I kissed it many times on the back, the palm, the wrist then
bestowed a separate caress on each finger-tip.

“Why do you kiss my hand?” she asked.

“Do you not know—can you not guess? Because it is the
sweetest thing I can kiss, except one other thing. Shall I
tell you——”

“My face? And why do you not kiss that?”

“Oh, may I?” said I, and drawing her to me I kissed her soft
cheek. “May I kiss the other cheek now?” I asked. She turned
it to me, and when I had kissed it rapturously, I gazed into
her eyes, which looked back, bright and unabashed, into mine.
“I think—I think I made a slight mistake, Yoletta,” I
said. “What I meant to ask was, will you let me kiss you
where I like—on your chin, for instance, or just where
I like?”

“Yes; but you are keeping me too long. Kiss me as many times
as you like, and then let us admire the prospect.”

I drew her closer and kissed her mouth, not once nor twice,
but clinging to it with all the ardor of passion, as if my
lips had become glued to hers.

Suddenly she disengaged herself from me. “Why do you kiss my
mouth in that violent way?” she exclaimed, her eyes
sparkling, her cheeks flushed. “You seem like some hungry
animal that wanted to devour me.”

That was, oddly enough, just how I felt. “Do you not not
know, sweetest, why I kiss you in that way? Because I love
you.”

“I know you do, Smith. I can understand and appreciate your
love without having my lips bruised.”

“And do you love me, Yoletta?”

“Yes, certainly—did you not know that?”

“And is it not sweet to kiss when you love? Do you know what
love is, darling? Do you love me a thousand times more than
any one else in the world?”

“How extravagantly you talk!” she replied. “What strange
things you say!”

“Yes, dear, because love is strange—the strangest,
sweetest thing in life. It comes once only to the heart, and
the one person loved is infinitely more than all others. Do
you not understand that?”

“Oh no; what do you mean, Smith?”

“Is there any other person dearer to your heart than I am?”

“I love every one in the house, some more than others. Those
that are closely related to me I love most.”

“Oh, please say no more! You love your people with one kind
of love, but me with a different love—is it not so?”

“There is only one kind of love,” said she.

“Ah, you say that because you are a child yet, and do not
know. You are even younger than I thought, perhaps. How old
are you, dear?”

“Thirty-one years old,” she replied, with the utmost gravity.

“Oh, Yoletta, what an awful cram! I mean—oh, I beg your
pardon for being so rude! But—but don’t you think you
can draw it mild? Thirty-one—what a joke! Why, I’m an
old fellow compared with you, and I’m not twenty-two yet. Do
tell me what you mean, Yoletta?”

She was not listening to me, I saw: she had risen from the
grass and seated herself again on the stone. For only answer
to my question she pointed to the west with her hand, saying:
“Look there, Smith.”

I stood up and looked. The sun was near the horizon now, and
partially concealed by low clouds, which were beginning to
form—gray, and tinged with purple and red; but their
misty edges burned with an intense yellow flame. Above, the
sky was clear as blue glass, barred with pale-yellow rays,
shot forth by the sinking sun, and resembling the spokes of
an immense celestial wheel reaching to the zenith. The
billowy earth, with its forests in deep green and
many-colored, autumnal foliage, stretched far before us, here
in shadow, and there flushed with rich light; while the
mountain range, looming near and stupendous on our right, had
changed its color from dark blue to violet.

The doubts and fears agitating my heart made me indifferent
to the surpassing beauty of the scene: I turned impatiently
from it to gaze again on her graceful figure, girlish still
in its slim proportions; but her face, flushed with sunlight,
and crowned with its dark, shining hair, seemed to me like
the face of one of the immortals. The expression of rapt
devotion on it made me silent, for it seemed as if she too
had been touched by nature’s magic, like earth and sky, and
been transfigured; and waiting for the mood to pass, I stood
by her side, resting my hand on her knee. By-and-by she
looked down and smiled, and then I returned to the subject of
her age.

“Surely, Yoletta,” said I, “you were only poking fun at
me—I mean, amusing yourself at my expense. You can’t
possibly be more than about fifteen, or sixteen at the very
outside.”

She smiled again and shook her head.

“Oh, I know, I can solve the riddle now. Your years are
different, of course, like everything else in this latitude.
A month is called a year with you, and that would make you,
let me see—how much is twelve times thirty-one? Oh,
hang it, nearly five hundred, I should think. Why am I such a
duffer at mental arithmetic! It is just the
contrary—how many twelves in thirty-one? About two and
a half in round numbers, and that’s absurd, as you are not a
baby. Oh, I have it: your seasons are called years, of
course—why didn’t I see it before! No, that would make
you only seven and a half. Ah, yes, I see it now: a year
means two years, or two of your years—summer and
winter—mean a year; and that just makes you sixteen,
exactly what I had imagined. Is it not so, Yoletta?”

“I do not know what you are talking about, Smith; and I am
not listening.”

“Well, listen for one moment, and tell me how long does a
year last?”

“It lasts from the time the leaves fall in the autumn until
they fall again; and it lasts from the time the swallows come
in spring until they come again.”

“And seriously, honestly, you are thirty-one years old?”

“Did I not tell you so? Yes, I am thirty-one years old.”

“Well, I never heard anything to equal this! Good heavens,
what does it mean? I know it is awfully rude to inquire a
lady’s age, but what am I to do? Will you kindly tell me
Edra’s age?”

“Edra? I forget. Oh yes; she is sixty-three.”

“Sixty-three! I’ll be shot if she’s a day more than
twenty-eight! Idiot that I am, why can’t I keep calm! But,
Yoletta, how you distress me! It almost frightens me to ask
another question, but do tell me how old your father is?”

“He is nearly two hundred years old—a hundred and
ninety-eight, I think,” she replied.

“Heavens on earth—I shall go stark, staring mad!” But I
could say no more; leaving her side I sat down on a low stone
at some distance, with a stunned feeling in my brain, and
something like despair in my heart. That she had told me the
truth I could no longer doubt for one moment: it was
impossible for her crystal nature to be anything but
truthful. The number of her years mattered nothing to me; the
virgin sweetness of girlhood was on her lips, the freshness
and glory of early youth on her forehead; the misery was that
she had lived thirty-one years in the world and did not
understand the words I had spoken to her—did not know
what love, or passion, was! Would it always be so—would
my heart consume itself to ashes, and kindle no fire in hers?

Then, as I sat there, filled with these despairing thoughts,
she came down from her perch, and, dropping on her knees
before me, put her arms about my neck and gazed steadily into
my face. “Why are you troubled, Smith-have I said anything to
hurt you?” said she. “And do you not know that you have
offended me?”

“Have I? Tell me how, dearest Yoletta.”

“By asking questions, and saying wild, meaningless things
while I sat there watching the setting sun. It troubled me
and spoiled my pleasure; but I will forgive you, Smith,
because I love you. Do you not think I love you enough? You
are very dear to me—dearer every day.” And drawing down
my face she kissed my lips.

“Darling, you make me happy again,” I returned, “for if your
love increases every day, the time will perhaps come when you
will understand me, and be all I wish to me.”

“What is it that you wish?” she questioned.

“That you should be mine—mine alone, wholly
mine—and give yourself to me, body and soul.”

She continued gazing up into my eyes. “In a sense we do, I
suppose, give ourselves, body and soul, to those we love,”
she said. “And if you are not yet satisfied that I have given
myself to you in that way, you must wait patiently, saying
and doing nothing willfully to alienate my heart, until the
time arrives when my love will be equal to your desire.
Come,” she added, and, rising, pulled me up by the hand.

Silently, and somewhat pensively, we started hand in hand on
our walk down the hill. Presently she dropped on her knees,
and opening the grass with her hands, displayed a small,
slender bud, on a round, smooth stem, springing without
leaves from the soil. “Do you see!” she said, looking up at
me with a bright smile.

“Yes, dear, I see a bud; but I do not know anything more
about it.”

“Oh, Smith, do you not know that it is a rainbow lily!” And
rising, she took my hand and walked on again.

“What is the rainbow lily?”

“By-and-by, in a few days, it will be in fullest bloom, and
the earth will be covered with its glory.”

“It is so late in the season, Yoletta! Spring is the time to
see the earth covered with the glory of flowers.”

“There is nothing to equal the rainbow lily, which comes when
most flowers are dead, or have their bright colors tarnished.
Have you lived in the moon, Smith, that I have to tell you
these things?”

“No, dear, but in that island where all things, including
flowers, were different.”

“Ah, yes; tell me about the island.”

Now “that island” was an unfortunate subject, and I was not
prepared to break the resolution I had made of prudently
holding my tongue about its peculiar institutions. “How can I
tell you?—how could you imagine it if I were to tell
you?” I said, evading the question. “You have seen the
heavens black with tempests, and have felt the lightnings
blinding your eyes, and have heard the crash of the thunder:
could you imagine all that if you had never witnessed it, and
I described it to you?”

“No.”

“Then it would be useless to tell you. And now tell me about
the rainbow lilies, for I am a great lover of flowers.”

“Are you? Is it strange you should have a taste common to all
human beings?” she returned with a pretty smile. “But it is
easier to ask questions than to answer them. If you had never
seen the sun setting in glory, or the midnight sky shining
with myriads of stars, could you imagine these things if I
described them to you?”

“No.”

“That word is an echo, Smith. You must wait for the earth to
bring forth her rainbow lilies, and the heart its love.”

“With or without flowers, the world is a paradise to me, with
you at my side, Yoletta. Ah, if you will be my Eve! How sweet
it is to walk hand in hand with you in the twilight; but it
was not so nice when you were scuttling from me like a wild
rabbit. I’m glad to find that you do walk sometimes.”

“Yes, sometimes—on solemn occasions.”

“Yes? Tell me about these solemn occasions.”

“This is not one of them,” she replied, suddenly withdrawing
her hand from mine; then with a ringing laugh, she sped from
me, bounding down the hill-side with the speed and grace of a
gazelle.

I instantly gave chase; but it was a very vain chase,
although I put forth all my powers. Occasionally she would
drop on her knees to admire some wild flower, or search for a
lily bud; and whenever she came to a large stone, she would
spring on to it, and stand for some time motionless, gazing
at the rich hues of the afterglow; but always at my approach
she would spring lightly away, escaping from me as easily as
a wild bird. Tired with running, I at last gave up the hunt,
and walked soberly home by myself, wondering whether that
conversation on the summit of the hill, and all the curious
information I had gathered from it, should make me the most
miserable or the most happy being upon earth.

Chapter 12

The question whether I had reason to feel happy or the
reverse still occupied me after going to bed, and kept me
awake far into the night. I put it to myself in a variety of
ways, concentrating my faculties on it; but the result still
remained doubtful. Mine was a curious position for a man to
be in; for here was I, very much in love with Yoletta, who
said that her age was thirty-one, and yet who knew of only
one kind of love—that sisterly affection which she gave
me so unstintingly. Of course I was surrounded with
mysteries, being in the house but not of it, to the manner
born; and I had already arrived at the conclusion that these
mysteries could only be known to me through reading, once
that accomplishment was mine. For it seemed rather a
dangerous thing to ask questions, since the most innocent
interrogatory might be taken as an offense, only to be
expiated by solitary confinement and a bread-and-water diet;
or, if not punishable in that way, it would probably be
regarded as a result of the supposed collision of my head
with a stone. To be reticent, observant, and studious was a
safe plan; this had served to make me diligent and attentive
with my lessons, and my gentle teacher had been much pleased
with the progress I had made, even in a few days. Her words
on the hill had now, however, filled me with anxiety, and I
wanted to go a little below the surface of this strange
system of life. Why was this large family—twenty-two
members present, besides some absent pilgrims, as they are
called—composed only of adults? Again, more curious
still, why was the father of the house adorned with a
majestic beard, while the other men, of various ages, had
smooth faces, or, at any rate, nothing more than a slight
down on the upper lip and cheeks? It was plain that they
never shaved. And were these people all really brothers and
sisters? So far, I had been unable, even with the most
jealous watching, to detect anything like love-making or
flirting; they all treated each other, as Yoletta treated me,
with kindness and affection, and nothing more. And if the
head of the house was in fact the father of them
all—since in two centuries a man might have an
indefinite number of children—who was the mother or
mothers? I was never good at guessing, but the result of my
cogitations was one happy idea—to ask Yoletta whether
she had a living mother or not? She was my teacher, my friend
and guardian in the house, and if it should turn out that the
question was an unfortunate one, an offense, she would be
readier to forgive than another.

Accordingly, next day, as soon as we were alone together I
put the question to her, although not without a nervous
qualm.

She looked at me with the greatest surprise. “Do you mean to
say,” she answered, “that you do not know I have a
mother—that there is a mother of the house?”

“How should I know, Yoletta?” I returned. “I have not heard
you address any one as mother; besides, how is one to know
anything in a strange place unless he is told?”

“How strange, then, that you never asked till now! There is a
mother of the house—the mother of us all, of you since
you were made one of us; and it happens, too, that I am her
daughter—her only child. You have not seen her because
you have never asked to be taken to her; and she is not among
us because of her illness. For very long she has been
afflicted with a malady from which she cannot recover, and
for a whole year she has not left the Mother’s Room.”

She spoke with eyes cast down, in a low and very sad voice.
It was only too plain now that in my ignorance I had been
guilty of a grave breach of the etiquette or laws of the
house; and anxious to repair my fault, also to know more of
the one female in this mysterious community who had loved, or
at all events had known marriage, I asked if I might see her.

“Yes,” she answered, after some hesitation, still standing
with eyes cast down. Then suddenly, bursting into tears, she
exclaimed: “Oh, Smith, how could you be in the world and not
know that there is a mother in every house! How could you
travel and not know that when you enter a house, after
greeting the father, you first of all ask to be taken to the
mother to worship her and feel her hand on your head? Did you
not see that we were astonished and grieved at your silence
when you came, and we waited in vain for you to speak?”

I was dumb with shame at her words. How well I remembered
that first evening in the house, when I could not but see
that something was expected of me, yet never ventured to ask
for enlightment!

Presently, recovering from her tears, she went from the room,
and, left alone, I was more than ever filled with wonder at
what she had told me. I had not imagined that she had come
into the world without a mother; nevertheless, the fact that
this passionless girl, who had told me that there was only
one kind of love, was the daughter of a woman actually living
in the house, of whose existence I had never before heard,
except in an indirect way which I failed to understand,
seemed like a dream to me. Now I was about to see this hidden
woman, and the interview would reveal something to me, for I
would discover in her face and conversation whether she was
in the same mystic state of mind as the others, which made
them seem like the dwellers in some better place than this
poor old sinful, sorrowful world. My wishes, however, were
not to be gratified, for presently Yoletta returned and said
that her mother did not desire to see me then. She looked so
distressed when she told me this, putting her white arms
about my neck as if to console me for my disappointment, that
I refrained from pressing her with questions, and for several
days nothing more was spoken between us on the subject.

At length, one day when our lesson was over, with an
expression of mingled pleasure and anxiety on her face, she
rose and took my hand, saying, “Come.”

I knew she was going to take me to her mother, and rose to
obey her gladly, for since the conversation I had had with
her the desire to know the lady of the house had given me no
peace.

Leaving the music room, we entered another apartment, of the
same nave-like form, but vaster, or, at all events,
considerably longer. There I started and stood still, amazed
at the scene before me. The light, which found entrance
through tall, narrow windows, was dim, but sufficient to show
the whole room with everything in it, ending at the further
extremity at a flight of broad stone steps. The middle part
of the floor, running the entire length of the apartment, was
about twenty feet wide, but on either side of this passage,
which was covered with mosaic, the floor was raised; and on
this higher level I saw, as I imagined, a great company of
men and women, singly and in groups, standing or seated on
great stone chairs in various positions and attitudes.
Presently I perceived that these were not living beings, but
life-like effigies of stone, the drapery they were
represented as wearing being of many different richly-colored
stones, having the appearance of real garments. So natural
did the hair look, that only when I ascended the steps and
touched the head of one of the statues was I convinced that
it was also of stone. Even more wonderful in their
resemblance to life were the eyes, which seemed to return my
half-fearful glances with a calm, questioning scrutiny I
found it hard to endure. I hurried on after my guide without
speaking, but when I got to the middle of the room I paused
involuntarily once more, so profoundly did one of the statues
impress me. It was of a woman of a majestic figure and proud,
beautiful face, with an abundance of silvery-white hair. She
sat bending forward with her eyes fixed on mine as I
advanced, one hand pressed to her bosom, while with the other
she seemed in the act of throwing back her white unbound
tresses from her forehead. There was, I thought, a look of
calm, unbending pride on the face, but on coming closer this
expression disappeared, giving place to one so wistful and
pleading, so charged with subtle pain, that I stood gazing
like one fascinated, until Yoletta took my hand and gently
drew me away. Still, in spite of the absorbing nature of the
matter on which I was bound, that strange face continued to
haunt me, and glancing up and down through that long array of
calm-browed, beautiful women, I could see no one that was
like it.

