Part 21 (1/2)
She remembered many faces that rose like ghosts out of the past, calling to her with long-forgotten voices that once she had loved. She remembered hours of triumph when the ultimate dream of happiness had arisen and wrapped her around with its burning flame.
But she had also lived through the long deadly years when nothing more was laid at her feet, when youth had carelessly trodden upon the heart that once had seemed to others a treasure impossible to obtain.
Past--past--all past; but forgotten? Dear G.o.d! ah no! But old age, weary old age from which all flee, whose breath lies like white snow upon the bended head, contains also the balm and benediction of a frosty peace that resembles the face of the night, unstarred and moonless, covering over the glaring joys and gloomy sorrows of yore!
As she was thus wandering on distant sh.o.r.es of her youth, a shadow crossed the s.p.a.ce before her and she looked up. It took her a little time before she could come back to cold reality, till her brain realized that in truth she was now but Zorka the wise old witch.
Eric stood at her side; the flames flared and hissed, covering him with changing jets of light.
Between his hands he held a finished picture. Zorka gave a low cry of surprise, and rose trembling to her feet; there in the unsteady glow of the restless flames she looked upon a face the like of which human hand had never before fixed upon canvas or paper.
The eyes of the painting seemed alive, and seemed to stare with unspeakable rapture upon a sight too marvellous for poor human words to translate into mortal language. There they were with all the extraordinary beauty the h.o.a.ry woman had always known: and more than all, within these eyes the dreamer of dreams had put also another expression which contained all the yearning cry of his own pa.s.sionate, hopeless love.
For many a year old Zorka, the witch, had not shed a single tear--that source of emotion had dried since ages past; but now as she gazed with quivering emotion upon the glory of this unearthly visage she felt how something rose up from her heart, warm and suffocating, clutching at her strangled throat, till one by one warm drops ran down her furrowed cheeks, leaving s.h.i.+ning wet lines upon her leathery skin like little streams of rain on hard-baked earth.
Eric watched her, but never spoke a word; he stood motionless, his arms hanging at his sides, tired and resigned, as one who can fight no more.
Overhead the white falcon circled and circled, uttering small weird shrieks like some one in pain; and as it moved about in the inky sky the blue diamond round its neck shone like a moving star.
”My son,” spoke Zorka at last, ”thy work is great and wonderful; and truly it could never be said of one who had fas.h.i.+oned so blessed a beauty that his life had been lived in vain. But I perceive that thy human longing is for ever unstilled; and now some inner truth has broken in upon my far-seeing brain, and these are the words I have to speak to thee:
”Go to the woman that thy heart loveth too well--go, for such is the unwritten law of this earth; go and take her in thy living arms and teach her with a kiss all the joy and all the sorrow of the world. And what the great G.o.d above desires that the end should be is not for us, who are but fas.h.i.+oned from His dust, to presume to foresee. Go, and I in the silence of the night shall remain here to watch and pray!”
Eric did as he was bid; laying the picture his hands had created down by the side of the reader of signs, he silently vanished into the dark.
The fire flared into a renewed burst of flame, and stretched out long arms of red glowing light as if endeavouring to call him back. Then a cold gust of wind swept over the waste and covered all around with clouds of smoke.
XXIV
A song of deathless Love, immortal, Sunrise-haired and starry-eyed and wondrous.
FIONA MACLEOD.
Within the tent where Stella lived each thing was sweet and pure.
Her magic charm had spread over all she touched.
Old Zorka had thus decreed that she should always have a dwelling that need be shared with none. It was as poor a place as those around, but within the folding walls was a haven of rest and peace.
On its rustic canvas sides hung all the withered wreaths that day by day she had worn. The one she had just removed from her tresses was still quite fresh, and softly swayed over the door.
Eric had found in the early morn, beneath a protecting tree, a whole bunch of scarlet strawberry leaves that the autumnal frosts had not yet touched; he had wound therefrom a lovely garland, all crimson and red, that throughout the day had crowned the loved one's brow.
A fire close by cast a friendly light through every crevice, so that the humble dwelling looked warm and homely, in spite of its barren poorness and the drear solitude upon which it stood.
Before the wide-open entry sat the mysterious maiden on an ancient wooden chest, her much-loved violin, as always, pressed tenderly beneath her cheek.
She played and played, and out of the darkness Fate was coming towards her, treading with noiseless feet.... Still she played on, all else forgotten or never even seen, tunes almost too sweet for human ear to bear. But to-day there was something within them resembling the sighs of a wandering soul that longs for what it cannot reach.