Quest of the Golden Girl Part 19

When the serious business of dining was dispatched, and we were trifling with our coffee and liqueurs, my eyes, which of course had seldom left her during the whole meal, once more enfolded her little ivory and black silk body with an embrace as real as though they had been straining pa.s.sionate arms; and as I thus nursed her in my eyes, I smiled involuntarily at a thought which not unnaturally occurred to me.

"What is that sly smile about?" she asked. Now I had smiled to think that underneath that stately silk, around that tight little waist, was a dainty waistband bearing the legend "Sylvia Joy," No. 4, perhaps, or 5, but NOT No. 6; and a whole wonderful underworld of lace and linen and silk stockings, the counterpart of which wonders, my clairvoyant fancy laughed to think, were at the moment--so entirely unsuspected of their original owner--my delicious possessions.

Everything a woman wears or touches immediately incarnates something of herself. A handkerchief, a glove, a flower,--with a breath she endues them with immortal souls. How much, therefore, of herself must inhere in a garment so confidential as a petticoat, or so close and constant a companion as a stocking!

Now that I knew Sylvia Joy, I realised how absolutely true my instinct had been, when on that far afternoon in that Surrey garden I had said, "With such a petticoat and such a name, Sylvia herself cannot be otherwise than charming."

Indeed, now I could see that the petticoat was nothing short of a portrait of her, and that any one learned in the physiognomy of clothes would have been able to pick Sylvia out of a thousand by that spirited, spoilt, and petted garment.

"What is that sly smile about?" she repeated presently.

"I only chanced to think of an absurd little fairy story I read the other day," I said, "which is quite irrelevant at the moment. You know the idle way things come and go through one's head."

"I don't believe you," she replied, "but tell me the story. I love fairy tales."

"Certainly," I said, for I wasn't likely to get a better opportunity.

"There's nothing much in it; it's merely a variation of Cinderella's slipper. Well, once upon a time there was an eccentric young prince who'd had his fling in his day, but had arrived at the lonely age of thirty without having met a woman whom he could love enough to make his wife. He was a rather fanciful young prince, accustomed to follow his whims; and one day, being more than usually bored with existence, he took it into his head to ramble incognito through his kingdom in search of his ideal wife,--'The Golden Girl,' as he called her. He had hardly set out when in a country lane he came across a peasant girl hanging out clothes to dry, and he fell to talk with her while she went on with her charming occupation. Presently he observed, pegged on the line, strangely incongruous among the other homespun garments, a wonderful petticoat, so exquisite in material and design that it aroused his curiosity. At the same moment he noticed a pair of stockings, round the tops of which one of the daintiest artists in the land had wrought an exquisite little frieze. The prince was learned in every form of art, and had not failed to study this among other forms of decoration.

No sooner did he see this petticoat than the whim seized him that he would find and marry the wearer, whoever she might be--"

"Rather rash of him," interrupted Sylvia, "for it is usually old ladies who have the prettiest petticoats. They can best afford them--"

"He questioned the girl as to their owner," I continued, "and after vainly pretending that they were her own, she confessed that they had belonged to a young and beautiful lady who had once lodged there and left them behind. Then the prince gave her a purse of gold in exchange for the finery, and on the waistband of the petticoat he read a beautiful name, and he said, 'This and no other shall be my wife, this unknown beautiful woman, and on our marriage night she shall wear this petticoat.' And then the prince went forth seeking--"

"There's not much point in it," interrupted Sylvia.

"No," I said, "I'm afraid I've stupidly missed the point."

"Why, what was it?"

"The name upon the petticoat!"

"Why, what name was it?" she asked, somewhat mystified.

"The inscription upon the petticoat was, to be quite accurate, 'Sylvia Joy, No. 6.'"

"Whatever are you talking about?" she said with quite a stormy blush.

"I'm afraid you've had more than your share of the champagne."

As I finished, I slipped out of my pocket a dainty little parcel softly folded in white tissue paper. Very softly I placed it on the table.

It contained one of the precious stockings; and half opening it, I revealed to Sylvia's astonished eyes the cunning little frieze of Bacchus and Ariadne, followed by a troop of Satyrs and Bacchantes, which the artist had designed to encircle one of the white columns of that little marble temple which sat before me.

"You know," I said, "how in fairy tales, when the wandering hero or the maiden in distress has a guiding dream, the dream often leaves something behind on the pillow to a.s.sure them of its authenticity.

'When you wake up,' the dream will say, 'you will find a rose or an oak-leaf or an eagle's feather, or whatever it may be, on your pillow.'

Well, I have brought this stocking--for which, if I might but use them, I have at the moment a stock of the most appropriately endearing adjectives--for the same purpose. By this token you will know that the fairy tale I have been telling you is true, and to-morrow, if you will, you shall see your autograph petticoat."

