“She broke her head and went home to come no more,” was Giovanni’s
somewhat startling answer when Paul asked about Psyche, finding that he
no longer met her on the stairs or in the halls. He understood what the
boy meant, and with an approving nod turned to his work again, saying,
“I like that! If there is any power in her, she has taken the right way
to find it out, I suspect.”
How she prospered he never asked; for, though he met her more than once
that year, the interviews were brief ones in street, concert-room, or
picture-gallery, and she carefully avoided speaking of herself. But,
possessing the gifted eyes which can look below the surface of things,
he detected in the girl’s face something better than beauty, though each
time he saw it, it looked older and more thoughtful, often anxious and
sad.
“She is getting on,” he said to himself with a cordial satisfaction
which gave his manner a friendliness as grateful to Psyche as his wise
reticence.
Adam was finished at last, proved a genuine success, and Paul heartily
enjoyed the well-earned reward for years of honest work. One blithe May
morning, he slipped early into the art-gallery, where the statue now
stood, to look at his creation with paternal pride. He was quite alone
with the stately figure that shone white against the purple draperies
and seemed to offer him a voiceless welcome from its marble lips. He
gave it one loving look, and then forgot it, for at the feet of his Adam
lay a handful of wild violets, with the dew still on them. A sudden
smile broke over his face as he took them up, with the thought, “She has
been here and found my work good.”
For several moments he stood thoughtfully turning the flowers to and fro
in his hands; then, as if deciding some question within himself, he
said, still smiling,—
“It is just a year since she went home; she must have accomplished
something in that time; I’ll take the violets as a sign that I may go
and ask her what.”
He knew she lived just out of the city, between the river and the mills,
and as he left the streets behind him, he found more violets blooming
all along the way like flowery guides to lead him right. Greener grew
the road, balmier blew the wind, and blither sang the birds, as he went
on, enjoying his holiday with the zest of a boy, until he reached a most
attractive little path winding away across the fields. The gate swung
invitingly open, and all the ground before it was blue with violets.
Still following their guidance he took the narrow path, till, coming to
a mossy stone beside a brook, he sat down to listen to the blackbirds
singing deliciously in the willows over head. Close by the stone, half
hidden in the grass lay a little book, and, taking it up he found it was
a pocket-diary. No name appeared on the flyleaf, and, turning the pages
to find some clue to its owner, he read here and there enough to give
him glimpses into an innocent and earnest heart which seemed to be
learning some hard lesson patiently. Only near the end did he find the
clue in words of his own, spoken long ago, and a name. Then, though
longing intensely to know more, he shut the little book and went on,
showing by his altered face that the simple record of a girl’s life had
touched him deeply.
Soon an old house appeared nestling to the hillside with the river
shining in the low green meadows just before it.
“She lives there,” he said, with as much certainty as if the pansies by
the door-stone spelt her name, and, knocking he asked for Psyche.
“She’s gone to town, but I expect her home every minute. Ask the
gentleman to walk in and wait, Katy,” cried a voice from above, where
the whisk of skirts was followed by the appearance of an inquiring eye
over the banisters.
The gentleman did walk in, and while he waited looked about him. The
room, though very simply furnished, had a good deal of beauty in it, for
the pictures were few and well chosen, the books such as never grow old,
the music lying on the well-worn piano of the sort which is never out of
fashion, and standing somewhat apart was one small statue in a recess
full of flowers. Lovely in its simple grace and truth was the figure of
a child looking upward as if watching the airy flight of some butterfly
which had evidently escaped from the chrysalis still lying in the little
hand.
Paul was looking at it with approving eyes when Mrs. Dean appeared with
his card in her hand, three shawls on her shoulders, and in her face a
somewhat startled expression, as if she expected some novel
demonstration from the man whose genius her daughter so much admired.
“I hope Miss Psyche is well,” began Paul, with great discrimination if
not originality.
The delightfully commonplace remark tranquillized Mrs. Dean at once,
and, taking off the upper shawl with a fussy gesture, she settled
herself for a chat.
