He bent his head, moving yet nearer to her. "Her eyes--her eyes are
wonderful! Where got you your eyes, Dione--Dione?"
Crimsoning deeply, Damaris started up, the racket escaping her clasp,
and her hands going out in a gesture of dismay and anger. "Sir,--sir,"
she stammered, "since you make a mock of me, I will begone. No, sir; let
me pass! Ah, ... how unworthy of you!"
Ferne had caught her by the wrists. "No, no! Dear lady, to whom I am
wellnigh a stranger--sweetheart with whom I have talked scarce thrice in
all my life--my Dione, to whom my heart is as a crystal, to whom I have
written all things! I must speak now, now before I go this voyage! Think
you it is in me to vex with saucy words, to make a mock of any
gentle lady?"
"I know not what to think," she answered, in a strange voice. "I am too
dull to understand."
"Think that I tell you God's truth!" he cried. "Understand that--" He
checked himself, seeing how pale she was and how flutteringly came her
breath; then, trained as she herself to instantly draw an airy veil
between true feeling and the exigency of the moment, he became once more
the simple courtier. "You read the songs that I make, sweet lady," he
said, "and now will you listen while I tell you a story, a _novelle_? So
I may make you to understand."
As he spoke he motioned to the mossy bank which she had quitted. She
raised her troubled eyes to his; then, with her scarlet lip between her
teeth, she took her seat again. For a minute there was silence in the
little grove, broken only by the distant voices of the players whose
company she had forsworn; then Ferne began his story:
"In a fair grassy plain, not many leagues removed from the hill
Parnassus, a shepherd named Cleon sat upon a stone, piping to himself
while he watched his sheep, and now and then singing aloud, so that the
other shepherds and dwellers of the plain, and travellers through it,
paused to hear his song. He sang not often, and often he laid his pipe
aside, for he had much to think of, having been upon the other side of
the mountain, and having seen cities and camps and courts,--for indeed
he was not always shepherd. And now, because his thoughts left the plain
to hover over the place where danger is, to visit strange coasts and
Ultima Thule, to strain ever towards those islands of the blest where
goes the man who has endured to the end, his notes when he sang or when
he played became warlike, resolved, speaking of death and fame and stern
things, or of things of public weal.... But all the time the shepherd
was a lonely man, because his spirit was too busy to find ease for
itself, and because, though he had helped other shepherds in the
building of their cottages, his own heart had no hearthstone where he
might warm himself and be content. Sometimes as he lay alone upon the
bare earth, counting the stars, he caught the gleam from such a home
clear shining over the plain, and he told himself that when he had
numbered all the stars like sheep in a fold, then would he turn and give
his heart rest beside some lower light.... So he kept on with his
Phrygian melodies, and they brought him friends and enemies; but no
lover hastening over the plain stayed to listen, and the shepherd was
sorry for that, because he thought that the others, though they heard,
did not fully understand."
The narrator paused. The maid of honor's hands were idle in her lap;
with level gaze she sat in a dream. "Yet some there be who might have
understood," she said, and scarce knew that she had spoken.
"Now Cleon had a friend whom he loved, the shepherd Astrophel, who sang
more sweetly than any in all that plain, and Astrophel would oft urge
Cleon to his dwelling, which was a fair one, with shady groves, sunny
lawns, and springing fountains."
"Ah, sweet Sidney, dear Penshurst!" breathed the lady, softly.
"Now upon a day--indeed, 'tis little more than a year ago--Cleon,
returning to the plain from a far journey, found Astrophel, who, taking
no denial, would have him to those sunny lawns and springing fountains.
There was dust upon the spirit of the shepherd Cleon: that had happened
which had left in his mouth the taste of Dead Sea fruit; almost was he
ready to break his pipe across, and to sit still forever, covering his
face. But Astrophel, knowing in himself how he would have felt in his
dearest part that wound which his friend had received, was skilled to
heal, and with wise counsel and honeyed words at last won Cleon to
visit him."
"A year and more ago," said Damaris, dreamily.