Arrived at the end of the gallery, we ascended the broad
stone steps, and came to a landing twenty or thirty feet
above the level of the floor we had traversed. Here Yoletta
pushed a glass door aside and ushered me into another
apartment—the Mother’s Room. It was spacious, and,
unlike the gallery, well-lighted; the air in it was also warm
and balmy, and seemed charged with a subtle aroma. But now my
whole attention was concentrated on a group of persons before
me, and chiefly on its central figure—the woman I had
so much desired to see. She was seated, leaning back in a
somewhat listless attitude, on a very large, low, couch-like
seat, covered with a soft, violet-colored material. My very
first glance at her face revealed to me that she differed in
appearance and expression from other inmates of the house:
one reason was that she was extremely pale, and bore on her
worn countenance the impress of long-continued suffering; but
that was not all. She wore her hair, which fell unbound on
her shoulders, longer than the others, and her eyes looked
larger, and of a deeper green. There was something
wonderfully fascinating to me in that pale, suffering face,
for, in spite of suffering, it was beautiful and loving; but
dearer than all these things to my mind were the marks of
passion it exhibited, the petulant, almost scornful mouth,
and the half-eager, half-weary expression of the eyes, for
these seemed rather to belong to that imperfect world from
which I had been severed, and which was still dear to my
unregenerate heart. In other respects also she differed from
the rest of the women, her dress being a long, pale-blue
robe, embroidered with saffron-colored flowers and foliage
down the middle, and also on the neck and the wide sleeves.
On the couch at her side sat the father of the house, holding
her hand and talking in low tones to her; two of the young
women sat at her feet on cushions, engaged on embroidery
work, while another stood behind her; one of the young men
was also there, and was just now showing her a sketch, and
apparently explaining something in it.

I had expected to find a sick, feeble lady, in a
dimly-lighted chamber, with perhaps one attendant at her
side; now, coming so unexpectedly before this proud-looking,
beautiful woman, with so many about her, I was completely
abashed, and, feeling too confused to say anything, stood
silent and awkward in her presence.

“This is our stranger, Chastel,” said the old man to her, at
the same time bestowing an encouraging look on me.

She turned from the sketch she had been studying, and raising
herself slightly from her half-recumbent attitude, fixed her
dark eyes on me with some interest.

“I do not see why you were so much impressed,” she remarked
after a while. “There is nothing very strange in him after
all.”

I felt my face grow hot with shame and anger, for she seemed
to look on me and speak of me—not to me—as if I
had been some strange, semi-human creature, discovered in the
woods, and brought in as a great curiosity.

“No; it was not his countenance, only his curious garments
and his words that astonished us,” said the father in reply.

She made no answer to this, but presently, addressing me
directly, said: “You were a long time in the house before you
expressed a wish to see me.”

I found my speech then—a wretched, hesitating speech,
for which I hated myself—and replied, that I had asked
to be allowed to see her as soon as I had been informed of
her existence.

She turned on the father a look of surprise and inquiry.

“You must remember, Chastel,” said he, “that he comes to us
from some strange, distant island, having customs different
from ours—a thing I had never heard of before. I can
give you no other explanation.”

Her lip curled, and then, turning to me, she continued: “If
there are houses in your island without mothers in them, it
is not so elsewhere in the world. That you went out to travel
so poorly provided with knowledge is a marvel to us; and as I
have had the pain of telling you this, I must regret that you
ever left your own home.”

I could make no reply to these words, which fell on me like
whip-strokes; and looking at the other faces, I could see no
sympathy in them for me; as they looked at her—their
mother—and listened to her words, the expression they
wore was love and devotion to her only, reminding me a little
of the angel faces on Guide’s canvas of the “Coronation of
the Virgin.”

“Go now,” she presently added in a petulant tone; “I am
tired, and wish to rest”; and Yoletta, who had been standing
silently by me all the time, took my hand and led me from the
room.

With eyes cast down I passed through the gallery, paying no
attention to its strange, stony occupants; and leaving my
gentle conductress without a word at the door of the
music-room, I hurried away from the house. For I could feel
love and compassion in the touch of the dear girl’s hand, and
it seemed to me that if she had spoken one word, my
overcharged heart would have found vent in tears. I only
wished to be alone, to brood in secret on my pain and the
bitterness of defeat; for it was plain that the woman I had
so wished to see, and, since seeing her, so wished to be
allowed to love, felt towards me nothing but contempt and
aversion, and that from no fault of my own, she, whose
friendship I most needed, was become my enemy in the house.

My steps took me to the river. Following its banks for about
a mile, I came at last to a grove of stately old trees, and
there I seated myself on a large twisted root projecting over
the water. To this sequestered spot I had come to indulge my
resentful feelings; for here I could speak out my bitterness
aloud, if I felt so minded, where there were no witnesses to
hear me. I had restrained those unmanly tears, so nearly shed
in Yoletta’s presence, and kept back by dark thoughts on the
way; now I was sitting quietly by myself, safe from
observation, safe even from that sympathy my bruised spirit
could not suffer.

Scarcely had I seated myself before a great brown animal,
with black eyes, round and fierce, rose to the surface of the
stream half a dozen yards from my feet; then quickly catching
sight of me, it plunged noisily again under water, breaking
the clear image reflected there with a hundred ripples. I
waited for the last wavelet to fade away, but when the
surface was once more still and smooth as dark glass, I began
to be affected by the profounded silence and melancholy of
nature, and by a something proceeding from
nature—phantom, emanation, essence, I know not what. My
soul, not my sense, perceived it, standing with finger on
lips, there, close to me; its feet resting on the motionless
water, which gave no reflection of its image, the clear amber
sunlight passing undimmed through its substance. To my soul
its spoken “Hush!” was audible, and again, and yet again, it
said “Hush!” until the tumult in me was still, and I could
not think my own thoughts. I could thereafter only listen,
breathless, straining my senses to catch some natural sound,
however faint. Far away in the dim distance, in some blue
pasture, a cow was lowing, and the recurring sound passed me
like the humming flight of an insect, then fainter still,
like an imagined sound, until it ceased. A withered leaf fell
from the tree-top; I heard it fluttering downwards, touching
other leaves in its fall until the silent grass received it.
Then, as I listened for another leaf, suddenly from overhead
came the brief gushing melody of some late singer, a
robin-like sound, ringing out clear and distinct as a
flourish on a clarionet: brilliant, joyous, and unexpected,
yet in keeping with that melancholy quiet, affecting the mind
like a spray of gold and scarlet embroidery on a pale,
neutral ground. The sun went down, and in setting, kindled
the boles of the old trees here and there into pillars of red
fire, while others in deeper shade looked by contrast like
pillars of ebony; and wherever the foliage was thinnest, the
level rays shining through imparted to the sere leaves a
translucence and splendor that was like the stained glass in
the windows of some darkening cathedral. All along the river
a white mist began to rise, a slight wind sprang up and the
vapor drifted, drowning the reeds and bushes, and wreathing
its ghostly arms about the old trees: and watching the mist,
and listening to the “hallowed airs and symphonies” whispered
by the low wind, I felt that there was no longer any anger in
my heart. Nature, and something in and yet more than nature,
had imparted her “soft influences” and healed her “wandering
and distempered child” until he could no more be a “jarring
and discordant thing” in her sweet and sacred presence.

When I looked up a change had come over the scene: the round,
full moon had risen, silvering the mist, and filling the
wide, dim earth with a new mysterious glory. I rose from my
seat and returned to the house, and with that new insight and
comprehension which had come to me—that message,
as I could not but regard it—I now felt nothing but
love and sympathy for the suffering woman who had wounded me
with her unmerited displeasure, and my only desire was to
show my devotion to her.

Chapter 13

As I approached the building, soft strains floating far out
into the night-air became audible, and I knew that the sweet
spirit of music, to which they were all so devoted, was
present with them. After listening for awhile in the shadow
of the portico I went in, and, anxious to avoid disturbing
the singers, stole away into a dusky corner, where I sat down
by myself. Yoletta had, however, seen me enter, for presently
she came to me.

“Why did you not come in to supper, Smith?” she said. “And
why do you look so sad?”

“Do you need to ask, Yoletta? Ah, it would have made me so
happy if I could have won your mother’s affection! If she
only knew how much I wish for it, and how much I sympathize
with her! But she will never like me, and all I wished to say
to her must be left unsaid.”

“No, not so,” she said. “Come with me to her now: if you feel
like that, she will be kind to you—how should it be
otherwise?”

I greatly feared that she advised me to take an imprudent
step; but she was my guide, my teacher and friend in the
house, and I resolved to do as she wished. There were no
lights in the long gallery when we entered it again, only the
white moonbeams coming through the tall windows here and
there lit up a column or a group of statues, which threw
long, black shadows on floor and Wall, giving the chamber a
weird appearance. Once more, when I reached the middle of the
room, I paused, for there before me, ever bending forward,
sat that wonderful woman of stone, the moonlight streaming
full on her pale, wistful face and silvery hair.

“Tell me, Yoletta, who is this?” I whispered. “Is it a statue
of some one who lived in this house?”

“Yes; you can read about her in the history of the house, and
in this inscription on the stone. She was a mother, and her
name was Isarte.”

“But why has she that strange, haunting expression on her
face? Was she unhappy?”

“Oh, can you not see that she was unhappy! She endured many
sorrows, and the crowning calamity of her life was the loss
of seven loved sons. They were away in the mountains
together, and did not return when expected: for many years
she waited for tidings of them. It was conjectured that a
great rock had fallen on and crushed them beneath it. Grief
for her lost children made her hair white, and gave that
expression to her face.”

“And when did this happen?”

“Over two thousand years ago.”

“Oh, then it is a very old family tradition. But the
statue—when was that made and placed here?”

“She had it made and placed here herself. It was her wish
that the grief she endured should be remembered in the house
for all time, for no one had ever suffered like her; and the
inscription, which she caused to be put on the stone, says
that if there shall ever come to a mother in the house a
sorrow exceeding hers, the statue shall be removed from its
place and destroyed, and the fragments buried in the earth
with all forgotten things, and the name of Isarte forgotten
in the house.”

It oppressed my mind to think of so long a period of time
during which that unutterably sad face had gazed down on so
many generations of the living. “It is most strange!” I
murmured. “But do you think it right, Yoletta, that the grief
of one person should be perpetuated like that in the house;
for who can look on this face without pain, even when it is
remembered that the sorrow it expresses ended so many
centuries ago?”

“But she was a mother, Smith, do you not understand? It would
not be right for us to wish to have our griefs remembered for
ever, to cause sorrow to those who succeed us; but a mother
is different: her wishes are sacred, and what she wills is
right.”

Her words surprised me not a little, for I had heard of
infallible men, but never of women; moreover, the woman I was
now going to see was also a “mother in the house,” a
successor to this very Isarte. Fearing that I had touched on
a dangerous topic, I said no more, and proceeding on our way,
we soon reached the mother’s room, the large glass door of
which now stood wide open. In the pale light of the
moon—for there was no other in the room—we found
Chastel on the couch where I had seen her before, but she was
lying extended at full length now, and had only one attendant
with her.

Yoletta approached her, and, stooping, touched her lips to
the pale, still face. “Mother,” she said, “I have brought
Smith again; he is anxious to say something to you, if you
will hear him.”

“Yes, I will hear him,” she replied. “Let him sit near me;
and now go back, for your voice is needed. And you may also
leave me now,” she added, addressing the other lady.

The two then departed together, and I proceeded to seat
myself on a cushion beside the couch.

“What is it you wish to say to me?” she asked. The words were
not very encouraging, but her voice sounded gentler now, and
I at once began. “Hush,” she said, before I had spoken two
words. “Wait until this ends—I am listening to
Yoletta’s voice.”

Through the long, dusky gallery and the open doors soft
strains of music were floating to us, and now, mingling with
the others, a clearer, bell-like voice was heard, which
soared to greater heights; but soon this ceased to be
distinguishable, and then she sighed and addressed me again.
“Where have you been all the evening, for you were not at
supper?”

“Did you know that?” I asked in surprise.

“Yes, I know everything that passes in the house. Reading and
work of all kinds are a pain and weariness. The only thing
left to me is to listen to what others do or say, and to know
all their comings and goings. My life is nothing now but a
shadow of other people’s lives.”

“Then,” I said, “I must tell you how I spent the time after
seeing you to-day; for I was alone, and no other person can
say what I did. I went away along the river until I came to
the grove of great trees on the bank, and there I sat until
the moon rose, with my heart full of unspeakable pain and
bitterness.”

“What made you have those feelings?”

“When I heard of you, and saw you, my heart was drawn to you,
and I wished above all things in the world to be allowed to
love and serve you, and to have a share in your affection;
but your looks and words expressed only contempt and dislike
towards me. Would it not have been strange if I had not felt
extremely unhappy?”

“Oh,” she replied, “now I can understand the reason of the
surprise your words have often caused in the house! Your very
feelings seem unlike ours. No other person would have
experienced the feelings you speak of for such a cause. It is
right to repent your faults, and to bear the burden of them
quietly; but it is a sign of an undisciplined spirit to feel
bitterness, and to wish to cast the blame of your suffering
on another. You forget that I had reason to be deeply
offended with you. You also forget my continual suffering,
which sometimes makes me seem harsh and unkind against my
will.”

“Your words seem only sweet and gracious now,” I returned.
“They have lifted a great weight from my heart, and I wish I
could repay you for them by taking some portion of your
suffering on myself.”

“It is right that you should have that feeling, but idle to
express it,” she answered gravely. “If such wishes could be
fulfilled my sufferings would have long ceased, since any one
of my children would gladly lay down his life to procure me
ease.”

To this speech, which sounded like another rebuke, I made no
reply.

“Oh, this is bitterness indeed—a bitterness you cannot
know,” she resumed after a while. “For you and for others
there is always the refuge of death from continued
sufferings: the brief pang of dissolution, bravely met, is
nothing in comparison with a lingering agony like mine, with
its long days and longer nights, extending to years, and that
great blackness of the end ever before the mind. This only a
mother can know, since the horror of utter darkness, and vain
clinging to life, even when it has ceased to have any hope or
joy in it, is the penalty she must pay for her higher state.”

I could not understand all her words, and only murmured in
reply: “You are young to speak of death.”

“Yes, young; that is why it is so bitter to think of. In old
age the feelings are not so keen.” Then suddenly she put out
her hands towards me, and, when I offered mine, caught my
fingers with a nervous grasp and drew herself to a sitting
position. “Ah, why must I be afflicted with a misery others
have not known!” she exclaimed excitedly. “To be lifted above
the others, when so young; to have one child only; then after
so brief a period of happiness, to be smitten with
barrenness, and this lingering malady ever gnawing like a
canker at the roots of life! Who has suffered like me in the
house? You only, Isarte, among the dead. I will go to you,
for my grief is more than I can bear; and it may be that I
shall find comfort even in speaking to the dead, and to a
stone. Can you bear me in your arms?” she said, clasping me
round the neck. “Take me up in your arms and carry me to
Isarte.”

I knew what she meant, having so recently heard the story of
Isarte, and in obedience to her command I raised her from the
couch. She was tall, and heavier than I had expected, though
so greatly emaciated; but the thought that she was Yoletta’s
mother, and the mother of the house, nerved me to my task,
and cautiously moving step by step through the gloom, I
carried her safely to that white-haired, moonlit woman of
stone in the long gallery. When I had ascended the steps and
brought her sufficiently near, she put her arms about the
statue, and pressed its stony lips with hers.

“Isarte, Isarte, how cold your lips are!” she murmured, in
low, desponding tones. “Now, when I look into these eyes,
which are yours, and yet not yours, and kiss these stony
lips, how sorely does the hunger in my heart tempt me to sin!
But suffering has not darkened my reason; I know it is an
offense to ask anything of Him who gives us life and all good
things freely, and has no pleasure in seeing us miserable.
This thought restrains me; else I would cry to Him to turn
this stone to flesh, and for one brief hour to bring back to
it the vanished spirit of Isarte. For there is no one living
that can understand my pain; but you would understand it, and
put my tired head against your breast, and cover me with your
grief-whitened hair as with a mantle. For your pain was like
mine, and exceeded mine, and no soul could measure it,
therefore in the hunger of your heart you looked far off into
the future, where some one would perhaps have a like
affliction, and suffer without hope, as you suffered, and
measure your pain, and love your memory, and feel united with
you, even over the gulf of long centuries of time. You would
speak to me of it all, and tell me that the greatest grief
was to go away into darkness, leaving no one with your blood
and your spirit to inherit the house. This also is my grief,
Isarte, for I am barren and eaten up by death, and must soon
go away to be where you are. When I am gone, the father of
the house will take no other one to his bosom, for he is old,
and his life is nearly complete; and in a little while he
will follow me, but with no pain and anguish like mine to
cloud his serene spirit. And who will then inherit our place?
Ah, my sister, how bitter to think of it! for then a stranger
will be the mother of the house, and my one only child will
sit at her feet, calling her mother, serving her with her
hands, and loving and worshiping her with her heart!”

The excitement had now burned itself out: she had dropped her
head wearily on my shoulder, and bade me take her back. When
I had safely deposited her on the couch again, she remained
for some minutes with her face covered, silently weeping.

The scene in the gallery had deeply affected me; now,
however, while I sat by her, pondering over it, my mind
reverted to that vanished world of sorrow and different
social conditions in which I had lived, and where the lot of
so many poor suffering souls seemed to me so much more
desolate than that of this unhappy lady, who had, I imagined,
much to console her. It even seemed to me that the grief I
had witnessed was somewhat morbid and overstrained; and,
thinking that it would perhaps divert her mind from brooding
too much over her own troubles, I ventured, when she had
grown calm again, to tell her some of my memories. I asked
her to imagine a state of the world and the human family, in
which all women were, in one sense, on an equality—all
possessing the same capacity for suffering; and where all
were, or would be, wives and mothers, and without any such
mysterious remedy against lingering pain as she had spoken
of. But I had not proceeded far with my picture before she
interrupted me.

