The Woman Who Vowed.

by Ellison Harding.

CHAPTER I

A G.o.dDESS AND A COMIC SONG

I remember awakening with a start, conscious of a face bending over me that was beautiful and strange.

I was quite unable to account for myself, and my surprise was heightened by the singular dress of the woman I saw. It was Greek--not of modern but of ancient Greece.

What had happened? Had I been acting in a Greek play and been stunned by an accident to the scenery? No; the gra.s.s upon which I was lying was damp, and a sharp twinge between the shoulders told me I had been there already too long. What, then, was the meaning of this cla.s.sic dress?

I raised myself on one arm; and the young woman who had been kneeling beside me arose also. I was dazed, and shaded my eyes from the sun on the horizon--whether setting or rising I could not tell. I fixed my eyes upon the feet of my companion; they were curiously shod in soft leather, for cleanliness rather than for protection; tightly laced from the toe to the ankle and half way up the leg--half-moccasin and half-cothurnus. I fixed my eyes upon them and slowly became quite sure that I was alive and awake, but seemed still dazed and unwilling to look up. Presently she spoke.

"Are you ill?" she asked.

"I don't think so," answered I, as I lifted my eyes to hers.

When our eyes met I jumped to my feet with an alertness so fresh and fruitful that I seemed to myself to have risen anew from the Fountain of Youth. A miracle had happened. I was dead and had come to life again--and apparently this time in the Olympian world.

"Here!" I exclaimed; "or Athene! Cytherea, or Artemis!"

Then quickly the look of sympathetic concern that I had just seen in her eyes vanished. A ripple of laughter pa.s.sed over her face like the first touch of a breeze on a becalmed sea; for a moment she seemed to restrain it, but her merriment awakened mine, and on perceiving it she abandoned all restraint and burst into a laugh that was musical, bewitching, and contagious. We stood there a full minute, both of us laughing, though I did not understand why. She soon explained.

"Where on earth do you come from, Xenos, and where--_where_ did you get _those_ things?" She pointed to my pantaloons as she spoke.

Then I discovered how ridiculous I appeared.

"And why have they cut all the hair off your face and left that ugly little stubble?"

I put my hand to my chin and felt there a beard of several days' growth.

"It must p.r.i.c.k dreadfully," she said; and coming up to me she daintily pa.s.sed a soft, rosy finger over my cheek. I caught her hand and kissed it. She jumped away from me like a fawn.

"Take care, young man," she said, reprovingly but not reproachfully; "though I don't suppose you are very young, for I see some gray in your hair."

I don't suppose I liked being reminded of my years, but I was altogether too much absorbed in the richness of her beauty and health to be concerned about myself. And the subtle combination of freedom and reserve in her manner conveyed to me an indescribable charm. At one moment it tempted me to trespa.s.s, but at the next I became aware that such an attempt would meet with humiliating resistance; for she was tall and strong. Her one rapid movement away from me proved her agility. She was perfectly able to take care of herself. Her consciousness of this had enabled her to meet my first advance with unruffled good humor, but I felt sure that persistence on my part would elicit repulsion and perhaps scorn.

We stood a moment smiling at each other; then she said:

"Come, you must take off those dreadful things; why, you are wet through"--and she pa.s.sed her hand over my back--"and you must tell me what you are and where you come from. But you are chilled now and need something warm, so come to the Hall and you can tell me as we go."

As she spoke she swung to her head a basket I had not before observed; it was heavy, for she straightened herself to support it; and the weight, until she balanced it, brought out the muscles of her neck. She put her arms akimbo and showed the way.

"Well," she said, as we walked together side by side, "when are you going to begin?"

"How and where shall I begin?" answered I. "You forget that I too have questions to ask; I am bewildered. Who and what are you? In what country am I? Where did you get that beautiful dress?" I stepped a little away from her to observe the beauty of her form.

"We try to make all our garments beautiful," she answered, simply; "but this is the common dress of all--or rather the dress commonly worn in the country. We dress a little differently in town--but what do you find peculiar in my attire? What else could I wear out in the fields?"

I looked at the drapery, which did not hang lower than the knee; at the girdle that barely indicated the waist; at the chiton gathered by a brooch on one shoulder, leaving bare the whole length of her richly moulded arm.

"I would not have you wear anything else," said I, restraining my admiration; "but our women dress differently."

"Tell me about them," said she.

"I will," answered I, "but tell _me_ first where I am and where we are going?"

"You are near a place called Tyringham," answered she, "and you are going with me to breakfast at the Hall."

As she spoke we were walking down a gra.s.sy slope and came in sight of a meadow on the left, through which meandered a crystal stream; it flowed from the right of the hill on which we stood, and just below where it fell in cascades over successive ledges it was straddled by a mill smothered in jasmine and purple clematis. The moment the mill came in sight my companion uttered a loud call that came echoing back to us from the surrounding hills. Her call was answered by several voices, and soon there came to meet us a youth as handsome in his way as my own companion. He, too, wore the Greek dress; he was about eighteen years of age and so like the girl that I guessed at once he was her brother. He put me out of countenance by staring at me with open-mouthed wonder and then bursting into an uncontrolled roar of laughter. But his sister took him by the arm and shook him.

"Stop laughing," she said. "Don't you see he doesn't like it?"

The boy stopped immediately--for I confess his laughter was not as agreeable to me as hers--and there came upon him an expression of the gentlest solicitude.

"I am sorry," he said, with tears of laughter still in his eyes; "I thought you were playing a joke on us."

I tried to look pleasant.

"I cannot at all account for myself," I said, "or for you; I suppose a long time has elapsed since I went to sleep; so long that I hardly remember where it was, though I think it was in Boston--in my bachelor quarters there."

They both looked puzzled and concerned.

"And what is your name?" asked the girl.

"Henry T. Joyce," answered I.

I could see that my very name amused them though they tried to conceal it.

"And yours?" asked I of the girl.

"Lydia--Lydia second, or more correctly, Lydia of Lydia."

"That means," said the boy, "that her mother's name was Lydia; and so I call myself Cleon of Lydia, because, my mother's name was Lydia. She,"

he added, pointing to the girl, "is my sister."

He was dressed, like her, in a simple tunic coming to the knees, and was shod like her also; but the tunic was not pinned up on one shoulder: it had sleeves like our jacket.

We were walking down the hill and came now in sight of a group of buildings entirely of wood, of a beauty that made them a delight to behold. One much larger than the others reminded me of what Westminster Hall would be if separated from the more recent Houses of Parliament. It was lighted by large Gothic windows that started from above a covered veranda; the veranda offered countless opportunities for surprises in the way of carved pillars, twisting staircases, and subsidiary balconies, every corner being smothered in vines and bursting into blossoms of varied hue. Clearly the upper part of the building was a large hall, and the lower part split up into smaller rooms. Near this Hall and connected with it by covered ways were numerous other buildings, all different, but conforming to the lay of the land on either side of a torrent, upon one level reach of which stood the mill in the same quaint style.

"Our power house," said Cleon, pointing to it.

I thought of the hideous masonry that ruined the valley of the Inn between San Moritz and Celerina in the old days, and I wondered. But my eyes were too much bent on the beautiful lines of Lydia's form to linger long on the mill or its adjacent buildings. I had fallen behind her in order to be able to take better account of her. The weight of the basket on her head brought out the strength of her shoulders and the rhythmic movement of her body. Every time she turned to speak to us her hands left the waist in an unconscious effort to maintain her balance, thus throwing into relief the rounded outline of her arm and the delicacy of her wrist. "Alma venus genitrix," thought I, "hominum divumque voluptas."