The banks of the stream fell suddenly away on either side and the
canoe glided slowly and softly into a miniature lake. It was perhaps
twenty yards across at its widest place and much more than that in
length. Occasionally a far-reaching branch threw trembling shadows on
the water, but for the most part the trees stood back from the margin
of the pool and allowed the fresh green turf to descend unhampered to
the water’s edge. At a point farthest from where Ethan had entered
a little cascade tumbled. On all sides the ground sloped slightly
upward, and in one place a group of larches crowned the summit of a
knoll and mingled their delicate branches far above the neighboring
maples. Almost concealed among them an uncertain gleam of white caught
at moments through the trees to the right suggested a building of
some sort――perhaps the marble temple of the divinity, who, seated on
the bank with her bare sandaled feet crossed before her, observed the
intruder with calm, dreamy, almost smiling unconcern.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
It was a beautiful scene into which Ethan had floated. Overhead was
a blue sky against which a few soft white clouds hung seemingly
motionless as though, like Narcissus, they had become enamored of their
reflections in the pool there below. On a tiny islet in the pool,
dwarf willows caressed the water with the tips of their pendulous
branches. Further on a trio of white swans sunned themselves, and
about the margin the bosom of the pool was carpeted with lily-pads and
starred with a multitude of fragrant blooms, white, rose-hued, carmine,
pale violet, sulphur-colored and blue. The gauze wings of darting
dragon-flies caught the sunlight, insects hovered above the flower-cups
and in the branches around many a feathered cantatrice was singing her
heart out. And for background there was always the varied green of
encircling trees.
Yes, it was very beautiful, but Ethan had no eyes for it. With paddle
still suspended between gunwale and water he was staring in a fashion
at once depicting surprise, curiosity, and admiration at the figure on
the grass. And what wonder? Who would have thought to find a Grecian
goddess under New England skies? Ethan’s thoughts leaped back to
mythology and he sought a name for her. Diana? Minerva? Venus? Iris?
Penelope?
And all the while――a very little while despite the telling――his eyes
ranged from the sandaled feet to the warm brown hair with its golden
fillet. A single garment of gleaming white reached from the feet to
the shoulders where it was caught together on either side with a metal
clasp. The arms were bare, youthfully slender, aglow in the sunlight.
And yet it was to the eyes that his gaze returned each time. “Minerva!”
his thoughts triumphed, “‘Minerva, goddess azure-eyed!’” And yet in the
next instant he knew that while her eyes were undeniably blue she
was no wise Minerva. Such youthful softness belonged rather to Iris or
Daphne or Syrinx.
[Illustration: WHO WOULD HAVE THOUGHT TO FIND A GRECIAN GODDESS UNDER
NEW ENGLAND SKIES?]
And all the while――just the little time it took for the canoe to
glide from the stream well into the pool――she had been regarding
him tranquilly with her deep blue eyes, her bare arms, stretching
downward to the grass, supporting her in an attitude suggesting recent
recumbency. And now, as the craft brushed the lily-pads aside, she
spoke.
[Illustration]
“Do you not fear the resentment of the gods?” she asked gravely. “It is
not wise for a mortal to look upon us.”
“I crave your mercy, O fair goddess,” he answered. “Blame rather this
tiny argosy of mine which, propelled by hands invisible, has brought me
hither. I doubt not that the gods hold me in enchantment.” He mentally
patted himself on the back; it wasn’t so bad for an impromptu!
She leaned forward and sunk her chin in the cup of one small hand,
viewing him intently as though pondering his words.
“It may be so,” she answered presently. “What call you your frail
vessel?”
“From this hour, Good Fortune.” Her gaze dropped.
“Will you deign to tell me your name, O radiant goddess?” he continued.
She raised her eyes again and he thought a little smile played for a
moment over her red lips.
“I am Clytie,” she answered, “a water-nymph. I dwell in this pool. And
you, how are you called?”
He answered readily and gravely: “I am Vertumnus, clad thus in
mortal guise that I may gain the presence of Pomona. Long have I wooed
her, O Nymph of the Pool.”
“I too love unrequited,” she answered sadly. “Apollo has my heart.
Though day by day I watch him drive his fiery chariot across the
heavens he sees me not.”
She arose and turned her face upward to the sun. Slowly she raised her
white arms and stretched them forth in tragic appeal.
[Illustration: SLOWLY SHE RAISED HER WHITE ARMS.]
“Apollo!” she cried. “Apollo! Hear me! Clytie calls to you!”
Such a passion of melancholy longing spoke in her voice that Ethan
thrilled in spite of himself. Unconsciously his gaze followed hers
to the blazing orb. The light dazzled his eyes and blinded him for a
moment. When he looked again toward the bank it was empty, but between
the trees, along the slope, a white garment fluttered and was lost to
sight.
[Illustration]
“Clytie!” he called in sudden dismay. And again.
“Clytie!”
A wood-thrush in a nearby tree burst into golden melody. But Clytie
answered not.