Ainslee's Magazine/Radiant Lady
RADIANT LADY
THE young minister had refused her invitation to remain for supper. This was the fourth time he had done so, and it was with slow, disheartened step that Araminta crossed to the little stone seat at the far end of her garden, and sat herself down to think the situation over. Under one slender, earth-stained hand lay the “Tract on Temperance,” which he had forgotten in the formal haste of his departure; and Araminta’s supple fingers caressed it unconsciously, the rest of her body immovable, her sleek head bent in the sunlight.
Araminta had never had a lover; and until now it mattered little, for she had not thought of one—much. Of course, there used to be Joey, the gardener’s boy, who had interested her at the age of seven; and the Groton boy, who used to sit across the aisle in church at holiday time; and then the young man who married her Cousin Kate, after all—but these were mere shadows, half-formulated fancies to be blushed over and consigned to oblivion. No one had really mattered until now. And now it mattered terribly.
A golden-armored bee boomed about the prim ruffle of her gown in search of the illusive scent of lavender it held; but Araminta did not move, and presently it went away and lit upon one of a row of gaudy nasturtiums which lined the pebbled path. A light breeze sprang up and swayed the hollyhocks, so that they whispered to each other as they brushed the mellow brick of the high garden wall. It was a sound Araminta loved to hear, but this afternoon she did not listen. Instead, she let her head drop farther down upon her breast, till the smooth, tightly coiled crown of it gleamed palely in the full sun, and the self-thrown shadow hid her face. Then her hands fastened tightly upon the tract, and she sat so still that a bluebird came and perched upon the sundial not two feet away, making his shrieking complaint unheeded, and unafraid.
Yes, it mattered vitally this time. How quickly he had gone; it was scarcely courteous! And the visit itself was only a parish one, and perforce. Had he fled for very fear of her? Had she let him see the light in her eyes, and had he been terrified thereby? No, no! Surely not that! Her eyes had been downcast and modest! Oh, the agony of supposing that he had guessed her hopeless and unwelcome love! Why should she hope that he would care? He had never looked at her; no one had ever looked at her, not even Joey; and she was almost thirty now—an old maid!
While the minister, at thirty-three, was an eligible young man. What did girls do to attract men? If her mother had lived, she might have told what had attracted her father. Surely no breach of the most sacred covenant, this! Or, if her father had lived, he might have told. For asking a girl friend would border on immodest curiosity! After all, perhaps it was as well that there was no one to ask, for probably nice girls did nothing at all, but sat with folded hands and downcast eyes, waiting, waiting, waiting, ah, so long!
Over the heliotrope bed, two butterflies, rapturous, quivering, tremulous with love and the brevity of life, arose in a colorful, whirling nuptial flight. From the gnarled old apple tree, with its intertwining, caressing limbs, came the song of a robin, who saw that the sun had passed the meridian, and began her call of “Come home, come home!”
Perhaps another time the minister would remain to supper. After all, his excuse had been a good one, and the excitement incident to it might in some degree account for his unseeing manner toward her. Indeed, it is not every day that one is robbed, and in the very center of the village street, at that! To be spoken to by a great gypsy man, to bespeak him kindly, and then to have the villain make off with one’s watch—a valued heirloom, too—is something well calculated to upset the calmest of men. Especially as the hue and cry which followed had been utterly unsuccessful, and the fellow had got away!
All this had happened to the young minister that very day. Indeed, the whole subject of his conversation had been concerning it. He had remained just about long enough to recount the adventure, and then taken his departure on the grounds that the thief might have been caught, and his presence, as complainant, needed. Oh, it was a very good excuse, and she sympathized deeply with his agitation at the loss of he watch. But there was more, far re, reason for his going. He had not wanted to stay! And there was no use in fooling oneself about the fact!
A tiny red squirrel came out upon the upper ledge of the summerhouse. It sat there, motionless, until a second squirrel appeared in hot haste and started a pursuit which buried both creatures in the tangle of rose vine on the roof.
“I’m sure they do something to attract the men!” said Araminta, aloud. “I wonder what?”
“They run away!” said a voice from the top of the wall.
“They run—what? My goodness!” cried Araminta, looking up in astonishment.
