A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P R S T U V W X Z

Stephen Archer and Other Tales

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"It is the soul, the life, the heart, the glory of the universe," he
said. "The worlds dance like motes in his beams. The heart of man is
strong and brave in his light, and when it departs his courage grows
from him--goes with the sun, and he becomes such as you see me now."

"Then that is not the sun?" said Nycteris, thoughtfully, pointing up
to the moon.

"That!" cried Photogen, with utter scorn; "I know nothing about
_that_, except that it is ugly and horrible. At best it can be only
the ghost of a dead sun. Yes, that is it! That is what makes it look
so frightful."

"No," said Nycteris, after a long, thoughtful pause; "you must be
wrong there. I think the sun is the ghost of a dead moon, and that is
how he is so much more splendid as you say.--Is there, then, another
big room, where the sun lives in the roof?"

"I do not know what you mean," replied Photogen. "But you mean to be
kind, I know, though you should not call a poor fellow in the dark a
girl. If you will let me lie here, with my head in your lap, I should
like to sleep. Will you watch me, and take care of me?"

"Yes, that I will," answered Nycteris, forgetting all her own danger.

So Photogen fell asleep.




CHAPTER XIV.

THE SUN.


There Nycteris sat, and there the youth lay, all night long, in the
heart of the great cone-shadow of the earth, like two Pharaohs in one
pyramid. Photogen slept, and slept; and Nycteris sat motionless lest
she should wake him, and so betray him to his fear.

The moon rode high in the blue eternity; it was a very triumph of
glorious night; the river ran babble-murmuring in deep soft syllables;
the fountain kept rushing moon-ward, and blossoming momently to a
great silvery flower, whose petals were for ever falling like snow,
but with a continuous musical clash, into the bed of its exhaustion
beneath; the wind woke, took a run among the trees, went to sleep, and
woke again; the daisies slept on their feet at hers, but she did not
know they slept; the roses might well seem awake, for their scent
filled the air, but in truth they slept also, and the odour was that
of their dreams; the oranges hung like gold lamps in the trees, and
their silvery flowers were the souls of their yet unembodied children;
the scent of the acacia blooms filled the air like the very odour of
the moon herself.

At last, unused to the living air, and weary with sitting so still and
so long, Nycteris grew drowsy. The air began to grow cool. It was
getting near the time when she too was accustomed to sleep. She closed
her eyes just a moment, and nodded--opened them suddenly wide, for she
had promised to watch.

In that moment a change had come. The moon had got round, and was
fronting her from the west, and she saw that her face was altered,
that she had grown pale, as if she too were wan with fear, and from
her lofty place espied a coming terror. The light seemed to be
dissolving out of her; she was dying--she was going out! And yet
everything around looked strangely clear--clearer than ever she had
seen anything before: how could the lamp be shedding more light when
she herself had less? Ah, that was just it! See how faint she looked!
It was because the light was forsaking her, and spreading itself over
the room, that she grew so thin and pale! She was giving up
everything! She was melting away from the roof like a bit of sugar in
water.

Nycteris was fast growing afraid, and sought refuge with the face upon
her lap. How beautiful the creature was!--what to call it she could
not think, for it had been angry when she called it what Watho called
her. And, wonder upon wonder! now, even in the cold change that was
passing upon the great room, the colour as of a red rose was rising in
the wan cheek. What beautiful yellow hair it was that spread over her
lap! What great huge breaths the creature took! And what were those
curious things it carried? She had seen them on her walls, she was
sure.

Thus she talked to herself while the lamp grew paler and paler, and
everything kept growing yet clearer. What could it mean? The lamp was
dying--going out into the other place of which the creature in her lap
had spoken, to be a sun! But why were the things growing clearer
before it was yet a sun? That was the point. Was it her growing into a
sun that did it? Yes! yes! it was coming death! She knew it, for it
was coming upon her also! She felt it coming! What was she about to
grow into? Something beautiful, like the creature in her lap? It might
be! Anyhow, it must be death; for all her strength was going out of
her, while all around her was growing so light she could not bear it!
She must be blind soon! Would she be blind or dead first?