“Do not say more,” she said, with an accent of displeasure.
“This, I suppose, is another of those grotesque fancies you
sometimes give expression to, about which I heard a great
deal when you first came to us. That all people should be
equal, and all women wives and mothers seems to me a very
disordered and a very repulsive idea The one consolation in
my pain, the one glory of my life could not exist in such a
state as that, and my condition would be pitiable indeed. All
others would be equally miserable. The human race would
multiply, until the fruits of the soil would be insufficient
for its support; and earth would be filled with degenerate
beings, starved in body and debased in mind—all
clinging to an existence utterly without joy. Life is dark to
me, but not to others: these are matters beyond you, and it
is presumptuous in one of your condition to attempt to
comfort me with idle fancies.”

After some moments of silence, she resumed: “The father has
said to-day that you came to us from an island where even the
customs of the people are different from ours; and perhaps
one of their unhappy methods is to seek to medicine a real
misery by imagining some impossible and immeasurably greater
one. In no other way can I account for your strange words to
me; for I cannot believe that any race exists so debased as
actually to practice the things you speak of. Remember that I
do not ask or desire to be informed. We have a different way;
for although it is conceivable that present misery might be
mitigated, or forgotten for a season, by giving up the soul
to delusions, even by summoning before the mind repulsive and
horrible images, that would be to put to an unlawful use, and
to pervert, the brightest faculties our Father has given us:
therefore we seek no other support in all sufferings and
calamities but that of reason only. If you wish for my
affection, you will not speak of such things again, but will
endeavor to purify yourself from a mental vice, which may
sometimes, in periods of suffering, give you a false comfort
for a brief season, only to degrade you, and sink you later
in a deeper misery. You must now leave me.”

This unexpected and sharp rebuke did not anger me, but it
made me very sad; for I now perceived plainly enough that no
great advantage would come to me from Chastel’s acquaintance,
since it was necessary to be so very circumspect with her.
Deeply troubled, and in a somewhat confused state of mind, I
rose to depart. Then she placed her thin, feverish white hand
on mine. “You need not go away again,” she said, “to indulge
in bitter feelings by yourself because I have said this to
you. You may come with the others to see me and talk to me
whenever I am able to sit here and bear it. I shall not
remember your offense, but shall be glad to know that there
is another soul in the house to love and honor me.”

With such comfort as these words afforded I returned to the
music-room, and, finding it empty, went out to the terrace,
where the others were now strolling about in knots and
couples, conversing and enjoying the lovely moonlight.
Wandering a little distance away by myself, I sat down on a
bench under a tree, and presently Yoletta came to me there,
and closely scrutinized my face.

“Have you nothing to tell me?” she asked. “Are you happier
now?”

“Yes, dearest, for I have been spoke to very kindly; and I
should have been happier if only—” But I checked myself
in time, and said no more to her about my conversation with
the mother. To myself I said: “Oh, that island, that island!
Why can’t I forget its miserable customs, or, at any rate,
stick to my own resolution to hold my tongue about them?”

Chapter 14

From that day I was frequently allowed to enter the Mother’s
Room, but, as I had feared, these visits failed to bring me
into any closer relationship with the lady of the house. She
had indeed forgotten my offense: I was one of her children,
sharing equally with the others in her impartial affection,
and privileged to sit at her feet to relate to her the
incidents of the day, or describe all I had seen, and
sometimes to touch her thin white hand with my lips. But the
distance separating us was not forgotten. At the two first
interviews she had taught me, once for all, that it was for
me to love, honor, and serve her, and that anything beyond
that—any attempt to win her confidence, to enter into
her thoughts, or make her understand my feelings and
aspirations—was regarded as pure presumption on my
part. The result was that I was less happy than I had been
before knowing her: my naturally buoyant and hopeful temper
became tinged with melancholy, and that vision of exquisite
bliss in the future, which had floated before me, luring me
on, now began to look pale, and to seem further and further
away.

After my walk with Yoletta—if it can be called a
walk—I began to look out for the rainbow lilies, and
soon discovered that everywhere under the grass they were
beginning to sprout from the soil. At first I found them in
the moist valley of the river, but very soon they were
equally abundant on the higher lands, and even on barren,
stony places, where they appeared latest. I felt very curious
about these flowers, of which Yoletta had spoken so
enthusiastically, and watched the slow growth of the long,
slender buds from day to day with considerable impatience. At
length, in a moist hollow of the forest, I was delighted to
find the full-blown flower. In shape it resembled a tulip,
but was more open, and the color a most vivid orange yellow;
it had a slight delicate perfume, and was very pretty, with a
peculiar waxy gloss on the thick petals, still, I was rather
disappointed, since the name of “rainbow lily,” and Yoletta’s
words, had led me to expect a many-colored flower of
surpassing beauty.

I plucked the lily carefully, and was taking it home to
present it to her, when all at once I remembered that only on
one occasion had I seen flowers in her hand, and in the hands
of the others, and that was when they were burying their
dead. They never wore a flower, nor had I ever seen one in
the house, not even in that room where Chastel was kept a
prisoner by her malady, and where her greatest delight was to
have nature in all its beauty and fragrance brought to her in
the conversation of her children. The only flowers in the
house were in their illuminations, and those wrought in metal
and carved in wood, and the immortal, stony flowers of many
brilliant hues in their mosaics. I began to fear that there
was some superstition which made it seem wrong to them to
gather flowers, except for funeral ceremonies, and afraid of
offending from want of thought, I dropped the lily on the
ground, and said nothing about it to any one.

Then, before any more open lilies were found, an unexpected
sorrow came to me. After changing my dress on returning from
the fields one afternoon, I was taken to the hall of
judgment, and at once jumped to the conclusion that I had
again unwittingly fallen into disgrace; but on arriving at
that uncomfortable apartment I perceived that this was not
the case. Looking round at the assembled company I missed
Yoletta, and my heart sank in me, and I even wished that my
first impression had proved correct. On the great stone
table, before which the father was seated, lay an open folio,
the leaf displayed being only illuminated at the top and
inner margin; the colored part at the top I noticed was torn,
the rent extending down to about the middle of the page.

Presently the dear girl appeared, with tearful eyes and
flushed face, and advancing hurriedly to the father, she
stood before him with downcast eyes.

“My daughter, tell me how and why you did this?” he demanded,
pointing to the open volume.

“Oh, father, look at this,” she returned, half-sobbing, and
touching the lower end of the colored margin with her finger.
“Do you see how badly it is colored? And I had spent three
days in altering and retouching it, and still it displeased
me. Then, in sudden anger, I pushed the book from me, and
seeing it slipping from the stand I caught the leaf to
prevent it from falling, and it was torn by the weight of the
book. Oh, dear father, will you forgive me?”

“Forgive you, my daughter? Do you not know how it grieves my
heart to punish you; but how can this offense to the house be
forgiven, which must stand in evidence against us from
generation to generation? For we cease to be, but the house
remains; and the writing we leave on it, whether it be good
or evil, that too remains for ever. An unkind word is an evil
thing, an unkind deed a worse, but when these are repented
they may be forgiven and forgotten. But an injury done to the
house cannot be forgotten, for it is the flaw in the stone
that keeps its place, the crude, inharmonious color which
cannot be washed out with water. Consider, my daughter, in
the long life of the house, how many unborn men will turn the
leaves of this book, and coming to this leaf will be offended
at so grievous a disfigurement! If we of this generation were
destined to live for ever, then it might be written on this
page for a punishment and warning:” Yoletta tore it in her
anger. “But we must pass away and be nothing to succeeding
generations, and it would not be right that Yoletta’s name
should be remembered for the wrong she did to the house, and
all she did for its good forgotten.”

A painful silence ensued, then, lifting her tear-stained
face, she said: “Oh father, what must my punishment be?”

“Dear child, it will be a light one, for we consider your
youth and impulsive nature, and also that the wrong you did
was partly the result of accident. For thirty days you must
live apart from us, subsisting on bread and water, and
holding intercourse with one person only, who will assist you
with your work and provide you with all things necessary.”

This seemed to me a harsh, even a cruel punishment for so
trivial an offense, or accident, rather; but she was not
perhaps of the same mind, for she kissed his hand, as if in
gratitude for his leniency.

“Tell me, child,” he said, putting his hand on her head, and
regarding her with misty eyes, “who shall attend you in your
seclusion?”

“Edra,” she murmured; and the other, coming forward, took her
by the hand and led her away.

I gazed eagerly after her as she retired, hungering for one
look from her dear eyes before that long separation; but they
were filled with tears and bent on the floor, and in a moment
she was gone from sight.

The succeeding days were to me dreary beyond description. For
the first time I became fully conscious of the strength of a
passion which had now become a consuming fire in my breast,
and could only end in utter misery—perhaps in
destruction—or else in a degree of happiness no mortal
had ever tasted before. I went about listlessly, like one on
whom some heavy calamity has fallen: all interest in my work
was lost; my food seemed tasteless; study and conversation
had become a weariness; even in those divine concerts, which
fitly brought each tranquil day to its close, there was no
charm now, since Yoletta’s voice, which love had taught my
dull ear to distinguish no longer had any part in it. I was
not allowed to enter the Mother’s Room of an evening now, and
the exclusion extended also to the others, Edra only
excepted; for at this hour, when it was customary for the
family to gather in the music-room, Yoletta was taken from
her lonely chamber to be with her mother. This was told me,
and I also elicited, by means of some roundabout questioning,
that it was always in the mother’s power to have any per-son
undergoing punishment taken to her, she being, as it were,
above the law. She could even pardon a delinquent and set him
free if she felt so minded, although in this case she had not
chosen to exercise her prerogative, probably because her
“sufferings had not clouded her understanding.” They were
treating her very hardly—father and mother both—I
thought in my bitterness.

The gradual opening of the rainbow lilies served only to
remind me every hour and every minute of that bright young
spirit thus harshly deprived of the pleasure she had so
eagerly anticipated. She, above them all, rejoiced in the
beauty of this visible world, regarding nature in some of its
moods and aspects with a feeling almost bordering on
adoration; but, alas! she alone was shut out from this glory
which God had spread over the earth for the delight of all
his children.

Now I knew why these autumnal flowers were called rainbow
lilies, and remembered how Yoletta had told me that they gave
a beauty to the earth which could not be described or
imagined. The flowers were all undoubtedly of one species,
having the same shape and perfume, although varying greatly
in size, according to the nature of the soil on which they
grew. But in different situations they varied in color, one
color blending with, or passing by degrees into another,
wherever the soil altered its character. Along the valleys,
where they first began to bloom, and in all moist situations,
the hue was yellow, varying, according to the amount of
moisture in different places, from pale primrose to deep
orange, this passing again into vivid scarlet and reds of
many shades. On the plains the reds prevailed, changing into
various purples on hills and mountain slopes; but high on the
mountains the color was blue; and this also had many
gradations, from the lower deep cornflower blue to a delicate
azure on the summits, resembling that of the forget-me-not
and hairbell.

The weather proved singularly favorable to those who spent
their time in admiring the lilies, and this now seemed to be
almost the only occupation of the inmates, excepting, of
course, sick Chastel, imprisoned Yoletta, and myself—I
being too forlorn to admire anything. Calm, bright days
without a cloud succeeded each other, as if the very elements
held the lilies sacred and ventured not to cast any shadow
over their mystic splendor. Each morning one of the men would
go out some distance from the house and blow on a horn, which
could be heard distinctly two miles away; and presently a
number of horses, in couples and troops, would come galloping
in, after which they would remain all the morning grazing and
gamboling about the house. These horses were now in constant
requisition, all the members of the family, male and female,
spending several hours every day in careering over the
surrounding country, seemingly without any particular object.
The contagion did not affect me, however, for, although I had
always been a bold rider (in my own country), and excessively
fond of horseback exercise, their fashion of riding without
bridles, and on diminutive straw saddles, seemed to me
neither safe nor pleasant.

One morning after breakfasting, I took my ax, and was
proceeding slowly, immersed in thought, to the forest, when
hearing a slight swishing sound of hoofs on the grass, I
turned and beheld the venerable father, mounted on his
charger, and rushing away towards the hills at an insanely
break-neck pace. His long garment was gathered tightly round
his spare form, his feet drawn up and his head bent far
forward, while the wind of his speed divided his beard, which
flew out in two long streamers behind. All at once he caught
sight of me, and, touching the animal’s neck, swept
gracefully round in narrowing circles, each circle bringing
him nearer, until he came to a stand at my side; then his
horse began rubbing his nose on my hand, its breath feeling
like fire on my skin.

“Smith,” said he, with a grave smile, “if you cannot be happy
unless you are laboring in the forest with your ax you must
proceed with your wood-cutting; but I confess it surprises me
as much to see you going to work on a day like this, as it
would to see you walking inverted on your hands, and dangling
your heels in the air.”

“Why?” said I, surprised at this speech.

“If you do not know I must tell you. At night we sleep; in
the morning we bathe; we eat when we are hungry, converse
when we feel inclined, and on most days labor a certain
number of hours. But more than these things, which have a
certain amount of pleasure in them, are the precious moments
when nature reveals herself to us in all her beauty. We give
ourselves wholly to her then, and she refreshes us; the
splendor fades, but the wealth it brings to the soul remains
to gladden us. That must be a dull spirit that cannot suspend
its toil when the sun is setting in glory, or the violet
rainbow appears on the cloud. Every day brings us special
moments to gladden us, just as we have in the house every day
our time of melody and recreation. But this supreme and more
enduring glory of nature comes only once every year; and
while it lasts, all labor, except that which is pressing and
necessary, is unseemly, and an offense to the Father of the
world.” He paused, but I did not know what to say in reply,
and presently he resumed: “My son, there are horses waiting
for you, and unless you are more unlike us in mind than I
ever imagined, you will now take one and ride to the hills,
where, owing to the absence of forests, the earth can now be
seen at its best.”

I was about to thank him and turn back, but the thought of
Yoletta, to whom each heavy day now seemed a year, oppressed
by heart, and I continued standing motionless, with downcast
eyes, wishing, yet fearing, to speak.

“Why is your mind troubled, my son?” he said kindly.

“Father,” I answered, that word which I now ventured to use
for the first time trembling from my lips, “the beauty of the
earth is very much to me, but I cannot help remembering that
to Yoletta it is even more, and the thought takes away all my
pleasure. The flowers will fade, and she will not see them.”

“My son, I am glad to hear these words,” he answered,
somewhat to my surprise, for I had greatly feared that I had
adopted too bold a course. “For I see now,” he continued,
“that this seeming indifference, which gave me some pain,
does not proceed from an incapacity on your part to feel as
we do, but from a tender love and compassion—that most
precious of all our emotions, which will serve to draw you
closer to us. I have also thought much of Yoletta during
these beautiful days, grieving for her, and this morning I
have allowed her to go out into the hills, so that during
this day, at least, she will be able to share in our
pleasure.”

Scarcely waiting for another word to be spoken, I flew back
to the house, anxious enough for a ride now. The little straw
saddle seemed now as comfortable as a couch, nor was the
bridle missed; for, nerved with that intense desire to find
and speak to my love, I could have ridden securely on the
slippery back of a giraffe, charging over rough ground with a
pack of lions at its heels. Away I went at a speed never
perhaps attained by any winner of the Derby, which made the
shining hairs of my horse’s mane whistle in the still air;
down valleys, up hills, flying like a bird over roaring
burns, rocks, and thorny bushes, never pausing until I was
far away among those hills where that strange accident had
befallen me, and from which I had recovered to find the earth
so changed. I then ascended a great green hill, the top of
which must have been over a thousand feet above the
surrounding country. When I had at length reached this
elevation, which I did walking and climbing, my steed
docilely scrambling up after me, the richness and novelty of
the unimaginable and indescribable scene which opened before
me affected me in a strange way, smiting my heart with a pain
intense and unfamiliar. For the first time I experienced
within myself that miraculous power the mind possesses of
reproducing instantaneously, and without perspective, the
events, feelings, and thoughts of long years—an
experience which sometimes comes to a person suddenly
confronted with death, and in other moments of supreme
agitation. A thousand memories and a thousand thoughts were
stirring in me: I was conscious now, as I had not been
before, of the past and the present, and these two existed in
my mind, yet separated by a great gulf of time—a blank
and a nothingness which yet oppressed me with its horrible
vastness. How aimless and solitary, how awful my position
seemed! It was like that of one beneath whose feet the world
suddenly crumbles into ashes and dust, and is scattered
throughout the illimitable void, while he survives, blown to
some far planet whose strange aspect, however beautiful,
fills him with an undefinable terror. And I knew, and the
knowledge only intensified my pain, that my agitation, the
strugglings of my soul to recover that lost life, were like
the vain wing-beats of some woodland bird, blown away a
thousand miles over the sea, into which it must at last sink
down and perish.

