Part 10

"Son, my son!" she suddenly cried, "ah that I could tear the stars from the sky and throw them before thy feet! Oh that I could drag down the rays of the moon and hide them all in thy breaking heart to stop thy longing! that I could draw out all the richness of the earth and give it to thee, so that thou shouldst be at peace! But thus it is the wide world over; we think we have reached our soul's desire, and then we stand before it empty of all our hope."

As she spoke, sweet sounds of music came floating out of the dark--the soft notes of a violin in which all the sorrow of the earth seemed concentrated beneath the rippling cadence of joy.

Eric covered his face with his hands, and Zorka felt the burning tears rise to her dim old eyes, but she brushed them hastily away with the back of her hand.

"Dear young one," she said, "what can I do for thee? Hast thou not told me that thou wast once a great artist with fairy fingers, and that thou didst come all this endless way through joy, sorrow, and danger, in search of a face ... and now.... Oh, I have guessed it since many a day thou hast found that face--but where is thy art?

"Crave not for what thou canst not have, but cling to that which God has given thee. If I get thee brush and colour wilt thou try and create that face for a second time? Create it so that all should wonder how human hands could ever have been able to paint so glorious a treasure. When we cannot have the thing itself we must try and grasp its shadow."

"Oh!" cried Eric, "my old master said that the thing is God's."

"I do not know," said old Zorka, "if we pray to the same God, thou and I. Human beings always need forms into which they press their worship, but I, who am old, can tell thee this: there is but one God for all, and each man shapes Him according to the depth and breadth of his own little soul.

"When we are children and play on the ground we are taught to call Him Father! When we grow up we long for Him as a friend, but if He keeps His smile for others we curse Him and turn our backs and say we do not believe He exists. But when grief and despair knock at our door, we long to feel Him near us once more, but we have lost our way. We grope in the dark, we hit our hands and our heads, we cry, and we moan, we stumble and fall till we are laid low in the dust.

"Then it is long till again we look up. Our hair is bleached, our backs are bent, our eyes are dim, and faltering our step; but gradually we see all things as they were meant to be--we have left hope far behind, all that shone and was sweet knows us no more; our way is without either light or shade, it is grey and smooth like the ocean after the storm has gone by.

"We believe that its colour will never be anything but grey; but one day a faint light spreads very far over the most distant horizon and our tired brain begins to perceive that that light is coming slowly towards us, slowly--slowly--till it reaches our heart ... and that light means peace that passeth all human understanding; peace, the ultimate promise of that God we had cast away; peace, the blessing of our snow-white hair, the last hope of our ended pilgrimage. But, my boy, wilt thou do as I bid, and create with thy hands the face thou lovest so well?"

"I cannot, I cannot," sobbed Eric, his face all convulsed with pain; "I have lost my art and lost my belief. I am now only one consuming passionate desire."

"Dear one that I love," answered sadly the old nomad, "for what hast thou climbed so high if thou now wilt not look up? I tell thee that if thou wilt grasp the talent that belongs to thee thou shalt find a relief beyond all thou darest to hope.

"I have been reading the signs out of the wind-swept clouds, and I know that thus help will come to thee."

"Ah, but, Mother Zorka, tell me, will she ever look at me with eyes that see?"

"Her eyes do see, my son, and although thy face be the fairest my old brain has ever conceived, canst thou know if the vision her mind is for ever adoring is not of a beauty far beyond our dreams?

"Certain flowers are not there to be plucked.

"Why the great Being of the skies has brought thee through pain and danger, drawn thee into this distant land, to dash the full cup from thy thirsty lips, after having smilingly led thee so far--is a mystery I cannot explain.

"But dost realize what it would be if thou shouldst pluck the flower too soon and thy touch be too rough, and the petals fall fading to the ground; dost know how empty then thy hands would be?

"Do as I tell thee, make that heavenly face thy very own by drawing it with the artist hands thy God has given thee! I love thee well, but I have loved her longer than thee. If the day is to come when her heart shall open to earthly passion, her eyes to the dear sight of thy face, let that day be blessed and hold it fast if thou canst.

"I shall only look on; for that is the weary lot of those who live in the past: but once more I tell thee, paint, oh, paint her face--the time may come when it will be too late!

"But now go to thy tent, for I am tired and the night is cold."

Eric rose sadly and threaded his way through the sleeping camp, past the fires that were burning low, past the patient groups of tired horses, till he reached his bed.

But Zorka sat still many an hour, following the shadowy road of her past, her dim eyes fixed upon the glowing ashes, speaking to the Being who rules our destinies, and asking over again the eternal, unanswered "Why?" looking up to the too distant sky which for ever keeps its mystery to itself.

XXII

He seeks to know The joy that is more great than joy The beauty of the old green earth can give.

FIONA MACLEOD.

Zorka kept her promise; and one day, who knows whence, Eric found all he needed for beginning the picture the old woman had commanded him to paint.

The tents had been pitched quite near to a forest all shining and shimmering in every shade of gold; gold under foot, gold overhead, gold falling softly from every bough.