For the sun was rushing up behind her. Photogen woke, lifted his head
from her lap, and sprang to his feet. His face was one radiant smile.
His heart was full of daring--that of the hunter who will creep into
the tiger's den. Nycteris gave a cry, covered her face with her hands,
and pressed her eyelids close. Then blindly she stretched out her arms
to Photogen, crying, "Oh, I am so frightened! What is this? It must be
death! I don't wish to die yet. I love this room and the old lamp. I
do not want the other place! This is terrible. I want to hide. I want
to get into the sweet, soft, dark hands of all the other creatures. Ah
me! ah me!"

"What is the matter with you, girl?" said Photogen, with the arrogance
of all male creatures until they have been taught by the other kind.
He stood looking down upon her over his bow, of which he was examining
the string. "There is no fear of anything now, child. It is day. The
sun is all but up. Look! he will be above the brow of yon hill in one
moment more! Good-bye. Thank you for my night's lodging. I'm off.
Don't be a goose. If ever I can do anything for you--and all that, you
know!"

"Don't leave me; oh, don't leave me!" cried Nycteris. "I am dying! I
am dying! I cannot move. The light sucks all the strength out of me.
And oh, I am so frightened!"

But already Photogen had splashed through the river, holding high his
bow that it might not get wet. He rushed across the level, and
strained up the opposing hill. Hearing no answer, Nycteris removed her
hands. Photogen had reached the top, and the same moment the sunrays
alighted upon him: the glory of the king of day crowded blazing upon
the golden-haired youth. Radiant as Apollo, he stood in mighty
strength, a flashing shape in the midst of flame. He fitted a glowing
arrow to a gleaming bow. The arrow parted with a keen musical twang of
the bowstring, and Photogen darting after it, vanished with a shout.
Up shot Apollo himself, and from his quiver scattered astonishment and
exultation. But the brain of poor Nycteris was pierced through and
through. She fell down in utter darkness. All around her was a flaming
furnace. In despair and feebleness and agony, she crept back, feeling
her way with doubt and difficulty and enforced persistence to her
cell. When at last the friendly darkness of her chamber folded her
about with its cooling and consoling arms, she threw herself on her
bed and fell fast asleep. And there she slept on, one alive in a tomb,
while Photogen, above in the sun-glory, pursued the buffaloes on the
lofty plain, thinking not once of her where she lay dark and forsaken,
whose presence had been his refuge, her eyes and her hands his
guardians through the night. He was in his glory and his pride; and
the darkness and its disgrace had vanished for a time.




CHAPTER XV.

THE COWARD HERO.


But no sooner had the sun reached the noonstead, than Photogen began
to remember the past night in the shadow of that which was at hand,
and to remember it with shame. He had proved himself--and not to
himself only, but to a girl as well--a coward!--one bold in the
daylight, while there was nothing to fear, but trembling like any
slave when the night arrived. There was, there must be, something
unfair in it! A spell had been cast upon him! He had eaten, he had
drunk something that did not agree with courage! In any case he had
been taken unprepared! How was he to know what the going down of the
sun would be like? It was no wonder he should have been surprised into
terror, seeing it was what it was--in its very nature so terrible!
Also. one could not see where danger might be coming from! You might
be torn in pieces, carried off, or swallowed up, without even seeing
where to strike a blow! Every possible excuse he caught at, eager as a
self-lover to lighten his self-contempt. That day he astonished the
huntsmen--terrified them with his reckless darings--all to prove to
himself he was no coward. But nothing eased his shame. One thing only
had hope in it--the resolve to encounter the dark in solemn earnest,
now that he knew something of what it was. It was nobler to meet a
recognized danger than to rush contemptuously into what seemed
nothing--nobler still to encounter a nameless horror. He could conquer
fear and wipe out disgrace together. For a marksman and swordsman like
him, he said, one with his strength and courage, there was but danger.
Defeat there was not. He knew the darkness now, and when it came he
would meet it as fearless and cool as now he felt himself. And again
he said, "We shall see!"

He stood under the boughs of a great beech as the sun was going down,
far away over the jagged hills: before it was half down, he was
trembling like one of the leaves behind him in the first sigh of the
night-wind. The moment the last of the glowing disc vanished, he
bounded away in terror to gain the valley, and his fear grew as he
ran. Down the side of the hill, an abject creature, he went bounding
and rolling and running; fell rather than plunged into the river, and
came to himself, as before, lying on the grassy bank in the garden.

