HAPPY PAIRS.
Meanwhile, the young people had been reveling in their happiness, and
this bright, smooth sailing over the Middle Sea. The hours were winged.
As well were they winged to Pelop and Peloppa, whose eyes found constant
entertainment, whose tongues, continual employment. Even Pyrrha and
Deucalion were as fruitful a source of interest as the young lovers.
Thus, Pelop and Peloppa were ever finding means to get upon their vessel
that they might watch the tender emotions so prevalent.
One soft, breezeless, starlit evening, the friends met together on
Pyrrha’s vessel. Of course, conversation was not long in reaching its
accustomed height; when, in the midst of the noise, Hellen, who had been
standing at the stern, came beside Electra.
“Electra, it is the night for a ride. Let us get in the boat. It
tempteth as it followeth in such ease.”
For the fantastic boat had been attached to the vessel; and it was
Deucalion and Pyrrha’s habit to sit in it of mornings, and be pulled
slowly or swiftly, as the vessel pleased.
Hellen’s tone, though subdued, was most eager. Thus, Electra, who had
never been in the boat, and who longed for the ride, answered fitly,
“Yea.” And at once arose and walked off with him.
When they were at the stern, and looking over, Pelop, who had apparently
been all intent upon some remark of Ephes, turned and confided:
“Ah, Peloppa, but that young Hellen is a wary one! Didst thou note him?
Well can I see what he meaneth.”
Peloppa, who had been no less interested, returned, “I have lost naught.
And how quick is she to further him. What haste was in her gait, what
hope was in her eye. Is that Atlantean modesty?”
“She hath no thought of his meaning.” Pelop’s tone was indignant. “If
she had thought of it, she would have looked wise, and said ‘Nay,’
however much against her will. As if I know not young women!”
“That is thou dost flatter thyself thou knowest them.”
“Thou canst not deny I have had my trials.” Here he coughed and winked
in his waggish way, so that Peloppa laughed, as she retorted:
“Of a truth, thy trials have been sore—if thou meanest me. Ah, to think
I was once young, Pelop. And what a race I led thee. There was no such
willing way as this, though I felt but the more willing within.”
“That is why I boast of my trials. When thou saidst ‘Nay,’ and ran away,
I read thee, and laughed. But caught thee soon.”
“Forsake not the truth, Pelop. And—young was I.”
“Of a truth, wert thou young. And art young still. Therefore, in thy
youth of body and mirth of spirit, go not beyond the bounds of kind
thought. I speak of Electra.”
“Thou hast the right, as ever, Pelop. I fear I have judged in haste.
But, as thou knowest so well young women, thou shouldst have knowledge,
also, of riper ones. We love to set up our sex in judgment.”
“And yet, after judging, are but the more ready to forgive,” was the
gallant answer.
Pelop, honor to him, was right. In all innocence had Electra gone with
Hellen. So, when he had descended the ladder, brought the boat well
under it, and attached it, she was ready to follow him; and did. When at
the bottom, she turned, and held out her hand to make the spring.
Hellen, as he stood firmly in the boat, spoke in calmest of tones:
“Jump, Electra.”
She obeyed, holding out both hands to him. But ignoring the hands, he
caught herself, to hug her close and with the strength of his eager
young love as he drew her down to a seat. Rapturous was his whisper,
“Now have I thee to myself, Electra!”
It must be confessed that, for the moment, Electra was helpless from
delight. But, womanlike, in the next, she rallied to say and do that
which was most foreign to her inclination. For all the times were so
ancient, she remonstrated with the usual dignified manner of to-day.
“Shame, Hellen! Let me go. Thou dost forget thyself!”
“Forget myself, Electra! At last am I acting my true self. At last am I
doing what I have longed for day and night, at last I clasp thee!” Here
he hugged her even harder. “And thus clasping thee, could I die, did I
think thou wouldst not look upon me. For beyond words art thou dear—as
thou shouldst know. Now, wilt thou be my wife?”
This suddenness was overwhelming. But such was Hellen. As she struggled
to free herself, she spoke with fine reason. “For thee to talk of
wedding! Thou art too young. As am I. Let me go.”
“Never—until thou answerest.”
“Give me but breath to answer.”
“Make not merry. Come, let me see thine eyes.”
