A white dove flew down into the market-place one summer morning, and,
undisturbed among all the wheels and hoofs, followed the footsteps of
Luigi.
He carried in one hand a sunflower, and thoughtlessly, while it hung
there, with nervous fingers scattered the seeds as he went his way. So
that the dove cooed in her little swelling throat, gathered what Luigi
spilled, and, startled at last by a frisking hound, flew up and alighted
on the tray which Luigi's other hand poised airily on his head, and was
borne along with all the company of fair white things there in the
sunshine.
The street-urchins warned Luigi of the intruder among his wares, and
then, slyly putting up his hand, the boy tossed the seeds in a shower
about the tray. Off flew the dove, and back with the returning gust she
fluttered, and, pausing only to catch her seed, she came and went,
wheeling in flashing circles round his head as he pursued his path.
It was at the pretty picture he thus presented, as, having left the
market-place, he came upon the higher streets of the town, that a lady,
looking from her window, made exclaim. The kind face, the pleasant
voice, attracted him; in a moment after, while she was yet thinking of
it, the door was pushed partly open, a dark boy, smiling, appeared,
followed by the unslung tray, and a voice like a flute said,--
"_Sono io_,--it is I. Will the lady buy?"
And then the image-vender showed his wares.
The lady chaffered with him a moment, and at its close he was evidently
paying no attention to what she said, but was listening to a voice from
the adjoining room, the clear voice of a girl singing her Italian
exercises.
His face was in a glow, he bent to catch the words with signalling
finger and glittering eyes; it was plainly neither the deftly sweet
accompaniment nor the melody that charmed him, but the language: the
language was his own.
With the cadence of the measure the sound was broken capriciously, the
book had been thrown down, and the singer herself stood balancing in the
doorway between the rooms, a hand on either side,--still lightly
trilling her scales, smiling, beaming, blue-eyed, rosy. The sunbeam that
entered behind the shade swinging in the wind fell upon the beautiful
masses of her light-brown hair, and illumined all the shifting color
that played with such delicate suffusion upon her cheek and chin; her
face was a deep, innocent smile of joy; she would have been dazzling but
for the blushes that seemed to go and come with her breath and make her
human; and so much did she embody one's ideal of the first woman that no
one wondered when all called her Eve, although her name was Rosamond,
and she was the Rose of the World.
Directly Eve saw the boy kneeling there over his tray, the cast
suspended in his hand, as he leaned intently forward with the rich
carmine deepening the golden tint of his brow and with that yellow fire
in his wine-dark eyes, she ceased singing, and, not hesitating to mimic
the well-known call, cried,--
"Images?"
Then Luigi remembered where he was, and answered the question asked five
minutes since.
"Signora, seven shillings."
"That is reasonable, now," said the lady. "I will have it for that sum.
Do you cast these things yourself?"
"My master and I."
"Have you been long here?"
"Alas! much, much time," said he, with melancholy earnestness.
"And from what part of Italy did you come?" she kindly asked.
"_Vengo da Roma_" replied the boy, drawing himself up proudly.
"The Roman peasant is a prince, mamma," said Eve quickly, in an
undertone.
Luigi glanced up instantly and smiled, and offered to her a little
plaster cherub, silver-gilt, just spreading wings for flight.
"It is for her," said he, with an appealing look at the mother. "For
her,--_la principessina_. I myself made it."
No one perceived his adroit under-meaning; but Eva bethought herself of
her school-phrases, and venturously selected one.
"_È grazioso_!" said she.
Luigi's face kindled anew; it seemed as if the sound of his native
tongue were like some magic wand that called the blind blood to his
cheek or drove it into the pools of his heart; the smile broke all over
his face as light dances on burnished gold; he turned to her boldly with
outstretched hands, like some one asking an alms.
"Give to me a song," he said.
"_Volontieri_" quoth Eve, in hesitating accent, and flitted back to her
piano. Without a thought, he followed.
It was a little song of flowers and sunshine that Eve began to carol
over the carolling keys; the words fell into the sweetness of the air,
that seemed laden with the morning murmur of bees and blossoms; it was
but a verse or two, with a refrain that went repeating all the honeyed
burden, till Luigi's face fairly burned with pleasure, where he stood at
timid distance in the doorway.
"_Ciò mi fa bene!_ That does me good!" cried he, as she rose. "Ah,
Signorina, I am happy here!"
Then he turned and found the elder lady counting out his money. He
received the seven shillings quietly, as his due; but when she would
have paid him for the cherub, he pushed the silver swiftly back.
"It is a gift!" said he, with spirit.
"No, no," said Eve. "I should like it, but I must pay for it. You will
be so kind as to take the price?" she asked, her hand extended, and a
winning grace irradiating all her changing rosy countenance.
A shadow fell over the boy's face, like that of a cloud skimming down a
sunny landscape.
"_A Lei non posso dar un rifiuto_," said he, meeting her shining eyes;
and he gravely gathered the money and slung his tray.
As he raised it, Eve laid along its side a branch of unsullied
day-lilies that had been filling the room with their heavy fragrance.
