Henry Brocken

  IV

  _Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, tu-witta-woo._

  --THOMAS NASH.

  It was yet early, and refreshing in the chequered shade. We ploddedearnestly after our gaunt shadow in the dust, and ever downward, tillat last we drew so near to the opposite steep that I could well nighcount its pines.

  It was about the hour when birds seek shade and leave but few amongtheir fellows to sing, that at a stone's throw from the foot of thehill I came to where a faint bridle-path diverged. And since it wassmooth with moss, and Rosinante haply tired of pebbles; since any butthe direct road seems ever the more delectable, I too turned aside,and broke into the woods through which this path meandered.

  Maybe it is because all woods are enchanted that the path seemed morethan many miles long. Often too we loitered, or stood, head by head,to listen, or to watch what might be after all only wings, meresunbeams. Shall I say, then, that it began to be thorny, and, wherethe thorns were, pale with roses, when at length the knitted boughsgradually drew asunder, and I looked down between twitching, hairyears upon a glade so green and tranquil, I deemed it must be theGarden of the Hesperides?

  And because there ran a very welcome brook of water through thisglade, I left Rosinante to follow whithersoever a sweet tooth mightdictate, and climbed down into the weedy coolness at the waterbrink.

  I confess I laughed to see so puckered a face as mine in the clearblue of the flowing water. But I dipped my hands and my head into thecold shallows none the less pleasantly, and was casting about for adeeper pool where I might bathe unscorned of the noonday, when I hearda light laughter behind me, and, turning cautiously, perceived underthe further shadow of the glade three ladies sitting.

  Not even vanity could persuade me that they were laughing at anythingmore grotesque than myself, so, putting a bold face on matters sohumiliating, I sauntered as carelessly and loftily as I dared in theirdirection. My courage seemed to abash them a little; they gatheredback their petticoats like birds about to fly. But at hint of atitter, they all three began gaily laughing again till their eyessparkled brighter than ever, and their cheeks seemed shadows of theroses above their heads.

  "Ladies," I began gravely, "I have left my horse, that is very old andvery thirsty, above in the wood. Is there any path I may discover bywhich she may reach the water without offence?"

  "Is she very old?" said one.

  "She is very old," I said.

  "But is she very thirsty?" said another.

  "She is perhaps very thirsty," I said.

  "Perhaps!" cried they all.

  "Because, ladies," I replied, "being by nature of a timid tongue, andcompelled to say something, and having nothing apt to say, Iremembered my old Rosinante above in the wood."

  They glanced each at each, and glanced again at me.

  "But there is no path down that is not steep," said the fairest of thethree.

  "There never was a path, not even, we fear, for a traveller on foot,"continued the second.

  I waited in silence a moment. "Forgive me, then," I said; "I willoffend no longer."

  But this seemed far from their design.

  "You see, being come," began the fairest again, "Julia thinks Fortunemust have brought you. Are we not all between Fortune's finger andthumb?"

  "If pinching is to prove anything," said the other.

  "And Fortune is fickle, too," added Julia--"that's early wisdom; butnot quite so fickle as you would wish to show her. Here we have sat inthese mortal glades ever since our poor Herrick died. And here itseems we are like to sit till he rises again. It is all so--dubious.But since Electra has invited you to rest awhile, will you not reallyrest? There is shade as deep, and fruit to refresh you, in a littlearbour yonder. Perhaps even Anthea will dip out of her weeping awhileif she hears that ... a poor old thirsty horse is tethered in thewoods."

  They rose up together with a prolonged rustling as of a peacockdisplaying his plumes; and I found myself irretrievably their captive.

  Moreover, even if they were but sylphs and fantasies of the morning,they were fantasies lovely as even their master had portrayed; whilethe dells through which they led me were green and deep and white andgolden with buds.

  It was now, I suppose, about the middle of the morning, yet though thesun was high, his heat was that of dawn. Dawn lingered in the shadows,as snow when winter is over and gone, and dwelt among the sunbeams.Dew lay heavy on the grass, as the dainty heels of my captressestestified, yet they trod lightly upon daisies wide-open to the bluesky, while daffadowndillies stooped in a silence broken only by theirlaughter.

  We came presently to a little stone summerhouse or arbour,enclustered with leaves and flowers of ivy and convolvulus, whereintwo great dishes of cherries stood and bowls of honeycomb andsillabub.

  There we sat down; but they kept me close too in the midst of thearbour, where perhaps I was not so ill-content to be as I should liketo profess. How then could I else than bob for cherries as often as Idared, and prove my wit to conceal my hunger?

  "And now, Sir Traveller," said she of the sparkling eyes, namedDianeme, "since we have got you safe, tell us of all we have neverheard or seen!"

  "And oh! are we forgot?" cried Electra, laying a lip upon a cherry.

  "There's not a poet in his teens but warbles of you morn, noon, andnight," I answered. "There's not a lover mad, young, true, and tender,but borrows your azure, and your rubies, and your roses, and yourstars, to deck his sweetheart's name with."

  "Boys perhaps," cried Julia softly, "but _men_ soon forget."

  "Youth never," I replied.

  "Why 'Youth'?" said Dianeme. "Herrick was not always young."