Hard he tried to turn her head; but she was strong, firm. There, under
the starlight, with the noise of the talking above, and to the purling
of the water against the neighboring vessels, they both persisted, he in
holding her, and she in trying to get away. Pathetically, he continued:
“As thou sayest, Electra, we are young in years, but thou canst not add
we are young in sorrowing. We are ages old in that we have borne!”
Too much was this for Electra. The dreadful past at once swept over her.
She thought of that time when she had first beheld Hellen in the temple;
of the swift outgoing of her sympathy, aye, love; of those meetings in
which she had come to know of his independence, his impetuosity, his
agonies. Then her eyes suffusing, she turned to look at him—looked to
perceive the old anxiety reappearing, for again was he doubting,
fearing. And this decided her. No more suffering should be his through
her. Instantly, her struggling ceased. Then her arms got about him to
fond murmuring,
“As if ever I could forget aught that thou hast borne. Hellen—dear
Hellen!”
His was then the distraction of joy. In a mad way did he embrace her,
the while whispering vehemently, “Electra, as soon as we set foot in
Pelasgia, will we wed.”
Intent upon soothing him, she answered, “Yea, yea, Hellen, we will. But
I beg thee to be calm. I worry for thee.”
He held her close, not speaking. She subjoined in a faint tone, for the
pressure was trying,
“Hellen, I beg, let us behave.”
“Callest thou not this behaving?” he entreated.
She had to laugh; and this so impaired the small quantity of breath
remaining that he was obliged to hold her more at arm’s length. And well
was it that he did. For scarcely were his arms removed than a voice was
heard above. In the next instant, Deucalion was looking over at them,
and marveling at the staid manner in which they were comporting
themselves.
“How is it with you?” he inquired dryly.
“Never as well, Father! Come down.”
“I think not.”
“But I beg thee, Father. We have somewhat to tell thee.”
“Can it not wait?”
“Not many moments. Come—come!”
Therefore, Deucalion descended. When he was well steadied in the boat,
Hellen said, with due caution, “Father—but now—have I asked Electra to
be my wife.”
Hellen had thought to overwhelm his father. But nothing of the kind, for
Deucalion only looked from one to the other with provoking coolness. “So
I judged. I knew why thou didst wish Electra to come down here. We all
did.”
“Father!”
“Thinkest thou we are blind? Hath it not long been clear that thyself
and Electra would come to this? It is nature, and cannot be hid.—Come,
Electra, look at me.”
Electra, after several invitations, complied; but her eyes were
shifting, and her color high. Deucalion, that he might reassure her,
said, with much affection, “Electra, after Æole, no one could be so dear
a daughter as thou. Of this, thou shouldst be sure.”
She murmured, “Yea, yea, I know it.” Then with more strength, added,
“And where could I find such a father?”
“I know thy mind. We are both pleased. So now to tell those above. Now
to delight Pelop and Peloppa after thy mother.”
“What meanest thou, Father?”
“It is that Pelop and Peloppa, after thy mother and myself, have looked
with strong favor upon thy heart for each other.”
Great was the astonishment of the two. “But—how knew they it, Father?”
“Call to mind that thyself and Electra have been so bent upon this as to
be without eyes for others.”
“True—true!”
“Thus was I. Thy mother caused me to think of naught but herself.”
“Then canst thou feel for us. For, will not I feel with my children when
they come to this? Ah, but they will find in me the feeling they crave,
that sweet knowledge they will believe none have known but themselves.
Yea, this my delight, will live again in theirs. Its memory, even, will
be delight. Thinkest thou not with me, Electra?”
Scarcely could Electra reply to so much. But Deucalion spoke for her.
“Hellen, leave that which may happen in the coming years to itself. Come
back to the present. There art thou on safe ground. There can Electra
answer thee. And that she may answer, I will leave you together, while I
go to tell those above.”
“That is it, Father. After some little time, will we follow thee.”
“Take thy time—take thy time. Life is too short to be in a hurry.” With
these last wise words, and a merry twinkling of the eyes toward the
blushing Electra, he turned to ascend the ladder.
But the bliss of being left to themselves was like all bliss in general.
It did not last long. Scarce seemed it a minute when Pyrrha’s voice was
heard calling to them. Thus warned, they sat up properly to await the
moment when her dear eyes should be looking down upon them. Then it was,
“Come, come, my children. Come, that I may clasp you.”
