The Fall of Atlantis

  Her Guardianship was still firm and gentle, but never obtrusive, and she now reserved for herself a period of each day which she devoted to watching the harbor. From her high window she gazed, with a remote and terrible loneliness, and every white sail which left the harbor laid a deeper burden of solitude on her heart. The incoming ships lacked, for her, the same poignant yearning that washed over her as she waited, quiescent, for something—she did not know what. There was a doom upon her, and she felt that this interval of calm was just that—an interval.

  She was seated there one day, her listless hands still, when her serving woman entered and informed her, "A woman of nobility requests audience, my Lady."

  "You know that I see no one at this hour."

  "I informed her of that, Lady—but she insisted."

  "Insisted?" Domaris expostulated, with an echo of her old manner.

  "She said she had travelled very far, and that the matter was one of grave importance."

  Domaris sighed. This happened, now and again—usually some barren woman in search of a charm that would produce sons. Would they never cease to plague her? "I will see her," she said wearily, and walked with slow dignity to the anteroom.

  Just at the door she stopped, one hand clutching at the door-frame, and the room dipped around her. Deoris! Ah, no—some chance resemblance, some trick of light—Deoris is years away, in my homeland, perhaps married, perhaps dead. Her mouth was suddenly parched, and she tried, unsuccessfully, to speak. Her face was moonlight on white marble, and Domaris was trembling, not much, but in every nerve.

  "Domaris!" And it was the loved voice, pleading, "Don't you recognize me, Domaris?"

  With a great gasp, Domaris reached for her sister, stretching out her arms hungrily—then her strength failed, and she fell limp at Deoris's feet.

  Crying, shaking with fright and joy, Deoris knelt and gathered the older woman in her arms. The change in Domaris was like a blow in the face, and for a moment Deoris wondered if Domaris was dead—if the shock of her coming had killed her. Almost before she had time to think, however, the grey eyes opened, and a quivering hand was laid against her cheek.

  "It is you, Deoris, it is!" Domaris lay still in her sister's arms, her face a white joy, and Deoris's tears fell on her, and for a time neither knew it. At last Domaris stirred, unquietly. "You're crying—but there is no need for tears," she whispered, "not now." And with this she rose, drawing Deoris up with her. Then, with her kerchief, she dried the other's tears and, pinching the still-saucy nose, said, elder-sisterly, "Blow!"

  II

  When they could speak without sobbing, or laughing, or both, Domaris, looking into the face of the beautiful, strange, and yet altogether familiar woman her sister had become, asked shakily, "Deoris, how did you leave—my son? Is he—tell me quickly—is he well? I suppose he would be almost a man now. Is he much like—his father?"

  Deoris said very tenderly, "You may judge for yourself, my darling. He is in the outer room. He came with me."

  "O merciful Gods!" gasped Domaris, and for a moment it seemed she would faint again. "Deoris, my baby—my little boy . . ."

  "Forgive me, Domaris, but I—I had to have this one moment with you."

  "It is all right, little sister, but—oh, bring him to me now!"

  Deoris stood and went to the door. Behind her Domaris, still shaking, crowded to her side, unable to wait even a moment. Slowly and rather shyly, but smiling radiantly, a tallish young boy came forward and took the woman in his arms.

  With a little sigh, Deoris straightened herself and looked wistfully at them. There was a little pain in her heart that would not be stilled as she went out of the room . . . and when she returned, Domaris was seated on a divan and Micail, kneeling on the floor at her feet, pressed a cheek already downy against her hand.

  Domaris raised happy, questioning eyes at Deoris, startled by seeing. "But what is this, Deoris? Your child? How—who—bring him here, let me see," she said. But her glance returned again and again to her son, even as she watched Deoris unwrapping the swaddling bands from the child she had carried in. It was partly pain to see Micail's features; Micon was so keenly mirrored in the dark, young, proud face, the flickering half-smile never absent long from his lips, the clear storm-blue eyes under the bright hair that was his only heritage from his mother's people . . . Domaris's eyes spilled over as she ran her thin hand over the curling locks at the nape of his neck.

  "Why, Micail," she said, "you are a man, we must cut off these curls."

  The boy lowered his head, suddenly shy again.

  Domaris turned to her sister again. "Give me your baby, Deoris, I want to see—him, her?"

  "A boy," said Deoris, and put the yearling pink lump into Domaris's arms.

  "Oh, he is sweet, precious," she cooed over him lovingly, "but . . . ?" Domaris looked up, hesitant questions trembling on her lips.

  Deoris, her face grave, took her sister's free hand and gave Domaris the only explanation she was ever to receive. "Your child's life was forfeited—partly through my fault. Arvath was debarred from rising in the priesthood because he had no living son. And the obligation, which you had—failed—could be said to pass to me . . . and . . . Arvath was not unwilling."

  "Then this is—Arvath's son?"

