Confessions of an English Hachish-Eater/Chapter 3
III. Paradise.
I do not know exactly how much to believe and how much to disbelieve of Théophile Gautier's tale about le club des hachichins at the hôtel Pimodan on the Ile Saint-Louis; but there is no doubt whatever in my mind that the author, if not an "adept" in the use of hachish, had at least experienced the effects of the drug. I cannot, however, readily com prehend that any enthusiastic devotees of the narcotic should deliberately form them-selves into an association for its enjoyment in company. Once in a way, perhaps, sociable hachish-eating may be charming as a comparative novelty; but the best delights of the drug are, after all, obtainable by the solitary. The patient's first craving is for quiet. He does not want to be disturbed, or to be reminded of the things of the work-a-day world. His best sanctuary is the silence of a warm and cosy library, furnished with snug carpets, rugs and lounges, and with a piano. No one, however, should take hachish without first having taken counsel with his medical man; for the drug affects divers people in divers ways. We are told by Dr. O'Shaughnessy, that in England he has given ten or twelve grains with impunity, and has seen no effects produced, and Dr. Fronmüller considers that eight grains form the smallest useful dose when it is sought to bring the patient under the full influence: but Dr. Garrod and others are of opinion that a much smaller quantity is sufficient in the majority of cases. What, therefore, may be innocuous to one may be well-nigh fatal to another and the only method of arriving at the proper dose is by a series of careful experiments.
While a man is under the full influence of the hachish be can enjoy little save a contemplative kind of dolce far niente. He may imagine that he is moving about, and, perhaps, vigorously exerting him self; but the chances are greatly in favour of his remaining where he was when the drug first began to operate. It is certainly impossible for him at the time to conjure up energy sufficient to enable him to write a record of his experiences. But, when all is over, he can remember; and his memory, in such circumstances, is often remarkably vivid. Of the myriads of curious ideas that during a couple of hours of blissful dream have rushed through my brain, I have several times remembered enough to be able to weave from them in my waking moments a tolerably consecutive narrative. Of such dream-stories I have, perhaps, half a dozen in my possession. All of them are, I am aware, more or less imperfect, for the mind that conceived them was, at the instant, conscious of no difference between the real and the ideal. Some of them are, for this reason, too impossible to print. The machinery of them is far too glaringly impracticable, far too obviously unworkable. And in writing out even those which seem to me to partake least of the supernatural, I have been obliged to fill in gaps and supply or suggest motives which, in my dreams, were all haze and mystery.
Two of these dream stories I intend to give. In the following idyll I have only to a limited extent exercised the editorial function of pruning and elaborating. Had I allowed myself a greater degree of freedom, I should have made a better story of it. But, in that case, I should not have preserved the peculiar character of the apocalypse; and that, I think, is its flavour of dreamland. As it is, I am not certain that I have not gone too far. For instance, I was myself an actor in some of the scenes of the dream; and in writing it out I have abolished my own personality and told the tale in the third person, supplying names to all the characters. It will serve, however, as a specimen, although a faulty one, of some curious and not unpoetical imaginings. It appeared to me in the form of a succession of pictures, the personse of which were a young man, who was sometimes myself and sometimes another, an old man, a dwarf, and two women, who were different, but yet strangely and exactly alike. One of these last may be taken to be a special incarnation of evil. The visions may have occupied my mind for five minutes, possibly for only as many seconds. But in any case I caught so fleeting a glance at them that I am almost astonished that I was ever able to remember them, save as a confused and incoherent series of lightning flashes upon the scenery of a dark and unknown landscape.
1. Vox Clamantis.
"My daughter," quoth Father Paul to Stella, you may depend upon it that it is no sin to love. Was not the holy Peter himself a married man? We may be sure that he married where he loved, though, possibly, he may have wedded a shrew who soured him. That is my explanation of his quick temper."
"But when I think of Gerard all other thoughts fly out of my head; and I am always thinking of him. Is that right?"
Father Paul screwed up his eyes and looked amusedly at his questioner.
