“Come see how well my bees are doing.” And they went. She served him
with the lucent syrup of the bees, perfumed with the mignonette,--such
honey as there never was before. He sat on the broad doorstep, near
the scarlet poppies, she on the grass, and then they talked--was it one
golden hour--or two? Ah, well, 'twas long enough for her to learn all of
his simple life, long enough for her to know that he was victor at the
races at the school, that he could play the pipe, like any shepherd of
the ancient days, and when he went he asked her if he might return.
“Well,” laughed she, “sometimes I am lonely. Come see me--in a week.”
Yet he was there that day at twilight, and he brought his silver pipe,
and piped to her under the stars, and she sung ballads to him,--songs
of Strephon and times when the hills were young, and flocks were fairer
than they ever be these days.
“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,” and still the intercourse,
still her dark loveliness waxing, still the weaving of the mystic spell,
still happiness as primitive and as sweet as ever Eden knew.
Then came a twilight when the sweet rain fell, and on the heavy air the
perfumes of the fields floated. The woman stood by the window of the
cot, looking out. Tall, graceful, full of that subtle power which drew
his soul; clothed in white linen, fragrant from her fields, with breath
freighted with fresh milk, with eyes of flame, she was there to be
adored. And he, being man of manliest type, forgot all that might have
checked the words, and poured his soul out at her feet. She drew herself
up like a queen, but only that she might look queenlier for his sake,
and, bending, kissed his brow, and whispered back his vows.
And they were married.
The villagers pitied Hartington.
“She's more than a match for him in years--an' in some other ways, as
like as not,” they said. “Besides, she ain't much inclined to mention
anything about her past. 'Twon't bear the tellin' probably.”
As for the lovers, they laughed as they went about their honest tasks,
or sat together arms encircling each at evening, now under the stars,
and now before their fire of wood. They talked together of their farm,
added a field for winter wheat, bought other cattle, and some horses,
which they rode out over the rolling prairies side by side. He never
stopped to chat about the town; she never ventured on the street without
him by her side. Truth to tell, their neighbors envied them, marvelling
how one could extract a heaven out of earth, and what such perfect joy
could mean.
Yet, for all their prosperity, not one addition did they make to that
most simple home. It stood there, with its bare necessities, made
beautiful only with their love. But when the winter was most gone, he
made a little cradle of hard wood, in which she placed pillows of down,
and over which she hung linen curtains embroidered by her hand.
In the long evenings, by the flicker of the fire, they sat together,
cheek to cheek, and looked at this little bed, singing low songs
together.
“This happiness is terrible, my John,” she said to him one night,--a
wondrous night, when the eastern wind had flung the tassels out on all
the budding trees of spring, and the air was throbbing with awakening
life, and balmy puffs of breeze, and odors of the earth. “And we are
growing young. Do you not think that we are very young and strong?”
He kissed her on the lips. “I know that you are beautiful,” he said.
“Oh, we have lived at Nature's heart, you see, my love. The cattle and
the fowls, the honey and the wheat, the cot-the cradle, John, and you
and me! These things make happiness. They are nature. But then, you
cannot understand. You have never known the artificial--”
“And you, Elizabeth?”
“John, if you wish, you shall hear all I have to tell. 'Tis a long,
long, weary tale. Will you hear it now? Believe me, it will make us
sad.”
She grasped his arm till he shrank with pain.
“Tell what you will and when you will, Elizabeth. Perhaps, some
day--when--” he pointed to the little crib.
“As you say.” And so it dropped.
There came a day when Hartington, sitting upon the portico, where
perfumes of the budding clover came to him, hated the humming of the
happy bees, hated the rustling of the trees, hated the sight of earth.
“The child is dead,” the nurse had said, “as for your wife, perhaps--”
but that was all. Finally he heard the nurse's step upon the floor.
“Come,” she said, motioning him. And he had gone, laid cheek against
that dying cheek, whispered his love once more, saw it returned even
then, in those deep eyes, and laid her back upon her pillow, dead.
He buried her among the mignonette, levelled the earth, sowed thick the
seed again.
“'Tis as she wished,” he said.
With his strong hands he wrenched the little crib, laid it piece by
piece upon their hearth, and scattered then the sacred ashes on the
wind. Then, with hard-coming breath, broke open the locked door of that
room which he had never entered, thinking to find there, perhaps, some
sign of that unguessable life of hers, but found there only an altar,
with votive lamps before the Blessed Virgin, and lilies faded and fallen
from their stems.
Then down into the cellar went he, to those boxes, with the foreign
marks. And then, indeed, he found a hint of that dead life. Gowns of
velvet and of silk, such as princesses might wear, wonders of lace,
yellowed with time, great cloaks of snowy fur, lustrous robes, jewels
of worth,--a vast array of brilliant trumpery. Then there were books in
many tongues, with rich old bindings and illuminated page, and in them
written the dead woman's name,--a name of many parts, with titles of
impress, and in the midst of all the name, “Elizabeth Astrado,” as she
said.
And that was all, or if there were more he might have learned, following
trails that fell within his way, he never learned it, being content, and
thankful that he had held her for a time within his arms, and looked
in her great soul, which, wearying of life's sad complexities, had
simplified itself, and made his love its best adornment.