Part 2
Days and weeks went quickly by in cloud and sunshine. Each night the little load of trouble, or it might be peace, that the day had gathered, slipped away into the Great Storehouse, and was forgotten. One wretched thought only remained in the darkness and silence to perplex the hapless merchant with a dull surprise and bewildered dread of what soon or late must come. As for Beauty, since her father hid within himself the secret terror that after the busy day was done, laid wait and beset for him the dark hours, she wasted small care on aught, but how best to make cheer in their poor house. But ofttimes would a sharp pain strike athwart the father’s heart, when at evening he wended home from the fishing or the field. Then, perchance, after the cliff was climbed, he would look towards Beauty’s casement in the tower--there, amid bud and blossom, a face would smile down upon him, fairer than any rose. For in some old earthen pot, that dear-bought briar had been set, and it had taken root and grown into a goodly plant. And Beauty tended it well, and loved her blooming rose-tree, and never a doubt nor fear of any deadly Beast beclouded her strong heart.
But now, when summer-tide was full, on a blue June day, when his sons were all away in the fields, the man looked wanly in his young daughter’s face; and she, well knowing what that was he would say to her, went and wrapt a grey mantle round her, and set forth with him to the outward gate. And there she bade farewell to her sisters, who followed, making some hollow show of false sorrow. Tenderly her father lifted up the maid and set her upon a lean rough-coated farm horse, which awaited them, tied to the gate. And then, leading the horse by the bridle-rein,--as in a dream,--they fared forth together on their fateful way. Soon the steep path that had wound through barren rocks, began to cross the sandy plain, and before the sun was high, they had passed on into a beautiful green world of young corn, all bedashed with jewelled blooms of blue and scarlet and gold, between the thin-eared ranks. Loud sang under the white clouds, whole heavenward companies of the quivering, grey-winged bird. White cottage walls gleamed under deep thatch, each one in its little close of orchard or of fragrant walnut-trees. And upon the upland slopes lay many a fair homestead, half seen amid the crowding of rich corn-stacks. And so the narrowing way led on to the storm blown pines and thickets of dwarf oak, which crowned a dark line of hill above. Slowly they toiled up the height, for the noonday sun shone hotly down; and there under the shade the twain stayed a while, and undid the little store of food they had to eat by the way, and let their wearied beast go, in the scanty grass near by. When long shadows stretched over the land, they were afoot once more. And now the merchant followed, dumb with a despair that had no words, while Beauty on her horse went shining through the wood. Sorrowfully the winds made dole in the leafy boughs above their heads. And ever as they went the trees grew more thick together, with black night down within the forest depths. Twisted roots crawled serpent-wise across the path, and needs must the travellers go carefully and slow. Night drew on, and the man began to mark the way with care, and sought through the darkness for the old stone wall, he thought to be not far from that place. Right so there came to them some glimmer of moon-litten stone between the trees, anigh the dimness of their path. And now the long garden wall echoed back the sound of the iron-shod hoofs. But smooth and without break seemed that length of ordered stones. And though the man sought painfully, feeling with his hands where the shadows fell thickest, yet it seemed he might never find the little door. Many an odorous wave of delicious fragrance came over from the other side. And in the uncertain light, Beauty perceived an over-hanging of white roses amidst tangled weeds. And therewithal, as in a dream strange things do happen with great ease and likelihood, so whilst yet they sought the entrance, on a sudden they were within the garden of the Beast. Light seemed to shine from the far end of a wide grassy way, and onward to that light, must they go. After a few paces the travellers came anear the lighted windows and open gates of a large fair manor. Gently her father lifted down Beauty from the horse, and leaving him to go whither he would, they entered, dazzled with a great silvery blaze of light. These twain were utterly alone. No sound, no living creature greeted them there.
So in shivering silence, treading lightly in that marble-pillared place, where the lightest footstep echoed and rang again, they came to a marvellous painted hall. Beauty gazed with wonder on the red rose-leaves that strewed the floor, on the golden hangings and the festal garlands on the walls, and the banquet spread with care awaiting them. And because their bodies were faint from weariness and hunger, they sat them down on the gold-wrought chairs to make what cheer they might, notwithstanding that their very souls were chilled with dread of the yet unseen presence. So they ate and drank; and afterwards, as they still sat there, there seemed to grow upon the air, drawing from distant corners of the house, and along the corridors, a dreadful sound, which made them tremble with affright; and the man knew that the Beast came nigh. So they began to bid each other farewell. Vainly did the maiden strive to hide her trouble when that perilous shape came anear. And first the creature gazed at Beauty, as she shrank back, clinging to her father, to whom he spake with a man’s voice, but in slow and halting speech: “Good friend, ye be welcome, for well and truly ye have holden your promise.” And then to her--“Beauty, come you here of your will?”