“Ah, Mother, if thou wouldst but wait a little. I have but just begun!”
“Hellen!” reprimanded Electra; and so comically that Deucalion, who was
peering over, burst into a laugh. This brought all the friends about him
to peer over also. Foremost was Pelop. Upon catching his roguish look,
Hellen was forced to laugh himself, though he said thereafter,
lugubriously: “Electra, up will we go. No peace is our own for this
night, I know.”
So, up they hastened to be caressed and congratulated in Pyrrha’s
sweetest fashion, and then set upon by the friends and the rather
pensive Sensel. As to Æole, she was in such a flutter of sympathy and
delight that her lips refused duty, though her eyes answered for both:
and her blushes almost equaled Electra’s.
High ran the enthusiasm. Then succeeded the usual calm. So it was that
the plighted ones fell to regarding each other in surprise. It seemed as
though months had passed, so much at home did they feel in this new
condition. Upon parting for the night, Electra whispered:
“Of a truth, Hellen, it seemeth an age since we left the boat.”
The world was now of a rare brightness to these lovers, and this
increased in quality, if possible, with the days. Sensel, beholding,
rejoiced; and yet pined with envy. Why could not he become thus positive
as regarded Æole? It was sinful further to fritter away the precious
time! He, like Hellen, must make opportunity. But how? The boat was an
old story. What could he devise instead?
Thus he fell to planning, as his eyes followed wistfully the happy pair
that were ever moving about together. He and Æole might be as they. Yet
were the precious hours wasting.
Not that Sensel was always following with his eyes this couple. No, it
was only at such times as Æole was not in sight; otherwise his
absorption was in her, and was ecstatic. For with the happiness that had
come about her, she had grown even lovelier; and further, seemed to
tread the air. Besides, several times had Sensel surprised her regarding
intently himself when he had turned back to look upon her—and to her
evident discomfiture. For it must be admitted that, at such times, she
was deep in thought to some such effect:
“What a noble beauty covereth the good in Sensel! What an air, what a
movement is his! He walketh not—he soareth! Never was there such grace,
such a tread in man before. It is no wonder he could so well take his
strange part. And, can I ever cease to think upon him as Sensel? Hard is
it ever to bring to mind that he is Prince Pelasgus, harder to call him
that. Ever will he be to me Sensel—dear Sensel. And to think that his
was the voice!”
But Sensel would have been no true, ardent lover had he not managed a
way to press his suit. His first move was to confess his love to
Deucalion, and his desire to speak with Æole. Whereupon, Deucalion
replied to the effect that he knew this was coming, and was in sympathy,
but that he could not give consent without that of King Pelasgus as he
might have other views. However, his scruples were removed when the
prince assured him it had ever been the advice of his father and mother
that he should wed for love, and seek love. He was to scorn all thought
of worldly advantage. Thus, there could be no bar to consent. His
parents would think with him, especially as his love was the daughter of
the man most revered in Pelasgia. At the end, he entreated:
“Dear Deucalion, in this manner I ask thy help. On the morrow, in the
morning, let there be no company. Then give Hellen the word. And
afterward, go with Pyrrha to visit Queen Atlana. Thus will open the
way.”
“Prince Pelasgus, it shall be as thou sayest.”
“Thou dost not speak with cheer, Deucalion.”
“For reason, dear Prince. It is no light matter to find that children
are going from one, are eager to make nests for themselves, that they
pine not to leave the home tree. Yet, how much more is the weight when
these children have been gone weary, cruel years; and make naught of
those years in the strength of new, fond feeling.”
“Deucalion, were I the father, I should feel as thou. Yet, there is much
that is bright. For, though Æole and Hellen go from thyself and Pyrrha,
their sweetest hopes have full being. Happy art thou in that!”
“It is well said. But it cometh hard. When thine own go from thee, thou
wilt the better know.”
“May it come to that, dear Deucalion!” He spoke in high glee. “May it
come to that—that Æole and I may live to see our children go from us in
this way. Then will I think of this and speed them.”
“Thou art of a kind with Peloppa,” laughed Deucalion. And then laughed
the prince. For, well had both listened to Friend Pelop: only with this
difference that the latter had listened to what concerned Hellen and
Electra alone.