The sun threw his glinting rays upon all the beauty that was a last glorious farewell Nature was taking from the departing year. The smoke of the camps and the mist of the autumn mornings mingled like spirit souls, and waved in moving vapours, veils that some fairy might have hung over the branches to fill her dwelling with mystic shadows and shades. From within the shelter of the wood, the great naked plain could be seen as far as the eye could reach, but the waving ocean of corn was a past dream of the summer months.

Now the fields and pastures looked desolate and barren, dark and cold, even beneath the face of the kindly life-giving planet that shone down upon it with a friendly face.

The rusty tents resembled dwarf pyramids standing upon some desert seen from afar off.

But the forest was a palace fit for a king, fashioned out of lustrous rays all woven together into a web of sunny yellows, and there sat Eric for many an hour trying to make his picture live.

Stella never refused to let him take her hand, and followed him meekly whither he led. He seated her upon a bank of grass, having first covered it over and over with leaves of fiery red.

For her lovely feet he made a nest of warm green moss, and at her side he laid a sycamore leaf full of jet-black bramble-berries as polished as agate balls.

Out of their flexible branches he wound a wreath about her head; their fading leaves made a many-tinted crown, more beautiful than a queen could wear, all amber, topaz, and burnished gold, deep and rich in hue, splashed in places as with stains of blood.

In and out among the rusty leaves he had plaited dark purple aster stars that nestled among her waving hair. Whilst his nervous fingers were by slow degrees laying hold of his forsaken art, Stella played him ancient tunes of such melting sweetness that often his hot tears flowed down and mixed in crystal rivulets with the colours on his palette. As she played, all the visions of the days of his wanderings rose up out of the distance and floated like shadows before his brain.

He saw little Oona playing with her balls on the smooth marble terrace, saw the sleepy little town with the scarlet bunches of geraniums, heard the bird-like voice of the unknown girl singing her song of innocence. He walked again under the face of the moon into the ice maiden's snowy castle, and there he stood with her amongst the beating, broken hearts that lay awaiting the great trumpet call. He stood on the wave-tossed boards of the frail little vessel, mingling his voice with the cries of the sea.

Then, wandering through the enchanted grottos, he came to the place where he shudderingly knelt by the murdered form of the far too entrancing woman. In the ruined cathedral the Virgin's eyes once again blessed his folded hands with her flowing tears.

Above all, the venerated face of his dearly loved master rose startlingly vivid, waving to him with trembling hands, and his little travelling companion came running towards him, her dear arms outstretched in joyous greeting.

The silent army of phantoms passed and faded into space, so that amongst the falling leaves of autumn he imagined he could clearly see the many-coloured bubbles rise like tropical butterflies floating always farther away.

Last of all came Radu the shepherd, with eyes resembling two burning coals, his white teeth shining from between his smiling lips.

And there was not one of these trembling apparitions that did not look down upon him with loving glances;--only this fair being playing at his side would not turn her look his way.

Oh, those eyes that his fairy fingers at last were fixing on his canvas: deep, grey, wide open, surrounded by long black lashes that were like dark rays radiating from the unfathomed pupils, starry eyes overflowing with celestial dreams, eyes that never, ah, never would come down to look into his!

He clenched his teeth, and, casting away his brushes, he threw himself down at her feet, laying his face close against them as they rested, pale twin sisters, amongst the mosses he had gathered.

But Stella was as ever in a world of her own; and whilst the young painter was trembling with uncontrollable longing, his lips pressed upon the ground as close to her as he dared, she serenely played on her violin, making it cry out all the infinite yearning to which her ethereal nature had never yet awakened.

XXIII

And know that the sorrow of sorrows is only a law of his being.

FIONA MACLEOD.

The tired leaves were falling always thicker; the days were shorter; night came down with the rapidity of a swooping bird; and more than once in the early morn a white frost had covered the ground like crystallized sugar strewn all over the earth.

The gypsies' camp was still pitched beside the wood. They had work to do in the villages close by, and often in the evenings the long-suffering donkeys came back heavily laden with vessels of shining copper, which the dark people mended and patched, as is the wont of their wandering race.

Their voices could be heard, either in song or strife, as they hammered away on the rounded caldrons that shone from far, the colour of molten lead.

The naked children played about in noisy groups, quarrelling like little brown monkeys, pursuing, with extended hands, every traveller that ventured too near their tents, and relating their misery with lamentable cries.

There was word of moving to some warmer clime, but as yet no order of march had been given, though the nights were cold and the large fires that were lit, and glowed in the dark like funeral pyres, were hardly sufficient protection. When the young men had finished their work for the day they would sit around in groups, playing games of cards with packs all greasy and blackened by constant use, games which often ended in noisy discord, when more than one sharpened blade would have to be knocked out of angry hands. The old women came together and sat by the leaping flames, weird witches of ancient legends, talking and chattering, relating endless yarns of endless deeds both gay and sinister, often scolding the young ones for all they had left undone, threatening them with every curse if they did not mend their ways.