Such a mental state cannot endure for more than a few
moments, and passing away, it left me weary and despondent.
With dull, joyless eyes I continued gazing for upwards of an
hour on the prospect beneath me; for I had now given up all
hopes of seeing Yoletta, not yet having encountered a single
person since starting for my ride. All about me the summit
was dotted with small lilies of a delicate blue, but at a
little distance the sober green of the grass became absorbed,
as it were, in the brighter flower-tints, and the neighboring
summits all appeared of a pure cerulean hue. Lower down this
passed into the purples of the slopes and the reds of the
plains, while the valleys, fringed with scarlet, were like
rivers of crocus-colored fire. Distance, and the light,
autumnal haze, had a subduing and harmonizing effect on the
sea of brilliant color, and further away on the immense
horizon it all faded into the soft universal blue. Over this
flowery paradise my eyes wandered restlessly, for my heart
was restless in me, and had lost the power of pleasure. With
a slight bitterness I recalled some of the words the father
had spoken to me that morning. It was all very well, I
thought, for this venerable graybeard to talk about
refreshing the soul with the sight of all this beauty; but he
seemed to lose sight of the important fact that there was a
considerable difference in our respective ages, that the
raging hunger of the heart, which he had doubtless
experienced at one time of his life, was, like bodily hunger,
not to be appeased with splendid sunsets, rainbows and
rainbow lilies, however beautiful they might seem to the eye.

Presently, on a second and lower summit of the long mountain
I had ascended, I caught sight of a person on horseback,
standing motionless as a figure of stone. At that distance
the horse looked no bigger than a greyhound, yet so
marvelously transparent was the mountain air, that I
distinctly recognized Yoletta in the rider. I started up, and
sprang joyfully onto my own horse, and waving my hand to
attract her attention, galloped recklessly down the slope;
but when I reached the opposing summit she was no longer
there, nor anywhere in sight, and it was as if the earth had
opened and swallowed her.

Chapter 15

During Yoletta’s seclusion, my education was not allowed to
suffer, her place as instructress having been taken by Edra.
I was pleased with this arrangement, thinking to derive some
benefit from it, beyond what she might teach me; but very
soon I was forced to abandon all hope of communicating with
the imprisoned girl through her friend and jailer. Edra was
much disturbed at the suggestion; for I did venture to
suggest it, though in a tentative, roundabout form, not
feeling sure of my ground: previous mistakes had made me
cautious. Her manner was a sufficient warning; and I did not
broach the subject a second time. One afternoon, however, I
met with a great and unexpected consolation, though even this
was mixed with some perplexing matters.

One day, after looking long and earnestly into my face, said
my gentle teacher to me; “Do you know that you are changed?
All your gay spirits have left you, and you are pale and thin
and sad. Why is this?”

My face crimsoned at this very direct question, for I knew of
that change in me, and went about in continual fear that
others would presently notice it, and draw their own
conclusions. She continued looking at me, until for very
shame I turned my face aside; for if I had confessed that
separation from Yoletta caused my dejection, she would know
what that feeling meant, and I feared that any such premature
declaration would be the ruin of my prospects.

“I know the reason, though I ask you,” she continued, placing
a hand on my shoulder. “You are grieving for Yoletta—I
saw it from the first. I shall tell her how pale and sad you
have grown—how different from what you were. But why do
you turn your face from me?”

I was perplexed, but her sympathy gave me courage, and made
me determined to give her my confidence. “If you know,” said
I, “that I am grieving for Yoletta, can you not also guess
why I hesitate and hide my face from you?”

“No; why is it? You love me also, though not with so great a
love; but we do love each other, Smith, and you can
confide in me?”

I looked into her face now, straight into her transparent
eyes, and it was plain to see that she had not yet guessed my
meaning.

“Dearest Edra,” I said, taking her hand, “I love you as much
as if one mother had given us birth. But I love Yoletta with
a different love—not as one loves a sister. She is more
to me than any one else in the world; so much is she that
life without her would be a burden. Do you not know what that
means?” And then, remembering Yoletta’s words on the hills, I
added: “Do you not know of more than one kind of love?”

“No,” she answered, still gazing inquiringly into my face.
“But I know that your love for her so greatly exceeds all
others, that it is like a different feeling. I shall tell
her, since it is sweet to be loved, and she will be glad to
know it.”

“And after you have told her, Edra, shall you make known her
reply to me?”

“No, Smith; it is an offense to suggest, or even to think,
such a thing, however much you may love her, for she is not
allowed to converse with any one directly or through me. She
told me that she saw you on the hills, and that you tried to
go to her, and it distressed her very much. But she will
forgive you when I have told her how great your love is, that
the desire to look on her face made you forget how wrong it
was to approach her.”

How strange and incomprehensible it seemed that Edra had so
misinterpreted my feeling! It seemed also to me that they
all, from the father of the house downwards, were very blind
indeed to set down so strong an emotion to mere brotherly
affection. I had wished, yet feared, to remove the scales
from their eyes; and now, in an unguarded moment, I had made
the attempt, and my gentle confessor had failed to understand
me. Nevertheless, I extracted some comfort from this
conversation; for Yoletta would know how greatly my love
exceeded that of her own kindred, and I hoped against hope
that a responsive emotion would at last awaken in her breast.

When the last of those leaden-footed thirty days
arrived—the day on which, according to my computation,
Yoletta would recover liberty before the sun set—I rose
early from the straw pallet where I had tossed all night,
prevented from sleeping by the prospect of reunion, and the
fever of impatience I was in. The cold river revived me, and
when we were assembled in the breakfast-room I observed Edra
watching me, with a curious, questioning smile on her lips. I
asked her the reason.

“You are like a person suddenly recovered from sickness,” she
replied. “Your eyes sparkle like sunshine on the water, and
your cheeks that were so pallid yesterday burn redder than an
autumn leaf.” Then, smiling, she added these precious words:
“Yoletta will be glad to return to us, more on your account
than her own.”

After we had broken our fast, I determined to go to the
forest and spend the day there. For many days past I had
shirked woodcutting; but now it seemed impossible for me to
settle down to any quiet, sedentary kind of work, the
consuming impatience and boundless energy I felt making me
wish for some unusually violent task, such as would exhaust
the body and give, perhaps, a rest to the mind. Taking my ax,
and the usual small basket of provisions for my noonday meal,
I left the house; and on this morning I did not walk, but ran
as if for a wager, taking long, flying leaps over bushes and
streams that had never tempted me before. Arrived at the
scene of action, I selected a large tree which had been
marked out for felling, and for hours I hacked at it with an
energy almost superhuman; and at last, before I had felt any
disposition to rest, the towering old giant, bowing its head
and rustling its sere foliage as if in eternal farewell to
the skies, came with a mighty crash to the earth. Scarcely
was it fallen before I felt that I had labored too long and
violently: the dry, fresh breeze stung my burning cheeks like
needles of ice, my knees trembled under me, and the whole
world seemed to spin round; then, casting myself upon a bed
of chips and withered leaves, I lay gasping for breath, with
only life enough left in me to wonder whether I had fainted
or not. Recovered at length from this exhausted condition, I
sat up, and rejoiced to observe that half the day—that
last miserable day—had already flown. Then the thoughts
of the approaching evening, and all the happiness it would
bring, inspired me with fresh zeal and strength, and,
starting to my feet, and taking no thought of my food, I
picked up the ax and made a fresh onslaught on the fallen
tree. I had already accomplished more than a day’s work, but
the fever in my blood and brain urged me on to the arduous
task of lopping off the huge branches; and my exertions did
not cease until once more the world, with everything on it,
began revolving like a whirligig, compelling me to desist and
take a still longer rest. And sitting there I thought only of
Yoletta. How would she look after that long seclusion? Pale,
and sad too perhaps; and her sweet, soulful eyes—oh,
would I now see in them that new light for which I had
watched and waited so long?

Then, while I thus mused, I heard, not far off, a slight
rustling sound, as of a hare startled at seeing me, and
bounding away over the withered leaves; and lifting up my
eyes from the ground, I beheld Yoletta herself hastening
towards me, her face shining with joy. I sprang forward to
meet her, and in another moment she was locked in my arms.
That one moment of unspeakable happiness seemed to out-weigh
a hundred times all the misery I had endured. “Oh, my sweet
darling—at last, at last, my pain is ended!” I
murmured, while pressing her again and again to my heart, and
kissing that dear face, which looked now so much thinner than
when I had last seen it.

She bent back her head, like Genevieve in the ballad, to look
me in the face, her eyes filled with tears—crystal,
happy drops, which dimmed not their brightness. But her face
was pale, with a pensive pallor like that of the Gloire de
Dijon rose; only now excitement had suffused her cheeks
with the tints of that same rose—that red so unlike the
bloom on other faces in vanished days; so tender and delicate
and precious above all tints in nature!

“I know,” she spoke, “how you were grieving for me, that you
were pale and dejected. Oh, how strange you should love me so
much!”

“Strange, darling—that word again! It is the one
sweetness and joy of life. And are you not glad to be loved?”

“Oh, I cannot tell you how glad; but am I not here in your
arms to show it? When I heard that you had gone to the wood I
did not wait, but ran here as fast as I could. Do you
remember that evening on the hill, when you vexed me with
questions, and I could not understand your words? Now, when I
love you so much more, I can understand them better. Tell me,
have I not done as you wished, and given myself to you, body
and soul? How thirty days have changed you! Oh, Smith, do you
love me so much?”

“I love you so much, dear, that if you were to die, there
would be no more pleasure in life for me, and I should prefer
to lie near you underground. All day long I am thinking of
you, and when I sleep you are in all ray dreams.”

She still continued gazing into my face, those happy tears
still shining in her eyes, listening to my words; but alas!
on that sweet, beautiful face, so full of changeful
expression, there was not the expression I sought, and no
sign of that maidenly shame which gave to Genevieve in the
ballad such an exquisite grace in her lover’s eyes.

“I also had dreams of you,” she answered. “They came to me
after Edra had told me how pale and sad you had grown.”

“Tell me one of your dreams, darling.”

“I dreamed that I was lying awake on my bed, with the moon
shining on me; I was cold, and crying bitterly because I had
been left so long alone. All at once I saw you standing at my
side in the moonlight. ‘Poor Yoletta,’ you said, ‘your tears
have chilled you like winter rain.’ Then you kissed them dry,
and when you had put your arms about me, I drew your face
against my bosom, and rested warm and happy in your love.”

Oh, how her delicious words maddened me! Even my tongue and
lips suddenly became dry as ashes with the fever in me, and
could only whisper huskily when I strove to answer. I
released her from my arms and sat down on the fallen tree,
all my blissful raptures turned to a great despondence. Would
it always be thus—would she continue to embrace me, and
speak words that simulated passion while no such feeling
touched her heart? Such a state of things could not endure,
and my passion, mocked and baffled again and again, would
rend me to pieces, and hurl me on to madness and
self-destruction. For how many men had been driven by love to
such an end, and the women they had worshiped, and miserably
died for, compared with Yoletta, were like creatures of clay
compared with one of the immortals. And was she not a being
of a higher order than myself? It was folly to think
otherwise. But how had mortals always fared when they aspired
to mate with celestials? I tried then to remember something
bearing on this important point, but my mind was becoming
strangely confused. I closed my eyes to think, and presently
opening them again, saw Yoletta kneeling before me, gazing up
into my face with an alarmed expression.

“What is the matter, Smith, you seem ill?” she said; and
then, laying her fresh palm on my forehead, added: “Your head
burns like fire.”

“No wonder,” I returned. “I’m worrying my brains trying to
remember all about them. What were their names, and what did
they do to those who loved them—can’t you tell me?”

“Oh, you are ill—you have a fever and may die!” she
exclaimed, throwing her arms about my neck and pressing her
cheek to mine.

I felt a strange imbecility of mind, yet it seemed to anger
me to be told that I was ill. “I am not ill,” I protested
feebly. “I never felt better in my life! But can’t you answer
me—who were they, and what did they do? Tell me, or I
shall go mad.”

She started up, and taking the small metal whistle hanging at
her side, blew a shrill note that seemed to pierce my brain
like a steel weapon. I tried to get up from my seat on the
trunk, but only slipped down to the ground. A dull mist and
gloom seemed to be settling down on everything; daylight, and
hope with it, was fast forsaking the world. But something was
coming to us—out of that universal mist and darkness
closing around us it came bounding swiftly through the
wood—a huge gray wolf! No, not a wolf—a wolf was
nothing to it! A mighty, roaring lion crashing through the
forest; a monster ever increasing in size, vast and of
horrible aspect, surpassing all monsters of the
imagination—all beasts, gigantic and deformed, that had
ever existed in past geologic ages; a lion with teeth like
elephants’ tusks, its head clothed as with a black
thunder-cloud, through which its eyes glared like twin,
blood-red suns! And she—my love—with a cry on her
lips, was springing forth to meet it—lost, lost for
ever! I struggled frantically to rise and fly to her
assistance, and rose, after many efforts, to my knees, only
to fall again to the earth, insensible.

Chapter 16

The violent fever into which I had fallen did not abate until
the third day, when I fell into a profound slumber, from
which I woke refreshed and saved. I did not, on awakening,
find myself in my own familiar cell, but in a spacious
apartment new to me, on a comfortable bed, beside which Edra
was seated. Almost my first feeling was one of disappointment
at not seeing Yoletta there, and presently I began to fear
that in the ravings of delirium I had spoken things which had
plucked the scales from the eyes of my kind friends in a very
rough way indeed, and that the being I loved best had been
permanently withdrawn from my sight. It was a blessed relief
when Edra, in answer to the questions I put with some
heart-quakings to her, informed me that I had talked a great
deal in my fever, but unintelligibly, continually asking
questions about Venus, Diana, Juno, and many other persons
whose names had never before been heard in the house. How
fortunate that my crazy brain had thus continued vexing
itself with this idle question! She also told me that Yoletta
had watched day and night at my side, that at last, when the
fever left me, and I had fallen into that cooling slumber,
she too, with her hand on mine, had dropped her head on the
pillow and fallen asleep. Then, without waking her, they had
carried her away to her own room, and Edra had taken her
place by my side.

“Have you nothing more to ask?” she said at length, with an
accent of surprise.

“No; nothing more. What you have told me has made me very
happy—what more can I wish to know?”

“But there is more to tell you, Smith. We know now that your
illness is the result of your own imprudence; and as soon as
you are well enough to leave your room and bear it, you must
suffer the punishment.”

“What! Punished for being ill!” I exclaimed, sitting bolt
upright in my bed. “What do you mean, Edra? I never heard
such outrageous nonsense in my life!”

She was disturbed at this outburst, but quietly and gravely
repeated that I must certainly be punished for my illness.

Remembering what their punishments were, I had the prospect
of a second long separation from Yoletta, and the thought of
such excessive severity, or rather of such cruel injustice,
made me wild. “By Heaven, I shall not submit to it!” I
exclaimed. “Punished for being ill—who ever heard of
such a thing! I suppose that by-and-by it will be discovered
that the bridge of my nose is not quite straight, or that I
can’t see round the corner, and that also will be set down as
a crime, to be expiated in solitary confinement, on a
bread-and-water diet! No, you shall not punish me; rather
than give in to such tyranny I’ll walk off and leave the
house for ever!”

She regarded me with an expression almost approaching to
horror on her gentle face, and for some moments made no
reply. Then I remembered that if I carried out that insane
threat I should indeed lose Yoletta, and the very thought of
such a loss was more than I could endure; and for a moment I
almost hated the love which made me so helpless and
miserable—so powerless to oppose their stupid and
barbarous practices. It would have been sweet then to have
felt free—free to fling them a curse, and go away,
shaking the dust of their house from my shoes, supposing that
any dust had adhered to them.

Then Edra began to speak again, and gravely and sorrowfully,
but without a touch of austerity in her tone or manner,
censured me for making use of such irrational language, and
for allowing bitter, resentful thoughts to enter my heart.
But the despondence and sullen rage into which I had been
thrown made me proof even against the medicine of an
admonition imparted so gently, and, turning my face away, I
stubbornly refused to make any reply. For a while she was
silent, but I misjudged her when I imagined that she would
now leave me, offended, to my own reflections.

“Do you not know that you are giving me pain?” she said at
last, drawing a little closer to me. “A little while ago you
told me that you loved me: has that feeling faded so soon, or
do you take any pleasure in wounding those you love?”

Her words, and, more than her words, her tender, pleading
tone, pierced me with compunction, and I could not resist.
“Edra, my sweet sister, do not imagine such a thing!” I said.
“I would rather endure many punishments than give you pain.
My love for you cannot fade while I have life and
understanding. It is in me like greenness in the
leaf—that beautiful color which can only be changed by
sere decay.”

She smiled forgiveness, and with a humid brightness in her
eyes, which somehow made me think of that joy of the angels
over one sinner that repenteth, bent down and touched her
lips to mine. “How can you love any one more than that,
Smith?” she said. “Yet you say that your love for Yoletta
exceeds all others.”

“Yes, dear, exceeds all others, as the light of the sun
exceeds that of the moon and the stars. Can you not
understand that—has no man ever loved you with a love
like that, my sister?”

She shook her head and sighed. Did she not understand my
meaning now—had not my words brought back some sweet
and sorrowful memory? With her hands folded idly on her lap,
and her face half averted, she sat gazing at nothing. It
seemed impossible that this woman, so tender and so
beautiful, should never have experienced in herself or
witnessed in another, the feeling I had questioned her about.
But she made no further reply to my words; and as I lay there
watching her, the drowsy spirit the fever had left in me
overcame my brain, and I slept once more.