“It is great praise to be thus likened, Deucalion. Peloppa is a dear,
kind soul. Often have I wanted to listen to her when she hath taken
Pelop to one side. Well I know what are her thoughts upon the giving up
of children. Well I know what would be her words of cheer did she dream
of my hope for Æole. There would I get feeling for feeling!”
“Did she dream of thy hope for Æole? Thinkest thou her eyes have been
open but for the other pair? Many times hath Pelop come to whisper what
she hath noted, and how warm is her heart for thee. Well is everything
for you two settled in her busy mind!”
This left Prince Pelasgus without words. As he stood thus routed,
Deucalion, smiling roguishly, turned away.
“Dear Prince, I will leave thee to think upon it.”
As to the visiting, it had been well kept up in these day of calm
sailing. For, as the vessels stood at no great height above the water,
it was easy to get from one to the other, especially as certain
ingenious ladders had been made by the sailors. But, if the visiting
went on briskly, even more briskly moved the Pelasgian tongues.
The next morning, Deucalion spoke with Hellen; and then took Pyrrha over
to the queen. Thus the four young people were left to themselves in the
cabin, Æole and Electra being busied in needlework, and Sensel and
Hellen interested in watching them.
But they had not long enjoyed this when Hellen, with abruptness, spoke
fast, “Electra, it cometh to me that I would see the captain. Wilt thou
come?”
She at once arose, the while apologizing, “Æole, we will come back ere a
little.”
Then out they hastened. And Sensel arose as if to look after them. But,
chancing to turn before he reached the door, he again met Æole’s
eloquent look.
He went toward her. “What is it, Æole?”
Though somewhat confused, she answered calmly, “Sensel—Prince Pelasgus—I
was wondering at thy manner of moving. Whence is it?”
He sat down beside her. “Æole, as a child, I was strong and quick. As a
youth, I was first in the games. It is a gift.”
“Well didst thou bear thy part. After that, I shall ever feel kind to
their serpent selves. And, that well-streaked garment of dust, where is
it?”
“It is laid away, ever to be kept.”
“It is good. But thine eyes, they puzzle me. Though they shine now, they
shone even more then. They knew how to pierce. And thy skin was less
fair.”
“It was but a little coloring for both.”
“How often do Electra and I talk of thy kind deeds to us. Thou wert ever
ready, never weary.”
“Was it not delight to serve thee and her?”
“But—the priests. Strange it seemed that they should look so much to
thee.”
“I was quick. They were sluggish—as were the serving men.”
“Though Electra and myself were firm in the thought that thou wert our
friend—yet there was every reason for believing thee the helper of the
king and high priest.”
“I wonder that they so soon looked to me. But thy father willed it. Thou
knowest his power.”
“And thy mastery of the Atlantean tongue. Well was it ye were able to
speak it before we were called to the temple.”
“Couldst thou have seen thy father and myself at our study when the
noise and mirth of the temple were over for the night!”
She shivered at the words _noise and mirth_. Then said low, “Often have
I wanted to ask thee why thou didst watch us from behind that thicket.”
“I was there at wish of thy father. He feared Atlano might send spies
upon you. Further, I wished to speak with Hellen.”
“Were there spies?”
“Twice, far off, I saw figures; but, as I bounded toward them, they
fled.”
“What a mercy! And what good did thy words do Hellen. Dear Hellen, what
he hath borne! But he forgetteth, now that he is thus happy.”
He looked at her intently. “Æole, hast thou ever witnessed any as happy
as himself and Electra?”
“Never have I been with two that have promised to wed. But there are my
mother and father, Pelop and Peloppa.”
“Mighty is such feeling; and mightiest, if answered.”
Æole, affected at his tone, looked at him to find that he was gazing at
her very strangely. If ever eyes were full of love, his were. And he was
seizing her hand. The moment had come. Oh, for time to speak!
“Æole, thou must know why I spoke thus of Hellen and Electra. They are
one pair. There should be another. We should be as they. Tell me that
thou carest for me. For ever since I first beheld thee in the temple
hath my heart gone out to thee. Only thou canst be my wife!”
Her hands were pressed hard in his, her little hands, that, like her
whole body, were trembling; and her face had become as a lily. Scarcely
could she support herself. Perceiving this, he relinquished the hands,
and put his arms about her.