“Yes, thank heaven, Sy is well. I don’t know what would become of us if
she wasn’t. It has been a hard and sorrowful year for us with Mr. Dean’s
business embarrassments, my feeble health, and May’s death. I don’t know
that you were aware of our loss, sir;” and unaffected maternal grief
gave sudden dignity to the faded, fretful face of the speaker.
Paul murmured his regrets, understanding better now the pathetic words
on a certain tear-stained page of the little book still in his pocket.
“Poor dear, she suffered everything, and it came very hard upon Sy, for
the child wasn’t happy with any one else, and almost lived in her arms,”
continued Mrs. Dean, dropping the second shawl to get her handkerchief.
“Miss Psyche has not had much time for art-studies this year, I
suppose?” said Paul, hoping to arrest the shower, natural as it was.
“How could she with two invalids, the housekeeping, her father and the
boys to attend to? No, she gave that up last spring, and though it was a
great disappointment to her at the time, she has got over it now, I
hope,” added her mother, remembering as she spoke that Psyche even now
went about the house sometimes pale and silent, with a hungry look in
her eyes.
“I am glad to hear it,” though a little shadow passed over his face as
Paul spoke, for he was too true an artist to believe that any work could
be as happy as that which he loved and lived for. “I thought there was
much promise in Miss Psyche, and I sincerely believe that time will
prove me a true prophet,” he said, with mingled regret and hope in his
voice, as he glanced about the room, which betrayed the tastes still
cherished by the girl.
“I’m afraid ambition isn’t good for women; I mean the sort that makes
them known by coming before the public in any way. But Sy deserves some
reward, I’m sure, and I know she’ll have it, for a better daughter never
lived.”
Here the third shawl was cast off, as if the thought of Psyche, or the
presence of a genial guest had touched Mrs. Dean’s chilly nature with a
comfortable warmth.
Further conversation was interrupted by the avalanche of boys which came
tumbling down the front stairs, as Tom, Dick, and Harry shouted in a
sort of chorus,—
“Sy, my balloon has got away; lend us a hand at catching him!”
“Sy, I want a lot of paste made, right off.”
“Sy, I’ve split my jacket down the back; come sew me up, there’s a
dear!”
On beholding a stranger the young gentlemen suddenly lost their voices,
found their manners, and with nods and grins took themselves away as
quietly as could be expected of six clumping boots and an unlimited
quantity of animal spirits in a high state of effervescence. As they
trooped off, an unmistakable odor of burnt milk pervaded the air, and
the crash of china, followed by an Irish wail, caused Mrs. Dean to clap
on her three shawls again and excuse herself in visible trepidation.
Paul laughed quietly to himself, then turned sober and said, “Poor
Psyche!” with a sympathetic sigh. He roamed about the room impatiently
till the sound of voices drew him to the window to behold the girl
coming up the walk with her tired old father leaning on one arm, the
other loaded with baskets and bundles, and her hands occupied by a
remarkably ugly turtle.
“Here we are!” cried a cheery voice, as they entered without observing
the new-comer. “I’ve done all my errands and had a lovely time. There is
Tom’s gunpowder, Dick’s fish-hooks, and one of Professor Gazzy’s famous
turtles for Harry. Here are your bundles, mother dear, and, best of all,
here’s father home in time for a good rest before dinner. I went to the
mill and got him.”
Psyche spoke as if she had brought a treasure; and so she had, for
though Mr. Dean’s face usually was about as expressive as the turtle’s,
it woke and warmed with the affection which his daughter had fostered
till no amount of flannel could extinguish it. His big hand patted her
cheek very gently as he said, in a tone of fatherly love and pride,—
“My little Sy never forgets old father, does she?”
“Good gracious me, my dear, there’s such a mess in the kitchen! Katy’s
burnt up the pudding, put castor-oil instead of olive in the salad,
smashed the best meat-dish, and here’s Mr. Gage come to dinner,” cried
Mrs. Dean in accents of despair as she tied up her head in a fourth
shawl.