"Why, wherever did you come across them? And what a mad creature you must be! and what an odd thing that you should really meet me, after all!" exclaimed Sylvia, all in a breath. "Of course, I remember," she said frankly, and with a shade of sadness pa.s.sing over her face. "I was spending a holiday with Jack Wentworth,--why, it must be nearly two years ago. Poor Jack! he was killed in the Soudan," and poor Jack could have wished no prettier resurrection than the look of tender memory that came into her face as she spoke of him, and the soft baby tears filled her eyes.

"I'm so sorry," I said. "Of course I didn't know. Let's come for a little stroll. There seems to be a lovely moon."

"Of course you didn't," she said, patting my cheek with a kind little hand. "Yes, do let us go for a stroll."

CHAPTER XI

"THE HOUR FOR WHICH THE YEARS DID SIGH"

This unexpected awakening of an old tenderness naturally prevented my speaking any more of my mind to Sylvia that evening. No doubt the reader may be a little astonished to hear that I had decided to offer her marriage,--not taking my serious view of a fanciful vow. Doubtless Sylvia was not entirely suitable to me, and to marry her was to be faithless to that vision of the highest, that wonderful unknown woman of the apocalyptic moorland, whose face Sylvia had not even momentarily banished from my dreams, and whom, with an unaccountable cert.i.tude, I still believed to be the woman G.o.d had destined for me; but, all things considered, Sylvia was surely as pretty an answer to prayer as a man could reasonably hope for. Many historic vows had met with sadly less lucky fulfilment.

So, after dinner the following evening, I suggested that we should for once take a little walk up along the river-side; and when we were quiet in the moonlight, dappling the lovers' path we were treading, and making sharp contrasts of ink and silver down in the river-bed,--I spoke.

"Sylvia," I said, plagiarising a dream which will be found in Chapter IV.,--"Sylvia, I have sought you through the world and found you at last; and with your gracious permission, having found you, I mean to stick to you."

"What do you mean, silly boy?" she said, as an irregularity in the road threw her soft weight the more fondly upon my arm.

"I mean, dear, that I want you to be my wife."

"Your wife? Not for worlds!--no, forgive me, I didn't mean that.

You're an awful dear boy, and I like you very much, and I think you're rather fond of me; but--well, the truth is, I was never meant to be married, and don't care about it--and when you think of it, why should I?"

"You mean," I said, "that you are fortunate in living in a society where, as in heaven, there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage, where in fact n.o.body minds whether you're married or not, and where morals are very properly regarded as a personal and private matter--"

"Yes, that's what I mean," said Sylvia; "the people I care about--dear good people--will think no more of me for having a wedding-ring, and no less for my being without; and why should one put a yoke round one's neck when n.o.body expects it? A wedding-ring is like a top-hat,--you only wear it when you must--But it's very sweet of you, all the same, and you can kiss me if you like. Here's a nice sentimental patch of moonlight."

I really felt very dejected at this not of course entirely unexpected rejection,--if one might use the word for a situation on which had just been set the seal of so unmistakable a kiss; but the vision in my heart seemed to smile at me in high and happy triumph. To have won Sylvia would have been to have lost her. My ideal had, as it were, held her breath till Sylvia answered; now she breathed again.

"At all events, we can go on being chums, can't we?" I said.

For answer Sylvia hummed the first verse of that famous song writ by Kit Marlowe.

"Yes!" she said presently. "I will sing for you, dance for you, and--perhaps--flirt with you; but marry you--no! it's best not, for both of us."

"Well, then," I said, "dance for me! You owe me some amends for an aching heart." As I said this, the path suddenly broadened into a little circular glade into which the moonlight poured in a silver flood. In the centre of the s.p.a.ce was a boulder some three or four feet high, and with a flat slab-like surface of some six feet or so.

"I declare I will," said Sylvia, giving me an impulsive kiss, and springing on to the stone; "why, here is a ready-made stage."

"And there," I said, "are the nightingale and the nightjar for orchestra."

"And there is the moon," said she, "for lime-light man."

"Yes," I said; "and here is a handful of glow-worms for the footlights."

Then lifting up her heavy silk skirt about her, and revealing a paradise of chiffons, Sylvia swayed for a moment with her face full in the moon, and then slowly glided into the movements of a mystical dance.

It was thus the fountains were dancing to the moon in Arabia; it was thus the Nixies shook their white limbs on the haunted banks of the Rhine; it was thus the fairy women flashed their alabaster feet on the fairy hills of Connemara; it was thus the Houris were dancing for Mahomet on the palace floors of Paradise.

"It was over such dancing," I said, "that John the Baptist lost his head."

"Give me a kiss," she said, nestling exhausted in my arms. "I always want some one to kiss when I have danced with my soul as well as my body."