But when he opened his eyes, there were no girl-eyes looking down into
his; there were only the stars in the waste of the sunless Night--the
awful all-enemy he had again dared, but could not encounter. Perhaps
the girl was not yet come out of the water! He would try to sleep, for
he dared not move, and perhaps when he woke he would find his head on
her lap, and the beautiful dark face, with its deep blue eyes, bending
over him. But when he woke he found his head on the grass, and
although he sprang up with all his courage, such as it was, restored,
he did not set out for the chase with such an _elan_ as the day
before; and, despite the sun-glory in his heart and veins, his hunting
was this day less eager; he ate little, and from the first was
thoughtful even to sadness. A second time he was defeated and
disgraced! Was his courage nothing more than the play of the sunlight
on his brain? Was he a mere ball tossed between the light and the
dark? Then what a poor contemptible creature he was! But a third
chance lay before him. If he failed the third time, he dared not
foreshadow what he must then think of himself! It was bad enough
now--but then!

Alas! it went no better. The moment the sun was down, he fled as if
from a legion of devils.

Seven times in all, he tried to face the coming night in the strength
of the past day, and seven times he failed--failed with such increase
of failure, with such a growing sense of ignominy, overwhelming at
length all the sunny hours and joining night to night, that, what with
misery, self-accusation, and loss of confidence, his daylight courage
too began to fade, and at length, from exhaustion, from getting wet,
and then lying out of doors all night, and night after night,--worst
of all, from the consuming of the deathly fear, and the shame of
shame, his sleep forsook him, and on the seventh morning, instead of
going to the hunt, he crawled into the castle, and went to bed. The
grand health, over which the witch had taken such pains, had yielded,
and in an hour or two he was moaning and crying out in delirium.




CHAPTER XVI.

AN EVIL NURSE.


Watho was herself ill, as I have said, and was the worse tempered;
and, besides, it is a peculiarity of witches, that what works in
others to sympathy, works in them to repulsion. Also, Watho had a
poor, helpless, rudimentary spleen of a conscience left, just enough
to make her uncomfortable, and therefore more wicked. So, when she
heard that Photogen was ill, she was angry. Ill, indeed! after all she
had done to saturate him with the life of the system, with the solar
might itself! He was a wretched failure, the boy! And because he was
_her_ failure, she was annoyed with him, began to dislike him, grew to
hate him. She looked on him as a painter might upon a picture, or a
poet, upon a poem, which he had only succeeded in getting into an
irrecoverable mess. In the hearts of witches, love and hate lie close
together, and often tumble over each other. And whether it was that
her failure with Photogen foiled also her plans in regard to Nycteris,
or that her illness made her yet more of a devil's wife, certainly
Watho now got sick of the girl too, and hated to know her about the
castle.

She was not too ill, however, to go to poor Photogen's room and
torment him. She told him she hated him like a serpent, and hissed
like one as she said it, looking very sharp in the nose and chin, and
flat in the forehead. Photogen thought she meant to kill him, and
hardly ventured to take anything brought him. She ordered every ray of
light to be shut out of his room; but by means of this he got a little
used to the darkness. She would take one of his arrows, and now tickle
him with the feather end of it, now prick him with the point till the
blood ran down. What she meant finally I cannot tell, but she brought
Photogen speedily to the determination of making his escape from the
castle: what he should do then he would think afterwards. Who could
tell but he might find his mother somewhere beyond the forest! If it
were not for the broad patches of darkness that divided day from day,
he would fear nothing!

But now, as he lay helpless in the dark, ever and anon would come
dawning through it the face of the lovely creature who on that first
awful night nursed him so sweetly: was he never to see her again? If
she was, as he had concluded, the nymph of the river, why had she not
re-appeared? She might have taught him not to fear the night, for
plainly she had no fear of it herself! But then, when the day came,
she did seem frightened:--why was that, seeing there was nothing to be
afraid of then? Perhaps one so much at home in the darkness, was
correspondingly afraid of the light! Then his selfish joy at the
rising of the sun, blinding him to her condition, had made him behave
to her, in ill return for her kindness, as cruelly as Watho behaved to
him! How sweet and dear and lovely she was! If there were wild beasts
that came out only at night, and were afraid of the light, why should
there not be girls too, made the same way--who could not endure the
light, as he could not bear the darkness? If only he could find her
again! Ah, how differently he would behave to her! But alas! perhaps
the sun had killed her--melted her--burned her up!--dried her up--that
was it, if she was the nymph of the river!