“Oh, I’m so glad; I’ll go in and see him a few minutes, and then I’ll
come and attend to everything; so don’t worry, mother.”
“How did you find me out?” asked Psyche as she shook hands with her
guest and stood looking up at him with all the old confiding frankness
in her face and manner.
“The violets showed me the way.”
She glanced at the posy in his button-hole and smiled.
“Yes, I gave them to Adam, but I didn’t think you would guess. I enjoyed
your work for an hour to-day, and I have no words strong enough to
express my admiration.”
“There is no need of any. Tell me about yourself; what have you been
doing all this year?” he asked, watching with genuine satisfaction the
serene and sunny face before him, for discontent, anxiety, and sadness
were no longer visible there.
“I’ve been working and waiting,” she began.
“And succeeding, if I may believe what I see and hear and read,” he
said, with an expressive little wave of the book as he laid it down
before her.
“My diary! I didn’t know I had lost it. Where did you find it?”
“By the brook where I stopped to rest. The moment I saw your name I shut
it up. Forgive me, but I can’t ask pardon for reading a few pages of
that little gospel of patience, love, and self-denial.”
She gave him a reproachful look, and hurried the tell-tale book out of
sight as she said, with a momentary shadow on her face,—
“It has been a hard task; but I think I have learned it, and am just
beginning to find that my dream _is_ ‘a noonday light and truth,’ to
me.”
“Then you do not relinquish your hopes, and lay down your tools?” he
asked, with some eagerness.
“Never! I thought at first that I could not serve two masters, but in
trying to be faithful to one I find I am nearer and dearer to the other.
My cares and duties are growing lighter every day (or I have learned to
bear them better), and when my leisure does come I shall know how to use
it, for my head is full of ambitious plans, and I feel that I can do
something _now_.”
All the old enthusiasm shone in her eyes, and a sense of power betrayed
itself in voice and gesture as she spoke.
“I believe it,” he said heartily. “You have learned the secret, as that
proves.”
Psyche looked at the childish image as he pointed to it, and into her
face there came a motherly expression that made it very sweet.
“That little sister was so dear to me I could not fail to make her
lovely, for I put my heart into my work. The year has gone, but I don’t
regret it, though this is all I have done.”
“You forget your three wishes; I think the year has granted them.”
“What were they?”
“To possess beauty in yourself, the power of seeing it in all things,
and the art of reproducing it with truth.”
She colored deeply under the glance which accompanied the threefold
compliment, and answered with grateful humility,—
“You are very kind to say so; I wish I could believe it.” Then, as if
anxious to forget herself, she added rather abruptly,—
“I hear you think of giving your Adam a mate,—have you begun yet?”
“Yes, my design is finished, all but the face.”
“I should think you could image Eve’s beauty, since you have succeeded
so well with Adam’s.”
“The features perhaps, but not the expression. That is the charm of
feminine faces, a charm so subtile that few can catch and keep it. I
want a truly womanly face, one that shall be sweet and strong without
being either weak or hard. A hopeful, loving, earnest face with a tender
touch of motherliness in it, and perhaps the shadow of a grief that has
softened but not saddened it.”
“It will be hard to find a face like that.”
“I don’t expect to find it in perfection; but one sometimes sees faces
which suggest all this, and in rare moments give glimpses of a lovely
possibility.”
“I sincerely hope you will find one then,” said Psyche, thinking of the
dinner.
“Thank you; _I_ think I have.”
Now, in order that every one may be suited, we will stop here, and leave
our readers to finish the story as they like. Those who prefer the good
old fashion may believe that the hero and heroine fell in love, were
married, and lived happily ever afterward. But those who can conceive of
a world outside of a wedding-ring may believe that the friends remained
faithful friends all their lives, while Paul won fame and fortune, and
Psyche grew beautiful with the beauty of a serene and sunny nature,
happy in duties which became pleasures, rich in the art which made life
lovely to herself and others, and brought rewards in time.
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