CHAPTER ELEVEN
A REALIZATION OF LOVE WHICH BEGGARED LANGUAGE
Orondo returned not to Iaqua during the night. He went to a favorite nook in the gardens, the same he had taken such pride in showing to Kerœcia. Here he went over the ground again step by step, and that same pride lay in the dust at his feet grievously wounded. Trifles to which he had attached peculiar significance now seemed to him commonplace politeness.
Orondo could not accuse Kerœcia of playing with him. She had been openly and candidly indifferent. Her effort to shield him, her kindness, were eloquent of her disinterested friendship. He groaned under her sympathy, but he was not without capacity to plan a course of action.
The first watches of the night witnessed his wrestle with overwhelming grief, but as the cool morning hours came on, his thoughts turned to the future. He looked forward eagerly to his departure from Tlamco, which he knew from the beginning he must take. Hope led him to believe that he would have a companion for the exile, which now he gratefully remembered would be a lonely one. He sat motionless upon the curbing which bordered the artificial lake near the perfume-beds, utterly oblivious to their refreshing odors. His thoughts were so painfully centered that he noted neither the passing hours nor his own bodily discomfort.
Finally, habit warned him that dawn was approaching, and he mechanically roused himself. He knew, without conscious effort, that he must greet the rising sun with composure; therefore he tried to rally his drooping spirits. Still like one in a dream, he removed his cloak and helmet, then washed his hands and face in the clear, cool water of the lake. His benumbed and stiffened nether limbs protested painfully against his essay at walking. He heeded them not. Instinct led him in the direction of Iaqua.
Yermah, too, had passed a sleepless night. He spent the day on the water, floating and drifting with the ebb and flow of the tide, struggling to reconcile himself with the conditions confronting him. At night he came back to Iaqua, but purposely avoided meeting Orondo. Love made him humble, and he did not for a moment doubt the result of Orondo’s wooing. He knew that his countryman was a lovable man, and he could not find it in his heart to blame Kerœcia for accepting him. No—Orondo had asked his consent and blessing; he must be willing to give it with all his heart.
How stern and forbidding seemed the face of duty! How hateful the precepts of honor! Yermah censured himself unsparingly. Many times as he paced the apartments, still clad as he came from the bay, he spoke his thoughts aloud. He argued with himself long and earnestly.
“How beautiful, how lovely she is!” Yermah exclaimed for the hundredth time. But he was sick with the thought that she belonged to another. He told himself that he would rather give her to Orondo than to any one else. But why should she not have loved him? If such affection had blessed his life, he would hasten his appointed task, and then claim his choice for a wife according to law and custom. It would be only a few months to wait. Now what difference did it make? Orondo stood in his place.
How unsatisfactory, how paltry seemed his life work and aims! How completely helpless and discouraged he felt! But he must face the situation like a man. With the rising sun Orondo would come with a beaming countenance to recount his happiness. It would require all his fortitude to do and to say what was expected of him.
Thinking thus, he drew aside the curtains and peered at the sky. The first mingling of pink and gray heralded the coming day. Performing the necessary ablutions, he wrapped his cloak about him and left the house. He did not notice particularly the direction he took, walking rapidly forward, with his head bent in strained attention. Once inside the main entrance to the gardens, he halted, listening for footsteps ahead of him.
For the first time he observed the dew lying on the bent grass in drops separate and distinct from each other, but thickly studding each blade and leaf. Suddenly on the curving pavement a few feet in front of him, stood Orondo, irresolute, stricken and old. He had not yet caught sight of Yermah, but had merely paused in his erratic course, without definite idea whether to proceed or to retreat.
“May truth and love be with thee, Orondo,” said the Dorado, in an unsteady tone of voice. “Mayst thou live by them, and by such means triumph over all hindrances.”
“The goodness of this place and hour be upon thee,” responded Orondo, still not recognizing Yermah.
As the men looked at each other, a family of deer roused themselves under the shelter of a friendly live-oak tree standing in the sward to the right of the pavement. The buck stood up and shook his graceful, spreading horns, until the leaves overhead quivered in the current of air set in motion. The doe licked the side of one fawn, while the other spotted creature wrinkled up its little nose, took a sniff of fresh air, and clicked its hoofs together in the very exuberance and joy of living.
The two heavy-hearted men gazed at one another in an embarrassed silence. Finally, Orondo said:
“I have seen the priestess Kerœcia.”
“And—she?” Yermah finished the sentence with a supplicating movement and braced himself for the shock.
“She—she is not for me,” responded Orondo, brokenly.
Not to have saved his immortal soul, could Yermah control the wave of emotion which swept over him, making him stagger like a drunken man. The revulsion of feeling was so strong that he put out his hand to steady himself, while his senses fairly reeled.
Like a flash the truth dawned on Orondo; but he would have suffered his tongue cut out rather than acknowledge even to himself what he had seen. Profound pity moved him, and under its influence he threw himself on his knees before the Dorado.
“Give me leave,” he cried, “to take men and flocks and go into the valley of the Mississippi, to begin mound-building. My mission in Tlamco is finished.”
“Stand equally with me,” exclaimed Yermah, assisting Orondo to rise and embracing him. “A solemn covenant binds thee to that task. Consult only thine own pleasure and convenience.” Then, after a pause, “I shall miss thy strong, right hand, thy faithful heart and welcome presence here.”
The dawn, bright from the Orient couch, had chased away the stars, and as Yermah spoke a golden ring came slowly above the horizon. The bells in the temples and Observatory chimed inspiringly. Nature was astir all about them, while the entire city was at devotion. With bared heads both men turned their pale faces toward the east. Yermah’s arm lay affectionately on Orondo’s shoulder.
