第44章 A Lady of Yesterday(4)
But when the winter was most gone,he made a little cradle of hard wood,in which she placed pillows of down,and over which she hung linen curtains embroidered by her hand.
In the long evenings,by the flicker of the fire,they sat together,cheek to cheek,and looked at this little bed,singing low songs together.
"This happiness is terrible,my John,"
she said to him one night,--a wondrous night,when the eastern wind had flung the tassels out on all the budding trees of spring,and the air was throbbing with awakening life,and balmy puffs of breeze,and odors of the earth."And we are grow-ing young.Do you not think that we are very young and strong?"He kissed her on the lips."I know that you are beautiful,"he said.
"Oh,we have lived at Nature's heart,you see,my love.The cattle and the fowls,the honey and the wheat,the cot --the cradle,John,and you and me!These things make happiness.They are nature.
But then,you cannot understand.You have never known the artificial --""And you,Elizabeth?""John,if you wish,you shall hear all Ihave to tell.'Tis a long,long,weary tale.
Will you hear it now?Believe me,it will make us sad."She grasped his arm till he shrank with pain.
"Tell what you will and when you will,Elizabeth.Perhaps,some day --when --"he pointed to the little crib.
"As you say."And so it dropped.
There came a day when Hartington,sitting upon the portico,where perfumes of the budding clover came to him,hated the humming of the happy bees,hated the rust-ling of the trees,hated the sight of earth.
"The child is dead,"the nurse had said,"as for your wife,perhaps --"but that was all.Finally he heard the nurse's step upon the floor.
"Come,"she said,motioning him.And he had gone,laid cheek against that dying cheek,whispered his love once more,saw it returned even then,in those deep eyes,and laid her back upon her pillow,dead.
He buried her among the mignonette,levelled the earth,sowed thick the seed again.
"'Tis as she wished,"he said.
With his strong hands he wrenched the little crib,laid it piece by piece upon their hearth,and scattered then the sacred ashes on the wind.Then,with hard-coming breath,broke open the locked door of that room which he had never entered,thinking to find there,perhaps,some sign of that unguessable life of hers,but found there only an altar,with votive lamps before the Blessed Virgin,and lilies faded and fallen from their stems.
Then down into the cellar went he,to those boxes,with the foreign marks.And then,indeed,he found a hint of that dead life.Gowns of velvet and of silk,such as princesses might wear,wonders of lace,yellowed with time,great cloaks of snowy fur,lustrous robes,jewels of worth,--a vast array of brilliant trumpery.Then there were books in many tongues,with rich old bindings and illuminated page,and in them written the dead woman's name,--a name of many parts,with titles of impress,and in the midst of all the name,"Eliza-beth Astrado,"as she said.
And that was all,or if there were more he might have learned,following trails that fell within his way,he never learned it,being content,and thankful that he had held her for a time within his arms,and looked in her great soul,which,weary-ing of life's sad complexities,had sim-plified itself,and made his love its best adornment.
End