Myra's first years in her new home were trying ones to her
foster-parents. Nothing in the palace seemed to please her. Not that she
ever in any way testified her dislike of anybody or anything; but there
was a wistful look in her face, and she had a listless way of sitting
for hours on the floor, her elbows resting on her knees and her hands
supporting her chin. Asked what she thought about at these times her
reply was an odd one, and always gave the Queen a creepy feeling. "I am
not thinking; I am only seeing things," she would say.
A spacious nursery had been built for the child's use in the grounds of
the palace. It had a walled-in garden of its own, in which there were
flowers, fruit trees, soft lawns, and sparkling fountains. All the
toy-makers in the kingdom had been employed to furnish the nursery with
ingenious inventions. There were dolls by the hundred, tea and dinner
services, farmyards, woolly animals, games innumerable, everything that
the heart of the most petted child could desire; yet Myra took no
pleasure in them. The only playthings she appeared to care for were a
collection of shells, which had been gathered for her on the beach and
pierced with holes; these she would string and re-string for hours.
Time passed, and Myra grew into a lovely woman. The King was exceedingly
proud of her, and he made her heiress to his crown and estates. One
thing alone troubled him deeply. Myra would not consent to marry any of
the great nobles who had frequented his court. All the high-born princes
of his realm had wooed her in vain, and many others from distant lands
had failed to please her. The King had often heard of princesses who set
so high a value on themselves that they did not think any man good
enough for them in the light of a husband, but Myra was not proud. She
was of a very gentle nature, and he could not believe that she was
cold-hearted; yet she appeared to be so, for none of her noble lovers
could boast the smallest word of encouragement from her sweet lips. She
moved through the palace, a slim, dark beauty, in her pale draperies,
her hair half hidden beneath her jewelled head-dress, her face, though
calm and serene, still lit by the strange, wistful eyes which had so
struck the Queen on that night seventeen years ago when the Winds had
lost their daughter.
As she grew to womanhood Myra delighted in her garden. She often sat
there most of the day, reading or sewing or talking with the flowers.
It amused the Princess to find that, from simple daisy to proud
tiger-lily, they were all in love. With one exception.
Near the wall there grew a purple Hollyhock or Rose-Mallow. The Princess
preferred to call him by his latter name, because it seemed to her the
grander and also the more euphonious of the two. He, of all the flowers
in the enclosure, was her favourite, and he alone had not yet found a
lady upon whom to bestow his affections.
Myra always attended upon the garden herself. She cut off the dead
blossoms, raked the soil with a golden rake, and gave the plants water
out of a golden pitcher when the heat of the sun had been oppressive.
Therefore, she participated in all their secrets. She knew that,
although the Rose-Mallow was not in love with any inmate of the garden,
there was an humble Violet which grew at his feet, in whose eyes he was
the rarest and most lovely flower in the world. It amused Myra to see
the Violet peep from its green leaves at the stately Mallow, and then,
if he chanced to be looking, which, of course, was just what the Violet
wanted, she would hide herself, in a strange tremor of excitement.
"I feel so happy, and yet so miserable, to-day," said the Rose-Mallow to
the Princess one morning. "Last night, when all the others were asleep,
I heard, from over the wall, a sweet voice singing a hymn to Night. I
asked the Poplar who it was, and he said it was the Evening Primrose;
that there were none of her race in our garden, and that she was more
beautiful than daylight."
"And why should that knowledge distress thee?" asked the Princess,
sitting down at his feet.
"Because I love her. Her voice is music. I am pining to see her."
He trembled as he spoke. The Princess rose, laughing.
"Well, this is a strange garden," she said. "I did think my Rose-Mallow
was sensible. What is it," she cried aloud, "what is this Love, for
which all Nature pines?"
There was no answer; but the sun shot down a handful of golden sunbeams
upon her face, which dazzled her and made her laugh again.
"Ah! thou wilt know ere long," said the Rose-Mallow, much hurt at her
want of sympathy. "Do not think, Princess, that the most beautiful of
women will be allowed to go unscathed."
Myra threw her arms around him, to make up for her unfeeling remarks,
and then in soft tones advised him to climb the wall and look over at
his lady-love.
"But it will take so long, and be so hard!" he replied.
"Still, thy reward may be great, sweet flower. Look higher than the
homely flowers of thy home, for the blossom beyond the walls may be far
more rare, and may outshine them all."
So the Rose-Mallow prepared to follow the Princess's advice, and to
leave the lilies, and lupins, and all the sweets of the garden behind
him.
As Myra turned to go, she noticed that the Violet had drooped and lay
panting. She hurried to fetch it some water, for which it returned her
modest thanks. She wondered what ailed it to faint in the cool of the
morning, when the earth was yet damp with early rain. Then it struck her
that the Violet's love for the Rose-Mallow would be of no use if he
found the Evening Primrose. "And I suppose that would make her unhappy,"
she said aloud, as she plucked a bunch of heartsease and placed it in
her dress, the wonder in her eyes deepening into an expression of grave,
severe thoughtfulness.