There, on the top of the west wall, sat a man; a sort of glorified man in strangely colored garments. His tawny head was silhouetted against the sapphire sky, and the sun seemed to strike fire from the lobes of his ears, as though burnished metal was fastened in them. He was hatless and dusty, but the youth and vitality which radiated from him were disarming, especially when it concentrated in a smile of exceeding whiteness. Nevertheless, Araminta sprang to her feet and gathered up her skirts in preparation for flight. The man gave a laugh—a strangely pleasant laugh to hear—and Araminta began to move swiftly.
“Oh! Don't do that!” cried the man. “You be attractive enough without!”
Araminta stopped short, her heart beating wildly. What should she do? The man could have no very evil intent, since his voice rang so clear and merry! Perhaps she had better face him. When she did so, the lovely color had mounted in her usually pale cheeks.
“What do you want?” she demanded tremulously.
“Look about you!” he answered, waving his hand airily. “Look at all the loveliness here, and ask again! I wants to come into it—and who would not?”
“My garden?” she exclaimed incredulously. “But—but there is a gate on the other side, and I—I do not know you!”
With a graceful leap he was in the inclosure, and, smiling still, came a little way toward her.
“Doesn't you know me?” he asked, laughter lighting his eyes. “Well, I don’t know you; but we will both take the risk, eh?”
The very audacity of it left her dumb.
“Beside,” continued the man, “if I stay a while, then we will know each other.”
“But—but how do know that I will want you in my garden?” demanded Araminta, advancing a step.
“How do you know that I will want you to stay?” he flashed, with another smile. “Ah, but you do know, oh, radiant lady!”
Calmly he took two steps backward, paused for a moment as though to listen intently; and failing to hear that for which he listened, sat himself upon the stone bench, his head against the wall, and motioned her to do likewise. Very much against her will, yet irresistibly drawn, Araminta obeyed, taking the far end.
“I suppose I ought to scream for help,” she said weakly, “but, somehow, I can’t feel that it is necessary.”
“Scream for help!” he exclaimed. “Oh! Don’t do that. It would kill the little young romance before it is born. Please don’t scream for help. I likes you better alone!”
There was a moment of silence.
“What is your name?” she asked suddenly.
“Oh, timid fawn!” he replied. “You will know me no better when I says it. But if you wish, my name is Prometheus.”
“He was a god,” Araminta said.
“Was he?” asked the visitor. “I know the name has to do with the sun; and I am a sun fellow, and no mistake!”
“I love the sun, too,” said Araminta.
“Do you dance in it?” asked Prometheus.
“Dance—why, no! Why should I?”
“So that it may caress you!” he exclaimed. “See, like this! You turn your back and then your breast, and throw out your arms to him. I dance often in the sun. Come, I will show you.”
He took her by the hand.
“But no! But” protested Araminta, but futilely.
The supple strength of his hand had pulled her sharply to her feet, and unavoidably she tripped toward him a pace or two.
“Too slow, too slow!” he cried. “You must dance faster.”
And seizing her about the waist, he whirled her around in a mad measure, which landed them both, breathless, on the little space of lawn about the sun-dial.
“That’s fine!” he panted. “Sit here and take breath. The grass is much better than the hard stone. Did you like it? Will you dance each day, now?”
“How dare you! Oh! My hair!” cried Araminta, with flushed cheeks, trying hard to be very angry—and failing utterly.
What witchery the man had! Lying at her feet, he stared up at her with laughing eyes, and put a detaining hand on hers as she lifted it to her head.
“Don't!” said he. “It looks better windblown. Don’t tidy your hair so much, don’t tidy your life so much. Mess it up by dancing sometimes!”
“It is wonderful to dance so!” said Araminta reluctantly; but, somehow, forgetting to even try being angry. “It makes you feel—glorious! I never really danced before, I think.”
She broke off abruptly, for he kept looking up at her and smiling—a strange, meaningful smile, very arrest- ing and magnetic.
“You are very beautiful,” he said softly.
Araminta flushed again, a queer sensation tingling through her veins. But she pretended not to hear, and, turning away her head, affected to examine the petunia bed. Something stirred in its scented depths.
