Diogenes of London (collection)/Phyllis

HE daisies danced towards her on their slender stems, and the grasses were twining in her golden hair, as she lay in the open meadow nodding at the sun; and I, with all my fears upon my face and a mad impulse in my heart, stole to her gently from the wicket. She stirred a little as I stayed beside her, stooping softly lower, and the small shadows of the sky fled in snatches across her sleeping face. At that moment, though her tremulous eyes are ever the light of my dim pathway, I dreaded lest they should open upon me and my shameful errand. So still she lay, dreaming like moonlight upon the fragrant bank, that I could have thought it but the of my love, so quietly recumbent. It seemed to me now as though Death, mistaken in his rounds, had come to the call of Sleep, and sat close, watching even as I. The cricket chirruped in the high summer noon, and bending nearer still I heard the long field rustling in a single wave, drowning her softer breath. Then, as my lips dropped lower, came a still hush; the colour quickened in her cheeks to the race of my own desperate blood, and lifting her lashes she looked up at me.

I fell back in abasement with no words ready to my use, and starting she drew her lissom body to its full stature, gazing with surprise upon me at her feet.

'What did this mean?' she asked, her face suffusing swiftly with a delicate red.

'The sun,' I stammered, 'was too hot upon your face; and a spider'

She swept from me with a gesture, 'I thought,' she said, 'at least you were a gentleman.'

'It has always been my intention to be such,' I murmured in reply.

'You have put off the experiment too long,' said she with much disdain.

'Do you not think,' said I, rising, 'that in some circumstances gentility were Quixotic?'

'There is nothing more ultimate than honour,' she answered indignantly. 'It is an element in itself, and while our sex leans on yours you have plain duties.'

'I have thought of honour,' said I, 'but I find it a mere straw against you. We have plain duties,' I said; 'what rights have we?'

'You have,' she said, flashing at me, 'at least the right to your own company, as I to mine.'

She turned and made from me with the appearance of great dignity across the meadow slowly. I saw her moving for the wood in the full sunlight, her white skirts tossing over the grasses, her head erect and wonderful. At rest or in life she was my final law, not honour. Leaping from the bank I sped swiftly upon her. At my approach she paused and thrust her chin a trifle from me.

'I see, sir," she said, with a quiver of her exquisite nostrils, 'that you will take no instruction upon the point of honour.'

'You forget,' said I, stilling my heart to be cool, and now timorous in her presence. 'There is but one passage from this field.'

'Perhaps, then, you will proceed, sir,' she replied, flinging her hand towards the wood.

'Nay,' said I boldly, 'I were better behind.'

'At a distance,' she cried quickly.

'At some distance,' I assented.

She bowed and went forward, and her fine grace caught away my breath, so that I stood gazing till she vanished through the wicket; then waking to find the heaven dark I rushed after her. The wood, obscurer at the outset, grew lighter as I advanced, and presently I saw her at a bend in the path picking her way over fallen branches. Hastening, I left so much space between us as suffered her to pass but rarely from my sight, and when an angle hid her I made upon her a few steps. Thus drawing through the brake we came out upon a clear, straight reach, down which I saw her flitting from the vista. And now the horrible remoteness of this passage was grown a dire torture to me, and with no thought but the one I bore down upon her speedily. Turning, she confronted me in an angry blaze, and my heart trembled at her warring eyes. The lips curled as they parted in scorn of me, but waveringly I broke in ere she spoke.

'I would have passed you,' I stuttered, 'being under the press of an engagement I had forgotten. But your hair—at the distance'

She put her hand to her golden locks, and flushed at the touch.

'I thank you," she said with some confusion. 'The grass has set it in disorder.'

At her embarrassment I was emboldened.

'It would have shortly fallen in a shower,' I explained with calmness.

'I am obliged to your courtesy,' she answered with her flush. 'It is not pleasant to pass for a spectacle.'

'I take some credit for my self-denial,' said I, 'for with that streaming gold before me this journey had been something more tolerable.'

'You are very good,' she murmured, and moved on, leaving me to gaze after her with wistful eyes.

There was no great stretch between us now, and as I walked the rustle of her gown fell like music on my ears. And yet I was but commonly happy. When in the cold distance, it had seemed life had no fairer prospect than to be a little nearer; but now, grown familiar with the neighbourhood, I desired another advance, chafing at so frugal a pleasure. At length my ardent discontent provoked me past bearing. I glanced at the blue sky, the feathered elms, and the long bracken.

'The year is mending,' said I. 'Nature is in perfection.

She made no immediate answer to my words, but in a second half-turned her face upon the level of her shoulders, making no pause.

'You should not have spoken,' she said.

I craved her pardon. 'The sense of companionship, said I, 'was so strong upon me that I had forgot your presence was but of the body.'

She said nothing at the time, but in a little looked back upon me as at a sudden thought.

'If this be so, you were better gone,' she said. 'There is also your pressing engagement.'

The echo of my own rash words struck me with confusion, and I had no tongue to reply; but soon she halted upon the path, and, stepping to the side, motioned me on with a pretty gesture.

'You had then better pass,' said she gravely.

I stood for a moment close to her, and her eyes—slow, quiet, and serious—met mine with that intimate expression so dear to me. My soul fused in the fire. 'I cannot pass,' I cried in my fever. 'The devil keep engagements!'

