Part 3 (2/2)

You come in dreams, and mock the waking. You the mystery; you the bravery and danger; you the long-sought; you the never-won; memories, hopes, songs ere the earth is mute. You will always be loved, believe me, O bright ladies, till youth fades, turns, and loves no more.” And I gazed amazed on cherries of such potency as these.

”But once, sir,” said Julia timidly, ”we were not only loved but _told_ we were loved.”

”Where is the pleasure else?” cried Dianeme.

”Besides,” said Electra, ”Anthea says if we might but find where Styx flows one draught--my mere palmful--would be sweeter than all the poetry ever writ, save some.”

”It is idle,” cried Dianeme; ”Herrick himself admired us most on paper.”

”And ink makes a cross even of a kiss, that is very well known,” said Julia.

”Ah!” said I, ”all men have eyes; few see. Most men have tongues: there is but one Robin Herrick.”

”I will tell you a secret,” said Dianeme.

And as if a bird of the air had carried her voice, it seemed a hush fell on sky and greenery.

”We are but fairy-money all,” she said, ”an envy to see. Take us!--'tis all dry leaves in the hand. Herrick stole the honey, and the bees he killed. Blow never so softly on the tinder, it flames--and dies.”

”I heard once,” said Electra, with but a thought of pride, ”that had I lived a little, little earlier, I might have been the d.u.c.h.ess of Malfi.”

”I too, Flatterer,” cried Julia, ”I too--Desdemona slain by a blackamoor. To some it is the cold hills and the valleys 'green and sad,' and the sea-birds' wailing,” she continued in a low, strange voice, ”and to some the glens of heather, and the mountain-brooks, and the rowans. But, come to an end, what are we all? This man's eyes will tell ye! I would give white and red, nectar and snow and roses, and all the similes that ever were for--”

”For what?” said I.

”I think, for Robin Herrick,” she said.

It was a lamentable confession, for that said, gravity fled away; and Electra fetched out a lute from a low cupboard in the arbour, and while she played Julia sang to a sober little melody I seemed to know of old:

Sighs have no skill To wake from sleep Love once too wild, too deep.

Gaze if thou will, Thou canst not harm Eyes shut to subtle charm.

Oh! 'tis my silence Shows thee false, Should I be silent else?

Haste thou then by!

s.h.i.+ne not thy face On mine, and love's disgrace!

Whereat Dianeme lifted on me so nave an afflicted face I must needs beseech another song, despite my drowsy lids. Wherefore I heard, far away as it were, the plucking of the strings, and a voice betwixt dream and wake sing:

All sweet flowers Wither ever, Gathered fresh Or gathered never; But to live when love is gone!-- Grieve, grieve, lute, sadly on!

All I had-- 'Twas all thou gav'st me; That foregone, Ah! what can save me?

If the exorcised spirit fly, Nought is left to love me by.

Take thy stars, My tears then leave me; Thine my bliss, As thine to grieve me; Take....

For then, so insidious was the music, and not quite of this earth the voice, my senses altogether forsook me, and I fell asleep.

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