CHAPTER XVII

WATHO'S WOLF.


From that dreadful morning Nycteris had never got to be herself again.
The sudden light had been almost death to her; and now she lay in the
dark with the memory of a terrific sharpness--a something she dared
scarcely recall, lest the very thought of it should sting her beyond
endurance. But this was as nothing to the pain which the recollection
of the rudeness of the shining creature whom she had nursed through
his fear caused her; for, the moment his suffering passed over to her,
and he was free, the first use he made of his returning strength had
been to scorn her! She wondered and wondered; it was all beyond her
comprehension.

Before long, Watho was plotting evil against her. The witch was like a
sick child weary of his toy: she would pull her to pieces, and see how
she liked it. She would set her in the sun, and see her die, like a
jelly from the salt ocean cast out on a hot rock. It would be a sight
to soothe her wolf-pain. One day, therefore, a little before noon,
while Nycteris was in her deepest sleep, she had a darkened litter
brought to the door, and in that she made two of her men carry her to
the plain above. There they took her out, laid her on the grass, and
left her.

Watho watched it all from the top of her high tower, through her
telescope; and scarcely was Nycteris left, when she saw her sit up,
and the same moment cast herself down again with her face to the
ground.

"She'll have a sunstroke," said Watho, "and that'll be the end of
her."

Presently, tormented by a fly, a huge-humped buffalo, with great
shaggy mane, came galloping along, straight for where she lay. At
sight of the thing on the grass, he started, swerved yards aside,
stopped dead, and then came slowly up, looking malicious. Nycteris lay
quite still, and never even saw the animal.

"Now she'll be trodden to death!" said Watho. "That's the way those
creatures do."

When the buffalo reached her, he sniffed at her all over, and went
away; then came back, and sniffed again; then all at once went off as
if a demon had him by the tail.

Next came a gnu, a more dangerous animal still, and did much the same;
then a gaunt wild boar. But no creature hurt her, and Watho was angry
with the whole creation.

At length, in the shade of her hair, the blue eyes of Nycteris began
to come to themselves a little, and the first thing they saw was a
comfort. I have told already how she knew the night-daisies, each a
sharp-pointed little cone with a red tip; and once she had parted the
rays of one of them, with trembling fingers, for she was afraid she
was dreadfully rude, and perhaps was hurting it; but she did want, she
said to herself, to see what secret it carried so carefully hidden;
and she found its golden heart. But now, right under her eyes, inside
the veil of her hair, in the sweet twilight of whose blackness she
could see it perfectly, stood a daisy with its red tip opened wide
into a carmine ring, displaying its heart of gold on a platter of
silver. She did not at first recognize it as one of those cones come
awake, but a moment's notice revealed what it was. Who then could have
been so cruel to the lovely little creature, as to force it open like
that, and spread it heart-bare to the terrible death-lamp? Whoever it
was, it must be the same that had thrown her out there to be burned to
death in its fire! But she had her hair, and could hang her head, and
make a small sweet night of her own about her! She tried to bend the
daisy down and away from the sun, and to make its petals hang about it
like her hair, but she could not. Alas! it was burned and dead
already! She did not know that it could not yield to her gentle force
because it was drinking life, with all the eagerness of life, from
what she called the death-lamp. Oh, how the lamp burned her!

But she went on thinking--she did not know how; and by and by began to
reflect that, as there was no roof to the room except that in which
the great fire went rolling about, the little Red-tip must have seen
the lamp a thousand times, and must know it quite well! and it had not
killed it! Nay, thinking about farther, she began to ask the question
whether this, in which she now saw it, might not be its more perfect
condition. For not only now did the whole seem perfect, as indeed it
did before, but every part showed its own individual perfection as
well, which perfection made it capable of combining with the rest into
the higher perfection of a whole. The flower was a lamp itself! The
golden heart was the light, and the silver border was the alabaster
globe, skilfully broken, and spread wide to let out the glory. Yes;
the radiant shape was plainly its perfection! If, then, it was the
lamp which had opened it into that shape, the lamp could not be
unfriendly to it, but must be of its own kind, seeing it made it
perfect! And again, when she thought of it, there was clearly no
little resemblance between them. What if the flower then was the
little great-grandchild of the lamp, and he was loving it all the
time? And what if the lamp did not mean to hurt her, only could not
help it? The red lips looked as if the flower had some time or other
been hurt: what if the lamp was making the best it could of
her--opening her out somehow like the flower? She would bear it
patiently, and see. But how coarse the colour of the grass was!
Perhaps, however, her eyes not being made for the bright lamp, she did
not see them us they were! Then she remembered how different were the
eyes of the creature that was not a girl and was afraid of the
darkness! Ah, if the darkness would only come again, all arms,
friendly and soft everywhere about her! She would wait and wait, and
bear, and be patient.

