The dryad a novel
began to speak he became aware that his familiar solitude was invaded.
A girl was coming towards him down the slope, a girl tall, stalwart,
blue-eyed and yellow-locked, a girl with naked arms and legs, in a
kirtle of white stuff. Though the girl came running rapidly towards him
over the grass, the birds a-nigh him showed no signs of disturbance at
the stranger's coming, but picked and chirruped as unconcernedly as if
they were still alone in their timidity with their ancient friend.
It was Argathona who came thus upon the old solitary and his untroubled
birds. The moon was still shining when she gained the shelter of her
forest on the night of her flight from Athens, and she made at once
for the cave where she had so often lain through the ages, her cave in
the heart of the wood. There she hid the golden apple, and there she
stripped off her male attire and clothed herself in her woman's weeds,
according to the old wont. Then she lay down on a couch of fern and
slept the dreamless sleep of the immortals that have no need to double
their little lives with false seeming. Indeed, she was very weary of
the world of men, and wished to forget it and all that belonged to it,
save only her lover, who she was very sure must come to her soon in
the woodland.
Being of the immortals, she had her will, and awoke refreshed and free
of the contamination of the city. But yet her mind was troubled because
of her lover and her longing for him, and though she knew that his
hurt was nothing, and though she knew that he was fated to escape from
danger till he obeyed her call to the woodland, she was conscious for
the first time in her young-old life of the length of a long day. She
wandered in the forest, visiting all the haunts and hollows, grottos
and thickets, that she loved, talking with beast and bird and insect,
every creature of the wood. But always in her divine heart she stifled
the human desire for her lover, and that day of late spring lagged
tardier in his passage than ever yet day of spring had travelled.
Now when she had slept again through the same sweet oblivion, and had
wakened to greet a new day, she found her spirit so troubled with
unfamiliar regrets and with unwonted fears that there suddenly came
upon her a strange sense of loneliness, such as she had never known
before, and a wish for the wisdom of another. And even as she wished,
there came into her mind the thought of the hermit of whom her lover
had spoken to her on the night of their first meeting. She knew,
indeed, that such an one dwelt in the confines of the forest, unheeded
by her. She did not remember when he came there; he was no more to
her than the distant shepherds and yet more distant citizens. But
since her lover had urged her to come with him to visit this ancient
stranger, her troubled heart inclined towards him, and she resolved to
seek him out, she scarce knew why, if it were not that perchance she
might speak to him of her lover. Thus it came about that the hermit
beheld her descending the slope, what time he was feeding his birds.
As Argathona approached the ancient and saw that he was aware of her
coming, she gave him good-morrow in her sweet, clear voice, and the old
man, looking steadfastly upon her, thought her indeed the loveliest
creature that he had ever seen, even in days when his eyes were daily
familiar with loveliness.
"Good-morrow, daughter," he said, gently. "Of what kin are you that are
not of my kind?"
Argathona marvelled that the glamour of the woodland could not prevail
against the old man.
"Why are you so wise, father," she asked, "that you seem to know what
no others have known?"
"Daughter," answered the hermit, "you speak to me with a speech that is
not spoken of men, and yet I understand you, and when I speak to you,
you understand my tongue though it is unlike yours. Also the birds have
no fear of you, the shy birds that fly from a shadow or a sigh."
"Why should the birds fear me," asked Argathona, "that have never hurt
living thing? And who has given you the gift to know that I speak the
speech of the gods?"
The old man turned, and, going towards the shrine, knelt for a moment
before the image of the Redeemer. Then he rose again and faced the girl.
"My Lord and yours," he said, pointing to the crucifix, "has granted me
to see and know the things of this world as they truly are. Time was
when my eyes were blinded by pride and my heart was big with evil, but
the time has been, and I, long dead to the world, wait in patience for
the hour of my true translation."
Argathona pointed to the figure on the cross, which she was looking at
with a childlike curiosity.
"Is that your Lord?" she questioned, gently. She remembered that
she had seen kindred images at Athens, and that Simon had told her
hurriedly how they made part of the new faith that had usurped the
ancient rule. But she had paid them little heed, being so busy on her
own purposes. Now, however, in the silence of the lonely woodside, the
image to which its guardian paid so profound a reverence seemed to
assume a new significance. So, "Is that your Lord?" she asked.
"Your Lord and mine," the old man answered, "and the Lord of all the
souls living in the world."
Argathona looked from the image to the old man, and from the old man
again to the image. If that face in its beauty presented the features
of a god, why was that god so slaughtered? Why was the brow of divinity
crowned with a crown of thorns? For the first time since she passed
into the world of men, Argathona felt herself in the presence of
something that was higher than herself and her kindred, and for the
first time, she knew not why, she felt abashed and astray.