"On such a day as this, Cleon and Astrophel came to the latter's home,
where, since Astrophel was as a magnet-stone to draw unto him the
noblest of his kind, they found a goodly gathering of the chiefest of
the dwellers in the plain. Nor were lacking young shepherdesses, nymphs,
and ladies as virtuous as they were fair, for Astrophel's sister was
such an one as Astrophel's sister should be."
"Most dear, most sweet Countess," murmured Damaris.
"Cleon and Astrophel were made welcome by this goodly company, after
which all addressed themselves to those sports of that country for which
the day had been devised. But though he made merry with the rest, nor
was in anything behind them, Cleon's heart was yet heavy within him....
Aurora, fast flying, turned a rosy cheek, then the night hid her path
with his spangled mantle, and all this company of shepherdish folk left
the gray lawns for Astrophel's house, that was lit with clear wax and
smelled sweet of roses. And after a while, when there had been comfit
talk and sipping of sweet wine, one sang, and another followed, while
the company listened, for they were of those who have ears to hear.
Colin sang of Rosalind; Damon, of Myra; Astrophel, of Stella; Cleon,
of--none of these things. 'Sing of love!' they cried, and he sang of
friendship;' Of the love of a woman!' and he sang to the honor of
a man."
"But in that contest he won the Countess's pearl," said the maid of
honor, her chin in her hands; "I knew (dear lady!) what, being woman,
was her inmost thought, and in my heart I did applaud her choice."
The man bent his eyes upon her for a moment, then went on with his
story, but somewhat slowly.
"When it had thus ended the day, that goodly company betook itself to
rest. But Cleon tossed upon his bed, and at the dawn, when the birds
began to sing, he arose, dressed himself, and went forth into the dewy
gardens of that lovely place. Here he walked up and down, for his unrest
would not leave him, and his heart hungered for food it had never
tasted.... There was a fountain springing from a stone basin, and all
around were set rose-bushes, seen dimly because of the mist. Presently,
when the light was stronger, issued from the house one of those nymphs
whom Astrophel's sister delighted to gather around her, and coming to
the fountain, began to search about its rim for a jewel that had been
lost. She moved like a mist wreath in that misty place, but Cleon saw
that her eyes were dark, and her lips a scarlet flower, and that grace
was in all her motions. He remembered her name, and that she was loved
of Astrophel's sister, and how sweet a lady she was called. Now he
watched her weaving paces in the mist, and his fancy worked.... The mist
lifted, and a sudden sunshine lit her into splendor; face, form, spirit,
all, all her being into fadeless splendor--into fadeless
splendor, Dione!"
The maid of honor left once more her grassy throne, and turning from
him, moved a step away, then with raised arms clasped her hands behind
her head. Her upturned face was hidden from him, but he saw her white
bosom rise and fall. He had made pause, but now he continued his story,
though with a changed voice.
"And Cleon, going to her with due greeting, knelt: she thought (sweet
soul!) to aid her in her search, but indeed he knelt to her, for now he
knew that the gods had given him this also--to love a woman. But because
the blind boy's shaft, designed to work inward ever deeper and deeper
until it reached the heart's core, did now but ensanguine itself, he
made no cry nor any sign of that sweet hurt. He found and gave the nymph
the jewel she had lost, and broke for her the red, red roses, and while
the birds did carol he led her through the morning to the entrance of
the house. Up the stone stairs went she, and turned in splendor at the
top. A red rose fell ... the sunlight passed into the house."
The voice of the speaker altered, came nearer the ear of her who stood
with heaving bosom, with upturned face, with hands locked tight upon the
wonder of this hour.
"The rose, the rose has faded, Dione," said the ardent voice. "Look how
dead it lies upon my palm! But bend and breathe upon it, and it will
bloom again! Ah, that day at Penshurst! when I sought you and they told
me you were gone--a brother ill and calling for you--a guardian, no
friend of mine, to whose house I had not access! And then the Queen must
send for me, and there was service to be done--service which got me my
knighthood.... The stream between us widened. At first I thought to span
it with a letter, and then I wrote it not. 'Twas all too frail a bridge
to trust my hope upon. For what should have the paper said? _I am so
near a stranger to thee that scarce have we spoken twice
together--therefore love me! I am a man who hath done somewhat in the
busy world, and shall, God willing, labor once again, but now a cloud
overshadows me--therefore love me! I have no wealth or pomp of place to
give thee, and I myself am of those whom God hath bound to
wander--therefore love me! I chanced upon thee beside a fountain ringed
with roses, gray with mist; the sun came out and I saw thee, golden in
the golden light--therefore love me!_ Ah no! you would have answered--I
know not what. Therefore I waited, for I have at times a strange
patience, a willingness to let Fate guide me. Moreover, I ever thought
to meet you, to speak with you face to face again, but it fell not so.