For several days, which brought me so little strength that I
was not permitted to leave the sick-room, I heard nothing
further about my punishment, for I purposely refrained from
asking any questions, and no person appeared inclined to
bring forward so disagreeable a subject. At length I was
pronounced well enough to go about the house, although still
very feeble, and I was conducted, not to the judgment-room,
where I had expected to be taken, but to the Mother’s Room;
and there I found the father of the house, seated with
Chastel, and with them seven or eight of the others. They all
welcomed me, and seemed glad to see me out again; but I could
not help remarking a certain subdued, almost solemn air about
them, which seemed to remind me that I was regarded as an
offender already found guilty, who had now been brought up to
receive judgment.

“My son,” said the father, addressing me in a calm, judicial
tone which at once put my last remaining hopes to flight, “it
is a consolation to us to know that your offense is of such a
nature that it cannot diminish our esteem for you, or loosen
the bonds of affection which unite you to us. You are still
feeble, and perhaps a little confused in mind concerning the
events of the last few days: I do not therefore press you to
give an account of them, but shall simply state your offense,
and if I am mistaken in any particular you shall correct me.
The great love you have for Yoletta,” he continued—and
at this I started and blushed painfully, but the succeeding
words served to show that I had only too little cause for
alarm—”the great love you have for Yoletta caused you
much suffering during her thirty days’ seclusion from us, so
that you lost all enjoyment of life, and eating little, and
being in continual dejection, your strength was much
diminished. On the last day you were so much excited at the
prospect of reunion with her, that you went to your task in
the woods almost fasting, and probably after spending a
restless night. Tell me if this is not so?”

“I did not sleep that night,” I replied, somewhat huskily.

“Unrefreshed by sleep and with lessened strength,” he
continued, “you went to the woods, and in order to allay that
excitement in your mind, you labored with such energy that by
noon you had accomplished a task which, in another and calmer
condition of mind and body, would have occupied you more than
one day. In thus acting you had already been guilty of a
serious offense against yourself; but even then you might
have escaped the consequences if, after finishing your work,
you had rested and refreshed yourself with food and drink.
This, however, you neglected to do; for when you had fallen
insensible to the earth, and Yoletta had called the dog and
sent it to the house to summon assistance, the food you had
taken with you was found untasted in the basket. Your life
was thus placed in great peril; and although it is good to
lay life down when it has become a burden to ourselves and
others, being darkened by that failure of power from which
there is no recovery, wantonly or carelessly to endanger it
in the flower of its strength and beauty is a great folly and
a great offense. Consider how deep our grief would have been,
especially the grief of Yoletta, if this culpable disregard
of your own safety and well-being had ended fatally, as it
came so near ending! It is therefore just and righteous that
an offense of such a nature should be recompensed; but it is
a light offense, not like one committed against the house, or
even against another person, and we also remember the
occasion of it, since it was no unworthy motive, but
exceeding love, which clouded your judgment, and therefore,
taking all these things into account, it was my intention to
put you away from us for the space of thirteen days.”

Here he paused, as if expecting me to make some reply. He had
reproved me so gently, even approving of the emotion,
although still entirely in the dark as to its meaning, which
had caused my illness, that I was made to feel very
submissive, and even grateful to him.

“It is only just,” I replied, “that I should suffer for my
fault, and you have tempered justice with more mercy than I
deserve.”

“You speak with the wisdom of a chastened spirit, my son,” he
said, rising and placing his hand on my head; “and your words
gladden me all the more for knowing that you were filled with
surprise and resentment when told that your offense was one
deserving punishment. And now, my son, I have to tell you
that you will not be separated from us, for the mother of the
house has willed that your offense shall be pardoned.”

I looked in surprise at Chastel, for this was very
unexpected: she was gazing at my face with the light of a
strange tenderness in her eyes, never seen there before. She
extended her hand, and, kneeling before her, I took it in
mine and raised it to my lips, and tried, with poor success,
to speak my thanks for this rare and beautiful act of mercy.
Then the others surrounded me to express their
congratulations, the men pressing my hands, but not so the
women, for they all freely kissed me; but when Yoletta,
coming last, put her white arms about my neck and pressed her
lips to mine, the ecstasy I felt was so greatly overbalanced
by the pain of my position, and the thought, now almost a
conviction, that I was powerless to enlighten them with
regard to the nature of the love I felt for her, that I
almost shrank from her dear embrace.

Chapter 17

My attack of illness, although sharp, had passed off so
quickly that I confidently looked to complete restoration to
my former vigorous state of health in a very short time.
Nevertheless, many days went by, and I failed to recover
strength, but remained pretty much in that condition of body
in which I had quitted the sick-room. This surprised and
distressed me at first, but in a little time I began to get
reconciled to such a state, and even to discover that it had
certain advantages, the chief of which was that the tumult of
my mind was over for a season, so that I craved for nothing
very eagerly. My friends advised me to do no work; but not
wishing to eat the bread of idleness—although the bread
was little now, as I had little appetite—I made it a
rule to go every morning to the workhouse, and occupy myself
for two or three hours with some light, mechanical task which
put no strain on me, physical or mental. Even this playing at
work fatigued me. Then, after changing my dress, I would
repair to the music-room to resume my search after hidden
knowledge in any books that happened to be there; for I could
read now, a result which my sweet schoolmistress had been the
first to see, and at once she had abandoned the lessons I had
loved so much, leaving me to wander at will, but without a
guide, in that wilderness of a strange literature. I had
never been to the library, and did not even know in what part
of the house it was situated; nor had I ever expressed a wish
to see it. And that for two reasons: one was, that I had
already half-resolved—my resolutions were usually of
that complexion—never to run the risk of appearing
desirous of knowing too much; the other and weightier reason
was, that I had never loved libraries. They oppress me with a
painful sense of my mental inferiority; for all those tens of
thousands of volumes, containing so much important but
unappreciated matter, seem to have a kind of collective
existence, and to look down on me, like a man with great,
staring, owlish eyes, as an intruder on sacred ground—a
barbarian, whose proper place is in the woods. It is a mere
fancy, I know, but it distresses me, and I prefer not to put
myself in the way of it. Once in a book I met with a scornful
passage about people with “bodily constitutions like those of
horses, and small brains,” which made me blush painfully; but
in the very next passage the writer makes amends, saying that
a man ought to think himself well off if, in the lottery of
life, he draws the prize of a healthy stomach without a mind,
that it is better than a fine intellect with a crazy stomach.
I had drawn the healthy stomach—liver, lungs, and heart
to match—and had never felt dissatisfied with my prize.
Now, however, it seemed expedient that I should give some
hours each day to reading; for so far my conversations and
close intimacy with the people of the house had not
dissipated the cloud of mystery in which their customs were
hid; and by customs I here refer to those relating to
courtship and matrimony only, for that was to me the main
thing. The books I read, or dipped into, were all highly
interesting, especially the odd volumes I looked at belonging
to that long series on the Houses of the World, for
these abounded in marvelous and entertaining matter. There
were also histories of the house, and works on arts,
agriculture, and various other subjects, but they were not
what I wanted. After three or four hours spent in these
fruitless researches, I would proceed to the Mother’s Room,
where I was now permitted to enter freely every afternoon,
and when there, to remain as long as I wished. It was so
pleasant that I soon dropped into the custom of remaining
until supper-time compelled me to leave it, Chastel
invariably treating me now with a loving tenderness of manner
which seemed strange when I recalled the extremely
unfavorable impression I had made at our first interview.

It was never my nature to be indolent, or to love a quiet,
dreamy existence: on the contrary, my fault had lain in the
opposite direction, unlimited muscular exercise being as
necessary to my well-being as fresh air and good food, and
the rougher the exercise the better I liked it. But now, in
this novel condition of languor, I experienced a wonderful
restfulness both of body and mind, and in the Mother’s Room,
resting as if some weariness of labor still clung to me,
breathing and steeped in that fragrant, summer-like
atmosphere, I had long intervals of perfect inactivity and
silence, while I sat or reclined, not thinking but in a
reverie, while many dreams of pleasures to come drifted in a
vague, vaporous manner through my brain. The very character
of the room—its delicate richness, the exquisitely
harmonious disposition of colors and objects, and the
illusions of nature produced on the mind—seemed to lend
itself to this unaccustomed mood, and to confirm me in it.

The first impression produced was one of brightness: coming
to it by way of the long, dim sculpture gallery was like
passing out into the open air, and this effect was partly due
to the white and crystal surfaces and the brilliancy of the
colors where any color appeared. It was spacious and lofty,
and the central arched or domed portion of the roof, which
was of a light turquoise blue, rested on graceful columns of
polished crystal. The doors were of amber-colored glass set
in agate frames; but the windows, eight in number, formed the
principal attraction. On the glass, hill and mountain scenery
was depicted, the summits in some of them appearing beyond
wide, barren plains, whitened with the noonday splendor and
heat of midsummer, untempered by a cloud, the soaring peaks
showing a pearly luster which seemed to remove them to an
infinite distance. To look out, as it were, from the
imitation shade of such an arbor, or pavilion, over those
far-off, sun-lit expanses where the light appeared to dance
and quiver as one gazed, was a never-failing delight. Such
was its effect on me, combined with that of the mother’s new
tender graciousness, resulting I knew not whether from
compassion or affection, that I could have wished to remain a
permanent invalid in her room.

Another cause of the mild kind of happiness I now experienced
was the consciousness of a change in my own mental
disposition, which made me less of an alien in the house; for
I was now able, I imagined, to appreciate the beautiful
character of my friends, their crystal purity of heart and
the religion they professed. Far back in the old days I had
heard, first and last, a great deal about sweetness and light
and Philistines, and not quite knowing what this grand
question was all about, and hearing from some of my friends
that I was without the qualities they valued most, I
thereafter proclaimed myself a Philistine, and was satisfied
to have the controversy ended in that way, so far as it
concerned me personally. Now, however, I was like one to whom
some important thing has been told, who, scarcely hearing and
straightway forgetting, goes about his affairs; but, lying
awake at night in the silence of his chamber, recalls the
unheeded words and perceives their full significance. My
sojourn with this people—angelic women and mild-eyed
men with downy, unrazored lips, so mild in manner yet in
their arts “laying broad bases for eternity”—above all
the invalid hours spent daily in the Mother’s Room, had
taught me how unlovely a creature I had been. It would have
been strange indeed if, in such an atmosphere, I had not
absorbed a little sweetness and light into my system.

In this sweet refuge—this slumberous valley where I had
been cast up by that swift black current that had borne me to
an immeasurable distance on its bosom, and with such a change
going on within me—I sometimes thought that a little
more and I would touch that serene, enduring bliss which
seemed to be the normal condition of my fellow-inmates. My
passion for Yoletta now burned with a gentle flame, which did
not consume, but only imparted an agreeable sense of warmth
to the system. When she was there, sitting with me at her
mother’s feet, sometimes so near that her dark, shining hair
brushed against my cheek, and her fragrant breath came on my
face; and when she caressed my hand, and gazed full at me
with those dear eyes that had no shadow of regret or anxiety
in them, but only unfathomable love, I could imagine that our
union was already complete, that she was altogether and
eternally mine.

I knew that this could not continue. Sometimes I could not
prevent my thoughts from flying away from the present; then
suddenly the complexion of my dream would change, darkening
like a fair landscape when a cloud obscures the sun. Not
forever would the demon of passion slumber and dream in my
breast; with recovered strength it would wake again, and,
ever increasing in power and ever baffled of its desire,
would raise once more that black tempest of that past to
overwhelm me. Other darker visions followed: I would see
myself as in a magic glass, lying with upturned, ghastly
face, with many people about me, hurrying to and fro,
wringing their hands and weeping aloud with grief, shuddering
at the abhorred sight of blood on their sacred, shining
floors; or, worse still, I saw myself shivering in sordid
rags and gaunt with long-lasting famine, a fugitive in some
wintry, desolate land, far from all human companionship, the
very image of Yoletta scorched by madness to formless ashes
in my brain; and for all sensations, feelings, memories,
thoughts, nothing left to me but a distorted likeness of the
visible world, and a terrible unrest urging me, as with a
whip of scorpions, ever on and on, to ford yet other black,
icy torrents, and tear myself bleeding through yet other
thorny thickets, and climb the ramparts of yet other
gigantic, barren hills.

But these moments of terrible depression, new to my life,
were infrequent, and seldom lasted long. Chastel was my good
angel; a word, a touch from her hand, and the ugly spirits
would vanish. She appeared to possess a mysterious
faculty—perhaps only the keen insight and sympathy of a
highly spiritualized nature—which informed her of much
that was passing in my heart: if a shadow came there when she
had no wish or strength to converse, she would make me draw
close to her seat, and rest her hand on mine, and the shadow
would pass from me.

I could not help reflecting often and wonderingly at this
great change in her manner towards me. Her eyes dwelt
lovingly on me, and her keenest suffering, and the
unfortunate blundering expressions I frequently let fall,
seemed equally powerless to wring one harsh or impatient word
from her. I was not now only one among her children,
privileged to come and sit at her feet, to have with them a
share in her impartial affection; and remembering that I was
a stranger in the house, and compared but poorly with the
others, the undisguised preference she showed for me, and the
wish to have me almost constantly with her, seemed a great
mystery.

One afternoon, as I sat alone with her, she made the remark
that my reading lessons had ceased.

“Oh yes, I can read perfectly well now,” I answered. “May I
read to you from this book?” Saying which, I put my hand
towards a volume lying on the couch at her side. It differed
from the other books I had seen, in its smaller size and blue
binding.

“No, not in this book,” she said, with a shade of annoyance
in her voice, putting out her hand to prevent my taking it.

“Have I made another mistake?” I asked, withdrawing my hand.
“I am very ignorant.”

“Yes, poor boy, you are very ignorant,” she returned, placing
her hand on my forehead. “You must know that this is a
mother’s book, and only a mother may read in it.”

“I am afraid,” I said, with a sigh, “that it will be a long
time before I cease to offend you with such mistakes.”

“There is no occasion to say that, for you have not offended
me, only you make me feel sorry. Every day when you are with
me I try to teach you something, to smooth the path for you;
but you must remember, my son, that others cannot feel
towards you as I do, and it may come to pass that they will
sometimes be offended with you, because their love is less
than mine.”

“But why do you care so much for me?” I asked, emboldened by
her words. “Once I thought that you only of all in the house
would never love me: what has changed your feelings towards
me, for I know that they have changed?” She looked at me,
smiling a little sadly, but did not reply. “I think I should
be happier for knowing,” I resumed, caressing her hand. “Will
you not tell me?”

There was a strange trouble on her face as her eyes glanced
away and then returned to mine again, while her lips
quivered, as if with unspoken words. Then she answered: “No,
I cannot tell you now. It would make you happy, perhaps, but
the proper time has not yet arrived. You must be patient, and
learn, for you have much to learn. It is my desire that you
should know all those things concerning the family of which
you are ignorant, and when I say all, I mean not only those
suitable to one in your present condition, as a son of the
house, but also those higher matters which belong to the
heads of the house—to the father and mother.”

Then, casting away all caution, I answered: “It is precisely
a knowledge of those greater matters concerning the family
which I have been hungering after ever since I came into the
house.”

“I know it,” she returned. “This hunger you speak of was
partly the cause of your fever, and it is in you, keeping you
feverish and feeble still; but for this, instead of being a
prisoner here, you would now be abroad, feeling the sun and
wind on your face.”

“And if you know that,” I pleaded, “why do you not now impart
the knowledge that can make me whole? For surely, all those
lesser matters—those things suitable for one in my
condition to know—can be learned afterwards, in due
time. For they are not of pressing importance, but the other
is to me a matter of life and death, if you only knew it.”

“I know everything,” she returned quickly. But a cloud had
come over her face at my concluding words, and a startled
look into her eyes. “Life and death! do you know what you are
saying?” she exclaimed, fixing her eyes on me with such
intense earnestness in them that mine fell abashed before
their gaze. Then, after a while, she drew my head down
against her knees, and spoke with a strange tenderness. “Do
you then find it so hard to exercise a little patience, my
son, that you do not acquiesce in what I say to you, and fear
to trust your future in my hands? My time is short for all
that I have to do, yet I also must be patient and wait,
although for me it is hardest. For now your coming, which I
did not regard at first, seeing in you only a pilgrim like
others—one who through accidents of travel had been
cast away and left homeless in the world, until we found and
gave you shelter—now, it has brought something new into
my life: and if this fresh hope, which is only an old,
perished hope born again, ever finds fulfillment, then death
will lose much of its bitterness. But there are difficulties
in the way which only time, and the energy of a soul that
centers all its faculties in one desire, one enterprise, can
overcome. And the chief difficulty I find is in
yourself—in that strange, untoward disposition so often
revealed in your conversation, which you have shown even now;
for to be thus questioned and pressed, and to have my
judgment doubted, would have greatly offended me in another.
Remember this, and do not abuse the privilege you enjoy:
remember that you must greatly change before I can share with
you the secrets of my heart that concern you. And bear in
mind, my son, that I am not rebuking you for a want of
knowledge; for I know that for many deficiencies you are not
blameworthy. I know, for instance, that nature has denied to
you that melodious and flexible voice in which it is our
custom every day to render homage to the Father, to express
all the sacred feelings of our hearts, all our love for each
other, the joy we have in life, and even our griefs and
sorrows. For grief is like a dark, oppressive cloud, until
from lip and hand it breaks in the rain of melody, and we are
lightened, so that even the things that are painful give to
life a new and chastened glory. And as with music, so with
all other arts. There is a twofold pleasure in contemplating
our Father’s works: in the first and lower kind you share
with us; but the second and more noble, springing from the
first, is ours through that faculty by means of which the
beauty and harmony of the visible world become transmuted in
the soul, which is like a pencil of glass receiving the white
sunbeam into itself, and changing it to red, green, and
violet-colored light: thus nature transmutes itself in our
minds, and is expressed in art. But in you this second
faculty is wanting, else you would not willingly forego so
great a pleasure as its exercise affords, and love nature
like one that loves his fellow-man, but has no words to
express so sweet a feeling. For the happiness of love with
sympathy, when made known and returned, is increased an
hundredfold; and in all artistic work we commune not with
blind, irrational nature, but with the unseen spirit which is
in nature, inspiring our hearts, returning love for love, and
rewarding our labor with enduring bliss. Therefore it is your
misfortune, not your fault, that you are deprived of this
supreme solace and happiness.”