"This is the first time that I have ever heard any pretty girl say that," he replied, with a smile of satisfaction. "If you think it wrong, my daughter, it is wrong. Ask your conscience."
"That is all very well," returned Stella, laughing; but conscience does not tell people everything. It doesn't tell me to turn out my toes, for instance."
"Yes, it tells you to turn out your toes when once you have learnt that to turn out your toes is right. In the same way it only tells you to do right when once you have learnt what right is."
"That is exactly what my conscience wants to be taught, then. You see, Father Paul, I have no experience."
"Neither have I," said Father Paul, good humouredly. "Did any one ever hear of a young girl asking advice from a confirmed old bachelor in matters of love?"
"Well, tell me what you think, Father Paul."
"Whom ought you to love first of all?"
"The good God."
"And next?"
"My neighbour."
"And lastly?"
"Myself."
"And you try to obey these precepts, my daughter?"
"I try."
"Good! Consider Gerard as yourself. Place him in the list with yourself; first, the good God? second, your neighbour: third, Gerard and yourself."
"But, Father ———"
"Not a bit of it! You must look at the matter in that way. One of these days he and you will come and ask me to bind you together, and thereafter you will be as one flesh. You see that if you place Gerard any higher you will cheat either God or your neighbour of their due; and if he loves you, my daughter, he will be contented with the company in which I put him."
"But, surely, Gerard is my neighbour?"
Father Paul laughed "Don't you understand, daughter?"
Stella thought for a moment. You mean," she said, "that I am not to think of him so as to interfere with my thought for the good God and my neighbour?"
"Exactly," replied Father Paul; "and remember, too, that there may be danger in the fact that when you please Gerard you please yourself. Too much devotion to him may be little better than pure selfishness,"
Stella looked unhappy.
"I do not tell you," continued Father Paul, not to love him and to be devoted to him. But now that I have taught your conscience, it will better tell you what is right than even I can. There! I shall leave the matter with you. You have heard it said that dirt is matter out of place. So with sin; it is act, thought, or word out of place."
And Father Paul moved on, while Stella sat down and began to think.
It was early morning. The dew still glistened on blade of grass and leaf of bush; the sun had scarcely warmed the air; the insects had not yet come forth; and the birds overhead were chattering with anxious expectation of something to eat. From their high perches they could survey a broad landscape that seemed to melt away into the light undissipated mists that still slumbered upon the far horizon. The sky was clear and blue, yet tinged with dull grey in the cold west; but in the east it was a haze of golden glamour in the midst of which shone the glorious sun.
Stella sat on a wooded hillside, upon a huge trunk that lay where, years before, it had fallen, cast down by lightning, the traces of which were still visible upon it. At her feet grew pale primroses, some of which she stooped and plucked, only to pull them to pieces when she had them in her white hands.
"He is to meet me here this morning," she said to herself, but half aloud; "and I know what he wants to say to me; yet I do not know what to say to him. Father Paul tells me that I must consider him after my neighbour, and certainly my brother Alban is my neighbour. I know that, because, although I love Alban, I find it not half so pleasant to be with him as to be with Gerard. It requires a little self denial. But I promised Alban to stay with him until his marriage, and he will not marry yet for half a year. If he were not so fond of me I would ask him to let me go; but he cannot spare me, and he must not be left all alone. He would be miserable if I were not with him, and I should be selfish if I were to leave him. Yet Gerard is always so anxious. He can never wait even for little things. I do not know how I shall persuade him to agree with me. But I must remember what Father Paul has said; and I must do it. First, I must serve the good God; then I must take care of my brother Alban; and then I may go to Gerard. How easy all that would seem if only I could reverse matters! First Gerard——— But no! I am sinning already first the good God. Yes; I will try to do as Father Paul says. But Father Paul cannot know how hard it is. Everyone loves him, and he loves everybody, in one sense; but, in another, how different he is from Gerard or from me! I am sure he never loved any one as Gerard loves me, or as I love Gerard. He is like an old saint, only more human; for I cannot believe that the great saints ever laughed, or joked, or wrestled with their disciples as Father Paul does. Yet Paul is a saint. I am sure that the good God loves him and honours him very much. He is so kind, and so stern at the same time; so gentle, and yet so strong. Perhaps Gerard, when he grows old, will be like him. I hope he will, but Gerard is not a bit like him now. He is very good, very good and kind to me—kinder even than Father Paul; yet some do not like him, while all like Father Paul. Even Alban does not, I think, like him very much. I remember we had words about it. They were not many; but I was so sorry, and, though I kissed Alban and he kissed me to make it up, I cannot quite forget. But then Alban looks for everything in Gerard. He thinks Gerard ought to be perfection, and he makes no allowances for him. I think Alban is just a little bit uncharitable about him; but I am sure it is only because he loves me so much that he is jealous of any one who loves me more. I must reconcile them before Alban marries, and before I leave him."
