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Evening was in the wood, still as the dreaming bracken, secretive, moving softly among the pines as a young witch gathering simples. She wore a hood of finely woven shadows, yet, though she drew it close, sunbeams trooping westward flashed strange lights across her haunted face.
The Worshipper of the Image Chapter 1 SMILING SILENCE
Evening was in the wood, still as the dreaming bracken, secretive, moving softly among the pines as a young witch gathering simples. She wore a hood of finely woven shadows, yet, though she drew it close, sunbeams trooping westward flashed strange lights across her haunted face.
The birds that lived in the wood had broken out into sudden singing as she stole in, hungry for silence, passionate to be alone; and at the foot of every tree she cried "Hush! Hush!" to the bedtime nests. When all but one were still, she slipped the hood from her face and listened to her own bird, the night-jar, toiling at his hopeless love from a bough on which already hung a little star.
Then it was that a young man, with a face shining with sorrow, vaulted lightly over the mossed fence and dipped down the green path, among the shadows and the toadstools and the silence.
"Silencieux," he said over to himself-"I love you, Silencieux."
Far down the wood came and went through the trees the black and white gable of a little chalet to which he was dreaming his way.
Suddenly a small bronze object caught his eye moving across the mossy path. It was a beautiful beetle, very slim and graceful in shape, with singularly long and fine antennae. Antony had loved these things since he was a child,-dragonflies with their lamp-like eyes of luminous horn, moths with pall-like wings that filled the world with silence as you looked at them, sleepy as death-loved them with the passion of a Japanese artist who delights to carve them on quaint nuggets of metal. Perhaps it was that they were so like words-words to which he had given all the love and worship of his life. Surely he had loved Silencieux[1] more since he had found for her that beautiful name.
He held the beetle in his hand a long while, loving it. Then he said to himself, with a smile in which was the delight of a success: "A vase-shaped beetle with deer's horns."
The phrase delighted him. He set the insect down on the path, tenderly. He had done with it. He had carved it in seven words. The little model might now touch its delicate way among the ferns at peace.
"A vase-shaped beetle with deer's horns," he repeated as he walked on, and then the gathering gloom of the wood suggested an addition: "And some day I shall find in the wood that moth of which I have dreamed since childhood-the dark moth with the face of death between his wings."
The chalet stood on a little clearing, in a little circle of pines. From it the ground sloped down towards the valley, and at some distance beneath smoke curled from a house lost amid clouds of foliage, the abounding green life of this damp and brooding hollow. A great window looking down the woodside filled one side of the chalet, and the others were dark with books, an occasional picture or figured jar lighting up the shadow. A small fire flickered beneath a quaintly devised mantel, though it was summer-for the mists crept up the hill at night and chilled the souls of the books. A great old bureau, with a wonderful belly of mahogany, filled a corner of the room, breathing antique mystery and refinement. At one end of it, on a small vacant space of wall, hung a cast, apparently the death-mask of a woman, by which the eye was immediately attracted with something of a shock and held by a curious fascination. The face was smiling, a smile of great peace, and also of a strange cunning. One other characteristic it had: the woman looked as though at any moment she would suddenly open her eyes, and if you turned away from her and looked again, she seemed to be smiling to herself because she had opened them that moment behind your back, and just closed them again in time.
It was a face that never changed and yet was always changing.
She looked doubly strange in the evening light, and her smile softened and deepened as the shadows gathered in the room.
Antony came and stood in front of her.
"Silencieux," he whispered, "I love you, Silencieux. Smiling Silence, I love you. All day long on the moors your smile has stolen like a moonbeam by my side-"
As he spoke, from far down the wood came the gentle sound of a woman's voice calling "Antony," and coming nearer as it called.
With a shade of impatience, Antony bent nearer to the image and kissed it.
"Good-bye, Silencieux," he whispered, "Good-bye, until the rising of the moon."
Then he passed out on to the little staircase that led down into the wood, and called back to the approaching voice: "I am coming, Beatrice,"-'Beatrice' being the name of his wife.
As he called, a shaft of late sunlight suddenly irradiated the tall slim form of a woman coming up the wood. She wore no hat, and the sun made a misty glory of her pale gold hair. She seemed a fairy romantic thing thus gliding in her yellow silk gown through the darkening pines. And her face was the face of the image, feature for feature. There was on it too the same light, the same smile.
"Antony," she called, as they drew nearer to each other, "where in the wide world have you been? Dinner has been waiting for half-an-hour."
"Dinner!" he said, laughing, and kissing her kindly. "Fancy! the High Muses have made me half-an-hour late for dinner. Beauty has made me forget my dinner. Disgraceful!"
"I don't mind your forgetting dinner, Antony-but you might have remembered me."
"Do you think I could remember Beauty and forget you? Yes! you are beautiful to-night, Silen-Beatrice. You look like a lady one meets walking by a haunted well in some old Arthurian tale."
"Hush!" said Beatrice, "listen to the night-jar. He is worth a hundred nightingales."
"Yes; what a passion is that!" said Antony, "so sincere, and yet so fascinating too."
"'Yet,' do you say, Antony? Why, sincerity is the most fascinating thing in the world."
And as they listened, Antony's heart had stolen back to Silencieux, and once more in fancy he pressed his lips to hers in the dusk: "It is with such an eternal passion that I love you, Silencieux."
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: Of course, the writer is aware that while "Silencieux" is feminine, her name is masculine. In such fanciful names, however, such license has always been considered allowable.]
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The Worshipper of the Image
Richard Le Gallienne
Literature
Chapter 1 SMILING SILENCE
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Chapter 2 THE COMING OF SILENCIEUX
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Chapter 3 THE NORTHERN SPHINX
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Chapter 4 AT THE RISING OF THE MOON
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Chapter 5 SILENCIEUX SPEAKS
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Chapter 6 THE THREE BLACK PONDS
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Chapter 7 THE LOVERS OF SILENCIEUX
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Chapter 8 A STRANGE KISS FOR SILENCIEUX
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Chapter 9 THE WONDERFUL WEEK.
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Chapter 10 SILENCIEUX WHISPERS
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Chapter 11 WONDER IN THE WOOD
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Chapter 12 AUTUMN IN THE VALLEY
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Chapter 13 THE HUMAN SACRIFICE
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Chapter 14 A SONG OF THE LITTLE DEAD
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Chapter 15 SILENCIEUX ALONE IN THE WOOD.
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Chapter 16 THE FIRST TALK ON THE HILLS
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Chapter 17 ANTONY ALONE ON THE HILLS
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Chapter 18 THE SECOND TALK ON THE HILLS
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Chapter 19 LAST TALK ON THE HILLS
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Chapter 20 ANTONY'S JUDGMENT UPON SILENCIEUX
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Chapter 21 RESURGAM!
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Chapter 22 THE STRANGENESS OF ANTONY
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Chapter 23 BEATRICE FULFILS HER DESTINY
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