Green Mansions [92]
supported by my encircling arm and partly by the rock we were leaning against, her half-closed eyes turned to mine expressed a tender assured happiness--the chastened gladness of sunshine after rain; a soft delicious languor that was partly passionate with the passion etherealized.
"Tell me, Rima," I said, bending down to her, "in all those troubled days with me in the woods had you no happy moments? Did not something in your heart tell you that it was sweet to love, even before you knew what love meant?"
"Yes; and once--O Abel, do you remember that night, after returning from Ytaioa, when you sat so late talking by the fire--I in the shadow, never stirring, listening, listening; you by the fire with the light on your face, saying so many strange things? I was happy then--oh, how happy! It was black night and raining, and I a plant growing in the dark, feeling the sweet raindrops falling, falling on my leaves. Oh, it will be morning by and by and the sun will shine on my wet leaves; and that made me glad till I trembled with happiness. Then suddenly the lightning would come, so bright, and I would tremble with fear, and wish that it would be dark again. That was when you looked at me sitting in the shadow, and I could not take my eyes away quickly and could not meet yours, so that I trembled with fear."
"And now there is no fear--no shadow; now you are perfectly happy?"
"Oh, so happy! If the way back to the wood was longer, ten times, and if the great mountains, white with snow on their tops, were between, and the great dark forest, and rivers wider than Orinoco, still I would go alone without fear, because you would come after me, to join me in the wood, to be with me at last and always."
"But I should not let you go alone, Rima--your lonely days are over now."
She opened her eyes wider and looked earnestly into my face. "I must go back alone, Abel," she said. "Before day comes I must leave you. Rest here, with grandfather, for a few days and nights, then follow me."
I heard her with astonishment. "It must not be, Rima," I cried. "What, let you leave me--now you are mine--to go all that distance, through all that wild country where you might lose yourself and perish alone? Oh, do not think of it!"
She listened, regarding me with some slight trouble in her eyes, but smiling a little at the same time. Her small hand moved up my arm and caressed my cheek; then she drew my face down to hers until our lips met. But when I looked at her eyes again, I saw that she had not consented to my wish. "Do I not know all the way now," she spoke, "all the mountains, rivers, forests--how should I lose myself? And I must return quickly, not step by step, walking--resting, resting--walking, stopping to cook and eat, stopping to gather firewood, to make a shelter--so many things! Oh, I shall be back in half the time; and I have so much to do."
"What can you have to do, love?--everything can be done when we are in the wood together."
A bright smile with a touch of mockery in it flitted over her face as she replied: "Oh, must I tell you that there are things you cannot do? Look, Abel," and she touched the slight garment she wore, thinner now than at first, and dulled by long exposure to sun and wind and rain.
I could not command her, and seemed powerless to persuade her; but I had not done yet, and proceeded to use every argument I could find to bring her round to my view; and when I finished she put her arms around my neck and drew herself up once more. "O Abel, how happy I shall be!" she said, taking no notice of all I had said. "Think of me alone, days and days, in the wood, waiting for you, working all the time; saying: 'Come quickly, Abel; come slow, Abel. O Abel, how long you are! Oh, do not come until my work is finished!' And when it is finished and you arrive you shall find me, but not at once. First you will seek for me in the house, then in the wood, calling: 'Rime! Rima!' And she will be there, listening, hid in the trees, wishing to be in your arms, wishing for your lips--oh,
"Tell me, Rima," I said, bending down to her, "in all those troubled days with me in the woods had you no happy moments? Did not something in your heart tell you that it was sweet to love, even before you knew what love meant?"
"Yes; and once--O Abel, do you remember that night, after returning from Ytaioa, when you sat so late talking by the fire--I in the shadow, never stirring, listening, listening; you by the fire with the light on your face, saying so many strange things? I was happy then--oh, how happy! It was black night and raining, and I a plant growing in the dark, feeling the sweet raindrops falling, falling on my leaves. Oh, it will be morning by and by and the sun will shine on my wet leaves; and that made me glad till I trembled with happiness. Then suddenly the lightning would come, so bright, and I would tremble with fear, and wish that it would be dark again. That was when you looked at me sitting in the shadow, and I could not take my eyes away quickly and could not meet yours, so that I trembled with fear."
"And now there is no fear--no shadow; now you are perfectly happy?"
"Oh, so happy! If the way back to the wood was longer, ten times, and if the great mountains, white with snow on their tops, were between, and the great dark forest, and rivers wider than Orinoco, still I would go alone without fear, because you would come after me, to join me in the wood, to be with me at last and always."
"But I should not let you go alone, Rima--your lonely days are over now."
She opened her eyes wider and looked earnestly into my face. "I must go back alone, Abel," she said. "Before day comes I must leave you. Rest here, with grandfather, for a few days and nights, then follow me."
I heard her with astonishment. "It must not be, Rima," I cried. "What, let you leave me--now you are mine--to go all that distance, through all that wild country where you might lose yourself and perish alone? Oh, do not think of it!"
She listened, regarding me with some slight trouble in her eyes, but smiling a little at the same time. Her small hand moved up my arm and caressed my cheek; then she drew my face down to hers until our lips met. But when I looked at her eyes again, I saw that she had not consented to my wish. "Do I not know all the way now," she spoke, "all the mountains, rivers, forests--how should I lose myself? And I must return quickly, not step by step, walking--resting, resting--walking, stopping to cook and eat, stopping to gather firewood, to make a shelter--so many things! Oh, I shall be back in half the time; and I have so much to do."
"What can you have to do, love?--everything can be done when we are in the wood together."
A bright smile with a touch of mockery in it flitted over her face as she replied: "Oh, must I tell you that there are things you cannot do? Look, Abel," and she touched the slight garment she wore, thinner now than at first, and dulled by long exposure to sun and wind and rain.
I could not command her, and seemed powerless to persuade her; but I had not done yet, and proceeded to use every argument I could find to bring her round to my view; and when I finished she put her arms around my neck and drew herself up once more. "O Abel, how happy I shall be!" she said, taking no notice of all I had said. "Think of me alone, days and days, in the wood, waiting for you, working all the time; saying: 'Come quickly, Abel; come slow, Abel. O Abel, how long you are! Oh, do not come until my work is finished!' And when it is finished and you arrive you shall find me, but not at once. First you will seek for me in the house, then in the wood, calling: 'Rime! Rima!' And she will be there, listening, hid in the trees, wishing to be in your arms, wishing for your lips--oh,