"You are up early, Stella," said Gerard, coming towards her, and then taking her hand and raising it to his lips.
"I was up with the sun, Gerard."
"Because you could not sleep?"
"Oh, not because I could lie no longer. Do you not sleep well?"
"How can I sleep when I am always thinking of you, Stella? The stars look down upon me and keep me awake. It is as though your eyes were watching me. Do you never think of me?"
"I think of you very much, but you do not keep me awake. Sometimes I dream of you."
"And I of you, when I sleep. What was I doing when you dreamt of me last?"
"You were freeing a poor bird which had been caught in a net. And I, Gerard?"
"You were sitting near me, and I was telling you how I love you. Now, let me sit beside you that we may talk. There will be plenty of room if I put my arm so."
"But you are not to put it so, Gerard. There is room without that."
"And why should I not put it so, Stella?"
"What would you say if you heard of Father Paul sitting with his arm round my waist?"
"But I am not Father Paul!"
"No, you are Gerard."
"Therefore ———"
"Therefore, my boy, you may not: you must wait. When I am yours, Gerard, will be time enough. Do you know that your arm feels like a chain round my waist that takes away my liberty? Do not think me unkind, but I love my liberty, and there is no harm in that until I give it up to you."
"And when may that be, Stella?"
"Need we talk about it now? I must wait until my brother Alban is married."
"Do you love Alban, then, better than me?"
"I have promised him."
"And you have promised me. I have waited a long time now."
"Yes, you have waited a month."
Is it only a month? Even if it be no more, it is a long time. Tell me, Stella; when?"
"When Alban is married."
"Does he wish that?"
"I think he wishes that."
"Then, he is selfish."
"But he has not said so. He has not pressed me to stay with him. He wishes me, I know, to please myself, and I think it right to remain with him."
"And yet you love me, Stella?"
"I am sure you do not doubt it, Gerard."
"Then, are we not wasting our best days? Here is the summer upon us. Soon it will be over and there will come a short autumn and a long dreary winter. So it is with our lives."
"There will be other summers. Besides, there is a whole one still before us."
"We may not see it."
"We may not see to-morrow. Only the good God knows whether we shall. And we are so young, Gerard; only children."
"I am twenty-three."
"Yes, only twenty-three; and I am eighteen."
"Eighteen already! Why should we not enjoy those sunny days together?"
"But, surely, we may. Alban is often away, and I can as often be with you. We will go for walks together in the pine woods. I will pick you nosegays of wild flowers. Can we not be very happy?"
"Yes, happy; but, if you were my own, how much happier!"
"I can never understand that, Gerard. But let us talk of something else. Have you seen Alban?"
"I met him this morning on the moor. He was walking alone and gazing at the turf. He did not see me. I daresay he was thinking of someone. Does he not, Stella, desire the day when she shall be his?"
"He thinks it well to wait."
"If so, he does not love like me. Oh, Stella, how can you delay? Why do you not take pity on me?"
"For the present I am bound to him. If I were not I would come; Gerard, you know I would come. You should carry me wherever you would; but I must keep my word and do my duty. When Alban is married I shall be only for the great God and for you."