To this speech, which had a depressing effect on me, I
answered sadly: “Every day I feel my deficiencies more
keenly, and wish more ardently to lessen the great distance
between us; but now—sweet mother, forgive me for saying
it!—your words almost make me despond.”

“And yet, my son, I have spoken only to encourage you. I know
your limitations, and expect nothing beyond your powers; nor
do your errors greatly trouble me, believing as I do that in
time you will be able to dismiss them from your mind. But the
temper of your mind must be changed to be worthy of the
happiness I have designed for you. Patience must chasten that
reckless spirit in you; for feverish diligence, alternating
with indifference or despondence, there must be unremitting
effort; and for that unsteady flame of hope, which burns so
brightly in the morning and in the evening sings so low,
there must be a bright, unwavering, and rational hope. It
would be strange indeed if after this you were cast down;
and, lest you forget anything, I will say again that only by
giving you enduring happiness and the desire of your heart
can my one hope be fulfilled. Consider how much I say to you
in these words; it saddens me to think that so much was
necessary. And do not think hardly of me, my son, for wishing
to keep you a little longer in this prison with me: for in a
little while your weakness will pass away like a morning
cloud. But for me there shall come no change, since I must
remain day and night here with the shadow of death; and when
I am taken forth, and the sunshine falls once more on my
face, I shall not feel it, and shall not see it, and I shall
lie forgotten when you are in the midst of your happy years.”

Her words smote on my heart with a keen pain of compassion.
“Do not say that you will be forgotten!” I exclaimed
passionately; “for should you be taken away, I shall still
love and worship your memory, as I worship you now when you
are alive.”

She caressed my hand, but did not speak; and when I looked
up, her worn face had dropped on the pillow, and her eyes
were closed. “I am tired—tired,” she murmured. “Stay
with me a little longer, but leave me if I sleep.”

And in a little while she slept. The light was on her face,
resting on the purple pillow, and with the soulful eyes
closed, and the lips that had no red color of life in them
also closed and motionless, it was like a face carved in
ivory of one who had suffered like Isarte in the house and
perished long generations ago; and the abundant dark,
lusterless hair that framed it, looked dead too, and of the
color of wrought iron.

Chapter 18

Chastel’s words sank deep in my heart—deeper than words
had ever sunk before into that somewhat unpromising soil; and
although she had purposely left me in the dark with regard to
many important matters, I now resolved to win her esteem, and
bind her yet more closely to me by correcting those faults in
my character she had pointed out with so much tenderness.

Alas! the very next day was destined to bring me a sore
trouble. On entering the breakfast-room I became aware that a
shadow had fallen on the house. Among his silent people the
father sat with gray, haggard face and troubled eyes; then
Yoletta entered, her sweet face looking paler than when I had
first seen it after her long punishment, while under her
heavy, drooping eyelids her skin was stained with that
mournful purple which tells of a long vigil and a heart
oppressed with anxiety. I heard with profound concern that
Chastel’s malady had suddenly become aggravated; that she had
passed the night in the greatest suffering. What would become
of me, and of all those bright dreams of happiness, if she
were to die? was my first idea. But at the same time I had
the grace to feel ashamed of that selfish thought.
Nevertheless, I could not shake off the gloom it had produced
in me, and, too distressed in mind to work or read, I
repaired to the Mother’s Room, to be as near as possible to
the sufferer on whose recovery so much now depended. How
lonely and desolate it seemed there, now that she was absent!
Those mountain landscapes, glowing with the white radiance of
mimic sunshine, still made perpetual summer; yet there seemed
to be a wintry chill and death-like atmosphere which struck
to the heart, and made me shiver with cold. The day dragged
slowly to its close, and no rest came to the sufferer, nor
sign of improvement to relieve our anxiety. Until past
midnight I remained at my post, then retired for three or
four miserable, anxious hours, only to return once more when
it was scarcely light. Chastel’s condition was still
unchanged, or, if there had been any change, it was for the
worse, for she had not slept. Again I remained, a prey to
desponding thoughts, all day in the room; but towards evening
Yoletta came to take me to her mother. The summons so
terrified me that for some moments I sat trembling and unable
to articulate a word; for I could not but think that
Chastel’s end was approaching. Yoletta, however, divining the
cause of my agitation, explained that her mother could not
sleep for torturing pains in her head, and wished me to place
my hand on her forehead, to try whether that would cause any
relief. This seemed to me a not very promising remedy; but
she told me that on former occasions they had often succeeded
in procuring her ease by placing a hand on her forehead, and
that having failed now, Chastel had desired them to call me
to her to try my hand. I rose, and for the first time entered
that sacred chamber, where Chastel was lying on a low bed
placed on a slightly raised platform in the center of the
floor. In the dim light her face looked white as the pillow
on which it rested, her forehead contracted with sharp pain,
while low moans came at short intervals from her twitching
lips; but her wide-open eyes were fixed on my face from the
moment I entered the room, and to me they seemed to express
mental anguish rather than physical suffering. At the head of
the bed sat the father, holding her hand in his; but when I
entered he rose and made way for me, retiring to the foot of
the bed, where two of the women were seated. I knelt beside
the bed, and Yoletta raised and tenderly placed my right hand
on the mother’s forehead, and, after whispering to me to let
it rest very gently there, she also withdrew a few paces.

Chastel did not speak, but for some minutes continued her
low, piteous moanings, only her eyes remained fixed on my
face; and at last, becoming uneasy at her scrutiny, I said in
a whisper: “Dearest mother, do you wish to say anything to
me?”

“Yes, come nearer,” she replied; and when I had bent my cheek
close to her face, she continued: “Do not fear, my son; I
shall not die. I cannot die until that of which I have spoken
to you has been accomplished.”

I rejoiced at her words, yet, at the same time, they gave me
pain; for it seemed as though she knew how much my heart had
been troubled by that ignoble fear.

“Dear mother, may I say something?” I asked, wishing to tell
her of my resolutions.

“Not now; I know what you wish to say,” she returned. “Be
patient and hopeful always, and fear nothing, even though we
should be long divided; for it will be many days before I can
leave this room to speak with you again.”

So softly had she whispered, that the others who stood so
near were not aware that she had spoken at all.

After this brief colloquy she closed her eyes, but for some
time the low moans of pain continued. Gradually they sank
lower, and became less and less frequent, while the lines of
pain faded out of her white, death-like face. And at length
Yoletta, stealing softly to my side, whispered, “She is
sleeping,” and withdrawing my hand, led me away.

When we were again in the Mother’s Room she threw her arms
about my neck and burst into a tempest of tears.

“Dearest Yoletta, be comforted,” I said, pressing her to my
breast; “she will not die.”

“Oh, Smith, how do you know?” she returned quickly, looking
up with her eyes still shining with large drops.

Then, of Chastel’s whispered words to me, I repeated those
four, “I shall not die,” but nothing more; they were however,
a great relief to her, and her sweet, sorrowful face
brightened like a drooping flower after rain.

“Ah, she knew, then, that the touch of your hand would cause
sleep, that sleep would save her,” she said, smiling up at
me.

“And you, my darling, how long is it since you closed those
sweet eyelids that seem so heavy?”

“Not since I slept three nights ago.”

“Will you sit by me here, resting your head on me, and sleep
a little now?”

“Not there!” she cried quickly. “Not on the mother’s couch.
But if you will sit here, it will be pleasant if I can sleep
for a little while, resting on you.”

I placed myself on the low seat she led me to, and then, when
she had coiled herself up on the cushions, with her arms
still round my neck, and her head resting on my bosom, she
breathed a long happy sigh, and dropped like a tired child to
sleep.

How perfect my happiness would have been then, with Yoletta
in my arms, clasping her weary little ministering hands in
mine, and tenderly kissing her dark, shining hair, but for
the fear that some person might come there to notice and
disturb me. And pretty soon I was startled to see the father
himself coming from Chastel’s chamber to us. Catching sight
of me he paused, smiling, then advanced, and deliberately sat
down by my side.

“This one is sleeping also,” he said cheerfully, touching the
girl’s hair with his hand. “But you need not fear, Smith; I
think we shall be able to talk very well without waking her.”

I had feared something quite different, if he had only known
it, and felt considerably relieved by his words;
nevertheless, I was not over-pleased at the prospect of a
conversation just then, and should have preferred being left
alone with my precious burden.

“My son,” he continued, placing a hand on my shoulder, “I
sometimes recall, not without a smile, the effect your first
appearance produced on us, when we were startled at your
somewhat grotesque pilgrim costume. Your attempts at singing,
and ignorance of art generally, also impressed me
unfavorably, and gave me some concern when I thought about
the future—that is, your future; for it seemed
to me that you had but slender foundations whereon to build a
happy life. These doubts, however, no longer trouble me; for
on several occasions you have shown us that you possess
abundantly that richest of all gifts and safest guide to
happiness—the capacity for deep affection. To this
spirit of love in you—this summer of the heart which
causes it to blossom with beautiful thoughts and
deeds—I attribute your success just now, when the
contact of your hand produced the long-desired, refreshing
slumber so necessary to the mother at this stage of her
malady. I know that this is a mysterious thing; and it is
commonly said that in such cases relief is caused by an
emanation from the brain through the fingers. Doubtless this
is so; and I also choose to believe that only a powerful
spirit of love in the heart can rightly direct this subtle
energy, that where such a spirit is absent the desired effect
cannot be produced.”

“I do not know,” I replied. “Great as my love and devotion
is, I cannot suppose it to equal, much less to surpass, that
of others who yet failed on this occasion to give relief.”

“Yes, yes; only that is looking merely at the surface of the
matter, and leaving out of sight the unfathomable mysteries
of a being compounded of flesh and spirit. There are among
our best instruments peculiar to this house, especially those
used chiefly in our harvest music, some of such
finely-tempered materials, and of so delicate a construction,
that the person wishing to perform on them must not only be
inspired with the melodious passion, but the entire
system—body and soul—must be in the proper mood,
the flesh itself elevated into harmony with the exalted
spirit, else he will fail to elicit the tones or to give the
expression desired. This is a rough and a poor simile, when
we consider how wonderful an instrument a human being is,
with the body that burns with thought, and the spirit that
quivers and cries with pain, and when we think how its
innumerable, complex chords may be injured and untuned by
suffering. The will may be ours, but something, we know not
what, interposes to defeat our best efforts. That you have
succeeded in producing so blessed a result, after we had
failed, has served to deepen and widen in our hearts the love
we already felt for you; for how much more precious is this
melody of repose, this sweet interval of relief from cruel
pain the mother now experiences, than many melodies from
clear voices and trained hands.”

In my secret heart I believed that he was taking much too
lofty a view of the matter; but I had no desire to argue
against so flattering a delusion, if it were one, and only
wished that I could share it with him.

“She is sleeping still,” he said presently, “perhaps without
pain, like Yoletta here, and her sleep will now probably last
for some hours.”

“I pray Heaven that she may wake refreshed and free from
pain,” I remarked.

He seemed surprised at my words, and looked searchingly into
my face. “My son,” he said, “it grieves me, at a moment like
the present, to have to point out a great error to you; but
it is an error hurtful to yourself and painful to those who
see it, and if I were to pass it over in silence, or put off
speaking of it to another time, I should not be fulfilling
the part of a loving father towards you.”

Surprised at this speech, I begged him to tell me what I had
said that was wrong.

“Do you not then know that it is unlawful to entertain such a
thought as you have expressed?” he said. “In moments of
supreme pain or bitterness or peril we sometimes so far
forget ourselves as to cry out to Heaven to save us or to
give us ease; but to make any such petition when we are in
the full possession of our faculties is unworthy of a
reasonable being, and an offense to the Father: for we pray
to each other, and are moved by such prayers, remembering
that we are fallible, and often err through haste and
forgetfulness and imperfect knowledge. But he who freely gave
us life and reason and all good gifts, needs not that we
should remind him of anything; therefore to ask him to give
us the thing we desire is to make him like ourselves, and
charge him with an oversight; or worse, we attribute weakness
and irresolution to him, since the petitioner thinks my
importunity to incline the balance in his favor.”

I was about to reply that I had always considered prayer to
be an essential part of religion, and not of my form of
religion only, but of all religions all over the world.
Luckily I remembered in time that he probably knew more about
matters “all over the world” than I did, and so held my
tongue.

“Have you any doubts on the subject?” he asked, after a
while.

“I must confess that I still have some doubts,” I replied. “I
believe that our Creator and Father desires the happiness of
all his creatures and takes no pleasure in seeing us
miserable; for it would be impossible not to believe it,
seeing how greatly happiness overbalances misery in the
world. But he does not come to us in visible form to tell us
in an audible voice that to cry out to him in sore pain and
distress is unlawful. How, then, do we know this thing? For a
child cries to its mother, and a fledgling in the nest to its
parent bird; and he is infinitely more to us than parent to
child—infinitely stronger to help, and knows our griefs
as no fellow-mortal can know them. May we not, then, believe,
without hurt to our souls, that the cry of one of his
children in affliction may reach him; that in his compassion,
and by means of his sovereign power over nature, he may give
ease to the racked body, and peace and joy to the desolate
mind?”

“You ask me, How, then, do we know this thing? and you answer
the question yourself, yet fail to perceive that you answer
it, when you say that although he does not come in a visible
form to teach us this thing and that thing, yet we know that
he desires our happiness; and to this you might have added a
thousand or ten thousand other things which we know. If the
reason he gave us to start with makes it unnecessary that he
should come to tell us in an audible voice that he desires
our happiness, it must also surely suffice to tell us which
are lawful and which unlawful of all the thoughts continually
rising in our hearts. That any one should question so evident
and universally accepted a truth, the foundation of all
religion, seems very surprising to me. If it had consisted
with his plan to make these delicate mortal bodies capable of
every agreeable sensation in the highest degree, yet not
liable to accident, and not subject to misery and pain, he
would surely have done this for all of us. But reason and
nature show us that such an end did not consist with his
plan; therefore to ask him to suspend the operations of
nature for the benefit of any individual sufferer, however
poignant and unmerited the sufferings may be, is to shut our
eyes to the only light he has given us. All our highest and
sweetest feelings unite with reason to tell us with one voice
that he loves us; and our knowledge of nature shows us
plainly enough that he also loves all the creatures inferior
to man. To us he has given reason for a guide, and for the
guidance and protection of the lower kinds he has given
instinct: and though they do not know him, it would make us
doubt his impartial love for all his creatures, if we, by
making use of our reason, higher knowledge, and articulate
speech, were able to call down benefits on ourselves, and
avert pain and disaster, while the dumb, irrational brutes
suffered in silence—the languishing deer that leaves
the herd with a festering thorn in its foot; the passage bird
blown from its course to perish miserably far out at sea.”

His conclusions were perhaps more logical than mine;
nevertheless, although I could not argue the matter any more
with him, I was not yet prepared to abandon this last
cherished shred of old beliefs, although perhaps not
cherished for its intrinsic worth, but rather because it had
been given to me by a sweet woman whose memory was sacred to
my heart—my mother before Chastel.

Fortunately, it was not necessary to continue the discussion
any longer, for at this juncture one of the watchers from the
sick-room came to report that the mother was still sleeping
peacefully, hearing which, the father rose to seek a little
needful rest in an adjoining room. Before going, however, he
proposed, with mistaken kindness, to relieve me of my burden,
and place the girl without waking her on a couch. But I would
not consent to have her disturbed; and finally, to my great
delight, they left her still in my arms, the father warmly
pressing my hand, and advising me to reflect well on his
words concerning prayer.

It was growing dark now, and how welcome that obscurity
seemed, while with no one nigh to see or hear I kissed her
soft tresses a hundred times, and murmured a hundred
endearing words in her sleeping ears.

Her waking, which gave me a pang at first, afforded me in the
end a still greater bliss.

“Oh, how dark it is—where am I?” she exclaimed,
starting suddenly from repose.

“With me, sweetest,” I said. “Do you not remember going to
sleep on my breast?”

“Yes; but oh, why did you not wake me sooner? My
mother—my mother—”

“She is still quietly sleeping, dearest. Ah, I wish you also
had continued sleeping! It was such a delight to have you in
my arms.”

“My love!” she said, laying her soft cheek against mine. “How
sweet it was to fall asleep in your arms! When we came in
here I could scarcely say a word, for my heart was too full
for speech; and now I have a hundred things to say. After
all, I should only finish by giving you a kiss, which is more
eloquent than speech; so I shall kiss you at once, and save
myself the trouble of talking so much.”

“Say one of the hundred things, Yoletta.”