The image-boy interested her; he was a visible creature of those foreign
fairy-shores of which she had dreamed; that she did anything but show
kindness to a vagrant whom she would not see again never crossed her
mind; perhaps, too, she liked that Italy, in his person, should admire
her,--that was pardonable. But, at the action, the shadow swept away
from the boy's face again, all his lights and darks came flashing out,
eyes and teeth and color sparkling in his smile, like sunshine after
rain; he made his low obeisance, poised the tray upon his head, and,
with a wave of his hand, went out.
"_A rivederla_!" he called back to her from the door, and was gone.
And soon far down the street they heard his musical cry again; and
perhaps the little distant dove, who had forsaken him on entrance, also
caught the sound, and was reminded by it, as he pecked along the dusty
thoroughfare, of some remote and pleasant memory of morning and the
market-place.
* * * * *
It was a week afterward, that, as Eve and her mother loitered over
luncheon, the door again softly opened, and they saw Luigi standing
erect on the threshold, and holding with both hands above the brightly
bronzed face a tall, slender, white jar of ancient and exquisite shape,
carefully painted, and having a glass suspended within, lest any water
it might receive should penetrate the porous plaster.
He did not look at Eve, but marched to her mother, and deposited it upon
the floor at her feet.
"For the Signora's lilies," said he.
And remembering the silver pieces of the week before, and fearing lest
she should really grieve him, the Signora perforce accepted it with
admiring words; while Eve ran to fill it from the garden, into which
abode of bliss--as gardens always are--the long casement of the
music-room opened. Luigi hesitated, his hand upon the door, wistful
wishes in his face; then he cast a smiling, deprecating glance at the
mother, lightly crossed the floor, was over the sill, and stood beside
Eve in the walk.
To right and left the long, straight stems rose in rank, and bore their
floral crown of listening lilies, calm, majestic, pure, and only
stirring now and then when the wind shook a waft of gold-dust down the
shining leaf, or rifled the inmost heart of its delicious wealth of
odor; on either side of the path the snowy bloom lay like a fallen
cloud.
"It is a company of angels," said Luigi, brokenly, "a cloud of seraphs
with their gold harps! If they should sing," hazarded he, "it would be
the song the Signorina gave me,--alas, it is long since!"
"It is a week," said she, laughing and lingering.
"Eve!" came a warning voice.
"That is the Signorina's name?" questioned Luigi, as he bent to help her
cut the stems.
"Eve,--yes, they call me so."
"Certainly I had not thought it," he repeated to himself.
"Why, what did you suppose it was?" she heedlessly asked.
"_Luigia!_" said he. And his low, rapt tone was indescribably simple,
sweet, and intense.
Eve did not know what the boy himself was called.
"I wish it were," said she. "That is a pleasant sound."
And rising with her armful, she went in and heaped the jar with honor,
while Luigi, pleased and proud, lifted it to the level of the
black-walnut bracket.
"Signora, behold what is beautiful!" said he, stepping back.
The Signora looked at the lilies, but Luigi looked at Eve.
They had lunched. Eve went into the other room to her exercises. Her
mother poured out a glass of wine for the unbidden guest. He repulsed it
with an angry eye and a disdainful gesture. But then there rose the
sound of Eve's voice just beyond;--while he stayed, he could listen.
With sudden change from frown to smile, he stepped forward and took the
plate.
"To the Signora's health," said he, with a courtesy that sat well on the
supple shape and the dark beauty of the boy, whose homely garb, whose
poverty, and whose profession seemed only the disguise of some young
prince,--and sipped the wine, and broke the fine, white bread, while his
cheek was scarlet with delight at recurrence of the familiar sounds,
even though in such simple phrase.
"That is a proud boy," said Eve's mother, when he had gone, and she
paused a moment to see how Eve went on. "He urges no one."
"Italy is full of its troubles, _mia madre_. He is the exile of a noble
family,--no other beggar would be so haughty," looked up and answered
Eve, laughing between her bars. "Mamma, what different beings different
meridians make!" she exclaimed, dropping her music. "Is he so sweet and
lofty and fiery because he has lived in the shadow of old
temples,--because, if he stumbled over a pebble in the street, it was
the marble fragment of a goddess,--because the clay of which he is made
has so many times been moulded into heroes?"
"Are there no further fancies with which you can invest an
image-vender?"
"But he is unique. Did you ever see any one like him? Daily beauty has
made him beautiful. Is that what the Doctor means, when he says a
Corinthian pillar in the market-place would educate a generation better
than a pulpit would?"
"They have both in Rome," said her mother, with meaning.
"And, in spite of them, perhaps our hero cannot spell! Yet he is more
accomplished than we, mamma. He speaks Italian beautifully," said she,
with _espièglerie_.
"But hardly Tuscan."
"Silver speech for all that. I have reached the end of my idioms,
though. I always said school was good for something, if one could only
find it out," she archly cried, her little fingers running in arpeggios
up the keys. "To think he understood them so! Then Dante's women would."
"Heaven forbid!"
"How his face glows at them,--like a light behind a mask! It is quite
the opera, when he comes. I will sing to him an aria, and then it will
make a scene."
"You are a madcap. What do you want a scene for?"
"Spice. When my voice fills his handsome eyes with tears, he makes me an
artist; when he turns upon you in that sudden, ardent air, he brings a
sting of foreign fire into this quiet summer noon."
"Amuse yourself sparingly with other people's emotions, Eve."