"This is a chivalric notion of yours, Stella; but it is a mistaken one, I think."
"Perhaps it may be my whim, Gerard; but I believe I am right. However, since it is a sore subject, let us leave it. Let us walk on together and enjoy the morning, for the sun is already high and the best part of the day will soon be over."
He silently accompanied her along the woodland path, carpeted with soft turf and fringed on either side with dew-filled flowers.
"Is not this like Eden, Gerard?"
"We, then, are Adam and Eve."
"If you will."
"Then you are only for me! Oh, Stella! why do you wish me to wait?"
His face drew nearer to hers, while his hands fell and clasped her waist.
"Let us go away, Gerard!"
"Go away? Where is it more pleasant than here? No, let us remain!"
He drew her closer to him and gazed down into her brown eyes; but as he gazed they grew terrified, and involuntarily he followed the direction of their glance.
There, twined about a low swinging branch, hung a glittering snake.
"Look, Gerard!"
"But it will not harm us, my own!"
"I seem to have been asleep for an instant, Gerard, and to have dreamt that it spoke instead of you! Is it not beautiful?"
"Yes."
"But it is accursed! Let us go, Gerard! I cannot stay here."
And, freeing her lithe form from his unwilling grasp, she moved away, without once looking back.
"Stella! stop!"
"No! Let us go out into the sun-shine again, Gerard. To-day I am afraid of the woods."
But he rapidly followed her, and seized her hand.
"Do not go; I cannot spare you."
Yet she went on, even though he knelt at her feet and covered her hands with kisses.
"Alban will be looking for me, Gerard."
"And to-morrow?"
"To-morrow perhaps you will find me by the old trunk."
And she stood still for a moment to bid him good-bye. He would have kissed her on the lips, but she only offered her soft cheek, and ere he could struggle for more she had escaped him and was fleeing lightly away.
2. Eve or Lilith.
It was morning again, and Gerand climbed the hill to keep his tryst at the fallen tree. Above him the undissipated mists of night clung like moving curls of down, thickening as he went, and swaying fitfully in the breath of the cool air: but below the plain was bright and clear, and the joyous sun was putting forth its new strength. A cloud had settled upon the wood, and had transformed the old trees and their twisted roots into strange shapes, which seemed to rise and flee at his approach. The rabbits, too, fled as a dry twig crackled beneath his feet, and the rogue-eyed squirrels scampered off among the high branches to give the alarm.
Gerard had almost to feel his way when he reached the denser part of the thicket He stumbled over stones: he tore his skin with unseen brambles; and more than once he came into collision with some giant fir and was obliged to retrace his steps in order to regain the path which he had lost, for the heavy cloud deceived him at every moment, and its floating masses misled him into mistaking them for solid objects. Yet, to his astonishment, he found the glade, wherein lay the blasted trunk, quite clear and full of sunbeams. The mist surrounded it on all sides, but did not enter it; and he could look upwards, as from the bottom of a huge well, and see the deep blue sky of heaven. Stella was not there; and he was annoyed, for his whole being was longing for her, and his lips were aching for the kiss which he had promised him-self. Yet he was early. Doubtless she would soon come. A bright flower, just opening its dewy petals to the cherishing day, caught his eye, and he stooped to examine it.
When he rose and looked again he saw a well-known form sitting on the fallen tree.
She did not see him, for her back. was turned, and he stole to her noiselessly from behind and gently put his arm round her.
She trembled, turned her face and smiled, but did not speak.
How fresh her lips looked! He did not attempt to resist the impulse to kiss them, and, after a little laughing struggle, he succeeded. Their lips had never met before.
He vaulted over the trunk, took his seat by her side, and put both arms round her neck. Neither spoke. Her beautiful eyes sought the ground, and on her cheeks was a slight blush, born of shame and happiness. He took her hand in his and passed his fingers lovingly over the white, veined skin. "You love me after all!" he said, at last, while he played with her soft, rounded arm, and gazed into her face.