“Oh, Smith, before this evening I did not think that I could
love you more; and sometimes, when I recalled what I once
said to you—on the hill, do you remember?—it
seemed to me that I already loved you a little too much. But
now I am convinced that I was mistaken, for a thousand
offenses could not alienate my heart, which is all yours
forever.”

“Mine for ever, without a doubt, darling?” I murmured,
holding her against my breast; and in my rapture almost
forgetting that this angelic affection she lavished on me
would not long satisfy my heart.

“Yes, for ever, for you shall never, never leave the house.
Your pilgrimage, from which you derived so little benefit, is
over now. And if you ever attempt to go forth again to find
out new wonders in the world, I shall clasp you round with my
arms, as I do now, and keep you prisoner against your will;
and if you say ‘Farewell’ a hundred times to me, I shall blot
out that sad word every time with my lips, and put a better
one in its place, until my word conquers yours.”

Chapter 19

Although deprived for the present of all intercourse with
Chastel and Yoletta, now in constant attendance on her
mother, I ought to have been happy, for all things seemed
conspiring to make my life precious to me. Nevertheless, I
was far from happy; and, having heard so much said about
reason in my late conversations with the father and mother of
the house, I began to pay an unusual amount of attention to
this faculty in me, in order to discover by its aid the
secret of the sadness which continued at all times during
this period to oppress my heart. I only discovered, what
others have discovered before me, that the practice of
introspection has a corrosive effect on the mind, which only
serves to aggravate the malady it is intended to cure. During
those restful days in the Mother’s Room, when I had sat with
Chastel, this spirit of melancholy had been with me; but the
mother’s hallowing presence had given something of a divine
color to it, my passions had slumbered, and, except at rare
intervals, I had thought of sorrow as of something at an
immeasurable distance from me. Then to my spirit

   “The gushing of the wave
    Far, far away, did seem to mourn and
rave
    On alien shores“;

and so sweet had seemed that pause, that I had hoped and
prayed for its continuance. No sooner was I separated from
her than the charm dissolved, and all my thoughts, like
evening clouds that appear luminous and rich in color until
the sun has set, began to be darkened with a mysterious
gloom. Strive how I might, I was unable to compose my mind to
that serene, trustful temper she had desired to see in me,
and without which there could be no blissful futurity. After
all the admonitions and the comforting assurances I had
received, and in spite of reason and all it could say to me,
each night I went to my bed with a heavy heart; and each
morning when I woke, there, by my pillow, waited that sad
phantom, to go with me where I went, to remind me at every
pause of an implacable Fate, who held my future in its hands,
who was mightier than Chastel, and would shatter all her
schemes for my happiness like vessels of brittle glass.

Several days—probably about fifteen, for I did not
count them—had passed since I had been admitted into
the mother’s sleeping-room, when there came an exceedingly
lovely day, which seemed to bring to me a pleasant sensation
of returning health, and made me long to escape from morbid
dreams and vain cravings. Why should I sit at home and mope,
I thought; it was better to be active: sun and wind were full
of healing. Such a day was in truth one of those captain
jewels “that seldom placed are” among the blusterous days of
late autumn, with winter already present to speed its
parting. For a long time the sky had been overcast with
multitudes and endless hurrying processions of wild-looking
clouds—torn, wind-chased fugitives, of every mournful
shade of color, from palest gray to slatey-black; and storms
of rain had been frequent, impetuous, and suddenly
intermitted, or passing away phantom-like towards the misty
hills, there to lose themselves among other phantoms, ever
wandering sorrowfully in that vast, shadowy borderland where
earth and heaven mingled; and gusts of wind which, as they
roared by over a thousand straining trees and passed off with
hoarse, volleying sounds, seemed to mimic the echoing
thunder. And the leaves—the millions and myriads of
sere, cast-off leaves, heaped ankle-deep under the desolate
giants of the wood, and everywhere, in the hollows of the
earth, lying silent and motionless, as became dead, fallen
things—suddenly catching a mock fantastic life from the
wind, how they would all be up and stirring, every leaf with
a hiss like a viper, racing, many thousands at a time, over
the barren spaces, all hurriedly talking together in their
dead-leaf language! until, smitten with a mightier gust, they
would rise in flight on flight, in storms and stupendous,
eddying columns, whirled up to the clouds, to fall to the
earth again in showers, and freckle the grass for roods
around. Then for a moment, far off in heavens, there would be
a rift, or a thinning of the clouds, and the sunbeams,
striking like lightning through their ranks, would illumine
the pale blue mist, the slanting rain, the gaunt black boles
and branches, glittering with wet, casting a momentary glory
over the ocean-like tumult of nature.

In the condition I was in, with a relaxed body and dejected
mind, this tempestuous period, which would have only afforded
fresh delight to a person in perfect health, had no charm for
my spirit; but, on the contrary, it only served to intensify
my gloom. And yet day after day it drew me forth, although in
my weakness I shivered in the rough gale, and shrank from the
touch of the big cold drops the clouds flung down on me. It
fascinated me, like the sight of armies contending in battle,
or of some tragic action from which the spectator cannot
withdraw his gaze. For I had become infected with strange
fancies, so persistent and somber that they were like
superstitions. It seemed to me that not I but nature had
changed, that the familiar light had passed like a kindly
expression from her countenance, which was now charged with
an awful menacing gloom that frightened my soul. Sometimes,
when straying alone, like an unquiet ghost among the leafless
trees, when a deeper shadow swept over the earth, I would
pause, pale with apprehension, listening to the many
dirge-like sounds of the forest, ever prophesying evil, until
in my trepidation I would start and tremble, and look to this
side and to that, as if considering which way to fly from
some unimaginable calamity coming, I knew not from where, to
wreck my life for ever.

This bright day was better suited to my complaint. The sun
shone as in spring; not a stain appeared on the crystal vault
of heaven; everywhere the unfailing grass gave rest to the
eye with its verdure; and a light wind blew fresh and bracing
in my face, making my pulses beat faster, although feebly
still. Remembering my happy wood-cutting days, before my
trouble had come to me, I got my ax and started to walk to
the wood; then seeing Yoletta watching my departure from the
terrace, I waved my hand to her. Before I had gone far,
however, she came running to me, full of anxiety, to warn me
that I was not yet strong enough for such work. I assured her
that I had no intention of working hard and tiring myself,
then continued my walk, while she returned to attend on her
mother.

The day was so bright with sunshine that it inspired me with
a kind of passing gladness, and I began to hum snatches of
old half-remembered songs. They were songs of departing
summer, tinged with melancholy, and suggested other verses
not meant for singing, which I began repeating.

   “Rich flowers have perished on the silent
earth—
    Blossoms of valley and of wood that
gave
    A fragrance to the winds.”

And again:

   “The blithesome birds have sought a sunnier
shore;
    They lingered till the cold cold winds
went in
    And withered their green homes.”

And these also were fragments, breathing only of sadness,
which made me resolve to dismiss poetry from my mind and
think of nothing at all. I tried to interest myself in a
flight of buzzard-like hawks, soaring in wide circles at an
immense height above me. Gazing up into that far blue vault,
under which they moved so serenely, and which seemed so
infinite, I remembered how often in former days, when gazing
up into such a sky, I had breathed a prayer to the Unseen
Spirit; but now I recalled the words the father of the house
had spoken to me, and the prayer died unformed in my heart,
and a strange feeling of orphanhood saddened me, and brought
my eyes to earth again.

Half-way to the wood, on an open reach where there were no
trees or bushes, I came on a great company of storks, half a
thousand of them at least, apparently resting on their
travels, for they were all standing motionless, with necks
drawn in, as if dozing. They were very stately, handsome
birds, clear gray in color, with a black collar on the neck,
and red beak and legs. My approach did not disturb them until
I was within twenty yards of the nearest—for they were
scattered over an acre of ground; then they rose with a loud,
rustling noise of wings, only to settle again at a short
distance off.

Incredible numbers of birds, chiefly waterfowl, had appeared
in the neighborhood since the beginning of the wet,
boisterous weather; the river too was filled with these new
visitors, and I was told that most of them were passengers
driven from distant northern regions, which they made their
summer home, and were now flying south in search of a warmer
climate.

All this movement in the feathered world had, during my
troubled days, brought me as little pleasure as the other
changes going on about me: those winged armies ever hurrying
by in broken detachments, wailing and clanging by day and by
night in the clouds, white with their own terror, or
black-plumed like messengers of doom, to my distempered fancy
only added a fresh element of fear to a nature racked with
disorders, and full of tremendous signs and omens.

The interest with which I now remarked these pilgrim storks
seemed to me a pleasant symptom of a return to a saner state
of mind, and before continuing my walk I wished that Yoletta
had been there with me to see them and tell me their history;
for she was curious about such matters, and had a most
wonderful affection for the whole feathered race. She had her
favorites among the birds at different seasons, and the kind
she most esteemed now had been arriving for over a month,
their numbers increasing day by day until the woods and
fields were alive with their flocks.

This kind was named the cloud-bird, on account of its
starling-like habit of wheeling about over its
feeding-ground, the birds throwing themselves into masses,
then scattering and gathering again many times, so that when
viewed at a distance a large flock had the appearance of a
cloud, growing dark and thin alternately, and continually
changing its form. It was somewhat larger than a starling,
with a freer flight, and had a richer plumage, its color
being deep glossy blue, or blue-black, and underneath bright
chestnut. When close at hand and in the bright sunshine, the
aerial gambols of a flock were beautiful to witness, as the
birds wheeled about and displayed in turn, as if moved by one
impulse, first the rich blue, then the bright chestnut
surfaces to the eye. The charming effect was increased by the
bell-like, chirping notes they all uttered together, and as
they swept round or doubled in the air at intervals came
these tempests of melodious sound—a most perfect
expression of wild jubilant bird-life. Yoletta, discoursing
in the most delightful way about her loved cloud-birds, had
told me that they spent the summer season in great solitary
marshes, where they built their nests in the rushes; but with
cold weather they flew abroad, and at such times seemed
always to prefer the neighborhood of man, remaining in great
flocks near the house until the next spring. On this bright
sunny morning I was amazed at the multitudes I saw during my
walk: yet it was not strange that birds were so abundant,
considering that there were no longer any savages on the
earth, with nothing to amuse their vacant minds except
killing the feathered creatures with their bows and arrows,
and no innumerable company of squaws clamorous for
trophies—unchristian women of the woods with painted
faces, insolence in their eyes, and for ornaments the
feathered skins torn from slain birds on their heads.

When I at length arrived at the wood, I went to that spot
where I had felled the large tree on the occasion of my last
and disastrous visit, and where Yoletta, newly released from
confinement, had found me. There lay the rough-barked giant
exactly as I had left it, and once more I began to hack at
the large branches; but my feeble strokes seemed to make
little impression, and becoming tired in a very short time, I
concluded that I was not yet equal to such work, and sat
myself down to rest. I remembered how, when sitting on that
very spot, I had heard a slight rustling of the withered
leaves, and looking up beheld Yoletta coming swiftly towards
me with outstretched arms, and her face shining with joy.
Perhaps she would come again to me to-day: yes, she would
surely come when I wished for her so much; for she had
followed me out to try to dissuade me from going to the
woods, and would be anxiously thinking about me; and she
could spare an hour from the sick-room now. The trees and
bushes would prevent me from seeing her approach, but I
should hear her, as I had heard her before. I sat motionless,
scarcely breathing, straining my sense to catch the first
faint sound of her light, swift step; and every time a small
bird, hopping along the ground, rustled a withered leaf, I
started up to greet and embrace her. But she did not come;
and at last, sick at heart with hope deferred, I covered my
face with my hands, and, weak with misery, cried like a
disappointed child.

Presently something touched me, and, removing my hands from
my face, I saw that great silver-gray dog which had come to
Yoletta’s call when I fainted, sitting before me with his
chin resting on my knees. No doubt he remembered that last
wood-cutting day very well, and had come to take care of me
now.

“Welcome, dear old friend!” said I; and in my craving for
sympathy of some kind I put my arms over him, and pressed my
face against his. Then I sat up again, and gazed into the
pair of clear brown eyes watching my face so gravely.

“Look here, old fellow,” said I, talking audibly to him for
want of something in human shape to address, “you didn’t lick
my face just now when you might have done so with impunity;
and when I speak to you, you don’t wag that beautiful bushy
tail which serves you for ornament. This reminds me that you
are not like the dogs I used to know—the dogs that
talked with their tails, caressed with their tongues, and
were never over-clean or well-behaved. Where are they
now—collies, rat-worrying terriers, hounds, spaniels,
pointers, retrievers—dogs rough and dogs smooth; big
brute boarhounds, St. Bernard’s, mastiffs, nearly or quite as
big as you are, but not so slender, silky-haired, and
sharp-nosed, and without your refined expression of keenness
without cunning. And after these canine noblemen of the old
regime, whither has vanished the countless rabble of
mongrels, curs, and pariah dogs; and last of all—being
more degenerate—the corpulent, blear-eyed, wheezy pet
dogs of a hundred breeds? They are all dead, no doubt: they
have been dead so long that I daresay nature extracted all
the valuable salts that were contained in their flesh and
bones thousands of years ago, and used it for better
things—raindrops, froth of the sea, flowers and fruit,
and blades of grass. Yet there was not a beast in all that
crew of which its master or mistress was not ready to affirm
that it could do everything but talk! No one says that of
you, my gentle guardian; for dog-worship, with all the ten
thousand fungoid cults that sprang up and flourished
exceedingly in the muddy marsh of man’s intellect, has
withered quite away, and left no seed. Yet in intelligence
you are, I fancy, somewhat ahead of your far-off progenitors:
long use has also given you something like a conscience. You
are a good, sensible beast, that’s all. You love and serve
your master, according to your lights; night and day, you,
with your fellows, guard his flocks and herds, his house and
fields. Into his sacred house, however, you do not intrude
your comely countenance, knowing your place.”

“What, then, happened to earth, and how long did that
undreaming slumber last from which I woke to find things so
altered? I do not know, nor does it matter very much. I only
know that there has been a sort of mighty Savonarola bonfire,
in which most of the things once valued have been consumed to
ashes—politics, religions, systems of philosophy, isms
and ologies of all descriptions; schools, churches, prisons,
poorhouses; stimulants and tobacco; kings and parliaments;
cannon with its hostile roar, and pianos that thundered
peacefully; history, the press, vice, political economy,
money, and a million things more—all consumed like so
much worthless hay and stubble. This being so, why am I not
overwhelmed at the thought of it? In that feverish, full
age—so full, and yet, my God, how empty!—in the
wilderness of every man’s soul, was not a voice heard crying
out, prophesying the end? I know that a thought sometimes
came to me, passing through my brain like lightning through
the foliage of a tree; and in the quick, blighting fire of
that intolerable thought, all hopes, beliefs, dreams, and
schemes seemed instantaneously to shrivel up and turn to
ashes, and drop from me, and leave me naked and desolate.
Sometimes it came when I read a book of philosophy; or
listened on a still, hot Sunday to a dull preacher—they
were mostly dull—prosing away to a sleepy, fashionable
congregation about Daniel in the lions’ den, or some other
equally remote matter; or when I walked in crowded
thoroughfares; or when I heard some great politician out of
office—out in the cold, like a miserable working-man
with no work to do—hurling anathemas at an iniquitous
government; and sometimes also when I lay awake in the silent
watches of the night. A little while, the thought said, and
all this will be no more; for we have not found out the
secret of happiness, and all our toil and effort is
misdirected; and those who are seeking for a mechanical
equivalent of consciousness, and those who are going about
doing good, are alike wasting their lives; and on all our
hopes, beliefs, dreams, theories, and enthusiasms, ‘Passing
away’ is written plainly as the Mene, mene, tekel,
upharsin seen by Belshazzar on the wall of his palace in
Babylon.”

“That withering thought never comes to me now. ‘Passing away’
is not written on the earth, which is still God’s green
footstool; the grass was not greener nor the flowers sweeter
when man was first made out of clay, and the breath of life
breathed into his nostrils. And the human family and
race—outcome of all that dead, unimaginable
past—this also appears to have the stamp of
everlastingness on it; and in its tranquil power and majesty
resembles some vast mountain that lifts its head above the
clouds, and has its granite roots deep down in the world’s
center. A feeling of awe is in me when I gaze on it; but it
is vain to ask myself now whether the vanished past, with its
manifold troubles and transitory delights, was preferable to
this unchanging peaceful present. I care for nothing but
Yoletta; and if the old world was consumed to ashes that she
might be created, I am pleased that it was so consumed; for
nobler than all perished hopes and ambitions is the hope that
I may one day wear that bright, consummate flower on my
bosom.”

“I have only one trouble now—a wolf that follows me
everywhere, always threatening to rend me to pieces with its
black jaws. Not you, old friend—a great, gaunt,
man-eating, metaphorical wolf, far more terrible than that
beast of the ancients which came to the poor man’s door. In
the darkness its eyes, glowing like coals, are ever watching
me, and even in the bright daylight its shadowy form is ever
near me, stealing from bush to bush, or from room to room,
always dogging my footsteps. Will it ever vanish, like a mere
phantom—a wolf of the brain—or will it come
nearer and more near, to spring upon and rend me at the last?
If they could only clothe my mind as they have my body, to
make me like themselves with no canker at my heart, ever
contented and calmly glad! But nothing comes from taking
thought. I am sick of thought—I hate it! Away with it!
I shall go and look for Yoletta, since she does not come to
me. Good-by, old friend, you have been well-behaved and
listened with considerable patience to a long discourse. It
will benefit you about as much as I have been benefited by
many a lecture and many a sermon I was compelled to listen to
in the old vanished days.”