But Æole, rallying, entreated, “Prince Pelasgus, I ask that thou wilt
take away thine arms. Thou hast not had leave to place them thus. And
hearken, I beseech thee.”
He withdrew his arms. “To good words will I hearken. Can aught else come
from thee? Say but the _yea_, first, dear Æole. Then will I hearken the
day long!”
“As if thou hadst not spoken words that bring me joy—in speaking as thou
hast, in asking me for thy wife—words that would bring _yea_ but for
this.” Here she was obliged to repress his ardor, and with difficulty.
“Thy father is the king. His will thou shouldst know I ask thee to wait
until thou hast spoken with him.”
“Afterward will I speak with him. Where is thy yea?”
“Think—thou art the son of the king.”
“I do think of it. And now am I most honoring him! Ever hath my father
said I should be free in my choice, his own happy life so bearing upon
him. Further, such is the custom of the Pelasgians, high and low. They
wed as did the people of the Golden Age. There is tender thought before
all else. It is such thought in wedlock that causeth their sun to shine
on happy days, their moon and stars to light sweet nights of rest. Ah,
our Pelasgia is the land of lands! And Heaven, after Atlantis!—But, thou
tremblest, Æole. Wrong am I to name that island. Rather will I speak of
the feeling my father hath for thine. None doth he honor as Deucalion!
Then is thy doubt gone. There is no other?”
“Prince Pelasgus, that was my one doubt.”
He drew her to him, and neither spoke for a little. Then he said:
“Æole, I went to Atlantis, out of the feeling I bore thy father. Little
thought I that it could hold the one of all the world for me! But, at
the moment of first beholding thee, there was such a springing up of
strong, fond wish for thee that I became stricken with fear that such
might be for naught, that thou wouldst feel for me but pity, because of
my looks and state. Ah, what I bore! Tell me, dear Æole, that thou didst
not feel thus.”
“Sensel, from the first was I drawn to thee, and often did I wonder over
my feelings. But when thou didst bear me from the temple to the chariot
of the queen, then I knew—knew how dear wert thou. And how hath it
grown. Should we be parted, life would be more than an Atlantis of
sorrow!”
His beautiful eyes moistened. He whispered, “It hath come, it hath
come!”
Long they communed before Æole bethought her of the two that had gone
off to speak with the captain. “Where can they be?” she exclaimed.
“Who?”
“Hellen and Electra. Never have I thought of them!”
“It is with thought they are staying away.”
“What meanest thou?”
“When Hellen took off Electra, he meant not to come back. Without doubt,
he hath made it known to her; and she, of her feeling, hath asked that
they visit the queen.”
“What hath he made known to her?”
“That I wished to be alone with thee.”
“Didst thou speak thus to Hellen?”
“Nay; but thy father did.”
“My father!”
“Yea; thy father.”
“Why should my father do thus?”
“Because I told him my wish. Because I asked him to go away with thy
mother, and bid Hellen take off Electra. Thus could I have thee alone.”
“Wouldst thou tell me this is a plot?”
“Call it what thou wilt, dear Æole. If plot, it is my plot. And full as
good is it as the way Hellen took. Yea, even better, for look how long I
have had thee to myself in this the beginning of our bliss.”
“Sensel!” More than volumes was in her tone as she arose.
“Æole, much doth that air become thee. Have a care!”
She looked down upon him in rebuke, and full of enjoyment was he over
her dignity.
“Prince Pelasgus, thou didst plot with my father!”
“I did, Æole. Firm was I to have thee to myself, for I was wild for this
thy sweet word. And now have I it! As to thy father, ah the delight of
his feeling for me, and better, his furthering! Moreover, there is the
feeling, the furthering of Hellen. Did he not hasten off with Electra?
Thus hath it come to pass. Thus have I thy word to be mine forever!”
He also had arisen.
“And thou thinkest I can bear to be plotted about? I have the thought to
take back my word. It hath gone too soon. Yea, I will have it again.
Sensel, give it to me.”
“Atlantis will rise ere I yield it! Ah, but I should like well to have
thee take it back, though.” He had now caught her to him. “Yea, dear
Æole, much should I like thee to take it back—for only with me will it
go!”