And she answered quickly, “Yea, in good sooth.”
The Beast seemed well pleased at that. Nevertheless, in gruesome tones, he required of the merchant to be gone on the morrow, and that he might never behold him any more. Then, with a strange, wistful look at the girl, of mingled ruth and kindness, from under the shaggy beast-like brows, he turned from the lighted chamber, and gat him away to the darkness of his unknown den.
So that night, long after moonset, Beauty and her father still sat together, hand laid to hand, speaking of past things, and loth to part--these two, for whom all the joy of life seemed done--while the lights burned low and the summer night waned fast. Overmuch sorrow had made their eyes heavy, and they longed for some short rest before the coming of the day that was to bring such bitter parting. Two fair sleeping rooms they found prepared. And at dawn, in the grey light, a pale woman, clad in long white raiment, stood beside Beauty’s bed. She called very softly to the girl, bidding her have no fear of aught in that place, but to keep her heart strong and true. Beauty was fain to tell this dream to her father, that their parting might not be all too dark and hopeless.
When the sun was risen, the merchant looked out, and saw his horse waiting, saddled, by the door. So with white set face he made him ready; and as though constrained by some dreadful fate, he slowly departed, nor once looked back to the gate, where Beauty stood in the dewy morning light. There was no red in her cheek, and her grey eyes were bright with unshed tears, as from the threshold she watched him go. And so to her the world became desolate; and yesterday seemed far away; and full far away and strange, already seemed to her the familiar faces and sounds of home, as ever, fainter and fainter came back the ring of horse-hoofs along the road, and died at last in the distance.
Therewithal Beauty went back into the silent house. She made no sorrow out of measure, for she was great of heart; and the young are strong, and slow to cast hope away. And within her soul also lay a little hidden hope, most like to prophecy, that even in this place--where some grizzly death might steal out and seize her unawares from the dim corners of her prison--she might light soon upon the golden treasure key, whereby a door should open on the secret way leading back to old happier days, or perchance to some undreamed-of, goodlier world, and her heart should win its scarce-known, unpronounced desire.
Day followed day, and the girl forgot to call the Beast’s house her prison. No troublous season of fear and doubt had she, but only long summer days of peaceful sweetness, and nights of dreamless sleep. Daily when the sun went down, and Beauty sat in the golden hall at supper, the Beast came and sat there with her; and his dreadful noise had grown less fearsome in her ears, and even was as it were, an unheard terror. She ate and drank, conversing kindly, and heeding little the ugliness of the presence that sat anear. Each night after supper, that ill-favoured Beast did ask the lady, “Would she have him to her husband?” And every time she made answer, “No--that might she never do.” And therewith the Beast would hang down his head, and sigh so dolorously that it were marvel to hear. And then Beauty grieved very sorely for him, and full fain was she to pray him to come back, whereas he shuffled from out of the sight of her. But yet her lips could never shape fair words which her true heart forbade.
Days went by, until the added sum of them at last made three long years: and still Beauty’s life passed on dreamfully, in the palace of the Beast. But for the sweet-voiced thrushes and nightingales, which made melody in the rose-garden without, all day long and after sun-down,--the silence of that solitude might have made the girl’s heart sad. Within the dusky pine-branches, wild doves had their nests, and to her ear their note had human tones. Often as she listened would their never-ending love-plaint seem to bring anigh old home-scenes in that other world, she used, she thought, to know full well.
After the three twelvemonths--which in that spellbound place seemed but one summer long--there came a day when the lonely maid wandered further in the garden than had been her wont. The gold hem of her gown slid shining over the daisies and pink petals drifted down from thorny brakes upon the grass, as she passed along green paths, to where the flowers and the broad sunshine ceased. Under the beeches, in the sun-flecked shade, her feet pressed last year’s crisp brown leaves; hard by, under a knot of firs, a little thread of clear water, fell sparkling into a marble basin. And Beauty leaned over the sculptured edge, while many thoughts both sweet and bitter, went to and fro across her brain. Down in the clear pool wavered gleams of some other blue--shadows of other, not familiar, branching trees; till, as she gazed into that little shallow, she deemed some picture lay there. Through the leaves she dimly beheld, as in a very far distance, an old grey tower, on a sandy ridge, beside the rippling sea. Coldly shone the distant sunlight on the tower. The heavy iron-studded door stood wide open; and there in the weed-grown court browsed the white goats, or climbed the ruined wall, to reach down wandering tendrils of wild vine rooted in the stones. Very solitary did that old grey tower seem, as, dimmed with gathering tears, her eyes sought, but all in vain, one whom she might nowhere find; then, as she gazed steadfastly, a dead leaf fell and blurred the image, erewhile distinct and living.
