FullReads

I knew that this must be that mantilla of Spain of which I had read, and which I had been led to conceive of as a clumsy and beauty-concealing garment, like the yashmak of the Turks. But the goodliness of the picture was such that in my own country I had never seen green nor grey which set any maid one-half so well.

“Let us walk by the lake,” she said, “and listen to the night.”

So quite naturally I offered her my arm, and she took it as though it were a nothing hardly to be perceived. Yet in Galloway of the hills it would have taken me weeks even to conceive myself offering an arm to a beautiful woman. Here such things were in the air. Nevertheless was my heart beating wildly within me, like a bird’s wings that must perforce pulsate faster in a rarer atmosphere. So I held my arm a little wide of my side lest she should feel my heart throbbing. Foolish youth! As though any woman does not know, most of all one who is beautiful. So there on my arm, light and white as the dropped feather of an angel’s wing, her hand rested. It was bare, and a diamond shone upon it.

The lake was a steel-grey mirror where it took the light of the sky. But in the shadows it was dark as night. The evening was very still, and only the Thal wind drew upward largely and contentedly.

“Tell me of yourself!” she said, as soon as we had passed from under the shelter of the hotel.

I hesitated, for indeed it seemed a strange thing to speak to so great a lady concerning the little moorland home, of my mother, and all the simple people out there upon the hills of sheep.

The Countess looked up at me, and I saw a light shine in the depths of her eyes.

“You have a mother–tell me of her!” she said.

So I told her in simple words a tale which I had spoken of to no one before–of slights and scorns, for she was a woman, and understood. It came into my mind as I spoke that as soon as I had finished she would leave me; and I slackened my arm that she might the more easily withdraw her hand. But yet I spoke on faithfully, hiding nothing. I told of our poverty, of the struggle with the hill-farm and the backward seasons, of my mother who looked over the moorland with sweet tired eyes as for some one that came not. I spoke of the sheep that had been my care, of the books I had read on the heather, and of all the mystery and the sadness of our life.

Then we fell silent, and the shadows of the sadness I had left behind me seemed to shut out the kindly stars. I would have taken my arm away, but that the Countess drew it nearer to herself, clasping her hands about it, and said softly–

“Tell me more–” and then, after a little pause, she added, “and you may call me Lucia! For have you not saved my life?”

Like a dream the old Edinburgh room, where with Giovanni Turazza I read the Tuscan poets, came to me. An ancient rhyme was in my head, and ere I was aware I murmured–

“Saint Lucy of the Eyes!”

The Countess started as if she had been stung.

“No, not that–not that,” she said; “I am not good enough.”

There was some meaning in the phrase to her which was not known to me.

“You are good enough to be an angel–I am sure,” I said–foolishly, I fear.

There was a little silence, and a waft of scented air like balm–I think the perfume of her hair, or it may have been the roses clambering on the wall. I know not. We were passing some.

“No,” she said, very firmly, “not so, nor nearly so–only good enough to desire to be better, and to walk here with you and listen to you telling of your mother.”