Tacita resumed her journey in a dream, and pursued it in a dream. She
asked no questions, and observed but little, though at times it seemed
to her that the line of their progress was a zigzag. Did they cross the
water a second time? Why did they travel so much by night, and sleep by
day? She did not care. Her mind became dimly aware of these questions
rather than asked them. Had she taken hashish? No matter. All that she
wanted was rest. Her very eyelashes and fingernails were weary. Oh, for
the mountains, for a place to call home, and rest!
She received the impression that a part of the country through which
they passed was like a burnt-out world, all sand and black rocks, so
that the limpid rivulet that met them somewhere was a surprise. She
wondered languidly that it was not dried up. Was it a week, or a month,
since Dylar had said, “Have no fear”? No matter. She had no fear; but
she was, oh, so weary! Fortunately, nothing was required of her but
passive endurance of fatigue. She was borne along, and tenderly cared
for.
One day she roused herself a little, or something was done to rouse her.
They were in an easy old carriage drawn by mules. It had met them at a
solitary little station of which she had not seen nor asked the name;
and they had been driving through a dry plain, and were now in pine
woods.
Elena gave her some little cakes of chocolate and slices of lemon. “We
are almost out of provisions,” she said; “but in an hour you shall have
a good dinner; and then to bed with her, like a sleepy child.”
Elena was smiling brightly. Tacita gave a languid smile in return, and
leaned back, looking out the window. The pines had ceased, and there was
a rice-field at one side, and orange-trees heavily laden with ripe fruit
at the other.
The oranges reminded her of Naples, which she had visited when a child.
The blue bay and blue sky seemed to sparkle before her, the songs
bubbled up, there was the soft splendor of profuse flowers, the fruits,
the joy in life, the careless gayety; and, crowning these delights, that
ever-present menace smoking up against the sky, telling of boiling
rivers from a boiling pit of inextinguishable fire ever ready to
overflow, bearing destruction to all that beauty.
“The utmost of earthly delight has ever its throne on the edge of a
crater,” she thought.
The orange-trees pressed closer, right and left, there were blossoms
with the fruit, and the western sun shone through both. The air was
fresh and sweet. She saw nothing but glossy foliage and golden balls,
and a green turf strown with gold.
“It is Andalusia, or the Hesperides!” she said, waking, and sitting up.
Even as she spoke, the green and gold wall came to an end, and at a
little distance a whitewashed stone house was visible.
“Look!” exclaimed Elena; and leaning toward her, pointed upward out of
the carriage window.
Behind the house, showing over its roof like a crown on a head, was a
curve of olive-trees on a hill-top. Above the trees rose wild rocks in
fantastic peaks and precipices, and above the rocks, closely serrated,
was a range of Alp-like mountains upholding a mass of snow and ice that
glittered rosily in the sunset.
“Is it your home?” asked Tacita eagerly. “How beautiful!”
“Not yet,” her friend answered, her eyes, filled with tears of joy,
fixed on those shining heights. “But from my home those mountains are
visible. To-morrow night I shall sleep under my own blessed roof!”
The door of the house stood open, but no one appeared in it. At some
distance were several persons, men and women, gathering oranges. They
paused to look at the travelers, but made no movement to approach them.
“We do not need any one,” Elena said. “You shall go directly to your
chamber; and after supper you shall sleep.”
They entered a vestibule from which a stair ascended. The inner doors
were closed. They went up to a pleasant chamber that looked toward the
mountains and the south. At their left, toward the east, twilight had
already come under the shadow of those heights and the pines beneath.
But shafts of red gold still shot over their heads from the west, and
all the shadows had a tinge of gold. An orange-tree that grew beneath
their window lifted a crowded cluster of ripe fruit above the sill, as
if offering it to the travelers.
“Thank you!” Tacita said, and detached one from the bunch where they
grew so close that each one had a facet on its side.
Elena, who seemed to feel perfectly at home, left her resting and went
down stairs for their supper. She had made no mistake in saying that it
would be a good supper. An hour later, the shadows had lost their gold,
and Tacita was asleep.
How sweet is the deep sleep of weariness that hopes and trusts! It is
not alone that every nerve and muscle lets slip a burden, that the heart
gives a thankful sigh, and the busy brain grows quiet. The pleasure is
more than negative. Such sleep comes as the tide comes in calm weather.
Transparent, yet tangible, it steals over the tired senses, its crest a
whispered lullaby. Deeper, then, smoothing out the creases of life with
a down-like touch. Yet deeper, and a full swell submerges the
consciousness, and you lie quiescent at the bottom of an enchanted sea.