The lean dogs walked about snatching at every remnant of food they could lay their hungry teeth upon, but the horses passively waited till the dark hour would sound for receiving once more their heavy burdens, which they would carry with patient resignation in spite of the scarcely healed wounds upon their tired backs.

Only Zorka never joined those rowdy groups; she sat alone in her gloomy tent like some old beggared queen, thinking about long-past glories. Her pipe was ever between her lips; the smoke curled upwards in tiny wisps, forming odd shapes that quivered about like mystic signs mounting into the damp cold air.

Each day she watched with growing anxiety the two young people, who, at the fall of night, would come slowly towards her out of the forest.

Since long she had imagined that nothing more could touch her withered heart; but the sight of these mortals, so full of beauty, purity, and light, had filled her with a new benevolence, and she longed with an unspeakable longing to help them if she could.

She was moved by conflicting feelings, asking herself if Stella's marvellous visions were worth one poor human kiss, one enchanted awakening to the wonders of love.

Oh, what use was all her long-accumulated wisdom if it failed her at a moment like this! What should she do? Should she tell the enamoured youth to go his way, not to waste his days running after something that could never be?

But it would break his heart; was he not a dreamer of dreams, and therefore a kindred soul to the solitary maiden who had never seen anything but pictures that certainly were not of this world.

Sometimes she felt an overpowering desire that a sweet miracle might come to pass, and that these two lovely innocents should both at the same instant put their lips to the full cup of Life.

Even ... even ... yes, death in attainment; would it be so terrible a thing! Ah! But does death ever mercifully cover with his wings two living hearts at once? Does he not always leave the one in cold misery to carry his despair alone? So many heavy problems! and she who had thought that her overburdened brain had already solved the mysteries of life! One evening she sat thus alone, pondering over all these questions to which she could find no answer.

The early dusk was descending slowly over one of autumn's last fine days, and darkness was also rising out of the cold barren earth, meeting the coming night half-way.

The sky was covered by leaden clouds, dashed by streaks of glowing red, where the sun resentfully opposed the grey shadows that strove to hide him out of sight. The air was chilly and the very old woman shivered, feeling forsaken and sad and useless.

Over the sombre expanse that lay beyond, a faint mist mounted, like fleecy wool, giving each object the appearance of floating over the earth. The tents, the gypsies that moved about, the tethered horses, the slinking dogs, all seemed to have lost their bases and to be floating in the air.

Zorka was weary, too tired to think. She was only allowing her mind to wander slowly through the past.

The fire, that young hands always built up beside her venerable grey head, leapt and sprang like restless spirits eternally striving after unattainable heights, casting fantastic lights upon her crouching form. It was a picture of old age, in all its forlorn, colourless sadness, from which all else has been taken except the weary comfort of looking back.

Zorka was remembering the distant years when she, too, had known wild love and scorching hate; when the day had been a long smile of promise, when for her also young hearts had beaten with passionate desire.

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 God! 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 shores of her youth, a shadow crossed the space 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 hoary 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 passionate, 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 shining 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 fashioned 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 God above desires that the end should be is not for us, who are but fashioned 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.

Something there was that perhaps the cold night air wafted to her sleeping soul--something that held a warning that the tides of life were at last gradually rising to creep close to her heart, for she suddenly laid down the faithful friend that would no more give forth the sounds she was wont to hear.

Each time she drew the bow across its melodious chords, the notes it uttered were like the cry of a lost spirit in dire distress.

So she sat gazing into the pitchy darkness with something unknown and frightening, fluttering amidst the strings of her heart. And there out of the shadows of the lonely night a human form rose and stood beside her, with arms outstretched. Then Eric was on his knees before her, and drew the slowly awakening maiden within the unbounded tenderness of his yearning arms.

The whole world seemed alive with a leaping promise of coming fulfilment.

And then, oh wonder of wonders, he laid his lips upon the heart of the girl, the girl who would not look upon his face.

And as he did so he perceived how an indescribable light of dawning comprehension spread slowly over all her features, and awoke like two luminous torches in both her eyes.

Then at last her gaze met his ... twin flames of purest beauty, in which, quite gradually, all the hidden treasures of unconceived ecstasies rose one by one in an overwhelming flood too strong for human strength to sustain. Awful, wonderful, terrifying ... and yet so sweet, so sweet that no halting tongue could ever describe such marvellous revelations. Almost imperceptibly she bent her angelic lips nearer his, so that the vision of his dreams was all at once looking into his upturned face, with eyes into which a God-given splendour had suddenly come in a burst of passionate understanding.

Never had the exquisite orbs been so sweet, never had the ethereal face shone with a more divine light;--and a voice that seemed to come from the far-off distances of the land of mystery pronounced these words:

"Where have I been? To what regions have I come? What is this dazzling splendour that rushes through my being like a leaping river of Life? What is this dear face I see gazing into mine, what is this bounding joy that wants to burst the confines of my overstrained heart? Oh what--oh what does it mean?"

Drawing herself up she stood, both hands pressed on her heaving breast, as if her great pain were piercing her through and through.

"What is it?... What is it?... What can it be? I do not understand!"

Eric rose also, and stood trembling before this unheard-of miracle that had come to pass.