"Especially when they are suave as olive-oil, pungent as cherry-cordial,
and ready to blaze with a spark, you know. Ah, it is all as interesting
to me as when the little sweep last year looked out from the chimney-top
and made the whole sky brim over with his wild music."
Here a clock chimed silverly from below.
"There is the half-hour striking, and you have lost all this time," said
the caressing mother, her fingers lost in the bright locks she lifted.
"Never mind, mother mine," said she, turning in elfish mood to brush her
lips across the frustrated fingers. "Art is long, if time is fleeting,"
she sang to the measure of her _Non più mesta_, beginning again to
shower its diamonds about till all the air seemed bright with her young
and sparkling voice.
* * * * *
Summer days are never too long for the fortunes of health and happiness,
and at the sunset following this same morning Eve leaned from the
casement, watching the retiring rays as if she fain would pursue. A
tender after-glow impurpled all the heaven like a remembered passion,
and bathed field and fallow in its bloom. It gave to her a kind of
aureole, as if her beauty shed a lustre round her. The window where she
leaned was separated from the street only by a narrow inclosure, where
grew a single sumach, whose stem went straight and bare to the eaves,
and there branched out, like the picture of a palm-tree, in tossing
plumes. Blossoming honeysuckles wreathed this stem and sweetened every
breath.
A figure came sauntering down the street, an upright and pliant form,
laden with green boughs. It was Luigi, with whom it had been a holiday,
and who, roaming in the woods, had come across a wild stock on whose
rude flavor the kindly freak of some wayfarer had grafted that of pulpy
wax-heart cherries, tart ruddiness and sugared snow. Pausing before Eve,
he gazed at her lingeringly, then sprang half-way up the adjacent
door-steps, and proffered her his fragrant freight. Eve deliberated for
a moment, but the fruit was tempting, the act would be kind. As he stood
there, he wore a certain humility, and yet a certain assurance,--the
lover's complicate timidity, that seems to say he will defend her
against all the world, for there is nothing in the world he fears except
herself. Eve bent and broke a little spray of the nearest branch.
"They are all for you," pleaded he,--"all."
"I have enough," said Eve.
"I brought them for the Signorina from the wood. Behold! the tints are
hers. The cream upon Madonna's shoulder,--here; the soft red flame upon
her cheek is there."
"Ah! I thank you," said Eve. "Good night."
"_Scusi_,--I beg that the Signorina take them."
"No, no," answered Eve, obliged to speak, and, hanging on her foot, half
turned away, a moment before flight; "why should I rob you so?"
"It is not take,--but give! Why? Only that to me you are so kind. _O
quanta bontà_! You speak the speech I love. You sing its songs. I was a
wanderer. _Io era solo_. Alone and sad. But since I heard your voice, I
am at home again, and life is sweet!"
And suddenly and dexterously he flung the boughs past her in at the open
window, laughed at his success till the teeth flashed again in his dusky
face, kissed both his hands and ran down the steps, singing in a ringing
recitative something where the _bella bellas_ echoed and reëchoed each
other through the evening as far as they could be heard at all.
Eve smiled to herself, gathered up the scattered boughs, and went into
the lighted room behind, where her gay companions clustered, appearing
at the door thus laden, and with a blush upon her brow.
"Mamma," said she, her lovely head bent on one side and ringed with
gloss beneath the burner, "the fruit is fresh, whether you call it
cherry or _ciriegia_." And straightway planting herself at her mother's
feet, taper fingers twinkled among shadowy leaves till the boughs were
bare of their juicy burden, and they all made merry together upon the
spoils of Luigi.
* * * * *
July was following June in sunshine down the slope of the year, and Eve,
pursuing her pleasures, might almost have forgotten that an image-boy
existed, had Luigi allowed her to forget. But he was omnipresent as a
gnat.
As she walked from church on the next Sunday afternoon alone, gazing at
her shadow by the way, she started to see another shadow fall beside it.
In spite of his festal midsummer attire of white linen, a sidelong
glance assured her that it was Luigi; yet she did not raise her eyes. He
continued by her, in silence, several steps.
"Signorina Eve," said he then, "I went that I might worship with you."
But Eve had no reply.
"My prayer mounted with yours,--may he forgive, _il padre mio_," said
Luigi. "_Ebbene!_ It is not lovely there. It is cold. Your heaven would
be a dreary place, perhaps. Come rather to mine!" For they approached a
little chapel, the crystallization in stone of a devout fancy, and
through the open doors rolling organ, purple incense, and softened light
invited entrance. "It is the holy vespers," said the boy. "_Ciascuno
alia sua volta._ The Signorina enters,--_forse?_"
"Not to-day," answered Eve, gently.
"Kneel we not," then faltered he, "before one shrine,--although," and he
grew angry with his hesitation, "at different gates?"
"Ah, certainly," said Eve. "But now I must go home."
"The Signorina refuses to come with me, then!" he exclaimed, springing
forward so that he opposed her progress. "Her foot is too holy! she
herself has said it. Her eyes are too lofty,--_gli occhi azzurri!_! It
is true; stood she there, who would look at the blessed saints? Ah! you
have a fair face, but it is--_traditrice_!"