"I know little of the world of men," she faltered. "Few and bitter have
been the hours I passed among them, and in those few hours I heard
little speech of any lord of the world, though, indeed, I can remember
seeing images like unto this to which men paid a kind of reverence,
though not with that joy and humility wherewith we of the woodland
reverenced our gods. Your Athens seemed only to care for laughter and
banquets, and the making of false love, and the waging of false war,
and from first to last I heard little speech of this Lord of the world,
save when now and then one strengthened an oath with His name. Will you
tell me of Him, for of Him I am ignorant?"
The old man saw that he had to deal with a daughter of simplicity that
was yet no simpleton. So he addressed her with all gentleness, as a
father to a child.
"Yours must have been a strange life," he said, "if the story of our
Lord be strange to you. Tell me first your tale, my daughter."
Then Argathona told him her story, even as she had told it to Simon of
Rouen in the woodlands such a little while ago. Then she told of all
that had happened since, of her encounter with the wounded knight that
proved to be the young Prince of Athens, and of their plighted loves,
and of the treachery of Esclaramonde, and of her visit to Athens and
what came of it, and of her resolve to wait in the greenwood till her
true-love came to find her. While she spoke the old man listened in
silence, and though there was much in her story to marvel at, yet in
his eyes there was no signal of disbelief, and the hope burned hotly
in his heart that it might be vouchsafed to him to save this spirit.
When Argathona had told her story he turned to her, and his eyes were
vessels of pity and his voice was the promise of charity. Gently he
bade her sit by him on the grass beneath the image of silver, and
tenderly he bade her hearken to the words he had to say. And Argathona
obeyed him and sat by him, watching his face and feeding on his words
in silence.
Then the old man told her the story of the Redeemer. He told of the
prophecy and the fulfilment, the angel and the birth, of the cruelty
of Herod the king, and the flight, and the shining of the star, and
the coming of the wise, and the worship of the babe in the manger. He
told of the going to Jerusalem, and of the child amid the doctors, and
the growth in glory; of the meeting with John the Baptist, and the
temptation through Satan, and the many miracles, the changing of water
into wine, the walking on the water, the feeding of the multitude, the
raising of Lazarus from the dead. He told of the danger of the Master,
and the treason of Judas, and the last supper, and the passion in
Gethsemane, and the trial before Pilatus. He told of the crucifixion.
He told of the resurrection.
Argathona sat by the side of the old man in the quiet of the hill-side
and hearkened and wondered, and ever as he spoke she seemed to hear
far off in the woodlands the voices of the old gods complaining. And
the hours waned, and the sacred tale went on, in the solitude of the
forest. Far away to the east a great massacre had taken place in the
Theban plain, and the levies of Baldwin were flying like sheep on the
road to Athens. But no noise of the killing, no echo of the flight came
to trouble the ancient and the maid in their business of telling and
hearing the mystery of the redemption.
When he had made an end, when the lid of the sepulchre had rolled back
and the apparition of the Master had been manifest to the apostles, the
ascetic looked at Argathona and saw that her eyes were pools of tears.
Then she asked him, sadly, if he had been by when this tragedy came to
pass.
"Nay," answered the ancient, "all this happened thirteen hundred
years ago"--but he saw that she did not understand him when he said
this--"and yet, in a sense, I am one of the Lord's apostles. For there
has been a head of the faith ever since from that day to this, and
will be to the end, and the opening of the heavens and the yawning
of the pit. And in the fulness of time it pleased the Lord to uplift
the humble, so that they who had been poor fisherfolk and scriveners,
and the like, became rulers of the Christian world. Wherefore, in my
turn, Heaven made me the greatest prince in the world. Great kings of
great kingdoms, mighty emperors of mighty empires, looked up to me
as to their master, and I spoke to them as a school-master speaks to
his pupils, as a tyrant speaks to his slaves. For when I lived in the
world, who have long left the world, I sat in the seat of St. Peter
in Rome, and I held the keys of heaven and hell, and men called me
by the name of Boniface the Seventh. But it pleased God to punish me
for my arrogance and my pride, and the King of France compassed my
destruction, and his partisans made to slay me, and wellnigh did me to
death, but my servants saved me when I was left for dead and hid me in
a little house. In my sufferings I repented of my sins, and resolved to
expiate them in a life of piety. So I caused it to be blown abroad that
I was dead that I might escape the vengeance of my enemy, even Philip
the Fair, and so live to redeem my soul. Wherefore I journeyed hither,
to the country where Paul preached, and here have I lived these many
years, daily drawing, as I trust, a little nearer to the desired end,
and here when the Lord calls me I look to die. Because I have sinned
and suffered in my past days of wickedness I am sick with pity now for
all who sin and suffer in the world, and if I could I would help you,
my daughter."
Argathona marvelled at his speech and at the strange things he told
her, and though she did not fully understand the import of much that
he said, she understood that he was good and that he meant her well.
Then the old pope asked the pagan maiden what she thought to do when
her lover came to her, and she answered him that she and her lover
would live forever in the greenwood. Then the old pope raised his hand
in warning, and his voice was sad and stern as he told her that this