“Homage to Thee who risest above the horizon,” said the Dorado, reverently. “I come near to Thee. Thou openest the gates of another day.”
“Om-ah!” responded Orondo, who continued: “Great Illuminator out of the golden, place thyself as a protector behind me. I open to thee.”
“Om-ah!” said Yermah, as they both stretched out their arms and bowed three times to the now fully risen sun.
It was the day following Orondo’s visit, and Kerœcia was disturbed, downcast and depressed. For the first time since her entrance to Tlamco she longed for the mountain fastnesses of the Monbas. She felt stifled. She wanted air, breath, room. A sense of utter loneliness was upon her. Again she could have cried bitter tears for Orondo. It was agony to her soul to know that she had hurt him. The surprise of it—the pity of it! The reflex action of her hours of unalloyed pleasure was full upon her.
So she stood under the moonless sky, while the clouds scurried overhead in a pell-mell race with the incoming fog. She was chilled at heart, and instinctively sought a sheltered nook, where she felt she could be absolutely alone.
Kerœcia remained for some time motionless, frowning into vacancy, so preoccupied that she did not notice a tiny moon-shaped boat of paper zigzagging its way down the narrow waterway at her feet. It might have passed her had not the splash of a pebble thrown a spray of water on her skirts. Glancing quickly about her, she advanced toward the wavering craft in time to rescue a red velvet rose floating loosely in a cluster of feathery ferns.
She tucked the flower and its greenery into her corsage and made them fast, but not before she had inhaled their fragrance and noticed their beauty. Then she examined the neatly folded parchment. Across the prow was the word “Yermah.” At the sight of his name, happiness surged through every avenue of sensibility like rare old wine. Kerœcia’s face was all tenderness as she pressed her lips to the writing.
It was a lingering, cooing movement, such as women who love employ.
Yermah had been watching her through a tapestry of vines, leaves and blossoms. In the interim his hopes ran as high as her spirits had been somber and low. He shook the branches of the hedge and stamped with his foot; but she was too much absorbed to hear him.
At last he contrived to make her know that he was near.
He had left home with the mere desire of seeing her, and with no intention of speaking. But when he saw her kiss his name, it was the eager impulse and bound of impassioned love which brought him to her side. His hungry eyes drove him there for sight of her. Now his hungrier heart demanded more. The same impulse impelling him forward controlled his further action.
Kerœcia made no resistance when he caught her in his arms, nor did she deny him when his lips sought hers, insistent and clinging. Each soul claimed its own. Each organism responded to its counter exhilaration.... Love beggared language.... It was well.
Neither had voice nor speech, as by common impulse they drew apart and hurried away in opposite directions. Yermah dared not trust himself to look back, while Kerœcia groped her way into the house and hid in her own room, safe from human eye.
“Men kiss like women,” she murmured naïvely, and in a surprised tone. “Their lips are the same, but—” Then she buried her face in her hands while a hot blush burned its way to the roots of her hair. Her cheeks still tingled with the light sweep of mustache and beard, and she fell to wondering if she could see the kiss as plainly as she still felt it. Those dear arms! How strong and masterful their protecting enfoldment!... The perfume of the crushed and broken rose brought her back to reality. She unfastened it, and buried her mouth in its petals, so close that a drop of blood spread itself over her white teeth. Presently she wiped her lips with a dainty bit of linen.
“Sealed in blood!” she exclaimed, as she examined it. “And nothing but heart’s blood can ever sever the bond. Oh, Yermah, my hero, my king! I love thee!”
The Dorado hurried through the streets with his senses in a whirl, and then entered Iaqua by a private gate. He did not pause until he threw himself on his knees before the statue of Orion. The soft light of incense-tapers and jeweled lamps revealed the pallor of his countenance. Too agitated to attempt prayer, he nervously held his hands to his head, and tried to collect his thoughts—to control his emotions.
“Oh, truant and coward that I am!” he exclaimed. “Why could I not speak the words my heart is bursting to tell? Will she know how sincerely, how devotedly I love her?”
He threw off his cloak, pushed his helmet on the floor, and wiped the perspiration from his brow.
“What a lovely creature a woman is! I can feel her soft, yielding body yet—her warm breath and sweet lips. No wonder I could not speak! Will her thought accuse me? And her dear, little hands!—I could crush them easily.”
Then, as if suspicion crossed his mind, he upbraided himself for ungentleness.
“Did my roughness hurt her? Did I frighten her by my suddenness?... So this is love!... And I not know how to express what I feel! Why has not Akaza taught me?... I see—I see—no one can teach another! I must learn for myself.... This is why the sages say it is like subtle poison. My blood is on fire! I do not know myself—my ugly self!” he added, as he arose and peered at his reflection in the mirrored wall.
Never before had he been dissatisfied with what he saw. It was his first realization of self-consciousness, and he was full of the humility of a master passion.
“Her hair fell here over my arm,” he continued, smiling tenderly. “I sense it yet. The perfume of it is sweet to my nostrils. Why did I not beg a lock for remembrance?”
He paced the floor restlessly.
“How unmanned and undone I am! Oh, my Kerœcia! Thy first kiss has enslaved me! I could not see the luster of thine eyes, but I could feel thy love. I can look into thy heart. Surely thou canst see that mine is filled with thy dear image.... I loved my mother, and Akaza, too ... but this is love of another kind!... If my mate should deny herself to me! No, no, no! I cannot live without her!... Poor Orondo! Poor soul!” he cried, in accents which revealed his great sympathy.
It was not until long after, that Yermah quit the chamber and finally sought rest.