And as he confronted her, with his clenched hands slightly raised and
advanced from his side, the lithe figure drawn back, the swarthy cheek,
the eager eyes, aglow, and made more vivid by his spotless attire, Eve
bethought herself that a scene in public had fewer charms than one in
private, and, casting about for escape, quietly stepped across the
street. For an instant Luigi gazed after her like one thunderstruck;
then he dashed into the vestibule and was lost in its shadows.
It was at midnight that Eve's mother, rising to close an open window,
caught sight of an outline in the obscurity, and discerned Luigi leaning
on the railing below, with one arm supporting his upturned face. "Ah,
the sad day! the sad day!" he was sighing in his native speech. "Pardon,
pardon, Signorina! Alas! I was beside myself!"
And on the next twilight Eve stood at the gate, her arms and hands full
of a flush of rosy wild azaleas from the swamps, bounty that had been
silently laid upon her by a fast and fleeting shadow. She doubted for a
moment, then dropped them where she stood. But a tint as deep as theirs
was broken by the arch and dimpling smile that flickered round her mouth
as she went in, laughing because this devotion was so strange, and
blushing because it was so genuine. "Mamma," said she, her eyes cast
down, her head askant like a shy bird's, "I am afraid I have a lover!"
And then to think of it the child grew sad. It pained her to grieve him
with the beautiful pink blossoms she had dropped, and which she knew he
would return to find; but better trivial sting than lasting ache, she
had heard. And perhaps in his tropical nature the passion would be brief
as the pain.
* * * * *
The broad, bright river flowing past the town by summer noon or night
was never left unflecked with sails. And of all who loved its swinging
bridge, its stately shores, its breezy expanses, none sought them more
frequently than Eve.
She had gone out one day with her companions--who, beside her, seemed
like the moss that clusters on a rose-bud--to watch the shoal in the
weir as the treacherous ebb forsook it. It was a favorite diversion of
Eve's,--for she always felt as if she were Scheherazade looking into the
pools of her fancy, and viewing the submerged city with its princes and
its populace transformed to fish, when, having entered the heart-shaped
inclosure, she leaned over the boat-side and noted the twin tides of
life whose facile and luminous career followed all the outline of the
weir. For the mackerel, swimming in at the two eddies of the mouth,
struck straight across in transverse courses till they met the barrier
on either side, and then each slowly felt the way along to the end of
the lobe, where, instead of escaping, they struck freely across again,
and thus pursued their round in everlasting interchase of
lustre,--through the darkly transparent surface each current glancing on
its swift and silent way, an arrow of emerald and silver. Curving,
racing, rippling with tints, they circled, till, warned by some subtile
instinct that the river was betraying them, fresh fear swept faster and
faster their lines of light, the rich dyes deepened in the splendid
scales, and some huddled into herds, and some, more frantic than the
rest, leaped from the water in shining streaks, and darted away like
stars into outer safety. There the sail-boat already had preceded them,
and the master of the weir, having taken its place, from the dip-net was
loading his dory with massive fare of frosted silver and fusing jewel.
As Eve and her friends lingered yet a moment there, watching the
picturesque figure splashing barelegged in the shallow water, one of the
droll little craft known as Joppa-chaises came up beside them, a fulvous
face appeared at its helm, a tawny hand was extended, and they left
Luigi bargaining for fish, and stringing these simulations of massed
turquoise and scale-ruby at a penny apiece.
What little wind there was that day blew from the southeast, and
sheathed the brightness of the noonday sky in a soft veil of haze; and
having made this pretty sight their own, Eve's party spread their sail
for tacking to and fro, meaning to reach the sea. This, for some hidden
reason, the wind refused to let them do, and when it found them
obstinate brought an accomplice upon the scene, and they suddenly
surprised themselves rocking this side the bar, and caught in the vapory
fringes of a dark sea-turn, that, creeping round about, had soon so
wrapped and folded them that they could scarcely see the pennon drooping
at their mast-head. This done, the wind fell altogether, and they lay
there a part of the great bank of mist that all day brooded above the
bar. Everywhere around them the gray cloud hung and curled and curdled;
it was impossible to see an oar's-length on either side; their very
faces were unfamiliar, and seemed to be looking like the faces of
spirits from a different atmosphere; their little boat was the whole
world, and beyond it was only void. Now and then an idle puff parted the
bank to right and left, their sail flapped impatiently, and in the
sudden space they saw the barge that dashed along with the great white
seine-boat heaped high with nets towering in its midst, the oars of the
six red-shirted rowers flashing in the sun as it cut the channel and
rushed by to join the fishing-fleet outside,--or they caught a glimpse
of some little gunning-float, covered with wisps of hay and carrying its
single occupant couched _perdu_ along its length,--or, while they
lunched and trifled and jested, Eve with her crumbs tolled about them
the dwellers in the depths, and in the falling flake of sunshine laughed
to see a stately aldermanic flounder, that came paddling after a
chicken-bone, put to rout by a satanic sculpin, whereat an eel swiftly
snaked the prize away, and the frost-fish, collecting at a chance of
civil war, mingled in the _mêlée_, tooth and nail, or rather fin and
tail. Then the vapors would darken round them again, till, with the
stray rays caught and refracted in their fleece, it seemed like living
in an opal full of cloudy color and fire. Far off they heard the great
ground-swell of the surf upon the beach, or there came the dull report
of the sportsmen in the marsh, or they exchanged first a laugh and then
a yawn with some other unseen party becalmed in the fog and drifting
with the currents; and all day long, on this side and on that, the cloud
rang with near and distant music, as if Ariel and his sprites had lost
their way in it, the tinkling of a mandolin, the singing of a clear,
rich voice that had the tenor's golden strain, and yet, in floating
through the mist, was sweet and sighing as a flute. The melody and the
undistinguished words it bore upon its wings, delicious tune and
passionate meaning, seemed the speech of another planet, an orb of song,
the delicate sound lost when at sunset the threaded mist broke up and
streamed away in fire, but coming again, as if they were haunted by the
viewless voices of the air, when star-beam and haze tangled together at
last in the dusk of summer night and found them still rocking on the
swell, vainly whistling for the wind, and slowly tiding up with the
flood.
