II

Of the life that Paul lived with Mark I must not here tell; but before

he grew to full manhood he had learned his art well. Mark was a strict

master, but not impatient. The only thing that angered him was

carelessness or listlessness; and Paul was an apt and untiring pupil,

and learnt so easily and deftly that Mark was often astonished. "How did

you learn that?" he said one day suddenly to Paul when the boy was

practising on the lute, and played a strange soft cadence, of a kind

that Mark had never heard. The boy was startled by the question, for he

had not thought that Mark was listening to him. He looked up with a

blush and turned his eyes on Mark. "Is it not right?" he said. "I did

not learn it; it comes from somewhere in my mind."

Paul learnt to play several instruments, both wind and string. Sometimes

he loved one sort the best, sometimes the other. The wind instruments of

wood had to him a kind of soft magic, like the voice of a gentle spirit,

a spirit that dwelt in lonely unvisited places, and communed more with

things of earth than the hearts of men. In the flutes and bassoons

seemed to him to dwell the voices of airs that murmured in the thickets,

the soft gliding of streams, the crooning of serene birds, the peace of

noonday, the welling of clear springs, the beauty of little waves, the

bright thoughts of stars. Sometimes in certain modes, they could be sad,

but it was the sadness of lonely homeless things, old dreaming spirits

of wind and wave, not the sadness of such things as had known love and

lost what they had loved, but the melancholy of such forlorn beings as

by their nature were shut out from the love that dwells about the

firelit hearth and the old roofs of homesteads. It was the sadness of

the wind that wails in desolate places, knowing that it is lonely, but

not knowing what it desires; or the soft sighing of trees that murmur

all together in a forest, dreaming each its own dream, but with no

thought of comradeship or desire.

The metal instruments, out of which the cunning breath could draw bright

music, seemed to him soulless too in a sort, but shrill and enlivening.

These clarions and trumpets spoke to him of brisk morning winds, or the

cold sharp plunge of green waves that leap in triumph upon rocks. To

such sounds he fancied warriors marching out at morning, with the joy of

fight in their hearts, meaning to deal great blows, to slay and be

slain, and hardly thinking of what would come after, so sharp and swift

an eagerness of spirit held them; but these instruments he loved less.

Best of all he loved the resounding strings that could be twanged by the

quill, or swept into a heavenly melody by the finger-tips, or throb

beneath the strongly-drawn bow. In all of these lay the secrets of the

heart; in these Paul heard speak the bright dreams of the child, the

vague hopes of growing boy or girl, the passionate desires of love, the

silent loyalty of equal friendship, the dreariness of the dejected

spirit, whose hopes have set like the sun smouldering to his fall, the

rebellious grief of the heart that loses what it loves, the darkening

fears that begin to roll about the ageing mind, like clouds that weep on

mountain tops, and the despair of sinners, finding the evil too strong.

Best of all it was when all these instruments could conspire together to

weave a sudden dream of beauty that seemed to guard a secret. What was

the secret? It seemed so near to Paul sometimes, as if he were like a

man very near the edge of some mountain from which he may peep into an

unknown valley. Sometimes it was far away. But it was there, he doubted

not, though it hid itself. It was like a dance of fairies in a forest

glade, which a man could half discern through the screening leaves; but,

when he gains the place, he sees nothing but tall flowers with drooping

bells, bushes set with buds, large-leaved herbs, all with a silent,

secret, smiling air, as though they said, "We have seen, we could tell."

Paul seemed very near this baffling secret at times; in the dewy silence

of mornings, just before the sun comes up, when familiar woods and trees

stand in a sort of musing happiness; at night when the sky is thickly

sown with stars, or when the moon rises in a soft hush and silvers the

sleeping pool; or when the sun goes down in a rich pomp, trailing a

great glow of splendour with him among cloudy islands, all flushed with

fiery red. When the sun withdrew himself thus, flying and flaring to

the west, behind the boughs of leafless trees, what was the hidden

secret presence that stood there as it were finger on lip, inviting yet

denying? Paul knew within himself that if he could but say or sing this,

the world would never forget. But he could not yet.

Then, too, Paul learned the magic of words, the melodious accent of

letters, sometimes so sweet, sometimes so harsh; then the growing

phrase, the word that beckons as it were other words to join it

trippingly; the thought that draws the blood to the brain, and sets the

heart beating swiftly--he learned the words that sound like far-off

bells, or that wake a gentle echo in the spirit, the words that burn

into the heart, and make the hearer ashamed of all that is hard and low.

But he learned, too, that the craftsman in words must not build up his

song word by word, as a man fetches bricks to make a wall; but that he

must see the whole thought clear first, in a kind of divine flash, so

that when he turns for words to write it, he finds them piled to his

hand.