“There is that wretched little rabbit—he eats up everything!” she cried, pointing. “If only I could catch him! But I hate a trap or a gun.”
“But I will catch him!” said the man, springing up and darting over to the petunias. In another moment he was back, holding the soft, little creature aloft by the ears. He sank back to his place upon the sward, and held it up for her inspection.
“Mercy!” squealed Araminta. “How could you? How wonderful!”
“The Romanies, my people, call them ‘ear fellows,’” he told her solemnly. “That is because of the great length of ears. See his heart beat? That is because he fears you. Me he fears not. Will I put him over the wall, or are you goin’ to change your mind and let him eat part of your garden?”
“Let him stay!” said Araminta. “There are flowers enough for two.”
Prometheus released the little animal, letting it down gently, and together they watched it scamper away into the shrubbery, whence came a sound as of two creatures.
“Hum!” said the man. “Enough flowers for three, or, maybe, more. Doubtless he has a wife.”
Araminta said nothing.
“Lean your head back so, against the time stone,” suggested Prometheus, noting that she sat uncomfortably. “That is much better, eh? Do you love the wind? If you lie so, it will put its soft fingers about your throat! Ah! But you wear a collar! Is it not hot and uncomfortable?”
“Yes, rather,” she answered him.
“Then why do you wear it?” he queried, in evident surprise.
“Why—because people do wear collars, I suppose,” she said.
“Take it off!” he begged. “See, I wear no collar, and I, too, am a person. It is silly to wear a thing which is uncomfortable.”
“I suppose it is,” admitted Araminta, with busy fingers.
The bit of stiffly starched linen was in one hand now, and, with the other, she covered the band at her neck.
“But—but what shall I wear instead?” she pleaded. “I can’t go—even you would not want”
He took the collar from her, and put it on top of the dial. Then he regarded her critically,
“Turn in the other part, so that it is a little lower,” he advised, “and I will make you a garland to trim yourself with.”
“A garland!” ejaculated Araminta, laughing nervously, but delightedly. “Why, I never wore a garland!”
“But you have made garlands grow,” said he. “My people always make garlands, Turn in the neck of your bodka.”
Under the spell of his marvelous personality, Araminta obeyed; actually obeyed, until the soft, white V at the base of her throat was laid bare. Then she watched, entranced, as he brought poppies with full hands, and, lying upon his back, began twisting their stems together with skilled fingers. And, as he wove, he sang a strange little minor melody, while the world seemed to fade away, leaving them on some Elysian hillside, spirits of youth, glad of life, and thinking only of the sun, and wind, and the rosy garland. Once there came a murmur as of many distant, angry voices, borne in upon the breeze, and, at the sound, they sat alert, tense, a look coming into the man’s eyes as of a startled wild thing that hears the hunter. And the woman also listened painfully to she knew not what, infected by his emotion.
Then the sound passed, and, with its going, the smile crept back to the corners of his mouth, and the song continued unbroken, until it and the garland both were finished. Then he flung the silken blossoms about her shoulders, and, taking both her hands in his, drew her toward him.
“Who is your lover?” he asked.
“I have no lover,” she answered him.
Why did she tremble so? Prometheus drew her nearer still, and, somehow, her will to resist left her, and she forgot everything except the strength and beauty of him. There was a warm perfume to him, like the heat of a sun-kissed meadow. His hands were brown and strong, and stained with poppy juice.
“No lover?” he questioned softly.
“Alas!” she said, smiling.
“But you are very beautiful,” he said again.
“Beautiful!” This time her heart leaped at the word.
“Oh, no!” she murmured. “I am not, you, that is, if only I were”
He put both her hands in one of his, and, holding them firmly, reached up with a swift motion and pulled out the two great pins of shell which held her pale hair so snugly. Then a miracle took place. All about her fell the shining masses, wave on wave, till it covered her shoulders and her narrow waist, and even tumbled upon the grass, glinting and glimmering in the dying sun. A new breeze, sprung up as though on purpose to disport itself with her tresses, whipped it into a thousand ringlets, and laid a burnished strand across the man’s mouth. How the little tendrils curled among the poppies on her breast; the crimson poppies, whose color was reflected now in her cheeks and lips. Between the parted ivory of her teeth, her breath came sharply.