It was one of those days so long in the experience, but so charming to
remember. Eve, with her wilful, fearless ways, her quips and joyousness,
had been the life and the delight of it; now, chilled and weary, she
hailed the sight of the lamps that seemed to be hung out along the shore
to light them home: for their boatmen were inexperienced, and, though
wind failed them, had not dared before to lift the oars, ignorant as
they were of their precise whereabouts, and even now made no progress
like that of the unseen voice still hovering around them. There had been
a season of low tides, and when, to save the weary work of rowing a
heavy sail-boat farther, it was decided to make the shore, they were
hindered by a length of shallow water and weedy flat, through which the
ladies of the party must consent to be carried. A late weird moon was
rising down behind the light-houses, all red and angry in the mist still
brooding over the horizon, the boat lay in the deep shade it cast, the
river beyond was breaking into light, reach after reach, like a blossom
into bloom. Two of her friends had already been taken to the bank; Eve
stood in the bow, awaiting her bearers, and watching the distant bays of
the stream, each one of which seemed just on the verge of opening into
an impossible midnight glory. She heard the plash of feet in the water,
but did not heed it other than to fold her cloak more conveniently about
her, her eye caught the contour of a vague approaching form, and then
shadowy arms were reaching up to encircle her. She was bending, and just
yielding herself to the clasp, when the hearty voice of her bearers
sounded at hand, bidding her be of good cheer; the adumbration shrank
back into the gloom, and, before she recovered from her start, firm arms
had borne her to firm land.
"Well, Eve," said one of her awaiting friends, "is the earth going up
and down with you? As for me, my head swims like a buoy. I feel as if I
had waltzed all day."
"Nympholeptic, then," said Eve,--
"'When you do dance, I wish you
A wave of the sea, that you might ever do
Nothing but that.'"
"I thought they threw out the anchor down there," said the other. "Are
they tying her up for the night, too? How long it takes them! Oh, for an
inquisition and a rack,--I am so cramped! Eve, here, is extinguished.
What a day it has been!"
"'Oh, sweet the flight, at dead of night,
When up the immeasurable height
The thin cloud wanders with the breeze
That shakes the splendor from the star,
That stoops and crisps the darkling seas,
And drives the daring keel afar
Where loneliness and silence are!
To cleave the crested wave, and mark
Drowned in its depth the shattered spark,
On airy swells to soar, and rise
Where nothing but the foam-bell flies,
O'er freest tracts of wild delight,
Oh, sweet the flight at dead of night!'"
sang Eve. "Ah, there they are! I am so tired that I could fall asleep
here, if there were but a reed to lean against!"
"_Appoggiatevi a me_" sighed a murmurous voice in her ear, with musical
monotone.
A little shiver ran over Eve, but no soul saw it; in an instant she knew
the sound that had all day haunted the sea-turn; yet she could neither
smile nor be angry at Luigi's simplicity; with a peremptory motion of
her hand, she only waved him away, and fortified herself among her
companions, who, thoroughly awakened, made the night ring as they wended
along. They rallied Eve, then grew vexed that she refused the sport, and
kept silence awhile, only to break it with gayer laughter, elate with
life while half the world was stretched in white repose. At length they
paused to rest in the lee of a cottage that seemed more like a hulk
drawn up on shore than any house, but matted from ground to chimney in a
smother of woodbine.
"A picturesque place," said one of the chevaliers.
"And a picturesque body lives in it," replied another. "The beauty of
the fisher-maidens. I have seen her out upon the flats at low tide
digging for clams, barefooted, the short petticoats fluttering, a
handkerchief across her ears,--and outline could do no more."
"I have seen her, too," said Eve. "Though she lives in the belt of
sunburn, she is white as snow,--milk-white, with hazel eyes. She has
hair like Sordello's Elys. She is a girl that dreams. Let us serenade
her till she sees visions."
And Eve's voice went warbling lightly up, till the others joined, as if
the oriole in his hanging nest not far away had stirred to sing out the
seasons of the dark.
"The hours that bear thy beauty prize
Star after star sinks numbering,--
The laden wind at thy lattice sighs
To find thee slumbering, slumbering!
"Ah, wantonly why waste these hours
That love would fain be borrowing?
Soon youth and joy must fall like flowers,
And leave thee sorrowing, sorrowing!
"Ye fleeting hours, ye sacred skies,
Sweet airs around her hovering,
Oh, open me the envied eyes
Your spells are covering, covering!