She did not answer, but looked at him with that wonderful look which seems to come from the soul—that look so unearthly that no human words can explain it. It means submission, but willing submission; and it is a glad look; yet there is no smile in it. No woman who does not love very truly is mistress of it, and many women give it but once in their lives. It is soft and beseeching and staid it is a revelation, for one instant, from another nature; and it is apologetic; but withal it is indescribable.
Gerard kissed her again, and, as he did so, watched her eyes close, as with languor.
"My own, now and for ever!" he whispered. How her heart beat!
"And you really love me?" she asked, half timidly.
Of course he kissed her once more. "This is our paradise, Stella———"
"Eve! I am the Eve of paradise, and you shall be Adam!"
"But Eve was never half so lovely as you. I dare say she had big feet, for instance."
She stretched out a foot and regarded it.
"And mine are not so small, Adam," she smiled.
"It is very little and very lovely, Eve. Do you give that also to me?"
She laughed. "Why do you want me at all?"
"Because, Eve, I love you.""But you will soon grow tired."
"Of you?"
"Yes, of me, Adam."
"I am willing to undertake the experiment, nevertheless. There is no record that my namesake ever grew tired of his Eve."
"Do you suppose they never quarrelled?"
"We do not hear of it."
"But after his cowardice in casting the blame of the Fall upon her?"
"Well, we shall not run the same risk."
"Ah! Who can tell? And when I grow old, Adam?"
"I also shall grow old. But why think of that? We are young now."
"Yes; we are young."
"And will make the experiment, Eve. Why should we ever part again?"
She did not reply, but rested silent and happy against his shoulder.
The mist still hung thickly about the trees.
"Come, my own!" he said, and his words sounded huskily as he spoke them; "we cannot stay here. Let us go lower, where there is no cloud to chill us by its presence."
She rose with him and clung to his arm, and together they entered the mist that filled the wood. It was like passing through a realm of spectres.
Suddenly Gerard halted. At his feet lay a snake, such as he had seen on the previous morning. Even the cloud did not hide its glittering colours.
"How strange, Eve"
"Come," she said, lightly stepping over it; and the serpent trailed its way into a tuft of thick herbage.
The mist grew denser and the air chillier. Gerard shuddered involuntarily. Eve seemed to find her way as if by instinct, and he no longer stumbled over gnarled roots, or tore his skin with impeding branches. They had quitted the beaten path, and were walking rapidly over a smooth and mossy sward. He had given himself up to her guidance.
The cloud seemed more impenetrable than ever, when Gerard became conscious of the existence of some lofty obstacle in front of them, and gradually distinguished that it was a wall of grey stone.
"Where are we, Eve?" he asked.
"Wait!" she said, and feeling with her disengaged hand for some distance she succeeded in finding the door of which she was in search. "Now, Adam, I have a surprise for you. Do you deserve it?"
He did not know what to expect, or what to reply, but he bent his face to hers and kissed her again.
"Supposing, Adam, that I were to show you a real paradise, would you run away from it?"
"Not while you were there," he laughed, wondering at her whim.
"And you would be a good Adam?"
"To you? Yes! Do I not love you, Eve?"
"And you would love me always?"
He took her in his arms, and lifted her up in his strong embrace.
"Here, then, is the key," she said. "Open the door." And, as soon as he liberated her, she pressed a curiously wrought key into his hand. He took it, and did as she bade him.
Within there seemed to be no mist, but the overhanging foliage rendered the place somewhat dark, although sunlight was visible beyond.
Gerard withdrew the key, entered with Eve, and closed the door behind him.
At that instant the distant strains of soft music fell upon his cars, but ere he could speak Eve said, "And, now, if you would have a complete surprise, I must blindfold you, Adam."
He stood still while she tied the kerchief from her own neck over his eyes. It was delicious to feel her fingers in his hair, and he smiled.
"This is a strange freak of yours, Eve."
"Come" she exclaimed, taking his hand in hers and leading him onwards. "I am taking you into the real paradise of which I told you."