  Deoris seemed not to hear the interruption, but continued, quietly, "He would even have married me, but I would not tread on the hem of your robe. Then—it seemed a miracle! Arvath's parents are here, you know, in Ahtarrath, and they wished to have his son to bring up, since Arvath is not—has not married again. So he begged me to undertake this journey—there was no one else he could send—and Rajasta arranged that I should come to you and bring Micail, since when he comes to manhood he must claim his father's heritage and his place. So—so I took ship with the children, and . . ." She shrugged, and smiled.

  "You have others?"

  "No. Nari is my only child."

  Domaris looked down at the curly-headed child on her knee; he sat there composed and laughing, playing with his own thumbs—and now that she knew, Domaris fancied she could even see the resemblance to Arvath. She looked up and saw the expression on her sister's face, a sort of wistfulness. "Deoris," she began, but the door bounced open and a young girl danced into the room, stopping short and staring shyly at the strangers.

  "Kiha Domaris, I am sorry," she whispered. "I did not know you had guests."

  Deoris turned to the little maiden; a tall child, possibly ten years old, delicate and slender, with long straight fine hair loosely felling about her shoulders, framing a pointed and delicate little face in which glimmered wide, silver-blue eyes in a fringe of dark lashes . . .

  "Domaris!" Deoris gasped, "Domaris, who is she? Who is that child? Am I mad or dreaming?"

  "Why, my darling, can't you guess?" Domaris asked gently.

  "Don't, Domaris, I can't bear it!" Deoris's voice broke on a sob. "You—never saw Demira—"

  "Sister, look at me!" Domaris commanded. "Would I jest so cruelly? Deoris, it is your baby! Your own little girl—Tiriki, Tiriki darling, come here, come to your mother—"

  The little maiden peered shyly at Deoris, too timid to advance, and Domaris saw dawning in her sister's face a hope almost too wild for belief, a crazy half-scared hope.

  "But, Domaris, my baby died!" Deoris gasped, and then the tears came, hurt, miserable sobs, lonely floods she had choked back for ten years; the tears she had not been able to shed then; the nightmarish misery. "Then it wasn't a dream! I dreamed Reio-ta came and took her away—but later they told me she died—"

  Deoris put the little boy down and went swiftly to her sister, clasping the dark head to her breast. "Darling, forgive me," Domaris said, "I was distracted, I did not know what to say or do. I said that to some of the Temple people to keep them from interfering while I thought what I might do; I never believed it would—oh, my little sister, and all those years you thought . . ." She raised her head and said, "Tiriki, come here."

  The littl
e girl still hung back, but as Deoris looked longingly at her, still only half daring to believe the miracle, the child's generous small heart went out to this beautiful woman who was looking at her with heartbreaking hope in her eyes. Tiriki came and flung her arms around Deoris in a tight hug, looking up at the woman timidly.

  "Don't cry—oh, don't!" she entreated, in an earnest little voice that thrust knives of memory into Deoris's heart. "Kiha Domaris—is this my mother?"

  "Yes, darling, yes," she was reassured—and then Tiriki felt herself pulled into the tightest embrace she had ever known. Domaris was laughing—but she was half crying, too; the shock or joy had been almost too great.

  Micail saved them all. From the floor, holding Deoris's baby with a clumsy caution, he said in a tone of profound boyish disgust:

  "Girls!"

  Chapter Seven

  THE UNFADING FLOWER

  I

  Domaris laid aside the lute she had been playing and welcomed Deoris with a smile. "You look rested, dear," she said, drawing the younger woman down beside her. "I am so happy to have you here! And—how can I thank you for bringing Micail to me?"

  "You—you—what can I say?" Deoris picked up her sister's thin hand and held it to her own. "You have already done so much. Eilantha—what is it you call her—Tiriki—you have had her with you all this time? How did you manage?"

  Domaris's eyes were far away, dim with dreamy recollection. "Reio-ta brought her to me. It was his plan, really. I did not know she was in such terrible danger. She would not have been allowed to live."

  "Domaris!" Shocked belief was in the voice and the raised eyes. "But why was it kept secret from me?"

  Domaris turned her deep-sunken eyes on her sister. "Reio-ta tried to tell you. I think you were—too ill to understand him. I was afraid you might betray the knowledge, or . . ." She averted her eyes. "Or try to destroy her yourself."

  "Could you think . . . ?"

  "I did not know what to think, Deoris! It is a wonder I could think at all! And certainly I was not strong enough to compel you. But, for varying reasons, neither Grey nor Black-robes would have let her live. And the Priests of Light . . ." Domaris still could not look at her sister. "They cursed Riveda—and his seed." There was a moment of silence; then Domaris dismissed it all with a wave of her hand. "It is all in the past," she said steadily. "I have had Tiriki with me since then. Reio-ta has been a father to her—and his parents love her very much." She smiled. "She has been terribly spoilt, I warn you! Half priestess, half princess . . ."

  Deoris kept her sister's white hand in hers, looking at her searchingly. Domaris was thin, thin almost to gauntness, and only lips and eyes had color in her white face; the lips like a red wound, the eyes sometimes feverishly bright. And in Domaris's burning hair were many, many strands of white.

  "But Domaris! You are ill!"

  "I am well enough; and I shall be better, now that you are here." But Domaris winced under her scrutiny. "What do you think of Tiriki?"