All these things Paul learnt, and day by day he suffered all the sweet

surprises and joys of art. There were days that were not so, when the

strings jangled aimlessly, and seemed to have no soul in them; days when

it appeared that the cloud could not lift, as though light and music

together were dead in the world--but these days were few; and Paul

growing active and strong, caring little what he ate and drank, tasting

no wine, because it fevered him at first, and then left him ill at ease,

knowing no evil or luxurious thoughts, sleeping lightly and hardly,

found his spirits very pure and plentiful; or if he was sad, it was a

clear sadness that had something beautiful within it, and dwelt not on

any past grossness of his own, but upon the thought that all beautiful

things can but live for a time, and must then be laid away in the

darkness and in the cold.

So Paul grew up knowing neither friendship nor love, only stirred at

the sight of a beautiful face, a shapely hand, or a slender form; by a

grateful wonder for what was so fair; untainted by any desire to master

it, or make it his own; living only for his art, and with a sort of

blind devotion to Mark, whom he soon excelled, though he knew it not.

Mark once said to him, when Paul had made a song of some old forgotten

sorrow, "How do you know all this, boy? You have not suffered, you have

not lived!" "Oh," said Paul gaily, knowing it to be praise, "my heart

tells me it is so."

Paul, too, as he grew to manhood, found himself with a voice that was

not loud, but true--a voice that thrilled those who heard it through and

through; but it seemed strange that he felt not what he made other men

feel; rather his music was like a still pool that can reflect all that

is above it, the sombre tree, the birds that fly over, the starry

silence of the night, the angry redness of the dawn.

It was on one of his journeys with Mark that the news of Mistress

Alison's death reached him. Mark told him very carefully and tenderly,

and while he repeated the three or four broken words in which Mistress

Alison had tried to send a last message to Paul--for the end had come

very suddenly--Mark himself found his voice falter, and his eyes fill

with tears. Paul had, at that sight, cried a little; but his life at the

House of Heritage seemed to have faded swiftly out of his thoughts; he

was living very intently in the present, scaling, as it were, day by

day, with earnest effort, the steep ladder of song. He thought a little

upon Mistress Alison, and on all her love and goodness: but it was with

a tranquil sorrow, and not with the grief and pain of loss. Mark was

very gentle with him for awhile; and this indeed did shame Paul a

little, to find himself being used so lovingly for a sorrow which he was

hardly feeling. But he said to himself that sorrow must come unbidden,

and that it was no sorrow that was made with labour and intention. He

was a little angered with himself for his dulness--but then song was so

beautiful, that he could think of nothing else; he was dazzled.

A little while after, Mark asked him whether, as they were near at hand,

he would turn aside to see Mistress Alison's grave. And Paul said, "No;

I would rather feel it were all as it used to be!"--and then seeing that

Mark looked surprised and almost grieved, Paul, with the gentle

hypocrisy of childhood, said, "I cannot bear it yet," which made Mark

silent, and he said no more, but used Paul more gently than ever.

One day Mark said to him, very gravely, as if he had long been pondering

the matter, "It is time for me to take another pupil, Paul. I have

taught you all I know; indeed you have learned far more than I can

teach." Then he told him that he had arranged all things meetly. That

there was a certain Duke who lacked a minstrel, and that Paul should go

and abide with him. That he should have his room at the castle, and

should be held in great honour, making music only when he would. And

then Mark would have added some words of love, for he loved Paul as a

son. But Paul seemed to have no hunger in his heart, no thought of the

days they had spent together; so Mark said them not. But he added very

gently, "And one thing, Paul, I must tell you. You will be a great

master--indeed you are so already--and I can tell you nothing about the

art that you do not know. But one thing I will tell you--that you have a

human heart within you that is not yet awake: and when it awakes, it

will be very strong; so that a great combat, I think, lies before you.

See that it overcome you not!" And Paul said wondering, "Oh, I have a

heart, but it is altogether given to song." And so Mark was silent.

Then Paul went to the Duke's Castle of Wresting and abode with him year

after year. Here, too, he made no friend; he was gracious with all, and

of a lofty courtesy, so that he was had in reverence; and he made such

music that the tears would come into the eyes of those who heard him,

and they would look at each other, and wonder how Paul could thus tell

the secret hopes of the heart. There were many women in the castle,

great ladies, young maidens, and those that attended on them. Some of

these would have proffered love to Paul, but their glances fell before a

certain cold, virginal, almost affronted look, that he turned to meet

any smile or gesture that seemed to hold in it any personal claim, or to

offer any gift but that of an equal and serene friendship. As a maiden

of the castle once said, provoked by his coldness, "Sir Paul seems to

have everything to say to all of us, but nothing to any one of us." He

was kind to all with a sort of great and distant courtesy that was too

secure even to condescend. And so the years passed away.