The music ceased as they approached it, and complete silence prevailed. They passed over grass and fine gravel, and lastly over stone steps and a smooth stone pavement. Gerard no longer felt chilly. The touch of Eve's hand thrilled him, and, in addition, he knew that the warm sun was shining on him.
Where was he? He could but wonder and wait for, once, when he began to ask a question, Eve put a finger to his lips and enjoined silence.
She led him to a seat, which was apparently covered with velvet.
"Now she said, as she removed the bandage from his eyes, "here is my paradise!"
For a few moments the light blinded him. Then he saw that he was sitting in a marble court, which was lightly roofed with a gaily-coloured awning of embroidered cloth, At intervals stood rare shrubs, bearing beautiful flowers or luscious fruits; and in the centre a small fountain sent up a cool, limpid stream, which fell again, a cloud of fine, white spray, into a broad basin of carved malachite. On the white floor were spread thick Persian rugs of many hues. Low, luxurious couches, covered with bright silken stuffs, lined the walls; and it was upon one of these last that he was sitting with Eve at his side.
"What is this?" he cried, when he had overcome his first astonishment.
"Our paradise."
"But yours—how can it be yours, Stella?"
"I am not Stella! I am Eve!" she said, softly, He looked at her and took her hand.
"You are Stella and Eve!"
"Only Eve, and you are Adam."
"But I knew nothing of all this. It seems as if it had sprung from the earth or dropped from the sky."
"It is my surprise for you. Do you like it?
"Like it, Eve! I cannot realise it yet. Is it yours?"
"And yours, Adam."
"To do as you like with?"
"To do as you like with."
"And you, my own, are mine, too, in this paradise?" {nop}} Eve turned her brown eyes to his "Yes! I too she murmured. All is yours?"
He drew her towards him, and her head fell upon his shoulder, while her thick tresses bathed his face in their fragrant richness.
"Is it all real? Are you real? Is life real, my own; or am I dreaming?"
"Come," she said, "and you shall see;" and she led him from the court into a smaller one containing a table, upon which lay broad dishes of ripe fruit and flagons of wine. "Let us take our first breakfast together, Adam! But wait!"
She led him on to a cool chamber, hung with Indian work.
"There," she said, "you will find all you need. Take off your old dress and put on the one I have laid ready for you. I will go and change mine. We must be fitly robed in paradise."
She laughed merrily, and ere he let her go he kissed her and extorted a promise that she would not leave him for long.
His room was not large, for it was evidently intended merely as a dressing-room. The window, of coloured glass, was wide open, and through the casement he could see a lovely garden which, as far as his eyes could judge, was of great size. Taking off his clothes, he dressed himself in those which he found prepared for him loose trousers of silk, gathered in round the ankles, a silken shirt, and a jacket embroidered with gold; and as soon as he had done so, he returned to the court in which breakfast was spread. There he sat wondering and waiting.
Eve soon reappeared. He thought, as she came towards him, that he had never seen her look so wonderfully beautiful. Her dark hair was tied in a long plait which reached to her waist, and contrasted remarkably with the loose, open bodice of milk-white cambric which she wore. Her neck was hare, and low on her breast against her pure skin nestled a single rose-bud, pink as coral, and half hidden by a small frond of delicate fern. For the rest, her dress consisted of a short skirt of straw-coloured Indian silk, embroidered in blue and red, and of flowing trousers of a lighter shade, made, like the bodice, of almost transparent cambric. Round her ankles were numerous narrow rings of gold, and her bare feet were thrust into slippers of rich crimson velvet. Gerard rose and passionately took her in his arms.
"Do you like me?" she asked, laughingly looking up into his face.
"Do I like you? Eve, I worship you! You are perfection, and you could not be lovelier."
"And do you like our garden of Eden?"
"Yes; because you are in it! But, Eve, it seems so unreal."
"And do I seem unreal, Adam? Can you not feel that I am flesh and blood?"
He kissed her full lips and then her smooth, fair neck.
"But I cannot understand! It seems like a dream."
She smiled as she archly took his finger, and, putting it between her teeth, bit it.