'You speak in strong terms,' she answered, her lashes falling for an instant over her eyes. 'It is surely pitiful to see a grown man of this mind. What keeps you back?'

'I had rather dwindle in your regard,' I said, 'than bulk beyond the horizon of your thoughts. For the rest,' I cried, 'I have no reasons. As well ask a grape for thorns as one that loves you for reasons.'

'If you will not pass,' said she, 'at least suffer me to do so,' and pushing by me she resumed her way.

Though I had protested my desire of her company so bravely, it came to be mere pain; her economy of her presence fretted on my nerves so dangerously that I was in despair lest I should be incited to some fresh folly. To see her was insufficient; I had the thought to reach and touch her, and her continual grace was beyond endurance. So when we were come to a fork in the track sloping to the stream below, I paused, on an impulse to end the hopeless fellowship.

'There is a short cut to the village,' said I; 'it will serve you best. I will rid you of myself.'

'I know it,' she answered, stopping also to look at me quickly; 'I had determined upon it.'

I lifted my hat, and, swinging away, was going down the path, when I heard her voice.

'But 'tis a pity,' she said, 'to put you to this trouble. Why choose the longer? There is your engagement. I have no monopoly of this pathway.'

'The silence was too great for me,' I answered. 'We were easier apart.'

'You managed fairly,' she said gently. 'Do not thrust unkindness upon me.'

'I should perceive it to be only mercy,' said I; and, retracing my steps, followed her down into the narrow gorge.

A freshet ran swiftly through the bottom, and where the path fell from the steeps upon it, splitting upon an eyot of bracken, raced on each side about the white stones of a crossing. As she saw it she gave a little start, and glanced back at me.

'I did not remember,' she said in a troubled voice. 'There is no foot-rail here.'

'There are stepping-stones,' said I, 'to the islet and from the islet.'

She surveyed the crossing with a little alarm, and then, putting her foot to the verge, made as though to step upon the nearest stone. The spaces stretched wide between them.

'It shakes,' said she aghast.

'Pray let me be your aid,' said I.

'’Tis a man's work, and not a woman's,' she said with some show of anger. 'The world is planned upon this principle of dependence.'

I leapt across the first space, and turning put out my hand to her.

'You must let me have your hand,' said I.

'It is unnecessary,' she answered. 'You have but to try the stages.'

'Your skirts!' said I; 'you must jump!'

'You may have my hand,' said she, and I pulled her safely to the stone.

But at that exquisite touch I was beside myself, and crossed to the next landing in a dream, my eyes upon her face, unconscious of the bubbles breaking in the eddies. And I saw, moreover, to my shame and to my glory, the golden hair loosening on the dainty head, menacing a sudden fall; while she all unawares stepped to me elegantly across the intervening straits. My mind was a mad whirlpool, my pulse beat as the fleet wings of a dove; and when she stood upon the eyot I flung myself at her feet in the bracken.

'Phyllis,' I cried, 'be with me always as upon this passage. The world is planned upon this principle of dependence, Phyllis.'

She started and turned pale and red.

'You have presumed too foolishly,' she said coldly; 'I had thought you were come to yourself. You cannot conceive how ridiculous is this position,' she said.

'Then,' said I, at the white heat of feeling, 'you shall find some other partner for the journey hence;' and, throwing myself upon the bracken, I folded my arms.

'You make a jest of my misfortunes,' she said icily. 'To choose this time were like you. I thank you for your past assistance.' And inclining her head she stepped to the further side of the eyot.

'Where are you going?' I asked.

'I will wade,' she answered curtly.

I laughed.

She hesitated, looking from the stony bed to her own sweet feet peeping from her gown.

'Some one will come this way,' she murmured.

'Once in a day,' said I, smiling.

She turned on me indignantly, and her eyes were daggers,

'You have no honour,' she said fiercely; 'I should have kept the wood between us.'

'It is true,' said I: 'you are my honour.'

'You have no honour,' she repeated with passion, and stamping her foot, brought down the golden hair in masses about her face. Rising, I fronted her swiftly, with a glowing heart, as she stood confused and flushing at the accident.

'Without you,' said I, murmuring low, 'I have no honour, Phyllis. I am desperate for lack of you; my brain is become an ingenious cheat for you; I am a rogue, a rascal, in your presence. I know no deed I would not dare for you. I would give my soul as I have given my heart and life for you.'

My fervid eyes, drooping before her, beheld but her dazzling gown swaying in the breath of the valley.

'You were better, then, without me,' she made answer lowly.

'That were the end,' I whispered.

The bracken, springing from my weight, fidgeted in the silence till she spoke.

'You have surprised me most unfairly,' she said softly; 'I was nearly come to tears.'

'I could have asked nothing dearer than your tears,' said I; 'I had felt you were nearer to me so.'

'What is it that you wish?' she asked, below her breath.

I looked up, and found her gazing softly up the valley. Her bosom came and went from me; her lips were of quivering scarlet; her dishevelled hair sparkled in the sunlight.

'I would take,' said I, 'what I would have stolen this noon. I would touch your lips, my sweet.'

'You may touch my lips,' she whispered.