  "Ay, but all men once were young, please God," I said, "and youth isthe only 'once' that's worth remembrance. Youth with the heart ofyouth adores you, ladies; because, when dreams come thick upon them,they catch your flying laughter in the woods. When the sun is sunk,and the stars kindle in the sky, then your eyes haunt the twilight.You come in dreams, and mock the waking. You the mystery; you thebravery and danger; you the long-sought; you the never-won; memories,hopes, songs ere the earth is mute. You will always be loved, believeme, O bright ladies, till youth fades, turns, and loves no more." AndI gazed amazed on cherries of such potency as these.

  "But once, sir," said Julia timidly, "we were not only loved but_told_ we were loved."

  "Where is the pleasure else?" cried Dianeme.

  "Besides," said Electra, "Anthea says if we might but find where Styxflows one draught--my mere palmful--would be sweeter than all thepoetry ever writ, save some."

  "It is idle," cried Dianeme; "Herrick himself admired us most onpaper."

  "And ink makes a cross even of a kiss, that is very well known," saidJulia.

  "Ah!" said I, "all men have eyes; few see. Most men have tongues:there is but one Robin Herrick."

  "I will tell you a secret," said Dianeme.

  And as if a bird of the air had carried her voice, it seemed a hushfell on sky and greenery.

  "We are but fairy-money all," she said, "an envy to see. Takeus!--'tis all dry leaves in the hand. Herrick stole the honey, and thebees he killed. Blow never so softly on the tinder, it flames--anddies."

  "I heard once," said Electra, with but a thought of pride, "that had Ilived a little, little earlier, I might have been the Duchess ofMalfi."

  "I too, Flatterer," cried Julia, "I too--Desdemona slain by ablackamoor. To some it is the cold hills and the valleys 'green andsad,' and the sea-birds' wailing," she continued in a low, strangevoice, "and to some the glens of heather, and the mountain-brooks, andthe rowans. But, come to an end, what are we all? This man's eyes willtell ye! I would give white and red, nectar and snow and roses, andall the similes that ever were for--"

  "For what?" said I.

  "I think, for Robin Herrick," she said.

  It was a lamentable confession, for that said, gravity fled away; andElectra fetched out a lute from a low cupboard in the arbour, andwhile she played Julia sang to a sob
er little melody I seemed to knowof old:

  Sighs have no skill To wake from sleep Love once too wild, too deep.

  Gaze if thou will, Thou canst not harm Eyes shut to subtle charm.

  Oh! 'tis my silence Shows thee false, Should I be silent else?

  Haste thou then by! Shine not thy face On mine, and love's disgrace!

  Whereat Dianeme lifted on me so naive an afflicted face I must needsbeseech another song, despite my drowsy lids. Wherefore I heard, faraway as it were, the plucking of the strings, and a voice betwixtdream and wake sing:

  All sweet flowers Wither ever, Gathered fresh Or gathered never; But to live when love is gone!-- Grieve, grieve, lute, sadly on!

  All I had-- 'Twas all thou gav'st me; That foregone, Ah! what can save me? If the exorcised spirit fly, Nought is left to love me by.

  Take thy stars, My tears then leave me; Thine my bliss, As thine to grieve me; Take....

  For then, so insidious was the music, and not quite of this earth thevoice, my senses altogether forsook me, and I fell asleep.

  Would that I could remember much else! But I confess it is the heartremembers, not the poor, pestered brain that has so many thoughts andbut one troubled thinker. Indeed, were I now to be asked--Were thefingers cold of these bright ladies? Were their eyes blue, or hazel,or brown? or, haply, were Dianeme's that incomparable, dark, sparklinggrey? Wore Julia azure, and Electra white? And was that our poet wroteour poet's only, or truly theirs, and so even more lovely?--I fear Icould not tell.

  I fell asleep; and when I awoke no lute was sounding. I was alone; andthe arbour a little house of gloom on the borders of evening. I caughtup yet one more handful of cherries, and stumbled out, heavy and dim,into a pale-green firmanent of buds and glow-worms, to seek the poorRosinante I had so heedlessly deserted.

  But I was gone but a little way when I was brought suddenly to astandstill by another sound that in the hush of the garden, in thebright languor after sleep, went to my heart: it was as if a childwere crying.

  I pushed through a thick and aromatic clump of myrtles, and peeringbetween the narrow leaves, perceived the cold, bright face of a littlemarble god beneath willows; and, seated upon a starry bank near by,one whom by the serpentry of her hair and the shadow of her lips Iknew to be Anthea.

  "Why are you weeping?" I said.

  "I was imitating a little brook," she said.

  "It is late; the bat is up; yet you are alone," I said.

  "Pan will protect me," she said.

  "And nought else?"

  She turned her face away. "None," she said. "I live among shadows.There was a world, I dreamed, where autumn follows summer, and afterautumn, winter. Here it is always June, despite us both."

  "What, then, would you have?" I said.

  "Ask him," she replied.

  But the little god looking sidelong was mute in his grey regard.

  "Why do you not run away? What keeps you here?"

  "You ask many questions, stranger! Who can escape? To live is toremember. To die--oh, who would forget! Even had I been weeping, andnot merely mocking time away, would my tears be of Lethe at my mouth'scorners? No," said Anthea, "why feign and lie? All I am is but amemory lovely with regret."

  She rose, and the myrtles concealed her from me. And I, in the midstof the dusk where the tiny torches burned sadly--I turned to thesightless eyes of that smiling god.

  What he knew, being blind, yet smiling, I seemed to know then. Butthat also I have forgotten.

  I whistled softly and clearly into the air, and a querulous voiceanswered me from afar--the voice of a grasshopper--Rosinante's.