Ethan stretched his arms, chastely clad in striped blue and white
madras, yawned expansively, kicked his legs loose from the sheet in
which they were entangled, and awoke; awoke to find the sunlight
dancing across the room and making radiant blurs of his brushes on the
old mahogany bureau; awoke to find a robin fervently launching his
brief ballad in through the window from the branches just outside;
awoke to find himself in a new and very wonderful world, a world
populated by a girl with violet eyes, a reiterating robin, and himself!
[Illustration]
He was in love!
Knowledge of the fact came to him with a heart-clutching abruptness.
He had gone to sleep last night without premonition; he awoke now to
a startling illumination of mind. Whence had the tidings come? From
the dancing sunlight streaming across the old boards? From the scented
breeze that stirred the leaves out there? From the perfervid gossip
of the swelling throat? Who could tell? And yet there it was, that
knowledge, as real as the green summer earth awaiting him, as much a
part of his life as the breath he drew!
He lay for a long while with his hands clasped under his head and
gazed out into the beautiful green and golden and azure world, with a
happy smile on his face, thinking new and ineffable thoughts. It is a
glorious thing to find oneself really, wholly in love for the first
time, glorious, wonderful, absorbing....
[Illustration]
The robin ceased his pæan and was silent, with his head cocked
attentively. Perhaps his ears were better than yours or mine and he
heard a song sweeter and more triumphant than any of his own, for after
a moment of listening he spread his wings and floated down across
sunlit spaces to the orchard.
I wonder if the safety razor was not invented for the man in love.
Certain it is that Ethan could never have used any other sort this
morning. At times, driven by a mad impatience to be out and away, he
shaved frantically, as though he feared that Nature would roll up
her landscape and be gone ere he could reach it; at times he stood
motionless, gazing unseeingly at the tip of his nose reflected in the
old mirror. Now he whistled blithely, only to stop in the middle of
a note and relapse into a silent gravity. In short, he exhibited all
the symptoms, mental and physical, usually accompanying his disease;
temperature increased, pulse at once full and fluttering, respiration
erratic, pupils of the eyes slightly dilated, mind apparently affected.
He dressed with unusual care, bewailing the fact that his choice of
garments was limited to two suits. Neither blue serge nor gray homespun
seemed fitted for the occasion; his heart hankered after purple and
fine linen. But at last he was dressed and was hurrying down the
creaking staircase to a late breakfast. Forty minutes later he was
floating amidst the lilies of Arcady.
* * * * *
That line of stars, dear reader, is the typographic equivalent of
three wasted hours in the life of Ethan Parmley,――three empty unhappy
hours spent in and about a silly old puddle smelling like an apothecary
shop (I am using his own language now) with only a trio of idiotic
swans to talk to. The Nymph of the Violet Eyes came not.
And yet he saw her that day, after all; caught a fleeting glimpse of
her that at once assuaged and sharpened his hunger. He was on the porch
of the Inn after dinner smoking, morosely, when a smart trap swept by
from the direction of The Larches. It contained a coachman and two
ladies. One of the ladies had violet eyes, though, as her head was
turned away from him and partly hidden by a white parasol, he could not
have proved it at the moment. As for the other, he couldn’t have said
whether she was young or old, fair or dark. The pair of glistening,
well-groomed bays left Ethan scant time for observation. In a twinkling
the carriage and its precious burden were gone. And although he never
left the porch for more than a minute at a time all the rest of that
interminable summer afternoon he found no reward. There were other
roads leading to The Larches.
[Illustration]
The evening mail brought him a note from Vincent Graves:
“Farrell showed up here Monday with the car and your note. I
tried to find out from him what you were up to, but he either
didn’t know or exercised a discretion I never credited him
with. I hope it is nothing more than sunstroke; folks have been
known to recover from that with their minds almost as good as
new. Anyhow, I am coming over in a few days to see for myself.
I know all about mythology――accent on the _myth_. But look
here, no poaching on my preserves! I finished third yesterday
on time-allowance; would have done better if I hadn’t carried
away my jib at the outer mark. No wind to speak of. Can’t
you come on for Saturday’s race? We’ve had the car out once
or twice. There’s something wrong with it. Farrell has it in
hospital to-day. My compliments to her, but tell her I need you
here.
“Yours,
“_Vincent_.”
After supper Ethan drew a chair to the open window of his room, set the
lamp precariously on the bureau where the light would fall upon the
portfolio in his lap, and replied to Vincent:
“My dear Vincent (he wrote), life moves sweetly in Arcadia.
Clytie, she who beside her blossom-starred pool has so long
gazed, enamored, upon the fiery Apollo, now hearkens to the
wooing tones of green-garlanded Vertumnus. No more she fills
the leafy hollow with her tears and soft reproaches, but
reclined where shading branches defy the sun god’s fiercest
rays, she smiles betimes upon Vertumnus. And he, bathing his
heart in the warm blue pools of her eyes, forgets and forswears
the too-coy Pomona. So, friend, runs the drama of Clytie the
dawn-eyed Nymph of the Lotus Pool; of Apollo, radiant and
unapproachable Lord of the Sun; and of Vertumnus, humble and
enamored God of the Seasons. Friend, for love of me, petition
fair Venus to aid my cause!
“And now Jove be with you! The night wind steals sweetly
through Arcadia’s moonlit glades and bears to my nostrils the
heart-stirring fragrance of lily and of lotus. It is Clytie’s
breath upon my cheek. Ah, my friend, I weep for you that you
can never know the love of a god for a nymph in Arcady! May
Somnus, gentlest of the gods, send thee sweet dreams. Farewell.
“VERTUMNUS.”
“And now, having read this over, I see clearly that it is
beyond your understanding, my friend, and so it may be that it
will never reach your eyes.”
It never did.