"Now, you know, that would wake you, Adam, if you were dreaming. But let us have breakfast. How can I walk when you hold me so tightly?"
"You shall not walk. I will carry you."
And he raised her light, lithe form, and bore it to a soft divan.
"But where is the table, Adam? We are nowhere within reach of it."
"Let us have kisses for breakfast, Evet"
"Oh, no! There are wine and fruit. I must convince you that you are not dreaming. But we can sit here." And she clapped her hands.
A heavy curtain was immediately drawn aside, and a curious apparition came before them in the person of a hideous dwarf, scarcely three feet in height. He was dressed in a rich costume of dark colours; a gold-sheathed scimitar hung from his girdle; and on his head was a turban, in which sparkled an immense opal.
"Move the table towards us, Narjac," commanded Eve with a gesture of authority and the deformed creature, who seemed to be possessed of immense strength, bowed in silence and obeyed her order. Then, still silent, he left the court as he had entered it, and replaced the heavy curtain behind him.
"He is a useful servant, exclaimed Eve. "He knows everything and can do everything. I have only to speak. I call him a servant, though he is really a slave; but I do not treat him as such, because he is indispensable. He understands me so well."
"Never mind your black Narjac, Eve; I cannot think of anything but you."
"Not even of breakfast, Adam?"
"I prefer your lips."
"But look at this peach; what colour, and what a soft velvety down!"
"Your cheeks are better, Eve."
"Nevertheless, I like the peach."
"Well, then, let us breakfast; and after breakfast ———."
"Yes; after breakfast, what?"
"Love, Eve."
"But there is love in Eden even at breakfast, I hope, Adam. Take the peach and cut it, and give yourself some wine. You must be tired."
"How can I be tired, Eve? This is such a wonderful place!"
"Yet I used to be tired sometimes before you came, in spite of this paradise of ours."
"I shall never tire in it with you, Eve."
"Nor I with you, if ———"
"If?"
"If you always love me, Adam."
"Then, kiss me, and I will love you for ever."
And he passed his arm round her waist, and put his lips again to hers, and with his right hand he laughingly fed her with the luscious fruit which he had peeled and cut.
3. Reality.
The day was fine and warm, and during all its sunny hours Adam and Eve roamed about their Eden, finding new beauties at every step.
Bright convolvuluses twined in every thicket; tangled sword-grass grew luxuriant in every sheltered hollow; pale-eyed daisies nestled on the sward; the sweet scent of wild ragged roses filled the air; while all the trees were musical with trill of nightingale and coo of dove. In the green depths of the limes the yellow-coated bees were busy; they buzzed about the fragrant thyme on the overgrown molehills, and they sailed away heavy laden to store their golden honey in the heart of the gnarled old oak which, maybe, for ages had served as their treasury.
As the sun went down Adam and Eve sat together on a marble terrace that looked towards the golden west, and watched the bright orb slowly sink behind the distant pines.
Narjac brought a quaintly-worked brazier, in which shone a lurid mass of hot embers, and then, retiring, returned in a few moments with a golden tray, on which lay long-tubed pipes tipped with costly amber, a curious jar containing tobacco, and a flagon of wine. "Leave us!" said Eve; and the obe-dient dwarf vanished in silence.
"Is not the evening lovely?" murmured Gerard, who half reclined on a huge divan by the side of Eve, and played with her luxuriant hair, now no longer plaited, but hanging in rich array around her shoulders. "Can there be anything more beautiful in nature than the soft coming of night?"
"It is beautiful, Adam, when one is happy."
"And when it brings one closer to love! The day did not seem long; yet it seems long when I look back upon it. And now, Eve, you are my own, are you not—all mine?"
She looked dreamily up at him through her long eye-lashes. "Yes, Adam!"
"Your hands?" and he kissed them.
"Yes!"
"And your lips, Eve—your lips that are like angels' food to me?"
"Yes, Adam!"
So passed the hours with Adam and Eve for many a day.
But love must either grow or wither: it must either soar or fall; it cannot hover motionless.