Beauty was passing heavy when she rose and left the beechen grove. And when, as she moved again along the fresh grassy pleasance, grey clouds had dulled the sunshine, and a new fear oppressed her joyous spirit.
That evening-tide, at supper, the Beast might well discover how the lady strove, but could not, to hide some sharp grief. Yet so daffish was he withal, that no manner of cheer could he make her, nor yet require her to say what had gone amiss; but only might he sit before her in troubled thought and look askance with down-hung head.
Then at last spake Beauty, in naught misdoubting the Beast (for he had ever shown himself kind and courteous to her, like a knight of old time)--
“Sir, I fain would go to see my father for a space. In the little fountain under the fir-tree, I saw an image of the tower; but my father, nor none else, I could nowhere see, and therefore I greatly fear for him.”
Thereupon the Beast made great dole; yet he could in no wise refuse so sweet a one anything she would ask, were it much or little.
“Full woe am I of your departing,” he said, “for I fear me sore that you will not come again.”
But Beauty answered again, “I promise you of my faith; for and I be not sick, that in seven days’ time will I return.”
Then was the Beast comforted; and he gave her a golden ring of quaint device, whereon was graven an unknown word in antique letters. And this ring she was to lay under her pillow, on the night before the day set for her return. Then was Beauty cut to the heart when she heard the Beast groan, as he turned and went his way.
On the morrow that place was empty of her sweet presence. For when the maiden awoke, all things were strange about her, and yet remembered well; for she lay in the low poor sleeping room of old days, in her father’s tower by the sea. Beside the bed hung great store of silken gowns, very rich, and well beseen with gold and silver embroideries, and sewn with pearls and many stones of price. Ill might such royal weed beseem that poor dark place, which still she called her home; but since there was no other, she did on in haste, the meanest of all that rich apparelling. Then lightly ran down the tottering stair to greet the beloved father. The merchant, sitting idle and alone in the house-place, did certainly hear that which he thought to be a well-known step. Yet so smitten was he with grief and long solitude, that scarce he could find will to look up with dull eyes, when Beauty came anear, and stood in the low arched doorway. There, for a moment, she made sunlight in the dark with her lovely face and the sheen of her gold-wrought gown. And when she was kneeling at his feet, scarce indeed might Beauty persuade her father but that she were some hollow shape, sent of enchantment to mock his wretchedness; no, scarcely, even when she held him close, embracing him with loving arms, and had kissed him a hundred times could he believe it was herself. And as at last he let yield to joyful welcome, and with hand clasping hand they sat together,--they each told other all that had befell since that bitter day they parted; she, her bootless fears, her days of unhoped peace; and he, of the elder sisters’ marriages, of the three brothers gone away with many of that land to fight for the Holy Sepulchre. And while they made great joy together, and the aged crone began to set the board, right so the trampling of horse-hoofs sounded upon the stones without. Beauty looked out, and beheld her sisters with their husbands, at the door. Unbidden guests were they that morn; and with their coming all the new gladness seemed to die away within the house; hearts of those sisters were evil, and in their hands they brought no blessing. Yet did Beauty strive to give them such kindly welcoming as she might. Some pity, indeed, must she give them; for no happy life was theirs. The elder had espoused a very proud and learned man, but poor; and by him she was greatly despised. And the younger had for husband a rich man, of very seemly person, who cared nought for other goodliness than his own; and had scorn for his wife, withal she was so fair. So when they were lighted down from their horses, and had come into the house, and had begun to consider their young sister, how she was well beseen like a princess, in her shining gown, though serving them with such kindly grace, they were passing envious; and hatred, like a sharp thorn, pierced through their jealous hearts. Sore grieved were they when they knew that to her the Beast was in no wise perilous. But to her sisters Beauty made but short the tale of how she fared in that place. So within a while the two sisters departed secretly into the green close behind the old tower, and came to a little hazel-brake anigh the wild; and there they sat them down and made complaint, bewailing them with tears and moans.
“Now are we in most evil plight,” said they, “that our sister, younger than we, should go thus apparelled in silken stuffs, and live in a king’s palace” (for so they called the house of the Beast). And then they took secret council one with the other; for they said, “so we may but prevail to keep her here yet another seven nights over and above the time she appointed with the Beast, he will surely be avenged of her falsehood; and then shall no gold save her life!”
And none heard save only the raven who abode in the trees. So these two women came softly back into the house; and they showed unwonted love for their sister, making much of her, and praying her to forget their mauger, and the wrong they had done her in the old days before time past.
And the maid, in her guilelessness, heard with joy their false words. And when the day was almost come that she should depart they made show of grief, and besought her to abide with them but one seven nights longer. Beauty looked to her father; but he covered his face, and dared say nought, for he was sore afeared of the Beast’s wroth.
