Overhead was a sky of soft, dusky blue, broken by the clear light of
the stars: all about were the familiar walks of the villa garden,
mysterious now in the darkness, and seeming to lead into infinite
space. The lines of aloe, fig, and palm stood like shadows guarding a
world of mystery. Daphne, wandering alone in the garden at midnight,
half exultant, half afraid, stepped noiselessly along the pebbled walks
with a feeling that that world was about to open for her. Ahead,
through an arch where the thick foliage of the ilexes had been cut to
leave the way clear for the passer-by, a single golden planet shone low
in the west, and the garden path led to it.
Daphne had been unable to sleep, for sleeplessness had become a habit
during the past week. Whether she was too happy or too unhappy she
could not tell: she only knew that she was restless and smothering for
air and space. Hastily dressing, she had stolen on tiptoe down the
broad stairway by the running water and out into the night, carrying a
tiny Greek lamp with a single flame, clear, as only the flame of olive
oil can be. She had put the lamp down in the doorway, and it was
burning there now, a beacon to guide her footsteps when she wanted to
return. Meanwhile, the air was cool on throat and forehead and on her
open palms: she had no wish to go in.
Here was a fountain whose jets of water, blown high from the mouths of
merry dolphins, fell in spray in a great stone basin where mermaids
waited for the shower to touch bare shoulders and bended heads. The
murmur of the water, mingled with the murmur of unseen live things, and
the melody of night touched the girl's discordant thoughts to music.
Of what avail, after all, was her fierce struggle for duty? Here were
soft shadows, and great spaces, and friendly stars.
Of course her lover-god, Apollo, was gone. She had known the other day
when she left him on the hill that she would not see him again, for the
look of his face had told her that. Of course, it was better so. Now,
everything would go on as had been intended. Anna would come home;
after this visit was over, there would be New York again, and Eustace.
Yes, she was brave to share his duty with him, and the years would not
be long. And always these autumn days would be shining through the
dark hours of her life, these perfect days of sunshine without shadow.
Of their experiences she need not even tell, for she was not sure that
it had actually been real. She would keep it as a sacred memory that
was half a dream.
She was walking now by the rows of tall chrysanthemums, and she reached
out her fingers to touch them, for she could almost feel their deep
yellow through her finger-tips. It was like taking counsel of them,
and they, like all nature, were wise. Cypress and acacia and palm
stood about like strong comforters; help came from the tangled vines
upon the garden wall, from the matted periwinkle on the ground at her
feet, and the sweet late roses blossoming in the dark.
Yes, he was gone, and the beauty and the power of him had vanished. It
was better so, she kept saying to herself, her thoughts, no matter
where they wandered, coming persistently back, as if the idea, so
obviously true, needed proving after all. The only thing was, she
would have liked to see him just once more to show him how invincible
she was. He had taken her by surprise that day upon the hill, and had
seen what she had not meant to tell. Now, if she could confront him
once, absolutely unshaken, could tell him her decision, give him words
of dismissal in a voice that had no tremor in it, as her voice had had
the other day, that would be a satisfactory and triumphant parting for
one who had come badly off. Her shoulder burned yet where he had
kissed it, and yet she was not angry. He must have known that day how
little she was vexed. If she could only see him once again, she said
wistfully to herself, to show him how angry she was, all would be well.
Daphne had wandered to the great stone gate that led out upon the
highway, and was leaning her forehead against a moss-grown post, when
she heard a sudden noise. Then the voice of San Pietro Martire broke
the stillness of the night, and Daphne, listening, thought she heard a
faint sound of bleating. Hermes was calling her, and Hermes was in
danger. Up the long avenue she ran toward the house, and, seizing the
tiny lamp at the doorway, sped up the slope toward the inclosure where
the two animals grazed, the flame making a trail of light like that of
a firefly moving swiftly in the darkness. The bray rang out again, but
there was no second sound of bleating. Inside the pasture gate she
found the donkey anxiously sniffing at something that lay in the grass.
Down on her knees went Daphne, for there lay Hermes stretched out on
his side, with traces of blood at his white throat.
The girl put down her lamp and lifted him in her arms. Some cowardly
dog had done this thing, and had run away on seeing her, or hearing her
unfasten the gate. She put one finger on the woolly bosom, but the
heart was not beating. The lamb's awkward legs were stretched out
quite stiffly, and his eyes were beginning to glaze. Two tears dropped
on the fat white side; then Daphne bent and kissed him. Looking up,
she saw San Pietro gazing on with the usual grief of his face
intensified. It was as if he understood that the place at his back
where the lamb had cuddled every night must go cold henceforward.
"We must bury him, San Pietro," said Daphne presently. "Come help me
find a place."
She put the lambkin gently down upon the ground, and, rising, started,
with one arm over San Pietro's neck, to find a burial place for the
dead. The donkey followed willingly, for he permitted himself to love
his lady with a controlled but genuine affection; and together they
searched by the light of the firefly lamp. At last Daphne halted by a
diminutive cypress, perhaps two feet high, and announced that she was
content.
The tool-house was not far away. Investigating, she found, as she had
hoped, that the door was not locked. Arming herself with a hoe she
came back, and, under the light of southern stars, dug a little grave
in the soft, dark earth, easily loosened in its crumbling richness.
Then she took the lamp and searched in the deep thick grass for
flowers, coming back with a mass of pink-tipped daisies gathered in her
skirt. The sight of the brown earth set her to thinking: there ought
to be some kind of shroud. Near the tool-house grew a laurel tree, she
remembered, and from that she stripped a handful of green, glossy
leaves, to spread upon the bottom of the grave. This done, she bore
the body of Hermes to his resting-place, and strewed the corpse with
pink daisies.
"Should he have Christian or heathen burial?" she asked, smiling. "This
seems to be a place where the two faiths meet. I think neither. He
must just be given back to Mother Nature."
She heaped the sod over him with her own hands, and fitted neatly
together some bits of turf. Then she took up her lamp to go. San
Pietro, tired of ceremony, was grazing in the little circle of light.
"To-morrow," said Daphne, as she went down the hill, "he will be eating
grass from Hermes' grave."