"Or only, while the dew's soft showers
Shake slowly into glistening,
Let her, O magic midnight hours,
In dreams be listening, listening!"
And their voices blended so together as they sang, and the plunge of the
sea came on the east-wind in such chiming chord, that they never heeded
the old mandolin whose strings in humble remoteness Luigi struck to
their tune. But mingling the sound of the sea and the sound of the
strings in her memory, it seemed to Eve that Luigi was fast becoming the
undertone of her life.
* * * * *
But Luigi was not to be abashed. Faint heart never won fair lady, he
said to himself, in some answering apophthegm. And thereat he summoned
his reserves.
At noon of the next day, Eve, having run down-stairs into the room where
her mother sat, stood before her during the inspection of the attire she
had proposed as possible for an approaching masquerade some weeks hence.
She wore a white robe of classic make, and over its trailing folds her
bright hair, all unbound from the heavy braids, streamed in a thousand
ripples of scattered lustre, the brown breaking into gold, the gloss
lurking in tremulous jacinth shadows, tresses like a cascade of ravelled
light falling to her feet, shrouding her in a long and luminous
veil,--such "sweet shaken hair" as was never seen since Spenser and
Ariosto put their heads together.
"_Come sta_?" said some one in the doorway. And there stood Luigi,
having deposited his tray of images on the steps, holding up a long
string of birds'-eggs blown, tiny varicolored globes plundered from the
thrushes, bobolinks, blue-jays, and cedar-birds, and trembling upon the
thread as if their concrete melody quivered to open into tune.
For an indignant instant Eve felt her seclusion unwarrantably violated;
she turned upon the invader with her blushes, and the venturesome Luigi
blenched before the gaze. Still, though he retreated, a part of him
remained: a slender brown hand, that stretched back in relief against
the white door-post, yet suspended the pretty rosary; and there it
caught Eve's eye.
Now it was Euterpe that Eve was to represent at the masquerade; and what
ornament so fit and fanciful as this amulet of spring-time, whose charm
commanded all that hour of freshness, fragrance, and dew, when the
burdened heart of the dawn bubbles over with music? Yet the enticement
was brief. Eve looked and longed, and then hurriedly turned her back
upon the tempting treasure, her two hands thrusting it off. "Behind me,
Satan!" cried she, tossing a laugh at her mother; and Paula, the stately
servant who had followed her down, signified to Luigi that the door
awaited his movements.
Then the hand quietly withdrew, and his footstep was heard upon the
threshold. It was arrested by a sound: Eve stood in the doorway,
gathering her locks in one hand, and blushing and smiling upon him like
sunshine, whether she would or no.
"You are very kind," said she, hesitating, and fluttering out the broad,
snowy love-ribbon that was to ornament her lute, "but, if you
please,--indeed"--
"Indeed, the Signorina cares not for such bawbles," said Luigi, sadly,
covering her with his gaze. Then he turned, mounted his tray again, and
went slowly down the street, forgetting to cry his wares.
Perhaps, after this, Luigi felt that his situation was desperate;
perhaps despair made him bold,--for, having already spoiled Eve's
pleasure for the day, that same evening found him in her mother's
garden, half hidden in the grape-vines, and watching the movements in
the lighted room opposite, through the long window, whose curtain was
seldom dropped.
It was a gay old town in those days, kind to its lads and lasses, and if
the streets were grass-grown, it seemed only that so they might give
softer footing to the young feet that trod them. Almost every night
there was a festival at one house or another, and this evening the
rendezvous was with Eve. The guests gathered and dallied, the dancers
floated round the room, the lovers uttered their weighty trifles in such
seclusion or shadow as they could secure, the voices melted in happy
unison. Eve, with snowy shoulders and faultless arms escaping from the
ruffle of her rosy gauzes, where skirt over skirt, like clinging petals,
made her seem the dryad of a wild rose-tree just rising and looking from
her blushing cup, Eve flitted to and fro among them, and, all the time,
Luigi's gaze brooded over the scene. Sometimes her shadow fell in the
lighted space of turf, and then Luigi went and laid his cheek upon it;
it passed, and he returned once more to his hiding-place, and the dark,
motionless countenance, with its wandering, glittering eyes, appeared to
hang upon the dense leafage that sheltered all the rest of him like a
vizard in whose cavities glowworms had gathered. And more than once, in
passing, Eve delayed a moment, and almost caught that gaze; she was
sensible of his presence there, felt it, as she might have felt an
apparition, as if the eyes were those of a basilisk and she were
fascinated to look and look again, till filled with a strange fear and
unrest. It grew late; by-and-by, before they separated, Eve sang. It
would have been impossible for her to say why she chose a luscious
little Italian air, one that many a time at home, perhaps, Luigi had
heard some midnight lover sing. Through it, as he listened now, he could
fancy the fountain's fall, the rustle of the bough, the half-checked
gurgle of the nightingale, upon the scented waft almost the slow
down-floating of the scattered corolla of the full-blown flower. The
tears sparkled over his face, first of delight, and then of anger.
Something was wanting in the song,--he missed the passionate utterance
of the lover standing by the gate and pouring his soul in his singing.