Adam longed for variety, for his books, for his verses, or even for the outer world, into which he had never found his way since his arrival in Eden. He could have taken a spade and trenched the ground, so satiated was he with the cloying idleness of his dreamy life; but there was no spade at hand, and he could make no labour for himself.
Yet he still loved Eve. The change was more with her than with him, and he could not understand it. Some vague shadow seemed to have come in between their hearts, and to have turned the sunshine of their life into a mysterious and unnatural darkness. Yet he hoped that all would still be fair again. Could Stella ever really cease to love him? No: he had been peevish or cold, and he had hurt her, perhaps; but he would make amends in the future. More than ever, thenceforth, he sought to forestall her every wish, and to win her back to the old love; but his labour was vain. He felt her heart daily drifting away from his; and she no longer greeted him with the happy smile which he had known of yore.
One morning, early, after he had roamed alone as usual, he heard a slight noise, and, turning, he beheld the hideous form of Narjac, who slunk stealthily away.
It was enough! Gerard fled, he scarcely knew whither, down the steps of the terrace and across the broad garden, anxious only to escape. Onward he went, without a glance behind, through thickets, over brooks, until at last he was confronted by the wall of grey stone. No gate was visible, no door. He sought for one in vain; but even had he found it he had no key. Yet he dared not stay. A huge oak partly overhung the summit. He climbed it; he crawled out on a wide-spreading branch, and then he gained the top of the wall.
Before him was the rough world; but to his eyes it looked fairer than the garden behind him. Without hesitation he lowered himself to the full length of his arms, and dropped to the ground, far below. He fell; there was a dull shock, followed by a throbbing pain, and he lost consciousness.
4. Awake.
For hours he lay stunned and motion-less amid the tall bracken at the foot of the wall. Even the linnets at last grew accustomed to his presence, and perched upon him, twittering to their mates in the thick branches above.
Then, as through some dreamy veil of floating mist, he seemed to see forms approaching along the woodland path—forms that to his slumbering senses appeared like those of ministering angels bringing to him comfort and consolation. The one was that of an old man; the other that of a maiden, upon whose sweet, sad face there were cruel traces of great sorrow. *** "Gerard!"
"He has broken a bone, my daughter," said Father Paul, bending and tenderly examining the sufferer.
"But, oh! he looks as if he were dead! Does he breathe? Let us take him away!"
"If we can carry him," quoth Father Paul. But there was no doubt about the matter. Gerard was a light weight for the gigantic strength of the good old man, who took him in his arms and bore him away to his own home.
"I told you he would come back, my daughter; and, because you did not lose hope he has come back. I daresay he will be better for the experience."
"But, Father Paul ———"
"No, my daughter. His sufferings will shrive him better than I could."
Gerard opened his eyes and gazed about him, at first wondering. Then he started and turned pale.
"Eve!" he ejaculated; but he looked up again, and added: "No! Stella—my Stella!"
"Is he delirious, Father Paul?""
"Not half so much so as he was a week ago!" responded the old man, abruptly.
Later on, Gerard opened his eyes again. "Yes, you are Stella, my Stella," he said. "Do you forgive me?"
"Do you repent?" interrupted Father Paul, somewhat roughly.
"I do, father, with all my soul!"
"Then, I can answer for Stella, and for Heaven, my son! You are forgiven!"
"And let us thank the good God," cried Stella, gladly; "for it is He who has brought you back. I knew you would come!"
That night Gerard was indeed delirious.
"Why was I so blind? It was Lilith who was in Eden! The Angel was without!" And so his mind seemed to wander.
Father Paul understood it all, but kept his own counsel, for he was satisfied.
"It is better," he murmured to himself, as he kept faithful watch while Gerard slept, "to have repented than to have never sinned; and there is no teaching so blessed as experience."
And, weeks afterwards, when Stella heard the whole story from Gerard, she loved him better than before; while he, for the great wrong he had done her, and for her free forgiveness, wondered at her faith, and learnt to honour her as man should honour wife.
