The Worshipper of the Image | Page 7

of its unimportant words.
The soul of such a child is, of all things, the most mysterious. There
was that in her face, as she clung on to her mother's hand, which
seemed to say: "O mother, I understand it all, and far more; if I might
only talk to you in the language of heaven,--but my words are like my
little legs, frail and uncertain of their footing, and, while I think all your
strange grown-up thoughts, I can only talk of toys and dolls. Mother,
father's blood as well as yours is in my veins, and so I understand you
both. Poor little mother! Poor little father!"

Little Wonder looked these things, she may indeed have thought them;
but all she said was: "O mother, what was that?"
"That was a rabbit, dear. See, there is another! See his fluffy white
tail!"
And again: "O mother, what was that?"
"That was a water-hen, dear. 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,