The Worshipper of the Image | Page 7

She has a little house, a warm nest, close to the water among the bushes yonder, and she calls like that to let her little children know she's coming home with some dainty things for lunch. She means 'Hush! Hush! Don't be frightened. I'm coming just as fast as I can.'"
"Funny little mother! What pretty stories you tell me. But do the birds really talk--Oh, but look, little mother, there's Daddy--"
It was Antony, deep in some dream of Silencieux.
"Daddy! Daddy!" cried the little girl.
He took her tenderly by the hand.
"Daddy, where have you been all this long time? You have brought me no flowers for ever so long."
"Flowers, little Wonder--they are nearly all gone away, gone to sleep till next year--But see, I will gather you something prettier than flowers."
And, hardly marking Beatrice, he led Wonder up and down among the winding underwood. Fungi of exquisite yellows and browns were popping up all about the wood. He gathered some of the most delicate, and put them into the fresh small hands.
"But, Daddy, I mustn't eat them, must I?"
"No, dear--they are too beautiful to eat. You must just look at them and love them, like flowers."
"But they are not flowers, Daddy. They don't smell like flowers. I would rather have flowers, Daddy."
"But there are no flowers till next year. You must learn to love these too, little Wonder; they are more beautiful than flowers."
"Oh, no, Daddy, they are not--"
"Antony," said Beatrice, "how strange you are! Would you poison her? See, dear," (turning to Wonder) "Daddy is only teasing. Let us throw them away. They are nasty, nasty things. Promise me never to gather them, won't you, Wonder?"
"Yes, mother. I don't like them. They frighten me."
Antony turned into a by-path with a strange laugh, and was lost to them in the wood.
CHAPTER VII
THE LOVERS OF SILENCIEUX
Silencieux often spoke to Antony now. Sometimes a sudden, startling word when he was writing late at night; sometimes long tender talks; once a terrible whisper. But all this time she never opened her eyes. The lashes still lay wet upon her cheeks, and when she spoke her lips seemed hardly to move, only to smile with a deeper meaning, an intenser life. Indeed, at these times, her face shone with so great a brightness that Antony's vision was dazzled, and to his gaze she seemed almost featureless as a star.
Once he had begged to see her eyes.
"You know not what you ask," she had answered. "When you see my eyes you will die. Some day, Antony, you shall see my eyes. But not yet. You have much to do for me yet. There is yet much love for you and me before the end."
"Have all died who saw your eyes, Silencieux?"
"Yes, all died."
"You have had many lovers, Silencieux. Many lovers, and far from here, and long ago."
"Yes, many lovers, long ago," echoed Silencieux.
"You have been very cruel, Silencieux."
"Yes, very cruel, but very kind. It is true men have died for me. I have been cruel, yes, but to die for me has seemed better than to live for any other. And some of my lovers I have never forsaken. When they have lost all in the world, they have had me. Lonely garrets have seemed richly furnished because of my face, and men with foodless lips have died blest because I was near them at the last. Sometimes I have kissed their lips and died with them, and the world has missed my face for a hundred unlovely years--for the world is only beautiful when I and my lovers are in it. Antony, you are one of my lovers, one of my dearest lovers; be great enough, be all mine, and perhaps I will die with you, Antony--and leave the world in darkness for your sake, another hundred years."
"Tell me of your lovers, Silencieux."
"Nearly three thousand years ago I loved a woman of Mitylene, very fair and made of fire. But she loved another more than I, and for his sake threw herself from a rock into the sea. As she fell, the rose we had made together fell from her bosom, and was torn to pieces by the sea. Fishermen gathered here and there a petal floating on the waters,--but what were they?--and the world has never known how wonderful was that rose of our love which she took with her into the depths of the sea."
"You are faithful, Silencieux; you love her still."
"Yes, I love her still."
"And with whom did love come next, Silencieux?"
"Oh, I loved many those years, for the loss of a great love sends us vainly from hand to hand of many lesser loves, to ease a little the great ache; and at that time the world seemed full of my lovers. I have forgotten none of them. They pass before