Was I with the court, the country claimed you; went I north or west,
needs must I hear of you a lovely star within that galaxy I had left.
Thrice were we in company together--cursed spite that gave us only time
for courtly greeting, courtly parting!"
The voice came nearer, came very near: "Have I said that I wrote not to
you? Ay, but I did, my only dear! And as I wrote, from the court, from
the camp, from my poor house of Ferne, I said: 'This will tell her how
in her I reverence womankind,' and, 'These are flowers for her
coronal--will she not know it among a thousand wreaths?' and, 'This, ah,
this, will show her how deeply now hath worked the arrow!' and, 'Now she
cannot choose but know--her soul will hear my soul cry!' And that those
letters might come to your eyes, I, following the fashion, sealed them
only with feigned names, altered circumstance. All who ran might read,
but the heartbeat was for your ear ... Dione! Didst never guess?"
She answered in a still voice without moving: "It may be that my soul
guessed.... If it did so, it was frightened and hid its guess."
"I have told you," said the man. "But, ah, what am I more to you now
than on that morn at Penshurst--a stranger! I know not--even you may
love another.... But no, I know that you do not. As I was then, so am I
now, save that I have served the Queen again, and that cloud I spoke of
is overpast. I must go forth to-morrow to seek, to find, to win, to
lose--God He knoweth what! I would go as your knight avowed, your favor
in my helm, your kiss like holy water on my brow. See, I kneel to you
for some sign, some charm to make my voyage good!"
Very slowly the rose-clad maid of honor let fall her gaze from the
evening skies to the man before her; as slowly unclasped her hands so
tightly locked behind her upraised head. Her eyes were wide and filled
with light, her bosom yet rose and fell quickly; in all her mien there
was still wonder, grace supreme, a rich unfolding like the opening of a
flower to the bliss of understanding. Trembling, her hand went down, and
resting on his shoulder, gave him her accolade. She bowed herself
towards him; a knot of rosy velvet, loosened from her dress, fell upon
the turf beside his knee. Ferne caught up the ribbon, pressed it to his
lips and thrust it in the breast of his doublet. Rising, he took her in
his arms and they kissed. Her breath came pantingly.
"Oh, I envied her!" she cried. "Now I know that I envied while I blessed
her--that unknown Dione!"
"My lady and my only dear!" he said. "Oh, Love is as the sun! So the
sunshine bide, let come what will come!"
"I rest in the sunshine!" she said. "Oh, Love is bliss ... but anguish
too! I see the white sails of your ships."
She shuddered in his arms. "All that go return not. Ah, tell me that you
will come back to me!"
"That will I do," he answered, "an I am a living man. If I die, I shall
but wait for thee. I see no parting of our ways."
One hour was theirs. Bread and wine, and flower and fruit, and meeting
and parting it held for them. Hand in hand they sat upon the grassy
bank, and eyes met eyes, but speech came not often to their lips. They
looked and loved, against the winter storing each moment with sweet
knowledge, honeyed assurance. Brave and fair were they both, gallant
lovers in a gallant time, changing love-looks in a Queen's garden, above
the silver Thames. A tide of amethyst fell the sunset light; the
swallows circled overhead; a sound was heard of singing voices; violet
knight and rose-colored maid of honor, they came at last to say
farewell. That night in the lit Palace, amid the garish crowd, they
might see each other again, might touch hands, might even have slight
speech together, but not as now could heart speak to heart. They rose
from the green bank, and as the sun set, as the moon came out, and the
singing ceased, and the world grew ashen, they said what lovers say on
the brink of absence, and at the last they kissed good-by.