Suddenly the room was startled by the ring of a voice from the garden, a
voice that outbroke sweet and strong, that snatched the measure from
Eve's lips, flung a fervor into its flow, a depth into its burden, and
carried it on with impetuous fire, lingering with tenderness here, swift
with ardor there, till all hearts bounded in quicker palpitation when
the air again was still. For deep feeling has a potency of its own, and
all that careless group felt as if some deific cloud had passed by.
As for Eve, what coquetry there was in her nature was but the innocent
coruscation of happy spirits, the desire to see her power, the necessity
of being dear to all she touched. Far from pleasant was this vehemence
of devotion; the approach of it oppressed her; she comprehended Luigi as
a creature of another species, another race, than herself; she shrank
before him now with a kind of horror. That night in a nervous excitation
she did not close an eye, and in the morning she was wan as a flower
after rain.
This state of things found at least one observer, a personage of no less
authority in household matters than Paula, the tall and stately woman of
Nubian lineage who had been the nurse of Eve, and who every morning now
stood behind her chair at breakfast, familiarly joining in and gathering
what she chose of the conversation. Erect as a palm-tree, slender,
queenly, with her thin and clearly cut features, and her head like that
of some Circassian carved in black marble, she had a kinship of
picturesqueness with Luigi, and could meet him more nearly on his own
ground than another, for her voice was as sweet as his, and he was only
less dark than she. Breakfast over, she took her way into the garden,
set open the gate, and busied herself pinching the fresh shoots of the
grape-vine, too luxuriant in leaves. She did not wait long before Luigi
came up the side-street, his tray upon his head, his gait less elastic
than beseemed the fresh, fragrant morning. Paula stepped forward and
gave him pause, with a gesture.
"Sir!" said she, commandingly.
Luigi looked up at her inquiringly. Then a pleasant expectation overshot
his gloomy face; he smiled, and his teeth glittered, and his eyes.
Instantly he unslung his tray and set it upon the level gate-post.
"Sir," said Paula, "do you come here often?"
"_Tutti i giorni_," answered Luigi, scarcely considering her worth
wasting his sparse and precious English upon.
"You come here often," said Paula. "Will you come here no more?"
Luigi opened his eyes in amaze.
"You will come here no more," said Paula.
"_Chi lo_,--who wishes it?" stammered Luigi.
"My mistress," answered Paula, proudly, as if to be her servant were
more than enough distinction, and to mention her name were sovereign.
"Who commands?" he demanded, imperatively.
"Still my mistress."
"She said--Tell me that!"
"She said, 'Paula, if the boy disturbs us further, we must take
measures.'"
"The Signorina?"
"Her mother."
"Not the Signorina, then!" And Luigi's gloomy face grew radiant.
"She and her mother are one," replied Paula.
Luigi was silent for a moment. One could see the shadows falling over
him. Then he said, softly,--
"My Paula, you will befriend me?"
Paula bridled at the address; arrogant in family-place, she would have
assured him plainly that she was none of his, to begin with, had he been
an atom less disconsolate.
"Never more than now!" said she, loftily.
Luigi did not understand her; her tone was kind, but there was a "never"
in her words.
"I should be the most a friend," said Paula, unbending, "in urging you
to forget us."
"Ah, never!"
"Let me say. Can you read?"
"Some things," replied Luigi quickly, his brow brightening.
"Can you write?"
"It may be. Alas! I have not tried."
"You see."
There was no appeal from Paula's dictatorial demeanor.
"_Dio_! I am unfit! Ah, Jesu, I am unfit! But if she cared not--if I
learned"--and he paused, striving now for the purest, most intelligible
speech, while his face beamed with his smiling hope.
"Listen," interposed Paula, with the dignity of the headsman. "You have
no truer friend than me at this moment, as some day you will discover.
Come, now, will you do me a favor?"
"_Di tutto cuore_!"
"Then leave us to ourselves."
"Not possible!" cried Luigi, stung with disappointment.
"What would you do, then? Would you wear her life out? Would you keep
her in a terror? She has said to me that she must go away. It suffocates
one to be pursued in this manner. You are not pleasant to her. Hark. She
dislikes you!" And Paula bent toward him with uplifted finger, and,
having delivered her stroke, after watching its effect a moment, reared
herself and adjusted her gay turban with internal satisfaction.
Luigi cast his eyes slowly about him; they fell on the smooth
grass-plats rising with webs of shaking sparkle, the opening flowers
half-bowed beneath the weight of the shining spheres they held, the
brilliant garden bathed in dew, the waving boughs tossing off light
spray on every ravaging gust, the far fair sky bending over all. Then he
hid his face against the great gate-post, murmuring only in a dry and
broken sob,--
"_C' è sole_?"
Paula herself was touched. She put her hand on his shoulder.
"It is a silly thing," said she. "Do not take it so to heart. Put it out
of sight. There is many a pretty tambourine-tosser to smile upon you,
I'll warrant!"
But Luigi vouchsafed no response.
"Come," said she, "pluck up your courage. You will soon be better of
it."
"_Non sarò meglio_!" answered Luigi. "I shall never be better."
He lifted his head and looked at her where she stood in the light,
black, but comely, transfixing her on the burning glances of his bold
eyes. "In your need," said he, "may you find just such friend as I have
found!" The words were of his native language, but the malediction was
universal. Paula half shivered, and fingered the amulet that her
princely Nubian ancestor had fingered before her, while he spoke. Then
he bowed his head to its burden, fastened the straps, and went bent and
stooping upon his way, repeating sadly to himself, "And does the sun
shine?"