  "She is—lovely." Deoris smiled wistfully. "But I feel so strange with her! Will she—love me, do you think?"

  Domaris laughed in gentle reassurance. "Of course! But she feels strange, too. Remember, she has known her mother only two days!"

  "I know, but—I want her to love me now!" There was more than a hint of the old rebellious passion in Deoris's voice.

  "Give her time," Domaris advised, half-smiling. "Do you think Micail really remembered me? And he was much older. . . ."

  "I tried hard to make him remember, Domaris! Although I saw little of him for the first four or five years. He had almost forgotten me, too, by the time I was allowed to be with him. But I tried."

  "You did very well." There was tearful gratitude in her eyes and voice. "I meant that Tiriki should know of you, but—she has had only me all her life. And I had no one else."

  "I can bear it, to have her love you best," Deoris whispered bravely, "but only just—bear it."

  "Oh, my dear, my dear, surely you know I would never rob you of that."

  Deoris was almost crying again, although she did not weep easily now. She managed to still the tears, but in her violet-blue eyes there was an aching acceptance which touched Domaris more deeply than rebellion or grief.

  A childish treble called, "Kiha Domaris?" and the women, turning, saw Tiriki and Micail standing in the doorway.

  "Come here, darlings." Domaris invited, but it was at her son she smiled, and the pain in her heart was a throbbing agitation, for she saw Micon looking at her. . . .

  The boy and girl advanced into the room valiantly, but with a shyness neither could conquer. They stood before their mothers, clinging to one another's hands, for though Tiriki and Micail were still nearly strangers, they shared the same puzzlement; everything had become new to both. All his life Micail had known only the austere discipline of the priesthood, the company of priests; in truth he had never completely forgotten his mother—but he felt shy and awkward in her presence. Tiriki, though she had known hazily that Domaris had not actually borne her, had all her life been petted and spoiled by Domaris, idolized and given such complete and sheltering affection that she had never missed a mother.

  The strangeness welled up again, and Tiriki dropped Micail's hand and ran to Domaris, clinging jealously to her and hiding her silver-gilt hair in Domaris's lap. Domaris stroked the shining head, but her eyes never left Micail. "Tiriki, my dearest," she admonished softly, "don't you know that your mother has longed for you all these years? And you do not even greet her. Where are your manners, child?"

  Tiriki did not speak, hiding her eyes in bashfulness and rebellious jealousy. Deoris watched, the knife, thrusting into her heart again and again. She had outgrown her old possessiveness of Domaris, but a deeper, more poignant pain had taken its place; and now, overlaid upon the scene it seemed she could almost see another silver-gilt head resting upon her own breast, and hear Demira's mournful voice whispering, If Domaris spoke kindly to me, I think I would die of joy . . .

  Domaris had never seen Demira, of course; and despite what Deoris had said to comfort the little saji girl, Domaris would have treated Demira with arrogant contempt if she had seen her. But really, Deoris thought with sadness and wonder, Tiriki is only what Demira would have been, given such careful, loving fosterage. She has all Demira's heedless beauty, her grace, and a poised charm, too, which Demira lacked—a sweetness, a warmth, a—a confidence! Deoris found herself smiling through her blurry vision. That is Domaris's work, she told herself, and perhaps it may be all for the best. I could not have done so much for her.

  Deoris put out her hand to Tiriki, stroking the bright, feathery hair. "Do you know, Tiriki, I saw you but once before you were taken from me, but in all these years there has been no day when you were absent from my heart. I thought of you always as a baby, though—I did not expect to find you almost a woman. Maybe that will make it—easier, for us to be friends?" There was a little catch in her voice, and Tiriki's generous heart could not but be moved by it.

  Domaris had beckoned Micail to her, and apparently forgotten their existence. Tiriki moved closer to Deoris; she saw the wistful look in the violet-blue eyes, and the tact so carefully instilled by her beloved Domaris did not fail her. Still timidly, but with a self-possession that surprised Deoris, she slipped her hand into the woman's.

  "You do not seem old enough to be my mother," she said, with such sweet graciousness that the boldness of the words was not impertinent; then, on impulse, Tiriki put her arms about her mother's waist and looked up confidingly into her face . . . At first, Tiriki's only thoughts had been, What would Kiha Domaris want me to do? I must not make her ashamed of me! Now she found herself deeply affected by Deoris's restrained sorrow, her lack of insistence.

  "Now I have a mother and a little brother, too," the little girl said, warmly. "Will you let me play with my little brother?"

  "To be sure," Deoris promised, still in the same restrained manner. "You are almost a woman yourself, so he wi
ll grow up to believe he has two mothers. Come along now, if you like, and you shall watch the nurse bathe and dress him, and afterward you shall show us the gardens—your little brother and me."

  This, it soon became clear, had been exactly the right thing to say and do; the right note to strike. The last reserve dropped away quickly. If Tiriki and Deoris were never really to achieve a mother-and-daughter relationship, they did become friends—and they remained friends through the long months and years that slipped away, virtually without event.