“Why, oh, why did you so?” she cried. “Why do you mock me, and pull about my hair? I am not beautiful, I have never been beautiful! Why do you mock me? You are cruel, cruel!”
He kissed the strand upon his lips, and laid it gently upon her shoulder. Then he sprang to his feet, still keeping her hands.
“Not beautiful?” he cried derisively. “Oh, Radiant Lady! Not beautiful? Ha! ha! Come with me!”
Blindly, stumblingly she obeyed, her hands in his, one pace behind him all across the garden, between the nodding clematis, past the clutching rose sprays, to where the lily pool gleamed blue and clear under the evening sky. Tall iris blossomed at its edge, and, pushing these aside, he made her kneel at the margin, and, stooping beside her, bade her look. And with sweet wonder in her eyes, Araminta did as she was bidden.
There, in the still depth of the pond, was the vast sky, all clear, clear, and pulsing with light. A bird soared high, a mere speck, placed by the Master Hand to measure infinity by; and mirrored against the whole was the golden-haired vision which, up to now, none but the secret mirror and candle of Araminta’s chamber had known. Gone was the sleek, prim little head, the pale face, blanched for fear of impropriety; and, in its stead, a maid uncoiffured, free-throated, garlanded—a thing of beauty, flushed with pleasure, and, beside her, a brown-skinned god, whose jeweled ears seemed pointed at the tips.
And as she looked, the god gathered up a great handful of her hair, and drew her nearer, nearer, as they knelt, until his breath was hot upon her cheek, until Ah, how the skies trembled in the depths of that pool! Nearer and nearer
Then came a sudden, sharp rapping at the garden door, and the spell snapped as by a hammer stroke from Jove. Man and maiden once more, they sprang apart, and Prometheus arose in haste.
“The sun has set!” he cried. “I must be gone!”
“No! No!” she wailed.
The knocking came again, louder.
“Yes, I must,” he answered breathlessly. “It is no longer safe here. Outside, they cannot catch me, now that I have rested. But here is a token. Keep it, that you may remember me.”
Into her unresisting hand he pressed some object, and, with a bound, gained the wall’s summit, where he had entered. Then, with a gracefully tossed kiss, he vanished as abruptly and silently as he had come.
Dazed and bewildered, Araminta stood, staring at the spot where he had been a moment since. She was a naiad still, wind-blown and flower-decked, and it seemed incredible that the brown god was no longer with her. Then the knocking at the green wooden gate becoming persistent than ever, she crossed the garden as though in a dream, and opened it. On the threshold stood the young minister.
“I believe I left my ‘Tract on Temperance,’” he began hurriedly.
Then he looked squarely at Araminta and stopped. Next, he closed the gate behind him, and looked again, an unfamiliar, seeing expression coming into his eyes.
“I left, I left—that is, I've come back” he stammered.
“Yes,” said Araminta, not realizing, “you left it on the bench. Over there.”
The young minister walked stumblingly to where the book lay; walked unsteadily back to where Araminta stood in her golden, flowery glory, and paused before her, the nervous color mounting in his clear, boyish face as he spoke.
“It wasn’t only for the tract that I came,” he began lamely. “That is to say, it was, but it isn't now—I mean, if I might be allowed to change my mind about supper—you see, they didn't catch the thief, after all, and I could remain. Please, Miss Araminta.”
“Yes?” said Araminta, moving off a little.
The young minister followed her closely.
“Oh, don’t run away,” he exclaimed anxiously. “My dearest Lady—Araminta! May I stay? I have something particular to say to you!”
Then slowly the meaning of his words worked its way into Araminta’s dazed understanding; and a wonderful smile lit up her face, making it more beautiful than all the past hours had done.
“Yes, Alexander, you may stay,” she said, and held out her hand.
Simultaneously they realized for the first time that she held something in it—the gypsy’s parting token.
“What?” exclaimed the young minister, pointing to it excitedly.
Araminta gave a little scream, and held the object up to view.
It was the young minister's gold watch.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1962, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 61 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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