* * * * *
A week passed. Part of another. Eve saw no more of Luigi, but was yet
all the time uncomfortably conscious of his espionage. He was hardly a
living being to her, but, as soon as night fell, the soft starry nights
now in which there was no moon, she felt him like a darker film of
spirit haunting the shadow. In the daytime, sunshine reassured her, and
she remained almost at peace.
She was sitting one warm afternoon at the open window up-stairs, looking
over a box of airy trifles, flowers and bows and laces, searching for a
parcel of sheer white love-ribbon, a slip of woven hoarfrost that was
not to be found. There was none like it to be procured; this was the
night of the little masquerade; it was indispensable; and immediately
she proceeded to raise the house. In answer to her descriptive inquiry,
Paula, who every noon nestled as near the sun as possible, responded in
a high key from the attic a descriptive negative; neither had her
mother, waking from a _siesta_ in the garden, seen any white gauze
folderols. The three voices made the air well acquainted with the
affair.
However, Eve was not to be baffled; she remembered distinctly having had
the love-ribbon in her hands on the day she first proposed the dress; it
must be found, and she sat down again at the open casement, intrenched
behind twenty boxes of like treasure, in any one of which the thing
might have hidden itself away, while her mother came up and established
herself with a fan at the other window, and Paula, descending from her
perch, rummaged the neighboring dressing-room.
On the opposite side of the street stretched a long strip of shaven
turf, known as the Parade, yet seldom used for anything but
summer-evening strolls, and below its velvet terraces, in a green
dimple, lay a pool, borrowing all manner of umberous stains from the
shore, and yet in its very heart contriving to reflect a part of heaven.
Languishing elm-trees lined its edge, and beneath the boughs, whose
heavily drooping masses seemed like the grapes of Eshcol, rude benches
offered rest to the weary.
On one of these benches now sat a person profoundly occupied in carving
something into its seat. If he could easily have heard the voices in the
dwelling opposite, he had not once glanced up. Now and then he paused
and leaned his head upon the arm that lay along the rail, then again he
pursued his task. Once, when his progress, perhaps, had exceeded
expectation, or the striking of a clock beneath some distant spire
announced no need of haste, he laid down his knife, left his occupation,
and came to lean against the low fence beneath Eve's window and gaze
daringly up. Eve did not see him. Her mother did, and held her breath
lest Eve should turn that way, and, having directed Eve's glance
elsewhere, shook her fan at the bold boy. But there was no insolence in
Luigi's gaze. He seemed merely wishing that his work should be marked;
and, having attracted fit attention, he returned quietly to the bench
and the carving once more.
At length the sun hung high over the west, preparing to fall into his
hidden resting-place that colored all the cloudless heaven with its
mounting tinge. Luigi rose and inspected his work. Then again he crossed
the street and stood below Eve's window. It was a long time that he
leaned with his arms folded on the bar of the low paling. Perhaps he
meant that she should look at him. She had closed the last of her
receptacles, and, dismissing the matter, for want of better employment,
her scissors were tinkering upon a tiny hand-glass with a setting
thickly crusted in crystals, a trifle that one clear day a sailor diving
from her father's ship had found upon the bottom of the sea,--a very
mermaid's glass dropped in some shallow place for Eve herself, a glass
that had reflected the rushing of the storm, the sliding of the keel
above, the face of many a drowning mariner. Careless of all that, at the
moment, she held it up now to the light to see if further furbishing
could brighten it, and as she did so was hastily checked. She had caught
sight of a dark face just framed and mirrored, the sad eyes raised and
resting on her own, luminous no more, but heavy, and longing, and dull
with a weight of woe. At the same moment, Paula, who had by no means
abandoned the lost love-ribbon, cried from within,--
"Well, Miss, the lutestring has been spirited away, and no less. I've
searched the house through, and nobody has it."
"_Qualcheduno l' ha_," breathed a sweet, melancholy tone from below; and
they turned and saw it in Luigi's hands, the frosty film of gossamer. He
held it up a moment, pressed it to his lips, folded it again into his
breast; and if it was plain that somebody had it, it was plainer still
that somebody meant to keep it. And then, as if twin stars were bending
over him out of the bluest deeps of heaven, Luigi kept Eve's eyes awhile
suspended on his despairing gaze, and without other word or gesture
turned and went away.
* * * * *
Many days afterward, when it was certain that the little foreign
image-vender had indeed departed, Eve stole over to the bench beneath
the lofty arches of the elm-tree, all checkered with flickering
sunlight, and endeavored to read the sentence carved thereon. It was at
first undecipherable, and then, the text conquered, not easy for her to
comprehend. But when she had made it hers, she rose, bathed with
blushes, and stole away home again, feeling only as if Luigi had laid a
chain upon her heart.
Years have fled. The little legend yet remains cut deep into the wood,
though he returns no more, and though, since then, her
"Part in all the pomp that fills
The circuit of the summer hills
Is that her grave is green."
Rain and snow have not effaced its _intaglio_, nor summer's dust, nor
winter's wind; and if you ever pass it, you yet may read,--
AMOR QUE A NULLO
AMATO
AMAR PERDONA.
* * * * *