And so for that while Beauty forgot her promise, and let herself be forsworn, and yielded her will to those two women, nought witting of their most felon device. Thus it came to pass that she was well-nigh lost for the bitter malice of them that wished her death.
Yet in all these days the maid was not glad; but greatly troubled when she thought on the Beast. Very pitiful waxed Beauty’s heart, as she remembered of all her friend’s goodness, and his sorrow of her departing. And so it happened, that on the tenth night after, she dreamed a dream. She beheld the Beast as he lay a-dying under a great tree in the garden. And the garden was a very great way off, and she so far away, she might not help him in his sore need; nor call to him, nor with tender words hold him back from death. With that great horror she awoke in the darkness, and weeping, gave herself the blame.
“Alas!” she said, “my broken faith; alas! that ever I should have thus forsook my friend; and if he die, now must I grieve to my life’s end.” Then she hastily laid her magic ring under the pillow, which was all wetted with her weeping. And soon for heaviness she fell on sleep. In the springing of the day Beauty opened her eyes, and, behold, she lay in the green-hung chamber wherein she had so greatly longed to be.
The golden autumn day rose fair and still on the silent manor and the garden of the Beast. All the long hours until evensong, must the maiden wait; then he would show himself, and she would comfort him, and tell him of sweet coming days, wherein she never more would leave him.
The golden hours sped slowly. Slowly and softly fell the rose-leaves upon the grass. The song-birds that day hid in hushed silence, anear the garden bowers where Beauty sat alone, weaving flowers and fruits and birds unknown to earth, upon the silken loom. And evermore the longed-for evening hour drew on. Anon she heard the clock smite, and she gat her with haste into the house.
In the hall the table was covered, and Beauty, arrayed in a broidered gown of red samite, sat in her place and waited. No fresh garlands behanged the walls, but only brown and withered leaves. And she wist not anything of the Beast; and she had no mind to eat and drink, for a cold dread overcame her that some misadventure had befallen him, whiles she listened for the least sound whereby she might know that he approached. But when he came not within a while, she must needs go seek him throughout the manor. But the chambers were empty, and the garden void, and whenas she called none answer came. Then she bethought her of the little fountain in the wood, and she ran thither. There, indeed, under a pine-tree upon the grass, lay that hapless Beast in a deadly swoon. And Beauty sank down upon her knees beside him, and raised his head in her arms; and it dread her sore but that he were in great peril of death. And then she grieved, and gave herself reproach and upbraiding. And, “Oh, dear Beast! what aileth thee?” she cried. “Alas! that ever he saw me to have such sorrow.”
But when she had fetched a little water, and had put it in his mouth, the Beast came to himself. So he opened his eyes and looked upon the girl full sadly. And therewithal he said, in a full weak voice, “Alas! fair maid; why hast thou so long delayed? for now I fear me I shall die: for I feel well, the deep draughts of death draw to my heart.”
Then did she make great moan, and besought the Beast of his love for her not to die and forsake her. But he seemed as though he heard not; and ever his breath came slower, and more faint. And then Beauty fell to weeping as though her heart would break; and remembering her of all his gentleness and kindness, and that now he was like to die through her unkindness, in her anguish she called the Beast her love, her only love.
With that word there befell a strange adventure. But one moment agone, the maid had holden in her arms the Beast’s grim, hairy head; and in her grief she knew not how it slid away from her embrace. For when she looked, there was nought but crushed leaves and grass where the dying Beast had lain. Also a dreamlike brightness seemed to mingle silverly about the dusk of evening, as though the moon had risen, or that starlight trembled upon the gloom. Then all bewildered and amazed, she deemed that some young prince, clad in rich clothes, with jewelled mantle and scarlet plume, stood anear. So, forgetting fear in her trouble, she prayed him without more ado to tell her, “Had he seen the Beast? For,” she said, “mine own dear Beast lay here but now, and like to die, and he is gone, and I know not where he is become.”
But the strange prince held his peace, and none answer gave he to her most piteous cry; only he kneeled down beside the maid, and then full gently did he kiss her golden hair, that spread all wide adown her neck, and then he kissed her red lips; and whenas, wondering and angered, she drew from him, and would have started away, he took her in his arms and said, “Oh lovely one, do you not then know me? Look at me, and see; for indeed I am that Beast, and he was me!”
But Beauty trembled, nor durst she look; for well she knew there had been some enchantment; and, sithence, it was a man and no Beast that spake, yet in his voice, and in the words he said, she seemed to hearken to the friend that she had lost erewhile. Then quick tears, but not of sorrow, filled her eyes, for an unwonted thing had happened; yet was it to her but as the fulfilment of some dear dream in old, forgotten, long-past days.