She lay so still that Watho did not doubt she had fainted. She was
pretty sure she would be dead before the night came to revive her.




CHAPTER XVIII.

REFUGE.


Fixing her telescope on the motionless form, that she might see it at
once when the morning came, Watho went down from the tower to
Photogen's room. He was much better by this time, and before she left
him, he had resolved to leave the castle that very night. The darkness
was terrible indeed, but Watho was worse than even the darkness, and
he could not escape in the day. As soon, therefore, as the house
seemed still, he tightened his belt, hung to it his hunting-knife, put
a flask of wine and some bread in his pocket, and took his bow and
arrows. He got from the house, and made his way at once up to the
plain. But what with his illness, the terrors of the night, and his
dread of the wild beasts, when he got to the level he could not walk a
step further, and sat down, thinking it better to die than to live. In
spite of his fears, however, sleep contrived to overcome him, and he
fell at full length on the soft grass.

He had not slept long when he woke with such a strange sense of
comfort and security, that he thought the dawn at least must have
arrived. But it was dark night about him. And the sky--no, it was not
the sky, but the blue eyes of his naiad looking down upon him! Once
more he lay with his head in her lap, and all was well, for plainly
the girl feared the darkness as little as he the day.

"Thank you," he said. "You are like live armour to my heart; you keep
the fear off me. I have been very ill since then. Did you come up out
of the river when you saw me cross?"

"I don't live in the water," she answered. "I live under the pale
lamp, and I die under the bright one."

"Ah, yes! I understand now," he returned. "I would not have behaved as
I did last time if I had understood; but I thought you were mocking
me; and I am so made that I cannot help being frightened at the
darkness. I beg your pardon for leaving you as I did, for, as I say, I
did not understand. Now I believe you were really frightened. Were
you not?"

"I was, indeed," answered Nycteris, "and shall be again. But why you
should be, I cannot in the least understand. You must know how gentle
and sweet the darkness is, how kind and friendly, how soft and
velvety! It holds you to its bosom and loves you. A little while ago,
I lay faint and dying under your hot lamp.--What is it you call it?"

"The sun," murmured Photogen: "how I wish he would make haste!"

"Ah! do not wish that. Do not, for my sake, hurry him. I can take care
of you from the darkness, but I have no one to take care of me from
the light.--As I was telling you, I lay dying in the sun. All at once
I drew a deep breath. A cool wind came and ran over my face. I looked
up. The torture was gone, for the death-lamp itself was gone. I hope
he does not die and grow brighter yet. My terrible headache was all
gone, and my sight was come back. I felt as if I were new made. But I
did not get up at once, for I was tired still. The grass grew cool
about me, and turned soft in colour. Something wet came upon it, and
it was now so pleasant to my feet, that I rose and ran about. And when
I had been running about a long time, all at once I found you lying,
just as I had been lying a little while before. So I sat down beside
you to take care of you, till your life--and my death--should come
again."

"How good you are, you beautiful creature!--Why, you forgave me before
ever I asked you!" cried Photogen.

Thus they fell a talking, and he told her what he knew of his history,
and she told him what she knew of hers, and they agreed they must get
away from Watho as far as ever they could.

"And we must set out at once," said Nycteris.

"The moment the morning comes," returned Photogen.

"We must not wait for the morning," said Nycteris, "for then I shall
not be able to move, and what would you do the next night? Besides,
Watho sees best in the daytime. Indeed, you must come now,
Photogen.--You must."

"I can not; I dare not," said Photogen. "I cannot move. If I but lift
my head from your lap, the very sickness of terror seizes me."

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