Bestowing another caress on him I got up and went back to the
house, thinking sadly as I walked that the bright weather had
not yet greatly improved my spirits.

Chapter 20

Arrived at the house I was again disappointed at not seeing
Yoletta; yet without reasonable cause, since it was scarcely
past midday, and she came out from attending on her mother
only at long intervals—in the morning, and again just
before evening—to taste the freshness of nature for a
few minutes.

The music-room was deserted when I went there; but it was
made warm and pleasant by the sun shining brightly in at the
doors opening to the south. I went on to the extreme end of
the room, remembering now that I had seen some volumes there
when I had no time or inclination to look at them, and I
wanted something to read; for although I found reading very
irksome at this period, there was really little else I could
do. I found the books—three volumes—in the lower
part of an alcove in the wall; above them, within a niche in
the alcove, on a level with my face as I stood there, I
observed a bulb-shaped bottle, with a long thin neck, very
beautifully colored. I had seen it before, but without paying
particular attention to it, there being so many treasures of
its kind in the house; now, seeing it so closely, I could not
help admiring its exquisite beauty, and feeling puzzled at
the scene depicted on it. In the widest part it was encircled
with a band, and on it appeared slim youths and maidens, in
delicate, rose-colored garments, with butterfly wings on
their shoulders, running or hurriedly walking, playing on
instruments of various forms, their faces shining with
gladness, their golden hair tossed by the wind—a gay
procession, without beginning or end. Behind these joyful
ones, in pale gray, and half-obscured by the mists that
formed the background, appeared a second procession, hurrying
in an opposite direction—men and women of all ages, but
mostly old, with haggard, woebegone faces; some bowed down,
their eyes fixed on the ground; others wringing their hands,
or beating their breasts; and all apparently suffering the
utmost affliction of mind.

Above the bottle there was a deep circular cell in the
alcove, about fifteen inches in diameter; fitted in it was a
metal ring, to which were attached golden strings, fine as
gossamer threads: behind the first ring was a second, and
further in still others, all stringed like the first, so that
looking into the cell it appeared filled with a mist of
golden cobweb.

Drawing a cushioned seat to this secluded nook, where no
person passing casually through the room would be able to see
me, I sat down, and feeling too indolent to get myself a
reading-stand, I supported the volume I had taken up to read
on my knees. It was entitled Conduct and Ceremonial,
and the subject-matter was divided into short sections, each
with an appropriate heading. Turning over the leaves, and
reading a sentence here and there in different sections, it
occurred to me that this might prove a most useful work for
me to study, whenever I could bring my mind into the right
frame for such a task; for it contained minute instructions
upon all points relating to individual conduct in the
house—as the entertainment of pilgrims, the dress to be
worn, and the conduct to be observed at the various annual
festivals, with other matters of the kind. Glancing through
it in this rapid way, I soon finished with the first volume,
then went through the second in even less time, for many of
the concluding sections related to lugubrious subjects which
I did not care to linger over; the titles alone were enough
to trouble me—Decay through Age, Ailments of Mind and
of Body; then Death, and, finally, the Disposal of the Dead.
This done I took up the third volume, the last of the series,
the first portion of which was headed, Renewal of the
Family. This part I began to examine with some attention,
and pretty soon discovered that I had now at last
accidentally stumbled upon a perfect mine of information of
the precise kind I had so long and so vainly been seeking.
Struggling to overcome my agitation I read on, hurrying
through page after page with the greatest rapidity; for there
was here much matter that had no special interest for me, but
incidentally the things which concerned me most to know were
touched on, and in some cases minutely explained. As I
proceeded, the prophetic gloom which had oppressed me all
that day, and for so many days before, darkened to the
blackness of despair, and suddenly throwing up my arms, the
book slipped from my knees and fell with a crash upon the
floor. There, face downwards, with its beautiful leaves
doubled and broken under its weight, it rested unheeded at my
feet. For now the desired knowledge was mine, and that dream
of happiness which had illumined my life was over. Now I
possessed the secret of that passionless, everlasting calm of
beings who had for ever outlived, and left as immeasurably
far behind as the instincts of the wolf and ape, the
strongest emotion of which my heart was capable. For the
children of the house there could be no union by marriage; in
body and soul they differed from me: they had no name for
that feeling which I had so often and so vainly declared;
therefore they had told me again and again that there was
only one kind of love, for they, alas! could experience one
kind only. I did not, for the moment, seek further in the
book, or pause to reflect on that still unexplained mystery,
which was the very center and core of the whole mater,
namely, the existence of the father and mother in the house,
from whose union the family was renewed, and who, fruitful
themselves, were yet the parents of a barren race. Nor did I
ask who their successors would be: for albeit long-lived,
they were mortal like their own passionless children, and in
this particular house their lives appeared now to be drawing
to an end. These were questions I cared nothing about. It was
enough to know that Yoletta could never love me as I loved
her—that she could never be mine, body and soul, in my
way and not in hers. With unspeakable bitterness I recalled
my conversation with Chastel: now all her professions of
affection and goodwill, all her schemes for smoothing my way
and securing my happiness, seemed to me the veriest mockery,
since even she had read my heart no better than the others,
and that chill moonlight felicity, beyond which her children
were powerless to imagine anything, had no charm for my
passion-torn heart.

Presently, when I began to recover somewhat from my
stupefaction, and to realize the magnitude of my loss, the
misery of it almost drove me mad. I wished that I had never
made this fatal discovery, that I might have continued still
hoping and dreaming, and wearing out my heart with striving
after the impossible, since any fate would have been
preferable to the blank desolation which now confronted me. I
even wished to possess the power of some implacable god or
demon, that I might shatter the sacred houses of this later
race, and destroy them everlastingly, and repeople the
peaceful world with struggling, starving millions, as in the
past, so that the beautiful flower of love which had withered
in men’s hearts might blossom again.

While these insane thoughts were passing through my brain I
had risen from my seat, and stood leaning against the edge of
the alcove, with that curious richly-colored bottle close to
my eyes. There were letters on it, noticed now for the first
time—minute, hair-like lines beneath the
strange-contrasted processionists depicted on the
band—and even in my excited condition I was a little
startled when these letters, forming the end of a sentence,
shaped themselves into the words—and for the old
life there shall be a new life.

Turning the bottle round I read the whole sentence. When
time and disease oppress, and the sun grows cold in heaven,
and there is no longer any joy on the earth, and the fire of
love grows cold in the heart, drink of me, and for the old
life there shall be a new life.

“Another important secret!” thought I; “this day has
certainly been fruitful in discoveries. A panacea for all
diseases, even for the disease of old age, so that a man may
live two hundred years, and still find some pleasure in
existence. But for me life has lost its savor, and I have no
wish to last so long. There is more writing
here—another secret perhaps, but I doubt very much that
it will give me any comfort.”

When your soul is darkened, so that it is hard to know
evil from good, and the thoughts that are in you lead to
madness, drink of me, and be cured.

“No, I shall not drink and be cured! Better a thousand times
the thoughts that lead to madness than this colorless
existence without love. I do not wish to recover from so
sweet a malady.”

I took the bottle in my hand and unstopped it. The stopper
formed a curious little cup, round the rim of which was
written, Drink of me. I poured some of the liquid out
into the cup; it was pale yellow in color, and had a faint
sickly smell as of honeysuckles. Then I poured it back again
and replaced the bottle in its niche.

Drink and be cured. No, not yet. Some day, perhaps, my
trouble increasing till it might no longer be borne, would
drive me to seek such dreary comfort as this cure-all bottle
contained. To love without hope was sad enough, but to be
without love was even sadder.

I had grown calm now: the knowledge that I had it in my power
to escape at once and for eyer from that rage of desire, had
served to sober my mind, and at last I began to reason about
the matter. The nature of my secret feelings could never be
suspected, and in the unsubstantial realm of the imagination
it would still be in my power to hide myself with my love,
and revel in all supreme delight. Would not that be better
than this cure—this calm contentment held out to me?
And in time also my feelings would lose their present
intensity, which often made them an agony, and would come at
last to exist only as a gentle rapture stirring in my heart
when I clasped my darling to my bosom and pressed her sweet
lips with mine. Ah, no! that was a vain dream, I could not be
deceived by it; for who can say to the demon of passion in
him, thus far shalt thou go and no further?

Perplexed in mind and unable to decide which thing was best,
my troubled thoughts at length took me back to that far-off
dead past, when the passion of love was so much in man’s
life. It was much; but in that over-populated world it
divided the empire of his soul with a great, ever-growing
misery—the misery of the hungry ones whose minds were
darkened, through long years of decadence, with a sullen rage
against God and man; and the misery of those who, wanting
nothing, yet feared that the end of all things was coming to
them.

For the space of half an hour I pondered on these things,
then said: “If I were to tell a hundredth part of this black
retrospect to Yoletta, would not she bid me drink and forget,
and herself pour out the divine liquor, and press it to my
lips?”

Again I took the bottle with trembling hand, and filled the
same small cup to the brim, saying: “For your sake then,
Yoletta, let me drink, and be cured; for this is what you
desire, and you are more to me than life or passion or
happiness. But when this consuming fire has left
me—this feeling which until now burns and palpitates in
every drop of my blood, every fiber of my being—I know
that you shall still be to me a sweet, sacred sister and
immaculate bride, worshipped more of my soul than any mother
in the house; that loving and being loved by you shall be my
one great joy all my life long.”

I drained the cup deliberately, then stopped the bottle and
put it back in its place. The liquor was tasteless, but
colder than ice, and made me shiver when I swallowed it. I
began to wonder whether I would be conscious of the change it
was destined to work in me or not; and then, half regretting
what I had done, I wished that Yoletta would come to me, so
that I might clasp her in my arms with all the old fervor
once more, before that icy-cold liquor had done its work.
Finally, I carefully raised the fallen book, and smoothed out
its doubled leaves, regretting that I had injured it; and,
sitting down again, I held the open volume as before, resting
on my knees. Now, however, I perceived that it had opened at
a place some pages in advance of the passages which had
excited me; but, feeling no desire to go back to resume my
reading just where I had left off, my eyes mechanically
sought the top of the page before me, and this is what I
read:

“…make choice of one of the daughters of the house; it is
fitting that she should rejoice for that brighter excellence
which caused her to be raised to so high a state, and to have
authority over all others, since in her, with the father, all
the majesty and glory of the house is centered; albeit with a
solemn and chastened joy, like that of the pilgrim who,
journeying to some distant tropical region of the earth, and
seeing the shores of his native country fading from sight,
thinks at one and the same time of the unimaginable beauties
of nature and art that fire his mind and call him away, and
of the wide distance which will hold him for many years
divided from all familiar scenes and the beings he loves
best, and of the storms and perils of the great wilderness of
waves, into which so many have ventured and have not
returned. For now a changed body and soul shall separate her
forever from those who were one in nature with her; and with
that superior happiness destined to be hers there shall be
the pains and perils of childbirth, with new griefs and cares
unknown to those of humbler condition. But on that lesser
gladness had by the children of the house in her exaltation,
and because there will be a new mother in the house—one
chosen from themselves—there shall be no cloud or
shadow; and, taking her by the hand, and kissing her face in
token of joy, and of that new filial love and obedience which
will be theirs, they shall lead her to the Mother’s Room,
thereafter to be inhabited by her as long as life lasts. And
she shall no longer serve in the house or suffer rebuke; but
all shall serve her in love, and hold her in reverence, who
is their predestined mother. And for the space of one year
she shall be without authority in the house, being one apart,
instructing herself in the secret books which it is not
lawful for another to read, and observing day by day the
directions contained therein, until that new knowledge and
practice shall ripen her for that state she has been chosen
to fill.”

This passage was a fresh revelation to me. Again I recalled
Chastel’s words, her repeated assurances that she knew what
was passing in my mind, that her eyes saw things more clearly
than others could see them, that only by giving me the desire
of my heart could the one remaining hope of her life be
fulfilled. Now I seemed able to understand these dark
sayings, and a new excitement, full of the joy of hope,
sprang up in me, making me forget the misery I had so
recently experienced, and even that increasing sensation of
intense cold caused by the draught from the mysterious
bottle.

I continued reading, but the above passage was succeeded by
minute instructions, extending over several pages, concerning
the dress, both for ordinary and extraordinary occasions, to
be worn by the chosen daughter during her year of
preparation: the conduct to be observed by her towards other
members of the family, also towards pilgrims visiting the
house in the interval, with many other matters of secondary
importance. Impatient to reach the end, I tried to turn the
leaves rapidly, but now found that my arm had grown strangely
stiff and cold, and seemed like an arm of iron when I raised
it, so that the turning over of each leaf was an immense
labor. Then I read yet another page, but with the utmost
difficulty; for, notwithstanding the eagerness of my mind, my
eyes began to remain more and more rigidly fixed on the
center of the leaf, so that I could scarcely force them to
follow the lines. Here I read that the bride-elect, her year
of preparation being over, rises before daylight, and goes
out alone to an appointed place at a great distance from the
house, there to pass several hours in solitude and silence,
communing with her own heart. Meanwhile, in the house all the
others array themselves in purple garments, and go out
singing at sunrise to gather flowers to adorn their heads;
then, proceeding to the appointed spot, they seek for their
new mother, and, finding her, lead her home with music and
rejoicing.

When, reading in this miserable, painful way, I had reached
the bottom of the page, and attempted to turn it over, I
found that I could no longer move my hand—my arms being
now like arms of iron, absolutely devoid of sensation, while
my hands, rigidly grasping the book like the hands of a
frozen corpse, held it upright and motionless before me. I
tried to start up and shake off this strange deadness from my
body, but was powerless to move a muscle. What was the
meaning of this condition? for I had absolutely no pain, no
discomfort even; for the sensation of intense cold had almost
ceased, and my mind was active and clear, and I could hear
and see, and yet was as powerless as if I had been buried in
a marble coffin a thousand fathoms deep in earth.

Suddenly I remembered the draught from the bottle, and a
terrible doubt shot through my heart. Alas! had I mistaken
the meaning of those strange words I had read?—was
death the cure which that mysterious vessel promised
to those who drank of its contents? “When life becomes a
burden, it is good to lay it down”; now too late the words of
the father, when reproving me after my fever, came back to my
mind in all their awful significance.

All at once I heard a voice calling my name, and in a moment
the tempest in me was stilled. Yes, it was my darling’s
voice—she was coming to me—she would save me in
this dire extremity. Again and again she called, but the
voice now sounded further and further away; and with
ineffable anguish I remembered that she would not be able to
see me where I sat. I tried to cry out, “Come quick, Yoletta,
and save me from death!” but though I mentally repeated the
words again and again in an extreme agony of terror, my
frozen tongue refused to make a sound. Presently I heard a
light, quick step on the floor, then Yoletta’s clear voice.

“Oh, I have found you at last!” she cried. “I have been
seeking you all over the house. I have something glad to tell
you—something to make you happier than on that
day—do you remember?—when you saw me coming to
you in the wood. The mother has left her chamber at last; she
is in the Mother’s Room again, waiting impatiently to see
you. Come, come!”

Her words sounded distinctly in my ears, and although I could
not lift or turn my rigid eyes to see her, yet I seemed to
see her now better than ever before, with some fresh glory,
as of a new, unaccustomed gladness or excitement enhancing
her unsurpassed loveliness, so clearly at that moment did her
image shine in my soul! And not hers only, for now suddenly,
by a miracle of the mind, the entire family appeared there
before me; and in the midst sat Chastel, my sweet, suffering
mother, as on that day after my illness when she had pardoned
me, and put out her hand for me to kiss. As on that occasion,
now—now she was gazing on me with such divine love and
compassion in her eyes, her lips half parted, and a slight
color flushing her pale face, recalling to it the bloom and
radiance of which cruel disease had robbed her! And in my
soul also, at that supreme moment, like a scene starting at
the lightning’s flash out of thick darkness, shone the image
of the house, with all its wide, tranquil rooms rich in art
and ancient memories, every stone within them glowing, with
everlasting beauty—a house enduring as the green plains
and rushing rivers and solemn woods and world-old hills amid
which it was set like a sacred gem! O sweet abode of love and
peace and purity of heart! O bliss surpassing that of the
angels! O rich heritage, must I lose you for ever! Save me
from death, Yoletta, my love, my bride—save
me—save me—save me!

Then something touched or fell on my neck, and at the same
moment a deeper shadow passed over the page before me, with
all its rich coloring floating formless, like vapors,
mingling and separating, or dancing before my vision, like
bright-winged insects hovering in the sunlight; and I knew
that she was bending over me, her hand on my neck, her loose
hair falling on my forehead.

In that enforced stillness and silence I waited expectant for
some moments.

Then a great cry, as of one who suddenly sees a black
phantom, rang out loud in the room, jarring my brain with the
madness of its terror, and striking as with a hundred
passionate hands on all the hidden harps in wall and roof;
and the troubled sounds came back to me, now loud and now
low, burdened with an infinite anguish and despair, as of
voices of innumerable multitudes wandering in the sunless
desolations of space, every voice reverberating anguish and
despair; and the successive reverberations lifted me like
waves and dropped me again, and the waves grew less and the
sounds fainter, then fainter still, and died in everlasting
silence.